((Düsseldorf, 1966))
If one thing could be said about her, it was that she was loyal.
She had so many good reasons and opportunities to leave. He'd honestly expected her to do just that. Stuttgart had been bombed several times over the course of the war, making it a particularly dangerous place to live at the time. When the war ended and Germany had fallen so hard and so bitterly, he was subjected to a very lengthy, grueling trial, resulting in an acquittal and the revocation of his medical license. All the reasons she wanted to get married in the first place, the security, the money, the status, were all destroyed along with his home, career and title. He literally had nothing left to offer her.
And still, she stayed.
For twenty-seven years, she stayed. She'd never once asked for a divorce, and he never once asked why. If she was willing to stay… he was willing to keep her. Most legitimate marriages didn't last that long and yet their little charade had managed to endure through overwhelming differences and adversity.
The small apartment in Düsseldorf hadn't been the home she'd always dreamed of, but then again, her whole life had turned out a little different from those childhood fantasies. If she had been asked thirty years ago if she expected to be a hospice nurse, living in a disturbingly clean and organized little apartment in Düsseldorf with a retired Nazi doctor who couldn't even give her a child, she would have laughed at the thought. However, one aspect of her wishful, adolescent thinking was fulfilled: she was married to the only man she had ever loved.
Though, love was perhaps too strong a term.
He was the only man she had ever depended on. The only man she had trusted enough to take care of her. Sure, she had coerced him into a sham marriage, but time had molded their farce into something terrifyingly close to domestic. The arrangement they had created in their years together was now smooth, comfortable. They took care of each other. She no longer had a hold over him, her threat to spill his secret irrelevant now. He no longer resented her for it. Either one of them could have left at any time. Neither one of them really wanted to.
The only thing they couldn't provide for each other was sex.
From the outside, it wasn't overly absurd to assume the man was a cuckold; his wife leaving at all hours of the night on the weekends with other men with stylish cars. But no one else saw that he was guilty of doing the exact same thing. The only rule was that they were never allowed to bring anyone home. It was mutually obeyed. Every Friday and Saturday night at 6 o'clock, they would place their wedding bands in the ash tray between their separate beds in the master bedroom, and for the few hours until morning, they were no longer husband and wife.
The years had calmed her considerably though. She wasn't the Hollywood beauty she'd been in her twenties. Men didn't flock the way they used to. War had aged her, aged them both, but her priorities remained the same, and after the war, those priorities were compromised.
Her husband could no longer provide for her, the way he used to. Without a medical license, the closest thing he could get to staying in the medical field was working a disappointing day job as a pharmacist. She still believed he was far too brilliant to be working a pedestrian job with a pedestrian salary. So when she saw an opportunity for him… she had jumped at the chance.
The blue envelope could have easily ended up in the rubbish bin. There was no return address, no stamp, nothing but his name and a faded, stylized watermark that read Builders League United. And it was its curious, nondescript nature and the fact it was written in English that drove him tear into it first as he made his way back to the sitting room. He tucked the rest of the mail under his arm as he slid out the single sheet of paper, stopping short in the doorway.
"What the hell is this?" he whispered, the empty envelope falling to the floor with the rest of the mail as he stared down at the letter in his hands. For a moment, he seemed unable to read the letter in its entirety, his eyes skimming and skipping around to words like 'uninhibited medical research', 'Guerrilla warfare' and 'we received your credentials.'
She looked up from the scarf she was knitting, arching a finely tweezed brow as she reached for her cigarette resting on the glass ash-tray between their chairs in the small sitting room. She considered his face, then gazed down to the blue envelope on the floor, and back up to the letter trembling in his hands. She smiled. "I didn't think they would write back so soon…"
His head snapped up to look at her, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "You know what this is?" he asked, his voice slowly beginning to rise in volume.
She set the needles and yarn down in her lap before reaching out a hand and snapping her fingers. "I think I do, though I honestly thought you'd be more excited about it." She held her hand out expectantly, a gesture he was all too familiar with.
