Jeffrey
*Ego crush is so severe / god, it's brutal out here!*

She had learned so much in the last stretch of time about the resilience of her own body and of her mind. Whether Blanca had been out for minutes, hours or days was a mystery to her – there was only red for a while, and then blackness when, miraculously, the worst of her pain had begun to ebb. Dreamless, incapable of coherent thought, she lay suspended in darkness with no real idea if this was permanent or not, and without the energy to care very much.

When at last she could feel the presence of gravity, her back against a surface besides the ground, there was a rush of adrenaline as she put it together – she didn't know where she was. Her body worked overtime to try to crank her eyes open and sit up. Her body, thankfully, was still too weak and groggy to obey her; her eyelids relented eventually and, after several fluttering attempts, Blanca blinked blearily into the gray light of the doctor's office.
_ _

The hacienda where Blanca's family had made their home was more than a residence. It was a micro-community in its own right, stocked by cousins, the women they'd met along the way, and the children many had together. Even if she was hardly the favorite child at the moment, she'd undoubtedly garnered a surplus of concern about her whereabouts, especially considering – 

*My mare,* She tried to say aloud. *Lucia.* What came out of her mouth was: 

"Muh. Mmm."

A deep exhaustion had etched itself into her face, assuaged only temporarily by the rest and critical care she'd received. Blanca felt the moment she became aware of the pain she was in, and though it was far subdued compared to what she could just remember she'd endured, the discomfort inspired a wave of emotion. Vulnerability. She was here, injured and incapacitated, with only the doctor and the nurse and the ghosts of whoever had died in this room. Without the energy to project any surety, and very much overwhelmed, Blanca's eyes filled with tears. She took in a breath and held it, willing the furnishings in the room to come into further focus. They did not, and in spite of her best efforts, her lip quivered. Fuck.
Leah
Rest and time and quiet could do a great lot to heal a broken body. Blanca benefited from at least two of those. The position of the doctor's ward in the town center around Christmastime made *Quiet* A less than likely proposition. In place of the quiet, she had the attention of Briar Ridge's doctor.

That very same quietude missing in the streets around the ward was altogether too present at his home some nights. Rather than returning home the past two nights, he'd taken the other patient's room in the ward as his own. The bed was as good as any. With a disposition that had never made friends with things like sleep or peace, it was easier then, to check his patient every few hours.

Pain relief was something he could not be generous with. There were too many questions he had unanswered about Blanca. Meager doses of opiates would be just enough to take the edge off and that she would likely not remember the few things he'd asked her in the two days past. Her answers had been about as unintelligible as the sounds he heard now from her room.

What was the time? Leaning back from his place at the desk in the office area of the doctor's ward, he wondered when dawn's wan light had sneaked up on him. He set a pot of coffee on the stove, tossing another wedge of seasoned birch in the fire. Around the time the stove's old iron door was squealing shut, she was mumbling more than she had in the past 48 hours, and he could make out the faint sound of her straining within the linens of the bed.

"Try not to move too much." He leaned against the door frame of her room. Even barely-conscious patients could often comply with commands. This was one he'd had to tell her a few times in the past days. Dark thread against her skin made tidy rows of sutures on her abdomen. Created with a practiced hand, the stitches were taut enough to hold her together, but not so tight that breathing would put them at risk. Sitting up, on the other hand, was an idea best left to dreams. The deep bruising along her ribcage had spread dark purple far wider than the gashes, as if they were fingers reaching around for her spine. They would signal their own painful reminder that was certain not to help her emotional state.

The quiver of her lip was visible by the sliver of dawn illuminating her sharp profile. She showed more awareness than he'd seen in a while. "Miss Cervantes, you may not remember, but you were injured. You've healed remarkably well, but you're still recovering." Three short steps carried him across the small room, close enough to seek out her dark eyes for awareness.


||
Jeffrey
It appeared that the tables had been turned. The hunt was coming back to her now – in fragmented pieces, most of which seemed out of order, but back it came. Between recoil-inducing snapshots of tusks aimed for her vital organs therein lay memories of her own judgment of the doctor and his shot. A whole lot of good it had done her. It seemed these last few months that the Universe had its own lessons in store for Blanca, and so long as she continued to ignore them, she'd reap the consequences. 

Perhaps it was time to reevaluate. She could feel her mind coming back into focus as the lines between thoughts became clearer. The room was simple, but far from austere; in spite of the weather, a low, gray light filtered into the room in what was an aptly medicinal, color-bleaching sort of way. Elias' face came into her periphery, and turning her head to face him inspired an effort that Blanca swore should have been paired with the sound of stone scraping stone. When at last she found his eyes, there was something comforting about the reservation there – another assurance of pure intent, of her safety here. Blanca's upper arms were lead at her sides, but her forearms carried sweeping fingers in a slow, grazing motion down to her torso where the bruises bloomed under her touch, enough for her to know without looking that she was likely the color of eggplant. 
_ _

Grateful as she was to have been taken care of, Blanca found herself internally cringing at the total helplessness of her circumstances. *When can I leave?* She wanted to ask, but a creeping memory dampened her zeal: the tearing of her flesh, the feeling of it almost like knitwork come apart. Charlie, bleeding on the snow. She was hardly a stranger to injury, but none so severe as this – even when she'd been thrown from a hot-tempered young horse or kicked squarely in the side, she'd never suffered more than a cracked rib. The only real scar she bore worth looking at was the one on her thigh, tucked out of sight. (She prayed that the nurse had been the one to see it.) To have this many *Holes* In her body was a sensation with which she was thoroughly overwhelmed – suffice to say, the Blanca who lay in the sterile white bed was about as far away as she could get from the Blanca who'd ridden up to the hunt that day, confident and sure. There would be nothing gained from posturing here – in the most literal sense, she couldn't even deliver. Blanca's dark eyes were soft and bore in their depths the truth of her having resigned herself to this situation. 

