[Part 18] Des Vignettes, 2a/9
anonymous
May 21 2011, 00:46:48 UTC
Year Fourteen
“France!” England hisses intently - and then, when his call is swallowed by the din of shell-noise, raises his voice. “Dammit, France!”
France is lying on his back against the side of the trench and staring up at the night and the fire with a pensive little knot in his brow. “What do you want?” he says calmly.
“Don’t you say that to me!” England is scrambling through the mud. “You’re bleeding again!”
There is an enormous burst of noise and gritty smoke as one shell lands especially near to them. France waits until the ringing in his ears has subsided a little, and then raises his eyebrows. “I am not surprised.”
“Fuck off, this is important!” England tosses aside a mangled clump of filth and knotted metal and lurches to his knees beside France. “Show me.”
“Why should I bother?” France says, and for once his tone is serious instead of playful. England can see the dirt clinging in the lines around his eyes.
He looks away, down at France’s torso. “For God’s sake, France, it’s seeping through your uniform.” Determining to keep moving even if France does like to be an idiot, England tears his field dressing from the inside of his coat.
France groans and closes his eyes. “Put that away.”
“Fuck you. Take your jacket off.”
Not even bothering to make an innuendo, France sighs. “You’re wasting your time. This is not going to heal any time soon.”
“Thank you for your exceptional insight,” England says, so heavy on the sarcasm that drops of it fall from his words and spatter in the mud. “Am I going to have to cut your clothes off?”
Finally, France lifts his weary arms and begins to unfasten his tunic. “I cannot be blamed for this remarkable waste of effort.”
“Fucking hell!” England snaps, and a shell explodes some way down the line. “You’re fucking bleeding all over my trousers, and you’re lying here making quips?”
France raises his eyebrows; he had not thought that he was bleeding that much. He lifts his head, squints downwards - and sure enough, seeping into the knees of England’s uniform, dark blood mixed in with the mud and water. Well, then.
He lets his head drop back into the dirt. “There’s no pain. It’s just the same wounds opening up again. I feel fine.”
“I don’t care if you feel like you just orgasmed.” England undoes France’s tunic the rest of the way and yanks it open. “And don’t complain when I’m helping you.”
“This will not help.”
“I don’t care!” England screams suddenly, surprising them both. “I know it won’t heal, I know what it is, but I don’t care that I can’t fix it.” He grabs his vial of iodine, pours it furiously into a wadded rag, but continues to mutter viciously as he presses it to the long deep gashes across France’s chest and sides. “I’m not going to let you bleed into your fucking clothes, or do you really think I’m that much of a fucking monster? I’m going to do something, God damn it. What do you think of me?”
France blinks slowly, staring up at England’s flushed, scowling face and wincing occasionally at the sting. “I think you’re a very passionate man.”
“Oh, go to hell. Sit up, let me see your back.”
France struggles his way upright and turns around, allowing his tunic to be peeled off. England curses, grabs the canteen from his belt and tosses water down France’s back, sending the dirt sluicing thickly to pool above his belt. France yelps at the coldness and shivers a little, but remains still as England cleans the wounds there too, working the smarting liquid into every raw crevice.
“What time is it?” France asks abruptly.
“Tim to keep your bloody mouth shut for one moment,” England mutters, swabbing at a black, open crater on the peak of France’s shoulder blade, mopping up the dribbles of crusted blood.
“Ah,” France murmurs, “a time outside of the realm of reality.”
England pauses in his movements, staring at France’s bare shoulder. Finally he snorts and fumbles to check his wristwatch. “It’s... sixteen minutes past midnight.”
“Hmm,” says France, tilting his head back to look up once again at the dark smoke-stained sky. “April the eighth.”
England is unwinding bandages, but watches France’s back warily. “Yes...?”
[Part 18] Des Vignettes, 2b/9
anonymous
May 21 2011, 00:47:51 UTC
France chuckles a little and raises his arms with a stifled wince to let England wrap the dressings around his torso. “Our anniversary.”
Predictably, England curses. “This is not our anniversary.”
“Admittedly I would prefer for us to be doing something a little different from this,” France says, placing a hand upon the fabric crossing his chest. “This is hardly romantic.”
England pulls so hard on the end of the bandage that it squeezes tight into France’s wounds. France gives a strangled sound of pain and twists, body shuddering, until the pressure lets up.
He lets his head hang forwards, breathing harshly, but grins. “Now this is what I call a broken relationship.”
“Shut the fuck up,” England says affably.
They sit in silence for a while, as England lays the bandages against France’s skin and France looks at his own boots, at the wet depth of mud lending the leather a fresh filthy sheen. The barrage continues, up and down the line, harsh shrieks and dull thuds of explosions coming from near and far. The sky flashes pale light dimly through the smoke.
