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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 3 months ago

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❤︎ first meeting ❤︎

❤︎ Butcher x Sage ❤︎

Warnings: language, drug consumption (pot smoking), implied threat.

Word Count: 1,505

Butcher knew something was up when Frenchie stumbled through the back door of the safehouse like he'd forgotten gravity existed.

Butcher didn’t even look up from his weapon spread on the table. “Where the fuck’ve you been?”

“Found God,” Frenchie declared, arms wide, eyes glassy. “Out in the trees. Looking like a pixie. Sounding like revolution.”

Butcher’s brow twitched. “Jesus wept. You high?”

Frenchie blinked, solemn. “Incredibly, mon ami.”

“Right,” Butcher growled, shoving a magazine into place with more force than necessary. “Go lie down ‘fore you start eatin’ your fuckin’ shoes.”

But Frenchie wasn’t done. “Merde, she was perched in a tree like a woodland sniper. Smoking weed. Quoting Thoreau. She told me to ‘respect the fungi network or perish like the patriarchy.’” He paused, grinning. “I think I am in love with her.”

Butcher levelled him with a look. “You’ll love a fuckin’ bullet if you don’t shut it.”

Frenchie saluted loosely and wobbled off toward the sofa, mumbling something about cosmic alignment and pond spirits.

Butcher sighed. Loudly. Then louder. Because of course now he had to go investigate the fucking forest for some feral philosophy major Frenchie hallucinated.

He slammed the door behind him and trudged out into the meadow, boots heavy in damp grass, muttering curses under his breath. Trees rose up ahead, tall and tangled, and it didn’t take long for the smoke to find him — sweet, earthy, deliberate.

And then he saw you.

Up in a low-slung branch, knee tucked to your chest, blunt pinched between two fingers. You looked like you'd grown out of the tree itself—loose cardigan sliding off one shoulder, bare foot swinging in the dappled light, eyes lazy and sharp all at once.

“You real?” He called up, already irritated.

You blinked, slow. Took a drag. Blew the smoke in his direction like a blessing and a warning. “Depends. You wanna talk trees or treason?”

He squinted. “You always this fuckin’ cryptic or just when you’re high?”

You grinned, foxlike. “Only when I sense a Carhartt coloniser stomping through my forest.”

Butcher stared. You stared back. Neither of you moved.

Then he huffed. “Frenchie weren’t lyin’, then. You are a pixie.”

You tapped ash into a chipped ceramic mug nestled in the bark. “Tell him he owes me a joint. And a mushroom field guide. He stepped on my puffballs.”

Butcher muttered something indecipherable and stepped closer. You didn’t flinch. Just tilted your head and watched him like you’d been expecting him all along.

He squinted up at you, arms crossed like a shield. “What’s your name, then? Or do I gotta call you Swamp Thing?”

You didn’t blink. Just smiled slow, like you were trying it on. “Call me whatever makes you feel less scared of me.”

That got a pause.

Butcher tilted his head. “Scared? Of you?”

You took another hit, smoke curling around your lips like something ancient. “Mmhm. You’re wound tighter than a noose. Smell like blood and broken promises. Eyes like a man who’s lost too many things he couldn’t name. You came out here looking to dismiss me, but your jaw’s clenched ‘cause you know I’m not wrong.”

Butcher didn’t answer. Just stared. Harder this time.

You gestured lazily with the blunt. “You carry revenge in your spine. Walk like the earth did you personal harm. But you’re tired. Even your rage is tired.”

Silence stretched between you like a tripwire.

You didn’t break it. You didn’t need to. You’d already gutted him with that quiet, stoned dissection of his soul.

Finally, he muttered, “Christ. You always talk like that?”

You shrugged. “When I’ve got good weed and someone worth psychoanalysing.” A pause. Then: “You are worth it, by the way.”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smirk. Almost.

He stepped closer, hand flexing at his side like he was debating throwing something. “You do anythin' useful, or just haunt trees and therapise strangers?”

You leaned back against the bark, blunt between your lips again. “I patch people up. I make poisons and cures. I’ve got a rifle stashed in the hollow of that oak behind you and I never miss. I see patterns in data like they’re constellations. And I know what Vought’s doing with their new ‘community outreach’ program before it hits the news cycle.”

That got his attention.

Butcher narrowed his eyes. “Go on, then.”

You smiled again, but this one wasn’t soft. It was teeth. “They’re moving into rural zones. Buying up land. Sprouting Supe-friendly shelters in counties no one pays attention to. Test sites. Low media coverage. Perfect for experiments.”

Butcher stepped even closer now. His voice was low. Dangerous. “And 'ow the fuck do you know that?”

You tapped your temple. “People talk. Networks hum. I listen.”

Then you leaned down, arm braced against the branch, smoke coiling around your face like incense at a funeral. “You came out here to yell at Frenchie’s hallucination. But now you’re wondering if I’m a puzzle piece you didn’t know you needed. And I am.”

He stared. Couldn’t help it. You didn’t flinch. You never flinched.

“But don’t bring me in unless you’re ready for truth,” you added, voice softer now. “I don’t do half-truths and hero worship. I want the whole ugly thing.”

Butcher blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth tasted like moss and thunder.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. “Frenchie really did find a goddamn pixie.”

You just smiled, sage-sweet and sharp as revolution. And Butcher knew—without even meaning to—that he wasn’t walking out of this forest the same way he came in.

He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more—the way you looked like a fucking wood sprite plucked out of a children’s book, or the fact that every word out of your mouth hit harder than a headshot.

He glanced at the chipped mug tucked in the tree bark, then back at you. “Y’know, this whole thing’s real fuckin’ whimsical. You one o’ them crystal dicks? Believe in retrogrades and moon blood or whatever?”

You exhaled a lazy cloud of smoke. “Believe in patterns. Pressure. Cause and effect. The moon just helps me name them.”

He snorted. “That's a yes, then.”

You grinned. “It’s a fuck you with a horoscope.”

And Christ, he hated how fast that made the corner of his mouth twitch.

He crossed his arms, weight shifting like he was trying not to settle in. “You always set up shop in the woods behind safehouses, or just this one?”

You arched a brow. “You always interrogate barefoot women who haven’t even offered you weed yet?”

Butcher blinked. “No, usually I wait ‘til they’re armed.”

“I am,” you said simply.

He stared.

You gestured vaguely toward the oak behind him. “Mossy hollow. Custom-built rifle. Biodegradable rounds.”

He squinted. “You tryna impress me, Swamp Thing?”

You shrugged. “If I was, you’d already be impressed.”

Fucking hell. He wasn’t, of course. Not really. Except, he was.

Butcher took another step closer, boots crunching soft moss. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just tilted your head like you were cataloguing him in real time.

He hated that too.

“You some kind of anarchist survivalist, then? Livin' off weeds and vibes?”

You smiled, all molasses and menace. “I’m a gardener with trust issues.”

Butcher gave a short laugh. Bitter. “Ain’t we all.”

You leaned back against the tree trunk, letting the blunt hang from your fingers. “The world’s rot, Billy Butcher. You can either plant something better… or burn it all down and salt the ashes.”

His name in your mouth made his chest pull tight. He hadn’t told you it. Not yet.

He stiffened. “How d’you know my name?”

You blinked, all innocence. “I told you—I listen. Networks hum.”

Silence again.

He looked at you properly now, eyes dragging over the cardigan slipping off your shoulder, the bare foot swinging loose, the eyes too clear for someone stoned. Like you chose to keep your clarity. Like you liked watching people fall apart in front of you.

“You dangerous?” He asked.

Your smile turned crooked. “Only to liars. Corporations. Cops. People who kick stray cats.”

“But not to me?”

You tilted your head. “That depends. You kick cats?”

“No,” he muttered.

“Then you’re safe. For now.”

Butcher rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the way his chest loosened, just a bit.

