#iceman-kazansky

Kimi was a tough nut to crack.

He was aloof, appearing closed off to all onlookers. He was difficult for press and didn't have much of an opinion on anything, always giving short answers to in depth questions. Kimi didn't mind, though, as long as it kept nosy reporters and crowded cameras out of his face, he'd do anything.

Another factor of his personality was, in short, a lack of friends. Sure, he had plenty of acquaintances, but were they really friends? They didn’t know what he was like outside of racing. His personal life.

It wasn't that the iceman didn't want friends, rather that he couldn't be bothered to make new ones.

But he also was beyond content keeping many people in the acquaintance zone. He deeply cherished his privacy.

He stood off to the side of the garage, getting ready for qualifying.

The 2006 season was mid way through when Montoya left Mclaren for good.

Kimi didn't necessarily feel too down about it, he had remained purely cordial with the Columbian.

He saw you step into the garage, clad in racing gear with a helmet tucked under your arm and pressed to your side. At first, he didn't believe you were his team mate. Perhaps an engineer or a mechanic, but a fellow driver? No way.

You were the first to introduce yourself to him. Sauntering up to him without a speck of hesitancy, you reached out and offered to shake hands.

“Hi!” You said, voice cheery.

It was then that you smiled. You beamed a hearty smile that stretched from ear to ear.

Kimi could've sworn he'd been blinded. Teeth so bright they seemed to shine and shimmer. He'd never seen something so.. so bright. Friendly. Outgoing.

He didn't realize it, but from that moment onward, he was hooked.

Kimi didn't return the smile, only offering a small nod to you. His ears burned red hot and he felt strangely awkward.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Kimi wasn't particularly interested in being friends with you. He had made that much clear. Or atleast, that's what you'd made out his reserved persona as.

But you were determined.

Hot summer sun beat down on you, feeling like every second you stood under its gaze you darkened with tan.

So, what better day for a cold snack?

With two ice-cream cones in hand, you weaved through the many people on the grid to your team garage.

You managed to get close to Kimi, standing beside him. Gently nudging him with your shoulder you presented one of the cold treats to him.

For a long minute he just stared, ice blue eyes flickering from you to the ice cream cone. It looked like he was contemplating or considering something, his brows pinched together and a quizzical look fell into his gaze.

Eventually, Kimi took the ice cream cone, mumbling– or grumbling, you weren't quite sure– a very quiet ‘thank you’.

But what you could've swore you'd seen on his face a moment before was just an ounce of shock. And that was enough to keep you determined to befriend the reserved driver even more.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥

The minute you'd climbed out of your car you looked for Kimi.

Your team had reported that he'd had some technical malfunction mid lap but said nothing else.

It was only after the fact that you exited your car that you found out he had walked off the track and went straight to his yacht.

You imagined he'd be upset over the race; no racer would have been jumping with joy after his incident. Kimi had made it well over half way through the race before unfortunately ending up out on lap 50 due to a mechanical issue.

So, doing the only thing you thought suitable, you sought him out– bringing an offering that was in hope of comforting him and being a good friend.

Or atleast, being a good friend is what you'd told yourself. That there was nothing besides friendly intentions, is what you resorted to claiming. Only, your heart had it twisted. Your emotions had already acted like a fishing hook, thrown straight into the flesh of your heart by his cool blue eyes and ocean vast personality. Kimi had you hooked.

Others may not agree with the ‘ocean vast’, but they were very wrong. Kimi was unique. He was reserved yet still cared about those around him. He wasn't outgoing, eager to meet new people, but he wasn't disinterested in maintaining a friend once you'd gotten there. Sure, it may have taken a bit more effort on your side, but before long you'd chipped through that glacier-tough outside to discover his real self. The one he had put aside for friends only, tucked away from media and press and the other competitors. Kimi wasn't as he appeared, he never had been and it only took a bit of time and observation skills to see that.

Before long, you were at his yacht. Kimi looked shocked when you appeared on the ramp of his boat, still clad in your racing gear and a smile on your face. “Hey,” you greeted, raising a hand slightly to showcase the items you'd run to get as soon as you'd found out about his incident.

In your hand sparkled a bottle of liquor, glinting under the sun. Then, Kimi grinned. His lips tilted up and he genuinely smiled. The action almost made you drop the bottle in shock, luckily, however, you managed to snap out of it and keep your grip on the glass. He may have been feeling upset, but your inclination of bringing a comfort of sorts had him feeling grateful beyond his own words.

