Chapter Text
Nestor could not stop his leg from bouncing like mad. Countless hours spent wondering what being in a battalion would feel like, and now here he stood. Quite underwhelming, if he’d been asked his opinion. However, it seemed as though the men here were much older than he was, which did not ease his nerves in the slightest. Especially now that he began to notice their glances in his direction, no doubt caused by the dull green riflemens’ coat he was wearing compared to their standard uniforms. At his young age it was quite a sight to behold. He tried his best to pay no mind, instead focusing his attention on the hushed conversation between the captain and officer nearby the preacher’s stand. The church was teeming with chatter between the troops, some a bit too joking for their current situation. A few even debated the existence of the cannibals themselves..
Nestor had been a skeptic himself, but that was up until the potent stench of death hit him the moment they arrived in town. This was definitely the work of the Devil, and no amount of skepticism could shake the terror that gripped his heart. It would be suicide to show any real fear, especially in front of the entire battalion who seemed to have differing opinions on their situation at hand. Nestor would keep himself quiet for now. He instead opted to listen to everyone else, but keeping a rather intrigued eye on the superiors in their hushed tones.
“You’ll stress the others out so worked up,” the captain whispers to Jean, with a dry chuckle.
“I believed this all to be baseless rumors,” Jean mutters back. His eyebrows are furrowed, hand holding his chin.
“There’s a bridge, if we cut through town,” he begins unprompted, just as the captain goes to speak. “It… will be risky, but it will be our best shot at safety. If we can ignite it once across, we can create some distance between us and these… things.”
“Yet, you seem apprehensive.”
“It’s just… the whispers on the wind tell nothing but horror stories. I don’t know—..”
“These men are equipped to handle the armies of Europe. They’re more than capable of handling this,” the captain retorts. He rests a reassuring hand on Jean’s shoulder. The man is looking away, biting the skin of his lip. His contorted expression looks distrustful — but, rather, he’s just scared. He knows casualties are inevitable in war, but it didn’t make the thought of his compatriots wounded any less.
“If the going gets too tough, we will hunker down. The sappers will construct fortifications, and our men will pick off the crowds,” the captain continues, attempting to switch Jean back into focus. But the man remains in his own world of worry.
“We have many an accomplished men among our troops, anyway,” he starts once more. “Nestor Le Sueur, there, for instance.” It is now that Jean finally lifts his head up, following the direction in which the captain is motioning. He scans the infantry, and identifies a man in a strikingly green coat — a rifleman?
And one that spry?
“He’s a damn good shot. I’ve seen it myself. You’re both young men for your positions; I have a feeling you two would get along splendidly.”
Nestor is not the best at reading lips, especially from such a distance. He still watches regardless, and he’s glad that he did once he notices both the men look over in his direction. Nestor forces his back straighter, tearing his gaze away just before they would have noticed him staring. He fiddled with the hammer of his rifle, doing his best to look ‘ busy ’ even while they were all standing around.
But the conversation fizzes out there, the captain’s attention now giving a once—over to a city map. Jean stays fixated on the man in the crowd, and without even thinking, the intrigue carries him over. He clears his throat as he approaches.
Jean’s eyes trail up and down Nestor. He tries to be subtle about it, but even he can feel how his gaze lingers on the young man’s face. He tells himself he’s just inspecting any signs of age. He cracks no smile, but extends a gloved hand.
“Officer Jean-Lucien Dufort. It is an honor to command a man of your standing.”
Nestor is startled a bit when he looks back up to see the quite young officer approaching him quickly. His expression is tight and coupled with the bags under his eyes; Nestor easily senses the tense air of anxiety that surrounds the man. He didn’t blame him in the slightest for being nervous due to having to command in this Hell, but Nestor couldn’t help but crack a cocky smile.
“Thank you, sir. Your reputation precedes you,” Nestor replied, shaking Jean-Lucien’s hand with a solid grip, “We’re not so different you and I. I am certain these men have no quarrels with being commanded by a man half their age.” It’s a bit of a jab, as Nestor quite enjoyed testing this man’s temper to see where he would stand. Even he had to admit that being commanded by a young officer was.. not ideal for a squadron of their size.
Jean’s eyes squint in irritation, instinctively — he quickly tries to reel himself in with a deep breath. He straightens out his expression again. He wants to give Nestor the benefit of the doubt. God knows he’s had his share of the words coming out wrong. Besides, to lead is to be followed. He cannot be seen whining over one ill—mannered comment if he’s to prove himself respectable.
“Rest assured, I have earned my place here. No difference in age or position will make me treat my men like anything other than my brothers—in—arms, and I hope I can leave an impression lasting enough for them to feel the same.”
Truth be told, Jean was a complicated man when it came to his patience. Having control on it is what got him here to begin with. He could, and did, spend years exerting tireless effort to get to where he was. He’d defeat the tides of time waiting for the opportune moment to strike. And, yet, the most miniscule threat to his authority made him uncontrollably need to crack down on it. He just tries to twist his personal slights into a consideration for others, and prays that it comes across that way even despite the slight knitting of his brows and pursing of his lips.
Nestor relished the sight of seeing the officer’s eye twitch. It brought him just enough confidence to let his smug smile turn into a full smirk. Jean seemed to take the jeer quite elegantly however, as his voice was level as he replied. Nestor was pleasantly surprised, finding himself almost admiring how a young officer could keep his ego in check.
Jean proceeds to lean in, just slightly, enough for Nestor and Nestor alone to hear his now—hushed voice.
“I suggest you watch your tone. Not that I am attacking your character — I just would not want anybody else to take offense at any… misconstruction .”
Nestor bristled, his shoulders squaring as he leaned away slightly. He cursed himself for the stray thought that crossed his mind, causing gooseflesh to rise all up the arm that Jean had in a firm grip.
“… Respectfully, sir, I will mind my own tongue as I see fit.” Nestor replied, his tone heavy with faux kindness as he tried to recover from his hesitance. He didn’t expect to feel even the slightest bit intimidated by Jean’s intensity, but maybe what he felt wasn’t quite intimidation.
Granted, Jean simply hasn’t had the time to encounter much stubbornness in his career. Commanding is natural, but new; when he was a private, he did as instructed, without another word. He had the bad habit of assuming everyone would act as he did. Suffice to say, he wasn’t quite sure exactly how to handle backtalk. A miffed tsk escapes his lips, and he spends a stray moment staring at Nestor. He wants so badly to reason with this man, to put him back into place. But he can feel a heated blush dusting his face —he tells himself it’s frustration, though it feels a bit different— and remembers the overreaching task at hand is, to put it bluntly, what actually matters.
“Keep it in check. That’s an order. ” He mutters impatiently. He’s still boring holes into Nestor as he begins to slowly back up, faltering near the church’s doors.
Nestor held the other man’s gaze unwaveringly, not daring to give him the satisfaction of feeling like he had done anything but just be a nuisance. He does not even grace him with a ‘yes, sir’, instead keeping silent as Jean backs away to instead go address the entire troop.
It’s then that Jean looks to the captain, giving a wordless nod. As the man makes his own way up front, Jean clears his throat, straightening up proud and tall. He talks louder as he addresses the squadron; but not enough to echo off the walls, like he’s afraid of something outside hearing him.
