kill them with kindness

[apollovalenti]

( deimos. )

Flesh had been shorn from dented bone. Veins protruded, taut lifeline tense within exposed muscle. Howls were muffled, their chance to spill villainous treachery smite by a crude, crimson rag. Perhaps next, he’d threaten the removal of his tongue. Scalpel slid from elbow to bicep, the Interrogator meaning to match a masterpiece of carnage among another section of punishable hide.

The flayed sinner atoned as the onslaught pursued, a petrified voice crooning its traitorous chorus. Erroneous promises were designed with an iron bite, a bullet slung from its chamber. The end was the same. Silent figures erased what hellish ordeals unfolded within the tent, and brought forth yet another victim, unprepared for the executioner’s guile. His tools met the palms of a subordinate. “Get them talking,” he directed, “I have something to see to.”

Damp fabric scoured arms of scarlet ink, drenched a once cleansed fabric. Dried specs were scrubbed from intact flesh. If it were another he meant to visit, there’d have been no mistaking his stained position. Sacred utterance greeted his wicked aura– however hushed the sentiments. He knew– always knew– when the weight of war threatened to snare Apollo in a trance. Stepping forward, a hand curled around Marco’s, his spare delving into the medic’s pocket.

A single digit hooked itself around the exposed, intricate article. Withdrawing the armata bianca, Deimos wove its spiritual chain between intertwined hands. He expected the rosary’s fine beading to combust at his contact– the devil’s prized demon projecting sin upon each holy grail. He held no place for God or his catechized prophecies; each prayer a fallacy against azure eyes. “What would you pray between us?”

Marco relaxed as the footfalls came closer, and the illumination cast by the fires of camp revealed the angel of Death himself, coming towards him speckled in the blood of his trade, though sparking no fear in him as he approached. There was a prayer unfinished on Marco’s lips, but he rose from where he knelt with more reverence to be spoken, not skywards this time, but to a very tangible object of his affections who stood close enough to take his hand. 

They hadn’t seen each other for far too long, and their parting left Marco with a fear deep settled in his chest that he’d ruined everything underneath the high ceilings of the Day estate with the taste of English wine on his tongue and the sounds of his own laughter chasing Lucian’s words past thickly curtained windows and shadowed portraits. The kindness Lucian had afforded him, as well as his three sisters who had been little more than practical strangers, had been unexpected from a man who seemed to exude coldness to everyone else. 

Marco bit his lip, sighing quietly behind the cacophony of the camp. Lucian looked just the same now, covered in his last victim in the midst of a war-zone, as he had standing next to his piano in a house that felt to grand for Marco to be inside looking every bit the brooding lord - of course he did, when Marco had always seen past Lucian’s ice-cold exterior, and into a heart he was sure was true, his surroundings mattered little. “I would pray that I haven’t made too many mistakes for you to think poorly of me.” Because God knew he thought poorly of himself, scaring Lucian off as he had. 

He had gotten carried away, and pushed too far too soon. It was stupid of him not to expect to wake up on top of the covers, fully clothed, with kiss-bruised lips and precisely no one beside him. “I’m sorry if I, if I assumed, or overstepped the last time we saw each other.” The last thing he wanted was for Lucian to think he was in the same category as the nameless string of Commandos who Marco used to help himself forget his loneliness for one night at a time. “You were so kind to me and my family, and I misread that for something else.” Like he did every time. It had been a long time since the kindness he had been shown had been genuine, and not a way of luring him in. 

[apollovalenti]

( wardog. )

The sensation of being out of place, of not belonging, wasn’t a foreign one to the corporal. It was a feeling he knew better than he knew his own mind, and one might argue that it was the unequivocal and defining truth of his existence: Anders belonged no where. So, when he found himself in Belarus filling the post of a deceased tank gunner, he was not disappointed to find that the same truth awaited him there. An empty, unfamiliar bunk, and a sea of strangers in the mess hall who spared him nary a look. He watched from the sidelines as the cogs of the great war machine came together so easily, and felt his legs twitch, begging to take action. Friends embraced one another fondly, marking the end of a long absence, soldiers marched supplies to and fro, tents erupted out of the earth, and a semblance of order began to appear.

