#HBO war secret Santa

[eightysix-baby]

Hi @midgetlover6 I was your hbo war secret santa sorry that it's taken me so long to post this but I hope you had a great christmas and happy new year !

[noneedtoamputate]

Anybody doing the HBO War Daily Secret Santa exchange? How's it doing? I'm writing for a pair I have never attempted before, so I'm nervous.

[ackackh]

@mistmantled! Hey you! It’s your Secret Santa!

My friend, I am so sorry for the late gift. I thought it would be about 10k-12k and well... as you can see, it got out of hand. I sincerely hope you enjoy it! I hope your holiday was wonderful and I hope you’re doing well now.

[siriusist]

Helloooooo! It's your secret Santa gifter here with another question ;)

I am also the one who sent the jewelry question last month, but I didn't know I was supposed to introduce myself as your gifter until after I'd already sent it. Oh, well. Guess you now know t'was me :)

Alr; question 2:

When two characters are obviously pinning for eachother, do you prefer the story ending with a kiss or do you like a meaningful talk between the two? Or both 👀 ?

Thanks sweetheart- I'll go for either ending with a kiss or both a talk and a kiss. 👀✨

[edwardashley]

Hi!! It’s your Secret Santa!! I have an idea going and I look forward to starting it. Hope you’re having a good day! :)

Wonderful! Exciting! Thank you!

[blood-mocha-latte]

HAPPY HOLIDAYS @ep6bastogne!!! i was your secret santa :)))

i got a little bit (read: very very very much) carried away with your insanely good prompts, and have written a three part fic for your gift, one part of which will be published today! you asked for modern baberoe angst, and i did my best to meet those standards ;)

read part two HERE :))

read it FULL FIC on ao3 here <3

i.  turn on the laugh track everyone knows you're a wreck you're never this quiet, your smile is cracking you just haven't found what you're looking for yet

4 December

He wakes up, heart trying to break through his ribs, and kicks out in a panic. It’s hot, and sweat seems to boil on his forehead as he finds the sheets under him, kicking out a second time, lungs rattling against his spine.

He manages to throw off the heavy comforter, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. He blinks blearily at the wall, and nearly jumps out of his skin at the icy hand that lands on his lower back.

“Where’d you go?” Eugene murmurs, voice sleep-thick and accent heavy, and Babe turns to look over his shoulder, breath still shaky. 

“Dream.” He says, by way of explanation. Gene’s hand, as freezing as it ever is, leaves his back and he almost misses it. “Just… the comforter.” He stares at the wall of Eugene's bedroom for half a heartbeat, blinks, and stands up. “‘M gonna walk around for a moment. D’you need anything?” Gene rolls onto his stomach, settling into the warm spot that Babe left behind. 

“I can get rid of the blankets, ‘f you want.” He says into Babe's pillow, already dropping off again, and Babe’s chest floods with equal parts warmth and near-embarrassment. “‘M plenty warm.” 

Contrary to his words, he burrows further into the bed. Babe can’t help but huff a laugh. It makes his chest hurt.

“Nah.” He says, and has to clear his throat at the roughness that settled there. “Nah, it’ll be good for me to move around. You need the sleep, anyways.”

Gene’s response is a small huff into the mattress. Babe hurts at the sight of him, and tugs the comforter down over his bare ankle before he leaves the bedroom.

He hasn’t been over at Gene’s a lot, since… everything, but he still remembers which floorboards to step on to avoid making noise. He still remembers where the coffee pot is, where to find the mugs and the cereal and the butter knives. 

He just needs the mug and the coffee pot, but he checks the cutlery drawer just to make sure he’s right about the knives.

(He is.)

Either Gene or one of his roommates had gotten the coffee ready the night before, so all Babe has to do is push the button on the machine and lean back against the kitchen island. He watches the glass pot and avoids thinking.

It’s been weeks, and the one thing Babe’s certain of is that the dreams are usually better, with Gene. Not as vivid. The main problem, it seems, is that Eugene is capable of freezing to death in the Sahara Desert and Babe doesn’t sleep with blankets. Not anymore.

To be fair, he doesn’t do a lot of things anymore.

The coffee machine beeps, and it blinks him back to the present. He grabs a mug from the cabinet — clearly Gene’s, from the words that proclaim it as a part of Beck’s Cajun Cafe, which Luz had gotten him last Christmas — and fills it so that it almost spills over the lip. 

He leans back against the island, afterwards, not wanting to sit down. He taps his fingertips against the ceramic of the mug. 

Last Christmas. Huh. He wonders what he’ll get Gene this Christmas, if he’ll get him anything at all.

He remembers enough to know which floorboards creak in an apartment he slept at one night out of twenty, but he’d forgotten how light of a sleeper that Ralph Spina tends to be.

“Hey,” Spina says, in question, and Babe just about has a heart attack, coffee splashing over the lip of his mug.

“Fuck.” Babe greets back, looking around for the paper towels. He finds them next to the stove, which. Seems unsafe. But hey, he ain’t a doctor. Spina shuffles over to the counter, dropping into one of the barstools. 

His hair is sticking up in all directions, beard scruffy. The bruises under his eyes are smudged purple, and his hoodie has a stain at the stretched out collar. He looks, Babe thinks, more like Crazy Joe McClosky than a paediatrician.

“You look like shit.” Spina offers, and Babe shrugs a shoulder, turning on his heel to grab another coffee mug. He glances at the clock on the microwave. Almost four in the morning.

“Yeah, well.” He says, pours a second mug for Spina. “Guess it’s the time of the year.” Spina grunts.

“Tell me about it.” He mutters, reaching out a hand as Babe shuffles back around the kitchen island, giving him the coffee. “Goddamn, I don’t even work ER.” Babe hums. It’s absent.

“I’ve never seen Gene so knocked out.” He says dryly, plopping down into the stool next to him. “I mean, I could still twitch and he’d wake up, but he’ll fall asleep afterwards. Which, progress.” Spina huffs, blows on his mug.

“You’re datin’ someone with more restless energy than a goddamn hamster.” He tells his coffee. Babe shrugs, takes a sip of his own.

“Yeah,” He says, “‘cept we’re not dating.” Spina blinks at him, but otherwise seems unbothered. He slouches in his stool.

“Shit, really?” He asks, and then seems to backtrack. “I mean, I knew you weren’t, like, going out last month, but I thought that since…” He trails off, shrugs with his coffee. It sloshes in its mug. Babe just shrugs.

He stares at the kitchen counter. November hadn’t counted, for… whatever him and Gene are. Have become. November isn’t a part of them. 

“Nah.” He says. “We’re just… stress relief, I guess.” Spina shoots him an unbelieving look over his coffee, but doesn’t say anything else. 

“Jesus,” He mutters, shifting in the barstool. “And here I was thinkin’ my life is complicated. You’re playing 4D chess in a twelve dimension world, my friend.” Babe snorts, braces his elbows against the counter. 

“It ain’t that bad, in all honesty.” He says, and his skin seems to burn. He shivers to throw off the sensation, tries to forget the comforter that’s now wrapped around Gene. “Just… hectic. But, hell. ‘Tis the motherfucking season.”

Spina grins at him, and it’s wry. “Yeah.” He agrees. “‘Least you don’t gotta worry too much about Gene, then. If you two are just friends. No Christmas obligations.” Babe huffs. When he brings his mug back to his lips, the coffee tastes like ash.

“Think he’s goin’ back down to Louisiana, anyways.” He says. “The week of. He’s been tryin’ to get time off.” Spina shrugs.

“Hope he does.” He says. 

“Yeah.” Babe says back. He doesn’t really, though. He doesn’t want to think about having to sleep in his own room again, where it’s cold and there’s no blankets and both of those things are his own fault, but there’s no Gene, either. Spina leans forward, trying to find the microwave clock around Babe, and huffs.

“Alright.” He says, smacking his palms flat against the counter and standing up. “Time for work.”

“Godspeed.” Babe says dryly. Spina snorts.

“‘Tis the season,” He repeats, downing the rest of his coffee and putting the mug in the sink. “Lots of little kid sniffles. Hell, maybe if I’m lucky, someone will come in with the flu.” 

Before Babe can reply, he turns on his heel, makes his way back to his bedroom. The floorboards creak under his feet, he either doesn’t know which ones not to step on or doesn’t care. Babe stares after him for a moment, thinking, before finishing off his own coffee and heading back to Gene’s room.

Eugene’s still asleep, when he gets there, wrapped in the sheets and comforter and whatever extra blankets he’d picked up along the way, face still buried in Babe’s pillow.

Well. It's Genes pillow. But Babe uses it.

He tugs the comforter back down over his ankle again when he passes Gene, as it’s ridden back up, and turns the corner of the mattress to find his jeans.

He’s just in boxers (which he thinks may be Eugene’s) and whatever white t-shirt that was on his floor yesterday morning, so he just does up the pants and finds his shoes. He thinks he’s being rather stealthy, but Gene still stirs in the bed, pushing up onto his elbows and squinting at Babe.

“Time?” He asks, voice croaky, and Babe just shrugs, waving his hand absently towards the door of the bedroom, out to where the kitchen is.

“‘Bout four.” He says, finding his shoes kicked haphazardly under the bed. “I’m gonna head off.”

Gene huffs, face dropping back down into his pillow. “‘Kay.” He tells it, voice muffled. “Good luck.”

Babe wrinkles his nose at him, confused, but the rumpled blankets that is Gene isn’t moving anymore, and Babe thinks he might have fallen back asleep. He shoves his feet back into the shoes, not bothering to untie the laces, makes sure his fly is closed, smoothes back his hair, and turns on his heel.

Before he leaves the room, he turns back one more time. For science. “See you later,” He says, and when Gene doesn’t move, tacks on, “fuckbuddy.”

Eugene groans. He hates it when Babe says that.

Babe laughs, opening and closing the door behind him. 

--

The thing about him and Gene is that he doesn’t really remember how it started. 

Not in the way one wakes up in the morning with whiskey stale on their breath and a nagging feeling of forgetting something. Not even in the way of doing something for so long that it becomes muscle memory.

If he had to guess, it would probably be because Babe doesn't want to look too hard at it. At them.

Maybe like how in a dream, one can't focus too much on a singular detail or they'll wake up. 

Maybe Babe doesn't want to think too hard about what they're doing because if he does, it might all fall apart. 

--

The Christmas season is marked in Philadelphia by a number of things, but one of Babe's favourites are the lights that wind around the metal staircase that lead down from Gene’s apartment, twinkling red and green and half of the bulbs burnt out. Snow dusts the street and the cars parked on it, another addition to the small reminders of dawning holidays. 

He runs his fingers across the wire of the lights as he skips down the icy steps, other hand in his pocket. When he exhales, his breath explodes across his face in white fractals, blown away by the wind. 

His own apartment is only four or five blocks down from Gene’s, and in the early hour his only adversary is the biting cold that stings across his cheeks and neck. He shoves both hands into his pockets when he makes it down the staircase, turning on his heel to the left.

He sleeps at Gene’s maybe once a week, now. Less frequently, in the past, but since…

Well, November doesn’t count.