“Men, I regret to inform you the rumors have proven true. I do not know why, or how, but cannibals infect these streets. We will advance through the town, towards the bridge on the border. Once we cross, we will destroy the bridge, and march to safety. Am I understood?”
Nestor did listen to his spiel however, as even he was still quite nervous about the cannibals. He had never seen such a thing so evil, and it rattled his nerves straight to the core just thinking about it. What could drive a man to do such an ungodly thing? He feared becoming one himself even more than the cannibals as a whole…
He shook those thoughts from his head, trying his best to pay attention to the plan as both Jean and Captain Léglise went over it meticulously. Nestor knew he’d have to stay a bit further back in order to get a good shot on anything moving, so he wouldn’t have to be on the front lines, thankfully. Once they’d gone through their plan of action, all of the troops readied up to begin the battle. The men had no idea what they were about to walk into, but the first glimpse that Nestor caught of the walking corpses was enough to make his eyes go wide with terror.
Somehow, the dead were alive .
They numbered easily in the dozens, maybe even hundreds further out. A disembodied choir of groans and gurgling engulfed the clearing outside of the safety of the church, lurching the men headfast into the fray. Nestor took aim at a rotting cannibal that dragged a powder barrel with him, the shot that rang out instantly sending the bodies into a flurry of motion as they made a mad dash for the men.
Jean glances back just in time to see Nestor fire that shot, and he follows the explosive commotion that results. He spares a moment to throw back a small, proud smile. The earlier displeasure is forgiven in a moment, and his eyes gleam with admiration. Maybe this man wouldn’t prove too much trouble, after all.
Jean’s annoyance at the rifleman is quickly forgotten as he unsheathes his sabre. He insists on being the first one out, the first to fall if the crowd is overwhelming. But he doesn’t let the ‘what if’ get to his head. He steadies the blade over his shoulder, poised to strike. With a booming cry to advance, he throws open the doors and strides out into the clearing.
His heartbeat quickens at the resonant sound of footsteps and weaponry alike. He’s no stranger to war anymore, but it never fails to get the adrenaline pumping. Especially when he catches sight of the beasts, more nauseating than anything he’s seen yet. But he’s not a man to give up.
The joy is fleeting, though, as a grotesque growl sounds from in front of him. Even among the cacophony of gunshots and slashes, he picks it out just in time to see one of the devils making a break towards him. Its eyes are glazed over, piercing red, arms outstretched and ready to strike. Jean pays attention to the second it goes to leap. He pivots on his feet, swinging around to avoid the tackle. He swings dead atop the creature’s cranium, and that’s that.
He simultaneously fights and leads, marching forward while picking off the cannibals that get too close. He guides the troop around the side of the church, down an alley. Stationed at the end of the road are two cannons, pointed directly at a barricaded basement entrance.
“Through there,” he shouts, thrusting his sabre towards the doors. “Prepare. We have only begun.”
Nestor is too caught up in the commotion of battle to even think of anything else. He can barely think at all once he’s gotten in the motions of war, focusing too intently on each of his shots landing. He prefers his trusty rifle to the musket, as the increased accuracy makes him even more of a deadly weapon.
He stays focused on making quick work of each of the powder barrel cannibals, and thankfully they’re much slower due to lugging around the giant barrels on their own. Despite their sick brains and rotten flesh, these things were somehow capable of at least barebones level of thinking. The men had the upper hand with their teamwork though, and they were able to fight off the first few waves of these things.
With the front lines pushing the hordes back, the four sappers are able to rush in and set up some makeshift barricades quite fast. They’d have to hold out until the cannons are loaded by the artillery men. Nestor takes a position just beside the cannon as it’s being tended to, using it as leverage to lay his barrel upon and giving himself steadier aim. He’s able to take out almost every single one of the powder cannibals, but one manages to slip through and tosses itself against a barrier.
In an instant, a massive explosion erupts and clouds of dust shot upwards.
Nestor throws himself forward into the action, pulling one of the sappers who had been tossed off his feet by the explosion. Thankfully, it seemed as if most of the men were unharmed. The surgeon took cover behind Nestor so he could be escorted to the front, and he quickly checked over one of the most rattled sappers. Nestor switched to his sword to help push away the front of the horde. This gave this surgeon more precious time to work.
Just how many of these damn ghouls are there? Has this blight taken over the whole city? It’s not warm out, but the way his thoughts begin to race make him feel overheated nonetheless. A bead of sweat falls down his temple. Jean begins to genuinely worry about the prospect of making it out unscathed.
Nonetheless, Jean doesn’t let the jitters affect his swinging. Combat to him is second nature —he maintains position at the front lines, hacking at the crowds, keeping an ever—vigilant eye out for anybody about to be grabbed. His fighting is simultaneously aggressive and assistive— it’s evident the troop is his top priority. Instead of merely instructing, he guides. “Prepare the defenses!”. “Bombardier — fall back!”. “They’re advancing! Fire at will!”. He wants them to be safe, but he knows they are competent.
He’s off to the other side when the nearby explosion happens, having dove to slice off the limb of a particularly grabby cannibal approaching one of his men. But the sheer magnitude of the volume makes him whip his head over. He’s taken aback for a second, and it’s the man he just saved that has to shove him out of the way of an oncoming attack.
His instincts are torn — he wants to slide over and check on the men, but the crowd over on this side is still too steady. His eyes flick across the troops, absentmindedly biting his lip at the same time he swings his sabre. But he catches sight of a familiar green coat. He examines the way he supports his troopmates, contrary to the attitude displayed before. He huffs and reconstitutes his focus on his immediate area. If things are going to work out, he’s going to need to trust Nestor like he trusts any mild—mannered soldier.
Eventually, the distinctive booms of cannons ring through the alley; the ammunition clears a significant path forward. He can see through the basement; a staircase, in the near pitch—black room. He can make out figures barreling down it, presumably agitated from the sounds of battle. If they can’t get some distance, it’ll be too risky for the surgeon to work. He scans them — no flaming torches, several glowing eyes. The bottleneck is dangerous — but once they’re through there, they should be in open ground again.
“Men, line up! Infantry, prepare the bayonets! Through the crowd, up the back. Prepare!”
He takes a deep breath in, and prays to God that he doesn’t falter.
“ CHAAARGEZ! ”
Nestor can feel his pulse thundering in his throat, and coupled with the frying of his nerves due to the reeking stench of blood, he was beginning to falter. He used the remainder of his strength to push up to the barriers now with the rest of the infantry, adrenaline being the only thing keeping him upright. The same could be said for many of the others, as the constant battle and unwavering stamina from these walking corpses was taking its toll on the mortal men. They were able to hold down the line despite this, leaning on each other and trusting Jean and Captain Léglise to make the right call.
All of their work paid off, as the crowd began to thin sparingly over the next few minutes. Nestor felt exhilarated at the sight of the horde being kept at bay, reinvigorating his strength just enough to finish out the fight beside the battalion.