You were chaos in moss green, hair wild, eyes gentle and fucking knowing. And somehow, beneath all that softness, you had teeth. Big ones.

He liked that. Too much.

He muttered, “Frenchie’s gonna be insufferable if I bring you back in.”

“Don’t bring me in, then,” you said, flicking ash into the ceramic. “Just visit. I’ll roll you something nice, make you a tincture for all that colonial tension in your shoulders.”

He stared. Long and hard.

Then: “Fuck’s sake.”

And he reached up, offered a hand.

You looked at it for a beat too long—just enough to make him wonder if you were gonna laugh in his face. But you took it. And when your palm slid against his, he swore he felt roots twist around his wrist and take hold.

You hopped down from the branch, barefoot in the moss, fingers still smudged with ash and ink.

“Sage,” you said, like it wasn’t a name but a warning. “And don’t call me Swamp Thing unless you want a hex that makes your dick cry.”

Butcher huffed out a laugh he didn’t mean to let slip. Christ. He turned toward the clearing, you trailing behind like smoke.

Yeah. This one was gonna be a fucking problem.

And he was already looking forward to it.

A/N: Oh my GOD. I am so beyond happy with Sage. I was so excited to write this one and I think I've executed her vibes exactly as I wanted to, maybe even better. The aim was conspiracy-theorist, pothead pixie, witchy and wild, revolutionist icon (loosely based off of myself in my teenage years, very anarchist behind the bible.) She's gonna have Frenchie wrapped around her finger in no time. She's gonna blend well with the others, and she's gonna be both a compliment and contrast to Butcher. As always, feedback is encouraged, bbys. Until the next one. All the love.

@losers-clvb @drakulana @blossomingorchids @love2liz <3

#pfiahc writes #my writing #billy butcher x female reader #billy butcher x you #billy butcher x reader #william butcher x fem!reader #william butcher x you #william butcher x reader #the boys fanfiction #the boys fanfic #the boys x you #the boys x female reader #the boys x reader

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bluestar22x · 9 days ago

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The Meeting

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader (slightly older than Joel)

Other Major Characters: Tommy Miller, Maria, Ellie Williams

Chapter Summary: You stumble upon a stranger in danger and have to make a choice

Word Count: 600(ish)

Rating: 18+ Series

Warnings: Mild violence/same as show

Author’s Note: Here we go. I'm excited. Please tell me your choices along the way, if you want. :)

xxx

Prologue: The Meeting

Winter 2025

Before the outbreak, you'd liked winter. Sure, it was annoying to have to get up early and shovel your vehicle out of the latest pile of snow the sky had dumped the night before, sure it sometimes hurt to breathe in the cold air, but it had beat the sweltering heat of summer as far as you were concerned.

Summer meant constant sweating leading into restless nights, noisy fans, air conditioning, and a ton of flies thirsty for your blood.

Meanwhile winter meant cozy blankets, hot chocolate, and a peaceful escape into dreamland.

After the apocalypse however, all the benefits of winter had disappeared. You no longer rest easy, you no longer have the warmest blankets on Earth, and you no longer have any hot drinks other than the water in the metal bottle you always carry in your backpack.

The cold that had once been a minor inconvenience is now a risk to your health; an enemy ready and willing to take your life at any given moment.

The darkness is dreary, and the quiet that you once were grateful for haunts you.

Truthfully, the only thing worse than the silence of winter, is sound.

The inhuman snarls of the infected, and the panicked shouts of their prey.

You are ready to break out of the forest you have been traveling through the last week or so when you hear them. A fight for survival merely yards from you.

Cautiously guiding your saddleless mount, a black and white Gypsy Vanner horse towards the open field, you immediately spot what is going on.

A half dozen runners have managed to surprise two men who are also on horseback, in full tack. The horses are panicking at being in close quarters with the unnatural acting, no longer human things that have surrounded them, kicking out at them and bucking wildly. The men meanwhile are fighting to gain back control of them while also trying to shoot at the infected.

At first it seems that, despite the odds, the men are going to win out. Even while making attempts to collect their mounts, they manage to shoot four of the six runners in mere seconds. There are just two left, but the last two runners are lungeing at the men, teeth bared.

One man, the one with shorter, dark and silvery hair, kicks out at the runner trying to bite his ankle, nailing it hard enough in the head to knock it to the ground and give him time to fire his handgun again.

But the second man with the longer, curler hair is unable to push the one attacking him away, let alone take a shot.

Your mind and heart races as you realize he is in trouble. Before the outbreak you'd have helped without question. You have a shotgun and bullets and someone is in danger. Of course you would.

But it is different now. Bullets might as well be made of gold in this world, and if you save him, you will inevitably expose yourself.

You aren't in the wilderness alone with nothing but a horse and the pack on your back for no reason. You've chosen to stay away from any kind of civilization; from all other people because people aren't safe anymore. The ones who are truly good are few and far in between, and you have only survived this long by lumping them with the majority.

Still, there is a part of you itching to shoot the runner, the part that has been getting more and more weary of living the nomadic life; of letting people die.

Maybe it is time for a change?

Whatever your choice, you will have to make it quick...

Choice 1: Leave Quietly

Choice 2: Save Tommy

xxx

Tagged: @solanumofthestars @harriedandharassed @trulybetty

xxx

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#The Last Of Us #Joel Miller #Ellie Williams #TLOU Fanfic #Joel Miller Fanfic (Mine)#X Reader #Choose Your Adventure #TLOU AU #What If Series

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na-bird-of-the-day · 1 year ago

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BOTD: Varied Thrush

Photo: Mick Thompson

"The haunting songs of the Varied Thrush echo through the dense humid forests of the Pacific Northwest. Long minor-key whistles repeated after deliberate pauses, they seem like sounds without a source; only a careful searcher will find the bird itself. Although it looks superficially like a robin, the Varied Thrush is far more elusive, usually feeding on the ground among dense thickets. Typical of the far west, it sometimes surprises birders by straying all the way to the Atlantic Coast in winter."

- Audubon Field Guide

#birds #varied thrush #birds of north america #north american birds #thrushes #passerines #birds of the us #birds of canada #birds of mexico #birding #bird watching #birdblr #birblr #bird of the day #Ixoreus naevius

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aidenlydia · 9 months ago

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heyo! I saw you read a lot of books so far this year! what type of books have you read? I recently started my reading journey and I am having a grand time!

I mostly read queer romances, stories about grief, poetry and weird/emotional/horror books. Here's some of my favorites:

Long way down - Jason Reynolds (verse)

Clap when you land - Elizabeth Acevedo (verse)

Things you may find hidden in my ear - Mosab Abu Toha

TransVerse - Jamie Winters (trans)

Field Guide to the Haunted Forest - Jarod K. Anderson

Love notes from the Hollow Tree - Jarod K. Anderson

Queen of Cowards - Erelah Emerson

Cemetery Boys - Aiden Thomas (trans)

A Bone in his Teeth - Kellen Graves (trans)

Peter Darling - Austin Chant (trans)

The Darkness Outside us - by Eliot Schrefer

The Long Run - James Acker

The Wicker King - K. Ancrum

The Remaking of Corbin Wale - Roan Parrish

Shatterproof - Xen

Something kindred - Ciera Burch

The Girl that can't get a Girlfriend - Mieri Hiranishi

A Dowry of Blood - S.T. Gibson

Proper English - KJ Charles

This is how you lose the Time War - Max Gladstone

On a Sunbeam - Tillie Walden

The Perks of loving a Wallflower - Erica Ridley (trans nb)

The stars and the Blackness between them - Junauda Petrus

A Lady for a Duke - Alexis Hall (trans)

Persuasion - Jane Austen

Dark Matter - Blake Crouch

Fangs - Sarah Andersen

Trans Wizard Harriet Porber Series - Chuck Tingle (trans)

Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

The Shock of the Fall - Nathan Filer

A Monster Calls (illustrated) - Patrick Ness

The Yellow Wallpaper - Charlotte Perkins Gilman

House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski

Leech - Hiron Ennes

We spread - Iain Reid

It’s Lonely at the Centre of the Earth - Zoe Thorogood

Nothing but the Rain - Naomi Salman

#if you’re interested in specific titles i’ll gladly tell you what the books are about <3 #book recommendations #book reccs #booklr #queer books

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yallthemwitches · 9 months ago

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A Quiet Moment

Sirius thought he was going to get a moment to relax alone in the dorms for once--but all the best laid plans...

