One Direction One Shots 2

Infirmary (Niall)

Sister Benita calls you into the hallway after you’ve been patching up the leg of a British paratrooper. He was in Holland, he says, near-starved in a German-occupied bunker; fought his way out. He’s cute, offers to take you round for dinner and a drink, but you decline, excusing yourself.

            “Now, sister, we’ve just gotten a unit in from Ireland, fighting in France. They’re exhausted, frustrated. Let them talk, but you’re there for their wounds, not their conversation, remember. In and out. God be with you.”

You nod and walk down the hall to the next room over, for the recently arrived. It’s a cramped room, full of beds and boys bleeding in them, all dressed in the white hospital gowns with their uniforms folded at the ends of their beds. It’s hard to tell them apart like this.

            “Irish Platoon? 1334?”

            At first, no one speaks, but a few collective groans have you walking towards a line of boys on the left, by the windows. One of them, the only blonde on, catches your eye right away. He’s smoking, ash falling to the floor beside him, left leg plastered and elevated. He’s got a bruise on his jaw, a cut above the eyebrow that quirks as you approach his bed. You can’t remember the last time you saw eyes like his, blue like the middle of a candle flame.

            “Starin’, sweetheart?”

            “No, no, just making sure you’re healing properly.” It’s a terrible lie.

            “Doll, you haven’t even asked my name.”

            He shifts up so he’s half-sitting, resting on his elbows, and the flimsy gown falls a little lower. He’s got a tattoo you can’t quite make out without leaning over him.

            “Name’s Niall, Horan. You can put that on your clipboard.”

            “Right, alright.” But the peeking hairs of his chest have you stuck wondering how his battered body would feel stuck and sweaty to your own. But you’re not meant to be having these thoughts.

            “Oy, doll?”

            “Yes, sorry.” You pull away, embarrassed.

            “S’no problem. If you want a look, just ask.”

            He pulls his gown down. There’s a big black “N” that curves around his ribs.

            “N for Niall?” He smiles and you rest you hand on the bed to keep your knees from collapsing.

            “N for North.”

            “North?”

            “So I remember I have direction.”