A/N: First off, HAPPY EASTER! I know I haven't updated in…a while…heh, sorry! Hopefully this one makes up for it :). DISCLAIMER PLEASE READ: Okay, no one hate me, but this one is…*deep breath* an AU, an American Revolution Alternate Universe fanfic. I'm sorry. Tell me if you hate it…but please be gentle. Don't hate me XD. There's also a battle scene. This contains parts that are similar/identical to in LM1, which I obviously don't own. THANKS!

"Emmet!"

Emmet's head perked up at the bark of his commanding officer, and he straightened his spine as far as it could go without breaking his neck. "Yes, sir?"

His commanding officer, Michael, glared at the peppy soldier. "Go survey the area, be back quick." The very inflection finished the command, and Emmet didn't want to think about the implied 'or else' component of the instructions. Besides, his back was about to snap in half if he stayed like this much longer, his spine was practically touching his ribs.

"Yes, sir!" Emmet responded, the object of a perfect British soldier. He marched all the way out of the camp until his boots left the grainy wood, sprinkled with coastal sand for mossy, muddy grass, when he could let his muscles relax.

The colonies were beautiful. Sure, he loved England, it was his home, and he never grew tired of the quiet cottages, spewing smoke from the top so high you could see it from three streets over. The rows of neat grass cut precisely off from the road gave him a sense of order, that everything was in place, as it should be.

However, there was something about the untamed colonies. Sharpe blades of grass prodded and poked, growing wherever they please with no care for manmade structures or rules. He could pick a random tree in front of him, and it was bound to be taller than the trees in the schoolyard back home, those that he had previously dubbed The Tallest Living Things Besides My Cousin John. Emmet wasn't very good with naming things.

His boots sloshed and sank as he walked through the wet grasslands, fresh from the day's rain and nature's playdates. Surveying wasn't really a job for him, there wasn't anything to survey, and it was more like a calming nature walk.

Stopping at an oak tree that soared up into the soaked, black clouds, he put down his gun and ran his hand over the bark to feel the grooves, edges, sharp juts and cracks in the wood. The trees in England were nothing like this one; this tree was rough and wild, and it didn't follow any definitions of how a tree should grow.

His eyes had hardly looked the life over when they caught sight of a stark, contrasted figure collapsed beside a rock, some trees off.

He looked to the left of his tree, trying to spot the form again as his hands went, on instinct, for his gun. Was it one of his fellow soldiers? Maybe Michael had sent out multiple men to survey the land. But…none of his friends had hair tied up in a ponytail on the side of their head.

Walking past his tree, his boots matting the dewy grass down to the dirt with each step, he tried to get another glimpse of the person. "Uh, hello?" He called out, despite it breaking every protocol in the book.

Only after getting onto a boulder did he see the woman.

His unusual, uncharacteristic pessimism forced a peep out. She's not real, it told him. You're mad. No fictional, real, evil, good, sane, or crazy person he had ever met had locks of coal, sprinkled against two blades of fuchsia and lapis. The possibility of madness, or perhaps hallucination, danced through his mind, but he dashed them away when he rubbed his eyes, checked again, and her rough, willowy, darkened figure remained.

Besides her hair, she was still a question of nature. He had never seen a woman so…her. Character filled her form, and like a well written protagonist, he seemed to know her likes and dislikes just by looking at her – but still longed to clear the fog of mystery that circled her.

After his love spell, attention slapped him across the face and pointed him to her leg, the leg that lay wounded and bleeding on the grass as she crudely tried to mend it.

Now, whether Emmet was very kind or very stupid, we'll never know. Either way, he made up his mind within the second, and slowly walked over to her.

"Uh, hi!" He greeted, waving his hand.

Her head shot up, and the second after he blinked, he was on the ground, his face pressed into the mud and the butt of his gun jabbed into his back.

Well, he never was good with first impressions.

"Who are you?" She demanded with a curt, coarse voice, stabbing the butt of his gun farther into his spine and keeping a firm, hard boot on his back. He could feel the mud and rain leaking through his uniform onto his skin.

He raised his hands up as much as he could against the ground. Surrendering was not an issue for Emmet, he would gladly be an alive prisoner than a dead soldier. "Uh, Emmet?" He ended it as a question, as if she would retort the fact. "I'm a British soldier."

