A/N: Aaaaah! I've been wanting to start on this one for forever!

Chapter 1 - Prologue

Her heels clicked along the pavement sharply, cutting through the clear Austrian air with all the precision of a newly sharpened bayonet piercing through the skin of the hearer. This was a job, she reminded herself. A job.

He was minding his own fucking business for once; walking along, humming in his mind but never aloud, trying to get somewhere that had liquor so he could forget the events of the past three years of his life. What was that irritating clicking sound?

"Sir?"

He knew she was speaking to him; what the fuck else could he do? He halted.

"Sir."

She sounded as though she expected him to do her the courtesy of turning to look at her. Fuck, what did she want; dinner and a kiss on the hand? It was too Austrian in the afternoon to bother with the pretties of society. He wanted to relax, drink, or sleep. He didn't care which because he was off-duty and it was the fucking weekend.

It seemed as though she had given up on the idea of him turning to look at her, being as how she finally walked to in front of him.

"Might I have an interview with you, sir?" She asked, smiling a shit-eating smile that he smiled when he wanted to get into a girl's underwear, except on her it meant something entirely different. "I'm doing an article for New York Times," she explained at his What-The-Hell-Are-You-Talking-About Stare,"about the trials that the men in this-"

Fuck if he cared.

"What, so the people back home can read about it in the newspaper? So they can smile and say 'oh, I'm so happy the fucking war's over and my boy didn't die'?"

He resumed his walking, shoving his hands into his pockets and pursing his lips in a pretend whistle before he heard the clacking again.

"Wait, you - you don't talk to me like that. I'll have you know-" Oh, she didn't like that? Spoiled brat, she was. He could see her type, he knew her type at a glance; tailored skirt, clipboard, high heels. Money, pretend naivety, bitchiness.

"Okay, let's get one thing straight; you're not the fucking boss of me, lady." He whirled on her, staring her down, beginning to get pissed off. Yes, he either needed that drink or that sleep. "I will speak to you how I please, when I please, and what I please. And since you're so fucking eager for that article of yours, you can put this on the record for the folks back home to read; my name is Joseph D. Liebgott and I don't give a fuck about your article, so I suggest you run the opposite way when you see me coming because I want me some beer and some sleep and until I get one of those, well, fuck, lady, if I ain't gonna be the most charming fellow you've seen in years."

Ah, sarcasm was a charm. What a fucking charm.

He'd heard of her; Lucille Williams. Word traveled fast when there was an American woman wandering around, following them and their compadres around, trying to find out information about their personal lives so she could write a rallying article to the rest of the Americas.

Yeah, right. He would not have any part in it, except to cause her grief. He didn't like her.

...

She fumed, watching him walk away from her. He was careless, foul-mouthed, disrespectful-

She had never been treated thus and as she spun on her heels and marched back towards the cover of watching for someone who would talk for a newspaper, she relished in the knowledge that there was a faithful and perfect man waiting for her back home.

Impertinence. How dare he-