With impeccable timing, the cannons were ready and Nestor could hear the faint sizzle of the fuse being lit. The piercing sound of the cannonball rocketing through the barricaded doors was like a crack of thunder, sending splinters and debris flying. This cleared their path just enough to move ahead.
Jean stampedes through the doorway, reeling from the rally. The fervor of combat never fails to ignite fire in his veins — for as overcautious a man as he is, he struggles with getting swept up in the throes of passion. He charges forward, swiping endlessly at any threats in his periphery — he only stops when the room grows reassuringly quiet.
He pauses for a quick breath, though he quickly follows behind the captain, shaking hands feeling around in the dark. He looks feverishly over his shoulder every couple seconds, keeping a constant headcount. It’s a nervous habit — his mind refuses to rest when he’s not in control. Reaffirming the fact that they’re all there, alive and breathing, is really all he can do to steel himself.
Léglise slows to a stop as he approaches the next room; Jean stumbles distracted into his back.
“Ah—.. apologies, Captain.” Jean offers, but Léglise pays it no mind.
“I remember this, from the battles. There is a gunpowder—loaded cart on this street, and a fortified gate blocking our exit further down.”
“So… ah—.. Oh .” Jean clears his throat, connecting the dots in his mind. He throws his head over his shoulder, clearing his throat once more — apparently, his signal that he is to speak.
“Men. There are more of those wretched things out there — but that is our way forward. There is a wagon for us to move down the road. We will ignite it at the gate, and pave our way. Divide and conquer — the captain and I will lead in forging the path. A couple of you will push the cart. The rest of you — crowd control. Understood?”
Léglise lets out a hum of approval, preparing his pistol once more. As the lot of them advance further into the room, Jean swivels his head to look over them once more — for good measure. He lets out a shaky sigh at the sight of a particularly disheveled sapper, flanked by their surgeon. His eyes catch Nestor, not too far from them. His expression softens, and the small but proud smirk returns processing his prowess in battle. But once he notices himself staring, he quickly looks away again, praying it wasn’t noticed by anyone else.
Nestor is panting and breathless by the time the entire battalion makes it into the building. They had managed to keep everyone together by the skin of their teeth, and now had to push through again. Nestor couldn’t help his exasperated sigh, the sound only intensified by the lack of oxygen in his lungs. The surgeon behind him let out a small chortle, catching Nestor’s attention.
“Save y’r breath, riflem’n.” Felix insisted, his words jumbled through his thick posh accent, “Yur’ going t’need it for pushing th’ damned wagon.”
Nestor couldn’t help but smirk, taking his lighthearted jeer in stride. It was clearly just a joke to make him feel better, and it did its job. Nestor felt quite reinvigorated now, looking back over to where Jean and Léglise were standing and only catching a slight glimpse of Jean staring at him. Nestor’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
Why was the officer staring so intently?
Nestor didn’t have the time to think anything further, as soon enough the men were preparing to launch themselves back into the fray. They pushed out from the doors of the bar, a few of the most burly infantrymen taking the space behind the wagon so they could start pushing. Nestor helped as well, using his newfound strength that was no doubt fueled by adrenaline to aid the others.
“ Forward! Give it your all! ” Nestor cried out, inspiring the men quite well as they all began to push the wagon in a synchronized motion. It was nearly halfway down the street once Léglise called for the men to stop. Nestor spun around, squinting his eyes as the smoke cleared just enough for him to see why they had paused. There was a massive pile of wood and scraps in their way, much too big for them to move quickly. Especially not when the cannibals were still clawing at them from behind. Nestor could feel the icy talons of fear curl around his heart, a sense of being trapped rattling him deep to the core.
There was a tiny flicker of hope in Jean’s eyes, for a second, when he barreled through the front doors alongside Léglise to only a handful of the damned cannibals. They had the wagon surrounded, but luckily, no casualties to the gunpowder — and the path seemed relatively clear ahead. The silence was, rather, just the calm before the storm. The second the wheels began to grind against the stone of the road, growls awoke. Vengeful corpses seeped out the dingy allies and the ransacked buildings. Jean couldn’t even get a nettled groan out before he was charging ahead, trying to cut the creatures apart before they could even form a crowd.
Gunshots rang out, one after the other. Jean let himself revel in the pride of a competent team, for a moment. He’s too distracted by the offense that he fails to process the stack of wooden debris in the dead center of the road. He only stops once Léglise calls for a halt. He freezes once the shadow looms over him.
“We cannot move all of that on our own. Not with the onslaught,” the Captain worriedly remarks.
Jean is left sweating in his uniform, stammering at the pile of junk before him. The smoke had grown heavy, the night hot with the fires surrounding them, the air reeking with the stench of gunpowder and gore. It isn’t until he lets his head fall to try to recollect himself that he sees a small sliver of wood, cloth bundled on one end — a torch.
“Fire. Fire! Men, we’ll burn the debris! Grab any torches you can find! Set it ablaze!”
With his exclamation, he swoops down to pick up the torch at his foot. He makes a beeline down the road to his left, eyes dead seat on the raging fire cutting it off further down. He’s followed by a small crowd of the soldiers, though none as frantic as he. He nearly trips over his own foot scrambling to and from. He makes a round trip in record time, letting out a panting ‘yes’ at the debris’s first flickers of flame.
Nestor leans against the wagon for a few moments, struggling to catch his breath after pushing the extremely heavy wagon. It was definitely exerting, but he had to refocus on the task at hand. Still panting, Nestor stepped up on the wagon for a better view of the more distant cannibals that were approaching fast. He spotted a lot of powder barrel draggers, making him draw his rifle reflexively. He took aim, firing at one just before it reached the sappers. His skills shone through as he nicked the barrel from nearly two hundred metres, sending a cloud of smoke and flames in the air in its wake.
Jean is running so fast that he’s several paces ahead when he realizes he’s passed a soldier still stationed by the wagon; nonetheless, he skitters to a stop and looks back. His face is glinting with sweat, and his expression bears a half—crazed vexation.
“Le Sueur? Care to help? ” His words would sound kinder if his tone wasn’t so sassy.
Nestor didn’t hear Jean’s voice over the sound of the explosion, so he intently kept focus on eliminating the barrels from a far enough distance that they wouldn’t even get slightly close to their battalion.
Jean’s breathing grows rough, and unsteady. The smoke is only getting thicker, and not that he’s old or out of shape, but exertion is still exertion. He can practically taste how his blood is pumping through his veins as his mind does its best to stay aware of all the concurring activities. A couple seconds pass before he truly takes in the lack of response, and, oh. He’s livid. He wants to shout at the man again, to capture his attention and remind him to listen, but he’s struck out of his trance by a firm grip on his arm.
“ Officer ,” Léglise addresses, in a tone that reminds Jean that this is really not the time.
Jean gives a nod in return, before returning to his rounds. Some of the soldiers helping with the fire have faltered, the crowd of cannibals growing too large. Jean himself juggles between grasping his torch and thrusting his sabre at a few particularly rowdy foes. But the debris burns quick, comparatively, and soon enough, he’s kicking embers out the way for the wagon to pass through.
