Summary: War doesn’t stop for anything — not even for these men and their wife.
Warnings: Soft! Reader, Interrupted sex, protective/possessive behavior, Married
William “Wild Bill” Guarnere
The old barn on the edge of the village had become your temporary refuge during a rare two-day lull. Bill had you pressed against the wall in the shadowed corner, your dress already pushed up around your hips, his mouth hot on your neck as his hands roamed. You were trembling already — always so sensitive, so quick to fall apart for him — soft little gasps escaping every time he touched you just right.
“Fuck, doll,” he growled against your skin, voice rough with want. “You’re already shakin’. My sweet girl… always so ready for me.”
You clung to his shoulders, face buried in his neck, completely lost in the feeling. “Bill… please…”
He was just starting to lift you higher against the wall when the barn door creaked open.
“Sergeant Guarnere? You in here? Lieutenant Welsh sent me to find you — said there’s a supply run and he needs—”
Bill’s head snapped toward the door so fast it was almost comical. The young replacement stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the scene.
“Jesus Christ!” Bill barked, immediately shifting to block you completely with his body. One hand stayed on your waist, the other pointing sharply at the kid. “Get the fuck out! Now!”
The replacement stumbled back a step. “S-Sorry, Sarge! I didn’t know—”
“Yeah, you didn’t know because you didn’t knock, you little shit! My wife is in here!” Bill’s voice was loud and furious, protective fury radiating off him. “Tell Welsh I’ll be there in ten minutes. And if you ever walk in on me and my wife again, I’ll break your goddamn legs!”
The kid fled.
The second the door slammed shut, Bill turned back to you. His expression softened instantly as he gently fixed your dress and pulled you into his arms.
“You okay, baby?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. His voice was still rough, but now it was all for you. “Little bastard ruined it. I’m sorry.”
You were flushed and still trembling slightly from how close you’d been, but you managed a small, shy smile against his chest.
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I was… really close already.”
Bill groaned and held you tighter, forehead dropping to yours.
“Goddamn it. Now I’m gonna be thinkin’ about that the whole supply run.” He kissed you hard, possessive. “When I get back, we’re finishin’ what we started. And I’m lockin’ every damn door this time.”
Denver “Bull” Randleman
The small room above the café had been quiet all afternoon — a rare pocket of peace. Bull had you in his lap on the narrow bed, your dress bunched up, his large hands steady and careful on your thighs as he kissed you slow and deep. You were already sensitive, already close, soft sounds escaping against his mouth every time he touched you.
“Easy, darlin’,” he rumbled quietly, voice low and warm. “I got you. Just let it happen.”
You were trembling in his arms, so responsive and innocent in the way only you could be, when a hesitant knock sounded at the door.
“Sergeant Randleman? It’s Private Miller. Captain Winters wanted me to find you — there’s a patrol briefing in twenty minutes and he said you should be there.”
Bull went very still.
His hands stayed on you, protective, but his entire body tensed. He turned his head slightly toward the door without moving you off his lap.
“Miller,” he called, voice deep and calm but carrying unmistakable weight, “I’m occupied. Tell the Captain I’ll be there shortly.”
There was a pause on the other side of the door.
“Uh… he said it was important, Sarge.”
Bull’s jaw tightened. He gently shifted you so you were more covered, then spoke again, quieter but firmer.
“Miller. I said I’ll be there shortly. My wife is with me. You understand what that means?”
Another pause. Then a hurried, “Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant,” followed by retreating footsteps.
Bull exhaled slowly and turned his full attention back to you. His big hands were careful as he smoothed your dress back down and pulled you against his chest.
“You alright?” he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
You nodded against him, still a little flushed and breathless. “I was… really close.”
Bull let out a low, rumbling sound — half frustration, half affection — and held you tighter.
“I know, sweetheart. I could feel it.” He rested his chin on your head for a moment. “Damn replacements got no sense of timing.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle. “When I get back from this briefing, we’re pickin’ up right where we left off. And I’m puttin’ a chair under the doorknob this time.”
Eugene “Doc” Roe
The quiet corner of the aid station had been cleared out for a few hours — a rare moment of peace. Eugene had you pressed gently against the wall in the back room, his hands careful but urgent as he kissed you. You were already trembling, already sensitive in that way that always undid him, soft little sounds escaping every time he touched you.
“Mon cœur…” he murmured against your throat, voice low and rough. “You’re already fallin’ apart for me. So sweet. So innocent.”
You clung to him, overwhelmed in the best way, when the door to the aid station creaked.
“Doc? You in here? One of the replacements took a bad fall off a truck and we need—”
Eugene moved fast.
He immediately shifted, using his body to shield you completely while one hand reached out and yanked a blanket off a nearby cot, draping it over your shoulders in one smooth motion. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but carried an edge the other men rarely heard from him.
“Out,” he said sharply. “Now. My wife is in here.”
The young private froze in the doorway, eyes wide. “Oh— shit, sorry Doc, I didn’t—”
“Out,” Eugene repeated, colder this time. “And close the door behind you. Tell them I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
The private fled, the door slamming shut.
Eugene stayed still for a second, breathing hard, still shielding you with his body. Then he turned to you, expression softening instantly as he gently fixed your dress and pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders.
“You okay, cher?” he asked softly, one hand cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed over your skin with careful tenderness. “I’m sorry. Should’ve locked the damn door.”
You were still flushed and trembling slightly from how close you’d been, but you managed a small nod, leaning into his touch.
“I was… almost there,” you admitted shyly.
Eugene let out a quiet, shaky breath and rested his forehead against yours.
“I know,” he murmured. “I could feel it. You’re always so sensitive for me.” He kissed you softly, then again, slower. “When I get back, we’re findin’ somewhere with a lock. And I’m not lettin’ anyone near you until I’ve taken care of my wife properly.”
Ronald Speirs
The small house on the outskirts of the village had been empty — a rare, perfect pocket of privacy during the lull. Speirs had you on the narrow bed, your dress pushed up, his hands firm but controlled as he kissed you with that intense, focused hunger he rarely showed anyone else. You were already sensitive, already close, trembling beneath him in that innocent, overwhelmed way that always made something dark and possessive flicker in his eyes.
“You’re shaking already,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low and calm even as his hands moved with purpose. “So responsive. So sweet.”
You clung to him, soft sounds escaping, when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
“Lieutenant Speirs? It’s Private Harris. Captain Winters needs you for a briefing in fifteen minutes — said it’s urgent.”
Speirs went completely still.
For a long moment he didn’t move. Then he slowly lifted his head, eyes cold and sharp as he looked toward the door. When he spoke, his voice was quiet — dangerously quiet.
“Private Harris,” he said evenly, “I am occupied. Tell Captain Winters I will be there when I am finished here.”
There was a pause.
“Sir, he said it was important—”
Speirs’ voice dropped even lower, calm but laced with unmistakable threat.
“Private. If you knock on this door again, or if anyone else does, I will assume you are an enemy combatant and act accordingly. Do you understand me?”
Dead silence on the other side of the door. Then hurried footsteps retreating.
Speirs stayed still for another second, breathing controlled, before he turned his full attention back to you. His expression shifted — the cold edge melting into something intense and focused entirely on you.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, one hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
You nodded, still flushed and trembling from how close you’d been. “I was… really close.”
Speirs’ eyes darkened. He leaned down and kissed you slowly, deeply, possessive.
“I know,” he murmured against your lips. “I could feel every single time you almost fell apart.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your lower lip. “That private just cost me the rarest thing I have — time with my wife.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, but with clear intent.
“When I return from this briefing,” he said quietly, voice low and certain, “no one will interrupt us again. And I’m going to take my time with you. All of it.”
