#hbo war show oc ficlet

[sergeant-spoons]

23. To Your Silhouette, I Turn Once More

Sutton Flynn-Marshall

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow @wexhappyxfew @50svibes @tvserie-s-world @adamantiumdragonfly @ask-you-what-sir @whovian45810 @brokennerdalert @holdingforgeneralhugs @itswormtrain @actualtrashpanda @wtrpxrks

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The next few days passed in a distant haze. Faces and uniforms blurred together before Sutton's eyes as she followed Nix, Harry, and Buck Compton around Carentan, assisting them however she could while carefully keeping out from underfoot. Colonel Sink still hadn't clocked her presence, and she wasn't sure if it was because she was being cautious to avoid running into the higher-ups or because he was too busy to notice or care. She didn't mind. The longer he remained unaware, the longer she had to help in ways he might not have allowed her to. Lord knows she'd seen her share of paperwork she probably shouldn't have had access to back at Aldbourne. What harm could it be if she typed up a few documents, penned a few telegrams, and reorganized a few files when some lieutenant or another asked? She forgot what most of them said by the end of the hour, anyway. She had too much else on her mind.

She'd hardly seen Dick since her return to the company. It wasn't his fault, really, or hers, but if it had been, she would have been inclined to blame her reticence rather than his. They were both awfully busy, Dick because he had to be and Sutton because she wanted to be. They'd spoken a few times, but only in passing, and almost always because Harry or Nix had put them together. They hadn't spoken about the one thing they really ought to have, but that only made it harder to find the words. Sutton knew better than to speak with her heart. She knew her mind, how it worked, how it kept her safe. Whatever unestablished something still floated between her and Dick despite their time apart had no place in her mind. She had to focus on the war, on staying alive, and on playing her part. So did he.

Other questions warranted answering, in the meantime. Sutton could only explain so much, but Nix, who had a knack for figuring out the things she wasn't allowed to tell, managed to piece together a vague story of how she'd ended up in France and communicated it to their mutual friends. What she could tell was that she didn't know how long she'd be here, that her contacts had gone radio silent in the past few days, and that she was too anxious at being called away again in the middle of the night to unpack even her toothbrush. The London office sent her a telegram a week into her stay in Carentan that provided a little insight into their plans for her, but Sutton hadn't heard from them since. The good news: London wanted her to stay with the 506th indefinitely, possibly through the rest of the summer. The bad news: they strongly suspected one of her contacts had been compromised—hence the radio silence—and so believed Sutton would be safest laying low with an Allied occupying force for the time being.

Unlike Sutton, the men of the Airborne were getting antsy, Easy Company included. They'd been promised a few days in France and ended up with a month and then some. Carentan wasn't such a bad place to be, but it irked the soldiers to be stuck in one place while the war waged on to the south, east, and west. They wanted a piece of the action. Some days, Sutton did, too, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come. It wasn't unusual, for her to feel that way. When she was out in the field, she thought often about what she missed in London; when she was in London, she couldn't wait for another assignment to get her out of the city and back into a warzone. The days came and went, and Sutton settled back into her life with the Airborne, feeling oddly as if she'd never left. She even put her toothbrush in a cup on the bathroom sink; when Nix saw it, he remarked that he liked the color (blue) and told her London had better stay a while longer.

One day—July 10th, to be exact—Harry had commandeered Sutton for the afternoon to help him with a bucketload of paperwork Sink had just passed along from the hospitals back in England. Any Easy man who'd been injured and sent off the continent for medical treatment in the pursuit of the Normandy campaign had earned himself a Purple Heart. Sink had put Harry, who'd always been closest with the enlisted men, in charge of sorting out the forms and order slips for the medals. Dick poked his head out of Nix's office just in time to catch them on their way and agreed to come with just to get a breath of fresh air. He'd been trapped inside for the last three days and he didn't need to say so for Sutton to know he was close to going stir-crazy. They followed Harry towards his office to get the paperwork and sit outside on the CP porch, but as they turned the corner, a door swung open right in front of Sutton.

Harry had been walking quickly enough that the door missed him, but Sutton had to jolt backward to avoid being hit in the face. Dick caught her by the shoulder even though she hadn't been in danger of falling as another officer grabbed Harry and pulled him out of the way. Dick stepped up to reprimand the soldier who'd nearly hit Sutton with the door, and for once, she kept out of it, surprised enough at Dick's defense of her to let him see it through. She turned to look into the closet for no reason other than to occupy her eyes and immediately received a strong whiff of mothballs and cleaning fluid. Her eyes began to water and she felt the breath go still in her lungs as the child within her yanked her back in time to a place and a period she didn't want to remember. The raised voices of her fighting parents and the reverberating crash of a pan against her father's skull made her ears ring. She touched the wall and felt small, and without thinking, she stepped into the closet, heart pounding, needing to hide. She'd put the bleach in front of her legs and curl up tight and maybe, just maybe, Mummy wouldn't find her–

"Uh, Dick?"

Harry's voice interrupted Dick's scolding, and usually, he would have given Harry notice to wait a moment, but the tone in his friend's voice caught his attention.

"Just be more careful," he told the frightened-looking soldier, and sent the boy on his way, feeling a twinge of guilt for spooking the kid. But he'd nearly hit Sutton with a heavy wooden door. What if he'd broken her nose? She'd had enough broken bones this war. She'd had enough broken things in her life overall.

"What is it, Harry?"

Harry pointed past Dick, then grabbed the officer from Dog and smoothly dragged him into the neighboring room for a cup of coffee. Dick wasn't sure why the urgency until he turned and saw Sutton slumped against the doorframe of the closet, clinging her clothes close to her body. She trembled, staring into the dusty closet, but Dick couldn't see anything in it that could have alarmed her so, and it was because he didn't understand that he knew how serious it must be. He could see the sweat beading on the back of her neck, but when he reached out to touch her hand, her skin felt cold and clammy against his fingers. She cursed aloud and yanked her hand away, and it scared him, how far gone she already was. She never swore, not if she could help it How long had he looked away for? How long had it taken for her to slip into this state without him noticing?

He was too afraid to touch her again, but he wouldn't just leave her like that. He stepped around her into the closet and fumbled above his head for the light. He could smell the bleach, now, and the mothballs, and something close to gunpowder but not that exactly.

"Sutton," he said, ducking to try and meet her eye. "Sutton. Sutton."

She'd become a statue before his very eyes. He could feel her breath faintly against his neck, but she wasn't blinking, and her eyes were starting to water.

"Can you hear me? Sutton, please," he said, then pulled his hands back right before he would have touched her arms, unsure when he'd even reached out in the first place. "Hey. Where'd you go?"

"Home," she croaked out, her eyes starting to clear, and that one word sent a wave of relief through Dick that almost sent him stumbling.

"You're not home. You're here in Carentan," he told her. "You're safe here. Safe with me. Look, Harry's here, too."

She blinked a few times, then started coughing, and when her limbs sagged and her body fell forward despite her best attempts to keep it upright, Dick was there to catch her. He and Harry picked her up and carried her to the couch in the next room. The officer Harry had been talking to had enough sense to turn and look out the window but not enough to feign disinterest in the situation behind him.

"Dick?" Sutton asked, her eyes squeezed shut, and Dick rubbed his thumb in a soothing circle on her back as he set her down on the couch.

"I'm here. Remember me now?"

"I do. I'm dizzy. And I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Harry said before Dick could. The officer at the window sipped his coffee and did a poor job of pretending not to eavesdrop. Dick wanted to glare at him but knew he wouldn't see, so he looked at Harry instead. Harry went out to the phone in the hallway, rang a number, then poked his head back in to say it was for the officer. Whatever he'd done worked; the officer didn't come back after that. Dick stood up to get Sutton a glass of water, but she grabbed his hand, and Harry said he'd go instead. The fear in her eyes made Dick glad he'd stayed. She didn't want to go back there, wherever she'd gone, to the place he couldn't follow. He felt odd, just sitting there on the other side of the couch, not touching her, and she looked like she wanted to say something about it but couldn't find the words. He understood the feeling all too well, so he took a chance and moved beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder. She seemed to breathe easier, after that, and for a few minutes, everything was alright.

Harry came back in with the water and closed the door behind him. He went to get the curtain on the window, too, but Sutton shook her head and reached out her hand. He let the curtain be and brought her the water glass. She drank thirstily, and for once, she didn't notice Harry eyeing her with concern.

"You okay?" he asked hesitantly. Sutton nodded.

"It's nothing. I had a nightmare last night," she lied, staring into the bottom of the water glass. "I'm alright, I promise. The door just gave me a fright, that's all, and the dream caught up to me at a bad time."

Harry and Dick shared a look of surprise. She never lied to them—at least, not like this. She lied plenty by omission, but only ever about her work as a spy, never about things

"If you say so," Harry said just to put her at ease as he tugged at the insides of his pockets with anxious fingers. "Well, anyway, we're moving out tonight. Sink just called it in—so that paperwork will have to wait."

"All of you?" Sutton asked, looking up from her water. She held it with both hands, like a small child afraid of spilling it.

"Yep. The whole 101st, not just the ol' 5-o'-6, as the good colonel would say."

"Where to?"

"North."

Sutton gave him a slightly miffed look, and both Harry and Dick relaxed some.

"You're not the spy, Harry, you can tell me where you're going. Even if I'm not coming with you, I'd like to know. So how far is 'North'?"

A smile crept onto Harry's mouth.

"The kind of far that's called Utah Beach."

Sutton sat up straighter. Dick missed the feeling of her back against his arm but didn't withdraw it and felt a slight flutter when she leaned back again after asking Harry if that meant they were shipping back to England.

"We must be. No other reason they'd send all of us. Those beaches are ours and ours completely. They don't need us for reinforcements."

"So you're going back? All of you?"

"All of us," Dick corrected softly. "You've done your duty, Sutton."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "you sure have. Dick's right—you should come back with us, Sutton. Bet your old room in Aldbourne's still free."

"Do you really think so?"

"Sure do. I'll bet you, uh, dinner, how 'bout that?" Harry flashed a grin. "If I'm wrong, I'll buy you dinner."

Sutton looked at him peculiarly. So did Dick.

"And if I'm the wrong one?" she asked.

"I'll cook you dinner."

Sutton laughed and got up from the couch just to shake Harry's hand. Dick didn't miss her as much, that time. Her laugh had eased the weight on his chest caused by the fright of her disassociation in the closet.

"You've got yourself a deal, Harry."

"Glad to hear it, Lieutenant."

Sutton smiled, then turned back to Dick, who was still sitting on the couch, feeling a bit foolish for leaving his arm half-outstretched, as if she might come back to it. Her eyes flicked over to his hand, and he pulled it back before he could think better of it. She looked a little disappointed but hid it well, and when she offered her hand to him like she had to Harry—to shake—he stood up and took it.

"I can't believe I haven't said this yet," she said, a smile growing on her lips. "Harry just reminded me of it now."

Dick's heart nearly stopped in his chest. He tried to guess what she meant to say but could think of nothing other than what he'd hoped to hear from her for so long now.

"Congratulations, Captain," she told him, warm as could be, and despite the sharp pain of longing and the fluttering of pride ever at odds in his chest, he started to smile.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he said, and she gave his hand a small, almost imperceptible squeeze.

"I mean it, Dick. It's been a long time coming."

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I hope you enjoyed this long overdue update of Cobblestones. I'm hoping to finish more of these updates for most of my longer fics over the next few weeks and get back into regular updates within the next few months. Looking forward to it. :)

[victoryrollsandredlips]

A Sky of Names

Author's Note: Hello everyone! First I want to say, if you're looking for 100% accuracy, this ain't it. But if you don't mind little things, please continue. I'm calling this "Band of Brothers adjacent" because none of our boys are featured... yet. So far this is a one shot, but I've got some ideas to possibly expand it, and I would really, really appreciate some feedback. I hope you enjoy! Thanks! -Katie *** A month had passed before Emeline and her mother were able to return to their family’s farmhouse just outside of Bayeux in Normandy. The day before the Allies came, the butcher’s son, whom Emeline’s father had suspected of being Resistance but didn’t dare speculate out loud lest the wrong person overheard, came running to the Devereux home as Emeline's mother prepared her weekly bread loaf in the kitchen.

“Madame Devereux!” he shouted as he careened down a small embankment that pushed their kitchen garden up to the side of the house. “Madame Devereux!”

“What is it, Julien!” Madame Devereux yelled, annoyed at the teenager for scaring the chickens.

“The radio! Tonight!” he said as he tried to catch his breath. And then he saw the loaf of bread, ready for the oven. He nodded toward it. “I hope you made enough for an Army.”

Monsieur Devereux trusted Julien’s eager warning, and so Emeline and her mother packed a small shoulder bag each, then set off to take shelter at an uncle’s farm further inland.

Just before they left, Emeline hugged her brother Didier tightly, and tried not to cry. In all of their twenty-two years, it would be the first time the twins were separated for longer than a few days.

“Here,” Didier shoved a small wheel of cheese from their cellar into her arms.

She looked up at him, puzzled. “W-what…?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just trying to help."

Today when the Devereux women returned, Emeline shoved the same small wheel of cheese, untouched, back into her brother’s arms. They grinned ear-to-ear at each other.

“Well, good to see you didn’t starve!” Didier said brightly. Then something occurred to him, and his face lit up. “Follow me,” he beckoned, before running off into the house.

“W-what…?” Emeline paused a moment, as confused as she was when she had left, then ran after him. Once inside the house, she heard him going up the stairs, and across the attic floor to the other end of the house, then ran up to meet him.

“What’s going on?” she asked, breathless from the sprint.

Didier was standing next to a spare bed with a bare mattress, backlit by a small window in the gable. He turned slowly. “Look at it all,” he said with a sweeping gesture of his arm.

Emeline walked up slowly. The bed was covered in a wide assortment of personal possessions, including a rifle, a small box of ammunition, a smattering of photographs, some chocolate bars, a knife, a handkerchief, and a rosary.

“What is all this?”

“It came in this,” Didier stooped to his side and picked up large, rectangular, olive-green canvas bag. “I think it came from the American soldiers. They dropped them all over the fields, but they didn’t take them.”

“Why?” Emeline asked, reaching down to gingerly push the photographs around for a better look.

“Who knows; it was pretty crazy that night. Can you read this?” Didier tapped on the side of the bag where a word had been stenciled down the long edge in black paint.

She tilted her head to the side to get a better look, and tried to sound out the letters. “Hmm… no. I think it’s a name.” She had always been better at their English studies than her brother back when they were children, but knowing names was different than knowing vocabulary words.

Emeline looked back down at the items strewn across the bed, and shook her head. “What do we do with it all?”

“Father wants to hide the gun, just in case.” He stuffed his hands in his back pockets and shrugged. “I suppose, we throw out the rest?”

“Throw it out!?” She sounded offended, and shot him a horrified look. “What if he comes back for it?”

“The soldier? He lost it in the fields; there's dozens of these. Why would any of them go through all the trouble just for a rosary and some cigarettes?”

“Maybe we can find him and give it all back?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“There are pictures. Of his family.”

Didier sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. But you have to figure out how to do it; I’m not getting dragged into this.” He paused before saying definitively, “But we’re still keeping the gun and ammunition.”

Emeline nodded in earnest agreement. “Oh, of course. And the knife.”

“That too.” He bit the inside of his cheek as he looked over the items once more. “And… I’ll be taking these...”

He reached out to grab the two packs of cigarettes stacked one on top of another in the middle of the bed, but Emeline was quick to slap the top of his hand.

“Ow!” he pulled his hand back, covering it with the other, and leaned away from her. “So violent!”

“Those aren’t yours,” she said firmly.

...

Emeline stayed in the attic long after Didier had left. She sat on the floor with her arms folded on the bed, chin propped up on the back of her hands, staring at the photographs lined up in front of her on the mattress.

Didier had said that most of the families with land bordering theirs, even stretching to the other side of their farthest-flung field, all the way to the next town, had found a bag, or two, or three, filled with possession no one came to claim. A sky of names had dropped on Normandy, with seemingly no owners. She picked up one of the pictures again, a soldier crouching next to a dog, and held it up in the orange sunset. “Who are you?” she murmured thoughtfully.

Who were any of them?

[sergeant-spoons]

24. Andante, Andante

Phyllis Dotson

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​ @chaosklutz​​ @wexhappyxfew​​ @50svibes​​ @tvserie-s-world​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​ @whovian45810​​ @brokennerdalert​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​ @claire-bear-1218​​ @heirsoflilith​​ @itswormtrain​​ @actualtrashpanda​​ @wtrpxrks​​

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Forecasted snow on December 24th pushed Christmas Eve dinner at Mr. and Mrs. Dotson's back to lunchtime, but nobody minded much. Phyllis had to rush decorating the desserts she'd made the night before, but thanks to Lip, who packed up the truck and got everything else ready to go, they managed to avoid running late. As expected, Lip came inside and thanked Phyllis' mother and father for inviting him. Mrs. Dotson kissed his cheeks and told him he was always welcome. Mr. Dotson handed him the butcher's knife in the kitchen and suggested he carve the turkey. Phyllis could hear Lip bashfully refusing from the hall as she took off her winter boots and knew then that he'd been welcomed into the family completely.

The meal was pleasant and the company even better. Phyllis didn't play any music this time around, but her father did, and the radio kept them entertained otherwise. They sang Christmas songs and ate until they felt so full they could barely move. Phyllis went to wash the dishes and Lip joined her, though she insisted she was fine on her own. He wouldn't step away, so she let him stay with the dishtowel and giggled silently when he pretended to fall asleep over the sink. He complimented her on her baking, as always, and she thanked him for indulging in her hobby. He looked surprised.

"Not so much a hobby anymore, Dottie," he told her. "You're a professional. You've got clients—and you just bought a piano, for pete's sake."

Phyllis gave him a puzzled look.

Who's Pete?

Lip looked confused, but then Phyllis started to smile and laugh, and he realized she was only kidding. He sighed and gently thwacked her arm with the dishtowel, and she flicked a handful of suds at him in retribution. He jumped out of the way, scoffing in a teasing voice that she almost ruined his nice dinner pants, and she rolled her eyes and called him silly.

"Only for you, Dot," he muttered as he left to hang up his apron, almost as if he hadn't meant Phyllis to hear. She let it pass and welcomed him back to the sink a few seconds later. Her thoughts got the better of her, though, and she eventually raised her hands to ask him the question that had been at the back of her mind all day.

You don't mind spending so much time with my family on the holidays, do you?

Again, she'd surprised him.

Sometimes, I worry you do, she added quickly, then had to repeat it for him to catch her meaning.

"I'm just fine, Phyllis," he gently reassured her, sensing her guilt although she'd tried to hide it. "I was with my family a few weeks ago, remember? We spent that weekend in Virginia Beach for the holidays. That was our Christmas. We had gifts and everything."

Phyllis pouted.

If I'd have known that, I would have sent you with more than a peach cobbler.

"Oh, hush," he said, sounding fonder than ever. "That cobbler was the star of every meal we had there. And before you say it again—no, Dottie, I don't mind this. I like it. I enjoy it. Seriously."

She sighed and leaned into his arm as he rubbed circles over her shoulder with his warm hand, soothing her worries with his touch as much as his words.

"This time with your family, and especially with you, is just the kind of Christmas I've been looking forward to."

She looked up at him with a smile and almost dropped a glass on the floor rather than setting it into the sink. Lip redirected her hand, but she hardly noticed, transfixed by the genuine warmth on his face. Suddenly, his touch on her shoulder felt hot, and she shied away.

'Especially me'? she asked him once she'd found the nerve again, and he drew her away from the sink and into a hug.

"Yeah, of course, 'especially you'. Merry Christmas, Dottie."

Merry Christmas, Lip.

After they finished the dishes and stalled in the living room a bit too long, eyeing the clouds clustering overhead, Phyllis hung up the last few ornaments on the tree (a family tradition) and hugged her parents goodbye. With many Merry Christmases and Happy-Holidays to keep them company on the road, Phyllis and Lip climbed into the truck just as it began to snow. They made it home before the plows were out on the roads and hurried inside, holding their hoods over their heads as the wind started to pick up. Lip started a fire in the fireplace and Phyllis took a few minutes to tune her new piano. It had gotten a little out of tune thanks to the record humidity they'd experienced the week it shipped, but the piano itself and all its components were undamaged. She looked over at Lip and admired the bend of his strong arms as he adjusted the wood under the mantle, concentrating on getting it to light. Successful, he rose, dusted off his hands, and went to lounge on the couch with a glass of mulled cider in one hand and yesterday's paper in the other. Phyllis played Christmas tunes and tried to remember which pedal did what (all but one on her old piano had stopped working years ago). She thought she sounded clunky and out of practice, but Lip told her she was playing marvelously enough times that she almost believed it.

By five o'clock, the snow was coming down hard enough that it seemed almost like night had set in early. Having exhausted her Christmas repertoire, Phyllis closed the piano and looked out the window, enjoying the flickering firelight reflected in the windowpane. Lip got up and fiddled with the radio to put on some slow music—Bing Crosby seemed the favorite of the season—and Phyllis left the window to go make cocoa. She came back with a mug for herself and a mug for Lip and sat down on the couch. Lip had disappeared into his bedroom but reappeared shortly, humming along to "Silent Night". He leaned over the back of the couch and draped a blanket over Phyllis, who sat warming her hands on the cocoa mug, waiting for it to cool enough so as not to burn her tongue. She patted the couch beside her and he sat down, thanking her for the cocoa as he picked up the mug she'd left for him on the end table. Made sleepy and daring by the warm fire and the sweet music, they inched closer and closer until they were pressed up against one another, sipping silently at their cocoa and enjoying the evening as only more-than-friends could.

Reno appeared and curled on top of the blanket, settling against Phyllis' stomach, and Moon soon did the same on top of Lip. They shared a quiet joke about being trapped, but neither cared much, and they might have fallen asleep there if Lip hadn't picked Moon up and set him on the end of the couch so he could get up to use the bathroom. Phyllis could hear the tap running and Lip humming along to the music again as he brushed his teeth (this time, it was "The Way You Look Tonight") and it woke her up enough to scoot out from under Reno and stretch her legs some. Lip came back from the bathroom with a little toothpaste on his chin, and she wiped it off without thinking twice, then left to take their mugs to the kitchen sink and missed the way Lip trailed after her, smiling like he knew something she didn't. She kissed his cheek goodnight and crawled into bed, and before she knew it, Christmas morning had arrived.

They slept in later than usual but got up before the foxes had finished tiptoeing around the backyard and leaving their prints in the snow. Phyllis had Lip call Bec to wish her a happy birthday—Lip translated her signing into speech for Bec, who teased Phyllis a moment later about letting a man speak for her—and they talked for a few minutes until it came time for Christmas breakfast. Phyllis started on the roast at the same time—it would take many hours to cook—and Lip went into town to get the morning paper and wish his friends and family a Merry Christmas. He returned earlier than she'd expected, only an hour after he'd left, and reported that the roads were all but clear and the snow didn't seem to be sticking anywhere it shouldn't. She'd just put the roast in the oven when he poked his head through the door, hiding his present for her behind his back. She tried to look around him to see it, but all she caught was a glimpse of wrapping paper before he laughed and backed away, teasing her for being an eager beaver. She rolled her eyes and thought to herself that making jokes like that before becoming a father was just ridiculous, but then the thought of Lip as a father—and her as a mother—made her blush, and she forgot about the gift entirely.

Lip came back into the kitchen with something else behind her back, and Phyllis almost teased him for trying this again, but before she could, he promised this was something she could have at once. She took off her apron and hung it up on its usual peg, then peered around him as he turned away. They danced around like this until she came up close to him, backing him up against the doorframe, and batted her lashes at him. He faltered and nearly dropped the gift, but then slipped out from her grasp and presented his hands to her. It was a bouquet of orchids. Phyllis was astonished, but Lip wouldn't tell her how he'd managed to get such fresh and beautiful flowers right after a snowstorm in the middle of December. As he filled her favorite vase with water from the sink, he looked over his shoulder and told her proudly that he'd been planning this for weeks. As soon as the orchids were safe in the vase and the vase was safe on the kitchen table, Phyllis pulled Lip into a hug and pressed her face into his chest, happy as could be.

"You smell like cinnamon and ginger," Lip told her, chuckling. "I like it."

A little while later, they took to opening their presents, starting with the gifts they'd wrapped for the cats. Reno liked the boxes more than the toys, but Moon went crazy for the catnip and spent all day infatuated with one jingling ball in particular. Lip gave Phyllis three notebooks to record her best recipes in and a handsome rocking chair he'd made by hand. How he'd kept it a secret from her, Phyllis couldn't guess, but somehow, he'd done it. It must have taken months to make, between work and looking after his mother and spending time here with her. It was beautiful, covered in hand-carved flowers and plants, and it made Phyllis feel a little self-conscious about her gift to him until she saw him open it. His face lit up and he held it up to his chest immediately. When he turned his beaming smile towards Phyllis, she felt as if she'd been graced by the light of the sun.

"I love it," he said, pulling off his shirt to slip the sweater on at once. "I'm going to wear it every day."

Not in the summer, though, she teased him, and he shook his head, fixing his hair after pushing his head through the neck hole.

"No, no, every day. I mean it. Don't care how warm it is outside. This is perfect, Dottie, thank you."

There's more than one in there.

"What?! Really?"

Yes, really.

She'd made him a set of sweaters, jackets, vests, and socks, all matching in the same color scheme but slightly different. She'd embroidered patterns of the things she knew he loved most on the hems, collars, and cuffs of each. He put on the socks, too, and would have added the vest on top had Phyllis not warned him against overheating. He hugged her, and she, feeling as though she ought to show her gratitude better, got to her feet and picked up Reno, who seemed displeased to be removed from her box but patient enough to be held for a minute. She danced around the rocking chair, admiring it from every angle, and Lip, sitting on the floor, was struck by the realization much too late that he should have strung up mistletoe. He felt a twinge of regret as he promised himself he would next year, and the regret turned to sudden sadness as he supposed they might always be friends and nothing more. Phyllis noticed that his excitement had waned and came over to the couch, presenting Reno as a means of comfort. Reno jumped away and returned to her box, and Phyllis, laughing, fell into Lip's lap instead, curling up against his chest like she'd wanted to the night before. She hadn't had the courage, then, but the smile on his face and the Christmas spirit in her heart had given her enough mettle to properly cuddle with him today.

"Merry Christmas, Dot," he whispered against her hair as she pressed her face into his neck and let out a long, contented sigh, and just for a moment, Lip let himself pretend that the firelight dancing over her fingers might one day catch on a wedding ring and flash its glory for all to see.

********************

A week later, the night before New Year's Eve saw Phyllis and Lip attempting to take down their Christmas tree. It was even more of a struggle than putting up had been, but with gravity on their side, a lot of patience, and a sturdy broom, they managed. They loaded the tree into the back of Lip's truck, and he set off to bring it back to the tree farm as most families in the area did this time each year. They'd make good use of it, there—better use of it than anything Phyllis or Lip could think of. They made sure they had all their ornaments and tinsel packed away in boxes before they gave up the tree for good, and when Lip left right around noon, Phyllis decided to spend her time sewing until he returned. She kept glancing at the clock without really meaning to, but as the hours passed and the shows on the radio changed again and again, she started to get antsy. She just couldn't get him off her mind, and it was driving her a little crazy. She had dinner alone, and by the time he finally pulled into the driveway well after dark, she was at her wits' end.

"You shouldn't have waited up for me," he told her as he hung up his coat. "Looks like it's starting to snow again."

She got up from the kitchen table and closed her book, but when he didn't say anything more, she signed a rather curt goodnight and went to bed, closing her bedroom door for the first time in months. After a few minutes, she regretted it, and when she went to open the door again, Lip was standing there, looking down the hall at his own bedroom. As soon as he heard her door open, he turned back, and she let him in, returning to her bed and picking up her book. He paused by the wardrobe and fiddled with the knob that spun as he thought about what to say. She could see the thinking in his eyes, and so she put down her book and showed him she was willing to listen. No doubt he could tell she wasn't focused on the book, anyway.

"I'm sorry I was gone so long," he told her. "I didn't mean to be, but there was a shortage of the staff, and, well, I just thought I could help, you know? Seems like there's a bout of pneumonia going around the place, and-"

As soon as she realized what he meant, she got up out of bed, her nightgown swishing around her legs. and came over to the wardrobe to hug him. He seemed confused but returned the embrace, and when she signed something he couldn't read in the dark, he gently took her by the arms and led her over to the window. The snow blotted out the moonlight enough that it didn't help much, so Phyllis went and turned on the lamp, and they stood there in the low light, a few feet apart and wishing they weren't so.

I was worried about you, she admitted. I was worried something might have happened with your mother or your sisters. I was worried the roads had iced over and something terrible had happened. I was worried, Lip. You worried me.

He looked pained for a moment, but then turned it into a look of apology, and when he came forward to hug her again, she let him. He asked tentatively if she could forgive him and she told him there was nothing to forgive. She thought she felt him kiss the top of her head, but she wasn't sure, and when he left to go to bed, she almost asked him to stay but didn't find the nerve in time.

The next morning, Lip woke up with a bad cold. It wasn't the pneumonia he'd talked about before, but it still wasn't a pretty thing, and he spent all day in bed. She could tell he felt awful, and he kept trying to apologize for ruining their plans for the day, but every time he did, she put her hand over his mouth to quiet him and told him to hush and focus on getting better. They'd planned for her to meet his family that day, but as soon as Phyllis realized Lip was sick, she made him call to reschedule. His mother understood and so did his sisters, and that seemed to relieve him enough to let her guide him back to bed. She tended to him all day, making soup and fresh bread and potatoes and tea and whatever else he might have needed to regain his strength for when the holidays were up and he'd have to go back to work. By the time night fell, Lip was so tired he didn't have the energy to fall asleep. Phyllis stayed with him, stroking his hair and handing him tissues, until he finally drifted off into an uneasy but much-needed slumber. She looked up at the clock and leaned down to kiss his forehead, supposing that since 9:12 p.m. had a "12" in it, it was as close to midnight as she would get tonight.

Oh, well. Maybe next year.

Three days later, Lip had finally turned the corner in his illness. He was getting better but still not fully restored to his usual healthy self; today, for instance, he was still asleep even though it was almost ten in the morning. As she waited for the oven to finish heating up—she had a few cake orders to fulfill today, she stood by the sink and read the paper. She'd gone to get it the last few days in lieu of Lip's usual trip into town, but today, her father had brought it over, saying there was something in there she ought to read. There was a several-page story about how the war had gotten on in Europe, whether or not Roosevelt would involve the States, and on which side America would land. The thought of siding with the Germans left a bad taste in Phyllis' mouth, but the idea of joining the war at all felt even worse. It had been a little over a year by now since Germany invaded Poland, and the USA had yet to formally and militarily pledge its allegiance. Phyllis hadn't thought much about it in the past year, but then again, she had the privilege to, so far away from everything happening over there. It disturbed her, to picture her brothers, Lip, and all the other young men in her community and family in military greens, about to ship off to war. She hoped it wouldn't come to that. Her life was almost perfect just as it was. Damn any war that tried to take it—to take Lip, in particular—away from her.

Lip came into the kitchen from the living room, and Phyllis realized he must have been in there longer than she'd thought when she heard the fireplace crackling. He felt well enough to make a fire; that was good, at least. He had a blanket around his shoulders and asked her at once what she was reading, but she folded the paper back, set it aside, and signed to him that it was nothing of note. She left the oven to get her batter out of the fridge and asked if he wanted some eggs for breakfast. He said yes and thanked her, but when she turned around with the eggs (and bacon) in hand, she discovered him about to pick up the paper. She put her head down and went to light the stovetop, and when she looked up again, Lip was frowning, reading the same article she'd been bothered by. The kettle whistled, and she poured him a cup of tea, quick to bring it over and replace the troublesome paper with something more pleasant. He thanked her for the tea, sleepily kissed the top of her head, and wandered back to the couch where he'd been reading and resting. Phyllis had tried not to show how worried she was, but she knew he'd seen, and that he'd taking special care of her today, even though he was the sick one.

I love you, she signed sadly at his back, and when he glanced over his shoulder as if he somehow knew, she busied herself with the stove and their breakfast of eggs.

By the morning of January 5th, the Christmas snow had returned full force and Lip was back to his usual self. He went out to chop wood despite the lazy gusts of wind and the freezing temperatures and would only be coaxed back inside by the promise of a hot and hearty lunch. They spent the day doing chores around the house that they'd been putting off, and once they were finally done, Phyllis made cookies. She brought the platter into the living room, where Lip was sitting on the floor and listening to the radio. He sighed and told her she was too kind to spoil him like this but took the cookies anyway. They snacked and practiced sign language for a little while, at Lip's request. He learned a few new words, and Phyllis learned a bit about the way he understood the language. It was different from how she understood it, and she wondered if her and Lip's experiences would have differed, too, from that of someone hard of hearing. She and Lip wondered about it for a minute, then got up to make dinner, play Parcheesi, and let Lip catch up on the sick-day paperwork he had to submit to his work before returning to the job. Phyllis sat with him for moral support.

By the time 8 o'clock rolled around, she could tell he was exhausted and done. She caught him looking at her violin case, and he mentioned that he hadn't heard her play her violin since Thanksgiving. He was right; she hadn't played at all. She hadn't meant to forget it, but with the holidays and the new piano and Lip's illness, she'd neglected her instrument. He asked if she'd play him something special before he went to bed, and she almost declined in favor of getting him to rest sooner, but then a memory struck her, and she impulsively agreed. He moved from the stiff chair at the table to the more comfortable couch as she opened her violin case, tuned her instrument, and rosined up the bow. She played the song she wrote after she'd met him, one of the only pieces she'd composed herself in her whole lifetime. He said it was a lovely piece, that he was impressed by her writing it, and asked what had inspired it.

She almost didn't want to tell him, but when he looked at her with such sweetness, how could she hide anything from him?

Feeling her cheeks begin to pinken and warm, Phyllis bashfully indicated that he, Lip, had been her inspiration, but did not stick around to see his reaction beyond the look of flattered surprise that initially crossed his face. As she shut her bedroom door, annoyed at herself for hiding once again but relieved that she didn't have to know what he might think of her admission, she realized she'd never told him the name of the piece: "Friend". Torn as to whether or not she should say so, she almost left her room to mention it to him when she heard him walk down the hallway and stop just outside her door. He waited a moment and then another, then continued on, and Phyllis, dizzy with embarrassment and wanting, decided to just go to bed, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[sergeant-spoons]

22. Gilded Summer

Sutton Flynn-Marshall

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow @wexhappyxfew @50svibes @tvserie-s-world @adamantiumdragonfly @ask-you-what-sir @whovian45810 @brokennerdalert @holdingforgeneralhugs @itswormtrain @actualtrashpanda @wtrpxrks

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the June breezes took wing, the Normandy invasion proved a resounding success—but the operation did not come without its grief.

D-Day came and went with little warning and far more turmoil than even Dick had expected. Always a cautious man, he'd prepared himself for a hundred different circumstances while awaiting the drop, his feet securely planted on English soil. And yet, despite all his preparation, France managed to surprise him time and time again in just a few short days. He lost his rifle in the jump, which did little to soothe his initial angst upon landing in such unfamiliar territory. He'd studied the maps and run the drills repeatedly over the past few months, but the real thing was different. He'd always known it would be so. Just not this different.

Men died. Men lived. Men were shot. Men got out of a skirmish unscathed. The hot, sunny days began to blur as Allied forces pressed southward into the mainland of France. The 101st Airborne met resistance here and there but never with enough force to deter their advance. Dick got his hands on another rifle, probably stripped from some poor soul with a sheet covering his head, waiting to be buried in the army plots already springing up in occupied towns up by the coast. Nix came riding into the rendezvous point on a tank and Harry and Buck both showed up a few minutes later. The only person they were missing... Dick couldn't think about her. Not here. Not in this place. He found the enlisted men of Easy Company and, just as soon as he'd arrived, left to make a tactical assault on Brecourt Manor. They lost a man there, Private Hall. Dick had only known him a few short hours, and yet thinking about being the commander to send him back to his mother in a box made his stomach turn. He was thankful that wasn't his job.

A week and then some after D-Day, Easy Company stopped to rest for the night after a taxing march through the better part of the evening. They'd traversed hills and dells on the path to Saint-Marie-du-Month; now, they braved swamplands and marshes on their way to Carentan. The boggy surroundings filled the soldiers' boots with lukewarm water and now caused the medics to scurry around to pass out fresh socks, all of them anxious to prevent trench foot. In the early hours of the morning, counting down the minutes to the sunrise, Dick accepted a pair from Doc Roe and slipped out of his boots to peel his wet socks off his sore feet. Beside him, Harry rubbed his feet in the grass until a bug of some sort bit him and he started to curse, jumping up and down until he was satisfied he'd squished the nasty thing. A few feet away, Nix didn't even stir on his bedroll. How he managed to sleep anywhere at any time, Dick would never understand.

"Saved my chute," Harry mentioned as if they'd already been talking about it as he plopped back down onto his poorly-laid-out bedroll. "It's silk, you know. Gonna send it back to Kitty."

He flashed a broad grin.

"Think it'll make her a fine wedding dress, don't you think?"