And his smile was worth a thousand words to you.

You were welcomed onto Kimi's boat then, the two of you cracking open the liquor and sitting in the shade provided by the boat.

The liquor goes by quicker than you'd imagined.

By the bottom of the bottle you've moved closer, sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressing together while your hands almost touch, lingering a hair's breadth away from each other.

You converse animatedly with Kimi, even if you're the one doing a majority of the talking.

Kimi didn't mind it, though. His head, which previously felt weighted by the loud swirling thoughts, had cleared. Something likely because of your presence.

You're mid story, telling him about some childhood thing you remember when he closes that distance with his hand.

You stop talking, shocked by his action. In your chest, your heart does somersaults, flipping and beating wildly against your ribs. Your eyes dart down to his hand, which tentatively touches yours. Slowly, you reciprocate the action, moving to shift your hand into his. He spreads his fingers and you take the initiative to lace them together.

For Kimi, it's a grounding tactic and a way to show how grateful he is for you. He'd never been one for words, so instead he chose to show his emotion by holding your hand.

Nobody says anything, instead taking the moment silently. Neither of you know what it means to the other, or how the action mirrors an unknown, unspoken affection that’d been brewing for a while.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

The end of the season rolled up quickly. The Monaco incident was far from forgotten to either of you, rather pushed away by the lightning-paced world of Formula 1. It was the evening after Brazil, the final race of the season.

Most of the drivers had gone out to a local bar, deciding to get shitfaced in celebration of what they would argue a successful season.

Kimi sips on a Hardwall Long, a drink of gin and grapefruit soda. The bitter yet sweet mixture dances on his lips as he swallows a mouthful.

Across the bar, you sip your own drink. You know Kimi is here, but you're content while off on your own or meeting new people.

A presence makes itself known to you, leaning against the bartop and flashing a charming smile at you. Immediately, you recognize the face of the Championship winner and fellow driver, Fernando Alonso. His hair peeks out from behind his ears, brown locks waving hello.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks politely, gesturing to your almost empty glass. When he speaks, his Spanish accent is thick and rather nice on your ears.

But you don't care for the Spaniards' speech, you've already got your own accented man – whose voice lingers even now in the back of your mind,– to charm your ears.

You smile at Fernando, but politely decline, “I'm good but thank you, Nando. Congratulations on winning the championship, by the way.”

Little did you know that on the other side of the bar, you've caught none other than The Iceman's attention.

It's rare for the Fin to change expressions often– he's simply a man wearing a neutral face most of the time. But as of now, his eyes have narrowed uncharacteristically more, face pulling together in an expression of pure jealousy. Though, Kimi wouldn't really admit that out loud.

Fernando doesn't stick around too long after that, he just flashes you another smile and makes a comment about ‘still being there if you change your mind, hermosa’ before slipping away.

It isn't long before another figure stands beside you, only this time he seems.. off.

You turn your eyes to look at Kimi. He's got this subtle, sour look on his face, like he's just sucked on a lemon. It's unnatural on him, something you're unaccustomed with.

“Is everything alright, Kimi?” you ask, feeling concern.

He doesn't look at you, instead glaring at some object across the bar. “What did he want?”

“Alonso?” you ask, eyeing Kimi suspiciously, “he just wanted to buy me a drink.”

Kimi's eyes dart to the bar top, where a half-finished drink of yours sits. You can see his jaw clench while he simply hums.

“Let me take you on a date.”

“What?”

Kimi stares at you now, icy blue eyes trained on yours. He's serious and there isn't a speck of joke or jab in his speech.

“I promise it'll be better than whatever that.. Kusipää,” the foreign word slides off his tongue smoothly, alien to your ears, “has to offer.”

To say you were speechless was an understatement. Out of everything you expected to come from Kimi's mouth, his offer to take you on a date was not one of them. It wasn't even in the ballpark.

“He didn't ask me on a date,” you say, feeling confused. This whole thing feels confusing and like a big misunderstanding. Like a trick.

“My offer still stands.”

Something in his voice has you doubting your previous thought. How could he sound so sincere and be deceiving? It would be far-fetched. Even more so when you meet his gaze and see the genuine ask present in his eyes.