"Thank you," She croaked through a dry throat, because it seemed like the important thing to say. The use of English here was another added hurdle: she'd gotten used to speaking it regularly, but there was a comfort in retreating into Spanish that she both could not and would not afford herself. In another world she knew she was lying dead right now, likely having tried to get herself home on horseback. She didn't often find herself indebted to others, mostly because it was a dynamic she tried to avoid, but Blanca could afford to change the rules for someone who had saved her life. 

And then, of course:

"My horse...?"
Leah
Elias had seen it many times before. Rousing. Recollection. Exploration. Eventually some understanding. He fathomed it all moved two or three times as slowly for the patient rather than the observer. 

There was a clear distinction to him when a patient was truly cognizant rather than acting off of rote instinct. The subconscious at play, stirring to life again. The awakening of self was visible in the resigned way her eyes roamed the room. She no longer wept in fear or cried words he couldn't quite decipher. 

With a few more moments' realization, she would understand that at some point, she had been undressed and her body washed. She was now dressed in something resembling a short chambray tunic. Laces down the front had been fastened loosely. Formalities were not something the doctor had much patience for, but he still possessed basic courtesy. Sometimes. He was not just a doctor, but a man, and she was a woman alone. He busied himself, giving her an unobserved moment to gather her wits back around her. 

A chair was moved to sit beside her and several things gathered to rest on the small nightstand of dark walnut. One leatherbound book, a pen, and a tall glass of cool water. 

"Let's get you upright before you start asking questions, hm?" He straightened his wristwatch, taking a look at the time before leaning over her. His arm behind her back was firm, doing most of the lifting of her torso. She had the other arm to hold onto in front of her, so she could help pull herself to sitting. They were both young and strong people; despite the injury clawing its bitter way around her torso making itself known, it would not stop her from finding herself propped up against several chicken feather pillows.

"The Mayor saved you some of the hog's ribs. For... Those that you paid with. But you should start with water." The glass of water was passed into her hands, the doctor watching her close to ensure she could hold it on her own before he fully let go of it. He settled on the chair, plucking up the book and pen to scribble a few notes. Pausing, Blanca and the face of his watch were given another inspection before he wrote more.

The pen against the page was agonizing, and it seemed he tortured her deliberately in his writing before finally giving answers. "Lucy? Is very comfortable sharing a small paddock with *Chula* Down the road. Mrs. Meyer's donkey. I presume you're familiar." 

This being the first instance these two had spoken more than two real words to each other, it became clear Blanca was not the only one speaking English as a second language. He'd dropped the, frankly, silly-sounding pitch shift of his parents when he'd entered primary school but there was still a softness on the consonants and a lean to some of his vowels that indicated something other than privileged and pretentious bastard from New York. 

Fortunately, he had spoken English for a very significant amount of his adulthood, nullifying much misunderstanding between them. It was clearly intentional then, the directness of his next question. "Miss Cervantes, I've been told that is your name, is that correct?" His pen hung poised over the page, eyes expectant on her before continuing. "Is there any possibility that you are with child?"
Brian
Please do not kill him, he is just a simple stupid man
Jeffrey
The doctor's hand on her back was so clinical that she hardly registered it as a hand at all. A very genuine appreciation flooded her. Blanca was no stranger to roaming hands, to excuses and oversights, to the hundreds of little losses of agency written into the female experience. She had come to expect those kinds of things from men who looked like Elias – men who benefited from this country and its government, men who had not had to fight the way her family had. There was a sort of *Taking* With which those kinds of people were terribly comfortable. That greed was absent from Elias' touch, and the comfort Blanca felt upon relaxing onto the pillows was a profound relief. 

Someone had haphazardly re-braided her hair, likely so it wouldn't tangle against the pillow. She had a distinct feeling that it had been the work of the nurse rather than the doctor. When Elias assumed his position on the chair beside her bed, Blanca watched him with keen eyes. Their gazes met as he, clinical and critical, scanned her for details of which she was hardly aware. In turn she, intuitive and shrewd, scanned him for the same sort of esoteric knowledge, as though he had left much room for her to find anything. The dragging of his pen across the page seemed to punctuate the idea that Elias was, at the very least, a difficult man to read. In the coming weeks, that mystery would prove tantalizing to Blanca, who loved nothing so much as figuring a person out. For now, though, she was content to parse through the strange lilt of his English. 
_ _

For some reason, she couldn't seem to shake the phantom sensation of the warm, dry climate from which she'd come. Though she tried more often than not to keep those memories locked away for convenience, it appeared that in her vulnerability, all she wanted was to be back there. Even indoors she could see the frost on the windows outside. She'd long since grown used to winters here, adapting in her own way, but Blanca felt a part of herself shrink a little. There much to be grateful for – she'd have to bring the good doctor a gift – but in tandem came crawling back the things from which she so often found herself running. 

Lucia was safe, with the donkey that Blanca had sold to Mrs. Meyer a few summers back. She knew better than to expect him to actually know her horse's name, but she noted the effort with genuine surprise. It wasn't that Elias was... *Rude,* Necessarily, but he certainly didn't hide the way he thought of himself. *So what?* She thought. *Neither do you.* It was different coming from a man, though – different still, coming from a white man. 

Reluctantly, she cut him some slack. He had saved her life; there was room for her to give him some grace. That decision was made a millisecond or so before his question, and Blanca took a long moment to respond, doing her best to ease back into that collected persona she'd come to wear so often. 

