AN: The story idea got into my head sometime during the last episode and wouldn't let go. It's perhaps a controversial approach, but given the situation, a not-unrealistic one. It's not so much about a 'ship as it is two broken people finding a moment's comfort in each other with one, the older and wiser, attempting to give the younger a sense of value and that they matter.

For continuity's sake, this takes place during the events of S2 Ep 10, "Fallout"—sometime after Thomas has confronted his parents and learned the full truth of his condition and before Juliana/Julia meets George and Susan at the bar, expecting to return to the Neutral Zone.

Also, for those wondering, the research I've done suggests that Thomas is likely 17, while Juliana is approximately 26.

Work Text:

It should have surprised him, how easy it was to disappear. It should have bothered him, too, the inherent dishonesty involved in said disappearance—nodding as his father returned from taking the confidential call, white-faced and tight-lipped and saying in a strained voice that he'd been called back to the office, but they'd talk more when he returned. There was much to discuss. Much to plan. Agreeing to both even as a part of him wondered what else could there possibly be? They all knew what came next.

It should have bothered him, allowing his mother to hug him once more, feeling her tears dampen the shoulder of his red sweater, the desperation in her embrace, comforting her while his mind whirled with a universe's worth of possibilities that ultimately came down to one simple choice. That allowed him to let his mother hold him that extra moment longer before stating quietly that he was very tired—the day's revelations had left him drained and that he would like to rest for a while.

For a heart-stopping moment he thought she might balk—that she might want to keep him close, keep an eye on her baby—but finally she released a shaky, tear-roughened sigh and smoothed his collar, murmuring assurances and encouraging him to get as much rest as possible.

That's when he breathed his own sigh of relief. He would be able to accomplish this one very important task. He hoped.

While he'd never before had occasion to sneak out of his room via a window, it was a task easily accomplished, especially since his illness chose to remain still and not inconveniently flare up. Then again, if it had and he tumbled off the roof to his own demise, he'd would have saved the Reich and his parents the trouble of taking him out. He knew his father would concoct some story to save face—a tragic accident—like the one that could have befallen him at the lake. That surprising interlude having taken on greater weight and meaning after he'd learned of his illness. He now knew what his father had done—or rather, had chosen not to do.

He wasn't at all certain he was worthy of such desperate love and devotion—love to the point of disloyalty.

He wasn't at all certain if she knew the absolute truth about him, would continue insist he was worthy of love. Of life.

But he was absolutely certain she wouldn't lie. Not about this. He'd felt the truth of her in the desperate grasp she'd had on his hands—as if to keep him tethered to this world. Much like at the church, when he'd come to and realized she'd been holding him close and that even as his mother took over, she'd kept a hand on his back, warm and comforting and again, as if to keep him tethered to this reality. To her.

He was romanticizing things, he knew. There could never be anything of substance between them. There were far too many differences.

But there could be something real. If what she'd said to him was a truth she believed, there could be something real.

"Thomas?"

He met her gaze as she opened her door, clearly startled to find him on her threshold once again.

"Did you mean what you said?"

Her eyes widened further. "I—"

"About all of us having flaws," he broke in, his words emerging in a rush. "About them being what makes us who we are."

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, as if struggling with what to say, before she finally sighed and nodded and simply said, "Yes. I meant it. With all my heart."

He felt his brows knit as he struggled to reconcile her words with what he'd been raised to believe. "And where you're from—they don't consider flaws a bad thing?"

Even before he finished the sentence she was shaking her head, spots of color appearing high up on her cheekbones. "If that was the case, I wouldn't be standing in front of you right now."

"Then…how were you allowed to stay here? How were you not sent back, if you have so many flaws?"

At the sound of a door opening down the hall, she quickly grasped his arm and drew him into her apartment, firmly closing the door and placing a chair beneath the knob in what appeared him to be a much-practiced gesture.

After studying him for a long moment, she sighed and led him to the sofa where she sat beside him, angled so her knees just brushed his. At the glancing touch he was jolted by the memory of sitting with her at his kitchen table, helping her study, feeling his heart race each time her knees casually brushed his beneath the table.

"I don't know," she finally said. "I had no idea when I came here there were such stringent laws with respect to…flaws. I might not have come, otherwise. But perhaps your father saw in me some inherent value that went beyond superficial flaws."

"My father?"

"He was my sponsor." She cocked her head, her clear blue gaze seeming to bore straight into him and weighing what to say next. "He's a man with…considerable influence," she said in a careful, measured tone. "And he's very protective of those he considers his charges." She took his hand in hers, palm to palm, the back resting on his knee. "More so for those he loves."

He'd always known that. Even more so now.

But the rest of the world wouldn't be so generous. Which was why he needed this one moment in time. He could only hope she understood what it would mean to him.

