Author's Note: If you were an early reader of the last chapter it ended with a flashback. I went to bed the night after publishing and decided that it wasn't what I wanted. It was too negative for pre-war Branson. So I took it out. Sorry to confuse people, that'll be the last time hopefully that happens.

I'm still pretty insecure in writing Sybil and Tom and writing in general but I love this story and hope that I tell it well. Thanks as always to the ever lovely Shana-Rosee for her help. I often find myself stuck and in need of someone to talk to things about. I'm grateful she's willing.

"Didn't we all?" The question settled in the air, unanswered and unquestioned. The Tom and Sybil sat in silence a few moments, watching the river, before he spoke up. "You know my best night of studying was that evening you shared a library table with me."

She chuckled a little, "I would have thought that I was more distracting than helpful."

"Nah, I saw how focused you were and decided I would look like a slouch if I wasn't working as well. The paper I turned in the next day has been my best."

"I guess I will have to frequent the Harvard library more often."

In the week Sybil made a habit of going to the library, seeking out thick medical texts and the corner table where more often than not Tom would be there with his own school work. Tom would read and read but made an effort not to write much when Sybil was with him, instead laboring long on his papers upon returning to his small room after walking Sybil home.

Tonight, though, it couldn't be avoided, he had to finish the paper and since he was already exhausted Tom didn't think he would be able to do it all after the library closed. He looked down at his hands, they still didn't look like his. They didn't feel like his either. He'd worked with them his whole life and now his scarred and slightly quivering hands had trouble gripping a pencil.

All his focus was on making his handwriting legible,at first Tom didn't notice Sybil's lowered books and raised eyes. When he finally raised his eyes from his paper to meet hers she spoke softly, "can I help?"

Tom bristled defensively, he ignored her question and began shoving his papers back in his bag as he stood to leave.

Sybil was confused. "But…"

He cut her off. "I'm not some charity case," he said as he turned to leave.

His words startled her and she watched him go. But a moment later she flung her own things in her bag and ran after him. From the steps of the library she could still see him. "Wait," she called as she ran towards him. It didn't take her long to catch up, "I didn't mean it like that at all."

He turned to look at her, "then what did you mean?"

"Just that, well, we are friends, right?" He nodded in response, the anger in his eyes tempering a little. Sybil continued, "friends help each other, and know about each other. I hardly know anything about you."

She was right, she had never asked about his injuries, she hadn't asked about his past, she hadn't even ever asked if he had served in the war or not. If they were to be friends, which Tom did want, she deserved to know at least a little about him.

"I'm sorry, I'm a little sensitive about my writing. I was a mechanic before the war, I planned to do it my whole life." He opened his palms towards her.

In the dusky evening light she saw, white scars crisscrossed both his palms and his fingers. She reached out and gingerly touched them. "I'm sorry."

Tom shook his head, "it's ok." He gripped his cane again and walked on, not looking at her as he continued his story. "I got drafted and that was the end of my mechanic days, I can't hold any tools tight enough to be much help let alone the fact that getting up from under a car would take me about half a day," he said, nodding at his leg.

"Can I ask what happened?"

"I was stationed somewhere in France. Most companies had pulled out of where we were, but for some reason we hadn't. One night bombs started hitting us. I don't remember much, just pulling burning rubble off my leg and crawling out of there."

The chilly air made Sybil shiver and Tom continued, "they said I was lucky. I only lost my leg and not also my hands… or my life."

"You were lucky."

"No, I don't see it that way. Was I lucky to come home with no livelihood, having probably taken that, or worse, away from so many other people?"

"But Hilter needed to be stopped, you sacrificed for that."

"Of course what Hitler was doing was atrocious but how was killing a bunch of Germans better than what he was doing? How was that stopping him?"

They had stopped in front of his door as she noticed her shivering under her light sweater. "Come in and have some coffee. We can work here, since I'm sure you weren't done with your studying when you left the library."

She nodded and followed him inside. His comments about the war weighing heavily on her mind. The apartment was small, the main room housing a small table with two chairs, a couch, and small cooking area. A little radio stood on a table in the corner. There were a couple dishes in the sink but otherwise the place was neat without being fussy. She smiled a little knowing how her mother would react to the fact she was here.

Even after he handed her a cup she stood in the middle of the room, it wasn't until he had gotten his own and sat at the table did she pull out the chair across from him and sit down. He pulled out his bag, "I'm sorry, but I really do need to get this paper written tonight."

"Would it help if you dictated it and I wrote it?" She asked, "I'm done with what I needed to do tonight anyway."

This time her offer to help was accepted and when she returned to her apartment as the matron was locking the door she didn't even hear Edna's teasing.