A/N: Here it is: the final chapter. As for the hiatus that I unintentionally put this story on, I am so sorry. After finally graduating college, I was able to give this the attention it needed in order to give you all a (hopefully) worthy ending. Thank you everyone who has read and an extra special thanks to those that reviewed.

Inspired by Jason Mraz, Billie Holiday, and everyone who has taken the time.

XVIII. A Beautiful Mess

well, i guess this just suggests
that this is just what happiness is

September 1976, New York

Lorena Carlyle sat behind a table in the middle of a crowded bookstore on the Upper East Side, her scarred and aging hands working overtime. Women, both young and old, placed books in front of her to autograph, showering her with compliments as her pen, a silver instrument that was now considered an antique, danced across the dedication page. She gave her trademark half-smile, thanked them, and watched as they hurried to the cashier. In her youth, Lorena never imagined that, at fifty-six, she would still be working, but there she was: being hailed a voice for battered women and a shining star of the second wave. And as she stared down at the cover of her novel, an image of a bruised red apple with the title Strange Fruit printed in bold lettering across the top, she still couldn't believe it.

She had started writing it in '45, before the war had even ended. It had begun as something to do while she sunbathed in the Austrian summer air and continued as a project that she returned to throughout her life as she traveled and wrote for magazines and newspapers across the country. As she got older, Lorena focused on her growing stack of paper more and more. Plenty of times, she had wanted to give in altogether, finding it almost too difficult to relive her most painful memories after decades of never even thinking the name Parker Hollis. Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh. Then the sudden smell of burning flesh. But as she wrote, she felt her scars fading further into her past and a new power washed over her.

Lorena flexed her fingers quickly, trying to fight through the arthritis that had settled in her hands after years of use. At that moment, she felt her age and sighed at the long line of twentysomethings with flared jeans and feathered hair. In their eyes, though, she could see the way she once was; before marriage, before the war, before children. She smiled and waved one of them forward.

Then, just before she asked the girl her name, Lorena looked at the man in the back of the room. He was stoic and handsome, wearing a class-A uniform and a silver oak leaf pinned to his collar. He winked at her and gave her the smile she had always loved.

The girl in front of her turned around to see what had made the authoress blush. "Is that your husband?" she asked, sliding the book onto the table.

"No," Lorena said, "my fiancé."

And, just like that, she felt as though it was 1945 again and Lorena Carlyle was on top of the world.

June 1945, Austria

Ron watched from the end of bed as Lorena read his letter through a veil of steam that seemed to rise off of his cheeks. He was enraged and utterly bitter... until Lorena started to laugh. She doubled over in amusement, her giggles bouncing off of the dark walls and reverberating in Ron's ears. He had moved from angry to frustrated and confused.

"What's so funny about this? That woman is taking everything, Lorena. Everything! Do have any clue how much all that junk was worth. I sent her a fucking fortune and all I get is some fucking letter about how we were never married because that prick of a husband of hers isn't dead. Now they're some big happy family and are sitting pretty on a pile of cash that came from all of my hard work. Does she think it was easy getting all that crap to her? Well, it wasn't! It was fucking painful. Why are you still laughing?!"

Lorena wiped the moisture from her cheeks and shook her head, smiling and leaning back against the dresser. "Because you aren't married! You never have been. I find that incredibly funny. Just think of all the time we wasted not being together because we thought you were. It's hilarious."

"No, it's not. How are you not pissed?"

"I don't know. I'm just... not."

Ron stared up at her incredulously. Who was this woman and what had she done with his Lorena? But the more she smiled, the more Ron started to get it. He could see the irony, the farcical elements of the situation. He, too, began laughing and let his head fall into his hands.

"Well, Ron, there's one good that has come from this," Lorena said, folding the letter and slipping it back into its envelope.

"Yeah, we don't have to deal with my divorce."

"Yes, there is that, but I meant something else."

"What?" Ron asked.

"It's one less commandment that we've broken," Lorena said, shrugging her shoulders.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again. He stood and crossed the room. Taking her in his arms, he pressed his face to her shoulder and inhaled. He could smell the freedom on her skin and sense the future in his bones. In that moment, neither of them had any concern about what would happen in the next minute, the next day, the next month, or the next year. In that moment, things were just fine.

