AN: I'm not a WWI scholar, so what I know about it comes from history classes and Google searches. I may get some of the details—like what food they would have had—wrong, so please be tolerant. This was originally going to be a one-shot, but as I kept writing, it wanted to go another way.

France—Spring 1918

Jack felt as though he had never been anywhere else. At times, it was a struggle to remember life before he was shipped to France, before the roar of tanks and guns filled his head, before the mud, the foxholes, and the ever-present scent of death. He wasn't afraid. Most days he didn't feel much at all. Numbness seemed to be the safest course. Just get through it. He would become himself again when it was all over.

The other men carried photos of wives, sweethearts, parents, and children. They eagerly awaited letters from home. Jack carried a worn clipping from the Philadelphia Times. It read "Debutante Perishes in Sinking." In the photo that accompanied the short paragraph Rose smiled a doll's smile; her eyes were blank. The woman in the photo bore only a slight resemblance to the woman he had known, but it was the only photo he had of her.

They never found her, but there was a funeral anyway. He had watched the procession enter the church from across the street, her mother and Cal at its head. Cal wore an expression of pained stoicism, and Jack wondered how real it was. Was it Rose he was mourning or the idea of her? Or was it simply an act? He hadn't doubted Ruth's grief. She was shattered, clinging to Cal's arm for support. She seemed to have aged a decade in just a few weeks. Jack wanted to speak to her, but he didn't know what to say. I love her too. I want her back too. She wouldn't listen, nor would she believe him. When everyone was inside, he darted across the street and slipped into the shadows behind the last row of pews.

The service was cold and impersonal. No-one said anything about her, not the real her. Jack realized none of them had ever really known her, and he was overwhelmed by the urge to storm to the front and demand to be heard. Someone had to tell the truth. He couldn't let Rose be remembered this way. But he remained silent and out of sight.

As she passed, Ruth lifted her head and seemed to look directly at him. Jack shrank back against the wall, sure he had been caught, but she kept going. If she saw him, she said nothing. When the last mourner had gone he made his way to the front. He reached into a vase of roses and pulled out a handful, not caring about the thorns.

It happened so quickly. One moment, he was running, ready to leap into a foxhole, fully intact, and the next all he could hear was the roar of his own heart; the ground was gone, and so was the sky. All he could feel was pain. A sickening, burning ache filled his leg and shoulder. Dimly, he tasted dirt and blood. Was he lying down? The world spun when he opened his eyes.

He was being carried, but that was all he knew. Now his entire body ached. He wanted to open his eyes and speak, but he couldn't. The fog of pain was so heavy; just breathing against it was a struggle.

….

He wasn't sure where he was now, but the pain had receded. He could breathe more easily, and his eyes opened again. He looked up into Rose's face. A soft, white light glowed behind her. Her curls were pinned back, but a few had escaped and hung around her face. She peered down at him with concern. He tried to touch her, but hid arms were too heavy.

"Stay still," she said softly. "It's all right now. You're going to be fine."

It took all of his strength to lift his arm and touch her fac. She froze, startled by the gesture. "You're here," he said hoarsely. "Of course it'll be all right. I wondered if this is when I'd see you again." His eyes fluttered. The medication was starting to affect him more. A warm haze began washing over him. His hand dropped to his side. "Don't go, Rose," he murmured as the blackness swallowed him.

Rose could only stare at him. How did he know her name? Covered in mud and blood he looked like all of the other soldiers who came through the field hospital. His hair could have been blonde or brown; it was impossible to tell. But there was no doubt his eyes were blue, and they had recognized her instantly. It wasn't just another delusional man calling for a loved one; this man knew her. His touch sent a spark through her. It was something she had never expected to feel again. But it wasn't Jack. It couldn't be.

As she moved to dip a rag into the bowl of water next to his cot, she knocked his cost to the floor. Her hands shook as she picked it up. The name Dawson stared up at her, stitched on the front in black thread. She forced herself to take a deep breath.

Gently, she began cleaning his face. There were small cuts around his eyes and a bruise on his cheek. She let out a scream as her efforts slowly revealed Jack's features. Tears welled in her eyes. "It can't be you," she whispered. Her voice shook. "Where have you been all this time?" She held his hand against her cheek and let the tears flow. "Where were you?" she demanded. She kissed his palm. "Why didn't we find each other?"

…..

For Jack, waking up felt like struggling to swim through thick, black mud. No matter how much he tried, he didn't seem to get anywhere. His eyes refused to open. His mind slowly grew clearer, but he still couldn't move. Dull pain shot from his leg and shoulder. What happened? he wondered. His eyes finally opened. He found himself looking up at a white tent ceiling. The sheet covering him was coarse. His uniform had been removed; he wore only a pair of military issued undershorts. Who had done that? Slowly, carefully, he sat up. The pain in his leg and shoulder increased. His injuries had been expertly bandaged. He touched the sling that held his arm with a mixture of confusion and gratitude. Makeshift curtains separated his cot from the others. The sound of men groaning, murmuring, and sighing—in pain, grief, and delirium—filled the air. He breathed in the scent of antiseptic.

It began coming back to him in flashes. The battlefield, running, going down, and then her. Rose's concerned face, looking down at him, was all he could see.

Bu it couldn't have been her. He must have been hallucinating. She hadn't survived. Or had she? Her mother had a funeral for a girl that was never found, but that didn't mean she was lost.
"She'd come here," he said to himself. He leaned against the cot in an attempt to swing his good leg over the edge and stand up. He placed his weight on the uninjured left, but with nothing to steady himself, he fell to the floor in a heap. He cried out in pain.

