Emilie sat by one of the fires that still burned from the bombing, staring into the flames as it sent sparks flying into the air. All around her, people were laying bodies onto piles, while others dragged their departed loved ones to bury elsewhere. The smell was already sickening. There was not a lot she could do for anyone; she didn't have her medic bag, all the medicine in the hospital and in other people's houses had been destroyed. She had been able to set a few dislocated limbs and stop some bleeding by ripping clothes off of corpses, but that was the extent of it.

She had never felt so utterly useless.

The heat of the flames dried up her tears that ran down her cheeks as she sobbed silently, her entire body shuddering with the failed effort of keeping it all contained. Her arms were wrapped around her knees that she brought up to rest under her chin. Her crutches lay beside her, encrusted with blood.

Anyone that wasn't in the army couldn't understand. They only saw the pictures that the press was permitted to print, usually ones of soldiers with their arms flung over each other's shoulders, grinning triumphantly. They viewed the men as heroes, but still they continued to laugh, party, enjoy their lives while other people suffered. They didn't understand. No one understood. Not even the other soldiers truly knew what the medics felt.

"Why don't you just let me die already?" she yelled to the heavens above, not caring who cared. No one even spared her a second glance. It was a normal question. "What have I ever done to you? Take me, not them!" She lowered her head as another sob shook her shoulders. "Take me," she whispered.

When she opened her eyes, a pair of boots with trousers bloused into them caught her attention, despite her vision being blurred by tears. Wiping her eyes, she glanced to the side to see a man bend down to drag out the cloth Rene used to wear in her dark hair. She was just about to yell at the man to put that down, thinking they were taking it because of the material rationing. But then she caught sight of that luscious black hair she had found herself fantasizing about running her fingers through, and she let her jaw shut.

But, unlike usual, she didn't call out to him. Eugene looked so hurt, staring at the blue material he clutched in one hand, trailing his other over it. Emilie hated herself for the prickle of jealousy she felt. Rene was dead. What was she becoming? Demons looked like Angels compared to her. Demon. Demont. There was a frightening similarity, and Emilie felt just like one. The harbinger of death and destruction.

Either way, she didn't need to make her presence known of her own accord, as Eugene turned and his pained eyes found her anyway. An assortment of emotions passed over his face in a split second, before it settled back into his normal hurt, closed-off demeanour: shock, relief, confusion.

He began in her direction, tucking the material into his pocket. She didn't rise, instead craned her neck to look up at him as he stopped in front of her, before turning her gaze back to the fire in front of her. "What are you doing here?" she asked, voice coming out more gruff than she had intended. But she honestly couldn't find it in herself to care.

Eugene remained silent for a few seconds, before crouching down so he was just a few centimetres taller than her when, at full height, he was at least four inches higher. "I didn't realise what had happened," he admitted, and his drawl comforted her slightly, eased her pain but at the same time made her want to wail even louder. His gaze bore into her. At first, it took everything in her to keep her eyes set firmly ahead. But, eventually, she gave in and her eyes flicked to him. He went on, voice more gentle than before, "I… I thought you were dead."

"I'm not that lucky," she growled, resisting the urge to ask why he would have cared if she had been killed. They hardly knew each other. But she couldn't even imagine how she would feel if she discovered her had died. The mere thought sent a chill running down her spine.

"What?"

Emilie looked at him pointedly, saw her own despair reflected in his deep blue eyes. "You know what I mean, Eugene," she murmured, "You know what it's like to not be able to save someone." She lent in, cringing slightly as her ankle twanged, voice dark, "You know what it's like to want to die." She must have seemed insane and over-dramatic. Maybe she really had snapped. She couldn't tell. But she sure as Hell knew she wasn't completely sane anymore, not that she had been completely fine in the first place, but she knew no one that had been in a war was.

Eugene studied her eyes. She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Then, finally, he looked away and rose to his feet. "Things get easier." She could tell he was lying through his teeth, but she didn't reprimand him for patronising her. He was just trying to make her feel better, and, surprisingly, he wasn't failing miserably. His mere presence was enough to ease her slightly, but not as much as usual.

"Not in my experience," she replied, tossing a small stone she had been playing with into the fire. "But thanks."

