Fic: West Wing/Band of Brothers: Rhapsody In War
Title: Rhapsody In War
Author: melliyna
Prompt: 52, WWII AU
Fandom: West Wing, Band of Brothers
Rating: R
Character(s)/Pairing(s): CJ/Toby (hints of CJ/Toby/Sam, Toby/Sam)
Warning: Mature themes (war, violence)
Disclaimer: Belongs to a bunch of people, particularly Aaron Sorkin who are far more talented than I am. I borrow for the fun, not for the profit making. The Band of Brothers characters are based off the TV show depictions, not the real men.
Summary: It's a strange thing, the way war sweeps you up. I also have to say here that I'm particularly indebted to several reference books about the SOE, WWII and women agents, without which I could not have written this fic. Particularly The women who lived for danger: the women agents of the SOE in the Second World War and the actual, official SOE Syllabus.
CJ Cregg had met Toby Ziegler way back when, in the period between the wars when life was almost normal. Just out of college, scraping by in a tiny apartment in New York that owed more to her sense of wanting to be entirely herself rather than any measure of monetary success, though she liked journalism, despite herself. It was good, to craft stories in smoky offices, with men with braces, hats and coat racks that were never used, because it was easier to sling them over the backs of chairs; as they swore, smoked and tried to met deadlines; powered by coffee and bagels. Sometimes they didn't entirely know what to make of her, this tall skinny smart girl from Ohio but mostly they'd leave her alone content that she wouldn't muscle on their turf.
Toby wasn't like any man she'd known of, stomped on or sassed back at. He was a writer, back then and a good one; though he was mainly known for his essays in the New Yorker she'd bought his books, kept them; bent the pages, creased them with her reading and her tears. There was even a dent, in one when she'd thrown it against the wall. And it was that, that she'd snapped back at him at that party they'd met at. He'd made a mocking comment in return, but it was a friendly one and to her amazement, she finds she's found a man who will dance with her; in that half flirtation friendship they have, which she's never been able to articulate, despite all the words between them, with them.
They'd walked that night through, back to CJ's place, trading smokes, words and arguments about Prohibition, Hoover and the strange German. Back at her apartment they have coffee, because it seems kind of right; here in this city, watching the noise and the lights that are always, always constant. His hands, soft against hers, even as his words are harsh. Toby has always demanded a lot of her, but it's never been more than she could give and she knows, always that she is doing the same to him and this, this is their love.
Cheap wine, cheap coffee and good restuarants. A show or three, in tiny little theatres and cheap seats because CJ insists on paying. Her bed; Toby's hands gentle, soft and tracing patterns on her skin that make her think of the way he writes, soft shapings on letters on a page that have more strength than they seem, when you first look at them. They argue, but they don't fight and Toby writes about politics, nationhood and love and somehow, it's all in New York City, as Jesse Owens takes himself a step closer to gold and The Depression rises, then falls. CJ still has a job, but there aren't so many shows now, and Toby's books don't do so well, though the essays are still selling. When he leaves, somehow CJ understands the reasons and so she does not take personally, because they've always understood each other, right back from the first time they started arguing about politics that very first day.
So he writes her letters, beautiful scribbled things that talk about Paris, about art and the strange poetry of Parisian street life and the way he is finding himself a place in it, a favourite cafe to sit and to write. Toby never says he misses her, but she knows he does because he does not say it but talks about New York instead, how he misses the skyscrapers, the boats and the narrow streets, crowded with cars that are not there, in Paris. She writes back; about Jesse Owens, FDR and journalism, teases him about Europe, about how he had to go half a world away, to see his work succeed. There's a narrative in there, these tales of their respective cities that are about them and yet, aren't. CJ doesn't mention Danny, Toby doesn't mention Andrea. They both get married, both try to write to the other about it and fail, before they realise they have to, when their children are born. She has a photo, of the twins, that carefully sit next to those of Maggie. The letters stop, because it has become too much about what they can't say, the words that they fail to articulate properly.
