—DROWNING WAS THE worst way to go. Alex was stuck, Alex was terrified, Alex thought fast. It was every man for himself, he’s in the sinking ship and feared that one day he’d die, leaving you back home all on your own.
The voices from all the guys clamoring at once gave him a nauseating migraine. But there was courage when he saw his fellow comrades not even giving up. the adrenaline rush ignited in his body, and he kicked his feet in the water to keep swimming towards to safety.
He thought of you, and remembered what you told him before kissing him goodbye before he boarded the train.
“You got this.”
He will save his friends. He will save himself to live another day to come home to you.
Another TommyxReader fic! Takes place after ‘Tommy gets hurt.” I apologize in advanced for any errors in it! I don’t think it’s exactly my best writing and the ending’s a bit rushed but the Fionn fandom has had such a long dry spell I just wanted to finish it and post as soon as possible. Hope you enjoy!
Warnings: suggested stuff but no actual smut, basically innocent.
Word Count: Oof, a whopping 4026
Takes place after A Letter from Tommy & Tommy Gets Hurt
Tommy’s sitting on a wicker chair by an open window, the morning sky reflecting off his pale complexion. His green eyes remain trained outside as he raises a cigarette to his lips, inhaling smoke calm and slow.
It’s still strange for you to see him smoke. He didn’t used to. It was a habit he developed while fighting for the war.
Quiet moments like these seem to be another habit Tommy’s developed because of the war.
He’s always been fairly serious. In fact you hadn’t really seen Tommy laugh until you’d first started dating back in the village town where you’d grown up.
This is different though. You can’t imagine what more war would do to him, because even after three years it doesn’t seem to be stopping soon.
But you don’t want to think about that now.
You approach Tommy and he turns his head when he hears you, eyes softening at the sight of you.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he murmurs and your face flushes.
It’s odd. Before the war you’d dated for two years and you’d managed to get at least somewhat used to whenever Tommy looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing on earth, but that was years ago. Tommy’s been at the hospital for almost four weeks now and though you’ve settled around each other since being reunited, it somehow feels like when Tommy first started walking you home from school and any glance or kind word from him had your cheeks flaming.
Still, this is the boy you’ve been in love with for five years, so you glance at the hall and after determining it’s unlikely for anyone to walk in, you reach out and run your hand through Tommy’s hair. He closes his eyes at your touch, the corner of his lips curving upward.
“How do you feel?”
“Restless,” Tommy says, opening his eyes to look up eagerly at you. “Can we go for our walk now?”
“Have you eaten?”
“Still too early for hunger,” Tommy says then reaches out and squeezes your hand encouragingly. “Come on, I’m not a complete invalid. I’m fine.”
“If you’re sure,” you say slowly but Tommy’s already putting out his cigarette and carefully standing up. You’re immediately at his side, wrapping one arm around his waist and encouraging him to wrap his arm around your shoulder for support. You fit perfectly along his side and can’t help but smile quietly to yourself about that before leaving the lounge into the halls to take your morning rounds around the hospital as you have every morning for the last couple of weeks, exercise to get Tommy’s health up.
It’s been an interesting past five weeks. Your relationship has grown in ways you didn’t think it ever would. It’s interesting, caring for someone you’re in love with when they’re in the process of recovery. You’ve learned to trust each other in a new way.
“You’re getting stronger,” you say after a few laps. A few weeks ago, Tommy had to lean almost all his weight on you when he exercised. Now, the only reason you really have your arm around Tommy is because he insists you keep it there, though you’re confident he really only needs you at his side in case he trips or gets tired.
Tommy squeezes your shoulder and turns his head closer to you, lips grazing the top of your head. “I have a very lovely nurse helping me recover.”
You press your lips together to keep the smile from your face, but there’s nothing you can do to hide your blush. You turn your head to tuck your face into Tommy’s shoulder but then remember you’re technically on duty and stand a little straighter, staring straight ahead. “Stop it. I’m supposed to be a professional.”
Being a professional is very difficult when you’re practically wrapped around each other, his body sturdy and warm along yours, his scent filling your senses.
Tommy laughs and nudges your hip with his. “No one’s looking.”
Then he’s taking your hand and leading you quickly to a nearby alcove.
“Tommy, what -” you start but the rest is cut off by Tommy cupping your face in his hands and crushing his lips down on yours. Any protest you might have had about you being in plain sight dwindles away when Tommy starts to trace the seam of your lips with his warm tongue and you melt against his chest. You raise your arms up to wrap around his neck, telling yourself it’s still early in the morning and unlikely for many nurses or doctors to be roaming the halls.
You’re both grateful and regretful when Tommy draws away.
“You’ve definitely gotten stronger,” you say breathlessly, eyes half-closed, still dizzy with having just been snogged senseless. Tommy chuckles and presses a couple more pecks against your lips before resting his forehead on yours as you catch your breath.
One of his hands trails lower so he can trace your bottom lip. “You taste sweet. Sweeter than usual.”
“What?” you breath, still a bit dizzy before remembering. “Oh!”
You reach into your pocket and pull out a tea towel folded to keep safe a bundle of raspberries, offering some to Tommy. He thanks you and pops a couple into his mouth, chewing slowly before his eyebrows draw together questioningly.
“Wait,” he says staring down at the raspberries before catching your grin and smiling in return. “Are these from home?”
You nod happily, “Your sister sent them.”
He kisses you and eagerly pops a few more into his mouth and you watch him, gaze soft.
He slows down after a while, his eyes thoughtful as he rolls the weight of the raspberries in his hand.
“Home,” he says quietly and you can tell already something’s changed in his tone.
“Tommy?”
Tommy looks up again, blinking, and you know he was very far away only a moment ago. “Sorry. It’s nothing,” he says shaking his head then frowning. “It’s just…”
“What is it?”
“It’s just,” he sighs. “One more week.”
You breath sharply, wincing at the reminder.
You’ve been dancing around the subject for weeks as the day gets closer.
With all of Tommy’s injuries, the broken ribs, the burn on his leg, the bullet wounds, it’s been enough to keep him at the hospital for at least six weeks, but he hadn’t been injured enough to keep him from being sent back to the war. You’d prayed that for the war to end before he had to go back, but the war is still going strong.
Already a corporal has come by to the hospital to tell the soldiers that after doctors sign off on their release, they’d have only two nights to rest before being sent out again.
Tommy has only a week left.
“I know,” you say weakly. You can feel the sting behind your eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”
Tommy frowns and sets the raspberries aside to cup your face again. You breath him in when he leans forward. “We don’t need to think about that yet,” he says quietly, thumb stroking your cheek.
You breath in shakily and even though you know you probably should talk about it, you really just want to enjoy the time you’ve been given. So you look up at Tommy and put on a brave smile to match his and nod.
Of course the week ends up passing quickly. It feels like the very next day that Tommy is being discharged from the hospital.
With the help of Lily, you’ve managed to convince the head nurse to give you the next two days off so you can spend them with Tommy before he’s shipped off again.
You spend the first day wandering London together. Money is low, the whole country on rations, but you hardly notice because you’re walking hand in hand around the city, the parts that aren’t covered in rubble, and spring for hot sandwiches when you’re hungry and kiss behind trees in the parks.