For Jily Kinktober Day 9: Accidental Voyeurism.

I thought about resting on my laurels and just posting a excerpt of Ch. 16 of Catch the Wind ( or any of my Snape POV jily fics basically...), but then I've also been toying with a James/Lily/Sirius story for a while---so consider this a soft launch (but don't get too excited---this is very much still just a jily smut fic) ;)

AO3 here

Sirius didn’t get quiet moments often. He did it to himself really, filling his days with endless pranks, music, banter—anything possible to drown out the otherwise existential dread that haunted him in a nearly endless cycle. Noise, chaos, and sarcasm were what he was good at—being silent was not.

He sat on his bed, completely knackered. The full moon the night before had been a hell of a time, complete with a loose Moony wreaking havoc throughout the forbidden forest. He owed it to himself to shirk off classes, opting for the first time in his life to relax a bit. He wondered if he was doing a good job as he tried to focus on his book, barely keeping his eyes open.

Pounding feet echoed from the stairwell, rousing him from near sleep before the door crashed open. A curtain covered his view, but through the break in the fabric he could make out the untidy hair of James, arms wrapped and clawing around a red headed girl with green eyes.

What the fuck. What the FUCK.

He had known that Evans was starting to warm up to him, fuck, James reminded him every waking second how she now laughed at his jokes and lingered in the halls to talk to him. Sirius had even acknowledged how she had gradually migrated herself nearby during meals, capable of leaning in for a cheeky comment or two about whatever the lads were blathering on about. But this ...Sirius fancied himself a very observant person, but this was coming completely out of left field.

The couple barreled into the room, James guiding their feet while continuing to kiss, mouth open. Lily let herself be led, curling her hands into his hair and making soft moans when James reached over to cup her arse.

“This one’s mine.” James nodded towards his disheveled bed and Lily broke her mouth free, taking a moment to regard the space theoretically known as his side of the room.

“A bed? You spoil me, Potter.” She leaned into his mouth which had begun to trail down her neck.

“Maybe if we told people about us we could come here more often,” There was a hint of sadness to his teasing. Sirius could see Lily’s brow furrow for a second, but she softened as James' hands wrapped around her middle, pulling her body to sit on the edge of the mattress.

“ Prat,” She said it through a smile and James caught her lips. “In any event, we don’t have much time do we?”

James sank to his knees. She opened her legs enough to let him slot between them as he kissed her from the inner kneecap upwards, grazing his teeth and leaving pink lines against creamy skin.

“Merlin Lily, please let me taste you. It’s been—”

“It’s been one day! Not even!” Lily chastised, looking more pleased than annoyed.

“Don’t worry,” Sirius saw James’ hand disappear under her skirt and she breathed out a high pitched oh, “I’ll fuck you however you want, just let me lick you first.”

She didn’t need to answer, under his hand she was turning into a complete putty, melting like wax in a flame. Sirius hadn’t realized that he had moved into a craning position, trying to peek out of the tiny space where the fabric of the poster bed opened.

Fuck—what the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I watching this? Am I mental?

James pushed Lily up onto the bed, crawling after her all while not separating his mouth from the inside of her upper thigh. Lily watched, mouth agape and eyes blown, legs angled open giving Sirius a clear shot now of soaked knickers under her skirt.

She grabbed at his cheek, motioning for him to stop for a moment, then flipped herself onto all fours.

“Like this—we both always come quicker this way.”

James let out a deep fuck and rose up onto his knees behind her. He flipped up her skirt, grabbing a handful of her ass and squeezing.

“Fucking Merlin, how are you so beautiful.”

Both hands were on her ass now and she pushed into the bulge of his crotch, eliciting a guttural moan. A hand raised off her ass and slammed down. Sirius could tell it wasn’t a painful slap, but it was a slap all the same. James froze up, looking down at the red now blooming on her cheek.

“Oh fuck, Lily I’m so sorry. It just happened, I—”

“Do it again.”

Sirius couldn’t see his eyes at this angle, but he knew his mate enough to know the exact dopey expression bursting onto his face.

“Yeah?”

“Please, again.”

James lifted his hand again and smacked it down in the same place he had before. Lily let out a soft squeal at the impact, her ass bouncing lightly.

“ Merlin Fuck, oh shit, that’s so hot,” James babbled, completely mesmerized by how each spank made her ass move under his hand.

Sirius felt completely out of body, stuck in some sort of purgatory of morals which he was already not the best at maneuvering. Am I being punished?

He tried to level with himself, weighing the options. Ok-fuck, what would the lads do in this situation? Peter would probably watch also–that little freak, but Remus? Would he scream? Close his eyes and cry? Ah fuck how am I not prepared for this.

During his inner turmoil, James had crouched down so his mouth was level to Lily’s center. He held her knickers out of the way against her ass with a finger while his tongue started to lap at her. Facing at an angle, Sirius couldn’t tell if he was happy that he was unable to get a full view of James’ work, but if Lily’s response was any indication, he was doing a brilliant job.

Her hands curled into the bed sheets. With every bob of his head, she let out a mewling cry, lengthening his name until it sounded more like a note than a word. She reached a hand behind her, grabbing into his hair to push his face further between her legs. The action made her back arch dramatically and she used her other hand to fondle a breast still hidden underneath her uniform.

If it wasn’t already apparent before, there was no ambiguity about it now. This was not by any means their first foray into shagging each other. James lifted his head, locking eyes with her with a glistening mouth.

“Come for me—come on my mouth. I can feel you’re close. Shit, I need to fuck you soon, Lily. You look too fucking fit, I’m barely holding on.”

He burrowed his head back into her and she let out a cry.

“Just like that—you’re incredible James. Yes, baby.”

And she was coming. Through it all, Sirius reflected that he really never thought much about watching someone as they climaxed until now. Of course, he had seen someone do it before, but he hadn’t thought to really pay attention to the complete physical shift that occurred. He watched in fascination as Lily’s face scrunched up, all muscles taut before her whole body released like a blank slate. Her mouth hung loose and her eyes stared straight at everything and nothing all at once.

James continued to lap at her through her shudders, then scrambled into a kneeling position. His cock was weeping as it pressed against her wet center.

“I’m sorry, I need to be inside you now—fuck I love it when you come on my mouth—”

It took no effort for him to slide into her. His pace was quick and jagged, head bowed forward already teetering towards his own end.

“I’m sorry–I’m not going to last very long—shit how do you always taste so good. ”

He was slamming into her and the noises of their conjoined bodies echoed through the room. Lily threw her body back against his, head turned to watch him over her shoulder.

“Come for me—I want to feel you come inside me—please—”

Sirius watched as James’ body shuddered, forehead craning all the way to make contact with her back. He let out a string of curses riddled with her name as she kept the rhythm of their hips for the both of them. It was only until the two collapsed that Sirius realized his mouth was wide open and hand had instinctively moved to his groin.

He jumped the hand away from his cock, semi relieved he wasn’t fully hard, or else he would have some soul searching to do. He laid back on his bed and closed his eyes tight, taking deep quiet breaths. He could hear them whisper affirmations between soft kisses, and he wondered how something so utterly pornographic could fall into saccharine sweet so seamlessly.

“That was incredible–I really needed that.”James sounded euphoric, even happier than when he had won a challenging quidditch match.