“Then I'd be honoured, Kimi,” you say, smiling at last. Your heart has taken that leap of faith.

He nods, and for a split second a smile graces his lips. You're thrown back to Monaco, even just for a short time, where he's smiling at you and you're smiling at him with booze in hand. He checks his phone before turning back to you, “let's get out of this place.”

The night was still young, and outside of the bar, within the city of Sao Paulõ, it was alive. Kimi extended his hand and you took it instantly, letting him lead you out of the bar.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

The days slowly melted past one by one, very scarce new events occurring. Every day was a repeat of the one before. Countless shelling from the artillery located just across the clearing. The never ending supply of dead soldiers soaring as morale stooped to an all time low.

Everyone was on the verge of their breaking point.

Through the harshness of Sobel in Toccoa, all the way to Holland, the 506th had been through so much death and destruction yet had remained steadfast throughout it all.

But now, in the company's arguably darkest time, the regiment became ever-fragile. The exhausted soldiers couldn't handle any more of this.

False promises of the war ending before Christmas had become what kept the 506th going, but as the day ticked closer and closer that hope began to dwindle.

Everyone, no matter the transparency each individual experienced as the thought dawned on them, knew they weren't going home for the holiday. They never were.

Dragging yourself from those wretched thoughts, you exhale softly, your breath creating a thick fog that rises and dissipates nearly as fast as it first appeared in the cold afternoon air. Even now, where all you could focus on was the numbness of your fingers, the air held a certain briskness to it that made your throat and nostrils burn when you inhaled.

‘Now is not the time for such dark thoughts’ you think to yourself, shaking your head as if to knock some sense into yourself.

Those thoughts, the one that let reality set in a little too far, were killers. Even just a mere drop in a soldier's ability to keep strong mentally on the frontlines ultimately affected their physical well-being aswell. In a time as dire as war, a drop in strength translated directly to a meaningless death.

In the distance, you could hear the crunching of feet on snow growing increasingly closer.

“Sergeant,” The voice is firm, yet recognizable. You glance up at the mysterious figure who approaches, once again ripped from the storm of endless thoughts brewing within your very mind.

Ronald Speirs.

You instantly recognize Dog companies CO. An intimidating man surrounded by rumors he'd never bothered to confirm nor deny. Yet, a handsome man. His face is one of chiseled beauty, like a Greek god. Something you'd been sure to notice over your countless interactions. Since you'd known him, Speirs had treated you equally despite being the only female in the 506th. Something you admired.

Ever since your first weeks at Toccoa, you’d taken a special interest in Speirs, and naturally you’d gotten a lot closer.

Speirs isn't one to dawdle, so he gets right to the point, “Sergeant, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Go ahead,” you reply through chattering teeth, sore from clenching them closed so often.

"What are your plans for Christmas this year, if we go back to the states?"

Even in the cold, you can feel your cheeks flushing red. He wants to know what you're christmas plans are?

Not answering immediately, letting the words sink in as you formulate a response, “You don't seriously believe that?" You chuckle dryly at last, "I thought of all people you'd be the most sensible."

"No, I don't," he replies after a moment of silence, "but everyone at least has some plans this holiday. A hope. I wanted to know what yours was." You could've sworn you'd seen him shift his gaze away momentarily, but his face was shadowed by his bulky helmet, obscuring your vision of his beautiful face.

"That everyone wouldn't be me, then," you avert your attention momentarily to his lips, but shake your head in disgust at yourself, what were you looking at? He was your superior! "What about you, captain? Any plans yourself?"

"I was going to visit family if we went back. But, seeing as that isn't happening anytime soon, I thought I'd settle on a gift for someone here." He responds.

“Who would that lucky person be?” You ask, curious who the CO might be referring to. You think back to the town of Bastogne, the town a few klicks away, and all the people for him to choose from.

“I'm still not sure.” he shrugs, standing abruptly and moving away silently, leaving you puzzled and alone.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Christmas day had arrived grimly, the promise of being home by this day long forgotten and farfetched.

The Germans on the other side of the clearing were fortunately nice enough to halt the bombing for the day, leaving the front lines oddly quiet for the first time in weeks.

Despite this, morale wasn't very high. Nobody in the 506th wanted to be in the frozen-hell they were right then.

Standing and unable to withstand the boredom of your foxhole any longer you left to relieve yourself momentarily.