When war comes, CJ gets the feeling they will meet again. Danny volunteers, of course he does. He is so brave, with his camera and his uniform and everything is changed, even as she tracks the advancement of the Germans, that she and Toby had argued about, all those years ago. They come closer to Paris, even as she arrives in England, posted by the newspaper but also to watch over Danny, watch over her brothers. Maybe it's silly, to think she could protect them, the way she did when she was a little girl in Dayton, beating up on bullies and getting in trouble for being too smart for a girl but at least if she's physically there, she can cherish the illusion that she could help. So they go to London, the three of them. Maggie gets used to rationing, air raid sirens and British Accents easily enough; but Maggie has always been the sort of child who fits easily in to the world, laughing and talking her way through it. For CJ herself, London is beautiful in it's defiant ruins - even down to the boarded up windows of the British Library. And all the young men, American, Australian and British - mingling, smiling and dancing through the war and the bombs.
There's a young American soldier, an officer who Maggie makes friends with. He's staying in a house down the street, apparently on leave for a week. He happily talks to Maggie, gravely asks her about her life and her fears and dreams, even teaches her how to play basketball, gives her a piggy back down the road and back again and listens to all her stories about her. If he hadn't been so young, CJ thought she would have let herself take a fancy to Richard Winters. As it is, she lets herself admire his lean body, red hair, gentle blue eyes and competent air but makes sure it goes no further than that. And it was through Richard Winters, that she found the SOE and her way to help, in this war. That is when she meets General Bartlet, who has opened his house to the young American and first begins to hear whispers of something else. Jed Bartlet had told her it was for a position in the WAF, just one that was slightly more specialized than usual. She admits that he was good, but in truth she wasn't fooled, not when she saw the test she had to take. There were questions on everything under the sun, which CJ answers in a tiny little room that smells of teabags and too much paper. A few more interviews and she's gone, leaving Maggie with the Bartlet family and Winters, who has been adopted as her big brother.
In truth the training doesn't scare CJ. She is covered in mud, shoots till her hand shakes, is tortured and terrified and learns oh so carefully, how to handle a weapon and how to lie and make it look easy. Claudia Jean knows something about herself now; that she can think of a lonely, painful death, of torture and betrayal and face it but it is the thought of facing her husband and daughter again, that scares her. Because she will never be the same again, not now. So when she starts hearing whispers about Toby, she is not surprised that he too has been changed, to fit the shape of this corner of the war. Toby Ziegler, who has gotten himself out of more dangerous corners of Europe than is remotely rational. Toby the poet, whose hands have killed more people than she cares to think about. But they are still gentle, when they shake hers the day that McGarry brings them together, tells her about Paris and the need to gather intelligence. She is ready to jump now and Leo McGarry knows it, even as his hands shake slightly as they give her and Toby their orders. CJ just accepts this, along with the sadness in his eyes and in Jed Bartlet's, when they give the orders that will send agents away to what is likely a shallow grave, in a wood or a camp. Just like she lets Toby take her out when he ushers her towards a bar, that she is half learning to call pub. They talk over other members of the team along the way, not touching but CJ swears she can feel Toby Zieglers fingers against her skin as they sit over a couple of beers, half watching the crowds of people in uniform. They are not them, these bright men and women who will fight openly and with everything they have and yet somehow, she knows this is the right way for her and Toby. She does not ask about Andrea or the children, just as he does not ask about Danny, but they just banter and listen to the band and the bright noises of the world as they talk, without touching and all too soon it is over, and they are both walking back to their rooms for the night in silence. It is not like it was in New York but there will always be something between them, in a strange kind of understanding.
She does not get to say goodbye to Richard Winters, before he leaves again for the English countryside that takes him closer to his own war but Maggie does, solemnly handing him her luckiest penny in the hope that it will be returned. He gravely places it in the pocket of his uniform, without giving any promises either way. And CJ just watches, with Toby standing by her side, his hand linked through hers as her daughter says goodbye and he goes off in to the distance, this beautiful young man. She does not think she will see him again but watches Toby's face and is amused, when he asks her who the officer is. Somehow she's never been jealous of that part of Toby either and won't be starting now, not with the jump coming tomorrow. But they will stay with each other tonight.
