Collaboration with @silmarilz1701
Svetlana knew how to play the game. She'd been caught in the political drama of Stalin's inner circle since birth. The only child of one of Stalin's closest friends, she grew up in the limelight, scrutinized by frie...
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Zhanna's stay in the hospital was longer than she would have liked. As the beds emptied around her, for transfer to the States or released back to duty, her only constant were the flowers that a nurse continued to supply her. She had learned how to press them from her mother, Agata having pasted the delicate, dried flowers to white paper and framed them in their home. Zhanna hadn't pressed a flower in years but as the bedside arrangement began to decay, she wanted to immortalize their beauty the only way she knew how.
She laid the daisies to rest between the pages of her journal, finding homes for them between her time in the Samsonov home and her journey to America. There, they waited for the weeks to take their toll. As they cured, safe between the paper, Zhanna's shoulder grew stronger and her fellow paratroopers, the only familiar faces in this hospital, left. Smokey and Talbert were discharged, Popeye was transferred to a different English hospital, and Blithe was wheeled away one day. No one knew his final destination nor his condition. For all they knew, Blithe was dead.
Zhanna should have been cleared to return to duty. She grew impatient, waiting on the formalities to be cleared up. There was some confusion, her being Russian, not American. The nurses weren't quite sure what to do with her or how to file her paperwork. The added confusion of her gender didn't make matters quicker. She was promised, "tomorrow," and then, "at the end of the week,". But it was wartime and with new patients arriving everyday, Zhanna wasn't sure if her time would ever come.
In that waiting period, where she had only her flowers and journal for company, Zhanna was surprised with a visit from Lieutenant Winters himself. He settled himself on a chair by her bedside, his hair neatly trimmed and combed back. The last time she had seen him had been in Normandy, some two or three weeks prior. He had pulled her back from the open field. His concern, etched into every feature of his face, had been burned into Zhanna's memory.
"Lieutenant, glad to see you are recovering," Winters said. He sounded stiff. Come to think of it, Zhanna had never heard him sound entirely relaxed with anyone. At least not in her presence. He was always starched and proper, like the collar of his uniform, neatly folded and pressed.
"It's good to see you, Lieutenant," Zhanna murmured. She had been laying in the same bed for nearly two weeks. Her arm was wrapped in bandages and hung in a sling. Her hearing, though returning, was still buzzing in and out at the most inopportune times. She wasn't sure recovering was the word she would use. "I am feeling better."
"I'm sure you've been keeping busy," Winters said, looking around the ward and it's bland walls that Zhanna had spent hours staring at. There had been little to know entertainment in their paint but she kept looking, in the hopes that something, anything would strike her.
"I've tried." Zhanna said. There was only so much to be done, in a hospital ward with limited use of all limbs. She had tried her best.
Winters nodded to her journal. "I'm sure this has been a good time to catch up on your correspondence,"
