Author's Note: Hi y'all long time no see, I am very sorry about that. Uni has been violently beating me with a stick. I hope y'all enjoy this little one shot. A huge thanks to @luvrottt for helping me out with this. Thank you to @rogue-durin-16 and @digging-trenches for their help in creating the dolls world.
Africa
September 10th, 1943
Tunisia, North Africa
Florence was miserable. The young nurse had been nervous and excited to head overseas, the 300th General field hospital had all figured they were headed to Italy, it was clearly the next stop for the Allies. They had been correct about Italy being the next stop of the Allies world tour, with the invasion beginning on the 3rd of September, however they had been wrong about where they themselves would land. The 300th General Hospital landed in Tunisia on September 4th, 1943, one day after the landings began in Sicily. Now they were 6 days in and it was already a disaster.
Florence's brown shoes wobbled upon the uneven packed dirt of the “road” from her pup tent and the Hospital’s Command Tent, she had been ordered to report there by an enlisted man who desperately needed a shower in her opinion. She needed a shower too, they all did. Florence had arrived expecting to be immediately put to work but they set up and nothing happened. The hospital had not technically been activated, the orders were lost or never issued. No one had any idea what to do, they had no professional duties after all what patients were being sent to a hospital that wasn't activated. The entire hospital had all been sitting there, just waiting for orders.
Flo had heard from one of the doctors that this was the same reason they had no electricity, gravel walks, no showers, little food, and no communication system other than runners sent on wild goose chases. The New Jerseyan thought this was applesauce, or as her older brother Michael would put it, bullshit. These thoughts swirled in her head as she walked underneath the oppressive sun.
Flo was hungry and tired. The smothering heat gave way to bone chilling cold every night, and the mosquitoes had declared war on the entire hospital. The young woman had declared to her tent mate Helen that morning that she had won a major battle against the mosquitoes. The absurd amount of bites covering Flo's body made a convincing case otherwise but Helen let Florence live in her delusion. The young brunette nurse from Montana figured that her friend needed a win, she was correct in her assumption. Florence was one more meager meal, sunburn, and bug bite away from walking the four miles to Ichkeul Lake and drowning herself. Her beloved cousin Elsie would be incredibly cross, and knowing her, would swim across the Atlantic to Tunisia and force her to come back to life. Florence was absolutely certain that once Elsie had spent a day in her hot, tiny tent, flies buzzing around, with little water and food, that Elsie would understand, and let her best friend and cousin rest in peace.
Florence arrived at the Hospital Headquarters tent, saluting back the young private who looked like he might die from saluting a woman. Yes the Army Nurse Corps nurses held the rank of an officer, but it was relative, they had the privilege of the salute but received less pay than male officers of the same rank and limited authority. Florence thought this was malarkey, but the rank helped protect her and her fellow nurses from the enlisted men. The high ranking officers looked up from their game of cards as she ducked underneath the tent flap. They were sitting in metal chairs in a circle around two boxes pushed together to make a table for their cards and drinks.
Florence saluted and waited for them to address her.
“At ease. Are you Second Lieutenant Florence Taverna?” The man who Flo presumed to be Colonel Davis asked her.
“Yes sir, you sent a runner” The young nurse who still had no idea why she was called here in the middle of their poker game answered the young Colonel whose cap was askew and his top two buttons unbuttoned for some relief in the stifling heat.
“Your unit Captain Buchanan tells me you speak Italian, is that correct?” He asked Flo, who was beginning to believe she was about to be accused of being a spy. Although Italy had surrendered two days ago, people were still on edge. At least if she was taken out back and shot she wouldn't have to spend another day hungry, thirsty, hot, getting bit by flies and mosquitoes she figured as she searched for a bright side.
“Yes sir, that is correct” Flo responded.
“Excellent, the 33rd has obtained a company of Italian POWs that have been distributed throughout the hospital to help. We are sending 20 enlisted men, one physical therapist, two officers, and 12 nurses to assist them due to our lack of orders and activity. You are one of the twelve nurses, along with Helen Fletcher, I thought you could assist them in nursing and translating.” Colonel Davis casually explained.
“Three trucks are coming in an hour to take you the 40 minutes to the 33rd, take all of your belongings. Tell 2nd Lieutenant Fletcher she's being loaned to the 33rd. You are dismissed.” He informed the young 2nd Lieutenant, barely 20 years old.
