>"... and by far my least favorite thing of the war were those fucking canned pecan rolls." The old man said with a laugh, eliciting a laugh from you as well
>You had recieved an assignment to find a surviving veteran of world war two, and found one that happened to join at an extremely young age
>He lived by himself in a modest home with his partner, which you were sure was just as interesting as the man himself
>"But, then again there was the bulge, that alone was enough to ruin anyones day..." He said again wistfully, as the woman came out of the kitchen with a french press and a trio of coffee cups
>She was tall, muscular, and blonde. One could say she was the spitting image of the american beauty in the 1930s and 40s, with her shortish bobbed hair and curvy figure to tie it all together.
>She wore more modern clothing though, a maroon turtleneck and what looked suspiciously like jogging pants
>"No, my dear." She said softly, placing a cup infront of the older man.
>"What ruined our days was when you were caught in a panic and insisted on loading my clips in backwords." She murmured with a soft smilen and the old man threw his hands into the air dramatically
>"We were being shelled and trees were exploding! And I only did it once!" He exclaimed, and just for a moment you saw a glimpse of the animated young man that carried the rifle through life and death in the Battle of the Bulge
>"Oooh of course, ONLY once." She said with a wink in your direction, and then poured you a steaming cup of super dark coffee. No sugar or cream was in sight and they both happily sipped at theirs. Time to embrace the holy bitter.
>You just got a slightly overhot mouthful when the old man gave a slight cough and then had a minor bout of a fit
>The woman leaped up and held his shoulders gently and wiped at his mouth with the him of her sweater delicately, in which he nodded thankfully
>"Anywho, the germans..."

>While the old man spoke, you noticed the woman had her fingers intertwined with the old mans and her eyes seemed to linger on his face
>You could see little... glimpses in her eyes as he spoke, and your eyes fought to maintain allegiance to the gesturing man, and the brief glimpses of an exploding forest in her eyes
>The old man spoke of a veteran german soldier mowing down half a squad with an STG-44 while he fought to reload with frozen thumbs
>Then you would glance at her and see... see his hands fumbling with a clip of ammunition while men fall in the background
>"And before I knew it, they were all pulling back and we had men running all over! I started running towards th-" He stopped, and had another coughing fit, this time a little more violent than the last
>The woman jumped up again and patted his back gently while the other held onto his shoulder, and it was not a secret that she was worried as she wore it plain on her face
>The anguish of watching her shooter grow old while she stayed as young as the day she was imbued into the rifle
>" Cmon sweetheart, get it all out." She called to him softly, and again she held the hem of her sweater to his face, her toned stomach and pelvic bones exposed to the air
>The older man finally made it through his fit and wheezes out a laugh, watery eyes meeting your own, face caught in an old and practiced grin
>"The things we do to the ones we love, eh son?" He said, laughing roughly once again
>The woman smiled with him, but only sadness radiated from it
>How it must be to watch your soldier die on the field of battle, to achieve glory and your memories only be of him in his prime
>How it must be that they survive...
>And you watch them age...
>And watch them... die in their beds
>To leave you alone