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Book Two -- Part I:
What Remains Unspoken
U.S.S. Voyager
Stardate 51753.5
B'Elanna checked her dress once more in the inadequate mirror, still not quite able to believe that she actually had to wear this strange, fussy costume. She disliked the double collar the most, she decided, pulling at the neck of the dress. The addition of a bow only made it worse -- and not just because she'd yet been able to tie it so that the loops came out even. It made her feel juvenile, B'Elanna acknowledged, scowling at her distorted image. The yellow cotton pique with its pleated skirt and matching cloth belt was undoubtedly perfect for her character -- Brigitte Gantrell, aged seventeen -- but it made B'Elanna Torres feel silly. She hated feeling silly.
Actually, to her mind, this whole exercise seemed ridiculous and unnecessary. It had been a month since she'd admitted her flashbacks to Tom, then -- at his insistence -- reported them to the Doctor. B'Elanna hadn't even suffered a glimmer of recall in almost two weeks. So, why did she have to go through with this exercise now? The answer, of course, was the Doctor and Tom Paris. Once they had both known about her bursts of memory there had been no question that she'd have to re-experience the holodeck program fully aware.
B'Elanna gave her reflection one more disgusted look, then turned, crossing the three steps to the rickety bed which dominated her character's bedroom. She retrieved the "smart summer hat" -- according to the costuming directions that she'd received for the program -- and plunked it on her head. The sparse story notes also suggested pinning the hat, but B'Elanna ignored that directive. Figuring she might as well get started, she reached into her patch pocket and retrieved the prompter, slipping it into her ear.
The device molded itself to her flesh, tickling. B'Elanna could feel the adhesive coating attach to her skin, eliciting an involuntary shiver. It was an innocuously low-tech gadget, allowing for the one-way transmission of information pertinent to a holo-novel's plot -- stage directions -- and it annoyed B'Elanna to no end. She'd participated in very few of the narrative programs which required a prompter's use, preferring more open-ended scenarios to these heavily scripted holo-novels. What she wouldn't give for a plotless program now, B'Elanna decided, growling as the prompter gave its first instruction.
"There!" she declared to Brigitte Gantrell's bedroom, retrieving a worn leather portfolio from the dressing table. "I have her papers," she informed the water-stained ceiling.
The prompter -- not built to respond -- offered further direction. "You're late," the device reprimanded B'Elanna, buzzing slightly in her ear. "It is important that you reach your client's establishment on time. Once you have your case and handbag, proceed downstairs," it continued dully. "Do not forget to bid your grandmother farewell."
Picking up Brigitte's purse, B'Elanna tucked the portfolio under her arm and clomped out the bedroom door. "This is just great," she muttered, hurrying down the stair at the prompter's further urging.
Finally out of sight of Le Cerf -- Ste. Claire's finest restaurant, according to the prompter -- B'Elanna allowed herself to stamp her foot, venting her frustration. However, the slap of newly replicated shoe leather against holographic cobblestone was hardly satisfying. She tried again -- right foot this time -- but was rewarded by the same muffled non-sound as before. B'Elanna grumbled, willing the ground below her to return to its true form: durasteel deckplate which clanged loudly and properly metallic when struck. She loathed this program, she reminded herself. She loathed that pompous little man too, B'Elanna decided, looking back over her shoulder. Pompous little hologram, she corrected herself, even if his bad breath smelled appallingly real.
B'Elanna's face burned as she recalled the scene she'd fled -- not that the prompter hadn't instructed her to do so. She, or rather Brigitte, had been "let go" as the bookkeeper for Le Cerf. Monsieur Bulat -- Monsieur Bad Breath, B'Elanna thought -- had assured her that she shouldn't take the dismissal personally. "You've been a fine bookkeeper, Brigitte," he'd told B'Elanna, giving her shoulder a patronizing pat. "But, I need someone with more experience now," the hologram had continued. "Besides, Alec will be taking over the restaurant one day," he'd finished, smiling broadly at his vacant-eyed -- even for a hologram -- son.
B'Elanna had nodded her understanding -- just as the prompter had directed -- barely able to swallow her angry retort. It would be useless to try and pick a fight with a simple narrative hologram, she reminded herself. Things would proceed faster and more easily if she just played along. Still, being fired by a holodeck character -- even within the confines of the program's parameters -- burned in B'Elanna's gut. The prompter's hints that the restaurant was suffering financial troubles due to the competition of Le Coeur de Lion, a new restaurant in town, had done little to soothe her ruffled feathers.
"You proceed up the street and, still disturbed by your dismissal, ignore your fellow citizens," the prompter urged B'Elanna, dragging her attention back to the present.
She snorted, muttering, "Easy enough," under her breath. B'Elanna threw back her shoulders, starting again up the slightly sloped and winding street. "So, what's next?" she asked rhetorically a few seconds later. B'Elanna glanced around not bothering to take in her surroundings. "Something has to happen if this Brigitte person is going to wind up pregnant," she reminded the portfolio she held clutched to her chest.
In the next instant, B'Elanna found herself knocked to the ground. "You've been struck by a bicyclist," the prompter supplied calmly just as B'Elanna identified the heavy metal frame she found herself under. "You're winded," the computer added helpfully.
B'Elanna acknowledged the prompter's hints with a shallow grunt, wondering why she couldn't have lost that offensive piece of equipment in the crash. Everything else she had been carrying seemed to have gone flying, she realized, glaring in annoyance at the papers scattered around her. "Ugh," she breathed, straining her empty lungs. You could've warned me, she thought, unable to muster the strength to speak aloud.
"Mademoiselle, are you hurt?"
B'Elanna looked up again, this time to find a dark-haired teenage boy leaning over her, a concerned look marring his expression. She nodded quickly, hoping to assure the baby-faced kid that she was fine. She didn't need this distraction, B'Elanna thought, silently cursing narrative programs once again. These minor scenes were taking too much time. Grumbling, B'Elanna began to pull herself up, but the hologram stopped her. "Non. Do not get up," he ordered. "You may be hurt." The boy paused a moment, swallowing hard. "I should ... examine you first," he explained, kneeling beside B'Elanna.
B'Elanna refrained from rolling her eyes, figuring that was not the "surprised reaction" the prompter had suggested. "Uh, no, that's not necessary," B'Elanna argued, trying to manufacture a shocked expression as the holo-teen began to check her left ankle.
"I'm so sorry!"
B'Elanna glanced to the right, surprised to see an even younger girl lurking behind her would-be rescuer. "I'm very sorry," the girl repeated, a sob catching in her throat. "I -- It's my first time on this bicycle. I --"
"It's fine," B'Elanna interrupted, afraid that the hologram would burst into tears if she continued to berate herself. "I'm fine," she assured quickly. "You don't need to worry about me, and -- really -- you don't need to keep looking at my leg," she continued, fixing the boy with a hard look. "Please, people are staring," B'Elanna added after the prompter explained that she was, in fact, disturbed by the glances of the passing townspeople.
"You're sure you're not hurt?" the boy asked, unwilling to loosen his hold on her ankle. He gazed at B'Elanna intently, his brown eyes piercing into her. "If you're hurt I should get a doctor," the hologram explained.
"I'm fine. Really," B'Elanna repeated, ignoring the prompter's admonishment that she should find herself mesmerized by his deep brown eyes. What was so amazing about brown eyes? she wondered, yanking her leg free of his grip finally. Brown eyes were ... brown eyes. "Thanks for your help," B'Elanna added, hoping it would hurry the hologram along.
The boy, however, didn't move. Instead, he continued to concentrate on B'Elanna, waiting, she decided for some form of input. "Comment that they are Americans," the prompter instructed as the silence lengthened. "Tell them that you speak English."
