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rogue-durin-16 · 1 month ago

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HEAD-TO-HEAD (part XXV/?)

Summary: Joe thought she was pretty. Had he just said that, things might have been different for them. Maybe they wouldn't have gone head-to-head at each other for three years like it was a contest.

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x Reader

Genre: angst/rivals to lovers

Tags:

Head-to-head: @derersketnoget @ladystardustfromarss @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @sxalbatf @jetjuliette @luvrottt @fromjupitertocentauri @ecompstolemysoul @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @bitter-post-millennial @gotxpenny @knight-of-thesun @scottstr3et @aliciax3

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: language, blood and gore

A/N: I cannot believe we've gotten this far, it's CRAZY. Dreading getting to the last part but I mean, it is what it is. Enjoy<3

Head-to-head masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

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The laughter coming from Chuck's little story about Guarnere was still suspended in the chilly Zell am See night, when we spotted it.

"Chuck, look." I carefully nudged my friend's bicep, nodding toward the side of the road. Two parked vehicles—haphazard, with the lights still on— with a man standing between them, swaying just enough to set off a quiet alarm in us.

"I see it." Chuck's driving slowed down to a stop at a relatively safe distance, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. "You think he's hurt?"

"I think he's drunk." I muttered, eyes squinted at the lonely private.

"Shouldn't we go help him?" One of the new kids on Chuck squad, until now observant of both the eerie scene and his Sergeant's demeanor, suggested.

The blue eyed man puffed out a sigh, sparing me a sideways glance. "Bet now you regret tagging along."

"We'll see about that." I replied, one of my hands landing on the windshield's edge for leverage. I didn't even get to push up to my feet before Chuck stopped me.

"Wait here." Chuck muttered, already swinging a leg out of the jeep. His voice was purposeful and calm when he addressed the stranded soldier. "Hey, Mac. You need some help?"

A giggle. A slurred mumble I had to strain my ears to catch—something about a Major. Chuck stopped dead in his tracks.

"Shit," I breathed as my sight caught the body slumped near the curb, face-down in the gravel. Blood had already started to congeal beneath it.

"What do we do, Sarge?" one of the privates leaned in to whisper the question, voice tight with the nerves that came with witnessing a situation you weren't trained for.

"Stay put." I commanded, jumping off the jeep. My boots hit the ground with a thud as I moved in Chuck's direction. The man across from him was fumbling with his weapon, laughing to himself.

"Hold on—" The Sergeant's hand hovered near his pistol when the intoxicated private turned his back to him.

"Grant." I called, earning an instant-long look over his shoulder. Too late.

Bang!

"SARGE!"

"SERGEANT GRANT!"

I didn't feel myself lift my arm, didn't remember aiming—just the jerk of recoil and the split-second flash as I fired at the soldier now scrambling back into his vehicle. He ducked. Another shot rang out from his window.

Something slammed into the right side of my torso, knocking the air out of my lungs. Barely registered, though, because Chuck was lying there—no, not lying, crumpled—his head cracked open like a dropped melon, his brains scattered beneath him. I kneeled down on the grit, shaky palms shoving my gun back into my holster to hover uselessly over my friend's body.

Check the pulse. He's breathing.

"Help me—" my voice wavered, eyes still trained on Chuck's cracked skull. Stop. Try again. "Jesus Christ… help me move him! Now!"

Grant's squad rushed at my order, scrambling to lift the limp man up, trying not to wince at the sight. My breath hitched when we rose to our feet at the count of three.

With my heart pounding in my ears, we moved him to the back of the jeep, one of the privates reaching into the backseat for his first aid kit. I took on the task to wrap the unused dressing around Chuck's head when the young soldier's grip on it faltered.

This can't be happening, I thought to myself as I tightened the pearly white bandage. The war's over. This can't be happening.

"Someone radio the Captain."

"Sergeant Y/l/n—" another private, already climbing into the back of the vehicle, pointed his index at the burnt hole in my jacket.

