I'm really excited about this fic, as I've always been a huge history nerd, and badass lady spies are also really fucking cool. The plot is very loosely based around British SEO officer Nancy Wake (a.k.a The White Mouse). Some things in here will be very direct events from her life, because she was so fucking badass that I just can't leave them out of the story. Other things have been completely made up.

Other spies that I have drawn experiences of for different characters include Violette Szabo, and the Nearne sisters Jacqueline and Eileen. All of whom were SEO agents operating in France and working with the French Resistance.

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Warnings: Violence, swearing, depictions of traumatic events, French*, torture, smut eventually etc...

*French translations will be at the bottom of the chapter. I suggest opening a duplicate tab and scrolling to the very bottom so you can have both open at once. Daryl's POV will not have translations for the French, because he does not understand French. If you feel compelled to find the translation yourself (or happen to know French) feel free to do so.

Also, if you're actually a French speaker, wow I am so sorry. I don't know how badly I've butchered your language, but I've only been studying it for three years so everyone probably speaks like an eight year old.

Chapter One - Bande Rouge

June 20th, 1943

"Est-ce votre homme?" The man asked as the two peered in the doorway, "L'Américain?" From the tattered uniform laid on the chair beside the wounded soldier's bed, she would guess the answer was yes. She didn't know the name of the man she'd been sent for, didn't know what he looked like, only that he was an American pilot shot down near Strasbourg.

"Oui, c'est lui," Beth said, watching him with something akin to pity. He was the only one La Résistance had reached before the flames had consumed him….or worse, the Germans.

The man, short, stocky, obviously Hungarian born based on his accent, nodded, "Vous devrez attendre avant lui vous vous déplacez. Il y a brûlures sur ses bras, une commotion cérébrale, et la jambe gauche? Il a la chance ne l'a cassé pas dans la chute, mais s'il peut marcher sur lui...il sera un miracle."

Beth shook her head, "Non."

The man, a doctor from what she'd gathered, furrowed his brow, "Pourquoi, 'non'?"

"Vous savez pourquoi," she said. Every man, Nazi, Vichy, Résistance or otherwise had seen those planes go down. This may be a safe house, but it was only a matter of time before the Gestapo came knocking when they realized they were short one body. If this soldier was going to make it home, he would have to put some more miles between him and the crash site.

"Y'all gunna talk so I can fuckin' understand?" the soldier growled, eyes slowly blinking open, "Or we gunna play charades again?" His accent was thick. Not just American, but southern. She'd only met one or two men from the southern states, and she couldn't say she found their voices unpleasant. This man in particular, however? He seemed to be a bit of a pill.

"I can speak English just fine, Mister…" She said in an impeccable French accent.

"Dixon," the soldier supplied.

"Mr. Dixon, but I'm not speaking to you, so be patient." She felt bad for being harsh, he was wounded after all, but she hadn't slept well in a few days and quite frankly had a job to do.

"Si nous lui donnons une canne?" Beth asked the Hungarian, "Pourrons nous aller à la maison sécurisée prochaine?"

He shook his head, "Avec une canne? Non, mais avec un wagon? Peut-être. Je sais un agriculteur, un bon homme. Les Nazis ont tué son fils, il sera y vous apporter."

Beth didn't like the idea of involving more people than necessary, but she supposed she'd have to. She took another look at the soldier, Mr. Dixon, who had moved into a sitting position for the sole purpose of glaring at them more effectively. He appeared to be a surly asshole, but it was her job to get him home.

She looked at the Hungarian, "D'accord...merci."

"You wanna tell me what's goin' on, blondie?" Mr. Dixon asked, voice still hoarse.

"You're leaving, Mr. Dixon," Beth said, and watched as the soldier's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Where?"

"Home, hopefully," she said, offering a smile. He didn't return it, if anything his scowl deepened and her smile faded. Real ball of sunshine, this one...oh it was going to be such a very long way to Spain. She just needed to get this over with, there was a war on, and she didn't have time to get held up by some cantankerous Yank.

She shook her head, she just...she just needed to be patient with him.

Glancing at the doctor, she said, "Je voudrais un moment avec Monsieur Dixon, si vous plaît."

