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sergeant-spoons · 2 years ago

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Secret Santa ‘22 (Pt 2)

@rebeccapearson ~ Secret Santa Pt 2: electric boogaloo. I swear, these just keep getting away from me and getting longer! Your third fic will be published tomorrow (and it’s twice as long as today’s). I hope you like this one! 💕

Your Typical Annual Nixon Christmas Party

Pairing: Lewis Nixon x Female OC

Word count: 5629

Tone: Friends to lovers, mutual pining, only one bed, ballroom dancing, all my homies hate Stanhope Nixon, angst with a happy ending

Warnings: A bit risqué at some parts, nonsexual & nongraphic nudity (taking a shower), brief mentions of body shaming and childhood trauma (I repeat: all my homies hate Stanhope Nixon)

Prompt: “If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?”

Summary: He needs a date to the annual family Christmas party to stick it to his father, and she’s more than happy to go along with the ploy—until she realizes just how bad his father really is. OR The one where Lewis Nixon loves her too much to ever let her go.

Read it here on AO3!

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"My father is hosting the annual Nixon Christmas party and I need a girlfriend ASAP."

Marisa blinks at Lewis. When he told her he had a favor to ask of her, something of this caliber did not cross her mind. They've been friends for so long that she can usually read him like a book.

Usually.

"Uh... why?"

"Because he'll be twice as unbearable if I go alone."

"Ah." Marisa feels a wave of sympathy. "So... you want me to be your-"

At the same time as Marisa says, "-fake girlfriend to get your father off your back?", Lewis agrees, "fake girlfriend to get my father off my back. Yes. Exactly."

"Why do you of all people need a fake girlfriend?"

He starts to answer, then hesitates.

"I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or an insult."

"I mean I'm surprised you can't find a real date." Marisa reaches over and dusts a piece of lint off his shoulder, adding, "Charmer that you are."

"I'm flattered," he chuckles, "but I'm not really... in that scene, right now."

She softens. "Right."

"If I don't go with someone," he admits, fiddling with the hem of his sweater, the one she bought him last Christmas, "he'll set me up with some socialite and I'll be married again by the end of the year. And I..." He glances aside. "I can't do that again. Not to me or to her, whoever she would be."

Marisa nods sympathetically, reaching over to smooth down his sleeve. She gets it. He's been divorced twice. No wonder he's not looking for anything right now.

"I understand."

His smile is a little sad.

"I knew you would." A beat. "So?"

They both know she'd go to the ends of the earth for him. It's only a matter of time before she agrees.

"Well," she supposes, having made up her mind, "because you are such a dear friend to me, I'll consider it."

"It's next week," he informs her quickly. "That should give you plenty of time to decide."

"Next week?" She scrunches up her nose as if anything could dissuade her now. "I'm not sure if I can get a dress in time."

"Oh, I took care of that."

Lewis goes over to the Christmas tree in the corner of his apartment and picks up a rather large box adorned with a big green bow. As he brings it over to the sofa, Marisa realizes it is labeled with her name. He comes back to the sofa and deposits it on the table, then slides it her way and gestures for her to take a look.

"Go on. Open it."

Marisa eyes him with playful suspicion; nevertheless, she accepts the box and draws it to her.

"Lewis Nixon, are you trying to bribe me?" she teases as she reaches out and tugs the bow off.

"What can I say?" Lewis shrugs as Marisa lifts the lid to reveal the most beautiful gown she's ever seen. "It reminded me of you."

"Lewis!" she gasps. "It's gorgeous."

"A beautiful dress for a beautiful woman."

She holds the gown to her chest and turns to him with tears of genuine gratitude in her eyes. Lewis shifts uncomfortably and offers her a slightly nervous smile.

"Hey, now, don't look at me like that."

"It's such a lovely gift."

"It's yours," he promises, "whether or not you go with me."

"Oh, Lewis—!"

"Merry Christmas, Risa. But, ah-" He clears his throat. "-you know, you might want somewhere to wear that dress-"

Marisa can't help the soft laugh bubbling up from a chest full of warmth for his kindness.

"Lewis-"

"-and what better place than a party? You'll go with me, of course-"

"Lewis-"

"-and everyone will see just how beautiful you are and be so incredibly jealous of me-"

"Alright, alright," she laughs, gently letting the dress fall back into the box. "You can stop buttering me up now. I'll go."

"You'll go? You'll go!" Lewis wraps his arms around her and plants a wet kiss on her cheek. "See, this is why you're the best."

"Yes, yes, I'll go-" Marisa wriggles out of his arms, laughing. "-but I've got one condition."

"What? Anything!"

"If it gets to be 10 o'clock and they've still got us trapped, we stage an escape."

Lewis sighs fondly, laying his hand over his heart.

"I could never have asked for a more perfect partner in crime."

A week later, they arrive at the house just before midnight, per Lewis' assumption that his father won't be up to 'greet' them. They carry their own luggage, to the tired-looking butler's relief, and follow him upstairs, trying to walk as quietly as they can past Stanhope Nixon's unfriendly quarters. Thankfully, they continue on and cross from the East Wing of the house to the West Wing, which is far more warmly lit and forgiving. They pass a bathroom with the door open and the light from the wired chandelier inside bleeding out into the hall. A woman in a silk dressing gown is sitting on the edge of a lavish bathtub, painting her nails. She waves lazily at Lewis through the open door and eyes Marisa curiously but not unkindly. They both wave back, and as they continue down the hall, Lewis leans toward Marisa's ear and mutters that she just met his sister Blanche.

"She's the good one, right?" Marisa asks, and when Lewis makes a face, she giggles softly. “Other than you.”

“Other than me, yes.”

"So you two get along?"

Lewis smiles, one side of his mouth turned up a little higher than the other.

"We bicker the same as any siblings, but I'll never let anyone say a bad thing about her, and she'll do the same for me." He ducks his head. "Well, anyone except..."

Marisa frowns sympathetically. "Anyone except your father?"

He doesn't respond, just turns his head aside as if he's ashamed of the answer, and Marisa knows she's right. She reaches out and takes his hand, and maybe it's a bold thing to do, but after a moment, he curls his fingers around her and relaxes. She catches him looking at their joined hands with a smile as they come up to the door the butler has indicated and her heart gives an unusual flutter.

What's that all about?

Before she can give it any more than a fleeting consideration, the butler is ushering them inside the bedroom, reaching for the light switch to reveal a handsome spread of maroon and gold. There's a grand old bed with a tall spruce headboard, a sideless bookshelf that Marisa is pretty sure is called an étagère, a Victorian-style chaise lounge, a dozen velvety pillows all across the furniture, and even a miniature Christmas tree draped with tinsel atop the dresser—and that's just at first glance. The butler explains there's a bathroom attached to one end of the room and a walk-in closet to the other, and as Marisa's still reeling, Lewis, who grew up accustomed to this luxury, thanks the man and bids him goodnight. The butler shuts the door behind him and it's only then that Marisa realizes this isn't meant to be just Lewis' space but both of theirs.

"Uh, Lewis?"

He's busy dragging their suitcases over to the dresser as quietly as he can and doesn't hear her, so she repeats his name.

"Lewis."

"Hmm?"

Marisa licks her lips, a nervous habit.

"How in the name of Father Christmas is there, in this enormous house, only one bed left?"

From where he's bent over, laying his suitcase down, Lewis looks up, tossing dark waves out of his eyes.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

Marisa eyes the chaise lounge. It's pretty big, for a truncated couch with an asymmetrical back. The gold gilding is a nice touch. Lewis sees where she's looking and rises as he shakes his head.

"No, Risa. You're not sleeping on that old thing. There's plenty of room on the bed for the both of us."

Marisa knows he's right, but that little heart flutter has put a sort of nervousness into her that she's not used to feeling, and knowing Lewis has got something to do with it makes her a little wary to share a bed with him.

It's only one night, she reminds herself, and it's not like you haven't been friends for ages.

Lewis looks torn between wanting to apologize and wanting to tease, and it's so like him that Marisa relaxes.

If he didn't trust you, he wouldn't have asked you to come.

"Right," she says aloud, "we'll share the bed," and with that, the matter is settled.

The next morning, they wake up to the cold Winter sun, streaming through the window and illuminating the room. Before Marisa even opens her eyes, she knows it's too early, and from Lewis' soft, wordless grumbling, he feels the same. She snuggles further into him, then realizes what she's doing and freezes. His hand, which has been smoothing down her hair, stills after a moment, and she can feel it against his chest when he sucks in a sharp breath.

Maybe it's not too early to get up, after all.

Marisa tumbles out of bed, yawning, and sleepily flees to the shower. Lewis mumbles a good morning as she goes and she just bobs her head, too shy in the moment to reply with something just as mundane. The bathroom is just as ornate as the bedroom. Marisa starts the water running and turns to the sink to brush her teeth. She looks a little ragged, with her hair all mussed up on one side, her eyes drooping with drowsiness, and one side of her chin redder than the other from how she slept with it smushed into the pillow. She can't imagine how she must have looked to Lewis, creeping away into the bathroom like that. She must have seemed to him shamefaced or sheepish—but he knows better than to tolerate the notion. They both know what their lie is and that it is a lie, and that once this is over, they will still be friends and nothing more.

Marisa's heart gives a pang. She does her best to ignore it.

Once the water is hot enough, she steps into the shower and shuts the glass door behind her. Her whole body relaxes under the stream and she gives a long sigh. She takes a moment just to stand there, stretching her neck and arms, relishing in the water cascading down her frame. The Nixons spared no expense in building this mansion, and the water pressure is no exception.

"Risa?" comes a slightly awkward call from outside the door. Marisa almost misses it with the shower pounding past her ears. She leans out of the stream and acknowledges she heard him, wincing at how scratchy her voice feels and how rough it sounds.

"I'm, uh, I'm going downstairs to get some coffee. You want some?"

She does. When he comes back, she's brushing her hair in front of the mirror. She's opened the bathroom door to let the steam out (blowdrying always makes her dizzy, especially in a hot room), and when he pokes his head in, he's got one hand over his eyes.

"Coffee for the lady."

"Why, thank you, sir."

As Risa takes the mug, she notices the stiffness of his shoulders and the slight downturn of his brow. As soon as she's got the coffee, he tries to leave, but she takes his hand and pulls it down from his face so she can kiss his cheek. He still keeps his eyes closed, but he relaxes, and so does she—they're back on the same page.

"Are you decent?"

"Decently dressed? Yes. Decently caffeinated? I will be soon."

She takes a sip as he finally looks at her, and it scares her, just how much she missed those dark, intelligent eyes of his.

"Ooh, yum." She looks down into the coffee, hiding from this perfectly normal interaction. "Is that peppermint?"

Lewis shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

"I thought it'd be festive."

"Well, it's good. Thanks."

There's something tender in his eyes when he replies, "Sure," and Marisa has a strange inkling that it's been there all along.

After he's done with his own coffee, they swap, and he showers while she gets dressed. When he emerges, toweling off his hair, shirtless, she pretends she's not allowed to look at him and silently chastises herself for the heat creeping into her cheeks. As she faces away, putting in little earrings by feel, he tells her she looks nice. She thanks him, but then he hesitates, and when she asks what's the matter, he tells her they're going out for the day and she might want something warmer. He turns his back and she swaps her blouse for a sweater, and this time, she can't look away from his smile.

"Better?" she asks a bit meekly, and his smile grows.

"I like that color on you," he says, "it goes nice with your eyes," and before Marisa has time to even consider what he means, he's slipped back into the bathroom, clothes in hand.

They spend most of the day out in the city, avoiding Lewis' family (especially his father). They walk most of the way, but eventually, their feet grow tired and Lewis hails a taxi to take them to his favorite lunch spot. Blanche meets up with them there and stays with them for the rest of the afternoon. She and Marisa hit it off, so much so that Lewis jokes they should be each other's date instead. Marisa, who has taken to walking on his arm, teases him that he's jealous, and although he rolls his eyes, his cheeks have assumed a hint of pink, and he's quick to move on to the next distraction. Blanche shoots Marisa a wink and Marisa giggles despite herself—maybe there's something in the air today that's making her flutter her lashes just a little more every time Lewis looks her way.

They head back mid-afternoon to get ready for the party. Marisa and Lewis confine themselves to their room and play cards to pass the time, betting on promises that might make the inevitable event more bearable.

"If I win, you have to dance with me tonight."

"If I win, you have to dance with me tonight and let me dip you."

Marisa's winning streak is not to be broken. Lewis groans, tossing down his hand, and she reaches over to pat his knee in mock sympathy.

"It's okay," she says around a mouthful of chocolate, "I'll still let you dip me."

Blanche has warned them not to be late, but even then, they stall until they really can't put it off any longer. He takes his tux into the walk-in closet and shut the door, and just for kicks, she yells after him:

"No peeking!"

She hears a muffled laugh. "I wouldn't dare."

"That's right," she replies, getting a goofy grin on her face, and at the same time as she says "I'd kick your ass," he choruses, "You'd kick my ass."

Marisa prepares to wiggle her way into the gown, but to her surprise, when she steps into it, it slips right up her body like silk. She straightens everything out and feels a hint of pride when she manages to zip up the back all by herself. She hasn't looked properly in the mirror yet, but when she does, tugging at her hair, she just about freezes. Her hands drop down to her sides and she stares at herself for almost too long to be sensible. Lewis starts humming an old song from inside the closet and Marisa remembers she's not alone. Coming back to herself, she gives a slight turn to the left and then the right, just to test the flow of the gown. It twinkles in the light, and she gives a squeak, covering her mouth with her hands. Electrified, she bounces all around, watching the fabric ebb and flow, growing giddier by the minute. It's the most expensive piece of cloth Marisa's ever put on her body, and though a part of her feels like a fish out of water, she can't help but admire herself in the gown. When Lewis reappears, adjusting his tie, neither can he.

"Wow." He dares to whistle, and she blushes. "Risa, you look..."

"Good?" she suggests, shimmying to show him how the gown shimmers, and she thinks his jaw might drop.

"Stunning."

"Oh, you charmer, you," she refutes, feeling warm with affection, and comes over to help Lewis. "Here. Let me."

This has been a ritual of theirs for years, ever since they met at Officer Candidate School way back in '41. Marisa teased Lewis for being incapable of tying his own tie despite his wealthy upbringing, and Lewis shot right back, why don't you do it, then? She did, flawlessly, on the first try, and since that day, they've been inseparable. OCS led to the 101st Airborne and Easy Company, and they rode that train all the way to Europe and back. Somehow, throughout all of that, only rarely did they part. About a year after the war ended, Marisa made a quip at a party that the only reason Lewis still kept her around was to manage his ties for him. To her surprise, he drew her aside, gravely concerned that she truly believed what she'd said—for the first time in years, one of her jokes had gone right over his head.

I was only kidding. I know you love me too much to ever let me go, you big sap.

...

Lewis?

Look, Buck Compton's here. Let's go say hello.

It was a strange moment that Marisa still doesn't understand. Even stranger, they've never spoken of it since.

"Really, Risa," Lewis says, breaking the gentle silence and bringing her back to the moment, "you look exquisite."

Marisa chuckles despite the slight churning in her stomach. "You're not so bad yourself, Lew."

He softens. Though she's not expecting his arm to wrap around her waist, she's not startled by it. She's done with the tie, but she keeps ahold of it as he inches toward her and she reciprocates. She can feel his breath on her lips. He's never looked at her this way before—or maybe she's never noticed. His eyes keep darting between hers as if looking for a sign she doesn't know how to give. They're still drifting closer, and Lewis looks like he wants to do something about it—but then he steps back, smooths down his suit jacket, and offers her his arm.

"Shall we?"

Marisa hopes her sigh comes across as one of teasing chagrin and not of disappointment.

"If we must."

Lewis leads the way through the West Wing. He doesn't say a word and neither does she. They pass by Blanche's door—upon which she has pinned a sprig of mistletoe—and head for the main staircase. It isn't long before they can hear the music wafting up from downstairs. They're almost at the upstairs balcony when Lewis abruptly stops. In the shadows of the hall, he is able to hide his fear. For his sake, Marisa pretends she doesn't see it, but she can't help feeling twice as nervous. The butler from last night is standing at the top of the steps, introducing members of the Nixon family as they appear from their rooms and quarters throughout the house. God bless him, he's pretending he hasn't noticed them yet. Marisa is getting more and more anxious about making their grand entrance, and then Lewis turns to her and says he's got a better idea. She squeezes his arm and steps a little closer to his side, wordlessly communicating her relief, and he turns them back down the hall, explaining as they go. Half-hidden around the corner from his mother's old bedroom, there is a far plainer staircase that will take them around to the dining room, a smaller space adjacent to the ballroom. Someone will find them eventually, but this way, their arrival will be far less dramatic and might go mostly unnoticed.

"Ten o'clock," Marisa says quietly, pointing to the large grandfather clock adjacent to the landing.

"Ten o'clock," Lewis affirms with a nod, and just like that, they enter the lion's den.

Unfortunately, their arrival is one of note, and they are announced almost immediately. Standing awkwardly in the lofty arch between the dining room and the ballroom, they watch as the attention of all is redirected their way. Fury flashes in the icy eyes of a tall, hard-faced man who can be no other than Stanhope Nixon. He marches over and directs them to the center of the ballroom, loudly and sternly announcing that his son, the Nixon heir, must have the first dance with his date. The party began fifteen minutes ago, and dancing is already in full force; still, the host forces everyone to step to the side. Marisa's face feels hot. If this is how Stanhope treats his guests, she can't imagine what Lewis has had to deal with over the last twenty-eight years. All eyes are on them. Lewis looks like he wants to throw something—or throw up. They've been through a war and he's still frightened by his father. Marisa's afraid, too. When he sees her hand trembling on his arm, he takes it, squeezes, and draws her to him in the first position for a waltz.

"Ready?" he mouths as the music starts, and she's not sure how she finds it in herself to nod, but she does, and they begin.

Everyone is watching them. Marisa knows if she looks away from Lewis, she'll lose her footing, so she keeps her gaze trained on his, and that does the trick. For several months now, Lewis has been teaching her assorted ballroom dances. She told him once, several years ago, that she'd like to learn if she ever got the chance. Then the war ended and she became his neighbor in New Brunswick, and he, who seems to remember everything she's ever told him, offered to teach her. Tonight, his hand on the small of her back is soothing, and she admires him openly. His hair is neatly combed and coiffed. She wants to run her hands through it, knowing it will soothe him, but she can't. He's holding a great deal of tension in his handsome jaw, but she can see it slacken as they go through the motions without faltering. They make it through the dance, and as their undesirable audience politely applauds, they bow and wish to disappear.

