#wounded man

Step by slow step, you moved toward him, the hem of your nursing whites whispering against the floorboards.

When you reached him, you didn't ask who he had fought or whose blood was crusting beneath his fingernails. You simply reached out, your fingers small and suprinsgly soft against the heavy, scarred muscle of his forearm.

"Sit," you commanded, your voice barely a whisper over the silence of the midnight air.

The legendary Colonel, the man who had torn the wings off Nazi planes with his bare hands, sank into the wooden chair as if his knees had finally given out. He let you take his hand—the hand that was a weapon, a tool of absolute destruction—and rest it in your lap.

But the surrender was short-lived—as though he had somewhere else to be.

Paddy lurched upward, his massive frame swaying with the heavy, rhythmic pull of the gin. The stench of it was a physical weight between you, sharp and sour.

"I’m fine," he growled, the words slurring just enough to betray the depth of his intoxication. "A bit of dust and a few scrapes. I’ve had worse from a rugby scrum in Belfast. I don’t need you hovering like a mother hen."

He made to shove past you, his shoulder clipping yours with the careless force of a man who forgot his own strength when his mind was clouded by the black dog. You didn't move. You planted your hand firmly against the blood-stained wool of his chest, feeling the frantic, jagged pulse of his heart beneath your palm.

"I’m not asking you, Paddy Mayne," you said, your voice dropping into a low, dangerous hush that finally made him freeze. "I’m telling you. You will sit in that chair, or so help me, I will have the orderlies strap you to a cot. Your choice…"

Paddy let out a long, jagged sigh that smelled of the desert and the dark, bitter gin he favored. It was the sound of a dying fire, weary and hollow. He didn't move immediately; instead, he remained poised on the edge of flight, his massive shoulders tensed as if he were preparing to storm a trench rather than a wooden chair.

Slowly, his head tilted, and he fixed his gaze on yours. He searched your eyes with a heavy, searching intensity, hunting for a flicker of hesitation or the softness he usually exploited. He looked for the girl who had once blushed at his shadow, but he found only the iron-willed woman who had survived the blood and the heat of the front lines.

He stayed like that for a heartbeat too long, his dark eyes tracing the set of your jaw and the cold, flat determination in your stare. He was checking to see if you were being serious—if you truly had the nerve to challenge the beast when he was this far gone.

What he saw there finally made the fight bleed out of him. The tension left his frame in a sudden, heavy slump, and he sank back into the chair with a groan that rattled the very frames of the infirmary.

"A soldier of the King," he muttered, his head falling back as he stared up at the sagging canvas ceiling. "A commander of men, a bringer of fire and ruin across the sands... and here I sit, a captive to a slip of a girl with soap on her hands and fire in her tongue."'

He began to recite then, his voice a gravelly, rhythmic lilt that spoke of his love for the poets. Even now, when he could barely see straight, the man had to have the last word.

"Between the stirrup and the ground," he murmured, "mercy I asked, mercy I found... but there is no mercy in this tent, only the cold command of a nurse."

You let out a sharp huff of breath, a sound that tasted of copper and woodsmoke, and rolled your eyes at the sagging roof above. Gods, the man was as dramatic as a mummers' queen when the gin took hold of his senses.

He sat there steeped in his own shadow, reeking of juniper and the sour, salt sweat of a man who had spent his evening seeking a brawl.

You reached for a fresh swab, the linen rough and dry against your palm, and dipped it into the basin where the water had already turned a murky, bruised pink. To the world, he was a bringer of fire, a commander of men who traded in ruin and high-flown verse; to you, he was merely another stubborn fool with a split lip and a head full of bad liquor.

"You’re such an idiot," you whispered, dabbing softly at his split lip.

The words felt like ash in your mouth as you looked at the wreck of him.

He was a man made of iron and old scars, a commander who led men to their deaths with a poet's tongue and a butcher’s hands, yet here he sat, so very still the moment your fingers touched his face, his gaze dropping from the ceiling to your mouth with a heavy focus.

"Why do you fight your own men?" Your heart ached, a dull, throbbing weight in your chest. You had seen enough blood to last three lifetimes, yet the sight of his—wasted on a comrade’s knuckles—made your stomach churn. "I just—I don't understand you sometimes, Paddy. There are enemies enough in the world without making more of those who wear the same uniform. Is the desert not enough of a grave for you?"

Paddy didn't answer with words. He gave a sharp, bark-like laugh that tasted of blood, his teeth stained crimson from his split lip. He looked at you with eyes that had seen too many fires, eyes that were dark and bottomless as a well.

