antiswagc0rp

[antiswagc0rp]

a feel like the new generation of fanfic readers NEED to understand that clicking on a fic (interaction) does nothing. ao3 has no algorithm. your private discord discussions of fic do not reach the authors. if you do not actively engage with writers they will stop posting. this isn’t social media this is community.

[antiswagc0rp]

Tu Es Partout

Part V

Ink scratched across the eggshell colored page. The cursive writing attempted to appear delicate, but it came across as hasty.

“Dear Howard, June 19, 1944

I don’t imagine you’ll receive this letter… But I nonetheless must send it.

Every attempt to write seems to end as a crumpled scrap on the floor, and paper is too precious to waste.

I’ve been stationed in Normandy for about 9 days now. I carry the locket you gave me close to my heart, and it brings me great comfort every single day.

Do you ever wonder what Mopsie looks like? It seems every time I try to imagine his face, it becomes more distorted… And the color of his fur, was it blonde? Or a more brunette? The clearest memories I have are his one floppy ear and that tail that thwacked against my legs far more often than I liked.

Alongside this letter to you, I wrote one to Mother as well. She has also yet to receive a word from you as of late. She’s quite worried—worse yet, she’s determined to hold me responsible if something should happen. So for my sake, write her, please. Even if your letters do get lost in the V-mail.

There’s something else— Normally, I wouldn’t dare to tell you these things, but with your lack of response, I feel a compulsion to, as if this is the last thing you may read. 

I made a friend, it’s not any of my sisters in company, but a young man. A corporal named Timothy E. Upham. He’s about your height, has straight brown hair, and squinty eyes that I can never seem to place if they’re brown or hazel. I don’t want to be eagle-eyed and stare him down as he’s quite aloof, well, more so jittery, he’s very polite, and unlike most men around here, he still has a sense of manners. He arrived here in my care about four days ago, and since then, we’ve found ourselves drawn into conversation, lingering in one another’s company. I can’t help but wonder…is this how you felt when you first met your sweet Lottie?

I acknowledge it’s foolish of me to grow an attachment in a time like this, but I simply can’t help it. God save me—

With love,

Your Sister, Y/n.”

With folded paper in hand, I stride briskly toward the APO, the warmth of the late morning sun leaving no room for shadows across the dusty path. The tent flaps rustle gently in the Normandy breeze, the ever-present scent of salt air and diesel mingling with cigarette smoke from a nearby group of GIs playing cards. Almost any and all communication from home had been so bare—skeletal, really. A jarring contrast to the closeness I remembered. But I wasn’t alone in this matter, and oddly, that offered a kind of comfort. Most of my fellow nurses had seen their mail slow to a crawl, the war swallowing letters whole.

Recognizing the familiar frame in front of me, a hand jolts out, tapping his right shoulder gently. 

“Funny seeing you here.” 

Upham's shoulders squeeze on immediate impact, the defense mechanism baked into his bones. With a twitch of his head, he glances over his shoulder, limbs soon loosening at the sight of me. That boyish smile spreads over his face like a sunrise.

“Yes, hello.” He nods, with a cheery smile, happy to see me.

“Dropping off?” Tilting my head, attempting to sound casual. “Or~ picking up?” The second question comes out twice as curious, wondering if the postage slow has affected him as well.

“Dropping off.” 

Shoulders slump at the answer, disappointed. “Can I ask who they’re to?”

We fall into step together, approaching the makeshift desk where a corporal lazily logs names and squints at envelopes. Upham hands over his letters—crisp folds, carefully addressed.

“They’re to my parents and my cousin.” Arms cross in front of his chest, a bit defensive, not wanting to discuss what was in them. Particularly, the segment to his mother about a kind-hearted nurse who captured his heart. 

“Cousin? Boy or girl?”

Relief spread through his posture, and he adjusted his footing, more relaxed now. "A girl. Her name’s Jane. Last I saw her, she was about this tall—" He holds his hand about where his xiphoid process sits. "—and begging me for ‘Curious George’. Always wore her hair in two long braids.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Not sure how much that’s changed. She’s eight now…"

“Sounds sweet.”

