Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beer splattered on the floor from too much enthusiasm, laughs filling the place, jokes lifting the pressure Sobel had put on us for longer than anyone would have wanted, and yet my attention kept drifting to her.

She stood close to the wall -not too far from the ruckus, just enough to stay out of the spotlight-, smiling.

Her cheeks mildly flushed; a telltale sign that a little too much alcohol ran through her veins tonight. I couldn't really make out the sound of her laugh, but by the way she threw her head back, Grant's joke must have been good.

Good enough for her to allow his fingers near the rebellious strand of hair that always seemed to frame her face.

Good enough for Grant to lean on when her palms smoothed out his jacket, her thumb wiping his recently pinned jump wings.

She was playing. That jacket was perfectly ironed and those jump wings weren't dusty. There was no need for her to linger. There was no need for her to look at him through her lashes with that stupid grin that screamed trouble.

There was no need for any of that, and yet it was happening. She was standing there, smiling, hands lingering, cheeks flushed and Chuck's lips on hers.

I don't care. I don't fucking care. It's their life.

"Having a good time, Lieb?" When my head snapped back to the counter, Luz was leaning on his elbows, eyes way too sharp for my liking.

"Yeah." It was too fast and too harsh, and it made Luz's attention follow the direction in which I had been looking at.

"Jesus Christ." His upper body straightened, hands still on the bar counter when he called for Toye. "Hey, Joe, take a load of that."

George tilted his chin to the side of the room and the Irishman turned in time to see Y/n's arms draping over Chuck's shoulders.

"You gotta be kidding me." He limited himself to comment, resignation adorned with the tiniest glint of amusement. "Told you not to give her that last beer."

"She's a big girl, alright?" Luz's tone turned stern for a second. "She can take-" his eyes widened dramatically, a nervous laugh escaping him at the sight. "She can take a lot of things, apparently."

"Like Grant's tongue down her throat." Skip chimed in, immediately picking up on the topic while his hand reached for one of the stools besides Toye. "Who would've thought."

My gaze, until now fixed on the bar counter like it was far more interesting than the event unfolding somewhere in my right flank, switched back to her.

"What the hell's wrong with her?" I didn't bother hiding the disgust pinching my face when my head snapped back to the boys around me. "This is why we shouldn't have a broad around-" | hissed at Toye's immediate smack on the back of my neck. "Don't fucking touch me."

"Then watch that damn tongue, alright?" He cautioned, taking a swig of his beer.

"Don't be an asshole, Lieb." George was quick to join Toye in Y/n's unnecessary defense. "The girl's just having fun, like it or lump it."

"Fun?" I shot her a glare. They were laughing between kisses, like it was funny. "She could get kicked out of the Airborne for this."

"Are you gonna rat her out?" Skip taunted me with a quirked brow.

"He's just mad it's not him." George winked at me, taking out a pack of smokes from his pocket. "Four months of you two being stupid and you still haven't made a move." His tone sounded far too nonchalant considering what the words implied. "Can't be mad someone else did." George shrugged, taking a cigarette to his lips.

"Why don't you shut up for a change, Luz?" I hissed, more annoyed than mad.

"Why don't you talk to her for a change?" George countered, a lopsided smirk trapping the now lit cigarette. "Y'know, like a normal person."

"Luz, drop it." Toye reprimanded the boy filling the barman duties. "And you," his index finger lazily pointed at me. "stop running that big mouth 'bout her just 'cause you're jealous."

"Jealous?" I breathed out a scoff, pushing myself off the counter and taking my beer with me. "Give me a damn break, Toye."

I was not far enough from the three men to miss Luz initiating a bet. 'Five bucks says she'll... something something', I couldn't make half of it with all the noise engulfing me as I traded the crowded place in Grant's and Y/n's direction.

By the time I reached their spot, Y/n's shoulder rested on the wall, her drink almost empty held by one of her hands while the other tapped its nails against the glass. Chuck's back was to me.

He stood close enough to shield her from the celebrations but somehow, her eyes still managed to land on my form.

The change from her laid-back posture to something more guarded gave Chuck the cue to turn around.

"Someone told you two to get a room yet?"

I raised my glass at my friend's thrown look, refraining the urge to stare back at Y/n.

Grant grabbed the cigarette tucked behind his ear and tapped it against his palm lazily. "Alright." It was more of a sigh than a word. He leaned in to whisper something in her ear that made her snort.

"Yeah, okay." She replied, keen eyes following Chuck's movements as he stepped back and did a half turn, his hand patting my shoulder on his way out.

I waited until her attention was back on me before asking. "Having a good time?"

Her body, still supported by the wall, tensed up ever so slightly, her grip on the glass tightening much like mine. "Yes. Got a problem with that?"

A beat of anticipating silence between us seemed to muffle the animated chatter behind me.

"Are you stupid?"

"No, just drunk." She deadpanned, tilting her head to the side while sporting a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you for your concern, though."

I huffed a not-at-all amused chuckle, diverting for an instant my squinted eyes from her. "You ever think things through?"

She breathed out one single laugh, her disbelieving gaze screaming very clearly 'are you kidding me?'.

"You know what, Liebgott? If you're gonna scold someone," She tilted her chin up, motioning me to look at one of the farthest tables where Grant had squeezed himself in between Talbert and Ramirez.

"scold him. He's your friend. I'm not."

My friend. I mused her words for a second.

We'd see about that.

"You're right." I nodded, my lips curved into a mildly annoyed pout. "You're just the idiot that's gonna get herself kicked out of the Airborne 'cause she was too fucking desperate for a kiss."

