A/N: Yeah, this chapter. It's pretty much whatever. Not my best, for sure. Total filler and fluff here, except for the first and the last part.
www . youtube . com/watch?v=HZMm8Mh0Mzc

Inspired by Sam Phillips and The Sound of Music.

XVII. When I Fall
control is letting go
and i'm the last to know

May 10, 1945
Somewhere in Italy

A young man with a tan face opened his dark eyes and found himself surrounded by nothing but white. Is this heaven? It doesn't smell like heaven. It smells like – He struggled to sit up, his leg bound in a cast, which was elevated by some contraption. Other men were asleep in the beds next to his and the distinct sound of medical equipment beeped quietly in the background. He turned to find a blonde woman in a nurse's uniform coming toward him.

"Where am I?" he asked as she bent down to check his vitals.

"A hospital in Northern Italy, honey," she answered in a syrupy, sweet Southern voice. "You've got a broken leg and some mild bruising, but it's nothing that time and rest won't fix."

He shook his head, his black hair flopping across his face. "How did that happen? How did I get here? Wh—What year is it, even?"

The nurse, Deborah, smiled and pulled a chair next to the handsome man's bed. "We're not sure how it happened, hon. We were all hoping you could tell us now that you're awake."

His thick eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Now that I'm awake?"

"Yes. You've been in a coma for five months. You finally opened your eyes eight days ago, the same day the Italians finally ended things. Pretty miraculous, huh? As for how you got here, one of the Canadian units found you and three other boys, but they weren't quite as lucky as you," she said.

"Five months? So this isn't still 1944?" the man asked.

"No, honey. This is May 1945. The Germans and the Italians have surrendered. Now, we're all just waitin' on the Japanese. Other than them, it's all over."

The man's breath caught in his throat. His head was spinning and his limbs were shaking. Deborah touched his hand and smiled at him. "Hey, it's okay. Everything is going to be okay. I'm going to go and fetch your doctors, alright? But, first, tell me something, honey. Do you remember your name?"

"Yes. Carlyle. Lorenzo Carlyle."

"Love is a 'many splendored thing.' It is the desire for intimacy and the willingness to be vulnerable. It is rejoicing in the presence of the other, a commitment to the wider causes of the other. It is friendship. And it rests upon a solid sense of the self's own worth, and, ultimately, upon a deep sense of cosmic acceptance, of being at home in the universe." – John Nelson, Between the Gardens, 1983

Soldiers from several companies packed into a tiny, dimly-lit room like anchovies to view the canned news about the Pacific Theatre. Many of the men – especially the new replacements – grimaced at the sight of the men on the stretchers and the explosions that flashed across the large screen. Lorena stood stock-still next to Ron and the other officers, filling with harsh, distant memories as the images of men covered in blood were presented.

In moments such as those, Ron's steady presence would feel alien. She had lived in fear for so long that his existence was like a pleasant dream from which she never wanted to wake. It was impossible for Lorena to wrap her head around the idea that he was not a figment of her imagination, but a living, breathing organism for her to touch and love. Yet, as the announcer's voice continued on about the horrors that the Marines faced against the Japanese, the dark, pessimistic side of Lorena's personality chided her glass-half-full side that had prevailed throughout much of her childhood and her collegiate years. Life is so fleeting. What a fool you are for thinking this joy and stability could last.

It was the idea of her brother, though, that brought a watery blur to her vision. She could only imagine his eyes – his espresso-colored eyes that had always been so full of warmth – void of life in a ditch somewhere in the Italian countryside. Lorena swallowed hard at the thought and cast it away painfully. It was the one thing that she could not dwell on for fear of truly dying of a broken heart.

The lights came on once more and the men began to quickly file out of the room, their minds and bodies filled with anxiety, dread, rage, and excitement in equal amounts. Ron squeezed Lorena's hand tight as they exited the smoky room, almost as if he could read her mind. But Ron's own mind had been too busy to attempt to decode Lorena's. The two of them had spoken earlier, at length, about the war in the Pacific. Since V-E Day, Ron had been debating whether or not to remain in the Army. The truth of the matter was, Ron had enough points to return to the States and never look back, but he had found out something rather significant about himself since joining the war: he looked damn good in fatigues and they felt more comfortable than anything else he had ever worn in his life. Lorena, of course, knew that no matter where Ron went or what he decided, she was going to follow 2nd Battalion to the ends of the Earth. Whether it was her duty or her destiny was unknown, but either way, she wouldn't leave until their story was finished, until she had an ending; a closing paragraph that was worthy of the men she had gotten to know.