"Bien sur," The Hungarian said, quickly moving into the other room of the small cottage. It was a beautiful place, really, quaint with a view of the Swiss Alps out the window. It would be better if there weren't scorch marks in the valley, but she supposed she would take what she could get.

Mr. Dixon was watching her suspiciously, eyes narrow. Looking closely at him she could see that he was handsome in a rugged sort of way, and she could see that he looked like absolute shit. The crash had taken a toll on him, and even sitting up this long seemed to be difficult.

After a moment he took a breath and said, "I get to know your name at least."

"Élise Lyon," Beth said, extending a hand, "Monsieur."

He didn't take it. "Captain," he muttered, "Ain't a Monsieur."

"Alright," she said, keeping up her French accent, though at this point it had almost become second nature, "Captain Dixon. I suppose you would like to know who I am?"

Dixon bit his lip, not quite meeting her eye as he nodded.

"I am with La Résistance, you know who we are?" He nodded again, "We are working with the allies, evacuating the Americans and Britons that we can."

He scoffed, "And you're gonna what? Escort me down to the boat, be the translator so I can hand my ticket over to Fritz?"

"I did not come all the way up here to hand you over to the Germans, Captain," Beth said, taking a seat on the small stool next to his bed, "I will take you as far as the Pyrenees Mountains. Someone else will guide you over to Portugal, from there you will go to Britain, and finally home."

"And how the hell am I gonna do that?" He asked. She was starting to wonder that herself, the doctor hadn't lied...Captain Dixon was in bad shape. He wouldn't be able to travel for extended periods of time, much less all the way to the south of France.

Beth frowned, "We'll...we'll figure something out, but we can't stay here. The doctor is making arrangements to bring us to the next safe house...but after that."

"I'm on my own?" Daryl asked, bitterly.

"We, Captain Dixon. We will be by ourselves...yes."

June 16th, 1943

Captain Daryl Dixon found the rumble of the engines soothing. Sitting in the cockpit, listening to it's low undertones and the steady blip of the radar, he could almost see himself falling asleep if he weren't feeling slightly on edge. To the east the sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon.

Off to his right the low drone of B-52s was the backdrop to the roar of his own Mustang, as they banked, shifting from south to west. The Eighth Air Force was headed to London after a long night of watching Berlin catch fire, and he was ready to fall back into his bed, but he couldn't get rid of this itch in his gut.

They were behind schedule, they weren't supposed to be flying without the cover of darkness, and it made him nervous. He'd be fucked if he went down over some idiot higher up sending them out too late.

Still, as they flew over the mountains of France, and the sun rose higher, the skies seemed peaceful.

If there was one thing he'd learned about war, it was that shit changed, and it changed fast.

The first plane that went down couldn't have been more than half a klick ahead of him, a Mustang like his, spinning away with it's left wing on fire.

"Fuck!" He cursed, as the tight formation scattered and the low rumble of engines was overshadowed by gunfire. One of the B-52's engines was on fire, it'd be a damn miracle if it made it all the way back across the English Channel, but he had thirty four other planes to protect. Off to his left Merle's plane, a mustang he had painted with a red streak, fell into a dive, guns blazing.

The fighter pilots that weren't falling were following suit, and he quickly figured where the enemy was coming from. Shoving on the throttle he dove, shooting blind until he saw them, and for just a second he felt his gut drop. The guns were big, hundred twenty eight millimeters would be his best guess, he'd seen shit like this stationed on ships they'd refueled on on the way over to England and even then he'd thought it would be hell to go up against one.

Right now he was terrified as he pulled up, laying down bullets before he started climbing again to swing back around for a second volley. His aim had been true, taking out the truck the monster had been hauled on, but the sight of the guns didn't calm him worth a shit. He'd been right, hundred twenty eights, FlaK 40s, double barreled...he'd heard the other pilots talk about them, could rip a plane apart like it was nothing.

He didn't have time to be scared, not now.

With a roar he pulled the trigger, watching Germans scatter under fire as another Mustang spun into the hill, going up in a plume of flames. Merle, as always, was getting close, too close, to the guns - reckless son of a bitch that he was. The red streak flashing in the early morning sun as he ripped a FlaK to shreds, narrowly missing getting his own wing torn off.