While he couldn't see her, he could just picture her rolling her eyes at him. "I got that."

Her lips parted to question him again, but her leg interrupted, buckled beneath her, and only by reaching out to the rock beside her did she escape falling to the ground.

"Are you ok?" His quiet question sliced against her will. If he arched his neck, he could catch a fleeting glimpse of her, and her leg that hardly provided any support. She appeared to suffer a bullet wound, right below her knee, and the ripped cloth begged for mercy from the downpour of blood. "I can help you with your leg."

She shook her head as if he had offered to hold her gun, which she now leaned on like a cane. Her words, while she forced them through a glare, hit the air like a gasp against pain. "No way."

"You're hurt."

"I know."

Another snap of pain rushed through her veins, and she nearly collapsed, if it had not been for the gun. "I'm…fine…" Her lie, forced between labored breathes, sent a cruel twist in her stomach. She hated feeling weak. Yet, the idea of finally alleviating the constant drum of numb shock through her leg felt like imagining the warm beach during the deep freeze of January.

"Please, let me help you?" He begged, shifting once more to look at her face. He hadn't noticed before, but she had the prettiest freckles.

She paused. Her eyes roamed his anxious expression, and she argued against herself; if she held the gun, there was no chance of his escape, and she would remain in the upper hand.

"Fine," she replied, shortly. She paused a moment more, raised the gun off his back, and let her back slide against the cool, damp rock, the rain tickling her skin through her thin clothes. She held fast to the gun as he looked to her leg. "Just fix it."

He nodded, pulling off his backpack and taking out a variety of bandages and first-aid materials. She stuck her leg out, now grasping the gun as if she were in labor to force the pain away.

"How did you get hurt?" He asked, after a beat of silence. There weren't women soldiers, so how could she have gotten mixed up in the heat of battle? The thought of her getting shot sent a cringe down his spine, though he hardly knew her, the thought of her, injured, pained him.

She did not respond, lost in watching him bandage her. He was neat, or, would have been, if she hadn't slammed him into the mud. She probably didn't look much better. "I'm a nurse. I was walking outside and got caught by sniper fire."

"When?"

"A few hours ago. It's just a graze."

He found himself terribly angry with his friends; had they meant to shoot her? She was a woman, a nurse, she wasn't even a soldier! How could they do that? "I'm sorry," he mumbled under hot breath and flushed cheeks.

It was sweet, she noted, how he apologized for a crime he hadn't committed. "Thanks."

They sat in silence, for a few moments, as he wrapped tight cloth around her wound in a rhythmic motion. She found him rather cute, given the circumstances. It was strange; out here, in the cover of fog, she could forget about her Colonel boyfriend who obviously did not care much for her, seeing as how he stole glances at every nurse in the camp.

"What's your name?" He asked, looking up after tying off her bandage. She could take him anywhere, heck, she could kill him, she had the gun. There was something about her, he didn't want to leave, even for his own safety.

She looked up, in some surprise. It was not the question, even though it was certainly a fresh conversation tactic, it was the fact that he cared enough to ask. It wasn't a ploy to get her affections, it wasn't a plot to get information out of her, he was just being kind, it seemed. She had not been on the receiving end of a male's kindness in years.

"Wyldstyle," she replied.

He cocked his head. "Is that, like, a code name?"

"No."

"Wait, so that's your real name?"

"Yes."

"Like, your parents named you Wyldstyle?"

"New topic."

They stared at each other for a few seconds of silence before simultaneously relenting to giggle.

She smiled softly. How was it that she could laugh and smile around this man, supposedly her worn enemy, but had to step away for a breath of air when she was around her own boyfriend?

"Well, I should go." Her stomach twisted at the thought of leaving him. She would never see him again, obviously, they weren't even supposed to know each other. More than that, he would probably get killed on the battle field by one of her friends. The thought, while conventional and sensible, sent another bullet through her heart. The image of him shot and killed on a battle field, smoke curling around him, burned in her mind.

He looked down. "Oh, uh…yeah. Can you stand?"

Again, Wyldstyle rolled her eyes. "Of course." With one hand on the rock and one on his shoulder, she pushed herself up. "See?" The unmistakable pride in her smile contrasted the state of her leg. "Well, uh, bye." She took one step away from him with her good leg, picked up her injured one and fell right down into Emmet's lap.