"Uh, you're Americans, right?" B'Elanna asked, looking back and forth between the boy and girl. "Because I speak English," she told them.
"Ah, Katy, I believe that is the mademoiselle's polite way of telling us that our accents leave much to be desired," joked the boy. He got up then, moving to stand beside the girl. "Perhaps we should stop inflicting our French on this girl," the hologram said, tugging on his companion's braid. Now she really looked ready to cry, but the young man's words were enough to make her smile. "Yes," the holographic boy continued, turning back to face B'Elanna. "We are Americans. I'm Robert Davis, and this is my cousin Katy Blackwell. And you, mademoiselle?"
"Be --" B'Elanna began, only to cut herself off when the prompter interrupted with a timely reminder. "I mean Gantrell," she corrected herself, moving to stand up. Robert the hologram jumped forward, offering her his hand. B'Elanna accepted it almost gladly, and was quickly pulled to her feet. She stomped her foot then, testing her ankle, as ordered, by the prompter.
"Your ankle?" the hologram inquired, his brow furled with concern. "It's not twisted, is it, Mademoiselle Gantrell?"
"No, it's fine," B'Elanna answered, stomping her other foot. "Both of them," she added, earning her a nod and a smile from Robert.
Another pause ensued, eliciting further instruction from the prompter. "Tell him your name -- Brigitte," the computer prodded. "Then thank him, and address him as Robert."
"Uh, my name is Brigitte," B'Elanna parroted. "And, thanks for your help, uh, Robert."
The holographic girl -- Katy, B'Elanna reminded herself -- giggled loudly. "Oh, Robert," she mimicked, pretending to swoon.
The boy blushed furiously then, throwing the girl a peeved glare. Still flushed, he turned back to face B'Elanna, admitting, "My friends just call me Bobby."
"Bobby!" B'Elanna echoed in surprise. Staring, she took a step forward, studying the hologram with sudden interest. "But -- Bobby..." she mumbled to herself, recalling the flashback she'd experienced most often during the weeks following the Hirogen's evacuation from Voyager and her participation in what she now knew to be The Memory of You program.
She'd felt frightened -- but angry, too -- and so, armed with a weapon, she had lain in wait for the intruder she could hear on the stairs. He'd barely tried to cover his movements, making an inordinate amount of noise as he'd come into the room.... Then, just as she'd been ready to shoot, had been prepared to defend herself -- herself and the child she could so oddly and easily remember carrying -- B'Elanna had recognized the figure in the shadows. It'd been Tom. Bobby. Bobby then, she decided, but really Tom....
"You're not Bobby," B'Elanna informed the interloping hologram, glaring.
"What?" the boy squeaked in confusion, reacting with a surprising amount of situational awareness. "My name is Bobby," the hologram insisted.
B'Elanna, however, ignored him. "Computer, halt program," she called out.
All activity on the holodeck ceased instantly. The Bobby character gaped at B'Elanna, his protest silenced by her command. Frowning, she studied him carefully, contemplating the situation. "This is never going to work," she muttered, crossing her arms. It was bad enough that she participate in this ridiculous program, but the Bobby hologram made it impossible. If the Doctor wanted her to come to terms with her experiences, her flashbacks, then he should have put a little more thought into the whole thing, B'Elanna decided stubbornly. No way she'd ever resolve whatever she was supposed to resolve with that ... that holographic kid. It wasn't believable.
"Computer, what's the time?" B'Elanna queried turning away from the motionless characters, only to find herself facing another set of townspeople, frozen mid-step.
"Sixteen-twenty-three," the holodeck computer answered blandly.
B'Elanna exhaled in frustration. "I still have an hour and a half to go," she complained to a clump of unimpressed pedestrians. The Doctor, she knew, would catch her before she could make it back to Engineering if she left now. He wouldn't care why, and would accuse her of making excuses. It was impossible to tell the Doctor that one of his therapies was ineffective. But, B'Elanna reminded herself, in all her flashbacks it had been Tom. Bobby had been Tom. It wouldn't work any other way, no matter what the Doctor thought.
"Nothing else is going to work," B'Elanna argued, trying to convince herself. She glanced over her shoulder then, taking one more look at the interloping Bobby. It cemented her decision. "Computer, substitute holographic image of the Bobby character with the image of Tom Paris."
B'Elanna turned completely around then, waiting for the new image to morph into place. She was, she knew, on uncertain ethical ground. Although images were stored in the holodeck imager for all crew members, those images were really only meant for use in official programs developed for training purposes. They were definitely off-limits for personal use. But, this was a medical matter -- a mental health issue, the Doctor had insisted. Shrugging off her qualms, B'Elanna reminded herself again that it was the only way she'd ever be able to complete these sessions the Doctor had forced upon her. Besides, she'd make sure it was okay. Later.
"There are nine holographic images available in the holodeck image database, seventeen in the main computer, and twenty-one in compressed file storage. Please specify an image."
B'Elanna stared at the arch that materialized before her, displaying the first five images. In addition to the standard three necessary for the creation of basic holodeck training programs, it appeared that Tom had stored a few more images on the holodeck computer for his own personal use. It made some sense to B'Elanna -- he did spend an inordinate amount of his free time holoprogramming -- although she wasn't sure why Tom would need extra images of himself in his own holoprograms. She glanced the images over, then asked the computer to display the next set, but she couldn't picture any of these images re-dressed in the other Bobby's clothing.
"Computer, retrieve and display compressed files," B'Elanna requested, her interest piqued. Compressed file storage was used for Starfleet data not specifically required for Voyager's mission. Besides, with 21 to choose from, B'Elanna thought, there had to be one that would work well for the simulation.
"Images retrieved," the computer informed B'Elanna after ten seconds. She returned to the arch, quickly paging through the index. The shots, obviously culled from Starfleet personnel files and Federation News Service feeds, spanned Tom's life from babyhood through his incarceration at the Auckland Penal Colony. B'Elanna was reminded of just how publicly Tom had always lived his life. He wasn't exactly famous, but well enough known to merit the occasional mention in the Federation Daily Bulletin. She glanced through the first screens quickly, barely pausing over his birth announcement or kindergarten picture. Soon though, B'Elanna found herself studying two images that would surely suit her purpose: Tom's Academy enrollment identification image, and a holograph that showed him posing with other "promising young cadets of the Class of '67".
B'Elanna selected the images with two quick taps. "Computer, please revise the Bobby character using the physical characteristics associated with these images," she requested.
"Working," the computer answered. Unable to stem her curiosity, B'Elanna paged quickly through the rest of the selections before closing the file. She considered the situation for a moment, then entered another command, instructing the computer to use the rest of the file images to extrapolate character image aging. Finally, with one last finger stroke, she caused the arch to disappear. "Character alterations complete," the computer announced, and B'Elanna turned to study her handiwork.
The holodeck computer had done an amazing job, B'Elanna decided after a few seconds observation. She moved forward, walking around the newly instantiated Bobby to take in every detail. His hair was longer, curling just above his ears. His clothing too, she realized, had also been altered by her ordered character change. Now, instead of a blue shirt with rolled up sleeves, he was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a sleeveless sweater with pinstriped -- B'Elanna thought that was the word -- trousers. The whole outfit made him look taller -- taller than the original Bobby, and even taller than Tom Paris. She stepped closer, standing so she could measure the difference in the heights of their shoulders with her eye, and was mildly surprised to realize that the character wasn't any taller than Tom.
