#WW2 Nurse Cadet

[ms-nesbit]

saving private grayson (a ww2!dick grayson x reader fic)

words: 3.6k

rating: 18+ (minors, as always, fuck off)

warnings: smut, insecure dick grayson, fainting, oral sex, masturbation, grief

summary: cadet Grayson faints prior to his departure to Belfast. His recovery is one to be remembered.

notes: i actually loved writing this one, but that's because i was working through some things. hope you like it too.

read on ao3

A fighter plane soared overhead as Dick sat on the patchy grass, waiting for the captain’s arrival. It was over a hundred and fifty three days since he last saw Gotham, let alone his adoptive father, prior to his draft into the war. God willing, he wanted to roam the tattered streets one last time, as he had prior to his departure, but Dick swallowed the same grief he felt on the campground that he had almost choked on the night of his parents’ death.

Skies above him heavily contrasted the doom looming over the camp, sun beaming down on the cadets’ freshly ironed uniforms. A voice boomed, alerting the cadets to their feet and in line in an orderly fashion.

“Today, you will be marched to your new base in Belfast. I’m not keen on girly talk, but…” the voice drowned out underneath the thumping in Dick’s temple. He had a migraine preceding his arrival to Ireland, but hadn’t thought much of it until the sun, kissing heat upon his face, dimmed, along with his peripherals.

“Grayson, you hear me? Grayson? Grayson!” was all that he heard before he collapsed, rifle plopping to the ground mere seconds before he.

—

Upon opening his eyes, Dick was met with a canvas tent hanging overhead, attempting to sit up and look around before a woman approached him, urging him to remain flat on the fold-out bed. She wore a short-sleeved white shirt and a blue A-line dress layered over it, her hair neatly tucked into a low bun.

“What happened?” Dick sleepily asked, still rising to consciousness.

An older woman stepped up to the other side of the bed, wearing a patch on her bosom, and frown wrinkles. “You passed out in the yard shortly before the march. Sergeant saw it best to keep you here, and send you off tomorrow if you’re better.” her voice was stern, and stare cold. All Dick could reply with was a faint nod. “Nurse y/l/n, please attend to this soldier and watch his vitals. I have to tend to the shipment from Red Cross to prepare us for the battle this week.”

Nurse y/l/n, opposite of the head nurse, replied curtly, “Yes, ma’am.” her posture loosened once the elder nurse vacated the tent, her shoulders rounding into a slump. Dick’s eyes never left her, and he didn’t know whether it was the possible concussion or the angelic figure posing as an ancillary to his recovery.

But he felt safe when she wrapped the blood pressure cuff to his left bicep, securing it before checking his numbers with the air bulb. Her free hand was on his forearm, index finger stroking his wildly strands of arm hair. “So,” he began, clearing his throat, “you, uh, come here a lot?”

Really, Grayson? Really? Dick shut his eyes as soon as he heard the maladroit attempt at flirtation leave his mouth. That is, until he saw the soft corner of her mouth twitch into an acute grin. “Seeing as though this is my station and you are my patient, yes, I believe I am here quite a bit.” the loud tear of the velcro from the cuff interrupted her. “Do you fall unconscious a lot?”

Her voice was titillating, cocking a brow as she stood beside him to hear his response. “Not until I saw you around.” Dick flashed his signature smile that worked back home, overlooking the tightly wrapped adhesive around the crown of his head.

It worked nonetheless, drawing a giggle from the nurse. Her effulgent smile called to him, like a moth to a flame, and he was instantly mesmerized by it. “Pretty sure you’d have passed out long before this morning if that were the case.” she suspected, “Where ya from?”

“Gotham, New Jersey, Miss. And you?”

Nurse y/l/n shrugged, “Chicago.”

Tilting his head to the side, Dick held out an imaginary cigar, mocking Al Capone. “Like the Great Bambino, eh?”

“That’s…the Yankees, hon.” she corrected, still amused by Dick’s charm. Well, there goes that, Dick thought to himself, never really was good at sports anyhow. “Maybe we should take your pulse if you think Baby’s from Chi-town.”

Dick pretended to brush off the criticism, despite being embarrassed by the failure. He lowered the scratchy blanket to expose his bare chest, hoping that maybe his physique could charm the pretty dame. She blinked at the toned figure, dismissive of it as she placed the cold stethoscope on his chest. “Deep breaths in, Big Al.” Dick’s chest rose and fell with his breath. “Again.” she moved her stethoscope, reaching on the far side of the bed (and leaning on Dick’s arm and shoulder) to register the health of his other lung.

As Dick breathed, he glanced over at her free hand, which rested on Dick’s, unaware of the contact. He restrained himself from interlocking their fingers, or bringing her hand to his lips to place a delicate kiss. “Can you sit up for me?” the nurse requested, adjusting her posture.

Dick obliged, sitting up straight as he felt the cold stethoscope on either side of his shoulders; his skin kindled where it met hers, and he took long, deep breaths to prolong the contact he desperately sought.

“You know, my father said we lived around where the St. Valentine’s massacre took place.” she added, folding the stethoscope before neatly placing it in her uniform pocket. “Said that it was just dreadful. My mother didn’t want to leave their apartment for days.” Jesus, that accent’s beautiful. “What about you? I heard that some of the folks from Chicago fled to Gotham after Capone’s arrest. S’that true?”

Treading carefully about his response without compromising his vigilante identity (or that of his adoptive father), Dick pursed his lips before pushing them out, making a ‘pop’. “Heard about it, yeah. I was told when my parents died that one of the goons that murdered them was an import from Chicago, though I dunno for sure.”

Sympathy took over the nurse’s face. “I’m sorry about your parents.” she prefaced, expression soft. “Your vitals look fine. Are you sure you weren’t dehydrated from bathing in the sun for so long?”

Gotcha. Dick grinned cockily. “How did you know I was resting in the sun for a bit?”

The nurse realized her mistake, and instantly exhaled through her nose. “I do believe that’s irrelevant. Well, I think it’d be best if you stayed here in the shade for a while, especially considering the humidity expected this week.”

“Wouldn’t make much of a difference if you’re the one caring for me.” Dick refuted, satisfied with his answer. “Though if we were to become acquainted, I think it would be good for me to get your name. Y’know, for my health.” he placed a hand over his heart.

The nurse rolled her eyes. “You’re not the first one to pull that one over me.” she interposed his zeal, popping it like an overinflated balloon. “But if you wish,” she sighed, leaning in to his ear, her breath close enough to tickle his ear like an inviting breeze. Her voice dipped an octave, the reticence resembling seduction. “My name is y/n.”

“Y/n, huh?” Dick repeated quietly, the name rolling easily from his tongue. “Pleasure is mine.” 

As y/n left, she kept her eyes on Dick, until she turned to exit the tent. It would have been ignorant of Dick to dismiss the way he melted at the sound of her voice, especially in close proximity, and after the interaction, it left Dick full of emotion: taming his debauchery, triumphant in learning nurse y/l/n’s name, and… an unusual feeling. One he hadn’t felt since his time traveling Europe and the States with his parents.

When the night drifted in, soldiers and nurses drifting in and out of the medical tent with their own preoccupations, Dick waited for y/n’s return, eyes darting to the entrance any time he heard footsteps approach. It wasn’t until past dusk, when most of the stationed cadets were ordered back to their quarters, and head nurse into hers, that y/n arrived. By that point, Dick’s eyelids were heavy, bored by the lack of contact, and almost falling asleep.

That is, until he spotted y/n walking slowly up to his bedside. “Hey, you.” he dreamily greeted.

“Do you feel a little better?” y/n withdrew her stethoscope from her pocket, reading Dick’s pulse.

“I do now that you’re here.”

Nurse y/n rolled her eyes at Dick. “I guess I did walk right into that one.” she admitted. “One of the nurses told me, and I wanted to know if this was true 𑁋 were you one of the Flying Graysons?”

“Mm-hmm.” Dick replied.

“Thought you looked familiar. You traveled to the Cicero area back in ‘29 or ‘28, right?”

Dick’s eyes slowly widened, recollection washing over him. “Yeah, I think so.”

“I saw you guys there. I was 9 or 10. Thought you were all a gas.” she conceded, murmuring under her breath  as she turned away to set the blood pressure monitor, “Thought you were really cute, too.”

Dick’s lips turned into a devious smile. “Am I still cute?”

“Depends.” y/n adjusted the cuff on Dick’s bicep, ignoring his flexing of it. “Are you always this mouthy?”

Mouthy? “I just like making some conversation, that’s all.”

Y/n scoffed. “The other on-duty nurses said you were quiet as a mouse when they were around.”

“...so you asked about me?” Dick’s smile was bright, even in the dark, impervious to any of y/n’s attempts to shut down his flirtation.