“Another attack,” says England.
France turns his body from side to side, testing the resilience of the bandages. “It won’t be too terrible.”
“We’ve hardly been holding out well.”
“Nor have they.”
England shrugs, pins the bandage in place and claps France on his uninjured shoulder. “There you are.”
“I am indebted to you,” France says dryly, as England holds his clothing up for him to slide his arms into.
“Just don’t be a fucking idiot next time you start bleeding everywhere.” England balls up the empty sackcloth and tosses it into a puddle.
France hums vaguely, fastening his tunic. He can hear England shuffling around behind him and coughing once or twice, his elbow brushing at intervals against the intact parts of France’s back, but neither of them move away. England makes no decisive movement at all, in fact, except to half-heartedly throw his empty canteen at a rat that has its head in an abandoned tin of bully beef.
Eventually, unable to cope with the silence any longer, France looks around and smirks. “Am I not even going to get a kiss on our anniversary?”
England smacks him on the back of the head.
-
Between the 7th and the 9th of April, 1918, the Allied line was targeted with an artillery barrage. This came as a prelude to Operation Georgette (9th - 29th April), after the Germans had previously captured significant amounts of land in Operation Michael (21st March - 5th April). Both battles were very costly to the Germans as well as the Allies, and despite their advances the Germans failed to capture certain strategically important targets.
A First Field Dressing contained two bandages with absorbent pads and safety pins, and an ampoule of iodine for use as an antiseptic. The bandages weren’t really designed to treat the kind of wounds that France has here, though.
Wristwatches became more commonly used during WWI, as they were more convenient and less middle-class than pocket watches.
Bully beef (canned corned beef) was a staple of British trench food. Its name derived from a corruption of the French boeuf bouilli, “boiled beef”.
Thank you to everyone who commented. To the anons who mentioned banter, UST and historicity - I assume you won’t object to more of the same. :P
Re: [Part 18] Des Vignettes, 2b/9
anonymous
May 21 2011, 03:54:05 UTC
How I love this ♥ The image of England and France in the trenches, England caring about France and dressing his wounds even when France doesn't care, and France calling England "passionate"... oh I love it all.
Banter, UST, and historicity are my favorite things! :D
Re: [Part 18] Des Vignettes, 2b/9
anonymous
May 21 2011, 05:31:47 UTC
I nearly cried as I saw all the delicious, historically correct details you used, authoranon! I don't know if you are a history student or if this is the result of a careful research, but in either case, you are doing an amazing job.
And both France and England are very IC and feel real - because I don't think even France being France would make sexual innuendos in a similar situation. And it's strangely romantic.
Definitely now on my list of most expected updates, I'm really curious what you have planned for the next seven parts.
“France!” England hisses intently - and then, when his call is swallowed by the din of shell-noise, raises his voice. “Dammit, France!”
France is lying on his back against the side of the trench and staring up at the night and the fire with a pensive little knot in his brow. “What do you want?” he says calmly.
“Don’t you say that to me!” England is scrambling through the mud. “You’re bleeding again!”
There is an enormous burst of noise and gritty smoke as one shell lands especially near to them. France waits until the ringing in his ears has subsided a little, and then raises his eyebrows. “I am not surprised.”
“Fuck off, this is important!” England tosses aside a mangled clump of filth and knotted metal and lurches to his knees beside France. “Show me.”
“Why should I bother?” France says, and for once his tone is serious instead of playful. England can see the dirt clinging in the lines around his eyes.
He looks away, down at France’s torso. “For God’s sake, France, it’s seeping through your uniform.” Determining to keep moving even if France does like to be an idiot, England tears his field dressing from the inside of his coat.
France groans and closes his eyes. “Put that away.”
“Fuck you. Take your jacket off.”
Not even bothering to make an innuendo, France sighs. “You’re wasting your time. This is not going to heal any time soon.”
“Thank you for your exceptional insight,” England says, so heavy on the sarcasm that drops of it fall from his words and spatter in the mud. “Am I going to have to cut your clothes off?”
Finally, France lifts his weary arms and begins to unfasten his tunic. “I cannot be blamed for this remarkable waste of effort.”
“Fucking hell!” England snaps, and a shell explodes some way down the line. “You’re fucking bleeding all over my trousers, and you’re lying here making quips?”
France raises his eyebrows; he had not thought that he was bleeding that much. He lifts his head, squints downwards - and sure enough, seeping into the knees of England’s uniform, dark blood mixed in with the mud and water. Well, then.
He lets his head drop back into the dirt. “There’s no pain. It’s just the same wounds opening up again. I feel fine.”