“Yeah,” A melancholy half-smile paints his face. “She is… Maybe a bit spoiled but not sour.”

Eyes flit over his expression, and I share his longing pain. “Hey, I heard the mess tent is all copacetic now…care to grab lunch?” 

“This seems to be our ‘thing’, huh?” The offer brightened him up a bit, sharing a remark.

“It seems so.” 

We make our way across base, dodging jeeps and groups of soldiers. A phonograph spins nearby, crackling with life as the Andrews Sisters belt out ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’. The mess tent buzzes with idle chatter, clinking trays, and the occasional burst of laughter. Inside, bologna sandwiches wrapped in wax paper await, accompanied by a scoop of canned carrots that look better than they taste.

“What a treat!” 

The wrapped sandwich felt like such a luxury after days of K-rations, taste buds salivating at the sight of it. The soft, moist white bread cushions a thick slice of bologna, a square of cheese drooping slightly at the corner, along with a dollop of tangy mustard.

Settling at one of the ‘tables', scuffed, a bit wobbly, but serviceable— I catch him stealing glances at the phonograph, clearly enjoying the moment.

“You know, back home in Maine, there was this diner—”

“You’re from Maine?” 

Surprise struck me, and I nervously chuckled. “I suppose I forgot to mention that, yes, I’m from Maine… Portland, specifically.”

“Ah, a city girl…”

“Guess I never asked where you were from either?”

“West Chester, Pennsylvania. Nothing particularly thrilling. Sorry—you were saying?”

“Oh!” Brows tugged upward in remembrance. “There was this diner, and they made the best grilled cheese and tomato bisque. Used sourdough for the bread—gave it a little kick.”

The brunette beamed, reminded of his own memories. “W-when I went to college at UPenn, I used to go to this mom and pop shop. Always got the club sandwich with fries and a Coke. By spring semester, they knew my order.”

“UPenn’s impressive!”

“T-thank you!” A faint pink dusted over his cheeks. “I think I felt like I had to prove something. My dad ran a butcher shop, and Mom worked the counter. They expected me to take over someday… but that wasn’t what I wanted.”

“You wanted to write,” I add softly.

“I did.” It dawned on him that everything he spoke, I committed to memory.

Hastily, he licked his lips and took a short breath. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

The statement was sudden, and momentarily, the sandwich got caught in my throat. Steadily embarrassed now, I clear my airway. “What?” 

“Down South, to Saint-Lô…they’re planning to retake it…”

Part of me almost wanted to argue and ask why they would send a translator there? But the logic settles quickly. Omaha’s stable. They need someone who can speak, someone who can bridge gaps in chaos.

“I see…” I mumble, falling to my lunch.

His gaze picked over mine, anxiety bubbling up. “I was hoping, if it’s not too forward— that we could exchange letters…”

That gets me to look up, wide-eyed and a little flushed. 

Upham backtracks in a panic. “W-we don’t have to. I just thought—” 

“No, no. I’d like that.” I interrupt.

“You would?”

“Yes, I would.”

[antiswagc0rp]

I miss the SPR fandom pls come back 💔

[antiswagc0rp]

IM FUCKING CRYING!! IM REWATCHING SAVING PRIVATE RYAN AND UPHAM IS COMFORTING THAT LITTLE FRENCH GIRL JACQUELINE BY COMBING HER HAIR AND SPEAKING IN FRENCH 💔😭😭💔😭

I need to join up with the 5 other Upham fans in a chat room where we discuss his personality and life after the war.

[antiswagc0rp]

How I feel after posting chapter 4 and my first edit in the same day 😏

[antiswagc0rp]

Tu Es Partout

Part Ⅳ

[TW GORE]

“Jesus, L/n, hold the clamp still for Christ's sake!” Captain Ellis shouted at me, his eyes stern.

