Discover Top Posts Tagged with #eugene roe

Jul 18

THINKING OF YOU

── EUGENE ROE

summary: in a fox hole in Bastogne eugene promises to take you to New Orleans once the war is over and tells you how you’ll love it there, and when you finally end up going you do love it, only with another man.

content: angst

notes: based on the song thinking of you by katy perry

wc: 5.5k

After what felt like hours, the shelling had finally eased off.

Not stopped, but settled into something distant enough that neither of you flinched. The occasional clap of a grenade rolled across the frozen land, shaking the near by trees causing loose flecks of ice to fall onto the already white ground.

Silence, save for the wind.

The foxhole was barely large enough for the two of you. Knees tucked in, shoulders brushing at every sudden movement, every breath turned to mist in the bitter December air.

Eugene sat with his helmet tipped low over his brow, his medical bag resting between his boots. He'd spent the better part of the day running from one wounded man to the next. There was dried blood on his gloves he hadn't had the chance to scrub away.

You stared up at the sliver of sky visible above, eyes glazing over at the bite of the cold.

"I forgot what quiet sounded like."

A corner of Eugene's mouth twitched.

"This ain't quiet."

You stopped, attempting to listen to the icy wasteland.

Far-off artillery.

The whistle of wind through bare branches.

Someone coughing in another foxhole.

You let out a shaky sigh.

"Yeah, I suppose not."

A somewhat comfortable silence settled between the two of you.

"You miss home?" You asked eventually.

Eugene rubbed his hands together for warmth.

"Every day."

"What do you miss most?"

He thought about it longer than you had expected he would.

Most of the men you had asked this question to usually answered before the sentence could finish leaving your lips.

"The smell."

You turned to him with a brow raised.

"The smell?"

"Yeah."

He looked out across the white forest.

"After it rains."

You frowned.

"Rain has a smell?"

"You've never noticed?"

"I've noticed puddles and mud."

He huffed a quiet laugh.

"No. Rain in New Orleans." His voice grew softer, almost absent-minded. "Warm rain. Whole city's different after. Everything smells clean."

You smiled at his statement, lips cracking slightly at the movement.

"I don't think England has ever smelled clean."

That earned an actual chuckle.

"No."

You nudged his shoulder with yours.

"So... New Orleans."

"Mhm."

"What's it like?"

His breathing stuttered at the question.

For a moment he was somewhere else entirely.

"Busy."

"That's not very descriptive."

He shrugged.

"Music everywhere."

"Everywhere?"

"Mhm."

Your face began to scrunch up lightly.

"Even in the streets?"

"Especially in the streets."

His eyes stayed fixed somewhere beyond the trees.

"You'll hear someone playing a trumpet from halfway down the block. Kids running about. Folks dancing for no reason."

You smiled fondly at the image, eyes never leaving his face.

"It sounds made up."

"It ain't."

"You've got proof?"

"My ma."

A shirt laugh escaped your frost bitten lips.

"I'll need stronger proof than that."

He smiled to himself.

"You would."

“What does that mean?”

He only looked at you and smirked.

The wind picked up again.

You tucked your hands deeper into your damp sleeves.

"I'd like to see it one day, sounds like a place I’d enjoy."

Eugene looked at you.

"You would."

"You keep saying that."

"'Cause it's true."

"What makes you so sure?"

He studied you for a second before answering.

"You always stop whenever somebody's singing."

You blinked at him.

"What?"

"I've seen you."

"When?"

"Whenever Luz has had one to many and starts making a fool of himself."

You gasped quietly, feigning shock.

"I do not."

"You do."

"I've never-"

"You always join in dancing before anybody else does."

You opened your mouth to argue before realising...

He was right.

You shook your head, helmet moving slightly askew as you did.

"You notice way too much."

"More like I just got eyes."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough."

You looked down, suddenly the only heat radiating from your body being the reddening of your face.

"And what else do you know?"

He answered without hesitation.

"You hate the watered down coffee they give us."

"It's dreadful."

"You always give your gloves away."

"They're usually colder than me."

"You ain't fooling nobody."

You smiled.

"You pretend you don't like being fussed over."

"I don't."

"Liar."

He looked away, the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

Another stretch of silence.

Long enough for snowflakes to begin drifting lazily into the foxhole.

You watched one land on the sleeve of his jacket before melting away.

"When this is over..." you murmured.

He glanced at you.

"What d'you reckon you'll do first?"

He didn't answer straight away.

"Sleep."

You rolled your eyes, a almost permanent smile tugging at your lips.

"For how long?"

"Week."

"Only a week?"

He considered it, brows pinched together.

"Maybe two."

You titled your head to the side.

"And then?"

He drew a slow breath.

"Go home."

The words were almost whispered.

"Sit on my ma’s porch."

He could almost see it.

"Listen to the rain."

You imagined him there, without the mud, without the blood, without the exhaustion that seemed to live permanently behind his eyes.

It suited him.

You almost imagined yourself sitting next to him.

"What about you?" he asked.

You thought for a moment.

"I don't know."

"No?"

"I've spent so long thinking about getting through tomorrow that I never really thought about after."

He nodded.

"Guess that's fair."

You looked up at the pale winter sky.

"I'd like to travel."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Where?"

You kissed your teeth.

"I suppose New Orleans ought to be on the list."

His expression softened.

"You'd like it."

"Yeah, you've said."

"I mean it."

You looked at him, eyes tracing his.

"I'll have to take your word for it."

He held your gaze for a long moment.

"I'll take you."

You stopped moving for a split second, a frown covering your brow.

"What?"

"I'll take you."

You couldn't help but breathe a misty air of laughter.

"When?"

He looked almost confused by the question.

"After the war."

The words hung between you.

You searched his face for even the slightest hint that he was joking.

There wasn't one.

Just him.

Looking at you as though taking you to New Orleans was the most ordinary promise in the world.

You felt your chest tighten.

"I'd like that."

It came out almost like a whisper.

"So would I."

Neither of you spoke after that.

You simply sat together as snow drifted into the foxhole, imagining a city of warm rain, brass bands and sunlit streets that felt impossibly far away.

For a little while, Bastogne disappeared.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourselves believe that there really would be an after.

The war was over.

You couldn't quite believe it, and neither could the men who you'd been through hell with.

As you made your way through the sea of men, you found yourself surrounded by the faces of soldiers with nothing but relief and happiness etched across them.

Though you were only looking for the face of one soldier.

You found Eugene sitting beneath the shade of a tree just beyond the celebrating men, his medical bag open between his knees.

Old habits die hard you thought.

Even now, he was restocking bandages that probably wouldn't be needed anymore.

"You know," you said as you approached, "you're allowed to stop working now."

He glanced up.

"I know."

"You don't look convinced."

"I'm thinking."

You sat beside him, stretching your aching legs out in the warm spring grass.

"About?"

He shrugged.

"What comes next."

You smiled at him, squinting under the light.

"I thought that was easy."

"Yeah?"

"You go home."

"Mhm."

"You sleep for two weeks."

He looked at you, puzzled.

"I said one."

"You changed your mind."

"I don't remember that."

"You definitely did."

A small smile appeared.

"You keeping track?"

"Someone has to." you spoke, rolling your eyes.

For a while you simply watched the men scattered around camp.

Liebgott and Webster were arguing over a game of cards.

Lipton was trying, and failing, to restore some order.

Luz had somehow convinced a handful of the replacements to join him in another ridiculous song.

