War changed people.

It was what he realized when he saw the dull, ten-yard stare of most men that surrounded him. Successful battle, but only because the German had left behind a single group. Wounded, dead, the scent of bodies starting to rot in no time.

After years of this, he had grown used to it. The death, the blood, the suffering, the cries of pain that followed whenever someone mistook friend for enemy, or even the pleading cries of German officers when caught against a wall.

Most weren't merciful.

The news of their conquest had spread quickly, but it would've been no time until they had to retreat. Casualties that they couldn't spare, too many wounded to leave behind — it made Winters recoil, from time to time, when men crawled at his feet, begging for help.

But he never showed it. He was their captain, their superior. He was their pillar, holding the tethering world above them together, the one sign of light in a storm. Those around him looked up to him, and even those who weren't nearby admired his courage.

Courage for killing boys, he perused somberly when they clapped his back once he was back to base, walking the streets full of soldiers and nurses. Courage for killing people who could've been my neighbors in another life.

His fingers tapped on the outside of his pocket as he entered the infirmary, a letter held tightly on his hand, addressed for a... Wilkinson? Williams? He didn't remember correctly. Maybe it was the stress, or maybe it was the sound of a man screaming.

Blood sprayed the side of his face as he passed by a surgical table. Richard turned, mouth open to question what happened.

The sight that greeted him was one that would forever be etched into his mind.

Maniacal, crazed eyes, an amputation saw in your hands as you cut through the leg of a screaming soldier. Crimson painted your face, and while some might've called the sight a horrific one, he could only describe it as the birth of an angel.

He returned to the infirmary days later, a bouquet clutched to his hand. Nixon had laughed at him when he first caught sight of the tulips — bright white — in Richard's hold, and it had made the captain frown a little.

Maybe it was too forward? He had lost touch with reality. It had been too long, too many years where he had never considered the idea of... of courting someone. He didn't even know your name!

Yet, all doubts escaped him as he saw you there, clean from the blood that had once dripped down your face when he first saw you. An angel.

He cleared his throat, trying to catch your attention, and his expression turned nervous — nervous? Really? — when you turned to him.

"I... I have something for..."

For you. Just say it. Idiot.