"It's fine." I snapped, adrenaline drowning everything as I circled the jeep to jump on the driver's seat. "Get that fucking radio going right now."

The pain at my side throbbed beneath the rush; a warning light out of sight. I didn't check it until we were already tearing down the road, the wind stinging my eyes. My fingers touched the edge of my ribs and came back wet. Blood—warm, sticky, dark against my skin.

But I could breathe. I could move. I was upright. That meant it wasn't bad. That had to mean it wasn't bad.

The ride to the designated aid station was a blur of panic, shouts and stress; the privates were off the vehicle before I could kill the engine.

"What the hell happened?!" Talbert's voice hit me like a slap, him, Roe and Speirs barrelling out of a nearby parked automobile.

"Some drunk bastard—american—" I bit out the sudden wave of pain when I got out to help them out Chuck on a stretcher. "just... shooting people by the road."

"Are there more casualties?!"

"Two, I think. British Major and..." Focus. I blinked, rubbing my forehead. "I don't know. He fired at Grant, then bolted."

Talbert cursed, long and vicious, before shoving through the door the surgeon was leading the paratroopers through.

Speirs fell into step beside me, focused, jaw locked, eyes fixed on Grant but mind working elsewhere. I would've sworn I caught something similar to fear in the back of his dark gaze.

"You think you can identify the man?"

"Yes, Sir. I saw his face." I winced when I pressed at the ache curling hot in my ribs, almost subconsciously trying to make it stop. "I'll know him."

He slowed down and took a moment to scan me before motioning at my side. "What's that?"

"Just a scratch, Sir."

He didn't believe me—not fully, anyway—,but didn't press; we had more important matters to attend, like working against the clock to preserve the miracle of Chuck's heart still beating.

"Have Spina take a look back at the hotel."

"Will do, Captain." Lie number two. Speirs seemed to consider calling me out on it, but ended up turning to Floyd instead, spitting orders I only half caught.

"Y/n." Talbert tugged my arm. "We gotta go. C'mon."

I followed him back out of the aid station, into the night. My steps became slow—felt like it at least—right as we reached the jeep. The ride mushed the headlights, the nausea and the taste of copper in my mouth altogether until I wasn't sure what was real.

"We gotta wake up everybody. Take the first floor and go up," Talbert ordered when he pulled up at the hotel's entrance. "I'll take the fourth and down. I'll see you at the entryway."

"Got it." I muttered, seeing the noncom rushing in without waiting for me to fall into step.

I took a deep breath. Went in, dragging my boots over the polished floor. Wake them up. I pushed open the first door, triggering a wave of groans and sleepy complaints from the inside. "Up. Now. We got an emergency."

Another door.

"Move, come on."

A third one, a fourth, door to door without stopping. Quick. Wake them up. The stalking and spinning made me dizzy in a way that didn't feel right.

I got to the lounge room, where Luz and Perconte were playing cards on a misplaced table like it was just another Tuesday night at camp.

"Get up, we got an emergency."

Frank looked up, brows drawn. "You don't look right. Where you comin' from?"

"Night patrol. Chuck got shot." My voice cracked like it had run too far ahead of me. "gear up."

Luz dropped his cards and turned around with wide eyes, like he too couldn't catch up with reality. "Wait what?"

"I said gear up!"

I was about to head for the stairs when George's alarmed voice hit me like a whipcrack. "Wait—what the hell is that?!" The scrap of his chair hurt my ears, way too loud. "You're bleeding?!"

"What?"

"You're—" color drained from his face when his eyes dropped to the floor where I stood. "fuck, you're bleeding."

It fully hit me when I looked down. The right side of my jacket was soaked through, leaving my palm wet and crimson stained. A dark streak had bled all the way down my pants, dripping onto the floor. The temperature seemed to drop drastically, cold sinking its teeth in my bones.

"Oh." I said. It came out stupid. Small. I felt myself sway—or maybe the world had just tilted a little.

"Easy—easy!" Luz reached me first, forearms firm under my shoulders, lowering me fast to the floor. "Shit, you're gonna go into shock—Perco, get Spina!"

