[PROMPT] In which you talk about your ideal man with Babe Heffron, and he more than proves that he's what you're looking for.
tw// lemon-y kissing (16+), drawn out confession scene because I can
Dedicated to this lovely "anon." 👀😘
Was it the drinks?
Or was it you being a mouthy idiot who was prone to oversharing?
"Uh-hum...uh...a-and he'd like to go to museums with me..."
Could be both. That was what you ran in your head over and over again as you stuttered out your criterion on what your ideal man would be. That was one of the many thoughts that raced through your mind as you sat on some stairs, nursing a drink, peering into the eyes of Babe Heffron. And if you weren't careful, you were going to hurl and toss your flat beer from too much nervousness before rolling away down the street.
"What else?"
If you weren't careful, you'd blurt out that you didn't know what the hell you were talking about.
And then spill your guts.
"I...um...Well, he'd be gentle—Ugh. Are you going to make fun of me?" you choked out, gripping onto your beer glass for dear life under his intense scrutiny. You felt like a desperate ant attempting to flee from the rays of a magnifying glass owned by an evil brat. "I—Let's just pretend this conversation didn't happen—"
"Now, why would I joke about somethin' so serious?" was his sudden reply. Your scrunched eyes popped back open again as you stared up at Babe, watching his body leaning against the wall like it was natural for him to do so. Natural, like he owned the place, like he was meant to be here, observing you with those piercing brown eyes of his.
Like you were meant to spill the beans on your nonexistent love life to one of the studs of Easy Company. Cute. Must be feeling sorry for the awkward bookworm in intelligence; you even had his dress jacket draped around you for warmth, and he stood there, somehow not shaking from the cold that had bitten through your own dress attire. He stood there and waited for you to say your piece, like he always did, and you sat there and pondered.
He waited patiently.
This was dangerously, really. Risky. The truth of the matter was...you liked Heffron. A lot. Like, in a way that you knew would make him look at you like you were a pesky bug squished on the underside of his boot if he found out how you really felt. This whole situation was not sparing your skyrocketing blood pressure, and his proximity to you, close enough to feel his warmth and smell his aftershave, was not good for your self-esteem, self-control, and your self-denial.
You had to get it together. He was just feeling sorry for you; must be a Catholic thing, be nice to the underdogs and the poor, and all that. And you were...you were very unnoticeable. Which was a good thing in intelligence, being so boring and able to blend into the background that you were able to retrieve confidential messages, but personally, it didn't do you any good. No one noticed you, and no one cared. Spent all your time daydreaming if your eyes weren't buried in between books, and then scurrying here and there, doing your job, and being...boring.
And then, there was the self-denial, the inflated ego, because Heffron said you weren't boring. First day there, and he strode up to you and introduced himself, as if he had that planned for the day. Pulled you out from the background, his bright hair and easygoing grin adding color in a sea of muted green. It was because of Babe that you had friends. It was because of Babe that some people started to notice who you were. It was Babe who paid attention to your discomfort, your quirks, who waited for you to finish your thoughts while others would've bulldozed you over.
It was Babe who stood in front of you, and only you, away from the limelight. He wasn't the roguish devil that Wild Bill Guarnere was, but he was magnetizing. Everywhere he went, he drew crowds. The two of them together: it was hard to fit through the door of an establishment when the "good ol' boys" were seemingly holding court. Yet, he was here, in some alleyway away from the lively bar, away from the hoards of dazzling people with their dazzling charm and whirling dresses and eager grunts trying to get lucky for the night. You didn't doubt that there were demands and pleas for Babe to stay, both from G.I.s and pouting ladies, and some folks were probably looking for him right this moment.
Yet, he was here. Boots shined, greens pressed, shaved and proper for a rare night out to town, wasting all his potential on a nerd that people forgot the name of and just referred to as "Heffron's buddy behind him." He should be back there at the bar, not leaning against a battered brick wall in some shady alleyway away from the party. You should be here alone, recovering from being overstimulated by being around too many people. Babe Heffron should be downing his fifth beer, clowning on some salty joes.