You join Lily and Martha in evening for a night of dancing. Alex, who was discharged from the hospital weeks ago but has since been stationed in London, also joins you.
Weekend nights in London are cheery. People will look for any excuse to enjoy what little of life that they can during wartime. People drink like it’s their last day and sing without shame while couples dance.
You and Tommy don’t drink too much, just enough to not be shy about dancing. You’re later catching your breath in a booth, watching Lily and Alex dancing together meanwhile Martha dances with another soldier. You smile as you watch your friends, but it’s wiped away when you turn next to you and see how Tommy’s smoking a cigarette, his hand tapping restlessly on the table and eyes dancing wildly, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Are you alright?” you ask worriedly, reaching for his arm.
Tommy nearly jumps out of his seat, scaring you for a moment before he’s registered it’s you and he pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight. “Sorry. I’m-It’s just really loud in here.”
You frown as you watch Tommy massage his forehead and you can’t help but think that it’s more than that.
“We can leave if you like.”
It’s a testament to how unsettled Tommy is that he doesn’t insist on staying for your enjoyment. You say goodbye to your friends who are all too drunk to notice that something’s wrong.
You walk in silence. It had gone on unspoken agreement that Tommy would be staying with you at the flat you share with Lily and Martha. Tommy smokes cigarette after cigarette the whole walk, but the outside air seems to do him good. He’s no longer shaking or sweating, just lost in thought.
Once at the flat you make tea and Tommy finally speaks.
“I feel like I’m being punished sometimes.”
“What?” you ask confused, sitting across from him. “What do you mean?”
You study Tommy’s face. He’s staring blankly at the table, finger circling the rim of his cup absently. “I wasn’t always fond of Alex you know, when I first met him.”
Tommy chuckles, but his face is set in a grimace and there really isn’t any humor in Tommy’s voice.
“Really?” you ask quietly.
“I almost hated him, because he made me see who I am.”
You lick your bottom lip, unsure. “What do you mean?”
Tommy’s quiet for a long time before he starts, “I met him in Dunkirk. There was another bloke with us, a Frenchman, Gibson. We ended up in a tight spot with some Highlanders, Alex’s men, and they were all trying to get Gibson to...sacrifice himself basically, so the rest of us could live. It was all so wrong, they were trying to push him out and I tried to stop them at first, but then Alex said I’d be next.”
At your quiet gasp Tommy shakes his head, “I can’t blame him. Alex was just trying to save his own skin. Anyone else would have done the same. I tried to defend Gibson at first, but then Alex was going on about survival, asking what if this was the price. I...I wanted to say no...but I didn’t. I told him that I would live with it. That it was wrong, but that I’d live with it.
“And I have had to live with it. There are moments, sometimes, when I...I can’t explain it,” Tommy grimaces, and you can see how hard it is for him to put it into words.
“My brain gets all scrambled up and I feel like I’m there again,” his eyes are shut and he’s shaking again, his hand curled into a fist. “I can hear the bullets whizzing by me, smell the blood. I can’t sleep at night, and when I do I wake up from nightmares of being blown up or getting shot at or drowning.”
“You think you’re being punished,” you say quietly, repeating what Tommy had said before. Your eyes are wet with tears, your heart breaking at what Tommy’s been carrying with him all this time.
He doesn’t answer you. You realize Tommy hasn’t looked at you once since he’s spoken, head turned away from you.
“Why haven’t you told me any of this before? Dunkirk was two years ago,” you ask desperately, thinking of all the letters you’ve exchanged in the last three years. He’d alluded before and after working at the hospital it’s not hard to guess the type of horror Tommy’s been through, but he’s never talked to you about this, this guilt and pain he’s been feeling.
Tommy finally looks at you. “I didn’t want you to think differently of me.”
“I could never,” you say immediately, reaching out to wrap your hand around Tommy’s, still curled in a fist.
“It’s not just that. If you knew everything I’ve had to do-”
“It wouldn’t change how I feel about you.”
Tommy’s eyes are searching yours, looking for something and you don’t look away. His eyes are wet but he blinks it away and finally strokes your hand with his thumb, a shaky smile on his face.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to spoil our night when we only have a day left.”
“No, don’t be sorry,” you insist quickly. “I want you to talk to me Tommy, about anything.”
He still seems a little unconvinced but nods. You smile gently at him. “Let’s go to bed.”
Tommy stares at you for a moment longer then nods and you lean over to kiss his cheek. You put your untouched tea in the sink and when you turn around you see Tommy rearranging the pillows on the couch.
“What are you doing?”
Tommy pauses, turning to you confusedly. “Getting ready for bed.”
Your heart skips a beat, the moment you’ve been thinking about for the last couple of weeks arriving.
You take a deep breath and stand straighter, trying to look confident even as your words shake. “I...You can sleep in my room...with me.”
Tommy’s eyes widen comically, his gaze searching your eyes and steadily blushing face, the implications of your words settling in.
“Really, I don’t mind sleeping on the couch-”
“I don’t want you sleeping on the couch.”
Tommy opens his mouth then pauses, thinking. “Are you sure?”
Your heart’s beating wildly in your heart and your palms are clammy at your sides. You’re nervous. Tommy’s the first and only sweetheart you’ve had, the first and only anything. First and only boy to hold your hand, first and only to kiss you, hold you, and the first and only boy you’ve ever loved. If you’re sure about anything with taking this next step, it’s that it could only be with Tommy.
“I’m sure.”
“A-alright,” Tommy says quietly, lips curling into a shy smile.
You can feel the butterflies in your stomach, your nerves on edge, but in the best way possible. If there’s one thing this war has taught you it’s that you never know what the next day will bring, and you don’t want to risk regretting not having known Tommy in this way, not when you’re sure above all else that you’re madly in love with him and he’s the only one you will ever want to do this with, marriage or not.
So you smile smile shyly at Tommy through your heated face and motion for him to follow you into your bedroom.
You wake up late the next morning, but it’s unlike any other morning because you have a naked boy lying next to you, his arm thrown across your own naked form. There’s a bit of an ache between your legs but the rest of your body feels perfectly listless as the memories of last night run across your mind.
You reach out, gently brushing your hand across Tommy’s cheek. It’s not long before his long eyelashes flutter and he opens sleepy green eyes that shine once they’ve focused on you.
“Good morning,” Tommy whispers, voice raspy from sleep sending shivers down your spine.
“Morning,” you whisper back, not wanting to shake the spell of this moment.
“Are you alright,” Tommy asks worriedly, his eyebrows furrowing and fingers stroking the skin on your lower back.
“Never better,” you assure him, burrowing further into the bedding.
Tommy grins and leans even closer, lips a gentle whisper against yours as his fingers trail from your lower back to your hip. Your eyes immediately flutter closed and even though you thought you were tired, you arch when Tommy teeth start to trace along the skin of your neck. You wrap your leg around his waist and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to hover over you in response, pulling you close so your hips meet.
You stay in bed a while longer before finally getting up. Tommy slips into his trousers and undershirt, you into a slip and robe before setting out into the kitchens where Alex and Lily are similarly clad at the table eating breakfast.
“Morning,” Lily says cheekily underneath her wild bed hair meanwhile Alex smirks around his cigarette, laughing quietly to himself. You and Tommy murmur quiet ‘mornings’ before going to the kitchen counter and serving yourselves what’s left of breakfast, exchanging blushes and smiles every time your fingers brush against each other.
