A/N: My French isn't very good, but I am getting this out before March! Okay, 10 minutes before, but it still counts, right?
And I have no idea why a Dutch farmgirl would know French, but this one does because it suited my needs. Enjoy!
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=8hhxthxhwk0)

Inspired by The Shins and nothing but The Shins.

VI. Caring Is Creepy
it's a luscious mix of words and tricks
that let us bet when you know we should fold

Lorena wasn't sure how she had gotten into the barn, but if the pebbles lodged in the laces of her boots were any indication, Bull had dragged her there. It must have been quite a feat for him, despite how little she weighed, due to the metal. But he was next to her, clutching his gun tightly. The sounds of various tones jabbered on in the distance and she could only assume that the German company that had destroyed much of the British artillery and their American comrades had taken over the town. As a light wind blew through the slats in the wooden walls, the smell of the hay and grains went with it. She could feel the straw in her hair and the dust on her face. She forced back a sneeze, making the hay rustle beneath her.

"You're awake," Bull said in a gruff voice. "You alright?"

"What? This? This is nothing. It's not as bad as it looks, actually. Some blood loss. Trust me, I spent three weeks with shards of glass lodged in my lower leg. How are you?"

"Not so good. I've gotta get this thing outta here."

Lorena paled and bit down hard on her bottom lip. With a sharp intake of breath, she got to her feet and knelt down behind him. She looked closely at the wound, wrinkling her nose and cringing. Her blood never seemed to bother her, but anyone else's bodily fluids were beyond disgusting. She flinched before continuing. She reached toward his shoulder, damning her shaking hands.

Shuffling came from behind them before Lorena could get her hands dirty and Bull was up and ready to kill. The man that had entered though, was not a German soldier, but a middle-aged Dutch man. Bull pressed his knife against the man's throat, eliciting a gasp, although the soldier was nearly a head shorter than he was. The light from the open doorway was blocked by the young woman who had followed. A daughter or niece, Lorena thought. She wavered in the entry, not knowing whether to run or fight. Lorena understood and decided, against her better judgment, to speak.

"Sprechen Sie Englisch?"

The girl, blonde-haired and brown-eyed, gave her a blank stare and shook her head. "Nein," she answered in a soft whisper.

Lorena winced as she shifted her weight. "Parlez-vous françias?"

The girl nodded quickly, still utterly confused as to what a woman was doing in a uniform. She had heard of women in the Resistance, but in the military? There was no doubt that there were Americans, despite the fact that the woman's accent was almost that of a native of France.

"Parle t-il françias?" Lorena asked, nodding toward the older man.

"No."

"Okay," Lorena began calmly. "Nous sommes des Américans. Mon ami a du métal dans son épaule. J'ai certains dans na jambe. Pouvez-vous nous aider?"

"Oui," she said. She looked at the man and began translating and instructing. Lorena, for the first time in her life, wished that she had learned Dutch or German or both.

Bull pushed the three of them back into the cover of the stable, hidden from any Kraut eyes, as the loud rumble of tanks boomed nearby. He grabbed hold of his rifle and crouched at the corner, waiting and listening as he had been doing since taking refuge. After the noise quieted, he returned and looked at Lorena.

"What'd you tell her?"

"That we're Americans. You have metal in your shoulder. I have some in my leg. They're going to help. He's going to remove the shrapnel for you, but you have to stay still."

"Can't you do it?"

"Maybe, but I trust him more than I do myself."

With that, Bull nodded and reluctantly let the Dutch farmer near him. His face contorted as the man's fingers began to attempt to remove the metal shard. He leaned into the wooden wall, almost as though he were trying to escape the pain by going through it. Lorena watched helplessly, clutching at her own soaked uniform. When the man finally dug the fragment out, with the help of the knife that was once against his neck, he discarded it on the barn floor, letting it sink into the hay. He spoke to the girl, who in turn, spoke to Lorena.

"Son fera le vôtre ensuite," she said.

Lorena shook her head vigorously. "No. Vous devez l'emballer."

Lorena placed her fingers on the tip of the tank splinter and, in one swift motion, pulled it out. The blood began coursing out of the wound, drenching her leg more. The girl stuffed her handkerchief into the wound, attempting to absorb most of the blood.

