"Quivering" is my least-favourite word in the english language. Nothing and nobody should be quivering. If you're quivering right now, stop that shit immediately. Tremble or shake if you must but the quivering has to stop.
A/N: Based on @salbeitraeume’s comment and that anon’s story with the coolest mom. Thank you both 💕
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It all started with an apple—a simple snack that you chose to enjoy under the July’s sun.
Yes, it was without your lieutenant’s permission, but you assumed he forgot to excuse you from your duties, so you decided to take that break anyway. You worked hard today, shovelling dirt, piling sandbags, and creating the perfect setting for your next field exercise. You deserved that damn apple.
However, you made two mistakes: The first one was that you decided to take the matter into your own hands without asking or reminding him that breaks are vital under such heat. Your second mistake was standing in plain sight, indulging in your snack while making yourself an easy target for the lieutenant.
He gave you the lecture of your lifetime and then some more. Rhetorical questions poured out of his mouth, such as “You think you can defy me like that?” and “Would you like me to wave a palm branch in your face while I feed you grapes?”
He made you stand on the tractor’s roof where everyone could witness your shame as a punishment. Whenever someone dared to ask why you were up there, he ordered you to stand in attention and scream at the top of your lungs:
“MY DISTORTED SENSE OF SELF-IMPORTANCE PREVAILS OVER TEAMWORK, SO I DECIDED TO TAKE A BREAK, WITHOUT THE LIEUTENANT’S PERMISSION, AND EAT MY SNACKY WHILE MY FELLOW COMRADES KEPT BUSTING THEIR ASSES OFF IN THE HEAT.”
But the lieutenant made two other mistakes of his own: The first one was that he forgot to give you and the rest of the team a break, making you work non-stop under the heat. The second mistake was that he chose one of the hottest hours to deliver your punishment.
Exhaustion was the first sign, but you brushed it off since you were already tired. Soon enough, you could feel your pulse in your throat, and your ears began to ring. You looked at the ground, and the world started spinning.
Everything was a blur after that: the lieutenant rushing towards you, ordering others to give you space, a cooling sensation against your skin, and the medic murmuring the words “heat exhaustion.”
Heat exhaustion, huh? No shit.
Blinking your eyes, you find yourself in a sterile room, lying on a bed with an IV in your arm and a cold pack wrapped in cloth at the back of your neck.
You attempt to sit up, but a voice from your left cautions you.
“Don’t,” it says softly, “You should lie down.”
You turn your head towards the voice; it’s the lieutenant. He’s sitting with his elbows on his thighs, resting his chin in his hands. He stands up and comes closer, but you flinch and back away.
He outstretches his arms to show you he means no harm. He touches the cold pack under your neck, then gently cradles your head, removing it from its position. He leaves the room and returns moments later with a fresh one. He wraps it in a dry cloth, lifts your head, and places it beneath your neck again. He joins you on the bed.
You can see him struggling to find the right words. Each time he opens his mouth, he hesitates and closes it again. Finally, he stands and walks to his chair, picking up something before returning to your side.
It’s an apple.
“You were eating an apple, weren’t you?” He asks.
You nod.
He retracts a folding knife from his pocket and begins to peel it.
“Lt.,” you say, “I-I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’re sorry?” He asks, continuing to peel the apple, “No, I’m the one who should apologise to you.”
You look at him with half-lidded eyes. He continues speaking.
“I forgot to give you a break during a heatwave, and then I made things worse,” he confesses, cutting a piece of the apple. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
You look at him, then at the apple. “W-well, if it gives you any comfort, I forgive you, sir,” you murmur.
He extends a piece of apple towards you. “Here,” he says, “eat this.”
You accept his offer and watch him as he adjusts your headrest to a comfortable position. He walks towards the fan.
“Is the air okay?” He asks, “Should I move the fan, or are you comfortable?”
“It’s fine, sir,” you reply with a weak smile. “I’m fine.”
He picks up a water bottle from the cabinet and opens it up. Waiting for you to finish the piece of apple, he guides the bottle to your mouth and advises you to take small sips. His other hand supports your chin, ensuring it doesn’t spill on you.
You remember your earlier conversation, and a chuckle escapes your lips mid-drinking. You begin to cough, almost choking, and he pats your back.
“W-wait, Lt., wait,” you plead, “I have to tell you something.”
He stops and looks at you, confused.
“Remember when you were scolding me?” You ask.
“I do, soldier, and I’m not proud of it.”
“No, no, that’s not it,” you reply. “Remember when you asked me if I would like you to wave a palm branch in my face while you feed me grapes?”
He signs and looks at the peeled apple, then at the fan. He lets out a huff and shakes his head.
“Yes,” he says, struggling to suppress his laughter, “yes, I do.”
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