B'Elanna stepped back, almost to the spot where she'd been so unceremoniously knocked over ten minutes before. She still studied Bobby, glad to see that his expression, too, had been replaced. Instead of gaping at her like a fish, this frozen Bobby offered her the warmest of smiles. It was an alluring grin -- sweet -- the kind of smile that still surprised her when she saw it on Tom. This is going to work, B'Elanna thought. This might just work, she told herself, smiling in return.
B'Elanna settled herself back on the holographic cobblestones, shoving the abandoned bicycle over slightly. "Computer, restart program at time index two-eight-four-nine," she ordered.
"Mademoiselle, are you hurt?" the suddenly reanimated Bobby demanded, striding forward. He leaned over B'Elanna, his hand coming to rest tentatively -- gently -- on her shoulder. "Non, don't get up," he admonished although B'Elanna had made no move to do so. "You may be hurt," Bobby reminded, frowning slightly.
B'Elanna looked up, catching his eyes with her own. "You find Bobby's gaze mesmerizing," the prompter reminded. This time, B'Elanna had no trouble believing that.
Bobby smiled at her again, offering his reassurance. This will work, B'Elanna told herself again. Returning Bobby's grin with a shaky one of her own. "I'm -- I'm fine, " she tried to argue.
"Perhaps," Bobby agreed. "But I should examine you."
B'Elanna nodded her assent, and the program continued.
U.S.S. Voyager
Stardate 51778.9
B'Elanna Torres stepped from the turbolift car, her concentration fully centered on the PADD she carried. She brushed passed Harry Kim, his presence not registering on her personal sensors until she had forced him to take a step back.
"Whoa! Kim to Torres," Harry joked, leaning away to avoid the collision with B'Elanna. Although she was physically smaller, experience had taught him that she had no trouble knocking him over when she was running at warp. Their eyes met, and Harry knew he had her attention finally. "Interesting reading?" he inquired, cocking one eyebrow.
B'Elanna, almost blushing, quickly thumbed off the PADD and tucked it up under her arm. "It's okay," she shrugged. "Nothing important."
"Right," Harry nodded, recognizing B'Elanna's not so subtle indication that she didn't want to talk about it. He glanced back over his shoulder, craning his neck in vain to see what might be of interest. "So, you're headed for the holodeck?" Harry guessed, turning back to face B'Elanna.
She bobbed her head in agreement, not speaking. It was the obvious choice; the turbolift wasn't convenient to anything but the holodeck. "Yeah, " B'Elanna admitted, shrugging again. "I've got a reservation," she assured him.
"I'm not the holodeck police, B'Elanna," Harry told her, chuckling self-consciously at the skeptical look she gave him. "Well, maybe I am. But, I only monitor," he argued, folding his arms over his chest. "Commander Chakotay handles infractions. Besides, your time's -- Well, your time isn't exactly recreational," he reminded, grimacing a little as he realized his mistake. None of the crewmembers under medical orders to go through their Hirogen holodeck adventures again had been terribly willing to discuss their experiences; B'Elanna least of all.
Secretly amused by the flicker of fear in Harry's eyes, B'Elanna waited a moment before letting him off the hook. "I'm not trying to keep it a secret, Harry," she muttered finally, exasperation coloring her tone. B'Elanna knew though, that her statement wasn't exactly true.
Although she hadn't necessarily meant to keep her sessions in the The Memory of You program a secret, B'Elanna also hadn't broadcast her participation far and wide. In fact, she hadn't spoken with anyone about the program, relying on the holodeck computer to keep even the EMH informed of her progress. B'Elanna hadn't meant to be so tight-lipped, and had told herself she would talk about her experiences with the Doctor or Tom or Chakotay once she'd figured them out. The problem was that she had yet to figure anything out.
Despite the Doctor's insistence that re-experiencing the holodeck program would help her work through the odd residual emotions she'd been left with after her time in the Hirogen games, B'Elanna hadn't found any answers over the preceding two weeks. She'd dutifully worked through the first third of the The Memory of You program, but still felt at a loss when she tried to classify her feelings or articulate her thoughts. As far as B'Elanna was concerned, she couldn't explain the experiences she'd had while playing Brigitte Gantrell -- and she didn't really want to.
"Hey, it's okay," Harry declared, interrupting B'Elanna's moment of introspection. "You don't have to tell me about it," he insisted, holding his hands up in the universal sign for surrender. "Really, B'Elanna. It's just nice to run into you outside of Engineering or a staff meeting."
"I've been busy," she replied automatically. "My participation is mandatory," B'Elanna reminded making a face. "You think I wouldn't rather be beating you at pool in my free time?" she teased, a challenging note creeping into her voice.
"Oh, I know," Harry assured meeting B'Elanna's scowl with a lopsided grin. "Everybody's busy these days. Tom's always on the holodeck, too."
"Ri-ight," B'Elanna nodded, forcing her expression to almost disinterested neutrality. "He's developing a new program," she offered a long moment later, shrugging.
"Yeah, top secret," Harry agreed, echoing the words Tom had used himself the one time he'd mentioned his latest project to B'Elanna.
The fact was, B'Elanna and Tom hadn't spent much time together over the six weeks since the Hirogen had left Voyager. There had really only been the one night, during the frenetic first week following the truce. Practically incapacitated by the strange flashes of memory and emotion that were plaguing her, B'Elanna had fled the suddenly stifling confines of Engineering for the mess hall. Unexpectedly, she'd found Tom there, and he'd fed her and lent her his ear. That was the last time they'd spoken for more than five minutes without the discussion quickly degenerating into some sort of petty argument. Then when B'Elanna had finally conceded to the Doctor's demand that she begin her holoprogram immersion therapy, even the arguments had stopped. They were, B'Elanna acknowledged sourly to herself, carefully avoiding one another.
"So," Harry prompted, interrupting B'Elanna's brooding once more. "Do you know anything about this new program? Or, is he even keeping the secret from you?"
She shrugged, unconsciously betraying her discomfort by biting her lip. "I don't know any more than you do, Harry," B'Elanna assured him softly.
"Well, it must be some great surprise then," Harry replied. "You know Tom."
B'Elanna nodded. "I'm sure it'll be great," she agreed softly.
They fell into an awkward silence, both visibly fidgeting as they tried to find something to say. "Well, um," Harry began finally, "I suppose I should let you go. You do have a reservation, after all," he reminded chuckling uneasily.
"Yeah," B'Elanna agreed, frowning. "I should get to it. The sooner I'm in, the sooner it'll be done after all," she explained, emitting an exasperated sigh. "I'll see you later, Har," she promised then took a step sideways, brushing his shoulder as she moved passed Harry.
"Have a good night, B'Elanna," Harry called, watching her retreating form.
Impatient, B'Elanna turned sideways, slipping through the holodeck door almost before there was room. "Engage privacy lock," she ordered, two steps onto the holodeck. "Call up the The Memory of You program menu, authorization Torres beta-gamma-forty-four."
The arch shimmered into existence before B'Elanna, her place in the program highlighted on the menu. Pressing a thumb to the screen, she called up the costuming notes for the next scene. Although most people dressed for the holodeck in their quarters, B'Elanna hadn't wanted to advertise her involvement in the program by marching through the corridors dressed as Brigitte Gantrell, and so she'd taken to replicating her costumes and changing on the holodeck. She was even more convinced of her decision -- despite the minor inconveniences -- now that she was playing an extremely pregnant Brigitte Gantrell. There was no way in hell B'Elanna Torres was going to be caught off the holodeck in maternity clothes!
Punching up another screen, B'Elanna double-checked the story notes for the next chapter of The Memory of You. Conveniently, the next scene started in Brigitte's bedroom. B'Elanna tapped in a command, and the cramped bedroom shimmered into existence around her. She crossed to the small wardrobe, yanking the door up and open as she'd learned to do. Otherwise, it tended to stick.
