Jamie & Duke

“Sometimes you don’t need words to know you’re not welcome—just teeth and a growl will do.”

As I carefully unzipped the front flap and pushed my way inside the tent, the familiar low growl of Duke greeted me—a guttural warning that thrummed through the dim air like a low, vibrating string. An unwelcome but expected reaction. My frown surfaced before I could stop it, as instinctive now as checking a pulse. Despite my earlier attempts to broker some kind of truce, Duke remained resolute in his opinion of me. No treat or soft word had cracked his defensive shell. His growl wasn’t just noise; it was a line drawn in the dirt—me on one side, Jamie on the other.

"It's okay, Duke," Jamie’s voice broke through the tension, weak but laced with the calm authority only true companionship afforded. The soft sound of his hand landing with a pat against Duke’s fur was unmistakable, and I pictured the small gesture even before my eyes adjusted enough to confirm it. The bond between them, that silent, unwavering connection, spoke volumes. And though it stung to remain on the outskirts of it, I couldn’t help but respect it.

"Sorry," I said, the word leaving my lips with a heaviness I hadn’t quite intended. It was more than an apology for interrupting. It was an unspoken recognition of how my presence, no matter how well-meaning, had come to symbolise disruption and discomfort for those in this less than ideal, shared space. My gaze swept across the interior of the tent, now dim with the fading light. The final remnants of the sun filtered through the fabric in soft, dusky hues, mingling with the distant flicker of our campfire outside, which cast the occasional trembling shadow along the tent wall.

"I didn’t mean to wake you," I added, my voice lower now as I stepped gingerly around the uneven folds of the groundsheet, alert to every shift in Duke’s posture.

"I was already awake," Jamie replied softly, his voice stripped of defensiveness or weariness. Just… honest. It disarmed me slightly, enough to ease the clench in my chest that had come with the growl. His tone offered me something Duke never did—a tiny sliver of trust, unspoken but present.

"Ahh, shit," I breathed, quieter than a sigh, as I crouched beside the spread of supplies I’d so carefully arranged earlier. My eyes narrowed, adjusting to the gloom. Something was wrong.

"What is it?" Jamie asked. He tried to shift, no doubt to see better, but I caught the subtle wince that followed.

I exhaled sharply, the sound full of irritation and disbelief. "Several of the gauze dressings have been torn to shreds. And one of the bandages is missing." It felt like more than a setback—it was a crack in the fragile scaffolding I’d built around our care, our order, our hope.

"Henri!" Jamie scolded sharply, and I blinked, caught momentarily off-guard. My eyes followed his to the other dog, Duke’s plump brother, who sat guiltily amid the chaos like a child caught red-handed. The absurdity of the situation struck me with bitter amusement.

My frustration simmered as I stood with what remained usable. I was trained for all kinds of crises—trauma, triage, isolation—but not for dogs treating medical gauze like chew toys. I moved closer to Jamie, crouching again, mentally calculating what I could salvage and what we’d need to replace. Just as I focused on his chest to reassess the dressing, Jamie’s voice cut through again.

"I found your missing bandage," he said dryly, the barest hint of a smile ghosting across his lips.

I looked up just in time to see Henri proudly parading the bandage like a prize, the slobber-drenched thing hanging limply from his mouth.

"You may as well let him keep it," I huffed, exasperation slipping through despite my best efforts. "We can’t use that now." I crossed my arms and sat back on my heels, biting down on the simmering irritation. There was no room for indulgence—not in emotion, not in resources.

Jamie’s eye roll, slow and deliberate, met mine with a silent understanding. Not quite humour, not quite resignation. Just the shared absurdity of survival, Clivilius-style.

"Take these," I instructed Jamie. I pressed the bottle of water into his hand and offered the capsules in the other before he’d had a chance to settle back against the bedding.

"What are they?" Jamie asked, lifting the water bottle with shaky fingers. His tone held no resistance, only a tempered curiosity—and a willingness to trust. That trust was something I didn’t take lightly.

"There are a couple of antibiotics and then some pain and sleeping medication," I explained, keeping my tone even, professional, as I watched him tilt his head back and swallow. One, then another, until the full handful was gone. The sound of the bottle crinkling in his grasp and the sharp glug of water hitting his throat were oddly satisfying—tiny signs that something, at least, was going right.

As Jamie lowered the bottle and lay back, I remained kneeling by his side, watching his expression closely. The flicker of his eyelids, the slight tightening of his jaw as he settled against the bedding—every detail mattered. I was attuned to his every breath, as though willing his body to cooperate with the healing process I’d set in motion.

"Watch the dog for me," I said next, my tone shifting, more practical now as I turned toward the next critical task. I couldn't afford distraction—not from Duke, not from anyone. The dog had become something of a wildcard, equal parts companion and obstacle. I needed Jamie’s help to make sure he didn’t become a problem again.

Jamie complied without hesitation, drawing Duke close with an arm that still trembled faintly with exertion. He tucked the little dog against his side, cradling him beneath his armpit like a protective talisman.

As I unwrapped the remaining clean dressings, preparing to change the one on Jamie’s chest, a silence settled between us. But it wasn’t empty—it was layered with meaning. Every rustle of gauze, every faint breath from the dogs curled nearby, seemed to echo with a kind of quiet reverence. The air inside the tent was warm, almost close, infused with the mingling scents of antiseptic and dust, medicine and survival. In that dim, shifting light, I felt the gravity of the moment press gently against my shoulders.

This—this quiet, purposeful care—was the heart of medicine. Not in a white coat or under bright fluorescent lights, but here, in the raw stillness of Clivilius, where pain and hope existed side by side, and the only thing keeping us going was the simple, unspoken will to endure.

