Homecoming
derwin (d.f.) grunauer x fem!reader
word count: 2.3k+
summary: Derwin’s finally coming home.
warnings: themes of ptsd, Derwin’s a US Army Combat Medic and Paratrooper so if that makes you uncomfy— skip this one, It’s the 1940’s
notes: Tara sent me so many 40’s references for this baby. I love Derwin and the story i’ve got in my head for him. Thanks to @prettycalla and @getaapologist for reading over this sucker. And big thank you to @peachyproserpina & @keeryhours for editing!
Derwin hadn’t slept the whole ride. They had slapped him on a train somewhere in Virginia with a one way ticket back to Miami. Like they’d expected him to return to what normal had been years prior? He couldn’t. Not really. So he dozed in fits, lulled to sleep by the low clatter of the train tracks and the hum of voices from the other soldiers who couldn’t quite believe they were heading home either. Some were laughing far too loud, some were dead silent. Derwin sat somewhere in the middle— his elbows resting on his knees, his dog tags tucked into his shirt— cold against his skin, his hands were clasped together and his thumb was rubbing circles over his wedding band like he needed the confirmation it was still there.
He was still married.
He was still here, alive, and on his way back to you.
He kept seeing your face, every time he closed his eyes. Not the way you looked in the letters you had sent or the photos you tucked between the pages— though he’d memorized the way you looked in those too— but the way you looked the day you married him. Just a few weeks before he shipped out. You were just eighteen then (he was twenty), crazy about him (just as he was crazy about you), and just insane enough to believe that getting married right before he left would be a good idea. Your hair was pulled back, your smile brighter than every star in the sky, that yellow dress you wore was hugging your hips so beautifully, he’d never forget it. You hadn’t worn white. Didn’t have time to pick out a dress. You’d decided it over a quiet moment tangled up in the sheets of Derwin’s bed. His parents in the room next door, your head against his chest as he let his fingers trail up and down your arm. It was a whisper, marry me, and without a second thought you’d agreed. It was just a run to the courthouse that weekend, a justice of the peace, and the way you’d looked at him when you said “I do,”. You had let the words fall from your lips like you meant the word forever with every part of your soul.
And then the next week, he was gone.
The war had become everything.
Derwin leaned back against the seat and let his head hit the window. His ribs still had a dull ache from the last jump he’d done. The one that went bad, the one he doesn’t talk about. The limp in his left leg was lighter now— barely noticeable unless you were looking for it— but the weight in his chest? That was harder for him to hide. He could still hear the gunfire ringing through his ears when things got too quiet. He could still feel the dirt under his nails from when he’d pulled comrades from what would’ve been their graves with his bare hands. He can still see the boy from Omaha Beach plain as day when he closes his eyes, he had never gotten back up.
He should be grateful to be here. To be going home. Hell, he was grateful. But he was also tired. So goddamn tired.
And he was scared in a way he hadn’t been since that first night he had spent in France. Now there were things for him to lose again. He wasn’t jumping out of planes or sprinting through mortar shells anymore— he was just a husband on his way home to his wife who still wore yellow and wrote him letters that smelled like her lilac perfume. A woman who had only spent six months of their relationship physically with him before he left her for years on end.
He twists his head a bit and presses his forehead to the glass, eyes hooded as he watches the green blur by. “I’m coming home, baby,” he whispered, still as in love with you as he had been those first few weeks. “I’m really coming home.” He’s so quiet, he didn’t think anyone could hear him. Maybe he didn’t want them to. The words were just for you, somewhere. So he passes the time by thinking of your hands. How soft they’d felt and how cold your ring was the last time you touched his face— right before he boarded that bus and promised you he’d write every week. He thought of how you kissed him, raised up on your tiptoes and how you’d smoothed down the front of his uniform.
How you whispered, “Come back to me, D. I don’t care how, just come back.”
He had come back. Mostly, anyway. He was a little banged up, a little bruised. Different in his head. But he was breathing. His heart was still beating. His ring was still on, he was still married.
The conductor called out the next stop— home— and Derwin’s throat tightened. His fingers curl around the edge of his seat as he sat up straighter. He wipes his palms against his uniform slacks, and ran one hand over the short stubble on his jaw. He’s not clean-shaven today, not neat and smooth like he used to be, like he likes to be. But he’d done what he could with what he had. Outside the window, metal clangs against metal— screeching as they begin to slow once the station breaks into their view at the top of the hill. There’s person after person lined up on the platform, no doubt waiting for the cabins full of men he sits among and his heart nearly stops.
The train pulls in with a long, low whistle that cuts straight through his chest and your own, standing on the platform. Everyone around you had erupted with noise— shouts, cheers, feet running, laughter breaking into sobs— but you can’t seem to move from your spot. Your fingers fist into the skirt of your yellow sundress, the one you’d gotten married in. Derwin used to tell you how much he loved it with a grin and a tilt of his head. Your feet still planted right where they were when the stationmaster shouted they’re here. You couldn’t see him.
But back on the train, he stood and grabbed his bag. The glass of the windows scraping against their tracks as the soldiers he’s spent the better half of the last week with, lean out the windows. They’re cheering, hollering for their girls, their kids, their families. Happy to be home. Derwin smiles, a bit too tired, and then he shuffles out behind the others to the door. His breath caught deep in his chest. His boots hit the platform with a solid thud, and that Miami air hit him like a wave—hot and loud, filled with shouts and weeping and women calling out names that didn’t belong to him. Until he heard your voice.
