Chubby Potaot

She pressed her Mae West tighter around her waist, more a habit than hope, her collar up against the wind, watching as the oil drifted further and further astern.

“Red!”

“Hmm?” She murmured, still staring out into the grey oblivion.

“Thought I’d find you up here,” Luz said.

Lily didn’t turn, “Am I becoming that predictable?”

“Only to me.” He grinned, stepping up beside her, his hands tight on the railing as he squinted towards the churning water below. “Eh, I don't blame you, it smells like a locker room down there.”

“Sounds like one too.”

He tugged at his life jacket with a grimace. “These damn things… useless huh? We go down out here, this’ll keep me afloat just long enough to die tired.”

Lily huffed out a laugh, eyes still on the horizon.

Luz gave her a sideways glance. “Anyway… speaking of drowning… you’re needed below.”

“Needed?” she echoed. 

“Bill and Joe.” Luz said, jerking his head towards the hatch. “Scrapping again. Worse this time, someone’s gonna bleed any minute now.” 

With a sigh so deep it tugged at her straps she peeled herself off the railings.

Of course they were . 

– - 

Below deck was everything she’d escaped, too hot, too loud, too much. 

The air smelled like sweat, smoke and oil, all shoved together in one choking breath. And damp, everything was constantly damp, her hammock, the floor, herself. She'd given up trying to battle it two days ago, now surrendering to the damp and practically counting down the minutes till they were released from this prison of a ship.

Somewhere past the ladderway, Luz’s voice carried over the scrape of dice and the hum of a hundred different conversations happening simultaneously. She followed, ducking through the narrow companionway, weaving between hunched figures and stacked crates, as she passed one hammock Malarkey’s voice floated down from beneath a magazine. 

“Hey, Red! Do you really have castles in England?”

“Yes, Malarkey,” she called over her shoulder without breaking her stride. “One per family, comes with a ghost.”

That got a laugh behind her, but she was already moving, deeper into the crowded, heaving hull. Ever since the ginger caught the news that they were being sent to England, he’d been trying to make her his own personal fact book.

Ahead, the noise sharpened—boots squeaking on steel, fists thudding, voices rising.

Luz shoved his way forward and the crowd parted just enough for Lily to see the source of the chaos: Guarnere and Liebgott, tangled in a sweaty, furious tangle, shirts half-untucked, fists grappling for anything they could grab.

Lily folded her arms and leaned casually against a post just out of reach.

A tug on her leg drew her glance downward.

Toye, stretched out lazily in his hammock, one arm draped over his face to block out the relentless glow of the overhead bulbs. His boots hung half-on, half-off, like he hadn't bothered to finish undressing.

“Make ‘em shut up,” he mumbled, not bothering to lift his head. “Tryna sleep here.”

Lily bent slightly toward him, lowering her voice in mock sympathy.

“I’m off the clock,” she said sarcastically. “I’ll step in when someone bleeds.”

Toye groaned and rolled to face the wall.

She’d had just about enough of these two recently.

If it wasn’t Guarnere complaining about Liebgott, it was Liebgott complaining about Guarnere.

And this can of sardines was small enough without these two shoulder-shoving each other every chance they got. 

Another muffled groan from Toye, and another half-hearted tap against her leg, made her roll her eyes.

“Fine,” she muttered, straightening up.

With a weary sigh she pushed off the post and made her way to the front of the gathered crowd. 

Guarnere and Liebgott were an absolute mess, prancing backwards and forwards as the onlookers called encouragement like it was a bloody sporting event. 

Lily didn’t rush, stepping to the edge, her brow furrowed, amused more than anything else.

She watched them each throw a few half-hearted punches, hoping they’d just tire themselves out with their little game of fisticuffs, at least they weren’t picking on anyone else for a change. 

“Alright gents,” she called over the noise, getting bored of watching the kerfuffle between them, the noise gnawing at her brain. “Gents, are we done yet?”

A few heads turned her way, but neither Bill nor Liebgott paid her any attention.

That was, until a sharp stumble tipped them sideways. 

Guarnere grabbed hold of Liebgott's open collar and shoved him back hard. 

A clumsy stumble, the squeak of his boot slipping on the floor, Liebgott’s elbow swung wide and cracked sharply into her cheekbone. 

The sound of it seemed louder than it was, and the room froze, even Luz stopped talking.

Guarnere froze mid-step.

Liebgott winced before he even turned around, his head shrinking into his shoulders. 

Her cheek burned immediately, a hot stinging red flush already blooming. 

She let the silence stretch longer than necessary, just enough to make everyone uncomfortable before slowly straightening, her fingers lightly brushing a tendril of hair that had come loose back behind her ear. 

Then she gave them both the flattest look she could muster. 

“You,” she said, pointing at Liebgott

“And you,” to Guarnere.

“Medical bay. Now.”

Neither argued, turning sheepishly and shuffling towards the hatch, sweat soaked, panting, straightening out their uniforms as they went.

“You both look ridiculous,” she muttered, falling in behind them, shaking her head.

From the dissipating crowd, Luz’s voice called out, gleeful as ever. “Careful boys, you just assaulted a Lieutenant!”

Lily paused on the ladder.

She shot a sharp look back over her shoulder at Luz, not quite a glare, but a warning all the same, that dry “shut up” look that was slowly becoming her signature.

Luz just grinned wider, enthralled with himself.

She turned back, making her way up the stairs, and somewhere behind she could hear Luz’s chuckle echoing through the passageway, not cruel, just jovial. 

A laugh she felt, faintly, in the corners of her bruised cheek. 

– - 

Camp MacKall, Early Fall, 1943

The men of Easy Company had filed tightly into the briefing hut without a word. No reason had been given, beyond the order to Report at Once. With everyone on tenterhooks as to when and where they would be shipping out to, that alone was enough to keep them quiet.

Inside, the air was warm and still. Benches scraped against the bare wooden floor as the men jumped to their feet. Overhead, the slow creak of the ceiling fan marked time as Colonel Sink strode his way to the head of the hut. Winters stood to his left, Sobel to the other, his face as sour as vinegar. 

“At ease men.” Sink spoke, his voice steady, carrying just enough to steady them. 

He waited for the clatter to subside as the company sat back down and watched with eager attention. 

“You are on the cusp of shipping out, where and when are not your concern at this moment.” His gaze moved slowly across the rows, level and unhurried. “However, the higher ups have insisted you be made aware of a particular matter.” 

The tone of Sink’s voice dropped slightly, losing the parade ground bark, taking on a more deliberate weight. “Alongside your company will be a small detachment, a joint Allied initiative, integrating specially trained personnel into combat units. These individuals may be medics, communications, reconnaissance. They may be demolitions, translators or snipers. Every single one of them is qualified and is trained, equal to–or exceeding–your own.”

A few heads turned. Muck raised an eyebrow and looked at Malarkey, who mouthed, What the hell is he saying? Martin’s brow creased, a small frown settling in as he studied Sink like he was trying to work out where this was going.

“This programme is nicknamed DAISY,” Sink continued “Don’t ask me who named it–they didn't consult me. I’m told the name’s for the paperwork and the press, not the field. Sounds harmless on paper. Out there, it’s anything but.”

“And the individuals involved,” he said without pause “are women.”

That broke the stillness, a low “You’re kidding,” was muttered from somewhere near the rear of the crowd, hushed whispers near the edge quickly smothered when Winters’ gaze cut in their direction. Grant’s head tilted, a slow grin spreading as if picturing what ‘DAISY’ might look like in the field, though he kept his mouth shut, and his wandering thoughts to himself.

“That will not affect their duties, nor should it affect yours. They are to be treated with the same respect, discipline and professionalism you extend to any member of the armed forces. This was a need to know basis, and those at the top have decided you need to know. Disrespect–or anything less than full cooperation, will not be tolerated and will be dealt swiftly, and from the highest level.”

He let the words settle, scanning the crowd.

“In some cases,” he added, “you may find these personnel holding ranks higher than your own. That decision comes from above, based upon experience in the field–and in some cases considerable time in active conflict, often before you ever stepped into uniform. They carry knowledge that could make them targets. Rank is one more layer of protection, you may not agree with it but you will respect it.” 

“Timing isn’t mine to question,” Sink went on, his tone even but edged, “but I’ll tell you this: men fight better when they know who’s at their side. Better you hear it here, in this room, than for it to reach you in the field.”

He gave the men a moment before delivering the final blow. 

“One of these individuals,” Sink’s gaze narrowed slightly, “has been training alongside you for some time. Private Lily Darlington. Former Special Operations Executive, British Intelligence. She has substantial experience behind enemy lines, successfully completing missions in occupied territory. Hand-picked for DAISY on the strength of her record, her experience is extensive and hard-earned.”

The silence was heavier this time. Bull Randleman’s mouth curved into the faintest of nods–approval, plain and simple. He glanced behind him to Guarnere, who waggled his eyebrows in a knowing manner, then shoulder bumped Luz, whose mouth hung slightly ajar as realization sparking across his eyes. Randleman turned back towards the front and looked to the men of his bench, their expressions a mixture of intrigue and confusion. At the very end, Liebgott leaned forward on his knees, smirking like he’d just been proven right about something no one else had asked him, his boot tapping idly on the floor as if the whole thing amused him.

“Remember this,” Sink finished. “They will be one of you. And out there, they may be the reason you make it home.”

Sink straightened, the moment over, familiar steel back in his voice. “Dismissed.”

The men moved to stand, the sound of the benches being scraped back mixed with boots thumping on the wooden floor. They waited till Sink and his entourage had left and pushed their way out, spilling into the sunlight in a restless tangle, Guarnere and Martin headed the pack, their pace quick, voices already buzzing low and fast. 

Malarkey was hot on Bill’s heels. “You’re telling me Red’s been a spy this whole time? Since when are there spies in the Airborne?”

“Since the brass says we do,” Guarnere shot back, not slowing. 

“Don’t start trying to make sense of the Army, Malark.” Martin added, dry as dust.

Luz chased up alongside the ginger, running a hand through his hair–a weak attempt to stop his mind racing. “She didn’t even tell me, and I’m her best friend. Played me like a fiddle, never said a word.” He gave a quick, humourless laugh. 

“Maybe she couldn’t, maybe that’s why she didn’t tell us, probably confidential or something.” Malarkey said, giving him a half-hearted shrug.

“Or maybe she knew you like to run your mouth, George Luz. Guarnere smirked back at the pair. 

From a few paces behind came a snort. Liebgott with his hands in his pockets, and an already half smoked cigarette between his lips picked up the pace until he was alongside the group. “So what, we saluting her now? Carrying her pack? “Yes ma’am, no ma’am? Easy Company got themselves a Princess!” 

Bill stopped dead, causing Joe to nearly bump into him, fixing him with that flat South Philly stare that had shut down more than one wise crack in its tracks. “You got a problem , you bring it to me. Otherwise, you keep that pretty mouth shut… Princess .”He winked, the corner of his mouth pulling up just enough to make it sting. 

For once, Liebgott didn’t have a quick comeback, pinching the cigarette from his lips, tilting his head slightly and blew out a thin stream of smoke. Martin glanced at him as he passed, the look in his eyes making it clear he was in full agreement with Guarnere. 

Inside the barracks a few of the men carried on muttering in corners, but Bill stayed planted near the back, with Randleman and Luz leaning against the wall beside him. A series of silent looks passed between them. Martin lingered by the aisle, arms folded, silent but watchful.

It was Luz who finally broke the quiet. “Well… that explains a few things.”

Bull’s voice followed, steady as bedrock. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Martin’s brow creased. “She’s seen more than we have. Done more. That counts.”

Bill shook his head. “Matters same as it always did. She’s ours. End of story. Anybody’s got a problem with that—” his eyes cut toward the muttering knots across the room—“they can come through me.”

That ended the talk, at least out loud. But silence never killed doubt. Whispers would creep along, carried into the dark. Easy might have closed ranks in the open, but war had a way of prying at cracks. Whatever Red had been before, whatever she’d done, she was Easy now. The men might have their questions about her past, but they’d made it damn clear no one could question her place.

The truth of the matter was, even if she’d ever been inclined to tell them, she never could. The official Secrets Act bound her to silence, under penalty that reached far beyond the Army. They’d seen her walk back into the barracks soaked in blood, jaw set tight, eyes hard as flint, offering nothing but silence. If they couldn’t beat the truth out of her, no one was ever going to wring it from her willingly.

Still, they weren’t naïve. A few of them deciding where they stood didn’t settle the company. There would be whispers—there always were. Questions muttered in corners, doubts carried from bunk to bunk. Easy might hold her close, but the truth was a stubborn thing, and soldiers had long memories when it came to secrets.

The low buzz of those whispers was still hanging in the air when the door creaked open. Heads turned as Lily stepped inside, her expression unreadable. She didn’t sweep the room, just found them. Bill. Bull. Luz. Martin. A small tilt of her chin, nothing more, but it was enough.

Bill ground out his cigarette with his boot. Randleman straightened. Martin pushed off from the aisle. Without another word, the four of them fell in behind her, leaving the rest of the company to their whispers.

– - 

The air inside Winters’ office was quiet, dust specks drifting around in the weak light from the single window at the rear. He was standing behind the desk, posture straight as if he were addressing a full company. Nixon, in contrast, was slouched in a chair by the wall, his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, one ankle hooked over his knee, A cup of dark coffee cooling in his hand.

“Private Darlington,” Winters began, voice steady, formal. “There’s a company briefing in one hour. You will not be present.”

Her chin lifted slightly. “No?”

“No.” He hesitated only a fraction before continuing. “The men are to be informed of the DAISY program today. They’ll be told there are personnel integrated into combat units, and they’ll be told you are one of them. In addition, they will be made aware of your service in the SOE, they won’t be told anything of detail, but they will be briefed.”

The stillness between them lengthened, her silence deliberate.

“I see,” she said at last, swallowing the bile that had risen in the back of her throat. Her tone was indifferent, but her breathing exposed the betrayal layered beneath it. “And you thought it best I heard this beforehand.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed, and without hesitating she questioned. “And is this to inform me, or warn me?”

“This is a directive from the top. It’s not just this company. Every unit with DAISY personnel is being briefed today, every unit will learn of their individual’s background.”

She let out a faint, disbelieving laugh. “That is… hardly the reassurance it’s meant to be, Sir.” Nix leaned back in his chair, watching her face as the words landed. Christ. It was like watching a candle snuff out. Winters kept his voice steady, delivering the facts as he always did–measured, clear, stripped of anything unnecessary, but he could smell the politics from a mile away. He noted how Dick was sanding the edges so they didn't cut too deep, choosing words that deliberately didn’t sound like orders, yet somehow couldn’t quite detract that it was exactly what they were. Classic brass manoeuvre, package the gossip as policy, pretend it was for the good of all. He knew exactly what the men would hear when this hit, “ spy .” A woman who’d been out there doing God-knows-what before any of them even shipped.

Winters’ chest lifted, an almost imperceptible sigh, but he pressed on. “There’s also a second matter.”

Nixon shifted in his seat, facing more towards Lily as Winters reached into the desk drawer and withdrew a small box. He set it on the desk and opened it, revealing the insignia of a First Lieutenant.

“Effective immediately, you’re being promoted.”

Her gaze dropped to the bars. 

Lieutenant .  

When she didn’t speak, Winters went on. “Operational and safety reasons. It comes from—”

“On what grounds?” She cut in, her words as crisp as glass. She didn’t raise her voice, but the edge was unmistakable.

“Operational and safety reasons,” he replied calmly. 

“Safety?” Half statement, half question. “I’m a medic, Lieutenant Winters. My protection is already codified.”

Winters said nothing in return. She studied him for a long moment. 

“Officers draw different treatment if captured.” He added, as if it could offer a satisfactory explanation. 

“Right.” she said, it came out more amused than she intended. 

He held out the insignia towards her, waiting until she stepped forward. She didn’t take them initially. Her eyes flicked sideways, just for a second to Nixon. He held her gaze, dark and unreadable, holding his breath as if he might say something–but didn’t. She turned back, and took them in her palm, closing her fingers around them until the metal dug deep into her skin.

Nixon watched her stare at the insignia like it was a burning coal dropped into her palm. It wasn't pride or surprise, but the look of someone realizing they had been manoeuvred into a corner, the reluctant acknowledgement that in the Army decisions weren't choices, and they didn't come with explanations either. There was no merit in it, the Army didn’t hand out bars for sentiment, this was about utility and positioning. 

He recognised the grit in her jaw, the way she bit the inside of her lip, she was furious, and she had every right to be. Someone in an office somewhere so far away from the conflict, had decided that this bar on her collar would be useful to them, and that was all there was to it. But the men would hear spy before they heard medic, and now they’d given her a bar to hang herself from. 

In the SOE there had been orders too, however once you were in the field , how you carried them out was your own affair, and the only thing that mattered was that you came back having done the job. Rank held nothing there, it wouldn't have stopped a bullet. Yet here, this… trinket, this piece of polished metal, was going to put her above the men she respected, as if there was anything admirable in standing above another human being in a rank you hadn't earned. 

Winters handled the situation with his usual calm, but Nix knew better. He could see the tension in his shoulders, hear the rehearsal in his words, so they wouldn’t cut too deep. He hated this as much as she did, but orders were orders. 

“Someone will move your belongings to the officers' bunks this afternoon," Winters said. “They’ll show you the quarters, mess—”

“No.”

