Haguenau, 1945

Cate closed the makeshift blackout curtains, covering the view of the river water reflecting the clear night sky. She shivered as she turned towards the door.

Don shifted awkwardly, glancing towards the small hearth where a fire burned. An oil lamp sat on the dusty floorboards beside a chair and table. There were no electric lights in the bedroom. She guessed from the faded paintings of rabbits and birds on the walls that it had once been a child's bedroom.

"Please come in, its cold out in the hall." She lifted a hand towards the fireplace.

Don Malarkey scoffed as he did as he was told. "Still warmer than being hunkered down in a foxhole in the Ardennes."

Tugging off his gloves, he knelt to the floor and held his hands towards the fire. Cate didn't know how to reply. From a small bureau by the door, she lifted an apron out of a drawer.

Most of the girls lived out of their suitcases, but Cate had insisted on neatly putting away her things if there was a bureau or closet available. If they had to leave in a hurry and she left some possessions behind, so be it. It was a small way to feel human again.

Tying the strings around her waist and adjusting the kerchief covering her hair, she glanced over to see Don stoking the flames. The shadows licked the hollows of his face, making him look so much older than he had in England. He squinted over at her, tugging his hat from his head.

Cate picked up the cloths and a china wash bowl. A kettle over the flames let out a low whistle, breaching the wall of silence between them. Cate retrieved the kettle from the hearth with a stained napkin. Don rose to his feet, heavy gaze on the flames.

"Here, take off your coat," she instructed after pouring the steaming water. 

She unbuttoned it for him. Don let out a breathy chuckle, allowing her with a weary smile. "Alright."

She tugged the coat from his shoulders and folded it over in her arms. "You are going to need to take off that sweater too."

Cate was warmed by the quiet surprise blooming across his face. An actual smile tugged at his mouth as he obeyed. "You have gotten a lot bossier, that's for sure. Where did that sweet, quiet girl from New Hampshire go?"

Sometimes she wondered the same thing.

He pulled the sweater over his head, peeling it from the tethers of lean muscle in his arms, and leaving on his clean undershirt. Casting her eyes to the floor, she motioned towards the chair.

"Just take a seat, Malarkey," she said with a breathless, embarrassed laugh, laying his coat on the bureau.

Cate carried over a tattered sheet. Shaking it out, she tied it around his neck from behind. Picking up a couple of ragged towels, she soaked them in the warm water. She laid them along his jawline. 

"You are in need of a haircut and a proper shave."

Don chuckled as she picked up the scissors and stood behind him. "You are a good Irish wife waiting to happen, Miss Doyle."

"Not yet." Cate broke into a real smile, shaking her head as she ran fingers through his loose curls.

Clumps of currant red hair fell to the floor or caught on her apron. The firewood shifted, a burst of sparks sputtering onto the flagstone. In the hushed, warm room with the cackle of the fire and metallic snip of the scissors, Cate nearly felt normal.

She could almost forget the last months of blood and horror, teenage boys dying in her arms as they cried for their mothers and sweethearts. She could almost forget the wide eyed horror on Joan's face as a stray bullet cut through her armpit, severing the artery. Mira still hadn't recovered from the loss of their friend. 

She could almost forget the letter from her mother. The paper was folded neatly in its envelope on the mantel.

The rigid lines of Don's body relaxed into the chair. His dark eyes closed. "My mother used to cut my hair by the stove like this when I was little. How are the winters in New Hampshire?"

"Hard. We live in the country. My brothers did most of the upkeep during a storm, but we were snowed in all the time growing up."

Cate grimaced after mentioning her brothers. Thankfully, Don didn't ask after them. He was probably too aware of the danger in doing so. Cate didn't ask about any of the other men from Easy Company. There was no knowing who was still alive after both D-Day and Bastogne.

Dipping a toothed comb into the water, she ran it through his hair. The neat edges fell exactly as how she remembered back in England. She unwrapped one of the folded towels to reveal a shaving kit.

"Where did you get that?" Don chuckled at the straight edged razor with an ivory handle and fine lather brush.

"Mira knows a guy." Cate smirked as she stood in front of him.

Don sighed. "Doesn't she always? Is she still engaged to that guy in Italy?"

"As far as I know." Cate removed the damp towel from his jaw. Pouring some fresh water into the basin, she lathered the brush and applied it to his face with paint brush strokes.

"Now, I have to know where you learned to do this," Don remarked as she scraped the blade over his lathered cheek.