“I’m trying!” I bark back, hands trembling. “He’s losing too much blood, I can’t see shit.” Crimson pools out in droves over my knuckles, slick and hot, the metal clamp slipping between my fingers with every pulse.

Sweat coats my forehead, and any rogue hairs spilling out from my hat are stuck to my skin, refusing to move as I spin my head around to look for any available hands— None. Just five minutes ago, a packed truck rolled in with more wounded from God knows where. I just zeroed in on this one kid—barely nineteen—who’d taken a 7.92 millimeter round straight to the right lung on the way over. They did what they could on the truck, stuffed the entry wound to keep him stable for the moment. But the real work was left to us, and Christ, how the hell do you even begin to fix something like that in a place like this? The organ was practically caved in, half of it drowning in blood, each breath wheezing out in a froth through his lips.

The tent’s a cacophony—agonized howls, shouted orders, metal trays clattering.

“Mom!”

“Mama!”

“Somebody get me more morphine! I need more morphine over here!”

“Why?! God, why?!”

Breath seethes through the crack in my lips, trying to stay focused.

“Come on, come on, come on.” I chant, gritting my teeth. The serrated tips of the tweezers just searching, groping— for fucks sake, pleading for the gaping hole in the slimy tissue of his punctured lung.

“He’s fading!” Ellis warns, urgency high in his throat.

Something squeezes in between the metal, and my breath hitches when the rouge liquid finally stops spilling. “I got it—I got it!” I shout, a note of manic relief creeping in.

The kid’s lips part, letting out one soft, rattled breath. He attempts to lift his head just to stare right at me. Recognition flickers across his drained face. Then, his pupils bloom wide, and he slumps. Dead weight.

“Fuck!” the CO barks, not directly at me— the blame on him as well. Running his palm over his frown, he barely has a moment to pause before he shouts. “We need this one moved!” He calls to make space for more injured.

A couple of privates hustle over, remove his stretcher off the cot, and head toward the casualty pile…I can’t bear to look.

“Go wipe off your hands, and move on to the next patient,” He utters.

The next isn't so bad, mid-thirties, bullet to the outer thigh. “Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He half smirks, a bit delirious, and yet persistent on flirting.

I manage my best smile and ignore his prowling eyes. “Yes, well, we’ll patch you right up, mister?”

“Jones. James Jones.” 

“You’re safe and sound now, Jones.” I hum, not daring to make eye contact, merely grinning and supporting the main doctor in closing up his wound.

✉ ✉ ✉

Nicotine burns into my lungs, and just for a moment, I let myself revel in it. I know they aren't good for me, but I need a break. Lips form a pursed ‘o’ as I exhale the smoke. The cigarette is perched between my index and ring finger, and I stare at it deeply, as if it personally killed that kid. The intrusive thoughts start to trickle into my mind, soon snowballing down. 

I wonder if he had had his first cigarette, he had to have, right?

That look…Did he think of his mother? A sister, maybe? Or even a lover…

If I hold the smoke in for long enough, will it feel like the drowning he felt?

Why didn't I try harder?

This leads to me taking a searingly long inhale. Filling up my chest to the max, resulting in tears in my eyes, and violent coughs that cease to gasp for air. Tossing the bud down angrily, I kick over the pack beside my feet, the contents tumbling out.

“Something I did?” A voice probes from behind.

A scarlet-stained hand flies over my mouth as I gasp in surprise, the embarrassment following suit.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude…” Upham lightens up, his gaze softening, as he now can see the once white apron— that has many a splotch of what he could only wish were a merlot.

“Nobody is allowed privacy in a war.” I reason, tone glum.

“You allowed a break?” 

I nod, straightening up. “On one now.”

“Join me for a walk?” The Corporal's lips form a tight, pitiful line. 

Again, I bob my head, this time without verbal response. Silently bending down to pick up the spilled contents of my satchel, and slinging it over my shoulder.

We fall into step, the world around us a constant churn of noise and movement.

