June 15, 1915

Every day is the same song and dance. More bodies, more blood, more explosions. I miss warm blankets and seven hours of straight sleep in the loudly quiet hum of London. I have written before that I was in Portsmouth, but it was for a business trip. Nothing more, nothing less. I was born and raised in London, as was Florence, and love the city in which I was birthed.

My work as a Practitioner in Medicine takes me to many different places, sometimes for months at a time. Because of this, I never really had time to make friends. Social relationships were impractical. I suppose you could say I was lonely, but I didn't think of it that way. Life was simple and I was content. Perhaps not happy, but happiness is not the pinnacle of life, being content is. It is the medium of being happy and being lonely, and it was in this state of being when I met Florence.

I was having a pint in Bristol at the time. There was a poor bloke I was taking care of, a nasty case of pox, and I was staying at an inn down the road. I guess you could say it was one of my lonely days, so in my head, I thought it was a good idea to have a nice stiff drink. The first hour there, nothing happened. The second hour, things were getting a bit wild. By the third hour, I had a headache over all the yelling going on behind me. So, naturally, I made to leave. I was about to do so when I saw a large straw hat enter the building and sit next to me at the bar.

She was covered in mud and rainwater, her hands grimy and filthy, but when she ordered her mug, her lips relieved teeth that were the most amazing shade of white. It was as if she had never eaten anything in her life. The bartender seemed to think nothing of her appearance, only smiling and supplying her, seemed as if she had been here before. I couldn't see her eyes, and I could barely see her hair, but her yellow goloshes stuck out like a sore thumb.

I wasn't the only one who noticed her. Not even five minutes into her drink did the retorts start in. I don't know why I found it irritating, maybe it was because I was five glasses in, perhaps it was because I had already found her appealing, or it was just me hating people, but I was beginning to boil over. They made remarks about everything about her. But the thing to absolutely set me off, was when they had said something about her teeth being rotten from days in the dirt. They couldn't see her teeth, how did they know what it looked like?

Now again, I was not in my right mind and was already hurting head-wise before all of this started. It did not help my case that it got worse quickly. So, like any drunk, I decided to throw something. I have been told in the past that I have terrible aim, and this was no such exception. However, it did have a rather pleasant outcome for me.

It's been four years, and since then, I have gone back a few times to that bar. There's still the same bartender running it. Every time I go in, He rallies the guys and tells them about that night, saying how it was the most hectic yet the funniest thing he had ever seen. The best stroke of luck.

Apparently, my mug had hit a picture frame above the guys head on the far side of the bar, whose back was turned to the guy preaching about the monstrosity that is now my current wife. The picture fell on the poor lad, and he immediately turned to face the preacher before going to clock him. The preacher had stepped to the left to prove a point, so Picture frame man went forward into a table that held an Irish couple on their honeymoon (why in Bristol, I have no clue) and turned it to splinters. The wife was the one who started yelling at him, the Irish man just kept complaining about his drink. Well the preacher never took notice, he just kept rambling on, but the picture man's buddy saw it all and threw his glass at me. I didn't notice it at the time, as I was already two feet out the door, but I didn't even have to look. The preacher got hit this time, finally, and his attention turned toward the table in the back. And like that, there was a brawl in a bar in Southwest England.

Florence caught me as I was leaving, asking me if I had a problem with the establishment. I assume she meant the reason I threw the cup, thinking it was because I was angry about bad service. I told her, and she will never let me forget this, "Ma'am, I have nothing against a nice bar, but misinformed idiots are terrible entertainment."

Wasn't the finest choice of words, but it was enough for her to be intrigued. She found me a few days later and asked to join me for coffee. We got to chatting and learned more about each other. A week later she was meeting me in London for lunch. A month flew by and she bought the empty flat next to mine in the tenement I was living in. Four months and I was holding the hands of an amazing woman. Two years of waiting and that woman became my wife.

It still remains to be my greatest achievement.

