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I'm getting my feet wet on my Return to Writing TM with the bradycroz fic that's been on my mind for like. Two years. I want cheater!Harry in all his glory: very married, very sleeping with John, and very had-an-affair-with-Sandra-that-John-knows-he-doesn't-have-a-right-to-be-mad-about-but-unfortunately-he-is.
Here's some post-Bremen:
As soon as the door is wedged shut, John yanks him into an embrace that makes Harry inhale sharply. When his arms wrap around John, too, John can feel the thing none of them name radiating through him, sharp and metallic. He smells sour, like stale sweat, someone else’s tobacco, against the leather of his flight jacket. His body feels smaller than John remembers, like an indefinable part of him is gone, as though when a person brushes up so close against the monstrous dark, the part of him that isn’t supposed to recognize it gets chipped away.
“We thought you weren’t coming back,” John admits only to the pale, dirty skin that joins his neck and shoulder.
“Me, too,” Harry murmurs. “I haven’t looked Ev straight in the eyes since. I don’t want to see it. Whether he thought so, too.”
John knows that in those moments in the air, when the sky yawns like a hungry thing, the whole crew become the praying faithful, investing a preternatural ability in their pilot. No God but John Brady. But it sends a crawling, awful chill through him to hear Harry say it.
“Harry, I – ” John loosens his grip so that he can see Harry’s face. The latter’s eyes are still full of a horrifying disquiet. Maybe it will go away when he sleeps. Maybe it will take more than one night. “I want you to know that you’re important.”
“Important,” Harry echoes.
“Yes. To me.” This is not the kind of thing airmen say to one another, even if they feel it; they throw down enough gauntlets with death as it is. But John almost lost him. It will probably not be the last time.
“I know that,” Harry says. “John, you don’t have to – I know.”
John searches his face. They watch each other for a long moment.
“Okay.” John nods. “Good.”
Harry catches the front of his jacket before he can ease back. “And you – ”
“I know,” John says.
“Okay.” Harry holds onto his jacket for another moment, as if their proximity can keep the sharp, metallic thing at bay. He shakes his head slightly. “Is this bad luck?”
“I don’t care,” John tells him.
Harry adjusts his grip and pulls on John’s jacket, kissing him hard on the mouth. It’s almost painful. John doesn’t care about that, either.
"John, trust me," Harry said. This was a problem that had probably been going on longer than John could guess at, and it wasn't as if Harry was an idiot. He probably had tried to find a solution. "I've got some iron tabs, but that's it. The docs around here don't really know much." There was a coppery taste in John's mouth from biting down too hard.
"Are you skipping rations when it's bad?" he asked slowly as a horrible thought occurred to him.
"Yeah. Unfortunately nobody's figured out any anti-emetics for vampires." Harry shrugged. "Hold on, I don't like that look," he added, peering up at him closely.
"How much would you need to make up for the deficit?"
"No," Harry interjected immediately. "No, Johnny. Are you insane? They'll hit us both with a court martial!"
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main themes: ‼️explicit‼️ like highkey just smut plus Brady’s minor sexuality crisis,
summary
Brady covered for Crosby, and he makes sure the navigator knows he owes him one. He can't help his minor panic when Crosby knelt at his feet because he definitely didn't mean it like that.
TW: disordered eating, vomiting, recovery from starvation
The doctors tell them it's going to take a while for them to tolerate food like they used to.
It’s almost a given, especially after watching Hambone choke down more canned meat than he’d had in two years and then puke it up into the snow whilst they marched, but it’s still more difficult than Brady anticipated to adjust to eating regularly when they get back to England. He manages to not make himself sick, but it’s a near thing a few times, and his stomach protests at the unfairness of food finally being available but being denied. Then comes the other side of the coin, the fact that he doesn’t actually even realize when he’s hungry anymore, or when he’s full. Eating becomes something between a gamble and a science.
He weathers it well, though, because that’s what they’re all doing, slowly readjusting with the idea that they’re fine, they’re not hurting, that the Stalag was just a bad dream or a big adventure. They cling to the idea that they’re returning heroes, and not suffering, broken, shells of the men they were.
Which all leads to John Brady staring at the bag of oranges on his bed like they’re a mirage.