The next day, though, all hell broke loose on Ron once again. Private More, a Toccoa man who had been amongst the small group of men to enter the Eagle's Nest with him, stood before him. He swore that he was not in possession of a very important artifact: Hitler's personal photo albums. Ron knew it was bullshit.

"So you looked at them, but you didn't take them?" Ron asked in a raised voice.

Who wouldn't have taken those pictures? Ron would have done it faster than Nixon would have swiped a bottle of good scotch.

"I'll be watching you," he said, signifying an end to the discussion. "You better not be lying to me."

As he watched More leave, he knew the private had a smirk on his face. He also knew that whatever Sgt. Talbert had to say wasn't going to put him in a better mood. Ron leaned back hard against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. It was one of those moments where Lorena would have told him to quit sulking like a child, but lucky for Ron, she wasn't there to see it.

"Sir, if it's not gonna put you in too much of a bind, I'd like to resign as company First Sergeant. If I had my choice, I miss being back amongst the men. I'd be happy to go to Staff Sergeant, whichever platoon you wanna put me in," Talbert said, hoping to sound as sympathetic as he possibly could to his CO.

Ron knew that Talbert had been miserable as First Sergeant, but he never imagined that he would seek demotion. The request to go backwards seemed almost un-American, unpatriotic. The noncom searched his face for a reaction and found only exasperation and fatigue.

"Well," Ron began with a sigh, "I guess you've earned the right to demote yourself. You want to take over Sergeant Grant's platoon?"

"That would do fine, sir," Talbert said, a hint of emotion in his voice.

"Alright, report to Lieutenant Peacock. Let me know if he gives you any trouble," Ron said before saluting and dismissing the new Staff Sergeant.

Just before he reached the door, Talbert turned on his heel. "Oh, sir, did you make your decision yet?"

"Yeah, I did," Ron answered.

Talbert nodded and exited the room, leaving Ron alone with his thoughts. He chewed on his bottom lip and stared off into the empty space of his office for what felt like an eternity. Sure, he had made a decision, but he hadn't broken the news to Lorena just yet. It was obvious that they were well past the stage in their relationship where they could be open with their – dare he say it – feelings, yet Ron couldn't bring himself to tell her that she was one of the main reasons he had decided to stay in the Army. Perhaps it was because he wanted to retain some amount of his manhood or because he knew that, ultimately, Lorena wouldn't make a big deal out of it. Other women would sigh and swoon over such a declaration, but not Lorena. No, she would look at him with her dark eyes and smirk. She would fucking smirk at him as he poured his heart and soul out to her. Then she'd kiss him and, suddenly, nothing else in the world would matter. It would all give way to her lips on his and her body pressed against him in all the right places. Ron knew all of that for a fact, which was why he loved her as much as he did.

In the end, he explained his decision to Lorena the same way he had explained it to Winters: he was staying for the men. They needed someone to help them post-war, to get them through it all. Lorena, of course, knew damn well that Ron Speirs was born to be a soldier. He had told her so himself. She realized that if he had chosen to return to the States – to possibly miss out on Tokyo – she would have called for a psychological evaluation.

"Besides," he added, "I'd rather die than go that long without making love to you."

Just as Ron had anticipated, Lorena smirked at his passionate confession. "That's more like it," she said in a sultry tone as she wrapped her slender arms around his neck and pulled herself close.

Even in the most unpredictable relationship, there remained a thread of predictability... and it was beautiful.

and don't mind my nerve
you can call it fiction
but i like being submerged in your contradictions, dear

April 1951, Korea

Lorena was considered a veteran amongst the other war correspondents, both in the profession and in the field. Like all of the other reporters, she held the honorary rank of captain – in case of capture, they were told, so they would be treated as officers, not spies – but she carried it with the knowledge that she had earned it. She knew who to go to when she needed supplies and she treated the soldiers like comrades, not subjects. And she knew better than to pass judgment when she found herself attending an impromptu wedding between a young journalist and an enlisted man.