It almost looked normal.

"You'll write?" you asked quietly.

Eugene didn't hesitate.

"Course."

"You promise?"

"I said I would."

You looked at him fondly, lightly biting your bottom lip as you watched the way the wind flowed through his short but messy hair.

"I know."

He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket.

"I got something."

"What is it?"

Instead of answering, he placed a small object in your palm.

A tarnished St. Christopher medal, worn smooth around the edges.

The chain had long since broken.

You looked up.

"Eugene..."

"My ma gave it to me."

Your eyes widened, a cold wave spilling over you.

"I can't take this."

"You can."

"No, I-“

"You can."

He closed your fingers gently around it.

"It brought me this far."

"I couldn't possibly-"

"I want you to have it."

You stared at the medal lying against your skin.

"You'll need it."

He shook his head.

"War's over."

"It doesn't mean nothing bad can happen."

"I know."

"Then keep it."

You pushed the medal out toward him, it sparkling against your open palm.

He huffed before lightly shoving it towards your chest, your hand tightening around it and the warn down edges beginning to make small engravings against the calloused skin of your palm.

"I reckon you'll look after it better than I ever did."

You swallowed hard.

"I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to."

The breeze stirred the leaves above you both.

You slipped the medal carefully into the pocket over your heart, the small outline against the warn fabric making roe's stomach flip.

"I don't have anything for you."

"You don't need to give me anything."

You frowned.

"I feel awful."

He chuckled quietly.

"You wrote me that note."

"What note?"

"'Don't get yourself killed. I'd hate to have to find another medic.'"

You groaned tipping your head backwards to the point there was a slight crack sound.

"I was trying to be funny."

"It worked."

"You kept it?"

He reached into his wallet.

The leather worn and battered and the clasp on the side clinging on with whatever life force it had left.

Folded carefully between photographs and old papers was the tiny scrap you'd shoved into his hand weeks earlier before he'd run off to answer another call.

The paper was creased nearly white at the folds.

You stared.

"You carried that?"

"Mhm."

"It's barely even a sentence."

"'S enough."

You laughed, though your eyes had begun to sting as you pulled loose strands of hair away from your eyes.

"I think you're sentimental."

"I think you're wrong."

"You kept it in your wallet."

He looked away, unable to hide the smile tugging at his mouth.

"Maybe."

The sound of a jeep approaching interrupted them.

One of the officers climbed down.

"Roe!"

Eugene looked over.

"Looks like your orders've come through."

The smile faded from your face, as your stomach began to sink.

"So soon?"

The officer nodded.

"They're moving men around already."

Eugene stood, brushing the grass from his trousers.

"I'll be back."

He sounded certain.

The officer wandered off to find someone else.

You stood too, hands falling awkwardly at your side.

"So..."

"So."

Neither of you seemed to know what came next.

Your eyes began to memorise his face with the face fear and urgency that matched all the times you'd watched him on the feild.

"I suppose this is goodbye."

"For now."

You inhaled a sharp breath while you nodded.

"For now."

He held out his hand.

You looked at it for a moment before slowly meeting his eyes again, face drowned in disbelief.

"Really?"

"What?"

"After everything... you're shaking my hand?"

His ears reddened slightly.

"I..."

You stepped forward before he could finish.

Your arms wrapped around him.

For a heartbeat he simply froze.

Then, carefully. as though afraid you'd disappear if he held you too tightly, his arms settled around you.

You rested your forehead against his shoulder.

"You better write."

"I will."

"And don't forget."

"I won't."

"You promised."

"I know."

You stayed like that for another moment before pulling apart.

You smiled through suspiciously bright eyes.

"I expect a full tour."

He frowned.

"Of what?"

"New Orleans."

Recognition softened his expression.

"Oh."

He smiled.

"I ain't forgotten."

You watched him climb into the waiting jeep.

Just before it pulled away, he leaned out.

"Hey!"

You looked up.

"When it rains."

"What?"

"The smell."

"I'll remember."

The jeep disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.

You stood there long after it had vanished from sight, one hand tucked into your pocket, your fingers wrapped tightly around the little St. Christopher medal.

You didn't know it then, but it would be years before you saw Eugene Roe again.

And by then, everything would have changed.

Home didn't feel like home.

Not after France.

Not after Holland.

Not after Bastogne.

The little house you’d grown up in looked exactly as she'd remembered it, ivy climbing the brick walls, the crooked gate your father had always promised to fix, the smell of your mother's baking drifting through the open kitchen window.

It should have felt like a comfort, like a relief.

Instead, it felt... unfamiliar.

Like you’d returned to someone else's life.

"You've gone thin," your mother fussed, pulling you into a hug before you’d even stepped properly through the front door.

"I've been in a war, Mother."

"Well, you'll soon put that right."

Your father appeared from the sitting room.

"Good journey?"

You nodded.

"It was."

He smiled, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes, there was something oddly nervous about it.

"Come in. We've got something to discuss."

"What sort of something?"

"You'll see."

Dinner was quieter than you remembered.

Your mother kept asking about the Americans you’d served with.

Your father asked very little about the war.

Neither of them asked about Eugene.

They should’ve known his name by this point.

You’d mentioned him in almost every letter since your transfer to easy company.

They would’ve watched as he turned from ‘A medic from Louisiana’ to ‘Gene’.

But they said nothing.

You hadn't wanted to tempt fate by saying any more.

As your mother cleared away the last of the plates, your father folded his hands together.

"There's a young man we'd like you to meet."

You looked up bewildered from the half empty glass of wine you’d been nursing for the past hour.

"What?"

"He works with Mr. Peterson at the engineering office."

"...Alright?"

"His name's Jack."

You blinked.

"Good for him."

Your parents exchanged a glance.

"He's expressed an interest in courting you."

The wine caught in your throat.

"I've only just got home."

"He comes from a respectable family."

"Mum..."

"He has steady work."

"Dad?"

He leaned forward.

"The war is over."

"I know."

"It's time to begin thinking about your future."

"My future?"

"Marriage."

None of the words seemed to compute in your head.

"I'm sorry..."

You laughed once, almost certain that you’d misheard what they were telling you.

"...you what?"

"You've reached an age where-“

"I've been home for three days."

Your mother's expression softened.

"We're only thinking of what's best."

"I don't even know him."

"You will."

"No."

"You'll come to dinner on Sunday."

"No."

His voice then hardened at the lack of cooperation in your behaviour.

"You'll meet him."

You pushed back your chair in a sudden erratic manner.

"I've already,"

You stopped yourself.

Already what?

Already fallen in love?

Already promised someone that you’d wait?

You swallowed the words.

Your mother reached across the table, attempting to offer some sort of comfort.

"Sweetheart..."

"It was a wartime friendship."

Your head snapped up so quick you felt your head sway slightly.

"What?"

"We know how these things happen."

Ice settled in your stomach.

"You read my letters."

"Yes."

"You knew."

"You mentioned him quite a lot dear."

She smiled sadly at you, almost knowing.

"Those sorts of attachments... they're understandable during a war."

"It wasn't-"

"But now you're home."

Your father nodded once.

"It's time to move forward."

Jack was kind.

That almost made it worse.

He wasn't arrogant.

Or cruel.

Or dismissive like you’d once feared.

He listened when you spoke.

He brought flowers to every visit.

He laughed at your jokes even when he didn’t specifically understand them.

He asked about your work.

Asked about your favourite books.

He never asked about France.

Never asked about Bastogne.