“Were you a nurse? Before the war?” He clarifies.

“Started the program in the fall of ‘40, then Pearl Harbor was attacked in ‘41, so… it just became obvious this was where I’d eventually end up…and the second I was done, I came here, it's been nearly a year since then...” I side eye him, his gaze downcast in front of him, bowing his head in understanding. “And you? What did you do before this?”

A sigh escapes him, “Thought about becoming a professor,” he scratched behind his ear nervously. “That didn’t work out… so instead I just wrote stories for the paper, and worked on my own.”

“Any good ones?” I remark dryly.

Bashfully, he shakes his head no, maybe in modesty but more likely self-doubt. “Not really— But, when I arrived here two years back, I had the idea about writing about the bonds of brotherhood that soldiers find while they're away at war.”

“How’s that going?”

“Barely have the time, or the bonds.” Upham's tone is joking, but it’s clear there’s a grief behind his words. Seeing you so torn up over your job—it pulled something in him, reminded him of Wade. The Red Cross, the way he cared. And right now, you weren’t sugarcoating anything. No softness, no pleasantries—just raw, blunt honesty. Like Mellish.

“Guess I’m not a brother, am I?” 

The young man chuckles and shakes his head. “Far from it, ma’am.”

There it was again, ‘Ma’am’. “A friend then?” 

He perks up at the statement, the solemn expression nearly gone. “Yes, a friend.”

“It’s decided.” Apparently, I hadn’t noticed this was Upham’s way of calming me down, a short walk, and distracting words that still held meaning. Something a friend would do for a friend. To try and help me, the way I was helping him.

[antiswagc0rp]

Babies first edit…kind of nervous!

[antiswagc0rp]

Me finally doing a fic for me and not for them.

(I’m talking about ‘Tu Es Partout’)

[antiswagc0rp]

Tu Es Partout

Part III

Examining today's ‘dinner’ delectable— a square inch compound of burnt sugar with a pinch of salt on top, that’s tacky on immediate contact with my fingers. I plop it onto my tongue, meanwhile my hands toy with the wax-coated paper it came in, tracing over the fold indentations. Delicate sweetness swirls around the inside of my mouth, as I suck on the caramel dessert. The buttery sugar dissolving with every swish, coating every crevice. Nicotine-laced smoke swirls around Upham as he’s lost in thought. I feel as if I’m already treading on thin ice around him, though we’ve barely spoken. The joint between his lips has now been reduced to a clinging bud; every once in a while, he overestimates his smoking tolerance and ends up in a small coughing fit—short, breathy, almost apologetic.

With the confection almost gone, saliva melts away my sticky lips, and I speak up. “Once you’re finished, I’ll walk you back to get those changed.”

A flicker of revelation hits him, realizing the passing of time, and he expels the cigarette, where it fizzes out in the dirt. Swiftly, he rises to his feet and brushes off his palms onto his upper thighs, then offers me a helping hand.

Graciously, I accept, though I’m careful not to let him do any real heavy lifting. It’s a shared effort, balanced but tentative. Unlike most soldiers I’ve tended to, his hand isn’t calloused or worn—it’s soft, surprisingly tender. I half-expect my fingers to slip from his grasp. His hold isn’t particularly strong, but it lingers a second longer than it should before releasing.

“Ma’am.” He dips his head and gestures for me to lead the way.

The two of us trudge back over to the makeshift hospital, and I guide him into an open tent—the one marked for non-criticals. A few soldiers and nurses stand inside, as expected. I show him to a cot and pull up a chair beside him.

With practiced ease, I unwrap his dressing, the fabric slowly but surely coming undone. Fresh air hits his irritated skin, and he nearly fights the urge to scratch. I examine the wound and the surrounding area, front and back of his arm.

“Do I look like Frankenstein?” he half-smiles, and I realize he’s been watching me.

Glancing up at him through my lashes, I shake my head. “Not quite.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” Upham jokes.

