Chapter 28: But This Is Life With the Heartache It Brings, And We Know These Things Take Time
Pairing: Robert Zussman/OFC
Tags: 18+ Minors DNI, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Period Typical Attitudes, Historical References, Historical Inaccuracy, War, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Medical Inaccuracies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Friendship, Period-Typical Sexism, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Feminist Themes, Queer Themes, Survivor Guilt, Self-Esteem Issues, Blood and Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, Protective Robert Zussman, Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Choking, Buried Alive, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Denial of Feelings, Misunderstandings, Yearning, Mutual Pining, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, no beta we die like, well you know, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Panic Attacks, Anxiety Attacks, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Non-Consensual Touching, Attempted Sexual Assault, Angst with a Happy Ending, there is a happy ending i promise, Protective William Pierson
Summary: At Camp Lucky Strike in Le Havre, Eve and Zuss finally get the time they need to talk and heal as they get ready to go back home.
Mud spills through her lips, flooding her mouth, pouring down her throat, fingers locked around her neck. Her body spasms, flashes sparking across her vision. No one’s coming, she’s alone, she’s alone. Her hand scrambles, rain-slicked fingers grabbing onto her knife and swinging, thick blood spurting out as she buries it into the German’s neck and drags, an ugly, bloody maw opening underneath his jaw, nearly severing his head from his neck with how forcefully she slashes.
Gasping, heaving, spitting, Eve shoves herself up. Screaming, there’s screaming. She’s laying in the mud when the others need help. There. Further along the hill and down the trenches. She trips over a body, fear and disgust slamming into her and making her limbs buzz. Marsh slumps half submerged in mud, his torn face leaking viscera, shredded eyeballs staring up at her vacantly. Another muddy gasp tears from her lips and she keeps moving, looking away and back to where she’s needed.
Turner.
She needs to help Turner.
She can see him, bloody but still alive, still standing - if she can reach him, maybe, maybe…
Her boot slips, she falls. Slick mud covers every inch of her. She sputters and tries to stand again, trying to wipe mud from her face. No no no, this is taking too long, she’s too slow!
Blinking through the rain and mud, a cry tears from her. No no NO NO. She collapses to her knees, hands pressing hard on a wound that she can’t fix. Turner’s already dead - too slow too SLOW.
“O’Shea!”
She whips her head up, vision blurry from tears and rain, barely able to hear his voice over the deafening sound of guns and artillery.
“O’Shea, we need to go!”
Hand wrapping around her arm, Pierson hauls her to her feet, away from Turner. She yells, boots sliding in the mud as she tries to grab at her lieutenant, and then there’s three sharp pops, a wet, squelching impact, and Pierson’s hand falls from her arm. She whirls, meets his surprised face, and then her eyes drop, focus on the blood pouring from his chest, from the bullet holes riddling him. Something builds up in her chest and up into her throat, some kind of scream that rips her sore throat to shreds as she lunges forward, grabbing at him as he collapses.
Her other hand scrambles for her med kit but it’s not…it’s not where it’s supposed to be, where IS IT?! How can everything be falling apart like this, she’s ALWAYS prepared, no no she CAN’T lose him!
A tank blast explodes feet away, and she’s sent flying, body tumbling and sliding through mud and rocks. Her head is pounding and screaming with pain, throbbing to some kind of sick rhythm. This time when she starts to push herself up, it’s not earth she pushes against, but a body. Aiello, no no no, his leg blown off and his stomach ripped open, intestines spilling out. A sob rips out of her and she falls back, against Stiles, glasses shattered, neck and chest torn and shredded by a potato masher.
No no no.
They’re all dead, they’re all DEAD.
Everywhere she turns, there’s another body. OK, Rojas, Zebediah - oh God, this can’t be happening. She needs to get out of here, needs to get out of the Death Factory, NOW. She scrambles away from another corpse, drops down into another ditch and right onto Daniels’ gasping, sputtering body.
“O’Shea-!”
Blood bubbles up past his lips and she cries out, shoving her hands into his stomach, into the gaping wound there, trying to find the artery to pinch it shut, to stop him from bleeding out. She’s so soaked in rain and mud and blood she can’t do anything, can’t feel anything.
“No, Red, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me!”
“Why couldn’t you help us?” Red whimpers, one hand weakly grasping at her arm.
“I tried, I’m trying! I’m sorry, Red, please!”
“You let us die. You left us.”
“No!”
Red’s baby blue eyes slip shut and his hand falls limply to the ground. A scream builds up in Eve’s throat, her chest heaving, and she curls around him, closing her eyes and screaming over the thunderous gunfire and explosions.
And then, suddenly, it all goes silent.
It’s just her gasping cries, heaving breaths, blood rushing through her skull, pounding, pounding, POUNDING.
Eve blinks, slowly uncurling. Red’s body is gone. She’s in a clearing. A familiar clearing. There’s no more rain, though the ground is still muddy
A gunshot rips through the silence behind her, splitting her eardrums. She flinches, heart racing and jumping wildly around her ribcage, leaping into her throat. Her stomach drops, her collarbone itches, and she slowly turns, still on her knees, breathing harder and faster, but there’s no air, none at all.
Some part of her already knows what she’s going to see when she finishes turning.
She’s still not ready for it, fear and grief and and denial and desperation clawing at her from the inside, trying to rip her body to shreds. He’s only a few feet away from her, slumped against the ground on his side, skeletal, sickly, vacant eyes staring directly at her, blood leaking from the hole in his temple -
She screams.
Slick with sweat, it’s a fight to get out from the blanket she’s tangled in. With a heaving gasp she wretches herself free, throwing herself off her cot and stumbling as fast as she can out, out, OUT. It’s a miracle no one else in the room stirs, but it’s just a fleeting thought as she makes it out into the hallway, picks up speed so she’s nearly running.
He has to be alright. He has to be okay.
They’re all okay. They have to be. It was just a nightmare, not real -
But she can still feel the mud on her face, the blood caked underneath her fingernails.
Her feet slow to a fast walk once she’s out of the building, bare feet barely registering the roughness of the ground. Her eyes lock onto the hospital in the darkness, clouds obscuring the moon and stars and dimming everything. Eve goes in through one of the side doors, the one closest to the stairwell that’s closest to the wing he’s in on the second floor. Sweaty hands grip the railing as she hauls herself up, taking the steps two at a time, her harsh pants filling the stairwell. It isn’t until she pushes through the last door and steps into the wing that she stops, eyes wide and searching the cots until she finds his, a familiar furry head lifting and cocking ninety degrees at her sudden arrival.
Slowly, carefully, she pads down the wing, on the edges and balls of her feet to minimize her sound. The last thing Eve wants to do is wake anyone up, despite her mad dash here. One of the nurses on the night shift peeks into the wing at her from the other end, but she must recognize her because she disappears just as quickly.
Eve slows to a stop in front of Robbie’s cot. He’s asleep, chest rising and falling rhythmically. Luna’s curled at the foot of his cot, watching Eve curiously. Robbie’s face is pinched slightly - a nightmare? Steadying her own breathing, reassured that Robbie’s alive, she steps forward and curls the back of her fingers against his cheek, hoping to comfort him from whatever he’s dreaming of, comforting herself.
He inhales slowly, face smoothing out. Eve pulls back again, not wanting to wake him. He had opened up to her a few days ago that while in the beginning, he had slept all the time, now he struggles to fall asleep and stay asleep. She doesn’t want to ruin this for him if he’s actually getting decent rest, doesn’t want to wake him and ruin his progress.
She just has to trust herself that the others are okay. Pierson, Red, Stiles, Aiello. They’re fine. Not far, fine. Okay. Safe. Out of combat. They’re all in Camp Lucky Strike, and there’s no more fighting.
They’re safe.
She’s safe.
If only Eve can get herself to believe that. There’s a sliver of relief now that she’s out of combat and out of the division, but her body is still tense as anything, as if she’s still on the front lines, prepared for a sniper or artillery strike. Still having nightmares that get worse every time she tries to sleep, every night a new ghost coming back to haunt her, lingering in the day.
Her heart is speeding up again. She forces herself to take a breath and focus on Robbie. He’s alive. They’re alive. The war is over.
Panic finally dissipating, Eve becomes aware of the cold floor beneath her feet. She glances down, numbly realizes she fled here in the clothes she was sleeping in. Staying here in just shorts and an oversized tank top would not be ideal, or help with all those ungodly rumors still swirling around her. Luna whines and Eve scratches behind her ear idly. She knows she won’t get any more sleep tonight, but she can’t stay here by Robbie’s side unless she changes. Shoulders slumping, she lingers for just a moment more, drinking in every sign of life before finally heading back to her quarters, Luna giving her one final lick on the back of her hand as she goes.