I think we need more Eugene Roe x Reader but you didn't hear it from me 🤫 nuh uh
👀 who out there whispering???? Because....
Falling asleep with Eugene Roe in a foxhole.
It's the norm. Shouldn't be, but it is. Three medics to a foxhole. Just you and Doc Roe...and Spina. Oh, don't mind the latter. Third wheel? What third wheel? Just pretend he's a natural part of your romance, just adding adlibs here and there, smoking a cig while reading the newspaper as you cuddle up to Eugene.
Should only be two medics at most. Strategically, only one, but Spina's more than happy to be the diversion as you hide and try to get away when the officers come around, back to your foxhole with some other grunt. So just relax and do your thing with Geney; you both aren't protesting the extra blanket and body warmth Ralph adds to the setup. Just make sure he doesn't sing. Ever.
It's another night. Cold. Snow everywhere. Liebgott's on fire watch with Malarkey, and you'd handed out the bribes like any other night. Spina, you, and Doc Roe, snug as a bug in a rug in your foxhole. You curl up on Eugene's body, your hand under his coat to lay your hand on his chest, listening to Ralph's soft snores. He horribly serenades the both of you tonight, as usual, before Heffron tells him to "shut his goddamned mouth"; after that, standup comedy, where he laughs at his own jokes to sleep, leaving you and Geney to count the stars.
"You gonna tell me if it ge' too chilly, you hear me?"
"I will," you say contentedly. "Don't worry."
Night after precious night, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Playing with his dog tags and feeling the warmth of his body seep into yours. In this time and space, you can ignore the bits of shrapnel and ammo shells scattered about, of blown earth and the continuous suspense of possible ambush. There's a forbidden luxury in hearing him cite his prayers, of tracing the lines of his palm and the beads of his rosary. Slumber settles over you to the sound of soft English and Cajun French, and you smile.
One last time, you trace over his stubble, smoothing the tension in his jaw, before brushing your fingers over his brow. He knows. The crickets chirp to snores and hushed conversations and the crackle of the fire. There's a lull in his eyes that reflect in yours. There's comfort in the steady weight of Spina's body at your back. There's the call for the change of firewatch, and you crane your head up at Eugene.
"Bonne nuit, Cher."
Slow and quiet is the kiss. His arms around you pull you in closer as your lips touch after the final amen, after your fingers gingerly guide his rosary back into his pocket for safekeeping. Every single time, the excitement never wanes, the happiness. Warmth blooms in the snow as he wishes you goodnight as he always does. Every night, you never want anything to change.
"Can I also get a goodnight kiss?" a familiar, sleepy voice asks.
You're dating the most competent man alive, which is both comforting and exhausting.
Brings you flowers, but they're always seasonal, hand-picked, and arranged by color palette. Almost irritatingly perfect.
Says “I’ll pick you up at 6” and actually shows up at 6.
Has never texted “lol” in his life. Doesn’t know what it stands for. Probably assumes it’s code.
Keeps a running list of your favorite meals in a tiny notebook he won’t admit exists.
Will never post you on social media. But everyone knows he's taken.
Pros: Chivalry. Boundaries.
Cons: Has absolutely said “I’m not mad, I’m disappointed” and meant it.
🥃 Nixon
You thought you were just flirting with the guy at the bar who had sad eyes and good jokes. You were wrong. You’re in love.
Takes you on 2 a.m. walks and reads obscure history books in bed.
Sends texts like: “Thinking about you. Also the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.”
Lets you wear his robe. You never give it back. He pretends to mind.
Pros: Thoughtful chaos. Witty with his wounds.
Cons: Has 8 types of whiskey and only one functional emotion.
😐 Speirs
You didn’t choose to date him. You made extended eye contact and now you're in a relationship.
You basically left the door open and he never left.
Sends exactly one text per day to check in on you: “?” Somehow it means “I love you.”
Buys you a knife “for protection.”
Also carries one for you.
"Isn't this illegal to carry?" "Not unless you show it to the police."
Overprotective, but lowkey about it, unless someone pushes it. Then he's across the room in two seconds.
Once picked you up from work and stared down your boss.
Doesn’t talk much, but will say follow you anywhere like he’s ordering a coffee.
Accidentally-on-purpose sends you a thirst trap photo then denies ever trying to send it.
Pros: Loyalty like gravity. Deadpan devotion. Surprisingly great cook.
Cons: Communicates in Morse code and murder energy.
🐶 Lipton
You mention a bad day once and he brings you snacks, your favourite blanket, and gently worded life advice.
Your parents adore him. Your friends think he’s made of sunlight.
Keeps a shared calendar and color-codes it on his tablet so your schedules are lined up.
Once bought you a plant and then felt guilty when it died.
Posts you constantly. “Look how beautiful my partner is" despite the boys teasing him about it and you begging him not to.
Pros: Stability. Affection. Emotional fluency.
Cons: Nothing. He is the benchmark. Marry him.
📱 Luz
Your relationship is 50% memes, 50% -"Are we being ironic or deeply in love?”
You start as friends; you accidentally hook up when you're laughing so hard you fall on top of each other.
Insists on “us” selfies where he makes faces and you try not to laugh.
The only one who knows how to use Snapchat.
Texts you at 2 a.m. with things like: “What if birds aren’t real but you are? 😳”
Actually deeply observant. Knows when you’re down and distracts you on purpose.
Took you on a date to IKEA and turned it into a fake domestic fantasy in one of the demonstration rooms and with a stuffed animal as a fake baby. You almost cried before he tossed the stuffed shark back into the bin and accidentally hit a child.
Led to a chase through the Ikea demonstration rooms and several "HAVE YOU SEEN THESE PEOPLE" posters up around Ikea.
You now have to go to the Ikea two towns over in order to get anything because an overreactive parents wants to press charges.
Calls you “babe” and “General.” Both feel right.
Always fills up the car with gas.
Pros: Chaos with a big heart. ADHD-coded love notes ("Officially diagnosed, bayyyybayyyyyy."), a rotating stock pile of increasingly more stupid and hilarious bumper stickers.
Cons: You have no idea if he paid the electricity bill or not and you force him into automatic billing so you don't have a heart attack every month.
🐍 Toye
You’re dating a grumpy old soul in a 30-year-old body.
Will fight for you, with you, or instead of you. Pick your poison.
Acts annoyed when you kiss his cheek. Secretly lives for it.
Owns two hoodies. You steal both. He complains, but lets you keep them.
“I’m not soft,” he says, while tucking a blanket around you and kissing your forehead.
Pros: Ride or die. Secret cuddler. Will deck someone in your name.
Cons: Pretends Taylor Swift is overrated but knows all the words and has a favourite era ("Reputation, obviously.").
🦿 Guarnere
Calls you “babe,” “honey,” “doll,” and “sergeant,” all in one sentence.
Flirts like he’s in a black-and-white movie.
Picks you up and spins you around if you so much as smile.
Surprisingly romantic. Candlelit dinner in the garage with pizza? He delivered.
Definitely got into a physical altercation with someone who insulted you on Twitter.
Unironically loves mafia films.
1000 percent supports Luigi Mangione ("HE WAS THE BEST GUY AROUNDDDDD" "What about the murder?" "WHAT MURDAAAAH").
Pros: Energy. Heart. Loyalty.
Cons: Will 100% bring a speaker to the park and blast Sinatra. Lives for shitty Italian-American representation like your local community theatre's production of "Jersey Boys" where the Frankie Valli actor is ten times too old and can hardly hit the high notes.
🎧 Malarkey
The actual definition of a "dog boyfriend," but less of a "golden retriever" boyfriend and more of a springer spaniel.
Texts you “u up?” at 10 p.m. but it’s just to show you a playlist he made called “Songs That Remind Me of Ur Face" with a stupid smiley face attached.
