A few quick notes for continuity's sake: 1) Joe was a barber, not a cab driver. I'm not sure how the cabby rumor got started, it seems kind of obvious that anyone giving out haircuts before a drop would have to have been a barber lol 2) Joe never actually lived in San Fran, but right next door in Oakland. However, the image is just too cute so I ran with it lol 3) I know I make Nixon sound like a womanizing manwhore. Let's not kid ourselves ladies, he kind of was lol But I don't want anyone to mistake this for Nixon bashing. He's one of my absolute favorite characters ever, let alone in BoB I was just trying to keep him in character

Alright, I believe that takes care of house keeping! Upward and onward. Huge thank you hugs to everyone who reviewed. This is for you. Enjoy ;)

Chapter One: Swept Away

Could it be any harder to watch you go, to face what's true
If I only had one more day, well I'd jump at the chance
We'd drink and we'd dance and I'd listen close to your every word
Like sand on my feet, the smell of sweet perfume
You stick to me forever baby, and the only thing against us now is time
- 'Could It Be Any Harder' by The Calling

Nuenen, Holland, October 1944

I didn't even see the courier come in. The entire ward was a blur of broken arteries and flying skirts. Screams of horrific pain and desperate cries for help seemed to rock the building like an earthquake. The axis of it all went off kilter when the letter landed in my hands. Suddenly, even as everyone in the station continued to move with rush of new patients, I was at a standstill.

Dear Nurse of the Red Cross,

We appreciate your dedication to the efforts of the Allied forces. Need of your services has arisen elsewhere. Please have your belongings packed and ready by 0700 hours tomorrow morning. Thank you for your cooperation.

The United States Army

The longer I stared at the words, the more they stayed the same. How could they expect me to just…leave? The men here knew me, they needed me. How was I supposed to move on without seeing them through to recovery? Or abandon this post knowing that more wounded soldiers would be coming in, men I trusted, men I cared about. How could I leave Joe behind?

Not that I really saw him a whole lot now. But at least I know where he is, at least I know that if something happens I was only a few miles from the lines. Within a few hours someone will come running with the news, or he'll be dragged in and my mind can rest easy with the knowledge that my hands are doing everything they can for him. But for all I know I'm being sent back to France, maybe even England, where it's impossible to keep track of any one army grunt. They're just serial numbers back home. Just a folded flag in a mother's arms.

Suddenly, a nurse runs past me carrying a box full of plasma tubes. She turns to glance at me over her shoulder, mumbling an apology in French without stopping. But I'm already on the ground, my letter soaking in a pool of blood that hasn't been mopped up yet. Rule number one of the Red Cross: don't even try to stand still in the middle of your ward. Either keep up with the current or you'll get dragged downstream with all the other dead fish. Grabbing a rag from the bedside table closest to me, I wipe up the mess in a sort of daze.

Sent back to England? Since when has a free ticket home begun to sound less like a relief and more like a punishment? At what point did this life of exploding buildings and gushing arteries become the only one I wanted? When had I fallen so in love with Joe that hell beside him seemed better than heaven alone?

As I stood, I barely felt the cold, slickness of the blood soaking through my skirts. It belonged to a young man whose arm had been sliced open with the bayonet of a gun, tearing open one of his main arteries. The sad part was it had been an American bayonet. He would probably die before the night was over, which explained why no one had bothered to mop up the blood yet. Everyone else was running around trying to save the few lives they could.

I probably should have changed. Or at least found a different apron to tie round the front of my skirt so as not to scare the soldiers laying all around me. They're already convinced they're half-way to hell, the last thing they needed to see was a nurse dressed like a butcher. But the thought didn't even cross my mind until I'd started packing later that night. All I knew in that moment was that I needed to find a way to say goodbye to Joe.

"Sam?…Sam!…Samantha, where are y- OH!" Rule number two: Don't run in the ward. Someone is always carrying a needle or a pair of scissors. The best way to get an injury probably had less to do with the front lines of the war and more to do with accidents at the Red Cross. Thankfully, all Sam is carrying that day are a stack of freshly washed bedpans. But make no mistake, those buggers still hurt when they fall all over you.

