evie

“to be loved as to love.” moots?

[lovingroe]

EVIE ── she/her, silver jewellery, fangirl, cinefile, metalhead, adhd, girl blogger, sansa starks no1 fan, dancer

🎬: bofb, asoiaf, inglorious basterds, x-men

other accounts: @finchytv + @stiglitzluver

masterlist - requests are open!!

everyone is welcome on this blog!

[hqcheerio]

cutting outside the box

joe liebgott x reader

summary: you ask joe for a haircut and he kind of has a crisis about it. he also thinks you might be in love with someone else. he’s definitely not overthinking it.

tags/warnings: friendly colleagues(?) to lovers. you’re in easy company. joe is kind of neurotic but in a really chill and low key way, at least that’s what he thinks. mostly just joe’s inner monologue. fluff? i guess. possibly excessive use of the word fuck. no use of y/n.

this fic is strictly inspired by ross mccall’s performance and by the characters in the HBO show Band of Brothers. it is not intended to depict or disrespect any real life veterans.

———————————————————————

“i’ll wait around for a day,

this porch on which i pace,

‘cause i need me mine i need me yours.”

-crazy bird, wild child

———————————————————————

TOCCOA, 1943

joe’s not sure why he agreed to this.

he could take it back. say no. tack on a joke that always comes out far meaner than intended.

something like you being a waste of his damn time. you’re not. or how he oughta charge you double just for fuckin’ bothering him. he won’t. double of zero is still zero.

the bite in his words never really lands with you though. you just squint your eyes at him like he’s one of those crusty little dogs, growling and bearing teeth too small to do any damage.

he hates that looks. makes him feel like he’s got something to prove. makes him say more bullshit. makes you keep lookin’ at him. makes him feel cornered.

he’s a goddamn paratrooper for christ sake. almost. not according to sobel. but joe ain’t a quitter, he’s getting his damn wings.

so throw the guy a bone. he’s at least one of those austrian huntin’ hounds. maybe not scary looking but damn good at sniffin’ out and killin’ hares hidden deep in the mountains.

jesus christ. this is stupid. so the fuck what. he ain’t a fucking dog and that ain’t the fucking point.

the point is, he could’ve just said no. besides, he’s got every right to be mad at you right now. not that he cares enough to be mad at you, it’s just, well—it’s sunday.

it’s fucking sunday.

he cuts your hair on saturdays.

always has. like clockwork. every other week. same time, same place. same style. you’re never late.

so where the hell were you yesterday?

had him sittin’ outside the barracks waiting for you like a chump, scissors heavy in his pocket.

shootin’ death glares at malarkey, skip, and the rest of their gossipy little mortar squad—the assholes kept fucking lookin’ at him and he could hear them snickering when he wasn’t watching.

he nearly bit tab’s head off after the guy simply asked him where you were. why the fuck should he know, he ain’t your fucking keeper. talbert didn’t push it. just put his hands up in mock surrender and walked away muttering that joe was an idiot. which was fucking rude by the way.

he was dead set on knockin’ the lights out of guarnere for raggin’ on him, girlfriend stand you up, liebgott? chuck and alley stopped him, matching expressions of… pity? on their faces that he still doesn’t really understand.

swinging on guarnere had nothing to do with you. why would it? the guy was just being a dick and joe loves any excuse to start a fight.

when fists start flying, the adrenaline rush pulls him outta his head and into his body. all that excess energy that won’t quit piling up inside him starts flowing a with purpose. sole focus on hit or get hit.

it’s a nice break from his own thoughts. landing a good clean punch on some guy’s ugly mug is pretty satisfying too, makes him a little giddy in a way he should probably unpack one day. after the war.

but now here you are. on fucking sunday. a day late, no sign of an explanation, and asking for bangs.

it bothered him. sorta. not really. just a little bit.

not because it’s you—and definitely not because you fucking ditched him—he just, uh, had things to do… yesterday. better things. like polish his boots. or maybe, um, catch up on some… reading? yeah, that’s it, reading.

he loves to read.

besides, who cares if you want bangs. he certainly doesn’t. he could shave you bald and you’d still look good. not because he thinks you’re pretty or nothin’. he’s just a damn good barber turned part-time hairstylist on saturdays. sunday?

and it’s none of his business why you stood him up. maybe you were off with fucking luz again somewhere. not that he cares. he doesn’t. he’s just, curious. mildly. only thinking about it like a normal amount. he ain’t stewing in it.

he wouldn’t call himself an over-thinker, more of a schemer really. but he ain’t a dweller. ain’t a worrier.

he’s easy-going, for the most part. friendly. funny. it’s not his fault people get easily offended. and yeah, he’s got a little bit of a temper. a teeny bit of rage stuck deep in his bones. but who doesn’t?

he should be mad at you for blowin’ him off yesterday. say something stupid that makes you cuff him on the back of the head. he doesn’t. but something about your request is starting to piss him off. mostly because there ain’t nothin’ truly weird about the request itself.

it’s a pretty popular style and, if he’s being honest, it wouldn’t look half bad on you. it’s just that, he’s been cutting your hair for the better part of a year now and you’ve never once mentioned wanting bangs.

and why would you? bangs are completely impractical out in the field. they’d require constant maintenance. and what if you skipped one of your haircuts again? they’d start to cover up your eyes and your eyes are pretty. um, prettygoodatreadingmapsandshit. bangs need constant touch ups.

so what gives?

does fucking luz like bangs? the guy’s always talkin’ bout rita hayworth this and marlene dietrich that. right in front of you too. and look, he likes luz just fine, but you and luz? he just doesn’t see it.

but you’re looking at him weirdly now. waiting for him to answer and smiling in a way that sort of makes you look constipated.

fuck it, he ain’t gonna let that crummy excuse of a barber from Dog do it.

he takes a step forward, reaching his hand around your head to pull out your hair-tie and let your hair down. a familiar motion by now. it’s not weird, he’s a barber. his fingers carefully start smoothing out your hair, tugging the strands back in place around your face. he takes a half step back and assesses, ignoring the weird feeling building in his chest.

bangs, huh?

his mouth felt kinda dry. probably the cigarettes.

“sobel’s gonna have a fit.”

“exactly,” you said, now smiling in a way he’s more familiar with.

“you gotta death wish or somethin’?”

“yeah, obviously,” you said. “i’m gonna be a fucking paratrooper.”

“in your dreams,” he scoffed, mocking grin spreading across his face. “you woulda blown away and gone airborne again if i hadn’t cut you outta your ‘chute after the last jump.”

“my fucking hero,” you deadpanned. “and you know the buckle was jammed.”

yeah, he did. you both got chewed out by the supply officer for that one. after the guy finished his rant, you smacked the buckle down on the table with a defiant, ‘open it.’ a carnivorous look in your eyes that joe still thinks about a little more than he’d care to admit.

his face felt a little warm. too much sun probably. “c’mon, i gotta grab the scissors from my footlocker.”

you didn’t reply. just fell into step beside him. you were acting normal but he still felt a antsy. on edge.

you really weren’t gonna say nothin’ about it being sunday? he sure as fuck wasn’t gonna be the one to bring it up first. instead he settled on, “you doin’ this to fuck with sobel?”

“no.” you said, like it was obvious. then why?

“is it even regulation?”

a mix of amusement and mild disbelief crossed your face, “just because sink’s looking out for me, doesn’t mean i can just blatantly flaunt the rules.”

okay, fair enough. but his curiosity was starting to get the better of him. he still didn’t get why.

“how you gonna manage bangs in a war? you ain’t gonna have fuckin’ curlers in your foxhole.”

“i know a guy,” you said with a shrug. there was a look in your eye he’s never seen before. fondness maybe? his stomach felt weird, a bitterness hitting the back if his throat.

“yeah, i’m sure luz will find you some real nice beauty pamperin’ shit on his radio,” he said, half joking and too harsh. “it’s a good thing too, you’ll need it.”

a flash of hurt crossed your face, quick enough he almost doubted he saw it at all, before settling back to something more neutral. he felt a little guilty.

“yeah, well, george said guys like bangs. just thought i’d try them out.” so you’re callin’ him george now? figures.

“that’s stupid. if a guy don’t like you, he don’t like you. bangs ain’t gonna change his fuckin’ mind,” he said, clipped and cold.

as you two reached the barracks, he heard you mumble something about waiting outside. whatever.

joe walked inside feeling more agitated with each step. you’re doing this for luz.

maybe he really should say no, that bangs ain’t his specialty. does luz even like you back?

this whole thing, your request, felt off. you’re really goin’ through all this trouble for a guy?

it’s stupid really. you of all people don’t need to change anything for someone to like you. but what’s it matter what he thinks? you ain’t doing this for him.

this restless sort of feeling, one he’s gotten pretty fucking good at ignoring, is starting to make itself known. poking it’s head out of the once tightly sealed, unlabeled box he kept tucked in the back corner of his mind.

it’s just a fucking haircut. so why the fuck does he care so much.

he’ll cut the hair of any Easy guy with 15 cents to spare—does a damn good job too—crew cuts, mohawks, you name it.

he won’t blink once, let alone twice, about charging the chumps in other companies 20 cents a cut, especially those ugly mugs from Fox.

he’ll hand out ‘officer discounts’ with a toothy grin—no funny business, sir. scout’s honor, sir. just 10 cents a cut, sir.—and, halfway through the job—gee, my hands are real tired, sir. it’d sure help me keep ‘em steady knowing i got a weekend pass waitin’ for me, sir. works every time.

but with you? joe’s never really known how to act around you.

it doesn’t help that you’ve been acting different lately too. always trailing after fucking luz, laughing like he must be the funniest guy in the world. he ain’t. joe’s heard his jokes, his impressions. he’ll admit luz does a good major horton, but his colonel sink just ain’t that funny.

