“so call it what you want to.”

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firstly, here is a quick get to know me! 23F, she/her, and currently writing for Band of Brothers and Masters of the Air, and now accepting requests for The Pacific.

Requests are open! Preferences are fem!reader :)

Some characters I write for include:

Babe Heffron, Joe Liebgott, Eugene Roe, Richard Winters, Lewis Nixon, Chuck Grant, Floyd Talbert, George Luz, David Webster, Don Malarkey, Ron Speirs

Robert Leckie, Bill “Hoosier” Smith, Sid Phillips, John Basilone, Eugene Sledge, Merriell “Snafu” Shelton

John Egan, Gale Cleven, John Brady, Harry Crosby, Robert Rosenthal, James Douglass, Everett Blakely

I also do text posts/inaccurate quotes so follow along for those!

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Band of Brothers

RICHARD WINTERS ⤵︎

“Here in my Homeland.”

[anon asked: hi hi!!! i was wondering if you could write a scenario about either roe or winters, where they are billeting the village of the reader and they end up staying at their house?? the rest is for your own interpretation 💞💞]

“Unnecessary Paperwork.”

[ request! hear me out! Richard Winters x secretary! reader? maybe smutty too?👀👀 ]

BABE HEFFRON ⤵︎ "Nobody Knows but Us."

[Babe Heffron loves you, that’s for sure. But as Easy Company’s angel, he knows no one would approve. That is, until he sees an open opportunity to prove himself.]

JOE LIEBGOTT ⤵︎ "Fake Dating."

[ summary: You have a crush. You have no clue how to get his attention. Joe Leibgott has a bright idea to help you out. ]

“San Francisco.”

[ anon asked: Omg a new BoB blog yay! Could I request a Liebgott x reader where it’s post war in San Francisco and it’s like cold rainy foggy night vibes and he opens up about his time in the war for the first time? ]

“Wanting the Same Things.”

[ anon asked: Ahh I thought your last x reader was so good!! If you don’t mind writing another lieb one, could you do one where you’re a f!medic and you’re both getting worn down as the war goes on and you have a moment talking about what you’re dreaming of when the war ends? ]

“Jealousy, Jealousy.”

[ anon asked: Hi!! Could you do a liebgott imagine where he’s flirting with a nurse and you get jealous and he starts to catch on to your feelings? ]

Joe Liebgott nsfw hc’s

GEORGE LUZ ⤵︎

“Drunk Confessions.”

[ summary: George Luz is a jokester. You are not. So what happens when you get a little too drunk and confess that you have always had a crush on someone in Easy Company? ]

MISC.⤵︎ how the guys react when they're jealous

boy “best friend” hc’s

best friend’s little sister hc’s

love triangle

[ anon asked: Hi, I was wondering how bob boys would find themselves in a love triangle situation with reader omg. I would love to read it made by you because your work is amazing<3 ]

wounded

[ anon asked: Could you do some bob + mota head cannons for them finding out you were wounded?

SERIES⤵︎

“A Fine Way To Fall.”

[ summary: Francesca Hart fought like hell to earn her place in Easy Company. Keeping her heart out of Joe Liebgott’s hands — and Babe Heffron’s — is another matter entirely.]

• Prologue

“as sick as it sounds, I loved you first.” (Babe Heffron)

[ summary: Babe Heffron was a kind man. You were not the same woman after D-Day. Yet, you can’t stop yourself from falling in love with a man who thinks you hate him. ]

• PART I

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The Pacific

coming soon .ᐟ

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Masters of the Air

more coming soon .ᐟ

ROSIE ROSENTHAL⤵︎

“The Boys Club.”

[ anon asked: hiiii ik ur username is liebgott but i loved your rosie fic! could u write one where ur a woman on base and some jerk calls u a bitch or smth, but rosie overhears and shuts it down (my guy is drinking respect women juice lol) and it low key becomes a meet cute! ]

“Nice to Everyone.”

[ anon asked: Hiii can I request a cute silly Rosie x reader where you’re stationed at the airbase and he immediately likes you when you meet, but he’s so nice to everyone you just don’t get that he’s more interested in you and he goes out of his way to convince you 😅]

“West Coast Girl.”

[ anon asked: Ooh I have a cute Rosenthal idea if you’re down for it! Could you do an imagine where you’re from the west coast and you know he’s going back to Brooklyn after the war so even though you’re close you never act on your feelings and you have this sad final goodbye when the war ends…and then like a week or two later he surprises you on the west coast because he realized he’d rather be with you :)]

MISC.⤵︎

boy “best friend” hc’s

here is part 1

this will probably be a 4 or 5 parter so bare with me

The Realization II

You were walking blindly, not sure what direction your feet were taking you.

Away from the officers’ club. Away from the laughter. Away from John Egan and his stupid mouth and the look on Rosie’s face when he realized he had walked into something he had no part in.

But your heart knew where it was headed.

Your heart knew it was headed for Rosie.

Oh, Rosie.

The first boy you had ever loved.

Not that he ever had any interest in you. At least, not that you could ever tell. Rosie had always been warm. Kind. Careful in a way that made a girl wonder if he meant something by it, only to convince herself later that he was just like that with everyone.

But that sure never stopped you from falling for him.

“Rosie!”

He turned at the sound of your voice, slowing and coming to a stop where he was walking. For a second, he just stood there in the dark, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his shoulders lifted slightly against the cold.

Your breath came out uneven as you caught up to him.

“I’m sorry about John.”

“No worries.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

That was worse than if he had been angry.

You could have handled anger. You knew what to do with anger. But Rosie looking at you like he was trying to spare your feelings while his own sat quietly wounded behind his eyes made your chest ache.

An awkward silence stretched across the English night air.

The muffled sound of the club carried behind you both, laughter and music spilling out every time someone opened the door, then dying again when it closed. Rosie looked past you once, like he expected John to come barreling after you.

He didn’t.

“Well, goodnight,” Rosie said finally.

He started to turn, and before you could think better of it, you reached for his sleeve, catching it lightly between your fingers.

He stopped.

You let go when he raised a brow, your cheeks warming despite the cold.

“Rosie,” you cleared your throat, “I need you to know that I—”

Your words died.

They sat right there on your tongue. Heavy. Terrifying. Years too late and somehow still too soon.

I loved you first.

I think a part of me still does.

I don’t know what to do with that.

Rosie waited, patient as ever, his expression softening like he could see every word you were too afraid to say.

Then, for some reason, you said, “I’m really tired and I was hoping you’d walk me back.”

For a moment, he only stared at you.

Then a familiar grin followed, slow and sweet and almost enough to break your heart all over again.

“Still scared of the dark?”

You punched his arm. “Shut up.”

Rosie laughed, and just like that, something loosened between you.

Not all of it.

Maybe not even most of it.

But enough.

He fell into step beside you like no time had passed at all, like you weren’t in England with a war pressing down over both of you, like you were back home walking down some quiet street with the evening bugs singing in the grass and your shoes scuffing against the pavement.

The walk back was a blur of old times.

Rosie told you about the time you had cried because he put a worm on your shoulder, and you defended yourself by reminding him that you were seven and he had been a menace. He brought up your mother catching the two of you sneaking pie from the kitchen, and you called him a liar because it had been entirely his idea.

“It was not,” he argued, glancing over at you.

“You were the lookout.”

“You told me to be.”

“You were older. You should’ve known better.”

Rosie smiled to himself. “I did know better. I just liked watching you get away with things.”

Your laughter faded only a little at that.

The tension had eased immensely, and somewhere between Rosie grinning at you and your shoulder brushing his arm, you realized you were able to laugh with him in a way you never could with John.

With John, it was fire. Heat. A spark catching too quickly, burning too brightly, threatening to take the whole room down with it.

With Rosie, it was easier. Softer. Like something that had grown beside you for years without demanding you notice until it was too rooted to pull up.

That thought kept you awake after Rosie bid you goodnight.

He had walked you all the way to the nurses’ quarters, stopping a respectable distance from the door, because of course he had. Rosie had always known how to be decent in ways that almost made you wish he wouldn’t.

“Goodnight,” he’d said.

“Goodnight, Rosie.”

But he had lingered a second too long.

So had you.

And when he finally walked away, you went inside feeling like you had left something unfinished in the cold.

The next morning, you had barely slept a wink.

Your mind was all over the place, dragging itself from Rosie’s smile to John’s anger, from the club to the walk home, from what you had almost said to what you wished you had been brave enough to say.

Before you could fully process being awake to the world yet, a soft knock came, followed by, “It’s me.”

John.

Your heart sped up as you thought about someone seeing you and Rosie last night and telling John.

Ridiculous.

Why were you so worried about what someone thought about old friends catching up?

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you opened the door to find a devastatingly handsome Major Egan leaning against the doorframe.

“A vision of beauty, as always.” He swooped down in one quick motion, hand finding your waist and his lips finding yours.

Despite being mad at him for last night, he still managed to take your breath away.

“Still mad?”

“No.” You lied, as you usually did with John to keep the peace.

“Good.” He kissed you again, quicker this time, “Get dressed, we’ll grab breakfast.”

You rolled your eyes, “Sir, yes, sir.”

The walk to the mess was uneventful, but as soon as the two of you entered the doors, every pair of eyes was on you. Your little heated exchange the previous night didn’t go unnoticed — and neither did your interaction with the new pilot, apparently.

“Why’s everyone staring at me as if I just stripped for Hitler and the German command?”