"The desert is a cold bed," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones. He reached out with a hand that had broken a dozen men before the moon had reached its zenith, his fingers thick and calloused as they brushed against the soft skin of your throat. "And a man needs a bit of heat to remind him he’s still among the living, even if he has to bleed for it."

You wanted to scoff, but you didn’t have the energy to argue—not really.

He was a monster, a creature of salt and shadow, and you were the only thing keeping him from the abyss. You hated the way he looked at you then—as if you were the only piece of mercy left in a world that had forgotten the word.

The silence of the midnight air pressed against the walls, thick with the scent of cheap gin and the metallic tang of dried blood.

You reached for your needle, the silver glinting under the dim light of the lanterns. Your hands trembled, a slight tremor you prayed he was too drunk to notice, but Paddy saw everything. He was a man made of iron and old scars, yet he sat perfectly still the moment your fingers touched his face.

“Hold still,” you commanded, your voice stern, your fingers firm as you caught his jawline and tilted his head toward the light while you worked the needle through the cut on his brow.

He didn't flinch as the steel pierced his skin, his gaze dropping from the ceiling to your mouth with a heavy, predatory focus. "You have a gentle touch for someone who spends her days cutting out shrapnel," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones.

"Someone has to be gentle with you, Paddy," you whispered, the words feeling like ash in your mouth. "Since you seem intent on breaking yourself against every man in this camp."

A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound that tasted of blood.

"The boys needed a reminder of who leads them. A commander of men must be a bringer of fire, or they'll forget the heat".

"And what of me?" Your heart ached, a dull, throbbing weight in your chest. You pulled the silk thread taut, closing the gap in his crimson-stained ruin above his eyebrow. "Am I just the one who washes the ruin away so you can go find more?"

Paddy’s jaw ticked, muscle jumping beneath the rough line of his face as he fought the urge to move, the smell of cordite and juniper settling over you like something suffocating.

“You’re the only peace I have,” he breathed, his dark eyes tracing the cold, flat determination in your stare. “The only thing that isn’t burning.”

The words didn’t settle. They hung there—too heavy, too close—pressing in like the heat beneath the canvas walls.

You didn’t answer.

The needle paused in your fingers, hovering just above his skin. For a moment, all you could hear was the faint rasp of his breathing, the distant groan of wind dragging sand against the tent, the quiet, awful awareness of how close he was.

Too close.

Your throat tightened. Your grip shifted, just slightly.

“I hate you when you’re like this,” you murmured at last, the words quieter now, thinner, like they had to force their way out. “So angry. So broken.”

You pulled back then—just enough to put space between you, the needle lifting with you, thread catching faintly in the low light—and his hand closed around your wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle.

Certain.

The movement stilled you both.

“I know,” he whispered, his thumb dragging a slow, bruising circle into the center of your palm, the same hand that held him in place. “But God help the man who tries to take the mercy you give me.”

Something in you cracked.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a small, sharp break somewhere deep in your chest that you couldn’t quite hold together.

Your breath hitched.

You turned your face away, but not fast enough.

A tear slipped free.

Paddy went still.

Completely.

The tension in him shifted—not gone, but… different. His grip loosened without thinking, his hand still hovering at your wrist like he didn’t quite know what to do with it now.

“What—” he started, the word rough, unfamiliar in his mouth. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, too quickly, trying to pull your hand free. “It’s nothing, just—hold still, I need to finish—”

But your voice betrayed you, catching halfway through.

And you still wouldn’t look at him.

His hand tightened again—not to stop you this time, but to keep you there.

“Don’t,” he said, quieter now. Not a command. Something else. “Don’t lie to me.”

You shook your head, a sharp, stubborn motion, even as another tear slipped loose.

“It’s nothing,” you insisted, pushing weakly at his chest with your free hand. “You’re making it into something it’s not—just let me go, Paddy—”

He didn’t.

Instead, his hand shifted from your wrist, sliding upward with a sudden, heavy desperation to pull you into the hard expanse of his chest. The wool of his tunic was rough against your cheek, smelling of salt, cordite, and the ghost of the desert wind. You collapsed into him, the iron-willed nurse finally fracturing as you sobbed into the blood-stained fabric of his shoulder.

"I want you to promise me," you choked out, your voice muffled and thick with the tears you could no longer contain. "Promise me you won't go out there and leave me. That you won't just... throw your life away in some trench or God-forsaken hole in the sand". You clung to him, your fingers digging into the heavy muscle of his back. "But I know it’s futile. I know what you are, Paddy. You're a bringer of ruin, and you'll find it eventually".

The words began to tumble out faster, your breath hitching in a jagged rhythm as panic started to claw at your throat. "Every time you walk out that door, I see the ghost of you. I see the pine box. I see—".