“Thank you sir” Florence spoke as she saluted and turned to leave.
The young nurse exited the tent and was blinded by the blistering sun. She quickly hurried back to her tent to gather her things, thinking about how grateful she was to be doing something, and that she wasn't about to be shot.
“Hey Flo, welcome back, did you find out why they sent for you?” Helen asked as she saw her friend trudging back between the rows of pup tents.
“Yes, we're both getting transferred to the 33rd General Hospital, the trucks arrive to take us in an hour” Florence answered once she was standing in front of her friend.
“Why did they only send for you?” Montanan asked the New Jerseyan.
“Italian POWs, I speak Italian,” Flo said.
“Ah, well let us gather our things” Helen nodded as she began to gather her things.
The truck ride over to the 33rd was uneventful, their trucks bounced on the bumpy dirt roads as Florence gazed at shimmering water of Lake Bizerte and the french farmhouses sitting next to a vineyard, there was a small small village in the distance. Her eyes fell back down to the French and Arabic guide she held in her right hand, they had been distributed to them after a week of traveling on the “Thomas H. Barry” across the Atlantic.
The young nurse bumped Helen who was sitting next to her and pointed at a farm house, “Il y a un maison”.
The nurse sitting across from Flo in the truck laughed and said “Nearly a week of sitting around reading that thing and that's all you got?”.
“It's more than you Ruth” Florence shot back with a laugh. Ruth giggled and went back to staring off into the distance as the truck rumbled along.
Florence Taverna hopped out of the truck with her heavy bags nearly making her go ass over teakettle. Ruth, Helen, and a nurse named Betsy all reaching out to steady her. The young nurse was about to thank them when they were ordered to set up their pup tents in the nurses section and then meet back where they were currently standing in 30 minutes. Flo was delighted to finally be doing something.
Once the nurses had been shown around the 1,000 bed hospital, they were shown to the ward they would be working. Several members of the 33rd were working on setting up beds and creating bandages. A group of Italian nurses, Florence could tell they were Italian due to the ITALY patches worn on their shoulders, were sorting and making the muslin covers able for use in the operating rooms. After Italy had surrendered to the allies on the 8th, the Italian prisoners had been issued U.S. Army Wool and Khakis, the only things separating them were the Italy patches and garrison caps. The Italian American wandered over to say ciao.
“Mi scusi. Ciao. Sono 2nd Lieutenant Florence Taverna. Io sono la traduttrice. Piacere.”
“Ah, Piacere Lieutenant, sono Sottotenente Isabella Monti, questo è Sottotenente Emilia Rossi, e Sottotenente Evo D’Amico. find rank and last name A young nurse said while pointing to the two women sitting next to her respectfully.
“Eccellente, possiamo aiutarci a vicenda?” Flo asked the women. They nodded and Florence sat in an empty chair and began sorting.
“Cazzo!” Florence swore as she dropped the muslin she was handling. They began chatting again, Evo whispering that she was hopeful that Italy would join the Allied forces. The girls hated fascism and had volunteered to help people dragged into a war they had no say in. They talked about the war, their families, and how much they missed peace.
September 13
3 days had passed since they arrived at the 33rd General Hospital, despite there being no patients yet, there was much to do. She and the other nurses, along with the Italians that had been assigned to their ward had spent days helping set up wards in preparation for when the first patient arrived. The Air Corps Lieutenant walking in hunched over accompanied by an enlisted man hinted that the day had come. One of the nurses who was closest to the flap of the tent walked over and guided the Lieutenant to a bed. Florence would later learn he was there for an aching back. The girl who had graduated from nursing school four months ago had imagined that her first patient overseas would be someone near death and that she would swoop in and save them like an angel. Her time would come, she supposed, and she enjoyed helping everyone.
15 September
“275 casualties are coming in from Italy today” Flo's Lieutenant told the assembled nurse of the 33rd General Hospital. Florence's mind immediately went to her brother, Micheal, he was fighting in Italy. It was unlikely but fear began to gnaw on her. At least if he made it to her hospital she would know that he was in safe hands. She would feel best if he was with her. The young nurse pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind, she had to stay focused she told herself.