Helen and Tatty both laughed outright at your quip, but it was Tatty who spoke, “Honey, you’re the bee’s knees. A real belladonna. The cat’s meow, some would say.”

“My God, Tat, just speak plainly.” You huffed.

“She means that everyone’s talking about you and the dashing new pilot!” Helen giggled, “The friend of my new beau.”

“New beau?” You nearly squealed with excitement, “I saw him looking at you and wondered what happened!”

“Well,” Tatty pointed a finger at you, “If you weren’t so busy with Bucky’s tongue down your throat on the dance floor, you’d have seen him speak to her.”

You blushed, “Sorry.”

Tatty waved you off and Helen’s eyes immediately cut to the door behind you. Too scared to turn around, you asked quietly, “Is it Rosie?”

“Heaven’s to Betsy, you’re on a nickname basis?” Tatty sounded scandalized.

You playfully pushed her arm, “We’re childhood friends, Tatty, cool it.”

“Ladies,” It was John, sliding his arm around your shoulders, “Gossiping time over yet?”

“Not quite, we’re just now reaching the topic of you. Very much to discuss, very little time.” Tatty replied dryly.

John ignored the jab, “I’ll be taking my girl so she can eat now, long day ahead and all.”

He steered you away from your friends, much to your dismay and vocal protesting.

“So,” John said once you two had sat down to eat, “I’ll be on leave for a few days. I was thinking maybe you’d come with me?”

You raised an eyebrow, “When are you going?”

“I leave tonight, Colonel Harding approved it this morning.”

“John,” He groaned at his first name, “Bucky. You know I can’t, I have to work a double tonight.”

Bucky pouted, “Baby, you never get a night off. Just this once? Please.”

You shook your head sadly, placing your hand atop his.

Gale suddenly appeared with his tray, “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all.” You replied quickly, John moving over to make room for his best friend.

“Did you ask her yet?” Gale asked John.

“Yeah,” He sighed rather dramatically, “Has to work. Loser.”

You gasped, “Take it back.”

“Nope. Loser.”

With that, the three of you fell into an easy conversation about what kind of trouble Bucky would get into while in London while Buck was busy fighting the bad guys.

You just didn’t know how dearly Bucky’s decisions would come to cost you.

The next day, Bucky should have definitely made it to London by then, and you were full swing into your double shift. The boys were headed for Berlin again. Your heart was heavy with anticipatory grief at the men that would be lost.

And you were nearly sick with worry about Rosie.

It would be his first mission, and you knew he had no idea what it was like up there.

All you could do was pray that he would make it back to you — to home, in one piece.

The time ticked by so slowly it felt like days instead of mere hours.

Then, slowly, planes came into view.

You counted with bated breath.

You knew the planes, the names, and the men on them.

The relief when you saw Rosie’s plane was immediately overtaken when you failed to notice a certain lead pilot.

EEEKKK ok I love Hoosier so bad, I hope this is good!!?? lmk if yall want more

Bill ‘Hoosier’ Smith x nurse!Phillips!reader

Hoosier was never quite sure what to think of you.

The first time he met you, he had just made it to Australia after weeks on end of being stuck on Guadalcanal.

He had let Sid and Leckie convince him to go out, said something about meeting Sid’s older sister who was stationed in Australia as a trauma nurse.

You were all flowy hair, the smell of perfume, and beautiful dresses.

As if the war had not yet corrupted such a beautiful thing as you.

And Hoosier hated you for it.

Your first interaction was not a pleasant one, with Hoosier calling you a prim and proper debutant and you telling him to go fuck himself.

His opinion of you very quickly changed after that.

He had managed to avoid you until he came back to Melbourne again, running into you in a sweets shoppe he had somehow managed to wander into one evening.

“Sweet tooth?” He had asked you, then internally cursed himself.

Hoosier didn’t care to know anything about you.

“Yes,” You had smiled softly, “I love chocolate.” You held up the small bag of homemade chocolates, shaking it lightly.

The next time he saw you was vastly different.

It was pouring rain like piss out of a boot, and suddenly there you were in their tent, beautiful hair all wet and the smell of perfume long gone. No fancy dress, just coveralls that looked two sizes too big on you, but your smile was still the same.

“Made it!” You exclaimed, and Hoosier nearly rolled his eyes. “Good to see you, too, Bill.”

He grumbled something past his cigarette, continuing to clean his gun.

How could you be so upbeat and chatty all the time?

Sure, he liked to cut up, but he was a man. A soldier.

And you were something that belonged in a fashion magazine or back home on a church pew.

Hoosier had no real respect for you until the day he saw you in action. A young soldier had accidentally shot himself when he slipped down an embankment and he was bleeding badly.

But you? You never flinched.

You ran right past Hoosier, Chuckler, Runner, Leckie, and your little brother Sidney as if they were nonexistent.

Sliding in on your knees as if it was a home-run, you immediately set into motion soothing the young soldier while patching him up — and managing to keep his wound dry with your small body.

Hoosier had found you in the medical tent after that.

“Impressive.”

You didn’t jump at his unannounced presence, “What is?”

“You.” He admitted, shrugging lightly.

Your brows furrowed as you turned to him, “Is this a joke of some sort, Hoosier?”

Hoosier grinned and your heart jumped, “No, I’m being serious. It’s impressive how well you work under pressure.”

“It’s my job.” You deadpan, turning back to your paperwork, “I trained in hospitals for this. Although, I will say I saw more wounded in Australia from boys they managed to tote back with them from the islands.”

Hoosier hummed softly as he walked closer to you, “You want more action?”

“No,” You shook your head quickly, trying to ignore his presence, “No, the last thing I want is any more wounded. If we have to sit this rain out for the war to be over, so be it. I’ve seen enough boys die.”

“Boys?”

“Most of them are younger than me. They’re Sid’s age.” Your lip quivers but you don’t cry. “I can’t stomach the idea of Sid being the one to die next.”

“I won’t let that happen.” Hoosier felt ridiculous promising something he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep. But something about your face, the look of worry, made him want to. “I mean, I will do everything I can to keep Phillips safe.”

Hoosier had a newfound sense of protection for you after your conversation, and he lightened up immensely when you were in his company.

It didn’t go unnoticed by Leckie, of course, or even Sid (who was just happy his best friend and sister were finally getting along) but Leckie knew better.

“You got a thing for Phillips?” Leckie asked casually when it was just the two of them. They had moved to an island where it absolutely would not rain — go figure.

Hoosier looked up startled as Leckie laughed and clarified, “His sister, dumbass.”

Hoosier laughed easily, “No, man, why? You got a thing for her? Be my guest.”

“You don’t mean that.” Leckie narrowed his eyes, “I’m not blind, Hooz.”

Hoosier shrugged it off, claiming Leckie had lost his mind.

He felt pretty bad for saying that when you diagnosed Leckie with nocturnal enuresis and he had to be shipped to hospital on the island.

“A looney-bin,” You explained as the truck took Leckie away, “A glorified looney-bin because all of our goddamned soldiers are losing it out here.”

Hoosier had wanted to comfort you but there were too many people around.

He had found you later that night, alone in your tent.

He couldn’t tell you what brought him to you, a tug at his heart and a nagging in his brain to check on you.

That’s when he knew.

He had a thing for Phillips.

He had a thing for you.

When he got inside, he noticed your eyes were red from crying.

“You okay?” He asked you gently.

You shook your head, smiling sadly, “I hope Bob forgives me.”

“He will,” Hoosier assured you, “Any of us would.”

“You say that like you’d forgive me. I know you, Hoosier, you’d be mad as a bull if I had you sent away.”

“Not if it was you.” He stepped closer, his hand wrapping around yours, “I’d do anything you asked.”

You blinked at him, cheeks flushing red from more than just the humidity.

“I —“ Hoosier swallowed, “I need to tell you that I —“

Your lips were on his before he could finish his sentence.

Hoosier froze for half a breath, stunned clean stupid by the feel of you. Then he made a low sound in his chest and kissed you back, hands catching your face like he had been waiting for permission to touch you for weeks.

You tasted like salt and rain and something sweet he couldn’t name.

When you pulled back, barely, your forehead stayed against his.

“I know,” you whispered, “I feel it, too.”

Hoosier’s eyes stayed closed.

warnings: mentions of death, murder, war, language

Joseph Liebgott loved you in a way that was reckless, like young love that typically burned too bright and fizzled out too quickly.

The two of you never had a defined relationship — only secret meetings when everyone else was sleeping or stolen kisses when it was available to you.

You were a nurse attached to Easy Company, the first of many women brave enough to become a paratrooper.

Joe couldn’t stand you when he had first met you, or so you thought until he drunkenly confessed his attraction to you after you both received your jump wings.

You had never believed that you and Joe would be anything more than what you were now.

That is, until Easy reached Austria.

You noticed a shift in Joe, like things were easier and lighter for him. For your undefined relationship. He began talking to you more about what comes next — going back home, getting married, buying a nice big house and having lots of little Liebgotts running around.

It had sounded nice, it truly did.

But fate was cruel.

Late night while patrolling in a jeep with Chuck Grant and two new replacement recruits under Grant’s command, the four of you stumbled across a drunken American paratrooper.

“Grant.” You warned, an easy feeling blossoming in your chest as you reached out and grabbed his arm.

He looked at you, “Relax. Liebgott would kill me if I let anything happen to you.”

You didn’t have time to ask what exactly he meant by that before he climbed out, approaching the soldier.

