Disclaimer: this story is based chiefly on the Band of Brothers miniseries and the characters as they are portrayed therein, which are owned by Spielberg, Hanks et all. I have nothing but the deepest respect and admiration for the real veterans and this is not in anyway intended to portray them or their experiences.

Having arrived in London without too much trouble, Eleanor decided to steer clear of the Kensington area and instead settled down near Paddington Station to await her appointments at the Special Operations Executive and Office of Strategic Services headquarters. She spent the evening bent over reports and mission details with a precious cup of tea, the blacked out room lit mostly by candles and old fashioned lamps as she studied them. The assignment was in essence quite simple: get to Normandy, get things organized. It seemed they had left the how and why up to her own discretion, saying only that they would expect detailed accounts of enemy activity and locations where possible.

She chewed on the end of her pencil thoughtfully. Given just how much she needed to blend in, nights ops were probably inevitable, as was a certain level of fraternization with the Germans. Mapping the area might be tricky, never mind getting the reports back across the pond. Then of course there was the local resistance; they would have to be readied for action, marshaled, briefed. Sabotage and overt strikes were a no until D-Day - there could be no risk of detection, not now - but that did not mean she could not prepare them for it.

A shiver ran down her spine. It surprised her how objectively she could think of it, how easy it had been to switch back to her old ways. At least this time there was no violence expected until the invasion itself rolled around. She would be able to adapt and adjust to life in France again whilst lying low; the fact that a single step out of line could jeopardize everything was both a blessing and a curse.

Skimming down the page, a passage towards the bottom of the brief caught her attention. Expect to liaise with a British operative. She grimaced, leaning back in her chair with a sigh. Great. Baggage. An extra set of hands might come in use, but it would be endlessly more easy to operate by herself. Given how thinly stretched the old guard of the SOE was these days, it was likely her partner would be inexperienced or a downright novice. Having to look after them could very well complicate matters. It occurred to her that he could be male, too; while she might be able to pass as one of the locals' sister by herself, two newcomers in town would quickly be assumed to equal a couple. Somehow, having to pose as one felt like she'd be betraying Dick.

Stop it, she reprimanded herself, what's done is done. Besides, if you want to keep him safe, do your damn job.

Next to her, the ancient gramophone the landlady had lent her - she could be very persuasive when she wanted to be, although this darling old dame hadn't needed much convincing - skipped to the Andrews Sisters.

I'll be with you in apple blossom time...

Eleanor made a disgusted little noise in the back of her throat at the hushed, saccharine notes and flipped the record around. A familiar bugle call rang out, and memories of an exultant jitterbug were inevitable. Sweeping the needle off with a tired hand, she resigned herself to the constant reminders of her friends. On the train, she had turned to the person sitting by her side to remark on a particularly comical looking individual at one of the stations, half expecting to find Harry or Lew there. In a dazed moment in London, she had almost snapped at a woman in uniform to stand up straight before realizing it was a WAAF rather than an ANC outfit she was wearing. While it was quite possible that the girl had been another operative on leave - a lot of them were with the airforce or nursing yeomanry - Eleanor was still meant to be an American and so had masked her near-slip with an apologetic smile and a hasty retreat. No doubt there would be more moments like this as time went by; they were everywhere and in every thing, and it seemed there was little she would be able to do about it.

The next morning she took a long bath, cleaning every inch of herself methodically, washing her hair and clipping her nails and going through all the other rituals she wasn't sure she'd be able to repeat at any point soon. Once washed, she found herself staring down at two sets of clothes; one American, the other British. Which to pick? She was going to be in London all day and would no doubt meet her supposed contact; her first stop would be on Baker Street. Would they expect her to show up in her old nursing livery? If she did and went to the US command post after, would the Yanks take offense at her wearing another country's - albeit an ally's - colors?

Glancing over at her tiny suitcase, she spotted the pretty rose print of a silk scarf and picked it up, running the smooth fabric through her fingers. It was a poignant memory of the wonderful Christmas spent in Aldbourne and only added to the empty ache in her heart, but she tied it around her neck meticulously and reached for the American uniform soon after.

Lieutenant Eleanor Fairfax, twenty-four. American.

"Hello, Janice."

The mousy secretary looked up from behind her typewriter, eyes lighting up in recognition at the tall, pretty woman with the proud bearing standing before her. "Captain Fairfax!" The captain was somewhat of a legendary figure around the office; the last time Janice had seen her, she had been fresh out of Normandy, hollow-eyed and war-stained. It seemed her time in England had done her good. "You look well, ma'am."