Upon standing, your limbs ached, stiff and sore from the cramped position you'd stayed in for multiple hours, and your feet numb while you stumbled the first few steps. You remembered Doc Roe's countless warnings to the 506th about trench foot. Something you wanted to be certain you wouldn't catch. Perhaps you should invest more time in moving about.

It didn't take long to finish your business, and you figured you ought to head back to the safety of your foxhole soon. Afterall, you never knew when the next shelling would occur, the Germans were unpredictable. You wouldn't doubt they'd go beyond cruelty and bomb the 506th on a day like today. And that was something you absolutely didn't want to be out of your foxhole for. You'd seen the destruction left in their wake countless times.

Your feet crunching loudly in the fresh snow was all you could think of as you retraced your steps back to the front lines. Along the way you passed a few E company members, smiling a little at them and wishing them a short ‘Merry Christmas’ as you trudged past.

Ahead, your empty foxhole beckoned and as you drew near your excitement at the small warmth it provided grew rapidly. You prepare to jump in, but pause at the sight of a small cardboard box nestled at the bottom. The peanut-coloured box appeared as vibrant as blood in the dull white and gray surroundings.

Jumping into your hole, you're careful not to crush the delicate box while you move into a sitting position, pulling it into your lap.

Curiosity consumes you as you open it carefully, revealing a small silver object, a thin wool blanket and a pristine white letter.,

Taking the necklace out you raise it to your face for examination. The pendant was long, and had a natural shimmering silver allure to it. At one end, a small, smooth heart was suspended by the lengthy yet elegant chain. It was beautiful. You gasped as you moved it around in your palm, a large smile pulling at your lips.

Carefully, you fastened the necklace around your neck, looking down to admire it settled against your collarbone once more. Not wasting any more time, you moved onto the next object. An army-issued blanket. Something the company should've been guaranteed before it came to Bastogne, but was never supplied. You took it out, taking care not to lose the letter you had yet to open. How did your mystery sender manage to get their hands on this? However they did it must've been tough, they were in demand everywhere. The material was wool, and you could almost imagine the warmth it provided.

After a short examination of the blanket you were eager to move to the last object, a letter. Grabbing the object and letting your fingers run over the grainy surface momentarily before pulling open the seal to reveal the neatly-folded contents.

Unfolding the letter you're stunned at the lack of words, but regardless begin reading;

Dear Sergeant,

I hope you enjoy these gifts. Merry Christmas.

Signed, Ronald C. Speirs.

Speirs got you these? Hardly containing your smile, you close the letter once more, slipping it into your pocket and getting out of your foxhole, leaving the blanket and box behind.

It took every ounce of strength you had to not run as fast as you could to his assigned tent, instead maintaining a brisk walk. However, something you couldn’t contain was the dopey smile that tugged itself onto your face as you moved, your heart pounding in your chest and your face flushed a bright scarlet.

As you drew near, your pace quickened ever so slightly, your mind urging you to move faster than your legs would allow. You were itching at the prospect of seeing him. Finally reaching the sepia coloured tent, it’s walls faded and worn from the harsh uses it had endured throughout the war, you say “Permission to enter, sir?” from the other side of the tent wall.

His husky voice answers from within the tent, allowing you entry immediately after your request. Without further ado, you step in, blinking to readjust your eyes. In the shadowed room, you make eye contact with Speirs. “I wanted to thank you for the gifts, sir.” You say, not quite sure how to properly thank him.

“Please, just call me Ron,” he corrects, smiling softly at you. A sight so beautiful and rare you can't help but stare in awe. He stands when you enter, maneuvering out from behind his desk.

“Then call me Y/n,” you counter, mirroring his smile.

After a moments pause where nothing is said, you resume, “Ron, do you mind me asking why?” You say hesitantly, unfamiliar with the use of his true name, seeming like all formalities were tossed aside, “Why me?”

He looked at you with an odd unnamed emotion, yet so familiar. It seems like a millenia passes before he replies, “I have admired you since we've met, Y/n.” He pauses to allow the words to sink in, watching your expression closely, “Ever since I first laid eyes on you, I've always been set on you. You drive me crazy. When you step into a room, you're all I can look at. Everything else is irrelevant. When you talk, your voice echoes in my ears all day like a mothers lullaby.

