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applsauss · 4 years ago

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Lightning Bugs in July | II

GUNNER AND BUG

Description: You were christened ‘Bug’ by Beth and ‘Gunner’ by your pals. Those are the names that define you.

Fandom: Band of Brothers

 Pairing:  Joseph Toye/Reader

Word Count:  5.9k+

Warning(s): Derogatory Language. Nothing you wouldn’t see in the show.

“What did they call you?”

Em’s question was so innocent.

You were called ‘Bug’ once, when you’d run barefoot through the grass, catching lightning bugs with your bare hands in the sleepy twilight.

Beth was younger, then. So were you. She would call after you from the porch: “Buggy! Come in. It’s getting late!”

You existed in a world without war for so long, why can’t you exist there once more? Why is it so hard to stand back on that beach and live in it the way it was, the way you once were?

There were lightning bugs, then, over the Potomac. They flashed like they wanted to remind you of everything good still left in the world.

“Were you a good machine gunner?”

They called you ‘Gunner’ once. You used to take pride in that name, then you learned to accept it for what it was: A fact, something that’s definition just meant you, something that was yours.

They would call after you, in a firefight, in the quiet often that followed one:

“Gunner!”

Wars seem never-ending when you’re in the middle of one.

You are shaking in a foxhole. Dirt falls over your head and shoulders the farther you press your back into the wall behind you, and your machine gun is steaming above you. These are unimportant details. Mostly, you are staring at your bloody hands.

Something drips down the side of your face like a shiver. Your chest rises and falls quickly -- so quickly -- you can't control it. Mostly, though, you are staring at the wet blood sticking between your fingers.

"Gunner!"

Where did all this blood come from? You look down at your arm and find that the red is soaking through your uniform as well. Is it yours? Panic flares, cold like dread in your chest, and you can't catch your breath, but you're breathing so quickly -- how can it feel like you're drowning? Is it the blood?

"Gunner!"

There is a loud ringing in your ears, like gnats swarming your head. Are you dying?

"Gunner!"

Someone slides into your foxhole. You suck in a sharp, rattling breath and scramble for your bayonet, but the straps of your webbing are tangled and you can't yank it free. Then a hand settles over yours -- kind in that it is unyielding -- and you realize it's just Joe Toye who's crouched beside you. "Oh, Gunny," he rasps as he sinks to his knees, the edges of him stark against the sky.

"Joe?'

You can barely make out his face in the broad daylight; your vision blurs and drops off to static around the edges. You try and force more words up and from your chest, but your jumbled mind won't let any thoughts stick. Slowly, Joe wraps his arms around you and brings you to his chest.

"Are you hurt?"

The question confuses you. You don't have an immediate answer. You turn your face into Joe's chest, nose pressed to his jacket, and beneath all the shellfire and hellfire, the air around Joe Toye tastes like Lucky strikes on your tongue.

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s Lieb?”

"I don't know." You find yourself struggling to hold down the urge to cry. You wrestle with it on the floor of your mind, bat at its hands and squeeze its neck. Joe cradles your head and begins rocking back and forth.

"It's alright. You're alright. You're looking fine, Gunner--"

"Oh, dear God--"

Someone else is at the lip of the foxhole, the familiar shadow of a friend cast over you.

"Go get the doc."

You barely recognize Eugene Roe when he slips down the wall of your foxhole. He has the pallid face of an angel, his halo, the red cross on his helmet.

Joe's voice rumbles in his chest like a beloved wave of thunder. "You're gonna be fine, huh, Gunner?"

"Huh, Gunner?

"Huh, Gunner?"

Does he know what your name means to you?

You were called 'Bug' once, when you ran barefoot through the grass chasing lightning bugs.

You never liked your first name because it was given to you by your mother, who didn’t, and still doesn’t, know you. You were christened ‘Bug’ by Beth and ‘Gunner’ by your pals. Those are the names that define you.

When you close your eyes, you urge yourself to remember that beach, that twilight, that last moment of peace you stole before you waded deeper and let the current of war sweep you under, tear you away from whatever simpler life you might have lead if you'd never joined up and shipped off, shot and been shot, dug into the earth and understood intimately the way it shivers during an artillery barrage.

This is one thing you know for certain: Your name belongs to you the same as it is you, who you are.

What did they call you?

Gunner. Because it's what you call a machine gunner. A good one.

Joe sets your helmet on your head; You forgot when you took it off in the first place. A hand appears in front of your face; Skip Muck is staring down at you grimly as he hoists you up and over the edge of the foxhole.

The sun in France is soft like velvet, and with the eclipsing of spring comes a fresh summer breeze. The air rushes over your skin, caressing your face like a lover might, and the sun kisses the apples of both your cheeks, speckled through the leaves. These are unimportant details.

Mostly you cannot tear your eyes from the field of German bodies that comes into view as soon as you clamber out of the foxhole. There are twenty, maybe thirty of them -- a whole platoon draped like dolls over each other, shredded from high-caliber rounds. It is a mass grave.

Blood soaks into the dirt. The grass it drips from sways in the summer breeze without care. Blood drains from your face, leaving behind cold dread, and you smear it on your pants when you try and wipe it from your hands.

Some memories make it past the filter of your mind. It was enfilade fire, which is a technical term meant to obscure the horror a gunner witnesses when it happens. The Krauts had been lined up so neatly, eager to catch the rest of the company off-guard to the point of deadly carelessness.

You remember feeling mostly confusion when the first couple soldiers in your sights fell, only to reveal the others stacked up behind them, pierced by the same spray of bullets. Hubs, your ammunition bearer, had shouted something along the lines of 'get those fucking Krauts, Gunny!" before loading up another belt for you to bury more dead with. You don’t remember why Liebgott wasn’t there to do it instead.

That confusion you felt -- your mind unable to process the carnage -- gave way to urgency when you were reminded of your buddies, just over the hill, their backs turned and wanting for a bullet while they take care of the line. “Don’t let anyone past,” Lip had told you and Hubs before shuffling off. “We’re all countin’ on you.”

The Kraut platoon leader managed to get his men together a bit, and they stopped mid-charge to fire back upon your position. Vaguely, you remember an explosion, a squelch, a shout, being thrown against the wall, then jumping right back on your gun. And now you're left in the silence of a firefight. The air tastes heavy with blood.

"Gunner," Joe Toye rasps.

You shake your head and fumble with your breast pocket for a pack of gum. You set a stick of it between your teeth, bite down, and let the spearmint burn a hole through your tongue.

It feels deserved.

“Gunner.”

That’s your name. It’s what you are. A machine gunner.

Instruments of war are carefully, purposely, deadly. A well utilized machine gun can change the tide of an entire battle -- that lesson was drilled into you the moment they picked you out for a machine gunner, the moment you were christened in Toccoa by Joe Liebgott and O. Petty.

You are a machine gunner.

You attempt for a moment to hang onto that urgency you felt when Lip gave you your orders to justify the death in front of you. You’ve never seen so many bodies before. In certain spots, the Germans are two, three deep, dead and dying on top of each other. One of them wails. The sound pierces you faster than any bullet. The sound is stuck in your ears. It is there, always,whenever it is quiet.

Your mouth tastes like blood and spearmint. You hate that flavor. You squeeze your eyes shut, but no memory comes.

"Were you a good machine gunner?"

Yes. You were.

An hour later, the rest of Easy Company bustles around you. You are sitting next to your machine gun while Smokey cleans it, occasionally spitting the chewing tobacco from his mouth onto the grass.

"Joe," you ask quietly, staring down at your bandaged hands while they shake. Joe Toye grunts, and you meet his eyes then, feeling brittle and empty. "Where's Hubs?"

It isn’t until the next day you find out you’re wearing what’s left of him. Liebgott tells you this shamefully, wringing the straps of his musette bag and unable to look you in the eyes. You both feel the loss immensely.

But wars end eventually, and in October, the Virginia heat touches down once daily, in the early afternoon. Tommy sits down on the wood pile beside you and pulls out his lunch box, same as yours. You tilt your head back and enjoy the brittle heat of the day wrapping itself around you like a quilt. You let your eyes slip shut and it almost feels like just yesterday you were standing out on the gravel bank in your wrinkled uniform, throwing your medals into the Potomac, instead of three months ago. Your fingers twitch, and your thoughts are flooded with the taste of spearmint.

"Hey," Tommy grunts beside you.

You peak an eye open to find him holding out a saltwater taffy for you to take. His pockets are always full of them. You don't remember exactly when he picked the habit up, but it's been this way since you were kids.

You accept the small offering, unwrap it, then pop it in your mouth. "Thanks," you mutter, and he nods.

The afternoon is quiet. The sweat you worked up installing drywall is freezing on your back, but the toes of your boots are sweltering in the dry sun. You find yourself lingering for longer and longer in moments like these. It began in France, when Easy Company would eventually break in a relatively quiet town after going through hell.

You were always a bit greedy with food and personal property, everybody with siblings is, but you were never as greedy with anything else than a peaceful moment after your boots touched French soil for the very first time. Some days, it was as if your entire mind, body and soul wanted for nothing more than to lounge out in the sun and play a game of cards. You held on to those moments with a greed so intense that at times, it felt like nobody but General Taylor himself could order you away.

There are some things you need to learn to let go of, though.

“Where’s Ma?” you ask after a prolonged lapse in conversation. The question has been on your mind for some time now. Your mother's a tramp, but she usually shows her mousy face every couple weeks around the house, begging for table scraps, sometimes demanding them.

Tommy shrugs. “Hasn't been back nearly as much since you left. Last I heard -- you know how Beth is with her -- she went off to New Orleans or somewhere with a gentleman suitor. Hasn’t been back since March.”

You shake your head. “‘Course that’s where she went." You remember her waxing poetic about Mardi Gras and all of its sexual freedoms. You run a hand through your hair and wish quietly for the way Lieb would cut it. The conversation feels awkward and stilted when it shouldn't, because Tommy is your brother and you’ve known him since you were two and he was zero days old.

The air tastes uncomfortable, and humor is the only weapon you have to mask the flavor. "Anything else happen while I was gone?” you ask, half-joking.

Tommy shakes his head, the attempt at humor landing between his feet, a dud shell. “Not much has changed. You know Norma’s graduating this year, says she wants to be a movie star” -- you laugh good-naturedly at this -- “She’s got a plan and everythin��. L. A,” Tommy continues with a snort.

You open your mouth to respond but a quick shout interrupts you.

“Hey, Bug!” A couple of the other workers at the job site are approaching you. You smile curtly and nod your head. Tommy is silent while they poke and prod at you, try and get you to tell them a couple war stories.

“So tell us what it was like.”

“Did you shoot anyone?”

“You must be either brave or stupid to have volunteered to jump out of a perfectly good aeroplane.”

These are all things you've heard before, a part of the same, re-used script every man who didn't enlist carries in his back pocket.

“Hey, next time you’re down at Old Towne’s your drinks are on me, alright, hero?” That one's new, and something you're having difficulty getting used to. No one in town thinks much of your family, your mother's broke and half of you are abominations on your fathers' side, but a war hero is a war hero, you suppose. At least that's the case for you.

You say what you have to to get them to move on as quickly as possible. You don’t want to talk about any of it, you don't want to think about any of it -- you want to scrub Europe from your mind until it's the blurry memory of a night terror you only have early in the mornings, before you're fully awake.

“Alex is back in town.” Tommy says when the crowd of workers finally moves on.

You frown. “Since when?”

“Since Christmas. ‘Was all torn up when we broke the news that you’d gone, said that you were real brave and real foolish, waxed poetic about how you were worth the wait.”

You can't help the bitter laugh punched from your chest. “The wait?”

Tommy shakes his head in sympathy. “Norma chased her off before I could, and I had to hold Pat back from trying to maul her in town a couple times.”

You laugh and drop the conversation. Alex Lanchester is a jar of worms you don't want to reopen. She left you for a suit and the Big Apple two weeks before you finally confessed to enlisting.

It’s stupid to get caught up in someone like that, so you don’t. You just close your eyes and think of those lightning bugs on the Potomac and when Tommy lights up a cigarette, you keep your eyes closed and pretend they’re not Lucky Strikes.

In the winter there is ice along the Potomac. The gravel's crunch underfoot is sharper and the flow of the river is slowed to a crawl. This is an unusually cold year. The snow began in late November and hasn't stopped since.

You are standing at the edge of the water, where the ice is thick and uneven, and you watch the opposite bank for paranoid movement. You wander back to this beach often. It's changed, eerie like a mirror image of a place you once loved, but it is quiet and often empty.

You kick at the ice, watching it crumble beneath your feet, then your stomach lets you know it's growing impatient for lunch. You stare out across the Potomac for a moment longer, then turn on your heel and begin marching home.

You pass familiar landmarks as you go, all of them covered by a blanket of slushing, gray snow. There are boulders you'd played king of the hill on as a child, overgrown trails leading up to the manor sitting empty atop the hill, and the crooked oak Tommy once leapt out of, only to break his leg in two places. A faint smile pulls at the corners of your mouth when you remember how he blubbered while you dragged him home. He's taller now, and broad like an ox; he doesn’t often cry anymore.

You pause suddenly at a large willow draped over the river and the road. Its branches droop low, and are frozen to the shoreline. You almost don't recognize your own initials carved into it, next to an A.L. lovingly, painstakingly inscribed beside them.

You remember when you'd taken a knife to this tree, in your senior year of high school. There's no greater taste than love in your mouth, and Alex taught you that, kissed and kissed you and promised her life to you. You'd been convinced that the world would fold up in front of you like a red carpet, that you would never want to wash out the flavor of caramel popcorn and a promise for the future like starshine from your mouth.

You press your fingers to the damaged bark, trying to glean some sort of emotion from it, then pull your hand away as if burned. It's stupid to get caught up in a person like that, so you don't. You pull out a pack of Lucky Strikes you'd nicked off Tommy, and set a cigarette between your lips.

The taste is strong, stronger than anything you'd ever had before. It makes your eyes water, but you keep it unlit and resting against your tongue as you walk home, ignoring the way your heart throbs until you're once again staring up at your three-bedroom house, at the end of the shitty road, wondering what in the hell you're supposed to do with yourself now that you're no longer 'Gunner', but instead 'Bug' once more, like you used to be.

You don't feel much like 'Buggy' these days.

You just feel tired.

You're sitting in your bed facing the window. The radiator under it is rattling, and the heat rolling off the coils warms the front of your body. Out the window, Virginia is naked and pale under the early morning sun, and you watch as the gray forest shivers in the breeze. The chill drives you to a razor’s edge and pulls memories you'd long since drowned to the surface of a river edged with ice.

You see faces just under the surface of those dark waters, staring up at you. You blink the image away, then see half-buried foxholes from the Ardennes out your window, waiting in the treeline at the edge of the yard.

You see yourself huddled in one of them, behind your machine gun, and Joe Toye sitting next to you, griping about his feet and smoking like a chimney. His face, his hands, his voice were rough. You wanted to die wrapped up in the blanket of his stumbled, awful vocabulary. Everything about him was warm to the touch, sometimes like spring sunshine, sometimes like the lick of fire up the side of a pan.

But winter leaves a bad taste in your mouth, like the bite of iron in blood. You can't stand the flavor anymore, and with it comes this itching under your skin; discomfort, rage.

You turn away and pull open the top drawer of your bedside table, intent on finding the pack of Lucky Strikes you stole from Tommy. There is a stack of letters held together with a rubber band, some faded photographs full of blurry faces, taken in Europe, and those cigarettes.

The taste of blood in your mouth is unbearable. It tastes the same as a field of German bodies. You lick your teeth, stare at the pack, then decide you deserve the flavor. You shove the cigarettes back into the drawer so they're hiding under a photo of Second Platoon, then look back outside. It's begun to feather snow.

Winter and the holiday season are in full swing, now -- The kids are home on Christmas break, playing in the snow and bothering Beth at all hours of the day, and the world outside your home is quiet and cold. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth, like the bite of iron in blood. You can't think of anything there is to celebrate anymore, and the fact that people are celebrating at all is enough to make undeserved anger well up in your chest.

There is a pounding of feet up the old stairs that stops abruptly at the door behind you.

"Beth says breakfast is ready."

You look over your shoulder to find Em hanging from the doorway, poking her head into the bedroom. Her clothes are a clash of yellows and warm blues, and she flashes her teeth when she grins at you.

"Thanks, Sweet Em."

Her eyes light up at the name, then she bounds across the room and drapes herself over your back. You grunt when she squeezes you, her sharp chin poking into your shoulder, then laugh, and grab her arms where they're clasped in front of your throat so you can stand up with her.

"Noo!" she squeals and wraps her legs around your waist, but she lets you carry her all the way down to the table, where you let her off at her favorite chair, then take Lip's seat next hers. "Got any plans for this lovely winter break, Em?"

Em shrugs her shoulders and begins to eat her oats. “Dog and Tommy said they’d go sledding with us! Did you want to come, too?”

Your mind fills with images of foxholes and forgotten faces and your smile falters for a moment, but you work to ignore the dread sinking into your chest. You're interrupted by a shout.

“Hey, Bug! Did you really cut your hair like this? And who’re your buddies?” Ulysses comes thundering down the steps holding a picture over his head. You immediately know the one, it was taken the day before D-Day when you’d all been kitted out. Joe Toye was in it, so was Smokey and Liebgott.

Panic like anger blooms in your chest. He shouldn't be going through your things. You fix Ulysses with a look. "Give it back."

"Why?" He shrinks back, holding the picture to his chest. "It's just a picture."

He shouldn't be going through your things. Your eyes burn. You're beyond words. You leap up and try to snatch it, but Ulysses backs up the stairs, holding it behind his back. The fact that he's holding that piece of you, waving it around, unsettles something in your chest. Beth shouts something, but you don't hear her.

"Give it back, Ulysses!"

He can play with your uniform all he wants, take your loot out and parade it around his friends like he was the one to steal it, but that picture is personal. It's the last thing you have left of your buddies. You grab Ulysses by the belt and tug him towards you to try and snatch the picture from him, but he squirms in your hold. "Hey! Stop it! That hurts!"

"Then give it back!" you shout, increasingly desperate and mad, tugging until Ulysses falls back onto the stairs, shouting at you. Then Jim-boy appears at the top of the stairs, and descends then faster than you can react. He snatches the picture out of Ulysses' hands, gives him a withering look, then holds it out for you to take.

The silence that follows a firefight is unbearable. You remember that they used to call you 'Gunner'.

You feel four pairs of eyes on you. Ulysses is rubbing his elbow where he knocked it on the stairs. You look down at the picture.

It's of Second Platoon, the same one you'd thought it was. Joe Toye and Liebgott are on either side of you, smiling. You have both your hands on your ammunition bearer, Hubs', shoulders, leaning over him and you're grinning widely, your mohawk cut fresh on your head.

