A/N: Just for the record, I'm basing my views on the South on 15 years experience in Florida. We're backwards, we can't vote, and we don't have seasons. I'm a little bitter towards it.
And did anyone else see The Pacific? Fantastic.
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=LAxCqlU-OAo)

Inspired by Blue Foundation and a vampire romance overdose.

VII. Eyes On Fire
you've been waiting in vain
i've got nothing for you to gain

In Schoonderlogt, Lorena was quartered in the same house as Lewis Nixon, Dick Winters, and a few other men that mingled at battalion headquarters. She sometimes worried that she kept the soldiers on the second floor awake with her pacing and tapping, her tossing and turning, her typing and crying. She had insisted on getting the first floor, where she was less likely to disturb anyone, but, like idiots, they assigned her to the third floor: the fully furnished attic.

There, they said, she would have more privacy and more space to work. Don't writers need space? Lorena thought it was a rather silly question. Space? Really? She was a war correspondent, not a damn poet. Her objective was to be able to write in the middle of a siege or in between gunfire. The point was to deal with her surroundings and let them inspire her fingers as they trailed along the typewriter keys, like Mozart at a piano. But men were in charge of the whole system and when they looked at Lorena Carlyle, they saw a woman and nothing more. She was not their equal and she could not be trusted to take care of herself. But Lorena, unbeknownst to the male population of the world, wasn't trying to be equal to them in any way, shape, or form. Why the hell, she wondered, would she ever want to be so far down at their level?

Nonetheless, Lorena was convinced that in the morning they would realize their mistake and move her down to the first floor. But on her first night, she found that she wasn't the only one that couldn't fall asleep. Nixon sat quietly at the table, fingering the flask in his pocket… debating. Lorena, still fully dressed in her uniform, made her way down stairs to ultimately apologize to whomever she had probably kept awake. She peaked around the corner to see Nixon pull the flask out and stare down pensively before unscrewing the top and taking a swig. Lorena inhaled deeply and bit her bottom lip hard. For the most part, she knew that there was no danger awaiting her in that dining room, but she had found Parker the exact same way too often and no matter how many times she reminded herself that he was dead, she couldn't help but wait for the yelling to begin.

"Hello, Lewis," she said softly.

"Hi, Lorena. Why are you whispering?"

"I don't want to wake up the others."

He laughed a little; more of a chuckle, really. "Smart. They wake up and there's less for you and me," he said, raising the flask to bring her attention to it.

"Oh, no thank you. I've sworn off scotch for a little while. Left me with a headache last time." A big one. His name is Ronald Speirs. I'm sure you've heard of him.

"Awe, come on now, Lorena. You can't let me drink alone. It's bad manners. What would Emily Post say?"

Lew motioned to a chair next to him and waited for her next move. Looking at her, though, made him miss home in a way that he never thought he would. Her gait, so deliberate and quiet, was a practiced one, much like that of his wife, his mother, and his sister. It was something wealthy northeastern women had been taught from birth. Smaller steps, ladies. You don't want to sprint down the aisle to the heir of that shipping/oil/steel company, do you? Her smile, or lack of, reminded him of his second cousin, the one his father had suggested he marry to "keep it in the family." Her trimmed nails, her long legs, the visible softness of her skin… she was so familiar to him. But Lorena Carlyle, he reminded himself, had killed a man. It was so unapparent upon first glance, but the more a person stared at the writer, the more he or she could see her past, as she wore it, unabashedly, on her face.

Lorena folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorframe. "I don't remember what Emily's protocol was for drinking at one in the morning in a house that you're militarily occupying."

"So, if there are no rules…" he began suggestively.

"Then there are no rules to break. Honestly, Lewis, if I didn't know you were from New Jersey, I'm sure I cold have guessed by now."

He chuckled rather darkly and pushed the chair out with his foot, allowing her to sit. "So, Miss Lorena, I'm guessing this isn't your first time in Europe."

She took the flask from Lew's outstretched hand and put her nose to the top, inhaling the all-too-familiar smell of VAT 69. She had once attended a marathon poker game with Lorenzo and found that, in the morning, her satin gown and Veronica Lake styled hair wreaked of the whiskey and cigar smoke. She took an un-ladylike mouthful and passed it back.

"Definitely not. Every summer of my life has been spent in either Paris, London, Rome, or Palermo."

"Palermo?" Lew scoffed. "What's in Palermo?"

"Sicilians. We only went once. Just to remind Mama why she left. But this is the first time I've been back in years."

"Because of the war?"

Lorena pursed her lips and thought of how properly explain. It was because of a war, but not the war. "Because of my husband," she finally said.

Lew looked down at his dry, cracked, empty hands. "Normally, I'd ask what really happened, because there's got to be more to the story, but Dick already chewed me out once about it, so I'll just sit here and pretend to be a gentleman."

The two of them drained the flask without any further mention of marriage or Europe or wars. Instead, Lorena and Lew spoke as though they had met, not in the middle of a war, but in the middle of a social club over drinks (not over a folder that described the manner in which she had been acquitted of murder). The trick was to imagine the entire conversation occurring at another time and another place. By the time the grandfather clock in the hall struck three o'clock in the morning, Lorena was able to make a second tally mark on her list of friends: Lewis Nixon of Nixon, New Jersey.

