#fofchapters

The agent huffed, gathering her courage before turning to face Joe, the small cloud of her breath still hanging in the frosty air behind her. 

She'd intended to speak but no sound came out. 

After all, what was there to say? 

“I lied and ran off because I’m scared to get involved with you, in case you’re already involved with someone else?"

Yeah, that would go over like a ton of bricks. 

A Martinelli doesn’t show weakness, Alix remembered her father scolding her when she’d dissolved into tears after Clay’s numerous, public infidelities. Not now, not ever. 

So she said nothing, arms crossed, her ruby-red lips pressed into a tense line as she studied the paratrooper who'd come out after her.

Joe was standing just outside the building's overhang, hands shoved deeply into his pockets as he leaned against the building's outer wall, Alix's navy-blue coat draped over one shoulder. 

His deep brown puppy eyes traced over her features so softly, as though there was something worth seeing in them…in her…

Alix crossed her arms even tighter around herself, dropping her gaze to the cobblestones. Anything to avoid those sweet, puppy-dog eyes. 

She hated the way he looked at her, like she was the sun: something brilliant, worthy of kindness and reverence, and a million other sweet sentiments she didn't feel she deserved. 

How could anyone look at her like that after the things she'd done?

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

4 Years Earlier: August 18th, 1940. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

With a shout of obscenities in Italian, her father Emilio, had burst into their parlor, slamming a stack of men’s magazines and pinup calendars down onto the mahogany coffee table in front of her with such force that the whole table shook.

“What in God’s name is this?” he demanded, stabbing an accusatory finger at a Beauty Parade drawing of her in a slinky evening gown cut practically down to her navel, her cleavage nearly spilling out as she leaned on a piano.

“And this!” A page torn from the Esquire calendar depicting a provocatively-posed Alix as Miss July, lounging on a beach towel in an impossibly tiny two-piece. 

“And this!” A Titter centerfold featuring a blushing Alix with the skirt of her sundress snagged in a door, revealing her garters and a tantalizing flash of white lace panties.

“Is this what you've been doing while you're away?” her father bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. “We send you to Richmond for finishing school and you become a prostitute?!" 

"No, Pa, I-"

"Basta! Non dire cazzate, you got that? Don't fucking bullshit me!"  

"They're just pin-up drawings! It's not like I'm naked-" 

"You think that makes it better?!"

Her father grabbed one of the calendars off the table and waved it in front of her face.

"Do you see this shit? This is the shit roughnecks carry with them out to the oil fields every day! Is that who you want to be, Alix, some workmen’s tart for them to gawk at, like a piece of meat?! You want your name– OUR name– associated with the likes of them?!"

"I didn't even use my real name for those!” Alix shot back, her temper flaring. 

Her parents were strict but even still: she’d had a taste of freedom and she’d be damned if she’d be caged ever again. 

“Pa, I’m careful, I swear! I give false names every time! Hell, I’ve even worn wigs!"

"And what, you think that's going to keep people from recognizing you?! Ci fai o ci sei?!"

"No, I'm not stupid, Pa! Look, I-"

"Zitta! We did not name you after royalty so that you could parade around like a whore and humiliate this family! We’ve got a reputation to uphold and I am not about to have it ruined because of you! Capisce?"

Without waiting for an answer, he threw the calendar down onto the ground and began to pace across the floor, muttering and massaging his temple with his hand. 

“Santa Maria,” he all but spat, shaking his head at his prodigal daughter with disgust.

“We can only pray the Hearsts don’t hear of this. Because who in God’s name would want to marry you now, knowing the…the filth you’ve involved yourself in?!”

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

8 Months Earlier: January 8th, 1944. Aldbourne, England.

 Joe broke the tension first, clearing his throat uncomfortably, and Alix jumped at the sound. 

Tentatively, he draped her coat around her shoulders, as though she were a bomb set to detonate any second. 

Just like everybody else in the company.

Alix drew the dark material tightly around her for protection from the elements. 

“How’d you know?” she asked softly, glancing up to him nervously before her eyes darted away again. 

How did you know that was my coat? 

How did you know where I’d be? 

How do you know me so well without ever having known me?

Joe rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“I ain’t a spy or anythin’ but I ain't fuckin’ blind either,” he remarked, attempting a smile but it came off more as a grimace of self-loathing.

“I noticed you when I came in. I remembered the coat you wore. It…” 

He huffed for a second, his breath clouding the frosty air, before finishing simply, “It looked good on you.”

“Thanks,” Alix murmured before retrieving her cigarettes and glancing back up to Joe, extending an olive branch.

"You want one?"

He cocked an eyebrow and hesitated for a moment, before asking, "What kind?" 

"Chesterfields," Alix replied with a half-smile, passing the white and gold carton over to him. "I'm under contract."

Was it just the dim lighting of the street lamps or did she see the ghost of a smile cross his face? 

"Ya got good taste," he remarked simply before plucking a cigarette from the carton and retrieving a lighter from his pocket. 

He leaned over to give hers a light first, the both of them painfully aware of how close their faces were once again. 

The unacknowledged memory of the almost-kiss from earlier lingered between them like the rolling fog over the crop fields and Alix wondered if he could hear the thump-thump-thumping of her heart at the thought, even now.

“You coulda just told me, y’know," he mumbled after the first drag, sounding so unusually quiet and hesitant, so unlike the brash, cocky front he tried to keep up, that for a second, his words didn't even register.

"Told you what, Joey?" 

The agent flinched at the way her voice sounded. Brittle, like broken glass.

But she couldn't help it. Her resolve was waning.

As she took a drag to steady herself, Joe's head jerked up in surprise at her words, brown eyes wide. 

"Joey, huh?" he repeated, ignoring her question as the corner of his mouth starting to quirk up in his trademark goofy grin. "Nobody's ever called me that before." 

Alix started to apologize automatically but Joe shook his head. 

"Don't," he chided gently. "I like it. But-" 

He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Think I'd like anything that comes outta that pretty mouth of yours."

"Awful quick with the lines tonight, aren't we?" Alix tried to sound nonchalant but there was a notable edge to her voice that caused Joe's brows to knit with concern.

"That a problem?" 

"Of course not," Alix replied coolly, the smoke from her last drag curling into the air between them like a momentary barrier.

"I just know your type is all." 

Joe gritted his teeth at her insinuation.

"Yeah?” he asked tersely. “And what type's that?" 

“The type that gives their girl back home the runaround while they're off chasing tail and chasing glory."

A vein popped in his jaw at the insinuation.

"You think you got me all figured out, huh?” he snapped tersely. "Well you don't. I've never gone steady with anybody, okay? I don't have the fuckin' time!" 

He shook his head in frustration.

"I been workin' two jobs, helpin' out my folks and lookin' out for my siblings since I was a fuckin' teenager. Yeah I slept around a little bit here and there, I'm not gonna bullshit you, but I never gave anybody the fuckin' runaround, okay? I'm not Skinny and I sure as fuck ain't Tab." 

Alix blinked in shock at his outburst as she absorbed his words, but Joe wasn't done. 

"And y'wanna know why I joined the Airborne?" he demanded.

He took a quick drag, the exhale coming just as fast.

"Wasn't for shits and giggles, lemme tell ya. It was so I could save enough money to put a fuckin' down payment on a house for my folks. That's why. Not glory, not girls, okay? My fuckin' family. 

He took another puff of his cigarette, golden-brown eyes now studying the darkened landscape behind her before discarding it under his heel. 

Alix tensed. Taking a slow drag off her own cig, she hoped quietly that the slightly bitter, hazy taste would clear her racing thoughts. But it didn't. 

Boy, did she feel stupid. 

"Look, Joe, I-I'm sorry," she mumbled, staring at the ground and tossing her cigarette away, her muscles taut as she braced for some sort of fight. 

Conflict was a regular feature of her life growing up. Her father was a wild and wealthy womanizer and her melancholic mother socially prominent and heavily religious. When they clashed, which was often, the walls of their estate shook with the bellowing, doors slamming, and glass breaking.

A marriage of convenience, yes, but a match made in hell. 

Her first real boyfriend…her former fiancé…had been much the same. Alix had learned very quickly that Clayton Hearst did not tolerate mouthiness.

That was probably why her father had chosen him for a match— to keep his wayward daughter in line. It hadn't stopped Alix from fighting back but it made for some very rough arguments. 

Fortunately, Clay had left for the Marines while she was still in school, allowing Alix a small reprieve from their near-constant fighting. 

The Dear Jane letter she'd gotten in the mail a month later had only proven to her what she'd already known deep-down: 

Clay had never loved her. Hell, he'd never even liked her. The still-healing bruises from their parting arguments were proof enough of that. And just like her father, he'd rather spend his leave time cavorting with other women instead of remaining faithful to the one he was supposed to love. 

The soft percussion of boots on pavement shook Alix out of her reverie and she jumped. But to her surprise, Joe's approach wasn't angry. Not at all. 

Instead, she felt calloused fingers gently tilting her chin up to look him in the eyes and she flinched. But instead of the fury she'd come to expect, she saw only concern reflected back at her. 

“I don’t know what asshole taught you that that’s how men are,” he said softly. “But I can fuckin’ promise you, that ain't how I am. You'll see." 

Alix knew she shouldn't but the sincerity in Joe’s tone tugged at her heartstrings in a way she hadn’t expected and even with all her reservations, she couldn't help but believe him. 

She was suddenly, painfully aware of his proximity, his face so tantalizingly near that she could smell the dizzying sweetness of the alcohol on his breath mingling with the faint smoke of his last cigarette. 

Alix's eyes raked across his features: the intensity of his warm caramel gaze, his finely-drawn cheekbones, his strong aquiline nose, and she couldn't help but linger on the smile tugging at his lips, each thud of her heartbeat chanting the same thing like a mantra:

Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him. 

"You gonna kiss me or what?" Joe teased softly, as if he could read her mind. 

The slight gravel of his voice sent a tingle of pleasure down her spine and Alix knew then, as surely as she knew her own name, that kissing Joe Liebgott would be sealing her own fate, allowing herself to need him in a way she hadn’t wanted to need anyone ever again. 

But in that moment, a decision was made: 

It would be worth it. 

So in response, Alix gave in to her impulses and pressed her lips earnestly to his with all of the sweet desperation that had been building up inside her since their eyes had first met days earlier.

Before she’d even known his name, a part of her had wanted to do this and the fact that it was actually happening had her head spinning in the best way.