Guarnere is towards the back, caught shouting something over his shoulder. Smokey, Rogers, and McClung are next to each other, arms over each other's shoulders. Malarkey and Buck are arm-in-arm with big, cheesy grins. Petty's there too, and Ramirez. Popeye, Muck, Penkala. There is paint on your faces. Half of you are dead.

Your hand shakes the more you stare at it, anger and frustration rising in you until you're choked by it. "Fuck!" Half of you are dead. You feel as if you died with them. Maybe you wish you had.

You drop the photo on the floor and stalk out the back door, not bothering with shoes even though the ground is covered in snow. The dog barks happily, but you ignore him and the slap of the screen door as you head straight towards the gnarled apple tree, knowing you can sit behind it in peace. Your feet burn in the snow, but it's nothing you're not used to.

From the house you hear Beth’s low voice scolding Ulysses, but it’s not his fault. You’ve changed.

The days that follow are rough. Winter's maw opens up and deepens; swallows you whole. It snows heavily through the rest of the week. You spend the meat of your days working, and the lean margins down at the Potomac, staring at the river ice and the faces just beneath the surface.

Now it is well past sunset, and it is cold. The white of the snow and clouds reflect the distant city lights, creating an eerie, lilac, never-ending twilight that surrounds you, holds its breath and watches your every move.

Bastogne never had any color; it was just gray. In Virginia, the winter is steeped in purples and pinks when night falls, and during the day it is powder fresh and bluebird soft.

You're sitting on a frozen log, throwing rocks at the river ice when you hear the sharp crunch of gravel behind you. You jump violently at the sound but don’t turn to see who it is even when your instincts scream for you to. A part of you wants to wait and see if they'll give up without acknowledgement, dreading any interaction, and another part doesn't care anymore.

"It's been a while." After a prolonged silence, a familiar voice rings out in the silence of winter. It is singular and friendly. Alex dusts the snow off a bit of log next to you, and smooths her skirt as she takes a seat beside you.

You continue to stare across the river, ignoring the faces in favor of searching for Krauts now. You're not quite sure why, but you're not surprised she's here.

Beside you, Alex digs the toe of her boot into the snow covered gravel, then asks, "how long have you been back in town?"

Your mouth is dry. "Since August,” you say reluctantly.

She sighs. "You never came to see me."

Her tone rubs against you like a cat asking for its chin to be scratched, then tests its claws in your chest. You remind yourself to be mad-- "Yeah, well, you left me first--" But you're not. You're not upset with her. Maybe you were, in the beginning, but you're not anymore. You don't think you could be even if you tried. You're so far removed from that heartbreak, it seems insignificant after everything you've done and seen.

"Can't say I blame you for being angry," Alex says frankly.

You roll your stiff shoulders and heave a sigh. You're past giving a damn. You bounce another rock off the river ice, then rub your chapped hands together. It might just be the way the light bounces off the snow, but sometimes you can still feel, see, smell the blood on them. You can still taste it. They are red. You work your jaw around a phantom piece of spearmint gum, then wish for the bitter taste of Lucky Strikes.

“What happened?” Alex asks.

You stare hard at the ground. "I went to war."

"No," she laughs humorlessly, then gestures to your hands. "What happened?"

You follow her gaze down to your hand, and it takes you a moment to realize she's not talking about the blood, but your scars. They are raised, irregular and uncomfortable. You stare at your skin for a moment, then hide your hands between your knees. "Burned myself with the barrel of my machine gun." Your nails cut your palm as you first your hands, and your mouth runs before you can catch it. "Had no choice but to bare-hand it. Doc patched me up afterward, said I was lucky that it wasn't as bad as it could've been."

She is quiet, then remarks, “Sounds painful.”

You are not yourself. You feel a sudden urge to correct her. "It didn't hurt till the morning -- I didn't even notice it to begin with."

There is more, just waiting on the tip of your tongue to be spilled. You haven't so much as breathed a word of the war in the months you've been home, so why is the urge to speak so uncontrollable now?

"It happened the same day my first assistant gunner died right beside me, a direct hit with a bazooka round, had his guts sprayed all over me and everything, and I didn't know till the morning. Joe had to pull me outta the foxhole, all covered in gore and that's when this--" you hold up your arm-- "happened, or a little afterwards, you know, when we finally got into the town we'd been trying to liberate. Fucking Nazis."

You look up to find Alex watching you with pity. You turn to watch the river instead. There is movement in the dark forest across the way. You squeeze your knees and shake your head. There aren't any Krauts anymore.

“Never mind.” “It must have been hell over there.”

"It wasn't."

"What?" she asks.

"It was," you amend. You realize that you don't know how long you've been sitting out here in the cold. It must be well past dinner. You pat your knees and make to stand with a huff. “Well, I gotta go. Beth won’t like it if I’m out after dark for too long. She barely lets me outta her sight anyways.”

“I missed you, you know," Alex says suddenly, voice wobbly.

You glance over at her, then back across the river at the Krauts and Bitterness returns. “I’m sure you did. Everyone misses the war hero.”

“No,” she says, “I mean I missed you. You. Breaking it off with you was the biggest mistake I ever made.”

You close your eyes, and even though you're standing in the exact spot you once had, before you'd gone off to war, a toy soldier, you can't picture this beach the way it had once been. But you remember Joe Toye, when he'd held you in that foxhole in France, rocked you, whispered right in your ear that you'd be okay.

"You know--" you start to say, then are forced to stop when your voice shakes with emotion you didn't know you felt. You swallow thickly, and blink your wet eyes. "You know, burning my hand or even losing Hubs wasn't the worst part of that day."

Alex looks up, but you stare at your hands. There is blood on them, and now you're sure it's not just the lilac sky. "It was knowing I killed those Germans. A whole platoon. I mowed down a whole platoon of Krauts with just a single gun -- and they were just kids, you know, like Hubs -- Like Dog. Just like him!

"I got a medal for it, they fucking congratulated me, said I was real brave. Crazy thing to tell a murderer, ain't it?"

There is a brief silence, then Alex sighs.

"Merry Christmas," she says sardonically, and it confuses you for a moment until you realize that today is Christmas. December twenty-fifth. What an arbitrary date. You remember how she used to be so adamant you celebrate it with her.

"Merry Christmas," you breathe, hollow. You feel her eyes on you for a moment, then she directs her gaze back out over the Potomac, and you wonder if she's looking for Krauts too, the way Joe would.

You wish for a flare. You wish for Tommy's Lucky Strikes to burn your tongue on. You try and fight the tears, but you're just so goddamn tired. You're more Gunner than you ever were Bug now, and Gunner is so goddamn tired. Why is that?

Your weak knees force you to take a seat on the log once more, and you drop your head into your hands, aware of Alex and how she is watching you, pitying you. Joe would never look at you like that.

You heave a quiet, shaky sob at that thought. How are you ever supposed to be Bug again? Since you were Gunner when you leapt to your death in Normandy? Since you were Gunner when you killed in cold blood for your buddies? Since you were Gunner when Joe Toye would hold you and make you forget about everything but him and his goddamn lightning bug eyes? Since you were Gunner when you heard the crack of a bat, then the news that the war would be over, for good this time.

You try and stifle the way you cry into your hands, but you can't. It is like the rain in Virginia: Absolute. A firestorm. You can't control the way your body shakes with each rattling, frozen breath. Your vision blurs to nothing and you dig the heels of your palms so hard into your eyes you see spots.

You barely realize what's happening when Alex wraps an arm around your back and leans into you, holding you tight to her chest. She's warm, and not as solid as Joe, but she is a startlingly welcome comfort nonetheless. As long as she stays quiet, you can even pretend that It's Joe Toye holding you instead, in Bastogne, whispering to himself and singing that stupid Billie Holiday song he was so obsessed with.

But you didn't love Joe Toye. He tasted like Lucky Strikes and hellfire and the twilight lit up by flares, drifting like lightning bugs in the sky. His river was not the same as your river from memory but it's all you can seem to think about these days. That night in France, when you'd been so close to something, but afraid to grasp it. Why can't you forget that night, like the rest of the war?

This makes you cry harder.

You didn't love Joe Toye, but you loved Alex a lifetime ago. Before all of this, you'd been in love, carved your initials next to hers in a tree and promised each other the rest of your long lives.

This is one thing you know for certain: Joe Toye did not taste like love, but Alex tasted like starshine and caramel popcorn and first dates and first loves and hurt and broken promises and it turns your stomach the way your fifth candy apple does but you want it anyways.

You fucking want it anyways.

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#bob #band of brothers #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers x reader #joe toye #joseph toye #joe toye x reader #joseph toye x reader #joe toye imagine #joseph toye imagine

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deltawrites · 4 years ago

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Warmth: Act 1 - 10

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Disclaimer: This is only the first 1000 words of the chapter. If you would like to read the rest, click here!

Warnings: (not present in preview, but is in the full version) blood | bodily injuries | mentions of fasting (in religious context) | Mentions of nudity but nothing explicit/detailed.

Masterlist: (coming soon)

The gradual halt of the horse pulled you out of your peaceful session of sunbathing. When you open your eyes you find yourself in the middle of an open field, a glistening lake and tall tree included with the vast scenery. Nobunaga dismounts and turns back to help you, but you have already jumped down and spread yourself out over the warmed grass.

"Oh sweet nature, how I've missed you so!" you sigh in content.

Your reveling amuses Nobunaga, who kneels and looks down at your spread out body with a matching smirk. "Enjoying the sun, aren't you?"

You look over to him and give a toothy smile. "I don't know why, but when I bask in the sun's rays it's like being embraced by an old friend." You take a deep breath in through your nose, filling your lungs with fresh, undefiled air. A tickling sensation around your waist takes your eyes off of the cyan sky and down to your body. Kuro's head pops out from under your sash and he gives a big yawn before plopping down his head on your stomach. "Good afternoon, old friend!" you greet.

"Good afternoon," his echoey voice rings inside your head. "Are we at the hot springs yet?"

You lift yourself up off the ground, leaning back against your elbows to look over at Nobunaga. "When will we be arriving?'

"We'll arrive by sundown," he answers.

"Why did we stop?"

A high pitched screech rings out. Upon hearing it, he rights himself up and takes a few steps away from you. "To relax, of course. I also wish to do some hunting before we continue on our journey."

Right after he says the word "hunting", a shadow quickly passes over your head. You look up and see the familiar outline of a bird circling overhead the three of you. Nobunaga lets out a sharp whistle and it rapidly descends down to him. It eases up at the last second and gracefully lands on his forearm, talons sinking into the protective leather to stabilize on its perch. The avian is no mere bird, but a yellow eyed hawk patiently awaiting the orders of its master.

Kuro's grip around your torso tightens exponentially and he hides himself under your obi. You look down to see what could be bothering him. Seeing and eventually feeling his long body shake tells you he's more than just bothered. He's scared.

You slightly turn your body away from Nobunaga to hide him. "Could you take a few steps back?"

He complies despite his confusion, furthering the distance between you and him. You use your sleeve to create a barrier to prevent the hawk's line of sight locking onto your companion. After a bit of reassuring and patience, he eventually sticks his head out from his silken safe haven. He still isn't completely calmed, eyes darting back and forth out of habit in the presence of one of his natural predators. The only reason he felt somewhat secure is because you're here, ready to protect him should the need arise.

"What's wrong?" Nobunaga asks, worry just barely evident in his voice.

"He's a bit shaken up, but I think we're fine."

When you turn around to fully face him, he sees your snake wearily poking his head out from under your sash. Haguro notices the serpent and fans his wings out, giving them a few testing flaps as he focuses on his perceived prey. A few snaps from Nobunaga draws the bird's attention away from Kuro and onto him. "He won't attack him. Not unless I give him the signal to," he explains.

A wave of relief washes over the two of you. You slowly walk over and stand before the hawk. It's feathers are a brown color, but the shades are so dark that one could easily mistake it for black. Its focus is on you now, head turning side to side, taking in your unfamiliar figure from all angles. You mimic its head movements, trying to maintain even eye contact with it. Soon enough, it starts mimicking your movements instead of you mimicking it. Feeling emboldened, you reach a hand out and give it a few scratches on the underside of its neck. Its must like your affections, as its head retracts back into down into itself, eyes closing in what can only be described as delight at your touch.

Nobunaga watches his falcon's reactions with surprise. "How strange," he says. "Usually, he would bite at whoever tries to touch him, myself included."

"Is that so?" you look at him, hands still rubbing between his soft feathers. "Well, maybe you weren't doing it right?"

A genuine smile etches over his lips at your cheeky comment. Nobunaga finally steps away from you (much to your dismay) and looks over the expanse of the open area. A spot of white sprints between the tuffs of grass. Nobunaga easily sees it and jerks his arm up, giving Haguro some aid in his take off. High up in the air in seconds, the hawk soars over its unknowing prey before diving down. It's sharp beak is pointed at the ground, wide open in preparation to snatch up whatever poor animal it chased.

"A rabbit! Get it!" A young voice shouts.

You both turn towards the new voice. A trio of children come out from behind a tree and begin to pelt rocks at the rabbit. The rabbit runs towards them instead of away, using them as cover from Haguro. It easily sprints between their legs, tripping them over into each other before they can grab it and disappears into the nearby woodland.

"Aww, it got away!" one of them whines. All three fall back into the grass, deflating at their unsuccessful hunt.

"This is all your fault!" another boy fumes, smacking one of them in the shoulder. "Your aim sucks! I promised my mom I would catch something for dinner!"

"What are you talking about?! That rabbit was mine!"

"No," Nobunaga's commanding voice cuts in. "It was mine."

The children stare up at Nobunaga's towering figure, mouths agape and arguments completely quieted at his sudden appearance. Haguro screeches out before swooping down onto his master's shoulder, further adding onto the intimidating aura he was exuding.

"You disturbed my hunt. Brave, but foolish," he sternly tells them. His mean-sounding voice forces them to scramble away and press into each other in an attempt to stand their ground.

"W-Who are you?" the boy at the front, arms stretched out to protect his friends, shakily asks.

"I am Nobunaga Oda," he simply responds. "Lord of Azuchi Castle."

Their scared expressions turn into looks of complete and utter horror. They must know who he is, given that he is a political figure. It's easy for you to forget that the very person who's housing you is one of the most influential people during this period, with allies just as high ranking as well.

"Name yourselves," he orders.

"M-My name is Taiichi," the first child, protecting his friends behind him stutters out.

"Kisuke," another mutters.

The third child opens his mouth to tell his name, but it quickly shuts as Nobunaga turns his full attention down to him. He whimpers at the overwhelming fear within him and hides himself behind Kisuke. You notice their similar features. They must be relatives.

"You there," Nobunaga calls out to him. "Do not cower. State your name."

You see the sway of his hair, an indication that he shook his head in refusal. As amused as you are watching the ever dominating Nobunaga interact with helpless children, you decide to step in to try to ease their nerves. You were pretty good when it came to understanding children. Now that you think about it, you haven't interacted with one in a few decades. Hopefully, you haven't lost your spark.

You approach Kisuke, kneeling down to his level and keeping yourself at an arm's length from him to not intrude in his personal space. You see his tense shoulders ease up at the sight of a woman and take that as your cue to talk.

"Hello, Kisuke. I'm sorry about my friend here," you gesture behind you at Nobunaga. "He's a little clueless when it comes to speaking to people outside the castle."

"I speak just fine," he barks at you.

"See? He can't even speak to a girl properly!"

They laugh over your insult at him, taking an involuntary step closer to you as they quickly become more comfortable with you. The boy behind Kisuke finally steps out from behind him and approaches you on his own volition.

"H-Hello," he stutters, bowing to you. "I'm Kotaro."

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#ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku writing #ikemen sengoku fanfiction #ikemen series #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #ikesen #ikesen writing #ikesen fanfic #otome #cybird #writing #ao3 fanfic #fanfic: warmth

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fandom-collective-writers · 6 years ago

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Reader x Ieyasu Tokugawa - The Sound of Loving

Title: The Sound of Loving

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Character: Ieyasu Tokugawa

Genre: :( + fluff

Warnings: trigger warning for minor mentions of violence and blood (war/front lines of fighting scene), injured character

Intended Gender Audience: Female Audience

Word Count: 1186 words

Requested by: Anon!

Quote: Angst/fluff quote “What the hell were you thinking?”

Shameless self-promo: check out my page!

Other comments: u asked for pain so i give u pain ((sorry its late, and thank you @snow--blanket for the help with the title and ending))

You have never seen Ieyasu mad, but you assume that it looks something like this. His cheeks are flushed, and his knuckles are nearly white as he grips the hilt of his sword with a strength you didn’t know he had. He is quick to raise his voice at you, likely thinking that you’ll hear him better if he does that.

Really, you should listen to him, but then again, you owe everything to Nobunaga – serving at the front lines against the rebel forces would be a way to repay him. Ieyasu disagrees, arguing that a woman has no business on the battlefield.

Deep down, you hope that he is only saying this because he wants to keep you safe.

He does little to hide the worry clouding his eyes. Usually, they are as green as fresh rice stalks, but now they are glazed over with anger. Ieyasu’s blood is boiling, and if he could, he would likely be spitting steam out of his ears.

Again, he interrupts you, his voice cutting through your words with the power of a powerful storm. It drowns out the sound of your pleads, and you take a step back.

Ieyasu scares you.

Upon seeing your now terrified expression, the warlord straightens his posture and swallows hard. And then, his voice changes completely. He is calm, but still forceful. “You are not leaving this castle until the fighting is over. That is final.”

He leaves without saying anything else, his golden robes fluttering behind him as the sliding door closes. A shadow appears on the other side of the screen, and you immediately know that Ieyasu has stationed a guard to keep you from leaving.

Your heart aches, and you want to cry.

That would not solve anything though. Furthermore, you refuse to be obedient. If there is another reason as to why he wishes to keep you safe, he had ample time to explain. Still, he chose to shout at you and scold you.

Exhaling slowly, you gather yourself and pat away a small tear running down your cheek.

There might be a guard at the front of your room, but you have seen Sasuke escape through the ceiling more than enough times to know how to reproduce it.

You must have missed the base camp somehow, and now you find yourself growing closer to the front lines.

This isn’t what you wanted.

You only wanted to help the medics treat injured soldiers. Instead, you witness the fury of neighbors unfold on a battlefield running red with spilled blood. The stallion whinnies and bucks as arrows whiz past you. In the distance, you hear gunshots and people screaming for the glory of their lord.

Why?

Gripping the reigns tightly, you pull the horse around and set him into a gallop. However, every which way you go is met with more arrows, more gunshots, and more red. The horse stands up on its hind legs, and you fall off. Your harsh landing snuffs the oxygen out of your lungs and sends pain rippling down your legs.

But there is no time to sit and count the trampled blades of grass.

You scramble to your feet and look to the horizon, searching desperately for the nearest Oda flag. The atmosphere is heavy with crimson smoke, making it hard to breathe or see.

Which is probably why you don’t see the arrow coming towards you.

It does not occur to you to get out of the way.

No.

You close your eyes.

At the last second, you are pulled upwards, onto another horse, and a paid of arms secure themselves around your waist to keep you from slipping off. The grunt that sounds in your ear is unmistakably his.

Ieyasu is just about ready to strangle you.

“What were you expecting?!” he demands as the horse shoots off towards the trees. “For me to leave you there, in the middle of hell, without any help?”

Before you can open your mouth to respond, Ieyasu cuts you off again. It isn’t like earlier though. He’s blabbering, likely to cover the fact that he is running solely off of adrenaline. “I tell you to do one very simple thing and you still don’t listen to me.”

He’s scolding you like always, but you don’t mind.

You can feel the warmth of his touch and the rapid bumbumbum of his heart.

“Are you even listening to me? No. You’re not. As usual. I’m taking you back to camp, and you will not touch anything so help me, Buddha.”

“Okay, Ieyasu.”

When he hears his name roll off of your tongue, he inhales sharply. His arm around you tightens as he presses you to his chest.

The two of you make it back to camp, and Masamune helps you down from the horse. Ieyasu descends after you, and he gives the reigns to a soldier to take away. He wants to ensure you don’t escape again.

He wants to say something because he opens his mouth.

But he freezes.

His mouth hangs open in a perfect o shape.

And he collapses.

You hadn’t seen the arrow until that moment.

When Ieyasu stirs from his sleep, you shoot up and place a hand on his cheek. He is still running a fever, but at least Ieyasu has stopped trembling.

Tears brim in your eyes, and when you look down, they fall onto the futon. You beat yourself up mentally for not listening to him earlier. It would not do either of you much good now, but guilt bubbles in your stomach.

He could have died.

You are ready to surrender yourself to the horrible what-if’s, but Ieyasu cups his hand over yours. His eyes flutter open, and the strange thing is, he’s smiling. It isn’t some cute half-grin either – it is a full-teeth beam like he is the happiest person on the planet in the moment.

“Ieyasu,” you mutter. “Ieyasu, I’m so sorry.”

But he shakes his head.

You wonder if the medicine has gotten to his head. He doesn’t usually act like this. In fact, this is the first time you have seen him smile like this. You have to admit though: he looks beautiful. Despite the soot and dried blood matting his golden locks down and the bruises dancing across his porcelain skin and the bags hanging heavy under his eyes – despite it all, he is beautiful.

“Will you listen to me next time?”

His voice is soft and endearing, just as you are used to.

“Yes, of course. Anything… I’m sorry…”

Ieyasu sits up and groans. The wraps around his chest stretch, and you are pretty sure the bleeding has started again. He looks down to inspect the bandages before clicking his tongue. You think he’s about to criticize your poor medical skills, but instead he cups your face, his calloused fingers brushing over your tear-stained cheeks, and he kisses you.

It’s sweet and slow, but he tastes like smoke, like he had been breathing through his mouth for some time. Again, you don’t care and are happy to be with him.

So you press your other hand to his chest and listen to the beat of his heart. It isn’t thundering like when he shouted at you, nor is it trilling like when he whisked you away from the front lines.

No–

It is a steady strum that makes you feel loved.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #cybird #otome #ikesen x reader #ikesen ieyasu #fluffy angst #more angst than fluff tho

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ila9182 · 6 years ago

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Fictober - "It will be fun, trust me.”

Here is a new prompt for Fictober! I’m sorry I haven’t written as many as I wanted, but life is being crazy lately.

Fandom: Major Crimes - Sharon & Andy

Genre: Fluff/family.

Mistakes are all mine, also I hope I got the baseball rules right. I hope you will enjoy this story! ;)

----------------------------

#1. “It will be fun, trust me.”

Andy stopped the car in a small deserted parking lot. Sharon arched an eyebrow as she scanned the surroundings before looking back at Andy. It was Sunday afternoon and Andy had dragged her out of the condo, telling her to trust him and to do as he said. Sharon couldn’t help but think that Andy and Provenza’s shenanigans always started this way, but she had trusted Andy anyway. She wasn’t sure now she did the right choice. Sharon looked down at her outfit and then at Andy’s; they were both in their Dodgers attire, but they weren’t at the stadium. It was odd. Sharon couldn’t stay quiet anymore.

“Andy, what are we doing here?” Sharon asked with a skeptical look, “And why are we dressed like this if we’re not going to see the game?”

Andy smiled. He could tell she was getting impatient. He knew Sharon didn’t really like surprises, so he simply told her, “Follow me and you’ll understand.”

Andy got out of the car and quickly reached the passenger’s door, opening it for Sharon. She got out and eyed Andy skeptically. He chuckled and only added, “Trust me.”

“Andrew Flynn, you know that nothing good happens when you say those words.” Sharon replied, forcing her voice to sound firm, but a smile crossed her features nonetheless.

Andy chuckled again. He took her by the hand, leading her to a green field, “Come on, Sharon.”

As they walked on the grass, Sharon realized it was an old abandoned baseball field and her frown grew wider. She stopped and Andy did the same as he turned to face her.

“Andy, what…” Sharon started in disbelief.

“Grandpa! Sharon!” Two small excited voices exclaimed.

Sharon and Andy turned around to see Noah and Aiden running in their direction. They both knelt down and opened their arms to welcome the children. Both kids threw themselves in Andy and Sharon’s arms happily. “Hey there, sweethearts…” Sharon whispered with a wide smile, kissing first Noah’s head and then Aiden’s.

Andy ruffled the kids’ hair as he greeted them, “Kiddos! You’re ready?”

“Yay!!” The children exclaimed, jumping excitedly before running away, to the center of the field.

Andy stood and took Sharon by the hand to help her doing the same. She still looked clueless and opened her mouth to speak when Nicole and Dean joined them. “Dad! Sharon!” Nicole greeted them cheerfully, hugging Sharon first and then her father. Dean greeted them as well when Nicole added, “You have no idea how excited Noah and Aiden are to play baseball with you, Dad!”

“Anything for those two kiddos.” Andy replied with a warm smile.

“Play baseball?” Sharon repeated with a frown. She studied the young couple in front of her. Nicole was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans and a Dodgers cap. Dean was dressed more sportingly. Suddenly it hit her. She looked down at her attire before meeting her husband’s gaze, “Andrew Flynn. Do you expect ME to play baseball?”

“Come on, babe! You love baseball!” Andy exclaimed, gesturing with his right hand.

“I love watching baseball from the bleachers with you, with a greasy hotdog and sodas.” Sharon rectified, “I don’t know how to play baseball!” She added, emphasizing the word play.

“I’ll teach you.” Andy replied with a look full of hope. “It will be fun, trust me.” He noticed Sharon was about to retort and he added with a puppy dog’s face, “Please, Sharon, for the kids.”

“Only for Noah and Aiden.” Sharon conceded with a sigh. “You and me, Andy, are going to talk about this later.” She warned him before walking away, joining the two boys.

“Dad, you’re sure this was a good idea?” Nicole asked hesitantly, watching Sharon with her children.

“Oh yeah, don’t worry.” Andy answered with a reassuring wave of the hand. “She acts like she’s all pissed off, but she’s going to enjoy this.”

Andy shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants before joining Sharon and the kids. Nicole and Dean shared a skeptical look and followed him.

“Okay everyone, you’re ready?” Andy announced with a grin. He earned a glare from Sharon and some excited cries from the boys.

Dean opened his backpack and gave Aiden the ball, “Pitcher?” He asked his nine-years-old son.

Aiden nodded happily and took the ball in his hand as he jogged to his position. Dean then gave a glove to everyone and was about to hand the bat to Andy when the older man said, “No, the batter is going to be Sharon.” He smiled at her as he took the glove from her hands and gave her the bat.

“Andy, I don’t know how to…” Sharon objected.

“I’ll show you.” Andy simply answered with a reassuring smile.

Sharon scoffed and walked to her position while Andy gave instruction, “So I’m one of the outfielders, the left one… Dean, you’re the right one.”

“Sure, Andy.” Dean agreed with a smile.

“Noah, you’re third base?” Andy asked. The seven-years-old boy cheerfully clapped his hands and Andy added, “Nic, first base?”

“Guess so, Dad.” Nicole replied with an eye roll.

“Okay, then! Fielders, all with me!” Andy announced.

They all gathered in a circle, Sharon watching them from afar as they whispered to each other. They let out a pump up shout and got in position on the field. Andy jogged to near Sharon and he told her happily, “Ready, babe?”

“You should stay away from me, Andy. I’m the one with the bat and I could accidentally hit you with it.” Sharon threatened him with a glare. She crossed her arms over her chest, her right hand still holding the bat as she stared at Andy. He offered her a puppy dog face and as much as she tried to be mad at him, a smile graced her features.

“See? I knew you aren’t truly angry with me.” Andy teased her with a grin.

“Wait until you find yourself in a hospital bed with a concussion.” Sharon shot back with a smirk.

Andy was nearing her and he stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. Sharon couldn’t keep a straight face much longer when she saw Andy’s panicked reaction. She chuckled and covered her mouth with a hand. She told him with an eye roll, “I’m joking, Andy.” She looked at him expectantly, but he didn’t move. “Come on, show me how to play, Lieutenant.” Sharon ordered him in a firm tone.

“Let’s keep the Darth energy for when you’ll have to hit the ball, okay?” Andy suggested as he walked to stand behind her.

“Whatever.” Sharon shrugged.

“Okay then, let’s correct your grip on the bat first.” Andy whispered in Sharon’s ear. His body was touching hers and Andy gently moved her fingers, so she could have a better grip. “Now it’s better. Are you comfortable?”

“I am.” Sharon nodded.

Sharon looked in front of her while Andy explained, “When you are hitting the ball put most of your weight on your back foot…” He nudged her back foot with his foot and went on, “Then take a little step forward when you are about to hit the ball.” He moved his hands on both her upper arms as he adjusted her position, “Here, make sure your arms are fully extended. Don’t pull your head out while hitting the ball, just keep it in, okay?”

“Okay.” Sharon replied, her tone not sounding too convinced.

“You can do it, babe.” Andy told her encouragingly as he dropped a kiss to her temple. He jogged away as he told the others, “Hey, let’s start.”

They started playing. Sharon missed the ball twice and she sighed as she was getting ready for the third pitch. Andy jogged in her direction and told her, “Hey, let me help you.”

“I told you Andy, it’s better you all play together without me, I’m not good at it.” Sharon shot back with an irritated tone.

Andy could feel she was getting nervous and he knew she could easily snap at him at the moment. He neared her with a shy smile, “That’s not true, we just have to correct your position a little bit, ‘kay?”

Sharon rolled her eyes at him and Andy gently instructed her, “Okay, look straight in front of you at our fabulous pitcher, Aiden.” He put his hands on both her upper arms as he made her move the bat and her body as if she was going to hit the ball. His hands then moved to her hips and rested on her sides as he gently showed her how to swing her hips. Sharon shivered under his touch and looked down at his hands on her body. Another shiver ran down her spine as she felt his breath behind her ear, “Eyes on the ball, young lady.” Andy whispered to her teasingly.

“Andy, you’re distracting me!” Sharon hissed.

“I am teaching you, babe.” Andy rectified. “And you need to focus.” He added with a grin. “So, ready for that third pitch? Remember to run as fast as you can once you hit the ball.”

“I know that, Andy. I’m not totally clueless, remember?” Sharon told him, arching an eyebrow.

“One last thing: use your Darth energy to hit the ball.” Andy told her with a smirk, “Just think the ball is Provenza’s head or…”

“Or yours.” Sharon cut him short with a grin.

Andy scoffed and jogged away from her. He didn’t go back to his position and stayed close to her. Sharon took a deep breath and looked in front of her with a focused stare. Andy saw the ball coming in Sharon’s direction and his smile grew wider when she finally hit the ball. He followed it with his eyes and noticed it was flying high and far away. “Run, Sharon!” He yelled at her.

Sharon sprinted as fast as she could and she reached the first base. She stopped for a second only to notice that Dean had started running in the direction the ball went and she kept running to the second base. Sharon cursed herself for not being better trained; she wasn’t sure she could keep going at the same pace. She reached the second base when she heard Andy yell, “Go for the home run, babe! Home run!”

Sharon did as Andy suggested and kept running. She could feel she was starting to get out of breath, but she was getting competitive and wouldn’t give up easily. She knew she wasn’t twenty anymore and that she would regret it the next day, but she was too stubborn to even consider to stop. She was reaching home safely and she smiled when she saw Andy waiting for her and cheering. Her husband opened his arms for her and nearly got knocked down to the ground when she threw herself in his arms.

“Home run!!” Andy yelled as he tightened his grip on his wife and span her around. Sharon giggled as she held onto him, her arms locked behind his neck. “You did it, Sharon.” He then whispered in her ear, “I’m so proud of you.”

Andy stopped spinning her around. They stood face-to-face and he gently put back a strand of hair behind her ear. Sharon smiled back at him and leaned in. Andy met her halfway and caught her lips with his in a tender kiss. They pulled back and Sharon stroked his cheek with a wide smile as she whispered to him, “Not now, Andy. There are children watching.”

Andy chuckled and dropped a kiss to her forehead before telling her softly, “You did great, babe.”

“Thank you, honey.” Sharon replied with a teasing smile.

Sharon was about to walk away when Andy caught her hand, “Just one question; was it my head or Provenza’s you thought of when you hit the ball so powerfully?” Andy asked teasingly with a grin on his face.

“What do you think, Lieutenant?” Sharon shot back with a smirk as she joined Aiden and Noah to hug them, leaving Andy speechless.

#Major Crimes #Sharon Raydor #Andy Flynn #Nicole Flynn #Dean and the kids #Baseball #It will be fun #trust me #Sharon x Andy #Shandy #fluff #family #fictober #fictober19 #prompt #fic #fanfiction #ilariawrites

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chronic-ghost · 6 years ago

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because no one fucking asked me to . . .

Fandom: Horizon Zero Dawn

Pairing: Aloy/Nil

Rating: General Audiences

Title: breathe as though you are drawing your bow

___________________________________________________

She burst through the crowd at the edge of Daytower and took a deep breath. The smell of the spices, the loud chatter of the crowd, the sheer number of people —

Aloy slipped open the wide gate door and managed to shut out some of the static in her head. It was as though someone had thrown a blanket over the world and muffled everything that wasn’t important. She heard the chirp of crickets, the rush of water down below the cliff face, and the rush of wind through the grass.

She felt a worrisome buzz travel up her ribcage at the thought of being stuck in such a small camp with so many strangers, so many travelers, and so much noise. She knew eventually someone would come looking — to say thanks, to cheer her name — so blessed moments to herself like these were precious.

Aloy took another deep breath, this one free of anxious fears and full of cool, moon-lit air. At the end of the rampart, someone had lit the traveler’s fire and it called to her like Nora horn. Yet, as she approached, it seemed someone was already there — lying supine in the dark grass as though on chaise of a king.

Bow and helmet cast to the ground beside him, Nil tore at a blade of grass in his fingers, the hollowness of his collarbone cast dark shadows in the firelight. As though on instinct, she became irritated at the sight of him. She just wanted to be alone, by the goddess , and here he was — when she needed silence the most.

Behind her, the din of the festival echoed into the crevices of the mountain behind Daytower.

“Well, huntress, are you going to come over here or just stand in the dark, staring at me, all night?” Without looking back at her, he tossed the shredded bits of grass into the fire in front of him.

Aloy scowled at the back of his neck as she tried not to stomp over to the empty space beside him.

“How did you know it was me?” She asked as she slid down to the ground, her knees bunched up to her chest.

At that, he frowned, still not looking at her. “Come now. Do not all great hunters have a keen sense of awareness? I know exactly where you are, whenever you’re around.”

A crack in the fire made her cheeks warm. “A great hunter, huh? Is that what you’re calling yourself these days?”

“What would you prefer to call me?”

“A murderer with an advantageous bloodlust.”

“Better than a skinny savage with no social skills.”

The fire burned red hot against her cheeks. “Why are you out here, Nil? Why aren’t you inside, with everyone else?”

He stilled and finally, those storm-grey, metallic-silver eyes fell on her. The heat on her cheeks dropped into the back of her throat.

“ Why aren’t you? ”

Aloy bit the inside of her cheek to stop the spread of the heat to her entire face and she looked away. Why did he have to be like this? Always . Always pushing. Always going too far. Always saying things that —

“It’s the music.” He was talking to the fire again, the pads of his fingers nimbly twisting another blade of grass. “No offense to your people, but there is too much religion in your music. Too much praise to an indifferent being, if there was one at all. It’s a fine call-to-arms, but it’s just simply not my taste.”

Rost once said, some people lied as easily as they breathed and she was sure Nil was one of those people. Though she wasn’t sure why he would lie now, when there was nothing to lose. Then would you tell him , Rost’s voice asked, answer why you don’t want to be around your own tribe and the Carja Sundom who has embraced you as their own? Would you be so honest as to admit that despite all you’ve done, you still feel as though you are an outcast?

She knew very little about Nil and his past, Aloy thought vaguely as she watched him pluck more grass from the ground below him, then ease them into the fire. So little in fact, she dared to wonder if there was something in his past that made him reject the great cities of the Sundom and find peace in the wild, open lands.

“You cannot dance to this music,” he said simply, never needing encouragement to hear the sound of his own voice. “And dancing is nearly as good as killing.”

“That’s not true,” she said, ignoring his casual bloodlust. “I’ve seen hundreds of Nora tribesman dance at the Blessings.”

Nil shook his head, his dark hair sliding free from where his helmet would usually hold it in place. It brushed easily against the smooth skin, below the dividing line on the side of his head. “Dancing is meant to be shared, little huntress, not in the supplication of some silent goddess.”

“What are you talking about? Dancing is dancing.”

His grey eyes seemed to glow in delight as a thought crossed his mind. “Have you never danced with anyone before?”

She really didn’t like the small, knowing smile creeping across his face. Her mouth was suddenly dry. “I don’t dance at all.”

Nil chuckled to himself as he brushed the grass from his hands and stood up. “Well, that explains so much. Stand, huntress, and let me teach you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nil.” She rolled her eyes away from his outstretched hand, something hot and warm simmering in her stomach. “You said it yourself — dancing to this is impossible.”

“Not if you have the right partner.” He slid his wide palm underneath her hand resting on her knee, pulling her forward. He kept tugging until she was on her feet and Alloy wanted nothing more than to run into the nearest glen and never been seen again.

“Nil —,”

He pulled her close, his bare chest warm beneath his silken vest. She put a hand between them to prevent her body from falling into him. “Hush, now. This isn’t meant to be torture.”

He lifted their hands still wrapped around each other until they were about shoulder-height. He stepped impossible closer until he had one knee gently between her legs. Aloy found she couldn’t mount a sound of protest even if she wanted to.

Nil held his other hand aloft, fingers splayed wide as though to show he held no tricks. His eyes were the color of a Stormbird’s wing and he was circling ever closer.

“Don’t snap my neck over this.” That grin, sharper and heavier than any he had given her before, was growing wider, bolder. “This,” he indicated to his aloft hand, “is meant to go here.”

It came to rest on her hip, gently, as though he knew she was hovering on her instinct to fly or fight.

They stood like that, pressed together, in the shadow of the Carja outpost under the summer moon. She felt his breathing, smelling of wintermint, tumble down the bridge of her nose.

“Now what?” She hated to think her voice came out as a whisper. The point where his throat met his collarbone fluttered under her forceful gaze. If he really were a Stormbird, her hesitation to look him in the eye would have meant her death — her corpse a charred mess, still warm from the blast of electric power.

He tipped her elbow up, up across his chest to rest on his shoulder, at the curve of his shoulder. The pads of her fingers brushed the fine hairs regrowing at the base of his skull and the breath on her nose hitched.

“Now we dance.”

As the hand on her hip tipped her closer, Nil stepped forward. She moved with him, against him, and he stepped again. Little steps, nothing more than an inch in the shape of a square, but she was moving and he was carrying her, his fingers resting cooly low in the middle of her back. She heard the crisps of their feet as they edged around on the grass.

Beyond them, the drums beat wildly, like a throbbing heart. The crowd roared with ecstasy.

“Relax,” he murmured into her hair. “Don’t think of this as part of your training, or a challenge to win. Lean in. Breathe as though you are drawing your bow.”

He paused and put his wide hand flat against her breastbone. Up an inch more and he could have taken her throat in one palm.

His eyes were as dark as a turbulent river. “Breathe.”

For a single absolutely absurd moment, she thought he was going to kiss her —

— and in that breath that she felt all the way down to her toes, her body loosened, hips and thighs going slack. Her fingers spread against his neck and her lips parted.

His smile was almost cruel with delight. “Such a good listener.”

But then his head turned, his feet resumed their shuffle, and he pressed his temple to hers as though by touch alone he could transmit the tune in his head.

“You must stay in Meridian longer next time,” Nil continued, unhurried and frustratingly unaffected. “It’s a rather shit city but the dance halls are quite extraordinary.”

There were things she wanted to ask him; questions that began as feelings and vague fantasies that were only now growing clear and concrete. But where to begin? Her eyes on the glowing Daytower, Aloy dropped her chin and rested her lips against his shoulder. The silk there was warm.

“What are our thoughts now?” He asked after a moment. He had slowed their flow from a pattern to a slow turn, their two bodies revolving and swaying under the light of a thousand stars. “Still think dancing is just dancing?”

Rost had warned her about all sorts of men — liars, cheats, thieves, killers, monsters more machine than man — but somehow he neglected to tell her about men like Nil. Perhaps there wasn’t anyone else quite like this Carja soldier.

So, she thought about his question, and her answer, and she thought about his gaze on her when he thought she wasn’t looking, and she thought about the calloused hand at her back, and she thought about him, and her — Aloy lifted her head to look him straight in the eye.

“Is that all we’re doing? Dancing?”

He hummed, as though his every nerve was crackling. “Little girl, that’s all we’ve ever done.”

Inside Daytower walls, a loud bang echoed into the night and a brilliant tongue of fire lit up the night sky. The crowd cheered as more and more brightly colors exploded against the blackness above, the sound incredible before it all faded out.

Aloy turned to the noise, watching the explosions rise and fall.

Something warm brushed the shell of her ear, her skin vibrating sharply with sound so close, and suddenly his hands were gone.

She knew he would not be there if she turned to look for him, so she continued to stand underneath the great screaming fireballs with a knot rising in her throat so painfully it hurt to breathe. Her hands knotted into fists, she watched the lights even when her vision blurred.

Eventually the lights faded and no more came. A thrilled shout went up from the outpost and the music started again. Behind her the fire had died out and she was suddenly colder than she had been all night. Willing her hands to stop shaking, Aloy turned to go — to wander, to hunt, to be anywhere from here — when she saw something scarlet in the dark grass.

A single red feather.

And in that moment, she realized what he had so pleasantly whispered.

Come find me, little dancer.

Or read on AO3

#horizon zero dawn #hzd #aloy/nil #aloy x nil #aloy #hzd aloy #fanfiction #maybe canon compliant?#i haven't finished the game but yolo

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applsauss · 5 years ago

Text

Horizon Blue

Description: As French field medics and stretcher bearers in the Great War, your only purpose is to prolong human life, so why is it that you dream of memories no longer yours, and love Bonnefoy’s blue eyes with all your heart, when they are familiar and unfamiliar to you, still?

Fandom:  Hetalia

Pairing: APH France (Francis Bonnefoy)/Reader

Word Count: 11.3k+

Warning(s): Depictions of War. Blood. Gore. Minor Character Death.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- 

“Wake up,” commands a voice, rough from cigarettes.

You are in the cradle of fuzzy sleep.

“It’s time. Wake up.”

In the pause between words, you sink into the soft comfort of your bedding. It smells of the front, but it does not smell of antiseptic, pus and rot--and for that you are thankful.

“I’ll never know how to sleep like that. I’m jealous,” another voice says, this one younger. It is full of the wistfulness of home.

Another voice. A saccharine laugh.

Suddenly, you’re being shook. “For god’s sake, wake up!”

You gasp and sit up, scrabbling at the wet grass beneath you as you’re yanked from sleep. “Huh-?” The hands holding your tunic drop you.

A warm hand settles on your shoulder. “Quiet, friend. It is time for us to move up.” It is still dark out, black clouds roll like ocean waves in the sky above, but you can make out Bonnefoy’s face through the darkness.

He is familiar to you in a way you cannot understand. Faintly, you recall pieces of your dream. He had been there with you, only he was different. The dream fades and settles into your mind like a memory.

Bonnefoy had been wearing white, and his blonde hair fell around his shoulders in soft curls. He was smiling. His eyes were a bright blue, and the sky was the same color.

He had said something that made you smile. You could taste love in your mouth.

Behind you, activity in the dressing station is picking up once more as soldiers begin to wake and remember their terrible pain. It is a familiar noise, and though it brings no comfort, it grounds you firmly in this day. There is to be a dawn raid after the mutual bombardment. French infantrymen have been gathering in numbers at the front for some weeks now, and last night you ate real, honest-to-god meat.

The medics not partaking in the dawn raid are making their rounds swiftly, with morphia and careless exhaustion. You are glad not to be them, but you are not glad to be yourself either.

You sit for a moment, sleep-dazed and trying to sort your memories. You are near Bathelémont, the town sits in rubble and ruin just behind the French trenches. There is to be a push this morning to try and break the German line. You can’t get the taste of unfamiliar wine out of your mouth, of a life lived in a tiny farmhouse, of cows and of a child with Bonnefoy’s blue eyes--why his blue eyes?

“Are you alright?” Chastain pauses from pulling on his gear. You glance up at your friend in surprise, not having realized you’d been staring at your hands for minutes now.

In the same moment, Archambault grunts. “Get ready.” The old man has too much personality for his own good. His friends refer to him as ‘Prince Archie’, but only behind his back.

You shake yourself from your stupor, embarrassment gripping you tight. You stand up, strip your bed, then prepare for the offensive by making sure you are properly stocked with your medical supplies.

The world is loud, but the four of you are silent and solemn in the face of it. There is only the sound of fabric rustling as you wrestle with your belt straps, change out your socks and wrap your puttees tightly around your calves. You are preparing for bloody battle.

Chastain and Archambault wander off to sniff around for breakfast, usually not served before an offensive, but still available when one knows where to look.

It is only you and Bonnefoy now in your makeshift camp. You’d decided the night previous to risk shellfire if it meant spending a night outside the haze of the dressing station, where the air was thick with all the smells and sounds of injured men.

You kick at the remnants of dinner, thinking of how flavourful it had been, when your mind drifts back to your strange dream. “Bon, did you used to have your hair long?” you ask before you can think better of it.

Bonnefoy looks at you strangely. “No. Never.”

You’re quiet for a moment before you say, “well, you should. I’d think it suits you.”

***

You rally with the regular infantrymen at dawn. They stare at you and your red crosses as if they should be offended. Archambault hunches over on the firestep and lights a soggy cigarette after two tries. Next to him is the stretcher.

Chastain sits in the tense silence without comment, next to Archambault. You are the last in line. You force yourself to exhale slowly. The sickly breeze rushes over your head from the direction of no man’s land, and you imagine the stench comes just as much from German fear as it does French. Do they know you’re coming? Are they waiting in that same, pallid-faced way you do when the hairs on your arm tell you that they are coming?

Further along the trench is Bonnefoy, who is practicing his English with the fresh-cut American troops. He is talking to a young soldier in particularly good spirits. The Americans have not been in the trenches long. They are fresh out of their homeland and brave in the way someone can be when the war has not touched them yet.

Bonnefoy says something in halting English, and the soldier laughs, loudly and obnoxiously. It both grates and soothes the nerves. Archambault stares with dead eyes at the trench wall opposite and offers you a cigarette, which you accept without comment because despite all his rough behaviour, he is not stingy.

This one lights easier than his. You try to let it quiet your rattling nerves. You never smoked before you shook hands with the front. Now you do as often as any soldier does.

For a moment, the front is still. The morning bombardment had paused an hour before, and still the latest conscripted soldiers look queasy as you wait for orders. You don’t bother talking to them or remembering their faces. There’s no point when the lives they live are like those of mayflies, brilliant one moment, gone the next.

An older corporal grumbles. He is the closest regular infantryman to your group. He takes a long swig from his canteen, then wipes his chin with a dirty hand. The watered down wine stains his lips.

“It’s bad luck having you out here with us,” he grunts accusingly. Nobody likes the idea of stretcher bearers already being on hand before the offensive has yet to begin. You’re sympathetic. It’s a grim reminder that command expects sacrifices.

Archambault sneers at him. They are two old dogs barking through a fence. “Rather bad luck than dead in fuckin’ no man’s land without aid.”

The younger recruits recoil. You and Chastain numbly watch their reaction, then Archambault and the corporal notice as well and decide to lay to bed whatever pent-up frustration they feel and save it for the Germans. Cowardice is contagious.

“Do you remember the sound of the chestnut trees from home?” Chastain says suddenly from beside you. His voice aches of the homesickness you spend most quiet moments trying to ignore.

“Hm?” You regard him for a long moment. You were schoolmates once, in the same year and class. When it came time for conscription, your names were drawn in different lots, months apart, but you both ended up in the same company.

“The chestnut trees. Don’t you remember the line of them by the river? In the summer we used to sit there on the banks and listen to them in the wind.”

You don’t think there’s much use thinking of home, it has always made the world seem too large, too impossible, but for as long as you have known him as he is now, Chastain has clung to those thoughts. “Do you remember in the fall, when we would pick chestnuts using our shirts like baskets?”

Distantly, you hear Bonnefoy say something in English. You don’t know enough to understand it. There is much you don’t understand, not about your brothers-in-arms, not about the war, and not about the home you have left behind.

Your childhood is firmly behind the German front lines, occupied and shelled to hell. Thoughts of home lead to thoughts of your family, how they are getting on as refugees. They have said nothing of your dog. You wonder if they would have taken him with them. Probably not, but you convince yourself that they have.

A captain steps through the line of jumpy infantrymen. He is counting in his head. You watch his black boots pass along the duckboards.

Further along in the trench, in the opposite direction of Bonnefoy and out of sight, someone drops a crate of something metal. It sounds nothing like a shell, but it is loud enough to make a new recruit cry out in fear. He begins to sob. You grit your teeth. Cowardice is contagious. He is quickly told to shut up by an older soldier. Thankfully, it ends there.

You take another drag of the cigarette, then realize you have not responded yet to Chastain. You look to him and find he has let the topic drop. Instead he is lighting a cigarette on the butt of Archambault’s. The two murmur back and forth of the techniques of amputation--Archambault insists he once saw a doctor take off two legs at once, a soldier on either side of him.

Chastain attempts to argue the morality of Archambault’s scenario, but the older man is more interested in the efficiency of it all.

Dawn is fast approaching. Before much more time has passed, the order to stand-at-attention is passed down by shouting captains, who berate their soldiers because it is the only thing they respond to now. The trench erupts in motion. You, Archambault, and Chastain slip off the firestep with your equipment as a row of infantrymen take your place, crouched with rifles ready. Closely behind them waits the next wave, and so on.

Bonnefoy returns to your side, and the four of you prepare to launch yourselves over the top with the infantrymen, only you will not be rushing the enemy, but rather carrying the many wounded back.

***

The French artillery lays off. No man’s land is quiet as it waits to receive its dead.

“Attaque!”

With the command to attack the enemy, your heart ceases to beat on its own time. Instead, it is synchronised with the many footsteps of soldiers rushing headlong into war.

In the initial wave of attack, battle surges at the same time the world loses meaning. There is gunfire, and the smell of battle that glues itself to the roof of your mouth. The Germans shell the line once they catch wind of the raid. Loose earth flies overhead. You are crouched on the firestep, head just under the top of the trench, and you press yourself into the parapet as if it could comfort you. Seconds tick by.

“Attaque!”

Then comes the command for the second wave to go over the top. A trench-long battle cry pierces the sky and nearly drowns the chop and chatter of the German machine guns. Your body leaves your mind in the trench as it rushes over the top and into the mud, just behind Archambault and followed closely by Chastain and Bonnefoy.

The barbed wire on both sides is always an obstacle. Your group is spread as your progress through the narrow channels between the barbed wire sections is slowed. When you are free of the defenses, Archambault, who is carrying the stretcher, is meters ahead of you. Bonnefoy is behind you still, and Chastain was swept farther along the trench by the rush of soldiers.

Archambault quickly locates the first casualty of the day. He drops to his knees next to a soldier without legs. Even from this distance, you can tell they have been shelled off.

The soldier is screaming and kicking with his stumps. You are wild and without sense as you rush to him, Bonnefoy, quick as a fox and on your heel. You forget in moments like these that he has only been at the front for a year. It feels like a lifetime ago you had a life without war, where you would sit under chestnut trees and try to make out your future in the clouds passing overhead. For you, it has been two years since you last saw home, and three since you left that first, fateful time.

Over the roar of the battlefield, there is the hollow howl of a shell, clearly audible over the rapid bursts of machine gun fire and general misery. You are still rushing towards the stretcher without thought when Archambault throws his body over the wounded soldier. You are too far, and too close. The whistle is loud. “Shit!” You throw yourself to the ground, Bonnefoy next to you. Just before you cover your face, you see Chastain dive into a shell crater opposite you. The filthy mud squelches underneath you.

BOM! The shell hits with an ear-splitting explosion. Shrapnel is sent flying in all directions, low and close to the ground--dangerous.

You attempt to sink deeper into the safety of the earth. You feel the mud wet your face and slick your hands. It smells of poison gas and rot. The world has no sense. Your ears ring.

“Fuck it all!” Chastain swears loudly. The ground is still shaking beneath you, but you push yourself quickly to stand. You scramble up to the frontline's newest crater. Bonnefoy slips beside you, and you grab his arm to keep him from falling, but end up catching yourself instead as you trip over a tree sunk into the mud. No man’s land is once more unrecognizable, blasted to all hell.

You find that Archambault is dead. So is the wounded soldier. Both are impaled by the same piece of shrapnel. There is a burst of machine gun fire. The movement of a shell rings loud in your ear, but not loud enough to be headed straight towards you.

A soldier wails to your left, louder than the shell, and hope spreads like love through your chest when you hear how his voice is still strong. “Another, then!” Bonnefoy shouts. You rush to the stretcher and dump both Archambault and the soldier off of it, then the three of you run towards the wailing soldier, Chastain holding the front of the stretcher alone, while you and Bonnefoy follow.

There only has to be one life saved to make this war worth it. You only have to bring one man back to the dressing station to convince yourself there is meaning in the world, that there is reason and order.

A shiver runs up your spine, and the three of you drop to the mud once more as bullets are sprayed around you in rapid bursts of gunfire. Bonnefoy begins to pray. You think of your home and the chestnut trees Chastain misses so dearly.

A moment passes after the gunfire, then it starts up once more somewhere else along the line. The three of you shove yourselves up, ragged, and stumble on through the mud towards your wounded soldier. Your body moves, but still you’re convinced you are no longer seeing, hearing, or breathing.

You find the soldier in a waterlogged crater. His legs are under the waterline, but his top half is stuck to the muddy sidewall. He is covered in filth. You know him to be the American soldier Bonnefoy had been talking to before the raid. His uniform bleeds a dark, sickening red.

Chastain drops into the crater and you follow, slipping sideways on your feet down the slick wall towards the young man. Bonnefoy flattens himself and creeps to the edge beside the stretcher.

“Come on, boy! You’re alright,” Chastain shouts as he tucks his hands under the soldier’s armpits and tries to pull him out of the crater. He bleeds more instead. You swear and slip closer to the water to check on his wounds.

“He’s bleeding out,” you inform Chastain as you grab the man’s breeches, dipping your hands just into the water, ignoring the disgust that shoots through you like lightning at the thought of what lies just beneath the surface. “The wound is decent. What was it, Howitzer shrapnel?” You pull hard when Chastain does. The young man wails into the bleeding dawn.

Chastain grunts. “Doesn’t matter.” You pull together again, and the American soldier slides up the wall. Chastain loses his grip on the uniform, then catches the shoulder straps of the American’s webbing. The young man’s voice is hoarse as he moans. His eyes are glazed over, pupils darting across your face without seeing. His uniform is a dark red. Chastain readjusts his feet, and you dig your toes into the soft mud.

“Quickly now!” Bonnefoy rushes from the edge, reaching his body over to grab Chastain by his belt and haul him up, followed by the American and then finally, you.

Bonnefoy drags the young man into the stretcher while you and Chastain go to the other end and prepare to heft it up.

Another shell whistle. The Germans must be angry. It grows louder. Panic reaches you, then, like a friend calling you from a distance. You hunch over the wounded American’s head, shielding him with your torso as the shell hits with a knee-weakening BOM!

***

Bonnefoy fights viciously with the barbed wire when you return with the American to the trenches. You and Chastain try to bear the weight of the young man so Bonnefoy can make it through, but he continues to swear sharply anyways.

When you reach the edge of the trench, Bonnefoy slows and you switch to be positioned in the front and beside him. Then you slip and slide back into the trench with the American on the stretcher. You let go entirely when both Bonnefoy and Chastain have their boots on the duckboards and begin to shove your way through the chaos.

“Out of the way!” you shout at the wounded soldiers and officers alike. “Medic! Out of the way!” They part like they can’t help but follow the command. The battle continues to wreak confusion up and down the line. It will last for hours.

You run the poor American through the trenches all the way to the dressing station situated near the rear of the system, where you’d spent the night. The soldiers stuck in beds are joined by wounded lying on the grass in rows, moaning and crying. You are numb to the racket.

The boy is taken from your stretcher and laid out with the others. Bonnefoy folds the stretcher, then you turn heel and rush back to the front for the next casualty.

You no longer breathe, you no longer blink, you no longer have thoughts. You do not understand. The only words passed between the three of you as you continue your grisly work are what is necessary. The heat of a bullet just missing your head is like the sun on your back.

When it comes time for the German counter-attack, you arm yourself with your entrenching tool and fight for your life like everyone churning up mud in this bloody battle. The war has no beginning and will have no end.

It is only when your small team is relieved that you realize Archambault, the old man, is no longer with you. He is among the dead delivered into the waiting embrace of no man’s land.

You sit at the foot of a tree and look to the grey sky. It holds no answers.

***

It is late in the afternoon.

The day of the raid marks two weeks spent at the front. When there is not a raid, you are orderlies walking the lines of sick and injured men, you are gravediggers disposing of the many dead, some blessed with coffins, most without, and you are (most often) soldiers sick of war.

Now you are being relieved to hospital duty, where you are less likely to get shelled. Some part of you hates it even more than the front. In field hospitals, there is no question of death. It is a constant presence, slow and inevitable. The air reeks of antiseptic and rot. The day is chased away by the moans of men haunted by home. It is a living purgatory for those waiting to die.

You climb into the back of the ambulance along with Bonnefoy, a soldier moaning with a bleeding head wound, and the American. The rumble of the front continues, even after you secure the doors shut.

Chastain is sitting up front making bets with the regular driver. They name surgeons and wager who will catch their wrath. Then they go on to name their favourite nuns.

The soldier who is bleeding sits on the bench beside Bonnefoy and begins to whimper. The American is lying on the bench opposite you. You stare at him. You love him and you hate him. He is only a young boy. They should not be sending their children to fight, and yet they do.

But you shouldn’t scorn the Americans, the French have done the same. They send their children to war, to fight battles that should not be fought. Children step out onto the battlefield and trip over barbed wire into their graves.

The boy looks to be asleep. Bonnefoy sighs sadly. “He’s American. Just a young boy.” You don’t know if Bonnefoy means to say this aloud. “What a shame. It’s a shame. Such life, such love. I barely talked to him.” Chastain and the driver have stopped talking in the front.

There is mud and pain on the boy’s bare face, and yet his eyes are closed. You stare at him. His blond hair is dirtied and stuck down to his feverish forehead. Blood wets his tunic, which sits open on his chest. The wound in his gut is wrapped tight with leaking bandages.

“What is his name?” Chastain asks, and you look up to find him peering at the boy backwards, through the window.

“Alfred Jones.” Bonnefoy says. The boy seems to think he is being talked to, and blinks open his eyes. They are dazed, and they are blue.

“Jones,” Chastain tests the name in his mouth.

The boy mumbles something you do not understand.

“He reminds me of my little cousin,” Chastain continues, “they have the same face.”

Chastain turns in his seat and reaches through the window to place a hand on the boy’s cheek. He gives him a hardy shake. “You will live, Jones.”

Bonnefoy repeats what he’d said in english.

Jones gives Chastain a brave smile.

There is no reason in death. It is teased and drawn out, it is quick and without warning. You are a close acquaintance of death, because he walks alongside wherever a stretcher bearer goes.

Maybe, in another life, Chastain would have gotten his wish to once again hear the chestnut trees in the wind. You think he deserved at least that, or to see his family once more.

You do not hear the whistle of the shell, nor do you see it through the filthy windows of the ambulance, but you feel the impact as it rips you from the false safety you had begun to believe in.

The Germans are angry. Their bombardment has started early, and it is off its mark by some distance.

The very moment Chastain pulls his hand back through the window, there is a point-blank, deafening BOM! And the ambulance is thrown off the road.

The world is once more off-balanced, thrown into disarray. The front has caught up to you minutes after you have left it behind. Maybe field hospitals are preferable. At least you’ll see your death clearly as you march towards it.

Someone screams, or you all scream and the fear melts together in the heat of the shell’s impact. A battle cry. A small, fearful whimper. There is a loud crash. You see Bonnefoy, then you do not.

***

For a moment, you are sure your life has ended. There is nothing. You have no past; no future nor present. You are surprised, then filled with an emotion you do not recognize, when you realize that a part of you is glad for it--the relief of duty.

You remember a home that is unfamiliar to you; Long, tall fields of grass and a wide-open, blue sky. There is a house. Another army marches.

Then you are being dragged out of what’s left of the ambulance by Bonnefoy. His face darkened with determination; his eyes betraying terror--they are a paler blue than the American’s, like the sky that hangs over your dreams.

He sets you on the ground and spares you no second glance before disappearing out of sight. You try to make a sound to call him back, but cannot hear yourself. You are simply staring up at the charcoal sky, unable to speak, to think, to move--but you can breathe.

So you breathe. Like a storm waiting on the horizon.

And so you blink your eyes open and gasp for air.

Putrid smoke burns your lungs on your first few inhales. It does not clear out, but becomes more manageable once you know what to expect. You greedily suck the rotten air into your lungs. You are glad for it.

Bonnefoy has not returned, so you slow your breathing to soothe the panic and will yourself to move because you must. You are still close enough to the front lines for the German bombardment to shake the earth beneath you. Your gut tells you to fear another stray shell, so you must. Soldiers move, and so you must.

***

Your body does not feel your own, as if your mind has been detached from your limbs. This is how you know you’ve been knocked flat. A concussion, you recognise immediately--and yet soldiers move, so you must.

You force your fingers to curl into the torn earth. An uncomfortable sensation crawls up your arm and worms its way into your brain. You try and lift your arms, but they prove too heavy. Your legs are worse. You do not allow yourself to panic. Instead, you force a heavy breath out through your nose and grit your teeth. Your tongue lashes out at the backs of them, and the taste of iron floods your mouth.

Bonnefoy has not returned. Finally, you manage to twist your head to the side in search of him, and find Chastain staring back at you instead, empty-eyed and slack-jawed. He shows no sign of movement. He is laid out beside you. He is dead.

Your breath becomes more ragged. Bonnefoy startles you when he kneels beside you and turns your face to him. He squints into your eyes, mouth set in a firm line, then unbuckles your helmet and pulls it off along with your scarf. His fingers card through your filthy hair, pressing into your scalp, then he sets your head down on the ground and feels down your neck, shoulders, collar bone.

With your helmet and scarf gone, the cold air washes over you. It is becoming easier to think. It is also becoming easier to feel pain. Your body aches all over. You suck in a sharp breath. “Bon.”

“Can you walk?” You’re surprised when you hear his voice.

You nod.

“Can you carry the stretcher?”

Your arms beg for permission to give out as you push yourself up on your elbows. Pain flares in your neck, the tendons sore in a way that denotes whiplash. You groan loudly and Bonnefoy helps to push you up into a sitting position.

Your arms are made of lead. The front rumbles with artillery. You drop a hand down to collect your scarf and helmet. You misjudge the distance and end up rapping your knuckles against the steel. “Yes.”

Chastain is dead beside you. Chastain is dead beside you. He had always talked of returning home. You never wanted to think about it for fear of cowardice, deathly afraid that if you remembered what it was like, then you wouldn’t be able to make sense of how your life is now. You are still afraid. Cowardice is contagious.

Next to Chastain, the ambulance driver has been laid out to rest.

Next to the ambulance driver is the soldier with the head wound. It is larger now. Fatal.

Past them is the American. Alfred Jones. He is crying for his mother.

“The dressing station is gone,” Bonnefoy tells you, “but he needs treatment still.”

You cough into your lap, curling around your helmet. Bonnefoy keeps a firm hand on your back. Your head is still swimming, your thoughts lethargic and unhelpful. “The whole thing?”

“There-” he points down the road towards the front. There is a massive plume of smoke from where you just came from- “I ran part of the way back. There’s nothing left.”

“My god,” you swear under your breath. It isn’t even dark yet and already the Germans are punishing you. It is wrath like thunder and lightning from the sky.

“Come on.” Bonnefoy urges you to your feet, and you stand, dazed, as he moves back towards the overturned ambulance. It’s chassis is like crumpled paper.

“Where are we going?” you call after him, stumbling backwards before catching yourself on a lazy leg. You stare once more at Chastain. He stares back. Emotion wells within you, and you drop to a knee to search his left breast pocket for his pay book, and remove a letter and two photographs as well.

“We must take him by foot,” Bonnefoy says of the American, pulling a stretcher from the back of the ambulance and walking back purposefully towards you. Quickly, you toss your scarf over your head and fasten your helmet before accepting two handholds of the stretcher.

“But--it’s too far to walk to the field hospital,” you argue as you are near-dragged behind Bonnefoy to keep hold of the stretcher.

He does not listen. “So we take him to the next dressing station.”

“It is miles down the line!”

“So we press on!” Bonnefoy throws the stretcher down beside the American and drops to his knees to pull the boy’s tunic away from his stomach wound. He’s bled through his bandages. You don’t think he’ll even make it past the hour.

A wave of grief washes over you as you watch the back of Bonnefoy’s head while he tries to calm the poor boy with morphia. He sticks a needle into the jar, but when he draws his thumb back, there is no morphia left. “I’m out,” he says, and you quickly pull out what you have left and hand it to him.

“Bon.” You nudge your friend, the exhaustion of it all finally settling into your bones. “There’s no point,” you plead hoarsley, “he’ll die before we can make it anywhere. You know this!”

“Even so!” Bonnefoy’s voice shakes with emotion. “We have a patient! So we save him!”

“Bon,” you call out to him again. You watch his hands shake as he tries to administer the drug. The rattle is so bad that he must pause his attempt. Jones sobs earnestly and pounds at the dirt with weakened fists. Bonefoy swears loudly and squeezes his knee hard.

“Two have died for this man! We can’t let their deaths be for nothing!”

You say nothing as you take the needle from Bonnefoy and administer the drug yourself. The boy heaves in unsteady breaths, but ultimately reacts to the morphia. You squeeze your eyes shut. You do not want to go back to the front. It is hell. You can hear it even from here.

“We are doctors!” Bonnefoy continues, “that means we keep trying, even when it is hopeless, until the end!”

“Bon,” you say quietly, unable to look either him, nor the American in their faces. “We are not doctors.”

Jones pants heavily. He is too young of a boy. There is blood. He is dying.

Bonnefoy makes a wounded noise, in the back of his throat. There is an unbearable pressure behind your eyes. “Then we’re…” He hesitates. “Then we are soldiers!”

“I never asked to be!” you cry out finally, tears hot on your face. You think of your mother and father and siblings, of your dog--then you think of Chastain.

Even through his stupor, the American recognises your raised voices and whimpers. Bonnefoy grabs your shoulders and turns you to look at him, his face hard and accusatory. “This boy will die without us.”

“But Chastain…”

“Non! We have a sworn duty to our country. This boy is an ally. Shouldn’t he at least be returned to his mother?”

You open your mouth to retort, but he shakes you hard. “Non!” He is shouting now, and his fingers dig hard into your shoulders, drawing out more tears. “Shouldn’t he at least be returned to his mother?!”

“Get off!” You try and shove him off you, but are still weak.

“Non!”

“Get off!” You struggle in Bonnefoy’s hard grip, and after a moment of intense anger, shove your hand towards his face, forcing him to release you. You fall back onto the road with a grunt, then stifle the wretched sob building in your chest. Bonnefoy is shocked, watching you with a wounded, wide-eyed expression.

“Fine,” you grit out as you dust your tunic off. You wish you could wipe the tears off your face, but your hands are filthy with trench mud and death. You sniff loudly, then push yourself up on your knees so you can help Bonnefoy move the American onto the stretcher. “We’ll get him to the dressing station.”

***

It is not yet dark, and still the evening hate goes on like it will have no end. The whistle, howls, and explosions are distant, but not overly so. Everything between you and the field hospitals is still well within range of the German artillery, and though most of the fire is concentrated on decimating the trenches, walking above ground, so close to the front, is hair-raisingly terrifying.

To get to the next dressing station you must walk along the line for four miles, then dip back into the trench system to the line of support trenches. It is not far on foot, but you have already spent the day slipping across no man’s land, and Jones’ is a body with only two soldiers to bear his weight instead of four.

Your boots are weighted heavier than normal, and your arms feel like lead as they hang by your sides. You are using ligament, bone, and tendon to bear the weight of Jones instead of muscle, which is now weakly chattering, and hollow. Your hands are stiff around the handles of the stretcher. You are past the point where you were sure you would no longer be able to put one foot in front of another, and still you march.

The same blanket of clouds that has been settled over the front for the past two weeks hangs above you. You pass the time by staring blankly up at the indecisive weather. The clouds roam and roll across the horizon. You wonder what it all means, if there is some hidden message there, if there are answers for you to read--you shake your head and your brain throbs. It’s only the concussion talking.

Bonnefoy leads you where you must go, rarely glancing behind him except to check on the American. You want to be mad at him, but you don’t find the energy. He is your comrade, your friend, your--

Jones does not look good. He is pale and sickly in the faint light. You know he has lost too much blood, and that he needs a transfusion. His only hope is that you move swift enough to get him another ambulance in time, and even then, you’re not sure if he’ll even live through the shock and recovery.

The only things he has going for him are that he seems to naturally cling to life like it were his mother, and that his wounds don’t smell sour. That last thought worries you. How long he’ll stay infection free, you don’t know. With every minute that passes, his likelihood for survival plummets.

You turn your attention to the dazed expression on his face. He is in and out of wakefulness. You’re keeping him on a steady dose of morphia for the journey. Because of the fast pace, neither you nor Bonnefoy can take the time to be particularly careful where you step, and so more often than not, poor Jones is jostled around in the stretcher, bumping against the wooden railings.

Now is one of the moments Jones is awake. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes, he fixes them vaguely on you. He cannot see Bonnefoy, who by virtue of bearing the weight at the front of the stretcher has his back to the boy.

You wish that he would not look at you. You do not want to remember his face. New recruits always die the easiest.

Despite your reluctance to engage, Jones speaks to you anyways. You are surprised when jilted and halting French passes through his thin lips. “I know... little french,” he says in a small voice, “from school.”

Pity fills your chest. He is too young of a boy. “Oh, Oui?”

Jones blinks slowly, his eyelids heavy as they try and stick together. He gives a brave smile, and nods. “Oui. My name is… Alfred.”

He is too young of a boy. He is barely younger than you. “Alfred,” you test out the name, and it fills your mouth innocently. You tell him your name in return, to which he smiles.

He sucks a breath in past his gritted teeth, and holds it before he slowly exhales. “Merci... Beaucoup.”

Shame overtakes you. He is too young of a boy. He is too young of a boy. He is thanking you because he does not know that you, even if it was just for a moment, argued for his death. Even now, you still expect him to die. There is no end to this war. For his life to end now… it would be a mercy.

“Quiet now. We will take you to safety,” you murmur quietly, attempting to soothe whatever fears or doubts he might hold.

You do not know if he can translate your words properly, but he seems to understand because he smiles warmly, then drifts off once more into oblivion.

***

You expect Alfred to die, and yet still, as you stare at his face and march blindly on behind Bonnefoy, everything in you does not want him to.

“How much farther do you think?” You ask your friend. He has barely spoken a word since the ambulance.

“Only a couple miles-“ he clears his throat wetly- “We are nearly to the city.”

The clouds above continue to darken as day turns to night. They darken further as the wind picks up. You can no longer feel your legs and after ignoring the pain in your left shoulder for nearly an hour, your body has given up trying to remind you of your injuries.

Then it begins to rain like ice.

“Shit!” Bonnefoy swears and ducks his head down once the onslaught hits his face. It is sudden. Overwhelming. The sheer cold genuinely shocks you. Alfred exhales pitifully.

“We need to cover him!” You tell Bonnefoy as it continues to deluge.

You and Bonnefoy quickly step to the side, under the slight cover of a tree, and attempt to keep Alfred from the cold.

You pull off your issued blanket and throw it over the boy. It is still not enough. Dread fills you. It is hopeless and still, you quickly begin dismantling your gear, pulling at the buckles of your belt and dragging your bags over your head until it all drops to the ground. Finally, you unbutton your tunic and pull it off before tossing it over Alfred.

Now you are freezing. The cotton of your undershirt is soaked through immediately. Your teeth chatter. Bonnefoy throws his tunic over the boy as well, then you both pull your gear back on as quickly as you can.

You bend down to grab the stretcher, then you both stand in tandem, all at once, balancing him between the two of you.

The rain is so thorough and complete that it is hard to see. There is water in your eyes, pouring off your helmet and soaking into your skin. The earth beneath you becomes so waterlogged it begins to feel as slick as no man’s land. Your toes squish in your boots.

Bonnefoy nearly slips. The blunder almost brings both you and Alfred down along with him, but he catches himself on his knee and the stretcher with his back. Alfred does not seem to notice, he has gone quiet, and this worries you, but you are soldiers, and so you press on.

***

It is when you reach the town that you realize something is wrong with Alfred. Dread sinks like lead to the bottom of your stomach, cold as the rain that pours over your shoulders. You try and catch sight of his face over the mound of fabric thrown over him, and what you see worries you greatly.

“Bon!” you call out to your friend, “he looks worse than he should.”

“What?” You can barely hear his voice over the downpour. It is so loud you cannot tell if the Germans have quit their bombardment.

“We need to stop! Now!”

He doesn’t respond, but leads you up to the steps of a building. He leans his weight back, then sticks a leg up and kicks the door in with a loud WHACK! It hits the inner wall, and then Bonnefoy stumbles into the building followed by Alfred in the stretcher, and you.

It is near pitch black outside, and in the building, though it is dry, it is even darker. Bonnefoy runs into something and curses loudly into the night, and you nearly throw yourself off balance attempting to keep yourself from running into Alfred.

With difficulty, you maneuver the boy to a clear space on the floor to set him down. Bonnefoy drops his pack beside Alfred and begins rummaging through it while you turn to close the door and shutter the windows.

When you return, Bonnefoy has a lightbox out and is opening his medical kit. You pull off the wet mound of fabric sitting on top of Alfred. You busy yourself with hanging up the sopping wet tunics while Bonnefoy checks the boy’s pulse and prods the wound through it’s wrappings. He leans down and sniffs the bandages, then waves you over.

You kneel on the other side of Alfred. “Does it smell to you?”

You brace yourself and lean down to sniff. “Like blood. It hasn’t rotted yet.”