Always down for a drive to nowhere with the windows down and sad music playing. Unironically loves Lana Del Rey.
Brings you snacks, coffee, and a rock he found that “looks kind of like a heart.”
Makes a full Spotify playlist for your first kiss. Shares it. Title: “holy crap i like you.”
Watches rom-coms and pretends it’s “for the memes.” He cries every time.
Favourite is "You've Got Mail."
Pros: Soft hands. Big hugs. Bigger feelings.
Cons: Will make your entire relationship into a playlist and sob over it until you tell him to knock it off and force him to go on a "emotions walk."
💅 Perconte
You’ve never been exfoliated this emotionally in your life.
Shows his love by giving you a skincare routine and yelling if you don’t stick to it.
Buys matching water bottles. “Hydration is sexy, babe.”
Will literally throw down in Sephora if someone is rude to you.
Hates Sephora kids ("They always ruin the samples- no respect. Absolutely no respect.").
Ends up teaching the kids proper exfoliation after they mistake him for 28 and say "You look so good for your age."
Posts you on Instagram like: “Get yourself someone who makes your pores and heart glow.”
Surprises you with breakfast and a “face mask date.” He wears a stretchy headband. You fall harder.
Unironically loves Lululemon. Is more of a Lululemon Sephora girlie than any white girl you've ever met.
Pros: Skincare sugar daddy. Rides hard for you. Smells amazing.
Cons: Will judge your shampoo.
🥺 Babe Heffron
Human cinnamon roll. Cries if you look too pretty for too long.
Writes you little notes and leaves them in your bag like “You’re my favorite person.”
Nervous to hold your hand at first. Now does it constantly, like it’s oxygen. LOVES hand holding, even if it gets sweaty after a while and you have to shake your hand out.
Enjoys forehead kisses more than actual kisses.
Brings you flowers “just because.” Doesn’t realize you’re crying.
Asks if he can kiss you every single time. You say yes. Every single time.
Looks at you like you hung the moon. He means it.
Pros: Pure. Gentle. Hugs like home.
Cons: Cries during SPCA commercials.
🕯️ Doc Roe
Soft-spoken and emotionally confusing until one day he just… lays his soul at your feet. You die internally.
Carries your favourite snacks in his bag without telling you.
Touches your wrist to check your pulse like it’s a casual excuse to hold your hand. Your heart skips.
Won’t say “I love you” out loud for months, but he’ll pull you behind him when crossing the street.
ALWAYS walks on the outside near the cars.
One night he kisses you like he’s afraid the world might end. You realize he’s been in love with you since day one.
Pros: Quiet protector. Heals everything he touches.
Cons: Will not talk about his own feelings unless you really ask.
🗡️ Joe Liebgott
Says he doesn’t care about anything, but memorizes your coffee order by week two and brings it to your workplace.
Always swears when he compliments you — “Fuck- you look good."
Will snap at the world, but kiss you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear between blinks until you reassure him.
Calls you dumb affectionately. Tells you he’s the dumb one when your feelings get too quiet.
Acts like your hand in his is no big deal, but holds it like it’s keeping him here.
Gets loud with other people. Gets quiet with you.
You catch him staring at you during a dumb movie. He shrugs and says, “What? You’re the best part.”
One night, after a fight with another guy who was being rude to you, you hear him whisper, “I don’t know how to be good, but I do know how to love you.”
And he does.
Pros: Fierce loyalty. Cuts the world down to protect your peace. Would financially support you without even asking if you wanted to stay at home.
Cons: Will implode if you say the word “vulnerable” too directly.
Smutty smut - how the sex goes down after months of not being able to touch one another, 18+ content below the cut - like pure filth so be warned.
Babe Heffron:
“Babe.” You’d be grinding on top of him, the two of you attempting to keep quiet as you move your hips back and forth on top of him. You’d be red in the cheeks, the warmest you’d felt in months, completely naked in the small bedroom you’d escaped to in Haguenau. Babe would swallow harshly, hands digging into your hips as he focuses on not cumming so quickly but he’s so captivated by the way your body moves against his, the way your face is confronted in pleasure and the way your tits would bounce with every movement.
Your back would be arched and you’re feeling like you’re ready to hit your peak until somebody bangs harshly on the door. “What the hell are you two doing in there?!”
Babe would shoot up, pulling your body below his protectively, with a harsh shout of, “nothin’! Go away!” At first he’d be a little disgruntled that your first love making session after months would be interrupted. “You’re doin’ nothin’?!” One of the other men would call out, not sounding so sure and you’d make eye contact and begin giggling before shushing each other.
“Yeah, nothin’! Just fuck off!” He called out again before looking down to you and kissing you deeply. “Just make sure you wrap it, Babe!”
Ron Speirs:
Dirty, dirty, pent up tension sex in his office after waiting for so fucking long. He’d have you bent over his table, your hands gripping onto anything they could find as he’d hold you by the hips and thighs, pulling your body into his with every single thrust of his hips.
It would be the kind of sex where you can’t walk properly for days after, like it’s sinful but you have to say quiet. Ron has his tie wrapped around your mouth, gagging you as he mutters praises every now and then.
“Missed you so much, sweetheart.”
“You’re even tighter than I remember.”
“God, I love this pussy.”
Ron is such a dom, and the two of you would get soooo carried away with how rough and lustful the sex gets. When you’re laid back over his desk and he’s on top of you he doesn’t give two shits about swiping everything onto the floor. After, when both of you are dishevelled and relieved it takes a whole long time to tidy up the mess you both make.
Joe Liebgott:
The two of you are friends until things bubble over during the party in Eindhoven. One minute you’re talking about how the neither has got any for months and then next thing you know you’re making out as needy and desperate as anything. The underlying sexual tension finally bubbles over and Joe is groping at your titties as you lay back on the table in some random house and he fucks you stood up.
The two of you don’t really speak, but considering how loud the festivities and party goers are outside you can be as loud as you want resulting in some pretty noisy, energetic sex. I wouldn’t necessarily call it rough, but it’s quick, his thrusts are erratic and you’re bouncing like crazy on top of him. Joe’s super cautious however, like he’d deffo check several times that you’re sure, especially as you’re friends- you’d deffo forget to use a condom and after the sex it sure does make for some awkward meetings later on.
Gene Roe:
Listen, cos you’re a nurse and he’s a medic you probs get the opportunity to be together alot more than you would in any other position. But just because you’re together doesn’t mean you’re alone, you’ve both tried for months to get some time alone, behind the closed curtains in the aid station, outside behind a bombed out building- hell you’d even sought each other out in a foxhole sometimes.
But nothing went past making out and touching over the clothes, that was until now. You’d finally got back to England and the house he was billeted in was empty for the night meaning you two were left to it on a rickety single bed. Did either of you care? No. The two of you would spend hours exploring one another’s body’s again, kissing, biting, sucking. Gene would have his head between for legs for hours if he could, and when he’d on top, fucking into you he’s already warning you he can’t last for long. Poor Gene would probs finish so fast but he’d go for another round, huffing and puffing past how sensitive his cock was because he knows it makes you feel so good.
Joe Toye:
“Fucking finally.” He’d mutter as soon as he was inside of you. His hips would move slowly, exhaling as he throws his sling onto the aid station cot behind him. “Joe.” You’d warn quietly. It’s super late in the aid station, Joe’s messed his arm up and the only perk of being at the aid station is that he gets to see you. After a heated exchange you find an empty space and the two of you give into your temptations.
It’s slow and sensual, you both have to be extra fucking quiet but Joe’s kissing up and down your spine when he takes you from behind, muffling your breaths with his hand and spilling his cum all over your ass, feeling like he could bust all over again at the sight of his seed dripping over your sweet pussy.
“Just 10 more minutes, huh, sugar?”