The first hour isn't too awful, after that. Lewis walks Marisa around, introducing her to various family and family friends, some of which are actually quite agreeable. A very old woman with one pair of spectacles on her nose and another perched atop her feathery hair tells them point-blank that it's all her husband's fault for her son's wretched behavior. Lewis chuckles awkwardly and tries to placate her, but as soon as Marisa realizes the woman is Stanhope's mother, she interrupts Lewis and thanks the old matriarch for her sympathy. She brightens up (as much as she can for how slowly she moves) and pulls Marisa over to an excessively long sofa to tell her an equally lengthy story. In the half-hour that Marisa sits with Lewis' grandmother, no one bothers them except for one servant who's obligated to offer them hors d'oeuvres. Marisa is so grateful for the company that she almost blesses the old woman aloud. Then Lewis reappears and tells her they're wanted in the parlor, and her little bubble bursts. Once they have both bestowed his grandmother with a kiss on the cheek, he leads her away, whispering an apology in advance.

"What for?" she whispers back, but then they turn into the parlor, and Marisa understands.

Stanhope, Blanche, and Lewis' mother Doris are all gathered by the fireplace, talking stiffly and eyeing the doorway. Marisa only has time to recall that Stanhope and Doris are divorced before Stanhope spots them and drags them over, commanding that they join the conversation. The next twenty minutes are painful, to say the least, and Marisa does her best to maintain composure while answering every question under the sun as to her personal and professional life. Doris, with her upturned nose and wounded eyes, is clearly displeased to learn her son's date is a woman of literature. When Blanche starts to congratulate Marisa on her recent book deal, Doris interrupts and asks about Marisa's social life and what circles she runs in. Lewis is starting to look like he wants to jump out the window. At one point, Marisa mentions that she served in the Airborne too, and while Doris and Stanhope are practically appalled, she finds some relief in the gleam of admiration in Blanche's eye.

When she's finally unable to stomach Marisa any longer, Doris hauls Blanche off to meet a potential suitor. Marisa is confused why Blanche is looking at her pityingly until Stanhope tells Lewis to fetch him a glass of whiskey and she realizes she is the one in the mire. Lewis tries to take Marisa with him, but Stanhope won't permit it, and he leaves with a muttered promise to be back as soon as he can. Stanhope is neutral enough for a moment or two as they exchange a few words on the evening's décor, but then he eyes her up and down and she feels a shiver of disgust run up her spine. He's off like a shot, then, going on about how her dress doesn't fit her figure right, how unwomanly she is for still being unmarried at twenty-five (how he knew her age, Marisa doesn't know, but it makes her stomach churn to think), and how she ought to find someone more handsome than his son or else the babies will turn out hideous. She's half a second away from slapping him when Lewis returns and exchanges the whiskey glass for Marisa. Stanhope, peeved, saunters off to find ice (which Lewis purposefully left out of the drink), and Marisa falls into Lewis' arms, on the brink of tears.

"Wicked old bastard," she mumbles into his shoulder, and he hisses a breath through his teeth.

"Shit. You okay?"

"Ugh," she groans, huddling closer to him, her lifeline. "What a creep."

She has the feeling he'd hold her for as long as she needed, but people are starting to stare, and she knows she should step back. So she does, and when he asks her again if she's alright, she almost laughs, broken-hearted.

"I'll be fine."

His worried frown persists; she knows he can see right through her.

"Risa-"

"Not here." She shakes her head, touching her hand to her forehead. "How much longer do we have to stay?"

He considers for only a moment before he takes her hand and starts to lead her out of the parlor and back into the ballroom. Stanhope is at the bar against the far wall, drinking his whiskey. Doris and Blanche are a few yards away from him, talking to a suave-looking fellow that Blanche is trying desperately not to roll her eyes at.

"Lewis?"

"Not much longer, if you go along with this."

"With what?"

He wraps his arm around her waist, draws her to him, and asks in that low voice of his, scanning her face with a serious sort of hope, “If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people—really kiss me—will you do it?”

She grabs his tie and falls back against the wall, smashing her lips into his. He lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering closed. Marisa feels hot all over as he runs his hands up and down her sides. When he pokes his tongue against her bottom lip, asking permission, she lets him in with a hum of desire. As his lips fall from hers and latch onto her neck, somebody whistles, and then Stanhope bellows. As light-headed as Marisa is, she knows in an instant that this is their cue to run. She grabs Lewis' hand and they take off, darting into the dining room and then up the side stairs. The grandfather clock chimes right as they turn the corner and Lewis, spooked, takes a tumble. Marisa helps him to his feet, and they take off again, still hand in hand, laughing to know it is ten o'clock on the dot.

"Where to?" Marisa asks, trusting him to lead the way.

"Not our room," Lewis replies, turning down a narrow hallway Marisa hadn't noticed before. "We've got to hide for a bit."

Footsteps come running up behind them, fast enough to catch them, and as they whirl around, Lewis jumps in front of Marisa—but it is only Blanche. She skids to a stop and almost falls forward as she bends over her knees, wheezing.

"Father sent me after you," she half-laughs, half-gasps. "That was quite the show you put on. I thought Mother was going to faint."

"You won't actually...?"

"Oh, God, no," she says in earnest, lifting her head to look at her brother and his date. "I just came to say my thanks. I would never have escaped if it weren't for you."

To both Blanche and Lewis' surprise, Marisa goes and hugs her.

"You'll get out of here someday, Blanche," she says softly. "You're so much more than these people."

"Well, shit," Blanche replies as they part, sounding a little choked up. "Don't make me cry. My makeup's going to run."

"Sorry," Marisa chuckles, and Blanche squeezes her hand, stepping back.

"I've held you up too long," she says. "Go hide yourselves in Grandmama's old room. She hasn't been able to make it up the stairs for a decade but they still haven't redone it."

"On our way," Lewis agrees, sharing a nod with his sister. "Happy holidays, Blanche."

"The same to you, Lewis."

The door they seek is in the corner of the West Wing, tucked away between a laundry room and the back of the house. Inside, the room is just as hot and stuffy as the rest of the house but not nearly as dusty as Marisa expects. When she finds the light switch and flicks it, she sees it's actually pretty nice. The furniture is more modest in here, something closer to what Lewis has in his apartment back in New Brunswick. For a moment, she wishes they were there, slow dancing to the Christmas music on the radio, him in his tux and her in her gown. She watches him as he crosses to the window and throws it open, and though it's freezing outside, the cold breeze is a welcome change to the stifling hot house. Marisa goes over to feel it and Lewis steps aside, allowing her the window space. She leans back on it, her elbows propped up on the sill and her low-cut dress exposing her back to the elements. Her chest feels sore from the cold and the running, but she feels doubly alive from that surreal, searing kiss.

"Did you ask me to do that just to piss them off?" she asks, still trying to catch her breath. "I wouldn't blame you if you did."

Terrified of his rejection, she starts laughing, but as soon as she does, Lewis takes her face in his hands and kisses her, hard.

"I love you," he whispers when they part, tenderly smoothing his thumb over her cheek. "I've loved you since that first time you fixed my tie and called me a lazy rich boy for not knowing how to do it myself."

Marisa's eyes are wet, and she blinks desperately, allowing the tears to fall so she can see Lewis clearly again.

"All the way back at OCS?" she asks hoarsely, and he leans closer, taking a deep, shaky breath.

"All the way back at OCS."

She can feel his lips brushing hers, and she wants to kiss him, but there's something more that needs to be said, so she lets him say it.

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this mess," he whispers, his gaze dropping to her lips. "It wasn't fair of me to-"

She silences him with a kiss, trembling when he sighs into her mouth, eagerly giving up his apology.

"If you hadn't," she says, reluctantly parting from his lips, "you wouldn't have asked me to kiss you. And I wouldn't have had the courage to tell you..."

She walks her fingers up his chest to his chin and pulls him in for a slow, deep, breathtaking kiss.

"That you love me, too?" he guesses when they separate for want of air, his eyes sparkling with hope and longing and joy and a million other things that make her heart go wild in her chest.

"That I love you, too," she affirms, and he smiles, leaning his forehead against hers.

"So you liked that kiss, huh?"

Marisa laughs, swatting at his chest in retribution for ruining the moment, but he just grins and leans in.

"About that kiss..."

He crowds her against the window, careful not to let her lean too far back, and she hums happily, running her hands through his hair like she's wanted to all night.

"Where were we?"

He kisses her neck and she inhales sharply, tilting her head back to see the night sky up and behind her.

"Ah."

He smiles and she can feel it, his lips hot against her cool skin.

"Right here."

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

Taglist: @tvserie-s-world @thoughpoppiesblow @victoryrollsandredlips @now-im-a-belieber @50svibes @mgdln97 @tina1938 @drinkwhiskeyandsmile @ask-you-what-sir @indecisiveimpatience @whovian45810 @brokennerdalert @holdingforgeneralhugs @onlyyouexisthere

#band of brothers #hbowardaily's secret santa '22 #secret santa #lewis nixon #lewis nixon x oc #rebeccapearson #fanfiction #gift fic #band of brothers fanfiction #hbo war show #hbo war show fanfiction #band of brothers one shot #hbo war show one shot

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speirslore · 9 months ago

Text

when you get hurt hcs [officers + roe]

a/n: requested <3 usually in my writing the reader is implied to be a part of easy company in a vague way bc i know ppl have different preferences but some of these include getting shot (not graphic or anything) so ig that implies they're on the front lines

lmk if you would like to be on my taglist! @ronsparky @bcon24 @blueberry-ovaries @1waveshortofashipwreck

[dick winters]

you hit your head prettyyyy hard, and you're out of it, probably definitely concussed

it happens right in front of dick and he tries really hard to keep calm

he wants to be strong and level-headed for you

shows more obvious affection then any of the men have ever seen from him; pets your hair, holds your hand, is always by your side

he immediately gets you a medic and transported to an aid station and doesn’t want to leave you

but when dick's back with easy, he gets uncharacteristically easily angry and frustrated...

he gets quiet and withdrawn and a little snappy with zelensky and nix... and they both immediately know why

whenever he can go see you, he's there.. he even gets behind on all his paperwork (but nix offers to help)

which dick is hesitant to accept for many reasons, he feels guilty, like he's not focusing on his duties but lew is always good at keeping the reports concise lol

very fragile with you, he isn't underestimating you but he just absolutely does not want to push you or hurt you

is a stickler for the rules, follows absolutely everything the doctor says

he has to wake you up every few hours and you keep insisting it’s unnecessary and dick is absolutely not having it

you try to get up and move around and all dick has to hear is the sheets moving and he just gives you that stare, a little bit like a disappointed mom, and you're right back laying down

he’s way more clingy than usual, wants to be by your side, subtly holding your hand

in that moment it definitely hits him how much he loves and cares about you... he hasn't really had time or space to process those feelings until now <3

[lewis nixon]

it does not look good at first

it's really scary for everyone there, you loose a lot of blood and lose consciousness

lew is not there when you're first shot in the leg and everyone is very glad that he didn't have to see it

but when he finds out... oh he is not keeping cool, is not pretending even a little bit to be okay

starts lashing out and snaps at the driver who's taking him to the hospital to drive faster, mad that they didn't tell him sooner, mad that you were injured, mad at the war, furious at absolutely everything

lew has to be monitored by dick not to go full self destruction mode and get incredibly drunk

he hates just sitting with the constant uncomfortable feeling and reminder that you're hurting

he will not leave your side at first when you’re sleeping a lot, on a lot of medicine, and out of it

one nurse does approach him when he's the only vistor in the hospital left, "sir, the visiting hours-"

he just looks up, obviously devastated, voice cracking, "i'm can't leave. you can drag me out but i'm not going, thanks."

they back off after that

does go through a phase where he hates going once you're more conscious because he kills him to see you like that and face this feels irrational guilt he feels for not being there

because he definitely has the tendency to avoid his problems and things that hurt him

but it hurts you too and you don't fully understand

you look up at dick and harry, slightly delirious from the morphine, tearing up, "does he not want to see me anymore?"

after that they do drag lew to see you and you just straight up tell him feeling guilty is pointless and not fair to himself (or you)

and then it's right back to not leaving your side and always trying to make you laugh or smile

[ron speirs]

okay so i love the angel of the company x speirs trope

by now he's the co of easy and your relationship is a widely known secret...

he assigns you and the group of other men to a patrol... it wasn't an overly risky or bad order, a standard order from sink

but you guys make contact and you're shot in the arm

it just absolutely wrecks him

the guys feel like he's just going to go across enemy lines and find the soldier that shot you himself

the rest of the guys are furious too because everyone just absolutely loves you

for a short time, he's mad at the other soldiers on the patrol and you have to reminder him they didn't do anything wrong

but ron is really just irrationally mad at himself for not being there, for not being psychic, he's just angry he somehow didn't stop this

ron is not controlling and not possessive and he knows you can hold your own but he feels responsible for taking care of you and making sure you're safe

even if he can't quite articulate all of those feelings yet

he doesn't understand all the emotions he feels and doesn't even have time to try to understand them

he listens so attentively to the doctors, he can recite everything they've said word for word

like with chuck, he demands the absolute best from the doctors

this incident shows his more compassionate side and the guys start to see how much he really cares about you... bc they're protective of you too!

you have to comfort him and his voice breaks

and he feels weak and he feels bad that you're comforting him and not the other way around

"i'm messing everything up, doing everything wrong," he says more to himself but you frown, eyebrows furrowed and everything

"you're so hard on yourself, ron. when it's not your fault, it was routine, you didn't shoot me. then i'd be really pissed." you smile and he smiles weakly... but he's on edge for a longgg time after this

[carwood lipton]

unfortunately you and lip just cannot catch a break

your leg gets injured while he has pneumonia

it's not a major injury but a bullet ricocheted off of a wall and slightly grazed you and you need a few days of staying off of it

lip really tries to be comforting

and wants to be there for you and he is!

but it's very hard for him, he just wants you to be okay so badly, even when he himself isn't okay

trying to lecture you about staying off of your leg and asking others for help but breaking out into a coughing fit and then you're trying to help him sit up and to go get some hot water for him

and then he's back to telling you to stop and starts hoarsely calling for luz

it's a MESS

but carwood is a natural caretaker and has been one for most of his life

it makes him hover sooo badly especially because since he's sick too he doesn't have a lot of work to keep him busy

but you're not complaining honestly, it's nice to have more private time and something of a break, even if you're both miserable

you get the special privilege of an actual private back bed room with a mattress and blankets

kind of a bonding experience

you just laugh because what the fuck

it's kind of romantic, first time in a longgg time in an actual bed together

you just go back and forth talking about your future and the life you want after the war

"i don't like this wallpaper," you murmur into his chest

he laughs and that turns into coughing again and you're just rubbing his back trying not to bend your leg... domestic bliss <3

[buck compton]

buck... does not take it well

he takes it extremely hard

like his reaction to joe and bill...

you have pneumonia and the peniciln you need isn't available in bastogne

and it's even worse that he finds out you're sick only a few hours after that and that you've been sick and struggling for the past few days

maybe his reaction would've been different earlier on in the war

but now, it just feels like a destructive domino effect that's sparing no one

it's obvious after all of his friends injuries and your pneumonia that he couldn't stay on the front line... his red bleary eyes and slightly trembling hands said enough

when he gets taken off the line, you're both in an aid station together for a few hours before you're both transferred to different hospital

so his presence is silent reassurance

you want so badly to comfort him but you're so sick and he doesn't want you to, he feels so guilty leaving you

but you hoarsely tell him he needs a break and to process what happened

you're feeling slightly better this day so that makes it a little better... but not that much

both of you have been through hell

but there is a light in the tunnel... or at least you feel that way

buck isn't on the front lines anymore and you both have a chance at a life together post-war

he does not want to leave you, it has to take a lot of malarkey's coaxing him and promising to update buck

[eugene roe]

gene can't decide if having medical knowledge makes it better or worse

and if being the medic and being the one to have their hands covered in the your blood, was better than leaving it in the hands of someone else

he decides it's awful... definitely worse

the very few hours he slept, it was just dreaming of your terrified face

and he wakes with a jolt and is completely miserable

and life just goes on...

a lot of pacing and murmuring

gene closes in on himself when he's upset and stressed, so he becomes even quieter than normal

and the other guys are worried like ??? do we need to intervene and lip just stops them, "leave him alone, he'll be okay."

prays for you a lot, gripping his rosary so tightly and the photo that he has of the two of you when you were still in england

when you both felt some semblance of normalcy

he can't abandon the company to stay with you full time at the aid station to his incredible frustration and disappointment

it's just hard for him to go on like everything's fine, it shatters whatever illusion he has of fairness and hope and safety

whenever someone else gets injured or they need supplies, he'll take any excuse to ride back to the aid station to see you

and if anyone else goes, they always see you and give gene an update

winters definitely notices and tries to give him opportunities to see you

likes watching you rest and sleep (because you definitely needed it, even before you got injured) in the sweetest, non-creepy way

gene loves to just sit with you, see you with his own eyes, and know for certain that you're okay

#band of brothers x reader #band of brothers headcanon #band of brothers imagine #dick winters x reader #lewis nixon x reader #carwood lipton x reader #ron speirs x reader #buck compton x reader

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luminouslywriting · 5 months ago

Note

Bob headcannon being closed in a cabinet with them and ur both getting hot

Hello!! So sorry this has taken FOREVER!! I got promoted at work and have been working more haha! Thats the reason for my inactivity and I’m sorry :( but hopefully I’ll be able to get out a few requests this week! Happy 4th of July to everyone who celebrates! Cut for length, paragraph form, spice obviously included:

Dick Winters: Does it come as a surprise to anyone that this man is bashful about the entire thing? Like he’s very acutely aware of his own mortality at the moment but he’s not going to act on anything and put himself in a situation where he’s making decisions for the both of you. Bestie, you’re gonna have to make the first move.

Lewis Nixon: I can’t explain why but it’s giving thirteen year old boy at his first boy-girl party. This man is thrilled about the situation and definitely cracks a few jokes about the situation before making a move. It’s a hurried and in the dark makeout session that ends in rumpled clothing and swollen lips for sure. And he’s smug as a bug when he gets out of there too.

Ronald Speirs: Incredibly pleased about the entire situation anyway and is definitely going to make the most of the moment. He's unabashedly getting real (consensually) handsy in that closet with you. And this may or may not become a regular thing between the two of you.

Buck Compton: Only slightly bashful? He didn't mean to end up in this situation and he only feels slightly bad about getting hot in the circumstances. But if the two of you start making out, this man is NOT complaining and is going to probably assume you two are together after that.

Carwood Lipton: A bashful mess of a man who's just trying to get out of this situation as quickly as possible as he apologizes to you because it's such a small space and surely you're aware of his problem now. After being in said space though....if you kiss him, he's definitely emboldened and ready to be with you haha.

Joe Liebgott: All too pleased to be in the situation to begin with. He's probably getting into some dirty talk and acting as though YOU'RE the one who set the entire thing up. Get a little handsy and he becomes a whimpering mess of swears and heavy breathing though haha.

Donald Malarkey: Unassuming and also kinda bashful? He just doesn't want things to get weird between the two of you but he also can't stop talking and so if you shut him up with a kiss, I guarantee he'll simp for you forever.

