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Chapter 1: Won’t You Take Me On a Sea Cruise?

SURPRISE! The new fic has arrived! And it’s on a Sunday, my normal update day! A wee slight change from my normal stuff if you couldn’t tell from @voltac ‘s WONDERFUL banner she made, we got an Aiello-centered fic! and TANKS!

Pairing: Frank Aiello/OFC

Tags: 18+ Reader Discretion Advised, Found Family, Dysfunctional Family, War, Graphic Description of Corpses, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Medical Inaccuracies, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, Trauma, Childhood Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Worth Issues, Blood and Gore, Arguing, Lack of Communication, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Death, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Burn, Friendship, Platonic Relationships, Survivor Guilt, Friends to Lovers, Denial of Feelings, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Emotional Constipation, Protectiveness, Yearning, Pining

Summary:

Emmie Beauregard knows how to navigate an unforgiving world - she's been on her own for half her life, with only strife and bad luck as her companions. With nothing tying her to the States, she jumps at the chance to join the war, hone her mechanical skills, and attempt a fresh start, provided she survives everything the Nazis throw at her. Halfway across the globe, Emmie's content with her slot in life - that is, until a misfit tank crew becomes more than just the men she's serving with, the past revisits in the form of a meddlesome older sister, and a particularly annoying Infantry soldier from New York manages to find himself by her side from Africa all the way to Germany. Emmie came into the war believing she had nothing to lose, but as the months pass and the war drags on, she fights against the fact that maybe, just maybe, she has everything to lose.

Tidbit below the cut, full chapter on ao3 and linked in chapter title!

"The hell? Another delay? I thought they wanted us on the ships an hour ago?"

Aiello rolls his head back and from shoulder to shoulder, sighing as a pop sounds from his neck. Stiles is responding back to Zussman, something about the delay and supplies. Whatever the reason, it's not a concern to Aiello. He'd rather keep his feet on solid ground, no matter how big the ship is. It still rocks, and it's still on the water.

Besides, Aiello's been enjoying his time here in England. No artillery, no missions, no one shooting at him. As if reading his mind, the rookies around him turn their conversation to the invasion, to France, to combat. There's a thrum to their words, but it's hard to tell if it's pure adrenaline or fear. Probably adrenaline, the dumb bastards. His stomach twists violently and his jaw clenches, teeth grinding together painfully.

"I'm goin' for a walk," Aiello grunts, shoving off the crate he's been sitting on. He ignores whatever Zussman throws his away, instead pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. Taking a drag, he lets the familiar taste settle his nerves as he walks through the crowded camp. There are soldiers as far as he can see, some helping with transporting supplies onto the ships, others waiting around, bored out of their minds like Aiello's new squad.

Passing by the medical tents, Aiello steps out of the way of the nurses, orderlies, and doctors that go rushing by. There are several doctors crowded together and arguing about supplies, about whether they have enough. A familiar woman with honey blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun strides up to them, her tone sharp as a whip as she snaps at them to keep their voices down, keep the calm in place. Don't unnecessarily alarm anyone.

Isn't that just great to hear? Aiello blows more smoke from his lips, up into the dreary English sky. As he passes by the largest medical tent, his eyes catch on two familiar figures waiting by the entrance. His back straightens as Pierson's eyes snap over to lock onto him, preparing for some kind of reprimand, but instead Pierson's eyes flicker in the direction Aiello is heading. Even from this distance, it's easy to see the sergeant's jaw clench, but then he looks away without a word, back to Turner as the lieutenant draws his attention.

It would be more unsettling that Pierson knows exactly where he's going and why if it didn't work out in Aiello's favor. If any of the rookies were caught wandering around camp, nosing around the other divisions, Pierson would surely be barking at them to get busy or to stay still for five goddamn minutes. Maybe knowing the bastard since Africa does have its perks, but that doesn't make him any less of an asshole.

The medical tents end and Aiello perks up, no longer just strolling but instead searching, now. The tanks and other heavy armor blend together, making it near impossible to find something familiar. They all look the same, how do the tank crews tell them apart? Not that he'll ask any of them, they'll probably bully him senseless about asking stupid questions.

Wouldn't be the first time.

"Well, well, well!"

Aiello stops dead in his tracks at the voice, craning his neck to try and find the owner. He doesn't have to look far, a man about his height but stockier walking toward him with a wide grin stretching across his face.

"If it isn't Prince Charming stopping by for a visit!"

Aiello rolls his eyes, but instead of annoyance, relief loosens his shoulders. Collins has a crate of ammo in his arms, clearly on his way to drop it off somewhere, and the relief ends there when it's apparent that Collins is alone. Something must show on his face because a gleam sparks in Collins' bright eyes and his grin quirks to one side.

"Collins, don't—"

The younger man shifts the crate a bit higher as he slows his pace to continue the conversation.

"I'm not doin' anything!" Collins drawls out, but his grin gives him away. "I'm just sayin', Beau's back there, doing some last minute maintenance on Quackers before we load up."

An eyebrow raise, but he doesn't bother questioning Collins, knowing he won't get an actual answer. Besides, now he knows where he needs to go, and that's what really matters.

"Stay outta trouble, Collins," Aiello settles with, clapping the man on his shoulder as he moves past him.

"Where's the fun in that?" quips back the other man, and then he's cursing out another soldier who nearly runs into him. For a second, Aiello's back home, listening to a cab driver get chewed out for all but running over a pedestrian. A pang of homesickness nearly sends him faltering, so strong he inhales wrong and chokes on cigarette smoke.

"Christ," Aiello mutters, physically shaking the homesickness off like a coat. It doesn't help, won't make any of this easier. He's been gone for two goddamn years, now. He shouldn't still be getting hung up like this. Another quick shake of his shoulders and he rounds a tank, continuing in the direction Collins jerked his head in, and there.

About three tanks down, a woman climbs off a tank with some kind of canvas attached to it. Her hair, muddy brown with streaks of blonde warmed by the sun, is tied into a loose braid that hangs down her back, and her jacket is tied around her waist. Her back is to Aiello as she leans on the tank, turning and talking to a mountain of a man nearby. Complaining, judging by the way she waves her free hand around, and a grin ticks at Aiello's lips at the movement.

"What are you complainin' about this time, princess?" he calls out as he gets closer, and the woman immediately spins around, eyes sparking despite the scowl tugging at her lips. "Nothing's ever good enough for you, that right?"

"Does anything other than bullshit ever come out of your mouth?" Emmie snarks back, leaning forward to pluck his cigarette from his fingers, taking a quick drag before he can even sputter out a protest.

"I was smokin' that!"

"And now I am," comes the reply. "Quit whinin', we all know you've got half a dozen packs stashed in your pockets somewhere."

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