At first, Dick just nodded—Harry had told him this several times already—but then a thought came into his mind and stuck around. Harry pulled his chute out of his pack and refolded it, just as he did every night. The fabric often crumpled up throughout the day during their trekking and Harry's frequent, messy searching for one thing or another in his pack, so whenever they stopped for a while, he got the chute out and smoothed it all neat-like, as if he'd be presenting to Kitty tomorrow. He wouldn't see his fiancée for some time. None of them would see their loved ones for a while yet. Dick didn't say anything like that, of course. While not the most optimistic, given the circumstances, memories and dreams of home past and future were sometimes all they had. After a moment's more thought, Dick reached into his breast pocket and took out the folded photograph Sutton had left him the day she left Aldbourne. A month had passed since then. Dick looked at the photograph at least twice a day, though he tried not to look for too long. It wasn't his place. He still didn't know why she'd left it to him, but she had. And it meant something to him.

"Here."

Dick held out the photograph, and Harry, once he'd carefully guided his silken parachute back into his pack, accepted it with a curious smile. He unfolded it and his grin grew at once, just as Dick knew it would, but before he could say something teasing, Dick spoke.

"What do you think it means?"

"The picture?" Harry turned it over and read Sutton's handwritten message. "Or this? The note?"

"Both. No, just the photograph." Dick had studied her words long enough to make plenty of sense out of them. It was the picture he still didn't understand. "Why me?"

Harry snorted a laugh and pressed his face into his elbow to quiet his laughing, apparently not realizing Nix wouldn't have woken for anything but the morning. Dick held back a sigh as Harry shook his head over and over, then finally lifted his head and returned the photograph.

"She adores you, Dick," he said, sounding a little exasperated but too fond to really say so.

"I don't know about that."

"Well, I do. She feels safe around you."

Dick's gaze shot up from the grass swaying lightly between his boots.

"She told you that?"

One side of Harry's smile crawled up higher than the other.

"She didn't have to."

Dick wilted a little, and Harry seemed to notice.

"What? You don't believe me?"

"She trusts you more," Dick started to reply, but Harry was already cutting him.

"Yeah, right. She doesn't look at me the way she looks at you."

Dick could feel his face getting warm and thanked the night for hiding his heightened emotion.

"She doesn't look at me any kind of way. If she did, don't you think I would have noticed?"

"No," Harry said, and Dick was surprised at his sudden switch in tone from lighthearted to serious. "No, and you know why you never noticed? Because you never went looking for it. You never actually looked."

"I looked," Dick muttered, but Harry didn't hear.

"Dick, hey. You were so focused on making sure she liked you—a noble pursuit, don't get me wrong—that you totally overlooked how much she ended up loving you."

Dick took his helmet off his head and laid down on his bedroll. He didn't have anything to say to that, and it was all he could think to do was end the conversation there.

"You know I'm right," Harry said, reluctantly lying down as well. "Think about it. And get some sleep. Maybe you'll have figured it out by the morning."

Contrary to Harry's hopeful supposition, Dick had not figured "it" out by the morning—in fact, he'd only confused himself more, and so determined to stop thinking about the photo once and for all. He failed right after breakfast, when he took it out of his pocket without even thinking and couldn't put it back until he uncreased the fold and looked at her face. As he tried to convince himself to put it away, Harry sat down on the curb to his left, noisily eating his porridge-type breakfast (Dick had preferred to scrounge up an apple and a wedge of cheese than to trust army cooking, as friendly as Joe Domingus was). He didn't have to see what Dick was looking at to know what it was, and Dick put it away in his pocket at once. Just then, a few of the enlisted men wandered past. Joe Liebgott stopped, raising his hand in a casual salute, and Dick rose to answer the question he could see coming.

"Sir, how soon d'you think we're gonna get outta France?"

"Soon," Floyd Talbert laughed before Dick could venture a guess. "You know he's gotta get back to that London girl he loves!"

Dick could see from the look on the two men's faces that his expression had surprised them, and they quickly apologized and scurried after their pals. Displeased at his own reaction, Dick sat back down on the curb and shoved Harry's shoulder when he caught his friend snickering.

"Hey, c'mon, we both know they're right."

"No, they aren't. They're not right."

Harry gave him a look. Dick sighed, dropping his chin against his chest.

"She's from Colchester, not London," he corrected, and Harry slapped the cobblestones with the palm of his hand out of glee.

"Wipe that smirk off your face," Dick added, pulling back his sleeve to check his watch. "We've got to get moving."

"Oh, yeah? Or you'll what?" Harry cackled. "Kiss me? You'd better save that honor for the honorable Lieutenant Sutton Flynn-Marshall from Colchester-"

"Just Sutton, Harry, you know she doesn't like her surname."

"Right, yeah." He shook his head, a small smile still stuck on his lips. "I don't quite have your memory for those sorts of things."

Adjusting the straps on his pack, Dick stopped in the middle of the road and turned to face his friend, trailing behind with his porridge bowl still in hand.

"What sorts of things?"

Harry shrugged. "You know. Sutton sorts of things."

Dick pressed his lips together, displeased, but Harry just sauntered on forward and clapped his hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, slowpoke. You said it yourself—we've gotta get a move on if we're gonna make it to Carentan today."

Many miles away—but closer than Dick knew—Sutton was dealing with her own set of problems. She hadn't thought once about the photograph she'd left for Dick in the month since she'd left Aldbourne. She didn't have the time for it. She'd been positively swamped by her emergency redeployment. As soon as she returned to the London office, it became clear they hadn't meant to send her back in for this particular operation, but one of their better operatives had been killed and they had no time to find anyone else. At least Sutton knew she was wanted for her quick learning abilities. Once told, she knew better than to show her surprise at her chosen destination, but she managed to show relief, instead, which seemed to translate as eagerness to her superiors. They, inturn, threw her right into the deep end. Day and night, she memorized maps, fake names and birthdays, fake nationalities, fake accents, fake backstories: the whole lot. She'd be traveling with another operative for the first leg of the journey, after which they'd separate and she'd continue to her assigned post while he went on to his. Neither agents were told each other's true names nor their designated arrival points for optimal secrecy of the mission.

"I know it isn't what you might have expected, with your skillset, and all," supposed the strong-browed gentleman whose name Sutton was never given, "but this is where we need you, and I'm sure you won't disappoint."

"I won't, sir."

She couldn't tell if he believed her or not, but it didn't matter, in the end. Whatever he thought of her, he'd still be sending her into France just a week shy of the Allied invasion, and she'd still have a job to do. She'd get it done. It was a much more immediate appointment than the last she'd undertaken, but no less risky. She was to locate the police station of the former Vichy France—now under complete German occupation—in the former border town of Bourges, acquire the file the sympathizing police had been keeping on a known SIS operative in the region, and burn those records to a crisp, then get out of Bourges and head north in whatever direction she could until she met up with the invading Allied forces. The plan hinged on the success of the Normandy operation. Sutton's superiors and even her fellow spy seemed surprised at her confidence that the invasion would bear fruit. She kept it to herself just why: she believed that with men like Dick Winters spearheading the advance (even if it was only for a single company), they could hardly expect to fail.

The operation went as smoothly as it could have given the time, the place, and the situation in which she'd attempted it. Smoothly, at least, in Sutton's book, which meant she made it out alive and reasonably unharmed. She and her companion crossed the English Channel on a hired fishing boat bound for the border coastal town of Hondarribia, Spain. From there, they snuck across the border in the dead of night, encountering several delays that cost them nearly three valuable hours of darkness. After nearly getting caught by a small patrol of border guards, they split up much earlier than planned, but their tactic worked and they each lost the guards. Sutton learned several days later that her companion had also escaped and made it to his destination from her contact in Bourges. She found the police station, determined a point of entry, and broke in through a ventilation unit leading into a storage closet two nights after arriving in the city. She fled northwest, hoping to disappear like a ghost in the night, and strangely discovered that her path toward the sea was oddly devoid of troops and other Nazi personnel. She wouldn't know until after the war ended that Hitler had remained convinced that the Allied invasion of France would begin at Calais, not the beaches of Normandy, and had redirected most of his armed forces to the far northeast—the opposite of her travel route. 

Days and nights passed with Sutton sleeping in haylofts and on mattresses in abandoned houses. She tried to stay out of these empty homes unless she had no other option, for the uncanny quiet of people being missing disturbed her so much she could hardly sleep. Barns proved her best option and remained that way until the morning of June 18th, when she came over a hill and discovered a signpost pointing toward a place called Carentan. Something about the sunny morning convinced her to follow the road, and she was soon glad she did, for she quickly came upon two American soldiers in a jeep who seemed mighty pleased to meet her. They told her the town was just back that way and they'd only finished up on the eastern half of it not ten minutes ago, then gave her directions as they lamented not being able to give her a ride.

"Forgive yourselves, gentlemen," Sutton implored. "I understand. Duty calls."

The two Americans drove off, one of them waving his helmet at her in farewell, and Sutton continued down the road, keeping her bearing north until she spotted the town. Still hearing the occasional exchange of rifle and machine gun fire, she strayed toward the eastern side of the town and took the long way around through the field, which proved the more dangerous route. A bleeding German shot at her from within a bush but was gunned down as soon as he moved by a soldier in the upper window of the building above her. As soon as she knew she was safe, she looked up and waved at the man, who leaned out of the window and told her if she was a civilian, she'd better get moving.

"I'm not," she called back, raising her hand to see him better against the sunlight over the rooftops. "I'm coming up north from Bourges."

"Hey, you sound British," the soldier exclaimed in surprise. "Do I know you?"

"You might. Are you with the American Airborne?"

"I sure am!"

The man ducked back into the window, then came back with another man.

"I thought that was you down there!" the second man exclaimed. "How on earth did you end up here, Lieutenant?"

Sutton couldn't help but smile, and smile wide, for the first time in a very long month. Lieutenant. Yes, that's what she was to these men. A figure of respect—and if not that, she was at least someone to be known.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," she joked, but then quickly had to explain she was only kidding when the two men looked alarmed.

"Yeah, yeah, of course," the second man laughed, and Sutton did think she could recognize him if she tried. "There's a checkpoint a few hundred yards to the east, they can let you in there. Might have to show 'em some papers or whatever, but I'll send somebody on over to let 'em know it's you."

"I'd appreciate that. Thank you... Sergeant."

The man beamed, and as Sutton continued on through the choppy undergrowth in the direction he'd indicated, she heard him say to his companion—

"You hear that, Smokey? She remembered me!"

"Yeah, yeah, save it for the pub. You want me to run over? Got nothin' better to do up here."

"What, nothin' better than shootin' Nazis in the bushes?"

Sutton lost track of the conversation as she went further away from it, but by the time she reached the checkpoint, a runner had arrived, and it wasn't either of the men from the window. They had her present her false French identification for posterity's sake, and even though they knew she wasn't Marguerite Dupont, they called her by the name until they let her through the gate. One of the men tried to hug her, but Sutton carefully declined and quickly accepted the offer of a boyish-looking fellow to take her to find somebody she knew better than any of them.

"You, uh, used to hang around Battalion a lot, right, Miss? Erm, Lieutenant?" the soldier asked, swinging his rifle nonchalantly between his hands. "Think I know where to find one of 'em. We lost the whole of Headquarters on D-Day, don't know if you heard—the Krauts blew their plane to pieces—but we've still got who's left floating around here somewhere. Most of the boys still haven't gotten over the shock. I know I haven't. Oh, how about Welshie over there? Erm, Lieutenant Welsh."

Sutton didn't mean to abandon the young man in the street—he had been helpful to her, despite his rambling—but Harry Welsh had just jumped up from the stone steps of a church, a grin splitting across his face, and she couldn't help but go to him at once. She'd only taken a few steps before a man cut her off, and she stepped back, caught by surprise and alarm. She didn't remember his name, but she knew she'd met him before; his distinctive face conjured up disagreeable memories for her.

"I just had to see it for myself," he said, blinking at her with oafishly wide eyes. "A woman, in a warzone."

Sutton tried to step around him, but he stopped her again. She would have shoved him away from her if she'd had any nerve, but she'd stopped caring about bullies like him some time ago. Instead, she did the one thing she felt right in doing and instructed him coolly to move out of her way.

"I've spent years in occupied Europe, Lieutenant," she added. "You and all your Americans aren't the first to come here. You're not special."

"Hell, Snider, leave off the woman," Harry said sternly.

"And stop gaping," Sutton added, her bravery bolstered by his presence. "It won't help you look any less like a rat."

As Snider—that was his name, she was sure of it, now that Harry had reminded her—stormed off, swearing things that would have made his mother faint, Sutton stepped up to Harry and hugged him before he was done asking her if he could hug her. He quickly caught her up on Easy's operations in France and made sure she got a bite to eat, then started to tell her about how he'd been saving his silk chute for Kitty's wedding dress—she thought it was sweet and told him so—before trailing off halfway through waxing poetic about his darling. Sutton felt bad for losing focus, but sitting still made her antsy despite her poor feet, which ached after days of cross-country travel in poorly made shoes. And besides, while she was thrilled to see Harry again, there was someone else she was doing a poor job of pretending not to keep an eye out for.

"I'd go on for hours if you didn't stop me," Harry laughed, waving off her apology when she started to give it. "Finish your bread and then we'll go. I can see you're frothing at the bit to see Dick again."

"Dick's here?" she asked, and her weak attempt to insinuate false ignorance made Harry laugh.

"Where else would he be?" he teased, his grin as persistent as the clouds coating the sun overhead. "Come on. We'll walk and talk."

The medbay was relatively quiet that afternoon. The battle had been over for nearly a week, and accordingly, things were calming down around Carentan. Dick had been sent by Colonel Sink himself after a meeting considering what the next few days would hold for Easy Company. Humbled enough by how wrongly he'd imagined disguising his limp, Dick complied. Doc Roe didn't have to voice his displeasure with his commanding officer for Dick to understand his several days of skipped check-ups had not won him any favors. So he sat still and let Roe do his job, managing to hold back a wince when the medic poked at the stitches. The westward-facing door opened after a time, and as Roe went to fetch a fresh bandage, Dick listened for the new arrivals. He could hear Harry coming around the corner, blabbing about how Dick had taken a bullet ricochet last week, and just as he ducked his head, a small smile of exasperation on his lips—

"You've been shot?"

It seemed France had not had its fill of surprising Dick. His head moved with such a speed that his neck twinged, but he hardly felt it, mesmerized by the sight before him. Sutton was walking directly toward him at a clipped pace, eyeing the wound on his leg, and he was so astonished that she was here and that her first words to him were of such concern that all he could think to say was what first came to mind.

"I'm fine, Sue—I'm fine, really."

He stared at her, and she stared back. He'd never called her that before, and the endearing nickname hung in the air like an unanswered question neither of them wanted to touch. Doc Roe cleared his throat, and Harry hooked his arm around Sutton's, backing her up toward the door they'd come in through.

"We'll come back later. Sorry to disturb you, Doc. Dick."

Roe mumbled something and went back to looking at Dick's leg, and all Dick could do was lift a hand in a meager wave after his friends had already gone.

Trying to free her from her distraction, Harry took Sutton to see Nix next. He nearly fell out of his chair when she came in through the door, and he hugged her after asking if he could. He pulled up a chair for her (but made Harry sit on the floor) and caught her up on everything Harry had been too absentminded to tell her before, starting with Meehan and the rest of HQ going down in their plane—news which Sutton had started to glean from her guide earlier but still made her queasy now to truly know it had happened—which resulted in Dick's sudden promotion to Easy's commanding officer and his immediate deployment to capture the German guns on D-Day. He'd led that operation.

"And Speirs here was there, too," Nix added, and Sutton and Harry turned to find the lieutenant standing in the doorway, listening in on the report. Sutton stood and shook Speirs' hand, which seemed to surprise him, but not in a bad way.

"Glad to see you're still alive," he told her, and Sutton echoed the sentiment in kind.

"Oh," she said, reaching into the small knapsack she'd managed to fill up halfway during her travels north, "I've got something for you."

She presented a fine lighter, which Speirs readily took, that she'd picked up a few days prior on the road. With the ground so trampled, it must have been dropped by a German soldier some time beforehand. She'd left that road quickly, made uneasy by the fresh tracks, but the lighter had given her something to do for an hour or two that night as she waited, restless, for the sunrise. She'd polished it up and now gave it to him; he thanked her and told her he'd go put it to use right now. As he left, Sutton shut the door behind him (lest any other eavesdroppers appeared) and found Harry practically aghast behind her.

"I smoke, too!" he exclaimed, dismayed that the gift had been given to someone other than himself, and Nix chimed in just the same.

"Shh," she told them both, waving her hands to pacify them. "This will keep him from nicking some poor private's family heirloom. At least, it will for a little while."

Harry cracked a smile, and Nix rolled his eyes as Sutton sat back down in her chair.

"And besides, you haven't been forgotten," she appeased them. "I did find something for each of you."

First, a decanter of whiskey for Nix.

"I know it's not your usual, Lewis, but I did my best."

He whistled and took it from her, admiring the fine glass, and Sutton felt gratified that she'd carried the heavy thing all this way from Bourges just for him.

"Sutton, I could kiss you."

Shying away, she mumbled her disapproval of the idea, and he laughed fondly.

"I'm just kidding, relax. That's somebody else's job, not mine."

Sutton felt her ears start to flush pink and wished it were cold enough to justify pulling up her collar to hide how he'd flustered her.

"Speaking of Dick," Harry chimed in, "did you get him something, too?"

"I did," Sutton replied evenly, drawing Harry's gift out of her pack, "but that's for him and not you. This, on the other hand-"

She gave him the silver hairpin she'd picked up just outside of Tours and watched his eyes light up.

"-is for you. Well, for your fiancée."

Harry sighed happily and turned the hairpin over in the light to examine its fine craftsmanship.

"You know me so well."

Nix returned to recounting Easy's exploits across the northwestern part of the coast, though it didn't take him long to catch Sutton up to speed with how they'd taken this very town—so it was Carentan, she'd followed the signpost correctly—just a week ago. It had been a hard-won fight. They'd lost men, more even than on D-Day, but the company persevered all the same. Sutton didn't want to think about any of that too much. The idea of so much unnamed loss reminded her of her unknown companion somewhere out there in the south of France, still deep in the Nazi-occupied country. If he was still alive, that is. His operation would be more drawn-out than hers had been—it had been planned for much longer, due to its greater risk.

"So, the point of the matter is, Dick will make Captain just as soon as we move out," Nix concluded. "I'm sure of it."

He seemed pleased at how pleased and proud Sutton seemed on Dick's behalf, but before she could remind him it was only because Dick was her friend, a knocking came on the door, and Dick himself arrived, accompanied by Lieutenant Buck Compton.

"Would you look at that, Winters?" Compton exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear as he seized Sutton's hand to shake. "It's the pretty Brit I met back in Aldbourne. What a sight for sore eyes you are, Lieutenant."

Sutton hummed her thanks a bit awkwardly, distracted by the jealousy she saw flickering through Dick's eyes. It couldn't be jealousy, she'd clocked the feeling wrong. She must have. Jealousy wasn't a friend of Dick's—right? Did she know him well enough to make that claim? And if he was jealous, what did it mean?

"Hey, Buck, why don't you come and see this gorgeous thing I've just picked up from a little birdie who knows how to give good gifts?" Harry suggested as he smoothly guided Compton back out of Nix's makeshift office with a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "Not sure what you'd call this design here, but Kitty's going to love it..."

A jeep horn honked outside and Nix got up from his desk.

"I'll be right back." He pointed at his two friends. "Behave."

Dick chuckled, so Sutton felt free to join in. He looked happy to hear her laugh, but she couldn't make it last long, nervous to be in his presence again after their time apart. She didn't expect him to think of it that way—as if her absence meant something vast to him the same way it meant something vast to her—but maybe he'd missed her, just a little.

"I brought you something," she said at the same time he said, "I kept your picture."

She paused, then asked, "What?" just as he did the same.

"You... for me?"

"Yes," she said, taking the escape he'd awkwardly provided to go digging through her knapsack. "I got it for you when I was- well. I can't say, but... South. I got for you while I was south."

She'd bought him a pocketwatch. Not that she would tell him she'd spent any money on him—she'd picked everything else up along the road—but she'd ended up in a secondhand watch shop while hiding from an S.S. patrol and the watch reminded her of Dick so strongly she hadn't even realized she'd bought it until it was in her hand. As she gave it to him now, their fingers brushed, and she pretended not to notice, pulling her hand back like she'd noticed nothing special about him at all. The watch was brass but gilded in gold on the handsome lion crest on the back and the hands of the clock. The crest likely represented some family, but Sutton didn't know who or from where. All she knew was she thought Dick would like it. And from the smile creeping up his lips, she'd been right.

"It's right on time," he said as he looked between the hands on the pocketwatch and then those of his wristwatch. "Exactly right on time."

Before Sutton could express how happy that made her to hear—how happy it made her to hear his voice—Nix came back in with two boxes stacked haphazardly in his arms, and Dick stepped aside to help, carefully placing the pocketwatch in his breast pocket as he moved. Sutton caught a flash of white photo paper as he flipped shut the flap of the pocket and wondered if it could be her photo before dismissing the idea as wishful thinking. The breast pocket was where soldiers kept pictures of their girlfriends and fiancées and wives—pictures of the women they loved. It wasn't like that, with Sutton and Dick. They were only friends—even if Sutton would have married Dick tomorrow if he'd asked her to. But she'd never tell him that. And he'd never ask.

A runner came in just as Nix and Dick were setting the boxes down on the desk and informed Dick rather impatiently that something had come up on the other side of town and they needed him there immediately. Sutton instinctively tried to follow, but Dick insisted she stayed back, squeezing her hand briefly on his way out the door. She stood by the window, antsy, watching him go, and Nix tried to appease her by telling her Dick is right— she'll only draw attention to herself by trying to help.

"And besides," Nix added as he began sorting through the papers in the first box, "resting your feet for a little while will do you some good."

"What about Dick?" she asked, still looking out the window.

"What about him?"

"He's limping."

Nix leaned around the desk to see through the glass, following her gaze, then grunted out of amazement.

"I'll be damned, he is. Remind me never to underestimate your powers of observation, Agent."

"It's not much, really," she said, neatly bending one leg over the other as she sat. "When I worked at CP, I sort of... puzzled out whose walking pattern was whose. So I knew who to open my office door for... and who to keep it shut against."

Blowing air out of his nose, Nix pressed his lips together, and at Sutton's suspecting squint, he let loose an unabashed smirk.

"I meant the whole 'you're a spy' thing," he told her smugly, "but I am more than happy to go with the 'I've memorized Dick's footsteps' angle you've got going there."

"Oh, shut it," she replied bashfully, retreating to her chair, and Nix chuckled, putting the lid back on the first box.

"Whatever you say, Agent. Now rest up—I'm sure you've had a long few weeks out there in God knows where."

He set a stool out in front of her, and with a grateful sigh, Sutton lifted her aching feet and gave them a rest as ordered.

"I couldn't have said it better myself. Thank you, Lewis."

"Don't mention it," he muttered, already distracted by his work, and returned to sorting his papers, a task which Sutton peacefully watched him complete for the rest of the warm afternoon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Sutton's back! Woohoo! I'm having a little trouble with tagging people so if it doesn't seem to be working, let me know and I'll see what I can do to fix it.)

[sergeant-spoons]

56. Where You Go, I'm Going/So Jump, And I'm Jumping

Leslie Sheppard

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow @wexhappyxfew @50svibes @tvserie-s-world @ask-you-what-sir​ @whovian45810​ @brokennerdalert​ @holdingforgeneralhugs @coco-bean-1218​ ​ @itswormtrain​ @actualtrashpanda @wtrpxrks

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June 5th came and went in a blur. Before Leslie knew it, night had fallen. Where the lamps would usually have been lit stood dark, empty poles that more than one man had run into by not looking up from the shadows. Leslie ducked around the metal beast, knowing she'd never see it again and not sure why she cared enough to think about that. She'd be in France by morning, and it would be dismantled as soon as the airfield could shrink again post-Normandy. Strange things. A relic from old London, she suspected, nothing like the electric lamps she knew from home. These ones stood alone, entirely disconnected from one another. They had to be lit by hand individually, lighting up the night in a slow spread from the center outward. They stood alone. Like the men always said about Currahee.

We stand alone—

Together.

The sun set just after 8:30 in the evening. 20:30 in military time. Leslie's mind had kept slipping all day, falling back upon old manners she once knew. In that last fading light not ten minutes ago, Mama E had gravely informed the Mechorps that their DZ had changed. Gathered in a clump outside their commander's tent, the men and women of the company kicked at the crusty, dried mud and muttered condolences but never fears. They couldn't be afraid. Not soldiers. Leslie was afraid but not surprised to hear they'd be jumping to meet up with the 2nd Armored Infantry now. Kiko, hollow-faced and silent, seemed to have completely forgotten Mama E ever gave them that warning in the long age that had passed since yesterday. Tink was somewhere else, busying herself with packing or food or what have you. She knew someone would tell her if there was news.

"We've got news."

Once told, Tink sat quietly on her bunk, staring at the emptiness of the tent. Everything but her bunk and the support pole in the center of the tent frame had been dismantled and packed away for another regiment's use somewhere to the north. Leslie blinked for a moment, then looked out the tent flap at the beckoning stars. She took a deep breath and crossed herself, small, so maybe no one but God would see if he cared to look.

"I'm gonna go find a priest or somethin'," she said.

"I think I'll pray here," Tink replied, looking at Kiko, who hesitated. Tink beckoned her over to the bunk, and she went and sat, leaning on Tink's shoulder.

"I think I'll stay here," she told Leslie, weary in the eyes.

"Okay."

Leslie stepped over, kissed them each on the forehead, and left.

Now, walking through the night towards the last remaining sector of light in the camp, she looked out towards the lights of the Airfield and took another deep breath. She stopped to let a British platoon pass by uninterrupted and ducked into a tent with a torn side. No luck; just a mess tent that had been raided for last-minute snacks. Leslie couldn't imagine how anyone could eat before the advance. She'd barely touched her dinner.

Feeling her stomach lurch, she picked up a half of an orange and kept going.

The only man of the cloth she could locate in the darkness was Father Maloney, a chaplain who served with Easy Company. She found him by following the words of his prayers, though at first, she hadn't been able to hear what exactly he was saying. As she drew closer, she recognized some of the Latin, in the sense that she would have recognized a face from her childhood or a story she hadn't read in many years. Maloney's face, lit by candles, appeared around the bend of a brick wall, and Leslie continued forward over the mossy ground until she'd joined the makeshift congregation. They stood clumped together in the shadow of a large tent that now housed a group of British anti-aircraft gunners. Not three hours ago, American paratroopers had laid their heads in those beds for the last time.

Skip was there, fingering his rosary near the back of the group. He wrapped his arm around Leslie protectively as she came up to his side, almost as if he'd known she'd come.

"No Tink?" he whispered.

Leslie shook her head, leaning into his arm as if she needed the warmth despite the early June air.

"Said she'd rather pray with Kiko."

He nodded.

"We'll see you on the ground, then."

Leslie froze. Skip felt it and squeezed his arm around her.

"Won't we?"

"No," she sighed, her shoulders falling as her chest tightened. "No, you won't."

"What?" He stepped back and stared at her, even though Father Maloney had started up a new prayer. "Why?"

"Hey, Sheppard!"

Archie Potts didn't seem to notice he was interrupting a service. Maloney glanced at him but kept leading the prayer. Archie waved at Leslie, his watch glinting in the light from the torn-side mess tent.

"C'mon, we gotta go, we gotta go!"

"Gimme a sec!" she whisper-shouted back, then turned back to Skip, grabbing his hand to squeeze where it still hung close to her side. "We just got the news, right before I came over here."

"Shit."

"Yeah, no shit. I mean, yes, it's shit, but no shit, it's shit."

They laughed, but there wasn't much humor to be had, and after a beat of silence as Maloney's even voice filled the air, they pulled each other into a tight hug.

"Watch out for yourself out there," she told him.

"You watch out, too."

"I will. Tell Don I love 'im, yeah?"

"I can't do that," he refused, shaking his head. "That's something you've gotta tell him yourself."

"Oh, I know," she replied without thinking about it. "I didn't mean like that, not yet."

He stared at her, astonished, but then he smiled, and she knew he was trying to find the silver lining in all this.

"Not yet?"

She flushed.

"Skip—don't."

"You could go find him. Right now. You could-"

"No. Just tell him the way I always mean it, alright? Please?"

"I'll tell him," he promised, softening. "Not like that, but— I'll tell him."

She grabbed his hand and squeezed, looking him in the eye for what she prayed would not be the last time.

"Godspeed, Skippy old boy."

He squeezed back.

"See you on the other side."

Archie came over to drag her away, and Leslie went with him, muttering a quick amen so as not to offend Father Maloney with her early dismissal. Archie scolded her for making the both of them late and as Leslie went back around the brick wall bend, she lost sight of Skip in the dark.

22:00 hours. 10 p.m. Whichever time you called it, the time was ripe. Time to load up the planes.

Out of all her friends, Skip was the only one from Easy who Leslie had seen since early that morning when she and Tink snuck over to have their breakfast with him, Don, Alton More, and a few of the other Easy boys they didn't know all that well. Kiko said she wasn't hungry and stayed in bed. She was still there three hours later when they came back from the morning run, and Tink bribed her to get out of bed with a Hershey bar and a few rounds of canasta to get her mind off things. Leslie had said goodbye to Don right after that breakfast, and that was it. It felt strange to be without him, especially now since she knew they would no longer have a chance of meeting up on the ground.

She missed him already.

It didn't take long to load up the planes, but then came the waiting until everyone had boarded and checked their equipment and cleared the runways. Officially, D-Day would begin on the 6th of June. It would be past midnight by the time the Mechorps—and Easy, and all the 506th, for that matter—flew over their DZ. Leslie was starting to doze off when she felt the engines of their plane start. Not doze off into sleep—into a trance. She saw shapes in the shadows around her friends' legs and boots. They started taxiing to the runway and that was that. No turning back now. Not there ever had been before. Not for Leslie. She stuck her clammy hands into her pants pockets and found the paper wrapping of a stick of gum sticking to her left hand. She pulled it out and squinted at it, feeling the engines thrum louder and louder behind her head.

The planes lined up on the runway and waited for their signal to take off.

Leslie folded the wrapper into and out of the shape of a crane over and over again until her hands became too sweaty to get the little folds right. Thinking about all the things she could have said to Don but didn't as they were saying goodbye, she felt the crane slip through her fingers. It fell from her lap and bounced away across the unsteady floor. No one else saw or noticed, and she looked away from it, focusing on the stars outside instead.

Don fiddled with his hands and wished he'd kissed Leslie when he had the chance.

Skip wrapped his rosary beads around his finger and prayed to live to see his home, his family, his friends, and Faye again.

Penk listened to the sounds of the plane—the engine, the shifting of his comrades' boots across the floor and their bodies across the benches, the rattling of the metal frame as the wheels inched forward over the asphalt—and tried not to think about all he could lose. Life. Limb. Happiness. His friends. Kiko—if he hadn't lost her already.

He bowed his head.

Next to Leslie, Danny Huff pointed out the open door at the spotlights turning on all down the runway. The planes in front began to move, propellers pulling them forward.

Kiko tried to focus on her breathing. Now was a bad time to let her emotions get the better of her. If she had only done it sooner. Or later. Or never.

She wished it had been never.

Tink thought about her brothers back home. She thought about her cousin Janie. She held her rosary to her lips and ushered up a prayer that everyone she loved would live through the night.

Especially George, she thought, feeling guilty for the preference but unwilling to take it back.

George thought about Tink. About how long she hugged him in the shadows behind the tent after the last dinner they'd shared. About how long it took her to let go, and about the kiss she ran back to press to his cheek, her eyes shining with tears, before she left for good. Even as Liebgott started to cough and dry-heave and the other men shied away from his impending vomit, George stayed lost in his mind, sitting still and cold and afraid.

Captain Eades, Mama E, sat at the front of the pack, gripping the edge of the doorframe with her good hand. The metal felt warm against her palm from how long she'd held it there. She looked across at her mechanics—her soldiers—her boys and girls—and saw their faces, one by one. She saw the fear they tried or didn't even bother to hide. She saw the nausea and the calm. She saw the strength and the weakness. She saw Luchette reach across the aisle and grab Sheppard's hand, then again beside her to take Palekiko's. Sheppard and Palekiko leaned forward and connected the third side of the triangle, and the minds of the men looking upon them seemed to ease at the sight. Captain Mercedes Eades looked at her watch, lifting her tiny flashlight to read the surface as the plane began to gather speed.

Tick-tick-tick.

Hands met at midnight and the plane bucked into the air. Flight, flight from all things known and toward the great, black night. Flight across the Channel and on to France, to war and bloody glory.

So be it. The 506th Mechanical Corps—the first in history, the unsung heroes of 101st Airborne—would get the job done.

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[sergeant-spoons]

130. This December

Verity/Victor Rich

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​ @chaosklutz​ @wexhappyxfew​ @50svibes​ @tvserie-s-world​ @adamantiumdragonfly​ @ask-you-what-sir​ @whovian45810​ @brokennerdalert​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​ @claire-bear-1218​ @heirsoflilith​ @itswormtrain​ @actualtrashpanda​ @wtrpxrks​

And so the time has come at last for the final chapter of IDOC. It has been a remarkable journey over the last 20 months writing this fic. I will forever be grateful to the readers I’ve seen come, go, and stay, to the commenters whose kind words I’ve screenshotted time and time again to boost my spirits on a tough day, and most especially to my friends in this fandom who have encouraged me to write - @chaosklutz​ @tvserie-s-world​ @itswormtrain​ @penguinated​ @thoughpoppiesblow​ @wexhappyxfew​ @50svibes​ @actualtrashpanda​​ and @phoenixes-and-wizards​, I love you all so very much. 💕 P.S. Most of these folks ^^ are writers too - go check out their works!

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An Alton Autumn always seemed to skip through the season. Leaves changed and fell so rapidly that half the trees had gone bare before October was up. September had started to cool the air, and now the time had come for zip-up jackets and corduroy pants, for wool sweaters and shin-high socks. Little by little, Verity adjusted to life back home. Her father poking his head through her bedroom door to wish her goodnight no longer startled her. Her breathing became easier as time went by. The aches in her chest that wracked her senses and shot sparks through her vision whenever she sat up too quickly or turned her torso too far slowly began to fade. She got her old job at the flower shop back, mostly stocking flowers of the red and orange variety and ferns of the deep green, plus a few mini pumpkins to boot. The manila folder in her bedroom sat dormant more often than not, for the poetry that used to pour from her pen like a river carving its way across a landscape ripe for creation now evaded her. She knew perfectly well why the going was so slow—writing about anything but the war seemed insignificant now—but knowing why didn't much help her solve how. Besides, she'd promised Shifty she wouldn't write about the war. So she stewed, stumped, and let the folder be.

She called Perry just as frequently as Perry called her, which could be anything from twice a day to twice a week—it all depended on when Perry could find a spare minute. She'd been busy as a bee the moment she set foot in California. For a while, she'd had trouble finding work thanks to the invasive press coverage of her family's ongoing lawsuit, but in time a local newspaper gave her a chance, and now they called her the best secretary they'd ever had. A little more courageous in a position of steady employment, Perry braved the witness stand not once or twice but four times throughout October. Halfway through the month, she was thrilled to report to Verity that she'd heard from Buck Compton, and the news was as good as it could get. Buck had gone into law school as soon as he'd come home to California and was doing well. From what he'd told her, Perry guessed that he had figured her and Joe Toye out when Toye got hit but never mentioned it to a soul. When he saw the Blommes' court case in the papers along with a photo of Perry and her father standing on either side of Clyde's wheelchair, Buck recognized her and the pieces finally clicked. He called the next day and offered Perry his help with any legal challenges or issues the army might force upon them after the war. Verity cried a little to hear the kindness had been extended to them both.

For quite some time, Verity didn't understand how Buck could have possibly known about her. She guessed at first that Perry had let it slip, but Perry swore she never had, and Verity was never inclined to disbelieve her. A few years down the road, Lt. Lipton—who never failed to check up on Verity every few months for the rest of his life—let slip that he knew the answer. Buck had realized about Verity right before they entered the Bois Jacques (the one time Verity had let her hair grow a little too long) but Lip had sworn him to secrecy. Buck never said a damn word about the matter, not after the war, not even at the reunions where half the men would forget and wonder why Eugene Roe's girl looked exceptionally like Victor's twin. Verity never forgot his sure heart. She swore to herself that if Buck ever needed help with anything at all, she'd be there. Many years down the line, she would keep that promise, coaching his wife through her second childbirth in the backseat of Buck's car as they fought their way through L.A. traffic. Perry and Joe made it to the hospital before they did—

But Perry and Joe weren't always in California. There was a time when a country's worth of land and longing still separated them. Neither knew what their future held nor if the other would want a place in it.

It was three days after Halloween when Joe Toye finally took the leap.

"We won, Red!" Perry shouted tearfully into the phone, and Verity jumped for joy, accidentally hitting her elbow on the kitchen counter. "We won the case! Clyde's safe!"

