#char: john egan

[swifty-fox]

https://www.tumblr.com/swifty-fox/757933470745067520/holy-shit-understanding-in-a-plane-crash-broke

sorry for the profanity but i fucking love this fic muah

I LOVE IT TOO IM SO HAPPY Y"ALL ARE ENJOYING IT BUT PLS PLS go give @reallylilyreally's fics the same love bc it would not exist without her brady series!!!

a snippet for you:

It didn’t take very long for young Johnny Brady to realize he wasn’t made quite like his sisters, or anyone else he knew, really. He didn’t know anyone else who counted steps between cracks in the sidewalk, determined to get the same amount each time and, when he was little enough for it to still be a cute gimmick, to turn and repeat the steps if they didn’t come to the same count. They didn’t decide their favorite hymns based on the numbers of words, or in the title or on the corner of the page. The odd look Alice had given him once wen he tried to explain had taught him to keep that fact to himself. 

None of the other men, even thouse as arguably devout as himself, counted the decades as if they might forget it without constant practice. 

Misaligned chairs didn’t make their insides twist up with anxiety and they certainly didn’t feel the need to tap three times on any doorframe they went through.

Johnny understood all this, understood he was different. Understood enough to keep it mum in the psych evals when he’d signed up. Had long years of practice keeping the counting in his head, separating his rules from the rest of the world’s rules. 

Loud mind, his mother always explained. When he watched her worry at the stitching of her dresses, manicured nails carefully tracing over every loop, he’d wonder if her mind was loud too.

He knows the world doesn’t follow his rules. 

It doesn’t the way he feels himself twitch when he walks into the bunkhouse one evening to find John Egan sprawled in the chair Johnny had quietly been thinking as his for the last few months. Major Egan is in an ugly mood, picking the skin off a coal-roasted potato and popping the still-steaming chunks between his lips with a dark expression on his face. It’s not Johnny’s chair, but he’s sat there every night to eat his own pathetic meal, smoke his pipe, watch Crank carve his wooden planes, watch Murph and Hambone gamble for cigarettes, and stubbornly not watch Benny DeMarco. 

It’s not his chair, it’s not his fucking chair. His fingers tap tap tap against the rosary in his pocket as he heads over to Gangwer to check on his cough, remind him to rest.

There’s talk of a march, whispers the Allies are advancing and they’ll be on the move within the next few months. Johnny thinks its nonsense, they would be stupid to march prisoners in the snow. 

It’s not his fucking chair. 

Johnny takes his own potato, the skin still slightly green and off under the char of coals. It’s hot, it’s filling. He tries to eat it and remember what butter and bacon drizzled atop it tasted like. He leans against Benny’s bunk and blows onhis potato until it cools and tries not to watch Egan out of the corner of his eye. It’s not his chair, it’s not Egan’s rule.