Lewis Nixon:
After you both go through breakups towards the end of the war, neither of you have had sex for a good year. The two of you would be drunk and comforting one another and one thing leads to another and soon you’re writhing beneath him, moaning out ‘sir’ as he’s bucking into you. Ugh and it’s so good, so lustful and dirty, you both have so much pent up emotion that’s released during the sex and afterwards the two of you kinda look each other like, ‘holy fuck that was good, did we actually just do that?’
Lewis deffo shares a cigarette with you after.
Floyd Talbert:
“C’mere, doll.” He’d hush pulling you into some kind of shed, close enough to where everybody in the company were. He had you picked up, holding your thighs and ass up whilst he fucked you as quietly as possible. Neither of you cared about the impractical location, you were alone and Floyd was inside you. The two of you probably wouldn’t bother with a condom which ummm leads to a worrying few weeks after but it’s all chill.
Floyd would have you in every kinda position, on the floor, up against the wooden wall- only when the whole shed was shaking did he have to lay you down using his blazer as a barrier between you and the floor. Floyd would be all over you, squeezing, grabbing, kissing, even though it’s probably just a quickly he’d throw in a million different things, including foreplay just to touch all the bases.
summary: in a fox hole in Bastogne eugene promises to take you to New Orleans once the war is over and tells you how you’ll love it there, and when you finally end up going you do love it, only with another man.
content: angst
notes: based on the song thinking of you by katy perry
wc: 5.5k
After what felt like hours, the shelling had finally eased off.
Not stopped, but settled into something distant enough that neither of you flinched. The occasional clap of a grenade rolled across the frozen land, shaking the near by trees causing loose flecks of ice to fall onto the already white ground.
Silence, save for the wind.
The foxhole was barely large enough for the two of you. Knees tucked in, shoulders brushing at every sudden movement, every breath turned to mist in the bitter December air.
Eugene sat with his helmet tipped low over his brow, his medical bag resting between his boots. He'd spent the better part of the day running from one wounded man to the next. There was dried blood on his gloves he hadn't had the chance to scrub away.
You stared up at the sliver of sky visible above, eyes glazing over at the bite of the cold.
"I forgot what quiet sounded like."
A corner of Eugene's mouth twitched.
"This ain't quiet."
You stopped, attempting to listen to the icy wasteland.
Far-off artillery.
The whistle of wind through bare branches.
Someone coughing in another foxhole.
You let out a shaky sigh.
"Yeah, I suppose not."
A somewhat comfortable silence settled between the two of you.
"You miss home?" You asked eventually.
Eugene rubbed his hands together for warmth.
"Every day."
"What do you miss most?"
He thought about it longer than you had expected he would.
Most of the men you had asked this question to usually answered before the sentence could finish leaving your lips.
"The smell."
You turned to him with a brow raised.
"The smell?"
"Yeah."
He looked out across the white forest.
"After it rains."
You frowned.
"Rain has a smell?"
"You've never noticed?"
"I've noticed puddles and mud."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"No. Rain in New Orleans." His voice grew softer, almost absent-minded. "Warm rain. Whole city's different after. Everything smells clean."
You smiled at his statement, lips cracking slightly at the movement.
"I don't think England has ever smelled clean."
That earned an actual chuckle.
"No."
You nudged his shoulder with yours.
"So... New Orleans."
"Mhm."
"What's it like?"
His breathing stuttered at the question.
For a moment he was somewhere else entirely.
"Busy."
"That's not very descriptive."
He shrugged.
"Music everywhere."
"Everywhere?"
"Mhm."
Your face began to scrunch up lightly.
"Even in the streets?"
"Especially in the streets."
His eyes stayed fixed somewhere beyond the trees.
"You'll hear someone playing a trumpet from halfway down the block. Kids running about. Folks dancing for no reason."
You smiled fondly at the image, eyes never leaving his face.
"It sounds made up."
"It ain't."
"You've got proof?"
"My ma."
A shirt laugh escaped your frost bitten lips.
"I'll need stronger proof than that."
He smiled to himself.
"You would."
“What does that mean?”
He only looked at you and smirked.
The wind picked up again.
You tucked your hands deeper into your damp sleeves.
"I'd like to see it one day, sounds like a place I’d enjoy."
Eugene looked at you.
"You would."
"You keep saying that."
"'Cause it's true."
"What makes you so sure?"
He studied you for a second before answering.
"You always stop whenever somebody's singing."
You blinked at him.
"What?"
"I've seen you."
"When?"
"Whenever Luz has had one to many and starts making a fool of himself."
You gasped quietly, feigning shock.
"I do not."
"You do."
"I've never-"
"You always join in dancing before anybody else does."
You opened your mouth to argue before realising...
He was right.
You shook your head, helmet moving slightly askew as you did.
"You notice way too much."
"More like I just got eyes."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough."
You looked down, suddenly the only heat radiating from your body being the reddening of your face.
"And what else do you know?"
He answered without hesitation.
"You hate the watered down coffee they give us."
"It's dreadful."
"You always give your gloves away."
"They're usually colder than me."
"You ain't fooling nobody."
You smiled.
"You pretend you don't like being fussed over."
"I don't."
"Liar."
He looked away, the smallest smile tugging at his lips.
Another stretch of silence.
Long enough for snowflakes to begin drifting lazily into the foxhole.
You watched one land on the sleeve of his jacket before melting away.
"When this is over..." you murmured.
He glanced at you.
"What d'you reckon you'll do first?"
He didn't answer straight away.
"Sleep."
You rolled your eyes, a almost permanent smile tugging at your lips.
"For how long?"
"Week."
"Only a week?"
He considered it, brows pinched together.
"Maybe two."
You titled your head to the side.
"And then?"
He drew a slow breath.
"Go home."
The words were almost whispered.
"Sit on my ma’s porch."
He could almost see it.
"Listen to the rain."
You imagined him there, without the mud, without the blood, without the exhaustion that seemed to live permanently behind his eyes.
It suited him.
You almost imagined yourself sitting next to him.
"What about you?" he asked.
You thought for a moment.
"I don't know."
"No?"
"I've spent so long thinking about getting through tomorrow that I never really thought about after."
He nodded.
"Guess that's fair."
You looked up at the pale winter sky.
"I'd like to travel."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
"Where?"
You kissed your teeth.
"I suppose New Orleans ought to be on the list."
His expression softened.
"You'd like it."
"Yeah, you've said."
"I mean it."
You looked at him, eyes tracing his.
"I'll have to take your word for it."
He held your gaze for a long moment.
"I'll take you."
You stopped moving for a split second, a frown covering your brow.
"What?"
"I'll take you."
You couldn't help but breathe a misty air of laughter.
"When?"
He looked almost confused by the question.
"After the war."
The words hung between you.
You searched his face for even the slightest hint that he was joking.
There wasn't one.
Just him.
Looking at you as though taking you to New Orleans was the most ordinary promise in the world.
You felt your chest tighten.
"I'd like that."
It came out almost like a whisper.
"So would I."
Neither of you spoke after that.
You simply sat together as snow drifted into the foxhole, imagining a city of warm rain, brass bands and sunlit streets that felt impossibly far away.
For a little while, Bastogne disappeared.
And for the first time in weeks, you let yourselves believe that there really would be an after.
The war was over.
You couldn't quite believe it, and neither could the men who you'd been through hell with.
As you made your way through the sea of men, you found yourself surrounded by the faces of soldiers with nothing but relief and happiness etched across them.
Though you were only looking for the face of one soldier.
You found Eugene sitting beneath the shade of a tree just beyond the celebrating men, his medical bag open between his knees.
Old habits die hard you thought.
Even now, he was restocking bandages that probably wouldn't be needed anymore.