He was silent for a moment, before lowering his voice and asking, "Do you still want to get back to your line, miss Demont?"

Emilie frowned and looked up, squinting at the sun behind him. Why was it always behind him? It made him look like he had a fucking halo. But one that burned her eyes to look at. She nodded, not sure where he was going with this. "More than anything." What's the point anymore? Half of her wanted to stay and help bury Rene, but she would never forgive herself if more of her men died because she stayed in the town.

Gene nodded slowly, and he seemed to get lost in his own thoughts for a moment. She was just about to say something when he told her simply, "Wait here. I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"Just stay put."

Rolling her eyes, she forced a smirk and nodded. He nodded slightly, before turning on his heel and walking away briskly, simply glancing at a passing soldier when the other man greeted him. Eugene looked back once, catching Emilie's eye, before breaking into a small jog and rounding a corner, one hand held instinctively, protectively over his medic bag and the other holding his helmet with the symbol of the 506th under his arm.

Her frown deepened as she waited for him to return, forcing her eyes to not stray to where a few people were picking their way inside the destroyed church and dragging out Rene's body. A middle-aged woman was walking around, holding a tray with cups of tea and coffee placed on them, distributing them to people to help with the anxiety. Emilie noticed the woman's hands were shaking, spilling some of the tea as she raised one hand to wipe away a tear that had begun to trickle down her face and collect on her chin.

When the blonde-greying woman reached her, Emilie smiled and shook her head. But the woman seemed determined, insisting in broken English that it would help with the shock. Not wanting to make matters worse, Emilie struggled to her feet and looked over the tray. Only coffee was left, clearly luke-warm at best as no steam was rising from its depths.

"Got any tea left?" Emilie asked in German, mildly surprising the woman. But it didn't last long; not many emotions were available in a time of grief.

The woman shook her head, repositioning her hold on the tray. "No. I've used it all up. This is the last of the coffee, too. The Americans like it."

Trying to lighten the mood, Emilie chuckled and replied, "Even now, I'm not going to sink so low as to actually drink coffee. Black gunk, if you ask me."

It didn't work. The woman's stony expression didn't lighten; if anything, it darkened, and Emilie found herself wishing she had kept her big mouth shut. "You can't afford to be picky," she told her, glowering, "Do you want it or not? If you don't, there are other people who will and I had better take it to them before the coffee goes completely cold."

"Thank you, ma'am, but no. It was nice of you to offer, though." She smiled, but the woman simply began to walk away. Well, that'll teach me to try and be funny at times like these.

At that moment, a car ground to a halt on the other side of the bonfire, and Emilie turned to see Eugene jumping out of the driver's seat, looking from side to side, before walking towards her. He picked up her crutches and handed them to her. She tilted her head to the side, gesturing to the army jeep. "What are you up to, Gene?"

"I'm taking you back to your line," he answered, as nonchalant as though he were discussing the weather (which, quite honestly, had a lot to be desired) and placed a hand lightly on her back, guiding her forwards as quickly as she could manage. But she stopped beside the jeep, turning to face him.

"Is the cold messing with your noggin, Roe?" she asked, staring at him in disbelief. Though he appeared completely calm to the untrained eye, she could see nervousness just under his skin. "You'll be going into the heart of enemy territory, don't you understand that? Enemy territory. They'll shoot you dead like…" She bit her tongue to stop herself from mentioning Drechsler. Eugene didn't need to know what his own army had done. Her warnings felt familiar. She had given Drechsler the same speech, and look where that had gotten her.

He met her gaze evenly. "I know the risks, sergeant," he replied, "But I can drop you off a little way from where the Germans are, drive down a road that no sentries are guarding. You can show me the safest route. You said you wanted this more than anything, miss Demont."

"I know what I said, corporal," She hadn't fully registered that, in the army, she was of a higher rank than him. Of course, he was a paratrooper, so she could never even hope to compete with that. "But this technically counts as treason. And where did you even get this?" She jerked her head towards the car behind her, "Who would give it to you if they knew what you were doing?"

A glint appeared in his eyes, that, up until then, had seemed so empty and lost, clearly still mourning the loss of Rene and all the others. "They don't know I've taken it. If anyone asks, I'll say I'm going back to the line."