“You okay, Mac, you need some help?”

The laughter that followed made your stomach hurt. You felt fear slowly crawling up your throat.

“They wouldn’t give me any gas.” The soldier scoffed, “Krauts!”

“I tried to explain,” He continued, walking towards his own jeep. Grant followed as the man spoke, “this fucking limey wouldn’t listen. I think he was a major.”

You couldn’t hear Grant’s response or the rest of their conversation over the hum of the jeep. You noticed the crazed look on the private’s face, though, and your body moved before you could stop it.

“I need to make sure those people are alright.” You explained and waved the two privates with you to sit back down.

“Grant?” You called, noticing the solider walking away.

“Stay back!” Grant called to you, following after the man, “Hold on a second there, alright?”

Suddenly, the man turned, firing off his pistol blindly.

Joseph Liebgott was awoken in the middle of the night by Floyd Talbert.

“It’s [name].” Floyd had said in a hushed tone.

Joe didn’t need to hear anything else, hopping out of bed and throwing his uniform on as fast as he possibly could.

“Where is she?” He burst into the room, a doctor sitting idly by while Grant glanced up at Liebgott.

“Joe -“

“Where the hell is she, Chuck?”

“I’m sorry, Joe, we sent out a patrol to find the shooter —“ Grant tried to explain to no avail.

“Cut the bullshit, Sarg, just tell me where she is.” Joe was pleading now. He felt himself feeling more anxious by the second.

“[Name] didn’t make it, Lieb.”

It was Doc Roe who spoke up from behind him.

Joe turned so quick his neck popped, “The fuck does that mean?”

Eugene just pressed his lips together tightly.

Joe noticed the blood still smeared on Doc Roe’s uniform and he suddenly felt very ill.

“Where is she.” His voice broke on the last syllable.

You couldn’t be dead.

You had been alive just a few short hours ago, peeling yourself away from Joe and out of his stolen Austrian citizen’s bed to go on patrol.

“Don’t go,” He had pleaded with you, “I gotta bad feelin’.”

You brushed him off, saying he worried too much.

Doc led him to the next room, where a cold and empty feeling welcomed him.

Your body, small and pale, laid upon a metal table covered with a thin wool blanket.

“The bullet grazed me,” Grant had followed them, “It hit her square in the chest. She died immediately, Joe.”

Joe swore his legs moved on their own to reach your body, where the remnants of your warmth still clung to your skin just as he had hours ago. He shakily pulled the blanket away from your face, and felt a tear slide down his cheek at the lack of color in your face.

Your hair was messy, as it normally was.

Your eyelids were blue, so were your lips that once were a beautiful rosy shade, even in the cold winter air of Bastogne.

He stared at your eyelids, waiting for them to flutter as if you were dreaming as he had seen them do so many times before.

He glanced down, at the blood that stained your chest and now-torn uniform.

Joe’s breathing stopped.

“I should have told everyone.” Joe was speaking now.

Roe and Grant glanced at one another, ultimately deciding to leave the two of you alone one last time.

“I never should have kept you a secret sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” He wasn’t sure when he had began to cry, “I love you. Please don’t leave me.”

And as much as he cried and begged, you were not coming back to life.

While clinging to your lifeless body, Joseph Liebgott knew that he loved you in a way much deeper than something that could burn out.

What he would never know is that he was the last thing you had thought about was him waking in the morning, about how he would worry about where you were, and how impatient he would be trying to find you.

Then you died, and everything you had ever thought or ever felt for Joseph Liebgott went with you.

I was wondering if you’d do some hcs of the reader being silly drunk around some hbo war guys (band of brothers, the pacific, masters of the air) and reveal their feelings and how the different characters would react!

I appreciate you guys so much for continuing to support me and sending in asks!!! I love your idea!!! <3

warnings: mentions of alcohol, language

BAND OF BROTHERS

Joe Liebgott

you had never been much for drinking, nor had you really had the time to with the war and everything going on. then after Easy Company captured the Eagles Nest and you all had unlimited access to alcohol, you got absolutely plastered.

“I dunno why Lieb’s so mean to me all the time,” you were rambling. Joe was extremely annoyed and definitely not drunk enough — so he was stuck babysitting you (everyone knew it was because he worried about you so much).

“What are you even sayin’ right now?” Joe was beginning to feel embarrassed by how vocal you were about your emotions when you got drunk.

“I mean,” you weren’t even speaking to him now, but to your table of friends: Malarkey, Luz, Webster, and Floyd. “I’d let him ruin my life if he wanted to.”

dead silence that turned into obnoxious laughter.

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“You wanna kiss me sooo bad.”

you were right, but Joe wouldn’t kiss you until you had sobered up the next morning.

Eugene Roe

“You!” you pointed a finger in a somewhat general direction of Doc Roe

“Yes?” he raised an eyebrow, growing increasingly concerned at just how quickly you had become intoxicated. a brief thought of, what did Luz give her?, passed through his mind.

“You work too much,” you insisted.

Gene smiled softly as your eyes struggled to focus on him, “I’m just doin’ my job.”

you got very still and very quiet, gazing up at him with such a sudden intensity he almost felt naked.

“You’re beautiful,” you decided and his cheeks flushed red, “like an angel. I love you, beautiful angel.”

and then proceeded to vomit in the floor.

Gene took care of you the rest of the night, and you secretly hoped he had forgotten all about your previous confession.

he didn’t by a long shot.

Babe Heffron

you had been dared by Malarkey and Luz to see who could out drink who, you or Webster.

you had lost terribly.

Babe — poor, sweet Babe, was trying his hardest to get you off of a bar table while you were trying to conduct the pub of American soldiers and locals alike in a song.

“Please come down from there,” Babe begged you, “Don’t make me come up there and get you.”

you frowned, “You’re no fun.”

“Don’t pout.” Babe smiled softly at you, “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

you climbed down from the table, opting instead for dancing. you had become increasingly clingy, but Babe didn’t mind a bit. you’re holding on to him as he talks to the guys when a thought occurs to you.

“I’d marry you right now if you asked me to, Babe.”

Babe does a double take as the guys howl with laughter at the redness of his face, “You are so drunk.”

but he definitely asks you about it first thing in the morning.

THE PACIFIC

Bill “Hoosier” Smith

while in Melbourne, you manage to drag Hoosier to town with you and the boys only to get completely inebriated.

you let a local army officer swoop you off your feet, twirling you around while Hoosier sulks at a table nearby.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” Chuckler asks at the sour look on Hoosier’s face.

“Nothin’.” but it’s too late, Chuckler and Leckie have already followed his line of sight to a certain girl on the dance floor.

“Ah.” Leckie remarks, and Hoosier flips him the bird.

Sid opens his mouth to crack a joke, but before he can speak, you’re on them in a sudden moment of hair and a dress you had just bought. you plop down on Hoosier’s lap, throwing an arm around his neck while he steadies you by your waist. everyone’s staring, eyebrows raised and some mouths open.

“There’s my favorite marine!” you poked his cheek fondly.

he narrowed his eyes at you, “What happened to your army boy?”

“He wasn’t you.” you said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. “No one is.”

needless to say, Hoosier was very glad to have gone out that night.

Snafu Shelton

“You got a crush on me or somethin’?” Snafu calls your way across the table, Sledgehemmer and Burgie watch carefully.

you had gotten a little too far gone celebrating the end of the war, but you managed to stay upright for the majority of the night.

“Unfortunately.”

your response is so blunt that Snafu chokes on his beer, Sledge and Burgin laughing outright at his face. nobody had ever managed to get one over on Snafu; especially not enough to fluster him the way you just had.

“Too bad you’re not the setting down type.” Snafu was now openly gawking at you.

“I’ll be proving you wrong there, honey.”

Snafu looked after you the rest of the night, even staying awake to watch you sleep off your drunkenness that he knew would be a bitch of a hangover in the morning.

but he couldn’t wait to confront you about your little crush confession when it wore off.

Bob Leckie

you had been in love with Bob Leckie from the moment you laid eyes on him. unfortunately for you, he had eyes for a girl back home.

that first night in Melbourne, you both had gotten entirely too drunk. so, naturally, your true feelings about Vera came to light.

“Y’know, no sense in writing a girl back home when I’m right here.” you remarked dryly, not even realizing how rude it sounded.

Leckie stared at you, as if a sudden realization had dawned on him. like he had never once considered you to be an option.

the embarrassment and alcohol mixed together unpleasantly, so you pushed on, “I mean, I like you. I always have. I think we could be great together.”

“Sweetheart,” his words made your heart jump, “as soon as you’re sober, you’re all mine.”

MASTERS OF THE AIR

Bucky Egan

you had had about 3 drinks too many, thanks to Ev Blakely, and the urge to kiss John Egan was strong.

instead, you began to steal his cigarettes.

“Never took you for a smoker.” Bucky remarked, eyeing you as you snuck your fingers into his pocket for the 4th time that night.

a sudden boldness overtook you, “I’m trying to impress you. Is it working?”

your attempt to make a flirtatious face fell flat as Bucky laughed, “You’re cute. I’ll give you that.”

“Tell you what,” Bucky said after a moment of silence, “in the morning, I’ll come find you. We’ll go on a real date.”

your eyebrows shot up, but you began to feel unwell.

“Maybe,” you managed to get out, “I think I drank way too much.”

you left the room, barely making it outside before emptying the contents of your stomach over the railing. you eased yourself down on the cool ground, the world spinning away from you no matter what you did to try and relieve it.