“Just so you know,” y/n began, pumping the air bulb of the blood pressure cuff, “if Madame - the head nurse - sees me primarily with you when we’re handling a wave of wounds, she’ll dismiss me for the day.”

Dick couldn’t quite pin whether or not y/n’s statement was more of a bluff than a fact. Why would the head dismiss her when they need her most? “Then why not stay the night with me tonight so I won’t miss you so much when it happens?”

A sheepish grin appeared on y/n’s face, followed by a glare. “Do you know how much trouble I would be in if Madame found out?”

“Make something up. I am requesting for you to be at my side for the night for my care.” Dick reached out to touch y/n’s hand, her fingers bending to close around his, before she unhanded him, walking over to the nurse’s station to jot something down.

Dick waited patiently for y/n to return, his leg jumping in the medical bed - similar to a dog’s tail wag - upon y/n’s return. “Had to write down my reason for extended stay, along with your vitals, since you seem to be burning up, Grayson.” she hinted, eyes pleading for Dick to play along.

“My head.” Dick mumbled dramatically, pressing a palm to his forehead. In response, y/n snickered, barely covering her mouth with her hand. “So where were we?” Dick scooted up in his bed, patting a space beside him for y/n to sit; she thanked him and sat stiffly. “It’s okay. If Madame shows up, I can just cover for you. It’s not a problem.”

Y/n turned to face Dick, tucking her feet underneath her thighs. Sweet mercy… Dick thought to himself when he caught a glimpse of y/n’s bare thighs, exposed by the rising nurse uniform. “Your job growing up as an…”

“Acrobat.” Dick finished.

“Right.” y/n said. “Acrobat.” she repeated, mostly for her own sake. “Do you miss traveling? I’m sure being here is nothing compared to what you’re used to.”

Though she had a point, she was overall incorrect: Grayson was accustomed to the grime and grit of Gotham, almost blocking out the fugue state of traveling from destination to destination as a child. He looked down as he thought through his answer. “I suppose I do miss it,” he started, dallying facade fading, “but I mostly miss my parents. I never even got to say goodbye.

“And what hurt even more was how I went from this traveling boy wonder-” he paused at the slipup, “-to the adopted son of a Wayne. I’m thankful for the comfortable life, especially since the Depression overtook most of Gotham, but…my adoptive father doesn’t…” he trailed, overcome with emotion. His overgrown dark strands of hair - a mop, as his captain named it - draped over his eyes, masking the tears welling up in his eyes.

But y/n could tell from the broken voice that he was in too deep, and that the war was the last possible thing to break his spirit. She cupped his chin, lifting it so their eyes could meet, neatly combing his loose strands behind his ears. She then wiped a stray tear before it could run down his cheek. “I don’t understand what that’s like,” she admitted, eyes still on his, “but sometimes it’s not okay. Men here get shell shock, and all of a sudden, they realize how poorly they were treated all their lives, and this war was the breaking point to crush their soul. I was worried it would happen to you too.”

Y/n’s hand still on his cheek, Dick cocked his head. “How do you mean?”

“You’re…different, Richard. Most of the cadets that march through here are just boys in uniform, boys in a line, boys with guns. And I’m not sure exactly how old you are,” she chuckled, “but you carry yourself with wise eyes. There’s something in there, and it’s okay to let go.”

The words settled themselves on the bed with Dick and y/n, crawling up Dick’s side, neck, and into his ear. They nauseated him at first, but because y/n was right: he left Gotham for a better cause, but also because he lost himself in the mask and costume. It consumed his identity whole, and Bruce hadn’t seen past his own arrogance to know any better.

Suddenly, y/n’s eyes were familiar. Dick wanted to climb into them and hide, live a free life as a free man, free from the burden he carried - no longer an Atlas; rather, an acrobat, flying about. Despite being the last Flying Grayson, his wings were clipped, and he treaded the Earth, with tattered feathers and blistered feet. 

Stunned, Dick opened his mouth, wanting to say what he repeated in his mind: Come with me. Come home with me. Be my home. He understood now why men in uniforms wed upon their first day back on the mainland. He squeezed her hand, bowing his head in to press his lips to y/n’s.

Y/n returned the kiss, sharply inhaling at the scent of tar, musk, and evergreen Dick carried. His lips were welcoming, warm, as she kissed him, and when she pulled away, she was met with his oceanic eyes crashing at the shore for her.

Again. His eyes asked. Please, kiss me again.

And by all the willpower she had, y/n did, holding Dick’s face with her hands.

Their kiss was deep, passionate, and if it hadn’t been for the lack of privacy, they would have stripped their clothing by minutes’ time. Instead, y/n’s hands roamed to every muscle Dick allowed her to explore, her fingers reaching down, down, down…

Dick gasped into the kiss, y/n’s hand brushing against his clothed erection. She pulled away once more, this time asking with heavy eyes - to which Dick nodded, granting her access to unzip and away the restriction between his need and her desire to touch.

“I have you.” y/n whispered endearingly, pressing her lips to Dick’s cupid’s bow. He reclined, allowing her to take him, his self-control signed away the moment he laid eyes on her. Y/n unbuckled and tugged down Dick’s uniform trousers, along with his underwear, exposing his hardened need. The sight of it alone - truly needy, with precum pooling at its head, throbbing - ignited a heat in y/n’s core.

Dick saw the glossed over look in her eyes, and asked, very tenderly, “May I touch you?”

Y/n managed only a nod, a single one, body impatiently waiting for his contact. To her surprise, Dick placed a hand on her cheek, stroking it, with fond eyes. “There is something I would like to do, if that were alright with you.” he licked his lips, expression nervous. “Can I…taste you?”

He stared longingly at y/n, her hand still at the base of his pelvic bone. Marry me. Love me. Have me as yours. I’ll protect you from everything, he wanted to say, wanted to express, wanted. That was it though: an eternal yearning, or a momentary desire? Dick hadn’t known, nor did he want to spoil his chances at finding out himself. He only waited for y/n to answer, as she contemplated silently.

“Yes.” she breathed, “but be kind and patient. This is my first time.” her cheeks sprinkled a dusty pink. Dick moved on the bed, hands sprawling over y/n’s clothed body as he took all the time he wished he always had. He pushed y/n’s dress up, and rolled her stockings down to her ankles, just barely enough to allow himself access to her dripping core.

He bestowed kisses along her legs, stopping near her sensitive folds as he took in the beauty before him. With one hand, he held her thigh; his other enclosed around his hard cock, breathing unevenly as he waited for her affirmation.

“I’m ready.” she susurrated, voice unstable. With that, Dick dove his head in, licking at her folds. Y/n gasped, legs spreading further. “Oh” she breathed halfheartedly, weakly, as Dick lapped at her bundle of nerves.

Dick rutted into his hand, as eager to hear the noises y/n emitted as he was to know he was the source. He moaned into her pussy, causing her to whimper, hips rising to meet with his mouth. Her head spun, full of everything and nothing; her vision blurred, finding herself near her high, and Dick knew by the way her legs trembled, breathing unsteady, and he thrusted relentlessly into his hand.

“I wanna come with you.” Dick offered, still stroking his cock. “Please, y/n, I want you to come with me.” It was a long time since he wanted to selflessly love, to feel someone else fall before him. Dick would be the first to admit that he behaved selfishly in the past, but not here, not with y/n unwinding beneath his touch, by his touch.

The hospital bed creaked in the night as y/n’s hips faltered, driven by ardor and primal need. “Keep going, Dick,” she whined quietly, as to not disturb the sleeping crew outside of the tent, or - even worse - the shameless nymph that Dick brought out in her.

Dick knew. He saw it in her eyes as they watered, and the way her chin shook with desire. Using the hand that held her thigh, which was now bruised from the tightened grip, he inserted a finger into her entrance, pushing past its fluttering walls to curve into her g-spot, licking and sucking on her clit until she reached her breaking point.

“Oh, my god!” y/n threw her head back into the thin sheets of the hospital bed, hips buckling into Dick’s face and finger as she rode out her orgasm. Dick continued moaning, eyeing her fucked out state, as he chased his own high.

When y/n’s hips fell, she became cognizant of her surroundings - especially Dick, still between her legs, fucking his hand as he stifled his loud moans in the skin of her thigh. Y/n watched intently, ruffling her hand through his untidy dark hair. “Go on, Dear. Come for me.” she cooed, snapping whatever reality Dick held on to, and sending him into a whirling high.

“Y/n, fuck.” Dick whimpered weakly, ropes of cum coming out as he thrusted into his hand. He cursed under his breath, and through barely closed lips, before he finally stilled his hips, and released his now spent cock from his grip.

