#band of brothers x ofc

[skiesofrosie]

all is fair, but matters of the heart

joe liebgott x ofc (amy calloway)

summary: joe doesn't quite know why he's even fighting the war anymore, until she starts to give him reason.

word count: 6.7k+ words

a/n: this is a long one, so i don't know if anyone would want to read it, but if you do, then do enjoy. all characters based only from the show. oh, and ps. these photos do not belong to me. :)

1942

Joe Liebgott is a reckless man disguised in a fight for honor.

perhaps, it's the notion that he has nothing to lose. if fate decides he should take a bullet through the heart, than his mother had six others still beating.

it’s not that he believes his life to be disposable, it just seems he was meant for more than to sit behind a wheel and drive a yellow cab. though, the smiles that would linger on his customers’ faces when they shut the door as they leave, always drew a smirk of satisfaction to his lips. Joe was an expert at bringing laughter to the table.

but there was something untamed in the depth of Liebgott’s soul, and he figured the war would be the key to unchain it from its cage. it was the mask he was looking for, a place where he could ravage against an enemy because the lines of good and bad were nowhere to be found.

many will say that Amy Calloway is soft-spoken, elegant, and revoltingly kind — everything that the war is not. there were no more men in Easy Company to question her placement. nobody would say it, but the thought would linger in the back of all of their minds: that a woman, a small and reserved one at that, is assigned to be their medic and last more than ten minutes on the battlefield.

but she will not let them prod at her flames with gasoline on their fingers.

everyone thought it, but only Joe would say it.

“and the woman has barely said anything since she got here,” he rants over lunch, mouth full of spaghetti that's spitting out to Webster, who flinches in distaste. it didn’t help, Web thinks, that Joe has the tendency to speak like there's a microphone in his lungs. “if she goes, that’s another loss for E company, and another medic down. fuckin’ hell–”

there’s a reason she keeps her composure intact. the Calloways spanned generations through the military. her own father had fought as a pilot in the first war, and her mother was a nurse, drafted at the same base where he was stationed. she told Amy the stories of quieter days, where daylight would be a welcome deception to the true face of volatile combat. of course, it is days like those her parents would sneak away, and in the doings of a weekend pass, they married and conceived Amy right in the middle of war.

but she also told her of the days when there wasn’t an inch one could go where blood did not stain the sterile floors, the white curtains and every leaf in a potted plant. it is in this chaos, she would say, that it is most important to remain patient with mankind.

“as a medic, you’d be gambling with their lives otherwise,” she remarked. “become too riled up to do your job right.”

of course, this excludes the fact if they are shooting at you.

that day in the cafeteria however, Amy is not yet weighed down by the tribulations of saving lives. they are not in the crossroads, so she can afford a little gamble.

Amy is seated just two tables down from Liebgott, letting the comfort of a silence in her fellow medic, Eugene Roe, speak louder than his obnoxious tongue. it's one thing to insult her capabilities as a medic, but it's another to base judgment on whether she would survive to her being a woman. she did not train for nine months to be berated by a man with an ego. when the words left his mouth, implications that she was a liability to the airborne infantry, the budding flame began to release its fumes in her blue eyes.

“Roe,” she calls, Eugene’s attention snapping to her. “i’m gonna get a second round.” he nods and pronounces he could use another plate too. oh, if only he had known he would get caught in a—albeit tame—crossfire.

and Liebgott dares to lock eyes with Amy, winking as her figure approaches his table. “ah, and here she is, Easy’s very own princess.”

“i appreciate the honor, really,” she replies, nonchalant. Liebgott scoffs, and he is about to blurt another unremarkable comment when she snatches the mic from his chest, “perhaps, i don’t say much, especially to you, because i don’t waste my breath on people who aren’t worth it.”

“the fuck did you just say to me,” he spat, nearly kicking his seat back. before he can even stand, Floyd grabs him by the shoulder and shoves him back down. the room is deafeningly silent, save for the clang of pots and pans in the distance. “jesus, Lieb,” Talbert says, exasperated, “you gonna square up with the woman?”

“looks like you’re ready to take it.” it is quite amusing what the choice of rebuttal could do to a man. his shoulders are tense, and his lips are pulled into a sneer. a smirk betrays her attempts at schooling how smug she felt. she pays no mind to the way his eyes fall to her lips while he licks his own clean. “you got anything else you wanna fucking say?”

“that you have to trust me,” she states, and his fingers that were about to lift a cigarette to his mouth pauses mid-air. “i wouldn’t be here, chosen for Easy if they weren’t damn sure i could keep your legs and your arms attached to your body.”

Joe is surprised to find no snark in her tone. it was no testimony to prove her case, just a statement of her belief. and despite himself, he is impressed at which she holds it with pride, cementing her position in black, permanent ink.

when Amy turns around, she closes her eyes for a split second longer than usual, and breathes out a sigh of relief. funnily enough, she was never one for confrontation. she laughs at the sight of Eugene, who is trailing close behind her, but darting his eyes to every corner of the room in pure discomfort.

it was misplaced to Joe, the scent of lilies and jasmines she left in her wake (but, of course, he barely noticed). he huffs in annoyance, but as the clock ticks by, the rowdy chatter starts to intrude into his head like noise pollution. he wonders if somebody had punched a hole in the roof, because an irrepressible feeling of guilt began to pour in and drown his cocky charade. and he knows Webster has caught on. his bunkmate took one look at Joe, shoving the spaghetti around silently in his plate, and began chortling to himself. 

a whistle blowing stabs at his eardrums, and he groans when Sobel walks in. “Easy Company is running up Currahee!”

1944

there is a shift in Joe Liebgott, and not in the way he would expect.

he joined the infantry as a complete rascal, aimless with his gun so as long as it points to the enemy. whether in bar fights or with machine guns, and especially in the aftermath of D-Day, Joe is a walking grenade. 

but there are a few instances, in the throes of his rage, when fiery strikes would perish into complete duds. and in each occasion, she was there.

ever since that day in Camp Toccoa, he had attempted to keep his distance. keyword: attempted, and failed. it is quite a feat to achieve, especially when he feels her presence like the sun, even as she shies away into the corner of a room. and joe may be a reckless man, but he’s hardly stupid. he knows there is something in the way she brings him serenity. in a place where the soil comes infused with blood, agony and finality, she was the lone flower that found the strength to bloom within it all. and in her roots are humility and grit — all things that holds the stem of her beauty. 

truth be told, it is not like him to restrain from matters of the heart. people believe Joe to be a man who doesn’t think, only does. that he does not feel, simply acts. but the reality is quite the opposite. he drives himself into carelessness, oftentimes crashing into a dead end, because he feels too much. his rationality is uncaring when the question of fairness is at hand. and Joe—watching his friends, watching her, on the verge of death—feels that this entire war is the definition of unfair.

he keeps his distance from Amy Calloway, because if there is one thing he is careful of, it's to not make her fall for someone like him. and he knows she feels it too.

if not love, they both walk a tightrope—one end tells them both to just let it go, and the other begs them to take a chance. 

they balanced a step forward when he felt the soft skin on her hands slip over his fist, back when they were on their way to England. in his defense, everyone was on edge on that ship, awaiting the hellfire; even more so than now, when sacrifice was something they just had to expect. and his outburst, because of course Joe had to throw a punch somewhere, was egged on by Guarnere running his mouth.

“Joe,” she whispered. “Joe,” she muttered, even quieter, but her lips felt closer to his ears. her presence overwhelmed him with the way she stood so close to his right, grabbing onto his biceps to force him down. despite the scowl on Bill’s face, and the three, maybe four other soldiers straining to keep him still, it was when he felt her fingers clasp over his own that he tampered the fire in his breath. “don’t let him get to you, he’s just being a fucking idiot.”

it was most difficult to not meet her eyes, what with the way he felt her breath on his neck.

they took another tip toe forward, when he spotted her clear as day, shrouded in a darkness thick with trees that strayed into an abyss, from about 100 meters away in Normandy. he’d like to say it was because of her glassy blue eyes, or her porcelain skin, but really, it's because he’d recognize that short stack figure of hers anywhere.

“flash!” Joe whisper-yelled, throwing his hands up when she whips her head around and points her rifle, laser sharp, at him. “Joe?”

Amy lowered her gun, her chest visibly rising and falling in a rush of panic. Joe managed to crack a light, teasing grin then, in hopes it would put her at ease, “i should report you for breaking the regime, Private Calloway.”

and it did, for a few seconds. taking a few steps in crunching leaves, she was about to retort—until gunfire cut her straight off.

hastily, they dropped to the ground, dragging their bodies against the soil with their elbows and fists, and found themselves hidden behind a tree. as they were clinging as close to each other as possible, the sides of their arms and legs trying to fight for cover behind the trunk, a single thought crossed Joe’s mind: this is the first time he has ever shown fear. and of course, he thinks, as the bullets stop flying, it’s in front of her.

in the name of fury, he was about to channel his fear into an air massacre with his gun. that is, until he heard the shaky exhale of her breath, stark in the eery quiet. and in knowing she was there, alive, by his side, he could already feel his rage slow down by a fraction.

“hey,” he stammered, leaving her side to crouch at her front, “are you hit anywhere?” he asked, because of course she’s not okay. she nodded a no, and closed her eyes to regain composure. before he could deliberate his actions, he reached a hand to cup her cheek, eyes scanning her face intently. “we have to keep moving, find the others.”

and there went the savage in his heart, tamed simply with her presence.

after Carentan

there is something about Joe, and the way his warmth seeps through her in waves.

Eugene would always say he was a wild one, and to be frank, his point has been proven one too many times. it was easy to let loose at camp, because everyone believed they were invincible—especially if you bulldozed through Sobel’s dictatorship. and she liked that he was never one to back down from a challenge. with each taunt he threw into her lane as they hiked up Currahee (“keep up princess,” “can see through your shirt, Ames,” “big steps short stack”), it sparked a flame in her body that made her legs pick up their pace.

but here they are, having scraped by Carentan with 65 casualties. they are most certainly not invincible anymore, and with her and Eugene being medics, they know that better than anyone else.

the war is changing everyone, but especially Joe Liebgott. 

“you’ve seen better days,” she says, lightly teasing as she cracks his door open. at the sound of her entrance, he kicks his legs to sit up on his bed, setting the newspaper on his pillow. he huffs a single, mirthless laugh, and nods in what seems like annoyance, but Amy knows it’s not at her. “here, i got you some…well, i guess you can call it soup. god forbid he kills me for calling this shit.”

he chuckles, albeit soft, but genuinely at that. he turns to sit on the side of his bed, facing her as she takes the one right opposite. they are back in England now, taking residence in a hostel, somewhere in the countryside (they never really knew where they were). the rest of Easy Company were drowning their sorrows at the bar downstairs, but Joe, he had enough.

“not interested in watching the wolf pack rip apart a dartboard?” he questions, and she shakes her head. “probably for the same reason as you. i just need a break. Gene and I, we…went to go visit the wounded men.”

a thick silence hangs in the air when that sentence leaves her breath. it is usually comfortable with Joe, the quiet. the both of them need not say any words to feel safe when they’re next to each other. but this time, she knows there is a question stuck in his throat, one he isn't quite sure he wants the answer to.

“he’s okay,” she mutters, afraid to probe, but even Joe Liebgott is too tired to light up. “Tipper. he looks—“

“like piss?” he added, and she chuckles. it floats into his ear like the twitter of a nightingale, prompting his heart to start beating again, slow and steady. “like absolute shit. a little more than roughed up, but, he’ll make it through.”

he nods and his shoulders sag ever so slightly, feeling relieved at the news. he doubts Tipper would’ve made it if not for Amy, who sprung into action not even ten seconds after he yelled out for a medic. she was always there, and especially for him. and Amy knew, that if he ever called, she would run. there’s a clear tiredness in his eyes when she looks at Joe, and the spark in them clearly struggling, but she thinks them to be as beautiful as they were two years ago. 

“you know,” he mumbles, all of a sudden, “you’re my fucking miracle.”

she was about to laugh, but it dies on her tongue when she sees him, looking nothing less than serious. in fact, with the quiver in his voice, he almost seems vulnerable.

Joe is still the same aggressive bloke who surprises her with his softer traits. the day she walked into the nurse wing back at Toccoa, paying visit when he broke his foot on a run, she nearly squealed with delight to find him flipping the pages to Frankenstein by Mary Shelley—one of her favorites. he had pretended to shove his book under the pillow then, as if to upkeep his feisty image. but that was the first time they laughed together, and they shivered in unison when they spoke of the monster.

the only books either of them can read in Europe are dusty, torn up papers they’d find beneath building rubbles. the same Joe who walked around with a permanent smirk now had a scowl almost always worn on his lips. his snarky words now stemmed from hatred instead of humor, and he was quick to anger, like poking a lion with a stick.

but, Amy knows she has a way of calming him down. in fact, everyone knows. if another time, she would have spent her nights overthinking the way she could always feel his brown-eyed stare from across the room, completely unwarranted. but Amy didn’t see it fitting to place gravity on what that all meant, at least not right now. it is better to just stay close to him, and be a shoulder he can lean on because the world has turned so, so vile. whatever she felt, it just wasn't important anymore.

her lips fall apart slightly at the intensity in his gaze. “what do you mean?”

“i mean,” he says, rising to his feet slowly, “i don’t think i would be sitting here without you.”

“joe, you knows that’s not true,” she replies, a little unsure. craning her neck upwards as he closes the gap, slowly, from his bed to hers, she continues, “you’re a strong fighter. one of the best in easy, and that’s why you’re here.”

he doesn’t say anything to that, opts to kneel down on one knee instead. she is his lone flower, still heavenly beautiful even if a few of her petals have fallen. an unguarded smile breaks out on his face at the sprinkle of red dusting her cheeks. he reaches for her hands, the skin now much more coarse, unable to control the way his eyes keep darting to her lips.

“that’s not what i meant,” he murmurs, inching his face so close to hers that she could feel his breath clouding over. Amy is barely breathing at all. but as she finds herself pulling closer towards him, their lips barely grazing each other, a creak of the wooden floors ‘causes her to flinch back.

and it's a sound that would go unnoticed by Joe. 

the door to his room slams open to reveal a floundering George Luz. “oh,” he jolts, a deer in headlights as he realizes to have interrupted a moment. “children,” he coughs, flustered by the way Joe is glaring at him. “we’re moving out.”

dread swarms the nerves she was feeling before, but as she looked back at Joe, quiet and deflated (and utterly heartbroken), she didn’t quite know which was worse.

the tightrope, now thinning and flimsy, had yanked them both backwards.

Bagstone

it’s rare that Joe, a man who seeks thrill, ever backs down. and for some reason, whenever he so chooses it winds up being the most unfortunate timing. the one time he’d hesitate to call on his opponent in a game of bluff, he would lose all his pennies. that one day after school, when he chose to bike home through the civilian route instead of his usual, dangerous back alley, and was met with an accident that’s left a scar on his right knee.

there's one mantra he keeps pinned to his forehead, one his mother ingrained in his mind: if you’re going to take a risk, then trust yourself to couch the fall. and Joe is hardly scared of a few broken bones.

he just wasn’t prepared for the insurmountable pain of a broken heart.

the scene rewinds in his mind like a broken tape, the way her body flinched at the touch of their lips. he wonders if it was in panic, or in pure regret. either way, he’d rather not know. and it reminds Joe that his soul is not made for love anyways, so he exerts his desolation by doing the most reckless thing of all—he avoids her. and this time, it doesn’t stop at trying.

it’s better this way, he decides. they were sitting ducks in the center of the war, and to be distracted, is practically asking to be hit. 

of course, his resolve cracks just a little when disappointment storms in her eyes as he denies yet another shitty bowl of soup she’s saved for him. he knows he’s being a fowl idiot, when he pretends to be distracted with a book, or writings letters in his room, when she seeks a moment of his solitude. the day she found him, playing dice with Luz and Talbert, not even fifteen minutes after proclaiming to be busy for the nth time, she had stopped asking.

(she wonders if he sought her as an outlet in a moment of weakness. Joe wouldn’t do that, she tells herself.)

but the worst, to Joe, is when she stops reacting altogether. Easy has been shoved to the front lines of Bagstone, forced to make defense in the piercing, icy snow with no ammo and no winter gear. when he’d pass by Amy waiting in line for some chow, her lips chapped and skin faded, she would morph her discontent into a strained smile, and leave their conversation at hello. and what makes it even worse, is that he doesn’t have a right to be annoyed.

it’s better this way, he tells himself. cut the tightrope lose now, save them from any grief.

but it is in his attempts to cut his losses, that the most painful loss cuts through him. it never occurred to him, in the equation of his decisions, that she would get hit.

nothing would slice through Joe more then the screech of Amy’s voice, ripping through eruptive shells of 88s. his body immediately freezes, the sound of the artillery strike somehow muffling as he searches the distance. he runs, when hears another wretched scream tear through his ears, every fiber of his being set ablaze in total dread. he runs, even as a small piece of flak shoots through his shoulder. and when he sees her, laying, pulsing, with blood streaming out her neck—well, he never wishes to feel that anguish stab at his veins ever again.

“medic!” he yelled, from whatever is left in the back of his throat. “Roe!” he collapses by her figure, murmurs words of i’ve got you, sweetheart, i’m here. he grabs a piece of cloth, tucked in her red-stained jacket, then presses it at her neck as a poor attempt to slow the bleeding. screaming, falling trees, wailing orders, frantic footsteps, and Luz who runs towards them, they all swirl into a blur, because in that moment, the only thing existing is the sight of her inching closer and closer to a demise. “hey, hey,” he gulped, whispering, while his free hand strokes her hair as her eyes begin to flutter, “keep your eyes open for me.”

even in despair, her blue eyes are the most beautiful thing. to him they are as rare as a pearl that washes ashore into the sand. and even if from afar, he’d do anything to keep them blinking.

her hands are trembling, far too much in pain to fully move, but he knows how hard she's trying. he barely notices the way Doc Roe shoves him off, and when he does, he is too far in shock, his back glued to the snow. the flecks of white are barely traceable in scatters of ash and soil. it feels like the sky is falling, the darkness hovering over his nose with the glow of a meteor shower. he thinks he would be okay if it just swallowed him whole.

“Liebgott,” Eugene calls, grabbing at his uninjured shoulder. “Lieb, snap out of it,” he exclaims, and reality surfaces back into his mind. “we’re bringing Ames to the aid station, and we need to get your shoulder patched up. come on.”

before Luz can slip his arms under her body, Joe pushes him off to carry her himself, with Eugene on the other side. “we got you, Ames,” Eugene coaxes. “you’re holding up just fine, sweet girl.”

yes - his lone, beautiful flower that found the strength to bloom amidst an entire war.

Joe hops into the back of the jeep first, and the trio then lays her body across, with her head resting on his lap. her eyes are starting to flicker, darting at every corner, and her hands lightly flail, but they are just too weak and tired. he holds her chin with his thumb and index finger, and brings his head down close to her, occasionally jumping as the jeep roars through broken roads. “hey, beautiful,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb over her cheek. “aren’t you a pretty thing,” feeling the ghost of a bitter smile on his lips.

she renders him speechless when her fingers, slowly raising and quivering, begin to trace softly at the shape of his lips. he feels a choke in his throat and is unable to restrain his emotions, letting a single tear fall from his eyes and down her skin.

he questions the world and its fairness, because Amy of all people, did not deserve this.

“she’ll be okay, Liebgott,” Doc Roe tells him, completely worn out. “she’s a strong woman, you don’t even have to worry.”

for a while, he wasn't permitted to abandon the front lines—the numbers were dropping, and Joe was one of their best. but everyone was worried about him. he was the resident firecracker of Easy Company; confident on the battlefield, and spared no hesitation in combat. he was unafraid to cast his spitfire, even if it was against an officer. but like every other man, Liebgott had his limits. the spark in his eyes began to dissipate long ago, from the first sight of a fallen soldier. but he, compared to most men, held on the strongest.

