Dead Reckoning - A Gregorio del Pilar x Reader story

V - Jouska

n. a hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head-a crisp analysis, a cathartic dialogue, a devastating comeback-which serves as a kind of psychological batting cage where you can connect more deeply with people than in the small ball of everyday life, which is a frustratingly cautious game of change-up pitches, sacrifice bunts, and intentional walks.

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I don't have any idea what causes his foul mood towards me, but he didn't contradict me when I asked him if he will let me tend to his wound. Instead, without a word, he sits on a large boulder and stares at the fire that had been tended close by. I follow his eyes for a second, noticing the question and forlorn on his eyes than his undefined hatred towards me. And my eyes didn't miss the twitch on the corner of his eyes, looking sharply and, for a second, at the rest of the gathered wounded soldiers, and women of the Cruz Roja on their works, without moving his head.

And then, I realize at once, that he is somehow guilty and sad. And he has no idea how to contain it but just through this behavior towards me.

I am about to tell him that I actually do not have any idea with diverse medicine. But I know that Isidro will not ask me for this if this will not be just some scratch. And I know little of first aids. I apologize under my breath as I try to clean the blood away from his wound with a towel. I notice him flinching but he remains immobile and unconcerned, and I just continue. Applying gentle pressure to clear it away.

The blood continues flowing but it isn't such a mess as earlier. From the medical kit given to me, there had been some few salves to surely help the wound to recover as soon as possible and without any scar. The soft murmurs and moans around the camp, as well as the crackle of the fire woods and the sound of the night, are our only consultation. I finish tending to his wounds after wrapping the crown of his head and his forehead with a bandage.

After ensuring that the bandage will not fall out, and I am about to start fixing the used items, his hand suddenly finds my wrist, stopping me from my work and causing me to freeze. I slowly look at him, a little afraid of what causes him to do so. And when I do match his eyes, I can see how golden they burn from the fire.

"Sino ka ba talaga?" he inquires, darkly and seriously.

I gulp in hard, remembering Isidro's introduction of me to stick to that lie, before earning my voice to answer, "(Y/N). Ang pangalan ko ay (Y/N). Bagong miyembro ako ng Cruz Roja."

He immediately takes his hand away and looks away. "Alam mo ba ang pinapasok mo?"

Sa totoo lang, hindi, I almost blurt out. But that is not the right answer to this question. And yet, I can't tell him that 'I do', since I am like making a fool of myself that way.

"Ikaw?" I turn the question back to him. "Alam mo ba kung ano itong pinasok mo?"

He turns back to me with that respective look as if to question me if I am sane enough to question that. Realizing that I am sure with what I've asked him, he answers, "'Wag na 'wag mong itatanong sa akin kung alam ko ba, dahil nasa dugo ko na ang lumaban. Hindi mo yata nalalaman ang pamilya ko. Simula pa lamang kay Tio Selong."

I am hurt. To be honest. But I do not have the right to feel that way; knowing that his words are also the truth.

He is right to tell me that I do not know anything about him. I just connect it right now; remembering that the great Illustrado, Marcelo, is also a del Pilar. And no doubt that they are related, indeed. History calls for one of their relatives to fight brought their younger relatives to the same fight. And I actually do not have any idea what lead him to this fight all along. That's what I want to know.