"Hush," he rasped, the word like grinding stones, but the focus in his eyes had been replaced by a raw, startled vulnerability.

He moved then, his massive frame looming over you as he surged up from the chair. Before another frantic word could leave your lips, Paddy captured them with his own. It wasn't the crash of a landslide this time; it was a desperate, silencing heat intended to anchor you back to the earth. He tasted of iron and bitter gin, his stitched brow pressing against yours as he drank in your distress until your heart finally slowed its frantic, jagged thrumming.

When he pulled back just a fraction, his dark eyes searched yours with a heavy intensity that felt like a vow. He cupped your face, his thick, calloused thumbs catching the last of your tears.

"Let me take care of you now," he breathed, his voice a low, jagged lilt that held no room for argument. "No more blood. No more ruins. Just us."

You nodded weakly, your forehead dropping back against his chest as the monster of salt and shadow finally offered the only piece of mercy he had left. He lifted you then, as if you weighed no more than a slip of silk, and carried you toward the shadows of the cot. In the dim light of the lanterns, the violence of the desert faded away, replaced by the slow, deliberate rhythm of a love made of silk thread and iron-willed devotion.

Paddy moved with a sudden, uncharacteristic grace, his massive frame looming over you as he guided you back toward the chair. He didn't lift his hands from you; instead, he took the very cloth you had used to scrub the grit and the metallic tang of dried blood from his skin. With a focus that was surprisingly steady for a man so deep in the gin, he began to wipe away the stray droplets of his own ruin that had splattered onto your pale cheeks and throat.

His thick, calloused fingers were careful, almost reverent, as he worked the fastenings of your nursing whites. He peeled the blood-stained wool away, casting the uniform of your heavy, throbbing burden aside until you sat before him in only your thin, normal clothes. The midnight air of the godforsaken camp felt cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the rugged heat radiating off him.

"I know I can be unfair," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones cutting through the silence. He remained poised before you, his dark eyes tracing the set of your jaw. "And I can’t promise the desert won't claim me, or that I won't end up in a pine box one day soon. But I can promise to treat you better than a monster of salt and shadow should."

He offered a dramatic, weary tilt of his head, looking up as if reciting to the poets themselves. "It is a heavy penance for a commander of men to take orders from a slip of a girl, but perhaps I’ve found a mercy I didn't seek."

The theatrics of it, even in his drunken state, pulled a small, breathless laugh from your lungs. You didn't wait for him to lean in this time; you moved first, your mouth crashing into his with a desperate, hungry heat that finally silenced the black dog nipping at his heels.

When you pulled back, the air between you thickened, heavy with a predatory focus and the scent of juniper. "Paddy," you whispered, your heart ached with a terrifying certainty. "I love you."

For the first time since he had returned from the fire and ruin of the dunes, a smile broke across his face—not the sharp, bark-like laugh of a soldier, but something genuine and soft.

"Say it again," he breathed, his thumb dragging a slow, bruising circle into your palm.

"I love you," you repeated, your voice a silken thread in the dark.

He leaned closer, his scent of cordite wrapping around you like a shroud. "One more time, I think. My hearing’s been off ever since that bomb went off beside us last week."

You didn't give him words; you made out with him instead, the contact turning primal and certain as his hand closed around your wrist. The urgency between you grew, a low, dark rumble of need that made your breath hitch. When you finally broke apart, gasping for air in the stifling tent, you whispered the words against his lips one last time.

"I love you."

With a sudden, heavy slump of tension, the legendary Colonel began to strip away the rest of his gear, his movements determined as he pulled you toward the shadows of the cot.

But the cot was too far, and the hunger in his eyes was a hungry, burning thing that wouldn't wait for the soft give of a mattress. Paddy’s hand, thick and calloused from a life of ruin, swept across the surface of the scarred wooden table. Basins of murky, bruised water and silver instruments clattered to the floorboards in a discordant symphony of steel, clearing the way for the only peace he had left.

"I told you," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones against the shell of your ear. "A man needs a bit of heat to remind him he’s still among the living, even if he has to bleed for it".

The air in the stifling tent thickened, heavy with a primal focus as he stripped away the last of his khaki gear. When he entered you, it wasn't with the rhythmic lilt of the poets he recited, but with the raw, certain power of the desert itself. You arched against the hard table, your fingers digging into the heavy, scarred muscle of his back, anchoring yourself in the middle of his riotous storm.

He filled you completely, a massive, unyielding weight that made you gasp as he bottomed out against your core. The sheer size of him was a shock of heat, a physical invasion that sent a violent shiver racing down your spine, leaving you trembling against the sweat-slicked skin of his chest. Paddy paused, his breath a jagged, broken sound in the silence of the midnight air, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the wood.

