I know I promised the other fic, but this one was eating at me. Spur-of-the-moment writer thing…. Hey, if anybody asks me what's wrong with me, I'll just say I have SOTMWT: Spur-of-the-moment-writer-thing! Anyway, enjoy! BTW, I was crying while I was writing this one- I'm way too soft.

Disclaimer: Not a single one do I own.

She didn't have time to look pretty anymore; since the war had started, helplessness had set in. Men had come and gone, some of them forever. She felt selfish brushing her hair, putting on a clean, nice dress.

Her usual curls felt lank and dull. Her eyes, which were in another life had been strong and intelligent, were now dimmed from worry. The posture of grace and excitement was gone, now her interests were only to see one person come home safe. She'd lost hope for all the others. They had faded; her two brothers killed in an air raid… her father already dead to the world, long before this war. He'd been that way ever since the first one, and nothing had changed. Oh, she tried. Really, truly. She talked to him, and kissed him on the cheek when she walked past. Her mother often cried about it, when she thought her daughter couldn't hear her. There were always days like that. Missing, and longing all mixed together till she felt half crazy. How could she wait? How long could a war go on, before everyone was dead?

He felt that way too sometimes. Lonely, finished with war. When the pain got too much, and he wanted to scream out, that's when it hit him most. The nights, the lonely, freezing nights, during which he'd curl in on himself and shudder with cold. His buddies wouldn't understand him, even if they knew. He didn't care to try and explain. His suffering was so great in his mind that it had crippled his feelings. Yes, he put on a fake-front every day. He lied every day. After he'd been badly wounded, he'd forgotten how it felt to be loved. Cared for, sure, by his comrades- but it was a different kind he had so long hoped for, one he feared he could not get.

He was still recovering from his recent surgery due to the injury, when the Sarge stopped by. He'd faked sleep, too tired to answer questions, to build up his wall of fake cheeriness.

"Hiya, kid."

He peered through mostly closed lids as the Sarge sat down.

"I've got some news for you. A letter…. But I'll leave it here." Sarge shifted his weight. "I-uh, guess we'll be saying goodbye to ya. You're going home… you got yourself a purple heart, and you're going to get to go back to the states. What'd'you think of that?"

He watched the Sarge smile in the way he'd smiled so many times- faint, but still obviously there, in his eyes, even if his mouth didn't.

"Well, I'll let you rest. See you soon, kid."

And he was gone.

She stood by the window, looking down on the street. It was empty and lonely, no houses seeming to hold life within. Even this one was drab and grey. The sky was bright white, shedding a light in the room like ice, and the shadows did a foxtrot across the floor.

"Hi."

She turned around, slowly. "I- I didn't see you coming up the street." She stepped forward slowly, praying it was him.

"I came through the back… I-"

He walked into the light. She began to cry. He was the same as ever, boyish face, dark brown hair… only he walked with a tiredness, and grown-up way about him. The corner of a thick, white bandage peeked out between the buttons of his shirt.

"Oh, should you be-"

"I shouldn't." he took her face in his hands, wiping away her tears, "But I want to."

She was as beautiful as when he'd last left her on the train platform, tears rolling down her cheeks, a sad smile on her face, just for show. Just for him.

"Evelyn…." He whispered, "Do you want to dance?"

Fin