"No," She said flatly, "I am in *No* Way with child." Dìos mio. She knew it was a valid question, of course, but Blanca, unused to the procedural nature of Western medicine, found herself visibly appalled despite her best efforts. In the next moments that expression melted away into something a little harder to read, but pleasant nonetheless. Whether it was a genuine expression was up for debate. 
_ _

"Ochoa Cervantes," She corrected him. "Blanca Ochoa Cervantes. The last names –" She paused to take a breath, momentarily adopting a stunned expression as it dawned on her that she was injured enough for speech to be laborious. "We use two, in my culture," She explained, her expression wandering. It was silly, of course, to be ashamed of one's weakness in the presence of the doctor who saved one's life. Pride was a wretched beast, though, and hung heavy in the air above her head, broken and weak. She took a long, slow sip of water as if trying to really savor it. It was crisp and cool as it pooled in her belly, an oddly comforting reminder of her own corporeality.

"You stitch better than you shoot." Over her tunic Blanca could feel the places where her skin would need to knit itself back together. The look on her face was appreciative, if a little reserved. She had, indeed, resigned to her circumstances, but she had yet to decide exactly how she felt about them. If the lead she could feel in her limbs was any indication, she wasn't leaving here tonight. She prayed that her cousins had come to look for her, if only so that she might lick her (proverbial) wounds in the comfort of her own bedroom. It was a thought she regretted. Her eyes went glassy as she blinked back tears, a futile gesture for someone whose resolve was already so visibly cracked. 

"Sorry," She murmured, entirely irritated with herself. That annoyance manifested on her face for only a moment before it dissolved into something unabashedly morose, almost cartoonishly so. Ever reliant on her pride, Blanca refused to make eye contact. 

"How much longer do I have to be here?" She asked, careful even now not to sound too ungrateful. "And what about, er... Charlie?" She guessed. 
_ _

She stole a glance at the doctor when she figured he might not be looking. Again she was faced with the asymmetry of him. Elias made sense, in theory, but his face didn't match his life. Even in a town as poor as Briar Ridge, a doctor's income should have provided him with the money not to look so gaunt. It was a curious inconsistency, and one she found herself filing away for further reference.
Leah
Slowly blinking, his gaze was sedate on her, seemingly oblivious to at which point specifically he'd brought all those walls shuddering up around her. They were almost endearingly obvious though, reminding him of the few times he'd upset his very own little sister. The baby sibling and only sister of three brothers, she'd learned to clam up like that too. Prideful. Wounded. Defensive. Stubborn. Anger turned inward.

Where Blanca eschewed eye contact in her vulnerable moments just then, he studied it. He'd seen her enough around town. She had a face that looked prone to passion, like she could burn a man right in half if her gaze were ignited, her strong brows furrowed in foreboding. It was a stark contrast to see her swagger stripped away from her. He found it fascinating.

With his pale eyes and morose pallor, he could fade right into the wintry landscape outside, so distinctly dissimilar from the familiar landscape that left Blanca longing. He was as cold as anything else in this world she was facing. All save for the flaxen hair that threatened to go the color of honey and cornsilk at the spring's first peek of sunshine. There was that glimmer of something that could become sweetness in him, stowed safely away. Perhaps there was a little of the symbolic warmth siphoned off in the gentle way he spoke to her, the way his professionalism seemed to slacken.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. I've seen the most hardy of soldiers reduced to far more emotion with far less severe injuries than yours. And you're right, I'm shit with a gun. I was fortunate enough, I suppose, to see the horrors of the trenches without ever being inside of one." He sighed a little, rising from his chair, the next part added as some kind of cheeky and ego-saving aside, something only Blanca would have insight to. "I only went to ensure no one was killed."

Leaving the room without warning, soft noises followed, passing through the doorway of the room that was hers for the time being. A cabinet being opened and closed, ceramic or glass on wood, the pouring of liquid. Blanca would have a few moments to herself, but he was back before long. He set something looking like a small glass thimble on the nightstand, and beside it, a mug of fragrant black coffee. Water simply wouldn't do to carry away the bitter flavor of laudanum.

"The taste is miserable, but now that we have answers for your medical records, you can have something stronger for the pain. You don't have any weaknesses of the heart or lungs." Plucking up the book again, he jotted down several quick notes. Through the conduit of a stethoscope, he'd listened to both of the aforementioned extensively in the past two days. Though he'd guess her blood pressure was working double time to cope with the trauma now that she was awake. It would hurt more in the coming hours.

"Charlie was sent home with..." There was a certain kind of wordlessness on his lips that was distinctive, as he searched for the correct variant of formalities he was so fond of. Mister? Miss? Well, the people of Briar Ridge were always teaching him something new. "Charlie was tended to and sent home with Emery Aiken. I expect a good recovery."

"If you promise to lead your horse by the reins and avoid too much bending or lifting in the next two weeks, I suppose you can be allowed to leave within the next day or two." He said *Allowed* Like it was his decision whether she stayed here or not. From the way he looked at her, *His* Patient after all, it seemed he believed he held that ordinance. "But first I need you to tell me why the need for two names, in your culture. Attribution to both mother and father, or...?" 


||
Jeffrey
Perhaps it was because Blanca herself was so of the earth, but she found herself equal parts intrigued and disconcerted by the pallor of his face. She knew, of course, that whiteness implied a greater variation in skin tone for any number of reasons. All the same, she had never been a woman who quieted a gut instinct when she felt one: there was something *Off* About Elias, something discordant about his humors, betrayed by the nearly corpselike shadows played out in soft planes across his features.

