A/N: This has been a long-time coming and, for that, I apologize. I have had bits and pieces of this chapter written for ages, but I struggled to find a way to piece it all together. Enjoy!

Inspired by Nick Drake and my cat, who was both an inspiration and a hindrance. www . youtube . com/watch?v= o1tWbJtBpyE

RIP Maj. Winters

XVI. Time Has Told Me
time has told me
you're a rare, rare find
a troubled cure
for a troubled mind

Sunlight and laughter filled the temporary bedroom of Captain Ron Speirs, whose limbs were tangled with those of a glowing war correspondent. Lorena rested her head on Ron's chest and smiled, listening to the thudding of her lover's heart.

"Do you have any idea how deliriously happy you make me?" she asked as she rolled onto her stomach to look at his face.

"I have a pretty good idea," he answered with a smirk. "You probably woke up half the battalion."

Lorena laughed. "Okay, so I'm a screamer. Sue me."

Ron smiled, flashing all of his beautiful teeth. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. Lorena reached up and touched the side of his face, her fingertips edging his strong jawline. Ron smirked again and let out a low chuckle.

"What?"

"Nothing, just… look, don't take this the wrong way—"

"Oh no…"

"No, no. It's just I can't believe I'm only the second man you've ever been with. Maybe it's a stupid question, but where did you learn how to do that?"

"Do what?" Lorena asked, confused.

"That thing with your legs. That was—"

Lorena smacked him playfully, laughing. "Ron, stop it. You'll get yourself all hot and bothered again. Besides, we need to have a serious discussion about this."

"Ugh, not one of those," Ron groaned, rolling his eyes.

For the first time since he was a teenager, he felt like one. He felt young and carefree and – dare he think it – happy. Or perhaps it was more akin to the feeling a bridegroom was meant to have on his honeymoon. The sensation of unreserved ecstasy mixed with weightlessness. If he leapt from a building, he would probably soar. Lorena too shared his sentiment of joy. In truth, she had feared making love to Ron, and not because she thought his hands on her would remind her of Parker and send her spiraling into a panic attack. Lorena had hated sex for so long that she wasn't sure if she would ever be able to enjoy it, no matter how scrumptious the man happened to be. Then Ron, after removing all of her clothes, kissed a path down her stomach, teased her inner thighs, and went where Parker never dared. With Parker, she hadn't been much of anything, but with Ron… oh, yes, she was definitely a screamer.

"Yes, one of those. First, we have to decide what to do from here. I mean, do we keep it a secret? Do we climb onto the rooftops and shout it to the world? When the war ends, do we just return to the lives we had before? Forget any of this ever—"

"No," Ron said abruptly. "I'll write to Beatrice today. After last night… Christ, I sound like so goddamn ridiculous. I guess this is what it means to be cooking with stardust."

Lorena kissed him again. "Well, that's settled then."

"Yes, it is."

She relaxed against Ron's chest once more, pressing her exposed body against his. She smiled contently. Her mind was gone, no longer working for her, and her physical impulses had all of the control. But still, she refused for her body to become a battleground for other topics. Sex with Ron, although it changed a lot of things, it would not change her stance on certain life choices she made. She would always write and work; she would never attend another worthless luncheon or dinner party. She would never marry and she would never feel guilty for it. And while Ron traced the scars on her back, Lorena hoped that she would never have to explain why.

"You know, out of all ten of the commandments, I never imagined I'd break the sixth one."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "What does that have to do with this?" he asked, motioning to their bodies.

"What do you mean? The sixth commandment has everything to do with this."

"No it doesn't," Ron said, snorting at the ridiculousness of the conversation.

"Yes, Ron, it does."

"Lorena," he sighed. "What does 'Thou shall not kill' have to do with us sleeping together?"

She laughed suddenly, causing the bed to shake in its frame. "That's not the sixth commandment, you idiot! The sixth commandment is 'You shall not commit adultery.'"

"According to who?"