"That's wonderful!" Verity managed to get out, gripping her elbow and wincing. "Oh, Perry, that's amazing."

"Isn't it?" Perry giggled and sniffled with charged elation. "Oh, and Clyde says hello and thanks for the baseball cap. He loves it."

"I'm glad. Should keep his face out of the sun when he's playing on the court."

"He wears it every day. Where'd you find that basketball pattern anyway?"

Verity cracked a smile, leaning around the partition to see her father dozing in his armchair in the living room. He'd gone to seven different stores in three different cities to find that pattern for Clyde.

"Just a little something Pa picked up while he was out and about one day."

"Well, tell him thanks, from me and Clyde both."

"I will."

A beat.

"Verity?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"'Course, you can."

"Okay."

Perry considered, and Verity settled her excitement, sensing the tone shift in the conversation.

"It's- Well, it's about Joe."

Verity's smile crept back up into being.

"Go on."

"I got a letter from him yesterday. I'm gonna write him back as soon as I can get myself to sit down for longer than ten minutes—aw, to hell with it. You know just as well as I do that I'm in love with him."

"I do."

"It seems simple enough-"

"Mhmm."

"-but is it, though?"

Perry sighed.

"I love him, but I don't know what to do about it."

"Him, of course," Verity teased, and she could picture the red blossoming on Perry's cheeks as her friend gasped a laugh.

"Verity Miranda Rich!"

"Sorry. I couldn't resist. But really, here's what you do—you tell him." Verity wound the cord around her finger, smiling faintly as she remembered that first time she told Gene she loved him. "You tell him, and you let him know you want to be with him if he'll have you. Which he will."

"You think so?"

"Yes, because he loves you, too."

"He does?"

"He calls you Lovely Summer, doesn't he?"

She could almost hear Perry smiling.

"Yeah, he does. He, um... He called me that in the letter. Five times. I counted."

Verity's lips tugged up at the corners, and she leaned against the wall, balancing the receiver on her shoulder.

"Then have a little faith, Perry—he loves you, too."

They talked a little more about this and that, and then Perry hung up to write that hopeful reply. Verity hadn't even gotten the phone back on its hook when it started to ring again, and when she checked her watch, she realized it was already two in the afternoon. David Webster was right on time. He and Verity had taken up the habit of calling almost as often as they wrote as soon as they'd both settled in back home. Accordingly, their spoken and written messages often crossed, and every few weeks, Verity would receive a letter with information Web had conveyed two days ago on a call and had changed since. It was good to hear he'd taken up sailing again and begun saving up for a bigger ship. So far, he'd gone out on the Atlantic six times since his return to Massachusetts and invited her to come with him someday. The academic year at Harvard was already in full swing, but Web was planning to re-enroll and complete his degree the following Autumn. Verity made him promise to send her a copy of his notes every now and again so she could learn a little something, too.

A postcard from Austria arrived on the same day as Perry's fourth and final time on the witness stand, a little over a month after Verity had come back to Alton. Though she hadn't expected any sort of missive from Major Winters, she hadn't known she'd needed to hear from him until she did. His note was brief but heartwarming, conveying that he'd be home by Christmas, that she was welcome to visit at any time, and most importantly, that she could rely on him even out of the service. She supposed he'd sent the same to every Easy veteran, but that only served to make the sentiment seem ever the kinder. Best of all was the note tacked on to the bottom, scribbled in minute handwriting far messier than Winters' but still fairly legible—an addition solely for Verity. All it said was "same here", but it took a kind of pinching weight off Verity's chest she hadn't even realized was still there. She hadn't been sure where she and Captain Nixon stood. Now she had relief; now she had closure.

Bill Guarnere called out of the blue a week into November. He and Verity talked and laughed and caught up for several hours, then several more once he got Babe Heffron on the line. Verity asked if Heffron had heard from Perry, and he told her they'd been writing. He and Bill knew about her by now, from the newspaper clipping she'd sent him, but they both seemed to have taken it well, once they got over the shock. Babe had settled the facts with himself far quicker than Bill, who started reeling all over again when Verity told him she'd known about Perry all along. Thinking it the wiser decision, Verity didn't correct them when they called her 'Victor' and teased her about still not having a girl of her own. When Bill asked about Perry and Joe Toye, her two cents were simply that it was "about time".

"I'll say," Babe said. "It all makes sense now, don't it? The way they'd look at each other."

"I still can't square it with meself," Bill laughed. "That kid's as much a dame in my head as you are, Rich."

Verity laughed a little harder than she probably should have, but Bill just roared along, and even Babe chuckled a bit.

"You'd better visit," Bill urged her, "you and Bloom. Together, if ya can."

"We will. Maybe sometime after Christmas, yeah? I've still got a few things to settle up here at home-" Including puzzling out how to tell you the truth without causing you to shortcircuit. "-but I'll call Perry and see if her and I can work something out."

"'Her'," Bill marveled, clucking his tongue. "Jesus. 'Her'."

"Don't think about it too hard, Bill," Verity said gravely, "you'll give yourself a headache."

"Hey-"

The next few weeks passed by without much incident. It was nice to have a bit of peace like that. The first time Verity went out by herself was right after Thanksgiving to get a wreath from the local Christmas tree farm. She took a hammer to the front door and tapped the nail into the same hole they'd used for the past twenty-some years, then adjusted the wreath until it no longer looked quite so crooked. The wreath was nice, and the Riches thought it was enough, wordlessly deciding against a tree. Maybe next year, they thought as they passed by the living room, looking at the empty window-side corner where, once upon a time, twinkling lights gleamed against the shadows and an angel's cloth halo brushed the ceiling. Verity hardly remembered the sight. They hadn't put up a Christmas tree since the year her mother passed away. Maybe next year, and their eyes made empty promises and their hands patted shoulders a little stiffer than before.

After she put up the wreath and it started to sink in that Winter was on its way, Verity took to occupying her every spare minute with some task or preoccupation. She sent a letter to Joe Liebgott right before Chanukah to wish him a happy holiday and to see if he'd settled in alright back in California. She knew Perry had been to see him once, but her friend had been oddly reticent about Lieb, and Verity had been nursing a walnut of worry in her chest ever since. All she wanted to hear was that Liebgott was doing fine—well, even—and she'd be satisfied. If he wasn't, then perhaps a trip to California was in her near future. She'd been dying to see Perry, after all, and Liebgott, whether he knew it or not, had stood by Verity's side when she needed it the most. She would be hard-pressed indeed to let distance interfere with the loyalty she owed him in return. It was almost funny, how she'd consider buying a ticket cross-country when just three or four years ago, she never would have imagined traveling outside the Northeast. Now she was ready to hop a train to Oakland at a moment's notice—and all it took to get her there was a war.

Her letter to Lieb was far from the only correspondence she cooked up that early December. Most afternoons, Verity could be found fiddling with paper, pens, felt, and glue, crafting Christmas cards for her friends from Easy. Once she finished her list and leaned back in her chair to examine it, she was surprised and humbled to realize just how long it was. She even penned a snowflake-adorned note to Captain Speirs, who was still somewhere out in Europe, continuing his career with the Airborne. Though she had her doubts about the card's timely arrival, she knew Winters would know how to reach Speirs (whereas she did not) and so sent the card through him. The rest, she could address herself. Nearly fifty cards went out over the course of a week, each personalized to its recipient, some more so than others, and for every single card she sent, she received one in return, and then some. She even heard from Floyd Talbert, who (rumor had it) had gone all but radio silent since his return to the States, and Smokey Gordon, who was finally able to write her back from that letter she'd sent him from Austria last May. He enclosed a copy of his latest villanelle, asking her advice on its rhythm and rhyme schemes, and in doing so began a lifelong correspondence between two kindred poets.

The first card to arrive bore Gene's return address, and it showed up the same day she put her card to him in the mail. He must have been thinking about her to have sent it so early. She couldn't help that fluttery feeling in her chest as she ran her thumb over his endearments and well wishes, wondering how his handwriting could be so pretty and fine. They wrote so often already, but this card felt different, in a way—he'd drawn a little dove in the margins of the card, and in its beak was a ribbon tied around a ring. She knew a promise when she saw one. He still wanted to marry her, and that was the best Christmas gift she could have asked for.

The next few cards came from Winters, Webster, Lipton, and Frank Perconte, all linked to Verity by the same time zone and postal service. The Southerners were quick to follow, with Shifty and Popeye sending a sweet and simple angel-adorned note while Bull's triple-folded memo included a dozen signatures from his whole family, including his fiancée Vera and Vera's parents. Babe and Bill sent theirs together, and Verity got a laugh out of how they'd stuffed three different cards into the envelope as if they'd squabbled so much about which to send that they'd resorted to making no decision at all. Then the West Coasters converged on the Riches' mailbox all at once, starting with Malarkey, all the way out in Astoria. Liebgott was next, and though Verity was surprised at how peculiarly thick the envelope seemed, she understood once she saw the four-page folded letter he'd enclosed with the card. It was his response to her how-do-you-do, and though Verity couldn't be more pleased to hear he was doing well for himself, when he asked her to come and visit if she could "get away from fucking work"—even in his letters, he couldn't help but cuss—she knew she'd be off to buy a railway ticket just as soon as the holiday rates went down.

But no card—besides Gene's—could bring Verity greater joy than that of Perry and Joe Toye's, whose signatures sat side-by-side under a flurry of well-wishes. Verity placed that lovely card, its cover a vision of a snow-blanketed steam train puffing through a starry night, right in the center of the mantel, packed in with all the others. By the 16th of the month, the windy day that blew George Luz into town, that mantel appeared to have sprouted a veritable forest of cardstock pines.

George had been planning his visit for months. He came prepared with a suitcase and a broad, unfailing smile, and Verity could not have picked a better war buddy to be the first to meet her father. They hit it off, especially once they discovered they both loved to work with their hands. George had resumed his handyman's work upon return to Rhode Island and was perfectly satisfied with his career; Nicholas, though retired, was still an avid leatherworker. He came this close to giving George a fully-stocked tool chest before their guest politely let slip that he (unsurprisingly) had his very own. Then they got into a conversation comparing wrench and socket manufacturers and Verity started to wonder if she'd ever get a minute to talk to George herself. Her father was quick to notice her antsiness, however, and refused to keep them any longer from their reunion.

That first day, Verity kept touching George's arm or shoulder or ruffling his hair in teasing, half because she'd missed him so dearly and half to make sure he was actually here, telling her all his old jokes and talking to her like he'd known her—the actual her—for years. He brought his Christmas card to give her in person, partly because he was good like that and partly because he wanted to see her reaction to the terrible tinsel-themed joke he wrote on the inside flap. They were light and happy and glad, but there was still snow on the ground outside, glaring frosty and unforgiving in the sunshine. Verity and George stayed indoors most of the week. The one time they went and stayed out was to ice-skate on frozen Lake Winnipesaukee on Verity's twenty-fourth birthday, and after that, they bundled up in blankets and cupped hot cocoa mugs so tight they almost burned their fingers.

It was no secret among the veterans still in contact that Winter was proving difficult for most of Easy who served in Bastogne. Verity bore the added weight of her mother having passed away just a few days after Christmas. Twenty-one years ago this December, she and her father had laid Marguerite Rich to rest in that hillside plot in the only cemetery in town. The only thing Verity remembered from the funeral was how it had begun to snow, white flakes peppering the casket as they lowered it into the earth. She took George to see the headstone, and if he cried an icy tear or two as he knelt there, let into a facet of her past not even Gene knew much about, she pretended not to see. They walked close together, shielding each other against the snow and ice delicately painting the lakeside landscape, already mumbling promises to see each other again once the frost had broken and the forest was green again. So Winter was not easy, but they made do with each other and a warm house to get back to at the early end of the day.

There was one thing Verity wanted in particular to show George but was too nervous to bring it up until the day before his leaving. Right before her friend's arrival, she'd had a breakthrough with her poetry. She'd realized one sleepless night, staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom as visions of the rolling flowering fields of Holland swept through her head, that if she put aside the war years, she'd be ignoring the greatest emotional period of her life. She didn't have to write about the war part of the war. She could write about the parts that were good, the parts she'd look back on and smile because she was there with her friends and she was important and loved and protected. When she settled it with herself that she wouldn't be breaking her promise to Shifty after all—that's what set her in motion. She barely slept that night. When her father came in and found her on the carpet the next morning (again), he was pleasantly surprised to discover her surrounded by dozens of penned pages and an ink stain that had bled into the bottom hem of her sleep shirt.

She showed those poems to George, tucked neatly into their manila folder as she passed them over a dropped-egg-on-toast breakfast table. She could barely eat another bite, tapping her foot under the table in her anxiety, and as George flipped through the loose leaf sheets, she watched the minutia of his expression for any sign of his opinion. To her utter relief, he seemed to like her work, and when he told her how impressed he was, she turned several shades of pink. He insisted that she send him an autographed copy of the collection once she'd had it published; with a new sense of purpose blossoming in her chest, she humbly promised she would.

George left for Rhode Island on the morning of Christmas Eve, wanting to be with his family for the holidays. Verity hugged him goodbye and didn't care how obvious she made it that she didn't much want him to go. He kissed the top of her head in the kind of brotherly fashion that made her heart ache for the siblings she might have had if cancer hadn't taken her mother so soon, and when he waved goodbye, leaning out the train window despite the freezing morning, she watched him until the train was gone, leaving trees and empty tracks and Verity behind.

The morning of the 31st was growing late when the Riches' doorbell chimed through their home. Verity and her father had taken to the kitchen, making peppermint cookies and preparing to stay up until midnight. Bing Crosby crooned "Jingle Bells" from the radio in the living room, almost drowning out the I'll get it that Verity called over her shoulder as she swept past the archway. She wiped her hands off on her apron, its grey stripes now dotted with sticky red candy cane residue and clingy white flour. She paused in the foyer to tug it off and tossed it onto the little bench they kept to help her father put on his shoes, curiosity getting the better of her neatness. Then she opened the door and there he was, cracking that slow, content smile she didn't think she'd ever get to see like this, silhouetted by the snow and a thick beige scarf.

They'd discussed him visiting, playing with dates, but none sooner than Springtime next year. And yet, here he was, promises on paper fulfilled as he stood before her. There was a small rose in the buttonhole of his jacket. Verity wasn't sure if he meant to impress her or her father but didn't much care because he was here, on her doorstep in Alton, his eyes wide and wet with emotion.

"Gene," was all she could manage in a gasp before she simply had to throw herself into his arms.

They stayed like that for some time, just standing on the porch, breathing in the moment. The cold pressing on their lungs felt insignificant now that they had each other again. Footsteps came up behind them, followed by a chuckle.

"I think I could probably guess our company, but if you wouldn't mind the interruption..."

Verity slowly stepped back but did not let go of Gene. She kept his hand in her own, and having him there, at her side, was just so right that she nearly started to cry. Gene brushed away a stray tear of his own and she squeezed his hand, a smile growing on her lips as she looked between her beloved and her father.

"Pa," she said, breathing in deep the frosty air, "I'd like you to meet Eugene."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[sergeant-spoons]

20. Once a Spy

Sutton Flynn-Marshall

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days ticked on through sunny, breezy May, and as the air became thick with waiting, the soldiers at Aldbourne started to get antsy. Operation Overlord was quickly growing from a speck on the horizon to a skylined certainty, and among Easy Company, there were many who considered a certain CO of theirs to be a glaring hazard. Once incompetent in the field, now dangerous in his ignorance, Captain Sobel clung to his command by every fraying thread. The court-martial business with Dick Winters was just one of many tactics of a man desperate to prove his authority. As a principle, Sutton did not hate people. Her friends knew this; acquaintances were wont to sense it. She didn't hate Sobel, per se—

But she'd certainly come close.

"She's brave, that's for sure," Nixon mused as he strolled down the path from the showers, running his hand through a portion of his still-damp hair, speckling Dick's shoulder with droplets. "You ever think about how brave she is, Dick?"

"She's a spy, she has to be," Dick replied, brushing off his shoulder as if the water would flick away the same as crumbs. "Why do you ask?"

"You didn't see what she did yesterday, did you."

It wasn't the question it was supposed to be, and that caught his attention. He dropped his wrist from checking the time and slowed his pace, wishing to hear the story to its full extent.

"What happened?"

Nix told him all about Sutton's arrival, which he'd already been sorry to miss. Now, he felt ever the worse for it, imagining he could have helped her in some way, at least stood by her while she faced off against Sobel's brutal arrogance. Dick felt a twinge in his neck when Nix mentioned a few of the things the captain had called her. His friend had to remind him to loosen his fists as they turned past the barracks, where curiosity lurked in the eyes of the enlisted men smoking on the steps. Dick insisted that not a single detail be left out; as he heard of Sutton's trembling hands, the moment where she nearly slipped into mindlessness, the way she'd turned to Nix with that look of shamed panic, he grew more and more agitated. He wanted to see her and see her now. Nix—being Nix—saw and simply smirked.

"She's fine," he hummed as he led the way up the porch to CP, "but I'm sure she wouldn't mind hearing you were worried about her."

Dick didn't respond, scanning through the windows for any sign of Sutton. Nix's smirk grew.

"She's not here."

"Why not?"

He shouldn't have asked, but he did anyway, and amusement pushed Nix's brow up onto his forehead.

"She was going out for lunch with Harry, remember?"

Dick swallowed back a tight retort, something he didn't really mean.

"Right."

"So..."

Nix gestured as they started up to Dick's office, turning half over his shoulder to do so and nearly tripping up the stairs in the process.

"So?"

"How do you feel about our dear Agent? Really."

Dick could feel himself turning pink. It was one thing when the enlisted men teased him about never having a date or a girl of his own, but he knew Nix better. This would be an interrogation, unending until Nix received the answer he sought.

"You know that I think very highly of her," he replied at length, rolling up his sleeves as he made his way to his desk.

But Nix just laughed. He laughed. Dick almost turned around and told him to get out of his office, but he couldn't do that, not to Nix, not even in this valley of intrusion and discomfort.

"It's okay, Dick," his friend coaxed, leaning against the doorframe and loosely crossing his arms over his chest. "You can admit it."

Dick rifled through a few papers on his desk, pretending he wasn't paying attention. Nix stamped his foot, and Dick made the mistake of looking up. Nix waved—unsurprisingly unrelenting—and Dick sighed.

"Admit what?"

The corner of Nix's mouth turned up.

"That you're in love with her."

Dick huffed and sank into his chair, warily eyeing his friend. He wanted to believe that Nix had good intentions, but he was nervous—what would she think if he told her? It hit him, in that moment, that he didn't want to tell Nix before he told her. He leaned a bit forward, clasping his hands atop a stack of paperwork, and Nix grinned, evidently expecting the admission it wasn't his turn to hear.

"If I did," Dick said, certain to keep his tone even and firm, "I would tell her first."

Nix deflated, but before he could respond, Sutton emerged at the top of the stairs, quizzical curiosity quirking her brow.

"Tell who what?"

"His mother," Nix said smoothly before Dick could muster a fumbling response. "Just family business, you know."

"Of course." Sutton seemed a little flushed, but Dick was all but certain his own face was twice as red. "It's warm in here, isn't it? There's a lovely breeze out, it just started when Harry and I got back..."

She hesitated at the door, then entered the room, making for the window behind Dick's head.

"Pardon," she hummed as she squeezed past him, and it seemed a miracle of composure that neither of them winced at the scraping sound Dick's chair made when he hastily scooted it out of her way. She turned the latch and opened the window, then pushed the shutters out of the way and let the gentle breeze dance into the room. Her skirt trembled around her legs and her hair twitched across her shoulder, and Dick could hardly look away. When she turned back after a moment, stepping back to let him feel the breeze, he wished for a single second that she could just know without him having to say a word. Sutton smiled and gestured to the window, and as Dick's thanks slipped through lips numb with longing, he tried to bring himself back to his sensibilities and failed. He reached out and took her hand when she started to leave, and when she looked back at him, he knew there was no one else in the world whose hand he would rather hold.

He wanted to bring her sacred palm to his lips and kiss it, then brush the collar of her dress aside and lay his lips there, and finally seal his mouth against hers in something like a promise, but he knew better.

"How was your lunch?"

She answered something cheery enough, but her eyes kept wandering across his face as if she wasn't really hearing what she was saying. Dick wasn't. He could hear everything the breeze touched—the papers on his desk, the leaves on the sycamore outside, her skirt brushing against the hose upon her legs. He felt a little raw for the noticing, a little emptier. He hadn't let go of her hand, and she hadn't tried to take it back, so they stayed that way until she'd drawn out her response so long it would have been suspect for her to keep talking.

"Dick?"

"Mmm?"

She took a deep breath. His heart tripped over itself and he suppressed the sudden, strange urge to cough.

"You should know..."

Dick had to force himself to stop imagining all the things she might say and listen to the things she did.

"There's been a mutiny in Easy Company."

Dick stilled.

What?

Sutton grimaced, and he realized he'd muttered the query aloud. She drew her hand back and fiddled with her fingers, and he wanted to reach out again to stop her from marring that one little hangnail on her thumb.

"Harry told me about it while we were out," she related to him as best she could. "He said I should be the one to tell you. I haven't a clue what he meant by that, but... here I am."

Dick chanced a look at the doorway and found (as he'd suspected) that Nix was long gone. Sutton shuffled back a step and glanced aside, and he got the impression she thought he didn't believe her.

"It was the NCOs," she told him before he could admit he'd take her every word as scripture if she asked him to. "Every last one—save for Sergeant Evans, but... Well."

Dick, still baffled, blinked. Sutton hesitated, leaning a little backward, then a little forward. She crossed behind him and Dick held still until he felt her arms wrap around his shoulders. He bowed his chin and felt her lips press softly to the top of his head.

"They're going to be okay," she whispered, her words like the breeze tickling the back of his neck. "I promise."

He didn't know how she could make that vow all on her lonesome, but as he watched her leave, lending him a small smile from the doorway, he thought he just might believe her. Harry came in a few minutes later and filled in the gaps for him—Sergeant Lipton had spearheaded the affair, astonishingly—and for the second time that day, the tightness in his chest clenched with every new detail until he found it hard to breathe. He turned to his work and found a little solace there, but too quickly, he had to leave, reporting to oversee a supply count down the hill from Regiment HQ. He kept glancing at the building as he worked, and when Sutton appeared and easily guessed where exactly he was looking—the window to Sink's downstairs office—she offered a small smile and tried to slip his clipboard out of his hands.

"No- Sutton-"

"Let me," she said, stealing it away and flipping through the pages. "Mmm. Mhmm. Very interesting."

The two soldiers unloading the supplies from the truck—men from Battalion Mess with whom Dick had become far more familiar than he'd ever expected—shared a small smirk. Sutton didn't notice, and Dick elected to ignore the look.

"What on earth does the Airborne need so many potatoes for?"

Dick leaned his head a bit to the side to see the tally. Sutton turned the clipboard toward him, but not far enough that he needn't step a little closer to see. Whether or not she did it on purpose, he conceded, wishing mercy on his heart as their shoulders brushed and he felt a boyish thrill.

"Hmm."

After thinking on it for a time (made longer by his proximity to her), Dick shook his head and cracked a wry smile—the first he'd been able to muster all day.

"I'm actually not sure."

Sutton giggled, and though it was brief and quiet, the sound eased a bit of the pressure in his chest. He turned to her, nearly desperate to hear it again, to be soothed by her and everything she was, and she seemed surprised at his sudden attention.

"Here," she said, supposing he wanted his clipboard in order to get back to work, and though he accepted it from her hands, his gaze never left hers. She inched closer, and he'd never be sure what she would have done—or what he would have done—if something over his shoulder hadn't caught her eye.

"Dick. Look."

It was the NCOs. Dick had thought them foolhardy at first, but now, looking at their stern faces, he knew he would have done the very same had he been in their shoes. These men were brave—no, braver than brave. They marched out of that stone behemoth of a building two-by-two, stiff-backed and sure-footed as if providence would revoke their second chance given any one of them stepped out of line. They'd put their lives on the line for a better chance at living. Dick hadn't realized Sutton was gripping the corner of his jacket until he felt her fingers pinch the fabric and in doing so, brush against his hip. Six men passed them by, and six hands raised in salutes as they went. They looked to Dick, some of them nearly smiling, others fighting to keep their hand from shaking, all of them walking with a weight raised off their shoulders. Dick raised his hand to his forehead but nearly flinched when he felt Sutton step back, allowing him the moment. The men looked to her next and continued their salute, and she returned it as readily as Dick had, hoping her respect for what these men had done came across.

When one of the sergeants—the name Lipton lettering his uniform—cracked a smile, she knew it had.

The NCOs went on without a word. Sutton and Dick watched them march away, equally silent. The clipboard in Dick's hand, formerly forgotten at his side, nearly slipped to the gravel and he almost fumbled to keep it from falling. He looked at Sutton and saw her eyes were glistening, but he couldn't tell why until she turned to him and blinked a few times. Those grey pools of tears made his brow crease, but she reached out and touched his arm and he discovered he had no cause for alarm.

"If you were ever looking for an affirmation that you're a good man, Dick," she said quietly, "that was it."

He looked at her but could not find it in himself to smile. Her expression was a serious one, too, but in a way that urged him to relax. He did so, and she, satisfied, inched up beside him again.

"I told you they'd be alright," she hummed, smoothing her thumb over his sleeve. "Didn't I?"

He could feel the corners of his mouth wanting to tug up, so he let them, and was rewarded by Sutton's smile in return.

"You did."

The door to Regiment HQ swung open again, and the runner who dashed forth hardly went ten feet before stopping and pivoting toward Sutton. She knew she was his target, for as soon as his eyes locked upon her, they did not let go. She felt the urge to squirm under the scrutiny, but he arrived before she could follow through with it, and his message was more important than her shyness. An urgent telegram awaited her in Colonel Sink's hands—what news indeed. Sutton went a little pale. That made Dick frown.

"What is it?"

"London," she mumbled, already lurching into motion. She thanked the runner and hurried up the hill, only remembering to draw herself out of her thoughts and wish Dick a good afternoon at the last second. He raised his hand in a meek farewell that came too slow for her to see; regardless, he watched her until she'd gone away through the door.

"Lieutenant Winters?"

Dick gave a start. He turned to the two privates standing on either side of the supply, now all safely removed to the ground, and one of them offered an apologetic smile for interrupting his reverie.

"Ah, where should we bring these, sir?"

Dick gave them the answer he thought they should have figured out themselves, and as they went to follow through with his orders, he turned and pinched the bridge of his nose, smothering a sigh against the hilt of his hand.

Dick was ten minutes gone from the place the truck was once parked by the time Sutton emerged from the chiseled stones. It seemed colder now that she'd been inside, colder thanks to the news she'd just received and the way it had been delivered. She knew things now that made her bitter, things that would come to pass without her to see them through.

In two days' time, the 101st Airborne would leave for Upottery Airfield.

Sutton Flynn-Marshall would not be with them.

There was no doubt in her mind about the unfairness of it all, but it was strange, how much it bothered her. Since when did her life have the decency to go as planned? Since when did she let herself start caring about staying one way or another despite knowing it was all bound to change? She blamed herself for the hurt, for the bitterness, and that only made it all worse. Of course, she wouldn't be jumping into France with the 506th, nor even within the broader division of the 101st. She'd never believed she would, but this news from her superiors and Sink made for the final nail in the coffin. She wouldn't be seeing her friends here anytime soon. Perhaps she never would. She was a spy, for heavens' sake—what good was it, this distress? What right did she have to think she could have stayed? She was an Englishwoman who'd spent two years in Austria spying on a key Nazi strategist and barely made it out by the skin of her teeth. She wasn't like these soldiers, these Americans—these men. She was Agent Ambrosia. She was a spy.

Col. Sink gave her the telegram, but it was what he said with the delivery that made her itch with a kind of resentment she'd never felt before. She didn't think it was particularly because of the colonel—she didn't want it to be, so she made it not so—but beyond that denial, she couldn't pinpoint the reason for what kept scratching at her insides. She was going back to London, to the office, to her purpose in the war. And yet London seemed a thousand miles away from Aldbourne. In many ways, it was indeed another world. A world where people like Sutton weren't allowed to have room for people like Harry and Lewis and Dick. A world where Sutton had to hurt alone and hide it just like she hid everything else.

The colonel had insisted it was for the best, her leaving. He told her the war was no place for a smart young lady such as herself. She knew at the moment that he hadn't read the telegram, that he didn't know she'd be out there the same as the rest of them, just further in and farther gone. A part of her wanted to correct him, to reference her time in Austria and remind him that she'd been shot at more times than most of his men combined. But in no world—Aldbourne or London—would that have helped her case, so she held her tongue and let him talk a bit about how glad the Airborne was for her assistance in organizing the upcoming invasion. She'd have liked to think him sincere, but the vagueness with which he referred to her efforts let her know he hadn't a clue as to how she'd helped at all. Nevertheless, she accepted his thanks, and her reticence served her well in that his final query came with a kind of warning attached.

"I've got a mind to ask you one last thing, Agent," the colonel decided, pressing his fingertips together atop his desk and leaning a bit forward.

"Sir," Sutton assented, not missing how he'd dropped the moniker of Lieutenant he'd assigned her all those months ago when she'd first assisted the 506th. Had it really been so long since September?

"I believe I ought to know," he supposed, his eyes creasing slightly, "if there has been any ill will between you and Captain Sobel."

Sutton almost denied it, but then she remembered she was leaving, and that Sobel might be, too (if the success of the NCOs was anything to go by), and after all, he'd asked her directly...

"He was foul to me, once, sir," she admitted, hoping he believed she was as unphased as she pretended to be, "but I didn't reciprocate."

"No?"

"No, sir. I didn't think it would be worth it."

The colonel seemed pleased by how she'd handled the situation and dismissed her with no further questions. He hummed as he shook her hand and returned her salute, and Sutton wasn't sure whether or not to feel guilty when her first thought as she walked out the door was that she wouldn't mind not having to deal with Sink after this. She walked down the path past where the truck had been and wandered about the base for what she supposed was probably her last time. A few of the trees were blossoming. She looked at them for a good long while, standing alone by the door to a supply shed. A soldier popped out of the shed and startled her, then apologized, red-faced, as he tried to hide a blushing young woman behind him. Sutton pretended she hadn't seen them and they dashed off, their laughter echoing back down the street once they thought they were a safe distance away.

The lampposts started to flicker on not much longer after that, and the sudden gleam reminded Sutton to look up. She saw the sun was starting to set and realized she'd missed dinner. No matter; she had no appetite, anyway. Traversing the quiet streets, she listened to the sound of her heels crossing packed earth and weathered cobblestones and—finally—the worn wood of the Battalion CP porch. She went straight inside, nodding at Lieutenant Meehan where he stood yawning in the breakroom, and shut herself in her office with no real purpose in mind. The papers and folders on her desk would all be taken away tomorrow and given to some other poor sap who already had too much on his plate, and because she knew it, she didn't want to touch a single page. Instead, she started to pace. Nix appeared just when she thought she might lose her mind from all the nothing she was doing and invited her to play a game of chess. She leaped at the opportunity, but they both knew her head wasn't in the game, and she lost twice in a row.

"Alright," Nix said, setting his queen back down and stalling the end of the game before he could claim checkmate, "what's on your mind?"

She wanted to tell him everything, she really did, but she knew what he'd say. He'd want her to go tell Dick, and she would give in because her spine had escaped her somewhere in Austria. Whatever nerve she had left, she mustered it to pretend like everything was fine, and miraculously, her plot worked—for now. She knew she'd have to tell him tomorrow. But tomorrow was another day, and tonight, she could make him believe she was only tired. He'd take for granted that when he woke up in two days' time, she'd still be there, and she was willing to let him.

If only it were so easy to persuade herself.

They'd hardly started the third game when Dick appeared—just Sutton's luck—and informed Nix that Sink had called a meeting with all of Intelligence—just Sutton's damned luck.

"You take my place," he said as he got up, stretching his back, then straightening his tie. "Go easy on her. She's tired."

Dick's brow creased as he took Nix's seat at the table, and Sutton stifled a groan. Now he knew something was up. She shot a squinted look at Nix, but he was already halfway out the door, following a few of the other Intelligence officers from other companies into the night. Sutton pretended to be focused on the game, watching her own hand move a bishop as if she had any strategy at all in mind other than to get this game over with as quickly as possible. Dick offered a hello and she mumbled one in return, but she couldn't look up at him, she just couldn't. They played in silence for a time until Dick's hand hesitated over his king, then returned to his lap.

"What was the news from London?"

"Sink gave it to me," she replied, and he didn't realize she was deflecting the question until she added, "I've been in the war longer than he has, but he still acts as though I'm a—what do you Americans call the new blood?"

She still didn't look up, able to hear the frown on his face in his voice.

"A rookie?"

"That's it."

"What... What did he say?"

She told him, then expressed her disappointment in the colonel's opinion. He agreed, then went blessedly quiet for a few moments. He moved his king. She shifted her pawn. He tapped his fingers on the table, then nudged her foot with his under it.

"I'm glad you're staying behind."

Her head shot up, and she realized her mistake only when she caught him staring at her. She glanced aside but couldn't hide for much longer; in the end, she looked back at him, pinching the skin of her knuckle where her hands rested in her lap.

"How did you know?"

"Lucky guess." He cleared his throat. "Or, um, unlucky, I suppose?"

The day Sutton met Dick Winters, she remembered thinking his eyes were the color of smokey-green moss. They darkened a little when he was tired or stressed and went more silvery and blueish when he was alert and focused. She loved those eyes. Almost as much as he loved hers, had she known it.

"I'm not staying behind," she blurted out, the rook in her hand hesitating over the board. "I'm being redeployed. Immediately."

Dick didn't even see where she put the rook down, swamped by this news. He seemed to sink into his chair, and it wasn't a sign of comfort but dismay. Sutton felt a tremor in her chest—was it guilt? Relief? Regret?

"What?"

"I'm going back into the war."

Dick frowned. He seemed to be at a loss for what to say.

"So am I," he said at last, but Sutton was already shaking her head.

"No, Dick- It's different, this time."

She was making him nervous. She hated to do it, but she had no other choice.

"How so?"

"I'm a spy," she said, and her voice nearly failed her. "Once a spy, always a spy."

He blinked at her as if he still didn't understand.

"But-"

"I'm going alone. And this time..."

"'This time'? 'This time' what?"

"This time-" She had to force it out. "-one of us may not come back."

He looked like she'd just slapped him in the face. Sutton's face burned nearly as much as her heart. The more wounded his expression became, the more it felt like smoldering coals were stuffing her cheeks. She rose abruptly from the table. Her chair scraped across the floor with a miserable screech. The chessboard trembled, pieces fell, and it was all so terrible Sutton could only think to do one thing, and that was run away.

"Goodbye, Dick."

Her voice broke, just when she needed it not to the most, and then she was ghosting away and Dick was left alone at the chessboard. Were those tears in her eyes when she rose to flee? Were they his fault? He sat and thought for a long time until the ticking of his wristwatch emerged uniquely from the quiet of the surrounding room and roused him. Solemnly, more shaken than he was startled, he reached out and made to collect the fallen pieces, replacing them in the drawer beneath the board. The queen, he picked up last, and he held it up to his eye, wondering how the tides could have turned so quickly. The wooden figure turned a little blurry and he shoved it in the drawer with the rest of her pawns and knights and bishops—all the pieces were there, except for one rook. Dick had seen it leave with Sutton, clutched in her hand tight enough to leave an imprint. He wasn't sure she'd even noticed she'd taken it with her. A part of him hoped she'd bring it back. Maybe he'd work up the nerve to kiss her goodbye, and maybe that would make everything alright, but the door remained closed and the hour grew late, and eventually, Dick had no choice but to drag himself off to bed.

Maybe tomorrow he'd love her a little less and be able to tell her the more for it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[sergeant-spoons]

And Know That Only I ~ Pt II

Perrine Blomme (Perry Bloom)

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Part 2 of Follow Me, My Dear, And Know That Only I Will Follow You.

Title comes from the song “Long Way Around” by The Sweeplings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Airfield was as busy as a beehive on the morning of the big jump. It was to be Perry's first, and she considered herself rather fortunate that her luck had landed her with (supposedly) sleepy Holland. Every soldier from Private to Colonel bustled about, every minute demanding something new. The Toccoa men prepped themselves and the replacements tried to keep up; if they were lucky, they (like Perry or the newly-christened Babe) had an in with a Normandy veteran. Perry had just parted from Miller and Garcia, having been summoned by Sergeant Randleman for one last check-up. She could only suppose someone had let slip at her tiredness last night, and as she approached the sergeant, she found the culprit standing right at his side.

"Joe," she greeted him, then the others, "Sergeant. Doc."

"You feelin' alright, Bloom?" Doc Roe asked, studying her eyes and cheeks for signs of fever or delirium.

"Just peachy, Doc," she said. "No, wait, you're from the bayou, right?"

At his puzzled nod, she grinned.

"Then I'm fit as a croc, Doc."

Joe audibly groaned, but Randleman snorted, and Perry, pleased, prepared to convey her good nights' sleep and readiness for the jump. Before she could, however, something behind her caught the sergeant's eye and his smile dropped like a boulder off a cliff. Joe grabbed Perry by the shoulders and manhandled her behind Randleman and Roe, who'd stepped forward to conceal her.

