Spare Some Chocolate?
Chapter 16 - Two Cigarettes in the Dark
26 January, 2026
Spare Some Chocolate? Masterlist
Announcement for MINORS: Guys, please stop reading this fic, it makes me uncomfy when you advertise that you are reading it, your age is often visible on your profiles. remember that.
Warnings this chapter: Author chose not to post warnings; please review the masterlist for general warnings.
WHO PROOF READS!? NOT ME!! Also baby chapter
words - 1k
AU NOTE ~ I would like to very CLEARLY state, this is not a fanfiction written about these real life heros. This is written about the characters portrayed in the show 'Band of Brothers' played out by a cast of actors.
Whatever I write is to the best of my knowledge going with what I have seen in the show and researched online. I am aware that this is not how the history of American women in active service of WW2 played out. This is just a fiction of my creation of a 'what if' scenario.
Enjoy the fic.
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· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Summer night air ruffled my hair in the light breeze, catching at the red-orange embers of my camels cigarette. My back rested against the make-shift mess hall, my head dipped in my shoulders slouched, the lit smoke caught between my teeth as my thoughts drifted, and my hand toyed with the cross pendant that hangs on my collarbone.
“Why do ya fidget with that so much?” Joe’s voice called out, startling me and I inhaled too much at once. The nicotine seared at the base of my throat, and I huffed it out in newfound annoyance.
“Oh~ so you really do smoke,” he grinned, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and I visibly attempted to straighten up and fix my posture.
“I do not fidget,” I protested, mumbling past the smoke before removing it with a weighted sigh, “And besides you’re one to talk,”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His brows twitched in that signature fashion, so much like a rodent the way his nose twitched along with it.
I took another puff before replying coyly. “Seems anytime your hand isn’t on the trigger of a gun, you’re practically itching to touch something,” he surveyed me up and down—uncomfortably so—as I spoke. “What?” I snarked, ready to toss the lit substance for a chance to tussle with him.
Whatever lustful expression he held once before, it shifted into something more mischievous now. “What?” He echoed.
My eyes merely narrowed in return as I took my last puff before I lifted my leg to stub out the bud on the sole of my shoe.
“Oh, come on! Now that's just plain wasteful.” He groaned in exclamation, pulling out his own pack of camels, along with a lighter out of his pocket.
“Really? You’re going to lecture me about rationing? I didn't think you of the sort.”
“I’m patriotic,” he muttered in a shrug as he brought the flame in front of his lips, which now enhanced his features, the fire dancing in his eyes as he concentrated on lighting his savior.
“Didn’t say you weren’t,”
He practically smiled as he faltered for a moment, the brief laugh that escaped his nose made the flame dance. He glanced up, noticing the way he had caught my alluring gaze before scoffing once more after the cigarette was finally lit, and shook his head with an all-knowing smirk. “Christ,”
I raised a lone skeptical brow before shrugging off the thought. “Goodnight Joe.” My body removed itself from the wall walking out of the alleyway.
“What? You going already?” He teased, secretly hoping for further conversation as we’ve barely spoken a word in weeks, let alone spared more than a loathsome glance. Though something at Carentan seems to have changed a part of us, but for the better or the worse is undecided.
Although he couldn't see it, I nonetheless rolled my eyes and continued walking off, pushing down the slightest urge to pursue the conversation and wherever it was leading us.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The bed creaked and groaned at each toss and turn I threw in it's direction. As my thoughts kept drifting to him driving me restless.
At first they were rageful and petty, recalling all the ways he drove me mad. Remembering the predatory gaze he held towards me most days. The belittling comments thrown at me in regard to my capability and my gender. And the way it how it would make my cheeks hot with rage. How my brows would furrow in annoyance gaining a wrinkle between them. The way he could make my whole face and attitude sour until they could be softened by a true friend.
But in an effort to calm myself down, and to not want to punch him the next time I saw him—which would be in a few hours—I attempted to think of times when he was more…tolerable. Like the times I accidentally caught Joe looking, unbeknownst to him. His brown (Bambi) eyes would always be soft…and almost dreamlike—I would always do my best to make sure he hadn't realized I returned his gaze. I would slyly lower my head and pray my falling hair would conceal the tips of my reddening ears.
Or on the far and few days between he would braid my hair I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. The way he ran his tempered hands through my scalp was enough to drive any woman mad. They were hardly ever harsh or hurried—but rather content in their actions as if he enjoyed it as much as I did.
That being said, there were some days where I could be as guilty as him…I just do a much better job keeping myself in line. My thoughts kept pulling me back to the alley, the way the small flame illuminated his pale skin—which was clean shaven from our “break—", the curve of his nose, and each crevice of his plush rosy lips.
“Seems anytime your hand isn’t on the trigger of a gun, you’re practically itching to touch something”
My own words echoed back to me as I considered them. How he’d always tap the edge of his beer glass at the bars. Or how'd he'd pick up and fiddle with loose pebbles during field exercises when he thought no one was looking. Or when he bump his foot into mine beneath mess tables, never hard enough to bruise the skin beneath or scratch the surface of the boot. Once I saw him plucking up blades of grass after a game of baseball at Toccoa when Sobel revoked our weekend passes…something about it was so hypnotic as I recalled I was glued to his calloused hands and veiny forearms.
Part of me wondered what they would feel like on the rest of my skin further than they had ever touched in a brief sparring. I imagined them to be teasing and greedy, likely kneading into the soft flesh wherever he could, hasty fingers trying to dip past waistbands and rims, while breathing heavy in my ear as he pressed against me. The sounds of overhead planes pulled me out of my carnal thoughts. I was soon met with the deafening silence of the room. The reality of things crashed into me, as my chest rose and fell as I became aware of my senses. My skin was red and hot, craving touch, a heat radiated from between my legs—begging for attention—as what laid beneath my panties now apparently yearned for what my thoughts had created.
Christ—
