"You ever been to Paris, Casmirovna?" Since being told that her name was not the one attached to her rank, Nixon had taken to adding a certain inflection on the word. If a word could smirk, Nixon would have managed to assign that ability to her patronymic.

After nearly a month's silence, he approached her in the mess tent, midmeal, and Zhanna's heart skipped a beat. This was it. Nixon, always the one for dramatics, would detail her past with everything he knew in front of all the men. All of the 2nd Battalion would soon be privy to Casimir and Agata's fate, Zhanna's lies, and Nixon wouldn't have been sorry.

"What?" That's all she could think to say, all she could say. What kind of a question was that, anyway?

"Paris?" He repeated, slowly. "So you've never been, then?" With their new position of Mourmelon, being a train ride away from the capitol, soldiers had been spending weekends in the city, running wild among the bars, women, and poker games that seemed to be around every corner.

Zhanna shook her head."No, are you offering to take me?" Women and poker games were not something that interested her and now that she knew where the key and the Vat 69 was stored, she didn't need a bar.

"I'm all booked up, unfortunately," Nixon smiled. "But Sink wants to make sure you see the city of lights. Get some mileage on your soul."

Zhanna didn't have the heart to tell him that she had arguably seen more of the world than many of the men here but she didn't want to think about Russia, or their escape from Smolensk. That reminded her of what she had left and that Sveta wasn't by her side or nearby.

"You can't say no," Nixon said. "It's orders. CP has your train ticket." He clapped her on the shoulder, the tender one, and smirked when she winced. Without another word or waiting for an argument he left the tent, leaving Zhanna and her soup with the idea of leave. She hadn't been granted a pass before. It had seemed like a kind of luxury. There was the added snag of Buck not being around. She asked Muck and Malarkey if they had been granted a pass and their answer didn't endear the idea to her.

Wandering around a city by herself. Zhanna had a thousand warnings that told her it was a bad idea. Zhanna didn't want to go anywhere by herself. She supposed, draining the rest of her soup from the bowl, that she would have to deny the pass.

What would she do with a weekend pass anyway? A Red Army soldier on the streets of Paris didn't seem to bode well. Zhanna had wanted to distract herself from everything that fought to occupy the front position of her mind but a solo trip would allow too much time to sit and think. Thinking was Zhanna's enemy.

CP was sure to have an orderly who would give her train ticket to a more willing candidate. It was always busy, even when there was no battle to be fought. When the war seemed at its farthest away, all one had to do was step foot in the Battalion CP and you would be reminded of the frantic movements of battle.

Zhanna managed to stop an orderly and inquire about weekend passes. The private, Smith, looked nervous at her presence but showed her over to a desk.

"Lieutenant Zhanna Casmirovna?" He asked, confirming her name and rank. As if there were more women wandering aboard the base. Other than the nurses and the war correspondent that was always dashing around with her pen and paper, ZHanna hadn't seen another woman. Not since Sveta had been sent to the hospital. The correspondent had only been interested in Sveta but when she wasn't available, had turned to Zhanna once. Her interest didn't last long, she had interrupted Zhanna while cleaning her rifle.

"Yes," Zhanna said. "I wanted to-" Before she could get her words out, a voice cut her off.

"You too?" Winters had appeared behind her. When she turned around, she didn't find herself looking at Captain Winters but the man who she had sat with on the dike. The one who had visited her in the hospital and had asked after her family, his concern a sharp contrast to Nixon's intrigue. His dress uniform was crisp, the garrison cap tucked neatly into the waist belt of his brown Ike jacket, the design of uniform created by America's Eisenhower. His eyes were softer and his voice quieter. There was a difference between the two, that many didn't see.

"I'm sorry?" Zhanna blinked, trying to make sense of why he was here and what she, too, would have experienced. The orderly, Smith, didn't move, watching the two officer's exchange, ticket still in hand.

"Paris?" Winters said. "Sink gave you leave as well?"

Zhanna nodded.

"I have to admit," Winters said, laughing softly. "I was worried I would be going alone."

"Oh, I'm not going," Instantly she regretted saying it.

"You aren't?" Winters looked taken aback, a little disappointed, even.

"No, I don't think it would agree with me," Zhanna said. She could have lied. She could have let him think she was going. But that wasn't fair. Winters was a good officer, a good man. She didn't want to lie to him.

"Are you sure you wouldn't reconsider?" Winters asked. "I think we would both enjoy the break and the company."

