A.N. This was inspired by One Night in Paris by IronicNarwhal. This is the 2nd out out 3 extra stories I'm doing before going back to finish up Relationship Problems.


Flippy stared down at his glass, watching the ice battle each other to see who reached the bottom first. The bar smelt of alcohol, cigarettes, cheap cologne, and regret; sinful and sickeningly warm, the atmosphere hung above him like a tangible cloud. People continued to leave and then be replaced by two more, the thick wooden walls being filled to the brim with a variety of persons. Some old, some new, some rich, some poor, some laughing loudly in groups, some curled up in a booth and sobbing quietly. Flippy just sat at the bar, watching the condensation roll down his glass of scotch. He didn't drink.

It was the times that tried men; WWI, the year was 1916. Flippy had been wounded, and badly. Right alongside his best mate, who had been at his side when the bullet was fired. Fired at Flippy. His best mate; he'd taken a bullet for him, passed right through him like a knife through butter. The shrapnel peppered Flippy's arm and torso. All he remembered was the army doctors dragging him away in the smoke, and he didn't let go of his friend's hand. Not even when they were loaded in the truck and barreling for help. Not even when the doctors had announced him dead and tried to sedate Flippy. But when he woke up, he wasn't in the truck, and he didn't have his friend's hand in his anymore. He'd looked at his fingers, still curled and clenched as if the hand was still there, just invisible.

And now, less than 24 hours later, sitting in a sleazy bar a little before midnight, in the grand city of Paris, he looked at that same hand. It was hidden halfway by the sling he wore like a big, ugly Band-Aid. He hadn't been the only one transported into town that day, several others that managed to survive by the skin of their teeth and some that weren't so lucky, and they were all given orders to stay for the rest of the weekend. It was Sunday. Flippy had spent the first day in a hospital bed, crying empty and shameless tears, refusing to believe them when they said he'd been the one who'd survived the shot, and the funeral for his friend was tomorrow. They said they were sorry and that they'd tried all they could do. Flippy had yelled it wasn't enough, they didn't do enough. It would never be enough.

They were just boys. They all were. Flippy had just turned 22 last week, and they were going to celebrate when they got home. They were going to celebrate all the birthdays and holidays they'd missed and the war would fade away until it was just a memory. It could be suppressed. He'd made friends, fought alongside old ones. But out there on the front, up to the North, they weren't the same highschool buddies who played football and drank beer on Friday's. They were soldiers.

Flippy felt his face grow hot and his body go numb, and in one swig he threw his third glass of scotch back. It burned as it went down his throat and exploded in his belly, a warming sense of oblivion lapping at the edges of his consciousness. And all he wanted to do was let the flames consume him. He was supposed to be healing, resting up. But resting up for what? Just another day out there? Where he'd pay with more blood and watch more people die?

Yes, that's exactly what he would do. He would be a good soldier, and fight with all he had. He was a shining star, a hero. What the posters in the streets claimed was glorious and honorable. But what he really was was the thing that tore families apart and made mothers cry. The thing that made Christmas's have one less member at the table and the coffin that was lowered into the dirt with a flag on top. Or in some cases, the bodies that would never have a grave and would be lost amongst the rubble and never found again. Never be able to speak or hear or feel. Because they'd be gone, vanished, silent forever.

All these things swirled in Flippy's mind like the alcohol in his stomach, and he didn't notice the seat becoming occupied beside him until his arm brushed against them on its way for another glass. When he turned he saw a girl, young, maybe 19 or so, with fiery red hair and pale, pale skin. She was wearing a dress covered by a big black trench coat, revealing legs shaded with panty hose and black heels that were for any occasion. She was classy, yet the lines and wrinkles in the fabric suggested wear and tear. A hand me down that bore the signs of years gone by. She had a hat on that partly shielded her face, her big brown eyes, and her lips were a soft shade of magenta. She was vintage classy, most likely as poor as everyone else in this shit economy but had the dignity to at least look high class. She should have exuberated confidence and feminine power, but one look at her lap and you could see her small hands twisting around and around each other. She was nervous, wound up, something was boiling under that porcelain skin.