“Wound up from your adventures with your little club?” Lily snorted. There was a sound of a scuffle, Lily shrieking with laughter. “Ok, ok, I’m sorry. You’re… cohorts? Team? Cult?”

“Hey, now you are just being ridiculous.” Some more playful shrieks, then silence.

“I have potions soon.”

“Stay,” James was doing his best whining voice.

“Later—I promise.” Someone was moving off the bed. Sirius opened his eyes to watch Lily stand to tidy all of her clothing, smoothing down the mess of hair that framed her face.

“I don’t want to be with anyone else but you for the rest of my life.” It seemed like an awfully big thing to say after shagging a secret lover, but it was James after all—and not just him, but him with Lily.

“I’ll hold you to it.” Her voice was soft and she didn’t elaborate. The door closed, and silence shrouded the room.

Sirius waited. He wished that Peter or Remus would show up. That someone would do something that would break him out of the purgatory he somehow was still living in despite the event reaching its conclusion. He peeked at James who had wrapped himself in his sheets, looking as content as a newborn child. His breath slowed and his mouth started to fall open in sleep.

He took his chance. Lightly pulling back the curtain, he placed one foot onto the ground, hoping praying that James wouldn’t—

“What the fuck.”

James' eyes were wide, glaring at Sirius with more terror and shock that he had ever hoped to have directed at him in his life.

“Please don’t ask me how long I was here.” Sirius’ hands instinctively went up in surrender.

“How long.” James’ voice was hard, almost pained.

He blinked, wondering why the world hated him so much. A thousand ideas sprung to mind before he landed on the one only logical enough to keep him alive to see another day.

“Long enough to see that you are very talented, mate.”

#james potter #jily #lily evans #jily fanfiction #marauders era #sirius black #accidental voyeurism #this is pure nasty smut sorry everyone #like I sometimes forgot I was writing sirius pov #marauders #jily kinktober #jily kinktober2024 #I guess you could say its a Jily+Sirius fic but Sirius doesn't do anything so idk

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evanesce-origin · 1 year ago

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when i die (which i must do)

speirsroe have a good time during the war and nothing goes wrong (lying)

ao3 link

CW: major character death, canon-typical injuries, canon divergence. apologies in advance for the things ive written. blasphemy??? (religion as a consistent metaphor)

Speirs had long grown used to the incessant prickling of cold at his fingers, like thousands of pins finding a home in his skin. He paid little mind to it; whether he was in the foxholes or wandering aboveground, it was rare that any presence of warmth showed him what he was missing. It was another aspect of war that faded to background noise; the static of loss and gunfire rang somewhere in between. He flexed his fingers and shifted his weight as he stood overlooking the quiet forest ahead of him.

The thick blanket of snow muffled any sound that wasn’t one of impending violence.There was no movement from the rest of Dog company— most had long dug into their foxholes for the night. Whether they slept or not was another story. Sleep didn’t come easy to any of them anymore.

Speirs moved through the trees like a ghost. His afterimage haunted the forest with the footsteps he left behind, breath whisking itself into the air when it escaped from behind the scarf he hid his face behind. Stoicism was a facade he knew all too well, like holding a mirror to the suffocating cold that surrounded him and donning it as a sort of camouflage. It was comfortable there, in the stiff lines of his braced shoulders and the rigid curve of his spine.There was an unfortunate ease that came to him exploring the line, one that had arrived long before Bastogne. Somewhere just before Taccoa, when he’d accepted he was a dead man walking and had little reason to protest otherwise, the calm had settled in his veins like ice and hadn’t been shaken since.

In the space between Dog company and Easy company’s lines, it could’ve been easy to forget there was a war going on. If he wanted to, he could’ve pretended he was the only man in the world, surrounded by the bright light that reflected off the snow from the moon like a system of funhouse mirrors guiding the sunlight back to Earth. If he wanted to, he could’ve imagined a world of peace that wasn’t so harsh as to take the men he walked amongst, body and spirit. He didn’t, though.

The time for reflection was one Speirs cherished more than anyone else would ever know. He mulled over his experiences from the last few years and the way his heart had changed. A novel concept, the heart of Lieutenant Ronald Speirs; its existence a myth that the paratroopers often made jokes about. Hell, if he were anyone but himself, he’d be cracking the same jokes.

With this time, he thought of the first time he saw Eugene Roe. It’d been a sweltering summer, midday sometime in August, and Dog company had just finished running drills. Easy company, contrary to their name, wasn’t granted the opportunity for a break like they should’ve been. Sobel was running them into the ground, figuratively and literally, as he did often. Incessantly. Shouted orders, insults, and curses poured out of Sobel’s mouth so loudly they rang in the ears of men halfway across the fields. Most of the men in Easy company had at least some level of exasperation on their face, if not pure outrage and murder in their eyes.

Roe’s face was a facade of calm, even when Sobel began arguing with Winters. He stood at attention as if he had been born to, familiarity and ease in the posture. It was only when Sobel said something blatantly wrong about code and a tactical decision Winters had apparently made earlier that week that Speirs saw a crack in that expression; a brief twinge of annoyance and fury that escaped as Roe’s gaze flickered from straight ahead of him to where Sobel stood. He set his jaw and raised his chin slightly.

There was an urge like a gut-punch that Speirs felt, nearly taking his breath away. The urge to dig at that crack, to unearth whatever was behind it and revel in it. The cold fire in Roe’s eyes had sparked something in his curiosity, and that was bad enough; Speirs didn’t get curious about the other men. He had no urge to know the others, not in the way that they seemed to intimately make friends despite their impending march to certain death, one he had accepted.

There was a part of his subconscious that had always kept track of Roe throughout their separate time at Toccoa. To be fair, he kept track of everyone. It was a force of habit, a way of keeping aware of his surroundings in a sense. Besides, he wanted to know the men he was going into the war with and their skill sets. There was no denying that his curiosity was far more than professional, however, and that ate at him like nothing else had.

Time in Europe before they officially dropped in Normandy had been a blessing, like the miracle of lightning striking a church. The first time they were in Aldbourne, there was much revelry to be had in the bars that remained standing, something all of the companies participated in without hesitation. Speirs didn’t find himself amongst them often, but on the rare occasions he did, there were a further few that overlapped with “Doc” Roe participating. The curiosity turned into a soul-felt hunger, one he tried his very best to ignore. This was one of few things Speirs wasn’t successful at, despite putting his mind to it.

Introductions were made eventually, casual and brief as they were between passing companies as a paratrooper brought Roe’s name up as an afterthought. Speirs refused to acknowledge the delighted twinge he felt at Roe’s accent, the low pitch of his voice bleeding into his thoughts like ink spilled upon a page, dark and all-encompassing as it clung to whatever it could reach. It was soft, something he didn’t often find comfort in, but the low rumble of Roe’s introduction and the subsequent way he shifted in his seat, grasping at his drink to avoid eye contact but not drinking, had Speirs settling in the chair across from him. Perhaps a conversation would satiate his curiosity, if he could just get a glimpse through the crack of his demeanor.

Looking back, this would be the moment that Speirs would declare everything had gone so very right and so horrifyingly wrong. He had never been a man of self control, though, and this characterisation would follow him to both of their graves. He was doomed from the very beginning, marching toward devastation as he followed the pure warmth of that Cajun accent. He would’ve followed it to the end of the war, too.

Quiet, sparse conversations punctuated with mutual, easy silence over drinks that were rarely alcoholic gave a foundation to acknowledgement of each other outside the little dark corners they spent their time in. It was hard to reconcile with, though; the moments Speirs spent studying the intricacies of Roe’s face, with the dancing firelight shifting and giving a further brilliance to all the softest and sharpest parts of his features. The angle of his brows, the thin purse of his mouth as he contemplated something in their mutual silence, the abrupt yet rounded lines of his cheekbones.

