SUMMARY: While stuck in the woods of Bastogne, half-starved and exhausted, Joe Liebgott and the men of Easy Company come to realize that their combat medic, who they like to call an angel for fun, may indeed be more divine than they expected. 8.1k
WARNINGS: joe liebgott x combat medic!reader. canon-typical violence. and some not so canon typical gore. ww2 content. supernatural elements. kinda. inspired by yellowjackets. lottie matthews-inspired reader. fluff (?). some angst, because it's me. attempt at humor. no use of y/n for reader.
This fic is solely inspired by the characters depicted in the HBO show Band of Brothers. In no way was my intention to offend any real life veterans.
Somewhere between their varying levels of madness, the forlornness that’s poisoning half of them while the rest get sick on vengeance, and the immeasurable rage that seems to seize some men more than others, there is one feeling the men of Easy Company all share: They’re all worried sick about Her.
It’s no surprise that Bastogne is hitting the hardest for the medics of their team. There’s plenty of misery to go around, every soldier has something different to complain about, they’re all under the same atrocious, demoralising conditions. No food, no winter clothing, no rest. The few men who manage to get a few hours of sleep mutter about burgers and chocolate in their slumber. Cuddling has become more of a rule than an alternative, soldiers huddling together in the dirt to try and catch any hint of body heat that might remain after more than two weeks in this hellhole. Joe is so sleep deprived that he’s started to hear his mother’s voice sometimes, in the middle of the night, singing some old Austrian lullaby that keeps him from tumbling off the edge of panic.
But the medics—the medics have it worse. Roe has been spacing out more than usual, taking double the time he usually would to reach a wounded man. He’s still as effective and resourceful as always, and if Joe has to be honest, he might be the toughest son of a bitch out here. Nonetheless, he’s been running off to town more and more often, forgetting things just a few hours after they happen, sometimes even freezing at the sight of blood.
But Gene will be fine, Joe and every man in the company is sure of it.
Her… Well, it’s different with Her.
It’s not because She’s a woman. Or maybe it is, for some of the other soldiers. Joe had learned the hard way not to fixate on that detail. After you watch a girl carry a man twice Her size out of an active battleground like Carentan, his full body weight on Her shoulders and his life in Her hands, every idea you had about women being weak is launched out the window.
War has a way of destroying everything you believed to be true. Sometimes, that’s not such a terrible thing.
War also has a way of bonding people together, like a powerful bloodpact. Joe would die for every guy in these frozen woods, he would certainly kill for them too. It’s a privilege to live with the certainty that they feel the same way.
No matter how exhausting and deranging Normandy, Eidenhoven, Bastogne, and even Toccoa have been, Joe will never find it in himself to regret joining the Airborne. They are his family now, the only people who will ever understand the gory mess that lives in his chest in place of a heart.
But every Easy man, and Joe means every, has a soft spot for Her.
Even those that used to spit crude comments Her way back in Toccoa and Normandy, like Guarnere and Cobb, or those who swore She’d cry and beg Her way back to the States by D-Day + 2, like Martin and admittedly Joe himself. Now they’re all, some more secretly than others, wrapped around Her little finger.
It’s just impossible not to be fond of Her. You’re lying on the ground, with blazing pain clouding your judgment and fear clutching you by the throat, the snow being painted crimson under your limp body and a loneliness so terrible you can feel it corroding your bones and puncturing your lungs—and then an angel swoops in from the sky, landing right on your lap like salvation.
It’s just goddamn impossible
Everyone sees something different in that pretty face of Hers. Some men catch a glimpse of their mothers on Her sweet smile that never seems to twist or falter, not even when She’s covered in guts and debris. Some hear their sisters’ voices when She whispers soft reassurances as She patches them up, feel the touch of their grandmothers when Her hands pet the ragged skin around their wounds, find an echo of their sweethearts in the soft curls of Her hair and the pink dust of Her cheeks.
But for most soldiers, She’s a reminder. A vivid memento of all the things that await for them at home: Safety, gentleness, warmth. Love. She's proof that love can survive even in the direst of environments, like the freezing woods of Belgium in the middle of war.
Because damnit, all of Her is fucking lovely. The scrunch of Her nose when She sutures a deep cut, stitches so neat that it's hard to remember She was trained as a medic for only two years in a boot camp instead of some prestigious university. That breathy little giggle that escapes Her when one of the guys makes an extra-funny joke, an accomplishment the men wear like an honor badge, somewhere between their wings and purple hearts. The way She unhesitantly rushes into active fire, dodging bullets and mortars and shells, trying to reach every soldier who screams and wails for Her.
No one will admit it, but if Joe were to be honest, he’d confess that they all kind of hope She’s the one who answers when they call for a medic.
“Not that I’m not glad to see ya, Gene,” Babe said once between wounded hisses, after Doc Roe had called him out for sighing in disappointment when he came to the rescue instead of Her—the rescue being cleaning up a tiny cut on his hand from a sharp rock in his foxhole. “You’re cute and all, but you don’t have, y’know, the blessings.” He pointed toward Gene’s unfortunately flat chest, making every soldier within earshot laugh through their shivers.
All of this to say, She kind of became the heart of Easy Company.
Which is why they’re all so concerned about Her recent shift.
Their sweet girl, who’s serious as a heart attack on the field and sharp as a knife when She needs to be, has become… distant.
“Doc!” Captain Winters called for Her a few days ago, squinting at the fog that transformed Her silhouette into a mystical shadow, like an air nymph. She stayed immobile, staring off at the horizon, the blanket they’ve all decided was Hers wrapped around her shoulders and floating in the wind. The winter sunlight formed a white halo around her, the breeze carrying soft hints of the words She seemed to be murmuring to herself. Winters called Her name again. “Trooper, come back here!”
But it was useless. She was in Her own little world, slipping further and further away from them as the days went by. It’s like the snow has taken hold of Her, infecting Her brain like black mold, leaving Her wild-eyed and a little loony.
Today is another long day of Her going missing.
Joe sits alone in his frozen foxhole, Alley somewhere taking a shit or trying to steal cigarettes from a poor sleeping soul. Joe is down to his last pack of Chelseas, the carton squished from all his plunges to the ground and mushy from melted snowfall. He’s adapted to a half-a-smoke-per-day diet, and he cradles the last half of one between his chapped lips, taking a long drag and holding it in until his chest stings and his surroundings become a little more clear.
“Liebgott!” Someone calls from behind. Joe doesn’t have the strength to turn his head, buried so deep between his shoulders that he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s stuck like this for the rest of his life. Whatever's left of it, anyway. Seconds later, Doc Roe lands at his side, nose rudolph-red against paper-pale skin. “Picking up syrettes. You got any?”
Joe swears his bones crack when he shakes his head, like an engine low on oil. “No, got used in Holland, Doc.”
Gene murmurs something that sounds too French for Joe to understand under his breath, peeking out of the foxhole and looking around frantically in a very meerkat-ish manner. It at least brings a smile to Joe’s lips.
Then he says Her name. “Where the hell is she?”
It melts the joy right out of Joe’s face.
“I don’t know.”
No one knows. She fades into the mist like a ghost and stays there for hours, drifts off to whatever universe She’s living in now and doesn’t come back until a man is hurt. Then She materializes at his side, with a clean bandage, a packet of sulfa powder, and a rare smile ready to go.
But in oddly calm moments like this, it’s as if She’s never even been here. No footprints to follow, no shadow in the horizon, no sign of Her at all
Very much like Lieutenant Dike, but with the difference that the boys actually care about where She might be.
“Damn it,” Roe murmurs, still scanning the periphery with sharp eyes.
It’s almost noon, the sun high on the sky but hidden from view by the tall trees. Lunch time doesn’t mean much in a place where the most they have to eat is tree bark soup cooked in sweaty helmets and lemonade powder snow cones.
Gene would never admit it, but he’s probably hoping for someone to get mildly wounded. It’d allow him a Jeep trip down to town, with a warm meal and pretty nurses waiting for him at the aid station. Joe would volunteer to get a bit of shrapnel on his leg if that didn’t mean having to be in that goddamn church.
Being on the line is one thing, gruesome and bloodsoaked, but bearable. Having to sit in a makeshift cot and watching men fight for their lives while bedridden and helpless is especially excruciating.
But God seems to listen to Roe’s silent prayers anyway. Fire explodes in the sky, as bright as a supernova, and soon shells are raining down on Easy.
“Incoming!” An officer yells, the sound of soldiers scrambling into the earth like feral moles almost swallowing his voice. “Get in your foxholes! Get in your foxholes!”
Eugene and Joe end up pressed together in a tight ball against the narrow walls of frosted dirt, limbs tangled and helmets clanking against each other. The last bit of his cigarette slips off his lips, a knee digs into his ribs, he gets a mouthful of dead leaves, and Gene’s face is close enough to kiss.
It’d be funny, if it wasn’t so absolutely terrifying.
Then, it comes: “Medic! We need a medic!”
Gene jumps to his feet so fast that he almost kicks Joe in the face, the sole of his boot missing his eye by just a few inches.
“Watch it!” Joe screams over his shoulder, but Roe is already too far away to hear. He thinks about throwing a rock at his head, just to be petty, but a shell that bursts a little too close for comfort forces him to curl down on himself again.
It’s become easier and easier to zone out during shellings and mortar attacks. Joe simply buries his face in the mud, covers his head with his hands, and thinks about the big house he’ll live in once the war is over—either in Frisco or the Garden of Eden.
He gets lost in the fantasy until heavy footsteps rush past him, bringing him back to the bitter reality he’s condemned to stand. Slowly, his joints creaky and his vision blurry from screwing his eyes shut too tightly, he pops his head above ground.
He catches Doc Roe and Perconte dragging a wounded soldier toward a waiting Jeep. They quickly leave him draped across the hood before Eugene jumps in the truck, giving Perco one last nod before they speed away from the line and into safety.
Joe waits for any jealousy to appear, but there’s none. He’s just happy for Gene.
He follows the car with his eyes as it vanishes in the distance, catching sight of a very much awaited figure crawling out from the dense woods.
He can’t help but yell Her name, heart leaping in his chest, detail he ignores completely.
Everyone’s enamored by Her. Whatever weird thing fills his thorax and stomach and throat in Her presence is no different.
It takes a few tries, Joe raising his voice enough to risk another kraut attack, but finally Her dazed eyes zero in on him. Once She finds him peering out of his foxhole, it takes no time for Her to bolt to his side.
“Joe!” She gasps, and it’s sweeter than any chocolate bar. She kneels in front of him, Her aid kit already in one trembling hand, the other one making a grab at his shoulder. For a second, She’s her old self again. “Did you call for me? Are you hurt?”
Her free fingers slide up to his cheek, Her touch barely warmer than the snow, tilting his head up until all he can see is Her. She hovers over him like something otherworldly, as if the sky had split in two and sent Her down as an apology for the horrors they’ve made to witness.
Joe’s never seen Her pet another man’s face the way She does his, Her hands mostly sticking to their wounded area, never straying the way they always do over his body. He’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so he doesn’t say anything about it.
The urge to fake being wounded is strong, wanting nothing more than to give Her an excuse to stick around, maybe get Her to fuss over him a little. But a soldier doesn’t lie about being hurt unless it’s to pretend he isn’t.
“No, wasn’t me.” Before She can take off like a crazed fawn, Joe takes a hold of Her wrist. “Doc Roe already took care of it, though. Everyone else’s fine.”
She mulls over the words as she surveys the surroundings with the same acuteness as Gene, surely searching for any hints of pain amongst the company.
“M’kay,” She murmurs a few seconds after, Her shoulders uncoiling and the pool of Her starry irises thawing into those fuzzy little things She’s been wearing lately. Joe can tell, he’s losing Her again. “‘M gonna go, then—”
“No!” he interrupts a little too loudly, causing Buck to angrily shush him from a few foxholes away. Even She looks taken aback by the outburst, and if Joe had any warm blood left in his body, he’s sure it would be rushing up to his cheeks. “I mean—stay.”
“Uhm…” She hesitates, looking back at the deep woods as if they’re calling for Her. That’s okay, Joe can be more convincing than a bunch of trees.
“C’mon,” he says Her name, the same way Captain Winters uses a trooper’s name when they’re a little too drunk on shellshock. His hand slides from Her wrist to Her hand, his pale fingers wrapping over Hers, noticing the blue hue of Her lips and the bits of frost in Her hair. “You gonna freeze out there. You ain’t even got your blanket, what the hell you thinking walking around like that?”
Without waiting for an answer, Joe tugs Her down by the hand, sending Her tumbling down his foxhole like Alice down the rabbit hole. She yelps as she lands in front of him, their legs tangled and their hands still clasped.
“Lieb, what the fuck?!”
By the first year of training, She was already swearing as much as any other man in the company, sometimes even worse. It’ll never not make Joe grin.
Risking sounding like a sentimentalist, he admits to himself that he’s missed Her so greatly, the way a soldier misses his home. He doesn’t know what happened, why She’s been acting so differently, why She’s changed so much. Everyone in Easy’s changed in the last two weeks, and he suspects these changes will be everlasting, but why Her?
Joe wonders, in the depths of night, if it has anything to do with the special packages that were mailed to Her every month. She never opened them in public, but while trying to take a piss somewhere in Holland, Joe saw Her pulling out a bottle of pills and choking one down dry. Once he started looking for it, he noticed Her swallowing one down every day, always at the same hour.
No mail has reached them since Mourmelon, and She ran out of pills a month ago.
Joe wonders.
“Look at you!” He tries to keep Her grounded, keep Her with him for just a little longer. “You’re all blue in the face! You’re so pale, someone's gonna confuse you with a snowman.”
Any other time, he’s sure that would’ve won him a sweet giggle he could add to his collection of prizes. Now, it earns him nothing more than a twitch of lips.
“You’re one to talk,” She huffs, Her breath visible in the air. Her eyes drift off to the sky, but Her hand stays on his. It’s enough for Joe’s insides to start warming up. “The only color in your face is that patchy thing you try to call a beard.”
He kicks Her on the calf, way more gentle than he’d like to admit, biting back his laughter.
“Hey! It’s called a stubble. And I’ll let you know, some girls happen to find it sexy.”
He gets a snort for that one. Small victories.
“Whatever lets you sleep at night, Joey.”
Joe chokes on his next words, a lump getting stuck on the back of his throat and coating the back of his teeth like cheap candy.
Joey. Only Mom and his baby sister have ever called him Joey, and they stopped long before he started to grow a stubble. The name would earn anyone else a fist to the face. When it comes from Her cracked lips, so mellow and balmy, it makes him feel ten years old again—on a hot summer day, sipping on a cold glass of fresh orange juice, watching Mom take care of her garden.
But summer is long gone, the snow has killed all the flowers, and he hasn’t been ten in a long time.
He tugs at Her hand again, this time lightly and almost, maybe in another world, shyly.
“I’m serious, though. You’re bound to get frostbite if you keep wandering around like that.” And then, with the same rush of adrenaline he feels when taking a kraut town or while pinned down in an open field, he lets go of Her, opening his arms instead. He nods his head toward his right side, a silent offering.
Her eyes find him, staring right at the empty spot between his chest and his raised arm, blinking a few times in that way She always does when she’s wrapping Her fascinating mind around something new.
“What?” Her gaze flicker to his, Her fuzzy starlight meeting Joe’s bitter muddy coffee, Her eyebrows raised in surprise. “You want a hug?”
Joe clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. But for all his act, a hug is exactly what he’s asking for.
“Don’t make it weird. We’re both numb with cold, and body heat is the only viable solution here. Unless you’ve been holding out on me and you got a heater hidden somewhere in this forest” He nods his head again, his arm cramping from being held up in the air for so long. “Just c’mere, doll.”
The few seconds She sits there in eerie stillness are the most terrifying of Joe’s life. But then Her chin dips, some color returning to Her cheeks as She grumbles something under Her breath, and She shuffles closer to Joe.
Once She’s close enough to touch, Joe is unable to stop himself. He’s always been known to be an impulsive man.
His arm wraps tightly around Her shoulders, yanking Her closer until She’s tucked against his side. Only then—with Her bony elbow digging under his ribs and Her knees pulled up against Her chest, just a little ball of sunshine pressed against his hollow body—Joe feels whole.
He joined the airborne with the idea that killing krauts would fill the gaping hole in chest, that maybe that furious parasite that bubbles and expands inside of him could be satiated with bloodshed. Instead, he found that murder only made the infection stronger, and all he needed was warmth.
Warmth in the coldest place on earth.
“Y’know,” Her voice snaps him out of the spiral of his own mind, low and muffled against Joe’s jacket, where Her face ended up smushed against. “I know you like being annoying and calling me ‘doll’ because I hate it, but I’m not actually a ragdoll. If you keep yanking me around like that, I will punch you.”
Joe’s laugh is interrupted by the chattering of his teeth, ending up in a weird mix of chuckles and clanking sounds that, at the very least, makes Her smile.
“There’s that spunk we missed so much!” He hugs Her closer, teasingly shaking her until her helmet slips from her head and She starts to shove him off. Her attempt to escape isn’t very earnest, though, because as soon as Joe stops, Her head returns to his shoulder, cheek pressed right over his wings making Her lips look all pouty. “Where’d it go, huh? It came back for the holidays?”
It’s not the first attempt by the men to figure out where She drifts to, one of them always trying to pull some explanation out of Her when they catch Her amongst the mist. They’re always met with some cryptic bullshit, though.
“It melted in the fire,” She answers in a barely-there whisper, eyes getting lost somewhere too far for Joe to reach. “Beneath the rubble and the flesh, wrapped in blue fabric and chocolate.”
Joe says Her name slowly, trying, pleading, praying for Her to come back. “What are you talking about?”
“The town.” She doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, and if it wasn’t because Joe can feel her ribcage expanding and compressing every few seconds, he’d guess She doesn’t breathe either. “The fire erupted and the town fell. The angels fell as well, too late at night for God to save them.”
“Doll,” Joe shifts in his place, cupping Her chin with his wide palm and tilting Her head back until She’s forced to meet his eyes. Her hair is wild around her face now that She’s without a helmet, her usual braids completely forgotten, and it smells like sweat and mud and gunpowder. Still, Joe feels like he could drown in it. “There were no attacks last night. No mortars, no shells, not even gun-fire. The town…you mean Bastogne? Foy? Neither has ‘fell.’”
“Bastogne…” She chews on the word, like She’s hearing it for the first time, spreading it over Her tongue and the roof of Her mouth. Not like Joe is looking at Her lips, of course. He just notices. “They—they didn’t bomb the city? Last night?”
“No, sweetheart.” She looks so genuinely confused, eyes so lost and lips parted in shock, that Joe sneaks his hand up to Her temple, checking for a fever. “Are you okay?”
A question asked way too often in the battlefield, one that rarely gets answered sincerely.
“Yes. Uhm,” She shakes Her head, curling further into Herself and returning to the crook of Joe’s side, burrowing under his arm and against his chest. She fits so perfectly that, for a second, Joe has the manic thought that his body must have been carved out just for Her. “I’m fine. It must have been a dream, I guess.”
There’s not much to talk about after that.
Even with the phantom shared body heat, they continue to tremble like leaves in the wind. There’s movement all around them—soldiers fortifying the covers of their foxholes in preparation for a new attack, sharpening their knives or brushing their teeth in the rare moment of peace, chatting among themselves and laughing at jokes that wouldn’t be half as funny if they weren’t on the brink of death.
Joe and Her stay there for long minutes, in perfect silence, only the sound of their breaths and the pounding of their hearts filling the icy air. No one bothers them, no one dares to. Luz walks by and has to do a double take at the sight. At Joe’s pointed glare, the radioman gives him nothing more than a suggestive eyebrow wiggle before scurrying away, probably to tell the tale to anyone who will listen.
Serenity, as is usual in war, doesn’t last very long.
The first sign he notices is the twitching. Way harsher than the trembling, like spasms that run up Her spine and down Her arms. For a moment, he thinks She’s just trashing in Her sleep. God knows how much rest She’s getting out there in the wilderness. No stranger to combat nightmares, he prepares to wake Her from the terrors. But one look at Her face tells him She’s awake, eyes wide as ever and pinpointed on something only She can see.
“Do you hear that?” The words leave Her in a rushed sigh, both terrified and relieved. “Joe, do you hear it?”
He tries to, he really does. He closes his eyes and absorbs every sound his ears can catch. There’s the steps of his comrades, the clicking of lighters, the rustling of wind. Nothing new, nothing to make him squirm the way She’s doing.
“No, what are you—?” She scrambles away from him so desperately, he’d think there’s a missile heading their way. Her boots kick dirt that lands on Joe’s lap, his arms feeling empty and worthless without Her frame there to hold, the words stuck between his molars as he watches Her run from him. “Wait, goddamn it!”
But it’s too late, Joe has lost Her again.
“It’s calling!” She murmurs, over and over as She sprints away. “It’s calling, it’s calling me.”
All that’s left of Her are footprints on the snow, which will be brushed away by the wind soon enough. Joe watches Her disappear in the distance, the white hue of fog concealing Her shape until it looks like She never existed at all.
“What the hell, man?” Muck shares a look with Penkala from a few feet away, huddled together over Malarkey’s gas stove. “She’s gone fuckin’ insane, I’m telling ya.”
“Shut up, Muck,” Joe grits out. “She’s not crazy. She’ll be fine.”
“Whatever,” Skip mutters, sloshing around whatever mud water they’re heating up in that helmet-pot. “Who’s ready for more of Joe’s surprise stew—”
The overly familiar sound of explosion makes every man in the vicinity duck their head and crouch on the snow. It’s far away enough that no one bolts for their foxhole, not like they would’ve at the start of the war, not like any sane person would.
“What the fuck are they aiming at?”
It takes one quick glance for Joe to notice the smoke rising between the trees, too far away to be meant for them but too close to be directed at D Company. What are they aiming at?
The realization hits like a ton of bricks.
He whispers Her name, half revelation, half prayer, before taking off into the woods.
“Oh, fuck.”
Distantly, Joe can hear men following him. He doesn’t know how many or how far behind they are, every sound coming muffled, as if he’s underwater. All he can think of is Her, laying somewhere in these godforsaken woods, bleeding out all alone because Joe had been stupid enough to let Her go.
Her name continues to leave his lips in a rampage, like saying Her name out loud would keep Her alive, would bring Her back to him.
The cold dissipates, the weight of his rifle fading into nothing, the ache of his bones inexistent. Joe is a man on a single mission, and nothing—not the branches scratching his skin, nor the rocks that test his balance, nor the grim reaper that clings to the shadows behind the trees—will stop him.
He sees Her right as he feels like he’ll lose whatever’s left of his mind.
She’s standing a little too still, looking away from Joe with Her hair freely blowing in the wind. The smoke floats around Her like it can’t quite touch Her, swooping through the air and swirling close to Her skin like it’s dying to impregnate itself on Her.
At this precise moment, Joe can relate.
His knees buckle, but he forces himself upright and continues making his way forward, Her name threatening to slip off his tongue one last time. That’s when he sees it, and the breath is knocked out of his lungs, his feet planting themselves in the ground on instinct.
“Holy shit.”
Joe feels the rest of the men join him. At least ten well-trained American soldiers, all Toccoa men, who’ve taken everything the krauts and the universe has thrown at them without a flinch—standing in a tight line a few feet away from a young girl, completely paralyzed.
Buck calls for Her before Joe can, his tongue heavy and swollen like he’d just swallowed arsenic.
