ƒαìт αccσмρℓì - - { private } - -

[momo the momi]

Lol, considering I've made you wait almost two weeks before - I think I can handle a few days ;p

[momo the momi]

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ritz' eyes adjusted to the dim lit room in front of him. The snowy, staticy radio signal had gently woken him up from the deep slumber he had only been in for a few short hours. And though he looked through weary eyes at first; as reality began to set in for the young soldier, his eyes grew wider with the realization of the weight on his shoulder. It was Eponine, her brown hair filling his senses with its scented smell. Yet, though unsure of how they ended up resting beside one another, Fritz was uncharacteristically calm about it all. Sure, he was afraid to move, afraid to stir her, but in all honesty, it was because he enjoyed the feeling it gave him - and not so much fear over a possible angry French woman attacking him for lingering beside her for to long. Sure, he was a little taken a back at first, but still, he did not raise his head from hers, unsure of whether even the slightest movement would stir her awake. No, he'd much rather just stay where he was, and enjoy the moment; enjoy that perfect spot her head had found in the crook of his shoulder - how did women do that? Find that perfect spot where they seem to melt into you . . . He should move, this was inappropriate, after all. But still, he remained still, taking in the comfort only a female could give. It wasn't a romantic feeling stirring within him, it was simply the enjoyment of company, that he needed right now more than anything. It was the soft comfort that this friendship, this union, provided that he so desperately needed now. Not only because of his mourning over Maria, and not only because of his loneliness, but because Eponine gave him something that no one else could right now - freedom. Freedom from his duty, his country, and yes, even his family.

Because, before sleep took over the both of them, the two adults went over everything related to the Resistance, every aspect of the movement, and even debated the pros and cons. And after the bottle of wine was gone - and the wind blew endlessly - Fritz realized the best part about joining forces with Eponine . . . the freedom and honor that came with it. So often, he had spent endless nights, lying awake over the latest reports from Germany. Trying to keep his anger about the misdeeds his country was doing, to himself. But now, if the movement accepted him, he could do some good; some real good - not the kind promised to him if only he joined the German Army - no, real good - the kind that saved people's lives, not destroyed them. Did that mean he was willing to give up everything (even his own life) in order to do so? You bet your a** he would. Yes, even Anna would be included in that statement. And that was okay, because after all, she would be okay without him. She was always the strong one, always the one more than capable of taking care of not only herself, but of him as well. But now? Now he needed to take care of himself, and be given the chance to take care of others, and most importantly: do what is right - even if it could cost him everything. Because any law that had the end result of killing people solely based on a "status" had the right to be countered with - and countered it would be, with this movement. Surely, Anna would understand that once he returned to his mock base of an apartment complex. She wouldn't be able to join him, but neither would she be able to sway him. Though he considered his sister far more stubborn than he ever could be - his stronghold over this matter was not about his own independence from Anna - it was about doing what was right, and in his mind that was something that she would not be able to change.

And besides, he would much rather die knowing he did everything he could do in order to save lives. It was why he first joined the Army. He wanted to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. But instead, here he was, having to be part of a tyrant's plans to annihilate anyone who he considered to be lower class in any way, shape, or form. And who knew when his attitude about just who was lower class would change. Maybe one day he would despise his own countrymen, and start sending his own people to the gas chambers that no one is supposed to know about. Fritz wasn't supposed to talk about them, much less know about them, but he would gladly hand over any evidence he could in order to help stop these insane living standards. It was cruel the way his own countrymen were behaving here - and though he knew he wouldn't do the Resistance any good if he got himself killed speaking out too loudly, he did hope that by leading by example, that his fellow unit members would get the hint and act accordingly. But considering that so far, that approach hadn't worked with his subtlety - and before he wasn't even riled up by the Resitance - he was unsure of just how much he'd be able to influence his comrades now. Until then though, he'd continue doing what he needed to do in order to keep up appearances, and hope that eventually he'd be able to enlist his own unit to aid in the movement. But whether they joined him or not, Fritz grew more and more excited knowing that he would be able to make a real difference in the lives of so many - even if it was behind the scenes. This Resistance would give him a purpose he never thought he would get to have.

And though the world was still in crumbles, and though his heart didn't seem to fare any better, Fritz still managed to relish in the moment. Even a contented smile seemed to aid in his new found attitude. And though he still had to wonder whether it made Eponine happy, he knew he was better off for getting to know her - and hopefully she was at least okay with knowing him. Of course, he probably should have found a better way to introduce himself to her, than by threatening to arrest her for fake papers, but the end result was the same. He now would hopefully be trusted enough to be given the chance to make a difference.

Had all this really only been decided a few hours ago? Could one night, actually change a man this much? Probably not, and really, he hadn't changed. He felt like this for years; contempt rising, threatening to boil over if he had to report on one more "Jew without the required star" sighting. But it took Maria's death, to really stir things up within him, to give him the courage that only seemed to come when you had nothing left to loose anymore. So yes, whenever he did return, Anna would most likely be shocked by his new attitude, but since he wasn't planning on giving her any details about anything, she would have to remain baffled. After all, it was for her protection to be able to have deniability for when he was caught. Because eventually, he would be caught. But right now, things somehow managed to look, and feel, brighter. By being shown what this little woman beside him did, the adamant courage she portrayed, well, it inspired him. It was the same kind of look Maria gave off, and when backed by eyes that his father had - Fritz couldn't help but hang on every word Eponine said. They had stayed up all night, drinking the wine, and even bonding. And even as they leaned on each other now, sharing a beaten down sofa, still Fritz felt no shame for wanting her company. Of course, on the other hand, he couldn't deny the basic libido attraction that any man and woman would have for one another. But this want for her was not what others might think, it was more than that. And besides, eventually, the feelings would flutter away, replaced by a deep rooted companionship that Fritz could have only prayed for before.

Still resting his head against hers, he glanced over at the old window beside him. His eyes had adjusted to the morning light by now, and he realized the sun was just barely rising. In December, that could only mean that it was still before eight. But the lamps outside provided enough light for him to watch the snow falling around them on the outside. However, unlike the harsh snow that had slammed against him just last night, this snow, showered him in light snow flurries, which were gently hitting the window pane's. It was a sweet wake up call, and Fritz couldn't help but wonder if it was God's way of telling him that the road he was about to walk down was - not only okay - but encouraged by Him. His chest swelled with new found pride, and he realized the action most certainly would wake up Eponine. Saddened by the fact that he couldn't relish in her warmth anymore, but not wanting to make her uncomfortable about their positions, he sat up, letting her slide for a second, before she inadvertently woke up enough to hold herself up. Unsure of what exactly to say to a person who he had threatened, yelled at, broken dishes of, bandaged by, and bonded with over the last twelve hours, Fritz simply sat there in silence as he let her wake up to her own pace.

It didn't take long.

His eyes greeted hers with satisfaction, eager to encourage her to talk with him some more about whatever else she knew that she might have forgotten to tell him about last night, " . . . Good Morning." He had always figured that waking up next to a woman would be awkward, but that didn't seem to be the case this morning. Was it weird that Eponine, was the first woman he had woken up beside to? Even Maria hadn't had that pleasure - because, they had decided to wait until marriage. They shared their love for one another, and kissed and canoodled, but no, they never slept together. And he certainly never spent the night at her family's house. Now, that didn't mean Fritz was a virgin. He had slept with two woman before Maria came along. One when he was a farm hand at sixteen, and another when he worked in a kitchen at seventeen. Meeting Maria afterwards when he was nineteen, he felt honored by the fact that she wanted to wait. She had been a virgin, and wanted to give herself only in marriage. And Fritz was more than fine with respecting her decision. He didn't think it was wrong to enjoy one another before marriage, but neither did he think it wrong to wait. And besides, Fritz was one of the more uncommon guys who didn't really like it that much anyways.

But then again . . . As Eponine slowly sat up straight, beginning to realize how they had leaned on one another, she seemed taken aback a little, and kept her face slightly down, as if trying to comprehend it all. It was then that Fritz was able to see probably more than Eponine intended for him to see. While slightly hunched over, her blouse fell down a little thanks to gravity and the young German saw her slip and the slight curves that were peaking out above the undergarment. A deep blush washed over his cheeks, and he quickly looked away out of both respect and embarrassment. Not knowing what to do next, he was more than grateful when the radio came on.

Before, it had been simply left on a staticy station all night, in hopes that a radio host named "Rig" would come on. The infamous mystery host didn't fallow any particular schedule (from what Eponine told him) and they had fallen asleep waiting, hoping he would bring his own take on the latest Resistance movement. Of course Rig talked in code, and managed to hide his whereabouts enough to evade capture - which was a good thing since Fritz' unit were the very ones responsible for finding him, and crushing what little effect he might have on the movement. The only hint they had gotten from him? That he was American. It was a hard fact to hide when he spoke in such a brazen accent, and with such a cocky attitude. Personally, Fritz knew better than to even pretend to have listened to it before (because more than likely, he would have gotten at least a citation for doing so), but sure enough, here he was now, waiting to hear this enigma speak about something he only recently was swept into himself. And now that the American's voice welcomed them with a "Good Morning", well, Fritz managed to forget all about Eponine's "slip".

From what he managed to fallow, it seemed as if today's segment was more ranting than informative, and as soon as he had finished, Fritz looked back at Eponine and smiled - actually smiled. No holding back. His lips curved on both sides, and he was unabashed from hiding it. How did he get this sudden bout of confidence? How did he actually manage to stand up this morning so easily? The past three days had been hell, with Anna practically shoving him out of his bed, and the other men in his unit egging him to move on so suddenly from loosing his fiance. But Eponine had been so honest about the loss of her partner, and he about Maria, and somehow, he felt good enough to get up without any help. It wasn't that he had moved on from Maria, and he was definitely far from done mourning, but he felt pride as he continued to stare at Eponine - pride with himself that she helped give him, solely by letting him.

Walking towards his coat that had been slung over the armchair, he held his gauzed fingers in his opposite hand in front of his chest, with the - recently pciked up - tweed coat and shawl hanging over his bent arm. Only for a minute, did he rub the sore spot, before locking eyes again with his hostess, "This is a good morning." He began to circle the shawl around his neck, never taking his gaze off of her, "Thank you, I haven't had one of those in a while . . . " Later, he would explain further, just how much her trusting in him enough to tell him about the movement, meant to him. But that was later, and this was now. Tugging at the shawl's ends, he knotted them loosely, "I have to report back for duty, but may I join you tonight? You said there was a meeting, right - if you'd have me, I'd like to sit in on it." As he slipped an arm into the jacket, he realized that that might be easier said than done. His tone growing a little more serious, but still tinged with sarcasm, he spoke up about his fear of potential wrath that might be inflicted on Eponine for even talking to him, "Of course if they would rather guillotine you before letting me step a foot in their meeting, well then I'd understand." With the other arm now secured in the other hole, he tugged on the collar, only breaking his gaze from Eponine for a moment, as he straightened it behind his neck. One button, two buttons, three buttons . . . Fritz glanced back at her, trying to return to a more light hearted mood, "Um, hey, how about tonight - if it's okay with you that is - well, may I meet Enjolras?"

In all honesty, he figured she would yell a steadfast "no", out of sheer protection of letting a stranger - much less a German - go anywhere near her son. But he wanted to see the man who could keep Eponine's heart. Her son meant everything to her, and though he hoped that was solely because she was his mother . . . in times like these - even mothers sell out sons for rations. It was a sad effect that this war caused - desperation. Even people, who love one another, would get hungry enough to hand over Resistance enrolled family members, for a just few extra rations a month. And though Eponine surely would never do that - then again - that's probably what he thought about the other mothers as well . . . no, he saw the love she had for him, and admired her for it. His own mother had died so young, when he was young, and though he hoped he had been loved by her, he never had the chance to find out for sure. Now, if Eponine permitted, he would get to see an intimate moment between a mother and son - unlike all the other times he had to witness the brutality of said relationships - this time, hopefully, he would get to see love. It would be a moment of happiness he had not been accustomed to, as of late, "May I come around seven?"

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ooc; oh my f-ing God, it only took me nine damn days to get this post up scream I already have my next one planned out, but I figured I should break the really long post up into two different posts in order to give "Eponine" a chance to respond <<; Seriously though, I really should be able to get back on more again, now that everyone is back at school and work >,< Thanksgiving kicked my a** <<; Oh, and yes, I did edit this one like three times, but I know that with my last edit, I was practically passing out, so if things are coming out right - I apoligize. Next one should be better ^^ And lastly, i hope I didn't godmod Eponine too much gonk

[OuEstLaCraie]

lover • figher • dreamer • schemer • mother

It was a common nightmare for Eponine - the same trenches, the same helmet falling over her eyes, the same surge of adrenaline, the same stench of piss and fear. She'd glance left and right, to the countrymen flanking her, but they weren't wearing uniforms or carrying guns. She looked down, at her own attire, to her own hands, and was surprised to be wearing a simple dressand carrying a bottle of good French wine as her only weapon. The Professor was on her left, his tie askew but his helmet squashed onto his head. Grimacing ferociously, he was ready to run into battle with only an old university textbook to protect himself. On her right stood the butcher, bouncing a slab of veal between his hands in preparation for the coming battle. Somewhere in the distance, she made out a man's stately voice and she knew, as she always knew though she'd never heard him speak, that Charles de Gaulle was rallying the troops. Something exploded not ten meters away; there was a screech of anguish, then the sounds of children sobbing and women wailing. Grown men withered, collapsed, dropping their insufficient weaponry as they fell to their knees and moaned in fright. Eponine was shocked. But, then, there was the call to attack - was the trumpet charge real or imagined? - and the people of France clambered over the trench wall, scurrying into no-man's land with nothing to protect them but their beliefs and their beloved ways of life.

Facing them was a lone figure, that familiar, faceless German who stood three hundred feet tall and boomed out a horrible, maniacal laugh and leered down at them from the shadow where his eyes should have been. There would be no mercy from this enemy, as they rushed into battle with all their hearts and souls. Eponine went numb; what, on God's green Earth, was a wine bottle supposed to do against this enemy? Sure, it was an expensive bottle (if she'd read the label correctly), but it was no match for those shiny leather boots or the handgun glistening on a far off belt in the haze of French fog and mists of blood. This was truly a fight of the people, a call to arms for any and all Frenchman; a war that could not risk one feeble citizen, one weak link, one traitorous spy. Then, they fell upon the facismile of the German b*****d - a fool's errand, surely, for a battalion of Parisian troops armed with the likes of rolling pins, paintbrushes, and various foodstuffs. And, to Eponine's infinite surprise, the nightmare that had always ended in a bloodbath, waking her from relatively peaceful slumber with a stifled scream to avoid startling Enjolras, the enemy fell to Earth, crumbling under their blows, shying from their meat, whimpering as their books struck his kneecaps, screaming in unadulterated agony when a few starving artists got too close.

A fight of the people . . . And they were going to need all the help they could get.