Amy going down had just about forced him over the edge. the fire in Joe Liebgott had died the second he heard her scream. he felt only anguish, and it began to consume him.

he barely slept, he barely ate, he barely moved, and only did so when called to fight. some days after he’d stopped counting, having ignored the mush that Talbert left at his feet, Sergeant Lipton came creeping by his foxhole. and clearly, word has travelled on the state of Joe, who was on the brink of delirium in the middle of a harsh winter. Lipton informed him that Captain Winters had requested him as a battalion runner. months ago, he would’ve refused in favor of the action. but this time, he perked up, knowing that could’ve been a few days to spend by her side.

“take about an hour and get yourself a hot meal,” Captain Winters ordered as he briefed him on his duties, back at headquarters. Winters was distracted by a map, as much as Joe was distracted with the field hospital. “do what you need to do.”

to hell with a hot meal, he thinks, making his way straight to the aid station.

the dead weight dissolves from his shoulders the second he sees her, back facing him, awake, and chatting with Doc Roe and another wounded Easy soldier, Skinny. the hospital is plenty gray and dull, and Joe had to keep from pulling a face at the lack of an eye in one of the men. but even so, the sight of her, alive, is enough to invigorate a few pulses in him. his feet are planted to the ground, arms bent against his waist. he lets his head fall downwards, closes his eyes and heaves a sigh.

“hey Doc,” Skinny says, groaning as he accidentally twists his broken leg, “Doc...think you can get us outta here before they move? i don’t wanna be stuck here when Easy’s rollin’ out.”

“you do that, and you’re gonna need to cut off your leg,” Eugene replies, lighting up a cigarette as Amy chuckles. a very luckily, small piece of shrapnel had busted a couple of bones in Skinny’s leg, before Amy got hit—they were sticking out as she drove him into town. “keep doing nothin’ for once Skinny, this is basically the Ritz Carlton.”

“so where’s my fuckin’ champagne?” he gestures mockingly. she snorts at that, “i’m sure Malarkey can pull something out of his ass.”

“hopefully not a fucking bullet,” Eugene mutters. “isn’t that the golden shot?” Skinny adds, “you’re practically Easy royalty.”

she takes a good look at Eugene. the bags under his eyes have turned purple, the skin on his fingers are tearing and bruised, and though he was always quiet, now he seems more distant. now that Amy is down, he's the only medic keeping those boys intact. but there is no use in pointing it all out, not unless he wants to speak first. there is nothing that can be done either way.

“what,” Eugene asks, speaking under his breath, “i think i can make front cover on news looking this god damn handsome, don’t you?” she would’ve shoved him if not for the bandage that was wrapped tightly around her neck, and weaved through her arms. sometimes it was hard to breathe in them, but perhaps, it was the better than having the flesh in her neck spill out. it is a miracle that it's not that.

Skinny scoffs, shaking his head as he stares at his broken leg. “nah doc, i’m the prett— Liebgott.”

scrutinized, is what Joe feels when all three of them whip their heads to face him clearly. with the way she furrows her eyebrows, looking concerned all over, it was clear he— “look like shit. damn, 88 got yer face or something,” Skinny jokes, and Amy rolls her eyes. she would’ve shoved him too for that. 

Eugene nods at them then, standing up to take his leave. “alright,” he says, “rest up both of you. and don’t try to get outta here before you can.” as Eugene turns around and makes small talk with Joe, she cannot help the way her eyes fall taking in the sight of him. if she thinks Gene looks exhausted; well, Joe looks deathly pale. 

“you’re not taking care of yourself,” is the first thing Amy says when he takes the chair Eugene was seated in. he chuckles at the observation, but it's empty, lacking in amusement. “Joe, when’s the last time you’ve properly eaten? and your shoulder, how’s it feeling?”

he scoffs, feeling something between annoyed, and a spill of warmth. “shit Amy, you’re wrapped up like a fuckin’ mummy and you still gotta fuss over me. how bout ya let me worry about you this time? i'm at your service, princess.”

“hey look at me,” she gestures to herself, as much as she could in those bandages anyway. “i’m sitting up, i’m talking, i’m not fuckin’ sliced up like Toye and Guarnere. jesus. i’m basically as good as new, Joe. do you know what’s the first thing Guarnere said when he got here? ‘hey Amy darling, i always knew i’d end up in bed right next to ya!’ blown off leg be damned.”

despite the mental kick he sends Bill up his ass, Joe can’t help but laugh at how comical she's acting—it was always the other way around, him scouring every excuse to make her laugh. at the crack of his snickers, Amy smiles at him too. she's always loved the sound of his laugh, but it has become so rare, that each time he does, she tries to memorize every single note to replay it again and again.

“they keeping you both in check in here?” he asks, tipping his head at Skinny, who's just been floating in the background of them two. Skinny nods, “Doc’s right, this is basically Ritz Carlton. i got nurses at my beck and call, they bring food to my bed, what else could a man ask for?”

Joe breathes a laugh, but as he looks to Amy, he fails to catch his breath. she is looking at him with such tenderness, and her smile grows wider as he stares back, at a loss of what to say. he doesn't know if it's appropriate, considering the way he’s ignored her for weeks. he thinks that Amy shouldn’t even be bothered with him. but no, she’s looking at him like he’s the first taste of rainfall to her drought.

“why did you stop talking to me Joe?” she questions lightly. there is no bitterness in her tone, just a plea to say the truth. a truth that they both know, but have allowed to go unspoken. and now that she is really asking, he finds it hard to make an answer—bare his imperfect heart, and hand it to her, even though he knows that is where it will be safest.

his head hangs low, feeling ashamed at his choice to be a coward. but she moves her fingers to tilt his chin up, forcing him to meet her eyes. as she begins to stroke his cheek, he finds himself leaning into her touch without even thinking, raising his hand to meet hers and hold it in its shape.

(“you have to trust me,” she once said.)

finally, he speaks his mind. “i thought i was doing us both a favor. you’re just everything good, and you deserve someone who’s not…who’s not me. i don’t know how to do any of this, i don’t know how to give you the best and even then i think you deserve so much fucking better than that. so i, i chose to surrender. keep a distance between you and me, as if i could live without you. and i think i’ve always known this, and i've never admitted it to myself, but i’ll admit it now—i really, really can’t live without you.”

there was something untamed in Joe Liebgott, back when he signed his name in 1942. he joined the war, ready to release that vigor and channeled his rage into the way a single bullet would zip through the air and pierce through the enemy. he was a seeker of thrill like moth to a flame, but the longer they spent in Europe, the more his resolve crumbled into the remnants of the friends he had lost. now, over two years later, he has become a fragment of his old self, finding it hard to reason why he still bothered shooting the rifle. he was tired of it, tired of all the noise, all the pain, and found the only thing that gave him adrenaline was the sound of her laugh, and the feel of her touch.

and it is her touch, in that moment, that holds his left hand tenderly, bringing it to her lips to kiss the back of it. “Joe, you are so much more capable of love than you allow yourself to think.”

Joe is trying to survive, because he knows his mother is waiting at her front porch for his return. he is trying to survive, because fuck, he actually enjoys the ease of driving people around. he loves making them laugh and seeing the city pass him by. he is trying to survive, because he wants to find out who Joe Liebgott is without the war, placed deep into his mind. 

but he needs to survive, because when he gets back to the States, he is going to buy Amy that lily and jasmine perfume she always used to wear back at Toccoa, spritz it all over his home until she's ready to move in with him herself. but right now, that’s reaching too far.

he is no longer fighting the war just to fight, he thinks, while inching forward to press a soft, warm kiss to her lips. this time, the chaos of the aid station did not make her flinch, 'cause there was only him.

no, he is fighting to survive, for her.

1945, Austria

“is there a reason you call me a little flower, Joe?” Amy asks.

“because come sunshine or rain, you manage to keep being so fuckin’ beautiful,” Joe answers, shrugging.

she blushes at that. Joe, whose face is half covered by a new comic his sister has just mailed in, smirks in satisfaction. there is no doubt who has the upper hand of turning the other into mush—it was Amy, and it annoys him that she never even has to try. whenever he gets a chance to make her even a little flustered, he takes it, and he rubs it in her face.

his attention flickers back to the comic for a second, before he looks at Amy again. Amy, though busy with her coffee and crossword puzzle, darts her eyes to him and back playfully, throwing in a wink—and he laughs at that. setting his comic book down, he walks the close distance to her wicker chair. their hotel balcony they're sat on faces the mountainous, green view and it's so glorious that it seems more like a painting. there are birds flying through the skies, a few of the Easy boys yelling rambunctiously through some baseball, and hot water in the showers.

“Joe, what—” her thoughts are cut off when she’s engulfed by both of his arms, muscles in his tank flexing as he carries her whole, and plops himself down in her chair, before cuddling her on top. “what?” he says, smirking as she chuckles, before settling back into his arms. it feels surreal, to Joe and Amy both, being able to bask in the quiet of each other, in the comfort of their own room (well, sneaking into each other’s rooms). they didn't have to wake up breathless in the face of an artillery strike, and they didn’t have to steal kisses in the cover of the night. everyone knew about Amy and Joe (especially Skinny, god bless him having to watch them kiss), but they were in the middle of a war, and about to be promoted on the basis of their discipline.

in fact, it felt wrong sometimes, taking advantage of the luxury in this place. but they’ve also just dragged their minds through Haguenau, Thalem, and Landsberg, where they found that the scale of brutality committed was much, much bigger than they figured humanely possible. perhaps Colonel Sink thought they deserved a reminder of what the world was like when it was still good. it all felt wrong, but everyone preferred to be imposters in the sunshine, than burn alive underneath it.

“you told me,” Joe asks, caressing her waist and her thighs lightly, “that you wanted to open a little bookstore when this is all over.”

fiddling with the necklace around Joe’s neck, she nods. “what about it?”

“where?” he asks again. Amy notices the way his tone is not only questioning, but nervous. “where would the dream Calloway bookstore be?”

she sits up slowly, placing a hand on Joe’s chest which he cradles with his own, rubbing his thumb back and forth on her skin. “i don’t think i’ve really thought much about what i’m gonna do beyond this place Joe…i, i don’t know. anywhere back home’s gonna be better than here. i just need to get away.”

“home?” Joe asks, “you’ll go back home?”

(my home, Joe thinks, is wherever you are.)

the sound of the scenery washes over their reverie. the afternoon laze is settling in, the men that were playing baseball now dispersing, remaining a distant sound from where Amy and Joe's room was. none of that matters to Amy though, because she's focused solely on Joe, slowly grabbing his hand and raising to kiss the back of it. it reminds him of their time, withering away in the freezing cold of Bagstone, but he shoves that thought in the back of their mind. they are in Austria now. and though they were awaiting on orders for the Pacific, for now, they were safe.

“home is the where the heart is,” she marvels, her smile growing. “so yes Joe,” she continues, reaching into his heart, “i’ll be going wherever home takes me.”

thank you for reading.

[stfrancisprayer]

when texas was still mexico ☆ chambear (verb) ☆ singing from your chest ☆ ay, jalisco, no te rajes ☆ weekends at the USO ☆ amor prohibido ☆ longing for something just out of reach ☆ la media vuelta ☆ from america to europe and back again ☆ y volveré

[playlist]

[bandagesandloveletters]

Band of Brothers Masterlist

𝙰𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎: 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜, 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎!

Tag list: If you like my work, feel free to comment, and I can add you to a tag list for any future works either in general or for a certain character.

Lewis Nixon

Cold as Ice -A little something where Nixon learns to ice skate but it’s all part of a deeper plan. Pairing: Lewis Nixon x OFC.

Richard "Dick" Winters

Hidden Love - A request written around the reader and Dick having a hidden love for each other. Pairing: Richard Winters x Reader

Chuck Grant

Get Well Soon - Chuck gets a visitor to cheer him up. Pairing: Chuck Grant x OFC

Floyd Talbert

Frostbite and Kisses - In the cold depths of Bastogne, a little warmth is always welcome. Pairing: Floyd Talbert x OFC (Rosie Moretti)

George Luz

Sentimental Journey - A dance brings two kindred souls together. Pairing: George Luz x OFC (Ellis White)

Joe Liebgott

A Sergeant's Sorrow - A conversation between two friends after Brécourt. Pairing: Joe Liebgott x Platonic!OFC (Lizzie Welsh)

[executethyself35]

Let's See How Far We've Come: Episode 1

pairings: BoB x ocs

a/n: the time throughout the day might seem wonky, has actually been proofread, for future chapters: this is based off of the show and the actors representations of these men, i mean no offense to the actual veterans.

warnings: slight cursing

Toccoa, Georgia, 1942 

Everyone got to the barracks at different times, trains coming from different states and cities taking somewhat longer or shorter. The first one there was probably Eliza Thomlin. With her being from Asheville and all. Eliza arrived at 5 am and waited for maybe five hours until another girl came. The girl was taller than Eliza. Her skin was much paler than Eliza's, with a near-white complexion. Her curly blonde hair framed her pretty face. The girl then introduced herself.

“Hello my name’s Torrance, everyone calls me Torrie though,” she had a British accent, which was strange being that they were in the south.

“I’m Eliza, ain’t you supposed to be on the other side of the pond?” asked Eliza. 

Before answering, Torrie let out a laugh, “Yea, I guess so, but I haven’t been to the other side since I was 15.” 

 “Well, I didn’t expect that, where are you from now?” Eliza let out a chuckle.

 “Hattiesburg, Mississippi, you?” 

 “Asheville, North Carolina, I’ve been sitting here for 5 hours waiting for someone to show up.” 

 “Well, you got someone to talk to now,” Torrie laughed again. Eliza smiled, she knew she was gonna have a friend here. About an hour later, a dark-skinned girl showed up, who spoke quickly with a clear New Orleans accent. “Y’all here for the female parachute infantry?”

 Eliza immediately replied, “Yup, what’s your name?”

 “Olive-Marie LeBeau, most people call me Olive though,” the girl replied.

 “I’m Eliza.” 

 Torrie piped in, “And I’m Torrie,” her accent seemed to surprise Olive.

“Well at least it’s nice to see a familiar face,” Olive replied. Over the hour that Eliza and Torrie were talking, Eliza found out Torrie was mixed and just so happened to be albino also. “Yea, it is, you look shocked by my accent” Torrie replied.

Olive laughed, “Well, you don’t hear a British accent in America all that often.”   Torrie replied, “Well you got that right.” 

A few hours later two other girls showed up. They were around the same height. One had olive skin and medium brown hair, and the other had tan skin and black hair. The black-haired one spoke up immediately, “What’s all y’all’s names? I’m Bianca Hernandez.” 

 Everyone introduced themselves except the brown-haired girl. “What’s your name girl?” asked Olive.

“I’m Marselle Rosaliano,” the girl answered in a sweet tone. “I like your hair, Eliza, it suits your eyes.” 

Eliza was bright ginger with bright green eyes, and that comment made her face as bright as her hair. It was later into the afternoon and the girls who had shown up already had retreated inside the barracks. There was a knock on the door, Bianca had yelled for whoever it was to come in. In walked the tallest of the girls gathered, she was built and had long black hair and dark eyes, and she looked menacing. Bianca asked, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Zipporah Fieldman,” said the girl. 

Bianca grinned while lying on her side in one of the barracks beds. “Well, I’m gonna call you Zippo because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna remember that.”

Zippo let out a chuckle, “That’s better than Zippy, what’s your name?”

 “Bianca,” she replied. 

“Well, I’ll call you B.”

 B chuckled, “That’s creative.”

“Yea and so is Zippo asshole,” Zippo replied grinning. Everyone started talking and having a good time and started creating nicknames for the ones who didn’t have one already. Olive became Ollie. They tried to make Eliza ‘Lizzy’ until she shot that down in a heartbeat angrily, no one questioned it and they moved on. Marselle politely declined being given a nickname. 

It was about 2 hours later and what seemed to be the last of the girls had arrived. She seemed to be about Marselle and B’s height, she had dark red hair and pale skin, she and Eliza looked like they could be sisters. She knocked on the door and walked into the barracks. Everyone stopped talking and looked up at her. Until Zippo perked up “What’s your name?”

“Mary McCullen,'' the girl introduced herself.

“I’m Zippo, that’s B, that’s Ollie, that’s Torrie, that’s Marselle, and that’s Eliza,” Zippo introduced herself and everyone else. Everyone greeted each other and started shooting the shit. Until one last girl barged into the room. She looked like she was ready to give everyone an order, she glared at all of them. A look that made all the girls get out of their beds and stand at attention. Now, she was the tallest out of all of them, she had short straight blonde hair. She spoke with an authoritative tone. “I’m Lieutenant Harten, I’ll be leading you ladies. You girls are now officially apart of the 101st Airborne, you neanderthalettes are gonna be apart of the 506th’s E Company, you all better prove yourself tomorrow and show that a women’s division isn’t a stupid idea, because tomorrow is when you meet the boys of Easy and show them what you’re made of. Now go get some food because for some reason they decided to keep y’all separate from the boys for as long as possible,” the Lieutenant let out a laugh. And so it begins…

Taglist!!: @1waveshortofashipwreck, @dontirrigateme, @blueberry-ovaries, @montied, @scotchballs9, @xxluckystrike, @ithinkabouttzu, @themysciraprincess, if you want to be added or removed from the list, message me or send me an ask and i'll take you off or add you!!

[coco-bean-1218]

Well-Behaved Women Never Make History

Chapter One: Something In The Way

Chapter Soundtrack

Summary: Claire leaves her home and starts her journey to Camp Toccoa.

A/N: Hello, everyone!! Welcome to Chapter One of Well-Behaved Women Never Make History! I am very excited to finally start this story and share it with all of you! I hope you enjoy and feel free to like, comment, and reblog!

Warnings: Swearing, period-typical behavior

Taglist: @whollyjoly @footprintsinthesxnd @panzershrike-pretz @xxluckystrike

Credits: Moodboard 1 made by @xxluckystrike Moodboard 2 made by @footprintsinthesxnd Thank you both so much!!!

June, 1942

Detroit, Michigan

10 a.m. Eastern Time

———

Detroit's Union Station was a bustling hub of wartime activity, its vast halls echoing with the hurried footsteps of soldiers and civilians alike. The morning sun streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows over the faces of families clustered around their loved ones. Amidst them stood Claire O'Connor, surrounded by an imposing fortress of luggage, her dark brown hair pulled back into victory rolls, dark red lipstick painted on her lips, her stoic expression betraying none of the apprehension swirling inside her. 

"Damn, Claire, are you planning to open a boutique down there?" Emma, her older sister, teased, one hand affectionately resting on her sister's shoulder while her eyes danced with mirth at the sight of the luggage.

Claire offered a wry smile, pushing up her glasses with a finger. "Hey, you know me, I'm always prepared," she quipped, the edge of her humor tinged with nerves. "You can never have too many pairs of underwear."

Their father, Mr. O'Connor, chuckled, adjusting his glasses with a patient smile. "War or no war, I don't think the enemy will care much for your matching luggage set."

"Ha-ha, very funny, Dad," Claire retorted, a tight smile betraying her simmering nerves. Peyton stood beside Claire, a single duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her posture composed—a sharp contrast to Claire's cluttered state.

Mrs. O'Connor, Claire and Emma's mother, clucked her tongue as she adjusted one of the smaller bags atop a mountainous suitcase. "You've got enough to last through the war and back, honey bee," she said, her voice equal parts exasperation and concern. "Remember, you're going to be a medic, not a debutante."

"I know, Mom. It's just—" Claire hesitated, biting her lip. "It feels like I'm packing up my entire world."

"Because you are," Peyton interjected softly, coming to stand beside Claire. Her own belongings were neatly consolidated into her single bag, the stark contrast between the friends' preparations mirroring their differing paths. Peyton's mom stood a few feet away, her pride battling the sorrow in her eyes.

"First time for everything, right?" Claire continued, her attempt at levity falling flat in her own ears. Her gaze shifted between the faces of her family and Peyton, trying to memorize them before the journey ahead.

"Exactly. It's an adventure, Claire," Peyton replied, reaching out to give Claire's hand a reassuring squeeze. "Just think of the stories we'll have to share."

"Right," Claire forced a chuckle. "Yours will probably be publishable. Mine will be too bloody to print."

"Your sense of humor is as dark as ever," Peyton replied.