Anders helped where he could, but ultimately found himself propped against the tank to which he’d been assigned. Hiding in its shadow, he wrote in his leather-bound journal idly and without much direction. Beyond the tank that hid him handily, he could hear the camp’s activities streamlining. Fires were being built, casting an orange glow against the autumn sky, and barks of orders had dissolved into the roar of friendly conversation. 

The medics Marco had trained under in the Regio Esercito had told him that the best way to cope in their profession was to form ties with no one. That way, when they arrived on your gurney, with their limbs hanging on by a thread or riddled with bullets it would be easier to do your job. Detached, efficient, unconnected. The medics Marco trained under in the Regio Esercito were, in his opinion, full of shit. It was his responsibility to care for these men and women, to put them back together whatever it took as they faced death, but also in life, as unsure as it was in times like these. It was his belief that each and every Commando in his care should know his name, if not his face, and he should know the same again. 

It was for this reason that he loved it when everyone convened once again after well earned leave, camaraderie ever stronger for a bit of distance, and newbies being initiated into their ranks with toasts of the hooch the pilots seem to materialise and the sound of laughter emanating over camp that would soon make way for gunshots. Wandering through camp with two of the nurses, deep in conversation about how one of them had been proposed to during leave, Marco noticed a lone figure, standing on his own beside the hulking frame of a tank. Without a second thought, he told his companions he’d meet them at the mess hall, and plunged his hands into his pockets against the cold. 

“Not one for all the revelry. I take it?” He called, his accent and the wind snatching at his words. 

[apollovalenti]

The night had bled into dawn as Marco had worked, desperately trying to save those in his care from being another name on a death notice in a mother’s hands. It took it’s toll, seeing so many die under his emerald watch, but he would not let unnecessary numbers add to death’s legions - not while he could help him. Reprieve came only in the short breaks he permitted himself - to eat, to sleep a little, or, when there was no time to find an empty cot or a meal, to pray behind the tent for a moment.

The prayer fell from Marco’s lips in the quiet, familiar words of his mother tongue, barely audible even to his own ears amongst the ever bustling sounds of the base over the smooth clinking of his rosary beads between his blood-stained fingers. He did not need to hear the words for them to lift a weight off his soul, even if just for a moment, they were meant to be heard by a higher power anyone - one who Marco believed could hear him on his knees, above the deafening clamour of war.

❝ Signore, fa di me uno strumento della tua pace: Dove è odio, fa ch'io porti l'amore. Dove è offesa, ch'io porti il perdono. Dove è discordia, ch'io porti l'unione. Dove è dubbio, ch'io porti la fede. Dove è errore, ch'io porti la verità. Dove è disperazione, ch'io porti la speranza. Dove è tristezza, ch'io porti la gioia. Dove sono le tenebre, ch'io porti la lu- ❞

Footsteps fell, halting Marco’s interrupted prayer, rosary slipping back into his pocket as he turned his face towards unexpected, though not unwelcome (never unwelcome) company. “Chi va li? - uh, Who’s there?”  

[themedicalchronicles]

To cure sometimes, to relieve often, to comfort always.

Edward Livingston Trudeau (via themedicalchronicles)

[apollovalenti]

( red. )

A singular glance was given sideways towards the man who voiced a particularly perplexing truth. They went off into battle, and came back with severely gaping  wounds that Red had the pleasure of plunging her hands into and mending. Even with the copious amounts of morphine to numb the body, the pain of healing would be far worse than any needle.

Blessed and cursed with an eidetic memory, Red could immediately list off every fact listed in the head field medic’s file. His face simultaneously mixed fact and encounters that they had in the past. She remembered him as one of the few people she deemed capable. His skills were commendable and he would be the first person she’d call if they needed more hands in the operating room.