Y/n fixed her stockings and dress, rushing to her feet to assist in cleaning Dick’s mess. She returned with a warm towel, and a glass of water, urging Dick to lie down as she helped blot up the sticky cum that fell on himself and his blanket.

“You really don’t need to baby me, y/n.” Dick joked.

“I’m not,” y/n reminded, “just wanted to clean up since that stuff looks uncomfortable to deal with.”

Dick burst into laughter. “It is.” he sipped some of the water before reaching over and placing it on the stand-up end table beside his bed. “Can I hold you? When you’re free, of course.” he chuckled awkwardly, new to the circumstance.

Y/n neatly folded the towel and placed it under Dick’s bed, in a hidden bag for used towels. She climbed into the bed with Dick, laying on her side as Dick brought his arm around her shoulders, closing the space between them.

Silently, they shared the night together, listening for the distant whoosh of the ocean, and the crickets’ calling for one another. Y/n was first to drift to sleep, her inhale stuttering before she released a deep exhale through her nose. Dick kissed her hair, occasionally glancing at her relaxed, dreamed state.

“I love you.” he muttered, low enough for barely even his ear to catch. He was happy with his answer from the universe, the bluebird resting in Robin’s arms as they began their tidings together. Whether he were to fly to war, buried in hollow nests and earthly burrows, he knew that his home was here, under the bluebird’s wing, with her body intertwined with his.

He no longer felt heavy. Dick Grayson was free.

[vintagepromotions]

Recruitment poster for the U.S. Cadet Nurse Corps, promising free lifetime education for qualified high school graduates who apply (1943).

[travis-nicolai-puno]

Hacksaw Ridge

This War/Drama movie film was directed by Mel Gibson.

Characters:

Desmond T Doss = Andrew Garfield

He is the main character of the 2016 movie film “Hacksaw Ridge “. He was raised with a strong belief in the Bible and The Ten Commandments.

William Thomas Doss = Hugo Weaving

He is the Father of Desmond T Doss, he earned a silver star in his service at the WW1 and a person struggling with PTSD.

Bertha Doss = Rachel Griffiths

She is the mother of Desmond T Doss and the wife of Mr. Tom Doss, she is a supportive mother and a woman devoted to God.

Dorothy Schutte = Teresa Palmer

She is Desmond’s girlfriend and a nurse at the hospital.

Sergeant George Howell = Vince Vaughn

He is the Staff Sergeant that commanded Desmond’s squad. A fearless and honorable Staff Sergeant who risked his life protecting his country and his squad.

Captain Jack Glover = Sam Werthington

One of the lionhearted and respectable captain in the WW2.

Smitty Ryker = Luke Bracey

A fictional character shown as an athletic soldier and one of the person who stand in Desmond’s way because of his beliefs.

Harold Doss = Nathaniel Buzolic

He is Desmond’s older brother who also joined the Army before Desmond does.

Settings:

Lynchburg, Virginia

It is known as Point of Honor for it is the highest percentage of freed slaves in the South. This is also where Desmond T. Doss spent his childhood.

Grand Ledge, Michigan

When Desmond Doss joined the Army, he was enlisted of being a conscientious objector or cooperator. He was sent to Grand Ledge, Michigan where he had a hard time training and socializing with the other cadets because of his strong beliefs.

Okinawa (Hacksaw Ridge)

According to Desmond’s son this is where the bloodiest war occurred, this is also where Desmond served and saved 75 to 100 men. Without carrying a gun and he single-handedly saved 75 people.

Theme

Hacksaw Ridge is a story of courage in battle but it is also one of faith, integrity and the courage to live by one’s convictions.

Plot

Desmond T. Doss, despite refusing to bear arms or to hold and use a gun during World War 2 on religious grounds or beliefs. Doss was drafted and ostracized by fellow soldiers for his pacifist stance but went on to earn respect and adoration for his bravery, selflessness and compassion after he risked his life without firing a shot to save 75 men in the Battle of Okinawa.  

Impact

Desmond’s beliefs really inspired me to stick in my beliefs. I was flood in tears and emotions as I watched this movie (a dozen of times), it really hit my soft spot. It also inspired me to do my best even if no one is watching. This movie makes me believe that I can walk and create my own road to reach my desired destination.

[fromthedeskofthecaptain]

On the topic of the Captain being a mere Captain...

In response to the conversation about the Captain’s rank being that of a junior officer, despite his age, and what that might say about his competence and popularity...

I’ve only just started researching, but it seems that it all depends on whether he was a regular Sandhurst trained officer prior to the war. There are other possibilities though...

1. He had been an officer in WW1.(maybe a tad young for this, but not if the character is a few years older than the actor) he may have joined as a patriotic act and then resigned his commission to start another career. At the outbreak of WW2 he might have been eligible to return at the same rank. Ex officers and enlisted were welcomed back, but I’m not sure about maximum ages for doing so and if a Cap who had served in WW1 would be too old by WW2.

2. He joined as an enlisted person, either as a youth or for WW2?and received a ��battlefield promotion’ or two . An enlisted person making it to Captain would be rather different to an officer failing to progress beyond it. He would have had to have had this change in status conferred once the war started and (I think) it didn’t require the recipient to actually be front-line.

3. He was able to join during the war and sit before an officer selection board. I think these boards interviewed people and if they were satisfactory they were sent for pass/ fail training, which he passed. I’m not sure how competitive these were, but I have read that there was a shortage of officers initially and Sandhurst was closed in September 39 for the duration of the war in favor of officer cadet training units, which seem to be a bit faster and more hands on.

4. I’m not sure if Cap could’ve got his rank from a technical skill earned in civilian life, such as engineering, for example. I’m sure that some tasks in the Army automatically made one a certain rank - for example all army dental nurses are NCOs now. They still have to pas the tests, etc, but if they do, the rank comes with the trade/ skill.

I don’t know where I I’m going with this, I just found it interesting to think about possibilities... If anyone has any more options or knows enough to discount any of these, please do! 🙏

I just love him and I don’t want him to have been overlooked! 🥺❤️

[wutbju]

Greenville - Gertrude "Trudy" Mae Fremont went peacefully into the arms of Jesus on Tuesday, June 18, 2019 after years of struggling with a debilitating lung disease. Trudy was born on September 4, 1926 in Radnor, Delaware County, Ohio, the oldest of 4 children, to George Frederick Reed and Hazel Marie Kirk Reed.

Trudy graduated from Miami Valley School of Nursing in Dayton. Ohio, and while in nursing school during WW II, she served in the US Nurses Cadet Corps. She married Walter Gilbert Fremont, Jr. on August 12, 1947, and in 1949, they were the first married couple to graduate together from The University of Dayton. Trudy worked as a registered nurse in Madison, Wisconsin, at Shriner's Hospital in Greenville, SC, and then as a nurse and teacher at Bob Jones University for over 50 years where her husband was Dean of Education. She earned a master's degree from the University of NC Greensboro and played a big part in the formation and state approval of the Bob Jones University nursing department.

Trudy spoke and counseled on weekends with her husband for over 25 years in churches, camps, and conferences throughout the US and other countries. In later years she traveled with Dr. and Mrs. Jones III on similar speaking engagements. She did volunteer work at Piedmont Women's Center, counseled women and families extensively, and was devoted to her family. Trudy was a faithful member of Hampton Park Baptist Church for many years and sought to honor Jesus Christ in all she did. She loved to read, travel, study, teach, counsel, pray for others, and attempt new crafts. In 2006 she was presented with the South Carolina House of Representatives Republican Women's Caucus Woman of Achievement Award.

Trudy is survived by two children, Walter Gilbert Fremont III (Julie) and Gail Fremont Berger (Dan); six grandchildren, Tammy Berger Gates, Daniel R. Berger II (Oriana), Michelle Berger Snustead (Paul), Jessica Fremont Spriggs (Dan), Heather Fremont Douglass (Tim), and Whitney Fremont Neal (Justin); 10 great-grandchildren, and a brother Howard Kirk Reed (Pat). She is preceded in death by her husband Walter G. Fremont, Jr., her daughter Elaine Marie Fremont, her parents, Fred and Hazel Reed, and 2 sisters, Mary Elsie Reed Geiger and Charlotte Reed Ogden (Carl).

Visitation at Mackey Funerals and Cremations at Century Drive, 311 Century Drive, Greenville, SC 29607 will be on Friday, June 28, 2019 from 12:00 pm to 2:00 pm, followed by a memorial service at 2:30 pm. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to The Wilds Camp and Conference Center, 1000 Wilds Ridge Road, Brevard, NC 28712 or Gospel Fellowship Association, 1809 Wade Hampton Blvd, Suite 110, Greenville, SC 29609.