"Shit," Daryl grunted, throwing himself into a barrel roll as a B-52 careened past, three engines and the tail blown out. He started climbing, trying to get clear of the blast before it hit. He did, just barely, and then he started to drop.

The air screamed as he fell, the world spinning in an odd mix of steel, fire, and blood red sky. He couldn't breath, and he couldn't feel much other than the flip of his own stomach. He tried to right it, yanking hard on the stick, but it wouldn't budge. Briefly, he thought that he was going to die.

He couldn't remember much after that.

June 18th, 1943

When Daryl opened his eyes he felt confused, his head hurt, and he wasn't quite sure if he could move anything. The ceiling was wood board, looked handmade. He blinked, swallowing hard as he tried to get rid of the damn fuzzy feeling in his mouth.

Groaning, he rolled, regretting it almost immediately as his head spun and something in his leg protested violently. He was in some sort of bedroom, plain and simple, a window giving a view out into a valley that still held the smoking caracasses of the fallen aircrafts.

"Ah!" A voice, a damn loud one, said from the door, "Vous vous réveillez."

He groaned again, French. He was stuck with the fucking French. Sure it was better than the Germans, but he couldn't understand a damn word of their language. Staring at the man blankly he started thinking of ways he could get out. He knew that the French weren't happy with the Third Reich's occupation, but there were supporters too. He didn't have a damn clue which camp this guy fell into.

"Vous êtes un homme de chance, mon ami. Vous devriez être mort," the man smiled sitting next to him, "Qu'est-ce que c'est que vous dîtes? Vous, les Américains, sur les chats? Neuf vies? Ici nous disons, un chat retombe toujours sur ses pattes, mais je pense l'est même."

Daryl blinked, he could make out a few individual words - American, cat, friend - but he'd be damned if he could figure out what the fuck those words had to do with each other. Feeling more and more irritable he just watched as the man kept going.

"Parlez-vous Français?" The man asked, finally a question Daryl understood.

"No."

"Eh bien, il sera difficile parler, mais je pense nous pouvons essayer."

And Daryl was back to jack shit.

"Assis-vous, si vous pouvez." The man leaned way back on his stool, then slowly rose back to a normal sitting position. Daryl watched, he would've been amused if his leg weren't on fire, as the man sat up again and again. It took a while to sink in, but finally Daryl figured out what he wanted. It took a lot of effort to sit, and a low groan rose from his chest as he propped himself up on his elbows before collapsing back to his bed.

"Nous lui travaillerons."

Daryl laid there, breathing hard. He had no idea where he was other than somewhere about thirty klicks south west of Strasbourg, no idea how bad his injuries were since no one here could tell him, and no idea if Merle had made it out alive.

No. That was the one thing he knew for sure, if he was alive then Merle was too. His big brother had always been the stronger one.

June 20th, 1943

Captain Dixon had been laid out on a bed of old flour sacks, and she was actually kind of surprised he didn't complain. He was full of sharp words and rude comments, but mostly he focused on personal attacks rather than general mopeing. She kind of respected him for that, didn't make her like him any more, but she respected him.

"You remember our story should we be stopped?" Beth asked, watching the road roll by. The French country side had been beautiful, and she could still see where it had held it's charm. Now all she saw were burnt out homes and abandoned trenches, though fresh summer grass had finally sprung up through the mud, making it seem as if the farm houses had been ruins for quite some time.

"We're from Strasbourg," he said, sounding bored out of his mind, "Was out in the fields when our brother plowed over a landmine, he died, I was injured. Now we're gonna stay with our cousins in Paris."

"And while I speak with the soldiers..." Beth prompted.

"I'll shut my mouth and pretend I'm one of them deaf people."

"Good," Beth said. Captain Dixon was the typical brash American, with a bit of extra attitude, but at least he wasn't stupid...or at the very least could remember a simple cover.

"Just gotta get to the south right?" He asked, "You Frenchies still got control down there, don't ya? We won't have to deal with the Germans at our heels."

Beth let out a short laugh, "If only, Captain. In the south we have the Vichy, a bunch of lily livered fascists working for the Nazis. They'll just send you back."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Dixon grumbled.

"Vous avez faim?" The farmer called back, and she watched as Daryl's face contorted into a frustrated scowl.

"He asked if we're hungry," she explained, and he nodded slowly.