Through the battlefield's haze, through the victory cry, came the shaky staic of a dead radio wave. The ground rocked - an earthquake? In France? What on Earth . . . ? She was jostled awake, her head bouncing on her tired neck before her muscles instinctively snapped everything back into place and almost gave her a nasty case of whiplash. Not an earthquake, just a change of position. Eponine blinked against the sheer whiteness of the world, as her exhausted eyes were focused on the window and the shifting snowy world beyond the flimsy glass. It was cold; the fire had burned down to embers sometime in the night, leaving them more or less defenseless against the winter nighttime. Her head spun when she sat up, and she almost regretted the bottle of wine. She wasn't much of a drinker to begin with; with the rations and confiscations, she'd been stone-cold sober for months. No champagne on special occassions, as had once been allowed. No wine with dinner. No sneaking a sip of brandy to warm up or a tumbler of scotch for the pleasurable buzz. She wasn't necesscarily hungover, but she definitely wasn't up to par just yet.

Yes, the wine had been something of a mistake - she'd chastise Madame Léon for allowing her to have it later. The only positive thing to come out of the night of talk and drink had been . . . Fritz. She didn't think she'd called him by his Christian name aloud just yet, and thinking it made her cheeks warm. It almost felt like cheating - silly, wasn't it? The way she had been so crass about Auguste's death with a stranger, how she hadn't cried for the man since first hearing of his death, how she bottled up her emotions and wouldn't even talk about him with her own mother, but she felt like she was being unfaithful to him simply for allowing herself to think another man's name? Ridiculous. She'd have to break herself out of this pattern of guilt and anger sometime - better to start now, sooner than later, and leave the energy for the Resistance. For now, she would forget the past, for she had talked of that enough in the last evening than she had cared to in a long time, and focus on the present. Fritz was awake,. of course, and looking at her expectantly, awaiting her reaction to his presence, no doubt. It wasn't like she'd invited him to stay over, or anything - mon Dieu, she was pretty damn sure they'd fallen asleep on opposite sides of the sofa. That didn't mean she'd exactly thrown him out on his a**, either, like she should have directly after he appeared and started to insult her. Mixed emotions . . . strange things, those. She didn't know what to make of them; exhaustion and the effects of alcohol surely weren't helping her reasoning abilities any.

Eponine blinked in response to Fritz's polite greeting, unsure how else to react. The last time she'd been in this position - not the exact position, of course; the general "waking up next to someone you don't know very well" situation - had been with Auguste, her one and only. They'd only known each other a few weeks, but there seemed to be a lingering sense of discontent that hinted at the war to come. Chalk it up to hormones and that unsavory sensation that time is fleeting, waiting for no man to do what he feels he must before death - they'd spent that first night together an abandoned dorm room, far from the wandering eyes of faculty waiting to pounce and students waiting to talk, though there dinner conversation earlier in the evening hadn't ventured far past their shared love of the natural sciences. Perhaps it was better that way. In the morning, when they'd awoken to a brilliant spring day and smiled quietly at each other, there had still been plenty to talk about. The atmosphere was serene and satisified, instead of awkward and panicked; they'd managed to spend the rest of their day in that room, just talking, falling in love with the person inside the bodies they each already coveted. It had been magic.

This was . . . well, it was something else. It had no name, no adjective to describe it. Eponine lowered her head, to avoid his eyes, to keep her thoughts from betraying themselves in her eyes, to think. How to approach this? She didn't feel like picking up the history lesson where she'd left off - who wanted to listen to a Frenchwoman blather on, half in broken English and half in her native tongue, about Napoleon and the monarchs and other nonsense? That's where she'd been headed the night before, when talk of the Resistance had begun to wear thin and she'd remembered that Fritz was there, officially, for a lesson in the French language. Culture and history were fantastic places to start with that; teach him the background, then the basics, so he wouldn't get himself killed by saying something stupid to the hot-headed butcher or the mean-spirited shopkeeper's wife. She ran a hand through her hair, her slender fingers getting wound in delicate knots, and gently brushed them through. She was saved from a forced response by the radio, the only new product in her apartment. The furniture was all either secondhand or family heirlooms, from both her family and Auguste's; the food was scarce, usually tasteless, and downright depressing; most everything was in some state of disrepair. But the radio had been deemed a necessity, when Auguste was shipped off to war and it didn't seem like it would be the easy victory everyone had been expecting. It had never failed her before; it didn't now.

The static crackled and popped, replaced with the familiar Midwestern American twang, then filled with the ravings of a young man who seemed part potential liberator, part deranged lunatic. No one knew where Rig was; no one knew who he was. It was probably better that way, for everyone involved.

Eponine pounced on the volume dial, as the young man's voice rose in the heat of verbal battle, and turned his voice down to dull background noise. The neighbors didn't care much for the goings-on of their fellow apartment-dwellers unless the gossip had to do with sex, smuggling, criminal activity, or death, but Eponine hardly knew many of them and distrusted nearly all of them. You could never tell who would become your worst enemy - a friend, a family member, a lover, a business owner, a landlord? She couldn't afford to be careless in times such as these.

She was lost in her thoughts for a moment more, both fancies of her own creation and those inspired by Rig's patented brand of frank and out-spoken eloquence, but, slowly, reality crept back into her conciousness. There was still a German soldier in her apartment. It was getting bloody cold in here. 'Jolras was still under Madame's care, though he should've been home with his mother hours ago. She didn't have any food or drink to offer her guest. She still didn't know what to say to him, either. And, of course, as she tilted her head slowly in his direction, she noted that he was still looking at her, an unreadable look on his face. There were too many emotions and questions and longings there to read at once and analyze fully; she'd wait for him to speak his mind.

Frit was preparing to leave, thanking her for her hospitality and, then, asking her for more than she thought she could allow. She'd enjoyed talking to him . . . maybe even liked him a little. Shared sorrow, shared beliefs, shared strife - it was amazing how two people so different, two enemies, could almost be one in the same, two halves of a whole, mixed-up, grieving human being. But she wasn't sure she could risk bringing him to the meeting yet. She wasn't sure she wanted him in her home again. Beneath it all (his kindness, his manners, his obvious interest in what she had to tell him) and despite it all (what they may or may not have felt for each other, what they understood in each other, what they had admitted to each other), she still want's sure she entirely trusted him. Damn it all, but she wanted to, more than she could fully understand herself. But he was still . . . the enemy. There; she'd admitted it. And it made her stomach turn to think of him that way anymore.

She dove into her favored defense mechanism: humor. "Guillotines are overrated," she said in a slightly strangled, distracted tone. The statement lacked her usual gusto for witty retorts, because she was still struggling with a way to reply to his other questions. "This is exactly why I was trying to teach you a little bit about my country last night, Monsieur Capitane." He wanted to attend the meeting; he wanted to meet her son. Did he want all of this because he felt he should, because he truly wanted to help France, or, rather selfishly, just to see her again? Eponine held a certain amount of contempt for those who would have even had such thoughts, imagining themselves at the beginning of some kind of torrid love affair - she hated herself for wanting him to want what she wanted simply because he truly wanted her.

"Meet me in the café - the one from the other night - at seven," she replied quietly. Slowly, she raised her head to meet his eyes, with the ghost of a playful, partly sardonic smirk on her lips. "I do hope you are not opposed to blindfolds; I'm not willing to give away all our best meeting places to the enemy." Perhaps, if all went well, she would invite him back to the apartment afterward to see Enjolras; she didn't want to make any promises she wasn't sure she could keep. At the mention of her son, Eponine felt a swelling of that old, familiar guilt, and suddenly, only wanted Fritz out of the way. She had the whole day ahead of her and, if she was doomed to attend another meeting at which she would most likely be ignored and/or belittled multiple times and absolutely nothing would get accomplished, she intened to spent as much of it as possible with her boy.

вìєи des choses à тσυs,

O O C : It's not proofread and kind of daunting to look at it, but it's a post! Now that I'm done celebrating for getting back to you in a timely fashion, allow me to just say - wow. The insight into Fritz's mind and background was just great; I loved reading every word of your post ^^ And it's fine about the miniscule amount of God-modding - it's almost necesscary in an opening post that size.

That said, I'll let you reply as Fritz, then if it's left open for a reply from Eponine, I'll get on that. Otherwise, I might try to squeeze in a little something by Rig :]

[momo the momi]

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ritz' smirk turned into a smile when Eponine joked back about the guillotine. He was glad that even with such serious matters being discussed, they were both able to rely on sarcasm to lighten the mood a bit. He didn't really understand where his own sarcasm was coming from - but he could easily picture Eponine using it in daily life. He could see her sharp tongue flowing freely between debate, quips, and sarcasm, and back to debate again. She was a spitfire - a person with a very heated thought process - and who wasn't afraid to slap a German officer every now and then if need be! Fritz himself, had never known a woman like that - at least not good enough to be shown that side by a woman - but he couldn't help but be attracted to it in some eerie way. After all, he himself was such a non verbal person, that Eponine's personality complimented his nicely; at least, in his opinion that is. For surely, though Fritz was truly beginning to relish in her company, she more than likely felt at least slightly cornered by him. But whether cornered or not, whether out of fear over what he might do unless she agreed to meet him late - or her actually wanting him to meet other Resistance members - well, either way, for whatever reason, she agreed to it. Agreed to let him meet her at the café later . . . and what did our soldier do? He simply nodded at her, and quietly replied with a thank you - feigning a slight weariness, when inside he was actually quite excited about the prospect of what the night could bring!

Putting on his cap, he looked as fine as ever - strikingly handsome (obvious to most, and oblivious to himself). Reaching for the door, he said a quick goodbye, before he stepped over the threshold, allowing Eponine to close the door behind him. He didn't want to linger to long, and inadvertently wear out his welcome, so he didn't even look back. Instead, he simply began walking down the uneven boards that made up the staircase. And though Fritz was walking briskly, he nonetheless noticed the stares of a few neighbors he hadn't seen before. Then again, when would he have noticed them? The night before, they had made their way up to Eponine's apartment as quickly as possible! And though to the best of his knowledge no one had bothered to see them then, that didn't mean he hadn't been stared down while he was lost in his thoughts. But now, he definetly wasn't daydreaming, and thus, he noticed the (sorta obvious) peeks coming from jarred doors; young and old alike, glaring back at him as if he was the enemy - uh, right . . . Deciding it best to simply bypass the stares, versus spending all morning explaining the truth (and whose to say they'd even believe him?), Fritz instead made his way out of the apartment complex, and down the road.

Though he had arrived by chauffeured transportation yesterday; it was too early - even by Army standards - to demand a lift to pick him back up, and really, Fritz wanted to be by himself anyways. Was it strange how now that he was away from Eponine, he didn't seem quite as happy anymore? As if his energy had been drained, and seeped into the soft snow beneath his feet? Ugh, he couldn't think about the emotions that were beginning to form inside of him - because in all honesty - he had bigger things to worry about. So again, it was better to just hold off on a pickup, and walk the few blocks back to the base. Because he had a lot to contemplate on; like how he would have to face his troops soon enough (and just how he was supposed to gather the courage to do just that in a thirty minute walk) - especially the bit, on just how he would manage to be able to pretend that everything was the same. And just how he would be able to pull that off with his own sister - dear God, Anna. He would never be able to fool her! The best he'd be able to do was aknowledge something was off, and pretend that it was too personal to confide in her with. But then again, he always confided in her. He always told her everything. So just how would he able to swing that lie? Oh he'd figure out something - he had to - and that was what this long walk was for after all . . .

But there was yet another reason why he chose to walk back: not only because of the early hour, or the need to buy more time to face his troops - but also because walking seemed to be able to clear his head. So, in trying to distract his rampant ramblings from himself, Fritz relished in fresh air around him. Yet, city life was known for not having as fresh air as the countryside, but it beat the fires in Berlin where he was trained at. His weak smirk faded at the images of banned books, burning in the intense blaze before him and his fellow recruiters. Never had he believed that even books by his own people - Freud, Feuchtwanger - and well established literary genuises, such as Hemingway, Jack London, H.G. Wells, and even Helen Keller (and that was just to name a few!) could be destroyed so easily by the Fuerher. At the time, Fritz understood why some socialist writings needed to be banned; but burned? Fritz absolutely adored books; the way they could transport you to a different time and place, both real and imagined. How they could open your eyes to new concepts, even expand your mind . . . so to see them being burned in front him, brought a tear to his eye - a tear that he didn't even bother to hide. Thank God the flames washed out any reflection of the notion, or else he would have had to report to his superior for his "inferiority" to such things. But still, how could he not tear up at the sight of such things? Again, he could see the point of not encouraging readings that encouraged people's rage against the established government, but what about a deaf-blind-mute woman was intimidating? No, the sight of books being burned would never suit him, just as harshly as the mere thought of the smell of it, left a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

Stuffing tight hands in twead pockets, Fritz turned the corner and stepped into the barely stirring streets of Paris. Thanks to the curfew, most people, even if they were actually awake at this hour, would not be allowed out yet unless they had some kind of special working visa. So, in fact, the only people Fritz encountered on the way back, were other soldiers who greeted him - more specifically his rank - with an obligatory salute, that he wearily replied back with an identical gesture. Suprisingly, even with the fact that he was willing to risk anything to help the Resistance now, to fight the Nazi's - he felt no aminosity towards his comrades right now. Most of them were in the same boat as he was; not wanting to be here anymore than he did - and for all he knew, maybe some of them were fighting against the ignorance, just as he planned to, at the first sighting of injustice! But until then? Well, first he'd catch up on his rest, get a few more hours in, and then report for duty. He didn't really relish in the idea of even having to think about going back to his job (much less actually do it), but he had to pretend as if nothing happened - as if nothing changed. Because again, he'd be no good to the Resistance if he got himself killed so early on. Better to use his position and rank in order to smuggle out some "fugitives" and "minorities", and maybe along the way, help some poor soul - in order to redeem his own . . .

After another two blocks, Fritz stopped, recognizing the street he lived on. It rolled over him in the form of a heavy sigh, before he plastered a fake - but again weary - smile over his face. Soon enough, he'd be handing over his papers at the gate, sign in on the roster, and be face to face with his sister. Surely, she'd have been worried about him, but so long as she didn't pester him for any details, he could deal with it - her worry, that is - not her questions.

Stepping up to the plate, sorta speak, he made his way in, the total walking distance from Eponine's apartment having taken a mere twenty minutes. A fact good to know in case an emergency ever sprung up. Though then again, what kind of emergency would send the young soldier running to Eponine? Sure, she was the only who would understand what he was running from - and not because he wanted to run to her - or so he told himself! But if (or when) he ever made the mistake to get caught, then he needed to run as far away from Eponine as possible! Sure, she chose to be involved with the Resistance - and whatever mistake she made - was the bed she'd have to lie in. But having to deal with his mistakes on top of it? No, thank you. And it wasn't just Eponine he was thinking of here. It was Enjolras' wellbeing he was taking into consideration as well. Okay, so he hadn't met the tyke yet, but really, what kind of man - much less person - would he be for putting the little one in danger . . . over his own mistake!? Ugh, here he was expecting the worst, slowly but surely causing himself heart palpations, and he hadn't even entered the barracks yet! Forcing himself to slow his racing heart down a bit, the young German signed the roster finally, before slowly making his way into the apartment complex.

