Chapter Text
Doctor Kureha returned to the castle’s parapet with a drink in her left hand and her usual bottle of plum sake in her right. Toasts celebrating foolish dreamers accomplishing anything or becoming anyone, were meant to be raised together and Dalton’s hand had been devoid of alcohol.
The captain of the Civilian Guard was destined to become the Drum Kingdom’s king one day, but if that was ever going to happen, he would need to recuperate from the wounds inflicted on him by former tyrant King Wapol and his halfwit minister of defense, Chess who still had enough wit to fire three arrows straight into Dalton’s chest.
Against medical advice, Kureha had pulled those pesky arrows out, given Dalton a swig of liquid courage from a canteen and sent Dalton on his way. Ensuring his quick return to the battlefield. That had been enough to keep him together in one piece, but the stab wound from Wapol’s sword would need stitches. Kureha knew Dalton would never come quietly and insist that bandaging the wound would be enough. If offering him alcohol did the trick once, it would have to once more.
"Dalton, you didn't have a drink to raise last time. Have one now, it’ll make you feel light on your feet.” Kureha remarked and handed him a glass of plum coloured liquid.
“Cheers… again.” Dalton reluctantly accepted the glass and downed some of it. If Kureha had offered him a sip of sake from her own bottle, he would have politely refused, but it seemed only fair to drink what she had offered him in his own glass.
“Only that much? C’mon, the night is young!” Kureha encouraged him to drink the sake entirely. Standing outside the castle parapet, while pink snow gently, but steadily piled itself on them was starting to get cold and stitching with numb fingers would be unpleasant.
“It’s very sweet.” Dalton said as a matter of fact and sighed, but drained his glass of the sake regardless. A victory like tonight called for a drink, even though he wasn’t much of a drinker.
“Unlike me.” Kureha retorted, and moved closer to Dalton watching his face for signs of wooziness after ingesting the sedative laced drink. His cheeks became flushed, more flushed than from merely standing outside in the cold. The snow and torch filled world around him swam, until it was too much to bear. His eyelids drooped and he stumbled forward bracing against the jagged roofline.
“Why is it so s-strong? I only had one—" Dalton’s words trailed off and his grip on the castle’s edges slackened. He knew he had to be seen to by Doctor Kureha eventually, but her care had always felt like something he could put off indefinitely. But she had taken it upon herself to make it happen wihout a word with him about it. Having this as his last conscious thought Dalton willingly sank into Kureha’s arms, who had already positioned herself behind Dalton to stop his fall. An additional bump at the back of his head wouldn’t do him any good, though it would do wonders for his future medical compliance. Kureha entertained the thought, before casting it out of her mind.
Kureha kneeled as Dalton crumpled onto her knees, she looked into Dalton’s eyes, his consciousness fading away and gave him an explanation.
“What I meant by ‘you’ll feel light on your feet’ was you’ll feel lightheaded. I knew you wouldn’t easily surrender to my medical care, so I had to find a solution where you wouldn’t have to.”
“I-would’ve…” Dalton’s plaintive words slurred. His pride subsiding when it knew he was losing consciousness and face.
“We both know you wouldn’t. Sweet dreams, Dalton.” Kureha wished Dalton a good night’s sleep, as he closed his eyes before instinctively calling for Chopper.
“Chopper, help me lift —Oh wait, the little ingrate is gone.”
Kureha would have to drag Dalton’s heavy body through the castle herself.
Now that Dalton was out like an ox on an examination table, Kureha could finally clean and suture his wounds. The most concerning wound was the gash left in his shoulder by Wapol’s reconstructed sword. Luckily for her and Dalton, Wapol hadn’t hit any major organs. The bloated, can opener of a man must have been so excited in thinking he had cornered Dalton that he mustn’t have cared where his sword struck, as long as it struck at all. A much crueller man, if such a person was possible would have aimed right at Dalton’s gut, but he hadn’t and that meant Kureha had a live patient to treat. Kureha didn’t know how long Dalton would be out for. Finding the right sedative dose for a well-built man, who had also consumed a devil fruit had proven challenging, but she could only give it her best educated guess. That meant she had to act fast before he prematurely woke up in the middle of being stitched up.