Eugene Roe: Mumbling to himself about how this is NOT how he thought today was going to go. Also delightfully embarrassed about the fact that he's getting turned on at a moment like this with you. But also...he just shoots his shot? And if he so happens to show you just how talented he is with his hands, it's a win-win situation haha.

Bill Guarnere: Grumbling about how he's gonna kill whoever locked the two of you in here. But the minute he shuts up and actually pays attention to the non-verbal cues, he's in heaven with the way you two are caressing one another and just having a drop-dead amazing makeout sesh.

Joe Toye: Annoyed af at himself and at the situation. Might be a little rude at first, but only because he's just really trying to keep his thoughts to himself and his desires. Get handsy and let him know it's okay to touch you too—he'll be like a kid in a candy store haha.

George Luz: The two of you are hiding for pulling a prank and naturally, you choose the bahamas of hiding places (iykyk). And what starts as you two trying to be quiet then turns into trying to REALLY keep quiet as the two of you are pleasuring one another and trying not to get caught.

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blurredcolour · 1 year ago

Text

Lavender's Blue, Lavender's Green

[One-shot]

Lewis Nixon x Enlisted!Female Reader

After you wind up injured in a freak accident, your relationship with Captain Nixon is forever altered.

Warnings: MAJOR Canon Divergence, Minor Reader Injury, Detailed Descriptions of Pain, Language, Alcohol Consumption, Weapons, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Oblique References to Nixon's Alcoholism and Infidelity, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [oral sex - m/f receiving, unprotected vaginal sex] - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: Self-indulgent canon divergence with little explanation ahead, read at your own risk. Some liberties were taken in describing reader's family life/personal history for the sake of plot. No physical descriptions or y/n used. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the HBO series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 8358

-------------------------

The floorboards creaked beneath your jump boots as you followed O’Keefe into the backroom of the half-destroyed café in Thalem. You could hear the strains of a string quartet rising from the square below, and the conversation between Luz and Nixon a few rooms over. O’Keefe had shown up as a replacement during Easy’s second stay in Mourmelon-le-Grand, wide-eyed and eager to get his hands dirty. The rest of you had just been glad to make it out of Haguenau alive.

But there was something about the naïve boy that reminded you of your little brother back home, the youngest of four siblings born after you, last to join the party, the most eager to experience life when the rest of you were all jaded by the loss of your mother during his birth. Add in the fact that you too had been a replacement once, joined Easy in Aldbourne for Operation Market Garden – one of twenty-seven women selected as the first female paratroopers to join the 506th – and you had felt a certain protectiveness over the kid. Which was why you found yourself watching over him now, even in this relatively harmless town.

Another groan of wood had your eyes flicking to the floor, something about the pitch of the slats not sitting right with you, but before you could open your mouth to warn him, there was an ominous ‘crack’ beneath O’Keefe. He let out a horrific shriek as the boards beneath him began to give way and you lunged forward, snapping out your left hand to grab onto any part of him you could. Seizing him by the back of the collar of his ODs, you landed flat on your stomach with a grunt with O’Keefe dangling through the newly created hole in the floor. Your helmet tumbled from your head, bouncing off his and crashing onto the tiles below.

Your arm was aching under the strain of his body weight but as you tried to spread some of the load onto your second hand, you realized the butt of your rifle was jammed between the floor and your body, pinning your right arm against you by the strap over your shoulder. The sound of multiple sets of boots running into the room was quickly followed by several pairs of hands pressing against your calves, bracing you to keep you from following O’Keefe through the hole.

“I gotta let you go, Patty.” You grit out. “It’s not far, ok?” You assured him, able to see through the ragged gap in the wood that he was dangling only a few feet from the floor below.

His response was not what you were hoping for. “Don’t let me fall!” He cried out, looking up to you with wide, calf-like eyes. “Please don’t let me go!” He began to clutch at your arm, flailing his legs as though he wanted to climb back up.

His body swung like a pendulum, bouncing and jerking before ultimately wrenching your strained shoulder from its socket and careless words born of pain from your lips.

“Augh! Jesus Christ, you fucking meatball! It’s only two feet! Let go!” You cried out, clenching your eyes shut against the blinding pain, your grip failing as your arm started to go numb.

He continued to whimper nonsensically and thrash about as heavy footfalls sounded on the stairs followed by a set of lighter ones.

“Let go of her you fucking meatball!” You heard Perconte snap at O’Keefe from below and cracked your stinging eyes open to see that Bull had seized the boy around the waist, the thrashing finally stilling before the weight of him was released from your limb as, at last, he let go of your arm.

Relief tingled through you, though did nothing to lessen the raw ache in your shoulder. Afraid to move, afraid to inhale more than tiny sips of air lest you fan the flames of pain, you laid perfectly still with your arm outstretched toward the ground below.

“What a fucking meatball.” You heard Luz giggle from behind you as he stepped forward. “Let’s get you up.” His voice grew closer as he leaned forward.

Mortifying as it was, laying there in denial was not going to make the agony end. Taking a shaky breath, you asked quietly. “George, can you go find Doc, please?” You were hoping not to arouse the suspicions of Webster, Liebgott, and Nixon who were somewhere in the room still. At least one pair of hands was still firmly gripping your calves.

“Uh, the meatball is fine, I mean Bull might tear him a new one but…” He trailed off as you turned your head slowly to look up at him, brow furrowing as lances of pain pierced your neck and shoulder. It felt as though someone were pouring boiling water down the sleeve of your uniform.

“For me, please.” You clarified, perspiration dotting your skin under the strain of masking your discomfort.

The room fell silent, whatever Liebgott and Webster had been bickering about forgotten as Luz shoved his way past them and shot out of the room. You felt the pressure against your calves ease up before Nixon was kneeling on the floor next to you, features etched with concern. “Where are you hurt?”

“Left shoulder.” You exhaled, swallowing at the way his eyes ricocheted over your prone form.

“Think you can get up for me?” He asked, his voice enticingly soft, making your heart skip a few beats as you felt suddenly willing to try anything he might ask of you so long as he kept speaking like that.

“Maybe?”

The smile he awarded you with filled your stomach with bubbling effervescence. “Good, let’s get this out of the way first.” He carefully extracted your M1 from beneath your hip before sliding it off your good shoulder, handing it off to one of the other men in the room.

Sliding his arm around your waist, he started to lift your torso from the floor, punching the air from your lungs painfully. Gnawing on the inside of your cheek viciously you did everything you could not cry out in pain. You were not the first woman in Easy to get hurt – Esther had been hit by shrapnel from a tree in Bastogne and Pearl had been shot during Dike’s disastrous assault on Foy. Both had been awarded a purple heart. You were just a girl who’d tried to hold too much weight – there would be no medal for you, so it would be best not to make a scene.

“Shit you must be in so much pain, I’m sorry.” Nixon grumbled, seemingly at a loss as to how to get your arm out of that hole and you into a more comfortable position.

Roe’s voice downstairs broke through the haze of pain, and you clenched your teeth, willing yourself to hold on a little longer as you heard him hurry up the stairs.

“You two, out.” He said firmly to Liebgott and Webster who left without comment before his hands came to rest on your hips, pulling you backwards. “Bend ya knees for me, that’s it, good job.” He spoke calmly as he worked with Nixon to lift you up into a kneeling position well away from the hole in the floor.

As your left arm drooped, your right hand quickly moved to support it in more or less the position it had been when O’Keefe’s movements had pulled it out of place. A millimetre of movement in any direction had you whimpering pathetically in the back of your throat despite your best efforts to keep the sound sealed behind your lips.

“What’s going on?” Roe asked as he knelt in front of you, taking in the way you were supporting your arm before he started to undo your ODs and then your wool shirt beneath.

“It’s my shoulder, Doc.”

He nodded as he carefully pulled open the collar to take a look, his fingers skimming along the skin of your shoulder and the strap of your undershirt. As they honed in on the hollow where your joint ought to be, you let out a yelp and nearly keeled over backward at the searing pain, grateful as Nixon pressed a hand to your lower back to keep you upright.

“Yeah it is. It’s out of joint.” Roe confirmed the sneaking suspicion you’d had.

There had been something agonizingly familiar about the whole thing, taking you back to a hot summer day when you were ten years old, riding your father’s new horse despite his explicit instructions to wait for him to be done in the field before you tried to mount it. The horse’s black coat had shone almost purple in the sunlight of the afternoon, warm to the touch as the barely broken-in animal had suffered no more than one lap around the paddock before bucking you from its back.

The force with which you had struck the ground had dislocated your left shoulder that day, and the drive into town to see the doctor had been a torturous thirty minutes during which every jolt and bump had sent pain shooting through your body. But as soon as the doctor had put it back in place, the relief had been almost immediate.

“You can put it back, right?” You asked hoping to avoid transport somewhere like this.

“Yeah, I can.” Doc smiled softly and started digging through his satchel. “Let’s get ya some morphine first, alrigh’?”

“Wait, don’t, I’ll be useless.” You said sharply. “It’s just going to hurt when you put it back in, right?”

Roe looked to you with wide eyes, hands stilling before his expression hardened a little. “It’s gonna hurt like hell when I put it back in.” He clarified firmly and you felt Nixon’s hand twitch against your back.

“And then after that I’ll be fine.” You insisted bravely.

Nixon sighed your name, and you turned your head too fast, barely stifling a cry of pain behind trembling lips.

“Maybe you should just let Doc give you the morphine.” He said gently.

“No.” You replied stubbornly despite the fact that he was a ranking officer, turning your face back to Roe more carefully this time. “Just get it over with, please.”

Roe sighed heavily at you, muttering bitterly in French. You caught a word that sounded an awful lot like ‘mule’, but before you could question him about it, he set one hand on your bicep and the other on your forearm. A noise of pain snuck past your lips unbidden, and you clamped your free hand over your mouth as he shot you a knowing look.

“Yer gonna yowl like a goddamn alley cat, take tha morphine.”

You glared up at him stubbornly until he started to move again, bending your arm at the elbow before slowly pushing your bicep in to press along at your ribs. You let out a sob of agony against your palm, aware that the murmur of conversation downstairs had faded away, but helpless to quell your involuntary reactions to Roe’s manipulations of your limb.

You felt Nixon shift at your side, watched his knee slot between yours before he carefully cupped the back of your head to guide your face to press against his neck. Your hand fell to your lap as you burrowed into the collar of his ODs, cheek pressed against his skin, the fabric of his uniform doing a much better job of muffling the sounds of pain spilling from you. His hand sought yours between your bodies, clasping your forearm, and you gripped his tightly in return as Roe turned your left arm out from your body at a ninety-degree angle before pulling downward on your bicep.

A tremendous wail wrenched from your throat with enough force that you anticipated the taste of blood before an audible ‘clunk’ sounded from your left shoulder, resonating through your torso as your joint slid home. The tension melted from your body in an instant as the pain left you, replaced by nothing more than a dull discomfort, slumping against Nixon to take a few deep breaths. Long enough to note the hint of cedar in his aftershave before you remembered yourself.

You had found Captain Nixon handsome from the first moment you’d laid eyes on him, but as he was a married officer with an English mistress you’d also gone above and beyond to steer clear of that mess. Unfortunately, it had done little to dull your body’s natural response to his presence.

Straightening quickly, you frowned to see you’d left wet patches of tear drops on his collar, releasing his hand as though it burned you to try and brush them off.

“It’ll dry just fine.” He assured you warmly and you swallowed thickly, shuffling back a little to turn to Roe.

“Thanks Doc.” You frowned to see him pulling out a sling.

“Jus’ for a few days, can’t have it slippin’ back out.” Roe muttered and unceremoniously wrapped it under your left elbow before tying it behind your neck. “I’ll let Cap’n Speirs know yer on ligh’ duties, he’ll probably send ya up ta Major Winters as a runnah.”

You let out a sigh of relief as hopefully that meant no aid station, no getting separated from the company and lost in some replacement depot. Looking down you frowned at how open the collars of your shirt and OD jacket were and began trying to reassemble yourself one-handed.

“Here.” Nixon offered softly and carefully buttoned you back up to where you usually wore your uniform before he pushed himself to his feet, sliding an arm around your waist and pulling you up as well. “Ok?” He asked and you nodded, trying not to notice the way the warmth of his body seeped through your clothes.

“Thank you, sir.” You said quietly and he nodded warmly in reply.

Grabbing his things, he gestured for you to lead the way out of the room, following close behind. As you reached the main floor, Luz held out your helmet which you took with a nod of thanks, putting it on your head before retrieving your rifle from Liebgott. You could hear Perconte continuing to give O’Keefe shit outside and you frowned deeply, making a beeline for the sound of his voice.

“Hey! I’m fucking fine, knock it off.” You barked tersely before you were beckoned over by Captain Speirs.

The sound of an explosion further up the road had your eyes fluttering open, the ruined village of Thalem dissolving into the sun-drenched back of a transport truck parked on the autobahn in Bavaria just outside the SS resort town of Berchtesgaden that 2nd Battalion was supposed to be taking. You’d been sitting here for at least twenty minutes now, the road blocked by a no-doubt man made rockslide that so far had proven impervious to everything the mortar boys had thrown at it.

Just what had pulled your thoughts back to that afternoon several weeks past you couldn’t say, though it was not the first time you had found your mind wandering there during a lull in activity. In fact, it had become harder and harder to find a time when you were not thinking about Nixon, much to your chagrin. It was not good for your health, even though his impending divorce had become very public knowledge nearly two months ago.

A palpable tension had been born between the two of you that day in Thalem, something you were certain others could sense as you’d spent two weeks at Battalion HQ, running into him more often than ever before. Averted gazes, stiffened postures, cleared throats – neither of you quite knew how to behave around each other anymore when interaction had been so natural and inconsequential before. Something had been changed that day in the café and there was no going back to the way it had been previously.

Shifting higher on the wooden bench you noted a couple of the guys in your platoon were dozing in the truck with you but everyone else seemed to have emptied out to watch impatiently as though the pressure of the entire battalion’s eyes might send the rocks cascading the rest of the way down the mountainside. The scuff of jump boots on pavement pulled your attention to the rear of the vehicle and you smiled to see O’Keefe approaching.

“Hey Patty, got tired of watching the blast boys?” You smirked and offered him a hand to pull him up, swallowing at his hesitation. “Come on, I’m fine I told you.” You chided gently.

He took it carefully and allowed you to help him into the truck and that’s when you noticed his helmet tucked under his arm, filled with wildflowers of all sorts of colours. Your breath hitched in your throat as the sight smacked of summertime at home, a dart of nostalgia and longing piercing through the layers of armor you had carefully layered over your heart to make it through this war.

His eyes followed yours and he beamed as he plonked down on the bench beside you. “There’s tons of ‘em just growing alongside the road. I thought you might like some.”

Looking to him softly you took his proffered helmet, setting it in your lap as you looked them all over, picking up a particularly vibrant purple one. “They’re beautiful, thank you.” You murmured distantly, practically transported by something so simple as wildflowers.

“Do you think that one is lavender?”

A snort from the back of the truck announced Liebgott’s return and you glanced over to see him leaning against the grill of the transport parked behind yours.

“Lavender grows in France, not Bavaria.” Webster corrected O’Keefe, tucking his notebook into his pocket before hopping up to sit on the bench across from the pair of you.

“Isn’t there that song about lavender, though? Lavender’s purple, billy billy?” Perconte squeezed in beside O’Keefe, crowding his personal space.

Ignoring their usual antics, you smiled softly to yourself, hands began to move from muscle memory as plucking the longest stemmed flower you could find before carefully winding the purple flower around it, repeating the process over and over as you started to sing.

“Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green”

“Yeah, that’s it, that’s the song!” O’Keefe declared brightly.

“Shut the fuck up, meatball.” Perconte hissed through gritted teeth, elbowing him sharply so you would keep singing.

“When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so ‘Twas my own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so”

Unaware that your voice was carrying across the rockface of the mountainside, you were lost in the chain of flowers you were weaving from O’Keefe’s helmet, the verses coming back to you easily after years of singing them to your younger siblings.

“Call up your men, dilly dilly, put them to work Some to the plow, dilly dilly, some to the fork Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to cut corn While you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm”

A hush fell over the valley, even the mortar team ceasing their attempts to break through. It was not the first time they’d heard you sing, you knew all the verses to ‘Blood on the Risers’ and happily shouted them along with the rest of the Company, but it was the first time you’d sung in such a feminine way before. You’d found the most expedient way to integrate into Easy was to be one of the boys, yet here you were, reminding each and every one of them that you were a woman.

“Lavender’s green, dilly dilly, lavender’s blue If you love me, dilly dilly, I will love you Let the birds sing, dilly dilly, and the lambs play We shall be safe, dilly dilly, out of harm’s way

I love to dance, dilly dilly, I love to sing When I am queen, dilly dilly, you’ll be my king Who told me so, dilly dilly, who told me so I told myself, dilly dilly, I told me so”

As you finished the song, you curled the chain of blooms into a circle and wove it closed with several stems before turning to place it on O’Keefe’s head, blinking as it slipped down over his eyes. A chorus of harsh laughter at his expense broke out around you and you huffed in annoyance.

“Oh shoot, Patty, I put too many flowers in there, sorry about that. I’ll make you a new one.” You gently pried it off his head, setting the large crown aside before setting to work on a smaller one as the sound of a jeep could be heard coming up the road.

You’d barely put the finishing touches on the smaller crown of flowers when Speirs was ordering everyone to form up into their platoons and O’Keefe had to vanish. Mortifyingly, you found yourself standing on the pavement with both circlets clasped carefully in your hand, somehow loathe to leave them in the transport truck to be trampled but also aware that you couldn’t just carry them with you.

“Captain Nixon can look after those for you, Corporal.” Major Winters voice cut through the din of soldiers tramping back and forth to collect their gear and get ready. You turned to see him grinning at you from where he stood leaning against his jeep.

Nixon, for his part, was staring at you with an unreadable look on his face – Confusion? Bewilderment? Shock? Whatever it was it made you want to duck your head shyly, an impulse which you fought hard against as you hustled over to hold out your handmade treasures.

“Thank you very much, sir.” You murmured quietly, swallowing as he hesitated a moment before taking them gingerly, as if they were made of spun glass, while Major Winters watched on with a broad grin. “Sirs.” You saluted and hurried back to your platoon, not wanting to be the cause of any further delay, but still unable to put your finger on just what Nixon’s expression had been.

As it turned out you had quite a bit of time to puzzle it over. After securing the town without incident and cheering on the select few who made it up to the Eagle’s Nest, you ended up on a patrol under Major Winters where he discovered the ruins of Herman Goering’s hunting lodge. Left on guard duty overnight with Patty, you let him ramble on about all the things he wanted to see and do now that the war in Germany was practically over while you quietly tried to decipher the enigma that was Nixon.

Straightening from your lean against the stucco wall as you heard the sound of an engine approaching down the rather rough road, you swallowed painfully to see the man himself, posture quite relaxed as he cradled an open bottle of champagne.