It's later, the plane and the drop has been and gone in a haze of nerves, dark air rushing past her ears and the smell of the sea and the engine fuel from the plane still clinging to them both. They'd buried their parachutes, carefully adjusted their french clothes and made their way to the safehouse, their contact an unnamed figure in the darkness ahead who melted away as soon as they were at their destination. Safer for everyone now, if everyone remained a dark figure in the night. She and Toby grab some food and sleep but don't stay long. They need to get to Paris, as soon as they can. CJ doesn't have time to wonder, what memories the place might hold for Toby, but she does finally when the train approaches the main station and they are there, surrounded by Germans in grey uniforms and too bright women. Toby is pale, all too still for him.
"It's okay Tobus" she says softly in French as the train comes to a stop. He doesn't speak, until they are walking through the streets of a city that is not the Paris that he painted for her, in those letters before the war. And then it isn't about Huck, Molly or Andrea or even the house they used to live in but about the ordinary things, the things you'd expect any French couple to be talking of in the streets of Paris. Ordinary banter because this is the way they survive and it is in this ordinariness that CJ reminds herself that she needs to be a little scared, all the time because this is not Toby's Paris or even her fathers' Europe but something else entirely, in the tanks, trains and yellow stars though there seem to be less of them in the streets now. But they will settle here, in the tiny little house that is innocous without being overly so. The radio is buried, not in the garden but carefully secreted within the basement. The code books they keep somewhere else entirely, knowing that an illegal radio is easier to explain away than the code books and the special radio, the one that transmits to London. And this is how it starts, this living of two lives.
Most of the time, it isn't particularly exciting. They meet contacts, drop documents, have a nerve wracking bicycle ride out in the countryside for a picnic that isn't a picnic or to visit a grandmother or a friend that never was. Mostly for that they use other radio operators, who flit in and out unamed. Except for Donna. Pretty, blonde Donna who speaks perfect French and looks like she wouldn't hurt anything, especially when she smiles. CJ likes her desperately, likes her easy acceptance of the risk she is taking as being simply the only thing she can do. Donna, who is strong in a way that takes her breath away sometimes. But really, she knows very little about Donna, who saved her life one night and carries a photo of an unamed young man who she never talks about, just as CJ never talks about Danny or Richard Winters or Maggie.
Lies, death, heroism, though she's never thought of herself as heroic. If anyone is, it's Toby or Donna who have far more at stake here than she ever has in this war. Until she finds Sam. Paris has become too dangerous, for the moment so they've moved. Their contact was arrested, dragged off in the night by the Gestapo for maximun dramatic effect. They don't come after him, don't even think about it and CJ hates herself for rationalising this expediency and knowing the man would expect this, would want it. He'd been one of those, whose friends had been lost to the Germans. So they'd gone to ground for a while, moving safe houses to somewhere that their contact didn't know about. And that was where CJ found Sam, blood covered, dirty and still half in his uniform. For a moment she'd thought about just leaving him there, in that shed. But somehow she couldn't do it, couldn't leave another young man to die alone. So she waits, sitting quietly until he wakes up and bewildered blue eyes stare at her when she greets him in English. And that's how they come to hide an escaped English POW in their house. Donna drags him off for a bath, CJ finds herself making him a meal and drawing his story out of him and Toby? Toby just sits with him, in those early days. Watches the rise and fall of his chest, watches the way his mouth moves when he shapes words or his hands, as he scribbles something down on paper. Sam is their gift, their small token of what it is to fight openly, honourably. They don't talk about what will happen when he is well enough to leave.