Perhaps he could see in your eyes that some questions weren't meant to be answered.

Months passed.

Then one afternoon your father announced it.

"Jack's asked permission."

You looked up from the book in your lap.

"For what?"

Your mother smiled.

"To marry you."

Silence.

You looked between them.

Then back again.

"...You what?"

"He'll ask you properly this evening."

"I haven't even-"

"You've been seeing each other for months."

"I never said-"

"He'll make a wonderful husband."

You wanted to say no.

You truly did.

But Eugene's letters had stopped weeks ago.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

Nothing.

Perhaps...

Perhaps he'd realised you’d never come to Louisiana.

Perhaps he'd met someone.

Perhaps he'd simply moved on.

The thought hollowed you out and bile began to rise in the back of your throat.

When Jack asked that evening, he looked so hopeful.

"I know we haven't known each other long..."

He smiled nervously.

"...but I'd like to spend the rest of my life making you happy."

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

He deserved someone who loved him without hesitation.

Someone who didn't compare every smile to another man's.

Someone who wasn't still waiting for a promise whispered in a foxhole.

"...Yes."

The word barely sounded like yours, you felt as though someone had possessed you.

Marriage wasn't awful.

That was somehow the hard part.

Jack was patient.

Gentle.

The sort of man who noticed when you seemed quiet and simply held your hand rather than asking why.

He loved you.

Wholeheartedly.

You tried.

God, you tried.

You laughed when you were supposed to.

Smiled in photographs.

Held his hand on walks.

Kissed him goodbye each morning before work.

But every so often...

He'd laugh.

And for the briefest second,

It was Eugene.

He'd tilt his head while listening.

And you’d would see Eugene.

One rainy afternoon he reached over to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You closed your eyes.

For one impossible heartbeat...

Warm Louisiana rain.

A foxhole.

"I'll take you there."

Jack kissed you softly.

She kissed him back.

But when you opened your eyes...

The man standing in front of her wasn't Eugene Roe.

Guilt and disgust crashed over you so fiercely you had to turn away.

"You alright?" Jack asked, concern seeping through his features.

You forced a smile.

"Just tired."

He believed you.

Dear reader,

I hope this reaches you this time.

I still don't know if my last few letters ever found their way to England. Maybe the post's just slow. Lord knows the Army's never been quick about anything.

I've finally got word.

They're sending me home.

Looks like this'll be my last letter before I leave.

Funny.

Feels stranger than I'd imagined.

Ma keeps asking when she's going to meet "the girl from England." I told her she'd like you.

I don't know if you still think about New Orleans.

I still owe you that tour.

I haven't forgotten.

I don't reckon I ever will.

I'll write again once I'm home.

Until then...

Take care of yourself.

Love

— Gene

The envelope was addressed carefully.

To the only address he'd ever known.

Your parents' house.

Your mother answered the door when the postman arrived.

Another letter.

Same handwriting.

She looked at it for a long moment.

Then quietly slipped it into the kitchen drawer beneath all the others.

"Love?"

You looked up from your sewing, hands sore from the constant prick of the needle.

Jack stood in the doorway, shrugging on his coat.

"Hm?"

"I've got some news."

"What sort of news?"

"A work trip."

"Oh?"

He smiled.

"They're sending me to America."

You blinked.

"For how long?"

"Week."

He thought for a moment.

"Maybe two."

You smiled faintly at a small distant feeling of familiarity.

"Where?"

He grinned.

"New Orleans."

The colour drained from your face and your blood ran cold.

"...New Orleans?"

"Yep!"

He laughed.

"I thought you might like to come with me."

You couldn't speak.

All you could hear was a quiet voice in the middle of a frozen forest.

'I'll take you there... after the war.'

The city was alive.

Even before the sun had properly climbed above the rooftops, music spilled into the streets.

Trumpets drifted through the warm morning air.

Laughter echoed from cafés tucked beneath wrought-iron balconies draped in flowers.

The scent of coffee lingered on every corner, mingling with something sweet you couldn't quite place.

You stood outside the hotel for a long moment, taking it all in.

"You alright?"

You turned.

Jack smiled as he straightened the collar of his jacket.

"You've gone quiet."

You managed a smile.

"It's... different."

"In a good way, I hope."

You nodded though a heavy feeling sat in your heart.

"Yes."

It was beautiful.

Exactly as Gene had described.

That thought settled heavily in your chest.

Jack offered his arm.

"Come on."

You slipped your hand through his.

"Let's explore."

The streets were busier than you’d ever imagined.

Market stalls overflowed with colourful fabrics and fresh fruit.

Children darted between adults, laughing as they chased one another through the square.

A woman sang from the doorway of a little shop while someone accompanied her on a battered piano.

You found yourself smiling harder than you had in a long time.

"You hear it?"

Jack looked over.

"Hear what?"

"The music."

He laughed.

"I'd be worried if I couldn't."

'Music everywhere.'

Gene had been right.

By midday, the heat had settled over the city like a heavy blanket.

Jack stopped outside a little café.

"I've heard these are supposed to be famous."

He emerged a few minutes later carrying a paper bag dusted with powdered sugar.

"What are they?"

"Beignets."

Your heart lurched and your knees felt slightly weaker.

You looked down at the warm pastry in your hands.

A memory surfaced so clearly you could almost hear his voice.

"You'd make a mess."

"I would not."

"Tell that to muck and the beans you spilt down his jacket."

You laughed under your breath at the vivid memory.

"What?" Jack asked.

"Oh..."

You looked down quickly.

"Nothing."

He brushed a thumb across the corner of your mouth.

"You've already got sugar on your face."

You froze.

For the briefest second...

It wasn't Jack standing in front of you.

It was Gene.

Tired.

Helmet crooked.

A teasing smile you’d only ever seen when it was just the two of you.

Then the moment vanished.

Jack smiled.

"Told you."

You swallowed back the memories.

"So you did."

That afternoon you wandered into Jackson Square.

Artists lined the pathways, their paintings propped against iron fences.

Musicians played beneath the shade of old oak trees.

You turned slowly.

Trying to take everything in.

Trying not to imagine another version of this day.

One where Gene was beside you instead.

Pointing at buildings.

Telling stories from his childhood.

Laughing whenever you got hopelessly lost.

"You've got that look again."

Jack's voice pulled you back to reality.

"What look?"

"The one where you're somewhere else."

"Sorry."

"No need to apologise."

He squeezed your hand gently.

"I know travelling can be overwhelming."

If only it were that simple.

As the afternoon wore on, you found yourselves walking along the river.

The Mississippi stretched endlessly before them, ships drifting lazily across the water.

"It's incredible," you whispered.

Jack nodded.

"It really is."

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you.

Then, almost casually, he asked,

"Didn't one of the men you served with come from here?"

You stopped walking.

Your head turned so quickly you almost gave yourself whiplash.

“What?”

He looked mildly surprised.

"From New Orleans."

"How..."

Your voice came out quieter than you’d intended, frightened almost.

"...how'd you know that?"

Jack frowned.

"I thought your mother mentioned it."

"My mother?"

"Mhm."

He shrugged.

"When we first got engaged, I think."

Your stomach tightened painfully.

"She said there was a medic from Louisiana you were friends with."

Friends.

The word felt painfully small.

"I didn't realise you'd remembered."

"I suppose I did."

He smiled.

"Funny, really."

"What is?"

"You've spent the whole day smiling."

A wave of nausea was still floating around you as you tried to comprehend the statement.