The trucks began arriving from Bizerte about an hour later. Florence was glancing at every face, searching for her brother, he wasn't there to her knowledge, but the unknown haunted her.
Soon Florence was bandaging a young man who had been hit with some shrapnel as soon as he stepped onto the sand. He had brown hair and seemed confident despite it all.
“Stay still for me Private ok?” Florence softly spoke as she began unraveling the bandage.
“Am I your first patient you've bandaged overseas Nurse?” He asked gazing at her face, morphine in his system.
Florence lied, “No Private you are not the first”, she lied so that he had peace and did not panic.
“I think you are an angel, taking care of me so lovely” The young private said, the pain medicine making him forget his train of thought.
The young nurse let out a laugh as she finished bandaging him. She grabbed a sweet and handed it to the Private.
“Thanks doll” The private said softly as he accepted the candy.
Flo and her fellow nurses along with American Red Cross spent their free time when they were not caring for patients making drapes, sheets, muslin covers, and dressings for the Operating Rooms. Most of their patients were coming in very little possessions if they had any at all. The American Red Cross supplied uniforms for the soldiers. Over the next couple of days the thousand bed hospital quickly filled as casualties poured in. Flo and the nurses were working 8 hour day shifts and 10 hour night shifts. Due to a lack of supply there was a lot of improvisation. Major Williams found two french washing machines to wash the clothing of personnel. Patient laundry was done in another location in the hospital. Flo settled into a routine for the next couple of weeks.
October 18th
Flo and Helen were driving the truck down to Bizerte, Helen was driving since she was the one who knew how to drive. Florence was ecstatic, she and Helen had obtained a pass to go into Bizerte for the day. She was looking forward to the day of wandering around the town, visiting a museum, swimming in the sea, seeing ancient ruins, and eating in the restaurant they had been recommended by one of the male officers who had been flirting with Flo over dinner in the mess hall one night. The nurse had been bored, and he was a second lieutenant too, so she figured why not? They had gone back to his tent and had a lovely time.
Helen pulled the truck to the side of a road called Rue de Tunis and parked, they were right by the port in Bizerte, and Florence thought it would have been gorgeous before the war. The city had been heavily bombed by the Allies when it was occupied by the enemy. It was a broken city, buildings deserted, roofs caved in. Most of the civilian population had been evacuated and the people you could see were military personnel clearing the rubble. Civilians were beginning to come back to their homes to try and rebuild.
The young nurses hopped out of the truck and began walking. They reach the end of Rue de Tunis and ran across the intersecting street, nearly getting hit by a speeding truck. They walked until they saw a narrow tan building, it had a blue trim and sign, the sign had El Ksiba in Arabic on it. Bingo. The two women wandered and got a table. After months of eating army food, Florence almost cried when they received their food. They devoured the Brik and two bowls of Spicy Kabkabou, Helen wasn't used to spice but Flo laughed and told the Montanan that it was good for her. After the finished their food they wandered to the Medina, it was gorgeous, the medieval buildings looked above them. Once the nurses were done wandering around old buildings they hurried to the beach and swam in the sea. The sun was setting in the sky once Florence and Helen returned to the truck they had left on the side of the road.
October 22nd
All members of the 300th who had been loaned to the 33rd had been notified at 0700 that they were to return to the 300th General Hospital.
As Flo walked alongside Helen she muttered to the nurse “I hope we are going to Italy and we're not being sent back to just sit around in the heat like we were”
Helen whipped her head around and whispered harshly “If you have just jinxed us I will toss you into the ocean, I will actually do it if we are going back to just sit in the sun again”.
Helen didn't have to worry as they were notified when they arrived that the 300th General Hospital was headed to Italy. Florence was going to Europe.
Summary: Ronnie finally earns her war correspondent credentials and Chuck decides to shoulder some extra risk in favor of getting her closer to the frontlines.
Title: Of New Chances And First Encounters
Pairing: Chuck Grant x Veronica Valero, Babe Heffron x Winifred Hawthorne
Tags:
Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae
A/N: as y'all can see, I've been away but I'm (hopefully) bouncing back after a few rough months for a some of us in this fandom. I'd like to take a moment to remind y'all of how important it is to keep fandoms, both on tumblr and discord servers, safe for everyone. Having toxicity (general and targeted) brew in these spaces is a setback for those of us who create content in our free time. Ultimately, said toxicity benefits no one. Let this be a reminder to practice internet safety, be kind, and beware of accidentally joining the few toxic pockets within the hbowar fandom. All this said, sit down and enjoy this fic<3
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Early September, 1944
Aldbourne was loud and hot—ridiculously hot for an English September—, packed to the brim with Easy men on their best behavior. Even so, the warm din of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional "Jesus Christ, Luz, shut up!" from Joe Toye made for a familiar soundtrack.
After so much time spent with Elsie in England, Winnie and Ronnie had grown accustomed to hearing the Italian American's beau, now irritated at the designated jokester in E Company. It all came from love, clearly, but it was hilarious for the girls nonetheless.
Veronica leaned against the bar, her second Bloody Mary sweating in her hand as a celebration for their small win; the armband with an embroidered 'C' Winnie and her now wore on their left biceps.
The British government had finally agreed to give the relentless Spaniard her very much earned photojournalist credentials. It took a bit of fighting, a generous dose of stubbornness and a pinch of manipulation, but the girls had convinced Winnie's COs to let go of her in favor of having the Englishwoman aid the war effort elsewhere. The ATS hadn't treated her badly, but if Winifred had to choose between driving around supplies and putting her art degree to work in the thick of it, she knew what to pick.
A war artist —if such thing existed before Winnie claimed the title— and a stateless photojournalist. If someone told either of them five years ago this is what they would be doing for a living in wartime, both girls would've deemed the person crazy. Yet, there they were, toasting to their newly acquired war correspondents status.
Hopefully, soon enough they’d be toasting to finishing jump school, away from unnecessarily strict military instructors and boarding a plane that would fly them to yet another battlefield.
"Here's to legal liberties and less crossdressing!" Ronnie claimed animatedly, just a bit too loud for her friend's liking.
"Oi! Ron, c'mon," Winnie scolded her in a whisper, although she clinked her glass nonetheless. The Brit was aware most of the 506th would surely know by now she was the quiet British soldier boy who had been glued to Ronnie back in Carentan, yet she hated the idea of having someone explicitly point it out. "I thought we agreed to—"
"Pretend that didn't happen, I know, sorry." Ronnie halfhearteldy apologized before taking a sip of her drink. "I still think you're being dramatic. Could've been much worse."
"Could've been suspected to be a spy." Winnie bit back, earning a kick from Veronica. A dig at her friend nearly losing her life due to her poor judge of character and her loud mouth. Now, in that pub, it was just a joke between the pair, but Winifred could only hope it would serve as a lesson for the Spaniard to stop assuming every girl she fucked would have as much backbone and decorum as her.
"Now that's not funny."
"See how it feels?"
Ronnie opened her mouth to tell off her friend, a forearm resting on the bar counter to lean closer, when two fingers tapped her shoulder.
The curly haired woman shot the interruptor half a glance over her shoulder before pivoting smoothly with her glass in hand, coming face to face with that one dark blonde paratrooper who had clocked and indulged her act back in Normandy.
"Sergeant... Grant." Veronica recalled, eyes peeping at the surprised man's badge to make sure her memory didn't fail her. "Charles?"
"Chuck."
Not the first time she encountered him in a pub, the journalist quickly realized. She vaguely remembered now that he wore his dress uniform, his hair neatly styled with pomade. They'd crossed paths before, more times than Veronica initially recounted, which must have been why he approached with ease. Or perhaps it was just that classic American cheekiness that both annoyed and intrigued Ronnie.
"Congratulations," Grant tipped his bottle toward the armband. "you can stop playing nurse now, right?"
Ronnie smirked, turning her back fully to her friend, an elbow resting on the bar. "About time," she said, glancing at the sweaty drink in her hand. "one week more and I'd have gotten someone killed."
The man breathed out an amusement laugh, the ghost of a smile lingering in his face as he spoke. "I read your article about Carentan."
Veronica couldn't help but snort. Yes, it was the Carentan report that earned her the war correspondent credentials, but none of her five articles published in London's newspapers were written under the name of Veronica Valero.
To make matters worse for him, Ronnie didn't recall mentioning her full name to the men back in France, so either Grant was lying, or her pen name wasn't as subtle as she thought.
"Which one?" She asked warily.
"The one on the Birmingham Daily News."
Huh.
"You're lying."