“It isn’t optional, Lieutenant Darlington”

“That I understand, but I won’t leave the men,” she replied evenly. “And if we’re to stand on equal ground now, then you’ll forgive me for speaking plainly. This,” she lifted her closed fist holding the insignia, “ is farcical–that I have done everything asked of me to earn the men’s respect, to take the hand they offered me, and now I’m told to leave them? Worse still, that I’ll now outrank Doc Roe, who is my superior in every way that matters. He’s the lead medic. He trained me , he’s got the skills, the knowledge, the actual experience. And you would place me above him? That isn’t a promotion, Sir, it’s an insult.”

She spat the words out like a crack across the desk. Winters held his silence, shoulders square and steady, the weight of command holding him upright.

From the corner, Nixon leaned back, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth.

“Welcome to the officer’s club,” he said lightly. “Take the promotion like a man, Lily. The pay rise really sweetens the whole insult thing.”

Her head turned toward him, eyes like glass. The look she gave was flat, unimpressed, and cut through his grin as easily as a knife through paper. But Nixon didn’t flinch. He held her gaze, smile still in place, knowing damn well it was no shield. Christ, he wasn’t fooling her. He wasn’t even fooling himself.

The room stayed still, the dust continued to drift in the slanted light as the grip on the insignia bit through her palm. Winters behind the desk delivering orders he didn’t agree with. Darlington furious at being lifted in a promotion she could not refuse and a rank she did not want. And Nixon, his unease wasn’t about the brass or the orders; it was about her. Knowing what this might cost her, and maybe what it might cost him too. 

It didn’t take a genius to see that when the men crossed the Channel, HQ would be holding Darlington like a card in their pocket, still deciding how best to play her.

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

Tag list:

When the last box was shoved in, Lily climbed into the passenger seat beside Guarnere while Liebgott sprawled in the back like he was being chauffeured.

“All right,” Bill said, peering up at the sky. “Let’s get this over with before the rain hits.”

He turned the key. The engine sputtered.

Lily shot him a look.

He turned the key again. A mechanical cough, then a sad, wet wheeze.

“You’re gonna flood it.” Liegot warned, leaning forward.

“No I won’t.” Bill snapped as he tried again, forcefully this time. The jeep let out a dismal, grinding whine.

“Perfect,” Liebgott huffed, vaulting over the side and circling to the front. “Just fucking perfect.”

Bill followed after and popped the hood. Both men peered inside like they might intimidate it into working.

“Well?” Bill asked.

“Well what?” Liebgott frowned. “I’m not a mechanic.”

“You drive a cab, don’t you?” 

“This ain’t a cab,” he said, kicking the front tire. This is a horse and buggy with gas.” 

“Loose wire?” Bill suggested vaguely, not touching a damn thing.

“Could be the carb,” Liebgott offered, even vaguer.

“Could be that neither of you have a bloody clue,” Lily chided, elbowing her way in between them. She reached in, flicked a connection, jiggled the fuel line, then slapped the hood down with a sharp bang. 

“Try it now.” She said, shooing them back into the Jeep.

Bill shot her dubious  look, but sat back down and turned the key.

The engine coughed…then roared to life.

Bill looked at her though the mirror as he backed out the loading bay. “Where the hell did you learn that?”

Lily shrugged, feeling the weight of his stare. “They let women drive in England, Bill. Even fix things, if you ask nicely.”

She added, more dryly “had a beau once who was into these things. Had a habit of breaking things he couldn't fix.”

Liebgott raised his brows. “Well, look at that. Red saves the day.”

Bill turned. “Red?”

Liebgott shrugged. “Redcoat’s too long.”

Bill looked at her, then with a big shit eating grin he shouted over the noise of the engine. “Hey, Redddd.”

Lily rolled her eyes. She knew it was going to stick. But fine. There were worse things to be called—and it beat Redcoat by a country mile.

As they rolled through camp, the clouds began to bunch tighter overhead. Lily settled into the seat, boots up, arms folded, allowing her eyes to close for a blissful moment of peace. This was the quiet before the storm, the calm frizzled around her like a fake promise. And she knew it.

– - 

The tent flap cracked open with a whip as she shouldered through, a burst of evening air chasing her in, slipping down her spine,however, it did nothing to soothe the sweat clinging to her skin, or the pressure building beneath it. 

She didn’t bother with the overhead bulb, just found the nearest table and leaned into it, forcing her breath to still. Her hands still tacky with blood, shook beneath her. After storming out in such a fit, so suffocated by her own failure she had seemingly forgotten to stop and wash. 

The rain outside drummed intensely against the canvas, almost loud enough to drown out the noise of her thousand thoughts. Almost. 

The last two hours had been spent with Roe, elbow-deep, plugging arterial bleeds in rubber flesh and tubing that spit animal blood across the straw covered floor. And she kept fucking it up. Couldn’t get the pressure right. Couldn't find the bleed on time. Couldn’t seal fast enough. 

“It’s just practice” his voice rang in her head, but the panic still clawed at the back of her throat, because very soon it wouldn't be tubing. It would be a boy, barely twenty, torn open and bleeding out. 

And she couldn't afford to get it wrong.

Not again.

She swiped at a droplet trickling down her face, a streak of red smearing across her cheekbone.

Christ.

Inhaling deeply, her fingers curling into her palms, she pushed herself off the table and moved to the nearest stack of supply crates, the wood heaving with a groan as she pried the first one open. 

Gauze. Useless. The one beside it, plasma. 

She shoved her hand beneath the straw padding of the third and–

A glass bottle clinked against the side.

Her hand paused.

She curled her fingers around the neck of the object and pulled. A half-empty bottle of brown liquid stared back at her. She twisted the bottle around till the label faced her.

She shifted in the darkness, narrowing her eyes at it. 

Her gut reacted before she did.

A cold burst of air whipped around her, sharp and sudden.

Instinctively she jerked around, every muscle snapping taut as the rain burst through, harsher than before. The bottle firmly in her grip, her knuckles white, heart caught in her throat. 

Lewis Nixon stood in the entrance, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tensed, brow furrowed, looking like he’d just walked into his own personal version of hell. 

They stared at each other. 

Neither of them spoke. Not at first. The heavy rise and fall of their chests and the roar of the wind and rain filled the silence. 

His eyes dropped from her to the bottle in her hand. Then back up to her face. Whatever flicker of surprise had lingered in his eyes shifted into something unreadable. 

“Well,” he said, stepping further in. “Looks like I need to find a better hiding place.” 

She didn’t reply. Didn’t move. She seemed to brace, as if she was willing the ground to open up and swallow her. 

He looked again to the bottle in her grip, watched as the contents sloshed gently inside. The rain continued to hammer the tent relentlessly. 

He shifted his weight, thinking of something to say, to fill the silence she maintained with ease. 

Still, nothing. 

Finally, she stood up straighter, cleared her throat. 

“Excuse me.” She spoke, her voice low, in that tone the British had perfected–cold and clipped. 

She grit her teeth and moved towards the flap, trying to ignore him. But he didn’t step aside.

“It's a goddamn monsoon out there. In case you hadn’t noticed.” The storm outside sounded like it was trying to rip the tent from its stakes.

She barely paused.

“It doesn't matter.” 

And it didn’t. Not if staying meant being trapped with him.

She went to move again, and stopped. He was still blocking the flap. Her eyes met his, emotionless, exhausted.

Then, with an agitated sigh, he stepped aside, but not before adding:

“Christ, if you’d rather drown than have a conversation with me.” 

She didn’t move to leave. Just stood there, facing the flap, watching the rain through the seams of the canvas.

Then slowly she turned. Not entirely, but enough so that her head was facing his, her chin lifted, the wind whipping at the loose wisps of hair that had escaped her bun.

“Is there something you need, Lieutenant Nixon?” 

It was the way she said it, the rank hit like a slap. Detached and impersonable, it set his jaw tight.

He gave a short humourless laugh, brushing the wet hair off his forehead with the back of his hand. 

“Well, I was hoping for a drink, Private Darlington.” He smiled sideways, thin–the kind of smile he used before a bad decision–and plucked the bottle from her grasp. 

Casually he walked around her and over to the opposite side of the tent, sinking down onto a stack of crates. His forearms rested on his knees as he went to unscrew the cap, before pausing, looking back at her. 

“So that’s it then?”

His tone was light, almost lazy. But his eyes didn’t match.

“We're gonna pretend we don’t know each other ‘til Berlin, or do you want to get it over with now?”

She didn’t answer. Just stood there, completely unreadable, as if he wasn’t worth the energy it would take to reply. 

He gave a tight nod, his mouth twisting. “Great.” 

He turned the bottle again in his hands.

“Guess we're going with option A.”

He moved to unscrew the cap, and hesitated. His thumb came away red. He stared at it, his brow furrowing together. The neck of the bottle was streaked with blood. Not a lot, but enough.

His gaze snapped back to her, and trailed from the mark on her cheek to her hands, stained with it. Her palms, her fingers, dried in some spots, fresh in others. 

He straightened slightly. It was short, quick. Just a shift in his shoulders, like he was about to move. An old instinct, to check the damage, but she spoke before he could.

“It’s not mine.” It seemed to break something for her. 

She turned away and knelt by one of the unopened supply crates. Pulled it open and riffled through until she found what she was after–clean rags. 

In one smooth, practiced motion she stood, crossed over to him, and without asking, snatched the bottle from his hand.

He blinked slowly, watching her as she uncapped it with her teeth, and dampened the rag with a generous splash of bourbon. Then, just as casually, she passed it back and started to scrub away at the blood on her hands.

No hesitation, no discomfort. She moved with the mechanical ease for whom blood had become routine.  

She didn’t flinch at the sight of it, didn’t grimace at the sight of someone’s life on her skin, just wiped away the excess, and wiped her hands dry on her pant legs, blood still clinging to the cracks in her knuckles and embedded in her fingertips. 

She wiped it away like dirt, like nothing.

It unsettled him more than anything she’d said.

He took a heavy sip, letting the silence drag. 

“It’s on your face too,” he said, not mocking, just a matter of fact.

She didn’t move to fix it, instead she placed the lid back on the crate and sat down on it across from him.

He crossed the space between them and took the rag from her without asking, her eyes widened as she watched him bend to meet her with cautious curiosity.

“Hold still.” 

He wiped the dried blood from her cheek, slowly and gently. The bourbon soaked canvas brushing against her freckled cheek.

He didn't move back right away, staying there, studying her face. 

The freckles he knew so well were still there, scattered across the bridge of her nose. New lines had settled, subtle, but there, hidden in the corners of her mouth, and beneath her eyes.

Her lashes cast soft shadows in the low light, brushing against the skin just below her brow, and her eyes, darkened by exhaustion, stayed locked on some point just past him. Focused and far away.

Her lips parted, as if a thought was about to break free. But she stopped herself, licking them once, and pressing them shut again. 

He’d known her face like a map once. Now it felt like a memory he was trying to piece together, with one too many missing parts.

Clearing his throat and stepped back, discarding the rag.

“Face looks better.”

A pause, then, almost an afterthought, “Roe did a good job.”

He gestured vaguely with the bottle. “You look like you again” 

Her eyes met his, it wasn't really a compliment. It was Lewis for I noticed. I remember what it looked like. I’m glad it doesn't anymore.

She let the words hang between them for a beat. Then, with a muffled, almost dismissive “Hmmm, I don’t–but it’ll do,” she said flatly, as if confirming a fact rather than engaging in his trip down memory lane. 

He couldn't read her tone, but it seemed to lack regret. 

Sitting back down, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered pack of Lucky Strikes, tapping one out with ease. 

“Right,” he mumbled as he slipped it between his lips. 

His hand slipped back into his pocket as he fished for a light. 

“Didn’t think it was going to be like this.” 

It slipped out. Not a dig, more of a thought than a statement, but it sounded like something he’d been thinking about for a while, and Lily didn't know if he meant her, the war, or them. 

He made no attempt to take it back, flicking open the lighter he’d finally located and lighting the end of the cigarette. 

The flame broke up the dim light, the glint of the worn metal catching in her eye.

LN

She froze, her eyes locked on the light.

“Where did you get that?” 

He took a slow exaggerated drag, exhaling smoke before answering her.

“Sobel did a surprise inspection of the bunks. You’re lucky I found it before he did.” He smirked, flicking ash. 

“Honestly, I’m surprised you still have it.” 

With a pause he added, “never did get that letter.” 

Lily stiffened, biting back a retort as the weight of that old burned note hung between them.

“I never wrote it.” She stood, and crossed the tent, opening her palm expectantly. 

“When I look at you,” he said after another slow drag, “I don’t know if I should apologize. Or ask if you even care.”

She replied too quickly. “Both would be a waste of time.”

He inhaled deeply, reached back into his pocket for a fresh cigarette, and handed both the cigarette and the lighter over to her.

She looked down at his offering, but didn't move to take it. 

“What? You don’t smoke anymore?” He asked, laughing in disbelief.

She didn’t take the bait.

“No.”

“Since when?”

Since she got tired of lighting up with his initials hovering in her eyes. 

“I don’t smoke.” The syllables landed sharp, final. Like she was done with the conversation.

He watched her for a moment, his eyes really searching for her, cigarette still smouldering between his fingers.

“You used to.”

“Hmm, well, I used to do a lot of things.”

That bit him. Without a word, he closed his hand around the lighter and the cigarette still resting in his palm, and dropped them both into his pocket. The sound of metal and cardboard brushing against his jacket made her chest tighten more than she’d admit.

That’s my bloody lighter.

He took another drag, then exhaled slowly. Something shifted in his face. Not anger. Not sadness. Just that familiar, dry irritation—now tinged with confusion.

“You wanna tell me what the hell happened to you?” he asked, not kindly.

Another drag. A squint at her.

“Because I’m trying, and don't say it's in the file, because I know, and it's mostly blacked out. The name’s familiar, the photo’s right—” he gestured at her with the cigarette, “—but there’s nothing in it that feels like you.”

She didn’t fire back. Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t even flinch.

Just looked at him for the first time in minutes—really looked.

“It’s been three years, Lewis.” 

She paused.

“I don’t know who you expected to find.”

He didn’t speak at first. Just studied her, the cigarette burning low between his fingers, forgotten. He wasn’t sure what he wanted—an answer, an apology, a fight, her. Maybe he just needed proof she hadn’t disappeared completely.

Then, almost under his breath, “I don’t know either.” It was stripped of sarcasm. No bitterness. Just the simple, stupid truth of it.

He exhaled slowly, gaze dropping to the bottle still on the crate beside him. He thumbed the edge of the label.

He lifted the bottle halfway, then paused.

“You still drink?”

“Of course I do,” she said flatly, giving him a look, and reaching out her hand.

He passed it to her without a word, and she took it carefully, in a way that made it clear their hands were not going to touch. Not by accident. Not even briefly.

She raised the bottle, but didn’t drink just yet. Instead, she turned it slowly in her fingers, like she was inspecting the label.

“How is the lovely Katherine, by the way?”

Her tone was feather-light. Barely a question.

“I heard the wedding was a hoot.”

That one hit like a slow-motion punch.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just leaned back slightly and looked at her with that deadpan Nixon stare, a fresh cigarette hanging from his mouth like it was the only thing keeping him from saying something stupid.

“You really want to go there?”

She took a long, deliberate swig, eyes never leaving him.

He flicked at the ash, voice low but clipped.

“Maybe I should’ve handled–”

She cut him off before he could get all high-and-mighty.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Lieutenant Ni–”

His eyes darkened, and with a slow, deliberate edge he said,

“Christ, Lily—” He stressed her name like a curse. “Lewis. My name is Lewis.”

“You know, you used to be a lot more fun to talk to.” “Blanche never heard from you. Clarence barely mentions your name. You left, disappeared. Then you show up here after years and I’m supposed to just… make sense of it all?”

She didn’t react, but her voice was quiet when it came. “Can’t make sense of it, or don’t want to?”

He shook his head, and ran a hand over his face.

“Why are you here?”

A beat.

“I mean really here. Why this?”

She shrugged. “Same reason you are.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His tone softened, but only slightly. “You could’ve done anything. Honestly, I figured… I figured you’d be married by now.”

She laughed once—dry and low. 

He looked at her, a little too long.

“Does Clarence know?” he asked.

She brought the bottle back up to her lips, pausing as she thought, watching the liquid catch in what little light there was. 

There were times she’d turn up on his doorstep without warning—weeks gone, no letters, no calls. A glazed look behind her eyes, quieter than usual, and thinner, always thinner. He never asked where she’d been. Stopped trying after the second time.

Even after he joined the RAF, the pattern didn’t change. His questions remained unspoken, his concerns unaddressed. On his first leave, he came home to find a key left in his desk drawer. No note. No explanation.

“Not all of it,” she said finally, voice flat. “But he’s not stupid.”

“Is this what you wanted? Are you happy?”

“Does it matter?”

“To me? Yes it does.”

“I’m tired.”

Her body showed it. Finally over the hill of paratrooper training, medic training was dragging her down the other side. It was a stark contrast, retraining her brain from harming to healing. 

He nodded, eyes dropping. “You look it.”

“Well, that’s war for you, I suppose.” She replied, taking a swig, exhaling slowly as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“And anyway, I didn’t leave. You did.” She screwed the lid back on the bottle and tossed it towards him. 

He caught it before it hit him, blinking at her statement. “Excuse me?”

“If you’re accusing me of things, it may be best to get your facts straight.”

 He stared at her. “You think that’s what happened?”

“Isn’t it?” she said casually. "I was young. Foolish, naive, and apparently far too trusting.” She huffed a small laugh. “But you?” She leaned forward, her voice low, but pointed. “You were older. Smarter. And engaged the entire time, as it turns out."

His eyes snapped to hers. He didn't deny it, she saw the shift the moment it hit him. The knowledge that she knew.

She sat back slightly, savoring it, the sweat under his collar, the drop in his pulse. 

“Hm,” she said. “Didn’t expect me to know that?”