The second it starts moving, he makes a beeline for the back. He holsters his sabre, opting for his pistol so he can talk and aim simultaneously. Just in case — because the second he catches sight of that familiar coat, he briskly walks up and grabs the shoulder of it with a tense grip.
“ Le Sueur, you—..! ”
A gunshot, and a consequential explosion. Jean nearly flinches at it, eyes immediately darting towards the ash. It’s a mere second, but it’s long enough for him to get a grasp on himself — he supposes insubordination is less an offense than threatening their lives. It’s just so difficult to keep himself calm when he has a man talking back, ignoring him — in Jean’s eyes, it’s just compromising the security and safety he works so damn hard to keep under wraps. He doesn’t understand — can’t Nestor just trust him on this?
He grumbles out a gruff ‘ never mind it ’, near stomping back towards his preferred position up front.
Nestor had impeccable focus on his duty to keep those kamikaze bastards away, the rest of the world melting away in favor of the view from down his iron sites. His intensity was what gained him his role at such a prestigious age, but of course, this came at a cost. He was almost too intense, but regardless, it was keeping them much safer than they would be if those things got close enough to blow their defenses to smithereens. He did not even realize that it was Jean’s grasp that seized his shoulder, and he instinctively dipped under the weight of his hand in favor of keeping his aim steady.
His reputation is earned, as Nestor doesn’t miss a single shot.
Once again, this intent focus came at a pretty hefty price. Nestor was not paying as much attention to his surroundings as he no doubt should have, let alone paying any mind to the discussion with the other frenchmen who was setting up the —rather short— fuse on the wagon.
Nestor doesn’t hear the cry from a nearby infantryman over the thunderous sound of a close explosion, and he is none the wiser as he backs just close enough to put himself right in the blast zone.
It all happens.. so fast .
Just like that, Nestor can only see white, and he’s on the ground flat on his face. All he can hear is his own labored breathing, and the faint pitter—patter of blood dribbling from his nose and mouth to the stones below. The world spins cruelly in a sickening dance that makes Nestor nauseated. He tries to stand, but is immediately grabbed by a shoulder and forced back down to his knees. Nestor is too weakened to fight, only able to look up with a hand over his eyes due to the suddenly quite bright flames assaulting his vision. It was Felix, a gruff, yet kind older man. At first Nestor could only see his mouth moving, but no sound was heard. The close explosion had understandably taken his hearing for a temporary few moments.
The surgeon rushed to hand him a scrappy handkerchief to help relieve his quick bleeding nose. Nestor was struggling to stay upright, the sight of his own blood rushing out of him so fast making him quite dizzy.
Commotion rises among the soldiers — not the usual commotion that they’ve been dealing with for the past however long. No, it’s a concerned, anxious chatter. Dust flies up in the air after the blast, but Jean forces himself to squint through it. His heart drops; he can practically feel it beating straight out his chest.
Naturally, the crowd begins to circle around — not too overbearingly, but such is the nature of human curiosity. Jean is having none of it. He throws himself between the ogling group of soldiers and the Felix. Léglise slides up to him, attempting to gently coax him down; Jean outstretches his arm and lightly holds him back.
“Give him space. Man the area. The cannibals won’t stop because we did. Half of you up front — the others, the way we came. We wait until he can move.”
The whole event has the squadron a little shaken, understandably so. Some soldiers follow suit, but the majority of them idle there. For just a second, but it’s a second too long for Jean.
“ Positions ,” Jean barks. He’s given a few troubled glances at the shake in his voice, but ultimately, the men go to keep watch on the area. He stands there, Léglise by his side. It’s obvious the Captain is getting a little fed—up himself with how Jean’s coping with the toll.
“Listen, Dufort. You know better than most anyone that mischances happen in such high stakes. But I think you—”
“Sir, please , just a moment, sir,” Jean mutters, cutting off the man. He sniffles and swipes at his nose as he turns on his heel. He makes his way towards the two men. Instinctively, though he’s not sure where the instinct came from, his fingers jump up towards Nestor’s — he stops himself at the last second, gloved fingers barely touching the man’s palm. He’s bombarding the surgeon with questions, like a child does their parent — “is he okay?”. “Is there anything I can do?”. “Will he be able to continue?”. He knows the answers to every annoying inquiry he has, and, yet, he continues to ask them — it isn’t until the world lulls to an uncomfortable, tense quiet that he eyebrows furrow. His eyes grow glassy, and his cheeks flush. It’s hard to tell whether the gravel of his voice is born of distress or of anger. He softly calls the rifleman’s name, but he speaks it with vitriol.
“Were you even paying attention ?”
The second the words fall from Jean’s mouth, he wants to take them back. Or, at the very least, he wants to have taken a steady inhale before he said them, and mellow out his tone. He grits his teeth as he pauses in place. His expression remains unchanged, but he’s still with bated breath.
Nestor couldn’t pinpoint who was speaking to him at first, confusion muddling the already strained consciousness that he was fighting with to stay in control of. He was much busier with trying to manually breathe, with Felix answering every question as fast as he could while he dug out a piece of shrapnel from Nestor’s arm. Even the dull pain was barely enough to make him flinch. When he finally registered the words that he’d heard, Nestor looked up in bewilderment. Then, the anger really took hold of him the moment that he also realized who had spoken those words to him.
Thankfully for Jean, Nestor’s reaction time had taken a massive hit due to the same thick haze that clouded his judgement. Nestor lurched forward only a few inches before he was caught by the surgeon who was still trying to keep him down. Jean pulls back as Nestor lunges forward, arm raising defensively in front of him. He doesn’t move further, though, or even say anything in retaliation. He remains there, watching as the surgeon restrains him. He licks his lips nervously as he watches the hostility twitch through his form.
“ What the Hell did you say to me—! ” Nestor’s insolent hiss was only heard for a moment before Felix interrupted hastily.
“—.. Dufort! With a’ll dew’ respect, please let m’tend’to my men w’thout instigation .”
His words were both a warning and a plea for grace.
The subsequent staredown between Nestor and the peeved officer leaves a tension in the air so thick that it threatens to choke the both of them. Nestor is so angry that his breath trembles, each shaky exhale that leaves his nose sending more blood dripping down his busted lip. Every inch of him bristles with fury, but in his weakened state, all he can do is stare.
The only noise he lets out is an acknowledging hum to the surgeon’s request. To his credit, he abides by it, and holds his tongue. But his eyes remain locked on Nestor’s. His brows are twitching, now, not sure whether to offer a sympathetic, visual apology, or to hold his ground. Holding his ground wins over his mind in the end, and he lets out an aggravated huff.
“Dufort, this can wait,” Léglise pipes up again. Jean hadn’t even noticed the man walking up beside him. He hisses out a hushed voice as he leans closer to the officer. “The battle’s not won yet. And there’s a cemetery, ahead of us. I’m a bit concerned. A word, if you will?”
Jean nods, and Léglise lets out a small sigh of exhaustion. He makes his way closer towards the now—destroyed gate, shooting Nestor an apologetic glance — presumably, on Jean’s behalf, under the (to be fair, correct) assumption the man himself would not offer one.
“Just, listen, pl—” Jean cuts himself off as the first sound of a ‘please’ escapes his lips. He grimaces in its place, and his voice deepens — light, but stern. “Next time. Listen.”