"The Pope."

Ron sat up and Lorena rolled onto her back. She folded her arms over her breasts and waited for a retort. "Well, that explains it! I'm going by the Bible and you're going by the Pope."

Lorena scoffed in mock indignation. "No, you're basing your opinion on the Protestant faith and I'm basing my fact on the Catholic faith."

"Oh, is that so?" Ron said, smiling again. He knelt over her and began to tickle her sides. "Admit it, I'm right. Come on, admit it!"

Lorena squirmed and laughed, trying desperately to evade Ron's fingertips. "Never!"

Ron, also laughing, fell back beside her. Finally, when they were silent, but still smiling; they turned onto their sides to face each other. Ron pushed a stray lock of Lorena's ebony hair out of her eyes and she placed a leisurely kiss on his palm. The scars on her face, the ones across one side of her forehead, were visible in the soft sunlight. Ron tried not to stare, but the fact that the beautiful, intelligent woman before him ever had to suffer at the hands of a brute like Parker Hollis infuriated him. In fact, several times, while he was exploring her body, he had nearly lost his erection because of his anger over the thick, shimmering scars on her stomach, her thighs, her shoulders, her knees, her throat…

"I suppose either way we're guilty, aren't we?" Lorena said.

"Bound for hell, the both of us."

"At least we'll be in good company."

Ron grinned and kissed her fully on the mouth, his tongue running along the smooth seam of her lips.

"We'll never get out of bed if you keep doing that," Lorena said against his mouth.

"That's the plan, love. That's the plan."

Long ago, Lorena had read an article about the ghost towns of the Old West. Once prosperous mining communities, the frontier settlements were abandoned by workers after the busts. They left their stores and homes as permanent fixtures on a dusty landscape to rot in the wind and the heat. Berchtesgaden, home to the leaders of the Third Reich, was the European equivalent. Only white flags, hung from the windows of every home, remained, but the Americans were on high alert, just in case. At the end of the winding cobblestone street, a dark, massive building loomed. Red banners hung from either side indicating that it had housed a man more powerful and more evil than the others. Lorena suggested burning it to the ground and throughout the convoy, heads nodded in concurrence.

They wandered inside and Lorena removed a camera from her utility bag. McGalahan had sent it after her tear-jerking piece on the Landsberg camp, hoping that she could capture more jarring moments in her travels. She had written to him immediately receiving the gift, saying that they were headed to Hitler's former home and genuinely expected to see something worthwhile, but apparently the Führer had been giving orders from beyond the grave. The SS had launched guerilla warfare high in the mountains, blocking the roads leading inbound to their totalitarian sanctuary. For hours, 2nd Battalion rested in the sun, firing mortars at the giant pile of rubble and setting off grenades, while they waited for the engineers. Finally, they were told to load into the trucks and the jeeps. They found a new way up, one that led them to the very home of the man who had brought them halfway across the world, into the middle of gunfire and death and destruction. The man who killed all of those innocent people… Lorena started looking for matches.

It was, without a doubt, the darkest place in Germany, in a very literal sense. The only light came from the sun that filtered in through the high windows, but not even that could chase away the shadows that lingered in every nook and cranny of the immaculate hotel. A bear, stuffed and positioned into a towering stance, was placed near the front desk, where the clerk tried to make off with the guestbook. Antlers hung on the walls, mixing with the various wooden elements that were featured heavily in the buildings' architecture and design. Berchtesgaden wasn't the home to a world leader; it was a glorified hunting lodge: a gaudy display of wealth and power in Central Europe. Positively disgusting.

Lorena and Ron walked side by side through the dining room, where Winters and Welsh were packing silverware into their helmets. Ron reached down between the two men.

"Nice," he said as Welsh took a hold of his forearm roughly.

"Don't even think about it," he snapped.

Lorena smiled as Ron's face expressed nothing but total bewilderment. Winters smirked as well and slowly continued to take fistfuls of forks and spoons. Soon enough, Ron was shoving silver dishes into his bag. Lorena sauntered up beside him.

