All was quiet on the front.
The Americans all seemed to be indoors; the last they had seen of them was when two Yank officers had been standing by the river, waving papers around as if they wanted to be shot at. But the Germans had been too tired to do anything. One man had actually fallen asleep at his post, and that hadn't gone down well. But they just weren't being given sufficient time for recuperation. Emilie had tried to bring it up, arguing that it was both physically and mentally impossible and unhealthy for anyone to go this long in the worst conditions and then not have enough time to build their strength back up.
But they were hardened soldiers, the officers had said, and she had been brushed aside. Her CO had seemed to agree with her, but he had remained silent in the presence of his superiors. She had never known him to be so weak. The Germans still fired at anything that moved, though; one American caught out in daylight would draw sniper or mortar fire; two or more men would mean a shell from an 88. They weren't willing to take any chances. They wanted to make it out of this war; after all, the finish line was insight. And so they grew eyes in the backs of their heads. No one wanted to be picked off now.
Now Emilie was walking – or, rather, hobbling in her crutches which, surprisingly, she still wasn't one hundred per cent adjusted to – behind the buildings, her stomach full. Yet still she felt sick. Other men had come to her after experiencing the same nausea after eating a whole meal, and she had explained that, since they had gone so long living mostly on k-rations, their bodies weren't used to the plentiful food, and its reflex was to throw up. She had then told them to ease into the transition, to eat a little more each day. That hadn't been a welcomed suggestion. But she had still thought that maybe she was the exception, that she could eat freely. Boy, had she been wrong. She should have known by now that things never went in her favour.
Once she reached the end of the cover of the houses, Emilie still wasn't ready to turn back. So, relying on the safety of darkness, as it was a night without a moon like a giant, unblinking white eye staring down at them from above, she took another chance and walked out from behind the buildings, making her way quickly along the uneven, open ground. But all was still quiet. Crickets chirped in the reeds by the river, frogs croaked, but other than that, her silent shadow was her only friend.
As she came to a small, old wooden shed that stood on a sort of bridge that ran over the dark, gurgling river below, she was just about to admit defeat and head back when a dark, moving shape on the other side of the river caught her eye. She peered into the darkness. It was definitely an American soldier, she knew that much for sure; they carried a unique scent, just as the Germans, Japanese and every other army did, which she could just detect on the breeze. "Fuck," she breathed. Would they take medics as prisoners? Usually, no, but who knew anymore in this war?
But then she spotted a white armband tied around the man's left arm, and let out a breath she hadn't even realised she had been holding. It felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from her lungs. Not even knowing what she was doing, she edged open the wooden door, which creaked, and stepped inside. She heard Eugene's footsteps outside cease as he heard the sound. Should she be regretting what she was doing? Probably. But she just needed to see a somewhat-friendly face, to make sure his bloody body she saw in her dreams night after night hadn't become a reality.
The other door opened, and Eugene poked his head in cautiously.
"Boo," she greeted, smirking when she saw him jump slightly and his muscles tense.
Clearly, he didn't recognise her voice, as he called out softly, "Flash."
"Thunder," she replied, deepening her voice mockingly.
Emilie saw him frown in the half-light of the shed. The only light came from the half-concealed moon, its soft rays flooding in through a dusty window. She must have looked like a ghost. "Miss Demont?" he asked tentatively.
"The one and only."
She could practically hear what he was thinking, his contradictory thoughts: he shouldn't allow himself to be cornered with a Kraut; could he really trust her?; did this count as treason?; what did she want? But, finally, he slipped into the shed, closing the door behind him. By this time, Emilie's eyes had adjusted to the dark, and, as she had been trained in basic, she could see almost as well as in the day.
"How did you know the password?" he asked, almost suspiciously.
She shrugged. "Gene, I've been living in close quarters with you Yanks since Normandy," she answered simply.
"I should raise the alarm," Eugene warned, and she felt her heart sink. He was right. She was trespassing. But his threat sounded almost… Half-hearted. As if he didn't really want to. She couldn't afford to dwell on why.
Emilie shrugged, resting against a work bench. "So do it," she countered, locking eyes with him, daring him to do anything. When he didn't, she continued. "But that would mean more death, for both sides." She took a small step forward; he looked prepared to retreat, but he held his ground. "Eugene, I don't want anyone to get hurt, German, American or even Japanese. I don't see the uniform; just the person. If one of my supposed enemies was wounded, I would help them, and I know you would, too. Our duty is to help people, and, though that doesn't always work out the way I had planned, I'm bloody well going to try."