“Doc, walk over here slowly…”
But She doesn’t even spare them a glance. Instead, in a move Joe will continue to question even decades after this, She takes a step closer to the motherfucking brown bear that’s prowling Her way.
“What the fuck is She doing?” Malarkey grunts, rifle already aimed at the giant beast. But She’s in the way, right between their guns and the animal, and no one is going to risk hurting Her.
At least, Joe hopes they’re not brainless enough to risk it.
He tries again. This time Her name comes out coated in supplication, drenched with Joe’s desolation at being forced to stand there and watch this happen, afraid the bear will feel threatened if any of them move too fast and pounce on Her.
“What the—? Come back here, get away from that thing!”
Everyone continues to whisper-yell similar things—some with more vulgarity than others—but it all bounces off Her skin, Her attention solely focused on the predator’s mouth She’s, quite literally, walking right into. The pace of both woman and animal is deliberate and sluggish, torturous for the useless outlookers that have to witness it.
Muck, crazy son of a bitch that he is, starts to grow restless. He looks about ready to leap on the bear himself, the way he once leaped onto the Niagara river. He even backs up to get a running start, hyping himself up in silence before his efforts get interrupted by a loud thud.
The brown bear, all 500 hairy pounds of it, docilely drops to the ground at Her feet.
Everyone freezes again at the sight, their words vaporizing and their breaths stuttering. Goosebumps wash down Joe’s body, something inherently wrong in watching a colossal beast surrender to a human in such a way, something ethereally astounding in watching a girl take power like that, like a goddess.
Not any girl, though. It’s Her.
She’s the one who—instead of running, or crying, or even kicking the beast when it’s down—gets down on Her knees in front of it, so they’re once more at the same level.
Someone gasps, Joe can’t tell if it’s one of his friends or himself. His heart stops beating for a second too long, making him question if he’s already dead and hasn’t noticed. If the God he’s been praying to ever since he was a babe has taken Her shape to welcome him to the afterlife.
But then the bear growls, sharp bloody teeth in full display, and the thrill that shocks his body like lighting is painful enough for him to know he’s alive. His heart is back in action, pounding against his ribcage as if it’s trying to escape, quivering as Her hand reaches for the bear’s face.
“Doc,” Buck tries again, but his voice is nothing more than a trembling whisper, his icy blue eyes wide with terror. “I don’t think that’s such a good…”
His voice dies down along with, probably, the rest of their sanity. Because She seems to be on a secret mission to cause as many heart attacks as possible.
“What the fuck is she—”
Suddenly, the idea of Her being an actual goddess doesn’t seem as implausible as before. Not when She takes the bear’s head between Her hands, staring right at the fangs waiting to bite her, and lowers Her head to rest against it. Forehead to forehead, snot to nose, brown fur to muddy skin—beast and woman lock eyes like two forces of nature.
“It’s okay.” Her voice is carried by the wind like it belongs there, soft and oh so beautiful. “It’ll be all over soon. I’ll make it better, I swear.”
The bear, against all its instincts, melts into Her touch. If Joe wasn’t freaking out so badly, he’d empathize. It lets out a tiny whine, meant only for Her, and She makes a soft wounded sound in return. They seem to be communicating, in a language too holy for someone like Joe to grasp.
“I know,” She whispers, one of Her hands letting go of the animal and finding Her boot instead, right where Her knife is strapped to. Joe holds his breath, as if one wrong movement would end up with Her head between the bear’s claws. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”
“I think Dominguez put mushrooms in that bean soup.”
No one laughs at Skip’s quip this time. No one has the mind to, not when She’s unsheathed the blade, holding it high in the air as She continues to whisper to the bear like it’s a wounded puppy.
“Thank you, we’ll be forever grateful to you.” Just when Joe thinks his mind can’t be blown into smaller pieces, She presses Her lips right between the bear’s eyes, and She starts to lower the knife. “I’m sorry.”
There’s a whoosh in the air, the now familiar sound of flesh being slashed, a pitiful cry—whether from the men, the bear, or Her, Joe can’t be sure—and then the bear’s eyes fall closed, the life bleeding out of it from where She’s stabbed him in the nape.
She does the same, eyes shutting down as a lonely tear rolls down Her pale cheek, Her lips still buried on the beast’s fur.
“You can rest now. Thank you.”
Blood splatters across Her face when She pulls the blade back, hitting Her temple and dripping down Her neck, staining Her uniform and painting the snow red. Her gaze never leaves the now dead animal as She straightens up, the woods falling in absolute silence for the first time since they’ve gotten here, as if mourning along with Her.
“What the hell are you all doing?” Captain Winters’ voice shatters the silence like a grenade, making Joe nearly jump out of his skin. “What in God’s name could be happening here for half of my men to leave the line unattended?”
Winters reaches the group of men and stands right in front of them, not having taken notice of the miracle being performed right over his shoulder. In the back of his mind, Joe knows he should stand at attention, at least attempt to stand straight, but he can’t move. He can barely breathe.
Still mute with shock, Perconte raises a shaky hand, pointing at the dying animal.
Nixon, looking half-asleep and slightly in withdrawal, jogs up to his friend and tries to catch his breath. It’s fruitless, though, since it’s knocked right back out as soon as the captains turn to look behind themselves.
“Where the fuck did a bear come from?” Nixon questions breathlessly. “They’re supposed to be hibernating.”
“Believe me, Cap’n, that’s the least of our worries right now,” Guarnere, who’d been uncharacteristically silent during the whole ordeal, chimes in.
“Did she—” The question seems so ridiculous that Winters chokes on it. But there’s no other explanation, and he has to ask. “Did she kill that thing?”
“Yep,” Guarnere answers again, pressing his lips together and nodding, as if he’s already come to peace with it. “Yes, she did.”
“What the fuck?”
“That’s what I said.”
“That’s what we all said.”
The men turn to chat amongst each other, voices ranging from amazement to horror, disbelief to fascination, mythical to reasonable. But Joe stays there, still looking at Her, at the scarlet dripping down Her face and the sorrow in Her eyes.
Oh, their sweet angel fallen from heaven. What has this place done to you?
As if She’s heard him—and maybe She has, She sure did seem to read the bear’s mind, and Joe guesses his brain must not be much more complicated than a bear’s—She turns to stare right into his soul, pupils blown out and knife still in hand.
“What are you all doing?”
Every soldier turns to face Her in perfect unison. Sobel would be proud. He probably would also burn Her at the stake.
“What are we—” Guarnere repeats, offended. “What are you doing? You nuts? Or a goddamn witch?”
She blinks a few times, scanning every man’s face before returning to look at the bear, now completely drained of all life.
“Stop just standing there. We have to move him, bleed him out, before the meat stains.” She throws the knife to the ground, petting the bear’s head as if it’s something precious. “We probably can’t cook him here, not without a fire. We could take him back to town in pieces, keep the rest frozen in the snow, bring it back cooked enough to heat up in the stoves—”
“Wait,” Buck says Her name, interrupting Her rambling. “What the hell are you talking about? cook him?”
Her face is full of indignation when She faces them again, staring up at the Lieutenant like he just insulted Her whole bloodline. There’s blood still on Her face, and She just killed a fucking bear. The sight is terrifying.
“He sacrificed himself for us,” She barks, like it’s obvious.
“He did?” Malarkey asks Muck, who just shrugs.
“He gave his life to us, I won’t let you dishonor him. We’ll take his meat for food and his pelt for warmth, because that’s what he wanted.” Her voice falters, body trembling with more than just cold. “That’s why he let me take his life.”
A pause, long and heavy.
Then Captain Nixon clears his throat, leaning closer to Winters. “She might be mental, but she’s right, Dick. That’s a shit ton of food, feed-us-for-the-next-whole-month shit ton. And we could use a few extra blankets.”
Captain Winters, for the first time since camp Toccoa, seems at a loss for words.
“We still don’t know where the bear came from.”
“Who gives a fuck? It’s food.”
“What if it was sick?”
“He wasn’t.” She glares at the officers again, and even perpetually-composed Dick Winters squirms under it. “It’s a gift, a sacrifice. He was sent here to help us.”
Sent by who, Joe wants to ask, but instead he yanks out his bayonet and makes his way to the bear.
He kneels by Her side, eyes trained on the beast. He’d hunted only a few times as a kid, back when his dad used to take him in the summers. It didn’t last long, but he picked up enough to manage his way around a deer.
A bear can’t be much different, right?
He starts to turn the animal to lay on its back, his touch a little more careful than he’d want—not because he cared about the thing, but because he had the feeling he’d be the next one bleeding out if he dishonored it.
He guides the tip of his bayonet to the bear’s throat, blade resting just over the skin as he raises his head and faces his comrades.
“You heard the woman. Stop just standing there.”
And without looking back down, he slits its neck cleanly from side to side.
Whether it’s his words or the fresh wave of spluttering blood, the men start moving right after that.
“Guarnere! Go back to the line and send Dominguez up here,” Captain Winters pulls himself together, taking control of the situation again. “Luz, go with him. Radio town and tell 'em we need a utility jeep for a heavy detail. Don't mention the bear—just tell them we need to haul something back to town.”
The rest of the soldiers start to drag the bear toward a tree, slicing its chest open before attempting to hang it from a low but hefty branch. The key word there is attempt, because the carcass weighs more than five of them combined, and Perconte can barely lift a paw by himself. Joe hears them struggle, and knows he should probably go help.
Instead, he stays there, kneeling by the dent in the snow the bear’s left behind, with his hands bloodstained and Her eyes on him.
When he tilts his head toward Her, he finds the starlight in Her irises shining brighter than ever.
“You’re not scared.”
It’s not a question, Joe nods anyway.
“I’m not. Why would I be?”
“The rest of them are." She glances behind his shoulder, something akin to shame flashing on Her pretty face. She frowns, pouty and adorable—if not for the gore all around them. “They don’t understand it, don’t understand me. They fear this.”
She extends Her hands toward him, soaked in so much blood it hasn’t even begun to dry, not like the darkening streaks on Her face.
Joe doesn’t know what it is, but he knows that no matter how much blood covers Her hands, his will always be more stained. So he mirrors Her action, showing Her the crimson coating his skin.
“I’m not easily spooked, doll.”
“Lieb!” Malarkey grits out from behind him. When Joe turns to look at him, he finds him trying to crawl out from under the bear, the rest of the men struggling to hold it up. “Your help would be appreciated.”
“Coming!” He turns to Her one last time, basking in the glow of Her attention for just a second longer, before jumping to his feet. He winks at Her, and maybe the giggle it earns him isn’t quite like the old one—still spacey, still lost, still fundamentally changed—but it’s still good. It’s still Her. “Gonna save the best cut for you, Bear Whisperer.”
“Liebgott, now!”
The next few hours are a mess of guts, sweat, and meat. Joe would’ve never imagined a bear had so many frigging intestines, but when he’s tasked with hollowing out the animal’s innards—punishment for “flirting with the Doc while the bear tried to kill Malarkey”—it feels like he’s digging for ages.
Shifty seems to be the only one who actually knows what he’s doing. He instructs them on how to peel the skin off the carcass without ripping fistfulls of fur off, collects the bear’s teeth with a smooth tug of his fingers, and gives each man one to keep. For protection.
By the time the meat has been cut in transportable pieces and sent back to town to be cooked, all that’s left of the animal is the inedible viscera. Joe walks up to the pile of gore while wiping his hands on an old bandage, trying to get as much goo off as possible.
He thinks of saying a prayer, maybe finding Her and seeing if She wants to say goodbye to Her friend. But once he reaches the guts, he notices something’s missing.
A huge, red, previously-pulsing something.
They decided not to eat the heart. No man in Easy is particularly squeamish, but they all agreed that slicing up the bear’s heart felt a little too… violent. Unethical. Maybe Her whole talk about honor did get stuck in their heads.
But the heart is nowhere to be found, and now that Joe thinks about it, neither is She.
He hasn’t seen Her around since their last exchange of words. Joe thought she’d like to stick around to watch them make its sacrifice justice, or something like that. But She had, once again, melted into the mist.
God-fucking-damnit.
Before he can begin to freak out again, he catches sight of a steady trace of blood that’s been preserved by the snowy ground. She’s usually better at covering Her prints, unless She wanted him to follow Her this once.
Wishful thinking or not, Joe follows.
What he finds seems right out of an Austrian folktale, like the ones his mother used to read him before bed. He hides behind a tree, as quiet as a mouse, watching Her kneel in the middle of a small clearing. The sunlight washes down on Her like holy light, face tilted to the sky and the bear’s heart held sacredly in Her open palms.
“We hear the wilderness, and it hears us,” She whispers. “To you we give our thanks. And to the bear, who sacrificed himself so we can survive. We are grateful, and we will not forget this.”
She lowers the heart into the snow, right in the middle of a bunch of pebbles placed in a circle, murmuring a few last words that are too low for Joe to catch. Then Her head snaps upward, like She’s listening to something.
“I know you’re there, Joey.” She’s still kneeling, facing away from him. “It knows as well.”
Knees feeling weak and reality feeling a little too flimsy, Joe leaves his hiding spot and walks toward Her.
“What is it, doll?”
She rises to Her feet regally, staring up at Joe with an expression so earnest that he’d almost believe anything that leaves Her mouth.
“The wilderness, Joey,” She steps closer, until they’re chest to chest. Her face is just inches away, as beautiful as ever, and Joe so desperately wants to believe She’s still the girl from Toccoa. “It knew we were hungry, it knew you needed strength.” Her eyes are glossy, almost teary. “You can’t fight when you’re weak, when you’re feeding on beans and melted snow. You'd get sick, or killed. But it heard my prayers. I hear the wilderness, and it hears me. Don’t you see it? This is what I was always supposed to be.”
If Joe was a smarter man, he’d take off running.
There’s a part of him that wants to do so. Or at least, it wants to fight back. To grab Her by the shoulders and shake Her hard enough for Her to snap out of it. To bring Her back to what She was, before the wilderness.
But then he thinks about it further.
They have food, they have a pelt, and this is the most she’s spoken to him in days. They’ll be able to have an authentic Christmas meal—actual, real meat, and not cold Spam from a battered can. They’ll be able to get at least three blankets out of the bear, enough to pass around and for no one to die of frostbite. And she’s happy. For the very first time in a long time, she’s actually happy.
So who the fuck cares?
“And is… is the wilderness good to you?”
She beams at the question, and any doubt Joe could’ve foster is immediately forgotten.
“Yes, it is.” Her hands, still smudged with now-dried blood, cup his jaw. Joe forces down a shiver—because it’s been a long damn time since someone’s touched him like this. “It helped me keep you alive.”
The reverence in which the words are drenched in makes Joe feel like the worst and best man on earth. He doesn’t deserve this, and still, he’ll give his life to keep it.
“Then, thank fuck for the wilderness.”
She giggles, still slightly off but sweet enough to make his teeth hurt, and then pulls him down for a kiss.
It’s chaste and a little painful, chaffed skin against chaffed skin. But then Joe licks his lips, his tongue brushing Hers, and it all falls into place. They stay like that for as long as they can, bodies intertwined and mouths devouring each other, before Joe is forced to take a step back and guide them both back to the line.
If all he’s gotta do to keep this is to pray to some woodsy god, he has no trouble doing so, even if he thinks it’s complete insanity.
But then, on Christmas night, the city of Bastogne gets attacked, and Gene comes back with a broken heart and a piece of blue fabric wrapped around his fist.
“The fire erupted, the angels fell,” She murmurs sadly onto his shoulder, where Her face is hidden from view.
Joe, still in shock from the mortar attacks, can only find it in himself to whisper:
“We hear the wilderness, and it hears us.”
“We hear the wilderness, and it hears us,” She echoes.
The next morning, General Patton breaks through the German lines, supplies flow in, and their inferno turns a little more bearable.
All hail the wilderness.
NOTES: I wrote this amidst working on a longer project for Joe Liebgott. Before embarking on that, which would be a longer and more complex story, I wanted to test the waters and see how many people would actually be interested in reading about him. This might've not been the best test, because not even I'm sure what I just wrote, but I thought it was fun and wanted to put it out there.
as i said in another post, I'll be on vacay for the next few days (i'm actually supposed to leave right now) so i won't be posting much. still, thank you for reading and being here!
plsplspls let me know if you'd be interested in more Joe content! I love you all, and may the wilderness be with you. ♡
[PROMPT] In which you talk about your ideal man with Babe Heffron, and he more than proves that he's what you're looking for.
tw// lemon-y kissing (16+), drawn out confession scene because I can
Dedicated to this lovely "anon." 👀😘
Was it the drinks?
Or was it you being a mouthy idiot who was prone to oversharing?
"Uh-hum...uh...a-and he'd like to go to museums with me..."
Could be both. That was what you ran in your head over and over again as you stuttered out your criterion on what your ideal man would be. That was one of the many thoughts that raced through your mind as you sat on some stairs, nursing a drink, peering into the eyes of Babe Heffron. And if you weren't careful, you were going to hurl and toss your flat beer from too much nervousness before rolling away down the street.
"What else?"
If you weren't careful, you'd blurt out that you didn't know what the hell you were talking about.
And then spill your guts.
"I...um...Well, he'd be gentle—Ugh. Are you going to make fun of me?" you choked out, gripping onto your beer glass for dear life under his intense scrutiny. You felt like a desperate ant attempting to flee from the rays of a magnifying glass owned by an evil brat. "I—Let's just pretend this conversation didn't happen—"
"Now, why would I joke about somethin' so serious?" was his sudden reply. Your scrunched eyes popped back open again as you stared up at Babe, watching his body leaning against the wall like it was natural for him to do so. Natural, like he owned the place, like he was meant to be here, observing you with those piercing brown eyes of his.
Like you were meant to spill the beans on your nonexistent love life to one of the studs of Easy Company. Cute. Must be feeling sorry for the awkward bookworm in intelligence; you even had his dress jacket draped around you for warmth, and he stood there, somehow not shaking from the cold that had bitten through your own dress attire. He stood there and waited for you to say your piece, like he always did, and you sat there and pondered.
He waited patiently.
This was dangerously, really. Risky. The truth of the matter was...you liked Heffron. A lot. Like, in a way that you knew would make him look at you like you were a pesky bug squished on the underside of his boot if he found out how you really felt. This whole situation was not sparing your skyrocketing blood pressure, and his proximity to you, close enough to feel his warmth and smell his aftershave, was not good for your self-esteem, self-control, and your self-denial.
You had to get it together. He was just feeling sorry for you; must be a Catholic thing, be nice to the underdogs and the poor, and all that. And you were...you were very unnoticeable. Which was a good thing in intelligence, being so boring and able to blend into the background that you were able to retrieve confidential messages, but personally, it didn't do you any good. No one noticed you, and no one cared. Spent all your time daydreaming if your eyes weren't buried in between books, and then scurrying here and there, doing your job, and being...boring.
And then, there was the self-denial, the inflated ego, because Heffron said you weren't boring. First day there, and he strode up to you and introduced himself, as if he had that planned for the day. Pulled you out from the background, his bright hair and easygoing grin adding color in a sea of muted green. It was because of Babe that you had friends. It was because of Babe that some people started to notice who you were. It was Babe who paid attention to your discomfort, your quirks, who waited for you to finish your thoughts while others would've bulldozed you over.
It was Babe who stood in front of you, and only you, away from the limelight. He wasn't the roguish devil that Wild Bill Guarnere was, but he was magnetizing. Everywhere he went, he drew crowds. The two of them together: it was hard to fit through the door of an establishment when the "good ol' boys" were seemingly holding court. Yet, he was here, in some alleyway away from the lively bar, away from the hoards of dazzling people with their dazzling charm and whirling dresses and eager grunts trying to get lucky for the night. You didn't doubt that there were demands and pleas for Babe to stay, both from G.I.s and pouting ladies, and some folks were probably looking for him right this moment.
Yet, he was here. Boots shined, greens pressed, shaved and proper for a rare night out to town, wasting all his potential on a nerd that people forgot the name of and just referred to as "Heffron's buddy behind him." He should be back there at the bar, not leaning against a battered brick wall in some shady alleyway away from the party. You should be here alone, recovering from being overstimulated by being around too many people. Babe Heffron should be downing his fifth beer, clowning on some salty joes.
Anywhere but here.
"Oh, I don't know, Babe," you finally said, staring quietly at a mouse who met its counterpart and scurried away happily together. Damn, even mice had game while you had none. "It—It all seems pointless, really."
"Not pointless if I listened to it all." You had to force yourself to calm down when he languidly took a seat next to you on the stairs. When his knee touched yours, you swear you were having a cardiac arrest. Yeah, you were done and dusted if you were mentally screaming for help over an action that meant nothing to him.
Yeah, you were a clown for choking up when he reached out and pulled his jacket up to cover more of your neck and shoulders. It meant everything to you, but most likely, nothing to him, at all.
"Cold out." Funny how you were burning up inside. "I'm not the biggest joe out there, but I think you could slide your arms in some for extra heat.
"C'mere. I'll help."
You must've been in a sorry state if needed to help you put on a jacket. But what was worse? The fact that you docilely followed his suggestion, or the fact that it wasn't a mere suggestion. It was more than words the way he patiently waited for you to slide your arms in their appropriate sleeves. His knuckles brushing the back of your suited arm. His breath tickling the side of your neck. The very action of him assisting you with something you could fully do yourself.
"Better?"
The act of knowing. Because Babe knew the then and the later. He knew you'd protest some, so he did what needed to be done. Spurred the action forward and had you folding your body into his jacket without room for argument. No one handled "act first, ask for forgiveness later" with such tact better than Edward 'Babe' Heffron.
You weren't immune to such sleight of hand, either. How could you be? There was just something about a man with a plan, whose actions spoke first, who acted without wavering...
"Now, tell me if I got things right."
It was irresistible.
Dangerous.
He fished out a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket, raising a stick to his mouth before offering you one. You declined, as usual, but noted how he invariably offered you one every single time. Just like everything else. Just in case. Just a behavior that had you smiling in thanks, earning you a lazy grin as he lit his cigarette and took a drag.
"Ideal man likes animals. Takes walks in the park. Holding your hand, and all that."
"Y-Yeah."
"Does art stuff. Likes a meal with a good beer or two. Takes you out to town. Not afraid to show you off."
You flushed a tad at that last bit of the summary, but you didn't deny it.
"Reads a hell of a lot and takes you to museums," he continued, and you marveled at his impeccable memory at your list. "A gentleman."
"Yeah."
"Smart."
"Yeah..."
"Alright."
There was a strange pause before he stated the last point, and you wondered if it was all in your head. For a while, the two of you sat in silence, and it was now your turn to wait patiently and wonder what he was thinking. It was uncharacteristic of him to be quiet this way as a response. Babe always had a rapid quip or followthrough for any scenario. You expected him to tease you a bit or tell you that everything was going to be okay, to pick your head up. But he didn't. He emitted a haze from his tab and let the din of the night fill in for the words he didn't say.
Awkwardly biding your time, you watched him smoke his cigarette down to the filter before he crushed it under his boot and threw it into a garbage can a few feet away. He sat there, slowly fiddling with his fingers, staring at nothing, before he finally spoke.
"My parents never let us raise pets at home, but I call myself a da to the wee kittens that ran around the shipyard where I worked. I raised 'em all nearly myself."
You blinked at the random statement.
"Been to nearly every single park in Philly. Camden, kind of. I'm not too fond of Jersey. Place is a shithole, if I'm being honest.
"And—" He laced his fingers together, pressing his forearms on his knees. "I know how to shave my calluses down. I just don't do it sometimes because the machine gun kinda fucks things up. But I can do it when I'm not expected by the army to...you know...stack some bodies."