He dropped his gaze to their joined hands, seeing a faint, faded scar running alongside the palm, barely visible now, but there, nevertheless. How had he never noticed it before? He who was so attuned to perfection?

"Your flaws," he said slowly, his gaze fixed on the thin, nearly imperceptible line.

"What of them?"

He lifted his head and studied her face, seeing nothing outward there.

"What are they?"

Her lips thinned and for a brief, heart stopping moment, he thought it was over before it began. But no—her nostrils flared with a deep breath that she then slowly released through faintly pursed lips, her eyes briefly closing as if in prayer. When her eyes opened, he was stunned by their clarity and their…calm.

"I was hit by a bus. I nearly died."

"Oh—"

She once again repeated the deep breath with closed eyes. Softer still she said, "It was deliberate, Thomas."

"Deliberate?"

"I stepped in front of the bus. I wanted to die."

His throat tightened with a force he'd only felt once before—the exact moment he realized the severity of his illness. "Why?" he managed to choke out.

She lifted a shoulder in seeming casualness but her hand trembled slightly within his. "I don't even remember any longer. I do know I felt as if there was no longer any hope, but I honestly don't remember why." She glanced away toward the window, her gaze turned inward, to something only she could see. The late afternoon light limned her in silver and cream, making her appear so perfect, he could barely believe she was possessed of any flaws.

"I suspect that alone would be considered a flaw here—a mental deficiency, momentary though it was—but the physical scars and my likely inability to ever bear children were more than enough for the doctors." She met his gaze again and smiled weakly. "So the mental part never actually came up."

"But…" He dropped his gaze once more, somehow unable to find the scar that had seemed so prominent only seconds before. "You have hope now?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't." A warm hand cupped his cheek. "I wouldn't have said what I said to you if I didn't."

He closed his eyes and breathed deep of the scent of her, warm and floral and altogether unfamiliar.

"May I see them?"

"See what? My scars?"

Eyes still closed, he nodded, savoring the faint rasp of his skin against hers, the foreign sensation of her breath catching, the motion transferring from her chest, down through her arm and all the way to her fingertips. An instant later, her touch was gone and it was only through sheer will that he kept his eyes closed, instinct whispering it was the right thing to do. He felt her shift beside him and heard the subtle whisper of fabric against skin, his own skin warming and tightening in a manner usually reserved for the showers or late at night in his solitary bed.

"Okay." The quiet word was accompanied by yet another gentle brush of her hand to his cheek. Opening his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the black turtleneck she'd been wearing tossed over the coffee table then, the only thing he could see was her—head bent, hair falling forward to expose a long, elegant neck and satin-covered expanse of back. His gaze immediately found a knot of scar high up on one shoulder—long faded, but still raised and angry. He followed her hand as it rose to the strap bisecting that shoulder and slowly lowered it, the satin falling away to reveal creamy skin interrupted by long lines of scars, faded like the first, but jagged and raised, like a toddler had run amok with a stick through damp sand.

He knew he should feel revulsion. This was clear evidence of her defects. Who knew what other atrocities might lurk beneath this damaged surface?

But all he felt was the same sort of fascination as each time their bodies had inadvertently—or not so inadvertently—brushed against each other. The same flash of heat as each time she'd taken his hand. The same sort of wonder as when she'd insisted, oh so fiercely, that he mattered. That despite his flaws, he was worthy.

He watched, detached, as one of his hands rose almost of its own volition, to those scars, touching each one, gently at first, then more deliberately, tracing each bump and ridge. He recalled learning about how blind people had learned to read, back in the days before the Reich—before their suffering became a thing of the past. Something called…Braille, he thought. It had sounded tortuous beyond all belief—learning how to decipher patterns of dots by touch just to be able to understand something the rest of the world could so easily read at a glance. And to what purpose? It wasn't as if they could actually see any of the things they were reading about. They had no context, no meaning.

Touching Julia like this, however—tracing each scar and learning their subtle differences, he had a flash of understanding how it might have not been so bad. That touch, perhaps, was underrated. For example, he might have imagined the scars to be rough, unpleasant to the touch, but to the contrary, they were anything but. Their texture was different, to be sure, but it was like the difference between the smooth cotton of his everyday uniform and the comfortably worn flannel of his favorite pajamas. The worst ones, if they could be called that, were not unlike the slubbed fabric of the sofa—textured, but not at all unpleasant. More…warm and welcoming, beckoning further touch and exploration.

And he'd never, in his wildest imaginations, imagined that a simple touch would cause her breath to quicken and her skin to warm beneath his, turning a delicate pink that reminded him of the inside of the shells his sisters had brought back from the beach.

He recalled putting the shell to his ear and hearing the rush of the waves. Curious, he leaned forward, putting his cheek to her skin. She stiffened momentarily then relaxed. Beneath his ear, each breath came fast and shallow, like the ocean before a storm, her heartbeat adding a thunderous undertone.