Online condolences may be shared with the family at MackeyMortuary.com.Published in The Greenville News on June 23, 2019

[phoenixflames12]

Safe and Sound

This takes place on the night of The Longest March in my WW2 AU that began with An Endless Night and would not have been possible without the support and guidance of @mo-nighean-rouge, @thatsoccercoach and @livinginafanficworld- thank you for all of your kind words and hand holding, they mean more to me than I can coherently say!

Moodboards: here and here

Faith returns to Lallybroch with a seriously weakened Albert and with the help of both Claire and Jamie, the young Scot-German doctor begins to find a place within the Fraser clan

The lamps in the hall are trimmed low; the cool, wet air of the night pressing into the high, slashed window above the carved Fraser crest on the oak lintel.

Jamie crosses the hallway carefully, feeling the satisfying creak of his spine as he stretches muscles that ache from hours of pouring over the farm ledgers and the rental dues from the Lallybroch tenants.

He will have to put aside time this week to go up to New Bigging, the furthest cluster of outlying crofts on the Lallybroch moors, to consider how the proposed new water course for the estate would reach them.  Will have to schedule a meeting with the game keeper, Archie Coulter about the new batch of pheasants being put down in the game cover crop and work out how many birds would be sustainable for the number of guns left to shoot them, but that can wait.

A tawny owl’s screech pierces the night and from somewhere in the depths of the house, he hears Bran’s low, rumbling bark, disgruntled at being woken by some inaudible sound.

On the second floor landing, the grandfather clock that had been his grandfather’s grudging wedding present to his parents, chimes away the hour.

Midnight.

How had it got so late?  

From the top floor, he can make out a chink of light flooding under the door to the laird’s room.

It is a chink that slowly grows into a flood as Claire steps out, her hair curled about her shoulders, draped in the dark plum crepe de chine wrap that he had brought her for their honeymoon.

She is a selkie, a sea spirit, a naiad to him, standing fixed in the puddle of silvery-gold light, her hair curling in a dark mass fringed with silver at the edges about the pale, bonny face that he remembers falling in love with all those years ago as a cadet at Sandhurst and has loved ever since.

Remembers the way that those deep, whisky coloured eyes, full of tender encouragement, had held his as she had worked at plucking the asphalt from his bloody back. Had tended to his broken hand, cradling it between her own with a nurse’s gentle touch.

Remembers the way that she had taken his good hand and squeezed it lightly, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, the gesture saying more than a thousand words ever could.

‘I’m here, soldier.’

She is the one constant in his life, he thinks, drinking her in, memorising every inch and curve of her as she moves slowly down the stairs, feet tapping lightly against the bare, polished wood.

The one whom he had marked, their lifeblood mingling against the pale under skin of their wrists as Murtagh, dark eyes gleaming with pride, had drawn his sighean dhu lightly against their joined wrists and the centuries old blood vow, its’ words older than the hills themselves had flowed forth in rich, unending Gaelic poetry.

Gaelic that one day, he had hoped in the dusky sunlight of Broch Mordha’s Catholic Kirk, she would understand.

‘What are you thinking about?’

Her voice is soft is the quiet as she descends the stairs, crosses the landing and comes to meet him, work worn hands cupping his cheek.

‘I..’

He stops and swallows, unable and unwilling to break her gaze in order to gather his thoughts.

‘I was thinking about the proposed water course up at New Bigging, ye ken? Just pondering how we should go about it.’ He isn’t surprised in the slightest when she arches an eyebrow at him, whisky coloured eyes narrowing, searching his face.

It is a moment before she speaks.

‘The water course at New Bigging wouldn’t keep you up so late, my love,’ she murmurs, the weight of nineteen years of marriage gleaming in the depths of her pupils, her fingers pressing firmly against the rise of his cheekbones.

‘You’re right, mo nighean don,’ the words are sucked in on a breath as she nods, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss him, her lips soft and sweet against the bristle of his stubble. Slowly, he draws her close, relishing in the weight of her head tucked in under his chin, the twin melody of their hearts beating as one against his chest.

‘It’s Faith. She was supposed tae be home hours ago and I canna help but fear… ‘

The rest of the sentence is drowned out by the sound of tires crunching on the gravel, the soft, wet glare of dimmed headlights flooding through the old, worn wood of the front door and the insistent hammering of a fist against the door.

‘Fraser! Cap’n Fraser, are ye at home, man?’

Jock Kirby’s voice, caught and urgent, booms through the hallway, echoing off the walls as Jamie struggles to supress an involuntary shiver from coursing down his spine at the use of his army rank.

From the back passage, Jamie hears Bran’s startled bark, only to see a lumbering streak of brindled brown and grey skidder into the hall, claws clacking eerily off the bare, wooden floorboards, wolf-like eyes wide and gleaming.

‘What in the world…? Bran, hush, you wretched dog!’

Claire draws back from him, whisky coloured eyes huge in a face suddenly drained of all colour.

I dinna ken, Sassenach.

‘Aye, Jock! What is it, a chariad?’

Slowly untangling himself from Claire, he moves to the door in a single stride and pulls it open, gasping into the rain as the full force of the storm hits him.

The rain is lashing through the night, soaking the courtyard as Jamie steps out into the night, the chill of the wind slapping his breath away. Claire is just behind him, wrapping herself in a throw-away rug from the horse hair sofa.

The Land Rover’s headlights gleam a dull glowing yellow as he blinks, trying to clear his vision.

Jock’s deep, dark eyes blaze out of a weathered face that is slapped red with cold and drink, riddled with purple veins and liver spots.

Out of the darkness, he hears Bran’s bark change into the joyous boom of welcome as he recognises the deep, rumbling growl of the farmer who had brought him back by the scruff of the neck to the main house with tell-tale scarlet jaws and a moustache of pheasant feathers dripping round his mouth many times as a pup. Jamie has just enough time to grab at the dog’s scruff, the wiry nip of the dog’s fur biting into his palm before he streaks out into the night.

‘Tha sin gu leòr, cù. Tha sin gu leòr,’ the Gaelic quietens the bark into a low, rumbling whine, the rough, cold tongue scraping across Jamie’s palm.

The older man cannot reply, as in that instant the passenger door to the Land Rover is forced open and Faith clambers out, supporting the body of a young man dressed in the remnants of a ragged, grey uniform, the scraggly beginnings of a beard caressing his jaw, who can’t be older than twenty five.

Her eyes are shining with exhaustion as the young man’s head lolls against her shoulder, indistinct words of comfort flowing from her lips.

Faith’s uniform is crumpled from hours of work, her apron stained with livid iron red patches of dried blood and muck, her hair coming loose from her cap, swaying dangerously on her feet.

Instinctively, Jamie takes a step towards her, wanting to hold her, to protect her as he had done so many times when she was small, to draw her away from all the hurt and anguish that this new and broken world has let loose at their door.

‘Faith…’

His eldest daughter’s name is a caught breath on Claire’s tongue and yet Jamie doesn’t hear it.

His attention is torn between his eldest daughter and the sudden patter of two pairs of bare feet on the stairs.

‘Mam?... Da? What… What is it? I... We heard voices…?’

Brianna’s voice is thick with sleep, her hair tangling out of its’ sleeping plait as she hovers in the hallway, eyes widening as she takes in Faith, Jock Kirkby and the strange, young man, flickering from her parents to her sister and back again. William is just behind her, hand hovering on the bannister, looking impossibly young in his blue-striped pyjamas, his hair a tangled crown of fiery curls, amber eyes huge and watchful.

‘Take your brother back tae bed, mo chuisle.’ Jamie manages finally, heart cracking slightly at the sight of them both in their night things when by rights they should be safely tucked up in their rooms.

Catching Claire’s gaze, he nods and watches her slowly shepherd their two youngest back up the stairs, gently and firmly pulling them away from events that he had no wish for them to witness.

‘Come on, loves. Back to bed.’

‘Da. Help me. Please.’

Faith’s voice cracks slightly as she grips the young man’s shoulder, staggering slightly under his weight. From his position by the front door, Jock Kirkby gives a silent nod that was not quite a salute and Jamie nods in reply, watching the bulk of the old man disappear into the night.  

‘Aye, mo chiride.’ Slowly, he takes Faith place, easing the young man’s arm over his shoulder. His face is ashen, his breathing fast and ragged, each breath coming out in a breathless wince that makes Jamie’s heart twist in sympathy and Faith bite her lip with worry.

‘Be careful of his side, Da. I… I think he’s sustained some internal damage, but there was no time to check and I canna… I canna be sure…’

‘Aye, Faith. The North Bedroom’s got nae guests in it. We’ll put him in there.’

The young man’s head shifts at the mention of Faith’s name, dark eyes cracking open for a moment.

‘W…Where…?’

His voice is a broken, heavy croak and Jamie watches silently as his eldest daughter cups the lad’s cheek, eyes soft and brimming with love.