“Of course”, she answered swiftly, looking at the ever shortening line of soldiers in front of her waiting for their vaccines and squirming in the process. “In that case I will ask you the same question I’ve been asking them. Any recent fainting spells or have you been exposed to any illnesses? Besides that of patients?  

Marco knew Costin went out of his way to recruit Commandos who were better than the best for his elite unit, and as a result he found himself with the honour of serving (often elbow deep in gristle and blood) beside those as competent and talented as Dr. Kane. Her thick Brooklyn accent was as firm a fixture in this medical tent as the screaming on men on their deathbeds or the sickening crunch of bones being amputated, though granted, a lot more comforting. 

Though her brusque, blunt nature was not exactly what Marco quantified as excellent bedside manner, he could hardly fault her skill. Immeasurable, and worth her place here, for sure. “Not that I’m aware of, no. Besides, what could there possibly be going around that I haven’t been exposed to by a patient?” He said with an amiable laugh, knowing Red well enough to know that it was not in her fastidious nature to take things so lightly as he did. 

Setting down his paper and pencil, Marco rolled up the sleeve of his fatigues and took the soldier’s place in front of the doctor, delicate petals and leaves inked into golden (albeit scarred in places) skin emerging as he revealed the crook of his inner elbow to Lydia without the fear in his eyes that her previous charge had owned. He had been through too much to see a tiny lance of metal as anything other than benign, not when he had seen far worse being suffered by those without the luxury of the vaccine. 

[apollovalenti]

( red. )

“Please do not complain or make minuscule comments about the size of the needle. It’s a new vaccination and yes you need it” Red called out in a loud yet blatantly monotone voice. The brown clipboard was held steady by digging its way into the petite Doctor’s side, hazel eyes glancing over the recruit in front of her momentarily before looking back down at the chart, making sure the information matched. She was only dealing with her fellow shadowed commandos today thankfully, the fly-boys from other brigades had a tendency to vomit out their ignorance on her shoes with a cocky smile and belittling tone.

“Roll up your sleeve, it will only take a second. And while you are here, has your medical history change at all in the time off? Have you experienced any fainting spells or been exposed to any illnesses?”

With the lack of screaming soldiers to be scraped limb by limb from the field for his care due to their moving to a new camp, Marco had been sequestered into helping within the med tent administering vaccinations and checking up on his Commandos who were still in recovery and had had to be transported here despite their sorry state. 

A chiming laugh left the newly promoted Head Field Medic as he swiped a small bead of blood from the soldier’s arm he was working on, disposing of the needle and sending him on his way with a calm efficiency. “For a bunch of soldiers, they never fail to amaze me at their unwavering dislike of something so small as a needle.” He mused, smiling warmly at the man as he answered the doctor’s questions before returning to his work. 

“When you get a spare minute, doc, would you mind administering mine?” Apollo asked, midway through scrawling down a thought on a nearby notepad of supplies still needed. “I’ve never been fond of doing my own.”

[apollovalenti]

( ace. )

Eva had never been much of an artist, especially not when it was the charcoal that needed beckoning at the will of her fingertips. “Must keep you sane.” Eva mused, the smile on her face was lax. “Am I good to take a seat, or must the muse stay still?” Lips quirked, the humor hadn’t quite bled out of her voice just yet. She’d settled well into the routine of the base by now, it felt familiar now every time that she left the canvas of her tent or the camp of her Hellcat. And yet, the only hobby she had to claim for her time around was whatever time she spent away in the motor pool. “You always been an artist, then?”

“Might be a bit late for that, but it certainly allows me to retain a semblance of sanity, sure.” Marco chuckled, pausing momentarily to pull a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. “The muse may do whatever she sees fit.” He replied, lighting the cigarette between his lips with practised deftness. After a few drags, the medic let the cigarette rest between his lips and returned to the drawing. “Always have been, ever since I was little and old enough to hold a pencil. My father was a painter, so I guess it’s in my blood.” Speaking around the cigarette became a hassle, so instead he fit it between the fingers of his left hand. “E tu? What do you do to stay sane around here?” 