“ Dufort .”
“Coming, sir,” he responds, collecting himself and holding his head up high. He squints his eyes at Nestor until the Captain reigns him back in for conversation.
“Daddy’s calling.”
The words tumble from Nestor’s mouth before he can stop them.
He sees only red even after Jean steps away and breaks his gaze first. His eyes burned from the lack of blinking, but also served as protection from the fact that if he blinked too much, the pain would have no doubt made him cry.
“You need to breathe , Le Sueur.” Felix's reminder made him also realize that he hadn’t taken in a real breath in long enough to make him dizzy. Nestor was still so angry that he could barely think straight. The mere nerve of Jean made him want to snarl.
“I’m quite alright, monsieur..” Nestor managed to reply weakly, reaching for his rifle so he could use it to help him stand. “Now that that pisspoor excuse for a leader is gone.” The last sentence was ripe with poison, the kind that only disgust could create. Nestor was still a little unsteady on his feet, but he would survive. He’d managed to escape with little to no severe wounding. The truest victim was only his pride.
Jean hopes it isn’t too noticeable the way his body seizes up and shakes when he hears the quip. Patience… he hardly knows the definition of the word anymore. He’s just appalled — has he been rude? Standoffish? Pompous? No! He thinks about how he even heard of this… this spoiled toddler of a man.
‘I have a feeling you two would get along splendidly…’
The remark from Léglise rattled in his mind. He loved that man — he did. The captain was accomplished, a steady, guiding hand. So he thinks this with the utmost respect when he thinks that he’s a really, really poor judge of character.
“I know we are not the only squadron that was stationed here,” Léglise, speaking of the devil, begins. Jean forcefully shakes off the rage, keeping his posture rigid and proper. “It’s a calculated risk, but if we can ring the bell of the church, we may be able to draw their attention. We may not be able to take down that gate on our own, but a fellow soldier with some explosives may.”
“That’s… a very calculated risk, sir,” Jean concurs, voice still shaking from the altercation.
“Do you have a better idea?”, Léglise asks with a cocked eyebrow.
Jean thinks for a minute, standing still. He’s facing straight forward — he doesn’t bother to look around. He knows he needs a minute, still. If he locks eyes with Nestor again, he’s not quite sure he’s composed enough to bite back any retort. He’s still an officer, after all. He lives by tenets of respect and leadership. He’d be damned before he shows his men any hint that he’s not all—reliable, a figurehead for them to depend on.
He clears his throat — his trademark. He still cannot bear to look back. He trusts that all eyes are on him.
“Danger is imminent. Ahead, a church, its graveyard — and one more gate. We will fortify the radius of said gate, and create a safe pocket for our recovery and our range. I will make my way to ring the bell — if all goes well, we will attract a man or several who can assist with those blasted iron bars.”
He exhales, and finally lets himself turn around. He tries to skip over Nestor, but he can’t help but study the injuries the impact left on his body. His face was stained with blood, his stance clearly shaken…Jean also can’t help the way his gaze softens at the sight. He grimaces, and his eyes narrow. His pride won’t let him say sorry — he’s adamant some obedience would have avoided this whole mess. But it doesn’t change the fact a soldier, his soldier, is now wounded under his watch. It’s nigh impossible to forgive himself.
“Tend to any injured with extra care. We cannot afford any losses. Men — move out.”
Nestor does not allow himself to be counted out from the fray. He was a little shaken up and dizzy, but ultimately fine. He’d dealt with worse. Nestor resumed his position near the front of the battalion, raising his rifle and taking aim at a distant cannibal. The squad needed him to stay focused if they wanted any chance of staying alive through this onslaught. He pulls himself together, trying his best to set all of his bubbling anger aside so he can continue without his shaky hands compromising the shot.
Once the bell is rung, all Hell breaks loose.
Nestor is ready though, and wastes no time picking off each of the keg cannibals one by one in the distance. The majority of the horde was pushing forward now, throwing themselves against the barrier with a stunning amount of force. Nestor switches focus, drawing his sabre so he can help the others fend off the more congregated cannibals up front.
It is simply a massacre .
Nestor felt as if the horde would never stop. He was covered in both his own blood and the black ooze that spattered from the cannibals when he’d slice through their rotten flesh. The bleeding from his nose hadn’t faltered, so Nestor decided to just ignore it. He continued to help fend off the remaining horde.
“They need to blow this gate, NOW !” Nestor hollered, now beginning to lose steam as the pain from his broken nose became too much to ignore. “We will be doomed!”
Jean refuses to let anybody accompany him to the church. Not that it’s too dangerous of an expedition, anyway — it’s just some paces from where they set up temporary base. But he’s more shaken up by the injury than he’d care to admit. He doesn’t want to be, especially since it’s Nestor, of all the men, but nonetheless, the guilt is beginning to eat at his core. It’s a bad habit of his; he’s so focused on making sure everything goes right that he simply isn’t equipped to cope with it when they don’t.
But nonetheless — he forces his brain to quiet as ascends the building, the rope to ring the bell dangling in front of him. He grabs it, with hesitant fingers. He can feel the pins and needles of anxiety prodding him. He drops his hands to clasp them together, bowing his head in silent prayer.
They will make it through this. They have to.
He spends a good couple minutes ringing the bell, for good measure. Luckily for them, it’s loud. No chance a stray troop could miss it.
The expedition back to the squadron is… dicey. Attracted to the sound, a small but still sizable herd of cannibals crowds the church, barreling through the front doors. It’s too much for him to feel like he can handle safely — he busts a window in the back and makes his way back through that. The crowd, still pretty decent in size, follows him around the building — though now having the safety of numbers, they’re picked off a lot quicker.
He hears Nestor’s callouts as soon as he gets back to the barricades. It makes him only that more impatient. Crowd control slips his mind for a second, and he runs clunkily to the gate. He practically slams himself against it, gripping the iron bars as he squints for any sign of… well, anybody.
And then he sees something: he’d recognize that navy blue anywhere.
“You. YOU ! Frenchman! God, please ! Help us with this damned gate!”
Nestor looks back when he hears the officer’s cries to someone on the other side of the gate. The plan had miraculously worked, drawing the attention of a lone engineer on the opposite side. Nestor eventually managed to make his way back towards the gate, slashing cannibal after cannibal until he was able to get free from the constant onslaught.
“I do not have something to light it with, officer!” The Frenchman engineer insists, the fear wild in his eyes as his gaze flits between both Jean and Nestor.
Nestor instantly gets an idea, turning around quick and rushing back towards the men. He snags a torch from a nearby infantrymen, who was much too busy fighting to care. He returned with the torch still lit, managing to slide it between the gaps of the gate and hand it over to the lone engineer.
“ Please , monsieur. We will be doomed if you do not blow this gate. You will be safer with us by your side.” Nestor promised, “We know a way out of this Hell and this is the only thing standing in our way.”
His pleads do not fall on deaf ears, and soon the expression on the engineer’s face switches from fear to determination. He nods his head swiftly.
