Novapepova

There is someone grabbing her.

Eve can't breathe. She can't see. She can't move. There's something wrapped around her lower body, tangled around her legs — bare legs, why are her legs bare, where's her uniform — and she jerks, spasms, gasps. Her mind is swimming, her stomach rolling, and she still can't breathe. Cigar smoke fills her nose, tears at her throat, and there are hands on her forearms, tight and restricting.

Words rise up like a tsunami from her chest and into her throat, but Eve still can't find any air and they remain stuck there, unspoken. No. Let me go. Get off. Stop. A sharp cry manages to cut through her choked gasping, but it doesn't make the person let her go. No, instead, the hands tighten, and there's a voice now, a man's voice, getting louder, and terror explodes in Eve's chest, crawling up into her mouth and rotting on her tongue.

Let go let go LET GO LET GO—

Eve gets a leg free, rears back, fires it forward. Her foot collides with something and the hands disappear from her arms. The momentum from her kick and the release of the hands have her falling backward, finally free from whatever she was tangled in. That man's voice raises again, Eve's panic rising as she falls off whatever she's on. Her elbow smacks hard into the floor but the pain barely registers as she scrambles backward, still desperately trying to get away.

Her back slams into something hard, a wall, and her vision is starting to clear, slowly but surely. Her chest is still heaving, and the bourbon is still on her tongue, the smoke clogging her nose. As she gasps, she blinks rapidly, trying to make out where she is. It's dark, and she's inside, and there's a bed, and — a shadow rises up, getting closer, a man, and Eve wheezes, terrified as she tries to move away, sliding against the wall until she hits another one. A corner, she's backed herself into a literal corner, and after a few seconds of scrambling, the realization that there's nothing nearby she can grab to defend herself has her chest collapsing in on itself.

The man drops down, level with her, and he's talking again. Eve wheezes out a sob, still not fucking breathing. Not again, not again. She doesn't know where she is, doesn't know how she got here. The man's getting closer, his hands outstretched, NO. She can still feel phantom hands everywhere, touching her everywhere, and she just wants it all to stop.

"No, no, stop—"

Her voice finally crackles to life, hoarse and strained, shaking as she gasps. The man is still reaching for her. Eve's hands tangle in her hair, close to her scalp, and she yanks as hard as she can until she can feel the sting, curling in on herself and preparing to lash out with her feet again if he gets too close.

"Eve—"

"NoNO, stop, don't touch me—!"

To her surprise, the man does stop, flinching back. His hands drop, out of sight, and another sob punches out of Eve's chest. The sting helps, but it's not enough, not enough to drive away the fear and the terror and the memories, and Eve's arms cross in front of her, her hands now gripping onto her upper arms. She needs something, anything, to help stop this so she can breathe again, and the fresh pricks of pain where her nails begin to carve into her skin slowly begin to take all her focus.

"Eve, Eve, stop—!"

The man moves. Eve's fingers tighten and she slams herself back, head cracking against the wall.

"Don't—"

"I won't touch you if you stop hurting herself, Eve, you need to let go, please—"

I won't touch you if you stop.

Eve's fractured mind clings to the words, tries to force her fingers to loosen, but no no no, if she lets go, all of her panic will come crashing back down on her, dragging her under and drowning her, and she can't let go, she can't.

"Okay, okay, just…here, okay? I'm not…I'm just grabbing this, okay?"

The man narrates his every move as he slowly stands, leaning closer and to the bed. Eve gasps, wide eyes tracking his every movement, no matter how small, and him telling her what he's doing does help. She still doesn't know what he's doing, but as long as he doesn't try to touch her again, she'll focus on her breathing.

"Here, Eve."

He holds out something in her direction — a pillow, Eve thinks — expecting her to take it from him, but Eve doesn't budge. What if when she grabs it, he uses it to pull her forward? The man's shoulders slump, and then he places the pillow down on the floor and sits back, his back against the bed as he watches her.

"The hell? Another delay? I thought they wanted us on the ships an hour ago?"

Aiello rolls his head back and from shoulder to shoulder, sighing as a pop sounds from his neck. Stiles is responding back to Zussman, something about the delay and supplies. Whatever the reason, it's not a concern to Aiello. He'd rather keep his feet on solid ground, no matter how big the ship is. It still rocks, and it's still on the water.

Besides, Aiello's been enjoying his time here in England. No artillery, no missions, no one shooting at him. As if reading his mind, the rookies around him turn their conversation to the invasion, to France, to combat. There's a thrum to their words, but it's hard to tell if it's pure adrenaline or fear. Probably adrenaline, the dumb bastards. His stomach twists violently and his jaw clenches, teeth grinding together painfully.