*"I only went to ensure no one was killed,"* He said, with the sort of wry and unwritten humor that Blanca could appreciate. A display of humanity, however small, did not go unnoticed and certainly was not unappreciated. Elias wasn't the *Good doctor* To whom the townsfolk often referred, but he was still good. There was something refreshing about a person whose kindness was not performative. It was doled out at arm's length and in glimpses, but sparingly enough that when it did appear, that little dose was a genuine one. 

Even just the smell of the coffee did wonders for Blanca's alertness. This only came back to bite her as the acridity of the laudanum soaked into every corner of her mouth. Blanca stifled a gag and swallowed down the medicine as best she could, though there was little she could do about the way it made her eyes water. She heartily welcomed any opportunity to divorce herself from a little more of the pain radiating from her abdomen in waves; nonetheless, the coffee was a welcome chaser. Something told her to go out of her way not to make a face – she had the gut feeling that Elias might derive some amusement from it. 

So many *Questions.* Two could play that game.
_ _

Suddenly aware of how many of her muscles she'd been unconsciously tensing, Blanca relaxed into the pillows to the best of her ability, waiting to feel the effects of the laudanum. His use of the word *Allowed* Was amusing, particularly when paired with the tone in which he used it. A younger Blanca might have vaulted herself off of the bed as soon as she felt able and forced herself back home. This version of her had had the pride kicked out of her one too many times, and as much as it wounded her pride, she would, in fact, be staying in bed until told it wouldn't kill her to book it home.

A pair of dark and inquisitive eyes found Elias' as he posed his question about her family names. It was rare that anyone bothered to ask about her two surnames – rather, they usually just chose one and stuck with it. Perhaps it was silly to be surprised that a man of science might be compelled to further investigation, but there was an honesty in being seen that Blanca could appreciate.

"That's right." Blanca's smile was genuine, if weary and small. "The father's name comes first, and then the mother's. My father is an Ochoa and my mother is a Cervantes. I could give you all of *Their* Last names, but we'd both be here a while, and I don't think you plan on spending your day chatting me up," Said Blanca, suddenly aware of the weightiness of her eyelids. After a moment, though, she prepared to contradict herself, observing the angle at which he held his head, the careful shifting of his eyes. 

"How does a man like you end up in a place like this?" Asked Blanca in a careful tone, her voice like smoke and velvet. "Rare for anyone to find themselves in Briar Ridge without a warrant or something worse on their back." 
_ _

She was joking, but only halfway. Elias' education was betrayed simply by the manner in which he carried himself, the incline of his neck, the way he chose his words, articulated himself. For him to have wound up in a town of outlaws, outcasts, miners and shiners was odd – not out of the question, but odd enough that Blanca, with her insatiable eye for patterns, could notice it. 
||
Leah
The doctor's eyes were fixed on her swallowing down the dose. As he directed, she abided. That was the way of his world in this very particular moment, and he couldn't help but wonder how often she might be so passive. Probably not often. Seeing someone grimace against the taste was always a bemusement but watching the power of medicine at work as she relaxed into the pillows was the real satisfaction.

The dose and time were marked in the journal before it was closed and slid away on the nightstand. It would do well that one of the nurses didn't accidentally portion Blanca an overdose. That would take some real explaining. 

He nodded at her confirmation, and even returned her genuine, albeit miniscule smile. *That's right* Were probably some of his favorite words to hear, an old need for attention stemming back decades. Then it had been from his teachers and professors. Such as it often was for a youngest son. 

Ochoa and Cervantes had a certain rhythm to them that weren't lost even on a non-musical man such as himself. There was half a mind to tell her that he would be chatting, to impart his own culture in the conversation. Some explanation of the great many *-dotter* And *-son* Suffixes of the surnames from his motherland. 

But Blanca was right in her assessment that he held all things, even kindness, at arm's reach. Whatever he'd opened his mouth to say died on his lips. Blanca's only half-humorous peppering of questions brought his gaze honed on hers. For the first time it seemed readily apparent that he was aware that she saw him. She really saw him. She observed some intricacies, clever in recognizing nuance that others had not.

In his first months there, there had been some of 'what's a fancy fella like you doin' in a place like this?' or more often, raised eyebrows and unspoken questions. He'd kept his presence low for a long time, only treating people that came around to his house for the purpose of barter or by word of mouth. Of course, word of mouth was its own special force in a town as small as Briar Ridge. The natural suspicions of the local citizens were not as sharp as the astuteness in her dark eyes. She'd cut right through his formalities of professionalism and all his nonsense work ethic. He sat in front of her as just a man, for a very few moments 

His gaze pinned hers in place for three or four solid breaths of what could only be described as palpable tension. And then it faded, like smoke wisping up into the atmosphere. "I'm afraid to say I did kill several people, so I suppose that would explain the warrants." He gave her a crack of a grin that didn't reach his eyes, the tidy facade sliding back into place behind a guise of dry humor.

"Truly, I am a person of great, almost insurmountable curiosity. If you have heard the rumors, Miss Ochoa Cervantes, I'm sure you're aware of some manner of *Plague* Affecting this area." He looked askance of her, but he almost seemed hesitant, or was it afraid, to look too long at her. "Plenty of people aren't even able to look at their kin without suspicion these days. I guess that's one of the good things about having no family here. Is your own family large?" His hesitance ebbed away, only coloring the edges of the inquisitive look he had on her. He was, if anything, an incredibly meddling and impulsive man. 

||
Jeffrey
There were a long few beats between the asking of her question and the answering of it. His eyes reminded her of turning over a smooth piece of seaglass in her hand, only to find jagged clarity where its other end had been snapped off. The directness of his gaze was sudden, and felt almost like a challenge; never one to back down, Blanca held the stare in kind, frosted glass and burnt mahogany coming to size one another up in the sort of way that each could recognize as familiar. Blanca regarded him anew when that tension faded, and her brow quirked up in bemused surprise when he spoke.