Joe’s lips were soft, far softer than she’d expected them to be and they moved instinctively against hers in perfect synchronicity, anticipating her needs as naturally as he had on the dancefloor. 

Alix reached up and ran her fingers through his thick copper hair, the intoxicating musk of his cologne and the feel of his arms sliding around her waist sending warmth blossoming through her like a blazing hearth in the winter chill.

Deepening the kiss, her tongue tentatively prodded his half-parted lips and he tangled a hand in her hair, intensifying their embrace. 

Kissing Joe was like a drug, the syrupy-sweetness of the alcohol on his tongue and the searing heat of his mouth on hers stirred something in her she'd never before experienced. 

The warmth between them was slowly building, spreading like a wildfire, and even the sudden, frigid downpouring of sleet couldn't sour the elation they felt in each other's arms. 

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Joe chuckled in between kisses, deftly flipping the collar up on his jacket with his free hand.

“What’s wrong, flyboy?” Alix quipped, her hair now coated in the frozen slush. “Afraid of a little winter weather?” 

“Nah," he scoffed with a teasing nip at her bottom lip. "But if I catch a fuckin' cold ‘cause of it, I’m makin’ you take care of me.”

"Yeah?" the agent joked, returning the nip playfully. "Why me?" 

"'Cause I ain't foolin' around with Roe." 

Alix couldn't even respond, reluctantly having to tear herself away due to her uncontrollable shivering.

"I should p-probably get g-going," Alix managed from between chattering teeth.

Both her coat and dress had already been soaked through with the freezing water and the harsh wind was biting at her through the trees.

"B-Before it g-gets worse." 

"Not like this we're fuckin' not," Joe declared, gently guiding Alix under the overhang. "We'll catch our deaths."

"You-You don't have to come," Alix replied, wrapping her arms around herself in a vague attempt to conserve whatever body heat hadn't already fled. 

"Like hell I don't," Joe responded stubbornly, crossing his arms to keep himself warm as well.

"If you think I'm gonna let you walk home alone in the middle of the night, and in this weather on top of it, you're outta your fuckin' mind." 

He was shivering too but he still took off his half-soaked coat and wrapped it around Alix's already-soaked coat anyway. 

"What...What do you recommend then?" 

Instead of answering, Joe opened the door to the White Rose again. 

"Lemme take care of it, dollface." he called over his shoulder as he slipped inside. "Don't miss me too much." 

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

About five minutes later, Joe reappeared, dangling a room key with a triumphant grin on his face. 

"C'mon Ziskeit," he urged, wrapping an arm around her and guiding her inside where it was warmer. "I told ya I'd take care of it!" 

"How did you manage that?" Alix asked incredulously, once she'd stopped shivering so violently. "They don't rent to unmarried couples, do they? It'd be improper!" 

As if to answer her question, when they passed the concierge desk, the clerk gave them an enthusiastic parting wave. 

"Enjoy your Honeymoon, Corporal and Mrs. Liebgott!" 

Alix turned to Joe, wide-eyed. 

"Joey, you didn't-!" 

But Joe shot her a wink. 

"What can I say? I got creative." 

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Their room at the White Rose was a bit on the smaller side, right next to the first floor stairwell, and most importantly, it was warm but Alix wouldn't have noticed the difference if it had been a suite at the Waldorf.

Joe's lips pressed urgently against hers and together, they stumbled as one through the doorway in a frenzy of desire, each kissing the other as though their lives depended on it.  

"You been drivin' me crazy all night, y'know that?" Joe mumbled haltingly against her lips as he fumbled blindly for the door knob.  

"Have I?" Alix asked innocently, lightly nipping at his bottom lip before peeling off her coat and tossing it to the ground.

“Don’t fuckin’ play with me, Zees," he cautioned, pressing her back up against the closed door, which rattled its complaint.

"But why, Joey?" Alix purred seductively, reeling him in by his tie just to brush her lips tantalizingly against his and slip away before he could kiss her. 

"It's so much fun to tease you."

"Yeah?" She could hear the smirk in his rough voice but what she hadn’t expected was to feel him behind her. 

Catching her hand as he spoke, Joe deftly tugged her back to him and she yielded, allowing him to pin her against the opposite wall instead with a dull thump, caging her between his arms.

"’Cause I bet it's gonna be a whole lot more fun to tease you.”

He started with her jawline, his kisses torturously gradual as he made his way down her arching neck, the heat of his breath sending goosebumps prickling down her limbs. 

Locating her sweet spots with relative ease, he latched on, sucking a small trail of love bites into the delicate skin, pulling a breathy moan from Alix’s throat before she could stop it.

He was smirking against the blossoming bruises, she could feel it, and she eagerly nipped a row of matching marks into his neck in return, around the chain of his dog tags, the resulting guttural groan from him making her a little weak in the knees. 

His kisses traveled further down at a maddening crawl, making Alix squirm with impatience.

He was keeping her caged against the wall on purpose, forcing her to allow him to take the lead and for an agent so used to being the pursuer, the honeytrap, in-command at all times, she could’ve screamed in frustration. 

Sensing her impatience, he captured her mouth in another desperate, heated kiss and she pressed her whole body flush against him with an almost-feline grace.

Slow as pouring honey, she dragged herself agonizingly against him, making sure he felt every inch of her from her breasts to her hips and ass up against him.

She could feel the curve of his hard cock straining through his trousers as it lightly prodded her thigh–– and the sensation inflamed her like a cat in heat.

Tugging him nearer by his tie a second time, Alix leaned just close enough for her warm breath to ghost along the shell of his ear. 

“Fuck, I need you, Joey,” she moaned breathily, running a teasing hand over the bulge in his pants and making him shudder from the contact. “I need you so bad.”

“Okay now that,” Joe groaned at her touch. “That’s just fuckin’ cruel.”

“Then do something about it,” Alix purred and that was all the paratrooper needed to hear. 

Joe could be a very petty and proud man, but even so: he wasn’t superhuman.

Scooping her up in his deceptively-strong arms, Alix let out a small yelp of surprise as Joe moved her away from the wall and began backing her towards the bed, their lips crashing against each other’s again and again as they stumbled to it, throwing off their clothes as they went. 

Joe’s tie, her dress, his shirt, her heels, they all were strewn somewhere on the way but neither of them noticed where.

The backs of Alix’s knees hit the bed and Joe gave her a gentle push, easing her onto it, the mattress springs creaking softly.

 But for all his earlier cockiness, the paratrooper was rendered completely awestruck by her nearly-naked form, and he took a step back for a moment, simply standing there in his skivvies, gazing at her in pure disbelief. 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he whispered finally, his eyes roving down her lounging body on the mattress, absorbing the image as though he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

Alix propped herself up on her elbows to give him a better view. Her bra was long gone– tossed to the floor nearby– and all that remained on her were her black garter belt, and matching stockings.

Suddenly, Alix found herself feeling more nervous than she ever had before. Modeling was impersonal. This wasn’t like that at all.

None of the artists had ever looked at her the way Joe was looking at her now, so…so reverently and yet so ravenously at the same time.

Come to think of it, no man she’d ever met had looked at her like that before, with such a mixture of carnal desire and awestruck admiration, and it was driving her wild in the best way. 

She needed him. In whatever way he wanted, Alix knew she needed him.

As if he could read her thoughts, he walked to the edge of the bed and gently nudged her legs apart with his hand. 

Alix must’ve looked surprised because he gave her a playful wink and settled between her thighs as though he'd always been, the look of pure desire in his eyes sending a tingling sensation to her most sensitive parts. 

Shifting the pillows so she could have a better vantage point, Alix could see even from there that Joe’s pupils were blown with lust and she could feel herself reddening under his gaze.

“You just sit back and relax up there, Ziskeit,” he entreated her, the old cocky, flirtatious Liebgott grin she’d seen earlier in the evening returning once again.

“This is gonna be fun.” 

“Joey, you don’t have to…” Alix began softly but the feeling of his lips nipping and kissing the inside of her thighs killed the rest of the words in her throat. 

God, he was good. 

He left a burning path of love bites from her hip bones down her inner thighs, causing her to whine impatiently at the dull ache blooming between her legs. 

He was driving her crazy and he knew it too, damn him.

Alix’s breath hitched as Joe eased her panties to the side with a finger. 

"God, you're fuckin' soaked," he breathed and Alix felt her heartbeat quickening at the lewdness dripping from his words. 

But even underneath the obscenity and voraciousness of his tone, there was an underlying sweetness too.

“You sure you wanna do this, Ziskeit?” he asked tentatively, meeting her eyes and suddenly seeming almost nervous.

“We don’t have to, y’know…I’ll understand, if you don’t…”

Alix frowned. 

Had she misread his signals the whole night? Was he just here because he was mollifying her?

“Do you not want to?” 

His eyebrows shot up immediately and he sat back on his knees. 

“You kiddin’ me? Of course I want to! I just didn’t want you to think-”

“I don’t,” Alix interrupted, knowing instinctively what he was going to say. “I don’t think that, not at all.”

He nodded his acknowledgement and returned to his prone position between her legs.

"Oh, by the way," he remarked nonchalantly, looking up with a positively sinful grin.

"You're gonna be cumming at least twice before we do anythin’ else." 

Alix’s eyes must’ve looked like saucers.

“U-Uh,” she stammered, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt now that her face was a deep crimson.

“One thing, before you start. Um…I’ve never…y’know…Not from this…or anything, really. I don’t even know if I can…”

Joe’s eyes were as round as hers as understanding set in. 

“Wait, never?” he asked incredulously and Alix shook her head with a nervous titter, suddenly feeling extremely shy.

“Nope.” 

Clayton had never been the type to care about her pleasure and the others had been similarly apathetic.

Truthfully, she hadn’t even known sex was supposed to be enjoyable until Lavinia from St. Mary’s had shared stories of her romps in the woods with one of the boys from St. Ignatius. 

“I, uh, I hope that’s not a problem, Joey.” 

Recovering from his momentary trance, Alix saw something flicker in the golden flecks of his eyes, like 24Karat gold dust…was it affection? 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, dollface,” he reassured her with an easy smile as he nudged her panties to the side once more.

“Just lay back and lemme make you feel good.”

Alix obeyed eagerly and he hooked his arms under her thighs, draping her legs over his shoulders before descending on her heat like some kind of starving animal. 

“Oh fuck,” she whimpered, feeling a bit pathetic at the way a few well-placed laps of Joe’s tongue already had her head feeling light. 