Her irises darted at her glass for a split second and she swallowed the briefest hesitation I caught in her visage.

It was fast -so fast I barely had any chance to shut my eyes before what was left of her beer was splashed on my face, triggering a couple of gasps and poorly hidden laughs in our vinicity.

My hand was rubbing out the sticky liquor from my lids when her palm slapped something against my chest that I instinctively caught with my fingers. A handkerchief, considering the touch of the fabric.

"If I were desperate, Joe," by the time I managed to see again, she stood upright besides me, leaving her now empty glass on the high table at her left. "I would've gone to you."

"You're hilarious, really." I retorted with a flat tone, using the embroidered cotton cloth to get rid of the drink's remainders dripping down my cheeks.

"Came up with it yourself?"

"Fuck you."

And with that, she was off to the bar counter, where I saw Skip halfheartedly passing what I supposed we're the five bucks they had bet.

"Charming." I muttered under my breath as I walked to the empty chair at Popeye's crammed table, tucking Y/n's handkerchief into one of my uniform's pockets without giving it a second thought.

Chapter Text

Threading through the narrow hallways of the SS Samaria-if one could even refer to them as such -, would have been hard enough with a regular amount of passengers.

It goes without saying that the ocean liner taking the 101st Airborne across the Atlantic did not have a regular amount of passengers.

By the time I managed to reach the section of bunk cots where I would be sleeping, the droplets of sweat peppering my skin had doubled their number.

"Went for a breather?" Skinny questioned, glueing his back to the so-called beds to give way to me.

"Went to the bathroom." I corrected him, hastily unbuttoning my jacket before climbing up.

"Care to rate the experience?" Luz stretched out his arm that I gladly took to help me climb the last cot.

"You don't wanna know."

"Bet I don't."

I stationed myself by George's side, tossing my jacket away from me with enough force to make the Portuguese squint his eyes at me.

"You alright there?"

"Honestly?" I huffed, one of my hands bunching up my hair while the other searched for a pencil in my bag's pocket. "Might shave my head before we get to Europe."

"Jesus."

"Should've listened to Sobel when he told you to get rid of those pretty locks, Y/I/n." Petty, who sat across from me and George, chimed in, mildly amused at my struggle to pin my hair up with the pencil.

"The bastard might have had a point after all." I responded through gritted teeth.

"Hey, why don't you tell Liebgott to give you a haircut?" George's suggestion earned a wide-eyed look from me.

"Uhh... I'd rather jump overboard, thank you."

"Good call." Tipper absentmindedly commented.

"He might just cut your head off if you go to him now anyway."

"What?"

"Lieb had a bit of a tussle." George shrugged. "You know how he is."

"I was gone for ten minutes."

"Yeah, well- it escalated quickly."

"What happened?" I threw the question up in the air to whoever wanted to bite the bullet and give me the full story.

"Guarnere called Sobel a Jew. Liebgott took offense." Tipper, as usual, laid it out plain and simple, only partially focused on our conversation.

A soft furrow formed between my brows, my hand automatically taking the cigarette George was offering. "He took offense because Guarnere called Sobel a Jew?"

"He took offense because he's a Jew." Petty clarified, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"...That's it?"

"I mean," George scrunched his nose, toying with his lighter. "maybe Bill used different words."

Oh?

"Different words."

"You know how they are." George repeated, half uninterested.

I wasn't letting them brush past the topic that easily, but I did let a beat of silence pass, tapping the cigarette Luz had given me against my thigh in a too calculated motion.

"What words?"

George gave me an almost tired side look. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything, I'm just askin'."

Luz groaned, throwing his head up in desperation. Sisk, who stood slouched against Petty's bunks' column, jumped in. "Look, Y/n, we needed ten of us to break them out. Don't you go startin' something now."

"Jesus Christ, Skinny. I'm just asking." The men conversating with me all exchanged glances that spoke volumes about their choice of not telling me. "Okay. Now I need a breather. God."

I held the unlit smoke between my lips and, in a swift motion, I was down on the floor, arms stretched as a silent request for George to throw me my jacket.

"Don't go looking for trouble, yeah?"

"Yes, mother." I mocked him, pushing through the sea of idle soldiers I had just navigated, this time towards the nearest exit to the promenade deck.

A couple of frustrated huffs escaped me, not so much due to the overcrowded space. The lack of actual intel the boys had given me on Joe and Bill's 'tussle' —as George had called it—, was a bit infuriating.

For all the bad temper and short fuse, Joe Liebgott most times wasn't entirely on the wrong in these kinds of situations —although I would never admit it to his face.

But then again, that might have been the exact reason why they all tried to sweep the topic under the rug in front of me.

Soon enough, I was opening the hatch door. The cold night air mixed with the humidity of the Atlantic were a stark contrast to the oven the Samaria had turned into.

Despite it being exhilarating for the first few seconds, the very moment I closed the door behind me, I realized why there was nearly no one outside.

"Jesus Christ, it's freezing." I muttered to myself, rushing to put my jacket back on.

"It's just the change of temperature." A flat voice explained from somewhere in my right flank.

"Wait it out a couple minutes, you won't wanna go back inside."

Joe barely spared me a glance longer than a couple of seconds before he poured his attention back into the task at hand; trying -and failing-to light himself a cigarette.

"that so?" I questioned, mostly to make conversation, whilst buttoning up the upper part of my fatigues.

"that so." He curtly replied, hissing a curse after forcing his lighter to spark for the nth time without fruition.