“What is this place?” He asked as he climbed from the vehicle, dressed only in the wool shirt and pants of his uniform.

“Herman Goering’s house, we discovered it yesterday. Had it on double guard ever since.” Major Winters replied.

You nodded in greeting as they walked past you, though Nixon’s sunglasses made it even more impossible to interpret his mood than that last time you’d seen him.

“I can vouch for that, sir.” O’Keefe interjected quickly and you tried not to wince at his endearing awkwardness.

“Oh, anxious to get off duty, O’Keefe?” Winters taunted him.

“No, there’s just so much to see and do, sir.” The boy replied honestly, and you heard Nixon scoff under his breath as Winters unlocked the door.

“Heya meatball.” Nixon grinned in greeting as he followed Winters through the door and down the stairs and that time you really did wince.

O’Keefe looked at you hopefully and you motioned with your head for him follow them, knowing full well his curiosity must be eating him alive. Listening to the wind rustling in the trees, you sighed quietly, soaking in the peace of the moment before Winters made his way back up the stairs with O’Keefe, the boy yanking you into a hug.

“Victory in Europe! The Germans surrendered!” He crowed and you stared at him, stunned speechless for a moment before you hugged him back.

Major Winters chuckled behind him before nodding to you in confirmation, making you realize the bewildered expression that must have been on your face. You pulled back to slap O’Keefe on the shoulder with a grin.

“Gotta go get the others, there is so much booze down there!” He was vibrating with excitement.

Glancing over your shoulder towards the stairs you raised your eyebrows curiously.

“Go take a look, Corporal.” Winters nodded encouragingly before climbing into his jeep with O’Keefe and pulling out.

Hitching your rifle higher on your shoulder you carefully made your way down the stairs, mind still swirling with the news, fingertips buzzing with an odd energy you weren’t quite certain what to do with. As you stepped through the open gate into the expansive wine cellar, stocked from floor to ceiling, your eyes widened, trying to take it all in.

“What’s your favorite drink?” Nixon’s question interrupted your moment of shock, and you looked over to where he stood amid countless bottles of a richly colored red wine.

“Gin.” You replied walking further into the space, sliding your helmet from your head as he made a thoughtful noise in reply before beginning to hunt through row on row of bottles. You unshouldered your rifle to set the butt on the floor, leaning the barrel against a stack of crates before setting your helmet on top of them.

Gnawing on your lip you turned back to admire the intensity with which Nixon approached his task before a small cry of triumph escaped his lips and he pulled a green bottle from the corner, holding it out to you as he approached like the conquering hero. You could not stop the grin that tugged at your lips as you took it from him, looking over the unfamiliar label.

“Genever, from Holland. The precursor to gin. It should do.” He nodded with a self-satisfied smile.

“Thank you, Captain Nixon.” You replied warmly, doubting you’d need a whole bottle to yourself but still appreciating the gesture as you slid it into the jacket pocket of your ODs.

“Can you do me a favor?” He tilted his head.

“Sir?” You stood a little straighter.

“Call me Lewis.” He requested softly, his rich brown eyes seeking yours in the dim light of the cellar.

Swallowing roughly, your heart began to beat a little faster at the intimacy of his request as your mind flitted back to his earlier arrival.

“Only if you’ll do something in return?” You asked slowly.

“What’s that?” He leaned in, the sweetness of champagne still lingering on his breath.

“Can you stop calling O’Keefe ‘meatball’?” You tensed in anticipation of his reaction, your heart plummeting through the concrete floor when he recoiled as if you’d struck him. Guilt bloomed bitterly in your chest, a new crop to go alongside the one you had planted that day in Thalem. “Every time someone says it, I’m reminded of the worst thing I ever said to him.” You rushed to explain your request, cautiously optimistic as his gaze slowly returned to your face. “It…wasn’t his fault he panicked. I never should have spoken to him that way.”

Nixon’s brows furrowed a moment in consideration of your request. “You really care for the kid, don’t you.” He sounded resigned and you found yourself blinking at him stupidly as he made his way back over to continue perusing the shelves.

Slowly, your brain began to process the slump of his shoulders, the forced nonchalance as he examined various labels and added choice bottles to a wooden crate at his feet.

Could he possibly be… No, that seemed utterly improbable… and yet…

All that aside, it seemed as though it could not hurt to clarify your relationship with O’Keefe. “Reminds me of my kid brother, sir.”

Nixon raised his head slowly, turning back to look at you. “Like a brother…” He said thoughtfully and you bobbed your head in agreement. “Well, I suppose I can stop in that case then.” He smirked and you exhaled with a warm smile.

“Thank you very much, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow and looked down his nose at you expectantly.

“Thank you very much, Lewis.” You amended, pressing your lips together as they hummed in pleasure at forming his name.

Lewis’s lips stretched into a lopsided grin as he eyed you warmly for a few moments before turning back to the task at hand, filling the crate and adding it to a growing stack by the entrance before grabbing another one to repeat the process. Shaking your head, you perched a hip onto one of the tables behind you, eyes scanning the room, reflecting on its previous owner, surprised at the sudden tightness in your throat as you remembered the fresh news of the German surrender. Clearly it was going to take some time to sink in, and frequent reminders, but the tears that were threatening to well in your eyes needed to be quashed until you could find a quiet place to unleash them as silently as possible.

Partly out of a desire to simply say his name again, and largely out of a need to distract yourself from the rising tide of your own emotions, you called out to him softly again. “Hey Lewis?”

“Hmmm?” He replied and you found yourself taking far too much pleasure in how quickly he turned back to you.

“I, uh, I was sorry to hear about your dog.” You said meaningfully, that tightness in your throat returning with a vengeance when an unveiled look of fragility overtook his features.

For the first time in nearly a month you were utterly convinced of how Lewis was feeling and more than anything you thought the man was in dire need of a hug. Before your brain even registered you were moving, your feet propelled you across the floor to wrap around arms around him, pulling him close. Almost immediately his arms slid around you tightly in return, one hand clinging to your shoulder as the other pressed some unknown bottle into your lower back, his face burrowing into your neck.

Tightening your embrace, you held him warmly, almost a mirror image of how he had held you in Thalem. You were completely oblivious to the traitorous tears that had snuck down your cheeks until Lewis was pulling back, setting the bottle of liquor aside to cradle your jaw and swipe at them with his thumbs.

“It’s a hell of a dog, but not worth you crying over.” He teased gently and you rolled your eyes, mostly in frustration at yourself, shaking your head as you sniffed.

“Is this…really all over?” You whispered in disbelief, and he pressed his forehead to yours gently as he nodded.

“We shall be safe, dilly dilly, out of harms way.” He uttered and you let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, burying your face into his shoulder as he pulled you tightly against him.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, unable to stop the flood of tears now that they had snuck past your defences, each shake of your frame somehow causing Lewis to hold you tighter as though he might prevent you from crumbling to pieces. The bottle of genever pressed between your bodies almost painfully, digging into your hip, giving you something tangible to focus on as you reined in your shuddering breaths, lifting your head slowly.

“God, I got your uniform all wet again.” You said, voice thick with the aftereffects of your breakdown and he shook his head as you wiped at his collar with your sleeve.

“It’ll dry just fine.” He repeated his assurance from the café with a smirk, and you gave him a watery laugh, wiping at your face roughly.

“Trooper, is that a bottle of Dutch-gin in your pocket or…” He grinned deviously and your jaw dropped before you smacked his shoulder playfully as a peal of laughter escaped your lips.

You shuffled back to put a proper amount of space between your bodies though you noted his one hand remained splayed upon your back. The one that had previously been at nape of your neck dropped to retrieve the bottle from your pocket. “If anyone is in need of a celebratory drink, it’s definitely you.” He murmured gently.

He tilted it towards you, and you reached forward to tug at the red ribbon as he held the bottle steady, breaking the wax seal over the cork. You let the debris fall to the ground before unsealing the cork with a promising ‘pop.’ You scoffed in playful protest as Lewis helped himself to first sip before setting the genever in your outstretched hand. Taking a swig, you blinked at the complexity of it compared to the dry gin you were accustomed to in England or back home. It burned its way down your throat into your empty stomach, igniting a warm glow from within.

A few rogue droplets had been left on your lips, but before you had the chance to swipe your tongue out to collect them, Lewis’s fingertips were tracing along the sensitive flesh. Your breath caught in your throat at the way his eyes were focused on your mouth as he worked at gathering every bit of liquid whilst also tracing the fullness of your lips before lifting his fingertips to suck them clean. Dizzy from lack of oxygen, Lewis’s proximity, and the way his eyes were now boring into yours, you swallowed tightly as his hand pressed tighter to your back, pulling you closer once more. His lips had barely brushed against yours when a host of voices sounded at the top of the staircase.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” He swore against your mouth before you darted back out of his grip, chest heaving as you shoved the cork into the bottle of genever and returned it to your pocket forcefully. You quickly began to look for something to be doing with yourself.

“I’ll start loading these into the jeep, Captain?” You asked, voice tight as a bow string and all he managed in response was a dazed nod as you quickly scooped up one of the crates filled with his choice of bottles, nodding to the newest crop of arrivals on your way up the staircase.

Taking the stairs two at a time, you set the crate into the back of the jeep Winters had left for you and O’Keefe during guard duty, trying to take deep breaths of fresh air to clear your head. Christ that had been close…close to being caught…close to kissing Lewis…You sunk your teeth into your lower lip trying to smother the broad grin that threatened to unfurl on your features. There were far too many people about now to be grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Fishing your canteen from your webbing, you took a deep sip of water before smoothing your hands over your uniform and, feeling somewhat collected, returned to the cellar to move more crates.

Lewis seemed to have regained control of his senses, not that you dared to look at him, but his directions rang out through the cellar to load most of the wine into the trucks that men has just arrived with for the enjoyment of the officers while you continued carting his personal stash up the stairs until the jeep was full to bursting. All in all, he claimed five truckloads for himself and the officers of 2nd battalion. You rode backwards in the jeep, doing your best to stabilize the crates over the rough track back into town, doing your utmost to ignore his proximity in the vehicle.

A very warm welcome awaited your return to the lavish hotel where the officers were billeted, and many hands made short work of unloading all those trucks so they might make another trip for the rest of the men. By the time you’d made your way to Lewis’s room with the last of his crates, there was barely space to move for all the alcohol stashed within. No more than a small walking path from the door to the bed, if you were being honest.

“This is the last of it, sir.” You said as you looked around for a spot to put it and he looked to you sharply.

“We talked about this…” He teased, shuffling forward to grab it from you, hoisting it over to another corner of the room but you barely heard him as your eyes fell onto the two flower crowns sitting on the window ledge beside the bed.

“You kept them?” You breathed in amazement.

He looked to you before following your gaze and he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was told to look after them for you.”

Picking your way across the floor carefully, you knelt on the bed with your boots hanging off the edge behind you, smiling softly to see they were a little dried out but truly no worse for wear. “You did an excellent job of it, Lewis.” You barely whispered his name aware the door was still open.

Setting your rifle on the floor at the foot of the bed, you put your helmet on the ledge before picking up the larger crown, rolling onto your hip and then onto your butt on the mattress in time to see him closing the door. “I’d bet money this fits you.” You smiled softly.

“Save your money, I already know.” He grinned, ducking down beneath the circlet of flowers before straightening with it perched atop his dark hair.

Your eyes widened in delight. “It fits perfectly.” Your fingers gently straightened it, unable to ignore the softness of his chocolate strands at they brushed against your fingers.

Lewis’s gaze flicked to your lips briefly before looking back to your eyes and you took a slow breath before trailing your hands down to frame his face, enjoying the slight scratch of his stubble against your palms. “Lewis…” You exhaled, and he surged forward to seal his lips against yours firmly.

He settled onto his knees before you, hands gripping your waist as you parted your legs and dropped a hand to his back to urge him closer. Needing no further invitation, he scooted forward, pressing against you as his tongue licked its way into your mouth. You weren’t quite sure who started it, but your fingers were a flurry of activity, pulling at the buttons of each others’ uniforms. All he managed to reveal was the wool shirt you wore underneath, your webbing dangling limply from your shoulders, while you found his bare chest. Growing impatient, Lewis tugged your shirt and undershirt free of your pants and ODs until he was able to slide his hand against the soft skin of your abdomen, making your lips fall back from his with a whimper.

“Damn it why are you wearing so many clothes…” He growled and you pressed your face against his hair to smother your laugh, knocking the flower crown askew.

“Some of us were on duty today.” You muttered back, nipping at the shell of his ear before pushing his shirt from his shoulders, letting your hands skate along his back.

Leaning forward, he pushed you back into the mattress, nipping and sucking his way along your jaw before he methodically began to remove your layers of clothing and webbing, starting with a ruthless tugging on your boot laces, until you were left in your army issue brassiere and underwear. To say that they left a lot to be desired in terms of style was an understatement, but the reverence in his gaze as his eyes raked over his hard-won reward soothed your ego somewhat. Plucking the crown from his head, you tossed it gently onto the windowsill before hugging his hips with your knees and rolling him onto his back intent on returning the favour, your dog tags jangling against his in a metallic collision.

As you tried to slide down to reach the laces of his boots, however, he grunted in denial, hauling you in for a hungry kiss as he pulled your pelvis snug against his, making you inhale sharply through your nose at the feel of his hard length against you. “Gotta get your pants off, Lew.” You tried to speak but he kept interrupting you with brushes of his lips or darts of his tongue into your mouth. Huffing slightly, you rocked forward against him firmly, making yourself shudder, but you managed to get his attention as his head fell back, eyes staring up at you half-lidded, jaw slack in a silent moan. “Gonna start with your boots and then I’m gonna get your pants off.”

“And then you’ll do that again…” He breathed and you nodded licking your lips as he released your hips.

You were admittedly not nearly as efficient as him, fingers made clumsy with want, but through persistence you prevailed in removing his boots, pants, and boxers, adding them to the scattered heap of clothing on the small patch of floor. Skimming your hands up his bare legs you revelled in the way he trembled slightly, sitting up to watch you impatiently as you made your way up from the floor. Halting your progress a moment, you ducked your head to lick a warm, wet stripe along the needy length of his cock where it stood proud against his lower abdomen, drawing a shaky cry of your name from his lips that convinced you to linger between his thighs a little longer.

Wrapping your fingers around him, you swirled your tongue around the tip before slowly sliding his length into your mouth, watching his cheeks flush and eyes flutter close as he wrenched at the bedding violently.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart…” He panted, his abdominal muscles flexing erratically.

Smile curling around him, you dragged your lips up his length only to sink your mouth back down onto him, covering the last bit you couldn’t manage with your fist, allowing your saliva to run freely.

“Christ you’re good at that.” There was the edge of a whine to his voice and suddenly he was pulling your mouth from him, chest heaving. “Keep that up and this’ll be over before it begins…” He muttered and sat up, gripping your hips to guide you onto the bed properly.

His lips latched onto nipple through the thin cotton of your bra before you could open your mouth to apologize, making your hips buck up against his stomach greedily as your fingers delved into his hair. Pulling the cup down he laved his tongue along the sensitive peak, before shifting his attentions to its partner, your soft sighs of pleasure filling the room. Sliding his hands to your back, he guided you up to sit before making quick work of the hook and eye closure between your shoulder blades, tossing your bra aside onto a crate of liquor before pressing you back down into the mattress with a kiss to your sternum, just above where your dog tags rested against your bare skin.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them over your hips and down your legs before they too were unceremoniously tossed aside. “Goddamn sweetheart you are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He murmured, pressing his lips against the side of your knee before he hooked it over his shoulder as he came to rest on his stomach between your legs.

“Lew I…” You started to protest, embarrassed about the fact that you hadn’t seen a shower in a few days, but the words died on your lips as his fingers ran through your slick folds.

“You’re so wet, did I make you this wet?” He murmured in awe, and you nodded slowly, his answering grin almost blinding in its intensity. “Well, best not let it go to waste.” Lewis winked before sealing his mouth over your core, sucking the very breath from your lungs as his tongue delved hungrily to find your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Throwing your arm over your mouth, you smothered a harsh curse of delight into the crook of your elbow as he slung his forearm across your hips to pin them down so he might better intensify the level of pleasure he was dealing you as his tongue plunged into your heat. His nose took over the stimulation of your clit, while the stubble on his cheeks and jaw made your inner thighs tremble. The sounds he was making between your legs were positively lewd and only heightened the swirling headiness that wrapped around you. You clung to his hair as he began to suck on your clit, making you see stars behind your clenched eyelids, every exhale an eager moan or keen smothered against your skin.

Lewis’s hand slid up along your side to cup your breast, his fingers shifting to pinch and roll at your nipple, vaulting you over the edge as you rambled his name over and over. The tension of ecstasy slowly ebbed from your body, and he lifted his head with a broad grin, swiping at his upper lip with his thumb before sucking it clean. “Someday I’m gonna do that somewhere so remote you can scream at the top of your lungs.” He nuzzled your hair, pressing his lips to your ear as you laughed breathlessly.

“You sound so certain…” You teased, but he merely raised an eyebrow in response, his palm cupping your still-sensitive core, making your eyes roll back in your head.

“I am, yes. Certain that I can make you cum with my hands, my mouth, my cock. Certain that I’d like the opportunity to do so again and again…” You forced your eyes open to look over his features slowly.

“Yeah?” You exhaled, not quite sure what you had been expecting when you fell into bed with him, just knowing it was what you had wanted above all else in that moment.

“Yeah, sweetheart, until you’re sick of me.” He kissed you gently, the salty tang of your release still on his lips.

Gripping the back of his head, you returned the kiss hungrily, shifting your hips to rock up against his length, swallowing his ragged moan as you finally fulfilled your promise to repeat that motion. “Show me.” You whispered, aching to feel him inside you.

Lewis exhaled hotly against your lips before shifting his hips back, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance before he rocked forward to slowly sink into you. He sealed his mouth over yours almost painfully as you whimpered hungrily, his own rumble of pleasure reverberating through your chest. His head fell to rest against your collarbone, his breath caressing your skin once he was fully seated inside you, unmoving.

“Lew…” You whimpered softly, digging your fingers into his shoulders, writhing against him slightly.

“I know, sweetheart just…fuck you’ll be my undoing…” He whispered before he kissed you fiercely, pulling his hips back only to thrust forward once more, earning a moan of delight from you.

Your bodies began the push and pull of carnal pleasure, moving in tandem as though this were your hundredth coupling rather than your first. Grasping your knee, Lewis hiked it higher on his hip, angling his thrusts deeper into your willing body, making you toss your head to the side as you clenched your jaw against the desire to wail in delight.

“Wish I could…hear you so fucking badly…” He grit out before grasping your chin and turning your face back so he could press his mouth to yours as he rut against you firmly, his pubic bone grinding against your clit deliciously.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, the vicious undertow nearly obliterating your ability to think as Lewis quickly pulled out from your convulsing warmth to release across your abdomen with an agonized groan that was admittedly less than concealed before he collapsed onto the bed at your side. The pair of you lay there, speechless, covered in a sheen of sweat, chests heaving with frantic breaths before he shifted to feather soft kisses along the side of your face, reaching for a weathered scrap of green cloth that served as an army handkerchief to wipe your skin clean.