"Ow…" Rubbing my sternum, I get up off the floor for the second time that day, leaning over to help her gather the pans back up.

"Sorry," She mumbles as her hair falls into her face. I want to tell her not to be silly, that it had been my fault for running around and calling out her name. But I don't have time for pleasantries.

"I need to find Lewis. Is he still at the city gates directing traffic?" If you were looking for Captain Nixon, Sam was the best person to ask. I trusted her to know only because that was how deeply in love with him she had fallen. It was obvious that the hope in her eyes, the smile at just the thought of him would never amount to anything real. Lewis was the worst sort of man to arrest your attention because his only true devotion was to whiskey and his mother. But he was charming and handsome and usually did the right thing by his men. You couldn't blame the poor girl.

"Yeah, why?" The realization that I'd have to tell her about the letter before the night ended hit me like a kick in the stomach. We'd met in France back around June and had been in the same assignment groups ever since. How was I supposed to explain to her that she was being left here alone? No more English-speaking confidant. No more French translator on hand twenty-four-seven. No more partner-in-crime when it came to sneaking whatever small luxuries we could to the boys. Chances were good that between the constant threats of death and being reshuffled across the European continent, Samantha and I would never see each other again.

For a moment I just stared into her hazel eyes, trying to memorize the way they mimicked clouds at dusk. In the end all she got out of me was a pathetic shrug and a low mumble.

"I just have to ask him about something."

Her eyebrows crease sharply as she shifts the bedpans around in her arms. It's obvious that I'm lying and even more obvious that she's angry about it. We never keep secrets from one another. What would be the point? We risked our lives, shared the weight of death and ripped people's guts open on a daily basis. There are no monsters under my bed that don't creep under hers as well. Finally, she forces her scrutinizing gaze away from me, continuing on down between the rows of beds lining the ward in silence. With a deep breath, I swallow my guilt and hurry out to find Nixon.

I probably shouldn't be surprised to find him with his legs propped up on the dash of his jeep, a canteen full of God-knows-what in one hand as he waves troops in with the other. Had the sun been out, he probably would have had his aviators on as well. But as it stands, the sky has hosted nothing but cloud-cover for almost two weeks solid.

"Captain Nixon?" As I come up to the side of the jeep, he keeps waving cars through, directing them towards the showers, supply tent or ward.

"Not tonight sweetheart," Is all I'm offered in reply, without so much as a glance. "Damn Germans are up our fucking asses. Powers! Find some wheels for that truck out on the backlines. If they don't get here soon we're gunne be in some deep shit." Saluting his commanding officer, Shifty ran off. I can already tell he'll just lift them from one of the Dutch cars around town. That's one of the perks of war. We don't have to answer or apologize to anyone.

Taking a step forward I try again. Had I not been in such a hurry I might have laughed at his assumption that I wanted to sleep with him. After all, according to Lewis, doesn't every nurse?

"No, Captain Nixon, I"-

"Darling, I'm serious. Gimme a rain check. Toye, take that soap over to the showers, have Luz count it out, I have a feeling we're still short."

"Captain." This time my voice shreds the cold air without the patience or understanding his rank deserves. Not that I would get punished for it. Technically the rules of the army don't apply to me. "Can I talk to you please?"

"I'm starting to get the feeling I don't have too much of a choice." He sighs wearily, taking another swig of whiskey. And then, as his slightly blurry vision finally focuses in on me, a wrinkle pulls up his nose in disgust at all the blood on my hands and clothes. "Jesus Christ, what'd you do? Raid a slaughter house?"

"This is from one of your men, sir. Third platoon, I think." That sobers him up a little and he gives a small nod of understanding, signaling for me to continue. But I can tell from the way his eyes swivel to check the road that I needed to hurry.

"I know you're busy, but I need a favor"- Taking another swig from his canteen, his eyes squint a little as he interrupts me once more.

"Hey, aren't you that nurse that's always stealing cigarettes for Liebgott?"

This time it's my turn to sigh, though the fact that he associates me with Joe makes the side of my mouth twitch with amusement.

"Yes, sir."