Moose Heyliger was distrustful of Lorena Carlyle in more ways than one.

She was quiet. The only time anybody was quiet in the Army was when they were on patrol. On their off-time, though, they were a bunch of crazy bastards. Reading was something a guy did when he was too tired to shoot the shit. They wrote letters when they were really missing home or because it was somebody's birthday. But most of the time, those boys were loud as fuck. And it was a known fact that you had to watch out for the quiet ones. They taught you that shit in OCS. "Watch those quiet fuckers. They're the ones that are going to either go fucking nuts or are going to blow your foot off because their heads are in the fucking clouds. Watch 'em close." And so he watched her and he knew that it was her job to write about the war, just like it was his job to lead Easy since Winters had been promoted, but she was quiet and he couldn't trust her.

And she was always talking to Doc Roe. Moose was starting to think that she was getting some extra morphine to put in her own aid kit, just in case. She did get hit once already, right? Or maybe she was just getting in good with the medic so, if it came down to her or some other guy, she'd be treated first. But Lorena hadn't complained at all when she did get hit, even when she had to stay in her blood soaked uniform for another week. And most broads didn't take getting stuck with metal too lightly. Hell, they cried if they were pricked with needles. When he stopped to think about it, he realized that she had been pretty fucking calm about the whole thing, and because of that, he couldn't trust her.

Then there was that whole murder thing. Or was it a killing? The Army taught Moose that there was a difference between murdering and killing, a difference he didn't have a clue about before the war. Killing was something a guy did to protect himself, his country, his family, whatever. Murdering was something a guy did because of money or because someone else slept with his girl or because he just didn't give a fuck. Murder was illegal as hell. Cold-blooded murder was worse. Killing, although it was pretty shitty sometimes, usually happened for the good of someone else. There were a few debates amongst the enlisted men and the officers about which one Lorena had actually done. A lot of the enlisted men and the noncoms said murder: "So what if he was beating her? Doesn't mean that she didn't shoot him point blank. I mean, it's his own fucking fault anyway. You don't beat a Sicilian woman. My pop always said they were more dangerous than shotguns." The officers, the ones that either read her or remembered the story or remember her face from the march, said killing: "She's got the scars to prove her point and twelve Southern men that didn't decide to lynch her. I don't think there is any room for argument." (When Ronald Speirs spoke, the world listened.) But Moose's comrades didn't trust her, so neither did he.

But then Operation Pegasus came up and during the whole thing, she was quite the soldier. She paddled the boat two out of the three trips. She didn't complain. She even celebrated with the Brits, even though she could have ran back to her room to punch out an article. But she stayed with the men, drinking beer straight from the bottle. And then Moose saw her laugh. It was a drunk-off-her-ass laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, with her teeth showing and everything. And Moose Heyliger, after seeing Lorena Carlyle fall off a chair from laughing so damn hard, decided that in the face of everything, he could finally trust her.

FRANCE -- November 1944 -- As a journalist, I am objective and unbiased. As a human being, I am judgmental and prejudiced. As an honorary soldier, I am obnoxious about my opinions. When Winters was appointed to executive officer of the battalion, I was sure that no other could ever replace him as leader of Easy Company, with whom I have spent most of my time. Then, of course, I was introduced to Lieutenant Fred Heyliger, called "Moose" by the men. He led the company on an expedition to rescue several hundred stranded British soldiers, with the help of Canadian engineers. That, mind you, was safe. It was nothing like liberating Eindhoven or trying to take Antwerp. But, nonetheless, it was stressful. A few weeks ago, though, Moose was shot. Not by a Kraut, but by a replacement solider from Wyoming who acted in haste and fear. Lt. Heyliger is doing better now, as the field hospital has had him so filled up with morphine that it's practically coming out of his ears. Since the morning I was alerted to Moose's departure, though, I was set in the idea that no one better would come to Easy and as these past weeks (or have they been years) have taught me, I was right.

Easy Company had been taken over Lieutenant Norman Dike, a favorite of "someone up at regiment," as it had been explained to Lorena by Winters. The minute that she was introduced to him, she had horrible Parker Hollis flashbacks. The yawning, the glassy eyes, the way he peaked over her shoulder when she typed… Lorena wrote him into her columns as a villain, a fiend. Then, as quickly as she possibly could, she sent a copy off to Atlanta and off to a hospital in France, where Webster was staying.

"It helps forget everything around me for a few minutes," he told her in a letter. "It's almost like you are with me in this godforsaken place, only you have the luxury of movement. Being confined to this bed is comparable to death, and although I don't long for the days of running three miles up and three miles down, I must admit that I miss the fresh air."