"You know," you said as you approached, "you're allowed to stop working now."
He glanced up.
"I know."
"You don't look convinced."
"I'm thinking."
You sat beside him, stretching your aching legs out in the warm spring grass.
"About?"
He shrugged.
"What comes next."
You smiled at him, squinting under the light.
"I thought that was easy."
"Yeah?"
"You go home."
"Mhm."
"You sleep for two weeks."
He looked at you, puzzled.
"I said one."
"You changed your mind."
"I don't remember that."
"You definitely did."
A small smile appeared.
"You keeping track?"
"Someone has to." you spoke, rolling your eyes.
For a while you simply watched the men scattered around camp.
Liebgott and Webster were arguing over a game of cards.
Lipton was trying, and failing, to restore some order.
Luz had somehow convinced a handful of the replacements to join him in another ridiculous song.
It almost looked normal.
"You'll write?" you asked quietly.
Eugene didn't hesitate.
"Course."
"You promise?"
"I said I would."
You looked at him fondly, lightly biting your bottom lip as you watched the way the wind flowed through his short but messy hair.
"I know."
He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket.
"I got something."
"What is it?"
Instead of answering, he placed a small object in your palm.
A tarnished St. Christopher medal, worn smooth around the edges.
The chain had long since broken.
You looked up.
"Eugene..."
"My ma gave it to me."
Your eyes widened, a cold wave spilling over you.
"I can't take this."
"You can."
"No, I-“
"You can."
He closed your fingers gently around it.
"It brought me this far."
"I couldn't possibly-"
"I want you to have it."
You stared at the medal lying against your skin.
"You'll need it."
He shook his head.
"War's over."
"It doesn't mean nothing bad can happen."
"I know."
"Then keep it."
You pushed the medal out toward him, it sparkling against your open palm.
He huffed before lightly shoving it towards your chest, your hand tightening around it and the warn down edges beginning to make small engravings against the calloused skin of your palm.
"I reckon you'll look after it better than I ever did."
You swallowed hard.
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to."
The breeze stirred the leaves above you both.
You slipped the medal carefully into the pocket over your heart, the small outline against the warn fabric making roe's stomach flip.
"I don't have anything for you."
"You don't need to give me anything."
You frowned.
"I feel awful."
He chuckled quietly.
"You wrote me that note."
"What note?"
"'Don't get yourself killed. I'd hate to have to find another medic.'"
You groaned tipping your head backwards to the point there was a slight crack sound.
"I was trying to be funny."
"It worked."
"You kept it?"
He reached into his wallet.
The leather worn and battered and the clasp on the side clinging on with whatever life force it had left.
Folded carefully between photographs and old papers was the tiny scrap you'd shoved into his hand weeks earlier before he'd run off to answer another call.
The paper was creased nearly white at the folds.
You stared.
"You carried that?"
"Mhm."
"It's barely even a sentence."
"'S enough."
You laughed, though your eyes had begun to sting as you pulled loose strands of hair away from your eyes.
"I think you're sentimental."
"I think you're wrong."
"You kept it in your wallet."
He looked away, unable to hide the smile tugging at his mouth.
"Maybe."
The sound of a jeep approaching interrupted them.
One of the officers climbed down.
"Roe!"
Eugene looked over.
"Looks like your orders've come through."
The smile faded from your face, as your stomach began to sink.
"So soon?"
The officer nodded.
"They're moving men around already."
Eugene stood, brushing the grass from his trousers.
"I'll be back."
He sounded certain.
The officer wandered off to find someone else.
You stood too, hands falling awkwardly at your side.
"So..."
"So."
Neither of you seemed to know what came next.
Your eyes began to memorise his face with the face fear and urgency that matched all the times you'd watched him on the feild.
"I suppose this is goodbye."
"For now."
You inhaled a sharp breath while you nodded.
"For now."
He held out his hand.
You looked at it for a moment before slowly meeting his eyes again, face drowned in disbelief.
"Really?"
"What?"
"After everything... you're shaking my hand?"
His ears reddened slightly.
"I..."
You stepped forward before he could finish.
Your arms wrapped around him.
For a heartbeat he simply froze.
Then, carefully. as though afraid you'd disappear if he held you too tightly, his arms settled around you.
You rested your forehead against his shoulder.
"You better write."
"I will."
"And don't forget."
"I won't."
"You promised."
"I know."
You stayed like that for another moment before pulling apart.
You smiled through suspiciously bright eyes.
"I expect a full tour."
He frowned.
"Of what?"
"New Orleans."
Recognition softened his expression.
"Oh."
He smiled.
"I ain't forgotten."
You watched him climb into the waiting jeep.
Just before it pulled away, he leaned out.
"Hey!"
You looked up.
"When it rains."
"What?"
"The smell."
"I'll remember."
The jeep disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.
You stood there long after it had vanished from sight, one hand tucked into your pocket, your fingers wrapped tightly around the little St. Christopher medal.
You didn't know it then, but it would be years before you saw Eugene Roe again.
And by then, everything would have changed.
Home didn't feel like home.
Not after France.
Not after Holland.
Not after Bastogne.
The little house you’d grown up in looked exactly as she'd remembered it, ivy climbing the brick walls, the crooked gate your father had always promised to fix, the smell of your mother's baking drifting through the open kitchen window.
It should have felt like a comfort, like a relief.
Instead, it felt... unfamiliar.
Like you’d returned to someone else's life.
"You've gone thin," your mother fussed, pulling you into a hug before you’d even stepped properly through the front door.
"I've been in a war, Mother."
"Well, you'll soon put that right."
Your father appeared from the sitting room.
"Good journey?"
You nodded.
"It was."
He smiled, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes, there was something oddly nervous about it.
"Come in. We've got something to discuss."
"What sort of something?"
"You'll see."
Dinner was quieter than you remembered.
Your mother kept asking about the Americans you’d served with.
Your father asked very little about the war.
Neither of them asked about Eugene.
They should’ve known his name by this point.
You’d mentioned him in almost every letter since your transfer to easy company.
They would’ve watched as he turned from ‘A medic from Louisiana’ to ‘Gene’.
But they said nothing.
You hadn't wanted to tempt fate by saying any more.
As your mother cleared away the last of the plates, your father folded his hands together.
"There's a young man we'd like you to meet."
You looked up bewildered from the half empty glass of wine you’d been nursing for the past hour.
"What?"
"He works with Mr. Peterson at the engineering office."
"...Alright?"
"His name's Jack."
You blinked.
"Good for him."
Your parents exchanged a glance.
"He's expressed an interest in courting you."
The wine caught in your throat.
"I've only just got home."
"He comes from a respectable family."
"Mum..."
"He has steady work."
"Dad?"
He leaned forward.
"The war is over."
"I know."
"It's time to begin thinking about your future."
"My future?"
"Marriage."
None of the words seemed to compute in your head.
"I'm sorry..."
You laughed once, almost certain that you’d misheard what they were telling you.
"...you what?"
"You've reached an age where-“
"I've been home for three days."
Your mother's expression softened.
"We're only thinking of what's best."
"I don't even know him."
"You will."
"No."
"You'll come to dinner on Sunday."
"No."
His voice then hardened at the lack of cooperation in your behaviour.
"You'll meet him."
You pushed back your chair in a sudden erratic manner.
"I've already,"
You stopped yourself.
Already what?
Already fallen in love?
Already promised someone that you’d wait?
You swallowed the words.
Your mother reached across the table, attempting to offer some sort of comfort.
"Sweetheart..."
"It was a wartime friendship."
Your head snapped up so quick you felt your head sway slightly.
"What?"
"We know how these things happen."
Ice settled in your stomach.
"You read my letters."
"Yes."
"You knew."
"You mentioned him quite a lot dear."