I fished my own lighter out of my back pocket and limited myself to observe his motions- his pacing, how his shoulders hunched, the way he kept his jaw locked.

"You should get another lighter."

His eyes snapped at me with barely restrained anger. "Fuck you."

Without budging, I reached him in a few strides and snatched his cigarette away from him, earning a complaint. "You're insufferable when you're pissed."

"You're insufferable always."

"Way to talk to someone who's helping you out, Liebgott." My words came out mildly slurred due to both his cigarette and mine being trapped by my lips for me to light them.

"Not like I asked you to."

He took the cigarette back anyway.

"You didn't hit him, did you?"

I wasn't exactly looking for an answer, but he gave it to me in the form of another question.

"How d'you know?"

"That you're already causing trouble? or that you didn't hit Bill?"

"I'm not causing fuckin' trouble." He threw back, flicking off the ashes overboard. "How'd you know I didn't hit him?"

""Cause you're being annoying."

"Go back inside if I'm so annoying."

I pretended to entertain the idea, glancing at the entrance before settling for a "Nah. You were right, the temperature's way nicer out here."

Joe held my gaze momentarily, a bit dumbfounded, a bit petulant, before looking away while muttering something about me being unbelievable.

"What'd he say anyway?"

Despite my nonchalant tone, Joe still gave me the same wary look George had in his face when I had asked him.

"Was it that bad?"

"No," he didn't miss a beat, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "that's why I'm not telling you."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, c'mon." Joe exhaled something between a laugh and a scoff. "You're gonna go back in there and break his nose."

Scoff.

"You think I'd do that for you?"

He seemed to size me up for an instant, making me wonder if my face matched the mocking irony of my voice.

"I think I don't wanna find out."

"Well, whatever he said," this time it was me who momentarily averted her eyes, glancing at the pitch black darkness of the ocean instead. "he's an idiot, it's not worth it, blah blah blah. Don't go starting fights in places we can barely move in."

"Yes, mother."

As a response to his retort, I could only stare and blink a couple of times.

"What?"

I shook my head 'no', putting my cigarette off on the railing. "Nothing, it's just-"

I hate how similar we are.

"Just what?"

Silence.

"You think you could cut my hair without butchering it?"

Whatever Joe was expecting, it clearly wasn't that. It took him an instant-long speechlessness to recover his footing, although he recovered just ask quick. "That desperate, huh?"

"You have no idea." I gave his contemplative eye a quirked brow. "So?"

"What do I get in return?"

"You get to do something with your hands without getting them bloodied or bruised."

"How considerate."

"Alright," I pursed my lips, my head tilted to the side as my mind rifled through the options I could offer Joe without digging my own grave in the process. "I'll owe you one, how about that?"

As a response, Joe burned his cigarette down to the filter and flicked it off into the water. "C'mon."

"Wait— now?"

"What, you have something better to do around here?"

He pushed himself off the railing and sidestepped me, taking the pencil holding up my hair with him in the process.

"Hey!"

"Don't cry about it." One of his hands opened the hatch door while the other reached out to tug on the sleeve of my jacket. "C'mon."

"Patience is a virtue, y'know?" I quipped, letting him drag me back inside after him anyway.

"You talkin' to yourself now, Y/I/n?"

"Oh, shut up." That earned him a light shove the moment I set a foot indoor. "I'm already regretting this."

Chapter Text

Plop!

"Jesus—!"

I instinctively tilted back my upper body, putting distance between me and the seat across where Sisk's tray had been violently dropped, spilling the poor excuse of scrambled eggs in his plate.

"Can you not?"

Skinny ignored my annoyed glare and leaned in to whisper, "You heard?"

"Heard what?" I grumbled, only half interested whilst cleaning the spots of my side of the table where Sisk's breakfast had spilled.

"Sergeants turned in their stripes to Sink."

That got my attention.

"What? Which Sergeants?"

"All of them."

"All of them?"

Oh God.

Five Days Earlier

"You're telling me Sobel actually thought you were Horton?" Malarkey asked in disbelief, his right hand distractedly picking at the grass we were all spread out over.

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

I was about to question Sisk about what he knew when I caught with the corner of my eye Y/n's form moving around the food service counter.

"Hey, Y/I/n." She pretended not to hear me, walking past our table to look for a free seat. "Y/I/n!"

I cursed under my breath but still got up and stalked in her direction until I was close enough not to draw any nosy ears with my words.

"Didn't think you'd actually do it." I commented, falling into step with her.

"Wasn't my call."

"Then who was it?" She shook her head 'no' at my inquiry. "How did it go?"

"Fantastic. Sink wanted us lined up and shot."

"Shit." I answered. As if that wasn't expected at all.

"What happened then?"

"Demoted."

"All of you?"

"Just me and Ranney. Sink booted out Harris." She slowed her walk until she came to a stop, making me do the same. "Look, why don't you go ask Talbert and let me have breakfast in peace?"

"You're real charming." I remarked unfazed. "Just thought you were behind this."

"I told you. I'm not."

"The hell did he bust you for, then?"

Her jaw locked briefly as if she was mustering all the patience she didn't have. "Take a wild guess."

"You can't blame all the bullshit that happens to you on being a broad."

"This I can. Sink made it pretty clear." Y/n used the corner of her tray to lightly nudge my arm; a cue for me to step aside, which I did. "Tell you what, you should try your luck with the grenades." She added, sidestepping me with her eyes trained ahead.

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" I questioned, loud enough for her to catch the tease in my voice she found so annoying.

"Yes!"

