This, dear readers, is merely in existence due not only to a severe lack in Winters/Roe, but also the few beautiful pieces that feature this pairing. And so, I owe this to those authors, who hooked and reeled me in and made me write this, my longest story to date. It doesn't have a set plot, it is not beta'd, it is hardly realistic, but I hope you love it as much as I do.

One of Winters' clearest of childhood memories was that of going to church. He recalls the stiff wooden pew seats and equally-stiff suit he was made to wear by his parents. His patience grew with his weariness on those sultry Sunday mornings, and the pastor's voice faded with the hum of still life, of whispering tree branches; the harshness of religion dulling with the warmth of sunshine filtering through stained glass, the dust gliding along the gentle winds, pushed by his mother's fan as she attempted to cool herself. Hazy, he was silent; fidgeting was too much unnecessary exertion in the tight July heat.

Children were expected to be quiet in church, but that much was governed well enough by the wooden paddle that sat in clear view by the front row, a section reserved for especially difficult children. Winters had been there once, and was determined to stay by his mother's side since. The paddle itself was fearful, but even more so was the steel-eyed gaze of the pastor.

And so it was not lack of disruption the church cared about. It was that the children learned, from a young age, the terrors of sin. Sunday school was composed of impassioned speeches of the horrors of hell. Faith, marriage, and modesty – that was the path to take. Avoidance of doubt, sex, and skin would show you your way to heaven. It was cookie-cutter clear, how to fit in with society, and Winters was just as determined as any other child in his class to do good by his Lord. Yet, he wondered if happiness was part of the equation. There seemed to be so many things to remember not to do, so many bad things in the world.

But he dare not ask. His hands stayed in his lap, where they could not be smacked, and his lips tight close, so they could not catch flies.

Besides, Sunday mornings passed, and green afternoons came with the promise of bare feet and lemonade, and happiness, or some semblance to it, seemed to be there.

"Sir."

Winters had quickly learned to become accustomed with this title, and looked up to the source of the voice. There stood Roe, pale face lined by darker-than-pitch hair, looking peaked and a bit weak, though that was only to be expected. It was Bastogne, and no man, no soldier, no officer could be expected to withhold her cruel elements. Especially not Roe, the man trying to shield the others from Bastogne's eminent wear. He may have been doing a damned good job, but it was easy to see how badly the undertaking had scarred him.

"Yes, Gene."

"How's your ankle been doin', sir?"

Winters sighed, sitting on a makeshift stool, motioning Roe to take the other. "It's fine, Doc; I've already told you not to worry about it."

"Sorry, sir; it's my job."

Winters pressed his lips together, tempted to lick warmth to them, afraid of what the wind might do to the moisture.

"I know it is. But I'm fine – I promise you."

"Yes, sir." The formality sounded odd when it was directed towards him. Silence weighed down.

"How low are you on morphine?"

Roe look to the side, studying the trees; a flash of white appeared as he chewed on his lip.

"Roe?"

"I'm all out."

It was not shocking, but the gravity of it made the air seem colder then it was. No supplies, no new crates – running out of morphine, of bandages, it was all quite inevitable on paper. Yet, being in a state of unpreparedness made Winters feel especially vulnerable. He was sure Roe felt similarly, as though everything he had done to stretch every cloth had been so futile, and Winters wanted to comfort him, assure him.

But he didn't know how Roe felt, and wouldn't know the right words to say anyway. Not to Roe. There were never adequate words to say to the man, it seemed.

Winters said nothing, just stood and rubbed his hands together. He looked at the chromatic backdrop, a grayscale of the tall corpses of trees on winter white ground, overcast gray and dappled drab.

"I'm sorry," Roe said, voice sounding as empty and tired as the landscape around them.

"It's not you who should be sorry," Winters replied, truthfully. It was due to Roe that they had even lasted this long. "We'll… We'll figure this out. I'll figure this out."

Roe stood, nodding, adjusting the sash of his supplies bag upon his shoulder, looking down. "Thank you sir." Finally, finally, looking up, eyes dark and sharp and deep as they met Winters' own. Roe held out his arm, and Winters absently took his hand, cold fingers wrapping around cold fingers. They didn't shake, just stood for one elongated second, and then separated.

Winters watched as Roe's silhouette jogged unhurriedly away, shadows of bodies mixing with shadows of tall, dead trees. He said a few prayers in his foxhole that night, wondering if God could hand out morphine to angels in army fatigues.