it’s frustrating. you’re frustrating.

you don’t fit into the carefully organized boxes in his head. he’s got his friends, his Easy brothers, his fellow paratroopers, his family, his enemies, and so on. there’s some overlap and subfolders among the boxes in his mind, but still nowhere to put you.

he thought maybe you were starting cross over into the friends territory. you had a standing date appointment every other saturday, tucked right between breakfast and PT, where he’d cut your hair. trimming just enough to stay within regulation and keep sobel off your back.

but you’re not really friends, more like friendly colleagues maybe? tab’s his friend. grant and alley are his friends. best friends even. he could shoot the shit with those fellas for days and not get bored.

not to say he gets bored talking to you. he likes talking to you, but you make him feel sort of antsy and on edge in a way his friends definitely do not.

so no, you’re not goin’ in the box of friends.

you’re tough as nails and more than proved you belong in Easy with the rest of the men, but you sure as shit don’t feel like a brother to him.

so no, you’re not goin’ in that box either.

he supposes you are a fellow paratrooper but that feels too informal. that’s the box with those idiots from Dog and Fox and he’s certainly not gonna put you in there with them.

and you’re definitely not his enemy. krauts are enemies. stupid scotty who pushed him off his bike in front of the whole class and laughed at him for cryin’ when he was nine was his enemy. different levels, he ain’t gonna shoot stupid scotty like a kraut but he’d be more than happy to see karma bite him in the ass.

although the glare you shot him back when you first arrived in toccoa must’ve almost put him in your box of enemies. he probably would’ve deserved it too. he lacked a filter on a good day. liked to default to insults and sarcasm to fill gaps in conversation.

but in his defense he wasn’t expecting to see someone like you signing up to be in the airborne. walkin’ around cockier than half the guys knowing sobel couldn’t do a damn thing about you being there, not with colonel sink breathing down his neck.

it was infuriating.

but joe doesn’t hate you.

so no, you’re not goin’ in his box of enemies.

you’re not his friend, not his brother, not just a fellow paratrooper or his enemy. and that unlabeled box with the restless feeling he keeps hidden deep in the back of his mind is starting to open up, forcibly getting dragged into the light.

oh fuck. he feels sick.

he sort of wants to shout at you, which fucking box are you supposed be in and where the fuck were you yesterday?

thank god you’re outside, maybe you’ll just go away if he just stays in here. maybe he can just lock everything back up and pretend he never knew how he fe—

“uh, joe?”

fuck. the thing is he does know. he knows what box you’re in. he knows it ain’t unlabeled. he knows why he’s kept it firmly shut and locked away. he knows, despite what he told you, that your hair don’t actually grow fast enough to get cut every other week. he knows why he’s upset you didn’t show up yesterday. he knows why guarnere’s comment got to him. he knows how he feels.

he fucking knows.

and he knows you don’t feel the same goddamn way.

so you and that restless feeling gotta go back in your box. shoved back into the depths of his mind, away and forgotten.

“joe, you okay?” christ, when the fuck did you come in? “‘cause it’s been like 10 minutes and you said you were just grabbing scissors. and you look sort of—”

he feels fucking pathetic. he’s gotta say something. he’s gotta get you to leave. he’s gotta, he’s gotta do something—leave. you gotta leave, you gotta get back inside your box so he can pretend like none of this ever happened.

“—sort of, like pale and shit,” you paused, stepping closer. “should i get doc?”

“WHY ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR BOX?!”

“excuse me?”

“shit.”

you’re eyes were wide—clearly confused, taken aback, and heavily concerned. you also looked sort of pissed?

“joe, what the fuck.”

“i—”

“my fucking what?”

“it ain’t what it sounded like,” he said defensively.

“yeah, no shit. because i have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. what fucking box?”

joe stayed silent, refusing to look at you. not trusting himself to say much else.

“seriously,” you said, much softer than he deserved. “what the fuck is wrong with you today?” you meant it sort of like a joke but the tone of concern was unmistakeable.

joe fumbled for the pack of smokes in his pocket. pulling out two mildly squished cigarettes and offering one to you. an olive branch, or maybe a white flag.

you took the smoke and sat down on the corner of his cot. his hands were a little unsteady as he flicked open the lighter, fire catching on the tip of his cigarette, before tossing it to you and taking a deep drag.

“so,” he began, “why you, uh, tryin’ so hard to—” to change yourself? no, that didn’t sit right with him, it’s just fucking hair. you’re still you. to impress luz? he didn’t wanna hear the answer to that.

he shook his head, starting over, “it’s sunday.”

“i know.”

“and yesterday was saturday.”

“correct.”

“where were you?”

you had the audacity to look sheepish.

so you didn’t forget, you ditched him on purpose.

“were you—” he paused, words working their way past the lump in his throat, “are you with luz?”

the guilty look on your face told him all he needed to know.

fuck this. he tossed the forgotten smoke between his fingers into the ashtray. “hope you guys are fucking happy,” he muttered as he moved to leave.

“wait, joe,” you said, grabbing his sleeve as he stood up. “it’s not like that.”

“then what is it like?” he snapped

“we’re not together.”

“why the fuck would i think we were together?” joe spat, angry and desperate for this conversation to be over.

“george and i are not together,” you corrected.

“uh-huh.”

“george just thought that, well, he thought maybe it would bother you. make you… and i thought maybe the,” gesturing to your hair, “i dunno. i guess i just thought getting something fussy would mean more haircuts.”

joe didn’t really understand the look on your face and he didn’t trust the little flicker of hope in his chest.

“more haircuts?” he asked hesitantly.

“more haircuts. more time with you.”

“…with me?” no fucking way. “why?”

“jesus christ, joe,” you said, patience cracking. “do i have to spell it out for you?”

he squinted his eyes at you, sizing you up. trying to decipher if what you’re trying to say is the same as what he wants you to say.

“so yesterday, were you intentionally maneuverin’ me?”

“yes.” you said, face puckered like you ate a lemon.

he smiled, genuine and a little shit eating, “then yeah, you have to spell it out for me.”

“i hate you.” but your eyes were warm. happy.

“no you don’t.” he said, not even trying hide the huge, smug smirk growing on his face.

“no, i don’t.”

“you like me,” he teased.

“you know for a guy who looked ready to throw up 30 seconds ago, you’re awfully fucking smug right now.”

“but you like me.”

“yeah, i do.”

“you still want your haircut? i got a new discount goin’.”

“more discounted than free?” you asked. he’s threatened to, but he’s never actually charged you for a cut before.

“fine, not a discount then. call it a special offer. a limited time bundle.”

“what is it a haircut and a kiss?” you said sarcastically.

“a barber and a boyfriend.” he grinned, “but i’ll throw in the kiss for free.”

———————————

6 DAYS LATER, SATURDAY:

joe kind of wants to hold you hand. instead he rips out a few blades of grass and focuses his attention on splitting them right down the middle the long way.

some of the guys know you’re together now. others just sort of assumed. he found out luz knew how you both felt about each other before either of you even realized it yourselves. the bastard. but you both knew it was best to keep it quiet, especially in front of the officers.

“sweetheart!” luz said with a shitty grin on his face, “your hair looks gorgeous. don’t you think, joe?”

“well i fucking cut it, of course it looks pretty.” you quirked an eyebrow. hasty cover rushing out of his mouth, “uh, pretty good.”

that restless feeling he used box up and lock away was morphing into something calmer. softer. settling down and easing up the more time he let it out of its box. it was starting to feel a lot more like something he could name. it was a little soon to share, but maybe he wouldn’t overthink it when the time was right.

he definitely overthought it, but it felt a whole lot less scary when he was with you.

———————————

OFFICERS’ BARRACKS:

“looks like the kids are gonna be just fine,” nixon said, nodding towards the two of you through the window. “right, dick?”

“they’re not very subtle,” winters replied.

“liebgott follows her around with puppy dog eyes,” welsh chimed in.

“c’mon, it’s sweet,” nixon said. “plus, kitty’s not even here, harry, and you’re still somehow worse than liebgott is.”

“if sobel notices, there’s not much i can do to protect them,” winters continued.

“oh have a heart, dick. it’s young love.”

“and at least they’re trying,” welsh added. “besides, sobel can’t even read a map. no way he notices.”

nixon laughed at that. winters may have even cracked a smile.

———————————————————————

a/n: this is legit my first time actually posting a fic like ever? i’ve jumped from hyper fixation to hyper fixation for years, living off of other people’s big beautiful brains. but i’m pretty sure i’ve read like every liebgott fic multiple times by now, so i’m throwing my hat in the ring.

blame it on the cocky bastard with great hair and a whole lot of trauma who had the audacity to look hot covered in dirt. also please be nice, i wrote this on my phone and the formatting is kind of fucked up. i have no idea how many words this is either.

[lovingroe]

my stomach hurts can someone do me a favour and shoot me

[janebcnnct]

line deliveries of the century

[lovingroe]

ONE TOO MANY

── RONALD SPEIRS

summary: after bill convinces you to join in on his drinking game, speirs finds you outside the pub and in no fit state to get yourself safely back to bed

content: fluff, drunk!reader, mentions of vomit, swearing

notes: I lowk have no fic ideas rn I’m looking on pinterest for prompts that’s how bad it is

wc: 5.1k

The local pub was packed, and warm, almost nauseatingly so.

Easy Company had somehow managed to take up nearly half of the place within minutes of arriving, uniforms draped over chairs, empty glasses littering every available surface as the room buzzed with conversation.

Somewhere near the fireplace, a handful of men were butchering the lyrics to an old tune, earning a chorus of laughter from the tables around them. Someone else had commandeered the piano, though they were hardly doing it justice.