Back in England there is still rationing, still bombs dropping and he is still Leo McGarry, and death is always a part of him. It's strange, how easily he can assimilate the statistics and realities of failed agents and simply move on, straight to the next group who will be dropped in to Europe and to likely lonely deaths at the hands of some annoymous German guard for their trouble, but then he has always been good at this - the business of death and dying. And now he sits, studiously not drinking even though there is nothing he wants more in the world and thinks that the world has come to something low yet again, when there is something worse than Ypres that has come in to being. But he signs the orders, easily enough. Toby Ziegler and Claudia Jean Cregg will make the drop tonight and another young man, who is staying in his best friends house will soon drop from the sky along with them. All of them, gone in to something Leo would never wish on his worst enemy, let alone these kids.
Toby find himself dancing around the guy, the way he does with CJ. He's a beautiful boy, is Sam Seaborn, even after more than a year in a POW camp and those weeks on the run. Toby can feel his ribs, when he touches him in their tiny little room, marvelling over the fragile strength of that slim body, that pilot who is a hero come to life. But he will come back to Toby, in a soft dance of light, dark and softly played jazz records. He holds him, bruises him sometimes, when he changes the dressing on his wounds and thinks about a red haired paratrooper, whose eyes reminded him of Sam and wonders what it is about this beautiful fly boy that makes Toby want to mark him, let him fold himself in to Toby's world in this Paris that is not the one he knew when Andrea was alive.It doesn't mean CJ doesn't arouse him, challenge him as she always does. And somehow that fits too, along with the gentle teasing that she and Sam indulge in, when they get the chance. It works, strangely enough, the three of them and Donna, this war and all the lies they are spinning just to make sure that Sam stays alive. And Toby thinks, he will miss him when he eventually leaves for home and the girl that is no doubt waiting for him back home when this is all over. Because Toby no longer has any doubt that it will be over, one way or the other even if the war will never let go of him. Because it will always be there, in the absence of children, of Andrea and the empty house with it's windows still broken. Though Toby wonders, if perhaps someone has moved in, papered over the cracks of his wife ahd children. He can't find it in himself to hate them for it because it feels lilke that's what everyone is doing; papering over the cracks of their lives before the war. It's easier that way.
Author: melliyna
Prompt: 52, WWII AU
Fandom: West Wing, Band of Brothers
Rating: R
Character(s)/Pairing(s): CJ/Toby (hints of CJ/Toby/Sam, Toby/Sam)
Warning: Mature themes (war, violence)
Disclaimer: Belongs to a bunch of people, particularly Aaron Sorkin who are far more talented than I am. I borrow for the fun, not for the profit making. The Band of Brothers characters are based off the TV show depictions, not the real men.
Summary: It's a strange thing, the way war sweeps you up. I also have to say here that I'm particularly indebted to several reference books about the SOE, WWII and women agents, without which I could not have written this fic. Particularly The women who lived for danger: the women agents of the SOE in the Second World War and the actual, official SOE Syllabus.
CJ Cregg had met Toby Ziegler way back when, in the period between the wars when life was almost normal. Just out of college, scraping by in a tiny apartment in New York that owed more to her sense of wanting to be entirely herself rather than any measure of monetary success, though she liked journalism, despite herself. It was good, to craft stories in smoky offices, with men with braces, hats and coat racks that were never used, because it was easier to sling them over the backs of chairs; as they swore, smoked and tried to met deadlines; powered by coffee and bagels. Sometimes they didn't entirely know what to make of her, this tall skinny smart girl from Ohio but mostly they'd leave her alone content that she wouldn't muscle on their turf.
Toby wasn't like any man she'd known of, stomped on or sassed back at. He was a writer, back then and a good one; though he was mainly known for his essays in the New Yorker she'd bought his books, kept them; bent the pages, creased them with her reading and her tears. There was even a dent, in one when she'd thrown it against the wall. And it was that, that she'd snapped back at him at that party they'd met at. He'd made a mocking comment in return, but it was a friendly one and to her amazement, she finds she's found a man who will dance with her; in that half flirtation friendship they have, which she's never been able to articulate, despite all the words between them, with them.