There he is.
At first, you barely recognize him. His uniform is the same as it had been the day you sent him off— creased and heavy with dust settling against the fabric from the journey— but Derwin is a bit broader now. A little older. The boyish 20-year-old glow he left you with is gone. It’s been replaced by something quieter, something that settles behind his eyes like he'd seen things so unwelcoming overseas, and the look doesn’t leave, not even when he smiles. But he does smile, almost just like he used to, the second he sees you on the platform waiting for him.
“Derwin,” you speak, too afraid to raise your voice— like if you do this will all just be a dream. You must’ve spoken loud enough for him to hear because he finally turns to you— eyes meeting, and then your feet finally start moving.
He’s still a few yards away from you, but he’s dropped his bag and he’s moving too. And then you’re running. Not gracefully, no— your shoes feel wrong, your bag falls off your shoulder, the skirt of your dress is getting twisted up— but you don’t care. You don’t care about the noise or the people or how ridiculous you might look as you make your way to him. You would never care again, because he’s here. He’s really here.
When you crash into him, you don’t kiss him. Not yet. You’re in his arms. Yours tangled around his neck and back, and his are wrapped tightly around your waist. You bury your face into his shoulder and breathe him in— he smells faintly of sweat, dust from the train car, and just a tinge of his aftershave— it’s the smell you had tried so hard to remember for three long years. The one that never came no matter how hard you tried. Now suddenly you can picture the empty space in your bed being filled with it. You’re pulled from your thoughts by the shaking in your arms.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper softly, one of your hands pressing him closer. “I’ve got you, D.”
He locks his arms around you just a bit tighter. His breath shaky against your cheek.
“God,” he rasps against your hair, nudging his nose against your temple, “You’re real. You’re really here. I thought—” He cuts himself off, not allowing the thought to even tumble out before he presses his face into your neck.
You rub his back gently, just holding him as tightly as you can, like he might slip through your fingers if you aren’t paying attention. You can’t wrap your mind around it. He’s here. He’s home. He’s standing right in front of you, wrapped in your arms, as tears well up in your eyes and threaten to fall down your cheeks. He’s got his own tears, streaming down silently and wetting your neck. You’ve never seen him cry, not when he got his draft letter, not even when he left. But his shoulders hitch like he might cry harder now. And your Derwin, your brown-eyed, smiley boy, who used to dance you around his parent’s kitchen like a fool, looks like the world’s been pressing on him for far too long. And it unfortunately had. He’s spent the better half of your relationship shipped off, first Harvard, then Europe. Now he’s finally here. Finally crying. Letting everything he’s been feeling for the last half decade catch up with him.
You pull back just far enough to look at him, bringing your hand up to cup his cheek. You swipe a tear away with your thumb and tuck a loose curl away under his hat. His hair had grown out, he’s got some stubble now, a little scar over one brow that you don’t remember being there. His eyes— still brown, still beautiful— won’t quite meet yours. Not yet. He drops his arms from your waist and takes your free hand in his.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers under his breath, like it physically hurts to say the words he’s been holding on his tongue for so long. One hand comes up to your face, fingers trembling as they trace your jaw, your cheeks, your lips. He settles on his thumb brushing your cheekbone as he cups your face. “God, I missed you so much.”
You press your forehead to his, letting your eyes flutter closed. Your hands slide from around him to grip the front of his uniform. “You’re home, D. You’re home with me now.”
“I don’t really know how to be here anymore,” he admits softly, his own eyes closed as he keeps his forehead pressed against yours.
“That’s okay,” you whisper, hands smoothing out his collar. “We’ll figure it out together, yeah?”
He nods once and swallows hard, he’s afraid if he doesn’t he’ll start to fall apart before he even has a chance to settle in. His free hand curls around the wrist on his chest, anchoring himself in place.
“Did you wear this for me?” he asks, letting go of your cheek to run down your body, pinching the hem of your sundress between his index finger and thumb with a tired smile.
“Of course I did.” You smile as his eyes lift to meet yours, “You always said it was your favorite.”
He lets out a breath at that, that’s almost a laugh, and then his mouth finally finds yours. The kiss is gentle at first, careful, like he’s scared to push too hard and break you after all of this time. But when you don’t pull away from him— when you melt into him instead and thread your fingers through his growing hair— he kisses you like a man who’s been starved of touch for the better part of three years. Like your mouth is the first delicious thing he’s tasted since he left. Someone on the platform lets out a cheer for another couple not too far from where you’re standing, and the spell breaks just long enough for Derwin to rest his forehead against yours again.
“I dreamed about this… coming home,” he whispers. “Every night. Had to come home to you. You made me promise.”
“I kept the bed warm,” you smile. “Figured I spent all that time moving, you might come back and wanna sleep in it.”
He rolls his eyes, but his lids are heavy and there’s another tear threatening to fall. “I love you. So much I can’t stand it.”
You wrap your arms around him again, taking a deep breath. “I know. I love you, too.”
Standing there on the train platform with the world still spinning too fast and his heartbeat finally starting to slow, Derwin Grunauer lets himself believe he’s made it home.
And you don’t let go of him the whole way to the car.
tags ;; @peachyproserpina @djomorelikedelulu