“I sure hope not. I’m not trying to have you fall apart on me,” I remark as I lean in to clean the area.

That manages to get a chuckle out of him, and I offer a soft, upside-down smile in contentment. With the same rhythm as yesterday, I grab a fresh pack of bandages and rewrap his bicep.

“You know,” I say, “tomorrow you can check in with another nurse. They don’t bite.”

“Oh, I—I know. You just are—”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t say pretty, or familiar, or that he feels ashamed talking to anyone else. That I’m one of the few people who doesn’t look at him with expectations. He stammers, then just repeats, “I know,” with a nod.

A quiet laugh escapes through my nose, and I shake my head in amusement. My dog tags clink lightly against my silver locket.

“All right, then.”

“That’s lovely,” he says, his eyes flicking to the necklace.

“Hm?” I had almost forgotten anyone else even noticed it. “Oh—thank you. It was a parting gift.”

“Your husband?”

The question makes me laugh—genuine and bright. “No, no. I’m not married. It’s from my brother,” I answer, my tone softening with bittersweet memory. “He’s in the Air Force. Somewhere over the UK right about now, I imagine.”

“What’s his name?” Upham asks gently.

“Howard.”

“Strong name,” he replies, reassuring.

“Do you have siblings?” I ask, shifting the attention.

He merely shakes his head no.

A pregnant pause settles in the air. We sit there, silently studying each other. Wondering who we are. Who we were. Where we came from. Whether this will be our last conversation—or one of our firsts.

The corporal's gaze studies her immensely: the pattern of her hair, the twinkle in her tired eyes, how one corner of her lips lifts a little higher when she smiles. He noted that every time she spoke, it was in a comforting manner, as if every second were precious. Must have been something she picked up on the job. The way her locket was shiny, though everything else was worn and dirty, she had to have polished it every night before bed, he assumed. The few moles that scattered her face, as if they were hand-placed by some god. The slope of her nose that matched the rest of her features perfectly. And the dark circles under her eyes, that he didn’t seem to mind. He wondered if she was an angel, sent down to test if he was still human, after killing a man in cold blood.

“Would you join me at supper?” The words tumbled out from his lips without a second thought.

My jaw loosened ever so slightly, paired with eyes that widened a fraction. “That’d be swell.” I beam.

Upham sat up off the cot, and smiled. “I’ll find you this evening.”

“I’m supposed to have supper around o’19:00.” I interrupt, a tad nervous he’ll suddenly have a change of mind. “If that’s alright.”

“That’s perfect. I’ll meet you by the supply tent?” The brunette refers to where we chatted previously.

“Sure.” I’m not sure what has me so excited—maybe there really is something in the air. Or maybe it’s some kind of mockery from God, to finally feel a spark with someone I’ll likely never see again.

✉ ✉ ✉

Another ink stamp began to dry in my ration booklet, as I stepped at a steady pace toward the agreed meeting spot. A glance at my fob watch tells me I'm running a little late, but a patient’s wound began to bleed again without warning and kept me behind. Picking up my pace, I noticed an anxious Upham, checking his own wrist watch. The sound of my footsteps draws his attention.

“I’m sorry, I was held up—” I stammer, not noticing the relief that flooded his features, and not annoyance like I presumed. “A gentleman started to bleed again, and we had to stabilize him.” I gesture vaguely at the hospital in front of me and turn back around to face him.

An understanding expression is splayed across his face. “I understand.” He lifts his wrapped box and raises his brows. “Would you still like to eat?” Upham's tone was meek and all too ready to be refused.

“God, yes.” Air leaves my lungs with an exasperated sigh, and I nod. Quickly dropping to the dirt ground with a thud, legs crisscrossed.

He’s amused by her sudden drop in decorum—no effort to keep up appearances. Upham joins her, choosing to sit beside her—again with acceptable space between.

“Anything specific you’re hoping for?” He offers, shaking the box in hand.

“Wouldn’t mind some chocolate.” I hum with a smirk.