Where was he going with this?
You blinked owlishly as he continued, his hands now separating to curl and uncurl repeatedly, and you debated on whether or not to reach out and put your own hands on top of them. It was hard not to. He never talked about it, but you knew he had problems with his hands; it was a wonder he was able to pass the medical exam and get into the service, especially for the paratroopers.
People called you creepy for noticing things that others didn't. You knew Babe would never call you that if you inquired about it, but for a man's man such as Heffron, it would still be a blow to his ego. Any other person being defensive and wanting to withdraw from you, you could tolerate.
But not Babe. Never when it came to Babe. You'd honestly banish yourself to Antartica before chancing your luck and losing the only person you ever truly considered your friend.
The only person you ever truly considered to be something more.
Don't.
"I can draw a cat."
You blinked again. "Oh."
"And a frog, I think. I can learn how to draw more.
"And I may look like a runt—"
"Babe!"
"—Look, it is what it is, alright? Not stressin' 'bout the truth. Anyway, I'm not too big of a guy, but nobody's said I can't put down some good eatin'. And the booze: Well, that parts self-explanatory."
He could definitely hold his drink. You've witnessed him drinking Bull and Wild Bill under the table, and then have room for more without starting a fight. He also had the most adorable flush in his skin once he got in his cups, but like you said: A man had his ego.
His reaction at being told such a thing would undoubtedly be cute, as well, but you weren't going to press this, either.
Because you weren't going to rush the careful words he was choosing. You weren't going to rush the way he looked at you, and really looked at you. Long and slow, looking at you the way Babe Heffron looked at you, and no one else. Like he could see right through you, and had words he wanted to say, but held them for your sake.
And tonight, you wanted him to be free of the words he'd never said.
Wasn't one of your virtues patience, after all?
"Any fella that can show you off's a lucky bastard," he said with intention, and the sudden shift in narrative had you startled. You started to reply but held your tongue as he continued with his speech.
"A fella that can read real well and go to those fancy museums. Probably went to those fancy schools. A fella—"
It started to click. It all started to click, but at the same time, you dared not confirm it because you had an ego of your own, no matter how conventional of a person you were, and it bruised easily. Mama said you were too tender-hearted for your own good.
A hard shell for a soft heart. A front crafted throughout the years to preserve that part of you who wanted to be understood, to be wanted, to be brazen, but you used your ego as a shield. It was better to not assume things if it dashed your hope to pieces.
It was better to quell this strange excitement, these feelings, from rising to the surface and bubble up into words that you wanted to say in response to words he couldn't. It was better to not react. It was better to not think. Assumption in intelligence was an utter abomination, as stated by Captain Nixon. You were good at what you did because you were one to not bother to be assumed, and in turn, you never did.
And yet.
"—that ain't me."
And yet.
"A man that's far from the likes of me."
And.
"B-Babe?"
Yet!
"But, I—I want your ideal man to be me," he breathily finished, and he shut his hands into tight fists as he let the remainder of his words fill the alleyway that held just you and him. You and Edward Heffron, huddled together on crumbled stairs in some bombarded European town stepping on bombarded dirt and experiences that the average person your age should've never had to endure.
"God, I want that to be me."
You and Babe, a somebody to someone for once in your life. You and Babe and his shaking hands and the war and your hopeful, naive heart beating a thousand beats per minute under the stars, away from everyone else. Euphoria and fear and awe and incredulity rushing throughout your body uncontrollably to leave you gaping like a fish. A wave of emotion so deep that it made you want to cry at the sheer magnitude of it. Everything happening was a first. And if you were actually sober enough from your rapture, you'd have noted that this must be what poets wrote sonnets for, what knights swore to chivalry in faraway lands, what artists created under the spell of their muse.
This must be...This must be...
"I know I'm not smart like the man you want. Shit, I haven't cracked open a damned book in ages besides mags—Damn, those aren't books.
"And the last time I tried to go into that main art museum in Philly, I couldn't afford it. 'Sides that, the folks workin' there wouldn't want my poor ass, anyway," he said in a stiff manner, and you didn't miss the tick in his jaw as he confessed to a chink in his ego. "I didn't bother goin' to any other museum since then.
"And school: My ass couldn't even make it through high school. Had to work, but shit's an excuse, I guess. Hated school." He kept his eyes fixed on his boots. The behavior, the slump in his shoulders, the trepidation evident in his body language, was unbecoming of the spitfire of Easy Company that had grown men running. "Nobody went to college in my family, so why would I be any different?"
"Babe," you shakily whispered, finally awake from the haze of incredulity that took over you.
"But I—I can be that."
Uncurling his fists before curling them again, he suddenly swung his gaze to fix on you, and impassioned eyes locked onto your own, his brows furrowing with resolve. There was still an uncertainty in the way he addressed you, but his shoulders were straighter, and he held his head higher than at the time he gave the comparison that broke your heart.
"This war's hell, but I'm open to adopting a stray cat we find along the way."
"Babe," you whispered again.
"I'm not too sure about taking walks in the park because everything's been fucked up, but I'll knife down these calluses and make 'em nice so your hands don't hurt holdin' mine. And I'll try learnin' how to draw birds and dogs and things that aren't just frogs and cats. I'll steal some pencils and paper from Captain Quaker—I mean—Captain Winters. No offense, but it's not like he needs like five million pages and shit like that in the field. The hell he doin'? Journalin'?"
"Babe."
"When you're with me, I'll never let you pay a penny. I'll buy us all the food and drinks we want, and we can tell people to fuck off so we can eat alone. I'll let you put our snacks in my ruck so you don't have to carry them.
"And when it comes to you." The manner in which his gaze softened had you breathless, desperation leaving you still to his declarations. "When it comes to you, it'd be impossible for me not to show you off.
"Because you're the smartest person I know. The kindest. And you're good at everythin', and you did go to those fancy museums and that fancy school, readin' all those books it'd take me a million years to understand."
"Babe."
"I'm not close in that regard. I'm not that kind of fancy man. I'm not smart. Can't afford college like that even if I can get in. But I can be that, and I'm gonna be," he firmly stated, and if you weren't careful, your dear heart was going to burst out of your chest. If you weren't careful, you were truly going to weep at how genuine his words and his eyes and the resolve in his shoulders spoke nothing but the truth.
"I'm gonna work hard. I'm gonna buy an actual book that ain't mags, and I'm gonna read it and then buy another one. And then another one. Grow some brains. It's never gonna be as good as yours by a long shot, but I'm gonna try."
"Babe."
"Uh...Sad to say, there aren't any museums open. I checked. Because...war."
You'd laugh if you weren't choking up from emotion.
"But I know you like digging for stuff. Old animal bones and treasures, and you even told me about different rocks and how old things are. I can't learn things for shit, but I swear I remember every single thing you told me because you told me. And I still don't know the fancy history and science stuff you talk 'bout but I can learn and dig for those things as much as you'd like. I'll dig out a fuckin' crater if I have to. I'll—"
"Babe, please."
Gently, with both bravado and fear, you reached out and touched Babe's cheek with your fingertips. It was warm, it was forbidden, and you almost made a sinful sound when he leaned into your touch and fluttered his eyelids closed at the contact. He was akin to a deer in headlights. How utterly vulnerable he looked, his eyes clear and true when he looked at you once more.
Your touch was what made him pause his anxious soliloquy. Your gaze was what held him captive and to wait with baited breath. Your glossy eyes had turning his head to fully place his cheek in your shaking hand, and finish the final act of his play.
"I know I'm not a 'gentleman' the way you expect, like how people see the officers and their nice upbringings. Wasn't raised that way, and my ass never bothered to be one.
"I've got zero patience, too. I don't try to start nothin, but I'll finish shit if I have to. Not what those 'nice' people do, I know."
Gingerly, you settled your other hand on top of his clasped fingers in support.
"But I'd never do you wrong. I only wanna treat you right because you only deserve the best," he rambled on, and you could feel how he fought to fiddle with his fingers again under your palm.
"I know I'm not the ideal man you want, but I'm fightin' to be that. I'll work hard and...and after the war, if we survive all this shit, I'll go back to school. I'll hit the books. I'll study. I'll scrape up every last penny and try to go to college—Mmmmph!"
Both of you were caught by surprise by your antics. They were unlike you. But your biding hope had taken its stand then, and it pushed aside its hard shell to be honest for once in your life.
So what if you got hurt because you assumed. So what if you were the one crazy here, and everything you were doing was a mistake, and you'd gone far past the proprieties of friendship.
If it meant that you could feel the heat of his skin and his lips on your own and reveal that part of you that longed for love, you'll take the guilt and the heartbreak. Maybe it was the war. Maybe it was being here, two young souls grown old with blood and death and seeing things they shouldn't have seen. Done things they shouldn't have done. Maybe it was from years hiding away, blending into the background, your back against the wall of every meeting and party, unassuming. Maybe it was the need to be free and honest and concede that you were a passionate person, you were just like any other person longing for connection, and that Edward James Heffron meant everything in the world to you.
And that you possibly meant the same back.
It was everything beyond you could ever fantasize and imagine. It wasn't a dream: You may have started the kiss, but he was quick to return your affection, and then some. More than some, actually.
So sweet and gentle was the prelude, and the postlude couldn't ever have been something you could ever assume. His hands on the small of your back, pulling you close to him, and he'd kissed you in ways that couldn't be portrayed in portraits and sculptures in museums that never gave Babe a chance. He held you like a man desperate for a lifeline out of rough waters, and you were his salvation. He kissed you madly.
He kissed you and made you hear the most sinful grown when your fingers slid through his hair, and you gasped when he settled his hands on your waist and expertly settled you so you straddled his lap. The new position gave you time to use your brain, but it sure wasn't easy when he made your jaw and throat the new focus of his attention.
You shyly cupped his face, bringing it back up to your own, and touched your forehead to his. "Did...did you really mean all that, Babe?"
Softening his brow, it was his turn to slide his hand on your cheek and brush his thumb on your heated skin. "Never said anythin' I don't mean—Oh, shit. I got distracted. Sorry 'bout that." Some of the forgotten anxiety began to creep back up in his hands, but you were quick with the observation. You interlaced your fingers with his as you waited for him to speak his mind.
"I...uh...I know I'm not your ideal man, but...I'd really love the chance to be that. And I'll work hard to be that if you'll let me be that.
"Please."
You boldly kissed his right temple and smoothed his hair back. Under the lamplight, it gleamed like burnished bronze. His skin had flushed in that gorgeous shade of red you loved so much, and not a single drop of beer could be held accountable for that.
It was all you.
All you.
He was everything you ever wanted.
Bashfully smiling, you placed your hands on his shoulders, uncaring if the fondness was overly evident on your face. Enough subterfuge. Enough of forever being the wallflower. Enough of denying his hands sliding down onto the small of your back while his eyes brimmed with hopeful anticipation.
You've upheld self-preservation for far too long, and there was only one person you'd toss all propriety to the wind for.
"Babe, you always were and are the only man for me.
"Could you please let me be the only one for you?" you asked, turning the amalgamation of his anxiety into a reflection of your own hunger.
"Could you please let me be that person you already are to me?"
He smiled. He smiled, and no treasure you ever dug up or million dollar relics in expensive schools and museums could compare to the dazzling display of authentic relief. Hope. Desire. All for you and because of you, and damn it all if some tears leaked at seeing his crinkled eyes and bright teeth and a face that displayed innocent youth.
How beautiful he was when he smiled. How beautiful you felt when he cradled you close before tilting his head and kissing you again. Soft, this time. Slow. He took his time with memorizing your skin and lips, your hair, the planes of your back. He took his time holding you, kissing you, showing you through his actions what his answer was before he attempted lip service.
"The only person who's supposed to be askin' that is me," Babe jokingly replied, and you quickly snapshotted that languid grin you loved so much in your head for sketching later.
"So...uh...could a gentleman in trainin' take your fine self out for a real dinner that's not some c-rat in a foxhole?"
You chuckled at his eager expression. That mischievous gleam in his eyes that held such mirth gave you butterflies. Each and every time, and right this moment, combined with that dastardly grin, you'd have agreed to anything he asked for if he would continue to look at you in such a way.
"I'd be honored to have dinner with you, Babe Heffron.
Hey beautiful🤗 since you’re the queen of angst and Head to head just ended, could I request headcannons with the BoB boys losing their s/o before confessing their feelings w/ Speirs, Lieb, Malarkey, Toye & Babe?
A/N: oh how I love to write angst. Enjoy <3
Warnings: major character death, warfare, language
Band of Brothers masterlist
Rogue-durin-16 masterlist
RONALD SPEIRS
Loss hits Speirs in silence.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Not noticable for all, either.
Maybe if Winters had ordered him to take over Dike's command two minutes earlier, you would still be alive now.
Who knows. He doesn't. He doesn't know.
He shouldn't dwell on it.
But he thinks about your face and how you smiled and he can't help himself, because if Speirs ever had a soft spot, it was for you.
No one knew he was in love, not even you, because Ronald Speirs doesn't do romance, right?
Except he did. Except he was planning to tell you.
But war always beat him to the punch.
There's a different, eerie kind of detachment in his stare now. A coldness that’s not the usual military conditioning
It's personal now. The fight, the loss, the cause, the way he's slowly forgetting your voice day by day.
His command is sharper, meaner. It's grief he can't let go of.
He keeps your dog tags looped with his. If someone notices, they don't dare to say a thing.
Ron doesn't say your name ever again.
JOSEPH LIEBGOTT
They drag your torn body into that Haguenau basement like a ragdoll.
And Joe has to see it happen live.
He doesn't really remember what happened after, but it's for the best.
Absolutely unhinged grief.
Liebgott doesn't cry in front of anyone but you bet your ass he screams into his jacket until his lungs give out.
Shaky hands. Too much energy in his limbs and nowhere to put it except destruction.
Turns his anger inward until someone gives him a reason to turn it outward.
You and Joe were already playing with fire. Stealing moments behind buildings, quiet touches in passing, sleeping tangled in sheets when you could.
It wasn't official. But it was. It meant something. He just hadn't said it—hadn't let the words out.
"I love you" felt too big for him.
Now he's choking on it.
He starts spiraling. Puts himself in danger on purpose. Takes the nastiest jobs.
Not because he wants to die, but because he doesn't care anymore.
No more flirting. No more snark. Just a hollow, violent version of the man you knew.
His regret festers.
"They knew," he tells himself. "They had to know." But he's not sure.
It drives him mad.
DONALD MALARKEY
You were the light in all that mud and blood. A joke. A smile. A chance at something normal.
He hadn't told you yet; he was waiting for things to calm down.
Sadly, war doesn’t wait for anyone.
The moment he hears, something in Don just… switches off.
A combat patrol through the Bois Jacques gone wrong, they said, as if combat patrols could go right at all.
He wasn't even there, which was ridiculous since the two of you seemed to be attached at the hip.
Maybe it was for the best, he selfishly thinks, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to take it.
Don stops joking. Stops engaging. Just folds in on himself like he’s trying to disappear.
He moves on autopilot, trying to push through for the sake of the company. He can grief properly once he gets back.
If he gets back.
Your name becomes a permanent fixture in the letters he never sends home.
There was one where he tried to write "I love you". A stupid way to tell you, but it was the way he would've gone with.
He rips that letter.
He has it memorized though—every word.
JOE TOYE
"a landmine went off", Peacock said. "We were outnumbered— had to retreat".
Okay, so they left you there, Joe thinks.
They left you there to die. Or dead already. Didn't matter.
It takes everything in him not to break in front of the boys.
He sits in the corner, jaw clenched so tight he gets headaches. No tears. Just pent-up rage that he can't let out because it'll come with sobs.
Tries to keep himself busy after that so he doesn’t have to stop and think.
But the minute someone says "you holding up alright?" he snaps.
"What the fuck do you think?"
You were the only one who saw past the tough façade. The only one he let see his soft side.
He wanted to tell you that. That you made him feel like he was worth something. That he loved you.
You'd been together for a while. No one knew because no one needed to know.
He was yours and you were his, and it was a shitty time to fall in love, but it happened.
And now, this happened too, and he doesn't know if he can take it.
Joe still tries to bite the bullet and tough it out. Keeps quiet, does his job, doesn't speak.
Words only spill twice; the first time it's when Bill beats it out of him. The second is when Malarkey asks directly about you.
It doesn't take long for him to believe he never deserved you in the first place.
BABE HEFFRON
You and Babe had a quiet thing going. Behind the jokes. Behind the noise. It took off at Fort Benning and grew organically into true love as time went by.
You'd sneak off. Lie in bed. Talk about what would happen after.
He kissed you like he meant it.
Babe never told you he loved you. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But it never felt like the right time.
He figured he’d get to say it when it mattered.
Bastogne cut your life short and Babe hasn't smiled since.
He doesn't get to bury you, because no one gets to bury anyone in that godforsaken land, but it kills him.
He says your name like a prayer in the night.
Says "I love you" like you'll hear it.
Talks about you constantly to keep the memories alive.
Babe thinks if he mentions you enough, God might give you back.
Sometimes, he forgets to use past tense; says "they love—" instead of "they loved—"
He doesn't correct himself.
No one does it for him.
Tags:
Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette
title: You two are like Frick and Frack all a’ the sudden.
summary: Eleanor Verbeken had no qualms about jumping headfirst into a war zone— hell no, anything to escape malvern and her pa. Living a life dictated by the ghost of a woman and the troubled, perpetual soldier left behind, her fate was written the moment the planes graced the skies above pearl harbour. An experimental woman for an experimental division, seems only fitting; it’s a pity others don’t seem to agree.
warnings/disclaimer: I have the utmost respect for veterans, and anyone who has served their country in any capacity. with that being said, this work is solely reflecting the characters as portrayed by hbo and their respective actors, and not in anyway connected to or meant to disrespect the real men whose stories influenced band of brothers. this part contains swearing, smoking, era typical misogyny, and violence. Y’ALL NOT SMUT BUT POST-SMUT IF YOU WILL so proceed with caution for that ig.
word count: 20.5K (INSANITY, BUT A PRESENT FOR MAKING YOU ALL WAIT ALMOST TWO MONTHS)
Joe exhaled harshly, his breath fanning against red hair and her sweat slicked, freckled shoulder. The air in the room was hot, the open window doing little to quell summer’s relentless heat. At least it wasn’t rainy— well, not like it had been in Normandy. Beads of sweat clung to his skin slightly reminiscent of the cold pellets that seemed to characterize their later weeks on the line.
But a quick fuck was incomparable to what existed outside a broads tight embrace. Nothing mattered here; only panting breaths, rough touches, and a blank slate to take without feeling guilt. How could he feel guilty when for as good as he was at taking pleasure, he was just as good at giving it? Joe’s hand kneaded harshly at the soft skin of her thigh beneath him.
He’d take damp skin for this reason over that any day. Joe unhooked his chin from the nurse’s shoulder, a low moan leaving his swollen lips as Janice turned over to face him from where he lay above her, his arms propped up to keep from crushing the woman against her bed. The action separated them, in more ways than one, and Joe smirked at the sight of her flushed cheeks, and the quick, languid rise and fall of the woman’s ample chest.
His hand snaked towards her on instinct, rough fingers grabbing harshly at pebbled skin as the nurse caught her bottom lip between her teeth, back arched and willing. Fuck— he’d missed this. Janice’s painted nails dug harsh lines into his shoulders as he caught his breath, mind irresistibly blank as he sat back on his haunches above her.
She sat up, Joe’s eyes following the bounce of her goose-fleshed tits as she did, a lazy smile stretching her painted lips as he cocked his head. He craved that, eyes instinctively searching for the slightest signs of satisfaction.
“Miss me?” He asked, voice hoarse. She giggled, the trill of her voice echoing in his ears so addictively— an expressive confirmation of his well learned and practiced prowess.
“Of course love, how could I not?” She cooed, “So animalistic, you yanks.”
Joe stilled.
“Pity you stroll back just as I’m leaving.. you’ll ha— hey, darling, what’s wrong?”
He hopped off the bed, rubber discarded in the trash next to the woman’s nightstand. Joe’s fingers dug into his legs as he dragged his boxers up and on. Then his pants. His fingers fumbled with the belt as Janice leapt up to meet him, her front pressed against his back as her no longer soothing voice met his ears. She ran her fingernails against his biceps. He shuddered.
“You don’t want to stay?” She asked, and Joe blinked, hands succeeding in clasping his buckle.
“Can’t.” He spoke, voice rough as he turned around to face her. Her brows furrowed, as though she could read him like a damn book. Unlikely. Yet she looked at him as though his expression spoke louder than his answer. He didn’t like that, not one bit.
He surged forward, capturing the redhead’s lips with his own as his hands met her blushed cheeks, a slow messy kiss that sent her stumbling backwards, thighs against the mussed sheets of the bed. She smiled when he pulled away, teeth on display and the skin between her eyebrows suddenly smooth and non-prying.
Much fuckin’ better.
His undershirt and jacket were hastily thrown on after that, her giggles and the sound of her lying back onto the creaky bed a muffled background noise as Joe slipped his boots back on. His skin felt warm where she’d kissed him, the ghostly sting of her sharp nails against his back a comforting feeling as he ran a hand through his messy hair, pushing the too long strands out of his eyes.
He had to get out of there.
So animalistic, you yanks.
His boots pounded against the gravel outside the small duplex that housed the nurses corps stationed in the village. Joe could be called rough, sure— he wouldn’t deny it. There was nothing better in his mind than a quick rough fuck where both parties got what they wanted and an empty, dazed mind for the briefest of seconds. But her words, the coo of her voice as she’d said it with fucked out eyes, it made him sick to his stomach.
Joe cleared his throat as he walked past the quaint homes that seemed to litter the small village, fingers reaching into his front pocket for the small paper box he knew all too well. That was another favoured pursuit. He stuck the Lucky Strike between his swollen lips and lit it, exhaling in an effort to calm the fuck down. Animal. Animal. Animal. God fucking dammit, couldn’t she have said it before he fucked her? At least then he could have shut her up with a kiss and lost himself in her tits.
Animal. He scoffed, taking another drag of the cigarette gripped between his fingers. Being back in England felt fucking weird. Too still. The fact that he’d seen the adrenaline induced mayhem of Normandy as somewhat relaxing made his brows furrow, the cigarette abandoned as he flicked it into the grass. Animal. Aggression had always come easy to him, sure. It had to at first. But he’d come to depend on it like a crutch, in more ways than fucking one, and the realization of that was not what he needed shoved in his fuckin’ face by painted lips and a soft, sickly sweet voice.
He shot a weak wave to Pat as he passed the man’s billet, Christenson sitting on the porch with his own cigarette dangling from his lips.
Animal. Joe wished he hadn’t tossed the cigarette before he’d finished it. But he didn’t reach for another— the hazy smoke still lingered in his throat, the cling of tobacco still on his teeth. He didn’t know what to do with his hands as he continued walking towards Greenwell Lane.
He wasn’t a fucking animal. He knew so, shit, even Verbeken had said so. Sort of. His jaw clenched as her face entered his mind. They were good now, his biggest sin— lately, rectified. Joe didn’t pray much, but that had to be some sort of good karma, right? He wished he could a’ seen her face when she said it. It’d left her lips all quiet like, his back against the dirt wall of the trench while her boots swung above him. Maybe if he could’ve watched her say it he’d be able to know if she meant it.