Tangling her fingers reflexively in his thick, lush brown hair, Alix swore she could feel him smiling as he devoured her, reveling in the way he was making her come undone in a way no one else had. 

Minutes later, she was trembling. The assassin everyone was so in awe of was quivering like a leaf in the breeze at every broad stripe of Joe’s well-practiced tongue. 

He knew what he was doing, that was for sure. 

Her free hand gripping the sheets, she could feel the muscles in her stomach clenching, bracing for each wave of pleasure that Joe’s tongue sent rushing through her. 

“Shit, you taste good,” Joe mumbled, greedily lapping at her core like a man starved, burying his tongue so deeply within her that Alix had to scrunch her eyes shut to keep from falling to pieces right then and there. 

“So fuckin’ sweet for me, aren’t ya, Zees?” 

“O-Oh God,” Alix gasped out, tugging at Joe's hair desperately. 

The pooling warmth in her stomach was getting stronger, deeper, her legs trembling as the waves of pleasure began to build, filling up like a balloon seconds from bursting. “Joey, I-I think-"

Joe groaned in excitement, lapping steadily at her core, before beginning to suckle on her clit, causing her vision to flash momentarily white. 

Alix let out a strangled cry, her back arching clear off the mattress and involuntarily thrusting her breasts into the air.

“Oh-Oh fuck, Joey,” she mewled, her voice carrying clear across the room as the dam broke. She tried to press her quivering thighs together, the overwhelming sensitivity like a tsunami of bliss completely flooding her senses, but Joe wasn’t done with her. 

Not even close. 

“Louder,” he urged as he coaxed her through her first orgasm, giving quick kitten licks to her most sensitive spot and teasing her slick entrance with a finger.

“C’mon, Zees, I wanna hear you.”

“Joey, if you keep this up, the whole hall is gonna hear me,” Alix half-sobbed, the pleasure so overwhelming that she could feel her vision swimming. 

Joe pressed a soft kiss to her knee before slipping a second finger inside her, sending her keening his name so loudly that she was sure even the clerks at the concierge desk could hear. 

“Good,” he affirmed, beginning to scissor his fingers inside her core as her breathing quickened to ragged, blissful gasps.

“Besides, we’re newlyweds, remember?” 

He shot her a wink. 

“We’re ‘sposed to be at it like rabbits.”

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Alix had always thought the phrase “seeing stars” was just an expression but after the third or fourth orgasm Joe had ripped out of her, she was pretty sure there were lights dancing before her eyes after all. 

“You doin’ okay, Zees?” The paratrooper perked his head up from between her legs, the evidence of her arousal glistening on his chin.

His bangs were stuck to his forehead, the both of them covered in a sheen of sweat, but he looked as satisfied as she felt. 

“You need a break or somethin’?” 

Alix gave him a reassuring smile and shifted her still-trembling legs off of Joe’s shoulders. 

“I’m good, Joey.” 

He cocked his head and sat back on his heels, eyeing her inquisitively, a note of concern in his husky voice. 

“You sure?”

Alix nodded. 

“I promise.” She let out a shaky laugh. “I’m just taking a quick second to recover, that’s all.”

Satisfied with her answer, the paratrooper crawled up beside her, back against the headboard, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he searched the face beside him intently for a reaction.

“Pretty fuckin’ good, huh?” 

Alix giggled. 

“If you couldn’t tell from me screaming your name for however long it’s been, yes, it was ‘pretty fucking good’.” 

Joe gave her a playful nudge with his shoulder. 

“Just checkin’. Can’t leave Mrs. Liebgott unsatisfied on our honeymoon, y’know. What kinda husband would I be?”

Alix knew he was just joking but the reference still made something in her flutter with delight.

This paratrooper…This technician with the warm smile and the quick wit, who seemed to read her better than anyone else, he intrigued her like no one ever had.

He was an adventure, a revelation, an epiphany, everything she hadn’t known she’d been missing, all wrapped up into one charismatic person.

Feeling something stirring deep inside her again, Alix found herself gripped by a primal urge she couldn’t shake. 

She needed him, all of him. Now. 

Rolling over onto her side so that she was facing him completely, she could see the taut muscles of his thin, wiry frame, tensing like a panther as he looked at her.

How could he always read her mind?

Giving him a once-over, the spy glimpsed the same salacious shape straining against his underwear. 

Leaning over, she began to toy with the waistband of his skivvies, causing Joe's hips to buck up involuntarily as her smooth fingertips dipped below. 

“C’mon, Ziskeit,” Joe cajoled, those deep brown eyes full of unspoken pleas for release as Alix resumed kissing down his neck. “Don’t be a fuckin’ tease.”

“If I recall,” Alix murmured against his skin as she grazed her nails down his abs, making him inhale sharply. 

“A certain person made me beg for a full five minutes…” 

“Well that person's a fuckin’ idiot," Joe grunted desperately. 

As he was speaking, Alix slid his skivvies off and took him into her mouth, delicately tracing the head with her tongue.

"And I'm sure he – Oh fuckin’ Christ!” Joe hissed, tangling a hand in her hair desperately to keep some self-control as she went about her work, taking him deeper into her throat.

“Fuck, I’m sure he knows better now."  

Alix smirked, hollowing her cheeks and taking him still deeper, pushing him further down, savoring the taste of him, and she could feel his hips starting to buck. 

“God, you’re fuckin’ perfect,” he growled but as she deep-throated him again and again, he released her hair, his hands hurriedly finding their way to her shoulders. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Zees,” he choked out, pushing her away gently and it only took that warning tone for her to release him at once with a lewd pop.

“You okay, Joey?” she asked, her turn to be concerned, and he laughed nervously.

“Uh…” he chuckled, sheepishly running a hand through his hair.

“I…I wasn’t gonna last too much longer, if you kept that up. That was… Christ, that was somethin’ fuckin’ else.”

Alix hummed appreciatively before swinging a leg over and straddling his lap.

“Can we try this then?” she murmured, ghosting her fingers up and down his strong arms. 

"Jesus Christ," Joe whispered almost reverently from his half-propped position against the headboard, his heavily-lidded eyes roaming every inch of her nude form, still admiring her as though she was a priceless Caravaggio.

"You sure you're not a fuckin' dream or somethin'?" 

He slowly reached out, his fingertips ghosting across the valley of her breasts in mesmerized disbelief, as though he was afraid she might disappear at any moment if he was too rough with her.

"I'm real, tesoro," Alix assured him, guiding his hand to squeeze the supple flesh, sending a flood of warmth through her and she could feel him twitch beneath her, prodding her inner thigh with his arousal.

“I promise, I’m real.”

Carding a hand through his hair, she captured him in a long, passionate kiss which he returned just as fervently, the pair moaning deeply into each other’s mouths as she sank down on his cock.

She gasped as he bottomed out, the slight burn filling her with ecstasy, and he groaned deeply.

“Oh fuck, you feel so good.” 

Alix didn’t even have the words to reply. The feeling of fullness Joe supplied was unimaginably euphoric, blanking out her mind completely. 

Relying on animal instinct alone, she began to roll her hips, rutting against him as desperate keens and gasped curses fell from both their lips like prayers. 

Joe wrapped both arms around her waist, burying his face in her breasts with a deep, rumbling groan of ecstasy, gripping her to him as though she was a lifeline, the lifesaving driftwood to a drowning man. 

“Madonna mia,” Alix breathed, the fervent motion of her hips stuttering momentarily at the feeling of him latching onto the sensitive skin of her nipple. 

She rutted against him desperately, needing more and more of him, tugging on his hair in a silent plea for everything that only he could give her.

“Hey Ziskeit,” he murmurs seconds later, his voice husky with arousal, and she could feel her walls constricting around him tighter and tighter. “Goddammit, I think I’m gonna cum soon...” 

Her pace twice as insistent now, Alix bore down on him, Joe’s dog tags jingling musically against her chest as she rode him into oblivion. 

“Fuck, Joey, I need you,"  she murmured, chanting the last three words like a prayer as she felt herself teetering on a precipice for another time.

“Don’t say that," Joe gasped out, his grip around her hips so insistent that she was sure bruises would form later. "Don't fuckin' say that unless you mean it." 

He was bucking up against her too, matching her rhythm, every stroke so intense in her core that she was left a whimpering mess.

“I mean it, Joey,” Alix moaned as she pressed his face to her chest, "God, I fucking mean it."  

“Oh shit, Jesus Christ!” Panic and pleasure twisted Joe’s handsome features, his voice raising frantically. “Uh, Zees, I- FUCK!” 

His warning tone reached a fever pitch just as his orgasm jolted through him, ripping a guttural sound from his throat and leaving him slack-jawed and panting as his cock pulsed.

Alix was seconds behind him, burying her face into his shoulder with a broken sob as another orgasm overwhelmed her, plunging her instantly into white-hot bliss as he held her, murmuring praises in English and what she assumed to be German. 

Joe lolled his head back against the headboard, his murmuring voice farther and farther away now. Alix was too fucked out to think anymore and she found herself slumping over on top of his chest like a ragdoll as she drifted off.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Surfacing from sleep around 1am to find Joe still buried comfortably inside her, the pair of them still tangled in each other’s arms, Alix gently eased herself upright, wanting to take in the scene for a moment, not knowing if she’d ever have the chance to again. 

Was this a one-night stand? God, she hoped not. Was it her imagination or was there something more between them? 

A spark? No…a flame. More than a flame. An inferno. 

In one night, Joe had shown her an entirely different world, an entirely different life than the one she’d been trapped in before.

How could she just go back to normal now, as if she hadn’t been completely and totally changed? As if her entire world hadn’t been rocked by one cocky paratrooper with puppy-dog eyes?  

Their clothes, still damp from the sleet, lay discarded in messy bunches along the carpet like autumn leaves.

Thinking back on it, Alix couldn't remember how long it had been since they'd begun but the chill of the remaining frost that had coated them both at the start was long gone by now, replaced with the sticky-sweetness and feverish heat of sweat and sex.

Joe wasn't like Clay or any of the handful of guys she'd been with before, she mused. 

They'd all been selfish lovers, entirely focused on chasing their own wants while denying her hers. She was merely a vessel for them to get off, nothing more than a doll to be used and discarded once her purpose had been fulfilled.

In one night, Joe had treated her like the complete opposite. 

He was still as full of fire in the bedroom as he was out of it, but for once, it was only for Alix to see. He had been chasing her all night but not in the way the others were. For the first time in her life, someone seemed hungry to please her. The thought was so foreign that it sent another shiver of pleasure through her.