“Back away, men. I will save you!” He cries out. However, he immediately lights the fuse before Nestor or Jean could step away. Nestor only catches a glimpse of the —much too short— fuse, but his body springs into action much faster than he can even register what he’s doing. He grabs a tight hold of Jean’s arm, locking their elbows together so he can tug the officer back quickly. They nearly tumble to the ground as the explosion goes off, but they’re just scarcely out of harm's reach.
Jean-Lucien Dufort is not a sluggish man. How else could he have risen through the ranks so fast? He was famed for his quick decision—making, and by—the—second reaction times.
However, stress can change any man.
He hadn’t even processed what happened — all he knew is that one minute he was standing, reveling in the high of hopefulness, and the next, he was pulled to the ground. His body instinctively threw a forearm down to break his fall, though he did bump his forehead just a touch on the stone. He hissed through his teeth as the pain registered in his head. It wasn’t anything severe, but enough to distract from the feeling of an arm snaking away from his.
Nestor immediately scrambles to his feet, rushing through the gate and over to where the young engineer had just been. The sight that awaited him was nothing short of Hell itself. Chunks of viscera covered the nearby cobbled wall and floor, leaving only the charred remains of what was just a man moments ago. All that remained of him was mere bits and pieces and his boots, which still had his feet inside them. The stench of blood and burnt cloth was overwhelming. Nestor had never seen anything like it, and his reaction was instant and involuntary. He stumbled past hastily, doubling over and retching on the opposite end of the wall.
Mere seconds later, Jean’s senses are all flooded at once as well — the stench , the sounds , of gore and vomit and his own troops. It’s overwhelming, but it snaps him back into his zone. He pushes himself off the ground and up, calling for his men to retreat. He motions down the newly—accessible road. At the end of it, a building lies burning — but most of it has fizzled out. They’d still be able to make their way through. And, on the other side: the bridge. Finally .
He's too distracted to process any of the aftermath. He begins to race through, until he catches sight of that all—too familiar green coat.
He immediately pivots, near skidding to a stop. He bends over to meet his face, hand flying to rest firmly on the man’s nape. He does his best to be reassuring through the retching. Nestor can barely pull himself together long enough to stop gagging, having to lean heavy on the wall in order to stay upright. He feels a gloved hand on the back of his neck, and he subconsciously leans into the comforting touch. The vicious taste of bile burns in his throat, making it difficult to stop hacking. After a few moments, Nestor is finally able to spit enough to dull the foul taste.
“ Commendable ,” he pushes out through trembling breaths. All the irritation from the day is wiped off his face, now; all that’s there is a… kind look. One of respect, and concernment, and a certain desire. He wants to make haste, but it’s clear in his voice when he begins to speak that it’s out of a consideration for the man’s wellbeing. “Hey. You’ll be alright. I promise it. Come. Please .”
He turns to leave, tugging ever so gently at Nestor’s collar to encourage. He begins to call out to the engineer, but once more, he’s stopped in his tracks. His step falters at the sight of those boots. A wave of horror crashes over his face, and he finds himself frozen, for a moment, even as the infantry makes their way past him.
“ Curses ,” he spits. It’s no higher than a whisper, but it threatens to break nonetheless.
" Fucking Hell.. " Nestor croaks in reply, his tone raw as he tries to speak through the ball of emotion that welled in his throat. He knows he has no choice but to continue, but the sight of the aftermath was still burned into the backs of his eyelids. Nestor managed to make himself stand, giving a small nod to Jean to signal that he could move along. Nestor keeps his eyes far from the engineer's lone boots, and the rest of the shaken troops trek forward.
Nestor noticed that Felix had fallen further behind in tow with him. The man gave him a sympathetic dip of his head. It was appreciated, but Nestor was near inconsolable. All he could do was push on. Nestor hesitated when they came up to the still aflame building. Even though most of the raging blaze had fizzled out, he still was unsure.
With a renewed vigor and an encouraging shout to continue forward, Jean flies into the building. This sheer force of his footsteps make the crisp wood crackle with a worrying sound, but he doesn’t register it. Though he was at the back when he hesitated, he’s now back up front with the captain — in a couple seconds after, he’s even farther. He’s tunnel—visioned — he barely flinches as he leaps down the ledge once he barrels out the opening in the wall. The rest of the troops were desperate to escape, and barely gave pause before rushing over the embers to make it upstairs. Nestor stays close to the surgeon, coughing raggedly as they make their way through the smoky building. Ironically, in the pursuit to clear the path for his soldiers, he’s seemingly forgotten about them. He waits for no support before he dives into the — albeit, comparatively small — lingering on the riverside. They all flood towards him at once. He manages to clear a good chunk of them, but one does manage to get too close for comfort. He feels a sharp and sudden flicker of fear before a prompt squelch, and a bayonet is rammed into the side of the creature’s head. It drops its arms almost immediately after.
It's difficult, but the rest of the battalion are able to stumble through the rest of the charred debris and make it through to the other side.
The toll this day is taking is beginning to grow too much. Jean wrenches his eyes shut, wrist knocking against his head. So close — they’re so close. He can think after. He can trail away once they’re in a safe place. But for now, he needs to lead, and if he isn’t in the proper state of mind to do so, he’ll force himself to be.
“Sir,” a soldier speaks from beside him. His voice is a touch alarmed. It’s clear he’s trying to bring the officer back down to less…crazed senses. But Jean pays it no mind.
“I’m fine . Thank you, sir,” he brushes off. He spins on his heel to face the squadron once more. “That’s the bridge! Don’t let your guards down! Allez! ALLEZ! ”
With that, he’s off again. He’s too preoccupied with establishing a safe place for his soldiers that he doesn’t even bother to look back to check he’s got all his soldiers to make a safe place for.
Nestor was struggling to keep up, still paired with Felix as the two of them held the rear of the brigade. He had put his rifle down for now, knowing that his double vision would not be any help with shooting anything long distance. They barely kept up, but eventually the bridge was in sight. Nestor caught a brief glimpse of Jean leading the charge up front with Léglise.
He picked up the pace, his heart racing so quick that it thrummed in his throat as he ran. The rest of the battalion was quite far ahead, and he wasn’t willing to find out what would happen if he was left behind. His tunnel vision only shrank further as he neared the foot of the bridge. Nestor was panting by now, running full speed to catch up to the rest of the men.
He was only halfway across when he whipped around and saw the immense horde that followed. Panic tore through every nerve, frying what little composure Nestor had left in his body. Just like that, fear took the front seat, casting all reason to the side in favor of survival. Nestor cocked the hammer of his rifle, squinting hard as he aimed for the barrels that would take out the bridge.
Nestor blinked the blood from his eyes.
And fired.
…
There was a split second where he thought that he missed, but then, the bridge absolutely erupted. Dozens of barrels exploded all at once, sending a fireball the size of an entire building billowing upwards into the night sky. The smoke was immense and the inferno just as unforgiving. Nestor could breathe again. The men were finally safe..
Then his gaze fell to the water and his blood ran cold.
Through the deafening cries of celebration from his surrounding troop, Nestor could only stay still. He couldn’t even bear the thought. Just there, floating down the river, was the surgeon’s hat.
For a brief moment, Jean thinks this to be Heaven.