Joe ran a hand through his hair, the small sign for the Hughes’ street suddenly in view. He shouldn’t be thinkin about her after leaving Janice’s. Even if it made sense— Janice pissed him off but Eleanor’d refuted her words. Kind of. Not really— that actually made no fuckin sense since Verbeken had said it first. And that wasn’t right, was it? You can’t disprove somethin that hasn’t happened yet. Whatever. It made him feel a bit better. He didn’t even know why he felt all shitty, now that he really thought about it. Janice’d looked at him with her big blue eyes and said those words and he’d frozen like a sissy who didn’t have a naked broad with gorgeous tits underneath him.
Verbeken came to his mind again and he sighed, fists clenched as his boots crunched against the gravel underneath them. Chuck and Tab— had to be. They’d gone and shot the shit and ruined his fucking head and the one thing he liked doing. That was why he kept thinkin about her, and tryin’ to see her face and her words and—
“Lieb! Nice to see ya buddy.”
He paused, looking up from the ground with pursed lips as Joe Toye sauntered towards him. Well that couldn’t be right— the Irishman got himself evacuated for a bad scrape. Then again, how long did somethin like that take to fix up?
“How’s the arm and leg?” Joe asked, stuffing his hands in his pocket. Toye rolled his eyes, a huff of air leaving his rounded lips as he kicked at the gravel. They stood in front of the two homes. Joe figured he was probably there for Eleanor.
“Fuckin bullshit, can you believe they made me leave for that?” The taller man scoffed, and Joe shrugged. “Hey, ya only missed a week, nothin’ too crazy except a German patrol that got too close to the line.”
“You’d think it would a’ been the grenades that got me, not a damn busted rope.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers Toye.” Joe teased, “Or so my ma says.”
“Yeah yeah.” Toye chuckled, his lips pulled. Joe didn’t say anything, his eyes flitting towards his billet.
“She pissed at me?” Toye continued, head cocked towards the neighbouring house. Joe rolled his eyes, “When ain’t she pissed?”
He continued, “Shit, I dunno— she was, but I haven’t seen her since we got here three days ago.”
Toye nodded. “Alright, good luck Lieb, you got your own surprise.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” He snorted, and Toye shook his head, “Go see for yourself, Lip and I had a stowaway.”
The other Joe didn’t give him a chance to answer, a smirk on his face as he headed for the gate that began the path to Verbeken’s billet. He whistled as he went, and Joe shook his head before doing the same to his own assigned housing, an annoyed, but curious, itch at the back of his mind.
He opened the front door, unlocked as it always was. He hadn’t been lying, he really hadn’t seen Verbeken since they’d boarded that crowded LST back to England. Not for a lack of trying, sort of. Joe wasn’t some clingy bastard— not that there was shit to get clingy over, but he’d been tryna help her out since Carentan.
Not that she needed help. Hell no, her and Roe were freaks a’ nature Joe would never understand. But little shit here and there to show her that he really could be a nice guy. It was for him more than anything, probably. He was shit with his words anyways, but spare cigarettes and K rations seemed to speak clearer. Joe was good at scrounging shit up. Always had been, being the oldest of six. Huh, he wondered if Mary’d had her baby yet. He hadn’t heard from his oldest sister since she’d written him to tell her she was knocked up again and that had been when, February? He buried the thought.
Joe shrugged his boots off in the Hughes’ front room, the lack of such an action a frequent complaint of the woman of the house since he and Tab had first been posted there nearly a year earlier. Fuck— he still couldn’t believe Tab had gone and gotten himself stabbed over a poncho. An ugly poncho. A Kraut poncho. Fuckin idiot, Tab could really be one sometimes. Yet somehow the man was so damn tactical and soldier-like in the important moments it was no wonder he was Winters’ (unspoken, the stoic man would never) unofficial favourite among the NCO’s. Joe shook his head as he walked further in the house, though he stilled when he could a’ sworn he heard the man in question.
Upstairs. There were definitely people upstairs. But the only rooms on the measly second floor of the cottage were his and a small bathroom. Joe’s brows furrowed as he lumbered up the stairs, his suspicions that the voices were centred in his bedroom only confirmed more with each wooden step his socked foot pattered against.
“It isn’t a trouble to me sir, I’m home and do little else.” Mrs. Hughes said, her words slightly muffled by the closed door. Joe walked towards it, their commanding officer’s voice sounding as he did,
“I appreciate that mam, but Sergeant Talbert will need medical attention tha—“
“— I got Birdie next door sir!”
“Mr. Talbert! You are certainly not helping your case young man.” Mrs. Hughes chastised, and Joe narrowed his eyes as his hand twisted the brass doorknob, convinced he had heard incorrectly.
He opened it, and his eyes widened as he took in the scene in front of him. Mrs. Hughes with her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. Captain Winters didn’t reveal much from his expression, though Joe could tell from the twitch in the uptight man’s shoulders that he was fuckin’ annoyed. What really stunned Joe and convinced him he was makin things up was Tab in between them, lying on his bed with a ball of gauze held to his stomach. Joe blinked.
“The fuck are you doing here?” He asked, mouth open.
“Mr. Liebgott!” Mrs. Hughes gasped, and her reaction made him remember who was in the room. For fuck sake. Joe stood at attention, cheeks reddened as he looked sheepishly towards his commanding officer, “My bad, sir.”
“At ease Joe.” Winters sighed, and Joe relaxed. Which was pretty hard to fucking so when his buddy who last he checked— got stabbed, was sittin in their shared room and not in a hospital.
Jesus Christ.
•••
Eleanor smiled softly, tugging George by the sleeve as they exited the projector tent where they’d gone to watch Stagecoach. Watch was generous, as Nora didn’t think Luz was capable of sitting still long enough to simply watch a film without causing a ruckus.
They hadn’t been kicked out, persay, though after the chocolate bar he’d been trying to smear against her cheek had flown from his grasp and knocked Martin in the back of the head she figured they’d better make themselves scarce.
She’d seen the Western before anyways, though she was looking forward to watching it again. Even after it’d taken considerable convincing on George’s end to even get her to go. She suspected he didn’t give a rats ass about the flick, and was merely trying to draw her out of the house.
“Y’know Birdie,” He began, and Eleanor preemptively rolled her eyes, “I betcha I could give Ringo a run for his money.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah really.” He huffed, a smirk on his face as they strolled through the village.
“What would you do if tomorrow you woke up an outlaw from a Western?” Eleanor asked, a grin tugging at her lips as George looped his arm with hers. “Hmm, well first I’d give ya all my shit I couldn’t take on the road with me— cut loose a bit, yknow?”
“Me? I’m honoured.” She teased.
“I know you’d guard it for me, I got a lot a’ valuables.”
“Hmm, you never know, I might sell it all and go on the run myself.”
George paused his steps with a huff, the action bringing Eleanor to an abrupt stop due to their linked arms.
“First of all, how dare you,” He shook his head, “But you can’t— we got those matching tattoos… I get caught I’m ratting your ass out as my accomplice.”
“How does a tattoo make me your accomplice!” Eleanor sputtered, “I got it under duress, than—“
“—Eh eh eh!” George tutted, cutting her off with a finger against her lips, “I won that bet fair and square.”
Eleanor sighed, and George continued.
“Those eagles look pretty scary, they’ll think we’re part of some outlaw gang.”
“Outlaws are typically solitary people, hence the outlaw thing.” She quipped, and George groaned, “You’re really pokin’ holes in my plan here.”
“It isn’t that good of a plan if so many holes can be poked.” She teased.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty and ya saved my life.” He wagged his finger, and Eleanor rolled her eyes.
“And you put up with my shit even when I’m an ass.” He continued, his words sounding a bit more strained. They resumed walking in the direction of Eleanor’s billet, an awkward silence enveloping them for a few moments while Nora thought over her words.
“I thi—“
“—I was such a prick Birdie, an absolute yuck, and I feel like you ain’t really been listenin’ when I’ve been trying to say so an—“
“— George.” She cut him off, “Just, breathe for a sec, Jesus.”
George had a point. Eleanor had dropped it without actually listening to what any of them had to say. They had been in Normandy, on the line. The last thing on Eleanor’s mind amid artillery fire and wounds to treat was her friends insulting her. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t been stewing over it. She’d stewed a whole lot, whenever her body found time to rest and her mind decided to prevent her from doing so. It still tugged at her. Not only the conversation George had started that day in Carentan, but the little things her addled, insecure mind had picked up on over the month they spent in occupied France.
Nora knew it was stupid. All of it was. At the end of the day others opinions mattered little in the grand scheme of her purpose in the company. Other’s opinions seldom bothered her when she’d joined, fresh out of Oglethorpe and expecting to be harassed, belittled, doubted. She didn’t know when exactly she’d lost her edge, but Eleanor suspected that it had happened because she’d somehow actually befriended a lot of the men she’d steeled herself to ignore and distrust. She’d been hiding out at Flo’s since they returned, wasting the few spare days they’d been allotted before daily training resumed. She was damned if she did and damned if she didn’t, she supposed.
“I’m breathin’ perfectly fine,” George huffed, “I just want you to actually be listening when you nod your head at me.”
“Well alright.” Nora spoke, and George scratched his mouth, “So we’ve covered that I’m an idiot.”
“Yes, you said that.” She confirmed, kicking a stray pebble away from their path as they walked.
“But I really am sorry, especially after all y’did for us out there, I don’t want you thinkin that I think you can only do certain things cause of whatever and whichever and I thought it was a joke and we were laughing and then—“
“— I promise I’m not mad at you.” Eleanor cut him off again, though this time George looked almost thankful. She wasn’t lying, she hadn’t been mad. moreso annoyed, and incredibly defensive, though a large part of that had already been itching up her throat before George and the others had opened their mouths, “I was just already feeling weird about my place here and I think it made me snap like that.”
George’s eyes widened at her words, though she kept speaking before he could open his mouth,
“And I kinda wanna apologize to Frank, yknow? He was all excited about his baby and I ruined it.”
“Honey, the second you left he gave us all a dressing down about what pricks we were, trust me, he ain’t mad at you.” George shook his head, “You should a’ seen him, his bushy little brows all screwed together— and I love the guy, but he looks so harmless, Birdie, if he could a’ spit fire he would’ve.”
“Now that I think about it, don’t he kinda remind you of a squirrel? They’re cute, right, but those things can attack, jheez.” He whistled, a far away look in his eyes as though he had first hand experience with being attacked by one. Eleanor didn’t ask him to elaborate.
“But we’re good?” He asked, and Eleanor nodded, slinging her arm around the slightly taller man’s shoulder, “Don’t worry about little old me George, you got an outlaw plan to rethink.”
They’d split up after passing George’s street, and Eleanor walked up the path to Flo’s. She had to write Liz back, though she wasn’t planning to leave the house again that day so perhaps the letter could wait. In all honestly she was avoiding it, Liz’s had obviously been written before their jump, since her sister’s words carried no mention of it. Or, what happened afterwards. Nora wasn’t sure if Joey’s injury even warranted a telegram home, but she felt guilty writing Liz like all was well when Joey had hid he was hurt and gotten himself evacuated to the hospital in the process.
She sighed, pushing open the door and barrelling inside. “Flo?” She called out, but the woman didn’t answer. Huh. Then again, they’d both been cooped up in the small cottage for much of the weekend.
“She’s out back gardening.”
Eleanor flinched, her hand flying to her heart at the voice’s intrusion. She spun around, eyes wide as she spotted Joey on the couch, fiddling with his knife. He had a lazy, sheepish grin on his face, and before she could stop herself Eleanor rushed at him. He’d barely tucked away his knife when Nora wrapped her arms around him, effectively pinning him to the couch. He reciprocated the bone-crushing hug in earnest.
“What the—“ She punched his shoulder, not hard enough to hurt but harsh enough to make a point, “— Hell is the matter with you!”
“Getoffme!” He groaned, shoving her away and standing up from the sofa, “Jesus, I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
Eleanor stilled, her pulse ringing in her ears as she looked at him. Studied him really, eyes scanning the man’s body for any other injuries being hidden right under her nose. “I’m happy alright, but I still think you’re an ass for hiding it.”
“I didn’t hide shit,” He scoffed, “It was a scrape.”
Eleanor pinched the bridge of her nose to quell the tension headache she felt forming as Joey spoke, “A scrape? The rope practically skinned you, flayed, whichever you prefer.”
“I’m fine ain’t I? Now I know.”
“Yeah,” She nodded, “Now you know.”
Eleanor itched to tell him he already knew, cause they’d only been taught since basic that any flesh wound left to fester in a dirty environment without being cleaned would cause a goddamn infection.
“It wasn’t even gangrene.” He shrugged
“Yet.” Nora scoffed, and she moved back out to the front room to take off her boots, “If you would’ve told me I’d have bandaged it at least.”
A small part of her really thought he should have known better. The thought was a brief one, a phantom pain erupting from the faded discolouration near her ribs. He knew. Eleanor ran a hand through her hair before letting her fingers trail down to her side, rubbing at the spot through her cotton T shirt as though to will the reminder away. Granted, she hadn’t gotten gangrene, but the angry red gash near her ribs had taken an excruciatingly long time to heal.
“Well next time I won’t play the martyr,” He reasoned, “I’ll come to ya for all my bumps and scrapes.”
Eleanor sighed, “I’m just saying, infections aren’t a laughing matter, we both know that.”
It’d been what exposed her, after all. Sore head from when she hit the tiled ground? No problem, she’d iced it with snow from the yard. The bruising she felt with each deep inhale would have ceased after a few days, had she noticed the glass that had cut through her dress — the source of the argument, if she could call it that, when she’d hit the mirrored cabinet and it imbedded itself in her skin. She’d never forget how it ached, her skin feverish and her limbs heavy once she’d removed the bandage a week later and noticed the red and purple streaked skin.
“Hey..” Joey said softly, and Eleanor bristled. She hadn’t meant to remind him of that day. Not now. It was bad enough she’d been thinking it. She didn’t want to hear it voiced aloud.
“Because I’m a medic,“ She cut in, and Eleanor hoped her blue eyes conveyed the desperation with which she spoke to drop it where it was— on his tongue and unreleased, “Just come to me next time, or Roe.”
“I will.” He nodded, eyes flicking towards the ground, “Hey, you wanna go to the pub tonight? I wanna scope out these replacements.”
Eleanor shook her head, the angry bartender flashing to her mind. “Uh-uh, no thank you.”
“Cmon, why not?” He grinned, and Eleanor looked away, embarrassed. “I don’t think the bartender likes me all that much.”
“Who, the short n’ round one?”
She nodded, and Joey snorted. “I’m serious, I got kicked out for fighting, he’ll probably throw me out the second he sees me.”
“Fighting?” He blinked, “Wait a minute, did you and Lieb get into an actual scrap, is that what that whole thing was about?”
“What? No! He never.. he’d never put his hands on me.” Eleanor stuttered. Liebgott was many things— scrappy being one. Which, in hindsight was definitely why Joey’s mind had gone there, but he’d never, and would never. That much she knew. “He dragged me away from the fight actually, then we fought— but not fucking physically, Jesus.”
“For fucks sake,” He exhaled, “I thought I was gonna have to go drag him away from Tab n’ bash his head in.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes, and Joey continued, “Then again, you’re both scrawny fucks, I’m sure you could take him if it really came down to it, never know with you two.” He shook his head slowly, a teasing grin on his face.
“Yeah don’t worry, I’m sure I..” Eleanor cut herself off, Joey’s words registering in her brain, “Wait a minute, did you just say Tab? He’s here?”
“Shit, I probably should’ve led with that, huh?” Joe stifled a grin, wiping his hand over his face, “So Lip and I get discharged with Boyle, right? And we’re leaving when Tab shows up, claiming they let him go too— we were already past Swindon when Lip noticed he was clutching’ his stomach.”
Eleanor nodded, encouraging Toye to continue.
“So turns out, Tab not only went AWOL, but he did so cause he was screwin’ one of the nurses and tore a stitch, no big deal, right? Except the nurse had a fella, and he was there, so Tab ripped a few other stitches gettin’ away from him.”
“He’s walking around with torn sitches?” Eleanor bristled, her fingers itching. Where the hell was her med pack? She instinctively patted against her belt, though she hadn’t kept it fastened to her since they’d left the troop ship.
“Well I doubt the kid’s doin’ much walking,” Joe snorted, though his face sobered when he noticed Eleanor wasn’t laughing, “Huh, probably a bad time to tell ya all the nurses started calling him Bunny, yeah?”
Eleanor groaned.
“Cause he fucks like a—“
“— Trust me, I understood.” She rolled her eyes, and disappeared up the stairs to find her side pouch. Jesus Christ.
Eleanor stormed out of the house, not bothering to shut the gate behind her as she rounded onto the one next door, hopping onto the small porch and knocking furiously. The door opened, and Liebgott’s face morphed from agitated to relieved.
“Shit, I was just about to come grab you.”
“Where is he?” Nora asked, brushing past Joe and into the house. Liebgott snorted, “He ain’t dying, he just fucked his stitches loose.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Cmon, he’s upstairs.” Joe cackled, a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder as he pushed her towards the staircase. She could feel him behind her, inching her tense frame forwards. She assumed it was meant to be comforting, though the blasé attitudes of both men only agitated her further. But, Liebgott was rubbing a tense knot out of her shoulder as he followed her that certainly helped.
“Sir.” Eleanor nodded, offering her commanding officer a salute as Winter’s appeared in the doorway to the men’s shared bedroom. Gosh, she hadn’t been there since the night Flo met Speirs.. and to think he was out procuring a ring for her at that very moment.
“Eleanor, I take it Liebgott told you what happened?” He asked, an unamused look on his face. Yet Eleanor swore she saw his eyes twinkle with mirth. “Toye did sir.” She sighed, and Winters beckoned her in, Joe still hot on her heels.
“Look who came to fix ya up Tab.” Joe whistled, “Better be on your best behaviour.”
“This is not a laughing matter,” Mrs. Hughes sighed, and Eleanor noticed the frazzled woman sitting against Liebgott’s bed, “Hello Miss Verbeken.”
“Hi Mrs. Hughes.” She smiled softly, the grin leaving her face as she approached Floyd’s bed, “Are you kidding me Tab, really?”
“Birdie, have I ever told you how great I think ya are?” Tab tried to sweeten her annoyance, and Eleanor rolled her eyes as Joe barked out a laugh.
“Alright, let me see.” She tutted, snatching the bloodied bandage out of Floyd’s hand and lifting his stained shirt, “Okay, it’s actually not that bad.”
Nora swung her pack from her side so that it sat under her belt buckle, and she poured a small vial of iodine onto the torn wound as Tab hissed.
“I was discussing Sergeant Talbert’s circumstances with Mrs. Hughes,” Captain Winters spoke as Eleanor yanked the last half dissolved stitch from Floyd’s abdomen, a packet of sulfa quickly replacing it, “And we agreed that at this point it’s probably best Talbert finishes his recovery here, under supervision.”
“That’s probably a good idea sir.” Eleanor bit out, and she could see Joe cover his face in an attempt not to laugh out of the corner of her eye. She willed her eyes back to Floyd, lest she laugh as well, pursing her lips into a thin line.
“I suggested that since you’re next door, perhaps you could be the one to keep an eye on him, rather than, say, one of the nurses in the village.”
Floyd swore as Eleanor’s needle pierced his skin, and Liebgott snickered, “Hey, Verbeken ain’t that bad of company Tab, cmon.”
“Thank you Liebgott.” Eleanor hummed, ears pricked at the semi-compliment, though she grinned as she said it, falling into step with his teasing of the writhing man beneath her.
“Lieb, I swear to God.” Tab huffed, Eleanor’s fingers yanking on the surgical thread as she held her hand against his stomach to steady him, “Don’t get smart about nurses.”
“Hm, that’s a fair point.” Eleanor mused, looking up to smirk at Liebgott, but the man visibly soured. Eleanor blinked, her teasing grin dropping from her face at his sudden morose expression. It tugged at her, and she turned back to Tab, her ears burning.
“Only one more Tab.” She said softly, before tying off the knot and grabbing her scissors from her lap. “I’m gonna wrap it, so try not to fiddle with it too much, I’ll come change it tomorrow.”
The man huffed in response, though thanked Eleanor softly once she’d finished bandaging his freshly-stitched wound. The whole thing was ridiculous, in Nora’s opinion. He’d gone and extended his healing time.
Winters went downstairs with Mrs. Hughes on the promise of a cup of tea, and Joe stood up, stretching his arms above his head with a groan. Eleanor’s eyes flitted to the pale skin of his toned abdomen, his T shirt lifted by the action. She looked away, packing her spare supplies back into her side bag. She hadn’t seen much of him the last few days, though that was to be expected staying within the four walls of Flo’s cottage, with whiskeys over ice and the radiogram for company.
“Cmon Verbeken, I’ll walk ya back.” He tutted, and Eleanor scowled, “The two steps to my own gate?”
Joe shrugged, “Yeah, why not.”
“You guys are leavin’ me?” Tab asked, and Eleanor pouted, “I’ll be back tomorrow to check your stitches, by the end of the week you’ll be sick of me.”
Eleanor followed Joe out of the room and down the stairs, the muffled sound of Winters and Mrs. Hughes conversing in the kitchen faintly audible. Joe raised his eyebrows at her, and Eleanor rolled her eyes, pushing him forward softly and towards the door.
“I can’t believe him.” Eleanor huffed as the early evening air hit her face, and Liebgott snorted, brushing past her, “I can.”
She sighed, abandoning the porch for the path as Joe sauntered ahead of her. It felt strange, but nice, to be friendly with him again. Though, there was still a sense of apprehension that hung between them Eleanor’d first noticed a week after they left Carentan. It was like they were dancing around each other, testing limits while simultaneously shrinking away. Like now, where Liebgott offered to walk her home— next door, yet walked several steps ahead of her.
“Are you gonna slow down?” Eleanor huffed, and Joe’s strides paused, his shoulders rounded as he turned back to look at her. “I got long legs Verbeken, keep up.”
Eleanor shook her head, but didn’t make any effort to speed up her steps. Their destination was literally right next to their starting point, so he didn’t win by much. If it was a game. Nora suspected that to him it might be.
“Congratulations, you beat me to my own porch.” Eleanor drawled, approaching his tall figure, standing aimlessly at the foot of the path. The ghost of a smile etched his lips, one side upturned, until it was quickly placated with a cigarette. Joe lit it, exhaling without removing the stick from his lips. “Want one?” He mumbled, the cigarette dangling as his hands were shoved back into his pockets.
Eleanor nodded, and he repeated the process for her, both of them shuffling to perch on the edge of Florence’s small porch. Eleanor took a long drag, savouring the smoke as it coated her throat.
“You alright?” She asked, twisting the lit cigarette between her pointer and index fingers. He looked deep in thought. She could see the clench of his jaw as he stared down at the gravel.
“What?” He asked, eyes on her own, as though she’d knocked him out of whatever thought had his face screwed all tight.
“I asked if you were alright,” Eleanor paused, “Seems like you’re thinking real hard about something.”
“Nah, I ain’t thinkin’ about shit.” He scoffed, and if it were possible for his brows to furrow further than Nora supposed they did. His words left his mouth with a bite that made her falter. The hell was he snapping at her for?
“Well okay then.” She quipped back, bringing the cigarette back to her lips to quell whatever irritated words dared to spill out. Eleanor didn’t want to fight. Not with him, not now. She was too tired to have to match his barbs, but her dismissal wasn’t passive. She saw his lips screw together before she looked away, irritated. They sat in silence for a few moments, their Lucky Strikes dwindling.