"I told her she didn't look right." Perconte insisted distressed, already running up the first flight of stairs.

Luz crouched beside me, voice soft now, "Stay with me, alright?" I nodded—or tried to—, gasping when he pressed a bundle of something against my side. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

The ceiling above me pulsed with a flickering light bulb, a shiver making my body tremble. "I'm fine." I mumbled, eyes trained on the mess of blood I hadn't acknowledged until now. "I'm fine."

JOE'S P. O. V.

I was halfway down the stairs when I heard it. Someone yelling for a medic. I could've sworn Tab said Chuck had been shot in the head. There was no way in hell they had dragged him all the way here.

Perconte ran past me with Spina trailing behind.

What the fuck.

My boots stuck slightly on the floor as I hit the landing—just enough resistance to make my stomach twist. When I checked it, I saw a smear. Dark red. Sloppy. A discontinuous line of uneven crimson droplets down the hall.

My chest tightened.

There were voices—shouted instructions, panicked mutters, heavy breathing—and when I turned the corner, I saw it.

She was slumped against the hallway's wall, puffing out short breaths, her forehead slick with sweat; just like she'd look back in Toccoa after those six miles—only that this time her cheeks weren't rosy, they were sheet-white.

Her jacket was unbuttoned, her shirt soaked with blood and pulled up by her left hand, which pressed the fabric hard over her ribcage, leaving a still fresh bullet wound exposed.

My legs threatened to give out from under me.

This wasn't happening. Not after that fight. Not after what I'd said.

I shouldered through someone—Ramirez maybe, I didn't care— to reach the scene. As if I could have done anything to help. I spared Malarkey a side glance. Despite standing right in front of her, his eyes were on anything but Y/n.

Spina was knelt by her side, working fast, muttering instructions that didn't reach me, yelling for Perconte to go grab something from his duffle bag. Luz, crouched down at her left with her blood on his fingertips, tried to make himself useful by listening carefully to what the medic had to say.

She looked up then, straight at me—or maybe past me, I couldn't tell. She surely didn't say my name. She didn't say anything. Just blinked, slow and purposeful like she was trying to keep herself awake.

My whole body felt like it was gonna split in half; something inside me was tearing at the already ragged seams and I didn't know how to hold it in.

She looked smaller like that. Folded in on herself, barely upright. The way her chest stuttered when she tried to inhale. We had seen men die that way, yet it had never felt like this.

Talbert appeared out of nowhere, reminding us why we were awake in the first place. "We gotta go," he said. "Chuck's barely got a pulse. If we don't find the shooter before he slips away—"

"I'm driving her to the aid station." I cut in, uninterested in whatever point my friend was driving up to.

"We just left the place." Talbert tried to reason, following a logic I didn't get. "There's a good-for-nothing surgeon and barely any supplies. Moving her would be—"

"She's not staying on the fucking floor."

"Lieb," Talbert stepped in close, jaw tight. "We need every man on this. I need you on this." A pause. He searched for understanding in my gaze. "You want to be on this."

"If not the aid station, at least a fucking hospital!" I snapped, panic and anger making my voice shake. "Jesus Christ, look at her!"

I felt it. A light kick to my boot.

When I looked down, her boot tapped mine again—weak, but deliberate, tethering me before I spiraled out of control and made everything worse.

"Stop yelling," she mumbled, barely above a whisper, "you're gonna give me a headache."

I stared blankly, wondering if I heard right. Her lips were dry, cracked slightly in the corner. There was a smear of blood near her cheek, like she had tucked her hair behind her ear. Despite her whole face going paper-white, her eyes were trying so goddamn hard to stay clear. To stay in it.

She was doing what she always did—pretend. Pretending she was fine when everything inside her was fraying; hiding the panic with that same deadpan calm she pulled when shit went sideways. Shoving the pain down, like she'd rather choke on it than admit something was deeply wrong. She was scared. Scared and stupid, but no one pointed it out.