"What do you need those for?" she asked.

"We can sell them."

"Did I never mention that I'm incredibility well-off? No, really, you have traded up economically."

Ron gave her a sideways glance, one that was meant to wipe the smirk clear off of her face. Instead, it grew into a grin. "You are a darling, you know that?"

"I do."

Lorena turned her back to him and surveyed the room. Just above her, a portrait of Hitler hung on the wall. She rolled her eyes dramatically. She lifted the camera to her eyes and took a picture, chuckling softly to herself. The hotel, in general, was a shrine to Hitler, one that he thrived in. It was an unbridled display of egotism that made every American tycoon seem tame. Berchtesgaden, though, was only the beginning. Just up the mountain, the Eagle's Nest waited and Easy Company was sent to take it, a final triumph for the history textbooks. And the second Winters' gave the green light, E Company was off like a shot, barreling up the slope as though it were their beloved Currahee, shouting, "Hi-ho silver!" all the way to the top.

When Sergeant Grant and Sergeant Malarkey opened the polished wooden doors of the Eagle's Nest, Lorena gasped. She had tried to imagine what the secluded retreat of Adolf Hitler would look like, but nothing came to close to the reality that faced her. It was constructed entirely of some type of gray stone, one that provided no warmth, no comfort; nothing that would ever make a sane person want to spend any amount of time there. Even the harsh floral print of the armchairs and rugs made Lorena feel unwelcomed.

Open bottles of champagne rested in buckets of melted ice on the wooden tables and Private More took a manly swig as he went from window to window. Behind on of the ugly chairs, a body laid face down on the floor. Ron walked briskly over to it and motioned for Lorena to stay where she was. Just as Ron stood, the former German officer's gun in his hand, Malarkey opened a chilled bottle, causing Ron to flinch.

"Here's to him," he toasted.

Lorena nodded and picked up another bottle of champagne. "I'll drink to that," she said.

And so did everyone else.

The view from the Eagle's Nest was beyond picturesque. It was postcard quality beauty that deserved more than Lorena's equipment could give it. Winters had announced that the war in Europe was over. Germany had surrendered and the years they had spent fighting and training to fight had paid off. It was over and no one quite knew what to say or do. It was equal parts relief and euphoria. Ron stopped drinking and tried to wrap his head around the idea of his own freedom. Then the sweet smell of Lorena's hair and body drifted through the open doors and he tried everything not to think about her naked. Finally, when he got enough self-control, he ventured out onto the balcony. He leaned against the stone column and watched Lorena, her face unreadable. He was quiet for a moment or two, and after he spoke, Lorena wished he had just kept his mouth shut.

"I think we should get married."

"Ron, what are you talking about?" she asked without looking in his direction. A statement like that didn't deserve eye contact.

"I'm talking about you and me in a church, with a priest or a reverend or a rabbi or something. You know, married. It's not like you've never done it before."

His voice sounded the same: solid, cool as a cucumber; but his mannerisms were different. He was twitchy, anxious. Lorena hoped it was just the champagne talking, the tiny bubbles and the altitude making his judgment hazy. But Ron was serious. He was always serious.

"Must we talk about this here?"

"Why not?"

Lorena wasn't in the mood for his Romeo impression. She supposed that, like all men, he thought the gesture romantic. Perhaps, he thought bringing up marriage so casually, so abruptly, gave the concept an idealistic quality that, she knew, it indeed lacked.

"Ron, you have become a starry-eyed lunatic. You're right, I have been married before. It took me away from work and put me in a strange city with nothing but obligations. Marriage shouldn't be about obligations. You should know that."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ron asked, trying to keep his voice down. Her tone had a definite implication and he was getting frustrated. "Why don't you want to marry me?"