“I think it’s gonna rain.” Liebgott said, cocking his head up to look at the sky, and the clouds that seemed to be moving in ever so slowly.
Eleanor followed his actions, looking up through squinted eyes before letting her head fall back down to face him. He hadn’t moved, chin up towards the clouds and his Adams-apple bobbing slightly with each crane of his neck.
“Is that a good or bad thing?” She asked, ashing the end of the cigarette between her feet. Joe tutted.
“Bad, obviously, who likes the rain?”
Eleanor shrugged, “I dunno, I don’t mind it.”
Joe hummed, tapping his hands against his knees as he shifted in his seat, “This is a real interesting conversation Verbeken; rain, good or bad.”
Nora scoffed, taking another hit of her dwindling cigarette, “You’re the one who brought it up.”
“Yeah, but, the way conversations normally work is the other person keeps it goin’.” He teased, and Eleanor rolled her eyes. “I started talkin about the weather, so now you gotta come up with somethin else, it’s basic math.”
Eleanor questioned his calculations, though she didn’t voice it, brows raising as she turned to look away from him. One moment he was snapping at her, and the next he seemed to demand her attention. “Alright, have you met any of the replacements yet?”
“Nah, I haven’t,” He paused, “But it doesn’t have to be about this— yknow, here.” He raised his hands for emphasis.
Eleanor sighed, flicking the end of her cigarette onto the path and resting her head in her hand, elbow supported against her bent knee. “This is pretty much all there is at the moment.”
“Well I ain’t talkin about current affairs,” He huffed, “But hey, see any good movies lately? What’s your favourite colour? When’d you realize Santa Claus wasn’t real? Shit like that. Now that last one, I knew from the jump, personally, yknow, not celebrating Christmas n’ all.” He clicked his teeth before finishing his cigarette, tossing it to join Eleanor’s on the gravel.
“Same as you, didn’t celebrate Christmas.” Eleanor hummed. In all honesty Nora had depressingly believed in Santa a lot longer than she should have for a girl who never received gifts from the round man in his customary red and white garb. She wouldn’t divulge that, however, as the last thing a dying conversation needed was “Hey, I used to write him letters asking why he never visited me or wrote back, why my pa was so angry and why my mum was dead. By the way, if you decide to start answering, can I get one of those pretty rag dolls all the other girls at school have?”
For what it was worth, it seemed Liebgott got the memo, as despite the briefest frown that etched his face he didn’t push for her to elaborate further, once again tapping his hands against his knees in an awkward rhythm.
“But I think blue is my favourite colour.” She offered, “And I watched half of Stagecoach with Luz today.”
“Why only half?” He snorted, and Nora smirked, “What do you think? George can’t sit still for the life of him.”
“Ah I get it though, feels stuffy sittin’ in that tent.” Joe shook his head, “That’s why I don’t go.”
“Hey, that’s not true.” Eleanor spoke, and Joe stiffened. She didn’t know why she’d said that. It was true, he had been to the makeshift cinema. With her and Tab. The day they’d gotten into an explosive argument at the pub.. speaking of which,
“You comin out for drinks tonight? Joe asked, and Eleanor pursed her lips. He’d pointedly ignored her observation about the cinema, probably for the best. Though his change in conversation wasn’t much better.
“Not likely, I don’t feel like getting thrown out.” She exhaled. Joe scoffed. “Cmon, you ain’t gonna be thrown out, I was there the night we got in and he clapped me on the back.”
She shook her head, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, “I’m the only woman not in civilian or nurses clothing Liebgott.”
“I think you’re paranoid.” He teased, knees still bouncing. Eleanor wondered how his leg hadn’t cramped yet, his boot making small pattering noises against the gravel path.
“I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“For a pint?” He whistled, “I’d be takin my chances.”
“You do that.” Eleanor said softly, a huff leaving her lips as she pushed herself back to her feet. She cocked her head to look down at him, “Thanks for walking me back, don’t know how I would’ve gotten home by myself.”
He snorted, dimples on display as his lips tugged into a smirk. “All in a day’s work.”
Liebgott stood, dusting off his pants as he did, and Eleanor made for the door, her hand clasped around the brass knob.
“Have fun at the pub.” She called back, “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Always do, see ya Verbeken.” He said, turning back to look at her, before leaving down the path.
•••
Eleanor slept in the next day, much to her annoyance. Her PT kit had been hastily thrown on, breakfast abandoned as she ran her fingers through her short hair (in need of a trim, though) in a feeble attempt to cut corners as she raced out of the house and towards the field where Welsh was running calisthenics. Eleanor thought it’d burn, her muscles no longer used to the vigorous stretch after almost two months away from said routine, though she found herself enjoying the brutal pace the Lieutenant coached them through. Normandy had been messy, and unorganized, though the physical aspect was still as heavy— heavier if anything, than the meticulous training the company was put through off the line.
Eleanor breathed through her nose as she supported herself on her elbows and toes, her waist squeezed tight and teeth clenched as Welsh called out the seconds as they ticked by on his watch.
“And that’s time!” He barked, a chorus of groans sounding across the field being quickly followed by the sounds of bodies hitting the grass. Eleanor fell more elegantly, not burdened by the heavy drinking it seemed many of them had partaken in to celebrate their last free night— if their sallow faces and heavy complaints were any indication.
“Alright, it’s nearly 900, I want you changed and in the weapons range by half past.” Welsh spoke.
Eleanor lifted herself up to rest on her elbows, exhaling through rounded lips to blow her overgrown bangs away from her eyes. A large number of the men that surrounded her were strangers, and the realization had settled deep in her chest like an anchor once she’d first noticed it. Hoobler was next to her, Shifty to his left, and Mal was on her right. She’d shuffled in amidst familiar faces.. but the sight of just how many replacements dotted Easy Company after their month in combat was a glaring reminder of the brutality they’d jumped in to. It wasn’t their fault, not at all, but each new face left a sour taste in Eleanor’s mouth when she remembered a man, boy, more likely, from Toccoa whose shoes they’d been sent to fill.
“You should’ve came last night,” Hoobler laughed beside her, “Buck n’ Luz wiped the floor with half the new guys in darts.”
“Did they now?” She hummed, turning to face him. Her elbows dug into the grass harshly, the morning dew clinging to her skin and no doubt leaving it stained. “Not exactly a warm welcome now is it?”
Hoobler snorted as he sat up, Malarkey copying his movements before clearing his throat, “They had it coming’, don’t tell me you’ve pulled a Shift n’ don’t gamble all of the sudden.”
“Hey..” Shifty trailed off, and Eleanor hid her grin in her palm as she scooted up onto her knees.
“I’m not opposed to it,” She huffed, “But I’ve seen Compton’s wrong hand con enough times to stop falling for it.”
“You’re a smart woman Verbeken.” Hoobler saluted as she rolled her eyes.
“Hey Birdie, how’s Tab doin?” Shifty asked, and Eleanor hummed.
“I gotta run back and check his bandages before I head to the aid station, but as good as he can be for an idiot who broke himself outta the hospital and tore his stitches.” She shook her head, shifting against her knees in the grass. She may as well locate Liebgott, if he hadn’t already left without her.
“Skip bet me a year ago some shmuck would end up outta commission gettin’ lucky,” Malarkey whistled, “But I didn’t bet it’d be Tab, and I sure as hell didn’t think a stab wound’d be involved, now I’m out a few bucks.”
“Well, the nurse didn’t stab him.” Shifty pointed out, and Eleanor chuckled,
“Mal, who’d you bet?”
“Are you kidding me? Sisk screwed his girlfriend on live train tracks in Toccoa, I figured it’d be him.”
Eleanor snorted, yeah fair point. She wondered if Skinny was even still seeing that girl from Georgia. Hoobler’s outstretched hand in front of her dragged her from those thoughts as she let him hoist her up from the grass.
“Lieb’s over there,” He noted, nodding past her. Eleanor bristled, but Hoobler only looked at her with furrowed brows, “Aren’t you heading back to his?”
“Oh,” She said blankly, “Yeah, thanks Hoob.”
She walked off the field they’d co-opted for calisthenics, eyes trained on the head of messy hair she knew belonged to the Californian. His back was to her’s, his white cotton shirt snug against his back as he chatted with Skinny. She was surprised no one had made any real effort to head back into town, since Welsh had only given them just over half an hour to report to the weapons range that’d been set up on its other side.
Not that that included her. Though she did have to attend a lecture with Roe after their short shift about the more intricate aspects of field treating. It felt a little silly, after having actually done it. But she understood the need, it wouldn’t do them any good to get too comfortable.
“Did he eat this morning?” She asked as she came within hearing distance of the pair. Eleanor could see the way Liebgott’s muscles tensed as she snuck up on them, Skinny’s eyes lighting up as Joe bristled, turning towards her, “Jesus Christ Verbeken.”
“Sorry.” She mumbled, scooting past him as Sisk nudged her shoulder, “Haven’t seen ya in a few days, you too good to party with us all the sudden?”
“Forgive me if I wanted to relax.” She teased, and Skinny rolled his eyes as Joe cleared his throat, “I dunno, probably.”
“Who’s this, Bunny?” Skinny asked, his lips tugged back into a smirk.
Eleanor’s nose scrunched in disgust at the use of the nickname Floyd had apparently acquired from the nursing corps, “The one and only, apparently.”
“What do they call you Lieb?” Skinny egged, and Joe bristled, “Shut up, that’s what.”
“Are we going or what?” Eleanor cut in, hands on her hips. They only had so much time and Greenwell Lane was an annoyingly just too long walk to the aid station. She had to shower, the damp residue of the grass clinging to her skin.
“Yeah, cmon Verbeken.” He answered, his hand on her shoulder as they left Skinny standing there. Eleanor waved at him as they went, though the man’s smirk was centred on Liebgott,
“Well it definitely ain’t Mr. Merry and Bright!” He called out, “Maybe Fat head, or hornet— those are the pissy ones aren’t they?”
“Go shower Sisk, I can smell ya from here for fucks sake.” Liebgott called back, and Eleanor rolled her eyes as the field gave way to the gravel road.
As they walked back into the center of town the few men who’d left the field the second they’d been released became visible, along with many locals who dotted the small sidewalks and blocked their path.
“What the hell?” Eleanor mumbled to no one in particular, though she could feel Joe turn to eye her nonetheless. She spotted Chuck’s tall frame immediately, and Nora followed Liebgott as he walked ahead of her and tapped the man’s shoulder.
Closer to the road, Eleanor could finally see what everyone had gathered for, the British nursing unit was walking down the street in their dress wear, their belongings behind them and the faintest sound of drummers in the distance.
“They’re leaving?” She asked, and Grant nodded, “Moving further south, where the infantry division got moved.”
Eleanor shuffled closer, her shoulder’s brushing against Grant’s as she craned her neck to watch the procession. She heard Chuck scoff beside her, and she turned to watch as Joe stopped dead in his tracks at the chastisement. He’d been trying to leave.
“What?” He asked.
Chuck tutted, “Hey, they came out to watch us leave, at least show them the same respect.”
“Chuck’s got a point you know.” She affirmed, and Liebgott huffed before turning back towards them, “Aren’t you gonna check Tab’s stomach?”
“It won’t take too long.” She shrugged, turning back towards the parade.
She recognized one of them, past the vague familiarity she regarded the other British women with after spending months billeted in the same village as them. She’s very pretty, with bright eyes and auburn hair waved in much the same way Florence wore her own. She’s curvy too, in a way that always used to make Eleanor falter about her own proportions as she reached adulthood and didn’t seem to fill out in the “right” places.
It’s when the beautiful nurse turns towards the group of them assembled and shoots a toothy, lipstick painted grin and wink towards Liebgott that Eleanor remembered why the women felt familiar. She was the nurse that Joe left with that night at the bar, before he came back and took her home with him and Floyd. Based on their conversation in the following days, and the charged look sent towards the man beside her, Eleanor knows without a doubt that they’d been sleeping together. A strange feeling settled in her gut at the thought, and when her eyes flickered to the right she saw Joe look away, his eyes downcast instead of forward at the procession of British nurses. His brows were furrowed, yet his lips were twisted into that smirk of his she’d become so familiar with. It seared itself into her head.
“Maybe.. maybe we should go.” Eleanor said suddenly, and she stepped back before Grant could attempt to convince her otherwise, “Liebgott’s right, I have to check on Tab before my shift.”
“Voice of fuckin’ reason, thank you Verbeken.” He quipped, and Eleanor let him lead her out of the crowd until they were back on the walking path. He didn’t grab at her harshly, but his face was screwed tightly, similar to how it had been the day before when he’d gone all quiet after walking her home.
They walked in silence for a few minutes until she wondered if perhaps his more-morose than usual mood had anything to do with that nurse. She couldn’t leave well enough alone, despite the nagging voice in the back of her mind begging her not to engage with him. Especially about the pretty nurse, whose smile seemed unable to vacate her head.
“Sorry if we made you stay,” She started, as Greenwell Lane came into view, “I dunno if you two are still going together with her leaving, or..”
“Huh?” He asked, and Eleanor swore as she nearly walked into him. He’d stopped to stare at her, his brows furrowed.
“The nurse, she was the one you were seeing right?”
“Nah, I wasn’t seein’ any nurse.” He shook his head, though the preoccupied look on his face didn’t relent. Eleanor shrugged before resuming her steps,
“Alright.”
“Why are you fucking worryin’ about it anyways?” He asked, and once again her feet were rooted to the path. His voice sounded defensive, and the very notion left an embarrassing heat rising up the back of Nora’s throat. She wasn’t worrying. They were friendly, were they not? Maybe she’d misread him, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d done so.
“I’m not worrying about anything, I was trying to be friendly— isn’t that you wanted?” She quipped, tone a little harsh, “Or should we just not fucking talk at all?”
“Real nice.” He sneered, and Eleanor clenched her teeth as he brushed past her. She watched as he stalked away before turning the corner and she followed after him, annoyance sitting heavy against her shoulders as the morning sun grew hotter.
He was on his porch, an aggravated look on his otherwise pleasing face. Nora walked past the house, marching through her own gate. She felt embarrassed, but couldn’t exactly place why. It gnawed at her, nearly as bad as the dew clinging to her skin.
“Are you coming or what?” He called out, and Eleanor paused, turning to face the Hughes’ yard.
“I have to shower” She replied. Joe didn’t move, his hand gripping the doorknob as he shifted on his feet.
“So?” He called again, his tone a bit softer.
“So I’ll come by later.” Nora shrugged, her ears burning. She was starving, and the sweat on her skin and grass stained PT kit seemed to weigh her down heavier with each charged look he shot across the lawn.
“What’ll I tell him?” He asked, voice rather dejected. He’d suddenly begun speaking solely in questions. Eleanor faltered, guilt seeping in behind her tired eyes and food deprived mind. Floyd likely wouldn’t even notice if she came later than she’d promised. If he were anything like her, he was most likely still out cold— the break from training a chance to catch up on sleep. Yet, the frown on Joe’s face made her stutter as she pursed her lips in thought.
“I… I dunno, just tell him I’ll be by after my lecture.” She offered, before twisting the knob between her fingers and entering the house. She didn’t wait for Liebgott’s response. Tab was hardly even critical, he’d survive a few hours of boredom. Since, if anything, being confined to his bed probably bothered the Sergeant more than his torn stitches did.
She’d cleaned herself off and managed to shovel a few pieces of toast in her mouth before journeying back across the village, though the gnawing pit in Eleanor’s stomach didn’t leave. It’d increased after she’d stepped out of the shower, skin goose-fleshed and damp, staring back at her through Florence’s small bathroom mirror. She’d spared a moment, eyes roaming over the harsh jutting of bones and small curves of her own frame. Eleanor had frowned, pensive as she let her hands ghost over the swell of her chest before locating her brassiere. They weren’t ample, but they were there. That was something.
Nora chastised her own thoughts as she crossed the threshold of Easy’s aid station fifteen minutes later, her feet quick as the anagram clock on the wall read quarter to. She was late, though, Eugene seldom minded. If anything the quiet man would likely tease her for not leaving the PT field earlier as he had done.
The head medic was rather good at that; sneaking away unsuspected. Now he looked at her expectantly as Eleanor entered the small room, his hands fiddling with a box of bandages.
“Sorry Gene, got stuck in the procession.” She offered sheepishly, “You know how far my billet is, I had to shower.. but I forgot to eat breakfast this morning, so—“
“Eleanor, you know I don’t give a damn.” He cut her off, a deadpan expression on his pale face. He nodded to the side, and Eleanor’s eyes followed, “Just start unboxing all this conneries.”
She nodded, smiling triumphantly until she noticed the man near said boxes of crap. He was sneaking glances at her, and Eleanor snuck a look at Eugene before the unfamiliar man cleared his throat.
“Ralph Spina,” He introduced himself, moving forward with his hand outstretched, “I’m your new third.”
Nora shook his hand, “Eleanor.”
A chill passed through her, though it wasn’t the man’s fault, not really. Eleanor had only just gotten used to Jansen’s absence, and the flow of her and Gene on their own. A replacement just reiterated the blatantly obvious— he was a replacement, for Ken, who died in a flaming C-47 in a flame filled sky above Normandy.
“Where’d you get transferred from, Ralph?” She asked, her hands grasping one of the boxes perched behind him. He stepped out of the way for her.
“Able.”
Eleanor paused, the heaviness in her shoulders dissipating at Spina’s words. “Oh, you jumped then.”
The words had left her mouth in a tone of relief. Somehow the man not coming straight from a training depot back home made Eleanor feel less guilty about him taking Jansen’s place. Even though the very notion was ridiculous, of that she was aware— but still. Spina knew what it was like; he wasn’t green and overly eager for action. It also meant he’d already had plenty of time to get over the fact he’d be serving with a woman, well aware of the fact that Nightingale had shipped her off with the 101st. If he minded, he had yet to make his opinion known.
“That I did.” He whistled, leaning against the countertop opposite her and Roe, “By the skin of my goddamned teeth, I was last man out and a piece of flak burst the engine soon as my chute opened.”
“Christ.” Nora blanched, and Eugene tutted, “He ain’t need no extra training, if that’s what you were getting at.”
“Just a bit,” She admitted, shooting Spina a half-apologetic glance, “No offence, but I already got my hands full.”
Literally and figuratively, as she sat down to pry open the box and began sorting through the vials within.
Spina chuckled, “You’re stuck takin’ care of that Sergeant who went awol, aren’t ya?”
“You’ve barely unpacked your bags and you already know about it?” She teased, shaking her head, “Floyd’ll be pleased he’s turned into a celebrity.”
“Heard about you before I heard about him.” Spina tutted, transferring his own box of supplies to the table before sitting next to her, “Sergeant Grant and Bunny’s— that’s what they’re calling him, ain’t it?— roommate were talking about ya at the pub last night.”
Eleanor stilled, her lips pursed as she abandoned the vial of iodine in her hands on the table top, “Oh really? And what exactly were they saying?”
“Fuck if I know, just caught your name and the tail end of it; that you were the poor medic suckered into babysitting the bastard.”
“That I am.” Eleanor huffed jokingly. She didn’t mind it actually, Tab’s billet only being next door. If anything she’d rather take care of a wound he’d both gotten and worsened in the most ridiculous (but non-fatal) ways than have him actually be in any danger. Tab was younger than her, not by much, but he was easily one of her favourites among the men. Not that she’d ever admit that.
What she did mind however was the fact that Chuck and Liebgott were apparently talking about her long enough for it not to be only about Floyd. The notion made her uncomfortable, squirmy in her seat like she was a girl again, the kids at school shooting her shitty looks that told her they were snickering about her and she couldn’t do anything about it. God, what the hell did they have to say about her?
“Spina’s from Philadelphia.” Roe pointed out in the silence, and Eleanor’s anxious thoughts dissipated, “Are you really? I’m from Chester County.”
“No shit, we’re basically neighbours.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes, though she grinned as she questioned him further, “You met Joey and Bill yet? I used to live near Joey up in Hughestown, but Guarnere’s from South Philly, never shuts up about it really.”
“Huh, I know a few Guarnere’s..“ Spina trailed off, and the small talk continued in the small room until they’d catalogued whatever supplies battalion had refitted them with. No men came in while they worked, the weapons range training proving to be relatively harmless that afternoon.
Eleanor’s mind replayed Spina’s words as the time passed, thoughts of Chuck and Liebgott talking about her replaying in her mind on a sick loop. She burned with curiosity, more than that— her shoulders felt permanently tensed in agitation the more she worried over it, until Eugene was beside her, his rough hand at the base of her neck.
“Y’alright?” He asked, the drawl of his voice breaking Nora from her internal battle. Her muscles relaxed, head swivelling to meet her friend’s eyes.
“Course I am, why do you ask?”
He didn’t answer her for a moment, shifting on his feet before he spoke.
“You been hidin’ away in that house, and now Talbert—“
“—Gene, you know I don’t mind taking care of Floyd.” She cut him off, “Besides, you hide away just as much, I can’t think of a time you came out to the pub with any of us, not here, not back in the state—“
“—He’s too busy with that wife a’ his.” Spina’s voice rang through the room like a cannon firing, and Eleanor was struck by two things. First, that their new medic had been listening to them, and second, that he’d said Eugene had a wife.
Eleanor sputtered, spinning around to look at Roe as the man’s eyes widened. “Wife?”
“I—“
“What do you mean you’ve got a wife?” Eleanor repeated, her eyes flitting between an uncomfortable Eugene and an embarrassed, though entirely too pleased, Spina.
“Try living with them.” Ralph pointed out, and Eugene shot him an aggravated look, “You got a damn big mouth.”
“Aren’t you billeted with a family?” Eleanor asked, her brows furrowed as her mind raced to remember the home that Eugene and Ken— well, now Ralph, had been living in since they’d crossed the Atlantic. The family had a daughter near their age, if Nora was remembering correctly. She’d only gone over once or twice, Eugene entirely content to be left alone more often than not.
“Wait a minute, did you marry the Newman’s daughter? Without telling me?” She further sputtered, slightly hurt that Eugene hadn’t said a word. He still didn’t, his face screwed together tightly as though he was ready to combust.
“I didn’t not tell ya on purpose.. Rita didn’t want a fuss about it, y’know how the parish is.” He finally muttered, a pained look on his face as he did, and most of the hurt fell away from Eleanor’s shoulders at the mortified expression on her friend’s face.
Out of any of them, Roe was the last she’d have expected to find an English girl. He always seemed so reserved, and the thought of him courting the (very pretty, from what she remembered) girl without anyone knowing left a devilish amusement surging through Eleanor at Roe’s uncomfortable sputtering.
“Gene, don’t tell me you were..”
“I ain’t having this conversation with you.” His cheeks were red, and Nora guffawed, “Oh my god, D’you know I’ve been bullying the rest of them for being deviants? And the whole time you’ve been shacking up with your billet?”
“She’s a real nice girl,” He defended, and Eleanor shook her head, grinning, “I’d hope so, since you married her— without telling me or anyone else for that matter.”
The latter words still contained a bite as they left her lips. She was somewhat hurt, even if her and Gene’s friendship did lie on a foundation of mutual introversion and comfortable silence. She didn’t think that their dynamic would result in a marriage left unshared and unspoken. It tugged at her, though Nora’s feelings of delight over Roe’s mortification won out. Slightly. Ever so slightly.
He picked up on it, though Gene always did.
“I’m sorry Eleanor,” He said, quieter— so Spina’d stop listening in, “I was gonna tell ya, but we almost didn’t— get hitched, I mean.. I dunno, it was gonna be in June, the sixth if you can believe it.”