He was quiet for a few moments, the only sound their breathing. Then, eventually, he pursed his lips and nodded. "What are you doin' here? It's not that it's bad to see ya, but ain't it a risk, you comin' here? None of the others would refrain from shootin' long enough to ask you your side of the story."
Emilie smiled slightly, crookedly. "Things aren't so great for me back on the other side of the river," she told him softly.
"What do you mean, miss Demont?"
"You can call me Emilie, you know," she reminded him with a light giggle that sounded a little too feminine for her liking. "Mister Roe."
She was delighted to see him smile a little, amused. It was nice to know she could still feel something at the best of times, that she wasn't completely devoid of all emotion. No, in fact, ever since she was a little girl, she had, if anything, felt too much. When she loved, she loved with all her heart. When she hated, her loathing consumed her. And when she was in pain, guilty and sorrowful and broken… Well, it defined her.
When Eugene didn't say anything, simply waited for her to answer his question, she replied. "One of the little bastards has spread lies about me, that I'm an…" She eyed him uncertainly, "American sympathiser, that I'll turn on my people, that I'm not to be trusted. Half the men believe him, and, well, they've made it their job to make my life a living Hell." She let out a sigh, dropping her eyes, grinding her teeth together.
Once again, deafening silence gripped them for a few moments. Then Eugene's gentle, soothing drawl filled her ears. "Then they don't know what kind of a person they're throwin' away."
Suddenly, all she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears, seeming to drown out any common sense that she may have had before. Before she had time to think about what the bloody hell she was doing and the consequences it could have for both of them, Emilie had raised herself to her tip-toes and was pressing her lips softly to Eugene's. She felt him freeze in surprise, but still he didn't resist.
But then reason slammed back into Emilie's mind and she stumbled backwards, breaking the kiss. Eugene was staring at her in shock, his mouth still partially open, that little crease between his eyebrows again. She looked down, shaking her head, inwardly kicking herself. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered, struggling to get her breathing back under control, "I just… Well, fuck, I wanted to know what it would be like. Sorry, I'm a moron. You won't have to deal with me again. Have a good night."
She turned and began to walk back towards the door, but, before she reached it, she felt Eugene grab her arm and she was suddenly being slammed against the dusty wall, her crutches flying out of her grip. Emilie looked up to meet his dark blue eyes, and there was a… Hunger in them, so much emotion packed into a gaze that was usually so calm and collected and encrypted. She didn't miss it when his eyes paused on her mouth and he licked his lips.
Eugene pressed his lips to hers, but the kiss was rougher now, more urgent and insistent. She didn't struggle, far from it. She could faintly feel one of his warm hands on her hips, the other working through her hair. Emilie reached up and fastened her fingers around his shirt collar, pulling him closer. She could hardly breathe, but she didn't care. It was damn near bliss. He smelt different than he had in Bastogne, and it was evident he had also had a shower. But that amazing musky scent was still there.
"Je t'aime, Eugene Roe," she moaned against his lips, and the French seemed to excite him as his tongue began to dance against her own; normally, she knew he would have asked her how she knew how to say that in French. And she simple would have replied that it had come rushing back to her. Right now, however, she was finding it difficult to think straight. "Je vois ai aimés dès le premier moment que je t'ai rencontré. Mon coeur est à toi seul pour toujours et toujours."
Emilie took the moment when their mouths broke apart for a split second to catch his bottom lip gently between her front teeth. She lifted her leg up behind his knees, pulling him even closer so she could feel his heart pummelling against her chest; this was one of the times when she blessed her ballet flexibility. She threw her head back and he trailed kisses along her jawline, making an excited moan fly out of her lips without meaning to. But he didn't seem to mind.
One of her hands snaked through his black hair, and it was even softer than she had expected it to be. Damn, she was done lying. Yeah, she had been envisioning coursing her fingers through his hair. Sue 'er. An explosion sounded somewhere in the distance, muffled by their closeness and the fact they were in the shed, and they both dismissed it; the Germans and Americans had been firing regular mortars at each other, but people were rarely hurt. Besides, they heard no call for a medic. They probably should have run back to their armies, but, at that moment, they were too caught up in their own little world. Irresponsible. Dumb.
