CHAPTER 4

The early signs of winter were starting to show, and the trees surrounding the nondescript barn were starting to lose their leaves. When Petra and the Captain left the shelter of the farm, they were hit by the sudden gusts of wind that cut through their clothing, leaving their bare flesh pink.

The black market was some ways off from the farmhouse, likely at some other, abandoned building or another. The two walked in near silence, trekking on dirt roads, and skipping over the fences from field to field. Both dressed in civilian clothing, they tried to act as if they belonged, keeping their heads down whenever they passed any surrounding people, and speaking in short bursts of French. Petra didn't dare say anything in English. And she found herself constantly checking her pockets for her papers.

Jeanne lent Petra one of her ratty sweaters (patchy pockets sewn in onto the sides) and she wore it over her green military skirt and black heels that made her about a half inch taller than usual—which really, wasn't saying much considering the giants that she was going to be hanging around for who knows how long (Eld, Auruo, Gunther). This, however did make her almost the same height as her short captain, who didn't seem to care about addressing the matter–yet then again, he didn't really care about most things.

Petra let out a soft sigh, debating whether or not to start a conversation with her superior. She had always been chatty, especially when she had been stationed in London. It was always so easy to find someone to talk to in her downtime—a visiting pilot, another WAC member, anyone really. They all had some interesting story to tell. And boy, did she bet the Captain had some interesting things he could talk about.

But then again, she didn't know if he'd want to talk about it. It was bad enough talking about the war. They were currently living it. War stories were only to be traded in the dim underground bunkers, when you were pressed against the reassuring bodies of others, smoking a cigarette with your knees pulled up to your chest. When your draws were longer than usual, and you were sucking through it quickly. Because you couldn't help but wonder if it might be the last damn cigarette you'd ever smoke. Then maybe you'd gossip about it when you had a break, or maybe over the daily rations that you'd eat in the mess hall that day—the days when it was too rainy to comfortably sit out on the grass.

There was a time when Petra met this dashing British soldier—his name was Thomas, this kind of lanky blonde with the most gorgeous accent she'd ever heard—and sat with him underneath the belly of his Bristol Beaufighter. He ran night flights. And God, that was just about the most interesting thing to her at the time. Imagine, just imagine being able to fly over France at night. And he humored her. He told her the stories where he just barely escaped the Germans, It was a damn close call. He'd say, and then he'd say something just to make her laugh. What a flirt.

The two of them climbed over another wooden fence that separated a field from the dirt path, and Petra swung both her legs over, trying to avoid getting her skirt caught on a stray nail, or a chip in the wood. And after all this walking, God was she tempted to take off her shoes and go barefoot.

The dirt looked smooth enough… and it had been a long time since she'd felt the dirt between her feet… London was great, but boy was it missing some of that dusty dirt that stuck to the bottom of your feet.

She pulled off both of her black heels (it would protect them anyways), and held them by the backs, walking barefoot down the lane.

"What the hell are you doing?" Levi asked her. She turned over to look at him, and despite his seemingly threatening tone, all she noted was a look of pure puzzlement on his face.

"My feet hurt, Captain. And I thought it would be nice just to go barefoot."

"Barefoot." he echoed her last word, as if meditating on what exactly it meant. Then he looked at her feet, almost skipping on the path. "Foolish." he finally chided as an afterthought, giving an almost imperceptible sigh.

"Tell me something about yourself." he said. Petra looked up, surprised to hear him asking her to talk about herself.

"Me?" she asked dumbly.

"No. The grass—yes you, idiot." he scowled in annoyance, and in that split second, he almost regretted asking her the question. Clearly she wasn't expecting it.

"Well," Petra thought about it for a moment. What do you tell someone about yourself at a time like this? I'm a translator. She thought for a fleeting moment. I was based in London.

"I'm from Massachusetts. This small, farming town just outside of Boston. It's called Bakersville." she smiled when she thought back to it. Dirt. Grass. Good air. Kind of like now.

She echoed her thoughts to the Captain, and watched her feet skip over some rocks, feel the rough indentation of pebbles against the bottoms of her calloused feet. "I grew up on a farm. Raised by my daddy, my mom. I had a brother—he's off fighting in the war too. But he's off in the Pacific. Kind of far from home." Levi watched her carefully, listening to her soft, deliberate words. He listened to her in what had become a scramble slipping between French and English. It was the international language that only the perfect, practicing, bilinguals of the two languages would know. "I have a sister too. I'm the youngest, by the way." The youngest, he thought, looking at the youthful expression on her face. Not just a soldier, but the youngest of three children. "And she is living—well, was living in Pennsylvania with her husband, until he got drafted. Now she's back with my mom and my daddy, helping them keep up the farm."