“C’mon.” Bucky was lifting you up effortlessly, carrying you back to your bunk.

“You’re like a freakin’ superhero or some shit. Marry me.”

Bucky only laughed.

when the morning came, he kept his promise to you about that date.

Rosie Rosenthal

when the war was won, you finally gave in and let Ev and Dougie get you hammered. what you didn’t know was that they were doing their best to get you and Rosie together.

Harry, obviously in on it, asked you innocently, “What do you think of Rosie?”

unaware Rosie was behind you, you said very excitedly, “He is sooo pretty. It’s seriously unfair. I mean, who looks that good that effortlessly?”

Rosie was shocked to say the least. he had always found you attractive and felt a pull to you he had never been able to explain.

“Sounds like you like him.” Harry grinned.

“I love him.” you sigh dreamily. now it was Harry’s turn to look shocked.

“I love you, too.”

you whipped around to find the man in question confessing his love to you.

Ev, Dougie, and Harry were waiting with bated breath.

“Let’s get out of here.” you suggested. Rosie couldn’t have agreed more.

you couldn’t have been more thankful for friends that got you drunk.

John Brady

the two of you fought like cats and dogs the majority of the time. he thought you were a lousy nurse, you thought him an overly arrogant pilot.

so it came a good shock to you that he was okay with watching you while you were drunk as a skunk after a particularly terrible mission.

“I thought you hated me.” you squinted him from your spot at the table.

he barely glanced at you, “Hmm. I don’t.”

“Well,” you continued, talking out of your head, “I’ve always admired you, Brady.”

his mouth nearly fell open at your words.

“Actually, you’re my favorite pilot. Probably my favorite person.”

“Exactly how much have you had to drink?” Brady stared at you, the words not fully processing in his brain.

HECK YES this is so good and ofc I had to add a happy ending to it, thank you for the request!!! this is lowkey one of my favorite things I’ve ever written so I hope you enjoy it!

warnings: language; suggestive language

Past Curfew

Smoothing your evening dress down, you glanced at the watch on your living room wall.

“Nervous?” Your roommate, Olivia, asked from her spot on the couch as she read a copy of New York Times.

You shook your head, “No, I’m excited to see the boys again.”

“Boys.” She snorted, “They’re all grown men by now.”

“They were boys to me.” You shrugged.

“Hell, I don’t know how you didn’t jump at least one of their bones.”

“Liv!” You exclaimed and accidentally clasped your clutch on your finger, “Shit, ow.”

“Sorry.” Olivia said sheepishly, “It’s just that I’m sure one of them had to be somewhat good-looking and you came home single and have remained that way.”

Before you could smart back at her, the doorbell rang.

“That’d be Thomas.” You explained and Olivia grinned.

“Don’t start.” You warned her as you moved to open the door. She threw her hands up in surrender.

Thomas Bennett stood in the hall with his hat in his hands and a smile already waiting on his face. He looked exactly like the sort of man a girl was supposed to bring to a party after the war. Clean-shaven. Polite. Handsome in a way that never made a room feel hot all of a sudden. His suit was pressed, his shoes were shined, and he had the good sense to look only mildly nervous when Olivia’s eyes immediately swept over him like she was inspecting produce at the market.

“You look beautiful,” Thomas said.

It was kind. Sincere, even. He said it the way men were supposed to say it, with warmth and admiration and no hidden edge.

“Thank you,” you smiled, stepping aside to let him in. “You look nice, too.”

“Nice,” Olivia repeated from the couch, turning a page in her newspaper. “High praise.”

You shot her a look over your shoulder.

Thomas only laughed because he was the sort of man who laughed easily, even when he was not entirely sure if he was the joke. “I’ll take nice.”

“That’s wise,” Olivia said. “She’s stingy with compliments.”

“I am not.”

“You once told a man his tie was ‘brave.’”

“It was brave. It had polka-dots on it.”

Thomas’s smile widened. He liked this part of you. The quickness. The dry humor. The way your mouth got you into trouble before your good sense could stop it.

And maybe that was why you had agreed to let him take you tonight.

He liked you in a way that was simple.

After the war, simple felt like something you were supposed to want.

You grabbed your coat from the hook by the door, and Thomas stepped forward to help you into it before you could do it yourself. The gesture should have made you feel cherished. It did, in a quiet way. But it also made something old and unwanted twist in your chest, because the last man who had helped you into a coat had complained the whole time that you were taking too long, then tucked the collar closer around your neck like he would rather die than admit he was being careful with you.

You pushed the thought away.

You had gotten very good at doing that.

“Be back before midnight,” Olivia called.

You paused in the doorway. “You’re not my mother.”

“No, but I’m nosy and I live here.”

Thomas glanced between you both. “I’ll have her home at a respectable hour.”

Olivia lowered the newspaper enough to look at him. “Respectable is negotiable.”

“Goodnight, Liv,” you said quickly, pulling Thomas out the door before she could make it worse.

The party was already spilling noise into the street by the time Thomas parked outside the apartment building where George Luz had insisted everyone meet. You could hear the music from the sidewalk, muffled by brick and glass, the lively pulse of it floating down into the cool evening air. Someone upstairs laughed loud enough that the sound cracked open the night.

For a second, standing beneath the glow of the streetlamp, you felt young again.

Not really. Not fully. None of you were the same people who had crossed the ocean and come back with too much behind your eyes. But there was something about the noise, about the familiar roughness of men shouting over music, about the way cigarette smoke drifted out an open window above you, that made the years fold in on themselves.

Thomas came around the car and offered you his arm. “Ready?”

You looked up at the building.

You had told Olivia you were excited, and that had been true. You wanted to see the boys again. You wanted to see George and Bull and Malarkey and Babe and anyone else who had managed to crawl back into ordinary life and pretend it fit. You wanted to laugh with people who understood why certain sounds still made your fingers go cold.

But there was a name you had not asked about.

A face you had spent years pretending not to search for in crowds.

Joe Liebgott had disappeared after the war the way some men did. No grand goodbye. No letter explaining himself. No promise to come visit. One minute he had been there, sharp-mouthed and restless, looking at you like he wanted to say something that would ruin both your lives. The next, he had been gone.

You had heard things in pieces. California. Cab driving. His family. Nothing solid enough to hold. Nothing that belonged to you.

So you had done the only thing a girl could do when a man vanished without giving her the decency of an ending.

You made one up yourself.

“Ready,” you said, and took Thomas’s arm.

Inside, the party was warm and loud, packed wall to wall with old faces that made your chest ache before you even had time to smile. George spotted you first, of course. He always did have a talent for making a scene.

“Well, look who finally decided to remember us poor bastards!” he shouted.

You barely had time to laugh before he was across the room, grabbing you up in a hug that lifted your heels off the floor.

“George!” you squealed, clutching his shoulders. “Put me down before you break something.”

“Can’t. I’m overcome.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I can be two things.”

When he set you down, his hands stayed on your shoulders for a moment as he looked you over. His smile softened in a way that made your throat pinch.

“Jesus,” he said quieter. “Look at you.”

“Look at me?” You reached up and straightened his crooked tie. “You look like you dressed in the dark.”

“I did. Adds mystery.”

“It adds something, alright.”

George barked a laugh, then glanced over your shoulder. “And who’s this poor fella?”

Thomas stepped forward, polite as ever. “Thomas Bennett.”

George shook his hand with exaggerated seriousness. “George Luz. War hero, entertainer, occasional menace.”

“Occasional?” you asked.

“Don’t ruin my introduction.”

Thomas chuckled. “Nice to meet you.”

More of them came after that. Babe hugged you so tight he nearly squeezed the air from your lungs. Malarkey kissed your cheek and told you that you hadn’t aged a day, which was kind and entirely untrue. Even Bull gave you one of those slow, fond smiles that said more than most men could manage in a speech.

The party was fine, it was easy like you had hoped. You were greeted by Major Winters and Nixon, and even saw Eugene Roe who you had always thought fondly of. Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye, who had both been badly wounded in Bastogne. You had gotten a bear hug from Buck Compton, who was now a big time lawyer out in California.

You had finally begun to get a certain man from San Francisco out of your mind when you heard it.

“Son of bitch, is that the Joseph Liebgott?” Guarnere shouted over the music and the chatter.

Your heart nearly stopped.

Which was ridiculous. Dramatic. The sort of thing Olivia would have mocked you for if you said it out loud. But it was true all the same. The back of your neck prickled. Your fingers tightened around your glass.

You turned.

Joe Liebgott stood just inside the doorway with a brunette on his arm.

Joe said, “Sure is, Gonorrhea!”

For one terrible second, you forgot how to breathe.

He looked older.

Of course he did. You all did. But Joe wore it differently. The war had not softened him. It had sharpened certain parts and hollowed out others. His hair was neatly combed, his suit dark and well-fitted, though he somehow still looked like he had been dragged into respectability against his will. His mouth was the same. So were his eyes.

That was the worst part.

You had spent years convincing yourself you had exaggerated them in memory. Made them darker. Warmer. More dangerous.

You hadn’t.

His gaze moved through the room with restless disinterest until it landed on you.

Then it stopped.

Everything else seemed to keep going. The music, the laughter, Thomas speaking to someone beside you, the woman on Joe’s arm leaning closer to say something in his ear.

Joe did not look away from you.

George muttered, “Aw, hell.”

Babe, beside him, took one look between you and Joe and suddenly became very interested in his drink.