“That’s not—” He cut himself off, jaw tight.

She didn’t wait for him to find a better lie. “Don’t bother. It’s not even what pisses me off the most.”

“It’s this thing you do—this cocky, sad, smug way you look at me. This sweet little girl from a summer three years ago, tucked away like a photograph. That’s the part that really grinds my teeth.” 

He scoffed, half-laugh, half-defense. “I don’t think you’re sweet.”

“No. You think I’m yours.”

That hit.

“You don’t know me anymore. And frankly, I’m glad you don’t. Whatever you’re looking for when you look at me–she’s gone.”

His mouth parted again—maybe to argue, maybe to deflect—but she wasn’t finished.

“You don’t know the first fucking thing about me anymore,” she said. “Not where I’ve been, not what I’ve done. Yet still, you sit there with your cigarette and my bloody lighter like I am something you get to claim.”

He stood, the crate creaking beneath him, his voice rising with it. 

“I know what you’ve done.” He stepped closer towards her. “I’ve read the damn file, Lily. I know you’ve killed. I know you’ve lied. I know you’ve probably slept your way through half of Europe—”

He broke off, stepping toward her like the words were bile in his mouth. “Jesus Christ, I don’t even know who the hell I’m talking to anymore.

His jaw clenched as he dropped the bottle, his hands twisting as he struggled to keep his voice suppressed.

“Yeah, you’ve changed, I know. I’m just trying to see if there's anything left of you I recognise.”

She closed the gap between them. 

“There isn't, and I’m glad. It was exhausting. Always being something for someone else, always careful, waiting for things that never came. 

Her head tilted, her lips curling ever so slightly.

“At least now, when I fuck someone, I don’t waste time pretending it means anything.”

They stared through each other. Neither moved.

Her words tangled in the air between them, sharp and sour. Nixon’s jaw twitched. Then his hand shifted–barely an inch, as if he were about to reach out for her. To shake her, to stop her, to grab ahold of whatever this was before it slipped through his fingers.

The flap of the tent snapped open before he could speak, the cool air snapping the tension between them. 

“Hey Red, you in he–?”

Guarnere froze mid step, his eyebrows shooting up.

All three locked eyes at once.

Lily and Nixon were standing too close, too still. The type of stillness that meant something just happened, or was just about to. 

Her hands were clenched at her sides, her eyes red-rimmed and shining, breath high in her chest. Nixon’s shoulders were tense, he looked like he was about to combust. They looked as if they were about to kiss or kill each other.

Bill’s eyes bounced from one to the other, then quietly cleared his throat. 

“Sir.” He said, with a stiff nod, trying not to set the grenade off.

Neither answered.

“Doc Roe’s lookin’ for you,” he spoke to Lily, carefully. “Was seeing if you wanted to, uh–try again, or something?”

A pause. 

The rain must have stopped at some point, not that Lily had noticed, no rattle of the canvas, no snap of the ropes. Just thick, ringing silence. 

She didn’t look at Lewis again. Exhaling through her nose, she rolled her neck, and pushed past Guarnere and pushed her way back through the flap, muttering as she went, “alright, let’s go then.”

Guarnere rocked back on his heels, dodging her as she passed, casting the Lieutenant one more unreadable look before following her smoke.

The flap fluttered shit behind them.

Nixon remained there alone, his head raised, eyes staring into the roof of the tent, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose, the other still holding the cigarette, unlit, crumpled, and useless between his fingers. 

– - 

The water hit her skin like a prayer. 

Scalding, heavy, cleansing. 

Lily had one hand against the wall, the other scrubbing a spare sock filled with soap across her arm with a force that bordered on bruising. Pink ribbons swirled in amongst the suds, blood. Old, dried, always there. 

The bathhouse at MacKall was somehow even worse than Toccoa. Chipped tiles, permanently fogged windows, there weren’t even doors, just sad concrete partitions that pretended to offer privacy. She sucked in a breath as the water slid over her shoulder, trailing across the angry red dent her medic bag had etched into her skin. 

She pressed her wrinkled fingertips into it, wincing. It was like the bloody thing was trying to fuse with her.

She tried not to think about Nixon. At least not consciously. But his words lingered in the corners of her brain, buzzing like a radio she couldn't turn off, a noise she couldn’t shake. The way his eyes searched her, like he was trying to put together a puzzle of memories that had been altered by time. All she had wanted was a second to breathe, a moment to pull herself together, and he’d ruined it with his attitude and his quiet desperation. 

She ducked her head under the stream again and continued scrubbing as if it might erase something deeper. 

Her hair, once something she coaxed into curls pinned back with care, now lived in a permanent state of rebellion–tangled and matted by sweat, dirt, and that awful helmet that was definitely one size too big. She tried working her comb through it anyway, untangling what she could, biting her cheek at every snag. It had been days since she’d given it a proper clean.

God, how she longed for the luxury of being clean. Properly clean. Real shampoo, a soft white towel, the ritual of it all, perhaps even the time and energy to pin it back in the evenings the way her mother had taught her. Now it hung heavy and lifeless down her back, perhaps cutting it off was the answer. 

Before she was able to finish rinsing, the heat began to dwindle. The pipes let out a shuddering groan like they too were exhausted. There was never enough warm water, enough soap, or solitude. She couldn’t remember the last time she actually felt human. 

She shut the water off just as the pipes began dispensing ice. Wrestling her soaked shirt off, replacing it for the towel she’d draped over the wall, wrapping it tightly. She didn’t bother glancing in the mirror, it’s surface smeared and cracked like it knew better than to reflect anything honestly. She hadn’t cooled down from her interaction with Nixon, and she doubted that seeing the shadows under her eyes or the hollow curve of her cheeks would bolster her mood. 

The day had completely wrung her out.

You're shipping out soon, she reminded herself. Whatever this is—it’s the last of it.

The last quiet. The last hot water. The last scrap of anything resembling privacy. Not that she’d miss that, privacy here was a farce. There was no dignity in spending days caked with blood and mud, only to strip down in a shared bunkhouse and scrub yourself with the dregs of a canteen. 

First thing she’d do if they were shipped back to England: hot bath. Hair salon. And a bloody long nap. 

She dressed quickly, changing her dust-covered uniform for a fresh set, and stepped out into the night. Her damp hair clung to her neck, cooling quickly against the evening breeze. She slung her towel over her shoulder–and nearly walked straight into him.

 “Jesus, Bill?” she jerked back, heart slamming in her throat.

Bill Guarnere leaned against a lamppost outside the door. He flicked the last half of his cigarette to the ground, hands in his pockets, his posture casual like he’d been standing there all night. 

“Evening.” He said. His husky Philadelphian accent came through strong. 

“Luz wasn't lying when he said you take your time.” 

“What are you doing?”

His shoulders lifted in a lazy shrug. “Streching my legs.”

She stared at him, flat and unimpressed..

“And I swapped with Toye,” he added. “You know–the rota.”

“What rota?”

“We been takin’ turns. Y’know new camp. New faces. Lotta guys here don’t know you’re one of us. After… Toccoa.”

The implication hung in the air like smoke.

“For how long?”

“Few weeks. Martin’s idea, if you’re lookin’ for someone to fight about it. ” His expression didn’t shift, as he pushed himself off the post with a kick. 

She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “This is a joke.” 

“Not really, can’t lose our medic.”

“You’ve got Roe, and Spina.” She exhaled sharply, almost a laugh.

“Yeah, well, I ain’t lettin’ Roe give me a sponge bath.” 

“You won’t get one from me either.” 

“Didn’t say I would.”

“Then stop hovering.”

“Don’t get worked up.”

“I’m not worked up,” she said, stepping past him. “I’m just tired of being treated like I’m made of glass.”

“When you gonna show me how to fix a Willys engine?” 

She didn’t answer right away, letting him trail behind a few steps before replying: “Whenever you want.” 

They walked in silence up the gravel path, boots crunching, The night closing in around them. Bill started whistling–off key, a British tune, and then twisted to walk backwards in front of her, his hands tucked behind his back, eyes narrowed as if trying to work something out. .

She stopped. “What do you want, Guarnere?” 

He continued walking backward, shrugging again, then stopped and tilted his head.

“Just trying to figure out who the hell you are, Red.”

She sighed, rubbing her face with both hands. “Bill, I’m so tired.”

“You know who I am.”

“Nah,” he said.” “See I know Bull’s from Arkansas and hates corn. I know Tab’s writing three girls from the same town and doesn't see the problem. I know more than I ever wanted to about Oregon, thanks to Malarkey. But you?”

He looked at her. 

“I know you’re British. I know you’re a gir–”

She arched a brow.

“--a woman,” he corrected, dryly. “You throw grown men around like they weigh nothing, and today you fixed that engine faster than half the men I know.”

“So what?” She looked away towards the barracks.

“So who are you?”

She didn’t even flinch. “I’m the one who’ll stitch you back together if you get yourself blown to hell in combat. Is that enough for you?” 

“Nah,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “It ain’t.”

She exhaled sharply and turned. “Christ, Bill. I am too tired for this.” 

Her voice cracked with exhaustion more than anger. “I’m running off four hours of sleep. I’ve missed chow, I still smell like blood, and I want to get to my bunk before I forget my own name.”

He didn’t follow right away this time. Not until she’d almost made it to the path that split between the medical tent and the barracks. Then he threw it in. 

“How come you speak French.”

She stopped mid-step. Didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe.

“I heard you. With Roe last week.”

She turned her head slowly. “A lot of people speak French, Bill.”

“Yeah? Roe seems to understand yours just fine. Whole conversation went right over my head”

She turned fully, her expression unreadable. “My father is a politician, William. I went to boarding school, I speak a lot of languages.” 

He didn’t blink. “You speak it like it’s your first.”

She rolled her eyes. “Jesus Bill.” She took a step towards him. “Maybe I speak French. Maybe Liebgott is a communist, and maybe Luz has three tits. I don’t have the energy for this.” 

She moved to walk again–but this time, he stepped forward, blocking her path.

His voice stopped her cold. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry. Just sure.

“We’re shipping out soon,” he said. “Real soon. I wanna know I can trust who I’m jumping with.”

The wind rustled through the trees. The bathhouse door creaked on its hinge.

He didn’t blink.

“I ain’t accusing,” he said, softer now. “But I’m not stupid either.”

She shook her head once. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Thats bullshit.” He took a step closer. Not threatening. Just solid. Anchored. 

“You don’t talk about your life,” he said. “No hometown stories. No old friends. You don’t think that’s odd? Everyone’s got someone writing ‘em letters, even Muck gets something with perfume on it. You? Nothing, I ain’t heard your name once during mail call.”

She pulled at the towel that was slipping from her shoulder, the tenseness between them unsettling her. 

“I ain’t the only one with questions, y’know,” he said, his gravely voice still calm, but with an edge now. “Malarkey’s been wondering, Luz dodges my looks. Even Liebgott looks at you sideways when he thinks you’re not watching’, almost broke his arm too that day.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Bill, you are being utterly ridiculous.” 

That’s when he reached for her arm.

She jolted instinctively at his grip, the hair on her arms standing to attention as he yanked her wrist mid-step. He wasn't rough, but there was an air of possessiveness about it, and her whole body tensed in protest.

“Bill!” she said, her voice smaller now, almost breathless. “What on earth are you doing?”

At first it sounded like pleading to him. Tired with a thread of frustration woven through. Her hair, still damp, clung to her body from where it had landed as she turned to face him; the towel at her shoulder slipped again. And for a second he through he had the upper hand. That he’d backed her up into a corner. 

“I—Bill, let go, Bill you’re hurting me.”

She pulled, once, but his grip held. Her brows drew together, the weight of the whole damn day closing in.

“I just want the truth.” He warned.

She didn’t jerk again, but stepped in.

Closer. 

Her movement was slow, controlled. 

She lifted her head and looked him straight in the eyes 

“Bill.” Her voice dropped, deadly low.

“Let me go.” 

To Bill, the shift was almost too quick. As if the temperature of the air had plummeted. Her quiet, deliberate stillness. Her dark gaze locked onto his, unblinking, and something behind her eyes settled into place. The weight of her stare pressed into him, suffocating. 

There was no more softness, no more hesitation. Only training.

And just as quickly, it was Bill who felt out of his depth. 

It gave him pause, just enough for her to move. 

In one fast twist, she tore free, and pivoted behind him, wrenching his arm back and driving it into his spine before he could even process what was happening. 

His chest hit the wooden siding of the nearest hit with a thunk that rattled the boards. A grunt slipped out of him, half startled, half winded. 

He could feel her at his neck, her breath hot on his skin, the towel long gone, left in a heap by her side. 

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped between breaths.

“What the hell are you trying to ask me Guarnere?” she hissed. “You wanna know if I’m a flipping Nazi?”

“Get off me,” he said, more rattled than angry now. “What, you gonna give me a scar like yours?”

She flinched as if he’d struck her, and pushed herself off him, releasing his arm with a final shove that sent him stumbling, catching himself on the edge of the building, wincing as he shook out his shoulder.

They stared at each other, the gravel shifting quietly beneath their boots as they found their footing, both still breathing like they’d run a mile.

Bill’s voice came lower this time. Almost a whisper.

“I just–fuck, Red, I shouldn’t have–I just need to know who’s beside me when the bullets start flying.”

“And that makes this ok?” She shot back, her eyes glistening with anger, her hands shook at her side as the adrenaline seeped through her. 

He took a moment, his good arm moved to hold up the bad one, letting himself catch his breath as he stepped back and leant against the wall.

“When I was fourteen I dared my buddy Mike to cross the trolley tracks near Tasker, before the car came.”

She watched him through her lashes as he shifted on his feet, running a thumb along the seam of his shirt sleeve. 

“Dumb City kid shit, see who could run the closest without gettin’ clipped.” 

Lily could feel her heart thumping in her chest as he moved to speak again. 

“And this time, he slipped. Didn’t make it.” 

I was the one who told his Ma. Watched the light go outta her face. Told her he was a hero, said he pushed me out the way. Lied to a good woman, and she believed it.”

He took a faint breath, almost like a laugh. “Ain’t told no one since it happened. Figured if I wanted the truth, maybe I oughta offer something first.”

She wiped at a tear that had fallen down her cheek, she hadn't even noticed she was crying. 

“That’s not how it works Bill,” she murmured. “Not with this.” Her hands pressed into the small of her back as she shot her eyes to the heavens, blinking away at the wetness that had pooled within them. 

He straightened up fully now, rubbing his sore shoulder but not backing down. “Because you don’t want to tell me?”

She spun, eyes flashing. “No, because I can’t.”

The words hit the air like a live wire.

“Okay? I can’t tell you.”

He stared at her. “Why not?”

The air between them stilled. Her mouth parted slightly, as if she might say it. Might trust him. But then—

That look.

That half-second pause.

Her chin lifted and she gave the smallest, involuntary shake of her head—barely perceptible, more a twitch than a gesture. A flicker of defeat passed through her eyes, like a flame caught in a gust.

His stomach turned.

That was it. That was the answer.

And he hated knowing it.

She wanted to tell him. That much was clear.

She just couldn’t.

Bill watched her as she stood there, damp uniform clinging to her body, chest rising and falling in tight, tired breaths. 

It was always like this for her now. Lies stacked on top of lies, balancing like plates on sticks, and any second, they’d come crashing down.

She thought about Nixon–the way he looked at her in the tent, like he didn’t know what he was seeing anymore. About the way she couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. About how much of him she missed, how hurt she was by it all, and how much of herself she lost when she left.

And now Bill.

Jesus, Bill…

She didn’t want to do this to him. To any of them. These stupid, loud, brilliant boys who still believed in something. Who let her in as one of them. Who trained beside her, bled beside her, laughed with her, cursed with her. And here she was, feeding them false truths like it was enough..

The weight of it all–the secrets, the guilt, the sheer exhaustion of having your life dictated by someone else’s rules–it settled behind her eyes like water pressing at a dam.

She was tired. God, she was so fucking tired.

Tired of being the question mark in every conversation. Tired of watching every word like a sniper’s trigger. Tired of disappointing people who deserved more than what she was allowed to give.

She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand, trying to push the ache back inside.

He took a tentative step towards her, his voice, gentler now.

“You been to France?”

Still no reply. Just the twitch in her expression. A blink. Her lips parted, then pressed together again like she was biting back something.

“Germany?” he asked next, quieter.

Her gaze flicked up to meet his, and this time she held it. Not cold. Not hard. But heavy. A warning wrapped in apology.

He took a small step back, eyes narrowing—not with anger, but clarity.

She didn’t nod. She didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to, because for the first time, Bill really saw her.

Not the girl who jumped from the sky with ease. Not the medic who didn’t falter at blood or broken bones. Not the tough bastard who could knock a man twice her weight flat without breaking a sweat.

Just her.

Young. Too young.

Maybe a few years behind him, four tops. Yet somehow she carried herself like someone who had been holding her breath for years, waiting for the world to let her exhale. As tho she'd witnessed things no one should see and carried things no one should carry.

And when his eyes met hers, there was nothing guarded in them, just a kind of bone-deep sadness that didn’t belong in someone her age.

He thought of his sisters for half a second—thought of his youngest, how her hands shook after a bad dream, of the way she’d bury her face in his coat and pretend she wasn’t crying. And God help him, he wanted to give Lily that same protection.

Wanted to haul her out of whatever hell she’d come from.

A young woman standing there in a uniform that didn’t fit, tired in a way that sleep couldn’t patch. Hollowed out by something bigger than war. Like whatever she'd been through, whatever she'd done, she was still crawling out of it.

He didn’t know the shape of her past, not exactly, but he could see the shadow it cast, and suddenly, the thought of dragging answers out of her felt less like justice, and more like cruelty.