“You’re shitting me.” She huffed, her words breathy as the reminder of their first jump left the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
“She.. I was gonna leave it be, wait to see if I came back, I didn’t wanna put her through hell if I didn’t.” He muttered, and Eleanor’s brows furrowed at his words.
“Are you an idiot?” She asked, Roe’s words settling uncomfortably over her. Even she, as closed off to intimacy as she was, knew that a ring meant little in determining how upset Rita Newman, well, now Rita Roe apparently, would have been if Eugene didn’t come back to Aldbourne.
Eleanor couldn’t off and marry a civilian even if she wished to, being a man’s wife automatically disqualifying her for Nightingale, but she’d spent the last month and a half worrying over the enlisted men she’d been deployed with. None of them were her husbands, hell, Joey was the closest to family she had, and the thought of him dying was enough to haunt her dreams and make her chest heave. She’d have to find Joey at some point that day— having missed him in PT. Mal had said something about him and Bill adopting some replacement in Bull’s squad. The thought made her a little envious, though she hadn’t exactly helped her own case by hiding away at Flo’s for the better part of their first week back.
“Yeah, she said as much.” Eugene scoffed, his lips quirked in a smile as though he was replaying said moment. Eleanor didn’t know the Newman’s eldest daughter all that well despite them being around the same age, but she did see the blonde cuff a Fox company man in the ear once for no doubt saying something unsavoury their first few months in the village. She only wondered how she and Gene got on, how they began— God, Nora was no better than a nosy gossip.
“She yelled at me somethin’ fierce, then dragged me down to that church by the diner the day before we left Aldbourne.” He continued, and Eleanor snorted, “You got her a ring though, right?”
Eugene looked offended. “‘Course I did.”
“It’s a nice ring, real big.” Spina cut in from the other side of the room, sneaking a glance at them. Eleanor rolled her eyes, her hands at her hips as she looked between the pair of them.
“I can’t believe he knew before I did, you owe me Gene.” She pointed a finger at him, and now it was Roe’s turn to roll his eyes.
A thought passed over her, “Wait, did Ken know?”
The room got quiet. Ralph knew better than to show his eavesdropping any longer, turning away from them and busying himself with something on one of the shelves.
“Well, we shared a room.” Roe admitted, and Eleanor nodded, a small smile inching on her face as she thought about Jansen and his lack of filter or care for anything.
“Good, I bet he was real happy for you.”
Eugene snorted, and Eleanor imagined the stoic man in front of her was probably remembering some uncouth acknowledgement from their lost third medic, though Eugene didn’t share it.
“Yeah, he was.”
“I am too, in case you thought I wasn’t,” She grinned, “But you’ve gotta let me meet her properly, so we can talk about how much of an idiot you can be sometimes.”
“A’ course, why wouldn’t I want that?” Eugene drawled, sarcasm tinging his words as he turned away from her with a smirk.
•••
Mr. Hughes, or Victor— as he’d demanded she call him, let her in at the door. Eleanor walked lazily up the wooden staircase with her med bag on her hip, the voices from within the room she walked towards growing more discernible as she went. Nora stilled just as her hand reached the brass doorknob.
“But was the fuck worth it? Look at ya.”
“Oh fuck off Lieb— she wasn’t complaining when my face was under her skirt.”
Eleanor pushed open the door with a wrinkled nose, Liebgott tutting as she did,
“‘Least ya can say you hurt yourself in the service, maybe then they’ll give your dumbass a medal.”
If Tab was going to retort, his mouth shut as Eleanor entered the room, his cheeks red.
“Nice conversation.” She mused, shutting the door behind her and swinging her med pack off of her shoulder, “What’re you two playing?”
They each held cards, and it was Liebgott who spoke first.
“Cribbage.” His shoulders were hunched forward, voice tense.
“Holy shit, and I was worried Lieb scared ya off.” Tab grinned from his spot on the bed. Not much had changed, relatively speaking, since Eleanor had seen to him the day before, “Could a’ sworn you’d forgot about me Birdie.”
Joe was looking at her from over his cards, sneaking glances as she walked further into the shared bedroom. “As if I’m scared of him.” She bit out, an attempt to escape whatever awkward back and forth their walk back that morning had ended on. It worked, as Joe’s face morphed from amusement to faux-agitation from where he sat on the rug next to Floyd’s bed.
“Real confidence booster, thanks Verbeken,” He snorted, “Tell that to the Krauts.”
“Good thing I’m not a German soldier.” She shot back, moving to swat at Tab’s legs so he’d shift them and make room for her. He did, and her ass hit the man’s bed just as a cocky laugh left Liebgott’s mouth.
“Well ya are a broad, and a Jew,” He tutted, “Two obvious things to rule that out pretty quickly.”
“She also ain’t fucking German,” Floyd rolled his eyes, “Shit, they’d probably be more scared a’ you than you’d be a’ them.”
Eleanor furrowed her brows, “What am I, a bear?”
“Could be, w— Ow!” Eleanor’s fingers pressed through Tab’s sleep shirt as he spoke, and she nodded at the feeling of the stitches holding.
“A little warning could be nice.” He huffed, lifting his shirt up to his chest as Eleanor smirked.
“Don’t tear your stitches next time.” She could practically hear Joe’s leer in Tab’s direction at her words.
“You heard the woman.” He quipped, and Eleanor looked over at him as he abandoned his cards in his lap. His hair was longer, brown locks falling further into his eyes than they normally would. She wondered who cut his hair, seeing as though he practically cut everyone else’s. did he do his own?
Tab’s pronounced exhale broke her from her thoughts, his stomach flexing beneath her touch. Nora turned back towards him, peeling the used bandage from its place above his belly button and tearing open a sulfa packet with her teeth to clean the fresh stitches. They looked good. They’d continue to look good, so long as the Sergeant beneath her remained stationary.
“Your hair’s gettin’ long.” It seemed Eleanor’s observations about the Californian went both ways. She shrugged, not bothering to look at him as she placed fresh gauze over the now thoroughly sterile wound. He spoke again, a teasing glint in his raspy voice,
“You’re startin’ to look like a ruffian.”
“I like it.” Floyd cut in, reaching over to tug at a dark strand that hung at her shoulder. Eleanor rolled her eyes, turning— both out of Tab’s grasp and to face Joe and his mocking smile.
“George and I got this whole plan to be outlaws together, I’m getting ready.” She shot back, the corners of her mouth tugging upwards as his dimples quirked in response. He tutted.
“You want me to cut it?”
“God no,” Eleanor shuddered, “And have you cut me again?”
“Verbeken, you knocked the damn bucket and you know it.” He defended.
“So, you told me you don’t cut girls hair anyways.” Eleanor raised her brows. Tab shifted beside her, sitting up on his pillow now that Eleanor was finished prodding at him.
“But I got four sisters.” He shrugged. Eleanor’s ears pricked at that. Two years and the man before her had never spoken about his family, at least, not to her. She knew Tab had all brothers, and that a few of them were serving in other regiments. Still, the casual slip of personal information intrigued her. What was life like for him at home? She didn’t ask.
“And they won’t let you touch their hair?” She asked, “I can’t say I blame them.”
He snorted at that, shaking his head. “Are you gonna stick around just to shit on me? Or do ya wanna play a round with us at least?”
Eleanor hummed. “Well, we can’t play cribbage, but I’m game for a round of rummy.”
“Alright, sure— just shut your fuckin’ yap for once.”
•••
Eleanor found herself spending an awful amount of time next door for the rest of the week— a perk, or consequence, of being designated Sergeant Floyd Talbert’s keeper. It’s surely extra work on top of their rigorous return to training, though Nora had no wish to complain. Not really. Tab let her change his bandages and bark orders at him with only the slightest scowl, and a small part of her found the sudden authority over her friend (and Sergeant) somewhat amusing. She wouldn’t say she’s drunk on power, though bossing Floyd around was certainly an entertaining break to the physically demanding monotony their return to Aldbourne signified.
Eleanor was not the only one who found joy in it, though. Liebgott— or her co-torturer, as Tab had said once or twice now, was just as entertained by the injured man’s boredom. The man’s taunting laugh seemed permanently stuck in her head, buzzing behind her ears at each scowl that graced Tab’s face. It was a nice laugh, she thought. She’d thought that before, though their lapse into unlikely friendship had left her far more observant.
It is a friendship, even though the notion feels foreign and wasn’t one she’d willingly address. They hadn’t ever not been friends, since Toccoa. Sort of. There were moments where the thought of him made her blood boil, and she was just as certain he would say the same, yet his presence was unavoidable. Not in the sense that they belonged to the same company, but that somehow her eyes and mind always sought him out, regardless of their tenuous standing. The man endlessly confused her, though she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t equally as intrigued.
He was laughing at her now.
Not maliciously, she didn’t think, and not alone. But he was laughing nonetheless, his mouth tugged into a smirk at her expense while Eleanor squirmed uncomfortably on the carpet of his and Floyd’s bedroom.
“Chuck, tell her she’s being an asshole.” He leered. He sat back against the side of his own bed, head tipped towards her as he fiddled with the razor in his lap.
“I’m not being an asshole.” She rolled her eyes as Floyd’s socked foot left the bed to nudge her arm. She ducked, a grimace on her lips as he spoke,
“She ain’t the only one you’ve sliced— remember how good you got my ear at Bragg?”
“I didn’t slice either of ya,” He huffed, “See the hole in your stomach, that’s a goddamn slice.”
“Slice or not, I dunno if I trust a barber whose sisters won’t even let him cut their hair.” Eleanor tutted, “Chuck?”
Grant was watching the back-and-forth with a smirk, his lips pressed tight into a quirked line despite both of their attempts to include him in the conversation.
Tab’s isolation had seen a few guests make their way through the Hughes’ front door that week. Chuck was a frequent flyer, Perco and Alley had come by the day before, and even Skinny managed to pop in once or twice. Needless to say, the man huddled underneath his blankets was not short for company.
“Don’t involve me in this.” Chuck finally grumbled, tossing his cards onto the carpet, “I’m sick a’ fuckin’ gin rummy, I ain’t playin’ anymore.”
“Oh come on!” Floyd whined as Grant stood up on shaky legs, dusting off his pants before shooting Tab a leer, “Buddy, the platoon’s down a Sergeant, I gotta help Compton set up for the march.”
“I’m gonna be all alone..” Tab lamented, lying back onto his pillow as Nora snorted.
“I’m sure any of us would switch places with you to get outta the march Tab, it’s supposed to rain.”
“It rained all the time in France.” Liebgott cut in, and the look on his face suggested he’d only pointed it out to contradict her. She’d know, there wasn’t a single person on the line in Normandy who actually enjoyed a rained-out trench.
“Yeah and you bitched every damn time.” Grant scoffed as he shrugged on his jacket. A-ha! Case in point. Eleanor smirked, “Anyways, I guess we’ll see you in an hour Chuck.”
“Yeah yeah,” He waved off, nodding in Tab’s direction, “Rinse the shmuck of all his cash for me.”
“Aye-aye Sergeant.” Liebgott teased, the room falling into a comfortable silence once the blond man made himself scarce.
“Another round of rummy?” Eleanor asked, and Floyd groaned.
“Chuck’s right, I’m fuckin’ sick of rummy.”
Eleanor sighed, dropping her cards to her lap to tuck her hair behind her ears. It was getting long, and as much as she’d been enjoying teasing the man across from her she wouldn’t mind getting it cut.
“Liebgott, do you wanna cut my hair before the march?” She asked tentatively, and the Californian’s smirk etched up his face, dimples pulled back.
“I dunno, feels like I ain’t appreciated enough around here.” He teased, and Nora rolled her eyes before pushing herself up to her feet.
“But if you insist…” He stretched out the words, a lazy grin on his face as he copied her movements.
“What, now you two are fuckin’ leaving me?” Floyd whined, and Liebgott tutted.
“I ain’t gettin’ hair all over the wood, I’m cuttin’ it in the garden.” As though it were obvious. Eleanor shot Floyd an apologetic smile before following Joe out of the room and done the stairs, his hand twisting the scissors around his fingers as they went.
“Better not make me regret this.” She said as they stepped out onto the back porch. Eleanor sat on the lowest step as Liebgott made a noise of indignation. It only served to spur her on further.
“At least tell me your sisters names.” Eleanor huffed, her shoulders tensed as she felt Liebgott settle behind her.
“Why?” His voice dripped with agitation.
“So I can send them each a letter confirming their fears if you cut me again.” She quipped, smirking as she heard him still.
“Do you want me to cut your damn hair or what Verbeken?” He snapped, and Nora’s smile fell slightly at realization she’d pissed him off.
“Yeah, you can cut it.” She said softly, resisting the urge to shudder as his hands ran through her hair. The sound of his scissors moving was the only one to be heard for the few minutes it took him to trim Eleanor’s hair back to her preferred length just below her chin.
She blinked as Liebgott stood from the step, moving around to crouch in front of her.
“Mary’s two years younger than me, then there’s Elizabeth— but we call her Beth,” He spoke, “Then Anna and Barbara.”
He timed his words with the first brush of his fingers against Nora’s forehead, her mind blank for a moment as his hands met her skin.
“Huh?” She asked.
“My sisters.” He shrugged, and before Eleanor could speak he grinned, “I got a brother too— Stephen, since you’re so fuckin’ nosey.”
Eleanor hummed, though the noise was strangled as Joe snipped away at her overgrown bangs, her breath in her throat as the scissors ghosted her furrowed brows.
“There, was it that hard?” He finished, hand swiping across her forehead with his breath as he blew away the excess hair. She flinched, “Well, my letters can be nice ones I guess.”
“Oh so now you’re nice.” He grunted, and Eleanor yelped as he grabbed her by the arms to pull her to her feet. She steadied herself, hands instinctually going to her dark hair, mussing it a bit.
“Thanks Liebgott.”
“Well, don’t ever say I didn’t do anything nice for ya.”
His words contained a bite that made her falter, though Eleanor didn’t acknowledge it. Joe had already walked halfway to the door, his hand on the brass knob before he turned back to spare her a glance.
She blinked, forcing a smile as he turned back around and pushed through the door. Maybe she’d imagined it, or maybe he hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, but his dejected, almost irritated tone kept replaying in her head as she walked out through the side gate and towards her own cottage to change into her full OD’s.
Thankfully, it hadn’t rained. Eleanor thought it still might, given the grey, wispy clouds that seemed to littler the night sky— though for the two hours Easy had been made to march through the English countryside in full equipment the sky hadn’t opened to rain down on them. The air was thick, though in a way it only ever was when rain was imminent. She looked up, tipping her helmet back to glance up at what little light she could see through the clouds, taking a deep breath. She hoped that if the weather did sour it’d be once she was back at Flo’s in the comfort of her bed. The rain pattering against the cottage’s old windows was perhaps her favourite sound aside from whatever Flo played on the radiogram.
“Hey.”
Joey’s gruff voice broke her from her musings. She turned towards him, her helmet tipping back over her brows as she did.
“You got your hair cut,” He acknowledged, “Thought you’d start pullin’ out the braids again.”
Eleanor snorted, the memory of her one and only hairstyle in their youth a somewhat comforting one.
“Yeah I let Lieb cut it.” She said.
“You two are like Frick and Frack all a’ the sudden.” Joey teased, and Eleanor shot him an irritated glance, “He happens to live with my pet-Sergeant.”
“Oh yeah, how is Tab doin?” The teasing glint never left his voice, and Eleanor rolled her eyes.
“He’s doing just fine, bored mostly,” She muttered, “Come visit him, to spare me if anything.”
Joey opened his mouth to answer, though Bill sauntered up to the pair of them and clapped Toye on the shoulder before the man could get a word out. “D’you give her shit for ditchin’ us?”
Eleanor laughed, shooting Bill a dirty look as Joey chuckled, “Ditch you? Do you know how much shit I’ve had to put up with this week?”
“Yeah yeah, that’s what they all say.” Guarnere teased, “Don’t roll your eyes at me— it’s alright, I get it, you’re too cool to hang out with your old pals Joey and Bill—“
“— Oh really?” Eleanor played along, crossing her arms over her chest and tipping her chin up and away from the pair of them, “Cause I heard you aren’t bothered at all, in fact… you seem pretty busy with that replacement of yours.”
“Oh shut up.” Joey teased, bumping her shoulder, “You both sound like little girls.. go get fuckin’ Heffron.”
Bill shot Eleanor a wink as she huffed, turning to Joey as Bill walked away, “You know I’m only joking right? I couldn’t care less that you two have found some other poor dope to annoy.”
“You callin’ yourself a dope?” He grinned, and Eleanor rolled her eyes. Bill reappeared, a red haired young man (she only knew that because the grinning man had his helmet balanced against his hip) beside him. Luz made up the rear, hands on both of their shoulders, and Eleanor shot him a wave.
“This here’s Babe.”
Eleanor thought he’d heard him wrong, Bill’s gruff voice suffering a mistranslation amid the cool air and chatter around them while they shed unnecessary gear.
She furrowed her brows, head cocked to ask as much before George clapped her on the shoulder,
“Jheez Birdie, I know English ain’t your first language but did you forget it all together?”
“George, shut up,” She teased, shoving him back, “Babe, really?”
“Yeah— real helpful, ain’t it?”
“Alright Casanova.” Toye cut in, an incredulous look on his face. Eleanor snorted as so-called-Babe shifted on his feet.
“Birdie n’ Babe, it’s got a nice ring to it.” He grinned, and Eleanor couldn’t help the blush crawling its way to her cheeks as she rolled her eyes. The new kid was fucking with her, and Bill and Joe looked far too amused by it.
“Did you two stooges put him up to this?” She asked, a grin tugging at her lips as she looked the redhead up and down in disbelief.
“Oh cmon, I’m a charmin’ fella,” Babe teased, grinning, “I’m butterin’ up all the medics, thinkin’ ahead.”
“You think I’d encourage this?” Joey asked in faux-offence, shaking his head as he slung an arm over Eleanor’s shoulder. Eleanor let him lead them away, not before he called out, “Kid thinks he’s hilarious, you got your own bird at home Heffron— go write your Doris some love letters.”
Eleanor grinned, laughing as they left the field and began to walk back into town. She’d meant to wait for Liebgott, as they’d been walking home together from most training exercises all week, though she didn’t spot him amidst the platoons huddled together after their march.
Then again, she’d spent most of the week with him. And Tab of course, though Tab didn’t leave the four walls of their bedroom unless it was to use the bathroom. She really had been spending most of her time with him, ‘ditching’ Joey and Bill.
Joey didn’t take it personally, he told her as much when she asked him as they reached the first few shops that signalled their return to the village. It was just past midnight, if her watch had the correct time, and Eleanor wanted nothing more than to collapse in bed. It was Friday, which meant she could sleep in, though she hadn’t been able to lately, her body seeming to rise with the sun no matter how sleep-deprived her mind felt.
They passed the pub when Joey’s arm left her shoulder, and her closest friend shot her a grin and asked if she was sure she didn’t want to come in for a pint.
“Just one,” He reasoned, “Most a’ the guys’ll be coming straight here.”
Eleanor shook her head, “I’m gonna head to bed, but I’ll come out with you tomorrow.”
Joey had expected her denial, though her promise of next time made his brows raise. She scoffed, “Don’t give me that look— it’s not like I swore the pub off completely.”
“Alright, I’ll see ya tomorrow then.” He hummed, ruffling her hair before heading towards the entrance.
Eleanor couldn’t avoid a night out tomorrow even if she wished too, but she didn’t. In all honesty she missed the raucousness of a good night out with the rest of them. But, as she’d been half out the door a few hours earlier Speirs had pulled her aside. He’d scared the fucking shit out of her when he’d done it, sneaking around like that in Flo’s kitchen, but he’d basically ordered her to find a different home to crash at on Saturday night. He’d been allusive when she asked, but Nora would bet money that he’d be asking her billet to marry him.
She walked down the dark main road that Greenwell Lane hinged off of, and turned onto the street with a sigh. She itched for a cigarette, and let her hands fumble against her pockets in the dark as she approached the house, her fingers curling around her pack of Lucky Strikes just as a voice rang out, sending her jumping.
“Hey, you got a lighter?”
“Jesus Christ.” She spat, turning to the house next door where Liebgott sat on the porch, an unlit cigarette between his lips. “Don’t— don’t fucking do that.”
He apologized, though the amused smirk on his face told Eleanor he didn’t really mean it. She shook her head, agitated, as she turned away from her gate and made her way through the Hughes’, her lighter in her hands.
She lit her own first, inhaling and letting the cigarette sit between her fingers as she handed Joe the brass box. The flame lit his features, obscured by the dark, and he patted the stoop next to him before handing her back the lighter.
Eleanor sat down, her arm brushing against his.
“Surprised you’re not down at the pub with the rest of them.” She mused, sneaking a glance towards the older man. Joe tutted, the cigarette hanging from his mouth swaying slightly as he did.
“Too tired for that tonight, maybe tomorrow.”
Eleanor didn’t know why she asked, as she could have asked Joey and Bill while they were still on the field, but the words had slipped past her mouth before she could take them back, “Think I could crash with you and Floyd tomorrow?” exhaling the Lucky Strike between her lips.
Joe looked at her from over his own, brows furrowed for a moment. He took the cigarette away from his mouth just as the creases in his face dissipated.
“Sure, but I ain’t taking the couch again, shit hurts,” He complained, “Why?”
“Can you keep a secret?” She asked.
“Sure I can.”
“I think Speirs is gonna ask Flo to marry him.”
“You don’t say,” He whistled, “You seem excited about that.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her brows furrowed.
“Thought you weren’t the marriage type,” He shrugged, “That whole thing with whatshisname.”
“Oh, Peter.”
“The asshole.” He corrected, and Eleanor squirmed in her seat. He’d said it almost ferociously, nostrils flared. It stung her, slightly. Then again, Eleanor didn’t want to think about that day. She doubted her and Liebgott would have a pleasant conversation if she did. Then again, she wasn’t sure if their current conversation was pleasant.
“I dunno,” Eleanor paused, “Thats different.”
“How’s it different?” He challenged, tossing the cigarette onto the gravel.
“He wanted to marry me to keep me in one place,” She took a drag, frowning as she felt the cigarette hit filter, “Wasn’t cause he loved me, or wanted us to be in one place together, yknow?”
Liebgott nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“Besides I barely knew him— and not like Flo and Speirs, they.. they fit together somehow, Peter didn’t know anything about me really, nothing important anyways.”
Joe hummed. “Like what?”
“Huh?”
“Like, what’s the important shit?”
“I.. I don’t know.” She shook her head, flustered. She hadn’t expected him to press her on it, and in all honesty didn’t have an answer. She could feel his stare boring into the side of her face.
“Anyways— it doesn’t matter. It was fun till it wasn’t, yknow?” She huffed, itching under the older man’s stare. She hated when he did that, she could never read him when he did that.
“Yeah, fun till it wasn’t.” He affirmed, and Eleanor exhaled once he looked away, eyes back on the road ahead of them. He would know, being as familiar as half the other men when it came to unserious flings. It’d get him off her back.
“I’m uh..” She began, shuffling up and off of the step, “I’m gonna head in, I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“Yeah,” He nodded, standing up after her, “See you tomorrow Verbeken.”
•••
The pub was loud, and Skinny was mumbling in her ear as she took a sip of her second whiskey. Eleanor flinched as his breath tickled her neck, and she sat back, nudging the man on the shoulder, “Jesus Skinny, you’re breathing down my neck.”