"It's the only paper we found with your name on it."
"Now, how the hell would you know my name, Sergeant?"
The blonde gave her an unnoticeable shrug, unwavering eyes fixed on her. "I don't know, Veronica, maybe 'cause I asked around."
As unusual as it was for her, Veronica found herself at a loss of words, too focused on concealing her split-second miss of footing. The fair haired paratrooper used it as an opportunity to speak again.
"It was really good." He continued speaking, moving past his light sarcasm smoothly before the spaniard could react. "Photographs were nice too."
"Why thank you, Sergeant," she sing-songed, lifting her glass in mock-toast. "I make do with what I have."
Grant nursed his beer for a moment. His eyes drifted over Veronica's shoulder, then back at her, sizing up the woman in front of him as much as he was second-guessing his idea.
"You ever wanna get closer?" he asked.
Ronnie frowned. "Closer to what?"
"The front." He let the word settle. "I might know a sergeant from second platoon with a spare helmet."
That earned a pause. Ronnie blinked once, sharp mind catching the hint, then tilted her head with a dry grin. "Is that so?"
"That so."
"That Sergeant happens to be manning a bazooka by any chance?" A flash of what could've been shocker lit Grant's face, signalling Ronnie she was indeed in the right with her assumption.
"You pay attention."
She shrugged. "I’d be a shit journalist if I didn’t pay attention."
"So, you’re up for it?"
Ronnie narrowed her eyes, her lack of trust sobering her up. She'd been fighting tooth and nail to make herself a name as a journalist for years now; she was no stranger to seemingly uninterested offers like this one, specially coming from men. So she asked, "What do you get in exchange?"
"Great pictures?" Grant joked, taking a sip of his beer.
Veronica didn't laugh. Her clear eyes turned sharp under the pub's low lights. "Why the offer, then? If you get nothing—"
"Because you’re good." he cut in, not missing a beat. "If you’re up for it, I’ll get you closer."
She leaned in further, looked at him for a long moment, searching for the catch and finding none. Her attention slid back to Winnie, who was poorly pretending not to catch a single word of Grant and Ronnie's exchange despite the lack of distance between her and the pair.
Not too hard of a task for the shorthaired girl, whose eyes had accidentally landed on the one fella she didn't recognize from Normandy. A replacement, she figured. A really cute replacement who seemed to have taken interest in stealing obvious glances at the Brit. She was most likely imagining things, Winnie told herself. She made a mental note to ask for Ronnie's opinion once the Sergeant left the pair alone.
At the lack of Winifred's attention, the Spaniard turned back to the paratrooper, who, for some reason, still awaited her response.
"Regiment won’t allow that." She sentenced deadpanningly. "You folks already have a regimental photographer, and he's getting nowhere near the front."
"He’s not a war correspondent." Grant easily countered, the corner of his lips twitching with pride when the quick-tongued woman's orbs widened momentarily at his quick reply. "Are you up for it? Yes or no."
She stared at him, lips twitching, amused and intrigued all at once. "If you make it happen," Veronica began, taking a sip of her drink, "come find me."
"I will."
"You're determined." The auburn-haired woman observed, almost surprised at how easily the man had her attention locked on him.
"So I've been told." He responded while shifting half a step to fish for his pack of cigs, succeeding in sounding mildly distracted despite his acute awareness of how close Veronica stood.
The man had nearly managed to convince himself that the nurse uniform and the battlefield desperation were to blame for the way his heart skipped a beat at the sight of her. But, in this dim-lit, crowded pub, lacking adrenaline and distress, what was to blame? Her deep red lipstick? The guarded curiosity sparkling in her sea-colored eyes? Or maybe the way she didn't flinch when their arms brushed when Grant pulled out a smoke?
"You want one?" He offered the open pack to her, but the woman turned it down, her slender fingers dipping into her purse to find her Black Cats.
Ronnie's position switched, her lower back now resting against the bar, which allowed Winnie's frame into Chuck's view. In an attempt to fix his lack of manners, the blonde extended his offer to the shorter girl.
"Hawthorne," his arm stretched past Ronnie's back and over the counter to a lost-in-thought Winnie, whose eyes pivoted from Grant's face to his Lucky Strikes, then back to him. "Want one?"
The British woman shook her head no, her short curls bouncing with the action. "Don't smoke. Thank you, though."