"Hello," Flippy tried, feeling obligated. If she needed help or was in trouble, he at least had to be a gentleman and offer his support. He may be a war machine, but he was a mannerly one.

"Bonjour soldat."

A thick accent, not alto but rich and soft. Flippy didn't speak one lick of French other than the customary 'hello' and 'thank you', so with a swimming head he nodded in acknowledgment.

Silence stretched between them. People screamed and whooped behind them, one woman cackled and some loud shuffling made the air fill with friction. It was uncomfortable to sit so dignified beside some one in such a place, and Flippy cleared his throat.

"So uh, what…What brings you here?"

She didn't look at him as her lips moved elegantly around the words.

"Je n'ai nulle part ailleurs où aller." A brief pause, and then, "Tout comme vous."

Flippy nodded, totally and completely confused.

"So uh…Do you speak any English, maybe?"

A small smile lit the woman's face, and her magenta lips upturned. "Yes."

"Hmm. Alright then."

The silence that followed didn't last long, because soon she was giggling, and then it felt contagious, and Flippy was falling in stitches along with her.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

The words that she offered were like notes from angels, and he hopped on their glory.

"Yes, I would really like that. Please."

They slid off their seats and exited the bar in steps, maneuvering around the people and arms and glasses and elbows until Flippy bust the door open and they tumbled into the freezing cold. A gruff and bellowing voice, one that belonged to a stout and very unhappy bartender, called out to Flippy saying he still needed to pay for his drink, but Flippy only managed to throw a couple coins forward before the door slammed shut. Their breath puffed around their face in clouds and they strangled back laughter, reaching for each other to gain some balance.

"Oh mon Dieu," she said over and over, her words hot in his ear as her breath broke the chill.

"I know," Flippy agreed, not needing a translation. He felt like the weight in his chest was slightly lifted. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe not, but he knew he was slightly drunk as the floor moved in irregular directions. He felt the girl's hand in his, and he was instantly grounded. It was warm and traveled up his arm, sending the chill of icy memories in his mind fleeing.

I don't even know your name, but you're so beautiful.

The alcohol was still warm in his belly as the girl guided him through the city, holding his hand the whole way. Despite the time and freezing cold temperature, people were out and about, talking, laughing, playing, and strolling along. She still spoke some phrases in French, which Flaky didn't mind at all. Her accent was beautiful, and the sound of her voice just urged him along, trailing after her as her heels clicked against the pavement.

They saw street signs and lights and bums in alleyways, and in the middle of a war there hung a gray cloud in the air. But with her, it felt like the depression wasn't as strong, and he was content as they scaled the park and the murky water under the bridge. It was liberating. The only timed they stopped walking was when they saw the Eiffel Tower on the horizon, and Flippy had made a rectangle with his fingers like a mock camera. Then at the sound of Flaky's taunting snort, he turned and focused the camera on her, twisting his wrists as she playfully struck a few poses.

He was jerked back to reality at the feeling of hot breath on his face. He focused his eyes and looked down to see her standing so close their feet touched. She was breathing in white puffs with wide, questioning eyes.

"Um, I'm sorry…Did you say something?" Flippy quickly said.

She giggled, shaking her head and patting his arm.

"I asked if you wanted to go visit my house," she said, a ghost of a smile on her lips. Flippy felt the sudden urge to kiss them.

"Yes, sure," he said, and she began to lead him again.

Her house was cramped and closed in between the buildings around it. It was on the west side of town, run down, a two story house with rooms for people to rent. The steps were cracking as they walked up and climbed the steps, stopping at a room down a creaky hallway. Once inside he saw the room wasn't as small as he thought, and was actually quite cozy. It was warm and a little stuffy, organized with very little items and well cleaned. He took a seat on the couch, and after a few minutes in the kitchen the girl returned with two cups of coffee.

A cat meowed at his feet as he took a sip.

"Who's this," he asked, the girl taking a seat beside him.

"Jean," she said, smiling as he scratched the cat's head. It purred loudly and made a figure eight between his legs.

