"Want a drink?" Miles jerked around, watching his great-grandfather carefully tuck his glasses back onto his face. "I know a place."

"A drink?" He paused, "thanks, but I don't drink."

"You don't drink?" Tully, Helen, and Mark all stared. "Really?"

"There was an incident," Miles shrugged, "and then another incident, and then I decided to give up drinking."

"We'll get the jeeps fixed up," Tully suggested.

"God, I need a drink," Helen turned to the private. "I'll take you up on that invite, Hitchcock. Something to get the damn sand out of my throat. God, even piss-beer would do the trick."

"Ah," Hitch blustered a moment, not sure if he could manage to take the younger sister of his superior officer for a drink. "I'm not sure this would be up to your standards, ma'am."

"Call me Helen, or, if you're angry with me, Hell's Bells, but don't call me ma'am. I'm not that old, and I've spent most of my life drinking shite beer in the desert." Twisting her hat in her hands, she smacked the soldier's shoulder. "Lead on, Macduff."

"We'll catch up," Miles offered. "Helen, don't get into bar brawls. You can't win. Hitch, don't let her get into any bar brawls she can't win."

"What?" She scoffed, "makes you think I'd start a brawl."

"You're really irritating," he replied blandly, "and someone's eventually going to throw a punch." she gaped, and he offered her a lazy grin. "See you soon, kay? Bye!"

"Wanker," she hissed under her breath as they retreated and caught Hitch's mouth curving into a faint smile. "He teases me so dreadfully. I haven't started a brawl in ages."

"You…," Hitch reared back. "Started a bar fight."

"Some ancient old man," she replied, following the soldier across the base. "Old enough to be entombed himself in one of the great pyramids decided to tell me that my work ought not to count. I threw a punch, he threw the chips, and we both ended in lock up."

'Why would he say that?" In Hitch's humble opinion, Helen Moffitt was a beautiful woman, even if she was a little screwy. Of the English women he had met, he hadn't met one who scraped the six-foot ceiling so easily. She was graceful, a little charming, obviously intelligent, and if she was willing to get into a brawl, he wanted to get to know her more. Her tall, lankiness was so much like his sergeants that he could hardly look at the woman with romantic intent.

"Because I'm a woman," She tucked her hands behind her back. "He wanted to have me stripped of my doctorate."

"Hey! That's not fair!" Outraged, he cursed the old man. "You worked for that!"

"Of course I bloody well did. I got taken hostage twice on my trips, and that didn't stop me. Do you think some old crankshaft was going to take it away?"

"Hostage?" The conversation grenade sent him reeling.

"Hmm," they entered the little pub, and she made a beeline for the bar, ordering from the G.I. behind the bar. Hitch followed, and as the bartender passed her a pint, laughed.

"Your date tonight, Hitch?"

"Not a date," Helen took a long gulp of the beer and sighed. "God, this is awful."

"I'm supposed to keep her from causing a fight, a pint for me too, Hooch."

"Fights?" Hooch laughed and passed Hitch his drink. "A lady like that? English dames don't start fights."

"We finish them," she assured Hitch, "have you got anything stronger? Whiskey? Scotch? I'll even settle for vodka?" Hitch and Hooch stared, and Helen Moffitt raised an eyebrow much like Sergeant Moffitt, that Hitch should only shrug.

"Well?"

"Not on a private's pay," he told her seriously. The hard stuff was for officers and people who could score some at a lower price. He could handle the stuff, but not the price tag.

"Fine," she shrugged, "a table then, my good man." They secured a table in the corner, and Helen Moffitt drained more of her beer at a faster rate than Hitch thought safe. "What?" She asked, "are you thinking?"

"I'm just curious, I guess. I don't remember Sarge ever mentioning a sister."

"Oh, he wouldn't." She waved a hand, propping her chin up with her other one. She was, he noticed, still awfully protective about the bag on her shoulder. "I wish I could have communicated with um," waving a hand about as if holding a sword, "fellow." Isshiki, Hitch guessed. "A few things. Wasn't he fascinating?"

"I guess."

"Hitch?" both turned at the delicate, feminine voice echoing from the side. A beautiful nurse, clutching the arm of a smirking corporal, was gaping at the two of them. "I thought you were by the motor pool?"

She must have seen Miles Merry. "Really?"

"Oh," she blinked at Helen. "Who is this?"

"Helen," the woman avoided her last name. "Old friends of Marks?"

"You could say that," the nurse smiled, "new friend of Mark's?"

"Something like that," She leaned back, feeling something like calm for the first time since falling through the looking glass.

"Well," the nurse offered Hitch a nod and Helen a knowing nod, "enjoy yourselves."

"An odd duck," Helen observed as the woman disappeared with her date. "What is your intrepid sergeant up to?"

"No idea," he sipped his beer, watching the tall woman take a hefty drink. "Not a clue."

#$#$#

Miles Merry, Tully concluded, didn't know the damndest thing about cars or jeeps or vehicles in general. A thought he put forth when the man tried to help him tighten a bolt.