"I have?"

"Mhm."

He looked around at the bustling streets.

"I thought maybe it was because this place reminded you of something he'd told you."

You felt as though you could throw up.

He had no idea.

Not really.

He thought he was making conversation.

He couldn't possibly know that every street they walked...

Every trumpet they heard...

Every balcony they’d looked up at...

Every café they stopped in...

Had already been shown to you years ago.

Not with your eyes.

But through Gene's stories.

Jack laughed softly.

"He must've talked about home quite a lot."

You stared out across the river.

"He did."

"What was he like?"

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your handbag so tight they began to pulse.

You could still picture him in that foxhole.

Helmet pushed back.

Snow caught in his hair.

Speaking about warm rain as though it were the greatest thing in the world.

"He was..."

You smiled despite yourself, a fond look no one had ever seen but Eugene feathering your features.

"...quiet."

Jack nodded.

"I imagine he'd be pleased to know you finally made it here."

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment.

"So do I."

By the time evening settled over the city, you were both exhausted.

You returned to the hotel carrying little more than sore feet and a handful of souvenirs.

Jack loosened his tie as soon as he stepped inside the room.

"I don't think I've walked that much in years."

"You were the one insisting we see everything."

"Worth it."

He smiled at you, eyes creasing at the corners.

"I'm glad you came."

You looked back out of the window.

Beyond the glass, dark clouds rolled slowly across the Louisiana sky.

A low rumble of thunder echoed somewhere in the distance.

The first drops of rain began to fall.

You watched them race down the windowpane.

And without even thinking, you smiled.

"After it rains... the whole city's different."

Rain fell in steady sheets across New Orleans.

It drummed against rooftops.

Splashed into the gutters.

Ran from the iron balconies in silver streams.

The city looked softer somehow.

As though the storm had washed the noise away.

You slipped quietly from the hotel room, careful not to wake Jack.

The corridor creaked beneath your feet.

A minute later you stepped out into the warm Louisiana night.

Immediately the rain soaked through your coat.

You didn't care.

You couldn’t care.

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

Gene had been right.

It did smell different.

A sad smile flickered across your face like candle in the wind.

"Shit Gene. You were right..."

"...Told you."

The voice was barely above the rain.

You froze.

No.

Slowly...

Almost afraid you’d imagined it...

You turned.

A man stood beneath the glow of a streetlamp across the road.

Hands buried in the pockets of his coat.

Hair damp from the rain.

For one impossible second neither of you moved.

"...Gene?"

He stared at you.

As though saying your name aloud might make you disappear.

He crossed the street.

You met him halfway.

Neither of you spoke.

You simply threw your arms around him.

For a heartbeat he stood completely still.

Then his arms wrapped around you so tightly you thought he might never let go.

He laughed.

A broken, breathless laugh that sounded dangerously close to tears.

"I found you."

You buried your face against his shoulder.

"I thought..."

Your voice cracked, face contorting from the tears.

"I thought I'd never-“

"I found you."

He said it again.

As though he couldn't quite believe it himself.

When you finally pulled apart you simply looked at each other.

He looked older.

So did you.

Years older than either of you should have.

"You came."

You smiled sadly up at him.

"I did."

He laughed softly.

"Knew you would."

You looked around at the rain-soaked streets.

"...Just not with you."

A harrowing silence followed.

"I wrote."

A deep frown danced across your eyes.

“What?”

"I wrote every week."

He searched your face.

"Sometimes every day."

Your face lost all colour as you felt as though the world had started to crash down around you.

"...What?"

"I sent letters."

"I never got any."

"I sent 'em to your house."

"My-"

"My last letter... I told you I was finally coming home."

You stared at him in disbelief.

"...Gene."

"I kept writing."

"I never got them."

"I waited."

"So did I."

"No..."

You shook your head harder hoping it was all just one sick nightmare.

"No, I didn't, I didn't get a single one."

"I wrote."

"What letters?"

"And I wrote."

"What letters, Gene?"

"I sent them."

"I never got them!"

The words echoed down the empty street.

Both of you breathing hard.

Both of you looking at the other as though trying to understand how years could simply...

Disappear.

The realisation came.

It hit you like a cold sickening plague.

"My parents..."

You whispered it more to yourself than to him.

"My last address..."

Gene frowned.

"They wouldn't..."

You thought of every conversation.

Every awkward silence.

Every time your mother had insisted you move on.

Every time your father had said the war was over.

Your knees almost gave way.

"Oh my God..."

"They knew."

You covered your mouth, vomit threatening to spill.

"They knew."

Gene didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

He knew.

Neither of you had stopped writing.

Neither of you had stopped waiting.

Someone else had decided your story was over.

You began to cry.

"I thought you'd forgotten me."

His own eyes glistened.

"I thought you didn't want me anymore."

"I waited."

"So did I."

You laughed through tears.

"We're fools."

"No."

He shook his head.

"We were just too late."

You looked at him.

You saw his eyes drop.

To your left hand.

The wedding ring.

Everything in his face changed.

"...You married."

"I waited."

"I know."

"I waited until..."

You couldn't finish.

"The letters stopped."

His jaw tightened.

"I thought you were gone."

"I thought the same."

Rain continued to fall around you both.

The city had disappeared.

There was only the two of you.

And everything you’d lost.

After a long silence Gene took a slow breath.

"I still owe you."

A frown presented itself on your face.

"What?"

"The tour."

A bittersweet smile kissed your lips.

"Gene..."

"I promised."

"You don't have to."

"I said I'd take you."

Your eyes searched his helplessly.

"We leave tomorrow."

"It don't matter."

He took a step closer.

"We'll go now."

"Gene-"

"I'll show you Jackson Square again."

"I've already seen it."

"The river."

"I've seen it."

"The café with the beignets."

"I've-"

"We'll do it properly."

His words came faster now, and his movements were bordering manic.

"The way I wanted to."

"Gene..."

"I'll show you where I grew up."

Tears spilled freely down his face now, disappearing into the rain.

"My ma's house isn't far."

"Gene..."

"You'll hear the music."

"I already did."

"We've still got tonight."

His voice cracked.

"We've still got time."

You looked at him through blurring eyes.

At the man you’d loved in a frozen foxhole.

The man you’d waited for.

The man who had waited for you.

And somehow... the timing had beaten the both of you.

"It's too late."

The words were barely louder than the rain.

He stopped talking.

You bit back a cry.

"It's too late."

Too late in the night.

Too late in their lives.

Too late for promises made beneath snow-covered trees.

His shoulders sagged.

As though something inside him had finally broken.

"I have to go."

He shook his head immediately.

"No."

"I do."

"You can't."

"I'm sorry."

"You can't go again."

The words came out almost like a plea.

"I just got you back."

You closed your eyes, salty tears cascading down your face.

"I'm sorry."

He reached for your hand.

His bare fingers brushed your silver clad ones.

Then slipped away.

You stepped backwards.

One step.

Then another.

"I'll always..."

You couldn't finish.

Neither could he.

You turned before you lost the courage.

The hotel stood only a short distance away.

You climbed the steps slowly.

Every instinct screamed at you to turn around.

To run back.

To stay.

At the top of the steps you finally looked over her shoulder.

Gene hadn't moved.

He was still standing exactly where you’d left him.

In the middle of the street.

Rain pouring over him.

Watching you disappear.

You pressed a trembling hand into the pocket of your coat.

Your fingers brushed cool metal.