“I've never wanted another woman so badly as i've wanted you before. I didn't care for the dames of Eindhoven like most men. I wanted you. And only you. I've come to the realization I love you, and I couldn't wait another day for you to carry on, not knowing.” he stops to drink in your features before he allows himself to continue, “It's alright if you don't feel the same. I know how terrible the timing is. I can't believe I allowed myself to become so vulnerable in a state of war.”

Without missing a beat you reply, “I feel the same.”

Truthfully, you can hardly believe your ears. It's like a dream come true. You'd loved Ron since he'd done that daring act with Dog Company and the batteries, and you swear you could've felt your own heart stop when he leaped out of that trench and ran, exposed, into the battery, guns blazing. You'd heard the rumors about him too, but they didn't scare you. In fact, they almost drew you in closer, with hopes of unravelling them yourself.

Without even noticing it, you and Ron had begun moving closer to each other, pulled by some other-worldly gravitational force. Drawn to each other like a moth to flame.

When he was within reach, he lifted up his hand, cupping your cheek while the gap grew smaller yet, your faces hovering inches from each other, “Can I kiss you?” he asks, eyes flitting down to your lips only to return once more to your eyes.

You couldn't speak, only administering a nod before he closed the gap.

His lips tasted of lucky strikes, something you wouldn't have thought to expect at first, and they pressed against yours passionately, releasing his inner tension. Your lips moved against his in a synchronized dance, two lovers moving against each other like twin moons in the sky, orbiting the same center. Like two halves of a heartbeat, beating as one.

Reluctantly, he pulled away breathless, resting his forehead against yours.

“I've never wanted more than to kiss you,” he sighs, “I love you.”

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Shivering within the confines of your foxhole, you listened half-heartedly to the world around you, the bitter wind was biting and silent. The forest seemed lonely, devoid of all human life and a true beauty of nature.

Except, it was anything but something of a 'beauty.' It was a place where you'd lost men — good men, most straight from America, fresh and lively, having just finished their basic; friends; too many, so, so many— in the devastating artillery the Germans bombarded you with.

Sitting in a foxhole farther from the front lines in desolate silence you listened. 

Listened, for nothing in particular; Listened for any sounds of wildlife in the frozen canopy above; Listened for the crunching of snow beneath a soldier's boots as he walked. You were taking the moment to relish the peace that settled over Bastogne.

But, unfortunately, the world had other plans. A shriek from further up in the large grouping of foxholes, followed by a thunderous boom that sent snow and dirt into the sky, signals the next wave of artillery.

The sky erupts in flashes of white –almost like lightning– followed by a deafening explosion –thunder.– 

The bombing is more intense this time, trees are exploding, the bark shooting outwards like bullets from the muzzle of a browning, sinking into unsuspecting victims with deadly precision. It's ironic in a sense, how, just a few minutes ago you'd been listening to the sounds of nature yet now you listened for incoming German mortars; Listened for the pleads and cries of help made by wounded soldiers.

Somewhere, in the vast sea of wounded, a faint scream of "Medic!" could be heard and you're already leaping out from the safest place you knew and over debris to answer their call. 

That's when the second wave hits.

You are unable to do anything when a mortar slams into the ground a few feet away, sending the ground beneath your feet shooting off into different directions, taking you with it. You felt the harsh impact when you inevitably collided with the ground, resonating in your bones, your helmet knocked free from your head while you lay on the ground motionless. The cold earth and snow pressed against your uniform as you lay. Your senses felt fuzzy; Your ears rang, blocking out all noises around you; arms and legs felt limp.

You don't want to move, but the scream for a medic you'd heard earlier echoes in your mind relentlessly, urging you on. Yet, when you try to get up, something doesn't feel right. Lifting your head slightly in confusion, pain shoots through your body. Your head pounds, it feels as if you can sense your brain smashing against your skull with every movement, prompting you to groan loudly and lay your head back down on the soft snow.

In your haze, you hear his voice, "Stay in your foxholes!" He’s screaming as he runs past disheveled men who are eager to get out of their only place of protection. But the minute he locks eyes on your slightly broken form, splayed on the forest floor, he can feel his heart stop.

In an instant he's at your side, dropped to his knees and eyes frantically searching your body.

He lifts his head up once more, head whipping to the side as he searches for help, yelling "Medic!" As loud as he can.