You leaned against the bar, nursing the same pint you’d been working on for the better part of half an hour.

Usually, this wouldn’t have been your scene but after enough convincing, and borderline begging, you now found yourself stood rigidly at a worn wooden bar.

“You plannin’ on drinkin’ that this century?”

You looked over your shoulder to find Bill Guarnere eyeing your glass with exaggerated disappointment.

"I am drinking it."

He looked at you with his nose wrinkled up in disgust, "You've taken about three sips."

"I'm savouring it."

Bill snorted.

"You're wastin' perfectly good beer."

You took a deliberately slow sip before answering, "I'm appreciating perfectly good beer."

"You ain’t appreciatin’ nothing."

"I think you’d find I like to enjoy my beer, slowly."

Bill shook his head dramatically before throwing an arm around Babe's shoulders.

"You hear this?"

He turned towards the two of you with an exasperated look on his face, “what?”

“Reader here thinks, that having the same beer for basically an hour is appreciating it.”

He looked towards you, down to your half-drunk glass and then back up to you before finally turning back to Bill.

“Well at least she has more self control than you,”

Bill frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Babe lifted his own glass.

“What’s this your third?”

“Watch it!” Bill replied, giving babe a light smack to the back of the head.

“Thanks Babe.” You said with a small smile.

Rubbing the back of his head, Babe shot you a quick wink.

"Yeah, no problem, reader."

"See?" you said, looking back at Bill. "Some people appreciate moderation."

Bill scoffed.

"Moderation's fuckin boring."

"Says the man who threw up all over that poor nurse last month."

"I'll have you know this is only my-"

He stopped to think.

"...Second."

Babe snorted.

"You had three before we even left the barracks."

Bill waved a dismissive hand.

"They don't count."

"Why wouldn’t they count?"

Before Bill could argue his case any further, someone called across the room.

"Guarnere!"

Bill looked over his shoulder.

"What?"

"You comin' or what?"

He glanced back at you, a grin already spreading across his face.

"Oh reader..." he practically sung.

You raised a single brow, “what.”

"Perfect timing!"

"What’s with that stupid look on your face."

"You don't even know what I'm gonna say."

"I don't know if I want to."

He jerked his head towards one of the larger tables where Luz, Malarkey, Liebgott, Toye and a handful of the others were gathered around several empty glasses.

“C’mon.”

"Mhm, no I’m good, thanks for the offer though."

"I ain't even asked yet."

"You don't need to."

He sighed dramatically.

"Sweetheart you’re killin me here."

"You’ll survive."

"You'll enjoy yourself."

"I seriously doubt that."

"C'mon, Reader."

Bill gently nudged your shoulder, "You spend every time we come in here standin' at that bar."

"Because I like standing at the bar."

"You look like you're waitin' for a bus, I love you but it’s sad."

You lowered your gaze down to glass, fingers tracing the edges before muttering "I don't even know what a bus has to do with anything."

"You’re missing the point."

Before you could reply he was already steering you towards the table before you had a chance to object.

"You can’t just manhandle me."

"You need to shut up."

"I’ll scream."

"Go ahead."

“I’ll do it.”

“Mhm you won’t.”

Bill laughed, turning another corner between the crowded tables.

At the exact same moment someone stepped out from the opposite direction.

You walked straight into them.

"Shit-"

You stumbled back a step before you could stop yourself.

A hand caught your upper arm, steadying you before you lost your balance completely.

"Oh god, I’m SO sorry," you blurted, looking up.

Your stomach dropped.

Speirs.

His grip disappeared almost as quickly as it had come.

"You alright?"

You nodded immediately, "Yeah. Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."

"It's alright."

That was all he said.

Bill clapped a hand against your shoulder.

"See? Told you, you can't be trusted to walk by yourself."

Your head turned to him slowly, glare evident.

"I bumped into one person."

"You bumped into Lieutenant Speirs."

You looked back at Speirs, who'd already stepped aside to let the two of you pass.

"...Sorry again."

He gave a small nod.

"Don't worry about it."

Then he carried on walking as though nothing had happened.

You watched him disappear into the crowd before Bill nudged you again.

"C'mon."

You blinked.

"Hm?"

"The game's this way."

"Oh."

You followed after him, shaking your head.

"God I can’t believe I did that ...I nearly flattened Lieutenant Speirs."

Bill laughed.

"Could've been worse."

"Worse?"

"You could've spilled his drink."

"I don't think that would've ended well."

"Nah."

Bill grinned.

"Probably not."

As you approached, Luz was the first to spot you.

"Well, would you look at that."

Several heads turned.

"Reader!"

"There she is!"

"'Bout time."

Malarkey shifted along the bench, making room while a large grin spread across his face.

"Get over here."

You laughed despite yourself as Bill all but presented you to the table.

"I'd just like everyone to know I was brought here against my will."

"That's a lie," Bill said.

"It's an exaggeration."

"That's still a lie."

Luz grinned.

"I don't think I've ever actually seen you sit with us in here."

"I do sit with you."

"You stand near us."

"That's practically the same thing."

"It really isn't."

Joe looked up from his drink.

"You actually plannin' on having more than that one pint tonight?"

"I hadn't planned on it."

Bill shook his head at you.

"I’m about to change that."

"Lovely."

You looked around the table before pointing a thumb at Bill.

"This is his fault."

A chorus of agreement immediately followed.

"Usually is."

"Can't argue with that."

Bill looked around with a snarl on his face.

"I can't believe I'm bein' attacked like this."

"You’ve had worse insults throw at you," Liebgott muttered.

He looked over at you, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"Seriously, though... good to see you over here."

You smiled back.

"Thanks."

"Figured you didn't like us."

Your face dropped, brows pinching slightly, "I like you guys."

Skip gave you a clap on the back, “awh, thanks, reader!”

Bill clapped his hands together once.

"Alright, enough."

Luz frowned.

"We're havin' a conversation."

"And now you're havin' a competition."

Despite your better judgment, you found yourself leaning forward.

"...What kind of competition?"

“The easy kind."

"I don’t feel like that’s really an answer."

Bill ignored that completely, reaching for the bottle in the middle of the table.

He began filling a row of small glasses, sliding one in front of each person before finally placing the last one in front of you.

You stared at it.

"...Bill."

"What?"

"I don’t think I wanna do this."

"You ain't even started."

Liebgott leaned closer towards you, “don’t worry you’ll be fine.”

Letting out a small sigh you turned away and looked back at bills almost manic looking face.

"What are the rules?"

He leaned back in his chair.

"Simple! Everyone gets a full glass."

Nodding your head, you looked around at the other men with a tight lipped smile.

"When I say go, you drink."

You nodded slowly.

"...Okay."

"Fastest one to finish wins the round."

"And the loser?"

Bill's grin widened.

"The last one still drinkin'..."

He tapped the bottle with the back of his hand.

"...gets another."

You blinked.

"That doesn't sound like winning for anybody."

Luz laughed.

"Now she's gettin' it."

"I still think this is a terrible idea."

"It is," Babe admitted.

"But it's a fun terrible idea."

You looked around the table.

Every single one of them looked far too enthusiastic.

Taking the small glass between your fingers, you let out a quiet sigh.

"If I wake up tomorrow in a ditch or something-"

Bill raised waved his hands defensively in front of his face.

“You won't."

You looked him dead in the eye.

"I absolutely will."

“We won’t let you reader don’t worry.” Malarkey spoke.

“At least someone has my back.” You rolled your eyes back in mock annoyance.

“Let’s play!”

Bill slams his hand on the table.

"Ready?"

Everyone lifts their glasses.

You look around nervously.

"...God I already hate this."

Luz laughs.

"Can’t back out now."

Bill points around the table.

"No cheatin'."

"Oh you are one to talk."

"I ain't hearin' complaints."

He raises his own drink.

"Three..."

The table quietens.

"Two..."

You tighten your grip on the tiny glass.

"One..."

Bill grins.

"Go!"

Everyone throws the drink back at once.

You immediately start coughing, face reddening.

Half of it nearly comes straight back out.

Laughter erupts around the table.

Bill slaps the table so hard his own glass nearly tips over.

"I knew she was done!"

"I'm fine!"

"You don't look fine."

“I said I'm- "

You cough again.

"...Fine."

By the sixth round, the table had thinned considerably.

Toye had bowed out after the fourth, muttering something about wanting to remember how he'd got back to the barracks.

Babe had tapped out soon after, content to watch the rest of them make idiots of themselves instead.

Malarkey hadn't played for the last two rounds either, preferring to sit back with a fresh beer and laugh at everyone else.

Leaving Bill, Luz, Liebgott...

And somehow... god know how,

You.

Bill looked between you and the growing pile of empty glasses.

"I'll admit it."

You looked up.

"I didn't think you'd still be here."

A grin spread across your face.

"Neither did I."

"You oughta quit while you've still got your dignity."

"I lost that the second I sat down with you."

A few chuckles went around the table.

Bill reached for the bottle.

"So that's a no?"

"That's a no."

"You sure?"

"I'm not lettin' you win."

"You've made this weirdly personal."

“You were the one who dragged me into this."

Luz laughed into his drink.

"She is right."

Another round was poured.

You reached for your glass.

Liebgott quietly rested two fingers over the top of it before you could.

You looked at him.

"...What's that for?"

"I think you've had enough."

"I've barely had anything."

Skip barked out a laugh.

"'Barely.'"

"It's true."

Luz looked around the room in disbelief.

"You've spent the last five minutes starin' at Liebgott."

You frowned.

"I have not."

"You have."

"I was thinking."

"'Bout what?"

You looked at Liebgott again.