When you sit at the kitchen table Alex and Lily are still watching you both carefully and you do your best to remain focused on your food.
“Did you two sleep well?” Alex finally asks, breaking the silence.
You’re about to respond but Lily cuts in with, “I don’t think they did much sleeping.”
Tommy nearly chokes on the tea he’s just swallowed and you want the floor to swallow you whole as Alex burst out laughing.
Eventually you manage to partake in morning conversation before Lily has to head to the hospital and Alex has patrolling to do. You and Tommy go back to your room to get ready for the day as well once you’ve finished breakfast. You’re nearly done with your hair when he says, “Haven’t seen this in a bit.”
You turn around and see him holding your picture of Tommy, the one he sent to you two years ago. You smile at the sight of it. You haven’t been carrying it since the first week Tommy’s been at the hospital. You haven’t needed to carry it every day as you have, not since you’ve had Tommy at your side again.
“Looks like I’ll have to start carrying it again soon,” you say quietly.
Tommy looks at you and you turn away, guilty for having brought it up even though you know it’s been on Tommy’s mind as well. You only have a day left.
Tommy reaches out, hand brushing your cheek getting you to look at him. “What if you and I go find a photographer and take a picture? Together.”
You look at Tommy with wide questioning eyes. Only married couples get their photograph taken together.
Tommy grins at you and leans forward to press a kiss to your cheek.
You get your picture together but it’ll be awhile before it’s ready, so you spend the day much like the day before, except you have a nice last dinner thanks to the money you’ve been saving for the last month before picking it up at the end of the day.
At home you both go straight to your bedroom, wanting to make the most of the last night you have together.
It’s late into the night before you both decide to finally lay for sleep, but even as tired as your body feels, you can’t shut your eyes.
“You’re staring,” Tommy says sleepily even as his remain closed.
You are. You don’t want to waste your last precious hours together sleeping. You want to memorize Tommy as he is now, in bed at your side, laying on his stomach and face turned towards you on the pillow. You want to memorize the way his hair falls onto his forehead, how his body rises and falls with each calm breath.
“I can’t help thinking about you leaving tomorrow.”
“Don’t think about it.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I know,” Tommy says, opening his eyes. “It’s the same for me.”
“I don’t want to have to say goodbye again,” you say, covering your face in a poor effort to hid the fact that you’re on the brink of sobbing.
Tommy reaches to pull your hands away from your face, lean in close. He kisses your hands and your face and tells you how much he loves you. As lovely as it all is, the minutes still pass mercilessly and then it’s the next morning and you’re both rushing to the station.
You’re running late because you’ve both tried to delay having to leave the flat for as long as possible, but it’s time and in just a few minutes Tommy will board a train and travel miles away from you.
“Write to me,” you tell him shakily, anxiety coursing through you as soldiers and civilians rush around you both. You know you look a mess, circles under your eyes from lack of sleep, puffy from crying.
“You know I will,” Tommy nods, not looking much better. His hair is messy and there are rings under his eyes.
“I’m serious Tommy. Write, about anything, anything you want to get off your chest,” you say, trying to keep the tears at bay. “It won’t change anything.”
Tommy smiles at you, even as the rest of his face looks like he’s just on the edge of keeping it together as well.
“I will,” he says again.
The train conductor starts to call for everyone to get on the train and you start to ramble, telling him to stay safe and eat and take care of himself and the more you talk the more your lip trembles and you can’t help it as the tears start falling and you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.
The train bell is whistling and you whimper, crying too hard to speak anymore and Tommy breathes in sharply, in pain at seeing you like this but you’ve run out of time.
Tommy takes your face into his hands and presses a kiss to your lips. “Stop crying love, please stop crying. I won’t be able to leave you like this.”
Somehow this felt even more painful than the first time he had to leave. Now you know firsthand the pain of distance. Tommy’s gotten this far this long, but what if luck only goes this far? Tommy’s already suffered so much because of this horrible war. You want to take Tommy’s hand and drag him back to your flat where he can be with you, safe and whole, somewhere he can sleep and heal from all he’s been through, heal while he still can.
It’s unfair. It’s all so unfair.
You sniffle and take a few deep breaths, drawing all the strength you have left to calm yourself. When you’ve managed to at least not cry so much you cannot see Tommy leans his forehead against yours, eyes shut tight.
“I love you, more than anything.”
You sniffle, closing your eyes to focus on not falling apart again as you cup your hands around his, still clasped on your face.
“I love you too. I won’t ever stop.”
Tommy presses a last kiss to your lips, holding you close for only a few more precious moments before the train start to slowly inch along the tracks and he has to run to hop on.
Watching Tommy go, letting him go for a second time is probably the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do.
You stay standing at the station long after Tommy’s train has gone before making your way slowly back to your flat. You’ll take the rest of the day to cry your heart out, to feel the pain and heartbreak, and tomorrow you’ll put on your nurse’s uniform and continue to do your part until this war is done.
You’ll start carrying Tommy’s photograph in your pocket again, this time accompanied by the one you’ve taken together, and you’ll wait until you can see him again. You hope the next time you do, he’ll be able to stay at your side until you’re both old, having built and lived a full life, together.
for the blurb thingy one of the boys making fun of a 20 yr old reader, calling her young and small and stuff like that in a cute way
If there was one thing Tom loved to tease her endlessly about, it was her small stature. She guessed she’d been around fourteen years old when her growth had come to a screeching halt, no longer one of the taller ones in her high school class, and she hated it with a burning passion. There were upsides to being slightly below average, of course there were, sneak attacks, getting out of tricky situations, pretending to be invisible, but the majority of the time she wished she were just a few inches taller. An average height wouldn’t have been such a hardship to deal with.
“You’re so little, like teeny tiny little.”
Her face became stoic and she sent her strongest death glare Tom’s way, hoping to convey even a fraction of her dismay, “Just because you’re virtually a foot taller than me doesn’t mean I won’t fight you. Being smaller means I can bite your ankles or go for the kneecaps. If anything my height is a weapon.”
“Sure sweetheart, I hear ya, but you’re a little young ‘un.”
“I’m gonna fight you, you sod. I’m almost 21 - I’m a bloody adult!”
He shot her a toothy grin, his eyes crinkled as he giggled, “Of course you are, a small adult.”
She glared at him sternly and pointed her index finger in his direction, her eyebrows raising as she felt the effect of two glasses of wine making her a little giggly, “I’ll have you know that the myth states that you don’t stop growing until you turn 21, so that gives me,” she glanced at her watch, her tongue poking out as she tried to calculate the time, “forty-six minutes.”
“You better chop chop then, time waits for no one.”
“And my friggin’ fists don’t either, you oversized shit.”
@prettyboytgc might appreciate this which is fitting seeing as we’re talking right now
so i wrote a dunkirk one-shot! please give credit if you reblog and let me know what you think, if you’d like to read more, or if you would like to request your own imagines, drabbles, etc.
Pairing: TommyxReader
Word Count: 2004 words
Prequel to Tommy Gets Hurt & Tommy Healing
It's been weeks of nothing. Not one letter for ages. You’d been following the news, every morning rising with the sun and being one of the first to buy the day’s paper. Every day your eyes frantically scoured the registry of fallen soldiers, praying that you wouldn’t see his name written in the paper, his name amongst the hundreds listed. Tommy, your Tommy.