Even in his sleep, Joe’s breathing hitched at the sensation of her walls contracting around him and she couldn’t help but giggle into her hand. 

“Whassofunny?” Joe mumbled, cracking an eye open. 

“Nothing, cucciolo,” Alix assured him, running a hand through his sex-tousled hair. “Go back to sleep. You need it.” 

“I fuckin’ don’t,” Joe insisted doggedly, starting to sit up, but when Alix started to lift herself off of him, he hissed and shook his head. 

“Not yet, Ziskeit,” he pleaded, his words still running together a bit in his after-sex haze. “A little bit longer.” 

“Then go back to sleep and I'll stay put,” Alix countered.

“Can’t,” Joe yawned. “Can’t sleep much normally, ‘cept after…y’know.” 

He made a vague gesture to their situation and Alix cocked an eyebrow, dark eyes sparkling with mirth. 

“If that was your way of trying to come onto me again,” she commented drolly. “I appreciate the creativity. I don’t think ‘Fuck me to sleep’ is a line I’ve heard before.”

“Wasn’t a line,” Joe responded with a shrug. “I really can’t sleep for shit."

His warm brown eyes were boring into hers again and she could feel the playful chuckle he was trying to suppress in his voice when he added slyly, 

“But y’know, just outta curiosity… if it had been a line, would it’ve worked…?” 

She was now hyper-aware of his hands resting gently on her bare back as he held her, the roughness of his calloused fingertips sending sparks dancing deliciously across her soft skin. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, flyboy,” she teased with a soft roll of her hips, but the slight catch of desire in her voice when she felt him stiffen betrayed her.  

"Shit," Joe grunted at the sudden movement, pupils blown with desire. "You're such a fuckin' minx, y'know that?" 

"Am I?" Alix blinked innocently before clenching the muscles in her core around his cock in a vise grip, making him hiss. "I hadn't noticed." 

"Okay that's it," Joe hissed, the rasp in his slightly nasal-tenor coming out as almost a primal growl. Keeping one hand steady on her back, he pulled out and flipped her over, pinning her firmly underneath him. 

Alix sunk her nails into his back to keep herself from moaning needily as he buried himself within her once again, rougher this time, the heavenly ache between her legs as he bottomed out causing a small whimper to escape. 

“Gotta be quiet now, dollface,” he mumbled, crashing his lips to hers to keep himself from groaning out loud.

“People’re probably sleeping. Like we would be if you weren’t so goddamn gorgeous.”

“Such a charmer, cucciolo, I- Oh fuck!” 

Working up speed, Joe began pounding into her mercilessly, seemingly determined to make her pay for teasing him so cruelly earlier, and Alix wrapped her legs around him, craving him impossibly closer to her.

“Tesoro, fuck, I think–” she whimpered from beneath him. “I think I might-”

“Yeah?” he grunted, the vigor of his pace only increasing. 

Thinking back on it, his dog tags had been clinking so loudly against his Star of David pendant that Alix hadn’t even heard the door open.

“Real sorry I took so long, Pops,” a soft-spoken but familiar voice rang from the entrance. “But Doc said-” 

Shifty Powers, the sweet-faced trooper who’d waved to Joe in the lobby earlier, was now frozen dead in his tracks, his eyes dinner-plate wide as the tall glass of water he’d been carrying slid from his hands, shattering into several glistening chunks on the floor with a CRACK!

He was beet-red but rooted to the spot, his horrified gaze dropping down to the shattered glass at his feet and then back up to the still-intertwined Alix and Joe like he was tied to the tracks of an oncoming train.

“Shit,” he mumbled, stammering out excuses and apologies, half to himself and half to the couple as he immediately dropped to his knees and began busying himself with trying to collect the glass shards. “I- This-this isn’t…and y’all aren’t…But I thought-”

Alix lunged for the comforter, which she hurriedly wrapped around herself like an oversized towel.

“Don’t worry about the glass,” she reassured him kindly, his eyes glued firmly to the ground. “We’ll take care of it. You just get where you need to go.” 

“A-Are y’all sure?" He was speaking entirely to the carpet, head dipped to avoid any more accidental views.

If it hadn't been such a humiliating situation, Alix might've giggled.

"I wouldn’t wanna cause y’all any trouble.”

“It isn’t any trouble,” Alix insisted. “Isn’t that right, Joe?” 

Joe made a skeptical noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a cough and a grunt, but the glare she shot him could’ve wilted even fake flowers and he finally relented.

“Yeah sure,” Liebgott replied, dulling the sharpness of the irritation in his tone. “No trouble at all.”

“Well alright, if y’all are sure…” Shifty mumbled, his face still a bright cherry red. “I’ll, uh, I guess I’ll just see y’all around. I'm just gonna-"

With that, he fled the room like a bat out of hell, leaving a disgruntled Joe and a mortified Alix in his wake. 

"God, I cannot believe that just happened." Alix squeaked into her palms, wishing that the Earth would just swallow her whole.

Even the exquisite soreness between her thighs wasn't worth that.

Joe meanwhile, was muttering to himself as he stepped over the glass shards strewn along a small patch of carpet.

"Going somewhere?" Alix asked with a cocked eyebrow.

Alix made a vague noise of acknowledgement as they trudged onward, her heart already beginning its heavy drumbeat as speckles of gold began to appear just beyond the treeline a few yards ahead.

The train station.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Nixon remarked dryly and if it hadn’t been for the thick blue lenses, she would’ve rolled her eyes and come up with a snappy retort.

But her mouth had suddenly gone bone-dry, all mirth dying in her throat.

She had bigger problems now.

Under the unforgiving glare of the station lights, there would be nowhere to hide. 

She would be a sitting duck.

It was a spy’s worst nightmare.

Alix’s joints seemed to lock for a split second but she forced herself to catch up with her case officer, slowing only when the hem of her dress snagged on the extended arm of a nearby tree.

“Cazzo!” 

Muttering more expletives under her breath, the spy undertook the arduous task of prying the delicate blue silk from the bough’s stubborn grasp.

The tree's taller branches rustled above her as she worked, showering her in puffy golden blossoms like tiny comets raining down onto her newly-auburn hair as Nixon snickered. 

"Less laughing, more collecting, wise-ass," Alix advised with a cocked eyebrow as she tossed a couple starry blooms in his direction and managed to ease the rest of the gauzy material from the gnarled bark. 

"Saves Donovan some cash on my funeral arrangements." 

“Don’t even joke about that,” the intelligence officer snapped before turning his attention back to the compass in his hand. “You’re going to be fine.”

 Alix would have rolled her eyes but the uncomfortable blue contact lenses stung enough as it was so she settled for an impetuous toss of her hair which launched a few more flowers into the chilly night air. 

“If you say so,” she mumbled but after hiking the skirt of her dress up to her thighs, she forged ahead, trying to ignore the nagging doubts dogging her every step into the night.

No one had told her anything about her mission partner except that they were a floater but that fact alone was enough to fill her with dread.

More of an asset than an agent, floaters were just temporary consultants with highly-specialized skill sets. 

Codebreakers, forgers, interrogators, radio operators, explosives experts, floaters hired by the OSS had talent on top of their respective training, of that she was sure. 

But they weren’t spies and that caused Alix serious trepidation.

How could she put her whole life in the hands of someone who'd never even been in the field before?

What if they froze when she needed them most? Then what?

How did she know they wouldn't sell her out to the Gestapo as soon as they got the chance? 

How did she know they hadn't already done so? 

She didn't, Alix realized as ice seemed to run through her. She didn't know a damn thing. 

What if–

“Knock it off,” Captain Nixon interrupted over his shoulder as if reading her mind. “I can hear you worrying from here.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, tugging the thick mink wrap even closer around herself protectively. 

“You’re not the one walking into a trap, Nix." 

"And neither are you," her handler retorted testily.

“He’ll be there. Just remember the recognition phrase and look for the ring. You'll be fine." 

The notorious skull ring. 

The identifying symbol of a Werwolf Kommando, only gifted to the most dangerous of combatants. 

Alix didn’t even want to know how the OSS had managed to get one for her partner. 

“Hey Runt,” Nixon interrupted her musings once again but his expression was one of slight concern, though his usual laughter still put a lilt in his tone.

They were almost there now.

 “Loosen up, will you? Jesus, you've got the same expression as Dick going on and he usually looks like he’s being marched to the gallows.”

“Well that’s what it feels like,” she grumbled, her stomach churning at the thought of being in plain sight of the Gestapo with a 1 Million Franc bounty out for her capture.

“Hey.” 

Her handler gave her a light smack on the shoulder. There was a brotherly concern in her handler’s eyes but he tried to summon a lackadaisical grin anyway, which she appreciated.

“Relax, 'kay? It’s a mission, not a death sentence.”

The shriek of a train whistle cut off her reply.

It was not her train; she still had plenty of time but she still needed to get to the agreed-upon meeting spot before someone else. 

Hurriedly smoothing some fallen pine needles from her dress, her muscles tensed with anticipation as she made her way beyond the treeline and to the station door, leaving her handler behind in the shadows of the forest.

Alright, she said to herself, forcing an imperious posture as she tugged open the door. Let’s get this show on the road.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━━━∆∆━━━━∆∆

If anyone had asked, Alix would’ve told them the worst part of being a spy was the waiting. 

Bathed in the yellow glow of the station lights overhead, she remained frozen on her solitary island, the few passengers in sight hustling past like a flock of seagulls without so much as a glance in her direction.

With every light puff of breath, Alix noticed her fingers twitch slightly with the urge to reach for the rosary that no longer resided there. 

Alix may have been Catholic, but "Tanya" was not. 

Her Nona Lucrezia’s rosary was stuffed into a tiny pouch buried at the bottom of one of her many suitcases, which had already been shipped ahead to Paris. 

In its place around her neck was a weathered golden medallion bearing the icon of Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker, a popular Russian Orthodox intercessor. 

The patron saint of deliverance from misfortune.

She could certainly use some of that right about now.

Feigning boredom, the young agent casually reached into her silk purse and retrieved an ornate silver lighter and her half-smoked pack of Herzegovina Flor cigarettes. 

Instantly, she felt nearby eyes on her. 

Locating the closest reflective surface, Alix clocked the observer: an elderly Frenchwoman in a patchwork skirt who was gaping at her as she shuffled her way past to the fourth bench. 

