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rogue-durin-16 · 1 month ago

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HEAD-TO-HEAD (part VII/?)

Summary: Joe thought she was pretty. Had he just said that, things might have been different for them. Maybe they wouldn't have gone head-to-head at each other for three years like it was a contest.

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x Reader

Genre: angst splattered with fluff/rivals to lovers

Tags:

Head-to-head: @derersketnoget @ladystardustfromarss @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: language, death, gore, religious themes (blink and you'll miss it)

A/N: woah look at that. We made it to D-Day. I thought I'd leave this on hiatus before reaching this point BUT I DIDN'T. This one's a little longer but I don't care and neither do you. If you'd like to be added to the taglist let me know and enjoy<3

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Head-to-head masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

READER'S P. O. V.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come; thy…

Thy…

"Fuck."

The cuss got lost in the deafening racket of the plane.

I clenched my jaw, blinking away the sting of sweat caused by the stress and the ridiculous amount of gear we were supposed to drop with.

I'm gonna die.

The thought settled in like it had always been there— and maybe it had been. It wasn't a question, not even fear; just a cold, undeniable fact.

My fingers dug into my straps. I tried to picture what it would feel like —why?—, if I would know, if would have time to know. If it would hurt or just… end.

The plane rocked, metal clattering around us. My stomach lurched. A frustrated swear on my far left. A properly muttered prayer in front of me, unlike mine. My knuckles had gone bloodless around the straps, my mind running too fast.

I'm gonna die.

I exhaled slow. Forced my hands to unclench.

Should've taken that second pill.

I checked my gear again. Helmet, straps, chute. Leg bag, M1, grenades. My grandma's cross. Compass, knife, my helmet again. Was the strap too loose?

I'm gonna die.

Lieutenant Compton walked the row, his booming voice barely cutting through the engines' roar. I nodded when he looked at me, mechanical, automatic.

The crammed space smelled like metal, sweat and oil. My skin was too tight, my pulse hammering slow and deep in my throat, my stomach still twisting.

The light overhead burned red.

Almost time.

The plane rocked again. Someone screamed. I would have sworn the plane gained speed.

But the light turned green.

Time to go.

JOE'S P. O. V.

The plane rattled like it was about to fall apart.

My head rested against the vibrating metal wall, eyes half-lidded as I attempted to keep my stomach from doing another somersault. That little pill they gave us—meant to stop... airsickness? Had kicked in hard.

Everything felt just a little too slow; my limbs felt like they were moving through molasses, and the weight of the equipment wasn't helping the bizarre sensation.

My thoughts, out of step with my body, were running at full speed.

Not that they were worth much right now.

Please, God. If you're listening, make it quick.

That was about as much praying as I was willing to do.

The red interior light casted ominous shadows on everyone's faces, turning them into a row of ghosts strapped in with jump gear. The grumble of the engines swallowed almost everything, but ever so often, I caught a cough, the sound of someone sucking in a shaky breath, someone shouting for smokes.

I didn't look at anyone. I didn't want to see fear on their faces. I didn't want to see the absence of it, either.

I focused on my gloved hands, resting on my lap. I flexed my fingers. Loosened, clenched, loosened. Checked my weapon for the tenth time.

It's not going anywhere. Let it be.

Winters did his best to have his last-minute instructions reach us. I barely heard him, so I just nodded along, licking my lips.

Focus.

The taste of smoke and sweat.

The bite of adrenaline that hadn't hit full force yet.

The cold touch of the hook strapped in the line.

The thought of her.

"The fuck..."

Not on purpose.

It wasn't sentimental, nothing dramatic—just a flash of Y/n's face, half-shadowed, rain dripping off her collar, a cigarette hanging from her lips, curved into an open smile.

"This damn pill."

"WHATCHA SAY?!!" Someone behind me —who was supposed to be behind me?— yelled straight into my ear.

"THIS DAMN PILL!!"

A couple if pats on my shoulder blade.

"YOU BETTER WAKE UP, LIEB!!"

I shook my head, exhaled through my nose.

Focus.

I could see flashing lights through the clouds. Lightning, maybe. Something worse, probably. France beneath us.

Jesus.

My fingers curled tighter around the edge of my reserve chute. The air inside the plane shifted, like everyone had started breathing a little shallower. Lieutenant raised a fist. Equipment check.

I swallowed, rolling my shoulders.

"Shit. C'mon."

Please, God. Make it fucking quick.

The light turned green.

READER'S P. O. V.

The ground came up too fast, the impact rattling through my spine and knocking the air from my lungs. The canopy that had barely stopped my kneecaps from busting against the french soil dragged me half a foot before I managed to fight the buckle free.