Just as the streets were barely buzzing with life, so were the barracks - thankfully - barren. In fact, it wasn't until Fritz had made it to the stairs, to head to his room, that he noticed movement in the kitchen. He pretended not to have seen the cook and his assistant, but of course, they chose to notice him. In fact, they announced his homecoming as some large boast that made Fritz want to shrivle up and die. Turning on his heel, the dirty blond haired man stared down at the approaching horde of men from the third step, and greeted them with tired "hello" through clenched teeth. It looked quite comical, with Fritz even thinking of himself as a mere three inch tall Tom Thumb; as his comrades surrounded him - from below, behind, and even beside him.

"So . . . " one of the younger ones smirked, his tongue tipped in idle curiosity that resembled a perverted sarcasm, more than anything else. Fritz, not really being much of "macho-pervert-man" himself, didn't catch onto the obvious, at least not right away. Tongue in cheek, he cocked an eyebrow, and almost nervously replied to the pack of wolves at his heels, " . . . Yes?"

A sudden slap on the back of his shoulders made him jerk to the side, staring back at an old bunkmate from basic training - Markos. Not quite sure what was going on at this point, but knowing that usually a pat on the back was some sort of male bonding technique, Fritz went with it and shrugged his - now sore - shoulders, "Uh - what?" A burst of laughter ensued, seemingly at his expense, and Fritz' eyes surveilled the group, in genuine confusion. Finally another comrade filled him in on the inquiry they were trying to gather from him - "How was she?!"

Still, it took Fritz another moment to really catch on. How did they know where he was last night?! Had Anna told them? No, she was a woman herself, surely she would not spread such rumors. Maybe the driver? But he seemed like such a low level rank, that he wouldn't possibly dare encure the wrath of a higher ranking officer - right? Then again, anyone could have seen him leave last night. And if someone did hear about his "French lessons", than naturally they would draw certain conclusions from that cover story. But how could they know about his recent switch over to Resistance sympathy!? Confusion racking his brain, Fritz stumbled over his words, "How was what?" Only when he said it aloud himself, did the young man finally catch on to their implications. They thought he had spent the night with a French woman! Well, technically he did - but not in the way they were thinking! His hands balling into fists, he forced himself to remain calm, as his face flushed with embaressment at their accusations. One, it said more about them, than him, if they thought that something happened last night with a woman he only met a few days ago! And two, they had no right to ask him - because though he might not have a lot of dignity - he sure enough had enough not to kiss and tell . . . not like that even happened in the first place! Trying not to loose control over te situation, Fritz figured he'd simply remain calm (outwardly that is), and thus encourage the others - subconsciously - to back off on the matter. So, reminding himself to take a breath, the young soldier looked back at them with a gleam in his eyes that betrayed his calm demeanor with the quiet anger building up within him - warning them to move away from him, and the subject - or else, "Nothing happened - "

With that, and some booing from the crowd, Fritz once again turned, ready to push himself through the rest of his unit standing on the stairs, in order to get to his room. Lack of suffient sleep wasn't helping his building emotions inside of him. But if he truly believed he'd be able to get away from twenty or so men that easily, then he was sorely mistaken! Yet, it was Markos who actually, physically, stopped him with a firm, large hand on his shoulder. Somehow, Markos must have managed to tell himself that saying his next remark with a smirk, as if nothing at all could be taken the wrong way with his insulting comment - would actually make his comment okay, "Don‘t take it lightly Fritz - we know these French whores can turely be called the 'lovers of the worl-' "

He wasn't even allowed to finish the sentence.

Before it could even be concluded - and before Fritz truly realized what he was doing - his balled up hand, now forming a tight fist, hit Markos square in the jaw. Enough momentum ensued to make the man spin sideways, and loose his balance. Stepping out of the way to let him fall, Fritz was pleasantly surprised to find the rest of the unit taking a giant step to the side in order to continue letting the jerk fall. Though, Fritz did it because he wanted Markos to fall, while the others did it simply out of reflex for fear they might be taken along for the ride. But for whatever reason, the result was still the same. The macho man crashed to the ground beneath him, his ego more bruised than his bottom. Yet even though no one was seriously hurt, Markos' pride would never be able to let it go at just that. And so, with Markos practically snarling back up at Fritz, the others waited to see what was going to happen next.

"Fritz!"

Her voice came as a welcome distraction (and relief) for the moment, and Fritz gladly acknowledged Anna's sudden appearance at the bottom of the stairs with a fatigue look that only slightly resembled his inner emotions. The sudden burst of adreneline had now dissipated from his body, and all that was left was to turn away from the situation - at least, that's how it was for him. For Markos, his adreniline was just now taking full effect, and the fellow soldier glared up at him as if he could eat him alive! Yes, for now - Fritz would be unable to turn his back. So in trying to keep his sister safe, as always, he tried to brush her aside, hoping she'd take the hint, and get out of harm's way, "Anna, it's okay -"

But then something happened to catch Fritz further off guard. Instead of rushing to her brother, she rushed to Markos! More confused than ever, he found it hard to hide his gaped mouth from everyone. Here Anna was, completely sidestepping her brother to rush to his attacker? Hm, technically I was the one who attacked . . . But still, had Markos not said what he said - and just by the sheer new found memory of his comment, did Fritz' fists once again ball into fists. If Markos dared to fight him now, he would probably loose. Sure, for the most part, Fritz was quite lean, the only real weight on him being set in soldier-induced training excercises to provide muscles. And yes, Markos was twice as big as he was - but, Fritz had wrath on his side at the moment. He knew that he needed an outlet for Maria's death, for Anna's bewildering support to anyone beside himself, and to just everything he was willing to face - the injustice his country was causing. And he would gladly do it under the guise of defending Eponine's honor. Oh yes, Fritz would unleash holy hell on Markos - and die trying to pummel his face in!

But it never came to that.

Anna wrapped her arm around Markos', and helped him steady himself as he slowly stood up. She whispered things beside him that were out of earshot for Fritz, and suddenly, Markos' expression faltered and gave way to a more demured case of emotions. Baffled by what was going on just three feet below him, and a little weary of the - just as baffled - stares coming from the rest of his unit, Fritz didn't even bother talking to Anna . . . or to anyone. He simply headed up the stairs just like he had intended to do all along. At this point, Fritz had been concerned with how he would approach Anna, but now with her obvious support to Markos (not something he really cared or thought that much into), he could easily use her "betrayal" as an excuse not to talk to her - and hopefully send her away, sooner rather than later. Because if (or when, depending on how you look at it) he got caught, he wanted his sister as far away from him as possible; lest the Gestapo assume, she had some shared knowledge of his said actions. So once again, Fritz climbed the long winding staircase, up to his attic apartment - and as usual, planned to barricade himself into it, until he had to report for duty.

He didn't look back the whole time, only heard a stunned gasp here and there, and assumed it was over his behavior. Because in all honesty, he never let his emotions falter so easily. Even on the battlefield, he managed to climb the ranks solely because of his ability to control himself. He'd be shocked if anyone considered him a "dramatic person". In fact, he didn't really talk to any of them, unless he had to for job related purposes. Not that he thought none of them were "worth" talking to or anything. Simply, Fritz was just the kind of person that enjoyed his silence. And relished in the more non verbal settings of a friendship. After all, was he really expected to make friends with his unit? He was a superior officer to most of them, so no one really approached him unless for assignment questions. And second, what was he supposed to talk to them about on their breaks? Share tales about how many people they killed!?

He opened the door in front of him.

He didn't know how many people he killed. Truth be told, Fritz tried his best to remain in the commandment offices of the battlefields, in order to tell others their battle positions and such - and because of his rank, he could get away with that insistance. But at first, when he was just beginning his Army career, out in the trenches of this damn war - well, he pointed, and put his finger on the trigger. Men charged towards his unit, charged towards him, and it was only out of fear for his own life - in case he was captured, or worse - did he find the nerve to pull on that trigger. But even when he did it, he closed his eyes, looking away . . . looking away from death. Yet he still heard death shout back at him, he still heard the agonizing moans their voices made as the bullets riddled their bodies. And he heard the thumps of their weight - their suddenly lifeless bodies - land just in front of him. And though he didn't look when he shot them, he had to open his eyes eventually - and face death as their shell shocked, dead, eyes stared back at him.

He forced his eyes open, afraid that if he closed them now during such a dark memory, that he'd see things he otherwise managed to dismiss with enough ease to allow himself to sleep through the night. Entering his small apartment, he slammed the door behind him, bolting it, in hopes that everyone below would get the hint to leave him alone. That even Anna, would forgo consoling him, after she was done consoling Markos. Though it didn't bother him that much - he had to wonder, what all that was about down there. Ugh, down there where he acted like a caveman, swinging and hitting a man to the ground. And yet, until he was safe behind closed doors, until he was hidden from their prying eyes, Fritz managed to hide the pain his actions caused him. Because now; the pain hit! Oh rest assured, it wasn't any kind of emotional or mental pain - it was the pain of his bare knuckles colliding against Markos' jaw!

Grabbing his wrist, he flexed his hand open, and silently grimaced at the pain of his bloody knuckles. With the blood, the bruises, and the gauzed fingers on the other hand - Fritz looked worse, than when he came back from his first tour of duty! Putting his hand to his mouth, he tried to groan against it quietly as he shut his eyes in pain. Blissflully, images of the dead did not riddle his thoughts! Instead, he waited for the initial pain to ebb, before he allowed himself to regroup what just happened, and even why it happened.

Why did he get so emotional? If he couldn't manage to control himself better over a simple comment made about Eponine - then how would he ever manage to actually hide his association with her? With the sting ebbing as his thought process continued, Fritz took a slow, hard step towards his bed. With the excitement of last night, the talking until the wee hours of the morning, well, Fritz refused to fall asleep - until that bottle of wine made him sleep. Sighing, he looked down on his bed as if an angel itself was spreading its arms to welcome him into its bosom. Letting himself flop down onto it, Fritz felt enveloped by feather blankets that managed to keep him warm, even when it was freezing outside. He knew, that not even in two hours, they'd be banging on his door, insisting he report for duty - but until then?

He'd let sleep wash over him.

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ooc; as usual, I suck <<; Buuuuut I take comfort in the notion, that you get the best of my work! So though I take forever to finish a rough draft, I take my time to give you the best - at least, the best that I can do >,< You friggin deserve the best, for having to wait yet another week for me! gonk Blah, I'm as tired as poor Fritz ^^;

[OuEstLaCraie]

lover • figher • dreamer • schemer • mother

Eponine crossed the room hurriedly after Fritz's departure, shutting the door firmly behind him. She pressed her forehead to the door; through the thin wood, she could hear his footfalls on the stair, the faint hum of a whispered conversation somewhere nearby; she could almost imagine certain women congregating behind doors left ajar to glare at the German as he passed, to prepare their onslaught for when their neighbor appeared. It was early, yet, but the early-risers in the building had nothing to do until the time to run to work rolled around. Eponine wondered vaguely what insults would assault her ears today. She was accustomed to "whore," to "sinner," to anything else denoting her station in life as a struggling single mother who'd had the audacity to have a child outside the sanctity of a comfortable marriage. No one ever seemed to remember that she, too, had lost the single person she loved most, that she was in pain as strong as any of the other wives felt when their husbands left for the front lines. She'd given up trying to set them straight; her energy was needed elsewhere. For cuddling 'Jolras. For working her two dead-end jobs to keep stale bread on the table. For pleasantries with Madame Léon and debates with the Professor. For late-night talks with German soldiers who would probably get back to base and either brag about things that hadn't happened or would immediately turn her in for her various illegal joys in life. She didn't want to believe the last part, because Fritz didn't exactly fit the part of a crass German Hun with a flair for acting . . . but she didn't think she could ever be sure.

Lost in her reverie, Eponine vaguely acknowledged the closing of the apartment building's front door - Fritz was gone, out of her hair until later that night. She took a slow, deep breath in, then exhaled mightily and paused before exiting her apartment. The conversation outside had waned, locked behind closed doors or quieted to lull her into a false sense of security. It would pick up again when she appeared, she was sure, because she couldn't have them sent to a work camp or executed by firing squad. She would glare right back, but it wouldn't scare them half as much as the sound of Fritz's special military boots, clacking on the tiled foyer floor and crunshing through the picturesque Paris snow. She would let the insults roll off her back and that would bring their fun to an end much quicker than if she took the words to heart and lashed back, but that wouldn't stop them from saying things, just to see some flicker of anger in her eye, or a weary sag in her shoulders.

She had to get Enjolras. But, surely, Madame would still be asleep? And she wasn't sure if she was quite prepared for the third degree by the Professor. Absently, Eponine locked the door and turned away, crossing back to her sofa and settling in the spot where Fritz had fallen asleep last night (or earlier that morning, depnding on how one chose to look at it). She shivered a little, but couldn't find the strength to fetch her coat from where it lay, sprawled across an armchair, or to toss a few fresh logs on the fire and stoke the flames back to life. Instead, she snuggled into herself, wearing only her too-thin dress and ancient tights, staring out at the fluttering snow and the deserted streets. "Damn them," she muttered, with a sudden flood of rage, thinking not of her nosy neighbors - only of the Germans. Look what they'd done to her beautiful, glittering city! Look what they'd reduced her to! Look at the desolate shell of a world they'd forced her to birth her son into! More often than not, Eponine found herself simply hoping they would tire of Paris and leave the City of Lights to the people who loved it. She didn't care if they marched out on their own two capable feet or were carried out, dead or wounded - she just wanted them gone.

She sat until a distant church rang the seventh hour of the morning, then sat straight and stretched. She sought her shoes and slipped them on, then began a meager fire and tugged on her trench coat. She filled the tea kettle and set it on the stove, smiling faintly when she remembered how even her kitchen supplies had seemed to hate the German. Well, the wine had liked him well enough - and what was more French than wine? He was still a German, the enemy, something you didn't speak of in polite conversation. But she realized belatedly, with a pang of patriotic regret, that she genuinely liked the Hun. There's no turning back now. It seemed like everything was changing, and Eponine couldn't see where the future would lead. What would happen to her, to Fritz, to Enjolras? To the Professor and his wife? To poor, lost Rig, somewhere in the cold of a French winter and far, so far, from his home?

That's not for me to worry about now, she thought firmly, shoving the thoughts aside in time to see that the fire was wamring the apartment and the kettle was beginning to rattle as the water inside jumped and boiled. She went to the front door and opened it without hesitation, pushing aside the worry about gossiping neighbors and the war and what path she had settled herself on. For now, all that mattered was her son, and getting him bundled up as quickly as possible in every warm piece of clothing she had for him, then sneaking out for a little fun in the snow. Eponine unlocked the door and shut it quietly behind her, subconciously trying to avoid confrontation with anyone so early, then hurried downstairs and knocked lightly on the Léons' apartment door.