Eleanor smiled at the woman, remembering her from her previous visits. Like with so many of the SOE's employees, looks were deceiving; despite her tiny size and unforthcoming appearance, she was a capable worker who ran her boss' office like clockwork. "It's Lieutenant Fairfax now," the operative said, tapping the single bar on her collar, "But thank you."

Janice was appalled. "They demoted you, ma'am?"

She hadn't even thought of that. It would have been odd for her to have swept into Aldbourne as a Captain, even if she supposedly had several years worth of non-military experience. "I guess they did," she shrugged, "Whatever works, right?"

"Yes ma'am."

The assistant understood. Of course she does. It was refreshing to be back amongst company who not only knew who she was and were aware of her past but also grasped the importance of covert work and maintaining of one's disguise. Eleanor unbuttoned her coat nimbly. "I believe General Gubbins is expecting me?"

"Yes, ma'am, but his current appointment is running late. Would you care for some tea while you wait?

They must be really worried about me if they're offering me tea despite the rationing. "Tea would be wonderful, thank you," she nodded gratefully, taking a seat as the secretary went to get the beverage for her. The office was much as she remembered it - make shift, even now, reflecting the ever-moving and ever-developing nature of the agency. She'd been told that there were currently almost forty active female agents either in the field or preparing to be deployed; things had certainly changed since she had first joined. Once, after Normandy, she had been offered a position in one of the training centers, but she had politely turned it down. At the time, she had been unsure whether she would be able to deal with sending another batch of wide-eyed women - most of whom would have little idea what they were really getting themselves into - into combat.

Now, her mind drifting to her brave American girls, the thought just seemed ironic.

"Nell?"

Her head snapped up. She hadn't been called that in a long while, and the voice seemed familiar.

"Little Nell Fairfax, is that you?"

Eleanor was up on her feet in an instant. "Leo!"

A brilliant cryptographer - rumor had it Bletchley Park had taken to referring to him as 'the one who got away' - Leo Marks was an old friend whom she had met all the way back in '42 after her return from Vichy. He was an amiable man with a wide, dimpled smile and a large Jewish nose, fond of poetry and storytelling. The two of them had hit it off quickly and she embraced him warmly. "What on earth are you doing here?"

His smile was endearingly cheerful. "Oh, you know, touching base. We're flooding the Boche with bad intel to distract them from Overlord."

This too she had heard about, a week or so ago when she had been in the city last. It was a smart move; by drawing the Germans' attention - and hopefully their men and material - away from their actual target, the invasion forces would hopefully have an easier time of it come D-Day. "Clever," she remarked, returning his smile and musing on the final decision for the allied expedition's designation, "The Yanks do have a thing for grand names, don't they?"

"They do at that," Marks nodded, raising an eyebrow, "Last I heard you were working for them."

There was no true accusation in his voice, but she knew he was saddened not to have heard from her even after she returned from the continent. Her expression turned apologetic and she crossed her arms loosely, shuffling her feet. "You know me. Regular Allied poster girl."

"The curse of dual citizenship, I suppose," he said lightly, watching her closely. Besides being darned good with riddles and codes, he was an astute sort of man who was good at reading people - especially his friends. "How are you doing- really?"

"I'm fine."

"Nell, we all heard the stories," he rebuked her gently, and she knew that she couldn't lie to him even if she tried, "Normandy got rather gruesome towards the end."

"Yeah, it did," she said, voice quiet as images of dead school children and wanted posters with her likeness on it flitted through her mind, "It, uh- it was pretty rough for a while." She felt his hand on her arm and managed a faint smile, suppressing the memories. "But I'm really okay now."

And she was. She doubted she would ever forget all that she had seen and lived through, but she had found a happy middle ground of being, of functioning without shutting down completely. It was not something she had been taught in training - it was probably something each person had to figure out for themselves - but here she was, put back together if not quite whole, alive and happy if not fully carefree.

Marks, noting that her smile though small was genuine, believed her. "I'm glad to hear it," he said, squeezing her arm, "You were one of the first- we couldn't possibly replace you."

Eleanor scoffed at that, arms tightening around herself. "I certainly made all of the mistakes."

"We all did, pet," her friend comforted, "Special Operations is a whole new way of warfare. You know that better than most."

"Hm," she responded vaguely, considering what he had said. While she would be the first to admit the potential of guerilla warfare and the successes that had been achieved by stimulating sabotage and insurrection, the intellectual in her could not deny that the blurring of the lines between combatants and non-combatants was a dangerous one. The entire Geneva conventions were based on the supposition that there was a clear divide between the military and civilians; once those boundaries were obscured, what ways would be left to protect the innocent without accidentally aiding the guilty?