Thomas leaned close. “Do you know him?”

You swallowed.

Joe’s eyes dropped briefly to Thomas’s hand at your back.

When they lifted again, something had hardened in them.

“Yes,” you said. “I know him.”

Joe started across the room.

The brunette came with him, her hand still tucked around his arm. She was pretty in a polished, city sort of way, with red lipstick and waved hair and a dress that fit her like money. You hated yourself a little for noticing. Hated yourself more for caring.

“Well,” Joe said when he reached you, voice smooth as a knife sliding back into its sheath. “Look who it is.”

Your heart gave one hard, stupid kick.

“Liebgott.”

His smile twitched. “That all I get?”

You lifted your chin. “You were expecting a parade?”

George made a quiet choking sound into his glass.

Joe’s eyes flashed. Not anger, not exactly. Recognition. Like he had missed that sharpness and resented you for still having it.

“Would’ve settled for hello,” he said.

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. A little warmth, maybe.”

“You should have written ahead. I could’ve prepared some.”

George made a strangled noise into his drink. Babe suddenly became fascinated by the floorboards.

“There she is.”

The brunette glanced at him, then at you. “Joe?”

He blinked, like he had momentarily forgotten he had brought a date. “Right. Sorry. This is Elaine.”

Elaine smiled politely. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” you said, and meant it as much as you could. It wasn’t her fault Joe Liebgott had walked into the room and tilted the floor under your feet.

Thomas’s hand shifted at your back. “Thomas Bennett.”

He blinked, as if remembering all at once that he had brought someone with him. “Right. Sorry. Elaine, this is…” His eyes moved back to you, and for one foolish second you thought he might say something impossible. Something honest. “An old friend.”

Old friend.

The words landed like a slap you were expected to smile through.

You held out your hand to Elaine. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she said, though her eyes were already moving between you and Joe with curiosity she had not yet learned how to hide. “Were you all together overseas?”

“Something like that,” Joe said.

Your gaze cut to him.

Something like that.

As if it had been casual. As if he had not once leaned against the side of a jeep in Austria, smoking with rough hands while telling you that after the war he might look you up if you were unlucky. As if he had not looked at you then like he was already afraid he would.

Thomas stepped forward, polite as ever. “Thomas Bennett.”

Joe looked at him with the full, lazy attention of a man deciding whether something was worth the effort of disliking.

“Bennett,” he repeated, taking his hand.

“Good to meet you,” Thomas said.

“Sure.”

It should not have felt like an insult. Somehow, from Joe, even sure sounded like he had thrown a lit match onto a dry field just to watch what happened.

Thomas, to his credit, only smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about Easy Company tonight.”

Joe’s attention slid back to you. “Have you?”

“A little,” you said.

His mouth curved. “You tell him all about us?”

The word us did not pass unnoticed. Not by you. Not by George, whose brows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline.

You took a careful sip of your drink. “There wasn’t much to tell.”

Joe’s smile sharpened.

There he was. Mean because he was cornered. Cruel because he was jealous. A boy with his hand too close to the stove, daring someone else to admit it burned.

“No?” he said. “That’s funny. I remember plenty.”

“Joe,” George warned under his breath.

Joe ignored him completely. His eyes stayed on you, bright and reckless. “Have you told him all about our old rendezvous?”

The word dropped into the circle like a glass breaking.

Thomas’s smile faltered.

Elaine went very still.

Your cheeks heated so fast you hated yourself for giving him the satisfaction. Not because there was anything to be ashamed of, not really. But because Joe knew exactly what he was doing. He had reached back into the war, into the hidden corners of it, and dragged something private into the light because he could not stand the sight of you with another man’s hand at your back.

George muttered, “Jesus Christ, Liebgott.”

Babe said, “Aw, come on, Joe.”

But Joe’s gaze did not move from yours.

You set your glass down on the nearest table with more care than necessary.

“Our old rendezvous?” you repeated.

His jaw tightened slightly. Good. He had expected embarrassment. Maybe anger. Not that calm, dangerous softness.

You stepped closer, just enough that Thomas’s hand fell away from your back.

“Is that what you’re calling it now?”

Joe’s smile faded.

Because he remembered too. That was the trouble. He remembered the stolen minutes behind buildings, yes. The sharp whispers and the near misses and the way he used to catch your wrist to tug you out of sight, grinning like he had never been afraid of anything in his life.

But he also remembered the rest.

The conversations in the dark when neither of you could sleep. His jacket around your shoulders in Austria. His hands trembling so badly after Landsberg that he had pretended to be cold. The night he had found you crying behind the billets and sat beside you without saying a word, close enough that your shoulders touched, quiet in the only way Joe Liebgott ever knew how to be gentle.

Those were rendezvous too.

He knew it.

So did you.

Thomas cleared his throat, his voice carefully polite. “I think I’ll get us another drink.”

“You don’t have to,” you said, still looking at Joe.

“No, it’s all right.” Thomas’s smile was strained now, but kind. Too kind. “Excuse me.”

Elaine lifted her chin and slipped her hand from Joe’s arm. “I might freshen up.”

Joe barely seemed to hear her.

The moment the two of them moved away, George pointed at Joe with his cigarette. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Joe’s eyes flicked briefly toward him. “Thanks.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“I picked up on that.”

“Did you?” George asked. “Because it looks like maybe you didn’t pick up on much since 1945.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

Joe glanced back at you, and whatever smart answer had been forming on his tongue seemed to die there.

You turned on your heel and walked toward the hallway.

You heard him follow before he said your name.

“Wait.”

You kept walking.

“Hey.”

Still, you did not stop until you reached the quieter stretch near the coat rack, away from the music and the heat and the eyes pretending not to look. Only then did you turn around.

Joe stopped short, too close and not close enough.

“What the hell was that?” you asked.

He dragged a hand through his hair, ruining the neatness of it. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“It came out.”

“Oh, well, as long as it just came out, I suppose that makes humiliating me in front of your date and mine perfectly reasonable.”

His mouth tightened. “He your guy?”

You stared at him.

Then you laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s what you care about?”

“No,” he snapped, then immediately looked away like the honesty had surprised him. “No, that’s not the only thing.”

“Then what, Joe?”

“I care about you.”

It was so truthful you nearly thought you’d imagined it.

“What?” You stared at him.

“I care about you.” Joe explained, “I brought her because I thought —“

“You thought what?” Your voice was softer now.

“I was sure as hell you’d be married by now.”

Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes widened.

Joe noticed your wide eyes, “I mean, shit, are you?”

“Married?” You scoffed, “No. It’s only been two years.”

“Don’t mean nothin’, you’re a pretty girl.” Joe shrugged, “Elaine’s been my date for all of four hours and she thinks we’re gettin’ hitched tomorrow.”

You laughed at that.

He smiled.

“I knew I could still do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make you laugh.”

You shook your head, “What are we doing, Joe?”

“Wasting more time.” Joe offered. He was right.

“You were the one who didn’t write me like you said you would.” You frowned, “I guess I wasn’t unlucky enough.”

“I didn’t know how to.” He confessed, “I wasn’t the same when I got back home.”

“I know.”

“But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to do right by you now.” Joe put his hand on your arm and let his hand slide down into yours.

Two years ago, you would have been jumping up and down at the open display of affection and the offer of a commitment from Joe Liebgott.

That girl was still in you somewhere because your heart fluttered. Traitor.

“Hey guys,” George’s voice cut into your thoughts as you jumped away from Joe. “Your dates are both looking for you, so I came to find you before they came looking themselves.”

“Thanks, Luz.” You tried to walk past him but he stopped you.

“Listen, whatever you two have going on, figure it the fuck out.” Your eyes snapped to his as he gave a pointed look in your direction and then in Joe’s, “Those two people out there don’t deserve to be tangled into your unresolved love-drama fest from the war.”

“I’m sorry.” You said quietly.

“Don’t say sorry to me,” George shrugged, “Besides, the rest of the company has been waiting for you two to figure out whatever the hell this for years now.”

“Seriously?” Joe finally spoke and you wanted to laugh at his annoyed expression. “Fine.”

Joe marched right past the two of you back to the party, and you and George quickly followed.

Joe reached Elaine, who was conversing with another woman you didn’t know but assumed came as a date, and Elaine suddenly burst into tears and slapped Joe.

“Holy shit.” Your hand flew to your mouth.

“Been there before.” George confessed.

“What? The one doing the slapping or the one being slapped?”

“The one being slapped.”

“Figures.” You caught Thomas’ gaze from where he stood with Babe and Malarkey and smiled sadly.

Thomas was a good man, sure, but he wasn’t Joe. You knew that.

“I guess I can see myself out?” Thomas joked once you reached him.

Babe and Malarkey suddenly found the contents of the punch bowl extremely fascinating as they slowly worked their way away from the two of you.

“No, stay. Enjoy yourself.” You insisted, placing a hand on his arm.

“I like you,” Thomas nodded, “I really do. But I always knew your heart and your mind were with someone else.”

“You’re a good man, Thomas.” You said and he smiled softly.

He kissed your cheek, bidding you goodnight and even stopping to say goodbye to George.

“I guess we’re both assholes, then.”

You turned to find Joe watching you, ignoring the stares of your former company’s men.

“Not me, my date didn’t slap me on the way out.” You joked.

“Good,” Joe said, “Because then I’d have to kill him.”

Your face flushed at that, and you knew he would have done exactly that, “What’d you say to her anyway?”