"James, right? Something James."

"Rebecca." I tell him, pretty sure that neither of us have time for this. Then again, Nixon always has been a bit odd. But he's a captain, regardless. There are only so many times in one conversation that I can shut him up.

"Rebecca." He nods slowly, letting his thoughts get away with him. "That's sort of funny. Wasn't she the mother of Israel?"

"Yes, sir."

He just chuckles, taking another sip of whiskey from the canteen at his side.

"And she played favorites between those sons of hers."

"Yes, sir." I nod, hoping he'll get over the irony before I get picked up for my transfer.

"Well, I'll make you a deal Rebecca. You play favorites with me next time you find a pack of cigarettes and I might just let you have that favor."

Smirking, I pull out the four fags I'd tucked into my pocket earlier that morning and drop them into his palm as discreetly as I can.

"A Red Cross nurse always comes prepared."

"So I see." Lighting one of them up immediately, his smile could be that of a ten-year-old in a candy shop. Taking a nice, long drag, he let his eyes flutter closed as relief uncoils within his nerves. Cigarettes are free for soldiers, but between the scarcity of supply drops and the amount of stress the boys are always under, they're still considered a rare commodity. Letting go of a deep breath, Lewis waves a few more cars through before glancing down at me again. This time his voice is the embodiment of warmth and friendship. "What can I do for you, Rebecca?"

"Is Joe on patrol tonight? At the gates? I need to speak with him."

"Liebgott…Is Liebgott on patrol…" Mumbling to himself between drags, I can tell he's flipping through a mental file, trying to remember. Finally the answer comes to him, and to his credit he even sounds a little sorry. "Last I saw him, he was headed back to CP with a few POWs. I'm pretty sure he's gunna be up there for the rest of the day helping interrogate."

I wonder if the disappointment is as obvious on my skin as it feels.

"Um, do you think…" Swallowing, I take a deep breath and forced the muscles in my throat to unclench, blink away whatever saltwater tries to gather under my lashes. There's no way I can leave without at least saying goodbye. "Do you think I could see him after? Just for a little while?"

Shaking his head, Nix lets out another puff of smoke.

"I'm sorry kid, but we're back on the line tomorrow. He's gunna need his rest. Look, don't worry. We're probably gunna pull back in about three or four days. He'll be all yours for a good thirty-six hours while we regroup."

"I won't be here that long, sir. I'm being reassigned first thing in the morning."

When he looks down at me this time, it's as though I'm a ghost who he thought he he'd been imaging. A ghost who has suddenly become real. Maybe he heard the strain in my voice as I tried to keep a storm full of tears at bay. Maybe he empathizes with me because he knows what it is to be ripped away from the people he loves. Or maybe it's just a side effect from the cigarettes and whiskey. Whatever the cause, he looks more human then than I have ever seen him. For a glimmer of a second, I can just barely make out whatever beauty Sam sees in him. In that moment, I sort of love him too.

As soon as the first cigarette hits the ground, a second is between his lips. Waving another truck through as he lights it, Nixon mumbles to me without meeting my gaze.

"You really care about him?" The question catches me off guard but I don't have to think about the answer.

"Yes, sir."

"You planning on staying by him even after the war. After he's killed dozens of men and been ripped up a few times himself?" This question is even less expected, but again I nod.

"I'm not afraid of a few scars, Captain."

Still looking out at the road, he takes a slow drag from the cigarette in his hand.

"I can't make you any promises. But I'll see what I can do."

Before I can stop myself, my arms are around his neck and I'm pressing a grin into the shoulder of his uniform.

"Thank you, sir! You won't regret it." As I start back towards the ward to gather my belongings, Lewis' voice calls out to me.

"Don't forget, Rebecca. Next pack of strikes you see, alright?"

Laughing softly to myself, I shouted back over my shoulder.

"They've already got your name on 'em, Captain." And with a small, rather informal salute, I turn back towards the cathedral we're stationed in and head up the road.


