Disclaimer: This story uses characters appearing on The Queen of Swords television series. No infringement of copyright is intended.
Feedback: Constructive please. Flames are mean spirited.
Acknowledgements: To all my fine betas.
Warnings: Coda for the episode "Fever." Mild spoilers.

Bloody damn mess. Robert Helm tore through the downed boards and charred rubble of his office and home trying to decide what to right first. God, what chaos.

He stood with his fists on his hips, looking at the broken glass at his feet, wondering how he was going to replace the graduated measures anytime soon. Glass cost dear and was delicate to transport over land. He crushed the shards beneath his boot.

"Such a mess," he heard from the door. Turning his head, he saw Señorita Alvarado and her dueña, Marta, both with large crude brooms, dressed for cleaning. The señorita had her hair pulled back, a scarf covering her head. The older woman merely had her hair pinned up with combs. It did not stay in place very easily.

Marta pushed past the girl, her experienced eye taking stock of the state of the room. Pursing her lips, she began to rattle off orders in rapid fire Spanish. Helm's understanding of the language could not keep up with her, but the help scrambled at the authority in her voice. That kind of command didn't need translation.

With the singular purpose of debris removal, two men moved into the room he used as his office and laboratory, lifting burned boards to begin the clean up. The señorita accepted a dust pan from Marta, bending to sweep at some sooty remains. It was obvious that the girl did not perform such menial tasks often; she was awkward with the rhythm of scraping broom to pan. Marta met his scorn with a raised brow when he finally returned his gaze to her.

Before he could hide his embarrassment in a rude statement, Marta said, "You will want to right your workshop. What of your chemicals can be saved?"

A brow raised, but he allowed himself to be saved from his own tongue. Moving to the bench under the window, he began to catalog what was ruined and what was not. Marta followed him, disposing of the ruins in a bucket.

It was difficult for him not to be surly with Marta. He was angry, unspeakably angry. He had no doubt in his mind that that bastard Grisham had blown up this facility. The captain had all but admitted the fact with his indifference. The man's ambitions were deadly and he didn't care who he hurt, or killed, along the way.

In Helm's mind, that made Grisham a wily enemy. When nothing stopped you from achieving nefarious goals, people got hurt. This the doctor knew from bitter experience. He scraped saffron powder into a small mortar bowl until he could sift out the glass and find a new bottle. It was too valuable a substance to discard without a fight.

They worked in quiet concert for sometime. Helm and Marta on the medicines, chemicals and herbs; the señorita and the men taking away the debris. Others came and went, offering advice that he ignored. This was Marta's party; he had to concentrate on returning to the business of healing. If people wanted to help, fine. Let them. Right now he was not in the mood for pleasantries.

Oh, but, he hated to be so rudely impolite. It was just that he was so frustrated at the whole bloody situation. He slammed a water damaged journal on the counter, a hot, angry sigh forced out of him.

"Perhaps it is time to have lunch?" Marta asked from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and felt an irrational surge of irritation. The woman was looking up at him with such a gentle understanding that he felt even more chagrin at his ingratitude.

"Lunch?" he repeated stupidly.

"Dinner? A meal?" She teased him as she would a child, her smile deepening into her eyes.

Yes, he felt like an idiot. His smile was rueful. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything to offer you."

Marta shook her head. Was that a smirk? He really did feel like an idiot child. "Señor Doctor," she said, "We have brought food."

"Oh." He looked around the room, at the audience watching his mortification. They didn't even pretend to hide behind clean up work; their attention was avid. "I need to wash up, then."

Helm escaped the now close confines of his office, wanting to stay angry, wanting to use his anger to keep these people at arm's length. But the anger only translated into petulance and irritation. He was an ass.

"We will not leave until our task is done."

Helm was not surprised that the woman had followed him to the bucket beside the front door. Not looking up from soaping his hands and forearms, he sighed again.

"Is it so difficult to accept help?" she asked.

This woman was relentless. He took the towel she offered, wiping his face in its dampness when his hands were dry. "It's not difficult. Just not necessary."

She frowned now, her dark eyes serious. "It is necessary. These people have little to pay for your services. No money, no trade -- it is very necessary for them to give what they have to give: their backs, their brooms, a meal. Their pride demands repayment." Her passion was not far below the surface and she took a breath to calm herself. "You should have the grace to accept what they offer with a smile and a word of thanks."

The woman never raised her voice, just her chin. It was obvious that she, too, knew a thing or two about pride. "Touché," he said, finally, his eyes still measuring hers. "Pride is a sin I am familiar with." He hoped his small smile would be accepted as an offering of peace.

It was. "Then let us clean off this table," she indicated the work bench that had been dragged outside the front of the building, "and spread a cloth." Two women set to the task immediately. "I have many baskets in the wagon, if you will assist me, Doctor."

Dutifully, he followed her to the wagon, allowing himself to be loaded down with baskets of food and table service, yet feeling better than he had. After all, he'd just been yelled at by the señorita's nanny like he was a boy just out of nursery. And by someone who was not afraid of him, nor his moods.

Marta smiled up at him as she plied him with yet another basket. He couldn't help returning it. He never would have left the nursery if she had been his nanny.