"What are you doing?" Rose's voice rang like a bell. He looked up to see her rushing toward him. She dropped to her knees. In one quick motion she had her arms around him and was lifting him up. He leaned on his good leg, griping her like a crutch. Their faces were just inches apart.

"Why did you think you could walk around?" Rose demanded. "Do you realize they pulled three bullets out of you last night?" Jack could only stare at her. "Well, say something!" she cried.

He grinned. "That accent still gets thicker when you yell at me," he said.

"I am not yelling at you!"

"What do you call it?" he teased.

"I call it being concerned with you welfare, and you should be too." Rose's tone softened. "You almost died, you know," she added. They each settled into the other's gaze. "I thought I was dying," he said. "When I saw you, I thought that was it." His heart pounded as the realization that it was all actually happening fully hit him. Rose was standing there; she was alive and holding him off the floor. "You took care of me," he said. "You cleaned me up, bandaged me, put my arm in the sling."

"And now I'm making you lie down," she said, lowering him onto the cot. She placed the sheet over him. "I don't want to catch you getting up again," she said. "Stay off of that leg." He took her hand. "That's all you can say?" he asked.

"Do you really need me to say it?" she replied. "Is how I feel not clear?" She put his hand between both of hers. "I already said it," she added. She kissed their mingling fingertips. "Words are so…inadequate." Rose blinked away tears. "What can I say to make up for any of it? The lost time? For not finding you?"

"What if I say I love you, and we forget everything else?" Jack suggested.

"We can't pretend six years of our lives didn't happen," Rose said. "What if you don't love me after you get to know me again?"

"Do you really think that's gonna happen?"

She shook her head. "But I don't know what's going to happen." She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. "You need to rest," she said briskly. "And I need to finish my rounds."

"You're leaving?" It came out louder than he intended.

"I'll be back soon," she assured him. "You're not the only person I'm supposed to be nursing." She squeezed his hand and set it down. "I'll try to get you something for the pain," she said. "I'm afraid you can't have any more morphine. It's too addictive, even if there were enough to go around, but maybe there's something else."

"It's not so bad," Jack said, trying to sound convincing. "I can barely feel it, and besides, I've been hurt worse."

"I'm sure you have," Rose said. "And being in a war is just another adventure, right?"

"No," he said. "Before today, the war was something I had to get through because I wasn't ready to die yet, but I wasn't sure what I was living for anymore. Now, I know."

"I really have to go," Rose said slowly. "I'll bring you something to eat."

She hurried away. Her heart pounded, and her hands shook. There were so many things she wanted to say, but she couldn't find the words. She wanted to tell Jack how much she had missed him and how hard it had been to make a new life on her own. But she had done it. Somehow, she had learned how to get along by herself. She got jobs and earned her own money. She cooked and cleaned for herself. The places she had lived were small and shabby, but they were hers. She bought train tickets and headed for the horizon, all by herself. When the U.S. entered the war, she volunteered as a nurse. She had to do something to support the war effort, and there was no-one to stop her from going. She wanted to tell him about the things she had done. She wanted to know everything he had done. And yet, there were things she was afraid to say; there were things she wasn't sure she wanted him to know.

She went through her rounds slowly, forcing herself to thoroughly complete each task in a vain attempt to block out the hum in her mind. She had never given much thought to whether Jack had been with other women before her. Without acknowledging it, she had just assumed he had. Perhaps it was his confidence, the ease with which he embraced her, or maybe it was that a man like Jack simply had to have an ex-lover in his past. So why was she worried about him knowing she had been with other men? Two, to be exact, and she had almost married one of them. What was wrong with her having other lovers?

She knew it was absurd, but she couldn't help worrying about his reaction. The question hung over her head: Would he still love her once he knew her again? Her heart said he would, but how certain could she be? When she saw and touched him it had all come rushing back; everything she felt for him hit her all over again. He was a part of her. She felt him in her soul, and she wasn't sure she could handle losing him again.

…

"Here you are," Rose said cheerfully. She placed a tray across his legs. "Oatmeal, toast, and some canned milk. I know it's not breakfast time anymore, but it's all they had."

"Rose—" he began.

"Oh, I found you something for the pain," she interrupted, reaching into her pocket. "I'm not sure how strong they are, but one of the doctors gave them to me. He said they would help." She placed two small, white pills next to the cup of milk. "Well, eat," she urged. "You must be hungry."

"Yeah, actually, I am," Jack said, taking a bit of the toast. She pulled an empty cot close to his and sat down. "When you're finished, I'll check your bandages," she said.

"You're really good at nursing," he said.

"Do you think so?" she asked. "I've sort of thrown myself into it. I thought I could do more here than anywhere else."

"Well, I'm glad you're here," he said with a grin. "I can't say I'm glad I got shot, though." For a moment, they simply gazed at one another. Rose broke the silence. "What were you doing before?"

"Not much of anything," he said. "I was still goin around from place to place, making enough to get by for a while and leaving whenever things got too routine." His eyes were thoughtful. "Now, I'm wondering if I wasn't trying to run away."

"Run away from what?"

"How I felt."

"About me?"

"About losing you, loving you, but not just that. There're other things too. I haven't really let myself think in a long time. I haven't thought at all since I got here. I couldn't if I wanted to stay alive." He popped the pills into his mouth and washed them down with the milk. "I guess you have to go again?" he asked, looking into her eyes.

"I'm finished," she said. He reached over and took her hand; he laced his fingers through hers. "So, you can stay for a while?"