Stepping out into the courtyard of the cathedral, I pull my sweater around me tighter in a vain attempt to ward off the tiny licks of winter chill already permeating the Dutch air. Moonlight reflects off of the stone path and as I crane my neck back to inspect the sky, my eyes found stars for the first time in weeks. The quiet seems to bring back whatever sense of hallowed ground the cathedral must have had before Germany's invasion. Before the pews had been cut up for firewood and the marble floors had ever tasted blood. As I continue to stare up at the sky, my footsteps slowly take me across the garden and into the shadow of St. Peter's chapel.

Joe's already inside, lighting what few candles haven't been stolen by the villagers with his lighter. The amber light flickeres across statues of saints, their faces hardened but full to the brim with pity. Cherubs dance across the ceiling, reveling in their heaven of good and peace. Every window holds a different scene from the New Testament; Jesus' life as a collection of tainted, jagged shards of glass.

All day long I rehearsed for this moment. My hands shook as I packed and just the idea of putting food into my stomach made it churn with anxious waves. But I had worked through it, pieced together all the right words so that I would know exactly what to say when this moment came. But now, standing in front of him, I don't even seem capable of words. Suddenly the truth I've been carrying around in my pocket all day feels overwhelmingly real. The tears are welling up in my lashes before I can even think to stop them.

"Hey, hey, don't do that." The unusual tenderness in his voice only makes it harder to keep my emotions dammed up and, as his arms wrap around me, I lose all control. Heavy sobs wrack my shoulders and rib cage, hands fisting angrily around his jacket. Though he's probably under just as much stress as I've been these past few weeks, he stays calm and patient, cold fingers warming quickly against my clothes as he rubs my arms and back.

"Shh, it'll be alright. Believe me babe, it's all gunna be just fine." Murmuring into my hair, I feel his mouth press against my head a few times as he continues to hold me. Around us, the sad eyes of Mary and all her patron saints look on, knowing that every word falling from his lips is a lie. Still, I should be stronger. It's an embarrassment to my upbringing, to my certification as nurse of the Red Cross, that I can't keep myself together better than this.

"I'm so sorry." I mumble, wiping at my eyes even as I'm not exactly sure what I'm apologizing for. Maybe it's that I've just made a blubbering idiot of myself while messing up his jacket. Or maybe it's the fact that come dawn, I'll be abandoning him. My hands try to blot at his tear-stained jacket with my handkerchief, but strong fingers closed around my wrists before I can accomplish much.

"Beck, stop. Stop. It's fine, leave it." He insists, brown eyes burning into mine. "Look, just sit with me."

If anything aggravates me, it's being ordered around like a child. Especially by young men. But not Joe. There's always the slightest undertone of sympathy strung up in his words, letting me know that this isn't about control or arrogance. He just wants to take care of me.

As we sit down in the front row of the left aisle, he reaches down to fumble around in his pack. The effort results in a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and I can't help myself from laughing ever so softly under my breath as I watch him wrestle with the cork.

"Swiped this from CP before I left. Can't have mass without communion, right?" He quirks a playful eyebrow, pouring a generous amount into the canteen that had been attached to his belt.

"It would be an utter sin." I agree, smirking as he hands me the canteen. The scent of a full-bodied, French red wafts through my senses and I can swear a buzz is already setting in. Wiping away the last bits of saltwater from my eyes, I drink hungrily, realizing only then how dehydrated I must be. We don't have much spare water at the ward, and even if we did, it isn't as though there's a whole lot of spare time to drink it in.

It's sort of funny. Even after all these months away from home, I can still see my mother's disapproving gaze behind the dark of my eyelids.

'Did I raise you to guzzle like a horse?' She sneers. 'A lady will never gulp, but only sip.'

Of course, a lady would probably never stick her fingers in someone else's artery to dam up the blood flow either. But hey, who's judging?

"So first thing in the morning, huh?" With his arms spread out across the pew and lips stained with wine, Joe's eyes are fixed wearily on the image of Jesus carved into the crucifix that hangs above the altar. Blood seeps from his hands, his feet, his head. The sword piercing in the side of his abdomen looks fresh. Any good nurse would tell you he should have been dead by then. But his eyes are wide open and staring right back into Joe's.

