Not long after waiting the man’s response, the woman who he had defended earlier had appeared before him again, and not only with a gleaming smile that would make you believe that she had never had a care in her life, especially not had been wailed on not but ten minutes prior, but also with fresh whiskey. This woman does not miss a beat, thought Everette, commenting on her not taking any time to refill her cup and let nothing affect her. But then his worn eyes, the eyes of a man that had seen too much, met her lively eyes and he saw the thought she had.
Poor bloke, he wasted his fists. I obviously had it.
Again, he damned his Tennessee blood and his American soul; it was a characteristic for America to be the first to help and the first to be criticized for it, whether they deserved it or not. Criticism or help. He wished he thought of where he was, the European way of letting it be and the won battle is a win, but where he grew up he knew of the Hatfield and McCoys. Helping was right and there was no victory until the war was one, no celebration and no rest for a mere won battle, and as well as the mentality of finishing the fight. But, beyond his spirit, he had other reasons he was compelled to help the dark haired Dod.
It was because she reminded him of someone; reminded him of her. A touchy subject that attached him to the stranger since she was completely a spitting image, but also compelled him to be bitter to her, never trusting her in fear she will turn out like the last. In truth, he would stay distant, or try his best, and see where that led him. Besides, even from a mile away he could sense that the shy one from earlier, the blonde, was highly taken by her, smitten even. She began to speak.
“Are you alright?”
She seemed only half concerned, as if he had done it himself and he was silly for it, and in her defense it was completely true.
“Lucky bastard- er, please pardon my language,” he said rather awkwardly, flooding memories he had tried to forget pouring in, he had forgotten he was not familiar with this woman as he was the last.
“One of them got off a lucky shot, and I would be done in if not for this here camarade,” he said this in almost fluent French he had learned fighting alongside them in war, “mais un counteau emporte poings,” Everette added, this time in less impressive French but still a noble attempt.
She remarked upon a woman in the corridor, but he paid little heed. He was fixated on the moving and breathing mirror image of his past, and somehow his thoughts turned back to his coin. He reached for it, but only found an empty pocket.
You’re on your own now, Everette old boy, he thought to himself. He felt that this trip was about to get interesting, but he did not know of that was a good thing...