Perhaps this was the discordance she'd sensed – but something in her gut said *No.* After a long moment, Blanca nodded once. The doctor's smile was clear in its intentions, but whether it had achieved them was another story. For as long as she could remember, Blanca had been sizing people up this way. She had spent her formative years around soldiers, and knew well the slotting-into-place of that faithful façade. As much as she respected him, there was something about that which made Elias seem just a hair less trustworthy. True to her nature, that sense of mystery had only served to capture Blanca's intellectual side. Her insatiable desire to understand the inner workings of things (and people) had reared its head, and she felt a sense of curiosity not dissimilar to the way she'd felt when she, Elias and Mitica had stared into the darkness of the wood. 
_ _

"Circumstance is a funny thing," She intoned upon learning that he had taken lives. *I won't pry,* Said the look on her face, *And I'm hardly one to judge.* It wasn't something with which she was entirely unfamiliar; she had seen men die, too, quickly and slowly and in other ways. The idea that someone like Elias could be capable of killing anyone was a little silly at first; Blanca knew what a well-fed, strong man looked like, and even beneath his coat, the doctor's shoulders alone gave away the relative gauntness of his frame. To hear him describe himself as a man of *'almost insurmountable curiosity'* Was a helpful reminder not to give too much away about herself. He had established himself as someone who likely bore no ill intent, but that didn't mean Blanca trusted Elias. She felt her head tilt a little to one side as she pondered how to answer his questions. 



She knew, of course, about the werewolves. Of course a doctor might call it a plague, even if only for propriety's sake – the threat of the beasts seemed only to grow in size and in magnitude with every passing month. The idea of the safehouses was still a relatively new concept, though. Were such things an option for the doctor, who had to be available to save other lives? For all she knew, maybe he was one of them. Such was the gamble of making friends in town these days: since the Sheriff's demise, it was an unspoken truth that anyone could be a beast in disguise. For Blanca, who was in the middle of a gambit all her own (and known only to her), it was a risk largely worth taking. Even so, she doubted Elias had fallen victim to the *Plague,* As he called it; she had seen his face upon the discovery of the blackened entrails in the forest. 
_ _

Blanca wished more than anything to be able to reach for her confidence and pull it on like a favorite sweater. Her persona was nowhere to be found, it seemed: armed only with herself and her inner machinations, she was a little more on her guard than she might have liked to be. In the end it was a war between this self-preservation and her desire to know more, and there had been heavy losses on both sides by the time she leaned into the conversation.

"There are a lot of us," She confirmed without answering *Yes* Or *No,* As was her way. She could mean anything – a family of eight was *A lot,* And so was a family of thirty. There was no way to discern her proper meaning, a fact of which Blanca was shamelessly aware, as indicated by the smirk she wore. There was a game to be played in the giving and taking of information. Blanca lacked a formal education, and only spoke English thanks to her former proximity to soldiers. Compared to Elias, she was hardly an academic or a scholar. Nonetheless she was an intellectual in her own right, and the assertive look in her eyes sought to defend that claim before it was tested.

"We own a ranch. Horses and donkeys and mules," She explained, without saying much else about it. There were, after all, only so many reasons that anyone would need a consistent supply of mules. Were it up to Blanca, they wouldn't breed them at all, but that was only one little facet on what was an otherwise very large iceberg. 

"They're probably not happy with me for skipping out on work." Blanca smiled, a wry expression. Regardless of the reason behind her absence from the ranch, she would surely face consequences manifest in a lack of involvement in activities for at least a few days. For someone who so valued the control she had over her environment, it was sure to be a teeth-grinding experience.
_ _

"You must live alone, Doctor," She observed, tilting her head to find a cooler spot on her pillow. Realistically, it was a fair enough observation for a woman to make. On a doctor's salary, gauntness was rare; there was no one cooking anything for him at home if he looked like that. *Madre de Dios.* Pitiful. 

"Where'd you come from, then, hm? Anybody waiting for you back home or do they know all about these warrants of yours?"
||
Leah
Many times over, the doctor had seen the bitter flow of opiates sweeten in their swift trek through someone's bloodstream, loosening lips and softening tongues. That was most often a side effect rather than intent. *Good* Doctors did not ply patients for their own ulterior motives; he had taken his Hippocratic Oath. Still, he was surprised and possibly even a little impressed that she managed to remain so clear-headed in the face of a significant dose of laudanum minutes before. 

It was no real surprise that Blanca would want to play her cards close to her chest on the matter of her family. *Everyone was these days.* But, he visibly perked at the mention of her large family. Whether that was through the thought process that at least one of them would have to have fallen victim to the plague or because he simply found the idea very interesting was impossible to determine. "Those with a large family are very fortunate." *Usually,* His flicker of the brows said.

Blanca's general style of dress, when she was dressed, made sense with the fact that she belonged to a family of ranchers. A smile dared to tickle itself at the corner of his lips before fading away. He was very curious about all those horses and donkeys and mules.

If Elias was aware that she thought of him as both gaunt and good, he would be quick to argue. He knew enough about the human body, even his own, to know that exercise and nutrition were probably the two most important factors. Though he usually paid at least fair attention to both, they'd fallen to the wayside lately. There were a great many things to do, and more importantly, a good many mysteries that preoccupied his mind.

He did not know her assessment of him, however. Even a man as insightful as he was seemed surprised by the observation that he lived alone. Without a wife or girl to nag him to look after himself, more specifically. "Please, call me Elias." It was *Ell-lee-ess* Rather than the way most folks said *Ell-lie-us*. He never corrected them when they did.