The two of us open up our ‘suppers’ without a moment to waste and set out our portions in front of us. In it, a tin of beef and pork loaf, biscuit crackers, bullion cubes, cigarettes, matches, toilet paper, chewing gum, and a lone chocolate rectangle.

“You got your wish.”

“Didn’t even need the stars for it.” I glance up at the setting sky, a mixture of blues and oranges with clouds scattered throughout. Tilting my head as I stare up at the evening light, lost in thought. “How do you say stars in French?” I turn my attention to him, whose focus is on me.

“Oh, it’s uh.” he pauses, frankly not expecting such a question. “Étoiles,”

“Étoiles…” I echo, trying my best to form my lips to mimic the accent. “Guess that didn’t stick in school.”

He chuckles as he prepares his food, opening the can with the dedicated key. Instinctively, I watched his hands closely, almost expecting him to cut his hand on the sharp metal. Once he’s in the clear, I begin digging into my own can.

It seems the base has settled down for the night, not nearly as lively as it was earlier, and we both relax a little. Staring down at my lap, I eat in peace.

Suddenly, an open palm comes into view, a lone paper-wrapped rectangle inside it. His chocolate.

I laugh awkwardly and brush him off. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist,” he counters.

“You’re sure?”

Upham nods.

Poised fingers remove it from his grasp, and I mumble a sheepish. “Merci.”

“De rein,”

Before I have the chance to offer up my chewing gum, his hands are already back by his side, now focused on toying with wrappers. I tap his shoulder and it startles him, his shoulders jumping, and his body tenses. Quickly side-eying me, he loosens up and glances at the gum, than me like it’s some complicated puzzle.

“Thought it should be a fair trade.” Originally, I was going to offer my cigarettes, but seeing as he hasn't even made a reach for his own, I thought otherwise.

Nervously, he takes the gum, and I notice the barely visible tremble in his hand. “Thanks,”

I nod and clench my teeth, feeling sorry for startling the man, and trying to think of what to say.

“Do you like music?” What kind of question was that? Of course, he likes music; everybody does. Trying to defend my question, I add, “I only ask, because there’s that French woman who makes very lovely music.”

“Edith Piaf?”

“Yes,” I grin. “I enjoy her music…especially that song of hers— gosh, I can't remember the name but it means ‘I don't know the end’.”

“‘Je N'en Connais Pas la Fin’?”

“Yes! That one!”

A small smirk plays on his lips, but he doesn’t say anything right away. We fall quiet again—comfortable now, or at least less awkward. Around us, the camp settles into itself. The sky above fades deeper into blue, the last bit of sun bleeding behind the clouds.

“Tes yeux brillent comme des étoiles,” he mumbles under his breath, staring at the now barely visible stars.

I blink, glancing at him once more. “What?”

He hesitates, but then smiles faintly, brushing the moment off.

“It’s nothing.”

[antiswagc0rp]

GOD IM NOT USED TO WRITING SOFT HEARTED CHARACTERS I CANT FUCK THIS UP 💔 im used to writing assholes with a heart of gold, now I have to write about a living teddy bear HOW DOES ONE DO THIS?!

[antiswagc0rp]

Tu Es Partout

Tu Es Partout

Characters - Timothy E. Upham x Reader

Summary - Upham returns from Ramelle, forever changed. Soldier X Nurse

In a warzone where every face blurs into the next, she's learned to keep her distance. The wounded come in waves— loud, desperate, often trying too hard to charm their way out of pain. But he wasn't like the others.

He barely spoke. Didn't flirt. Just sat there with that faraway look, like part of him was already gone.

She was just doing her job. But something about this one stuck with her.

Takes place directly after the events of the film (Saving Private Ryan (1998)).