"I don't even know where I'm being stationed." I shrug, averting my gaze down to the canteen in my hands. "They just dropped this in my hands and told me to get packing."

Untucking the envelope from my apron pocket, I hand it to him. By that time, the words can probably roll off my tongue from memory, I've stared at them so many times. Joe just chuckles under his breath, taking another swig from the bottle in his hands as he scans the ink-stained page. He seems completely unphased by the fact that it's been soaking in blood for the better part of the day.

"They make it sound so cheery." He shakes his head in disbelief. When he speaks next, his voice is all theatrical depth and commanding power. "Thank you for your services but Hitler is sticking his moustache in other places it don't belong and they have become our priority."

Feeling like I should be kicking myself out of the chapel, I try to stifle the laughter bubbling up in my throat. But the wine is strong and Joe isn't finished.

"Just follow the stench of Arian perfection and aftershave into the hills. If nothing else you'll find a trail of Allied soldiers in their wake. Don't be surprised if some of them are American. In fact, most of them will probably be paratroopers. Second battalion of the five-oh-six E, just you watch." The wicked grin on his face is contagious and I can feel my whole body warming from the alcohol. There can't be anything back home as wonderful as this.

As I come down from my own amusement, I take a few deep breaths and then another sip of wine. Letting my eyes play over the alter, I stare into the flames of the candles Joe has given life to. My mother always told me it was dangerous to look directly into any source of light, that it would damage your retina, maybe even make you go blind. But I kind of like it, the warmth is comforting. And I can think of far worse punishments than never having to watch a man die again.

"I know you're not supposed to talk about it but…I hate not knowing why I'm leaving or where I'm going. I feel like I'm walking blindfolded up a mountain. There's got to be something about this that they've told you, Joey."

For a handful of seconds he doesn't answer, just kisses the bottle again, continuing his staring contest with the Son of God. Then he takes a deep breath and in that tiny sound I can hear how worn down he's become. If I had my way we'd curl up on these benches and just fade away into the candlelight and peaceful silence. As it stands, he has to get back to the boys soon and I need my sleep for tomorrow.

It still hasn't sunk in that after tonight, I'll probably never see him again. No matter how many times I try and force myself to accept the truth, there's a threshold of potential pain that I refuse to cross where he's concerned. I'll deal with it all in the morning and over the next couple of months. Maybe even for the rest of my life. But for that night I just need a little ignorance and his skin so close that I can feel the body heat coming off if it in waves.

"We dropped into Holland to get control of the dykes, the bridges, so we could cross the Rhine and push Hitler's troops back into Krautland." He explains, voice quiet and low. Almost hollow sounding.

"Right." I nod, waiting for him to continue. To explain what the hell that has to do with my reassignment.

"It's not workin'." He sighs, leaning forward to rest his forearms across his knees. Taking one last sip of wine, he sets the bottle on the floor to free up his hands. I can only watch him fidget with his knuckles and palm lines for so long before reaching over and lacing our fingers together. The warmth sets in immediately and in spite of what I know we're up against, I have to smile, even if just a little. Touching him, knowing for sure that he's really beside me safe and in one piece, never fails to calm my nerves. It's like everything that's right with the world begins at the edges of where our skin meets.

"So, we're leaving Holland?" From cold sponge baths out of buckets to the incessant screaming of dying men all around me, there is no doubt in my mind that I hate living here. But I certainly don't want to leave. Not if it means abandoning the Dutch people, who have been the most reliable, faithful and generous locals we have met during the entire campaign. Not if it means letting the Germans move further south until they snuff out every resistance movement they can find. Not if it means being separated from Joe.

"Not we. There's a dyke in Arnhem, the boys upstairs are hoping that if we take that there might be a chance that we can liberate the rest of the area. But if we keep plunging into the lines like this, we won't stand a chance." His eyes stay on the floor, tracing the grain of the wooden planks that piece it together. Though he isn't looking at me, I can feel the pain of what tomorrow meant for us in the simple way his thumb roved back and forth across my skin. That was one of the reasons we worked so well. Joe was terrible at saying how he felt. He'd charge fearlessly into the line of fire, but he was a hopeless mess against the battles that waged within himself. I didn't need words from him though. Just a simple glance or gesture and I understood. Like we spoke some sort of secret language that didn't even exist.

