"John, trust me," Harry said. This was a problem that had probably been going on longer than John could guess at, and it wasn't as if Harry was an idiot. He probably had tried to find a solution. "I've got some iron tabs, but that's it. The docs around here don't really know much." There was a coppery taste in John's mouth from biting down too hard.
"Are you skipping rations when it's bad?" he asked slowly as a horrible thought occurred to him.
"Yeah. Unfortunately nobody's figured out any anti-emetics for vampires." Harry shrugged. "Hold on, I don't like that look," he added, peering up at him closely.
"How much would you need to make up for the deficit?"
"No," Harry interjected immediately. "No, Johnny. Are you insane? They'll hit us both with a court martial!"
main themes: ‼️explicit‼️ like highkey just smut plus Brady’s minor sexuality crisis,
summary
Brady covered for Crosby, and he makes sure the navigator knows he owes him one. He can't help his minor panic when Crosby knelt at his feet because he definitely didn't mean it like that.
TW: disordered eating, vomiting, recovery from starvation
The doctors tell them it's going to take a while for them to tolerate food like they used to.
It’s almost a given, especially after watching Hambone choke down more canned meat than he’d had in two years and then puke it up into the snow whilst they marched, but it’s still more difficult than Brady anticipated to adjust to eating regularly when they get back to England. He manages to not make himself sick, but it’s a near thing a few times, and his stomach protests at the unfairness of food finally being available but being denied. Then comes the other side of the coin, the fact that he doesn’t actually even realize when he’s hungry anymore, or when he’s full. Eating becomes something between a gamble and a science.
He weathers it well, though, because that’s what they’re all doing, slowly readjusting with the idea that they’re fine, they’re not hurting, that the Stalag was just a bad dream or a big adventure. They cling to the idea that they’re returning heroes, and not suffering, broken, shells of the men they were.
Which all leads to John Brady staring at the bag of oranges on his bed like they’re a mirage.
He had breakfast this morning, toast and juice and even a little bit of bacon, but that was hours ago. He might be hungry now. He should be hungry now. He can manage an orange. He wants to manage an orange, and can feel his mouth salivating despite the lack of hunger signals just at the sight of the fresh fruit. The first orange he’s seen since leaving the states. As a child he had loved oranges, would bite through the thick skin with his teeth before ripping them open with his thumbs. He’d spit the pips out as he went, competing with himself for how far he could get them.
The need to be that child again, just for a moment, makes the decision for him, and he takes one of the oranges.
It’s sweet and tart and perfect. The flesh tastes like summer and home and joy, and Brady’s pretty sure he moans a little as he swallows. There are barely any pips to stop and spit out, the ones he does collecting by his thigh, and soon the whole orange is devoured.
This is where he should stop, pause like the doctors told him to try and read his body, but his mouth is still stinging with juice and desire, so he snatches another like the bag is about to be ripped from him. It disappears just as fast, and so does the third. He’s on his way through his fourth when his throat seizes, his stomach cramps, and he forces himself very, very still. He’s panting, he realizes, has been between bites like some kind of feral animal. There are dark spots dancing in his vision.
His stomach cramps again, tight and warning, and the saliva gathering at the back of his mouth is definitely no longer a sign of hunger.
He makes it to the waste bin just in time.
Brady heaves into it on his knees until there’s just bile coming up. It burns the back of his throat, leaves him feeling shaky as a newborn kitten, and he slumps on the floor with his forehead on the rim of the trashcan. The door to the barracks opens, and Brady cringes at being found like this by anyone, even the guys who had been in the Stalag and had seen much worse.
“Shit, John, is that you?”
Fuck.
Brady doesn’t have the strength to look up as Croz rushes over to kneel beside him. A gentle hand lands on his back.
“Are you okay? What happened? Should I get the doc?”
The questions all come out in a rush, and Brady feels himself get so overwhelmed he retches again. More bile. More shaking. When it passes he realizes he’s not only trembling, but crying, tears rolling down his face as he thinks about the fact that he’ll probably never be able to eat another orange without thinking about this, about being folded over in the barracks with the sour smell of vomit in his nose because he can’t eat a few pieces of fruit without consequences anymore.
It’s stupid, it’s so stupid, he tells himself, but it feels so deeply unfair to have another thing stolen from him, and he just can’t seem to stop crying-
“I gotcha, I gotcha,” Croz says, gently tucking an arm around him and maneuvering him upright to rest against his chest. He’s rubbing soothing little circles along his spine that just seem to make Brady cry harder. His chin tucks over Croz’s shoulder, and he turns his face into his neck like he can hide there. “Hey, hey, shhhh. Shhhh. You’re okay. It’s alright. You’re gonna be alright, John.”
“Fucking oranges,” Brady manages to hiss, his sobbing losing force as it saps the last of his energy.
Croz makes a soothing noise, then an upset one. He keeps rubbing Brady’s back.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Was meant to be a present, I didn’t know you’d get sick.”
How sad Croz sounds, how guilty, breaks his heart. Sniffling, he pushes himself back, wiping his face with the back of his hand until Croz passes him a handkerchief.
“Not your fault,” Brady mutters. “Was me not having any goddamn self-control-”
Laughter from Croz cuts him off, and he scrapes together enough energy to glare at the navigator. There’s a wet patch on his shoulder that Brady quickly looks away from.
“I don’t think anybody’s expecting you to have self-control right now, John.”
Brady’s pride prickles at that, but Croz is watching him so softly, so warmly, that the fight goes out of him instantly.
“Thanks for the oranges,” he says instead, so he doesn’t have to hear Croz talk more about how he should cut himself some slack. “I’m sorry I threw most of them up.”