Chuck spared her a nod and returned his pack to the front pocket of his jacket, but he didn't miss the two cigarettes hanging from Ronnie's mouth. She lit them both before passing one to Winnie, who wordlessly accepted her friend's gift.
Confusion must've been written all over his frowning face, because Ronnie's explanation left her lips with the first puff of smoke. "Don't mind her. She's still lying to herself."
"I'm not lying to myself." Winnie countered with the cigarette between her fingers. "I don't smoke."
Ronnie breathed out a scoff, her attention fully returning to Grant in the form of a simple yet unprompted action; Her hands lifted her lighter up to his face, cupping the flame until the tip of his cigarette turned amber.
Grant's quiet 'thank you' was responded by Veronica's smile, swiftly hidden by the rim of her glass when she conveniently took a sip. Their little silence was filled by the racket of the packed pub, but the Sergeant felt it heavy nonetheless. His fingertips drummed over the wooden surface right behind the Spaniard's back while his mind worked up a question that would keep the woman interested without showing his cards yet. Although, if he were to be honest with himself, he'd guess Veronica already knew.
"How come you ended up—"
Grant's question broke halfway when a young ginger soldier unintentionally pushed past him, slurring a careless apology before stopping short in front of Winifred.
"Saw you all alone across the pub," The private started off strong but confident. "thought a pretty girl like you oughta have someone around to keep her company."
Winifred acquired a judgmental look, preemptively taking offense for whatever was about to come next. "I'm... Not alone."
"Well, yeah but-" the boy spared half a glance at a squinting Ronnie, then immediately zeroed in back on Winifred with a bit too much enthusiasm, "you looked alone, all glum and-"
"Excuse me?" Winnie's brows raised with her short question —a chance to let the boy backpedal.
"All glum!" He repeated a bit louder, leaning in for the Brit to catch his word better. As if that had been the issue.
In immediate response, Winifred struggled to put much needed distance between her and the ginger, the edge of the bar digging on her back as she leaned back with a grimace. Her clear eyes darted past the soldier's frame to Ronnie, whose attention was already fixed on the scene with a confused frown that mimicked Winnie's.
"Alright, kid," Ronnie trapped her cigarette between her teeth and tugged on the boy's jacket with her now free hand, "take a step back, she's gonna break her back."
"Wow, you uh… really have a way with words." Winnie's speech was laced with sarcasm.
A large smile crossed the boys face, fueled by boyish charm and nerves. "I ain't ever been told that before."
"Well, England's not the same as back home I imagine."
"Huh?"
Winnie was used to this. It always took a bit of time for the Americans to adjust to her accent— that was if she was lucky enough that they actually did. So she repeated herself, slower this time.
"Oh!" Babe breathed out a laugh. "it sure ain't."
"Would you like some advice?" The Brummie girl asked, sincerity peeking through her subtle teasing.
"About what?"
"General cultural differences."
"Oh uh," the private brows furrowed briefly in confusion, but his determined demeanor didn't falter. "sure."
"You might want to be a little more aware of your surroundings." Winnie gestured at the direction in which Babe had barrelled from, her index finger stopping on Grant. "I think you hit into three people on the way over here."
"So you were watching me?"
"That’s... not the point."
"What is then?"
Winnie muttered something about how every yank is the same as she tried to gather the patience to explain herself.
"I'm Babe, by the way." The ginger let out an awkward laugh and shoved a hand toward Winnie. "Heffron."
"Babe?" Ronnie couldn't help but repeat, "Jesus. The yanks are getting creative."
The poor replacement sighed through his nose, shooting Ronnie an annoyed glare. "It ain't my name, okay?"
"And what's your name then? Baby Boy?" Ronnie teased, taking her cigarette from her lips between her index and middle finger to sip her bloody Mary.
"Ron." Winnie warned, barely managing to choke out a snort.
"C'mon, Veronica, it's a nickname." Chuck nonchalantly jumped in, trying to distance himself from the awkwardness created while simultaneously lending his friend a merciful hand. Not that he wanted the girls to know Babe was, in fact, his friend. "Give the poor boy a break."
"He's cornering my friend, Charles." Ronnie dramatically feigned indignation.
Grant pulled a face at his full name; he wasn't used to hearing it, and he wasn't sure he liked it, specially when it came from Ronnie's lips. "He stumbled."