"Oui, nous voudrions manger, si vous avez quelque chose," Beth said. Her stomach had been rumbling for a while, but she hadn't wanted to ask. Food wasn't easy to come by these days, and she already felt they were taking too much from the man. He could be killed for this easily.

"Il y a de fromage, derriere ton homme!" It was hard to hear over the creak of the wagon's wheels, and the steady clop of the horse's hooves, but she'd understood. She thought it was kind of funny that the old man thought Captain Dixon was hers, but she didn't think her American charge would be as amused so she kept that part to herself.

Scooching over close to him she yelled, "Merci beaucoup, Monsieur!" up to their driver, and started to root around behind Dixon. Frowning, she got up on her knees, balancing one hand on Dixon's other side as she reached for it.

"The hell you doin',girl?" He seemed stiff, hardly breathing.

"Getting us something to eat, now relax would you?"

June 20th, 1943

"Va t'en! Vite, vite, en la cave!" Madame Marie, a matronly woman in her fifties, ushered the two of them into the small cellar under the floorboards of her cottage. She and Beth had to support Captain Dixon, helping him limp over and lowering him as gently as they could given the little time they had.

The rumble of cars up the little road where the safe house was located had been worrisome, the flash of headlights in the trees had put them on edge. The sound of them stopping had caused her heart to drop.

She jumped in after Dixon, as Madame Marie replaced the floor boards, dragged the rug and the table over their hiding place, and then for a moment everything was perfectly silent. She could hear Dixon breathing he was so close, shoulder to shoulder, elbows bumping, legs touching. She couldn't help but notice he smelled like the forests back home in Surrey.

Someone knocked on the door.

She could count exactly once in her life that she'd been more terrified than she was now. It was a struggle to keep her breaths even and quiet as the door creaked open. Dixon stiffened against her.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur." Madame Marie was a brilliant actress, sounding as calm as if she were speaking with old friends, "Comment allez-vous?"

"J'ai bonne," the man replied in broken and heavily accented French. She swallowed hard as she realized he was German.

"Voudriez-vous entrer?" She asked, and Beth cringed. Why would she invite them inside? "Je peux faire de thé si vous voulez."

There was a long tense silence, and for a moment she could hear nothing but the beat of her own heart. She knew what happened to girls like her who were captured, and she'd be stupid if the thought didn't terrify her. Right now she had to be brave, for Captain Dixon's sake. This was her job, and her Daddy had always said that, 'It's war time, we've all got jobs to do.'

Heavy boots tread over them, and she took in a sharp, quiet breath.

"Ou," Madame Marie continued, "Est-ce entreprise?"

"Nous sommes chercher pour un homme," the man said, speaking slowly as he tried to think over the unfamiliar words, "Un soldat Américain et un fille Français."

"Je suis desolée, Monsieur, je ne les ai vu pas."

It was silent again, and ever so slowly, Beth reached for the dagger she kept under her skirt. A Fair-Burn Sykes, just like she'd been trained with, though she still hadn't been forced to use it for its designated purpose. She really hoped she wouldn't have to tonight.

Her hand brushed over Daryl's thigh, and suddenly she felt his hand, large and warm, close over hers. Then, tentatively, he squeezed. If she weren't so damn scared she would've taken a moment to stop and think how surprisingly sweet the gesture was, as if he thought she needed comfort. Perhaps she did, and for a moment she let him think that, relishing the human contact.

"Vrai?" The German asked, "Pourquoi le Hungarian dit ils être ici?" It took Beth a moment to decipher what he was trying to say, and then with a stab of guilt she realized that they'd found the doctor. She didn't know if they'd killed him, but she knew he'd been through a lot of pain to give them up. She hadn't even known the man's name...names were dangerous these days,

"Qui tu as, femme?" The German asked, voice lowering dangerously.

"Aucun, j'ai aucunes personnes," she lied fluidly, though Beth could hear the nerves in her voice. She knew just as well as Beth what had happened to the Hungarian in the cottage, and she knew that could just as easily happen to her.

There was a cry as Beth heard the sound of a palm hitting flesh, and she bit her lip, shaking off Dixon's hand and reaching for her dagger again.

"Vrai?" The German shouted, angry, and smacked Madame Marie again.