She smiled sadly at you, almost knowing.
"Those sorts of attachments... they're understandable during a war."
"It wasn't-"
"But now you're home."
Your father nodded once.
"It's time to move forward."
Jack was kind.
That almost made it worse.
He wasn't arrogant.
Or cruel.
Or dismissive like you’d once feared.
He listened when you spoke.
He brought flowers to every visit.
He laughed at your jokes even when he didn’t specifically understand them.
He asked about your work.
Asked about your favourite books.
He never asked about France.
Never asked about Bastogne.
Perhaps he could see in your eyes that some questions weren't meant to be answered.
Months passed.
Then one afternoon your father announced it.
"Jack's asked permission."
You looked up from the book in your lap.
"For what?"
Your mother smiled.
"To marry you."
Silence.
You looked between them.
Then back again.
"...You what?"
"He'll ask you properly this evening."
"I haven't even-"
"You've been seeing each other for months."
"I never said-"
"He'll make a wonderful husband."
You wanted to say no.
You truly did.
But Eugene's letters had stopped weeks ago.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
Nothing.
Perhaps...
Perhaps he'd realised you’d never come to Louisiana.
Perhaps he'd met someone.
Perhaps he'd simply moved on.
The thought hollowed you out and bile began to rise in the back of your throat.
When Jack asked that evening, he looked so hopeful.
"I know we haven't known each other long..."
He smiled nervously.
"...but I'd like to spend the rest of my life making you happy."
You looked at him.
Really looked at him.
He deserved someone who loved him without hesitation.
Someone who didn't compare every smile to another man's.
Someone who wasn't still waiting for a promise whispered in a foxhole.
"...Yes."
The word barely sounded like yours, you felt as though someone had possessed you.
Marriage wasn't awful.
That was somehow the hard part.
Jack was patient.
Gentle.
The sort of man who noticed when you seemed quiet and simply held your hand rather than asking why.
He loved you.
Wholeheartedly.
You tried.
God, you tried.
You laughed when you were supposed to.
Smiled in photographs.
Held his hand on walks.
Kissed him goodbye each morning before work.
But every so often...
He'd laugh.
And for the briefest second,
It was Eugene.
He'd tilt his head while listening.
And you’d would see Eugene.
One rainy afternoon he reached over to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
You closed your eyes.
For one impossible heartbeat...
Warm Louisiana rain.
A foxhole.
"I'll take you there."
Jack kissed you softly.
She kissed him back.
But when you opened your eyes...
The man standing in front of her wasn't Eugene Roe.
Guilt and disgust crashed over you so fiercely you had to turn away.
"You alright?" Jack asked, concern seeping through his features.
You forced a smile.
"Just tired."
He believed you.
Dear reader,
I hope this reaches you this time.
I still don't know if my last few letters ever found their way to England. Maybe the post's just slow. Lord knows the Army's never been quick about anything.
I've finally got word.
They're sending me home.
Looks like this'll be my last letter before I leave.
Funny.
Feels stranger than I'd imagined.
Ma keeps asking when she's going to meet "the girl from England." I told her she'd like you.
I don't know if you still think about New Orleans.
I still owe you that tour.
I haven't forgotten.
I don't reckon I ever will.
I'll write again once I'm home.
Until then...
Take care of yourself.
Love
— Gene
The envelope was addressed carefully.
To the only address he'd ever known.
Your parents' house.
Your mother answered the door when the postman arrived.
Another letter.
Same handwriting.
She looked at it for a long moment.
Then quietly slipped it into the kitchen drawer beneath all the others.
"Love?"
You looked up from your sewing, hands sore from the constant prick of the needle.
Jack stood in the doorway, shrugging on his coat.
"Hm?"
"I've got some news."
"What sort of news?"
"A work trip."
"Oh?"
He smiled.
"They're sending me to America."
You blinked.
"For how long?"
"Week."
He thought for a moment.
"Maybe two."
You smiled faintly at a small distant feeling of familiarity.
"Where?"
He grinned.
"New Orleans."
The colour drained from your face and your blood ran cold.
"...New Orleans?"
"Yep!"
He laughed.
"I thought you might like to come with me."
You couldn't speak.
All you could hear was a quiet voice in the middle of a frozen forest.
'I'll take you there... after the war.'
The city was alive.
Even before the sun had properly climbed above the rooftops, music spilled into the streets.
Trumpets drifted through the warm morning air.
Laughter echoed from cafés tucked beneath wrought-iron balconies draped in flowers.
The scent of coffee lingered on every corner, mingling with something sweet you couldn't quite place.
You stood outside the hotel for a long moment, taking it all in.
"You alright?"
You turned.
Jack smiled as he straightened the collar of his jacket.
"You've gone quiet."
You managed a smile.
"It's... different."
"In a good way, I hope."
You nodded though a heavy feeling sat in your heart.
"Yes."
It was beautiful.
Exactly as Gene had described.
That thought settled heavily in your chest.
Jack offered his arm.
"Come on."
You slipped your hand through his.
"Let's explore."
The streets were busier than you’d ever imagined.
Market stalls overflowed with colourful fabrics and fresh fruit.
Children darted between adults, laughing as they chased one another through the square.
A woman sang from the doorway of a little shop while someone accompanied her on a battered piano.
You found yourself smiling harder than you had in a long time.
"You hear it?"
Jack looked over.
"Hear what?"
"The music."
He laughed.
"I'd be worried if I couldn't."
'Music everywhere.'
Gene had been right.
By midday, the heat had settled over the city like a heavy blanket.
Jack stopped outside a little café.
"I've heard these are supposed to be famous."
He emerged a few minutes later carrying a paper bag dusted with powdered sugar.
"What are they?"
"Beignets."
Your heart lurched and your knees felt slightly weaker.
You looked down at the warm pastry in your hands.
A memory surfaced so clearly you could almost hear his voice.
"You'd make a mess."
"I would not."
"Tell that to muck and the beans you spilt down his jacket."
You laughed under your breath at the vivid memory.
"What?" Jack asked.
"Oh..."
You looked down quickly.
"Nothing."
He brushed a thumb across the corner of your mouth.
"You've already got sugar on your face."
You froze.
For the briefest second...
It wasn't Jack standing in front of you.
It was Gene.
Tired.
Helmet crooked.
A teasing smile you’d only ever seen when it was just the two of you.
Then the moment vanished.
Jack smiled.
"Told you."
You swallowed back the memories.
"So you did."
That afternoon you wandered into Jackson Square.
Artists lined the pathways, their paintings propped against iron fences.
Musicians played beneath the shade of old oak trees.
You turned slowly.
Trying to take everything in.
Trying not to imagine another version of this day.
One where Gene was beside you instead.
Pointing at buildings.
Telling stories from his childhood.
Laughing whenever you got hopelessly lost.
"You've got that look again."
Jack's voice pulled you back to reality.
"What look?"
"The one where you're somewhere else."
"Sorry."
"No need to apologise."
He squeezed your hand gently.
"I know travelling can be overwhelming."
If only it were that simple.
As the afternoon wore on, you found yourselves walking along the river.
The Mississippi stretched endlessly before them, ships drifting lazily across the water.
"It's incredible," you whispered.
Jack nodded.
"It really is."
A comfortable silence settled between the two of you.
Then, almost casually, he asked,
"Didn't one of the men you served with come from here?"
You stopped walking.
Your head turned so quickly you almost gave yourself whiplash.
“What?”
He looked mildly surprised.
"From New Orleans."
"How..."
Your voice came out quieter than you’d intended, frightened almost.
"...how'd you know that?"
Jack frowned.
"I thought your mother mentioned it."
"My mother?"
"Mhm."
He shrugged.
"When we first got engaged, I think."
Your stomach tightened painfully.
