When he was eight, Richard watched as his mother dressed herself for a a date night with his father. He had been looking for her because it was bedtime and he was tired but couldn't sleep without a story and a good-night kiss. He went to her bedroom, and when he peered through the slightly ajar door he found her wrapped in a pink bath towel, pale skin pinkened from hot water, humming a tune as she laid a dress on the foot of his parents' bed. He opened the door a bit further, and the hinges creaked slightly.

"Mommy?"

She had smiled at him, picking him up and setting him carefully on the bed, next to the smooth black dress. Kind words came from her mouth, asking him why he wasn't in bed yet.

"I need a story."

"Ah," she said, understanding. "A story."

She reached into a dresser drawer, pulling out a handful of other fabrics. She sat on the adjacent side of the bed, towel falling, and began to put on various undergarments; her blue eyes were thoughtful, wandering.

"What kind of story, baby?"

Richard answered that he only knew of one kind of the story: the kind with a good guy and a bad guy and a beautiful girl in distress. She laughed slightly at this and paused, patting a thoughtful cadence on her bare knees.

"Once upon a time," she began, and the words that followed were wonderful and warm and blurred with love. She told about a stolen princess as she pulled up her tights, a handsome prince as she adjusted her garter, a menacing curse as she dried her hair, a courageous journey as she slipped on her dress, a magical kiss as she put on her shoes, and a happily ever after as she put on her pearls.

"What about after that?" he asked, genuinely curious, craving more words. He watched her struggle with the clasp to her necklace.

"After that?" She laughed, a fond thing. "No one knows what's after that, honey."

"Why not?"

"Because… Because we need to figure that out on our own." She clasped the necklace and turned towards him again.

"Where did you get those?"

"These?" She fingered the strong of pearls wrapped around her neck. Richard nodded. "Your daddy gave them to me for our wedding."

"Why?"

She laughed again. "Because when you love someone, you want to give them something special." Her blue eyes grew hazy again. "You want to give them the world, but you can't, so you give them a token to show them how hard you tried."

She glanced at her clock and gave him a kiss on the forehead. "I've gotta go, honey. The sitter will be here soon, so try to get to sleep, okay?" He nodded and slid off the bed.

He watched from his doorway as his mother slipped her hand into his father's own as they closed the door behind them.

Roe's fingers are warm from being wrapped within his own for so long a stretch of time. Even though his breathing is slow, his eyes are open; blue, deep blue. Winters loves that shade of blue.

He tightens his grasp on Roe's two hands caught between his own, like trying to keep a bird from flying away. But something about Roe's blue eyes tells him that he's not going to leave, that he's going to stay. Because that's just what Roe does – he sticks around, somewhere between stubbornness and loyalty, even if he knows everything is going to crumble between his fingers. He's been doing it throughout the war, and now he's doing it in this…

This relationship. Winters settles for that word for lack of any better. In his vocabulary, there is no word for what's been growing between the two of them, and he doesn't think there ever will be. Not a proper word, anyway.

Winters wonders, looking in those dark blue eyes, if this is what his father felt like. He wonders if he fell for his mother's eyes as he fell into them; wonders if the blue overtook him. He loved her enough to marry her, to live with her, to buy her a string of pearls. Enough to carry out a long, happy life with her with a son and a house with an apple tree on the green lawn.

The thought makes Winters' heart burn, just a bit, because he can't give Gene any of that. Not that Roe would want a string of white pearls – but he can't promise the medic a life beyond the war. A house, a lawn, a wedding day and kids and an apple tree with a big enough pocket of shade for both of them to sprawl out in during the warm weeks of summer.

He can't give Gene a peaceful life.

Dick clutches Gene's hand ever closer to his chest. Blue eyes blink at him, peaceful and happy.

But he can try his damndest.