"Merci," Lorena said in a hoarse voice. It's nothing I can't handle. It's nothing I can't handle. It's nothing I can't handle.

Bull then jumped up and rushed to a broken window. He stared out of it for some time, until he ran back, his own makeshift gauze falling to the ground.

"What's happening?" Lorena whispered.

"A group of Krauts are comin' this way. They've gotta go!" Bull said, ushering the people that had just saved their lives out the back.

The man gave Bull's knife back to him and shook his hand. "Danke."

Bull nodded. "Go. Go. Lorena translate or something."

"Allez. Nous vous mettons dans assez de danger."

The squeak of the main door's hinges had the four of them drop to the floor, listening to the cackling of German voices. Mama, please. Watch over me, Mama. The girl, and the farmer ducked behind a stable wall near the back door, while Lorena crawled forward to hide behind sacks of grain and corn. She inhaled the sweet, earthy smells and listened as the Germans stalked off, leaving one behind to relive himself.

This infuriated Lorena. It was something Parker Hollis would have done: pissed on someone's property, in someone's barn, on someone's life. The sound of a single gunshot from a .44 caliber handgun echoed in her thoughts. Lorena… She could still hear his accent-tinged voice, raspy with imminent death, say her name. So, when the sounds of screaming came, she didn't balk or shudder.

She just assumed it was in her head.

Ron stared silently out across the field again, watching the bombs illuminate the city in the distance. The bright orange flashes reminded him of Lorena and the way that her freckled skin looked when it was basking in the glow of a Lucky Strike. He had heard that she went missing with Sgt. Randleman from Easy, and that a group had gone out looking for them. A large part of him wished that he had gone with them. And how he hated that he wished that. He hated that she got him so twisted around and disorderly. He hated that he could still smell her on the air. He hated that he even gave a damn. Actually, he just hated his emotions. They were insecurities that he couldn't shake.

"If there ain't no body, there ain't nobody fucking dead," he heard one of the men say.

He didn't know why, but with everything he had, he hoped that it was true.

The town was empty by the time that the sun rose in the morning. The Germans, the Dutch, the Americans, the British, the Canadians… they were all gone. Lorena put her hand up, blocking out some of the bright sunlight that glared down from above. The air smelt distinctly of fire and warfare, of blood and wet dirt. She could taste the pain and the destruction just as well as she could see it. Bull walked out beside her, pieces of hay stuck to him. He slung his rifle over his good shoulder and continued on toward one of the bodies that rested in one of the many ditches. She watched as he bent down and ripped one of the dog tags from the corpse, gazing down upon it with a sad, pained expression. She stood by, silently, unsure of how to help.

Lorena had never been good at comforting people. At her mother's funeral, she had been a wreck. There were too many people, too many tears, too many flowers, and too many sponge cakes that were obviously baked by the hired help of the people who had brought them. "Your mother was a great woman," they had told her, as if she were far younger than her sixteen years. But they were the same people that had gossiped and looked down on Lilla Fanciullo-Carlyle with disdain. They were horrified by her foreignness. They named him what? Lorenzo? Does Charles want him to grow up to be some guinea-wop dock worker? Because with a name like Lorenzo… Lorena knew all of this. She had overheard the women at the social clubs talking, the looks they gave, the false smiles. She had been observant all of her life, but she had never been compassionate. It was the reason that she exploded at the funeral, screaming and yelling and blaming all of the hypocritical monsters that had forced her mother out. None of you deserve to live. You should all be in there instead of my mother. She was better than all of you. You all deserve to die. Even in her mid-twenties, nearly a decade later, she was still filled with an inability to cope with other people's losses. Since killing Parker, it had only become worse. She felt no remorse, no regret. She tried to drudge up all of the feelings she had when her mother died to help empathize with Bull, but all of her attempts were quickly replaced by the smell of blood and the memories of the stains that had ruined her white carpet.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Miller."

"He was a nice boy. A little naïve, but… oh, I'm sorry. Err… may he rest in peace," she said, although it almost sounded like a question.

"Nah, you're right. He would've been a fine soldier. Just needed more time."

"Almost everybody does."