Word Count - 5650

Warnings - Fluff, Gore, Angst, Trauma, PTSD, War

Chapter 1 Part Ⅰ 

Chapter 2 Part Ⅱ 

Chapter 3 Part III 

Chapter 4 Part Ⅳ

Chapter 5 Part V

[antiswagc0rp]

Tu Es Partout

Part Ⅱ

Perched in the crook of my arm sits a clipboard with handwritten, barely legible scribbles of patient info and status. It’s around 1300 hours, judging from the last time I checked my watch, and my stomach is practically begging for a break. As nurses, we do have allotted times for meals, but when you can actually pause to take them depends on the injury count. With the chaos Normandy caused, I’ve been up to my elbows swimming in blood.

“L/N,” a dominant voice snaps me out of my methodical checking, and I turn.

“Take a break,” my CO barks, clearly fraying at the edges himself.

I don’t dare hesitate. I pass off the clipboard to the nearest nurse—Mary—and my legs move in a jiffy toward the meal tent. I present my stamp book, the ink smearing as it’s stamped, in exchange for a K-ration pack. At the moment, we don’t have the luxury of an operating field kitchen. With the influx of movement and people passing through, we’ve simply run out of fresh food.

Box in hand, I glance out over the base, my free hand shielding my eyes from the summer glare. All I want is a somewhat secluded spot. Apparently, my best bet is near the supply station, where boxes of ammo, blank paper, blankets, etc. sit stacked in crates.

With a huff, I sit down on a patchy area of grass—mostly dirt—and tear open my ‘dinner.’ Legs tucked under me, I inspect the contents: canned pork, a fruit bar, crackers, a caramel square, powdered coffee and sugar, a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes, and a book of matches.

Canned pork isn’t exactly my favorite, but it’s not like I should complain. Not everyone even has access to food at the moment. I purse my lips and unwrap the ‘biscuit’ packet, opting to spread the meat substance on with the included wooden spoon. The wind rustles my hair as I prepare my lunch, my brows furrowed in concentration as if I’m garnishing a high-class feast.

A few feet away, someone clears their throat—a quiet way to grab my attention. My brows soften, and my neck jerks upward to see who it is. A young man stands there. His face doesn’t register immediately, but what does is the white bandage wrapped around his left arm.

Translator.

“Oh, uh, bonjour!” I offer with an awkward smile. Please don’t be a creeper.

“Hello.” The corners of his lips barely twitch upward.

Dusting off my hands, I glance at his bicep, then back to his face. “Did you need those changed?”

His hazel-brown eyes widen slightly, and he shakes his head. “No—I mean, yes. I went to the medic tent, and all the nurses looked busy. Not that you’re not busy—”

Unexpectedly, I find his nervous demeanor endearing.

“It’s alright. I’ll look at them in a bit, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” Upham nods and stands there awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to do with himself, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Gnawing at the inside of my cheek, I feel the tense moment searing into my skin. It seems my conversational skills aren’t great past bedside manner.

“Care for a cigarette?”

The translator looks back down at me and accepts the offer. “Sure—why the hell not?” He shrugs with a faint smile, then takes a seat across from me, leaving more than a respectful amount of space.

I toss him the carton, then the matches. He fumbles the first but catches the second. With a few strikes—snapping the first match and struggling with the next—he finally gets a flame. It zips to life, burning quickly, barely giving him time to light up.

As I resume my lunch, I notice the air feels light—not heavy like I expected. Something about him is bright, even if he shines a little dimmer now. Chewing the dry starch of a cracker, I study his features—the natural weariness in his squinted eyes, the strain in his brow that he tries to push away. He probably knows I’m watching him, but chooses to ignore it. The lit cigarette dangles from the edge of his lips as he stares out at the rest of the camp.

Water sloshes in my canteen as I take a brief swig.

“Does it hurt?” I interrupt the comfortable silence, my eyes burning into his bandaged arm. I know it does—but I want to hear how he answers.

The corporal stays transfixed on the distance, refusing to meet my gaze, as if afraid he’ll break under all the feelings he’s been holding in.

“Yes,” he answers simply.

[antiswagc0rp]

I made this last night while watching my friend stream in discord. Multitasking at its finest 😌.