"What the hell, guys?!" she yelped, trying to get around them, but they wouldn't let her. She had to grab Joe's shoulder and balance on her toes to see what was going on.

There was a transport going by with two men perched on the sides of the jeep, practically boot-to-shoulder with the driver. One of them sat with his chin up, bouncing merrily along with the rumbling of the jeep and waving to a few men he seemed to recognize, including Doc Roe. The other fellow—an officer, by the looks of his uniform—sat stiff as a gravestone, scanning the crowd with a thick glower.

"Who's that?" Perry asked, eyeing the second man. "He looks pissed."

"That there is Captain Sobel," Bull said, and she could tell without looking that something in his expression had soured.

"Oh, right." Perry gave a start. "Oh, shit. What's he doing here?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to find out."

"You sure? Something could be up."

Before she could try and slip around him, Joe grabbed Perry's arm and tugged her after him.

"Not for you to find out, either. Come on."

"Hey!" She pulled her arm back, ignoring the twinge it gave at the twisting motion. "For the last time, Joe I'm not a kid, so you can stop yanking me around, alright?"

His frown eased a bit, and when he nodded in the direction he wanted to take her, he seemed relieved when she continued to follow him. They skirted around the back of one tent and ducked into its neighbor, and Perry realized only once she was inside that it must be Joe's own. Well, it was the one he shared with Malarkey, but still—she felt suddenly bashful, put on the spot as if she was intruding on his childhood bedroom. There wasn't much left to witness, seeing as everyone had packed up that morning, but she could still smell his aftershave lingering in the closed air. It was the same used by all the men, but he added something to it that made the scent stand out—at least, to Perry it did. Maybe it was a spritz of cologne? She felt his hand on her arm and jumped, realizing too late that he'd asked her something she hadn't heard at all.

"Hey," he prodded. "You alright?"

Shaking off the strange urge to get up close to his face—to see if she was right about the cologne, of course—she had to ask him to repeat himself. Patient, he did, and she shrugged.

"Yeah, yeah, I, uh... I guess I got a bit spooked."

Starting with a truth seemed the way to go, and when he glanced out the open tarp flap toward the road where the transport had gone by, Perry jumped on the assumption.

"The way everybody talks about Sobel, it's like- like he's the monster under the bed, y'know? I never really expected to actually see him. And especially not here."

Joe sighed as he slung his pack onto the ground and knelt, shaking his head.

"You think he's jumping with us?"

He glanced up at her and she saw his frown had turned a bit stormy.

"Might be. If he is, chances are we'll leave him behind. He's too stubborn to listen to anybody out in the field, least of all his own sense—that's why we couldn't jump with him before. He'd get us all killed."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Shit."

He rose and stretched out his hands, and she saw he'd wrapped them as if the bandages were boxing tape.

"But enough about Sobel. If he jumps, he jumps."

He passed her a few strips for her own hands, and she couldn't keep a smile off her lips for long.

"Come on. One more time before we get on the planes."

As soon as she'd finished prepping her fists, she took up the stance he'd taught her and took a few quick practice swings. They mock-sparred for a bit until she managed to land a good one on his shoulder. He stumbled back and wobbled like he was about to fall, and Perry only understood he'd been messing around after she'd jumped forward and grabbed his shirt to steady him. He laughed, his hands coming to rest on her arms, and she squeezed his shirt as if displeased at his trickery when in reality she was just trying to keep her own balance.

"Thanks," he said, almost smirking, and Perry felt the fluttering in her chest maximize.

That was the first time he'd said just 'thanks' instead of 'thanks, kid'.

She stepped back, tugging at her hair, and Joe released her arms, nodding to her hands.

"You got 'em with you?"

She rifled through the inside pocket of her pack and showed him her brass knuckles. That gleam in his eyes from last night was back when he ruffled her hair and told her she'd done well. Leaning aside to peek out the tent flap, he missed the way her hand rose as if wanting to graze his chin and then fell just as quickly.

"Looks like Sobel's moved along," he reported. "You ready?"

She shrugged, starting to remove the wrappings.

"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

No glance or smile could have prepared her for the feeling of him taking her hands and unwrapping the rest of the bandages for her. It was such a tender and unexpected thing that she stood there and let him.

"No 'I guess'," he refuted, looking at her hands as he unwound the last strip. "You're gonna be fine."

"Right."

"Right?"

"I'm gonna be fine."

He stepped back, hesitated, and then held out the bandages to her.

"You'd better not need these out there."

Shaking her head, she pushed them back toward him, and he quirked a brow.

"No?"

"From what I've heard about your luck on D-Day," she replied, smiling faintly, "chances are, you'll need 'em."

He snorted and shook his head, but as he returned the bandages to his pack, she caught the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, betraying a kind of fondness that made her a little lightheaded.

"Yeah," he said, the gravel of his voice softening into sand, "you're probably right."

That day was a tumultuous one. The tall grass of Holland would have concealed one man, but a hundred helmets gleaming in the sun did little to disguise the advance. An orange flag welcomed them into Eindhoven, and by the time the better part of the company had entered the town, orange pennants had been strung from here to Kalamazoo. As men fell over themselves to flaunt their stations for the sake of a kiss (or a dozen), Perry searched for a way out of the crowd. Too many people meant too many close encounters and too high a chance of something going awry. She found Victor before long, but they'd only gone a few yards before they heard a kind of chanting from across the street. Perry, wan, hardly realized she'd jumped into the fray until four Dutchwoman were turning her away, their eyes downcast toward the blood and hair matting the cobblestones.

As soon as he caught up with her, Victor drew her aside, turmoil darkening his kind hazel eyes. Perry began to pace, the ugly scene just a few yards away filling her with a kind of rage she'd only felt once before in her life, on the day her mother abandoned the family. Stumbling her way out the door, a vodka bottle in hand, she'd turned to Clyde with venom in her eyes and spat that he was worthless. Perry—seeing red—nearly ran after her and gave her what for, but then Clyde began to cry and the brain fog lifted just enough for her to concede that violence wouldn't do any good. Seeing orange but feeling red this time, Perry was raring to start a fight. Victor agreed to back her up and they started back toward the abhorrent display, detouring only slightly to grab ahold of Joe and Doc Roe. The four Americans converged on the scene together, a spiteful Perry leading the charge, and started to chase off the spectators and perpetrators alike. In what seemed to be only a second, Perry found herself toe-to-toe with three scowling Dutchmen but would not back down, not for the sake of the first word and especially not the last. Victor came up to hover beside her as the argument boiled and bubbled until Perry came close to screaming at the inhumanity of it all.

“You do not know what we have lived-”

“No," she snapped, rage vibrating throughout her entire body, "I don’t. But I sure do know what it’s like to ruin yourself for the rights no person should have to beg for."

The ringleader of the three finally gave up and started to walk away, and Perry almost went after him, but again, somebody she cared about far more stopped her. Victor's hand on her shoulder brought her back to reality, and as a wave of unforgiving nausea swept over her, Perry turned and bent over her knees. Victor urged her over to a spot further away from judgmental eyes and Joe tried to give her his canteen to drink from, but she was too restless to stay still for long or even swallow. Victor went back over to one of the women still on the ground and sat beside her, and Perry was quick to follow. She crouched down beside her friend and gently introduced herself in Dutch as Doc Roe tended to the woman's bloodied scalp. After the woman had dried most of her blinding tears, she seemed to recognize Perry and threw herself into the soldier's arms with a wail. She kept repeating heroine over and over as she sobbed against Perry's shoulder, and they all just sat there, the Dutchwoman and the four soldiers, until the last of the crowd had dispersed.

“That coulda been my mother.”

Victor gave her a puzzled look, but the lump in her throat kept Perry from elaborating, and she stayed silent as she watched Lieutenant Lipton kindly lead the woman away, having offered to walk her home. Perry grabbed Victor's arm and used it as a crutch to bring herself to her wobbly feet, missing how Joe had offered her his on her other side. He dropped his arm, stuffed his brass knuckles in his pocket, and ran his hand through his hair.

"Your mother?" he asked, careful as could be, careful like he knew how Perry felt. Like he knew what it was like to want to punch the whole world. And that's what made her tell him (and Victor and Doc, of course) about Groningen and what leaving did to her family, about her mother and all the bottles in the cupboards, about how nothing could change what she'd done and why she'd thought she'd had to do it, and—most of all—about what little difference there was between the vultures of Sacramento and the wolves of Eindhoven. Joe looked awfully sorry to hear it all, and Perry itched to hug him but knew she might as well give herself up should she make the attempt. Just as she'd crossed the threshold of staring too long, Lieutenant Welsh popped up and dragged her and Victor away to find them lodgings for the night. His attempt was short-lived, however, and Victor ended up drifting off with Donald Hoobler and another trooper Perry didn't know well enough to name while Perry herself turned to Heffron and Guarnere for direction.

"Why don't ya go with Vest?" the sergeant of the pair suggested, pointing the butt of his pistol over her shoulder before nestling it back into its holster. "He said there's a bed or two to spare where he's goin'. Bet he wouldn't mind the comp'ny."

Unfortunately, Perry didn't know who this 'Vest' character was and ended up wandering on her own for a time. She'd just stopped to peer over a low fence into a stranger's fragrant garden when Joe Liebgott surfaced from the dwindling throng and all but dragged her down the street toward a boarding house with all its windows thrown open. As they walked, he informed her that Guarnere, having realized too late that she wouldn't know Vest if he was two feet in front of her, had sent Liebgott to find her. Lieb, in turn, had secured a room at the boarding house on his way and was certain there'd still be room for Perry. He was immediately contradicted by the frazzled landlady guarding the front door, but what she didn't know was that once Joe Liebgott set his mind to something, that something was going to get done. Then Joe Toye came down the stairs for the sole purpose of joining the persuasion and the landlady gave in, but only on the condition that Perry would share a room with one of the pair. To Perry's astonishment, Toye hooked his arm around hers—seemingly without a second thought—and began to lead her back up the stairs.

"He snores like a train engine," he elucidated, shooting her a smirk as Liebgott began to protest, and Perry could do little but laugh and turn her head toward the window in an attempt to hide her pinkening cheeks.

A few hours passed as they dropped their packs and went to find some dinner, then played poker with some of the other fellas in the boarding house until they got sick of losing to stony-faced Toye and hauled themselves off to bed. Perry suggested they do the same and Joe assented, and as the first stars came out, they kicked off their boots, took one last look out the window at the sunset, and readied for bed. Jostling for a spot in the cramped bathroom down the corridor for tooth-brushing and face-washing purposes left them more tired than before, and they rolled into bed almost as soon as they'd gotten back to the room. The mattress creaked a bit but was comfortable enough, and the pillow was one of the nicest they'd maintained since joining the Airborne. The only issue was the singularity of it:

It was the pillow because it was the only one.

Their lighthearted bickering over who would get it devolved into sleepy grabbing and poorly-suppressed snickering that they tried to bite back for the sake of those trying to sleep in the adjoining rooms. Equally persistent, neither would relent, but then Perry stuffed the pillow under Joe's head and plopped hers down on his chest, tossing both arms over his torso to keep him still. She expected him to squirm a bit, but he didn't, just laughed and laughed until she had to threaten to use the pillow to smother him to get him to stop. A peaceful kind of quiet descended upon the room, and as the darkness become total, neither moved an inch, thoroughly comfortable as they lay and daring to assume the other felt the same.

Twenty minutes later, Perry had drifted off into the land of slumber and Joe Toye didn't know what to do with himself.

He knew he'd landed himself in a sort of predicament as soon as they came into the room and saw there was only one bed. It was big enough for the both of them and Perry didn't seem bothered, but what she didn't know was that something had been nagging at Joe ever since he saw her jump into the fray that afternoon, a kind of fire in her eyes that ignited his own. The day turned to night and all of a sudden, they were sharing the bed and he had no idea how to proceed. Now, this was long before he knew who Perry really was—that 'he' was actually a 'she'—but what he did know was that he'd let her stay there, cuddled up to him like a lover, because every time he looked at her she lit a flame inside his chest. And that flame, stubborn as he was, wouldn't go out no matter how hard he willed it to. But here, in the dark, in the night... it was enough for him to pretend. They didn't have to be who they were, they could be someone else, in the dark.

He could pretend that maybe, just maybe, if he was braver than he was, if things were different in so many ways, if this Private Bloom dozing on his chest was a Miss Bloom instead...

"Get some sleep, Lovely Summer," he mumbled against her hair where it tickled his chin, his heart pounding like the dickens. He hadn't expected any sort of acknowledgment, assuming she was fast asleep, so when he felt her nuzzle her lips against his chest in a half-asleep kiss, he felt a thrill and a chill—and it was all too much. Uncertainty flashed into fear, and he froze where he was, one arm draped loosely over Perry while the other hand gripped the sheets, seeking solace. When at last he tried to get up, Perry made a muffled noise of displeasure against his shirt. The vibrations of her voice shot a shiver up his stiff arms, and he hesitated.

"No," he thought he heard her say in a voice that seemed higher than it should have been. "Sleep. Here."

"Right here?"

"Right here."

And then she was asleep, really asleep. He felt the rise and fall of her chest beside him and wondered at the strange way she curved the top half of her torso away from his almost subconsciously. It was as he lay there that he felt his arms relax, and then his hands, his shoulders, and finally, his heart. It became clear even to his sleepy mind that he wouldn't have gotten up after all, even without her protest. He was just too darn comfortable like this, too darn safe, too darn... happy. So Joe laid back down, closed his eyes, and decided to stay happy—at least until the morning twilight gave way to the dawn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Although the first light of day was only just poking through the window, Joe was gone by the time Perry awoke. She sat up, rubbed at her eyes, and felt poorly about herself until the door creaked open and a pair of hands offered two cups of coffee. Joe's gentle smile danced above them, tugging up at the corners when he started to move the cups in a song and dance as Perry tried to take one. She laughed and he relented, handing her a cup, then fumbling in his pocket for one solitary packet of sugar. They split it and pretended it made all the difference in their bitter morning beverages, sitting on the floor and eyeing the world outside the window. Perry kept an eye on her watch and when Joe asked her if she had a hot date, she snorted and told him she didn't want to be late for whatever came next.

"We don't even know what that's gonna be," he said, then, after a beat: "Perry."

"What?"

Joe nodded toward the floor, indicating the bedroom beneath theirs.

"Your foot's tappin' so much you've woken 'em up."

Perry jumped to her feet, flustered, and took a long, hard look at the sunny day while Joe took a long, hard, unnoticed look at her.

"Here's an idea," she said, turning to rifle through her pack and emerging with a block of rations. "C'mon."

Joe didn't get up, just watched her go.

"Where you goin'?"

"It's beautiful out," she said from the doorway. "Don't you wanna eat outside?"

He hesitated, and that was all she needed to know he wouldn't be joining her. Her spirits fell, and her expression must have shown it, for he started to rise, but she waved him back down.

"I'll just go and find Victor or somebody. You- you go back to sleep. Or something."

That was the last time they'd see each other for quite some time. Perry had only just located Victor and Donald Hoobler—dining upon a whole breakfast spread on the upwind side of a haybale—when a runner came past, informing everyone he saw of their proceeding orders. They hopped aboard the tanks of their sister regiment within the hour and started to roll out for Nuenen, receiving a most boisterous farewell from the locals of Eindhoven. At times, Perry was able to glimpse Joe's helmet moving on a tank up ahead and knew it was him from the way his shoulders moved as he talked or listened to a friend. She itched to go see him, maybe make sure they were on good terms, but doubt crept in and held her nerve like a vice. She didn't know who they were anymore, and he didn't know who she was, and all the not-knowing made her dizzy enough that when Lieutenant Brewer crumpled like a sandcastle right in front of her, she didn't even flinch.

The battle didn't last long and ended up a resounding failure on the Americans' part. Things went blurry for Perry after a time and all she could really do was stick to her rifle and her buddies and try not to get shot like Brewer. Her senses only started to clear around the time they made it far enough down the road to safely stop for the night, and panic started to set in as she took stock of who'd kept up with the gloomy crowd and who hadn't. Sergeant Martin spread the word that Sergeant Randleman was missing and—worse—that Victor Rich had vanished with him. Martin was the last to have seen them, which didn't seem to be sitting well with his nerves. With Victor and her squadron leader gone, Perry was already close to her wits' end; the final blow came when an emotionally- and physically-drained Doc Roe informed her that Joe Toye had been sent off the line not ten minutes ago, having been hit badly in the leg during the battle.

Turns out Joe had needed those bandages after all.

"How's your squadron?" Doc Roe asked, and it hurt them both to think it was a question he was asking in Rich's stead. "Everybody accounted for?"

"Everybody 'cept..." Perry looked down, squashing her grief like it was the beetle crawling over her boot. "Well. Might as well say it. Miller's dead."

Roe just shook his head, discontent, and went back to his work. For a moment, Perry envied him, that he had something to occupy his mind with, then felt guilty for those who'd been wounded or killed at Nuenen. Buck Compton went by on a stretcher and tapped her leg, telling her to keep her chin up, and when she told him blank-faced that Randleman and Red were missing, his pained smile fell. She watched him go and kicked at the earth, the voices in her head getting louder and louder. Fortunately, Sergeant Lipton turned up in the right place at the right time. He drew Perry aside in an attempt to assess her clearly-fragile mental state only for her to startle him by letting loose a secret she'd kept for months upon months. Three of the most important people to her had gone MIA or WIA, and now Perry, mocked by a starless sky, let it all spill out. She told Lipton who she was and why and how she'd gotten there, and despite his initial amazement, he got over his shock marvelously quickly. A bit of anger flashed through his expression, then pity, then uncertainty, but by the time he realized her panic, he'd managed to square it all with himself just enough to prevent her from completely losing her shit. Unfortunately, there wasn't a thing he could do to fix the situation other than try and calm her down. Once he'd managed to settle her just enough to think clearly, he sent her to refill her canteen and went off by himself to think things over.

Perry returned to the spot she'd left Lipton and found no trace. At a bit of a loss, she stood and chugged all of the water she'd just retrieved until she felt sick. She sat down until she felt less nauseous, but by that time, the gloaming was turning to twilight and she realized a whole night had passed. In the absence of a sane mind, she hadn't noticed. Still, there wasn't much for an enlisted man to see or do at that encampment other than pace and stew, and so pace and stew, Perry did. Eventually, Sergeant Martin marched over, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her over to Skip Muck in the hopes that he could:

"-calm down the anxious rabbit whose makin' everybody else anxious—oh, for fuck’s sake, would you stop that shaking-"

Perry managed to force her limbs to go still, but in doing so, sent her heart speeding and thumping all throughout her chest. Though she barely knew him and he, her, Skip frowned with concern. He squinted at her face and blinked for a moment, then turned back to Martin.

"Uh, Johnny, you seen Liebgott anywhere?"

She might have winced to think he'd pawn her off on another so quickly if she hadn't been used to such treatment of replacements, but instead, she just sagged and resumed tapping her foot. Skip's look turned sympathetic and he looked close to apologizing before Martin turned over his shoulder and lit up, drawing Skip's and Perry's attention.

"Bull!" the sergeant exclaimed. "Red!"

Reunions were swift and clamorous. Perry was the first to make it to Victor, jumping right on his back and nearly knocking him over. Victor just laughed and asked if she was alright, and she retorted that if anyone should be asking such a thing, it should be her. A crowd started to gather and Perry hopped down, adjusting her shirt and sleeves from where they'd ridden up. She kept looking right at Victor, then at Randleman, then back to Victor as if this was some kind of illusion conjured up by her sleepless, heartsick mind. Fortunately, they were real flesh and blood and had come back to the company after all. For a second or two as she watched Skip walk Victor up toward the medic's station while Doc Spina came down the hill to greet Randleman, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, Joe Toye would pop up from behind one of the trucks and come over just to ruffle her hair and tell her everybody was mistaken, he hadn't been hit this time around.

Alas, Joe was fated to stay gone—and for several months at that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Read Pt III here.

[sergeant-spoons]

I Will Follow You ~ Pt III

Perrine Blomme (Perry Bloom)

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Part 3/Finale of Follow Me, My Dear, And Know That Only I Will Follow You.

Plus a bonus epilogue!

Title comes from the song “Long Way Around” by The Sweeplings.

Apologies for the delayed update - this final part (+ the epilogue) clocks in at over 10k words.

Read it on AO3!

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Easy Company departed Nuenen shortly after Bull and Victor's return. Rumbling away on their fewer transports and tanks, watching the smoke rising from a burning Eindhoven on the horizon, they sat and nibbled at rations or smoked, all in silence. By the time the sun found her midday perch, the mood of the company had lifted slightly. A few conversations had started up, though only among only the closest of friends, and Perry turned to try and find somebody to talk to. Garcia sat closest to her and proved her immediate choice, but he was staring up at the sky, a kind of hollowness in his eyes that made her wary to interrupt his thinking. She looked to Babe Heffron next, and he looked in turn to Bill Guarnere, who seemed pleased at the singling out. He started up a barebones game of craps just to pass the time, rolling the dice inside his upturned helmet so they wouldn't go flying off the transport with every bump in the road. The participants got a few ugly looks and a few kinder ones, too, but none seemed worth the bother. They just kept on playing.

Days passed, then weeks. It was in France, at that place known simply as 'the Island', that Perry found out she wasn't alone in her secret after all. 'Victor' Rich turned into Verity, and Perry clung to their sameness like it was the last chance she had of making it through the war alive. For the first time, she told someone what she thought she might be feeling for Joe Toye. Saying it aloud made it real, in a way. And in Perry's situation, truth was scary—truth made her vulnerable. Truth nipped at her heels as Easy paddled across the Rhine to rescue stranded British paratroopers and lost Lieutenant Heyliger to friendly fire and finally returned to Mourmelon-le-Grand for a bit of a breather with the rest of the 101st. As October turned to November, Perry (recently twenty-three) was getting antsier by the day. Verity was the first to notice, then Babe Heffron, and even Donald Malarkey, who she knew even less well than Skip Muck. By then, she knew the time had come for her to do something about her anxious heart before it got her killed.

A week into their stay at Mourmelon, Perry resolved to go to England and see Joe Toye face to face.

By the end of the month, she'd managed to secure for herself a four-day furlough, during which she intended to travel back across the English Channel and pay a visit to the hospital where Joe—restless, no doubt—was still recuperating. The little tugboat she took across the Channel puffed along slowly but surely, and she watched as the French coast diminished behind her, too nervous to look ahead to England. The seawater splashed up over the deck and Perry winced as it lashed, cold, against her ankles. She stopped on the docks and changed her socks before she went any further, but any sort of practicality was overshadowed by her guilt of stalling. She was finally here, wasn't she? Then why wasn't she getting a move on?

A kind of uncanny guilt kept her feet firmly affixed to the pier until a dockworker took her by the shoulders and moved her out of everybody's way. Embarrassed into making an exit, she kept her head down and moved quickly, skirting feet and crates and a few seagulls as she went. As her chin bowed further and further, her cap started to slip off her head, and when it finally fell, she fumbled to catch it. Her clumsy hot-potato-esque grabbing drew a few amused looks from English passersby, but this time, she didn't notice whatsoever. Standing there under a bulbless lamppost, her chin tilted steadily upwards as she took in the building at the end of the street. It was pale and broad and adorned with the largest stitched red cross Perry had ever laid eyes on. More jarring was that the place was twice as big as she'd expected, and then some. As she came closer, she saw there was a garden to the eastward side of the building, and that allowed her a bit of a smile.

Greenery was always good for healing the soul.

Little did she know that when she came around the side of the hospital and went into the gardens, Joseph Toye would be thinking the same thing, but for an entirely different reason. She came around a hedge and stopped in her tracks at once. It was hard to tell who saw who first, but Joe went as stiff as a statue and Perry had to look at his eyes in order to see him blink and reassure herself she wasn't imagining him standing not two yards away from her. He looked well. He was leaning on a statue as if he'd taken a moment to catch his breath, but he jumped up just as soon as he saw her as if she'd caught him in a state of leisure he shouldn't have dared enjoy.

Without knowing any better, she smiled.

"Joe."

Saying his name seemed to snap him out of whatever trance her sudden arrival had put him in. He balked and grabbed onto the statue to steady himself, and she started forward, concerned at his state of balance. But he shook his head and she stopped, easily understanding that he didn't want her to come any closer. She tilted her head, curious and a little hurt, but he just stared as if he didn't know what to say.

He stared because as soon as she'd turned that corner, her green eyes caught on his and his heart skipped a beat he could no longer ignore.

What she couldn't have possibly known was that ever since that night in Eindhoven, he'd been falling to pieces inside, thinking about Perry night and day, even at the times he shouldn't have. The hospital was boring to the point of annoyance, and his recovery was taking long enough that he'd started to snap at the nurses, who were still too nice to him even when he didn't deserve it. He'd started thinking about going AWOL these last few days just to get back to Easy, but he hadn't a clue how he'd manage it with his leg still stiff and achy as it was. The one main reason for him wanting to leave the hospital before he was ready was yet the same for him wanting to stay. And now that reason had appeared like a ghost summoned by the silent misery of his heart, come to England where she wasn't supposed to be, and when he looked into her green eyes, Joe panicked.

He panicked because they were a green he knew too well, a green he wasn't sure he could live without.

"Perry?" he asked, and she nodded, her faint smile growing a bit stronger.

"Yeah. Yeah, Joe, it's me." She laughed softly, a nervous thing, and it made him want to run away. "How're you doing?"

How was he doing? He wanted to tell her he was good—great, even—because it was her, but that's exactly why he couldn't. This was Perry Bloom, a man, who was making him feel all sorts of things he'd only ever felt with women, and now twice as strong. So forgive him for panicking a little—he felt as though he'd lost sight of himself, and fear like that is a bitter vice.

"Go away, Perry," he said, forcing himself to stand on his own although his leg trembled under the strain.

Watching that pretty face fall almost broke his shaken heart.

"What?"

"Leave me alone. Please."

"I-" She looked around as if she thought she might be dreaming. "I- I don't understand."

"I don't either."

It was the only honest thing he could really say to her at that moment, and it brought green eyes back upon him without any sort of warning or mercy. When he flinched, she saw it as clear as day.

"I thought we were friends."

He wanted to say so much but he didn't know how to make the words fit right, so he just turned and started to limp away. She hiccuped and he stalled.

He'd made her cry, hadn't he?

Shaken to the core, he left her there in the garden without looking back. She ran away crying and didn't stop for some time. Even as she wandered blindly around the streets of London, she cried, swiping at her cheeks with her sleeves until they were positively waterlogged. Eventually, she happened upon the inn where she'd meant to stay for the night. To her utmost thanks, the secretary at the front desk was sympathetic and didn't ask any questions about the tears still making tracks down the young soldier's face. She went upstairs to the room, turned the key in the lock, and shut herself away from the world. When she tried to look around inside but found everything was still wet and blurry, she gave up and sat down on the floor right there where she'd stood.

Leaning back against the bedframe, weepy and forlorn, she went over every second of that awful rejection in her mind, trying almost desperately to pinpoint her fatal mistake. Though she tried not to let it, every minute more thinking about Joe was tearing her up inside. What could she have possibly done so wrong? It had been nearly two months since they'd seen one another. Should she not have smiled? What didn't he understand? Had someone somewhere somehow found out about her by some cosmic stroke of wretched luck and let it slip to Joe? Every possibility seemed more outlandish than the last. She wished she could have called Victor or Babe or, hell, even Captain Winters, but she felt so low that she doubted anyone would have picked up, had they had a phone to answer at all.

At the hospital, a nurse came and found Joe a few minutes after Perry had left. She scolded him a bit, saying he shouldn't have gone out into the garden like that without somebody to make sure he got back alright. He almost told her that there had been somebody, but chances were that somebody would never walk at his side again. But he didn't tell her that. He couldn't. Instead, he limped along to the lunchroom, ate alone, and limped back to his sterile white bunk, and there he sat, silent, as the afternoon wore on and on. Just as he was readying to go to bed, having skipped supper, a different nurse tracked him down, and when he saw the bewilderment on her face, he knew Perry had been back. Indeed, the nurse passed him a note and told him it was from a soldier who said he was a friend of Joe's, a friend who would be heading back to his company much sooner than planned.

Joe's heart wrenched. He wasn't sure he could call Perry his friend any longer. The scary part was, he didn't want to—he wanted to drop the 'friend' and just call Perry 'his'.

Even scarier was the creeping suspicion that Perry just might feel the same.

He nearly crumpled up the note but stopped himself at the last second. Almost rebelliously, he unfolded the wrinkled paper and gave it a read.

Joe ~

I don't know what I did, but if you hate me for whatever it is, that's up to you. Maybe I deserve it. Either way, I've been keeping one hell of a secret from everybody and it's something you should really know about. Even if you never want to speak to me again, if we were ever friends, even for a minute, please let me tell you this one thing.

Find me once you're back with the company. I hope it isn't too long—

(For your leg's sake, not mine.)

P.B.

Joe ran his thumb across the paper and discovered that the spots that he'd first assumed to be natural blemishes were, in fact, damp to the touch. She'd been crying when she wrote this, and she didn't care if he knew it. Maybe she'd done it purposefully. He doubted it. There wasn't a vindictive bone in her body.

Or maybe there was, and he'd done enough harm to discover it.

Perry tried not to think of Joe on the boat back to France. The waves splashed and a few seagulls cried out to one another, and Perry watched the English coast grow smaller and smaller until her boots were back on solid ground and the little tugboat was long gone.

Twilight had fallen by the time she made it back to the Company the next day. Verity was puzzled by her early return and asked plenty of questions, but Perry wouldn't say a word about what had happened in England until Verity threatened to write to Joe herself. All Perry could think to say was that Joe hadn't wanted to see her. That quieted her friend into a kind of melancholic pity, and Perry shied away, escaping into the night. Babe found her before long and dragged her over to a makeshift firepit he and some of the other fellas had started up, and she stood there with them, warming her hands and wondering in silent grief:

How had it come to this?

Several weeks later brought a small high point in the matter of Verity's birthday, an event which culminated most unwelcomingly in the 101st's abrupt deployment to Belgium. The next day passed in a blur until Perry once again stood warming her hands at a firepit, now eyeing the woods ahead as her friends predicted what they'd find in there. Some joked, others were more serious, but all seemed a bit antsy to figure out exactly what they were doing here. Then the rows of battered soldiers began to march by, and they kept going for ages. The men began to speculate more darkly and Verity inched closer to Perry, protective. It didn't do much good. With every fallen face that passed her, Perry lost a little more hope.

Sergeant Lipton (who'd lit the fire this time around) tried to make small talk with the soldiers clustered within earshot, but few paid him any mind. Because Verity did, Perry did, too. Lip mentioned something about the forest and Perry mentioned that she knew the place. She'd never been, but her father had, long ago, and she was just about to tell him and Verity all about that 1912 camping trip when she heard singing and whipped about like her name had been called by the angels.

“I’ll be seeing you, in every lovely summer’s day…”

Verity immediately urged Perry to go to Joe, but she just couldn't seem to make her feet move. As her thoughts whirled and her heart thundered in her chest, all she could picture was the look of stunned distaste she feared she would find on Joe's face when she told him what she could no longer hide.

"I dunno if he’d be happy to see me," she told Verity (the understatement of the century), but her friend, opposed to her meekness, took her by the elbows and marched her all the way to the source of the singing.

There he was, gazing up at the night sky, his hands tucked nonchalantly in his pockets. He was standing in the shadows behind a truck, the shadows in which no one would find him unless they knew to come looking. As Perry inched toward him, he looked down and faltered, and she knew in a heartbeat that he'd picked the song because it would bring her to him. In that same heartbeat, all the resolve she'd had to tell him her secret came rushing back, and her steps became more assured, her strides steadier. She opened her mouth to try and speak, but before she could even start, he launched into a flurry of apology and uncertainty, disallowing her to get a word in edgewise. He was saying something about how he felt for her but she was so bewildered by the intensity and rambling nature of his speech that she couldn't make sense of it. His whole body was taut with emotional tension and fear, and Perry, blanking on what else she could possibly do, decided her best chance to get his attention was to grab his hand and place it palm-down upon her chest.

Doing so had her whole face aflame and her heart pounding so loud she was sure he could feel it against her ribcage, but watching the wheels turn in his head and the weight visibly lifting off his shoulders as it all clicked was worth it.

"Did you read my note?" she asked a bit lamely, letting go of his hand.

"I didn't get it," he breathed, and at her look of alarm, he shook his head. "Didn't understand it, I mean." He knocked on his head with a loose fist. "Not much up there, y'see?"

Perry, her eyes watering, threw her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Don't you talk like that," she grumbled into his chest. "You just got back, for Pete's sake. Have a little more faith in yourself or you'll be gone again in a week."

He softened, knowing she was probably right. Embracing her, he gave her a squeeze, a silent reassurance. After a quick glance around to check they weren't being watched, he dared to rest his chin on the top of her head. She sighed against his chest and it was heavenly, and for the first time, he wasn't afraid to believe in the way she made him feel.

"So you've prob'ly figured it out by now," she said once they stepped apart, "but I'm not a man."

"Yeah," he chuckled, running his hand through his dark hair. "Yeah, I get it now."

"Okay." She stuffed her hands into her pockets and pinched the inside corners, fidgety. "So?"

He blinked at her for a moment.

"... So?"

"So are you gonna... report me, or...?"

Before she'd even finished the flimsy question, he was shaking his head.

"Not my business to tell," he said, and her heart, already so full of love for him, made room for just a little more.

"Thank you," she said, and there was something in her quiet voice that hinted at what she really felt, but Joe blinked it away, labeling it wishful dreaming.

"C'mere, Lovely Summer."

He drew her back into a hug, and she settled into his arms as easily as if it were home. She felt a little thrill, relishing in the nickname, not knowing that it had never really been a tease, not really. It was a little funny at first, but as the days went on, the association of the pet name with Perry made it sweeter and truer. Since that night in Eindhoven when she fell asleep on him and he'd started to realize just how much he cared about her, he'd meant it in earnest.

"You sang because you knew I'd come," she murmured, smoothing her thumb over a wrinkle in his uniform, "didn't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"Keep doing that," she said, straightening up and fixing her cap. She sounded so even-keeled, but even in the shadows, he could tell she was blushing something awful. But he understood, and if he'd been a man to blush, he might have been a little pink himself.

"When I want to see you as you," he agreed, "I'll sing."

"Not just any song," she pointed out. "Just 'I'll Be Seeing You'."

"Of course."

She giggled—actually giggled—and it made Joe happier than he'd been in months.

"Of course," she repeated. "Of course."

They didn't get a chance to talk like that for nearly a week. The entire Company was up to its knees in patrols and skirmishes—not to mention the snow. Foxholes were dug and campfires were banned and everyone got colder by the day until you couldn't shake a man's hand without the both of you trembling like a leaf. Perry and Joe had taken up residence in a foxhole for three, joined most nights by Johnny Martin. On the seventh night, Joe and Perry got back late from a patrol and found Martin fast asleep. They slipped into the hole as quietly as they could and settled in, side-by-side. Perry's jaw was so shaky from the cold that when she mumbled Joe's name, she stuttered on the 'J'. He frowned, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and tugged her against his side.

"I should try to find us a blanket," he mumbled against the side of her head, pressing his lips there in what she hoped was a smile but could never be sure. "How're you holdin' up?"

"Well, it's cold." She snuggled a little closer to him. "I'm better now."

"Aww. Cute. Thanks."

"Oh, shush, you."

He smiled and closed his eyes. Perry looked at him for a moment, then tilted her head onto his shoulder and joined him, seeking rest.

"Perry?"

"Hmm?"

Joe cracked one eye to check that Martin was still asleep. He appeared to be, so Joe went on.

"What's it like, for you?"

"You mean as a...?"

"Yeah. That."

"Oh." Perry considered, lifting her head off his shoulder. "Well, gee, I dunno... Pretty much the same as anybody, I guess."

"But you're hiding all the time."

"Yeah. I guess that's the big difference, huh?" A weak chuckle. "It's not all that bad. Some things are harder than others. I can't shower with the group, of course. There's never any piece of the uniform that fits the way it's s'posed to, but then again, it doesn't fit half the men, either. And if people start noticing bloodstains on the sheets—when we had sheets, that is—they're gonna start asking questions, so that's always a bit... perilous, each month."

"'Perilous', huh?" Joe smirked. "I think you've been hangin' out with Rich too much."

Perry snorted. "What're you, jealous?"

He was quiet for a moment, then turned and nuzzled his face against her shoulder. Her face felt warm and for a moment, she feared frostbite only to realize she was blushing instead.

"A little."

"Well, don't be."

He looked at her, seeming a bit puzzled, and Perry couldn't help a giggle. She leaned in toward his ear and he shifted a bit closer to hear her whisper:

"You know Victor Rich?"

"'Course, I do. He's a Toccoa man."

"You mean a Toccoa woman."

Joe pulled back and gaped at Perry, and she shrugged, her smile fading a bit.

"What?"

"Jesus fucking Christ. I never would’ve-" He took his helmet off just to run his hand through his messy hair. "Well, shit."

"You can't say anything, though. Not a word."

"'Course not." He thought for a moment, then smirked. "So it's Rich and Roe, then, huh?"