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

READER'S P. O. V.

"Mind the company?"

My gaze snapped up from the M1 resting on my lap, almost thoroughly cleaned, to the source of the voice.

Due to the loud pitter-patter of the rain against the eave I sat under, I had failed to notice Joe coming out of the adjacent barracks.

"I always mind if it's your company." That answer earned an unamused puff from Joe, now leaning back against the building's wall across from me.

"Can you not be a pain in the ass for five minutes?"

"Can you?" Joe didn't even have time to open his mouth. "I'll do an exception, just because they're getting out of hand."

Joe hummed, the closest thing to an okay, thank you'I would get. The boys inside were rowdier than usual. I couldn't blame them; we had just gotten word that the company's command had been transferred out of Sobel's hands. Everyone was happy- no, not happy. Exhilarated.

But they were pushing it now, and the indoor areas assigned to Easy had become suffocating enough for a handful of us to choose Britain's rain over the common spaces.

"Meehan, huh?" Joe was the one to break the silence between us. Before returning my attention to my rifle, I caught sight of his fingers drumming against his thighs and I wondered how long would it take for his hands to search something to toy with.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Guess you were right."

I quirked a brow at him. "What was that, Liebgott?"

"You deaf now?"

"Yes."

He averted his eyes and mumbled something I couldn't quite catch with a tinge of annoyance.

"You getting back your rank now?"

"Why would I?" Before he could counter my inquiry with something that would surely send us into a pointless argument, I added, "Whatever, I don't care." A lie. He didn't call me out on it. "As long as we have a decent CO."

"Fair."

And there went his restless hands, eagerly fishing for something in his pockets. He soon pulled out a half empty Lucky Strike pack and that godawful lighter he should have thrown away already.

I awaited, observing how he unsurprisingly tried out his luck with lighting himself a cigarette.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

"Jesus Christ," I whispered, mildly surprised by his stubborness. "just get yourself another lighter."

"It's this damn rain."

"No, it's your damn lighter."

With a halfhearted sigh, I set my rifle over the bench I was sat on and withdrew from the side of my jacket a cigarette that instantly caught my lighter's flame. As if taking a silent cue, Joe threw his own lighter back into his pocket and tucked his unlit smoke behind his ear.

"Here." I extended my arm halfway through the narrow alley formed by the two buildings that offered us shelter, covering the cigarette from the rain with my hand.

Joe replicated my motions to take what I handed him. "Does it ever stop pouring?" He gave his arm a couple of sharp shakes in a futile attempt to dry the droplets off his sleeve faster. "This damn weather."

"It's not that bad."

"Do you disagree with me as a sport?"

I exhaled a lazy laugh, gaining a barely-there lopsided smirk from Joe. "I just like the rain." He gave me a judgmental look that screamed 'really?', to which I simply shrugged.

"You're outta your mind. This fucking island is miserable."

Silence

"I've always wanted to visit England."

"Yeah?" His eyes sized me up for no particular reason as he took a drag from his half forgotten cigarette. "You like it?"

"It's alright."

Joe must have noticed the disillusionment in my tone.

"Not what you imagined?"

"Not really."

He nodded at my curt response but didn't push for more.

"You ever wanna go anywhere else? Besides England, I mean."

I considered for a moment. "Paris, maybe. I don't know."

He huffed, a mix of humor and disdain noticeable.

"The hell was that?"

"Nothing," He muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Just real original. Paris. City of love. Eiffel Tower. All that shit."

With a groan and a roll of my eyes, I pondered and discarded the idea of telling him to leave. "What about you?" I inquired instead, pulling my knee up to my chest.

"What about me?"

"You ever wanna visit anywhere? In Europe?"

He exhaled the smoke, watching it curl in the air before replying, "Germany."

I snorted. Louder than I would have liked. More genuine that Joe would have expected.

"What's funny?"

I shook my head, squinting my eyes as if that would make me the ability to decide whether or not he was joking. "Jesus, Liebgott."

"What? We're going there anyway." He leaned forward slightly, letting his front locks catch a handful of raindrops. "Might as well make a fun trip out of it. Eat Apfelstrudel in the morning, kill nazis in the afternoon." His upper body returned to rest against the wall, a breathy snicker leaving his lungs as if he was amused by his own joke.

He was. And so was I. For all the broken humor and dry sarcasm, Joe was actually funny when he wanted to be. Not that I would ever explicitly tell him, but my smile had given me away countless times- too many for me to try and conceal it anymore.

"Yeah, let's take the scenery route to Hitler's house." I kept the joking undercurrent alive, to Joe's liking. It came with ease, and despite it being rare between us, it wasn't unwelcome.

"While we're at it, we could take a detour and-"

The sound of the front door around the corner swinging open accompanied George's voice, his upper body peeping at us from the other side of the barracks.

"What are you two doing out here?" He asked with a cigarette loosely hanging from his lips.

"Breathe."

"Talk."

Joe and I spoke simultaneously.

"Talk." George repeated my phrase with certain wariness. "You spend an awful lot of time together these days."

"You were the one who wanted us to be civil." I protested.

"Might be worse than I thought."

Joe kicked a pebble in George's direction. "Piss off, Luz."

"You two are a weird pair, y'know that?" George tossed the pebble back at Joe and turned heel to head back inside.

After a beat of silence, Joe absentmindedly asked, "Take a detour and what?"

"Huh?"

"You were saying something."

"Oh." I furrowed my brows, trying and failing to recall what he demanded. "I forgot. Probably a bad joke."