A few moments later, a sleepy-eyed Professor Léon shuffled to the door and opened it, eyeing Eponine up and down. His head still hazy, he blinked, trying to put a name to the face, then said with a yawn, "It was a quiet night, thankfully. Otherwise, I'd set the missus on you about forcing us to keep a baby in the apartment all night."

"Oh, I hope he wasn't any trouble!" Eponine replied hurriedly, trying to peer over his shoulder to find her son. "And I'm so sorry about the impromptu babysitting - I lost track of time, and then I fell asleep, and I didn't . . . "

The Professor held up a hand. "No more, please. I'd rather not hear details." He held her gaze steadily, noting how her face fell with disappointment at his words. How could he believe that . . . Eponine's face colored, a telling scarlet, that the Léons and the spying neighbors would take as an admission of guilt. Here the Professor stood, judging her as the other slaready had; she couldn't believe it. After all they'd done for each other, after all the talks with both he and his wife, after ferverent debates over how the war was going and if the Allies had what it took to browbeat the Germans out of France, he had still jumped to conclusions and silently labeled her the German's whore.

Frostily, but resolute in her feelings that she had nothing to explain to any of the insolent people she was forced to call countrymen, Eponine inquired, "May I have my son now, please, monsieur?"

"Of course." He vanished inside the house, returning with his wife, who held Enjolras in her arms. The baby slept on, unaware of his silent exchange from one pair of arms to another. And then, the Léons shut their apartment door, the Professor grim and his wife troubled, locking out the building and turning to each other to convince each other of Eponine's innocence (in the case of Madame Léon) or guilt (as the Professor, feeling deeply betrayed, assumed she was). In the hallway, Eponine clasped Enjolras tight to her chest, inhaling deeply the scent of milk and something unbelievable fresh and new. He shifted in her arms, moving closer to her body heat, but did not otherwise stir. He was lost in his dreams, peaceful and blissfully ignorant; there was nothing else Eponine would wish for him in this time.

Slowly, so as not to wake her son, Eponine began the ascent back to her floor, smiling faintly down at her baby. She glanced up the stairs to watch her step, and leaning against the banister before her, she saw a small group of her next-door neighbors. They were a young couple, barely older than she was, and living with the young man's parents and younger sister. The young man had been sent to Germany at the outbreak of the war, only to return mere weeks later with his leg in a cast and blind in one eye. He still limped; he still wore an eyepatch over a ruined left eye. At first, they had each been pleasnt towards Eponine, two of the few in the neighborhood to see her as a grieving woman with a child to care for rather than as the hated whore of the district. But the young woman looked away as Eponine came to the top of the stairwell, and the young man blinked at her, once, before glancing away, as well. They were hurt, imagining some form of treachery that had gone on the night before. It stung, deep to her core. But Eponine lifted her chin and strode to her door, letting herself and her son in.

Just as she shut the rickety thing, she could clearly make out the sound of the German National Anthem, expertly whistled outside, mingling with the rising sound of an arguement downstairs and idle chatter down the hall. War was hell - but this was worse.

Eponine settled Enjolras in his crib to sleep, then made herself a cup of tea and sat beside the fire with the radio playing quietly in the background. She sat for an hour or so, listening to people going about their business outside, as they shuffled off to work or went about their daily errands and child-rearing. She hurriedly washed up and changed her clothing, then drank another cup of lukewarm tea to kill time. When she was sure that the ones who were meant to leave were gone and those who remained would not leave for some time, Eponine roused Enjolras and spent twenty minutes acquinating him with the snow outside the window. It was still bitterly cold, but the snow had lightened considerably and Eponine was sure she could find enough clothing to pack onto her son so as to keep him from catching cold. She layered on a tiny shirt, then another, then a sweater, and two pairs of pants, then dug out his thickest pair of socks and slid on his tiny shoes. They pinched his skin. She frowned; he'd need new ones soon enough. And she didn't know where on Earth she was supposed to get them.

When Enjolras was ready, she set him back in his crib to marvel in wonder at his three shirts and tug at the pom-pom on top of his little winter hat, and then wrapped her long scarf around her neck three times and pulled on her coat again, over a dress made of heavier fabric and thick black leggings. She searched for almost fifteen minutes for her good pair of gloves (the ones that were almost as old as she was, but the only ones she had that weren't riddled with holes) before deeming herself ready to face the elements. She let the fire burn itself out before she snatched her handbag from the kitchen counter and settled Enjolras on her hip, then locked the apartment door behind her and made her way outside.

The street was busier than it had been at quarter past six, but it still held half the volume it should have on such a beautiful winter's day. It was cold, but that usually didn't stop a true Parisian from gazing at the slowly-icing Seine and following in the boot tracks of those who had come before. Eponine wandered towards the river, Enjolras grabbing at snowflakes that fluttered too close to his nose as they went. She walked along the river for a good mile, before she spotted a small park that was full of snow and devoid of life. Parents were at work and children were undoubtedly either being looked after by caretakers or following German soldiers around like puppies - a practice that Eponine deserved more scorn than innocently happening to fall asleep beside an officer in one's living room. It's over and done with, she reminded herself. It doesn't matter what they think; you know what happened. And you know you weren't in the wrong. Well, it was certainly easier for her mind to say that - it didn't have to walk around in this body, dealing with the stares and impudence of those she lived in close quarters with.

They sat in the park for an hour, Eponine carefully guiding Enjolras around snow banks and tossing tiny balls of snow at his belly. He laughed delightedly whenever he hit her sqaure in the jaw with a snowball of his own, only one year old and already stumbling around rather sturdily in the snow and with an aim that would make a fighter pilot jealous. He shouted "Mama!" every now and again, usually whenever he made her sputter by sending a mist of snow right into her face, and he hardly stopped laughing the entire time they were there. As Eponine swept her son into her arms, laughing with abandon as he did the same, she found herself wishing Fritz could be here, could be laughing with them. She wondered what he was doing - she didn't exactly know what he did, after all - and if he would think her insane for gallivanting around a children's park early in the morning. The only reason she was glad he wasn't here was because, on her own or with 'Jolras, she didn't attract any stares. And, of course, she was free to murmur to her baby in French, without stumbling for words in English or being forced to speak the language of the enemy.

After their time in the park, Eponine hustled Enjolras into a quiet café for brunch, feeding him tiny pieces of relatively fresh fruit and treating herself to bad coffee and a pastry that was only half stale. After their meal, Enjolras promptly fell asleep, worn out from his busy morning, and Eponine carefully carried him home for a nap. She needed one as badly as her son did.

As soon as her head hit the pillow, however, her mind was free to run a mile a minute. She thought about picking up a few extra hours at the bakery, or even finding another job for some lazy afternoons, but now that she had more or less alienated the entire building, she had no one to watch Enjolras. And what was she to do with her son tonight, when she met Fritz at seven and walked him over to the meeting? She couldn't exactly haul an infant along with her. She'd always relied on Madame Léon, but she considered that option closed to her now. Damn him. She sighed. Fritz was infuriating. She liked him, but she loathed him. She longed to see him again and counted the hours until later on, at the café, but meeting him meant complications for her when it came to childcare.

Suddenly, her eyes, which had been squeezed shut against the agony of a growing headache, snapped open. Her parents! Of course! They didn't exactly live nearby, but at least they would be willing to look after Enjolras for a bit. And if Maman and Papa were too busy, one of her younger siblings would be available; she was sure of it. Happy with her solution, Eponine finally allowed herself to fall into blissful slumber.


.: t i m e s k i p :.


At quarter to seven that night, Eponine was making the long trek back from her parents' home in Montmartre, way up in the eighteenth arrondissment in northern Paris. Both her mother and father had planned to stay in for the evening, and Enjolras had seemed thrilled to see his grandparents again. No one asked why Eponine needed the night to herself or why she couldn't have found help closer to her home; she felt that her mother had read the explanation in her eyes with one tiny, probing glance. Mothers always knew, non? After a few minutes chatting with her younger siblings and hearing the latest news from her older brother, Jean, who was fighting for his country somewhere in the south of France, Eponine did an about face and began traveling back towards the café, hoping she'd arrive before Fritz and fretting that she would be late. She unwound and rewound her scarf as the Métro sped her quickly back towards the fifth arrondissment, the Latin Quarter where she made her home, and she gave a sigh of relief when she disembarked from the undergorund train and saw that she was still ten minutes early. Quickly, she found herself walking into the café and sitting at the same, shadowy table at the back where she had met with the Professor and the butcher about the Resistance's current plans. The waiter appeared and she ordered only a glass of water, then shed her coat and scarf and settled in for a wait.

вìєи des choses à тσυs,

[OuEstLaCraie]

XXXXXX

Mama may have, Papa may have,
But G o d b l e s s the child that's XXg o t h i s o w nXXXXX

( That's got his OWN. )

๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑

→ It was the simple things that made Victor Rigby's life behind enemy lines worth living. America still wasn't (officially) in the war, even if Uncle Sam had made his position clear enough. He had a drafty shack that managed to keep the snow off his head, even if it couldn't keep the cold from invading his personal space. He had a relatively incredible radio set-up going here, all things considered. He (would have) had a stellar view of Paris at night (if the curfew didn't dictate an early lights out policy) - but, at least, he could always make out the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower against a winter dark sky, and pretend that was as good as seeing it for real, all lit up and twinkly. He didn't have a commander (or his mother) laying down the law about his eating habits or sleep routine or personal hygiene ritual. He ate what he scavanged, stole, or was given; he slept whenever he felt, which was often during the day, so he could broadcast in those quiet hours between deepest night and the true dawn; he hadn't showered in days, and prayed that the cold would keep down the stench in his humble abode. He didn't have much to work with, but he was certainly making it work for him. And, anyway, it was easier to focus on the few positives in his life because, when he didn't, he could lose himself in hours of wistful, sorrowful reverie about what he'd once had, what he so wanted, and what he wasn't sure he'd be able to get anymore. He couldn't write home anymore, for fear of being captured. He didn't risk sneaking into the city proper more than once every few months, despite his proximity to Paris, again, for fear of capture, torture, imprisonment, death - all the things he'd already heard too much talk of. He was constantly cold, hungry, and utterly disgusted with himself. He had only a tattered work shirt that was about five sizes too small and a pair of sturdy pants that were three sizes too big and were cinched around his missing hips with a stray length of radio wire. His boots, courtesy of the United States Army Air Forces, were starting to show signs of wear and tear. He'd practically forgotten how to use a proper toilet. And he hadn't gotten the name of those two Parisian prostitues he'd scrounged enough money to pay on his last foray into the city's nightlife.

→ Oh, and he'd had "Chattanooga Choo-Choo" stuck in his head for the last week and a half. It was one of the few records he'd managed to smuggle onto his plane and rescue from the smoldering rubble of their crash about six months back or had - ahem - picked up since becoming an unofficial French citizen. For awhile, it had been a great song; now it was just wearing on his already thinning nerves. He'd contemplated smashing the fragile record to pieces, but he's heard through the grapevine that the Frenchies were really enjoying their Glenn Miller and constantly clammored for more. Do half those guys even know what I'm rattling on about? What this music is trying to tell them? Rig doubted it. Himself? He didn't speak a word of French. And he could rule out sneaking away from his Hell on Earth by pretending to be a down-and-out German soldier, because he never understood a word the Krauts were saying. Languages weren't his thing, an irony that wasn't lost on a kid who so seemed to love listening to his own voice pouring forth hundreds of words a minute. Even those Frenchmen who knew a spattering of English probably couldn't keep up with him - he talked too damn fast. Ah, well . . . As long as they kept stroking his ego and kept the Germans from finding him before he was good and ready to be found.

→ The song of the holiday season, he'd already decided, was going to be the Andrews sisters singing "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." It was another catchy one, fun and bouncy, with a bit of a military edge. He didn't want anyone listening to him to forget who he was, first and foremost: Flight Officer Victor Darren Joseph Rigby IV of McCook, Nebraska, God damn it, and don't you ever forget it! Of course, he'd already talked about getting shot down, ranted against the Germans, lamented the loss of a bunch of great Europeans, blah, blah, blah. All that had come early on; it was already old news, as far as he was concerned. Talking military strategy (what little he could discern by listening closely to drunk German officers and talking to a few trustworthy French military buffs) and politics was still his forte, and still took up the majority of his daily radio show, but he wasn't below tossing in the occassional "Why the Germans Need to Get Their Asses Out of France" hour or a tiny segment he liked to call, "Roosevelt's a Cripple and Could Still Beat the s**t Out of Hitler." Good times - some of my best stuff. Like the American music that managed to trickle over to Europe and across the lines into Occupied France, the Parisians just went nuts over those propoganda and hate fueled rants. And Rig didn't mind delivering what the people wanted. That was his job, after all, as a radio personality - keeping people informed and entertained. He relished it.

→ It was late November; within the week, he would be celebrating a bleak Thanksgiving in his hut, probably scarfing down some bruised apples and half a bottle of crappy wine as he tried to explain Plymouth Rock and the Mayflower to all his clueless listeners. They didn't celebrate Turkey Day, did they? God, just thinking about made his mouth water. Instinctively, with thoughts of his mom's stuffing and apple pie whirling in his head, Rig reached for his precious supply of emergency foodstuffs - to be consumed only when he didn't get his fairly regular delivery of rations from the girl living with her small family nearby. She was a good kid - too bad he could never remember her name until she was standing in his doorway, grinning, with arms laden with the most delicious-looking meager meals he'd ever seen. She liked music almost as much as he did, and the language barrier didn't make too much of a difference. Over his months here, Rig had become damn good at pantomiming whatever point he wanted to make. With a slice of bread between his teeth, Rig pushed thoughts of the girl and his own home out of his mind, and did what he did best - went back to tinkering with his beloved radio.

→ "Pardon me, boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo-Choo . . . ? DAMN IT." He thumped one of his frozen hands down on his ancient work table in frustration, yelping when he hit a rusty wrench instead of the splinter-laden wood, then stood abruptly from his stool and hopped around his one-room home to avoid flipping the table in anger. "Glenn Miller can take his choo-choo and shove it where the sun don't shine," he muttered, unforgiving, then shook out his hand a few times and examined his fingers. No real damage; he was fine. That wasn't to say it didn't hurt like hell, but he would live to fight another day. Settling back in at the table, Rig glanced out one of three windows in the shack, the one situated just above and to the left of his work table. He didn't have a clock, but he was pretty good at guessing the time. It was only about seven in the morning, give or take fifteen minutes or so, and his radio repsonsibilites were done for the day. He would peck at a few wires, poke around to make sure he didn't need any new parts yet, repair what he could and lament what he couldn't, then call it a job well done and pass out until later that night. The snow, at least, was welcome, because it brought along with it clouds to block out the sun and allow him to catch a few hours of shuteye. Watching the fresh powder lift on light air currents made him actually pause and smile, for just a moment. This was what everyone thought of when they heard about Europe in the winter; France, especially. Looking at this perfect setting, at the bare trees cloaked in the whitest snow, at a city stirring under a blanket of flurries and slush, one could almost imagine that all was right with the world. Peace on Earth, goodwill toward man, and no little crazy man with a funky moustache demanding that Germany bully everybody in the world into bowing down to him. A few friendlyt bodies to warm this frigid nights wouldn't hurt, either. Ah, bliss.