Perry gasped and swatted his arm. "Shh! What'd I just say 'bout 'not a word'?"

"I won't, I won't," he reassured, smirking a little. "But hey, I gotta know..."

"Yeah," Perry sighed, unable to help a small smile. "You're spot on."

"Yesss," he hissed in victory, cuddling her a little closer, and Perry gave in to his embrace at once. Shivering in a cramped foxhole in the dead of night, what she felt for him was all-consuming. She'd known it forever but she just couldn't find it in her to tell him. She opened her mouth to ask if she was wrong, then, to feel so strongly yet unable to find the words, but Joe beat her to it.

"You got somethin' on your mind?"

"Maybe." She shrugged, just a little, so he would feel it against his cheek. "Nothing that important, though."

He kissed her shoulder and lifted his head, eyeing her with a small smile.

"C'mon. You can tell me."

"Ah, well..."

"Come on." He jostled her a bit and she giggled into her fist. "Tell me."

"Alright, alright. It's just..."

She took a deep breath and poorly stifled a wince to feel the frigid air pricking her lungs. Joe waited beside her, and Perry hoped he didn't realize she was looking anywhere but at him.

The last time I came close to telling you how I feel, you panicked and sent me away. I cried all day. I thought you hated me. I'm still afraid you DO hate me, just a little.

I can't face that rejection again, Joe. I can't. I'd fall to pieces, and then who knows what would happen to me out here in the woods?

So yeah. I can't tell you how I feel. And it's eating at me, day by day, but I just have to ignore it.

"Hey-" He bumped his shoulder against hers. "-what's going on in that head of yours? Let me in."

He asked too much of her, though he couldn't possibly know it.

"It's my family," she admitted in a rushed sigh. "I miss them. A lot."

Joe was quiet for a moment and she started to think he didn't believe her, but then he nudged at her arm until she laid her head on his shoulder again and settled his own head against hers.

"Yeah," he murmured, "I miss mine, too."

That was the end of that discussion. A few days passed. Perry hardly ever saw Joe, but no one would ever get her to admit it was by design. He was right, she did have something on her mind, but that something was entirely about him. He couldn't know. So she stayed away as she tried to come up with an excuse or a way to suppress her feelings even more than she already did. She wasn't having much luck. On the third day, Bill Guarnere tracked her down and told her to stop ghosting around like she was before she started looking like Lt. Dike. He didn't have to give a name for her to know Joe was looking for her. She capitulated, but before she could take a single step in the direction of their foxhole, the first shells started to hit and she had to run instead. A blast hit a tree not far behind her, and when she turned to look, her fear started to grow to realize Guarnere was no longer at her side.

"Crow! Hey! Hey!" She followed the call, a lifeline thrown by Babe Heffron from his foxhole. "Come on, get your ass down here!"

She sprinted for the pit of safety and threw herself in headfirst. Babe grabbed and righted her, and they huddled together, keeping their heads down until the barrage stopped. In the stillness that followed, Perry poked her head up above the rim of the foxhole despite Babe's protests and peered across the forest until she saw Bill's unmistakable limping form crossing the snow toward them.

"You alright, Sarge?"

"Fuckin' fantastic," he called back, grimacing; when Babe popped his head up next to Perry's, he grunted. "Watch it, Babe. This ain't over with."

"Yeah? You think?"

"Yeah."

"Alright."

Perry hauled herself out of the foxhole and let Bill take her place. He grabbed her sleeve and made her stop so he could ask:

"Where the fuck are you goin'?"

"To find Joe. I'll see you in a bit."

"Be careful," Babe said at the same time as Bill warned, "Don't stop movin', kid, that's how they getcha."

"I will. I won't."

She was a bit shaken, her heart still pounding away in her chest from the adrenaline of having been caught out in the open. It was a terrifying business, shellings. It all came down to mad luck, in the end, who got hit and who didn't. As she wandered, she looked for Joe and felt better as soon as she found him singing their song, looking for her.

"Jesus," he swore, "the hell are you doin' out here?"

"It's my hands, Joe," she mumbled lamely, showing him. "They're so cold."

He brought her away from the line and led the way to their foxhole, worriedly eyeing her hands as they walked. They arrived and Perry slipped into the foxhole without question, nodding as Joe instructed her to get down and stay down. When he got up to leave, however, she impulsively grabbed his sleeve, and he paused.

"What?"

He had the stars in his eyes and she didn't think she could bear it if he left her now.

"Stay with me a little longer?"

He did. Night fell quickly but Sergeant Martin did not appear. The longer they were alone, the shorter Perry's resolve became. Joe had tucked her against him just as soon as he'd sat down beside her, but then they blinked and it was truly dark out, and something shifted. They crowded one another like never before. Joe snuck his hands into Perry's pockets and wrapped his fingers around hers. She gasped, feeling the usual butterflies in her stomach kick it up into high gear. Joe just smiled.

"For warmth," he said, and she wouldn't argue with that.

Still, it wasn't enough, and they kept on snuggling closer and closer until Perry dared to turn and straddle his lap. He drew in a deep breath and she had to duck her head to hide her smile.

"For warmth," she mumbled, pressing her face against his scarved neck.

Thankfully, reassuringly, Joe hummed his approval against her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her. She nestled into his embrace, tucking her hands between their bodies to try and warm them up. They kept on shaking and shaking, and when Joe let go of Perry, she thought she might have gotten too close and panicked. She started to move off of him, but he grabbed her hands and kept her close, and as she watched, he lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed each one before taking her hands and rubbing them between his own to stimulate heat.

"For warmth," he repeated, and she nodded.

"Thanks."

It was only a whisper, but he'd heard it nevertheless, and he slowed, then stopped. He let her hands fall back between them, but this time, she placed her palms flat against his chest. He sucked in a breath and when she exhaled, it came out all shaky. They inched closer, bit by bit, and there came a point where they could either let go or take the leap. Perry could feel Joe's breath on her upper lip the moment before he kissed her, slow and syrupy and everything she'd been waiting for.

"For warmth," he whispered when he drew back, but he was staring at her lips, and before she could lose the nerve, she leaned back in. In one fluid motion, she stuffed her fingers into the loose folds of Joe's scarf, cupped his face in her hands, and brought his lips back to hers. He hummed happily into her mouth and she kissed him like they might never have tomorrow. He wrapped his arms around her tight and reciprocated before deepening the kiss, his tongue grazing her bottom lip. She let him in with a whimpering sigh, and he held her even closer. His lips found their way down the side of her neck, and she gripped his scarf, tilting her head to give him better access.

"Warmer?" he mumbled as he nipped at her skin.

"Much."

They fell asleep like that, with Perry on Joe's lap, their lips a little raw and their arms squeezing each other tight to keep ahold of the dream. Warm and content, they dozed, but it wasn't to last. When Perry awoke the next morning, her hands had gone stiff and hot, and Joe dragged her over to Sergeant Lipton before she could even say "good morning". Lip scolded her for how she'd caught the frostbite ("You should have known better than to shovel snow with your bare hand") and sent her to Doc Roe without delay. Joe walked her there, holding her arm instead of her hands so she could keep them in her pockets. He kissed the top of her head when Roe's back was turned and whispered in her ear that he'd see her soon, and though it hurt, she made sure to wave as the truck drove away.

The day Joe Toye lost his leg was the day Perry hated the war the most.

In retrospect, she couldn't remember much of that time, just snippets of misery and terror and grief—kneeling in the blood-soaked snow, staring at Joe's twitching stump of a leg, pleading with God to let this all be a nightmare until Joe grabbed her hand and she knew it was real. She could, however, remember what he'd said to her before he went. For the rest of her life, that conversation would sound through her head, as clear as any tolling bell.

“You gotta hold your- Gotta hold your head up, okay?”

“Joe- God, I don’t know if I can-”

“I’ll be seeing you."

“You promise?”

“In- in every lovely summer’s day.”

The rest of the war was a messy blur of Foy and Haguenau and Mourmelon-le-Grand—then a brief spot of clarity at Landsberg—and Thalem and Berchtesgaden and, finally, Austria. Perry missed Joe every minute of every day, and every day, her heart broke anew to know she'd never told him what she should have before he went. It nearly ruined her, once, thinking about him off in that English hospital with the garden outside his window in full bloom as Spring turned into Summer. He wouldn't be able to go out walking there for a long time, if ever. Verity found her drunk and sobbing far away from the others the night they found out the Germans had surrendered. She took her up to the party and made her dance to the music from the radio until she was delirious with laughter and fell asleep on one of Verity's shoulders while Doc Roe took to the other.

She couldn't have known that while she was missing Joe all across Europe, he was trying his hardest not to think about her through weeks and weeks in a hospital bed. What could have been haunted his every waking moment, and he hated himself for having hoped. When Perry missed him in Haguenau, he hated himself in the hospital in England with the garden still dreary and devoid of green after the harsh winter. When she missed him in Berchtesgaden, crying in the corner, he hated himself on the hospital ship back to the States. When she missed him in Austria, he hated himself, sitting in the living room of his parents' house, back home in Pennsylvania before she could even imagine returning to California. He hated himself because he'd convinced himself he'd lost everything that day—his leg, his dignity, his girl. He'd never even told her he loved her, for God's sake, and now she was off in Europe with the rest of them, kissing somebody with both their legs and a chest full of medals to boot. These were the visions he tortured himself with in the dead of night, sleepless and in more pain than from just his leg. He'd become a bitter man and he hated himself even more for it.

And then a letter came—a letter from Eugene Roe, of all people. Joe didn't know what to make of it and so left it sitting on his bedside table for almost a week. When he finally worked up the nerve to open it and saw Perry's name in the first sentence, he put it down and didn't pick it back up until his mother told him he was being stupid. As he'd expected, Roe had news, but to Joe's surprise (and relief), the news wasn't about somebody dying. Perry was alive. Perry was doing fine. Perry had earned enough points to go back to California and was already on her way. Roe, God bless him, had found out Perry's mailing address from Verity Rich and enclosed it at the bottom of the letter. Joe stared at it for what felt like an hour though he'd memorized the number for the P.O. box within the first minute. Little by little, the shell of bitterness and grief he'd been carrying around for so long started to wear away. He knew what it meant, that address, and why Roe had enclosed it. It meant Perry hadn't forgotten about him. It meant Perry still talked about him.

It meant Perry was within reach.

Joe spent the rest of the morning writing back, and by the time he was done, there were pages and pages to be stuffed into one small envelope. He wanted to know everything—how was everybody? What had gone down in his absence? Most of all, how had Perry been getting along? All of a sudden, he was back to loving and thinking things through and wondering how his buddies were getting along without him. The resentment was gone. He still felt a sting when he thought about Perry, but the hate was gone, hope taking its place. Roe's reply took some time to arrive, but when it did, it was even longer than Joe's, and he knew the medic had taken the time necessary to find the answer to every single one of Joe's questions. He spent days pouring over the contents, reading the letter over and over until it started to wear and tear at the creases. He learned all about Rachamps and Haguenau and Berchtesgaden and Austria. He found out that Perry had been promoted to sergeant and felt the flame of pride spark inside his chest. He wished he could have been there to take the Eagle's Nest but was pleased to hear a toast had been made in his and Bill's honor with the finest of Hitler's champagne.

And all the while, he wondered what he would say when he finally sat down and wrote that letter to Perry.

It was inevitable. He'd have to write to her. Even if she told him she'd gotten married to God-knows-who in Austria and they'd honeymooned in Paris and now they were both back in California making babies, he needed to know. He couldn't live his life without knowing her. He wouldn't.

Still, he put it off. He was scared. He didn't think his writing was all that good, didn't think it would be enough to convey all he needed it to. What if he said something that dissuaded her from writing back? What if he implied something too quickly and made her balk away from his too-obvious, too-gripping love? What if she really had found somebody else?

Another letter came before he'd made up his mind, posted from Victor Rich (now also sergeant) but signed simply 'V'. It was brief but invaluable to Joe. Verity, of course, had been writing back and forth with Perry since the minute she left Austria. Joe trusted that Verity knew Perry almost as well as she knew herself, which was why he believed her when Verity said Perry had never stopped loving Joe. She was leaving Austria now, too, now that the war was fully over and no one would be going to the Pacific unless it was on vacation. Verity warned Joe he'd better not write back to her until he'd written to Perry. Though he usually wouldn't like being told what to do like that, he appreciated it this time around. She was pushing him to do the right thing. Still, he couldn't help but wonder why Perry herself hadn't written, but Verity answered that question too:

She's dealing with a court case right now, trying to keep her family together. It's a nightmare, Joe, and she's been so busy I only hear from her every other week. She told me she wants to write to you, but she's scared you won't want to hear from her. I told her that's bullshit but I don't know if she'll listen to me. You will. You know better than to let her slip away like that. Don't you?

He did.

Perry got the letter three days after Halloween. The verdict had come back that same morning: Clyde was a free man. Free from his mother, anyhow. Sacramento was looking ready for a nice, balmy Autumn, with the breeze sweeping inland from the ocean down by San Fransisco. Forks, Washington was behind them; a Californian future ahead. The court case was over, and the cherry on top was the letter sitting nice and neat in her P.O. box, the name scribbled in the upper lefthand corner already enough to make her heart go all-pitter-patter with anticipation. She tore it open as soon as she got back inside but had hardly started to read when her brother asked who it was from. She paused and looked up, and it was the not knowing what to say that gave her an answer.

"Well, Clyde," she admitted, "I'm not entirely sure."

He rolled around the side of the breakfast table, munching on a muffin from the Blomme's favorite bakery in town, and picked up the envelope.

"'Joseph Toye'," he read aloud. "Oh, it's him."

Perry was so astounded that she stopped where she stood. Clyde gave her a knowing look, and she folded the letter up and sat down in the chair beside him.

"What? How did you...?"

"You say his name in your sleep, sometimes," he told her. "It's only ever him. I mean, you talk about your friends to me, like Verity and Babe Heffron and George Luz, but whenever you get to thinking about this one guy, you go quiet." He shrugged. "It didn't take all that long for me to put the pieces together."

"Huh." She patted the letter on the table, a bit embarrassed. "Well, if you're so smart, what do you think he's got to say to me?"

Clyde raised his hand and started to tick off on his fingers.

"That he misses you. That he's meant to write but it's been hard since he got hit. That he loves you-"

"Woah, woah, woah." Perry went pink. "Why would he-"

"Because you love him, don't you?" Clyde smiled as he broke off a piece of his muffin and offered it to her. "He did write to you, after all, Nell. Hard to imagine he doesn't feel the same."

After a moment's hesitation, she took the gift and wrapped her arms around her brother in a hug.

"You're right," she said, giving him a grateful squeeze. "I do love him. Maybe he does love me, too."

She read the letter. It was exactly what she'd hoped for, but it still managed to fill her with such anxious energy that once she started pacing, it took her ages to stop. Eventually, she picked up the phone and called Verity over on the East Coast. Her friend reiterated what Clyde had said almost word-for-word. She was right, of course—Joe had called her 'Lovely Summer' in the letter. Five times. She’d counted. When they hung up, Perry looked at the phone in its receiver, took a deep breath, and turned around to start that letter. Clyde was already there behind her, holding out a pen and a few sheets of lined paper.

"If you start pacing again instead of writing him back," he said, a smirk playing on the edge of his mouth, "I will put you on a train to Pennsylvania this very minute, so-help-me-God."

Perry took the pen and the paper, eyeing him in awe for the second time that morning.

"How did you...?"

"His address is on the outside of the envelope, silly. Speaking of-" He produced it from the pocket of his jacket, the letter tucked inside. "-I checked out the San Fransisco timetables while you were on the phone, and it looks like there's a three-day overnight that ends up in Wilkes-Barre, so-"

"Point taken. I'll go write him now."

Her brother shrugged, following her down the hall.

"Hey, I'm just saying—you could be there by Saturday if you wanted."

In the doorway to her bedroom, Perry hesitated, then turned back over her shoulder to face her helpful, meddlesome brother.

"When did you say that train leaves again?"

"I didn't." He grinned. "3:10 in the afternoon on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays."

"Right." Perry swallowed thickly against her nerves. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah, anytime." He patted the doorframe. "And Nellie-"

"Yeah?"

"Good luck."

She'd expected the letter to be a challenge, but once she got started (just like with her pacing), she couldn't stop. She had to get up twice to get more paper, she just had so much to say. She wasn't sure how much he knew about what had happened with the Company since his departure, so she wanted to tell him everything—well, everything that wouldn't break his heart. She told him all about the trial and how glad she was for it to be over and that she was sorry she hadn't written sooner. She told him how much she'd missed him these last nine months and that she hoped he wouldn't mind her telling him something she should have told him years ago. When she finally penned those three words and all the reasons for them afterward, it felt as if a heavy fur coat she'd worn since January 3rd had finally slipped off her shoulders. She felt freer as she slipped the thick envelope into the P.O. box and walked home with a slight spring in her step. Clyde met her outside with a basketball in his lap, and they tossed it back and forth, talking about nothing in particular and feeling twice as good because of it.

Perry was going to get on the train. She really was. She just needed to hear back from Joe first. If he didn't want her the way she wanted him, well, then, she wouldn't go, simple as that. She'd just stay at home and let her heart break and wonder how she could have thought those kisses in a bleak winter could mean something beyond the war. The days passed, and the longer she waited, the antsier she became. Clyde did his best to keep her occupied, having her take him to the pictures and help build his model boats and read through pamphlets for California State at Sacramento, his dream school. Perry didn't mind. She loved her brother and wanted nothing but to make him happy. He was a good kid getting close to becoming a good man. Where had the years gone? The war had taken her away for just one, but just one was still one too much. She'd been away from Joe for almost a year now, too. She wasn't sure which was worse. But she was going to get on the train, she really was.

In the end, Joe—marvelous, unconquerable, would-go-to-the-ends-of-the-earth-for-the-people-he-loved Joe—beat her to it.

He showed up on her doorstep two weeks and a day after Clyde rolled out of court for the last time, his sister on one side and his father on the other. He was the one to open the door. Joe hadn't been expecting a kid with sandy blonde hair and a basketball in his lap. He cleared his throat and offered an awkward, brief smile. Just as Joe was starting to think he'd knocked on the wrong door, the kid stopped studying his face and offered up the basketball.

"D'you play?"

Joe glanced down at his leg.

"Not anymore, I reckon."

The boy shrugged. "I play, and I haven't got either leg."

A smile crept onto Joe's face, and the kid broke out in a grin. He rolled himself into the house backward and waved for Joe to come in, but the unexpected visitor hesitated on the threshold. Instead, he leaned on the doorframe and listened as a conversation took place down the hall of the single-story home.

"Hey, Nell."

"Hey, what's up? You wanna play?"

"Maybe later."

Joe heard a chair scrape back and a person stand. With his heart in his throat, he tried to make himself appear relaxed as he leaned on the doorframe. At the last second, he changed his mind and went back to his crutch, wobbling a little at the abrupt shift in balance.

"Something wrong?"

"Nah. You should probably go check the door, though."

"Mail's here? Already?"

"Eh..."

The young man in the wheelchair rolled back a few feet and nodded toward the end of the hall.

"Not exactly."

She appeared in the hallway, then, looking curiously at her brother, and Joe felt it all come rushing back, everything he'd missed about her. She looked good. She was wearing a green wraparound dress with white polka dots, and he could tell she'd been growing her hair out. When she looked up, she tucked a few locks behind her ear to see him better before she even realized who he was. It didn't take her long—no more than a second, really. She visibly jolted where she stood. Her brother couldn't stop grinning behind her. It was almost enough to make Joe laugh. He started to smile, and just as he crutched that first step over the threshold, Perry lurched into motion. She practically dove down the hallway, racing to meet him there, but when she collided with him in a hug, she was careful to lean back the way she'd come so she didn't knock him off-balance. It was that one little thoughtful thing that gave him the confidence to kiss her neck.

"Hey, Lovely Summer," he murmured against her skin. "Hey. Good to see you, too."

"Joe," she gasped, "oh, Joe."

Perry started to shake. He lifted his head and looked her in the eye. Balancing on his crutch, he reached up and cupped her cheek in his free hand.

"You never wrote me back," she whimpered, starting to cry, and he shook his head, smiling despite it all.

"Oh, I did." He chuckled. "I just got here first."

She threw herself back into his embrace and held him tight.

"God, I love you."

She went still, then, as she realized what she'd said. She started to pull back, but Joe didn't let her go far. He could see the fear and uncertainty in her eyes and knew it was high time he remedied that.

"No more waiting," he swore, tenderly smoothing his thumb over her cheek. "I'm here, now."

"Joe?"

He pressed his lips to hers, keeping to his promise. She stumbled and almost fell over, and in doing so, nearly took him with her. They broke apart in laughter, but it felt out of place and so petered out too soon. Joe kissed her again, firmer this time, and it was when she eagerly reciprocated that he knew he was home.

"Hey," he said once they broke apart, kissing her nose just to see her smile, "guess what?"

"What?"

"I love you, too."

Her eyes were all watery again, and when the tears began to fall, Joe was there to wipe them away. Perry clung to him and wept, touching his arms and his chest and his waist as if making sure he was really here, really alive, really come back to her. Clyde rolled up behind her and bumped the wheel of his chair against her foot. She turned over her shoulder without letting go of Joe, and when he saw her all weepy-like, he patted the back of her knee.

"There, there," he said. "He's not going anywhere. Right, Joseph?"

Joe gave a start. "How'd you...?"

Perry gave a teary, hiccuping laugh.

"Apparently, I talk about you in my sleep," she admitted, and Joe positively melted.

"Cute," he said as he smoothed his hand up and down her arm. "Can't wait to hear all that."

As Perry went red, her brother laughed. He inched to the side and offered his hand for Joe to shake.

"I'm Clyde," he introduced himself, "Perrine's brother."

"Joe." He smirked. "Though I guess you knew that already."

"Yeah." Clyde gave a small smile. "Hey, Nell?"

She turned around to face him, evidently very pleased at how Joe tucked her against his side with his arm around her back, his hand resting familiarly on her hip. Perry smiled and reached down to ruffle her brother's hair.

"Yeah, Clyde?"

He swatted her hand away, still grinning. "Think I could be the ringbearer?"

Perry laughed. Joe went still, his hand freezing in his pocket where he'd been fingering a very particular box. Clyde pouted until Perry took his hand, squeezed it, and told him:

"Not the ringbearer," she informed him. "You'll be my man of honor."

Clyde brightened up significantly, hitting his fisted hand with his other open palm to emphasize his victory. Perry grinned and turned back to Joe but faltered, catching his hand in his pocket.

"Joe?"

"I'll do you one better, kid," he rasped, looking at Clyde. "You can be both. Catch."

He withdrew and tossed the little box in one motion. Clyde, star basketball player that he was, had no problem snatching it out of the air. He took one look at it and started to laugh in awe. Perry just gaped. After a moment, she turned back to look at Joe, who shrugged, unable to keep a nervous smile off his face.

"I was kinda hoping my letter would make it here 'fore I did."

"Why's that?" she breathed, glancing between an anxious Joe and her gleeful brother. "Joe, tell me why."

"Because," he breathed, watching her lips move, entranced, "I said I had a very important question to ask you once I got here."

"Ask it," she pleaded, and Clyde held up the box, nodding right along with his sister. "Ask it, please."

He took the box from Clyde, who then backed up several feet and swung halfway into the kitchen but kept watching around the corner, leaning so far forward he came close to falling out of his chair altogether. Joe crutched a step back from Perry, making sure he could see her whole face clearly before he began, and his smile turned a bit apologetic.

"I can't kneel-"

"Then don't." She rubbed her hands together and he realized she was just as apprehensive as he was. "Just look me in the eye and tell me you love me one more time."

That eased his nerves a bit. She wasn't asking anything of him he wouldn't have already done. Of course, she wasn't. She knew him, and he knew her, and that's why this didn't have to wait.

"Perry," he said, his voice low but plenty loud enough for her to hear, "I love you. I've loved you for more than a year, and I know I'll love you for a lifetime. And so I'm hoping, maybe you'll let me."

Even though she knew it was coming, she still squeaked when he opened the little box and showed her the ring he'd picked to promise her forever.

"I love you," he vowed, his voice dropping nearly to a whisper as a single tear crept down his cheek. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes," she wept, giving him her left hand as the other came up to cover her mouth. "Yes, yes, yes."

Clyde whooped. Joe wanted to pick Perry up and twirl her around, he felt so high, but he knew he couldn't, so he settled for slipping the ring onto her finger and drawing her into his arms. They shared a kiss or two and started laughing all over again, and this time, they didn't stop, knowing they had all the time in the world to make up for the war.

This seemed like a good start.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

April 4th, 1954

This wing of the hospital was blessedly quiet. The sunshine of early afternoon slipped through the windows and gleamed in thin lines across the painted floor tiles of the recovery room. Joe sat on a stool at Perry's bedside, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. The door clicked shut as the nurse left to give the couple some time alone. Perry raised her chin up off her pillow and pouted at Joe, wanting a kiss. He complied, then sat back, stroking her tangled hair. His gaze slipped toward the bundle resting upon her chest, and she smiled.

"About time we got to meet her, huh?"

Joe nodded, his brow creased in wonder.

"She's beautiful," he breathed, the tears in his eyes choking up his voice. "She's ours."

Perry reached out and took his hand. She looked down at the little bundle of joy sleeping on her chest, her tiny little cheek pressed to her mother's skin, and sighed fondly.

"She is," she agreed. "She's got your nose, see? And she smiles when she sleeps the same way you do."

When Joe didn't respond, she looked up and discovered he'd started to cry.

"Oh, honey..." She squeezed his hand. "Everything's okay. I'm okay. She's okay. You're okay. We're all okay."

"I love you," he wept, bringing her hand up to his mouth to kiss it over and over. "You're incredible."

He looked at the babe and carefully leaned down to kiss her on the top of her little head.

"I love you, too," he told her, whispering so as not to wake her. "I love you, little Mabel."

They sat in a comfortable, loving silence for a time, a family of three, at peace at last. Eventually, Perry squeezed Joe's hand and gave a slow nod.

"I'm ready," she told him. "Would you go get them?"

"Sure." He pecked her cheek and stood, tucking his crutch under his arm. "Be right back."

Clyde rolled in first. He was already smiling, but when he saw his sister and newborn niece, he completely lit up.

"Wow, Nell," he said softly, reverently admiring the sleeping babe. "You've really done it all now."

"Isn't she just perfect?"

"She is." His smile grew the longer he looked. "Oh, I'm going to spoil her rotten."

"As am I," Verity chimed in, smiling fondly at her friends as she followed Joe into the room, shutting the door behind her. "How are you holding up, Perry?"

"Better than ever, Red. How're the kids?"

"Gene's keepin' 'em busy in the lobby. Maddie's infatuated with her princess coloring book and Nicky's got his letter blocks." Verity rubbed her visibly-pregnant stomach. "Number three figured out recently how much fun it is to kick me right in the bladder."

Perry laughed gently, her eyes twinkling with some warm hidden knowledge. After a beat, she turned to her husband.

"Should we tell her now?"

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He nodded, and his wife waved for Verity to come closer.

"We've named her Mabel Rodezus Blomme-Toye."

Verity beamed and put her hands together, none the wiser. Clyde, however, went still and looked at his sister, wide-eyed.

"I love it. A beautiful name for a beautiful baby."

Clyde gave a soft whistle, recovering from his initial shock. He reached over to Verity and tugged on her sleeve. She quirked her head at him and dropped her hands, her smile fading.

"What?"

"'Rodezus'," he translated for her. "It's Dutch. Means 'red sister'."

Slowly at first and then far quicker, Verity's expression began to transform. She took a deep, shaky breath and started to cry. Joe came over, gently took her hand, and guided her over to Perry's bedside, allowing her to clasp his wife's hand between her trembling fingers.

"You're as good as my sister," Perry reminded her, tearing up just the same, "and I love you." She brushed her thumb over her daughter's swaddled body. "She will, too."

"I love you, too," Verity wept. "You're an angel, you are."

Perry just smiled, tired but happy as could be. Her friend turned to look at the rise and fall of the newborn's chest, smiling through her tears.

"Hello, little Mabel," she whispered. "You're gonna be so happy, you know that? You're gonna be such a happy little girl, with parents like these."

She looked at Perry and then Joe, wiping the tears from her eyes though they just kept on coming.

"You've got two of the best people in the world looking out for you." She bumped her hip against Clyde's wheelchair. "Make that three."

"Make that four," he corrected, rolling up beside Joe's chair. The two men shared a warm smile. Verity's cheeks pinkened a little, and though her laugh was weak, it was full of gratitude and devotion. The four of them—mother, father, uncle, and namesake—sat around that hospital bed and breathed in life, holding hands and smiling a thousand blessings upon little Mabel, who slept and slept and knew she was loved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Read Pt I here. Read Pt II here.

[sergeant-spoons]

Follow Me, My Dear ~ Pt I

Perrine Blomme (Perry Bloom)

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Part 1 of Follow Me, My Dear, And Know That Only I Will Follow You.

Hello, my lovelies! This fun rewrite fic is in response to this darling ask from @wtrpxrks​. 💕 The fic is written in three parts, returning to certain events throughout In Defense of Chicanery from different perspectives—specifically those of Perrine Blomme (Perry Bloom) and Joseph Toye. The first two parts will be published tonight and the third sometime in the immediate future.

Title comes from the song “Long Way Around” by The Sweeplings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Thanks for the help, Toye."

"Yeah, sure thing." He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and irony crossing his brow. "Can't believe you got stuck with unloading the trucks your first week with us."

Perry Bloom shrugged. "'S'alright. I'm used to it."

Joe Toye didn't respond, and when Perry glanced up, she could tell from the look on his face that her response had caught his attention.

"My brother plays basketball," she said, "but he's, ah... He's not so good at moving his equipment by himself."

Toye hummed but did not comment, accepting the information as simply and earnestly as Perry had hoped he would. She let out a breath of relief and turned to find the boxes to her left had gone missing.

"Toye?"

"Hmm?"

"Where'd you put the, uh..." Perry snapped her fingers, her tongue darting out the corner of her mouth. "The mortar restock?"

His hands full, he nodded over his shoulder. The boxes she'd started to move toward the mortar deck were now on the opposite end of the loading dock. One of the boxes was upside-down and now read 'ɹɐʇɹoW'. Perry's brow pinched, folding her lips together as she tried to think of a kind way to let him in on the mistake. Joe took notice and paused.

"What?"

"I could be wrong," she said, "but I'm pretty sure those're s'posed to go over there."

She pointed to where a few of the men were standing with their mortar packs and equipment. They seemed to be chuckling amongst themselves, and once they caught Perry frowning at them, they no longer bothered to hide their laughter.

"Assholes," she muttered, heading for the boxes, but Toye had beaten her to it. As she came up, she caught him muttering but couldn't quite distinguish what he was saying. Listening closer, she heaved one of the hefty boxes into her arms and followed him across the pavement. He was at least a foot taller than her—if his shadow didn't prove it, his stride sure did—and she had to awkwardly hop several times to keep up.

"Stupid," he grumbled, and though it was the first word she'd caught, Perry immediately understand what—and who—he was referring to. She stopped in her tracks, set the box down with the others, and took a good long look at him. He went back across the loading dock, grabbed another two boxes, and seemed to shove himself back over to her. She met him halfway and kept her hands raised in case one of the boxes should fall. He stumbled at the shallow incline right where the rest of the mortar supplies were and said it again—Stupid.—and Perry could see him ready to speak before she'd even finished saying his name.

"Toye-"

"I'm stupid, okay?" he snapped, shaking his head as his chin dipped toward his chest. "I'm an idiot."

Perry knew that look from her brother—shame. She never understood it from Clyde and now, coming from Joe Toye, it baffled her again. She made a face, her nose scrunching up as her mouth flattened into a displeased line. Before Toye could turn around and go back for the last box, she punched his arm to get him to look at her. It worked, and she tapped her foot on the cement, more than willing to stall their work if it meant getting to the bottom of this.

"The hell are you on about?"

He stopped, sighed, and ran his hand through his handsome hair before tucking it under his cap. Perry didn't mean to notice the handsomeness, but everything about Joe Toye was nice-looking—it was unavoidable, thinking about him like that.

"I dropped outta school when I was a kid," he said, averting her eyes. "Had to work in the coal mines so my family could eat."

Perry didn't realize her mouth had fallen open until Toye chanced a look at her and she watched his gaze harden.

"So yeah. I'm stupid. I don't know shit." He dug his heel into the ground as if it might make a dent in the concrete. "Can't even move a fuckin' box right."

"Bullshit."

His head flew up and she made sure not to disappoint him again.

"You're not stupid."

He started to scoff, but she wouldn't let him.

"You're not, Joe. It wasn't your fault you got pulled outta school. Hell, it wasn't anybody's fault—well, except maybe those Wall Street bankers that screwed us all over. Hell, I barely graduated myself."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I'm still not sure how I managed it. Had to work a job outside o' school, then two once I graduated." She laughed. "I bet they had half a mind to hold me back another year for how often I fell asleep in class. But they didn't, in the end."

"Good for you." he sighed, and though she could tell he meant it, he'd started to turn away, and that didn't seem conducive to the point she was trying to make.

"Toye- Hey-"

Perry clasped his forearm with fingers gentler than she probably should have dared. When he didn't pull away, she inched a little closer.

"You're smarter than you think. Really."

He frowned, but she shook her head, quickly going on before he could offer any rebuttal.

"I mean it! You're smart with your hands—weren't you the one that fixed the radio in Lieutenant Nixon's car the same day I got here? Yeah, I knew I had that right. And you're one helluva singer, aren't you? You know all the words to all the songs you've ever heard, and as a matter o' fact, I've never seen anybody memorize a list as fast as you."

"Never?" he asked, but the skepticism he tried to put forth was betrayed by the slight upward tug of his lips.

"You wouldn't be a staff sergeant if you were dumb," she pointed out. "Army's gotta think you're smart, too."

"Shit, you really think so."

Choosing it as a statement reassured Perry that he was really starting to believe her, and she, feeling the rush of a breakthrough, squeezed his arm and jumped just a little. Her soles barely left the ground, but then she felt embarrassed and childish, but for some reason, Toye's smile had only grown, and she wasn't about to give it up.

"I do think so, I do," she reaffirmed, dropping her hands and clasping them behind her back. "You're smarter than you think."

"C'mon, kid, you're gonna make me blush."

"So what if I am? Say, you know what? I'm not done here."

She jabbed a slender finger at his chest, privately delighted with the thought of putting the pink on his cheeks that he so often brought upon hers (inadvertently, for the most part).

"You've got a good heart, Joe," she declared. "That's important—I'd even say there's nothing more important in a man than a good heart."

Toye tilted his head to the side and as Perry watched the sunlight gleam off his freshly-shaved chin, she knew somewhere deep inside that she and Joe Toye would be in it for the long haul.

"A man."

Yanked back down from the sunshine, her heart skipped with a far more face-value secret.

"Yeah. A man."

"Not a soldier?"

She shrugged, using the motion to subtly roll the tension out of her shoulders.

"Sure, that too," she supposed, tugging at her hair. "But a person, more like. Having a good heart—now that'll get you far in life. That'll get you loved."

Toye's smile had turned a little peculiar, and Perry wasn't sure if she should like it or not (she did, either way).

"Sounds like you know somebody like that."

"I do."

"Let me guess..." He eyed her for long enough that she started to squirm. "Your brother?"

"Yes, but you're missin' the point." She poked his arm with a loose fist. "You. I know you."

The laugh that poured out of him then made her feel some kind of way she wouldn't be able to identify for several months after. Standing there with a box of mortar supplies between them—When had they crossed the loading dock?—he flashed her a broad smile and reached to push at her shoulder, friendly, relieved.

"Aww," he teased, "are you sayin' you love me?"

Perry punched his arm right back. "Victor was right about you being a softie," she chortled, but they both knew her face was quickly going the color of the dried astilbe flowers scattered on the floor just inside the loading dock door.

Toye gave her that peculiar smile again as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of her, not yet. She didn't mind, sharing the predicament on both counts—not only what to make of him, but what to make of herself in this contrived new world of hers. Instead of opening her mouth and spoiling the lightness in the air between them, Perry crouched and took up one side of the box. Toye mirrored her at once, and they rose in unison. Together, they brought the last box over to the proper side of the dock, and neither of them said a single word about how easily one of them could have carried it alone.

Not long thereafter, a busy day found them arranged with the rest of Easy Company in a spacious barn, munching on their lunches and laughing at Smokey Gordon's humorous rhymes. As his poem went on, Perry's pals became more confused, but Perry was content to listen to Victor try and give them context for the events put to prose. When Victor laughed, so did Perry. When Edward Heffron and Bill Guarnere met for the first time, nobody—least of all Perry and Victor—could breathe until they shook hands. And finally, when Sergeant Lipton got up and announced they'd be moving out to Membury at 07:00 hours that night, Perry looked to Victor for guidance and quickly adopted his look of thinly-veiled disappointment, even if she wasn't quite sure what to make of the news. She got up with the rest of the replacements and started to gather her belongings and lunch tray but paused when she caught sight of Joe Toye tilting his ear toward Victor's mouth.