Croz laughs him off again and gets to his feet, holding out a hand to help Brady off of the floor. His knees wobble treacherously, but Croz steadies him with an arm around his waist. It brings them hip to hip, nose to nose, and Croz presses a kiss to Brady’s cheek even though he knows he has to reek of vomit.
“Don’t sweat it. Christ knows you’ve dealt with me throwing up more than enough.”
this was inspired by the beautiful art of @beepbeepcomeatmebruv ! please give them lots and lots of love💕
also @radcliffes-aviation, this is for you!
word count: 1k
(masterlist overview | mota masterlist)
The pub was bustling with people, conversations, and laughter flooding the room. The air was thick with sweat and alcohol, a few couples still tearing up the small dance floor.
Harry, though, sat in a far corner, playing with his beer glass. His mind wasn't in the pub. No. It was with his pilot, John––Johnny––Brady. Now, Johnny wasn't necessarily far from Harry––at least not physically––but he still felt miles away.
Johnny was one of the few men on the dance floor, twirling a beautiful blonde around. He was laughing and smiling, something Harry hadn't seen in a long time. And usually, Harry wouldn't call himself a jealous or envious man, but right now, he was.
This blonde could dance with Johnny and be close to him without anyone batting an eye. The way Harry knew the rest of the crew, Ham was already planning Johnny's wedding.
It was days like these that Harry hated being born a man. If only he could have long blonde hair and a dazzling smile… Maybe then Johnny would look at him differently. Maybe then Johnny would love him back.
Harry couldn't help it. He was in love with his pilot, and he was convinced that it was God's punishment for him. Why was he longing for something he couldn't have––a man of all things. He'd always been told that God was love. But why would such a God condemn him for simply loving a man?
He sighed and looked down at his glass. There wasn't much left, and the evening was still young. He didn't know how long the others planned to stay. It wasn't often that they managed to get a weekend pass, so he suspected that they would want to stay for a while.
"Harry!" Ham's voice tore through the noise, and Harry looked up to see the young bombardier make his way over to him. "There's a young lady searching for a dance partner. Go get your lazy ass up and take her to the floor!"
Harry simply shook his head. "I don't dance, Ham."
The other man sighed and plopped down on a chair next to Harry. "Right, I forgot. You got your wife back home." He picked up Harry's glass and downed the rest of the beer. Then he looked at Harry. "How's Jean doing? She alright?"
Something flashed in Harry's eyes, and he shifted in his chair while clearing his throat. "She's…she's good. Yeah." He avoided Ham's eyes and drummed his fingers on the table. "Mail's been slow the past weeks, but I should get another letter sooner or later."
Ham nodded. "Ah." His head turned, and he looked at Johnny, still dancing. A laugh escaped his lips as the pilot and the blonde accidentally bumped heads.
"How's Gerry?" Harry absently asked, his eyes fixed on Johnny. That damned smile. He hated it.
"Oh, she's amazing! She's not really the letter type, though." He shrugged. "Once we hit the 15 missions, I thought about asking Command for a 30-day pass. I'd like to see her, you know…" A smile played around his lips, and for a moment, Harry could see sadness flicker in his eyes, but it was gone within seconds.
Harry returned the smile, albeit a bit forced. "I'm sure Johnny would write you a good recommendation," he assured Ham, clasping his shoulder and squeezing it. "You deserve it."
The hours passed, and passed, and finally, the night was coming to an end. Harry and the crew left the pub and were on their way back to their hotel.
Harry was a few steps behind the others, hands in his pockets. It was unusually cold for September. The wind was stinging his cheeks, and he could see his breath as he exhaled.
Johnny was leading the group, not really paying attention to Harry in the back. At least, that was what Harry thought.
Since their last leave, things had been… different. Harry knew why. It wasn't like he hadn't played a part in why it was different now. It was a drunken mistake—at least from Johnny's side.
It wasn't a lot that happened that night, but it was enough to make Harry want his pilot. It was enough to make him yearn and thirst for the other man. As always, he wanted the things in life he couldn't have…
Soon, they arrived at the hotel, and Harry stepped in last. To his surprise, Johnny still stood at the bottom of the stairs that led to his room. For some reason, he wasn't paired with any of the others. Harry had his suspicions, but he wasn't sure…
"Johnny?" Harry frowned. "Everything okay?"
"I wanted to ask you the same," Johnny replied. He fiddled with the cap in his hands, his brows knitted together. "You've been very quiet today."
Harry bit the inside of his cheek, balling his fists in the pockets of his coat. "I'm okay. Just…tired."
Silence stretched between them before Johnny hummed in acknowledgment. "Alright then… I just wanted to make sure everything's good." With that, he turned and headed up the stairs, but Harry managed to catch his arm,
"Johnny––" he started, but he was cut off.
"You have a wife," Johnny replied, his voice suddenly harsh. "Go to your own room, Crosby." He shook off Harry's arm and left without another word.
A sharp sting coursed through Harry's body as he stood at the bottom of the stairs. He watched Johnny disappear in the hallway, and for a moment, he didn't know what to do.
Was this the end now? Would it always be like this from now on? Would Johnny ever be able to look at him normally again?
All those questions flooded Harry's mind, and he just wanted to run after Johnny and beg him to look at him the way he did that one night, but Harry knew that would only make things worse. Johnny could be a complicated man, and if Harry would crowd him now, things would only get worse…
So, Harry did the only thing he could do in this situation. He turned his back to the stairs and slowly made his way to his own room. As much as he hated it, there was no other solution. At least for now…
