gotxpenny

[gotxpenny]

Surviving Love || {ix/lvii}

Emilia McKenna was deemed to be a sweetheart in the eyes of others who met her, but in the eyes of John Brady she was an itch he couldn't scratch. The tension between them was palpable, yet, over time, as they saved each other's lives and saw past the tough exteriors, their respect for one another grew. And despite their initial hatred, an undeniable attraction simmered beneath the surface.

Paring: John Brady x Fem!Oc

Prompt: they hated how much they made the other felt

Word Count: ~3,800

Genre: Frienemies to lovers, SUPERRRR slow burn, mostly fluff but angsty towards the end

Setting: Thorpe Abbotts, UK

Warnings: mentions of blood, slight gore, language

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"Falling in love consists merely in uncorking the imagination and bottling the common sense." — Helen Rowland

━━━━━━━━━━

|JULY 1943 |

THE early morning air at Thorpe Abbotts felt heavier than usual. The clouds hung low and grey, casting a sombre mood over the base as the crew prepared for the next mission. Trondheim, Norway—a dangerous target deep in the heart of enemy territory. Today was going to be one of the toughest missions yet.

John Brady stood near his B-17, the The Longshot inspecting the aircraft with his usual intensity. His crew, a mix of silent concentration and forced bravado, moved around the plane, checking and rechecking everything before they took to the skies. Trondheim was no joke, and the Arctic winds up north could be brutal, but the mission had to be carried out.

Emilia McKenna watched from the side of the hangar, arms crossed, biting the inside of her cheek. She wasn't going up on this mission. Instead, she'd be stuck on the ground, waiting like so many others. It wasn't her choice—Bowman had practically insisted she take a step back after the last mission in Bremen. It hadn't been a request, more like a command masked as concern. She'd been too close to the fray, too close to injury, and for now, she was grounded. But that didn't mean she liked it.

As Brady glanced over to where Emilia stood, their eyes met. A mixture of irritation and something else—something deeper—flickered in her gaze. Without breaking eye contact, Brady made his way over to her, stepping purposefully through the organised chaos of the flight line, "Not going up this time?" Brady quipped, folding his arms tightly.

Emilia tilted her head slightly, Brady wiped his hands on a rag and shoved it into his pocket, "Not like I'm missing much. Just a routine mission over Nazi-occupied Norway," her words were clipped, her irritation from the night before masking the tension.

Brady gave a slow shrug, tossing a casual glance back at the Longshot like the mission was just another day in the office, "Trondheim's nothing," he said, voice light, cocky even, "Just a hop, skip, and a few flak bursts. I've had worse hangovers."

Emilia crossed her arms tighter, not buying it for a second, "You're full of shit."

Brady grinned—wide, reckless, and too damn confident, "And yet, here I am. Picture of calm. Ice in the veins," he tapped his temple like he was trying to prove something, but the act cracked for just a second when his eyes dipped to the ground, then flicked back to her, "No one flies better scared than me."

"Good," Emilia replied, her tone sharp, "Because you should be scared."

He leaned in, just a fraction, his grin still in place but eyes far too serious, "Oh, I am. Don't get me wrong. Only an idiot isn't scared of Trondheim. But I can breathe a hell of a lot easier today knowing you're not up there," he tried to pass it off like it was nothing, a throwaway line tucked inside all his bravado—but Emilia saw it. The flash of honesty, quick and raw behind the show. She didn't say anything for a moment, and Brady rubbed the back of his neck like he'd revealed more than he meant to, "Look," he said, eyes darting to the ground crew loading the last of the gear, "We'll be back before you can light another smoke and complain about the coffee. Just another day in paradise," but his voice cracked ever so slightly at the end—barely noticeable unless you knew him like she did. 

Emilia's jaw worked, unsure if she should yell at him or hug him. Instead, she just nodded, slowly, eyes on his face, "You better be," she muttered, "Or I'll fly to Norway myself and drag your frozen ass back."

Brady smirked again, but this time it didn't quite reach his eyes, "Fair deal."

She opened her mouth to speak but stopped when Major Buck Cleven came over, slapping Brady on the back, "Ready to get your wings frosty, boys?" Buck's grin was wide, but even he couldn't mask the underlying tension. Trondheim was a long way from home, and they all knew the risks.

Brady turned, nodding, "Just about, Major," his demeanour shifted, locking back into that steel-like focus he carried on every mission.

After Buck walked off, the clatter and commotion of the tarmac seemed to dull into background noise. Emilia and Brady remained rooted in place, a few feet apart, just looking at each other.

They didn't speak. Didn't move.

But in the silence, everything rushed in—the fear, the frustration, the words unsaid and the ones they wished they could take back. It was all there, hanging thick in the space between them like smoke.

A million things passed between their eyes in that brief moment. His were asking if she was going to be okay without him. Hers were asking if he was going to come back in one piece. His said don't wait for me, and hers said I already am.

Neither of them dared to break the quiet, maybe because if they did, it would all come spilling out—too much, too fast, too late. So they just stared, two stubborn hearts beating in sync, caught in the space where everything that mattered stayed unspoken.

As the crew began to gather around the plane, Emilia spared Brady one last glance and said, softly but firmly, "Come back in one piece, Brady. No hero stunts," her voice was calm, but he could hear the weight beneath it.

Brady smirked, that infuriating, cocky smirk he wore like a shield, "You kidding? I'm the picture of caution," but there was a flicker in his eyes—something real and raw and entirely unguarded. He didn't wink this time, didn't crack a joke.

He just looked at her like he wanted to say more.

Emilia nodded once, slowly, "Good."

And then she turned before she could change her mind, before she let him see just how hard it was to walk away. Emilia moved toward Bosser, still sporting the remnants of his injury from Bremen, and gave him a small smile. The man was tough as nails, but she couldn't help but worry about him too. He returned the smile, though his eyes were distant.

"You'll get through this," she said softly, "Just focus."

Bosser chuckled, a low rumble, "Aye, McKenna. If you say so," before Emilia could say more, Brady called to his crew one last time, signalling it was time to board. The familiar routine of pre-flight checks began, but before Brady climbed into the cockpit, he hesitated, his eyes catching Emilia's one last time.

She took a step closer, her voice quieter now, "Don't do anything stupid up there with your fancy flying, I can't keep patching up you,"

He huffed, a small smirk tugging at his lips, "No promises Sugs. But I'll do what I can," as the engines of the B-17 roared to life, Emilia watched the crew settle into their positions. Her heart pounded in her chest, the sound of the engines vibrating through the ground and into her bones. Brady gave her a final glance, something unreadable passing between them, before turning to focus on the mission ahead.

The plane began to roll forward, joining the others as they taxied toward the runway. Emilia stood there, hands in her pockets, watching as the aircraft lumbered into the sky, slowly disappearing into the grey clouds. A knot twisted in her stomach as she turned and made her way back to the hangar. All she could do now was wait and hope the Arctic winds wouldn't claim the The Longshot and its crew.

Inside the officers' mess hall, she found Maggie nursing a cup of coffee, staring absently at the radio where mission reports would filter in, "They'll be alright, you know," Maggie said, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than Emilia.

Emilia nodded, sitting down next to her friend, "Yeah," she replied quietly, "They always are...until they're not."

Maggie gave a sad smile, fingers tightening around her mug, "God, you sound like me last week."

Emilia didn't respond right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the table, on a faint scratch in the wood she traced with her thumb. The silence between them stretched—not uncomfortable, but heavy with understanding.

"They're just so loud when they leave," Emilia said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, "All that laughter and bravado. And then the second they're gone..." her throat tightened, "It's too damn quiet."

Maggie reached over, resting her hand on Emilia's for just a second, "That quiet never gets easier."

"No," Emilia whispered, "But neither does the waiting."

Hours would pass before the first radio calls would come in. But for now, the only thing Emilia could do was wait and keep herself distracted. As the distant hum of planes faded into the distance, she couldn't shake the tension that settled deep into her bones, hoping against hope that this time, Brady and his crew would come back in one piece.

|JULY 1943 |

THE sun had dipped below the horizon by the time the planes returned to Thorpe Abbotts. Emilia stood by the runway, her eyes fixed on the darkening sky, waiting for any sign of the returning squadron. Her fingers were tightly wrapped around the edge of her jacket as the cold air bit at her skin. A nervous tension hung heavy in her chest, twisting tighter with every passing moment. She'd heard the radio reports of damage, and while it seemed most of the planes were limping back, there was no confirmation yet on who had made it.

Finally, the familiar outline of the The Longshot appeared against the dusky clouds. The bomber looked worse for wear, a jagged hole punched through the left wing and smoke trailing faintly from one of the engines. It wasn't pretty, but it was flying—and more importantly, it was landing.

The wheels screeched as they hit the runway, and the plane groaned under the strain, but it managed to come to a shaky stop. As soon as the engines sputtered and died, Brady and his crew began disembarking, looking worn and covered in grime but alive. Emilia's heart raced, a mixture of relief and frustration.

A few of Brady's crew were immediately rushed off the runway on stretchers, their uniforms soaked through with blood, their faces pale and eyes unfocused. Trigger had taken a piece of shrapnel to the thigh. Digs had burns running up the side of his neck and was barely conscious. Even Zim, the unshakable backbone of the crew, was leaning heavily on a medic, one arm hanging uselessly at his side, his knuckles raw from where he'd held the yoke too tight for too long.

But it was Brady who made Emilia's breath catch in her throat.

He was walking—barely. His flight jacket hung open, revealing a deep gash running from his collarbone down across his ribs, the blood soaking through his undershirt. But worse was his ear. Or what was left of it. A prop blast had caught him as they'd taxied in Trondheim, tearing through his headset and part of his ear with it. Blood ran down the side of his neck and into the collar of his shirt, streaking through grime and oil.

He looked—if Emilia had to describe it—like a man who had been chewed up and spit back out by hell. But he was standing. Barely.

His eyes met hers, glassy and too wide, and for a moment he just blinked like he didn't recognise her. Then something in him gave, and he swayed on his feet, "Brady," she breathed, rushing to him just as his knees threatened to give. She caught him around the waist, anchoring him, "Alright, alright, I've got you. Come on, sit down," he didn't argue, didn't crack a joke, didn't pretend to be fine like he normally would. He just let her guide him, limping toward the small infirmary at the edge of the tarmac.

Inside, the room smelled like antiseptic and iron. Emilia sat him down carefully on a cot and grabbed a clean towel, immediately pressing it to his ear as he winced, "You're lucky you didn't lose the whole damn thing," she muttered, voice tight.

Brady exhaled shakily, then looked at her with a dazed grin, "Still got the other one, Sugs," but the words were hollow, dragged from him by instinct. He was running on fumes, and she knew it. His eyes had lost their sharpness, his hands trembled slightly in his lap.

"You're done showing off for one day," Emilia said, quieter now, as she cleaned the wound on his temple next. Her hands moved gently, efficiently, but her throat was tight, "Jesus, Brady..."

He reached up and caught her wrist, his fingers sticky with blood, "We made it back."

"Barely," she whispered.

His grip loosened. His head dropped forward. And Emilia just stood there for a second, towel in one hand, his blood on her palms, and a lump rising in her throat that felt harder to swallow than anything she'd ever known.

Emilia watched him carefully as he sat slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees, the towel she'd pressed to his ear now soaked crimson. This wasn't the Brady she knew—the cocky grin, the infuriating charm, the swagger that somehow softened into sincerity only when he was looking at her.

No, this man was quiet. Still. Haunted. And she didn't like it. Not because he wasn't making jokes or teasing her, but because it meant something had been taken from him up there. Something she wasn't sure he could get back.

She moved in front of him with a bowl of warm water, gently kneeling to clean the blood from his side, "I'm gonna lift your shirt," she murmured. He gave a faint nod, eyes still trained on the floor. She peeled it up slowly, revealing the jagged tear across his ribs. She winced, but he didn't even flinch.

Still nothing.

The silence wrapped around them, heavy and unwelcome. Emilia didn't ask. She didn't press. She simply worked. Wiped. Cleaned. Wrapped. All the while watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes stayed fixed on a crack in the tile like it was holding him together. But Brady knew. He knew she was dying to ask. Knew she was holding it back with every ounce of restraint she had.

So after a long beat, his voice finally broke through the quiet—low and cracked, "We lost one of ours. Flanagan," Emilia paused, her hand hovering mid air, "Tail section took a direct hit over the target," he went on slowly, voice hollow. "Didn't even have time to yell. One second he was there, next..." he exhaled sharply through his nose, like the memory alone knocked the breath from his lungs, "Gone."

She didn't speak. Just pressed a fresh bandage to his ribs.

Brady went on, softer now, "Zim nearly passed out trying to hold the bird steady. Trig bled all over the floor. I couldn't hear a goddamn thing by the end," he gave a bitter chuckle, touched the ragged edge of his ear, "Still can't. Everything's muffled. Like I'm underwater."

Emilia's hands stilled on his side, and her voice came barely above a whisper, "Why didn't you tell the medics?"

"'Cause they'll ground me. And I can't—" his eyes met hers for the first time since they'd sat down. "I can't leave them up there alone, McKenna."

Her throat burned at the rawness in his tone. She didn't argue. She just swallowed and said, "Then you're going to let me patch you up right. All the way. No half-assed hero routine."

He gave a tired nod, "Yes, ma'am," a flicker of something—relief, maybe—passed through her chest as she turned back to the bandages.

And though the silence returned, it felt different now. Like the words that needed saying had been said. Like in all the blood and grit, some part of him had found its way back.

And some part of her would keep holding on until he did.

|JULY 1943 |

LATER that night, the officers' mess was a hive of noise and energy. The pilots gathered around tables, their conversations interspersed with the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. Buck Cleven sat alone, watching with a wry grin as the men tried to shake off the tension of another brutal mission. Across the room, Bucky Egan had just finished singing a song, his voice carrying over the clamour and drawing false applause from the men. Bucky soon took a seat and chuckled as he watched Buck then get up and dance with Meatball, in the middle of the floor. The sight was a welcome distraction from the war and their reality, at least for a moment.

"Try not to deafen everyone with your atrocious singing, next time," Buck muttered, patting Bucky on the back as he returned to the table.

"Your words are a stab to my heart Buck, my singing is amazing," Bucky smirked, grabbing his drink and taking a long swig. His eyes drifted over to Brady, who sat at the bar nursing his drink with a scowl and a bandage around his head. The tension that had followed him since the mission was still palpable, and it hadn't gone unnoticed, "They seriously are blind, aren't they?" Bucky muttered, watching Brady's brooding form.

Buck followed his gaze and nodded, a knowing look crossing his face, "Give them time."

"I'm impatient," Bucky grumbled, "They're probably going to realise they like each other by the time they're on their deathbeds," Buck laughed softly, "They're both stubborn as hell. They don't want to admit they like each other because they think the other hates them. It's pissing me off," Bucky said, tapping the edge of his glass, frustration evident.

Buck shrugged, leaning back in his chair with a grin, "Time, Bucky. Time," across the mess hall, Emilia sat with Maggie at a smaller table. Maggie could see the tension radiating off Emilia in waves and had decided it was better to let her fume before bringing up the obvious. 

Maggie took a slow sip of her tea, eyes flicking up over the rim of her cup to catch the furrow in Emilia's brow. The corner of her mouth twitched—not quite a smile. More like a knowing nudge, "You're still dwelling on Brady, aren't you?" Emilia didn't answer right away. Instead, her gaze drifted across the mess hall, past the half-empty tables and scattered clusters of airmen, until it landed on him.

Brady sat with Zim and a few of the other crewmen, a bandage still wrapped high around the side of his head. Zim was clearly in the middle of telling some ridiculous story—hands flying, voice animated—but Brady wasn't laughing. Not like he used to.

His grin didn't stretch the same way. His eyes didn't crinkle at the edges. He wasn't even really looking at Zim—he was staring somewhere just beyond him, as if caught in a memory he couldn't escape.

For a fleeting moment, Emilia wondered if maybe he couldn't hear the story. If the blast that tore into his ear had robbed him of more than just his balance. But then she looked closer and saw it in the way his shoulders tensed. The way his thumb tapped against the table, like he was trying to keep some part of himself grounded. No—he could hear just fine.

He was just dealing with something far heavier.

Emilia blinked, her jaw tightening, "I'm not dwelling," she muttered.

Maggie raised a brow, "You've stirred that coffee six times and haven't taken a single sip."

Emilia dropped the spoon into the cup with a clink and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, "He's just... not himself. Not since Trondheim."

"Neither are a lot of them," Maggie said gently, "But John—he wears it different. Doesn't let anyone see when he's bleeding inside," Emilia didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her eyes were still on him.

And despite everything, despite how much she told herself not to care—there was that familiar ache again, sharp and silent.

Because even from across the room, she could feel it. He wasn't okay. And part of her wished she could carry some of it for him.

The noise in the mess hall was a distant hum in Brady's ears. Conversations bled into each other—laughter, shouting, the clink of cutlery—but it all felt muffled, like he was underwater, watching it happen through glass.

Zim was talking. Of course he was. Some exaggerated tale about the Norwegian flak nearly taking his arm clean off—throwing his hands around like they hadn't all nearly been ripped apart hours ago. Normally, Brady would've cut in, made a crack, maybe tossed a packet of sugar at him for dramatic flair. But now, he just sat there, nodding along like he was present. Like he could still find it in himself to laugh.

He couldn't.

The bandage at his ear itched like hell, and every throb of pain in his head reminded him of how close they'd come to not making it back. Again. Trigger was still in surgery. Digs had passed out from blood loss before they even touched down, Spades was still recovering in the hospital. And Brady had watched it all happen—helpless in the cockpit, trying to hold the plane steady as everything fell apart around him.

He rubbed a thumb against the edge of the table, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

And then he felt it—eyes on him.

He didn't have to look to know it was her.

Emilia.

It was like he could feel her worry from across the room, heavy and warm and pointed. She was sitting with Maggie, pretending to listen, probably pretending not to care—but she did. He knew she did. Just like he knew she hated seeing him like this. Quiet. Withdrawn. Not the Brady who swaggered through every mission like it was just another day in the sky.

But that guy didn't climb out of the plane today.

Brady risked a glance, his eyes flicking over to her for half a second. She looked tired. She always did when she was worried. Lips pressed together, arms folded, staring at him like she was trying to figure out what pieces had shifted and how to put them back.

He looked away.

What could he say, anyway? That he was scared? That the sound of metal tearing still rang in his head? That every time he blinked, he saw the blast—felt the heat—heard Digs scream?

No. That wasn't the kind of man he was supposed to be.

He could hear Zim's voice again, now a little clearer. Something about a pint and a nurse in the wrong tent. Brady forced a smile—tight, shallow, fake.

His hand went to his temple, rubbed the bandage as if that could somehow dull the weight pressing in around his skull. He hadn't said much since landing. And he wasn't sure when he would. But he knew one thing:

Emilia was watching. And for now, that was enough to keep him from sinking.

[gotxpenny]

bob highschool boards (PT.1)

[gotxpenny]

Undone By You

In the dim haze of a crowded bar somewhere in Europe, two soldiers from different worlds find themselves drawn to one another. She’s quiet and careful. He’s bold and charming. But in a war-torn moment suspended in time, a single spark threatens to change everything.

Pairing: Babe Heffron x Reader

Word Count: ~3,300

Genre: Fluff with a tinge of spice and flirtation

Setting: A crowded bar in Europe, early 1945

Note || My boy Babe isn’t holding back here—and honestly, can you blame him? Surrounded by war, cold, and chaos, he’s got no time to waste. With a little help from our resident troublemaker Wild Bill.

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The bar was loud, warm with laughter and the clink of glasses, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder in celebration. It smelled like cheap beer and the kind of sweat earned from surviving one more day. Somewhere in some nameless town in Europe, war had taken a night off.

Babe Heffron sat at a table with a few of his Easy Company boys—Guarnere was already halfway to drunk, and Luz was making some joke that had Roe grinning in a way he rarely did. Babe leaned back in his chair, half-listening. His sleeves were rolled up, red hair tousled from running a hand through it too many times. He liked nights like these—when they could pretend, just a little, that they were young men instead of soldiers.

But lately, even pretending took more work.

He'd spent the months after Eindhoven just trying to feel normal again. Recovery, they called it—like there was a fix for the kind of shit he’d seen. Like you could patch up a soul with bandages and bourbon. Half the time he’d just sat in silence, chain-smoking, his fingers twitching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The rest of the time, he thought about Philly. About home. About what it would feel like to walk down a street without expecting a shell to fall. About what kind of man he’d be if he weren’t sitting in another European bar soaked in cheap booze and survivor’s guilt.

The war had aged him. Fast. But he still wasn’t used to it. Twenty-one and already so fucking tired.

And then she walked in. Small. Quiet. Sharp eyes scanning the room like she regretted stepping foot in it already. She moved like she didn’t want to be seen, but Babe saw her anyway—really saw her.

She was surrounded by the taller men around her, all from another unit, judging by the way they talked and didn’t acknowledge anyone from Easy. She barely came up to one’s shoulder, swallowed by them all as they made their way to the bar. 

She walked just slightly behind them, shoulders tense, head down—but her eyes kept flicking up, watchful, as if she didn’t trust the room. And maybe she shouldn’t. She was the only woman here.

Babe sat forward, straightening instinctively. His drink forgotten. His gaze locked.

There was something about her, something so jarring in this landscape of smoke and noise and testosterone. She didn’t belong, not here, not among the men drunk off relief and reckless bravado. She was something other. Something softer. Something quiet. 

“Jesus, Heffron,” Guarnere muttered with a laugh, “Wipe your chin, you’re starin’ like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

Babe didn’t answer. 

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move until the woman stepped up to the bar and perched carefully on a stool, pulling her cap off and smoothing down her hair before ordering a Coke—a Coke, for Christ’s sake. The bartender barely looked at her. Her presence felt like a whisper in a room full of shouts.

He was already getting up.

“Here he goes,” Guarnere muttered to Luz, who gave an exaggerated wolf whistle that Babe ignored, “She’s from anotha’ unit,” Guarnere called after him, grinning, “Try not to scare her off!”

He made his way through the crowd like it didn’t matter, like he had every reason in the world to be walking over to her—because right then, it felt like he did.

At the bar, he slipped into the space beside her and rapped the counter twice with his knuckles, “Beer,” he said to the bartender, then glanced down. She was sipping on a glass bottle of Coke, her fingers wrapped tightly around it like it was a lifeline. When she noticed him beside her, she flicked her eyes up just for a second.

He caught it. That glimpse. Just for a second—he caught a flicker of something in her eyes. That shy little look before she turned her head again. Surprise. Caution. 

He liked it.

Didn’t move away.

Didn’t stop looking.

“Didn’t expect to see a lady in a place like this,” he said, casually, “Especially not drinkin’ a Coke. You celebratin’ or hidin’?”

She blinked, lips parted like the question caught her off guard, “I...don’t really drink,” she said quietly.

Her voice was soft. Nervous. Babe liked it more than he should have.

“You always this quiet, or is it just me?” he asked, tilting his head.

And just like that, something flickered in her again. Like a match struck just once in the dark. And Babe? He leaned into the spark. She looked at him then. Really looked. And God help her, it was his smile that did it. That confident, crooked little grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing and enjoyed it.

His hair was the first thing she noticed—bright copper in the low light, messy in a way that looked deliberate, like he’d just run his hands through it before swaggering over. His face was all sharp lines softened only by the faint flush in his cheeks, and that damn smile—cocky, effortless, like he’d never had to work hard to get attention.

He stood close, not too close, but enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. He smelled like smoke and whiskey and something else—something earthy, like worn canvas and adrenaline. And she hated the way it made her heart jump.

He wasn’t tall—not like the men in her company—but something about him made her feel even smaller. Maybe it was the way he held himself. Like he belonged in every room. Like the war hadn’t knocked him off balance the way it had her.

Or maybe it was just the way he looked at her—steadily, confidently, like he’d already decided she was something he wanted.

And no one had ever looked at her like that.

Not like she was a woman. Not like she was worth noticing.

It scared her. It thrilled her.

And when he grinned again, head tilted slightly like he could read her whole goddamn soul, she had to glance down, just to breathe, “I don’t talk to a lot of people,” she said, almost defensively, “Just my company.”

“You should branch out,” Babe said, “We’re not all assholes,” she snorted—actually snorted—and he took that as a win, “I’m Babe,” he said, offering his hand, “Well—Edward, but nobody calls me that,” she hesitated, then placed her smaller hand in his. It was warm. Her fingers fit between his perfectly.

He held on just a moment too long.

Babe hadn’t expected her to take his hand.

Hell, he hadn’t expected her to stay.

But the second her fingers slid into his—smaller, softer, careful—something in his chest shifted.

It wasn’t the kind of pull he was used to. This wasn’t about getting lucky or impressing the boys. It was quieter than that. Slower. Like gravity had decided she was the center now, and he’d be a damn fool not to orbit.

She wasn’t doing anything special. She wasn’t flirting. She wasn’t trying.

She was just there.

Soft-spoken. Guarded. Wrapped in something invisible that made him want to know her, to peel back whatever careful layers she was hiding behind.

And maybe that scared him a little, because it had been a long time since anything felt real. Since someone made him want to stop talking and just listen.

And right then? She was winning him over without even trying.

Just by standing there.

“I know who you are,” she said, so quietly he almost missed it.

Babe stilled. Not in a sharp, startled way—but like something in him paused just to take her in better. The way her lashes dipped after she spoke, like she regretted it the second it left her mouth. Like she didn’t realize the power she had in saying it.

His eyebrows lifted, that crooked grin returning, slower this time, “You been askin’ about me, sweetheart?”

She flushed instantly, her eyes going wide as she jerked her hand back from his like she’d touched something too hot, “No. I mean—your unit’s talked about a lot. Around the barracks.”

Babe chuckled under his breath, but there was something else behind it—something softer, sharper. Without even realising it, he leaned in, closer, his shoulder brushing hers, his drink forgotten. He didn’t mean to crowd her, but he couldn’t help it—she pulled him in.

Not in some loud, showy way. She wasn’t batting her lashes or leaning forward like the girls back home did when they wanted to be chased.

She was just...there.

Looking up at him with those cautious eyes like she didn’t know she was already tangled around his nerves. Like she didn’t know he was the one falling into whatever trap she wasn’t even trying to set.

He dropped his voice as he tilted toward her ear, like it was just the two of them in the whole damn bar, “Good things, I hope.”

And God help him, he liked the way she swallowed hard at that—like he was already a little too close, a little too much, and she didn’t know whether to pull away or lean in.

And Babe? He was already hers, and she hadn’t even asked for it.

She nodded. But the moment stretched, and she looked like she might bolt.

Babe reached for his drink, took a sip, then set it down. He leaned his elbow on the bar and turned more fully toward her.

“You from Philly?” he asked.

She shook her head, “North Carolina.”

“Explains the sweet,” he said.

She blinked, confused, “What?”

He grinned again, slower this time, “Your voice. It’s sweet. Kinda soft. Like honey or something,” her mouth parted again, breath hitching in her throat.

She was not used to attention. Not like this. And definitely not from someone who looked at her like that—like he was already undressing her in his mind and savoring every second of it.

Babe tried to look away. Tried to bite back the images starting to flicker through his mind like film reels he hadn’t asked to load. But it was useless. She looked at him with wide eyes, caught somewhere between flustered and curious, and that was dangerous. That look could undo a man if he wasn’t careful.

He took a sip of his beer, hoping the bitterness might ground him, but all it did was give him a second to imagine what her lips might taste like instead.

Christ, get it together, he thought.

But he couldn’t help it.

Couldn’t stop the way his mind wandered—how she’d look in the morning light, bare and soft, curled up in sheets with that shy little smile that probably didn’t come out often. Or the way her voice—already sweet as honey—might sound breathless in the dark, whispering his name like a secret.

He wondered if she’d melt under his hands, the way she seemed to melt under his gaze. If she’d be gentle or if there was something else simmering under all that quiet—something only he’d get to see.

The thought alone made heat crawl up the back of his neck.

And as she sat there, cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering, still holding tight to that Coke bottle like it might save her from him—he realised something that hit deeper than just want—it wasn’t just any girl making him feel this way.

It was her.

And that? That made it so much worse.

So much better.

“I, um...should probably get back to my group—”

“Let them wait,” Babe said easily, “You got any idea how rare it is to find a lady like you in a dump like this? I ain’t wastin’ it,” she swallowed. 

He could tell she wanted to run. But she wasn’t. Not yet.

She swallowed. Hard.

Because no one had ever spoken to her like that—not with charm, not with heat, not with something real coiled beneath the surface.

Not like she mattered.

Back home, she’d always been the quiet one, the polite one. The girl who kept her head down, followed orders, didn’t draw attention. Even in her unit, the men looked at her like a sister, or worse, like she wasn’t there at all.

But Babe Heffron?

He looked at her like she was everything.

Like the room had blurred behind her.

Like she wasn’t just some girl in uniform—she was the girl.

It made her dizzy. It made her nervous.

And it made her want to stay.

She’d heard of him before—Heffron, Easy Company. The stories drifted around the barracks like smoke, names passed in hushed admiration or jealous awe. The redhead from Philly who fought like hell and laughed louder than anyone had a right to in times like these.

She never thought he would see her.

And now here he was—closer than he should be, calling her sweet, telling her to stay, like the whole damn war could wait.

And she’d never felt so acknowledged in her entire life.

She whispered, “You’re very...forward.”

He chuckled lowly and leaned down until his mouth was next to her ear, “That a bad thing, sweetheart?” her breath caught. Her heart was hammering. His scent was all whiskey and cigarettes and something warmer underneath. Her fingers tightened around her Coke like it could anchor her. She didn’t answer. And that silence—it was almost louder than anything else in the room. Babe pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again, “You’re nervous,” he murmured.

“I don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?” his voice dipped, his gaze dropping to her lips.

Her voice barely came out, fragile as spun glass, “Talk to guys. Like…this.”

Babe blinked, just for a second.

It wasn’t the words that got him—it was the way she said them. Like this wasn’t just new, it was foreign.

Like no one had ever leaned in close and made her feel seen. Like no guy had ever given her a reason to speak softer, to blush this hard, to wonder if her heartbeat was too damn loud.

He stared at her, eyebrows ticking up, the faintest flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“You serious?” he asked, not teasing—curious.

She nodded once, eyes dropping, like she regretted admitting it. Like it was something to be ashamed of.

And Babe? He wasn’t smug now. He was floored.

Because the girl standing in front of him—shy, sharp-eyed, sweet as hell—was the kind of woman most guys would fall all over themselves for. And the fact that no one had bothered before?

That made his jaw clench a little.

And made him want to be the first and last guy she ever talked to like this, “Then let me make it easy,” he said. His thumb brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, “Just sit with me. One drink. No pressure,” she stared at him. Torn between fear and something new bubbling inside her.

Then, after a long pause, she whispered, “Okay,” that single word left her lips like a secret, delicate and uncertain, but Babe heard it loud and clear. His grin returned—slower this time, softer, like it was just for her.

He offered his hand again, and she took it without thinking. He guided her through the crowd, his fingers curling around hers like they were something to protect. He didn’t let go, not even when they reached a quieter corner table at the edge of the bar—away from the rowdy laughter and sloshing drinks.

“Didn’t catch your name,” he said as he pulled out a chair for her—gentleman-like, but with a glint in his eye that suggested anything but innocence.

She hesitated, then murmured, “Y/N,” like it might disappear if said too loudly.

“Y/N,” Babe let it roll off his tongue, testing the sound, smiling like it was something he wanted to remember for the rest of his life, “Pretty name. Suits you,” she looked down, her cheeks heating again, “So,” he said, leaning in across the small table, forearms resting casually on the wood, “North Carolina, doesn’t drink, hasn’t flirted with a guy before…tell me, what do you do when you’re not knockin’ all of us dead just by walkin’ into a room?”

She huffed a laugh—half disbelief, half nerves, “I…read a lot.”

“Dangerous,” he murmured, his smile widening, “Smart and quiet. Real lethal combo.”

She laughed under her breath, “You’re laying it on pretty thick.”

He leaned in closer, eyes locked to hers, “Only ‘cause it’s true.”

Their drinks came—another Coke for her, beer for him—but he didn’t look away, not once. He asked more questions, asked about her training, what base she was stationed at before, if she missed home. And he listened. Really listened. And every now and then, he’d lean in just a little more.

At one point, when she said something about how her brothers used to tease her accent, he reached over without thinking, brushing his thumb along the edge of her jaw—just enough to make her breath catch.

“Don’t let ‘em take that from you,” he said, “That voice? Sweetest thing I’ve heard in years.”

And she froze.

Because now—now he was close. So close.

He’d leaned in again, his elbow on the back of her chair, that crooked grin flickering to something deeper, something darker, something that sat right between affection and want. His knee brushed hers beneath the table. His eyes dropped to her lips—barely for a second—but she felt it.

She could feel the warmth of his breath, faint and heady with beer. If she moved, just the tiniest bit—tilted her head forward, maybe said his name—she’d be kissing him.

And the worst part?

She wanted to.

She wanted to know how he’d taste, how he’d touch, how it would feel to let someone like Babe Heffron undo her completely.

She swallowed hard, eyes flickering nervously between his lips and his steady, confident gaze. Finally, she whispered, almost afraid he’d mishear, “I’ve… never done something like this before.”

The confession hung in the air between them, fragile and honest. Babe’s grin softened into something warmer, more protective. He reached out, lightly tracing a thumb along the back of her hand.

“Hey,” he said gently, voice low enough so only she could hear, “If at any point you wanna stop—say the word. I’ll back off, no questions asked. No pressure, no bullshit,” she nodded, biting her lip, her heart racing so loud she was sure he could hear it, “But,” he added, his eyes darkening with a promise that made her breath hitch, “If you don’t want me to stop...then I’ll make damn sure this is the best damn thing you ever experience. The only one you’ll ever need.”

His words wrapped around her like a promise and a dare all at once. She hesitated, then looked up—right into those fierce, honest eyes—and for the first time, she let herself believe it.

That maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something she never thought she’d have.

Something real.

Something unforgettable.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she held his gaze, searching for any sign of doubt or mockery—and found none. Only the steady warmth of someone who meant every word.

Slowly, she nodded again, a whisper of trust weaving through her nerves, “Okay,” she said, voice barely above a breath.

Babe’s smile deepened, that crooked, winning grin that made her feel both safe and dangerously alive. He reached out, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch feather-light but electric.

“Good,” he murmured, “Because I plan on making this night one you won’t forget. And I’m not just talking about the drinks.”

Her cheeks flushed hotter, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned in just a little, the space between them shrinking until her breath mingled with his.

The world around them blurred—no shouting men, no clinking glasses, just the quiet heat building between two people who knew this moment was the start of something neither of them could quite put into words yet.

And Babe? He was already planning every next move.

[gotxpenny]

Surviving Love || {viii/lvii}

Emilia McKenna was deemed to be a sweetheart in the eyes of others who met her, but in the eyes of John Brady she was an itch he couldn't scratch. The tension between them was palpable, yet, over time, as they saved each other's lives and saw past the tough exteriors, their respect for one another grew. And despite their initial hatred, an undeniable attraction simmered beneath the surface.

Paring: John Brady x Fem!Oc

Prompt: they hated how much they made the other felt

Word Count: ~2,800

Genre: Frienemies to lovers, SUPERRRR slow burn, mostly fluff but angsty towards the end

Setting: Thorpe Abbotts, UK

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, slight gore, language

gotxpenny’s masterlist masters of the air masterlist surviving love masterlist

"Best relationship: talk like best friends, play like children, argue like husband and wife." — Unknown

━━━━━━━━━━

THREE WEEKS LATER | JULY 1943 |

THREE weeks had passed since Breman, and the bruises had faded, but the memories hadn't. Emilia stood near the edge of the tarmac, coat draped over her shoulders, cigarette between her fingers, and eyes scanning the pale blue sky overhead. The air was still, unusually mild for an English afternoon, and for once, Thorpe Abbotts wasn't all engine roars and barking officers.

She inhaled deeply, letting the smoke settle in her lungs before blowing it out in a lazy curl. Her head tilted slightly at the sound of laughter—a distinct, familiar sort of rowdy banter she'd come to recognize without even trying. From behind one of the B-17s, four figures came into view, jackets slung, uniforms rumpled, and faces lit with the cocky ease of men who had seen death and lived to tell a damn good story about it.

Brady was in the center, of course, shoving Zim with a grin while Digs made some exaggerated joke that Trigger nearly dropped his toolkit over. She didn't want to smile. But part of her did. Just a little.

"You know," came a voice from behind her, drawing her from the scene, "Some say you can tell who the good flyers are by how loud they laugh when they're grounded," Emilia turned her head to see Charlie "Spades" Jacobs sauntering up beside her, a smudge of grease on his cheek and a wrench hanging from his belt, "I say," he continued, lighting his own cigarette with a practiced flick, "They're just the loudest because they know they probably shouldn't still be alive."

Emilia gave him a sideways glance, smoke slipping from her lips, "Is that your bombardier's philosophy, Spades?"

He grinned, flashing a gold molar, "Nah, that's just what I say to get out of trouble when I'm late to morning briefings," she huffed a quiet laugh, and he took a drag before nodding toward the crew by the B-17, "You gonna keep pretending you don't hear them, or you finally gonna admit that Brady's a better show than anything on the BBC?"

"Go away, Charlie," she muttered dryly.

"I would," he said, stepping back, "But it'd be a crime to not deliver a message," he wiggled his eyebrows and jogged off, calling out, "Oye, Farmboy!"

Brady, mid-laugh, turned just as Spades caught his arm and jerked a thumb over his shoulder in Emilia's direction. The noise of the crew dimmed slightly in his ears, the sharp edge of her silhouette standing just apart from the chaos like always—smoke curling from her lips, cool expression unreadable.

Charlie leaned in with a grin, voice low but cutting through the din, "Your girl's watching."

Brady's smirk faltered—not outwardly, not enough for anyone to notice, but inwardly, something snagged in his chest. His girl. The words were tossed out casually, almost teasing, but they lodged in him deeper than he expected.

He wasn't sure why his heart kicked like that. Maybe it was the phrasing. Maybe it was the sudden weight those words carried, uninvited. Unfamiliar. His girl.

She wasn't. Not really.

But the idea of it—of her, watching him from across the tarmac, cigarette in hand and fire in her eyes—hit him with a force he hadn't braced for. His heart thudded once, hard, a little too fast, and he swallowed before his grin returned, slower this time, more deliberate.

He hadn't even realised he was straightening up slightly, brushing dust from his jacket. That was new. That was very new. And yet, when his eyes met hers—he laughed, and it stuck in his throat just a little.

Because Charlie was right. She was watching. And damn him—he wanted to keep giving her something to look at. With the casual arrogance only he could wear like a second skin, he raised two fingers to his temple and gave her a mock salute.

Emilia didn't hesitate. She raised her hand and flipped him off without breaking eye contact.

From across the tarmac, his smirk widened, and Zim let out a howl of laughter, "Cold," Digs cackled, "That's cold, McKenna!"

But Brady only tapped his heart like he'd been wounded, staggering back half a step like her middle finger had pierced him straight through the chest. Then—damn him—he winked.

Any other woman on that base would've swooned. Hell, some probably had. That roguish charm, that crooked grin and boyish mischief—it was a cocktail brewed for trouble. But Emilia McKenna wasn't any woman. She didn't bat an eye, didn't falter. She held her ground like always, cool and unshaken.

And then, with the barest tilt of her head, she sent a wink right back. Clean. Sharp. Daring.

Brady's smug little grin widened like she'd just thrown gasoline on his fire, but Emilia was already turning, coolly stubbing out her cigarette beneath the heel of her boot. She walked off without another glance.

The smile on her face—small, almost imperceptible—settled there without permission, softening the usual edge. She didn't even know it was there. And if she had...well, she would've blamed the smoke.

| JULY 1943 |

THE pub was alive with energy, laughter, and the clinking of glasses that echoed against the wooden beams overhead. Pilots from all over filled the space, and despite the dim lighting, their camaraderie burned bright, cutting through the weariness of war. American and British pilots gathered together, some sitting at long tables while others leaned against the bar. There was a mix of accents in the air—American drawls clashing with the clipped tones of the British airmen, creating a strange harmony that spoke to their common cause.

Emilia and Maggie entered the pub together, their boots clacking softly against the worn floorboards. The two women, in uniform like their male counterparts, still garnered a few glances from the men who were unaccustomed to seeing women in such close proximity to the war effort. Maggie gestured toward an empty booth along the far wall, and Emilia followed, grateful for a quieter spot amidst the chaos.

They sat, the hum of conversation swirling around them as they shared a moment of peace. Emilia scanned the pub, taking in the familiar faces, and her gaze lingered on the table where John Brady sat with Major Cleven, Major Egan, Curt, Kidd, Veal, and two British pilots.

Though she couldn't hear what they were saying from across the room, she could see the casual way Brady leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the back as he laughed at something Curt said. For a moment, she felt a pang of something she couldn't quite place.

But before her thoughts could travel any further, a British pilot approached their booth with a grin. He was tall, his uniform freshly pressed, and his confidence radiated in the easy swagger with which he moved, "You look like you could use a drink, love," he said, his voice smooth and warm, the kind of tone that had likely charmed more than a few women in his time.

Emilia raised an eyebrow, "More like ten of them," her lips twitching with the faintest hint of amusement.

The British pilot blinked in surprise before chuckling heartily, "Then ten you shall get," he hailed over the bartender and ordered Emilia ten of the exact drinks she had asked for.

"Much appreciated..." she looked at the three gold stars on his blazer and smirked, "Captain," Emilia replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm, though the captain seemed oblivious.

He tipped his head as if impressed by her boldness, "See you around, darling," he said before wandering back toward the bar, casting her one last glance over his shoulder.

Emilia rolled her eyes, turning back to Maggie, who was barely suppressing a laugh, "You're terrible," Maggie teased, shaking her head.

Emilia shrugged, lifting her glass, "Better than being boring."

From across the room, Brady had caught the tail end of the interaction, watching as the British captain sauntered away from Emilia with a cocky grin. He felt something stir in his chest—a flicker of irritation. His hand flexed on the table, and though he tried to refocus on the conversation around him, his eyes kept darting back toward Emilia's booth.

Buck, ever perceptive, noticed Brady's shift in focus and nudged him with his elbow, "You're staring, Brady."

Brady snapped out of his thoughts, sitting up straighter in his chair, "No, just...observing," he said, brushing it off. Buck gave him a knowing look but didn't press the issue.

However, one of the British pilots at the table caught the glance as well, his lips curling into a mischievous grin, "You fancy her?" the British pilot asked, leaning forward slightly as he took a sip from his drink.

Brady frowned, confused unknown to the foreign slang, "Fancy?"

The second British pilot, sitting further down the table, rolled his eyes, "He means, do you like her?"

Brady shook his head, almost too quickly, "No, no, that's completely wrong. I do not like her."

The British airman raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, "The way you look at her says otherwise," before Brady could respond, the third British captain who had spoken to Emilia earlier wandered back over to their table, carrying a fresh drink in hand and wearing that same smug grin.

He nodded in Brady's direction before addressing the group at large, "I admire you Americans," the Brit said, his tone almost patronising. He glanced back over at Emilia, raising his glass in a mock salute to her before turning his attention back to the table, "You're up there in broad daylight, seemingly oblivious to the downsides."

Kidd, who had been listening intently, furrowed his brow, "I...I don't understand what you're saying, Captain."

The British captain waved him off, "Never mind, old boy. One for the higher-ups."

One of the other British pilots, clearly eager to jump into the conversation, added, "It's a question of philosophies. We bomb at night because it doesn't matter what we hit, so long as it's German. But bombing during the day? That's suicide. I foresee American strategy adjusting to the unfortunate losses you'll no doubt continue to suffer. Maths," the Brit leaned back in his seat with an amused grin.

"Maths?" Bucky asked, narrowing his eyes.

Curt, always quick with a comeback, grinned, "Maybe if you bombed during the day, you'd actually hit your targets."

Bucky scoffed, "And why the hell do you Brits add an 'S' on the end of math?"

The British captain smirked, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth, "Because there's more than one of them."

"There's more than one of them, huh?" Buck leaned in, mocking the accent, "I can see more than one of you too," Bucky teased, his voice lowering, "I bet I could knock all of you out," the soldiers around the table erupted into laughter, though there was an underlying tension brewing. The camaraderie between the two groups was strained, a constant push and pull as they tested the waters with each other.

As the laughter subsided, Crosby appeared with a tray of drinks, his arrival lightening the mood once more, "This ought to wet your whistle, boys," Crosby said, setting the drinks down with a flourish.

Curt raised his glass to him, "You are beautiful, Croz."

The British Captain, couldn't resist steering the conversation back toward Emilia, "You know who else is beautiful? That nurse in the green," he said, nodding toward Emilia's direction.

Brady's jaw tightened again as the Captain continued speaking, "She might look pretty, but under all those looks is the devil in disguise, my friend," the British captain raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued.

"You know her?" he asked.

"Know her?" Brady snorted, "She's an itch I can't scratch, that one. Don't try it with her. She'll rip you to shreds."

"I like a challenge," the Captain said with a grin, clearly enjoying the idea of pursuing someone who wasn't easy to catch.

"You mean you like your ego being crushed?" Brady shot back, his irritation finally spilling over. Buck and Bucky exchanged glances, silently communicating their amusement at the exchange.

The British Captain, unfazed, chuckled softly, "She seemed quite content when I was chatting with her earlier," Brady rolled his eyes.

"Don't let her fool you, cupcake. She's a menace when you really get to know her," Brady downed the rest of his whiskey, the burning sensation made his heart pound.

"And how long have you known her?" the Captain asked, his curiosity growing, "You seem to be quite...close," the Brit emphasised on the word 'close' making everyone around the table share questioning looks.

Brady's lips thinned into a tight line, "Long enough. And we're not that close, she's a part of my crew is all."

The British Captain tilted his head, his smirk widening, "The way you speak of her suggests you want her for yourself," Brady froze, the accusation hanging in the air between them. He opened his mouth to retort but found no words. The Captain's smirk deepened, "So you wouldn't mind if I go chat with her later, would you?" Brady hesitated for just a moment, long enough for the captain to notice.

"Not. At. All," Brady finally said, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. The Captain seemed pleased with himself, giving Brady a mocking salute before returning to his previous conversation with Bucky. Brady remained seated for a few moments longer, his fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to shake the frustration that had taken root in his chest.

Finally, he stood, pushing away from the table and wandering toward the bar where Emilia now stood alone. The tension in his shoulders seemed to grow with each step, and by the time he reached her, his thoughts were a jumbled mess.

Emilia glanced sideways at him as he came to stand beside her, swirling the last inch of beer in her glass, "You boys always get like this when the Brits show up? Little territorial?" she asked lightly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

Brady scoffed out a dry chuckle, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes, "Somethin' like that," he muttered, eyes fixed ahead, but his jaw was tight.

She didn't press it—not yet. But she saw it. The flicker of something behind his eyes, something unsettled. Brady was many things—loud, cocky, a walking headache most days—but rarely unreadable. Tonight, though, he was closed off in a way that made her stomach twist.

"So," she tried again after a beat, taking a sip, "Why'd you leave your merry little gang back there? Figured you'd be halfway through another pint and a bad idea by now."

Brady didn't answer right away. His eyes finally found hers, and when he spoke, the words came out softer than she expected, "Because," he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world, "In a room full of noise, I'd rather be where it's quiet. And somehow," he added, his gaze lingering on her, "That's you."

The words settled between them, quiet but heavy. Emilia blinked once, unsure how to respond. And Brady, ever the master of playing it off, shrugged and looked away like it hadn't just slipped out—like it wasn't the most honest thing he'd said all night.

But Emilia heard it. And she felt it. And though she didn't say anything, her hand instinctively tightened just slightly around her glass, anchoring herself, trying to ignore the warmth rising in her chest.

Emilia looked down at her drink, lips parting as if she might say something—anything—but no words came. That damn warmth in her chest hadn't gone away. It pulsed quietly there, like a secret, and she hated that it wasn't unwelcome.

She didn't look at him when she finally spoke, "I'm not that quiet, you know," she murmured, trying to keep her voice even, to tug the conversation back toward safer ground, "You've seen me yell at Trig with a scalpel in my hand."

Brady smiled, but it was a crooked, thoughtful thing, like his mind was still stuck on something heavier, "That's not what I meant," his voice dropped low enough that only she could hear it over the bar chatter, "You walk into a room, and everything else...just dulls."

Emilia's heart skipped. She swallowed thickly and forced herself to glance up at him, her brow raised in an attempt to keep her cool, "You writing poetry now, Cowboy?"

He laughed, a real one this time—short, self-deprecating, and familiar, "Don't worry. I won't quit my day job, Sugs."

Emilia leaned an elbow against the bar, angling toward him just a little, "Good. I don't think you're cut out for the arts."

He looked at her again, and their eyes met—really met. That soft, inescapable kind of silence hung between them. Not awkward, not strained. Just...quiet. And maybe he was right. Maybe, in the middle of all this chaos—this war, this noise—she was the quiet for him. And maybe he was starting to become the same for her.

"Thanks for earlier," Brady said again, voice gentler now, "Not just for patching me up. For being there."

Emilia nodded once, slowly, "Always am, aren't I?"

Brady looked like he wanted to say more. But instead, he just gave a small smile, eyes steady on hers, "Yeah. You are."

And for the first time that night, Emilia didn't try to fight the smile that tugged at her lips. She just let it happen.

[gotxpenny]

MORELARKEY in Band of Brothers (2001) - Part 1: Currahee

[gotxpenny]

malarkey stealing a hat vs more stealing the photo albums

#kleptoboyfriends

+bonus: stealing a motorbike together

[gotxpenny]

what if yellowjackets happened to them

[gotxpenny]

For Week 2 of HBOWW2Rewatch Prompts: Luck

if you have a request or want to be tagged for any of my edits send me an ask. don’t repost, reblogs appreciated. all of my edits can be found here. My Ko-fi is here  and my Redbubble is here if you’re interested in supporting me and my creations

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[gotxpenny]

The Ones Who Don't Laugh

A quiet night after a long day. Laughter echoes from the campfire, but one voice is missing. When Y/N finds George sitting alone with a forced smile and tired eyes, the conversation shifts from jokes to honesty—and maybe, for once, George isn’t the one keeping everyone else afloat.

Pairing: George Luz x Reader

Prompt: "You don’t always have to be the one who makes everyone else laugh. You’re allowed to fall apart too, you know."

Word Count: ~3,200

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Setting: Hagenau, Germany

Note || listen…I didn’t mean to make this as soft and soul-crushing as it turned out but apparently George Luz lives rent-free in my heart as the guy who makes everyone laugh while quietly falling apart. this is for the ones who carry the weight and finally let someone carry them back. also yes, I gave him a kiss. he earned it.

title inspired by the kind of people who joke through pain until someone sees them <3

gotxpenny's masterlist band of brothers masterlist

It was too quiet for comfort.

The kind of quiet that let your thoughts get loud. In the few hours between orders and movement, the men gathered around a flickering fire—joking, smoking, trading scraps of food and memories like they were poker chips. It was the kind of noise that kept the dark from settling in.

But George Luz wasn’t part of it tonight.

Y/N noticed immediately. He wasn’t cracking jokes. No bad accents. No half-assed impressions of officers who would surely give him latrine duty if they overheard. She looked around once, then again. He wasn’t with the crowd. And that alone felt wrong—like the camp had lost one of its loudest colors and didn’t even realise it yet.

She found him off to the side, sitting under a skeletal tree near the riverbank, away from the voices and the fire. Just him, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his jacket collar pulled up like a shield.

“You hiding out here or just tired of being hilarious, Luz?” she called softly as she approached.

George looked up, eyes rimmed red from either the cold or something worse. He offered her a grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “Nah. Just figured I’d give everyone a break from my sparkling personality.”

She stopped a few feet away, “And here I thought you’d finally run out of bad impressions.”

“Impossible,” he said, but the smirk faded fast.

She sat beside him in the frost-bitten dirt, knees tucked close to her chest. Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but not quite peaceful either. The kind of quiet you shared with someone when you knew they were holding something just under the surface.

Y/N had come to know George Luz through laughter first. That’s how everyone did. He was loud, quick with a comeback, fearless in the face of any rank or rule if it meant making someone crack a smile. But what people didn’t always see—what she’d learned over time—was how sharp his eyes were when the jokes faded. How much he watched, even when it looked like he was too busy clowning around to care.

Their friendship had been built in the margins—between foxholes and foot marches, shared cigarettes, and cracked jokes in hospital tents. He used to nudge her with his elbow during briefings just to make her smirk. Used to mimic the way Winters walked and whisper nonsense in her ear until she choked on her water.

But lately, something had shifted. It started small.

He didn’t talk as much at breakfast. He stopped doing that impression of Nixon she secretly found hilarious. He held onto his helmet longer after taking it off, like it grounded him. He laughed, still—of course he did—but it wasn’t with the same ease. The kind of laughter that once exploded out of him now seemed practiced. Performed.

Y/N noticed.

She noticed how he only joked when the others were around, never when it was just the two of them. How he’d begun lingering at the edges of the group instead of the center. How his hands fidgeted more—picking at threads, tapping his knuckles, always moving.

She noticed how his eyes didn’t crinkle anymore when he smiled.

And what struck her most—what hurt—was that he thought no one saw it.

But she did. Of course she did. She always had.

George Luz wasn’t just the funny guy. He was the glue. The one who carried the weight of other people’s fears so they didn’t have to. He cracked jokes so no one else would crack first.

And Y/N—God, she wished he knew he didn’t have to do that around her.

She tilted her head slightly, watching him as he stared ahead toward the darkness between the trees.

“You remember Normandy?” she asked suddenly, voice quiet.

George glanced sideways at her, brow raised, “Vaguely. You know, just another relaxing vacation, jumping out of a plane and what not.”

She smiled faintly, but her tone stayed soft, “You sat next to me in the C-47. Shaking like hell, just like the rest of us. And you leaned over and yell over all the prop blasts and gunfire, ‘If I die, tell Winters I want a better haircut in the afterlife’,” that earned a real chuckle. Not loud. But warm.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “Classic me. Real poet.”

“But then in Bastogne,” she continued, turning slightly to face him, “When it got bad, when we were digging in and everyone was too scared to say anything…you didn’t tell a joke. You just sat next to me in that foxhole. You didn’t say a damn word. And that meant more than any one-liner ever could,” George looked down at his hands, brow furrowed. He flexed his fingers once, then stilled them.

“I guess I forgot how to do that,” he admitted.

“No, you didn’t,” she said gently, “You just started thinking the only thing you were good for was making everyone else laugh,” there was a beat of silence. The kind that only comes after truth.

Y/N exhaled, her breath misting in the cold air, “But I see you, Luz. Even when you’re not performing. I see the way you carry all of us when we don’t even realise it. The way you make people feel like things might still be okay, even if it’s just for a minute,” she looked over at him, catching his eyes again, “But I also see when you’re not okay.”

He didn’t look away this time.

Their gazes held.

And for a moment, Y/N wondered if he knew—really knew—how deeply she cared. How long she’d been watching his edges fray, just waiting for the moment he’d let her step in and help hold him together.

Not as a soldier. Not as a friend, even.

Just as someone who loved him—quietly, fiercely, and without condition.

George Luz had always been the one to break the silence.

But now, he sat in it.

And maybe that meant he was finally ready to be seen.

“Didn’t hear a single wisecrack out of you all night,” Y/N said, eventually diverting from the previous topic, “Thought maybe you’d come down with something.”

He snorted, but it was faint, “Guess I’m just off my game.”

She tilted her head, watching him carefully.

As she did, she breathed in slowly, the cold air biting at her lungs. And for a moment—just a moment—she let herself really look at him. At George Luz. The slope of his shoulders, hunched more now than they used to be. The shadows under his eyes. The way his mouth twitched like it wanted to smile but couldn’t quite get there.

And she realised how much that man meant to her.

Not just because he made her laugh when she needed it. Not just because he knew how to defuse a tense moment with nothing but a stupid impression and a wink. But because underneath all of that—beneath the noise and the charm and the distractions—George was good. Solid. Steady in a way no one expected from the class clown. He’d held them all together when everything was falling apart. He’d held her together more times than he knew.

And now he was the one unraveling.

She reached out with her words before her hand, as if afraid she’d startle him.

“You don’t always have to be the one who makes everyone else laugh, you know.”

George paused, fingers twitching against the frayed ends of his gloves. He didn’t meet her eyes, “Somebody’s got to,” he muttered, “They’re all barely holding it together. You’ve seen ‘em.”

“So have I,” she said gently, “And you think you’re the one who has to carry that? Every day? Every minute?” he didn’t answer. Just stared down at the frozen earth beneath his boots. Y/N leaned closer, “George. You’re allowed to fall apart too.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy as lead.

He looked up at her then, really looked, and for the first time since Bastogne, she saw it—what he was hiding behind the jokes. The fear. The grief. The exhaustion that wasn’t just physical.

Bastogne.

That memory lived in her like a bruise.

She remembered the cold first. The kind that lived in her bones and never left. Then the silence—shattering every so often by distant shelling or the choked sob of a wounded man behind the line.

They’d all been ghosts then. Hollowed out by cold and hunger and the kind of uncertainty that bled into everything.

George had found her in a foxhole one night. She’d curled herself as tightly as she could into a corner of it, shaking, boots soaked through, lips cracked from the frost. She hadn’t heard him approach—too wrapped up in the sound of her own heartbeat.

But then there was a hand. His. Holding out half a chocolate bar he’d somehow stashed away, even though God knew when the last resupply had been.

“No jokes tonight,” he’d said softly, “Not even one about the latrines freezing over.”

She’d blinked at him, confused. George Luz without a joke was like a cigarette without a spark. But his eyes…they were tired. Too tired to pretend.

He’d sat beside her anyway, even though there wasn’t much room. Their shoulders had pressed together, sharing whatever small heat they could. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. For a long while, they just sat, listening to the world try and kill itself around them.

And then—just before he dozed off, leaning into her ever so slightly—he’d whispered:

“I don’t think I can do this much longer.”

She hadn’t known what to say. So she’d reached for his gloved hand and held it tight beneath the blanket she’d thrown over both their legs.

That night, she didn’t fall asleep until the sky started turning grey. But his hand had stayed in hers the entire time.

His voice was rough when he finally spoke, “If I stop…I don’t know what’s gonna come out. If I let go of it even for a second…” she waited. He swallowed hard, “I think I’ll break, Y/N.”

Y/N’s heart clenched, “So break.”

He blinked, stunned, “What?”

“You’re human, George. You act like you’ve gotta keep everyone standing. But who keeps you standing? Who’s watching you?” she reached for his hand, hesitant at first, then certain. Their fingers met between layers of wool and cold skin, “You’re not alone,” she whispered, “And you don’t have to be funny right now.”

George didn’t say anything.

He just looked at her. Really looked.

For the first time in…maybe ever, he wasn’t thinking of what to say next, or how to break the tension with a smirk or a quip. He wasn’t thinking of who might be watching, or if someone needed him to fill the silence with noise.

He just saw her.

The woman who had been by his side through the worst of it. The one who never laughed the loudest at his jokes, but always gave him that small, knowing smile—the one that said she saw right through him. The one who noticed when he slipped away from the group and came looking, every time. Who handed him warmth in the form of half a ration, a threadbare glove, a steady look when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And now—this hand, in his.

Steady. Warm. Unshaking.

He didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it sooner. How much she mattered. How deeply rooted she’d become in him—not just as someone who cared, but someone who knew him. The real him. The version even he didn’t always want to admit existed.

His throat tightened, but he didn’t look away.

Because this—her—she was the only thing in this whole frozen, broken place that didn’t feel like it was slipping through his fingers.

So he held on.

Not with desperation, not with fear.

Just…held on.

They sat there like that, hand in hand, surrounded by cold and silence and war.

But for the first time in a long time, George didn’t feel like he was holding the weight of the world alone.

He had her.

And maybe—for the first time—that was enough.

Something in him cracked at that. Just a little. His shoulders sank, and his breath hitched—just once, quiet and sharp. But it was enough. Enough to know the wall was thinning.

“I keep thinking about home,” he admitted, voice barely audible, “My mom’s kitchen. My sisters messing around in the yard. I miss stupid things. Stupid people. I even miss Sobel, for Christ’s sake.”

Y/N laughed gently. Not mocking—just enough to lighten the moment, “That is stupid.”

He chuckled too, tired but real.

They sat there in the dark, side by side, the moon reflecting off the snow like a silent witness. And for once, George Luz didn’t have to perform. Didn’t have to deflect. He could just be a boy from Rhode Island who missed his family, who was scared, who needed someone to sit with him in the dark and remind him he didn’t have to be strong all the time.

England, late 1943

It was just past dusk, and the air hung thick with cigarette smoke and the leftover heat of a day spent training hard. The men were gathered outside the barracks, sprawled in various states of exhaustion and laughter—boots untied, jackets half-on, energy running low but spirits still kicking.

George Luz sat on an overturned crate, hands resting loosely over his knees, grinning lazily as a story passed between the group.

But he wasn’t listening.

He couldn’t stop staring at her.

Y/N was just a few feet away, crouched by the steps with a small knife in one hand and an apple in the other, carving it in clean, careful strokes. Her hair was pinned up, cheeks still a little flushed from drills earlier, a faint smear of dirt streaking one side of her jaw. She didn’t seem to care—just kept peeling, mouth twitching slightly at something Talbert had said.

George didn’t know why he couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t like she was doing anything extraordinary. She wasn’t laughing loudly or telling a story or pulling a Luz-level impression of one of the lieutenants. She was just there. Calm and steady and real in a way that made something in his chest feel a little off-kilter.

“Jesus Christ,” Skip muttered under his breath, elbowing Muck on the other side of the crate.

“What?”

“He’s doing it again,” Skip nodded toward Luz without being subtle.

Muck leaned over and followed his line of sight—straight to Y/N. He stifled a grin, “How long’s he been staring this time?”

“Since she picked up the apple.”

“Kid’s a goner,” Muck whispered, elbowing Penkala now, “Look at him. He’s not even blinking.”

“Malarkey owes me a buck,” Alex said, popping a piece of gum in his mouth, “I told him Luz would fall first.”

Across from them, George barely registered their commentary. He was still watching her, but not in the way most guys did. It wasn’t the kind of look that traveled up and down or hung on curves.

It was softer than that. Curious. Like he was trying to memorise something that didn’t even know it was worth being remembered.

“You’re gonna burn a hole in her with those eyes, Luz,” Muck finally called out.

George blinked like he’d been caught sleepwalking, “Huh?” everyone turned to look at him, half-smirking.

Y/N looked up, too, “Something wrong?”

George scrambled, cheeks blooming red beneath the dirt on his face, “No, uh—just, uh… I was, uh—”

“You were staring,” Skip supplied helpfully, grin wide, “Again.”

George cleared his throat and stood abruptly, waving them all off with a muttered, “You guys are morons.”

But as he brushed past them toward the barracks, Muck swore he heard him mutter something like “...wasn’t staring, just looking...”

Y/N arched a brow and went back to slicing her apple, lips twitching with amusement.

And George Luz, for the first time in his life, had absolutely no comeback.

Present Day

She squeezed his hand.

“I’ve got you, George. Even when you’re not funny.”

“…You still like me when I’m not funny?”

She smiled, “I might even like you more.”

Their hands stayed joined between them, fingers still curled in the space where warmth tried to survive the cold. For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

Instead, they looked at each other.

Not in passing. Not with the usual teasing glint or that familiar flicker of shared humor. But really looked—saw—each other in full.

And it was so much more than curiosity.

George’s eyes searched hers like they held an answer he hadn’t even known he was looking for. There was something raw in his gaze—quiet awe, maybe, or the dawning realisation that she’d always been there, standing beside him, steady and unshaken, waiting for him to see her like this.

And Y/N, in return, saw everything he tried so hard to hide.

The ache. The effort. The gentle heart buried beneath a hundred distractions. But there was something else, too—something softer. The kind of thing that grows in silence, that lingers in glances and brushed shoulders and the way his voice always softened when he said her name.

She saw it in the way he was looking at her now.

And for the first time, she didn’t look away.

Neither of them moved.

They just sat there, the world falling silent around them, and let their hearts speak in glances, in breath, in the way her thumb gently brushed over his knuckles.

No jokes. No walls.

Just George and Y/N.

And the quiet, undeniable feeling that maybe—just maybe—they’d been finding their way to this exact moment all along.

He looked at her then, that familiar glint starting to flicker back in his eyes, “Well shit,” he said, nudging her shoulder, “Now I really can’t fall apart. You’re gonna make me catch feelings.”

“Too late,” she murmured.

And the quiet after that felt just a little less heavy. They both laughed, low and breathy, like the sound was something fragile—something only the two of them could hear. And in that stillness, with the snow quietly blanketing the world around them and the war tucked just out of reach for the night, George let the moment stretch.

No more masks. No more pretending.

Just her. Just him. Just the quiet, undeniable truth of what had been building between them long before either one dared name it.

He leaned in slowly, carefully—as if asking permission with every inch. But she met him halfway, lips brushing his with a softness that said I’m here. I’ve always been here.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate.

It was warm, steady, and full of everything they hadn’t said in all the months leading up to this. A promise made without words. A crack in the weight they’d both been carrying.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the frozen air.

And George, heart thudding in his chest, couldn’t help but laugh—just once, softly.

“Guess we’re not the only ones holding everyone else up,” he whispered.

She smiled against him, her voice just as soft, “No,” she said, “We’re just the ones who don’t laugh when it’s our turn to fall apart.”

He nodded slowly, thumb brushing over her hand again.

Not tonight. Tonight, they could fall. Together.

And somewhere in the dark, under the watching moon and the hush of snow, two of the ones who never let themselves break finally did.

And it felt like healing.

[gotxpenny]

Every Line We Crossed

WWII. Bad timing. Worse decisions. Long stares across war rooms, a translator who speaks four languages and still can’t find the right words, and Lewis Nixon who drinks too much and feels too much. It’s tense. It’s messy. It’s that kind of almost-love that was doomed from the start—but God, did it burn.

Pairing: Lewis Nixon x Reader

Prompt: "You think I don’t know how wrong this is? But I never once wanted something so badly.”

Word Count: ~3,400

Genre: Fluff/Angst, hurt/comfort, slowburn, TENSION

Setting: Berchtesgaden, Germany

Note || sooooo i blacked out and this fic wrote itself. it’s soft, it’s messy, it’s a little emotionally unstable—kinda like lewis nixon with a whiskey bottle. if you’ve ever wanted to scream “just kiss already!!” at two fictional characters flirting, this one’s for you. enjoy the tension. blame harry welsh for the commentary. and remember: no war room was harmed in the making of this aggressively tender meltdown <3 (also, speirs slapping people into silence? peak behavior.)

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They met in the dark.

Toccoa wasn’t dark in the literal sense—Georgia was too hot and raw for that. But something about war always shaded the air around it, even in the training camps. And in the middle of all the barked orders and scraped knees, he noticed her.

Y/N, the translator. The one who was always flipping through thick, dog-eared notebooks of German, French, Italian, and—what surprised him most—Yiddish. It wasn’t her fluency that first caught Lewis Nixon’s eye. It was her silence. She was sharp, but measured. Bright, but never eager to show off. She spoke like every word mattered. Like every thought had a weight. And something about that haunted him.

Maybe it was because he had never been very good at thinking before he spoke.

She was softness in a world built to crush it.

Nixon never quite understood how she made it this far, not because she wasn’t capable—God, she was terrifyingly capable—but because she carried herself like someone untouched by the rot of war. While the rest of them had started to harden, crack, even lose shape entirely, she still somehow managed to be kind. Gentle. There was steel in her, yes—but it was quiet. Forged into her spine, not worn like armour.

And she was small. A fact that made him ache more than it should’ve. Her uniform was always a size too big, sleeves rolled twice over and pant legs cuffed just so. Her helmet sat crooked more often than not, slipping too low over her eyes like it belonged to someone else. Which, of course, it probably did. Everything the Army gave her looked borrowed. Too harsh. Too impersonal. As if the world didn’t quite know what to do with someone like her.

He remembered Normandy.

They were crouched in the hedgerows, mud thick on their boots, sky still bruised from the drop. She had landed rough and hard, scraped and breathless, helmet practically swallowing her whole head. He’d spotted her half a mile away just from the way she moved—calm, sure, but dragging her radio pack like it weighed more than she did.

“You sure you weren’t supposed to land with the field mice?” he’d called out, grinning as she emerged from the brush beside him.

She had shoved her helmet up with a huff, eyes narrowed beneath it, “You’re hilarious.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, nudging her boot with his, “You might be the first paratrooper in history who could hide in someone’s pocket.”

She’d flipped him off.

He’d fallen in love a little.

Even then, soaked in rain and war, she looked like something too good for this place. And Lewis Nixon—hungover, jaded, already a little ruined—knew damn well he had no business wanting her.

He tried not to. Tried to drown it in the usual ways—brown liquor, black humor, buried glances. But she kept being there. With her quiet tenacity, her sleeves always too long, her voice calm even when half the room was losing their heads. She translated enemy reports like they were puzzles, threading through languages like silk, and sometimes—just sometimes—she’d look up at him while she spoke, and he swore it felt like confession.

Now, in a dim room littered with maps and wires and the stale weight of smoke, she was talking again. Something about troop movement east of Remagen. He couldn’t focus. Not with her sitting that close, lips moving, hair tucked beneath a helmet that still never fit right.

He wasn’t hearing a word of it.

He was watching the way she bit the inside of her cheek when reading aloud, the faint crinkle in her brow when she stumbled on a dialect shift. He was watching her mouth, mostly. And wondering what it would take to close the distance.

She paused. Blinked at him.

“Are you even listening?”

The room wasn’t quiet—papers rustled, boots scraped, the typewriter clacked faintly in the next room—but her voice sliced through it all.

Nixon blinked. She was sitting across from him at the table, fingers resting on a handwritten enemy communiqué she had just translated aloud. Dick Winters, beside her, was methodically flipping through another set of files. Speirs leaned in his chair, unreadable as always. Harry Welsh was too amused to be useful.

But Nixon wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

He was staring at her lips.

“Nope,” he said, shameless. His whiskey-laced grin curled at the corners, “But if you’d like to repeat yourself—maybe a little slower this time—I promise I’ll hang on every word like it’s scripture.”

Y/N’s mouth opened. Then shut. Then flushed.

She hated how easily he got under her skin.

It wasn’t just the smirk—the one that never quite reached his eyes—or the way he always smelled like a mix of cigarette smoke, damp wool, and something warmer, something him. It wasn’t even the fact that he could be infuriatingly charming when he wanted to be, which was often, and usually when she was trying to be professional.

It was everything else.

It was how he looked at her like she was something he meant to find. Like she wasn’t just some Army-assigned translator in a war room full of men trying not to fall apart, but something important. Something good. And she hated that, because she knew he had no right to look at her like that—not with that ring on his finger. Not with that kind of baggage bleeding into everything he touched.

She had tried to keep her distance after Normandy. Told herself it was just adrenaline. Just the intimacy of surviving. A man like Lewis Nixon didn’t mean the things he said when there was whiskey in his breath and smoke in the air. And she didn’t want to be one more mistake he tried to drink away.

But it never stopped.

He kept circling back to her. In the mess, at debriefings, brushing past her in narrow halls just close enough to make her breath hitch. He was never overt—not really—but he lingered. In looks. In jokes. In late-night silences that made her stomach twist.

And worst of all?

She liked it.

She liked him.

The way he was sharp and broken in equal measure. The way he let his guard down around her, just a little, like she was the one person who wouldn’t try to fix him or leave him worse.

She flushed now—not from his words, but from the heat of wanting something she knew she couldn’t have.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, mostly to herself. 

Because if she let herself fall any deeper into this, she didn’t know if she’d survive it.

“She’s gonna stab you with her pen,” Speirs said dryly, not even looking up.

“Oh, come on,” Nixon teased, chin in hand now, eyes fixed on her with that glint—playful, yes. But something darker too, “You know I’m not the only one who enjoys hearing you talk, sweetheart.”

There was a beat of silence after Nixon spoke—just long enough to feel loaded.

Dick Winters didn’t even look up from the report in front of him. His jaw ticked slightly, but he said nothing, flipping a page with the same crisp precision as always. Still, anyone who knew him could read the warning in that subtle shift: Careful, Nix.

Speirs, leaning against the windowsill with arms crossed, gave a barely audible snort. He didn’t say much—he never did—but the slight upward tug at the corner of his mouth said enough. Amusement. Disbelief. Maybe even a touch of curiosity, like he was watching a slow-burning fuse and wondering when it would reach the powder.

“I am this close to translating something wrong on purpose and letting Speirs go in guns blazing,” she shot back.

Harry leaned forward suddenly, lips twitching, “Okay, is anyone gonna say it or should I?”

“No,” Winters warned preemptively, still reading.

Harry ignored him. Harry Welsh dropped his pencil with a clatter and let out a laugh that was far too loud for the room, “Jesus, Nix,” he grinned, rubbing a hand down his face, “You flirting or interrogating? You two look like you're about five seconds away from tearing each other's clothes off or tearing each other’s throats out—I can’t tell which.”

“Harry,” Dick warned, sharper this time, finally looking up.

But Harry just held up his hands innocently, eyes wide, “What? I’m just saying. You two look like you're about five seconds away from aggressively making out,” he said cheerfully, “Which, for the record, is what usually happens when Kitty and I argue like this. Except sometimes, y’know, we just go ahead and fuck.”

That shut everyone up—including Y/N, who went still as stone, her cheeks going crimson.

Nixon just chuckled, slow and low, not taking his eyes off her.

And that—that—was what made Dick finally close the file with a firm snap.

Winters slowly lifted his eyes and gave Harry the look.

“Shutting up,” Harry said immediately, hands up.

But the damage was done.

She didn’t say another word for the rest of the debriefing. And Nixon? He stopped pretending to read and started drinking in silence.

The silence that followed was long enough to stretch.

Dick, still holding the closed file in both hands, looked between them—first at Nixon, who had resumed nursing his canteen of whiskey with deliberate ease, and then at Y/N, who sat stiff in her chair, jaw clenched, staring furiously down at the translated report like it might burst into flames under her glare.

“You two need to figure out whatever this is,” Winters said evenly, not unkind but firm, “Before it starts affecting more than just the mood in the room,” it wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a warning. It was a statement. Clear. Measured. But sharp enough to cut through whatever tension had wrapped itself around them.

Speirs, still lounging against the windowsill, piped up without looking over, “Just make sure it doesn’t affect enemy intel either. I’d hate to walk into a death trap because Nix was too busy trying to undress someone with his eyes.”

Y/N made a sound—half laugh, half exasperated groan, “You know what really affects intel?” she snapped, glaring at Nixon now, “The fact that this one never pays attention. I could be translating Hitler’s funeral plans and he’d still be staring at my goddamn mouth instead of the map.”

Harry choked on a laugh but covered it with a cough. Speirs raised an eyebrow. Dick didn't react—his expression unreadable—but the silence deepened around them, the air turning almost too still.

And then, without thinking—again—Lewis spoke.

Low. Careless. Raw.

“Can you blame me?”

The words hung there.

Not teasing. Not grinning.

Just true.

Everyone froze.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. She didn’t move, didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Harry actually whistled under his breath.

Even Speirs straightened just slightly, the ghost of a smirk fading from his face.

Dick stared at Nixon for a long moment. And when he finally spoke, it was quiet.

“Out. Both of you.”

“But—” Y/N started.

“Out,” Dick repeated, without raising his voice.

Nixon stood slowly. No jokes this time. No grin.

Just those dark eyes, flicking to her like a storm ready to break.

Y/N followed, every step like walking on ice.

The door shut behind them, and the room fell into stunned silence.

“…Told you,” Harry muttered, “Aggressively making out. Five seconds.”

The hallway outside the debriefing room was dim, narrow, and oppressively quiet. The only sound was the low hum of distant generators and the dull buzz still ringing in Y/N’s ears from what Lewis had just said.

Can you blame me?

She hadn’t expected it—not like that. Not with that look on his face. Not with that truth in his voice.

She marched a few paces ahead of him, arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying to keep her expression neutral. Professional. Unbothered. But her heart was beating too loud and too fast and too hopeful, and that made her furious.

Lewis followed behind her with slower steps, the rhythm of his boots uneven, like even he wasn’t sure where this was going.

Finally, halfway down the corridor, she stopped and spun on him.

“You’re an idiot,” she hissed.

He stopped too, head tilted, “That’s fair.”

“And you can’t say shit like that in front of everyone!”

His brow lifted, slow and unreadable, “I didn’t plan on saying it, Y/N.”

“You never plan anything, Lewis,” she snapped, “You drink, and you stare, and you flirt like you don’t care who’s watching—like this is some goddamn game. But it’s not. You have a wife. You—”

“I know,” he said quietly. Firmly, “I know I do.”

That stilled her.

And it was the way he said it—not defensive, not deflecting—that made her heart twist.

She looked at him for a long second, trying to read past the shadows under his eyes and the way his shoulders sagged slightly, like carrying the weight of it all had finally started wearing him down.

“Then why?” she whispered, barely audible.

Lewis took a step closer. Then another. Close enough now that she had to tilt her chin up slightly to meet his gaze.

“Because you’re the only thing that still feels real,” he said, voice low, steady, “Everything else is noise. The war, the drinking, the mistakes I’ve made. But when you walk into a room—when you talk, even if I don’t listen like I should—you cut through it. You make me feel like I haven’t completely drowned yet. You think I don’t know how wrong this is?” he said, voice low, “But I never once wanted something so badly.”

She stared at him, heart pounding. Y/N’s throat tightened. She hated how part of her wanted to lean into him. Hated how part of her believed every word.

Her voice trembled, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“I have to,” he said, “Because if I don’t say it now, I might never get the chance.”

Silence settled again. Not awkward. Not angry.

Just heavy.

The silence stretched, thick and weighted, as they stood in that dim hallway between two breaths, between two choices.

Y/N dropped her gaze first. Not because she was weak—but because if she kept looking at him like that, she was afraid she’d fall into something she couldn’t climb back out of, “I hate the way you drink,” she said suddenly, the words slipping out before she could catch them.

Nixon blinked. It was the first time her voice had truly cut—not teasing, not playful, not distant. Just honest.

“I know,” he said quietly.

But she wasn’t done, “I don’t mean the smell or the slurring,” she whispered, eyes still fixed on the floor, “I hate what it does to you. How it dulls everything good. How it makes you forget what you’ve got. How it—” her voice cracked, just slightly, “How it makes you look right through me some nights like I’m not even real.”

He stiffened. That stopped him. Like the world had hit pause. Not because he was offended. Not because he didn’t know it was true. But because it was the first time she’d said it. 

Out loud. No jokes. No sarcasm. No safe distance.

And she wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid he’d hurt her.

She was afraid he was already hurting himself.

“You’ll drink yourself to pieces, Lew,” she added, softer now, “And I don’t want to watch you drown when I know I’d still reach for you, even as you dragged me under.”

He stared at her, stunned quiet.

Then he stepped forward.

One slow, deliberate step.

“I’ll stop,” he said, “If you want me to. I’ll stop.”

Her eyes met his again, uncertain. Hope flickering at the edges of fear, “You’ve said that before,” she whispered, “To other people.”

“I didn’t mean it before,” Lewis murmured, and this time, he reached out—gently, firmly—and took her by the wrists, pulling her just close enough that her breath caught. His voice was rough, but clear, “I promise,” he said, eyes locked on hers, like if he said it with enough conviction, it might undo all the wreckage behind him.

Y/N looked up at him, her heart in her throat.

And for the first time in a long time, Lewis Nixon wasn’t running from anything.

She stared into his eyes and saw everything she’d been trying so hard not to feel.

Not just the want—that had always been there, simmering beneath every careless smirk and lingering glance—but the ache. The quiet desperation. The way he looked at her like she was the only clean thing left in a world that had gone to hell.

And for a second—just one painful, electric second—she wondered how long he’d been carrying this weight alone. How long she had.

She’d fought it for months. For reasons that were good and right and solid. He was married. He was self-destructive. He drank too much. He flirted too easily. He lived like he didn’t think he’d make it to the end of the war—and most days, neither did she.

But in this moment, all of that fell away.

Because this wasn’t about logic. It wasn’t about rules. It wasn’t about what was right or wrong or what the others would think.

It was about now.

Because he said he would stop. Because he meant it. Because for once, he wasn’t trying to charm his way out of the truth—he was facing it. Because his eyes were steady and open, and all she saw there was her.

And maybe it would end badly.

Maybe it would fall apart.

But for once, she wasn’t afraid of falling.

Because somewhere along the way—between the war and the silences and all the almosts—she’d already fallen.

So before she could talk herself out of it, before fear clawed its way back in, Y/N grabbed the front of his jacket, pulled him down to her—and kissed him like it was the only thing keeping them both alive.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t slow.

It was years of tension igniting all at once—messy and breathless and real. He responded instantly, hands fisting in her sleeves, mouth desperate against hers like he’d been waiting his whole life for permission.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, she whispered, “This doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheek, “But it doesn’t make it any less true.”

She didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t let go.

Inside the debriefing room, the air had settled again, though the tension still clung faintly to the walls like smoke after a fire.

Dick Winters sat stiffly at the table, arms folded, his expression unreadable but his eyes fixed on the closed door that Y/N and Nixon had just walked through. The silence that followed their exit had stretched too long—long enough that it was impossible not to wonder what was happening on the other side.

Harry, who had tried to focus on the scattered intel pages in front of him for all of three seconds, leaned back in his chair with a smug little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He waited.

Waited just a bit longer.

Then, with a small cough and no particular sense of timing or shame, he said, “So...we all heard that kiss, right?”

Dick didn’t move. Speirs raised one brow, unimpressed.

“I mean,” Harry added, throwing his hands up casually, “I did say they were about five seconds away from aggressively making out. You all laughed—except Speirs, who doesn’t have emotions—but I was right.”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose.

Speirs looked directly at Harry, expression as deadpan as ever, then reached out and slapped the back of his head with a sharp thwap.

“Ow— what the hell, Ron?!”

“That’s for being insufferable,” Speirs said flatly, “And for the phrase ‘aggressively making out.’”

Harry rubbed the back of his head, muttering, “Still accurate.”

Dick finally exhaled, the barest flicker of something like resigned concern crossing his face, “This is going to complicate everything,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Speirs gave a lazy shrug, “Could be worse.”

Harry perked up, “Yeah, at least it wasn’t in here. I’d never be able to sit in this room again if they’d started ripping uniforms off.”

Dick gave him the look again.

Harry shut up. Briefly.

But the door stayed closed.

And none of them said it out loud—but they all knew something had changed.

For better or worse…that line had finally been crossed.

[gotxpenny]

Locked and Loaded

In the middle of war, some battles aren’t fought with bullets. Tension runs high between Easy Company’s only woman and a certain sharp-tongued translator. What started as constant bickering has evolved into something neither of them is quite ready to name. With the jump into Eindhoven looming, gear isn’t the only thing weighing heavy on their shoulders.

Pairing: Joe Liebgott x Reader

Prompt: “Maybe if you kept your mouth shut for once, I’d stop looking at it.”

Word Count: ~3,100

Genre: Mainly fluff with a tinge of angst idek, hurt/comfort (lightly—under the sarcasm)

Setting: Pre-Eindhoven Jump

Note || Joe “mouthy menace” Liebgott meets his match. Sparks fly. Biting words, lingering stares, and a healthy dose of sexual tension all in the middle of war. What could possibly go wrong? (Besides literally everything.)

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The first time Joe Liebgott met Y/N Y/L/N, she insulted his haircut.

“Jesus,” she muttered at Camp Toccoa, walking past him as they were lining up for formation, “Was the barber drunk or just blind?”

Joe had whipped around, “Got a hell of a mouth on you for someone who barely passed the PT test.”

“Passed better than your fade,” she’d shot back.

That was it. That was all it took. From then on, it was war. Not the kind with guns and grenades—though there’d be plenty of that too—but the kind that brewed slow. A simmering, insufferable tension that lived in every argument, every sidelong glare, every rolled eye or smirk traded like ammunition.

They were constantly bickering. Constantly. Luz called them Mr. and Mrs. Misery. Winters tried to separate them during drills because it was “distracting the others.” Even Perconte once muttered, “They’re either gonna kill each other or make out behind the mess tent. Maybe both.”

Their dynamic was the kind people watched like a car crash—too chaotic to look away from, too explosive to predict.

It wasn’t just the bickering—it was the way they bickered. Words thrown like knives, but with edges so sharp they glinted. There was heat in every argument, a closeness that lingered in their stares a beat too long, like they were always a second away from kissing or snapping each other’s necks. They talked over each other constantly. Interrupted. Mocked. If she rolled her eyes, he rolled them harder. If he said something snarky, she had a comeback that hit below the belt and made Luz choke on his coffee.

It was a game neither of them admitted to playing.

She flirted like she was throwing punches—harsh, fast, cutting, “Nice boots, Liebgott. You steal 'em off a corpse or just crawl out of one?”

And he flirted back like he was biting down on a dare, “Keep lookin’ at my feet and people are gonna start talkin’, sweetheart.”

To everyone else, it looked like hate. To them, it was survival. Intensity was easier than honesty. In a war where every day might be your last, vulnerability felt more dangerous than jumping out of a plane.

But underneath it all, buried deep in the sarcasm and scowls, was the fact that Joe noticed when she didn’t eat. That she always passed him an extra cigarette when he thought he’d run out. That they remembered each other’s worst nights. That when the shelling got bad in Bastogne, they sat back-to-back in the foxhole and pretended the shivering was just the cold.

They got under each other’s skin—deeply. Because that’s where they already were. And neither of them was brave enough to say it.

Not out loud. Not yet. Joe never admitted it, but Moe Alley saw it.

It was the day Smokey finished talking about Talbert being stabbed—“not by the enemy”—when Moe caught Joe looking across the hall. Y/N was at the next table, laughing at something Bill Guarnere said, the replacement’s boyish grin wide as he clapped Luz on the back. Joe’s eyes were locked on her. On the way she tipped her head back to laugh, on how her brow furrowed when she wiped grease off her hands with a rag tucked in her vest. 

He didn’t realise how long he’d been staring until Moe leaned in, quiet and low, “That’s a big risk, Lieb.”

Joe blinked, snapped his head to Moe, then shoved his shoulder, “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Moe just raised a brow. Joe denied it. Denied it hard. But Moe had seen enough men try to hide affection under anger. 

That twitch in Joe’s jaw? That meant something.

Joe scoffed under his breath and turned back to his mess kit, pretending Moe’s words hadn’t hit dead center.

Big risk, his ass.

But before he could even process what the hell that was supposed to mean, his gaze betrayed him—dragging itself right back across the hall like it had a mind of its own. And there she was. Still posted at the other table, still surrounded by Guarnere, Toye, and Luz, still playing it cool—but now, now she was looking right at him.

Caught.

For a second—just a second—they stared at each other. No snark. No smirks. Just something sharp and still in the space between them. The kind of tension that made Joe forget what day it was. What room he was in. What war they were fighting.

Then she grinned. That grin. Mocking. Slow. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she’d won something. And without breaking eye contact, she brought her tin cup to her lips and chugged the rest of her coffee like it was a goddamn victory toast.

Joe blinked. Jaw ticked.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Moe didn’t even look up, “Yeah,” he said, biting into a biscuit, “You’re screwed.”

Joe tried to shut it down. Told himself it was nothing. She was aggravating. Loud. Smart-assed. Impossible. But when she laughed with the others, when she bit into an apple with grease-stained fingers, when she tilted her head at him and muttered, “Try to keep up, prettyboy.” before a run—he’d be lying if he said it didn’t crawl under his skin and set up camp there.

He remembered the first time she said it.

Camp Toccoa, early morning, fog still clinging to the trees like it didn’t want to let go. The company was gearing up for a brutal run up Currahee, and she came jogging up beside him with her laces already tied tight and a spark in her eyes.

“Try to keep up, prettyboy,” she tossed over her shoulder, a smug grin on her face as she surged ahead.

Joe scoffed, breathless already, “You’re real full of yourself for someone with legs that short!” she just shot him a wink and kept running.

And when she was far enough ahead, out of earshot, Joe let the corner of his mouth tug into a grin. That’s when he noticed Malarkey, Alley, Luz, and Skip all watching him from a few feet back—smirking, exchanging glances like they’d just watched him fall in slow motion.

“What?” Joe barked.

“Nothing,” Luz said too quickly.

“You guys look like creeps,” Joe snapped, “Quit lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?” Malarkey teased, barely keeping a straight face, “Like we just caught you staring at her like she hung the goddamn moon?” Joe flipped them off and picked up his pace, ignoring the chorus of badly-muffled snickers behind him.

And now? Now they were jumping into Eindhoven.

The gear was heavy. Too heavy. Nerves buzzed beneath every layer. Everyone had a different way of coping. Luz was making some wisecrack. Guarnere told a filthy joke that had even Winters trying not to laugh. But Y/N?

Y/N was quietly swearing under her breath, trying to fasten her chute straps. The buckle had jammed. Her fingers were shaking—just a little, not enough to be obvious, but enough that Joe noticed.

She glanced up. And there he was. He was already looking at her. God, of course he was.

She rolled her eyes, “Don’t even think about it.”

“Think about what?” Joe shot back, shrugging on his gear, playing it casual, “You screwin’ this up all by yourself? Nah, wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

“Go to hell, Liebgott.”

“Ladies first.”

She turned her back on him with a scowl and a mutter. She wasn’t going to ask for help. Not from him. Not when her pride was already half the reason they hadn’t come to blows—or kisses—yet.

Joe Liebgott was a goddamn headache.

Too cocky for his own good. Always had some smart remark locked and loaded. Always knew just how to get under her skin, and clearly enjoyed doing it. Since the moment they met at Toccoa, it had been a never-ending match—quip for quip, glare for glare, like they were in a competition no one else understood. And maybe that was the problem.

Because she liked it.

She liked the way he talked back. Liked how sharp he was, how nothing she threw at him ever landed without something better coming back. He made her feel—alive, infuriated, sharp-edged, breathless. And in this war, that was a rarity worth clinging to.

It was easier to be mean. Safer to flirt like it was a punch. If she played the part of the one who didn’t care, maybe she wouldn’t get hurt when everything inevitably fell apart. Maybe if she kept her walls high and her comebacks higher, she wouldn’t have to admit that when he looked at her, really looked at her, she couldn’t breathe for a second.

She caught him watching her more than once. That flicker in his eyes when she laughed too loud. The way his mouth would twitch when she teased him in front of the others. That soft look she was never supposed to see.

And maybe—just maybe—that was why she pushed so hard. Because if she let herself admit what was really between them…it wouldn’t just be a risk.

It’d be real.

And that scared her more than jumping out of a plane ever could.

She huffed, fingers trembling again as she tried to wrench the strap into place. Then she felt it. A tug. Firm hands working the buckle, tightening the strap across her shoulders. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. But she did anyway.

And when she turned, Joe was right there—closer than he’d ever been without throwing some quip between them. His grin was small, sly. There was something softer in his eyes though, like maybe this was the only way he knew how to say he cared. His hands lingered for half a second longer than they needed to.

Neither of them moved.

Her breath hitched. She hated that he noticed—of course he noticed. His fingers were still brushing the strap across her chest, knuckles grazing the edge of her collarbone like he wasn’t sure if he was adjusting gear or touching her on purpose. She could smell the cigarette on his jacket, the faint scent of oil and sweat and something that was just him—and it made her dizzy in a way that had nothing to do with the altitude.

Joe’s gaze dropped to her lips for half a second. Half a second too long.

She swallowed hard.

The space between them tightened like a drawn wire. Like if either of them said anything too loud, it’d snap—and so would they.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered.

“I didn’t say thank you.”

Their eyes met. And for once, neither of them had something to say. The air between them was tight. Thrum-thrum-thrumming with something sharp and electric and too big to name.

She raised a brow, crossing her arms despite the gear pulling at her shoulders, “Pretty cocky of you to assume I needed the help.”

Joe’s mouth curved, slow and smug. He leaned in, voice low against her ear, “Didn’t say you needed it. Just figured you’d rather have your chute actually open when we jump.”

She scoffed, biting down a smirk, “Please. I’d have figured it out.”

“Oh, definitely,” he said, leaning in just a bit, the warmth of him brushing against her skin, “Right after you hit the ground face-first.”

She opened her mouth to fire back, but he cut her off, voice lower now, almost amused, “Didn’t need to,” that stalled her. Just for a moment. Their eyes caught, held. The teasing was still there—coiled just beneath the surface—but something heavier started to settle in its place. Something neither of them wanted to name.

His hand was still ghosting against the strap he’d just tightened, and when she shifted, he didn’t step back. Didn’t even flinch. His eyes flicked over her face, lingering a little too long on the curve of her jaw, the edge of her smirk—and then her mouth.

Then, “Maybe if you kept your mouth shut for once,” Joe said, his gaze dropping to her lips, “I’d stop looking at it.”

Her stomach dropped. Goddamn him.

Heat surged up her neck like a delayed explosion, blooming across her cheeks and settling somewhere just beneath her skin—too hot, too real. She hated how easy it was for him to disarm her with one line. One look. Like he knew exactly where to hit without ever raising his voice.

She could feel her pulse in her throat, could practically hear it thudding in her ears. There was no comeback this time. Nothing clever. Her mind had gone completely blank except for the way his voice wrapped around her, rough and low and too close for comfort.

And that look in his eyes—dark, unreadable, but undeniably focused on her—it sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

The worst part? She liked it. God help her, she liked it.

She forced herself to scoff, to roll her eyes like it hadn’t affected her at all. Like her knees hadn’t just gone a little weak.

“Charming as ever, Liebgott,” she muttered, voice thinner than she wanted. But she didn’t step back. And neither did he. She shoved him. Hard, “Focus on your chute, loverboy.”

He laughed, “Was focused on yours.”

They both knew this was a bad idea.

But some ideas—like war, like falling from the sky into a firefight—weren’t about good or bad. They were about timing. About chances.

And if there was one thing Joe Liebgott had learned, it was that you didn’t survive this long by wasting them.

Bastogne, two weeks earlier

Snow fell like ash through the bare trees, silent and constant, as if the world had gone quiet just to let them unravel in peace. The forest around Bastogne was bone-cold, haunted with the sounds of distant shelling and the snap of branches under boots too heavy with frost. Easy Company had been stretched thin—men wounded, supplies low, nerves fraying like the edges of an old photograph.

She’d just come back from a supply run that had gone to hell before it even started. Wrong coordinates, too much gunfire, not enough luck. Her gloves were stiff with dried blood and mud that wasn’t hers. Her breath smoked in the air as she paced outside the foxhole she shared with three others, trying to shake the tension out of her bones.

And then she saw him—Joe—sitting on an overturned crate with his jacket half-off and blood leaking through his sleeve, “You get shot or just trying to get out of foxhole duty?” she snapped, already digging into the medic bag she’d barely had time to restock.

Joe didn’t even flinch, “Little graze. Relax.”

“That’s not relaxing,” she muttered, kneeling beside him in the snow, yanking his sleeve up harder than necessary.

He hissed through his teeth, “Jesus, sweetheart, I said graze.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said sweetly, reaching for the bandages, “Maybe if you would shut up for more than thirty seconds, I could fix it without listening to you whine.”

“God,” he grunted, “Do you ever not complain?”

“Only when you’re not around.”

He smirked, lips curling in that way that always made her want to slap or kiss him—maybe both, “Guess I’ll have to make myself scarce.”

“You’d be doing us all a favor.”

“You’d miss me.”

She paused, just long enough to feel the weight of that line settle between them. He didn’t say it like a joke. Not fully. There was something behind it. A flicker of truth wrapped in sarcasm—his favorite disguise.

“In your dreams, prettyboy,” she muttered, quieter now.

She pressed the bandage into his arm with more force than necessary. He winced, “Shit,” he hissed, gripping his knee, “You patch up everyone like this or am I just special?”

“Wouldn’t want to give you the wrong idea,” she muttered, tying it off tight, “Pretty sure your ego’s already frostbitten.”

When she looked up, she realised how close she’d gotten. Her gloves were still pressed to his arm, but her face—her face was just inches from his. His breath fogged in front of her. His eyes flicked between hers, unreadable, his usual smirk softened just slightly at the edges.

Neither of them moved.

There was no wind. No snow crunching beneath boots. Just the sound of their breathing, too loud in the hush of the woods. His lips parted, like he might say something.

She didn’t know if she wanted him to.

But then—“Y/N!” Luz’s voice echoed from down the line, “We need you—Sarge wants a word!” she blinked. Looked away. Let go of his arm like she’d just realised she was touching him.

Joe cleared his throat and rolled his sleeve down, “Thanks,” he muttered.

She stood, “Try not to get shot again.”

He smiled, a little lopsided, “Only if you promise to patch me up.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned and walked away, heart hammering harder than it had during the entire damn supply run.

Present day

Under the roar of engines and the tense, humming quiet of men preparing to jump—Joe sat near the far end of the plane, arms resting on his legs, fingers laced, head low.

The hum of anticipation gnawed at his ribs.

Eindhoven.

He hated this part—the waiting. The knowing too much and not enough. He could feel the weight of the chute pressing into his back, the metal of his gear biting into his shoulders, the soft rumble of boots shifting on the metal floor around him. Everyone was talking in low tones, cracking dry jokes, checking and rechecking equipment.

Joe wasn’t saying anything. He just stared at the floor, brows drawn, jaw tight. Not afraid—never afraid—but wound up like a live wire, one spark away from snapping.

And then—someone dropped into the seat beside him. He glanced sideways and froze.

Y/N.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just held something out between two fingers, casual as ever.

A cigarette.

He looked at it. Then up at her.

“Thought you might need one to calm your resting bitch face,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching.

Joe blinked. Then laughed—quiet, but real. The kind that loosened his chest a little.

He took the cigarette from her fingers, brushing them just slightly, “You’re a real piece of work, you know that Y/N?”

“Yeah,” she said, settling beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world, “But I’m the kind that brings smokes, Joe.”

He shook his head, still smiling, lighter already in hand, “Lucky me.”

[gotxpenny]

Surviving Love {vii/lvii}

Emilia McKenna was deemed to be a sweetheart in the eyes of others who met her, but in the eyes of John Brady she was an itch he couldn't scratch. The tension between them was palpable, yet, over time, as they saved each other's lives and saw past the tough exteriors, their respect for one another grew. And despite their initial hatred, an undeniable attraction simmered beneath the surface.

Paring: John Brady x Fem!Oc

Prompt: they hated how much they made the other felt

Word Count: ~2,900

Genre: Frienemies to lovers, SUPERRRR slow burn, mostly fluff but angsty towards the end

Setting: Thorpe Abbotts, UK

Warnings: mentions of blood, gore, death, language

Note || Brady trying to act all nonchalant and cocky when really he's head over heels for Emilia, but unfortunately this book is a slow burn sooooooooooooo it might take a while for them to confess. love les, xx

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"A man who lies to himself, and believes his own lies, becomes unable to recognise truth." – Unknown

━━━━━━━━━━

| JUNE 1943|

THE roar of the engines slowly faded as the B-17 rolled to a halt on the runway at Thorpe Abbotts. The sound of rubber hitting concrete sent a wave of relief through the plane, but it was fleeting. They had made it back, but the toll of the mission weighed heavily on everyone. As the engines powered down and the propellers wound to a stop, the gravity of what had just happened began to sink in.

Emilia leaned back against the cold metal of the fuselage, her head spinning, vision blurred. The gash on her temple was still bleeding, the makeshift bandage she had wrapped had already soaked through. She hadn't even realised how bad it was. Her hands were trembling, and her body ached from the shrapnel that had embedded in her side. It wasn't deep, but it hurt like hell, and she felt weak from the blood loss.

The crew was unbuckling, preparing to disembark, but Emilia barely moved. She could hear the others talking, but it was distant, muffled. Everything around her seemed slower, almost like she was underwater, struggling to reach the surface. Bosser sat nearby, pale and shaking from both the cold and the trauma of being injured mid-flight. She had helped him earlier, but now she felt powerless to help anyone.

The hatch creaked open, and sunlight streamed in. The ground crew rushed to the plane, assisting the airmen as they exited. Emilia remained frozen in place, staring at her blood-streaked hands, not really processing what had just happened.

Bowman, standing outside, was barking orders the moment the hatch opened, "Mouths shut. Get in the truck. Not another word, not another word. Save it for the interrogation," he snapped, his voice sharp as a whip.

Major Egan began barking out orders, "Van Noy, nothing. On the truck. Get to interrogation now," the crew shuffled out, weary and silent. Their faces were pale, gaunt from exhaustion and adrenaline, and none of them dared speak as they trudged toward the waiting truck.

Bowman's eyes swept the group, his expression hard as stone, until his gaze fell on Emilia. His usual gruffness flickered for a second when he saw her leaning against the interior of the plane, pale as a ghost. The blood staining her uniform was unmistakable, "Jesus," Bowman muttered under his breath, quickly moving toward her, "McKenna," he reached out, gently but firmly helping her down the small steps from the plane, "Bosser and Con too," he barked, "Get them all to the med station. Now," the crew's heads whipped around, concern etched on their faces.

John Brady's eyes locked on Emilia, the sight of her wounded and barely standing twisting his stomach into knots. He took a step forward as if to move toward her, "Em—" but Bowman was already motioning for the medics, gesturing to Bosser, Conroy and Emilia.

"Get them seen to," Bowman ordered, "Rest of you—interrogation. Now."

There was a pause as everyone hesitated, their instincts to stay with Emilia, but Bowman's glare and tone left no room for argument. One by one, the crew climbed onto the truck, but their eyes lingered on Emilia, Bosser and Conroy. Conroy was immediately taken into surgery whilst Emilia and Bosser both were leaning heavily on the medics as they were guided away.

"Brady," Bucky's voice broke the silence, pulling John out of his thoughts, "Check on her after interrogation," Brady didn't move right away.

Even as the others began to shuffle onto the back of the truck, boots clanging against the metal, voices murmuring in quiet shock, his feet stayed planted on the tarmac. His eyes stayed locked on her—Emilia, pale and bloodied, her uniform stained and torn, her side cradled by the medic helping her walk. She looked like hell, and yet somehow... she still stood, still held her chin high, like she wouldn't let the sky win.

She turned her head, sensing him before she even saw him.

Their eyes met across the noise and haze of the airfield. Her gaze was tired, glassy from the blood loss, but sharp with something else—something he knew because he felt it too. Neither of them smiled. Neither of them waved. But that silence between them said more than any words ever could.

Don't fall apart. I won't if you won't.

He stepped onto the truck bed finally, his movements slow, reluctant. Still, his eyes never left her. Not as the engine rumbled to life. Not as the vehicle started rolling away.

And she didn't look away either.

Even as the medic adjusted his grip on her arm, even as her knees buckled slightly and she was forced to lean more of her weight into his side, she kept her eyes on Brady. The distance between them grew, the gap widening with each turn of the tires.

But not once did they look away.

Not until the truck turned the corner near the edge of the runway and Emilia disappeared behind a line of fuel drums and crates.

Only then did Brady finally blink, leaning back against the truck wall with his jaw clenched and his heart pounding like they were still up in the air under fire.

And even with the interrogation looming, all he could think about was her. Bleeding. Standing. Meeting his eyes like she wasn't afraid of a damn thing.

He'd never hated the war more than in that moment.

Brady's jaw flexed as he stared at the ground bumping beneath the wheels of the truck, his hands clenched tightly around the metal edge of the side panel. He hadn't said a word since they'd pulled away. He couldn't. The image of Emilia, blood-soaked and barely standing, was burned behind his eyes like a ghost he couldn't shake.

Zim nudged him gently with an elbow, the kind of nudge that didn't demand attention, just offered presence, "You alright, man?" Zim asked, his voice low, careful. The others in the back were too wrapped in their own silence to notice, but Zim always noticed.

Brady didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Zim let out a quiet breath, his eyes tracking the fading line of the runway behind them, "You don't gotta say anything. I saw your face back there." His voice softened, the usual edge dulled, "She'll be alright. Emilia's tough. Tougher than you, probably."

Brady still didn't speak. His jaw worked, and he swallowed hard, eyes still fixed straight ahead. But his shoulders dropped just slightly.

Zim glanced at him, gave a small shake of his head, and added, "You care about her. You always have. That's not new, Farmboy. But don't go tearing yourself up about something you couldn't stop. She's alive. She made it back."

That finally made Brady's grip loosen a little on the edge of the truck.

"She's not just anyone," Zim finished, quieter now, "I know that."

Brady turned his head slightly, just enough to meet Zim's gaze out of the corner of his eye.

And for once, Brady didn't smirk, didn't crack a joke, didn't deflect. He just nodded. Once. Small. But honest.

Back on the tarmac Emilia's legs barely carried her, the adrenaline that had kept her moving throughout the mission now entirely drained. Her vision blurred in and out as she was led to a waiting ambulance, but she still managed to glance back at the plane. The crew, her crew, was already gone, heading toward interrogation. She hated that she couldn't stand with them. She hated that she was the one needing help.

She gritted her teeth against the wave of nausea that hit her as the medics eased her onto the stretcher in the back of the ambulance. The wound in her side throbbed in rhythm with the pounding in her skull, but it wasn't the pain that made her chest tighten—it was the shame. Emilia had always prided herself on being strong, capable, the one who kept others standing. And now here she was, bleeding and helpless, the medic instead of the muscle.

Her head lolled slightly as the ambulance doors swung shut, but before they did, her eyes caught the faint silhouette of the B-17 again, the tail fin gleaming in the fading sunlight. Her heart clenched. For a brief second, she could almost see Brady standing beside it—cigarette in hand, that same damn cocky posture—but whether it was real or her mind playing tricks, she didn't know. She could still feel the weight of his stare from earlier. The kind that lingered long after he looked away.

A medic pressed a damp cloth to her temple, murmuring something she didn't hear. Emilia shut her eyes tight, pushing away the heat behind them. She wasn't going to cry. Not now. Not in front of them.

She bit down on her lip and turned her head toward the window, letting the icy air from the crack in the door hit her face. She had survived. They had all survived. But God, it didn't feel like it. Not yet.

And somehow—God help her—Brady was the only person she wanted to see.

Bosser suddenly groaned beside her, still freezing, still shaking from the cold of the ball turret and the injury he'd sustained. Emilia squeezed his arm gently, offering whatever silent comfort she could muster, "It'll be alright, Bosser," she whispered, though she barely believed it herself. The sight of the man—his life snuffed out so quickly—was still fresh in her mind.

She had tried to push it down, tried to block it out during the rest of the mission, but now, with every step, it was all she could see. The medics were quick to get them inside the base hospital. The warmth of the building hit Emilia like a wave, and she felt her body slump with exhaustion as they laid her on a stretcher.

She didn't fight anymore. She couldn't. As they began to treat her wounds, she closed her eyes, letting the sounds of the medics, the hum of the hospital, and the soft murmurs of the other patients fade into the background.

| JUNE 1943 |

THE moment they let him go, Brady was out the door. He barely registered the dull ache in his knuckles, the lingering tension in his shoulders from the hours spent under questioning. His mind was already elsewhere, locked onto one thought—Emilia.

He moved quickly, not quite running but close, his boots echoing down the dimly lit hallway. His whole body was wired, restless energy buzzing beneath his skin. He'd spent the last few hours holding his tongue, keeping his temper in check, but now that he was free, the restraint was slipping.

He needed to see her. Needed to make sure she was still there, still breathing, still—her.

But just as he reached the door leading to the barracks, a voice stopped him, "Where you off to in such a hurry?" Brady halted, exhaling sharply before turning. Bucky leaned against the wall, arms crossed, wearing that knowing smirk that made Brady want to punch him.

"She's in my crew," Brady said, as if that explained everything.  

Bucky's smirk didn't budge. If anything, it deepened, "Right. And that's the only reason?"  

Brady clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing. He didn't have time for this. Didn't have the patience, either, "Obviously," he said, voice clipped, before shouldering past him. 

Bucky let him go, but Brady could still feel his gaze on his back, could still hear the unspoken words hanging between them. 

He didn't stop, didn't let himself think about what Bucky might've been implying. Right now, all that mattered was getting to Emilia. As Brady approached Emilia's bedside, he tried to keep his steps casual, his expression nonchalant.

Inside, though, his emotions were a tangled mess. Every step felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the tension and worry that he refused to let show. He wanted to appear composed, to give off the impression that he was unaffected by the sight of her injured, but it was a thin veneer over the turbulent storm of feelings churning within him.

When he reached her bed, he allowed himself to take in her condition. Emilia's face was pale, the bandage around her head stark against her skin. Her arm was in a sling, and though her eyes were bright, they bore the strain of recent events.

Brady's eyes softened just a fraction as he took in the sight, but he quickly masked it with a smirk, trying to maintain a semblance of his usual bravado, "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to steal my spotlight," he said, his tone light and teasing, though he struggled to keep the edge of concern from seeping through.

Emilia gave a faint chuckle, but it was clear she was still in pain, "Yeah? Well, I figured if I was going to get hurt, I might as well do it in style," Brady leaned against the edge of her bed, crossing his arms.

"You always did have a flair for the dramatic. I thought I told you not to die, hm?" that made Emilia let out a low painful chuckle, Brady's eyes softened at her state, "How you holding up?" Emilia gave him a wry look.

"I'm fine, nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"Sure," Brady replied, "Just a scratch, right?" nodding as though he believed her completely, though the tight line of his mouth betrayed his worry.

She raised an eyebrow at him, catching the hint of concern he tried to hide, "You don't have to pretend like you're not worried. I can see it in your eyes."

Brady shrugged, trying to play it off, "I'm not worried. Just doing my job—checking on my crew. Plus Bucky made me check on you...not my choice," the lie slipped from his mouth easily as Emilia just raised her brows, not believing a word he said.

"Uh-huh, you're about as subtle as a bull in a china shop," Emilia said, her tone dripping with disbelief.

Brady let out a small, forced laugh, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, "Yeah right," he watched as Emilia winced slightly when she tried to adjust her position. The sight made his chest tighten, and he forced himself to maintain his casual façade, though it took effort. He leaned in a bit closer, lowering his voice, "Listen," he said, trying to sound more serious but still keeping his tone light, "You really gave the boys and I a scare up there."

Emilia's gaze softened as she looked up at him, "I'm not planning on making a habit of it. And don't think for a second that I don't appreciate the concern, even if you're trying to act all nonchalant," he shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the room as though looking for something to distract him.

"Well, you're not exactly making it easy to keep up the façade. You've got everyone on edge, including me," just then, one of the other nurses walked in to check on Emilia's bandages. Brady took the opportunity to step back, clearing his throat and putting some distance between himself and her, trying to regain his composure. He watched as the nurse efficiently tended to Emilia's wounds, his eyes lingering on the sight of Emilia's face—pale but determined. Once the nurse was finished and left the room, Brady took a deep breath, shaking off the tension, "Alright, enough of the drama," he said, forcing a casual tone back into his voice, "You get some rest. I'll get Zim to come check on you later. Don't die, alright? I mean it," Emilia smiled weakly.

"I'll try my best, Cowboy."

Brady gave a nod, his expression softening just a touch before he turned to leave. As he walked out of the room, he felt a wave of relief wash over him, mingled with a lingering unease. He kept his pace brisk and his expression impassive, but inside, he was still wrapped up in the concern for Emilia's well-being. The façade might have been up, but his heart was still very much in turmoil.

As Brady stepped into the cool night air, he exhaled, slow and measured, like he could force out the weight pressing against his chest. Emilia was alright—for now. That should've been enough. Should've let him put all of this behind him. 

But it wasn't that simple. 

His feet carried him forward on instinct, but his mind was still back in that room, replaying the image of her lying there—too pale, too still. It rattled him more than he cared to admit. He'd seen men banged up before, had patched up his fair share of busted knuckles and bloody noses. But seeing her like that? It had been different. It had knocked the breath right out of him. 

And he hated that. Hated how easily she'd wormed her way into his thoughts, how much space she was starting to take up. He wasn't supposed to care like this. She was part of his crew, that was all. That's what he told himself, over and over, as he forced his mind to move on. 

But deep down, he knew it was a lie.

And if the look Bucky had given him earlier was anything to go by, he wasn't fooling anyone but himself.

[gotxpenny]

BAND OF BROTHERS (2001)

[gotxpenny]

Too Chicken?

Tension simmers between two stubborn souls who speak fluent sarcasm and hide too much behind sharp words. One supply room. One poorly placed box. And maybe—finally—something they’ve both been avoiding.

Pairing: Floyd Talbert x Reader

Prompt: “That’s a dangerous look you’re giving me.”

Word Count: ~2,700

Genre: Enemies to Lovers (ish), fluff and A LOT of sexual tension

Setting: Carentan post-liberation, supply quarters

Warning: Contains unresolved sexual tension that finally gets resolved, Floyd Talbert being dangerously hot, sarcastic flirt wars, a Joe Liebgott jump scare, and 1 shelf that almost caused a war. Proceed with caution and a fan.

Note || Look, I tried to write slow burn. I swear I did. But Floyd Talbert opened his mouth, started smirking, and suddenly there was unresolved sexual tension flying through the air like shrapnel in Normandy. Shoutout to Lieb for playing Cupid and third wheel. He’s thriving.

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The mud was ankle-deep and the sky hung low like it hadn’t breathed in days.

Floyd Talbert trudged along the patrol line, boots soaked, rifle slung, eyes scanning the fields like something might actually happen today. It wouldn’t. Nothing ever did lately. But he supposed going through the motions gave everyone a sense of purpose, of control. Some version of normal.

Joe Liebgott walked beside him, chewing his gum like he was trying to kill it. They hadn't said much. Didn’t need to. Not until Joe side-eyed Floyd for the third time that morning so Talbert decided to break the ice, “Don’t look at me like that,” Floyd had muttered that morning, trudging through half-frozen mud on patrol.

Joe had just grinned, “I’m not the one mooning over the company’s flirt.”

“I’m not mooning,” Floyd snapped, “She’s just—she’s just mouthy. That’s all.”

“You always get real quiet after she talks to you.”

Floyd didn’t look at him, “No I don’t," Joe gave him a look. Floyd sighed, “She talks to everyone, Joe. That’s what she does.”

“Not like she talks to you.”

Floyd Talbert would never admit he had a thing for her. Absolutely not. Not to himself. Not to the guys. And especially not to Joe Liebgott, who was entirely too smug for his own good and had already sniffed him out.

“She gives me shit.”

“She gives you attention,” Joe corrected, “And you eat it up like a starved dog.”

Floyd stopped, turned toward him, “Jesus, you’re annoying.”

Joe grinned, “You’re smitten for the woman. Admit it.”

“Go to hell.”

The truth? Joe wasn’t wrong. She was mouthy. And sharp. And too damn good at pushing every single button he had.

She flirted, sure. But it wasn’t sweet or soft. It was like sparring—fast, mean, and meant to draw blood. She’d throw a wink like it was a knife and leave him wondering if she wanted to kiss him or knock his teeth out.

And Floyd? He kept throwing it right back. Because if he didn’t, he might just show her how much he actually gave a damn.

Floyd scoffed and kept walking, “I’m not smitten. She just likes to play games, that’s all.”

“You sure you’re not the one playing pretend?” Joe called after him, “She’s got you wrapped around her finger and you don’t even know it,” Floyd didn’t answer, but the way his jaw clenched said enough.

He hated that Joe had a point.

She was the only woman in Easy, and somehow, the least delicate person in the entire damn company. No softness. No apologies. She’d earned her spot ten times over, through blood, bruises, and the kind of sharp-tongued defiance that made seasoned soldiers take a step back.

Floyd had seen guys from other units try her—testing, pushing, underestimating. They didn’t make that mistake twice.

But with him?

She flirted. In that mean, sparring way that made it hard to tell if she wanted to kiss him or knock his teeth in. And Floyd—God help him—he flirted back. Not because he knew what he was doing. Not because he thought he could win. But because it was the only way he knew how to keep her close.

She was trouble.

That’s what Floyd Talbert decided the first time he laid eyes on her—half-covered in grease, barking orders at some poor replacement who’d crossed a line she hadn’t even drawn. She didn’t take shit. Not from the men, not from the officers, not from the war. Hell, Floyd wasn’t even sure if she could take a compliment without twisting it into something sharp and biting.

And that? That was the first hook in his chest.

Because she flirted the way soldiers fought—reckless, defensive, all fire and teeth.

Especially with him.

“You’re staring, Talbert,” she’d muttered once while patching a cracked helmet in the corner of a barn.

 “You’re just easy to look at, Y/L/N,” he’d shot back, not missing a beat.

She snorted, “Easy isn’t a word I’d use for me.”

 “I didn’t say easy to get,” he added with a smirk, “Just easy on the eyes,” she tossed a rag at his face. And smiled.

That was their rhythm. Banter like bullets, sarcasm like armour. If either of them ever meant anything deeper, neither would admit it out loud. Not in front of the others. Not when things were this uncertain.

Not when people were dying.

Later that afternoon, they were assigned to supply duty.

Crates, inventory, packing—mindless shit, perfect for staying out of trouble. Which was probably why Winters paired them together. Keep your enemies close, right?

The storage tent was cramped, half-dark, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and damp canvas. She was already there when Floyd ducked inside, lifting a box of ampoules above her head, trying to shove it onto the top shelf.

Her shirt tugged up slightly as she stretched—bare skin peeking just above her belt.

Floyd watched for a minute.

The line of her waist caught his eye first—lean, all tension and quiet strength, like she was built for surviving rather than softening. The kind of body shaped by war and stubborn will, not delicacy. He could see the muscle in her arms flex as she tried to lift the box, the taut pull of her back through the thin fabric. She wasn’t soft like the girls he used to chase before the war—she was solid. Grit and edge and fire wrapped in skin.

And Christ, it did something to him.

The stretch of her shirt. The way her jaw clenched. The soft little grunt of frustration—and Floyd had to look away before his brain short-circuited.

The box slipped. She cursed, “You just gonna watch or are you gonna help?” she snapped.

Floyd smirked, stepping in, “You looked like you had it.”

“And you looked like a goddamn scarecrow standing there,” she glared at him over her shoulder.

But truthfully? He didn’t look like a scarecrow. He looked good. Always did, damn him.

All swagger and trouble, leaning in with that lazy grin like he had every right to take up space next to her. Floyd Talbert had that stupid kind of charm that worked even when it shouldn’t. Rough around the edges, cocky without trying, and he knew exactly how to get under her skin.

And the worst part? She let him.

Because even when he pissed her off, she noticed the way his eyes softened around the edges when he was tired. The way his voice lowered when he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. The way he looked at her like he saw through every wall she put up and wasn’t afraid of what lived behind them.

Floyd Talbert was dangerous.

Not because he flirted back like it was second nature, but because some stupid part of her wanted it to mean something.

And that scared the hell out of her.

He just chuckled, stepping in and grabbing the box with ease, sliding it onto the shelf like it weighed nothing.

And then—they turned at the same time.

Close. Too close. The space between them? Gone.

She hadn’t backed up. And he wasn’t about to.

His chest nearly brushed hers. Her hand still half-lifted. His eyes catching on her mouth before he could stop himself. Neither of them moved.

Her gaze locked on his—slow, dangerous, and deliberate. She tilted her head, slow, eyes glinting with something unreadable, “That’s a dangerous look you’re giving me, Talbert.”

Floyd didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His gaze just deepened—smoldering, unblinking, the kind of look that felt like it was peeling her apart layer by layer. It wasn’t just heat—it was intention. Like he was already thinking about what it would feel like to close the distance, to press his mouth to hers, to push her up against the shelves until she forgot whatever smart-ass thing she was about to say next.

Y/N’s breath caught—damn him—because that look was worse than anything he could’ve said.

And then came the smirk. Slow. Crooked. Dangerous in its own right.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.  And wasn’t sorry in the slightest. Floyd swallowed, “You’re the one giving it first, Y/L/N.”

“You were staring.”

“You let me,” the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged. Like something was hanging in the air between them, trembling, waiting to snap.

She didn't step back. And he didn’t move away.

It hit him then—not just the tension, not just the flirtation—but the way she looked at him like she was waiting. Like she had been for a while. For him to stop playing. For one of them to do something about the fire constantly crackling between them.

“You always flirt like this?” he asked, voice low now, rougher, “Or am I just the lucky one?”

She shrugged a shoulder, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “You haven’t died of flirting yet, so maybe you are.”

He leaned in—just an inch. Just enough, “You want me to kiss you?”

She raised a brow, “You always ask first?”

Floyd grinned, “Only when I give a damn.”

And that—that softened something in her eyes. She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, looking at him like she was daring him to cross the line. The one they’d been dancing around since Normandy.

But beneath his grin, his heart was pounding. Because this wasn’t just some throwaway flirtation. Not anymore. Maybe it never had been.

He hadn’t meant to fall for her. Not the woman who met every insult with one of her own. Who pushed and shoved and snarled when the world tried to tame her. She was chaos in boots and a uniform, and Floyd—Floyd who was always the first to laugh, the first to charm—had no idea what to do with someone who didn’t melt under that grin.

Except he did.

Because over time, it wasn’t just the fire in her that caught him. It was the quiet things.

The way she sat up at night, eyes scanning the treeline long after everyone else had crashed. The way she knew when to speak and when silence would do more. The way she carried herself like she’d learned not to expect anything soft from this world—but still, she gave it. In rare glances. In fierce loyalty. In little things she probably didn’t think he noticed.

He noticed all of it.

She wasn’t easy to love—but Floyd never wanted easy. He wanted her.

And now, standing this close, that truth felt heavy in his chest. Terrifying, maybe. But also the most certain thing in a world where everything else felt like it could be blown to hell in a second.

He looked at her like she might disappear if he blinked.

And she looked back like she just might let him kiss her after all.

But this wasn’t the first time they’d stood toe-to-toe like this.

He remembered Holland—early morning fog, boots soaked through, and her leaning against a crate of rations like she didn’t have a care in the world.

“You ever stop running your mouth, Talbert?” she’d asked, flicking her cigarette ash without looking at him.

“Only when you walk into the room,” he fired back, smirking, “Figure I oughta let you take over. Keep the attention where it belongs.”

She snorted, “Bold talk for a man who got knocked into a ditch last week.”

“I let Malarkey hit me. Needed a nap.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

That made her blink. Just once. A flash of something in her eyes. And then, smoothly, she leaned closer, her voice low.

“Flirt with me again, Talbert, and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”

Floyd had just grinned, unbothered, “Worth it.”

He still swore she smiled a little as she walked off.

“Are you too chicken?”

Floyd’s jaw flexed. She was pushing. And he loved it. And hated it.

Because if he kissed her now, it wouldn’t be a game. It wouldn’t be playful, or casual, or anything he could brush off the next day.

It’d be real.

And real? Real mattered.

He leaned in slowly, letting the moment stretch, waiting for her to pull away.

She didn’t.

Her breath hitched, just once, and that was enough. His voice dropped, “You keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and I’m gonna do something stupid.”

She exhaled slowly, “Then don’t stop.”

But he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Because if he did, it wouldn’t be a quick, heat-of-the-moment thing. It’d be everything.

And Floyd Talbert knew one thing with absolute certainty: He wasn’t just smitten.

He was gone.

His hand moved before he could stop it.

Slow. Sure. Almost reverent.

Floyd’s fingers slid beneath the hem of her shirt—calloused and warm against the bare skin of her waist. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop him. Her breath just hitched, subtle and sharp, like she’d been holding it in for far too long. She just stood there, breathing in tandem with him, eyes flicking between his and his mouth—like she was daring him to stop pretending this wasn’t everything they’d both been trying to ignore. 

He lifted the fabric gently, the backs of his fingers grazing upward until his hand settled just beneath her bra. His palm was flat over her ribs—feeling the way her heart stuttered under his touch. His other hand ghosted up, brushing the line of her jaw with the back of his fingers.

And then he pulled her in. Not rough. Not desperate. Just…close. Until their chests brushed. Until their noses touched. Until there was no air left between them but the breath they shared.

He stared at her like she was the first thing he’d ever wanted and the last thing he’d ever deserve. And she looked back like she’d been bracing for this moment the entire war.

This wasn’t just lust.

This was what came after months of pushing and pulling. Of bruised banter and sidelong glances. Of pretending not to feel something so goddamn obvious it hurt.

And now?

Now they were here.

“I thought,” she whispered, eyes locked to his, “If you ever touched me like this…it’d be because you were trying to win.”

His brow furrowed slightly, confused, “Win what?”

Her mouth twitched into the faintest, saddest smile.

“Me.”

And that—that—made Floyd fumble.

His lips parted like he might answer, but no words came. Just a sound. A quiet, broken sound in the back of his throat. He hadn’t expected her to say it—hadn’t expected her to be honest. Not when both of them were better at hiding behind sarcasm and smartass comments.

But now it was real.

And he couldn’t hold back anymore.

He leaned in, eyes fluttering shut, nose brushing hers, and kissed her—slow and certain—like he’d been waiting for permission his whole damn life.

And this time?

She kissed him back like she was just as tired of pretending.

Their mouths met like a match striking tinder—hot, fast, inevitable. Floyd kissed her like he’d been holding his breath since Normandy and finally let it all go. Her hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer, grounding herself as the tension that had stretched between them for months finally snapped.

It wasn’t gentle. It was fireworks behind the eyelids. A dizzy, breathless kind of want that tasted like gunpowder and unsaid things. Like every quip and flirtation had led them here—and now, finally, the weight of waiting was gone.

Her fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, and Floyd made a low sound in his throat—like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like touching her wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. It felt like stepping off a ledge and realising you wanted to fall.

And then—

A cough.

A loud, pointed cough.

They broke apart, flushed, lips kiss-bitten, breath still shallow.

Standing a few feet away, arms crossed and smug as hell, was Joe Liebgott.

With the biggest goddamn smile on his face.

“Well, well, well,” Joe drawled, absolutely beaming, “Took you long enough, Tab. I was starting to think you’d chicken out for real.”

Floyd let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Jesus, Joe.”

Y/N didn’t say a word—just narrowed her eyes and muttered, “You ever hear of privacy, Liebgott?”

“Not in the airborne, Y/N/N,” Joe said cheerfully, “But hey—at least now I know I was right.”

Floyd groaned. Y/N just smirked.

And despite the embarrassment creeping up his neck, Floyd couldn’t stop the stupid grin tugging at his lips.

Because even with Liebgott’s interruption—especially with it—it all felt real now.

Undeniably, gloriously real.

[gotxpenny]

Surviving Love {vi/lvii}

Emilia McKenna was deemed to be a sweetheart in the eyes of others who met her, but in the eyes of John Brady she was an itch he couldn't scratch. The tension between them was palpable, yet, over time, as they saved each other's lives and saw past the tough exteriors, their respect for one another grew. And despite their initial hatred, an undeniable attraction simmered beneath the surface.

Paring: John Brady x Fem!Oc

Prompt: they hated how much they made the other felt

Word Count: ~3,800

Genre: Frienemies to lovers, SUPERRRR slow burn, mostly fluff but angsty towards the end

Setting: Thorpe Abbotts, UK and the Skies of Bremen

Warnings: mentions of blood, gore, death, language

Note || Hell in the skies...to think that this happened almost 80 years ago is actually heartbreaking. The amount of men that died during WW1 and WW2 is so staggering...Lest We Forget. love les, </3

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"Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories." – Sun Tzu

━━━━━━━━━━

| JUNE 1943|

THE chill of the early morning air was biting, wrapping around the hangars and stirring in the faint pre-dawn light. Emilia pulled her leather flight jacket tighter around her, squinting at the shadows that moved in the distance. The engines of several B-17 bombers hummed low, a constant reminder of the mission ahead. She wasn't supposed to be on this one—well, not with this crew.

Her eyes trailed to the looming plane assigned to Major Cleven's team, her stomach twisting slightly with unease, "Flying with Cleven's crew, huh?" Maggie appeared beside her, tugging her jacket into place, the hint of a grin on her face despite the tension in the air, "Guess I'm up too, I'm heading out with your Flyboy," Emilia raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways at her friend.

"Why's that make you sound like you're happy about it?"

Maggie smirked, "Maybe I just like a little adventure."