Frowning, you pulled it free.

A tarnished St. Christopher medal.

The little medal he'd pressed into your palm beneath a tree in Europe all those years ago.

You closed your hand around it.

Down in the street...

Gene was still there.

#evie’s fics ⋆ ˚｡⋆#band of brothers #eugene roe #doc roe #band of brothers x reader #eugene roe x reader #doc roe x reader #angst #x reader

lovingroe

Jul 18

THINKING OF YOU

── EUGENE ROE

content: angst

notes: based on the song thinking of you by katy perry

wc: 5.5k

After what felt like hours, the shelling had finally eased off.

Silence, save for the wind.

The foxhole was barely large enough for the two of you. Knees tucked in, shoulders brushing at every sudden movement, every breath turned to mist in the bitter December air.

You stared up at the sliver of sky visible above, eyes glazing over at the bite of the cold.

"I forgot what quiet sounded like."

A corner of Eugene's mouth twitched.

"This ain't quiet."

You stopped, attempting to listen to the icy wasteland.

Far-off artillery.

The whistle of wind through bare branches.

Someone coughing in another foxhole.

You let out a shaky sigh.

"Yeah, I suppose not."

A somewhat comfortable silence settled between the two of you.

"You miss home?" You asked eventually.

Eugene rubbed his hands together for warmth.

"Every day."

"What do you miss most?"

He thought about it longer than you had expected he would.

Most of the men you had asked this question to usually answered before the sentence could finish leaving your lips.

"The smell."

You turned to him with a brow raised.

"The smell?"

"Yeah."

He looked out across the white forest.

"After it rains."

You frowned.

"Rain has a smell?"

"You've never noticed?"

"I've noticed puddles and mud."

He huffed a quiet laugh.

"No. Rain in New Orleans." His voice grew softer, almost absent-minded. "Warm rain. Whole city's different after. Everything smells clean."

You smiled at his statement, lips cracking slightly at the movement.

"I don't think England has ever smelled clean."

That earned an actual chuckle.

"No."

You nudged his shoulder with yours.

"So... New Orleans."

"Mhm."

"What's it like?"

His breathing stuttered at the question.

For a moment he was somewhere else entirely.

"Busy."

"That's not very descriptive."

He shrugged.

"Music everywhere."

"Everywhere?"

"Mhm."

Your face began to scrunch up lightly.

"Even in the streets?"

"Especially in the streets."

His eyes stayed fixed somewhere beyond the trees.

"You'll hear someone playing a trumpet from halfway down the block. Kids running about. Folks dancing for no reason."

You smiled fondly at the image, eyes never leaving his face.

"It sounds made up."

"It ain't."

"You've got proof?"

"My ma."

A shirt laugh escaped your frost bitten lips.

"I'll need stronger proof than that."

He smiled to himself.

"You would."

“What does that mean?”

He only looked at you and smirked.

The wind picked up again.

You tucked your hands deeper into your damp sleeves.

"I'd like to see it one day, sounds like a place I’d enjoy."

Eugene looked at you.

"You would."

"You keep saying that."

"'Cause it's true."

"What makes you so sure?"

He studied you for a second before answering.

"You always stop whenever somebody's singing."

You blinked at him.

"What?"

"I've seen you."

"When?"

"Whenever Luz has had one to many and starts making a fool of himself."

You gasped quietly, feigning shock.

"I do not."

"You do."

"I've never-"

"You always join in dancing before anybody else does."

You opened your mouth to argue before realising...

He was right.

You shook your head, helmet moving slightly askew as you did.

"You notice way too much."

"More like I just got eyes."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough."

You looked down, suddenly the only heat radiating from your body being the reddening of your face.

"And what else do you know?"

He answered without hesitation.

"You hate the watered down coffee they give us."

"It's dreadful."

"You always give your gloves away."

"They're usually colder than me."

"You ain't fooling nobody."

You smiled.

"You pretend you don't like being fussed over."

"I don't."

"Liar."

He looked away, the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

Another stretch of silence.

Long enough for snowflakes to begin drifting lazily into the foxhole.

You watched one land on the sleeve of his jacket before melting away.

"When this is over..." you murmured.

He glanced at you.

"What d'you reckon you'll do first?"

He didn't answer straight away.

"Sleep."

You rolled your eyes, a almost permanent smile tugging at your lips.

"For how long?"

"Week."

"Only a week?"

He considered it, brows pinched together.

"Maybe two."

You titled your head to the side.

"And then?"

He drew a slow breath.

"Go home."

The words were almost whispered.

"Sit on my ma’s porch."

He could almost see it.

"Listen to the rain."

You imagined him there, without the mud, without the blood, without the exhaustion that seemed to live permanently behind his eyes.

It suited him.

You almost imagined yourself sitting next to him.

"What about you?" he asked.

You thought for a moment.

"I don't know."

"No?"

"I've spent so long thinking about getting through tomorrow that I never really thought about after."

He nodded.

"Guess that's fair."

You looked up at the pale winter sky.

"I'd like to travel."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Where?"

You kissed your teeth.

"I suppose New Orleans ought to be on the list."

His expression softened.

"You'd like it."

"Yeah, you've said."

"I mean it."

You looked at him, eyes tracing his.

"I'll have to take your word for it."

He held your gaze for a long moment.

"I'll take you."

You stopped moving for a split second, a frown covering your brow.

"What?"

"I'll take you."

You couldn't help but breathe a misty air of laughter.

"When?"

He looked almost confused by the question.

"After the war."

The words hung between you.

You searched his face for even the slightest hint that he was joking.

There wasn't one.

Just him.

Looking at you as though taking you to New Orleans was the most ordinary promise in the world.

You felt your chest tighten.

"I'd like that."

It came out almost like a whisper.

"So would I."

Neither of you spoke after that.

You simply sat together as snow drifted into the foxhole, imagining a city of warm rain, brass bands and sunlit streets that felt impossibly far away.

For a little while, Bastogne disappeared.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourselves believe that there really would be an after.

The war was over.

You couldn't quite believe it, and neither could the men who you'd been through hell with.

As you made your way through the sea of men, you found yourself surrounded by the faces of soldiers with nothing but relief and happiness etched across them.

Though you were only looking for the face of one soldier.

You found Eugene sitting beneath the shade of a tree just beyond the celebrating men, his medical bag open between his knees.

Old habits die hard you thought.

Even now, he was restocking bandages that probably wouldn't be needed anymore.

"You know," you said as you approached, "you're allowed to stop working now."

He glanced up.

"I know."

"You don't look convinced."

"I'm thinking."

You sat beside him, stretching your aching legs out in the warm spring grass.

"About?"

He shrugged.

"What comes next."

You smiled at him, squinting under the light.

"I thought that was easy."

"Yeah?"

"You go home."

"Mhm."

"You sleep for two weeks."

He looked at you, puzzled.

"I said one."

"You changed your mind."

"I don't remember that."

"You definitely did."

A small smile appeared.

"You keeping track?"

"Someone has to." you spoke, rolling your eyes.

For a while you simply watched the men scattered around camp.

Liebgott and Webster were arguing over a game of cards.

Lipton was trying, and failing, to restore some order.

Luz had somehow convinced a handful of the replacements to join him in another ridiculous song.

It almost looked normal.

"You'll write?" you asked quietly.

Eugene didn't hesitate.

"Course."

"You promise?"

"I said I would."

You looked at him fondly, lightly biting your bottom lip as you watched the way the wind flowed through his short but messy hair.