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you can walk?"

"Be quiet."

He shook his head. "I'm helping you back to your camp." While he had meant to sound ordering and 'in-charge', his words came out like a plea, a grave beg.

The temptation, again, shouted at her like a teacher trying to knock some sense into an unruly child. She couldn't walk. Her camp was some distance away, and she would either die trying to get there or someone would kill her on the way. The British soldier had certainly proven he was at least friendly, so what was the harm?

"What if they see you?" It was a concern. If her camp saw him he'd be taken prisoner, or worse, and she couldn't – wouldn't let that happen. He didn't deserve that.

He waved off the danger, and she bit back a giggle. "Don't worry, I'll stay back and just bring you to the door."

Smirking, her voice hinted a playful, teasing air. "You do know we're on opposite sides of the war, right?" She looked him up and down, as if making her point clearer by contrasting his pristine uniform with her rough, battered clothes.

Linking her arm over his shoulder, he nodded. "Yeah, I know."

#

A full hour passed until they got to the gate of her camp. "This is it," Wyldstyle said in a hushed whisper. She untangled herself from his arms, and after getting over the initial cold of leaving him, grabbed onto a tree. "Hey, listen, thanks for helping me."

His nerves jumped around inside him as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Heh, no problem. It's nice to get away from camp every once in a while."

She looked up at him. The past hour had been possibly the best hour she had spent with a guy since the beginning of the war. She had hardly though of Batman, and when she had, it left her feeling empty, yearning for her new companion's kind honesty.

That stupid uniform.

Why did he have to wear that uniform? The war slapped her and told her that they couldn't be together, or even be friends. She should have hated him. She should have killed him.

So, why didn't she?

"Well, I should go." He broke the silence with a soft clap, and her heart caught on fire at the longing in his steady gaze.

She nodded. "Yeah."

On an impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, her own face flushing like blood. After she pulled back, she giggled at the love-struck, border-line breathless stare on his face.

"Wyldstyle?" His voice cracked under the pressure of the night and her eyes, staring right at his convulsing heart. "Uh, I was wondering…I…can we…could I see you again?"

The question had two effects on her, both hitting her heart in the same instant. She was bewildered, the idea of sneaking out of camp to meet a British soldier was practically treason. Not only that, but he had suggested it. Her throat scratched and hollered at her for even thinking of partaking in such an event. However, her heart didn't stop beating because it wanted to, it was just too elated at handle itself.

"Emmet, I…" Wyldstyle scrambled through every inch of her mind for an excuse, a reason to tell him no, but all she could think of were reasons to run away with him. "…you're a British soldier. I'm an American rebel. How can you even want to see me again?"

He shrugged, the answer as plain as the sunset in his mind. "I like you."

It had been a long time since a guy liked her, especially when he was practically risking his life to see her. "You know what?" She was rebelling against the rebellion…and for once, that was going to be ok. "I'd like that. I'll meet you at the boulder."

Only after she agreed did his shoulders let go of their death-grip on his spine. "Great!" Emmet's cheeks lit, and he smiled from a sheepish cover. "Uh, ok, I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

She didn't know why, but she looked up, and once their eyes locked, she didn't want to look away. She saw fear in his eyes – fear of the war, the death, and losing her. He saw her fear, her insecurities, her longing. He needed her, she needed him. A void had to be filled.

She reached for his hand, and in one swift motion, caught it in her own.

Every creature in the colonies held their breath.

She wasn't sure what she had expected to feel; fear, regret, guilt, anything other than joy. However, here she was, giddy at holding his hand. Smiling up at him, she whispered, "Well, look where we are."

"Yeah…" he breathed in disbelief. He must have done something wonderful in the last few weeks to have deserved this, to have this perfect woman holding his hand. He didn't care, he never wanted to let go.

"WYLDSTYLE!" A harsh, yet feminine, light voice hollered from inside camp. "GET IN HERE!"

She looked towards the gates as if they were her parents telling her to go to her room. "I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

He nodded, and his lungs finally got off strike. "Ok. Goodbye, Wyldstyle."

Wincing, she held his hand tighter. "No, I don't want to do goodbyes. How about…see ya later, alligator."

He raised an eyebrow at the peculiar phrase. "Huh?"