“Leave ‘er alone Sisk.” Johnny teased from his other side.
“I’m only askin’ her about Tab!” He reasoned, leaning over to bother Martin, “You haven’t even been over to see him once, I’d know— he won’t shut the fuck up about it.”
“All anyone seems to ask me lately is about Tab.” Eleanor rolled her eyes, though accepted the lit cigarette Wayne handed her as a peace offering, “But Sisk has got a point Johnny.”
“Yeah yeah, I’ll go see him when I see him.” The Sergeant acquiesced. Just then George reappeared, plopping himself back into his seat on Eleanor’s right. The drink he’d gone to fetch for her was slid over, knocking against the half filled one she was currently nursing.
“Your highness.” George said with a flourish, and Eleanor rolled her eyes, taking a drag of her cigarette as Skinny whistled.
“Malark are you seein’ this?” He called out, and Don and Skip’s animated conversation across the table was cut short as the two men looked over.
“Oh-ho-ho, we havin’ a good night tonight Corporal Verbeken?” Skip cheered, “You wanna grab me a drink Luz?”
“Aye, me too.” Don teased, and George grinned.
“Gentlemen, when one a’ you gets a matching tattoo with me I’ll do whatever the hell you want, until then, it’s Birdie and I against the world.”
“Exactly.” Eleanor affirmed, raising her now-finished second glass in their direction as she took a last hit of the Lucky Strike, flicking it into the ash tray at the table’s center.
“I dunno how Faye would feel if I came home with an Eagle on my ass.” Muck tutted, and Eleanor beamed, “Did you tell her I liked her new hairdo?”
“Of course I did, she knows I been showin’ her off to anyone who’ll listen.”
“Ugh, love.” George faux-groaned, and Eleanor giggled at his forlorn expression as she reached for her glass, taking a sip as she felt a hand drape itself against her head.
“You behavin?” Joey slurred, and Eleanor grimaced as she felt him lean against her chair, nearly toppling it forward and into the table. “Don’t you think I should be asking you that?”
“Here ya go Birdie.” Babe grinned, and another glass was placed in front of her. Eleanor laughed as Don’s eyes widened, “Are you fucking kiddin’ me?”
“Don’t get mad at me you aren’t being resourceful Malarkey.” She hummed, and the new arrivals to the table quickly found seats. Eleanor spared a glance at her brother as Joey seemed to flop into the one Bill shoved him towards, “Besides, Babe said he’s butterin’ up all the medics, so now if one of you needs extra bandages, I know who I’m giving ‘em too.”
“That is cruel, Corporal.” Don teased, enunciating each word as Skip flicked him in the ear, “Ow— watch it!”
Eleanor rolled her eyes as she quickly downed the drink George had given her. As she did, she spotted Liebgott enter the pub and noticed their table, as close to the door as it was. She swallowed with difficulty, once his eyes met hers, and coughed as George slapped her against the back. “Y’alright Birdie?”
She hadn’t been sure if he was coming, really. Eleanor had been waiting for the perfect moment to beg Joey and Bill to let her crash with them given that most of them had been at the pub nearly an hour now; and that the man now pulling up a chair wasn’t home when she’d gone to check on Tab before she left.
“You fellas just don’t get it, Birdie knows where her loyalties lie— we’re a regular Pennsylvania quartet.” Bill said, slamming his hand against the table with a grin. “Hey Liebgott, nice a’ ya to join us.”
Joe nodded, accepting the pint Chuck seemed to have waiting for him. Eleanor waved at him in greeting, too engrossed in her drink and Bill’s absurd declaration to do much else. Still, her ears pricked when he waved halfheartedly back, his brows furrowed and lips upturned as he noticed the glass-graveyard in front of her.
“What the fuck’s a quartet?” Joey murmured, his head leaning against his arm on the table as Nora laughed, “Hey, Spina’s from Pennsylvania too, and Winters, we can’t just be a quartet.”
“‘Sides, I don’t need to butter up Spina, look at ‘em over there.” Babe reasoned, gesturing to where Ralph was ‘butterin up’ one of the American nurses still in the village.
“Absolutely not, we gotta be selective here, you think I can let in any Joe and Harry who says they’re from Pennsylvania? There’d be too many a’ us.” Bill quipped, just as Joey once again asked what a quartet was.
“You idiots already got a Joe,” Malarkey pointed out, gesturing to the inebriated man, “It’s a singin’ group by the way, ya drunk.”
“We’re singin? Since when?” Joey mumbled, and Eleanor grinned as he sat up straight, clearing his throat, “Hey Malark, I know you know this one.”
“Buddy, what the—“ Bill began, though Joe’s deep voice cut him off, “In Dublin's fair city…Where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone…”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Bill howled as Joey’s singing tapered out, and Malarkey’s eyes lit up as he slammed his fist against the table,
“As she wheeled her wheel-barrow, Through streets broad and narrow, Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!"”
“Oh my god! I remember this one!” Eleanor shrieked, and she felt George snatch the half-filled glass from her hands as she practically vibrated in her seat, “Alive, alive, oh, Alive, alive, oh!—“
“—Crying "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!” Both Joey and Malarkey cut her off, as George wrapped his free arm around the side of Eleanor’s head to press it against the side of his own.
“Jesus Christ Birdie, leave the singin’ to the real damn birds.” He moaned, and Eleanor wrestled herself from his hold as the men around the table shook with laughter, and pouted.
“I used to like that one.” She reasoned, looking around at the shocked faces as her fingers curled around her glass. She took a heavy sip, just as Don stopped laughing enough to clear his throat.
“How the hell do you know Molly Malone?”
“S’how we taught ‘er English.” Joey answered for her, and Eleanor rolled her eyes, “Don’t lie.”
“I ain’t a liar,” He shook his head, “You and Liz used to sing it up n’down the street!”
“I knew what I was singing.” Nora asserted, raising her glass in his direction and smirking as the drunk man once again began to refute her words.
It was a half truth, as Eleanor’s English had certainly improved under the Toye’s tutelage. Then again, the man across the table also had a proclivity for teaching her curse words, but she didn’t bring that up.
“But did ya know how you were singin’?” George nudged her side, “My poor fuckin’ ears, Toye’s the only one outta the three of yous who can carry a note.”
“Nuh-uh, I got the voice of a damn angel.” Don shook his finger from across the table. Eleanor snorted, finishing her drink and letting her head rest against her hand in much the same fashion as Joey’s was. What a pair, the two of them were. She missed Liz, the old Irish tune reminding her suddenly of happier times.
Then again, she’d still come home to a tense house that seemed far too big for the two people living within its walls. Except for once, when she was ten— pa had gone home to tie loose ends and she’d spent almost two months well fed with both warm meals and warm faces. In a way she felt similar, now. No matter where she went Eleanor constantly teetered between feeling happiest surrounded by smiling faces and desperately hoping eyes didn’t linger too long.
But adrenaline was adrenaline no matter the circumstances, she supposed. They were off the line, back in England and surrounded by peace, quiet, and routine. Her revelling in it made her feel somewhat guilty, considering her real purpose and how comfort wasn’t supposed to factor into it. Then again, Nora wasn’t entirely sure she was capable of feeling comfort. Not wholly or deeply.
She watched as Joe and Chuck stood, the sound of their chairs scraping against the wood tingling down her spine as she flinched ever so slightly. She didn’t turn her head fully, instead looking down at the empty glasses bracketing her arms. It looked as though they were heading to the bar.
“You know any more Irish songs?” Heffron quirked, and Eleanor looked up, noticing the redhead was speaking to her. She liked him, and his lopsided boyish grin. He seemed nice enough, but his charm sat in her stomach funny. He didn’t know her, not really— and he seemed to warm to the fact that she didn’t have a cock between her legs far too easily. She wondered if the two men that flanked him had something. They must have, because she couldn’t understand Babe’s behaviour otherwise.
Spina had transferred from a company within the regiment, but the young man Joey and Bill seemed to have adopted came straight from a training depot back home. He was too nice, and Eleanor was waiting for the foot to drop.. the other new faces had made sure to steer clear of her thus far.
Except for Peacock, but he had been another 101 transfer and even then she wished he would. The man had in only a week proved to be a horrible nag, to all of them.
“Mhm,” She muttered, “Joey’s family’s very patriotic.” Smirking as the man in question heard his name,
“Want me to sing another?”
“Toye, if I wanted a show I would a’ gone to a fucking show you Mick.” Martin whined.
Babe grinned again, laughing at the irritated look on Joey’s face. Bill clapped his hand over her brother’s neck, and Nora smiled as the two began to squabble.
“What language did ya speak?” Babe nodded towards her, and Eleanor was interrupted from her observations, “Huh?”
“What’d you speak at home?” He repeated, and Skinny threw an arm around her before she could answer,
“Her and doc are always speakin’ French, wait, you met Roe yet?”
Heffron shook his head, “Nah I haven’t— French?”
“It was Dutch, we called her Dutchie.” Joey interrupted, and Eleanor wrinkled her nose, “Stop telling people that!”
“But it’s true!” He reasoned, raising his arms in surrender as Eleanor shook her head.
“How many fuckin’ languages do you speak? You sure you ain’t in intelligence? Jesus Christ.” Skip whistled, “We gotta send your ass to Nixon.”
“Three,” She shrugged, stealing a cigarette from the carton on the table, she lit it and brought it to her lips before continuing, “But not really, my French is horrible.”
“She’s a real genius boys.” George drawled, and Eleanor elbowed him in the ribs as he cackled.
“Je bent een eikel.” She hissed, and George whistled, “What the hell’d you call me?”
Eleanor was about to tell the man to her left that she’d called him an angel, really, when Malarkey guffawed,
“Jesus Christ, that for the table?”
“Get your own Malark.” Liebgott quipped, and Eleanor’s lips quirked as he and Chuck deposited their bounty on the wood— several pints.
Eleanor took a drag of the Lucky Strike perched between her lips and giggled, “They’ve gotta catch up Don.”
“Speakin a’ which, I’m gettin’ another, you want one?” George sighed, and Eleanor nodded as he stood from the table. Eleanor took the opportunity to slide over and steal his seat, now directly next to Joe and Chuck.
“Where were you today?” She asked, her voice quieter as she let her eyes meet the side of Liebgott’s face. He took a swig of his drink before turning towards her, “Playin’ soccer with F company.”
She took another drag, “Really? Never took you for the type.”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” He teased, his dimples pulled back as Eleanor fought the urge to smirk, “I dunno, you seem like a baseball guy.”
Joe tutted, “Guess you don’t know me then.”
Nora didn’t respond to that, her head fuzzy as she sat back with a shrug. She took a last drag of her cigarette before depositing it in the ash tray.
“Anymore sports up your sleeve?” She offered as Joe took an especially long swig of his drink.
“I used to box,” He shrugged, and Eleanor snorted, “That I can see.”
It seemed to have been the wrong thing to say, at least in her whiskey-addled mind, as a heat crawled up the back of her neck and wrapped itself around to cradle her jaw the second the words had left Nora’s mouth. Liebgott bristled slightly, his brows furrowed. She looked away from him, just as he shifted beside her and brushed his arm against her own.
“You buildin’ up a collection over there or what?” He asked, and Nora’s eyes met his again after flickering towards the short glasses in front of her now empty seat. “First time back, had to make it count I guess.”
“Heard you got Luz and the new one waiting on ya hand and feet.” His voice had an edge to it that made her falter, and Eleanor suddenly felt the urge to explain herself. Why, she wasn’t sure.
“Y’know George.. and well Babe said he’s tryna get on all the medics’ good sides— so the drinks don’t hurt.”
“And is he?” Liebgott asked, his stare holding her own, “Gettin’ on your good side I mean?”
Eleanor opened her mouth to respond when George plopped into her previous seat, sliding a fresh glass over towards her, “We playin musical chairs now?” He chuckled, “What’re you two whisperin’ about?”
Eleanor brought the glass to her lips as she felt Liebgott swing his arm over her shoulder almost mockingly, choking as the man squeezed and shook her ever so slightly.
“Oh ya know, just the sorry son of a bitch I left back at home.” He forced a teasing smile, his arm not budging against her.
“S’that why you look like you’re drinkin’ for two?” George grinned, and Liebgott raised his second glass in response and took a swig.
“Hey, we’re leavin’ before he spews, Y’alright?” Bill had made his way around the table, Joey leaning against him precariously.
“Huh?— Oh, yeah I’m good..” Eleanor spoke, nodding her head towards Liebgott, whose arm was still around her, and Bill’s brows furrowed ever so slightly. He didn’t say anything else, not to her at least, telling Chuck he’d see him back at the house before dragging Toye out of the pub.
“Nice singin’ by the way,” Liebgott’s teasing voice was in her ear, and she shuddered before turning her head to meet his mocking expression, “You could give those USO girls a run for their money.”
“Shut up, smart ass.” She shook her head, taking another sip of her drink. She felt him chuckle beside her, or above her. He was still holding onto her, and the notion made her lightheaded. Though, that could have been the drinks. She wondered if the Californian even realized he’d left his arm draped over her shoulder, long after the joke of it— as that must be the reason, had landed.
“Hey miss Molly Malone, come dance.” Babe called across the table as the slower music playing in the pub changed to one more upbeat.
Eleanor sputtered, pointing to herself as Heffron rolled his eyes, “Who else would I be talkin’ to? You think I’m asking Luz to Lindy Hop?”
“Shit, maybe I’d let ya!” George whistled as Eleanor laughed, shaking her head, “Take him, he’s willing.”
“Oh come on.. I been itchin’ to dance and I need a partner.” He begged, and Liebgott snorted.
“Tough break kid, Verbeken don’t dance.”
“When you meet Sergeant Talbert you can blame him for that, one time he spun me so hard I thought he broke my ankle..” Eleanor shook her head, attempting a a serious expression.
“Lieb— since when are you her keeper?” Mal guffawed, and Muck shook his head beside him, “They been babysittin’ Tab— he’s probably got them playing ma and pa, who woulda thought, these two suddenly thick as thieves?”
Liebgott’s arm left her shoulders as the eyes around the table suddenly seemed to focus on them. The sudden lack of contact left her feeling uncomfortably bare and Eleanor cleared her throat, “Y’know what, maybe I will dance, just this once.”
“Hey!” Heffron cheered as George and Skip pounded their fists against the table, and Nora slipped out of her chair, bracing against George’s for support. The empty glasses that littered the table seemed to stare at her mockingly.
Babe jumped up far too quickly for her brain to register, and suddenly the redhead was dragging her out into the crowd of soldiers, nurses, and Aldbourne locals just as The Andrews Sisters began to blare from the pub’s battered jukebox.
He spun her around, and Eleanor shrieked as he led them through a rather energetic jitterbug. Her head was spinning midway through the second song when she finally tripped over her own feet, Babe catching her before she fell forward.
“Christ—“
“—I told you I don’t dance!” She laughed, her hand clutching the sleeve of his jacket as she righted herself. She smoothed down her skirt once the room stopped spinning, Heffron grinning as she shook her head and pushed him forward and back towards the table.
Liebgott had a sour look on his face, and George had reclaimed his seat, talking the man’s ear off about God knows what when Eleanor slinked her way back into her original chair, heartily accepting the lit cigarette Skinny thrust towards her.
“Who would a’ thunk it, new kid’s made a dancer outta you.” He teased, and Eleanor let the smoke coat her throat before blowing it out in the man’s face, “I’m spinning, Wayne, shut up.”
Malarkey and Skip had left while she’d been away from the table, and a quick look to the left told her Johnny had snuck out as well. The table was dwindling, the hours on the clock growing later and later. She was tired, her feet aching and head suddenly far too heavy.
“Alright I’m leavin, anyone else?” Luz cut out once Eleanor smoked through her cigarette. Skinny and Heffron— Eleanor’s current enemy for making her dance, left with him.
“As fun as this is I’m missin’ my bed.” Chuck drawled not long after, and Liebgott grunted in response, finishing his last pint. Eleanor watched as he tipped his head back, his Adams-apple bobbing as the amber liquid slowly left the glass.
“Yeah, me too.” She muttered, pushing away from the table. Liebgott had been quiet since she’d gone to dance, avoiding her eye. She wondered if he even remembered she was staying with him and Tab tonight, and a part of her was scared to ask.
She finally cleared her throat a few minutes after Grant had taken a left turn down his own street, the pair of them silently tugging along until the sign for Greenwell Lane came into view. It was cold, and Eleanor pulled her jacket closer to her as she turned towards Liebgott, his brows furrowed and footsteps jumbled.
“I can still stay at yours, right?” She asked, and it was as though her voice had reminded him she was there. The creases between his brows straightened out, and he huffed,
“Nah, I’m gonna let ya sleep in the garden.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes, “Get me a blanket at least? Maybe a pillow, if you’ve got any to spare.”
He answered with another amused huff, his eyes trailing his feet as they reached the Hughes’ gate. Eleanor faltered as he held the gate open for her ever so slightly, reaching forward to catch it before it closed and follow him up the path. His hair looked nice, and shorter. She’d meant to tell him that when he’d first sat down at the pub but she’d forgotten. She wondered again if he cut it himself, or if he got one of the other guys to do it for him.
Her limbs felt heavy as she followed him up the porch, though something was off, had been since he’d taken his arm off of her. Maybe it shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but the whiskeys made Nora think it felt rather nice. But he was being weird now, like he often did, and Eleanor followed him up the stairs with bated breath, her neck tense as the tension in the air (or was it all in her head?) settled further and further over the pair of them.
“I’ll bring you a change a’ clothes.”
He was talking to her again, his voice slightly slurred as his arm guided her by the small of her back towards the bathroom door. She could feel the heat of his fingers through her blazer and dress shirt, burning her skin and radiating up her spine.
Eleanor walked into the small bathroom and caught her reflection. Her hair was mussed, and she instinctively ran her hands through it, the flush of her cheeks the only colour to be found on her face. Any lipstick Florence had forced on her earlier was likely littered against the many empty glasses she’d left at the pub, a faint stain in its place.
She heard footsteps, and Liebgott stood in the doorway, his jaw still clenched like it had been since they left the bar. She itched to smooth the muscles, though the intrusive thought remained buried in her head as she took the plaid pyjamas from him and moved to close the door. She paused at the last moment.
He didn’t look right when he frowned, though she only thought so now because she’d seen him so amused that week, instigating the Sergeant whose snoring in the room next door could be heard through the walls.
“Why are you lookin’ at me like that?” His voice reflected the strained look on his face, gruff and stiff as his stare bored into her own. She opened her mouth, though his hand reached out to push the door the rest of the way shut,
“Change your clothes Verbeken.” He said, softer this time, though the bathroom door was closed before she could read his face.
Eleanor left her dress uniform in a pile on the floor, her heels buried beneath them as she fiddled with the men’s pyjamas that hung too loose on her frame. She’d finished buttoning the shirt when Liebgott knocked on the door, “You done?”
“Yeah.” She muttered, opening the door to see he had also changed. His dog tags sat starkly against the clean white of his undershirt, the shining pendant catching in the dim light of the hallway.
Maybe he was angry with her again. She didn’t know, but she didn’t want to look at his face and find out. Or maybe she did, the past week had been a rather nice one. She pushed past him and headed for the stairs as his arm reached out to grab her own, stopping her in place.
“What are you doing?” He asked, and Eleanor faltered, “Going downstairs, you said I had the couch this time.”
She heard him scoff, and suddenly he was pulling her back towards the bathroom and his bedroom.
“I was just— just go to bed, I’ll take the couch.” He muttered, and suddenly his clipped tone was too much for her. Eleanor turned around, slipping her arm from his hold.
“Why are you being so weird all of the sudden, did I do something?” She asked, a familiar warmth in her chest awaiting the inevitable; confirmation she’d somehow done something to sow discord.
“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was softer, almost intentional, like he’d caught himself and slipped on a mask. It still felt wrong, like he was only trying to get her off his back.
“You’re like, fucking mad at me for some reason,” She bristled, “I didn’t do shit to you, you’re the one who..” She trailed off, unsure of what it was she even wanted to say. They’d been good lately. The thought of ruining that and rehashing what she’d rather banish to obscurity made bile rise to her throat and threaten to smother her on the spot.
“You called me pretty,” She brought up, voice unsure as though she’d imagined it, “In Normandy.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes widening in the dim light. Eleanor felt just as surprised as his expression suggested, unsure why that of all things had been what her mind had conjured.
“Yeah well, seemed like the type a’ shit he’d respond to.” He bit out, voice hoarse.
“Yeah,” She nodded, forcing a small laugh that sounded more like a choke, “He would I guess.” She was choking, under his gaze and the weight of her embarrassment on her shoulders. Somehow his response made her feel worse than no response at all would have.
His eyes flashed with something, or maybe it was the way Joe’s subtle step forward made the light catch them ever so slightly. She stepped back, almost outside of herself, his face so close to hers before suddenly it was Joe stepping back, his brows furrowed and jaw tense.
“Are you going to let me through?” She asked barely above a whisper, afraid that if she spoke any louder the words would leave strained, her voice threatening to crack and splinter the longer he stared at her.
“I’ll just..” She began, her eyes downcast and heavy as she moved to brush past him, when suddenly his warm hands were on her shoulders, pushing her backwards until her back met the bathroom door they’d left ajar, and the sound of it creaking on its hinges was the only sound Eleanor’s brain registered before his lips were on hers’ and any coherent thought rushed out of her like a dam breaking.
If Joe wasn’t gripping her so tightly Eleanor might have fallen, her knees weak as his mouth hungrily moved against her own, and Eleanor gasped into his mouth as his arms moved to drag her chest flush against his own.
Her mind had slipped into a frantic numbness as she lifted her arms to drag her shaking hands through his hair, tugging against him as she let him push her backwards until her back hit the countertop and all she could taste was the beer on his mouth and God, his mouth.
This was wrong. So incredibly wrong— and yet the thought of him stopping was borderline sickening.
“We shouldn’t do this,” She begged, though for a moment it hadn’t even sounded like her own voice, “Please.”
His grip on her didn’t loosen, and Eleanor’s chest heaved as his rough hands found her face, pulling her back towards him and reconnecting their mouths sloppily, almost angrily. She melted into it, his mouth on hers so foreign, yet as addicting as the calming smoke of a cigarette that promised to linger long after it had been smoked through. She pulled at him, her fingernails dragging against the cotton of his undershirt so tight she thought she’d ripped it.
A desperate noise escaped her as he practically rutted against her, their skin fusing despite the fabric that separated them. Nothing about he man devouring her was gentle, but for the briefest moment she thought she'd let him devour her whole if it meant he'd continue.
"Shouldn't or can't?" He panted, and Eleanor's mouth hung open as she drank in the way he stared at her with blown out puils. “Shouldn’t or can’t?”
Eleanor couldn’t breathe, not while he looked so, lewd. His chest heaved against her own as his eyes scanned her face, and when a moan escaped her mouth at the drag of his dog tags against her chest, Eleanor lets him lift her with strong arms until was practically seated in the sink, her back folded against the mirror.
his teeth dragged across her exposed neck, a well placed and breath-stealing distraction from the way his hands made quick work of the buttons on her— his, shirt. It was a tantalizing distraction, though it’d be better if Eleanor’s mind wasn’t aflame with the screaming thought that it was his teeth. On her neck. Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care, at least enough to throw him off of her.