"I know."

He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket.

"I got something."

"What is it?"

Instead of answering, he placed a small object in your palm.

A tarnished St. Christopher medal, worn smooth around the edges.

The chain had long since broken.

You looked up.

"Eugene..."

"My ma gave it to me."

Your eyes widened, a cold wave spilling over you.

"I can't take this."

"You can."

"No, I-“

"You can."

He closed your fingers gently around it.

"It brought me this far."

"I couldn't possibly-"

"I want you to have it."

You stared at the medal lying against your skin.

"You'll need it."

He shook his head.

"War's over."

"It doesn't mean nothing bad can happen."

"I know."

"Then keep it."

You pushed the medal out toward him, it sparkling against your open palm.

He huffed before lightly shoving it towards your chest, your hand tightening around it and the warn down edges beginning to make small engravings against the calloused skin of your palm.

"I reckon you'll look after it better than I ever did."

You swallowed hard.

"I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to."

The breeze stirred the leaves above you both.

You slipped the medal carefully into the pocket over your heart, the small outline against the warn fabric making roe's stomach flip.

"I don't have anything for you."

"You don't need to give me anything."

You frowned.

"I feel awful."

He chuckled quietly.

"You wrote me that note."

"What note?"

"'Don't get yourself killed. I'd hate to have to find another medic.'"

You groaned tipping your head backwards to the point there was a slight crack sound.

"I was trying to be funny."

"It worked."

"You kept it?"

He reached into his wallet.

The leather worn and battered and the clasp on the side clinging on with whatever life force it had left.

Folded carefully between photographs and old papers was the tiny scrap you'd shoved into his hand weeks earlier before he'd run off to answer another call.

The paper was creased nearly white at the folds.

You stared.

"You carried that?"

"Mhm."

"It's barely even a sentence."

"'S enough."

You laughed, though your eyes had begun to sting as you pulled loose strands of hair away from your eyes.

"I think you're sentimental."

"I think you're wrong."

"You kept it in your wallet."

He looked away, unable to hide the smile tugging at his mouth.

"Maybe."

The sound of a jeep approaching interrupted them.

One of the officers climbed down.

"Roe!"

Eugene looked over.

"Looks like your orders've come through."

The smile faded from your face, as your stomach began to sink.

"So soon?"

The officer nodded.

"They're moving men around already."

Eugene stood, brushing the grass from his trousers.

"I'll be back."

He sounded certain.

The officer wandered off to find someone else.

You stood too, hands falling awkwardly at your side.

"So..."

"So."

Neither of you seemed to know what came next.

Your eyes began to memorise his face with the face fear and urgency that matched all the times you'd watched him on the feild.

"I suppose this is goodbye."

"For now."

You inhaled a sharp breath while you nodded.

"For now."

He held out his hand.

You looked at it for a moment before slowly meeting his eyes again, face drowned in disbelief.

"Really?"

"What?"

"After everything... you're shaking my hand?"

His ears reddened slightly.

"I..."

You stepped forward before he could finish.

Your arms wrapped around him.

For a heartbeat he simply froze.

Then, carefully. as though afraid you'd disappear if he held you too tightly, his arms settled around you.

You rested your forehead against his shoulder.

"You better write."

"I will."

"And don't forget."

"I won't."

"You promised."

"I know."

You stayed like that for another moment before pulling apart.

You smiled through suspiciously bright eyes.

"I expect a full tour."

He frowned.

"Of what?"

"New Orleans."

Recognition softened his expression.

"Oh."

He smiled.

"I ain't forgotten."

You watched him climb into the waiting jeep.

Just before it pulled away, he leaned out.

"Hey!"

You looked up.

"When it rains."

"What?"

"The smell."

"I'll remember."

The jeep disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.

You stood there long after it had vanished from sight, one hand tucked into your pocket, your fingers wrapped tightly around the little St. Christopher medal.

You didn't know it then, but it would be years before you saw Eugene Roe again.

And by then, everything would have changed.

Home didn't feel like home.

Not after France.

Not after Holland.

Not after Bastogne.

It should have felt like a comfort, like a relief.

Instead, it felt... unfamiliar.

Like you’d returned to someone else's life.

"You've gone thin," your mother fussed, pulling you into a hug before you’d even stepped properly through the front door.

"I've been in a war, Mother."

"Well, you'll soon put that right."

Your father appeared from the sitting room.

"Good journey?"

You nodded.

"It was."

He smiled, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes, there was something oddly nervous about it.

"Come in. We've got something to discuss."

"What sort of something?"

"You'll see."

Dinner was quieter than you remembered.

Your mother kept asking about the Americans you’d served with.

Your father asked very little about the war.

Neither of them asked about Eugene.

They should’ve known his name by this point.

You’d mentioned him in almost every letter since your transfer to easy company.

They would’ve watched as he turned from ‘A medic from Louisiana’ to ‘Gene’.

But they said nothing.

You hadn't wanted to tempt fate by saying any more.

As your mother cleared away the last of the plates, your father folded his hands together.

"There's a young man we'd like you to meet."

You looked up bewildered from the half empty glass of wine you’d been nursing for the past hour.

"What?"

"He works with Mr. Peterson at the engineering office."

"...Alright?"

"His name's Jack."

You blinked.

"Good for him."

Your parents exchanged a glance.

"He's expressed an interest in courting you."

The wine caught in your throat.

"I've only just got home."

"He comes from a respectable family."

"Mum..."

"He has steady work."

"Dad?"

He leaned forward.

"The war is over."

"I know."

"It's time to begin thinking about your future."

"My future?"

"Marriage."

None of the words seemed to compute in your head.

"I'm sorry..."

You laughed once, almost certain that you’d misheard what they were telling you.

"...you what?"

"You've reached an age where-“

"I've been home for three days."

Your mother's expression softened.

"We're only thinking of what's best."

"I don't even know him."

"You will."

"No."

"You'll come to dinner on Sunday."

"No."

His voice then hardened at the lack of cooperation in your behaviour.

"You'll meet him."

You pushed back your chair in a sudden erratic manner.

"I've already,"

You stopped yourself.

Already what?

Already fallen in love?

Already promised someone that you’d wait?

You swallowed the words.

Your mother reached across the table, attempting to offer some sort of comfort.

"Sweetheart..."

"It was a wartime friendship."

Your head snapped up so quick you felt your head sway slightly.

"What?"

"We know how these things happen."

Ice settled in your stomach.

"You read my letters."

"Yes."

"You knew."

"You mentioned him quite a lot dear."

She smiled sadly at you, almost knowing.

"Those sorts of attachments... they're understandable during a war."

"It wasn't-"

"But now you're home."

Your father nodded once.

"It's time to move forward."

Jack was kind.

That almost made it worse.

He wasn't arrogant.

Or cruel.

Or dismissive like you’d once feared.

He listened when you spoke.

He brought flowers to every visit.

He laughed at your jokes even when he didn’t specifically understand them.

He asked about your work.

Asked about your favourite books.

He never asked about France.

Never asked about Bastogne.

Perhaps he could see in your eyes that some questions weren't meant to be answered.

Months passed.

Then one afternoon your father announced it.

"Jack's asked permission."

You looked up from the book in your lap.

"For what?"

Your mother smiled.

"To marry you."

Silence.

You looked between them.

Then back again.

"...You what?"

"He'll ask you properly this evening."

"I haven't even-"

"You've been seeing each other for months."