"What if you don't take Arnhem?" It's not that I doubt Joe, but any one of a million things can go wrong on a battlefield. Grenades going cold, gun shafts locking up, enemy spies getting an unexpected edge. Victory would be easy if we could actually prepare for it, but there's no dress rehearsal for fate.

"Ah, don't worry about that." Looking down, I can see the dirt caked thick in the lines of his skin, under the whites of his nails. I'm sure a little bit rubs off onto my own skin as he squeezes gently but I don't mind. As long as he's with me tonight, Joe could throw us both down into a puddle of mud and I still wouldn't be capable of getting upset. "Leave the Kraut boys to us, you just keep yourself safe and warm down in Tillburg."

Tillburg? I was sure I'd heard of it in passing. One of the resistance strongholds maybe? Or a former Allied command post? My brain doesn't seem capable of hammering down any one possibility. Holland is just a blur at this point, a constant state of adrenaline highs and lows. What's so important about Tillburg? I never get the chance to ask. Like I said before, Joe and I have sort of an unspoken rhythm between us. Words are seldom required to know what the other needs.

"It's one of the towns we liberated, a few weeks back when we first dropped. Germans put up a pretty good fight though, had the entire town on lockdown. Half of them starved to death, or are on their way. There probably hasn't been a real doctor in there for months. They need you more than we do." Even as his head bobs in a gentle nod, he doesn't sound so sure of this last fact. More as though he's still in the process of trying to convince himself that it's true. I'm sure he's right, I'm sure those people are desperate for food and antibiotics and clean water. But that doesn't change the fact that my heart is here in Nuenen.

"I wish I could stay." The words leave my mouth as a whisper as I run a finger back and forth over his knuckles. The skin is rough and dirty. A hint of a smile picks up one end of my mouth as I think, I just described the boy himself.

"The Dutch are good people." He shrugs, glancing up at the cross over the altar again. "If you have to leave, I'm glad it's for them."

It's not that Joe doesn't have a sympathetic heart, or that he doesn't genuinely care about anyone suffering at the hands of the Germans. But I can hear everything that's hiding under his calm indifference. What about me, god damn it. I need you too. Haven't they taken enough already?

"Don't you go getting injured again." I mumble before I can stop myself, a slight edge of frustration covering up whatever helplessness I'm feeling. "I can't stomach the thought of another nurse putting her hands all over you."

Looking over at me like he can't decide if I'm the most wonderful thing he's ever known, or the most ridiculous, his smile is like cotton candy to my eyes. His amused chuckle like toffee to my ears. Smiling quietly to myself I trace the shape of his teeth in my mind, his full lips curled back in the most beautiful way.

"I'll do my best." Offering a mocking salute, he keeps smirking. "Can't make any promises though. You on the other hand. You look out for yourself, you understand? Be selfish, put yourself first, steal if you fuckin' have to, that's an order. I'll be useless out here if something happens to you."

"Somehow I doubt that." I scoff, not believing him for a second. "You're not exactly the grieving type. I'd have to come back and haunt you just to see what you'd do to the Germans."

"Uncle Sam would have to keep me locked up." He smirks to himself, "I'd be a fuckin' madman."

Taking a deep breath, I untangle our fingers and curl into his side, bringing my legs up beside me on the pew. With a heavy sigh, his arm comes around me, pulling my body closer, if it's even possible.

"Any other direct orders while I'm away, Corporal?" My voice is soft, playful. I can't help wondering if we'll ever be like this again. If my defenses will ever fall for anyone the way they do for him. It's a difficult possibility to entertain.

"One letter every day. Nothing fancy, just a few lines. Just enough to hear your voice in my head." His lips are soft as they kiss my hair, "Can you do that for me?"

"I'd do anything for you." I murmur, realizing only then from the sound of fatigue pulling down my voice, that my eyelids are falling closed. I'm absolutely exhausted. My body really didn't have the energy to meet up with him like this in the first place, and now I'm paying the price. A voice in my head screams, I don't care. I'll just stay here all night. Forget the Army. Forget the Dutch. Just let me have this.