‘You’re safe, mo chuisle. You’re at Lallybroch.’

‘Lallybroch?’

The dark eyes widen at that, flickering from face to face, the already pale face blanching slightly, then flooding with high, almost feverish colour.

‘Aye, lad,’ Jamie nods quietly, tightening his grip on the lad’s arm as he sways dangerously on feet that do not want to support his weight.

Those wide eyes rest on him for just a moment, confused exhaustion draining away to something that could be terror.

‘It’s all right. You’re safe here.’

A painful, disbelieving shake of that feather dark head before the wide eyes roll up and the lad crumples in a dead faint against Jamie’s shoulder.

Voices.

Soft, low, feminine voices coming through a darkness that he doesn’t understand.

A blissfully cool something dabbing against his lips, his head cocooned in a warm, soft matter that he thinks is a pillow.

Memories of the men’s restless heads thrashing against the rotten wood beams of the truck as it juddered over another hole in the road, their eyes squeezed shut against a pain that they had no control over.

Memories of doctors in foreign khaki uniforms at the processing station at Hamburg keeling beside wounded men who were too weak to drink from proffered cups, letting the men suck preciously cool water from their fingers like babes in arms.

A helpless, childish smile showing a mouth of gappy teeth amid a blackened, smoke dusted face.

‘This is what we do when the calves are being weaned from their Mothers. Works a treat for them, sir.’

The weight of Ebren Krause’s head a dead weight in his arms, the throb of every, laboured breath a dagger to his heart.

They had left the pilot in the care of the Ragimore Hospital. His jaw had needed instant reconstruction surgery if he was to survive.

The sensation of being rolled over, the weight of a hand clasping his own, a soft stream of nonsensical nothingness not quite masking the sudden flash of pain that explodes through his gluteus maximus.

A Penicillin shot, he thinks, as the worst of the fire subsides into a gentle, throbbing ache, the nagging thread of this thought anchoring him to this strange, half reality; refusing his body the luxury of floating back into the nothingness of complete oblivion.  

Where had she managed to procure a Penicillin shot?

‘Who is he, Faith?’

A voice that he doesn’t recognise.

A younger voice, a girl’s voice that is pert with questions drifting through the shadows.

The sound of a door being clicked shut, the sound of feet thundering down somewhere into a great expanse that he has no knowledge of, another voice, older this time, cutting through the quiet.

‘Bi sàmhach, William!’

‘He… He’s a doctor. I worked wi’ him in the war. He… Oh, Bree… He’s the one that I received that letter from and now… Now, after Da and... And Johnny… I just… I canna… I dinna want… Can ye forgive me?’

‘Forgive ye? What for, Faith?’

‘For… For no’ confiding in ye. For thinking…’

‘Oh, mo chuisle, I was sore! Sore about all the cruel things that happen in the world an’ all the things that I canna hope tae change, nae matter what Mam or Da think! I didna mean what I said, I just… I was angry and afeared and I dinna want tae lose ye!’

‘Lose me? Bree, ye.. Ye willnae lose me!’

Another man’s name, the jealously crushed in an instant as a fresh wave of pain shakes him.

‘I’m sorry, Albert. You’ve got a nasty open wound to your side and I need to change your dressings.’

Sorry.

She was sorry!

And in his mind’s eye, he can see those slanted, clear blue eyes narrowed still further in concentration, a stray curl of brilliant auburn hair falling loose against her forehead, a touch at once feather light and razor sharp, a scalpel hidden in dove’s wings.

Don’t be sorry, meine Geliebte. Ever.’

The voices changing to a deep, authoritative baritone, the creak of bedsprings as a weight far greater than his own lowers itself onto the mattress.

‘Go tae your bed, Faith. I’ll sit wi’ him for a bit.’

A hand gripping his own, dwarfing him in a warm, calloused safety, anchoring him.

‘Ye are safe here, a chariad. Ye are whole. All will be well. This I promise.’

A few days later

‘Welcome back.’

A dull, rhythmic ache pulses through Albert’s body as he struggles to sit against the bare wood of the headboard, the weight of a small, worn hand clasped lightly in his own.

‘W… Where…?’

The question is a dry, cracked choke in the back of his throat, rasping against a hot and heavy tongue.

‘Lallybroch, mo chuisle. Here, drink this,’ a steaming mug of water is pressed into his palm, the soft hints of mint and dried honeysuckle cleansing his dry and aching mouth.

The hand reaches behind his head to help him drink; long, light fingers pressing deep into the curve of his skull.

‘That better?’

He blinks slowly, his vision clearing as the indistinct shapes slowly begin to solidify into a washstand, a door, two straight backed chairs, a window looking out over an indistinct space of greens and browns framed by a cool, grey sky. There is a blaze of purple in the distance, he thinks and the soft, lumbering shapes of sheep slowly picking their way over unwalked ground.  

The face behind the voice slowly clears too, merging into the pale, bonny face with blue, slanted cat eyes, a cleft chin and a long, straight nose dusted with freckles. Slowly, she pulls up the chair beside the bed, wood scraping on wood and reaches for his hand.

She looks exhausted and he wants to tell her so, the lower lids of her eyes marred with bruising, the finger that slowly reaches to curl itself around a stray lock of hair trembling ever so slightly, but he cannot seem to find the right words.

Instead, all he can do is nod.

‘Three days,’ she says quietly to his unasked question, her fingers moving lightly over his hand, slowly straightening out the digits against the coverlet.

‘There were times…’ She stops, a broken, sobbing breath pulsing from her throat, looking away to the window, where the world is bathed in the soft, cool light left after a night’s rainfall.

‘I’m sorry,’ she bites her lip and tries to smile, groping in the pocket of her dress for a handkerchief and his heart cracks at the sight of her dabbing fiercly at the corners of her eyes, biting her lip and trying to laugh and smile at the same time.

‘Faith…’

Slowly, painfully he tries to reach for her, wanting nothing more than to hold her and wipe away her tears as he had done in their final moments before he had parted from her under the shadowed shelter of the horse chestnut tree in the hospital yard.

She shakes her head at him, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

‘A Dhia! There were times when I feared the worst for ye. When I kent that it would be best for ye to go, that it was a cruelness keeping you here in the worst of the fever, but I couldna…After nearly losing Da… I couldn’tlose ye too…’

Her voice trails off to a tear-stained stop and she sniffs again, reaching for his hand again.

‘I’m here now, mo chuisle,’ he murmurs quietly, the Gaelic sounding strange and soft against his tongue.

Her fingers shiver within his own, the ghosts of a groove where a ring once lay rising through her ring finger.

Following his gaze, she shakes her head, tear-stained eyes holding his for a long moment.

‘I will tell ye about him, Albert, but no’ yet. Please. Please dinna ask me yet.’

He nods silently, but whatever he is going to say next is cut off by the sound of footsteps and a timid rap at the door.

‘Come in?’

Faith swivels on her haunches to face the door, just in time for Albert to see another red headed girl, younger this time, with the same clear blue, slanted eyes that are encased between high, fine cheekbones.

The eyes hold more grey than blue to their irises than Faith’s, but the blazing auburn hair that is alive with notes of roan and russet, copper and cinnabar is the same, plaited into two long, unravelling ropes, the same long nose that is glowing pink at its’ tip.

‘Faith, Mam asks if…’

The girl stops short at the sight of him, eyes widening as they flick back to her sister.

An odd, tight sensation sparks in Albert’s chest as he takes in the girl’s look, the slight raise of her eyebrows, the pieces of a puzzle that has not yet been named flying into place behind her eyes. Unconsciously, Faith’s grip on his hand tightens.

‘Brianna, this is Albert. He’ll be staying for a little while.’

Bri-anna.

A strange, lilting name spoken in such a way to make the word her own.

The younger girl nods, a strange, tight smile flickering at the corners of her lips.

‘Pleased tae meet ye,’ she blurts, a blaze of heat flooding against her cheekbones.

‘And you,’ Albert tries to smile at this fiery little thing who in that moment, reminds him so much of Ada as she gives Faith one last searching look before fleeing the room, banging the door behind her.

‘She’ll come round,’ he hears Faith murmur, though she is not quite able to keep the tense note from her voice as the clattering of footsteps fading away into silence, busying herself with his pillows, deliberately turning away so that she doesn’t have to look at him.

‘Faith…’ The flash of her wrist has just brushed past her elbow as he reaches for it.

‘Look at me, mein Herz,’ he murmurs, the words chafing slightly against his tongue.

She does so slowly, troubled and lovely blue eyes brimming again. Slowly, he reaches out to cup her cheek, his thumb slowly stroking away her tears.

‘It will be all right? With your family?’