Joe flicked the ash off the cigarette with a crooked grin. "You got a lot of those lately."

"I pick all of them from you."

He tittered briefly, and the silence that followed wasn't all that bad.

"I'm gonna head back inside." He announced, running his fingers through the mildly wet locks framing his forehead. "See if the room is still standing and all."

"Alright." I took my rifle and returned it to my lap in order to finish the task I had interrupted. "Don't get lost."

"Real funny, sweetheart." The quip barely carried over the rain.

"Idiot." I muttered, aware that, although he wouldn't hear it, he'd know some insult directed to him had left my mouth.

Chapter Text

READER'S P. O. V.

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

Thy kingdom come; thy...

Thy...

"Fuck."

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

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

I'm gonna die.

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

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

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

I'm gonna die.

I exhaled slow. Forced my hands to unclench.

Should've taken that second pill.

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

I'm gonna die.

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

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

The light overhead burned red.

Almost time.

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

But the light turned green.

Time to go.

JOE'S P. O. V.

The plane rattled like it was about to fall apart.

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

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

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

Not that they were worth much right now.

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

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

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

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

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

It's not going anywhere. Let it be.

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

Focus.

The taste of smoke and sweat.

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

The cold touch of the hook strapped in the line.

The thought of her.

"The fuck..."

Not on purpose.

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

"This damn pill."

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

"THIS DAMN PILL!!"

A couple if pats on my shoulder blade.

"YOU BETTER WAKE UP, LIEB!!"

I shook my head, exhaled through my nose.

Focus.

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

Jesus.

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

I swallowed, rolling my shoulders.

"Shit. C'mon."

Please, God. Make it fucking quick.

The light turned green.

READER'S P. O. V.

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

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

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

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

No helmet.

"Shit!"

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

I wasn't dead, though. Not yet.

That was the only thing I knew for certain.

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

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

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

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

Shoot first.

Shoot.

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

"Liebgott?"

The person slithered fast in my direction, triggering an uneven stammering in my heart.

A hand clamped down on my arm, bringing me forward so fast I almost faceplanted into the dirt. "Jesus Christ, Y/I/n." Joe's voice, rough and sharp. Too close. He was crouched in front of me, knife gripped so tight his knuckles were white, sweat slicking his forehead under his netted helmet.

"Flash. Thunder." I could feel his breath against my cheek, his grip still firm on my arm, holding me low. "How 'bout you don't throw out my goddamn name in enemy territory?"

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

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

"Somewhere over Normandy."

"That's lovely."

"You don't have a gun?"

"What's it look like, smartass?"

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

"How long have you been down here?"

"Couple minutes." His response was low and sort of absent. He was focused on something else.

"Saw your chute. Thought you'd be someone from my stick."

"Missed the drop zone."

He glanced me over. "You or me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We needed a damn map.

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

JOE'S P. O. V.

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

They were ours.

A couple of unlucky men.

No, not men. Kids.

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

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

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

We knew their faces. Not their names-just faces.

We had all trained together at some point, ate in the same mess halls, stood in the same formation. I was sure one of them had played poker with us back in Aldbourne.

Y/n forced herself not to avert her eyes.

Petty turned away, finding solace on the dewed grass.

I didn't.

I couldn't.

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

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

I forced myself to blink. "Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, they didn't train us for this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because my hands were shaking.

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

I let go of her uniform like it had burned me.

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

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

"Alright."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Joe."

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

Get a grip.

"I'm good. C'mon."

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

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

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

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

Get a fucking grip.

Chapter Text

The squelch of my boots stepping on the mud alerted the three soldiers huddled in the hedgerow, trying with nearly no fruition to get some rest. Whether it was due to the constant drizzle or the German division waiting for dawn on the higher side of the french field, I didn't know.

"Flash!"

"Thunder." My voice was flat as I slid down by Luz's side, careful to keep my rifle away from the damp hole turned trench. "McGrath," I motioned vaguely behind me, gaze fixed on the man who sat in front of me. "you're up."

"Already?" I nodded, already making myself as comfortable as possible. McGrath mumbled a complaint and climbed out, shoving his helmet back on.

Luz, who I had most likely been shaken out of a light sleep with my irruption, gave me a wary up-and-down. "What the hell are you doing here?"

That made my brows draw. "What?"

"She probably got stitched up and busted out the aid station." Joe replied, as if I was not sitting right across from him.

"I didn't bust out." My tone, although low, denoted irritation, which was what Joe was aiming for by the satisfied smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "I just left. Doc gave me the green light."

George's eyes squinted in the dark, searching my profile. "I was half-expecting them to pull you back after that stunt in Carentan."

"Why would they?" sigh. "I can shoot, I can fight, I can run. They're not gonna pull me back for a little shrapnel on my face." I tugged off my own helmet and let it drop with a dull thud before running a hand through my wet hair, slicking it back. "This damn rain."

Joe turned his head to watch me, his tone sarcastic when he quipped, "Thought you liked the rain."

I huffed, locating my rifle strategically for it not to get soaked. "I also like sleeping in a bed, but here we are."

The soil had turned to slush, the rain making sure we felt every inch of our fatigues sticking to our bodies like a second skin. By how unbothered the two men seemed despite the droplets plastering their hair to their skulls, I figured they had given up on caring.

"Ah, fuck." Luz grimaced, staring at his wristwatch.

"What now?" Joe's annoyance was a telltale sign that George had done his fair share of complaining already.

"My watch starts in three hours." The Portuguese clicked his tongue. "Can't a guy get some sleep without a pretty girl dropping beside him?"