"...Your eyebrows."

The table went quiet.

Liebgott blinked once.

"My... eyebrows."

You nodded.

"They're like, really even."

"...Even?"

"Yeah."

You leaned across the table a little, squinting like you were inspecting a painting.

"They're good."

Liebgott looked towards Bill.

"Help me out here."

Bill looking bewildered as ever, slowly shook his head.

"I don’t know what you want me to do.”

You reached across before anyone could stop you, gently brushing your thumb over one of Liebgott's eyebrows.

"Huh."

He froze.

You pulled your hand back again as continued to admire the thin strips of hair.

"I wish mine did that."

"...Reader."

"What?"

"...You just touched my face."

"I know."

"...Why?"

You shrugged.

"I wanted to see if they were actually that symmetrical."

"They are."

Luz dropped his head onto the table laughing.

Malarkey covered his mouth with his hand.

Bill opened his mouth before closing it again.

"You just let her."

"What was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know."

"She caught me off guard!"

You looked genuinely apologetic.

"...Sorry."

Liebgott sighed.

"It's alright."

A small pause.

"...Still weird."

You nodded.

"Sorry."

Bill slid the next shot away you.

"I think that's enough for you."

You looked at him in disbelief.

"What?"

"We're cuttin' you off."

"Why?"

Bill stared at you.

"Why?"

"Yeah."

Luz started counting on his fingers.

"You've inspected Liebgott's eyebrows."

"They're excellent eyebrows."

"You touched 'em."

"Are we still on that."

Malarkey sighed looking towards Skip who only shrugged.

Luz carried on.

"You've accused Bill of havin' tiny ears."

"They're proportionally small."

"They're normal!"

He protested.

You shook your head while your face scrunched up.

"They're not."

Toye laughed.

"I can't even look at him now."

Bill looked around the table.

"I hate every one of you."

"You started it," Babe reminded him.

"I didn’t insult her ears."

You folded your arms.

"I still don't think that's enough reason to cut me off."

"Yes, it is."

"No."

"Reader."

"What?"

"You've become very confident."

"I've always been confident."

Babe gave you a somewhat sympathetic look before sighing, “you’re actually quite quiet.”

Luz nodded along, “yeah I thought you’d be one of those sad drunks who just sits in a corner and broods.”

"I just think you're all intimidated."

"By what?"

"My potential."

Luz laughed.

"There ain't much of that left."

You gasped dramatically.

"That was hurtful."

A couple more rounds passed.

You'd stopped keeping score.

Bill insisted he was winning.

You insisted he wasn't.

It was an endless cycle.

While the two of you argued over a result that nobody else cared enough to verify, your eyes wandered across the pub.

Speirs stood by one of the windows, speaking quietly with another officer.

You watched him for a second.

"...Hear me out."

Bill groaned.

"Every time you say that..."

"I think Lieutenant Speirs would be good at ballroom dancing."

Skip frowned.

"...Ballroom dancing?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

You looked back over at Speirs.

"He looks like he'd know what to do with his hands."

Skip immediately recoiled.

"...Eugh."

You turned to him.

"What?"

"Don't say it like that."

"I meant dancing."

"I know what you meant."

"Then what's your problem?"

"It still sounded weird."

Luz was trying very hard not to laugh.

Bill looked between you and Speirs before shaking his head.

"I have never once looked at Lieutenant Speirs and thought, 'He'd probably be a good waltzer.'"

"I have."

"Clearly."

You shrugged, completely unbothered.

"I think I'd be right."

Liebgott looked at you over the rim of his glass.

"I don't even know how your brain got there."

"I don't either."

You picked up your shot.

"But I stand by it."

Bill sighed.

"I knew lettin' you have that last drink was a mistake."

By the time the game had dissolved into arguments over who'd actually won, the table had become a battlefield of empty glasses.

Bill was adamant he'd been cheated.

Luz insisted he'd simply lost.

Nobody could remember enough of the last three rounds to prove either way.

"I know I won."

"No you didn’t."

"I did."

"You finished after Reader."

"What! I finished before her."

"You finished on the floor reachin' for your glass."

"I was celebratin'."

"By fallin' over?"

"Never got excited before? Jesus."

Laughter rippled around the table.

You laughed too, though it came a little quieter this time.

The room felt somewhat different like it had gotten warmer somehow.

The air seemed heavier than it had an hour ago, and suddenly every voice in the pub felt twice as loud.

You rubbed at your temple.

"...Christ."

Liebgott glanced over.

"You alright?"

"Mhm."

"You don't sound convincing."

"I'm just..." You looked around the packed pub. "...Think I need a bit of air."

Bill, still arguing with Luz, waved a hand in your general direction without even looking.

"Don't wander off."

"I'm only goin' outside."

"For five minutes."

"Maybe ten."

"No more than ten."

You smiled.

"Yes, Dad."

A few of the lads chuckled.

Malarkey looked up from his drink.

"You want someone to come with you?"

You shook your head.

"I'll be alright."

He didn’t look convinced as he looked at your disheveled state, "You sure?"

"Yeah."

He studied you for a second before nodding.

"Alright."

Then, with the sort of brotherly concern that had become second nature in Easy Company, he added, "Just... don't go fallin' over or hurtin' yourself."

You let out a small laugh.

"I'll try my best."

"I mean it reader."

"I know."

You offered him a reassuring smile.

"I'll be back in a minute."

Nobody stopped you as you slipped away from the table.

You smiled to yourself, weaving between crowded tables towards the door.

Someone almost walked into you on the way past.

You sidestepped them with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry."

"No worries."

The closer you got to the door, the more you realised just how warm the pub had become.

Your collar suddenly felt far too tight.

You loosened it absentmindedly.

And you were starting to become far too aware of how your hair was sitting in the wrong place.

"...Fresh air," you muttered to yourself.

"That's all I need."

You pushed the heavy wooden door open.

The cool evening air hit your face instantly.

You inhaled deeply.

The relief was immediate.

"Oh..."

For the first time in what felt like hours, your head stopped spinning quite so much.

Behind you, the muffled roar of laughter carried out into the street before the door swung shut again.

Everything became quiet.

Just the distant sounds of passing traffic.

A faint breeze.

The occasional burst of laughter escaping whenever someone else entered or left the pub.

You wandered a little way from the entrance, hands tucked into your jacket pockets.

"That's better."

You took another slow breath.

Then another.

"...Maybe they were right."

Your stomach then gave an unpleasant twist.

You stopped walking.

"...No."

Another wave rolled through you and your mouth began to fill up with more saliva than usual.

You swallowed hard.

"No, no..."

You closed your eyes, willing it to pass.

"It'll be alright."

It wasn't.

Your hand flew to your mouth as you hurried away from the pub, boots scuffing against the pavement.

"Shit..."

You barely made it to the curb before dropping to your knees.

The sickness came quickly.

By the time it was over, your eyes were watering and your chest hurt from the relentless regurgitation.

You stayed there for a few moments, one hand braced against the pavement as you caught your breath.

"...God."

Your voice came out hoarse.

"That was..."

You wiped your mouth on the back of your sleeve.

"...Disgusting."

With a quiet groan, you pushed yourself backwards until you were sitting on the edge of the pavement instead.

The cold stone against your legs felt oddly comforting.

You rested your elbows on your knees, staring down at the cobbles.

"...Bill's fault."

A sniffle.

"...All Bill’s fault.”

You let your head fall back against the wall behind you, eyes drifting shut for a second.

The breeze cooled your face.

Your stomach still felt unsettled, but not quite as violently as before.

You exhaled slowly.

"I am never..."

Hiccup.

"...ever trying to out-drink Wild Bill Guarnere again."

Another quiet moment passed.

"...That’s such bull shit."

A tired smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

"...I'd probably do it again."

You laughed softly to yourself.

It lasted all of three seconds before your stomach rolled again.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me..."

You leaned forward just in time.

The pub door opened behind you.

You barely looked up.

A couple of men stepped outside, laughing between themselves before disappearing further down the street.

Another pair came out a few moments later.

Then the door opened again.

Heavy boots crossed the pavement.

They stopped a few feet away.

"...You alright?"

You recognised the voice before you looked up.

Your stomach sank.

"...Oh."

Lieutenant Speirs.

Of all the people.

You let out a slow breath and looked away again.

"...This is humiliatin'."

He glanced briefly at the pavement beside you before looking back at your face.

"I've seen worse."

"I'm sure you have."

A quiet moment passed as you dropped your head into your hands a small groan leaving your lips.

"How much have you had?"

You frowned in concentration.

"...I honestly couldn't tell you."

"Couldn't?"

"I lost count."

He gave a single nod, as if that answered enough.

"It was Guarnere."

"I guessed."

"I blame him entirely."

"I doubt he'd argue."

You smiled faintly.

"No... he'd probably be proud of himself."

Before either of you could say anything else, your stomach rolled again.

Your smile disappeared.

"...i, oh, eugh."

You turned away sharply.

Speirs stepped forward without a word.

By the time you doubled over, he'd already gathered your hair back out of the way.

He stayed there until it passed, one hand resting lightly between your shoulder blades, rubbing slow deliberate circles as your back wretched from your erratic movements.

Eventually, you sat back with a tired sigh.

"...That wasn't particularly dignified."

"No."

You looked up at him, unamused.

"...Thanks."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, holding it out.

You stared at it for a second before taking it.

"...You do this for everybody?"

"What?"

"The handkerchief."

You gave it a small wave.

"You hand these out to every girl you find throwin' up outside pubs?"

His expression stayed the same.

"I've never had to."

You looked at him for a moment before a smile crept back onto your face.

"...Oh."

You wiped your mouth.

"What a gentleman."

He shrugged one shoulder.