He’d chosen the wrong type of shoes to walk in the greying, half frozen sludge that skims across the streets, and it soaks through the soles of his sneakers in no time at all. It makes him slip more against the pavement, little to no traction against the old brick.

Him and Eugene began to sleep together a little over a year ago; when Gene had started residency at the urgent care clinic in South Philly and Babe had been working at the auto repair shop since he’d graduated.

Gene still works at the urgent care clinic in South Philly, but Babe’s situation has become more… complicated.

As if on cue, a car horn honks — the first warning of someone trying to get to work, and Babe speeds up slightly in an attempt to avoid the majority of the incoming flood of traffic.

He likes sleeping over at Eugene’s, anyways. The sex is great — which is a given, looking at how long they’ve been doing this — but Babe just also… likes Gene’s place. Likes his creaky floorboards and coffee machine. Likes sleeping with Gene, who wakes up at the drop of a hat but falls back asleep just as easily.

And Gene must like him staying over, anyhow, because otherwise Babe would have woken up at his own apartment.

A Honda Civic speeds down the road, and Babe only barely manages to avoid the wave of slush from the gutter that it dredges up in an icy spray over the curb. He’d consider shouting at the car, but it’s already gone and his feet are fucking freezing. 

He makes it back to his own apartment in a little bit under half an hour, and trods up the undecorated staircase that leads up to his building with little excitement. His shoes squeak against the smoothed over cement that leads its way to their door.

It’s unlocked, and Babe thinks if one of them is gonna get murdered, that’ll probably be why.

“Hey.” He greets as he hits open their door, peeling off his soaking shoes and socks in the entryway. Bill is stretched out across the couch, foot dangling over the side of the armrest, and he raises a hand absently, eyes on the TV.

“Was startin’ to think you moved out while I was asleep.” He says, scratching absently at his chest. “You’ve been gone for so goddamn long.” Babe snorts.

It’s been less than a day since he left the apartment, and when he pads into the kitchen area, his empty cereal bowl is still in the sink. He huffs. “‘Love you too, Guarno.” He mutters, picking up the plastic tupperware and shoving it into the overflowing dishwasher. He pokes at it gingerly, trying to get it to start. It doesn’t, and he waves a hand at it, dismissive.

“How’s the Doc?” 

“Fine. Tired. Goddamn Christmas season, huh? Ice and cold and terrible people.” Bill sighs.

“You gotta stop spending time with Roe.” He says, shoving his palms under him and shoving up against the couch cushions. “He’s ruining your sense of whimsy.” Babe snorts.

“To be fair, we don’t do much talking.” He says, and Bill groans. “Where’s Toye?”

“Somewhere.” Bill says, vaguely, which is just Bill-talk for no fucking clue. “With Luz, probably. Why? I don’t think he’ll be easily regaled by your tales.” Babe wrinkles his nose.

“Regaled.” He repeats. “You gotta stop spending time on the documentary channel. It’s rotting your brain out of your head.”

“Awe, fuck you.” Bill says, good-natured. Babe just snorts another laugh and opens the fridge. It’s mostly just leftovers and a bottle of ketchup that Bill keeps watering down. “You… you have a good time?” 

Babe pulls out half a cheesesteak, wrapped in tinfoil and shoved in the fridge door. He peels back the foil just enough to smell it, suspicious. “Sure.” He says, not really listening. “How old is this?”

Bill grunts, reaching over the arm of the couch to grab his crutches. “Dunno.” He says. “When was the last time we saw Compton?”

Babe peels the foil back further. There’s mould growing on the edge of the bread, and he holds the sandwich up to eye level to squint at it. At least three months, then. He turns on his heel to find a plate and a knife.

He’s cutting the mould off of the cheesesteak with a butter knife when Bill says, words accompanied by the thud of his crutches against the cheap wood floors, “ya plannin’ on going back over there tomorrow?” Babe's hands still only slightly, and he goes back to sawing at the bread.

“Probably not.” He says. “Gene has a shift at three.” 

“So after that?”

“He don’t get off until three the next day.” Babe peels back the bread. The cheese looks fine, mostly. A little discoloured. Bill whistles.

“Damn.” He says, and Babe grunts. “You couldn’t date someone with a sensible schedule?”

“We’re not dating.” 

The meat looks mostly fine, too. Babe drops the knife in the sink with the clatter and pads back out of the kitchen, passing Bill on the way. He sits in the sofa chair next to the couch, a spring digs into his back. He sends a half-hearted prayer to Saint Nicholas that the cheesesteak won’t kill him and digs in. 

He can feel Bill’s eyes on him. “Yeah.” Bill says, from behind him. His crutches thunk against the floors. “I know, Babe.”

Babe grunts around the sandwich. He thinks that Bill might go back into his room, but he can’t tell. He can’t bring himself to care, anyways.

10 November

He can hear Lip shouting for him, and screams back as loud as he can. Then, when there’s no answer, he screams again. 

The metal is hot against his leg, fucking searing, and the rocker panel of the car keeps his arm and chest pinned under it. He swears, frantic, looking around. Everywhere around him is black, the same darkness, smelling of oil and grease and everything else. His breaths are coming in more and more shallow, every one punched out of his burning chest.

“Lip!” He screams again. His voice is hoarse, it hurts to yell. He hopes that Lip will find him before he can’t breathe at all. “Lip! I’m in here, I’m in here, I can’t fucking move—”

Lip shouts his name again, louder this time, and Babe reaches out frantically with the one arm he can move, grasping around, futile. His open palm comes into contact with the deflated tire of the Mustang, and he hits against it, frantic. 

The Mustang had crumpled suddenly, the back left lift stand giving out while Babe was trying to figure out what was wrong with the transfer case. The right one had buckled shortly after, and, in a panic, Babe had tried to kick off on the creeper, only effectively kicking it out from under him. 

The Mustang let out a great, trembling, shaking groan, and dropped down all at once, all around him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, his ribs hurt, he can feel his heart in his throat and in his toes at the same time. There’s something wet running down his face; he can’t tell if it’s oil or tears. 

He throws both hands out in front of him, like they can stop the four-thousand pounds of car that are about to collapse on top of him, like he can bring back the shitty LED lights that are supposed to be easily seen, like he can—

“Lipton—” He yells again. He can hear the metal across the bottom of the car creaking. “Lip! Bill? Someone fucking—”

He kicks out his legs at the same time the Mustang makes another loud, metallic, screeching, and a hand grabs onto his ankle and pulls, pulls—

He’s crying, and he’s well aware of it, and he still can’t fucking see anything, face streaked in grease and oils and tears and whatever else, and Lipton’s hands are on his shoulders, dragging him further away from the Mustang.

They drop, unceremoniously, a few yards away, and Babe blinks rapidly enough that he can start to see the lights again, eyes burning. He trembles, trying to push away from Lip, realises that there’s probably fuel and whatever else in his eyes, and Lip’s palm comes up and cuffs him carefully across the cheek, getting him to hold still. 

“S’alright.” Lip mutters, and his voice is hoarse. The hand not on Babe’s face is tight around his bicep, and Babe squeezes his eyes shut again, before they can begin to burn worse. “S’alright, boy. Everything’s alright.”

--

4 December

All of Babe’s blankets are in the corner of his room in a pile, and for a while, he even contemplated stripping off the fitted sheet and throwing that away, too. 

He wakes up facedown, in the middle of his mattress and slightly nauseous, and thinks about Gene wrapped up in the comforter, all black hair and bare feet. It comforts him, some.

He sits up on his elbows, slightly shaky, and scrubs a hand down his face. His face is clammy, his palm more so. He blames it on the cheesesteak.

The reason for his rousing becomes clear when he hears Toye, voice low and rough and unintelligible through his bedroom door, say something to Bill. He rolls over onto his back, grimacing when his knee twinges — it rarely does, anymore, but sometimes it acts up — and stares up at the ceiling.

He looks over to his side, turning his cheek into the fitted sheet of his bed, and reaches out to grip at his phone, dragging the screen closer to his face. Almost three in the afternoon.

He stares blearily at the home screen of his phone for half a second before dropping it again, pressing his hands flat against the mattress and pushing himself up off of the bed. 

Toye and Bill are arguing about something or the other in the front room, so Babe pulls his t-shirt over his head from the back collar and throws it absently over his dresser, searching for something cleaner.

He wonders if Gene is awake. Gene can sleep like the dead (and does, Babe would know), but he doubts that even something so beating and exhausting as ER’s in December would keep him down for that long. 

He wonders if he should text him, and decides against it.

They're only friends, after all. Not even best friends, at that, because Babe’s best friend is Bill and Gene’s is Renèe Lemaire. 

Friends. Casual friends. Casual friends don't text each other after napping all day in the middle of a mattress with only a fitted sheet and waking up both freezing and burning to death. 

Just friends.

He finds a Philly Eagles shirt crumpled up in the corner of his sock drawer and shrugs it on. It's stretched at the collar and faded to all hell, but it'll do and he pushes out of his room and back to the front room without much more preamble.

“Hey,” He greets Toye and Bill, when he does. They've ceased their shouting at each other for the moment, apparently putting aside their differences to face the common foe (the recliner, which tends to stick) and neither of them look up to greet him. 

Toye has his cast-ridden leg stretched out beside him, propped on the low-to-the-ground coffee table. Bill’s own knee brace is tossed on the couch; he's terrible about wearing it. Babe leaves them to it and wanders into the kitchen, absently scratching at the back of his leg.

The reason that it had taken so long for Lip to find him, Babe had learned afterwards, in the hospital with tear streaks cutting humiliating tracks through the oil on his face, is that a fire had started in the back room of the auto shop.

He opens the fridge. There’s nothing new, but Babe didn’t think there would be. It’s more out of habit than anything else, and he closes it just as quickly as he opened it.

“Could it be a screw?”

“Nah, nah, it ain’t no screw, Joe, ‘cause if it was a screw, it would be workin’, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know, Bill, guess I left my fuckin’ brain with George—”

“Ah, Christ, and isn’t that a tragedy? Luz’ll drop it, for sure—”

Babe moves back out of the kitchen and moves to the front door, picking up his left shoe. It’s still wet and cold, but not soaking, so he cuts his losses and shoves it and the other on, leaving his socks on the floor.

He wonders, vaguely, if he should grab his coat before he leaves, and even spares a short glance at the heavy, quilted coat that hangs limply next to the door. But his skin still burns, and he forgoes it, opening the front door.

“Be back later!” He shouts over his shoulder, and the response is a nonsensical shout from Bill and a grunt from Toye. He snorts and closes the door behind him, shoving his hands back into his jeans pockets and skips back down the steps to the street.

The cold bites into his skin, and he regrets just wearing a t-shirt and jeans but doesn’t want to go back into the apartment, so he turns on his heel and begins walking left, exhaling hard through his nose.

He doesn't have a problem with their apartment, per se; having two roommates to Gene’s one can be frustrating, but Bill and Toye are two of his best friends. They're just… loud.