They'd walked that night through, back to CJ's place, trading smokes, words and arguments about Prohibition, Hoover and the strange German. Back at her apartment they have coffee, because it seems kind of right; here in this city, watching the noise and the lights that are always, always constant. His hands, soft against hers, even as his words are harsh. Toby has always demanded a lot of her, but it's never been more than she could give and she knows, always that she is doing the same to him and this, this is their love.
Cheap wine, cheap coffee and good restuarants. A show or three, in tiny little theatres and cheap seats because CJ insists on paying. Her bed; Toby's hands gentle, soft and tracing patterns on her skin that make her think of the way he writes, soft shapings on letters on a page that have more strength than they seem, when you first look at them. They argue, but they don't fight and Toby writes about politics, nationhood and love and somehow, it's all in New York City, as Jesse Owens takes himself a step closer to gold and The Depression rises, then falls. CJ still has a job, but there aren't so many shows now, and Toby's books don't do so well, though the essays are still selling. When he leaves, somehow CJ understands the reasons and so she does not take personally, because they've always understood each other, right back from the first time they started arguing about politics that very first day.
So he writes her letters, beautiful scribbled things that talk about Paris, about art and the strange poetry of Parisian street life and the way he is finding himself a place in it, a favourite cafe to sit and to write. Toby never says he misses her, but she knows he does because he does not say it but talks about New York instead, how he misses the skyscrapers, the boats and the narrow streets, crowded with cars that are not there, in Paris. She writes back; about Jesse Owens, FDR and journalism, teases him about Europe, about how he had to go half a world away, to see his work succeed. There's a narrative in there, these tales of their respective cities that are about them and yet, aren't. CJ doesn't mention Danny, Toby doesn't mention Andrea. They both get married, both try to write to the other about it and fail, before they realise they have to, when their children are born. She has a photo, of the twins, that carefully sit next to those of Maggie. The letters stop, because it has become too much about what they can't say, the words that they fail to articulate properly.
When war comes, CJ gets the feeling they will meet again. Danny volunteers, of course he does. He is so brave, with his camera and his uniform and everything is changed, even as she tracks the advancement of the Germans, that she and Toby had argued about, all those years ago. They come closer to Paris, even as she arrives in England, posted by the newspaper but also to watch over Danny, watch over her brothers. Maybe it's silly, to think she could protect them, the way she did when she was a little girl in Dayton, beating up on bullies and getting in trouble for being too smart for a girl but at least if she's physically there, she can cherish the illusion that she could help. So they go to London, the three of them. Maggie gets used to rationing, air raid sirens and British Accents easily enough; but Maggie has always been the sort of child who fits easily in to the world, laughing and talking her way through it. For CJ herself, London is beautiful in it's defiant ruins - even down to the boarded up windows of the British Library. And all the young men, American, Australian and British - mingling, smiling and dancing through the war and the bombs.
There's a young American soldier, an officer who Maggie makes friends with. He's staying in a house down the street, apparently on leave for a week. He happily talks to Maggie, gravely asks her about her life and her fears and dreams, even teaches her how to play basketball, gives her a piggy back down the road and back again and listens to all her stories about her. If he hadn't been so young, CJ thought she would have let herself take a fancy to Richard Winters. As it is, she lets herself admire his lean body, red hair, gentle blue eyes and competent air but makes sure it goes no further than that. And it was through Richard Winters, that she found the SOE and her way to help, in this war. That is when she meets General Bartlet, who has opened his house to the young American and first begins to hear whispers of something else. Jed Bartlet had told her it was for a position in the WAF, just one that was slightly more specialized than usual. She admits that he was good, but in truth she wasn't fooled, not when she saw the test she had to take. There were questions on everything under the sun, which CJ answers in a tiny little room that smells of teabags and too much paper. A few more interviews and she's gone, leaving Maggie with the Bartlet family and Winters, who has been adopted as her big brother.