And then they started talking. About nothing and everything. She asked about the front lines and the barracks and talked about her roommate who spent most nights roaming the city. Her name was Giggles apparently, and they had known each other for 16 years. The girl said she was 21, much to his surprise, and Flippy said he was 22, but felt like an old man after joining the army. She smiled and didn't say anything, putting a hand on his shoulder and patting softly.

She finished her coffee before him, and she leaned over to set her mug down on the carpet before simply rolling on her side and placing her head in Flippy's lap. It normally would have embarrassed him, but for some reason it felt perfectly natural to lightly trail his hands through her hair. White flakes of dandruff fell away like flakes of snow.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I've always had such horrible hair."

"I like it," Flippy said, and he meant it.

She looked up at him, quirking an eyebrow, and reached a hand up to cup his cheek. He leaned into the embrace, exhaling slowly.

"Mon brave soldat," she said fondly, and Flippy leaned down and kissed her.

She tensed under him and after a moment she sat up, gently pushing him away.

"I…I'm sorry," Flippy said, cursing himself for acting without thinking. "Was that…not what you wanted…?"

"No, no, no, do not apologize. It's just… I don't even know your name."

She looked at him, her eyes searching and a little ashamed. Flippy pursed his lips and thought a moment before saying, "I'm Flippy. And you are?"

"Flaky," she murmured.

"Flaky," he repeated, grinning, "Wonderful to meet you." He took her hand and raised it to his lips, politely kissing her knuckles. "Formally."

Flaky let out a noise that was part laugh part sigh and suddenly leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him desperately.

Flippy met her halfway.

That night, in the comfort of Flaky's room with the moon shining on them through the foggy windows, they breathed the same breath and sighed with touches. Skin was soft and lips were hungry, teeth and tongues brushing with scrapes and skimming. Flippy trailed his hands gently over Flaky's figure and covered her in kisses while Flaky said incoherent words and swept painted nails over his shoulder blades. And they weren't thinking, just reacting. Just acting on natural, primal instincts, letting go and losing themselves in the sensations. The war was a distant memory and all Flippy knew was the noises coming from the gorgeous girl tangled in his arms. One look at her sent shivers down his spine and had him questioning his entire existence in that exact moment.

Flippy opened his eyes and saw through the hazy blur that the small clock on the bedside table read 1:45 a.m. He didn't remember falling asleep, and at first his unfamiliar surroundings had startled him. But when he rolled over he saw Flaky facing him, curled up on her side and wrapped in the sheets, and the memories came rushing back. Her eyelids fluttered in her sleep, the streetlights outside casting a streak of light across her pale cheek, her skin almost glowing. Flippy felt a knot in his chest as he remembered what he had to do today; what he had to do in less than 5 hours. To call someone like Flaky a one night stand should be considered a sin.

He honestly didn't think he would know how to say goodbye.

Ever so slowly he eased off the bed, swinging his legs over and placing his feet on the cold wooden floor. He paused when the floorboards creaked as he stood up, casting a glance at Flaky who didn't look the slightest bit disturbed. With extreme caution he maneuvered around the room, picking up the scattered articles of clothing and putting them back on. When he'd finished zipping up his jacket, he heard a sudden cough behind him. He froze, glancing over his shoulder with his fingers still wrapped around the zipper. Flaky was sitting up, completely naked and not the least bit unabashed. She rubbed her eyes sleepily, looking him up and down and furrowing her brow.

"I was hoping you'd at least stay put until I woke up," she said, looking hurt, "I was planning on making you breakfast, I mean, if you want."

Flippy's heart seized up into his throat, and he sighed as he walked back over to the bed. He stopped when he was in front of her, kneeling down and reaching out to run a thumb across her cheek. She closed her eyes and placed her hand on his wrist.

"Believe me Flaky; I want nothing more than to stay here."

"Then why don't you?"

"Because I have to go back."

"Go back where?"

"Back up north, to the front lines. I'm meeting up with the other soldiers sent down here in about," he glanced at the clock again, "4 hours."

Her eyes were open now as she searched his face, her mouth twisted. Her hand was holding on to his wrist tightly, and the way she attempted to make a coherent sentence made guilt crush down on him.