Besides, the one thing that he had realised after he'd gotten out of the hospital, with minimal scrapes and bruises to Skip Muck and Alex Penkala’s third degree burns; with occasional, stupid nightmares to Joe Toye’s leg, broken in eighteen places and Bill’s sprained knee, black and blue and swollen, is that their apartment is… crowded. Cluttered.

Like it's going to collapse on top of him.

He shivers and pretends it’s because of the cold, and after a block and a half, ends up in front of a corner shop that's signage proudly declares itself one of sole caterers of fresh catfish in Philly.

He stares at the sign for a moment, then at the glaring red OPEN marker, and pushes through the door.

--

6 December

“I just think you're sort of freaking out, is all.” Babe says, and picks up a glittery pink pen, curious. It has shiny, turquoise feathers at the end of it. From behind him, Joe Liebgott snorts and hits him lightly on the ass with the shopping cart. 

“I don't freak out.” He says, putting extra emphasis on the extra two words, which does nothing but further convince Babe that he is freaking out. “He’s just weird about this shit. I'd like to get him somethin’ nice.”

“Yeah, but Web doesn't give two shits about Christmas, Joe. I think it would just make him think you were dying, or something.” Liebgott waves Babe away absently, pushing the cart past him. 

The only reason that Babe had agreed (i.e. was forced by Bill) to go shopping with Liebgott was because he'd made the mortal mistake of getting up at a reasonable hour. Gene was at work, and Babe was hungry, and Bill’s leg hurt, and Liebgott hates shopping alone. 

So. Here he is.

“Just get him a book, or something.” Babe says, dodging the cart when Joe pushes it forward again. “Vonnegut?” Joe snorts.

“If you can find a book that Web doesn't have, I'll get it, but it would probably have to be in library of fucking Alexandria.” He says. “I'd be better off just writing something.”

Babe doesn't say anything, mostly because he's pretty sure that Web would love it if Joe wrote something. Instead, he crosses into another aisle and picks up a plastic snow globe, turning it over in his palm.

Over the crackling speakers, Mariah Carey is singing about something or the other. The artificial lighting in the store is making his head hurt. Babe feels… almost normal. 

“You could get him a watch,” He offers to Liebgott, nodding to the glass cases towards the back of the shop. Liebgott waves a hand dismissively, pushing the cart forwards again, leaning his elbows on the bar of it. 

“Does Web seem like someone that has any idea what time it is, ever?” He asks, and Babe shrugs, hands going back to his pockets. 

“Web doesn't seem like someone who would date you.” He says absently, and Liebgott looks like he's somewhere in between telling Babe to go fuck himself and agreeing with him. In the end, he just jerks the cart to hit Babe again.

“Christ,” He says, and looks like he's halfway to just giving up, which Babe would encourage. “You're not doin’ any better. You have any idea what you're getting the Doc?” 

Babe shrugs. He still thinks that whatever Liebgott could possibly get for Web would just unsettle him. They don't seem like the type of people to be all… filled with the Christmas spirit, and all.

“We're not dating,” He says, in reference to Gene. Liebgott turns to squint at him over his shoulder.

“I know.” He says. “I'm not stupid, Doc can do much better than a Philadelphian frog.” Before Babe can even open his mouth to protest, Liebgott moves on. “But, you know, he's been good to you. Through all the… the shit that happened last month. And he has to be a good fuck, seeing as it's been, what, a year?”

Babe absently wonders how much of a mess he has to be for Liebgott to know almost everything about him. Then he decides that Liebgott probably only knows because he knows everything Webster knows, and Webster knows everything that Hoobler knows, and Hoobler knows everyone. He decides to blame Bill anyways.

“What the hell would I even get him?” He asks under his breath, almost to himself, and Liebgott snorts a wry laugh. 

“Do I look like I know what I'm doing?” He retorts.

-- 

10 November

Babe hasn't left the goddamn hospital yet, and everything's starting to crush in on him again. 

He's sitting in the gift shop, face in his hands, elbows on his knees, and knows the owner of the ice-cold hand that brushes his wrist immediately. 

“Is anyone out of surgery yet?” He asks, voice hoarse, and Gene kneels down in front of him, pulling his hands away from his face. He looks almost haggard; the corners of his mouth pulled down, eyes near-sunken and dark. 

“Muck is in recovery,” He says, and his accent is thick with exhaustion. Babe can't be faring much better. “Penkala is still under, but he shouldn't be as bad as Skip. Not as many skin grafts, at least.”

Babe almost faceplants into his hands again, but Gene tightens his grip on his wrists. His eyes are dark, near piercing.

“Toye’s femur was bad enough that amputation was considered, but it's set now and looking better. Guarnere’s knee is looking like it’s just a bad sprain, so long as he stays off of it.” He says, and Babe tugs a hand away from Genes to scrub at his face.

“Anyone else?” Gene leans back on his heels, starts counting on his fingertips.

“Lip’s got a concussion, but it ain't bad. You'd think he'd caught grenade fragmentation, from the look on Speirs’ face when we told him. Perconte’s got a few second degrees, but they don't look too bad. Wynn’s the same. Everyone else is mostly doin’ fine.” Gene pauses, like he wants to say something else. “They’re worried about you, though.”

Babe huffs. He rubs at his eyes until black spots burst against them, then drops his hand back to his lap. “I'm fine.” He says, voice rough.

He's got a cut across his left brow, but it didn't need stitches. He sprained his ankle, when the rocker panel had first dropped, and had been coated in oil and fuel and grease until he'd managed to scrub down in one of the hospital showers, but he's fine. He's not hurt like the others are. He was just… stuck. Not even for ten whole minutes.

Gene looks at him like he doesn't believe him. “Edward,” He says carefully, the blue of his eyes so dark they're nearly black. “Lipton told me that you couldn't see—”

“I had fuel in my eyes.” Babe tells him, looking somewhere over Gene’s shoulder. “It— Lip helped me wash them out with a water bottle and they're okay now.”

Gene watches him. Not like he doesn't believe Babe; more like he's trying to solve Babe, like he's a puzzle. 

“I got off an hour and a half ago,” He says, and Babe almost winces.

“Sorry.” He mutters. Gene started working his new schedule only a week or two ago, Babe can't imagine working over twenty-five hours in a single shift.

“No.” Gene says vaguely, jerking his head over his shoulder. “I mean that I'm off. I'm gonna take you home.” 

Babe blinks. “Oh,” He says. “To your place?” The corner of Gene's mouth quirks up. It's not a happy gesture.

“No.” He says. “To your apartment. Guarnere and Toye are staying overnight. I can walk you home?” 

It's not phrased like a question, but Gene asks it like it's one. Babe blinks down at Gene’s fingers, which are still carefully wrapped around Babe’s wrist, and nods before he can catch himself. “Okay.” He says. “Alright. Take — take me home, okay?”

--

9 December

He knocks on the door of Gene's apartment, and prays in the frantic seven seconds before the door opens that Gene’s actually home.

But he is, and he swings the door open, and when Eugene sees him he blinks and steps back half a pace. 

“Hey.” He says. He looks good, because of course he does; it's Gene. He's barefoot, wearing a faded blue t-shirt and black sweatpants, the tip of his nose and the shells of his ears a bright red. It makes Babe's chest hurt, but that doesn't count for anything. Everything makes Babe’s chest hurt.

“Hi,” Babe says back, and awkwardly holds up the plastic bag in his left hand. It swings in the air, and Gene’s eyes land on it. 

(So blue they're almost black.)

“I brought stuff.” Babe tells him, and wonders if this was a bad idea. Probably. “Uh, food stuff. Seafood stock, roux, tomatoes, peppers, catfish—”

Gene blinks at him. “For courtbouillon.” He says, and Babe nods, relieved.

“Yeah.” He says. “I, uh. I think you talked about it one time, after we…” He gestures vaguely, and feels the back of his neck start to burn. “Uh. Anyways, I figured…”

He trails off a second time, and holds the bag up a little higher. “I googled the ingredients.” He mutters, scuffing the carpet outside of Gene’s apartment with his heel. “I don't know if it's like how your Ma makes it or whatever, but if you ain't able to go home…”

He clears his throat, and prays to God that his flush can be passed off as from the cold, like Gene’s is. He holds the bag out to Gene. “There.” He says.

Gene takes it, face indecipherable. He looks down at the bag, cradled in the crook of one of his arms, and huffs.

“When’d you even think of this?” He asks, and steps further into the apartment at the same time. Babe takes it hesitantly as his invitation inside, and shuts the door behind him.

“Was on a walk.” He said vaguely. “Saw a shop that sold fresh catfish, and remembered you saying something about catfish and soup, so. Yeah.” He clicks his tongue, awkward. His chest hurts.

Gene sets the bag down on their kitchen island, and turns back to Babe, eyes going to cross over his sternum, almost a defensive gesture. Babe clears his throat.

“I know that we're only…” He gestures at Gene, then himself, “but I figured — I dunno. Happy early Christmas, maybe? If you want me to leave—”

“Edward,” Gene interrupts him, a little bit louder than Gene usually is, and Babe looks up as the other crosses the small space between the door and the kitchen. He stops a few inches away, mouth opening slightly like he's trying to gather his words. “It's… this is great.” He smiles, a careful quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks. It — this means a lot, to me.”

Babe blinks at him. His chest still hurts. “Okay.” He murmurs. “Okay.” He says again, clearing his throat a second time. “Should I, uh—”

“Yeah.” Gene says, then tilts his head slightly, as if reading his thoughts. Babe sometimes worries that Gene can read thoughts. He hopes not. Him and Gene are just… just friends. “Yeah, stay.” 

As if to convince him not to leave (Babe doesn't want to, anyways), Gene leans forward and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Babe’s mouth before stepping away and moving backwards towards the kitchen. 

Babe blinks. He tries to remember if they've ever done that before. He doesn’t think so. 

He follows Gene to the kitchen.

[1waveshortofashipwreck]

Merry Christmas HBO War Friends!!

Especially @footprintsinthesxnd , who was my Secret Santa person this year!! For you, here is a love letter from your favorite Cajun, along with a moodboard inspired by the letter 🥰 hope you enjoy and Merry Christmas!! ❤️🎄

7 May, 1945

My darling,

We just got to Austria today. I wish you could see how gorgeous it is - the mountains would be absolutely perfect for one of our weekend hikes! I've been thinking about those a lot lately. I miss having adventures with you before I left. I'd give just about anything to have another picnic by the lake with you. Those are my favorite moments to think about - just you and me, relaxing in the sun, talking about anything and everything. I'll never forget the day we had the whole picnic set up, you were in a beautiful blue dress, and out of nowhere the heavens opened up! The rain poured, but all we did was laugh and run underneath a nearby tree. That kiss we shared in the rain that day was one of the happiest moments of my life.

I saw something else that reminded me of you yesterday. Talbert’s dog Trigger got a cut on his foot, so Tab was patching it up. All I could think of was you and how gentle you are with the animals you care for. I will always be in awe of how good you are with animals and how you're able to keep them calm while caring for them.

I swear thinking about you is the only thing getting me through this war. Whenever I feel alone, I just remember how it feels to be in your arms at the end of the day, you make all the stress and pain melt away. You are my safe space, you are my home. I can't wait to be home with you. I can't wait to dance to the radio with you while we make dinner. I can't wait to drink our coffee together on quiet mornings. I am going to come home to you as soon as I can, darling. I promise.

