Emily - January - February 1945

Emily had no idea what time it was when she woke up. How long had she been asleep for? The edge of her forearm was sore when she stretched it out and her head pounded with dehydration. But it was the swollen tenderness of her eyelids that reminded her exactly what she was doing there. Joe. The iron fist that held her down the night before clenched around her heart once more. Gentle, ferocious, protective, determined Joe.

Emily stared into the still dark tent lost in directionless thought. Her body was exhausted from crying. She had no willpower to get up but her dry mouth begged her to find something to drink. Emily closed her eyes in a desperate attempt to fall back asleep but she could not ignore her body's needs. Reluctantly, she rolled over on the cot only to find Nixon sitting there. He was slumped uncomfortably in a chair with a palm covering his eyes. It wasn't clear if he was asleep or not.


Had he been there all night? Her heart softened at the sight of him. This man who drove her insane, who rejected her friendship time and time again had sat by her side through one of her toughest nights.

She sat up and cautiously stretched out a hand. Nixon jumped when she touched his knee. Had this been 1944 Emily might've laughed but there was no levity between them now. He dropped his hand from his face and sat up straight. "Emily," his voice was scratchy. His beard had come in over night. The black hair enhanced the edge of his jaw and even in his disheveled state he took her breath away.

Emily smiled a half-smile at him. The anger she had felt last night softened as it always, inevitably would for him. "You can go now," she said.

His eyebrows creased in concern, "are you okay?"

Emily bit her lip and nodded, "yeah, I'll be okay." Her grief over Joe was different from the grief she experienced before. The only thing she could even come close to comparing it to was the loss of her baby. That had been the greatest heartbreak of her life, she never thought it would be possible to feel that kind of sadness again. At least with Joe there was a silver lining of hope that he would be okay.

Nixon moved to take her hand but stopped himself and quickly withdrew. Emily glanced around the room awkwardly. "He's, he's gonna be okay, Em," Nixon rubbed his hands together, "Joe, he's tougher than anyone."

Emily nodded and brushed away a single tear that slid down her cheek. "I'm going to miss him," she said, "I didn't realize how much until," she trailed off.

Nixon's face was impassive. "I don't know how to explain to you," Emily continued slowly, "what he meant to me," she stopped when her voice broke.

Nixon moved to sit beside her, "I understand," he said in a low voice. And looking into his eyes Emily believed him, he did understand. She didn't know what had changed overnight but something had.

He was tantalizingly close to her now, so close she could feel the warmth radiating off of his body. "Lewis," she whispered huskily. Her hand drifted up to his collar, her fingertips brushed his neck. His eyes leveled with her mouth. His dark lashes hooded his black irises from view as. She heard his breath grow ragged and she felt blood pumping in her ears.

"Lewis," she exhaled and then she was kissing him; it was hungry, feral. She couldn't get close enough to him even when he pulled her onto his lap. It wasn't enough even when her hands slipped under the lapels of his jacket or when his hands found their way under her shirt and up her bare rib cage.

He could not pull her tightly enough to him and gravity was no help when he fell back on the cot with his hands in her hair. It was as if she was trying to crawl inside of him. The kiss became breathless as they devoured each other; every fight, every pent up frustration, every hopeless, desperate wish to be together was expressed on each others flesh. And briefly, tangled up in each other, they both found respite.

"Emily," Nixon murmured when they finished, "I love you, but, I'm still married." Emily was tucked under his arm with one of her legs slung over his waist.

"I know," she whispered as she nestled her cheek into his shoulder. She wanted to memorize his scent. It wasn't far off from the numerous other unwashed soldiers around her but there was something distinctly him; sharp like liquor but with the richness of wet earth. "I don't care," she said. His muscles tensed beneath her. She looked up to see him staring at the ceiling, his eyes glassy.

"But I do," his words were barely audible, "I- , you don't deserve what I have to offer you. You deserve a life, a future with a job that fulfills you and a family with a loving husband."