You’d heard about Dunkirk. Everyone in England and around the world had heard about Dunkirk. You’d listened to Churchill’s speech, read how civilians had come together to get their boys off the beach. A staggering 338,226 had been saved, lived to fight another day. You were glad for the lives saved. Really you were. But you’d done the math, worked out that there were at least 10,000 soldiers who hadn’t gotten off the beaches. Ten thousand soldiers who had died or been captured by the Germans. You know, you know the majority made it, but you still can’t stamp out that horrible voice deep inside your mind whispering what if? What if he’s one of those 10,000?
The paper didn’t have his name on it after all, thank God, so part of you can breathe now. You can now go spend the rest of the day focusing on your nursing training, pretending that you don’t know that there’s still at least a week’s worth of soldiers the papers haven’t received yet.
Your family and friends had been confused when you’d announced that you were moving to London to study nursing. It had never been your goal to be a nurse. You’d always wanted to be a teacher. But then the war happened and everything changed.
It was a difficult job. You were expected to be at the hospital little after dawn and you didn’t usually get back to the flat you share with two other nurses-in-training until well after the sun has set. The country needed all the trained and knowledgeable nurses and doctors they could spare, and that meant trying to cram what was typically a three year training program into just one year.
But it was rewarding, and you enjoy the sense of satisfaction you get from feeling like you’re doing your part to help with the war, this horrible war. It was difficult work and you felt like you hadn’t gotten any sleep in over six months, but that was alright. It helped distract you from the fear, all the wondering.
You finally get to the flat. Lily is already there and she’s holding up an envelope, her red lips painting a smirk, and you know. You don’t even think about where you drop your bags and snatch the envelope from Lily before going to lock yourself in the bathroom, for privacy and also because you’re not keen on sobbing in front of your flatmates.
It’s a miracle you don’t tear the letter as you rip open the envelope you’ve been waiting weeks for, finally in your hands and your eyes start to well with tears because a quick glance at the date written in the top-right hand corner tells you that Tommy made it out of Dunkirk and he’s alive. You wait until you’ve relaxed enough to stop shaking and you force yourself to take a breath as you see clearly the familiar scrawl of Tommy’s writing and read.
My darling,
I hope you can forgive me for the silence, I know it’s been weeks, but I’ve finally found a moment to sit and write. I’m currently at some camp I can’t be bothered to remember the name of. It’s all been a blur since Dunkirk. I’m sure the papers have given all the details and you’ve probably read Churchill’s speech. I don’t have much more to add other than how hard it is to connect Churchill’s words with what we went through. I wish this war would end.
We’re just waiting now. A few days rest before we get deployed again to God knows where. A bloke I met at the beaches, Alex, reckons we’ll have at least a week, but it’s difficult to say.
But I don’t want to talk about the war any more. How are you? I hope you’re not overworking yourself too much with the program. I’m happy to hear that you enjoy it at least. I knew you would pass the preliminary exams with top scores. You should give yourself a little more credit. Do you like your new flatmate? In the last letter I got from you, you’d said you and Lily were still looking for a third girl to help with the rent. If you go back home some weekend again, will you tell my parents you’ve heard from me?
Home. It’s strange to think of it now sometimes. There are days I think I can still see the meadows and taste the raspberries from my parents’ garden. But there are other days, the harder days, I can hardly remember the faces of our school mates, or the name of the reverend who’s been at our church since before I was born. I get scared sometimes that I’ll forget everything.
Everything feels like such a blur half the time, like none of my memories are even real. The only thing that makes any sense sometimes is you. You are always in my thoughts. I can still feel your hair running through the gaps between my fingers, your smile, the sound of your voice. Sometimes I swear I can almost hear you.
I wish I could write more, but the paper here is scarce and so is time. So, I’ll just end with the only thing that matters: I love you. I miss you so much I can feel it in my bones, an ache that just won’t go away, not until I see you again. All I want is to come back home, come back home to you. I haven’t forgotten our promise.
All my love,
Tommy
You close your eyes, your mind spinning with the words you have just read, words written by Tommy, safe and alive. All the anxiety you’ve been carrying for the past few weeks, trying not to worry that the worst had happened, just melts away.
A part of you wishes the letter had been longer, that you have hours worth of writing to help you get through the coming weeks that will surely be filled with more silence, but you’re grateful.
You try to imagine Tommy wherever he is now. You hope he doesn’t feel too alone, that this Alex bloke he mentioned is a good man and helps watch over him. But you try not to think too hard on it. You’ve learned from experience that thinking about Tommy in his soldier’s uniform for too long makes you start imagining other things: the whoosh of bullets flying past, the pained sounds of injured men, unseeing eyes, hazel eyes.
So you shake your head and instead think of other memories, memories that sometimes feel now like they’re from another lifetime.
You think of the first time you’d seen Tommy, how he was the most beautiful boy you had ever seen and how warm your cheeks had felt when he’d turned around and you’d quickly looked away, hoping he hadn’t caught you staring. You think of how his hand had brushed against yours sometimes those evenings he’d walked you home, and you’d spent all night wondering if it had been intentional. You remember the Williams wedding and how he’d blushed when he’d asked you for a dance.
You think of the first time he’d kissed you, your first kiss. How his fingers had grazed the skin of your cheek, how his lips had moved so seamlessly with yours. How closely he’d held your body against his, like he never wanted to let you go. You had been in that moment that you’d been waiting for after the countless glances exchanged, the shy and awkward but wonderful stolen moments, the accidental touches. Weeks of waiting and wondering if he felt the same or if you were just going mad.
He’d left before they could start a real life together, the life they had talked together about those evenings they’d stolen away together in the meadows near the cliffs. All their plans. The promises.
You think of the last promise you’d both made to each other, the day Tommy had left with all the other young men of their village.
He’d held your hands in his larger ones, forehead pressed against yours as you breathed together, hoping and wishing you could just stay in this moment forever, still together. They’d had to part eventually though. He’d started bringing up The Possibility, the one he’d vaguely brought up before you’d quickly shot it down, a possibility you refused to think about even now. You remember how tentatively he’d brought it up then.
“But...if I shouldn’t come back-”
“Tommy, stop. Don’t.”
“We have to talk about it-”
“No-”
“I don’t want you to be waiting forever if something happens to me-”
You’d put your hands over his and stood straighter, your entire body vibrating with conviction. “I won’t, because you’re coming back. You’re coming back to me Tommy. You do whatever you have to do to come back to me because I don’t intend on starting a life with anyone else but you, you hear me? So promise me,” your voice had cracked at this point, and you’d had to wrap your hands around his coat for a moment to gather yourself, “promise you’ll come back.”
Tommy’s lips had curved into a smile then, and he’d brushed the wetness from your cheek as he’d whispered, “I promise, I’ll come back to you and when I do, we’ll start our lives together.”
A part sob, part laugh had torn from your throat and Tommy had kissed your eyes and the tears off from your cheeks before crashing his lips to yours one last time. There was one last exchange of ‘I love you’s’ and then you were watching him walk away to war, a war neither one of you knew how long would last.
That felt like so long ago, but you can still remember the taste of him, the rough pad of his fingers and the smell of his cologne.