"Yeah," Bull sighed, "almost everybody." Not your husband, I guess. "Let's get outta here. Who knows what them Krauts are up to. They could be back any time."

"Of course," Lorena said, nodding. "By the way, Sergeant Randleman, thank you for… taking care of that German soldier."

"Just doin' my job," he said.

She filed it away in her mind.

"Thanks for gettin' that man to get the tank out of me. I don't know if I would of made it very long if ya hadn't."

"Only doing my job, Sergeant."

They exchanged small, genuine smiles and turned toward the main road out of town. Her leg started to ache as she continued on, just enough to slow her down. But before Lorena could ask Bull to take a short break, the sound of a small vehicle came rambling towards them. The gunner, perched atop the jeep, was obviously American and was less weary of the pedestrians than he would have been in normal circumstances. A German could have donned a U.S. Army uniform in order to ambush one of the military drivers and their passengers, but it was unlikely that he would bring a woman along for the hoax. And when the man raised his gun in the air, there was no longer doubt in the gunner's mind.

"What're you two doing out here?" the driver asked.

"Got a little lost," Bull said nonchalantly, letting his half-hearted grin enhance his joke.

"What battalion you guys, I mean, you two in?"

"Second," Lorena said, raising a hand to her eyes to block out the harsh glare of the morning sun.

"506?"

Bull and Lorena nodded.

"Hop up. You get the front seat, Miss. That leg don't look too good."

Lorena bowed her head in acknowledgment and declined. "Thank you, but this isn't the first injury I've had. His shoulder is injured. It'll be much harder for him to travel in the back. I have to insist that you take the front, Bull. And don't bother fighting me on it. Remember what happened to the last man who crossed me?"

Bull laughed for the first time in days, perhaps weeks. "Yes, ma'am."

He clamored into the passenger seat, resting comfortably against the leather. Lorena jumped, messily, into the back next to the gunner, slamming around more than she intended. She leaned forward and steadied herself on the back of the seat, regretting her rather noble decision. But as the wind whipped through her already-tangled hair, she sighed against it, remembering the days before the war.

Si maritau Rosa
Saridda e Phippinedda
E iu ca sugnu bedda
Mi vogghiu maritià...

Half a mile later, they came to an abrupt stop. The gunner, who Lorena swore that she had known somewhere else, turned toward several dark figures in the distance. One of them raised their weapon, much like Bull had done, and she found herself relax. These men were one of their own. And as they walked closer, Lorena began to recognize their faces: Hoobler, Hashey, Garcia, Cobb, and Webster.

"Where the hell you been?" Hoobler asked with a laugh, practically breathless upon spotting his sergeant.

"Good to see you boys," Bull said. He smiled through the pain that shot through his shoulder beautifully, in Lorena's less-than-humble estimations.

Webster stepped forward and offered his arms to Lorena, spying her blood-soaked leg. She tensed at the suggestion, but knew that it was more logical to trust him at that point than to not. She turned and slid off of the jeep into his arms. Webster embraced her, causing her to go completely rigid.

"Thought we had lost you already," he said.

"No," she laughed nervously. "I'm not easy to get rid of. Ask anyone."

"Let's get moving, boys," the driver said in a heavy drawl. "The Krauts are crawling around everywhere."

Webster jumped up onto the back of the jeep and helped Lorena up. He eyed the wound warily. "That looks bad," he said as the others clamored in around them.

"It always does," she answered, trying to pretend that the pain wasn't there.

And Webster dropped the subject, just like that. Lorena liked that about him. He could sense she didn't want to discuss it any further and simply let it go. There were so few people left in the world with sense to mind their own business… so, so few. How are you holding up? Just okay? I mean, because you don't look okay, honey. You look a little less than okay. Now, really, how are you holding up? Lorena appreciated tact anywhere she could find it.