“I don’t care if you feel like you just orgasmed.” England undoes France’s tunic the rest of the way and yanks it open. “And don’t complain when I’m helping you.”
“This will not help.”
“I don’t care!” England screams suddenly, surprising them both. “I know it won’t heal, I know what it is, but I don’t care that I can’t fix it.” He grabs his vial of iodine, pours it furiously into a wadded rag, but continues to mutter viciously as he presses it to the long deep gashes across France’s chest and sides. “I’m not going to let you bleed into your fucking clothes, or do you really think I’m that much of a fucking monster? I’m going to do something, God damn it. What do you think of me?”
France blinks slowly, staring up at England’s flushed, scowling face and wincing occasionally at the sting. “I think you’re a very passionate man.”
“Oh, go to hell. Sit up, let me see your back.”
France struggles his way upright and turns around, allowing his tunic to be peeled off. England curses, grabs the canteen from his belt and tosses water down France’s back, sending the dirt sluicing thickly to pool above his belt. France yelps at the coldness and shivers a little, but remains still as England cleans the wounds there too, working the smarting liquid into every raw crevice.
“What time is it?” France asks abruptly.
“Tim to keep your bloody mouth shut for one moment,” England mutters, swabbing at a black, open crater on the peak of France’s shoulder blade, mopping up the dribbles of crusted blood.
“Ah,” France murmurs, “a time outside of the realm of reality.”
England pauses in his movements, staring at France’s bare shoulder. Finally he snorts and fumbles to check his wristwatch. “It’s... sixteen minutes past midnight.”
“Hmm,” says France, tilting his head back to look up once again at the dark smoke-stained sky. “April the eighth.”
England is unwinding bandages, but watches France’s back warily. “Yes...?”
Reply
Predictably, England curses. “This is not our anniversary.”
“Admittedly I would prefer for us to be doing something a little different from this,” France says, placing a hand upon the fabric crossing his chest. “This is hardly romantic.”
England pulls so hard on the end of the bandage that it squeezes tight into France’s wounds. France gives a strangled sound of pain and twists, body shuddering, until the pressure lets up.
He lets his head hang forwards, breathing harshly, but grins. “Now this is what I call a broken relationship.”
“Shut the fuck up,” England says affably.
They sit in silence for a while, as England lays the bandages against France’s skin and France looks at his own boots, at the wet depth of mud lending the leather a fresh filthy sheen. The barrage continues, up and down the line, harsh shrieks and dull thuds of explosions coming from near and far. The sky flashes pale light dimly through the smoke.
“Another attack,” says England.
France turns his body from side to side, testing the resilience of the bandages. “It won’t be too terrible.”
“We’ve hardly been holding out well.”
“Nor have they.”
England shrugs, pins the bandage in place and claps France on his uninjured shoulder. “There you are.”
“I am indebted to you,” France says dryly, as England holds his clothing up for him to slide his arms into.
“Just don’t be a fucking idiot next time you start bleeding everywhere.” England balls up the empty sackcloth and tosses it into a puddle.
France hums vaguely, fastening his tunic. He can hear England shuffling around behind him and coughing once or twice, his elbow brushing at intervals against the intact parts of France’s back, but neither of them move away. England makes no decisive movement at all, in fact, except to half-heartedly throw his empty canteen at a rat that has its head in an abandoned tin of bully beef.
Eventually, unable to cope with the silence any longer, France looks around and smirks. “Am I not even going to get a kiss on our anniversary?”
England smacks him on the back of the head.
-
Between the 7th and the 9th of April, 1918, the Allied line was targeted with an artillery barrage. This came as a prelude to Operation Georgette (9th - 29th April), after the Germans had previously captured significant amounts of land in Operation Michael (21st March - 5th April). Both battles were very costly to the Germans as well as the Allies, and despite their advances the Germans failed to capture certain strategically important targets.
A First Field Dressing contained two bandages with absorbent pads and safety pins, and an ampoule of iodine for use as an antiseptic. The bandages weren’t really designed to treat the kind of wounds that France has here, though.
Wristwatches became more commonly used during WWI, as they were more convenient and less middle-class than pocket watches.
Bully beef (canned corned beef) was a staple of British trench food. Its name derived from a corruption of the French boeuf bouilli, “boiled beef”.
Thank you to everyone who commented. To the anons who mentioned banter, UST and historicity - I assume you won’t object to more of the same. :P
Reply
Banter, UST, and historicity are my favorite things! :D
Reply
And both France and England are very IC and feel real - because I don't think even France being France would make sexual innuendos in a similar situation. And it's strangely romantic.
Definitely now on my list of most expected updates, I'm really curious what you have planned for the next seven parts.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment