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Too Chicken?

Tension simmers between two stubborn souls who speak fluent sarcasm and hide too much behind sharp words. One supply room. One poorly placed box. And maybe—finally—something they’ve both been avoiding.

Pairing: Floyd Talbert x Reader

Prompt: “That’s a dangerous look you’re giving me.”

Word Count: ~2,700

Genre: Enemies to Lovers (ish), fluff and A LOT of sexual tension

Setting: Carentan post-liberation, supply quarters

Warning: Contains unresolved sexual tension that finally gets resolved, Floyd Talbert being dangerously hot, sarcastic flirt wars, a Joe Liebgott jump scare, and 1 shelf that almost caused a war. Proceed with caution and a fan.

Note || Look, I tried to write slow burn. I swear I did. But Floyd Talbert opened his mouth, started smirking, and suddenly there was unresolved sexual tension flying through the air like shrapnel in Normandy. Shoutout to Lieb for playing Cupid and third wheel. He’s thriving.

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The mud was ankle-deep and the sky hung low like it hadn’t breathed in days.

Floyd Talbert trudged along the patrol line, boots soaked, rifle slung, eyes scanning the fields like something might actually happen today. It wouldn’t. Nothing ever did lately. But he supposed going through the motions gave everyone a sense of purpose, of control. Some version of normal.

Joe Liebgott walked beside him, chewing his gum like he was trying to kill it. They hadn't said much. Didn’t need to. Not until Joe side-eyed Floyd for the third time that morning so Talbert decided to break the ice, “Don’t look at me like that,” Floyd had muttered that morning, trudging through half-frozen mud on patrol.

Joe had just grinned, “I’m not the one mooning over the company’s flirt.”

“I’m not mooning,” Floyd snapped, “She’s just—she’s just mouthy. That’s all.”

“You always get real quiet after she talks to you.”

Floyd didn’t look at him, “No I don’t," Joe gave him a look. Floyd sighed, “She talks to everyone, Joe. That’s what she does.”

“Not like she talks to you.”

Floyd Talbert would never admit he had a thing for her. Absolutely not. Not to himself. Not to the guys. And especially not to Joe Liebgott, who was entirely too smug for his own good and had already sniffed him out.

“She gives me shit.”

“She gives you attention,” Joe corrected, “And you eat it up like a starved dog.”

Floyd stopped, turned toward him, “Jesus, you’re annoying.”

Joe grinned, “You’re smitten for the woman. Admit it.”

“Go to hell.”

The truth? Joe wasn’t wrong. She was mouthy. And sharp. And too damn good at pushing every single button he had.

She flirted, sure. But it wasn’t sweet or soft. It was like sparring—fast, mean, and meant to draw blood. She’d throw a wink like it was a knife and leave him wondering if she wanted to kiss him or knock his teeth out.

And Floyd? He kept throwing it right back. Because if he didn’t, he might just show her how much he actually gave a damn.

Floyd scoffed and kept walking, “I’m not smitten. She just likes to play games, that’s all.”

“You sure you’re not the one playing pretend?” Joe called after him, “She’s got you wrapped around her finger and you don’t even know it,” Floyd didn’t answer, but the way his jaw clenched said enough.

He hated that Joe had a point.

She was the only woman in Easy, and somehow, the least delicate person in the entire damn company. No softness. No apologies. She’d earned her spot ten times over, through blood, bruises, and the kind of sharp-tongued defiance that made seasoned soldiers take a step back.

Floyd had seen guys from other units try her—testing, pushing, underestimating. They didn’t make that mistake twice.

But with him?

She flirted. In that mean, sparring way that made it hard to tell if she wanted to kiss him or knock his teeth in. And Floyd—God help him—he flirted back. Not because he knew what he was doing. Not because he thought he could win. But because it was the only way he knew how to keep her close.

She was trouble.

That’s what Floyd Talbert decided the first time he laid eyes on her—half-covered in grease, barking orders at some poor replacement who’d crossed a line she hadn’t even drawn. She didn’t take shit. Not from the men, not from the officers, not from the war. Hell, Floyd wasn’t even sure if she could take a compliment without twisting it into something sharp and biting.