"I never said-"

"He'll make a wonderful husband."

You wanted to say no.

You truly did.

But Eugene's letters had stopped weeks ago.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

Nothing.

Perhaps...

Perhaps he'd realised you’d never come to Louisiana.

Perhaps he'd met someone.

Perhaps he'd simply moved on.

The thought hollowed you out and bile began to rise in the back of your throat.

When Jack asked that evening, he looked so hopeful.

"I know we haven't known each other long..."

He smiled nervously.

"...but I'd like to spend the rest of my life making you happy."

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

He deserved someone who loved him without hesitation.

Someone who didn't compare every smile to another man's.

Someone who wasn't still waiting for a promise whispered in a foxhole.

"...Yes."

The word barely sounded like yours, you felt as though someone had possessed you.

Marriage wasn't awful.

That was somehow the hard part.

Jack was patient.

Gentle.

The sort of man who noticed when you seemed quiet and simply held your hand rather than asking why.

He loved you.

Wholeheartedly.

You tried.

God, you tried.

You laughed when you were supposed to.

Smiled in photographs.

Held his hand on walks.

Kissed him goodbye each morning before work.

But every so often...

He'd laugh.

And for the briefest second,

It was Eugene.

He'd tilt his head while listening.

And you’d would see Eugene.

One rainy afternoon he reached over to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You closed your eyes.

For one impossible heartbeat...

Warm Louisiana rain.

A foxhole.

"I'll take you there."

Jack kissed you softly.

She kissed him back.

But when you opened your eyes...

The man standing in front of her wasn't Eugene Roe.

Guilt and disgust crashed over you so fiercely you had to turn away.

"You alright?" Jack asked, concern seeping through his features.

You forced a smile.

"Just tired."

He believed you.

Dear reader,

I hope this reaches you this time.

I still don't know if my last few letters ever found their way to England. Maybe the post's just slow. Lord knows the Army's never been quick about anything.

I've finally got word.

They're sending me home.

Looks like this'll be my last letter before I leave.

Funny.

Feels stranger than I'd imagined.

Ma keeps asking when she's going to meet "the girl from England." I told her she'd like you.

I don't know if you still think about New Orleans.

I still owe you that tour.

I haven't forgotten.

I don't reckon I ever will.

I'll write again once I'm home.

Until then...

Take care of yourself.

Love

— Gene

The envelope was addressed carefully.

To the only address he'd ever known.

Your parents' house.

Your mother answered the door when the postman arrived.

Another letter.

Same handwriting.

She looked at it for a long moment.

Then quietly slipped it into the kitchen drawer beneath all the others.

"Love?"

You looked up from your sewing, hands sore from the constant prick of the needle.

Jack stood in the doorway, shrugging on his coat.

"Hm?"

"I've got some news."

"What sort of news?"

"A work trip."

"Oh?"

He smiled.

"They're sending me to America."

You blinked.

"For how long?"

"Week."

He thought for a moment.

"Maybe two."

You smiled faintly at a small distant feeling of familiarity.

"Where?"

He grinned.

"New Orleans."

The colour drained from your face and your blood ran cold.

"...New Orleans?"

"Yep!"

He laughed.

"I thought you might like to come with me."

You couldn't speak.

All you could hear was a quiet voice in the middle of a frozen forest.

'I'll take you there... after the war.'

The city was alive.

Even before the sun had properly climbed above the rooftops, music spilled into the streets.

Trumpets drifted through the warm morning air.

Laughter echoed from cafés tucked beneath wrought-iron balconies draped in flowers.

The scent of coffee lingered on every corner, mingling with something sweet you couldn't quite place.

You stood outside the hotel for a long moment, taking it all in.

"You alright?"

You turned.

Jack smiled as he straightened the collar of his jacket.

"You've gone quiet."

You managed a smile.

"It's... different."

"In a good way, I hope."

You nodded though a heavy feeling sat in your heart.

"Yes."

It was beautiful.

Exactly as Gene had described.

That thought settled heavily in your chest.

Jack offered his arm.

"Come on."

You slipped your hand through his.

"Let's explore."

The streets were busier than you’d ever imagined.

Market stalls overflowed with colourful fabrics and fresh fruit.

Children darted between adults, laughing as they chased one another through the square.

A woman sang from the doorway of a little shop while someone accompanied her on a battered piano.

You found yourself smiling harder than you had in a long time.

"You hear it?"

Jack looked over.

"Hear what?"

"The music."

He laughed.

"I'd be worried if I couldn't."

'Music everywhere.'

Gene had been right.

By midday, the heat had settled over the city like a heavy blanket.

Jack stopped outside a little café.

"I've heard these are supposed to be famous."

He emerged a few minutes later carrying a paper bag dusted with powdered sugar.

"What are they?"

"Beignets."

Your heart lurched and your knees felt slightly weaker.

You looked down at the warm pastry in your hands.

A memory surfaced so clearly you could almost hear his voice.

"You'd make a mess."

"I would not."

"Tell that to muck and the beans you spilt down his jacket."

You laughed under your breath at the vivid memory.

"What?" Jack asked.

"Oh..."

You looked down quickly.

"Nothing."

He brushed a thumb across the corner of your mouth.

"You've already got sugar on your face."

You froze.

For the briefest second...

It wasn't Jack standing in front of you.

It was Gene.

Tired.

Helmet crooked.

A teasing smile you’d only ever seen when it was just the two of you.

Then the moment vanished.

Jack smiled.

"Told you."

You swallowed back the memories.

"So you did."

That afternoon you wandered into Jackson Square.

Artists lined the pathways, their paintings propped against iron fences.

Musicians played beneath the shade of old oak trees.

You turned slowly.

Trying to take everything in.

Trying not to imagine another version of this day.

One where Gene was beside you instead.

Pointing at buildings.

Telling stories from his childhood.

Laughing whenever you got hopelessly lost.

"You've got that look again."

Jack's voice pulled you back to reality.

"What look?"

"The one where you're somewhere else."

"Sorry."

"No need to apologise."

He squeezed your hand gently.

"I know travelling can be overwhelming."

If only it were that simple.

As the afternoon wore on, you found yourselves walking along the river.

The Mississippi stretched endlessly before them, ships drifting lazily across the water.

"It's incredible," you whispered.

Jack nodded.

"It really is."

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you.

Then, almost casually, he asked,

"Didn't one of the men you served with come from here?"

You stopped walking.

Your head turned so quickly you almost gave yourself whiplash.

“What?”

He looked mildly surprised.

"From New Orleans."

"How..."

Your voice came out quieter than you’d intended, frightened almost.

"...how'd you know that?"

Jack frowned.

"I thought your mother mentioned it."

"My mother?"

"Mhm."

He shrugged.

"When we first got engaged, I think."

Your stomach tightened painfully.

"She said there was a medic from Louisiana you were friends with."

Friends.

The word felt painfully small.

"I didn't realise you'd remembered."

"I suppose I did."

He smiled.

"Funny, really."

"What is?"

"You've spent the whole day smiling."

A wave of nausea was still floating around you as you tried to comprehend the statement.

"I have?"

"Mhm."

He looked around at the bustling streets.

"I thought maybe it was because this place reminded you of something he'd told you."

You felt as though you could throw up.

He had no idea.

Not really.

He thought he was making conversation.

He couldn't possibly know that every street they walked...

Every trumpet they heard...

Every balcony they’d looked up at...

Every café they stopped in...