She did not particularly want to think about it and chose to change the topic. "You hear from Tommy recently?"

"He's back in France- Paris, from what I understand."

"And you?" she nodded, thoughtful, "I was sorry to hear about your troubles in Holland."

Her friend's face darkened. "Bloody mess, that." As well as the SOE had done in France, their mission in the northern countries had been somewhat of a disaster. The mission had been compromised thoroughly and about fifty Allied agents had been identified and killed as a result. Apparently Leo'd had his suspicions for a long while, but had been told to keep them to himself for political reasons.

"Miss Fairfax?" Janice called, exiting the main office, tea apparently forgotten, "The general is ready to see you now."

Eleanor shot an apologetic look at Leo. "I'd better go," She wanted to speak to him a while longer, learn for herself just what had gone wrong in Holland and how he had been overall, but General Gubbins waited for no man - or woman. "It was good to see you, Leo."

He smiled his bright smile and clasped her to him again for a brief moment. "And you," he said, hands lingering on her shoulders for a moment as he pulled back, "Do be careful, Nightingale."

The operative smiled at his use of the old codename and, with a half-hearted wave of her hand, entered the office.

Leo had not been exaggerating when he had said that Eleanor had been one of the first. When the Blitz had started and she had been picked up from the hospital, the Special Operations Executive had only existed for a few months. The sole reason she had been chosen to join their ranks the way she had been was because the Chief Director at the time - Frank Nelson - had known her father and was a family friend; in his search for young talent with connections to the continent, her name had been paramount.

During those first few years of trial-and-error, Nelson had relied on her to be his eyes and ears on the ground. Her role then - like that of many of the other early conscripts - had been about developing the organization as much as it had been about actual spy work. Eleanor's experiences in Paris had been largely influential on current operating procedures, for one; assassinations and similar actions had been few after hers turned sour. While there had been plenty of problems and more than enough frustrations, Nelson's determination to create an efficient network had always been unshakeable and he had set to his task with complete selflessness. He wore himself out creating a solid base for his successors.

Another CD had come and gone since then, and now Colin Gubbins - previously the deputy director - had taken over command. A veteran of the first world war with vast experience in commando and clandestine operations, Gubbins had traveled to Scotland around the same time Eleanor had, and they had met in that far off place, a young ingenue and a seasoned soldier. Despite the tremendous differences in age and background, they had established a close working relationship based on mutual respect and affection. Together, they had taken on the challenges of operating within this entirely new way of warfare, and like Frank Nelson he had frequently depended on her insight and listened to what she had to say despite a streak of stubbornness in his own character. Indeed, the only time she had dared go behind his back had been when she and Tommy had pleaded with Churchill for additional supplies for the French maquis.

Unfortunately, that and her transfer to the OSS were some of the last things he had heard from her, and she halfway feared what his reception of her would be like.

"General," she greeted him, saluting the man smartly; it was only when he raised his bristled eyebrows at her that she realized she had given him an American salute rather than a British one. "Sir-I'm sorry," she faltered, blushing, "I hardly know what salute to use anymore-"

To her relief, he smiled at her, not unkindly, and motioned towards the chair in front of his desk. "It's all right, Eleanor. Have a seat."

She sat down obediently, crossing her legs at the ankles before tucking them sideways and placing her hands on her lap as she awaited his next move. As expected, the general leaned back in his seat, observing her through narrowed eyes for a moment. "So," he began, "Out of the fire and back into the frying pan for you, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"How have the Yanks been treating you?"

They might have just saved my life and sanity. Their loyalty and companionship is perhaps the one thing that's keeping me going by now. "Very well, sir."

Gubbins nodded. "No issues with your cover?"

Eleanor hesitated briefly. I suppose that depends on what you'd qualify as 'problems'. Objectively, she knew she had let herself slip up more than once: both Lew and Colonel Sink had found out far more than she had intended, and she was fairly certain Ron Speirs had his suspicions as well. Her cover hadn't been perfectly maintained either, and then there was also the fact that she had gone completely off mission in giving Dick Winters a file that contained every intimate detail of her past- but she wasn't about to tell the general that. As far as she was concerned, her cover had been preserved and she risked no danger of discovery or being compromised. She suspected true, old fashioned clandestine work might go straight out the window once the invasion rolled around anyway, so it made little difference in the end.

"None, sir. A few of the officers aside, no one knows about my background."

He scoffed, but not for the reason she initially suspected. "Yes, well, they are damned sure to find out once the invasion begins."