A strained gasp left me when I rolled onto my stomach and sat back on my heels. Just a moment, just to check everything was in place.

The grass was damp, the earthiness of the air mixing with the gunpowder. My palms patted my body from top to bottom, acknowledging what was left of my gear by touch alone.

The knife strapped to my calf, the loose rounds digging into my pockets, my compass, my M1.

No helmet.

"Shit!"

A ragged burn where my chinstrap had dug into my skin before the force of the blast blew it off.

I wasn't dead, though. Not yet.

That was the only thing I knew for certain.

My surroundings were pure chaos, partly because of the mayhem of sounds, partly because my sight relied solely in whatever bit of the landscape the anti-aircraft tracers lit up intermittently.

I wasn't dead. I strained my ears, listening for voices, for movement, for anything I could catch nearby despite the drone of planes overhead.

Somewhere ahead of me, something moved. I heard it before I saw it and I prayed for the cover of darkness and my lack of helmet to work in my favor. But the movement was slow. Intentional. Close. A shuffle. Closer.

I squinted my eyes and, rifle raised, I caught a figure. Low in the grass, barely visible. My first instinct was to shoot. I had been trained to shoot, we all had. Shoot first, think second.

Shoot first.

Shoot.

But recognition had bloomed in me before thought, before instinct.

"Liebgott?"

The person slithered fast in my direction, triggering an uneven stammering in my heart. A hand clamped down on my arm, bringing me forward so fast I almost faceplanted into the dirt.

"Jesus Christ, Y/l/n." Joe's voice, rough and sharp. Too close. He was crouched in front of me, knife gripped so tight his knuckles were white, sweat slicking his forehead under his netted helmet. "Flash. Thunder." I could feel his breath against my cheek, his grip still firm on my arm, holding me low. "How 'bout you don't throw out my goddamn name in enemy territory?"

"Fucking flash, asshole." I yanked free but didn't bother on putting distance between us.

"Where's your damn helmet?" There was a certain frustration in his tone, not quite at me, nor at the helmet, but at the situation. They had fucked us over.

"Somewhere over Normandy."

"That's lovely."

"You don't have a gun?"

"What's it look like, smartass?"

His tone was biting, but his eyes, widened and on edge, were scanning our swamped vicinity.

"How long have you been down here?"

"Couple minutes." His response was low and sort of absent. He was focused on something else. "Saw your chute. Thought you'd be someone from my stick."

"Missed the drop zone."

He glanced me over. "You or me?"

"Don't know yet." I took a look around and, thanks to the deathly flashes shot at the C-47s, I got a glimpse of the chaotically scattered canopies still dropping from the planes, too fast, too low, too dispersed. "Maybe everyone."

Just when Joe looked like he was about to reply something, the air split.

We both spun to face the thud of a body hitting the ground beside us, my rifle up in no time, breaths frozen in our throats. The figure writhed, tangled in his chute, gasping something between a groan and a curse.

Joe was quicker than me to recognize him. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Petty."

Petty twisted onto his back, still winded. "Hell of a way to wake up."

I let my rifle lower, pulse hammering, but still found the nerve to turn to Joe and spit, "What happened to flash, thunder, 'don't throw out names in enemy territory'?"

Joe wiped a hand down his face. "Give me a fucking break, sweetheart."

"You call me sweetheart again, I swear to God—"

"No, I swear to God," Petty interrupted, cutting himself loose from his chute to join us. "if you two don't shut up, the Krauts won't have time to get you before I do." He shot us an exasperated glare, checking his sidearm. "My friggin' luck."

"Don't sound so thrilled there, buddy." Joe bit back.

"Let's just move." Petty loaded the pistol and quirked a brow at me, expectant. "Y/l/n?"

"I'm on it." I pulled my compass from my breast pocket and took advantage of the German artillery barraging our planes. "Alright." Think. You don't need a map. Just think. "We're moving out to those hedgerows." I pointed behind us. "Look out for railroads. They'll make this much easier."

"Who needs a map when you got Y/n Y/l/n, am I right?" Petty slapped Joe's shoulder and eagerly followed my indications.

We needed a damn map.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

JOE'S P. O. V.

The first dead soldiers we came across weren't Germans. They weren't Nazis, shot down with an M1, laid on the french grass.

They were ours.

A couple of unlucky men.

No, not men. Kids.

The first one was hanging by his risers on the higher branches, swaying like a butchered pig.

The second one was a few feet lower, limbs tangled like a broken marionette. Their chutes had failed to cut loose. Or maybe they had been shot before they had the chance. Maybe they hit the trees wrong and snapped their necks before they could even fight for air.

It didn't matter. They were dead all the same.