"I had a spare."

"Hm."

You folded the handkerchief carefully in your hands.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

The noise from inside the pub drifted faintly through the door before disappearing again.

Finally, Speirs nodded towards the street.

"You think you can stand?"

"I think so."

"You sure?"

"No."

You laughed quietly at your own answer before planting your hands on the pavement.

You managed to get to your feet... before immediately swaying from side to side.

Before you could protest, Speirs had a hand around your elbow, steadying you before he ended up with a casualty on his hands .

You looked down at his hand, then back up at him.

"...I'm gonna pretend that didn't happen."

"Alright."

"I nearly had it."

"You nearly fell over."

"...Details."

He waited until you were standing properly before letting go.

For some reason, you missed the contact.

"You alright now?"

You took a careful breath.

"...Yeah."

Another.

"I think."

He looked back towards the pub.

"I'll walk you back."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

A beat.

"But you're not walking back on your own."

You hesitated for a second before giving in.

"...Alright."

You pushed yourself into a slow walk.

The first few steps were fine.

You glanced sideways at him with a small, satisfied smile.

"See?"

"Hm."

"I told you I could walk."

"You've managed about six steps."

"Rain on my parade then."

Another couple of steps.

Then your boot caught the uneven edge of the pavement.

"Oh!"

You lurched sideways.

Speirs caught your arm before you could hit the ground.

You steadied yourself with an awkward laugh.

"...Didn't see that."

"So I noticed."

"I'm blamin' the pavement."

"It's been here all day."

"Point being."

He let go once he was sure you were steady again.

You carried on walking.

For all of ten seconds.

Then you drifted slightly to one side again.

This time Speirs didn't wait for you to stumble.

He stopped walking, looked at you for a moment, then quietly stepped closer.

Without saying anything, he settled a steady hand around your waist, keeping you upright as you started moving again.

You looked down briefly before glancing back up at him.

"...This is slightly embarrassing."

"You'll live."

"I was hoping you'd say it wasn't."

"It is."

You sighed.

"I appreciate the honesty."

"It seemed kinder."

A small laugh escaped you.

For a while, the two of you walked in comfortable silence.

The only sounds were your boots against the road and the distant noise drifting from the pub behind you.

After another minute, you looked over at him again.

"...You're a lot nicer than people make you out to be."

He kept his eyes on the road ahead.

"They don't know me very well."

The answer surprised you.

You smiled faintly.

"...I suppose not."

A few more steps.

"I think you'd be good at ballroom dancing."

Speirs glanced at you.

"...Ballroom dancing."

"Mhm."

"Why?"

"I just know."

“That’s not really a explanation.”

You thought for a moment.

"I don't think I have one."

"No?"

You shook your head.

"...Just a feeling."

He accepted that with a small nod.

"I see."

Whether he actually did was another matter entirely.

He simply adjusted his grip ever so slightly as you leaned a little too far to one side again and continued walking.

The road stretched ahead of you, illuminated only by the occasional lamp.

Behind you, the noise from the pub had all but disappeared.

It was strangely peaceful.

You found yourself looking over at him again.

He walked with the same measured stride he always seemed to have, hands relaxed, expression unreadable.

For someone everyone insisted was terrifying...

He was awfully calm.

"You've gone quiet."

"Hm?"

"You've been starin'."

Your eyebrows lifted.

"Have I?"

"For a while."

"...Sorry."

"You don't need to apologise."

"I wasn't starin' in a weird way."

"I didn't say you were."

You smiled sheepishly.

"I was thinkin'."

"About?"

You considered it for a second.

"...Nothin', really."

"Hm."

Another silence settled between you.

After another minute, you looked over again.

"...Can I ask you somethin'?"

"If you want."

"Do people ever tell you you've got nice eyes?"

He glanced at you briefly.

"No."

"They should."

You studied him with surprising concentration.

"They're... lighter than I thought."

"Hm."

"I thought they were darker."

"You've put a lot of thought into this."

"I've had a lot of time."

He looked at you again, just for a second.

"...Have you?"

You nodded.

"Mhm."

"They're nice."

He looked back towards the road.

"So I've been told."

"I don't think you believe me."

"I think you've had a lot to drink."

"I have."

You smiled to yourself.

"...Still got nice eyes."

For the first time since he'd found you outside the pub, you caught the faintest hint of colour dusting the tops of his ears before he looked away again.

"...Thank you."

You beamed.

"You're welcome."

Before either of you could say anything else, you slowed to a stop.

Speirs stopped with you.

"You alright?"

You frowned, swallowing carefully.

"...Maybe."

He was already watching you, hand tightening slightly at your waist in case you lurched forward again.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at the road with an expression of complete concentration.

You let out a slow breath.

"...False alarm."

"You sure?"

"I think."

"You've said that a few times tonight."

"I know."

"...I'm really hopin' my stomach agrees with me."

"It'd make the rest of the walk a hell of a lot easier."

"It really would."

You started walking again, considerably slower this time.

"...I probably should've stopped after the second round."

"Probably."

"Definitely."

"So why didn't you?"

You shrugged.

"I don't know."

A few more steps.

"...Guess I didn't want to be the one who quit."

"You think they'd have cared?"

"I know they wouldn't."

You smiled to yourself.

"...Bill would've given me grief for about a week."

"That's Guarnere."

"Mhm."

"And Luz would've found some way to make fun of me."

"Probably."

"But..." you glanced down at the road, "...I don't mind."

"No?"

You shook your head.

"They're good people."

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“Loud.”

"Hm."

"Annoyin'."

"I've noticed."

"...Absolute pains in the neck."

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Speirs' mouth.

"But..." you continued, "...they're ours."

He looked across at you.

“Ours?”

You nodded.

"Easy Company."

You waved a hand vaguely.

"We spend every day together."

"Fight together."

"Eat together."

"You can't really help gettin' attached."

A quiet moment passed.

"They look after each other."

"They do."

You smiled.

"They looked after me before tonight, too."

You took a deep breath, the cold bite of the air in your lungs comforting.

"I just... didn't want 'em thinkin' I didn't want to be there."

"They didn't."

"I know."

You laughed softly pulling at a loose thread at the end of your sleeve.

"...Still."

Speirs was quiet for a moment.

"You think too much."

You looked at him.

"...Probably."

"I'd say definitely."

"I liked 'probably' better."

"I know."

The barracks came into view at the end of the path.

"There she is."

"My palace."

Speirs looked at the weathered building.

"Palace."

“That’s what Perco calls it.”

“Right.”

"It's got... walls."

"It does."

"And a roof."

"So I've heard."

You grinned.

"Basically luxury as he says"

He opened the door, waiting for you to step inside first.

The corridor was almost silent, save for the distant sound of someone laughing from another room.

You yawned.

"I am suddenly very tired."

"I'm shocked."

"You’re very sarcastic."

He walked with you to your room, slowing every now and then when you would start to sway a certain way.

When you finally reached your bunk, you looked at it as though it were the greatest thing you'd ever seen.

"...That looks comfortable."

"I imagine it is."

"You don't understand."

You pointed at it dramatically.

"I've never loved a bed more."

"I think you have."

"No."

You shook your head firmly.

"This one's special."

Speirs let go of your waist once he was sure you could sit without toppling over.

You dropped onto the mattress with a relieved sigh.

"Oh, that's nice."

He glanced around the room before spotting the wash basin on the floor nearby.

He picked it up and placed it beside your bed.

"Keep that there."

"...Good idea."

"You still don't look convinced you're done being sick."

"Don’t think my body is convinced either."

A brief silence settled between the two of you.

Speirs brushed a hand over the back of one of the empty chairs before looking back at you.

"You'll be alright?"

You nodded.

"...Yeah."

"You sure?"

"...Ask me again in the morning."

"I'll take that as a maybe."

You smiled tiredly your hair falling in loose strands in front of your face.

"...Lieutenant?"

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

You gestured vaguely to yourself.

"...This."

"You had too much to drink."

"I also threw up."

"You did."

"...More than once."

"You did."

You rubbed your face with both hands.

"I'd rather you got to know me when I'm not making an absolute fool of myself."

He regarded you for a moment.

"I don't think you made a fool of yourself."

"You watched me throw up."

"I did."

"...That's usually enough."

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

"I've seen worse."

You laughed quietly.

"...You keep sayin' that."

"It keeps being true."

You smiled, feeling your eyes getting heavier.

"When I'm sober..."

He waited.

"...Maybe we could start over."

There was a short pause.

Then he gave a single nod.

"Alright."

You hummed to yourself.

"Get some sleep."

"Yes sir."

He reached for the door.

"'Night, Lieutenant."

"Goodnight."

He waited until you were lying back under the blanket before quietly closing the door behind him.

Within minutes, the room was silent.

[averagemoderncitizen]

the more pictures I see of the two of them together, the more obvious guarnere was with how much he actually loved frank john hughes

[lovingroe]

BAND OF BROTHERS MASTERLIST

eugene roe

thinking of you

ronald speirs

one too many

more soon…

[lovingroe]

THINKING OF YOU

── EUGENE ROE

summary: in a fox hole in Bastogne eugene promises to take you to New Orleans once the war is over and tells you how you’ll love it there, and when you finally end up going you do love it, only with another man.

content: angst

notes: based on the song thinking of you by katy perry

wc: 5.5k

After what felt like hours, the shelling had finally eased off.

Not stopped, but settled into something distant enough that neither of you flinched. The occasional clap of a grenade rolled across the frozen land, shaking the near by trees causing loose flecks of ice to fall onto the already white ground.

Silence, save for the wind.

The foxhole was barely large enough for the two of you. Knees tucked in, shoulders brushing at every sudden movement, every breath turned to mist in the bitter December air.

Eugene sat with his helmet tipped low over his brow, his medical bag resting between his boots. He'd spent the better part of the day running from one wounded man to the next. There was dried blood on his gloves he hadn't had the chance to scrub away.

You stared up at the sliver of sky visible above, eyes glazing over at the bite of the cold.

"I forgot what quiet sounded like."

A corner of Eugene's mouth twitched.

"This ain't quiet."

You stopped, attempting to listen to the icy wasteland.

Far-off artillery.

The whistle of wind through bare branches.

Someone coughing in another foxhole.

You let out a shaky sigh.

"Yeah, I suppose not."

A somewhat comfortable silence settled between the two of you.

"You miss home?" You asked eventually.

Eugene rubbed his hands together for warmth.

"Every day."

"What do you miss most?"

He thought about it longer than you had expected he would.

Most of the men you had asked this question to usually answered before the sentence could finish leaving your lips.

"The smell."

You turned to him with a brow raised.

"The smell?"

"Yeah."

He looked out across the white forest.

"After it rains."

You frowned.

"Rain has a smell?"

"You've never noticed?"

"I've noticed puddles and mud."

He huffed a quiet laugh.

"No. Rain in New Orleans." His voice grew softer, almost absent-minded. "Warm rain. Whole city's different after. Everything smells clean."

You smiled at his statement, lips cracking slightly at the movement.

"I don't think England has ever smelled clean."

That earned an actual chuckle.

"No."

You nudged his shoulder with yours.

"So... New Orleans."

"Mhm."

"What's it like?"

His breathing stuttered at the question.

For a moment he was somewhere else entirely.

"Busy."

"That's not very descriptive."

He shrugged.

"Music everywhere."

"Everywhere?"

"Mhm."

Your face began to scrunch up lightly.

"Even in the streets?"

"Especially in the streets."

His eyes stayed fixed somewhere beyond the trees.

"You'll hear someone playing a trumpet from halfway down the block. Kids running about. Folks dancing for no reason."

You smiled fondly at the image, eyes never leaving his face.

"It sounds made up."

"It ain't."

"You've got proof?"

"My ma."

A shirt laugh escaped your frost bitten lips.

"I'll need stronger proof than that."

He smiled to himself.

"You would."

“What does that mean?”

He only looked at you and smirked.

The wind picked up again.

You tucked your hands deeper into your damp sleeves.

"I'd like to see it one day, sounds like a place I’d enjoy."

Eugene looked at you.

"You would."

"You keep saying that."

"'Cause it's true."

"What makes you so sure?"

He studied you for a second before answering.

"You always stop whenever somebody's singing."

You blinked at him.

"What?"

"I've seen you."

"When?"

"Whenever Luz has had one to many and starts making a fool of himself."

You gasped quietly, feigning shock.

"I do not."

"You do."

"I've never-"

"You always join in dancing before anybody else does."

You opened your mouth to argue before realising...

He was right.

You shook your head, helmet moving slightly askew as you did.

"You notice way too much."

"More like I just got eyes."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough."

You looked down, suddenly the only heat radiating from your body being the reddening of your face.

"And what else do you know?"

He answered without hesitation.

"You hate the watered down coffee they give us."

"It's dreadful."

"You always give your gloves away."

"They're usually colder than me."

"You ain't fooling nobody."

You smiled.

"You pretend you don't like being fussed over."

"I don't."

"Liar."

He looked away, the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

Another stretch of silence.

Long enough for snowflakes to begin drifting lazily into the foxhole.

You watched one land on the sleeve of his jacket before melting away.

"When this is over..." you murmured.

He glanced at you.

"What d'you reckon you'll do first?"

He didn't answer straight away.

"Sleep."

You rolled your eyes, a almost permanent smile tugging at your lips.

"For how long?"

"Week."

"Only a week?"

He considered it, brows pinched together.

"Maybe two."

You titled your head to the side.

"And then?"

He drew a slow breath.

"Go home."

The words were almost whispered.

"Sit on my ma’s porch."

He could almost see it.

"Listen to the rain."

You imagined him there, without the mud, without the blood, without the exhaustion that seemed to live permanently behind his eyes.

It suited him.

You almost imagined yourself sitting next to him.

"What about you?" he asked.

You thought for a moment.

"I don't know."

"No?"

"I've spent so long thinking about getting through tomorrow that I never really thought about after."

He nodded.

"Guess that's fair."

You looked up at the pale winter sky.

"I'd like to travel."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Where?"

You kissed your teeth.

"I suppose New Orleans ought to be on the list."

His expression softened.

"You'd like it."

"Yeah, you've said."

"I mean it."

You looked at him, eyes tracing his.

"I'll have to take your word for it."

He held your gaze for a long moment.

"I'll take you."

You stopped moving for a split second, a frown covering your brow.

"What?"

"I'll take you."

You couldn't help but breathe a misty air of laughter.

"When?"

He looked almost confused by the question.

"After the war."

The words hung between you.

You searched his face for even the slightest hint that he was joking.

There wasn't one.

Just him.

Looking at you as though taking you to New Orleans was the most ordinary promise in the world.

You felt your chest tighten.

"I'd like that."

It came out almost like a whisper.

"So would I."

Neither of you spoke after that.

You simply sat together as snow drifted into the foxhole, imagining a city of warm rain, brass bands and sunlit streets that felt impossibly far away.

For a little while, Bastogne disappeared.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourselves believe that there really would be an after.

The war was over.

You couldn't quite believe it, and neither could the men who you'd been through hell with.

As you made your way through the sea of men, you found yourself surrounded by the faces of soldiers with nothing but relief and happiness etched across them.

Though you were only looking for the face of one soldier.

You found Eugene sitting beneath the shade of a tree just beyond the celebrating men, his medical bag open between his knees.

Old habits die hard you thought.

Even now, he was restocking bandages that probably wouldn't be needed anymore.

"You know," you said as you approached, "you're allowed to stop working now."

He glanced up.

"I know."

"You don't look convinced."

"I'm thinking."

You sat beside him, stretching your aching legs out in the warm spring grass.

"About?"

He shrugged.

"What comes next."

You smiled at him, squinting under the light.

"I thought that was easy."

"Yeah?"

"You go home."

"Mhm."

"You sleep for two weeks."

He looked at you, puzzled.

"I said one."

"You changed your mind."

"I don't remember that."

"You definitely did."

A small smile appeared.

"You keeping track?"

"Someone has to." you spoke, rolling your eyes.

For a while you simply watched the men scattered around camp.

Liebgott and Webster were arguing over a game of cards.

Lipton was trying, and failing, to restore some order.

Luz had somehow convinced a handful of the replacements to join him in another ridiculous song.

It almost looked normal.

"You'll write?" you asked quietly.

Eugene didn't hesitate.

"Course."

"You promise?"

"I said I would."

You looked at him fondly, lightly biting your bottom lip as you watched the way the wind flowed through his short but messy hair.

"I know."

He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket.

"I got something."

"What is it?"

Instead of answering, he placed a small object in your palm.

A tarnished St. Christopher medal, worn smooth around the edges.

The chain had long since broken.

You looked up.

"Eugene..."

"My ma gave it to me."

Your eyes widened, a cold wave spilling over you.

"I can't take this."

"You can."

"No, I-“

"You can."

He closed your fingers gently around it.

"It brought me this far."

"I couldn't possibly-"

"I want you to have it."

You stared at the medal lying against your skin.

"You'll need it."

He shook his head.

"War's over."

"It doesn't mean nothing bad can happen."

"I know."

"Then keep it."

You pushed the medal out toward him, it sparkling against your open palm.

He huffed before lightly shoving it towards your chest, your hand tightening around it and the warn down edges beginning to make small engravings against the calloused skin of your palm.

"I reckon you'll look after it better than I ever did."

You swallowed hard.

"I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to."

The breeze stirred the leaves above you both.

You slipped the medal carefully into the pocket over your heart, the small outline against the warn fabric making roe's stomach flip.

"I don't have anything for you."

"You don't need to give me anything."

You frowned.

"I feel awful."

He chuckled quietly.

"You wrote me that note."

"What note?"

"'Don't get yourself killed. I'd hate to have to find another medic.'"

You groaned tipping your head backwards to the point there was a slight crack sound.

"I was trying to be funny."

"It worked."

"You kept it?"

He reached into his wallet.

The leather worn and battered and the clasp on the side clinging on with whatever life force it had left.

Folded carefully between photographs and old papers was the tiny scrap you'd shoved into his hand weeks earlier before he'd run off to answer another call.

The paper was creased nearly white at the folds.

You stared.

"You carried that?"

"Mhm."

"It's barely even a sentence."

"'S enough."

You laughed, though your eyes had begun to sting as you pulled loose strands of hair away from your eyes.

"I think you're sentimental."

"I think you're wrong."

"You kept it in your wallet."

He looked away, unable to hide the smile tugging at his mouth.

"Maybe."

The sound of a jeep approaching interrupted them.

One of the officers climbed down.

"Roe!"

Eugene looked over.

"Looks like your orders've come through."

The smile faded from your face, as your stomach began to sink.

"So soon?"

The officer nodded.

"They're moving men around already."

Eugene stood, brushing the grass from his trousers.

"I'll be back."

He sounded certain.

The officer wandered off to find someone else.

You stood too, hands falling awkwardly at your side.

"So..."

"So."

Neither of you seemed to know what came next.

Your eyes began to memorise his face with the face fear and urgency that matched all the times you'd watched him on the feild.

"I suppose this is goodbye."

"For now."

You inhaled a sharp breath while you nodded.

"For now."

He held out his hand.

You looked at it for a moment before slowly meeting his eyes again, face drowned in disbelief.