Leaning forward, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "After a while, crocodile." With that, she opened the door and stepped inside.

He looked at the large, wooden gate until its swinging motion ceased.

Love was a strange thing.

#

"Brickowski! Where have you been?" The whip-cracking voice hit him in the lungs and stole his breath. Michael stared him down the moment he got one foot in the door, and his voice crawled inside him for protection.

Michael stepped in front of him as curious stares and whispers circulated them. "Well?" He tapped his foot, a steady drum marching towards his fate.

"I found a rebel!" He blurted. His mouth and brain acted separately, and his head could only sigh, sit down, and hope in silence that his mouth knew what it was doing. "Yeah, I was surveying the area, and there was a rebel! A woman. I tried to capture her, but she ran too fast. I don't know the area that well."

The steady, searing gaze of his commanding officer burned a hole through Emmet's head, and he was sure that he had been caught, that he was going to be thrown out of camp, imprisoned, or worse.

Finally, Michael spared the needle in Emmet's gut. "Very well. I want you to go look for her again tomorrow, and bring Jeff with you if you can't find her."

Emmet bit back the massive sigh that rested on his lips. "Thank you, sir." He saluted Michael, marched off, opened the door to his tent, and collapsed on his bunk like it was the only friend he had.

The silence shushed him closer to sleep. The only sound that pricked his ears was that of a shy frog, a noisy cricket, and the occasional rustle and whisper of wind blowing past the trees. However, as he imagined the wind, he saw her, as if she stood in front of him, smiling.

"Someone looks like he's in loooove," a voice whined out, in a long, drawn-out tone from the bunk above him.

Emmet smiled, curled beneath his itchy, burlap-sack excuse for a blanket and replied, "Never mind, Jeff."

"Sure, kid. Sure."

Silence returned. He smelled the trees, the only scent that he had breathed in when he saw her. Now that he had met her, it seemed as though nothing else in his life meant anything. The war meant nothing. The army meant nothing. His uniform meant nothing, his friends, his commanding officer, his home in England, none of it mattered. That familiar, evil sense of rushing things, of jumping too far, of expecting the best creeped into his skin again, but, like always, he shrugged it off as easily as if the wind had carried it off.

He was in love. It was a very nice feeling, to be in love. He felt as though his life had a purpose. He no longer fought for a country, for a government, or for a principle. Now, he wanted to fight for her, to protect her, to keep her safe from all harm.

As his consciousness slipped off into the thicket of his mind, he knew that the uniforms meant nothing to him.

#

The uniforms meant everything to her.

As Wyldstyle's mind ran in circles, wandering, without sight or hearing through the ebony expanse of woods, panicking and begging for an escape, she tried to cling to the one thing that had always been there for her.

The uniform.

She had grown up in the colonies and joined the army, in what little ways she could, right after Lexington and Concord. It was her life. She dedicated her training, her breath, her sweat and her victories, to the war, to the fight for independence.

Now, a man, one who fought against her freedom, plagued her mind and tugged on her heart as if it was a toy.

He was a contradiction. He fought against her, against her values, yet his sweet, adorable, optimistic disposition calmed dusty corners of her mind she had not cleaned out since childhood. Was it wrong to expect, to rely on him so quickly, and so harshly, after only knowing him for a short while? Perhaps.

Helping her had been unnecessary. More than unnecessary, in fact. He should have shot her, dead on the spot, or taken her prisoner.

She smiled at their odd encounter, and how she had nearly broken his spine upon first meeting him. He was cute, she had noticed, even while threatening him.

"Wyldstyle?" Unikitty, the fiercest, most lovable, cutest Revolutionary popped into Wyldstyle's tent. "I wanted to see how you're feeling."

The caring, sweet words of her friend gently tore Wyldstyle away from her frightening, downward spiral. "It feels a lot better, thanks."

Unikitty smiled. "Good."

Silence tentatively entered the room, tipped its hat, and greeted the two. It pulled back a curtain and revealed the secret that lay in Wyldstyle's hands, the one she didn't know what to do with or how to handle.

"What are you going to do about him?" Unikitty ushered Silence out of the room, and it left Wyldstyle as she pleaded for its return.

"Who?" Wyldstyle's poker-face had won her awards, dates, money, and, in many cases, her life. If she had nothing else, she could lie like no other.