And that? That was the first hook in his chest.

Because she flirted the way soldiers fought—reckless, defensive, all fire and teeth.

Especially with him.

“You’re staring, Talbert,” she’d muttered once while patching a cracked helmet in the corner of a barn.

“You’re just easy to look at, Y/L/N,” he’d shot back, not missing a beat.

She snorted, “Easy isn’t a word I’d use for me.”

“I didn’t say easy to get,” he added with a smirk, “Just easy on the eyes,” she tossed a rag at his face. And smiled.

That was their rhythm. Banter like bullets, sarcasm like armour. If either of them ever meant anything deeper, neither would admit it out loud. Not in front of the others. Not when things were this uncertain.

Not when people were dying.

Later that afternoon, they were assigned to supply duty.

Crates, inventory, packing—mindless shit, perfect for staying out of trouble. Which was probably why Winters paired them together. Keep your enemies close, right?

The storage tent was cramped, half-dark, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and damp canvas. She was already there when Floyd ducked inside, lifting a box of ampoules above her head, trying to shove it onto the top shelf.

Her shirt tugged up slightly as she stretched—bare skin peeking just above her belt.

Floyd watched for a minute.

The line of her waist caught his eye first—lean, all tension and quiet strength, like she was built for surviving rather than softening. The kind of body shaped by war and stubborn will, not delicacy. He could see the muscle in her arms flex as she tried to lift the box, the taut pull of her back through the thin fabric. She wasn’t soft like the girls he used to chase before the war—she was solid. Grit and edge and fire wrapped in skin.

And Christ, it did something to him.

The stretch of her shirt. The way her jaw clenched. The soft little grunt of frustration—and Floyd had to look away before his brain short-circuited.

The box slipped. She cursed, “You just gonna watch or are you gonna help?” she snapped.

Floyd smirked, stepping in, “You looked like you had it.”

“And you looked like a goddamn scarecrow standing there,” she glared at him over her shoulder.

But truthfully? He didn’t look like a scarecrow. He looked good. Always did, damn him.

All swagger and trouble, leaning in with that lazy grin like he had every right to take up space next to her. Floyd Talbert had that stupid kind of charm that worked even when it shouldn’t. Rough around the edges, cocky without trying, and he knew exactly how to get under her skin.

And the worst part? She let him.

Because even when he pissed her off, she noticed the way his eyes softened around the edges when he was tired. The way his voice lowered when he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. The way he looked at her like he saw through every wall she put up and wasn’t afraid of what lived behind them.

Floyd Talbert was dangerous.

Not because he flirted back like it was second nature, but because some stupid part of her wanted it to mean something.

And that scared the hell out of her.

He just chuckled, stepping in and grabbing the box with ease, sliding it onto the shelf like it weighed nothing.

And then—they turned at the same time.

Close. Too close. The space between them? Gone.

She hadn’t backed up. And he wasn’t about to.

His chest nearly brushed hers. Her hand still half-lifted. His eyes catching on her mouth before he could stop himself. Neither of them moved.

Her gaze locked on his—slow, dangerous, and deliberate. She tilted her head, slow, eyes glinting with something unreadable, “That’s a dangerous look you’re giving me, Talbert.”

Floyd didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His gaze just deepened—smoldering, unblinking, the kind of look that felt like it was peeling her apart layer by layer. It wasn’t just heat—it was intention. Like he was already thinking about what it would feel like to close the distance, to press his mouth to hers, to push her up against the shelves until she forgot whatever smart-ass thing she was about to say next.

Y/N’s breath caught—damn him—because that look was worse than anything he could’ve said.

And then came the smirk. Slow. Crooked. Dangerous in its own right.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her. And wasn’t sorry in the slightest. Floyd swallowed, “You’re the one giving it first, Y/L/N.”

“You were staring.”

“You let me,” the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged. Like something was hanging in the air between them, trembling, waiting to snap.

She didn't step back. And he didn’t move away.