The ferocious growl your stomach emitted in the relative silence of the room had you tense as Lewis cracked up. “Sweetheart when was the last time you ate?”

“Oh, Christ I don’t know…” You muttered, covering your face with both hands in mortification.

Laughing richly, he kissed your knuckles before forcing himself up. “Alright, ok. Food. I’m going to find you some food. And then I’m going to spend the rest of this night right here in this bed with you, so don’t you go anywhere.” He looked down at you with playful seriousness as he stepped into the pants of your ODs, ruining the effect. “Shit.” He muttered.

Giggling into your palm, you shook your head before sighing as you pulled the blankets over your bare skin, feeling the chill of the mountain air now that he’d taken his body heat away from you. “Hey Lew?”

He looked to you quickly, nearly dressed – in his own clothes this time. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I’ll be here.” You smiled warmly, the stretch of your lips only widened by the grin of glee he directed at you before climbing back into bed to kiss you warmly. Your poor, empty digestive system growled insistently, and he huffed against your lips.

“Alright, fine…I’ll be back with food.” Lewis kissed your cheek before sliding into his jump boots and stepping out with his laces untied in search of sustenance for you both, fully intent on not making another public appearance until the next morning.

-------------------------

Band of Brothers Masterlist

Tag list: @fuckoffthanos

#lewis nixon x reader #lewis nixon imagine #lewis nixon imagines #lewis nixon #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers

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bloodstainedsaint · 1 year ago

Text

loose lips sink ships (lewis nixon x medic! reader)

summary: lewis nixon's alcoholism has been getting worse. you, a medic of easy company, are responsible for the well-being of the men, so you're sent to babysit look after an inebriated lew.

word count: 2100+

warnings: pathetic attempts (multiple) at comedy, drinking, alcoholism, drunken love confessions, lil pining, lil angst, nixon being a lil shit and a cheater??? but his wife divorces him so idk

notes: sorry if this is sloppy 😭 writing dialogue is hard

Your first time speaking to Captain (actually, you weren't sure of his rank anymore— you'd heard he'd gotten demoted to Battalion S3 by Colonel Sink recently) Lewis Nixon was after Operation Market Garden, where he got lightly burned by a stray shot to his helmet. You recalled it going something like this:

“You’re lucky to be alive, sir,” you said at the aid station where the then Lieutenant Winters had sent Nixon to get his graze checked, though there was really no use for it.

“I sure feel lucky,” he responded with a weird, almost dazed stare at you, as if you were some kind of angel sent from heaven to save him from his minor injury.

You met his eyes with a slightly raised eyebrow and assumed that he was just coming to terms with his brush with death. “You'll be fine, sir. Just try not to be in the trajectory of any other stray bullets, and you'll stay that way.”

He nodded and procured a flask from his pocket. “You drink?”

You narrowed your eyes at the container. “I try not to on the job.”

“Well, cheers to being alive, then,” he said, taking a swig.

“...Cheers.”

Following that encounter, you found yourself worrying about the officer more than you thought was normal— if a medic being especially troubled over one soldier was normal at all. Your eyes would search for him in a sea of people to see how tired or hungover he appeared. Whenever you got a chance to talk to him, you would brew him coffee or tea to help with his hangovers, seeing as medicine was always scarce and never spare enough to freely hand out.

You weren't sure where your worry for his well-being came from, but whatever it was, it wasn't quelled by the way he would ask you to stay and chat while he finished his cup— if you weren't busy, of course. The wry grin he would occasionally flash at you was burned into your mind, and his sardonic wit along with his competence as an officer, regardless of his love for alcohol, was impressed upon you. In these fleeting moments of peace, you learned of his rather privileged upbringing, his military background, and that he had a family waiting for him back home. Despite not even knowing what your own intentions were getting close to him, when he told you that last fact, your heart sank a little in your chest.

Your concern for him grew with the recent news that his alcoholism had reared its head again while the company was sent to idly occupy Germany. Someone had broken into a drugstore earlier that week; you'd suspected it was Lew scrounging around for booze. Though the war was coming to an end, he’d been looking more exhausted and ill-tempered as of late. You had yet to really talk to him about how he was holding up; in the meantime, you had been eyeing him from afar, trying to gauge where he was physically and mentally, your heart breaking at how you rarely saw him smile or laugh anymore. Everyone in the company had changed after Bastogne, but you suspected it was his disastrous third combat jump that prompted him to hit the bottle this time.

Now in Landsberg, you were in the middle of playing cards with some of the men in your billet’s living room when Major Winters knocked on the doorway.

“(Y/N),” he called. “Could I speak with you?”

You placed your cards on the table face up, presenting your good hand to the men who groaned in unison at the sight. “Coming, sir.”

As Winters brought you down the hall, you pondered what could be so important that the Major would come personally to speak to you, of all people.

He stopped in the middle of the hall and turned to you, seeming to have read your mind. “It's about Nixon.”

Your eyebrows creased slightly in concern. “Oh. Nixon.”

“Yeah, you know him?” Winters offered a dry smile that you returned.

“What happened?”

“I'm worried about him. Ever since his jump with the 17th Airborne, he’s been drinking more than usual.”

You sighed and cast your eyes downward. “I've heard.”

“I’d like you to look after him for a while. For tonight, at least. Make sure he doesn't drink himself into a coma.”

“Me?” You looked back up at him. “Why not Doc Roe?”

“You’ve been taking care of him for a while, (Y/N). I've noticed.” He didn't sound accusing in the slightest, yet you felt your cheeks warm from embarrassment. Winters continued in a slightly more conspiratorial voice, “And Nix asked for you specifically.”

You fought the blush creeping up to your ears. “Is that right…I'll, uh, have to lord that over Eugene.”

The corner of Winters’ lips quirked up knowingly. “Of course.”

He placed a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck, Doc. He's in his room. You know how to get there.”

Winters turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the hallway. It was true that you knew which house he was quartered in; you made it a point to know ever since you began treating his hangovers. However, the thought of being alone with Lew was always nerve-wracking and had been from the start, for reasons you didn't have the courage to explore.

With a glass of water and a book in hand, anticipating him to be knocked out from all the liquor in his system, you knocked on the door to his room. As you expected, there was no response save for the soft snoring coming from within. You opened the door a sliver and found the floral-wallpapered room lit up with a bedside lamp and the moonlight pouring in from the open window as the day spanned into night. You spotted a messy-haired head poking out from under the strewn blankets and smelled whiskey in the air. Upon fully opening the door and entering the room, the snoring abruptly stopped. He slurred, half-muffled by the pillow his face was buried in, “Who's there?”

“It’s (Y/N),” you replied, turning on some more lamps around the space.

“Oh. Hey, (Y/N).” Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. It wasn’t the first time you'd seen him in just a tanktop and shorts, his dog tags dangling around his neck, but he had always been half-conscious from a hangover when you saw him like this. Not awake and actively drunk like he was now. “How're you?”

“You're on your way to liver failure, Lewis,” you said sternly as you pulled up a chair next to his bed. “As for me, I'm doing better than you right now.”

He pouted petulantly. “You only call me Lewis when you're mad at me.”

You shot him a look. “And why would I be mad at you?”

“I dunno, you tell me.” Nixon gave you a lazy smile.

You sighed, directing your glare to the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, which you observed was not even his favorite brand of Vat 69. You handed him the glass of water. “Here, drink up.”

Squinting, he sniffed it. “It's not more liquor, is it?”

“No, it's motor fuel, now drink.”

“Oh no, not more ethanol,” he joked, raising the glass in a cheers motion before downing it and clumsily setting the empty glass on the nightstand. He kept his gaze on you as you sat down, opened up your book, and attempted to read, avoiding his stare.

Crossing his arms behind his neck at your efforts to ignore him, he leaned on the headboard. “What is that? Twain? Poe? Ah, Shakespeare? ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’”

You spared a glance at him. “Sometimes I forget you're a scholar, Lew.”

“Ohoho. Try to play some Beethoven and tell me it's Mozart. I’ll figure it out”—he snaps—“like that.”

“Not in this state you will,” you glowered. Nix retained his expectant countenance, so you answered, “It's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Some of the guys got done reading it, so now it's my turn.”

He hummed. “What’s it about then, Miss (Y/N)? Enlighten me.”

“If you’d let me read it, then I could tell you,” you said, continuing in a lower voice, "How are you an intelligence officer if you're this mouthy when drunk...and you're drunk most of the time."

“You say somethin’?”

“Nothing, Lew.” You tried to take in the words on the page, but the way he was looking at you made your skin feel hot. Exhaling and setting down your book, you turned your focus to him.

“You still hiding Vat 69 in Winters’ footlocker?” you asked, silently cursing the satisfied expression that spread over his face at your attention.

“Wha, hey, how'd you know about that?”

“You told me. While half-asleep and hungover.”

His lips stretched into a smile as he seemed to recall. “That I did. See, the real shame is that there’s not a single drop of the thing in the whole damn country. So no, there’s no booze in Dick’s footlocker.”

You glanced again at the unfamiliar bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. “And that’s why you've been drinking alternatives?”

“Beggars can't be choosers.” He shrugged with a sluggish wave of the hand. “I'm half-convinced you and Dick are hiding some from me!”

You chuckled. “That's not a half-bad idea. It wouldn't stop you from getting drunk off other kinds of hooch, though. Speaking of… why'd you start drinking this time?”

“Oh, you know.” He gestured vaguely. “I got divorced. She sent me a letter in the mail. Real sweet of her.”

Your face fell, the mood suddenly not so lighthearted. “...I’m sorry to hear that, Nix.”

“It’s alright. Didn’t like her much anyway. She took the dog.” A beat of silence passed, and he gave you an unreadable look. “Was kinda waitin' for it anyhow.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. Waiting for it? But before you could question it, you noticed his eyelids drooping as he uncrossed his arms from behind his neck to cover a yawn with his hands. You figured it was better to let him rest before pressing him on it.

“You settling down now?” you asked, getting up to brush his unkempt hair from his face and check his temperature with the back of your hand.

“Yeah,” he murmured. He settled into his bed before tiredly swatting your hand away, complaining, “I’m not hungover yet!”

A slight smile graced your face. “Not gonna piss into a cup this time, are you?”

“Maybe next time,” he said with a smirk before blearily staring at you for a while, like the same way he did all those months ago in Holland. Your heart felt strangled in your chest.

Clearing your throat, you turned and grabbed your book and the glass. “Goodnight, Lew.”

He blinked up at you. “You’re leaving?”

“I’ve got people who need me,” you said, a small laugh bubbling up from your throat.

“What if I need you?”

“Beside a hangover, you'll be fine,” you smiled, believing he was joking until you looked at him and found his face dead serious, almost pleading. Your eyes had to be deceiving you, right? Or maybe your mind was spinning things the wrong way.

He propped himself up on his elbows. “Before you leave," he started, breaking his gaze for a second before meeting yours. "You're really beautiful, you know that?”

You were stunned into silence with widened eyes, floundering for words. “Lew, I…”

“And don't say, ‘You’re drunk, Lewis, you don't know what you're talking about.’ I’ve liked you for months now, (Y/N). Sometimes it feels like I'm fighting this war for you, so we could be together after.” Somehow his voice was the steadiest it’s been the entire night, and that scared you.

You suddenly felt bashful, afraid he could hear your heart pounding loud in your chest. “I…like you, too, Lew.”

A soft beam adorned his flushed face. “And if I forget in the morning, I’ll just tell you again. I’ll tell you over and over until it's the only thing I can remember piss-drunk.”

“I’ll be making sure you're never piss-drunk again, but… I’ll remind you. Keep your word.” You leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“That you will,” he said impishly, grabbing you from around the waist and pulling you next to him in the sheets, his arms encircling your body.

“Hey!” you giggled, struggling against his bear-like grasp. “Can I at least get my boots off?”

He snickered into your hair and held you close.

“Nope.”

Bonus:

A couple of hours had passed, and there was no sign of Doc (Y/N). Figuring she was still with Nix, Dick decided to check in on them.

Knocking on the door and receiving no response, he let himself in, saying while surveying the room, “Doc, you still there— Oh.”

taglist: @mads-weasley

#band of brothers #band of brothers x reader #lewis nixon x reader #lewis nixon #hbo war #easy company #101st airborne #ron livingston #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers fanfic #hbo war fanfic #dick winters #richard winters #band of brothers imagine

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softguarnere · 1 year ago

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hi! i really love your writings!

i was wondering if you could make some headcannons for the easy boys breaking down and turning to the reader for comfort after a super hard week.

if you don’t wanna do this one/can’t think of anything, it’s totally fine!

i hope you’re doing well!

This has been sitting in my drafts forever now. I was worried about too many of them being too similar, so I didn't get to everybody. But here are the ones that I had the strongest feelings about:

Dick Winters: Okay, so I feel like maybe Winters doesn't quite reach a breaking point. You can tell that he's stressed and that he's going through a lot, so you let him know that you're here if he needs someone to talk to. It's actually kind of a shock when he comes to you, asking if you have a moment. Really, he just needs to unload, to have someone listen to him. It would be such a relief for him to know he can do that with you, and for you to know that he trusts you enough to confide in you.

Lewis Nixon: Nixon tends to go a different way. When he's stressed or upset, he kind of shuts down, becoming somewhat emotionally unavailable. He knows that he can - and that he should - go to you, but he's worried about how you'll react. When he does turn to you, when you listen to him, comfort him through what he's going through, he feels ten times lighter and ready to take on the world with you by his side.

Ronald Speirs: The rest of the company would probably be shocked if they knew how easily Speirs comes to you. It starts with him resting his head against your shoulder once you're alone together, and then sighing when you run a hand through his hair. He trusts you and knows he's safe, and then confides everything in you. There's not much that can be done to fix the week he's had, but if you just hold him like this, it'll give him the strength to pick himself up and give it another shot.

Carwood Lipton: He's so busy taking care of everyone, but who takes care of him? He's not really one for showing when he's at his limit, so when he comes to you, you know that he's reached a breaking point. Just let him talk it out. Maybe you both come up with a solution for where to go from here. Maybe you don't. He's just thankful for your company as he goes through this.

Babe Heffron: You know in Bastogne, how after Julian's death Babe just sort of . . . shuts down for a bit? That would be him after this week. He's stressed and doesn't really know how to process whatever is going on. When he comes to you, he's probably quiet and careful. But as soon as you see something is wrong, you take his hand, and he feels like he's able to tell you anything.

Eugene Roe: He feels guilty coming to you, because he doesn't want to feel like he's forcing his problems onto you. Once he starts sharing what's wrong, though, it's hard to stop; he didn't realize how much all of this was weighing on him. And when he's done talking, when you hold him and promise him that you'll always be there for him and will help him through it, he's glad that he spoke up.

Bill Guarnere: This boy is gonna hold it all in until he can't anymore - and when he finally breaks, it probably isn't going to be pretty. He doesn't know how to tell you what's wrong, but he decides to try. Some things can't always be fixed; sometimes you just need someone to listen to you. And knowing that he can confide in you makes all the difference to him, even if that's all you can do to help. Now he doesn't have to push himself to the limit anymore, and that makes all the difference.

Joe Liebgott: Listen, I think Joe is better with emotions than we tend to give him credit for. If he's bottling them up throughout the week, it's just because he doesn't want to worry you too much - after all, he loves you, and he doesn't want to feel like he's being a burden. When he finally does turn to you for help, he feels bad the entire time he's explaining his emotions to you. He's going to have to learn that he can open up to you, and this is his first time realizing that he can come to you when he needs to.

David Webster: Either bottles up his emotions until he feels like he's going to explode, or he comes to you the second he feels like he needs to talk things through - there's no in between. This may comes as a surprise, but Webster is a great listener, and if you give him advice or comfort for whatever he's going through, he's going to take it to heart. And he'll always remember how you were there for him.

Thank you for the request, Anon, and I hope you like these! 💕🕊️

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lesbiandarvey · 3 months ago

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I’m curious what your opinion is on the different occasions that Dick calls Nix Lewis vs Lew vs Nix. Like what name does he use for which occasion/place/situation? Also do you think he has any other pet names or nicknames he uses for him like baby, sweetheart, etc.

OKAY SO. i looked up every instance of nixon nix lewis and lew with the shows transcripts and i came away with two observations:

the real intimate name is not lewis its lew

no other character besides dick calls him lew.

OKAY. FIRST of all i was under the impression the usage of “lewis” by dick would be so emotional and raw and intimate that we don’t really see it. but the only usages of “lewis” by dick is in currahee and points. he calls him lewis in the mess (aka in the public sphere) in 1x01 and introduces him to harry as lewis. interestingly, harry calls him lewis in the last patrol so like that’s an accepted name for his friends. its only harry and dick that call him lewis though. dick also refers to him as “lewis nixon” directly to the audience in points when he says “it had been two years since lewis nixon and i joined the paratroopers”

dick calls him nix in the field. that’s his accepted nickname when they’re at work and i think that helps dick differentiate between his friend lewis and Nixon, The Intelligence Officer. he calls him nix when he jumps on the tank with him in day of days, he calls him nix when nix’s helmet gets shot so know its obviously a fond nickname. even when dicks stomach drops and he thinks lewis is dead for half a second he calls him nix—not because hes self censoring but because thats the name of the man he loves. notably no one else calls him nix. i think col sink might have called him nix once but to everyone else he’s “captain nixon.” and that’s really where the rubber meets the road is that the men call him nixon or capt nixon (perconte calls him nixon in why we fight, webster calls him capt nixon in last patrol), obviously out of respect/deference for his rank and the fact that like, they dont really know him as a person just as the intelligence officer

but LEW? that’s the real intimate one. dick is the ONLY person who calls him lew. and its only when they’re alone the uses of lew i found were

in crossroads when he’s waking him up and theyre alone in their billet

in breaking point when nix gets the 30 day pass and theyre talking in their tent away from the men

in why we fight when nix is getting divorced* dick asks lew? when theyre all packing into their trucks

in points when dicks voice over is talking about my friend lew died in 1995

*okay so like, the why we fight lew breaks the pattern cus its the only one where theyre around other people. i could argue dick slips up and uses lew instead of nix cus hes still freaked about operation varsity and treating nix with kid gloves . but idk feels like kind of a stretch i think he just said lew instead of nix cus he did, not for any particular reason

OBSERVATIONS:

“nix” is his name in the field and at work but its still a little nickname for him and used everyday. i can see dick calling him nix even after they get home. i think people assume nix is a formal name dick is using cus its his last name, but its the opposite because nix is still called “nixon” by other men THATS the formal one

“lewis” is used casually and formally but used by dick and their friends. well just harry thats their only friend

“lew” thats dicks private nickname for lewis that is him staking his claim on his babygirl. only dick gets to call him that. and if its a question of what i think dick calls him in bed im definitely gonna go with lew.

as for other nicknames i think they call each other honey absentmindedly yknow in that married couple way (“honey, where do we keep the whisk?” “honey could you not leave your dirty clothes on the floor in the bathroom?” stuff like that) i did read this fic where dick calls nix “darling” like very rarely, only when it’s the two of them i love that. also i read somewhere that when nix calls dick “guts n glory” (points) that means hes fucking furious at him (he called him guts and glory for applying for the transfer to japan) which i 100% take as fact. also nix doesn't have any everyday nickname for dick but the way his voice drops three registers and he goes “...dick 🫦” is obscenely sexual

#thank you! <33 #amanda.mail

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bleedingcoffee42 · 6 months ago

Text

Part 2- Day of Days

Wishlist of what should have been included

Forrest Guth!!! Show him landing in a field of cows and happy he didn't land on one. Then walking by a crashed plane, taking pictures and finding out after he gets them developed it was Meehan's plane.