Wait, he suspects the same? She frowned. "Sir?"

The general breathed an annoyed sigh. "I'll be frank with you, Eleanor. The only reason I signed off on your transfer is because you needed the time off," he shook his head, "Now I fear I have doomed you to exposure, not to mention doing a single division's dirty work."

Is he actually insinuating that my current mission is subpar and that he's insulted on my behalf? Well I'll be damned...

"You are one of our best operatives, Captain. We have a command ready and waiting for you should you want it. I promise you it'll be better than the scutwork the Yanks have you doing."

She was flattered by the offer and the concern from the otherwise austere man, yet she could not imagine leaving the 506th behind now. Not only would it be a betrayal of her commitment to the OSS, she would be abandoning the friends that meant so much to her. That simply wasn't an option.

"If you don't mind, sir," she said quietly, "I'd like to stick with the 101st. They've been good to me, and they haven't the experience any of our boys have. If I can help them at all..."

Help keep them safe. Help them achieve what they traveled all across the world for. Help look after them.

"I understand, but what of your cover?"

"Sir, the most these men will ever know is that I'm OSS. Should the Germans ever find that out, it'll no doubt annoy them, but it might also throw them off my tail."

There was some sense in that statement: the Germans were looking for an Englishwoman, la belle Anglaise, not an American. She might in fact be safer as a Yank than as a Brit. Gubbins smiled thinly, knowing he had lost the argument. "You always were stubborn." he conceded, a note of fondness to his voice. She returned his smile.

"Yes, sir."

He shifted in his seat, digging up a file from the drawer of his desk and handing it to her. She opened the folder, finding the picture of an agreeable looking lad staring back at her; she raised an eyebrow at her superior officer. Is this kid even out of school yet? Will I honestly be expected to pretend I'm in love with him?

"Your SOE liaison," he explained, "Is Lieutenant Archibald Chadwick. Bright young thing, fresh out of training." His lips curled up further. "Already worships the ground you walk upon."

Eleanor huffed out a laugh. "Lovely." Boy, is he in for a disappointment.

"I'm sure you'll get along splendidly."

"Yes, sir."

"He has been told to meet with you at King's Cross at midday today so that you might travel to your OSS rendezvous together. Any questions?"

She snapped the file shut, eyes meeting the general's. "No, sir. I'm sure we'll manage."

The man stood up, and she rose right along with him, taking the hand he extended to her. "Well, in that case," he said, "Good luck, and God bless."

"Thank you, sir."

"I hear Berkeley Square is lovely this time of year."

Eleanor glanced up from the newspaper she was purportedly reading, recognizing the man that had come to stand beside her from the picture Gubbins had shown her earlier. The boy looked even younger in person. "I prefer Leicester Square myself." she recited the prerequisite answer, folding up the paper and tucking it underneath her arm. The newbie smiled broadly.

"Captain Fairfax," he said, shaking her hand vigorously, "It's an honor to meet you."

She regarded him skeptically, taking note of his gangly limbs and the remnants of bad skin on his face. "I'm sure," she remarked wryly, "Follow me, please."

"O-of course," he stuttered, loping after her, "You know, we learned all about you- the sabotage work in Vichy?" He threw up his hands. "Astounding."

"Keep your voice down," she warned, scoping out the surroundings warily. Loose lips sink ships. The slogans on the posters weren't just propaganda and empty threats.

"Is it really true that you lied your way out of being held at gunpoint at a check point?"

Christ, does this kid ever shut up?

"Would I be standing here if it wasn't?"

He didn't even seem to hear her and rambled on. "Using a car battery for your wireless? What about that train station assass-"

Whirling around abruptly, she pushed him into an alley. "Sh!" she hissed at him, "For the love of God, are you out of your mind? You never hear about walls with ears?"

The young lieutenant blushed scarlet, wide eyes blinking rapidly. "Y-yes, ma'am," he stammered, "Sorry, ma'am."

Eleanor sighed and let him go, running a weary hand through her hair. "Paris was a disaster," she intoned, looking at her colleague intently, "That one strike resulted in mass retaliation- or did they forget to mention that to you?"

"No, ma'am."

She turned back towards the main street. God, but he was green. Keeping him alive would be a challenge, and she wasn't sure if it was one she wanted to take on. "War isn't all that it's cracked up to be, lieutenant. Believe me."

"But you're a hero, ma'am."