He should have been going. Heading back to that home where no one else lived to get some much-needed sleep. But a conversation that actually interested him was rare enough to come by that he had trouble letting it go. The way she smirked when she met his eyes promised that she knew plenty he didn't, and he wouldn't have an easy time getting to it. That was something he liked very much. 

"I don't live alone, in fact." He rotated his wrists against the stiff cuffs of his navy blue shirt, an idle habit, before settling back into the chair. "You've met my roommate once before. Beautiful girl. Shame about her leaving her hair all over the place." He doubted she'd notice, but if Blanca listened closely enough, she would hear the soft snores of that very same dog in the neighboring room. 

That was, of course, if she could pick it up over the muffled sounds of people rumbling around in the street outside. Curtains blocked the view but couldn't entirely block the sound of feet shuffling to this or that task. Chickens bokked by, herded by a gaggle of giggling children. A man very distantly yelled out that he was selling fresh bread. The town was waking up. 

No one was waiting for him, he wanted to say. The less any single person in Briar Ridge knew about him and where he'd come from, the better for those he'd left behind. But then, he'd clued into the fact that if he wanted to know more, he would have to give her something.

"I do have a family. A mother and father. A sister and two– a brother. They no doubt have wondered where I've gotten myself off to," He said, his voice a little softer than it had been. "I'd send them a letter if it were..." A breath and a half hung in the space of his thinking, "So simple as that." His face had softened a little too, looking sad but resigned. There it was. He'd put a single shred of trust in Blanca. Though it was a small gesture, someone as clever as Blanca might intuit that this was a very rare occurrence. 

"I am surprised that none of your own large family has inquired after you in town." The man could be gentle, when he wanted to be. He was ginger in the way he admitted his curiosity, knowing full well that family could be a sensitive topic. "What did you say, they'll think you're skipping out on work? I could write you a doctor's note for your absence," He teased, lightening the mood just a little. "But, do you leave often for them not to worry after you?" *Or are there other reasons, they aren't worried* Was the question left unsaid.

||
Jeffrey
If Blanca was being honest, she *Absolutely* Felt the laudanum. Her blood felt as though it had turned to honey, and she found herself delighting in the way her body sunk *Just so* Into what was ultimately really not a very comfortable pillow. She was working overtime to maintain composure, as though there was something dishonorable in allowing medicine to affect her. It was silly, she knew, to care so deeply about appearing weak, particularly in front of the doctor who'd saved her life. Even so, resolve was an invaluable quality in Blanca's world. She clung to it like a buoy in a storm, even if her body couldn't keep up with that desire. Slowly and little by little, Blanca's eyes gave her away: that openly critical, earthy look was gone in favor of something softer, more relaxed, less inhibited. The rancher was asleep, but the woman herself remained awake. She wore the *Usually* In his eyes on her face in kind; it played along the edges of a smirk that disappeared in the ensuing moments.

*"Elias,"* She repeated, carefully turning over each syllable with her tongue as if to examine it up close. It was not unlike the pronunciation of plenty of Spanish names, and rolled off of her tongue with ease. "I've heard plenty of folk mispronounce that." She swallowed the *O* In *Mispronounce,* Making it a hollow sound. 

"You don't correct them?" She observed, a little smile finding its way onto her face in spite of her efforts to the contrary. "Oh, I always correct people. But then, you don't have to work quite as hard for their respect." The deeper meaning there was written in the space between them, in the calluses on Blanca's hands, in the degrees he had earned.
_ _

There were entirely too many sounds outside. Blanca detested the din of a bustling town, even if she had come to love that town, in her own way. So many residences were just outside the doctor's office – she couldn't imagine having to endure all of that overlapping sound, all day, every day. She greatly preferred the sound of the wind in the trees, donkeys talking.

*You've met my roommate,* He said, and in her gentle haze it took her longer than she would have been proud to admit to understand he meant Poppy. She'd always been told that donkeys and dogs didn't get along with one another, and as such, they'd never had dogs on the *Rancho.* Whether that was actually true was outside of Blanca's realm of knowledge, but she loved animals so dearly that she longed to feel comfortable around them. 

His response to her question seemed to ground her a little and Blanca felt a little guilty for having raised it. *Two – a brother.* This was a man who thought before he spoke. In the entire time they'd been speaking, and in the conversations they'd had prior, in the woods with Mitica Lakatos, Elias chose his words with care. He was quick to correct his stumble, but he had stumbled nonetheless. There was something about that which Blanca appreciated, less like a moment of grace and more like the reception of a gift. 
_ _

She was a proud thing, and could easily have found herself behaving as such, but her pride had been wounded and her inhibitions lowered. Blanca had long since abandoned any airs she might have put on. It was, admittedly, rare for Blanca to feel any empathy at all for a man these days – rarer still when it was for a man like Elias, tall and white and smart, and handsome in the sort of way that always opened doors. She understood all too well the importance of her family. With increasing frequency these days, she missed them even as they were a wall or a fenceline away. To have known such closeness and to miss it so dearly was a pain she wore, too, albeit in a very different way. If Blanca was summer heat and Elias was a winter chill, then perhaps each of their burdens wore the same face: he, cut off and far away from those he loved, separated from them by death and by distance; she, face-to-face with her own beloved family and receiving either brimstone or a steel jaw. 

Her family. They likely weren't looking for her, if she was honest with herself. It wasn't that they would have each come to that conclusion on their own; she knew she had cousins who cared about her, and her sisters might have pushed back if enough time had passed. Ultimately the only person who could order such a thing as a search party was Blanca's father. The look on her face was one she quickly reigned into something more casual, but in the moment she wore it, the brief angling of her mouth suggested that the topic was a sensitive one. 