And Jesus Christ, his eyes held storms Speirs would dive headfirst into if given the chance. They were dark, like the farside of the moon and just as enticing. He didn’t catch them often, as Roe preferred to stare down at the surface of their rickety table or glance around the bar with a paranoia troopers didn’t often acquire before dropping for the first time, but Speirs didn’t mind much. Roe asked Speirs occasional questions about the version of himself he’d left behind in the States, one that he’d slaughtered without hesitation in preparation for their upcoming conflicts. He didn’t mind taking those old bones out once in a while, though, and showing them off for Roe if he asked. Roe did the same on occasion too, giving little quips of Louisiana tales that felt distant to them both.

Roe told him about the church he went to and a fondness he had for his “Ma’s cookin’” and the simple delights of walking down the street to a local bakery. The little details were gifts, wrapped by Roe and sent over with tentative hesitation and a wariness in his eyes that gave way to something else if pried upon.

The cold in Speirs’ voice never seemed to put Roe off any, nor did the uneasy way he smiled or the haunting of his eyes that trailed around the room boring holes into the backs of the other men. His Cheshire cat smile did send a shiver down Roe’s back once or twice, but it didn’t seem to be a negative reaction from what Speirs could gather. Speirs wasn’t insecure about the way he was perceived, the demeanor he held so naturally that unsettled the others, but at the time he thought it would’ve been a shame if Roe was the type to be scared off so easily. He wasn’t.

When they caught each other outside of their little corner, it was brief and in passing, but no less appreciated. Once, Speirs had even caught a glimpse of the quirk of the corner of Roe’s mouth, and felt a sense of nonsensical accomplishment. The preparation and anticipation had left them all a bit haggard; drawing a smile out of Doc Roe meant he was doing something right. There weren’t many more opportunities for quiet conversations left before something was bound to happen; they were awaiting further orders from the chain of command. The energy around Aldbourne felt much like the lighting of a fuse, waiting for the bomb to go off. Speirs awaited it eagerly, Roe with a sense of God-fearing dread.

There were bags under those half-moon eyes the last time Speirs saw Roe before the drop on Normandy, more prominent than they usually were, and he felt an irritating itch in his fingertips to smooth them away. At no point had Speirs accounted for any sort of desire, in any sense of the word, rearing its ugly head and drawing his attention somewhere other than the immediate pressing matter of the war ahead of them. He wanted to call out reassurances, make a comment about comforts Roe would find in the rosary beads that hung around his neck, but that wasn’t something that came naturally to him. Instead, across the airfield, their eyes caught on each other; a momentary eclipse. Speirs nodded. Roe nodded. The moment ended.

Accounts from his memory of catching glimpses of Roe during D-Day and the days after were hazy at best. He wasn’t sure if they were accurate or simply his mind filling in the blanks of soldiers passing by in the heat of battle and maybe it didn’t matter. Having caught a flash of his dark eyes and darker hair as he sprinted across the field in Carentan, Roe felt much like an omen. The moon caught his eye in the same way overnight, in passing with a glowing reassurance Speirs didn’t have the time nor the energy to consider.

The air in Aldbourne was different when they returned. Heavier, smokier, weighed down with the breath of devastation and heartache at what the military called a “mighty-successful mission.” Speirs could agree with that, and with the firm feeling of experience lodged in his chest at what he and D-company had accomplished. The familiar nagging of curiosity pushed him to find out what Roe thought about the whole matter, what he had emerged from the other side of D-Day with. If it had cracked him further, if he still clung to those rosary beads like they were the answer to the wreckage they’d been through.

They found each other eventually, coming together in an easy silence that provided some familiarity despite the fact that everything had changed with their first taste of combat. Speirs had flourished under the pressures and stress while Roe looked as if he were clinging to the semblances of normalcy, his hard eyes crinkled under the pressing crease of his downturned brows. Roe never volunteered tales of what he had been through and Speirs never asked. He could see them written on the creases of Roe’s face and oh God was it beautiful. The unease decorated Roe’s face like a veil and the horrors he had seen adorned his demeanor like the armor he wore to battle. Speirs found resolve in himself to dig himself under that armor, to work out the weak spots and dig his fingernails in until he drew blood.

The first few drinks Roe ordered were stronger than anything Speirs had ever smelt on his breath, but that didn’t last long. Roe just wasn’t a drinking man and that was one of the little quirks that made Speirs even more desperate to know him. One of the nights, after the other troopers got a bit too rowdy for his liking, Roe slammed his glass on the table and considered Speirs for a moment, eyelids heavy. “I’m gonna go on a walk.” He announced quietly, though he didn’t move.

It was an invitation. Speirs accepted it without a word, swinging his legs over his chair and yanking his coat off the back of it. Roe’s movements followed afterward, albeit with less gusto, which gave Speirs the time to shrug on his jacket and remove Roe’s from his own chair-back for him. Roe’s hands were tucked deep in the sleeves of his sweater, so Speirs simply draped his light jacket over his shoulders and struggled not to admire the way it hung over him. Roe mumbled a quiet thank you and they departed the little pub.

There was relative quiet in the streets. The distant shouts of drunk men clambering around the sidewalks hardly compared to the gunfire that had rang through their ears through the past few months. If a passerby were to guess by sound, they’d assume Roe was alone; Speirs’ footsteps were entirely silent, even and sure like a prowling cat. Roe fumbled for the pocket on his coat, unsuccessful as he battled his oversized sweater and the awkward settling of his coat where it was draped over his shoulders. “What are you looking for?” Speirs asked, amused.

“Smokes.”

Speirs obliged without another word, digging into his own pockets to retrieve a carton of cigarettes. “Not a drinker, but a smoker?”

“Yessir.”

Speirs chuckled and withdrew a lighter. He handed Roe a cigarette, which he promptly tucked between his lips. They paused in their steps, turning toward each other as Roe looked up at Speirs expectantly. Speirs raised the lighter to Roe’s mouth, crowding forward to block the wind from blowing the flame around as he lit it for him. For a long moment, Speirs’ eyes were locked in concentration on Roe’s mouth. He felt Roe startle slightly as he glanced up, sharp gaze boring holes into those storms like the sun breaking through clouds, before he looked back down to make sure the light caught. It had.

He moved away and they continued walking as Speirs began to fish out another cigarette for himself. “Uh, I don' mind sharin’. I’d hate for you to waste two at a time since you gave me one.” Roe’s voice was thick with…something.

That sharp pitch of delight returned tenfold and Speirs grinned down at Roe. “Alright.”

They continued their walk to anywhere and nowhere in the quiet amongst the stars. Roe’s fingers had escaped from the sweater to pinch at the cigarette, hands shaking from a nonexistent chill, skin calloused and warm as it brushed against Speirs’ hand when he passed it over. Speirs lingered for a moment. The thought of slipping his hand up the sleeves of Roe’s sweater and touching skin invaded his vision, enticing and unbearable. He wondered what he would find— what scars Roe was hiding, old and new.

Their hands pulled apart and Speirs took the cigarette into his mouth. It was slightly damp with Roe’s saliva and Speirs relished in the way inhaling burned. When he glanced over at Roe, he was watching him, eyes transfixed on Speirs mouth. That Cheshire cat grin returned as he parted his lips to let the smoke escape his mouth like the gasp of a prayer, head tilted back to the starry sky. When his eyes caught Roe’s figure again, his hand had fumbled for his rosary beads in the absence of the cigarette.

Speirs plucked the cigarette from his own lips after a few puffs, content to coast on what little nicotine he had gotten just to see it return to Roe. The medic stopped his fussing over the beads and accepted the cigarette graciously, with another brushing of hands and Speirs’ eyes tracking it as Roe put it back in his mouth. He closed his eyes when he inhaled, feather-light lashes fluttering against the rolling hills of his cheekbones.

A few blocks down the road, after contemplating in the silence, Speirs spoke again. “Do you pray often, Roe?”

“For my company, yes. For my patients.”