Spoken in the clear light of day, the questions sound foolish, childish almost.

‘It may take Brianna and Willie some time, but Mam an’ Da… Da especially, I’d hope…’

She trails off, moving to sit beside him once more, reaching for his hand, the unspoken words thick and heavy in the space between them.

Albert nods, snippets of memory glowing through the dark unknown of the last three days.

A deep, authoritative baritone rich with compassionate concern holding him fast.

The creaking weight of sagging bedsprings.

A dark, dense musk pressed close, the throb of a pulse tight in his ear as he struggled to keep his feet.

And words heard in a brief moment of clear lucidity, words that he doesn’t understand entirely, but ones that he will hold close to his heart for the rest of his days.

‘Ye are safe, a chariad. Ye are whole. All is well.’

The weight of the polished oak of the door is heavy under Albert’s fist as he knocks twice and steps back, feeling strange and self-conscious in the borrowed pull over, shirt and trousers that Faith had found for him, hands clasped firmly behind his back in the passageway that leads to Captain James Fraser’s study.

The late afternoon shadows thrown through the long, latticed windows that look out over a rain- washed courtyard are long and low; a cool, grey sun peeping out from a canopy of cloud.

‘Aye? Who is it?’

‘Albert Peterson… I…’

The words stutter off his tongue, the organ feeling strange and unwieldly in his mouth.

From where he stands, he can hear the faint hubbub of a family that he is not yet part of, of whose life he has only seen glimpses of.

Coming down the stairs in the shadowed dusk of the early afternoon, his arm firmly tucked in Faith’s, they had passed William dashing up the stairs alongside them, the small boy who was just growing into himself, careering wildly to a standstill at the sight of this strange new man on his sister’s arm.

Faith, to her credit, had laughed and made the introductions, William snapping back to his manners and offering his hand to shake, tawny coloured eyes giving Albert a cursory once over.

Claire, when she had met him in the kitchen had promptly steered him to a chair at the scrubbed Oak table, told William, dragging his feet and hovering the doorway, to clear his comics away and placed a steaming plate of eggs before Albert.

‘You need feeding up,’ she had said quietly with a nurse’s precision; hazel eyes that are the exact copy of her son’s, flickering to Faith, who nods.

‘And we’ll do it slowly, bit by bit. William, what have I told you about feeding the dog at the table?’

‘But Mam!’

‘No buts. Take him out, a chiride. Now.’

Dog?

And then a large, rough head shoving itself under his free hand; wolfish yellow eyes gleaming as a long snout splits into a lolling grin.

And then the lad scuffed his shoes and sent his mother a black look that Claire simply raised her eyebrows at, arms folded as he called the dog, the lilting language that Albert only knows snatches of, sounding strange and musical to his ears.

‘Dhòmhsa, Bran! Siuthad!’

And the long, loping body of the dog had slid out from under the table, ears pricked, tongue lolling, claws clacking over the tiles, following his master out to glean what they could from the rest of the day.  

Claire had watched them leave; following the slowly fading drum of footsteps along a passageway for a long moment, her tea-towel lying idle in her hands before a far-off door had slammed shut and she had sighed a little sadly and straightened up.

Albert had watched her, quietly chewing his eggs.

‘They grow up far too quickly,’ she says at last, as she turns to face him, gleaming, whisky eyes holding an almost wistful expression, a small, sad smile playing on her lips.

‘One moment they’re bairns and safe in your arms and the next, they’re running out to face the world without a care for what they could find.’

He had nodded slowly, thinking of Ada and how she had been a little girl of six with her corn blonde hair in two thick ropes down her back, chewing her lip in concentration as she practiced diligently at her Chopin.  

The forgotten tea towel slips from her fingers, puddling in a heap on the bare, scraped wood, as she moves slowly to place a hand on his shoulder.

‘I hope for your sake, that you can find a family here, Albert. That we can be your family.’

Her whisky coloured eyes are soft in a pale face framed by a curtain of dark, chaotic curls, the hand that rests on his shoulder, gentle in its’ touch.

‘Danke,’ he had whispered, choked up emotion making him slip back into his childhood Deutsche, not sure how to truly convey to her how much he means it and reaches out a hand for his tea.

The creak of the door opening brings him back to the present with a start and he jumps to attention, mortified at being found at ease.

The man who stands in the doorway is impossibly tall and thin in a body that still looks ill at ease at wearing civilian’s clothes.

Clear blue, slanted eyes narrow for a moment as they fall on Albert, before a smile begins to creep into the corner of his lips and he nods, pushing the door wide to give him entrance.

‘Come in, a chariad,’ he murmurs, his voice soft and lilting over the strange syllables that sound like poetry to Albert’s ears.

The study is small and densely furnished with a fireplace taking up most of the north wall. A writing desk sits to one side of a large, slashed window, looking out over a large expanse of gravel terrace and a sloping, border that leads down to a sliver of dark water off in the distance.

A row of leather bound books lines the windowsill, their titles picked out in faded gold leaf.

On the desk in the corner of the room, Albert makes out a stack of papers, a lopsided clay pot containing a single fountain pen and a dark, Cherrywood frame with a photograph of a couple framed by a church archway that is festooned in honeysuckle, holding a peacefully sleeping baby swaddled in a lace embroidered christening gown.

‘Is… Is that…?’

His voice sounds intrusively loud in this quietly sacred space, turning wide eyes to his host.

‘Aye,’ Jamie Fraser nods, crossing the room in two strides from the fireplace.

‘That was Faith’s christening. Good as gold, she was, despite the eleven hour journey up from Sandhurst. I’d begged my CO to let me have the time on leave and by the grace of God, he consented. ‘Twas a beautiful day as well, as I recall.’

Jamie’s voice is soft, his eyes gleaming at the memory. Looking up at him, Albert can just make out a flicker of the young man who had guided his young wife and their precious cargo from the church, both beaming at the promise of their new life together as a family gleaming out from this proud, battered warrior standing before him.

‘A drink perhaps?’

Albert nods mutely, watching him cross to the drink’s cabinet and pull of two cut glasses and a decanter full of swirling amber liquid that tinkles as Jamie pours two small measures and hands Albert his.

‘Have a seat, lad,’ he says at last, swallowing visibly as he offers Albert one of the low slung back green velvet armchair, settling his long limbs into the other, raising his glass.

‘Slainte mhath!’

The words ring deep and old and true; sparking distant, hazy memories of his father toasting his mother thus, thought long forgotten, into Albert’s memory as their glasses chink together.

He sees his host’s smile widen as he watches him take a sip of whisky; the fiery liquid burning an oddly comforting warmth into the back of his throat.

‘I’d forgotten,’ he murmurs slowly, taking another sip.

‘What?’

‘Everything,’ Albert shakes his head at the notion, it is a foolish thought, but one he cannot rid himself of.

‘My Father was a Scot, by birth,’ he pauses there, twisting the glass over and over between his fingers, eyes flicking up to search his host’s face. The broad chiselled features remain impassive, only a flicker of something that he cannot read sparking behind the wide, slanted eyes, the third and fourth fingers of his right-hand twitching slightly against the dark green material of the chair’s arm.

‘He emigrated to Germany when he was twenty-five to look for a girl whom he’d fallen in love with, whom he’d met in Glasgow. She’d left her job as a secretary in Glasgow to care for her ageing parents back in Germany. He found her, after months of searching and asked her to marry him, if she wished it. Captain… Jamie… Faith’s told me a little of what you endured at the hands of the men that call my country their home and please believe me when I say that I am not one of them. What they did…’

The breath of a shadow flickers over the older man’s face, his right- hand tightening against the arm of his chair, the stiff fingers juddering against the worn fabric, but Albert doesn’t see it.

‘I won’t say that I’ve endured half of what you have seen, but I have marched. I have watched men who could have been saved so many times over had I been granted medical supplies, die in needless darkness. I have wept and prayed and loved and endured because the love for your daughter was the one thing that kept me alive.’

He pauses for breath, wincing as the wound in his side seizes against the bandages.

Jamie nods silently, fingers now steepled over the rim of his half -drunk glass, the blue eyes shadowed with something that Albert cannot name.

It is a shadowed something that flares at the base of his own soul, something that later will he think of as recognition, as release.

‘Faith told me ye are an army doctor,’ he says at last; ghosts that could not be named crowding at the corners of his vision for just an instant, ‘that ye served with her at Broch Mordha during the war. That you left…’

‘I left Scotland to serve in my home country, just as the war was ending,’ Albert interjects quickly, sitting as straight as his injury can allow, wincing as the broken skin tightens against the bandages.

‘Sir, please believe me that I never intended to do your daughter harm. I left because I feared that people would talk. But you must believe that her diligence, her need to work and heal and care, to heal even when she could not, has brought me through more than I care to recall. She’s a fine healer, sir. You should be proud of her.’

‘Aye,’ Jamie murmurs quietly, the word almost lost in the depths of his glass. When he looks up again, his eyes are very wide and bright, staring into the heart of Albert’s soul. ‘I am that. Thank ye for your honesty, Albert. They mean a great deal tae me and, I think, tae Faith.’

Albert nods slowly, his throat aching, suddenly exhausted and strangely elated by it all.

They finish their drams as the blazing death of the setting sun burns low over the lawn. Just as the warmth of the study is about to lull him to sleep, Albert hears the creak of the door opening and feels the warm weight of a hand slipping into his.

‘I thought that you’d be down here,’ Faith’s voice is soft, her head nestled against his knee, gaze flickering from him to her father, dozing in his chair; the dying sun burning in her curls.  

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, meine Geliebte,’ he murmurs back, twisting a stray strand of hair lazily around his fingers, relishing in the weight of her; real and warm and whole as she leans against him.

‘Never better.’ 

German and Gaelic translations:

Tha sin gu leòr, cù. Tha sin gu leòr = That's enough dog. That's enough

mein Herz = my heart

‘Bi sàmhach = be quiet

[ao3feed-klance]

Letters to an Overseas Lover

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/2wxNTBA

by Madmyers13

March 2, 1941; A sergeant from the military came bargaining into his home saying that the following people needed to be at the Garrison Shuttle at 0900 hours the next morning for their new military positions in a secret base in Germany : Marco McClain - Coordinator /\ Rachel McClain - Nurse /\ Lance McClain - Soldier

Words: 236, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: M/M

Characters: Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron), Pidge | Katie Holt, Pidge | Katie Holt's Family, Hunk (Voltron), Krolia (Voltron), Lance's Family (Voltron), Lance's Siblings (Voltron), Veronica (Voltron), Marco (Voltron), Rachel (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron), Adam (Voltron), Lotor (Voltron), Lotor's Generals (Voltron), Acxa (Voltron), Zethrid (Voltron), Ezor (Voltron), Romelle (Voltron), Allura (Voltron), Coran (Voltron), Iverson (Voltron), Galaxy Garrison Staff, Galaxy Garrison Cadets, James Griffin (Voltron), Kinkade (Voltron), Rizavi (Voltron), Leifsdottir (Voltron)

Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)

Additional Tags: War, World War II, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Homesick Lance (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Japanese Shiro (Voltron), Korean Keith (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, Original Character(s), McClain siblings, Going to War, Is No Fun, A lot of writing back and forth, Cute, Sad, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, maybe?? - Freeform, Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Fanonical Character Death, 1940's au, WW2 AU, klance, WW2Klance, Racism, Classism, segrigation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/2wxNTBA

[ao3feed-safeklance]

Letters to an Overseas Lover

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2wxNTBA

by Madmyers13

March 2, 1941; A sergeant from the military came bargaining into his home saying that the following people needed to be at the Garrison Shuttle at 0900 hours the next morning for their new military positions in a secret base in Germany : Marco McClain - Coordinator /\ Rachel McClain - Nurse /\ Lance McClain - Soldier

Words: 236, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: M/M

Characters: Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron), Pidge | Katie Holt, Pidge | Katie Holt's Family, Hunk (Voltron), Krolia (Voltron), Lance's Family (Voltron), Lance's Siblings (Voltron), Veronica (Voltron), Marco (Voltron), Rachel (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron), Adam (Voltron), Lotor (Voltron), Lotor's Generals (Voltron), Acxa (Voltron), Zethrid (Voltron), Ezor (Voltron), Romelle (Voltron), Allura (Voltron), Coran (Voltron), Iverson (Voltron), Galaxy Garrison Staff, Galaxy Garrison Cadets, James Griffin (Voltron), Kinkade (Voltron), Rizavi (Voltron), Leifsdottir (Voltron)

Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)

Additional Tags: War, World War II, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Homesick Lance (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Japanese Shiro (Voltron), Korean Keith (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, Original Character(s), McClain siblings, Going to War, Is No Fun, A lot of writing back and forth, Cute, Sad, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, maybe?? - Freeform, Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Fanonical Character Death, 1940's au, WW2 AU, klance, WW2Klance, Racism, Classism, segrigation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2wxNTBA

[phoenixflames12]

First Meeting

Gotham’s Writing Workshop Week 3

Set in my WW2 Alternate Universe that revolves around An Endless Night.

Claire, a first-year nurse at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, meets James Fraser, a cadet in his second term, for the first time 

January 1927

 ATR Winchester

 ‘Nurse Beauchamp!’

 The call comes when she’s just sitting down in the VAD’s common room with a much- needed mug of cocoa at what should have been the end of a ten-hour shift.

 ‘Best go, Claire. You don’t want to keep the top brass waiting’, Jenny Paynton, a sweet girl from Jersey who’d come up on the train with Claire on their first day of training, nods to the common room door, where the rumble of agitated voices was just audible.

 Claire grimaces at the thought but has to admit to herself that the knot in her stomach isn’t due to the thought of being reprimanded by the MO, but for the cadets, most of them who were returning from their Christmas leave, driving far too fast on the winding country lanes that led up to the training camp.

 ‘Yes, Sir?’ The brisk walk from the common room, heart hammering, trying not to think of the worst, had taken an eternity.

 ‘There’s a new case just came in. A second-term cadet came off his motorbike early this morning. Went too fast round Hare Park corner and skidded on the ice; the foolish bugger. A passer-by picked him up and brought him in. I need you to go and help.’

 The monologue is swiftly dispassionate and Claire finds that she can do nothing but nod as she is sent on her way, her mouth feeling as if she’s swallowed a wad of sandpaper.

There is no point in asking questions.

 Not now.

 Time passes by in a blur.

 He’s tall and thin, with a shocking mane of auburn curls plastered to his forehead by a sheen of sweat.

 He watches her warily as she approaches the bed, armed with her forceps and a kidney bowl. His eyes are very deep and very blue, slanted cat-like against the lines of muck and grime that coat his face.

 His lips are white, his left hand gripping the side of the bed with a strength that pulses through his knuckles like iron.

 The Sister that greets her is splintering the third and fourth fingers of his right hand, carefully wrapping the broken digits with a guaze that stings of disinfectant.

 Glancing at his chart as she sets down the bowl and forceps, she realises that he’s only twenty-three, a second-term, officer cadet originally from up in the far-north of Scotland, a place that she’s never heard of.

 So young!

 ‘Lallybroch’, the name slips around her tongue as she tries it.

 ‘Aye, Nurse,’ he murmurs, stirring; the words soft in a hiss of pain, his gaze distant, as if he is not looking at her at all, but rather gazing upon that unknown place in the far -off Highlands.

 ‘’Tis… ‘tis a beautiful place…’

 Sensing his distraction, Claire begins to work. The asphalt is sharp and jagged, irregular shapes that slip through the forceps’ jaws until she has a firm grip on the protruding ends.

 ‘I’ll leave you to it Nurse,’ the sister murmurs, setting down the injured hand, her gaze suddenly gimlet like as she eyes the patient, lips pursed.

 ‘And don’t even think about moving that hand. Nurse Beauchamp will tell me if you do. It needs to heal.’

 Claire nods for both of them but doesn’t miss the conspiratorial wink that he gives her as soon as the Sister’s back is turned.

 ‘We’ll have these out in a jiff, cadet. How did it happen?’

 Her hands are trembling slightly as she grips the largest of the asphalt pieces with the forceps. It is large and triangular and she has to pause for a second to compose herself before pulling it clear.

 ‘Dhia!’

 The escaped word ricochets around the space, repeating itself several times against the echoing walls.

 She holds her breath, the forceps trembling around the bloody metal fragment.

 One.

 Two.

 Three.

 No one comes.

 She breathes again, slowly placing the forceps down against the kidney bowl, waiting for the blood roaring through her ears to slow and moves to the head of the bed, one hand resting on the brass knocker.

 There is a small stool and a bowl of lukewarm water and a flannel that is beginning to ooze tendrils of dark, muck stained blood.

 He blinks at her footsteps, eyes dark with pain, the lines of his face still clinging to the soft lines of boyhood.

 She knows that she ought to change the water, but her heart twists at the sight of those agonised eyes and she finds that she can’t leave him.

 Instead, she slowly reaches out to take his good hand, the fingers large and firm under hers, his pulse beating strongly beneath her own, her heart suddenly moved to tenderness for this young man so very far away from home.

 ‘What’s your name, cadet?’

 He pauses, and she squeezes his hand in a gesture that she hopes speaks of reassurance.

 ‘Jamie,’ he swallows thickly before continuing, grimacing as a ripple of pain courses through his maimed hand.