He breathed out, slowly.

“Jesus, Red…”

She shifted, moving to pick up the towel, shaking the dust out and throwing it back over her shoulder. 

The quiet between them was weighted. The type that stretched between two people who finally saw each other clearly, earnestly, even if they didn’t like what they saw.

He moved first, just one step, slow and careful.

“Walk you back?” He asked, his breath stilling until she nodded.

No words, no more questions.

For the first time that day she wasn't being followed, she was walking with someone. 

As they rounded the corner, slipping past the darkened mess hall, and edging nearer to the barracks, Bill threw her a sideways glance, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I’d still let you give me a sponge bath.”

The ridiculousness of it cut through the tight coil of tension inside of her, and she snorted, a sudden surprised burst of laughter that caught her off guard. 

“You’re not my type, Guarnere.” She shot back, smirking. 

“Damn shame,” he grinned, his hands slipping back in his pockets with that natural swagger of his. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” Tossing a wink in her direction.

The pair paused for a heartbeat, two tired soldiers caught in a rare, light moment. Lily laughed again, full and unguarded, the first time in days that she’d let herself go.

Bill didn’t say anything else as they fell into step back to the cabin, just reached out and nudged her shoulder with his good arm. A quiet and familiar bump that said everything words couldn’t. 

A simple, but solid promise.

I’ve got your back.

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

Tag list:

“I didn't, I…” Her voice came out small. A pause. “I’m not supposed to be in here.” She added, straightening out and reaching for the shoes she’d kicked off earlier. 

“And yet,” he said, “here we both are.” He handed her the glass. She hesitated before taking it, he raised a brow. 

“It's not going to bite you. And you look like you need it.” 

She took the glass with both hands, as if it might slip through her fingers. The amber swirled once, catching the light like gold and shadow.

“I’m not really a whiskey girl,” she said, staring at it.

Lewis leaned back against the bookcase, folding his arms. “No,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You seem more the champagne on the terrace type.”

She gave him a look.

He smirked, “starting to feel like a pattern, with you. Dark corners, drinks, parties we’re meant to be at”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “Maybe I’ve had enough of parties.”

She paused after that—took a sip. It burned. “Gosh, this tastes like paint thinner.” She winced, balancing the glass carefully on the edge of the armrest. 

“You looked very… debutante tonight,” he added, a little softer.

“Well, that was the idea. You sound surprised.”

“Surprised? No. Relieved, yes. I feel like Blanche has been running this house like a dictator in the lead up to the big old debutante debut, or whatever it is you call it.” He said crossing the room and settling into the chair next to her. 

“Was it everything you hoped for?” 

Lily looked down at herself. The dress was perfect. So white she practically glowed in the evening light. Her hair was curled just so, with tiny flowers weaved in between as if she were wearing a crown. Her satin gloves lay across her lap, with their tiny intricate buttons that had taken an age to put on, but only a second to remove. She looked exactly as she had pictured, exactly as a girl should on the night her life in society was to begin. 

She reached for the glass, taking a large gulp of the paint thinner. 

“No.” She didn’t elaborate.

There was a quiet moment, the storm beyond the windows sounded closer, the distant hum of music and laughter downstairs mixing between the rumbles.

He watched her carefully now, his teasing dulled. Then he reached for something in his jacket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

“People said I looked beautiful,” she murmured. “Then they said I looked like my mother. Then they said they were sorry.” She took another sip, draining the contents of the glass. 

She shifted in her seat, curling her feet back up and under herself. “And then they stood there, awkwardly, until they spotted someone else to go talk to. It's like they don’t think I can hear them, about how I’m possibly going to manage without her. Like I look like I’m doomed to fail. ‘Poor Lily,’ they say. ‘Poor dear. How ever will she manage without a mother to guide her?’”

She gave an empty laugh. “As if losing my mother wasn’t enough. Apparently my life’s over too.” She scoffed. “Before it’s even begun.”

Lewis didn’t try to fill the pause between them. Just waited for her to say something.

Lily glanced at him. “You’re not being very comforting.” 

Lewis smirked at her statement. “Not great at comforting.” He shook a cigarette loose from the crumpled pack and held it between his lips, mumbling “But I’m excellent at distraction.” He fumbled around in his pockets, bringing out a beautiful gold lighter that she remembered from the night on the balcony. Then, without a word, he plucked out the cigarette and passed it to her.

“Starting to look like you,” she said, gesturing to herself, exhaling smoke. For a second, the shadows caught the sharp cut of his jaw, almost finding herself getting lost in his dark eyes that were locked onto her. He’d always looked older than his age. With a handsome devil may care kind of attitude. 

“That a bad thing?” He questioned, leaning towards her.

“Haven’t decided yet.” She flicked him a short smile. 

“You know,” he said, reaching over and plucking the cigarette from her hand, “people are idiots.”

She huffed a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “That’s what they teach you in college, Mr. Nixon?”

He gave her a lazy sideways glance. “Fresh from the mouth of Yale’s finest disappointment.”

That made her smile, just barely.

Outside, thunder rolled again. The storm was inching closer, as if it were listening in.

She turned herself in the chair to face him. “Is that why you were arguing with your father?”

Lewis didn’t answer right away. He took another drag, the silence stretching taut. “He thinks I am wasting my potential,” he said finally. “I should be following in his footsteps. He was engaged at my age, goddamit.” He mimicked his fathers tone sarcastically. 

“And what do you think?”

“I think…” he began slowly, “I’d make a pretty terrible replica of my father.”

She studied him, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Is that what he wants? A replica?”

He gave a lazy shrug, the leather creaking as he leant back into the armchair. “Someone polished. Purposeful. Predictable.” He tapped ash into the dish on the table between them, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m one for three.”

She laughed quietly, low and knowing. 

Outside, lightning streaked across the sky, casting the room in a sudden flash of silver. The glow of the bolts caught in the mirror above the fireplace, and reflected in her eyes, making them look almost golden.

“You really don’t like this whole debutante thing, do you?” he said, eyes on her slight fingers dancing along the rim of the empty glass.

She shrugged, not looking at him. “It’s not that.” Her voice dipped, just enough to sound annoyed. “Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s expecting. What they want… it’s not a person. It’s more like a… well, rich, pretty little thing.”

He gave a slow, knowing smile. “A wife.”

She snorted softly. “Exactly, well that’s what it's all about, isn't it. And a girl without a mother? What a gamble.” She paused between the last words. “Who teaches her the rules? Or what to do when…” She stopped, gesturing in the air, her eyes looking away, conveying the unspoken. 

He glanced at her, holding her gaze, voice low and steady.  “Let them talk.”

Leaning in, the cigarette still caught between his fingers, he passed it to her, but he didn't just hand it over.

 He held it to her mouth, letting her lean in and take the drag from his hand.

Their eyes locked, smoke coiling between them like a threat.

She exhaled slowly. “So this is how reputations die.”

He didn’t back away, his eyes locking deeper into hers. “Good thing mine’s already dead.”

She gave a low laugh, almost breathless. “Mine’s still clinging on.”

“Not after tonight,” he said, voice dipped in velvet.

There was a silence then, not awkward, not searching. But the kind that to Lily, felt like she was standing at the edge of something very strange, very thrilling, very new.

He leaned in just an inch closer.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, barely above a whisper.

She looked at him this time. Really looked. Her heart thudded beneath her dress, hard. His tie slightly loose, his cheeks flushed from the whisky, the single piece of hair that had escaped its placement, and now dangled over the end of his brow. His eyes began searching hers like he was trying to figure out if this was a mistake.

And that was all it took.

He kissed her.

No grand sweep, no hesitation—because nothing else made sense anymore. He tasted like smoke and whiskey, and something unmistakably him, and it should’ve felt wrong, her dress too perfect, the room too quiet, the night too heavy, but it didn’t. It felt like something was breaking open. 

It was the only honest thing either of them had done all evening.

– - 

The sun beamed down upon Lily as she dipped her feet into the water, watching the ripples spread out across the lake. It was the type of summer afternoon, where everything bloomed, where everything felt more alive. 

The lake was peacefully quiet, a sort of hidden gem. It was tucked behind the woods, almost on the edge of town. Rumor had it, the land used to belong to the original Nixons, or maybe one of their mistresses, depending on who you asked. But mostly it just sat there, half-forgotten, all rippling water and cattails and dragonflies thick in the air.

Her bike lay on its side in the thick grass, the wheel spinning every now and then in the breeze. She stood at the edge of the dock, the hem of her blue sundress hiked up in her hands, as she played with the water below. Her hair was loose and damp, dripping slowly down her back from an earlier swim. She stood there, her face tilted up, letting the warmth of the sun radiate into her bones. She looked like something out of a dream–a moment that would sear into Lewis’s memory, whether he wanted it to or not. 

She hadn't heard him arrive at first. The creaking of the dock under another's weight snapped her out of her trance. 

“Hello, you.” she said, half startled. “Almost gave me a heart attack.”

Lewis dropped down beside her with the kind of lazy grace that made you forgive him for things he hadn’t even done yet. His linen shirt was half-buttoned, the sleeves rolled. Hair ruffled, too, like maybe he'd just run a hand through it after stepping out of a shower, or maybe he hadn't slept. He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, leaned back on his elbows.

“Well, this is getting ridiculous,” he said finally, lighting up. “Every time I go somewhere to be alone, I find you’ve beaten me to it.”

Lily smiled as she plopped down next to him. “Maybe you’re just following me.”

“Maybe I am.”

A pause.

They sat there, both staring out at the lake like it might offer an explanation, a reason or a way back to something simpler. But it didn’t.

After a moment, he moved.

Got to his feet and walked to the edge of the dock. 

He paused for a moment at the end, before turning and holding out a hand.

“What?” She said squinting up at him, one hand shading her eyes from the sun. 

“Come on,” he said. “You’re already wet.”

She hesitated. Then stood, letting her hand slip into his. His palm was warm and steady and ridiculous, and when he pulled her in close, she didn’t resist.

They stood there, just barely touching. The lake lapped at the dock. Cicadas buzzed like electricity in the trees.

And in one swift movement he picked her up and hurled her into the water. Diving in head first after her, a flash of shirt and limbs. His cigarette bobbed to the surface before he did. 

She came to the surface spluttering, hair plastered to her face, spitting out lake water between laughs. 

“You bloody bastard!” She yelled, flinging a gigantic splash of water at him with both arms. 

He surfaced nearby, blinking the water from his lashes, smirking at the result of his surprise attack. 

She tried to swim away as he came towards her, kicking furiously, half-laughing, half-gasping, but his hand caught her ankle under the surface.

“No, no, no!”

He pulled her toward him.

And then he kissed her.

Just a soft, certain press of his mouth to hers like he’d been thinking about it for hours and couldn’t stand to wonder anymore. 

She kissed him back, and it wasn’t like the first time. It was slow. Deliberate. A kiss that tasted like heat and lust. 

When they finally broke apart, her breath felt heavy in her chest, grinning in surrender, her eyes staring into his. 

She let her hands rest on the top of his head, her fingers playing with the wet strands of his hair. 

Then with a sly grin, she shoved him under. Relishing in the last laugh. 

– - 

The clink of china, and the soft drone of social niceties hung in the air like perfume. The club had spared no expense for the afternoon’s festivities. Paper lanterns hung from the trees, and the staples were draped in crisp white linens, overflowing with plates and trays of tiny sandwiches and cakes that were somehow both charming and vulgar. 

Lily sat at a table near the middle, her legs crossed at the ankle, a raspberry tart with a single bite taken out of it on her plate. She was pretending to be invested in the conversation surrounding her. Jack, or was it John’s mother, was droning on about his recent engagement and how planning the wedding was all she could possibly think about, that and the amount of cake his fiance had been piling onto her plate before she intervened. 

Lewis hadn’t approached her table, they never talked when others were present. But he was there, a few tables over, talking to someone’s father about Yale, or stocks,or whatever version of him was required that afternoon. He looked so clean, with his obvious fresh haircut and his ridiculous hat. She felt his gaze, even when she didn’t look.  

Blanche broke the lul at the table as she swooped in like a tornado in tulle. “Lilybug!” She cooed. “You look like you’re wilting, come with me and let’s go find a breeze!” 

It hadn't been a suggestion. Blanche had them marching off towards the fountain in the far corner. Once they were out of earshot she let out a dramatic sigh and yanked her gloves off with a flourish.

“If I have to hear about John and Mary-Anne’s wedding china once more today, I swear I’m going to throw myself into the punchbowl. Blanche whined. 

Lily smirked at the idea. “You secretly love it though.”

“Yes, I do! But not when it's sweaty faced John and Miss Anne-all-ears. I mean, have you seen her today? You think you’d try to subdue them, you could see her from space with that hat she has on today.” The girls burst into a fit of giggles, flopping down onto the fountain's edge as Lily fanned herself back into composure. 

“So,” Blanche said, leaning in like she had a secret that was about to change Lily’s life. “You’ve been asked to the movies.”

“I have?”

“Hmmmmm. You have. By Bobby Morrison!” Blanche screeched in quiet excitement. “You know he won best swing at the club this year.” 

“Is that so?” Lily pretended to look shocked, much to Blanche’s annoyance. 

“I think he’s excited to see you in the dark!” 

“Blanche!”

“What? You should go. Wear something with buttons, make him work for it.” She winked. 

Lily scooped the cool water in her hand and let it drip down her wrist. “And you?”

“Oh, please. I’ve had to fend off that Harris boy while I wait for Clarence to realize he’s madly in love with me. Your brother’s gotten tall, by the way. When did that happen? Must be something they're feeding them at college.” Her eyes bounced around Lily's head, searching the men out in the crowd.

“Probably while you were busy kissing that Harris boy.”

“Touché.” Blanche raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Let’s go find Clarence.” She turned to Lily with a wicked smile on her face. 

Lily groaned, “Must we?”

“We must! So I can bat my eyelashes at him until he realizes I’m the best decision he’ll ever make,” she said breezily, standing and smoothing her dress. “Then we will be sisters forever, it's a win win.” 

Lily rose reluctantly, “if he’s with those Yale boys, I’m leaving you to your fate.”

They finally found Clarence by the veranda, flanked by a gaggle of Yale boys, clouded by cigar smoke. Lewis stood among them, the ridiculous hat discarded, an empty highball dangling from his fingers.

“Blanche, Lily!” Clarence grinned, stepping forwards from the group, his arms open in mock reverence. “Come to rescue us?”

“Well, well,” Blanche purred, “the Ivy tower’s finest minds, all gathered in one spot. What are we talking about, Socrates or skirts?”

“Both,” Clarence replied smoothly, offering her his arm. “You’ve missed a spirited debate on whether Wilson here will get at least one girl to agree to go on a date with him before the season’s over.” 

“You know who is going on a date, Lily, with Bobby Morrison.” Blanche gloated.

“Am I?” Lily asked, blinking out of the fog. 

“Of course you are! Why wouldn't you, unless anyone here has a better offer?” Blanche looked around the group wide eyed. 

Clarence arched a brow. “Bobby Morrison? That’s who’s taking you out?”

“Seriously,” Wilson said, gesturing toward Lily like he was unveiling a work of art. “No offense, but Bobby peaked in junior varsity tennis and that was, three summers ago?”

“He’s the reason they invented night school.” someone added with a snort.

“I’d take her out,” Wilson grinned, emboldened now, raising his glass. “I mean, if you’re open to charitable causes.”

Lily smiled, but it was all teeth. “How generous of you.”

“Oh please,” Blanche rolled her eyes. “You’d try to split the bill and ask her to drive.”

Clarence stepped in, shaking his head. “Wilson, I’d let Lewis date my sister before I let you near her.”

The group cracked up. Lewis let out a dry, “Wow,” at the same time Lily choked slightly on her drink.

“And that’s saying something,” Clarence said, grinning. “Because Lewis? He’s a walking cautionary tale.”

“Charmed,” Lewis muttered, adjusting his stance. “Nice to know you hold me in such high regard.”

“Doesn’t Katherine already have you leashed anyway?” Wilson asked, tone light but pointed.

Lily looked away, staring into the distance like she was admiring a tree, or literally anything but the conversation.

Lewis chuckled, but it was tight. “Hardly. Katherine likes to talk more than she listens. Something you two have in common”

“Alright, alright.” Wilson raised his hands, feigning innocence. “Just wondering who’s walking around with who these days.”

Blanche looped her arm through Clarence’s. “Speaking of Clarance, I’m parched, will you get me a refill?”

“Always,” Clarence replied, guiding her off.

Lily turned to follow, but Lewis leaned in just enough to brush the air between them.

“You’ll know where I'll be,” he murmured.

Lily didn’t look at him. “I always do.”

He watched as she left without looking back.

 The satin bow at the base of her dress wiggled with each step, tied up around her like a secret. His fingers twitched, remembering the last time they’d touched her, already counting down the hours till they would again. 

He shouldn’t. God, he was well aware of that.

There had been conversations. The kinds that took place behind closed doors. Expectations sealed with nodding fathers and mother of pearl smiles. 

The guilt didn’t come from wanting her. It came from knowing she’d come anyway. 

Because she always did.

And he’d be waiting. Every damn time. 

– - 

They had spent the summer hiding in plain sight. 

Whilst society had bustled with idle gossip and endless parties. Lily and Lewis had lived for the stolen moments of the evenings, secret meetings in the dark, smoke shrouded laughter, stolen glances across crowded rooms that no one else seemed to notice. 

Because no one was supposed to know. That was the unspoken rule. It was all unspoken, the entirety of it. Whilst the rest of the world around them laughed, danced and made merry, the silence whispered truths they’d never admit out loud. 