"Really?"

"What?"

"After everything... you're shaking my hand?"

His ears reddened slightly.

"I..."

You stepped forward before he could finish.

Your arms wrapped around him.

For a heartbeat he simply froze.

Then, carefully. as though afraid you'd disappear if he held you too tightly, his arms settled around you.

You rested your forehead against his shoulder.

"You better write."

"I will."

"And don't forget."

"I won't."

"You promised."

"I know."

You stayed like that for another moment before pulling apart.

You smiled through suspiciously bright eyes.

"I expect a full tour."

He frowned.

"Of what?"

"New Orleans."

Recognition softened his expression.

"Oh."

He smiled.

"I ain't forgotten."

You watched him climb into the waiting jeep.

Just before it pulled away, he leaned out.

"Hey!"

You looked up.

"When it rains."

"What?"

"The smell."

"I'll remember."

The jeep disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.

You stood there long after it had vanished from sight, one hand tucked into your pocket, your fingers wrapped tightly around the little St. Christopher medal.

You didn't know it then, but it would be years before you saw Eugene Roe again.

And by then, everything would have changed.

Home didn't feel like home.

Not after France.

Not after Holland.

Not after Bastogne.

The little house you’d grown up in looked exactly as she'd remembered it, ivy climbing the brick walls, the crooked gate your father had always promised to fix, the smell of your mother's baking drifting through the open kitchen window.

It should have felt like a comfort, like a relief.

Instead, it felt... unfamiliar.

Like you’d returned to someone else's life.

"You've gone thin," your mother fussed, pulling you into a hug before you’d even stepped properly through the front door.

"I've been in a war, Mother."

"Well, you'll soon put that right."

Your father appeared from the sitting room.

"Good journey?"

You nodded.

"It was."

He smiled, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes, there was something oddly nervous about it.

"Come in. We've got something to discuss."

"What sort of something?"

"You'll see."

Dinner was quieter than you remembered.

Your mother kept asking about the Americans you’d served with.

Your father asked very little about the war.

Neither of them asked about Eugene.

They should’ve known his name by this point.

You’d mentioned him in almost every letter since your transfer to easy company.

They would’ve watched as he turned from ‘A medic from Louisiana’ to ‘Gene’.

But they said nothing.

You hadn't wanted to tempt fate by saying any more.

As your mother cleared away the last of the plates, your father folded his hands together.

"There's a young man we'd like you to meet."

You looked up bewildered from the half empty glass of wine you’d been nursing for the past hour.

"What?"

"He works with Mr. Peterson at the engineering office."

"...Alright?"

"His name's Jack."

You blinked.

"Good for him."

Your parents exchanged a glance.

"He's expressed an interest in courting you."

The wine caught in your throat.

"I've only just got home."

"He comes from a respectable family."

"Mum..."

"He has steady work."

"Dad?"

He leaned forward.

"The war is over."

"I know."

"It's time to begin thinking about your future."

"My future?"

"Marriage."

None of the words seemed to compute in your head.

"I'm sorry..."

You laughed once, almost certain that you’d misheard what they were telling you.

"...you what?"

"You've reached an age where-“

"I've been home for three days."

Your mother's expression softened.

"We're only thinking of what's best."

"I don't even know him."

"You will."

"No."

"You'll come to dinner on Sunday."

"No."

His voice then hardened at the lack of cooperation in your behaviour.

"You'll meet him."

You pushed back your chair in a sudden erratic manner.

"I've already,"

You stopped yourself.

Already what?

Already fallen in love?

Already promised someone that you’d wait?

You swallowed the words.

Your mother reached across the table, attempting to offer some sort of comfort.

"Sweetheart..."

"It was a wartime friendship."

Your head snapped up so quick you felt your head sway slightly.

"What?"

"We know how these things happen."

Ice settled in your stomach.

"You read my letters."

"Yes."

"You knew."

"You mentioned him quite a lot dear."

She smiled sadly at you, almost knowing.

"Those sorts of attachments... they're understandable during a war."

"It wasn't-"

"But now you're home."

Your father nodded once.

"It's time to move forward."

Jack was kind.

That almost made it worse.

He wasn't arrogant.

Or cruel.

Or dismissive like you’d once feared.

He listened when you spoke.

He brought flowers to every visit.

He laughed at your jokes even when he didn’t specifically understand them.

He asked about your work.

Asked about your favourite books.

He never asked about France.

Never asked about Bastogne.

Perhaps he could see in your eyes that some questions weren't meant to be answered.

Months passed.

Then one afternoon your father announced it.

"Jack's asked permission."

You looked up from the book in your lap.

"For what?"

Your mother smiled.

"To marry you."

Silence.

You looked between them.

Then back again.

"...You what?"

"He'll ask you properly this evening."

"I haven't even-"

"You've been seeing each other for months."

"I never said-"

"He'll make a wonderful husband."

You wanted to say no.

You truly did.

But Eugene's letters had stopped weeks ago.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

Nothing.

Perhaps...

Perhaps he'd realised you’d never come to Louisiana.

Perhaps he'd met someone.

Perhaps he'd simply moved on.

The thought hollowed you out and bile began to rise in the back of your throat.

When Jack asked that evening, he looked so hopeful.

"I know we haven't known each other long..."

He smiled nervously.

"...but I'd like to spend the rest of my life making you happy."

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

He deserved someone who loved him without hesitation.

Someone who didn't compare every smile to another man's.

Someone who wasn't still waiting for a promise whispered in a foxhole.

"...Yes."

The word barely sounded like yours, you felt as though someone had possessed you.

Marriage wasn't awful.

That was somehow the hard part.

Jack was patient.

Gentle.

The sort of man who noticed when you seemed quiet and simply held your hand rather than asking why.

He loved you.

Wholeheartedly.

You tried.

God, you tried.

You laughed when you were supposed to.

Smiled in photographs.

Held his hand on walks.

Kissed him goodbye each morning before work.

But every so often...

He'd laugh.

And for the briefest second,

It was Eugene.

He'd tilt his head while listening.

And you’d would see Eugene.

One rainy afternoon he reached over to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You closed your eyes.

For one impossible heartbeat...

Warm Louisiana rain.

A foxhole.

"I'll take you there."

Jack kissed you softly.

She kissed him back.

But when you opened your eyes...

The man standing in front of her wasn't Eugene Roe.

Guilt and disgust crashed over you so fiercely you had to turn away.

"You alright?" Jack asked, concern seeping through his features.

You forced a smile.

"Just tired."

He believed you.

Dear reader,

I hope this reaches you this time.

I still don't know if my last few letters ever found their way to England. Maybe the post's just slow. Lord knows the Army's never been quick about anything.

I've finally got word.

They're sending me home.

Looks like this'll be my last letter before I leave.

Funny.

Feels stranger than I'd imagined.

Ma keeps asking when she's going to meet "the girl from England." I told her she'd like you.

I don't know if you still think about New Orleans.

I still owe you that tour.

I haven't forgotten.

I don't reckon I ever will.

I'll write again once I'm home.

Until then...

Take care of yourself.

Love

— Gene

The envelope was addressed carefully.

To the only address he'd ever known.

Your parents' house.

Your mother answered the door when the postman arrived.

Another letter.

Same handwriting.

She looked at it for a long moment.

Then quietly slipped it into the kitchen drawer beneath all the others.

"Love?"

You looked up from your sewing, hands sore from the constant prick of the needle.

Jack stood in the doorway, shrugging on his coat.

"Hm?"

"I've got some news."

"What sort of news?"

"A work trip."

"Oh?"

He smiled.

"They're sending me to America."

You blinked.

"For how long?"

"Week."

He thought for a moment.

"Maybe two."

You smiled faintly at a small distant feeling of familiarity.

"Where?"

He grinned.

"New Orleans."

The colour drained from your face and your blood ran cold.

"...New Orleans?"

"Yep!"

He laughed.

"I thought you might like to come with me."

You couldn't speak.

All you could hear was a quiet voice in the middle of a frozen forest.

'I'll take you there... after the war.'

The city was alive.

Even before the sun had properly climbed above the rooftops, music spilled into the streets.

Trumpets drifted through the warm morning air.

Laughter echoed from cafés tucked beneath wrought-iron balconies draped in flowers.

The scent of coffee lingered on every corner, mingling with something sweet you couldn't quite place.

You stood outside the hotel for a long moment, taking it all in.

"You alright?"

You turned.

Jack smiled as he straightened the collar of his jacket.

"You've gone quiet."

You managed a smile.

"It's... different."

"In a good way, I hope."

You nodded though a heavy feeling sat in your heart.

"Yes."

It was beautiful.

Exactly as Gene had described.

That thought settled heavily in your chest.

Jack offered his arm.

"Come on."

You slipped your hand through his.

"Let's explore."

The streets were busier than you’d ever imagined.

Market stalls overflowed with colourful fabrics and fresh fruit.

Children darted between adults, laughing as they chased one another through the square.

A woman sang from the doorway of a little shop while someone accompanied her on a battered piano.

You found yourself smiling harder than you had in a long time.

"You hear it?"

Jack looked over.

"Hear what?"

"The music."

He laughed.

"I'd be worried if I couldn't."

'Music everywhere.'

Gene had been right.

By midday, the heat had settled over the city like a heavy blanket.

Jack stopped outside a little café.

"I've heard these are supposed to be famous."

He emerged a few minutes later carrying a paper bag dusted with powdered sugar.

"What are they?"

"Beignets."

Your heart lurched and your knees felt slightly weaker.

You looked down at the warm pastry in your hands.

A memory surfaced so clearly you could almost hear his voice.

"You'd make a mess."

"I would not."

"Tell that to muck and the beans you spilt down his jacket."