_ _

"I leave often," She responded carefully, in a measured tone, if a hazy one. "Most of the time I just tell them not to look for me." A pause. "I don't get a lot of pushback."

She said it lightly enough, but there was something lacing her voice – something sharper than just melancholy, the sort of edge which came from someone whose wounds were raw and regularly reopened, someone who was too physically close to their pain to really heal it. There was something else there, too: apprehension, perhaps, on her part. Just because a game was at play didn't mean that either of them had agreed to the other's rules. The smile that appeared on her face just then was darker than it had previously been. She could recognize that she had been offered a rare glimpse at him in having heard what she assumed was honesty. 

Blanca's neck felt as though it were holding up a slab of concrete. She angled her head to one side and watched Elias all the while, shamelessly observing him with the level of attention that suggested she was committing details to memory.

"As for that letter you can't send..." She began, testing the waters. "I'm more than happy to teach you to read." Humor lit up her dark eyes, the corners of her mouth playing at a smirk. 
||
Leah
"Not much point, is there? In correcting the ignorance of others. I can't say I care too much about people's respect." There was a world-weariness in this man. Something of decades more than his own thirty-one years. Nevertheless, he said this as if he were totally ignorant to the privilege of respect he received everywhere he went. He didn't care about respect because it was his birthright in a world that favored an educated white man that could make a tidy sum for himself. He had not lived life without it. 

But then, he must have been aware of privilege and the lack of it for others to some degree, because he was so fond of headstrong women that simply would not quit without a word about whatever they disagreed with. That much was written in the expression on his face. Subtle as it was, there was a bit of bemused endearment in the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. 

Some small dose of vulnerability had crept up in this unlikely early-morning conversation. A feeling of an unlocked door creaking open slightly. Not everyone lived as reserved as he did, he knew that much. But his patient was, in her own right, someone that seemed to play her cards very close to her chest. She wore pride like armor; perhaps he was a fool in thinking some of it had fallen away. That possibly-misguided trust was the only way he could make an accidental admission as he had. He would chastise himself over the unintentional slip of the tongue later. 

For now, his attention was leaning in, analyzing the shift of her voice. He knew that sort of tone and had always envisioned it as something metallic and bitter on the tongue. His eyes were on her face, as if he could read the truth between the words. Her family sounded very different from his own. Why wouldn't she hear discontent at her leaving on her own? Didn't her people know these lands were afflicted with something dark? Or was she so strong-willed that it was pointless to cross her?

None of these questions were something he gave voice to, but they would be filed away and pulled out later. Thoughts of the Ochoas and Cervantes would be inspected like a mysterious thing in those long musings before intoxicated exhaustion finally pushed him over the edge to sleep later this day.

He'd ventured far enough down that path of consideration that her shift in tone caught him by surprise. She had an excellent sense of humor which was greatly appreciated, albeit unforeseen. He laughed, an unexpected and genuine sound, if brief. "I'm afraid I make a terrible student. A professor of mine often said I was too smart for my own good. But you know? As time has gone on, I realize that was a polite way of calling me an arrogant ass." He gave her a cheeky wink, unabashed in acknowledging what was often thought of him. 

As much as he would admit to himself he enjoyed her conversation far more than he'd ever expected, he could see the fatigue on the way she laid her head. The way her eyes stayed alert against the will of the body was a character trait he didn't come across often. When he did, it was always worth noting. Only a person of strength or stubbornness or both could fight the drug-addled slither of somnolence. The body stitching itself back together across wounds of that capacity was especially draining. Pushing physical limits past exhaustion was only for him; patients needed rest.

"I don't expect I'll be back here for several days. I have some matters to attend to. You'll be in the care of the nurses and volunteers until then. In fact..." He twisted his hand to expose the face of the watch. "I think Nurse Roswell should be bringing around breakfast in an hour or two." Taking a deep breath, he gave her a stern look. Somewhere inside of it, there was a coloring of askance. "You need to stay and rest for at least two more days. I bill triple for stitches I have to resuture due to foolishness." It was impossible to tell if he was joking. "I'd like to inspect your wounds before I leave. May I?" That was an echo of what he'd asked her when she was fading out of consciousness a few days ago. The difference was that now, he actually waited for permission. 


||
Jeffrey
Among the most frustrating parts of this experience was the dissonance between the way she *Wanted* To behave, and the way in which exhaustion forced her to behave, which was to say that Blanca didn't necessarily appreciate having to be authentic in front of someone who had not yet earned that facet of her trust. Here she was, though, having given it to him anyway in spite of her own judgments. It was true that Blanca could be mercurial with her vulnerability: a vise one moment, an open book the next. That was, at least, a constant: she regretted already what little she'd shared, and yet in the same breath could not seem to stop herself. For someone to have taken an ounce of interest in her who wasn't her own kin was refreshing. There was no spiderweb of information here, and no network of gossip to navigate. It was more freeing than Blanca had expected to be able to just *Talk,* And though she still didn't appreciate being stripped emotionally bare, perhaps there was something to gain in it. 

She never would have trusted Elias, after all, if she hadn't been forced into doing so. So often, she found that the worst possible outcome was the one which only happened in her head. She had seen the violence of men in her youth, and grown into a fiercely guarded adult. As much as she hated to admit when she was wrong, the truth sat as naked as she did: her concern had been misplaced. It wasn't *Incorrect,* Though. Blanca could admit when her instinct was misguided, but she would never dismiss it altogether. 