"This is ridiculous," said Betty O'Connor, a blonde from Los Angeles. "How could she even think about marriage at a time like this?"

"Well, according to most sociologists, that's the only thing single women think about. You went to a co-ed college, didn't you? You must have noticed more than a few of your peers marrying," Lorena countered.

"Of course I did, but that was college! I just don't understand how she could fall in love with a man with a war going on, a war she's supposed to be writing about, by the way," Betty said indignantly.

"Have you ever been in love, Betty?"

"Not really. Why?"

Lorena smiled and wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. Even in her summer uniform, the Korean sun was unbearably hot on her New England skin. "Because if you had, you would know how easy it is to completely disregard everything around you. War, natural disaster, pain; it all fades away in the moment. Everything, but him."

A hush fell over the small crowd as the bride, beaming and glowing like only a bride can, made her way up the makeshift aisle on the arm of Captain Ronald Speirs, who had volunteered to escort her. Commander of a rifle squad, Speirs' presence demanded a certain level of respect and fear, even amongst the correspondents. The rumors that had followed him throughout Europe somehow managed to find him in Korea as well, causing Lorena to laugh uproariously at his expense. When they had first arrived, the others had thought she was suicidal. The man runs head first into gunfire and you think he's funny? Are you insane? Then they caught a glimpse of the thick platinum band that hung from Speirs' dog tags and the diamond-encrusted twin that dangled from Lorena's neck. They were lovers.

Ron and Lorena locked eyes as the couple recited their vows. They knew that neither of them would speak those words again – once had been enough, at least for Lorena – but, as they listened and gazed at each other from across the crowd, they knew there was no need.

They were veterans; "'till death do us part," was a given.

there's no shame in being crazy
depending on how you take these
words i'm paraphrasing this relationship we're staging

July 1945, Austria

Lewis Nixon had been sober for three days. When he met Lorena on the balcony one balmy evening, he figured that it had been long enough.

The moon rose high above the mountains, basking the landscape in its soft light. The reflection danced on the lake's surface, just a glowing orb shimmering across the dark abyss. The fresh scent of evergreens surrounded them and mixed with the whiskey and the Reisling. As the two of them stood there, in their starched dress uniforms, they were both taken back to simpler times when – as children of businessmen – they were more concerned with club gossip than their own mortality.

"I thought you were quitting," she said, taking two Lucky Strikes out of their pack.

"I'm starting to think that when I came to that decision I was having some sort of an emotional breakdown. Why put myself through that hell while I'm surrounded by such beauty? I'll stop drinking when we get to Tokyo."

Lorena cast him a sideways glance. "And miss out on authentic sake?"

There was a moment of silence. "You're right. Oh, fuck it, I'll quit eventually. Dick's going to work for me after this whole thing is over, so I'm sure I'll get sick of his disapproving looks every time I come in with a hangover."

"He finally came around, huh?" she asked, taking a long drag of her cigarette.

"Yeah. Finally realized that he'd die without me. So, what are you doing after this? And if you say, 'having dinner,' I'll jump off this building," Nixon teased.

"I'm going to Boston," she answered. "I'm going to see my brother."

Just her brother, she thought. She refused to allow the idea of her father's headstone even cross her mind. Of course, once she was there amongst the trees and the cobblestone and the brick without the sound of his voice, Lorena knew that she would feel compelled to go to him. She knew that she would conjure up the courage to take that harrowing trip to Mount Auburn Cemetery where Charles G. Carlyle rested in the family plot next to his wife and parents. Ron had already insisted on going with her, but her goodbye to her father was something they both knew she had to do on her own. Although they had both crossed lines of vulnerability, Lorena preferred to keep a certain distance between them as an act of self-preservation.

"That's good, Lorena. I'm glad," Nixon said, reaching out and touching her hand in what Lorena considered an uncharacteristically tender manner.

Nixon had always felt something for Lorena. It was strictly platonic, but everything about her made him feel as though he were home. Yet, underneath his fingers, Lorena's muscles tensed. Her breath caught in her throat for just a second, then escaped her in a sigh. She turned her face away, ashamed by her reaction. Nixon took his hand away and looked at her with a curious expression.