How honorable. “Do you have a favorite prayer?”

Roe recites it into the night and the ink bleeds through the folds of Speirs’ brain— he can feel it enter his bloodstream and crackle electricity through his bones. The rolling tone, the thick accent, “With all my heart.”

Perhaps, Speirs can understand the allure of worship. Vulnerability on the knees. This thought spurs on contemplation in him and he decides that maybe he does need that cigarette after all. Roe doesn’t comment as he fishes another out, but stops and turns to offer to light it for Speirs. He takes the invitation readily, though he goes about it differently; he tucks the cigarette into his mouth and dips his head to light it against Roe’s. The ember in Roe’s cigarette flares as he exhales sharply, those creases creeping out to dance across his skin as he furrows his brow and finds fascination in the tops of his shoes. “Thank you.” Speirs says, straightening his posture.

He takes a step to continue walking and it takes Roe a moment to catch up, taking a few large strides to walk beside Speirs again. They listen to the whooping of paratroopers down the road, a clattering, and the shattering of glass and Roe rolls his eyes. There are no screams of agony to indicate some sort of accident he has to attend to, and so he simply ignores the antics.

Speirs walks Roe back to the house he was assigned to, the family he’s bunking with long asleep at this point with all the lights off in the house. “Hope I didn’t keep you out past your curfew.” Speirs comments, teasing, as they pause at the door.

The corner of Roe’s mouth quirks up and he shakes his head. “No, sir. Somethin’ muss’ve convinced them that I’m capable. Maybe they heard there’s a war on.”

Speirs grinned and dug into his pocket once again. He grasped the lighter and dropped it into Roe’s pocket, knuckles brushing against his chest through the fabric of Roe’s shirt. “In case you need to light your own cigarettes next time.”

Roe opened his mouth to protest as Speirs spun on his heel to walk away, but Speirs raised a hand and, not too loudly, called out, “Get some rest, Doc. There’s a war on.”

Market-Garden is a resounding defeat. Nuenen more closely resembles Easy and Dog company being shot at like fish in a barrel than any military movement being executed. The death and destruction leaves bodies scattered in the streets that Roe is loath to ignore; the idea that a man can look dead but is still alive enough to be saved if he’d paid just a second more attention haunts him at night. He wonders how many men he’s left behind to die already, despite his oaths to leave no man behind. He wonders if the bloodstains will ever wash from his hands— he’s spent far too long over basins scrubbing his hands raw to not have an answer for that. He thinks he’ll feel it for the rest of his life. He wonders if the rosary around his neck is meaningless now with the ghost of a coating of blood preventing him from truly grasping it again. He wonders if he’ll ever feel clean again, if anyone will ever consider him clean again.

There’s plenty to do when they settle in one place after retreating. There were countless men injured, a limitless supply of bodies to keep Roe’s hands busy. He’s stitched more wounds than he can keep track of, soothed burns, removed shrapnel, and thrown sheets over the faces of men whose names he can’t even remember. And by God, despite all the bodies, it’s the loneliest work Doc Roe has ever done.

It isn’t until nightfall that he eventually gets a break, fully reliant on whatever amalgamation of supply crates stacked behind him to keep him up. He’d propped himself against them not five minutes ago, head tilted back against the harsh corners as he tried to breathe past the iron scent that clung to the inside of his nose. Back in his training days the smell of blood made him nauseous. The first three days he had real patients he couldn’t eat a single meal, couldn’t even bear the smell of food. Those days had passed and there was no other option than to push past the way his stomach turned if given the opportunity for a meal.

Captain Winters handed him something edible as he passed by, commenting on Roe’s good work. It didn’t feel much like good work but he nodded and thanked Winters nonetheless— at least with Winters he knew he wasn’t being bullshitted for encouragement, and that meant something to Roe. He ate whatever it was, lukewarm and stale-tasting, slowly as he tried to cycle through the casualties he confronted that day. There were far too many bodies, nameless bodies, for him to pray for them all, and it had become far more realistic for him to pray for the ones he could still protect. Captain Winters and Nixon. The rest of Easy company. A few faces outside of it. The nurses on the frontlines. He could pray for them.

Like a prayer answered, one of the faces outside Easy company materialized through the dark. Speirs was led by what Roe could only assume was one of his men, a strip of fabric pressed to the side of his face. A strip of fabric soaked in blood.

Roe’s dinner was tossed aside, dish and utensil clattering to the ground as he darted up from where he was sitting and stalked toward them, adrenaline running cold through his veins. “Get ‘m in here.” Roe commanded, voice louder than it had been in weeks.

Speirs seemed to perk up at the familiarity of Roe’s voice, though that disoriented glaze to his eyes and movements never shook off. The man assisted Speirs into the medic’s tent and promptly scattered when Roe pointed to the flap, stony-faced. The moment the man left Roe shifted his full attention to Speirs and covered the hand Speirs was using to hold the cloth to his face. “I’ve gotta take a look.” He said softly.

Speirs looked up at him, hazy and unsure, the amber of his eyes scanning Roe’s face. Despite what seemed to be a form of trauma—mental or physical, Roe wasn’t sure yet—Speirs was still on guard with rigid posture and his muscles locked into place as he sat before him. Roe dug into his pants pocket and produced the lighter Speirs had given him, holding it close to Speirs face so he could get a good look. “Figure it’s about time I return this to you.”

When Speirs finally focused on the lighter, his posture relaxed slightly. He said nothing, but allowed Roe to finally pull his hand and the cloth away from his face. It was an active fight to quell the rise of panic that struck Roe when he got a good look at Speirs; there wasn’t a part of the left side of his face that wasn’t covered in blood, parts of it thickening and turning dark. For once, it seemed the sharp horror had made itself evident on Roe’s face as Speirs finally spoke, “You gonna pray for me, Eugene?” His voice was breathless from previous exertion.

“No need, sir, you’re gon’ be just fine.”

“What if I ask nicely?”

The lilt of his smile showed the blood on his teeth and Roe did his very best not to stare at the man’s canines, their sharpness giving him the image of a cottonmouth waiting to strike. Roe swallowed and looked away, finding reassurance in the fact that Speirs’ left eye seemed to be working just fine judging by the way he was staring down Roe. “I’m gonna start cleanin’ this up and you let me know if any parts hurt worse than others.”

“Sure thing, doc.”

Roe retrieves a clean-ish cloth and some fresh water and begins swiping the blood off Speirs’ face, starting with the line of his jaw where the blood had begun trailing down his neck. The running hypothesis was that Speirs’ had a shallow head injury and was more concussed than anything; head wounds bleed like hell and if Roe had kept any sort of grip on himself when Speirs came in, he would’ve remembered much faster. It wasn’t until he began swiping up close to Speirs’ temple, along his hairline, that Speirs flinched away from his pressing hand. “There.” Speirs announced through gritted teeth.

“Gotta clean it up to get a good look at it. Sit tight.”

The previously clean bucket of water was turning a murky pink with every dip Roe made. He did his best to ignore the way Speirs sucked air in between his teeth every time Roe got a touch too close to the gash. He would need stitches, but it wasn’t dire, much to Roe’s relief. “The hell happened out there?” He asked, not sure if he wanted the answer.

“Couple men couldn’t make the retreat from Nuenen. Had to go back and get them.” Speirs answered.

“Any others injured?”

“It was just me.”

“Lucky you.”

“I was the only one who went.”

Roe’s hand froze mid-swipe, resting against the sharp cliff of Speirs’ cheekbone as he stared down at him. The eclipse of their eyes left Roe vulnerable, open for Speirs being able to watch every emotion cross his face at the same time. Finally, Roe settled on one and worked his jaw, grinding his teeth together before he began cleaning again. There was a beat of silence, and then, “You’re angry with me.” Speirs said, his voice breathy again, this time with awe.

