#1940's ruby

Gunfire rang around them, made louder by the silence within their makeshift building. Narrow cots were scattered all over the floor, men in varying degrees of blood loss dreaming of their families back home. Night had fallen and Ruby was tending to one room of patients by herself. They began to mumble and sigh as they fell deeper into their dreams and she allowed herself to smile, the first smile she had given in a long time and nobody was there to see it. 

It lasted a moment before it was replaced with her more demure face, hardly a hint of a smile remained there. Before long there was a commotion outside, a few of the soldiers roused from their sleep, looking blearily at the door. Rushing forward, Ruby left the room to see what was going on and was met with a scene. The smell of blood instantly hit her nose and it took her eyes a moment to locate it on the soldier stumbling towards her. No one else had come to see the noise, believing the sound was enemy soldiers. But no one could hurt Ruby. 

Thankfully he was clearly American, the flag on his uniform made it evident. She managed to grab him before he stumbled to the ground, wrapping a burly arm around her shoulders to half carry him into her room. Resting him on a stretcher she inspected his wound. It looked like bullet shrapnel had embedded itself into his shoulder and Ruby instantly pulled on her gloves. She leant over his face so to look at him; a concerned expression on her own. “You will be okay sir, this will all be over by the time you wake.” With a click of her fingers she soothed him into a sleep before he could even respond and she set to work. She enjoyed the methodical and almost therapeutic rhythm she had created to remove bullets and the like from human skin and the time slipped by quite quickly. Rubbing an antiseptic blend of herbs on the skin (her secret to her high life success rate), she proceed to cover his shoulder with a thick white bandage. 

His head tilted and she finally looked at him properly- her breath caught in her throat. She knew this man, had seen him at several parties she had attended. All she knew was his name, Bucky, and it had been a while since she’d seen him. A shaft of moonlight spanned across his face and she brushed a lock of hair from his dirtied forehead. There was no sign of pain within his features, as if she hadn’t just cut into him and stitched him back up to save his life. She perched beside him on a stool to keep an eye on him; she had heard her other patients fall back asleep once the arrival of Bucky was deemed not a threat, her eyes were trained on the sharp features of the man in front of her.