Kureha stripped Dalton of his fur lined green captain’s coat, but sliced through the shirt underneath with scissors. Warm, royal clothing was a commodity, but regular shirts were not. She doused a strip of gauze with water and cleaned the wound’s edges outwardly as to not introduce bacteria. Kureha quickly, but neatly stitched the edges of the open wound together and applied ointment. The wound in hindsight was not that deep and she had a sinking feeling in her gut that she had prioritized the wrong wound.
“Maybe I should have closed the arrow holes first.” She observed out loud to herself, but it was too late for that. She had to carry on.
Kureha scanned Dalton’s face for any sign of consciousness, but his body lay still, his eyes were firmly closed and his breathing was slow. He was as unconscious as a man buried alive in an avalanche, to her relief. Kureha repeated the process of cleaning and disinfecting, but on the three puncture wounds left by arrows. Deeper and wider and angrier, the arrow holes felt personal. Three arrows to the chest was overkill, Kureha thought as she stitched the second arrow wound. Dalton’s eyes suddenly flew open and he sucked in a shuddering breath, his chest lurching upward. His eyes darted around, frantically looking for the person causing the stabbing pain on his chest. It was Doctor Kureha, still holding a needle and a thread tied into his flesh. Dalton understood what was happening and who he was with, but not why he was awake during it.
“Doctor? Why aren’t you done?!” Dalton shouted and demanded an explanation. The woman had dared tamper with his drink and left him in pain with a half-finished stitching job. Why wasn't this ordeal over?
“I told you, you wouldn’t be smiling for the next part. I didn’t put enough sedative in your drink. You’re as fit as an ox, that’s on you.”
“No! That’s…your… fault!” Dalton struggled to breathe out the words, as he began to panic from the searing pain in his chest. His hand instinctively reached out to cradle the wound. He groaned as his fingers grazed against the stitching site and retracted his hand as fast as he had tested out his wound. Kureha dropped the needle and backed away.
The evidence of Wapol's final act against him was not even fully stitched and Kureha had the nerve to blame it on his physiology. Ox form or not, Dalton glared at Kureha with anger normally reserved for the likes of Wapol.
“Dalton, calm down. You’ll tear the stitches and then I’ll have to start over, do you need a sedative or…?” Kureha’s mind scrambled to find the right words to pacify Dalton. She didn’t know whether he’d bear through the rest of the stitching or would ask for a sedative and she’d have to start over her dosing calculations from scratch.
“Just finish it!” Dalton yelled his choice out and squeezed his eyes shut to push away the pain. He breathed through his nose in order to control his breathing, but it sounded like he was on the verge of turning into his ox form.
“Don’t go beastly on me!”
“I wasn’t…” Dalton said exasperated. Kureha went the kitchen and returned with a wooden spoon for Dalton to bite.
“Bite down on this when I start stitching again.” Kureha instructed and handed him the spoon. His face went grim, but he took it without a word and placed it into his mouth. He couldn't ask for a pain killer, she had already tried and failed. If he asked for it now he risked looking weak and lacking conviction. He would rather endure the pain, than risk losing the image he had built for himself over the years.
Kureha picked up the needle and thread dangling from his chest and resumed her work. Dalton let out a muffled moan, but the doctor steeled herself and suppressed her pity to ensure she worked quickly enough to not hear a second groan and then she was done.
“Doctor, you drained the life out of me with your methods…” Dalton confessed and lay back down, exhausted. The nightmare was finally over. Kureha supported his back and slowly lowered him on the table. She placed his green captain’s coat on his bare chest to keep him warm. She couldn’t risk tearing the stitches by dressing him again, so a coat as a makeshift blanket would have to suffice for the night. Dalton shivered, but gave her a weak smile.
“Consider my usual fee waived, then.”
A week passed and once Dalton’s wounds had sufficiently healed, Kureha had offered to help Dalton with physical therapy, the towering woman tried to drape him over her shoulder, but she was too tall and he, too heavy.
“This isn’t working for me, doctor.”
“Me neither. Come back and visit me if you want another drink. But if it’s for anything else, you’re on your own. Now isn’t there a kingdom that needs to be ruled?” Kureha teased the ambitious, but honourable captain. The two of them were both proud, but stubborn individuals, but in being brave by placing his life in Kureha's hands and Kureha realizing her expertise had limits the pair had gained a mutual understanding of each other.