Author's Note: Welcome to the third and final Alice Klein/Lewis Nixon story. This one's not going to be as long as the previous two, and will feature moments from the five or so years after the end of World War Two. My asks on Tumblr are always open (julianneday1701) if you like the anonymity.

Disclaimers

This story is based on the HBO series Band of Brothers. While the characters portrayed are historically present, there are discrepancies between the show and the real Easy Company. When possible, I will be informing the HBO characters with the biographies of the real men who served. However in any case where history and show contradict, the show canon will take precedence. Post-war canon will not be historically accurate to the veterans.

About

Contains: realistic depictions of WWII, strong language, post-traumatic stress disorder and all that entails, era-typical racism, era-typical sexism, era-typical shaming of mental health conditions

"War isn't Hell. War is war, and Hell is Hell. And of the two, war is a lot worse."

"How do you figure that, Hawkeye?"

"There are no innocent bystanders in Hell. War is chock full of them."

Alan Alda as Hawkeye Pierce, M*A*S*H

ONLY A PAPER MOON

Sequel to A Tale of Two Heritages Duology

CHAPTER ONE

Story Complete & Series Complete

December 24th, 1945

Nixon, New Jersey, United States

Alice woke, gasping. Her heart pounded against her ribcage so hard she feared it would explode. To her horror, when her eyes opened, there was only darkness. The cold wrapped around her. Flashes of pain, of blood and snow invaded her thoughts. Without thinking, Alice moved back the covers and swung her legs off the bed.

She could've sworn her bare feet hit snow. For a moment, dizzy confusion clouded her mind. Where was she? Her heart continued to pound. Her throat tightened. She couldn't breathe. It was pneumonia. It had to be pneumonia. Her dream of domesticity had been just that, a dream. She still sat in a foxhole in Bastogne. Everything had been lies.

Her eyes adjusted. Just as she thought she'd never breathe again, the realization that the white under her hands wasn't a blanket of snow, but an actual blanket, calmed her down. The pounding in her chest no longer resembled the purr of a machine gun, but a natural heartbeat. Alice remembered.

She remembered going through the motions. Nix had come home from work in a better mood than usual; Dick's employment had been approved. They'd shared a glass or two of wine in front of the fire. She'd expressed how restless she'd begun to feel, even with pursuing her art.

Then they'd gone to bed. She was in a bedroom, not a foxhole. Alice looked over her shoulder. Nix slept, undisturbed. His brown hair, though much neater than it had become in the war, still had pieces out of place. Alice tried to smile. But she couldn't. She needed a drink.

Pushing her bare feet into some slippers and pulling on a robe, Alice crept out of the master bedroom and went downstairs. She'd let her hair grow out longer than it had been in the war, and though some days she missed the ease of shoulder-length, in the cold of December, it kept her warm. Warmth eluded her that night, though.

Or, morning. As she looked at the grandfather clock in the foyer, Alice frowned to see it was only two in the morning. She'd only gone to sleep four hours ago. No wonder Nix hadn't woken up even at her startled movements. He deserved sleep.

Even though she'd been living in the Nixon estate for well over a month, it felt like walking through a haunted mansion at night. The week she'd spent in New Jersey before the war haunted her like some sort of ghost. Who she'd been then, who he'd been then, felt like a distant memory.

Being in the States, it felt good. It felt right. She didn't doubt her decision to leave Europe behind at least for the foreseeable future. New Jersey, though haunted, wasn't nearly as haunted as back there.

Alice moved into the kitchen, turning on a couple of lamps. After spending three years living with a company of men, she sometimes found the large Nixon household dauntingly quiet. Blanche had returned to San Francisco a few weeks ago, and as much as she adored having Nix all to herself, it felt strange.

A few bottles of wine sat on the counter. Alice grabbed one, Cabernet Sauvignon, and poured herself a tall glass. How many nights had she woken up, convinced the war's end to be but a figment of her dreams? Too many. And she knew the same was true for Nix. Alice downed a large drink

A cough ripped through her chest. Panic seized her again. Her free hand flew to her chest, just below her throat. Alice grabbed at her skin. She coughed again. The sobs came next. Placing the wine glass on the counter, she slapped her other hand across her mouth in a desperate, feeble attempt to stifle the cries.

Crying made the breathing worse. The harder each breath, the more Alice panicked. It was happening again. It was all happening again.

Alice squeezed her eyes shut. She continued to cover her mouth as if she could stuff the sobs back down with a tight grip. Her dizziness increased. No matter how much she screamed in her mind that it wasn't true, that she wasn't going to die, it took several minutes of quiet sobs in the center of the dimly lit kitchen for her to regain some semblance of control.

Finally able to do more than stand and clutch herself, Alice grabbed her wine again. The taste of salty tears mixed with the alcohol on her lips. Another drink, and she knew she needed to put it down. She and Nix had both been working on reducing their alcohol and cigarette use.

Instead of pouring another glass of wine, Alice moved back across the house to the living room. She flipped on another lamp. With a massive quilt around her body, she settled into a corner of the couch. Her body still trembled. She cursed herself. After a year of battle, a year of bullets and bombs, the memories that scared her the most were those of Bastogne.

When she closed her eyes, she found herself alone again. Alone in a foxhole, a dark tarp blocking out the dark treetops above. Frozen ground, half mud half ice, chilled her to the bone. With hair so filthy she'd needed to wash it three times, she'd spent her nights fearing artillery and, above all, the unknown of the morning.

Even now horrible dread that she'd find blood and mucus on her sleeve when she coughed filled her entire body. Not just her mind, but her heart. At the time, she'd pushed it away as best she could. But in a quiet house in Nixon, New Jersey, she'd had plenty of time to recall just how close to death she'd come. At the time, she'd not cared.