→ As Rig tightened and tugged, humming the offending song under his breath without realizing it, his mind wandered back to his young friend. He almost hoped she'd show up today - it would be nice to talk (well, mime) to someone, especially on a day like this, when there wasn't anything else he could possibly be doing. Someday, maybe soon, when the war was over and she was free to, he would offer to take her on a visit to the States; he didn't know if she'd like that at all, but who didn't want to see the land of the free and the home of the brave? A button popped loose from one of his original radios, and he picked it up to work on fixing it. Raising a finger in the air, he sang, "Track 29!" Catching himself with a scowl, he tossed the first record he could get his hands on his phonograph. The showtune was surprisingly soothing, working Glenn Miller and his orchestra out of Rig's brain and offering sweet salvation. Feeling something very near serenity, Rig bent back to his repair work and tapped his foot in time with the Pal Joey tune, losing himself to the methodic work and melodic noise. No thoughts of missing home, no thoughts of the war - he was just living the life he'd carved out for himself on the outskirts of one of the world's finest cities, waiting for a visit from a friend and doing the work that came second only to actually talking on the radio. For now, this was all he needed. Half lost in his thoughts, again, he half-sang, half-hummed along with the song, "And the simple secret of the plot is just to tell them that I love you a lot. Then the world discovers as my book ends how to make two lovers of friends . . . "

[momo the momi]

Judith - the other girl . . .

Judith sank into her bed, exhausted from the few hours of work she had already done that morning. Her hands looked horrible; as if she'd been working in the fields for years, and though on certain days it sure felt like that, in reality, she had barely invested a few months into it. Fetching a small bowl of fresh water, she added a little bit of oil to it, and let her calloused fingers soak in the gooey mixture, preparing them to be wrapped with cotton strips, and then hidden under delicate gloves. Thank God for winter! If she actually had to stumble out from her home with bandaged hands, she'd just die! How embarrassing for such a young lady to have such adult, okay old, hands! Ugh, yuck . . .

Beginning to feel a little too sorry for herself, Judith sat back in her chair, and started bandaging her hands. Silently wallowing in way to much, unhealthy self loathing, for letting herself get this bad. But then again, no matter how bad her hands looked, she still woke up with her dignity. She still could look at her dirty face in the bowl and smile knowing she didn't earn her rations with the oldest profession in the world - disgusting! In all likelihood, her sisters would be returning soon, and again, Judith was going to have to pretend that she was totally okay with it. And though she understood why, she couldn't condone it, nor support it - but still, somehow, she had to not only live with it - but through it, too (and though she didn't like how the food was put on the table, she had to eat, too!). Because after all, the fact remained, it wasn't so cut and dry. After all, it wasn't as if her sisters wanted to be whores. They did it to keep food on the table, extra food in fact. They would even be able to sell off extra rations they earned in order to get their father seen by yet another specialist. But if you asked Judith, she'd tell you soon enough that her father was a lost cause. Sure, technically, he was alive, but in reality, when their mother died, he died.

So again, though Judtih could never do something like that herself, she couldn't condemn her sisters so quickly. They did what they had to, and she did what she had to. And besides, only by working during the early morning hours, was Judith able to take care of Mathilda's schooling. The Jewish children in Paris (the ones who were still around), would be forced to attend Catholic schools, but the children in the country? Well whole communities were discarded and turned into ghost towns, so really, the last thing that would be functioning was a proper school house. Yes, poor Judith was stuck with a feeble old man - her practically comatose father - and a younger sibling who needed to be taught things before she became ignorant; all the while, keeping it together so she didn't falter when her prostitute older sisters returned from another all nighter. Her nose crinkled in more disgust before she forced herself to calm down. Again, she kept repeating the fact to herself that they were providing her with food and in turn with money so they could still manage to keep up appearances with neighbors - like it really mattered anymore.

Yes, she would have to remain focused and begin getting some notes ready for Mathilda's lessons for the day, or else she'd be so sidetracked with her own inner rantings, that the poor youngest sister wouldn't learn anything! Tying the ends together, Judith slipped her now bandaged soothed hands into the last intact pair of gloves she owned - every other pair, were now tattered and torn. Uh, there I go again - frowning, she took in a deep breath, and steadied her nerves a bit, before walking over to the living room desk and pulling out the handbook that used to accompany her own set of textbooks. Thanks to the current kind of, government assigned, schooling; Judith managed to graduate from her, French-equivalent-to, high school just a few months ago. And having passed her final equivalency exam with flying colors, her and her family, felt more than comfortable letting her take over Mathilda's schooling. Besides, who else could do it? So opening up the handbook to page seventy-five, Judith glanced over the notes she wrote briefly last night, before finally relaxing on the sofa, as she waited for Mathilda to wake up.

Mathilda, the youngest and most innocent at the tender age of eleven, was spoiled rotten. It never showed on her - Mathilda still remained the sweetest of them all. But still, she was spoiled, and even allowed to sleep as long as she wanted! And if she and other sisters could help it, they made sure that she never had to do anything but basic studies, and very minimal chores around the house. It might seem weird to others to not use Mathilda as yet another resource in such diabolical times, but maybe it was just as simple as the three older sisters trying to relive their own innocent youths, and somehow, keep all their innocence's alive through the youngest sibling. But though she was waiting for Mathilda to slowly stir awake, it was the stirring through the entryway beside her that caught her attention. Knowing full well that her Father was still sitting in the kitchen, simply staring at the now cold tea in front of him, Judith sat up, wondering who was arriving at such an early hour. Yet as the door cracked open, its rusty hinges squeaking under the pressure, it became obvious who was returning home - her sad, pathetic looking sisters. Smiling wearily, Judtih greeted them with the customary "salut" and watched their haggard faces reply with a similar greeting, before slipping the rations on the side table, and disappearing into the hallway to head to their shared bedroom.

Setting aside the school handbook, Judith sighed, got up hazily, and walked over to the small side table, shuffling through the rations to see what she could go ahead and exchange this morning before Mathilda woke up. If lucky enough, an extra bread and drink ration would have been included for her sister's "services", and she could go ahead to the kiosk and actually bring the rations to Rigby before she took care of her youngest sister's education. Hearing her older sisters bedroom door slam shut down the hall, Judith curved her lip to the side, cocking in eyebrow in frustration. It wasn't that her sisters were in bad moods, just tired - but she despised the sound of doors slamming! But who cares now? With everyone else still out of commision, the teenager slapped the ration against her palm, and decided to head out after all.

Leaving a quick note, in case anybody actually wondered where she was, Judith covered her head and neck with a plain scarf and an extra shawl, before wrapping herself with a twead jacket. Securing the big buttons, she gave herself a quick glance over in a muddy mirror, before finally walking outside into the chilly air. It seemed to be bitterly cold this particular morning, but Judith managed to shake it off quickly enough. Locating the traveling kiosk, accompanied by several soldiers, the young woman set off for it, and greeted the Germans with a fake plastered smile, stretched thinly across her face . . . "Bon Jour."

Handing them her ration slips, she had hoped for a quick enough exchange, without too much intereference from their usual ignorance, which tended to be wrapped up in self indulgent arrogance. But alas, nothing would go nearly as planned that morning. For as soon as she greeted them, they responded with a harsh tone that their current rations were already gone, and if she wanted to exchange anything, than she'd either have to go to Paris itself, or wait for the next load tomorrow night. And truly, beginning to worry about the idea of Rig having to wait more than a day for some bread - and her family, too - not having any breakfast, lunch or ldinner, well, it just unnerved her. So not really liking her options, but not knowing what else to do, Judith silently nodded, before looking over to the horizon, the faint outline of Paris' outskirts looking back at her.

She gulped, careful not to look nervous in front of the soldiers, who were now pulling their carts away, intending to trade what bit of riff-raff they have left, before heading back to Paris themselves. But see, for them, going to Paris was almost simple. To her, going to Paris was a death trap. Yet no matter how scared about it she might be, she refused to show it. Hoping that maybe, if she looked confident, no one would be able to tell, the alienated scared little girl she really was, and thus, no one would accost her. Reminding herself to breathe, she clutched the ration stamps tightly, before marching down the road - heading right into very heart of injustice for her kind.

T I M E S K I P

The meshed fences seemed to do their job. Judith was completely intimidated as she stared up at them, looking for the one that led to a door, which then would led into the city. Once upon a time, she had dreamt of walking into Paris, a young fashionista, exploring the shops du jour and being discovered by the who's who of the modeling world. Yes, it was a naive dream, but it was her dream . . . and now? Now that the world has gone to Hell? What was the point in dreaming? The only thing she could do now, was help those who needed it right now - and that was it. Disillusioned, and a little bit bitter, she approached the fences, finally locating an entryway not far off. How she planned on getting in, wasn't going to be as hard, as trying to get back out. But in the end, she refused to back off now. She needed food, she had the rations - and that was that.

"Papers - "

A foreign accent, a German one she feared to recognize, barked the order at her, demanding her papers in order to check them, before permitting her to enter the city. A little taken a back by his rudeness, but none the less complient, Judith shrugged her shoulders, unsure of what "papers" the soldier was asking for. She lifted her hands, ready to hand over the rations, hoping that those flimsy pieces of paper, that meant life or death for her kind, would appease him. But sadly, as he ripped the pieces of paper from her, it seemed his frown only to easily revealed his bitterness at her, as his eyes wandered over the ration stamps - "What is this?"

Judith's eyes, having been downcast in this man's shadow, were now widened at his yell. What did he mean - what is this? What else did he want? Weren’t the rations enough to get into the city? To her utter shock, yet another soldier approached them, and glared down at her. Without any thought for personal space whatsoever, the newly arrived soldier, pointed at her jacket - her chest to be exact - and mumbled something in German - a language Judith never had any interest in learning before (but at the moment, wished she was able to speak it fluently!). But as both adult men stared fervently now at her bosom, the young girl couldn't help but blush feverishly at their imploring, indignified glares. Covering herself, folding her arms over the very area they were staring at so hard, Judith couldn't help but let her explosive nature take charge, and demand to know what exactly they were looking at - in French. Well, go figure, these soldiers didn't speak French! So instead of anything getting solved, with the simple admission of them just trying to locate her mandatory "Jew star", for racist profiling; they grabbed her, instead, by her upper arm, and began to walk through the gates.

This wasn't exactly how she had planned to finally get to see Paris for the first time.

Sure, she lived barely ten miles away, but Paris was a big girl city, not something for "proper" young ladies - and especially not for her or her sisters (at least that's what she had been told all her life). But again, so many things had changed since she was just a "simple" little girl of the olden days, that really, she shouldn't be so shocked that she was being dragged now by German soldiers . . . but that didn't mean she would go so easily! Not caring who heard her yell, or really what they would dare do to her for doing so, Judith cursed at them and hit against their iron fists, and clammy hands. Of course, sexism aside, she was the weaker one compared to them, and no matter how hard she beat against their force, she was no match for them.

And then a much darker theory entered her mind. What would these two soldiers do to her - something "unmentionable"? Outright paranoia was beginning to set in, and she beat against them harder, harder than she ever would have thought possible, praying that a good Samaritan would somehow stop them. But if no one had stopped them yet, what would make them stop these madman now? Beginning to tear up over the macabre things that could possibly be awaiting her once they reached their destination, Judith cried out in a last futile attempt of salvation . . .

And a voice responded.

oh oh see ~ omg, it's a miracle! A post! And the best part sweets, you don't just get one, and not just two, and not just three, but four posts. Yup, consider it my consolation prize to you for being a dearie and being patient ^^ So this is the first one, and I'm working on editing the other three - so unless something comes up in an emergency - I'll be posting them all tonight (okay, maybe at the latest in the morning, seing as it's 10:30 tonight - but I am editing them!) . . . But cross your fingers either way ^.^;

[momo the momi]

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ritz had been sulking in the corner, in the most unbecoming way, but then again, at that point, he refused to care - or to budge. His own superior officer decided to dock him three paydays for hitting an under ranking soldier, and though he could care less about that, he was still found to be sulking most of the day away. Not because of the lack of pay, but because Anna was still nursing Markos' wounds, and ignoring his. In actuality, she didn't even bother checking in on him since the fight just a few hours ago, and Fritz was absolutely baffled by her actions - or lack thereof. Confused, disdained, and a little teed off, the young soldier grew impatient, and got up from the rickety chair, that squeaked from the removal of weight.

Being suspended from duty, Fritz felt a little sidetracked by the new found sense of freedom. Though having worked every day of his life since he was eleven, and not minding it one bit, he did often wonder what it would be like to have a vacation. And yes, it would be nicer to enjoy it without his sister's betrayal looming over his head - but again; he had to face it, deal with it, and move on. After all, it was better this way. So long she stayed away from him, than she couldn't possibly be linked with anything that happened from here on out. And besides, it wasn't as if it was a real betrayal. She was probably just trying to show him that he was out of bounds, hitting Markos the way he did. And any other time, he probably would have to agree - or better yet, refrain from doing it in the first place! But still, even now, after hours of contemplation, the vile accusation about Eponine and him seemed to make his blood boil. It wasn't the fact that the idea of him and Eponine was revolting, but to refer to her as a French whore - and to him as some pervert who only wanted to use her as such . . .

Ugh. Nothing helped. He was about as mad as he could get, and supposedly, he still needed to have lunch with Anna. They had planned to hang out on his break from duty days ago - when she had first arrived . . . To tell him about Maria . . . But she cut him some slack, until he felt more up to it. Just last night, on the way out to Eponine's, she had asked for his company out to a restaurant, claiming a big meal would do him some good - why do German's always assume tea and food will solve everything? And last night, he freely promised it to her - his company that is. But today, she was nowhere to be found. Last he saw of his sister, she had her arms around Markos, helping him up, and whispering into his ear - Fritz assumming it was in order to calm him down, and convince the brute, to not strike back. Yet, at that point, Fritz would have liked to see him try. Sure, Markos was easily the stronger man, but Fritz had not only adrenaline, but anger, on his side, too. And hey, that surely counted for something! But now having been docked three days, and Anna being a no show so far, the young man had to wonder what exactly he was supposed to do until later that night.

Tonight.

Tonight he would - hopefully - be a part of something that was a bigger than his little troubles with fellow soldiers. Bigger than his sister's changing loyalties, and even bigger than Maria. And very easily, bigger than himself, but that wasn't even necessary to actually acknowledge in his mind. So though he was still fuming a little; his ego bruised, and his freshly bandaged knuckles and fingers, tingling underneath him - all in all, he needed to realize and accept the bigger picture.