"Oh, please, don't start. We've just gotten ourselves together. Don't ruin it by acting all insulted or horrified by my different ideals. You knew that I wasn't like other women when you met me, Ron. Nothing in the world – no, not even your penis – would make me change so drastically."

Ron clenched his jaw tight; he thought he might have cracked a few teeth. There were times when it was impossible to have a discussion with Lorena, especially when she refused to budge from an idea. For the sake of their relationship, he disregarded her stubbornness and dismissed it as some monthly female issue.

"I know that," he said. "It's what I lo—what I admire most about you. But how is getting married going to ruin your ideals? It's just a piece of paper and two rings."

"Exactly," she said, taking another picture of the sun-bathed mountain tops.

"Okay, fine. You want me to make a fool out of myself," he growled. "It's a public declaration of—"

"Of what?" Lorena asked with a low laugh. "Love? You couldn't say it now, so what makes you think you could say it publicly?"

"I didn't say it because I didn't know how you'd take it. Believe it or not, I'm not as hardhearted as some would have you think."

Lorena sighed and put the camera away in her bag. She leaned against the wall and looked at him with a soft expression. "Ron, I know you're not, and you can say whatever you like, but after you do, you have explain why. Without a logical explanation, they're just words. Just three little words that mean so little without justification. Besides, some people nowadays only get married to keep the local gossips from talking. I never took you for a person who cared about the stories. Personally, I'd rather live in sin for the rest of life than ever marry again."

Ron turned away from her and stared out across the mountainous landscape. His mind slowly came to terms with Lorena's words and he tried to rationalize his own discontent. Marriage, in all actuality, was more symbolic than it was rational. Why had he married in the first place? Had he done so because he loved the British widow or had he done it to prove something to himself? To demonstrate to the world that he wasn't a blood-thirsty killer, but a man with some sense of emotion? Ron had never given any thought to it before and because of this, Lorena's indifference to the institution of matrimony was an eye-opener.

He also never really thought of why he loved Lorena Carlyle. Daily, he found another trait to add to the long laundry list of things he loved about her, but he didn't have it written down on a piece of paper. He didn't have it memorized so he could run through it at will. He just knew that, without a doubt, he could see his entire future when he looked at her. He could see them side by side, equals… partners. She was, and would always be, more than a wife or a lover. Lorena, to Ron, was a best friend, a meilleure amie; the only one he ever truly had.

When he told her that, Lorena didn't speak. She simply smiled and tilted her face more directly towards the warm sun. Finally, after a long minute of silence, her red lips parted.

"I love you too."

On cool, spring nights, Lorena missed her cat.

Vienna, a slinky Egyptian Mau who would have been a waif if she had been human, had been Lorena's confidante and her saving grace. In the moments when Lorena was one trigger pull away from death, Vienna would jump daintily into her lap and purr loudly. While she typed up her articles, the cat nestled on her legs and gently took some of her mistress' arm between her teeth: a feline equivalent to a kiss.

At that moment, her baby girl was living the high life with Lorena's only friend in Georgia: another writer named Franklin Stein. Franklin was, like Lorena, an outcast in southern society. A Jew and a known Communist, he didn't fear speaking his mind. His books, while all the rage in places like New York and California, were ill-received in the straight-laced former Confederacy. But Franklin's boyfriend, Richmond Hamilton, refused to leave the Old South where he had carved out a fantastic living as a skilled interior designer. When Lorena announced that she would be leaving for Europe, Franklin jumped at the chance to take care of little Vienna Marie. Before she knew it, her cat went from having to share an apartment to having her own room in a grand 3-story country home just thirty minutes outside of the capital. Certainly, she wasn't missing Lorena at all.

Although she had Ron's comforting weight and warmth in the bed next to her, she missed the soft sound of Vienna's purr to help her fall asleep. But, as the noises of celebration echoed in the distance, Lorena rejoiced. Soon, she would return to her cat, her home, and her country… with love in her heart and a companion for her bright future. In her eyes, despite all that had happened and all that remained uncertain, it was a brand new world.

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