#Gray has a reaction gif folder

[stillbandofbrothersthirsty]

As Far As Friends Go

Chapter 8 (Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6; Chapter 7)

Nixon - March 1944

The new year saw no improvement to Emily and Nixon’s relationship despite his fumbled attempts at reconciliation. Nixon felt that he went out of his way to make small talk with her, to be friendly (especially in the mornings) and to be enthusiastic about her work. Emily was outwardly friendly, to an appropriate degree, but Nixon could sense the barrier she had put up between them. When they had first met, she had been so open and warm, bordering on desperate for his friendship. Now, she made polite small talk and performed her tasks with a new rigid professionalism. Nixon couldn’t help but feel that this behavior was exclusive to him. He saw how she interacted with the men in the pub, in the mess, and on the rifle range; she didn’t seem to have a problem with any of them.

On more than one occasion Nixon found himself complaining to Winters about Emily’s insufferable behavior.

“Didn’t you find her attitude obnoxious before?” Winters asked.

“Yes, but I got used to that. Now she’s changed it up on me again! It's annoying is what it is,” Nixon said.

Winters dipped a spoon into a bowl of soup and brought it to his mouth, patiently waiting for Nixon to continue, “its the unpredictability, the mood swings! Women.” Nixon scoffed.

“Well,” Winters ate another spoonful of soup, “you were a jerk.”

Nixon’s brow furrowed, “not enough of a jerk for her to give me the cold shoulder for three months.”

“Has it been three months?”

Nixon didn’t answer. “You two still talk, I’ve seen you,” Winters said, “maybe she’s focusing on her work. It has gotten busier.”

“Yeah we talk, but not like before. And she seems to have plenty of time to talk to Harry or George Luz.”

Winters’ mouth crooked into a small, thoughtful smile, “why do you think it bothers you so much, Nix?”

Nixon caught his friends smirk, “Oh no,” he shook his head, “its not like that at all. She’s a kid. Besides, I’m invested elsewhere in this boring town."

Winters cocked an eyebrow, “so this really is just about friendship?”

“Friendship, friendliness - I just want things to go back to normal!”

Winters nodded and turned his attention back to his soup, “maybe this is the new normal.”

Nixon was running out of patience and hope. As March crept along he decided that he would simply have to come to terms with the impersonal working relationship that Winters called the new normal.

“Morning,” Nixon entered the intelligence HQ room with a manila folder already in hand. He was flipping through the aerial photos inside.

“Good morning, sir,” Emily said, barely looking up from her typewriter.

“We received some aerial photos this morning. Here look at this,” Nixon said, stretching out a black and white print to Emily.

She took it, “what’s this of?”

“Undisclosed,” Nixon said, “but we’ll be getting a lot more. Our office needs to piece the photos together and start building sand tables of the geography.”

Emily blew air out of her cheeks, “Wow, so this might be..”

“Yeah,” Nixon caught her gaze, “this might be it.”

“Okay, yeah we’ll get started on this.”

“Great.” Nixon shut the manila folder firmly and threw it on Emily’s desk. “Let me know what you need.”



“Will do, sir.”

Nixon waited until his back was turned to roll his eyes. He hated it when she called him sir. No one else would hear it, but he could hear the contempt in her voice. She wasn’t saying sir out of respect. He knew that she was doing it purposely to annoy him. Sure, he couldn’t prove it, but he knew it.

Nixon dropped into his desk chair just as Vest entered the room with uncharacteristic hesitance.

“Uh, Miss Rooney?” Nixon’s dark eyes flicked over to Emily. An unexplainable feeling of dread grew in his stomach. It grew stronger as he saw Emily’s face change. She was sensing the difference in Vest’s energy just as he had. Vest made his way over to her desk with a letter in hand.

“A letter for you,” Vest cleared his throat, “from the war department.”

Nixon sat straighter in his chair as Vest made his awkward retreat from the room. Emily ripped the edge of the envelope with trembling hands and slowly pulled the typed letter from its folds.

Nixon watched her eyes run across the ink-black lines. His heart beat in his ears in anticipation for her reaction. Finally, Emily let out a shuddering breath and the letter dropped from her hands. Fat tears began rolling down her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her mouth in an attempt to squash her sobs, her body folding in on itself as if to guard her from the world around her. Jolted into action, Nixon stood abruptly from his chair and was beside her in two strides. He positioned his body on the edge of her desk, blocking her from the curious looks from the other intelligence staff.

“What happened?” he asked in a low voice.

Emily shut her eyes tightly against the tears, she shook her head indicating her inability to speak. Instead, she held up the letter. Nixon took it and read,

Dear Miss Rooney,

The following information is provided in regards to your fiancee, Corporal John Elliott. Your fiancee sustained significant wounds of the left leg and arm and on 11 March, 1944 was reported as being in a naval hospital in London, England for further treatment. You may be sure that he is….

Nixon stopped reading as confused relief softened the knot in his stomach. 

“Wounded, wounded in action,” he said.

Emily nodded. She ran her finger tips under her eyes. Her cheeks were sopping wet with tears, her eyelashes heavy with salt.

“Here,” Nixon handed her the handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s clean. Well, cleanish.”

Emily accepted it and swallowed hard, doing her best to compose herself. She patted her cheeks dry with the fold of the linen cloth.

“You okay?” Nixon placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. This was their first physical interaction in months, but neither of them seemed to think anything of it. It was such a natural action considering the circumstances.

“Yeah,” she gulped, “I’m alright.” Emily exhaled, “it took me by surprise is all.”



“Naturally,” Nixon rubbed her back.