"Only, what will you do if you go home and I jump on Tokyo?" she asked as they lay lazily in bed, her arm draped across Ron's bare stomach.

"I'd wait for you. I'd wait until the day I died."

Lorena could help but stifle a laugh, which she disguised as a satisfied grin. It wasn't in Ronald Speirs' nature to be so forthcoming with his words. His emotions, as of late, were always showing (and his men were beginning to realize it more and more), but his words had grown to be sentimental and tender. Yet, she knew that he was being neither untruthful nor insincere. She could easily tell the difference. Whether the alteration in his demeanor was caused by the war's rapid changes or theirs, though, remained a mystery to her. Either way, she relished in it, as any woman might, but for different reasons than many may have thought. Although she thoroughly enjoyed having him near her, she no longer needed him for strength – for stability – but his words demonstrated that he needed her. He needed her to move alongside of him through life to make him feel like a complete human being. Some might have called it a revolution, but they would have been wrong, for their love was a renaissance.

Lorena listened half-heartedly as several voices filled the dark room and she slipped in and out of sleep. She knew one of them was Ron's voice: she could pick that gruff tone out of a crowd anytime, anyplace, anywhere. The other she thought belonged to Sgt. Floyd Talbert from Easy. The two others she didn't recognize, especially not in her state. The reporter in her wanted to sit up, find a clean shirt, and go running after the footsteps that disappeared down the hall immediately after the cacophony of a closing door. But her body wouldn't budge. She could just picture herself, like she was twenty again: her heels clacking against the pavement, her hair in wild disarray. Lorena smiled sleepily at the thought, almost as if in a drunken haze. A hand tightened on her shoulder and jolted her from her reverie.

"Lorena, get up," Ron said. He sounded rushed, angry, practically worried. She hated when he sounded that way.

"What is it?" she asked; all evidence of slumber automatically gone from her being.

"Grant's been shot. I've got to go take care of this. I'm gonna go with Doc and Talbert down to the surgeon right now to see what can be done, if anything. I need you to find out who did this. Use those investigative skills, won't you?"

Lorena nodded. She had been haphazardly putting on her uniform while Ron was talking and was nearly finished lacing her boots up by the time he placed a goodbye kiss on her lips. "Wait, Ron!" she called after him. "Do you want him dead or alive?"

"Alive. But I'll understand if he's not by the time I get back."

And with that, he was gone.

The exact details of what happened to Sgt. Chuck Grant will never be fully disclosed. The two witnesses, replacements to Easy Company, were in shock when I spoke to them hours after the incident and the shooter… well, let me just say that, between the amount of alcohol he consumed and the doctors that have wired his jaw shut to heal it, it isn't likely that he'll be able to speak about it for quite a while. Nevertheless, I sought the story of Grant's wound.

From what I gathered from the two men who were there, Grant exited the jeep when the three of them came upon several empty vehicles and several dead bodies. The shooter, a replacement from Item Company, 3rd Battalion, was waving his gun around in a drunken manner and shouting. When Grant attempted to stop him from stealing the jeep of the British officer he had already killed, the replacement swung his arm up and squeezed the trigger once, putting a single bullet into Grant's skull. I realize, readers, that that may sound harsh, perhaps callous, but I assure you, it is all worthwhile. If nothing else, it shows the effect that boredom and alcohol can have on an armed man. Although by day, this replacement was a trained soldier, by night, he was an armed and dangerous civilian with – as a neighbor of mine once said – no more sense than God gave a lemon. After such a long war, there is no doubt that these men deserve some form of relaxation and release, but should it be at the expense of the lives of others?

Whether or not this is the true account of how Sgt. Grant ended up in the care of a Kraut brain surgeon (and expected to survive), the world may never know, but one thing certainly is for sure: tonight, the men of Easy Company and I were forced to rethink our opinions about Captain Ronald Speirs. The stories surrounding Easy Co.'s commanding officer are legendary amongst those in the 506th PIR and tonight, a situation was put in front of him that might have added another into the circulation…

Lorena stared at her last paragraph. Her face twisted into a grimace of dissatisfaction. She pulled the paper from her typewriter and immediately blacked the sentences out. Some of the events that Lorena had witnessed, she thought, belonged to the world: the discovery of the Landsberg camp, Winters' strength as a leader, the crowd of the liberated Dutch along Hell's Highway in Holland, Dike's incompetence, the camaraderie amongst the men, Bavaria and the Eagle's Nest, the death of the soldiers in the Ardennes, the endurance of the medics, the sound of the men's laughter in the bleakest of times…

Some things, though… well, those moments belonged to them. The tears shed for a fallen friend, Nixon's nightcaps, the way they all molded together in their foxholes, how much Winters truly hated his position as Battalion XO, and, finally, how Easy Company learned that the stories about Ron (probably) weren't entirely true…

Easy Company followed Floyd Talbert out into the foyer, pulling their jackets and shirts over their exposed arms and chests. Lorena felt mildly claustrophobic as she fell into step amongst them.