In truth the training doesn't scare CJ. She is covered in mud, shoots till her hand shakes, is tortured and terrified and learns oh so carefully, how to handle a weapon and how to lie and make it look easy. Claudia Jean knows something about herself now; that she can think of a lonely, painful death, of torture and betrayal and face it but it is the thought of facing her husband and daughter again, that scares her. Because she will never be the same again, not now. So when she starts hearing whispers about Toby, she is not surprised that he too has been changed, to fit the shape of this corner of the war. Toby Ziegler, who has gotten himself out of more dangerous corners of Europe than is remotely rational. Toby the poet, whose hands have killed more people than she cares to think about. But they are still gentle, when they shake hers the day that McGarry brings them together, tells her about Paris and the need to gather intelligence. She is ready to jump now and Leo McGarry knows it, even as his hands shake slightly as they give her and Toby their orders. CJ just accepts this, along with the sadness in his eyes and in Jed Bartlet's, when they give the orders that will send agents away to what is likely a shallow grave, in a wood or a camp. Just like she lets Toby take her out when he ushers her towards a bar, that she is half learning to call pub. They talk over other members of the team along the way, not touching but CJ swears she can feel Toby Zieglers fingers against her skin as they sit over a couple of beers, half watching the crowds of people in uniform. They are not them, these bright men and women who will fight openly and with everything they have and yet somehow, she knows this is the right way for her and Toby. She does not ask about Andrea or the children, just as he does not ask about Danny, but they just banter and listen to the band and the bright noises of the world as they talk, without touching and all too soon it is over, and they are both walking back to their rooms for the night in silence. It is not like it was in New York but there will always be something between them, in a strange kind of understanding.
She does not get to say goodbye to Richard Winters, before he leaves again for the English countryside that takes him closer to his own war but Maggie does, solemnly handing him her luckiest penny in the hope that it will be returned. He gravely places it in the pocket of his uniform, without giving any promises either way. And CJ just watches, with Toby standing by her side, his hand linked through hers as her daughter says goodbye and he goes off in to the distance, this beautiful young man. She does not think she will see him again but watches Toby's face and is amused, when he asks her who the officer is. Somehow she's never been jealous of that part of Toby either and won't be starting now, not with the jump coming tomorrow. But they will stay with each other tonight.
It's later, the plane and the drop has been and gone in a haze of nerves, dark air rushing past her ears and the smell of the sea and the engine fuel from the plane still clinging to them both. They'd buried their parachutes, carefully adjusted their french clothes and made their way to the safehouse, their contact an unnamed figure in the darkness ahead who melted away as soon as they were at their destination. Safer for everyone now, if everyone remained a dark figure in the night. She and Toby grab some food and sleep but don't stay long. They need to get to Paris, as soon as they can. CJ doesn't have time to wonder, what memories the place might hold for Toby, but she does finally when the train approaches the main station and they are there, surrounded by Germans in grey uniforms and too bright women. Toby is pale, all too still for him.
"It's okay Tobus" she says softly in French as the train comes to a stop. He doesn't speak, until they are walking through the streets of a city that is not the Paris that he painted for her, in those letters before the war. And then it isn't about Huck, Molly or Andrea or even the house they used to live in but about the ordinary things, the things you'd expect any French couple to be talking of in the streets of Paris. Ordinary banter because this is the way they survive and it is in this ordinariness that CJ reminds herself that she needs to be a little scared, all the time because this is not Toby's Paris or even her fathers' Europe but something else entirely, in the tanks, trains and yellow stars though there seem to be less of them in the streets now. But they will settle here, in the tiny little house that is innocous without being overly so. The radio is buried, not in the garden but carefully secreted within the basement. The code books they keep somewhere else entirely, knowing that an illegal radio is easier to explain away than the code books and the special radio, the one that transmits to London. And this is how it starts, this living of two lives.
