Tensile Strength
Pairing: William Pierson x f!oc, Joseph Turner x f!oc, can be read as a x fem!reader Summary: Everyone had a plan in place it they were to fall in combat, they knew it was a reality of War. Still, Pierson never expected to have to carry it out. Warnings: Cannon typical violence, period typical violence, medical inaccuracies, depictions of injuries & death, hurt / comfort, angst, survivor's guilt, Ambiguous relationships, Soulmate AU, Word Count: 4.5k Full chapter on Ao3 A/N: So, there was a prompt list and I had thoughts about a soulmate au. (I actually have a whole lot but this specific thought I couldn't turn into a whole fic, so Oneshot it is.) What would happen if Turner had found his soulmate before the Hill mission? And Pierson head learned after Kasserine what it felt like to lose a soulmate? It is possible to form new bonds if you lose your soulmate - but there are risks. OC doesn't actually have a name in this one, so it can be read as a /reader. It can also be viewed as platonic or a pairing, it's pretty ambiguous because I just really wanted to play around with some of the Soulmate tropes. This isn't a Fix-It, so expect Hill 493 feels.
The rain continued to beat against the hillside. Thunder crackling overhead, the reverberations echoing through their bones as they tore across the trenches. It was beginning to feel too much like Kasserine. The dull anxiety threatening to spark into a full panic. Adrenaline burning through their system until they couldn’t feel the strain in their muscles or the chill of the rain.
They knew that it was going to be a fight to dislodge the Nazis from the bunkers and trenches lining the cliffs above. It had been a struggle just to push them back from the bridge along the valley floor. They’d lost more men than they cared to admit on the hillside, both from enemy fire and misfiring explosives.
Then the tank rumbled over the crest.
Roaring guns overshadowed by the raging storm above. The Canon had been easy enough to circumvent – all things considered. Something they knew they’d be telling their children about some day; how a handful of men countered one of the modern marvels of engineering.
“Hey – stay safe out there, yeah?”
Pierson could hear the echo in the back of his head. Lighthearted despite the aching anxiety that was buried far beneath practiced words. Kasserine had taught them all that the Brass were too far removed from the day to day conflict – intel could not be trusted or relied on. It was guiding words at best, recommendations without the understanding to back it up.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be back before you know it.”
Turner had been wrong.
They’d been overrun.
Daniels had been able to disarm the tank, but it hadn’t been enough. They hadn’t been prepared for the tank team to survive the thermite. Hadn’t been prepared for the officer to have a sidearm, or for the enemy reinforcements to charge from bunkers hidden behind the trees. They didn’t have the numbers to counter the overwhelming onslaught of bodies.
Pierson felt the dread sink into his chest. A hooked barb tearing into the flesh, twisting until it hooked between his ribs. Turner’s expression told him everything he needed to know. Made it impossible for him to cling desperately to the shallow hope that had sparked when Daniels dragged him back behind the sandbag wall. The Private was young – naïve. Optimistic despite the strangled cough torn from the Lieutenant’s lungs with each breath.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
He had served with Turner long enough to know what the man was thinking. He saw straight through the false mask of bravado carved across his face. Truner was terrified. Not for himself – but for his other half. The bright eyed medic who had been a pillar of calm throughout the war. Always greeting them both with a warm smile that never quite managed to hide the relief that flooded her features every time they returned from a mission.
She was Turner’s other half, and the two of them together were all Pierson had left.
The rejection of a soulbond was a tragedy.
But the loss of a soulmate was agony.
Feeling the string turn to ash was indescribable. The desperate attempt to cling to the tether even as the world started to turn black around them. Knowing – feeling as the one holding the other end realized something was wrong. There were no secrets. Just the raw anguished prayers that fear was getting the best of them; fingers clawing desperately at whatever excuse they could use to deny what they knew was looming over them.
The fears compounded as both sides clung tighter together. Winding the string tighter and tighter until the fraying thread burned their skin. The mirrored mark tearing open slowly, blood bubbling to the surface as half of their soul was torn away. The hollow drag of something bound by fate ripped away leaving a blackened wound in its wake.
Pierson still felt the rejection years later. The caustic burn that faded but never quite vanished. The dull, aching reminder of someone who should’ve soothed the pain choosing instead to inflict it. Bitter words fueled by fear and anger, reinforcing his failures at Kasserine. Compounding the loss until it was all he felt for months after they left the bloodied valley behind.
“You gotta get our boys outta here.”
No.
Pierson’s mouth snapped closed, teeth grinding together as images flashed behind his eyes. Amused smirks that twisted into lopsided smiles, eyes crinkling as they joked about the future. Warm greetings, sarcastic corrections and jokes. Plans of a house tucked away at the edge of a small forest. Away from the noise and structure of the military, a place to recover from the atrocities they’d witnessed in Europe.