You laughed under your breath at the vivid memory.

"What?" Jack asked.

"Oh..."

You looked down quickly.

"Nothing."

He brushed a thumb across the corner of your mouth.

"You've already got sugar on your face."

You froze.

For the briefest second...

It wasn't Jack standing in front of you.

It was Gene.

Tired.

Helmet crooked.

A teasing smile you’d only ever seen when it was just the two of you.

Then the moment vanished.

Jack smiled.

"Told you."

You swallowed back the memories.

"So you did."

That afternoon you wandered into Jackson Square.

Artists lined the pathways, their paintings propped against iron fences.

Musicians played beneath the shade of old oak trees.

You turned slowly.

Trying to take everything in.

Trying not to imagine another version of this day.

One where Gene was beside you instead.

Pointing at buildings.

Telling stories from his childhood.

Laughing whenever you got hopelessly lost.

"You've got that look again."

Jack's voice pulled you back to reality.

"What look?"

"The one where you're somewhere else."

"Sorry."

"No need to apologise."

He squeezed your hand gently.

"I know travelling can be overwhelming."

If only it were that simple.

As the afternoon wore on, you found yourselves walking along the river.

The Mississippi stretched endlessly before them, ships drifting lazily across the water.

"It's incredible," you whispered.

Jack nodded.

"It really is."

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you.

Then, almost casually, he asked,

"Didn't one of the men you served with come from here?"

You stopped walking.

Your head turned so quickly you almost gave yourself whiplash.

“What?”

He looked mildly surprised.

"From New Orleans."

"How..."

Your voice came out quieter than you’d intended, frightened almost.

"...how'd you know that?"

Jack frowned.

"I thought your mother mentioned it."

"My mother?"

"Mhm."

He shrugged.

"When we first got engaged, I think."

Your stomach tightened painfully.

"She said there was a medic from Louisiana you were friends with."

Friends.

The word felt painfully small.

"I didn't realise you'd remembered."

"I suppose I did."

He smiled.

"Funny, really."

"What is?"

"You've spent the whole day smiling."

A wave of nausea was still floating around you as you tried to comprehend the statement.

"I have?"

"Mhm."

He looked around at the bustling streets.

"I thought maybe it was because this place reminded you of something he'd told you."

You felt as though you could throw up.

He had no idea.

Not really.

He thought he was making conversation.

He couldn't possibly know that every street they walked...

Every trumpet they heard...

Every balcony they’d looked up at...

Every café they stopped in...

Had already been shown to you years ago.

Not with your eyes.

But through Gene's stories.

Jack laughed softly.

"He must've talked about home quite a lot."

You stared out across the river.

"He did."

"What was he like?"

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your handbag so tight they began to pulse.

You could still picture him in that foxhole.

Helmet pushed back.

Snow caught in his hair.

Speaking about warm rain as though it were the greatest thing in the world.

"He was..."

You smiled despite yourself, a fond look no one had ever seen but Eugene feathering your features.

"...quiet."

Jack nodded.

"I imagine he'd be pleased to know you finally made it here."

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment.

"So do I."

By the time evening settled over the city, you were both exhausted.

You returned to the hotel carrying little more than sore feet and a handful of souvenirs.

Jack loosened his tie as soon as he stepped inside the room.

"I don't think I've walked that much in years."

"You were the one insisting we see everything."

"Worth it."

He smiled at you, eyes creasing at the corners.

"I'm glad you came."

You looked back out of the window.

Beyond the glass, dark clouds rolled slowly across the Louisiana sky.

A low rumble of thunder echoed somewhere in the distance.

The first drops of rain began to fall.

You watched them race down the windowpane.

And without even thinking, you smiled.

"After it rains... the whole city's different."

Rain fell in steady sheets across New Orleans.

It drummed against rooftops.

Splashed into the gutters.

Ran from the iron balconies in silver streams.

The city looked softer somehow.

As though the storm had washed the noise away.

You slipped quietly from the hotel room, careful not to wake Jack.

The corridor creaked beneath your feet.

A minute later you stepped out into the warm Louisiana night.

Immediately the rain soaked through your coat.

You didn't care.

You couldn’t care.

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

Gene had been right.

It did smell different.

A sad smile flickered across your face like candle in the wind.

"Shit Gene. You were right..."

"...Told you."

The voice was barely above the rain.

You froze.

No.

Slowly...

Almost afraid you’d imagined it...

You turned.

A man stood beneath the glow of a streetlamp across the road.

Hands buried in the pockets of his coat.

Hair damp from the rain.

For one impossible second neither of you moved.

"...Gene?"

He stared at you.

As though saying your name aloud might make you disappear.

He crossed the street.

You met him halfway.

Neither of you spoke.

You simply threw your arms around him.

For a heartbeat he stood completely still.

Then his arms wrapped around you so tightly you thought he might never let go.

He laughed.

A broken, breathless laugh that sounded dangerously close to tears.

"I found you."

You buried your face against his shoulder.

"I thought..."

Your voice cracked, face contorting from the tears.

"I thought I'd never-“

"I found you."

He said it again.

As though he couldn't quite believe it himself.

When you finally pulled apart you simply looked at each other.

He looked older.

So did you.

Years older than either of you should have.

"You came."

You smiled sadly up at him.

"I did."

He laughed softly.

"Knew you would."

You looked around at the rain-soaked streets.

"...Just not with you."

A harrowing silence followed.

"I wrote."

A deep frown danced across your eyes.

“What?”

"I wrote every week."

He searched your face.

"Sometimes every day."

Your face lost all colour as you felt as though the world had started to crash down around you.

"...What?"

"I sent letters."

"I never got any."

"I sent 'em to your house."

"My-"

"My last letter... I told you I was finally coming home."

You stared at him in disbelief.

"...Gene."

"I kept writing."

"I never got them."

"I waited."

"So did I."

"No..."

You shook your head harder hoping it was all just one sick nightmare.

"No, I didn't, I didn't get a single one."

"I wrote."

"What letters?"

"And I wrote."

"What letters, Gene?"

"I sent them."

"I never got them!"

The words echoed down the empty street.

Both of you breathing hard.

Both of you looking at the other as though trying to understand how years could simply...

Disappear.

The realisation came.

It hit you like a cold sickening plague.

"My parents..."

You whispered it more to yourself than to him.

"My last address..."

Gene frowned.

"They wouldn't..."

You thought of every conversation.

Every awkward silence.

Every time your mother had insisted you move on.

Every time your father had said the war was over.

Your knees almost gave way.

"Oh my God..."

"They knew."

You covered your mouth, vomit threatening to spill.

"They knew."

Gene didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

He knew.

Neither of you had stopped writing.

Neither of you had stopped waiting.

Someone else had decided your story was over.

You began to cry.

"I thought you'd forgotten me."

His own eyes glistened.

"I thought you didn't want me anymore."

"I waited."

"So did I."

You laughed through tears.

"We're fools."

"No."

He shook his head.

"We were just too late."

You looked at him.

You saw his eyes drop.

To your left hand.

The wedding ring.

Everything in his face changed.

"...You married."

"I waited."

"I know."

"I waited until..."

You couldn't finish.

"The letters stopped."

His jaw tightened.

"I thought you were gone."

"I thought the same."

Rain continued to fall around you both.

The city had disappeared.

There was only the two of you.

And everything you’d lost.

After a long silence Gene took a slow breath.

"I still owe you."

A frown presented itself on your face.

"What?"

"The tour."

A bittersweet smile kissed your lips.

"Gene..."

"I promised."

"You don't have to."

"I said I'd take you."

Your eyes searched his helplessly.

"We leave tomorrow."

"It don't matter."

He took a step closer.

"We'll go now."

"Gene-"

"I'll show you Jackson Square again."

"I've already seen it."

"The river."

"I've seen it."

"The café with the beignets."

"I've-"

"We'll do it properly."

His words came faster now, and his movements were bordering manic.

"The way I wanted to."

"Gene..."

"I'll show you where I grew up."

Tears spilled freely down his face now, disappearing into the rain.

"My ma's house isn't far."

"Gene..."

"You'll hear the music."

"I already did."

"We've still got tonight."

His voice cracked.

"We've still got time."

You looked at him through blurring eyes.

At the man you’d loved in a frozen foxhole.

The man you’d waited for.

The man who had waited for you.

And somehow... the timing had beaten the both of you.

"It's too late."

The words were barely louder than the rain.

He stopped talking.

You bit back a cry.

"It's too late."

Too late in the night.

Too late in their lives.

Too late for promises made beneath snow-covered trees.

His shoulders sagged.

As though something inside him had finally broken.

"I have to go."

He shook his head immediately.

"No."

"I do."

"You can't."

"I'm sorry."

"You can't go again."

The words came out almost like a plea.

"I just got you back."

You closed your eyes, salty tears cascading down your face.

"I'm sorry."

He reached for your hand.

His bare fingers brushed your silver clad ones.

Then slipped away.

You stepped backwards.

One step.

Then another.

"I'll always..."

You couldn't finish.

Neither could he.

You turned before you lost the courage.

The hotel stood only a short distance away.

You climbed the steps slowly.

Every instinct screamed at you to turn around.

To run back.

To stay.

At the top of the steps you finally looked over her shoulder.

Gene hadn't moved.

He was still standing exactly where you’d left him.

In the middle of the street.

Rain pouring over him.

Watching you disappear.

You pressed a trembling hand into the pocket of your coat.

Your fingers brushed cool metal.

Frowning, you pulled it free.

A tarnished St. Christopher medal.

The little medal he'd pressed into your palm beneath a tree in Europe all those years ago.

You closed your hand around it.

Down in the street...

Gene was still there.

[lovingroe]