And, equally matching her talent, Unikitty could see through Wyldstyle's untainted wall of falsehoods like glass. "Please, I heard you two talking outside." Her eyes glinted with pride. "I have great hearing, and I put it to good use."

"It's none of your business."

Unikitty let only a beat pass them by. "Are you going to see him again?"

"I don't know."

Wyldstyle's eyes wandered over to her friend, and a vile wave of guilt crashed into her gut as she saw the disapproving frown on Unikitty's lips. She reminded Wyldstyle of a mother, sometimes. A mother who did not yell, did not punish, and did not let anger take her over. She reminded Wyldstyle of a mother who merely shook her head at her child's wrongdoings, sighed, as if she had failed parenting, and walked back home, leaving the juvenile delinquent devastated and guilty, without using a word.

"Don't look at me like that," Wyldstyle ordered, a brief yet curt flame in her hoarse voice.

"Like what?"

"You know, the 'I'm so disappointed in you' look."

While the camp regarded Wyldstyle as the toughest woman in all the colonies, Unikitty had always harbored the strange ability to waltz around Wyldstyle's prickly, gritty exterior, instead plucking out her emotions and spinning them in any which-way she chose. It was uncomfortable. Frightening, even, yet she stood for it. "Wyldstyle, if I look disappointed in you, that's because you want me to look disappointed, because you're really disappointed in yourself, you just want me to tell you what you already know."

"I'm all grown up, Unikitty." Wyldstyle sucked in a sharp breath of the air; it smelled of burning wood, pine trees, and unwashed cloth. "I can decide who I see, when I see him, and if I see him."

"Mmh-hm. Sure."

Groaning, Wyldstyle fell back onto her bed. "I shouldn't even be thinking about this. I already have Batman."

"Oh, you mean Colonel A-Different-Nurse-a-Night?" Unikitty snorted, looking to the side of the white tent as if Batman stood there. "Trust me, you'd be better off with any random guy in any British camp than him."

The distant, stark cry of a wolf, hidden somewhere in the thicket, reminded Wyldstyle of the hours ticking by. "I'm going to bed."

"Alright. I'll see you in the morning, but think about what I've said, alright?" Unikitty's eyes, trusting and hopeful, locked on Wyldstyle's, like an encouraging yet somewhat conniving parent who knew a bit too well how to convince their child to do what was right. "He sounded cute, by the way."

"Goodnight."

"Night, Wyldstyle."

The door opened, and a brief beam of moonlight intruded the oily night before it swung shut, wood-on-wood, and creaked upon contact.

Wyldstyle smiled. No matter if she chose him or the uniform, for one night, she had both, at least in the deep, crazy, wandering thicket of her mind.

#

Emmet waited. He had waited for a lot of things in his life. For school, for graduation, to join the Army, to fight in the war, and now, for a girl.

His hand burned when he touched the boulder behind him. The sun, absent and afraid yesterday, chose to show it's crowning glory today and boil everything in its enormous view. However, the animals seemed used to the heat, for every minute that passed, he saw a tiny squirrel scamper past, a rabbit hop around, or, an hour ago, a massive, growling, black bear behind a tree. Michael shouldn't have worried about enemy soldiers, he should have worried about some of the very large and very scary-looking wildlife.

A melodious, happy morning bird chirped, as if reminding Emmet why he was here, and that his reason had not shown up yet.

Tilting his head up to the sky, Emmet saw the little blue jay was correct, and the sun had moved a considerable distance since he had gotten there, and Wyldstyle had failed to show up.

Mere snags, Emmet assured the frazzled, panicking section of his mind. She would come. She said she would. She held his hand. She kissed him. He had nothing to worry about.

His quivering hands told him otherwise.

He sighed, looking out towards the thicket. "Where are you?"

#

The sun had moved since Emmet's hopes started to drift. The sun inched along quietly, like a child's ball down a flat hill, across the expanse of oceanic sky, not a care for Emmet's predicament. It creeped along, first hitting noon, where it hung perfectly above the trees, then late afternoon, when Emmet started to question how a sun even held itself up, followed by evening, when crimson and gold paint melded together against the weary sun.

Now, night fell, and the dazzling light-show of fiery colors dissolved, following the sun as it gave the moon its duties. The longer Emmet looked at the sky, the more stars he counted. First it was three, then five then seven or nine, after that, he could only be certain it was more than twenty.