She could have reconsidered. She could have gone. But it wasn't until Zhanna refused, said she was sure, and told the orderly to save the ticket for someone who really wanted it. Wishing Captain Winters safe travels, Zhanna left the CP, a bitter chill in the air. Or maybe it was just her? Shivering in the memories that were sure to flood her with their icy chill.

She could go get the key for Nixon's Vat69 stash. She could get a bottle and then lay in her bed, cramped in the attic of some forgotten building where she too would be forgotten and she would try to forget too. But if she was alone, Zhanna couldn't keep them at bay. Thinking was her enemy and she had just invited it into her mind. But she couldn't be bothered to climb all those stairs to Winters's empty office so she just went home. Or, rather, back to her billet. Not wanting to put in the effort to take off her boots, she laid on her cot fully clothed, feet hanging off to the side. Staring up at the rafters, Zhanna shivered. She lay there, trying to think of nothing. Emptiness. Blank space. But her mind wandered and it wasn't until 1800 hours did she allow her mind to wander back to Winters.

Winters's train was sure to have left by now, if not hours ago. Winters was sure to have arrived at the hotel that the Airborne would have put him up in, allowing him to rest. The rafters were not captivating her attention as they had previously. Sitting up, she looked around her billet. She could go get the whiskey. But that didn't feel right.

Drinking in a hotel in Paris sounded better than drinking in her billet, cold and alone. She would still be alone in Paris but she'd be in the city. She'd be in better company than here, with the spider's webs on the ceiling.

Was it too late? It didn't hurt to try, Zhanna supposed. CP was still lit with lamps and Smith was still behind his desk.

"Do you still have it?" She asked, a little breathlessly, having run across the camp.

"Oh this?" Nixon was sitting on an adjacent desk, as if waiting for her to appear. He had the ticket in his hand. "I bought you another when you missed the first train. Dick's feelings were hurt."

"I need the distraction," Zhanna admitted, snatching the ticket from Nixon's grasp. "And they likely have better liquor than your Vat 69,"

The train arrived in Paris at 2000 hours, leaving the streets dark. The hair on the back of her neck rose as she attempted to find her hotel in the shadows. After nearly twenty-one years of fear, Zhanna wasn't nervous to wander the streets at night. Something about the military dress uniform and the sound of her heels against the cobblestones put aside any fear that might have gripped her. With newfound confidence, she marched into the lobby of the hotel, blinking in the sudden change from darkness to the brightly lit room. While she could walk with confidence, her mind was racing when her feet couldn't and she ordered a bottle of wine up to her room, thankful that the Airborne would be footing the bill for that and any bottle thereafter.

Collapsing onto her plush mattress, the downy blanket soft under her back, Zhanna stared up at the ceiling. The view had improved, at least. Flashes of light danced across the vaulted space above. She tried to close her eyes, to rest them. Burned against her eyelids were her mother's eyes and her father's face. She could hear their voices. Perelko. Polyakova. Neither she would hear in person again, as she had promised herself she would. Her eyes misted. She needed a drink.

She used to comfort herself at night with the memories and the dreams of her parents. How it had been before and how she wanted things to be, when they came back. It was always when they came back. Zhanna had never entertained the idea that they wouldn't come back, pushing away any doubt. Because doubt was what killed hope and she couldn't risk that.

In the end, it didn't matter and she couldn't pacify her now racing heart with the feeling of her parents' hands in her own. She needed a drink.

Waiting in the semi-darkness, splayed out across the bed, Zhanna twisted her fingers along the hem of her uniform skirt. Her wine would be here soon and she could drink straight from the bottle, watching the lights flicker. That would be her tonic tonight, the sleeping draught to lull her into the darkness. Unlike Sveta, she knew her limits. Unlike Sveta, Zhanna still had something to live for: Sveta.

Zhanna grew impatient waiting for her wine. She had better go find it, then. Perhaps it had ended up in the wrong room? How many Airborne paratroopers were housed in the hotel, anyway? How many women? Zhanna did recall that, while her papers were being set in order, the man behind the desk who was likely responsible for any mixup with her wine had mentioned that they had a Captain from Easy Company across the hall. Who could that be but Winters?

Pulling herself up off the bed, Zhanna stepped across the room and into the hall, determined to find the whereabouts of her wine. Perhaps it had been mixed up? They had sent the wine to the wrong room?