You bring the letter to your chest and in that movement accidentally drop the envelope it had come in. You kneel down to pick it up and that’s when you see there still something peeking out from inside the envelope. He’d sent something else with his letter.
You pull it out and gasp, bubbling with joy. Tommy had sent a picture, a picture of himself.
You smile at the black and white photo, your eyes greedily taking in every detail of his face. Your fingers trace over his eyes, staring in awe at how the photograph managed to capture the characteristic intensity in his gaze that you’d fallen in love with.
It’s a long time before you think that others might want to use the bathroom eventually, so you gather your letter and photograph to your tiny room. You decide you’ll write back tomorrow and see if you can find some time during lunch to find somewhere to get a photograph of yourself to send to Tommy. For tonight, you’ll reread his letter, proof that he’s alive and well and thinking of you, and keep his photograph close to your heart and pray that soon you’ll see him in person again.
Being away from Tommy while he’s at war has been the most difficult thing you’ve ever had to do, walking through life as though you aren’t worried every moment of every day for the safety of the one you’ve fallen in love with. But you’ve kept his promise close to your heart and you know that it will all be real one day.
He will come back to you, you’ll start your lives together. It will happen, because he’d promised and you believe in him.
I wrote another dunkirk one-shot! written as a pt2 to my first work ‘a letter from Tommy,’ but could probably be read as a stand-alone. please give credit if you reblog and let me know what you think, if you’d like to read more, or if you would like to request your own imagines, drabbles, etc.
Pairing: TommyxReader
Word Count: 3254
Takes place after A Letter from Tommy and before Tommy Healing
It feels like a lifetime since this war started, since Tommy left. And now the war has come to Britain, but not Tommy.
It’s been nearly a year since the Germans first started dropping bombs on England. It was terrifying at first, and it still is, but as the months went on, a part of you has gotten almost used to it.
You used to wonder if this might be how Tommy feels, wherever he is, after three years of fighting. If he’s become desensitized to whatever horrors he’s had to live through. You’ve noticed he avoids writing too many details about the war in his letters. What you aren’t sure of is if the reason is to protect you or because it’s too difficult write about.
If it’s because of the second reason, he’d be disappointed to know that it’s become impossible. It’s impossible when you wake up every morning not knowing if today will be the day you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can’t escape it when you spend a good part of your day at the hospital having to wash your hands and change your clothes to be rid of the blood from whatever civilian or soldier you’ve tended to.
Tommy is twenty-one now. He’s had three birthdays since the start of the war and you haven’t seen him for a single one of them.
It’s been weeks since you’ve heard from Tommy. It’s one thing you can’t seem to get used to, the long silences between letters. The periods when Tommy’s letters come quickly always feel like a blessing because but more often than not lately, there are long stretches in which you don’t know where or how he is.
You keep busy to stay distracted. There’s always someone needing something at the hospital. In fact, it’s not long before you run into your head nurse who tells you to report to one of the east wings where a band of injured soldiers in critical condition have just been brought in. You nod and quickly make your way to where she’s instructed.
The room is a flurry of action and you take only a moment to assess who is and isn’t being tended to. You notice Lily by a soldier’s bedside, focused on treating what looks to be a broken arm.
You go to a soldier, a young man, lying nearby unattended, clutching at his side where his uniform is torn and stained red.
“Let’s get you straightened out,” you tell the soldier who only groans in response, not seeming to quite hear you through his pain. You don’t have time to ask permission though once you see that the injury in his side is a bullet wound. He’s only been grazed, but he’ll need stitches, so you get to work, as gently and as efficiently as you can.
At some point the soldier has quieted down. Once you’ve finished with the stitches and dressed the wound, you move on to cleaning his other smaller injuries, and it’s then that you have a moment to really look at the soldier.
Even with his face scrunched up in pain, you can tell that he’s handsome. He’s young, though still older than you, probably in his mid-twenties. You take extra care with the cut he has on his jaw and cheekbone, imagining he probably has a girl waiting for him back home, wherever that is for him.
You’re nearly done when the man opens his eyes.
“How do you feel?” you ask gently.
You watch how his eyebrows furrow, his green eyes turning to you, searching restlessly as though trying to work out where he is and who you are. You’re about to explain all this when he speaks first.
“It’s you. It’s really you.”
You hum, wiping the sweat from his face. It’s not hard to guess this soldier is probably delirious. It’s not uncommon for wounded soldiers to mistake you for lovers or mothers in situations like this. You’ve found that the best tactic is to not let it make you feel awkward, but also not to feed into it.
He says it again though, louder now. “It’s you!”
“Don’t strain yourself,” you tell him gently, putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving too much, but he’s working himself up and you’re worried he’ll split his fresh stitches.
You’re about to call another nurse to help you calm him down when he speaks again. “The girl from the photo. The one Tommy carries around always.”
Everything freezes when you hear his name.
There’s thousands of Tommy’s. There’s no way this soldier could possibly be talking about your Tommy. It’s too good to be true.
A glance at his dog tags tells you this soldier’s name is Alex.
Alex.
Tommy had mentioned an Alex in his letters a few times before.
He couldn’t possibly…
Everything moves very quickly after that. Your hands shake as you dig into your pockets, scrambling for your most precious possession, the one you take with you everywhere.
“Alex,” you say firmly once you’ve found it, gazing directly into the man’s face, holding up your picture of Tommy to his face. “Did you say Tommy? This Tommy? Do you know this Tommy?”
Alex’s gaze moves from the picture to your face, his eyes wide in awe. “You carry his picture too.”
It’s true then.
This is Tommy’s Alex from Dunkirk you’re talking to. This soldier knows Tommy, has seen him last, heard his voice and it’s the closest you’ve been to Tommy in years and your entire body is shaking. You’re frantic.
“When’s the last time you were with him? Is he alright? Is he safe?”
Alex frowns. “The last time I saw him? I was brought into the hospital with him. He’s here.”
It’s the first time in your life you experience not being able to speak or hear or see as Alex’ words even stop your breath and you have to hold onto the railing of his bed to keep yourself from collapsing. You think Alex might have said something but you don’t hear because as soon as you’ve recovered enough to see straight, you’re taking off, searching wounded soldiers’ faces and asking the nurses if they’ve seen the boy in your picture.
You don’t know how you find him, if a doctor led you or the nurses directed you or if it was the universe somehow pulling you to him, because the moment you see him everything else just disappears.
You’d have recognized him anywhere, the cut of his jaw, long dark lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, the angle of his nose, the spot on his chin you’ve kissed more times than you can count.
You’d recognize him even like this, pale and still, surrounded by a doctor and two nurses moving worryingly fast in a hospital wing echoing with pained moans and cries. You’re torn between gasping for breath and holding it altogether because nothing could have prepared you for finally seeing Tommy again, especially like this.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Your voice is a croak at best, but one of the nurses pauses long enough to answer you. “He’s got a few broken ribs, a bullet wound in his arm, and maybe some internal bleeding. Plus, he has a nasty burn on his leg along with other smaller cuts.”
It’s like a punch to the gut with every hurt and injury the nurse lists off. You have to blink away the wet in your eyes and clear your throat before asking, “Do you know what happened?”
“From what some of his comrades said, after being shot at a bomb went off near him, the force of it knocked him against a wall. He wasn’t close enough to get killed but he wasn’t far enough to go unscathed.”