"Go get that sonofabitch." she added, eyes flickering up to mine with a soft plea. "I'm fine." She didn't want me there, and that's what scared me the most.

"I got her. Alright? I'll stay." Luz shifted beside her, eyes wide but focused on us. "She's in Spina's hands. Good hands. Right, Y/n?"

She willed herself to nod, but it wasn't enough for me to move, so Malarkey grabbed my arm, as if he could shake some sense into me. "Joe for Christ's sake. C'mon."

I looked at her one last time and I hated myself more than I knew was possible, because I let Don pull me away.

Squads were sorted out in the blink of an eye, too quick for me to catch who was leading and who was covering which area before finding myself being led to a jeep with Malarkey and one of the witnesses.

The vehicle skid and rattled down the road, headlights barely piercing the mist curling over Zell am See. The engine hummed beneath us like a war drum, steady and loud. Not loud enough to drown out the ringing in my ears.

I couldn't shake off the image either. The blood. Her blood. On the floor, on Luz's hands, on her clothes. I hadn't realized I was gripping the metal of the jeep's frame until my fingers started to ache.

The kid in the back—Hendrix, I believed—looked like he had aged ten years in an hour. He hadn't said a word since we left the hotel. Just sat there, stiff-backed, staring dead ahead.

By the way the ginger was driving, hands white-knuckled on the wheel, I doubted his mind was any less messed up. He hadn't looked at me once since we pulled out.

"What is it?" His voice was forced, a mix of premature grief and bitterness brewing under the simple question.

I kept my eyes forward. "What's what."

"What the fuck is it with you and her?" He specified, louder, more strained.

I didn't find it in me to answer. If I even touched that question, everything would unravel, leaving me empty and reeling. But Don wasn't backing off; not now, when everything seemed a good reason to lash out.

"Look, I've seen some dumb friggin' things in this war," he went on, tone clipped. "But you two? It's like watching a match flirt with a gas tank." He huffed a laugh that was anything but amused, and I wondered how long had he been holding himself back. "You act like you can't stand her, then look at her like you—" His hand hit the steering wheel, making me flinch, eyes shutting momentarily at the violent move. "What the fuck are you doing with my friend?!"

Unspoken words knotted around my heart threatened to spill, each one more dangerous than the last.

I couldn't say I loved her. I couldn't say she meant something. Because if I said it aloud, the choking weight in my lungs—the one caused by the mere thought of the state in which we had left her—would kill me.

And because I couldn't say I loved her, I blurted out, "We're fucking."

The jeep swerved.

"Christ—" Malarkey looked over his shoulder at the private in the back, who was clearly trying not to exist. Smart kid. "Just fucking?" he hissed. "You're just fucking."

"You think this is the time to bring this shit up?" I snapped, voice sharp enough to cut steel.

"I wanna know if I gotta pull over and beat the shit out of you," he growled, "She switched places with Alley tonight. To go with Grant." My stomach dropped at the implication. "If she did that to avoid patrolling with you in the morning, because you're just fucking—"

"Shut the fuck up!" I barked, my voice turning high-pitched and cracking with guilt. "Okay?! Jesus fuckin'—"

Don't cry.

The kid in the back flinched.

Get a grip.

"You think I wanna talk about this now?!" I snarled, breath uneven. "I don't wanna fucking hear it, Don! Some asshole just blew my friend's brains out and the woman I—" don't. "—she's dying on that hotel floor!"

The silence that followed was cold and brutal. The word dying had slipped out of my obsessive thoughts. Now that was real, too.

"She's not dying." Malarkey said quietly. I clenched my lids shut in an attempt to stop the sting in the corner of my eyes from spilling. My jaw locked so tight it felt like my teeth might crack. "She's not dying, okay?" he repeated. "She's gonna be there when we get back."

But I was already mourning her. In some twisted, pathetic way, I was already carrying it. Because if we got back, and she was not there—

"Just fucking drive, alright?"

I tried not to hope. God knows I tried.