Bonnefoy grabs the lightbox off the ground and shines it on Alfred. The boy is deathly pale, almost an unhealthy yellow. He is sweating and sickly. The thunder and rain sounds like the shelling of the front from a dugout.

You press a hand to his forehead, then his cheeks, then check with the back of your hand and forearm in case your hands are not at temperature. “Bon, he is cold like a corpse.” If he weren’t breathing, you would assume him dead.

Bonnefoy swears, then turns to his pack and pulls out a pair of shears. He cuts away Alfred’s bandages. When he goes to peel them off, the blood makes them stick to the skin of the boy’s stomach. Alfred moans and you quickly move towards his head and shush him.

As Bonnefoy inspects the stitches, which are red and angry, you pull out your canteen and prop Alfred’s head up. “Wa-ter,” you pronounce carefully in English, then in French insist, “drink it.”

You hold the canteen up to his lips and pour a conservative amount into his mouth. With difficulty, he swallows. He looks at you gratefully. “More,” you say as you bring the canteen back to his lips. He drinks until you are satisfied. You hand the canteen to Bonnefoy, who then pours it over Alfred’s wounds. The boy jumps and you quickly move to hold his shoulders down while Bonnefoy cleans his wound.

“There’s internal bleeding.” Bonnefoy says. “See here? There is blood pooling inside.” He presses two fingers into bruising above Alfred’s left kidney.

Alfred’s breathing is shallow and weak. He is miserable to look at. You wipe your hands on your trousers to dry them, only to realize that your trousers are also wet. “He’s going into shock then,” you theorize.

Bonnefoy makes a frustrated noise and wipes at his face with his wet shirt sleeve. “And the rain is not helping him. He needs to warm up.”

Alfred moans weakly, then struggles to push himself up on weak arms. “No, friend, stay down.” He tilts himself over onto his side and heaves. When he collapses back onto the stretcher, there is dark blood on his face.

You share a wretched look with Bonnefoy. His voice is grave. “We have to open him back up.”

You shake your head. “He’s lost too much blood. We don’t have all the tools.”

You look back at Alfred and see a child. Your heart is breaking. “How can we give up?” Bonnefoy asks, his voice but a rasp over the rainstorm.

You don’t have an answer. You secure the shutters and start a fire while Bonnefoy looks for something to clean his hands with.

***

The rain has stopped. You are out of morphia.

You would go back to the ambulance, but the surgery is not an operation a person can do alone, and it cannot wait any longer. Bonnefoy explains this in English to Alfred. Alfred moans pitifully in response.

“Quickly now,” you say as you hand Bonnefoy the tools you’d sterilized. Even still, both you and Bonnefoy are all too aware of the issue of a blood transfusion. Without it, Alfred will likely die.

“He’s too weak,” Bonnefoy mutters as he takes them from you, watching Alfred as he continues to cry. He hasn’t stopped but once since you’d entered the house, but he is strong still, otherwise he wouldn’t have the mind to cling to life so desperately.

Positioned by Alfred’s head, you push him down with a hand on each shoulder, aided by your body weight. Bonnefoy nods, then begins to cut the remaining stitches. This does not prove to be too difficult. Alfred twitches when he removes them, but you hold him firmly down.

When Bonnefoy moves to continue further with the operation, you hear a faint whistle. The color drains from your face. You look up and meet Bonnefoy’s fearful eyes, face pale in recognition.

An explosion.

The building shakes, dust falling from the ceiling.

Alfred jumps. In your dread, you’d slackened your grip on his shoulders and suddenly Alfred is sitting up. “Non! Mon Ami, please stay still!” Bonnefoy grabs Alfred by the shoulders and presses him back into the stretcher, but the boy struggles hard. “He’s going to bleed out!”

You nearly dive onto Alfred’s kicking legs to keep him still. You don’t dare look towards his open wound.

He starts crying then, in English. He sobs and sobs, pleading with you and Bonnefoy. Finally, you scramble up and sit on his legs. “Sh. Sh. Quiet!” you say in English, “Good!” This makes him cry louder. You have exhausted your knowledge of the language. You turn to Bonnefoy. “Bon, tell him it is okay!”

Another shell lands, this one closer. The wall of your building is sprayed with rubble. What are they even aiming for? The damn Germans can’t hit their mark, even when it hasn’t moved an inch for months!

Bonnefoy begins muttering English to the boy, who continues to struggle. There is too much blood. Weak as he is, you’re struggling to hold his legs down, he kicks you off him and you land on your side, in the dirt.

Your head is spinning and your face grows cold as you fight to keep yourself from getting sick. “Bon!”

Bonnefoy releases Alfred’s arms, then wraps his hands around his face, pinching his nose shut and covering his mouth. Alfred’s eyes go wide as he struggles harder, kicking, and tearing at Bonnefoy’s hands. You leap up and throw yourself over Alfred’s legs to keep him still, frighteningly aware of how close your face is to his bubbling wound. The chance of infection is high. Too high, but he is already dying! He is already dead!

If you were in a hospital, he would not be dying of his wounds. But you’re not, and you know that he’s dying. Alfred’s eyes roll back into his head as he beats Bonnefoy with his fists, then he slumps. Bonnefoy lets go. “I am sorry, Alfred.”

Quickly you turn Alfred’s wrist over and check for his pulse. It beats meekly. He is still alive.

Shells begin to fall earnestly on the city and along the frontline. You continue to work regardless, focusing wholly on the boy.

Not for the first time do you find yourself grateful that Bonnefoy was an honest-to-god medical student before this war. You had been a veterinary assistant, Archambault was a pharmacist, Chastain had been a goddamn tailor but Bonnefoy was educated, he went to school for surgery and could name you all of the bones in the human body, even the unimportant ones.

The air reeks of antiseptic, it mixes with blood and pools on the floor. It stains your knees and soaks into your hands. You pay it no attention. The steady roar of the shelling coming from the front continues. The building rattles.

Bonnefoy is covered up to the elbow in Alfred’s precious blood, and he is shaking badly as he attempts to sew the boy’s organs shut around the clamp you are holding. You think to offer to take over. You don’t.

Alfred desperately needs a blood transfusion or all of this will have been for nothing. He is quickly bleeding out.

You hear the low howl of another mortar. Both you and Bonnefoy pause for a moment to brace for the impact, which is frighteningly close. Alfred is once again waking. He chokes on air, then gurgles. You think to put him out of his misery. You don’t.

Alfred sobs again.

It is almost cruel to continue.

“Bon…”

“He’s fine,” Bonnefoy spits out.

“Bonnefoy,” you say, tired of this.

“He’s fine!” Bonnefoy shouts. He is shaking so badly he has to pull his hand away or risk hurting Alfred worse. In the faint light, you see the pained expression on his face and realize that he is crying.

The storm worsens. A howling on the wind. Blue eyes. Blue eyes. Your pulse quickens. The hair on your arms stand on end. Your body is screaming for you to run. Animal fear grips you.

“Bonnefoy.”

He weeps into the night, over Alfred’s opened stomach.

A howling on the wind. Another mortar.

You grab the handholds at the feet of the stretcher and attempt to stand. “Bonnefoy!”

He looks up at you, shell-shocked. “What?”

A howling on the wind. Fear like ice up your spine. “Run!”

Bonnefoy rushes to stand, grabbing his end of the stretcher then following you closely as you stumble backwards through the building and out into the night, the howl of a howitzer ringing so loudly in your ears it makes your head hurt.

You make it across the street just as the building you’d fled from erupts. The world explodes into a molten mound of rubble. Dust and boulders are sent flying. You are thrown to the ground. “Bonnefoy!” There is a great weight bearing down on you, then there is nothing.

***

You awake to light coming in from an open window, framed by billowing white curtains. You blink sleepily, then sit up in the bed. The room is unfamiliar and familiar all at once, as if you’ve been here before, but don’t remember.

The air is sweet, your skin is soft. You don’t find your voice as Bonnefoy pushes the door open and sits beside you on the bed. His hair is long, it curls softly around the shells of his ears and tickles his chin. He looks warmly at you, and takes your hands in his own. What dream is this?

“No matter where or who we are, I will always find you,” he says. His voice is smooth, a sure thing. He stares at you with such confidence and love; tears fill your eyes, relief floods your chest.

“... Francis…” You have been here before. He has such blue eyes.

He says your name in a saccharine tone.

“Francis!”

Panic and blind confusion. The image is torn from you as you are torn from the earth. When you are once more thrust into the chaotic night, you gasp for air like you’ve just surfaced from dark and cold water.

Your hands scramble for purchase on whoever is grabbing you so roughly. You fist whatever fabric is in front of you in your hands and bury yourself closer to the body, pressing your face into a chest and breathing hard.

Distantly, you register Francis calling your name as he hauls you to your feet and attempts to drag you down the road. Then he stops dead in his tracks.

“Merde merde merde!”

Bonnefoy abruptly departs, sending you stumbling back onto the ground. You grunt on impact, then throw yourself back to your feet. “Bon,” you groan hoarsley, throat dry.

He is nowhere to be seen. You cough and wipe at your face, it is covered in dust. The shelling continues, the roar growing louder and louder. Then you hear Bonnefoy crying out over the noise. “Live! Goddamn it! Live! Live!”

You stumble towards his voice, head still swimming. You need to find Bonnefoy. Desperately. Your heart screams at you to find him.

“Live! Live! You have so much life left to live, just breathe goddamn it, boy!”

You find him hunched over Alfred, they are obscured by a large piece of rubble. He is pressing down repeatedly on Alfred’s chest--to simulate a heartbeat, he had once told you. There is a loud explosion beside you, and you are knocked off balance by the force of the blast. You can’t make sense of it, of anything, your head is swimming. Another shell lands. Then two more. It seems the Germans have turned the focus of their bombardment onto the town now. Shrapnel flies past you and embeds itself an inch into solid masonry.

You pick up your pace, shuffling, then limping as fast as you can manage towards Bonnefoy and the boy. You call out to him, but he does not respond. Dirt sprays across the road and pebbles the side of your face. When you finally approach the two, your entire world stops when you realize Alfred is only half a corpse.

Another shell jolts you, and finally, panic pierces the bubble of your disorientation. “Bon,” you shout, “he’s gone.”

He shakes his head and continues. “Non! I can save him!”

The ground shakes under you, death in the skies above. You stumble into Bonnefoy and try to lift him away from the corpse. “He’s gone,” you insist, pulling hard, “we need to go!”

“How?!” He cries out, then, throwing you off of him and curling over Alfred to continue chest compressions, “How can you tell?! I’m the doctor, I know he’ll live if we just don’t give up-”

“Bonnefoy!” you scream, grabbing the over-the-shoulder straps of his belt and shaking him. He has shell-shock, you know. Cowardice is contagious.

He freezes like a deer who has suddenly become aware of its death, staring at you with panicked, blue eyes. You will not die here. You will not die here, shell-shock or no. You wind your arm back and slap him hard across the face.

“Half his body’s fucking gone! Leave him to rest for god’s sake!” You dig deep for any strength you have left and drag him towards you. “Let him rest! You’ll get us fucking killed out here if we stay! Pull yourself together, man!”

“But…” Bonnefoy is dead weight. He cannot seem to tear his eyes away from Alfred. “He’s not dead.”

Your heart is broken. “He is.”

“But he can’t be dead, I was just talking to him--in the trenches, this morning.”

“He’s dead!”

Bonnefoy looks up at you.

“I don’t understand…”

Another shell lands. This is hell. You haul Bonnefoy up to his feet and he stumbles after you while you search for cover. It is a miracle you and him are still alive, but you do not thank the god that has forsaken you.

***

The intensity of the firestorm picks up rapidly. It is loud. There is no cover. You are crying earnestly into Bonnefoy’s chest, unable to stop yourself. It is too much. You do not want to die. This brick wall will not save you.

You think of your mother and your father, of your siblings and your dog, of Chastain’s letter in your pocket, sitting next to your own. You think of Bonnefoy and of the life you wish you had once more, of love and white curtains.

You scramble to grip his shirt, pressing your nose into it in search of comfort, but it smells too much like antiseptic, blood and filth. You are sobbing. You climb up his lap and knock his helmet off before burying your nose in his wet hair. He shudders and holds you as tight as he can manage, mindlessly terrified and heart broken all the same.

You wheeze, suck in a panicked breath, cry out until your lungs burn, then breathe again, and the smell of Francis calms you--you don’t know why it calms you but it does. You breathe in the scent and sag against him as he fists the back of your shirt and weeps in response, his face pressed just over your beating, still beating, heart.

You remain like this until the shelling is over, and then after even, as neither of you move to acknowledge the newfound quiet. Inside this building, the firestorm still rages without end.

“... Francis,” you plead weakly, as if simply saying his name will bring you comfort.

He shudders violently, then murmurs, almost incomprehensible, “Don’t ever leave me, mon amour. Je t'aime. Je t'aime. I love you. Please.”

You run a hand through his flat hair like a lover and cry softly into his neck. “I won’t. Never. Never. Je t’aime, Francis.” You do not know what has overcome you, this emotion welling so strongly in you that you can no longer think better of anything. There is only him and this feeling.

Exhaustion creeps up onto you, then throws itself over you like a lead blanket. Your body quits its trembling and when you close your eyes this last time, you find that they do not want to open again. Francis smooths his hands over your back and draws you closer into his tender embrace. You say nothing as you let yourself finally, finally, rest.

***

You dream of Bonnefoy once more, only the visions stick more clearly in your mind. You’re sure, now, they are real. There is a farmhouse in a field of grass. You send a child out to fetch her papá, who is baking bread in the kitchen. Francis exits with flair and calls out, “mon amour! You needed me?”

There is a city. It is loud like the battlefield and has bright, colorful lights everywhere you look. You are walking, unbothered, along the street, when someone taps on your shoulder. You look and find no one there. You frown, and when you turn back, Francis is there, in your space with a charming smile. “Mon amour…”

There is a market place. You are shoving through the crowds, cradling your basket in front of you when someone knocks shoulders with you. You know his blond hair and blue eyes. “Eh, pardonne-moi -”

“Mon amour?” You fill in for him. He does not know you and he smiles fondly regardless.

You have memories of wine you’ve never tasted, of windows with impossible views, of Bonnefoy, who you called ‘Francis’ instead. Of Francis, who has always called you ‘mon amour’ instead.

When you close your eyes, there are flashes of a life that is not yours. There are images printed on the backs of your eyelids, of blue skies and bluer eyes. You feel the sun on your back, like you never have before. There are visions of yourself in strange clothes and stranger automobiles, sleeker and smaller than you know them to be.

You have never been to Paris, and yet you have memories of the Eiffel Tower. You see Bonnefoy more often than not, smiling, laughing, he looks strange without dirt on his face, almost as if he could be at peace. You cannot make sense of anything you see. The visions come and go along with a great, sorrowful, loving, longing you cannot place.

“Wake up,” commands a voice, thoroughly loved. It sounds like the way brown sugar tastes as it melts on your tongue.

You are in the cradle of fuzzy sleep, though your head begins to ache.

“It’s time. Wake up.” This is a wake up call that is leagues better than Prince Archie’s. Your eyelids flutter, but remain closed. You are reluctant to face what you wish was not reality.

The events of yesterday seem impossible. What is more real are your dreams of the countryside, of a life you no longer remember, of Bonnefoy, of Francis. You do not have enough energy to feel ashamed of your thoughts--you want him back with all your heart, to take selfishly his love and hide in his embrace. You wish with everything you have to revel in the peace of the world, under clear blue skies, to watch idly as white curtains billow in a fresh breeze.

When you open your eyes finally, it is to the same unrestful clouds hanging under a still-dark sky. You have always looked to the sky for answers, for an explanation from god for what he’s done to this world, but these clouds that hang over the western front… They hold no reason nor emotion, just a grey reality--one you find yourself wishing to avoid. You rub your head and sit up off the mud, your entire body protesting loudly.

“What time is it?”

Bonnefoy is not looking at you, his eyes focused staunchly on the road. “I don’t know, but if we don’t start moving, we will die from the cold.”

You search for what remains of Alfred and bury him in the ruins of a cemetery. You doubt, however, that he will stay in the ground for long. There are coffins buried years prior now strewn about, open to the elements with silent skeletons inside, searching for answers in the clouds as well.

When Bonnefoy looks over the letter left in the American’s left breast pocket, he weeps silently over his shallow grave, then leaves the boy to rest with the utterance of a quiet promise that you can’t bear to translate.

Briefly, you search for your bags and wet tunics, but find that they are buried completely. Your hair sticks to your forehead, your heavy clothes hang off your body, and your teeth chatter in the freezing night. You are miserable without the tunics, but cannot hope to recover them with only your hands. A small voice at the back of your head begins muttering about pneumonia, but you ignore it for now.

When you’re done in the town, you both limp back down the road to the overturned ambulance and bury the ambulance driver, the soldier with the head wound, and Chastain, but not before stripping them of their tunics and gear. You are grateful for the added warmth.

You close your eyes and kneel at the foot of your old friend’s grave. He is laid to rest under a chestnut tree. It rustles in the wind as the sun rises behind the clouds. The sound brings no peace, no memories of summer or of home.

You close your eyes and try to picture it, the river bank, the chestnut trees, Joseph Chastain’s ruddy, serene, face as he marvels at the world, but you cannot hold the image in your head.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to grasp the memory, to keep it at the front of your mind, but it falls through your fingers like smoke. The only memories you are able to drag to and keep at the surface are of the front, of mud and rain and sour, dark blood. Chastain is gone, never a child, but a soldier forever unknowing of his sudden end.

The morning bombardment is short, punctual, and then it is silent in that tense way it always is near the front--the earth is perpetually waiting to be churned up, destroyed. You say your goodbyes, then turn towards the trenches, and begin to make your way back.

Bonnefoy lets out a long breath. It fogs in the air around you, and then it is taken by the wind. You rub your hands together and blow into them, hoping for some warmth. You quiet the voice in the back of your mind that worries of exposure, of fevers, pneumonia and the flu. Then Bonnefoy inhales sharply.

“There,” he says, his voice cracking from disuse. He has barely said a word since he first woke you this morning. “On the horizon.” He points north, towards your home, and you follow his finger with your eyes.

“What is it?” You crane your neck, but your view is obstructed by dark, shimmering trees.

“Blue skies,” he says numbly. His eyes are sad, his face is devoid of serious emotion. He is a ghost of a man, his mind dead in the shelling. He drops his arm and mumbles what sounds like a sorrowful prayer under his breath.

You see it too, then; the edge of the clouds, and under them, it is the same color as your uniform: Horizon blue. A sure sign of good luck; The clouds have finally broken, though you feel no true relief.

Your limbs are chilled to the bone, your eyes are strained and your breath is hot.