"A farm." Levi thought on that. It was almost the same word in French.

"And you, Captain?" Petra looked up, and saw an approaching building, where the frequent stragglers could be seen going in and out of it. Must be it. She began to slip her shoes back on, but she noticed the dazed expression on her Captain's face.

"I like reading." he began, cautiously. His features had softed, just slightly, and it was enough for her to make out the hint of a smile. "My mother had always read to my sister and I before bed. We liked The Secret Garden. And when the war started, there would often be times when we would be doing nothing. Hiding. Sitting. And I started reading again. It made me feel… more…" he paused. Then he glanced over at the intrigued american, staring at him with slightly wide eyes—innocent. "More human, again."

She noticed the minute shift in his features, how they softened miniscuely, and she understood.

"And your mother and sister?"

"My mother is dead." he stated this flatly. They started approaching the large doors to the building, and he switched fluently to french. "My sister, Mikasa," he scoffed briefly. "She's very much alive."

"And that's funny to you?"

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, this bemused glint there, and he nodded. "In an odd sense, yes. More so funny because of what I know, and what you don't." He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his coat, and sneaked one out. He let it hang from the corner of his lip, even though there wasn't anything to light it with, then offered one to Petra. She'd been itching for a smoke for a bit… but she declined.

They milled around the with clusters of people, walking around as they tried to find something suitably dull and average for the job. A plain cloth dress. Maybe a shirt.

The captain and his soldier wove through the people, ignoring the temptation of food items they hadn't been able to indulge in since the war, not even in London—cheeses, coffee beans, and bacon. Jeanne was already supplying them with the food they needed to survive, and they didn't need anything else.

And after some time, they did manage to find something. A old woman, selling clothing that must've belonged to some relative. A couple of dresses. Simple. Unnoticeable. In short, perfect for now. The french woman looked between the two of them—the brooding man, and the bright flushed woman. "Lovely dresses for a lovely couple." she said, smiling.

Petra flushed, and glanced at her Captain from the corner of her eye. He didn't look as placid or bored as usual. Instead he had this smirk playing on his lips, and as if to humor the old frenchwoman, he nodded, thanked her, and pulled Petra to his hip. "Kind words, Madame." he smiled at her, and she laughed, looking between the two of them.

They walked back into the crowd, and just as suddenly as he'd held her, he let her go. His smile had faded, but Petra couldn't help but wonder what it would've been like if he always had that smile on his face. It suited him.

"Sorry about that." he said. "Appearances." he added quickly after.

"Of course," Petra replied. But she couldn't help but note how she missed the press of his arm around her, the two of them linked at the hip.

He grabbed the dresses from her, and he opened up his coat, revealing the lining that had been peeled away at the top, just enough room for him to stuff both articles of clothing in there. Just enough room so that the bulge didn't look suspicious.

Indistinct shouting came from the mouth of the building, and Petra felt panic start to rise in her. Were they being bombed. Had the Nazis finally found them? People were being shoved around, but it hadn't become a stampede yet. Maybe they didn't know about it yet. Maybe—

"Calm down." Levi's voice was leveled, and he was looking around the room. "It's a roundup. If you don't run, they won't shoot you." He stopped her, and caught her by the shoulders, forcing eye contact.

"Tell me, Ral. Please tell me you have your papers on you." Petra stared, and nodded. They were in her pocket. They were always in her pocket. They had to be in her pocket.

"Yes, sir."

He closed his eyes, and let out a breath. "Good. Take care of them. We'll need them."

The two of them walked towards the door, minding their own business, and Levi had slipped his arm around her waist. They were a couple. They were a simple, French, unsuspecting couple. Everything would be fine.

A young German officer stopped the two of them.

Where are you papers?

His tone was hostile, cold, impenetrable.

Levi gazed back at him, amused and calm, and took out his own papers. Petra did the same. She tried to stopped the vague tremble in her hand. But GOD. WHAT WAS SHE SUPPOSED TO DO. She'd always imagined this moment. Her first encounter with another soldier. Except she always thought she'd have her revolver in her hand. She would be pointing the barrel at his head, and she would make a quick escape. She'd never have to be so close to him.