Emily's stomach swooped at his words. So he had been listening to her all this time. It was marvelous to confirm that this man who she loved, who loved her, saw the vision she had for herself. And yet, he was telling her he could never give it to her.

She slipped her hand into his jacket once more to press her palm against where his heart beat beneath his shirt. Even if she could make peace with adultery, their relationship would always be stunted. A part of Emily wanted to be reckless, to throw it all to the wind because she could not imagine giving up what they had just shared. But it was exactly that part of her that Nixon was protecting her from.

They returned to their stations in silence. Once again things were left unresolved. There was no going back to the friends they had been and there was no giving each other up, at least not for now.

Only days later the news of Skip Muck and Alex Penkala's deaths came. Though neither of them were particularly close with the men, their deaths wore away at Emily and Nixon's finely forged armor. Once again they found themselves quietly returning to each other. Somehow the absence of words made things easier. What was there to discuss?

In silence Nixon appeared at regimental headquarters and when her work was done, Emily led him away from a type writer and into her tent. The only sounds shared between them were involuntary gasps and moans of pleasure. The cruel, cold world melted away when his tongue grazed her neck and she found strength in his tight embrace around her waist and hips.

How had they gone from finding any excuse to speak to each other to avoiding every opportunity to talk? But there was no repairing what had happened between them. They stood in a stale mate of hopelessness that even if they could reconcile, there was no future for them. Emily had her own grief to deal with and Nixon, he was battling demons she couldn't even begin to understand.

Emily spent the end of winter seeking refuge beside George or Marwa. She wanted to spend as little time as possible with Nixon. The feeling was apparently mutual. If they weren't directly working on something together, one of them managed to find an excuse to disappear.

The night of Joe Toye's injury had been an anomaly, a memory that served only as a painful reminder as to what they could be, in another life. The passion they shared in their clandestine meetings was simply their way of grieving. Each liaison felt like a goodbye that could not be wrapped up in words the next day.

But even those began to dissolve as the snow melted. It was always one step forward, two steps back for them, Emily thought wearily. The only remaining question was when would she call off the race?

One night when Nixon knocked on her door the odor of liquor was more pungent than ever. It was obvious that he was drunk. Usually, he held his liquor well enough but that night his head rolled every time he tried to focus on her. But it was his eagerness to talk that truly gave him away. This man had been mute around her with a monk-like stoicism but just then greeted her with a surly, "Emily."

"Lewis," Emily firmly placed her arm on the door frame. He was not entering her bedroom, not in his state.

"You gonna let me in?" he asked. Apparently, she had given him far to much leeway the last couple of weeks because his tone was disgustingly presumptuous.

"Not tonight, Nix," she said as gently as possible.

Nixon took a swig from the open flask in his hand, "aw, why not?"

"You reek of alcohol."

"I always smell of alcohol."

"Not usually this bad."

Nixon rolled his eyes, "well if you had a problem with my drinking you should've said so before."

"I haven't had a problem with your drinking until tonight. What's going on Lewis? How have you not run out of that stuff yet?"

Nixon's face lost all animation, "I just about have," he said bitterly.

"Good," Emily said cooly and moved to close the door.

"Aw come on, doll, just let me sleep next to you."

Anger unexpectedly flashed through Emily, "do not call me that," she forced through gritted teeth. Nixon took a step back in surprise.

"What?" he laughed mockingly, "doll? You don't like that pet name? Okay, fine, I won't call you th-,"

Emily had no idea where they came from but hot tears began to well in her eyes. "Go to bed, Nixon!" she commanded before shutting the door in his face.

She was shaking. It was as if all the blood in her body had run cold when he had called her that. She took a sip of water from the cup beside her lumpy mattress. Her reaction had been so visceral it surprised even her. She thought back to what may have triggered it and then it dawned on her. The last person before tonight to call her doll was Joe.