We knew their faces. Not their names—just faces. We had all trained together at some point, ate in the same mess halls, stood in the same formation. I was sure one of them had played poker with us back in Aldbourne.

Y/n forced herself not to avert her eyes.

Petty turned away, finding solace on the dewed grass.

I didn't.

I couldn't.

So I stared, my stomach twisting at the unnaturally shaped silhouettes hanging above us.

"We need to grab their gear." Y/n noted, not quite contemplating the bodies as much as assessing the easiest way to reach them.

I forced myself to blink. "Yeah."

"Who's climbing?" Petty's inquiry was hushed, as if he didn't want to disturb the hanging men.

Y/n moved first, brushing past me to get to the base of the twisted trunk. She tested her footing, sizing up the climb, then glanced over her shoulder.

I didn't even let her ask. I just knelt, clasping my hands together. Her mud-covered boot setting into my grip served as a prompt for me to boost her up, which I did. She caught the lowest branch and pulled herself higher.

The tree groaned softly under her weight. She climbed fast, steady, the rope of her dog tags catching the faintest rays of dawn slipping through the dark clouds with every shift of her body.

I wasn't able to discern her expression while her knife forced the risers to give with a few purposeful slices.

One body dropped.

It hit the ground heavy, wrong, all limp limbs and dead weight. Something inside me flinched like I had been yanked backward by the spine.

She climbed higher, a poorly contained gasp pushing out her throat when her grip slipped.

"Shit—" Petty hissed, both of us taking an instinctive step closer to the base of the tree as if to catch her.

She dismissed us with a vague wave of her hand and, with a stretched arm, she slashed the second soldier's tangled straps.

And another body dropped, this time closer, harder. The sound wasn't as loud as a gunshot, but it might as well have been. A dull, sick thud.

God, they didn't train us for this.

Y/n didn't dwell on it; she just started climbing down like she hadn't just sent a couple of american paratroopers crashing lifelessly to the ground.

I stepped forward, bracing her by the waist to help her down.

She immediately bristled. "I don't need fucking help—"

My fingers clenched against her uniform, too tight —tighter than I meant— and hauled her down. "I'm not in the mood, so shut the fuck up."

"Joe, c'mon." Petty halfheartedly chastised me, like he knew this moment would inevitably come and he really didn't want to be caught in the middle of it.

"No, don't start with me" I snapped, throwing him a look over my shoulder. "when she's the one bitching and moaning."

My attention immediately returned to Y/n, who had gone uncharacteristically still, her eyes trained on my form.

Not because I hadn't let go of her yet.

Because my hands were shaking.

Just a tremor against her ribs, a flex of my fingers like I was willing them to stay steady. But she noticed.

I let go of her uniform like it had burned me. Petty, who had given up quickly on trying to keep peace, was now kneeling by the fallen soldiers, rummaging through their gear. My hands were still trembling. I rubbed them together once, twice, like it might shake the feeling out.

"Okay." Y/n's tone shifted. It was subtle, almost imperceptible. Not soft. But not the usual edge either. A tilt of her head. "Okay..." A frown. "Alright."

Not worried, not exactly. Maybe careful, but not by much.

She reached out, gloved fingers brushing the fabric of my sleeve briefly before fisting it with a quiet, determined yank.

My first instinct was to jerk away, so I did; I pulled my arm free in one clean motion.

"We gotta move." Petty's voice broke the silence, attracting our glances to him. He wasn't looking at us. His eyes were scanning the trees, the low grass, the quiet farmhouse at his six.

Y/n didn't budge. "Give me a second."

Petty groaned, did a half turn and commented something I barely caught above the scattered gunfire about having to land with us out of everyone. But he indulged her nonetheless.

She yanked my sleeve again, more forceful this time. The sound of it scraping against my arm was unrealistically loud —at least to my ears.

Her pitch was calculated, nonchalant enough to almost pass as casual. "You good?"

It threw me off. If she had picked up on it, she didn't bring it up. Maybe later on, in the middle of a pointless argument, she would.

My reply was clipped and fast. "Fuck that."

"Joe."

It's wasn't the word that got me; it was the way she said it, and the faint glimpse of genuine care in her pupils, visible only when the occasional flak fire going up into the late night turned early morning illuminated her features.

Get a grip.

"I'm good. C'mon."

My voice didn't exactly sound convinced, but at the very least it sounded resolved and stubborn, and that would have to cut it.

Y/n stared at me for a beat. Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought she might press again.

She didn't. Instead, she just tilted her chin up once as if to say 'fine'.

She moved past me and reached the corpses in a couple of strides, catching the helmet Petty threw her way.

Get a fucking grip.