Anywhere but here.
"Oh, I don't know, Babe," you finally said, staring quietly at a mouse who met its counterpart and scurried away happily together. Damn, even mice had game while you had none. "It—It all seems pointless, really."
"Not pointless if I listened to it all." You had to force yourself to calm down when he languidly took a seat next to you on the stairs. When his knee touched yours, you swear you were having a cardiac arrest. Yeah, you were done and dusted if you were mentally screaming for help over an action that meant nothing to him.
Yeah, you were a clown for choking up when he reached out and pulled his jacket up to cover more of your neck and shoulders. It meant everything to you, but most likely, nothing to him, at all.
"Cold out." Funny how you were burning up inside. "I'm not the biggest joe out there, but I think you could slide your arms in some for extra heat.
"C'mere. I'll help."
You must've been in a sorry state if needed to help you put on a jacket. But what was worse? The fact that you docilely followed his suggestion, or the fact that it wasn't a mere suggestion. It was more than words the way he patiently waited for you to slide your arms in their appropriate sleeves. His knuckles brushing the back of your suited arm. His breath tickling the side of your neck. The very action of him assisting you with something you could fully do yourself.
"Better?"
The act of knowing. Because Babe knew the then and the later. He knew you'd protest some, so he did what needed to be done. Spurred the action forward and had you folding your body into his jacket without room for argument. No one handled "act first, ask for forgiveness later" with such tact better than Edward 'Babe' Heffron.
You weren't immune to such sleight of hand, either. How could you be? There was just something about a man with a plan, whose actions spoke first, who acted without wavering...
"Now, tell me if I got things right."
It was irresistible.
Dangerous.
He fished out a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket, raising a stick to his mouth before offering you one. You declined, as usual, but noted how he invariably offered you one every single time. Just like everything else. Just in case. Just a behavior that had you smiling in thanks, earning you a lazy grin as he lit his cigarette and took a drag.
"Ideal man likes animals. Takes walks in the park. Holding your hand, and all that."
"Y-Yeah."
"Does art stuff. Likes a meal with a good beer or two. Takes you out to town. Not afraid to show you off."
You flushed a tad at that last bit of the summary, but you didn't deny it.
"Reads a hell of a lot and takes you to museums," he continued, and you marveled at his impeccable memory at your list. "A gentleman."
"Yeah."
"Smart."
"Yeah..."
"Alright."
There was a strange pause before he stated the last point, and you wondered if it was all in your head. For a while, the two of you sat in silence, and it was now your turn to wait patiently and wonder what he was thinking. It was uncharacteristic of him to be quiet this way as a response. Babe always had a rapid quip or followthrough for any scenario. You expected him to tease you a bit or tell you that everything was going to be okay, to pick your head up. But he didn't. He emitted a haze from his tab and let the din of the night fill in for the words he didn't say.
Awkwardly biding your time, you watched him smoke his cigarette down to the filter before he crushed it under his boot and threw it into a garbage can a few feet away. He sat there, slowly fiddling with his fingers, staring at nothing, before he finally spoke.
"My parents never let us raise pets at home, but I call myself a da to the wee kittens that ran around the shipyard where I worked. I raised 'em all nearly myself."
You blinked at the random statement.
"Been to nearly every single park in Philly. Camden, kind of. I'm not too fond of Jersey. Place is a shithole, if I'm being honest.
"And—" He laced his fingers together, pressing his forearms on his knees. "I know how to shave my calluses down. I just don't do it sometimes because the machine gun kinda fucks things up. But I can do it when I'm not expected by the army to...you know...stack some bodies."
Where was he going with this?
You blinked owlishly as he continued, his hands now separating to curl and uncurl repeatedly, and you debated on whether or not to reach out and put your own hands on top of them. It was hard not to. He never talked about it, but you knew he had problems with his hands; it was a wonder he was able to pass the medical exam and get into the service, especially for the paratroopers.