"I do feel slightly cornered so if you could—" Winnie's shoe nudged Babe's shin. "step back. Please."
"My bad." Babe let out a nervous laugh, setting his right foot back to lean away from the girl quite literally merging with the counter in front of him. "What's your name again?"
"Winifred."
"And what's your name?" Ronnie's inquisitive tone interrupted Babe's futile attempt at flirting again, poorly hiding the fact that she was taking the piss.
"Just told ya. My name's Babe."
Chuck sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a drag of his cigarette, looking away from the ginger. Ronnie caught on the physical response and spun again to face the blonde Sergeant.
"You're friends with this kid?" she nearly mocked.
Chuck winced.
Ronnie laughed.
"Making you proud, is he?"
Chuck took a pained look at Babe, then at a very confused and slightly scandalized Winnie, then back at Ronnie.
"Not exactly."
"I see that." Ronnie joked.
"So!" Babe spoke a bit too loud, his lovely grin and dimples doing nothing to charm a furrowing Winnie. "You wanna go out sometime?"
"No?" Winnie's rejection was high-pitched and nearly instinctive. She widened her eyes at her own decisiveness, second-guessing her immediate response when Babe's cheeky expression collapsed into a frown.
"Right." he said quickly, like he was trying to catch up with reality. "Wasn’t— I didn’t mean like now now. Just… y’know. Someday."
"I don’t think that helps." Winnie spluttered, a little too fast, adjusting her posture like she could physically reset the conversation. She held up a hand, as if negotiating peace. "I’m not- I’m not interested in whatever this is."
Babe blinked. "Going out?"
"Yes."
"That’s... that's fair." The tall boy scratched the back of his neck. "…Is that a maybe later?"
Chuck nearly spit his beer, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth, sparing him from the embarrassment of spilling the alcohol on Ronnie, whose chest heaved with a single disbelieving laugh.
"Oh my God." The Spaniard's curls bounced when her head turned from Grant to Babe, and back to Grant. "How close are you two?"
Chuck shook his head once, clearing his throat from the beer. "Barely."
As if on cue to bust his lie, Babe turned to his Sergeant with pleading eyes. "Chuck, buddy, help me out?"
The blonde NCO didn’t even attempt to step in. Whatever damage control he might’ve considered died on impact. He simply sighed and adviced, "Babe, stop talking."
"I'm trying, but she—"
"Alright, kid, that's enough." Ronnie cut in smoothly, reaching up to pat Babe’s shoulder with something bordering on sympathy towards the poor boy, who had made it his mission to dig himself a hole deep enough to lie in one sentence at a time. "You tried. Now go back to your table, yeah?"
Babe’s words fizzled out mid-breath, eager eyes still landing on Winnie's frame despite deciding it was best to take Ronnie's advice. Falling back after being shot down was a strategy as respectable as any other, he reminded himself, retracing his steps with his head down.
"I think I'm gonna go with him." Chuck declared, knowing damn well he'd be collateral from the girls' antics if he stayed with them.
Ronnie arched a brow. “Embarrassed?”
Chuck tilted his head and nodded. "A bit."
She hummed, pleased. "You know, in Spain we say you’ll catch a liar before you catch a limping man."
He gave her a sideways look. "You’ve got wise people in Spain, then." After tipping what was left of his cigarette ash, he added, "Alright, I’m heading back."
"See you around?" Ronnie asked lightly.
"That's a given!" he spoke loud, aiming for the Spaniard to catch his phrase over the crowd's noise.
Winnie watched the aftermath settle like smoke, rapidly blinking as if that would help the interaction click for her. "God, what was that?"
Ronnie leaned forearms first onto the bar again, stirring the cocktail with an idle finger. "An interesting thing to write back to Flo." A small, mocking scoff. "Babe."
Winnie took a slow drag of her cigarette. "Only a yank would call himself Babe."
"At least he was cute."
The shorter woman scrunched her nose, pushing her glasses up slightly. "He was also a bit of an idiot."
"He was charmed, Freddie."
Winifred jumped on the stool, swiftly turning to give her friend a cross look. "Whose side are you on?"
"The truth’s." Ronnie quipped, far too amused, "Speaking of-" the woman pushed off the bar, abandoning both her cigarette and her drink, and stepped into the crowd.