The cries of joy among his men is music to his ears — and the relief that sweeps over him feels euphoric. It isn’t until he glances over at a suspiciously silent rifleman that he himself quiets down. He almost glazes over him, but he does a double—take just in time. On first instinct, Jean’s worried — he assumes the poor man is just out of it from all the…action, to put it lightly…that he went through today. It isn’t until he traces where the man’s vacant stare is fixated that he immediately freezes up himself. Any sign of glee instantly drops, replaced by a nightmare aggregation of every negative emotion he could possibly feel.
“N… no. No, that can’t… un, deux, trois, quatre…” Jean’s voice trails off into a mumble as an equally shaky finger goes over each of the men he can see. At the end, he presses a slow finger to his own chest, eyes darting around, confused, dazed, like he genuinely doesn’t know why he isn’t getting the number he desires. “... Dix—neuf.”
Nineteen — he counts nineteen men, including him. He’s a man particular about the details, and he makes a habit of keeping them in check. He’s done near a dozen headcounts this evening alone. There’s no way he could possibly mistake the number of men assigned in this squadron.
That being, twenty.
The tension in the air is thicker than the smoke in the city of Leipzig, and some men were still coughing out the remnants of it. The turn Jean makes towards Nestor is slow, and scarily so. His mouth is held slightly agape, his eyes unblinking. His eyebrows are pressed together in outrage; pure, raw fury. Though he had come close, he had done a good enough job at keeping his temper together that day. But this was his breaking point —all the ups and downs, the twists and turns, the relief and the dread— his mind was just exhausted .
The root of it is that he blames himself. What did he expect? He gave his men no instructions other than ‘ go’. Deep down, he knows Nestor meant no harm — quite the opposite, in fact. This is on Jean-Lucien Dufort . In his brain, it just proves his delusion true— he needs to be in control for things to go right. But he’s too far gone for rationality. The visceral guilt can’t be directed towards himself, not with everybody watching. But he needs to vent it. Without any forethought, his mind picks the easiest path to do so.
“ What were you THINKING? ”
Jean screams — not yells, not shouts. The volume rivals any explosion heard prior, and his voice cracks like he himself is going to shatter like glass.
Nestor is torn from his thoughts by a voice so loud that he nearly jumps out of his own skin. He is now unable to keep his eyes off the raging officer, instinctively backing away towards the rest of the men. He slipped between two of them, shouldering his way backwards to hopefully hide the no doubt stricken expression on his face.
The guilt was written all over him.
Nestor glances at the depths of the rushing river, then his gaze slips upward to see the horde that would have descended upon them. There was a battle in his mind now, shifting the blame back and forth as he tried to find a way to absolve himself. It wasn’t his fault that Felix hadn’t kept up.. He couldn’t have waited even a moment longer to shoot or a cannibal would have eliminated him and ruined the squad's chance of survival entirely!
There were so many reasons why he did what he did, and even more reasons why he couldn’t have done anything different. This was all of course his own justification, a mental mind game to maybe ease the intense pressure of guilt even just a bit.
“ Dufort .”
Léglise warns again, taking a step towards the inconsolable officer. But Jean is having none of it — he motions for the captain to step aside.
“Our surgeon is gone ! We are going to perish like DOGS if we get hurt! And his family — God , his FAMILY ! Their son, brother, father — gone to a LAPSE IN JUDGEMENT?! ”
With a huff of defeat, Léglise relents — he moves to the side enough to keep an eye on the man, in case he goes too far, but he’s learning by now that if Jean doesn’t get it out of his system, it’ll only make it worse. He supposes, too, the man is grieving…he looks to the hat floating in the waters with a solemn stare. At the lack of response, Jean lets out a deranged chuckle, letting out a dramatic sigh as he tries — though, rather unsuccessfully — to reign himself in.
“Okay. Okay, I leaped to a conclusion. But it was fucking one of you . Someone took that shot. Someone fess up — that’s an ORDER .”
He’s staring centrally at the crowd, not trying to give one man too much attention. That is, until he spots Nestor, slotting himself between some of the men. He knows he shouldn't single him out, but he just finds it so suspicious. God — he’s trying so hard . But since his first words with that man, he’s been nothing but insolent. Jean knows he’s not perfect — he knows not anybody is. But he cannot for the life of him figure out what he’s doing wrong to make this man so stubborn to his command. The lack of control makes him anxious. And when he’s anxious, he’s frustrated. And when he’s frustrated, he’s hostile .
“Unless you have something to say, sir ?”
Nestor stumbles as he tries to push his way through the crowd. They fall back from him, understandably unwilling to take any blame or heat from his mistake. Nestor could not expect anyone to take the fall, but he also could not bring himself to admit what had happened. It wasn’t his fault! It couldn’t have been. He’d never harm his fellow man. That simply wasn’t him.
It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the troops fall back enough to leave Nestor exposed. His breath quickens as he’s forced to meet eyes with Jean.
The look on his face is unmistakable.
Nestor’s chest nearly caves in on itself from his hyperventilation, and soon, he’s trembling as well.
“No—.. no, no, nonono..” Nestor whispers, shaking his head vigorously. “ No! “
It's all bubbling up. The guilt, the rage, the fear, the regret — everything bad that Jean could be feeling, he is feeling. And, thanks to his poor system of self—regulation, he's feeling it all at once. He's still, for a moment — but it's the quiet before the storm. His eyes bear an eerie intensity, uncharacteristic for how the man usually tries to present himself. His voice quiets — now, it's like a nonchalant conversation. But it's anything except calm. It quivers, like he's teetering on the edge of another conniption.
" No , you don't have something to say? Or no , it wasn't you? Use your words — an officer is speaking to you.”
Nestor blinks fast, his words failing as he tried to think of something to say. Anything . He glances at the faces of the soldiers around him. Their stares were just as intense as the officer in front of him, but had varying emotion. Some mournful, even pity, but others just as blaming as Jean himself. It was heart wrenching to see some of them turn on him so quickly, but Nestor couldn’t blame them deep down. He knew what he’d done, but it was impossible to admit.
“ Please—.. ” Nestor whimpered, the shock rendering his vocal cords paralyzed.
The crowd behind them was a blur now, to Jean — he couldn't focus on anything else even if he wanted, even if he, frankly, needed to. It was just him and Nestor. When it comes down to it, war is what he knows best — it is the only way he's ever felt control over his life. It's the only venture in which he's ever felt successful, like he belongs. Relationships to him are like battles — respect is something to win , through the correct strategy; the perfect plan of attack. And he did not become an officer by forfeiting a fight.
"Please what ? I said , use your words . Did you take that shot? If not, who did ? Did you see? These are simple questions !”
Nestor couldn’t even describe the thoughts that raced through his head at that moment. He was dragged helplessly through grief at a breakneck speed, ricocheting back and forth between denial and regret. All he could do was stare, his mouth hanging open as words failed to be uttered.
His expression twisted into pure despair, eyes squinting shut as if he’d vanish if they were closed. Nestor prayed to fall straight through the Earth. Even that would have been a better fate than this.