Isn't he just something else? she thought, then balked at her own wistfulness and quickly went back to her things. Alas, she was unable to keep her curiosity at bay and risked a second glance. Victor gave a nod at whatever Toye had just said, and as he departed, Toye looked over at Perry. She quickly dropped her head, pink-cheeked and sorry at having been caught staring, even though she couldn't have possibly heard a thing over the noise. She skirted the sizeable crowd on her way outside, adjusting the straps over her shoulders as she walked, but didn't make it far onto the gravel before she was hailed.

"Perry—!"

She'd already turned by the first syllable, seeking the voice more so than its call, and slowed to let Joe Toye catch up to her. He gave her a tight smile and she knew he, like everyone else, had Sergeant Lipton's jarring news fresh on his mind. They'd be moving out to Membury before sunset. That barely gave them enough time for anything at all—maybe a quick shower, maybe the chance to pack their things all neat-like, but not both. Silent but not wanting for something to say, Perry and Toye strode side by side, thinking of what to do in the little window they had left.

"How're your buddies?"

"Hmm?"

It was such a simple question (and not at all what she'd been expecting) that it caught Perry noticeably off-guard. Toye's brow caught in a frown and his companion shrugged, supposing she might as well tell him the truth since she'd accidentally opened that can of worms.

"They're alright, so'm I. Things are fine enough."

"But?"

"But," she confessed, "some of the guys are still pretty antsy around the Normandy veterans."

"Hmm."

"They feel like- like outsiders." Perry shrugged. "Hell, I bet they wouldn't mind so much if... Well. Nevermind."

"Hey."

Toye's gaze narrowed and Perry knew she'd had to fess up.

"No 'nevermind'. What's up?"

"It wouldn't be a problem," she completed, "if a few of those vets were nicer to 'em."

Toye's gaze hardened. "To you, too?"

Perry shrugged a second time and her friend bumped his shoulder against hers.

"Two shrugs means you're not tellin' me something."

"Well, you know we get the cold shoulder more often than not. Oh, you know you've seen it, don't act like it's a surprise. But that's just 'whatever' compared to the shit we get from some o' the others."

"You gonna name names or am I gonna have to do some asking around?"

Perry flushed at the thought of tall, broad-shouldered, brass-knuckle-toting Joe Toye interrogating the men for who had messed with the replacements. It gave her a bit of a thrill, to think of him defending her like that—like a real friend would. Or maybe even...

She cleared her throat and refocused on the matter at hand.

"There's only a few like that, who go outta their way to push us around."

"Go on."

She hesitated but gave in at his look.

"It's mostly Roy Cobb and his crowd," she admitted with a sigh. "He hates us. Can't figure out why, though, 'less it's got something to do with something we did without knowing we did it wrong."

"You didn't," Toye reassured, holding the cabin door for Perry to come through after him. "Cobb's been sour with everybody and everything since day one."

"Well, there you go."

"Hmph."

"It's normal, you just said so yourself."

"Shouldn't be."

"Oh, so what? What's the point, Joe?"

He shifted on his feet, slipping his hands into his pockets. Perry subconsciously copied the gesture but quickly resituated her hands on the straps of her pack when she realized what she'd done. Toye scanned the barracks—and finding Roy Cobb suitably absent—turned back to Perry with a smile painted on his handsome mouth.

"How about this," he decided. "As soon as we get settled in at Membury, we're gonna go shoot the shit for a few hours. Maybe it's just you and me, maybe your buddies'll come with."

"Really? All of us?"

"Yeah, really. What, you think I'm foolin'?"

Grinning, he slung his arm around her shoulder and tousled her hair, evidently pleased when he made her laugh.

"'Bout time somebody showed you kids how to drink."

"Psh," she scoffed, pushing him off her almost reluctantly. "I can hold my liquor just as well as you can, sirrah." A beat. "On second thought..."

As a child, she'd thought it corny when a friend's parent (the happily married kind that was alien to her own household) would say they'd never tire of hearing their partner's laughter. Some kinds of laughter were nice, sure, but several more were just too shrill, too braying, or even too plain. Then Perry met Joe Toye and found out there was a kind of laugh that recharged her soul, and it was his and his alone. It was almost embarrassing how much she craved it, that laugh of his. So she pretended not to hear at all and told him he'd better get to packing, fidgeting with the buckles at the bottom of those pack straps. Though his smile flickered, he agreed, and they parted ways for the day.

Arriving at the barracks, Perry walked into silence. The anxious energy in the room emanated more strongly from some than from others, but things were not well with any man. Perry weaved between her buddies from the replacement crew and gathered up her belongings, but the quiet quickly ate away at her resolve. When she spoke up, suggesting a card game to pass the time until the transports arrived, she received several strange looks but no refusals. Miller was the first to come over, bringing the deck of cards his mother had sent him into the army with. Garcia and Heffron were close behind, and after hovering over their shoulders for a bit, Hashey joined them, too. Then some of the Toccoa men gravitated over—Donald Hoobler and Shifty Powers, to name a few—and the atmosphere started to lighten up. By the time 07:00 hours rolled around, most of the men from Perry's cabin were singing of summer or laughing as they tried to decide who'd won the last chaotic round of Slapjack, readying to board the transports.

Membury wasn't much different from Aldbourne, just a bit further southwest. By virtue of road insufficiency, the 101st was required to drive up north (following the coast of the Bristol Channel) in order to go south, but driving into the sunset made most men forget the peculiar route. The moon had gone up by the time they pulled up to the new base and split up into their platoons to determine their tent assignments. Sergeant Randleman shepherded his rookies (Perry included) over to their spot, and even Miller, the shortest of the bunch, had to duck to get into the low-roofed tent. The sergeant bid them goodnight and the squadron settled in for the evening.

The next two days were full of rain, the second worse than the first, and by the time mid-afternoon rolled around, all evening training had been canceled. Delighted at the chance for one last night on the town before the upcoming jump, every healthy man of Easy Company scrambled to adorn himself in his Class A's and his cap, preparing to woo the ladies or win a darts game for the books. Alas, there were several who would not be able to make it out that night, for the rain had taken several healthy men and given them dizzying colds. Perry was not one of this number, but when she supposed to Miller that she'd stay in tonight, he grimaced and told her to rest up. The others joined Miller in guessing she felt under the weather, and she didn't bother to correct them before they left without her.

It was a bit of a spur-of-the-moment thing, showing up to Joseph Toye's cabin with an anxiously-tapping foot and a cap a little crooked on her head, but then he poked his head out and told her he'd be just a minute more and she knew he'd been expecting her, after all. He bade farewell to some of his buddies and snatched up her cap as he came down the steps just so he could tousle her hair. She grabbed it back and put it on even more crookedly than before, but he just laughed and fixed it for her.

"Just us?" he asked, glancing over her shoulder as if Heffron or Garcia was about to emerge from the woodworks of Battalion CP.

"Just us."

He hummed and hooked his thumbs around his belt loops, and Perry was pleased to think he wasn't disappointed at all. A part of her wanted him to say he was glad it was just the two of them, but he didn't, and she'd never in a million years imply that she wanted to hear it.

Toye led the way through the town as if he'd been there a dozen times before. Perry carried the umbrella for a little while, but Toye took it when he saw her arm starting to shake from how high she needed to hold it to cover his head. He leaned the umbrella's shaft against his shoulder and kept on strolling; if he noticed Perry inching a little closer to keep dry, he graciously made no mention. They made it to the pub in short order and stamped the mud off their boots, laughing at the weather. It was a narrow building, somewhat out of the way but immediately worth the detour. One glance about the place showed just how cozy and congenial it was, with the bartender waving merrily at them and the fire crackling on the far wall, somehow managing to chase away the stifling humidity without turning the open room into an oven. It was still early, so Perry and Toye nibbled on peanuts, sipped at their beers, and watched the sun periodically break through the stormy clouds as it set.

"Hey, shh, shh," Toye said into a bout of silence, "listen to that."

Perry glanced around, unsure what he meant for her to focus on. He started to hum along to the music coming out of the radio behind the bar and she smiled at the flirtatious crooning of Billie Holiday.

"Last time I heard this song was back in France," he said, closing his eyes. "We were sitting around in Carentan, waiting for somebody to send us on patrol or something..."

He trailed off, taken by the song, and resumed humming. Perry loosed the leash on her heart and watched him unabashedly as long as he kept his eyes shut, which was nearly the entire song. Wistful, she leaned her chin on her hand, sipped at her beer, and watched his face crease with his smile.

"If I ever had a- a girl of my own," she decided as she admired Joe Toye, "I'd call her 'Lovely Summer'."

Joe's eyes fluttered open as he chuckled, the goodness of his face softened by the lamplight of the bar. The piano and trumpets following Billie Holiday seemed to time their interlude solely to emphasize the pleasantness of Joe's laugh. Perry drummed her fingers on the table and glanced aside, and he nudged his knee against hers under the bar to get her to look back.

"You mean if you were a girl," he said over the last few seconds of the song, "you'd want your fella to call you Lovely Summer."

Perry, pretending she couldn't feel just how pink her cheeks had gotten, giggled like a fool and told him it was true.

They left not long after, heading further into town toward the more populated pubs and dance halls. The sky had cleared up for a time and Joe swung the umbrella at his side like a cane as he walked. He said he'd promised 'Babe' Heffron a darts game tonight, and if he was anything to be proud of, he was a man of his word. Perry started to tell him there was plenty more about himself to be proud about but lost her nerve when he pointed out a few geese flying overhead a bit too loudly and drowned out her admiration. Instead, she considered what his plans were to be and gave a bit of a pause in the middle of the road.

"What?"

"'Babe' Heffron?"

"Yeah." Joe chuckled, relaxing now that he had been removed from the subject of conversation. "Bill didn't tell you?"

"Guarnere barely talks to me. Only when Red's around."

Joe huffed. "Remind me to box his ears next time I see 'im."

"Oh, no," Perry laughed. "Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"Wouldn't be fair," she said, smirking just a little. "You and your brass knuckles would put his hearing outta commission, and then he'd have no sense of how loud he talks most o' the time and just start yelling everything."

As they turned the corner, Joe laughed more than the joke deserved. Reassured, Perry was about to join in before she heard the laughter and chatter from the populated pub spilling out into the street. She could hear the voices of Guarnere and Johnny Martin and even Victor here and there if she listened hard enough. Joe didn't even flinch, whereas Perry shied back.

"Well." She held her cap in her hands and tugged at it as if that might even out the creases and bumps of a shoddy ironing job. "I'll leave you to it."

Joe gave pause and pivoted on his heels. As he turned to face her, a frown shadowing his handsome eyes, she pinched a fraying thread between her fingers and tried at a smile.

"You're not coming in?"

He bit his bottom lip as he waited for an answer and Perry came close to forgetting how to speak at all.

"I'm a bit tired, actually," she bluffed, more than sheepish enough to seem earnest. "I think I'm gonna head back and try to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow, y'know."

"Yeah. Big day."

He eyed her up and down and she bent her arms behind her back to hide the goosebumps rising across her skin.

"You feeling alright?"

"Just fine," she reassured. "Just tired."

"Alright," he assented, and he raised his hand in a farewell wave before second-guessing himself and offering it for her to shake instead.

"'Night, Joe. Thanks for the company."

"Anytime," he said, meaning every syllable and entirely unaware of how he'd just made her heart prance in her chest. And then, just as Perry started to turn back, he called something after her that made her trip on a pebble and turn as red as the filling of a cherry pie:

"Sweet dreams, Lovely Summer."

When she turned back, forcing a laugh, he was grinning, a mischievous twinkle in his eye that warned her he'd steal her heart whether or not he meant to. She could already tell that her reaction had sealed her fate. This wouldn't be the last she'd hear of Lovely Summer—

Nor would it be the last she'd dream of kissing that smirk right off his lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Read Pt II here. Read Pt III here.

[sergeant-spoons]

128. Redemption Lies Plainly In Truth

Verity/Victor Rich

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​​​ @chaosklutz​​​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​​​ @50svibes​​​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​​​​ @heirsoflilith​​​​​​​ @itswormtrain​​​​​​​ @actualtrashpanda​​​​​​​ @wtrpxrks​​​​​​​

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Verity woke up on the train just before sundown at the shrieking of a whistle. When she looked out the window at the vibrant Autumn leaves covering Boston Common, she realized it had blown to announce their arrival in the city. When she tried to stand, her legs felt like jelly, and there was a weight on her lap; discovering it was Web's book, she flinched and averted her eyes as she hid it away in her pack. Her fingers felt frosty, and she hastily rubbed them together until they burned from the friction. She'd had enough of frozen hands in Bastogne. In fact, she never wanted to be cold again. But it was only September, and she thought herself lucky to have several months ahead to prepare for the desolate Winter. There was no ice on the tracks below and no snow falling from the sky above. When Verity cracked the window open, she felt the warm air outside come streaming in, and that soothed her cares. Waiting for the train to come to a stop, she sighed, leaned back against the cushioned wall, and reminded herself of why she'd been asleep in the first place, hoping that retracing the steps of her fatigue would revive her weary mind.

As soon it had hit her—her aloneness—she knew she'd have to shake it off or spend the train ride a weeping wreck. To stave off the weight quickly sinking on her chest, she'd pulled out the book Web had given her, intending to read it to pass the train ride. She opened the cover and immediately saw the inscription he'd mentioned, and in no state of mind, not even the strongest, could she have skipped it.

To my friend~

May you keep your chin up and your pen moving until we see each other again. May your travels be kinder to you than Gulliver's. May you never let your poetry die.

Godspeed to the day of your liberation.

With love, David

A teardrop had fallen just below the handwriting, turning the endpaper from cobalt to navy. Verity shut the book at once, afraid she'd ruin the inscription with her tears. The bottom of her vision was all warped and wet, and she felt a little lightheaded, and when she tried to lean back, she slipped instead.

One moment, she'd been fine, and the next, she was bawling her eyes out on the trembling floor of a blessedly, wretchedly northbound train.

She thought of all the people who'd kept her secret, and then Perry's, and her thoughts turned swiftly to her friend and everything she was dealing with out in California. At some point, she managed to claw herself back up onto the cushioned seat, clinging Gulliver's Travels to her chest, sobbing all the while. Someone rapped on the door but moved along shortly thereafter, apparently connecting the dots of the silence of the silhouette. Verity cried until her throat was dry, her eyes were parched, and her face felt crusty, and it was only then that she finally fell asleep. She dreamed of nothing, alone in that train compartment, and when she woke, all her heartache seemed to have been packaged up and stuffed into some forgotten corner of her heart. She'd open it again soon enough, whether she wanted to or not, but for now, the distraction of the train pulling into the station (and what that meant for her) put the grief out of her mind.

By the time the wheels made their final, sluggish rotation, Verity had straightened out her senses, gathered up her things, and promised herself she wouldn't cry again until she met her father face to face. They came to a full stop and she left the compartment behind her, gripping the doorframe as the train settled beneath her. Silent and a little unsure, she followed the steady, sleepy stream of passengers toward the nearest exit. The sky had gone orange by the time she came down the broad steps of the station, and when she looked up and to the east, she knew there must already be a few stars out (even if she couldn't see them through the city smog). Putting one foot after the other, she started north toward the bus depot. She didn't need directions, but the shock of knowing these streets made her want to ask anyway; the more she recognized, the harder it seemed to keep going. She felt almost squeamish as she stepped into the bus depot, raising her hand against the glare of the fluorescent ceiling lights.

"Can I help you, soldier?"

Verity had gone without speaking to a soul since that last goodbye in Norfolk. Now, as she bought her ticket home, the words she spoke felt clunky and incorrect. The young woman behind the counter didn't seem to find anything amiss and rang up the transaction without batting an eye. Verity didn't remember her ever working here before—then again, she'd been away for three years. People's lives still went on outside the war. Now that it was over, would there be room for all the veterans? The number seemed staggering; the task daunting. Alton was a pretty small place. Who would hail the soldiers returning? Who would wish there weren't so few?

"Sir?"

Verity flushed and accepted the ticket, the world refocusing around her in a shamed twilight as she apologized. The ticketer flashed a pretty smile, told her no harm done, and thanked her for her service. All Verity could think to do was try to smile back and mumble an awkward thanks in reply. Two years ago—one year ago, for that matter—she would probably have blushed, made bashful by the attention in a way that might have endeared the young woman. Tonight, her embarrassment felt like a mat of burrs stuck to her very soul, uncomfortable and hard to rid oneself of. Confining herself to a corner seat as far as she could get from the glare of those bitter lights, she dug her canteen out from her pack and settled in to wait, as the bus she needed wasn't scheduled to arrive for another hour. All the crying she'd done had landed her with an awful headache, so she drank the rest of the water from her canteen, then went to fill it up from the public fountain and drank all that twice. She took a trip to the bathroom but made it quick, made antsy by the memory of the last time she was in the space, leaning over that sink, staring into that mirror, framing a new face and a new life.

She felt raw, in a way, as if she'd shaved her face free of a three-year beard and abruptly returned to her youth, with its smooth, pink skin.

A smoke break was warranted after Verity thought she saw her old employer coming in and panicked, darting out the back door into the night. Fifteen minutes and two cigarettes later, she was relieved to find the woman she'd mistaken for Mrs. Eustace was actually a stranger—Mrs. Eustace had brown eyes, not blue, wore exclusively checkered dresses and sweaters, and would never in her life be caught reading the Bible (she was Jewish and staunchly proud of it). By the time Verity's heartbeat had relaxed, the bus had arrived, fading from grey to weathered hazelnut as it pulled out of the indigo evening into the scope of the roadside lamplight. She found a seat right in the middle, unconcerned with having a seatmate due to the obvious sparsity of passengers. As the driver welcomed each rider in a low, gravelly voice, Verity tuned out and leaned her head against the glass of the window. The bus must have driven south to get here, for she could tell the window was slowly cooling down after soaking in all the heat of the late afternoon sun. She stared out into the dusk until she blinked and all she could see was her reflection; the changing light had refocused her eyes, and now it was fully night.

The drive only took a couple of hours, and though it was much shorter than the train, it felt just as long. Maybe it was Verity's anxiety, or the stagnancy of the dark outside, or simply that her sleeping on the train had warped her sense of the time that had passed. She got off the bus at midnight, not the last but certainly not the first to disembark. The Alton depot was closed for the night, and the only light came from the lampposts positioned sporadically around the narrow parking lot. As people scattered into waiting cars and a single yellow taxi, the street quickly emptied. Even the bus driver left, whistling his way uptown, swinging his keys off his finger.

Verity, who'd been all alone to begin with, simply shouldered her pack and started walking.

The difference in the air between midday and midnight was searing. It was surprisingly cold for September, but then again, the sun had gone down several hours ago, taking any atmospheric warmth with it. The night was dry and brisk. Verity stepped on something that crunched, and when she looked down, she saw the first cider-brown leaf of an Alton Autumn. As she went along, she tugged at the sleeves of her uniform, wishing she'd thought to get that new cashmere turtleneck (an opulent souvenir from Austria) out from her pack and put it on before she got off the bus. Nevertheless, she just kept walking, thinking about how warm that sweater would be and not doing a damn thing about it.

At the edge of town, just as she was starting on the long road to take her home, she passed a bar with music and laughter seeping through the board walls. Three shadows dawdling on the stoop whistled at her, calling her 'honey', but when she turned toward them, they shut up and scampered off. She was puzzled at first until she remembered how she must look in the low light, still in her uniform: a gaunt soldier dragging himself home. The shadows darted under a street light and she realized they were just rowdy teenagers, not even old enough to serve, nevermind drink. They probably thought she'd give them a thrashing for catcalling her, especially thinking they'd (ironically) mistaken her for a woman. A part of her wanted to call them back and give them something for their troubles—a purple heart, if she'd have any of those—but she knew better than to try.

Twenty minutes down the road, she rounded a copse of aspens and it hit her just how close to home she actually was. She could see the boulder that marked the start of her neighborhood in the near distance, looming darker than the night. Without entirely meaning to, her pace sped up, and her heartbeat followed suit; she could feel it pounding at the very base of her throat as she rounded the corner to her street—and stopped. She was almost there, she could see the half of the fence that hadn't been eaten away by termites over the years, but she had finally realized she was shivering, and it halted her in her tracks. Verity could hardly believe just how much she hated being cold now. She'd never felt such revulsion before, and she cursed aloud, knowing exactly what was to blame, as she dropped her pack and rooted through it with abandon for that cashmere sweater. Tugging it on over her uniform, she looked up and happened to catch movement in the house across the street. The shade was being lowered in one of the upstairs windows facing her.

Seeing as anyone awake after midnight ought to have a good reason for it, Verity paused, surprised, and looked at the shade wobble until the light went out behind it. She stood up slowly, one arm through the sweater and the other still free with the cashmere bunched up over her shoulder, and a chill ran up her spine. Someone had been watching her. Staring, more like. Now she'd gone still on the sidewalk, breathing in the scent of goat wool and army standard cigarettes and—was that Lt. Nixon's favorite whiskey? She'd smelled it on his breath before, she was pretty sure every Toccoa man had...

That's enough. Not now.

She squared her jaw, pulled on the sweater, and put one foot after the other until she'd made it to where she needed to go. She pushed past the chipped gate, noticing how the paint was flaking the way it did after a dry spell, and walked evenly up to the doorstep, knowing if she stopped again, her legs might give out from underneath her. She went to the flowerbox affixed to the downstairs bathroom window, poked at the dirt until she found the spare key they'd kept there ever since she was a girl, and let herself in. It might have taken her one minute to cross the threshold, it might have taken her ten, but by the time she was inside, she was more than ready to shut the world out behind her, intoxicated by the smells of home. There was the distant musk of the firewood where it was stacked on the back porch, the thick wool of the carpet on the stairs, the striking yet faint fragrance of the house itself, a sort of fresh but tired smell. Leaving her boots by the door, Verity went into the kitchen for a glass of water from the tap. She was strangely comforted by the slight metallic taste, unaware she'd ever missed it until she had it again. 

Sufficiently hydrated, she went back down the hall and made for the stairs only to stop with her boot on the first step. Her bedroom was upstairs, but so was her father, and as dearly as she missed him, she loved him too much to wake him at such an hour. She'd slept in plenty of less favorable places; the couch would more than suffice for tonight.

The living room had changed a little while she'd been gone. Someone—maybe her father, maybe a younger assistant—had swapped the rocking chair with the sofa and the tanning rack with the lamp. The room smelled like leather and paper, and Verity was pleased to think her father had taken up his old trade again, even only as a hobby. A single card stood on the mantel, and Verity, curious, went to investigate. She picked it up and nearly sneezed when a layer of dust rose with it. Pressing her sleeve to her nose as the urge subsided, she decided that one of the first things she ought to do once she settled back in would be to dust, not only the living room but the rest of the house—especially, she guessed with a pang, her bedroom.

Returning her attention to the card, Verity cracked a small smile. She knew as soon as she saw the bedazzled tree on the cover who it was from and what for. Her aunt and uncle on her father's side consistently sent a Christmas card for her birthday on the 17th of December, taking care to aggressively cross out every mention of the commercialized holiday to pen in their own, more appropriate well wishes. There was a slight weight on the opposite side of the cover flap, and she knew what it was without having to look. Every year, her aunt and uncle taped two Canadian dollars to the inside of the card, and every year, Verity deposited them in a jar in her bedroom, knowing she'd never get down to the exchange office in Boston even if she'd had the time and the nerve. 

Still, she appreciated the gift, well aware that the reason for the Christmas card was not laziness or carelessness. The Rich-Du'monts ran a fairly successful maple sugaring business up in Montreal, and by the time the winter season rolled around, they were swamped with orders and always in a rush to get a card in the mail. This one must have come almost a year ago last December (hence the dust). Her father hadn't sent it along because by then, it had been six months since she'd asked him to stop writing. Who knows if she would have received it even if they'd stayed in touch—the night of the 17th, 1945, was the very same the 101st had moved out to the Ardennes.

Verity put the card back without opening it. Later, she kept telling herself, you have time now, you have 'later'. She saw that her hand was trembling, and when she looked away from it, her fingers began to itch to touch everything she hadn't touched in three years. She ran her hand over the arm of the old rocking chair and sank down into it. The clock that sat directly across from her on the mantel read 1:37 a.m., and it occurred to Verity that despite her nap on the train, she was thoroughly exhausted. It was warm in the house, and dark, and within minutes, she was dismally sleepy. Yawning, she pulled off the cashmere sweater and halfheartedly flung it over the arm of the rocking chair; at the same time, she sank onto the floor in front of the sofa, settling onto the carpet as she might have a fine mattress. She didn't mean to, but she fell asleep right then and there, her head reclined on the couch cushion, her hands in her lap, and her pack on the floor beside the tanning rack.

The next thing she knew was the caustic sound of something shattering on a hardwood floor. As panic forced her awake, she rolled behind the nearest barricade, groping blindly for her rifle, but it wasn't there where it once was, where it should have been, shit-shit-where-is-it-

"Brandy?"

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2/15 updates left.

[sergeant-spoons]

52. New ‘Do’s & Old Don’t’s

Leslie Sheppard

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​​​​​​ @chaosklutz​​​​​​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​​​​​​ @50svibes​​​​​​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​​​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​​​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​​​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​​​​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​​​​​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​​​​​​​ @heirsoflilith​​​​​​​​​​ @itswormtrain​​​​​​​​​​ @actualtrashpanda​​​​​​​​​​ @wtrpxrks​​​​​​​​​​

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Two days and they'd leave for Upottery. The weather was warm and sunny, and not a soul stayed indoors if they could help it. Joe Liebgott and Forrest Guth from Easy Company had set up a makeshift barber's shop on the green between two storage sheds. They'd negotiated with the medics for the use of a standing mirror from the medbay across the street and had their operation in full swing by early afternoon. Someone even brought over a calendar, which they pinned to the frame of the mirror. Their date of departure was circled in red pen. There was a big '2' written on the block for today—the 27th—and an even bigger '1' on the block for the 28th. The days beforehand had been scribbled out in the countdown. Leslie thought it seemed a bit foreboding, but she was in too swell of a mood to really care.

"What are ya thinkin'?" Liebgott asked as he sat Leslie down. "Just a trim?"

Leslie lifted the ruler she'd brought for this express purpose.

"How does four inches sound?"

Liebgott's grin in the mirror was positively gleeful.

"Fuck yeah. Let's do it."

She'd measured her hair just last week with Kiko and Tink's help. Hers was by far the longest out of the trio, and lately, it had become more and more difficult to manage. She knew Lieb was Easy's defacto barber, and so she'd decided to wait for an opportunity to ask him for a cut. In a twist of good fortune, she hadn't even needed to ask: that opportunity had landed right in her lap. She had a bit of trouble sitting still at first, as the radio propped up beside Guth's station kept blaring all the best dancing songs, and Lieb had to jokingly threaten her with cutting off more than four inches if she kept squirming. As he worked, they got to talking, and when she mentioned she wasn't sure what she'd say if she met a German face-to-face, he decided he'd teach her a bit of the language. Curious and willing, she agreed.

He started out with a few of the basic phrases—"hi" (hallo) and "bye" (tschüss) and "come here, you" (komm her, du). Leslie challenged him to teach her something a bit more difficult and he complied.

"Fick dich."

"Fick dich?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Fick dich." She grinned. "Think I got it?"

"Down pat."

"Easy. So what's it mean?"

He snickered.

"'Go fuck yourself'."

"Joe!"

He moved the scissors away from her head as he started to laugh. Leslie made a face in the mirror, but that only served to amuse him further.

"Joe, you rascal," she scolded, but she was starting to smile, and he could see he'd won her over. "I'm trying to learn something useful here."

"Whoever said that ain't useful?" He carded his hand through her hair a few times, then patted her shoulder. "Alright. You're done."

Leslie jumped up, shaking her head experimentally to feel the new lightness upon her head. She leaped for the mirror and Lieb chuckled, pretending to grumble something about no thanks. Leslie promptly turned and threw her arms around him, exclaiming her gratitude, and when she stepped back, she thought it best not to mention the pink now blooming on his cheeks. Returning to the mirror, she admired her new haircut, watching how it fell just past her shoulders. Four inches didn't seem like all that much hair until it was gone. A wolf whistle caught her attention and she turned at the same time as Lieb, who'd been reaching for a broom.

"You got yourself a new 'do, Lady?"

Leslie grinned and shot Tink two thumbs up.

"Sure did!"

"Looks fantastic!"

"Thanks!"

Already unconcerned with his sweeping job, Liebgott paused to preen, then had to chase after the pile he'd made when the breeze kicked up and re-scattered all the strands.

"Where are you off to, Tink?"

"Post office!" She turned halfway and lifted the parcel in her far hand. "Got a few treats to drop off for my brothers."

"Treats, you say?"

"Oh, you know, the usual suspects. A box or two of Turkish delights, a few bags of jelly babies, maybe even a Cadbury Fudge sprinkled in with the Milkybars."

Leslie pretended to sulk. "Lucky brothers."

"That's right—Lucky's lucky brothers!" Tink agreed with a giggle. "But hey, whoever said I didn't leave a little surprise on your pillow?"

Leslie's grin returned as she fist-pumped the air.

"You're the cream of the crop, Tink, you really are."

Laughing and humbly waving off the compliments, Tink went on her way with her steps even peppier than before. Leslie turned back to Liebgott and volunteered her services for a little while longer, the lovely warm weather enticing her to spend the rest of the afternoon outside. She helped to sweep up and coerced a few more clients into Liebgott's chair and then Forrest Guth's, in turn. By the time the operation started to close up shop, it was just about time for supper. She strolled along with Lieb to her left and Guth to her right, tossing her cap absentmindedly between her hands and enjoying the soon-to-be-setting sun as it warmed her face. Her companions prided themselves on their handiwork and quibbled over who was the better barber, but she paid them little mind, content to listen and laugh along. She'd started humming the song that had just come on Liebgott's radio when they came upon the mess hall and discovered a few friends standing on the steps. Lieb and Guth forged ahead while Leslie slowed down, wanting to say hello.

There were the usual suspects, of course—Skip, Alton More, and Danny Huff—but Don had been the first to catch her eye. He rocked back and forth on his heels as he chatted with his buddies and she tugged at her hair, realizing only now that she was seeing him face-to-face just how nervous she was about what he'd think of her. He'd never seen her with her hair this short before, not even when Mattie had stuck gum in her hair as a toddler and she'd had to cut half of it off just to salvage the rest. In a flash of self-consciousness, she tugged her cap on, just as Don began to turn to greet his fellow paratroopers. Skip waved to Leslie at the same instant as Don's gaze seized upon her, and she almost forgot to wave back at her friend as Don hopped down the steps, his toothy smile already brighter than the sun setting his ginger hair ablaze. Skip turned and ushered Danny and More into the mess hall, jabbering about absolutely nothing and in doing so, only succeeding in making himself even less surreptitious.

"Don't mind us," he trumpeted, "we'll just be inside here. Getting food. Like normal."

Leslie and Don looked at him, then back at each other, and shared a laugh. Leslie adjusted her cap and when Don's eyes flicked toward it, she readied to jump back but was already too late. He stole it off her head, starting to tease her about 'wearing this old thing everywhere' (though she knew perfectly well that he was delighted by her habit, as this particular cap had been his Christmas gift to her) before breaking off and giving a low whistle instead.

"Hey," he said, pleasantly surprised, "you got a haircut."

"That I did," she replied, once again tugging at a few pieces hanging over her ear. "So?"

He walked all the way around her, admiring the look, and she tried to put her cap back on only to remember he still had it a moment too late. She grabbed for it but he held it back, his smile only growing.

"I like it."

"You do?"

"Of course, I do."

Her blush couldn't have been more apparent to not only her but Don, too, and it gave him the courage to say what he otherwise wouldn't have dared.

"I can't believe you'd ever think you were anything less than gorgeous, Les."

Her hand fell from her hair and she stared at him. The light highlighted her freckles and then her teeth as she smiled, moving to envelop him in a tight hug.

"I can always count on you, Don. You're the best."

He gave her a little squeeze, wanting little more than to tilt her chin up with a gentle hand, press his longing lips to hers in a sweet, slow kiss, and suggest they take a drive somewhere—anywhere—just to watch the sunset. He almost did it, almost dared the daydream. But 'almost' meant he hesitated a moment too long, and as Leslie parted from him he lost the nerve. She grabbed him by the hand and led him into the mess hall, already moving on to other matters, and he went along for the ride, smitten as ever. As she complained about how she was simply starving from all the hard work she'd done that afternoon and Skip reminded her that although military food could never beat Mrs. Witchetty's cooking, it would have to do for tonight if she wanted the best company the army could provide. Don lingered by the door, looking at the steadily pinkening sky. Maybe someday he'd let her know the heat in his cheeks wasn't a blemish from the sun after all but something she ought to have known about a long, long time ago. Liebgott started to tease Leslie about how she'd been such a chatterbox he'd hardly been able to get a word in with his clients and as she laughed and pushed at his shoulder, Skip doubled back and dragged Don over to join them in line. Leslie peered further down the light and smirked.

"Looks like spaghetti tonight, boys."

Her friends' groans just made her laugh a little more.

That evening, on her walk back to Mrs. Witchetty's, Leslie was in good cheer. Don had complimented her a few more times during supper, and now his affectionate words were swimming through her head. She felt confident and pretty and more than a little flustered, though she was trying peculiarly hard to not pay attention to that last effect. She let herself in, called hello to Mrs. Witchetty (who was knitting in the downstairs parlor), and started up the stairs, skipping a few steps with the help of the banister on her way up. More energetic than she usually was by this time of day, she went to see if one of her friends would go for a walk with her. Penk had taken Kiko out to dinner, so Tink would be the only one in the house. She'd seemed in good spirits earlier on her way to the post office; if she'd remained so, she was likely to agree. Deciding that a game of Slapjack would get all her energy out before bed if a walk was out of the question, Leslie hopped down the hallway to the room she shared with Tink and went in without knocking.

Her smile vanished in the blink of an eye. The cheery greeting she'd prepared never made it past a stutter of surprise. Cheerful Tink was curled up in the fetal position on her bunk, facing the wall, eerily silent. The only light on in the room was the lamp next to Tink's bed. Leslie's heart stopped and she clapped her hand to her chest, feeling it start to beat again only when she checked her friend was still breathing. She crossed the room slowly and sat down on the edge of the bed, her mind whirling with what could be wrong. Practically vibrating with now-anxious energy, she started to shake the bed with her bouncing leg as soon as she sat. Tink took a deep, shaky breath. As soon as Leslie reached out and touched her shoulder, she burst into tears.

"Oh, Tink..."

Leslie gently drew her friend into her arms, letting her curl up on her lap as much as she could fit. Tink sobbed into Leslie's shoulder, speechless, and Leslie didn't push beyond asking if she was physically ill or injured in some way (she was answered by a swift shake of the head). Leslie rubbed Tink's back and pressed soft kisses to the top of her head, mimicking what her mother did when she was upset, not knowing what else she could do. Thankfully, her attempt at comforting seemed to help, for Tink's rigid body began to relax the longer Leslie held her. Mrs. Witchetty appeared in the doorway after a few minutes, worried as could be, but Leslie just looked at her helplessly, unable to give even an inkling of an explanation. It took Tink quite a while to draw herself out of her despair, and by the time she managed it, the sun had gone down and there were stars pinpricking the deep blue sky. Leslie looked out the window and smoothed down Tink's hair as Tink started to breathe more normally and sit up by herself.

"You were right, Lady," she hiccuped. "You were right all along."

Leslie felt as though someone had twisted a dagger into her stomach. She didn't need to ask to know what—or, really, who—Tink meant.

"That sonuvabitch," she hissed before she could stop herself, and for once, Tink laughed. It wasn't a funny laugh but a delirious one and just made Leslie feel worse for the slip-up.

"Here," Tink said, reaching under her hip to draw out a wrinkled, tear-stained letter Leslie had not noticed before. "It's from Charlie. First time I've heard from him in two months and he- he-"

Tink gulped for air, tears streaming down her cheeks in unending grief. Leslie gently pried the letter from her shaking hands. Though she knew it would only rile her up, Tink wanted her to read what that scumbag had to say, and so Leslie capitulated.

The letter was even worse than she'd expected.

Only phrases here and there leaped out at her as coherent amid the disgracefulness on the page. Charlie was leaving Tink (as if he'd been with her at all these last two years), and not just leaving her but leaving her for another woman, a "good German girl" who wasn't "out there risking her neck for the wrong cause". Charlie had been cheating on Tink for their entire relationship and didn't care if she knew it. Charlie was going to ask for his ring back only to remember he never actually bought her one. Charlie thought 'Hah!' was an appropriate thing to add after that last revelation. Charlie thought Tink was a "disgrace" and a "harlot" for her part in a majority-male service. Worst of all, Charlie thought Tink was fighting a losing battle. Charlie thought the Nazis had a point.

Leslie thought she might vomit. If she felt sick, she couldn't imagine how Tink must be feeling right now. She sat there on the bed, looking over the letter, stunned, trying to keep herself together for Tink's sake but seeing red. She could hear Kiko and Penk in the upstairs parlor, laughing about something and then suddenly going quiet. Mrs. Witchetty spoke, and then Kiko came flying down the hall. She burst in so fast Leslie thought she saw skid marks appear on the floor. As soon as Tink saw her, she burst into noisy tears, and Kiko rushed to her bedside. Tink reached out for her and Kiko took her hands to hold, giving them a squeeze as she scanned Tink for the source of her pain.