"Oh, God." Joe groaned, tilting his head back against the compacted dirt.

George's cheeky grin earned him a light smack on the back of his neck from me. "Go to sleep then."

"Yes, ma'am."

Joe shook his head at our friend's demeanor but refrained himself from speaking up.

George, to his credit, did as he was told and soon enough, he was out cold, his head slumped over my shoulder as his breathing evened out.

Joe and I sat in the quiet, only filled by the soft ricocheting of the water. It was almost eery -the lack of gunfire, mortars and tracers.

"Anything happen while I was on watch?" I whispered in an attempt to break through the unusual silence.

Joe exhaled. "Talbert got stabbed."

"What?"

"Smith got spooked. Talbert was wearing that Kraut poncho-" he rubbed a hand over his face. That damn poncho. "guess it looked wrong in the dark. Smith panicked and stuck him with his bayonet."

My fingers tapped on my thigh in a quick, anxious rhythm. "Is he-?"

"Doc got to him." He waved his hand as a dismissal. "He'll be alright."

I let out a slow breath. We sat with that for a second before I glanced at him again. "You hear anything about Tipper?"

Joe shrugged, jaw tight. "Nothing."

I swallowed. My throat felt dry despite the humidity. "He'll be okay." The words left my mouth without permission.

Joe nodded, his attention fixed on his restless hands. I didn't mention I hadn't seen Tipper at the aid station. Joe didn't ask, either.

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

A deafening whistle, a white-hot flash, a crack of thunder that didn't come from the sky breaking through the roof. The blast swallowed the world whole.

Look away.An instinct-driven thought.

The pressure slammed into me nonetheless, flinging me back, out the door I had barely set a foot across, dragging something sharp across my skin.

I made a sound-something strangled that didn't reach anyone's ears over the constant gunfire. Not mine, not Tipper's. My hands were on my face before I even thought to move them, warm and slick.

Blood.

My blood.

My fingertips trembled against my cheek, my jaw, my throat.

Not fatal. It couldn't be. Yet the word medic teared harshly at my throat.

I barely had time to register the pain; the sensation of hot shrapnel gnawing through my profile, digging deeper into the flesh with every move of my jaw, before the ringing in my ears cleared just enough to hear it.

"TIP?!"

Joe's voice, sharp and loud. They must have seen the shell diving into the building Tipper had cleared. They must have heard me yelling for medical aid.

"Tipper!! Answer me, Tip!"

I caught a glimpse of Joe and Strohl rounding the corner, feet scraping the gravel in the streets. They both stood frozen in front of the doorway, too shocked pay any attention to me.

I saw why.

Tipper dragged himself out the dim ruin of the building, silhouetted against dust and rubble. His leg -or what was left of it- was soaked through with red, his foot unrecognizable despite him still planting it. One side of his face was a nasty mix of blood and debris, his eye-Jesus Christ, his eye—

I stopped breathing, the crimson dripping down my face momentarily forgotten.

Joe was the first to move. He dropped his rifle against better judgement and stepped forward. Slow. Careful. Bullets were still cutting through the air all around us, but at Tipper's broken mumble calling Joe's name, his voice slipped into something soft. Too soft for a battlefield.

"Lookin' real good, Tip," he murmured. "Alright, you gotta sit down, c'mon."

Tipper barely reacted, too dazed, too wrecked. Too scared. Joe caught him anyway, guiding him down like he was handling fine porcelain. He forced his hands to be steady, to be gentle, trying not to hurt the battered man further.

"Y/I/n- Jesus..." It took Strohl's panicked grip on my shoulders for me to snap out of it. "Where -" His digits, hasty, pressed on my cheek first, then my forehead; they stayed on neck, drawing a pained breath out of me. They were cold compared to the liquid soaking my face.

Soaking Tipper's uniform.

God.

"We gotta move 'em, Lieb!"

For a brief second, Joe looked at me. Just a flicker of movement darting to my face, now smeared in hot blood.

I wouldn't have known the sight he met with, but he looked away just as quickly.

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

More silence.

A part of me wondered if it was just the battlefield's call for sound discipline, or if our dynamic had somehow shifted irreversibly after landing in Normandy.

An exhausted puff of air. My palm rubbing the water off my eyes. Joe's knife tracing pattern into the dirt.

I glanced over my shoulder at the treeline. Just dark shapes against darker shadows; nothing moving, nothing out of place.

When I turned back, Joe was staring. His eyes dragged over my face, lingering too long at my cheek, my jaw, my neck. My skin prickled.

I didn't have the chance to call him out on it. "It's not that bad."

He got a huff as a response. My mind fished for a smart remark, but I wasn't able to find anything that matched his comment.

Joe tilted his chin up. "Does it hurt?"

"The stitches pull when I laugh."

He snorted, just barely audible over the steady drum of rain. "Then it's a good thing I ain't funny."

My lips parted, but no quips came out, just a careful half smile. Joe didn't mirror the gesture, his narrowed stare tracing the small ridges of stitches. My fingers twitched around my rifle.

"Not that bad." He muttered again, more to himself.

"Not that bad." I echoed even quieter. There wasn't much more to say on my part, yet the silence was begging to be broken.

"I thought you got your face blown off."

I blinked, thrown off by his frankness.

Say something.

"Disappointed?"

Wrong something.

"It's not fucking funny." Joe hissed, shoulders squared up. "You didn't see it. It looked..."

His face subconsciously pulled into a grimace at the mere memory of it, bringing back to my mind the way he had averted his eyes.

