Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sylvain was sure he’d been in a worse situation before, even if one didn’t immediately come to mind. Undoubtedly it was escaping him due to the adrenaline running through his veins from an operation that was going about as smoothly as a car without a tire, despite all the intel and labor that had been going into this for weeks.

The other part—and probably most of it, realistically—was the sight of his Lieutenant bleeding in front of him.

“You need to follow him, sir,” Ingrid snapped, words clipped by a hiss as she tried and struggled to right herself against the alley wall. “I’ll be fine.”

“I wasn’t aware I got a demotion, Lieutenant,” Sylvain replied blandly. “I mean, why else would you be giving me orders right now?”

Ingrid’s glare was impressively fierce, her lips curling to contain the words he was sure she wanted to say. But such things were meant for the privacy of his office, or among close comrades in a quiet moment—not in the middle of the city with a renegade alchemist on the loose. And it probably would be only a bit more convincing if she wasn’t worryingly pale, or if sweat didn’t bead at her temples, despite her rather valiant attempt to keep strong.

It probably didn’t help her attempt that he’d known her for longer than most everyone else, especially compared to those in Central.

Besides, the sounds of the fight were almost too far away to hear over the rain. Even if he did leave to pursue their target, there was no guarantee he’d catch up—genius Colonel or not. It was better to handle the damage here, to pull things together for their next steps.

It just so happened that Ingrid counted among those damages, at least as far as he was concerned. After all…it would have been disastrous if they had been even a little bit less fortunate.

“How bad is it?” he asked, kneeling in front of her. He could see blood seep into her uniform’s sleeve, barely stemmed as her fingers clung tightly against the injury. It wasn’t particularly convenient; getting hit by a building-turned-boulder wasn’t particularly likely to rip at her clothes, but at least it would have made assessing the injury far easier.

“It’s fine.”

“Great! That will make this much quicker.” Sylvain reached into his pocket, the chalk in there still warm from when he’d set up for barriers that absolutely were not useful at all. Still, at least it wasn’t a completely pointless endeavor, if he was being exceptionally charitable.

His lips pressed together, focusing on drawing a simple circle on the hem of her sleeve. The fabric’s density was thicker than most other clothing, made of a wool mix that would need to be accounted for. Sure, a sleeve wasn’t as much as the coat in whole, but there was something particularly unwise about just sacrificing the whole coat when he didn’t need it, especially in the rain.

“Be still,” he whispered, fingertips brushing against the chalk. The familiar sensation rolled over him, the flash of light entirely accustomed to as the sleeve was replaced by a long strip of fabric that curled upon itself as it piled onto the cement, accompanied by embroidery that was simply unusable.

And beneath it was, at least, a scene not quite as bad as Sylvain had anticipated. True, Ingrid’s skin was already dark with a growing bruise, the surrounding area red and irritated. And, as he moved her hand away, it was easy to tell that the bone was broken (though the fact that she hadn’t been moving her fingers or hand on that side should have made that more obvious). The blood had originated from a comparatively small laceration, one that would certainly heal on its own with little trouble.

That break though…

“Do you remember,” he started, a hand settling on her shoulder and the other just below the break, “when we were kids and you fell off Glenn’s horse? And he had to reset your shoulder?”

Ingrid glanced at him, something in her gaze that he didn’t want to think about. “Yes.”

“Yeah. This…is gonna hurt more. A lot more.”

“Still with me, Galatea?”

Ingrid opened one eye to glance at Sylvain, her head falling back against the stone a while ago in some attempt to keep herself contained. It hadn’t worked, but Sylvain knew her well enough to not mention the way her attempt to stifle her pained noises made her lip puffy and red (‘and kissable’ he would have said, were she any of the girls he normally would have flirted with, but that he was always, always forced to keep to himself to keep whatever this was stable). He knew not to linger too long on the fact that he could still see her eyes wet with tears, those that she wouldn’t even rub away lest she acknowledge them. And he knew not to stare too much at a bandaging job that was mediocre at best, born only from the necessity of the battlefield and never refined—even though he knew she had tried to convince him in vain to learn again and again.

“You know,” he shifted onto the balls of his feet, chest clenching around words he wanted so badly to say, to scream, to just throw at her until it finally stuck, “you wouldn’t be dealing with this if you didn’t get involved.”

“Involved,” Ingrid repeated, looking at him blandly. “I was doing my job. Sir.”

“I had it handled.”

“Mm. Of course.” Her fingers on her good side flexed, curling against her pants. It was subtle, nothing to someone who just knew the hyper-competent Lieutenant—but so much to Sylvain. A sign of much that he had lost when he had risen in the ranks…and when she was content to stay in his service.

