Title: "Paralysie"

Author: madame-brioche

Rating: PG-13

Prompt: In which Doc Roe escapes the war for a few moments, even if it's all in his head.

Warnings: Lots of angst. And French.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters mentioned in this fic; HBO does.

Alors, mon petit chat. Qu'est-ce qui t'arrive ?

The pale, broad-shouldered Cajun medic knit his eyebrows together, wrinkling up his forehead and his frost-bitten nose like a frozen bunny rabbit. His lips were so cracked from the bitter chill it was a wonder they hadn't started bleeding. His canvas medical bag was propped between his head and the snow, his arms folded tightly, legs sprawled out in front of him. If it weren't for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, one might've mistaken him for a corpse.

T'arrive pas à t'endormir, quoi ? T'as fait de mauvais rêves ?

Eugene Roe was in a deep sleep, the first of its kind since Easy Company had arrived in Belgium not long ago. And now, blanketed by a thin moth-eaten tarp, the young medic was shrouded in the darkness of his foxhole, at the complete mercy of Mother Nature's tempest of a blizzard.

Voilà, mon petit. Maman est là. Maman sera toujours là.

Gene's lips twitched into something of a half-smile, his shoulders barely shrugging as he folded his arms tighter against himself. Breathing somewhat heavily, he slowly tilted his head and burrowed himself closely inward, like a fox that hears a twig snap in the distance.

Je laisserai personne te faire du mal, mon bébé.

He's mumbling now, incoherent words at first, nothing more than gibberish. Little by little, he forms a word, a word that he's repeating over and over — growing all the more hopeful and distressed with each utterance. "Maman…Maman…Maman, c'est toi, là?"

He's whispering her name again and again, his eyebrows raising and knitting in a continuous battle as the voice in his head begins to develop a face.

A face with laughing green eyes, a warm complexion, a doting smile. Her soft brown hair is out of its usual pile atop her head, and now it hangs long and free, and Gene can feel it tickling his face as her lips meet his forehead. He can hear the little jingle her medal of Saint-François-d'Assise makes as she leans forward.

Bah, tu veux que je chante, mon petit chat ?

And then she's there, holding him in her arms as she rocks him back and forth, lulling him to sleep. Gene can see the print of his maman's favorite worn but clean calico dress, can smell her familiar scent of lavender soap, can hear the sizzles of his papa's jambalaya simmering nearby. This is home.

And when she begins to sing, he's swept away and snuggled against her once more. Her hand is smoothing back the hair from his forehead, her heartbeat echoing steadily in his ear.

Fais dodo, Eugène mon p'tit frère

Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo

Her voice is sweet-sounding, like the little hummingbirds that used to hover around the red coral honeysuckle outside his window. She uses his name in the lullaby, like she always has, and the way it sounds rolling off her tongue is how Gene knows it's really her. He'd know her accent anywhere.

Maman est en haut

Qui fait du gâteau

Papa est en bas

Qui fait du chocolat

Gene parts his chapped lips, wanting to sing along to the lullaby that has lilted him and his siblings to sleep for years. Slowly, and with the breath of a dying man, he begins to repeat the chorus in a scratchy mumble. And the two are singing together, safe and tucked away within the comforts of the farmhouse near the canopied bayou.

Fais dodo, Eugène, mon p'tit frère

Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo

His mumbles turn louder into audible words, and louder still into melodic slurs as the young man — once more a little boy — lulls himself into the sweetest escape from the frozen hell of Bastogne. "Fais…dodo…Eugène mon p'tit frère…."

He doesn't hear the crunch of boots against the snow drawing closer to him. He can't see the exhausted paratrooper stumbling in the darkness toward the young medic's foxhole. "Fais dodo…t'auras…t'auras du lolo…Fais dodo—"

"Eugene?"

The deep voice is intrusive, and suddenly there's an earthquake of sorts that is jolting Gene from his trance and tearing him away from Maman's arms. He can feel her soothing hands leaving him and her song becoming distant until it's completely gone, and all he's left with is this cold and empty feeling.

"Eugene, wake up."

The 22-year-old medic jolts upright, suddenly awake and gasping for his breath, startled out of his mind. He's breathing so raggedly and desperately that he doesn't process where he is until he sees Captain Winters' concerned face illuminated before him. His heart sinks, and the heat of embarrassment rises to his cheeks as he stares into the eyes of his superior.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," Winters says quietly, dropping down beside, but not into, the foxhole. "I only wanted to check on you." His words are calm but his eyes show an array of worry.

Gene looks at his own arms wrapped around himself and slowly loosens them up. His doe eyes are wide and frozen with fear, his lip beginning to quiver. "I-I'm fine, sir. Is someone hurt? Was I called for?"

Winters shakes his head and gives a small sigh. "No, I just thought I heard—" he stops himself, not wanting to say he'd heard the young medic talking in his sleep, knowing that would embarrass the poor kid. "Nothing. I just wanted to check on you is all. Sorry for waking ya."

With a fatherly pat on the shoulder, Winters stands back up and begins to turn around. He pauses for a moment, glancing back to find Gene pulling the tarp tighter around himself, burying his face into his knees so as to hide his face. He wants to say something to the kid, anything, but decides against it.

As Gene hears the footsteps fade away, he brings his head back up, fighting the hot tears that threaten to pour down at any given second. His mother is gone, and he's alone now in the middle of a tundra battlefield with nothing and no one. He clenches his jaw, determined not to cry, his emotions dangerously close to escaping from where he's buried them.

With a shaky hand, he closes his eyes and reaches up into his jacket, clasping his mother's Saint-François-d'Assise medal that hangs around his neck alongside the dog tags. He brings the cool silver to his lips and kisses it softly, running his thumb and forefinger along the delicate grooves and outlines.