Had already been shown to you years ago.

Not with your eyes.

But through Gene's stories.

Jack laughed softly.

"He must've talked about home quite a lot."

You stared out across the river.

"He did."

"What was he like?"

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your handbag so tight they began to pulse.

You could still picture him in that foxhole.

Helmet pushed back.

Snow caught in his hair.

Speaking about warm rain as though it were the greatest thing in the world.

"He was..."

You smiled despite yourself, a fond look no one had ever seen but Eugene feathering your features.

"...quiet."

Jack nodded.

"I imagine he'd be pleased to know you finally made it here."

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment.

"So do I."

By the time evening settled over the city, you were both exhausted.

You returned to the hotel carrying little more than sore feet and a handful of souvenirs.

Jack loosened his tie as soon as he stepped inside the room.

"I don't think I've walked that much in years."

"You were the one insisting we see everything."

"Worth it."

He smiled at you, eyes creasing at the corners.

"I'm glad you came."

You looked back out of the window.

Beyond the glass, dark clouds rolled slowly across the Louisiana sky.

A low rumble of thunder echoed somewhere in the distance.

The first drops of rain began to fall.

You watched them race down the windowpane.

And without even thinking, you smiled.

"After it rains... the whole city's different."

Rain fell in steady sheets across New Orleans.

It drummed against rooftops.

Splashed into the gutters.

Ran from the iron balconies in silver streams.

The city looked softer somehow.

As though the storm had washed the noise away.

You slipped quietly from the hotel room, careful not to wake Jack.

The corridor creaked beneath your feet.

A minute later you stepped out into the warm Louisiana night.

Immediately the rain soaked through your coat.

You didn't care.

You couldn’t care.

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

Gene had been right.

It did smell different.

A sad smile flickered across your face like candle in the wind.

"Shit Gene. You were right..."

"...Told you."

The voice was barely above the rain.

You froze.

No.

Slowly...

Almost afraid you’d imagined it...

You turned.

A man stood beneath the glow of a streetlamp across the road.

Hands buried in the pockets of his coat.

Hair damp from the rain.

For one impossible second neither of you moved.

"...Gene?"

He stared at you.

As though saying your name aloud might make you disappear.

He crossed the street.

You met him halfway.

Neither of you spoke.

You simply threw your arms around him.

For a heartbeat he stood completely still.

Then his arms wrapped around you so tightly you thought he might never let go.

He laughed.

A broken, breathless laugh that sounded dangerously close to tears.

"I found you."

You buried your face against his shoulder.

"I thought..."

Your voice cracked, face contorting from the tears.

"I thought I'd never-“

"I found you."

He said it again.

As though he couldn't quite believe it himself.

When you finally pulled apart you simply looked at each other.

He looked older.

So did you.

Years older than either of you should have.

"You came."

You smiled sadly up at him.

"I did."

He laughed softly.

"Knew you would."

You looked around at the rain-soaked streets.

"...Just not with you."

A harrowing silence followed.

"I wrote."

A deep frown danced across your eyes.

“What?”

"I wrote every week."

He searched your face.

"Sometimes every day."

Your face lost all colour as you felt as though the world had started to crash down around you.

"...What?"

"I sent letters."

"I never got any."

"I sent 'em to your house."

"My-"

"My last letter... I told you I was finally coming home."

You stared at him in disbelief.

"...Gene."

"I kept writing."

"I never got them."

"I waited."

"So did I."

"No..."

You shook your head harder hoping it was all just one sick nightmare.

"No, I didn't, I didn't get a single one."

"I wrote."

"What letters?"

"And I wrote."

"What letters, Gene?"

"I sent them."

"I never got them!"

The words echoed down the empty street.

Both of you breathing hard.

Both of you looking at the other as though trying to understand how years could simply...

Disappear.

The realisation came.

It hit you like a cold sickening plague.

"My parents..."

You whispered it more to yourself than to him.

"My last address..."

Gene frowned.

"They wouldn't..."

You thought of every conversation.

Every awkward silence.

Every time your mother had insisted you move on.

Every time your father had said the war was over.

Your knees almost gave way.

"Oh my God..."

"They knew."

You covered your mouth, vomit threatening to spill.

"They knew."

Gene didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

He knew.

Neither of you had stopped writing.

Neither of you had stopped waiting.

Someone else had decided your story was over.

You began to cry.

"I thought you'd forgotten me."

His own eyes glistened.

"I thought you didn't want me anymore."

"I waited."

"So did I."

You laughed through tears.

"We're fools."

"No."

He shook his head.

"We were just too late."

You looked at him.

You saw his eyes drop.

To your left hand.

The wedding ring.

Everything in his face changed.

"...You married."

"I waited."

"I know."

"I waited until..."

You couldn't finish.

"The letters stopped."

His jaw tightened.

"I thought you were gone."

"I thought the same."

Rain continued to fall around you both.

The city had disappeared.

There was only the two of you.

And everything you’d lost.

After a long silence Gene took a slow breath.

"I still owe you."

A frown presented itself on your face.

"What?"

"The tour."

A bittersweet smile kissed your lips.

"Gene..."

"I promised."

"You don't have to."

"I said I'd take you."

Your eyes searched his helplessly.

"We leave tomorrow."

"It don't matter."

He took a step closer.

"We'll go now."

"Gene-"

"I'll show you Jackson Square again."

"I've already seen it."

"The river."

"I've seen it."

"The café with the beignets."

"I've-"

"We'll do it properly."

His words came faster now, and his movements were bordering manic.

"The way I wanted to."

"Gene..."

"I'll show you where I grew up."

Tears spilled freely down his face now, disappearing into the rain.

"My ma's house isn't far."

"Gene..."

"You'll hear the music."

"I already did."

"We've still got tonight."

His voice cracked.

"We've still got time."

You looked at him through blurring eyes.

At the man you’d loved in a frozen foxhole.

The man you’d waited for.

The man who had waited for you.

And somehow... the timing had beaten the both of you.

"It's too late."

The words were barely louder than the rain.

He stopped talking.

You bit back a cry.

"It's too late."

Too late in the night.

Too late in their lives.

Too late for promises made beneath snow-covered trees.

His shoulders sagged.

As though something inside him had finally broken.

"I have to go."

He shook his head immediately.

"No."

"I do."

"You can't."

"I'm sorry."

"You can't go again."

The words came out almost like a plea.

"I just got you back."

You closed your eyes, salty tears cascading down your face.

"I'm sorry."

He reached for your hand.

His bare fingers brushed your silver clad ones.

Then slipped away.

You stepped backwards.

One step.

Then another.

"I'll always..."

You couldn't finish.

Neither could he.

You turned before you lost the courage.

The hotel stood only a short distance away.

You climbed the steps slowly.

Every instinct screamed at you to turn around.

To run back.

To stay.

At the top of the steps you finally looked over her shoulder.

Gene hadn't moved.

He was still standing exactly where you’d left him.

In the middle of the street.

Rain pouring over him.

Watching you disappear.

You pressed a trembling hand into the pocket of your coat.

Your fingers brushed cool metal.

Frowning, you pulled it free.

A tarnished St. Christopher medal.

The little medal he'd pressed into your palm beneath a tree in Europe all those years ago.

You closed your hand around it.

Down in the street...

Gene was still there.

#evie’s fics ⋆ ˚｡⋆#band of brothers #eugene roe #doc roe #band of brothers x reader #eugene roe x reader #doc roe x reader #angst #x reader

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