People called you creepy for noticing things that others didn't. You knew Babe would never call you that if you inquired about it, but for a man's man such as Heffron, it would still be a blow to his ego. Any other person being defensive and wanting to withdraw from you, you could tolerate.
But not Babe. Never when it came to Babe. You'd honestly banish yourself to Antartica before chancing your luck and losing the only person you ever truly considered your friend.
The only person you ever truly considered to be something more.
Don't.
"I can draw a cat."
You blinked again. "Oh."
"And a frog, I think. I can learn how to draw more.
"And I may look like a runt—"
"Babe!"
"—Look, it is what it is, alright? Not stressin' 'bout the truth. Anyway, I'm not too big of a guy, but nobody's said I can't put down some good eatin'. And the booze: Well, that parts self-explanatory."
He could definitely hold his drink. You've witnessed him drinking Bull and Wild Bill under the table, and then have room for more without starting a fight. He also had the most adorable flush in his skin once he got in his cups, but like you said: A man had his ego.
His reaction at being told such a thing would undoubtedly be cute, as well, but you weren't going to press this, either.
Because you weren't going to rush the careful words he was choosing. You weren't going to rush the way he looked at you, and really looked at you. Long and slow, looking at you the way Babe Heffron looked at you, and no one else. Like he could see right through you, and had words he wanted to say, but held them for your sake.
And tonight, you wanted him to be free of the words he'd never said.
Wasn't one of your virtues patience, after all?
"Any fella that can show you off's a lucky bastard," he said with intention, and the sudden shift in narrative had you startled. You started to reply but held your tongue as he continued with his speech.
"A fella that can read real well and go to those fancy museums. Probably went to those fancy schools. A fella—"
It started to click. It all started to click, but at the same time, you dared not confirm it because you had an ego of your own, no matter how conventional of a person you were, and it bruised easily. Mama said you were too tender-hearted for your own good.
A hard shell for a soft heart. A front crafted throughout the years to preserve that part of you who wanted to be understood, to be wanted, to be brazen, but you used your ego as a shield. It was better to not assume things if it dashed your hope to pieces.
It was better to quell this strange excitement, these feelings, from rising to the surface and bubble up into words that you wanted to say in response to words he couldn't. It was better to not react. It was better to not think. Assumption in intelligence was an utter abomination, as stated by Captain Nixon. You were good at what you did because you were one to not bother to be assumed, and in turn, you never did.
And yet.
"—that ain't me."
And yet.
"A man that's far from the likes of me."
And.
"B-Babe?"
Yet!
"But, I—I want your ideal man to be me," he breathily finished, and he shut his hands into tight fists as he let the remainder of his words fill the alleyway that held just you and him. You and Edward Heffron, huddled together on crumbled stairs in some bombarded European town stepping on bombarded dirt and experiences that the average person your age should've never had to endure.
"God, I want that to be me."
You and Babe, a somebody to someone for once in your life. You and Babe and his shaking hands and the war and your hopeful, naive heart beating a thousand beats per minute under the stars, away from everyone else. Euphoria and fear and awe and incredulity rushing throughout your body uncontrollably to leave you gaping like a fish. A wave of emotion so deep that it made you want to cry at the sheer magnitude of it. Everything happening was a first. And if you were actually sober enough from your rapture, you'd have noted that this must be what poets wrote sonnets for, what knights swore to chivalry in faraway lands, what artists created under the spell of their muse.
This must be...This must be...
"I know I'm not smart like the man you want. Shit, I haven't cracked open a damned book in ages besides mags—Damn, those aren't books.
"And the last time I tried to go into that main art museum in Philly, I couldn't afford it. 'Sides that, the folks workin' there wouldn't want my poor ass, anyway," he said in a stiff manner, and you didn't miss the tick in his jaw as he confessed to a chink in his ego. "I didn't bother goin' to any other museum since then.
"And school: My ass couldn't even make it through high school. Had to work, but shit's an excuse, I guess. Hated school." He kept his eyes fixed on his boots. The behavior, the slump in his shoulders, the trepidation evident in his body language, was unbecoming of the spitfire of Easy Company that had grown men running. "Nobody went to college in my family, so why would I be any different?"
