Only a Paper Moon [ Band of Brothers ] 3

[5] The Tears She Cries

Summary: "Helluva day. Did not expect to find George Luz at my door tonight, I'll tell you that."
Continuation of Humanity of the Broken, Chapter 47

Zell am See, Austria

George had seen a lot of people reach their breaking point. He'd seen Buck crumble, silent and stoic. He'd seen Joe and Bill with missing limbs, attempting to crack jokes to relieve the pressure. He'd seen Alice in Bavaria, alternating between trying to smoke herself to death and quiet tears. He never wanted to see another broken person again.

And he certainly hadn't wanted to watch Alice break twice.

He didn't know the full story. George knew that. He knew bits and pieces of what had happened to her to turn Adélaïde into Alice, but he didn't know all of it. Even the parts he did know were enough to make him freeze when she'd accused the replacement of rape, though.

Jesus Christ, when that bastard had just laughed in her face, George had wanted to shoot him. In most cases, George didn't particularly want to shoot anyone. He did it because it was his job, his friends depended on him. But in that moment, he'd wanted to put a bullet in the bastard's chest.

It hadn't surprised him at all when she'd pulled out the gun. In that moment, though, he'd seen his only opportunity to stop her from reaching another breaking point. Damn the consequences, she wasn't going to fire that bullet.

If he was honest with himself, hours before, when he'd found her sitting at a cafe drowning herself in wine, that's when he'd made that choice. She'd almost reached her breaking point there. When he'd heard that Webster and Liebgott had been given orders to assassinate the Commandant, he'd known it was her.

Then the fucking replacement had thrown oil on the fire.

The way she'd frozen, he could see it in her face. It was the same fear he'd seen on the Samaria, a chilling sort of terror he had never wanted to see again. Of all the things he'd seen in the war, all the broken people and broken bodies, he'd never forgotten that moment. Clearly she'd never forgotten it either.

"She's okay?"

George looked left. He'd been standing at the base of the stairs in the HQ hotel, probably looking like an idiot. That was the least of his worries, though. Malarkey moved over to him as he didn't respond.

"I don't know," George said.

Malarkey nodded. He didn't say anything at first, just stood with George at the base of the stairs. But then he turned to him. "You should go check."

With a tiny scoff, George shook his head. But he had to crack a small smile. "Pretty sure I'm the last person she wants to see right now." Then his smile grew a tiny bit as he tried to imitate her. "George get out of here, you bastard!"

Half a snort, half a laugh escaped Malarkey. With a shake of his head, he turned to him. "You are a smartass. Go talk to her."

"I'll go, I'll go."

With a last deep breath, he nodded as much to himself as to Malarkey. He just didn't want to see the fear again, or the anger. It reminded him so much of the other broken people he'd seen, and he didn't want to see it in her face. Not again.

George started up the stairs. But halfway up the first turning, he paused. He started back down. Malarkey tried to ask him what was wrong, but he assured him he had it handled. So as Malarkey left the building, he went to the private at the front desk.

"I need Captain Nixon's room number," George told him.

"Why-"

"I need it now, Private."

The young, fresh-faced private, probably another damn replacement, nodded and dug through the book that had the room assignments for the officers. George pulled out a cigarette while he waited.

"Room 319, sir."

"Thanks."

With his cigarette lit and offering a bit of calm, George sped up to the third floor. 319. He hoped Nixon's notoriously bad sleep habits meant he was still awake. Otherwise waking him might've been a death sentence.

George groaned at his own choice of words. Soon enough he found the room. The wooden door shut, he looked at the bottom and thought he saw light. Thank God. With a nod to himself, he knocked. He still wasn't quite sure what to say.

Nixon answered the door. He had his flask in his hand. Typical. That at least was predictable. They all had their coping methods, and his was drinking. Alice had helped curb it though. Behind Nixon, Welsh half sat, half stood against a dresser.

"Sergeant?" Nixon looked confused. "Something's wrong."

"A lot," George admitted, then he quickly added their titles, "sirs."

Harry had moved to the door with Nixon, brows furrowed in concern. George guessed they hadn't heard about Grant yet. "Sergeant Grant was shot in the head by a drunk replacement," he tried to explain. "Captain Speirs says he'll live."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Nixon. He glared and shook his head. "Did Winters send you, then?"

George had to suppress a laugh. With all the times he'd been a runner for Major Winters, he should've expected they'd think that. He shook his head. "No, sirs. Lieutenant Klein found out the replacement also raped an Austrian woman."

"Shit," Welsh said.

"Sir." George turned to Nixon. "Alice needs you. Right now. She almost shot him."

Nixon took a deep breath. George felt like he was almost being interrogated by him, so he stood his ground. But it took almost no time for Nixon to take a drink and nod. "Right. Thank you."

George watched him leave. He had to admit that for all his faults, Nixon was a good man. Alice loved him, which meant he had to be.

"Want your ten dollars back, Luz?"

He turned around. Harry had moved to stand next to him, also drinking. Yet another constant. "Nah, sir. You won that fair and square." He couldn't help but smile though. "It'd be bad for my reputation to take back a bet."

Harry laughed. "Want a drink then? This is probably the only time you'll get near the Vat 69 stash."

Taking out his cigarette, he shook his head. "Tempting, sir. But no. I'd hate to turn into someone who can't drink swill if I do taste the good stuff."

With another small laugh, Harry nodded. George left him to clean up Nixon's stash of alcohol, and probably steal a bottle or two as well. With a yawn, he looked at his watch. 0010 hours. Jesus, he was going soft. Barely past midnight and he already felt exhausted.

But he decided to sleep. Because far too often he'd taken the slow nights for granted. He wouldn't do that again. Grant would be okay. Alice would be okay. The war was ending, and someday they'd all go home.