As she'd ordered, the replicated costume hung in the cabinet, surrounded by the rest of Brigitte's paltry -- not to mention holographic -- wardrobe. Sighing softly to herself, B'Elanna grabbed the oversized brown dress from its hanger and, pivoting on one foot, threw it down on Brigitte's narrow bed. Turning back, she rooted around in the back of the closet, finally finding Brigitte's well worn but serviceable leather shoes. Returning to the bed, B'Elanna retrieved the dress, running her hand absently over the nubby woolen material.
B'Elanna knew she was stalling, not quite ready to start the next chapter of the program, not sure she'd ever be ready for the next chapter. Based on the memory flashes she'd experienced, the notes so thoughtfully provided by the Doctor, and her own recollection of the state of the The Memory of You program when she'd regained -- for lack of a better description -- consciousness six weeks previously, B'Elanna knew that the chapter she was about to start was new material. She also knew from skimming the story notes that the next few sessions were going to be anything but fun. She didn't want to play, but she didn't have much of a choice. "The sooner it's over, the sooner it's over," B'Elanna muttered to herself. "Get on with it."
She changed clothes quickly, not allowing herself to contemplate what was coming up. In the pocket of her ridiculously large dress she found the prompter -- "Gotta love the holodeck computer," she thought sourly -- and slipped it into her ear. The self-adhesive coating activated on contact with her skin, tickling, and she made a face. Helpfully, the computer reminded that she could start whenever she was ready. "Give me a minute," B'Elanna groused, rolling her abandoned uniform into a bundle. Next, she grabbed her work boots from the floor at her feet then moved again to the wardrobe where she hid her Starfleet issue in the back. Returning to the bed, she sat down and quickly pulled on ankle socks and Brigitte's historically accurate brown loafers.
B'Elanna pulled herself up from the bed and stepped toward the dressing table, standing far enough back to see two-thirds of her reflection in the mirror. This was the weird part, and although it was disconcerting to watch, her inner engineer always compelled her to do so. "Computer, initialize the The Memory of You program beginning with chapter nineteen, scene one," B'Elanna requested, her body tensing in anticipation of what would happen next.
As always, B'Elanna, her eyes watering, found herself gasping for air as the transformation took place. It was a jarring process, one that overwhelmed her to the degree that she could never fully process what her senses threw at her in those few milliseconds during which everything was accomplished. The only comparison she'd come up with after five -- now six -- sessions was that it was similar to the experience of beaming down to a planet whose gravity coefficient was a third higher than that on ship. Although there were safeguards designed to help compensate for the change -- it would never do to stumble and fall flat on your face when initiating first contact -- there wasn't yet an engineering solution that could completely mitigate the heavy, dragging sensation that assaulted you in that first instance after transport completed. The sudden introduction of holographic pregnancy was ten times worse.
In addition to the abrupt increase in her body weight, B'Elanna felt constricted, both internally and externally. The clothing she'd practically been swimming in earlier was now tight. Her lungs and other internal organs felt crowded -- pressed together -- and even her skin felt stretched. It was an odd sensation and, as always, B'Elanna found herself irrationally searching her reflection and her sensory memory for some sort of confirmation that the child she would swear she could feel inside her wasn't really there. But, also as always, there was none.
Heaving a deep sigh, B'Elanna cautiously moved toward the dressing table, carefully eyeing her reflection even when her burgeoning belly disappeared from view. Picking up a brush, she called out, "Computer, run program," and began to style her hair as Brigitte would.
Friday, October 13, 1944
Morning
"Putain!"
The angry shout rang out clearly in the early morning air, barely muffled by wall and window glass, dragging Brigitte out of the daydream she'd drifted into while doing her hair. She jumped slightly, and the hairbrush tumbled from her hand, bouncing on the polished wood of the floor beneath her feet before skittering, out of reach, underneath the bed. "Damn," she muttered grumpily, more about the brush than the attack from outside. The attacks, she was used to.
They had been occurring with more and more frequency in the two weeks since the liberation of Ste. Claire. The town's citizenry -- emboldened by the sudden taste of freedom after four year's of occupation, not to mention the salacious stories recently published in a number of Resistance newspapers -- now thought nothing of expressing their feelings regarding Brigitte loudly, publicly, and often. At least this morning she was up and dressed before it began, although that was little comfort.
Brigitte knew she should count herself lucky. All over France, women who had consorted with German soldiers were being dragged into the streets by irate mobs, where, adding injury to insult, their heads were shaven just in time to be beaten and paraded about for all to see. The first incident had been in August, in Chartres, and from there the practice had spread like wildfire. Brigitte was well aware that it was only her association with Katrine and the local Resistance that protected her from anything worse than the vulgar taunts of her fellow townspeople.
"Coquine!"
Another shout, and Brigitte couldn't keep herself from crossing the two steps between the ancient dressing table and the room's small window. Standing with her shoulder against the peeling, water-stained wall, she carefully pushed the edge of the lacy curtain aside, and peered down into the narrow strip of garden behind the building, then the narrow alley beyond the garden wall, looking for the source of this latest attack.
Gaston Ferrat, she identified after her eyes had grown accustomed to the glare of the early sunshine. Her former neighbor stood just outside the garden wall, shaking his fist in rage, and, of course, shouting. A bad feeling settled in the pit of Brigitte's stomach as she realized that, rather than the usual, few nasty insults hurled her direction from some passerby on the street, Ferrat was actually engaged in a shouting match. This fact was confirmed for her a moment later when another muffled exclamation sounded below. "Go home, Monsieur, and take your mouth with you!"
Martin, Brigitte realized immediately, cringing as she allowed the curtain to drop back into place. Martin, and no doubt Celeste. Brigitte had barely been awake two hours earlier when the younger girl had crept quietly from the small alcove they now shared in Katrine's apartment, whispering a reminder to Brigitte that it was dairy day. Brigitte had nodded her acknowledgment from beneath the thick quilts on her bed, hiding an amused smile in her pillow. Dairy day, indeed. More importantly, Martin day, for Celeste was madly in love with Brigitte's childhood friend, and that was the real reason she willingly woke up at five-thirty in the morning two days a week in order to meet him.
"Prostituee!"
"You're crazy, Ferrat! Drunk, too! Go home!"
Brigitte turned from the window, groaning, as Martin responded to yet another of Ferrat's insults in some misguided attempt to defend her honor -- Celeste's as well, no doubt. Didn't he realize that he was only inflaming the situation? It wasn't even as if the accusation -- wholly unfounded -- that Le Coeur de Lion was a front for a brothel was a new one. That vicious and ridiculous rumor had popped up every so often for years, spread by jealous competitors or those who simply refused to believe Katrine Lattier was capable of running a successful and honest business.
Brigitte chewed her lip, wondering what, if anything, she should do. Gaston Ferrat would give up and stumble home drunk if ignored long enough, but Martin showed no sign of giving up his defense. Worse, she realized, catching a glance of the clock, François was due to arrive downstairs at the restaurant at any moment. If he caught wind of the altercation in the garden -- in his own vegetable plot -- he was certain to join in. Brigitte began to imagine horrible scenes wherein their cook, his fists waving, charged up the slight slope to the garden wall to challenge Ferrat to some sort of duel over the matter. Melodramatic, she'd admit, but then, so was François.