"Oui, oui!" She cried, not giving them up, "Ils ne sont pas ici!"

"Oú!?"

"Je ne sais pas! Ils ne sont venue pas!" Beth thought she could hear a slight break in her voice, as if she were about to cry. In the dark she pulled her dagger free, praying The German wouldn't hear the slight metallic hiss. Dixon did, however, and she felt the warmth of his breath as he turned to look in her direction.

"Vrai?" The German asked again.

"Vraiment."

The shot rang out, and there was a thump as Madame Marie's body hit the floor. Beth felt like she should have cried, Madame Marie had been kind, brave...but she couldn't. Perhaps it was a good thing, she didn't get to be upset anymore, it wasn't safe.

The sound of boots pounded in through the door, voices firing off in rapid German. She didn't understand much, but thought she heard the word search. She kept her dagger at the ready as they listened to the sound of boots tramping over head, and furniture being tossed about.

It was a very long night.

June 21st, 1943

The Germans, she couldn't tell if they were soldiers or Gestapo, had stayed in Madame Marie's home that night. She and Captain Dixon had stayed under the floor, huddled together and trying not to drift off.

When the sound of motors had into faded the distance, they let out a breath they had been holding for hours now. Dixon punched at the floorboards above, as Beth sheathed her dagger, knocking them out of place and letting in the dim morning light.

"Come on," she said, hooking an arm around his back as she helped him out of the cellar before climbing out herself. It took some effort for him, he was still nowhere near healed, and now she was worried about how she would move him. He wasn't strong enough to walk far, but she didn't think they could stay here...not for long.

The home was a wreck, the furniture tipped over, what food hadn't been taken from the pantry was scattered across the kitchen. She didn't go upstairs, instead she found a nice leather bag, and filled it with what food she could find - ignoring the drying pool of blood on the floor.

"Carried her outside," Dixon said suddenly, nodding to the blood.

"They did?" She asked, closing the bag and standing up straight.

"Blood," he said, "Drips of it all the way out to the door, don't suppose she walked out there now do ya?"

She frowned, "You're being disrespectful." He scoffed, but he didn't respond. Apparently whatever small bit of gentleness he'd shown last night had been in some adrenaline fueled fit of madness, "Just stay here, alright?"

He was right about Madame Marie, she was crumpled off to the side of her front steps, face in the dirt arm bent all wrong. It was such a beautiful day, if she looked out at the rising sun instead of the body on the ground she could almost forget the war.

They needed to leave, but she couldn't, not yet. Setting the bag just inside the door, she headed down the steps.

"Lyon," she heard Dixon call after her, not surprised he hadn't given her the formality of a miss at the front of her name, "The hell you doin?" She ignored him, and a few moments later he appeared in the door. He was a stubborn one, in the state he was in it must have been hell to stand up on his own.

"You gonna answer me?" He asked.

"I'm going to bury her," Beth said putting her hair back and rolling her sleeves up.

"Why?"

"Because….because it's just what we're supposed to do alright? We bury our own, and unless the Germans come back, I'm going to do it." She was angry, she'd liked Madame Marie and had run messages to her from time to time while here in France. Angry enough that she had to struggle to keep her French accent in place. It would be best that she and Captain Dixon knew as little about each other as possible.

Obviously familiarity had done nothing good for Madame Marie and the Hungarian doctor. For his sake she would keep her distance.

She knew Madame Marie had gardened from time to time, and it didn't take long to find the shed where she'd kept her tools. She took a shovel, found a pretty spot around the back of the house, and started digging.

She wasn't expecting another shovel to join hers.

"Captain, you should be resting." He barely looked like he could stand, leaning heavily on the shovel each time he laid it down.

He didn't respond.

"Thank you," she tried again, "I appreciate it, now please sit down before you make yourself worse….we still have to figure out how to get you to the next safe house."

He looked up, fixing her with a stare she couldn't quite figure out though it didn't seem friendly, before dropping his shovel, limping over to the wall, and sitting down against it. She resisted the urge to let out an exasperated sigh, she didn't know how long she would have to be with this man, but she hoped she'd be rid of him soon.

It had been nearly an hour, and she was two feet down before he spoke again.

"The battlefield." She paused, looking at him, "Were you one of the ones to search it?"