"Babe," you shakily whispered, finally awake from the haze of incredulity that took over you.
"But I—I can be that."
Uncurling his fists before curling them again, he suddenly swung his gaze to fix on you, and impassioned eyes locked onto your own, his brows furrowing with resolve. There was still an uncertainty in the way he addressed you, but his shoulders were straighter, and he held his head higher than at the time he gave the comparison that broke your heart.
"This war's hell, but I'm open to adopting a stray cat we find along the way."
"Babe," you whispered again.
"I'm not too sure about taking walks in the park because everything's been fucked up, but I'll knife down these calluses and make 'em nice so your hands don't hurt holdin' mine. And I'll try learnin' how to draw birds and dogs and things that aren't just frogs and cats. I'll steal some pencils and paper from Captain Quaker—I mean—Captain Winters. No offense, but it's not like he needs like five million pages and shit like that in the field. The hell he doin'? Journalin'?"
"Babe."
"When you're with me, I'll never let you pay a penny. I'll buy us all the food and drinks we want, and we can tell people to fuck off so we can eat alone. I'll let you put our snacks in my ruck so you don't have to carry them.
"And when it comes to you." The manner in which his gaze softened had you breathless, desperation leaving you still to his declarations. "When it comes to you, it'd be impossible for me not to show you off.
"Because you're the smartest person I know. The kindest. And you're good at everythin', and you did go to those fancy museums and that fancy school, readin' all those books it'd take me a million years to understand."
"Babe."
"I'm not close in that regard. I'm not that kind of fancy man. I'm not smart. Can't afford college like that even if I can get in. But I can be that, and I'm gonna be," he firmly stated, and if you weren't careful, your dear heart was going to burst out of your chest. If you weren't careful, you were truly going to weep at how genuine his words and his eyes and the resolve in his shoulders spoke nothing but the truth.
"I'm gonna work hard. I'm gonna buy an actual book that ain't mags, and I'm gonna read it and then buy another one. And then another one. Grow some brains. It's never gonna be as good as yours by a long shot, but I'm gonna try."
"Babe."
"Uh...Sad to say, there aren't any museums open. I checked. Because...war."
You'd laugh if you weren't choking up from emotion.
"But I know you like digging for stuff. Old animal bones and treasures, and you even told me about different rocks and how old things are. I can't learn things for shit, but I swear I remember every single thing you told me because you told me. And I still don't know the fancy history and science stuff you talk 'bout but I can learn and dig for those things as much as you'd like. I'll dig out a fuckin' crater if I have to. I'll—"
"Babe, please."
Gently, with both bravado and fear, you reached out and touched Babe's cheek with your fingertips. It was warm, it was forbidden, and you almost made a sinful sound when he leaned into your touch and fluttered his eyelids closed at the contact. He was akin to a deer in headlights. How utterly vulnerable he looked, his eyes clear and true when he looked at you once more.
Your touch was what made him pause his anxious soliloquy. Your gaze was what held him captive and to wait with baited breath. Your glossy eyes had turning his head to fully place his cheek in your shaking hand, and finish the final act of his play.
"I know I'm not a 'gentleman' the way you expect, like how people see the officers and their nice upbringings. Wasn't raised that way, and my ass never bothered to be one.
"I've got zero patience, too. I don't try to start nothin, but I'll finish shit if I have to. Not what those 'nice' people do, I know."
Gingerly, you settled your other hand on top of his clasped fingers in support.
"But I'd never do you wrong. I only wanna treat you right because you only deserve the best," he rambled on, and you could feel how he fought to fiddle with his fingers again under your palm.
"I know I'm not the ideal man you want, but I'm fightin' to be that. I'll work hard and...and after the war, if we survive all this shit, I'll go back to school. I'll hit the books. I'll study. I'll scrape up every last penny and try to go to college—Mmmmph!"
Both of you were caught by surprise by your antics. They were unlike you. But your biding hope had taken its stand then, and it pushed aside its hard shell to be honest for once in your life.
