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The uniforms are red to hide the blood, Polly thinks, a little deliriously. It must be true, because none of her soldiers seem to have noticed yet.
They're all fairly occupied with their own injuries. None of them are dying, thank goodness — nobody's arm or leg has been ripped off by a cannonball, nobody has a big sucking wound in their chest that means they'll be gone soon and the rest of them will have to debate between carrying their corpse back for a decent burial and leaving them in the woods to let the rest move faster. That's good. That's good.
She takes a slightly larger breath and winces, the hand holding the muzzle of her rifle automatically going to her ribs, but she manages to get it back on her gun before anyone can notice. It's not that bad — just a graze, the bullet barely went in, she's in no danger. Who's ever seen anyone bleed out from a graze?
The thought of infection enters her mind, and Polly shudders. No thank you.
They make it back to the camp in good time, all things considered. (Amelia) Jenkins, (Florence) Hart, and (Lettice) Rodgers are deposited with the medics, two no-nonsense women even Polly is a bit afraid of; the rest limp back to their tents to clean up, relax, and start telling the tall tales of how they survived. As it should be.
She, though, needs to make her report, so she scrapes herself together and makes for the captain's tent. Maladicta is sitting outside at her folding table, probably writing a dispatch, and she looks up as Polly approaches with a preternatural sense of when someone's coming to see her specifically. Well, supernatural, really, in her case. She stares at Polly with slightly narrowed eyes, her pen still in midair.
“Sergeant Perks.”
Polly salutes, trying her best to mask her wince. It's rare that she wishes for her dress uniform, but the skirts would let her shift her weight from leg to leg invisibly. “Lieutenant. Reporting in.”
“Are you injured?” Maladicta asks, which is entirely against protocol, so Polly ignores it.
“We engaged with the enemy two miles north of camp, on the banks of a small creek that runs into the river. We were caught unawares, but rapidly shifted into battle positions and —”
“You're injured.” Maladicta interrupts her and drops her pen, which bleeds a few tiny drops of ink onto the scratched surface of the desk. “Sergeant Perks —”
“I'm fine,” Polly insists, despite the growing wetness against her side that she knows isn't good. But she can't — she's already dealing with having to admit to being ambushed, she can't confess that she's also wounded as a result of it. “We had minimal casualties, under the circumstances. Private Jenkins took a bullet to the upper arm, but it passed all the way through, so it should heal well. Private Hart ran into a tree and became dazed. Private Rodgers twisted her ankle in our retreat.”
When Maladicta stands, it's with a speed and agility that Polly generally envies, but she doesn't entirely register it at the moment. Her lieutenant is coming around the desk to stand right in front of her; Polly has to tip her head back the tiniest bit to keep looking her in the eye.
“Do you think I can't tell when someone less than six feet from me is bleeding?” she demands, and is it Polly's imagination, or is there something in her voice beyond the outrage of a superior officer who knows she's being lied to? “Me?”
Polly keeps her face still and shifts her gaze to look past Maladicta's ear. “Lieutenant.”
After a moment of this, Maladicta reaches out and pokes Polly in the side, right in her wound — her graze — and Polly means to play it off stoically, but somehow she lacks the control to do that. Instead, she crumples.
But before she hits the ground, Maladicta is there. Her arms surround Polly, one behind her back and one dipping under her knees, and then she straightens up and lifts Polly in the air like she weighs nothing.
“I'm fine,” Polly gasps out nonsensically. She's very much not fine, the position is making her side feel like it's on fire and it's probably bleeding even worse now, but there is some comfort in not being on her feet anymore.
“I'm taking you to the medical tent. You need … stitches, medicine, I don't know.”
There are undoubtedly people staring, but on the other hand, the soldiers must be used to Maladicta's strength by now. And her bond with Polly. They know that the two of them came up together and are good friends. It shouldn't be anything to write home about, actually.
“Please.” Forced to acknowledge what's going on, Polly swallows her pride — just a little bit. “Just to my tent. At least for now.”
Maladict says nothing, but her trajectory does change, and she walks Polly over to her own tent and deposits her on her own bed, which is a real comfort.
“I don't want to be fussed over by the surgeons,” she says by way of explanation, even if it's a stupid one.
“What if I fuss over you?” Maladicta says out of the blue, and it throws Polly into such confusion that Maladicta has her half out of her coat before she realizes what's going on. It's not entirely comfortable to be assessed by Maladicta's hooded eyes, even if she gets pushed down to her back before her commanding officer tugs up her shirt to examine the wound.
Then Maladicta backs away, which makes Polly feel like she's lost something, somehow, and she starts to struggle to sit up again even though it makes the place she's been grazed scream at her. Maladicta returns, holding one of Polly's washcloths folded up into a little package, snorts, and pushes her back down with a hand on her shoulder.
“Stop being stupid,” she says, and presses the cloth to the wound. Polly pretends that her ragged but deep exhale relates only to the pain of the pressure, and not to the way that she suddenly feels completely safe and cared for after the ambush and her bloody trek back to the camp.
“Sir?” an certain voice calls from the opening of the tent. It's not clear which of them it's aimed at, but Maladicta turns to the soldier, and she must be giving him one of her world-class glares, because he makes a strangled sound and runs off without giving any explanation. Then Maladicta turns back to her and whatever remnants of the glare left on her face soften.
“I expect you to avoid this in the future, sergeant,” she says without a trace of reprimand in her voice. “No more coming back to camp bloody. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” sighs Polly, and she falls asleep with Maladicta still leaning over her and Maladicta's hands touching her bared skin.