She moved through with the kind of certainty that made it look like people agreed to part for her. Winnie lost her almost immediately between shifting shoulders and half-finished pints, only catching glimpses of auburn curls here and there until she spotted her again near a cluster of paratroopers standing by one of the pub's pillars. Grant, who had recently rejoined his company-mates, was interrupted mid-conversation by Ronnie's tap on his arm.
From where Winnie stood, it didn’t look like a deliberate meeting at first, just two people occupying the same narrow pocket of space. And maybe the Brit didn't catch a word of the conversation, but she saw the brief, fake innocent smile her friend flashed the Sergeant, and the way Chuck’s posture changed almost imperceptibly at whatever honeyed request Veronica was making.
He leaned in —not just toward her, but into her space. His head dipped close to Ronnie’s ear, cutting through the distance with ease. And Veronica, instead of pulling back, shifted in just enough to meet him halfway; a subtle realignment of her shoulder, now angled toward his chest.
Winnie noticed, with detached clarity, that Ronnie’s hand had come up at some point without ceremony, resting against Chuck’s forearm as he spoke. Unnecessary and probably instinctive. The shorthaired girl made a mental note to bring that up whenever the time was right.
Whatever Chuck said, it didn’t take long. A sentence at most. Maybe less.
Ronnie listened intently and when he pulled back, she gave a soft nod and a quiet 'thank you' shaped more by lips than sound. She then turned and threaded her way back through the pub, grinning victorious with a faint flush on her cheeks that she would absolutely blame on the Bloody Mary.
"Edward." she announced when there was enough proximity for her friend to hear, and immediately picked up her glass.
Winnie blinked. "Edward?"
Ronnie raised her drink slightly toward her. "His real name’s Edward."
Winnie clinked her glass against it. "Edward." she repeated.
"Cheers!" Ronnie’s mouth curved faintly. "To reliable sources of information."
Back on my Dolls' bullshit with this idea I had a while ago; turning the letters sent within the dolls' universe into visual content 🙂↕️ this little batch will be complimentary to @writingfranticallyforroe's multipart, 32 hours (part 1 and 2). We'll be soon posting fics for y'all to read how our girls finally interact with Easy Co. But in the meantime, enjoy this<3
The dolls masterlist
Band of brothers masterlist
Rogue-durin-16 masterlist
May 22nd, '44; Elizabeth NJ, USA
Catherine Taverna to 1st Lt. Florence Taverna, regarding Pvt. Michael Taverna being K.I.A.
June 8th, '44; Utah Beach, France
1st Lt. Florence Taverna to Jr Leader Elsie Taverna, regarding family matters and the 42d field hospital's performance.
June 13th, '44; Devon, UK
Jr Leader Elsie Taverna to Cpl. Joseph Toye, regarding personal matters.
June 20th, '44; Devon, UK
Jr Leader Elsie Taverna to 1st Lt. Florence Taverna, regarding family matters. Classified information might have been censored.
July 1st, ‘44; Carentan, France
Veronica Valero to several English newspapers, reporting the liberation and defense of Carentan. Written under an alias for her safety.
Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae
i appreciate all fanfic writers so so much. if ur a fanfic writer please read this.
fanfics always make me feel so much better after a crappy day. being able to escape into a world that u love so much is such a gift. every single day, fic writers are coming home after working hard at a job or at school or doing something mentally/physically straining. and they write stories for us to immerse ourselves in. they cultivate characters that are open ended enough for us to be able to imagine ourselves in that place. i can honestly say that most of the fanfics i read are better than the books ive read. i’m so appreciative of all the fanfic writers, no matter what fandom or ship u write for. ur making so many people so happy. we as readers love u soso much!
tag ur fav writer in the comments so they can hear this!
I sadly can't tag all of my favorite writers, because it would take forever, I'm so so sorry :(
But these amazing writers are some of the funniest, smartest, and most talented writers I've had the pleasure of reading!! It's also crazy that I'm moots with some of them, have no idea how that happened lol
Tumblr already has a personalization algorithm it's called my beloved mutuals who have great taste and only wish to psychologically damage me sometimes
the concept of joe liebgott being the company's hair stylist.... very special and dear to me. he uses perconte's scissors because he knows they're getting stolen otherwise