Honestly more cows? General Ridgeway of the 82nd landed and had a "Flash!" -- "MOO" moment when he realized a cow was the one sneaking up on him when he landed. The cows were already there as extras, let them work. Cow POV sneaking up on paratrooper would have been hilarious.

Compton lost his gun on the drop, got a Thompson from Dog's Co. McMillian who broke his leg on the jump. (The gun's firing pin ended up being broken too and he doesn't find out until he goes to use it when facing two Germans and Guarnere saves him from getting shot) Almost got killed by a navy shell landing 50 ft away, but it didn't explode so he was good to go.

Speirs kicking a live grenade while capturing that fourth gun, it going off and knocking him on his ass, and catching his boot on fire and stomping to put out.

THE KNIFE. Those guys from the 82nd need to be snatching that thing instead of just being excited Dick is whipping something out of his pants in front of them. And show us how he gets it back!! You lost your gun on the drop, it's all you have, Dick. The custom engraved fighting knife from Lewis Nixon is all you have to fight with. GOD.

Dick yelling at Strayer, "Goddammit! When I send for ammunition and help, I mean now! Not when you get around to it!" YES! We love yelling!! And he's so pissed and filthy and imposing they just start laying bandoliers on him like it's Mardi Gras. Hester says he'll bring explosives, and does, and send Speirs with reinforcements. YES, make them answer to you Dick Winters!

Shifty and friends finding a downed glider with Jeep and deciding to take the Jeep. Needing to free it they use C-4, but don't realize the gas was leaking and end up blowing up the jeep and glider. Oops. Also Shifty running into Sobol later and having casual chit chat and talking about Popeye getting hit in the ass. "Serves him right" says Sobol. WTF does that mean? This would have pissed us viewers off so much. Gimme gimme.

Tipper, who should get more time come on, and his group getting shelled by the US Navy until they put up orange flags and smoke. The level of 'We're behind enemy lines and this massive hellstorm is hitting the beach' would have been a nod to just how chaotic it was to be paratroopers. Behind enemy lines is one thing, behind he enemy our lines are advancing on? Mmmmhmmm. Oh ! And they run into an English speaking guy who instantly gets shot by one of Tipper's compatriots and everyone is like ???? He was Speaking English and wearing a US paratrooper uniform? And the dude says "Look at his boots!" and they're German hobnailed boots. Like...more over Sherlock, give him a medal for the observation skills.

Lt. Col Billy Turner. He's not Easy Company, but he and Speirs had a personal civil war going on and we just get Lurker Speirs in Part 2 and we could have had some drama in the previous episode with Turner transferring him from Charlie to Dog eve of the invasion. In Normandy Sink told Turner to "Neutralize guns but be careful" so Turner tried to direct tank fire in Normandy, on a tank, and got shot by a sniper doing so. Ed Pepping, medic, got to him, pulled him out of the tank turret right before he died. Laments his loss. Says his death really held up the advance and rattled people. Seems like a good guy. Sink's comment? "His stature was small, his heart was big, his head was clear, his mind was sharp, his courage unlimited." Which sounds like a tribute for a warhorse, and Turner was cavalry so probably would have likes it, but BOB, really? Show Speirs walking by the guys dead body and saying "Well, Turner, by God, the krauts saved me the job!" Just some drama that could have been background noise. Sparky is already winning the morality Olympics this episode, pile on some more.

To be Continued....

#hboww2rewatch #live blogging i guess #bob rewatch part 2 #band of brothers #hbo war

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rogue-durin-16 · 14 days ago

Text

MISHAPS AND SILVER LININGS

Request: maybeee dialogue prompt 53 with Nixon x female reader?? But maybe kinda angsty also??? (anything u write is great so 🤷‍♀️)

Summary: after all the tragedy endured during the war, nobody would have guessed one last mishap would help the stars align for Lewis Nixon and Y/n Y/l/n.

Prompt:

53. "I remember kissing you. Why do I remember kissing you?"

Pairing: Lewis Nixon x Reader

Genre: angst/fluff

Tags:

Requested by: anon

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

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: alcoholism, swearing (that's it omfg)

A/N: writing for Nixon was surprisingly easy? I high-key had fun with this one. Thanks for the request love. Remember that requests are open rn so feel free to send yours in. Meanwhile, enjoy this little fic <3

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

A dull light crept through the curtains of the flat Regiment had billeted me in when Nixon finally stirred.

He shifted on my bed, a slight groan escaping his lips the moment his barely open eyes hit the few rays of sun striking the mattress. He had one hell of a hungover.

During the last year of our lives, Lewis Nixon and I had worked side by side across Europe practically at all times— which meant I wasn't exactly a stranger to his drinking problem. Since we came back from that jump over Germany though, it had escalated to a different level.

'He's been demoted' I had disclosed to Dick as soon as we linked back up with Battalion HQ.

'Demoted?' Although his friend had questioned it, no explanation was needed. He already knew. 'Okay, I'll talk to him'.

I don't think anyone could blame him. It all had become too much to handle, specially if one had lost conviction in the reasons we were still fighting this war.

I knew he had lost it. As if it wasn't obvious enough, he had blurted it out one of those nights we stayed awake for one reason or another. That exact night everyone had stayed awake, I believe.

That damned patrol back in Hagenau. We had fought Sink not to push forward that mission, but there was no use.

"This is stupid." I mumbled, arms crossed and my eyes fixed to the other side of the river.

The full moon's light reflected on the snow. In any other setting, I would have found it beautiful, but with fifteen Easy Company members being sent on a suicide, the landscape was far from that.

"Glueing yourself to the window won't help them."

I shot Nix a tired glare and pushed myself off the window in order to walk towards him. "They shouldn't be out there."

"None of us should be out here."

"What do you mean?"

"Why the hell are we here at this point, Y/n/n?"

I didn't have a response.

"Don't you wanna come back home already? To that lovely husband of yours." He teased with a bitter half laugh.

"You're funny." He didn't know about the mail. How could he know? "Don't think he'll be there when I come back."

"What?"

"He sent a letter back when we were in the Bois Jaques." I explained, snatching the glass of whiskey Nix had by the typewriter. "Said if I wasn't home by New Year, he'd file for divorce."

"You're kidding." Nix sat straight in his chair when I didn't laugh. "Who in their right mind would leave you?"

"The man I married, apparently." The officer struggled to meet my eyes. He knew by now I didn't want pity. "Guess he doesn't know why we're still out here either."

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

He sat up slowly, squinting against the light, one hand coming up to clutch his head. It didn’t take long for him to notice me slouched on the bedroom's armchair. His gaze darkened, panic flashing across his features.

“What the hell…” he muttered, groaning softly. He rubbed his face and looked around, as if hoping he could piece together the memory.

I watched his eyes darting around like he was still scrambling to make sense of everything. The awkward silence stretched between us until he finally spoke.

“I… I remember kissing you.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking almost angry with himself. “Why do I remember kissing you?”

The Night Before

The knock at the door was unsteady, clumsy, like he could barely remember how to make a fist. I pulled on a sweater and padded across the cold floor, half-expecting to find someone delivering bad news. Instead, there was Nixon, eyes glazed, swaying slightly as he tried to focus on me.

“Jesus, Nix…” I murmured, instinctively stepping aside as he staggered into the room. The sharp, sour scent of whiskey clung to him, familiar but stronger than usual, almost suffocating. I shut the door behind him, hands already moving to steady him as he slumped into the nearest chair, his gaze unfocused.

“What on God's name are you doing here?”

He looked up at me, his face a blur of exhaustion, frustration, and something else—something deeper. “She’s leaving me, y'know,” he slurred. “Kat's divorcing me."

"Jesus, Lew." I poured him a glass of water and kneeled down. "Now?"

"Took… took the damn dog, too."

"She took your dog?!"

He snorted with glassy irises. "Everything. I think... I knew it would happen, but… didn’t think it’d feel like… like this.”

I swallowed, feeling the heaviness of his words settle in my chest. “I’m sorry, Nix,” I whispered, unsure of what else to say, until I remembered the words he said to me back in Hagenau. “I don't know who in their right mind would leave you.”

It was soft, just like the featherlight touch of my thumb brushing away a rogue tear before it could reach his jawline. It sounded dangerously similar to 'I wouldn't leave you'. Maybe that's what he had meant back then.

He let out a bitter laugh, his head falling back against the chair. “Yeah, well… doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” He closed his eyes, breathing out, then looked at me with a strange intensity, like he’d finally worked up the nerve to say something he’d been holding onto for too long.

Something I both craved and dreaded to hear.

“Do you know…” He trailed off, blinking as if the words kept slipping away from him. “Do you know how hard it’s been? Pretending I don’t… pretending I don’t want to kiss you every damn time I see you?”

The confession knocked the air from my lungs, and I stood there, stunned, heart pounding too loudly in the silence that followed.

“Nix…” I began, voice barely a whisper, but he just shook his head, his eyes shifting, unfocused and pained.

“I wanted to kiss you from the very first second I heard your voice.” he said, voice rough and broken. "I remember how beautiful you looked the first day we worked together, how smart you were and how I just wanted to... But Kat- I couldn't... Do that to her and your- you..." He pinched the bridge of his nose, "I tried and... for what? For this?"

My lips were sealed with panic but the glint in my gaze and the liquor in his veins spurred him.

"Tell me it's just me... Tell me..." He did his best to lean forward without lolling too much. "Everytime it almost happened... Just say..." His look dropped to my lips, too intoxicated to care how obvious he was. "The 'what if's haunt me when I stare for too long..."

I couldn't say I didn't feel exactly like that. The cautious dance we were in was long overdue —the brush of a hand, a whisper closer than necessary, that drink we shared in Mourmelon that almost made us cross the line—, but it had been a silent mutual agreement not to act on it.

Before I could process everything, before I could find the right words to stop it without pretending I didn't feel the same, he leaned forward, his hands gripping my arms for support as he pressed his lips to mine.

It was lousy, desperate, filled with something raw and aching, and I didn’t know if it was my own hesitation or his unsteady hands that made it linger just a second too long.

He staggered back, eyes half-closed, almost as if he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the whole thing. His hands dropped, and he swayed, his breath slowing as the exhaustion finally took over. His head slumped onto my shoulder, and he exhaled, a quiet surrender.

“Nix?” I whispered, looking down to see his eyes shut, breaths now slow and even.

The confession hung between us, unanswered. And I sat there, his weight against me, tangled in everything I wanted to say but couldn’t.

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

The panicked question floated in the air, heavy with something I couldn’t quite name.

"Y/n." I looked down, unable to meet his eyes. "Why do I remember kissing you?"

I cleared my throat and did my best to sound somewhat nonchalant about it. “Well, maybe because you kissed me, Lew.”

"For Christ's sake..." He groaned, rubbing his face with his palms. "Just what I needed, great. This is great."

"You drank too much." I tried to excuse him. Emphasis on 'tried'.

"I always drink too much and this never—" Another frustrated groan, this time louder, escaped him.

"I've never seen you... That drunk." The statement was tainted with worry; a worry I had felt the night before and didn't have time to voice. "You looked... awful. I had to drag you to the bed." I stole a peek at him while I explained, catching a mortified expression on his part as he sat up, legs hanging from the side of the bed as he was now facing me. "I get it. I really do. It's hard enough out here. Hey—" I kneeled down to meet his casted down face, much like the night before, but with very different circumstances. "You saw me in Noville. I wasn't... I wasn't myself. And it wasn't even-"

I pondered how to put my thoughts into words without making it worse. The best way to explain he wasn't all that bad without making a fool of myself.

"I didn't... Love him, y'know? Charles, I mean." At the name of my soon to be ex-husband, Nix seemed to regain the will to meet my eyes, which now recoiled from his. "Not anymore, at least. But it felt... The letter felt like a gut punch— I felt like... my life slipped through my fingers. And when stuff like that happens, we do stupid things. Because we feel lost."

"Is that what I said?"

"Huh?"

"That I felt lost."

I shook my head no, the realization that he didn't quite remember his drunken speech dawning on me.

"What exactly did I tell you?"

"You... Don't remember what you said?"

"No- I... What did I say?"

Suddenly eager to put distance between us, I bolted to my feet and walked out of the room. "I don't know- things anyone would say when they're drunk as a skunk."

"Like- like what things?" He questioned, his steps trailing behind me in the kitchen's direction.

"Nix, you were drunk and going through shit." Deep down, I didn't think I would be able to reason my way out of that one, but I had to try. "Don't put much thought into it." I insisted, reaching for the percolator to brew a very much needed coffee.

"What did I say? Y/n-" just as I was about to turn on the stove, he interlaced his calloused fingers around my wrist and gently tugged on it to stand face-to-face. "Just tell me how much I screwed it."

"You didn't screw anything."

"Then why can't you look at me?"

"Maybe because we've been trying not to end up here for a literal year and now this happened?"

Lew scrutinized me with fear in his dark eyes. I had seen that expression too many times, he was drawing his conclusions based on what he knew.

"Did I tell you I'm in love with you?"

Silence. Charged silence. One look was enough for him to realize he did not say that. His hand let go of me to cover his mouth while he took a step back.

Once more, I was at loss of words, which was something Nix had rarely accomplished in the time we had known each other.

"I... I don't know what I was thinking— Jesus Christ—" he exhaled the last part, an apology plastered all over him. "I'm just gonna... I shouldn't have come in the first place."

He was about to turn heel and leave. We both had done that before, more times than we could count. The difference was, there was no need for me to let him slip away; not anymore.

In a spurt of bravery, I grasped at his forearm and tugged him back, daring to stare straight into his soul while I spoke.

"You said Kat was divorcing you. Said you didn't think you'd feel like this." I began, voice clear as day. "You said you were done pretending you didn't wanna kiss me everytime you see me." He dropped his gaze, a flicker of regret in his eyes, jaw clenched tight. "You said the 'what if's haunt you if you stare for too long. You asked me if it was just you who felt like that."

"... Am I?" He recalculated the situation, shame dissipating to let me discern something similar to hope.

"Y'know what's the first thing I thought after reading Charles' letter?" He barely had time to deny with his head before I continued. "I thought 'fuck him, the man I love sleeps in my goddamn foxhole'." His breath hitched at the word but he didn't shy away from me; on the contrary, he watched my every move while my grip eased from his arm and traveled to the back of his neck. "Now tell me, are you fucking sober yet?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good 'cause I'm done pretending too."

My statement was hasty and quick. The previous night had left me too eager to return the kiss I had so desperately wanted to give him.

Months of stealing longing glances at each other fueled our need to make sure there was no space between us anymore. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling my upper body flush against his while the kiss deepened in a way we could only have fantasized about— had it not been for those damn letters.

Who would have thought our silver lining of war would be our failed marriages?

#lewis nixon #lewis nixon x reader #lewis nixon fanfiction #band of brothers fanfic #hbo war #band of brothers fanfiction #band of brothers #lewis nixon angst #lewis nixon headcannons #easy company #x reader #lewis Nixon request #band of brothers request #hbo war fic #hbo miniseries #richard winters

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mads-nixon · 1 year ago

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Epiphany Pt. 14: Soon You'll Get Better

Lewis Nixon x Reader

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Song Inspo: Soon You'll Get Better: Taylor Swift (feat. The Chicks)

A/N: thanks for being patient with this one, guys! it really hurt me to write this one. this is about the fictional portrayal of easy company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: Easy finally reaches its breaking point, and (y/n) doesn't realize just how low that could be until tragedy strikes.

Warnings: main character death, intense grief, sorry for the pain guys

JANUARY 10, 1945: BOIS JACQUES, BELGIUM: 0900HRS

“Hey Doc,” Skip whispered as Eugene walked by. “Come here!”

Gene crouched just outside the hole, peering down at (y/n) who was silently sleeping in his arms. “Warren, how ya doin’?”

“Doc, (y/n)’s cast is killing her. Do you have anything for the itch?” Skip asked quietly, concern creasing his brows. “She tried to tear it off last night.”

“Casts ain’t supposed to get wet. That’s why it's itchin’ so much,” he replied, adjusting his helmet with a grimace. “I’ll see what I can do. For now, keep her mind off of it the best you can. She really needs to go back to the hospital.”

Skip thanked him with a nod and then he was gone, his form blurring in the snowfall as he walked away. An exaggerated yawn echoed in the air, and George stretched his arms above his head.

“It’s somehow even colder than before,” he groaned, pulling his coat closer to his body.

Muck tugged the blanket around (y/n)’s shoulders and sighed, noticing her cradling her cast in her sleep. “Yeah. It always is.”

George caught his eyes. “How’s she doing?”

“Not good, Luz. Last night…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m worried about her. After what happened with Captain Nixon and now this, I don’t know how much more she can take. Her arm isn’t going to get any better if she’s out here trying to pry her cast off.”

“What?” Luz asked, his eyes widening in disbelief. “She tried to pry it off? When?”

“Last night.”

Silence hung in the air as the duo pondered the situation. As much as they wanted (y/n) to be there with them, they knew that she’d be better off at the hospital, healing up properly.

Skip’s eyes floated to the frozen ground of the foxhole as he spoke sadly. “She needs to go back to the hospital.”

“Yeah,” Luz agreed. “She’s not gonna like it, though.”

The pair quickly became quiet as (y/n) stirred and blinked her eyes open, slowly becoming aware of her surroundings.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Skip greeted from above her as she sat up.

George chimed in with a teasing grin. “We were starting to think you were going to sleep through the whole war.”

Laughter bubbled up from within her, and for a brief moment, the itch in her cast was forgotten. “Well, I can’t have that now, can I? What would you knuckleheads do without me?”

“Have some peace and quiet,” Penkala grumbled, squinting his eyes in the bright morning light. “How’s the wrist today?”

George and Skip shot him a pointed glare, and (y/n) sighed, looking down at her casted arm. “About the same, but it’s not bothering me right now.”

Wanting to steer clear of the subject, Skip sat up against the frozen dirt wall. “(Y/n), did I ever tell you about how I swam the Niagra River once?”

