Author's Note: Some people are so demanding. Ok, ok, the Cristowen returns! (Yay!!!) MERRY CHRISTMAS or HAPPY HANNUKAH!!! This is my little (sadly, it's rather short, but never mind) present to you, hope you like it. Oh, and please review.
Cristina opened her eyes to an unfamiliar room. The walls were a soft red, giving a pleasing effect on the light shining from the windows all around. The bed was warm, soft, set low into the floor. If she could only remember where she was, it would all be so much more enjoyable. She turned her head, and there on the bedside table was a photograph. Twenty men in army camouflage stood in proud salute. She picked out Owen, in the second row, smiling. She remembered where she was now. She studied the photograph carefully; examining the smile of every man she knew no longer lived.
She heard footsteps and turned to see Owen carrying two cups of tea. He smiled when he realised she was awake.
'I didn't know how strong you like it,' he passed a her one of the cups and climbed onto the bed beside her, 'so I hope it's okay.'
'It's perfect.' She smiled and curled up against him. As they sipped the scolding liquid, she reached out to pick up the photograph. 'What are their names?' she asked, watching him carefully. Owen placed his mug on the table beside him, and took the picture from Cristina. His eyes glistened, wet with tears he refused to shed. He pointed at the man standing to his immediate right.
'That's Berkeley. John Berkeley. We were the medics, and he was my closest friend.' He gave a breathless chuckle. 'He was the funniest person you would ever meet. He could make us all laugh, there in the trenches when we could here the guns behind us. I was the best man at his wedding. And I told his wife when he…' A tear escaped from the pool, and Cristina wiped it away, kissing his shoulder. She pointed to the man in the middle of the back row, his white teeth shining in his dark skin, his smile the biggest of any.
'Who's he?'
'Alan Syfrett, the man who can't stop smiling.' He rested his head on Cristina's, his tears dampening her hair. 'There's Alistair McKinley – I'd forgotten about him. Never stopped complaining. But he never failed in a fight. Dominic Blastow, best cook anyone's ever known. He made fried rat taste good.'
'Fried what?' Owen almost smiled.
'Charlie Cohen – no, Charles Cohen. How a man can stay so clean in a trench I have no idea. Frank Shoreditch, best aim a man ever had…' Cristina lay there with him as he told he the names and traits of every figure. She watched the silent tears sliding down his cheeks and felt glad that he wasn't alone in his grief, not any more. She promised herself that she would help him. Finally, Owen laid his head back, silent. 'Good men, all of them,' he told her. 'They didn't deserve to…die.'
'No-one does,' Cristina whispered, running her fingers through his hair. Owen looked at her.
'Thank you,' he croaked. She smiled, and wrapped her arms around him, rocking him gently. She stroked the back of his head as he sobbed into her shoulder, his arms clinging to her waist as if she were the only thing left in the world.