I'll just have to put a stop to it myself, she decided, taking a deep breath. Before she could reconsider, Brigitte retrieved her sweater from the back of the room's single chair, shrugging into it as she pushed past the heavy velvet drape which divided their cramped alcove from the rest of the apartment. From the living room, Brigitte headed for the back stairs, descending them as quickly as she could manage, given her current bulk and the ever-present, unbalanced feeling that came with pregnancy. Reaching the bottom, she took another fortifying breath, then yanked the garden door open, and stepped out onto the small patch of flagstones outside.
Brigitte only needed a few seconds to determine that the situation was, indeed, as bad as she'd feared. The two men were no longer taking turns in their yelling, and Celeste, whom Martin held behind himself protectively, had joined in as well. Between the two of them, they'd managed to trample most of a row of late cabbage, and Martin appeared poised to punt a pumpkin over the garden wall.
"Celeste, you idiot," she hissed, negotiating the three uneven steps before the path ended abruptly at the cultivated plot. "You shouldn't be out here. Doing -- doing this! Come inside, already," Brigitte demanded when Celeste looked back over her shoulder.
"Brigitte!" Celeste exclaimed, pulling away from Martin's grip on her wrist and carefully picking her way back through the carrot tops to her friend's side. "It's not safe for you to be out here," she insisted. You should go back inside."
"Not without you," Brigitte answered, stubbornly shaking her head. "François will be here soon," she reminded with an impatient grunt. "And," Brigitte continued, "Katrine won't be happy, either, to catch you out here in a shouting match with Gaston Ferrat. Just come inside."
"Collabortrice horizontales!" shrieked the red-faced Ferrat from across the garden, an accusatory finger pointed at Brigitte.
Livid, Martin turned back toward Ferrat, ready to hurl some new insult in return. Only Brigitte's quick grab at his shirt sleeve, along with her insistent admonishment stopped him. "Martin, it doesn't matter," she argued, her fingernails digging into his arm. "No one cares what he thinks. He's an obnoxious drunk, has been since I was a little girl." Letting go of Martin, Brigitte turned back toward the door, and, grabbing Celeste's hand, tugged the other girl with her toward the restaurant. "We need to go inside."
Thankfully, both heeded her instruction, and followed Brigitte out of the vegetable plot without further casualty. The door opened with a shove, and Brigitte stepped through, dragging Celeste with her. Martin started to follow, but Brigitte stopped him. "Non," she told him, laying both hands on his chest. "Believe me, if Katrine heard half of what went on out here, she's not going to happily invite you for tea and croissants this morning, Martin Lescure." Brigitte paused, flashing him a sympathetic smile, telegraphing to her friend that she wasn't angry with him, but actually was somewhat grateful of his defense. "Today," she pleaded, "For all our sakes, go home."
Martin looked like he was about to protest, but a nod of agreement from Celeste stopped him. Reaching around Brigitte, he pulled Celeste's hand into his, giving it a quick squeeze. "I'll come back on Thursday," he promised. Then he stepped out into the garden, pulling the door closed behind him.
Brigitte threw the lock, and turned to face Celeste, sighing so deeply that the breeze of her breath stirred the light, almost invisible curls at her hairline. "I'm sorry, Celeste," Brigitte began, hoping her friend wasn't upset over her dismissal of Martin.
"Non, Brigitte, it is fine," the other girl interrupted. "He'll be back in a few days, and if Katrine is in one of her moods this morning, I'd rather not deal with it myself, anyway," she sighed, smiling in return. "I'm just sorry you had to hear all of that. And, I'm -- I'm sorry we gave him any reason to --"
"Oh, Celeste," Brigitte interrupted this time, throwing up her arms in frustration. "I don't care what you and Martin were doing. It doesn't matter what you were doing. Ferrat, he only attacked you because you're my friend," she admitted frowning at the thought. "For two years now, he's been calling me names, and yelling out his window whenever I walk by. That's not your fault, Celeste. I'm the one who should be apologizing to you," Brigitte insisted, hugging herself to ward off a sudden chill, despite her thick cardigan. "This is what you get for being my friend," she repeated, sighing sadly.
"Of course I'm your friend," Celeste declared, shooting Brigitte an exasperated look. "As you have been my friend since I came to Ste. Claire. I cannot believe this town," she grumbled, her chin jutting out in indignation. "You've lived here all your life. They know you, and yet they think nothing of attacking you. Next time anyone says anything, you should tell them. Tell them how it was because of you that we knew when the Germans were expecting food and medical supply shipments last winter. That it was because of you that we were able to acquire the medicine which saved the Ferrats' daughter when she fell ill!"
"It wouldn't help, Celeste," Brigitte contradicted, shaking her head negatively. "Nothing will ever fix my reputation in Ste. Claire. The only thing I can do is leave. I'll go to Paris," Brigitte reminded, beginning down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. "You'll marry Martin, and everything will finally be as it should."
"You can't go to Paris, Brigitte," Celeste protested, her voice squeaking with indignation at the very idea. "You're having a baby!" she reminded, pulling her friend to a stop before laying a gentle hand on Brigitte's swollen middle. "You can't travel now, and you're going to need help when he comes. My mother had six babies after me, so I can help. Martin will wait," she assured her friend with a smile. "Not patiently," Celeste admitted, "But he will wait."
"But, Celeste, you two shouldn't have to wait," Brigitte insisted, tugging on her friend's hand to emphasize her point. "You can't take love for granted, Celeste," she admonished.
"I'm not taking Martin for granted," Celeste scoffed, dismissing the idea with a careless wave. "If I were taking him for granted, I would have ignored that silly bird call he makes, and stayed in my nice, warm bed this morning. You'll understand some day, Brigitte. I'm sure of it," Celeste smiled, patting Brigitte's hand knowingly.
"Understand what?" Brigitte asked, her brow wrinkling with confusion. Celeste had already started for the kitchen again, so Brigitte reached out to stop her. "What -- What will I understand?"
"What it's like to be in love, of course," the younger girl answered easily, a warm smile blooming on her face. "I'm sure that seems silly to you -- I always thought it was silly when I was younger -- but, really, it is such a wonderful feeling," Celeste expounded, still grinning.
Brigitte stared blankly at her friend while Celeste continued to wax poetic on the nature of romantic love. She thinks -- She thinks I don't know what she's talking about, Brigitte realized, gaping in her incredulity. Celeste is telling me about love, she thought, still trying to wrap her mind about the idea. As if she'd known anything about it before I introduced her to Martin.
It was, in Brigitte's opinion, too much to take. Celeste, who was more than four years her junior, had been just old enough to leave her parent's home when she'd come to work in Ste. Claire. She's barely more than a child! some indignant corner of Brigitte's mind screamed. Yet, Brigitte realized, her head swimming so that she found herself leaning against the wall for support, if Celeste thought she was that backward, that sheltered, then it was likely that everyone else did, too. I believed they only pitied me because of my baby, she thought, running a hand over her abdomen to reassure herself of his presence. But, it's also because they think of me as nothing more than some inexperienced schoolgirl.
"Well, you'll understand, Brigitte," Celeste concluded, still beaming. "Someday, I'm sure," she added, reaching out to squeeze Brigitte's shoulder reassuringly.
"Just leave me alone, Celeste," Brigitte ordered, knocking her friend's hand away. "I don't need your promises that everything will work out someday," she argued sharply, glaring at the other girl. "Don't think you know everything, Celeste," Brigitte advised, turning away. She started awkwardly up the stairs, still lecturing Celeste. "And, don't think you're the first person to ever be in love. I've been in love. When you were still wearing pigtails .... I've been in love," she repeated softly, her words muffled by the clop-clop of her shoes on the stairs.
Shocked by Brigitte's sudden outburst, Celeste stared after her retreating friend, unsure of how to respond. "Brigitte, wait!" she called, finally gathering her wits. The younger girl pursued Brigitte, dashing up the stairs behind her. She caught up on the landing, pulling on Brigitte's arm to stop the other girl's progress. "Brigitte --" she began.