 ‘James, really. James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser.’

 She cannot help but feel a smile quirk against her lips, but she pitches her voice low, knowing that what she will say next is breaking all of the rules that have been drummed into her about nurses not giving patients their Christian names.

 ‘It’s good to meet you, Jamie. I’m Claire.’

 The smile that he gives her is slow and careful, breaking free across his mouth, igniting a spark in the endless depths of blue that she hadn’t seen earlier.

 If there was a rule that she could break to give him comfort, she is glad that it is that one.

                                                       Fin

[phoenixflames12]

For Unto Us A Child Is Born

January, 1937.

Captain James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser paces the floors of a hospital corridor, waiting for news of his wife and youngest child. 

A/N: This is a companion piece to my longer WW2 AU story ‘An Endless Night’, which can be found here

Jerry Mackenzie’s��characterisation, including his part in the RAF is purely based on his character in Diana Gabaldon’s short story ‘A Leaf on the Wind of All Hallows’ found in Seven Stones to Stand or Fall

January 1937

 He paces the tiles of the hospital corridor, hands clasped firmly behind his back. Tries to still the nervous tremors of the stiff fingers, still painful ten years after the accident that had nearly cost him his right hand.

 His heart is a bodhran, pounding against his chest, making it impossible to breathe as he fixes his gaze on the closed door that the nurse had shown him and then promptly left with a swish of a grey cape and the thud of her sensible, rubber soled shoes.

 He had thanked her with a cursory bow and she had pursed her lips, grey eyes travelling dispassionately down the rumpled tunic of his battledress, the smudges of stubble that caress his chin. He had been at base when the message came, reiterating the importance of gun manoeuvres with the newest batch of raw recruits, some of them barely out of the school cadets.

 The memory of it, a short, crisp telegram written on crumped yellow paper makes the sweat on the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably, soaking the collar of his tunic.

 ‘Telegram for ye, Captain’, Lieutenant Jerry Mackenzie, newly transferred from the Army to the RAF, but who was still at barracks packing up the last of his things and signing off his paperwork had saluted him smartly just outside the mess room, the slanted brown eyes that betrayed their distant kinship dark with worry.

 And he had nodded and thanked Mackenzie with as much cordiality as he could muster, taking the crisp yellow envelope between suddenly nerveless, trembling fingers.

 ‘Jamie.  STOP.’ It read and his breathing had hitched in his chest, the fearful ache in his stiff fingers matching the one that has gripped his heart.

 ‘Claire in hospital in Inverness. STOP.  Faith and Brianna well. STOP. Will you come? STOP. Jenny. STOP

 Jenny. He had exhaled a ragged, sobbing breath at the sight of his daughters’ names, at the sight of his sister’s name and thanks whatever God is out there for having her and Ian close by to keep an eye on the girls.

 The rushed rumble in an army wagon down to the station, the two hour train to Inverness, the cab to the hospital, had all seemed to be a blur of noise and colour, his thoughts distorting and wandering into a terrible cloud of chaos.

 ‘Lord that she may be safe’, he whispers to himself for the utmost time, the prayer burning across his tongue.

 ‘She and the child.’

  It had reverberated through the chugging echoes of the train, the whip of the rain on his face as he dashed through the station, hat flying, not caring, voice hoarse as he shouted for a cab.

 And now standing here, in this echoing corridor, he crosses himself, stiff fingers reaching brushing past the hastily done knot of his tie, against the linen of his shirt and grips the beads of the rosary, the oak beads warm and firm against the blush of his skin.

 He traces the beads without thinking, bowing his head to say the prayers that have been a comfort to him since childhood.

 ‘Captain Fraser?’

 It is only when he hears his name being called a second time, the voice sounding kindly with a hint of a Northern Irish accent, does he look up.

 Soft, concerned hazel eyes are watching him from the spillage of light coursing through the open door to Claire’s room.

 ‘Yes?’

 The word feels rough and ragged, as if he has not spoken for months, not hours, his hands firmly returned behind his back.

 ‘Your wife, Captain. She’s…’ The girl, who can’t be much older than Flight Lieutenant Mackenzie, stops and gives him a tremulous smile, dimples catching at her cheeks, hazel eyes gleaming below her starched white cap.

 ‘You have a son, Captain. He’s healthy and bonny and got a rare set of lungs on him…’

 He doesn’t need to hear the rest.

 All the breath seems to be leaving his body as he moves towards the door that she is pushing open for him.

 His wife, his Claire, his Sorcha, is sitting up in bed, cradling a slowly quietening bundle to her chest, murmuring soft, sweet nothings that make his heart break with love.

 ‘It’s all right little one. Mummy’s here, a chuisle. Oh, darling, I love you. How I love you.’

 The light from the window cascades onto her loose hair, setting it aflame with brightness and he swallows audibly.

 Beside him, the nurse tentatively reaches for his hand, squeezing it lightly in reassurance.

 ‘It’s all right. Go on Captain, go and meet your son.’

 Son.

 The word barely registers with him at first.

 Barely registers as he gazes at his wife, her amber eyes shining with joyful tears, her cheeks flushed with exertion.

 ‘Jamie’, Claire murmurs wistfully from the bed, reaching out a hand to him. ‘Come here, love. Come and meet our son.’

 ‘Son’, he hears himself whisper tremulously and she nods, gazing down at the now quieter bundle in her arms. The light catches on the ring, his ring with its silver, interlace pattern that he remembers placing on her finger in the April sunlight of their wedding day. Remembers the way that she had beamed up at him from the back of the church, resplendent in his mother’s wedding dress that Jenny had dug out for her when she realised that Claire had no mother of her own.

 Gently, he takes the hand, bending low to kiss the ring, revelling in the warmth of the skin beneath his lips.

 ‘He’s got your eyes, see?’ Claire’s voice is quivering with emotion as she gazes up at him, amber eyes brimming with tears.

 Our son.

 And he can see, just.

 The faint slant that catches at his own eyes is repeated here, the same tiny wings on his earlobe, a small freckled birthmark, so beautifully patterned against his son’s soft, new skin.

 ‘A boy, mo nighean don,’ his whisper is awed and he is unsure whether his voice is truly his own.

 She nods, hiccupping a giggle, squeezing their clasped hands.

 Their child, their youngest, their son rests peacefully between them for a moment, the silence broken when Claire murmurs, ‘would you like to hold him?’

 Hold him.

 Hold their son, the boy that they never thought would come, would never grace their existence.

 He nods, fighting back the lump in his throat as he reaches for the delicate bundle of white cloth.

 ‘Braw lad’, he smiles, reaching to trace the line of his son’s jaw and the baby shifts in sleep, his heart melting all over again. It had felt the same with Faith, the same with Brianna, but somehow, this child, this miracle child, born after years of heartachingly slow waiting, is different. Fine wisps of copper coloured hair litter his son’s scalp, finer than butterfly wings and so soft that it makes him afraid to touch them.

 ‘Mo mac’, the words come to his tongue slowly, reverently, and Claire beams up at him.

 ‘Mo bhalaiach,’ the word filled with the weight of his son cradled in his arms.

 ‘I’ve been thinking of what to name him,’ Claire murmurs a moment later, shifting along the cramped hospital bed to allow him to sit, one arm tucked around his waist, her head rested on his shoulder.

‘Have ye, then?’ He cannot help but smile.

 He feels as if he will never stop smiling, that not even the growing unrest in Europe and the rumbles of war, will wipe away the joy that has ignited in his heart. His wife, his beautiful, fierce wife, his daughters and now his son are here; here and happy and safe.

‘William? After…’

 She trails off, hazel eyes wide in question.

 William.

 William after his brother who had succumbed to smallpox at the age of eleven. William, Willie whom he had worshiped with his entire being.

 Aye.

 That was it.

 ‘Aye’, he says quietly, not quite managing to choke back the lump in his throat.

 Gazing down at the bundle, an angel in white, he considers the lad. If he was to have his hair and the Mackenzie slant to his eyes, he hoped that they would take after Claire’s.

 That he would be able to look into the deep amber coloured eyes flecked with honey lights that now gaze up at him.

 ‘William,’ he whispers, holding her gaze and nodding.

 ‘Aye, mo ghraidh. William Alexander Beauchamp Fraser. That’s the one.’

 They sit together for a long time afterwards, cradling the baby between them until the light began to fade and the time has come for Jamie to return to barracks, listening to the lightening patter of the rain on the window as it cleared into a cool, January evening.

 He leaves with a soft kiss to the top of Willie’s head, pressing his lips again to Claire’s knuckles.

 ‘‘Tha gaol agam ort, William. Mo mac. Mo bhalaiach. Tha goal agam ort.’

                                                   Fin

Heavily inspired by x

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