“That I had to take care of some unfinished business with a past lover. Take a trip down memory lane.” Joe shrugged. You slapped his arm as he laughed at the look on your face, and then said, “No, I told her she was a great girl but that it just wouldn’t work.”

“Must have been the way you said it.”

“I am known to be quite the asshole.” Joe admitted, “What do you say, wanna come back to my hotel or go back to your place?”

“A bit forward, aren’t you?” You scoffed.

“Ah,” He grinned, “I forgot you like me a lot more when you’re a couple drinks in.”

For the second time that night, you slapped his arm.

“Trust me, baby, you’ll be waking up in my arms in the morning.”

The next morning, you did in fact wake up in Joseph Liebgott’s arms.

oh. my. god. are you kidding me?? yes because I felt like a genius when I came up with that concept. I kinda got carried away with all of this so there will be another part or maybe even 2.

warnings: language

The Realization

“Ro!” You shouted, your small legs struggling to keep up with the speed you were running at.

The older boy turned at the sound of your frantic shouts, eyes quickly taking notice of the two other boys chasing you down the street.

“Ro.” You panted once you finally caught him, “They chased me all the way here! I—“

“Stupid good for nothing brat.” One of the boys spat, “You busted my nose!”

You had in fact done so. The boy sported an already purpleish eye with crusted blood under his nose that looked a little too red and a little too crooked.

“Easy, guys.” Rosie raised his hands, “What’s going on here?”

The other boy, the one without the busted nose, said, “What’s going on here is that she broke Tommy’s nose!”

“And why did she do that?” Rosie inquired. The two boys looked befuddled by this.

“You seriously need a reason? Step aside —“

“I will not.”

Your eyes cut to Rosie as he stood in front of you protectively. The way he always believed you without cause made your heart flutter.

“They took my lunch money.” You muttered from behind him.

He said nothing but instead nodded slightly, letting you know he had heard you.

“She’s lying.” The boy with the busted nose immediately said.

“No, I don’t think she is.” Rosie shrugged, “So I suggest you get the hell out of here while you still can.”

The boys hesitated. Did they really want to take on a girl they knew could bust them upside the head with her school bag and a boy with a reputation for defending said girl?

No. They didn’t. So, they turned tail and ran.

“Thanks, Ro.” You sighed with relief.

“Anytime, (nickname).”

Rosie blinked as the memory faded away and Thorpe Abbotts came into view. That had been more than 10 years ago. You, all of thirteen, and him just fifteen. It had been months since your last letter — but he knew you were here, at Thorpe Abbotts.

Rosie couldn’t wait to see you again.

After he had successfully landed the plane and the crew had cleared out of it, Rosie being the last one down, his blue eyes scanned the premises. Secretly hoping to run into you on the tarmac, he ignored the disappointment he felt blooming in his chest.

You had no idea Rosie was coming here. He didn’t tell you out of want to surprise you.

Rosie had spent the better part of the rest of his day wandering around Thorpe Abbotts while the rest of his pals got settled in. He dropped his things off at his bunker, and took a stroll hoping to run into you.

No luck.

Two days passed since he arrived, and still no sign of you. Finally, with the encouragement from his co-pilot Pappy, he asked the head doctor where you were.

“Oh, Lieutenant [Name]?” The doctor glanced up from his paperwork, “She’s on a weekend pass. She’s due back tomorrow.”

Rosie nodded, feeling a weight lifted off of his shoulders, “She’ll be here, then?”

“No, no,” The doctor shook his head, “Its still her day off.”

Rosie opened his mouth to ask where he would be able to find you but the doctor continued before he could, “I bet she’ll be at the big celebration tomorrow, though.”

“Celebration?”

“To celebrate Captain Dye’s 25th Mission.” The doctor said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “If he makes it.”

Rosie ignored the depressing add-on at the end, opting to say thank you and taking his cue to leave.

He’d see you tomorrow night.

Tomorrow night came so slowly it almost hurt.

He was almost late because he was fussing over his uniform and making sure his hair was perfect for his impression on you.

(Not like you hadn’t seen him look disheveled before, especially all of the summers spent swimming in the nearby river.)

Rosie genuinely couldn’t name the feeling that had plagued him since he realized he’d be seeing you again.

After all, you were only his best friend.

Rosie took a deep breath before walking into the officer’s club, the loud music from the band drowning out his anxious thoughts.

Speas noticed him first, “Well! Look who it is.”

“Watch out fellas, here comes twinkle toes.” Nash called out, and Rosie played it up, dancing around rather awkwardly.

But you knew how bad of a dancer he could be.

Pappy nearly choked on his dessert as he chuckled at the awful display Rosie was putting on.

Speas was laughing and hyping him up while Nash was saying, “Don’t encourage him, he’ll scare off all the ladies.”

Good. The only lady Rosie cared to be in the presence of was you, anyhow.

Rosie enthusiastically shook Speas’ hand, “Gentlemen! What have I missed?”

“I’m eyeing broads while Pappy here’s trying to dour the mood.” Nash gestured to Rosie’s co-pilot. “In other words, nothing.”

“Sour.” Rosie corrected while Pappy shook his head at Nash’s words, “Sour the mood, you mean.”

“No no.” Pappy interjected, “All I said was it’s not a good sign for us. One crew making it merits a blowout bash?”

Nash ignored him as his gaze turned back to table of women he had his eyes on earlier.

“You know they’re on to you, right?” Speas questioned.

“I hope they are.” Nash bit off the olive on the end of the toothpick in his hand.

Rosie turned his gaze to follow what Nash was staring at.

And there you were.

His eyes lit up and Pappy immediately noticed, “That her?”

“Is that who?” Nash questioned. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me your mystery girl is the broad I’ve been eyeing.”

You looked up then, noticing Rosie yourself. You grinned.

Nash said, “Oh thank you Lord.”

Nash had been eyeing a dark haired woman who you had been conversing with fondly.

“Fellas!” Major John Egan came into view then, with Major Gale Cleven in tow.

“Gentlemen.” Major Cleven greeted.

Rosie nodded politely, his gaze torn from you as it was blocked by Major Egan, “Major Egan.”

“Major Cleven.” Nash greeted in awe.

John Egan pointed at Rosie, “Rosenthal,”

Then at Nash, “Nash.”

Nash nodded, “That’s right.”

Gale Cleven said, “Co-pilots uh.. Spaatz and Lewis?”

Speas pointed at himself, “Speas. Sir.”

Gale nodded, crossing his arms.

“Lewis, sir.” Pappy nodded, “But people call me Pappy!”

“You boys uh,” John cut in, “You were pilots before the war?”

“Lawyer,” Rosie corrected him, just as you came into his view again. It nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.

“Well, hello stranger.” Your voice was as sweet as he remembered.

“Hey.”

Hey? Really? That’s all he could manage?

His friends eyed him suspiciously, waiting to see what you or him did next.

It was Major Egan who moved next, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you in to plant a kiss on top of your head.

“Fellas,” The Major spoke, “This here is my girl.”

His girl?

Rosie felt his heart sink.

Wait, why did his heart sink?

“Oh, Rosie and I go way back.” You smiled, “I had no idea you’d be coming here!”

“This must be the famous Ro I’ve heard so much about.”

As much respect as Robert Rosenthal had for John Egan, he could have beat the shit out of him right then and there.

Ro was your nickname for Rosie. Not anyone else’s.

Seriously, what was wrong with him?

“Sure is! My hero growing up.” You laughed lightly.

Rosie wanted to throw up.

The realization that he was jealous hit him like a ton of bricks.

“So you were a lawyer?” Gale cut in, “Where’d you learn to fly a B-17?”

“Laredo.” Rosie nodded, “Nine months. Twelve hours a day. Lieutenant Nash, too.”

“You boys, you come with a helluva reputation.” Egan waved his hand around, “I’ll tell you that.”

And for some reason, Rosie said the worst thing he could have possibly thought of, “You talkin’ about us flyin’ in our skivvies, sir?”

The martini in your hand nearly went down the wrong pipe as a laugh worked its way out at the same time you were taking a sip.

“I’m not following.” John’s laugh was awkward. Yours was genuine.

You knew this story all too well.

Because Rosie had written you all about it.

Nash was the one who spoke next, “Well, we were known for flying in our underwear.”

You were silently shaking with laughter at the awkward pained looks on the four men’s faces. You didn’t even bother looking at John or Gale’s. You knew if you had, it would have had you in hysterics.

“All of you?” John pointed at them, and they nodded. “That’s what the kids are doing these days?”

“In Texas, those forts get so hot, you could fry an egg on the instrument panel.” Rosie grinned.

“We hadn’t heard about the - the underwear but we uh, we heard you’re outstanding pilots.” Gale clarified.

You snorted into your glass as you took another sip.

“We’re happy to be in the war, sir.” Rosie was genuine with his words, and you knew they were true, “Been requesting a combat position for months.”

Rosie glanced down at you, at the arm around your waist, and continued, “And now that we’re here, it feels like we’re actually gonna do something.”

John didn’t miss the way Rosie’s eyes lingered at his hand placement, or the longing behind them, “You’ll do something, alright.”

Then John led you away and you called out over your shoulder, “I’ll come find you later, Ro!”

“Enjoy yourselves.” Gale bid them goodbye, and a chorus of farewells followed.

“What am I thinkin’, talkin’ about my skivvies in front of them?” Rosie said, embarrassed.

“You’re fine, you’re fine.” Speas assured him.

Rosie barely heard him.