Alex ran a hand down his face with a groan. “Not this story again!”

“No, you didn’t tell me that,” she grinned, rolling her eyes.

Skip ignored Penkala’s outburst and continued his tale. “It was a bet, so I went ten miles up from the falls and started across. The current was so strong that it must have carried me at least two miles downstream before I got across. But I got across.”

(Y/n) stared at him in disbelief. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, come on,” he defended. “Let me finish the story and then you can complain about how much of an idiot I am. These two have already said enough on the matter.

“I could always say more, Muck,” George chimed, smirking as his voice shook from the shivers that wracked his body.

“Whatever, Luz. Shut up and let me finish,” Skip grumbled. “Now, personally, I didn’t think it was all that stupid, but my mom, my sister, Ruth…they gave me all kinds of hell.”

The woman buried her face into her scarf, the scent…his scent…long gone as she envisioned his story in her mind. “Well, I would’ve, too! It was a stupid thing to do, Skip. Based on what you’ve told me, I bet Ruth was close to throwing you over the falls for doing something like that.”

“Well, luckily she didn’t,” he smiled, his voice softening as he looked down at the ground. “Faye was not happy.”

Seeing her friend so helplessly in love, (Y/n) couldn’t help but smile.

“Sweet Faye Tanner,” George drawled, winking at him.

Rolling his eyes, Skip kicked at George playfully. “Shut it, George.”

“Well,” Alex perked up. “As I said before…they had a point. You’re an idiot.”

The group broke out into chuckles, their icy breaths filling the foxhole. All of them seemed to get lost in their thoughts and silence hung over them. (Y/n) stared out at the frost-laden forest before them, seeing the carnage left by the constant shelling: splintered and fallen trees, splatters of blood against the white snow, and craters filled with frozen dirt. It all put an unsettled feeling in her stomach that she couldn’t quite shake, as if the world was waiting for the opportune time to flip her life upside down.

Her worries led her mind back to him. She couldn’t help but miss Lew, even though they’d fought. She also knew deep down that he didn’t mean the hurtful things that he said, but the sting of their argument still lingered. Apologizing was what she wanted to do, but the memory of her own outburst left her feeling embarrassed. (Y/n) sighed softly, vowing to herself that when the time presented itself, she would find a way to apologize and let Nix know that she still cared about him more than anything. For now, she waited, her mind filled with thoughts of the man she missed more than words could express.

“Hey, (y/n),” George called out into the silence. “We want to talk to you about something, but please don’t bite our heads off for it, alright?”

Curiosity coursed through her as she raised an eyebrow. “Okay…this sounds an awful lot like an intervention, guys. What’s going on?”

George nodded toward Muck, whose face wore a nervous expression as he spoke. “We think you should go back to the hospital.”

“What?” she asked, her voice tinged with irritation. “Why? I’m doing fine.”

“(Y/n), we know you’re struggling,” he said gently. “We also know that you’re not gonna get any better if you’re here in the cold with a sopping wet cast.”

As much as she hated to admit it, there was some truth in what Skip was saying. Taking a deep breath, she replied, “Look, I get it, okay? This cast is driving me crazy, but I can’t just leave. I’m not gonna leave you guys here.”

Alex chimed in, his voice filled with concern. “You need to heal. Doc said the same thing earlier.”

Muck raised a brow at him questioningly. “You heard that? I thought you were asleep.”

“I’m always listening,” he shrugged with a smirk. “Anyways, we’re just worried about you, (y/n/n).”

(Y/n) frowned as a mix of stubbornness and helplessness washed over her. She knew they had a point, but the thought of returning to the hospital and being separated from them didn’t sit well with her.

“I just need a bit more time,” she finally admitted. “I’ll get through it.”

Skip exchanged a worried look with George before he spoke, “We know you’re tough, (y/n), but sometimes the smart move is to take care of yourself. It’s not about abandoning us; it's about coming back a hundred percent.”

She turned her gaze to the ground, battling her inner conflict. “I’ll think about it, alright? Just give me a little more time.”

The trio nodded solemnly, realizing that she wouldn’t go unless forced. They had a decision to make, and Skip knew which one he’d make for Ruth. It was the same one he’d make for (y/n).

1900 HOURS

In the chill of their foxhole, Skip couldn’t shake his worry for (y/n). He got out of the foxhole with an “I’ll be back,” and a grunt as he made his way to one of the only people he knew could get her to see reason. The man breathed into his hands, trying to warm them among the constant pinprick sensation in them.

He pulled his rosary from his pocket, kissed it gently, and began to pray as he walked. “Please help us, God. Help (y/n) to see reason and get the help she needs. It's hard to see the people you love suffer, and I don’t know what else to do. I know you have the power to do anything, Lord, so please change her mind about this. Thank you for keeping us safe, and please continue to do so if it is your will, Father. Amen.”

When Skip made it to the Captain's measly shelter, he found Winters and Nixon pouring over maps in preparation for the upcoming objective. Hearing the crunch of his footsteps, Dick’s head shot up, and a blue-tinged smile formed on his face.

“Come on in, sergeant. What can I do for you?” he asked, folding the maps and laying them on a nearby table.

Skip returned the grin and walked in, taking his helmet off. “Well, sir, I actually came to speak to Captain Nixon.”

At his words, Lew raised a brow at his uncharacteristic serious expression. “Alright,” he replied, guiding Muck outside the tent for some privacy. “What’s going on?”

Skip hesitated for a moment, then decided to give it to him, straight. “It’s (y/n), sir. She’s been going through hell with that cast. Last night, she tried to take it off herself. I had to stop her, sir. Doc says she should go back to the hospital.”

Nixon’s brows furrowed in worry. He knew firsthand how stubborn and headstrong (y/n) could be, especially when it came to her own well-being. “She what? Why hasn’t she gone back to the hospital?”

Muck sighed, his breath visible in the air. “She doesn’t want to leave us, sir. You know how she gets.”

Lew clenched his jaw in frustration, his thoughts racing. “Where is she now? Is she okay?”

“She’s calmer now, but it’s still bothering her. It’s the worst at night,” Skip admitted. “We’ve tried to convince her to go back, but she says she’ll think about it. We all know she’s already made up her mind.”

Nodding, Nix’s face was etched with deep worry. He could imagine her struggling by herself, and it made his heart ache. “Alright, I’ll try to get her back to the hospital.”

The sergeant sighed in relief, grateful he was stepping in. “(Y/n) probably won’t be happy about it, but it’s for her own good. I’m worried it might be her breaking point, sir.”

Lew patted his shoulder with a nod, his brows pinched in concern. “Thanks for letting me know, Muck.”

He turned to leave but stopped and faced the Captain again with a deep breath. “Sir, I know this may be out of line, but I heard what was said between you last week. You never know what could happen out here, so don’t leave things unsaid.”

Before Nix could respond, Skip was gone, his figure disappearing into the haze of the snowy landscape. His words seeped into Lew’s mind, and he realized he had to speak to (y/n) immediately and make things right. Either one of them could be killed at any moment, and they were just wasting precious time not speaking to the other.

Returning to the tent, Nix grabbed his rifle and swung it over his shoulder. “I’ll be back, Dick. There’s something I’ve got to take care of.”

“You mean someone?” replied, a knowing smirk on his face.

Nix shrugged as he exited the tent. “Something like that.”

As he navigated the forest to (y/n)’s foxhole, he couldn’t help but dwell on their argument. He knew he had been harsh to her, even if he didn’t mean what he said. He’d called her ‘useless’ for crying out loud. That alone would hurt anyone, much less someone who’s wounded and trying their best to contribute despite that.

Finally, in the distance, he spotted Skip talking with Malarkey, Luz, and Penkala a little ways from their hole. Skip nodded at him, and led the group farther from the hole, wanting to give them actual privacy this time. Approaching her foxhole, he could barely see her huddled silhouette. She didn’t hear him approach, lost in thought or possibly asleep.

Lew sat down beside her and gazed at (y/n)’s sleeping form. The harsh cold couldn’t deter him from admiring the woman he loved as she lay there, wrapped in her coat and the warm scarf and gloves he had given her. Her features were softened by the dim light of the forest and the redness of her nose gave her an adorable charm that melted his heart.

He noticed her cradling her injured arm against her chest, the white of the cast peeking out from under her oversized coat and makeshift sock glove. “(Y/n)?” he called softly, his voice cutting through the stillness of the forest.

She stirred, her eyes slowly opening to meet his gaze. Surprise flickered across her face, and she shifted uncomfortably, wanting to meet his eyes but finding it hard. “Hi. I wanted to apologize…for how I acted the other day and how I’ve been acting. I know you didn’t mean it, but it did hurt, Lew.”

Lew felt his heart soften as he heard her words, a wave of relief washing over him. He knew she wasn’t one to apologize easily, and her willingness to do so meant a lot. “Thank you,” he replied quietly, “and I’m sorry too, for what I said. I love you and would never think you’re useless.”

With the tension lifting between them, their gazes finally locked. “I love you, too. I hate fighting,” she whispered, scanning their surroundings quickly. “I’d much rather do this.”

She snaked her good hand around his neck and pulled him closer, connecting their lips. As (y/n) and Nix’s lips met, the world around them faded into the background, and for that brief moment, it was just the two of them in their own world. No war, no Bastogne, no snow…only them. (Y/n) felt the warmth of Lew’s breath against her skin, and the gentle caress of his hand on her cheek sent warmth coursing through her body that she hadn’t felt for weeks.

As they pulled away, their breaths were slightly ragged, and the icy wind, which had been nipping at their cheeks, was now replaced with a comforting warmth. A soft, affectionate smile played on his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. She returned the smile, a sense of calm she only got around him washing over her.

With a gentle, lingering touch, Lew’s hand brushed her cheek, before dropping it to hold her hand again. “I’ve been worried about you, (y/n), and I’m not the only one. The guys are concerned, too.” Nix paused. “I know about the cast.”

“What about it?” she asked innocently.

Nix shook his head. “I know it’s bothering you, sweetheart. You don’t have to hide it. I also heard that you tried to pry it off last night.”

“What a traitor,” (Y/n) playfully scowled as she looked over her shoulder at Skip in the distance.

“I’m serious, (y/n),” Lew pleaded. “You know you won’t get better here.”

She sighed, looking down at the cast. “I’m not going back to the hospital, Lew. I won’t leave you or the guys. I can’t.”

“We’ll manage. And we’ll still be here when you get back,” Lew said as his fingers brushed her cheek, guiding her face to him once more with a voice full of worry. “Please.”

The sincerity in his voice pierced her heart, and for the first time in days, her wrist didn’t feel like the most significant pain. “I’ll think about it,” she conceded.

With a quick peck on her temple, he pulled her in for a quick hug, muttering in her ear, “If not for me, do it for Muck. He’s about worried sick about you.”

“He told me I remind him of his sister, Ruth,” (y/n) murmured into his neck.

Pulling away, a smirk quirked Lew’s lips. “Good, because I was starting to worry I had some competition.”

“Whatever,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes with a laugh. The pair stood to their feet and made their way toward the huddled group of men. “What did Skip say to you?”

Lew shrugged, his eyes staying forward. “Just that you were struggling and the guys were worried about you. I guess he thought I could talk some sense into you.”

“Good luck with that,” (y/n) chuckled as they neared the group.

Squeezing her upper arm gently, he peered down at her, his cheeks rosy from the frosty air. “Please think about it, for my sake…or Skip’s if that’s not enough. And be careful, you know I love you,” he whispered.

“I will, and I will. Love you, too,” she smiled, her wrist long forgotten as she was under his warm gaze. “Tell Dick hey for me.”

With a firm nod, he slowly turned and started back toward his tented foxhole. (Y/n) watched him go, her heart feeling lighter than before. Things were okay between them again, and it became one less thing she had to worry about.

A voice called her name, breaking her from her stare, and she turned to see Skip waving her over, a grin plastered on his face. Joining the group, she stood between George and Skip, the former in the middle of a great impression of Lieutenant Dike.

“Ah, 1st Sergeant Lipton,” he imitated. “You organize things here, and I’m gonna go for…help. I need to go polish my oak leaf clusters.”

The group broke out into laughter, and (y/n) raised a brow in confusion. “What?” she asked, unable to keep a goofy grin from her lips.

“(Y/n), you’re not gonna believe what I saw. So, you-know-who comes running up to Lipton. He’s got no helmet, no gear, no nothing, and then he says that.”

“What an idiot,” she laughed, throwing her helmeted head back slightly. “I can’t believe he’s still here.”

Skip wheezed beside her, almost doubling over in laughter. “Complete asshole,” he said between laughs. “That’s really good, George.”

Lip cleared his throat behind George and called out to him and beckoned him over. George bid his goodbye and went to talk to Lip, while (y/n), Skip, Don, and Alex did the same.

“Goodnight, goodnight all,” Mal remarked, walking toward his foxhole.

Skip wrapped an arm around (y/n)’s shoulder, calling out to his friends. “Yeah, see ya, Luz, see you Malark.”

The trio started to their foxhole in silence, but it was soon broken by Skip’s teasing voice. “Did your Captain talk some sense into you about going to the hospital?” he asked, squeezing her shoulder playfully.

“My Captain?” she teased. “I’m pretty sure he’s your captain, too, Skip.”

He raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Well, I’m not the one necking the guy.”

She gasped and quickly looked around, praying nobody else heard his comment. “Skip!”

“What?”

Alex chuckled from beside her as he pulled his beanie down over his ears. “Everyone knows it! None of us would ever turn you in, (y/n). You know that.”

“I know, I know,” she sighed, her feet crunching softly beneath her. “And to answer your question, Skip, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“(Y/n), come on. You’re putting yourself at risk of getting hurt again. Aaaand,” he drawled, “If you go now, you might be back in time to celebrate my birthday.”

“I can’t believe it’s a few weeks til the 31st,” she mused, peering up at him. “You’re turning 23, old man. What would you like for your present?”

“You going to the hospital and getting better would be the best birthday gift,” he answered softly, pulling her closer to his side.

The words hung in the air, resonating in (y/n)’s heart. As she looked at Skip, she saw the earnestness in his eyes and his brotherly smile, and a surge of emotions coursed through her. She realized that her stubbornness might not only be hurting herself but also the people who cared about her.

“You know what, Skip? I think I can work with that,” she smirked, elbowing his side. “Looks like you’re getting your wi-”

Before (y/n) could finish her sentence, the sky erupted in a deafening roar as artillery shells rained down upon them. Trees, splinters, and the earth trembled beneath their feet with each impact. The world turned to chaos as the air was filled with dust, snow, and the screams of their friends.

“Incoming!”

Without a second thought, Skip grabbed (y/n)’s arm and took off behind Penkala for their foxhole. With pounding hearts, they sprinted towards the safety of their hole, holding their helmets to their heads. The relentless explosions continued to rock the ground, and (y/n) would have lost her balance if it weren’t for Muck’s grip on her bicep.

Seconds later, they reached the foxhole just in time. The trio jumped down into the hole and immediately ducked in its cover. They peered over the edge at the German’s horrifying display of firepower as they were showered in dirt and wood splinters. Amongst the dust and explosions, they could make out a figure in the distance who couldn’t stay on their feet, falling to the ground every few seconds. They recognized it instantly.

“George!” (y/n) yelled. “Come on!”

Skip and Alex joined in, motioning for George to get in. “Luz!” they cried. “Hurry!”

She watched on for an agonizing moment as George scrambled to his feet but was then knocked down again, and she knew she had to do something. Jumping out of the foxhole, she sprinted toward George, her eyes locked on his figure. Skip reached out to grab her, but she slipped out of his grasp.

“(Y/n), no!” he yelled after her.

Skip’s heart raced as he watched her run off into the barrage, and panic ate at him. His protective instincts screamed at him to follow her, and in a burst of terror, he attempted to leap out of the foxhole after her. But before he could fully leave the hole, Alex grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back forcefully.

“Skip, you can’t!” Alex shouted, desperation filling his voice. “You can’t follow her out there!”

Muck’s body twisted and turned in a futile attempt to free himself from his friend’s grip, a mixture of frustration and terror etched across his face. Realizing he wasn’t getting to her, he yelled after the pair.

“(Y/n)! George!!”

As (y/n) dashed toward George, the world around her seemed to blur in the chaos of the artillery barrage. The deafening roar of exploding shells and the earth-shaking tremors filled the air, making it difficult to hear anything but the explosions and blood pumping in her ears. Every step through the snow-covered forest was a struggle, and her boots almost slipped on the icy ground.

Finally, (y/n) reached his side, her gloved hand wrapping around his arm in a vice-like grip. She yelled, but her voice was lost in the roar of the artillery. The dirt shook beneath them as another shell landed dangerously close, sending them both sprawling to the ground. (Y/n) and Luz frantically crawled forward on their hands and knees, their fingers digging into the frozen earth.

Back in the foxhole, Skip and Alex continued to scream for them, their voices somehow echoing among the chaos. Their pleas turned into frantic cries, “(Y/n)! George! Come on, get in here!”

With each painstaking crawl, the ground continued to shake as explosions sent dirt and shrapnel whizzing through the air. Her breaths came out in ragged gasps, and she kept her eyes on her friends ahead of them. The world around them seemed surreal, with bursts of blinding light and deafening explosions as the artillery barrage continued. It felt like an eternity had passed when they’d almost reached the foxhole.

“Come on! Come on, Luz! Hurry, (y/n/n)-”

The world seemed to blur as (y/n) and George saw a blinding light, followed by a colossal plume of dirt, debris, and flames engulfing their friend’s foxhole. The two friends who had been calling out to them just moments ago were silenced in an instant. (Y/n)’s surroundings slowed, and for a brief, excruciating moment, everything froze. The deafening roar of the artillery was drowned out by the sound of her racing heart. Her eyes widened, and her breath caught in her throat as she watched the horrifying scene unfold.

The realization hit her like a freight train, and her vision blurred as tears welled up in her eyes. Shock and disbelief passed through her, and her hands trembled uncontrollably. She clamped her gloved hand over her mouth, unable to comprehend what had just unfolded before her eyes. Skip and Alex were gone. Gone.

“No,” she whispered, her throat tight.

Reality slowly washed over them, and as another shell screamed towards them, George grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the nearest shelter, which happened to be Lip’s hole. Lip pulled (y/n) down into the hole first, wrapping her in his arms as Luz huddled next to them, the barrage continuing.

“Muck and Penkala,” George screamed.

Lip couldn’t hear him. “What?”

“Muck and Penkala got hit!”

As soon as the words left Luz’s mouth, a shell landed right behind their cover, sending the logs protecting them flying into the air. The men yelled, but (y/n) stayed silent. Her body trembled with each deafening explosion that rocked the earth, and her heart felt like it was tearing apart. The tears flowed uncontrollably, blurring her vision as she cried hysterically into Lip’s shoulder.

She was crammed between the two men, each covering her the best they could as the assault continued. After a few moments, the world stilled, and a haunting silence hung in the air, a stark contrast to the earlier chaos.