Most of the time, it isn't particularly exciting. They meet contacts, drop documents, have a nerve wracking bicycle ride out in the countryside for a picnic that isn't a picnic or to visit a grandmother or a friend that never was. Mostly for that they use other radio operators, who flit in and out unamed. Except for Donna. Pretty, blonde Donna who speaks perfect French and looks like she wouldn't hurt anything, especially when she smiles. CJ likes her desperately, likes her easy acceptance of the risk she is taking as being simply the only thing she can do. Donna, who is strong in a way that takes her breath away sometimes. But really, she knows very little about Donna, who saved her life one night and carries a photo of an unamed young man who she never talks about, just as CJ never talks about Danny or Richard Winters or Maggie.
Lies, death, heroism, though she's never thought of herself as heroic. If anyone is, it's Toby or Donna who have far more at stake here than she ever has in this war. Until she finds Sam. Paris has become too dangerous, for the moment so they've moved. Their contact was arrested, dragged off in the night by the Gestapo for maximun dramatic effect. They don't come after him, don't even think about it and CJ hates herself for rationalising this expediency and knowing the man would expect this, would want it. He'd been one of those, whose friends had been lost to the Germans. So they'd gone to ground for a while, moving safe houses to somewhere that their contact didn't know about. And that was where CJ found Sam, blood covered, dirty and still half in his uniform. For a moment she'd thought about just leaving him there, in that shed. But somehow she couldn't do it, couldn't leave another young man to die alone. So she waits, sitting quietly until he wakes up and bewildered blue eyes stare at her when she greets him in English. And that's how they come to hide an escaped English POW in their house. Donna drags him off for a bath, CJ finds herself making him a meal and drawing his story out of him and Toby? Toby just sits with him, in those early days. Watches the rise and fall of his chest, watches the way his mouth moves when he shapes words or his hands, as he scribbles something down on paper. Sam is their gift, their small token of what it is to fight openly, honourably. They don't talk about what will happen when he is well enough to leave.
Back in England there is still rationing, still bombs dropping and he is still Leo McGarry, and death is always a part of him. It's strange, how easily he can assimilate the statistics and realities of failed agents and simply move on, straight to the next group who will be dropped in to Europe and to likely lonely deaths at the hands of some annoymous German guard for their trouble, but then he has always been good at this - the business of death and dying. And now he sits, studiously not drinking even though there is nothing he wants more in the world and thinks that the world has come to something low yet again, when there is something worse than Ypres that has come in to being. But he signs the orders, easily enough. Toby Ziegler and Claudia Jean Cregg will make the drop tonight and another young man, who is staying in his best friends house will soon drop from the sky along with them. All of them, gone in to something Leo would never wish on his worst enemy, let alone these kids.
Toby find himself dancing around the guy, the way he does with CJ. He's a beautiful boy, is Sam Seaborn, even after more than a year in a POW camp and those weeks on the run. Toby can feel his ribs, when he touches him in their tiny little room, marvelling over the fragile strength of that slim body, that pilot who is a hero come to life. But he will come back to Toby, in a soft dance of light, dark and softly played jazz records. He holds him, bruises him sometimes, when he changes the dressing on his wounds and thinks about a red haired paratrooper, whose eyes reminded him of Sam and wonders what it is about this beautiful fly boy that makes Toby want to mark him, let him fold himself in to Toby's world in this Paris that is not the one he knew when Andrea was alive.It doesn't mean CJ doesn't arouse him, challenge him as she always does. And somehow that fits too, along with the gentle teasing that she and Sam indulge in, when they get the chance. It works, strangely enough, the three of them and Donna, this war and all the lies they are spinning just to make sure that Sam stays alive. And Toby thinks, he will miss him when he eventually leaves for home and the girl that is no doubt waiting for him back home when this is all over. Because Toby no longer has any doubt that it will be over, one way or the other even if the war will never let go of him. Because it will always be there, in the absence of children, of Andrea and the empty house with it's windows still broken. Though Toby wonders, if perhaps someone has moved in, papered over the cracks of his wife ahd children. He can't find it in himself to hate them for it because it feels lilke that's what everyone is doing; papering over the cracks of their lives before the war. It's easier that way.