He was watching you.

Watching Major Egan lead you back into the crowd with one hand settled low at your waist, like he knew you there. Like he knew the shape of you beneath his palm. Like he had earned the right to touch you in front of a room full of people and not wonder if anyone would stop him.

Rosie’s jaw tightened.

And his mind nearly exploded with his thoughts.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that Egan got to hold you like that. That Egan got to bend his head close to your ear and make you laugh in a way that warmed your whole face. It wasn’t fair that he knew what made you blush now, what made you lean in, what made your hand curl at the front of his jacket when he pulled you too close.

Those were things Rosie should have known.

Why hadn’t he realized it until he saw you in the arms of another man?

Egan had touched you where Rosie had only looked. Egan had kissed you where Rosie had only done once before. Egan had said the things Rosie had swallowed for years until they turned sharp in his chest.

Across the room, Egan spun you once, then caught you against him. Your laugh spilled out, startled and sweet, and Rosie felt it like a bruise.

Pappy followed his gaze and sighed quietly. “Rosie. Don’t tell me you’re in love with her.”

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t.

Egan’s mouth brushed your ear. You smiled at whatever he said, but then he turned his face and kissed you.

Rosie went still.

The kiss wasn’t polite. It wasn’t the kind of kiss a man gave a woman in public when he meant to behave. It was slow enough to make people notice, bold enough to make your fingers clutch at his uniform, familiar enough to make Rosie feel like he had walked in on something private.

Something that already belonged to someone else.

Heat crawled up Rosie’s neck.

You pulled back first, cheeks flushed. “John.”

Egan only grinned, thumb brushing beneath your chin like he knew exactly how your skin felt there. Like he knew the small sounds you made when you were kissed too deeply. Like he knew whether you liked his hand at your waist or your neck or tangled in your hair.

God, it wasn’t fair.

Rosie knew your middle name. Your favorite color. The way you took your coffee. He knew how you used to sleep with your window cracked in July because you said the night air made the room feel less lonely. He knew you cried when you were angry and got quiet when you were scared. He knew every version of the girl you had been.

But Egan knew the woman you’d become.

And Rosie had no one to blame but himself for not realizing how he felt sooner.

“Well,” Nash said suddenly, clearing his throat like the room had gotten too uncomfortable even for him. He nodded toward your friend across the room, then handed his cup to Speas. “Pray for me, gents.”

Speas took it without looking away from Rosie. “Yeah. Sure.”

Nash left.

Rosie barely noticed.

Because you were looking at him now.

Over Egan’s shoulder, your eyes found his, and your smile faded.

Rosie wondered if you saw it on him. The jealousy. The hurt. The years of letters he had read too many times. The realization that Rosie had truly only ever loved you and he had been a fool to not see it sooner.

He had thought he might find you alone. Might take you aside. Might finally tell you that every time you had called him Ro, it had done something terrible to his heart. That he had loved you before he knew what love was supposed to feel like.

Rosie spent the rest of the night at a table, mostly alone, wallowing in self-pity.

He had worked up the nerve to approach Major Egan and Major Cleven again by the time the party had slowly dwindled down, and only a few couples remained on the dance floor.

Nash was dancing with your friend, and Rosie gave him a thumbs up as he passed by them.

“Major Egan,” Rosie nodded in his direction and then in Gale’s, “Major Cleven.”

You eyed him as you pet Meatball, immediately tuning Ev Blakely out, who was telling you some story about a girl who tried to take a ride in his airplane — with terribly phrased metaphors.

“I uh, I heard you were already on twenty missions.” Rosie said.

Gale took a deep breath and John looked over at him, “Around there.”

John said, “Well, he’s at twenty-one.”

Rosie tried his hardest not to look at you, your gaze had turned to full on staring at him, “Any advice?”

Gale nodded slowly, “Try to stay alive.”

John looked down for a brief moment, then back up as he said, “For at least eleven missions.”

You could have smacked John up the head.

“Yes, sir,” Rosie’s voice was low. He finally allowed himself to look at you for a moment, “What uh — what happens after that?”

“You beat the odds.” You cut in, finally joining their conversation.

John’s jaw ticked and then he said, “Or you didn’t.” He shrugged, clapping his hands together lightly.

“John.” You said in a warning tone. “Seriously.”

Rosie’s disappointed face made your heart hurt. God, if only he would have told you he was coming.

You could have at least warned him.

“Thank you Major.” Rosie accepted the answer, taking that as a cue to leave.

“Have a good night.”

John’s tone was less than enthusiastic, but Rosie replied, “You, too.”

He didn’t even spare you another glance as he turned and walked away.

“Are you kidding me?” You slapped John’s arm and Gale sighed.

“What?” John was annoyed now, “Guy comes in here acting like he can drool all over my girl and he wants to be the next hotshot pilot!”

“Grow up, John, he’s from home.”

“Come on, baby,” John ran a hand through his hair, “Let’s not fight.”

“No, I think we should fight.” Gale was rubbing his hand down his face at your words, but he knew you were right.

“Baby.”

“No, don’t ‘baby’ me,” You shoved a finger into his chest. The rest of the guys you had come to love and formed friendships with were pretending (very badly) like they weren’t listening, “My childhood best friend shows up and you turn all territorial and possessive, not even letting me speak to him, and then try to psych him out! You jerk.”

“Fine!” John threw up his hands, “You want to chase after him so badly, be my guest. Just get out of my hair.”

You stared at him in disbelief. Blakely led a low whistle that meant, ‘you fucked up, Bucky’, and you grabbed your coat from the bar stool in anger.

your wish is my command, thank you for the ask!! I also did not proof read so if anything is bad IM SO SORRY!!!

Meeting the Family

Joseph Liebgott meeting your family would go about as smoothly as you expected, which was to say: not smoothly at all.

He would pretend he wasn’t nervous.

That was the first thing.

The whole walk up to your front door, he had his hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders squared, jaw set like he was heading into combat instead of supper with your family. He kept glancing sideways at you every few steps, watching the way you smoothed your dress and fussed with your hair, like he was trying to decide whether or not he should say something.

“You’re nervous,” you said finally.

Joe scoffed. “I am not nervous.”

“You’ve been quiet for ten minutes.”

“I’m thinkin’.”

“That’s almost worse.”

He shot you a look, but there was no real bite in it. His thumb brushed over your wrist, quick and secret, before his hand dropped away again. Joe Liebgott could run his mouth at anyone in Easy Company without blinking, could cut a man down with one sentence and a crooked grin, but the idea of sitting across from your mother and father made him look like he’d swallowed a lemon.

Mostly because he knew what he was.

He knew he wasn’t the polished sort of man people hoped their daughters would bring home. He was sharp-mouthed. Too honest. Too quick to anger. He smoked too much, cursed too easily, and had a reputation that followed him around like cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket.

But he loved you.

And that, unfortunately for Joe, meant he had to knock on the door.

Your mother liked him at once.

That surprised him most.

He had been ready for suspicion, for narrowed eyes, for polite little questions meant to tear him apart piece by piece. But your mother took one look at him standing on the porch, stiff-backed and handsome in a way that clearly irritated your father, and smiled.

“So this is Joseph.”

Joe cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ma’am.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek so you didn’t laugh.

Joe heard it anyway. His eyes flicked to you, warning and embarrassed all at once.

Your mother invited him in, and Joe stepped over the threshold like he was entering enemy territory. He wiped his shoes twice. Took his hat off so fast he nearly dropped it. Stood awkwardly in the entryway until you nudged him with your elbow.

“You can breathe,” you whispered.

“I am breathin’.” He whispered back.

“You look like you’re being arrested.”

“Feels similar.”

Your father did not like him at first.

That was not surprising.

Your father looked Joe up and down like he was inspecting a horse he had no intention of buying. Joe stood there and took it, which told you exactly how nervous he was, because any other man would have gotten a smart comment by then.

“So,” your father said, “you’re the boy.”

Joe’s mouth twitched.

You squeezed his hand before he could say something stupid.

“Yes, sir,” Joe said.

Your father’s eyes dropped to your joined hands.

Joe let go immediately.

Coward, you thought fondly.

“Dad,” Your older brother scolded from the living room, “Stop being such a hard-ass.”

Dinner was worse.

Not because Joe was rude. Somehow, impossibly, he was not. He said please and thank you. He complimented your mother’s cooking with such sincerity that you nearly choked on your drink. He answered every question your father asked with the careful patience of a man disarming a bomb.

Yes, sir, he was from San Francisco.

Yes, sir, he had a job before the war.

Yes, sir, he had plans after.

No, sir, he was not just fooling around with you.

That question made the table go quiet.

Joe’s fork paused halfway to his plate, and you felt him stiffen beside you. Your father hadn’t said it cruelly, but he had said it plainly enough. Your mother glanced at you. Your siblings immediately became fascinated by their food.

Joe set his fork down.

“No, sir,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’m not.”

Your father leaned back in his chair. “And how am I supposed to know that?”

Joe’s jaw flexed.

For one awful second, you thought he might snap. That he might throw up that mean little wall he used whenever someone got too close to something tender. But then he glanced at you.

Just once.

And it softened him.

Not much. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you did.

“Because I love her,” Joe said.

Your heart stopped.

He looked back at your father, voice rougher now, less polished, less careful. “And I know that don’t mean much comin’ from some guy you barely know. I know I ain’t exactly what a father dreams of. I got a mouth on me. I know that. I can be a real son of a bitch sometimes.”

