08 September 2009
Music Box Dancer--22
)Published on September 8th, 2009 @ 05:29:13 pm, using 623 words, 120 views
[We’ve started another story here for your diversion. Go here to catch the Prologue and other chapters if you missed them.]
22
“Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
It was one of their last nights together. They were lying in bed, calming down, getting ready for sleep. She was in his arms, her head snug against his shoulder and chest, warm and naked, stretched down the length of him, a thigh over his groin. It would be a long time before they could take nights like this for granted again, they both knew. So they had remained silent, with their thoughts, until she had finally spoken. “Okay?” she repeated.
“So I’m not supposed to get the pilot to fly through barns?” he asked, trying to keep it light, to save the moment.
It didn’t work. “Like getting yourself killed for no good reason,” she answered.
He shook his head. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “I plan to be very active, dodging and stuff like that.”
“I wish that was true.”
He crooked his head so he could look down his body at her. “Anne,” he said patiently, “I don’t plan to get killed. I’m going to do everything I can to avoid it.”
She rose up on an elbow and locked her eyes on his. “Promise me that,” she said.
“What?”
“That you’ll do everything you can to avoid it,” she replied evenly. “I mean, everything.”
He stared up at her for a moment and then smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Fine. I promise.” He lifted a shoulder. “What kind of idiot do you think I am, anyway? I’m certainly not going to go look for special trouble. I just want to do my part, not other guys’ parts, too. I’m not going over there to be some kind of hero.”
I know,” she said, nodding. “But that’s the kind that always end up being the heroes. . . .” She rolled over onto her back and sighed sadly and angrily at the ceiling. “God, I hate this war. It doesn’t serve any purpose.”
“Mr. Hitler is a definite purpose,” he told her.
She shook her head. “If it wasn’t him, it’d be something else, someone else,” she said softly. “It has to happen, war. I hate it. I hate him. I hate them all, whoever’s responsible, whatever causes these damn things. They just kill off the best we have. Guys like you who end up trying to save dullards and losers who can’t save themselves. And so that’s all we end up with when it’s over—dullards and losers. People who aren’t smart enough or caring enough to stop it from happening again. The good ones are the first to go. It’s so stupid.”
“Anne, I promise,” he said. “I won’t come back with a single medal. You’ll be proud.”
She turned back over onto her elbow and looked down into his eyes. She could see so deep. “I’m serious, Davy,” she said. “I know you. I know very well what kind of idiot you are. I know what you’ll do, how you’ll be. I want you to promise me that you won’t be that way.” A long, warm hand touched gently on his chest. “I want you to promise me that you’ll be a dullard and a loser.”
He smiled at her and pulled her back down into his arms. “I promise,” he said, pressing her close. “Sounds pretty easy.”
She was silent for a moment and then spread her fingers over his chest. “Just come back to me,” she half-whispered. “That’s all I ask. Come back to me.”
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