But he did not give her the letter. The rest of the post abandoned on the floor, he sat down on the edge of his own arm chair, placing his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward to properly read what could only be described as a contract; a paper agreement to be a Medic and a soldier in the civil war waging between Blutarch and Redmond Mann. The whole thing made very little sense, and gave very little information, stating he would find out more when he arrived to the BLU Base in Teufort, USA.
"You signed me up… to be a mercenary?" he asked, his short nails tearing small holes into the edges of the paper. It felt awfully familiar, this situation; the overwhelming impression that he had been duped coupled with the crushing urge to twist her neck. "How could you… How did you even…"
Her brown eyes hardened, immediately cutting him off. "You ought to be thanking me," she hissed, snuffing out her cigarette in the ash tray. "You may pretend you're content with this mediocre existence, but I clearly know what you want better than you do." She leaned forward, snatching the letter from his hand and glancing over it. "If you want it put bluntly, yes, I did sign you up to be a mercenary. I also signed you up for a chance to return to medical practice. I know, you're not cut out to be a field medic, but you're even less cut out to be a goddamn pill pusher for the rest of your life!"
She tossed the letter back to him, which flitted in the air a few moments before he caught it, clutching it to his chest as he glared at her, before looking back down at it.
"It keeps you up at night," she said quietly, considerably calmer now. "The fact you can no longer do the only thing you've ever loved. The war took that away from you. This war is going to give it back."
He sucked in a deep breath through his nose. Once again, she had gone over his head. She had made a decision without his consent that was clearly made to benefit her. The projected pay was right on the front page of the contract. She'd carefully laid out this plan that would both get rid of him, and give her that security she'd signed up for 27 years ago. And though it had been years since the last time she'd done this… he hated to admit that she was right. As he looked over the paper once again, she was absolutely right. This stupid little war would get him back in the field, no questions asked or medical license required. It would even get him out of the country without so much as a background check on his passport. But he'd be damned if he'd admit defeat to her again.
Watching his internal struggles was always amusing. She picked up the knitting needles, the metal clicking together as she started on the blue scarf once again. He could take all the time he needed. In the end, she would still be right. It was just another offer that he could not refuse, and she would be sure to help him pack his bags.
He looked over to her, finally, his lips a thin line as he observed the smug look of satisfaction on her face. She knew she'd won. He knew he'd been beat. Again. He huffed and stood, finally retrieving the rest of the post from the floor as his sign of submission. Her grin widened subtly. He tossed the rest of the mail into her lap.
"Was there a classified ad for ex-Nazi-guns-for-hire in the paper?" he asked dryly, settling back into his chair as he picked up the letter, folding it and placing it back in its blue envelope.
She looked up from the pile of letters in her lap, quirking an eyebrow and wincing a little. "Actually…" she let the thought taper off.
He blinked, dumbfounded at what she was suggesting. "You're kidding."
She shook her head, flipping through the mail, separating bills from personal notes. "These folks don't seem very bright, sweetheart. Just very desperate…" She smiled and shrugged sweetly, using one of the knitting needles to slice open a letter. "I think it would be best, for the both of us, if you were to leave your wedding band behind. Don't you agree?"
Her sudden shift in subject caught him off guard, looking up at her as he slid off his glasses. She wouldn't look at him, though she could feel his eyes. He took another deep breath, folding up his glasses and placing them in the pocket of his vest. She didn't have to say anything to make her intentions of this whole matter very clear.
He couldn't blame her.
"I suppose you're right," he said quietly, watching her sort through the mail as he twisted the band on his finger.
ooo
A/N: I have to apologize to all of you. I really, really hate this chapter.
I won't bore you with the details, but December was a month of severe tragedy for my family (I lost two uncles in the span of 2 weeks). I lost a lot of motivation and fire for this chapter due to this stupid depression I went though, and even though it took me about a month to write, I just wanted to get it over with.
So… Ugh. It's just this chapter I lost fire for, not the story. We'll be back to Medic/Heavy fluff in the next chapter, then back to Dell after that. Again, I'm sorry for the wait, and how much this chapter sucks.