"What is it? What happened?" she asked, the question echoed only a moment later by Penk, frozen in the doorway like a scared rabbit.

"Charlie-fucking-Hammond," Leslie said stiffly, "that's what happened."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes," Leslie said, jumping up and letting Kiko take her with Tink. "I can't believe that bastard. I can't believe him!"

"Leslie?"

"He's gone full fucking Nazi!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "Look at this shit!"

She jumped back to grab the letter, then bounded across the room to show Penk. As he read each sentence she pointed out, his face hardened more and more.

"My God."

"I know. I know!" she snapped (not at him, of course). "Fucking. Hell."

Penk had to take the letter from her hands lest she shredded it in her fury. She started to pace and it caused a bit of a racket, but she didn't care one bit.

"Jesus Christ Almighty!" she cried. "If I ever meet that bastard face to face, I'm gonna- I'm gonna slap him! With a chair!"

"Go ahead," Penk said grimly as he brought the letter back over to Tink. "I won't stop you."

Leslie kept pacing and muttering to herself, occasionally swearing loudly and stomping her foot to make a point to the air. Penk kissed Kiko on the top of the head, squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, and left the girls to the dreary night. He wouldn't be able to help even if he'd stayed, so he went, and gave Tink a bit more privacy in her misery in his going.

"I was gonna marry him," Tink whispered, heartbroken. "He hates me."

"Oh, Tink," Leslie said, dropping to her knees beside the bed despite the hardwood floor. "I'm so, so sorry."

The next day, Penk hardly spoke a word all the way until lunchtime. Though he tried not to let it, his reticence drew the attention of his friends. Though he was quieter than Malarkey or Skip, he wasn't timid, and nothing had happened recently to tire him out (now that Sobel was gone, their exercises had become manageable rather than backbreaking). The trio (plus George Luz and Alton More) had gone to lounge and joke around in the shade of a large oak tree after lunch, shooting glances at Penk every now and again, who had gone back to not speaking much now that he'd left the jovial atmosphere of the mess hall. At first, they expected it was the 101st's impending relocation to Upottery Airfield that had got him down, but tomorrow was still a day away, and there wasn't much to do but wait. Kiko was coming with the Mechorps, as were the other girls, so what cause did he have to mourn Aldbourne? Eventually, Skip turned to Penk, looked his buddy in the eye, and asked what was so wrong he couldn't even laugh at George's legendary impression of Major Horton.

"Yeah," George agreed, "what's up, kid?"

Still, Penk hesitated. He wasn't sure if it was his place to let slip what was bothering him. He turned and looked around, seeking an easy out, and couldn't help a sigh at what he instead saw. There she was, Audra Luchette, walking slowly down the path, dragging her feet, her collar turned up although the day was remarkably warm and humid for late May. She looked exhausted and disheveled and—strangest of all—neither Leslie nor Kiko accompanied her. Penk could hardly look away, and one by one, the others followed his gaze.

"Hey, what's up with Lucky?" More asked, picking apart a stalk of wheatgrass.

Penk just shook his head, lost for what to say.

George brightened up at the mere sight of her but deflated just as quickly to realize that sight was one of distress. He hopped up and went to speak with her, clearly meaning to cheer her up, but when he stopped in the road in front of her, she just stared at him, drained of emotion. His smile slowly faded. His friends didn't need to hear him to know he was asking her if she was alright. She just shook her head mutely and cast her gaze to the ground. The last of George's merry expression fell, and he reached out to take her hands, but she crossed her arms instead, shielding herself from him. She'd never done that before.

"Look at her," Don said worriedly. "It's like she's gonna start crying any second."

"She might."

They all turned to look at Penk, who winced at the slip-up.

"You know what's going on here?"

"Yeah," he admitted reluctantly. "It's... not a pretty story."

"No," said Leslie, plopping down beside Don, "it's not."

"Where'd you come from?"

"Medbay. Any of you talk to Tink yet today?"

"No, George's the first. You?"

She shook her head. "Not since this morning."

"She wasn't at roll?"

"No. Really, I didn't think she'd be leaving the house today."

Tink glanced over at the group and they all quickly pretended like they hadn't been staring at her after all. Leslie sighed and picked at the slick grass.

"Well, I'm still furious about the whole thing," she said, "so if I start cursing my head off, sorry for that."

"Did something happen between you two?"

"No, no, God no," she quickly reassured. "It's fuckin' Charlie."

Penk was not the only one to wince this time.

"The fiancé?"

"Ex-fiancé."

"Oh, shit."

"And you were there?" Skip guessed, pointing to Penk, who nodded only when Leslie gave him the go-ahead.

"We all knew he was an asshole, right?" he replied. "Turns out he's much worse than we thought."

"He's the scum of the earth," Leslie spat, picking up a clod of dirt, and Don had to duck out of the way when she hurled it at some invisible aggravation. "Sorry."

"'S'alright. What'd he do?"

"You want a list? He had other women the whole time, ran away with a German girl, mocked Tink for loving him, called her terrible names, turned out to sympathize with the Nazis-"

"Holy shit."

"Yeah," Leslie sighed bitterly. "Holy shit."

She fell backward onto the grass, splaying her legs and arms out like she was about to make an angel in the dirt. After a moment or two, Don joined her.

"She doesn't deserve this," Penk said softly, but everyone heard him and turned to listen. "She's just a kid, really."

"She is," Leslie agreed, staring up into the dizzying sky.

"Even younger than you, Penk?"

"Shut up."

"No, she is." Leslie, who'd been holding her breath in an attempt to calm herself down, let it out in a gust. "She was eighteen when she joined up."

"Je-sus."

"She doesn't deserve this," Penk repeated. "Not one bit."

"If I didn't know any better," Skip mused, trying to lighten up the weighted air, "I'd say you were sweet on the girl, Penk."

More snorted. "I think that's Luz's area of exper-"

"Hey, hey," Leslie hushed him, swatting his leg as she sat up, "not now."

They all followed her solemn, meaningful glance toward the pair on the road. More ducked his head, embarrassed, and Skip tugged at a loose thread in his sleeve, looking twice as sorry.

"Not now," Leslie repeated, softer and sadder, and they all watched as George wrapped his arms around Tink in a solemn hug. There was a tremor in Leslie's voice that encouraged Don to mirror George's attempt at comfort, and he was glad he did, for Leslie leaned against his side almost immediately. The loss of stability in her exhale let him know she was hurting, too. Not hurting as badly as her friend, perhaps, but certainly a great deal for her friend. Penk was right, of course—Tink didn't deserve this awful lot. Especially not so soon before her debut into war, of all things. Don clenched his jaw, anger flaring up in his chest, and resolved that if the bastard who had hurt Tink ever dared to show his face within a hundred miles of the locale, he'd be fortunate to run away with his tail between his unbroken legs.

Tink started back down the path, and Leslie got up and joined her. George came back to the tree and tried at a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Penk offered him a place to sit but he wouldn't take it. He left, soon, heading in the same direction Leslie and Tink had gone. The others sat around for a while longer until Sgt. Lipton came over, almost done rounding the company up for a field exercise on Lt. Meehan's behalf. George showed up late and was given latrine duty that night as a punishment, but he didn't bat an eye. As they got on the move, he told his friends where he'd been. Socket and Meatball could not, of course, make the jump into France, so arrangements had been made to leave them with two old farmers who'd been living off the land together for the last fifty years. Leslie and Kiko, not wanting to upset Tink even further, took the cats up to her room to say their goodbyes, then took them in Captain Eades' car to the farm. George had caught up with them just as they were leaving and came along for the ride. Tears were shed. They gave Meatball many big hugs and Socket many kisses. The cats didn't seem to understand, trying to get back in the car several times until the farmers had to pick them up and hold them as the girls drove away.

The part George didn't tell his friends was what he'd said while they were leaving:

"You'll see them again. Audra, too."

Leslie looked at him a little strangely.

"Audra?"

George ducked his head to the side.

"Tink."

"No. No, it's fine, I just..."

After a brief pause, he heard Leslie laugh. It was quiet and a little unsure, but it was there.

"Of all the people," she mused, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. "Of all the people..."

That evening, as the men hung around, writing letters and playing cards and packing up the last of their things for the big move tomorrow, Leslie showed up at the barracks. A few friends hailed her gaily, and she tried to match their eagerness but didn't make it quite far enough. Once released from their attention with excuses of not having slept well the night before (not exactly a lie), she beelined for Don, who opened his arms for her before she was even halfway to him. She cuddled up against his chest, drew her legs up toward her torso, and laid her head over his heartbeat, and for the first time in several hours, Don felt like he could breathe again.

"You don't look so good," he hummed against her hair, pressing a soft kiss there, and her sigh rippled the cotton of his shirt.

"It's... y'know."

Assuming she meant Tink, he nodded, and she shifted a little, getting more comfortable. After a few seconds, she spoke up again.

"But it's not just..." Another sigh. "I'm cramping something awful, Don."

"Well, then," he said, giving her a gentle squeeze. "That, at least, I can try to fix."

She wouldn't let him get up, but thankfully, his friends found that funny instead of annoying. Skip came over with a blanket and, at Don's request, went without question to the medbay to fetch a quinine tablet from Doc Roe. Leslie leaned her head back against Don's chest and took a deep breath.

"Y'know," she said, quiet so that only he would hear, "I think you're the only guy I know who knows a thing about a lady's time of the month."

"Maybe," he countered, "but I wouldn't know a thing if you hadn't told me."

"Hey, you asked." She giggled a little. "When you were twelve, if I remember correctly."

"Yeah," he replied, turning a little pink, "because my best friend started getting awful cramps once a month and I thought she was dying."

Leslie giggled and Don huffed a breath that tickled the top of her head.

"Well, thank you for looking out for me all these years."

Her smile slipped away, little by little, as the weight of it all sank back in.

"Really, Don. Thank you."

He hesitated, so stricken by her gratitude for what he saw as his lifelong duty that he didn't know what to say.

"There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you."

No. Not that.

Not now.

"Yeah," he hummed at last, and when Skip threw the quinine bottle, he caught it and passed it to Leslie in the same motion. "Anytime."

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It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Sorry about that. I’m still not fully back to updating my fics as often as I used to (busy is as busy does), but I’ll be updating whenever I can/more frequently from now on. Thank you for your patience and support. 💕

[sergeant-spoons]

49. And For A While, You Were All Mine

Leslie Sheppard

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​ @chaosklutz​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​ @50svibes​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​​ @heirsoflilith​​​​​ @itswormtrain​​​​​ @actualtrashpanda​​​​​ @wtrpxrks​​​​​

This batch of updates (47-49) is dedicated in tandem to my wonderful mutuals @mercurygray (for @’ing me in her Thankful Thursday event - I am so humbled and thankful in return) and @thoughpoppiesblow​ (for making a beautiful edit for Kate August almost immediately after I introduced her with this post-war snippet). Love you both so much!! Thank you!

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With Skip taking the helm and speaking for the group, the concert-goers made their way into the hotel and checked in without any trouble. Their rooms were on the same floor and down the same hall, two across from the other two, so once they had checked in, they all headed up together. They retrieved their bags from one of the rooms where the bellhops had left them, then moved to decide who would be sleeping where and with who. It was a given that Kiko and Penk would room together, as would Leslie and Don, so that left Tink, George, and Skip to figure out what they'd do with the remaining two beds.

"Skip and I will share," George offered as he carried Tink's suitcase into the south-facing room for her. "That sound good to you, Lucky?"

Tink didn't respond at first. She was standing by the window, looking out at the night, fiddling with her hands. At first, George thought she was just tired and hadn't heard, but then she answered him—

"No."

—and he realized there had to be something more at play.

"No?"

She ducked her head away. He came up beside her, concerned.

"George," she told him softly, "I need you to stay with me."

"Okay," he agreed at once, ignoring how his heart stumbled over its own rhythm. "Uh... Any reason why?"

Again, she was silent, and when she looked at him, the conflict behind her eyes made him sad.

"Hey." He touched her arm, careful not to step too close. "You can talk to me."

"... I know."

After a beat, she turned and pressed herself into his chest. He was quick to wrap his arms around her, and she took a deep breath, steadying herself.

"Ever since we came overseas, I can't sleep in a room by myself," she admitted at last. "We could've had our own rooms with Mrs. Witchetty, but I- I couldn't bear it. Usually, Leslie rooms with me, but I thought, maybe..."

"Of course, I'll stay with you," George reaffirmed, tucking her head under his chin and giving her a gentle squeeze. "I'll go grab my things and tell Skip, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Be right back."

He went out into the hall and got his suitcase; as promised, Tink could hear him and Skip talking in hushed voices. The door to their neighboring room clicked shut, and a few seconds later, George returned, sporting his usual lopsided grin. Tink could tell his nonchalance was an attempt to put her at ease, and she appreciated it, relaxing a little.

"Skip's alright with sleeping alone," he said. "Said he was afraid of my morning breath, anyway."

Tink giggled, and George's shoulders sagged with relief.

"I promise it's not that bad," he teased, then breathed into his palm and wrinkled up his nose. She laughed again, then leaned up and pecked his cheek. 

"You're a good friend, George. Thanks for this."

He pedaled finger guns at her as he started toward the bathroom.

"You betcha."

As soon as he shut the door behind him, he turned to face himself in the mirror, scowling.

"'You betcha'? Jesus." His reflection squinted reproachfully at him. "Idiot."

Realizing he'd left his toothbrush and toothpaste in his bag, he made a face, knowing he'd have to go get it and probably make an even bigger fool of himself. To his surprise, when he opened the bathroom door, Tink was already standing there, both items in hand.

"Thanks," he said, his face warming. "How'd you..?"

"Everybody in Easy packs their things the same way," she said, and he almost thought her sheepish. "Lady mentioned it once, and since I've seen inside Malark's pack a few times, I figured..."

"Smart girl." Flashing a smile, he held up the toothbrush and toothpaste. "Thanks for these."

Back in the bathroom, he leaned against the door and grinned despite his embarrassment. He'd seen it there on her cheeks, plain as day. Perhaps there was hope yet—

After all, he'd made her blush.

In the bedroom next to George and Tink's, Skip was already fast asleep with a smirk on his lips, dreaming of the day he'd swam the Niagara River. Across the hall, Kiko and Penk were also in bed, though not to seek slumber (ahem). In the room diagonal, however, Leslie and Don were the most active, still running amuck despite the late hour. Crouched on either side of the bed, they waited to pounce. Eyeing each other, weapons of plush in hand, they knew this conflict would have to come to blows. The only question was who would strike first.

"Charge!"

"Aaaah!"

As they scrambled onto the bed, Leslie took the first swing and Don took the first hit. They wobbled this way and that as pillows clashed and the mattress creaked beneath them. It wasn't long before Leslie got a mouthful of Don's pillowcase, and she flailed her head from side to side, sticking her tongue out in distaste.

"Hey!" she spluttered, but Don only laughed and swung again. 

"I've got you now!"

"Oh, no you don't!"

"Oh, yes I do!"

"Oh, yeah? Take that!"

Don reeled back, clutching his hand to his chest as if he'd been mortally wounded, and Leslie leaned back on her haunches, grinning.

"Ha-ha!" she exclaimed triumphantly, stumbling to her feet. "I have the high ground now!"

Don pushed himself onto his knees, intending to tackle her legs, but she started jumping from one foot to the other, swinging her pillow at him. Knocked off balance, he fell over, and she raised her hands to her mouth and trumpeted her victory. Don took the opportunity and swung his pillow at her, and she started to teeter, pinwheeling her arms. He grabbed the back of her calves and kept her from pitching backward off the bed, but in doing so, caused her to fall on top of him instead. He squirmed, but since she had both of her hands free, having dropped her pillow mid-tumble, she managed to catch his wrists and pin him down. Panting, they gazed at each other, and their laughter quickly faded. They'd had pillow fights that ended like this plenty of times before, but this time, it felt... different. Just different, not bad or uncomfortable or anything like that—in fact, it felt the opposite of all those things. Don blinked up at her and Leslie let go of his wrists, afraid of what she might do if she held on. After a moment, he tugged his pillow out from where it was smushed in between them and pushed it over the side of the bed. A smile tugged at her lips as she realized why he'd done so; happily, she flopped down on top of him, cozy as could be.

"I'm gonna fall asleep right here, 'kay?" she mumbled into his chest, cuddling into him. "'Kay."

She pretended she was already drifting off, but when she felt Don's laugh through his chest, her breathing faltered and she almost opened her eyes.

"Don't you know that I drool in my sleep, Les?" A shrug, a meager one so he didn't disturb her. "Oh, well. Your loss."

"No, you don't," she refuted, coming back to herself, and squeezed her arms around him until he chuckled.

"Oh, fine, I don't," he admitted, and when he reached up to stroke her hair, he could feel her lips turn up into a smile. He shifted a bit further down the mattress so his head was on the pillow rather than the headboard, and he kissed the top of her head, settling in for the night. It took a bit of maneuvering, but he managed to get the covers up over them, and when he checked back in on Leslie, she was actually asleep. He was perfectly content to let her lay there all night long, but as he continued to stroke her hair, he reflected on how differently he would have felt not two years ago.

He remembered the day that hotel clerk in Arkansas mistook him and Leslie for newlyweds more clearly than he remembered some of his own birthdays. Tonight, the memory was fresh on his mind, had been ever since Leslie brought it up by the pond that afternoon. Laying with her now, he thought about laying with her then, how they slept apart, taking their closeness for granted. They didn't know how much they'd actually be apart once they got into the service. In fact, Don was pretty sure the last time he and Leslie had slept in the same room at the same time was on the train ride back home for Christmas '42, well over a year ago. But back to that night in Arkansas—he hadn't caught a wink of sleep, he recalled, for he'd been too flustered at the thought of Leslie sleeping beside him as his wife. He wasn't any less affected now (especially with her laying on top of him), but he'd grown to understand something over the last two years, the past six months especially:

She trusted him, and that was enough.

Don never knew her physical affection was so important to him until he lost it. Some nights, he feared it had been his fault, even though he knew, rationally, it wasn't. He would never bring up the name Vince Redding in front of Leslie, nor any of their friends for that matter, but that bastard still lingered in the back of his mind for what he'd done to her. That night had completely changed her perception of physical contact, and not in a positive way. For months, Don, Kiko, and Tink were the only person she'd let touch her or accept a hug from. Just last week, she'd shied away when a bartender leaned over the counter to hand her a beer. Only a few days ago, Kiko let slip that Leslie had a tendency to jump when one of the other mechanics leaned over her desk in the garage. No one ever meant anything by it, just hoping to see what she was working on, but any sort of looming still made her skittish. Sometimes, she'd even spook when Don came up behind her, so he was careful to approach her from the front and sides whenever he could. But now here she was, snuggling into him like she did it every night, able to fall asleep on him without a second thought.

He knew she loved him, in her own way, and even if it wasn't exactly how he wished, she trusted him, and that was exactly why—it bore repeating—lying with her tonight was fulfillment enough.

With Skip, Leslie, and Don all either asleep or about to drift off (and Kiko and Penk otherwise occupied), the last left awake were the duo in the south-facing bedroom. Though they'd all said their goodnights half an hour ago, Tink and George were each taking their sweet time getting ready for bed. While George was brushing his teeth, Tink had changed into her night things, and then they'd swapped. They spent the next fifteen minutes mumbling their way around the room, ducking into the bathroom for little nothings here and there. Now, well aware that they'd stalled plenty long, Tink was growing antsy. She stood by the window and fiddled with her rosary, waiting for George to come out again so they could figure out just how they were going to arrange the sharing of the bed and praying she wasn't making a mistake here.

She wasn't stupid. She knew they were walking a flimsy line here. He was an excellent friend, and she trusted him as much as she would have trusted Leslie or Kiko, and she knew she'd sleep well with him there beside her... but she was an engaged woman, and he was not her fiancé. There had to be something sinful about this, even though nothing at all was going to happen, and she squeezed the cross against her palm until the pressure started to sting. She opened her fist but found she didn't like the imprint, so she wound the beads around it until she could see it no longer. She supposed if God thought this was wrong, he would pardon her once she was a married woman—but saying a few "Hail Marys" as a balm to the interim couldn't hurt.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women..."

But then she stopped before she was through. Whose forgiveness was she asking for? She didn't think it was God Almighty's, nor Christ's, and certainly not her own. Charlie's, perhaps? But that felt laughable, even to faithful Tink. She didn't even look like she was bound to someone. Growing bolder, she lifted her left hand to her face and looked at where a ring ought to be, where a ring should have been almost two years ago. She dropped her hand and looked out the window. The lights of the city pinpricked through the night where blackout curtains had slipped a few inches one way or another. In the bathroom, she could hear George singing one of the songs Judy had performed tonight as he ran the tap.

"...the mountainside... The summer's gone and all the flowers are falling..."

She knew the tune well, probably better than he did. Her father used to sing "Danny Boy" all the time before he died, as a lullaby, as a song to slow dance with his wife to, as a prayer. Listening to George sing it in the bathroom, not knowing how he'd touched her heart, she smiled, though she knew he couldn't see. Maybe her father would, up in Heaven.

Tonight, she would allow herself a second chance—until sunrise, she could pretend she was her own woman.

A rush of exhilaration flooded through her, but she hardly had time to revel in the feeling before it morphed into alarm. Her heart jumped into her throat. She felt free and knew full well she shouldn't, not when imagining she'd never promised herself to the man she—loved? Bewildered and fatigued and very frightened, she gripped the rosary to stop her fingers from trembling, frozen at the windowsill. Trying to gather her wits, she focused on George's voice. He was only humming now, the lyrics falling away as he no doubt grew sleepier with the late hour, but it did the trick, and she calmed down. She could worry about her love and who had it in the morning, when she was well-rested and alone and able to convince herself Charlie still wanted her for his wife. Tonight was for peace and joy—after all, what a show they'd seen! She couldn't let anyone, least of all herself, take that away from her. Feeling her heartbeat start to slow back into its usual rhythm, she turned the rosary over and tried again to pray, whispering a prayer she'd never tried before.

"Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling..."

George came out of the bathroom about a minute later. He hadn't heard a peep from Tink in a while and it was starting to make him nervous. He'd washed his hair in the sink, a little regretful they had no shower but too tired to care all that much, and now stood half in and half out of the bathroom, a towel draped around his shoulders. His hair was mostly dry now, fluffy as ever but a mess, and he ran his hand through it as he watched her. She stood by the window, looking out, rocking back and forth almost imperceptibly. He assumed she was thinking about that lousy fiancé of hers and scrunched up his nose. Charles Hammond could go to hell for all he cared. Still, he knew he couldn't tell her that, or any of the other things weighing on his heart that had to do with her. All he could do was try to cheer her up and make her forget about him for a night, and if there was one thing George Luz knew he was good at, it was making people laugh. So he ducked back into the bathroom to try and fix his hair in the mirror (it didn't do much), put on his best grin, and went to do just that. Hearing his footsteps, she turned toward him; as her mumbling trailed off, he realized she'd been praying. Immediately, he straightened up and took a step back, embarrassed at having misread the room.

"Sorry," he muttered as he glanced aside, rubbing the back of his neck, but she shook her head and smiled.

"No, it's alright," she said, placing her rosary beads on the bedside table, and he did not miss how she turned the cross over so Jesus was facing down. "I was done, anyway."

"You sure?"

"Yep." To his relief, he could tell her smile was genuine, as was her answer. "Your hair's all poofy."

"I know, it's a mess-"

"I didn't say that."

She reached up and ruffled his locks, and the look of delight that crossed her face would stay in the forefront of George's memory for several days thereafter.

"It's so fluffy!" Her smile grew. "You've got one helluva natural pillow there, Georgie."

"Jealous?" he teased, pretending that extra syllable hadn't turned his knees to jelly.

"Maybe."

"Hah!" He bowed his head and shook it at her, allowing her to run her fingers through it again. "You know, my hair might be marvelous-"

"It's so soft!"

"-but I should warn you—I snore like a dinosaur." 

He made claws out of his fingers, stuck his head out, and wiggled his body, snarling as if to imitate his own snoring. Tink giggled and reached out to steal the damp towel around his neck. Thinking on his feet, George pawed the ground and put his hands on the side of his head.

"Look, I'm a bull now!"

Playing along, she jumped back and flicked the towel, then tried to dodge out of the way when he charged. He scooped her over his shoulder, and as he spun in clumsy circles, she laughed that marvelous laugh.

"George! Put me down!"

"Whatever you say, princess."

"'Princess'," she started to scoff, then squealed as he lurched forward and tossed her onto the bed. 

"George!" she protested, sitting up and shaking her head as if disgruntled (she wasn't, really), and George—making an 'X' out of his arms and bowing his head—dropped to his knee.

"At your command, my lady."

"Euff."

She flopped onto her back and blew a strand of pale hair out of her eyes. When George didn't move, she sighed and patted the bed beside her. 

"Just get up here, you silly."

He leaped up, practically pouncing on the mattress, and she giggled as he made a show out of making himself comfortable. They ended up laying side by side, Tink's hands clasped loosely over her stomach and George's under his head until his arms got sore and he moved to copy her position instead. They lay there for several minutes, looking up at the ceiling, sleepy but not sure if it was okay to sleep yet.

"What's it like to be free, George?"

She'd asked it out of the blue, interrupting the peaceful silence, but George found himself unsurprised by the earnest question. Still, he had to ask:

"What do you mean?"

She took a deep breath, then turned her head to face his, waiting to speak until he did the same.

"My whole life, I've been—well, bound to somebody, I guess." She scrunched up one side of her mouth as if the admission itched but she didn't know how to scratch it. "First, my Ma and my Pa, when I was a kid—don't get me wrong, I miss them all the time—and then my brothers, workin' to keep them in school during the Depression after our folks passed, and now..."

"Now you're engaged," George finished for her, starting to turn his head away, but Tink grabbed his hand and his gaze returned to her at once.

"I don't even have a ring," she whispered. "I don't know if I want a ring."

George's surprise was apparent on his face, but she hadn't expected any other reaction.

"I thought you-"

"Don't tell anyone," she pleaded. "You're the only one I've told."

Later, she would remember she'd mentioned her doubts to Leslie and Kiko last November, but that was so long ago and she'd been doing so good since that she'd forgotten—or, more likely, blocked it from her memory. Still, George didn't know that, and her confession made his heart tremble. Didn't she know she was sacred to him? Didn't she know he'd do anything for her?

"I won't," he swore, and when he squeezed her hand, she knew he meant to guard her secret with his life if he had to.

"Thanks," she said, but recognizing it was a rather lame reply, she tried to amend the awkwardness by squeezing his hand the same as he'd squeezed hers. When he simply nodded and stayed silent, she looked back up at the ceiling, finally giving in to her sleepiness.

"Hey, I don't know about you," he yawned, "but I'm tired. You wanna hit the sack?"

"I call the left side of the bed," she replied with a small smile, sitting up.

"Fine by me," he agreed with a smile of his own, casually stretching his limbs to hide how gravely her confession had affected him. "I like being woken up by the sunrise."

"Well, I sure don't." She wrinkled up her nose. "Too early for me."

He stuck his tongue out at her, getting up to take off his shoes. "The early bird catches the worm, you know."

"And the late bird is better rested, so she catches two worms," Tink mumbled as she rolled over, and George chuckled, thinking her adorable but wise enough not to tell her so.

By the time he got his shoes off and climbed into bed, Tink was almost asleep. George made himself comfortable, trying to ignore how he could feel her body heat so near to him under the covers, and closed his eyes. Just as he was dozing off, Tink turned in her sleep and snuck her arm over his torso while simultaneously nuzzling her head into his chest. He went still and tried to calm his heart, afraid its pounding would wake her. Tink murmured something unintelligible within her dreams and cuddled up closer to him, and he was torn on whether or not to move away until she pressed a woozy kiss to his shirt and mumbled g'night. He realized she was at least half-awake, and so this choice she'd made was willful, intended by some part of her mind—or heart. Making his own judgment, George carefully put his arm around her and tucked her against him. More comfortable than he'd been in many months, he listened to her breathing until it soothed him to sleep, a small smile on his lips.

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[sergeant-spoons]

125. We Held Out For The Sun

Verity/Victor Rich

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​ @chaosklutz​​ @wexhappyxfew​​ @50svibes​​ @tvserie-s-world​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​ @whovian45810​​​ @brokennerdalert​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​ @claire-bear-1218​​ @heirsoflilith​​​ @itswormtrain​​​ @actualtrashpanda​​​ @wtrpxrks​​​

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There were miracles in the air today. 

What happened to the sun that convinced it to reconcile with its friend the earth this morning? How did the grass that had been growing for months feel so new and fresh under Verity's running feet? Why did Gene's hand in hers make her whole body tingle like she was sneaking off with some teenage beau for the first time? 

Verity knew all the answers, and furthermore, that they were one and the same. Pounding in her chest, the reason for the world's luster kept time with the well-worn soles of her boots launching off the soil beneath her feet. The forest was brown and green and bright, so bright, and she never missed a step, for she knew exactly where she was going. Long, quick strides carried her forward, keeping time with the man at her side. Every time he looked at her, she looked back, and he smiled. She stumbled over a tree root but recovered her footing quickly. Gene still laughed, low and fond. They kept going, turning around a tree they knew as a kind of street corner, and he squeezed her hand. Verity's heart flipped. She'd be lying if she said she'd be okay not hearing that laugh of his for the rest of her life—but for now, a sunny afternoon and the news clanging around her head like the bells of triumph in their tower was enough. Gene loved her, she loved him, and everything was going to turn out alright. She knew that because today was August 14th, 1945, and the war, that brittle behemoth, was over.

Verity wasn't the kind of person to think back on her life and label certain moments as the best, the worst, or any other impermanent, reassignable label, but today—today was a day she would revisit for decades to come.

Two frogs sat croaking by a crop of dandelions. Verity spotted them just as she ran past and tripped in her haste to avoid stepping on them. She didn't fall far before Gene caught her, and they spun around in each other's arms, stumbling over each other and laughing endlessly. As they came around to a sunny knoll, Verity grabbed Gene's collar and pulled him in for a kiss that had them both falling onto the grassy bed below. He grinned as he leaned over her, and she kissed his nose, blushing and beaming in return. Brushing away a strand of her hair, he inadvertently tickled her with how he ghosted his fingertips across her cheekbone. She giggled, and he, still smiling, stole her breath with a deep, patient kiss. She lost herself in his loving and hummed happily as she felt his hands comfortably embrace her waist. 

They had all the time in the world now, didn't they?

This little glade in the woods, open to the sky, was far enough from the town that they wouldn't be easily stumbled upon but not so far they wouldn't be able to find their way back. Even if they knew where to look, no one would come to find them out here, and those who might entertain the thought would be dissuaded by the knowing ones. George and Talbert, Verity trusted the most to divert any query concerning her and Gene's whereabouts. Perry, too, if she was here. How would she react to the news? Did she know already? Verity's chest felt warm with the joy of knowing her friend would arrive home with one less burden on her shoulders. Lord knows she could use the breathing room, what with her mother's lawsuit—but today was not a day to think of difficult and sad things like that. For those of Easy Company who'd remained in Austria, things were looking up. No one had imagined that their annual company baseball game would lead to such an announcement by Major Winters, with even Captain Speirs smiling serenely behind him. Now, laying in the grass, Verity and Gene held hands and laid side by side, just looking at each other and trying to catch their breaths.

"When'd you get so handsome?"

Gene laughed. "I love you, too."

Far less shy than she would have been just a year ago, Verity blushed but didn't cease staring at her love. His lips were a little swollen. She bet hers looked the same. There was a blade of grass in his hair, just above his eyebrow. She reached over and picked it out. He lifted his hand as if to do the same, but his thumb shifted down onto her cheek, and after studying her a moment longer, he pulled her in for another kiss. She ended up lying half on his chest, her arm wrapped snugly around his torso, her head tucked between his shoulder and ear. He rubbed at the knot at the back of her neck and she sighed into his shirt, unwinding for the first time in many months. He chuckled, and she could feel the vibration against her jaw.

"I love you."

Her eyes began to well up with tears. He was just so good to her.

"I love you, too."

She pressed a kiss to his chest through his shirt. After a beat, he leaned up on his elbow and admired her lounging in the sun at his side, where she belonged.

"We can go home now," he said, reverently touching her hair, her chin, her nose, and all the other minutia of her smiling face as if he wanted to remember exactly how she looked at this very instant, glowing with relief and blinking back tears of unbridled hope.

"Say it again," she entreated him, and he, uncharacteristically spirited, complied.

"We can go home!" Beaming, he scooped her into his lap and fell back onto the grass with the kind of dramatics the news had no doubt earned. "We can go home, Vee, ma chérie. We can go home, we can go home, we can-"

"Alright, alright," she giggled, happy to be in his arms again. "Don't make it go stale."

"Fine," he sighed, his smile unfailing. "What would you rather I say?"

"Something nice about how Buck came back for the game," she mused, tracing shapeless patterns on his chest with the tip of her finger.

"That was good," he agreed. "I didn't much think we'd see him again at all."

"Neither did I," she admitted, "but I'm sure glad we did."

"Amen to that."

"He hugged me," Verity said after a beat, thoughtful, and Gene simply smiled. "You don't think..?"

He shrugged. "I can't say for sure..."

She giggled, and he frowned, one eyebrow raised higher than the other.

"What's so funny about that?"

"Nothing," she teased, "if Buck knows, he knows. Doesn't matter much anymore, and he won't say nothin'."

"Then why're you laughin'?"

"It's the way you say fo' su'. It's cute."

"Oh, shut up."

He rolled her onto her back in the grass and she burst into giggles as he tickled her.

"Gene! C'mon, not fair! Gene!"

"I'm not cute," he insisted. "And whoever said I play fair?"

Verity pressed a hard kiss to his lips, and he faltered. She took the opportunity to grab his slowing hands, and before he could react, she pushed hard enough that he lost his balance. As he rolled over, she went with him and straddled his chest, grinning as she held him down.

"Play nice, at least, if not fair."

"Ah, ma beau rouge," he murmured, clearly enamored with her, "how can I play nice when you're sitting on top of me like this?" He lifted his torso as if he was doing a sit-up, his hands devoutly gripping her hips, and kissed her navel. "I should have brought a blanket..."

Verity, feeling some kind of way, leaned down to kiss him, knowing her cheeks were red and fully unabashed by it. Gene stopped her before she could deepen the kiss, and she sat back up, puzzled. He moved to hold her hands but made no indication he wanted her off of him, so she stayed, enjoying the intimacy.

"Do you remember when I wanted to tell you something back in Haguenau?"

She nodded, recalling only now when prompted. She'd all but forgotten that moment once they left Haguenau and especially after what they saw in Germany.

"I wanted you to know," he told her now, playing with her hands, swaying them back and forth, "that if we lived through the war..."

"Which we did," she affirmed, and he smiled up at her.

"Chérie?"

"Oui, Genie, babe?”

His smile grew just a little—he liked the pet name, and she loved him just a little more for it.

"As much as I love this," he confessed, gesturing to her position atop him, "I'd like to say what I’m about to say sitting up."

Dutifully, she drew one leg back across his torso and sat on her knees beside him. He sat up and ran his hand through his hair, and it occurred to her that he was nervous. Her heart fluttered about in her chest as he took her hands to hold again. Whatever he was about to say, he meant it quite seriously.

Could it be?

"I love you, Vee," he told her steadily, and she knew. "I love you, and I-"

"Yes."

Surprise flashed across his face, but then his smile returned and he couldn't help a brief chuckle.

"Wait, you gotta let me finish."

"'M sorry."

She pressed her lips together, signifying her silence. Knowing her answer, the urgency of his question was not nearly as great, so he took the time to lean in and kiss her until she returned his smile. She was staring at him now with such glowing affection that the words came off his lips as easily as water flowing over the smooth stones of a riverbed.

"I love you, Verity Rich. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

She was nodding now, biting her lower lip, and starting to cry. Deep down, she'd been wishing for this for years, even if the war never granted her the time to dream of it.

"Once we get back home, and everything's the way it oughta be again—will you marry me?"

She threw her arms around him and pulled him in as close as she could, the tears running off her chin and onto his shoulder not bothering him in the slightest. She kissed the side of his face, whispering her answer over and over again, and to Eugene Roe, yes had never sounded so sweet.

"I'll talk to your father," he promised a few minutes later as they made themselves comfortable in a new spot in the grass a few feet away, moving with the sun as the shadows slowly grew longer and the afternoon waned. "I'll get his blessing, even if I’ve got to go through a trial of fire to do it."

Verity laughed, exhilarated, full to the bursting with love. 

"I don't think you have to worry about that, or him," she replied. "With all the good things I've got to say about you—and trust me, I could go on for days—he'll like you before he ever meets you."

"Does he yet?" Gene asked, mostly teasing, and was surprised when Verity shrugged.

"Dunno. I, um..." She pinkened. "I'll correct myself: all the good things I've yet to say."

"Wait." Gene turned his head fully toward his fiancée—Fiancée!—and quirked a brow. "Does he not know about me? About us?"