"He wants a non-com guarding each roadblock and at least two men watching every road out of town. Bull, Malark: you each pick a squad and one of these witnesses on a house to house search," Talbert said, his youthful face darkening as he stormed ahead.

Bull came up alongside of Lorena and she felt herself exhale. Since their day in hiding in Holland, she knew not to worry when he was around. He offered her a nod as they walked through the dim corridor and she returned it, just as they always did. Webster, his usually perfect hair mussed from sleep, also nodded and Lorena gave his shoulder a light squeeze.

"Can we shoot this bastard on sight?" Don Malarkey asked, slinging his gun across his chest.

"Try and take him alive," Talbert said.

"But if there isn't any other way, then by all means," Lorena said, and although she thought she had spoken softly enough that no one would hear her, several heads turned to look at her. Each pair of eyes that found hers in that room still (partly) expected her to be joking – she wasn't.

Ron, who was speeding down a cobblestone road miles away, wasn't joking either. He sat, rigid as boulder, in the passenger seat of a jeep, his gun aimed directly at the Kraut surgeon's balls. A man from his company (from his battalion, from his regiment) was inches away from Death's door thanks to sheer stupidity. It was waste. And there was nothing that Ron hated more than waste. He hated when he had to give up a pair of jeans that he hadn't worn a hole through yet. He hated when Bea would scrape leftovers into the trashcan. He hated when Lorena hid herself away because of one stupid man and one brave choice. He hated when the lives of good men, like Grant, were threatened because of drunk fuck-ups who thought they had nothing better to do.

At that moment, Ron was full of hate. It moved through his veins like water and then built up in his thin blood vessels like sludge from an oil refinery. His body thrummed with the rhythmic pulsing of the heated animosity as it pushed its way through to his heart and his brain and his hand, where his finger rested on the trigger of the cold gun. Suddenly, Ron could taste the distinctly metallic tang of iron on his tongue. He could feel a warmth spreading through his mouth and a fire in his face. It wasn't until later that he realized that what he had tasted was his own blood from where he had bitten down too hard on the inside of his cheek.

Meanwhile, Lorena sat behind George Luz on a round ottoman while he played poker with Talbert. The sound of fists against face came again and again from behind the closed door, where Easy Company had gathered around the man who had shot Grant. Luz, unfazed, continued with his hand, and then passed the deck off to Talbert to shuffle. Talbert glanced up at Lorena each time the man groaned or the deafening smack of skin on skin was heard. She was sure that part of him was gauging a reaction and another part was looking for her to go in with her victim perspective and stop the whole thing. But Floyd Talbert had to do a double-take to see if she was even breathing. Her eyelids, which closed ever so often, were the only things that gave any indication that she was aware of what was occurring at all.

If only he could have seen inside her head…

If he had, he would have been bombarded with every memory she ever had of Parker's hands at her throat, him gripping her arms and shaking her; the scar in the shape of all of his teeth on the underside of her right breast; the sting of his thick, studded leather belt; the blood-curdling pain of him entering her without her consent more times than she cared to remember; the smell of the blood as it dripped from her legs, her neck, her arms, her chest, her face; the pressure of his boot heel against her windpipe; the sound of his knuckles cracking her ribs. But then… then he would have seen Parker Hollis' lifeless body at her stiletto-clad feet, a fresh bullet wound in his chest. He would have seen the empty blue eyes, the contortioned pose that he had fallen into, the massive ocean of rich, warm blood. He would have seen the face that she saw when she passed the mirror in the hallway: broken, bleeding, triumphant.

There was one fundamental difference between Floyd Talbert's reaction and Lorena's reaction: Talbert saw no glory or sense in revenge and vindication, and that was all that Lorena saw.

As soon as she opened her eyes, Lorena could hear Ron's quick, heavy steps. Without even seeing him, she could tell he was carrying his weight differently and as he pushed one of the light double doors to the sitting room open, her gaze instantly went to the gun in his hand. Lorena, Talbert, and Luz stood straightaway.

"Where is he?" Ron said authoritatively.

"How's Grant?" Talbert asked, beating Lorena to it.