The officer flipped through Levi's papers, then handed them back to him with a nod. Then he reached for Petra's papers. She tried to still her hands when he grabbed it from her. Levi watched them carefully, and when he noticed the tremble, he reached for her hand. He pressed his calloused palms to her hand, rubbing them together to make them warmer. Make up an excuse for the tremble in her hands. He was just doing it for show. Distract the damn Nazi.

"It's cold, isn't it?" Levi said amicably. The officer ignored the both of them, and Petra tried to give a laugh. Act like she was enjoying herself, and that this was just formalities. She couldn't help but notice the electrifying sting she'd felt when Levi's hand had pressed against hers. That brief, fleeting moment when she'd caught her breath in the back of her throat, and felt the butterflies rise in her stomach. All because he'd took her hand, get it together Ral!

The officer handed Petra back her papers, and Levi freed up her now warmed up hand.

Everything must've been in line. Everything will be fine.

The officer gave Levi a long, cold stare, not replying. He turned on his heel, and headed back towards the mass that had formed. A crowd of people were sitting on the ground, the Nazis walking amongst them.

A roundup.

Tell me you have your papers.

If you don't run, they won't shoot.

Petra wanted to throw up. She couldn't. This was murderous. It was hellish. She wanted to reach for her revolver, and shoot all the officers in the room. And let everyone else go free. She desperately wanted that. But Levi's hand had grabbed hers again, and he was watching her. He must've known what was going on.

"Keep your fucking cool, Ral." he hissed this to her in French. He must've seen the way her hand was twitching for the handle of her revolver. Must've noticed the sad fury in her eyes. He led her out of the building, and as soon as they were out of there—away from the noise, the chaos, the misery that was starting to leak out—they picked up their pace. There were two gunshots. Three. Four… Five…. A wail. A shot.

Everything would be fine.

When they finally reached the farmhouse, the world felt still. Jeanne was leaning against the side of the wall, smoking a cigarette, and watching the clouds.

"It's something she always does," Captain Levi explained as they neared her. "She waits there for all of her resistance members until the return—or don't return, for that matter."

Noticing the two returning soldiers, Jeanne gave a lazy salute with her cigarette, sighing out a low gray cloud of her own. "And look who have come back." she said, stubbing her cigarette out against the side of the wall and dropping it to the ground. "The first of everyone, Capitaine Levi, and Officer Ral. Congratulations." she gave a slow mock clap, smirking when Levi rolled his eyes and brushed past her, entering the farmhouse. "And I see you have your dress, good job, Officer."

Jeanne trailed behind Petra, one hand on the shoulder of the considerably shorter american. "I also see you do not have this perpetual look of terror or boredom on your face, which means that Levi has done well and not scared away another woman. I feel proud of the Pride of France."

"Not now, Jeanne." Levi growled.

But Petra couldn't hear the smart quips of Jeanne. And she could barely listen to the rebukes and the things that her Captain was telling her as they approached the house.

She rushed into the house, and made a beeline for the bathroom. She hung her head over the toilet, and cursed herself. She should've done something. She could've done something. That's why she was sent here. Not to watch. To stop. Help. She gagged into the toilet bowl, watching the water shift. And she gagged again. She felt tears rush to her eyes, and the guilt well up in her stomach. But nothing could come out. Her voice felt strained, and her eyes stung. But tears didn't fall. Nothing fell into the toilet bowl.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello! It's been a long time since I've updated this story… or even posted anything here to be honest. There's been a depressing lack of rivetra on this site for a few months… (so yes, I've been checking the site but not updating my own fic… what a jerk) and maybe that's just because I'm a stupid lame-o who's become too attached to this ship for my own good… and maybe I should just be moving on to another ship like most other normal people…

Also the last time I updated this was over a year ago?!

But, hey, I'm back. This story honestly has no direction at this point. And if it did, well it's been too long for me to remember what that plan might've been. I probably should've written it down somewhere. So please don't be expecting a constant, scheduled flow of updates—though I wish I could give you that .

So I'm sorry if this story is shitty. The sad thing was I was really proud of the first chapter of this fic. Now I don't even know how I can get the two of them to fall in love and stuff all while having that good build up. I feel like I'm already rushing it here. Too much all at once. Goddamit. Why am I so bad at this thing?

However, I've been wanting to make a new fic (for this same couple of idiots, yay) but no promises. Because you can't fucking trust a promise from a fanfiction author. Sorry about the foul language. I've become quite fond of it. I look forward to posting again, whenever that may be… Cheers.