Carefully, I began the delicate task of removing the dirty dressings from Jamie's wound, my hands moving with the kind of measured, instinctive precision that came only with years of practice. Each movement was calculated—slow, deliberate—intended to avoid causing any unnecessary pain or disturbing the healing tissue underneath. My fingertips worked gently around the adhesive edges, coaxing them free without tearing at the skin.

As I finally pulled the last piece of soiled gauze away, I held it briefly in my gloved hand, the instinct to dispose of it cleanly taking hold. My eyes swept the interior of the tent, searching automatically for a sanitary bin. Of course, there was none. My brow creased, not from confusion, but from the now-familiar sting of frustration. That one thought again—this isn’t a hospital—echoed with fresh bitterness in the back of my mind.

On Earth, I would never have to think twice about waste disposal or sterile field boundaries. My training, so deeply tied to clean spaces and regulation, chafed against the disorder here. No bins. No sharps containers. No sink to rinse my hands. Just dust, dogs, and a plastic bag in the corner of a canvas tent. The contrast was galling, not for lack of will or effort, but for sheer, inescapable lack of infrastructure.

I stared at the crumpled gauze in my hand, now tinged with blood and pus, and felt a sharp tug of helplessness—quickly masked, quickly buried. I couldn’t afford it. Not here. Not now.

Tomorrow, I resolved silently, my thoughts clicking into place as I shifted to the next task. I’ll talk with Paul and Luke about setting up a proper medical tent. Nothing elaborate—just a clean, dedicated space. A table. A washing station, if we could manage it. Somewhere to store supplies out of reach of curious dogs. Somewhere to work that didn’t feel like an exercise in compromise.

With the wound cleaned and dried, I reached for a fresh set of gauze and began the process of redressing it. My hands moved with quiet efficiency, securing the padding with long strips of bandage, wrapping just tightly enough to hold everything in place without cutting off circulation. I paused once to check Jamie’s reaction—his face slack, relaxed, the pain dulled by the morphine.

The task, so routine in another life, had taken on a new weight here. Every piece of gauze used, every dressing applied, was a small victory pulled from a limited cache. There would be no ordering more stock, no overnight shipments. What we had was all we had.

As I finished, smoothing the last corner down and checking for any signs of fresh bleeding or discharge, my mind circled back to the idea of the medical tent. It’s more than just practicality, I realised. It’s structure. Order. A signal that we’re building something here, not just reacting. Even the smallest steps towards routine felt like resistance against the chaos.

For a moment, I let myself sit back on my heels, surveying my work. Jamie’s chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths. The dressings were clean. The infection, for now, seemed contained. And amidst the madness, I had done what I could. Still, the bigger picture loomed—this was no place for makeshift care much longer.

And yet, here we were. Doing it anyway.

Jamie’s eyes, heavy with the onset of the medication's effects, were a welcome sight. His lashes fluttered intermittently, the fog of sedation beginning to settle across his features. It was a small victory in the grand scheme of things, but in that moment, it felt like a profound relief. The knot of tension that had coiled tightly in my chest began to loosen ever so slightly, and the smile that surfaced on my lips came without effort—honest, unguarded. For all the challenges he’d posed, seeing him ease into rest felt like something solid. Tangible. A sign that I’d done something right.

The mess of supplies scattered across the tent floor drew my attention next, and instinct took over. With the immediate task of dressing Jamie’s wound complete, I busied myself gathering the items into a more manageable pile. Bandages, antiseptic, gauze, gloves—all precious now, each with its own weight of importance. I moved with the quiet efficiency of habit, the medical part of my mind ticking through what needed restocking, what could be salvaged, and what had to be kept safely out of reach of curious teeth.

"I'm taking the supplies to the other tent," I said aloud, mostly out of routine. Part of me knew Jamie was likely too drowsy to register it, but habits from years in emergency wards were hard to break. You always said what you were doing. Communicated. Kept the patient anchored. "Away from Henri," I added with a dry smile, the attempt at humour light but genuine. I doubted he’d fully catch it in his half-lucid state, but the levity helped me find my balance again.

I moved to the tent flap, balancing the box of salvaged supplies in my arms. The cool air from outside brushed against my face as I unzipped the entrance, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside the tent. I was halfway through the flap when Jamie’s voice reached me—not loud, not strained, just… clear.

"Glenda."

I froze.

The sound of my name in his voice—steady, deliberate—halted me like a hand on the shoulder. I turned at once, stepping back inside and kneeling beside his bedding, my brow creasing with a mix of concern and curiosity. Was he in pain? Did something feel wrong?

But his gaze met mine with a softness I hadn’t seen before. No bravado. No sarcasm. Just something raw and real, unshielded by the prickly armour he so often wore.

"Thank you," he mumbled.

Two words. Simple. But they struck something deep.

My breath caught for a heartbeat before I nodded—just once. No need for grand replies. He had said enough. That brief moment of vulnerability, of quiet acknowledgement, was more meaningful than a thousand eloquent sentiments.

As the silence returned and Jamie’s eyes began to drift shut, I watched the tension melt from his face. His brow smoothed, his lips slackened, and sleep claimed him with the slow grace of someone finally allowed to let go. He looked younger like that. Less like the gruff, sarcastic man who’d snarled his way through pain and fear—and more like someone who had, at last, found a moment of safety.

Even pricks have feelings in them, somewhere, I mused to myself, the trace of a smile pulling at the corners of my lips. It was a thought borne of fatigue, empathy, and a reluctant sense of respect. I didn’t need to like him to understand him. And in that understanding, something softened in me.

I rose quietly, not wanting to disturb the delicate peace that had settled. With one last glance at Jamie—now fully surrendered to rest—I turned and stepped out into the evening, the flap falling shut behind me with the faintest rustle.