She shook her head, "No. Why?"

"You hear anything about a plane with a red streak on it?" Her brow furrowed, he almost sounded worried, "Brother was flying it."

"No, Captain Dixon." She said, not unkindly, as she started to dig again, "I heard nothing about your brother."

She hoped that was a good sign, she knew what it was like to lose family. She wouldn't wish it on anyone...it was even worse when you didn't get to say goodbye.

"What was his name?" She asked.

"Merle," he said, "His name is Merle."

She nodded, surprising herself by breaking a rule she had only just set for herself, "What about you, Captain?"

"Hm?"

"Your name? You never told me your first name." She regretted asking, now she would have to feel guilty for being less than honest about herself. It was necessary, should one of them be captured, she had a lot of people relying on her secrecy.

"Daryl," he told her.

"It's a nice name."

They fell into comfortable silence as she continued to dig through the cool morning hours. It had been a long war, everyone had lost someone, and she couldn't help but feel this wouldn't be the last grave she would dig before it was over.

Alright, that was chapter one, and I hope you liked it! I'll try to get the next out as soon as possible, and I hope to hear back from you. It's a good deal different from By a Thread (epilogue should be coming soon), so I hope it still turned out okay.

See ya soon!

French:

June 20th - 1

"Est-ce votre homme? L'Américain?" - "Is this your man? The Americain?"

"Oui, c'est lui." - "Yes, it's him."

"Vous devrez attendre avant lui vous vous déplacez. Il y a brûlures sur ses bras, une commotion cérébrale, et la jambe gauche? Il a la chance ne l'a cassé pas dans la chute, mais s'il peut marcher sur lui...il sera un miracle." - "You will have to wait before you move him. There are burns on his arms, a concussion, and the left leg? He was lucky it was not broken in the fall, but if he can walk on it...it will be a miracle."

"Non." - "No."

"Pourquoi 'non'?" - "Why no?"

"Vous savez pourquoi" - "You know why."

"Si nous lui donnons une canne? Pourrons nous aller à la maison sécurisée prochaine?" - "If we give him a cane? Could we go to the next safe house?"

"Avec une canne? Non, mais avec un wagon? Peut-être. Je sais un agriculteur, un bon homme. Les Nazis ont tué son fils, il sera y vous apporter." - "With a cane? No, but with a wagon? Maybe. I know a farmer, a good man. The Nazis killed his son, he will take you there."

"D'accord...merci," - "Okay...thank you."

"Je voudrais un moment avec monsieur Dixon, si vous plaît." - "I would like a moment with Mr. Dixon, please."

"Bien sur," - "Of course."

June 20th - 2

"Vous avez faim?" - "Y'all hungry?"

"Oui, nous voudrions manger, si vous avez quelque chose," - "Yes, we would like to eat, if you have anything"

"Il y a de fromage, derriere ton homme!" - "There's some cheese, behind your man!"

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur!" - "Thank you very much, sir!"

June 20th - 3

"Va t'en! Vite, vite, en la cave!" - "Go away! Quick, quick, in the cellar!"

"Bonsoir, Monsieur. Comment allez-vous?" - Good evening, sir. How are you?"

"J'ai bonne," - "I have good"

"Voudriez-vous entrer? Je peux faire de thé si vous vouliez." - "Would you like to come in? I can make some tea if you would like."

"Ou, est-ce entreprise?" - "Or is this business?"

"Nous sommes chercher pour un homme, un soldat Américain et un fille Français." - "We are to search for a man, an American soldier and a French girl."

"Je suis desolée, Monsieur, je ne les ai vu pas." - "I am sorry, sir, I haven't seen them.

"Vrai? Pourquoi le Hungarian dit ils être ici?" - "True? Why the Hungarian say they be here?"

"Qui tu as, femme?" - "Who have you, woman?"

"Aucun, j'ai aucunes personnes," - "None, I have nobody."

"Vrai?" - "True?"

"Oui, oui! Ils ne sont pas ici!" - "Yes, yes! They aren't here!"

"Oú!?" - "Where!?"

"Je ne sais pas! Ils ne sont venue pas!" - I don't know! They didn't come!"

"Vrai?" - "True?"

"Vraiment." - "Truly."