It had been the only summer where Lewis hadn’t minded the incredulous amount of parties his mother hosted. It allowed them to find each other in the dark corners, the overgrown greenhouse where the moonlight shone through the cracks under the door, the library, the balcony. 

Lewis learned her rhythm. The way her humour came out when no one was watching. Quippy, sarcastic, and sharp, underneath all the bows and lace she was uninhibited. He could feel it, the pull of something wild in her beneath all the expectations. 

There were nights where it felt like the world had forgotten about them entirely. Where the only sound was the fizz of champagne, the click of the lighter and the distant buzz of crickets in the grass beneath them. He liked the upstairs balcony best, the one off the side of the governess’ suite. It hasn't been used in years now, not since everyone had grown up. The stone held onto the heat of the day, and the railings captured the cool of the night.

They sat pressed together in the dark, Lily nestled between his legs, her back to his chest, one of his arms looped round her waist, the other holding their shared cigarette off to the side, the smoke dancing with the breeze. He smelled expensive. She felt free, and the stars stared down above them. There was always a bottle of something, sometimes whiskey, usually older than her, or champagne, passed between them as they sipped straight from the mouth, and somehow always ended up empty before either of them realised it. 

There were no grand declarations. They never said what was between them. Breathless moments, but no breathless promises. All they had were a thousand tiny moments, the way his hand fit around hers, how he lit her cigarette without asking, the way she told him things because she knew he’d listen and not try to fix them. 

One night, with her head resting on his shoulder, she had told him how quiet the house had become since her mother had died. 

“It’s like none of them notice she’s gone.” She murmured. “Not really. With Clarence away at college, the house is so empty. My father, the staff. It’s as if she slipped out and never came home, and nobody cares.” 

Lewis didn’t say anything to that. He just pressed a kiss to her temple and passed her the bottle again. It had been the kind of night that made people say all the things they shouldn't. He’d almost told her how much he liked the sound of her laugh, how it rolled into the night and echoed off the stone walls. The kind of sound where just for that small moment, he felt lighter, he felt free. 

He knew her differently now. She wasn't the little shadow that followed Blanche everywhere, or the younger sister in one of Clarence's tales. She was brighter than he expected her to be. Sadder too. Like someone so young who already had the weight of the world's expectations upon their shoulders. She’d had so much taken from her, yet chose to burn in whatever was left. He could relate to that, a kind of tie that they shared, and it felt so good standing close to her flame. 

In the dark, a hidden secret tucked into the folds of the summer, with her warm body, rising and falling against him, he let himself ignore the end that was crawling towards them. 

He never would be able to remember who kissed who first, only that the laughter had stopped, and when his hand found hers, neither of them pulled away. The urgency of every word they hadn't said balled up into something too much to hold back. She gave herself to him like it meant something, and to her, maybe it did. 

She lay in his arms, their legs tangled together, glowing in the quiet of the night, she looked so happy, so peaceful. He should've felt like a man who’d won. The guilt didn’t hit him all at once, it crawled through him, curling in his gut, and whispering through his skin. 

Desire like summer, is reckless and brief, burning fast and wild. Like chasing the last light of a sunset, the moment you stopped to bask in its glow was the moment it slipped from your grasp. 

She should've known better, and he should've stopped her. 

But neither of them did. 

– - 

The final party of the summer had always been a grand affair. A farewell to the season, a nod to tradition. The sort of event where the girls dripped in diamonds, even before dusk, and the men smelled like smoke and money. 

It was the type of party that looked perfect in photos. The kind of evening that people would look back on and call the good old days, easier than admitting it was only ever good for those who could afford the lie. When money was loud and champagne flowed like water. A final portrait of a world about to vanish, of boys who had yet to go to war, and menwho  would never come home. 

Lily had known something felt different from the moment she stepped through the gates. Blanche had found her instantly, clutching at her arm tightly, her greeting of “Lilybug!” too giddy, even for her usual self. The air seemed to still too, as if something was holding back the breeze. Like everyone was holding their breath, but no one would tell her why.

Her second pang of confusion hit her when Lewis hadn’t sought her out. Not in the way he usually did. He’d looked at her, of course he had. But the glance felt empty, it hadn’t lingered, missing the usual twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

She told herself she was overthinking it. That the heat of the evening, and the anticipation of the party was clouding her mind. He was playing it safe, waiting for the crowd to thicken, for the attendees to be too absorbed in drink to notice the goings on around them. They were never together in the daylight anyway. Not in public anyway. 

She was still reminding herself as Mrs Nixon made her way to the top of the garden steps, tapping a spoon gently against a crystal flute.  

“A moment, if you’ll all indulge me.” She called, smiling in grandeur. 

The chatter quietened as people set aside their conversations and waited in anticipation.  

Lily turned in her seat, folding her hands in her lap to try and stop from pulling at a loose thread at the edge of her glove. The sun pressed hot against her back.

“This summer has been…well, a summer of change,” Mrs Nixon began, her voice warm and gentle to the crowd. “We’ve laughed, we’ve danced, we’ve mourned.”

A soft murmur passed amongst the crowd as Blanche gripped Lily’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. 

“It would be remiss of me to not acknowledge the loss of our dear friend, whose absence has felt so heavy these past few months.”

Lily felt her dress tighten around her chest at the mention of her mother.

“I know I speak for us all when I say how proud she would be of her dear children, who have navigated it all with such grace.” 

Lily felt the eyes of the crowd fall upon her as they clapped in agreement, and she smiled faintly, her eyes fixed on her hands. She didn’t notice how Lewis stiffened at the edge of the stairs, how he looked away. 

Mrs Nixon took a slow deep breath, “It hasn't felt like the right time to share good news, not when so many hearts were so heavy, however, I’m delighted to say, I have been told, reluctantly, that I may finally speak.”  

Lily’s head shot back up, a discomforting feeling growing in her stomach. 

“It overjoys me to announce the engagement of our son, Lewis, to the beautiful Miss Katherine Paige.” 

The applause roared, and the world tilted. 

Lily sat there, motionless. Her hands locked in her lap, as if they’d forgotten how to move.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn't move. Her mouth ran dry, as if the air had been kicked out of her.  

She stared at the glass in front of her. Watching the bubbles as they rose to the surface and popped one by one. She heard Blanche lean over and say something to her, but the words were muted, the world sounded as if it were underwater. 

And Lewis.

God, he wasn’t even looking at her. 

He didn’t even look at her. 

He was looking into the eyes of a girl he’d never even mentioned. His hand wrapped tightly around her waist as if it had never been anywhere else. Basking in the congratulations of a love he’d forgotten to mention. 

She had drowned in him, he had watched her fall, and now he smiled as she sank.

It finally hit her. Not like a knife. It was a cold familiar ache.

Grief.

Someone gripped her shoulder. 

Softly–but enough to jolt her. 

A woman she barely knew hovered beside her, her face pulled into something understanding, the way people look at you when they think they know how your pain hurts.

“It gets easier,” the woman whispered, her voice sympathetic.

Lily stiffened, before realising the woman meant her mother. 

Of course she did. 

With a smile and a squeeze the woman moved on. The music started again, and the world continued turning. 

She made it through the toasts, through the clinking glasses, the jokes and bubbling laughter that laced the air. 

And then she left. 

She didn’t say goodbye. Not to Blanch, not to anyone. 

Just excused herself, stepped back through the gate, down the gravel drive. Barefoot and blinking away tears.

She was in bed before the sun dipped beneath the horizon. 

The moon rose without her. 

– - 

Clarence left the following week for college, with a hug that said everything, and a promise to write.

The week after, her father had called her into his office.

Cold and official, he told her they were returning to London. Something to do with the War. Official business, details he couldn't share. 

“Just for a while,” he said.

He hadn’t specified how long a while was.

She didn't care. 

She had gone to see Blanche one last time. They had laid together in the grass, hands tightly clasped, recalling every tender moment over the last two years they had shared. The soft ache of girlhood slipping through their fingers. The dresses they’d ruined and the secrets they’d shared. 

They cried a little. 

Laughed a lot. 

Didn’t say goodbye, didn't have to. 

The butler approached her as she came through the old creaky front door. 

“You just missed him.” He said, passing her a small brown box.

Inside, a lighter, heavy, engraved, LN–somehow still warm. 

And a note, just two words. 

Write me. 

She stared at it, feeling the weight of the lighter heavy in her palm. Her throat tightened.

She kept the lighter.

And used it to burn the note.

Tag list:

Her hair was a mess, flattened on one side, and defying gravity on the other. Her shirt was half unbuttoned, and so wrinkled it was beyond saving. She looked like she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks.

“Hmmm?” Luz offered his hand as she stood and began slowly putting herself together. “Well, congratulations, you’ve survived the Luftwaffe. But you won't survive Sobel if you don't get your ass moving. We’re jumping today. Full gear. Out the door.” 

She blinked up at him. “Oh bollocks.”

– - 

She and Georgie made it across the field in the nick of time to catch the chaos in full swing. Gear was being passed around, shouts of commands, and names were barked like curses as dust churned under the boots of the men. 

Lily ducked beneath the hanging line of a display parachute and caught a helmet mid air. 

She rolled it in her hands, frowning. “What sort of helmet is this?”

“It’s a football helmet.” Perconte answered, adjusting his own with a disappointed huff. “Army’s got us jumping outta planes in football helmets?!” 

“This is a joke right?” Lily said, trying to figure out how it would even protect anything. 

“Hey! Mine's got someone else’s name in it!” Perconte called out, walking away looking for someone to complain to. 

“Look who’s finally joined us!’ Malarkey called as she moved further into the swell, searching for her group. “Roe said you’re on double duty. What’d you do this time?” 

“Corrected Sobel’s cadence.” She replied quietly, rolling her eyes. As she settled into the space he'd made for her between himself and Muck just as the jumpmaster began the training brief. 

– - 

The sun beat down with aggression, her shirt was beginning to stick to the sweat collecting at the small of her back, and her harness still didn't fit. 

Lily pulled down at the strap again, teeth gritted, bracing her boot up against the edge of the bench for leverage. The webbing, new and stiff, refused to budge. Her gear felt off, and not just because it was American. The rig didn’t fit right, sagging across her waist, and hanging low where it should be riding up. She’d learned to jump in a custom built rig outfitted by the SOE, if she jumped in this, she'd fall straight through. 

“Strap’s loose.” Winters said as he passed by, eagle-eyed as always. He stopped beside her, already reaching for the webbing at her chest 

“You’ll feel it when you drop. But better bruised ribs than broken ones.” His hands worked quickly, looping the end through and pulling it tightly enough to cause Lily to stumble in place. 

Behind Winters, standing just off to the side, hands tucked into his webbing, the strap of his helmet hanging loose at his sharp chin, Nixon waited. A cigarette dangled unlit from his mouth as he watched. Not Winters, not the harness.

Her. 

She hadn’t noticed him alongside Winters, yet here he was. Something flickered in his eyes, curiosity, perhaps, Or possibly amusement, she couldn't quite tell. 

She met his gaze, and held it, despite the heat and rising dust sticking to her skin.

“Lieutenant Nixon? She said, It came out like a question, more uncertain than she intended. 

Nixon blinked, one brow raised as if caught off guard. “Wondering what His Majesty’s Royal Skydiving Club taught you that we didn’t.” 

His voice was easy, amused, he matched her cool exterior with ease.

“Taught us not to be too sentimental about the ground.” She replied, untwisting a strap as Winters tightened the last of her rigging.

Nixon remained for a moment longer, eyes still on her. He told himself the churn in his gut was nothing, the pre jump jitters. But as he looked over her, strapped head to toe in gear that probably weighed as much as she did, grit and sweat in her eyes, there was something unfamiliar about it. Because in his mind, in his memory, she was just that young girl, barefoot by the lake, sunburnt nose, cigarette tucked behind her ear, the truth of the world hadn't touched her yet. Not the way it had now.

Nixon lingered. She met his eyes for a half second. 

But there was nothing behind them, a flicker of recognition, but nothing else. 

Then she looked straight past him. Like he wasn't even there.

“You’re set.” Winters said, before moving away and calling out to the men. “Start boarding!”

– - 

The atmosphere inside the plane hit her like a wave, all sweat and nerves. The rest of the stick was filling in, rocking beneath their heavy rigs, their boots clanging up the metal stairs.

Lily climbed aboard and clipped into her designated seat, wedged between Liebgott and Randleman, a tangle of elbows and tension. She sat calm, eyes forward, shifting slightly under the weight of her gear, letting the harness bite into her shoulders. 

Liebgott noticed. Of course he did.

“Nervous Redcoat?” he said, loud enough to be heard over the hum of the engines warming up. 

She turned towards him slowly, meeting his gaze head on. “Why? Do you need me to hold your hand on the way down?” 

She felt the vibration as Randleman chuckled beside her, with Malarkey letting out a low “Oof,” opposite them. 

Liebgott opened his mouth, but he said nothing. Instead, he spread his legs wider, elbows stretching out as if he suddenly needed to occupy twice the space. Lily became hemmed in by the men, her already cramped space becoming laughably small. Her knees jammed, and her arms crushed against her pack. 

From the front of the stick, Nixon watched. Her barely there stare, her lack of visible nerves, no tapping foot, not fiddling with her line. She looked as if she could have been waiting for a bus.

“Tuck your chin. Bend your knees, don’t lock them. Hit the ground limp, roll, don’t resist, like a drunken sack of potatoes. Feet and knees together, tuck the shoulders. Stiff and dead, loose and live.” 

“GET READY!” the jumpmaster yelled down from the nose of the aircraft.  

“STAND UP, HOOK UP! SOUND OFF FOR CHECK EQUIPMENT!"

“One, okay!”

“Two, okay!”

It moved down the line.

“Five okay!”

“Six okay!”

WHACK.

Liebgott’s hand slammed into her shoulder like a brick.

“SEVEN OKAY!” He yelled into her ear loud enough to let her know it wasn't an accident. 

She didn’t flinch, reaching up to tap Randleman as she called out “EIGHT OKAY!”

Watching the call run down to the front of the line as the light flashed from red to green, and one by one they stepped forwards, disappearing out the door and into the sky. 

The wind screamed in her ears. She didn’t hesitate. She jumped.

– - 

The bar smelled like Brylcreem and bootpolish. A heavy masculine cocktail that clung to the walls and settled into the worn floorboards. The air practically gleamed with testosterone. It was the smell of men, scrubbed within an inch of their lives, suits pressed so stiffly they creaked, freshly shaved and doused with enough aftershave to float a cruiser. They looked like Goddamn men, soldiers from a recruitment poster–pristine, proud and so ridiculously handsome, in that just stepped out the shower kind of way. 

They were the Airborne. 

Someone had corralled two tables together in the center, and the men wrapped round every inch, shoulder to shoulder, the top littered with empty beer glasses. Conversations overlapped each other as the men relaxed and celebrated, raucous laughter, raised voices, toasts shouted across the room. The mood had been so tight for the past final weeks of training, now it was bursting at the seams. 

Behind the bar, Luz stood slinging beers down across the sticky counter like a bartender in an old western. Toye slammed an empty glass down onto the counter. “Jesus Christ Luz, just pour the damn drink.” 

“You can’t rush art.” Luz grinned, tossing him a wink as he overfilled the next glass by a solid inch. 

“Ain’t gonna be an art when I drown you in the head on this.” He shoved the glass back at Luz, pointing to the four inch head on the beer, the men stared at each other in silence, before bursting into drunken laughter. 

Toye made his way back to the table with his fresh pour, “if Luz ever pours me something without foam, I’ll marry him.”

Lily lifted her glass in mock solemnity. “To a long and unhappy union.” She said with a wink. 

More laughter filled the air, the kind that wrapped itself around her like warmth. 

Lily sat in the middle of the table, happily squashed between Malarkey and Muck, her own uniform pressed to perfection. The olive green of her jacket contrasted with the bright glint of her newly pinned jumpwings. Her hair was pinned neatly back, and her lips were stained red with the celebratory wine they’d had at the ceremony. Her face, albeit tired, was glowing. 

She had made it. The men that surrounded her knew it. She was in it, properly. Filled into the mess and the madness. 

Bull and Martin had become like protective older brothers. They knew her worth, knew she had a mean right hook, but always kept her in their line of sight. Luz clung to her like glue, turns out he really was serious about the whole best buddies thing. Guarnere had somehow decided that the seat opposite his in chow was hers–and God bless the man who tried to sit in it, even protecting it by using it as a footstool on nights she was too busy to leave the medic tent. Even Talbert had stopped trying to flirt with her, and for him, that was saying something. She was brought back to the room as laughter erupted around her. A joke she had missed the punchline of.

“I’m starting to like her,” Randleman said, nudging her shoulder. “She’s got bite. How ‘bout that.” Receiving a wink from her as a response. 

Across the table cheers erupted as Malarkey raised his glass. “To the wings we earned, the bones we broke, and the bastards we’re yet to meet!”

“Cheers,” said Malarkey, clinking glasses with her. “To Red. You earned it.”

She raised hers back. “Damn right I did.”

Seven thousand! 

Eight thousand!

Nine thousand! 

Cheers erupted at the other end of the table as Gaurnere drained his beer like a champ, tilting the glass up and fishing out something from the bottom. 

A glint of metal. Jump wings. He grinned like a devil and sank his teeth into them, his all American grin growing larger as the men cheered around him, chairs scraped against the floor as men moved to smack him on the back. 

Across the room, Winters stood by a support beam, watching his men with folded arms, the smile of a proud father spread across his face, his eyes, as usual missing nothing. 

“You do realise,” he said to Nixon, who stood beside him, swirling a glass of scotch. “You’re going to have to figure out how to get off that fence of yours.”  