[apollovalenti]

( ace. )

“You’re deemin’ me more interesting than clouds?” Eva reiterated, the humor shaping the words into something to have a laugh at. The curl of her mauve lips shaped into a grin just in time, the smoke billowing past them as she folded her arms in front of her. Lips pursed, she nodded in lieu of some light-weighted amusement threading with sarcasm to keep it alive in the air just a bit longer. “Sweet talking, that.” Her toe kicked at the ground in front of her for a few moments, her gaze turning back to the blond as she nodded at the notebook in his hand. “You draw a lot?”

“’Course I am.” He said, lips turning up into a distracted smile as he drew. “Deeming you interesting, and sweet talking, both.” Marco laughed, glancing upwards to add the plumes of smoke billowing from her cigarette. “Whenever I get the time, si. Helps me relax, distracts me from everything going on around here.” It was the only grasp he still had on normalcy, and though his surroundings caused nothing but fear and anxiety, at least he could still block that out and spend whatever free time he got focusing on little more than the angles of his comrade’s faces, the blooming of a heavy exhale, or the creases in weathered uniforms.

[apollovalenti]

( gypsy. )

“Just a book,” Crina replied shortly. She glanced over, though and relented a bit. She knew Marco of all people meant no harm. “I am practising my English.” 

Marco nodded, a knowing smile on his lips. “Good for you.” He said with the appropriate amount of reverence. When he had come to the Commandos his English had been the bare minimum needed to communicate, and though it had bettered over time, it was still hard to get a grasp on. “English is hard, I used to do the same thing.” He motioned with a warm smile to the small book she was keeping secret in her hands. Marco gathered that it must be a children’s story of some kind. 

[apollovalenti]

( deimos. )

With his cigarette crushed beneath the sole of his boots, Lucian felt bare. It was unlike him to give into another’s wish. The relinquishment of the stick of nicotine had felt like dynamite’s detonation. He wanted it back, but he failed to light another. Shoving clenched fists into his pockets, Lucian tilted his head back to admire the skyline. “I warned you, Apollo,” his gaze left the sky for a brief moment in time to find the sketching deity, “and I never warn. I act. Consider it a professional courtesy.” Returning to his watch above, he witnessed a bird’s ascent from camp and wished he could follow, Deimos found it difficult to believe he belonged there– difficult to believe he belonged anywhere but under. “Considering I was just flaying someone, what did you expect? I owe you nothing. Besides, you want a pretty muse. Find anyone else.”

“You warned me.” Marco paused and bit his tongue for a moment in concentration before looking back up at his unwilling victim. “And I ignored you. I think you will find that that’s the way things usually are going to go.” Having Deimos’ knife at his neck was something that he would very much like to never experience again, and the feel of it already so close to scarred skin had kept him awake for most of the nights since. “Not much different, though I did expect you to be a little better at hiding it. You are an awfully good actor, you know? Like how you keep acting like you hate me even though you don’t. Sometimes I wonder if you’ve even convinced yourself.” He commented idly as he drew, attempting to draw a reaction worthy of being depicted on paper as he worked on the intricacies of Lucian’s facial features. “You’re the best I’ve got for now. And you’re pretty enough when you’re not giving me the death glare, no?” 

[24nurse]

“To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived - that is to have succeeded.”

(via 24nurse)

[apollovalenti]

( gypsy. )

“Well it is a little late to be asking after you have already been doing it,” Crina replied sarcastically. She moved her hands to cover the title of the book, though its thinness likely would give it away.

“Mi dispiace. Usually people don’t mind.” He said, before realising the sarcasm in her tone and relaxing slightly. As he put the finishing touches to his drawing of the brown haired girl absorbed by the book in her hands, Marco found himself curious as to what it was. “What are you reading?” He asked idly, unable to see cover nor spine. 