Of course people were going to stare, Alix reminded herself, trying to focus instead on the lime-green packaging in her lap, the name embossed in glinting gold Cyrillic font.

After all, she was covered from head to toe in diamonds, fur, and silk, not to mention she was smoking the priciest cigarettes in all of the Soviet Union. 

Remembering what Nix had taught her, Alix was careful to pinch the cigarette between her thumb and forefinger instead of how she would normally hold it– casually propped between her first and second. 

"It's always the little things, Runt," the intelligence officer had commented around noontime as he'd adjusted her grip on one of her beloved Chesterfields. 

"The stupidest little things can make or break an op." 

Making a mental note to thank Nix when she got to Paris, Alix took a long drag off her cigarette, enjoying the rich, earthy flavor. 

No wonder it was reportedly Stalin's favorite brand, she mused. The tobacco was of superb quality. 

Noting the time– twenty minutes till midnight – Alix scanned the scene as she awaited the arrival of her contact. 

Liart Station wasn’t very crowded at that hour of the night so he should’ve been easy to spot but none of the men in view wore the distinctive skull ring of the Werwolf Kommandos.

They're going to be late, she thought, gritting her teeth with irritation. This is why I don’t work with floaters.

She could practically hear her handler’s teasing sing-song in her head:

“One-time assets are just as necessary as full-time operatives, Runt."

Only the ones that take the job seriously, Alix thought bitterly. Which this one clearly didn’t, seeing as they had not received any word from them and it was rapidly approaching midnight.

With a huff of irritation, the spy went back to surveying the scene around her.

The gray-haired matron was now hunched over a book whilst a pair of businessmen stood nearby, commiserating about the late hour.

Moments later, a small gaggle of young women bustled past, causing one of the men to let out a rude wolf whistle.  

Clearly working girls, there were about four or five in the bunch, all with tousled hair piled high and splotches of rouge coloring their gaunt cheeks. 

Three were her own age, the other two a bit older, but they all had the same rings of exhaustion around their eyes that even heavy makeup couldn't camouflage.

No doubt, their workday was just beginning but the windy French night had no pity, battering them with icy gusts that their flimsy chemises and torn stockings couldn't hope to combat. 

The call-girls were shivering uncontrollably as they reached the 4th bench, the older two gathering the younger ones to them in a futile attempt to ward off some of the chill. 

A pit formed in Alix's stomach as she watched them.

It was a miserably cold night, the bitter wind nipping at her face, and she had a luxurious coat to protect her. 

The call-girls had nothing, nothing but each other.

How could she help them while still maintaining her cover? 

Hearing raised voices, she glanced toward the sound, where a harried-looking teenager in an ill-fitting blue uniform was scurrying two stairs at a time down to the platform below while an older man in the same uniform was shouting after her, shielding the edge of his coffee cup to prevent spillage as he made his way down the stairs.

The poor girl looked scared to death, nearly in tears, and seeing her supervisor bellowing at her over what was the most minor of mistakes was really pushing Alix's buttons.

Taking a languid puff of her cigarette, the spy yawned and nonchalantly stretched out a leg at the last minute, just as the supervisor was hurrying past her bench to no doubt continuing bullying his employee.

The Three Stooges could not have timed it better. 

The man's boot caught the hem of her dress and he stumbled forward, accidentally releasing the cup into the air like a baseball. 

The container’s soaring arc gave Alix ample time to briefly flee the bench, ensuring that while the occasional droplet sprinkled down on her coat like a soft rain, the supervisor was completely doused in his own coffee.

Howling, an expression of confusion and outrage flashed across the middle-aged Frenchman’s face but before he could get a word out, Alix seized the opportunity to round on him first, stepping towards him and snarling expletives in Russian with such vehemence that spit practically flew from her red-painted lips. 

"You idiot," she hissed, switching to heavily-accented French as she examined her clothing with melodramatic horror. "My favorite coat-"

"Madame, I-"

The supervisor had reached out, presumably to assess the damage, but Alix slapped his hand away with a glare so scathing that it would've made even Lady Macbeth run for the hills.

As the spy tore off the offending article, she muttered expletives in Russian before hurling the mink coat to the cobblestones and taking an intimidating step closer to him with a shrewish stomp of her foot. 

"The station will receive bill," she intoned with a final sneer before smoothing off her dress and stalking back to her bench, leaving the priceless mink in a heap on the cobblestone and the station supervisor fuming behind her. 

Noticing one of the shivering women inching her way toward the coat, small puffs of breath escaping her chattering teeth, Alix glanced away at the giant clock mounted on the wall. 

Ten minutes till Midnight. 

She had time.

Affecting boredom, Alix took a long drag off her cigarette and rose from her seat, heading toward the tiniest, most decrepit-looking newsstand she’d ever seen to give the callgirl an opportunity.

Keeping an eye on the last remaining travelers trickling their way into her periphery, the spy flipped through the latest edition of Le Figaro for the benefit of whatever prying Nazi eyes might be watching.

5… 4…

As she counted down in her head, Alix fought the urge to turn around and check.

Pick up the coat, she urged the prostitutes silently, still keeping her eyes trained on the newspaper in front of her as she loitered. Take the damn coat.

3… 2… 

She couldn’t wait any longer without seeming suspicious. 

1…0…

When she began to head back toward her bench, just as she’d hoped, the coat was being used by the older women in the group to shelter the others, all huddling to take advantage of the fur's warmth like chicks under a mother quail’s wing.

One of the callgirls–  was gazing over at her with tear-filled eyes, seemingly unable to find the words to express her gratitude.

Chewing on her bottom lip to avoid smiling, she let her eyes flicker away just as a couple sailors hurried through. 

The thin gold rings encircling both sleeves marked one of them as an Ensign, a junior officer probably just graduated, and Alix felt as though a boulder had been dropped onto her stomach.

╔══ •🖤🖤•🖤🖤•🖤🖤• ══╗

5 Years Ago: 30th Street Station, November, 1939. Philadelphia, USA.

"You're going to send Helen Astor into fits, you know," the eighteen year old teased as she jogged after her brother. "Leaving without saying goodbye when she's been pining after you for years." 

"Well I've been avoiding her for years," Giovanni countered, slinging his canvas knapsack over his right shoulder with a grunt, causing his uniform to rustle. 

"It's Dad who wants me to go steady with her, not me. She's not my type." 

"Have you told him that?" Alix inquired as she wove through the onslaught of servicemembers and their families, all crying and hugging as they said their final goodbyes. 

"Right," Gio snorted skeptically.

"Because that would go over so well. What would I even say?!

'Sorry Pops, I know you had big plans for me but I'd rather get eaten by a shark than marry any of the Astor girls so I’m going to run off to the South Pacific instead! Take my inheritance and shove it! Sincerely, your firstborn’.

Yeah, that’ll go over splendidly.” 

“You’re still the favorite,” the girl reminded him doggedly, a tinge of resentment creeping into her voice.

“Between being valedictorian, track team captain, and an altar boy, I think you could start robbing banks and Dad would still say 'Alix, why can't you be more like your brother?'"

She had expected a breezy chuckle and one of his usual witticisms but her brother let out a long exhale instead.

"I’m sorry about that, Passerotta. I know it can't be easy–”

“Don’t worry about it,” Alix interrupted, her tone sharper than she’d intended it. 

Gio raised his eyebrows but acquiesced and continued the dutiful trudge ahead. 

Jostling past a cluster of other officers, Alix gave her brother a wan smile as she tried to lighten the mood.

"Don’t let this go to your big head but we’re all gonna miss you.”

“Don’t I know it,” Giovanni remarked with a grin. “Between your crying and Mom’s, I thought we were all going to drown before we even got here!”

“Can you blame us?” Alix retorted, trying to keep her voice light. “You are going to be over 4,000 miles away.”

“Yeah, in Hawaii.” Her brother barked out a laugh. “Do you know what happens at a duty station that nobody's ever heard of?” 

Alix shook her head and her brother readjusted his grip on his knapsack, heaving the canvas bag over his other shoulder.

“Exactly,” he grunted, dark hazel eyes twinkling as they continued their walk.

“Nothing happens. I'll be bored to tears."

Alix quickened her steps to keep up with Gio’s long strides.

“You’ll have liberty though, won’t you?” she asked and he shrugged. 

“Once a week supposedly but how many times can a guy watch the same four pictures? Benji says-" 

Alix cocked her head inquisitively.

That was a name she hadn't heard before.

"Benji?" 

"A friend," Gio replied too quickly and Alix swore she could see his cheeks reddening slightly. "At OCS. He was…We were–" 

The train’s piercing whistle cut him off. 

“Well, that’s my cue!” he piped up with a tone of false confidence but she could see the sadness just behind his eyes. 

Noticing her expression, he gave her a light smack on the shoulder and yanked her into a tight hug.

Alix wished she had hugged him for just a little bit longer... But before she knew it, her brother was boarding the train.

Hanging his head out the window, he shot her that trademark million-dollar grin of his, and called out a joke that would still haunt her even 5 years later:

“Relax, 'kay? It’s a three-year contract not a death sentence."

Every time she was in an intelligence briefing or doing combat training, she couldn't help but wonder if her opponent was actually an enemy agent. There was almost no way to know until it was too late, like with Jean-Pierre.

You should've known.

It pounded like footfalls on pavement in her head.

You should've known.

You should've known.

He was a fucking kid, for Christ's sake, still a teenager, not even old enough to buy a drink back home in the States.

He liked playing chess and Benny Goodman records.

But he was an enemy spy.

He was the Milice and Gestapo Liaison.

He was the mole.

He had betrayed her friends.

And now he was dead.

The gunshots, the blood spatter, the dull thud of his body hitting the pew, those lifeless gray eyes staring into space...

She saw them every night in her sleep. Alix couldn't remember the last time she'd woken up rested.

Every day, she fought monsters and every night, they just came back in some twisted Sisyphean dance, and she'd wake up with her heart just about beating out of her chest.

Does it count as survivor's guilt if you're a murderer?

Are you still a murderer if it's your job to murder?

Alix didn't have the answers.

As the agency in charge of the next operation, British Intelligence had done their best to remedy the damage that Jean-Pierre had done to her operations but there was no telling if it would work. A fake obituary had been planted in the French and German press to kill off her old identity and erase any Gestapo suspicion of her escape from France. But that meant a new identity needed to take its place so she could continue her work, an identity that the SOE would be supplying...

"Adelina and Niccolò Duchamps?" Alix read, turning the forged passports over in her hands before looking up at the man standing at the opening of her tent. "We have a joint cover now? You've got to be joking." 