Anything else the nurses say drown out at the sound of a weak groan and before anyone can stop you you’re at Tommy’s side.
“Tommy,” you whisper, your hand reaching for his. His hand automatically clutches yours tightly in his grasp, but his eyes remain closed, his face twisted in pain. You don’t think he realizes it’s you, don’t think he can process anything right now because of the pain. Your eyes well with tears and your sob is cut off by the nurses telling you that cannot just stand at his side in the way and need to either help or step aside.
You look at Tommy. His jaw is tight, like he’s grinding his teeth, and his face is covered in a thin sheet of sweat. You know you have to find the resolve to pull yourself together, for Tommy, so you squeeze his hand one last time and get to work helping tend to him.
You have never in your entire life been so overcome with both happiness and fear. For three years you’ve been praying and wishing every day to see Tommy again, and then impossibly, the day comes, but he’s broken and bleeding. Everything is moving at a blur and none of it makes sense and suddenly you’re praying, please dear God, please don’t let the last thing I hear from his lips be his moans of pain, don’t let the last time you touch him be you wrapping your hands around his arm to stop the flow of blood leaving his body.
It feels like days before the doctor and nurses finally start retreating from Tommy’s bedside.
He looks almost worse than you first saw him, even though you know that’s not true. His left leg had been treated for the burns. There would be scarring, all along the side of it up to nearly half his thigh. His minor cuts had been cleaned, his bullet wounds stitched up, and his chest had been wrapped with elastic bandages to help splint and immobilize the area. He’d developed a fever, and you didn’t need the doctor to tell you that if it doesn’t break soon, it could be a sign of infection.
It’s been a little over twenty-four hours now since Tommy was brought in, late in the night, three or maybe four in the morning. The doctors have gone home, a few nurses remaining on hand in case of an emergency. Most of the men are sleeping, but you can hear the sounds of moans and restless sleeping.
Your whole attention is focused solely on Tommy.
You haven’t gone home since Tommy’s been brought in. The only reason you’ve eaten anything is because Lily insisted after she found you. You’d grumbled, but you were thankful, especially when you know that Lily’s done you the favor of checking in on Alex and has also probably been covering for you with the head nurse matron. Lily understood from the moment she’d heard that Tommy was in the hospital that there was no way you were leaving his side.
You’re exhausted, and a part of you feels guilty that you dropped everything, but nothing has ever mattered more than making sure that Tommy is safe and now, at least for the moment, he is.
Sitting now, in the silence of the night at his bedside, it almost feels like you’re seeing Tommy for the first time again. You’re keenly aware that you haven’t seen his green eyes once. They’d been closed in either pain or sleep since he’s gotten to the hospital.
You’re dozing in your seat when you hear a gentle moan, closer than the other ones you’ve heard throughout the night and when you look up it’s Tommy, shifting in his bed, face scrunched up in pain again to match his groan. Only this time, you can see from the candle you’ve set at his bedside, his eyes are open, dancing with the fire’s light, like a green, restless ocean.
“Tommy,” you breath, immediately on your feet and at his side.
You watch with bated breath as Tommy’s green eyes dazedly search your face, your eyes mirroring his.
It feels like ages before his lips part and he speaks, “Am I dead?”
You can’t help it. A laugh escapes you because it’s just so wonderful to hear his voice again and you blink away some of the wetness from your eyes as you shakily reach out to brush his hair away from his temple. “No darling, you’re not dead.”
Tommy breathes in sharply at your touch and leans into for only a moment before he’s closing his eyes again, face scrunched in a different kind of pain. “It’s not possible. I didn’t think I would ever see you again. I must be dead.”
It’s a wrench in your heart to hear Tommy say that, to try and understand that whatever he’s had to face has been so terrible he sincerely thought he would die before he ever saw you again.
A memory of nineteen year old Tommy flashes in your mind, promising he would do whatever it took to get back to you.
You want to sob but instead you sniff and stroke his cheek until he finally opens his eyes again.
“It’s really me,” you promise.
Tommy’s eyes search yours still, and you can see in them that he wants to dare believe and still so afraid to hope. You keep stroking his cheek and hold his gaze, determined to smile even as you feel tears stream slowly down your cheeks.
You see the moment Tommy’s eyes start to well with tears as well and his breath shakes, “It’s really you.”
Your vision blurs even more but this time it’s because your face is stretching into a grin and you laugh softly, so full of love for this dark-haired boy that you can’t contain yourself anymore.
“It’s really me,” you say again, and then you’re leaning down to finally, finally press your lips to Tommy’s in a kiss. He’s kissing you back the moment your lips touch his and you can almost feel how much Tommy’s been waiting for this too.
You have to pull away too soon, aware that not only are you in the middle of a hospital wing surrounded by other injured soldiers, but Tommy’s fighting a fever and his ribs are broken impairing his breathing and you don’t want to accidentally hurt him.
You settle for resting your forehead gently against his, eyes shut tight, breathing with him and basking in this moment you’ve been waiting years for.
One of his hands is resting weakly on your arm. “How are you here?”
You run a hand through his hair. “I could ask you the same.”
You listen to Tommy explain how he’d been sent back to England to defend against the bombs, help with civilians. How he’d sent her a letter, hoping to arrange a meeting with her, but he’d obviously beaten the letter.
You laugh quietly together in the stillness of the night, in awe and gratitude of being brought back together against all odds.
“How do you feel,” you ask him concernedly after you’ve helped him drink water.
“Like I’ve been blasted against a wall,” he winces, “but better now I’m with you.”
You cheeks warm at his words but still you smile. He does look much better now that he’s awake, but he’s still paler than you’d like and it’s obvious he’s exhausted and uncomfortable from his injuries.
“I like your nurse’s dress,” he murmurs, cheeky grin on his lips.
“I like your soldier’s uniform,” you manage to tease back through your blush. “Or what’s left of it anyway.”
He starts then, a sudden urgency in his voice. “My coat, is it still here?”
You don’t want to part from him for even a moment, but you get up and find his coat under the hospital bed. Tommy sighs in relief then smiles at your questioning gaze, saying quietly, “Look in the inner pocket.”
You do as he says and what you pull out is a photograph of yourself, the same one you sent to him nearly two years ago when he’d gotten safely out of Dunkirk and sent you a picture of himself. You knew Tommy always carried this with him, he’d mentioned it in his letters, but seeing the proof of it...
You bite your lip to keep it from trembling and then reach into the pocket of your nurse’s dress and show Tommy what you keep there, your most precious possession. Your photograph of Tommy.
Tommy’s breath catches at what you’ve shown him and he looks up at you with the same type of awe Alex had hours ago. “You carry it everywhere too?”
“Always,” you nod. “Everywhere.”
He bites his lip, staring at you intently before asking quietly, “Will you lay down here with me?”
You’re still in your nurse’s uniform and it would be highly unprofessional of you to lay in bed with an injured soldier, sweetheart or not, and you know there are at least two other nurses in the room who will likely gossip about the whole thing tomorrow, but Tommy’s looking at you like you’re the most amazing thing in the world and your heart is melting.
“Just for a little while.” Tommy asks further, and you can’t bring yourself to deny him anything.