“No one’s here to reprimand you, you know.” He rested his elbow on his knee, his chin in his palm. “You can talk freely.”

She huffed on the smallest exhale, almost a laugh. “It almost sounds like you want a lecture.”

“I want to know what you were thinking. Getting—doing—this.” He smiled, fragile but probably enough. At least, right now. “If it takes a lecture to get there, I’ll put up with it. You know, for old times’ sake.”

She heaved a sigh, shifting to sit more upright against the stone. “I’m not an alchemist,” she muttered, her gaze sliding away. “But I’ve served under you long enough to know what you’re capable of. That would have killed you, sir.”

“I had it under control. I would have—”

“You care about impacting people; we know that that alchemist doesn’t. Your barrier wouldn’t have been enough; you would have realized and have tried to…break it up.” The edge of her lips quirked into a small smile. “But it’s raining.”

Sylvain winced. He wished he could argue with her, but she was right. The barriers would have only claimed the top level of the surrounding buildings’ stone—not enough to compromise the stability—which would have been shattered immediately. And, as much as flame alchemy came in handy to pretty much burn or explode anything in a split moment, it wasn’t much good if he couldn’t get a single spark.

“Between the desk and your dates, you’re out of practice in the field,” Ingrid continued. “It was safer to get you out of the way.”

Sylvain scoffed. “You took the hit so I didn’t have to.”

“You’re stubborn,” she said simply. “It was harder to push you out of the way than I thought.”

“Ing—“ Sylvain bit off the last syllable, well aware she never was inclined to listen to her friend, and that she only particularly cared to listen to her commanding officers. It was infuriating, but at least it could be used. “Lieutenant Galatea, I hardly think that losing you to a massive projectile was an improvement on the situation.”

Ingrid blinked; whether she was startled by his shift in tone or his actual words was a tossup. “The loss of a commanding officer is undoubtedly—”

“I don’t mean rank.” Sylvain bit his lip, gaze flitting down to the end of the alley. Traffic had continued as normal; either the target had been captured, or the matter was so far from them that it was hardly worth consideration. At the very least, the crowd walking by wouldn’t care about his words as much as his other subordinates might. “If you were hurt—worse, I mean—Faerghus would have lost two good officers today.”

Ingrid’s expression twisted. “I don’t see how—”

Sylvain offered a smile. “You think I’m a fool now…imagine what might have happened if I thought there was no helping you. No…I’m not sure you could. Even I…I can’t say for sure the kind of man I’d become—“ Though, realistically, he was sure they would all learn fast. And that there would be very little of their target left, even if he had to use his own hands to tear the man apart.

“Colonel,” Ingrid sighed, her gaze sliding away, “you would have finished our mission.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

“You would have. Because you know I’d expect you to.”

Maybe. Maybe if she was conscious, if he knew her eyes were on him. But Sylvain couldn’t say that for sure. It was just as likely that he would throw it all aside, and that he’d lose any sense of himself in the process. “I think it would be better if we don’t test that.”

“Then stop putting yourself in harm’s way.”

Sylvain barked a laugh. “Orders again, Lieutenant! I really am gonna have to write you up for insubordination, aren’t I?”

Ingrid laughed softly, her gaze sliding to the end of the alley. “I suppose you will. At least, until you stop trying reckless things in the field.”

“I could say the same for you.” Gently, Sylvain shifted to line up better with Ingrid, to slide his arm under her good one and let his hand settle at her side. It was a bit of work to pull them both to their feet—especially if he didn’t want to jostle her arm too much—but it wasn’t like they were in a rush. “I’d feel a lot better if I don’t have to patch you up again.”

Ingrid grunted as she attempted to take a step, likely unaware of how much she was leaning on Sylvain for support (not that he was complaining). “Is that an order, sir?”

Sylvain hummed, gentle and easy as he matched his steps with hers. As they stepped into the street, his gaze slid to a panicked officer running up the street—their eyes darting down every alley, around every possible surface—and landing on Sylvain with a surprising expression of sheer relief. “You know, I might just make it one.”

Ingrid hummed, her attention certainly having fixated on the officer long before Sylvain’s had. “Of course, sir.”

“Just like I’ll order you to behave and be on whatever medical leave—and rest—that the doctor orders.”

Ingrid’s lips twitched, whatever instinctive remark cut off as the officer approached and offered a salute. “Yes, sir.”

Sylvain was sure the officer was rattling off something important about the mission, the progress, the expectations—but he wasn’t listening. No, he was too focused on the look in Ingrid’s eye: that she was absolutely going to make him pay for the order, and do so in a way perfectly within her position and capacity.

And, unsurprisingly, he absolutely looked forward to it.