Nixon didn’t look away from where he was staring. He followed the laughter, till it landed on Lily, watching the easy way she leant into Malarkey’s shoulder as he whispered something amusing in her ear, her head tipped back, her cheeks flushed with drink and joy. The men no longer tolerated her, they orbited her. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I just… need to know what side I’m landing on.” 

-- -

We're getting so close to getting this into England!

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In the clearing ahead, Officers shouted commands, whilst the men of Easy and Fox moved amongst the dugouts. Muck dove into a ditch, Luz popped up out of nowhere to launch a grenade. Blanks were fired as the men shouted amongst the pretend chaos. She watched on as the men continued tearing through the underbrush like Hitler himself was hiding between the sticks. 

But still, not a single cry for a medic. 

“Hey, Lily!” Doc Moore waved her over, bruising pine needles off his uniform. “Got a guy over here who twisted his ankle climbing over the ridge. Swears he’s fine.”

“They always do.” Lily sighed, already digging through her bag. “They could be missing a leg and still try to sprint on the bloody thing.” 

She crouched beside the soldier, and had started unlacing the boot he was protectively gripping. 

“It’s fine.” he swallowed, the sweat glistening on his forehead telling the actual story. “Didn’t wanna waste your time.” 

“You’re not wasting my time,” Lily said, examining the swelling. “But you will be wasting your own if you try to walk on this.” 

He watched with curiosity as she wrapped the ankle tightly before sending him hobbling off for a rest and heading back to her post, slumping down on the ground beside Roe and Spina, clipboard once again in hand to log the injury.

“Ain’t nothin’ the U.S Army loves more’n paperwork.” Roe mumbled half smiling.

There was a kinship between the medics, and an unspoken divide between them and the soldiers. It seemed to loom larger over Roe than Lily or Spina, but it was still there. The soldiers were over there, hurling themselves through drills and weapons training, while the trio sat behind desks for lectures on hemorrhages and field triage. It created an odd balancing act–listening to the men yap about their day at chow, all while wondering whose blood she’d have under her fingernails first. 

They sat together for a while, the crunch of boots on the dry ground filling the air around them. Lily watched across the clearing as a grenade flew into the company’s trench. 

She shifted in her position, counting quietly. “Three…four…five…six? Well there goes half the company. I’m sure they’re fine though.” 

Her sarcasm earned her chuckle from the Cajun, his helmet tipped back just enough to show the half second smirk he gave. 

Sharp, confident footsteps broke through their silence. 

“Everything alright over here?” 

Lieutenant Winters strode over, his rifle slung over one shoulder like it was born there. 

Lily straightened instinctively, moving her clipboard off to the side. “We’re fine, Sir. Or rather everyone else is fine. Apparently not a single injury in this entire battalion, apart from Perconte over there.” 

“It's a miracle.” Spina added flatley.

“What happened to Perconte?” Winters asked, moving to look at the casualty section a few strides behind the group. 

“Chronic case of being a nuisance, Sir. That, and accidental friendly fire. Fatal, unfortunately” She gave a small shrug. 

Winters followed her gaze back. Perconte lay sprawled on the forest floor, one leg bent, cigarette balanced between two fingers like he was Clarke Gable. Totally oblivious to the world around him. 

“He’s adjusting to death surprisingly well.” She added.

Winters scanned the forest, trying to mask the grin of someone forced to take the training seriously. 

“Right, let’s change that.” 

He turned and raised his voice “Christenson! Malarkey! Liebgott!”

Three heads popped up from beneath the brush like prairie dogs. 

“You’ve been hit.” He stated simply at the trio.

“Hit, Sir?” Malarkey shouted back, confusion straining his voice.

“Yes, injured. Maimed. Make it look convincing.” 

He looked back to Lily with a half smile and nodded once more before walking off to his next check in. “Medics needed.” 

Lily slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder with a grunt, wedging the clipboard securely into the back. Heading over towards the trio and the other medics, she yelled “Alright, which of you is dying the loudest?”

Malarkey, ever a good sport, slapped a hand onto his chest and fell backwards with dramatic flair. Christenson clutched at his arm as if it was seconds from detaching itself from his body, quietly calling for a medic every few moments, loud enough to count as participation, but not loud enough to be noticed by the other guys. Liebgott, for his part, just sat there. His body language said he’d rather be anywhere else, arms crossed, his back pressed against the wall of the dugout, and a freshly lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. 

“Oh good, it's you” he mumbled beneath the smoke, his eyes flicking over her–assessing. They hadn't spoken since the incident in the showers, if you could even call it that. He hadn’t been there, that she was sure of. However, she couldn't shake the feeling that he’d known, that somehow he was involved, instigated, encouraged it. 

It was the look on his face when she had come back into the bunkhouse that night, his wide eyes staring at her as she dripped blood onto the floor of his cot that caused her hesitance, a look of shock, of concern? Maybe he hadn’t set it up, but maybe he hadn't stopped it, and she wasn't sure which one was worse. 

She’d heard from Luz that Bill and Bull had been giving Liebgott one hell of a talking to a few days later. She had no idea if it had anything to do with her. Joe was always getting grief for something, from someone. Too loose with his temper, too quick with his mouth, it could've been about anything. 

Either way, he'd been keeping his distance these past weeks and for that she was grateful, small mercies and all that. She didn’t think he hated her enough to get her killed, but without him tripping her during training runs, and the ever present snark  that came out his mouth whenever she spoke, she wasn't quite sure where they stood.  

Roe appeared beside her, pulling her out of her daze, his sleeves rolled back ready, and a look in his eyes of concern. “Want me to take him?” 

Lily took a breath and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, “It’s fine, I’ve got this one.” 

For a long time, Lily hadn't needed anyone, or at least she’d told herself that so many times that it had solidified as fact. Working alone was cleaner. Fewer cogs, less liability, no one to look after, no one to let down. She was better alone. 

When she first joined the Company, most of the men hadn’t known what to do with her, and most were still figuring her out. Their cold shoulders, their misogyny, it was easier to keep herself to herself. Those barriers were fading, but dropping her guard still felt impossible. 

Doc Roe was one of the good ones. He never singled her out, hadn’t treated her like a curiosity or a burden. He was kind, in a way that didn’t feel like charity. She couldn’t count the amount of times during Liebgott’s vendetta against her, when she had skipped chow that she would get back late at night to bread or crackers left on her cot. How he made sure she always sat between him and Spina in medic lectures. After the incident, whilst he was stitching her up, he filled in her silence with his soft Cajun drawl, never once making her feel uncomfortable as she sat topless and wounded in front of him, even managing to make her laugh at one point. 

It was the way he’d let her wrap her first real wound instead of just sitting and watching, holding his gauze and scissors. He had hovered, but he’d never corrected her. Without even realizing they’d formed such a bond, a team, she knew what he’d ask for before he spoke, knew how he liked to lay out supplies in his kit, which pocket for the sulphur, which for the gauze. They had learnt each other's rhythm, she hadn't meant to let him in, and yet somehow she had. 

It had been a handful of days ago, a training drill that had run into the early evening. No real patients, not yet, a dummy had been laid out with apparent appendicitis, and a haphazardly attached bag of pigs blood to stimulate internal bleeding. The medical hut was warm, and the smell of bleach and metal clung to them like glue. The way they moved was dancelike, he talked, she listened, she paused, he moved. 

“The incision needs to start low.” Roe Spoke, his voice calm as he watched Lily position the scalpel. 

“A little lower.” he moved to position her further down the abdomen. “Same as yours, more or less.”

His entire body froze the moment the words left his mouth, as if the weight of his mistake was pressing upon him.

Lily felt her blood drain from her body. She knew he’d seen it, he’d wiped blood off it the day of the incident. Her body had been littered with scars, cuts and bruises. So many that they’d played ‘new or old’ on them as he made notes for the medical report, he hadn't had to ask when it came to that one. 

She didn't move, didn’t breathe, suddenly very aware that she was going to have to make a decision. 

He moved first, breaking the silence between them “Won’t ask nothin’ you don't wanna tell me.”

She looked up, his eyes met hers, and for a moment that's all that was between them. Then, very softly she nodded.

“How’d you get…” He pushed with her permission, his tone measured, deliberate.

“A fight.” She replied, almost as quietly as the nod. 

He nodded. 

“An accident.”

Another nod, slower.

“Work.”

He paused, and then nodded once more, and that was that. She had chosen to show him the clues, and he was smart enough to piece them together. Not the full story, not everything, but the shape was enough.

He didn’t follow up, didn’t ask for anything more. Just turned his attention back towards the dummy and started instructing her again. His shoulders had relaxed again, he didn’t sound so tight in the throat. 

Later that night, after everything had been packed away and the day was gone, Lily lay on her cot listening to the snoring of the men and the creaking of the bunkhouse, thinking how simple it could have been to not have said anything at all.

And yet how, despite everything, it had felt so strangely right to say something instead. 

Eugene Roe made her life easy. He heard without asking, understood without experiencing. 

And yet, not every bond was so forthcoming. 

Lily blinked into the sunlight of the clearing, feeling relief from the weight of her bag as it hit the ground with a muffled thud, and dropped to her knees facing Liebgott without ceremony.

“Right,” she said, her tone neutral. “What’s the damage?”

He let out an exaggerated sigh, before taking a harsh drag on his cigarette. “Dealer’s choice”

Lily ignored the smoke curling towards her face with disgust, and without asking she reached forwards and gripped his leg, yanking him towards her. 

The cigarette jerked between his lips as his back stiffened, and his muscles tensed beneath her touch, a barely there catch in his breath.

He watched in silence as she rolled up his pant leg with efficiency, her small fingers, cold and sure. She didn’t glance at him once, as if it could've been anyone she was working on. The way her fingers gripped the cloth like they’d rather bruise than bind.

His jaw locked tightly as she pulled on the tourniquet, yanking it slightly tighter than necessary, the muscle in his jaw twitched, giving away his discomfort.  

“Christ, you tryna kill me?” He muttered, yanking the cigarette out from his mouth, the sting of the tourniquet still pulsing down on his leg. 

“It isn't worth the paperwork.” She replied, still not meeting his eyes.  

Her hands continued moving, fast, deliberate. She shifted forwards to adjust the wrap, the side of her arm against his leg as she leaned in.

She didn’t ask if it hurt. He didn't ask if she cared. He watched more than he meant to, but her stoic expression gave him nothing, no irritation, no curiosity. Just focus. 

She sat back on her heels, double-checking the placement with the prodding of her fingers. A beat passed as her touch hesitated for a fraction of a second too long on his skin, barely a pause.

Before he could even realize, her fingers were up at the band again, loosening it, checking his pulse. He inhaled sharply at her icy touch, but there was heat now too, prickling at his neck, burning beneath his collar. 

He didn't move.

Then suddenly the pressure was gone. The band slipped free from beneath him, as brushed the dirt from her knees with a sharp flick, and tucked it back into her bag which hit her hip with a solid thump as she turned to go. 

He didn't watch her go.

Didn't have to.

The cigarette in his hand had burned right down to the filter. 

Behind him, Roe watched her walk away, eyes narrowing just slightly. Then without a word, he turned back to the woods.

-- -

Thanks so much for sticking with Lily! Let me know what you think!

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Ahead, Number 11 walked like a shadow. Hunched and silent, coat unbuttoned and flapping in the wind, his boots slicing through the mire. He’d barely looked at her since she’d tripped on barbed wire two nights ago, slicing her shin, slowing them down. He had pulled it out with his bare hand–muddy and bloodied–before shoving it back into his glove without checking it properly, blinking at her apology like he didn’t understand the words. 

Everywhere about this place looked the same. Moss, trees, hill to the right. Hill, trees, moss to the left. Like they’d been walking in circles for days-which for all she knew, they had. She was going to wash out, she could feel it in her stomach, heavy and sinking. Some people just weren’t cut out for this. She wasn’t smart enough for this–not like Number 6, the girl from the North who moved through the land like she was born to it, like it belonged to her.  

Lily didn’t know where they were. She was only still moving because 11 was moving. He had the map–she’d seen it once, maybe a few days ago. He didn’t trust her, and why should he? Her own map reading skills were so pathetic their instructor had compared her to a glass hammer. It hadn’t even been an imaginative insult. Just lazy, like he’d already written her off. 

She wasn’t strong enough either, not that it mattered. She’d never been strong, not really. No, Lily had a different sort of training.

She could speak French and German. She could type fast–faster than anyone in her pool. She knew how to embroider initials onto linen handkerchiefs. She knew how to waltz, how to hold polite conversation without seeming too interested, or more importantly uninterested. She knew which knife to use for fish. Pity the only one she had now was used to gut whatever swam too slow—and lance the blisters blooming on her feet like rot.

A perfect socialite.

A shit spy.

Where had all that elegance gotten her? Limping, half pace, peering over 11’s shoulder trying to understand what a contour line meant with a scabbed up leg and nerves that still sparked when thunder cracked across the sky. She’d spent the first night curled in a ball under her coat, shaking so hard her teeth knocked together, because the storm overhead had sounded too much like the air raids back in London—those long, gasping sirens that used to rise out of London like a banshee’s wail. She’d thought she’d grown out of that. She hadn’t.

They were picking their way down the ridge, the mud giving beneath their boots with every step. The air was thick with rain, the kind that cut through everything, weighing their packs down, and them with it. The low hills stretched out in every direction—blank, indifferent. 11 remained on ahead, tall and sturdy, she tried to copy his movements. She had found herself relying on his steadiness, and that pissed her off to no end. Trying to keep up, trying to be his equal, and failing every time. She watched his footing, one foot on the rocks, one on the ground, stepping where he stepped, placing her small boot into his large print. The last of the daylight was bleeding off the ridge’s edge, it would soon be pitch black, and the terrain was turning against them.

She was just realizing how quiet it had gotten–how even the wind had dropped–when it happened. 

A slick, wet thud. Followed by a sharp, creaking snap. Then a scream. Short. Gurgling. Cut off. 

For a second, everything went silent. 

Number 11 was gone.

No, not gone. On the ground, halfway down the ridge. 

Lily slid down after him, her feet slipping on the wet grass. She didn’t even think, she just moved. Every step felt too slow, every breath too short, her ragged gasps cutting through the mist as she saw him. 

Number 11 lay twisted amongst the mud and the heather, his left leg caught in the jaws of a fox trap. It was old, rusted and jagged, yet somehow its metal teeth were sunk deep into his thigh. His face was white–too white–an unsettling contrast to the blood pooling around him. Running in thick waves, dark against the moss. His hands clutched at the trap, but he couldn’t separate it, they just held there, waiting for a miracle. 

But it wasn't that that caused Lily to freeze.

It was the scream that came next.

Not a cry. Not a shout of agony. A scream.

High, ragged, from somewhere deep in his gut–animal, deafening, unrelenting. It ripped through the wind like a banshee, sharp and agonsing, as if the pain had swallowed him whole, as if it was now speaking for him.

Lily’s chest tightened. She blinked and tried to breathe, but nothing came. Her mouth was dry, the taste of iron in her throat. She could feel the panic rising in her, but there was nothing to grip onto. Her mind was racing but her body wasn’t moving. Her eyes wouldn’t stop darting from the blood, to the trap, to him–and still her body remained stationary.

His screams became louder. The kind that made her teeth ache, that rattled something in her soul. It was a sound she’d never heard before, but knew she would never forget. 

She threw herself forwards and reached out towards him, barely grazing his leg with her fingertips, but her touch was still too much. His body bucked violently beneath her, thrashing in the mud. Another scream tore from him, loose and raw, like it was being pulled out of him with hooks. It ripped from his open mouth, as if he couldn't stop if he tried, filling her ears and clouding her mind, the sound wasn’t human anymore, it was a death rattle with a pulse.

Her stomach lurched. Feeling her legs free, she took a step back, and then another, her head spinning, her legs shaking beneath her. She turned away—just for a second—and that was when she vomited. Everything she had in her came up in one harsh, guttural rush, the taste of bile burning her throat. She choked on it, stumbled, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t breathe.

His voice cut through her like a slap, “13, help me.” It barely came out, like he was fighting the words between the screams. He sounded like a wisp of himself, his voice—always low, calm, steel-spined—broke. “Number 13, please help me.”

It was the please that did it. The beg that broke her. 

​​“I—I don’t know what to—” she whispered, her voice small and stupid. Her knees buckled beneath her as she dropped to his side. Lily’s hands trembled as she stared at the wound, her mind begging for something–anything–that might save them. She pressed her hands to his leg, as if it could stop the bleeding, but the blood continued to pour out, pooling between her fingers and dripping off her forearms. The training–what was the training for this? Something about tourniquets? Or maybe it was splints? Could you splint a leg that was half gone?

She looked up at his face, her eyes locking on his. She hunched over him, like a psalm gone wrong. Half prayer, half apology. His gaze was fixed on her, but his pupils were dilated, the coldness already starting to creep into him. 

Had she ever really looked at him before?

The jagged, uneven line of his jaw. The dimple just beneath his lip. The way his dark hair fell in a perfect sweep over his brow, a bit too long on one side, wild like he didn’t care. And those eyes—those blue, fucking blue eyes—staring at her, searching. Pleading not to die.

She hadn’t noticed before. How had she never noticed how identical they were to her brother’s? How, in the midst of the mud, the rain, and the desperation, she hadn’t seen him?

A sound pulled her from her thoughts. Not a word. Not quite human. Half groan, half sob.

But he wasn’t crying—he was begging.

He said her name again, but it wasn't her name. 

“13”

It was her number, He didn't know her name, and she didn't know his. Just numbers.

Just 11. 

Just 13.

He writhed in agony as Lily yanked against the trap, his hand shooting up to her arm, grasping at it as if he could draw from her strength—his good hand. 