Writing this, it gets me thinking about the argument we had. So petty, so arbitrary, so many different words we could have said; but we said them, and here I am. Fighting a war. What I wouldn't give to kiss the back of her hand, sit on the couch beside her, and read a book aloud. I've tried reading to the men, but they don't find classics as enjoyable as I do.

Forever Florence's,

George Cubbins


September 23, 1915

I met a man around a week ago. Least I think it was a week ago, I may have doubled-up dates last Thursday… If I had done that before, however, it would have been last Wednesday… no matter. Onto the actual topic:

Anthony Lockwood is a bit younger then I, 26 this upcoming December, but the war and life has aged him. A few of his hairs are pigmented white in his side swept hair. He is another Englishman, like myself. A wounded soldier that was caught in a gas blast. As soon as he was found, alive and concussed, they rushed him to me after I had crossed into the new trench system. The acids had burnt off a bit of his skin and face but he was far away enough to escape with only that. The burns look similar to a splotchy mask across his face, like giant spots of ink that were splashed onto a sheet of paper and seeped into the fibres, never to come out again. I had to put a thick coat of gel on the burn before wrapping it. He will be blind for a few more days due to the gauze, but he will recover soon enough. Though even when he does recover, his eyes will sting for a while and he will always have scars marking his participation in the war.

When he woke from his sleep, instead of freaking out, like most, he simply asked for a doctor. I came, being assigned to this man, and I told him how he got to be in a "hospital bed". As I recounted how he managed to get into this situation, I studied his movements. His arms lay on his stomach and his head faced the ceiling. There was a bright smile on his face as I finished and he thanked me. I was taken aback by this act. Not because I didn't feel like I deserved a thank you- which needn't have been said anyways, It is my job after all- but because of his smile. It was so full of something that seemed as familiar as a warm bed yet currently as foreign as Asian writing.

The next day after had I examined him and went through a normal check-up, he asked me to recount to him the news. I paused a few seconds before inquiring as to why. He told me that it reminded him of simpler times when he got the paper every morning, eating toast and jam and drinking tea with his partner. I felt a bit sympathetic (not something a doctor is supposed to do normally, but there was a small exception). I told him about the Triple entente invading Serbia and of the British nurse, Edith, that was executed in Germany and charged days later with espionage. Throughout my ramblings,- and some personal opinion- he listened intently.

I have never really mingled with other people outside of my job, but talking with him was relaxing. I may just ask my superior if I can tend to him personally while he recovers. Not for weird things, certainly not, but to keep an eye on him and make sure he heals properly. Since his burns are not bad, he will be staying in the infirmary until he gets better and gets orders to move bases. Until then, I will continue to talk to this insightful man.

I have been asking Lockwood questions and debating with him whenever I find extra time. However, I was baffled to find out that he used to be the museum curator in London before he joined the war. He had never even participated before in the army, yet his broad shoulders and build were odd for someone who had never in their life picked up a gun. He told me it was due to all of his fencing practice with his partner. When I asked him about the man he fought with, he chuckled and responded with a smile on his face, "She is the toughest beauty in London and not to be taken lightly, Doctor." I was surprised that he spared with a lady, for she could easily be hurt, but the way his smile shined in this desolate place, I didn't dare say a thing about it. He made a remark saying that if she could have, his wife, Lucy, would have joined the cause too, fighting side by side with him.

To distract himself, he went into his tales as a soldier. Accounting every near miss and scratch. Lockwood has told me so many near-death stories about when he crossed No Man's Land and his narrow escapes that I am beginning to believe he was put on this earth to do something outside the war. He says its luck, but I don't believe that. I think it is a will to return. I envy him.

Having found an interesting man,

George Cubbins


A/N: So, here is chapter two, so soon. Originally, I never touched on the relationship between Florence and George, but as I read my own AU, I found the perfect story that I wouldn't want to replace. Also, we met Lockwood! I didn't write much of him before either... BUT THAT WILL CHANGE HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

I recently binged Gravity Falls again, don't judge me.

Stay Tuned and Thanks for Reading!

~Pheonix