He had breakfast this morning, toast and juice and even a little bit of bacon, but that was hours ago. He might be hungry now. He should be hungry now. He can manage an orange. He wants to manage an orange, and can feel his mouth salivating despite the lack of hunger signals just at the sight of the fresh fruit. The first orange he’s seen since leaving the states. As a child he had loved oranges, would bite through the thick skin with his teeth before ripping them open with his thumbs. He’d spit the pips out as he went, competing with himself for how far he could get them.
The need to be that child again, just for a moment, makes the decision for him, and he takes one of the oranges.
It’s sweet and tart and perfect. The flesh tastes like summer and home and joy, and Brady’s pretty sure he moans a little as he swallows. There are barely any pips to stop and spit out, the ones he does collecting by his thigh, and soon the whole orange is devoured.
This is where he should stop, pause like the doctors told him to try and read his body, but his mouth is still stinging with juice and desire, so he snatches another like the bag is about to be ripped from him. It disappears just as fast, and so does the third. He’s on his way through his fourth when his throat seizes, his stomach cramps, and he forces himself very, very still. He’s panting, he realizes, has been between bites like some kind of feral animal. There are dark spots dancing in his vision.
His stomach cramps again, tight and warning, and the saliva gathering at the back of his mouth is definitely no longer a sign of hunger.
He makes it to the waste bin just in time.
Brady heaves into it on his knees until there’s just bile coming up. It burns the back of his throat, leaves him feeling shaky as a newborn kitten, and he slumps on the floor with his forehead on the rim of the trashcan. The door to the barracks opens, and Brady cringes at being found like this by anyone, even the guys who had been in the Stalag and had seen much worse.
“Shit, John, is that you?”
Fuck.
Brady doesn’t have the strength to look up as Croz rushes over to kneel beside him. A gentle hand lands on his back.
“Are you okay? What happened? Should I get the doc?”
The questions all come out in a rush, and Brady feels himself get so overwhelmed he retches again. More bile. More shaking. When it passes he realizes he’s not only trembling, but crying, tears rolling down his face as he thinks about the fact that he’ll probably never be able to eat another orange without thinking about this, about being folded over in the barracks with the sour smell of vomit in his nose because he can’t eat a few pieces of fruit without consequences anymore.
It’s stupid, it’s so stupid, he tells himself, but it feels so deeply unfair to have another thing stolen from him, and he just can’t seem to stop crying-
“I gotcha, I gotcha,” Croz says, gently tucking an arm around him and maneuvering him upright to rest against his chest. He’s rubbing soothing little circles along his spine that just seem to make Brady cry harder. His chin tucks over Croz’s shoulder, and he turns his face into his neck like he can hide there. “Hey, hey, shhhh. Shhhh. You’re okay. It’s alright. You’re gonna be alright, John.”
“Fucking oranges,” Brady manages to hiss, his sobbing losing force as it saps the last of his energy.
Croz makes a soothing noise, then an upset one. He keeps rubbing Brady’s back.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Was meant to be a present, I didn’t know you’d get sick.”
How sad Croz sounds, how guilty, breaks his heart. Sniffling, he pushes himself back, wiping his face with the back of his hand until Croz passes him a handkerchief.
“Not your fault,” Brady mutters. “Was me not having any goddamn self-control-”
Laughter from Croz cuts him off, and he scrapes together enough energy to glare at the navigator. There’s a wet patch on his shoulder that Brady quickly looks away from.
“I don’t think anybody’s expecting you to have self-control right now, John.”
Brady’s pride prickles at that, but Croz is watching him so softly, so warmly, that the fight goes out of him instantly.
“Thanks for the oranges,” he says instead, so he doesn’t have to hear Croz talk more about how he should cut himself some slack. “I’m sorry I threw most of them up.”
Croz laughs him off again and gets to his feet, holding out a hand to help Brady off of the floor. His knees wobble treacherously, but Croz steadies him with an arm around his waist. It brings them hip to hip, nose to nose, and Croz presses a kiss to Brady’s cheek even though he knows he has to reek of vomit.
“Don’t sweat it. Christ knows you’ve dealt with me throwing up more than enough.”