Finally reaching for his bedroom door, Fritz stepped out into the war zone. Some stares were inadvertantly sent his way, before they quickly realized their mistake and shifted uneasily under his retorted glare. He was in no mood to pretend that he was okay right now. And at least, with being able to blame his sour mood on no pay for three days, the young soldier could walk around freely, and feel no pressure to pretend that everything was okay. Instead, he simply jogged down the stares, his nose taking in the cold air that filled the apartment complex - while the others got out of his way quick enough. He hadn't been so harsh before with them, but being allowed the excuse, he was in no mood to pretend that he was alright now . . . Instead, he focused his attention for any sign of his older blonde sibling - but to his avail, or to his happiness, he didn't find her. Did he really want to see her right now anyways? She obviously wanted to be with Markos right now, and she obviously didn't want to see him right now - or else she would be there, right beside him, as he reached for the front door - no, this is better. She should stay away from him. Because after all, she would only get herself in trouble being around him right now.

It sounded lonely - this life he was about to step into it. But yet, was his life so fulfilling before? Before, Anna handled all his problems. Before, Maria lied to him, in order to save those who needed saving the most. Before, he cornered and threatened a young mother in order to get his way - however, that last reminder of blazing actions, had brought a smile upon his lips. Because it was that last action, that gave him a sense of clarity that he had never known before. Oh yeah, he'd be just fine - once he made it out the door. After all, he was free for the next three days. He could do whatever the hell he wanted to do. Not having a wife or child of his own, he had managed to save up enough of money to easily cover the lack of three days' worth of paychecks. Ja, he'd live. He'd live it as best as he could. In fact, he couldn't wait to step out, and practically go looking for trouble. He wanted a way to help someone, to do something; and still somehow manage to keep his job, in order for him to do it all over again, tomorrow!

With the chip off his shoulder, Fritz swung the door wide open, truly and utterly, not caring who noticed it slam against the wall beside it. And as he stepped out, he smiled at the sun beginning to shine down on his face - it was a new day, it was a new world! Things would somehow be better, they would get better, and finally, he had the incentive to get the ball rolling. Because after all, he couldn't just wait for things to work themselves out. He needed to do it himself. Yes, he would take that first step, get something done, and then, finally, meet up with Eponine - and then, really get things done!

Moving around to the side of the building, he barely noticed the private who, once again, requested his papers. Months of the same mundane repetition had made Fritz unaware of the guard's stare. More than likely, the private had heard about his suspension, and now stood in bewilderment as to how to act, lest he be struck by Fritz, too! But Fritz simply took his papers back without as much as a glance back at the younger boy, before quickly walking away from the damned place of residence.

Things were starting to come alive in Paris, and Fritz couldn't help but look at the merchants setting up shop, and the little kids being rushed off to school. If it weren't for the fact that a war was raging throughout the countries, you'd have thought it was a perfect day. And in fact, though Fritz knew the truth, about the dark things that lurked underneath the surface, somehow, knowing that he was at least heading in the right direction, forbade his demeanor to sink to far in the depths of depression. Instead, he simply walked past any French stares - or glares - and even allowed a faint smile to pass on his lips, in hopes for tonight.

Though then again, he shouldn't focus so much on the importance of just one meeting. He shouldn't allow all his hopes to be based on something that might be simple - only the message resonating strongly. But still, he relied on this meeting as if it was the stepping stone to any future possibilities of hope and strength, and most importantly - happiness. Just how, one small meeting of an underground gathering was supposed to accomplish this was beyond his reasoning at the moment. For now, he'd focus on passing the time until tonight - and the possibilities of what the next three days might bring.

Because if he had all this time off, maybe, he could pay back Eponine for her kindness and her risk of including him in the Movement. And soon enough, that reason of thinking led him to little Enjolras. Not knowing what the little tyke could possibly look like - but assuming he had even half the beauty of Eponine - that he would be gorgeous, and adorable . . . well, maybe the fatherless boy would enjoy a few hours with an older man, an adult man, to take him out for fresh air. Obviously Eponine would come along too - but where to take such a little one? Maybe ice skating? Maybe a movie? Fritz wasn't too keen on movies himself, preferring a good book to anything else, but still, maybe a cartoon movie would satisfy the boy, and thus the accompanying adults. What did little kids enjoy nowadays? Being unmarried, and definitely without a kid, this particular young German, had never given much thought to what children were into lately - he himself, had always been serious, never giving into any childish inclination his age tried to succumb him to. More than likely, at least from what Fritz could remember, it would be the simple things that would make Enjolras happy. One or two trips to the park? Maybe a visit to the candy shop? Yes, he wanted to get the know the little one, to be there for him (at least a little bit!), as a favor to his mother . . . He owed her that much.

The he stopped - Fritz noticed himself in a storekeeper's window, and it didn't fail to catch his eye that he had forgotten to change into more appropriate civilian attire (having changed into his uniform when he had to report to his superior officer, earlier). He no doubt attracted the attention - and scorn - of anyone walking past him; had he simply thought about it, he could have worn something a little less eye catching, and thus, at least maybe, escaped their cold eyes. He would of course make sure, not to repeat such a careless mistake with Eponine and Enjolras. After all, people were already wagging their tongues at a German soldier being at a French woman's apartment. But at least those tongues wagged behind closed clenched teeth. If he dared walk out in full military garb, with a French woman and her young child by his side, daring to do so in broad daylight - well, as far as he knew, both sides would kill the other for such treason! Oh yes, this delicate friendship had to be handled with delicate hands . . .

It was when Fritz was staring himself down in the shop keeper's window, that he caught the scene unfolding behind him. By the high gates of the Paris "walls", two soldiers were dragging a young woman to a nearby headquarters. And as his brow burrowed in confusion, Fritz couldn't help but stare dumbfounded in the window's reflection before he managed to muster the strength to turn around, and begin briskly walking towards the helpless scene.

He had had every intention of trying to sound civil, to let his anger ebb by the time he had approached them. Praying that his duty to the - new found - cause wouldn't give way to what he was really thinking and that he'd be able to keep his calm. Well, at least he could say he planned on doing that . . . Because instead of his anger ebbing, the young woman's screams only made his anger turn into full-blown wrath! His voice, usually dull and quiet - at the very least reserved - was now shouting their way, as his steps quickened to the scene, "Was macht ihr denn mit diesen Fraulein?!" ("What are you doing with that girl!" ) By the time the two soldiers quickly let go of her, Fritz had approached with clenched knuckles. And had it not been for his hands already in bandages, he probably would have struck these two! But instead he inquired about their rank - his tone of voice easily giving away his anger at them. But though nervous as to his sudden intrusion, they stammerd back almost simply about the lack of the girl's Star of David . . . and it took every fiber in Fritz' being not to roll his eyes back at them.

The girl for her part, stared back up at Fritz, as if he was the Savior himself. Something that caught him both off guard, and left him mellowing in the irony of a Jewish girl looking at him as if he was Jesus incarnate. But in front of her, he remained still, pretending as if her benefit had nothing to do with his interruption. Quickly returning his glare back at the two soldiers, Fritz gnarled in a way that let them know, not to dare raise any objections, "I will handle it from here."

The two soldiers, seeing his rank of captain, swallowed hard in unison, and all too gladly relented the young woman to him, but couldn't help but ask what he planned on doing with her, compared to what they had planned. Fritz grabbed the young woman by the arm, albeit much gentler than they had done, and looked sternly back at them, "I will report her of course -" Trying to play up the part of evil German soldier, Fritz smirked at them - a Devil's grin, "I must meet my quota as well."

He hoped the derogatory remark would satisfy the two bozo's, and leave him be with that, and to his surprise, it did. They walked back to the gates, and Fritz continued to walk the other way, continuing his hold on the newfound companion he had just rescued from probable deportation to the Nazi's. Already, his heart warmed in the basking glow of righteousness, and he smiled knowing that for the first time in a long time, he did something good just now.

Once he managed to gather them both behind into the alleyway of a nearby building, Fritz was able to calmly explain himself to the young one beside him. With one more glance onto the street - just to make sure the soldiers hadn't fallowed them out of curiosity - Fritz grabbed the girl by the shoulders and smiled gently down at her, "Please do not fear me, I am not the obvious enemy." His broken French no doubt made the Jewish girl question his sincerity, or even whether he meant what he was saying. But hopefully his warm smile would convince her, "I will lead you back out of the city, but you must not come back, I doubt I will get away with a second rescue." Looking back once more, he gathered her close to him (in case the approaching footsteps where coming their way), and quickly reached in his vest, gathering a few ration slips that he had noticed the others had - more than likely - stolen from her. But when he tried to pass them onto her, she replied with a weak shake of the head, afraid to really be blunt in his face. A little confused, Fritz asked what the problem was, and soon enough learned why she had risked coming into Paris in the first place. With the light bulb now turned on, he nodded and asked her to remain in the alley, why he would go and get the necessities she needed. Then, he would continue to help smuggle her back out, before separating, and hopefully managing to get away with what they did.

So stepping out of the alleyway carefully, and this time, solo - Fritz walked down the block, to the shop at the corner, in order to buy whatever she needed. And as he walked down the occupied streets, he absolutely beamed! He had done something good . . . and he couldn't wait to do more!

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ooc; whoot! Fritz is back! Lol, it only took me two hours to edit (since my hubby was watching a movie <<; And I was distracted >,< ) But now that the movie is done, and I grab some lunch for myself - I'll edit the other two and post them as soon as they're ready (hopefully by dinner time?) Not to much longer! ^^;

[OuEstLaCraie]

O O C : Awwww, it's Fritziiiiii! >.< Haha, I'm off to read these now, but I just wanted to let you know I'd read your OOC note, and I am very excited for rest of the posts ^^ Keep up the good work! heehee

[momo the momi]

Judith - the other girl . . .

His dirty blonde hair was gelled, and framed a beautiful face, the only off beat mark was an indented scar on his cheek - a battle wound? Yes, if it weren't for the fact that her heart was about ready to jump out of her chest, she would actually appreciate the rescue attempt from such a handsome man - but at this point, it could have been Big Foot standing in front of her, and she would have run into the monster's arms. Maybe later, she would have the opportunity to focus on her hero, versus just the rescue part, but for now, the adrenline gave her tunnel vision, and she finally took a deep breath. For a moment, she felt safer than she had before. Yet now that the danger was beginning to pass, her throat felt sore and harsh from all the yelling she had done. Guess you don't notice these things at first - not when your life is in danger - about just how said screaming might reek havoc on your voice . . .

When the intruder spoke, anger obvious in his voice, but otherwise, seemingly angry at the soldiers, and not at her - Judith stared up at him as if he was a medieval knight, rescuing her - the fair maiden - from the clutches of not only one but two fire breathing dragons! Her eyes shone on him as if he was about to simply lift them both onto a white stead that would appear momentarily. He was her savior, and she looked upon him as such. The stranger remained steadfast, scolding the other ones holding her, and though she had no idea what he was saying, she - rightfully so - assumed that it had something to do with her release: because as soon as he finished, they did just that. With the pressure on her arms relinquished, they began to throb as the blood rushed back to the very spot that they had applied their rough grips onto. Yet, before any thank you could be given, or questions asked about what to do now, the hero whisked her away - to a filthy alley nearby.

Her heart sank to her stomach in utter terror. Had she just escaped the grimy claws of two soldiers, only to be handed over to another more demented one? Was he going to actually pin her down now and have his way with her? The perverted thoughts - or rather fears - that ran through her head, made her cheeks flush red hot; and her eyes stayed to the ground, as she saw him pacing back and forth for a second, seemingly trying to keep an eye out for any intrusions. He is going to have his way with me!

Panic had struck, set in with a shockwave that left her frozen and debilated against the cold stone wall behind her. She was barely sixteen, never even having been kissed before! What appeal could she have to this older man?! Then again, she knew of some men who sought out woman like her, young girls, to play into their sick fantasies - and now, she feared, she was about to have to play in this demented game of sadistic passion.

Where had the Judith from earlier gone to? The one who screamed bloody murder for anyone to notice, and rescue her?! The one who kicked and punched until both her arms were otherwise pinned down beside her. The one who refused to go down without a fight - where had that girl disappeared to?! But then again, that girl was prepared to fight against soldiers over her right of life, but her right to her virginity? How was one to prepare for that horrible invasion of privacy? Feeling more helpless than ever, Judtih practically buckled under herself - her eyes beginning to water at thought of the ensuing pain, and future this man was about to rob her of. After all, who wanted to marry an "experienced" woman? Even if that experience was forced?

But then a miracle happened . . . She looked up, and his smile was not that of a madman! Far from it actually! The man before her, looked down at her with gentle eyes, and a warm smile that spoke only of kindness. Nothing about it said rapist whatsoever - in fact, her earlier theory of savior, was much more appropiate! Happiness overcoming her very core, to the point that it was spilling over her own being, Judith lifted herself off of the wall, reaching out for the mere man, making sure he wasn't an angel in disguise, ready to fly up into the heavens as soon as it felt that it's cover was blown.

Actually, he did seemed surprised when her thin hand touched his, folding hers over his - a silent thank you that somehow managed to cross over any language barriers that would otherwise prevent such a thing from being said. Her eyes shone brightly back at him, a thin smile curving her lips, and happiness beamed off of her face. Oh how could she ever thank him? Allowing herself to move closer to him, she smelt his clothes, his cologne, or maybe just him, and whether it was her hormones, or just a genuine attraction, it kept those embarrassed flush cheeks from earlier, burning bright red! He smells like sandalwood, and fresh linens. Not really understanding what had come over herself, the young woman, stepped forward, becoming surprisingly bold in her demeanor; praying to be able to wrap her arms around his chest, to burrow her face against his broad shoulders. Well her prayer was answered! Footsteps seemed to be approaching, and before she understood what was going on, he grabbed her once more - a welcomed gesture on her part. He moved in such a way, as too seemingly block her from any prying eyes that might intrude on their private rendavouz within the alley. Reason be damned! She didn't care what the reason was for him holding her . . . all she wanted to do was be able to smell that heavenly scent some more. And by resting her cheek against the stiff fabric, it did give her a better scent of the smell she had picked up on just seconds before, and suddenly - her eyes closed, feeling embraced by something, that really was from Heaven. He saved her, whisked her away from danger. He looked like an angel; golden hair, and beautiful eyes - and he smelled like Heaven. Oh how improper - but though her manners and upbringing screamed bloody hell at her to let him go, her arms rebuffed, and continued her grip on him - even when he gently began pulling away from her.

So instead, they stood there now, in an akward pose with her clinging to him, as he reached up to her arms to guide them away from his. She barely noticed it, but suddenly, her arms felt empty, and he stood there reaching into his vest. Pulling out a notepad, he began scribbling, and Judith, her curiosity getting the best of her, suddenly tried to get close again, before he stopped her, by pulling out the freshly written on pieces of paper from the official looking notepad. His neat handwriting took her by surprise, but she none the less reached up for the notes, and finally realized that he had just given her two week's worth of rations! It was only then that the young Jew realized that the other soldiers had taken her sister's hard earned ones, and had he not just replenished her supplies, she, her family, and Rig, would have easily gone hungry for days!

" . . . You are heavenly."

She knew he probably didn't understand, but she had to at least verbally thank him - in order not to embarrass him by hanging off of him - literally, again. But then the other realisation set in; that unless she was able to take these rations to exchange posts within the city, then she would be in the exact same boat she was in before - without food. She didn't want to seem ungrateful, but she had to make him understand that she still needed his help - that what he had done so far, wasn't going to be enough unless he could do more for her. It seemed to be asking to much, but she had to. This wasn't just her own belly she was trying to feed, after all.