Finally, their lips broke apart and Emilie's eyes flickered open to see Eugene blinking down at her. Their breaths were coming in gasps, and she could feel a light layer of sweat gathering on the back of her neck. Just when she was finally clean, too. "Well," she managed to whisper. His hair was ruffled, his cheeks flushed. She was pleased to see that his lips were a little red and puffy from where they had been slammed against her own. She could still taste him, tasting strangely like the most delicious chocolate she had ever encountered, and she licked her lips to savour it.
"I…" His eyes briefly flicked down nervously, before he once again met her gaze. She could steal feel his heart, his breathing, the warmth of his body she never would have thought she would have gotten the chance to experience up close. "I needed to get rid of some nervous tension. Stress."
Emilie couldn't suppress the playful smile that tugged at her lips. "Well, soldier boy," she laughed, shaking her head and resting it back against the wall, "I'm happy to be of assistance, and I wouldn't be against helping you get rid of some of that stress again. Wow, if this is what psychiatrists get, I'm in the wrong line of work, let me tell you that." Lowering her leg from where she had forgotten it was still tucked securely around his legs, she drew it back to her, letting out another shallow breath. "See? Not all Krauts are bad."
Eugene smiled shyly, letting his hands fall slowly from her waist, his fingers still lingering there for a moment. It felt as though he were still gripping her there, as though he had left an imprint of himself against her skin, her very being. She knew that was stupidly poetic, but it was true. She wanted to apologise for what she had said in French earlier, but she was unwilling to ruin the moment, though it hadn't exactly been romantic, more blissfully ferocious. Just as she liked. She hadn't meant what she had said, about loving him from the moment she had met him and her heart belonging to him forever and always. Had she? No, she hardly knew him. But that didn't stop her heart from feeling as though, whenever she was around him, the final puzzle piece had finally fallen into place…
Suddenly, a panicked American voice rang out somewhere outside, probably about 20 metres away, and both of them froze. "Where the hell is the doc?" the man yelled, and she heard footsteps run past.
Gene glanced to the door, then back at Emilie, almost regretfully. The redness of his cheeks had begun to subside, but she hoped the memories wouldn't fade with it. Well, why should she or he care? Honestly. It was meaningless. And yet she couldn't quite manage to convince herself of that.
He ran a hand through his hair in a near-useless attempt to smooth it. "I have to go," he told her, voice low and accent thickened in that way that made her stomach twist with longing. "I'm sorry."
She nodded. "I understand, Gene. Go."
With one last look at her, he turned and disappeared back through the door he had come in through. Outside, he heard his voice join with another man's.
"God, Gene! Am I glad to see you. Where the fuck have you been? Never mind. Follow me. Jackson's been wounded by his own goddamn grenade during that POW mission. It's bad."
"Okay. Lead the way. Hurry!"
Emilie felt all the colour drain from her face as everything fell into place. That explosion she had heard. It had been grenades and other artillery. POW mission? Goddamn, the Yanks must have crossed the river to take German prisoners. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. And where had she been? Snogging an enemy soldier in a shed. How had she not heard it? How had she not heard the screams, felt the explosions and the rumble of bombs? What kind of a medic was she?
A/N: Pardon my French. Literally. Please correct any mistakes you might find. C:
Whoooooooooo. Okay. Plot development yay! No time for taking it slow in war. This is my first one of 'those' chapters, so I hope it's not too terrible aha. I'm a bit self-conscious about this one. :B But not everything will be hunky-dory for Emilie and Gene now. Oh, no, far from it. Remember, my friends, we still have the concentration camp to get to. And I expect her being on the side of the Germans won't go down well… Aha.
Also, in case anyone is wondering, yes, Emilie will meet Easy Company up close and personal. In fact, the last few chapters will be about her with them in Berchtesgaden and beyond. But I won't tell you too many spoilers ahaha!
Enjoy, and review if you like. :D That last moment was me playing on the fact that Gene wasn't there to help Jackson at the first sign of trouble, which was very unlike him. So I made up a lil' explanation just to tie things in to the bigger picture. No disrespect intended to the real, incredible veterans, of course.
xx