"Believe me, I wish I was," Lieutenant Nixon replied grimly as he entered from the night, nursing a flask full of what Alix guessed was his usual whiskey. 

"But they're sending me with you this time. Orders came in this morning."

"Why?" Alix crossed her arms, bristling at the insinuation. "I completed my mission just fine without you before. I think I'm well-past needing a babysitter."

HQ was constantly undermining her, like she hadn't been training for two whole years for exactly this type of solo mission.

What was the point of having highly-trained female operatives if they wouldn't let them into the field because they're female?

It was maddening.

"Trust me, I don't like it any better than you do but we don't have a choice."

He grimaced.

"You had Toulouse's support in France but we don't have that in Holland. It's heavily male-dominated and they won't take well to a female agent unless she's accompanied. HQ figures a brother/sister team is the best way to go."

"Well that's stupid," Alix remarked, putting her hands on her hips. "I was trained for fieldwork. They need to let me do my fucking job." 

"You're preaching to the choir, kid." Nixon replied dryly. "Not that it's much consolation but I tried to make the same argument to HQ earlier and they read me the fucking riot act so if you want to try, be my guest but don't cry to me when they pull you from the mission completely." 

Alix cocked an eyebrow.

"You really stuck up for me with HQ?" she asked, not quite believing her ears. "You told them I was ready to go into the field alone? Am I hearing this correctly?"

"And look, I'm already regretting it," Nixon deadpanned.

Alix rolled her eyes at him and sipped her third coffee of the day out of her godawful tin mug.

So her handler believed in her after all.

How about that, she thought. Better look up when I'm outside tomorrow morning. Might see some pigs flying next.

She would've killed for something stronger than coffee to steady her nerves but her handler had a strong No-Drinking-On-the-Job rule, which naturally seemed to only apply to her.

"Well I still don't like the joint cover idea," she groused doggedly and Nixon took another long swig from his flask before clinking it against her mug like they were exchanging cheers on New Years. 

"Join the club."

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Contemporary: September 17th, 1944. Membury Airfield, England.

Alix could hear Bill from halfway across the airfield, arriving at the moral of a colorful story he'd been telling some spellbound replacements, presumably to keep them from getting too nervous before the jump. 

"And that, kiddies," he said sagely. "is why you never piss off an Italian woman, 'specially when she's from Philly." 

"You talking about me again, Guarnere?" she teased as she approached the cluster. "Starting a fan club or something?"

"Well, speak of the she-devil!" Bill exclaimed with his usual welcoming grin, clapping her on the back like an old friend. "Where ya been, Pyro? Joe's been real lonely! Ain't that right, Lieb?"  

"Nah, hardly noticed." 

Alix's heart leapt at the familiar rasp. One of the taller replacements shifted to the side and there was Joe, her Joe, standing just behind him, the gold flecks in his eyes catching the sunlight as he looked at her. 

They didn't even need words; the way his face had brightened upon seeing her said it all, but he spoke anyway.

"Hiya gorgeous," he remarked, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Long time, no see." 

God, I missed you, Alix thought.

"Sorry, do I know you?" she teased and Joe broke into a grin, tugging her into his arms for a hug. 

"By now? You'd fuckin' better." 

Snaking his arm around her waist proudly, Joe stayed attached to her side the whole time preparations for the jump were taking place.

Neither of them voiced it but Alix knew in the pit of her stomach that they were both afraid. 

Soon, forces beyond their control would rip them apart and every parting held the risk of a more permanent goodbye.

Spies operating radios in the field had a life expectancy of 6 weeks. It was only a matter of time before she got caught, they both knew that.

And caught, for a spy, almost always meant torture and death.

Their love was very much on borrowed time.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

As usual, Joe insisted on checking her chutes before his own and when he found that her reserve was damaged, he just about lost it. 

"Who the fuck rigged this?" he demanded, momentarily separating himself from her to interrogate a couple unfortunate PRs who happened to be passing by. 

She could hear the shaking rage in Joe's rising voice, threatening the Parachute Riggers with every conceivable danger he could think of as he pushed for the name of the person who'd unknowingly endangered the life of someone he cared for. 

Alix shook her head, a little embarrassed and a lot amused. 

She didn't think she would've ended up using the faulty reserve anyway because her primary was fine but she still pitied the person who'd packed it whenever the infuriated Joe got ahold of him. 

Meandering away from the argument over her damaged chute, Alix wove her way through the crowd as she searched for her two best friends, squinting in the sunlight as she scanned for the recognizably bright red hair of Don Malarkey. 

Locating Don was a sure-fire way to locate Skip as well because in all the time she'd known them, she'd never seen them apart. 

The three of them had been attached at the hip since they'd met at the White Rose several months earlier when a bored Alix had accidentally talked her way into a drinking contest with the two of them, eventually resulting in the trio stumbling outside into an alleyway and violently throwing up their dinners onto the bricks and bushes nearby.

Out of the goodness of his heart (and perhaps out of sheer exasperation), Skip had eventually declared a Three-Way Tie but even all those months later, both Don and Alix each remained insistent that they were the true winner. 

It didn't feel right being away from them, Alix thought as she surveyed the crowd. She missed her favorite dumbasses. 

Stopping a passing trooper at the edge of the larger crowd, she was about to inquire if he'd seen the pair when a yank on a strand of her hair and a loud "Ahem!" answered her question before it was even asked.

"Scuse me, trooper," a voice from behind said, trying and failing to adopt a gruff, businesslike tone. "But your hair's not in regs."  

"Gonna have to take a knife to it, I guess!" another voice chimed in, brimming with laughter. 

"Do it and die, you two," Alix threatened jokingly, turning around to see the grinning faces of Skip Muck and Don Malarkey standing just behind her. 

"Thought that was you, Pyro," Skip beamed, giving his friend a bear hug. "Either that or one of the fellas got real comfortable with hair curlers all of a sudden!" 

"'S good to have you back," Malarkey added as he joined the impromptu group hug. "We missed ya!"

"I missed you guys too," Alix replied with a grin. "Hope I didn't miss out on anything too fun while I was gone. SOE briefings are a nightmare!"

"Oh yeah, you missed a swell time," Skip snarked with a friendly nudge of her shoulder. "Nothing like sitting around, twiddling our thumbs while there's a war on. Does wonders for morale."

"Yeah, I bet," Alix quipped. 

She was about to ask Skip if he and Faye had decided on a song for their first dance yet when the loud rumbling of a nearby Jeep interrupted.

All three of their heads perked up at the same time as it passed, each bearing a similar expression of consternation and horror as they realized who was inside it. 

"What is he doing here?" Alix hissed and Malarkey blanched at the sight.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered just as Sobel approached them, with the same vicious smugness as he’d had so many months before, like a hungry snake staring down its dinner.

“Well, if it isn’t Muck, Malarkey, and Martinelli," he sneered, his voice practically dripping with sarcasm. "Our Three fucking Musketeers."

Unpleasant memories of 5 mile runs and digging ditches flashed through Alix's mind like a film reel of her most miserable moments and it took all her strength not to haul off and punch Sobel right in his stupid fucking face, consequences be damned. 

"Sir." She saluted but glared at him as she spat the word, wanting him to know just how it burnt like acid to have to address him as a superior. 

But he looked straight past her as though she wasn't even there. 

"Malarkey," he barked and Alix could feel Don's shoulders sag in defeat. 

"Sorry Mal," Alix whispered out of the corner of her mouth and she could see Skip slipping away as well, a half-apologetic, half-amused expression on his face. 

“What’s that all about?” Alix asked as the pair ducked their way out of earshot. 

“Oh Mal and Moore stole a bike for a while,” Skip answered as casually as one talks about the weather.

“They took it for a spin or two…maybe three... Anyway, Sobel’s pissed about it, as you can see.”

“Damn Skipper, sounds like I missed more than I thought.” 

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Like magic, Joe reappeared beside her just before she was due to leave.

“Took care of the fuckin’ moron who packed your chute, Zees,” he remarked, handing her a new pack. 

“This one oughta work as your spare.” 

"Not bad, Romeo," Skip commented as he helped Alix attach it. "Hope you didn't scare the poor kid too bad though. We need all the manpower we can get." 

"Nah," Joe replied with a wry smirk. "Didn’t scare him too bad. Just enough. Shouldn't be packing chutes if he can't pack 'em right anyway."  

Skip and Joe were still conversing but once she was properly outfitted, Alix couldn't help but tune them out, releasing a shaky sigh. 

Soon she would be jumping into Occupied Holland and during the day, no less. 

They would be completely exposed, in broad daylight: a spy's worst nightmare. 

All it would take was one trigger-happy sadist in a gray uniform to end the lives of herself and everyone she cared about. 

She tried to keep her face impartial but Joe could feel her unease and lightly brushed his arm against hers, leaning into her just enough that she could feel the weight of him next to her. 

I love you, Ziskeit, the gesture said. I'm right here.

Alix did the same and gave him a wan smile in return.

I know. I love you too. 

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

The jump into the Netherlands wasn’t too bad, all things considered. The air had a pleasant autumn feel, the sky an endless stretch of soft pastel blue instead of a bitter rain, and for once, nobody was shooting at them on their way down. 

Alix, Lieutenant Nixon, and a small cluster of pathfinders had left England and dropped in hours before the rest of the Airborne arrived. It would be easier to connect with the Dutch Resistance without worrying about crowds of paratroopers causing unnecessary attention.

The dense blanket of low-clinging Dutch clouds made it near impossible to tell where they were dropping, so when the time came, it seemed like everyone was simply giving it their best guess. 

Alix landed a little harder than she'd planned to, smacking the side of her hip against the ground with a thud, but she recovered quickly.

After freeing herself of her parachute and stumbling to her feet– which was not an easy task in civilian clothing– Alix jogged to catch up with Lieutenant Nixon, who was already several strides ahead of her. 

"You’re clear on the mission, targets, and cover story, correct?” he asked as she approached, his Italian almost as flawless as her own. “Because if you have any last minute questions, now is the time.”

Alix took a moment to ponder, running though everything she’d read in the past couple days, before asking, 

“If we’re supposed to be the children of a Swiss-Italian socialite, then why did the SOE change our father’s surname to French? It was De Rossi before, wasn’t it?” 

“It was,” Nixon agreed. “But they wanted to give us an out. So they made the mother’s maiden name De Rossi and made her married name Duchamps instead. There’s a lot of anti-Italian sentiment going around in Resistance groups lately due to the Italian Campaign and we don’t need any friction. This way, we can switch as needed.”