But Alice didn't want to die anymore.

She gripped the quilt closer. Outside the window she watched the snowfall. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. Three years ago, she'd stared out the same window. Three years ago, she'd laughed at the snowstorm that kept her inside. Three years ago, she'd imagined the worst, tried to prepare herself for it.

She'd not imagined coming home paranoid of every cough and sniffle.

Creaking wood pulled Alice's attention away from the quilt between her hands and scrunched against her face. She turned to the right. It surprised her to find Nixon awake. But he seemed to be, a bit at least. He didn't smile at all, just looked at her in concern. Alice didn't say anything, either. She tried to offer him a small smile instead.

"Go back to bed, Nix," she said. With a small sigh, Alice shook her head. "You need to sleep."

"Eh, who needs sleep." At the protest, he did smile a bit. Then he plopped himself down on the couch next to her. After a few moments of silence, he looked at her. "We need a cat."

Alice couldn't help the half-laugh, half-sob that escaped her. They'd agreed to hold off on a dog until they'd finished the traveling they'd be doing come the new year, but maybe a cat would be good. Alice leaned into Nix, trying to relax.

Like sharing a foxhole, but more comfortable.

She did her hardest not to think about the snow or the way her chest tightened a bit at each breath. Coughs had been common for her in the winter forever. But after experiencing the hell of pneumonia in the hell of winter in the Ardennes, she couldn't rationalize it.

They sat in silence for a while, both lost in thought. The warmth of being near one another gave Alice the comfort she needed to calm down. With each breath she took, she felt more and more assured that she wasn't sick. Death wouldn't claim her yet.

Nix did his best to suppress his yawns, but as the clock struck three, she turned to him and grabbed his arm. "Nix, go to bed."

"You first," he insisted.

But she shook her head. "I'll be up in a little while. I want to write a letter."

Nix didn't press her. Whenever she needed to write a letter, he knew it was as much a way for her to work out something with herself as it was to contact the friends they missed. So he just kissed her, relishing the salt of the tears that still covered her face, and left her.

Alice watched him go. After closing her eyes and taking one more deep breath, she pushed herself up from the couch and lay the blanket back down. Chilly air hit her exposed skin on her arms, but she pushed on. She was in a house, not a foxhole.

With a pencil and paper in hand, she settled down at the desk in the front room. Alice flipped on a small lamp. Writing the letters sometimes hurt as much as it helped; not all the men she wrote decided to write back. Liebgott never replied, nor Talbert. She'd gotten a single one from Johnny, and one from Bull. Malarkey had corresponded several times, but only once since his return to the States.

Thankfully, George always wrote back. And so did Gene. Laying the sheets of paper out before her, Alice looked down and paused. That's who she wanted to write. Gene.

Dear Gene,

I hope this finds you well. I don't know if it gets cold in Louisiana, but it's cold here. Nix is excited about Christmas tomorrow. I hope you have a good Christmas. I'll admit, I'm not sure what to do with myself right now.

Nix started working at the start of the month. With him gone for most of the day, I've been trying to practice my painting and piano. I found I'm a little rusty at both! I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. It's getting quite boring. I may look into getting some sort of job, but I don't know what.

Gene, I wanted to say two things in this. First, I'm sorry. The cold, it's making me do a lot of thinking. I wish I'd been more careful in Bastogne because I know it placed more stress on you. It was selfish of me. Second, I wanted to thank you. You and Ralph too. I need to send him a note about this. You saved my life, and honestly, I'm not so sure that at the time I really wanted to be saved. Or, I was ready to do whatever it took and damn the consequences.

Well, now I do want to live. When it gets cold, and I start coughing, I can't help but think back on Bastogne. I know it was hard for you, and for Spina, and for every one of the medics of the 101st. And I want you to know that a year later, I'm just as grateful now as then, and in fact, even more grateful. I can only hope that you and the rest of Easy are alright this winter.

I haven't prayed in a long time, Gene, but I know you do. Next time you pray, keep me in mind, please. I need to figure this out, everything. I need to figure out what I'm going to do now that we're home. Hopefully someday soon I'll stop being angry at God. But until then, do the prayers for me. Christian ones are better than none at all, I suppose.

Stay warm, Gene. And thank you for everything. You kept me alive, even when I wanted everything but that. I'm in your debt.

Love,

Alice Klein
Joyeux Noel et bonne année, mon ami

She stared down at the page, at her script. While she sometimes spoke French with Nix, almost as a way to preserve some small part of what had been Alice before the war, being able to write it out to someone she knew would appreciate it made her smile. Despite the deep sense of regret she still felt at not being able to wish him well on the holidays, it helped a bit. Sticking the pages into an envelope, she left it on the desk.

Alice took the stairs quietly. The grandfather clock read 3:25. When she opened the door of the master bedroom, she tried her hardest to be as silent as she could. But easing into bed, she realized Nix hadn't fallen asleep yet.

"I told you not to wait," she muttered.

But he just scoffed, half asleep. "Yeah, well, I don't take all the orders from you."

She couldn't help but smile at his joke. Once she had gotten under the sheets and felt the warmth of his presence and the blankets, Alice relaxed. Not Bastogne. Not a foxhole. Not pneumonia.

"Happy birthday, by the way," he mumbled.

With a grin, Alice let herself sleep. That morning he didn't have to go to work. That morning she didn't have to struggle at her art. So even if she didn't enjoy Christmas for the reasons he did, she enjoyed it nonetheless. Christmas meant time off for him. And maybe it would mean a cat. That certainly would make a fantastic birthday.