“ I—.. ”
Nestor sucked in a breath that nearly sounded like a sob. He blinked again, this time, unable to stop a tear from falling as it slipped through the blood on his cheek.
“ I could not have known.. I—I did not mean to— ”
"Our sole surgeon is gone because of YOU! I ask again, were you even paying attention? And in your current state, too—"
He cuts himself off, suddenly. A vein practically pops out his forehead — he doesn't know what triggered in him, but it's like a barrel of gunpowder detonated in his self , this time. There's a sharp, echoing smack as Jean strikes the back of his hand across the rifleman's face.
"YOU WILL LOOK AT YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER WHEN HE IS ADDRESSING YOU! "
He freezes as soon as it happens, though he offers no apology and shows no visible remorse. He's instantly mortified with himself, though. Fuck — fuck . Officer Jean-Lucien Dufort, nothing short of committed to the safety of his men, has now struck one of them.
Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer force of that hit. It sent his mind reeling, and made his vision triple. Already weakened with exhaustion, Nestor immediately crumpled to the side. He stumbled hard, landing awkwardly on his shoulder. He was able to sit up fast, but the wild fear in his eyes was unmistakable.
Nestor’s fight or flight kicked in, and with each quick and shallow breath, he was losing what little inhibition he had left.
An incoherent cry burst from deep in Nestor’s chest as he threw himself to his feet. He lunged at Jean with all of his remaining strength. The sound of Nestor slamming straight into Jean’s core was deafening, and despite his injury he was able to tackle the man down to the dirt. They hit the ground hard, and Nestor tries his damnedest to keep Jean down. He isn’t even able to get a punch in, as the two are quite evenly matched, but the scales tip in Jean’s favor due to Nestor’s exhausted state.
Jean isn't quite sure how he expected the events following his outburst to play out — he hoped he would wake up from a particularly nasty nightmare. Suffice to say, he wasn't expecting to be slung onto the harsh, cold ground — he groans as his head slams against it. For a second, he's too scared to retaliate — as much as he doesn't really regret his offense on a personal level, he's still shaken by the principle of him intentionally hurting one of his men. But, that's until Nestor starts writhing like he's aiming to hit Jean back — the man quickly concentrates on trying to stop him after that.
If the situation wasn't what it was, he'd feel bad about taking advantage of Nestor's prior injuries — but the situation is what it is, so he doesn't . With a firm, almost crushing grip on the man's shoulders, he flips him over. He quickly moves to restrain his arms, holding them down flat. His knee falls against the other man's thigh to pin down a leg, and Jean puts all his effort into trying to coax the man to just still .
"Calm yourself," he hisses.
Nestor becomes increasingly frustrated as he’s overpowered. Nestor then cried out as Jean put all of his weight on his injured shoulder. It was still throbbing with pain from the shrapnel tearing into the flesh, and the tenderness only worsened as he was pushed hard into the ground on that side.
When Nestor realized that the scuffle was over and he stood no real chance, he collected as much blood in his mouth as he could.
The infuriating order from Jean only solidified Nestor’s decision on what he was going to do.
“ Fuck you. ”
He used the last of his strength to thrust his head forward, using his momentum to spit a considerable amount of blood and saliva straight into Jean’s face.
Instinctively, Jean wrenches his eyes shut and flinches back — at first, he actually isn't quite sure what happens. But he feels a hot wetness dripping down his face, and sees the glistening of Nestor's lips, and connects the dots almost instantaneously.
And, once he processes how he's just been cursed out...
The scrap of composition Jean was able to regain is completely wiped away once more. A gloved hand flies up to claw around Nestor's cheek, pushing his face with all the force he can muster into the dirt beneath them. His face is flush with anger and embarrassment — and a third... peculiar feeling, but he pays that no mind. He's too preoccupied to, when he's so busy pushing this man down into the earth like he's trying to send him to Hell itself.
"Insolent cur ," he growls. "I have half a mind to muzzle you ."
Nestor gasped hard when a strong grasp caught his face, pushing him straight into the dirt with dizzying force. It knocked the wind out of him, forcing his body to still as he fought to catch his breath. Nestor was fighting to stay conscious by this point, having used up all of his remaining energy and leaving himself defenseless.
“I would.. love to.. see you try.” Nestor sneered, wheezing between each pant.
Nestor felt something.. equally peculiar being held down like this. The sight of Jean’s muscles rippling through his coat—.. Nestor couldn’t allow himself to even finish that thought.
Jean lets out a chuckle – one rasp with disbelief. All the pain and suffering of today, all the heightened emotions and explosive outbursts… and he still has the gall to give him backtalk? He lightens his touch upon feeling Nestor grow rigid under it, but he doesn't let up on all the pressure.
"Well, if you don't shape up and listen , you'll be on a leash yet. Believe me ," Jean jabs back. His face grows flush after he says it – he hopes he didn't sound as… enraptured by the thought as his tone came across like.
"Good God! Men, I think we have larger quarrels at hand."
The booming voice of the captain startles Jean entirely — he really had forgotten there was a world outside of them. In a heartbeat, he finally lets up on the man beneath him. He's too shocked to move off, but his force near evaporates. He whips his head up, and his face reddens even deeper at the sight of all the eyes on them.
Nestor had gone limp by now, unable to muster enough strength to even push Jean off of him for good. He didn’t even have a comeback anymore, much too dizzy to speak.
Once Jean finally let up, Nestor could only roll onto his side and gasp.
One of the other riflemen was the first to approach, kneeling down to Nestor and offering an arm for him to use as leverage to stand up. Nestor took the help, grabbing tight onto his arm with a grateful nod. The fellow riflemen nodded back, helping him to his feet and guiding Nestor away from the crowd.
Nestor could barely think anymore, especially now that the adrenaline was wearing off and leaving a much more extreme level of exhaustion in its wake. He was taken to a low stone fence to sit down, and the other riflemen gave him a supportive pat on the shoulder.
“ Ambroise. ” He introduces himself, offering a small smile.
“ Le Sueur.. ” Nestor replies quietly.
The look the captain gives Jean as he quickly pushes himself up is one of both amusement and confusion. He says nothing, but it makes Jean feel all the more pressured to explain himself.
"I'm… sorry, sir. I don't… that was… out of line, I assume."
"Hey, they're your men – you're more my responsibility than them. It's not my place to say if your tactics of discipline are ' out of line '."
Jean lets out an acknowledging hum, but his head still hangs sheepishly. He begins to adjust his form; dusting the dirt off his uniform, pulling his glove back up from how they had ridden down...
"...Even if they are reminiscent of two schoolchildren bickering," Léglise adds suddenly, with a playful smirk.
"Okay. Hey. I'll reign it in," Jean hisses, though the two exchange a laugh afterwards. It's a much needed distraction — truth be told, Jean's mortified . He'd be damned before he'd let his men be subject to his weakness, but he's… worried. This is a place he's never been, and, furthermore, a place he told himself he'd never go. Just a week ago, the thought of striking a subordinate would give him a heart attack. And, yet, he succumbed to it so suddenly. He sighs. He'll just have to beat the composure into himself; if this wicked affliction is to continue, he has to be good enough, now more than ever.
Who could ever care for him if he can't earn it?