So what if you got hurt because you assumed. So what if you were the one crazy here, and everything you were doing was a mistake, and you'd gone far past the proprieties of friendship.
If it meant that you could feel the heat of his skin and his lips on your own and reveal that part of you that longed for love, you'll take the guilt and the heartbreak. Maybe it was the war. Maybe it was being here, two young souls grown old with blood and death and seeing things they shouldn't have seen. Done things they shouldn't have done. Maybe it was from years hiding away, blending into the background, your back against the wall of every meeting and party, unassuming. Maybe it was the need to be free and honest and concede that you were a passionate person, you were just like any other person longing for connection, and that Edward James Heffron meant everything in the world to you.
And that you possibly meant the same back.
It was everything beyond you could ever fantasize and imagine. It wasn't a dream: You may have started the kiss, but he was quick to return your affection, and then some. More than some, actually.
So sweet and gentle was the prelude, and the postlude couldn't ever have been something you could ever assume. His hands on the small of your back, pulling you close to him, and he'd kissed you in ways that couldn't be portrayed in portraits and sculptures in museums that never gave Babe a chance. He held you like a man desperate for a lifeline out of rough waters, and you were his salvation. He kissed you madly.
He kissed you and made you hear the most sinful grown when your fingers slid through his hair, and you gasped when he settled his hands on your waist and expertly settled you so you straddled his lap. The new position gave you time to use your brain, but it sure wasn't easy when he made your jaw and throat the new focus of his attention.
You shyly cupped his face, bringing it back up to your own, and touched your forehead to his. "Did...did you really mean all that, Babe?"
Softening his brow, it was his turn to slide his hand on your cheek and brush his thumb on your heated skin. "Never said anythin' I don't mean—Oh, shit. I got distracted. Sorry 'bout that." Some of the forgotten anxiety began to creep back up in his hands, but you were quick with the observation. You interlaced your fingers with his as you waited for him to speak his mind.
"I...uh...I know I'm not your ideal man, but...I'd really love the chance to be that. And I'll work hard to be that if you'll let me be that.
"Please."
You boldly kissed his right temple and smoothed his hair back. Under the lamplight, it gleamed like burnished bronze. His skin had flushed in that gorgeous shade of red you loved so much, and not a single drop of beer could be held accountable for that.
It was all you.
All you.
He was everything you ever wanted.
Bashfully smiling, you placed your hands on his shoulders, uncaring if the fondness was overly evident on your face. Enough subterfuge. Enough of forever being the wallflower. Enough of denying his hands sliding down onto the small of your back while his eyes brimmed with hopeful anticipation.
You've upheld self-preservation for far too long, and there was only one person you'd toss all propriety to the wind for.
"Babe, you always were and are the only man for me.
"Could you please let me be the only one for you?" you asked, turning the amalgamation of his anxiety into a reflection of your own hunger.
"Could you please let me be that person you already are to me?"
He smiled. He smiled, and no treasure you ever dug up or million dollar relics in expensive schools and museums could compare to the dazzling display of authentic relief. Hope. Desire. All for you and because of you, and damn it all if some tears leaked at seeing his crinkled eyes and bright teeth and a face that displayed innocent youth.
How beautiful he was when he smiled. How beautiful you felt when he cradled you close before tilting his head and kissing you again. Soft, this time. Slow. He took his time with memorizing your skin and lips, your hair, the planes of your back. He took his time holding you, kissing you, showing you through his actions what his answer was before he attempted lip service.
"The only person who's supposed to be askin' that is me," Babe jokingly replied, and you quickly snapshotted that languid grin you loved so much in your head for sketching later.
"So...uh...could a gentleman in trainin' take your fine self out for a real dinner that's not some c-rat in a foxhole?"
You chuckled at his eager expression. That mischievous gleam in his eyes that held such mirth gave you butterflies. Each and every time, and right this moment, combined with that dastardly grin, you'd have agreed to anything he asked for if he would continue to look at you in such a way.
"I'd be honored to have dinner with you, Babe Heffron.