She looked up at his face again. His eyes were too wide, stretched so far open it looked like they might fall from their sockets. They cut straight through her, the look in his eyes when he knew she couldn't save him. 

They locked onto hers—and stayed that way.

Even as his chest stopped rising.

Even as she pulled her hand away.

His pupils didn’t move. His gaze didn’t falter.

She shifted back from his body—and still his eyes stared. Not at her, not exactly. Past her. Through her. Beyond her.

His mouth was slack now, but she could still hear it—the scream that had turned the Highlands silent.

It was the raw awful truth of failure. She had hesitated, and she was why he died. 

-- -

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Chapter 7. Camp Toccoa, 1942

“Care to explain how you ended up in this mess, Private Darlington?” Colonel Sink drawled, hands folded on the table like a man with all the time in the world.

It was only the second time she’d stood in the Colonel’s office. Just as hot as the first, perhaps for different reasons. The uncertainty was airless, the kind of heat that made men snap like dry twigs. The first time, she’d been swaddled in a brand new uniform, the fabric stiff and the collar too high, nerves trussed tight beneath the pressed cotton. Now, she was swaddled in bandages, and she couldn't quite tell if the dampness beneath was sweat or blood. The office itself hadn’t changed, same battered desk, same sun bleached blinds. Last time she stood here she’d been given orders, now in their place were questions.

Winters stood by the window, arms behind his back, his expression unreadable. Captain Sobel lingered near the door, upright and twitchy, like he couldn’t decide whether to sit, stand, or scold. Neither man spoke.

“No thank you, sir,” Lily replied, her eyes pinned forward, spine rigid, weight shifting just enough to stop her legs from locking beneath her as she tried to ignore the dull ache radiating from her bruised and tired body. 

Sink let out a dry, knowing chuckle, shaking his head at the girl. “No, thank you?” 

His tone wasn't mocking, but there was something pointed in it, something almost amused. He exhaled through his nose as he gave her another once over, “Well, Private, right now I have two men in the medical bay with faces only a mother could love, and you–” his gaze lingered on her bruises, the dark  stitching across her brow, “--somehow, you’re still standing.” 

A pause. He tilted his head, considering. “Now, I’m not a betting man, but I’d wager those two things might be linked.”

She could feel Sobel’s gaze like a splinter boring into the back of her head. Winters, by contrast, hadn’t moved an inch. Neither had intervened.

The silence stretched. Lily didn’t blink. Two in the bay? She hadn’t known that. Was he baiting her?

As much as she hated to admit to being caught unaware and having her literal ribs kicked in, the fact she hated more was her inability to fight back. She never laid a finger on them. The razor blade. Her unstitched eyebrow shot up at the memory, she’d forgotten about that part, bringing her face back to neutral before replying. “I wouldn’t know, Sir.”

 It wasn’t technically a lie, she didn’t know why both were in the medical bay. One of them, sure - the razor had seen to that. But the other? Maybe they’d gone in to ice their knuckles, not the brightest move after pummelling someone half-conscious, but then again foresight isn’t common in cowards. 

___

Sink leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning beneath him

“One hell of a poker face you’ve got there, Darlington.” He said, “takes grit to stand there, busted up and half-laced together, and still act like nothing happened”

He gave a long, deliberate pause, letting the weight of the moment settle like dust in sunlight.

“I hope some of that has rubbed off on the men.”

His tone had shifted—still rough, still gruff, but threaded with something else. Approval, maybe. Respect. Or the closest thing a Colonel could show to it without handing her a smile and a slap on the back.

“However,” he continued, the word snapping the air like a belt, “you’re aware that as part of the Daisy Program, any incident—any whiff of liability, injury, misconduct—is to be reported straight up the chain. The whole point of this experiment is to help the war effort, not hand the brass another damn headache.”

Lily swallowed, her jaw tight.

Sink leaned forward, his voice dropping low. “I’ve already got certain folks asking if we’re wasting time training dames when we need soldiers. You get my meaning?”

She nodded once, curt and silent.

He exchanged a brief glance with Winters, who had been standing quietly off to the side, arms crossed, eyes watchful. Then with Sobel, who looked like he’d been chewing lemons for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Sink continued, “Captain Sobel has agreed not to escalate this further. Which is more grace than I expected, frankly.”

Sobel scoffed, visibly bristling, but said nothing.

“But,” Sink said again, drawing it out, “there’s a stipulation.”

Lily’s stomach dropped.

“You won’t be in the same role moving forward.”

Silence. Her breath stilled.

“You’re being reassigned. Medic training. Effective immediately.”

_________________

“But,” Sink said again, drawing it out, “there’s a stipulation.”

Lily’s stomach dropped.

“You have a choice,” he continued, his voice softer, but no less firm. “You’ll be reassigned to the medical corps, or you leave the program with an honorable discharge.”

Silence. Her breath stilled, her lips parted before she could stop them. It was instinct—rage charging past the gates, something sharp rising in her throat. She was about to say it. Something. Something she couldn’t take back.

And then—

Winters moved. Not a lot. Just a shift of his head, a flick of his eyes that caught hers square and hard. Not cold. Not scolding. But enough. A tether. A warning. A reminder.

She closed her mouth. Swallowed the fire. But it burned all the way down.

It always came down to injury, didn’t it? That was the sick part. The shitty, gut-souring part. She had seen so much blood spilled in her line of work, yet it always seemed to be hers that led to the leash being yanked back. She’d been good at her job. Too good. They’d made her into a weapon and set her loose. Until the night it all split open. Until the shot that missed, the body that didn’t drop, the breath she never got to finish. But in her mind, she was already gone. Already slipping under the weight of a memory she never invited.

—

Berlin, 1941.

The room smelled like tobacco and sweat masked by her perfume, heavy and sweet. General Von Dogface had been late. He was always late, time bent to his will, not the other way, power games. But this time, something felt off. She could smell the alcohol before he even made it into the room, it was worse up close–sour, bitter.

Lily, or Klara tonight, lounged at the velvet-draped table, fingers curled loosely around a glass untouched, the ice now melted, the liquor inside a pale sad reminder of what it had been. Her satin gown pooled around her like spilled champagne, plunging too low at the front, the slit at her thigh so high - it was easy to tell that was all she was wearing. She sat still, her eyes following the heavy sway of his movements. The rigidness of her spine was the only thing that didn’t shift, everything else was still. 

He was yet to speak, but she could feel it in the air—something was wrong. His voice, when it came, broke through the quiet in jagged pieces. 

The words barely made sense as they tumbled out of him, a twisted accusation. But there was something in his eyes—wild, desperate. His words were tangled up, but the meaning was clear enough.

"You think I don’t know?" He slurred the words like they were heavy with some kind of secret, the kind of secret that would sink it all if ever spoken out loud.

Her pulse picked up, but she didn’t let herself react. Not yet. Not yet.

His eyes bore into her, bloodshot, glazed. But there was something more beneath them. Something unfamiliar.

"Another General.." He trailed off. His words didn’t form. They were clumsy, drunk. "He said something tonight... you've been with him, haven’t you?" The words came in fragments, half-formed. The accusation was wrapped in too much uncertainty for her to feel its weight immediately. His voice cracked with the vulnerability of someone who hadn’t expected to be caught.

But she was already calculating. She had to. The panic wouldn’t come—not yet. She couldn’t let it. Her thoughts quickened. Shit. Was this it, Where did she slip up? The walls around her started to close in, but she forced herself still. No. He didn’t know. He was just— She swallowed. Just drunk.

And still, his voice grew louder, more erratic, the anger rising like a storm gathering in a harbour.

"You think I’m stupid? I—I gave you everything. And you—" His hand slammed onto the table, his breath hot and sharp. "I see you now, Klara. A whore. A liar." His words dripped with a kind of finality, like this was something he had known all along. The heat of the accusation stung, but she held onto the stillness inside.

She focused on his hands, the way they shook as they moved to touch her—just a brush of fingers, a slip of control, something that made her blood run colder. She forced her breath to stay steady. It’s fine. He doesn’t know anything. He’s just a man lost in his own mess.

But he was looking at her like he had already made up his mind. And that—that—was dangerous.

The tension was a palpable thing now, pressing in from all sides. She didn’t panic—she never panicked. But something in his eyes, some sort of wild accusation behind that drunken glare, made the air heavier. Too heavy.

She could feel her pulse quicken. This was wrong—this wasn’t part of the plan. She could almost taste the bite of her own adrenaline, but there was no escape from this room. Not yet. Not until he let his guard down. And he was drunk.

His words stumbled out—something about betrayal, lies, another man—but none of it mattered. His fingers closed around her wrist with a vice-like grip. She barely flinched, the muscles in her arm coiling, ready to strike. 

The stench of sweat and alcohol filled her nose as she was yanked closer, her body slamming against his chest. His hands moved too fast, too aggressively. She gritted her teeth, keeping her breathing steady.

He thinks I’m just some whore with loose lips. Just another thing for him to dispose of. The realization struck her cold, something inside her snapping into focus. She was going to die.

A jagged breath shot through her chest, and for a split second, the weight of the situation settled on her like a lead blanket. She wasn’t dying for anything noble. She wasn’t dying for her country. She wasn’t dying for love, or for duty.

She was dying for the whims of a pathetic man.

A worthless death.

Her eyes locked on the sidearm at his waist, just a few inches away, concealed under his coat. One more move.

The tension thickened in the air like the room itself was holding its breath. His hand was too tight on her wrist, his body too close, but she could feel it now, the heat of him, the sweat on his neck. Something was wrong, but it wasn’t the anger that she was focused on. It was his eyes. Empty. Wild.

For a moment, she could only stare back, the weight of the situation dawning on her too late.

Then, like an explosion—sharp, quick, nothing like she’d expected—he drove a blade into her side.

The shock of it hit her like ice, but it didn’t freeze her. It sent her blood thrumming, igniting a fire she hadn’t known she still had left in her. The cold steel slid through her body, cutting deep, the pain white-hot and immediate. A grunt slipped from her throat, but she didn’t scream. 

His eyes were locked onto hers as he twisted the blade, his lips curling into something like satisfaction—like he was watching the life drain from her.

The pressure was suffocating, like every breath was a struggle, as if her lungs had forgotten what air felt like. Her fingers were on his chest, not with force, but because she couldn’t feel anything anymore. The pain spread out, radiating down into her legs, but her hands still found him, pressing, desperate for purchase.

He wasn’t done.

He dragged the knife across her, slow and deliberate, and she felt the skin tear, the muscle beneath it giving way. The pain was searing, overwhelming—she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t focus, couldn’t think about anything but the feel of the steel carving through her.

She clenched her jaw against it, trying to hold onto consciousness, trying to keep control. But her hands were shaking now, the world swimming, the room spinning in dizzying flashes.

How could she die like this? Not now. Not for him. Not for this.

Her hands slid over her chest, the roughness of his uniform beneath her fingertips till they landed on the cool metal of his firearm, the last piece of control she had. 

The pain, the blood, the sharpness in her side—it was all secondary now.

A subtle click sang between them as she flicked the safety off. Her fingers wrapped tighter around the gun.

But she couldn’t hear him anymore. The knife had already stolen that much from her. 

She moved—quick, sharp, instinctive.

She pressed the barrel of the gun up, right between his brows. The shot was a brutal, explosive release. The sound cracked through the air, loud and final until there was only silence left.

His eyes widened as the force of the bullet shoved him back. He stumbled, flailing for a moment, before collapsing hard against the floor, the loud slap as his body met the cool marble.

He didn’t move again.

She didn’t even watch him go down. Her hands were already shaking, already covered in the warmth that had begun to flood her side.

The glass slipped from the table, a perfect arc of crystal shattering against the floor, and for a moment, everything was silent as she collapsed back, her own body’s weight too much. The room was spinning, the blood rushing in her ears.

But she didn’t care anymore.

This was her end, and she had taken him down with her. 

– - 

She never could recall much after that. Just flashes.

Curtains wrapped around her like a shroud. Velvet sticking to her blood-slicked skin. The world tilting, grey and spinning. And Clinks—his voice, distant, pleading. The cool night air flapping through the unsecured canvas covering the truck. She remembers trying to stay awake. She remembers failing.

And she remembers the radio.

Not the real one —no, the one in her head. Screeching static. Screaming. Panic looping and looping, her brain playing the same message over and over.

The silence after was the loudest sound she’d ever heard. 

– - 

Camp Toccoa, 1942

Since the incident, Darlington had fallen into her place among the men. It didn’t take long—just a bit of communication, cooperation, and having the living shit beaten out of her for the men of Easy Company to welcome her in as one of their own. 

The morning after the incident, Bill had walked into the mess hall with his usual arrogance, but his swollen knuckles and the faint wince in his eyes told a different story. He wasn’t alone. Bull and Perconte had been right there with him, nursing their own bruises, moving a little slower than usual. They had grabbed their trays as usual, and sat next to the bandaged girl as they shot the shit, Bill occasionally bumping her shoulder gently whenever he said something that amused himself, between them all, they’d never said a word about it again, but the unspoken truth was clear: she earned her place at the table. 

– -

Now, crouched low in the training tent with bandage in hand, watching Bull as he adjusted his rolled-up trouser leg. He held the pose with the practiced patience of a farmer who had known far too many wounds, real and otherwise.

"Lower leg wound," Roe said, his voice calm, ringing with authority. "Stabilize, pressure, clean wrap. This is what keeps someone walking. Remember the goal isn't perfection, it’s survival" In the weeks since she’d joined medic training she had gotten to know the cajun man, amazed at how such a quiet soul could become so commanding once he was in his element. 

Darlington’s hands moved quickly, pressing the gauze into place. The motion was familiar, almost automatic. She’d been trained for precision—whether it was disarming a man in a dark alley or saving someone who was a little less willing to stay alive. Her fingers were steady, faster than some of the others, neater too. But her thoughts were elsewhere, flickering back to the last time she’d tried to save someone. The last time she’d failed.

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t falter. The bandage went tight, precise. Better tight than dead.

"Bit tight," Bull muttered, his voice deep and jovial, a subtle challenge hidden behind the words.

She didn’t look up, just tightened it a little more. "Better tight than dead," she replied, her voice cool but unyielding.

Bull paused, still watching her but he didn’t push back. Instead, he just shifted slightly, like he was getting used to the feel of her in this new role.

Now, she was learning to heal. To help instead of harm. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. It was almost funny, really.

A spy turned medic. A dagger dulled into a scalpel.

“Keep it even, Darlington,” Roe spoke to her as he moved down the center aisle, the words more an instruction than criticism.

She nodded. “Got it,” she answered with a wink, adjusting her grip. She let the weight of the bandage and her movements steady her. This wasn’t the same as being in the field, but the muscle memory, the need for precision? That was still there.

She tied off the bandage with a neat, quick tug, then sat back on her heels.

“Not bad,” Bull said, testing the wrap with a flex of his ankle. “Tighter than Roe’s, cleaner than Muck’s.”

“Oh, come on,” Muck groaned from across the tent. “She’s your favorite, Bull. You see how gently he talks to Red? I wrap his wrist last week and he tells me it feels like I used my teeth.”

Bull didn’t look up. “You bandage like a pig in shit.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the tent. Luz grinned over his shoulder. “Careful, Lil. Keep doing a decent job and Bull’s gonna start packing your lunch.”

She rolled her eyes, reaching for another roll of gauze. It was entertaining to let them talk. Easier still when it didn’t feel like mockery anymore—just noise she was allowed to be part of.

Bull stood with a low grunt, giving his leg a shake. “You’ve got the touch,” he said, quieter now. “Don’t let ‘em rattle you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think I was rattled.”

“Didn’t say you were,” he replied, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “But if you were, this is the bit where I’d tell you you’re doing just fine.” he replied with a knowing smile.

She snorted. “You get sentimental when you sit still too long.”

Bull just gave her a look. The kind that said: You’re one of us now, whether you like it or not.

She didn't smile. Not properly. But the dimples in her cheeks became a little more visible. 

Someone called for a switch, another round. She reached for fresh supplies, already moving as Doc Roe rattled off the next fake injury.

Bull gave his leg one last glance before he walked off, nodding like it settled something.

The bandage held firm, and so had she.

Tag list:

"No idea. But Lieb sure got his ass handed to him," Perconte added, throwing Toye a pack of matches as he passed, still trying to process what he'd witnessed.

Guarnere, ever the cynic, rolled his eyes. “Ain’t no way I just watched some dame outfight Liebgott. Makes no fuckin’ sense.” 

Cobb, unnoticed in the doorway, listened intently. He had a habit of lurking around other bunkhouses, craving a sense of camaraderie he struggled to find in his own. His eyes, ever watchful, focused on the animated discussion as he puffed away on a cigarette.

Webster, unlaced his boots and kicked them to the side before glancing over at Luz, sat half on, half off his cot shuffling a pack of cards, grinning to himself like a Cheshire Cat. “Well you’re best friends with the girl Luz, care to enlighten us on what just went down.” 

Luz looked up at the men staring in his direction. “What the hell should I know?” He said shrugging his shoulders. Webster was right that he was friends with Redcoat, but as for what just took place, he was just as baffled as the rest of the men. 

Randleman chuckled, taking a drag from his cigarette. ‘All I know is that Girl’s got some moves. Reminds me of a wildcat, unpredictable, shifty.” 

“Alright country boy, All I’m saying is I ain’t never seen a dame fight like that, taking down Liebgott like he was a rag doll,” Gaurnere mumbled. 

Malarkey, nursing a bruised ego after being taken down himself, scoffed, "Yeah, but how does a girl like her learn to fight like that? Ain't natural, if you ask me.”