It hit him then—not just the tension, not just the flirtation—but the way she looked at him like she was waiting. Like she had been for a while. For him to stop playing. For one of them to do something about the fire constantly crackling between them.

“You always flirt like this?” he asked, voice low now, rougher, “Or am I just the lucky one?”

She shrugged a shoulder, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “You haven’t died of flirting yet, so maybe you are.”

He leaned in—just an inch. Just enough, “You want me to kiss you?”

She raised a brow, “You always ask first?”

Floyd grinned, “Only when I give a damn.”

And that—that softened something in her eyes. She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, looking at him like she was daring him to cross the line. The one they’d been dancing around since Normandy.

But beneath his grin, his heart was pounding. Because this wasn’t just some throwaway flirtation. Not anymore. Maybe it never had been.

He hadn’t meant to fall for her. Not the woman who met every insult with one of her own. Who pushed and shoved and snarled when the world tried to tame her. She was chaos in boots and a uniform, and Floyd—Floyd who was always the first to laugh, the first to charm—had no idea what to do with someone who didn’t melt under that grin.

Except he did.

Because over time, it wasn’t just the fire in her that caught him. It was the quiet things.

The way she sat up at night, eyes scanning the treeline long after everyone else had crashed. The way she knew when to speak and when silence would do more. The way she carried herself like she’d learned not to expect anything soft from this world—but still, she gave it. In rare glances. In fierce loyalty. In little things she probably didn’t think he noticed.

He noticed all of it.

She wasn’t easy to love—but Floyd never wanted easy. He wanted her.

And now, standing this close, that truth felt heavy in his chest. Terrifying, maybe. But also the most certain thing in a world where everything else felt like it could be blown to hell in a second.

He looked at her like she might disappear if he blinked.

And she looked back like she just might let him kiss her after all.

But this wasn’t the first time they’d stood toe-to-toe like this.

He remembered Holland—early morning fog, boots soaked through, and her leaning against a crate of rations like she didn’t have a care in the world.

“You ever stop running your mouth, Talbert?” she’d asked, flicking her cigarette ash without looking at him.

“Only when you walk into the room,” he fired back, smirking, “Figure I oughta let you take over. Keep the attention where it belongs.”

She snorted, “Bold talk for a man who got knocked into a ditch last week.”

“I let Malarkey hit me. Needed a nap.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

That made her blink. Just once. A flash of something in her eyes. And then, smoothly, she leaned closer, her voice low.

“Flirt with me again, Talbert, and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”

Floyd had just grinned, unbothered, “Worth it.”

He still swore she smiled a little as she walked off.

“Are you too chicken?”

Floyd’s jaw flexed. She was pushing. And he loved it. And hated it.

Because if he kissed her now, it wouldn’t be a game. It wouldn’t be playful, or casual, or anything he could brush off the next day.

It’d be real.

And real? Real mattered.

He leaned in slowly, letting the moment stretch, waiting for her to pull away.

She didn’t.

Her breath hitched, just once, and that was enough. His voice dropped, “You keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and I’m gonna do something stupid.”

She exhaled slowly, “Then don’t stop.”

But he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Because if he did, it wouldn’t be a quick, heat-of-the-moment thing. It’d be everything.

And Floyd Talbert knew one thing with absolute certainty: He wasn’t just smitten.

He was gone.

His hand moved before he could stop it.

Slow. Sure. Almost reverent.

Floyd’s fingers slid beneath the hem of her shirt—calloused and warm against the bare skin of her waist. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop him. Her breath just hitched, subtle and sharp, like she’d been holding it in for far too long. She just stood there, breathing in tandem with him, eyes flicking between his and his mouth—like she was daring him to stop pretending this wasn’t everything they’d both been trying to ignore.

He lifted the fabric gently, the backs of his fingers grazing upward until his hand settled just beneath her bra. His palm was flat over her ribs—feeling the way her heart stuttered under his touch. His other hand ghosted up, brushing the line of her jaw with the back of his fingers.

And then he pulled her in. Not rough. Not desperate. Just…close. Until their chests brushed. Until their noses touched. Until there was no air left between them but the breath they shared.