Turning his head slightly, he pressed his lips to the knot of scar on her shoulder, the tip of his tongue following the same path his fingers had taken.

"Thomas—" She pulled away and turned to face him, hands clutching the slip to her chest. Her pupils were wide and black, very nearly obliterating their normal blue. "We can't. I shouldn't have even done this."

"Julia, please." He clenched his fists on his thighs, every muscle tense and aching in a way he'd never before experienced. Not even during the worst of his episodes. "No matter what happens going forward, I will never be allowed this, do you understand?"

Her mouth opened, but he rushed to cut off whatever she was about to say.

"I'm damaged goods, Julia—a risk. This…thing, I have—I will never be allowed to potentially pass it on. Not even accidentally."

Comprehension caused her eyes to widen and her skin to pale. "They wouldn't—" she spluttered. "But you're a boy!"

"In the eyes of the Reich, I'm a man. Another year or two, and I could conceivably be married if the match was advantageous. Obviously, that's no longer a possibility. Besides—" he snorted, a new bitterness sharpening his voice. "While my father has connections and pull and might be able to protect me to a certain point, the truth of the matter is, no one is ever going to want me. Not the way I am."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Thomas…"

Doubt suddenly replaced the fury which had driven him so far. "Unless, you—" He swallowed hard against the acid flooding his gut. "Unless you feel the same way."

"I do not." Outrage creased her face and narrowed her eyes, giving her the stern countenance of a teacher, yet her voice remained soft. "I do not," she repeated. "I told you I meant it, Thomas. We all have flaws—they're what make us who we are and who you are is a wonderful young man. A young man anyone would be proud to be with."

"Maybe where you're from." For the first time in his memory, he wished he was from anywhere but here. Close on the heels of that thought was the realization that technically, he was. He'd been born before the United States' capitulation—technically, he'd been born an American, not a citizen of the Reich. Which mean Julia had also been born an American, not a citizen of the Pacific States.

They were more alike than not. He understood that in a world that hadn't been rocked by war the way theirs had, they would likely never have met and would certainly have never found themselves in these circumstances, kept apart not only by distance but by age and experience, but here they were. Different, but alike. Two lost souls caught in a maelstrom neither of them had had any hand in making.

"You know, my gut instinct wants to believe you—so badly. Wants to trust my parents and that everything will somehow, against all odds, work out. My head, however, suggests otherwise."

"And your heart? What does it say?"

She sat before him, the lines of her face softened, matching her voice and giving her the demeanor of a girl closer to his age and it was that combination, and the invitation he wanted to believe he saw in the deep blue depths of her eyes that prompted him to lean forward, stopping with his mouth a hair's breadth away from hers.

"It says I should do this. Please?" He held himself perfectly still, not even breathing, waiting for her. As much as he wanted this, it had to be her choice. If she said no, the humiliation would be near-unbearable, but it would be better than to have her forcibly push him away.

"You know they watch me."

The brush of her lips against his was light, but enough that he realized she'd moved incrementally closer, causing a fresh rush of heat to go from his head to pool in his stomach, leaving him so lightheaded, he could barely comprehend her words.

"What do you mean?" he managed, almost caring less about her answer than about the feel of her mouth against his, the damp puffs of air that bathed his skin.

"Cameras. Here, in this apartment."

It took every ounce of willpower he possessed, but he pulled back just far enough to look into her face. "But…why?"

Her smile was sad and wise and knowing and he felt something deep within him crack. "I'm new here, Thomas. Essentially an unknown entity. They don't really know who I am." Her gaze darted away and back. "And while I may be under your father's protection, that's perhaps even more reason to keep close tabs on me." The hand not holding her slip to her chest rose to stroke his cheek and hair. "Your family is very valued, I suspect. So everything that goes on in here is…watched. Which means, if we do this, you have to be very, very sure."

It took less than a moment for him to come to a decision.

"I'm sure."

But before he could lean back in, he found himself held still by the hand she'd moved to his chest. Her gaze was steady and clear and demanded absolute certainty. Because nothing, from this moment forward, would be the same for either of them. There would be consequences. There might still be consequences, regardless of whether or not they progressed any further. He imagined what a recording of the past half hour would look like—the closeness, the intensity of their conversation, the hand holding, her partial state of undress, his lips against her skin. There would be severe repercussions would this come to light—likely harsher for Julia than for him, and yet, she was still willing to grant him this wish.

"I'm sure," he repeated, with a greater surety and conviction than he'd ever felt before. Not even standing before his classmates, reciting the pledge to the Reich, had he ever felt so sure. But suddenly, it seemed equally important that she be sure as well.

"And you?" he asked hesitantly? "Are you sure, Julia? Do you actually want…me?"