Cobb, seizing the opportunity to contribute to the conversation, spoke up from the doorway. "I heard she's almost outshooting Shifty. What kind of girl can shoot like that?” The mention of her marksmanship prowess added another layer of intrigue to the already mysterious woman. The men exchanged puzzled glances, each grappling with their theories about her background and abilities.

“Yeah, and where the hell d'you hear that?” Toye replied, his eyes rolling in disbelief, barely looking in Cobbs's direction. 

“Spiers.” He replied, matter of factly. “Maybe she’s a German spy, sent to sabotage us from the inside,” Cobb suggested, his voice low and conspiratorial.

The room fell silent as the suggestion hung in the air. The men exchanged uneasy glances, the idea taking root in their minds.

"A spy? Jeez, Cobb, that's a bit far-fetched," Malarkey scoffed. 

"Think about it," Cobb insisted. "She just shows up out of nowhere, none of us know a damn thing about her. Almost outshooting Shifty, Liebgott getting his ass handed to him?”

"I've been shooting since I was a kid, and she was giving me a run for my money,” Shifty mentioned, shuffling his hands in his lap. “But I’m not saying she’s a spy or anything.” He shot his hands up in defense. 

The bunkhouse was filled with a charged atmosphere, discomfort and suspicion swirling like a storm. 

"Maybe she's some kind of martial arts expert," Perconte suggested, trying to rationalize what they had witnessed. "You know, like those Japs with their karate stuff.”

The tension was broken by Jonny Martin shoulder passing Cobb as he made his way into the bunkhouse, giving him a shifty look as he passed, soaked through from the rain.

 “Who died?” He said pointedly, uncomfortable by the silence from the usually rambunctious group.

“Liebgott’s dignity.” Cobb scoffed from behind him.

Martin’s eyebrows raised in response. “Yeah, I just came from that way, had to help hold Liebgott down while they popped his arm back in. Could hear Sobel chewing her out from a mile off. He said shaking his head at the thought. 

As the conversation lingered, Cobb slipped away from the doorframe, leaving the men to contemplate the enigma that had entered their ranks. In the world of war, where every secret held potential danger, the bunkhouse at Camp Toccoa became a hub of suspicion and curiosity, its occupants unwittingly drawn into a web of unanswered questions about the girl who had just proven herself more than a match for Liebgott.

— -

The flickering light from the film projector cast shadows on the walls of the dimly lit hut as the men gathered for an evening of official training films lecturing the men on the importance of hygiene. The echoes of Liebgott's disgruntled mumbles still lingered in the air, the atmosphere around the men was tense, a mixture of confusion accompanied by an undercurrent of suspicion surrounding the outsider. The War Department’s attempt at a Nickelodeon droned on as Lily sat amongst the rabble, her eyes rolling at the notion that grown men needed instruction on basic cleanliness, her expression one of amused bewilderment. 

As the film extolled the virtues of regular showers, Lily couldn't help but mutter under her breath to Luz, “This is ridiculous. What’s next, a tutorial on how to tie their boots?” 

Luz chuckled softly, nodding in agreement. "You'd be surprised what some of these guys need to be reminded of.”

Their hushed conversation didn't escape the notice of Cobb, who sat in the row behind. Always on the lookout for an opportunity to needle Lily, he leaned in between the pair and smirked, "Well, Redcoat, maybe some folks need these lessons more than others. I've never seen you in the showers, you know.”

She turned slowly to face the man. ”Perhaps that's because I like to keep an air of mystery, Cobb. I’d rather run Currahee with Sobel strapped to my back than have to shower within ten feet of you.” Her eyes squinting as she smirked to match him. 

Cobb's face reddened in embarrassment, and he retorted, "You think you're clever, don't you? Just wait till you're out there in the real action, sweetheart.” He said, folding his arms as he slunk back into his seat. Dissatisfied with the exchange, Cobb grumbled to Toye, "She's always got some smart-ass comment.” 

A sshhh was aimed at Cobb from further down the row, his head whipped back and forth to find the culprit. “I’m just saying, I ain't ever seen her in the showers.” He voiced to an uninterested Toye again.

Shifty sighed, lighting up a cigarette before he answered the man. "You see, Cobb, Sobel don’t let her shower with the rest of us. Makes her wait until the coast is clear.” 

Cobb's annoyance deepened. "What? Why does she get special treatment?”

“Why the hell do you care?” Toye responded, not even bothering to look in Cobb’s direction, seemingly more interested in the virtues of regular sock changes over the small man’s problem. Sensing his wall, Cobb whispered something to Liebgott, still nursing his shoulder as he replied, muttering something unintelligible, and the conversation moved on as the training film continued to play. Unbeknownst to Lily, whispers circulated among those who had overheard the conversation. Lily, caught in the crossfire of prejudice and resentment, became the unwitting target of a brewing storm within the ranks. The shadows of contention stretched across the hut, setting the stage for a night that would test the fragile bonds of brotherhood.

— - 

The bathhouse at Camp Toccoa was a modest structure, a refuge for the trainees to wash away the grime of the day and the bruises of training. Lily stood alone in the quiet, having waited patiently for the usual post-training rush to subside. The air was thick with the lingering scent of soap and damp towels. She couldn't help but smirk at the thought that, perhaps, the men had indeed learned something from the training film, given that they had taken double their usual time in the showers, accompanied by the water fogging over and dripping from the unending row of mirrors.

She surveyed her reflection in the foggy mirror, her eyes drawn to the bruises adorning her face like paint. A particularly nasty shiner, courtesy of Liebgott's unyielding fist during the hand-to-hand combat drill, dominated the canvas. She sighed, tracing her fingers across the swollen skin, wincing as she met the peak, not broken-thank God, but not great either. Her hands moved up to the braided bun that sat at the nape of her neck, eager to relive the tension headache stemming from it. The pins holding it in place dinged on the sink as she shook out her long hair, allowing it to fall around her shoulders. Lily threaded her fingers through the dark brunette strands, massaging her scalp as she went. It had been tempting once or twice to cut it short and mimic the men in that regard, hell it would make her life a lot easier, however, she couldn’t quite bring herself to reach for the clippers. 

She pushed herself off the sink and made her way over to the shower, her body ached to stand under the hot water and wash the day away. The showers had become some sort of sanctuary for her. Sobel’s attempt at keeping her at arm's length from the men was playing to her benefit. It was the only place in the entire camp where she could be alone, a space to think, to remind herself why she joined, she craved the solace it provided. 

She hung her towel on the hook outside the stall, reaching in to turn the hot water on before stepping in and allowing the hot stream to drench her body, the rhythmic patter of droplets echoed in the tiled hut, a stark contrast to the eerie silence that hung in the air. Lily couldn’t remember a time she had showered without her PT uniform still on - a precautionary measure, better to be safe than sorry she thought. She watched as the water blended her shirt with her skin, her underwear with her dirt-speckled legs. As she placed her head back beneath the water, she sensed a shift in the air - a subtle change that pricked at her instincts, unable to shake the feeling that something was amiss. 

She halted, her breath shallow, straining to hear any out-of-place noise. The air seemed to thicken as the steam filled the hut, she could barely make out the muted sound of a boot squeaking on the tile floor. Before she could react, a sudden blow shot through the shower curtain and struck her side, knocking her against the shower wall. Lily gasped, pain shooting through her ribs. The dim light blurred through the shower curtain barely revealing two dark figures closing in on her. Dread set in as she realized she had been followed. The tension that had lingered since she arrived had erupted into something more sinister. The echoes of their footsteps mixed with the rhythmic pounding of the water against the tiles, created a disorienting symphony of violence. She could feel the oppressive confinement of the bathhouse closing in around her, her training instincts drowned out by the brutal reality of the ambush.

The second blow came quickly, a fist struck the side of her head, the force knocking her back against the cold, tiled wall. Lily gasped for air, her ribs protesting the impact. Before she could recover, another blow landed, this time to her stomach, doubling her over. The shadows seemed to close in, the scent of soap mixing with the metallic tang of blood. The main instigator, a burly soldier, led the charge. His accomplice, hesitant but spurred on by misplaced loyalty, flanked him. As they closed in, Lily's muscles tensed.

In the disorganized struggle, Lily managed to dodge the next blow, sliding further down the wall and jutting out her right leg from where she was slumped over, connecting with the right assailant's midsection as he moved in. However, before she could capitalize on the momentary advantage, the reality of her outnumbered position became painfully clear as her attackers overpowered her, grabbing her and hauling her out of the stall. As Lily’s abdomen took another blow, recognition flashed across the face of one of her assailants, followed by shock.

"You didn't say it was the girl!" He hissed, his initial aggression giving way to disbelief as his grip on the girl loosened. 

The main assailant didn’t hesitate with his next blow, his fist connecting with the bruise already given to her that day by Liebgott, unfazed by the soldier's protest.

Cornered and outnumbered, Lily attempted to fight back with every ounce of strength she could muster. Yet, the confined space of the bathhouse restricted her movements, turning the struggle into a nightmarish dance where every move felt like a step closer to defeat. A vicious blow to her leg sunk Lily to the floor, her knees giving out beneath her. As the blows rained down, Lily's fingers groped for anything that could turn the tide. A boot, a towel, anything. Her heart stopped as her eyes landed on a speck of glitter, her fingers erratically slapped the floor in search, until they closed around what felt like an accidentally discarded razor under the sink, its cool metal offering a fleeting sense of hope. In a desperate bid for survival, Lily flung her body over, her arm carving through the air looking for her assailants. A guttural cry mixed with the sounds of struggle emanated from behind her as she slashed back, a momentary disruption in the violent ballet. However, the respite was short-lived. Her victim, blinded by rage, retaliated with a singular savage blow that sent Lily crashing against the hard, tiled shower wall. The impact reverberated through her skull, and the world blurred into a disorienting mosaic of pain and darkness. As Lily's consciousness waned, the bathhouse echoed with the retreating footsteps of the men, leaving only the oppressive silence of betrayal and brutality. The steam lingered like a shroud over the scene, and the shadows, now stained with the taste of vengeance, swallowed the fallen girl in a world where loyalty had been twisted into something unrecognizable.

— - 

“You ain’t got no poker face Perconte.” George Luz jeered, leaning back on his stool as he tossed another coin onto the growing pile. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, radio-boy.” He replied, checking his cards for the third time. “I’m gonna take all your money, and then your girls tonight at the bar.”

“Sure about that, but you’re down an ace and you’ve got two 7’s & a 4 so I don’t know how you’re planning on turning that around.” 

“What the hell!? You’re cheating!” Perconte erupted, throwing his cards onto the cot as he shot up from his seat.

“I can see your cards in the window reflection dumbass.” Luz laughed, leaning back on his chair, puffing away at a lucky strike. 

The commotion caught the attention of Martin, the tip of his rifle glinting in the dim light, who shot a stern look at the bickering duo. “Shut up already, would ya? You got loud mouths on you.” He grumbled, trying to maintain focus on his polishing. Toye, lounging on his bunk, engrossed in a comic book added, “Yeah, I’m trying to read here, take your damn argument outside.”

The barracks erupted into chaos as insults flew across the room. Amidst the turmoil, the bunkhouse door swung open, almost unnoticed. Perconte, ready to fire back at Toye, fell silent, his gaze fixed on a young figure making her way up into the bunkhouse. 

“What the hell?” Perconte whispered, one arm still pointed at Toye, the other gripping the bed frame he had been attempting to climb over, perched half on, half off the ground. 

The room fell into a hush as the battered figure passed by them. Dripping wet, she silently made her way toward her cot at the rear of the bunkhouse, her eyes fixed forward, ignoring the confused and pained expressions on the faces of the men as she passed. 

Liebgott’s trademark smirk vanished as his eyes fell upon the injuries that marred Lily’s face and body. “Jesus Christ.” Escaped from his lips before he even realized it.

She locked eyes with him as she passed, sending a shiver through him. Her eyes were haunting, both bloodshot red, the left curtained by a deep purple crescent-shaped bruise that was split open at the tip, and a wet trail of blood oozed its way down her reddened cheek. Joe’s eyes trailed a droplet of blood as it fell from a jaunty slit in her eyebrow. She made no attempt to blink it away, staring into him as it pooled into her wet lashes. 

He felt his breath hitch as she stopped at the base of his cot, his hands tensed in his pockets and his usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. It was only seconds, perhaps just one, perhaps it was two, but to Joe, it felt like hours, his eyes scanned her as he waited. Her clothes were soaked through, with both water and blood. It clung to her figure like a whisper, revealing the lines of her body, her arms, her chest, her waist. His eyes dropped, fixing on an unsettling mark, a vivid testament to her encounter. A red-orange bloodstain, once bold and intense, now transformed into a disconcerting hue as it mingled with the damp fabric, it betrayed a muted vibrancy, creating an unappealing palette of rusty tones against the stark white backdrop of her shirt, telling a silent story. She couldn’t help but feel uneasy as his eyes took in the spectacle before him, the silence between them disturbed by the slow drip of her diluted blood onto the floorboards between them. His eyes moved up to meet hers, noticing the staggered rise and fall of her chest as she breathed through her pain. She took one last look up at the man, before walking back towards her bunk. 

An uncomfortable tension hung in the air as the subsequent moments unfolded with disquieting ease. The room bore witness to a palpable weight, settling like a thick fog, as the men, observed in silent contemplation. The battered girl, a resilient figure despite her injuries, delicately moved to slide off her jump boots at the bedside. As she gingerly bent over, a wince etched across her face, George Luz felt the urge to move, to say something. Yet, his words remained unspoken, caught in his throat, as he watched in wide-eyed confusion. 

“Luz” Her voice broke through the silence, grabbing the attention of every man in the room. 

“Luz” She repeated, herself, her voice strained as she stared at the radioman. 

“Uh, yeah, yeah, what do you need?” He hesitated, taking in a deep breath as he waited for her reply. 

“A shirt.”

“Um, yeah, I’ve got you, I can do that.” Luz pushed past Perconte and started riffling through his trunk in search of a clean shirt, muttering to himself as he did. Once secured, he stood up, his eyes meeting those of Bull Randleman’s both seemingly searching each other’s for a level of understanding of what they were seeing. With a head jerk from Bull, he walked over to the girl, placing it on the bed next to her, watching her peel off her shirt, a sharp intake of breath escaped her as it moved over her fresh wound.

As the shirt slid away, it revealed an intricate tapestry of marks. The men traced their path, some fresh, some seemingly older. As the extent of her wounds emerged, the atmosphere bore witness to a sobering reality. The air seemed to tighten with a peculiar mix of discomfort, shame, and sudden awareness. The men found their eyes trailing down her body, landing at the large pronounced scar on her abdomen, Luz could feel his heartbeat in his hands as he stood next to her. The fusion of her wounds and the unveiling of her femininity momentarily disrupted their comfort, and a sense of collective venerability permeated the room. 

The hallowed silence lingered, pregnant with unspoken thoughts and emotions, as the men grappled not solely with the reality of her injuries, but with the realization that beneath the uniform and the battlefield they were to share, there existed a woman with an intricate narrative - a narrative that now unfolded before them, leaving them suspended in a moment where the boundaries between soldier and woman, ally and stranger, blurred into an uneasy alliance of shared humanity. 

Randleman was the first to move, exchanging a glance with Guarnere, a silent understanding passed between them. They rose from their seats across the bunkhouse simultaneously, their expressions almost unreadable, a mix of concern and an underlying anger that simmered just beneath the surface. Lily, still standing by her bunk, felt the weight of their intrigue as they approached her. 

Bull, jaw clenched, spoke first. “You gonna tell us what this is?” His head loomed over hers, the perspective making her feel even smaller than usual. 

Lily sniffed in response, her eyes focused on finding the opening to the shirt. “I’m fine.” She replied, her head fixed downwards. Her voice held a fragile quality, desperately trying to maintain a facade of indifference. 

“Don’t look fine to me.” Guarnere cut in, his fists tightening in his pockets.

Lily remained stoic, silent. The room, buzzing with tension, held its breath as the trio engaged in a silent dance of unspoken words and palpable discomfort. 

“Then I fell.” She said halfheartedly, pulling the fresh shirt over her battered frame. The crisp white cotton was marked instantly by her wounds. 

“Like fuck you fell.” Guarnere moved closer to her, only to be stopped by a hand on his chest. 

“Go get Doc Bill,” Martin said pointedly, ignoring the look from the fired-up man, anger etched across his face. “Roe,” Martin spoke again, pointedly. 

Bull seized the opportunity before she could speak, “Roe’s gotta take a look at you. No arguments.” Lily’s resistance wavered as Bull’s stern gaze bore into hers. “If you won’t go willingly, I will pick you up and take you there myself, little bird.” His voice left no room for negotiation. 

Lily’s body was beginning to feel the weight of her injuries as she stood there, the adrenaline fading away. She wiped away at a trail of blood as it threatened to trickle into her eye, wincing at the bruise it lay against. Bull Randleman’s determination seemed unwavering, his gaze drilling into her. Finally, with a resigned nod, she gave in. The room’s oppressive silence persisted, only broken by the shuffling of feet and the sound of Martin issuing orders. 

— - 

The journey to the medical bay was solemn, tension and anger hung thick in the air. Bull reached out a supportive arm as they left sight of the bunkhouse, holding onto the girl with a tight grip. They walked silently, her steps slow and uneven, each footstep resonating with the gravity of the situation. 

She couldn’t help but wipe the trail of blood that was escaping her nose multiple times during the walk, her fingers staining a deeper shade of crimson each time. The mounting physical pain, combined with the emotional gravity had left her in a sweat of weary resignation. Yet, she remained quiet, occasionally glancing at the faces of the men escorting her, each carrying their own blend of anger and concern. 

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