When Ron saw a jeep pull up, packed with the men who had left the night before, his chest tightened. One of them, Webster he was pretty sure, jumped down from the vehicle and was no longer blocking Ron's view of her. The soldier, he saw, turned and offered her his arms. She declined, in spite of the grimacing that she did as she slid onto the front seat and then stepped down to the moist earth. A few other men shook her hand, make several unnecessary jokes about being baptized by fire, and then went to congratulate the rest of their comrades that had returned. Then Lorena was alone, except for the medic, who had insisted on tending to her leg. Ron swallowed hard before he made his way over to her, thoroughly disgusted by his anxiety. It wasn't like him to be anxious, to care, to talk to women that weren't his wife, to be anxious about talking to women that weren't his wife. He had to command himself to snap out of it and stop acting like a right git.

"I see you've had an interesting time," he said, nodding towards her leg.

"Yes, I have, but please, spare me the 'baptism' comments. Not that I don't appreciate it, because I certainly do, but, well…"

"It's redundant."

"Exactly." Lorena turned her attentions to the Cajun at her feet as a wave of heat rushed to her cheeks. "How does it look, Eugene? It is Eugene?"

Doc Roe looked up at her with soft eyes as he wiped her blood from his fingertips. "Yes, ma'am. Your leg looks alright, but you think you can stay off it for a while?"

Lorena bit her bottom lip. "How long is 'a while' in your opinion?"

For as long as she could remember, "a while" had been given a different definition by every medical professional that she had met. Hours, days, weeks, months… Lorena had been told minutes once, but she was later informed that that particular man (whom she paid over sixty dollars to) was, in all honesty, a quack. From Eugene Roe, she was hoping to hear hours or days.

"A week at best," he said, though suddenly regretting it as he watched dejection move across her face. "But some people heal better than others. It could be days for you."

Her eyes flicked up at his as he stood. Lorena gave a tight smile and nodded. "Thank you, Eugene."

The medic headed toward the tanks and trucks on top of the hill where the other men of Easy Company were gathering. The afternoon sun, still impossibly bright even on an autumn day, beat down upon the soldiers. Lorena turned to Ron, noticing the way that the light hit his dark hair, bringing out the underlying shimmer of gold that ran through each strand. She bit back a laugh as she realized how stupid her own thoughts sounded. Cliché, naïve little woman. It didn't go unnoticed by Ron, though, who silently wondered what she could have possibly found funny. For a spilt second, he worried that she could read his mind and that was what she was trying not to laugh at. I was worried about you. Yes, I, Ronald fucking Speirs was worried about you, Lorena Giovanna Carlyle-Hollis. Ludicrous, isn't it? And Ron knew that he could have said it. What did he care if she judged him? She was a just some woman, just some journalist with a death wish, just some woman that still wasn't his wife (no matter how many times in the past few weeks that he had imagined the things he would have done if she were). She didn't mean anything to him. Nothing. Nothing at all. His palms got sweaty again and he suddenly felt like kicking his own ass for acting so childish.

And Lorena, of course, could have run her fingers through his hair. It was fairly obvious by that point that she was shameless. No self-respecting murderer had shame. But she knew that no matter the outcome, she would be irreversibly damaged. Either he would accept her touch, lean into it perhaps, or he would grab her wrist to stop her, unintentionally sending her into a massive panic attack; the kind that always happened when men touched her. It was enough to control her breathing and her heartbeat while Eugene examined her leg or while Webster helped her down from the jeep. There was no reason for her to risk it. Moreover, she was certain the gold band on his finger was for more than decoration. So, instead, she kept her hands at her sides or at her face, wiping away the dirt, and he continued to stand there, silently. The both of them feigned a lack of interest until the platoons were called.

"It was nice to see you again, Ron," she said with a practiced nod.

"Yeah, you too. Glad to see you're okay." He paused. "I was worried."

With that, he turned and walked away to call on his own platoon, leaving Lorena to stare after him, confused. She hadn't had a man outside of her family worry about her in years. Worried. Worried. Worried? Lorena moved toward the trucks in a daze, debating whether or not she enjoyed Ron worrying or if it was too uncommon, borderline disturbing. She could hear Webster talking the whole way to the next Dutch town and could hear her own voice answering him, but Lorena wasn't invested in the conversation. She was too wrapped up in the sound of Ronald Speirs' voice as it repeated in her head. I was worried. Worried. Worried. Worried.

By the time 2nd Battalion had gotten to Schoonderlogt, she had decided that "worried" was a wonderful word.

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