"She said there was a medic from Louisiana you were friends with."
Friends.
The word felt painfully small.
"I didn't realise you'd remembered."
"I suppose I did."
He smiled.
"Funny, really."
"What is?"
"You've spent the whole day smiling."
A wave of nausea was still floating around you as you tried to comprehend the statement.
"I have?"
"Mhm."
He looked around at the bustling streets.
"I thought maybe it was because this place reminded you of something he'd told you."
You felt as though you could throw up.
He had no idea.
Not really.
He thought he was making conversation.
He couldn't possibly know that every street they walked...
Every trumpet they heard...
Every balcony they’d looked up at...
Every café they stopped in...
Had already been shown to you years ago.
Not with your eyes.
But through Gene's stories.
Jack laughed softly.
"He must've talked about home quite a lot."
You stared out across the river.
"He did."
"What was he like?"
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your handbag so tight they began to pulse.
You could still picture him in that foxhole.
Helmet pushed back.
Snow caught in his hair.
Speaking about warm rain as though it were the greatest thing in the world.
"He was..."
You smiled despite yourself, a fond look no one had ever seen but Eugene feathering your features.
"...quiet."
Jack nodded.
"I imagine he'd be pleased to know you finally made it here."
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment.
"So do I."
By the time evening settled over the city, you were both exhausted.
You returned to the hotel carrying little more than sore feet and a handful of souvenirs.
Jack loosened his tie as soon as he stepped inside the room.
"I don't think I've walked that much in years."
"You were the one insisting we see everything."
"Worth it."
He smiled at you, eyes creasing at the corners.
"I'm glad you came."
You looked back out of the window.
Beyond the glass, dark clouds rolled slowly across the Louisiana sky.
A low rumble of thunder echoed somewhere in the distance.
The first drops of rain began to fall.
You watched them race down the windowpane.
And without even thinking, you smiled.
"After it rains... the whole city's different."
Rain fell in steady sheets across New Orleans.
It drummed against rooftops.
Splashed into the gutters.
Ran from the iron balconies in silver streams.
The city looked softer somehow.
As though the storm had washed the noise away.
You slipped quietly from the hotel room, careful not to wake Jack.
The corridor creaked beneath your feet.
A minute later you stepped out into the warm Louisiana night.
Immediately the rain soaked through your coat.
You didn't care.
You couldn’t care.
You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.
Gene had been right.
It did smell different.
A sad smile flickered across your face like candle in the wind.
"Shit Gene. You were right..."
"...Told you."
The voice was barely above the rain.
You froze.
No.
Slowly...
Almost afraid you’d imagined it...
You turned.
A man stood beneath the glow of a streetlamp across the road.
Hands buried in the pockets of his coat.
Hair damp from the rain.
For one impossible second neither of you moved.
"...Gene?"
He stared at you.
As though saying your name aloud might make you disappear.
He crossed the street.
You met him halfway.
Neither of you spoke.
You simply threw your arms around him.
For a heartbeat he stood completely still.
Then his arms wrapped around you so tightly you thought he might never let go.
He laughed.
A broken, breathless laugh that sounded dangerously close to tears.
"I found you."
You buried your face against his shoulder.
"I thought..."
Your voice cracked, face contorting from the tears.
"I thought I'd never-“
"I found you."
He said it again.
As though he couldn't quite believe it himself.
When you finally pulled apart you simply looked at each other.
He looked older.
So did you.
Years older than either of you should have.
"You came."
You smiled sadly up at him.
"I did."
He laughed softly.
"Knew you would."
You looked around at the rain-soaked streets.
"...Just not with you."
A harrowing silence followed.
"I wrote."
A deep frown danced across your eyes.
“What?”
"I wrote every week."
He searched your face.
"Sometimes every day."
Your face lost all colour as you felt as though the world had started to crash down around you.
"...What?"
"I sent letters."
"I never got any."
"I sent 'em to your house."
"My-"
"My last letter... I told you I was finally coming home."
You stared at him in disbelief.
"...Gene."
"I kept writing."
"I never got them."
"I waited."
"So did I."
"No..."
You shook your head harder hoping it was all just one sick nightmare.
"No, I didn't, I didn't get a single one."
"I wrote."
"What letters?"
"And I wrote."
"What letters, Gene?"
"I sent them."
"I never got them!"
The words echoed down the empty street.
Both of you breathing hard.
Both of you looking at the other as though trying to understand how years could simply...
Disappear.
The realisation came.
It hit you like a cold sickening plague.
"My parents..."
You whispered it more to yourself than to him.
"My last address..."
Gene frowned.
"They wouldn't..."
You thought of every conversation.
Every awkward silence.
Every time your mother had insisted you move on.
Every time your father had said the war was over.
Your knees almost gave way.
"Oh my God..."
"They knew."
You covered your mouth, vomit threatening to spill.
"They knew."
Gene didn't say anything.
He didn't have to.
He knew.
Neither of you had stopped writing.
Neither of you had stopped waiting.
Someone else had decided your story was over.
You began to cry.
"I thought you'd forgotten me."
His own eyes glistened.
"I thought you didn't want me anymore."
"I waited."
"So did I."
You laughed through tears.
"We're fools."
"No."
He shook his head.
"We were just too late."
You looked at him.
You saw his eyes drop.
To your left hand.
The wedding ring.
Everything in his face changed.
"...You married."
"I waited."
"I know."
"I waited until..."
You couldn't finish.
"The letters stopped."
His jaw tightened.
"I thought you were gone."
"I thought the same."
Rain continued to fall around you both.
The city had disappeared.
There was only the two of you.
And everything you’d lost.
After a long silence Gene took a slow breath.
"I still owe you."
A frown presented itself on your face.
"What?"
"The tour."
A bittersweet smile kissed your lips.
"Gene..."
"I promised."
"You don't have to."
"I said I'd take you."
Your eyes searched his helplessly.
"We leave tomorrow."
"It don't matter."
He took a step closer.
"We'll go now."
"Gene-"
"I'll show you Jackson Square again."
"I've already seen it."
"The river."
"I've seen it."
"The café with the beignets."
"I've-"
"We'll do it properly."
His words came faster now, and his movements were bordering manic.
"The way I wanted to."
"Gene..."
"I'll show you where I grew up."
Tears spilled freely down his face now, disappearing into the rain.
"My ma's house isn't far."
"Gene..."
"You'll hear the music."
"I already did."
"We've still got tonight."
His voice cracked.
"We've still got time."
You looked at him through blurring eyes.
At the man you’d loved in a frozen foxhole.
The man you’d waited for.
The man who had waited for you.
And somehow... the timing had beaten the both of you.
"It's too late."
The words were barely louder than the rain.
He stopped talking.
You bit back a cry.
"It's too late."
Too late in the night.
Too late in their lives.
Too late for promises made beneath snow-covered trees.
His shoulders sagged.
As though something inside him had finally broken.
"I have to go."
He shook his head immediately.
"No."
"I do."
"You can't."
"I'm sorry."
"You can't go again."
The words came out almost like a plea.
"I just got you back."
You closed your eyes, salty tears cascading down your face.
"I'm sorry."
He reached for your hand.
His bare fingers brushed your silver clad ones.
Then slipped away.
You stepped backwards.
One step.
Then another.
"I'll always..."
You couldn't finish.
Neither could he.
You turned before you lost the courage.
The hotel stood only a short distance away.
You climbed the steps slowly.
Every instinct screamed at you to turn around.
To run back.
To stay.
At the top of the steps you finally looked over her shoulder.
Gene hadn't moved.
He was still standing exactly where you’d left him.
In the middle of the street.
Rain pouring over him.
Watching you disappear.
You pressed a trembling hand into the pocket of your coat.
Your fingers brushed cool metal.
