Kelso is not an easy character for me to write for, but the stream of consciousness format seems to fit him like a glove, considering how he much more closely fits the mold of a typical noir hero than Cole.

Prompt: Paramount (can be used as theme or wording)
Words: 490

In an old trunk in the attic of his childhood home, Kelso placed his dress uniform away.

Kelso's sister, Rachel, the younger of the two, threw her arms tight about his neck when he disembarked from the ship upon returning from the Pacific. Laura, the older, presented him with a bouquet of roses, along with a heartfelt declaration of, "It's good to see you, home, Jack." Kelso couldn't help but stiffen at the vulnerability of his sister holding him in broad daylight, but he relaxed just as soon. This was no longer the battlefield, this was home. Home was what it was, and he saw it as much. It was paramount to remember that life was not perfect; there were no idealisms that actually became true, yet no cynicisms.

"You've changed," Laura commented, ankle deep in the lapping tide as they walked along the shore.

His hands in his pockets, he replied, "I just haven't seen you and Rachel for a while."

Laura smiled sadly. "Is this the same man who carried his little sisters on his back into the waves?"

Jack shrugged. "For one thing, you two were lighter then."

She chuckled at his jibe, and ran further into the water, calling over her shoulder, "Come on, Jack!"

Kelso shuddered as the cold of the water hit him, before diving forward, and propelling himself headlong into the coldness of the water. He ducked his head and closed his eyes as the wave crashed over him. Jack tumbled back once, the cold shock becoming extreme heat for a moment, the fires of Okinawa burning behind his closed lids. Come and see the forms the devil takes, the perfect lieutenant, the well-meaning flamethrower man, come and see.

Jack burst through the surface, gasping. Come and see that it was all an illusion.

Phelps, his jaw black and blue, and one eye swollen shut, glared up at Kelso from where he lay upon the floor of the makeshift boxing ring, the Marines jeering at his loss.

Jack, with a bleeding nose, leaned backward against the post behind him. Nine rounds, and he'd brought Phelps down at last.

Jack, blood dripping from the side of his mouth, held out a hand to Phelps. Welcome to Hell.

Laura leaned the side of her cheek against her propped-up knees, the water lapping at her feet. "There's a lot you aren't going to tell Rachel and me, I know."

Kelso placed his arms behind his head. "Not this time, princess. I'm sorry."

She extended her hand over the sand, and he took it to hold firmly. "It's all right, I have you back."

"I thought I changed," he inquired.

"You have, but," she sighed, "When I look out at the sea, I remember how you could just as easily not have returned."

Kelso's hand slipped from hers, and she let it go. He didn't have the heart to tell her that no one really came back.