"I can drive them," Merry offered, settling on an overturned can beside the jeep. "I can drive almost anything, and I'm very good at it, but...we had mechanics?"

Raising an eyebrow, Tully listened to the man sigh.

"I am a gardener, but I...it's a long story." The mechanics moved around them; Miles seemed skilled at remaining out of the way. Letting men get on with their work while getting nothing done himself. A few of them gave a double-take or two, staring at the blond-haired, blue-eyed man who looked so much like Hitch but sounded and moved like something otherworldly wearing Hitch's skin. That was a thought worth exploring; letting the hood fall down, he faced the interloper. Miles raised his eyebrows, not having the sense to lean away as Tully crouched in front of him. "Pettigrew?"

"What's your name?"

"Miles Merry," the blond tilted his head to the side.

"Home?"

"New York State." Hitch lived in New York, and this fellow looked so much like him it was discomforting. He was like HItch in that Tully didn't make him uncomfortable, his flat voice, lack of eye contact didn't upset him, and he didn't shy from Tully's proximity. "You don't like me, do you?" The bluntness caught him by surprise. "At least, you don't trust me or like me. Is it because I look too much like your friend?" Tully's breath hitched, and Miles leaned forward until they were close enough to touch noses. "I can't help how I look."

"No," Tully agreed, "you can't."

#$#$#

Military rations were still military rations, despite the best efforts to make them more interesting, and Dietrich could safely say that German rations were some of the worst in the desert. Still, Park Ranger Tulip ate them without complaint, her attention on the plants still managing to grow within the courtyard. Distracted, she set aside her half-eaten dinner and produced her notebook, and proceeded to sketch them to the best of her ability.

"What's Germany like?" She asked finally, twisting around to meet Dietrich's eyes as he tried to make himself look dignified as he sat on the edge of a fountain while trying to eat.

"It depends on where you go," he answered, and the deep brown eyes refocused on the plant in front of her. "What is America like?'

"It depends on where you go," Tulip relayed. His lips twitched upright. "It changes, and it changes quickly."

"Such an enormous country," Dietrich mused, recalling the maps he had seen.

"And for such a small country, you sure know how to kick up a fuss." She closed her notebook, lifting her head as the music drifted from the second floor. The few music records floating around the base, heavily protected by the hospital staff, were all German or Austrian waltz records. The jazz and swing records had been confiscated and destroyed, and the contemporary German music hadn't made its way down to North Africa intact. "Ah, a waltz."

"You Americans enjoy dancing, do you not?"

"Ah," squinting her eyes and turning her head faintly, he watched a few emotions play across her placid face before settling on a shrug. "Most do, I can't."

"You cannot dance?" He thought all Americans could dance, or at least pretend to. Swing was a highly inappropriate sort of dance for an officer to engage in, but a waltz was what he had been taught for years.

"I'm too tall," she returned to her food, and by the time the plate had been cleared, the song had ended, and another had begun. The park ranger was staring intently at her book again, comparing the picture against the flower. "I'm sure they teach that high falutin stuff at...wherever you're from."

"They do," he agreed and set aside his unappetizing meal. Standing, he held out his right hand. "May I have this dance, Fraulein Tulip?"

"Uh," frozen, her eyes darted from his hand to her book and then over his head. "You did hear me tell you that I don't know how to dance, right? I didn't imagine saying it?" Offering a smile, he shook his head.

"I heard, and I am not concerned with a dance partner of my height." He pulled her to her feet as a broad, still bandaged hand slid into his. Slipping a hand behind her waist, the hitch of her breath slipped across his ears. "Follow my lead."

"If I break your feet," Tulip stumbled faintly, "you can't have me arrested for assaulting an officer."

"No?" He spun in time with the music, gratified as the American only stumbled slightly and managed to recover. "It would hardly be sporting."

"Bah," she rasped and seemed to have caught onto the basics of the movement. The music swelled, and she fell into a step with him.

"Well done," he praised." You picked up quickly."

"Thank you," she said, only to stumble against him. Her hat brim bumped against his head, broad shoulder clipping against him, and the not-insignificant weight of a muscular woman over six feet tall nearly sent him reeling to the ground. "Oh! Shit! Sorry," a laugh erupted, and she hauled him upright, and lifting a hand, had to readjust her hat. Any annoyance was swiftly dismantled at the sight of a broad, truly joyous smile. "Didn't mean to do that, hold on, let's." Shock zinged through his system as she adjusted her hold, and her own arm came around his back; she began to lead him through the movements with confidence that hadn't been present in her following. "How's that?"

"I am following," he noted dryly, wondering if this madness was specific to Americans, American Women, or just Tulip.

"I know, but this way, I'm not looking like an idiot."

" I look foolish," he retorted.

"I can live with that," Tulip smiled so blandly it bordered on devilish. There was no lady-like giggle but a faint laugh as he reclaimed the lead. "You've foiled my scheme, Captain."