Hope is an emotion you are estranged to. It attempts to work its way through your mind, but is numbed by exhaustion and grief. It holds no power in the face of Chastain’s inadequate grave, of hours spent in the night crying your heart out to a man you’re not sure you truly know. Nothing in this world has meaning so long as children continue to die, and you continue to be able to do nothing to stop it.

You don’t mean to say anything in response, but without thinking, you find yourself watching the profile of Bonnefoy’s face and muttering, “maybe soon,” regardless of the dark storm brewing in your heart.

Neither of you acknowledge the words for fear of having them taken once more. You think of farmhouses and cafes and of a kiss at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

Is there such a thing as a world without war?

You inhale deeply, and for just a moment, as sunbeams peel across the grey expanse of the battlefield, you allow yourself to search for peace on the frontlines.

A bird chirrups a little song, the chestnut trees rustle in the wind, and Francis turns to you--with his lovely, haunting, horizon blue eyes--and gives you a look that makes your bones settle like the beams of an old house. A farmhouse in a field.

Maybe soon.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- 

A/N: Me: and they were soulmates You: Oh my god they were soulmates.

MORE NOTES

This work was Beta’d by @peachprinx, and @havecourage-darling.

Thank you for reading :)

Masterlist in desc.

#aph france #aph #hetalia #francis bonnefoy #aph france x reader #francis bonnefoy x reader #aph x reader #hetalia x reader #aph france imagine #francis bonnefoy imagine #aph imagine #hetalia imagine

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veneataur · 8 years ago

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Fandom: BBC’s The Musketeers

Day 24 of 24

Title: Families of Choice

A/N: This is the last of the advent stories. I still have one to finish up, which will be coming. Apologies for how late this one is. It took me some time to wrangle the story into something passable. I’m done with monthly challenges for a while (they are mentally draining). But I do have a slew of stories to write, so I’ll be writing Musketeer stories still.

The closer they get to the cemetery, the more Porthos thinks this is a really bad idea. He understands the logic given by almost everyone: Lemay, Athos, Sarah, and the Captain. He knows that this is important, but Aramis hasn’t spoken in the last day and didn’t sleep at all last night in the hotel, despite the anxiety medicine Lemay prescribed, their presence, and his normal calming techniques. And the days leading up to today, he’d gotten progressively less sleep.

Seeing him in the backseat, pulled away from Athos, huddled against the window, eyes distant, Porthos wants to turn the car around and head back home. But this was Aramis’ choice. Lemay presented it as an important step in his recovery and something that he should consider doing at some point. A few weeks ago, Aramis approached them hesitantly to let them know that he was going to be making a trip to Virginia the first week of November. At the same time, he and Athos had said they would be coming. They knew his plans, not because Lemay had told them but because there was only one reason for Aramis to go to Virginia. After some arguing, Aramis gave in and they’d seen his mood go down the closer they got to the trip.

Visiting Arlington is not the only part of the trip they have planned. They have the weekend plus a few days. Between them, they had no vacation or personal days left. It had all been used to care for Aramis over the past year. Aramis, being on leave, didn’t have to worry about time. But for Athos and Porthos, the situation was a bit difficult. Treville too was out of days and there was little leeway he could give them. Fortunately, there were some in the task force who donated enough days for their trip.

While the cemetery isn’t their only purpose, it is where they’ve decided to visit first. Aramis wouldn’t be able to enjoy anything else they’d planned, planning which they’d tried to include him on, but he didn’t seem to care much. This is the reason they’ve driven straight from the interstate to the cemetery, bypassing their hotel. They can check in late, anyway.

When they park, Porthos and Athos wait for Aramis to make a move. Minutes pass before anything happens.

“I can’t do this,” Aramis says quietly, voice thick.

“I happen to disagree with that,” Athos says. It’s been hard for him not to comfort Aramis during the second part of their trip, but he knew from the moment Aramis leaned up against the car window, the younger man needed time alone. “But, we can go to the hotel, if you want. You don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t I? Lemay…”

“I know what Lemay said and you know that he left this up to you, when you feel ready and no one can tell you when you are.”

Aramis nods his head lightly, looking down at his hands in his lap playing with a stray thread on his jacket. “I need to but I can’t.”

“You’re not alone. We’re here with you.”

“We’ll walk with you as far as you need,” Porthos says. He’s turned around to be able to look better at the backseat.

“But…,” Aramis begins.

“You are our family, Aramis,” Porthos says. “We will go to the ends of the earth for you.”

“But…”

“And it doesn’t matter how you feel. You could always see us as friends, you are our brother in our eyes and we’ll do whatever we can for you,” Athos says.

Aramis is silent for a few more moments. Then he reaches for the door and steps out into the chilly November air. Athos and Porthos follow without thought.

“You don’t have to,” Aramis says as they begin to walk with him towards the lines of white headstones. He stops and so do they.

“Yes, we do,” Porthos says. “We’re family.”

“And even if we weren’t, we want to,” Athos adds.

“Thanks.” Aramis looks at them both, the gratitude clear in his eyes.

“Lead us to where you need to go,” Porthos says. “Stop when you need.

“Remember that you can always call on us but we’re going to let you have your time,” Athos says. Aramis nods again and continues walking. They hear his attempts to steady his breathing as they keep walking. It’s a slow, steady pace. Athos gazes at the names and dates on the headstones as they walk past the rows. He sees so many who are far too young, their neatly lined up headstones belying the chaos of the battles they died in. Aramis could have easily been in one of these graves, he thinks. Not from the massacre, after then he would’ve been barred from Arlington. But the massacre hadn’t been Aramis’ first glimpse, experience of battle. By far the massacre featured most in his flashbacks, but Athos picked up on other moments of terror in the young man’s life, moments of battle that he just escaped with his life intact.

Aramis stops suddenly. “This is one of them.”

Athos and Porthos wait no more than a foot away though it feels like miles for them. Some months ago, Aramis revealed to them that he’d never been to the grave sites of his teammates killed in the massacre. At first, he hadn’t been told where they were buried and hadn’t the mindset to find them himself. Then a week ago, as they made their plans, he presented them with a list of four names. Four of the six SEALs killed had been buried in Arlington.

How long they spend at each, none of them keep track of. Aramis doesn’t speak and they don’t ask him to, simply standing with him as they move from grave to grave. They come to the fourth grave as the sun is setting.

“You,” someone shouts angrily. “You coward, you bastard. You get away from him.” It’s a woman, around their age and she is closing in fast on them. She continues her tirade all the way. Inches from them two things become clear. Aramis is her target and she is going to hit him. Porthos sees her fist raised but before he or Athos can move, can do more than shout at Aramis to look out, she strikes him, solidly on the side of his face. Unprepared and emotionally exhausted, Aramis falls back, just missing the headstone of his teammate.

“You,” the woman shouts again, moving to launch her self on the prone man. “You have the gall to come back here after what you did.”

Porthos reaches out to grab her, pulling her back gently, but firmly. “Hey, stop it. Now.” Athos goes to Aramis, who hasn’t made a single noise. One hand is on the spot on his cheek where he was hit. His eyes are distant and breathing strangely calm. Experience tells Athos what to do.

“I’m here, ‘Mis. We’re here.” Athos kneels next to him, hesitant to touch Aramis. “Tell me where you are, “Mis. Start with what you can see.” It’s a routine by this point.

There’s silence, then voice low, Aramis starts speaking. “Clouds, the sky.” Aramis doesn’t move his gaze from the sky.

“Good. Now, what can you feel with your hands?” Aramis keeps the one hand on his face, while the other reaches out slowly, lightly.

“Grass. It’s cold.”

Athos continues taking Aramis through his grounding steps. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Porthos dealing with the woman, but it doesn’t concern him. His efforts to calm Aramis are working.

“You back with us,” Athos asks when he sees the distant look nearly gone.

“Yeah.” Aramis nods. He moves to sit up, but his arms give out. Athos moves to prop him up before he falls back. Despite being more with it, slight tremors run the length of Aramis’ body and Athos feels him trying to maintain his breathing. There is a chill that is starting to set into him. He’s not done with this but he’s not going any further, yet.

“You think you can stand?” Athos wants to get him off the ground.

“Maybe.” His voice is low and shaky.

“You can lean against me. You’re going to get a cold sitting on the cold ground.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Let’s get you to your feet regardless.”

When he’s standing, Aramis is happy to have Athos supporting him. His energy is low from a lack of sleep and food over the last week, his mind and stomach in turmoil at the thought of coming here. Then he sees the woman standing in front of him, feet away and still held back by Porthos. She’s angry still but not yelling at him. He knows her.

“How are you, ‘Mis,’ Porthos asks.

“Still here,” Aramis answers breathlessly.

“You shouldn’t be, you coward,” the woman yells.

“Hey, now. We talked about this,” Porthos says. “You don’t get to call my brother that. He’s a braver man than anyone I know.”

“He’s a coward and he knows it.”

“Amy Richards, isn’t it,” Aramis says.

“You remember him. The man you got killed,” Amy says.

“He didn’t get him killed,” Porthos says.

“I know what happened. I saw the reports. He led them all into battle, got them all killed.”

“It’s been overturned. The Navy changed their verdict and cleared his name.”

“He got him killed. Should’ve died yourself, coward.”

“Is there a problem here,” a man in uniform, a soldier, asks. He walks up to them until he’s standing just a few feet away.

“Yes, we came here so my brother here could visit his friends’ graves and she’s come up and upset him,” Porthos explains. “He has PTSD and doesn’t react well to shouting and the like. We just barely kept him from a full-blown flashback.”

“It’s not like that. See, this is the man who got my husband killed. He’s been hiding away like a coward, too afraid to come out because of what he’s done,” Amy says, accusation clear in her voice.

“You hit him.”

“He deserved it and more.”

“I don’t care who started it,” the soldier says. “I’m going to ask all of you to leave. The cemetery requires silence and respect. If you can’t abide by that, then you’ll have to leave.”

“Why should I leave, he’s the coward. He doesn’t belong here.”

“No, we’ll leave,” Aramis finally says. “Please, Amy, take your time here with Cody. He was a good man and a great father.”

“Are you sure, ‘Mis,” Athos asks.

“Let’s go. I’m ready to go, Athos.” Aramis can’t keep the pleading out of his voice.

“If you’re sure, then we will but not because she’s driving you out.”

“I’m sure. I’m ready to go.”

Porthos lets go of Amy. He doesn’t believe Aramis, but he can see that he’s not in a state to argue. “You’re wrong about what’s happened,” Porthos tells Amy. “He’s a good man who was trying to do the right thing. I understand that you’ve had a rough time, but he has too. Let’s go ‘Mis.” Porthos walks to where Aramis and Athos stand.

“You sure you’re good to go,” Porthos asks.

“Please,” Aramis pleads.

“Alright, let’s go.”

They each support Aramis as he takes unsteady, slow steps. Porthos gives Athos a quick glance. It’s clear that Aramis isn’t over his flashback yet.

“How about we go to the hotel,” Athos says. “We can get checked in and decide what we want to do next.”

Aramis nods his head. They’re nearly at the car when they hear a voice behind them.

“Wait, wait!” They turn quickly to see that it’s a teenage girl running towards them. Athos and Porthos move in front of Aramis. “Are you René? Were you my dad’s friend?”

“Who are you,” Porthos asks. The girl is in her early teens.

“I’m April, Cody’s daughter. My dad, he wrote me letters, talked about René a lot in them.”

“’Mis?” Athos looks back.

“René?” April steps closer causing Aramis to tense and Porthos and Athos to move in closer. “Do you remember me? We met at a couple family picnics.”

“Just stay there.” Porthos puts a hand out. “Now, just like I’ve told your mom. Aramis here was cleared of all charges. He was just trying to do what was right, what needed to be done. He feels guilty enough without your family adding on to it.”

“I know. I read about it in the news. I’m happy for you, René. After everything dad told me about you, I couldn’t believe that you’d lead anyone into anything so dangerous without good reason.”

“Why?” Aramis’ voice is quiet.

“What?”

“Why? How did you find out?” It’s an effort to speak louder.

“I was trying to find you, René.” She shrugs her shoulders.

“Why?”

“I…” April looks down, swallows, then much more shyly says, “I wanted to talk with you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are the last person to see my dad alive. I wanted to find out what happened. Mom won’t tell me what happened. She’s just angry or sad all the time. And none of his other friends will tell me. I’m just a little kid to them but you were never like that with me.”

As far as Aramis can recall right now, their meetings were brief. She was often busy going off to play with some other kids instead of wanting to hang out with some adults talking about serious stuff, like their next deployment. What little he did interact with her, he spoke with her just like he did with other children, with respect because even children deserve respect, not to be pushed aside.

“Wh… what do… you want to … know?” Aramis’ mind is on edge still and with the thought of having to recall back to that night, he feels himself tipping over. Then, there’s a steadying hand on his back, rubbing gentle circles. Athos. It’s always Athos. For now, it’s enough to keep him here.

“This really isn’t the best time,” Porthos says.

“It’s fine,” Aramis says.

“No, it’s not a good time. You’re exhausted.”

When he legs quake beneath him, Aramis is forced to concede the point. He swallows heavily before speaking, “It, his death, he wasn’t alone. I… I had a hold of him until he drew his last breath. He said he loved you very much. His last thoughts were of you, April.”

April’s eyes tear up, slowly falling down her cheeks.

“There… um… there was a letter he wrote for you,” Aramis says, forcing himself to keep his eyes on April.

“Because of the mission?”

“No. When we got there, we both wrote letters to our family. We kept them in our trunks, so if something happened…” Porthos and Athos look at each other, thinking of the letters Aramis wrote, what he told his family.

“Where is it?” April takes an eager step forward and this time, Porthos and Athos aren’t on edge.

“It’s with his stuff. I don’t have it. We always left them in our trunks because we knew they would be sent back.”

“Mom must have it. I told her I wanted to get in touch with you last year and she grounded me for a month. I’m sorry about her.”

“Don’t apologize for other people’s actions,” Aramis says.

“Dad always said that.”

“Your dad was one of the few good men I knew. He didn’t deserve to die out there.”

“And you don’t deserve what’s happened to you either.”

“That’s what I’m told.” Aramis leans against the car, feeling weakness overtake his body once more.

“It’s true, ‘Mis,” Porthos says. “And you know that we’re going to keep reminding you of it until you believe it.”

Aramis nods tiredly.

“I should go. Mom’s going to be angry enough as it is,” April says.

“Tell her it was my fault,” Aramis says.

“No,” April says quickly. “Enough has been blamed on you. I stopped you. I’ll take the blame. You know well enough what happens when the wrong person takes the blame.”

“You shouldn’t be in trouble because of me.”

“And I stopped you because I wanted to know more. I’d like to talk with you more about dad. Nobody will and I miss him.” She tries to hold back the tears.

“Your mom will have nothing of it,” Aramis says. “And,” he begins after a pause, “as much as I’d love to talk with you about your dad, I’m not in the best of mental states right now. I don’t know when I will be.”

“Are you okay with waiting,” Athos asks April.

“Yes, of course. I mean, I want to know more, but I do understand. Dad said you are a good man, René. That you always deserved better than you got at times. He’d hate it if I pushed you before you were ready.”

“Good. Then, I suggest meeting up again in about five years’ time. You’ll be old enough then, April, to make decisions for yourself and Aramis, you’ll be in the right mindset to talk about her dad.”

“That’s… that’s a good idea, Athos. Thanks. Are you okay with that, April,” Aramis asks, looking at her again.

“Yes. Where should we meet?”

“How about at your father’s grave? I’ll bring a picnic lunch and you can ask me all the questions you want and I’ll do my best to answer.”

“Sounds good. I wish you the best, René. And, as lame as I know it is, I’m really sorry for what’s happened. You didn’t deserve it. I know what you’re going to say but listen to your brothers. You’re a fortunate man. It’s not often you get such caring brothers as you have.”

“I know.” Aramis nods his head tiredly. The motion sets him off balance. Porthos quickly moves to catch him, mostly carrying him to get him in the backseat and buckled in.

“April,” Athos says as the young teenager is turning to walk away. She pauses and turns back towards him. He takes a couple steps to close the gap. “Aramis, René as you call him, lives with my friend and I. We’re Musketeers. If your mom gives you too much trouble, if it starts to get bad and you’re not comfortable getting in touch with the police here, you have friends with the Musketeers. One call and we’ll come.”

“You don’t know me.”

“It’s clear that Aramis cares about you. You’re special to him and there’s not a lot of people left like that in his life. I won’t have anything happen to someone who’s special to him. And more than that, I won’t stand by while a child is abused.”

“It’s nothing like that. Mom gets angry and grounds me but that’s it.”

“I can start like that and become worse. You have friends with the Musketeers, though.”

“Musketeers? I’ve heard about them.”

“Yes, we’ve had a couple big cases that put us in the national headlines.”

“Is Aramis one, too?”

“Once he recovers, he will be. He’s making a lot of progress, but we don’t know when he’ll come back.” Athos pauses. “I need to get going, get him back to the hotel so he can rest after today. Anytime, though. A single call to Athos, Porthos, or Aramis and we’ll come.”

“Thank you. I don’t think it’ll come to that, but thank you for your concern and please, look after him for me. He deserves to be taken care of.”

As April walks back through the cemetery, Athos looks into the backseat of the car where Porthos is sitting with Aramis. The younger man is leaning against Porthos, head buried in his shoulder, his own shoulders shaking. It’s going to be a long evening and even longer night, but Athos doesn’t regret anything. Aramis has fit in perfectly with their small family and after less than a year, Athos can’t imagine anything different, not even with the mental illnesses. They are just another part of their brother. It makes life more challenging but never impossible.

And as hard of a time they have with the illnesses, he knows that Aramis has it even worse, much worse. The young man is braver than anyone he knows, to decide to keep fighting when he knows he was ready to give up at so many points. He’s proud of Aramis and wishes that Aramis could find that same pride in himself. But for now, he thinks, sighing, it’s time to get Aramis to the hotel and work on getting him through the rest of the day. He hates seeing Aramis struggle and even more hates that they are largely helpless.

#bbc the musketeers #aramis #athos #porthos #fan fiction #modernAU #advent prompts #windy city musketeers #oc

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amaranthprincess21 · 8 years ago

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Upside-down in the Abyss: Chapter 1

Fandom: Wizardess Heart Rating: T, but will probs change. Synopsis: In the middle of her provisional period, Liz Hart vanishes without a trace. Klaus Goldstein already has enough on his plate, Elias and Yukiya are heartbroken, and no one can seem to console Azusa. With sacrifices becoming more and more frequent, Klaus knows it's a race of time to find Liz before she's hurt - or his brother does something stupid. And meanwhile, Liz is prey to something much darker than anyone could imagine...