A whistling sound and a thud echoed through the foxhole, but (y/n) couldn’t bring herself to look up from her sheltered position. George’s movement beside her drew her attention, and she heard the familiar sound of a Zippo being opened, followed by the scent of cigarettes wafting through the air.

“(Y/n)? You okay?” Lip asked shakily. “You hurt?”

Lip’s concerned voice broke through the somber atmosphere, and he shifted to give her room to breathe. His question echoed in her ears, pulling her back from the brink of despair. She turned her tear-stained face towards him, her watery eyes shimmering in the moonlight. She attempted to respond, but all that escaped her was a shuddering gasp as she shook her head slowly from side to side.

“Skip and Alex,” she croaked, a sob racking through her body as she dropped her face into her hands. “They-”

Carwood’s heart broke for the girl, knowing how close she was to them. “I know, (y/n). I know.”

As she sat there in the foxhole, huddled with Lip and George, the weight of her grief bore down on her, and she couldn’t help but reminisce about the cherished moments she’d shared with her friends. The laughter that was always present in their company, the hilarious stories they swapped, the letters read, and the deep connection they all shared.

The realization that she’d never again hear Skip’s mischievous teasing or Alex’s sarcasm again unleashed a fresh surge of agony, leaving her feeling utterly distraught. The pain of knowing that Skip would never get to hug Ruth again, or experience the joy of marrying Faye Tanner pierced her very soul. The future he once envisioned had been cruelly snatched away.

He would never reach the age of 23, and Alex’s life would never extend to the milestone of 21. The cruel hand of fate had robbed them of their dreams and aspirations, leaving (y/n) with a grief-stricken heart, mourning not only their past but also the future that would never come to pass.

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mads-weasley · 1 year ago

Text

Epiphany Pt. 3: Haunted

Lewis Nixon x Reader

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: hey guys!! i had originally planned for operation market garden to be one chapter, but there were just too many things that i wanted to add, so it will be split up into at least two! hbo owns the rights, and this is about the fictional portrayal of easy company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Summary: Things aren't as cut and dry as they seem when Easy jumps into Holland for Operation Market Garden, and (y/n) faces a heartbreaking reality.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: slightly graphic mistreatment of women (eindhoven scene)

SEPTEMBER 13, 1944: ALDBOURNE, ENGLAND

The pub was alive, bustling with half-drunken paratroopers when (y/n) arrived with Skip, Alex, and Don. They were missing their fifth member who they spotted across the bar playing darts with Buck.

“How much money do ya’ think he’s lost?” Skip asked, snickering as they made their way through the crowd to an empty table.

(Y/n) grimaced. “As long as he’s not asking me for a loan again, I don’t care. He still owes me $20.”

“Ehh, you’re probably not gonna get that back, (y/n/n), Penkala laughed, throwing an arm over her shoulder. “You should know George well enough by now.”

“Well, the first twenty bucks he gets is mine tonight, boys.”

Finding a booth in the corner, Don, Skip, and (y/n) plopped down while Alex went to get them drinks. They looked around the room and observed some of Bull’s new squad replacements sitting nearby.

“They don’t look older than twelve,” Skip scoffed, shaking his head.

Don smacked the side of his head, rolling his eyes. “Skip, you don’t look much older than twelve, alright, so ease up.”

“You’re telling me you don’t even feel a litt-”

“No,” (y/n) interrupted. “I don’t. They’re here the same reason we are.”

Before Skip could argue back, Alex returned with their drinks, and the first thing (y/n) did was gulp hers. To her dismay, Alex had started to ramble about the replacements to Skip, and the pair picked up right where she’d cut him off. With a sigh, she got up and walked over to George, Buck, Toye, and a replacement, who were crowded around the dartboard. They all watched Buck as he lined up a shot.

“Here we go. One shot. Here we go,” he muttered to himself.

When she slid into the space beside George, he smirked with a wink, nodding toward Buck, as if to say, ‘Look at this.’

“Lieutenant,” he began. “You gonna shoot lefty all night?”

Toye and the red-headed replacement’s faces fell, and (y/n) took a sip of her drink to hide her smirk.

Joe looked between George and Buck in disbelief. “Hey, come on,” He groaned.

“Just curious,” George continued, “‘Cause he’s right-handed.”

A sly smile grew on Buck’s face as he switched sides and lined up his shot. “George. What would I do without George Luz?”

The group watched as the dart left Buck’s hand and hit the bullseye dead on.

“Boop!”

Collective groans came from Joe and the replacement at George’s antics as he turned to the men. “Goodness, gracious!”

“Two packs, gentlemen,” Compton announced, holding out his hand.

“I know you’ve got them. Pay up.”

Joe looked at (y/n) who was still smirking into her drink. “You gonna let them screw us like that, (y/n)?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t see anything, Joe.”

Rolling his eyes, Toye grumbled as he placed a pack of cigarettes in Buck’s outstretched hand before walking off. The replacement approached (y/n) with a nervous smile, and she had to agree with Skip that he did look twelve, even if he towered over her.

“Heffron,” he introduced, holding out his hand. “Babe Heffron. Nice to meet you. The guys have told me nothing but great things.”

She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Babe. You’re in Bull’s squad, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Raising her eyebrows, (y/n) snorted. “Ma’am makes me sound like an old woman. Call me (y/n).”

“Yes, ma’a-, I mean, (y/n),” he corrected, his face turning crimson.

Seeing the flash of a familiar silver flask near the door, (y/n) nodded at Babe. “It was nice meeting you, Heffron. You’re in good hands with Bull.”

She found him sitting at a table with Harry Welsh, who looked more tipsy than usual. “(Y/n). Speak of the devil. We wer-”

Nix’s eyes widened, and he kicked Harry discreetly under the table. “You meet the new replacements?” He asked as if Welsh hadn’t spoken.

Raising an eyebrow, she sat in the empty seat beside Lew. “What was that, Lieutenant?”

“Uhh, we were gonna ask you about the replacements,” he replied slowly, glancing at Nix for confirmation.

Though she didn’t understand Harry’s odd behavior, she didn’t push it. “They seem nice. I’ve just met Heffron after George and Buck conned him playing darts.”

Lew took a swig of his flask, throwing an arm on the back of (y/n)’s chair, his fingertips lightly brushing her shoulder. “Bull will take care of them,” he began. “He’s a good sergeant.”

(Y/n) nodded, unsure of her voice at his subtle touch. One touch and she was down for the count. Thinking back to D-Day and the way he held her, heat spread through her. She looked down at the drink in her hand and realized she needed a refill.

“I’ll be right back. I’m gonna get another drink,” she announced, getting up from her seat.

Lew got up, too, grabbing his signature flask. “I’ll come with. Harry, don’t cause too much trouble while we’re gone, alright?”

He rolled his eyes, shooing them away with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah. Go on. I’ll survive.”

The duo made their way for the crowd before leaning against the bar.

“I thought you only drink VAT-69,” she questioned, motioning to the barkeep for two beers.

Nix faced her, his eyes scanning her face. “My supply is running low, so I’ve gotta cut back until I can get some more.”

The bartender returned with two beers and she gratefully took them, returning to their table with Nix in tow. As soon as they sat down, he placed his arm around her chair once again, and she took a big sip of her drink, knowing she would need it to make it through the night.

“So, how’s the officer’s life treating you two?” She asked, trying to hide the blush that crept up her neck.

Harry took a deep breath. “Well…”

An hour and a few drinks later, (y/n) was throwing her head back in laughter at something Harry said. Nix just chuckled beside her, knowing she was drunk due to the fact Harry’s comment wasn’t funny at all.

Her head felt as if was stuffed with cotton, and the world was tilted slightly off its axis, but regardless, she was chatting away with the two Lieutenants.

“Ya’know,” she giggled, waving her hands around emphatically. “Kitty’s a lucky gal ‘ta have ya, Har. Outta all-”

Her hand caught a glass and sent it flying, beer spilling across the table.

“Oh no.”

Lew stood up and gently grasped her elbow, helping her to her feet. “Come on, doll. You’ve had enough.”

“Lewis,” she whined. “I’m not drunk.”

His chuckled. “Really?”

“Uh, ‘yeh.”

“Okay,” he smirked, pointing behind her. “Try to walk to Luz.”

(Y/n) nodded and wobbly took one, two, three steps before tilting to her right, arms flailing. Luckily, Lew was ready and caught her by her waist effortlessly.

“I guess I am drunk,” she murmured into his shoulder.

Her attempt gained the attention of her squadmates who still sat at the same table from hours earlier. Don and George walked over, faces painted with concern.

“She alright?” Luz asked with a grimace.

“Yeah. She’s just a lightweight,” Nixon smirked, glancing down at the woman in his arms. “I’m gonna take her home.”

Lifting her head off his shoulder, she looked up at him. “Already there,” she whispered to herself.

To her dismay, Don had heard it, and the man’s eyes became saucers as he realized what she meant. Everything clicked in his head.

“Yeah,” he smiled. “I’ll get someone to check on her in the morning.”

With a curt nod, Nix led her out of the pub and was hit with a wave of sharp, chilly air that had her huddling closer to him. He had a secure hand around her waist, keeping her upright as they walked down the cobblestone streets of Aldbourne.

“You alright down there?” He asked, squeezing her hip gently.

(Y/n) basked in his warmth. “I like it when you hold me.”

The man got choked up on his saliva and coughed a few times at her confession.

“Well,” he began slowly, staring down at her, the moonlight illuminating her face. “I like to hold you.”

“Why?”

A smile formed on his lips. “You can ask me when you’re sober, but I doubt you’ll remember any of this, sweetheart.”

She nodded once against his shoulder as they turned onto her street. Aldbourne was a quiet town, especially on a Sunday night. It was easy for one to find themselves getting lost in their thoughts. The soft glow from windows reflecting off the pavement felt like home, even if they were thousands of miles away from theirs.

In different circumstances, Lew could envision him and (y/n) on their way home from a night dancing or movie picture, giggling as young couples do, oblivious to the horrors of the world. But that wasn’t reality. They’d seen the horrors firsthand, and he envied the people who lived and loved in times of peace.

A soft voice broke him from his thoughts. “Thanks.”

Looking up and realizing they’d arrived at her billet, he reluctantly let go of her. He felt the loss of her warmth and reached out to take her hand. “Drink some water, alright? I can’t have you being grumpy tomorrow because you’re hungover.”

She smiled blearily, squeezing his hand. “Thanks for ev’rythin, Lew.”

In a moment of weakness, he sighed and tugged her closer. As Lew’s strong arms wrapped gently around (y/n)’s frame, he felt her heart beating through her chest, as if it were trying to send him a message. The scent of her hair, a delicate mix of her shampoo, and the evening breeze intoxicated his senses. All he could think about was the woman in his arms. Standing there in the warm embrace of a quiet, moonlit night, it was as if the war wasn’t raging around the world. But just as quickly as it had begun, the hug came to an end. They pulled away, eyes meeting for a fleeting moment as if searching for answers in each other’s gaze.

“G’nigh,” she giggled, walking towards her door with unsteady steps.

“Night, sweetheart,”

Once the door had closed and he heard the familiar click of the lock, he backed up onto the street shaking his head with a bashful smile.

“I’m in trouble,” he chuckled, making his way back to the bar.

September 14, 1944: ALDBOURNE, ENGLAND

(Y/n) awoke with a groan, hearing dull raps from the front door beneath her. Each knock was like a drum banging inside her skull as she made her way down the stairs. The family she was staying with was on a weekend vacation, and she was thankful their children wouldn’t see her so hungover.

(Y/n) opened the door, squinting at the bright sunlight. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” a kind voice replied. Lip.

Her eyes widened. “Sorry, Car, I didn’t realize it was you.”

“It’s alright,” he began softly. “You weren’t at the pub last night, so I wanted to let you know we’re moving out again.”

Already?.

“Okay. Thanks, Lip,” (y/n) nodded, eyes sinking to the floor as she closed the door.

Great.

September 17, 1944: Operation Market Garden

As Easy Company sat in ditches along the road to Eindhoven, an eerie silence hung in the air. Sure, Allied intelligence suspected the Krauts in the country were mostly old men and kids, but the paratroopers were on their toes, ready for whatever would come next.

(Y/n) was sandwiched between George and Skip, who were grumbling back and forth about a failed darts game the night before.

“Will you two shut up, please?” She laughed softly. “I can’t even hear myself think.”

George smirked, adjusting his helmet. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

A squadron of Allied aircraft roared overhead, and soon after, they approached the town. A window opened, and (y/n) motioned for everyone to get down as she crouched beside a fence. The person pulled out a long orange banner and tied it around the window.

“Okay, hold your fire,” Bull appeared behind them, cigar hanging from his lips.

Staring at the town above her M-1 sight, a deep pang of worry shot through her stomach. Something didn’t feel right.

The paratroopers couldn’t believe their eyes as the people of Eindhoven celebrated their liberation from the German occupation. Bright orange flags flew from every window, and (y/n) found herself smiling at the pure joy that oozed from the town.

(Y/n) and George had gotten separated from the rest of their squad in the crowd as they dodged kisses from the locals. Well, (y/n) dodged their kisses. After a few girls tried to land a smooch on her lips, she removed her helmet, showing she was a woman. Soon the town's men caught on and were trying to do the same.

She tried to push through the crowd as quickly as possible staving off any attempts from them. Looking behind her, she groaned at the empty spot where George had been. “George,” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Luz! Come on!”

A few seconds later, he appeared to her right, fresh red lipstick smeared across his lips that were quirked into a wide grin.

“Gosh, (y/n). Can’t a guy have some fun?” He joked, wiping his mouth with his hand.

Turning around, she rolled her eyes and made her way through an opening in the crowd only to be pulled to the side by her arm. “Hey!”

A familiar Philly accent filled her ears. “Come get in this picture, (y/n)!”

Babe pulled her through the crowd, and George followed, kissing as many girls as he could along the way.

“There they are!” Chuck yelled, throwing his arm around a blonde.

George and Babe stood behind a few kids wearing orange hats and waving flags, all smiling from ear to ear. A wide smile grew on (y/n)’s face as she knelt beside the kids, placing her helmet on the little girl's head beside her. The helmet tipped down, covering the girl’s face except for her crooked, snaggle-toothed smile. (Y/n) quickly fixed it for her, and to her surprise, the little girl threw herself in the woman’s arms. Fighting off tears, she sniffled and hugged the girl back before pointing to the camera.

“Smile, everybody!” (Y/n) announced.

The picture was taken with a click, and (y/n)’s eyes wandered to the left of the cameraman.

She froze, her face falling. Time slowed as she watched the scene unfold before her. A local woman with long, flowing chestnut hair and a confident stride approached Lew. (Y/n) squinted to get a better look, her heart pounding. She watched in disbelief as the stranger reached up and placed a hand on Lew’s cheek, drawing him closer. The world around (y/n) seemed to blur as the stranger’s lips met Lew’s, and they kissed, and he didn't pull away.

Time seemed to stand still for (y/n). She couldn’t comprehend what she was witnessing. Her mind raced with questions.

Why was Lew kissing her?

Her hands clenched into fists, and tears welled up in her eyes. (Y/n) felt like a statue, unable to move or speak as the painful scene played out before her. She knew she had no right to be jealous, but not so deep down, she wished it were her instead. Her heart ached, and her stomach churned with anger, jealousy, and sadness.

George tapped her shoulder, his brows furrowed. “(Y/l/n)? You alright?”

Following her line of sight, he found what she was fixated on and softly sighed.

“He’s an idiot, (y/n/n). Come on,” he murmured, hoisting her up by her arm.

She stood and blinked away angry tears that filled her vision. She knew she had no right to be jealous, but not so deep down, she wished it were her.

A small voice below her broke her train of thought. “Dank,” the little girl nodded, holding out (y/n)’s helmet. She forced a smile and took it from the girl.

George tugged her arm softly, pulling her in the opposite direction of Nix. She blindly followed in a haze, her mind muddied with hurtful thoughts. Townsfolk grabbed at her jacket as she and George made their way to the main town square where 2nd platoon was meeting.

She was snapped out of her mind by the sound of screams. Her head moved on a swivel trying to find the sound’s source. Spotting a circle of citizens up ahead, she pushed past George quickly, squeezing her way through a few men to see inside the circle.

Before her, half-naked women were on their knees, crying as their hair was roughly shaved, leaving them with blood streaking down their necks and faces. Two Dutch resistance fighters bumped past (y/n) with another petrified woman in their arms. They threw her down and began to rip the clothes off her body. (Y/n)’s eyes narrowed as a burning sensation filled her chest.

“Hey!” She cried, shoving one of them away from the woman. “That’s enough!”

The man recovered swiftly, but (y/n) didn’t give up. Unable to bend her to his will, he resorted to dirty tactics, shoving her forcefully and causing her to stumble and fall to the hard cobblestone street with a thud.

“Stomme meid,” he spat.

Stupid girl.

Her unclasped helmet skidded a few feet away as her head came in contact with the road. The impact knocked the wind out of her, leaving her momentarily gasping for breath.

For a few seconds, everyone’s eyes were on the (y/n), then all hell let loose. Easy’s men were trying to get to her with enraged shouts but were unable to get through the crowd. With great effort, (y/n) pushed herself up off the ground, her face flushed but her spirit unbroken. She looked the man squarely in the eyes, refusing to show fear despite the pain in her chest.

The man leered down at her with a smirk as he switched to heavily accentuated English. “Maybe we should teach you a less-”

(Y/n) lost all self-control as her arm reeled back ready to swing, but someone grabbed it tightly and tried to pull her away from the man. Seeing a flash of dark hair, she knew it was him, and her fury only grew. (Y/n) resisted, her heart pounding with adrenaline.

“No, Nix!” She protested, her voice filling with fiery determination. She wriggled free from his grasp for a moment, her eyes still locked onto the resistance fighters. “Let go of me! They can’t do this! We can’t let them do this!”

He stepped in front of (y/n), blocking her view of the confrontation, and looked deeply into her eyes. “(Y/n), I know, all right? I wish we could, but we can’t do anything about it.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, she tried to push past him only to hear a tone he had never used with her before.

“Stop! That’s an order, (y/l/n),” he gritted, his heart squeezing in his chest at the words.

(Y/n) stared at the Officer in disbelief.

How dare he not help these poor women?

Tears filled her eyes for the second time that day as she took one more look at the poor woman on the ground. “I’m sorry,” she whispered before shoving her way back through the crowd.

Lew’s eyes followed her until she disappeared into the mob. Sighing, he ran a hand down his face.

What a difference a few days can bring.

One of the men behind him spoke. “She’s a lively one, no?”

“Shut it,” Nix snapped, scooping (y/n)’s discarded helmet off the street.

When he found Dick, Harry, and Buck, he handed the helmet to her platoon leader. “It’s (y/n)’s.”

Buck took it with a nod as the four officers watched the British Armored Division come rumbling down the street.

It was going to be a long operation.

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