"Where is he?" he repeated, his tone becoming more agitated.

"Is he okay?" Lorena asked, moving to stand in front of him.

"WHERE IS HE?" Ron shouted, only to be answered by a loud smack.

Talbert and Luz stood, immobile; their mouths open. Ron's head was turned away from Lorena and a large, red splotch grew more pronounced on his cheek. Lorena lowered her hand to her side, where it was firmly balled into a fist. She did not look away from him nor did she relax her shoulders from their squared position. Both the slap and the tense position of her body had become instinctual behaviors, reflexes in the wake of a raised voice. She slapped him as a warning, but her muscles firmed in anticipation of the imminent blows. Ron slowly turned to look at her, straight-on. Talbert and Luz watched with bated breath, their eyes wide with confusion (and fear). Ron swallowed hard and his nostrils flared, but then – as two of his soldiers looked on – he lowered his gaze to the floor and back up to meet hers shamefully, submitting to her without saying a word.

"I'm sorry," he said, causing Lorena to relax her hands.

The dark, defiant stare that had consumed her features disappeared and she placed her open palm, gently, on the side of his face. Fresh, apologetic tears welled up in her eyes. "I am, too." With a nod of her head, she directed him to where the man was being held and Ron walked calmly toward the room as if nothing had happened between them.

Lorena leaned against the door frame with a shaky sigh and lit a cigarette. Ron laid the butt of his gun into the private's jaw with a sickening crack. Blood and saliva spewed from his mouth and sprayed across the room. He coughed pathetically, gurgling in pain.

"When you talk to an officer, you say sir," Ron snapped.

After a few moments of listening to the private's coughing, Ron became annoyed. He drew his arm up and straight, cocking the hammer back and aiming the muzzle at the private's face. A few of the men around him, Perconte, Malarkey, Christenson, and Bull, all took a few steps back, even though they knew that when Ron pulled the trigger everyone in the room would be covered in blood. But Lorena knew the situation better than they did. Lorena remembered what it was like to hold a gun that close to someone's head. She knew the electricity, the guilt, and the anger. She knew that wild look in Ron's eyes, as she had once held it herself, but one profound difference between them remained: her arm didn't tremble.

Whether it was his white-knuckled grip on the gun or the sheer weight of it in his hand at that moment, no one would ever know. Lorena took a long, final drag of her cigarette and then ground the butt into a nearby ashtray. Just as she predicted, Ron lowered the gun and removed his garrison cap from his head. His dejected expression, which also held a hint of exasperation, made her chest tighten painfully. His hair fell limp across his forehead, which glistened with sweat.

"Have the MPs take care of this piece of shit," he said.

The men watched him walk away before hoisting the bastard to his feet. Lorena took Ron's hand in hers and squeezed. She led him upstairs and into his bedroom where she began to pour two glasses of whiskey, the best she could find. Ron sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing at his hand where a smear of blood had dried brown against his tan skin.

"I feel like a failure," he said, just above a whisper.

"Why? For not shooting a man point blank while looking into his eyes? You shouldn't feel like a failure for that. It isn't something to be proud of or celebrate. Men you've killed in the field, that's different. You can't remember all of them, but you would have carried the memory of that man's blood on your face and his brains on the wall for the rest of your life. And maybe you would have seen Grant's bloodied face right alongside of it, flashing back to back, but only to justify your actions. It's exhausting to walk through life that way. I would never want that for you."

Ron drained the glass and hissed at the burn at the back of his throat. "Do you want to know?"

"Know what?" she said, sipping the liquor.

"If the stories are true?"

Lorena smiled. Even in a dark moment, his spirits were lifted by the look on her face; the way her lips, a unique shade of reddish pink, curled in the corners, creating dimples in her cheeks. "No. I know who you are. That's all that matters to me."

He stood, crossed the room, and wrapped his arms around her waist. For the rest of the night, there were no words between them. There was only the sound of their love as they admired each other's souls in the dark.

My dearest Lorena,

They tell me that I have been gone from the world for months now and, I must admit, I find this new place strange. There is an electricity in the air, a tangible current that seems to make people uneasy. It makes it difficult to gain my bearings and rejoin the world of the living... Despite the excellent treatment I have received in this hospital, I am fighting to get out. I know that Father is gone, but that you are well, if the papers they have given me are any indication, and I am anxious to see your brilliant face again. I miss you, dear sister, and love you with all of my heart.

Meet you in Boston,
Lorenzo

She clutched the letter close to her chest as the tears spilt from her eyes.

Alive! Her brother was alive. For somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good...