There was a crinkle just then at the corners of his eyes. Blanca couldn't help but notice it where he had previously worked to keep his face smooth and unreadable. She understood why a doctor would have developed the habit. She wished that she herself had not had to develop it at home. Was that why she seemed so eager to talk, in spite of her exhaustion? 
_ _

Blanca had much to learn, it seemed, about the nature of her own prejudice: here in the most unlikely of places, she had found a kindred spirit, of sorts. She had often been chastised in her youth for her predilection for turning a conversation over in her mind, plucking words apart layer by layer. Here was someone who did the same, unabashedly so – oh, to be a man – and in spite of her efforts to keep her curiosity at bay, Blanca's eyes were bright and curious, in stark contrast to the shadowed sockets where they rested. For a moment the gleam in her eye matched his own. When it died, it did so by her hand, equally curious in the analytical sort of way which had always tended to grasp her.

He laughed, and Blanca's ear twitched, as if she was genuinely surprised to hear him capable of the warmth. It was a pleasant enough sound, if only because it wasn't the gregarious barked-out laughter she was so often used to hearing, but it struck her that it was not something she was likely to hear again. True to her nature, the idea that something was inaccessible to Blanca made her want it all the more. *"I have some matters to attend to,"* He said in the same sort of tone she used when she didn't want to elaborate on her own agenda. Blanca's dark eyes adopted a look of respect. 

Oh, goody. Breakfast. Whatever *That* Was to these people. The task of holding her eyelids aloft occupied enough of Blanca's attention that, perhaps to her benefit, she couldn't roll her eyes in response. What really got her attention was the information that she was looking at another two days here, at *Least,* And the souring of her mood was evident for a moment in the gentle twitching of her lips. She couldn't help herself, though, in the end. 
_ _

"I'll open something back up if I need to talk to you sooner," Came the cool reply. Blanca was sweaty and injured and undoubtedly looking worse for the wear, but she was still Blanca. Even if he was serious, she absolutely was not. That little smirk was back, but only for a half-moment; it ghosted away in the next breath. She was stalling, after all. 

The next few moments were silent. Blanca gave him a long and decisive look before wordlessly pulling down the sheet which covered her body, wrapped in bandages and very much looking held-together. 

"A parting gift from me, to you," She intoned, weakly flourishing a hand across an abdomen she could not truly see, but which she could *Feel* Was stitch-ridden. 
||
Leah
As odd a match as any might be, these two, their personalities had such concinnity in between them that her humor could play him both ways. She'd made him laugh against his own measured countenance and now annoyance passed over his features. It was a snap expression, quick in finding her face, brows lofting in irritated disbelief. Didn't she know how precise those sutures were? How practiced? 

The flash of her smirk made him realize he was a damned fool. He was very tired, he realized. A state that left his thoughts moving more slowly, more easily surprised than he might usually be by her teasing. 

Her bent towards sarcasm had done its job. He'd almost forgotten, for a few moments at least, the empathy he'd felt for the unease his role could place on his patients. His female patients particularly. This was a relatively newfound empathy. Having spent nearly the entirety of his career treating soldiers and then businessmen, the facets of bedside manner had been limited mostly to mannish wit and brevity. Briar Ridge had been his first real foray into treating women for anything other than needing a prescription of barbital. The lady's choice, of course. 

One decisive look flashing from her dark eyes set gravity back in his bones. A body was just a body, when it came to science. Something to observe or treat for ailment and injury. But this was her body. He'd reason she was damn protective of it, in a way many women had to be. In a way most men were oblivious to. An inkling of memory came to him, of her jerking away from his touch, even while mortally wounded on the creek banks. And then of course, there was the affront with which she'd answered his first question this morning.

A gentle sort of thoughtfulness was on his face and in his mannerisms as he pulled the chair closer. His knees brushed the frame of the bed. "I trust you won't make an escape after I leave." His hands were beautiful things, made up of long lines and masculine proportions, all marbled through with the delicate ropes of veins. They were agile in rolling up the edge of the ward-appointed tunic an unconscious Blanca had been dressed in. "I loathe to think of what a savage huntress Nurse Roswell is if she's sent after you."

It was all jest, of course. A gentle and lighthearted bedside manner nearly as much for himself as her benefit. And because he seemed to be especially reflective on the woes of women just then. "She saw to it that your hair was braided." His voice had gone quiet in the short distance between them. "And shooed me out of the room to have you washed and dressed." 

His gaze inspected every inch of her wounds. "Hmm," Passed his closed lips, before he rose from the chair. Just like doctors to not explain themselves. "Don't move," He offered on his way out the door. Not too distantly, there came the sound of water in a basin, and then more shuffling of doors and drawers. 

"If the wound bed dries, it's more stubborn to heal." Coming back through the door, he dried his freshly-washed hands on a small towel. It was tossed over the back of the chair. The lid of a small aluminum jar made a pleasant, hollow sound in being unscrewed and set aside. "That can cause infection, scarring, wound reopening..." Blanca wouldn't know, but he was almost never so informative in his treatment of patients. Perhaps he sought to put her at ease.

If his words did not, the pleasant aroma from the liniment he warmed between his fingers certainly might. It smelled sweet and soft, of honey and lavender and something herbal. The drying edges of her wounds going a darker red across her ribs were softened with the spread of moisture, gentle as it could be with such an application. For a few moments, he seemed the painter, eyes voracious, fingers attentive. And then he was reaching back for the towel to wipe his fingers, blue gaze surveying every stretch where tawny skin had been ruined and put back together. "You shouldn't be dying just yet." 

The tunic was rolled back down and the blanket folded back over her, all business again. He rose, resting his hand on the back of the chair. His fingertips drummed there in idle thought for a few moments before he thought better of it and put the chair back from where he'd fetched it. "I'll check in on Lucia before I leave and see to it she hasn't eaten all of Mrs. Meyer's pansies." That was as much for him as Blanca. He liked an excuse to give the mare a good rubdown, and more importantly, wanted Blanca to rest easy so that she could heal.

||