"Then stay." His voice is a whisper but it floods my senses like a squad of bombers flying overhead. He's so good at hiding this part of himself (the vulnerability, the fear, the need) that it's easy to forget it even exists. When it finally surfaces, I'm always caught off guard. I respond the only way I know how, falling back on the pretty pictures I used to paint for him in Aldbourne. Back when we had time to lay around after making love and romanticize about the future.

"When all this is over, I'm gunna find you again." I promise, "And I'll follow you to San Francisco, where we'll find a beautiful townhouse apartment on some quiet street. We'll always have the fans on because it'll be so warm and the freezer will be full of ice cream."

"I miss ice cream." He mumbles, a soft smile evident in his voice.

"We'll have every flavor you can imagine. And whipped cream and chocolate sauce and little chopped up nuts."

"We can't live offa sundaes, sweetheart." He chuckles this time, "Not forever anyway."

"Which is why you'll teach me to make challah and matzah soup."-

"Ah, and cholent. God, every Friday for the rest of my life. I can't think of anything better."

"And you'll have a little barber shop just around the corner from our apartment, close enough that I can walk down to bring you lunch and coffee every day."

"And I'll make so much money you'll never have to work a day in your life." He swears, laying another kiss on my temple. "Just make babies with me."

My laughter echoes loudly through the rafters and Mary looks down from the pulpit disapprovingly. It's obvious we've begun to wear out our welcome. The night is getting impatient and both of us have places to be come morning.

"Sounds like heaven, baby." He sighs roughly, reading my mind once again and shifting away from me in the pew. As I fix my skirt, Joe extends a hand to help me up, grabbing the wine bottle from the floor soon after. I give him back his canteen and he gives me back my hand.

"It will be." These silly daydreams make it easy to forget the heartache that's waiting just around the corner. But if I believe in anything, it is those promises of sunshine and steep hills. Trying to fold laundry as miniature Josephs and Rebeccas chase each other around the house. Fridays spent cooking for the Sabbath. Joey coming home to me every single night, hands no longer calloused from handling guns but scissors and electric razors instead. He was right, heaven will have a tough time competing with all of that.

My fingers thread through his dirty, beautiful hair as he kisses me at the open chapel doors. His lips, like the rest of him, never seem to get close enough and when he pulls away, it's too soon. With a steady, deep gaze he has me rooted to the spot even as I watch him cross the threshold of amber light flooding the church out into the moonlight of the courtyard. Everything out there seems to loom darker and more oppressively than before. Still, I keep my head held high as I sneak back into the ward and try to remember our promises. Try to stay strong. But I can already feel myself breaking.


The next morning brings with it that sick, empty feeling I always get in my nerves when waking too early. My skin is cold, my stomach nauseous. Running through a mental list of possessions, I realize there isn't one I wouldn't give up for the chance to stay in bed. To stay in Nuenen. Gathering my things, I notice that Sam's bed is empty, the sheets made up. She must be on shift already, I think to myself, trying not to dwell on the fact that I'll most likely never see her again. That I'm leaving her here to fend for herself against the all too alien sounds of French and Nixon's womanizing charm. I've never hated myself more than I do that morning.

There's a jeep waiting for me at the gates, Harry Welsh in the driver's seat. He looks exhausted and I feel bad for being the reason he was dragged out of bed this morning. Not that there's a war going on or anything.

"Morning Lieutenant." I smile warmly, throwing the duffel bag on my shoulders into the back of the car.

"Morning Miss James." He offers back, faking a smile as best he can this early in the day. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have any cigarettes on you, would ya?"

"Sorry," I shrug as he extends a hand to help hoist me into the passenger's seat. "Gave my last handful to Captain Nixon yesterday. Guess he didn't feel much like sharing?"

Returning my smirk with a bit more sincerity this time, Welsh shakes his head and shifts gears.

"Never does, spoiled son-of-a"-

"WAIT!" A loud, clear voice rings clear across the main road, all the way down to the village gates. My guts jerk around inside me as the jeep breaks to a halt and Harry reaches down to shift the gears again, this time, much rougher.