"Adventure?" Emilia muttered though a small smile crept onto her lips, "Is that what they're calling it these days?" as the reality of the mission sunk in, the familiar sense of dread hit Emilia like a punch to the gut.

She'd flown plenty of times by now, and she'd seen more than her fair share of what could go wrong. But this—this mission to Bremen—was different. It was longer. More dangerous. And the fact that she wasn't flying with Brady and his crew only made it worse.

"Don't look so grim, Em," Maggie nudged her shoulder, "You're flying with Cleven, right? He's solid. And we're in the air together, so no getting sentimental on me," Emilia forced a breath, adjusting the straps on her helmet and glancing around. It was true, Cleven had a reputation as one of the best pilots around Thorpe Abbots. But that didn't mean she wanted to be off Brady's crew for this mission.

Brady had a rhythm she was used to. And now, standing here with Cleven's crew, she felt like an outsider, "Right," she mumbled, more to herself than Maggie, "Just another day," but she couldn't help the pang of frustration at the situation.

How had this happened? How had she ended up on a different plane, under a different pilot, for one of the most critical missions yet?

Her mind wandered to John Brady. She could already imagine his reaction when he found out she was flying with Cleven's crew instead of his...probably relieved.

Emilia was already walking toward the towering B-17, her boots crunching on the frosty ground as Cleven's crew milled about, preparing for the flight. Her mind swam with thoughts, mostly of Brady—his reaction when he found out she was flying with Cleven.

She could practically picture the scowl on his face. As she reached the foot of the plane, Major Gale Cleven gave her a nod, his dark eyes assessing, "Ready to go up, McKenna?" he asked, offering a reassuring, if somewhat brisk smile.

Emilia nodded, trying to push away the gnawing feeling in her gut, "Always ready, Major," from the corner of her eye, she saw Maggie exchanging some playful banter with the bombardier. Maggie always had a way of keeping spirits light, but even she couldn't shake the tension that clung to the air.

They were heading into enemy skies—Bremen was going to be rough.

"Let's get this show on the road," Maggie called out, flashing a grin to Emilia, "We've got a date with the flak boys."

Emilia rolled her eyes, suppressing a chuckle, "Yeah, yeah. Save that cockiness for Brady, Mags," Emilia then flung her pack into the belly of the plane and was just about to climb into the plane when she heard that familiar, cocky drawl behind her—low, teasing, and unmistakably Brady.

"Looks like I'm stuck with Carrots over there, huh?"

She turned around, catching sight of him sauntering toward her, his cap tucked under his arm and a glint in his eye that made it hard not to smile, "Maggie's not that bad, Brady. Don't be over-dramatic."

"I mean, she's not you," he said simply, shrugging one shoulder like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Emilia tilted her head, arching a brow, "What? You gonna miss me, Cowboy?"

"Don't act like you're not gonna miss me either, Sugs."

She snorted, shaking her head as she tossed a roll of bandages into a crate, "Shut your trap, Brady," a beat of silence fell between them—short but heavy, filled with something unsaid.

Then he spoke, quieter this time, "Don't die on me, McKenna. Or I'm gonna find you in hell and kill you myself."

Emilia looked at him, startled by the sudden seriousness, "Don't get sentimental on me."

He gave her that crooked smile again, softer now, "Hey, what can I say? I've got a soft spot for bossy nurses like you."

"I'm the only nurse that bosses people around."

"Exactly my point, Sugs."

"Brady!" Zim's voice rang out across the tarmac, "Quit chatting with your girl and get this bird on the move!"

Brady sighed and called back, "I'm coming!" then turned to her one last time, eyes lingering, "Don't die on me, Sugs."

She gave him a small smile, trying not to let it waver, "Right back at you, Cowboy. Don't kill them with your fancy flying," he chuckled at that and finally turned to jog back toward his plane, leaving her standing there.

Emilia watched him go, her heart tugging unexpectedly. He didn't even deny it, she thought, cheeks warming. Didn't deny she was his girl.

She blushed—just a little. Then shook her head, pulled in a breath, and climbed into the plane, the echo of his words still in her ears.

It was just another day in the sky, Emilia remembered herself.

Hours later, as they soared above the North Sea, Emilia sat tense in her seat, the constant thrum of the engines filling the cramped interior. She was used to the feeling by now—the slight claustrophobia that came from flying in a giant metal fortress, high above the world, always one malfunction or enemy bullet away from disaster.

But still, she felt uneasy. She wasn't with Brady's crew. Cleven was a capable pilot, sure, but she missed the familiarity of the banter, the rhythm of their flights. Brady's gruff commands, Zim's steady confidence—it was like muscle memory at this point.

Emilia pulled out her small pack of supplies, checking over everything for the third time. There wasn't much she could do up here except be ready for whatever hell awaited them over Bremen. She glanced toward one of the waist gunners, who gave her a wink, "No sweating, Doc. We'll be back on the ground soon enough," Emilia shot him a look.

"You're jinxing us," the waist gunner shrugged, but there was a flicker of tension behind his eyes. They both knew that Bremen was going to be one of the toughest missions yet.

Back on The Longshot, the hum of the engines filled the cockpit, that steady, familiar drone that usually grounded Brady in the chaos of the sky. But today, it did little to quiet the noise in his head.

The clouds ahead were scattered, the sun breaking through in streaks of gold, but Brady wasn't looking at them. He was staring through them, jaw tight, hands steady on the yoke, flying on muscle memory alone.

Then, without warning, Zim's voice crackled through the intercom, casual as ever, "So, when're you gonna ask her out?"

Brady blinked, the words breaking through his thoughts like a slap of cold air, "I'm sorry, what?"

"McKenna. When are you gonna ask her out?"

Brady scoffed, "McKenna? Ask her out? In whose right mind would think I'd do that?"

Zim laughed under his breath, "Oh c'mon, John, don't be a bitch. Ask the lady out. I can clearly tell there's something between the two of you."

Brady didn't reply. His hands tightened on the controls, eyes fixed ahead, "There is nothing between us."

"The way you guys act around each other says otherwise."

Brady gritted his teeth, "And how do we act around each other, huh, Zim?"

"You both bitch and moan like an old married couple for fuck's sake," Zim said, and Brady didn't have a comeback for that. He went quiet, and Zim knew he'd struck a nerve, "But it's more than that. It's the way you think about her in every situation. Every little thing reminds you of her."

"She's part of our crew," Brady muttered, his voice lower now.

"Sure she is," Zim said knowingly, "Ever since that day she walked through those doors to give us our first briefing, you haven't been able to shut up about her."

The silence that followed was different now. Heavier.

Brady exhaled slowly through his nose, "Let's just focus on the mission, hm?"

"Sure, sure," Zim said with a shrug in his voice. Then after a beat, quieter, but pointed, "Just don't wait too long...or you might lose her or worse yourself."

Brady didn't say anything. Just kept flying. But his grip on the yoke? Tighter than it had been a minute ago.

| JUNE 1943 |

THE hum of the engines was constant, almost deafening, as Emilia leaned against the cold metal wall of the B-17, glancing around at the crew. She could feel the tension in the air—the kind of tightness that settled deep in the pit of your stomach before a storm. This crew, Cleven's crew, was jittery. Not that she blamed them. Bremen was a hell of a target—deep in enemy territory, and the rumours of intense anti-aircraft fire had spread across Thorpe Abbots like wildfire.

She shifted in her seat, scanning the men as they ran through their final checks. The waist gunners were talking quietly to each other, nerves thinly veiled beneath strained smiles. The bombardier, Hambone who was transferred with Emilia, was hunched over his station, muttering something to the navigator, probably some last-minute discussion about the bombing run. And Cleven, up in the cockpit, was all business with Curt Biddick.

Emilia caught one of the waist gunners—Conroy—stealing glances at her from across the plane, his hands trembling slightly as he loaded his ammo belt. He was young, probably too young, and he'd yet to see real combat like some of the others.

She pulled herself away from the wall and crossed over to him, "Hey, Conroy," she said softly, kneeling beside him, "You okay?"

Conroy blinked, looking startled, before nodding a little too quickly, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, Doc."

Emilia gave him a reassuring smile, her voice calm despite the tension in her gut, "You're gonna be alright. We all are. It's just another mission. Stick to your training, keep your head down, and listen for orders. You've got this."

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, but he nodded again, the edge of fear still lingering in his eyes, "Thanks, Doc," Emilia squeezed his arm before standing, making her way back toward the middle of the plane.

As much as she wanted to believe her own words, she couldn't shake the sinking feeling in her chest. But she had to be steady—had to be their rock. If she let her fear show, it would only make theirs worse.

She glanced out one of the narrow windows, the distant coast of Europe now visible, a thin sliver of land against the vast expanse of ocean. Soon, they'd be flying over Germany, and that meant one thing: flak.

And not long after, the first burst of flak exploded to their left, jolting the plane. Emilia steadied herself, gripping the metal frame of the plane as she exchanged glances with Buck's crew. The mood shifted immediately—the nervous chatter silenced, replaced by the cold, steely focus that only came when you were minutes away from entering enemy fire.

"Flak at nine o'clock," someone called out over the intercom, his voice tight, "Stay sharp."

Emilia felt her pulse quicken as the plane jerked slightly again, more flak bursts appearing outside, like dark, ominous fireworks in the sky. She could hear Cleven's calm voice over the intercom, issuing commands, keeping the plane steady as they pressed forward into the thick of it.

"Hold on tight," Emilia murmured to herself, steadying her breath.

And then it started.

The Nazi anti-aircraft fire intensified, filling the skies around them with deadly black clouds. The B-17 shook violently as more flak bursts exploded nearby, sending shards of metal and debris rattling against the fuselage. Emilia could hear the muffled curses of the crew over the intercom, the tense, clipped voices of men who knew they were flying into hell.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Conroy shouted from his waist gun position, his voice high-pitched and cracking as the flak intensified around them. He opened fire at the distant silhouettes of German fighters, though Emilia could barely see them through the haze.

The plane jolted hard, a sickening metal-on-metal screech echoing through the interior as something exploded near the left wing. Emilia was thrown forward, her shoulder slamming into the metal wall with a grunt. She steadied herself, quickly checking her med kit.

"We're still flying," Cleven's voice came over the intercom, though Emilia could hear the strain behind it, "Keep it together."

Just as Emilia was about to move toward Conroy to check on him, there was a deafening bang from the rear of the plane. She whipped her head around, her heart skipping a beat.

One of the waist gunners—Davis—had been hit.

The impact was instant, and she didn't even hear him cry out. One moment, Davis was manning his gun, firing into the sky. The next, he was on the floor, crumpled in a heap, his lifeless body partially obscured by the smoke and debris that filled the air.

Emilia froze, her mind going blank. No.

For a split second, everything around her vanished—the roar of the engines, the shouts of the crew, the flak bursts outside. All she could see was Davis, lying there, unmoving. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the cold, unforgiving metal beneath his body. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Doc!" someone shouted, "Doc!" the call snapped her back to reality. Her instincts kicked in. She was moving before she even registered it, dropping to her knees beside Davis. But one look told her everything she needed to know.

He was gone. There was nothing she could do.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, the taste of bile rising, but forced herself to move. Others still needed her. She couldn't freeze up—not now.

But before she could get to her feet, another violent jolt rocked the plane. This time, something sharp sliced through the air, catching Emilia across her right arm. She hissed in pain, biting down hard as the jagged piece of debris ripped through her jacket, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. She pressed a hand to the wound, her palm quickly becoming slick with blood, but there was no time to stop. No time to think.

"Are you okay?" someone—maybe Conroy—called out from the front.

"I'm fine," she gritted out through clenched teeth, "Focus on maning that gun."

Her arm throbbed, the warm trickle of blood soaking into her flight suit. She tore a strip of fabric from the hem of her undershirt, tying it tightly around the wound. It would hold for now. It had to.

Amidst the chaos, a voice crackled over the intercom—low, panicked. Emilia immediately recognised it as Bosser, the ball turret gunner, "Doc, it's freezing down here," Bosser's voice shook, laced with fear, "My guns are jammed. I can't—move, I can't feel my hands,"Emilia's heart dropped. The ball turret was one of the most dangerous places to be in combat—exposed and isolated, with limited room to maneuver. And if Bosser was freezing up, he was as good as dead.

"I'm on my way!" Emilia shouted, pushing herself up despite the throbbing in her arm. She grabbed a spare blanket from her kit and made her way toward the hatch leading to the ball turret.

Buck's voice broke in, "McKenna, is it safe for you to go down there?"

Emilia's jaw clenched as she wrestled with the latch, "He's freezing. I can't leave him," Cleven didn't argue. She pulled open the hatch and crawled into the narrow space, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of Bosser. He was pale, his fingers stiff as he fumbled with the jammed guns, his breath coming in rapid gasps that fogged the cold glass around him, "Bosser," she called, her voice steady, "You're gonna be alright. Hold on."

She squeezed into the turret with him, wrapping the blanket around his trembling shoulders. His lips were turning blue, and she could see the fear in his eyes, "I'm sorry, Doc," he rasped, barely able to speak, "I can't feel anything."

"You don't need to feel anything right now," she said firmly, moving his frozen hands off the guns, "Just focus on staying warm," the temperature in the turret was brutally cold, even with the engines running, and Emilia could feel her own body starting to shiver.

She pulled the blanket tighter around Bosser, her good arm working quickly to rub his shoulders, trying to restore some warmth, "Stay with me, Bosser. We're gonna make it," the plane rocked violently again, more flak rattling against the fuselage. Emilia gritted her teeth, refusing to let the fear creeping up her spine take hold. She could see the distant glint of German fighters outside, but she couldn't afford to think about that now. Bosser needed her, "Just hang on," Emilia whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaos. She wasn't sure if she was talking to Bosser or herself anymore.

Bosser's shivering began to slow, his breathing becoming more regular, "Thanks, Doc," he murmured weakly, his eyes half-closed.

"Don't thank me yet," she said, her voice tight, "We're not out of this," but even as she said it, she couldn't help but glance out at the dark clouds of flak still filling the sky.

The plane lurched as another distant explosion shook the formation, but this time, the sounds of the bombing halted abruptly. For a brief moment, the world outside the B-17 seemed eerily silent, as if the air itself was holding its breath.

Buck's voice crackled through the intercom, "Pilot to crew. Mission scrubbed. Repeat, mission scrubbed," there was a collective pause. Emilia could almost feel the tension lift slightly, the crew exchanging glances.

And then—the flak stopped. The Germans had pulled back their fire. Silence stilled through the entire plane until Curt Biddick's voice broke the silence, "Flak stopped," they all knew what was coming next, "You know what that means, boys," Curt muttered under his breath from the co-piolt's seat, his voice tight with the unspoken knowledge of what was coming next. The silence outside wasn't a sign of peace. No, it was the prelude to something much worse.

German fighters.

"Okay," Cleven's voice cut through, cool and commanding as always, "Get ready, boys," Emilia could hear the shift in tone over the intercom.

The waist gunners checked their weapons. Conroy's breathing picked up, his gloved hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his grip on the gun. The tension was palpable again, thick in the air, as they all braced for what was to come.

"Roger that, Major," Conroy responded, his voice steady despite the nerves undoubtedly running through him.

Cleven's focus was absolute as he took control, "Command pilot to tail. What do you see back there?"

The intercom crackled, and the tail gunner's voice came through, strained, "I can't get a read on the 349th. They're still way back. Looks like they're struggling to keep up,"Emilia winced, her body pressed up against the freezing metal of the ball turret where she was still keeping Bosser warm. The cold bit through the layers of her uniform, but she stayed with him, her hand gripping his shoulder as the tension inside the plane mounted.

As the plane stayed silent, Emilia waited for the worst, "Welcome to hell."

Minutes later, the sky outside erupted into chaos once again. The familiar screech of German fighter planes diving toward their formation filled the air. Emilia's heart raced as the first tracers lit up the sky, bright streaks of light zipping past the windows as the waist gunners opened fire.

"Incoming! Fighters at three o'clock!" Reed shouted, his voice cracking with urgency.

The plane rattled as Cleven swerved to avoid the incoming barrage of fire. Emilia pressed her back against the turret wall, her head spinning as the chaotic roar of machine guns and engines reverberated through the metal. The B-17 shook violently as rounds pinged off the fuselage, the metallic clinks mixing with the steady hum of the engines.

"Get 'em off us!" Cleven ordered his voice tight with frustration.

"I'm trying!" the tail gunner called out, the rapid bursts of machine-gun fire echoing through the plane. The Germans were relentless, diving in and out of the formation with terrifying precision.

Emilia focused on keeping Bosser warm, but her eyes flicked to Conroy as he squeezed off another burst from his waist gun, his face pale but determined.

A deafening explosion rocked the plane. Emilia was thrown forward, her head slamming against the cold metal of the turret. She bit down a cry, her vision blurring as she tried to focus. Another hit—directly at the waist of the plane, "Conroy!" Bosser's voice was a scream now, raw with terror.

Emilia turned just in time to see Conroy slump over, his body crumpling like a ragdoll as a round tore through him. The sight froze her in place, her breath catching in her throat.

For a long moment, she couldn't move. Couldn't think. The blood pooled around his body, seeping into the cracks of the floor. She stared, her mind blank. Her hands shook, the fear and horror of what she'd just witnessed settling like ice in her veins, "Doc, Doc!" someone called again, pulling her back from the edge.

She snapped into motion, her body moving on autopilot as she stumbled over to Conroy. She checked his pulse in hopes of something and there it was—a pulse. It was weak but he was still alive. Immediately Emilia dug through her kit for her necessities, she grabbed the gauze and put pressure on the wound. Conroy groaned in pain which was a good sign for Emilia, he was still responsive.

The sky outside was still a hellscape of flak and enemy fire, but the German fighters had finally broken off, retreating into the clouds. The B-17 was limping, but it was still in the air. Emilia leaned back against the cold metal, her body trembling with exhaustion and pain, once Conroy's bleeding stopped and she gave him some antibiotics. Her arm throbbed where the shrapnel had torn through her skin, and her hands were sticky with blood—some of it Conroy's, most of it not.

"Mission scrubbed," Cleven's voice came over the intercom again, this time quieter, heavier, "We're heading home."

Emilia let out a long, shaky breath, her head falling back against the wall. She could still hear the steady hum of the engines, but the adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only the cold and the weight of what had just happened.

Davis was gone. Conroy was unstable. Bosser was barely hanging on. And she was still here.

"Just hold on, boys," she whispered, closing her eyes for just a moment, "We'll get you home."

[gotxpenny]

there is something so special to me about how often he fidgets

[gotxpenny]

The way he sits