"Are you... is this good?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, uncertain lilt as he searched your eyes for any sign of the iron-willed nurse retreating.

"I’m good, Paddy," you whispered, your heart ached with a terrifying need as you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist. "Go faster. Please."

He didn't need another command. The legendary Colonel surged forward, his movements becoming a frantic, rhythmic pull that mirrored the war drum of his heart. He was a bringer of fire, and every thrust felt like a brand, a volatile cocktail of desperation and certain, bruising strength that made the floorboards beneath the table groan.

His hands were everywhere—one calloused palm flat against the small of your back to arch you higher, while the other tangled in your hair to pull your mouth back to his.

You cried out, a raw, silken thread of sound that was lost to the wind dragging sand against the canvas, your body shaking with every heavy, possessive strike. You reacted to him like a storm-tossed bird, your nails marking the scarred muscle of his forearms as he drove you deeper into the abyss, neither of you willing to find the surface until the last of the ruin was burned away.

The friction of his skin against yours was a volatile cocktail of heat and desperate, certain need. You moaned his name out loud, the sound vibrating against the column of his throat, and Paddy’s grip on your waist tightened until his knuckles were white where they held you to the edge of the wood.

"Paddy," you gasped, your head falling back as the tension in your chest began to fracture into something beautiful and terrifying.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, his breath a jagged, broken sound that smelled of the desert and the dark, bitter gin he favored. He shifted his weight, his thick, calloused fingers sliding beneath your hips to tilt you higher, guiding you toward the edge of the abyss with a heavy, searching intensity.

"I have you," he rasped, his voice a low, jagged lilt that finally silenced the black dog nipping at his heels. "I have you, lass."

He didn’t wait for the desert to claim the silence; he surged forward, his movements becoming a frantic, rhythmic pull that mirrored the war drum of his heart. He went faster, the friction of his skin against yours a volatile cocktail of heat and desperate, certain need. Your body began to lock up, the tension in your chest finally fracturing as you hit the peak, a sudden, overwhelming release that left you shaking with every heavy, possessive strike.

As you were cumming, he leaned in close, his breath a jagged, broken sound that smelled of the desert and the dark, bitter gin he favored. "That’s it," he talked you through it, his voice a low, jagged lilt that felt like grinding stones against your skin. "I got you. Do you feel better now?"

"Yes," you whimpered, the word a silken thread of velvet lost in the sound of the wind dragging sand against the night.

"Hold on," he commanded, his fingers digging into your skin with a bruising strength. "Just a little bit longer."

Your body began to involuntarily jolt against the hard surface of the table, your nails marking the scarred muscle of his forearms. He slowed the frantic, rhythmic pull of his body, replacing the violence of the dunes with a slow, deliberate heat that made you shiver against the scarred muscle of his chest. You clung to him, your breath hitching in a jagged rhythm as you climbed, your heart a thrumming war drum against his own. With one final, possessive surge, Paddy helped you find the peace you had given him a thousand times before, his mouth capturing your sob of release in a kiss that tasted of salt, iron, and a mercy that had finally found its home.

He bottomed out one last time, a massive, unyielding weight that made you gasp as he came inside you, his frame sagging with a sudden, heavy slump of tension.

The quiet of the infirmary was absolute for only a heartbeat before a voice cut through the tent from outside. "Paddy? You in there? Stirling’s looking for you."

Both of your bodies tightened instantly, the predatory focus returning to Paddy’s eyes as he froze like a creature of salt and shadow.

"Fuck off, David!" Paddy roared, his voice a low, dangerous hush that finally made the footsteps outside pause.

"I need to come in, Mayne," David insisted, his voice closer to the tent flaps now. "It's about the raid."

"I said get lost before I bury you in the Great Sand Sea!" Paddy threatened, his jaw ticking, a muscle jumping beneath the rough line of his face. When David took a heavy step toward the entrance, Paddy didn't hesitate. He reached out with a hand that had broken a dozen men, snatched his service pistol from the gear on the floor, and fired a single, deafening shot through the top of the wooden doorframe.

The silence that followed was heavy and sudden. After a moment, the sound of retreating boots hurried away into the midnight air.

Paddy looked back at you, the dark, bottomless intensity of his gaze breaking into a sudden, genuine smile. You both let out a jagged, breathless laugh, the absurdity of the war and the ruin outside falling away.

He reached for a fresh swab, his thick, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as he began to wash the remnants of the night from your skin. He moved with a sudden, uncharacteristic grace, his scent of cordite and juniper wrapping around you like a shroud.

"I love you," you whispered, the words no longer feeling like ash in your mouth.