forestvaleska

[forestvaleska]

HII HELLO HI!!!!!!!

i love my moots the same way paul loves his friends hiii hiii guys you're so cool hiiiii

[forestvaleska]

UPHAM UPVAM MENTIONED HELLO UPHAM YAYAYAAAYAYAY

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.

[forestvaleska]

Got tagged in an Upham edit and now im giggling and jumping up and down

[forestvaleska]

Babies first edit…kind of nervous!

[forestvaleska]

Hello here is the updated Upham wall

[forestvaleska]

I got yet another SPR dvd from my graduation party

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I ALSO ORDERED CUSTOM BLANKET AND PILLOW CASE!!!!! Guys I swear I'm totally normal about Upham!!

[forestvaleska]

HELLO!!! ALL THE UPHAM STUFF I MADE TODAYYY!! A cardboard standee that I crashed out making cause he kept falling /lh and a bunch of new photo frames!!

Plus all the new stuff I'm adding to the Upham wall!!

[forestvaleska]

THIS IS SO AWESOMESAUCE

one of my first paul drawjngs

[forestvaleska]

TEARS IN MY UPHAM LOVER EYES!!!!!

I love him dearly

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.

I glance up at him through my lashes and 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 uhm.” 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, his focus 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, as I clench my teeth, feeling sorry for startling the man, and I try 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!” I exclaim with a joyous grin.

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.”

[forestvaleska]

Oh my gosh

to be loved

[forestvaleska]

Guess who's ordering.... a cardboard cutout... 😼

[forestvaleska]

Guys.... I got some money from my graduation party you know what that means!!!!!! UPHAM MERCH!!!

[forestvaleska]

IT IS!!! 😼

I had to edit him to this after what my moot said I giggled

Idea from my super duper cool moot!!!!

UPHAM FUNK YOU UP!!!!

Upham my bf..!!

[forestvaleska]

HEHEHEHE I LOVE THIS UPHAM UPHAM <3

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

[forestvaleska]

I LOVE HIM SO MCUHCHC

Ty for Upham content

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.

[forestvaleska]

THE WAY HOW I LIKED ALL YOUR EDITS ON TIKTOK AND SAW YOUR COMMENTS ON MY ONESHOT AND WENT WAIT ARE THESE THE SAME PERSON?! I reposted one of your edits to my instagram story last night 💔😭

OH EM GEE RLLY?!?!??!?! HIHIHIHI That is so AWESOME !!! We should totally be tik tok moots as well 😼😼