Opening his eyes, Gene bites his lip in an effort to stop it from quivering, either from the cries or the cold, not even he can tell. His thoughts, meanwhile, fumble their way through a prayer of his own.

"Chère Maman," he begins in the softest of whispers, glancing up through glassy eyes at the stars above. "Ils disent que je peux pas rentrer chez nous tant que la guerre est pas finie, tant que j'ai pas fait mon travail ici. Mais t'es toujours dans mon cœur."

Gene sniffles quietly, his bloodshot eyes focusing on a single star just above him. Polaris, the North Star. It seems to be staring back down at him, twinkling with a dim determination.

"Tu m'as dit que tu aimais regarder les étoiles ?" He whispers, feeling burning tears cut wet paths down his face. "Les étoiles sont si belles ici, comme toi, Maman. La promesse d'un nouveau jour suit une nuit étoilée. Et un nouveau jour me rapproche de toi."

He wipes angrily at his tears, brows furrowed and forehead lined with stubborn resistance. "Chaque jour, les arbres de ces bois bruissent leurs branches, me chuchotant que tu vas bien," Gene takes a shallow breath and runs his shaky fingers through his hair. "J'aime écouter les petits oiseaux qui s'cachent dans leurs creux. Ces sons me font penser à nos petits oiseaux de chez nous."

His whispers are so quiet that his lips barely move as he forms the words. As the sharp chill of the December air stings his face, Gene pulls the tarp up so that it covers his nose and mouth, pulling his numb hands into his sleeves to keep them warm.

"Je sais pas—" he stops himself, his throat locking up and his eyes spilling over once more. "Je sais pas si je te reverrai un jour. Mais," he whispers in a cracked strain, "garde la foi que quoi qu'il arrive, je serai ton étoile polaire même dans la mort. Et je trouverai le chemin du retour vers toi."

Kissing the medal around his neck once more, he closes his eyes and tries to imagine Maman's voice, just as she'd sounded in the dream. But it keeps fading away from him as quickly as it comes.

"Je vais demander à Saint-François-d'Assise de veiller sur nous deux. Nous pourrions utiliser sa force et son courage," he breathed, listening to a round of rapid gunshots somewhere beyond the haze of falling snow. They grew louder, closer, until—

"MEDIC!"

The cry that used to launch Gene into a state frenzied panic, but now only seemed to trigger a sense of detached duty, numb obedience.

"DOC!" The voice screamed again from somewhere behind him.

Je t'aime, Maman, pour le reste de mes jours, he finishes quickly in his head, returning back to Earth. Ton fils, Eugène.

And just like that, he's up and out of his foxhole, swinging his Red Cross bag over his shoulder and crouching below enemy fire as he hurriedly shuffles toward his injured brother. Ready to bandage whatever horrible wound, ready to hold and comfort whoever it is.

All day, all night, and all alone.

French translations:

Paralysie - Literally, paralysis. But in this context I use it to mean 'standstill.'

Alors, mon petit chat. Qu'est-ce qui t'arrive ? - What's the matter, sweetheart?

T'arrive pas à t'endormir, quoi ? T'as fait de mauvais rêves ? - You can't fall asleep? Did you have bad dreams?

Voilà, mon petit. Maman est là. Maman sera toujours là. - There, there little one. Mama's here. Mama will always be here.

Je laisserai personne te faire du mal, mon bébé. - I won't let anyone hurt you, baby.

Maman…Maman…Maman, c'est toi, là? - Mama...Mama...Mama, is that you?

Saint-François-d'Assise - St. Francis of Assisi

Bah, tu veux que je chante, mon petit chat ? - Well, you want me to sing, sweetheart?

Fais dodo, Eugène mon p'tit frère - Go to sleep, Eugene my little brother

Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo - Go to sleep, tomorrow you'll have milk.

Maman est en haut qui fait du gâteau - Mama is upstairs making a cake.

Papa est en bas qui fait du chocolat - Papa is downstairs making chocolate.

Chère Maman - Dear Mama

Ils disent que je peux pas rentrer chez nous tant que la guerre est pas finie, tant que j'ai pas fait mon travail ici - They say I can't go home until the war is over, until I've done my job here.

Mais t'es toujours dans mon cœur - But you're still in my heart.

Tu m'as dit que tu aimais regarder les étoiles ? - You told me you like to look at the stars?

Les étoiles sont si belles ici, comme toi, Maman - The stars are so beautiful out here, just like you, Mama.

La promesse d'un nouveau jour suit une nuit étoilée - The promise of a new day follows a starry night.

Et un nouveau jour me rapproche de toi - And a new day brings me closer to you.

Chaque jour, les arbres de ces bois bruissent leurs branches, me chuchotant que tu vas bien - Every day, the trees in these woods rustle their branches, whispering to me that you're all right.

J'aime écouter les petits oiseaux qui s'cachent dans leurs creux - I like to listen to the little birds hiding in their hollows.

Ces sons me font penser à nos petits oiseaux de chez nous - These sounds make me think of our little birds at home.

Je sais pas si je te reverrai un jour - I don't know if I'll ever see you again.

Mais garde la foi que quoi qu'il arrive, je serai ton étoile polaire même dans la mort - But have faith that no matter what happens, I'll be your North Star even in death.

Et je trouverai le chemin du retour vers toi - And I'll find my way back you.

Je vais demander à Saint-François-d'Assise de veiller sur nous deux - I'm going to ask St. Francis to look after us.

Nous pourrions utiliser sa force et son courage - We could use his strength and courage.

Je t'aime, Maman, pour le reste de mes jours - I love you, Mama, for all my life.

Ton fils, Eugène - Your son, Eugene.