Zhanna's fist hit the wood with too much force, sending a loud bang! Echoing down the hallway. She winced. There was a pause, as the noise died away, and the sound of footsteps took its place. Winters opened the door, his jacket gone, hung on the back of the chair that Zhanna saw under his arm. It sat by a table, atop which sat a bottle of wine. Looking up, she saw the surprise and then the confusion crossed his face before Winters managed to put together the words. "What are you doing here?"

Zhanna pointed through the door, to the bottle of wine. 'That's mine."

"Oh,"

Winters stepped back. It wasn't an invitation, not a verbal one at least. Zhanna didn't move. They stood staring at each other, Winters in the doorway and Zhanna in the hall. Rank had no place in this city. Paris was simple. It seemed to have one thing of importance, and that was to forget.

"Would you like to come in?" Winters asked.

Zhanna nodded. Not a word was spoken, as her heels sank into the plush carpet and Winters shut the door behind her, muffling the sounds of the world beyond. Zhanna felt as if she had entered a private world. Something too personal to be explained but Winters didn't tell her to leave so she stayed.

The wine bottle sat, waiting for her. She didn't care if she looked eager, crossing the room in a few strides, and popped open the bottle. Zhanna needed to numb the burning behind her eyes and the feeling of ghosts in her hands.

"One day," Zhanna said, after tagging a swig of the wine and letting it run down her throat. "I'll come by for a social call, not just to drink."

Winters laughed. "I'm not sure I would know what to do."

Zhanna offered him the bottle, which she knew he would decline. He did, ever predictable. She stumbled over to the low bench at the end of the bed and sat down. Perhaps she was a little too familiar with a senior officer's hotel room but Zhanna didn't particularly care at the moment. Zhanna had wine and she could still feel the cool metal of Agata's wedding band against her skin. Not enough. She would only drink just enough to hide it. To numb this...this ache.

"I'm no expert," Zhanna said. "But usually social calls are conversation based."

"And what should we talk about?" Winters asked. "Nixon has already gotten all his information from you."

"Not all of it," Zhanna said. "And somehow, it doesn't feel like polite conversation to talk about..." Her voice trailed away. Winters knew. He had been there. He already knew everything he needed to.

"Have you heard from Captain Samsonova?" Winters asked.

Zhanna shook her head. She hadn't been able to visit her and she wasn't sure if Sveta would have welcomed a letter. Zhanna didn't think she wanted to talk to her. Not now. She needed to walk through these shallows alone. It was strange. The dreams she had let lull her to sleep so often, ones of hope and family and love, were fading fast now.

"What about Buck?" He asked. "You two were close,"

"We were allies," Zhanna said. "That's more than 'close"."

"How did you come to that conclusion?" He leaned against the table where her wine had sat, and crossed his arms across the dress shirt.

"He was well-liked, well-respected. I needed-"

"You needed that," Winters said.

Zhanna nodded. Winters seemed to understand more than most. He could read her, her thoughts, her emotions, and her past. He understood that she knew how to survive. He understood that allies were important to her. It was an unspoken alliance between them, he leaned against the table and Zhanna sat on the bench. But it still felt strong, a pull drawing them together, like a current.

"Winters," Zhanna started to say but he cut her off.

"You can call me Dick here."

Here. That was a distinction put into place. Here. In these four walls, in this city. In Paris, he could be Dick and she could be Zhanna. But did he want Zhanna Casmirovna or Zhanna Polyakova? She didn't want to risk it. And she couldn't bring herself to utter his name, not like Welsh and Nixon did. They were different. They were American. But the delicate balance of allyship

"Have you..." Her voice stalled, as her mind tried to explain what it felt like. What she was thinking at that moment. "Have you ever watched someone's memory die right before your eyes? You watch them just fade and you...you just know?"

Winters's eyes softened. He didn't have to say. He knew. "No, I can't say that I have."

"It's a horrible feeling," Zhanna sniffed, taking another deep draught from her bottle. It was almost half empty and she didn't think she should stay any longer. She could feel her lips growing looser and there was no point in spilling anything else. Zhanna stood, letting the bottle fall to her side, and Winters followed suit. They were closer than she had realized. She could smell his clean soap and freshly starched shirt, or was that her imagination?

He looked down at her. Even with her heels, he looked down at her. His eyes weren't brown like Nixon's, like Sveta's. They weren't dark, like the NKVD. They were blue. Like her's, like Buck's, but they looked almost icy. It wasn't cold, his gaze, but she shivered anyway. Her exhale was sharp, and she half expected it to come out in a fog, frosty from her lips.

Tucking her bottle closer to her side, she took a shaky breath and said. "Good night, Captain."