Frowning, you pulled it free.
A tarnished St. Christopher medal.
The little medal he'd pressed into your palm beneath a tree in Europe all those years ago.
it seeps into your bones and gnaws at your joints until your fingers are pressed against the needle, clumsily fumbling for the vein of the poor soldier in front of you.
every breath you exhale turns into a flurry of vapour, mingling with the suffocating coldness of the open air; scattering away into the thin layer of mist all around you, until you can’t tell which is which. crisp air flooding your lungs, sleet and fickle snow crackling beneath your feet.
the sun doesn’t seem to reach you in here, you notice. the slow dimming of the sky and the dwindling ricocheted bullets are the only signs of nightfall around.
everyone’s still getting settled, your head turning left and right; a doe with its ears perked up at every broken twig looking every which way. you carefully trot your way back to your foxhole, eyes darting over the snow-speckled uniforms and the men huddled up in search of some form of warmth.
the sight wasn’t sharp, but constant — a dull throb, like a bruise you keep pressing just to remind yourself it’s still there.
your lips twist before you turn away, taking one last glance to ensure you weren’t needed anywhere. you slide down against the ditch, white drifts swallowing foxholes with silent hushes. the forest was suffocated under it, trees hunched low beneath a burden they hadn’t chosen.
your thumb gently taps against your palm, a soft and absentminded pattern. eyes half-lidded and coated in the fatigue of the day, every blink feels like it takes more strength than it should. every darkness that comes with it, the groans spilled behind gnashing teeth and the sharp gasps of soldiers lay dormant in the visage of your mind — an ever still memory. reality.
numbed, cloth clad fingers feel around for the front pocket of your uniform — hand slipping into the worn canvas of your fatigues, brushing gauze and matches before they snag on a soft, paper tube.
he crouches at the lip of your foxhole, breath misting pale in the dark.
“just making rounds,” he murmurs, voice low so it doesn’t carry. his eyes sweep over you the way they do every man he checks—quick, efficient, looking for frostbite, tremors, anything that would pull you under faster than a bullet.
you offer a thin smile. “still in one piece, doc.”
he nods, but doesn’t move. the snow keeps whispering down, hushing the world into silence, and for once there’s no moan, no call, no blood.
you shift, pull a bent cigarette from your pocket, and hold it out. “you want it?”
his hesitation lasts only a breath. he slides down beside you, shoulders brushing, and takes it with careful fingers. you strike the match, cupping the flame against the wind; its glow spilling gentle gold across his face before the night claimed him back.
he should leave. there are other foxholes, other soldiers, but instead he stays—listening to the quiet crackle of tobacco, the shared rhythm of your breathing.
“strange, isn’t it?” you murmur after a while, smoke curling from your lips. “we spend all day tryin’ to keep them alive, and here we are… wearin’ ourselves down for a bit of poison.”
his mouth tips, not quite a smile. “maybe that’s why it tastes good. little bit o’ choice, in a place where there ain’t much.”
you study him, profile carved in shadow, the hollows under his eyes deeper than the foxholes themselves. “you ever think about what comes after?”
“after?” he repeats, drawl stretched thin. the question hangs, too fragile for this frozen place. his thumb rubs absently along the paper tube before he passes it back, shaking his head.
you hum.
“someone should,” you say softly, and for the first time tonight, you feel his gaze settle heavy on you, like he’s seeing more than just another medic sharing his trench.
the silence stretches, gentler now, softened by the fragile glow at the end of the cigarette and the faint brush of your gloves as it trades hands. snow keeps falling, each flake vanishing the instant it lands on skin, and still neither of you moves.
his glance lingers on your left hand, and for the first time, hope feels heavier than war.
does anybody still even care about bob anymore does anybody still read this stuff on here ..
Hola, so as you know(you don’t), since over a month my life mainly consists of coding and writing for university, sometimes some art and blowing up on IG with a reel only to be shadow banned again . This is me while coding———> update, im done and I think I passed
And the only thing I do besides that is READING BAND OF BROTHERS FANFICTIONS. So I’ve have formed some deliberate thoughts on music regarding music and BoB fanfics.
I’m working on a proper playlist rn now but here’s what I can offer so far (and stay tuned for fanart(after coding hell)):
The whole first album of “The Good, the Bad & the Queen”
Theses two albums especially most vibes with the FFs such as by @luvrottt and @rogue-durin-16 yap yap 🙂↕️🙂↕️ (even though I will go into further detail at bottom of post) (aaand for this album, it’s actually the whole album)
Nature springs are lost in a war
The imperious demands are the local law
It is pulling us down to the Emperor's Gate
Young lads YEAGER TO GO TO WAR to PROVE THEMSELVES. Remember the moment Web screams at the Germs, yes.
A soldiers tale of soul winning love
No drunken stuff spewing out of my mouth
All over now, out
It’s giving our boys having our boys being able to take a breath, maybe sitting on a lawn. Or in a mild night. FUMAR IN THE LUNGS OR DAYSIE PIVKING WITH BLOOD CRUSTED FINGERS
Drink all day, 'cause the country's at war
You'll be falling off the palace wall
I can't be any more than I say
Oh in the flood, you'll get washed away
Resignation, horrors and terror sinking in. Trauma settling in so deep in the soul that they start to forget who they were before🥀
We saw the green fields
Turn into stone, such lonely homes
Fighting in meadows that once were only meant for cows, running kids and smooching teens. Fat, green, warm. Now stenches with the small of blood. Ground scealching from shrapnel, mud, lifeless bodies.
This whole TGtB&tQ album circles about life in Britain but the images they paint with their words, metaphors yadda yadda
Aaand this one wasn’t one I did NOT EXPECT. It’s.. the self titled album by “The Libertines”.
Hear me out! Yes yes yes I know TGtB&tQ definitely fit on first glance sound wise (mhhh) but let’s dive into the whole libertines thing as it started for ME. Mwha 💋
If I have to go
I will be thinking of your love
Oh somehow you'll know
You will know
Thinking of your love
Slyly they whispered away
As I played the last post on the bugle
I heard them say
Oh that boy's no different today
Except in every single way
LIKE BE SO FOR REAL???? “OH THAT BOY’S NO DIFFERENT TODAY, EXCEPT IN EVERY SINGLE WAY”(???11?)))) huh???
This song feels like an early morning hour in when they’re still in the US. It’s giving warm evening in Britain and later after Bastogne uffi
Roll a gasper
The guard said he could stay alive if he shovelled and burned his friends to die
People to die
And on the gate read 'Arbeit Macht Frei'
In her rollers and a gasper
She cleans the steps on a mean street where no policemen walk the beat
Her old man
He don't like blacks or queers
Yet he's proud we beat the Nazis
How queer
Just imagine especially the sass boys saying spitting this when when tight fucks talk shit.
Especially after Landsberg.
But here’s the same, the whole album does fit to most BofB ff I’ve red. Though surely more when the fics are more on the Banter arc side and more for the bitch rat boys.
BUT songs like these
And to the man who would be king
I would say only one thing
To the man who would be king
I would say only one thing
La la la-la-la-laa
La la la-la-la-laa
Them just loosing it, fully realising the germs did all the shit for nothing and even more nothing. There’s no righteous kind, no one that would call themselves a king could ever be a trustworthy leader (wink wink to Winters and sideeye to Sober)
How can we (How can we)
Make you understand? (Make you understand?)
All you can be (All you can be)
Is given in your hands (Is given in your hands)
LOOK AT ME AND TELL THIS ISNT TOYE SPEAKING TO REPLACEMENTS
I think these two albums also fit the vibe because they were MADE (the TGtB&tQ album is from 2007 but the whole planning started on the early early 2000s) in the same time around. They somewhat get the same media feeling as we get BofB