I didn't even try to stop myself, the words spilling bitter, pointed and accusatory. "Is that why you wouldn't look at me?"

"What?"

""Cause you were disgusted?"

Joe's expression twitched, caught between irritation and offense. "Jesus, give me a fuckin' break, alright?"

"No, you give me a break."

"I was busy." The phrase cut its way out like it was meant to be shouted instead of hushed. "Kinda had a guy missing half his goddamn leg in front of me." He leaned forward, forearms draped on his knees. "So excuse me if I didn't have time to worry about your" His wrist flicked, vaguely gesturing at me. "little scratches."

"Don't make it sound like-"

"Like what?"

I narrowed my eyes, mentally taking a step back. We can't do this here. "Tell you what, you're so full of shit."

His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue; instead, he just turned his head away with a moue. The conversation had hit a dead end, but I didn't miss the way his fingers tapped rapidly against his knee.

Maybe that was his way of restraining the verbal retaliation which had become second nature between us at that point in time.

I shifted against the damp earth ever so slightly.

Luz mumbled something in his sleep, head heavy against my shoulder.

Joe didn't look at me again.

Chapter Text

Shoot.Get down. Live grenade. They got us zeroed. Move. Shoot. Move. Keep moving.

Keep moving. Shoot.

Smoke. Blood. Gunshots.

A shell. Move. A blast. Shoot.

Move. Gunshots.

Blood. Death. Pain.

Tipper.

Blood. Blood. Blood gushing.

Y/n.

"Jesus Christ."

There was no training for that part, was it?

We all had heard it from veterans— battle fatigue, shellshock; whatever comes after combat, when the silence is too loud and the peace too stifling. No one in their right mind would toss and turn and sweat and shake here.

After four weeks of nonstop fighting, Regiment had pulled Easy to the camp set at Utah beach. Warm food, beds, hot showers and the soft waves of the ocean lulling us into a deep sleep for a couple of nights. Then, England. A well-deserved rest.

No one was actually resting.

We all pretended we were, though. The few who didn't bother on feigning it had found different activities to busy themselves. Some read, some cleaned their M1s, some polished their boots.

No one spoke.

I turned to lie on my back, stare fixed on the canvas above our heads. A welcomed anomaly, compared to what we had grown accustomed to. The cot was too soft. I shuffled on it, once, twice. A frustrated puff escaped me. I turned again, this time on my right shoulder, facing the tarp serving as doorway. It flapped with the wind, allowing my view to reach a figure standing by the shore.

Maybe picking out who it was would have been harder if she had been wearing, at the very least, a damn jacket. If we had learned something from France, it was that the nights weren't warm, and the English channel's influence didn't do us any favors regarding the temperature.

I had a foot set out of the tent before I could think better of it. Toye and Guarnere, standing right outside, spared me a nod of acknowledgment.

"What's she doing?"

Toye quirked a brow. Whether it was at my question or at my tone, I didn't know. "Didn't ask her."

"She's gonna catch something."

"She's a big girl, alright." The Irishman countered.

"She's an idiot."

Guarnere pulled a face and motioned at the dark silhouette of Y/n, contrasting with the refracted moonlight. "you go tell her that, buddy. We'll wait for ya right here."

Instead of exchanging another word with the two men, I turned heel and reached Y/n's bunk in a couple of strides. My fingers curled around the fabric of her jacket, and, after throwing it over my shoulder, I crossed the distance to the beach.

At first, I didn't call her name— didn't speak at all. The last thing we all needed was to get spooked and, although I highly doubted I'd have managed to take her by surprise, I didn't want to tamper with my luck.

The late night hours, the exhaustion from the last weeks, and the way the sand seemed to swallow my footsteps weren't the best combination. She still noticed —of course she noticed— that she was no longer alone. The slightest change of posture gave her away. By the slight widening of her eyes when she turned to check the source of movement, whoever she had expected to come get her clearly wasn't me.

"You made it through Normandy just so you could catch pneumonia?" I questioned, holding out her jacket.

"It’s not that cold." It was a dismissive whisper. 'You worry too much'. But she took the piece of clothing nonetheless, slipping it on with slow, careful motions.

"You'll thank me later." I shoved my hands into the pockets of my pants, watching her with an inquisitive look. Y/n must have noticed, because she made a point not to spare my a single look, her attention elsewhere. "What are you even doing out here?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"No shit."

"I thought I'd go for a swim."

"You're full of great ideas, aren't you?" I waited for a comeback; an annoyed response that matched my sarcastic pitch. She didn't take the bait.

Her scoff, barely there, lacked humor and strength. "Well, I'm not getting in the water, if it's any comfort."

"Changed your mind?"

She glanced at me then, skimming over my face before looking past my shoulder. "Guess you could say so."

My gaze exchanged her form for the soft waves. The water stretched out endless in front of us, dark and calmer than it had been when we'd arrived in the morning.
Maybe Y/n was right and I couldn't shut up to save my life, which was why I opened my mouth in the first place. Whatever stupid thought I was about to voice died, transforming into a sucked-in breath I poorly hid by clearing my throat when a busted helmet hit my unlaced boot.

A month had passed since the Normandy landings, yet the tide wasn't done dragging pieces of the dead— gear, guns, torn fabric.

Worse things than torn fabric.

Y/n's back was now to the Atlantic, her arm brushing my own for an instant.

"My ma used to say it's bad luck to turn your back to the ocean, you know?" It was almost an afterthought, my eyes lingering on the half buried helmet.