Brigitte didn't even bother to look at her friend. "Leave me alone, Celeste," she replied dully, shaking Celeste's hand off her arm. Without even glancing at the younger girl, Brigitte started across the apartment toward their shared room.
"Non," Celeste answered, her tone obstinate. She followed Brigitte closely, not even flinching when her friend made a point of letting the velvet drape drop closed in her face. With determination, Celeste pushed through the makeshift divider, and taking a deep breath, addressed her friend. "Brigitte, I'm sorry...." she began, still trying to marshal her thoughts. "I'm sorry," Celeste repeated, seating herself beside Brigitte on the bed. The older girl glared at her in return, but otherwise didn't respond. "I didn't mean to ... It's just you've never said anything ... and you're always so serious," Celeste tried, stumbling nervously from thought to thought. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Brigitte," she swore. "But I -- I didn't know!" Celeste protested miserably. "I am sorry, Brigitte."
Brigitte shrugged, pulling her legs up onto her bed, then swinging them over the other side, leaving Celeste to face her back. "Fine, thank you," she muttered, hugging her arms together over her chest. "But, go away, Celeste. Please."
"But, don't you want to talk about it?" Celeste protested. Picking nervously at the quilt beneath her, Celeste reminded, "I talk to you about Martin all the time."
"Non, Celeste. Thank you, but no," Brigitte sighed in return, looking over her shoulder for a second at the younger girl. Turning back to stare out the window through which she'd witnessed the beginning of the morning's adventures, Brigitte explained tiredly, "It was.... it's different. For me, it's different."
Celeste exhaled in frustration, unwilling to give up the discussion, if only for the sake of her own curiosity. "But when?" she demanded. "Who?" she continued, getting up to come around the bed and sit beside Brigitte, though she smartly left a wide space between them. The younger girl waited for an answer, considering the possibilities, then continued, stumbling over her words. "Not -- not Kroe --"
"Non!" Brigitte declared with a shudder. She looked at Celeste then, her eyes wide with revulsion. "Definitely not," Brigitte assured. "No," she repeated, shaking her head violently in denial. She paused, taking a moment to smooth her skirt over her knees, then continued more calmly. "It was a long time ago. Before you came to Ste. Claire. Before the war, actually."
"Oh." Celeste didn't know what else to say. Of course it was before the war; it had to have been before the war. They rarely spoke about anything that had happened before the war, after all. The contrast was too hard to reconcile, and it wasn't always safe, anyway, so no one ever spoke of anything too far in the past. It was easier that way. "What happened?" she found herself asking, breaking that rule.
"The war happened, Celeste," Brigitte laughed humorlessly, gently massaging the bridge of her nose with her index finger. "He -- He wasn't from Ste. Claire. And then, when the war happened ... well, it was impossible."
Her answer, though ridiculously general, was the truth, and Brigitte hoped it would satisfy Celeste's curiosity. Although she was certain Bobby was gone -- and without any sort of goodbye -- it was better that way, she told herself. Brigitte certainly didn't want Celeste to know that "that nice, young American lieutenant" was also her former fiancé. Bobby was a memory she reserved for herself.
"But, where is he from?" Celeste demanded. "Or, is he with the Free French Army?" she guessed, flashing Brigitte a sympathetic smile. "They say that they will be returning, Brigitte. It's almost a miracle, after all this time, but he could come ba --" She cut herself off, eyes fixed on Brigitte's hands, clasped protectively over her abdomen. Celeste blushed, turning pink with embarrassment, realizing what she'd said. "I'm sorry, Brigitte," she mumbled. "I didn't --"
"Never mind, Celeste," Brigitte dismissed, unsuccessfully attempting a smile. She stood up, crossing to the window, where she stared out, unseeingly, at the horizon. "It was all so long ago, Celeste," Brigitte murmured, clutching the edge of one curtain in her fist. "It doesn't matter anymore," she declared, "And, I'd rather not talk about it."
Celeste nodded, acquiescent. "Of course," she answered softly, wishing there was some other way she could offer Brigitte a sign of comfort and friendship. But, this was obviously the way Brigitte wanted things, Celeste knew, observing the stiff pride with which the other girl held herself. "I -- I should get to the kitchen, anyway," she remembered, chuckling nervously. "François must be here by now, and he's probably got a sink full of dishes for me already."
"Oui," Brigitte agreed absently from the window. She dropped the curtain, turning to meet Celeste's even gaze. "Go ahead," she instructed. "I'll come down in a bit."
"Good," Celeste agreed, already moving toward the alcove's wide entrance. "I'll tell François and Katrine," she offered.
"Thank you," Brigitte nodded, trying an unsuccessful smile.
Celeste, pushing the heavy drapes apart, returned the smile then stepped through. Pausing, she looked back over her shoulder, an uncertain look on her face. "Brigitte," she began, biting her lip. "I was just wondering.... What was his name?"
"Who?" Brigitte asked, her brow furrowing in puzzlement.
"The one -- the one you were in love with," Celeste murmured.
"Oh," Brigitte replied, slightly stunned. It was not a question she'd expected. "Uh, B -- uh, R -- Robert," she stammered out finally. "His name was Robert."
Afternoon
"Here you go, sweetheart," Bobby grinned, handing a stick of chewing gum to a button-nosed little girl who had been waiting patiently at the back of the small knot of children which had formed around him, demanding candy, a few minutes earlier.
The waif palmed the treat eagerly, flashing Bobby a shy smile in thanks. She was a cute kid, though much too thin, all arms and legs and harsh angles. "Mer -- Merci!" she stammered, then turned and fled down the cobblestone street.
Bobby watched her go, still grinning despite his exhaustion. Soon though, she veered into a doorway -- a bakery, he noted -- and was out of sight. Sighing, Bobby turned away, looking up and down the narrow street, considering what he should do next.
He was, he knew, some kind of idiot. Over two weeks of heavy fighting, in bad weather, trying to take the heavily guarded fortress at Driant, and what had he done when they were finally relieved and pulled back to the rear? While everyone else had smartly headed off for some well-deserved sleep, piling into their tents -- and real cots, for once -- without stopping to wash up or even eat, he'd walked the mile from their newly established company headquarters to Ste. Claire, intent on finding Brigitte.
Bobby had left Le Coeur de Lion -- and, quickly thereafter, Ste. Claire -- without doing Brigitte the courtesy of saying good-bye or wishing her well, a fact which had plagued him almost from the moment they'd pulled out, distracting him at the most inopportune times. While away, he had considered writing her a letter, and had even begun one on a deceptively peaceful evening when they had pulled back for a few hours of rest and a hot meal; but he had never finished it. Then, by some odd piece of luck, they'd been ordered back to Ste. Claire.
They had reached the farmhouse designated as company headquarters shortly before noon. Bobby, barely taking the time to drop his musette bag on the bed in the room he was to share with Blake, had left immediately for Brigitte's house. There, however, he discovered that the roof had been torn off by a bomb during the battle for the city, and the building had been abandoned. Worried, he'd gone straight to the restaurant, hoping to at least get word that she was safe. Katrine had greeted him warmly, pumping him for information about the war, and inviting Bobby and the other officers in his company to return as soon as Le Coeur de Lion re-opened for business. Very soon, she'd assured, and Bobby had seen, despite the boarded up windows and the rubble still scattered in the street in front of the building, that the restaurant was indeed being scrubbed and polished back to its former glory. But, he'd never worked up the courage to ask about Brigitte.