And Lorena had plenty of fresh air. The men started training again and she often jogged alongside of them, feeling a burn in her muscles and her joints. Their marching, though, she simply watched in annoyance. Dike, stretching his power, had the men (and boys, some just off of their eighteenth birthdays) march, in full gear, back and forth in front of him. Some called it an inspection. Lorena called it asinine. All one had to do, in her opinion, was look at Easy Company once and then read the list of things that they had accomplished. After that, there was no need for discussion. Easy, even compared to Dog or Fox, was the best and Lorena held then in the highest regard.

And Lorena mentioned all of it in her columns: Moose leaving, Dike coming in, Winters' departure (but his splendid performance in the XO position), the running, the marching, the impending cold weather that would overtake Western Europe in a matter of weeks. The only aspects of her new life that she left out were her daily conversations and walks with Ron. It began in early November when, as she was writing and watching another march, his imposing body blocked out her sunlight. She looked at him, annoyed at first, ready to chastise his obvious lack of respect for her work, but the moment his eyes caught hers, Lorena lost all sense of what she was going to say. She would have slapped herself if she was sure that it wouldn't have made a scene.

"I'm going for a walk and you look like you could use a break," he said, looking ethereal with the white light of the afternoon surrounding him; like the moon during an eclipse.

Ron had expected her to be witty or charming or playful with her answer. Is that your idea of an invitation, Lieutenant? Or maybe, Of course, Ron. I'd love to. Or, if he had any luck at all, she'd throw him a smile, the kind that made the world dissolve for the spilt second that it graced her pretty face and made him forget the letter his wife had written just days before. It's a boy and I hope that, although he isn't yours, you'll be able to love him as if he were. Marrying a pregnant woman was high on the list of things he probably should have put more thought into…

"Sure," she said, sliding her notebook and pen into her bag and crushing all of Ron's fucked up hopes.

They walked around the town they were stationed in, making a few heads turn in the process. She would ask him questions, trying to avoid answering anything about herself, but he would instantly turn the tables on her. That was, of course, until Lorena asked the five hundred dollar question.

"Is it difficult being away from your wife for so long?"

Ron almost stopped in his tracks, and to the untrained eye, he never really faltered. But Lorena, who had the eyes of a hawk on the hunt, noticed his sudden jolt at her inquiry. She bit her tongue to keep from smiling. Typical male response. Women are always a weakness. He figured that he could just lie. Lying seemed justifiable at the moment. But she'd catch it. He knew she would. That was what she did.

"I guess," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"That's very vague," she said before offering him a cigarette.

He accepted and, in return, offered her a light. "I'm not the really talkative type. In case you hadn't noticed."

"No, I assumed that the first time I saw you."

That time, Ron did stop. He ran his hand through his unruly hair, letting it flop forward. Lorena walked ahead of him for a while before finally stopping. She didn't turn back and look at his face, just stood there, eyes focused on the earth at her feet.

"Makes sense," he said, still stationary. "The first time you saw me, you were drunk."

Lorena spun around quickly. So quickly, in fact, she almost lost her balance, but she was sure it could have easily been the way Ron looked her. "I wasn't talking about that. I meant the very first time I saw you. It was --"

"Two years ago," he sighed. "Almost to the day."

Lorena nodded briefly. "Almost."

Ron started walking again, though he didn't speak or make any attempt to, but it was a comfort to Lorena. It felt safe, like being home. Yet, as much as he could be silent and make her feel whole, he could speak and make her feel as though her world were slipping through her fingers. That happened on an evening in early December while the crickets chirped and the soldiers laughed in the distance.

"What will you be doing this weekend?" he asked. It seemed harmless enough, but he was still asking against his better judgment.

"Working, most likely. Or catching up on a few letters from Lorenzo. Why?"

Don't do it, Speirs. You'll fucking regret it. "I have a 48 hour pass to Paris."

"Lucky you," she said, smiling; reminiscing. "I miss that city."

"Yeah, I know. You've mentioned it a few times." A few thousand, maybe. "You'd know your way around then?"

Lorena blinked and her chest tightened at the tone in his voice. Please, don't. "Yes. Blindfolded even."

Suddenly, Ron imagined her blindfolded, stripped down and in a Parisian hotel room; mouth parted, chest heaving, hands shaking, heart pounding, hair fanned out across a pillow below him. He rubbed his hands together and ran his tongue along his bottom lip. He reached in his pocket for the pack of Lucky Strikes and ripped one out, lighting it quickly.

"I'm thinking, then, you should come." Stop fucking thinking about her naked. "With me, I mean."

Lorena could see the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip and the way his cheeks had gone slightly pink, but she knew the blood was rushing elsewhere. She knew the tone… it made her both nervous and weak in the knees. "How? I don't have a pass."

"Sink sent a runner about an hour ago. It's probably waiting for you."

"Oh," she said. Just when I thought I had an out. She wasn't sure she wanted to be alone in Paris with Ron Speirs. Not that they would ever be alone there, but there were times when she was with Ron that the rest of the world fell away. For most women, that was a sign of love, but Lorena knew better. With Parker, the world disappeared because of the fear that would enveloped her. She could feel the violence in the way her held her as they danced and hear the imminent beating in the way he spoke to her. Involuntarily, Lorena winced.

"When do we leave?"

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