"I thought you were cured," he said, swirling the scotch in his glass.

"I'll never be cured, Lewis," she answered, staring forward across the landscape, her gaze not really focusing on anything. "Only patched up well."

and what a beautiful mess this is
it's like picking up trash in dresses

October 1943, Atlanta

Autumn had always been Lorena's favorite season. It was a time for hollow pumpkins and cozy sweaters, for colorful trees and caramel apples. It transformed the city of Boston into a wonderland of rich, warm colors and chilly weather. Atlanta, she found, was even more beautiful than her hometown and she spent most of her time outdoors from September to November.

But that particular afternoon, Lorena did not feel joyful. A bitter wind blew in from the north, numbing her body to match her emotional state. Bundled up in her red wool coat, Lorena stalked past the gray headstones, searching for one name.

There was no plot for the Hollis family. Parker's father, Rafe Hollis, had been the first one to make something of himself. Before him, the Hollis family was nothing more than "po' white trash," as Southerners were apt to describe them. True, many of their ancestors had fought in the Civil War against the Yankees, but before the war, they were farmers. They were too poor to own slaves, too poor to plant cotton. At one point in their history, they were even too poor to vote. But the Hollis family had a different stigma on their name now: abusers. And since Parker was an only child, Lorena had ended any chance for redemption.

Poinsettias had been laid in front of Parker's grave, done by his mother, no doubt. Lorena stared down at the vibrant bouquet and thought about the fitting choice of floral arrangement. Rage filled her and she suddenly imagined smashing the poisonous plant into little pieces. The cuts on her neck were still pink and just beginning to scar. Her cracked rib was almost healed and the bruising beneath her eyes, where her nose had been broken, had faded. She had not hidden the physical evidence as she once had, though. No, Lorena began to wear the violence of her married years like battle scars. They were not signs of her weakness. They were signs of her strength. She had endured mental abuse, beatings, rape, internal death... and she found justice.

Lorena knelt in front of the headstone and placed her fist on the ground. "One day, I'm going to forget you. Everyone is going to forget you, but no one is going to forget what you did to me. Everyone will know just the sort of man you really are, Parker Hollis, and, with any luck, they will hate you just as much as I do."

In her book, those words came out of the heroine's mouth right before she fired the bullet into her husband's chest. He heard the words that Lorena never got the chance to say. Just as he was a villain in reality, he was a villain in fiction, and she was the heroine that she had always wanted to be.

and the kind and courteous is a life i've heard
but it's nice to say we've played in the dirt

November 1945, Boston

As the car pulled into the driveway of Lorena's childhood home, Ron's palms began to sweat. It was bad enough her brother had sent a 1946 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith to pick them up from the airport, but the sheer size and grandeur of the house made him feel just as insignificant as he once did when they went to Paris together. The lawn was covered in a sea of fallen leaves from the maple trees and the columns were a bright, freshly-painted white. He counted twelve windows just on the front of the house and he could see that it extended much further back.

"Jesus Christ, you grew up here?"

"Yes, and there's a maid. Don't be too alarmed."

Lorena always marveled at Ron's love and hatred for her old life. She knew that before he met her, he mocked her way of living. He had purposely looked down on women like her: women with Ivy League educations and Chanel in their closets. He went out of his way to avoid those women, to sneer at them as they walked by him as he worked, struggling to make a living during the Depression. But Lorena's presence in his life had changed his way of thinking. He no longer looked at the bulk of those society women as brainless or cruel. Suddenly, he began to wonder if they, like Lorena, were acting; going through their lives with dark secrets and stifled emotions, hoping that no one would notice. Before Lorena, Ron had been too bitter and angry to care about these women, but the moment that he saw her – a creature wandering through the woods, trying to mask its wounds – a flip switched within him. There was a vulnerability that lingered just beneath the surface of her well-groomed exterior. Ron would always hate the way he felt in the world Lorena was born into, but he would always love the way he felt beside her in it.