"I'm goin' for a walk," Aiello grunts, shoving off the crate he's been sitting on. He ignores whatever Zussman throws his away, instead pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. Taking a drag, he lets the familiar taste settle his nerves as he walks through the crowded camp. There are soldiers as far as he can see, some helping with transporting supplies onto the ships, others waiting around, bored out of their minds like Aiello's new squad.

Passing by the medical tents, Aiello steps out of the way of the nurses, orderlies, and doctors that go rushing by. There are several doctors crowded together and arguing about supplies, about whether they have enough. A familiar woman with honey blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun strides up to them, her tone sharp as a whip as she snaps at them to keep their voices down, keep the calm in place. Don't unnecessarily alarm anyone.

Isn't that just great to hear? Aiello blows more smoke from his lips, up into the dreary English sky. As he passes by the largest medical tent, his eyes catch on two familiar figures waiting by the entrance. His back straightens as Pierson's eyes snap over to lock onto him, preparing for some kind of reprimand, but instead Pierson's eyes flicker in the direction Aiello is heading. Even from this distance, it's easy to see the sergeant's jaw clench, but then he looks away without a word, back to Turner as the lieutenant draws his attention.

It would be more unsettling that Pierson knows exactly where he's going and why if it didn't work out in Aiello's favor. If any of the rookies were caught wandering around camp, nosing around the other divisions, Pierson would surely be barking at them to get busy or to stay still for five goddamn minutes. Maybe knowing the bastard since Africa does have its perks, but that doesn't make him any less of an asshole.

The medical tents end and Aiello perks up, no longer just strolling but instead searching, now. The tanks and other heavy armor blend together, making it near impossible to find something familiar. They all look the same, how do the tank crews tell them apart? Not that he'll ask any of them, they'll probably bully him senseless about asking stupid questions.

Wouldn't be the first time.

"Well, well, well!"

Aiello stops dead in his tracks at the voice, craning his neck to try and find the owner. He doesn't have to look far, a man about his height but stockier walking toward him with a wide grin stretching across his face.

"If it isn't Prince Charming stopping by for a visit!"

Aiello rolls his eyes, but instead of annoyance, relief loosens his shoulders. Collins has a crate of ammo in his arms, clearly on his way to drop it off somewhere, and the relief ends there when it's apparent that Collins is alone. Something must show on his face because a gleam sparks in Collins' bright eyes and his grin quirks to one side.

"Collins, don't—"

The younger man shifts the crate a bit higher as he slows his pace to continue the conversation.

"I'm not doin' anything!" Collins drawls out, but his grin gives him away. "I'm just sayin', Beau's back there, doing some last minute maintenance on Quackers before we load up."

An eyebrow raise, but he doesn't bother questioning Collins, knowing he won't get an actual answer. Besides, now he knows where he needs to go, and that's what really matters.

"Stay outta trouble, Collins," Aiello settles with, clapping the man on his shoulder as he moves past him.

"Where's the fun in that?" quips back the other man, and then he's cursing out another soldier who nearly runs into him. For a second, Aiello's back home, listening to a cab driver get chewed out for all but running over a pedestrian. A pang of homesickness nearly sends him faltering, so strong he inhales wrong and chokes on cigarette smoke.

"Christ," Aiello mutters, physically shaking the homesickness off like a coat. It doesn't help, won't make any of this easier. He's been gone for two goddamn years, now. He shouldn't still be getting hung up like this. Another quick shake of his shoulders and he rounds a tank, continuing in the direction Collins jerked his head in, and there.

About three tanks down, a woman climbs off a tank with some kind of canvas attached to it. Her hair, muddy brown with streaks of blonde warmed by the sun, is tied into a loose braid that hangs down her back, and her jacket is tied around her waist. Her back is to Aiello as she leans on the tank, turning and talking to a mountain of a man nearby. Complaining, judging by the way she waves her free hand around, and a grin ticks at Aiello's lips at the movement.

"What are you complainin' about this time, princess?" he calls out as he gets closer, and the woman immediately spins around, eyes sparking despite the scowl tugging at her lips. "Nothing's ever good enough for you, that right?"

"Does anything other than bullshit ever come out of your mouth?" Emmie snarks back, leaning forward to pluck his cigarette from his fingers, taking a quick drag before he can even sputter out a protest.

"I was smokin' that!"