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sergeant-spoons · 2 years

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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."

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sergeant-spoons · 2 years

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And Know That Only I ~ Pt II

Perrine Blomme (Perry Bloom)

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.

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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.

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