"What is it?" He shouts down the road at a figure clad in white, running towards us in the bleak, overcast light of daybreak.

"You can't leave yet!" The figure demands and I realize instantly that the voice belongs to Samantha. Jumping out of the jeep, every fear that I might have missed her, that I might never have seen her again, catapults me down the road in her direction. Before I even know what's happened, we've collided and her arms are tightly around me, her thick auburn hair in my face. "You unsightly wench, how could you leave without saying goodbye to me? Without even telling me?"

Pulling back, she wipes away a layer of saltwater from her eyes with the back of her hand, glaring at me all the while.

"I only got the letter yesterday." I explain, still overwhelmed with relief that she's here in front of me. Good-bye sounds so trivial, but when you're faced with the prospect of never having that little bit of solace, it's nothing short of devastating. "I wanted to tell you but…"

"But you never did." She reminds me, eyebrows still knit together in offense, arms now crossed over her chest. Taking a deep breath, I have no choice but to nod. "What am I supposed to do here by myself? Who am I supposed to talk to about everything I see? What I supposed to say when I see Joe? How am I supposed to understand what anyone is saying?"

Her frustration has caught up with her, a flood of streaming consciousness now pouring out of her mouth lacking restraint. Not that I can blame her.

"You're getting pretty good with your French, though." I shrug pathetically, not sure what else to say. French isn't going to let her cry on its shoulder after she's forced to amputee a man's leg while he's perfectly conscious due to a shortage of morphine. French isn't going to make sure Nixon keeps his distance from whatever vestiges of innocence she has left. French isn't going to get her through this war.

"That's not the point." Her features fall, clearly unamused. And she's not the only one.

"Let's wrap it up girls, we need to get going. CP is expecting us." Welsh is tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel of his jeep impatiently. I'm sure the COs at regiment don't care too much about a stray nurse here or there. But I'd bet my life that there's a truck waiting to take a whole gaggle of us down to Tillburg. If I'm not on the truck, then I'm unaccounted for. If I'm unaccounted for then they assume I'm dead. If I'm pronounced dead I'll probably have to hide out for the rest of my existence and live with the fact that I'm a bloody coward. It's best if I just catch this truck.

"We'll see each other again." I blurt out, pretty sure even I don't believe that, but knowing I'll regret not having at least tried to reassure her. "Just try and stay out of trouble."

She should know by now that 'trouble' in this case is a euphemism for Lewis Nixon's bed, which is something I'm not exactly keen on spelling out in front of another officer. Sam's pretty clever though, I trust her to catch on. As she nods, a fresh coat of tears make her eyes go glassy and her arms come around me once more.

"I'll try to get as many cigarettes to Joe as I can." She mumbles thickly into my hair, trying to perfect a balancing act that has her wobbling between tears and deep breaths. I'm sure that as soon as the jeep pulls away the act will fall apart and her tears will crash over her like a wave. Part of me wishes I could stick around to offer my shoulder and a handkerchief. Most of me knows I couldn't stand to watch her usually calm, collected manner shatter to pieces in the middle of a public street.

"Thanks, love." I force a smile back, shuffling closer to the jeep as we pull away. Somewhere over my shoulder, Harry coughs, making a little sound of impatience in the back of his throat soon after. I don't even look at him, I'm afraid to tear my eyes away from Sam because I know that the minute I do, I'm finally accepting this. I'm officially breaking away from everything I've come to care about. "I'll write you as often as I can."

"I'll write back as soon as I know where you're stationed." She nods, a single tear breaking through the threshold of her eyelashes and falling to the earth. I know then that it's time for me to get out there, it's only fair. Welsh wastes no time after I've climbed up into my seat for the second time and as we pull away, the only thought that keeps me from crying as well is one of stocking a San Francisco apartment full of ice cream and challah.


By now a lot of you are probably wondering just what exactly the deal is with Rebecca. How did she meet Joe, why did he fall in love with her, what's her story, etc. I promise those details are on their way soon! A few reviews would greatly help the process along ;)