The driver glared at Ron as he opened and closed his own car door. He straightened the dark jacket of his class A uniform and his garrison cap, then took Lorena's gloved hand. Ron forced himself to keep his head forward and remain strong for his fiancée, who trembled with excitement.

Lorena hadn't seen her brother in over three years. He had been shipped off to Italy almost immediately after her trial, sent to translate and assist the combat medics as much as possible. He had volunteered for service, unlike many others in the same position as Lorenzo Carlyle, but he had a reputation to uphold and a family name to revive. When Ron heard this, he instantly respected the man who would always be his almost brother-in-law.

A maid, an elderly woman, answered the door almost immediately after Lorena rang the bell. Her wrinkled face broke into a bright, broad smile as soon as she saw the Carlyle girl, all grown up and on the arm of a soldier.

"Miss Carlyle! Look at you! You're even lovelier than the last time I saw you!" she beamed.

"Mildred! Oh, a familiar face!" she said as she stepped forward to embrace the woman.

Mildred's eyes went wide as Lorena's thin arms encircled her neck. Apparently, Ron noted mentally, Lorena had never been one for physical affection.

"Mildred, may I introduce you to Captain Ronald Speirs, 101st Airborne," she said as Ron stepped forward to shake the maid's hand.

"Very nice to meet you, dear," she said, and then turned to Lorena. "He's much better than the last one."

"Infinitely better," Lorena nodded in agreement. "Now, where is that brother of mine?"

"Oh, where is my head? Come in! He's in the sitting room, though I don't think I've seen him sit all day."

Lorena took Ron's hand and flashed him an excited smile. They removed their coats and gloves, and then proceeded to follow Mildred through the foyer. As they rounded the corner into the sitting room, Ron saw a man quickly rise to his feet from a chaise longue near the fireplace. When they fully entered the room, Lorena froze. Ron looked at her, then quickly to the man, who had moved to stand in the middle of the large room. He was tall with the same dark, bold features that Lorena possessed on a sun-tanned face. He, too, had a war-battered look to him, one that Ron recognized instantly.

"Is it really you?" Lorena whispered.

As the man nodded, she broke into a run and threw her arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder. He clasped her tightly and squeezed his eyes shut so the tears could not escape him. She touched his face and kissed his cheeks and laughed through a tidal wave of emotions that crashed over her. Her brother – her dear, dear brother – was alive. He was alive and healthy and safe. Lorena pulled herself close to him once more, pressing her cheek against his chest like a child, and held on.

Growing up, Lorena and Lorenzo had been close. As children, they would chase each other about the grounds; getting grass stains on their khakis in summer, jumping into piles of leaves in autumn, building forts in winter. As teenagers, after their mother died, they would secretly speak in Italian, trying to keep it alive and well in the house, just as Lilla Fanciullo wanted. Yet, there had been no opportunity to know each other as adults. They had spent years mourning their bond, each feeling as if they were bleeding inwardly from the sheer force of the snap that had occurred from their distance. It took all of Lorena's strength to force herself to loosen her grip on him.

"I missed you," she said. "I've missed you so much."

"Not as much as I've missed you. Now, let me get a good look at you, kid," he said.

Lorena stood back with a laugh as he folded his arms and mock-scrutinized her. "You're too skinny," he teased. "But you look so much like Mama."

"Do I?" she asked.

"Yeah, you do," he said, hugging her once more. Finally, he looked over at Ron and smiled. "Jesus Christ, we're rude! A couple years in the field and we've lost all sense of common decency."

The man crossed the room and extended a hand to Ron. I guess firm handshakes run in the family. "Lorenzo Carlyle, sir."

"Ron Speirs," he replied.

Lorena shook her head. "Lori, this is Ron, my fiancé."