How could she? When for as touch-starved as she was his lips left a hot trail across the expanse of her neck, collarbones, and Eleanor gasped as his lips found her breast, his tongue swirling and nipping at her pebbled skin while his hand made quick work of the other, all the while his body flush against hers left Eleanor unable to think about anything other than the fact that it was him— his mouth, his hands, his hips flush against hers as they seemed to melt together in a desperate depiction of panting, frantic animals.
She tugged at his hair, his lips back on her neck before her pants were smothered once more, until they weren’t, his lips leaving her skin as footsteps padded down the hallway. Joe reached out and connected his hand with the doorknob just as it twisted, a pounding rocking the door.
Eleanor felt as though she’d been thrown into freezing water, any warmth evaporated as Floyd Talbert’s annoyed voice cut through air.
“Lieb, I gotta fucking piss.” He hissed, and Eleanor’s eyes widened as Joe’s panting ceased. Both of them held their breath, and Eleanor wished the ground would swallow her whole.
Lips swollen, his hair looked as though she’d tried to rip it from his scalp, undershirt stretched where her hands had grabbed at him like an animal. She swallowed harshly.
With a mortifying start, Eleanor realized that her tits were out, wet patches chilled by the air now that his lips and hands had ceased their commitment to stripping her bare.
“Give me a sec.” He spat, fingers turning the lock on the door before suddenly they couldn’t look at each other, Eleanor’s ears ringing as his eyes settled on her exposed chest. He shuddered as though he’d been slapped.
“What the fuck are you doing in there?” Tab knocked on the door again, and suddenly Joe’s hands were back on her, though this time he was redoing the buttons of her— his shirt, his fingers shaking against her ribs as she jumped from the counter, landing practically on top of him.
Her nose brushed his, and Eleanor felt sick.
“D’you have a bird in there?” Floyd huffed in disbelief, his knocking increasing in fervor as the doorknob rattled, “Joe—“
“—Give me a goddamn second!” He snapped, and Eleanor felt as though she was outside herself, watching in horror as Tab’s knocking relented.
Joe tried to reach for her, but the window opposite the door was suddenly the only thing Nora was able to focus on. She wretched it open, looking down.
“Don’t you dare.” Joe hissed from behind her, and Eleanor swallowed harshly, “Give me my clothes.”
“Are you fucking nuts?” He whispered, and Eleanor pushed past him to grab her uniform and throw it out of the window before he could stop her.
It wasn’t far— and maybe it was the state of her mind but a part of Eleanor itched to jump and roll like they’d been taught since Fort Bragg.
A window was not a plane, and the man behind hers pyjamas were not a parachute, though the longer she stayed trapped in that room with the evidence of what they’d done smothering her the closer she’d come to having to look at him.
The Hughes’ gutter was supported by white wainscotting that in that moment may as well have been a ladder, and before Joe could reach for her again Eleanor swung her bare foot through the window.
•••
luvrottt speaks— Y’ALL LMFAOOO this fic is at almost 90K words already…
anywho pls welcome @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy to the phantom cinematic universe ‼️‼️‼️
I do not even know where to begin, with this chapter, so I will let y’all discuss in the replies… however I’m so sorry I took such a long time between updates, I hope both the insanity of this chapter & it’s equally insane word count make up for it, we’re officially in phase two of joenora 💀
since I’ve last posted I left the continent for the first time and travelled, earned my degree AND turned a whole year older, so I’ve been very busy but know that phantom is my baby & I hopefully won’t take that long again.
summary: y/n y/l/n is a nurse-in-training when she meets joseph j. toye in 1942, shortly after the attack on pearl harbor, at camp toccoa. she's the americana dream, he's a reckless private. what happens when their fates cross paths?
♡ follow along on their journey of love, loss, and hardship as the story progresses in events taking place before, during, and after the war. ♡
warnings: language, general war violence, wound descriptions
a/n: please bear with me here. i know that for the most part, this is joe toye's pov during the war with very little mentions of reader, but i just want to make it clear that this fic is based around how their love for one another changes course during the various points of war. but rest assured, you'll get your moments with joe soon<3
They expected to get shot at, that wasn't some secret that was kept from them, but one thing that the infantry didn't account for was the fact that they were headed straight into a blast zone as soon as they loomed over France.
Easy Company trained for this, to jump out of perfectly good planes and land in the soft grass with the comfort of seeing their chute open above them. What they didn't train for, though, was landing in an active battlefield, explosives lighting up the night sky like the Fourth of July.
The first blast was an eye-opener, literally. Joe blinked a few times before looking around at the other guys, they all had the same tense look on their face. The kind of look someone gets when they're trying too hard to stand up straight and hold their breath. Anticipating. Waiting. They had all heard the explosion in the distance.
Before they had any time to brace themselves, the plane shook violently as nearby bombs set off around the other C-47s, knocking some men over, including Joe. The red light sparked on like a bomb of its own, glowing angrily as if it was about to burst.
Joe grunted, listening to Lieutenant Winters tell them to hook up and check their equipment.
"SEVEN OKAY!" he screamed, patting the man in front of him to signal that it was his turn.
A few more blasts rumbled through the aircraft, jerking and throwing the men around like ragdolls, some falling back onto the seats. Other planes could be heard outside of their own, the low buzz of the engines failing making Joe's stomach twist in knots.
"I WANNA JUMP, SIR!" one man shouted.
Winters shouted over the commotion, guiding the men to the door, "Now, listen to me, STAY ON THE PLANE, you're not jumping!"
Joe clenched his jaw as if he was already preparing himself for impact. He was on auto-pilot now, trying to let muscle memory take over from the previous jump trainings that they've had. Slivers of light came in through the increasing number of bullet holes through the plane's body, each one narrowly missing the soldiers by a hair.
He hung onto his clip as they approached the drop zone, but there wasn't any time left. Sure, they would miss the DZ entirely, but the alternative was ending up like most of the other planes, in flames and into pieces.
The pilot flipped the switch, changing the vicious, red jump light to green. There was no coming back from this. It was no longer Camp Toccoa; it was Normandy.
"LET'S GO!" Winters shouted. He made eye contact with Joe briefly, giving him a slight nod before jumping out of the plane without any hesitation. The rest of the men followed, an uncomfortable silence falling over them as they were launched into the air. No screams, no sharp breaths— only acceptance that this is what they were meant to do. They pulled their ripcords, chutes exploding into canopies to bring them to the ground.
The sky filled with the odd beauty of men and their parachutes as they descended. The feeling was somewhat comforting, but in the eerie sort of way due to the fact that they could die at any moment while in the air. During training, they had the luxury of a clear field with no German artillery aimed at them. They had a real chance, save for some small fractures or the occasional concussion. But here? Here, they weren't guaranteed anything— not even a landing.
Some landed in the brush of the trees, suspension lines strangling their limbs as they hung like marionettes, the sick sound of their necks and joints snapping ringing like a gunshot.
Some didn't even make it to the ground, already taking bullets and shells mid-air. Even when their feet touched the enemy land, patches of it were engulfed in flames, and others were infiltrated with high concentrations of Kraut soldiers.
Joe was fortunate enough to land safely, hands ripping off his chute and untangling himself so he could get out of the open. His wrist started to burn, causing him to look down and see the skin stripped off, pink and raw. He didn't even feel it when he first landed, the adrenaline coursing through his veins veiling any sort of immediate pain reaction.
"Fuck- fucking hell," he cursed, realizing that the ropes gave him a severe friction wound. He ripped off some of the silk from his used chute with his M3 trench knife, wrapping it around his wrist as he hissed in pain, tightening the knot with a pull of his teeth.
As he finished, he heard ticking in the distance made by one of the cricket clickers they were given to identify one another, looking around cautiously as he held his M-1 Garand in a ready position.
"Flash!" Someone whispered hastily, the nearby bushes rustling with movement.
Joe turned around sharply, "Thunder!"
From the bushes emerged Malarkey, Popeye, and Guarnere. Joe exhaled out of relief to see at least some of his comrades, hustling over to them to form a plan.
"Good to see you, Joe," Guarnere said, tipping his helmet in acknowledgement.
"Yeah, you too, Bill," Joe replied, nodding back to him and the other two.
"What happened to your wrist?" Popeye asked, gesturing to the now blood-soaked fabric tied around the joint.
Joe waved him off, not wanting to concern about any minor wounds right now, "Rope burn, it don't matter. Where the hell did we land?"
Malarkey answered this time, taking a look at his surroundings, "I don't know, but it's definitely not the fuckin' DZ."
"Aye, there's some tracks up ahead. We can follow 'em, see where they lead." Guarnere gestured to the faint glimmer of the steel tracks, a promising sight since they had not the slightest clue where they were at the moment.
The four walked for a while, on guard at all times just in case they got ambushed by a bunch of Krauts. Joe was itching for a cigarette, fingers twitching against the side of his rifle as if he was mimicking flicking his lighter open. He'd have to wait for now, though.
Joe thought the area felt a bit familiar based on what he'd studied back in Aldbourne, but the reality of the situation was that they were still separated from the rest of Easy.
"I don't remember hearing about any railroads near our objective," Malarkey huffed, continuing to walk the tracks.
Joe glanced at Malarkey, "I'm tellin' you, this is the spur line that runs parallel to the river. We should be comin' up to a road and bridge ahead."
Malarkey scoffed, "Yeah, how would you know?"
"Because I studied the sandtails, alright?
Popeye suddenly signaled for them to stop moving as he crouched down, Joe and the others quickly followed suit, inching forward slowly.
Malarkey started to whisper, "Probably a friggin' train or—"
"Shh!"
"Flash!" Came a voice from behind them, the four turning around in alert.
"Thunder!"
"Lieutenant, is that you?" Malarkey asked.
"Malarkey?" Winters approached them, all exchanging greetings with each other.
Joe followed as they ventured farther down the tracks, stopping when they heard distant gunfire and the sound of a German cart nearby. Winters specifically told them to wait for his command, but Guarnere opened fire on the band of Germans in an angry frenzy, everyone else firing their weapons shortly after.
Guarnere's little blow up could've cost them big time, especially since Winters and Lipton didn't even have any weapons except knives and some explosives. Joe looked down at one of the horses that was still twitching and whinnying in pain, the sound too painful to keep listening to.
He took out his pistol and shot the poor animal, his face contorted into a repulsed expression at having to do it. They moved out from the area, walking even when the sun started to rise.
"Did you see him? He just sat there," Guarnere complained as they walked through the shallow water. Their boots were soaked with mud and algae, the moist friction becoming more unbearable by the minute.
Joe shrugged, "He didn't have a weapon. What's he gonna do? Shout at 'em?"
"Shouts at me for killing Krauts," Guarnere grumbled back, stomping his way through the mud.
Joe tried to reason with him once more, "He just wanted you to wait for his command."
"Joe, he don' even drink!"
They reached a point to grab supplies from dead soldiers, navy aircrafts raging up above. They had to move fast since the landings were starting. Once they reached the Battalion HQ, they realized that many of the men were still missing.
Joe lit up a Lucky Strike, finally inhaling the sweet taste of tobacco as he took a seat. It wouldn't be long until they had to start moving again, but damn, it felt good to just take a break for a minute or two.
"Toye! Get over here, Winters needs us up front."
Joe tipped his head back and groaned, getting up with a grunt as he made his way into the barn. They talked battle strategies and mapped out where the German guns are firing.
Joe was to be part of the main assault line, so he stubbed out his cigarette and started to collect ammo to get ready for battle.
During the Brécourt Manor assault, Joe nearly got blown up by grenades twice. He was surprised he even made it past D-Day at this point.
"Jesus Christ, fuckin' twice," he muttered, slightly dazed from his concussive state.
While securing the second German gun, one of the Krauts started blabbering while putting his hands up in surrender.
"Shut up," Joe growled.
"No make dead! No make dead!"
"Shut the fuck up!" Joe repeated, shoving his rifle in the German's face.
"No make dead!"
Finally having enough, Joe punched the guy hard, his knuckles adorned with the brass knuckles y/n gifted him. The metal made a clinging sound upon colliding with his face, Joe smirking slightly at the little victory. So, his girl helped him knock out a Kraut indirectly. That was more brag worthy than killing 20 POWs, in his humble opinion.
At nightfall, they had an hour to rest before having to move again, finding peace in the back of a little truck. Joe sat with Buck, Malarkey, Guarnere, Lipton, and Liebgott, and another soldier, having a bite to eat and taking sips of French wine.
Liebgott escaped Malarkey's rancid farts, the rest of the guys choking on the gross air as Malark laughed at them. Winters came to exchange a few words with them, even sharing a drink, much to Guarnere's surprise. After Winters left, they talked among themselves for a little while they could spare a moment.
"So, Lip, how's the wife?" Buck asked, shoveling another spoonful of food into his mouth.
Lipton smiled a bit as he looked at his wedding band, "Jo Anne? She's good. I got a letter from her a few weeks ago. Come to think of it, she mentioned y/n, too." Lip looked over at Joe as he said that, Joe's eyes widening in surprise.
"Y/n? How is she? Is she alright?" Joe asked, leaning forward.
Malarkey and Guarnere laughed hard, "You're so smitten with her, Joe! It ain't like she's on the front lines with us."
"Shut up, I just- just want to know how she's holdin' up," he grumbled, staring at his mess tin.
Lipton smiled warmly, "Jo Anne said that y/n is doing just fine. She's working hard around the hospitals apparently. There's mentions of transfers happening soon."
Joe's expression softened a bit at the fact that his love was doing okay, but he was curious about the transfer situation.
"Transfers? To where?" he asked.
"They're going to ship out some of the nurses to England, from what I've heard. They needed help with the wounded over there," Lip replied, the others nodding their heads.
Joe was silent for a moment, biting his lower lip before he released it, "How is it? Being married."
Lipton leaned back, giving Joe a knowing look as his mouth quirked into a slight smirk, "It's special, Toye. I miss my wife every damn day I'm away from her."
Buck leaned in to join the conversation, "Hell, I shoulda put a ring on my girl's finger before we left to get into this mess."
"Why, are ya thinkin' 'bout marryin' y/n?" Guarnere asked, taking another sip of wine.
Joe hesitated, his heart skipping a beat. Sure, he's thought of it, and he obviously told Harry back in Aldbourne that he wanted to marry her, but now, with a bunch of the other guys, he felt embarrassed all over again. Joe was usually quick to act, his brazen toughness and mentality making all the decisions for him.
But when it came to love and marriage, he was a deer in the headlights. Malarkey noticed his apprehension to answer, "Hey, man, it's okay if you don't have it all figured out. But between us—all of us—I think we can all agree that war is uncertain. If you don't decide soon, a bullet or some damn grenade isn't goin' to wait for you to."
Lipton nodded in agreement, "I knew my wife was the one I wanted to come back home to after the war, that's why I married her. I didn't want to be stuck in a trench wondering why I left home without making her 'Mrs. Lipton.'"
"I. . . guess I'm just thinkin' about it, y'know?" Joe said, continuing when the other guys hummed for him to go on. "I mean, she's the perfect woman, you all know how she is. It's- this goddamn war."
Guarnere placed a supportive hand on Joe's shoulder, "Joe, we'll say it for you; you want to marry that girl."
"Yeah, make her yours, Toye!" Malarkey said, pumping his first in the air.
"Put a ring on it, Toye."
"Come on, Joe, just admit you want to marry her."
"If you don't, I will."
"Shut up, no one wants to marry your stinky ass, Malark."
Joe chuckled at his friends' banter, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants, "Yeah, I do."
Lipton grinned, raising an eyebrow, "Do what, Joe?"
Joe flushed slightly, voice lowering to a sheepish murmur, "I do want to marry her."
"There you go, atta boy!" Buck laughed, clapping Joe on the back. The back of the truck erupted in cheers and shouts, all of it making the warmth in Joe's heart spread even more.
— ♡
The days after D-Day were filled with intense battles and taking over several towns, including Carentan. Joe wasn't a mortarman, neither did he do things like snipe like Shifty or arm the bazookas like Tipper, but he was a damn good rifleman, and intense when he needed to be.
He followed Guarnere as he called out commands, the other men in the squad following close behind as well. The Battle of Carentan was only a taste of how the rest of the war would go, soldiers getting flanked left and right with machine guns and artillery. Doc Roe was scampering around the whole town trying to help those who screamed for him.
Joe was fortunate enough to make it out unscathed, the company successfully securing Carentan as American tanks pulled through. The men were headed back to England, having been taken off the front line for the time being.
Joe decided that he needed to send another letter to y/n, tell her all about what he'd been through so far, and that he was finally back in England for a short break.
What he didn't know, of course, was that she was writing him a letter around the same time. Y/n had been chosen as one of the nurses to be sent to England to help the wounded at the aid stations there, since they were extremely shorthanded and needed extra support. All the soldiers that had been wounded in France immediately flowed into English hospitals, the amount becoming overwhelming for the staff there.
So, y/n had packed her bags and got ready to go to England, not even knowing that Joe was there, but only for a short time.
Joe sat down next to Harry as he pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil from the inside of his jacket, the latter giving him a goofy grin and nudging him.
"Writin' again, lover boy?" Harry chuckled, leaning his elbows on the table to get a better look at what Joe was writing.
"Leave me alone, Welshy," Joe retorted, but his voice failed to have any real annoyance in it, only causing Harry to laugh harder.
"It's a damn good nickname for me, and I love it because Kitty loves it," Harry said proudly, flashing a toothy smile at the thought of Kitty. Joe that it was tooth-rottingly sweet that the slightest mention of Kitty managed to make Harry into a sappy, lovestruck fool.
"You love anything that she does, huh?" Joe said, starting to map out his letter. He treated it like he was writing a battle report, much to Harry's disappointment.
"Y'know, you're not one of those behind-the-desk, upper echelon typists. You can add a bit of feelin' into the letter." Harry took the paper from Joe and studied it.
"Toye, this can't even be considered a love letter."
"Whatever, it's. . . hard for me. Could you help write it again?" Joe asked, a slight tinge of guilt in his voice. He was a grown man, he should know how to do things like this on his own. He wrote letters to his parents all the time while in basic training, but he guessed nothing was enough to prepare him for writing things with feelings in them.
Harry sighed dramatically, "Fine, but you owe me one. Now, start out with this. . ."
Within a few minutes, thanks to Harry's help, Joe wrote a nice letter just for his lovely girl. This was the first letter to be sent to her since Aldbourne, so any previous skills that he gained in love letter writing had diminished, but he was quite proud of how he did this time
To My Darling Y/N,
I am now back in England after dropping in Normandy and spending several weeks there. The D-Day invasion was incredibly difficult, but I managed to make it through safely. I even survived two grenades and punched a Kraut with the brass knuckles you gave me. Isn't that crazy, my love? We also secured the town of Carentan, but many of the men were either killed in action or severely wounded.
I'm sorry that I haven't gotten the chance to write until now, the days have been long and tiresome. It all sort of feels like a blur. But one thing is for certain, I miss you. And I miss you dearly. Every time I see your picture in the locket, my heart aches to see you again.
I love you very much, my little nurse.
With love,
Your Darling Joe
"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it, Joe?" Harry gently squeezed his friend's shoulder, noticing the obvious tense state that Joe was in. His hand was gripping the pencil so tightly, Harry thought it was going to snap in half.
"Yeah- no, it wasn't. I'm gonna get this sent out, thanks, Harry," Joe mumbled, getting up from his seat to search for Vest.
"Vest, hey, Vest!" Joe called out to the younger male, the boy turning around from where he was standing.
"Oh, Joe! I was looking for you actually," Vest said, hands rummaging through his bag.
"Why? Did I get somethin'?" Joe asked, hands still tightly clutched around the letter for y/n.
"Yeah, here." Vest handed him a letter addressed to Joe. "Is that going out? I'll take it." Joe gave him the envelope, thanking him again before going to a quiet corner to sit and open the letter for him.
It was from y/n, and as soon as he registered that clearly, he stood up out of surprise. He didn't expect anything from her— in fact, he didn't expect anything from her at all. He was happy to just exist in her little world. That was enough for him.
But alas, she sent something anyway, and that made his heart grow in ways that one would've thought impossible. He gingerly took the letter from the envelope, hanging onto every word and kiss that clung to the page.
To My Darling Joseph,
I haven't heard back from you in a while, so I'm sending you this in hopes that it gets to you safely. I've just been told that I'll be transferred to England to work at one of the aid stations there. I'm not quite sure where you are right now, but I miss you, and I hope you're doing alright.
I love you so much, Joe.
With love,
Your Darling Y/N
Joe couldn't believe what he just read. A letter she must've wrote a couple weeks ago that he just received, which could mean that she was on her way to England right now. But the worst part was that his letter that he just gave to Vest won't even get to her right away.
They had every chance to see each other, but also the chance that they would miss each other all the same. Joe's heart thumped in anticipation, silently praying for a miracle.
Sergeant Lipton stood in the front of the room, announcing to the men that he had something to say. Joe felt a lump in his throat as he realized the inevitable— they were going back to the front lines.
"Listen up, all weekend passes are cancelled. We're not coming back to England, boys. We’re moving out at 0600," Lipton announced, disappointed groans coming from all sides of the building. Joe’s heart sunk to the bottom of his stomach as he clutched y/n’s letter.
They were going to drop into Holland soon, and the war would continue from there.
— ♡
Y/n was shipped out to England via ship alongside other nurses from her department, boxes of medical supplies surrounding them. She gripped her aid bag tightly, thumb brushing over the coarse fabric. The war had taken a toll on her— seeing the wounded men’s hopeless gazes, hearing their soft cries for help or mercy, some wanting to be put out of their misery and some screaming out of desperation for the nurses to not let them die.
She’d pulled out more bullets and shrapnel pieces than she could count, injected flailing bodies with morphine that offered them the slightest bit of relief. It broke her heart whenever they’d hold her hands, their eyes watery and filled with the fear of being alone.
She treated each of her patients with gentle care, tending to them as they needed. Y/n wanted to help them as she hoped someone would help her darling Joe if he ever got hurt. Amidst the uncertainty that the war dawned upon everyone, she made it her mission to save as many soldiers as she could. But now, trudging across the seas to reach England made her stomach churn with the nagging thought of seeing more violence and bloodshed.
Upon her arrival, she was thrust into the nearest hospital and began working quickly.
“I need morphine! What happened to our supply boxes?” y/n screamed, struggling to keep a hysterical soldier on the bed as he thrashed around in pain.
“We’re already low! We can’t keep up with the amount of wounded coming in here!” shouted another frantic nurse whose apron was stained dark red with blood.
As weeks passed, this was their normal. Every day became a chaotic whirlwind of agony and anguish for soldiers and nurses alike. Y/n had finally gotten a moment to catch her breath, her head resting on an empty hospital bed. Her entire body was trembling with leftover adrenaline from a previous encounter that morning. A young boy’s face was nearly split open with large pieces of shrapnel sticking out from the torn flesh.
She couldn’t save him. A boy whose life was taken far too soon by this damn war. Y/n didn’t know whether to scream in anger or cry out of frustration. And yet, she stood silent, not even having enough energy to emit a sob.
“Miss y/n?”
The voice startled her, causing her to jump and let out a small gasp.
The delivery boy bowed his head in apology, walking closer and extending his arm to hand her a letter. She took it gingerly with a soft “thanks,” the boy scurrying out quickly.
She recognized Joe’s handwriting right away, immediately opening the letter with her bloodstained fingertips. Every word only pulled the knot in her stomach tighter, her heart aching with the weight of not being able to see her beloved.
They had missed each other by a week. A fucking week.
Y/n laid her head back down, a raw, guttural wail ripping from her chest and up her throat. No one ever really won in war— not even two lovers hundreds of miles apart.