Remaining focused, Judith held the rations against herself, and looked back at him with a questionable look. Trying to make him understand with simple hend gestures; she rubbed her tummy and managed to pull off a fake pained expression, holding the rations out and shaking her head. She had no idea how to do sign language, but she figured, that he wouldn't be able to do it either, so really, rudimentary lamen ones would have to do. Of course, if he had no clue to what she was trying to say, she would simply have to return to the town with what she had, and pray that tomorrow's wagon would have what she needed. She wouldn't dare risk staying in this city . . . Because she wouldn't be much good to her family - or to Rig - if she was dead.

Just how this stranger was actually able to tell what she was trying to say, was beyond her. But the fact that he somehow did understand, made her smile. Lifting his hand, he extended a finger, letting her know to wait, but that he would be back as soon as he could. Yet just before he left, he made sure to tug at her scarf - which helped her jittering nerves calm themselves - and to wrap the flimsy piece of fabric back over her tussled hair, as to hide easier from any prying eyes coming from the main road. And once again, his scent washed over as if he was just about to consume her whole. It enveloped her to the point of wanting to lean into his strong frame, to complete the motion that he had inadvertently started. But she remained steadfast, somehow managing to be able to wait until he finished, tying the ends of the torn garment together, before she reached up for his warm gloved hands. It wasn't to make him uncomfortable - she feared after all, that she already done that - but simply to catch his eye, and mouth the word: Merci.

T I M E S K I P

His arms were full of thin brown paper bags. So much food laid within, that its contents seemed to be overflowing! And though surely, Judith was supposed to merely wait in the alley - both her excitement, and manners, beckoned her forth, and insisted upon her to help the man before he tumbled down onto the sidewalk! She was careful of course not to grab too much attention, and ducked out of the alley only quickly and momentarily, before reaching for one of the bags, and pulling it to herself.

Happiness was evident on her face, and even his face seemed to loose any "soldier" toughness about it, and smiled back at her. No words were said. No words were needed. She had so much food, and still he let her keep the extra rations he wrote out for her. She was almost brought to tears by the realisation that the food he had just know handed over to her came not from any ration slips, but from his own pocket money! She had a feast in her hands, and extra rations! Of course, she'd have to be careful not to become too showy about the feasts she carried, but behind closed quarters, she'd make the best meal her family had seen in a long time -

And Rig . . .

That scrawny man needed all the food she cold scrounge up. And at least tonight, she'd be able to make him something without feeling bad about potentially robbing her family from under their noses. For after all, her family was beginning to wonder where their leftovers were disappearing to. She hated that she could only feed the American table scraps, but he seemed happy with crusty bread, much less a filled up plate of random bits of food, that used to resemble a three course dinner. In fact, he seemed grateful for everything, even the little underground shak he stayed in. To others, it was just a backyard storage shed, one of those inground bunkeers that looked like hideouts from bad storms or something - but to her, it was a safe Heaven, and to Rig, a home. Just how she had managed to drag him halfway to it, before he woke up and was able to walk the rest of the way - will always remain a mystery to her. But still, she was grateful to be able to make somewhat of a difference. After all, she knew of hushed whispers about American's and the English trying to rescue her very kind from the Germans, and she was happy to help at least one of them in return.

The Germans.

She had always considered them dogs - rightfully so! But as this stranger walked along the streets with her, all of a sudden, she had to aknowledge that maybe not all of them were so bad. He certainly wasn't . . . He still carried the other bag - and with his now free arm - wrapped it around her shoulder; something she knew was a fake gesture, but one she loved nonetheless. He was pretending as if they were some kind of a couple: ready to go home, so she could whip him up some breakfast with the overflowing bag of eggs, bread, and coffee she carried with both her hands. Yes, if the world wasn't falling apart, and he wasn't just doing this to save her life - she would be able to relish in the moment. Oy vey.

The truth was, there were some Germans who went with Jewish girls - her sisters, non? But so openly? In her village, they'd be stoned in the village square! But here in Paris - maybe it was different? For even though she noticed some stares from others on the streets, they remained back, refusing to vocalise their inner protests. Even the soldiers she passed, the ones who made her quiver with fear, looked the other way, when her companion pulled her in closer. How amazing . . . and strange.

Finally, they had made their way to another gate. Manned only by one stout guard who blushed at their approach - surely, he wasn't used to the sight of such things either. Moving aside, he watched the blonde soldier approach the wall, before handing her the other bag. A little clumsily, she accepted the provisions, before she stared back up at him with her dark doe eyes. He looked over at the guard, mumbled something in German, before the guard disappeared into his nearby hut, closing the door behind him. And suddenly, there they stood - alone.

He looked down at her, hovering over her, and seemed as if he wanted to say something, but hesitated in the end. Well, if he wasn't going to do it, then she would! Propierty shoved to the wayside, she leaned foreward, on her tiptoes, and gave him an innocent peck on the cheek. Of course, they both blushed, but she told herself that it was the simple French parting custom, and her own attraction to her hero had nothing to do with her brash action. While the soldier seemed dumbfounded, he nonetheless tried to smile down at her. He was more than likely just trying to spare her feelings at this point, but she accepted the smile wholeheartedly, and turned around to begin walking away -

However, suddenly, she looked back, but only over her shoulder (her brown curls beginning to fall out of her shawl). She didn't say anything - what could one say in such a situation? What was the protocol for such things? She probably owed him her life, and he simply stood there as if it was no big deal at all. Did he not know how grateful she was? Maybe he was overly humble? Either way, she grinned back at him, before she continued to walk down the heavy road, and back to the dreary village she lived in. She had departed from a different gate than she had arrived at - the soldier obviously trying to avoid those two horrible brutes from earlier - and now she had to get her bearing straight as to where exactly she was, before she ended up lost. Looking to the side, she recognized the landscape and cut across a field, before finally arriving at a hill, that laid adjacent to her home.

Home sweet home.

Just how long she had been gone, was anyone's conjecture, but it couldn't have been that long, since her family was still asleep! Great - for all they know I could be halfway to Nazi Germany, before they'd realise it. A little bit of resentment grew within her, before she pushed it back out again. She needed to focus after all - that soldier, and their interaction, had left her in a hazy fog, and if she didn't get a grip on things, then it'd be obvious to the others . . . and she really didn't want to share the perfect soldier with the others anytime soon. She wanted to keep him, and his kindness, to herself for just a little while longer.

So adjusting her clothes, after having hung up her coat and shawls, she walked into the kitchen; the two bags of groceries crinkling as she put them on the wooden table. Cooking always seemed to center her, and this time would be no different. But dear God that soldier had done a number on her, because she had been so distracted thinking of him, that she had totally missed the fact that her father was still sitting at the other end of the table - still staring at his cold tea! Rushing over to him, she touched him gently, calling out to him meekly and helped him stand up. He hadn't talked in months, and she probably would have died of shock if he actually replied to her now, but luckily - or rather unluckily - he didn't. She helped guide him to the sofa in the living room, and closed the now damp window so he wouldn't catch a cold. To be on the safe side, she covered his lap with a warm blanket, too, before she smiled down at him, and told him they'd have a nice breakfast this morning - for once. He didn't seem to respond, but nothing this morning would be able to wipe the smile off her face!

About thirty minutes later, the once quiet house, began to stir once more as her youngest sister walked lazily into the kitchen with an accompanying yawn. Yet her eyes grew wide as she saw the plates - all their plates - filled to the brim with eggs, sausages, and real French bread! Judith, for her part, had just finished pouring the last glass of cocoa and smiled back at her sister's happiness, "Good morning cherie."

The little one smiled back at her, and eagerly sat down at the table, scarfing down the food as if her life depended on it! Chuckling, Judith beamed, and sat beside her. Eating her own plate, her belly was full only half way into it - it had been a long time since she had had a full plate of food at any given time, and it seemed as if her stomaach wasn't used to such a wondrous meal anymore. So instead, she put her fork down, and rested her chin in her palms, as she eyed her sister, "Mathilda - " The little one didn't bother looking back, but acknowledged none the less with a 'Oui?' Folding her arms on the table, Judith leaned forward, "Will you feed Papa for me this morning? I haven't had a chance to feed the chickens yet." She figured the young one would say no, but she eagerly said yes instead - it was as if the gods of fate were smiling on Judith today! Merrily, Judith kissed her sister's stern in an act of thankfullness, before getting up, and pretending to clean off her plate - when in actuality, she was making a fresh one for Rig. For once, the man would get good food - and plenty of it! Sure, she probably should save the extra rations for a rainy day (like the one that should have happened today, had it none been for the good Samaritian). But she wanted to give where she could, and give she would!

So stepping out through the back door, she eagerly walked the half mile trek to the shanty and carefully lifted the heavy wooden door, so as not to scare Rig half to death. She carefully stepped down into the darkness, and further into the five by ten room that had become his home. He seemed okay, but happy to see her - or was it simply the plate of food she held out for him? She never stayed long by Rig - the language barrier having more to do with that than anything else - but she did speak a little English, and it was enough for them to form a friendship. Lifting up the plate to him, she smiled warmly, her happiness seemingly contagious to everyone today, "Good morning!"

oh oh see ~ gonk It took me two and half hours to edit this one! Why???!!! Now it's five at my place, and I need to eat dinner, but within an hour, I'll be back on the comp. and ready to edit the last one! I'm glad you're happy! And that I at least had some small part in that! wink

[momo the momi]

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ritz watched the young girl walk away from him, and back to wherever she had come from, as he gently rubbed his cheek with a gloved hand. His bruised fingers didn't appreciate it, but for the moment, he didn't care. He had just helped someone, and he felt as if he was standing on a pot of gold! Imagine, a German soldier, saving a young Jewish girl from the clammy, sticky, fingers of two bad guys . . . I'm the bad guy - but a coy smirk curved his lips - then again, not anymore, right? It was amazing; the sense of peace that now filled his chest, his very heart. It was even better than Eponine described.

Stop it. Control yourself.

If he let this adrenaline rush overtake him, he would surely become consumed by it. He would get risky, and then worse, clumsy. He would endanger himself, and those he had intended to save, solely to get a fix! Yes, he needed to tread carefully, or else he'd just be a rebel rouser; doing it more for himself than for the cause. But - a kiss was an amazing reward! It had been so long since he had last been kissed . . . That he almost forget the tenderness that could come from it. It wasn't that he longed for a kiss, much less from a little girl (okay, so she wasn't that little, but still - too young for his taste). But he did long for the tenderness only a woman could bring - and unlike his perverted comrades - not the sex part, but the tenderness part. War made men out of boys, and woman made lovers out of men - and he was stuck somewhere in between. He was neither willing to become a man, because of how many people he had killed, nor did he want to "be a man" solely because of the amount of notches on his bedpost. Really, he wasn't ready for either kind of "manhood" that society implored on his kind.

His hand slid down to his side again.

The warmth of the little Jewish's girls lips had passed now, and he was stuck with just his inner demons keeping him company now. He missed that warmth from a woman . . . from Maria. Though they had planned to wait until marriage, they did kiss one another - tenderly so. Damn that girl for her forwardness! Had she not kissed him, he wouldn't have to be thinking about such things as he walked around Paris - alone. God, he sounded bitter. He did something good, something wonderful - so why did his thoughts always end with Maria? And always with a tinge of despair at the mere remembrance of her? It was as if her death was more important than the life she had lead. But people did have a tendency to do that, didn't they? Because, no one wants to talk bad about someone that's dead, so they go overboard, and raise even the slightest good deeds to heroic acts, so as to make sure that nothing ill is implemented into their statements. But with Maria . . . She was a hero - she did do heroic acts. She did save a countless number of people. And it did matter how she died - because she was murdered in cold blood . . . because she was a hero to some, and a traitor to others.

And he just did what she used to - he helped someone. A forward little one, but someone who definitely needed saving. She seemed overly grateful, clinging to him as if he was some kind of hero - if only she could understand that he did what he did to atone for not only his sins, but those of others as well. He wasn't being heroic, he was being repentant. But still, she clung to him - more than likely out of fear for what she had just been through. Those hooligans. Even if she wasn't wearing her Star, they didn't have to rough handle her like that. Yes, this was a war zone, but that didn't mean they had to act like dogs, ready to tear her to pieces at the first sign of rebelliousness. To think, that because Maria was a rebel, she was killed - and had he not intervened just now with that girl . . . The possibilities - well more than likely the probabilities - seemed endless to what they might have done to her. Though he didn't think he was a hero, he did help her, and he was grateful to be able to have done it. Maybe, if he was careful about it, she wouldn't be the last chance he had at redemption.

For after all, if he really was able to spend more time with Eponine, and the Movement, then maybe he could do his part - however small it was, and maybe, just maybe, make some little bit of difference in all this mess! Eponine. She was such a strong one, stronger than him - easily. He admired her steadfastness, considering that he himself didn't grow balls until his own country killed Maria . . . For helping people. Yes, can't forget that part! Because it was why she died, that was just as heartbreaking as the death itself.

Blah. He needed to stop his self loathing, and keep on heading into the direction he was going, but that was part of the problem. He wasn't going anywhere. He was just trying to kill time until tonight. So now that his adrenline had seeped out of him, he returned to what he was doing intially, walking into the nothingness - the aimless wandering that meant nothing. He was beginning to depress himself, and only the hope of tonight was giving him any comfort at all . . . That, and a kiss of kindness, a token of thankfulness, that managed to speak volumes to him.

T I M E S K I P

The sun was setting, drawing out wondrous colors, over the city's buildings. Having watched the beginning of the sunset, and changed, Fritz was now ready to step out of his bedroom with new found vigor. For the first time since he was a little boy, he took a nap during the day, and felt refreshed. He didn't even care that everyone stared at him - again - or even that Anna was still missing from action. He didn't even notice that Markos had disappeared to . . . All he seemed to be able to focus on was the fact that within a few short blocks, he was going to meet up with Eponine, and be one step closer to helping those who needed it the most!

Feelings of hope and repentance washed over him, and the happiness was apparent on his face. No one would stop him, nor could they, if they tried! He even bought himself a new sweater, and wore his most appropriate pants, with his least scuffed shoes. All in all, he didn't look half bad! Fritz had told himself that he was trying to make a good first impression with the Resistant members, and not because of Eponine. With full rigor, he practically hopped out of the barracks, and onto the streets of good ol' Paris. Things, for the first time in months, were seemingly going his way; were somehow getting better, and tonight's meeting was just a continuation of that. Any wave of despair that had hit him earlier, was now gone, as if it hadn't even happened in the first place.

In its place: excitement!