Alix inspected her false identification papers one final time before tucking them back into the waistband of her trousers with a simple nod. 

“Fair enough.” 

As the pair approached the outskirts of the city, rustic farmhouses and rows upon rows of brick townhouses stood before them, a sea of orange flags marking each one like bright traffic cones. 

“You ready?” Nixon asked out of the corner of his mouth as they both scoured the urban landscape for their Resistance contact.

Alix snorted. 

Camille's breath was coming in short, ragged gasps as she fought for air and Alix’s mind raced as she struggled for things to say to keep Camille awake and focused. 

“We’re gonna get you through this, Camille, I promise,” she vowed but the frothing noise emanating from the wound was rapidly filling her with dread.  

That couldn’t be a good sign. 

 “Think about Toulouse,” she implored her friend, whose green eyes were starting to become unfocused. “You remember Toulouse, right?” 

The thinnest smile crossed Camille’s blood-streaked face so Alix took that topic and ran with it. 

“Of course you do,” Alix affirmed warmly, trying her best to seem enthusiastic, positive, and not at all scared to death.

“He's your boyfriend, right? He said you’d known each other a long time. You’re the one who gave him Voltaire, aren't you? God, he loved that cat. I don't think I ever got a letter without a photograph of him attached to it!" 

Alix babbled on about Toulouse, about Voltaire the cat, everything she could possibly remember from their letters, exhorting Camille to keep her eyes open while Henri, who had managed to bring the handheld radio down to the floor with him, was hurriedly tapping out urgent messages to their contacts in the area, informing them of their dire situation and requesting aid.

“There’s an attack going on in Carentan right now!” he shouted as another explosion went off. It sounded much closer than before. “We’re on our own!” 

Shit. 

The sniper had deliberately targeted them when they were stranded, cut off from any outside help by two opposing armies. 

But how could he have known where his target would be standing without a visual…?

And just like that, the wheels of Alix’s brain began to turn.

The only way the sniper could’ve known where everyone was would be if someone had radio’d him everyone’s positions, meaning the Gestapo’s mole had to have been someone in the room at the time. 

It couldn’t be Edgar then, Alix thought, as he was helping another faction of the Maquis bomb a bridge on the outskirts of Carentan. He had no part in intelligence gathering anyway; he was purely a saboteur. 

It couldn’t be Thérèse either as she had been tailing Oberleutnant Hahn throughout the day. All her intel pertained solely to him. 

Camille would never have put a hit out on Toulouse, no matter what. She certainly had no faith in Alix but even still, the agent had no doubt that Camille would never have tried to put a hit out on her either. 

So that left Henri and…

She and Henri looked up at the same time, the same look of recognition dawning on both their faces. 

Jean-Pierre.

It all made sense now. He had been feeding them deliberate misinformation to throw them off the scent of the actual Nazi plans. More than likely, he'd been the one pocketing the leftover money too. 

He'd only been working with the Carentan Resistance a couple months and in that time, he'd already sold out the group's former leader and three other long-standing members without ever being suspected. He was friendly, he was funny, he was convincing, and he was practically still a teenager…No wonder the Gestapo had him on payroll. 

He was the perfect spy. 

All the nervous scratching his nose, the glancing at his watch…he had been waiting for the right time to signal the attack. 

JP's voice rang in her ears: 

"By the way, Jules, could you be a lamb and double-check my coordinates while I'm gone? The notes are over there. Wouldn't want any supplies getting misplaced on my account." 

It had been a set-up. He had deliberately tried to anchor her to the path of the sniper's bullet.

Alix had been the target, not Camille. 

It took every ounce of strength in Alix’s body not to go running after the bastard right then for hurting Camille in her stead but she couldn’t leave her friend.

Every violent cough produced lengthy rivers of bright red that streamed from her mouth down her neck and Alix quickly went from scared to terrified. 

“Henri, I need you to hurry,” she cried nervously.

Henri, who was already steadily army-crawling toward the pair, began crawling even faster.

“Put more pressure,” he ordered as he dragged himself along the floor. “The bullet's caused a pneumothorax!" 

Alix stared at him blankly but obeyed, immersing her hands even deeper in the blood and gore as Camille's coughs came quicker and more forcefully. 

Henri was always forgetting that other people didn't read med-school textbooks in their free time. 

"It's caused a what?!" 

"A pneumothorax!" he repeated as though she had simply misheard him. 

But when Alix shook her head, he elaborated, "A collapsed lung! It needs to be sealed!" 

Luckily, he had just reached them and immediately took over, his med-school training kicking in like second nature as he carefully inspected the wound.

“You go after JP," he yelled to Alix over the sound of a nearby explosion. "I can handle things here!"  

Alix didn't need to be told twice. 

Keeping her head low and her stomach pressed to the carpet, she began dragging herself toward the door by her elbows, pausing only to retrieve the handheld radio and her aid bag.

All her false IDs were inside.

She wasn't sure how much Jean-Pierre knew so it was impossible to tell if her cover had been completely blown yet, but she'd probably have to burn this identity's passport anyway later, just in case. 

Once she reached the hallway, she scrambled to her feet but a near-deafening wail shook the walls around her and before she could blink, she was on her knees again as the sounds of artillery explosions and shattering glass nearby roared like an oncoming train. 

That one was way too close, she thought. Looks like I'll be crawling out the back way too.  

The only blessing was that the sniper had no way of knowing he hadn't hit his target. The gunfire had stopped fairly quickly after Camille was shot, Alix remembered. 

More than likely, he'd already packed up and gone, thinking his job was done. 

Well think again, asshole, Alix thought as she clambered to her feet and sprinted out the back door.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

The once quiet, picturesque village of Saint-Hilaire-Petitville was unrecognizable now. 

Skeletons of buildings stood tall against a smoke-darkened sky like ancient ruins and plumes of fire from artillery cast the wreckage in a hellish orange glow. 

The screams of the injured and dying clogged the air in every language, the details of their final words drowned out by the thunder of explosions and gunfire. 

If there is a Hell, Alix decided as she hurried toward Carentan, it definitely looks like this. 

She knew better than to run openly in the street where she could be seen– spies were not soldiers, after all– so she clung to the long shadows of still-standing buildings, ducking in and out of doorways as she dodged debris and quickly made her way out of the falling village. 

Soon, she had made it far enough out onto the open road that the only sound nearby was the crunch of gravel under her boots and her own heavy breathing. Part of her wished she could radio back to check on Camille, but ultimately, Alix knew better. Radio transmissions were dangerous enough under normal circumstances; trying to send a message from out in the open would be suicide. 

All she could do was hope for the best and keep moving.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Reaching Carentan had been the easy part; tracking down Jean-Pierre was going to be a whole lot harder. 

Alix wracked her brain as she slipped behind a half-timbered farmhouse at the edge of the city. 

It provided minimal protection but it was still better than remaining totally exposed to the bullets raining down like hail from above the thoroughfare.

Peeking out from behind the relative safety of the painted wall, she could see the streets were littered with corpses.

Blood trickled down the cobblestones in tiny streams and the final agonies of the dying piercing the air like sirens but the young spy closed her eyes, fighting the chaos of her surroundings so she could focus. 

She had a mission to complete and that meant finding Jean-Pierre, her friend— No. 

That train of thought needed to stop right there. Jean-Pierre was a lot of things: an enemy agent, a target, a chicken-shit coward, and a traitor. But he was not the friend she thought she’d known. That person didn’t exist.

The Jean-Pierre she thought she knew had died the moment he handed Toulouse over to the Gestapo a week before her arrival. Everything else was just performance.

By betraying Alix’s friends, JP had made himself a target and now he would be hunted and killed like one too. 

The OSS operative parsed through her own training from years earlier.

“When evading a pursuer in an urban environment, remember the acronym: PIC,”  she recalled Lieutenant Nixon stressing during one of their evasion drills. 

"Number 1: Protection from the environment. 

Number 2: Invisible to the enemy. 

Number 3: Comfort for quality rest." 

So the farmhouse was out. It could offer protection and comfort but not invisibility; it was the only building in the area whose roof and doors were painted a rather violent shade of plum, which stuck out like a sore thumb against the more muted landscape surrounding it. 

What would qualify as invisible in a small, rural town like Carentan, Alix mused. Somewhere strong enough to provide protection, spacious enough to provide comfort, and somewhere most people would overlook… 

Her dark eyes scanned the town’s landscape for a moment, passing over shops and houses. 

A spy would know better than to hole-up somewhere so densely populated. It was too easy to corner someone between buildings that tightly packed. 

Then, her eyes landed on Notre-Dame de Carentan, the parish cathedral, and a lightbulb went off in her head. 

Large and sturdy enough to provide protection, just out of the way enough to avoid being interrupted by enemy combatants raiding for food like they would in a shop, spacious enough to provide multiple nooks within as well as multiple exits. 

And what self-respecting Catholic would desecrate the house of God? It was the perfect hiding spot.

She needed to get over there fast. 

Luckily, an opportune explosion a few houses down drew some scattered German soldiers from the nearby area. 

A welcome distraction. 

Keeping a death-grip on her aid bag and her head tucked low, Alix hustled to the other side of the street as quickly as she could, taking momentary refuge behind some nearby shrubbery before shoving the heavy cathedral door open with a grunt and slipping inside.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Despite the chaos raging just outside its doors, the inside of the cathedral was hauntingly still. 

The booming explosions and percussive rat-a-tat-tat of scattered firefights in the nearby area were virtually swallowed up by the sheer size and strength of the stone columns within.

If Alix closed her eyes, the dulled echoes from outside could almost be mistaken for thunder and rainfall. Almost. 

Below the majestic vaulted ceiling, faint glimmers of sunlight streamed through the stained glass-adorned walls, scattering colorful beams of light onto the pews and aisle of the otherwise dimly-lit cathedral.

The rolling smoke from external fires combined with the glow of candles from the apse added an ethereal element throughout.

It was strange being in a Catholic church again after three years away, simultaneously alien but familiar, like visiting the new owners of your childhood home. As she stood in the church’s lobby, just inside the doors, Alix felt a twinge of shame for not having been in so long.

But as quickly as the guilt surfaced, so too did the suppressed rage. 

If God wanted me to keep going to Mass, she thought bitterly. then He shouldnt’ve let my fucking brother die. 