Emilie let out a laugh despite herself. "Well, we really are knee-deep in this shit, aren't we? Fantastic." She shook her head, sighing and rubbing her forehead with her fingers. "Will I have to hide under a canopy or something, like in the films when they're sneaking someone out? Or will I put on a wig and pretend to be a man? Or maybe I can disguise my accent and say I'm a German prisoner of war. Hm?" She rolled her eyes once again.

"None of those. Just look like you know where yo' goin' and you shouldn't raise anyone's suspicions. If anyone asks, let me do the talkin'." She was about to protest some more, when Eugene put his helmet back on. "Now, we don't got much time. Hop in."

Muttering to herself about how ridiculous this was and hoping to Hell the Germans would recognise her with him and not shoot Eugene, she limped around to her side of the jeep and, once Gene had opened the door and played the real-life gentleman (to which she made a smart-ass remark about them not being on their way to the prom), she did indeed hop in, favouring her injured foot. It felt strange to sit on that side of the car; she had spent the entire time she had had cars in her life, which, granted, hadn't been long since her family hadn't been able to afford one for a while, with the steering wheel being on the right and the passenger seat on the left. Everything American was so topsy-turby. And she had to admit she kind of liked it. Conventional was boring, anyway.

The back of the jeep where wounded men were placed was covered in dried and fresh blood alike, and Emilie cringed. She had helped cause that.

As the jeep rumbled into life, she resisted the urge to sink low into her seat to attempt to hide from the prying eyes of the Americans around her that she had never really been fearful of until then. Instead, she raised her chin and looked like she had a purpose that wasn't related to treason, staring straight ahead. She thought she must have looked ten-times as suspicious.

There was one man stationed at the closed gate that lead out of town, lounging against the brick wall with his rifle resting against his thigh. He stood as Eugene pulled the car up. The other American walked forward and rested one hand on the side of the jeep, looking up at Gene with a crooked smile.

"Where you off to, Doc?" he asked with a New York accent. Then he noticed Emilie and peered past him, "And who's this? Are you gonna introduce me to your cute, little friend?"

Emilie dug her nails into her palms to stop herself from snapping at him and blowing her cover. She just smiled charmingly and allowed Eugene to do the talking, as he had told her to do. For once, she was actually following instructions. It shocked even her.

"She was in the hospital when it was bombed," he told the other soldier, voice clear and unwavering, "I have orders to take her to the make-shift hospital for civilians over by the next town. They want a medic to do it, so I can tell the surgeons how far along her recovery is and how to care for her." He gestured to her bandaged ankle, and she gave a dramatised grimace of pain, clutching her leg.

The other man pursed his lips and nodded, before his face broke into an obnoxious smile once more, eyes flicking to Emilie, who returned his gaze unflinchingly. He walked past the car to the tall gate, unlocking the iron chains that had been wrapped around them; Emilie couldn't help wondering what would happen in the panic of an evacuation. It would be a blood bath, with people crushing each other in their desperation to scramble over the locked gates. The thought made her uneasy, and she shoved it aside.

The gate creaked and groaned as the soldier pushed it slowly open, standing by it as Eugene drove through. "Look out for yourself, Doc!" he called after them, beginning to close the gate again, "It's crawling with damn Krauts out there, and we can't spare a medic."

Once they were out of hearing range, Eugene glanced at Emilie and his lips suggested the faintest hint of a smile, an almost shy one. "He's from the 463rd Field Artillery Battalion," he told her, eyes flicking back to the road, "A kind way of puttin' it is that the paratroopers don't exactly get along that well wit' the regular soldiers. You know, competition and all that. He seems to have some kind of a personal vendetta against me or somethin'." He shrugged.

"Well, understandably," she replied sarcastically with a light laugh, "You're absolutely awful to be around." She grinned over at him and he let out a small chuckle. That little sound that was enough to send her heart fluttering and put dancing butterflies into her stomach for some unknown, stupid reason.

Then her face grew serious and she looked out the other side of the car, the freezing wind whipping her face and battering her hair. She pulled her coat tighter around her. "I'm sorry about Rene," she murmured, and felt Eugene tense beside her and the jeep speed up a little. "I… Well, there's not a whole lot I can say, really."

"Yeah," his voice was soft, his eyes set straight ahead, "Me, too."