"…Oh," was what she finally settled for, and the slight waver in her voice said it all.

"Yeah," he breathed, looking at the floor. They both didn't move at all, even as the clock ticked by.

"You have 4 hours, and your already dressed so… Why don't you let me make you some breakfast before you go?"

He smiled, but it felt alien on his mouth. "No…I…I just…Can we just stay here, maybe? Can we just lie here together?"

She gave him a bittersweet smile and nodded her head, scooting across the bed to make room for him. It was warm when he lay down in her spot, and he quickly reached out and pulled her close to him, burying his face in the untidy mass of red hair. Her lips brushed his collarbone as she breathed, and when it hitched and her shoulders began to slightly tremble he didn't show he was aware of it.

"Thank you," Flippy said after what felt like too short of an eternity. "For the first time in months I felt truly happy here with you. I don't want to leave, but I know I have to, and it makes me sick. You're so wonderful Flaky. You're so amazing and beautiful and I've never met anyone like you and probably never will again. And I don't want to let you go. I want to be with you for more than just one night. I want…I want to stay."

"But…" she sniffled, "you can't."

He nodded.

"And I'm so, so, so sorry for not telling you this sooner. I should have told you before I tried to-"

He moved to get up but stopped when she suddenly pulled away, taking his face in both her hands and sitting them both up.

"Don't. You. Even dare," she hissed, her brown eyes burning into him, "Die. Do you hear me? If you really do think I'm all those things you say I am, then. Stay. Alive."

"But, I might not ever see you again. Why does it matter?" He said bluntly, and she recoiled almost immediately.

"Because I want you to live! I want you to survive this fucking war. I know I'll never see you again, but I'll be able to rest a little easier knowing you're still out there. The possibility of crossing paths with you again is enough to keep me going, okay? If you die, then…," she bit her lip, "then I die, too. And I will never, ever, EVER forgive you."

Flippy didn't even care about the filmy wetness brimming over his eyes as he leaned forward, craning his neck to kiss her. But she suddenly released his face and gripped his shoulders, pushing him back to arms length.

"The last kiss we have will not be a goodbye kiss," she demanded, and Flippy completely understood. The last kiss should remain blissful and absolutely perfect, as it was shared in the weightless moment they had together.

Three and a half hours later, Flippy was standing on her front porch while Flaky stood in the doorway, clutching her robe to herself. Without a word he reached inside his shirt and pulled out his silver dog tags, raising them over and off of his head, and then reaching forward to place them around Flaky's neck. She watched his hands work to untangle a few strands of her hair from the chain before he backed up, taking in the sight of her one last time, his dog tags clutched in her frail hands.

"Don't forget me," he murmured.

She looked down at the tags and said, "I've never done anything this crazy before and I probably never will again. You made me feel so alive, for the first time. And I didn't even have to think about anything, and I wasn't worried, and you said all those nice things, and I-"

She was cut off by the gentle placement of Flippy's lips on hers. When he pulled away, tears sprang from her eyes and made rivers down her face.

"I thought I said I didn't want a goodbye kiss!" she wailed.

"Its not a goodbye kiss. It's a promise."

Two months later, Flippy should have been dead. He'd been taken away and tortured for information, he'd been shot at from close range, and he'd been stabbed with several sharp objects and burned with multiple fires. His body was riddled with scars and bruises and stitches, and one look at him and you could tell he'd been through hell and back. On a cold, stark Monday morning, a fellow soldier who was two years younger than Flippy sat beside him, extended a hand and announced, "I've never seen some one fight as hard as you before. Splendid."

Flippy shook it firmly and said, "Flippy. Nice to meet you."

Splendid took out a cigarette and offered one to Flippy, and for a few quiet moments they sat in silence.

"How do you do it," Splendid asked, looking a little star struck when he focused on the long, jagged red scar line trailing from Flippy's left eyebrow to jaw line, "Steroids?"

"Ha, no, no, nothing like that."

Splendid nodded, looking his face over as Flippy took a long drag.

"Then what?"

Flippy finished half the cigarette, putting it out in the dirt.

"I made a promise."


EPILOGUE COMING SOON