Silently berating himself for his cowardice, Bobby reached into his coat pocket, retrieving a cigarette and a matchbook, hoping to shake off his anxious feelings. Surely, Brigitte was fine. After all, she'd been at the restaurant during the battle, not at home. He'd just find her later, Bobby decided, cupping a hand around his cigarette to light it.
Luckily, it seemed that he might just have the time he'd need to find her. Captain Miller had shown him their orders. They were being given two weeks in the rear to train and integrate replacements. Even if they only got a few days of those weeks before being returned to the front, Bobby figured it was plenty of time. It wasn't as if he had a whole lot to say. Just that he hoped she'd be okay, and good-bye. A short conversation, Bobby realized, taking an absent drag on his cigarette, but one he needed to have. Later, then, he resolved, slowly exhaling a lungful of smoke. After he'd slept and eaten and cleaned up.
"Hey, G.I.!"
Bobby turned at the shout, glad for something else to concentrate on. "Yeah, kid?" he answered, spotting a boy of about ten, standing a few feet away, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
"Hey, G.I.," the child repeated, taking two steps closer. He grabbed the sleeve of Bobby's coat, demanding, "Cigarettes? Lucky Strike?"
"You get Strikes, huh?" Bobby grumbled, waving the kid off. "All I ever seem to get are Avalons," he complained, shaking his head. "Sorry, champ. My last one," Bobby told the boy. "No cigarettes. Désolé"
"No?" the child repeated, his shoulders slumping in obvious disappointment.
"Nope. All out," Bobby repeated, reaching into his pocket for more chewing gum. "Here," he said, handing the stick over to the kid. "It's all I got."
The boy accepted the candy, shoving it deep into his trouser pocket. "No cigarette," he repeated, not quite ready to believe it.
But, Bobby was no longer listening, his attention centered on the bakery doorway fifty yards down the street. Drawing deeply on his cigarette, Bobby forced himself forward, tripping over a raised cobble. Later had arrived.
Brigitte felt herself stumble and leaned against the brick building front, still cool despite the late afternoon sun. The air in the bakery had been warm and stuffy, causing her to become light-headed. Feeling more and more sick, she'd exited the cramped shop for the cool breeze outside, barely taking the time to make her excuses. Henri had called after Brigitte that he would be out shortly, instructing her to wait for him right outside. Nodding, she'd pulled the door closed behind her, and, inhaling deeply, had pressed herself into the solid support of the shop wall.
She closed her eyes, trying to calm the quick rush of blood past her ears. The afternoon had been a busy one, and she'd almost forgotten the early morning disruption wrought by Gaston Ferrat. But, Madame Pucheu had made no attempt to disguise her contempt for Brigitte, blatantly ignoring the younger women and addressing all of her questions to Henri.
Katrine had always avoided dealing with the Pucheu Bakery, as it was quite some distance from the restaurant, and not known for quality. However, it was now the only functioning bakery in Ste. Claire, and they were left with no other option. So, although Brigitte knew the state of the restaurant's accounts better than anyone, she had figured it would be wiser to allow Henri to conduct the negotiations rather than antagonize the proprietress with her continued presence. Besides, it had been horribly stifling in the tiny shop.
"Brigitte."
The uncertain greeting startled Brigitte from her lethargy. Carefully, she opened her eyes wide enough to recognize a pair of comically large, mud splattered boots attached to legs that were encased in the distinctive olive drab of the U.S. Army. Bobby, her mind identified immediately.
"Brigitte?" he repeated, a note of worry creeping into his voice. "Are you all right?" he demanded softly. "You look a little sick."
"Bobby," Brigitte answered, raising her head carefully. She looked in the direction of his voice, and after a few seconds, his face swam thankfully into focus. For a moment, their eyes locked, but he soon looked away, at some imagined spot above her head. Brigitte took the opportunity to inspect him, unobserved. She took in his rumpled uniform, the light beard sprouting on his jaw, and the cigarette which Bobby dangled carelessly between two fingers. Smoking? she wondered.
"Are you all right?" Bobby asked again, more insistently. He took a hesitant half step toward her, but then stopped short. A good five feet still remained between them.
"I'm -- I'm fine," Brigitte stammered, flushing hotly under his unexpected attention. She barely controlled the impulse to reach out and touch his arm, not quite able to believe he was actually here, standing before her. After all, Bobby had left the city almost before the Americans had secured their victory. Or, so she had believed. Ste. Claire, it had turned out, had simply been a stepping-stone to the more important German holdings to the east. Where did he come from? Brigitte wondered. What is he doing here?
Glancing at Bobby's face, Brigitte realized that her statement had done little to reassure him. He was still watching her intently, his mouth pulled into a taut line of disbelief. "I was -- It was warm in the bakery," she rushed to explain, pressing the back of her hand to her heated face.
Bobby nodded slowly, but the worried look did not leave his piercing blue eyes.
"That's why I came outside," Brigitte continued, still trying to convince him. "To get some air. Anyone would have been too warm in there," she argued, making a face. "But, I'm fine now," she insisted, resting one hand upon the swell of her stomach, slipping the other, fist clutched tightly, into the pocket of her tan sweater.
"I see," Bobby nodded, his eyes clouding as they followed the path of Brigitte's hand. He opened his mouth again, but, rather than speaking, remembered his cigarette and raised it to his mouth to take a quick drag.
She waited a moment for him to continue, but Bobby seemed in no hurry. Brigitte didn't know what to do or say, and she certainly couldn't decide why he'd stopped to talk to her. After all, she would never have known if he'd ignored her and continued on his way. That thought, though, did bring one question to her mind. With the pause in their conversation growing increasingly awkward, Brigitte stammered out, "I -- I'd thought you'd left -- left Ste. Claire," she quickly clarified. "We heard that you were fighting to the east," she added. "Metz."
Bobby nodded his head in agreement, exhaling a long stream of smoke. "We were," he admitted. "Near there, anyway," he shrugged, "We've been sent back for now. They decided to let us get some sleep, I guess," Bobby joked.
He glanced at Brigitte again, just in time to see the way she wrinkled her nose as the plume of smoke twined around her. He jerked his head, a stricken look on his face. Bobby dropped the half-used cigarette to the ground, first stubbing it out with his toe, then grinding the remains to shreds before he looked up at Brigitte again. "I'm -- Aw, Brigitte, I'm sorry about that, " he apologized, his voice strained with guilt. "I wasn't thinking," he admitted with an uneasy wave at her abdomen. "I -- I'm sorry."
Brigitte opened her mouth to protest his apology, but Bobby cut her off. "And, I'm sorry that I didn't come see you before," he rushed, thankful for the opening. "I mean, when I left Ste. Claire. I should have come to see you," he explained.
"Oh, no!" Brigitte contradicted immediately. "There was no reason for you --"
"No, I should've," he interrupted. "I mean, we're --" Bobby stopped, sighing again. "It was rude of me," he decided. "The least I could've done is come to say goodbye."
Brigitte nodded, not knowing how else to respond. She hadn't expected him to make a special effort to bid her farewell, although, Brigitte supposed she had been a little disappointed when she realized he was gone. But, they'd said their goodbyes, hadn't they? She had explained what had happened -- the important part, anyway -- and Bobby had said he was sorry. That was as much as could be expected, under the circumstances, wasn't it?
Bobby checked the street over his shoulder, shading his eyes against the brilliant orange glow of the sun which was just beginning to set. He shrugged his shoulder absently, apparently not seeing whatever he was looking for. "So, um, anyway," he began, turning back to face Brigitte. "Are you all right? I -- I saw your house earlier," he admitted, easily conjuring the image of the bombed-out, ruined building in his mind. "I wasn't sure what had happened. If you were okay," he told her, concern again obvious in his eyes. "I went by Le Coeur de Lion to see how you were," Bobby continued. "But, you weren't there. I guess -- I guess I was worried," he allowed, his mouth scrunching at the corners with the confession.