He stared up at Roe with a sort of delight in his eyes that would send any other man running with horror, that grin plastered firmly on his face. “No, sir.” Roe said firmly, dragging the washcloth along the water a little too aggressively— water sloshed over his shoe and he paid it no mind.

“Why are you angry with me, Eugene?”

He was prying. “Permission to speak, sir?” Roe asked, teeth still gritted.

Speirs waved him off with a lazy hand, though he was paying rapt attention. “Never had to ask before.”

“I just think we’ve lost a lot of damn good men today, sir. And I understand you need’ta do right by your men, and it’s an honorable thing, but what if you had died?” Roe tossed down the cloth with a force that sent the bucket reeling, refusing to look Speirs in the eye again.

Speirs shrugged. “And what if I die? We’re already dead.”

The fury blazing in Roe’s eye as he looked up again left Speirs delightfully cold, his head tilted back as he basked in it. “Not to me.” He paused. “Not to me, sir.”

With that finality, he turned and began prepping the needle and thread for Speirs’ sutures. Speirs slid off the makeshift stretcher he’d been sitting on, taking the few steps he needed to stand behind Roe. Roe could feel his presence looming over him as he worked, it was hard not to, but he ignored him. Sure it was petty, but if the man could go run behind enemy lines on a solo-suicide mission, he could be a little petty. “Eugene.” Speirs said quietly as he placed a hand on Roe’s shoulder.

Roe turned with a ferocity he wasn’t aware he possessed, indignant. “You coulda died!”

“I know.”

Roe gripped his jacket, rising to inches from Speirs’ face. “You coulda died and then what?”

“What do you mean, ‘gene?” Speirs’ tone was soothing, the way you spoke to a stray you’d hit with your car before you put it out of its misery.

“What the hell was I supposed to do if you’da died?”

Roe punctuated his sentence with halfhearted shoves to Speirs shoulder and chest, damp with his blood. Speirs caught Roe by his shoulders and pulled him into his chest, wrapping his arms around Roe’s biceps to stop his protesting. Roe folded into him immediately, accepting defeat as his body shuddered against his will. Muffled by Speirs’ uniform, “What the hell was I supposed t’ do?”

“I’m sorry, ‘gene.”

The reckoning that ran through Roe’s body was like an earthquake, the kind of world-shattering event that sent prayers to the lips of atheists and Speirs just held him like he never considered any other option. When the fear subsided, Roe pulled back and ducked away from Speirs, shoving his fists across his eyes. “Still have to stitch that.”

“Alright, Eugene.”

Speirs sat patiently in place as Roe prepped his materials. He wordlessly handed the lighter back as Roe mindlessly searched for it to sterilize the needle, something he’d done countless other times that day with the same lighter. There was an irony in the concept. Roe used the lighter to sterilize needles to save mens’ lives, while Speirs had used it to light cigarettes before taking lives. Perhaps it was all about balance.

The stitching went smoothly, yet uneasily, as Roe tried not to flinch every time Speirs grunted in pain. The morphine had long run out— if Roe had known this was going to happen, he would’ve stashed just a little, but he hadn’t known Speirs would be so stupid as to do what he’d done. When it was finally clean and bandaged, Roe stepped back and looked him up and down. “Anything else?”

“Nah, ‘gene, I’m okay. A few bumps and bruises, but that’s all.”

Roe rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I’ve gotta make sure you don’ have a concussion. You gettin’ back to Dog company?”

Speirs hesitates, sly. “I could leave before daylight to get back.”

Roe nodded. “Alright. Stay here, then. I’ll wake you up every coupl’a hours, make sure you’re not gettin’ worse.”

“Anything you say.”

Roe began cleaning up and as he passed Speirs to dispose of the bloodied cloth, Speirs caught him by the bicep. “Hey, we okay?”

“Yessi— yeah. Yeah, we’re— yeah.”

“Good.”

“I should let Captain Winters know y’here for the night. He’ll be wanting to know what happened.”

“Alright. I’ll be here.”

Roe nodded and ducked out of the tent.The moment the canvas flap fell closed, Roe’s hand darted out to shove it back aside. He crossed the space in a few quick strides and his mouth pressed hard against Speirs’, chapped and cold as he lifted his rosary beads over his neck and placed them around Speirs’ instead. When he pulled back, huffing, he said, “So you think twice about gettin’ your damn self killed.” And he ducked back out of the tent.

The time they got in Mourmelon-le-Grand was bliss. Speirs had nothing but Roe wrapped up in blankets. He pulled sighs from his mouth and swallowed them whole, spent his nights pressing his lips to every inch of the medics skin, and played his hand at worship that was foreign to him but felt so familiar nonetheless. They had never been so efficient in the few duties they did have, eager to get back to each other at the end of the day.

As Speirs leaned over Roe, propped up on his side in the bed they shared, Roe’s rosary beads dangled from Speirs’ neck and skimmed lightly over Roe’s chest. Roe reached up and touched them, stormy eyes fascinated by the way they reflected the light from the setting sun in the window. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Speirs uttered, his palm coming up to rest against Roe’s cheek.

Roe leaned into it, “What?”

“You.”

A flush spread across Roe’s face like the reds of the aurora borealis, painting him with watercolors Speirs would kill to see over and over again. Speirs ducked his head to capture Roe’s mouth with his, as he’d found the taste of Eugene Roe was the only thing that satiated that nagging curiosity he’d held for so long. Speirs’ fingertips skimmed over a smattering of scars on Roe’s side, dancing over the taut skin of his stomach that seized at his attention— he was slightly ticklish, Speirs had learned. God above he was soft, too, where the war hadn’t gotten to him and Speirs especially loved to prod at those places, to dig in and find a home there. Roe invited him in with the warmth of his arms and the plush of his thighs and the bruised bones of his knees as they folded together, Speirs’ face buried in Roe’s neck.

“Y’ comfy, there, Ron?”

Speirs’ reply was indecipherable, his mouth pressed against the warmth of Roe’s shoulder. There wasn’t anything in the world that could drag him out, not even the man himself, and Roe laughed. It was a sound that Speirs would’ve marched through hell and back a million times to hear, rolling like thunder and just as deep. Roe was a storm in the sweltering summer, all dark clouds and warm rain and Speirs had dove in and he was drowning. It was the easiest thing he had ever done.

Roe’s hands held firm against Speirs’ back, the tips of his fingers calloused from all the suturing needles and the rough handle of his knife. Speirs groaned at the feeling, one he prayed he’d never grow used to for fear of it becoming unremarkable to him. A foreign concept, sure, but he still hoped it would never happen. “Could stay here forever.” Speirs mumbled.

“What? Y’ gotta—” Roe pushed his face to the side slightly so as to hear him.

“Could stay here forever.”

Roe sighed wistfully and stared up at the ceiling. “Well, there’s a war on, y’know.”

Speirs, decidedly over the turn the brief conversation had taken, dug his fingers into Roe’s hip and pulled them both backwards. At this angle, he could admire the man in a new light and hell it was a glorious one. Roe’s hair looked best mussed up with no regard to regulations, dark strands hanging in his face as a curtain of black clouds to the eye of the storm. The light caught his features much like it had back in Aldbourne, the first night they had met and Speirs had been cautiously intrigued by the sullen medic. Roe kissed him again and he breathed deep, memorizing every level to the way he smelled. Clean, of soap since they’d gotten to Mourmelon-le-Grand. There was a tinge of sweat from their activities an hour earlier. And hours before that. And there was a note of petrichor, so distinctly Roe that it put an ache in Speirs’ heart.

Yes, Speirs’ heart was something that had never before been seen by the rest of Dog company or Easy company. A novel concept, indeed. The rosary beads that hung around his neck and the cross that fell just above his heart would’ve been frozen from the cold if not for the way his body heat compensated for the ever-persistent chill. He wondered often if Roe was keeping warm. Where he was. From what Speirs had gathered, he spent his time deep within a foxhole or busy on his feet trying to keep men alive that seemed so determined to die in this frozen hellhole. Speirs mulled over the last time he’d been given the opportunity to press a kiss to those frozen hands, praying that the brief contact had breathed a warmth into Roe that wasn’t physical.