You can feel the adrenaline wearing off now, and feel the warm liquid that seeps from deep gashes on your stomach and legs. And in one horrific thought you realize, you've been wounded.

In seconds Eugene Roe, one of Easy companies medics, is at your side, pressing bandages into your wounds. They seem to be no use as they soak up blood quickly while more just keeps on seeping from the wounds and onto the once beautiful white snow.

Your head hurts so bad and it seems as if everything around you is so bright, urging you to close your eyes. You don't realize it, but death awaits on the other side of that deep void of acceptance, threatening to drag you into its depths.

"Hey-" You hear a fuzzy voice from above you, and register the feeling of warm fingers cupping your cheek, tapping you lightly in alarm, "c'mon," He whispers, "stay with me here."

If you were in the right consciousness you'd be appalled at the conflict you feel and the resignation you prepare to place forward. Staying in the real world… it feels painful, but there is another place, behind closed eyelids that beckons to you, offering comfort.

You can no longer resist the growing tiredness you feel, letting your consciousness slip away, but before you lose your senses you can hear the cracked, emotional voice of Carwood, "Don't die, please, I need you."

And everything goes black. You slip into a blissful, painless void of unconsciousness.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

This morning, feels different. Your wound feels significantly better. Of course, there is still the sickly stench that wafts through the room, invading your nostrils when you wake every morning.

It reeks of death, and there is a biting chill to the morning air that makes your nose burn as your senses roar alive.

It's almost quiet when you stir, the only sound being the pained groans emitted by the many wounded soldiers forced to lie in the church basement. Something you've grown accustomed to over the 11 days you've been here.

With shaky hands, wobbly legs and an immense effort, you push yourself on your two feet. 

You can feel your wound stretch when you take a tentative step forwards. It certainly is not perfect, but you can feel the difference over the 11 days. It no longer shoots a pain so strong it forces you back down. That's certainly a relief. 

By now you are itching to get back to the frontline. Partially because, in the back of your mind, Carwoods earlier words echo. 'I need you.' 

What did he mean by that? 

The thought of asking him. Knowing what he meant, has made you impatient.

Taking a deep breath you make your way to the stairs, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible, giving an unfamiliar nurse a tight-lipped smile as you passed, praying she wouldn’t catch you on your grand escape and send you back.

A sigh of relief passed through your nose as you reached the stairs.

I’m not free yet.

You winced as you took the first few steps up the stairs, but were quick to stifle the small shutter of pain that reverberated through you as much as you could.

You were nearly there. By now you could see the door, your way out and back to the frontline.

Your steps quickened, eager to escape, to leave. Excited at the prospect of getting back to your found family and the man you loved.

Yet you found yourself pausing at the door, hand hovering just above the door handle. He’d want you to stay and get better.

But your family. They were at risk of being killed every waking hour of the day. Everyone you’d seen get injured managed to find a way back.

Shoving your internal conflict down for good, you twisted the knob and finally, you were on the home stretch.

Waving down a passing truck, you climbed in, instructing him to bring you to the front lines, to which he thankfully obliged.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

The truck came to a rumbling halt, and you clambered out, thanking the driver while you walked to the makeshift Battalion HQ they’d sent up - located a little farther away than the foxholes and front line, to avoid the artillery from striking. - 

Feet crunching beneath the snow, the air quiet, with no signs of life except the few tents set up ahead, it was a breath of fresh air from the hospital you’d been locked in for the past week and a half.

“Sir?” You asked, waiting for a moment before the raspy reply of, ‘Enter’ was exchanged.

Pushing the flap aside, you entered. “Good to have you back, doc.” Richard Winters, your former captain smiled at you.

“Good to be back,” you smiled back. For truly, you were happy to be home. Although, you had a certain someone you wanted to see, “Do you know where I’d find Carwood?” A light blush tints your face, but you hope Dick takes it as the cold.

He smiles knowingly at you, “Yeah, he’s at the frontline. Sorry I don’t know exactly where.”

Nodding, you turn and exit the tent, speed walking to the forest you know Easy is holed in.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Carwood nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears your very familiar voice, and his head whips to the side in alarm, “What are you doing back?” he asks in bewilderment, his eyes round as saucers, “You are supposed to be on bedrest, Y/n. You nearly died.”

You feel a little bit of shame as he frowns pointedly at you, his eyes hardened with disappointment. It makes you feel like a child, caught in the scolding gaze of their mother after being caught red handed. “I know,” you whisper. The thought never did leave you. Of course you knew you almost died.