He stared at her like she was the first thing he’d ever wanted and the last thing he’d ever deserve. And she looked back like she’d been bracing for this moment the entire war.

This wasn’t just lust.

This was what came after months of pushing and pulling. Of bruised banter and sidelong glances. Of pretending not to feel something so goddamn obvious it hurt.

And now?

Now they were here.

“I thought,” she whispered, eyes locked to his, “If you ever touched me like this…it’d be because you were trying to win.”

His brow furrowed slightly, confused, “Win what?”

Her mouth twitched into the faintest, saddest smile.

“Me.”

And that—that—made Floyd fumble.

His lips parted like he might answer, but no words came. Just a sound. A quiet, broken sound in the back of his throat. He hadn’t expected her to say it—hadn’t expected her to be honest. Not when both of them were better at hiding behind sarcasm and smartass comments.

But now it was real.

And he couldn’t hold back anymore.

He leaned in, eyes fluttering shut, nose brushing hers, and kissed her—slow and certain—like he’d been waiting for permission his whole damn life.

And this time?

She kissed him back like she was just as tired of pretending.

Their mouths met like a match striking tinder—hot, fast, inevitable. Floyd kissed her like he’d been holding his breath since Normandy and finally let it all go. Her hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer, grounding herself as the tension that had stretched between them for months finally snapped.

It wasn’t gentle. It was fireworks behind the eyelids. A dizzy, breathless kind of want that tasted like gunpowder and unsaid things. Like every quip and flirtation had led them here—and now, finally, the weight of waiting was gone.

Her fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, and Floyd made a low sound in his throat—like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like touching her wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. It felt like stepping off a ledge and realising you wanted to fall.

And then—

A cough.

A loud, pointed cough.

They broke apart, flushed, lips kiss-bitten, breath still shallow.

Standing a few feet away, arms crossed and smug as hell, was Joe Liebgott.

With the biggest goddamn smile on his face.

“Well, well, well,” Joe drawled, absolutely beaming, “Took you long enough, Tab. I was starting to think you’d chicken out for real.”

Floyd let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Jesus, Joe.”

Y/N didn’t say a word—just narrowed her eyes and muttered, “You ever hear of privacy, Liebgott?”

“Not in the airborne, Y/N/N,” Joe said cheerfully, “But hey—at least now I know I was right.”

Floyd groaned. Y/N just smirked.

And despite the embarrassment creeping up his neck, Floyd couldn’t stop the stupid grin tugging at his lips.

Because even with Liebgott’s interruption—especially with it—it all felt real now.

Undeniably, gloriously real.

Highlights from today:

First words out of Matt Leitch’s (tab) mouth: “shifty and I were in a film together playing two gay guys. He was my lover. We didn’t tell ANYONE while filming bofb” then mark lawrence (dukeman) chimes in “you didn’t have to, we could tell.”

Matt talking about an unpublished letter from tab to winters that he read: “[Talbert] loved dick winters and he had to get drunk to write that letter and let him know that”

Also Matt on why they were able to portray the love so well between the men: “we’re a bunch of fruity actors from the 2020s we’re able to do that”

Dale Dye only refers to the actors as “the kids” or his “kids”

(Me asks John orloff if I could have a picture) Matt: interrupts his own conversation and leans over mark to SHAKE MY HAND AND SAY “you just made John orloff’s day”

Asked Matt/mark for any advice breaking in my jump boots and Matt said “don’t wear them. Throw them out.”

right after this I asked for a pic with Matt and mark and mark grabs the screaming Eagle patch on my shoulder and says “oh we can’t hide this” while Matt DRAPES HIMSELF OVER MY SHOULDERS after the pic matt says “oh. It looks like I’m cupping your boob.” (Pats my chest) “I promise I’m not cupping your boob.”

Also I met shifty’s nephew and saw never before seen pics of shifty cause they were grainy ass 90s pics of this dude when he was a kid with shifty showing him how to shoot on the front porch

Idk there’s probably more I’ll remember tomorrow

#Gettysburg panel #band of brothers #floyd talbert #matthew leitch #William dukeman #mark lawrence #dale dye