I love you more than yesterday, and less than tomorrow,

Your Gene

[land-sh]

Happy Holidays, @vintagelavenderskies

From @hbowardaily Secret Santa's dynamic.

I wish you all the best for these holidays. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! 🎄⛄️

[momecat]

Art from "The Place Where (Our) History Began" a gift fic for @jenkil for the @hbowardaily secret santa exchange.

[emilee1421]

@typical-simplelove

Merry Christmas @typical-simplelove!! This is your secret Santa gift and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed creating it!!

Paris, France - Christmas Eve 1945

The tires of the taxi splashed through the snow and slush as the driver navigated the busy streets of Paris. Despite the late hour, the streets were still bustling with people hurrying between the decorated shops and enjoying the holiday season. There was plenty to celebrate this year now that the war was finally over and life was returning to normal.

Speirs stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and tried to roll some of the nervous tension out of his shoulders. His fingers found the folded paper in his pocket, soft around the edges from being folded and unfolded over and over.

‘17 Rue De Saint Germain, Apt. 4’ the single line of neatly typed words was etched into his memory from the time the secretary had handed him the paper at the regiment offices in London.

He finally had an address.

Her ‘last known address’ as the secretary had put it. If nothing else it was a start. He made a promise to her and he would search the world over to keep it.

The snow started falling heavier as they drove. The flakes fell like feathers from the sky, adding a fresh sparkling layer to the rooftops and streets. It was picturesque; Christmas Eve in Paris. But he couldn't enjoy the scenery because of the tangle of nerves that tightened in his chest with each passing minute. As the taxi continued toward his destination, he let his thoughts wander back to the night that had changed everything between them.

Mourmelon-le-Grand, France - December 1944.

His heart hammered in his chest as he made his way to Battalion CP as fast as he could without breaking into a run.

He was getting ahead of himself. He was sure this would all be for nothing. Liebgott didn't know what the hell he was talking about, he must have misheard the name or it was just a sick coincidence.

Then again, how many Serena Arringtons from Boston were there?

He willed his breathing to stay steady and swallowed down the lump of dread that had been threatening to choke him since Heffron and Liebgott had come back from patrol telling everyone about the woman they found on the road just outside the city.

‘Serena Arrington. An SOE agent from Boston, or so she says.’ Liebgott’s voice played over and over in his head as he reached the CP.

He bounded up the stairs, shouldering past the men milling in the hall and carrying papers between the makeshift offices.

The door at the end of the hall swung open. Nixon and Winters filed out after Colonel Sink, discussing something in hushed voices before Sink tucked what looked to be a map into his jacket pocket and hurried off toward his office.

Spiers stepped aside to let him pass with a salute.

“Lieutenant Speirs” Nixon addressed him, stopping with Winters in the hall.

Speirs swallowed hard, his throat felt like sandpaper. “Sir, Heffron and Liebgott claim they found someone on their patrol and brought them to you. Name sounded familiar so I wanted to see if I could help out.”

Nixon quirked a dark brow. “That’s right. An American. Said her name was Serena Arrington.”

Speirs felt the blood drain from his face. It must have shown judging by the inquisitive look on Nix’s face. “You know this woman, Lieutenant?

”Yes sir.” He forced the words past the bile that crept up his throat. What the hell was she doing here?

“She’s over at the aid station now with Doc…”

He turned and strode down the hall before Nixon could even finish.

He frantically scanned the faces in the aid station until he caught sight of familiar golden blonde hair. She stood out in stark contrast from the men in her delicate white blouse and skirt. But he knew he could have picked her out from any crowd; an undeniable magnetism between them.

He moved across the room, heart pounding in his ears, until he was only a few steps from her.

She sat stock still in a chair, her eyes squeezed shut as Doc Roe carefully stitched a wound on her shoulder. He felt like the air had been punched out of him as he stopped and took in the sight of her. Bloodied and a little worse for the wear but somehow just as beautiful as the last night he’d spent with her.

“Serena,” he rasped.

Her jade eyes snapped open, her breath visibly catching in her chest as she met his gaze and sat forward on impulse.

“Easy, almost done here.” Doc Roe soothed. But Roe’s calming words were drowned out by the timbre of Spier’s voice, closer now.

“Serena?” he rumbled again, studying her green eyes that, not so long ago, held his entire universe.

Doc Roe followed her gaze as he looked up at Ron.

“You know Lieutenant Speirs?” Roe questioned, trying his best to keep track of what the hell was going on.

The silence languished between them as he held her bewildered gaze; searching for something, anything to say to her. But nothing he thought of felt right in the moment.

She was here. In France. At the edge of the allied advance into occupied territory. How the hell-

“Ron is a friend from back home, in Boston” Serena finally answered, shattering the spell between them and facing Roe with a tired smile.

A friend. The word sounded hollow and wrong. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what he would call them now.

They had danced around their feelings for one another for so long, tangled them into such an inextricable knot, that there was no way to know how the other truly felt. He had been her brother’s best friend since grammar school but his and Serena’s relationship had bloomed over the years into something neither of them could ignore.

They’d acted on that undeniable magnetic force between them a few times but left so much unsaid with the naive hope that things would just work out. By the time he acknowledged the depth of his feelings for Serena, it was too late. Harrison Carmichael always had his eye on her and he’d finally charmed her into a date over two years ago.

And then the war happened.

The last he’d heard, Carmichael had proposed. Speirs looked to her left hand, something fluttering behind his ribs when he didn’t see a ring.

She looked up again at his familiar umber eyes as Doc. Roe finished up with her shoulder. She studied the creases that formed at the corners, infinitesimally deeper than when she’d last seen them. Something haunted and pained dulled the rich brown; something that was never there before the war.

It was disorienting. Any change at all to the face she knew better than her own reflection seemed impossible. It dredged up the reality of how much time had passed since they last saw one another; How they had both changed.

Ron cleared his throat, realizing he’d been staring. Again.

“I’ll show you to a room in the billets, I’m sure you could use some rest after …” he tailed off as the thought of how she’d ended up here turned his stomach.

She nodded in response and thanked Roe as she pulled her blouse back over her now bandaged shoulder. Speirs shrugged off his thick jacket to drape over her shoulders. His warmth and woodsy scent surrounded her in the jacket. She pulled the collar tighter around her and let Ron lead her out of the aid station with a steady, solid hand on the small of her back.

He leaned his back against the building that served at the billet for Easy Company, shifting close but not close enough to touch her injured arm.

She pulled a small silver flask from the pocket of her dress. She took a sip then handed it to him.

He took a drink, wincing at the vicious burn that settled into a dull warmth in his stomach.

“Jesus” he huffed, handing the flask back.

“Couldn’t find any good bourbon out here.” She laughed, taking another long sip before leaning her head back against the rough bricks.

He huffed a laugh, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep inhale to settle the edginess he felt at seeing here.

Her eyes slipped closed for a moment and he took the opportunity to look her over. Really look at her.

Her brow seemed permanently creased with concern, a fading bruise colored her left cheekbone and her plush bottom lip was split at the corner. It turned the warm burn of the liquor into a roiling, sick heat.

So many questions burned like embers, stoked up into a blaze by the protective instinct that always seemed to take over when he was around Serena.

“How are you here, Serena? What the hell happened?” He blurted, his fingers itching to pull her close and keep her there.

She stared unseeing into the dark, flinching slightly from his tone. She took another pull from the flask and swallowed hard. “What all did they tell you?”

“Said you were working for the SOE.” Speirs replied.

“Shortly after you left for basic training, I decided I wanted to do my part too. I was selected for the SOE along with a few others from my unit. I was in London for a while before my work brought me here to…” her voice trailed off and she took another drink from the flask.

“What happened?” He asked again, gentler this time as he watched her spine go rigid and her gaze drift up to the inky night sky.

“Please don’t ask me that.” Her voice was a strangled whisper.

A few beats of unbearable silence passed between them.

“Well, Whatever it was, you’re safe now.” The need to comfort her coiled itself tighter within him.

Serena huffed a humorless laugh. “You know what they say Ron, never trust a survivor until you find out what they did to survive.”

“Can’t be any worse than the things I’ve done.” He replied flatly.

“No. No, I don’t believe that.” She replied resolutely, turning to look at him with that penetrating gaze that both infuriated him and mesmerized him.

“What if it’s true?” He murmured, glancing over at her and half expecting to see the now familiar edge of fear or wariness he saw when others here looked at him.

But she looked at him with deep consideration like she was the only one who really saw him.

“I know it isn’t true. Because I know that who we are and who we have to be to survive this can be two very different people.”

He hated the way those words sounded coming from her. Hated the way the warmth in her eyes dimmed, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. Hated that she understood that feeling that gnawed and twisted in his chest every single day. She may not have jumped into Normandy with him, but she was fighting this war all the same. She knew all too well the indelible marks that war left on a person.

Despite the weight of it all, there was no pity or disgust or fear in those jade eyes as they watched him, only a deep, quiet understanding that soothed him to his soul.

Her cold fingers laced between his, her thumb tracing softly over the rough skin of his knuckles. He released a shuddered breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. He missed her touch so much it physically pained him.

Silence settled between them again as another question burned through him until he couldn’t contain it any longer.

“How’s Harrison? He ever enlist?” Speirs asked, forcing a casual coolness in his voice even as he triple checked her left hand to make sure the ring really wasn't there.

“Probably still working for his father if I had to guess. I haven’t spoken to him in a year, not since we ended the engagement.”

He couldn’t help the rush of selfish relief as she confirmed his suspicion that they weren’t together. He watched her closely, waiting for sadness, or even anger to show in her expression, but it never came.

“Never liked him much anyway.” Spiers murmured, watching the cigarette smoke twist and writhe in the night air as he tried to hide his smug satisfaction.

“You don’t like anything enough for that to be a fair test.” Serena smirked, bumping him playfully with her good shoulder.

God, He’d missed this. Missed the simple intimacy that could only come from someone who’d known you for your entire life.

He missed her. Desperately.

“He’s a fool to let you go.” He muttered, taking another long drag of his cigarette to try and dislodge the weight of guilt that settled in his gut. He’d been a fool too.

“I guess it was really me who let him go.” She mused.

His heart stuttered against his ribs.

“I couldn’t love him, not like he deserved…because I never stopped loving someone else.”

Her cold fingers laced between his, her thumb tracing softly over the rough skin of his knuckles. He released a shuddered breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. He missed her touch so good, it bordered on pain.

Her eyes lifted to his and the unmistakable plea smoldered in her gaze. “I never stopped.”

The gravity of her words slammed into him like a mortar blast as he held her gaze in stunned silence.

Then without any warning or pretense, or even considering the consequences, he kissed her.

He kissed her until they were both breathless, making up for all the times it should have been him kissing her; for all the times they may never have.

The thought alone was a punch to the gut.

Speirs hadn’t let himself consider the prospect of tomorrow since they’d landed in Normandy. He accepted that he was already a dead man and dwelling on tomorrow was a damn waste of time when you probably wouldn’t even survive the next hour.

He wasn’t leaving anything unsaid this time, not when this could be the only time they would have.

He felt her body melt into his touch and for a brilliant moment every doubt and worry dissolved with the caress of their lips and the warmth of her body against his. He let his body tell her more than his words ever could.

He threaded his fingers into her golden strands and held her there for what could have been hours before he finally broke the kiss. He lifted her to her feet, careful of her injured arm, and led her into the billet.

As soon as the door shut he reached down to cup Serena’s face in both his hands. Speirs tilted her chin up and kissed her hard, feeling her body relax fully into him.

He traced his thumb over her plush bottom lip, savoring the softness of that familiar perfectly bowed pout. Something snapped into place between them at that moment, all the hesitation of the last several years dissolving away as his tongue slid delicately over the seam of Serena’s lips. She kissed back, sucking his bottom lip and nipping it just hard enough to send a thrill of pain and pleasure down his spine. Speirs’ fingers found the hair at the base of her neck, gripping tightly to hold her head back, exposing the elegant curve of her throat.

Serena was breathless, completely lost to the tugging fingers tangled in her hair and the press of warm lips to the column of her throat as pleasure and anticipation coursed through her veins,

“I love you, Serena.” He whispered in her ear, his breath caressing the sensitive skin of her neck. “I think I’ve loved you since that summer you turned 15.”

She pulled back, looking up at him with wide, searching eyes.

“That’s the first time you’ve ever said it.”

His brows knit together as he thought back to all the times it had been right there on the tip of his tongue, so obvious in the way his whole being lit up when she was around. But he never dared to give that feeling a name until now.

A lazy smile curved Serena’s lips and she leaned in close to him. “Say it again.”

“I love you, Serena.” He rumbled.

“I love you too.” She sighed as he captured her lips in another searing kiss.

Speirs guided her to the far side of the bed, insisting that he sleep between her and the door. Serena agreed without argument, finally surrendering the exhaustion from the past few days. She sank into the warmth of his chest, listening to the even thrum of his heartbeat. His fingers danced over the gentle ridge of her collarbone and down the smooth skin of her arm, trying his best to avoid the bandages.

“Where were you before this?” He asked quietly.

“Here, in France.” She replied, not elaborating any further.

“Will they send you back?” The thought of her being sent back behind enemy lines made his chest clench painfully. He understood the value of her work, the vital role that agents like her played in the war and the edge they provided to the allied forces. But the urge to put her on the next ship to the states was nearly insurmountable.

“Yes.” She replied. He could hear the resolve in her voice.

“Where?”

She huffed a wry laugh. “You know I can’t tell you.”

”I have to know you’re safe,” the edge of desperation ringing in his voice.

She didn’t respond for a while, focusing instead on the steady beat of his heart reverberating behind his ribs. Memorizing the rhythm of him.

“We always find our way back to one another don't we?” She murmured.

He couldn't tell if she sounded hopeful or defeated.

“I guess we do.” He murmured, pulling her closer and soaking in the feel of her in his arms.

It was quiet for a long time after, neither willing to shatter the fragile peace that had settled between them.

Speirs woke the next morning to the first tepid rays of sunlight, stretching his arm out to find nothing but cool sheets beside him.

His pulse spiked as he sat up, quickly searching the room. He was alone.

He flung the wool blanket from his legs and noticed the small folded paper flutter to the floor. He picked it up and unfolded it carefully, reading her neat handwriting.

“Find your way back to me. I love you”

Paris, France - Christmas Eve 1945

The Taxi pulled away and he was left in front of the large limestone building. Warm golden light spilled from the windows onto the street, beckoning him inside and illuminating the placard above the main doors. ‘17 Rue De Saint Germain’

He nearly ran up the steps, eyes scanning the polished wood doors until he found the one marked with a brass 4.

He knocked on the door as gently as he could manage, heart beating in his throat. He’d thought of nothing but this moment for so long. Her words from that note had pulled him through countless miserable nights.

“Find your way back to me.”

He’d found his way. He survived a war and pulled every string until he managed to track her down to this apartment. It occurred to him as he waited at the door that he never thought of what he’d say to her when he found her.

The seconds ticked by agonizingly slow but there was no sound from behind the door. He knocked again, listening for any movement on the other side.

Nothing.

Icy dread seeped through his veins. The secretary had said it was her last known address. What if she’d left? Gone back to the States maybe? What if she was never here at all?

Footsteps sounded and the metallic thump of a lock turning pulled him from his thoughts as the door on the other side of the stairs opened and a young woman stepped out.

“Bonjour madame.” Spiers called out, getting the young woman’s attention.

“Bonjour.” She replied, smiling kindly at him.

“Do you know who lives here?” He asked, pointing to apartment 4.

The woman’s brow furrowed in confusion. He racked his memory for the rudimentary phrases he remembered from his time in Normandy and Mourmelon-le-Grand.

“Tu les connais?” He fumbled over the words and pointed back to the door.

“Ouí, Serena.”

Relief flooded through him at the sound of her name. She was here. He found her.

“She’s at the cathedral.” The woman added in broken English “for her…” the woman searched for the word. “Her husband”

Spiers felt the air rush out of his lungs as the words landed like a blow to the ribs. The relief he felt moments before now souring in his gut.

“I see.” He backed away from the door, his feet moving on their own accord toward the staircase. “Merci.”

“Joyeux Noël, monsieur!” The girl called cheerfully down the hall but he hardly heard her over the pounding blood in his ears and his heavy footfalls on the stone steps; hollow and defeated.

He felt… numb. That was the only word that came remotely close to describing the wretched hollowed out feeling. Not a comfortable numb like morphine. No, this was the kind of numb that felt like being exposed to the bitter cold for far too long. Burning and aching before finally settling into a dangerous numbness that if allowed to go on, would prove fatal.

Serena was alive. She was safe here in Paris. That should be enough for him; but it did absolutely nothing to soothe the crushing weight of loss in his chest.

A frosty chill swept up the staircase as the front doors opened and a woman hurried in from the cold, her arms balancing several wrapped packages as she searched through her handbag.

“Joyeux Noël” she greeted softly as they passed one another at the bottom of the steps.

A jolt of recognition shot through him. He’d know that voice anywhere.

“Serena?!” He turned to face her on the steps.

The woman lifted her head and a familiar pair of jade eyes met his. It was relief and heartbreak all in the same breath.

The packages tumbled to the floor as she stood frozen on the second step.

Without a word she bounded across the entryway and threw herself at him. His arms caught her easily and he held her tight against him.

He pressed his face into her blonde curls and filled his lungs with the soft scent of her; sweet jasmine perfume and something warm that was decidedly Serena. His grip tightened as he felt the tremble of her body and a shuddered sob slipped past her lips.

“It’s really you. You’re here.” Her voice trembled as she ran her hands over his shoulders, over his chest and arms like she was making sure he was solid and not an apparition.

“You just disappeared Serena. I didn’t know if you… if you were-“ he rasped, throat raw with the pent up agony of nearly a year of wondering where she was or if she was even alive. Even in his darkest days, he’d held on to his promise to her; he swore it had saved him more than once. During his run across Foy all he thought of was her smile, her eyes, and the way she felt in his arms.

And here they were; she was finally back in his arms where she belonged.

Except she wasn’t his. Not anymore. Icy dread lanced through him as he remembered her neighbor's words.

Her husband.

She had been at the cathedral with her husband. His dread tangled with the acrid flare of anger; she told him to find her but she’d moved on before he even had the chance. The dark irony wasn’t lost on him that for the second time, he was too late.

He took a step back from her despite the ache in his limbs and the voice in his head screaming at him to fight for her and never let her go again.

“I- um I just needed to see you again Serena. Just needed to see that you were ok. It’s so good to see you’re doing well.” He said stiffly, forcing the ghost of a smile onto his face.

Her brow pinched in confusion at the sudden strained distance between them.

He cleared his throat of the rough emotion threatening to strangle him. “I won’t keep you, you probably need to get back to your husband. Congratulations by the way.” He was rambling. It was so unlike him but he couldn’t seem to make it stop.

He’d led men through enemy fire, through artillery strikes, and suffered the frozen hell that was Bastogne all without hesitation. Nothing rattled him quite like her presence.

She took a step forward, reaching for him as he edged toward the door.

“Ron, What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your neighbor said you were out with your husband; to the cathedral for the candlelight vigil or something.” He stumbled through his explanation.

Her husband. The word felt bitter and wrong on his tongue.

“What?! No, I told her-“ Serena shook her head in disbelief as it slowly dawned on her what was happening.

“I should go.” He cut her off, turning quickly for the door.

He grabbed the handle to the large ornate doors but her delicate fingers caught his wrist before he could open it. He swore his heart halted in his chest as she gently guided him back to face her.

Her eyes shimmered with tears waiting to spill over as she searched his face, begging him to stay.

War was hell, but this was the worst sort of torture. He had to get out of here.

“Ron” Her voice was soft and careful as her hands gripped his arms. Even through the thick wool of his coat, her warmth felt like the only thing tethering him to the present.

“I’m not married.” she emphasized each word, holding his gaze intently. “I light those candles at the Cathedral for you.”

He was certain he’d stopped breathing. The room spun briefly and the warm, light feeling bloomed in his chest again.

“I must have lit a thousand of them in every city I was sent to during the war, but I ask for the same thing every time.” A single tear spilled down her cheek. “For you to find your way back to me.”

He scooped her into his arms and claiming her lips in a slow, deep kiss. He held her there, kissing her with growing need until they were both breathless.

“I love you Serena.” he panted as he tipped her chin up. Her kiss bitten lips curved into a dazzling smile as another glittering tear slid down her cheek.

“I love you too.” she laughed wetly, “I knew you’d come back to me.”

“Always.”

He was still thousands of miles from Boston, but for the first time since the war began, he was home for Christmas.

[mads-weasley]

hbo war secret santa info is out!!

I'm soo pumped for this event, and my person's prompts were just perfect! I've looked forward to this event all year and I'm so glad its finally here!

[hbowardaily]

We are happy to announce, that @hbowardaily is once again hosting an online gift exchange for the holidays!  It will be open to anyone and we will be accepting all characters from the three shows in any creative form! Gifsets, edits, graphics, moodboards, fanarts and fanfics are all welcomed! However in this event you can only participate on Tumblr.

Please use the tag #hbowarsanta22 for every creation so we can reblog them!

During this event everyone will give something and receive something. After the sign-ups are over we will reach out to everyone and send them their giftee’s url and preferences. During the exchange, you have to send anonymous messages to your giftee to get to know about them and their likes/dislikes, the goal of the exchange is to get to know each other better! Make sure you have your ask and anon feature enabled to participate, or you can contact us and we will reach out to your giftee, while keeping your identity as a secret! You can make your gift anytime, but don’t post it before the posting starts!

In case somebody is not able to finish the event, we are in need of pinch-hitters for those who wouldn’t get anything otherwise. Please if you would be able to make one more gift in this case, fill out the respective question on the sign-up form you can find below!

Schedule:

Sign-ups: Oct 1. - Nov. 1

Sending out information: Nov. 2 - Nov. 9

Creating: Nov. 10 - Dec. 21

Posting your creations: Dec. 22 - Dec. 27.

HERE you can find the sign-up form!

If you have any question, don’t hesitate to contact us!

[noneedtoamputate]

hiiiiiiiii! it's me, your hbo war secret santa 😎

so a few questions... do you have any favorite songs? who's your favorite bob character and why? oh and maybe what's your fav scene in the mini-series?

and opinions on hallmark aus?... ;)

It's so exciting to hear from you! It's hard to narrow down my favorite songs, but some of my favorite artists are Fountains of Wayne, The Old '97s, Ben Folds, The Beatles, Joni Mitchell, and Otis Redding (I'm all over the place and probably showing my age, sorry!)

My favorite BoB character is Chuck Grant. I have a WIP featuring Chuck and an OFC. He's always in scenes with and near featured characters, so I imagine him being popular in the company. His series end is tragic, and I am all about a happy ending for him. Open to any kind of story, whether platonic, M/F, M/M - whatever you are comfortable writing.

Again, it's hard to narrow down a scene, but my favorite episode is The Last Patrol (episode 8).

I don't watch a lot of Hallmark movies, but I love the idea of Hallmark AUs. I am an avid romance reader, so I'm all in on cozy inns, small towns, and reconnecting with your high school crush around the holidays.

I can't wait to see what you come up with for the challenge. And remember, it should be fun! Please don't stress. I will love whatever you create.

[pechesenboite]

HBOWarDaily's Secret Santa!: Gift #1: “Who Has a Town Named After Them, Anyway?”: Lewis Nixon x Reader:

(From @currahee​, posted on my Band of Brothers sideblog, @pechesenboite. Hope you enjoy, sweetheart! <3)

Thank you for getting involved in the event! You will be making a gift for @mads-weasley. 

username: @mads-weasley shows: Band of Brothers type of gift: gifs/graphics, fanfiction Band of Brothers characters: Lewis Nixon, Ronald Speirs, Joe Liebgott Fanfiction preferences: reader

1) Lewis Nixon x Reader Domestic Fluff: “Who Has a Town Named After Them, Anyway?”

(Prompt #1: ) I would like one fluffy (possibly domestic fluff) one where character and reader are married)

“So the town is named after your family? Relatable.” You deadpanned the first time you found out about Nixon, New Jersey.

“Yeah, well- I might be able to pull a few strings- get you in with the bigwigs who run this town-“ Lewis had said coyly in response.

He had been good to his word. One house with a white picket fence later, and any visits from anyone from Easy Company involved active scoffing from how far Lewis Nixon had come since the end of the war.

You had met on a night out on the town in New York- Lewis was still wearing his uniform, fresh off the boat from Europe and having half the women in the room eating out of his hand. He had been obviously inebriated by the end of the night, and your soft heart overtook the thought that this man would actively proposition a telephone pole by this point in the night.

“Hey Soldier,” You had said to him, the man passed out at the bar. You carefully poked him, knowing many men from the war came back… different.  

Nixon had turned, squinting, before murmuring.  “You’re too good looking to be left alone at the end of the night.”

You had to resist the urge to roll your eyes. 

“I’m not alone. I’m here with you.” You deadpanned, but gently helping him sit up, hand on his chest and many of the other women having cleared out when it was obvious he had been too drunk to go anywhere with him. “And you- are too drunk for anyone to take you home. So I can at least walk you to the subway-“ You started, as Nixon waved off the subway with a grunt of taste, holding out car keys and waving to the opulent luxury car outside.

“You have got to be kidding me.” You muttered, but the next thing you knew, you were driving a luxury sports car the likes of which you hadn’t seen since the pre-war years through the Lincoln Tunnel over to New Jersey, wondering how you were supposed to get home to Manhattan proper late at night without getting mugged.

“Left-“ Nixon directed, becoming more and more sober the longer you drove out. At a certain point when you were nearly forty minutes out from downtown New York, you supposed if you died trying to do a good deed for a drunken soldier, it was at least in a spirit of supporting returning soldiers.

You had stopped in front of an opulent, almost mansionlike house. “Here?” You couldn’t help but raise both brows, as Lewis gave off an impish grin.

“What- you thought I stole this?” He joked, hopping out with surprising quickness as he makes his way around to help you out of the driver’s seat. You look up at him in surprise. He attempted to look innocent.

“Oh, I wasn’t really as drunk as all that-“ He said casually, but checking the time on his watch. “How about you come inside, we’ll set you up in one of the extra rooms, and I’ll drive you back myself tomorrow-?”

Every cell of your New York City-dwelling body told you this ended up with you being murdered, but as if sensing your hesitation, Nixon had held up his hands. “We have help- if I was going to kill you, there’d be a hell of a lot of witnesses-“

You couldn’t help but smile, and Nixon smiled back.

“-And that’s when I knew I had her-“ He often would brag playfully at parties where the visitors of Easy Company would laugh uproariously, you would hide your head in a nearby pillow, and Dick Winters, Nixon’s best friend, would do everything he could to resist rolling his eyes and help himself to another hors d’ouvre.

“When foolin’ me was apparently more exciting than a drink-“ You joked lightly, as you gained your composure and reached for your own drink. Everyone chuckled and the conversation continued to flow, but you looked up and saw Nixon staring at you contemplatively, nursing the same drink he’d had all night. You smiled, before patting next to you on the couch. In a second, he was next to you and leaning into your frame.

“You bet your ass, kid.” He murmured, before kissing you gently. Without another word, you smiled into the kiss, and clinked your glasses together.

[liebgotts-lovergirl]

Hi @contact-right @truesblue I'm Aly & I was your Secret Santa!!

I made you 2 different moodboards-- I hope you like them! 💖💖💖

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

♥ Brad/Nate couple moodboard ♥

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

♥ Brad/Nate Dystopian AU! Moodboard ♥

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

[sergeant-spoons]

Secret Santa ‘22 (Pt 2)

@rebeccapearson​​​​​ ~ Secret Santa Pt 2: electric boogaloo. I swear, these just keep getting away from me and getting longer! Your third fic will be published tomorrow (and it’s twice as long as today’s). I hope you like this one! 💕

Your Typical Annual Nixon Christmas Party

Pairing: Lewis Nixon x Female OC

Word count: 5629

Tone: Friends to lovers, mutual pining, only one bed, ballroom dancing, all my homies hate Stanhope Nixon, angst with a happy ending

Warnings: A bit risqué at some parts, nonsexual & nongraphic nudity (taking a shower), brief mentions of body shaming and childhood trauma (I repeat: all my homies hate Stanhope Nixon)

Prompt: “If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?”

Summary: He needs a date to the annual family Christmas party to stick it to his father, and she’s more than happy to go along with the ploy—until she realizes just how bad his father really is. OR The one where Lewis Nixon loves her too much to ever let her go.

Read it here on AO3!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"My father is hosting the annual Nixon Christmas party and I need a girlfriend ASAP."

Marisa blinks at Lewis. When he told her he had a favor to ask of her, something of this caliber did not cross her mind. They've been friends for so long that she can usually read him like a book.

Usually.

"Uh... why?"

"Because he'll be twice as unbearable if I go alone."

"Ah." Marisa feels a wave of sympathy. "So... you want me to be your-"

At the same time as Marisa says, "-fake girlfriend to get your father off your back?", Lewis agrees, "fake girlfriend to get my father off my back. Yes. Exactly."

"Why do you of all people need a fake girlfriend?"

He starts to answer, then hesitates.

"I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or an insult."

"I mean I'm surprised you can't find a real date." Marisa reaches over and dusts a piece of lint off his shoulder, adding, "Charmer that you are."

"I'm flattered," he chuckles, "but I'm not really... in that scene, right now."

She softens. "Right."

"If I don't go with someone," he admits, fiddling with the hem of his sweater, the one she bought him last Christmas, "he'll set me up with some socialite and I'll be married again by the end of the year. And I..." He glances aside. "I can't do that again. Not to me or to her, whoever she would be."

Marisa nods sympathetically, reaching over to smooth down his sleeve. She gets it. He's been divorced twice. No wonder he's not looking for anything right now.

"I understand."

His smile is a little sad.

"I knew you would." A beat. "So?"

They both know she'd go to the ends of the earth for him. It's only a matter of time before she agrees.

"Well," she supposes, having made up her mind, "because you are such a dear friend to me, I'll consider it."

"It's next week," he informs her quickly. "That should give you plenty of time to decide."

"Next week?" She scrunches up her nose as if anything could dissuade her now. "I'm not sure if I can get a dress in time."

"Oh, I took care of that."

Lewis goes over to the Christmas tree in the corner of his apartment and picks up a rather large box adorned with a big green bow. As he brings it over to the sofa, Marisa realizes it is labeled with her name. He comes back to the sofa and deposits it on the table, then slides it her way and gestures for her to take a look.

"Go on. Open it."

Marisa eyes him with playful suspicion; nevertheless, she accepts the box and draws it to her.

"Lewis Nixon, are you trying to bribe me?" she teases as she reaches out and tugs the bow off.

"What can I say?" Lewis shrugs as Marisa lifts the lid to reveal the most beautiful gown she's ever seen. "It reminded me of you."

"Lewis!" she gasps. "It's gorgeous."

"A beautiful dress for a beautiful woman."

She holds the gown to her chest and turns to him with tears of genuine gratitude in her eyes. Lewis shifts uncomfortably and offers her a slightly nervous smile.

"Hey, now, don't look at me like that."

"It's such a lovely gift."

"It's yours," he promises, "whether or not you go with me."

"Oh, Lewis—!"

"Merry Christmas, Risa. But, ah-" He clears his throat. "-you know, you might want somewhere to wear that dress-"

Marisa can't help the soft laugh bubbling up from a chest full of warmth for his kindness.

"Lewis-"

"-and what better place than a party? You'll go with me, of course-"

"Lewis-"

"-and everyone will see just how beautiful you are and be so incredibly jealous of me-"

"Alright, alright," she laughs, gently letting the dress fall back into the box. "You can stop buttering me up now. I'll go."

"You'll go? You'll go!" Lewis wraps his arms around her and plants a wet kiss on her cheek. "See, this is why you're the best."

"Yes, yes, I'll go-" Marisa wriggles out of his arms, laughing. "-but I've got one condition."

"What? Anything!"

"If it gets to be 10 o'clock and they've still got us trapped, we stage an escape."

Lewis sighs fondly, laying his hand over his heart.

"I could never have asked for a more perfect partner in crime."

A week later, they arrive at the house just before midnight, per Lewis' assumption that his father won't be up to 'greet' them. They carry their own luggage, to the tired-looking butler's relief, and follow him upstairs, trying to walk as quietly as they can past Stanhope Nixon's unfriendly quarters. Thankfully, they continue on and cross from the East Wing of the house to the West Wing, which is far more warmly lit and forgiving. They pass a bathroom with the door open and the light from the wired chandelier inside bleeding out into the hall. A woman in a silk dressing gown is sitting on the edge of a lavish bathtub, painting her nails. She waves lazily at Lewis through the open door and eyes Marisa curiously but not unkindly. They both wave back, and as they continue down the hall, Lewis leans toward Marisa's ear and mutters that she just met his sister Blanche.

"She's the good one, right?" Marisa asks, and when Lewis makes a face, she giggles softly. “Other than you.” 

“Other than me, yes.”

"So you two get along?"

Lewis smiles, one side of his mouth turned up a little higher than the other.

"We bicker the same as any siblings, but I'll never let anyone say a bad thing about her, and she'll do the same for me." He ducks his head. "Well, anyone except..."

Marisa frowns sympathetically. "Anyone except your father?"

He doesn't respond, just turns his head aside as if he's ashamed of the answer, and Marisa knows she's right. She reaches out and takes his hand, and maybe it's a bold thing to do, but after a moment, he curls his fingers around her and relaxes. She catches him looking at their joined hands with a smile as they come up to the door the butler has indicated and her heart gives an unusual flutter.

What's that all about?

Before she can give it any more than a fleeting consideration, the butler is ushering them inside the bedroom, reaching for the light switch to reveal a handsome spread of maroon and gold. There's a grand old bed with a tall spruce headboard, a sideless bookshelf that Marisa is pretty sure is called an étagère, a Victorian-style chaise lounge, a dozen velvety pillows all across the furniture, and even a miniature Christmas tree draped with tinsel atop the dresser—and that's just at first glance. The butler explains there's a bathroom attached to one end of the room and a walk-in closet to the other, and as Marisa's still reeling, Lewis, who grew up accustomed to this luxury, thanks the man and bids him goodnight. The butler shuts the door behind him and it's only then that Marisa realizes this isn't meant to be just Lewis' space but both of theirs.

"Uh, Lewis?"

He's busy dragging their suitcases over to the dresser as quietly as he can and doesn't hear her, so she repeats his name.

"Lewis."

"Hmm?"

Marisa licks her lips, a nervous habit.

"How in the name of Father Christmas is there, in this enormous house, only one bed left?"

From where he's bent over, laying his suitcase down, Lewis looks up, tossing dark waves out of his eyes.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

Marisa eyes the chaise lounge. It's pretty big, for a truncated couch with an asymmetrical back. The gold gilding is a nice touch. Lewis sees where she's looking and rises as he shakes his head.

"No, Risa. You're not sleeping on that old thing. There's plenty of room on the bed for the both of us."

Marisa knows he's right, but that little heart flutter has put a sort of nervousness into her that she's not used to feeling, and knowing Lewis has got something to do with it makes her a little wary to share a bed with him.

It's only one night, she reminds herself, and it's not like you haven't been friends for ages.

Lewis looks torn between wanting to apologize and wanting to tease, and it's so like him that Marisa relaxes.

If he didn't trust you, he wouldn't have asked you to come.

"Right," she says aloud, "we'll share the bed," and with that, the matter is settled.

The next morning, they wake up to the cold Winter sun, streaming through the window and illuminating the room. Before Marisa even opens her eyes, she knows it's too early, and from Lewis' soft, wordless grumbling, he feels the same. She snuggles further into him, then realizes what she's doing and freezes. His hand, which has been smoothing down her hair, stills after a moment, and she can feel it against his chest when he sucks in a sharp breath.

Maybe it's not too early to get up, after all.

Marisa tumbles out of bed, yawning, and sleepily flees to the shower. Lewis mumbles a good morning as she goes and she just bobs her head, too shy in the moment to reply with something just as mundane. The bathroom is just as ornate as the bedroom. Marisa starts the water running and turns to the sink to brush her teeth. She looks a little ragged, with her hair all mussed up on one side, her eyes drooping with drowsiness, and one side of her chin redder than the other from how she slept with it smushed into the pillow. She can't imagine how she must have looked to Lewis, creeping away into the bathroom like that. She must have seemed to him shamefaced or sheepish—but he knows better than to tolerate the notion. They both know what their lie is and that it is a lie, and that once this is over, they will still be friends and nothing more.

Marisa's heart gives a pang. She does her best to ignore it.

Once the water is hot enough, she steps into the shower and shuts the glass door behind her. Her whole body relaxes under the stream and she gives a long sigh. She takes a moment just to stand there, stretching her neck and arms, relishing in the water cascading down her frame. The Nixons spared no expense in building this mansion, and the water pressure is no exception.

"Risa?" comes a slightly awkward call from outside the door. Marisa almost misses it with the shower pounding past her ears. She leans out of the stream and acknowledges she heard him, wincing at how scratchy her voice feels and how rough it sounds.

"I'm, uh, I'm going downstairs to get some coffee. You want some?"

She does. When he comes back, she's brushing her hair in front of the mirror. She's opened the bathroom door to let the steam out (blowdrying always makes her dizzy, especially in a hot room), and when he pokes his head in, he's got one hand over his eyes.

"Coffee for the lady."

"Why, thank you, sir."

As Risa takes the mug, she notices the stiffness of his shoulders and the slight downturn of his brow. As soon as she's got the coffee, he tries to leave, but she takes his hand and pulls it down from his face so she can kiss his cheek. He still keeps his eyes closed, but he relaxes, and so does she—they're back on the same page.

"Are you decent?"

"Decently dressed? Yes. Decently caffeinated? I will be soon."

She takes a sip as he finally looks at her, and it scares her, just how much she missed those dark, intelligent eyes of his.

"Ooh, yum." She looks down into the coffee, hiding from this perfectly normal interaction. "Is that peppermint?"

Lewis shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

"I thought it'd be festive."

"Well, it's good. Thanks."

There's something tender in his eyes when he replies, "Sure," and Marisa has a strange inkling that it's been there all along.

After he's done with his own coffee, they swap, and he showers while she gets dressed. When he emerges, toweling off his hair, shirtless, she pretends she's not allowed to look at him and silently chastises herself for the heat creeping into her cheeks. As she faces away, putting in little earrings by feel, he tells her she looks nice. She thanks him, but then he hesitates, and when she asks what's the matter, he tells her they're going out for the day and she might want something warmer. He turns his back and she swaps her blouse for a sweater, and this time, she can't look away from his smile.

"Better?" she asks a bit meekly, and his smile grows.

"I like that color on you," he says, "it goes nice with your eyes," and before Marisa has time to even consider what he means, he's slipped back into the bathroom, clothes in hand.

They spend most of the day out in the city, avoiding Lewis' family (especially his father). They walk most of the way, but eventually, their feet grow tired and Lewis hails a taxi to take them to his favorite lunch spot. Blanche meets up with them there and stays with them for the rest of the afternoon. She and Marisa hit it off, so much so that Lewis jokes they should be each other's date instead. Marisa, who has taken to walking on his arm, teases him that he's jealous, and although he rolls his eyes, his cheeks have assumed a hint of pink, and he's quick to move on to the next distraction. Blanche shoots Marisa a wink and Marisa giggles despite herself—maybe there's something in the air today that's making her flutter her lashes just a little more every time Lewis looks her way.

They head back mid-afternoon to get ready for the party. Marisa and Lewis confine themselves to their room and play cards to pass the time, betting on promises that might make the inevitable event more bearable.

"If I win, you have to dance with me tonight."

"If I win, you have to dance with me tonight and let me dip you."

Marisa's winning streak is not to be broken. Lewis groans, tossing down his hand, and she reaches over to pat his knee in mock sympathy.

"It's okay," she says around a mouthful of chocolate, "I'll still let you dip me."

Blanche has warned them not to be late, but even then, they stall until they really can't put it off any longer. He takes his tux into the walk-in closet and shut the door, and just for kicks, she yells after him:

"No peeking!"

She hears a muffled laugh. "I wouldn't dare."

"That's right," she replies, getting a goofy grin on her face, and at the same time as she says "I'd kick your ass," he choruses, "You'd kick my ass."

Marisa prepares to wiggle her way into the gown, but to her surprise, when she steps into it, it slips right up her body like silk. She straightens everything out and feels a hint of pride when she manages to zip up the back all by herself. She hasn't looked properly in the mirror yet, but when she does, tugging at her hair, she just about freezes. Her hands drop down to her sides and she stares at herself for almost too long to be sensible. Lewis starts humming an old song from inside the closet and Marisa remembers she's not alone. Coming back to herself, she gives a slight turn to the left and then the right, just to test the flow of the gown. It twinkles in the light, and she gives a squeak, covering her mouth with her hands. Electrified, she bounces all around, watching the fabric ebb and flow, growing giddier by the minute. It's the most expensive piece of cloth Marisa's ever put on her body, and though a part of her feels like a fish out of water, she can't help but admire herself in the gown. When Lewis reappears, adjusting his tie, neither can he.

"Wow." He dares to whistle, and she blushes. "Risa, you look..."

"Good?" she suggests, shimmying to show him how the gown shimmers, and she thinks his jaw might drop.

"Stunning."

"Oh, you charmer, you," she refutes, feeling warm with affection, and comes over to help Lewis. "Here. Let me."

This has been a ritual of theirs for years, ever since they met at Officer Candidate School way back in '41. Marisa teased Lewis for being incapable of tying his own tie despite his wealthy upbringing, and Lewis shot right back, why don't you do it, then? She did, flawlessly, on the first try, and since that day, they've been inseparable. OCS led to the 101st Airborne and Easy Company, and they rode that train all the way to Europe and back. Somehow, throughout all of that, only rarely did they part. About a year after the war ended, Marisa made a quip at a party that the only reason Lewis still kept her around was to manage his ties for him. To her surprise, he drew her aside, gravely concerned that she truly believed what she'd said—for the first time in years, one of her jokes had gone right over his head.

I was only kidding. I know you love me too much to ever let me go, you big sap.

...

Lewis?

Look, Buck Compton's here. Let's go say hello.

It was a strange moment that Marisa still doesn't understand. Even stranger, they've never spoken of it since.

"Really, Risa," Lewis says, breaking the gentle silence and bringing her back to the moment, "you look exquisite."

Marisa chuckles despite the slight churning in her stomach. "You're not so bad yourself, Lew."

He softens. Though she's not expecting his arm to wrap around her waist, she's not startled by it. She's done with the tie, but she keeps ahold of it as he inches toward her and she reciprocates. She can feel his breath on her lips. He's never looked at her this way before—or maybe she's never noticed. His eyes keep darting between hers as if looking for a sign she doesn't know how to give. They're still drifting closer, and Lewis looks like he wants to do something about it—but then he steps back, smooths down his suit jacket, and offers her his arm.

"Shall we?"

Marisa hopes her sigh comes across as one of teasing chagrin and not of disappointment.

"If we must."