"I'll take my chances." She muttered uninterested, patting her jacket in search of something she didn't find. "You got a cigarette?"

My hands mimicked her previous actions, with enough luck to find a crumpled pack.

I pulled out two, placing one in her palm. "You got a lighter?"

She snorted, shaking her head as she reached into her pocket. Her fingers set the flame, the amber light illuminating her features for an instant. She held the lighter out to me, her free hand protecting it from the wind, and I leaned in until the end of my cigarette caught the soft glow.

We stood like that for a moment, quiet, Y/n facing the camp and me facing the waves.

The tide rolled in.

"Don't dwell on it, alright?" I said.

She took the cigarette to her lips, still not looking at me. "I'm not."

I didn't even let myself entertain the thought that she was lying. She sounds unbothered, I told myself, she must be.

That surely wasn't a lie of my own, was it? An excuse crafted by my selfish mind, one that would help me sleep better at night after choosing not to dig into it.

But then again, what consolation could I have offered to her, anyway? When, on a good day, we tolerated each other.

Y/n took another drag of the cigarette, then pulled it away to inspect it with a small frown. "What's this?"

I glanced down to pull the pack out of my pocket again. Her fingers clasped my wrist to twist the little box in the camp's lighting direction in order to read the name.
"Chesterfield." Her brows twitched, like that wasn't the answer she expected. "Since when do you smoke Chesterfields?"

"Got a problem with them?" She set me free just as quick as she had gotten a hold of me, allowing me to put the cigarettes back into their assigned spot. "'Cause you can always give it back."

She didn’t say a word, just put the smoke back to her lips and took another drag, slow and pointed. Stubborn.

"You like it?"

Y/n gifted me a tight-lipped smile. "Love it."

Oh, she hated it.

I didn't push it. We shifted slightly, the movement sending our biceps to bump again.

"You did good." She exhaled, watching the smoke dissolve into the air before saying, "Thought you'd get yourself killed before shooting a round."

I blinked. I wasn't sure how to take that from her— something that wasn't sarcastic or backhanded; just an observation, maybe even a compliment of some sort and, for some reason, that made it harder to respond to.

My instinct kicked in. "Yeah, well. You've been decent so far."

She rolled her eyes. A reaction easier to place.

A beat of silence passed, the distant, almost nonexistent murmur inside the tents and the steady rush of the tide filling the space between us. Too quiet.

"What's in your head?"

Y/n inhaled through her nose, flicking the ashes onto the damp sand. "I'm starting to think I should've stayed home."

It wasn't self-pity, and clearly wasn't looking for a response. Just a thought said aloud.

Just a thought that didn't sit right with me.

"Yeah. I don't think so." It took me a second to meet her gaze. The surprise that simple sentence pulled out of her was almost funny. "What would you be doing at home, anyway?"

"Don't know." Y/n gave me a shrug and a thoughtful pout. "Marrying a good man?"

I gave her an skeptical look.

She squinted her lids. "What's that face, Liebgott?"

"Nothing." I raised my hands in surrender and clicked my tongue. "I just don't think that would've worked for you, since, you know, all the good men are overseas."

"That's not true." Her furrowed brows were a stark contrast to her amused smile. "My brothers are in the States."

Brothers. Plural. Huh. "Why?"

"Two 4Fs, one conscientious objector." The corner of her lips pulled upwards at my blank stare. "You think it's funny, don't you?"

"It is funny." The statement came through a snicker. "You're here to— what? Salvage your family's reputation?"

That earned me a lazy kick of her boot. "Yeah, 'cause me being here is gonna do a lot for their reputation."

The cigarette burned between my fingers, and the question I had been dying to ask her itched at the tip of my tongue.

If there was a time to ask, it was now.

"How the hell did you even get into the Airborne?"

Y/n turned her head slightly, just enough to give me a side glance. She was weighing her possibilities.

"You've been holding onto that one for long?"

Of course. I quirked my brow at her, prompting her to give me something real. A sly grin escaped her before she could look away again.

It was strange. For a moment, the war felt a world away. No mud, no rain, no dead bodies washing up on shore. Just a woman with sharp eyes, standing too close and not moving away. It almost felt like San Francisco again, like she was just another pretty girl at my local bar.

Wishful thinking, worth nothing.

Just when I thought I wouldn't get a reply, she settled for, "Lying, bribing, and being stubborn."

"Sounds about right." I scrunched my nose, losing my gaze to the ocean momentarily. "You sure you'd be equipped to stay at home and marry a good man?"

That got a laugh out of her. Short, but real. The stitches on her face pulled, making her wince slightly, and I caught myself looking a second too long.

I smirked, tilting my head at her and teased, "Thought you couldn't laugh.", because asking if it hurt meant I cared.

Y/n halfheartedly glared at me, her fingertips pressing the soreness away from her scarred cheek. "Thought you weren't funny."

It was meant to be a comeback, but it didn't land like that. She noticed a bit too late, with the grin spreading over my face. Too late to take it back.

"You think I’m funny?"

The thought of doing a u-turn flashed so obviously across her face, but to my surprise, she doubled down. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

Y/n scoffed, her body already angled toward camp as if to shield herself from the teasing. "When you're not an absolute dick."

"Aren't you sweet." I flicked my cigarette, glancing away.

"I am being sweet." She took a long drag, the smoke curling above her when she exhaled it.

"Right."

The tide rolled in, dragged back out. I gently kicked the helmet back into the sea. She looked over her shoulder at the waves; her profile cut against the vastness of the clear night sky from were I stood. For an instant, the quiet wasn't so bad.