[antiswagc0rp]

Tu Es Partout

A cutesy depressing one-shot between a reader insert and the character Upham from Saving Private Ryan (1998).

Premise Nurse x Reader under 1k words

***

The newest batch of young men came pouring in from small towns all over the French countryside as the war pushed forward, trying to win over Paris. My current patient—one from Ramelle.

Before me sat a young man, mid to late twenties, with short dark brown hair and drained umber eyes. His posture was slouched on the cot as I inspected his figure, the back of my hand resting against his forehead to check his temperature, and the other monitoring the pulse on his right wrist. The corporal seemed unfazed and broken, his gaze locked on something straight ahead, boring into it as if he had laser vision.

I clear my throat. “I’m going to inspect your wound now.”

His brown irises shift to the corner of his eye, and he bobs his head with parted lips.

Stepping to the side, I grab my sterilized instruments: a pair of shears, tweezers, a needle, and thread. I use the shears to cut off the left sleeve of his uniform. GSW, if I remember correctly. The dressings applied to him on the field were sloppy and doused in blood—apparently not just his, judging from the look of it. It likely belonged to whoever applied the tourniquet. Where was their medic?

Carefully, I snip through the white cloth. Looks like the bleeding has stopped. It cut right through his brachii—clean through and straight out the other side—and by some miracle, it missed his arteries.

“You’re very lucky,” I state. This was the time I made conversation to distract the young soldiers from the pain.

A half-smile ghosts his lips. “Am I?” he asks, almost amused. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

My lips fall flat. Something else, then. “What’s your name?” I could see the dog tags hanging from his neck, though the plate was tucked into his jacket.

“Upham. Timothy Upham,” he utters.

I nod and grab a canteen of water, dousing a rag and running it over his wound. He shivers slightly.

“I’m Y/N L/N.”

“Enchanté,” he remarks dryly.

“Ah, parlez-vous français?” I smile, going in next with rubbing alcohol.

Upham flinches—whether from the stinging sensation or the French, I wasn’t sure.

“Yes, I’m a translator,” he says, his voice softer now.

Threading the needle, I glance up. His eyes show more depth to them now—guilt marred across his features.

“Any other languages?” I hum, pricking the hooked needle into his skin and weaving through the flesh.

The translator nods. “German.”

Chapped lips form a tight line as I nod. “I see…”

“You speak French?”

“A little. I studied it in high school. I only remember a handful of phrases.”

Upham’s eerie calm was both appreciated and unnerving. Most men who came in were wailing, blood spraying in droves as they called for their mothers—or, if not that, endless flirting that bordered on harassment.

“Vous êtes trop gentil,” he uttered quietly.

Wheels turned in my mind as I tried to dissect the phrase. ' You are ___ kind?' Maybe? That sounded right. We make eye contact, and I smile softly, the corners of my lips perking upward.

“Thank you.”

My tongue darts out for a moment, coating my cracked lips in concentration as I finish the stitches.

“It shouldn’t scar too badly—if there’s a lady back home.”

That manages to make him chuckle, and he shakes his head. “That’s not a worry, ma’am.”

I feel a slight swell of pride knowing I was able to make him crack a smile. I move aside, grabbing a fresh pack of wraps. My fingers work deftly, packaging up his wound, round and round.

“These will need to be changed once a day while you’re here to prevent infection. Try not to exert yourself so you don’t pop the stitches.”

Upham feels comfortable enough now to actually look my way. That’s when he notices how my hands are stained a tinge of red, more evident on my nail beds—and the absence of a wedding ring. Maybe she doesn’t wear one since she’s a nurse?  He thought, his cheeks turning a slight shade of pink.

“Now, I can send you with the dressings to change them yourself. But if you don’t think you can manage, you can visit one of us nurses to swap them out. That gives us a chance to make sure they’re healing properly, as well.”

“I’ll visit with you, then.”

[antiswagc0rp]

why my handle is what it is btw

[antiswagc0rp]