He half expected her to smile sheepishly and admit she hadn't thought it was wise, with the censors and all (because she was smart that way), but instead, she just looked sad. 

"I stopped writing to him a couple o' months before D-Day. In my last letter, I asked him not to write to me either—it was too risky."

She told him this trying to seem matter-of-fact, but there were tears in her eyes.

"You can tell him about me in person, now," he soothed her, holding her close. "You can tell him because we're going home."

"Yeah," she agreed, leaning her head against his chest as her throat, constricted by grief, eased. "We're going home."

"I'll get you a ring," he vowed, caressing her bare ring finger, awed that someday in the forthcoming future, she'd be his wife. "Whatever kind you want. Gold, silver, bronze, iron, any metal you want, and any stone."

"That's a lot of options," Verity teased. "Um... I don't know what I'd want."

"You've got time to think about it," he reminded her, smirking, "but don't take too long—I think it would be good for you to have picked out your engagement ring before our wedding bands."

"Our wedding bands," Verity repeated in a starstruck murmur. "Wow. I mean... Wow."

"'Zat a good 'wow' or bad 'wow'?"

She hit his shoulder playfully, giggling again. "You know it's good. Very good. Wonderful, even. The best thing in the whole wide world, some might say."

"Some?"

"I might say," she corrected against his lips, but as she went to kiss him, he drew just out of reach. "What?"

"We're going to be apart for a time," he realized reluctantly. "You'll be in New Hampshire, and I'll be-"

"-in Louisiana," she finished, understanding what he meant. "But we're going back to our families. What's so bad about that?"

"Nothing at all," he said, nuzzling his lips against her neck, "only that I'll miss you every damn day."

She almost teased him, calling him a charmer, but she was getting choked up again. Seeing Pa again, being back on the lake, and having Gene return home to her—oh, what a dream. So she tilted her head back and let the love of her life kiss lazily up her neck until he reached her lips.

"I'll come to you," he swore in between slow kisses of promise. "I'll come as soon as I can."

"I know you will," she commended, running her hand over his hair until his smile came back. "And when you do, I'll be waiting."

"And when I come, we'll spend all night together, and you'll read me that book you always liked as a kid, yeah?"

“Frankenstein?”

“That’s the one. And I can spend the whole time looking at the ring on your finger until you scold me for not focusin’ on the story-"

"-and then you kiss me to shut me up and tell me to keep reading once I'm good and flustered and I’ve forgotten what paragraph I'm on."

Gene grinned. "You know me so well."

Verity laughed. "I should only hope so. We're getting married, after all."

Gene's smile dipped, and Verity's did the same in turn.

"What'd I say?"

"Nothing. I'm just realizing I oughta do this the right way."

"The right way?"

He got up on his knee and took her hand, and before he could say another word, she tackled him to the ground.

"I don't need anything 'right'," she told him as he stared up at her, the breath knocked out of him by all that she was, "I just need you."

"I love you," he whispered, the only thing to say, and she smiled softly, familiarly.

"I love you, too, Gene. And when we go home, I'll be counting down the days until you come and find me."

"It won't be long," he swore. "I don't think I could last very long without you."

Verity almost started to cry again. Gene swept his thumb under her eye, and when she smiled, it was watery.

"Oh, my love. Neither could I."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[sergeant-spoons]

126. Breaking Comes and Breaking Goes

Verity/Victor Rich

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August 21st, 1945. Afternoon.

To my dearest friend P ~

Sending you my love from Austria. It is hot here, though not humid, and I think I will miss the climate once I am again stateside.

I spent only three days alone in the room you and I once shared before they sent me a new roommate in your place. No one could replace you in my heart, but the army sadly thinks otherwise about your physical being. I did not find the adjustment to be an easy one at first, but I have made due with what I have been given, and what I have been given is not so bad. He is from another Company, his name is Charles, and he is a very polite man, but it took a few days for me to get used to him—his jaw is as pointed as a needle, and when he rolls over in his sleep and I am only half awake, it startles me to realize it isn't you in the neighboring bed. He is very neat with his things and does not snore, and there isn't much else I could ask for in a roommate now that you are gone. (I know you would tell me to room with Gene but alas, I am leaving tomorrow and the opportunity is passed.) Charles seems to think me pleasant enough, which is very nice for us both, but I have to keep to myself far more now than I did with you. There are some feelings of mine—the prolonged ache in my chest, for one—that I could share with you but never with him.

It was in packing my things to start the long road home that I was dealt a blow I did not expect. I suppose you could call it the last 'hah' amid the 'hurrah' of the war's ending. It happened this afternoon, and it left me sadder than I usually am for the rest of the day. All the pages in the world could not explain to you what I felt—I will have to tell you in person now that we are all going home and I can see your face again before the year is up. Even better, time will soothe my cares, as my father says. I will give him your love, as I promised to you I would the day you left.

Frank brought me your letter. He has become such a friend to me in the last few months. He found me while I was packing—you'll see I have already mentioned my grief—and with a smile or two, he made me alright.

Like she'd written Perry, Verity thought the day was hot for the middle of August. Not Toccoa, Georgia hot, but nowhere as cool as Aldbourne, England, either. It was still summer, of course, but things had changed vastly in just a week's time—Japan had surrendered on the 14th, Gene had proposed the same afternoon, and the reality of everyone's going home was finally starting to sink in.

Such a hopeful reality had to begin somewhere, and for Verity, that somewhere was an awkwardly-cut manilla slip bearing the date of her departure and the suggestion to pack her things as soon as she was able. She set to the task like a squirrel digging up nuts buried a season ago, gathering practicalities and niceties alike from fond and forgotten corners around the base. Her bedroom was mostly empty even before she started in there. She'd heard through the grapevine that Charles had a politician for a father who pulled a few strings to bring his son home as soon as could be reasoned. She probably could have guessed as much, quiet, clean-kept, and carefully spoken as he was. He'd left six days prior on the 15th, one of thirty-two non-coms sent north. They were the first to go, with hundreds upon hundreds more—men of all stations—preparing to follow. For the troops trickling out of Zell am See, the beaten path would begin with a relatively brief drive up to Munich. From there, they would be flown to Paris, then either take a bus to La Havre on the west coast of France or continue across the English Channel. Either way, a ship in an Atlantic port would see them across the ocean, where, with their journey complete, home and hearth awaited.

It was during that hot afternoon that Verity hovered in place, looking around the room, wondering what else she was momentarily neglecting. As she stood there by the bedpost, rubbing her thumbnail over the small scar on the inside of her wrist, she remembered the pen Webster had given her before his parting yesterday and went to get it from the desk. The slim drawer fought with her briefly but gave way with a firm tug, and with the pen in hand, she moved to return to packing only to realize she could not go on. A seasoned soldier like Verity ought to be embarrassed at how haphazardly she'd stuffed her belongings into her pack—but then she saw Captain Sobel in her mind's eye, goggling, aghast, and she felt a burst of elation instead. In the end, she decided to dump everything out on the floor and reorganize anyway; there was not a semblance of practicality in the initial disarray, and she would need to be able to access certain things—her papers, most especially—at a moment's notice during her international travels.

As soon as she upended her pack, however, the difficulty of her task became apparent. Bits and baubles tumbled onto the floorboards and became more than mere things. A spool of army-green thread—a remnant of sewing on her sergeant's chevrons back in Drulingen—rolled across the floor and bumped against the toe of her boot. She failed to notice it, preoccupied with the last three years of her life splayed across the floor in front of her.

Two chocolate bars and a half-empty pack of Lucky Strikes, handed over by George after he lost a swimming race to her for the third time this month. Buck Compton kept time on his wristwatch and didn't bat an eye when Verity practically dove for her towel as soon as she was out of the water. If he knew, he knew, and she wasn't about to provoke him out of silence; if he didn't know, she wasn't about to tell him.

Seven cloth bandages, pressed into neat, long ovals, enough to last her all the way home and then some. A precursor to their parting, she found Gene's gift on her bed one night before she came back from supper in the interim between the end of her day and Charles the night owl's. When she tried to thank her love, she was met with a plea to let herself breathe once she got home—in more ways than one. She promised, and he kissed her until she forgot she'd be missing those lips for many months ahead.

The black gloves she'd shared back and forth with Perry all throughout Bastogne when Perry's kept blowing away across the snow. The gloves John Julian had borrowed and worn up to the minute his throat was cut. The gloves she hadn't worn since February, since Haguenau, since the night Eugene Jackson died by his own grenade.

And then—loose scraps of paper with poems on them, verses she wrote in joking fondness for her friends and stuffed into her pack to be forgotten once their amusement moved on. Two that she meant to send Smokey but never did, three for George on a summer night not long ago, four for her father that she wasn't sure she could ever show him, and the last, yellowed by a year of weathering the elements, from a time when she had to pick a different name because she couldn't find anything that rhymed with-

But no. These were just objects, things, nothing more. She could call them odds and ends, now, with their purpose diminished by the war's ending. She could hold them like any other thing—like she held this pen, gifted by a friend in a moment blessedly absent of need or misery. She picked up the chocolate next, and as she held it in her hand, she convinced herself again that there was nothing to these things but their bare nature.

Returning to an impartial state, she knelt and started shuffling through the pile. First went the bigger things, such as her sherpa fleece blanket—a far humbler souvenir than what most of her friends took, it was one of only two things she'd sworn to smuggle home with her—padding out the bottom of the pack. The chocolate passed through her periphery and she set it aside to be dealt with later. Her scarf made an appearance she would have rather liked to avoid; stuffing it down below the blanket, she hid its bullet-riddled, bloodstained carcass from curious eyes, most especially her own. She made bundles out of shirts, dismissed the chocolate when it found its way into her hand again, and crammed everything already packed a little closer together, estimating how much room she'd need for the rest. She tucked the smaller, more delicate items into pants pockets before those pants were rolled up neatly and placed in snug clusters with her socks and her cap and-

The chocolate.

Baffled, she looked at the bar in its paper wrapping, not understanding why she kept picking it up. In a flash of brokenhearted anger, she thrust it away into some shady pocket, knowing it was only because George had lived that she could bear to hold it, and in blindly reaching for the next distraction, she discovered something soft and fluffy pressed to her palm. She lifted it to her face but found herself unable to open her fist until, too late, her train of thought caught up with her subconscious and she realized what she held—one single hand-knit tiny red sock.

“Is that a kazoo?”

“No, you dolt, it’s a tin of mints.”

Verity's laughter is light and unbothered. She is two-and-a-half years younger in age but closer to ten in youth. When she pinches the toe of the sock and lifts it, a little metal apparatus slides into her palm, cold against her skin after spending the night in an outdoor mailbox.

“You’re both wrong. It’s my old harmonica.”

She was sobbing when she came out of the memory, though when she'd started, she couldn't be sure. There wasn't much else to do but hunch over and cry, gasping and moaning as her wracked chest saw fit.

It's over. We won.

She'd heard the refrain so much over the last seven days that it did nothing to soothe her cares now. She tried again—

I'm alive.

Better, but then—

I'm lost. 

Worse—

I'm afraid.

She held the sock to her chest. It was so small; it could have fallen through the cracks so easily, and yet it hadn't, it had come all this way with her. Unblemished, it reminded her of her scars; red, it betrayed her adamant ignorance of her scarf. Now it would be going back to Alton to find its other half; now, she would be leaving hers in Austria.

What am I supposed to do now?

Stricken, bent over her knees, she rocked back and forth; though she was not the typical visual of someone petrified—stone-still, eyes wide, tensed like a deer staring down the barrel of a shotgun pointing from an otherwise innocuous bush—petrified was the only word for it. Soon, so soon, Verity Rich would be herself again, home again, alone again.

At least in the war, she had friends, people who cared about her, who she could trust with her life, she had Gene. Away in that little, thin house down the road from the water, she had none of that, and nothing of the sort to fall back on. How would she cope with all she'd seen and done without her brothers around, without George's jokes and Bull's home-on-the-range wisdom and, hell, Martin's scowling, and Perry, oh, sweet beacon of light, and—

If petrification made her a sobbing mess on the floor, despair froze her like a mouse locking eyes with a cat—a cat in a black cloak, a cat with a scythe, a cat with a grim, grim smile.

She'd avoided his name twice; she couldn't manage it a third time.

The sheer force of the memory extinguished her tears, her breath, and the focus of her eyes in one go. She could not see the wooden slats beneath her knees, nor the red sock caught on the button of her breast pocket where it swung in time with her swaying, nor even her own pale hands clenching and unclenching upon her knees. She sat there on the carpet, pathetic, staring into nothing as her legs—still tucked under her—went numb.

"He never tasted chocolate.”

The little boy sits on her knee. The chocolate bar is bigger than his hands. His face is smeared with soil and he gnaws on the treat like a man starved. Perhaps he is. 

He leans against Verity. Webster is smiling at the boy, kneeling to look him in the eye, but it is another over his shoulder that seizes Verity's attention. A broad, devastating grin she hasn't seen in eight unforgiving months twinkles at her, dark, warm eyes reflecting the hazy lamplight from the open cellar doors at his feet, one hand comfortably on his hip and the other running through his unkempt hair—

Hoobler is there, and he's smiling at her, but he isn't here, and she's stuck, knowing it is the past but not how to break herself out.

The grief, merciless, dragged her down fast. Weakening, she slipped deeper into that night, into the happiness that had been, aching for it at a depth she'd never had much time to feel before she got her life back from the war.

I made it through.

The words came loud in her head, blocking out all else, keeping Verity unaware of how intensely she'd started to shake.

I made it through, but you didn't. 

"Red?"

Hoob?

"Red!"

Hands find her shoulders, but they can't be Hoobs', he hasn't moved, and neither has Webster's, nor the blessed little boy, so who-

"Jesus Christ, Red, wake up!"

Shaking her shoulders didn't work, so he slapped her, and the sting snapped Verity out of her tailspin. The hands on her wrist, checking her pulse, were narrow and tan, not broad and pale like Hoobler's. Though she was dazed, she could still figure it was Frank saving her now when she could not save herself. He'd done it before, on the night Hoobs died. He took her away and when he asked “You got him, Shift?”, Shifty said, “Yeah, I got 'im,” and there was more to that story Verity couldn't remember now with Frank looking at her like that, like she'd scared him shitless.

"Fuckin' hell, Victor!" he cried, shaking a little himself. "Don't you go all nuts on me now!"

Later, she would realize what he must have seen—a pale and sallow soldier, a foot thumping against the floor as a figure rocked back and forth, staring at a whorl in the floorboard, slipping away to some happier, deadlier place. At the time, all she could do was shake her head miserably and try to make a promise she didn't know how to keep.

"I won't. I won't, Frank, I- God."

She croaked the last word, buried her head in her hands, and wept. Frank, to her surprise, tugged her close to him and started stroking her hair. She started feeling better right away, and, miraculously, it calmed her down faster than she might have guessed. After a time, her cheeks stiff from the tears she'd finally managed to stem, she lifted her head and sought guidance, trying to stop her voice from shaking but not succeeding much.

"Frank?"

"Hold on—you sure you're good now? No more freakin' out like that?"

"No more. Promise."

"Okay." A beat. "So..?"

"What happens now? Where do I go?"

"You go home," he replied, softer than she expected. "We all go home."

A few seconds of silence, then:

"Here," he added, pulling something out of his pocket and shaking it out. "You mighta cried on it through my shirt a bit, but, uh, it's a letter. From Bloom. Picked it up this afternoon when I was down at the post, thought I'd bring it to you, so..."

"It's from Perry?"

"Yeah."

She took it and held it in her lap, careful to keep it off the spots dampened by her streaming tears. He cleared his throat, standing a little abruptly but not unkindly. He wouldn't have gone if he didn't think she would be fine on her own.

"Read it, yeah? Write 'im back. It'll do you some good." A small smile that was a little more haunted than he meant it to be. "Promise."

He went to pat her shoulder, and then—to her knowledge—he was gone. To his, he lingered, looking back at her a moment more. Her face no longer looked so gaunt and thin, but the remnants of her ear, the brambly scar on her neck, and the pale, red, pinpricked scratches all over her hands refused to let either of them forget what she'd been through to get to the here and now. Frank wasn't sure he knew much at all anymore, hadn't been since Landsberg, but he was certain of one thing:

'Red' had fought the same as anybody else, and that meant 'Red' could go home the same as anybody else.

He left her in quiet, hoping peace would be quick to follow.

It took Verity a minute or two, but she dragged herself over to the desk, leaned against it, and opened the letter. She could feel the bumps of the handles under her back, but it was nice, in a way, the discomfort. It grounded her, reminding her where she was and who she'd just seen. The date on the top of the letter helped in turn—August 10th, 1945—she knew the when again, and finally, it felt like she was back on even ground.

The letter came all the way from California, postmarked with a P.O. box number. Verity was careful not to tear that part of the envelope when opening it. Along with providing her with an address with which to write to Perry, it would remind her to include her own place of residence in her response. The letter started out with the usual pleasantries—Perry wished her friend the best, touched on the weather in Washington State (cloudy and wet), and said her family was well, but right off the bat, Verity could tell there was more to it. Perry said she missed Sacramento, but when she added that she'd be going back in a few days, Verity could practically feel the dread emanating off the page. She would not return to the place she considered her hometown of her own free will, she'd be forced back by her mother and her mother's lawsuit. Perry—who'd noted in the margins that she'd been home for three days as of the writing of the letter—would have already gone and been there for over a week by the time Verity picked up her letter.

Only adding to the stress, Perry wrote after several lines on the state of traffic across the California coast, was the near-miss she'd experienced with her official discharge from the army. She was purposefully vague in her letter, but knowing what she knew about her friend and friend's circumstances, Verity could sense the anxiety between the lines. Perry had visited a recruitment office—a different one than she'd enlisted at, just for an added layer of precaution—the day she got back, and she was lucky enough that it was such a slow Tuesday they could see her at once. All was going smoothly with the paperwork until the officer overseeing the discharge spied her last name on the forms at the same moment Perry spotted the rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm—a newspaper with her family name on it. As her heart skidded wildly around her chest, she feigned casualness and listened to the officer mumble that dangerous line of supposition: Those Blommes that are in the papers right now, with the whole court case about the son—you wouldn't happen to be related, would you, Sergeant? Blomme sounds an awful lot like Bloom...

That officer must have either been an idiot or an oracle, Verity thought, grimacing. Perry seemed to agree, stating in her compressed, swooping script that she'd chuckled and told the officer there was no relation, at which he'd shrugged and signed her honorable discharge into effect. Though she reported the meeting 'came to a happy conclusion' and said nothing more on the matter, the three dots concluding the narrative hinted to Verity of how close a call the interaction had really been. Verity's own letter detailed a moment of peril, but unlike Perry, she had someone, she had Frank...

...and with a smile or two, he made me alright.

Gene came by right after I finished reading your letter. It wasn't really goodbye, but since I'm leaving tomorrow, it felt like it was. He stayed for several hours until the sun went down. We locked the door so no one could bother us, and I'd lie and say we played cards with the fervor of doomed men, but you'd guess anyway that we preferred to indulge in a more reclined activity... with the fervor of doomed men. He would have stayed all night if he didn't have to attend the night shift at the hospital. He's been there much more often since Grant got shot—I think it's Cpt. S~'s doing, scheduling him like that, but who can blame him? Grant's expected to make a splendid recovery, Gene said it himself, but 'splendid' doesn't mean 'fast' or 'easy' or even 'complete'.

He won't leave for three more weeks, maybe four. I will miss him, and I think he will miss me.

I had almost forgotten to say—this will delight you. Since you left, I have become engaged, as has Gene. I'm sure you can imagine our respective fiancé/es from where you are, as you know them both as well as you know your friends.

Before he went, he told me, "Parting is such sweet sorrow", and I had to tell him to stop with the Shakespeare or I'd have to put my foot down and stay for as long as Cpt. S~ keeps him. Oh, you know what—or who, more like—my poet's heart can't resist.

"Vee?"

"Hmm?"

They were laying there in the afterglow when Gene rolled over with the sheets, touched Verity's cheek, and asked her if she'd ever love him less than this moment.

"No," she breathed, and she meant it in every fiber of her being. "I don't know how I could ever love you less. I don't know how I could ever love you more, for that matter."

He didn't respond for a little while, stroking her cheek with his thumb, and when she questioned the mist in his eyes, he shrugged.

"Genie, babe, what is it?"

"Mon ange," he hummed, kissing her nose and her forehead and her cheekbone until she'd almost forgotten why she was even asking. "I was only thinkin'."

"About what?"

He thought for a moment more, then let her in.

"You told me, a long time ago, that you thought you could love a woman just as much as you love a man."

"Not could," she corrected softly, newly anxious. "It's... it's a fact. I know that now."

He looked a little sad, and that worried her twice as much as when he looked calm. His hand was still on her cheek, and she leaned into his palm, nudging a soft kiss against his softer skin.

"I didn't go around testing out my theory, if that's what you're wondering," she mumbled, half-teasing, half-terrified he actually thought she'd been unfaithful. "I just... I think I knew, for a long time, but it was hard for me to say because I was terrified everyone I loved would-"

She broke off, unwilling to finish the painful thought, and tried to swallow back her nerves, but her throat felt tight. 

"Well. You're still the only one who knows."

"Good."

"Good?"

He rolled onto his side to face her better.

"Good," he affirmed, "that you trust me that much."

He went a little blurry before her, but she let the tears fall and he was clear again. She closed her eyes, lost in the tenderness of his hands as he dried her cheeks.

"After all we've been through, I figure things like that are... precious."

"So... You really don't..?"

"Cherie," he said, starting to smile, "the war's over. The only thing that could ever scare me now is some pretty neighbor or flower girl stealin' you away from me."

She gasped, but there was a crease to his eyes, and as his smirk grew, she realized he was only kidding.

"Never! Why, I'd rather- jump in the lake in the middle of December!"

At once, his playful look faded, but before it could concern her again, he pulled her into a tight hug. Laying half on top of him just as she'd done on the grassy knoll the day he proposed, she reciprocated the embrace, peppering his collarbone and upper chest with sweet kisses. He drew her chin up after a time and kissed her, hard, and though she was still swooning when they broke apart, she needed to know—

"Gene? Do you think-"

"Yes."

She quirked a smile.

"I didn't even finish."

"Didn't have to," he whispered, caressing her back. "I think you're perfect just the way you are."

"Thank you," she said softly, barely able to speak without tearing up.

"I love you, and I don't know what I'd do if I wasn't there if..."

She leaned back, and what he meant was written all over his face:

If the wrong person found out and you got hurt because of it.

Her heart did a flip. His brow was knit gently upon his forehead, his eyes taking in every inch of her face as he caressed her cheek.

"I'll be okay," she told him, equally hushed. "And I won't be without you for long."

"No," he promised, starting to smile again, "you won't."

He held her close for a long time after that, and they lay there, breathing in harmony. As he gathered his things to leave for his shift at the hospital, he kissed the top of her head and the back of her hand. She nearly wept when he slipped away from her, and it was only when he was gone that she realized just how tired she was. Still, Frank had made a promise to her, and in a way, she felt compelled to see it through. So she retrieved Perry's letter, a pencil, three new blank pages, and an empty photo frame to use the back of as a makeshift desk. Sitting up in bed, she began to write. An hour later—only half of which she'd spent with her pencil to the page, the other half usurped by introspection—she sat up and stretched her back, which ached from how long she'd spent slouching. She was almost done with her letter, all she had left to do was sign off and mark the proper address, and then she could get some sleep. She flipped over Perry's envelope, repeating the P.O. box over and over in her mind as she tapped her pencil against her lower lip. Mulling over how to end such a letter, hoping it would be only the first of a very long correspondence, Verity took a deep breath and leaned over her lap with fulfilled finality.

You know I care for you as I would a brother. If there is anything at all you should ever need, write to me—or call when we are able to share a line—and I will crawl to the ends of the earth to provide it to you.

Missing you,

Victor

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4/15 updates left.

[sergeant-spoons]

22. A Shakespearean Twist

Olympia Bird

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​​​​​ @chaosklutz​​​​​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​​​​​ @50svibes​​​​​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​​​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​​​​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​​​​​​ @heirsoflilith​​​​​​​​​ @itswormtrain​​​​​​​​​ @actualtrashpanda​​​​​​​​​ @wtrpxrks​​​​​​​​​

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The heatwave of Summer '41 finally broke in the last days of August. Weeks of humidity and wide-brimmed hats, rolled-up sleeves and swimsuits, and cold sandwiches and colder drinks came to a celebrated end. The residents and guests of the Bird Estate eagerly looked forward to a more comfortable September. One gloomy fact loomed over the two young courting ladies of the house, however, and it was the passage of time inevitably bringing college back into session. Antwon and David would be leaving for Harvard in two weeks to begin the fall semester. A sense of urgency dawned upon the two couples, and they began to spend more and more time exclusively with each other. By virtue of this shift, Antwon did not notice David's seemingly sudden interest in Olympia's everyday activities, and when David said he was going to invite her out for a day, his friend failed to think anything of it.

Now, he leaned in the doorway of Olympia's airy bedroom, watching her twist the ties of her dress behind her back as deftly as a practiced seamstress knotting her needlework. She had not yet spotted him, intent on her task. Two ribbons lay off-kilter, one tighter than the other. Evidently, she could feel the difference; there she went, pulling on one to even out the stretch. For a moment, he wondered how to tell her just how deeply he cared about every little thing she'd ever done, was actively doing, and would ever do. Then imaginings of her refusal silenced his hopes, and he tugged at his sleeves, newly self-conscious. Olympia paused, catching the motion and thus his reflection in the mirror, and he brought back his smile for her sake and hers alone.

"But soft," he murmured, "what light through yonder window breaks?"

He brought his thumb up to his neck and brushed it across his skin, remembering her lips there the night before. Encouraged by the smile ghosting across Olympia's lips, he went on.

"It is the East, and Juliet is the sun," he mused, his voice growing louder as he set foot into the room. "Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon-"

"-she who is already sick and pale with grief-"

"-that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she," they finished together, and Olympia giggled as David swept her into his arms. He nuzzled his face into her shoulder, exhaling with a happy hum.

"I like this dress," he said, touching its billowy fabric, "it reminds me of the clouds over the estate."

"Just these clouds?" she teased. "But you've only seen them this one summer."

"And I hope to see them plenty of summers ahead," he decreed, grinning into her collarbone as he picked her up and spun her about. She laughed, pawing at him affectionately, and he set her back down, pecking the side of her chin as he stepped back and eyed her almost reverentially.

"A few days ago, you said your father owned a sailboat." At her nod, he implored, "Come sailing with me."

"Sailing? Where?"

"The lake at the country club," he suggested, his eyes twinkling. "We'll go for the whole day, and no one can tell us to be home before sundown, and it'll be just you and me."

Olympia sighed dreamily, relaxing into his arms, and pressed a tantalizingly soft kiss to his lips.

"I would like that."

"Then let's do it," he murmured, chasing her lips as she pulled away.

"Yes," she said, her smile growing in tandem with his own, "let's."

Lake Abitibi was only an hour's drive from the estate, but it was far enough out of the way that no one of note would come looking. Mr. Carlisle was happy to drive them there without question as to their companionship, and clever Olympia knew he wouldn't speak a word of the jaunt once he was given leave to enjoy the facilities of the club up on the proper at his leisure. He paraded off to gossip and smoke with the other chauffeurs and Olympia and David strolled down to the lake far below. It was a small thing without a name, and the intended sailors were more interested in the small channel attached to the western side of the lake. It bent around the treeline and went along for two miles before opening up onto the magnificent, sparkling Abitibi. Private property of the country and yacht club, the greater lake was well-maintained and sparsely populated, exactly what the moneyed families who frequented the place liked to see. Best of all was the gondola system the club employed to transport their guests from the club and golf course to the docks of Lake Abitibi.

Olympia's father didn't even know how to sail, but all his rich friends owned a sailboat, and thus, so did he. The dockhands seemed pleasantly surprised when the heiress requested to take the boat out for the afternoon. She joked to David that this might be the vessel's maiden voyage and was endeared when he took her seriously. He made a show of ordering a ceremonial bottle of champagne to crack on the bow to celebrate, and when he ordered another bottle to actually drink, Olympia would have thought the whole display overly ostentatious had he not poured a glass for everyone present, dockhands very much included. They boarded the schooner with much fanfare and sailed away into the afternoon, taking with them a hamper packed to the brim with finger foods, cheeses, and bread from the club's very own delicatessen, several bottles of the finest wine from the Bird cellars, and, of course, a box of Olympia's favorite macarons.

But their trip wasn't really about the food (though it certainly made it all the merrier) or even the sailing. At the most base level, they'd come out here for some peace and quiet—and privacy. But while the sun shone, they'd play it coy, display their innocent friendship to any curious onlookers who might have a word to say to Mrs. Bird on the telephone later. Olympia had more fun with the whole sailing bit of the venture than she'd expected, even though she didn't have a clue what she was doing. Hardly a minute into their voyage, she almost received a nasty knock on the head by the swinging boom but managed to duck just in time, warned by David's alarmed urging. Once they were securely on their way, tacking to and fro across the lake from the east shore to the west, they both settled in, enjoying the ride. David got her to hold the rope, and she was puzzled until he put his arms around her and wrapped his hands around her own. She snuggled into his chest, smugly content, and she couldn't resist stealing a little kiss or two, even if it meant losing her grip on the rope. She managed to distract David, too, and the boom swung around when they weren't expecting it. Olympia nearly got hit (again), but David fielded off the boom with his hands and wrangled the rope until they were back on a steady westward course.

"You're not really supposed to do that," he mumbled, nuzzling a lazy kiss against her neck as she craned her head, basking doubly in the sunlight and his adoration. "You could hurt yourself or be knocked off the ship."

"But you weren't," she sighed, running her hands through his hair in the way she knew he liked. "My hero."

Olympia would happily boast that she'd learned plenty about sailing by the end of that day (she hadn't, not really), but one look at David—who actually knew what he was doing—and it was easy to pinpoint him as the professional. He did all of the real work while Olympia sat around and looked pretty in her favorite sunhat, flowy dress, and fashionable sandals. She spent quite a while admiring him—ogling the muscles in his arms as he handled the ropes, swooning at his gorgeous, windswept hair—and even longer kissing him silly. She painted her nails and convinced him to let her paint his thumb over a bruise he'd gotten the day before when he'd clumsily closed a closet door on his hand, trying to hide himself and Olympia mid-tryst from Antwon. As the day waned, they sated their hunger with the bits and baubles from the hamper, then settled down to watch the sunset. Olympia sat between David's legs, her head on his shoulder, and smiled as he pressed one soft kiss after another to her hair and forehead. He'd taken to rhythmically and innocently stroking her legs, and as they sat there, Olympia thought for the first time that he might love her.

The sunset was lovely but brief, just how Olympia wanted it, knowing as soon as twilight fell, all proprieties were to be abandoned. While there was yet orange light in the sky, David's hands began to slip to places other than her legs, places that made her squirm, all while his lips on hers kept her quiet. By the time the first stars came out, they'd all but forgotten that a world existed beyond the sailboat, and they stumbled belowdecks into the small but lavish captain's cabin to make the most of the night.

Five hours later, they were back on the dock, tugging on sandals and tipping the lone dockhand still on the clock. Under the silver light of the moon, they dashed up the hill in a haphazard line, cutting through the grass and onto the fake green. Hastening toward the sweeping steps and balcony of the country club, Olympia led the charge, feeling guilty for forgetting Mr. Carlisle. David was not far behind, picnic hamper in hand. The heiress' worries were soothed, however, when she ducked into the parlor and found her chauffeur asleep in an armchair twice the size of his person, cradling a bottle of wine. She woke him with an apology already slipping through her lips, but he waved her into silence, not minding the wait even when he realized the late hour.

"I had meself a whale of a time," he told her, getting to his feet and dusting off his uniform. "Any time ye want te go out fer the night, ye can count on me te drive ye—and yer beau."

He winked, and Olympia blushed a little but didn't deny it, knowing he'd keep the secret as well as any lockbox or safe. Mr. Carlisle wobbled on his feet and laughed at himself, looking down at his leg that had fallen asleep. For a moment, his employer was concerned as to his level of sobriety; as it turned out, Mr. Carlisle hadn't had a single drop from the bar, nor from the bottle in his arms. He informed her as they walked to the car, a relieved David right beside them, that he was afraid of someone taking this expensive wine from him, a gift from one of the serving girls after he sang her a few old Scottish tunes—or, as he said, "a few auld Scotty choons."

Their drive back was blessedly uneventful. The only other car they passed was a taxi heading into town, coming from the same direction as the only train station in the region. David fell asleep on Olympia's shoulder in the backseat, and when she leaned her head on his, she started to nod off as well. At some point, Mr. Carlisle had taken notice and turned the radio off to let the pair doze. They woke from their light slumbers as soon as they slowed down and took the wide turn into the long driveway to the estate, and did their best to look presentable while still rather sleepy. It was just after two in the morning when they crossed the threshold, hurrying to escape the cool, damp night. While Mr. Carlisle went to get himself a stout coffee from the unattended kitchen (for some peculiar reason, caffeine made him sleepy), Olympia and David drifted into the parlor, following the sounds and smell of a crackling fire. Fish the groundskeeper was still awake; as he tended to the flames under the mantel, he told them he hadn't felt right going to bed before Miss Rose came back from her dinner with Mr. McCree. Her surprise quickly morphing into unease, Olympia pointed out the hour, and Fish—an excitable man—quickly became anxious. Even more so than Olympia, sweet, down-to-earth, punctual Rose was the darling of the household; her peculiar lateness was easily grounds for concern.

Quickly piecing together what they knew didn't bring Olympia any sense of peace. Antwon and Rose had left for a nice dinner in town around six that evening. Having been granted permission by telegram to borrow his uncle's third-favorite car whenever he so desired during his stay at the Bird Estate, Antwon drove. They had plans to visit the bar and maybe have a dance or two before coming home. The thought that they'd elected to stay the night in town instead was outlandish, to say the least. Why would they want a hotel when they had perfectly good beds (and plenty of privacy) at the Estate? Steaming mug in hand, still wearing his coat, Mr. Carlisle poked his head back in and asked if there was anything he ought to do before heading to bed. Earl Gray, who'd been snoozing on the carpet in front of the fire, yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep, and Olympia started to cry. David was at her side in an instant, touching her arms and scanning her face for any sign of injury. She told him tearfully that she had a bad feeling about all this, and his expression switched like lightning from concern to decisiveness.

"I hate to ask more of you, sir," he said, and Mr. Carlisle was already setting aside his coffee before David had finished the request. He went straight away, grabbing his cap from the hook on the door and buttoning up his coat as he went out into the night. Earl Grey, woken when Fish backed into him by accident, jumped up and padded after the chauffeur, meowing confusedly at the front door when it was shut in his face. Olympia scooped him up and went back into the parlor as she stroked his back, but his purring only got her crying again. David drew her onto the couch, and they sat there, quietly discussing how Mr. Carlisle deserved nothing short of a bonus for his work tonight and how Olympia would see to it as soon as she could get around to the bank, anything to keep their minds off what they didn't know. Fish went to bed but said he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep and to come and get him if there was any news.  They promised they would, and he left.

Earl Grey fell asleep on Olympia's lap. The two humans he accompanied dozed on and off, taking turns to drift into a state of almost-dreaming until they realized the dream was about their missing friends and were promptly shocked awake. It was five minutes to four a.m. when the telephone rang. Olympia bruised her shin on the coffee table in her haste to pick it up, and as soon as Mr. Carlisle greeted her from the other end, she knew the news was nothing good. She grabbed David's hand and squeezed hard, and he wrapped his other arm around her back to steady them both.

"Ma heid’s mince," Mr. Carlisle said, and Olympia could hear the weariness in his chest from the tightness in his breath and the thickness of his usually mild accent. "All ma thoughts're like the fret rollin' in from te sea."

"Mr. Carlisle, tell me, has something happened?" Olympia pleaded, and David tightened his arm around her just a little, almost more tense than she was.

"Aye, there's been a row. Miss Rose is in hospital."

"What?!" Olympia gasped, her tears rising anew. "How?! Why?!"

"I dinnae ken," the chauffeur replied miserably, and if he didn't know, who could?

"What about Antwon?" the heiress pressed. "Where is he?"

"He's there, too." Mr. Carlisle turned aside to cough. "They willnae let 'im in te see her, though. Not me, neither. They think he's got somethin' te do wit' Rose gettin' hurt, and hurt bad."

Olympia went pale. Though David tried to rub her arm soothingly, she could feel the tremble of disbelief and anger he tried vainly to suppress. Hollow-voiced and wet-cheeked, Olympia thanked her chauffeur for the update and bade him come home. He started to say he'd be back before sunrise, but she interrupted and made him promise that if he felt like he was falling asleep at the wheel to pull over until the feeling passed. They said their goodbyes and as soon as the line went dead, Olympia fell back onto the couch, turning into David's shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, and as she pawed at his chest, she wept for the thousand biting questions one non-answer had raised.

"What happened?" she sobbed, fisting his shirt. "What could have possibly led to this?"

"I don't know, darling." David tucked her snugly against his chest, doing his best to be strong for her but powerless against the shivers of dread that periodically wracked his body. "I just don't know."

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