The corners of her mouth curved up slightly as she resumed stroking his hair. "In another lifetime, Thomas—were we in the same place and the same age, I would have had the world's worst crush on you. I would have been head over heels and likely inconsolable if you never turned an eye my way."

She lifted her chin, those slightly slanted cat-eyes that had captivated him from the first moment they met catching the light and turning an achingly pure shade of blue. No lies could hide in there, he thought irrationally.

For the first time, he fully touched her, both hands cupping her face. "No need to step in front of any buses," he said quietly, gratified when her smile broadened slightly.

They stayed that way for several moments, his thumbs brushing the delicate skin of cheeks and chin and tracing the outline of her lips while she continued to stroke his hair, her caresses lengthening to include his neck, teasing another memory from deep within his subconscious. She'd held him like this before. Had cupped his head and protected him from the outside world.

"So…you're sure?" he asked, certain he already knew the answer.

The hand that had held the slip to her chest rose to cover his on her face, allowing the fabric to slide down to her waist. Even with the promise of all that skin, he couldn't look away from her face—from her eyes and her mouth as it formed the words, "I'm sure," before she leaned forward to meet his kiss.

"Stop the tape."

"But sir, there's—"

"Stop it, Rollins."

The screen immediately went black, eradicating the image of his son, locked in a passionate embrace with Juliana Crain.

He wanted to be angry—and a part of him was. Angry at Juliana for taking advantage of a young man's turmoil; angry at himself for passing on this cursed…thing that had doomed his son and driven him to Juliana's arms. Angry, for the first time in his memory, at the laws governing the existence that had given him everything but that could so quickly take as well.

That Thomas was already so aware of the nuances spoke to what a tremendous leader he would have been.

Would have.

And that was the bitch of it, wasn't it? How could he begrudge Thomas this one moment in time when he had so very clearly illustrated for Juliana why this might be his only opportunity to experience a joy that everyone else took for granted? And Thomas had been right, too, about Juliana—inappropriate though she may be in all other respects, she was literally the only person with whom he could have this experience.

"I…know you're about to leave for Berlin, sir, and that it's an emergency, but I felt this urgent enough—"

John snapped out of his thoughts to find Rollins standing before him, anxious and pale. This went far beyond the previous encounter between Juliana and Thomas to which he'd been privy. He'd just seen the Obergruppenfürer's son engaged in an intimate encounter with a much older woman who was a newcomer to their ranks.

"At ease, Rollins." The younger man visibly relaxed—slightly. A palpable air of miserable tension still hovered around him like a miasma and would continue to do so, John knew, until he was given some clear direction and hopefully, absolved of any further responsibility.

"Like before, Rollins—I'll take the tape and like before, I'll trust in your discretion. Since this is obviously a delicate matter and of a personal family nature, I'll take care of it myself."

Rollins visibly sagged with relief for an instant before immediately snapping to a salute. "Yes, sir—of course." He removed the tape and handed it to Smith with the same care as one might take with a live cobra. John tucked it away in the inside pocket of his leather great coat, desperate to deal with the matter immediately but knowing that a matter of greater import had to take precedence.

Still, though—best to make certain things here stayed on an even keel. Loose lips could indeed sink ships, as he'd learned long ago in a former life.

"As I said, Rollins, I trust in your discretion—implicitly." He imbued the final word with the menacing drawl that had made many a man quake. It had its intended effect, causing Rollins to swallow so hard, his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. To the man's credit, however, he remained ramrod straight, save for a single sharp nod of acquiescence. Satisfied, John nodded in return.

"I'll leave orders that no one but you is to monitor Julia Mills' apartment. And should anything else of a similar…delicate nature come up, I'll expect you to contact my aide, Raeder, and to simply tell him it's an urgent matter that requires my immediate attention. Nothing more than that. He'll understand."

He made a mental note to inform Erich that if Rollins came to him with such a message, he was to be contacted immediately, no questions asked.

Rollins snapped off another salute. "Yes, sir."

John returned Rollins' salute and turned to leave but paused at the door. "And Rollins—"

"Yes, sir?"

"Keep the cameras turned off in Julia Mills' apartment until tomorrow morning."

"But sir—"

"That's an order, Rollins."

"Yes, sir!"

John didn't bother to wait for the salute he was quite certain Rollins had snapped. He knew his orders would be followed and that his son—his precious Thomas—would have this one night.

It was the very least he could give him after all he'd done.

Epilogue

I got to know a woman who would bet on the best in us, who bet on people, no matter what the world said about who they were, who they should be. That woman would do anything to save a sick boy—a Nazi boy, even—because she would believe he deserved the chance, as slim as it might be, to live a valuable life…

Millions of people will live because of the choice you made. The goodness in you, Juliana.

—Hawthorne Abendson