“Joe,” you whispered.

He ignored you.

“But I love your daughter,” he continued. “And I’d sooner cut off my own hand than hurt her on purpose. So, no. I’m not foolin’ around with her.”

The whole table went silent.

Your mother looked like she was trying very hard not to smile.

Your father looked like he wanted to dislike Joe more than he currently could.

And Joe looked like he regretted every life decision that had brought him to that dining room.

Later, while your mother was clearing plates and your father had disappeared outside under the excuse of needing air, Joe followed you into the kitchen like a scolded dog.

“You’re laughing at me,” he muttered.

“I am not.”

“You are.” Joe insisted.

“You told my father you’d cut off your own hand. It was sweet.”

“I was makin’ a point.”

“You scared my little cousin.” You pointed out.

“Kid looked too comfortable.” Joe shrugged.

You laughed then, unable to help yourself, and Joe’s expression cracked. His shoulders loosened. That crooked little grin appeared, embarrassed and pleased despite himself.

Then your mother walked back in.

Joe straightened so fast he nearly hit his elbow on the counter.

Your mother smiled knowingly.

Oh, yes. She liked him.

Which, somehow, made him even more nervous.

By the end of the night, your father still had not fully warmed to him, but he had stopped glaring quite so hard. Your mother had packed leftovers into Joe’s hands despite his protests. Your younger relatives had decided he was fascinating because he swore under his breath when he thought no one could hear him. And Joe, for all his earlier panic, seemed almost proud when you walked him back outside.

“You survived,” you said.

“Barely.”

“You did good.”

He glanced at you. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

Joe looked back toward the house, then down at the container of food in his hands, then at you again, “Your old man hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“He looked at me like he was picturin’ where to bury my body.”

“He looks at everyone like that.” You tried to comfort him.

“That ain’t comforting.” It didn’t work.

You stepped closer, smoothing your hands over the front of his jacket. “My mother likes you.”

Joe’s mouth twitched. “Your mother has taste.”

“There he is.”

He grinned properly then, but it faded after a second into something quieter. His eyes moved over your face, soft and serious in a way that always made your chest ache.

“I meant it,” he said.

You knew what he was talking about.

Your voice softened. “I know.”

“I mean, I know I say a lot of stupid things.”

“You do.” You agreed.

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m bein’ romantic.”

You smiled.

Joe huffed, but his hand came up to your waist, thumb brushing over the fabric there. “I just mean… I know I ain’t easy. And I know I don’t always say things right. But I meant that.”

You leaned up and kissed him before he could make himself any more uncomfortable.

He kissed you back immediately, leftovers tucked awkwardly under one arm, his free hand tightening at your waist. It was soft at first, then a little less soft, because Joe Liebgott had never been good at restraint when it came to you.

Until the porch light flicked on.

Joe pulled back so fast you nearly laughed into his mouth.

From inside the house, your father’s silhouette stood in the window.

Joe stared.

You stared.

Then Joe cleared his throat and took one very large step back.

“Yep,” he said, voice tight. “He’s definitely gonna kill me.”

You patted his chest.

“Probably,” you said. “But at least my mother will miss you.”

Joe looked at you, offended, while you laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.

And despite himself, despite the nerves and the interrogation and the very real possibility that your father was still watching from behind the curtain, Joe smiled.

Because he had survived meeting your family.

I was thinking of a Joe Liebgott x nurse! reader scenario where she takes care of him when he's shot in the neck? (maybe that could also end up in a light smut because my Lieb is a freakkk😛and so am I)

MY MANNNN!!! WOOOOO yes absolutely, joe liebgott wounded and being mean about needing help while nurse!reader takes care of him??? i’m already unwell. and yesss we can absolutely make it a little nasty too because that man would be insufferable about it in the best way lmaooo

warnings: mentions of war, being wounded, light smut towards the end. MDNI!! 18+

Definitely His Nurse

You had always known Joe liebgott was a difficult man.

He questioned whether or not a “chick” should be traveling along with the rest of Easy Company, and whether or not you were qualified enough to keep up with him.

But you had learn to ignore him, and oddly enough, developed a fondness for the man.

Which is why you were currently eyeballing him as he continued shooting at already-dead or almost-dead, you couldn’t tell which, German soldiers.

“They got me,” David Webster groaned, “Can you believe I said that?”

You laughed lightly, “You thought you were done for, Lieutenant, it happens to the best of us.”

“Nurse!” You heard Captain Winters shout. You finished bandaging Webster’s wound. “Need you over here to look at Liebgott.”

“Duty calls.” You joked and he offered you a sympathetic smile.

“Good luck.”

You noticed the blood on Lieb’s neck the closer you got. You knew he had been wounded when they were attacked earlier that night, just not to what extent.

“I’m fine, Jesus.” He had snapped at you, swatting your hands away. You had simply let him go and continued to help Doc Roe tend to Alley.

Now, you could only hope he wouldn’t react the same way as before.

“Nurse.” Winters greeted.

You nodded, “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Lieutenant Liebgott here has a wounded neck,” Winters began, “I’d like for you to get him fixed up after he escorts these prisoners back to Battalion CP. And I’d like for you to accompany him there.”

“Sir—“ Liebgott went to protest, but it died in his throat at the look the Captain shot him.

You had to stifle your laugh, “Of course, sir.”

You both saluted Captain Winters and set off back to Battalion CP.

You ignored the curious stares of the captured German soldiers as you trailed along beside of Liebgott. The silence was deafening, the only sound being the shuffle of feet and an occasional cough or sniffle.

“Once we get back to the Battalion, I’ll be fine to clean my wound and re-bandage it.” Liebgott said, an air of nonchalance around his words.

You side-eyed him, “Fat chance, pal.”

His dark eyebrows furrowed, “Excuse —“

You cut him off before he could continue, “I’m under direct orders to patch your reckless ass up when we get back, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“You have a helluva way with words, nurse.”

“I try.” You shrugged, “Besides, that wound is a little too nasty for you to handle all on your own.”

Liebgott said nothing else the rest of the way there, and you found yourself wondering what he was thinking in that head of his.

Once you reached CP, you let Liebgott turn over the prisoners as you waited patiently. He was well aware of your keen eye on him as he gave a quick debrief to the other soldiers that would take the prisoners from there.

“Let’s go, Lieutenant.” You ordered him once he was done.

“Good luck man.” A Sargent clapped his shoulder before Liebgott made his way to you.

“There’s a room down the hall here that has everything I need to treat you.” You explained when he gave you a quizzical look at the path you were taking him.

“Ah.” Was all he said.

You opened the door to the fully equipped office, motioning for Liebgott to sit on the cot that was pushed against the wall. The door shut behind you on its own and you suddenly became very aware at how nerve racking it was to have Joe Liebgott in a room alone.

You gathered your supplies and stepped between his knees before thinking better of it.

Liebgott noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His eyes flicked down for one brief second before coming back to your face, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Careful, nurse.”

You pulled out a roll of gauze with more force than necessary. “Do not start.”

“I didn’t say nothin’.”

“You said enough.”

“I only said to be careful.”

“Yes, and somehow you made it sound indecent.”

His grin spread slowly, lazily, despite the blood at his neck and the war still rumbling behind you both.

“Maybe that says more about you than me.”

You pressed your lips together and reached for his collar.

The grin disappeared.

He flinched before he could hide it.

It was small. Barely there. But you saw it, and worse, he knew you saw it.

Your teasing softened without your permission.

“Joe,” you said quietly. “Let me look.”

His throat bobbed.

For once, he did not snap at you.

You carefully peeled his collar away from the wound. The fabric had stuck to the blood that had seeped through his bandage and when you eased it back, his hand shot out and caught your wrist. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to stop you.

His fingers were cold. Dirty. Trembling just slightly.

You looked at him.

He looked furious.

Not at you, you realized.

At the fact that it hurt. At the fact that you could tell. At the fact that he needed anyone at all.

“I know,” you said softly.

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” You barely glanced up at him.

“Like I’m some poor bastard you feel sorry for.” His voice was low, quiet. It was almost as if he was embarrassed.

You stared at him for a moment, then leaned in just enough that your voice stayed between the two of you.

“I don’t feel sorry for you, Liebgott. I think you’re stubborn, rude, and just about the most impossible man God ever put in uniform.”

His grip on your wrist loosened.

You tilted your head, “But I don’t want you bleeding all over yourself just because you’re too proud to sit still for five minutes.”

He held your gaze for a long beat.

Then he looked away with a quiet, bitter little laugh.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That sounds more like you.”

You smiled despite yourself and went back to work.

This time, he let you.

The wound was ugly, but not as deep as it could have been. A cruel graze, close enough to be terrifying, far enough from fatal that it made your stomach twist with the thought of what one inch could have changed. You cleaned it carefully, one hand braced against his shoulder to keep him steady, the other working as gently as you could.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Liar.”

“I am sorry.”

“No, you ain’t.” His eyes flicked up to yours. “You like bossin’ me around.”

“You need bossing around.” You quipped.

“You always this mean to your patients?”

“Only the ones who deserve it.”

His gaze lingered on you.

You tried to focus on the wound. Truly, you did. But it was difficult with him sitting there, knees bracketing your uniform pants, head tipped back slightly to give you better access to his neck. Difficult with the warmth of him so close, with the smell of smoke and sweat and cold air clinging to his skin. Difficult with his eyes tracking every small movement you made like he could not decide whether he wanted to argue with you or pull you closer.