[foolfighter]

[apollovalenti]

( deimos. )

When he surfaced, the air was lucid. The draw back of the tent flap had him recoil from the sun’s severity. He had entered at dusk some evenings ago. He had witnessed the twilight from within the interrogation tent’s confines, and had not ventured from its clutches. He had wrung the life from a prelude of information; harvested within a shell that once held an unmarred person. His clothing spoke the tale of a Interrogator’s war– its color a mismatching set of stale and fresh reds. Once the opulent blue of his eyes adjusted to the light’s berating, Deimos retrieved a cigarette and lit it as he wandered, leaving the nurses to dispose of the mess in his wake.

He wasn’t certain how long he’d been in another atmosphere when the voice broke through. His mind had wandered as his previous steps had taken him, and it was Apollo who awoke him with a gentle order. For the man’s benefit, he released what was left of his lucky strike. He’d raised a knife to retrieve the last one, and now he fell the new without a threat. “I did not think I would be a muse of yours,” Deimos conceded as he turned, “especially covered in what you medics like to bandage.”

Marco, despite himself, shivered as Lucian’s voice pierced through the night air. Both because of the knowledge of where the blood splashed carelessly across his clothing, and the memories of their last parting. Lucian Day was a person more suited to the dark of night, or the dimly lit interior of an interrogation tent, than to the sunlight which fell upon him where he stood. To Marco, who had grown sick of staring at a blank page, he seemed the perfect thing to occupy himself with for the time being - Lucian could be incredibly picturesque when he wasn’t trying to be the bane of his existence, after all. 

Idly, his pencil had created the beginnings of a shape that Marco was rather proud of. His drawings always tended to be better when they depicted something Marco was fascinated by, and that certainly applied to Lucian Day. “Chi ha bisogna s’arrenda.” The medic smirked, choosing to ignore the fact that he had been smoking, unwilling to shatter the quiet moment he had found amongst the constant rush of camp, and his mind. “You’re right though, I usually pick muses who don’t pull knives at me and who don't seem to exist only to make my life hard, but you’re the only one around, so you’re going to have to do.” Marco laughed at his own false disdain, and only smiled across the way at Lucian. "So be quiet and look pretty, maybe less like you’re currently thinking of flaying someone. You owe me, Deimos." Marco’s smile refused to fade as he teased Lucian even as he turned back to his page, brow creasing in concentration as he did so. 

[apollovalenti]

( gypsy. )

Crina’s head snapped up, a blush rushing to her cheeks and a frown creasing her forehead. She was embarrassed to have been caught reading a children’s English story. She had noticed Marco’s presence, but hadn’t thought he was paying her any attention. “What is it you are doing?” she demanded.

“Drawing you.” Marco answered matter-of-factly as the pencil in his hand worked frantically to recreate her form on the page. “I hope you don’t mind...” His voice trailed off in concern, wondering if his actions were the cause of her embarrassment.

[apollovalenti]

( ace. )

Eva paused in her movements, gaze tracking to where the voice piped from. She wasn’t sure what the purpose of the query was, but she complied given that she didn’t see a reason not to. Curiosity killed the cat, and something along those lines. One hand pulling away to pocket the lighter that had served its purpose, she kept her stance still until the inhale of her breath didn’t prefer to wallow in any more smoke. Pausing to move minutely, if only to remove the smoke from between her mauve lips, Eva breathed out before speaking. “Any reason you want me to play statue mid smoke?” 

Marco smiled appreciatively and continued the fast strokes of pencils on paper, capturing the soldier’s form on the page. It was one of the last things that he could do to maintain some sense of normalcy in the midst of war, and a satisfied smile came on to his lips as the sketch progressed. “Because times like these make it hard to find good models.” He said brightly, looking up from his paper for a moment to take another look at the way she was standing. “And drawing clouds was starting to bore me.” 

[apollovalenti]

"If you could stay there a moment more, it would be a godsend.” Marco said, brow creased in concentration as he glanced back at his dogeared notebook where a rough sketch of his comrade was coming to fruition. As they began to move off, Marco realised they didn’t realise they had become the subject of his idle drawing, and all before he had finished his rough outline.