#luckyxfew

[xhofmann-blog]

   ❝---- I'm sorry, Lieutenant. Naturally, this is difficult for me.❞

[cxratoria]

luckyxfew:

It’s cold,   his body aches     his stomach is empty            and he’s not completely clear on where he is.

Lipton’s hands are tied behind his back and the rope is digging into the bare skin of his wrists. There’s a makeshift bandage wrapped around his shoulder, presumably where he got hit before they took him - and going by the pain in his chest he’s fairly certain some ribs are broken. His body is betraying him, trembling from the cold making his teeth chatter.  He doesn’t lift his eyes from the ground when someone suddenly speaks to him in broken English - he forces his teeth to still by sheer willpower before he dares using his voice,             “it’s  c o l d.”

Currently the station was holding some    twenty POW:s, among them this american   paratrooper with the injured arm. Supplies   were sparse and wasting them on prisoners   wasn't especially kindly looked upon.                  She still patched him up, though.  This place seemed like everything hell would be,    just colder. A lot colder. As much as she had hated   the hospital, she bitterly missed it now, just to    sleep in something else than a dug out hole in    the frozen ground would have been fantastic.   She could imagine what a difficult situation the   soldier must be in at the moment; not to talk   of the fear.  She didn't reply to his remark of the temperature,    obviously he wasn't talkative. Why would he be.    She only nodded curtly and looked around,    seeing Christa a few feet away, tending to wounded,    however there was no sign of the Untersturmführer.    She reached out for a blanket covering some crates    and released it on the soldiers shoulders.                        " Got a name?"

[luckyxfew]

Lipton glances down at the tall glass of deep red liquid and finds that he really hasn’t even taken the tiniest of sips from it. He mentally curses at himself for spoiling his own time in Paris, some time away that could have done good for many of the men who most likely would have spent their time better. Maybe he’d have a better time himself if he could just stop thinking about the men for a minute, focus on making polite conversation with a kind stranger, even if only just for a moment.

Trying was futile, he knew that as long as there were bombs flying over the heads of Easy he could even be home in Virginia and he’d still be on his toes, waiting for the grenades to fall and the sound of his name to rip through the air.

The glass comes back into focus and the clouds in his mind separate long enough to give an honest tug of the corner of his mouth at her words, Vodka Cranberry - now that was familiar.      "An American would tell          you to add vodka to just about anything"

[lamxme-blog]

   Edith gives a hearty laugh at the solder's words, temporarily neglecting the drink she's already holding; champagne, her favourite. ❝Well, you're an American, non? But, then again, you're in Paris, so drink like a Parisian; drink to laugh, drink when you cry, drink to create memories you'll forget.❞ A firm laugh before she tips back her drink, and once it's empty she orders another.   

   She watches him a steady moment, then, her long nails idly running through her cropped black hair. She's still not used to having it cut; most days, she feels like a young girl, wearing ribbons again. But with a new age after the war comes a new look for Edith Piaf, and she starts to feel her age.

   ❝What's your name, mon cher?❞ she asks warmly, a smile curving onto her red lips.