It was just the same as killing a pigeon, Azusa told himself. It was exactly the same as killing a bird to feed the Nue. She was just another pigeon, he kept telling himself. But as tears ran in rivers down her face and his hands shaking as he tried to summon the Nue, he realized he couldn't do it. She wasn't a pigeon, a bird that only squawked when he wrung its neck. She would scream and cry and beg for her life. Azusa could already hear her death cries in his ears.

This isn't what Tsukasa would want. He wouldn't want this girl's blood on his hands. Gods, I'm weaker than she is, Azusa cringed. He could kill animals but not her? But, a voice inside his head told him. You don't need her dead. You just need her out of the way. That was right.

"起きる (Okiru)!" He made a sign and cast it towards Liz. Immediately, she fell silent and she collapsed, body sprawled out on the grass. Azusa quickly picked her up and headed to the East Forest. There was a darkness that couldn't be pierced, Randy had told him. No unicorn could live there, and there was no way Liz would make it out of there alive. He trusted the Nue or Tsukasa could lead him out.

The void seemed to swallow him up as he entered the forest, pushing deeper and deeper to find a suitable place to dump her. His feet were sore and he decided to come to a stop. Kneeling, he placed Liz on the ground and turned his back on her, going back the way he came. He was rid of her, she wouldn't be able to get in his way anymore, so why did he feel so empty inside? Why did he feel like something was clawing at his heart?

Elias sighed heavily as he sat in Klaus' office, turning the page through one of the many books his brother owned. Klaus, on the other hand, twisted his ring as he went over the photographs of the sacrificial sites. There was something so wrong about it. There was so much blood in the vigils and pooled under the sacrifices that it seemed impossible for all of the blood to come from the birds...

“Did Miss Hart like the earrings?” Elias finally spoke up, breaking the silence. Klaus looked up and found him giving him a curious gaze.

“I'd like to think she did,” he replied.

“Elaine really came through with her fashion knowledge then, I guess,” Elias commented. He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “I'm surprised you asked her for help with a design in the first place.”

“Hart's a poor little country bumpkin. She deserves to own something nice,” Klaus reasoned.

“What? You're letting her keep them once this is over with?”

“I'll remove the charm, but yes. I don't see why not.” Elias shut his book and got up to sit in the chair opposite Klaus.

“We both know those earrings cost at least half a year's worth of allowance,” he said.

“If you want to say something, say it,” Klaus challenged him. “Stop beating around the bush.”

“Did you stop to think how young she is?! She's my age! It's weird for you to be going after someone my age! And in my class, no less!” Elias fired at him. “I may have suggested her as a spy but your interest seems to be going a bit further than confidants.”

“Are you kidding me, Elias? Can you hear yourself right now?” Klaus replied irritably. “I hardly know Hart. I chose her because she's Azusa's Buddy and your glowing recommendation. And I gave her earrings because by the time this is over, she'll have worked hard for them and with all the mental scarring she'll have gone through, she'll need something nice.” Elias groaned and leaned back in his chair, arms folded.

“I suppose you're right. But you better be careful, sneaking off to see her every night,” Elias warned him. “I haven't seen much of Azusa, but I know he's the kind of guy that's willing to share.”

“Oh really?” Klaus gave him a piercing glare.

“.... Yeah, there were some things that happened...” Elias mumbled, looking towards the bookcase.

“Such as... ?” Elias sat up straight, but kept his gaze away from his elder brother.

“This happened a few days ago, but Miss Hart didn't pack hardly anything for lunch, so Yukiya decided to split his lunch with her. Azusa came to visit our classroom to have lunch with her and well, he was polite but you could tell he was fuming on the inside that she was eating with us,” Elias told him.

“Why didn't you tell me about this when it happened?”

“Why would I? I didn't think it was important.” Oh, it was important all right. The alarm bells in Klaus' head were going off. Jealousy was a common sin, but to get angry that she was eating with her friends? That didn't warrant anger. Was Azusa abusing her? Was he trying to control her? Klaus knew Liz was too naive and too much of a pushover to fight back. Come to think of it, he had seen dark bags under her eyes and bruises on her arms. She was clumsy, but none of these signs pointed to anything good.

“Hart's roommate is Amelia Nile, correct?” Klaus asked Elias.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Go get her for me. I need to talk to her.”

Yukiya took a deep breath as he steadied his wand. Seth sat near him, gold eyes watching his every move. Would it be rude to tell the creature that fed off your soul to go fuck off for a few moments?

“Grant this water the power to advance time! 'Transeo Hora!'” The vial of water started to glow, but a sharp pain in Yukiya's eyes made him miss the rest of it. Groaning, he screwed his eyes shut and sharply gasped for air. God, the pain was getting worse and worse as if someone was shoving nails into his eyes.

“It looks like the spell worked,” Seth commented as if nothing was wrong. Yukiya sighed, letting his hands fall to his sides but keeping his eyes shut.

“Did you have to make magic so painful to use?” he demanded.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” Seth retorted. He should have taken up his sister's offer on that muzzle when he had the chance. The full moon was coming soon and although he was trying to see her less, with the pain ringing through his head, it was clear to Yukiya that he'd need to see the mysterious ghost that soothed his pain.

Mentally making a plan for himself, he slowly opened his eyes. The light burned his uncovered eye and made it water. Trying his best to ignore the pain, Yukiya uncorked the vial and continued his practicing.

When Liz came to, she couldn't see a thing. Panic rose in her body. Had she lost her sight? But as she turned her head, she realized she could make out looming shapes in the darkness. So she could see. But where on earth was she? The last thing she remembered was Azusa's cold, emotionless face and his shaking hands. What had he done to her?

“Azusa?!” she called out. Maybe this was just some sick, twisted joke. Maybe it was just some huge misunderstanding. Maybe he was nearby and he'd come to rescue her any moment. “Azusa, are you there?!” The void was silent as she waited for his voice, for a sound, anything. One second, two seconds, twenty seconds, forty seconds, a minute passed and nothing sounded off.

This wasn't a joke, was it?

Azusa had left her in this darkness to die, hadn't he?

Tears welled in her eyes and for what seemed like the twentieth time this week, Liz began to sob. How could he have done this to her? How had she fallen for his lies? Was she as stupid as he said she was? Was she really dumb for wanting to believe in the best of people? Her naivete had gotten the best of her and led her to this situation, to her being trapped in this dark abyss.

No.

The word seemed to reverberate in the air around her, bouncing through the inky blackness.

You aren't wrong. It's him who is wrong. You gave him everything and he used you. The voice was so silky and thick and warm. It reminded her of the dark chocolate fudge she used to put on her sundaes. He took your kindness and used it. Darling, you're not in the wrong.

That's right. He had done this. She had done her best to be kind and accommodating, and yet he threw her aside like a threadbare sock. Azusa took her love and stomped it into the ground and cursed her with silence. No, she wouldn't let him have his way anymore. Liz got up off the ground and brushed herself off. She was going to confront him and make him realize she was a force to be reckoned with.

That's a good girl, the voice said lovingly. Liz snapped her head to the side as she felt hot breath tickle her ear. She couldn't see anything and when she reached out to touch whatever was speaking to her, her fingers only grasped air. There was a rush of wind and she felt more alone than ever. Had someone just been with her? Why did they leave her to find her own way out?

Focus, Liz! Focus, she told herself. Answers would be nice, but first, she needed to figure out where she was and how to get out.

A/N: So there’s chapter 1! Idk how long I’ll make this, but I def got some great ideas for future chapters! :3c

Buy me a coffee

#wizardess heart #shall we date #shall we date wizardess heart #klaus goldstein #azusa kuze #elias goldstein #yukiya reizen #ntt solmare #wizardess heart+

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starsscribble · 8 years ago

Text

My Kingdom Must Not Fall

Imagine being the new Queen of your planet. One day a man named Shiro’s is brought to you and helps you and your kingdom grow

Relationship: Strangers to Friends to Lovers

Fandom: Voltron

Character: Shiro

You knew what everyone was thinking as the heavy crown was placed onto your head and the High Elder spoke. They were all thinking you were too young to rule; which you were. However with you father’s passing, mother’s mental problems, and being the eldest you didn’t have a choose. As the Elder spoke the crown seemed to get heavier and heavier on your head. You were going to be Queen and you were scared.

It was a week after you were crowned Queen when the guards brought a person to the throne room, that looked hurt. Standing up from the throne and walking down the steps you got the guards and the man. “Who is he?” You asked looking past the guards and to him. “I’m Shiro. Your Highness.” He gave a small bow before looking at you again. “We found him on the outskirts. Fighting a Mubase.” Your eyes widen as you looked to the guard that spoke then to Shiro. That explained the cuts and burns shown on his skin and clothes. A Mubase was a nasty beast they killed without mercy, your kind, animals, even its own kind. Beast of destruction the elders called them, so you were ever impressed that Shiro had fought one and survived till a patrol showed up. “Please take Shiro to the infirmary. As he is getting patched up please tell a few of the maids to get him some new clothes, food, and fix him a room.” “Yes, ma’am.” The guards said in unity before they lead him away Shiro spoke up again. “Your Highness. Thank you and your men for your help but I was separated from my friends and needed to find them.” You nodded at his request “Once you have been fixed up and rested then we can talk more about your problems. Fighting a Mubase is not some you should shrug off so easily.” Shiro nodded and allowed the guards to led him out of the throne room. You took a sit back on the throne as your father’s best friend and adviser who was now your adviser spoke up. “Your father would be proud how you handled that. He was never one to turn away people that needed help.” You smiled and looked at the older man. “I remember. Mother always thought that it was silly and it would get him kill.” The gentleman chuckled lightly nodding. “That she did. However, his kindness brought him many allies.” “It did.” You mumbled to yourself.

Your eyes hurt from reading and re-reading papers and notes from everyone, you sat in your study going over reports and memos. Currently from what you remember you were reading something about farms and crops. You let out a huff setting the paper down looking out the window to the small garden below. Your sister and brothers were outside playing, the flowers in full bloom and the fruit tree was bearing fruit as well. You wish you could go out and just sit in the grass with your siblings. But your had to take care of whatever the hell these papers were about. A knock on the door broke you daydream and pulled you away from looking out the window. “Enter.” You said picking the paper up to act like you were doing your job and not daydream. As the door opened you saw three people, one a maid with a tray of snack and drinks which you thanked her for before she set them on a table away from your desk, the second was a guard, and third Shiro. “Ah! Shiro! Our meeting how could I forget.” You set the paper down as you stood up from your seat telling the guard to wait outside the door. “Sorry for interrupting your work.” You watched as Shiro looked towards you desk that had paper stacked everywhere, you waved you hand as you moved from behind your desk over to the tray on the table. “Don’t be. I was getting unfocused anyways so you came at the perfect time.” You poured what looked like green liquid from what looked like a teapot into two cups and handed one to Shiro. Shiro took it and looked down at the liquid in the cup, he kinda reminded him of green tea. “It has a sharp sour taste when you first drink it but after some time your will taste the sweetness.” You waved your hand over to a chair at the table, Shiro nodded and took a seat at the table. You smiled light and took the other seat. “So tell me how you ended up here.” Shiro didn’t know where to begin so he just started from the Battle with Zarkon.

Weeks passed after your first meeting with Shiro, after that meeting you agreed to help him try and get in contact with his friends. Shiro along with your people sent out short burst signals in the hopes of his team showing but they hadn’t. Shiro never seemed to get down about it often commenting that they were probably helping other planets still under Galra control. When Shiro wasn’t sending out signals to his team we started to help around the town. Small jobs here and there like fixing leaky roofs, helping carry heavy items, and small jobs. He had even help out with patrols around the kingdom, a few guards didn’t like the idea of a stranger help but most were glad for the help. Shiro would often come back and talk with you which you thanked him for, the title of Queen was still hard on you.

One day had been really hard on you, a group of explorers had left in the hopes of finding a new area to start a settlement two months back. Only one came back saying that they only found more beasts. You were forced to contact the families of the other dead explorers and tell them that their husbands, wives, fathers, or mothers were not coming back. You listened to the gasps and sobs before the call ended. You stormed out of your office passing Shiro and your adviser, you didn’t see the confused look on Shiro’s face or the look of sadness on your advisor's face. Your tears clouded your vision but you lived in this castle your whole life so you knew where you were going too.

You outside in the training area, a line of dummies lay on the far side. You could see they have taken a beating from your sister and brothers earlier in the day. Picking up a practice swords you pushed some of your energy into it knowing that if you didn’t it for most likely break. Walking over you touched one of the dummies bring it to life. It picked up a practice sword lying at its feets, you back away and began to stand off with it. Training had always been your way of dealing with strong emotions and you had not been able to train for long periods of time when you became Queen. You gripped the hilt of the wooden sword tighter before attacking the dummy. The thing blocked your attack but it didn’t matter, you watched as the dummy’s sword split in half. As your sword hit the dummy’s head is stopped coming and fell over signaling that you had won. You glared at the thing, you wanted to scream and yell but you couldn’t. Instead, as your grip tighten on the hilt of the sword, more of your emotional energy flowed into it causing it to split and burst into splinters. “Ah quiznak!” You yelled as you threw the hilt of the sword to the side, you growled as energy warmed your hands. Before you could do anything with it however you felt a hand touch your shoulder. Looking around your saw that it was Shiro. “Talk to me. You have helped me so much so let me help you.” The warmth of energy left your hands and you harden face soften at Shiro comment. “Am I a good Queen? I can’t give them the more room they need. I have sent people out there that died. I-” Tears started to form as you looked away from Shiro. Shiro moved from behind you to in front of you, his hands resting on your shoulders. “You are a good Queen Y/N. The fact that you are trying to find more space for them means something.” Shiro pulled you close to him as tears poured out from your eyes and down your cheeks. Rubbed circles into your back as you held onto him. “Your people know that you are doing your best for them. They wish to help if you just let them.”

Once you had calm down you thanked Shiro for his advice, you were trying to rule the way your father had. But he was not longer ruling you were, you had to find your own way to lead your people. Your adviser was against the idea stating that you should stick with the old way but you couldn’t. You started having meetings with the people, you got their ideas, heard information you would not have otherwise, and started to slowly expanded your kingdom. As you did Shiro and you got closer, he offered you advice that you sometimes took. Your kingdom was growing and thriving in a way you had never seen before. Even your sibling were helping out, your sister was helping on the expansion, two of your brothers were on farms help, and the other one was working for a doctor in town. You still had paperwork to do but now it didn’t seem as hard or dull. Shiro would often come by to get you to take short breaks, you both talked about your days or what you were planning for tomorrow. Slowly you were falling for Shiro, the man that showed up one day and helped you become a real Queen.

Two years had long since passed, your kingdom was larger now allowing more space for building and farms. Your people were in a state of peace, and all the elders could talk about was how you were not married yet. You stormed out of the meeting hall and out to the garden where you knew Shiro might be. Sure enough, he was there reading a book. As the doors to the garden closed he looked up from the book to see you walking over to him. “What happened?” Shiro asked he knew you had a meeting with the elders. You huffed as you took a seat beside him. Shiro gave you a curiously as you laid your head on his shoulder. “The elders want me to get married.” You could feel Shiro tense up as you glance over at him and he looked down at you. “What did you say?” He asked as he tried to keep his cool. “I didn’t say anything. I stormed out.” Shiro chuckled, as his arm rested on your shoulder pulling you closer. “They hate me.” You nodded at Shiro’s comment, it hadn’t been long since Shiro and you started to date. “They do but I don’t care. I answer two things and two things only.” Shiro’s right eyebrow cocked up and looked over at you. “And what are those two things.” He asked curiously wanting to know what your answer would be. “My people and my heart. Both like you so I could care less about the elders.” Shiro smiled as he kissed the top of your head. “I’m glad.” He mumbled into your hair.

“Enemies! My Queen! Enemies!” Was what awoke you from your slumber, you didn’t remember falling asleep in the garden lying against Shiro but you really didn’t have time to think about that now. Both Shiro and you jumped to your feet, you could hear the screams from your people, the noise from the guns and clashing of swords. You both rushed out of the garden the head of your guards meeting you at the main watchtower. Your sword was there waiting for you, picking it up and order your men to protect the civilians and get them out of the city if they could. Communication was already sending out signals for help. You looked over at Shiro, his hands clenching as one word left his mouth. “Galra.” The stories he told you where not pleasant and you didn’t want your kingdom to fall to this soulless being. “Get my siblings some place safe. If I am to fall I need to know they are safe so they can rebuild.” The head guard looked at you in horror, you were staying and you were going to fight. “My Queen I-” You quickly cut him off. “That is an order! I am Queen I refuse to hide as my people die!” You left the garud tower and your heard someone behind you, most likely Shiro. The person finally caught up to you turning to face them, sure enough, it was Shiro. “Y/N you can’t do this. You people will need you after this.” “My people need me now. I trust in my siblings enough to know if I were to die today they that will rebuild. I am a Queen and therefore will fight for my people.” Shiro didn’t know what to say, instead, he leaned in and placed a kiss on your forehead. “Be safe.” You nodded. “Same to you my love.”

At some point in the fight, giant lions differing in color came down and took out the Galra ships that were hovering overhead firing at everyone. You couldn’t pay them much mind as you fought your way through Galra men and robots to helps people that needed it. You told then where to head to once the area was clear of Galra soldiers. Most of the kingdom was destroyed but you couldn’t think of it now. You hadn’t seen Shiro since you both entered the battleground, you felt the ground shake as one of the giant lions landed a crushing group of robots under its paw. It was a black lion, you were in awe of the beast then you felt a blade through your chest. You gasp as you felt to your knees, footsteps rushed over to you taken out the people. “Y/N! Talking to me.” Shiro kneeled in front of you and helped you sit up, another person was standing farther away from the both of you. “You found your friends.” You whispered out as you leaned against him. “I did. Come on let’s get you help.” You carefully picked you up and held you so not to touch the sword. “Will you help me rebuild?” Your voice was soft almost like you were tired. “I will. You know I will.” The boy that stood behind Shiro was now in the pilot’s seat as Shiro stood behind it holding onto you. “Are my people ok?” “They are fine. We stopped the Galra.” Shiro said as the lion got into the air and headed to your castle where the others lions were. The pilot was giving order as you spoke quietly to Shiro. “I love you, Shiro.” You spoke as your eyes closed. “I love you too Y/N.” Shiro looked down to see that your eyes were closed and your breathing was slowing. “Y/N wake up. Please wake up.”

When the lion landed Shiro rushed out the of the Black lion holding you tightly as tears ran down his face. He met with your doctors but there was nothing they could do you were gone. Shiro stood there frozen just staring at your face. The face that was once full of live and love was now blank. He pushed some of your hair out of your face and placed a finally kiss on your forehead. He felt Keith’s hand on his shoulder but he couldn’t look away from you. “I’m so sorry Shiro,” Keith said Shiro could only nod.

#voltron #voltron imagines #Takashi shirogane imagines #shiro imagine #shiro x reader

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