Excitement, because he hoped to share the news of his good deed with Eponine. He couldn't wait to see her smile over it, knowing that she had somehow helped influence him - and thus the situation itself. It was because of these two woman: Maria, and Eponine, that he did what he did today. It was an amazing feeling, one he hoped he could hold onto as much as possible. He prayed it wasn't fleeting! Most importantly, he hoped Eponine, and the Movement members he would meet tonight, would be proud of him. Yes, he wanted Eponine to be proud of him. She had been an eye opener to him, and he wanted to earn her respect. Personally, her respect was the only one worth fighting for compared to the whole lot of them. She had been through so much, and still stuck firm to her beliefs. It was inspirational, just like Maria -

He spotted her.

Eponine sat there at the table as if nothing important was about to happen. As if she wasn't about to lead a German, a German soldier nonetheless, to an underground political meeting. If you just walked past her, you'd never suspect the tigress that laid underneath, the cunning fox that shone brightly against the backdrop of war. He stopped for a second to gaze at her, to gaze her beauty: noticing the few strands of hair, that waved back at him by way of the wind. Yes, she was beautiful . . . It was then that he caught onto what he was doing, to what he was thinking. What is wrong with you! Your fiancée has been dead for months, but you haven't known about it, but for three days, and here you are looking at another woman! He felt horrible for the action, and instead, picked up his pace, not stopping until he practically ran into the table she was sitting at - bypassing anyone who wondered why he was plowing them down to get past them. Their stares lingered on the back of his head for a moment, as he himself fumbled to get in his seat, directly across from her, before he finally felt release from their glares and was able to focus on the person he came here for: Eponine. She probably wondered what was wrong with him, but really, it had mostly to do with the fact, that he had been hounded by stares and glares all day - and he was ready to focus on anything else! Not to mention the other bit where he stared at her all lovingly, not even seconds ago.

Picking up the small menu, he looked over it briefly, trying to divert any awkwardness she might have towards him for his strange entrance. He glanced over it, and then finally got the nerve to look back at her. Trying to greet her warmly, but unsure of just how to do that, he simply smiled and asked, "Anything good here?"

Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi Fritzi

ooc; Aaaaaaaaaand done! It's amazing! I am now officially caught up here! Now I just need to post in All's Fair, and reserve Chauvelin in the Scarlet Pimpernel, and I'll be caught up! WHOOT!

Oh btw, sorry this one is a little short, and blah . . . I always add like a third more to any post in the final editing process, but my brain was mush by the time I got to this one - so, yeah, sorry for the shortness!

[OuEstLaCraie]

lover • figher • dreamer • schemer • mother

Just one year ago, give or take a day, Paris at twilight was bustling with sound and movement, with light and color, without fear or prejudice (nothing blatant, anyway). Around now, the very café Eponine sat in would be packed, floor to ceiling, with hungry Parisians and chattering wait staff, everyone with someone to talk to and somewhere to bustle off to afterward. Families would be tucked into their luxuries, enjoying supper; the young and young-at-heart would roam the streets until their feet ached for rest. She glanced over her shoulder and out the café's door, imagining the bartering and the entertainment, the mimes with their over-played expressions and the women bickering over local produce and young couples, oh so in love, rushing off to the theater. That Paris was nothing but a dream now - a sort of Paradise on Earth from which they had all fallen. It stung, stung worse than a driving winter rain. And to speak of it left a sheen on the tongue worse than the bitter aftertaste of the weak, counterfeit coffee those who could afford it were subjected to. Eponine turned back to the table and swigged out of her water glass with a grimace. A Parisian deserved good coffee - at the very least, a strong tea or a finely aged cask of red wine! And all she had was water and memories.

When she lost herself long enough in her reveries - when she let herself pretend those past times were the present - she could taste sweet crepes drizzled in chocolate and a glass of wine with every gourmet meal. She remembered the doughy middle of French bread. Edith Piaf and the giddy screams of the young rang in her ears. So much, simply vanished. If you believed the cynics, those things would never again return to France. She shivered at the very thought of it and, hoping to keep the chills away, treated herself to a snap at the waiter and a mug of the expensive mug of slop they called coffee nowadays. When the drink was delievered, she sipped at it slowly, philosophically, turning away from the door again so all the world could discern her profile through the wide glass windows. A light breeze flitted in under the door and the heat was broken - she regretted removing her scarf and coat for the simple outfit underneath. She didn't think she looked like much - frazzled, from her frantic trip across the city; worried about how the night would go; a bit embarassed, maybe, by how the prospects of seeing Fritz again (and so soon!) made her heart leap for joy; her clothing, though unworn for years, somehow showed the wear and tear of wartimes; her face drawn and covered in the small amount of make-up she'd managed to hoard since the war began - but if her instincts were correct, someone else had certainly taken an interest in her. She could only see a blurry image of him in her peripheral vision, not enough to do him justice, but she had an idea who her secret admirer was. Fritz's eyes on her back made her hold her head a little higher, made her c**k her head to one side and hold her mug aloft in a silent, one-sided toast; he put a light of battle in her eyes that was only riled when a fight was imminent. But she wasn't itching for a round in the boxing ring with him. She just wanted to be everything he seemed to think she was, everything she ignored in her self-reflection; she wanted to be what she'd thought she was before the war.

She'd play it coy, she promised herself as he entered; she wouldn't tease him about watching her, or about how the wind had made a perfectly handsome mess of his distinctly German hair and stiff clothing, or about how his shoes shone brighter than her mother's faded wedding band. As he sat across from her, grinning, she shoved her sarcasm away, because she didn't want it. She didn't want to go to that meeting, either, despite what good Fritz wanted to do in the world. None of it mattered to her, for one brief and shameful instant, but she quenched that fire hurriedly and rested her face in one palm, simply to mask half of her face and the blush blooming there. No sarcasm, nothing obviously rude; he was here to help and she was here to help him do that. She would keep herself wry as ever, but playful, smiling, quieter than usual . . . because she didn't trust herself with words just yet. Who knew what her tongue would betray before she could get her mind and heart in accordance?

Glancing lazily at the clock hung behind the café's front counter, Eponine smirked a little at the time and then looked back to Fritz, as he settled in for their conversation. "You're on time, Monsieur Capitane," she told him in English, their rickety common ground. "Bravo - well done." Okay, so she hadn't been able to ignore the witty barb that presented itself. Eponine was nothing, if not a creature of habit; part of that habit was her less than becoming wit and the talent to know when using it would sting the most. The waiter stayed away, with nothing else to do but wanting to allow them the time to greet each other.

He seemed flustered - more than she was, which was a shock - and she almost wanted to take his hand comfortingly in her own and ask him how his day had been. That was what would unfold between a young couple in love (which we aren't) and, thus, off-limits, so she restrained the urge. Thankfully, he sensed the ugly pall of advancing silence and bad-timing, and looked up at her over his menu. He was like a child, innocent and disarming and everything she never thought would describe a German officer, as he inquired, "Anything good here?"

She couldn't help it - she smiled, truly and genuinely, and let out a little laugh. "You have not yet sampled much of our fine French cuisine, monsieur, have you?" she teased without malice. She snatched the menu from his hand and thensat back in her seat and crossed her legs demurely. She more or less had the café menu memorized (it didn't vary much from one place to another; coffee, tea, pastries, light lunches, et cetera), but she liked the power to flip through it arrogantly, mentally checking off selections. Thank God Fritz had changed, so she could get away with this behavior! Mon Dieu, if had shown up in uniform, they would have been ruined! But, then again, I do not believe even the German is so mindless. She smirked to herself. At least she hadn't said the offensive words aloud.

"Stay away from the coffee," she advised, setting the menu aside and picking up her own mug as proof. "Ghastly stuff, I assure you. The tea isn't much better, nor is the water. Perhaps you should try the eclairs and hope the cream hasn't expired - or maybe some French bread, only partially covered in mold?" She tilted her head to the side, studying Fritz as the waiter approachd. "Or, perhaps, we have nearly one half of a full hour to waste until our . . . appointment, and we can find somewhere that will serve something a bit finer? A bit . . . stronger?"

Whoa. Where had that come from? She hadn't said it with a flirtatious edge, or even meant in any kind of romantic sense, but she couldn't help but fret that he'd take her words the wrong way. That statement - that proposition - had just sounded too much like what she'd heard desperate French girls whispering to German officers in crowded bars. She didn't know how to fix it, how to retract her words, or if he'd even notice her agitation, so she just let the English hang in the empty space between them. They were across the table from each other, and growing closer, perhaps, in the emotional sense. A bit. But their backgrounds, their heritage, their homelands; they were still light years apart. It would take a miracle to bridge those cultural gaps of hatred and prejudice. And she found herself hoping for one.

вìєи des choses à тσυs,

O O C : Worst case scenario, Rig post by Friday/Saturday night. Best case, I get home earlier than expected from school tomorrow and get one punched out, haha. We'll see. Enjoy this in the meantime ^^

[momo the momi]

Question, would you like me to wait on a Rig post, or start working on a Fritz reply ^^

[OuEstLaCraie]

O O C : Hm, well . . . I'm planning on starting the Rig post tonight, but it probably won't be done anytime soon, haha. So you can get to work on a Fritz post, if you'd like :]

[OuEstLaCraie]

XXXXXX

Mama may have, Papa may have,
But G o d b l e s s the child that's XXg o t h i s o w nXXXXX

( That's got his OWN. )

๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑ ๑

→ Routine repairs and maitenance had taken less time to complete than he'd expected, so Rig shifted his equipment aside and hoisted himself onto his work table to just hang out and relax, for once. Leaning his head back against the wall, with the illustrious Billie Holiday now serenading him, Rig shut his eyes and tried to remember what it had felt like to fly. The clouds, the endless, open sky, the stars on those night missions . . . gorgeous. To hell with everything; he'd give his right arm to be back up there again! Frighteningly enough, at the thought of his arm, his stomach rumbled. Apparently, that slice of bread wasn't going to hold him until his little friend arrived. But he was running low on extra supplies - he was caught between a rock and a hard place. And, apparently, I'm becoming a cannibal. Viva la France!

→ The door to his home opened quietly and, as always, Rig went on red alert. He'd come up with a cover story that he hoped an English-speaking German would hear out - he was a relative of the family that lived nearby, caught in France over a year ago after the occupaion began, if anyone asked - and his whole body tensed for a fight, should that become necesscary. If it was possible to do so, Rig had almost flunked out of basic training because of his lack of fighting skills or stamina; only his own ilk had saved him from the shame of an army discharge before he'd really ever been a part of the military. He opened his eyes, keeping his movements unworried and lazy (No, I'm related to these Frenchies, Herr Officer, I swear! I'm not an officer in the Army Air Force, no. What on Earth gave you that crazy-as-a-fruit-cake idea?), and was delighted to see his French friend. And . . . holy hell, was that breakfast? She was as bright and cheerful as ever (she probably put on a happy face when she saw him - smiles went farther than broken English, after all) and, more importantly, she was carrying a plate laden with the best leftover meal he'd seen in a long time.

→ As she held out the plate and greeted him, Rig bealtedly remembered her name - Judith, right . . . But, as far as he remembered, she didn't go by it. She preferred Lexi (How did that happen?). Not that he really ever called her anything, or said anything beyond, "Hi, feed me, please - thanks." But, he couldn't turn up his nose at an oppurtunity for humor, and she seemed to like his style of physical comedy, so he made a show of widening his eyes and leaping off the table in mock fear, tripping on his too-large pants and pulling himself to his feet, panting. "Whaddaya think you're doin', little lady, stampeding into my ritzy bachelor pad like this?" he demanded. Her English was as bad as his French (okay, nothing could be worse than his French, but still; you get the point), so she probably didn't get it, but he hoped she'd see the humor. To prove that it had all been a joke, he forced a grin and a laugh, then swiped the plate ungracefully out of her hands. "Gimme that . . . how the hell'd you get all this, kid?" He thought about it; he didn't want to know.

→ He'd started stuffing his face before he realized he was being impolite, at which point, he pulled up his lone chair to the table and offered Judith a seat, perching on the work table beside the vacant seat. "Thanks a lot," he said, then thought hard on how to ammend that into her own language. "Eh . . . mercy. I think. Ya know - I'm grateful, and all that." He tipped an invisible hat to her kindness. "Mercy bo-coo. Right? I think? Ah, hell . . . " He dug in for a few more bites - to hell with rationing himself; the Germans were doing that well enough on their own - before giving her a little wave of welcome and attempting, "Good morning to you, too, honey. Um . . . hm. Bahn . . . swear? Is that 'good morning' in your weird little language? It's 'bahn something-or-other,' I know that much." He stopped trying, for her sake as much as his own.

→ Thankfully, the record chose that moment to end, the last notes of the Billie Holiday song fading out into silence, so Rig set the half-finished plate of eggs aside and leapt up to change it. He shuffled through the five or six records he owned, jostling between two or three, before settling on some classic Duke Ellington and letting the music work its magic. He strolled back to the table and took a seat, shoveling back into breakfast and glancing at Judith, his lord and savior. "What do you think of this?" he inquired, cocking a thumb in the direction of the record player on the edge of the table. he tried his best to pantomime to her what he was asking - pointing to the record and giving it a grin, then a frown, then shrugging at her, hoping she got the point. He liked her, he really, really did, but even an English-speaking German would be a more welcome conversation partner at this point. "Think I should play it tonight?"

→ Speaking of the show . . . he didn't know what to talk about that night (or tomorrow morning, depending on how you looked at it). He could start a crash-course on Thanksgiving, using small words and speaking slowly to get the point across to those who never could get his mile-a-minute English to make sense in their all-French brains. Maybe he'd toss in some thanks for the little girl who was harboring his skinny fugitive self - anonymously, of course. If she got caught for his sake, he'd never forgive himself. And, anyway, thinking beyond his shred of compassion, if they caught her, they'd get him. He knew from rumors that the Krauts in Paris were looking for him; maybe he shouldn't risk dragging her into this. He had a few messages to pass along that night, anyhow - some from the locals to friends in far-off places, to be passed along by word of mouth; one was a special coded thing that didn't make a lick of sense to him, but that had been slipped to him by a man who said nothing but, from the looks of him, might have grown up just a town or two from Rig's own hometown - a spy? He hoped so. American, British - it didn't matter, as long as the guy could help move things along and sell some secrets that would get Rig home.

→ He stole a look at Judith again, around a mouthful of strictly rationed food; she was a cutie, definitely. She was also young - he wasn't sure exactly how young, because of the language barrier, but she seemed young enough to be impressionable. And off-limits. He had no intentions of moving beyond a platonic friendship, but he almost hoped she had a thing for him; it would be nice to be adored, even if she was just a little French girl who brought him part of her family's rations every once in while. Or was it especially because she was that little French girl?

→ "So . . . Lexi." He smiled at her, buying time as he worked out how to mime this to her. "What have you done so far, this morning? You go anywhere? Meet anyone?" He sighed and set the empty plate aside, a wry smile on his face. "Maybe you ended the war single-handedly and plan on surprising me with two plane tickets to Nebraska?"

ooc ! It's a little shorter than I usually like, but he talked a lot, so that's good ^^ And, in case you're wondering, when he's trying to say "good morning" in French, he was actually mispromouncing "good night" - "bon soir." Bahn swear >.< Sorry, it amused me, hahaha