In the limbo between Dog and Easy company, Speirs paused and breathed. At this point, if any head of raven hair popped above the ground, he’d see it in easy contrast against the landscape as it suffocated in snow. He was smart enough to promise himself not to wait long. It would do no one any good if he were to get distracted, waiting in the tundra of the woods freezing to death in the search for a glimpse of his medic. The one saving grace for his lack of excuse to be out there was the fact that not many people would be willing to question Speirs on his actions.

He thought over, ever so briefly, what they’d do if they got back. There’d be a ring, most likely. They’d never discussed kids, but that seemed to be the sort of thing Roe might like if they could sort out all the shit in their head first. Before anything, though, Speirs wanted a year of uninterrupted nights with Roe trapped within his arms. Peace. Warmth. He’d follow Roe anywhere in the world if he could get a glimpse of peace in the man’s eyes.

Speirs felt the urge to fumble with the rosary beads and was reaching toward his neckline when a shifting caught his attention. There was a stirring along Easy’s line, men poking their heads aboveground— likely relieving themselves with others on watch. No one wanted to die in the snowy Bastogne woods with their dick out. He paid no mind to their stirring until a whistle sounded out and, “Incoming!” was shouted.

There was no Eugene or Ron in that moment, when Speirs ducked below ground into one of the scattered foxholes that stretched between the two lines. The cover was hardly adequate, but it was better than being stuck above ground as the artillery rained down. The rattling of the Earth had felt like the end of days the first handful of times he’d experienced it, but Speirs was jaded and simply focused on keeping track of himself and not dying. Hunched in that foxhole, he escaped without injury. The assault slowed to a stop, the telltale whistle of incoming missiles vanishing just as quickly as it came.

Speirs hauled himself aboveground and did a quick check of his own personal inventory. He didn’t appear to be missing anything, literally or metaphorically, and straightened up as he prepared to march back to Dog company line and take account of his men. It was as easy as breathing, to begin that march. And then someone called, “Medic!” and, “He is the fucking medic, you dumbass!” and Speirs realized he had never experienced anything close to Earth shattering before that moment.

He was sprinting before he could realize what his body was doing. It was possible that it wasn’t Eugene— Easy company had more than one medic. He could be senselessly charging into a different company’s lines like the entire German army was on his heels for no reason. Not to be crass, but he didn’t much care if it wasn’t Roe, and it was entirely possible it wasn’t Roe. The medic was probably hustling around his own company taking care of those injured and would greet Speirs with an incredulous look of, what are you doing here?

There was so much blood. The snow soaked it up like a sponge, accepting the neon red dye like it was a right, and Speirs had never been so angry in his life. Sharp pain careened through his knees as he crashed to the ground. “Eugene. Eug— fuck, Eugene!” He didn’t know what to do with his hands, hovering them above the medic. Useless.

Eugene was sprawled in the snow, jaw slightly ajar as he stared up through the canopy of trees at the falling snow. It wasn’t a direct hit or an amputation, he knew, but something had gone so terribly wrong as he’d rushed to help a member of Easy company that had tripped on their way to a foxhole. It was somewhere in the cacophony of a falling tree, and he was distantly aware that he was surrounded by his men as they stared down at him. Useless. “Where the fuck is Spina!”

Spina. Hm. Resigned, Roe put his energy into turning his head, fumbling his hand with the fabric of Speirs’ pants where he kneeled beside him. Useless. “Hi.” His voice was garbled, not his own.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eugene. Someone get Spina over here right-fucking-now!”

The other Easy company members had sat back in horror. They knew what Roe would say if he weren’t the one on the ground at that very moment. There was no point. No one survived having a tree branch launched through their middle, impaling them to the ground. “What’re y’ doin’ here?” Roe asked Speirs, confused.

All Speirs could summon were curses and the horror of tears. His eyes were wide and wild, sending Easy company members scattering backwards as he looked up and around. “Where the fuck is the other medic?” He yelled.

“Speirs.” A voice came from behind him. “Speirs. S— Ron.”

It was Winters, a hand on Speirs shoulder as he forced himself not to look away from the state of Doc Roe. “There’s morphine in his jacket.”

“Fuck.”

The exhale of the curse breathed out any of Speirs’ hope with it, the pit in his chest growing by the second as the blood around Eugene pooled further and dissipated into the snow. “It’s—” Roe’s inhale was rattling. “S‘kay. Don’... feel it.”

Speirs hated the calming storm. He hated the way Roe’s grasp on his pant leg felt feeble at best, hated the way his own hand shook as he took Roe’s hand carefully and resigned himself to a new form of death, one he had never considered but a thousand times worse. Speirs descended into the bloodbath as he lowered himself onto his side beside Roe, desperate to see his face, unmarred by blood. Roe’s eyes were rolling in his head, unclear and unfocused, but he was doing his goddamn best as Speirs’ face hovered over his own.

Speirs’ icy hand found its place on Roe’s cheek once again and he leaned down to press a frozen kiss to Roe’s furrowed brow bone. Roe groaned as he tried to shift and failed. “‘m sorry.” He exhaled.

“Fucking hell, ‘gene, don’t you dare apologize. You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for, baby.”

Roe’s laugh was more of a wheeze as his eyes roamed Speirs face. “Baby. Tha’s new.”

“Thought I’d try it out.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Another wheeze. The rattling of Roe’s breath was a horror Speirs had become familiar with over their time at war. He’d heard it a million times before and this was the only instance in which it’d haunt him for the rest of his goddamn life. His throat felt raw from screams he was hardly holding back, the wrenching of his gut urging him to upend his insides until it all stopped hurting. Roe’s hands traced upward, fumbling and weak, before they reached the base of Speirs’ neck. The beads hardly poked above his collar but Roe found them anyway and tangled his fingers in them, blood coating the rosary. “Christ above, Roe, you should’ve kept them.” Speirs choked out, wanting to be angry. Angry was better than this.

Roe attempted some approximation of shaking his head. “No. They’re yours.” came out more along the lines of “N… th’yers.”

Speirs fumbled his own hand upward and captured Roe’s, bringing it to his lips. He kissed each bloody knuckle, ignoring the iron taste in his mouth and the stain it’d leave on his skin before he leaned down and pressed his lips to Roe’s forehead. His brows. His cheeks. Like lipstick marks, Roe’s blood planted itself on his face with each press of Speirs lips. “I’ve got you, ‘gene. You’re alright, baby.” His voice was softer than it had ever been, softer than it ever would be again.

“Lo’...” The exhale Roe let out was final.

Speirs hands shook so badly he couldn't grasp properly. The fight to get the scarf off his neck was one he nearly lost; it seemed all he could do in that moment was lose, over and over again. Carefully, gingerly, he pushed it under Roe's head and wound it around him. Winters spoke up, “Speirs, he's…”

“I know.” Speirs bit out. “I just—I don't want him to be cold.”

“Okay. That's— that's good, then. You did good by him.”

The Earth shattered apart below their feet.

Speirs wore that rosary through the rest of the war and beyond. His eyes stayed wild, his tactics unimaginable, the rumors crass and vicious. He was no man of religion, but he was a man of storms. Other troopers pointed out just how crazy he was, considering he took every chance to stand out in thundering rain, gasping as the rain pelted his skin and washed him anew. Even with the weight of the rosary and two sets of dog tags, it was never enough. He’d left his heart in the frozen ground of Bastogne, under a Sycamore with E.R. carved into it. None of it would ever be enough again.

#speirsroe #band of brothers #ronald speirs #easy company #hbo war #doc roe #eugene roe #character death #angst #fluff #oneshot #i hit that sopping wet man with a baseball bat

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