Her heart pounding in her ears as she entered, Alix slipped a hand into her aid bag and retrieved her handgun. She was not going to be caught off-guard in here. 

Wherever Jean-Pierre was hiding, she would be ready for him. 

Marble statues of the saints adorned the walls, staring pitilessly down at her with their stony gaze as she scoured the cathedral for her target. 

Where are you, you traitorous piece of shit, she wanted to yell, but she knew better.

She’d have to catch him, like a rat, because he wouldn’t come out on his own.

Stalking down the center instead, aisle by aisle, the soft sound of her boots against the cold marble floor was muffled by the drumming of artillery fire in the distance.

Suddenly, a small nook ahead to the left side caught her eye. Tucked just steps away from the main altar, this section of the chapel appeared to be specifically dedicated to the Virgin Mary.

Situated neatly atop the altar sat a painted statuette of the Holy Mother draped in blue, smiling serenely down at the empty rows in front of her, oblivious to the rage simmering within the OSS agent striding towards her sacred space.

And there, in the farthest corner pew, hunched over a tiny notebook, sat Jean-Pierre.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

"Well if it isn't our local turncoat," Alix remarked loudly, the venom in her voice echoing impressively in the smaller chamber.

"I'm surprised you didn't just incinerate walking in here. Isn’t treachery a mortal sin?”

Jean-Pierre looked up from his notebook, the fake smile on his face just begging to be clawed off.

"Nice to see you too, Jules," he replied cheerily as if she'd wished him a Good Morning instead of an insult. "It's always good to see a friendly face."

"I'm glad because it's the last face you're going to see," Alix snapped as she approached the pew where he sat.

"You can drop the act, JP, I know what you did." 

JP raised his eyebrows, innocent and unconcerned. 

"Do you now?" 

Alix ignored him. She was not going to partake in his mind games. 

"How long have you been working for the Nazis," she demanded as she sat down forcefully, her back bumping against the wooden pew in her haste. 

Sitting within two feet of the man who had sold out her friends made her sick but she had no choice; she needed to be close enough to observe him during interrogation.

Her nostrils were flaring with her barely-contained fury but JP casually lit up a cigarette as though he hadn’t noticed. 

"You're going to have to be more specific, Jules," he stated after taking a short drag, still acting as if they were old friends catching up over breakfast. "The Milice or the Gestapo?" 

"Either. Both." 

"The Milice for about two years, since I was 17. I was assigned to liaise with the Gestapo more recently. I’ve been an undercover provocateur for about…" 

He took a second to ponder, before responding “About 4 months now, I think.”

Alix took a hard look at the boy sitting next to her. 

Jean-Pierre was only nineteen; he should’ve been studying at university, going to dance halls, asking a girl from one of his classes out on a Saturday night just to make a complete fool of himself, he should’ve been able to be a kid and make memories with his friends. 

Instead, there was a war on, kids younger than him were fighting and dying to defend their countries from the evils of fascism and here JP was, a Nazi turncoat…for what? What could make someone so young so self-serving, so full of apathy?

“You were never rejected by the French army,” she surmised aloud, thinking back to earlier that day. “That was just part of your cover so you could have an excuse to be more heavily involved in the planning, wasn’t it?” 

“Very good, Jules,” JP commented. “You put it together quicker than Toulouse did. What brought you to that conclusion?”

 “Well, you got into that scuffle with Henri earlier without hardly breaking a sweat,” the OSS agent acknowledged before nodding to him. “And look at you smoking now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smoke before. If you were actually asthmatic, you’d be hacking up a lung.”

JP took another short drag before responding with a simple “Bravo” and a sarcastic round of applause, the clatter bouncing mockingly off the marble as though even the cathedral itself was laughing at her.

"How do you sleep at night," Alix wondered aloud from between gritted teeth. "Knowing all the people you've betrayed, good people who trusted you?" 

Jean-Pierre cocked an eyebrow and took another drag. 

"Trusting me was their fault," he replied coolly, the smoke curling into the air. "Not mine. These are dangerous times, you know." 

Alix was seized with the overwhelming urge to throttle him but she bit it back. 

"As for my conscience?" He shrugged. "Completely clear. I just provide intel– for a price, of course. Whatever the Milice and the Gestapo choose to do with that intel is their business, not mine." 

"You signaled the sniper earlier, didn't you? And Camille was what, just collateral to you?" 

Jean-Pierre shrugged again. 

"Business is business." 

"If you wanted me dead that badly, you could've left the others out of it." 

Jean-Pierre pursed his lips.

"Oh but we don't want you dead," he replied flippantly, as though that somehow made it better. "Just wounded enough to be taken in without issue. And I did try to leave them out of it, but you wouldn't let me. Their deaths are on your hands, Jules, not mine. I got the transmission shortly before you arrived.” 

"You're lying," Alix insisted, trying in vain to shove down her mounting panic. 

He was just trying to get into her head…right? 

"Henri and Camille were both alive when I left." 

Jean-Pierre made a Voilá gesture. 

"My point exactly. They were both unfortunate casualties of your negligence. Our sniper had a perfect vantage point and we were all ready for you to make your move on Hahn...you would never have made it within a meter of him. But then, out of the blue, you decide to follow orders for once and stay put!" 

His voice rose slightly and for a split-second, Alix thought she glimpsed lines of frustration creasing his brow as the mask slipped…but then, like a good agent, it was back to baseline: cool, calm, and collected. 

"So we had to improvise. I got out of the line of fire, tried to keep you in place, everything was good to go…and then Camille got in the way."  

He clucked his tongue. 

"I was sure it was you but when our sniper went back to verify the kill, who should he find but Camille already dead on the carpet, you nowhere to be found, and Henri operating an illegal radio? And…well, we couldn't have that. You understand." 

Alix felt a pit forming in her stomach like she'd swallowed a boulder. 

If she had just disobeyed Henri's order like JP had urged her to in the first place, Camille and Henri would still be alive…She herself might've died but that was inconsequential. It was her they wanted; no one else had to get hurt.

Jean-Pierre was so nonchalant, it was maddening. He acted like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn't sitting next to a former friend with a gun in her hand, still drenched in the blood of their other friend…former friend, now deceased.

At least he hadn't mentioned Edgar and Thérèse, Alix thought. 

The twins must have gotten Henri's last radio transmission and gone on the run. 

She put her free hand to her rosary, sending a silent prayer up that the two kids would make it to a neutral zone safely. She wasn’t sure if any god, angels, or saints were listening but she was in a church and she figured it couldn’t hurt to try. 

Taking a steadying breath and resisting the urge to just shoot the bastard, Alix decided to try something. 

“I’m going to ask you this one time and one time only,” she stated firmly, trying to remain calm and forget about the handgun she was clutching in her right hand. 

“Who gave you the order to bring me in? And why not Henri or Camille? Why me?" 

"I don't ask those sorts of questions," JP said simply. "And neither should you."

Alix set her jaw.

Don't tell me how to run my interrogation, she wanted to snap but she knew better. She would have to let it slide for now, if she wanted any answers at all.

"Alright, next question: What did you do to Henri?" she asked tersely, forcing her face to remain impartial.

She would not show this bastard fear. 

"I didn't do anything to anyone," JP replied snippily. "But don't worry, my partner was quick. Henri wasn't going to be of any use. He and Camille were worth more dead than alive anyway." 

"Not like Toulouse," Alix guessed. Jean-Pierre stared her down, his startlingly gray eyes piercing her like a spear.

"Toulouse was more trouble than he was worth," he practically spat. "Three days of continuous torture and still no information. What a waste of time.

Someone finally had to shut him up for good on the fourth day because he wouldn't stop singing 'Le Chant des Partisans' at the top of his lungs and it was riling up the other prisoners."  

Alix couldn't help but smile. 

"Le Chant des Partisans", the song of the Resistance. 

Leave it to Toulouse, the eternal optimist, to be rallying others until the end. 

“I’m glad he gave you trouble,” Alix uttered acerbically, fire blazing in her dark brown eyes. “I hope he cursed you all the way to his grave.”

She couldn’t imagine the look on Toulouse’s face when he discovered that it was a friend who had betrayed him, who intended to destroy everything he’d built…The thought hurt too much.

Jean-Pierre turned his cigarette pack over and over in his hands, studying it meticulously before looking up, his flint-sharp eyes boring holes into her.

“Is that what you’re going to do, Jules?” he asked. “Curse me all the way to your grave when you go?” 

He didn’t look afraid, just amused, like he was watching a particularly clever rat slowly navigate its way through a maze. 

Alix glared at him.

His deliberate nonchalance was tap-dancing on her last nerve and she’d just about had enough.

“It’s Juliette,” she said coldly. "Jules was for friends.”

JP cocked his head curiously.

“We’re not friends anymore, Jules? Pity, I actually liked you.”

Alix once again found herself resisting the temptation to throttle the kid into unconsciousness.

"You’re a duplicitous piece of shit and I should've seen it sooner.”  

“Agreed," JP acknowledged evenly. “But it's in your nature to care about people, to your own detriment. Your loyalty makes you naive."

He gave her a look filled with sickening pity, as though she were a bird with a broken wing, and she was struck by how much older he looked. The intelligence game had aged him. He looked too tired, too bitter, too malicious for a boy of nineteen. 

"This is what happens when you care about people, Jules," he stated with a general gesture around them. "In our business, caring for people is their death sentence. Toulouse, Henri, Camille…You did this to yourself."

Alix's heart jumped into her throat. It felt like she was being strangled, like someone had sucked all the air out of the room, and her eyes were beginning to burn. 

JP’s words echoed not only around the church but in her head as well: 

This is what happens when you care about people…You did this…You did this…

Alix cocked the gun at her side with a click. 

"Interrogation’s over, JP,” she said quietly, getting to her feet. “Stand up, unless you want to die on your ass.”

“So soon?” Her former friend remained seated, raising an eyebrow as he searched her face for any sign of weakness. “Did I hit a nerve, Jules?”

“Of course not,” Alix lied, thanking God that her training had been good enough to mask most of her emotions even in a foreign language. “Like you said, business is business. Now get the fuck up.”

Jean-Pierre didn’t move. 

“You really think killing me is going to wash all that blood off your hands?” he inquired, watching her expectantly from his seat with those ice-cold eyes, like a bird of prey staring down its dinner, searching for a weakness to exploit.

“You think it’s going to make you a ‘better person’?” 

He barked out a hollow laugh. 

“Because I hate to break it to you, Jules, but we’re in a war zone: There are no good people.”