He thought to look towards the huddled mass of trees again, in juvenile hopes she had arrived, but weariness and crashed optimism told him to look at the sky for a little longer. The stars were here, and she was not.

The air was different at night, Emmet concluded. During the day, he could breathe in pine trees, flowers, grass, nature. But, during the night, he only inhaled the frigid, cool beginnings of nighttime wind.

He did not know what it meant that she had not showed.

A multitude of excuses reached his mind, trying to resuscitate his long-dead hope, but the truths shot them all dead on the spot. She had not intended to come, and he was just a young fool in love, who held on the first pretty girl to give him a sideways glance.

His knuckles cracked as he grabbed his gun, slid off the boulder, and landed on the sloshing, wet, muddy ground. He never once looked back his whole walk back to camp.

#

"EMMET, LOOK OUT!"

"ACK!"

Jeff's saving-grace words warned Emmet just in time, and he ducked into the trench right before a bullet whizzed by his head. He had no time to wonder how many times death had tapped him on the shoulder, whispered in his ear, or tripped right in front of him.

Sweat dripped down his forehead. He tasted blood on his lips. His lungs flailed against his ribcage for a breath. Mud and half-dried rain pressed through his uniform onto his back. His eyes beat and pounded like a heart, while his heart either went so fast he couldn't feel it, or it wasn't pumping at all.

"First battle's always the worst, kid." Jeff shot a bullet across the field, and Emmet wondered which of the screams belonged to the new owner of the projectile. "Just block out everything in your mind except how to shoot, breath, and duck. And remember how to run for your life, just in case."

Emmet didn't respond. Turning over, he reopened his hazy eyes to the battlefield. Dust rained down on the field. A soldier's boot lay mere feet from him. A gun rested in front of him, thumbprints of blood pressed against the hot, freshly-shot metal. He refused to look at the faces of the dead soldiers for fear he would recognize them all too well.

"Shoot your gun, Brickowski!"

He couldn't identify the voice, but he could take orders.

He pointed the weapon out into the battle field. His hand shook on the trigger so terribly the butt of the gun shuddered against this shoulder. He looked for someone's legs to shot. He could not kill. He would not kill.

Everyone buzzed by him, either going in and out of trenches or running past too quickly for him to take his load out on someone.

Finally, a small figure came into view, in a faraway trench. He could just make out the form, and the shoulder of the figure.

He could not kill, but he had to shoot.

"SHOOT THE GUN!"

His lips trembled, and his tears melded with the blood smeared against his face, but he readied the gun, and aimed.

The dust settled for the briefest of moments, and hair of midnight, dashed against stark magenta and sapphire, met his view, resting around a blood-splattered face of the love of his life. She held a gun, the muzzle pointed right of his head. Where fright and despair lay in her eyes, shock overtook, and they froze.

The dust fell over again, and she vanished as easily as the fallen soldiers.

Michael saw the conflict in his young, naïve soldier's face. Shock, guilt, fear, but beyond that, he saw indecision, hopelessness, and traces of regret. Soldiers weren't supposed to regret. Michael's eyes darted across the field, but he saw nothing that could have gripped his soldier like that. He assumed shock, pure, first-battle shock. He didn't have time for that.

Without a word, he crouched in the muddy, bug-infested, sweaty trench, grabbed Emmet's arm and pulled, yanking on the trigger for him.

The shot fired, snapped through the air, and they heard nothing of it for a split-second, until a scream hit the air.

Amidst the cries, the watering eyes and bleeding foreheads, the gunshots and the smoke, Michael hollered into whimpering Emmet's ear, "It's the circle of the war, kid." He had taken Emmet, a young, naïve boy thrown into the horrific bloodshed of battle, and mangled him into a man who knew how to shoot a gun.

"You'll get over it."

#

Wyldstyle waited, by the rock, in vain. Her face flushed, not from the agonizing, scorching heat the sun had neglected to collect on its departure, but from her own ridiculous attempt to catch what she had already lost. Like going after a butterfly that had flown away the day before, she waited for him, in hopes for the one-in-a-million chance that he would return.