Carwood sighs, and an awkward silence settles between you two when you slide into the foxhole beside him.

You try to look anywhere but him. The trees, the snow, a crater a few feet away in the trees, and lastly back to your feet, that seem extremely interesting to your ashamed gaze in the tension.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he breaks the silence. You turn your head towards him, acknowledging him and meeting his dark eyes.

For moments, you stare into his eyes, a thought forming on your mind that his eyes look like warm honey. Eyes that hold the warmth of an everlasting hearth.

Staring at him, you can feel the words forming on your tongue, the question you’ve been longing to ask, “What did you mean when you said I need you?”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares, and you can feel your nerves creeping up on you, “Please, Carwood, tell me it meant what I think it did.”

“I means that I can’t live without you.”

You feel your heart thumping wildly in your chest, and your breath hitches at his confession, butterflies exploding in your stomach.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and you swear you are going to faint as everything you’ve ever dreamed of since meeting Carwood unfolds before you. Like a fairytale.

You can only nod, words lost in your throat as your eyes flutter closed.

He kisses you passionately, lips moving delicately against your own. His hands come up to cup your cheeks, further deeping the flood gate of passion he unleashes. Years of pent up love and adoration, spilled in one kiss. A kiss so withdrawn and repressed in fear of one breaking that oh-so-cherished friendship they’d built over the years of war, something unbeknownst to the other, they’d been longing to share. Ever since they’d met, the two had been swooning over the other, both too lost and oblivious to the blatantly obvious affection they held for eachother. Blind-sided by love.

Pulling away for a reluctant breath of air, your eyes meet his, and he smiles lovingly.

“I love you.” You whisper, breathless.

“I love you too.” He returns.

The roar of planes in the sky was unlike anything you’d ever heard before. The Douglass C-47’s large engines filled the air with their deafening whines while men sat in silent wait. She could feel her gut, churning in fear and anticipation, anxiety chilling her spine. Yet, she was confused, for she had practiced this type of thing before. She hadn’t spent two years at camp Toccoa, running up the 3 mile hill every day, completing night marches and training to be a paratrooper all for nothing. This is what she’d trained for. She trained for war. So why was there such a fear, evident in her gaze and the way her leg bobbed nervously.

The only difference between the two was this was in a large formation, with hundreds of thousands of other men, trained for the exact same thing, jumping with them in the invasion. Leaping out of the hardened steel doors with no certainty their parachutes would deploy and they wouldn’t hit the ground. Which, even if they did reach the German-occupied ground of Normandy, not knowing if a kraut was going to shoot them before they could get untangled was far scarier. At least hitting the ground you wouldn’t feel anything. So aside from that, nothing was too different, right?

You knew that this kind of thinking would only throw his mind into a frenzy so instead, you take a deep breath and look out the opened door next to you, where cold wind blasts you in the face. In the black of the night, you can just barely make out the shadowy silhouettes of planes, flying in large formations.

Somewhere near the neck of the formation, a large boom stands out over the roaring engines, a small orange flash erupting in the sky. Then, like flies to a carcass, the sky is filled with hundreds of orange explosions, smacking into the underside of the planes as they fly.

The German Flak hits close to the plane Easy Company is in, prompting the beast to lurch and sway in the clouded night sky. More flak bursts around the frightened paratroopers, constant ‘Boom! Boom! Boom!’s filling the noise with their thunderous cacophony.

The light in the belly of the plane shifts to red and your commanding officer, Richard Winters yells, "Get Ready!" And lifts his hands up, creating a hook with his finger and yelling "Hook up!".

You stand to your full height at his command, clicking your static line to the thin wire that runs from the door to the tail. The same is happening all around you, everyone follows his directives fluidly as they hook their cables to the thick metal wire that hangs in the plane, their movements fueled by their countless hours of grueling training spent in Toccoa. “Equipment Check!” lieutenant Winters yells.

One by one the Easy company men begin calling out their position in the plane, pulling on the straps of the paratrooper ahead, until finally reaching you.

You are thankful for one of the more manner-some Easy boys who doesn't get too handsy when tugging your equipment, like the many who had tried before. He finishes quickly with a loud, “Eight, okay!”

