Work Text:
"I've never seen a spear manage this before." You remarked softly as you guided the metal needle through his flesh to sew the wound shut.
"A spear can enact a great deal of violence when there's an angry man behind it. Quality is only a trivial factor."
"So wise." You murmured. "Aren't you angry?"
"With the man who did this, yes. With this bloody war? Yes as well." Diomedes turned his head to glance upon you. "But my upset has nothing to do with you. I see no reason to let it spill forth when you're assisting me."
"Assisting is a way to put it." You weren't overly fond of using the word healing as a verb. Not in the way one used active sorts of words. Not like running, jumping, kicking. You did your work as best you could and prayed that the gods above and the body beneath your hands did their part. Though, you didn't loathe credit either. It was a delicate job, stuffing this shoulder wound with herbs and stitching it shut with wine-soaked thread.
You saw the muscles there tense, and heard a noise of pain from him. "Is it bad again?"
"It's bearable." He gritted. "Though if the lady-physician sewing me up like a blanket were to pass me something to ease it, I would not say no."
"So you want me to be irresponsible? Is that a request from my patient? Or an order from my king?"
Diomedes scoffed, and you took it as a sign to produce a painkiller. "Wait a moment." You retrieved the sealed little jars and carefully diluted them in water. Once stirred, you passed the cup. "Drink."
He tilted his head back and gulped it down as a man trying to hastily get drunk on strong wine would down the fermented beverage. "It's sweet." He answered, bewildered.
You hummed as you resumed sewing his flesh. "Shockingly, men in agony tend to appreciate medicine that doesn't taste like chewing on grass."
You knew, without seeing, that he rolled his eyes.
"There's honey in it. It helps keep the medicine from spoiling, not that it lasts long." His back muscles flexed, skin catching in the dim light of his tent. You were used to such things as his chosen physician. It shouldn't even have caught your eyes, yet it did. The strain of being a king, a leader. The pain of being in charge. It bled from his mind into his body. Slowly, you looped the thread and began tying it securely.
"Merciful." He said. "To sweeten it."
"Medicine ought to be." You paused. "Sometimes, that is all it can be."
"Saving lives is more than mercy." He argued. "Dozens of men would be dwelling in the House of Hades if not for you."
"You're kind. But you know death is sometimes inevitable." Your hands stalled on the thread. "The first time I ever helped treat a man, I was ordered to give him poppy for the pain before even touching his wounds. I was told he may not even make it for another five minutes, let alone the time it would take to splint broken bones and hault him back home."
An eerie silence passed as you searched for your blade to cut the thread. "Being a good doctor is as much about letting people go as it is saving them. It's about good decisions, not holding up the world." Metal sliced through the little strands until only neatly trimmed ends remained.
"Most days it seems I fail to make those good decisions, physician." He rolled his shoulders as he felt you withdraw, and reached for his tunic.
"You do make good decisions." You nearly whispered while his back was still turned. "You're sane. Level headed. Sensible. And you still care. That's more than most can say." Your hands fidgeted with a rag, wiping off the traces of his blood. You glanced down at your fingers, which were now clean of any traces of him, and felt a twinge in your chest. You spent another minute or so organizing the bag you used to hold medicine and bandages, slinging it over your shoulder only to be stopped.
Diomedes has one hand on each shoulder, holding you with restraint and firmness all at once. In his eyes there was a vulnerability, like that of a young, frightened boy. Suddenly you were frozen. Suddenly, the man in the tent with you was not the Master of the War cry, the Breaker of horses. Not the King of Argos, nor the son of Tydeus. It was Diomedes. Only him, and nothing else. And through his hands on your shoulders, he seemed to have been trembling. "I do not know what I would do without you."
"You would have to ask Machaon politely for help." You tried a joke.
You were in his arms, next. Surrounded by warm muscle, being clung to like the touch alone would save his life. You should have objected. He was a king, a married man. You were a lowborn girl, and very much not his wife. There were enough rumors around the camp pertaining to you two already, and yet-
You returned the embrace as tightly as you could manage without pressing upon any war wounds, burying your face into his neck. He smelled of herbal substances, sweat, and olive oil, rubbed into his skin that morning. It was a familiar blend, and one you found instantly soothing.
"You are-" his voice sounded almost choked as he spoke while keeping you near. "You are most dear to me." He told you. "Please stay. Do not run off tending to the wounded or to that abysmally small tent you rest in. Stay with me."
It felt uncharacteristic, to hear such a plea from him. This was a man who brutalized his enemies, the student of Athena who wounded gods. Begging not to be alone.
"I'll stay." You nodded. "Of course, I would not leave your side."
He released you slowly and tentatively, as though he wasn't certain if you might bolt in fear. Instead you both sank onto cushions on the floor, a wineskin shared between you both until worries became laughter, and nothing in the room seemed to stay still when you attempted to remain uptight. Your faces reddened, your ribs ached. And eventually you were both on your backs, resting on furs and woven blankets. Full of honey and wine and out of energy. He shifted closer, and closer. You stayed where you were, watching. The tiny little oil lamp that had been lit earlier sputtered, starved of fuel. Neither of you cared enough to remedy it. Your personal space vanished, one inch at a time, until his forehead pressed to yours and your eyes locked. "I ought to pay you back." There was a slow drag to his voice.
"You give me coin."
"With something better than coin."
"How much better, my king?"
His lips met yours, sloppy and without strategy. His wise goddess, who never showed herself to you, would most definitely not approve. But to you, the one he was kissing, it was a very, very good decision. And, emboldened by the wine, you kissed back. And again, and again. Until your lips were sore and his hands tangled in your hair, snd yours tugged at his clothes.