"Oh, but I'm fine," Brigitte returned, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've -- Henri and I, we've been out this afternoon, that's all. On errands," she explained. "I'm just waiting for him to finish up inside," she continued, cocking her head toward the peeling, yellowed bakery door. "But, I'm fine. I'm staying with Katrine now. Above the restaurant."
"Good, good," Bobby drawled in relief, studying the ground at his feet intently. "I'm glad you're okay," he murmured, digging into the pocket of his trousers to extract a stick of gum. Would you like a piece?" he asked, holding it out for Brigitte.
She stared at Bobby, obviously perplexed by his offer. "Non," Brigitte answered with a quick shake of the head. Wrinkling her nose, she repeated, "No thank you."
"You're sure?" Bobby inquired, removing the wrapper. "It's Teaberry, the best kind," he tempted, waving the stick at her. "It's on the level," he joked, quoting the company slogan.
Brigitte's brow furled at his strange statement, and she glanced away, not sure how to respond. "I -- I never cared for chewing gum, actually," she finally admitted, clasping her hands together nervously.
"Oh," Bobby responded blankly, folding the gum stick into his mouth. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't know."
"There's no reason you should have," she told him, chewing her lip.
They were both saved from further conversation by the tinny tinkle of a bell as the shop door creaked open. They looked toward the sound in time to see Henri step through the entrance, a small, wrapped package under his arm. He paused to pull the door closed, but not before the heady scent of fresh baked bread wafted past Bobby's nose, prompting a growl from his stomach.
"Lieutenant," the older man greeted, turning back to face Bobby. "I was unaware that the Army was returning to Ste. Claire."
"We're just back," Bobby answered, holding his hand out to Henri. The older man took it, shaking it while Bobby continued. "I'm not sure how long we're here for yet," he explained, "But it'll give everyone a little time to catch up on their personal business."
"Oui," Henri agreed, allowing a slight nod. "You should be sure to come by Le Coeur de Lion," he instructed. "Katrine would like to speak with you, I'm sure."
"I have been," Bobby assured. "I was just there, and was on my way back to camp, actually," he explained, looking down the street in the direction of the river. "But," he continued, forcing a quick smile, "I shouldn't keep you. And, I should be getting back myself," Bobby decided as his stomach, unfed since before dawn, gurgled again. "Supper's usually bad enough without getting there late."
"Well then, we'll let you go," Henri agreed. He looked over his shoulder at Brigitte, who waited quietly, leaning against the wall. "Oui, Brigitte?" he inquired, seeking her confirmation. She nodded her agreement, but didn't speak. Satisfied, Henri addressed Bobby again. "Perhaps, though, you will find time to come see us again?"
Bobby appeared surprised by the invitation, but recovered quickly. "Of course," he answered. "If I can. Like I said," he continued, glancing for a moment toward Brigitte, "I don't know how long we'll be here."
"But, if you can," Henri exhorted once more. Bobby nodded his agreement, and, Henri smiled. "Now then. Bonsoir, Lieutenant."
"Bonsoir, Monsieur Voisin," Bobby echoed. "Brigitte." Ducking his head, he turned, taking a decisive step away. "Au revoir."
Sunday, October 15, 1944
Night
Bobby could hear their voices, ringing clearly in the crisp midnight air, even before he rounded the corner of the old stone farmhouse.
"I don't know why you feel sorry for her," McKinney protested, exhaling a long stream of smoke. The young private stomped his foot against the solid packed earth of the farmyard, continuing. "I'd say she had it pretty damn good all these years. You're just a sucker for any girl that 'minds you of your own, Butch."
"Sure, I feel sorry for her," Johnson answered with a shrug. He heard a rustling noise behind him, and looked back over his shoulder. Peering into the darkness, his rifle gripped tightly in both hands, the corporal called out quietly, "That you, Lieu?"
"Yeah," Bobby replied, expelling a puffy cloud of breath as he came the rest of the way around the building. "Taking care of business. You know," he explained, hooking a thumb back over his shoulder to point at the latrine twenty yards behind them in the darkness.
"You're braver than me, Lieu," McKinney harumphed, knocking ash off the tip of his cigarette.
"Brave?" Bobby questioned, allowing a confused look. "What the hell are you talking about now, McKinney?"
"Aw, Pete's a city boy," Johnson reminded with a snort. "Two years in the Army, and still not used to pissin' in the dark," he explained, pulling his knit cap down over the tops of his ears. "Now, that'd be a good primer for the ol' S.T.U.," Butch drawled, rolling his eyes. "Private Pete Goes at Night," he suggested, poking fun at the literacy courses the Army had offered during basic training.
"It's not the dark," McKinney protested, bristling visibly at Johnson's teasing. "Just, this time of night I'd be worried 'bout freezin' it off," he argued, glaring at Butch. "That, or some critter biting --"
"Keep your private life private, please," Bobby interrupted. "Private," he added, smirking at his own joke. Ignoring McKinney's continued sputtering, he turned to Butch, asking, "You gotta light, Johnson?"
"You betcha," the affable corporal agreed, fishing into his pocket for a matchbook.
Nodding his thanks, Bobby retrieved a cigarette from inside his coat. "Helluva night to pull guard duty," he commiserated, lighting the cigarette from Butch's match.
"Yeah, well, pullin' guard duty here's chicken, that's what it is!" McKinney declared grumpily. "The PW pens are in front of us, for cryin' out loud. If one of 'em shows up here, I'll have to tag him and march him back towards Germany!"
"We have guard duty whether or not we're up front, McKinney," Bobby reprimanded mildly. "And, it's not just the Krauts you hafta worry about," he reminded, blowing out a slow breath of smoke.
"Yeah, I'm sure the Frogs are gonna cause all kinds of problems," the private grumbled, pulling his coat closer around himself. "You say boo to 'em and they practically fall over dead. It's no wonder they just handed the country over when the Krauts showed up."
"You're still not getting out of guard duty, McKinney," Bobby answered, shooting the private a look that quelled further protest. It was one of the more trying aspects of command, the way soldiers like McKinney questioned to the death every order they were given; but, Bobby had eventually learned to stare them into silent, if begrudging, compliance. Still, he knew it was a temporary victory. McKinney could always find something else to argue about. Hoping to forestall that inevitability, Bobby asked, "So what's up tonight, anyway?"
"Not much, just talkin' to pass the time. It's as cold as a bastard," Johnson complained. "Hard to stay awake if you don't do somethin'," he explained, shuffling back and forth on his feet. "But, what're you doin' up, Lieu? If I was you, I'd be takin' advantage of that nice, warm bed you got," the corporal reminded, pointing at an upstairs window of the farmhouse.
"Fat chance of that, the way Blake snores," Bobby grumbled, shaking his head. "Besides," he admitted, flicking away a column of ash, "I couldn't sleep anyway."
Johnson nodded sympathetically. "Never quite get used to all that noise up front, but it's kinda hard to trust all the quiet back here, huh?" the younger man commiserated.
"Yeah, something like that," Bobby agreed quickly, although that wasn't really his problem. At least, he didn't think it was. In all honesty, he couldn't exactly identify the reason for his insomnia, aside from a general restless feeling which left him ready to crawl out of his own skin, his mind racing, unable to focus his thoughts. "Or maybe," Bobby offered, shrugging, "It's just that, once you grab a shower, change your socks, and get a decent meal, it turns out t