[ WP ] Two wounded soldiers from opposing sides of the war find themselves in the care of the same nurse and snowed-in until spring .

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 Faith watched the medico go about his business with the same ease that a smith or a cobbler would, whistling an absent tune as he washed his hands in a bucket of steaming hot water. Drying them, he moved over to the chair that Hilary Flint sat backwards on, his shirt torn free of his torso. All manner of scars and old wounds crisscrossed his back from the telltale pock mark of a grenade to the thin, almost invisible lines of a dagger. The doctor was a Man in his seventies at least, nearly as old as Faith was. His carefully beard had gone white, as had what little hair remained on his head. His hands, thought gnarled and twisted as oak, were calm and steady as he picked up a stainless steel forceps, and moved towards Flint. 
 
 `` I wish I could say this is going to hurt me more than it will you, Captain, but let's be real. This is gon na hurt like a fucking son of a bitch.'' 
 
 Flint said nothing, instead taking another swig of the half-empty whiskey bottle set on the table besides him. He had n't shaven in days, the stubble giving him a grim, wolfish look to his face. His normally neat hair hung down in front of his face, hiding his tired green-gray eyes. The doctor, not ungently, leaned over as he began to probe the wound, an ugly blackened thing weeping pus and blood. Flint hissed but kept silent, taking another swig of whiskey as the doctor poked and prodded. With one hand the doctor held the forceps, and with the other he wiped at the yellowish pus and infected blood with an easy air about him. 
 
 `` Shot in the back. *Tsk, * *tsk* How could you let that happen?'' asked the doctor. 
 
 `` The coward snuck around me while I was dealing with his mates,'' Flint explain. `` Had all the time in the world and the cross-eyed fucker almost missed.'' 
 
 `` But he did n't. And now you're here with a wound that almost killed you. Still might if I do n't get that fever of yours under control. And the poor Miss and her hand here... Captain you're nothing but trouble.'' 
 
 `` Not my fault, Doc. I told her never to punch a bastard in the jaw; that's how you break your hand. I should know, I've done it myself.'' 
 
 Faith perked up. `` What, you punched yourself?'' 
 
 `` Ah ha... ah ha... ah ah.... Everyone's a comedian,'' muttered Flint. Faith's hand was indeed broken, the Doctor having done an excellent job splinting and wrapping the damaged fingers in a thick gauze. 
 
 `` Hey, Doc. Do you think we can stay till the end of the month?'' asked Flint. `` I mean, if it's no trouble or nothing...'' 
 
 `` Captain,'' the doctor said sternly, his face a mask of concentration. `` If I do n't have you rest here, you're gon na open up these wounds and returned back here and stay even longer. Hold on...'' His probing found the culprit, a deformed lead slug which had embedded itself against Flint's shoulder blade. 
 
 `` Fuck!'' howled Flint, shuddering as the forceps slid free of his muscles, musket ball and all. The doctor dropped it into a metal kidney dish. The lead ball creating a pleasant clink. Faith giggled at Flint's obvious agony. 
 
 `` Another satisfied customer,'' the doctor said. Flint growled and swigged another slug of whiskey. 
 
 `` Yeah, and fuck you too, Doc.'' 
 
 The surgeon remained unfazed. 
 
 `` I was speaking about the girl.'' 
 