The statement left her reeling. She had never considered herself one; very far from it, in fact. I'm just a single person doing my duty in a very large war. Nothing heroic about that. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, my dear," she said quietly, swallowing to get rid of the sudden dryness in her throat, "But I'm probably the furthest thing you'll find from a hero."

With that, she set off, mind still spinning and paying little heed to the Brit that followed in her wake.

"Poppycock."

"What was that?" she asked vaguely, looking at him over her shoulder as he jogged up to walk beside her.

"Nothing, ma'am."

They spent the next two streets in silence, each left to their own thoughts and contemplations. Suddenly, Chadwick chuckled, smiling when she shot him a quizzical look. "I expected you to sound American, somehow."

She returned his smile. "I can sound anything I like, including French," she stated; she wasn't lying. "How is your accent, by the way?" And just like that, she was back down to business, even if the unexpected - and undeserved, at least in her opinion - praise was still nagging at the back of her mind.

"I'm told I have a touch of the orleanais, ma'am."

The French heartland. I suppose we shall have to be a couple on honeymoon or some such, then, although God knows who would want to celebrate their first weeks of married bliss in occupied Normandy.

"C'est vrai?"

He answered her in perfect French, not a trace of an English inflection. Maybe he'll be some use after all.

"Good enough," she appraised, leading him on towards their destination, "Come on."

Looking back, it was almost startling how different her meeting with the Americans had been. In a fascinating reverse of common practice, they had been far more formal than the British, insisting on protocol and ceremony, treating her with an almost reverential caution that had been less than comfortable. They had gone over the mission details, recapitulating what she was meant to be doing and how to go about contacting them. It had vexed her just a little when they had started to tell her how she was supposed to deal with the locals, but she had managed to put them back in place with a few icy words. It's all very well, but don't go pretending you know more about the maquisards than I do.

Her name until D-Day, as it had been revealed, would be Sophie Rossignol. Sophie, from the Greek sophia, meaning wisdom; rossignol, French, translates as nightingale. Ironically also the last name of a famous family of French cryptographers. Somehow she did not doubt that Leo'd had something to do with the choosing of that alias. It was certainly a nice touch.

Now, the steady thrum of a C-47's engines reverberating through her body, she felt almost unnaturally calm. Chadwick was a ball of nervous energy by her side, fidgeting and moving about restlessly, but she leaned her head back against the plane and closed her eyes, mind pleasantly blank. Her prayers had been said and her mind made up. No matter what might come after, she felt ready to jump.

"Lieutenant Fairfax?"

She opened her eyes to see the co-pilot popping his head around the cockpit's door. "Yeah?"

"We're approaching the drop zone, ma'am."

Checking her watch, she confirmed that their estimated jump time was indeed nearing and looked out of the window into the pitch black of the night. There were only a few faint scattered lights up ahead, but they were definitely nearing land. She turned to the pilot. "How are we on stealth?"

"Thus far undetected, ma'am."

Eleanor nodded. "Good." Tapping Chadwick on the shoulder, she motioned for him to stand up and hook up. As she shifted her gear, tightening straps and running through a mental checklist, she looked up at the Englishman. He seemed to be grinding his teeth unconsciously. "This is your first jump, right, lieutenant?"

"Yes, ma'am," he responded, a little nervously, "Fourth for you, isn't it?"

"Aye, but no gold stars for me, I'm afraid."

He smiled as she had intended him to. "Sorry to hear that, ma'am."

"Eh, comes with the territory," she shrugged, concluding her own personal assessment and seeing the red light go on next to the open door. "All right, let's do this. Equipment check?"

The lieutenant went over her gear almost shyly, carefully inspecting if everything was in place as she did the same for him. "You're good, ma'am."

"Back at ya." They moved towards the door, the metal of their hooks sliding along the wire, and Eleanor peeked out of the door at the darkened continent below. She could see the outline of a city now, stretching out beneath them, and her hand went up to her throat automatically. Her fingers brushed the soothing silk, memories of beloved faces darting past in the night.

This is for you. All of you.

She turned back to Chadwick, raising her voice to make herself heard over the roar of the plane. "We're being dropped near Cherbourg as planned. Good luck." The boy nodded tersely, hands curled around the straps of his gear tightly as he looked away, gathering his courage. Eleanor smiled. "Lieutenant?"

His head snapped up just as the green light turned on next to them. "Yes ma'am?"

"Jump the plane and think of England."

And so Eleanor goes back into spy mode; we'll see how she'll cope. Apologies both for the delay and shortness of this chapter - crazy busy week - and also in advance for the lack of Easy boys in both this chapter and the next; I promise they'll be back very soon. Thank you as always for reading and reviewing!