“I don’t know why I’m such a mess,” Emily’s voice cracked with emotion.

“You don’t need to excuse your reaction,” Nixon murmured, “this is big, scary news.”



“I thought- I just thought that it was going to say he was dead.”

“I know, I thought so too.”

“Lew, I - I was,” she hesitated.

“What?” he encouraged her.

“Never mind,” she screwed her face up as if thinking against what she was about to say. Her lips were swollen from crying, her lipstick slightly smudged from the press of her hand. “If he’s wounded I have to see if I can visit him.”

Nixon nodded, “absolutely.”



“Do you think we could find out where he’s at?”

Nixon grimaced with uncertainty, “uhm, I mean it’s not our branch. But I’ll see what I can do.” Nixon was conflicted; this seemed awful personal for him to get involved with. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to get involved with Emily’s business considering how things had been between them lately. Then again, this could be his chance to make amends, to show her that he meant well by her.

“Lewis, thank you!” her voice was full of gratitude and looking down at her red rimmed gray eyes, Nixon prayed he would be able to find the hospital easily.

A few days later Nixon interrupted Emily at lunch, which she was once again spending with Welsh.

“I found him,” Nixon announced. He expected Emily look more excited.

“Oh thank you, Nix! Where is he?” Emily asked.

Okay, back to some version of a nickname, Nixon observed. That was a good sign. “Worcestershire.”

“Who���s this?” Welsh looked between Emily and Nixon.

“Worcestershire? I thought he was in London?”

“He was. He was originally with an evacuation hospital but has since been moved to a convalescent hospital in Worcestershire.”

“Ah, okay,” Emily said.

“That’s a good thing,” Nixon said, “he’s on the mend! And Worcestershire is only north of here.”

“Who’s this we’re talking about?” Welsh asked again, this directed just at Emily. 


“Right, I guess I should go up this weekend,” Emily spoke more to herself than the men. “I guess I’ll have to make sure…” she trailed off lost in thought.

“You’ve got my permission. That’s all you need,” Nixon said.

Welsh opened his mouth again but didn’t have the chance to speak before Nixon interjected, “her fiancee Harry, we’re talking about her wounded fiancee.”

“Ah,” Harry looked down at his plate suddenly uninterested in the conversation.

“Get the train Saturday morning and plan to be back by Sunday night, okay?” Nixon rapped his knuckles on the wooden dining table. “Okay, I’ll see you both later,” and he walked off without Emily’s confirmation.

The Friday before she was set to leave Emily was a ball of nerves. She was constantly tapping her foot, or getting up to walk around aimlessly. Her restlessness was grating on Nixon’s nerves, which was the last thing he needed with the headache he was nursing.

“Would you relax?” he finally snapped.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emily stilled her foot. But then only a few minutes later her fingers began drumming against her desk. The rigid tension between them had relaxed slightly since the letter had come but Nixon still felt like he was walking on eggshells. He was worried about being too harsh with her or of saying anything insensitive. The last couple of days he had been careful to be extra kind to her. The stress of seeing her fiancee again for the first time in at least a year, and knowing that he would be both physically and mentally different than he had been, was a lot to carry. Nixon knew this. He had taken it upon himself to offset her edginess but boy was he finding that particularly difficult at that moment.

“What’re you gonna be like when we get to the continent huh?” Nixon demanded, “that’s gonna be stressful too, are you gonna be able to handle it?” So much for not being too harsh or insensitive.

Emily scowled at him from her desk, “leave me alone, Nixon. I’ll be fine when we get to the continent. Will you? Gunfire isn’t great for a hangover.”

Nixon narrowed his eyes at her but didn’t say anything more. Finally, they made it to dinner and she excused herself early due to her early departure in the morning. A peculiar sensation came over him as he watched her leave. Seeing her walk away in her woolen skirt with pieces of her dark, red-brown hair flying away from where they were pinned down felt like some sort of goodbye. An anxiety that she was leaving to join her fiancee never to come back tickled at the back of his mind. Beside him, Harry Welsh was looking after her in just the same way. Nixon couldn’t help but wonder what that meant for both of them.

Nixon didn’t have plans for the weekend. He had a loose arrangement with a beautiful young local woman but didn’t feel particularly motivated to call after her that Saturday. His mind was with Emily, worrying if she had made it to the hospital safely. He squandered the day away in bed, then the pub and during a brief window of sunshine, walking around the outskirts of town.

England was beginning to defrost into Spring. When Nixon looked out at the rolling hills of Wiltshire, he could almost pretend he wasn’t there because of a war. He might have been there to study, or to visit family friends. There was a peacefulness in the open plains that surrounded the town of Aldbourne. Every stone, field, and building held a storied past that seemed to look past the impending events as if to say I have been here before and I will be here after.

Later that night Nixon excused himself from a game of poker for a cigarette outside. It was chilly out, but he was grateful for the fresh air while it wasn’t raining. He was stood just in front of the steps leading ups to the HQ building when he spotted a figure making its way up the driveway, suitcase in hand. It was a woman’s figure and Nixon’s first thought was another nurse was coming to join the ranks. But it was such a late hour for a new member of staff to check in. As the figure grew closer he recognized her.

“Emily?” he asked in confusion. Her features became clearer as she stepped into the dim light coming from the building. There was a bizarre expression on her face. Nixon didn’t know what to think of her. “Emily?” he repeated, “what’re you doing back?”

She didn’t smile, but her countenance was calm, serene even. Her eyes were wide and bright despite the limited light. She parted her red lips and with the intonation of surprise said, “I’m free, Lew.”