Plans that had accommodated even him.
“No, we can still make it.” Pierson countered, eyes snapping back to the approaching forces.
They couldn’t.
Not without risking more lives.
Dragging dead weight across this terrain was suicide. And that’s what Turner was now. He barely had the strength in his hands to pull the slide back on his rifle. He could feel the wound burning across his abdomen, muscles tearing further as he struggled to force the slide back. Even if he was dragged out – he’d make them a target.
He’d slow them down.
“You have to -.” The wound flared again, stealing the air from his lungs as he swallowed the scream. “You have to retreat.”
“No. We ain’t leavin’ you.” Pierson bit back, grabbing the fumbled rifle from the mud to pull the slide back. “We made a promise – can’t leave you here.”
“You get me up. I’ll hold them off.”
The words were harsh. Clipped. An order.
It was a somber acceptance. Acknowledgement that the sacrifice would be paid by more than just himself.
They knew from experience that some promises couldn’t be kept in wartime conflicts. Not quite lies but choosing to ignore the harsh reality in favor of quiet comforts.
“You have to go.” Turner continued, blood stained teeth grinding together to stave off the grimace. “Go!”
It was the final nail in a coffin.
The spark that would burn across the tether, blackening the strand until it turned to ash. Eventually burning across the flesh at the other end, a physical representation of the loss. The crack in the foundation that would only grow until it crumbled under the weight. Grief and anguish swallowing those left behind.
She wouldn’t be alone though. Not truly.
The officers had discussed it more than once during the long patrols. Cautious words muttered into the air during quiet watches long after the rest of the Platoon had turned in for the night. It was far from an easy request. Something that proved trust beyond tactical comradery. More of a testament of the friendship they’d forged through the years than anything else.
Turner knew what Pierson had endured when he was abandoned in the aftermath of Kasserine. Beyond the demotion and scrutiny that followed, the faceless woman’s bitter rejection of the bond had cut deeply. The mark boring itself out of his skin, the wound left behind weeping and jagged long after the other scars had healed. It wasn’t easy to ask that the Sergeant risk another rejection; to open himself up for the possible vitriol and aggression that so frequently overshadowed grief.
But Turner knew them better than anyone else.
Similarly, Pierson knew better than anyone the weight of the request. The last wish of a dying man who was desperate to ensure that whatever was left of his other half wouldn’t crumble in his absence. The pair had been the picture perfect image of balance, temper managed by a gentled hand. A comforting presence backed by a sharpened edge.
He didn’t agree that he was the best choice. He’d argued against it, more than once. He’d made more mistakes than he’d care to admit, his failures had cost more lives than he’d ever be able to atone for. He was not a good fit to act as the support once the bond started to disintegrate. He’d just cause more problems, make more mistakes.
And that was if she’d even be willing to accept it.
“You’re wrong, Pierson.” Turner had deadpanned, idly twisting the lighter between his fingers. “And if, God forbid, it comes down to it – I know you’ll realize that. There’s no one out here that I’d trust more, and I know she’d feel the same way.”
He’d scoffed at the time, smoke billowing into the air. The conversation fading back to lighter topics before the first watch change approached them.
Staring down the Lieutenant’s resolve now, Pierson found himself hoping he was right. Any optimistic thoughts he’d had slipping through his fingers like smoke as the new reality settled heavily across his shoulders. Despite the thoughts screaming at the back of his head he glanced back to the advancing enemies again. Jaw clenching as something twisted between his ribs, fresh guilt and bitterness flaring to life.
“…It was an Honor.” It was a resignation, emotions heavy as his throat tightened.
It felt wrong.
“No sacrifice too great.” Pierson wanted to scoff and bite back at the parroted words, any argument dying at the tip of his tongue when Turner continued. “Go.”
Turner’s expression was anything but reassuring as he took the rifle from Pierson’s hands. Slowly forcing himself to his knees, free hand curling over the wound when it tore again. It was impossible to tell if the cold was from the severity of his wounds or the rain that continued to pummel them from above. The chill settling so deeply into his bones that the tremors had stopped, vision darkening along the edges.
“Fall back!”
The words didn’t sound like his own. Harsh orders barked over the storm in a tempt to push past the bitter maelstrom of emotions that had flared between his ribs. It took a moment for the words to register to the soldiers around them. Shock and disbelief quickly pulled back behind rigid training – for most.
Daniels’ reaction was as explosive as it was expected.
“Sergeant?!” He’d refused to leave Turner’s side, hand still fisted in the man’s sleeve even as he forced himself to his feet. “Sergeant – you can’t do that-!”
“I said fall back-!”
“Daniels – Go!”
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