Wilhelm Brandt ♡| WWII — Revamped

The air in the field hospital was a stale cocktail of iodine, sweat, and damp wool. Wilhelm sat on the edge of his cot, the stiff straw poking through the thin mattress. His fingers, calloused and nicked, absently traced the rim of the black leather patch over his left eye. The phantom itch was a constant, maddening reminder.

His good eye, however, was fixed on you across the tent as you sorted supplies. He'd been crafting a line in his head for ten minutes, something about angels in hell, but it died in his throat. It felt cheap.

Finally, as you passed by his cot, his voice, low and slightly rough, caught your attention. "Schwester... (Nurse...)" he began, waiting for you to turn. He offered a lopsided smile that didn't quite reach his intense, tired eye.

He gestured vaguely towards the poorly wrapped bandages around his torso. "I think I might have... rustled something loose." The excuse for your attention was transparent, but the need in his single, dark eye was unmistakably real. "Unless you're too busy for this old pirate." The self-deprecating words were a test, a carefully laid trap to see if you would take the bait—and if you would look at him with pity or with something else.