A/N: Sorry it's been a little while. I got kind of distracted. This take place in the Spring of 1944 (I've decided!). Inspired by another story. Btw, if anyone else has any RoArr fics they can show/recommend to me, I'd love to see who else is writing them! Thanks!

Standard Disclaimer Applies.

Name: Without A Word
Rating: T
Number: VIII

There was a knock.

And then another one.

He wasn't very inclined to open the door. Sleep was not an excuse, but when it was three a.m., did you really need one?

But then there was another knock, and a: "I know you're in there! Open the damn door!"

He wasn't in the mood to entertain company, and during a war, one never really knew what kind of company was calling, especially at such an hour. But the voice was relatively desperate, definitely female, and altogether recognizable, and so, he slid off his bed and into the next room to open the door.

"Arriane?"

Her eyes were trained to his face but she wasn't quite looking at him. "Can I come in?"

He didn't move for a moment, more out of curiosity rather than disrespect, and when he did move aside, she pushed past him quickly. She'd never been here before, not to this house and, in all likelihood, probably not to Spain, but she noted each object in the room in moments, folding her arms across her chest before deciding that the place was safe and turning back to see him.

He shut the door. "Arriane," he repeated, "what are you doing here?"

She continued to not meet his eyes, toes tapping on the wooden planks.

"Arr—" he tried again, but she put up her hand. It was shaking –her whole body was shaking—and though she tried to mask it, he could see it well enough. She obviously was not going to end anytime soon. With a sigh, Roland sat on the edge of his coffee table, resting his elbows on his knees and watching her. This could take a while.

She began to pace. "Do you like me?"

"What?"

She stopped and turned on him, repeating the question with more bite.

"Not particularly right now, why?"

She brushed some hair off her face. There was dirt on her cheek. His shoulders tensed for a moment, but the blood on the rim of her ear wasn't hers, and he gave another sigh. Her fingers were fumbling by her sides.

"Do you think I'm attractive?"

"Arriane? What kind of question is that? Are you—"

"Just answer it!"

He rested his head in his hands. Tonight wasn't going quite the way he'd planned. "Yes."

"Do you love me?" The question caught him off guard. But one look to her face –if her tone hadn't done so already—informed him that she was serious.

And so he gave her a serious, honest answer.

"Sometimes."

Her fingers moved, still fumbling, to her collar. The thick material of her dress was buttoned up to her neck, and she made haste of undoing them. Buttons held all of the coarse material together and it wasn't long before she was standing unabashed in a sparsely lit, commonly frigid living room in only her underwear.

"Do you want to have sex with me?"

His eyes wandered up from her stockings to her garter and felt his mouth go dry as he reached her lips, and then, without meeting her eyes, he answered honestly.

"Yes."

"His name was Willem."

He placed and hand on her back. "A sailor?"

"He was on leave for the holiday, he wasn't even in battle."

Roland took his hand off the heat of her skin and rolled from his side to face the ceiling. He didn't really care about her now-dead husband. He didn't really mind that she was hurting.

He was a sadistic bastard, and he knew it.

But in all honesty, she didn't help her case by coming to him the night her lover passed.

"Are you angry?" Her voice was quieter than it'd been all night, though by now they were well into daybreak.

Roland sighed and rolled back onto his side. "You haven't spoken to me in years. You barely said a word to me in Moscow. And now this?"

"We've done it like this before." She shot back, quickly defensive. "I meant about him?"

He huffed, and moved away from her, throwing his legs off the bed and standing up. Ignoring her question, he wandered to his dresser.

"Where are you going?" She snapped, turning around and sitting up.

"I'm not going to leave this life just because you're hear, Arr. I have a job to get to."

"You're annoying."

He buttoned his trousers in haste. But one glance at her was enough to keep him from retorting. She was hurting. He was her friend and whatever feelings he may harbor about her and her predicament should've come in second to making her feel better. They didn't, but they should, and he was old enough to acknowledge it. He tucked in his shirt and walked back to the bed, leaning down.

The kiss was slow and very contradictory to the previous night. But it was growing, and he remembered the way she moved against him, the way she always had, and the memories brought back certain things that really should've been staying dormant.

He pulled away before he lost his judgement. "I'll be back tonight. There's no food in the kitchen."

"Right." She said, giving him a nod as he left.

He stepped down the stairs and outside to greet the waiting morn. He would be returning here in a few hours, not long at all really. But he wasn't expecting to see her again.

She had come to him for reckless companionship, but what she really needed was to scream and break something. What she needed at the moment, he couldn't give to her. He knew it. Apparently, she did too. When he came home that evening, she'd already gone.

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