𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; band of brothers ✔

PART THIRTY FIVE

Word count; 2,200

Dianne

— May 7th, 1945. Berchtesgaden, Bavaria

Surrounded by dark corridors, I descended the Company HQ, searching for a sign of life. In fact, I wouldn't have found it if not for the sound of smashing glass - a familiar acquaintance in the midnight hours. I opened the door to the origin of the noise, making sure to knock first.

Inside, Spiers examined the contents of a glass cabinet, a pile of liquid and shards crowded by his feet. He noticed me immediately, but didn't bother to look.

"I was told to come here." I said calmly.

"Oh yeah?" He picked out a bottle, examining the label. "Liebgott with you?"

I stared at him miserably, only for him to finally regard me.

"Can't understand any of this shit." He pointed at the label - it was German, and only two people in the Company could speak it.

I didn't move, nor react in any way.

"Jesus, Kennedy." He breathed, turning back to the cabinet, visibly unimpressed.

"What did you want?" I probed, still in the middle of the doorway.

"Wasn't me." Ron seized another bottle. "Nix."

I prompted my brows, "When will he be here?"

"Got somewhere to be?" He said sardonically, returning to his chair behind the desk.

My hand to let go of the door, allowing it to slam shut as I stormed forward.

"Christ, Frances-"

"My apologies, Captain."

He rolled his eyes, popping the cork off of the bottle in his hand.

I approached a chair, "May I?"

He scoffed, "Sure."

I folded one of my legs over the other as I sat, intertwining my fingers, not letting my stare rest anywhere else but him.

"Quit looking at me like that."

"Then tell me why."

"Why?"

"Why you have been nothing but unhelpful towards me."

He sighed, "It's not intentional."

"Oh really?" I snapped.

"No, it's not!" He raised his voice, clearing his throat afterwards. "Sorry."

I let out a breath, pulling together every part of me that wanted to scream at him.  "I am willing to fix this, Ron, when we both know I shouldn't be."

He sipped on his drink, which he had poured into a glass.

"So tell me why."

"We both know you won't forgive any reason I supply, Frances. We both know that."

"I still want to hear it." I swallowed. "Because we were once on the same side, Ron. We still are, physically, but ever since that night, when you said what you said, we have been far apart."

He bit on his inner cheek, sitting back in his chair as he absorbed my words and the melancholy of his rum.

"What I said that night was true." He said carefully. "Not all of it. But the part where I didn't understand why you chose... him."