Lewis leads the way through the West Wing. He doesn't say a word and neither does she. They pass by Blanche's door—upon which she has pinned a sprig of mistletoe—and head for the main staircase. It isn't long before they can hear the music wafting up from downstairs. They're almost at the upstairs balcony when Lewis abruptly stops. In the shadows of the hall, he is able to hide his fear. For his sake, Marisa pretends she doesn't see it, but she can't help feeling twice as nervous. The butler from last night is standing at the top of the steps, introducing members of the Nixon family as they appear from their rooms and quarters throughout the house. God bless him, he's pretending he hasn't noticed them yet. Marisa is getting more and more anxious about making their grand entrance, and then Lewis turns to her and says he's got a better idea. She squeezes his arm and steps a little closer to his side, wordlessly communicating her relief, and he turns them back down the hall, explaining as they go. Half-hidden around the corner from his mother's old bedroom, there is a far plainer staircase that will take them around to the dining room, a smaller space adjacent to the ballroom. Someone will find them eventually, but this way, their arrival will be far less dramatic and might go mostly unnoticed.

"Ten o'clock," Marisa says quietly, pointing to the large grandfather clock adjacent to the landing.

"Ten o'clock," Lewis affirms with a nod, and just like that, they enter the lion's den.

Unfortunately, their arrival is one of note, and they are announced almost immediately. Standing awkwardly in the lofty arch between the dining room and the ballroom, they watch as the attention of all is redirected their way. Fury flashes in the icy eyes of a tall, hard-faced man who can be no other than Stanhope Nixon. He marches over and directs them to the center of the ballroom, loudly and sternly announcing that his son, the Nixon heir, must have the first dance with his date. The party began fifteen minutes ago, and dancing is already in full force; still, the host forces everyone to step to the side. Marisa's face feels hot. If this is how Stanhope treats his guests, she can't imagine what Lewis has had to deal with over the last twenty-eight years. All eyes are on them. Lewis looks like he wants to throw something—or throw up. They've been through a war and he's still frightened by his father. Marisa's afraid, too. When he sees her hand trembling on his arm, he takes it, squeezes, and draws her to him in the first position for a waltz.

"Ready?" he mouths as the music starts, and she's not sure how she finds it in herself to nod, but she does, and they begin.

Everyone is watching them. Marisa knows if she looks away from Lewis, she'll lose her footing, so she keeps her gaze trained on his, and that does the trick. For several months now, Lewis has been teaching her assorted ballroom dances. She told him once, several years ago, that she'd like to learn if she ever got the chance. Then the war ended and she became his neighbor in New Brunswick, and he, who seems to remember everything she's ever told him, offered to teach her. Tonight, his hand on the small of her back is soothing, and she admires him openly. His hair is neatly combed and coiffed. She wants to run her hands through it, knowing it will soothe him, but she can't. He's holding a great deal of tension in his handsome jaw, but she can see it slacken as they go through the motions without faltering. They make it through the dance, and as their undesirable audience politely applauds, they bow and wish to disappear.

The first hour isn't too awful, after that. Lewis walks Marisa around, introducing her to various family and family friends, some of which are actually quite agreeable. A very old woman with one pair of spectacles on her nose and another perched atop her feathery hair tells them point-blank that it's all her husband's fault for her son's wretched behavior. Lewis chuckles awkwardly and tries to placate her, but as soon as Marisa realizes the woman is Stanhope's mother, she interrupts Lewis and thanks the old matriarch for her sympathy. She brightens up (as much as she can for how slowly she moves) and pulls Marisa over to an excessively long sofa to tell her an equally lengthy story. In the half-hour that Marisa sits with Lewis' grandmother, no one bothers them except for one servant who's obligated to offer them hors d'oeuvres. Marisa is so grateful for the company that she almost blesses the old woman aloud. Then Lewis reappears and tells her they're wanted in the parlor, and her little bubble bursts. Once they have both bestowed his grandmother with a kiss on the cheek, he leads her away, whispering an apology in advance.

"What for?" she whispers back, but then they turn into the parlor, and Marisa understands.

Stanhope, Blanche, and Lewis' mother Doris are all gathered by the fireplace, talking stiffly and eyeing the doorway. Marisa only has time to recall that Stanhope and Doris are divorced before Stanhope spots them and drags them over, commanding that they join the conversation. The next twenty minutes are painful, to say the least, and Marisa does her best to maintain composure while answering every question under the sun as to her personal and professional life. Doris, with her upturned nose and wounded eyes, is clearly displeased to learn her son's date is a woman of literature. When Blanche starts to congratulate Marisa on her recent book deal, Doris interrupts and asks about Marisa's social life and what circles she runs in. Lewis is starting to look like he wants to jump out the window. At one point, Marisa mentions that she served in the Airborne too, and while Doris and Stanhope are practically appalled, she finds some relief in the gleam of admiration in Blanche's eye.

When she's finally unable to stomach Marisa any longer, Doris hauls Blanche off to meet a potential suitor. Marisa is confused why Blanche is looking at her pityingly until Stanhope tells Lewis to fetch him a glass of whiskey and she realizes she is the one in the mire. Lewis tries to take Marisa with him, but Stanhope won't permit it, and he leaves with a muttered promise to be back as soon as he can. Stanhope is neutral enough for a moment or two as they exchange a few words on the evening's décor, but then he eyes her up and down and she feels a shiver of disgust run up her spine. He's off like a shot, then, going on about how her dress doesn't fit her figure right, how unwomanly she is for still being unmarried at twenty-five (how he knew her age, Marisa doesn't know, but it makes her stomach churn to think), and how she ought to find someone more handsome than his son or else the babies will turn out hideous. She's half a second away from slapping him when Lewis returns and exchanges the whiskey glass for Marisa. Stanhope, peeved, saunters off to find ice (which Lewis purposefully left out of the drink), and Marisa falls into Lewis' arms, on the brink of tears.

"Wicked old bastard," she mumbles into his shoulder, and he hisses a breath through his teeth.

"Shit. You okay?"

"Ugh," she groans, huddling closer to him, her lifeline. "What a creep."

She has the feeling he'd hold her for as long as she needed, but people are starting to stare, and she knows she should step back. So she does, and when he asks her again if she's alright, she almost laughs, broken-hearted.

"I'll be fine."

His worried frown persists; she knows he can see right through her.

"Risa-"

"Not here." She shakes her head, touching her hand to her forehead. "How much longer do we have to stay?"

He considers for only a moment before he takes her hand and starts to lead her out of the parlor and back into the ballroom. Stanhope is at the bar against the far wall, drinking his whiskey. Doris and Blanche are a few yards away from him, talking to a suave-looking fellow that Blanche is trying desperately not to roll her eyes at.

"Lewis?"

"Not much longer, if you go along with this."

"With what?"

He wraps his arm around her waist, draws her to him, and asks in that low voice of his, scanning her face with a serious sort of hope, “If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people—really kiss me—will you do it?”

She grabs his tie and falls back against the wall, smashing her lips into his. He lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering closed. Marisa feels hot all over as he runs his hands up and down her sides. When he pokes his tongue against her bottom lip, asking permission, she lets him in with a hum of desire. As his lips fall from hers and latch onto her neck, somebody whistles, and then Stanhope bellows. As light-headed as Marisa is, she knows in an instant that this is their cue to run. She grabs Lewis' hand and they take off, darting into the dining room and then up the side stairs. The grandfather clock chimes right as they turn the corner and Lewis, spooked, takes a tumble. Marisa helps him to his feet, and they take off again, still hand in hand, laughing to know it is ten o'clock on the dot.

"Where to?" Marisa asks, trusting him to lead the way.

"Not our room," Lewis replies, turning down a narrow hallway Marisa hadn't noticed before. "We've got to hide for a bit."

Footsteps come running up behind them, fast enough to catch them, and as they whirl around, Lewis jumps in front of Marisa—but it is only Blanche. She skids to a stop and almost falls forward as she bends over her knees, wheezing.

"Father sent me after you," she half-laughs, half-gasps. "That was quite the show you put on. I thought Mother was going to faint."

"You won't actually...?"

"Oh, God, no," she says in earnest, lifting her head to look at her brother and his date. "I just came to say my thanks. I would never have escaped if it weren't for you."

To both Blanche and Lewis' surprise, Marisa goes and hugs her.

"You'll get out of here someday, Blanche," she says softly. "You're so much more than these people."

"Well, shit," Blanche replies as they part, sounding a little choked up. "Don't make me cry. My makeup's going to run."

"Sorry," Marisa chuckles, and Blanche squeezes her hand, stepping back.

"I've held you up too long," she says. "Go hide yourselves in Grandmama's old room. She hasn't been able to make it up the stairs for a decade but they still haven't redone it."

"On our way," Lewis agrees, sharing a nod with his sister. "Happy holidays, Blanche."

"The same to you, Lewis."

The door they seek is in the corner of the West Wing, tucked away between a laundry room and the back of the house. Inside, the room is just as hot and stuffy as the rest of the house but not nearly as dusty as Marisa expects. When she finds the light switch and flicks it, she sees it's actually pretty nice. The furniture is more modest in here, something closer to what Lewis has in his apartment back in New Brunswick. For a moment, she wishes they were there, slow dancing to the Christmas music on the radio, him in his tux and her in her gown. She watches him as he crosses to the window and throws it open, and though it's freezing outside, the cold breeze is a welcome change to the stifling hot house. Marisa goes over to feel it and Lewis steps aside, allowing her the window space. She leans back on it, her elbows propped up on the sill and her low-cut dress exposing her back to the elements. Her chest feels sore from the cold and the running, but she feels doubly alive from that surreal, searing kiss.

"Did you ask me to do that just to piss them off?" she asks, still trying to catch her breath. "I wouldn't blame you if you did."

Terrified of his rejection, she starts laughing, but as soon as she does, Lewis takes her face in his hands and kisses her, hard.

"I love you," he whispers when they part, tenderly smoothing his thumb over her cheek. "I've loved you since that first time you fixed my tie and called me a lazy rich boy for not knowing how to do it myself."

Marisa's eyes are wet, and she blinks desperately, allowing the tears to fall so she can see Lewis clearly again.

"All the way back at OCS?" she asks hoarsely, and he leans closer, taking a deep, shaky breath.

"All the way back at OCS."

She can feel his lips brushing hers, and she wants to kiss him, but there's something more that needs to be said, so she lets him say it.

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this mess," he whispers, his gaze dropping to her lips. "It wasn't fair of me to-"

She silences him with a kiss, trembling when he sighs into her mouth, eagerly giving up his apology.

"If you hadn't," she says, reluctantly parting from his lips, "you wouldn't have asked me to kiss you. And I wouldn't have had the courage to tell you..."

She walks her fingers up his chest to his chin and pulls him in for a slow, deep, breathtaking kiss.

"That you love me, too?" he guesses when they separate for want of air, his eyes sparkling with hope and longing and joy and a million other things that make her heart go wild in her chest.

"That I love you, too," she affirms, and he smiles, leaning his forehead against hers.

"So you liked that kiss, huh?"

Marisa laughs, swatting at his chest in retribution for ruining the moment, but he just grins and leans in.

"About that kiss..."

He crowds her against the window, careful not to let her lean too far back, and she hums happily, running her hands through his hair like she's wanted to all night.

"Where were we?" 

He kisses her neck and she inhales sharply, tilting her head back to see the night sky up and behind her.

"Ah."

He smiles and she can feel it, his lips hot against her cool skin.

"Right here."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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