The Spirit of the Corps » Band of Brothers

50: What Kind of An Idea

She saw Floyd push into the tent in her periphery and kept her eyes studiously averted from the general direction of the entryway. Focusing all of her attention on her patient, she cleaned his wound as gently as she could, muttering words of reassurance when he stirred from slumber, then rebandaged it.

Floyd intercepted her when she was moving onto the next man.

"Hey," he said quietly, his fingers brushing her elbow before she moved her arm out of his reach. "You left without saying goodbye," he told her, standing at the side of the bed as she checked the next soldier's wounds.

At the words, Charlie gave a bitter smile. "Yeah," she replied. "There's a lot of that going around."

Floyd sighed. Charlie didn't look at him. She moved onto the next patient.

Floyd followed her, of course. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

Was she alright? It seemed an awfully stupid question. At that moment she was so far from alright she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to find her way back to it. She felt empty and lost and hurt, sad and conflicted and confused. Everything was confusing all of a sudden. Things which had made so much sense to her before yesterday were now all scrambled in her mind. She was sure that if she turned to look at Floyd he would even look different to her.

She wasn't, however, sure whether the instinct to fall into his arms and never let go of him would have changed. So she chose not to look.

"I'm working," was what she settled on saying, the only answer she could give. Of all the many words she knew none of them seemed to properly encompass how she was feeling, none of them were big enough or bad enough. And she didn't even want to attempt trying to describe the gaping chasm which had opened up in her stomach, steadily sucking all of the air and all of the life out of her. No, that didn't seem like a good thing to try to say at all.

"Freckles," Floyd said softly, so quietly she almost didn't catch it. It was the hurt in his voice which finally got her to turn around, against all instincts inside of her screaming not to.

Charlie stared at him for a moment, her face deliberately blank but her heart thumping. She could feel her hands starting to shake at her sides so she tucked them behind her back, clasping them tightly together, and tilted her chin up to assume an air of confidence. If she looked fine then maybe he would leave her be.

"What do you need from me?" Floyd asked, taking a step towards her.

Without thinking, Charlie took a step back. Floyd went still. He looked like she'd slapped him. She regretted the movement immediately but didn't say anything to soothe the poorly disguised hurt on his face. It was better this way, with more distance. Being so close to him was only making her confused.

Swallowing hard, Charlie shook her head. "Nothing."

"Charlie."

He no longer looked hurt, now that he'd gotten his face back under control. Now he just looked frustrated.

"I need you to let me work, Floyd." She wasn't lying. She could tell that standing still and talking about her deteriorating mental state wasn't doing her any good.

"Charlie," Floyd said again, sterner this time.

"Do you talk to your squad like that too?"

The words had slipped out, and she regretted them even before she'd finished speaking them. She wanted to continue to be petulant, wanted to stamp her foot into the ground and demand he leave and stay away from her and stop being so goddamn nice to her all the time.

But she didn't. Because he didn't deserve that. And just because she was hurting didn't mean he had to, too.

Charlie sighed and dropped her head. "Can you tell Autumn for me?" she asked eventually, her voice small and quiet. "I don't know if she knows about..."