The arrival of Peyton's train sliced through the air, the shrill whistle echoing off the station walls. The machine billowed steam like a specter of change, heralding the imminent departure. Everyone's attention turned to the locomotive, its metallic body gleaming beneath the Michigan sun.

"Train for Des Moines now boarding!" the announcement cut through their conversation with the sharpness of a knife. 

"Guess that's my cue," Peyton said, her usual grace faltering just a bit. 

"Promise me you'll write?" Claire's voice was steady, but her brown eyes betrayed her anxiety. 

"Every chance I get," Peyton promised, pulling Claire into a fierce hug. "And don't go falling for any charming soldiers without telling me first."

"Who, me?" Claire managed a smirk. "Charm isn't exactly my Achilles' heel, you know that."

"I know, but stranger things have happened," Peyton said with a knowing look. "Just promise me you won't shut yourself off from the possibility of love."

"Oh, I'll keep an eye out for any dashing heroes trying to sweep me off my feet," Claire replied dryly. "But don't hold your breath."

With a final squeeze, Peyton released her friend and turned to her mother, enveloping her in a long hug before stepping back with a brave nod. 

"Go get 'em, journalist!" Claire called after her, her teasing tone belying the tightness in her chest.

Peyton turned at the steps of the train, grinning broadly. "Wait for my bylines, Claire! They'll be front page before you know it!"

As Peyton disappeared into the train, Claire watched the doors slide shut, her heart sinking with the finality of the moment. A lump formed in her throat as she waved goodbye to Peyton, her best friend whom she had known since childhood. The train let out a low rumble, lurching into motion, gradually picking up speed and pulling away from the platform.

"Godspeed, Peyton Nelson," Claire whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

Nearly an hour later, the shrill whistle of Claire's train tore through the lingering silence, signaling the impending departure and severing the last tenuous threads tethering her to home. Her family clustered around her like a protective shroud, their faces etched with pride and worry.

"Here it is," her father said, his voice thick with unspoken emotions.

"Looks like it," Claire agreed, hoisting her suitcase with a grunt. Her hands trembled slightly, the weight of her decision settling on her shoulders along with the overstuffed leather.

"Train for Atlanta now boarding," the conductor called out, his voice a steady beacon amidst the clamor.

"Remember to keep your head down and help others do the same," her father said, "And look out for yourself."

"Can't make any promises," Claire quipped, "But I'll do what I can."

"Let's just hope the Army's ready for you," Mrs. O'Connor added, a twinkle in her eye that mirrored Claire's own spark of defiance. "They won't know what hit 'em!" Her embrace was tight, a desperate attempt to imprint the feeling of her daughter onto her very soul. 

"I'll write every single day until you're sick of me!" Claire promised, offering a watery smile. "And when I come back, maybe I'll have a dashing paratrooper to introduce to you. Wouldn't that be something?"

Mrs. O'Connor winked at her daughter, “A fiery girl like you rarely returns with just tales of heroism and bravery. You're bound to turn a few heads, I'm sure of it!"

Laughter bubbled up from Emma, cutting through the tension like a lifeline thrown across turbulent waters. "Oh, brother, that poor man!" her sister said, hugging her tightly.

Her dad chuckled, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Just make sure he knows how to handle a fearless woman." 

"And don't let those men step all over you," her mother added in a firm tone, "You know what I say, 'Men ain't shit,' except for your father, of course."

"You know me, I don't like toxic masculinity," Claire replied with a smirk.

As the conductor's voice reverberated through the station once more, signaling the imminent departure of Claire's train, she picked up her mountain of baggage and stepped onto the platform. Claire climbed the steps of the train but paused at the top to cast a final glance at her loved ones. "Bye! Wish me luck!" she called out.

With a deep breath that did little to steady her heart, she entered the train. Claire made her way down the narrow aisle, finding a seat by the window in the last car, where the world could unfurl before her like a map of possibilities. As the vehicle jerked forward, she pressed her palm against the glass, maintaining eye contact with her parents and Peyton's mother until the station was nothing but a speck in the distance.

She settled into the rhythm of the rails, the clack-clack of wheels turning over tracks like a metronome counting down to her new reality. The heat was oppressive air thickening in the cramped space, sticking her blouse to her back and making her glasses slide down her nose. 

As the landscape outside blurred into a collage of greens and browns, Claire pulled out "The Great Gatsby" from her bag. She immersed herself in the opulent tragedy of Gatsby's world, finding a strange comfort in the characters' doomed pursuits. "I always thought of myself as Gatsby and Noah as Daisy." she thought to herself, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

Hours melded together, marked only by the rhythmic sway of the train and the occasional jostle of fellow passengers. When the heat became too oppressive, she switched to Freud, his theories a stark contrast to Gatsby's opulence and glittering disillusionment. "Id, ego, and superego," she mused aloud, her voice lost in the clatter of the train. "Which one got me into this mess? Freud would have a field day with me."

As dusk began to paint the sky with strokes of burnt orange and dusky violet, Claire pulled out a sheet of paper and began a letter to her mom. Her pen hovered above the page before it skated across, detailing the mundane aspects of her journey—never hinting at the undercurrent of fear that gnawed at her insides. "Dear Mom," she wrote, "the scenery is beautiful, although it's hard to appreciate fully when you're being slowly roasted."

Her hand hesitated, hovering above the paper as memories of Noah surfaced unbidden. Claire reached into her handbag and retrieved a photograph. It showed her and Noah, side by side, innocent smiles frozen in time under the banner of their high school graduation. Their graduation gowns billowed like hopeful sails, caps thrown mid-air, smiles wide and oblivious to the future. "Oh, Noah," she whispered, tracing the outline of his face. "Always fixing things, but never saw what was broken." 

Her fingers traced the lines of his face, the awkward angle of his glasses—a mirror image of her own. She wondered where he was at this exact moment, if the sea was kind to him, or if the churn of the engine lulled him to sleep each night. "Be safe," she whispered into the fading light, her lips brushing against the cool surface of the picture. The train carried her onward, through the dusk and into a future as uncertain as the war itself.

The night stretched before her, each mile a note in a song of departure and anticipation. Claire leaned her head against the window, watching towns and fields blur by, while inside, her heart beat a staccato rhythm of longing and fear—an intricate dance of the times.

As the morning sun pierced through the curtains, bathing the train compartment in a soft golden glow, Claire stirred awake, her cheek imprinted with the pattern of the window's glass. She blinked groggily as she stood up and reached for her luggage to retrieve a fresh outfit from her suitcase. 

Stepping into the narrow hallway of the train car, Claire made her way towards the washroom at the end. The rocking motion of the train beneath her feet quickened her pace, her hand steadying on the metal railing that lined the corridor. 

She reached the washroom door and gave it a gentle push, stepping inside and locking it behind her. The tiny room was a welcome refuge from the constant movement of the train. Claire changed into her fresh clothes — a burnt orange and white striped blouse and matching orange skirt that billowed softly around her knees — and stuffed yesterday’s clothing into a laundry bag. 

As she adjusted the collar of her blouse, the train lurched unexpectedly, causing her to stumble mid-button. Catching herself on the sink, she cursed under her breath and quickly finished dressing. 

With her heart still hammering in her chest from the sudden movement, Claire took a moment to collect herself before unlocking the door and stepping back into the hallway. 

Upon reaching her seat, the conductor’s voice echoed through the car, announcing their arrival in Atlanta. Claire collected her books and the letter to her mother, tucking them into her bag next to Noah's photograph. With a hefty sigh, she hoisted her bags—one, two, three—onto her shoulders and hips, a cumbersome dance that drew snickers from a couple of soldiers nearby. Atlanta, the city humming with the war effort and Southern charm, sprawled out before her, daunting in its vastness.

The stifling heat of Georgia smothered Claire the moment she stepped off the train, a harsh welcome to the South. She maneuvered through the bustling station, dragging her excessive luggage behind her, the clicking of her heels lost in the shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of countless conversations. 

The bus was already rumbling when Claire approached it, and as she climbed aboard, she felt every eye bore into her. She was a curiosity— a woman unaccompanied by a man among rows of young soldiers whose lives were set on a wartime metronome.

"Camp Toccoa," she said firmly to the bus driver, who raised an eyebrow but handed her the ticket without comment.

"Hey, doll, you boarding with all that?" one of the soldiers called out, nodding towards her luggage pile.

"Unless you see it sprouting legs and walking itself on, yes," Claire retorted, her voice edged with the wit she wielded like armor.

Another soldier piped up, "What's your story? Headed to entertain the troops?"

"Medic training," she clipped, pushing her glasses up her nose with a stubborn tilt of her chin. "I'll be patching up your sorry asses on the battlefield. Consider yourselves lucky."

Murmurs rippled through the bus as she maneuvered to an empty seat at the back, her bags wedged between her and the aisle. The curious glances didn't cease, though they became more surreptitious. Claire could feel the weight of their stares, the silent question marks punctuating the air around her. 

"Never seen a dame wanting to be in the thick of it," a soldier across the aisle muttered to his neighbor. "She's got guts, I'll give her that."

"Or she's crazy," the other replied, not unkindly.

"Both," Claire interjected before she could stop herself, eliciting a few chuckles. It was an odd sensation, this camaraderie laced with isolation. She hunkered down in her seat, pulling out her unfinished letter to her mom, and tried to resume writing, but the words seemed frivolous now, floating aimlessly on the page. Instead, she tucked the letter away, leaning her forehead against the cool window glass, allowing her thoughts to drift.

"Hey, combat medic," the same soldier ventured again after a few moments, "You got a fella waiting for you back home?"

Claire answered, staring blankly at the seat in front of her, "Nope."

The soldier whistled low. "Well, that's a damn shame. A pretty gal like you, brave enough to sign up for this mess," he said, gesturing to the bus full of soldiers. "There must be plenty of fellas fighting over you back there."

Claire chuckled bitterly. "Fighting over me? More like running in the opposite direction," she replied, a self-deprecating smile tugging at her lips. 

The soldier's eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "Nah, I can't believe that. A dame like you? Trust me, there ain't a fella worth his salt who wouldn't be lining up for a chance with you."

Claire sighed, her eyes fixed on the soldier's earnest expression. "Well, I guess they must have missed the memo," she retorted with a forced chuckle.

"I'm Danny, by the way," the soldier said, extending his hand towards Claire.

"Claire," she replied, shaking his hand. 

Danny had thick, dark hair and eyebrows, deep brown eyes, and a slight stubble showing he had recently shaved. He was handsome, no doubt about it.

"You said you're gonna be a combat medic, right?" Danny asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes. "At Camp Toccoa, if I heard you correctly. Ain't that where the paratroopers train?"

Claire nodded, a glimmer of defiance in her eyes. "Yeah, that's right. We'll be jumping out of perfectly good planes."

Danny whistled, impressed. "Well, I'll be damned. I could never. I'd crash land, splattering my guts everywhere like a burst tomato."

Claire laughed, "Thanks for the visual. I'll think of that as I plummet to my death."

When the bus finally came to a halt, the driver's voice announced, "Camp Toccoa, final stop!"

Claire stood and wrestled with her suitcases once more. Danny offered to help, but she politely declined. With a determined stride, she walked down the narrow aisleway towards the steps. 

"Good luck, Miss Medic!" Danny called out.

"Yeah, you too, Dollface," she teased with a wink. With a final heave, she managed to walk down the steps of the bus into the sweltering heat. 

"Watcha thinkin', Danny?" his companion next to him asked.

Danny grinned, shaking his head, “Nothin’ much," he replied, his gaze set on Claire as she stood outside the entrance to the camp.

The camp sprawled before Claire, a collection of low-lying buildings nestled amidst the dense Georgia forest. Stepping onto the dirt road, she was greeted by the stark white letters on the wooden sign: 'Camp Toccoa.'

She stood there, alone now, the dust settling around her feet. Before her lay a path lined with uncertainty, with courage demanded and comfort stripped away. To enter meant embracing her choice fully, to become part of something far greater than herself. 

---

[softguarnere]

Like A Girl (Like A Man)

Shifty Powers x OFC

Chapter 38: Falling Into Place

Summary: They found their way back to each other, but now they have to find their way back to themselves as well. A/N: This took me way too long to write, because I just couldn't get it right, even though I knew what I wanted to happen. But next is the epilogue, and I'm ✨very pleased✨ with that, so hopefully it all balances out Warnings: symptoms of PTSD Taglist: @latibvles @liebgotts-lovergirl @dcyllom @ithinkabouttzu @mads-weasley @mrs-murder-daddy @lieutenant-speirs

Virginia, 1946

Their first week in Clinchco is probably the closest thing that they ever get to a proper honeymoon.

Although Shifty is sometimes in pain, he insists on going into the woods, reacquainting himself with the places that raised him. Despite the winter chill, they climb Frying Pan together and watch the sprawl of blue mountains before them in silence, drinking it all in. These are not the same mountains that cradled Zenie growing up, but she squints out at them, familiarizing herself with their peaks and crevices, already calling them home.

The blanks do not easily fill themselves in, completing the story and wrapping it up in a nice bow. The universe has spent too long throwing them curveballs to stop now.

On the coldest winter nights, Zenie sometimes jerks awake, heart racing, convinced that she’ll open her eyes and find herself back in her foxhole in Bastogne – afraid that the past year has all been a dream and that she never made it out of those woods.

Shifty is usually awake, staring at the ceiling. She curls into his warmth and listens to his heartbeat, trying to drift back to sleep.

On nights when it eludes her and Shifty still dozes, she sneaks into the kitchen and places late night phone calls to Philadelphia and chats with Bill or Babe, neither of who seem to be getting much sleep, either.

It’s on one of those sleepless nights that Babe dredges up ancient history.

“Zee,” his voice crackles through the receiver. “I just realized something.”

“What is it?”

“You remember that night back in England where you danced with that girl in the pub?”

Zenie has to rifle through memories until she comes up with the correct one. There had been a girl, she vaguely recalls, who moved like a fox that allowed her a dance after Babe encouraged her not to waste her night on the sidelines. “I think so.”

“You made me look like an idiot!”

“Because I was such a good dancer?” Zenie croons quietly, smirking to herself in the darkness of the kitchen.

Babe gasps, mock offended. “No! Because I said that it was too bad you weren’t a girl – since if you were, we would have made a hell of a jitterbug team.”

She has to muffle her laugh with her hand so that she doesn’t wake up everyone in the Powers’ house. He had said that. With no clue.

“Anyway, you better get your ass to Philly to come visit me and Bill,” Babe continues. “And when you do, we’re gonna go dancing!”

“Is that a promise, or a threat?”

“Both.”

But in the end, they go nowhere. Not for a while, at least.

Shifty borrows the truck one day to drive into the next town over, eager to go visit an old friend. Zenie kisses him goodbye at the door, then heads out into town to see if she can find a job. Their time at home relaxing has been fun, but she’s spent too long being busy to get used to it. (Besides, the lingering memories of her father never raising a finger haunt her; she refuses to be anything like him.) They need money, at some point, anyway, to get their own house.

She returns home an hour later, smiling in triumph after securing herself a job at the local diner. But it fades as soon as she walks into the yard and sees Shifty sitting on the front step, frowning down at his feet.

“Shifty?”

He looks up, startled. His dark eyes are deep with something that Zenie doesn’t recognize.

“You’re home early.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t go.”

“What?” He had been so excited, even though he was only going a town over.

“I couldn’t go,” Shifty corrects himself slowly. He stands, shaking his head, brow furrowed. “I – I don’t know. I was going down the road, and it was like all the air just left my chest. Had to pull over to catch a breath. And then I just . . . came home.”

“Oh, Shifty.”  She opens her arms, and he falls into them. His breathing is heavy, and Zenie rubs his back. They stay like that for a while, still making up for lost time, still making up for all those months where they didn’t get to hold each other like this. When Zenie speaks, she keeps her voice low, afraid to upset the delicate balance of the little universe that exists between just the two of them in this moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”

There’s a moment of hesitation before she feels Shifty shake his head. “No,” he says, breaking their embrace. He sighs. “I don’t even know what there is to say.”

He’s right. What is there to say?

The words for what the end of the war leaves in them remain just out of reach, like a plane passing over in the evening sky, or too deeply entrenched in their hearts to remove, like pieces of shrapnel lodged in a soldier’s flesh. Every time that Zenie thinks she’s found the words, they ultimately fall flat. She always thinks of David Webster, and how he could wax poetic about anything and everything. It makes her wish that she was like that.

But she’s not. So she has to find other ways to express herself. And sometimes the only way she can find to do that is to grab hold of Shifty’s hand and squeeze it like she’s gripping a lifeline. Shifty, for his part, often wraps his arms around her and just holds her, neither of them speaking – just the two of them huddled together, as if they’re the only people in the whole universe.

Things don’t magically fall into place the way that Zenie had once expected them to. Their new lives take some adjusting as new routines develop. They found their way back to each other, but now they have to find their way back to themselves as well.

Shifty disappears into the woods most afternoons. Sometimes he takes Zenie with him. They sit on top of Frying Pan, gazing out at the hazy mountains, their hands intwined. It’s on one of these days that Shifty makes a confession.

“I can’t hunt anymore,” he says quietly.

Startled by his sudden speech, Zenie tears her eyes away from the scene before her. It takes a minute for his words to sink in.

“What?”

“I can’t hunt anymore,” Shifty repeats. He’s still gazing out at the mountains, but a wrinkle appears between his brows as he furrows them in thought. “I’ve tried, but it’s not the same.”

Come to think of it, Shifty usually has his rifle with him when he heads into the woods. But he never comes back with any game. He used to love to hunt.

“I’m sorry,” Zenie says for lack of anything better.

Shifty turns to her, offers her a sad smile. He plants a kiss on her cheek. “Not your fault, Zena. Some things are just different now, and this is one of them.” He exhales, a hard sigh through his nose. “We just have to get used to them.”

And they do.

Slowly, Shifty starts to venture further than the woods. He surprises Zenie by visiting her at the diner one afternoon, and she takes her break so that they can share a slice of pie – blueberry, just like they talked about back in Haguenau – and watch people pass by on the street. When she returns home from work that evening, Shifty surprises her again by announcing that he got a job after he left the diner.

“With the coal company,” he explains. “They aren’t hiring mechanics, but they signed me on to pick slate. It’s a start.”

He doesn’t sound disappointed, but he doesn’t sound thrilled about the menial work, either.

“Shifty,” Zenie says, squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to go back to work if you don’t feel ready.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m ready. There are only so many days a man can sit around at home or walk by the same trees in the woods. Besides, I –“ He stops, bites his lip. He shakes his head again. “Never mind.”

This catches Zenie’s attention. “What?”

An awkward pause ensues in which they stare at each other, Shifty looking like a man who has just painted himself into a corner.

Finally, he sighs. “I’m not goin’ to be the type of man your father is. Sittin’ around at home all day, I mean.”

“Oh.” He’s doing this for her. No one has ever forced themselves to do something just for Zenie’s own benefit or happiness before. She leans forward and presses a kiss to her husband’s smooth cheek. Just by considering her feelings, he’s already leaps and bounds ahead of her father. Her last conversation with Matthew applies here, too. “Don’t worry, Shifty. You’re nothing like him.”

Shifty nods in agreement. “And we never will be. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Slowly, spring comes into bloom all around them. Green buds and colorful shoots reintroduce themselves to the landscape, creeping through the mountains and valleys like a spilled watercolor set staining fresh paper. With the rising temperatures, thoughts of Bastogne and long, miserable days in frozen foxholes subside. Zenie’s sleepless nights ebb away. Shifty begins to smile and talk more. Even though it’s their first spring together in the States as a couple, it feels like they’re returning to themselves as things begin to fall into place.

It's late March. Shifty’s birthday has come and gone, and her own is on the horizon. As the days pass, Zenie finds herself watching the calendar more and more, keeping track of dates as she makes private calculations and risk assessments as she secretly practices speeches that she needs to deliver to Shifty.

The afternoon is clear and bright. Blooming jonquils perfume the air, giving it a sweet quality that Zenie can’t get enough of. A whole company of the yellow flowers rests behind the house, guarding the little creek that runs past. Zenie paces along their ranks as she waits for Shifty to return home from work.

When the rumbling of the truck’s engine comes into earshot, Zenie has to shield her eyes from the sun as she looks up to watch her husband pull into the driveway. He’s going faster than usual. The second he spots her coming towards him, he leans out the window, smiling wide as he waves her over to his parking spot.

“Got a surprise for you,” he announces as he leaps out of the truck. “A couple, actually.”

“I have something for you, too,” Zenie admits.

“I hope it’s pie,” Shifty says. “Because that’s the only thing that could make this day any better.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. It might be better than pie.”

Shifty quirks an eyebrow. “Better than pie? That’s some big talk.” He circles to the back of his truck, smile never wavering in his excitement. “Do you remember what we talked about back in Haguenau?”

They talked about a lot of things back in Haguenau. Many plans were made in those haunted shells of buildings. But for the sake of conversation, Zenie just nods. “Yes.”

“Well, you never said what kind of dog you wanted, so I took a chance – “ Shifty opens the back door of the truck and removes a box from the back seat. Almost immediately, a small, dark nose framed with fiery fur peeps over the rim and gives the air a sniff. A glossy auburn head soon follows, and a puppy stares out at Zenie, who tentatively reaches out a hand to scratch it between the eyebrows.

“A guy at work said his dog unexpectedly had some puppies, and I told him I wanted to buy one,” Shifty explains. “Irish Setter.” He tilts his head as he watches Zenie run the puppy’s silky ears between her fingers. “I think he’s cute.”

“Beautiful,” Zenie agrees. “Does he have a name?”

Shifty beams when he tells her, “That privilege belongs to you.”

The puppy is small, but his eyes are large, soulful things. Sunlight glints off his red fur the way that it used to shine off Matthew’s auburn hair on summer days – bright, like a new penny. Bright like the sun, like Shifty’s smile. Nvda means sun, and agaliha means it’s sunny, but none of those seem quite right in explaining how he looks; the color of his fur is deeper, redder . . .

“Degvliga,” she decides.

“Wildfire,” Shifty translates. He inspects the dog, who perks up at the name. “Hey, I think he likes it.”

They get so caught up in playing with Wildfire, watching him roam the yard and telling him that he’s an osda ghili usdi that Zenie almost forgets what she was thinking about before Shifty arrived, and he forgets that he promised her a second surprise.

It’s not until they’re lying awake in bed that night, legs entangled and watching their fingers in- and untwine in the moonlight that reality seems to set in again.

“Adeljuhlvi,” Shifty says dreamily. “California.”

“What about it?” Zenie’s eyes are already half closed. For all she knows, she might have only dreamed that he said that.

The mattress dips as Shifty rolls onto his side so that he can look at her. “I forgot to tell you. A mechanic’s job opened up, but the boss wants to send me to California for it.”

Tired or not, now Zenie’s eyes open wide at the news. She props herself up on one elbow, like looking at her husband from a slightly different angle will make everything clearer. “That’s so far away!”

Shifty nods. “I know. But I’ve been thinkin’ . . . It’s also a lot warmer there. It might be nice, you know, to take a break from winter for a while.”

All the recent sunny days they’ve experienced with the onset of spring have caused her memories of winter to melt away like thawed snow. Now that she considers it, though . . . won’t they just come back with the first cold snap? Who can predict that type of thing?

Even the thought of snow sends a shiver down her spine. Memories of ice and explosions flash through her mind, quick as the shrapnel that tore so easily through the forest every day and every night. At night she sometimes wakes with the images echoing through her mind the same way that screams and gunshots echoed across that frozen wasteland they called Bastogne.

She never wants to look winter in the face again. So she makes up her mind then and there.

“I’m game if you are.” Her voice is strong, steady. “It’s your job, though, so it’s your decision.”

In the moonlight, Shifty studies her for a moment. The slightest incline of his head indicates a nod of agreement. “I think it would be best for us. For now, at least.”

“A new adventure.” Zenie settles back down onto her pillow, relaxed by the decision. “I’ll miss this place, though.”

“I know. But our mountains will always be here.”

“They’ll wait for us.”

“Exactly.”

Funny, she thought the same thing the day she ran away. And when she left home for the last time to come here, to her new home. Maybe she’s destined to think it every time. A reminder of sorts. But a fact – they have been here since time immemorial, and they will be here long after Zenie has come and gone.

“ – to tell me?” Shifty’s voice drags her out of her half-asleep state.

“What?”

“When I got home, you said that you had something for me.” He nudges her affectionately. “And there was no pie at dinner.”

A giggle works its way up Zenie’s throat. It sounds loud and bright in the moonlight and the quiet of the night around them. Through the darkness, she finds Shifty’s hand again and drags it toward her, until his warm palm is pressed against the flat of her stomach.

If all goes well, there are two new adventures that they’ll be going into – together. 

[kilojulietsierra]

Porch Swing Angel - Eugene Roe x Louisiana!Nurse OFC

Sorry this took way longer to post than I intended, but here it is! Finally!! It's barely edited but hopefully y'all enjoy!

Eugene plays guitar in this one, he sings a song called "Hurricane" by Band of Heathens. It was def not out in the 40's but oh well.

~~~~~~

As soon as Spina emerged from behind the bar with the well worn guitar in his hand and a gleeful look on his face Roe began to regret the singular offhand comment he had made weeks before. He watched his friend wade his way through the crowd with the instrument and Roes face was passive, by no means as excited as Spina.

"Hey, Eugene! You said you could play right. Have a go!" Spina thrust the guitar towards him.

The motion was clumsy enough that Roe reached for it on reflex, concerned Spina would drop it, "Spina, I ain't gonna do that. Go give it back." He pointed back towards the overwhelmed bartender.

"Aw c'mon, he said it was fine!" Spina shoved the guitar at him again.

Roe caved this time and took it carefully, setting his beer down to settle it across his lap at an awkward angle where he sat at a crowded table. "I ain't that good." Even as he mumbled the words his fingers settled on the frets, getting a feel for the old six string. He tuned a string or two to avoid the thought of singing in front of the whole company.

Most the men were occupied in one way or another. If he was lucky maybe none of them would pay attention. Besides the fact that already the boys closest to him had turned to face him. Several egging him on along with Spina.

Caving under the pressure he began to pick senslessly at the strings.

He was rusty. He could feel it. The years of playing with his grandfather came back to him eventually and he got comfortable. A song came to mind and he played through the first few chords testing it out. Roe just played with it at first, lose interpretation of the only song he could come up with. When he looked up next half the pub was staring at him and he immediatly dropped his eyes to the floor.

After another round of persuassion, "C'mon Doc!", "Yeah Doc, sing us somethin'.", Eugene started the first few bars in earnest. Swallowing thickly and ignoring the crowd best he could he sang the beginning of a song that reminded him of Louisiana. Reminded him of home.

"Thirty miles out on the Gulf stream I hear the south wind moan The bridges gettin' lower the shrimp boats comin home"

~~~~~

Lily hadn't had to work too hard to convince the other girls to go to the pub with her. They all knew too well that the airborne had more than ran the regular army boys and brits out of the only pub in town. They all had their own motives, but Lily was mostly just happy for something to break the routine of rolling bandages and collecting dog tags of the boys that would never make it home.

There were only a handful of them tonight and at first they had been swarmed. The paratroopers just happy to see something in a skirt. To that point Lily had found herself trapped in a corner with two of her friends, being talked up by some young man whose jumpwings were as shiny as the day he got them. Which, based on her loose understanding, she would bet was less than a week or two ago.

She had long since stopped giving the poor kid her full attention, beyond accepting the beer he had brought over.

The pub was loud and so when the din suddenly died down and the strum of guitar chords broke the silence in its wake, the girls all turned towards the source but could not see who was playing.

At first Lily was ready to write it off but the strumming grew stronger, more sure of itself, and the tune sounded familiar. When the voice broke through the crowd she couldn't help begin to weave her way through the crowd.

The old man down in the quarter Slowly turns his head Takes a sip from his whiskey bottle And this is what he said

Making it to the source of the music Lily smiled and joined in on the chorus without thinking twice

I was born in the rain on the Pontchartrain Underneath the Lousiana moon

The man playing snapped his eyes up to hers as she joined him and together they continued to sing. Each of them a little more confident.

I don't mind the strain of a hurricane They come around every June

Lily smiled as she found her voice and held the gaze of the solemn, darkhaired paratrooper playing the guitar. The crowd had moved out of her way and she came to stand a short distance away from him as he played. She nodded encouragingly, gave a little winding motion with her hand telling him to play it up.

~~~~~

Eugene quit singing altogether at that point. Not wanting to diminish the girls beautiful voice. So, when she gave him a little signal to pick it up, he took her lead. He found he wasn't playing for the crowed anymore. He was playing for her.

The high blackwater, the devils daughter She's hard, she'd cold and she's mean But nobody taught her, it takes a lot of water To wash away New Orleans.

Her singing overtook him and he wasn't in that pub in England anymore. He was on his Grandmothers porch playing with his grandfather and his uncles on a summer night. He could feel the muggyness, hear the cicadas in the trees and smell the honeysuckle. When he closed his eyes, rocking back and forth as he played outright, he swore he could see lightening bugs behind his eyelids.

She sang like a girl raised on southern baptist choirs and bluegrass. Her voice was rich and strong, husky like maybe she smoked a little here and there. Soulful like she'd had her heart broken a time or two and broken a dozen more herself.

When he opened his eyes next he found her watching him from a few feet away, she held his gaze firm as she belted out the next chorus. Spared him a little smile as she swayed along, her foot stomping out the time. His cheeks were warm when he returned her smile and he had to look away. A vision crossed his mind as he picked and strummed and swayed in his seat. A vision of her perched on the wooden, porch rail behind him in a cotton dress, singing as they all played for her.

At one point, the last chorus, he met her eyes again as he stopped playing. Only tapping out the time against the body of the guitar. Letting her gorgeous voice fill the dead quiet pub all on it's own, every man and woman in the pub hung on her every word.

By the time he played the last few bars out for her, she had come to stand nearly in front of him. Her voice had dropped down to something soft and sweet and without missing a beat they let the music trail off on its own, holding eachothers eyes again until Eugene had to look away.

~~~~~

The crowded bar erupting into shouts and hollers snapped her out of the dream she had slipped into while she had been singing. Whistles and clapping echoed off the walls and suddenly she was a little shy as they all called out for another song.

Amongst the ruccus Lily squeezed her way to the table and carefully perched herself on the edge of it next to where the paratrooper sat with his arms crossed over top the guitar. He smiled when he looked up at her, it's shy and his teeth aren't showing, but his eyes are bright and she liked it. "What else can you play?" She leaned down closer to ask the question.

She was pleasantly caught of guard when a glimmer of something else broke through that shyness and he gave her a grin, "Darlin', if you keep singin' I'll play anything you want."

~~~~~

His response made her smile, with a laugh behind it and Eugene is proud of that. And for some time after that he played any song she asked for, thank God he knew them all, but they were all songs he grew up on and he was grateful for that. THey had made music together until there were couples dancing in a cleared off spot by the dartboard and drunken' soldiers were slurring the words along with them.

Eugene had to control the urge to tell them all to shut up. Let her sing.

She was enjoying herself and smiling wider the more she drank and the more she sang. Roe had lost track of the songs by the time she bowed out and said that was all she had for the night.

For a second he worried she'd disappear once she was done singing but instead she gave him a bright smile and slid off the table to take the empty chair beside him. "I'm Lily Beauchesne," she held out her hand. "My friends call me Beau. It's a little easier."

"Eugene Roe." Leaning the guitar against the wall behind him he took it and felt a wave of heat roll through him that had nothing to do with the overcrowded pub. "Your voice," He started as he let her hand go, "It sounds like home."

For the first time that night it was Lilys cheeks who flushed a pretty pink and she glanced away from him. Her tongue darting out to lick her lips before she reached for a beer and took a sip.

Emboldened by her reaction Gene turned to face her further, "Where you from Lily Beauchesne?"

Lily grinned, enjoying the way his accent colored her name just right and how he didn't stumble over the pronunciation one bit. "Louisiana, little town called Port Barre."

Eugene couldn't help but smile and shake his head. With a little chuckle at the look she gave him he met her eye, "I'm about 50 miles down the river from ya. Bayou Chene"

Her smile doubled in surpise, "You're joking!" She leaned in a little closer and fought back the butterflys in her stomach. "Are your people Cajun?" She asks in what passes for French in south Louisiana.

WIth a nod he responds to her in French as well, "Half. My mothers side."

It's like Lily can't stop smiling at that point. "Mine too! My French is not so good." She uses it though, happy to have something to share with this man she's just met.

That glimmer in his dark eyes comes back again as he tilts his head to look at her. This time he responds in English but his voice is lower, accent thicker, "Sounds real good to me."

Lily blushes again and Roe loves it. Want to keep her smiling and blushing and talking to him all night.

~~~~~

They spend the rest of the night together in their own little world. Sitting close together and talking just the two of them. The friends each of them came left to their own devices while Eugene and Lily got to know eachother. Their conversation flowed between their two languages, their accents blending together. Roe truly wanted to talk to her all night, he wanted more if he were honest with himself and that thought rang louder when Lily had picked his hand up off the table to hold it in her own.

Her tinier, softer fingers caresed his carefully even as she continued on in French, repeating an anectdote about a relative she'd received in her most recent letter from home.

Roe found it hard to concentrate. The sound of her sweet voice lulling him and his attention drawn to they way she had his hand held in her lap. Palm up with her gentle fingers tracing over the lines and creases, brushing over the caluses from working and fighting all this time.

She caught him not paying attention, pulling him back to her by saying his name, "Eugene…" and giving his hand a squeeze.

His eyes jumped back to hers, embarrassed except that her face was nothing but kind if a little teasing,. Every lecture he'd ever received on fratrenization policy spun around in his mind and one by one he tossed hiem aside the longer she smiled at him like that.

He wanted to kiss her. He was going to kiss her

But then Lipton was addressing the crowd. Roe had pulled his hand from her grip and felt the weigh of war settle back over him as the news came. They would be leaving.

When he turned back to her Lily was still smiling, but now it was soft and sad.

Before Eugene could come up with the words she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'll see you again Eugene." She kissed him again, closer to his jaw this time before she added, "I'm sure of that."

As she pulled away from him Gene caught her gently, hookin a finger under her chin and pulling her back so he could kiss her properly. It was short and sweet, but it was a promise of more. "Until next time."

~~~~~

He wasn't sure if their parting words had been true, but he was certain they had both meant what they had said. Would they really see eachother again though? `

Eugene found himself thinking of her quite often. At night in his bunk, on the canvas seat of the plane as they headed for their jump into Holland, and most recently in the back of a frigid deuce and a half shaking and rattling its way towards the front.

When he had a spare moment to think of the pretty nurse from Louisiana it was almost always the same daydream. It was her on a porch swing on a warm summer evening, rocking back and forth in a simple cotton dress with her hair loose and long, just begging for his fingers to run through it. Sometimes he would imagine her singing his favorite songs or a hymm and even in his own mind her voice brought him peace. In these dreams she would smile at him as he walked up the steps to join her, or as he sat across from her picking out a song for her.

She kissed him in his daydreams. Long and sweet and loving and she would blush so pretty, giggling when he would whisper in her ear little things only for her to hear.

He was careful to stop his thoughts there. He'd slipped up a few times, on nights when he couldn't sleep, and thought of her tugging him to his feet and leading him to bed, or of picking her up in his arms and carrying her as she took her turn whispering in his ear until he laid her on top of the covers and took the words right out of her mouth.

Gene knew they did not know eachother well enough to allow himself those kinds of thoughts but God willing he wanted to.

An especially hard bump in the road dug the metal of the truck bed into his back and jerked him from his daydreams. It wasn't a warm, bayou summer, instead he felt the cold seep back into his bones and the darkness outside of the truck swallow him once again.

Dug into his foxholes he tried not to think of her, tried to focus on his job and making it through the next day. Instead, what he did allow himself was the hope that if he survived this frozen hell, he would see her again. That she would be waiting for him.

As much as he wanted to see Lily Beauchesne again, he never would have thought they would cross paths again when, where and how they did.

~~~~~

The jeep weaved its way through the wreckage and rubble of Bastogne and Roe was busy holding pressure on the bleeding leg wound of the soldier stretched out over the hood. The city, what was left of it, was in shambles and the church they were using for a makeshift aid station was little better.

Gene left the basement of the church sometime later, Sisk in capable hands, and with an armfull of fresh supplies. He flagged down a jeep and had just climbed into the passengar seat when something caught his attention.

A voice off to one side that tickled something in his mind. When he looked, as the jeep turned around and pointed back towards the cleared street, he heard it. A familiar voice with a familiear accent. Gene sat up straight and twisted around, not quite believing it was her until she looked up and their eyes met.

~~~~~

Lily had to fight the urge to wipe the blood on her trousers as she jogged across the street to meet the incoming jeep. Her frozen fingers immediatly jumping to the blood soaked bandage over the stump of a young soliders arm. WIthout a second thought she began barking orders and used all her muscle to help wrestle him off the jeep and onto a stretcher.

As they carried him inside something made her skin warm up and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She turned and searched her surroundings until her gaze fell on a retreating jeep. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Eugene, staring right back at her, the same look of shock on his face.

Unable to move she held his gaze. A flood of thoughts and emotions tore through her and she could not look away until the jeep was out of sight.

Eugene was alive. He knew she was here.

~~~~~

When they truly saw eachother for the first time they barely had a moment together but each of them was grateful for it.

Roe had made a point to find her the next time he brought a patient to the church. "What are ya doin' here?" Was not how he meant to speak to her the first time but it was what came out as he came to stand beside her. He liked her all the more when her response was to flash her angry, green eyes at him from where she knelt by a wounded man.

"I'm a nurse Eugene. I'm doin' my job." She stood up straight and had to fight back a wince at the stiff joints and sore muscles that harrassed her body. Lily was ready for a fight but that's not what she wanted.

He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that hadn't come out right, but he was glad she was the kind of woman to defend herself. With a deep breath Gene closed his eyes and started again, "I'm sorry, that's… that's not what I meant."

"That's how it sounded." There was no longer a bite to her words but she stood her ground all the same, "We're what's left of the hospital unit. Got cut off just like y'all."

Gene licked his lips and looked at his boots long and hard before he spoke, "I'm glad you're okay. I just didn't expect to see ya here is all."

Lily nodded, her posture relaxed, and silently accepted his apology. "I'm glad I got to see you."

Gene relaxed too and gave her a careful smile, "So am I."

"Doc!" The driver yelled from the door, "Let's go."

With a scowl Roe looks his way and then back to Lily. HIs fingers twitch. He wants to reach out to her, but doesnt.

She does though. Lily grabs for his hand and holds it in hers for a brief moment. She gives it a squeeze and offers him a sweet smile that nearly reaches her tired eyes. "Until next time. (French)"

"Doc!"

Gene glares towards the door again but gives Lily a flustered little smile before giving her hand a squeeze of his own and heading back towards the stairs.

~~~~~

The next time Roe is there he looks for her almost immediatly, but can't find her. He finally asks one of the other medics, "Hey, have you seen Lieutenant Beauchesne?"

The medic furrows his brow, sparing Eugene a glance while he worked, "Who?"

"A nurse, Lily Beauchesne, y'all might call her Beau. Accent, dark hair."

Finally the other man nods, even shares a sympathetic look with him which Gene didn't quite understand. "She's down on the end."

Roe looks but didn't see her at first. Not until he made it to the end of the church room and looks around. Where he finds Lily curled up on a low table, a makeshift bed, with a blanket over her. His heart drops at the sight of her. "Lily..."

She is balled up as tight as can be on the tabletop, the flimsy blanket obviously doing nothing to quell the tremors that rack her body as she shivers. Her face is pale and sweaty, her breathing raspy and her eyes sunken, hollow and closed tight against the pain. Lily doesn't aknowledge him until he takes a knee beside the table, to get to her level, and lays a careful hand on her.

"Lily... cher, look at me." Roe whispers to her without a second thought as he strokes her hair back from her clammy forhead.

Her eyes open and they struggled to focus. "Gene..." Another shiver overtakes her and she pulls her knees closer to her chest.

"Sweetheart, look at you." He continues to stroke her hair and moves his other hand to cradle the crown of her head, his touch sure but gentle. First brushing over her forhead, then gently tugging one eye open fully with his thumb grimacing at the size of her pupils, and finally stroking the tips of his fingers up her slender throat, the swelling under jaw plain as day. "How long you been like this?"

A wry smile fought its way through her grimace as she dodged his question, "I'll be fine."

His fingers traced the side of her neck once more before he settled his palm over her temple. "You're burnin' up." Roe looked her over and searched around for anything else to cover her better.

"Freezing." She corrects him.

"I know." He searched all around him and finds nothing for her. "You need some water?"

Lily shook her head as vigorously as she was able, "I'll just..." She shivered to the point she was unable to keep still, "I'll just toss it up again."

Suddenly a plan formed in his mind and he was glad to have it. He slid his hand down her arm under the blanket to look for an IV but found nothing. "Let me help."

He made to stand up but her trembling fingers clenched around the sleeve of his jacket. "We don't have anything." She tugged feebly, she wanted him back close to her. "Nothin' to spare." Her words cut off abruptly as she screwed her face up and blindly fumbled over the edge of the table.

Roe fumbled, but finally saw the bucket she was reaching for and holds it for her as she coughs and heaves. WIth his other hand he helped support her weight as she leant off the table and retches until her eyes are watering and her throat hurt. Once she's done he helps her lay back down and pulls her blanket back up to her chin. "Jus' be quiet and rest cher."

Her eyes are closed when she whimpers, "Stay. Just a minute."

WIthout hesitation he knelt down beside her again, his hands cradling her head and face as he leaned his forehead against hers, "I'm right here cher... I'm right here." He strokes his thumb back and forth over her filthy hair and occasionally smooths out the pained furrows in her brow.

WIthout really thinking about it he began to pray over her. He knew there was nothing to be done other than her to wait it out, wait for the fever to break and her stomach to settle. So, he prayed for her healing, for her strength and for her comfort. Prayed for her to sleep. Somewhere in the midst of his praying, still with their foreheads pressed together and his thumb caressing her temple over and over, he began to whisper to her.

"Couldn't believe when I saw you here, I'd thought about seein' you again so often and there you where."

She didn't say anything but she hums and seems to scoot a litle closer.

For a moment he was silent again while he prayed. "That first night, in the bar, I knew I'd fall in love with you. So pretty, so smart, voice of an angel."

Lily let out a whimper and her shivers overtake her for a moment.

Voice steady and calm, Eugene hushes her, "You'll be just fine cher, just go to sleep and let the fever run." He glanced down as her hand snuck out from under the blanket and wraps around his forearm. Gene even smiled briefly as her thumb stroked over his sleeve in time with his own.

Carefully, he pressed his lips to her forehead. "Rest for me, huh cher. Jus' rest for me."

He remained still and eventually felt her relax the slightest big, her face soft and she let out a little hum as she nodded off. Before he stood, Gene brushed a hand over her hair and prayed. "Let her sleep, Lord. Let her rest, and take this pain from her while she sleeps." He kept his hands on her head a moment longer before he dropped another soft kiss on her forehead and stood up straight. HIs chest ached as he looked over her one last time, gave her calf one last, comforting squeeze before he left her to rest.

~~~~~

The pain in his chest that day was nothing in comparison to the pain and dread he felt at the sight of the bombed out church. It's entrance little more than a pile of stone and debris. He nearly collapsed under the weight of a single thought. Lily had been here. Curled up on a hard table, sick and helpless. With a thick swallow he forced down the lump in his throat and turned back to the waiting jeep.

The bombs and explosions a dull echo as he retreated into himself. The world drown out around him to the point that he almost didn't hear it.

"Gene! Eugene!"

The shouts broke him out of his haze just in time for him to turn and see her. "Stop, stop. Stop the jeep." Roe didn't even wait for the driver to slam on the brakes before he had vaulted out of it and ran back down what was left of the street. He all but crashed into her as he wrapped her up in his arms and held her. Lifting her off the ground he hugged her so tight.

Lily didn't hesitate or shy away. No, she wrapped her arms around his neck and burried her face in it the best she could with both of them wearing the helmets.

"I thought you were gone." Gene murmured in her ear.

"I'm right here." She answered back, her voice thick with emotion.

An explosion rattled the whole block and Gene quickly set her down and covered her the best he could as he ushered her out of the open. "Last I saw you, you was down there. I thought…"

Lily just shook her head and smiled at him. "I slept all day after you left. Woke up to the fever broke, right as rain."

Behind them the jeep driver yelled, "What the fuck you think you're doin' Doc? We got to go!"

They both ducked at another explosion, Gene once again covering her body wtih his. Lily held him close after that, "Go. I'll be fine Gene. I'm fine."

Not an ounce of doubt or nerves in him Gene did not hesitate when he pressed her up against the brick wall behind her and kissed her. Properly, fully, like he'd always wanted to. His hold on her pressing them tight together as he claimed her mouth with his own.

Lily moaned, surprised, but quickly kissed him back. Her hands fisted in the front of his well worn field jacket and pulled him impossibly closer.

When they pulled away from eachoter Eugene's eyes drilled into hers as he straightened her helmet. "I'll find you. I promise mon cher, i'll come find you (french)" He kissed her again and relished in the feel of her one more time before he forced himself to pull away and run back to the idling jeep. Gene glanced back at her once, happy to find her watching him until he had turned, and then he watched her dart across the open and join a group of medics and wounded as they went for cover.

~~~~~

Eugene did not see her again for the whole rest of the war.

There were letters that caught up with him however and each one felt like he could breath again. She had written once that she felt much the same. Especially when he had written back to her, telling her Easy Company was finally moving off the line and heading for the crumbling but oddly much safer Germany.

The news that her unit had been discharged came to him in Austria. She was in England waiting to board a big steamer and finally begin her journey home.

Another letter never found him. HIs own company finally allowed to go home themselves, he spent a good part of his time on the boat across the Atlantic rereading the letters she had sent.

In them she had marvelled at how he had healed her, swore that he had his grandmothers gift after all. She admitted how the few times he had called her 'cher' had made her heart race and she never wanted him to call her anything else. She wrote about home, about missing him, about what she would do after the war. She reminded him he had promised to come for her, had promised he would find her.

Each letter was ended the same, "Love, your Lily" with big loopy, cursive letters.

~~~~~

Lily waited patiently for a response to her most recent letter. It never came, but she did not let herself get discouraged. Her patience paid off one evening towards then end of summer.

Her folks and younger sister were inside gathered around the radio. She herself had found she, more often than not, preferred the peace and quiet of the front porch since her return home.

That particular evening she was swaying idly on the porch swing and humming a hymm she had stuck in her head most the day.

The night was quiet but the frogs and cicadias were raising a ruckous and there was a stiff breeze blowing through the trees. The sound of all this very nearly drown out the crunch of boots approaching the front of the house.

When Eugene came up to the bottom step he was already grinning. His back straight, uniform crisp and his face clean shaven. He made eye contact with her as he climbed the few steps to the porch but stopped there to lean against the railing. "Wouldn't believe how many times I thought about you, just like this." His grin grew wider as he removed his cover and leaned his shoulder against the post.

Lily was smiling wide at the sight of him and her cheeks flushed at his words. She had no words of her own, only knew that every muscle in her body was screaming at her to run to him. The look on his face and what he had said kept her in place. He very much appeared to be enjoying the moment of a daydream realized.

FInally he budged, climbed the last step up onto the porch, and made his way over to her.

Once he got close Lily found her words. "You're home." She felt her heart start to race as he sat next to her on the old swing. The ropes creaking under shift in weight and the added motion.

"Yes I am." Roe laid his arm over the back of the swing and grinned at her. Brushed a strand of hair out of her face in the process.

She didn't say anything else before she closed the short distance between them. Excited to kiss him for the first time in nearly a year. The kiss had barely started before she pulled back, "What're you doin' here?" Lily leaned in to kiss him again, not bothering to give him time to answer.

Gene smiled into the kiss and took a gentle hold of her jaw to push her away the slightest bit. "Told you, I was gonna come find ya." He stroked the pad of his thumb over the soft skin below her ear as he gazed at her intently.

Lily grinned, leaned into his touch. "What're ya gonna do now that ya found me?"

Something in his smile changed then,"Oh I got a few things in mind," his eyes narrowed and his tongue darted out to wet his lip before he leaned to whisper in her ear. "Don't know that we ought to talk about that on your Daddy's porch though."

Bolder than he'd ever been he nipped at her ear before placing a kiss just below it and pulling back to take in the pretty, pink flush of her cheeks in the porchlight.

Blushing and chuckling Lily shoved him back playfully.

Eugene took it in stride and continued to smirk. Taking a moment before he pulled her back to him for another, longer, slower, less teasing and more promising kiss. Then he looked her in the eye with a sincerity that Lily had never seen before in any man. "I'm gonna marry you Lily Beauchesne. I'm gonna build you a house, I'm gonna give you as many kids as you want. I'll be a good husband and a good father and I'm gonna love you until the good Lord calls me home."

~~~Epilogue~~~

It was a summer night much like that night, a little over a year later, when Lily woke up to an empty bed. For a moment she simply lay there and listened. The room was silent and the night was still dark. After taking a beat she flipped back the light sheet she'd been sleeping under and put her barefeet down on the still relatively new, hardwood floor.

Gene had kept his promise. He'd married her. He'd built them a house with his, and a few friends, own hands.

As Lily sat in the dark, stretching her back and giving her foggy mind a chance to wake up a little, she thought fondly of that night he had showed up on the front porch of her parents home. He'd won her family over easily. Her mother had been sold on him the moment he'd stepped in the house, removed his cap and introduced himself to her in Cajun French. Her father had been a bit slower, unsure at first of this young man showing up late one evening in uniform and asking permission to start properly courting his daughter. Admittedly, the courting hadn't lasted long. It didn't need to.

Now, here she was, in their bedroom. Alone.

Still she smiled and finally motivated herself enough to stand up and go in search. Really there was no need to search. She found him easily.

Out on the front porch she spotted him through the screen door and watched for a moment. Taking a minute to enjoy the vew. He had his back to her as he paced the porch. He'd not put on any clothes beyond the pair of boxers he'd slept in. HIs hair, still short like he'd worn it in the Army, was tossled slightly like he half-heartedly combed his hand through it at some point.

Finally, Lily pushed her way through the screendoor, carefully sure, but it was impossible to open it quietly.

Eugene heard her and turned to face her. Face tired but with a soft smile. He leaned down to the baby he'd been bouncing in his arms and whispered, (French) "There's your pretty mama."

"What're y'all doin' out here in the dark?" She crossed the porch and stretched up to kiss his cheek and stroke the pad of her thumb over the baby's silky brow.

Gene stared at her in the way he had that looked like he still didn't quite believe he deserved this. "Your boy here was fussin', figured we'd come outside, let you get some sleep." Gene shifted his hold on their son so he could wrap an arm around his wife and pull her in close to press a kiss to her forehead.

Lily allowed it and took a deep breath, "Couldn't sleep?"

He didn't respond, but that was answer enough.There were plenty of nights Eugene couldn't sleep. Instead he just held her closer and kissed her temple.

She settled into his hold and together they stood there like that, listening to the cicadas. After a moment she lowered her gaze to her baby boy in Gene's arms and smiled. His eyes were fighting sleep, his tiny little fingers flexing unconsciously against his fathers chest. Lily turned to press a kiss to the point of Gene's shoulder and smiled as she whispered, "Look at that."

Eugene had always had a calming presence in her life. She often compared it to what his grandmother could do. Lily swore up and down that when that fever had taken hold of her in Bastogne it had been Eugene that had healed her. Of course he shrugged it off, but there was no way to deny that when it came to their son Gene was the one with the magic touch.

Their sweet little boy was smiley and cheerful and they were both grateful for it. They each had their tendencies to become a little dark and withdrawn after the war but their son had more than enough joy for all of them. The trade off was that he slept like his father; for short periods of time and fitfully. Lily could cuddle him, nurse him, sing to him, anything. Eventually he'd go back to sleep. Eventually. All Eugene had to do to get the boy to sleep was hold him.

The same was true that night, as standing there on the front porch their son was falling asleep easily in his arms. Lily kissed her husbands shoulder again and untangled herself to go and perch herself on the porch swing in the corner. From there she watched for the few minutes it took the boy to nod rest the way off and then for Gene to turn to her and whisper, "You stay right there, huh cher. I'll put him down and be right back."

So, she waited, idly swinging to and fro in the dark Louisiana night

When Eugene came back he opened and closed the screen door as quietly as he could and then came to join her on the swing. He sat down beside her and lifted his arm up in an invitation that no longer needed to be spoken and she tucked in beside him. Gene tugged her close and kissed her temple, "I'm sorry we woke you up darlin.'"

Her only answer was to shake her head and squeeze herself in closer to his side. "Worth it."

Gene smiled and kissed her again. He let his mind wander to the daydreams that had gotten him through some of the worst days of the war. This was exactly what he had dared to hope for, moments exactly like this. He kept them swinging slowly to and fro as he held her and thanked God for the life he'd been blessed with after the Hell he'd survived. The Hell they'd both survived.

He was vaguely aware of his wife humming a tune in his arms. Gene smiled and found his eyes suddenly heavy and burning with sleep.

Next thing he knew something was coaxing him to open his eyes. Vision blury he cracked his heavy lids open and in the darkness he saw Lily standing in front of him. God she was beautiful. He thought to himself, she was the only thing he'd ever need. If he survived the war, if they made it out of this alive he was gonna marry this girl. Even in his sleep fogged brain he was certain of that.

That thought jogged something in him. The feel of her hands tugging at him gently forced his eyes open even more. FInally his mind cleared. He wasn't in a frozen foxhole, his hands weren't stained with blood. The woman of his dreams was really standing in front of him. His wife was standing in front of him. Lily. He'd made it home and he'd married her.

"Let's go back to bed." Her voice was soft like her smile

Like most nights the thought that brought him peace when he found himself startled awake was Lily. He'd made it home to Louisiana. He'd married Lily Beauchesne and she'd given him a son. They had made a home together.

His eyes finally focused he smiled and hefted himself up onto his feet and settled his hands on Lilys hips and kissed her. Long and slow and sweet he moved his lips over hers and enjoyed the feel of her melting into him and her mouth opened under his. Eventually her hands pressed against his bare chest and pushed away from him barely.

Gene took in the sight of her, the feel of her, his eyes dark, "I still wake up sometimes thinkin', thinkin' all this just another one of my daydreams. Kind I used to have, over there."

"About me?" Lily whispered with a smile.

"Of course, about you cher." He shook his head and flexed his hands at her waist pulling her in tighter against him. Kissing her again, still longer and slower as she wrapped her arms up around his neck and moaned into his mouth.

She let him tug her close, enjoyed the way his eyes had darkened but still looked half asleep as he pulled away from her the smallest distance necessary to speak. "Just checkin'." Lily smirked and kissed him once more. Then she stepped back and took her hand in his and led him to the screen door with the intention of going back inside.

Her husband had a slightly different idea though as he stopped her in her track just in front of the door, hands on her hips and pulling her back into him as he ducked down to stroke her hair to the side and kissed the side of her neck. When she instantly leaned back against him he chuckled moved his hands under the shirt she wore as he mouthed at her neck greedily. Lily moaned in his arms and he smirked as he lifted his lips to whisper against her ear. "Don't think I'm ready to go back to bed just yet cher."

The End

[mercurygray]

The Darkening Sky - Chapter 36

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Characters: Original Female Character(s), Lewis Nixon, Richard Winters, Harry Welsh, Ensemble Cast

Additional Tags: Alternate History, Women Being Awesome, Women in the Military, World War II, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

“Some will say that it is a sad state of affairs when a country asks its women to go to war. But there is nothing sad about patriotism, and from coast to coast, America’s women have answered the call in record-breaking numbers, happy and willing to serve in all branches of the service - including, if the posters are to be believed, an entirely new co-ed parachute infantry unit.“

----

Paris looked tired.

For so long, everyone had held up the City of Light as the prize of prizes, ready to be retaken and returned to its former glory as a place where the wine was cheap and the women were beautiful and the boulevards were filled with song.

Everyone had forgotten that the war would change that. 

Dick could honestly say that at this point in his life he knew what down and out looked like, and Paris was a perfect case.

[read more or catch up on the story here on AO3!]

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

When You Know, You Know - Ronald Speirs x OC

Summary: A night of drinking with Valerie and the men leads Ron to realise that he's in much deeper than he thought

Warnings: Language, alcohol consumption/intoxication

Word count: 2.8k

Tags (Mostly using the taglist from the original fic): @50svibes @cagzzz107 @yentroucnagol @mads-weasley @mrsalwayswrite @dcyllom

A/N: This oneshot is building on from the characters/storyline established in my fic Just Come Home, which you can read in its entirety here. For those of you who have read it already, this is set roughly between chapters 5 and 6. Enjoy!

I can't even tell if this is good, I just needed to write for them again, I miss them so much

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"I win again!"

"God dammit!" George Luz cried, throwing down his hand of cards upon the table as Valerie laughed, taking a sip of her drink and revelling in his distress. Easy Company had been in Berchtesgaden for almost a week, and already boredom was beginning to set in, remedied seemingly only by late nights of drinking, card games, and music which they had begun to host almost daily in the huge abandoned hotel at the end of the main street.

The huge dining hall was bathed in a low, golden glow, a refuge from the darkness outside, and a gramophone crackled away in the corner, playing record after record of German music only a few among them could understand. A few portraits of prominent officials hung on the walls - survivors of the initial scourge which had seen the men clear out anything of value - their faces vandalised beyond recognition, drooping unevenly on their hooks. The large, circular tables that had once hosted wealthy guests to the town were now used for rowdy games of all kinds, stacks of empty glasses growing taller by the hour.

It had been almost two hours since Valerie had found herself dragged into one of these games. The men had clearly thought her light competition, but in those two hours, not one of them had won a single round. As the night wore on, and she continued to prevail, they grew only more determined to continue, to find a hole in her strategy to exploit, to finally beat her, for God's sake.

"I mean, Jesus, I just don't understand it," Tab sighed, frowning as he poured himself another glass of whiskey, staring wearily at his own hand in the realisation that he never could have won. "How can you win every goddamn time?"

Val chuckled, patting him on the arm in consolation. "I think it might be time to call it a night, eh gents?"

Luz shook his head. "No. Nuh-uh. We're not leaving until I win."

"You better be careful you don't run outta money first."

Tutting, he reached into his pocket for some more cash. "You better donate this shit to a charity or something when you get home, God knows you don't fucking need it," He lamented, muttering something to himself about big fucking houses and rich fucking parents.

With a grin, she accepted her winnings, sliding the money into the pocket of the coat she draped over the back of her chair. It was not her own coat - none of Valerie's clothes were her own, all of them pilfered from the abandoned closets of rich German wives, fleeing in a hurry with their rich Nazi husbands. But in the grand scheme of things, she hardly felt guilty. "Pleasure doing business with ya, Georgie." Val teased, her tongue drawn between her teeth.

A wide archway separated the main dining room from the smaller, private hall next door - a more intimate space for what had once been the wealthiest of hotel guests, but which now belonged to the officers of Easy Company, a huge central table proving the perfect place for late night games of poker.

Ron stared at the unimpressive cards in his hand, suppressing a frown, his infamous stony gaze playing in his favour once again. He would not win this game, but as long as Harry continued to play as badly as he had so far, he would not lose either. The sound of laughter in the next room pulled his gaze - and there she was. Valerie's face flushed red as she laughed, her cheeks creased as she tilted her head back, George Luz chuckling beside her at whatever he had said that was so damn funny. He wasn't sure he had ever made her laugh like that - but Ron knew he wasn't a funny guy, not like Luz at least. A few months ago, he might have felt the inkling of insecurity bubbling in his chest, but not now. Despite all the things that made him seem so intimidating to the other men, it seemed Ron was stuck with Valerie whether he liked it or not.

He did.

The sound of someone noisily clearing their throat pulled his attention away from the next room, and as Ron looked across the table, he noticed Nixon staring straight at him, brow raised. "Hm?" He asked, mirroring his expression.

"You gonna take your turn?" Nixon asked. "Or you gonna keep staring?"

Ron decided not to acknowledge this second question, instead swiftly taking his turn, placing his cards down forcefully, as if making a performance out of it. He wasn't staring. Just... watching.

In the corner of the dining hall, the record that had been playing stopped with a crackle, and Valerie stood up to change it, sliding her cards into her pocket to prevent Luz from cheating. The man scoffed at the mere suggestion, but they both knew he wasn't above taking a peek. As she neared the gramophone in the corner, Chuck Grant came passing the other way, their shoulders brushing against each other as he headed back to his own table. "Ooh, Val," He spoke, stepping up behind her as she flicked through the box of records. "You gotta try this."

Looking up, she accepted the glass in his hand, stifling a cough after her first sip as the liquid burned her throat. "Oh, fucking Christ, what is that?"

"No idea. Malark's recipe - good though, right?"

"Good, but I think it'll kill me," Val confessed, flicking through the box of records with her free hand.

"That's the spirit," He chuckled, patting her on the shoulder before turning to return to his table. "Drink up."

She grinned as he left, taking another sip of Malarkey's dangerous concoction before selecting a record. Their titles had all been in German, so Valerie had been forced to make a decision based off of the covers alone, and as such was slightly taken aback when upbeat folk music came blasting through the gramophone's horn, although the men around her seemed too engrossed in their games to even notice.

Returning to the table, interrupting Luz and Tab as they talked strategy, she put down her drink, taking a seat. "What's that?" George asked, nodding towards her glass.

"No idea. Malarkey's makin' 'em over there apparently."

He paused momentarily, slowly sliding his cards into his pocket as if Val actually needed to cheat to win. "...Don't mind if I do."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Just over an hour had passed since the last time Ron had looked over at Valerie - Harry had lost their last game, predictably, and the officers had been darting between conversation and cards ever since, the energy slowly draining from the room as the night wore on and they began to find it harder to focus on the more technical games. The group had noticed the main dining hall growing steadily louder as the night progressed, but the disturbance had not been enough to warrant their attention until suddenly a smash rang out, accompanied by a series of whoops and laughter.

Craning his neck to see what was happening, Ron's gaze fell upon the portrait of Hitler that Valerie had taken a knife to on their first day in town, his face now stained with dark red wine, a few shards of glass embedded in the canvas. Still seated at her table, Val let out a hearty laugh, her cheeks flushed bright red as if she had caught a chill. But he knew it wasn't that.

Of the men of Easy Company still occupying the hall, not a single one of them appeared sober, the scent of alcohol lingering on the very air. Sitting across the table from Valerie, it appeared George Luz had actually fallen asleep, suddenly roused by the sound of the wine bottle exploding into hundreds of fragments the moment it struck the wall.

"Aw, shit," Nixon sighed. "Looks like they found the good stuff."

Across the room, Skinny Sisk tripped on the edge of a tablecloth that had been left dragging across the floor, tumbling to the ground in a mass of flailing limbs. Val let out a guffaw of laughter, clapping her hands in delight as she slumped further in her seat, reaching for another sip of whatever the hell was in her glass.

"Alright, ok," Ron muttered, rising from his seat and crossing the room in a moment, prying the drink from her hand before it could reach her lips. Val opened her mouth in objection, brow drawn with outrage, but the sudden appearance of the infamous Captain Speirs seemed to sober up the rest of the room, the other men taking the hint to calm themselves and begin shuffling out the door to return to their billets and sleep off their drunkenness.

"I wasn't done with that, yunno," She drawled, barely noticing as Luz drifted away from the table, rubbing at his temples in an attempt to nurse an already developing headache.

"Yeah, you're not gonna be, either," Raising the glass, Ron took a sniff, expression twisting into a grimace. "Jesus. How many of these did you have?"

"I... do not know."

"Hey, Speirs?" Harry called from the next room, clearly impatient to get back to their game.

"Uh, yeah - deal me out, ok? See you fellas tomorrow," He nodded, placing a gentle hand on Valerie's arm to help her to her feet. She swayed slightly, but could certainly walk, and as Ron helped her to the door, he emptied her glass into an unused ice bucket as they passed.

She probably could have made it back up to her room entirely unscathed, even the wobble in her step ebbing away as they exited into the night air, but Ron wasn't sure he'd be able to live with himself if he let her go anywhere alone. "I'm not plastered by the way - I've been plastered, this ain't that."

"Whatever you say," He breathed, arm still secure around her as they descended the front steps to the hotel.

"I'm serious."

"I believe you, dear," Ron nodded, and a giddy grin made its way across her face at the term of endearment. It had slipped out before he could stop it, and he was suddenly grateful for the minuscule chance that she would remember it the next day - he did not in fact believe her.

It was quiet out on the street, the men who had scattered returning promptly to their nearby billets, turning Berchtesgaden back into the ghost town it had been when they had found it. The street lamps cast puddles of golden light as they passed beneath them, his gaze momentarily wandering to Val's face. Her hair had come loose, a strand hanging limply in her face, and the tip of her nose flushed pink in the cool air. Without a word, Ron shrugged off his jacket, slinging it over her shoulders. She did not hesitate to slide her arms into the sleeves, wrapping the jacket tightly around herself, and playing it off as a yawn when she took a deep breath, smelling the scent of his cigarettes that permeated the fabric.

They were mere feet from the front door when Ron felt Valerie slide from his grip, turning to watch as she took a seat on a nearby bench, one foot tucked behind the other, hands in her lap as she looked up at the night sky above.

"Almost there, c'mon," He urged, gesturing for her to follow.

"Come sit down."

Ron didn't move, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Val, come on, you'll catch a cold out here, let's get you insi-"

"Just sit down, Ronald!" Val demanded, almost laughing. She always seemed so ceaselessly amused by him - he wouldn't pretend not to enjoy it, but it struck him as odd sometimes.

Folding his hands awkwardly in his lap, Ron took a seat beside her on the bench, a polite gap left between them. It couldn't have been more than a couple of inches, but it might as well have been a mile for how tempted he felt to move closer.

Her gaze had not shifted from the sky above since the moment he sat down, and after a while spent sitting in silence, he allowed himself to do the same, peering up at the stars above. There was a full moon out that night, hanging like a beacon above them, never quite allowing the town to fall into total darkness as it bathed the ground below in its glow. It was quite marvellous, really.

As weight pressed down on his shoulder, Ron felt his breath catch in his throat, so desperate was he to preserve the serenity of this moment as Valerie leant over, resting her head against him. He scarcely dared more, for fear that he would shrug her off - it was almost comical, the battle-hardened Captain Speirs, who ran past half a dozen tanks at Foy twice over without fear, suddenly paralysed at the prospect of pushing her away.

"Our families are looking at the same moon back home," Valerie said, her voice muffled against the fabric of Ron's jacket as she turned her chin into the collar. "I like thinkin' about that." When she spoke it sounded drowsy, exhaustion tugging downwards at her eyelids.

"C'mon," He urged again, matching her softness. "You can't sleep out here, you'll freeze to death."

Val nodded slowly, her hair catching on his shirt. "That'd be very inconvenient for you."

"Out the the two of us, I don't think I'm the one getting the short end of the stick in this scenario, Val."

"Ah, but you'd miss me," She sighed with a dramatic flourish of her hand, pushing herself up from the bench with a grunt. Ron had not had the chance to stand up himself before Valerie started walking, the sway in her step settled as she confidently made her way down the street.

"You're going the wrong way, dear," He pointed out, gesturing to the front door, mere feet away from them.

"I know that," Val rolled her eyes, turning sharply on her heel and marching up to the front step as he chuckled. Taking the step up, she looked back at him. "C'mere," She ordered.

"What do you want now?" Ron teased, already moving to do her bidding. Taking a step up to stand beside her, they faced each other, shoulders pressed against the front door to the house they were billeted in. Leaning forward, Val pressed her body flat against his, her chin resting on his chest, face tilted up towards him. He could feel her breath, escaping through parted lips and fanning his neck as he peered down at her. Their faces were mere inches apart, and oh, how he had wanted to give in at that moment - give in to the months they had spent together, growing ever more enamoured by her with each passing day. Putting her weight on her toes, she began to push herself up towards him, their lips barely parted, so close their noses brushed against each other.

She was drunk. Ron knew this - could see it in her flushed cheeks, could hear it in her slow words. It would not happen like this. Placing soft hands to either side of her face, he held her back as gently, as tenderly as he could, his thumb skirting across the soft flesh of her cheek as Valerie eased herself back onto her heels, her eyes like dark pools under the light of the street lamp, as wide as he had ever seen them.

"Goodnight Cap'n," Her voice was scarcely a whisper as her hand found the door handle, opening it onto the great foyer inside, the heels of her shoes clacking against the floorboards as she trailed inside. Ron would follow soon - would climb the stairs to his own room along the hall from her own - but for now, he held back, watching on as Val headed upstairs, his jacket still hanging off her back as she disappeared down the hall, the sound of humming trailing after her even after she was gone from sight, fading away with the sound of a closing door. It wasn't until now, when Ron was alone in the foyer, did he realise he was smiling - beaming even. It was very... un-ron-like. But she had wanted to kiss him.

He had done the right thing. He knew this.

But Jesus Christ, was he in deeper than he thought.

[latibvles]

SAD, BEAUTIFUL, TRAGIC.

beautiful, tragic // to be in it with you.

i’ll find a million ways to say it before i say that i’m in—

masterlist | gallery | taglist

TAGLIST: @liebgotts-lovergirl , @softguarnere , @brassknucklespeirs ,@monalisastwin , @mads-weasley , @eugene-emt-roe

SUMMARY: Reaching the Eagles’ Nest makes the day special in more ways than one.

WARNINGS: None!

Picturesque mountains, sun warming her skin, her eyes crinkle at the corners on a squint as she peers at it for a moment. She didn’t think she’d have much time for sightseeing in a war, but here she is — a working draft of a letter balanced precariously on her thigh as she writes out a thank you for the well wishes from her mother, men and women alike all idling on this road etched into the mountainside. Beside her, Jane is also leaned up against the jeep, gray eyes shut to soak in the rays warming them like stones on a riverbed.

“Your French still any good?” she asks, out of the blue cracking one eye open. That was one thing Daisy began to notice about Jane. When she was feeling chatty, she could never anticipate what the girl was going to say or ask. Daisy raises an eyebrow, looking at her sidelong and gives her a shrug.

“It’s alright, I guess. Why d’you ask?”

“Cause I can’t remember a lick of shit since Belgium but I wanna tell the French to haul ass and get rid of the roadblock.” At that, Daisy snorts at the mild irritation edging in Jane’s voice as she says it, folding up her paper and putting it in her pocket.

“What, don’t wanna beat the French to the nest?”

“I don’t give a damn who wins, I just want to get up there already.” Distantly, a sound of an explosion echoes down the road they’re all sat upon, and Daisy snorts. Last Daisy checked, they were getting quite…  creative with how they intended to blow the roadblock sky high. Namely, combining explosives like a high-risk middle school science fair. Grenades, dynamite, bazookas, all which translated in Daisy’s mind as some idiot having too much fun and losing a couple fingers if they weren’t careful enough.

She’s hoping that the joy found in blowing things up might’ve died down a little bit with the war apparently coming so close to an end — but part of her knows that’s just her own foolish optimism.

But it is, admittedly, nice to know she still has some of it left after all this.

“Someone’s antsy,” Daisy can’t help but snicker, and Jane rolls her eyes.

“Ever the astute observations from my fearless leader.” She watches Jane shake out a cigarette and fish through her pocket for the lighter, lights it, and brings it to her own lips before letting smoke escape. Then she offers it to Daisy.

“Yeah well, that’s what they hired me for.”

“Your wise remarks?” Jane asks as Daisy takes it from her, bringing it to her own lips. They share a look as an engine roars and a jeep whizzes by them further up the road.

“My astute observations,” Daisy concurs, “Also, I think you might’ve gotten your wish after all, Gray.”

The town was dead quiet before they came in. An eerily empty place save for the rumble of engines, emblazoned in the red banners that make her entirely angry now. The moment their feet hit the ground, anything that gleams is fair game — for combat nurse and soldier alike, it seems.

Which is to say: Daisy’s bag is heavy with things that weren’t even hers, nor were they things that she necessarily picked up herself. She didn’t expect Rita to have such sticky fingers, but when the argument was that they’d need nice silverware for the apartment they’ve yet to get, she couldn’t exactly argue with that sound logic. And when Easy Company gets fired up to head further up the mountain — she allows herself a moment of childishness, sticking out her tongue to her friend who would be staying behind in town for the moment with the rest of Fox.

Okay, so maybe she got her pick of a couple candleholders in town, and maybe she was just a little bit eager to see if the stone mountain retreat had anything nicer than that. Which it should, because the damn thing had a gold plated elevator.

She’s greeted with lush couches and carpets, champagne in buckets of water that likely was ice, at one point, and the sound of popping bottles as everybody in the place helps themselves to the stash. Daisy wanders, curious as the men chip pieces off that big stone fireplace. She’s on one of the many balconies the retreat holds when Liebgott finds her first. He smacks one of those fireplace chunks unceremoniously into her hand. Then, he offers her the glass-green champagne bottle he’s carrying with him.

“It’s a special day, after all, don’t say I didn’t get you nothin’,” he hums with a knowing glint in his eye. She takes the bottle by the neck, glances up at him with slightly wider eyes and parted lips.

“You remembered?”

“What kinda dumb question is that?” He asks with a bit of a scoff. “‘Course I did, kid, now hurry up before I take the damn bottle back.” Daisy rolls her eyes and takes a swig, champagne bubbles popping on her tongue and going down smooth. It tastes expensive. She grins as she licks the excess from her lips and gives him the bottle back, and then he takes a swig from it himself before ruffling her hair. “Atta girl. Make any wishes?”

“I’d need candles for that.” He grins again and gives her a shrug.

“Sure we could work somethin’ out. Not like ol’ Adolf’s gonna need them. Y’know this place has a goddamn kitchen? Fully stocked.” He says, a sharp bite to the words. Daisy snorts, partially in disbelief.

“What, you're gonna make me a cake or something? I don’t know if I trust you around a stove while you’re drinking.” Joe laughs, a full sound accompanied by another ruffle of her hair. “Tell you what, you find me candles and I’ll make all the wishes in the world.” That seems to satisfy him, the grin not faltering as he looks up and past her. There’s a clearing of the throat, and Daisy turns around.

Ron stands in the doorway, straight-faced and looking between them, before his gaze focuses on Liebgott.

“I need to speak to Lieutenant Clarke, Liebgott,” he informs in that non-negotiable tone of his. As if they had important business to attend to among the pretty scenery and loungers arranged to overlook the woods below. Joe isn’t an idiot, so he nods, resigned.

“Yes, sir,” he responds with a salute, he walks back inside, disappearing into the building and Daisy watches as that stern look on Ron’s face practically melts away.

He’d been the first one up, with Malarkey and Alton. So it didn’t take a genius to know that wherever he’d stored his gear in this place — it would likely clink and clatter until it made its way to Vest at the post office to get all boxed up. He reaches up to tuck some of her hair behind her ear, shorter strands that had fallen from its braid. Something about the mundaneness of the gesture makes her smile.

“One hell of a day,” Ron observes, giving her a knowing look.

“That’s a way to put it, yeah,” Daisy points out with a curious smile. He tilts her chin up with his knuckle until she’s looking at him completely.

“Make any wishes?”

“Didn’t you hear while you were creeping in the shadows? You can’t make a wish without candles.” She points out, and Ron rolls his eyes as he leans down to kiss her, her chin between his thumb and pointer. His lips taste like whiskey, and she can’t help but think back to the last time he drank — all weepy in her lap and dramatic in the morning. The grin that makes it onto her lips is enough to break their kiss. He gives her a half-hearted narrow-eyed look.

“I don’t creep.”

“Lurking then, it’s not a bad thing,” Daisy amends, and she can tell Ron is biting back what has to be a smile as he fishes around in his pocket.

“Fine. Lurking. Doesn’t matter, I got you something.”

“If it’s forks, I’m afraid Rita might have you beat there. I think the drawers might burst if we get any more.” Ron shakes his head immediately with a soft chuckle.

“Not forks, but good to know.”

What he produces from his pocket is much more delicate than the silverware or the candle holders or the hand mirrors.

It’s a sapphire pendant on a thin, silver chain. Delicate and pretty in a way that makes Daisy’s lips part on a gasp. She’d passed quite a bit of jewelry, but none of it were things she’d ever wear so she left it behind for someone else to take. It was all too chunky, too demanding of attention, too weighty in her hands. This was the opposite. Silver curls around that deep blue sapphire, holding it in place, but it was still the centerpiece in spite of the embellishments.

“Happy birthday, Dais,” he says simply. Daisy reaches up, fingers grazing the cold metal in awe. She then looks up at him, a million questions and statements all posed on her tongue.

“Can you put it on me?” is what she decides on, and to that he nods, and she turns around.

Fingers graze the back of her neck as his fingers work to fasten it. She doesn’t care about how he got it, where it came from — just that he’d picked it up not to mail home, but to give to her. And she shouldn’t expect anything less from him, but everything he does still manages to fill her with something that can only be described as pure wonder.

Ron is wonderful. 

It’s not an epiphany of any sort, if anything, she feels like it’s the most obvious statement she could make. Of course he’s wonderful. Because Ron remembers things about people and makes a point to apply it. Ron knows everything about her, he listens to her. He could’ve given her any of the countless too-chunky rings and necklaces left abandoned in town or in this building. But he doesn’t. He finds the thing he knows she’ll wear and gives that to her instead.

So maybe, she’s just a little bit awestruck at how he could love a person like her in such a way. With such careful precision.

She turns around, throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him. His hands find her waist immediately, holding, squeezing as he returns her kiss with ease, remnants of champagne and whiskey mixing on their lips for a moment before they pull away — barely so, because her forehead presses against his and she makes a point to bump their noses.

“I love you, you know that, right?” Daisy breathes out without thinking. But she doesn’t pull away upon realizing what she’s said. She’d rather stare, and she’s glad she doesn’t look away, because he smiles. The rare one, where his eyes crinkle at the corners. Beautiful, breathtaking, rare but still Ron.

“Yeah? You love me?” Ron asks, his voice edging on a tease. It’s like watching years come off him in the span of seconds. He looks so boyish. She nods, cheeks flushing a bit at his tone, but his arms only wrap around her tighter.

“I do.”

He leans forward to kiss her again, briefer than before, but still firm against her.

“Then I love you too,” he mutters, then another kiss. “And when we go home,” kiss, “You know I’m marrying the hell outta you, right?”

Her heart skips a beat.

“Been thinking about that one for a while?” She asks, and Ron squeezes her hips, hazel eyes moving across her features as he examines her face.

“Figured to wait, that you’d want a ring that’s shiny and new and all yours.” And then he waits, leaving it open for her to contradict him — for her to object in any way she sees fit, but she doesn’t.

“You might have a point there.” She watches the way his smile returns.

“So is that a yes?”

Daisy reaches up to take his face in her hands, coarse stubble beneath her palms as she glides her thumbs over his cheekbones. Her turn to begin a sentence with a kiss.

“Ask me again in front of your mother with a ring that’s all mine, and then  you’ll get an answer. Promise.”

Marriage. The thought had always been there — she’d wanted to get married, at some point, to somebody. As a teenager the idea scared her a bit — the thought that she could pick the wrong person clashing with the fantasy in her head of white wedding gowns and her father walking her down the aisle. It only worsened when she found out about the cheating. If she dared think about anything that wasn’t work, or the war, or James, it would tread into territory of her future spouse wrapped up in a secretary or something. Loving someone that wasn’t her.

Ron isn’t just somebody. And the thought of marrying him doesn’t scare her at all. It’s like a piece snapping into place, something sound and correct that she can envision clearly, even if the details are hazy.

One day in a not-so-distant future, he’s going to ask her to marry him. And she’s a hundred percent certain that she’s going to say yes.

The door opens and with that, the whooping and laughter from Harry and Nixon bounce off the walls, bottles of what she can assume is whiskey on ice in a bucket tucked into his arm. She catches Ginny behind the two of them with a small smile on her face, shoulders shaking in laughter.

“There he is! We aren’t interrupting something, are we?” Lew asks, more hypothetical than anything as Ron lets his hands fall to turn around. Ginny, on the other hand, eyes the new piece on Daisy’s neck and gives her a knowing look.

Lew doesn’t wait for an answer, he throws himself on the lounger with a catlike grin, and Harry reaches for one of the bottles.

Ron gives her a look as Harry pops off the cap, and all Daisy does is laugh.

[skiesofrosie]

would anyone be interested, at all, in a joe liebgott x ofc, pretty long one-shot? >.< my fingers started typing it out. (the character in the show, not the real person!!)

[stfrancisprayer]

a field of 40 head  ☆  clawhammer-style banjo  ☆  rainy season in the plains  ☆  the spencer-roper pump action shotgun  ☆  walkin’ after midnight  ☆  through my most grievous fault  ☆  dirt beneath broken fingernails  ☆  memento mori  ☆  the only thing i’ve ever wanted  ☆  home on the range

[playlist]

[bobparkhurst]

I meant to post this actual months ago. ANYWAY, it's not October yet, so in the interest of the closing days of Hot Roy Summer... a very brief Roy Cobb x OFC and the first I've posted more than a snippet of.

Roy Cobb x Ruby Adcock

The pub is noisier than she likes, but then everywhere seems to be these days. The old familiarity of acrid smoke and spilled beer is the same, but now the pungency of too many bodies in too small a place wafts through the cloud and causes Ruby’s nose to wrinkle as she enters. Earlier this morning, her overalls had hung heavy with muck from the chicken coop it is her job to clean. She almost thinks she might prefer that smell to this. 

She blows a short puff of air through her lips as she looks about, squaring her shoulders with relief as she spies her friend in a corner, close to one of the low cracked windows. Brenda, with her sharp eyes and sharper elbows, seems to have managed to get hold of their usual table, before any of this latest horde of Americans could take it over, as they seem to have taken over everything else these days. She waves Ruby over with a graceful hand and a vibrant red smile that has not gone unnoticed by the soldiers who hover around her, vying for attention that she appears to be blithely disinterested in giving them. Raising her own hands to fend against any intentions that might be thinking of shifting their targets, Ruby wends her way through the crush, before dropping onto a stool that her friend has been keeping tucked half-hidden beneath the table.

“I could leave again if you’d like a more handsome partner for the evening,” she says in greeting. Brenda snorts inelegantly, a curiously incongruous noise to emanate from her fine-featured face, and pushes a half-pint in her direction. 

“You’re handsome enough for me, Rube,” she says, eyes twinkling, “and besides, you’re less likely to bruise my feet when we go dancing.”

Ruby makes a face. “Don’t start.”

“You’re coming. Stop making a face. Or do you want me to go tell Alice why her favourite person in the world isn’t coming out for her first dance?”

Brenda shakes her head as Ruby blows her displeasure in bubbles into her beer. It’s all the rebellion she can manage, Brenda’s right and they both know it. With any luck she’ll have a spare dress too, she’s fairly sure that neither of the crumpled and threadbare cotton affairs she has shoved in the bottom of her suitcase still will pass Alice’s excitable muster. Brenda’s half a foot taller and rounder in all the most interesting places, but perhaps there might be time to adjust it before Friday comes around so she won’t wind up looking like a child wrapped up in her big sister’s clothing. She doesn’t dare quite yet broach the subject of shoes.

Eileen turns up, as she always seems to, with impeccable timing just before it’s Ruby’s turn to get a round in. She slides neatly onto the seat as Ruby stands and makes her way over to the bar, grinning sweetly at the muttered thief directed her way. 

There’s a darts game going on in the corner, a few old boys determined to show these young American pups a thing or two, or at the very least, win a few pints off them. Judging by the reddening noses and increasingly raucous ditties, it seems local pride is not yet in any danger of being dented too far. Ruby rests one elbow on the bar, watching as a tall and handsome young man, with dark eyes and a lopsided smile steps up to take his turn. 

“Come on, lad! This is getting embarrassing!” Another round of beer-scented cackling. It cuts off abruptly as a dart lands neatly between two thin metal lines and an entirely new song, just as raucous, but differently accented begins to rise from the crowd, accompanied by a few indignant calls about the presence of ladies in the establishment.

“They’ll mean you, Ruby love,” says Jack, sliding over her order. He winks dramatically. “The rest of us know better than that.”

“Get away,” she says with a smile. “Mrs Haver hears you talking like that about her girls and she’ll skin you alive, Jack Mottershead, and serve us up the rest for our tea.”

He offers her a theatrical shudder before heading over to where another customer is beckoning. 

Ruby is contemplating the best way to fold three glasses between her hands so she can carry them through the crowd when she becomes aware that the presence beside her elbow is intentional and not an accidental happenstance of a pub more full than it has any right to be. 

“Need a hand with that?”

She glances back over her shoulder, in no hurry to be welcoming. She doesn’t recognise this one, though he has a nice enough face, pink around the edges and holding his drink between them like a shield. He’ll have been put up to this, she realises, and decides to take pity. The smile she offers is a practised one, just bright enough to be friendly and without suggestion of anything more. 

“That’s very kind of you, private,” she says. “But I’m sure I’ll manage. We’re used to fetching and carrying for ourselves around here.”

“I like your accent,” the soldier tries, and Ruby can’t help but laugh directly in his face. She covers her mouth with her hand and tries to quell the snort before it happens, with limited success. His face flushes, lips tightening and she feels somehow she might have a struck a nerve a little harder than she meant to. Behind him, she can see another young man in the same uniform smirk into his beer.

“I’m sorry,” she says, swallowing the giggle as best she can. “But you all do.” He looks at her askance. “I’m going to start charging for you to hear it. I’ll be rich by Christmas.” 

“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” he tells her. He’s already turning away, towards his snickering friend. Ruby sighs. 

“Have you thought of telling me something about my hair?”

“What?” 

“My hair. You could compliment me on my hair instead. There’s not much time for grooming out here, you see and it’s always nice to hear it.”

The young man studies her a moment, eyes narrowing into an uneasy frown as he contemplates what he’s about to say.  The snickering has stopped, muffled entirely by the palm resting full and flat over the top of it. Ruby’s own lips press together tightly as she waits. 

“It’s… actually, there’s hay in it,” he offers, after a moment.

Ruby’s eyes widen and her free hand flies to her head. She closes her eyes with a groan as she discovers that he’s not wrong about this. She tugs the errant strand from a curl.

“Did I get it all?” Her eyes remain firmly shut.

“Almost,” he says. She feels her hand pushed gently away, and a slight pull against her head. “You can look now."

The frown is gone when she opens her eyes again, first one eye, then the other. It’s replaced by something brighter and cockier that almost makes her bristle, until she realises there’s no trace of mockery in it. He holds out the hay to her like a posy and she takes it with a shake of her head and a very unladylike grimace that only seems to make him smile more.

“I’m Roy,” he says.

“Are you indeed,” she replies. 

[executethyself35]

Marselle and Ollie's birthday moodboard!!

Both of these lovely medics were both born on April 16th, Ollie in 1921 and Marselle in 1922.

So Happy Birthday to these two lovely ladies!!

[coco-bean-1218]

Well-Behaved Women Never Make History

Prologue: Part Three: "Brains, Bravery, and now... Wings."

Chapter Soundtrack

Summary: Claire breaks some important news to her family.

A/N: Hi, everyone! Welcome to Prologue: Part Three: of Well-Behaved Women Never Make History! This is the final prologue part before the actual story takes place! I'm very excited about this one, and I hope you are too! As always, feel free to like, comment, and reblog.

Warnings: Swearing, Claire getting confrontational

Taglist: @whollyjoly @footprintsinthesxnd @panzershrike-pretz @xxluckystrike

Monday, January 5, 1942

Downtown district of Detroit, MI, USA

---

The January chill nipped at Claire’s cheeks as she hesitated on the snow-dusted sidewalk outside the recruitment building in Downtown Detroit. A mosaic of colorful signs emblazoned with military insignias adorned the facade, each vying for the attention of potential recruits. She adjusted her glasses and tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear while absorbing the gravity of her surroundings.

"Army," "Navy," "Marines" – the words seemed to leap out from the posters, resonant with the call of duty and patriotism. Men, young and vibrant, streamed past her, their conversations a cacophony of hope and bravado. She drew in a deep breath, trying to still the fluttering in her chest.

With one last glance at the sky, now an expanse of solemn gray, she pushed open the door and stepped into the maw of the recruitment station.

Inside, the air buzzed with the energy of hundreds of young men, their voices merging into a symphony of determination. They clustered around tables where uniformed officers sat, clipboards at the ready. The clatter of typewriters punctuated the murmur of conversation, each keystroke a testament to the momentous decisions being made.

"Hey, watch it!" a recruit barked as Claire narrowly avoided bumping into him amidst the throng.

"Hey, I'm walking here!" she snapped back, her eyes darting around the vast room, "Fucking dumbass." Her heart hammered against her ribs; this was more overwhelming than any college exam hall.

Claire moved slowly through the space, her senses alert to every detail. She watched fingers grip pens with purpose, heard the scratch of signatures committing lives to service. Each step brought her deeper into the belly of the beast, the air thick with the scent of ink and anticipation.

She took another step, drawing closer to the heart of the station, to the precipice of her own journey. And somewhere amidst the clamor and the fervor, Claire began to find her footing, charting a course through the crowd toward the destiny of her choosing.

Claire's eyes swept over the sea of uniforms, her gaze landing on a poster that stood out from the rest, its bold letters calling to those brave enough to leap from the skies. "Join the Airborne," it beckoned, the image of a soldier descending from the heavens both terrifying and exhilarating.

"An additional fifty dollars in pay," she murmured to herself, fingertips grazing the edge of the poster. Her mind leapt to textbooks and lab fees; this could be the answer she'd been searching for—a way to fund her dream of medical school. The sum was significant, a beacon of hope amidst the turmoil of war.

With a determined step, Claire navigated through the throngs of eager recruits, each stride carrying her closer to the possibility of a future shaped by her own hands. As she sought the Army's station, a table draped in blue caught her eye, the acronym 'WACs' emblazoned across the banner.

"Women's Army Corps..." she read aloud, thumbing through a pamphlet that lay amongst a neat pile. The words within spoke of service and support, of roles unimagined by women just a generation prior. For a moment, her heart wavered, the path of a WAC presenting its own allure. 

"Could I really do this?" The thought hung heavy as she slipped the pamphlet into her pocket, a tangible reminder of choices yet to be made.

Her pursuit resumed, weaving between desks and dodging elbows until she found herself standing before a sign marked 'Army Enlistment.' She exhaled sharply, the weight of decision anchoring her to the spot, the pamphlet's presence in her coat a secret whisper of potential futures.

Each step was a silent conversation with herself, every heartbeat a question of courage, and with the pamphlet tucked close, Claire advanced toward her chosen battleground.

Claire's steps echoed against the marble floor, a cadence of resolve amidst the clamor. She halted at a long table adorned with crisp, official-looking documents and flags representing various military branches. Her gaze scanned the area, seeking the sign-up for the Airborne, when she was suddenly anchored by a familiar face.

"Peyton?" Claire's voice lifted in surprise, her eyes widened as they settled on her best friend standing behind the table.

"Claire!" Peyton squealed. The warmth in her brown eyes mirrored the joy dancing across her features. "What are you doing here?"

Claire leaned forward, palms pressing against the cool surface of the table. "I could ask you the same," she teased, but her laughter held an undercurrent of nerves. 

"Got myself a job," Peyton replied with a proud lift of her chin, "Helping Uncle Sam find his soldiers. And you? Don't tell me you came to wave the boys goodbye." The quirk of Peyton's eyebrow signaled she expected a more profound truth.

"I'm here to... I want to sign up for the Airborne," Claire said, her voice lower than she intended. She brushed a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear.

"Airborne?" Peyton's eyebrows shot up, a playful smirk teasing her lips. "My, aren't we the brave one?"

"Someone has to be," Claire retorted, though her heart thumped erratically at the reality of her words. Inside her coat, the WAC pamphlet felt like a secret confession of her hesitance.

Peyton reached beneath the table, sifting through papers with a purposeful intensity. "Well, if it's the sky you're aiming for, let me help you take flight." With a furtive glance around, she leaned closer, conspiratorially, "I'll snag you a form."

"Be careful," Claire warned softly as Peyton reached across the table, her fingers dancing swiftly over the stacked papers before procuring one of the coveted Airborne sign-up sheets.

"Come on," Peyton whispered, tucking the sheet under her arm. Together, they navigated through the swell of bodies, finding sanctuary in a quiet corner draped in shadows.

"Feels like plotting a secret mission," Claire joked, but her hands trembled slightly as she accepted the pen from Peyton. The weight of her decision pressed down upon her, each tick of the wall clock punctuating the urgency of the moment.

"Imagine, us girls changing the world," Peyton said, her voice a soft blend of wonder and conviction, "Seems like only yesterday we were both little girls wishing our fairy tale dreams."

"Changing our own worlds, at least," Claire replied, her smile tinged with the gravity of their unspoken dreams. She looked down at the form, each line a step closer to a future where fear mingled with hope, and the prospect of 50 extra dollars meant more than just money; it represented freedom, education, and a chance to make a difference.

"Are you ready for this?" Peyton asked, concern lacing her question.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Claire responded, her hand tightening around the pen. But in the sanctuary of her mind, she whispered a prayer for courage, for strength, and for the wisdom to choose the right path.

"Here, let's start with the easy stuff," Peyton said, pointing to the top of the form. "Name, date of birth, address..."

"Right." Claire filled in the blanks, her handwriting a neat script that belied the churn of her stomach. "I never pictured my twenties would look like this."

"Nobody did," Peyton agreed, leaning in to read over Claire's shoulder. "But we play the hand we're dealt. You've got a good one, Claire. Brains, bravery, and now... wings."

"Potentially," Claire mused, her gaze flitting to Peyton's own untouched sign-up sheet for the WACs. "It looks like we're both seeking some altitude."

"Seems so." Peyton's smile was a brief flash, her attention returning to Claire's form. "Next, they'll need your medical history. Any illnesses, surgeries..."

"Just wisdom teeth," Claire chuckled, checking the corresponding box. Her thoughts drifted again to the extra fifty dollars the poster promised, an amount that could put a dent in her medical school expenses—if the war didn't claim too much first.

"Emergency contact?" Peyton's voice cut through her reverie.

"Mom and Dad," Claire responded automatically, scribbling down her parents' details. Her heart clenched at the thought of their reaction; she hadn't even broached the subject with them yet.

"Alright, almost done," Peyton encouraged. "Just need your signature and—"

"Hope," Claire finished quietly, the pen hovering above the paper. She drew in a deep breath and signed her name with a flourish that felt more defiant than anything she'd ever done.

"Done." Claire set the pen down, her pulse racing as the realization of her commitment took hold.

"Then that's it," Peyton affirmed. "You're on your way, Claire."

"Thanks to you," Claire said, her gratitude genuine. She folded the form, the creases crisp under her fingers. "Now, let's get this turned in before I lose my nerve."

"Lead the way, soldier," Peyton said with a grin, and together, they stepped back into the fray, their bond a thread of certainty in an uncertain world.

Claire clutched the folded form in her hand as she glanced sideways at Peyton, who was busy scanning the room with an intensity that matched the gravity of their surroundings.

"Are you going to join the fight too?" Claire asked, her voice barely above a whisper, betraying a vulnerability she kept well-guarded.

Peyton turned toward her, her eyes holding a glint of resolve that seemed older than her eighteen years. "I’m considering the WACs," she admitted. "As a war journalist. Someone has to tell our stories, right?"

"Right." Claire nodded, pride swelling within her chest at the thought of her friend capturing the essence of these tumultuous times. "You'll be great at it."

"Thanks," Peyton said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "Now, let's get you officially signed up."

They approached the bustling table discreetly; Peyton’s movements were deft and quiet as she slid Claire's form amidst a stack of others. The act was so smooth it was as if the paper had sprouted wings and settled itself among its brethren. No one noticed, no heads turned—they were just two young women in a sea of anxious faces, all united by a common cause.

"Call me later?" Claire's heart thumped loudly, her mouth dry.

"Of course." Peyton's smile was a lifeline. "And Claire? Be safe."

"Always am," Claire replied with a wink she didn't quite feel. Then, with a quick, tight hug that carried the weight of unspoken fears and shared dreams, they parted.