Lorenzo's mouth fell open at the word fiancé. After Parker Hollis, he never imagined that his sister would want to be in a committed relationship again. He had taken much of the blame for what had happened to her. They had spoken on the phone countless times and he never took the lackluster tone in her voice seriously. A few times, she begged him to take her away from there and still he did nothing. Lorenzo, please. I can't... I can't take it anymore. Kidnap me, just get me out of here. He thought she meant Atlanta. He never imagined that she meant her home. She had briefly mentioned the new man in her life: his name, his rank, where they met. What Lorena did not describe – or really could not describe – was how she felt about him, which was obvious to Lorenzo in that moment. The expression on his young sister's face was something he had only seen in movies. Even in the days before the violence when Hollis was courting her, she never looked as joyful and contented. Still, Lorenzo looked at the man through the eyes of an older brother who had vowed to never allow another man to hurt his sister the way that Hollis had. He would never allow another man to break her. But, then again, neither would Lorena.

"Glad to meet you, brother. Welcome to the family."

and what a beautiful mess this is
it's like taking a guess when the only answer is yes

August 1945, Austria

Lorena watched with a smile as the men played baseball in the golden, late afternoon sun. Bull was up the plate, his fat cigar situated firmly between his teeth.

Ron walked up behind her and leaned against the jeep.

"Who's winning?" he asked.

"I have no idea. I don't have much of a mind for sports. In case you haven't noticed, I'm much more of an indoor girl," she answered with a smile.

"Oh, believe me, I noticed."

Lorena turned back to watch, noting how far each of them had come; as soldiers, as men, and as human beings. They had jumped into unknown territory time and time again, been bombarded with blasts from above, and became witnesses to genocide. Not to mention, as Bill Guarnere would point out to her in later years, saddled with a homicidal journalist.

Yet, it was both her professional integrity and personal involvement that would have her maintain contact with the veterans of Easy Company for decades into the future. While writing on Southern spiritualism, Lorena spent time with Eugene in Louisiana, who told her countless stories about his grandmother. She often returned just to hear more about her and enjoy his wife's superb cooking. Lorena collected cigars on her various travels and sent them to Bull, who went into the earth-moving business in Arkansas after the war.

Webster became one of Lorena's top contacts in New York, especially after his move from the Saturday Evening Post to the Wall Street Journal. The two collaborated on several articles before he turned his attention to researching sharks. In 1961, Lorena paid for a massive search and rescue mission after he went out on the ocean alone and never returned. She would mourn her friend for the rest of her life.

Lipton became a glass-making executive, in charge of factories across the globe. One day, not long into his career, he took over the operations of LG Glass Company, allowing Lorenzo to begin teaching Italian at Radcliffe (his true passion, Lorena noted in a congratulatory letter to Lipton). He also had the Carlyle name etched into the entrance of the building, maintaining the origin of their family legacy for future generations.

Lorena would also remain close to Lewis Nixon and Dick Winters, writing them both long letters whenever she had the chance. Particularly while she and Ron were in Korea, as Lorena spoke fondly of Winters with the soldiers that he also happened to train and drank quality scotch with an officer who was a Yale alumni like Nixon. She attended their weddings and sent presents at the holidays. Winters even dragged himself into New York City to attend Lorena's book release party, a struggle for which she was eternally grateful.

The pair walked up to where Ron and Lorena were sitting and asked Ron to gather the men around. They looked relaxed—all of them—for the first time in God only knew how long. They gathered around in a circle around the officers, waiting for whatever news they had to deliver. At that point, even if it meant being shipped out to Tokyo, the men of Easy Company knew that it would be okay. Either way, they had each other.

"Listen up. Got some news," Dick began, squinting into the sunlight, "This morning, President Truman received an unconditional surrender from the Japanese. War's over."

Lorena smiled and she quickly looked to the faces to see shock and perhaps a strain of disbelief in their eyes. They were frozen until Dick gave a nod and they all headed towards the tents out on the field, back to their makeshift barracks to celebrate the end of their long journey. Ron stood beside her silently for a long moment before taking her hand in his and kissing it. Then he smiled at her—a tender smile, full of hope and promise and love—and she returned it. Then, almost out of nowhere, she placed her free hand at the nape of his neck and pulled him toward in a seering kiss. There, in a sunny field at the base of a picturesque European mountain, Lorena Carlyle broke all of her old rules. She pressed her lips to her lovers with no abandon. After all, if the war had taught her anything, it was that there was no room in a full life to for fear and, even in the darkest of times, one can always be saved by courage and love.

and through timeless words and priceless pictures
we'll fly like birds, not of this earth
and tides they turn and hearts disfigure
but that's no concern when we're wounded together

February 1960, Berlin

Lilla looked up at her father, who tucked her pink blankets tight around her, and smiled. She was only five-years-old, but she already knew that, when she grew up, she was going to be a soldier.