"I must be prepared for every trick Americans throw at me," and inspired, he led the woman into a slow spin that even a beginner dancer could manage. She did, surprisingly graceful, and came back to the starting position a little more flushed and with a pleased smile.

Charmed, he continued to guide her through the motions until she mused.

"You know, this is the first time I've ever really danced with someone."

"Truly?"

"Not a lot of time for dancing when you're studying or working," she mused. "Plus, you can't dance with a bear."

"Shall we try another?"

"There's more than one?"

"There are dozens," he glanced up to see a few of his men standing on the edge of the balcony, watching the scene below. A pointed glare sent most of the skittering. He met Dr. Yusuf's stare and wondered at the humor in his eyes. Why would he be laughing? "Come, I will show you."

#$#$#

Tully was, by nature, a tall, amazonian sort of woman who couldn't have been anything else. She shopped in the men's department for shirts that would fit a long torso and a wide chest, for pants with pockets, and had been scarred and scratched from wild animals and bushes and the occasional feral tourist. Never, in her entire history, had she felt delicate —the unique sensation stemming from the careful, gentlemanly guidance of the man in front of her. The lack of delicate femininity that most people mocked or judged her for had never been a point of concern for Tully. Her self-confidence knew no bounds; her self-assurance had never wavered...but this was nice.

"I didn't know dancing could be this fun," she admitted, letting him direct her into another dramatic turn. If she'd been wearing the outfit Yusuf's grandmother had given her, she was sure the skirt would have flared out in a suitably eye-catching manner. She wasn't wearing a skirt, she was wearing uniform pants and her Stenson, and Dietrich probably looked like he was dancing with a man.

"Do you dance with bears?"

"Never," she laughed, a bubbling sensation rising in her stomach as the record restarted. "I did tango with an alligator."

"You weren't joking," the brown eyes were flooded with concern and humor, and she grinned. "You are joking," he shook his head, only to pause when Tully pursed her lips and didn't respond. "Fraulein Tulip," he asked, almost desperate with curiosity. "Did you fight an alligator?"

"Do you think I could?"

"I am," she scanned her face, and turning his head, brought her left hand closer to observe the bandages. Bemused, she felt his thumb rub along the back of her knuckles, trailing desert heat. Flicking his eyes towards her, he pulled the unprotesting limb to his mouth. "Certain you are capable," pale, thin lips pressed against her knuckles, and Tully knew she had to look as confused as a catfish on the end of a line. "I am not certain you are foolish enough." His eyes could have scorched sand to glass, and ignoring the confused squirming in her stomach by reminding herself that he was a German officer during World War Two and she was a 21st century Park Ranger who wanted wifi and birth control; and that nothing would ever come of them; Tulip shrugged.

"At least you think I'm capable," she mused, and exacting her hands, took a step back. "Are you always this...attentive to your guests, Captain?" To his credit, he did not move into her space again and held back as she put another foot between them. Pulling her hat off her head, she caught sight of Yusuf on the balcony and Sergeant Wolfgang peeking around a support beam before ducking away. She wasn't sure, but she thought she heard giggling.

"Only when they are so intriguing."

"Flattery," Tully sighed, trying and failing not to smile. How could she wrestle an alligator, coax a fox from its den, and track a diseased deer across a forest but not know how to react when someone was flirting with her. Being as self-aware as someone left alone with their thoughts on a regular basis could be, Tully chalked it up to the relative isolation she'd lived in her whole life. Knowing the signs and symptoms of flattering didn't mean she was prepared to deal with it.

"Admiration," he corrected.

"Admiration," taking a seat on the fountain's edge, she crossed one leg over the other, and shook her head, and tapped the brim of her hat against her nose. "Curious."

"Curious?" The music faded, and he took a seat on the fountain at a respectable distance. "How so?"

"The last time I was admired was in San Lorenzo," she ignored the jolt in his eyes. "It ended very badly."

"San Lorenzo?" His accent thickened, curling around the words in a distinct, polite manner that should not have been as intriguing as it was.

"Hmmm," she wondered who she could meet in San Lorenzo. "It was a mess; I think we settled our differences."

"Oh?" He had a scheming sort of face on, and Tully decided that it was a good look for him. "Would you care to return to San Lorenzo?"

"I would love to!" She sat up, "the desert is so beautiful around there, but you couldn't get me to San Lorenzo."

"I could," he seemed to be reaching for a cigarette but stopped. "If you like."

Despite the lie she'd be feeding him, the lies she was currently feeding him, and the future she'd have to return to, and the razor's edge she'd been waltzing along, Tully was charmed. Her smile must have given some of it away because his eyes slid to the dusty ground before lifting to peer through long eyelashes. "I would," she said, "I could show you around."

"Then we'll leave at first light," he nodded to himself and stood. "Good evening...Fraulein Tulip."

"Good evening," she tilted her head back, watching him carefully. "Captain Dietrich." With a shallow bow, he was gone, and her eyes shifted to Yusuf on the balcony. He gave no outward sign of acknowledgment, but she knew he'd heard enough to know what to do.