“Alright,” you whisper and then you’re climbing onto the bed, carefully stretching yourself along his side that is less injured. You tuck your chin gently onto his shoulder, your forehead pressed against his cheek.
His skin is still warm and his chest falls and rises unsteadily because of his broken ribs, but as you keep one hand enveloped in his grasp, the other you keep on his wrist where you can feel his pulse, steady and strong. You know that soon Tommy’s fever will break and that with time, his injuries will heal too.
His scent is comforting. It occurs to you that this is the first time you and Tommy have laid in a bed together and you can feel your cheeks warm even more.
The quiet is broken by Tommy, so quiet you almost miss it. “I feel like I’ve been in a dream.”
Your eyes are closed but you smile still. “You’re not dreaming Tommy.”
He turns his head to look at you and you open your eyes to stare back. He looks pale, and tired, dark rings under his eyes, but his gaze is honest and his voice steady when he speaks quietly, just for you. “You know a day hasn’t gone by that I stopped loving you. I thought of you nearly every moment of every day.”
Your heart beats heavy against your chest and you want to bottle up this moment and keep it safe forever. You lean forward to press your lips against his. His lips are dry but warm against yours, your skin remembers the shape and taste of his lips.
“I know,” you whisper against him when you’ve pulled away. You rest your hand against his cheek and smile, the both of you catching your breath, “I know, because it’s been the exact same for me.”
He smiles back and your hands press a little bit closer together. You melt into the warmth radiating off his body, warmth that tells you he’s here and alive.
You don’t know what the morning will bring, if this war will finally end or if one of the Germans’ bombs will fall and you’ll be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But you do know that it’s been years since you’ve been able to peacefully close your eyes for sleep, and it’s because Tommy’s at your side and he hasn’t ever once stopped loving you and nothing, not even war, can take that away.
Correspondence between Louis Tomlinson, a writer from London who is writing about the children sent to the country to escape war, and his lover Harry Styles, an officer in the British Military stationed somewhere in France.
I was asked to put these on archive so here you go :) thank you @fxckingunicorn for letting me use your lovely edits ;)
in honor of only ten more days until i see my beautiful @nsfwtomlinson in person, here is the last part of my dunkirk drabble series ;)
for weeks, months, Louis has been holed up in his private room, no longer writing, no longer playing with the children. occasionally he leaves the room for meals or chores, but most of the time he stays in bed, reading or crying. a lot of his days go by with him just staring at the ceiling for hours. He’s considering leaving the country completely, abandoning his story and just living out his life in London, air-strikes and all.
eight months Harry’s been MIA and with every passing day without news, louis loses more and more hope that he could actually still be out there. sometimes the children come into his room and sit with him, read him stories and letters from their mothers and fathers. their sweet words do help some days, because louis remembers that he’s not the only one struggling. a few of them have already lost people for sure, and the fact that they are still able to smile and have fun reassures louis that he could possibly find happiness again.
and then sometimes louis thinks about all those conversations he’d had with harry about them raising their own family. he remembers harry talking about taking in orphans after the war, because they can’t have kids of their own. He remembers how happy harry was talking about their imaginary family. Those memories only serve to result in even more pain for louis now.
the last day of the eighth month since louis got the MIA telegram, he finally emerges from not just his room, but the mansion entirely. it’s a warm spring day, all the kids are playing out in the fields, the heat in the mansion is completely unbearable, and the other caretakers needed help hanging up laundry on the lines.
He’s been put in charge of bed sheets, farthest away from everyone else, probably a courtesy from the caretakers because of his condition. The children run around him, playing and laughing, enjoying the bright day in the field.
Louis concentrates on the task at hand, hanging up the smallest sheet they have on in the line. He’s putting on the first clothespin when a breeze brushes by, swooping the sheet up just so he has a view of the hills. The sheet falls back down before Louis can really get a good look, but he could swear there was a figure at the top of the hill. He brushes off the thought as he pins the other side of the sheet.
Then, as Louis walks to the other side of the line, to start on hanging up the next sheet, he takes a glance up and...there is a figure. It’s too far away to tell who it is, whether it’s one of the locals or somebody dangerous. They’re just standing at the top of the hill, and the sun is so bright Louis has to cover his eyes. He tries to focus them and that’s when he sees that the man is wearing a uniform, but Louis can’t make out which side it’s from.
He’s heard on the news about sightings of Nazi soldiers in the country. It’s believed that a few of the pilots of grounded planes survived and were wreaking havoc in the peaceful country towns. Bad news if that’s what is happening here.
Louis leaves the basket of wet sheets on the ground and backs away, slowly and behind one of the hung sheets to hide himself. “Kids! Get inside now!”
“Why?” a few of them ask in response, and Louis isn’t about to answer with the truth. He doesn’t want to scare them if this man turns out to be an enemy.
“Just grab everyone and go inside, okay? I-I think a storm might be coming,” Louis tries to convince them, but it’s hardly working.
The skies are too clear for any of them to really believe him, but they start to go inside anyway, most still oblivious to the figure approaching from the hill. That is, until one of them realizes they’ve dropped their book and they turn around to go get it.
“Wait! I’ll get it, just go inside!” Louis tries to tell him, chasing the little boy about halfway up the closest hill. He catches the boy just as he picks up his book, and pulls him up into his arms, attempting to shield him from the man, but it’s too late.
“Louis? Who is that?” the little boy asks, pointing up the taller hill.
Louis sighs, and looks at where the boy is pointing, glaring at the man. “It’s nobody, okay, just go inside and I-” Louis stops mid-sentence. Now that’s he’s a little closer, he can more clearly see the man walking, rather hobbling, down the hill. He almost drops the child in his arms because...well it just can’t be.
“Louis?”
“I-I,” Louis stutters, eyes widening as his heartbeat picks up. He puts the boy back down gently, because he would drop him if he held on any longer. “G-Go back inside, I’ll take care of this.”
The boy shrugs and runs back down the hill, leaving Louis to stand up to the mystery man alone. But Louis may not be standing for much longer, as his knees have gone so weak they may give out at any moment. He must be seeing things, he has to be. There’s a man in a uniform up the hill, and his mind is playing tricks on him, that must be it.
Frozen in place, Louis just watches as the man raises a hand above his eyes, shielding them from the sun so he can see Louis better. His other arm is in a sling, and when Louis squints, he can see a bandage wrapped around the man’s head. His face is almost unmistakable now. The smile that forms when the man gets a good look at Louis, could belong to nobody else.
“H-Harry?” It’s barely a whisper, definitely not loud enough for the man on the hill to hear, but Louis is too afraid to be wrong.
The man freezes as well, and then after a moment’s realization, breaks into a run down the hill. Despite his earlier reservations, Louis is sure of it now. The man running towards him is none other than his Harry. His feet catch the message before his brain does, and he starts running to his Harry. Tired as he may be, exhausted from the emotional toll of the last few months, Louis has never run so fast in his life.
“Louis!” That familiar voice, the one of his truest love, the one he has missed for so long, shouts his name.
Their feet away from each other, and Harry looks older and worn out, but still the same beautiful man that left Louis for war. Louis almost jumps into his arms, but seeing the injuries, his legs about ready to give out, he settles for pulling Harry into the tightest embrace. “Y-You’re home! You’re alive!”