She breathed in, never smelling the scent of pine wood and rushing rivers, instead struggling to choke down the traces of gunpowder, blood, and death. It overtook the natural aroma like a boxer against a paper punching bag. The sky hung above her, and she got the sense that it was just as exhausted as she. It was exhausted with the war, the day's turmoil, the work, the death, everything.

There was a sense of guilt, of owing an explanation, shifting in her chest. She had seen him just long enough to spark a rough flame of confusion, betrayal, and longing between their eyes, but not nearly extensive enough to heal the wounds.

If he never saw her again, she deserved that. She understood that. However, to satisfy her own conscience and her need for closure, she wanted to be there, just in case he showed.

For all she knew, he was dead, and she was even more of an idiotic, hopeful dunce than she knew.

She had spotted the blood on his face from across the battle field. The sweat that had laced his forehead, the blood smeared across his cheek, the tears running around his eyes, she had seen it all, and of all the images she had attained during the war, that was the one she wished she could erase the most.

A stirring in the thicket hit her ears and broke her from her trance. She sat up, an awful mix of fear, nauseous anxiety, and tense defenses rising in her throat like a surging wave. Her hand grabbed the cool metal of the gun and pulled it up to her in perfect silence.

She held the gun against her shoulder and aimed towards where the sound came from.

The bush stirred, and just as she moved to the lock of her gun, Emmet came into her view.

The gun faltered in her hands and her jaw fell slack at the sight of the man she had thought long out of her reach, if not dead. "Emmet?" She didn't expect him to hear her words, she could hardly pick them up herself.

He took another step out of the woods, but he did not respond, and she did not speak. They stared at each other, bodies frozen and hearts trembling.

On instant, they ran into each other's arms.

"You're not hurt? Thank you, Wyldstyle, you're not hurt." He gripped her all the tighter, as if he could save her from any past possibility of pain. His breath, labored and choked, caught against her neck as she gently sobbed into his shoulder. He smelled of blood and gunpowder, and never before had she longed for the scent of nature so desperately.

They stood, entwined in each other, as the moon smiled upon them fondly.

Emmet rubbed her back, and she rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed and lazy, as if she could fall asleep in his arms. "Why didn't you tell me? You shouldn't be doing that."

She paused, feeling his grip tighten as he pressed her against him, possibly to keep her from pulling away, not that he had anything to worry about. "I don't know. Being a soldier makes me feel like I'm helping the war."

"I don't like it. I don't want you to help the war if it means I could lose you."

The sweet, naïve words tapped her heart in ways she had never felt before. He cared for her, so much so that he was broken up over nearly losing her, just after knowing her for a little over a day. "Lucy." The word tasted foreign on her tongue, but lifted a weight off her shoulders at the same time.

Warmth left her, yet he kept his arms firmly on her sides. "Huh?"

She smiled softly. "My name…it's Lucy."

Emmet paused, searching her face, for what, she did not know. On an instant, he smiled. "I like that name."

Funny, she noticed, of all the sweet things he had said to her, that was the one that gave her the final nudge, and she kissed him, full and loving on the mouth.

Shock and wonder coursed through his body. He had never kissed, been kissed, or seen people kiss. And now, here he was, in the middle of who-knows-where on a brand-new continent, kissing the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

Much too soon, she pulled back. Her attempt to keep her gasps under control failed. "Uh, I was just…I don't know…"

"I love you!"

They stared at each other, as they had done on the battle field, in questioning uncertainty and mystery. Were they taking things too far, too fast, and too soon? Probably. Yet, in the moment, and in the war, they could only live for the moment, and they couldn't care if they tried.

Lucy watched in careful amusement as he stuttered, "I…I mean…I don't…"

The urge to tease him was irresistible. "Oh, you don't? That's too bad, because I was going to say I love you too."

The shock on his face was not the same type that he had worn on the battle field, this shock was cute, hopeful, and characteristic of everything she loved about him. "Are you sure?" He asked the question as if he had real, serious doubt as to whether she meant it.

"Yes, Emmet, I'm sure."

"Can I kiss you?"

"Definitely."

Emmet never returned to his camp that night, he instead joined the Revolution with Lucy. They both survived the rest of the war and lived in the new-born America, and Emmet made sure to stay in contact with his family back in England. They had two children, Emma and Luke, and lived in Philadelphia for all fifty-two years of their marriage.