Cate rinsed the razor. "My grandfather used to take me into town on Saturdays in the summer when I was little. Our first stop was always the barber shop. I watched and learned."

Slowly, clean skin appeared. She avoided his eyes though she felt them on her the entire time. Doubtlessly, he could hear her heart thundering in the near silent room. When she had finished, she wiped his face with a cloth soaked in cold water and untied the sheet from his neck.

"Mira got me one more thing." She picked up a small bottle of aftershave. "I think it's the nice stuff too."

"Who is this guy she is seeing?"

"I'm pretty sure he's an officer," Cate answered as she smoothed the fine smelling musk over his cheeks.

She brushed a loose wave from his forehead. His hand rose and closed gently around her wrist. She met his eyes as they glazed over.

The hollowness that haunted them had turned to a deep seated ache. He wrapped his other hand around her waist and pulled her close. He buried his face in her abdomen. His hands traveled to the small of her back, tugging her tightly to him. Cate waited.

"Skip was killed." Don turned his dry face sideways against her body. Cate knelt in front of him. He stared numbly at their entwined hands. 

"Joan too." Cate blinked away the tears, she swung her gaze up towards the ceiling. "She was wounded carrying one of the wounded. She died as we were driving back."

She could still feel her friend's warm blood under her hands as she pressed the cloth to the wound, red pumping from her body, leaving Joan paler and colder by the second. Her body had seized against her and Mira as they held her, begging her to hang on. Joan was as beautiful in death as she had been in life.

Don squeezed her hands, bringing her back to reality. They were silent for a time. One of the larger logs collapsed into embers. Cate stood abruptly at the sound and gathered up the things, bringing them over to the bureau.

She folded her apron and tucked it away. Confused by the rush of survivor's guilt and intense fear for their lives, she wished he would leave. However, her need for his touch overpowered the impulse. 

Don made her feel more human than anything else had in months.

Don rose, tugging his sweater over his head. He paused. She followed his gaze to the letter she had propped up on the mantel. A sharp pang radiated in her stomach and out towards her limbs at the memory of it.

She retrieved the dog eared envelope from the mantel and held it out to him. "I don't want to talk about it. But you can read it."

Don opened the envelope and pulled out the single page. As he read, Cate leaned up against the hearth with her arms hugging her middle. Cate's chin trembled as she pushed a piece of hair from her face.

His hands dropped to his sides, the paper slipping with a faint whisper to the floor. He took a few decisive steps and folded her in his arms. She laid her face against his shoulder. She didn't know when the tears started.

He laid a hand on her head, gently tugging off the kerchief covering it. He buried his fingers in her hair at the base of her neck and laid his cheek on her crown.

"I don't know what..."

"You don't have to say anything."

He cupped the side of her face with one hand while smoothing back the unruly layers of butchered curls. Cate let out a soggy breath. "I cut it all off soon after I received the letter. I needed to get rid of something, I needed to feel different."

Don gave a closed mouth smile as though he understood. Don understood her so well despite how little they actually knew each other. She had forgotten how uncanny their connection was, as though their souls had known each other before that time.

Her previous inhibitions from back in England dissipated as swiftly as winter mist in sunlight. He was holding her so tightly as if she could disappear as well. Tipping her chin back with his knuckle, he let his mouth rest against hers.

Cate's senses filled with the rich spiced musk of the aftershave. His lower lip pressed against her mouth. Cate relaxed, his hands firmly planted on the sensitive undersides of her torso as she lifted her arms around his neck.

Senses reeled. All she could focus on was his taste, the feel of the cloth stretching against her back as he gripped her dress, the urgent exhalations of breath as he pushed her up against the faded wallpaper. She struggled to gather her thoughts. Don buried his mouth in the hollow of her throat.

She violently shoved away his shoulders. "I can't risk it."

They were still at war. He could die tomorrow. She didn't know if she could bear it.

Don ran a hand over his flushed face and stepped back, steadying himself against the mantel. He shook his head, staring hard at the floor.

"You're right." He peered up at her as she situated her dress. "I can't do this to you. I can't do this to me either."

He walked over to the bureau and picked up his coat.

"Please, you don't have to leave. You should stay. We can talk."

"Talking is the last thing on my mind where you are concerned, Catie Doyle," he admitted with a sheepish grin, a glimmer of the man she had met in Aldbourne surfacing. "I don't think I should," he strode to the door and paused as he laid a hand on the door knob. "Be careful, Catie."

"I promise."

"I will hold you to that."