“I am, my Louis, I’m here,” Harry cries, wrapping his good arm around Louis’ back. He presses wet kisses to Louis’ cheek and neck, inhaling the sweet scent of his lover that he missed so much.
Louis can’t even say anything, can’t even take a moment to thank god for bringing Harry home to him. He’s so confused and beyond happy, torn between sobbing and slapping Harry for making him worry so much. Louis just continues to cry, smiling and even laughing because he’s just so relieved. His hands form claws into Harry’s back, as if he could just latch himself on like that and never have to let go. If he did then this would surely still be a dream.
Louis finally gets his bearings together, and he looks up at Harry’s face. The bandage wraps around his forehead, and there’s bruising on his cheeks and jaw. But those green eyes still look at him with the same amount of love as when he left, and those lips still smile just as big. “You’re really here, aren’t you?”
“I really am.”
“H-how? How did you get out here? And where were you?” Louis asks, desperately needing the answers that have been haunting him. “They said you were MIA, I-I got a telegram-”
“I know, I was missing was for a little while,” Harry sighs, eyes filling with sadness. He brings one of his hands to Louis’ cheek, it’s calloused and cut up, but fits just as well as Louis remembers. “The town I was in charge of got attacked by Nazi forces when we were evacuating. I got separated from my battalion, my men had orders to go on without me, so it’s not their fault. But i was helping a family escape. We got all the way to another city when i had to separate from them, and this one was run by the Nazis, so as much as i wanted to, I just couldn’t contact anyone.”
“I understand, but oh my love, why did it have to be you?” Louis asks. His tears are wiped up by Harry’s thumb. “Why did you have to be a hero?”
“Lou, would you love me if i was anything else?”
the real answer is yes, Louis would love harry if he was the biggest coward in the world, because at least a coward would have come sooner. But as he looks into those big eyes, he sees the bravery and the truth in them, Louis knows he loves the hero in Harry. “I do love you, i love you so much, i-i don’t care about anything else. How did you escape?”
“An older woman in the next village. She was in hiding from them too, but hiding the fact that she wasn’t a christian,” Harry explains. “Her family had already made out, they’re in america now, but she had to be left behind. She hid me in her house and helped me recover for the most part, and then together we left. I suppose she’s on the boat to america now as well.”
“That’s so kind, thank god for her,” Louis says. He smiles up at Harry, shaking his head because a part of him still can’t believe it. “When did you get home? Does your mother know?”
“Yes, i went to her first, but i couldn’t stay long,” Harry says, voice shaking. “I-I had to get home to you. I took the first train out this morning and apparently i didn’t get some very good directions but...i’ve found you.”
“Oh Harry!” And finally, Louis gets from Harry what he’s wanted and missed for almost two years.
He kisses him, a kiss to rival all the rest in all of history. A kiss filled with so much love they lose their balance and fall to the soft ground, but that kiss never breaks. Louis is rather glad the children aren’t outside to see this, as they lie on the ground and embrace each other. The real war may be far from over, but here and now while Harry is kissing Louis again, the world has reached some kind of peace. Harry sneaks his good hand around his neck, having to break the kiss for just a small moment so he can pull of his tags. He smiles at Louis, and places the tags in Louis’ delicate hand, his name shiny and clearly indented. Cap. Harry E. Styles.
“I’m never leaving you again, Louis, but these belong to you either way.”
“Harry,” Louis sniffles, curling his small hand around the tags. “Thank you. I’m just glad you’re home safe, though. I don’t need anything else.”
“Well, how about one more thing? It’s, um, well it’s kind of a big deal,” Harry says nervously, fishing around in his pocket. “See, the old woman was kind of wealthy before the war, and she didn’t have much left...but she gave me something as a thank you...” Harry pauses, pulling his hand out of his pocket in a fist. He waits until Louis has put the tags around his neck, and then sits up more so he’s on his side. “I-I know we can’t really, and I know so many people will think poorly of us, but I love you, Louis, I love you more than anything on this earth. I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours, forever. I really mean it this time, I’ve always meant it...” Harry picks up Louis’ left hand, smiling at the way Louis’ eyes go wide. “I want you to marry me, at least in the eyes of god.”
And there in Louis’ hand is a diamond. A diamond perched onto a little gold ring. If he wasn’t already on the ground, Louis would faint. “Harry I...I’ve always been yours, but of course, of course I’ll marry you.”
i said i was going to bring the angst, so here it is. @claudiyah, @newmanagement @fxckingunicorn :)
It’s a beautiful fall day in september, Louis is watching the children play outside as he writes his latest article. He’s gotten used to life out in the country, and life distant from Harry, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy with it. He’s mostly drifting through life now, waiting for the war to end and for harry to come home, but in the mean time he’s got his job to do. Sometimes the children distract himself so much with fleeting joy that he forgets harry isn’t there to share it with him.
it’s been two months since his last letter from harry, but louis still sends one every week. the radio news has said that nazi forces have been cutting off mailed communications in and out of france, and louis blames that for the lack of letter from his lover. he wishes he knew exactly where harry was, because every time a new french city is talked about on the radio, he can’t help but wonder if it’s harry’s. he has no way of knowing if it’s already fallen to the enemy.
he’s planning on writing harry another message tonight, just a short message about recent events, just a little something so harry can know he’s still thinking about him. there’s a very big chance that it never gets to him, but what else can louis do to keep sane?
suddenly, one of the younger kids is tapping on louis’ shoulder, nervously getting his attention. “Louis? There are soldiers at the door...”
All of the air escapes Louis’ lungs, and he’s standing up in only moments, running to the mansion. “Oh my-I-I’ll be right in!”
Could it be? Is it Harry? How could he be home already? Why didn’t he write first? Louis honestly doesn’t care as he runs down the hill, and around the house, not bothering to go all the way through to reach them. He sees two men standing at the front entrance, talking to one of the caretakers, backs to him. Their uniforms are bulky and cover most of their bodies, so Louis can’t tell which one is Harry, so he calls out, “Harry! Are you really-”
They turn around and Louis stops in his tracks, only feet away. Neither one is his Harry, and one holds a small envelope in his hand. Louis starts to shake his head, hand covering up the gasp that leaves his lips. This can’t be happening.
“Are you Louis Tomlinson?” One asks, the one who holds the envelope, face turned down in a serious frown.
They both look at him sympathetically when he answers, “Y-Yes.”
“We were told to deliver this to you by a Mrs. Anne Styles. We are...very sorry,” the officer continues, holding out the tiny envelope. A telegram.
He’s heard about these telegrams. He has friends back in London who have been given them. Louis starts to cry when he takes it, and says a very soft, “Thank you,” to the officers. They salute him and then make their way over the dirt road, and back to their car. He stands silently still, staring at the telegram.
A few of the children run up behind him, all asking what the telegram says, but he can’t bring himself to open it in front of them. The caretakers lead them all inside, leaving Louis by himself so the kids don’t have to see his reaction. He sits down on the steps of the porch, hands shaking as he rips open the envelope. With a stuttered breath, he pulls out the telegram, yet still not ready to see it’s message.
Louis Tomlinson
The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret that Captain Harry Styles has been reported Missing In Action since Twenty One July in France. If further details or other information are received you will be promptly notified.
MIA. Harry is MIA. There’s a chance that he’s still alive out there, but all Louis can possibly think is that he’s gone. His Harry is completely gone.