Her father was a gun-toting soldier. He had already been in two wars and had worked as a liaison for the Russians in Potsdam right around the time she was born. Now, he was working in Spandau where the German government kept the Nazis and where her father kept them in line.

Her mother was a pen-wielding soldier. She had written about the wars that the men of the world had fought in and about the war that the women of the world faced every day. She fought for freedom and truth; things that were intangible, but important.

Lilla Carlyle-Speirs, with her ebony hair and striking, green eyes, had the fighting spirit inside of her. There was no doubt about that. The blood that ran through her veins was Scottish and Sicilian; if she had been even-tempered, Lorena and Ron would have worried about her. But from the first moment that Lorena felt her daughter move within her, she knew that her little girl would be a strong child. She would be smart, determined, passionate, and would survive the world and its turbulence. Ron, while sharing the same sentiments, still vowed that, despite the power she would possess (simply by being her mother's daughter), he would kill anyone that hurt her. As soon as the doctor placed Lilla in his arms, Ron knew that he would do anything for the tiny, soft, pink angel that stared up at him with his eyes. Anything for her, and anything for the woman who had just given birth to her.

"Daddy, tell me about you and Mama again. About how you met."

Ron tucked a loose curl behind Lilla's ear. "You've heard that story a million times. Aren't you tired of it?"

Ron would be the first to admit that fatherhood had both strengthened and softened him. He was still the man who had survived Normandy and Bastogne, who had shot men down on two continents, who could strike fear into the heart of any man. But he was also the keeper of the bedtime stories, the squasher of large insects, the detective of a missing sock. Ron held a conviction that Lorena had made him a better person, but Lilla had made him the best person he could have ever hoped to be.

"No, Daddy," she said with a toothy grin. "It's great. Mama said it's better than Cinderella."

"Oh, yeah?" he answered. "And why'd she say that?"

"Because Cinderella is a fairytale. Oh, and because Mama said that she would have been responsible enough to leave a calling card."

At this, Ron laughed, kissed Lilla on the forehead, and stood. "Goodnight, Lilla Anne."

"Goodnight, Daddy," she replied with a yawn before turning onto her side with a smile and quickly falling asleep.

Ron padded down the hall, barefoot, and carefully opened the door to the bedroom. Lorena was lying still on her back beneath the sheets, meaning to Ron that she wasn't quite sleeping, but she was on the verge. He pulled the blankets back on his side and slide into bed, propping himself on his elbow to get a better view of her.

"Did she give you trouble again?" she asked, not opening her eyes.

"No. She wanted to hear about us, though. What have you been telling her?"

"Nothing that isn't true. Why, how do you tell our little tale? That her mama was crazy and her daddy was a god?"

"You mean, her mama is crazy and her daddy is a god."

Lorena chuckled. "You're delusional."

Suddenly, Ron leaned over and kissed her softly.

"What was that for?" she asked sleepily, opening her eyes just enough to see his silhouette in the darkness.

"Because I love you and you make me very happy," he said; his tone, serious.

Lorena opened her eyes wider. His face was unreadable in the darkness, but she could hear the sincerity in his voice and it comforted her. She stared at him, smiling. She smoothed his hair and caressed his cheek.

"I love you too."

And in those four words, Ron understood. He heard everything she couldn't say and she knew in the way his lips pressed against hers that he really had. His fingertips traced a scar that ran down her shoulder blade as he cradled her against his chest and her hands knotted in his graying hair. As they touched, the world went quiet and, suddenly, it was only them, just as they had always been: ruthless, invincible, and in love.

but it's nice today
... oh, the wait was so worth it

Fin.