Claire stepped outside into the brisk January air, pulling her coat tighter against the winter chill. She could still feel the echo of Peyton’s embrace as she hailed a cab. When the old yellow car pulled to the curb, she saw the driver through the rolled-down window, his cap slightly askew.

"Where to, miss?" he asked gruffly, the lines on his face deepened from years of squinting into the distance.

Claire told her address, her voice steady even as her hands trembled.

As the taxi lurched forward, Claire leaned back against the worn upholstery. The city passed by in a blur of gray and white, but all she could see was the future unfurling before her, uncertain yet fraught with possibility. She gripped the strap of her handbag, the texture suddenly grounding her racing thoughts. What would home look like when she returned? Would the familiar streets whisper tales of her courage or sing laments for her absence?

"Almost there," the driver announced, snapping Claire back to the present.

"Thank you," she murmured, her mind already drifting to the announcement she would soon make. The door to her life as she knew it was closing, and with every turn of the wheels, she felt a step closer to the woman she was destined to become.

The rhythmic clacking of the typewriter keys filled the kitchen, a syncopated counterpoint to the soft scratching of pen on paper. Claire stood in the doorway, her silhouette hesitating against the afternoon light that filtered through the lace curtains. She watched as her mother's fingers danced over the black and white keys, her concentration never wavering even as she reached for her coffee cup with her free hand. Her father, meanwhile, was hunched over a notebook, his furrowed brow casting shadows over the figures he diligently noted down.

"Mom, Dad," Claire's voice trembled slightly, betraying the nerves she fought so hard to conceal.

Her mother stopped typing mid-word, the carriage hanging in limbo. She looked up, "Claire, honey, you're back early. Is everything alright?" 

"Hey, kiddo." Her dad glanced up, a flicker of concern crossing his weathered face before he set his pen aside. "You look like you've got something on your mind."

In the brief pause that followed, Claire could hear her own heartbeat, a frantic drumline marching toward an inevitable revelation. She took a deep breath, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the faint trace of a candle, grounding her resolve.

"I ran into Peyton downtown," she began, the words spilling out more easily than she anticipated. The mention of her best friend always had a way of easing tension in the room. She moved closer, coming to rest against the edge of the kitchen table, her hands gripping the polished wood.

"Is that right?" her mom asked, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "And what's Miss Peyton up to these days?"

"She's working at the recruitment station," Claire said, watching as her parents exchanged a quick, unreadable glance. "Actually, I..." she paused, gathering the shards of courage that felt scattered within her chest.

"Actually, what, Claire?" her dad prompted, leaning back in his chair, his eyes kind and attentive.

Claire's glasses slipped slightly down her nose as she met their gazes, the world around her momentarily out of focus. She pushed them up with a resolute finger.

"I have an announcement to make," she stated, the words solidifying into reality the moment they passed her lips. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a caged bird yearning for the freedom of the skies, "I've decided to enlist. I joined the Airborne to be a combat medic."

Her father raised his eyebrows, "The Airborne?"

"You do know what that means, right?" her mother questioned in disbelief.

"Yes, I do," Claire said sternly, "And I also know that there's an additional 50 dollars in pay. That could go towards college and med school."

"Honey," her mother sighed, "Med school is expensive. That could cover a textbook, maybe two."

"Yes, I know," Claire kept her ground, "And you guys always say I need to be more mature and independent. Well, here's my chance, all while gaining medical experience. Imagine how that will look on med school applications."

Her mother crossed her arms, "Now, Claire, when we said more independent and more mature, we didn't mean jump out of a plane into a war zone."

"But, you guys have also told me to take risks, to stand up for myself and what I believe in, to not let people walk all over me. What is it that you always say, Mom? A well-behaved woman never makes history. That's what I'd be doing - making history!" 

Her father chuckled, "Man, when this one tries to make her case, she really makes it."

"And besides, I only applied. It doesn't mean they'll take me," Claire shrugged.

"How does it feel fighting with yourself," her father said to her mother, laughing.

Mrs. O'Connor glared at her husband, "Oh, hush."

Claire laughed at the teasing between her parents. They had said many times she was her mother's daughter.

"Can you imagine? She'll probably argue with her CO," her father said, shaking his head.

"Of course," Claire stated boldly, "You know me."

"Or argue with the enemy itself and they'd back down," her mother retorted.

Claire laughed, "That's the plan."

Her mother then leaned forward, her voice now gentle yet steady. "Claire, we've always encouraged you to follow your dreams, to forge your own path. And if this is what you truly want, then we support you wholeheartedly."

"You know we'll always have your back," her father chimed in.

The creak of the stairs announced Emma's arrival before she appeared, her eyes questioning as she took in the sight of their huddled assembly. She leaned against the doorway, her silhouette softened by the hall light spilling into the living room.

"Everything okay?" Emma asked, her gaze flicking between her parents' drawn faces and Claire's determined stance. 

"Yeah, I joined the Airborne to be a combat medic," Claire said nonchalantly.

Her sister stopped in her tracks, "Huh. Well, that's something you don't hear every day. Good for you." Emma smiled and patted Claire's shoulder. "If anyone can do it, it's you." She then shifted her gaze to their parents, who exchanged a glance and nodded in approval.

"Besides," Claire added with a mischievous grin, "Who knows? I might catch the eye of a handsome paratrooper who's just dying to break through these walls." She shot a knowing look at her mother, who laughed. 

Unbeknownst to Claire, a couple of thousand miles away, that young, handsome paratrooper was also breaking the news to his parents and siblings about his brave decision to join the Airborne.

[softguarnere]

For Whatever We Lose

Lewis Nixon x OFC (slow burn, enemies to lovers) Chapter One: Greenly's Girls

Summary: “We have a problem,” Keziah whispers as soon as they’re out of earshot. “We always have a problem.” A/N: Hi! Hello! And welcome to the fic that's been living rent-free in my brain since last March! (Although at this point, I think Minerva actually owns the building and I'm paying rent to her.) The end of LAGLAM is fast approaching, and to avoid being completely heartbroken once it's finished, I figured that I would start uploading what I already have of this fic. We have more Indigenous OCs and more North Carolinians - because my writing is nothing but a vessel for tricking people into caring about those things. I'll put a link to AO3 on the masterlist in case anyone wants to look at those endnotes for any of my silly little references, explanations, or insights. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! And let me know if you want to be tagged in upcoming chapters 💙 Warnings: none

Camp Toccoa, 1942

In, two, three!

After all these months, the sound that her boots make against the rocks and the clay as she runs are still unfamiliar to her – something foreign that reminds her that she is worlds away from home.

Out, two, three!

Heavier footsteps pound the ground behind her, sounding closer than ever. Sheets of sweat coat her body. She’s drenched. If Jack were here, he would probably say that she looks like a wet rat – affectionately, of course.

In, two, three!

Three miles down is supposed to be the easy part. Making sure she doesn’t bust her ass along the downward slope isn’t that simple. For once she isn’t holding herself back as she soars down the mountain. Today, she’s free to fly.

Out, two three!

A muttered curse behind her as her opponent stumbles. If she weren’t so focused on her breathing, she would huff a triumphant laugh. As it is, she’s got to make sure that she pushes herself to the limit in this final stretch – anything to stay ahead.

In, two, three!

A few people are waiting at the bottom of the trail, trying not to look like they’re waiting around to see how this turns out. Sunlight gleams off the bars of one of the officers as he joins the small crowd. Good. She wants them watching when she beats one of their own.

Out, two, three –

She skids to a stop, managing to stay upright. Breathing techniques and careful timing fly out the window the second she sees everyone’s faces and realizes that she did it – she won! Unofficial as the race was, she managed to beat the lieutenant from Dog Company, just like she knew that she could. Just like she knew she could beat anyone on the trail if she gave herself the opportunity to open up and soar without holding back. Blending in be damned.

She catches sight of Keziah’s smiling face in the sea of men. She allows a laugh to escape her, but she’s breathing so heavily that it disguises itself as more of a heavy exhale. Well, that’s fine; it seems more sportsmanlike – more ladylike – if she doesn’t laugh in the midst of her own triumph.

“Congratulations,” the lieutenant from Dog Company says from behind her. She turns to face him. He’s smiling. Which might just be because of all the people watching them, but he’s smiling, and it actually reaches his dark eyes; genuine enough. “Congratulations, Private . . . er – “

“Revels,” she replies. She offers him a salute. He is an officer, after all, and it seems the appropriate thing to do. “Private Minerva-Jane Revels.”

The lieutenant sticks out his hand to shake. He’s got a strong grip. “Lieutenant Ronald Speirs,” he says.

Mutters and whispers break out in the crowd behind them. Lieutenant Speirs has just been beaten in the run up and down Currahee – by a girl! And not even during PT! More than just the enlisted have seen it, too. The other officer in the crowd, with his bright crop of gingery hair, was here to witness the results.

Keziah steps forward then, locking her fingers around Minerva’s elbow and gently tugging her away from Lieutenant Speirs. She offers her own polite smile to him, and then she leads Minerva away from the crowd, both of them with their heads held high.

“We have a problem,” Keziah whispers as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“We always have a problem.”

The short laugh that Keziah pushes out doesn’t soften whatever news she’s about the deliver. Tall and athletic with a face that is both pretty and expressive, something is lurking just beneath the mask of pride that she’s wearing for the crowd – danger lurking beneath the depths of the water.

“But today it’s tangible,” Keziah says. “Order of the day is for all women to dress in their ODs and stand fast in the barracks.”

Stand fast in the barracks? “No morning PT?”

“They told us we can’t even go to breakfast until they come for us.”

Minerva stops in her tracks. That sounds like they’re being held prisoner. Or like they’re being held in one place for an announcement – or a sendoff.

A few paces in front of her, Keziah stops and looks back at her. Minerva has to quicken her pace to catch back up with her friend’s quick strides.

“That’s all I know,” Keziah says before Minerva can ask anything. “But it doesn’t sound good, does it?”

“I doubt that they’re rounding us all up just to congratulate us on what a good job we’ve been doing.”

Keziah snorts. “Even though that’s exactly what they should be doing.”

They reach the women’s barracks then. Voices, talking quickly and quietly, can only just be heard through the door. They pause the second that Minerva throws the door open. Eight worried faces turn to look at her, their expressions frozen in varying degrees of anger and expectancy.   

Eight, ten counting she and Keziah. It’s enough to make a person want to laugh and to cry all at once. Upon first arriving at Camp Toccoa, way back when it was still Camp Toombs, there had been one hundred or so women who had been recruited to try their luck with the Airborne. Slowly but surely, the army had weeded out those deemed mentally and/or physically unfit to join the elite ranks who would earn the privilege of calling themselves paratroopers. Down to a measly ten. Eleven, if you count Lieutenant Greenly, whose absence is being greatly felt while she’s off being trained to become Captain Greenly.

“Oh. It’s just you,” Lori sighs before throwing herself down on her bunk.

All at once, the spell is broken. Minerva and Keziah fully enter the bunk house, closing the door behind them. The murmuring resumes.

“You heard anything?” Anita asks as Minerva passes.

She opens her footlocker, acutely aware that the whispering has died down again as a few glances are thrown her way. Best to be casual. Taking off her PT clothes and tugging on her ODs, she throws a casual, “No. Why would I have?” over her shoulder.

A loud snort emits from somewhere behind her, followed by Anna’s voice. “Because you know everything.”

Back still turned, Minerva smirks to herself. Well, if they want to think that, let them.

“Not everything,” Lori insists, always ready to humble anyone and everyone. “Clearly she doesn’t know about this.”

“Whatever this is,” Diana mutters. Her words startle Minerva, but she seems to be the only one. She only even heard her because her fellow North Carolinian is sitting on the bunk across from her, just close enough for her quiet voice to be heard.

Keziah takes a step forward, towards Lori. “But she could.” She throws a glance at Minerva, her eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly. “I mean, you could . . . right?”

“Isn’t our order of the day to stand fast in here?”

“Yeah, but they have to let us out at some point,” Juanita points out. “I mean, don’t they?”

If and when they get out of the bunkhouse, Minerva is confident in the fact that she can get at least some answers. Crumbs, rumors, anything – she can manage it. At this point, she feels obligated to. After all, it would appear that she has something of a reputation to uphold. Nothing new there.

With all the confidence she just acquired from beating Lieutenant Speirs up Currahee on full display, Minerva offers them all a solemn nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Lori snorts. It probably goes against everything she learned from her refined upbringing, all those tutors and fancy schools she loves to brag about. But the noise draws everyone’s attention back to her.

Far from put down, it only makes Minerva more determined to find out what she can, just to prove Lori wrong. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes from being able to prove her kind incorrect.

An hour later, someone fetches them for breakfast. Sunlight blinds them as they exit the bunkhouse. Most of the men are already in PT or classroom instruction, which gives the camp a feeling similar to that of a ghost town as the ten women march through it. Those few men who still linger stop to stare at them.

“You think that’s a bad sign?” Bianca whispers to no one in particular.

To be fair, the men are always staring at them. Their tendency to gawk tells them nothing about their precarious fate.

The mess hall is empty when they arrive. The cooks call out to them in greeting, the first faces that have looked happy to see them all morning. As they move through the line, each woman carefully arranges her face in a smile and thanks them for the food – something that Minerva suggested during their first week at the camp. Most of the girls hadn’t been willing to make eye contact with the cooks as they received their food. Now, though, they’ve been set apart from the men, carrying a reputation for being polite. And if the cooks are secretly saving them the best rations, well, that’s just a positive and unintended side effect.

 Across the table from her, Bianca sighs through her nose as she pokes her eggs with her fork. Best rations doesn’t necessarily mean good rations; correlation does not imply causation, and all that.

“What’s wrong, Mancini?” Minerva nudges the New Yorker’s knee under the table. “Not up to your standards?”

Bianca shovels a forkful of eggs into her mouth, keeping her head down so no one can see her wrinkle her nose and she chokes down the slimy, bland eggs. “Not my ma’s cooking, by any means.”

“No kiddin’,” Anna agrees. “I joined the Army because I heard it’d get me three meals a day. But sometimes I think it would be more appetizing just to flat starve.” She pinches the driest piece of toast that Minerva has ever seen between her fingers and holds it up for inspection. Even the slight rush of air from her mouth as she talks causes the bread to flake like psoriasis. “I miss my Papa’s biscuits.”

She’s not wrong. The breakfast isn’t exactly the Fisherman’s Favorite that Minerva’s mom whips up every morning. Scrambled eggs – real eggs, not this powdered crap – and hashbrowns, some bacon, and one of Pop’s famously fluffy biscuits fresh from the oven, still oozing with butter as he passes out the jam to spread on top of them. Despite the food in front of her, the memory is enough to make Minerva’s mouth water.

“The cooks are doing their best,” she concedes. And at least they like us enough to not spit in our food or dump salt in our coffee, she doesn’t add.

With everyone preoccupied with their questionable meal, Minerva stands and makes for the door.

“Where are you going?” Anita asks.

“Bathroom,” Minerva lies, never looking back at the other women as she excuses herself.

Once outside and sure that none of the others have followed her, Minerva charges off – in the direction opposite the latrines. In no time flat she finds herself behind a building that looks just like all the others, the only sign of its importance being the words REGIMENTAL HQ on the front by the door.  

At the back of the building, in the shadows, a graceful figure with dark hair is leaned back against the wall with a cigarette held between middle and forefinger. As Minerva approaches, a pack of Lucky Strikes is produced, and another cigarette provided.

Minerva has never smoked – her mother would kill her – but this is the system that they operate under. Something about two women having a smoke and a casual chat doesn’t seem as suspicious as a WAC secretary and an aspiring paratrooper talking behind a building. Still, Minerva holds the cigarette away from her after it’s lit, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

Joyce does the same, her pretty red lipstick twitching up in a smile as she watches her. “A shame that neither of us smokes. We’ll have wasted so many cigarettes by the end of the war.”

“Well, hopefully our service will make up for it,” Minerva says slyly. She glances at Joyce out of the corner of her eye just in time to see the other woman’s red lips purse. Uh oh. Minerva flicks her cigarette, trying to tap the ashes off the end like she’s seen other people do. Instead of looking casual, it makes her hand look shaky, nervous. “Anything . . . to share?”

There’s a moment of silence as Joyce glances around. She cannot take any chances about being overheard. She came to Toccoa from Atlanta as a WAC, and her superb handwriting and fingers that fly over a typewriter quickly propelled her up to headquarters. Taking notes for the likes of Colonel Sink has given her a distinct advantage over others, putting her in the know, and luckily for Minerva, she doesn’t keep all that knowledge for herself. After bonding with Minerva over their mutual disdain of Southern humidity and the indecisive policies regarding the Airborne’s female recruits one day in the line for lunch, the two became quick friends and confidants. Minerva is careful with any bits of information that Joyce gives her, any snatches of gossip. Being in the know gains you some advantage in life, especially in a place like this. But protecting your sources – protecting your friends – is more important than having your peers think that you know everything.

Finally, Joyce sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Something horrible has happened.”

Something horrible. Well, that’s not exactly promising. But it does explain why they’ve been stuck in the bunk house all morning.

“Sink thinks – “ Joyce lowers her voice even more so that Minerva has to lean in to hear her whisper. “Sink thinks that it was an act of sabotage, someone who’s mad about women joining the army. Several others agree.”

“Are we being sent home?”

Joyce’s sky-blue eyes widen. “Good golly, wouldn’t you think? But no. If anything, it’s made Sink even more determined to continue with this Great Experiment of his. I’ve been taking notes and typing letters all morning. No, you girls are staying. In fact, you’re about to be thrown into the fray – start training for real, with a purpose.”

For months Minerva and the other women have been playing a sort of softball with the army. Their fate has been up in the air, they haven’t been used, and none of their training has been with any real sense of urgency. According to Joyce, things are about to change. Minerva should be thrilled. But something horrible happened to bring this all about. What was it?

“That’s all I should say,” Joyce says. She tosses down her unsmoked cigarette and grinds it out under her high heel. “Oh, Mina, I really hope that things will work out for you and the other girls!”

Minerva takes the typist’s hand and squeezes. “They will, if I have any say in the matter. I didn’t come all this way for nothing.”

“Between you and the colonel, I think that the stars will have to align to your will.”

“Thanks, Joyce.” Minerva grinds out her own cigarette and takes off in the direction of the mess hall. “I’ll see you later!”

The other women are just finishing up breakfast when she returns. The toast on her plate has not aged well in the few minutes that she’s been away, but Minerva eats it anyway, despite the dry, flaky texture. It’s a good thing that other people watching her eat doesn’t make her uncomfortable; all eyes are on her as she chokes down the coffee from her cup, trying to return any sense of moisture to her mouth after the toast dried it out. None of the girls – except Keziah – particularly like her unless they know that she has information that they want. For the second time this morning, they watch her expectantly.

At least they have the decency not to bring it up until they’re in the relative safety of the bunkhouse. Once the door is shut, they all pounce at once, throwing a million questions her way.

Jack once referred to Minerva’s seemingly endless patience as her “teacher mode.” Growing up with John-Michael’s endless questions about anything and everything and then dealing with children in a classroom all day has given her plenty of practice. She sits on the edge of her bed and waits for them to settle down.

“We’re not being sent home,” she announces when they finally wear themselves out. “Our training is about to begin in full. A decision has been made.”

A few of the girls cheer. Juanita and Anna share a high-five. Others, mainly Lori, look skeptical.

“What made them finally decide that the ten of us deserve to be paratroopers?” the heiress demands.

Minerva can only shrug. “I don’t know. But – “

“Ha! You don’t know? That’s not too promising.”

Minerva bites her bottom lip, counts to ten. She takes a deep breath and tries to speak again when the door of the bunkhouse opens, stealing everyone’s attention.

The effect is immediate. All ten women are on their feet, backs straight, chins up, mouths shut as Colonel Sink himself steps into the bunkhouse. He surveys them, and if they weren’t all staring straight ahead, maybe they would notice a hint of a smile hiding under that famous moustache of his.

“At ease, ladies,” he says. When they relax, he gets straight down to business. “Girls, there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’ll come right out and say it before the rumor mill gets ahold of it: Captain Greenly is gone.” Something horrible has happened, Joyce had said. Colonel Sink thinks it was an act of sabotage. “She died this morning after her chute failed on a training jump.”

Gasps from around the room. Bianca crosses herself. At her sides, Minerva’s nails dig into the palms of her hands as she tries to hold back all the four-letter words that flash through her mind.

Greenly, in the short time that they had known her, had been good to them. Inspiring and authoritative all at once. She had known when to encourage them and when to push them to their limits. More importantly, she had been one of them – an advocate for their cause, but part of their struggle all the same. And now she’s gone.

After the initial shock, Sink presses forward. “Frankly, I don’t think what happened was an accident. And I don’t know about you, but it makes me all the more determined to prove that you girls are perfectly capable of being part of the best goddamn regiment that the army has to offer! Which is why tomorrow morning the ten of you will become the newly minted Women’s Squad of Easy Company.”

Easy Company. Minerva tries to place them in her mind, only to come up empty. Not Speirs’ company, unfortunately. At least there they’d have a friend. Well, she would have someone she already knew, anyway.

“Easy Company has the best record in the regiment. Their captain believes in training and training hard, which is why I would like for him to take over training you ladies; we’re going to make sure you’re ready to fight the Germans when you fall out of that sky.

“As for logistics. Captain Greenly’s death has left a void that will need to be filled. I’ve already selected a promising young woman who will be going through OCS to replace her. In the meantime, two of you have college degrees. I am going to appoint you as sergeants, for now, and perhaps after the dust settles, we can get you a bar for your collars. At the moment, I would rather you be able to act as leaders to your fellow women and as liaisons with the officers in Easy Company while we get things sorted out.”

Two college graduates. Two sergeants. All eyes not so subtly flick in Lori’s direction. Since they got here, not a day has gone by that they haven’t heard about her time at Vassar College. But no one else has mentioned going to college. Weary glances fill the room as ten women eye each other with suspicion. Who else will be their other sergeant?

As if he hasn’t dropped a bombshell of information on them, Colonel Sink checks his watch. “Well, girls, I wish there was more time. I have a meeting to get to. Getting a mess this big sorted out doesn’t happen in just a few minutes, you know. I wish you all the best of luck.” He stops in the doorway and smiles at them, so wide that his moustache can’t hide it. “Currahee!”

“Currahee!” They all return, albeit a little dazed.

The door shuts and they’re eyeing each other again, trying to figure out who’s been keeping secrets.

“Obviously Lori,” Anita says. “Who else went to college?”

“And why has no one talked about it?” Juanita wants to know.

Beside Minerva, Keziah snorts as she mutters, “Probably because nowhere could possibly be as glamorous as wherever Lori went.”

No one will fess up, despite the fact that it’s all anyone talks about on the way to lunch, or on the way back from lunch, or on the way to classroom instruction later in the day. Minerva herself even joins them in making a list of possible candidates, although, if she’s being honest, there are few who anyone would care for as a sergeant. Too bad that she knows for a fact that Keziah never went to college; she has a feeling that she would be a hell of a leader – not to mention that it would make her grandfather proud.

They’re walking to the mess hall for dinner when a man that Minerva doesn’t recognize pulls her aside and tells her to follow him. No one seems to notice her departure, although part of her wishes that they had.

The man leads Minerva to a building that she’s never been inside of before and escorts her to an office. Inside, behind the desk, a darkhaired man sits as proudly as a king on a throne as he flips through papers in a file. In front of the desk, a small woman with caramel hair and wide eyes turns to face Minerva, looking just as shocked as she is. Before Minerva can voice her surprise, the man behind the desk notices her.

“Ah, Miss Revels,” he says, something that’s not quite a smile stretching his thin lips. “It would appear that you’ve been holding out on us.”