Now it is your turn to tug on the paratrooper ahead of you, your fingers pulling on their intricate setup of ropes and the yellow Mae vest strapped to their chest thoroughly before yelling, "Seven, okay!"

Like a chain the line continues;

"Six, okay!"

"Five, Okay!"

“Four, okay!”

“Three, okay!”

The light is a blaring red, pouring out of the bulb and pooling in the shadowy confines of the Douglass plane. The ominous light is stationary for what seems like eternity, the Flak banging its fiery fists into the planes around you, punching holes in their skin with ease.

The plane is hit once more this time in the side, sending pieces of shrapnel shooting into one soldier's legs. The man screams in pain, which you can only imagine to be unbearable. In an instant Doc Roe is unclipping himself and moving to treat the wounded man, your commander not wasting any time doing the same.

The light turns green and the rest of you paratroopers still in the plane jump into the icy blast while another shot of Flak rocks the plane.

You jump into the sky without a taste of fear, your canopy deploying a few frightful seconds later of free fall. You are pushed through the sky like a feather in the wind, the white of your canopy sticking out like a sore thumb in the ebony of the night.

Moments of quiet, gentle freefall pass, the breeze tickling your cheek and dragging its fingers over your parachute while you descend. The planes grow quieter as they continue flying overhead, the only noise left is the repetitive 'rat-tat-tat' of Anti-Aircraft Artillery as it fires into the sky in small bursts of yellow and orange.

You hit the ground, your canopy dragging a few feet when you roll to a kneeling position, pulling out your bayonet and slicing the chute from your body. Once you free yourself, you move to your leg bag, the place you'd stored your rifle for when you dropped, only to find it missing.

You curse audibly, voice stark against the silence of night, seemingly echoing in the darkness. In the very close distance, an AAA you hadn't before seen fires shots into the sky at planes that are long gone, prompting you to dive to the ground in hopes of concealing yourself.

The Germans manning the gun thankfully don't notice, the noise of the Flak successfully covering your noise.

You had to be more careful.

In hopes of finding more cover, you move into the trees, circumnavigating the AAA. The only sound left is the crunch under foot as you trek through the trees. Everything looks the same, You think to yourself, trees. So many trees.

And it does; the only thing around you is a thickly wooded forest; every way you looked had similar features to the latter. It was making you feel hopelessly lost in this unfamiliar woodland.

You are squinting your eyes in the dark, trying to make out shapes, when the rustling of a bush causes you to stop in your tracks. It's quiet for a few moments, silence passing between you and the man in the bush, unsure whether the other is a friend or foe.

Fuck it, If I die, I die, you think, calling out, "Flash!"

The person immediately steps out, breaking the tension with a reply of “Thunder.”

“Carwood!” The name leaves your lips in a whisper, a breath you didn't know you were holding going with it.

Within seconds, you've crossed the short distance and are in front of Carwood, relief flooding your veins, feeding your emotions. Without a second thought, you wrap your arms around his middle section, collapsing into his firm hold. He is shocked. Body rigid for a few moments before he returns the hug.

It's a moment of peace when you hug, both of you lost in the warm silence the embrace provides, your souls intertwine like twin flames, dancing in harmony to a melody only you and him know. The hug was like a cascade of emotions, a torrential downpour in a desert of bottled-up feelings. Both holding on to the other tightly, as if trying to etch the feeling into your very bones, unsure of when you would have this chance again. It was a fleeting, stolen moment of tenderness, carried on the wings of unspoken love.

"I'm so glad to see you," you murmur, pulling away to look into his chocolate eyes, they hold an emotion you can name very well, even though it is unspoken. The warm honey holds a warmth of an everlasting hearth. It's beautiful, his eyes twinkling with love. And it's love created for only one person. You.

The tension isn't awkward, no, rather a gift of silence, offered by perhaps God himself as he watches these two love-stricken fools pin over each other in a time of war.

Carwood is looking at you, eyes heavy with emotion, no doubt seeing you as if you hung the stars, the sun, and the moon. And he can barely contain himself. He reaches up with his free hand to cup your cheek, rough calloused fingers tracing your cheekbones in the moonlight.

For all one knows, it might be the relief of the reunion between you two, but Carwood finds himself leaning in. You following suit shortly after. Your lips meet, and it seems as if fireworks go off inside you, bursts of joy pumping itself through your wary veins. The kiss is long awaited, and your lips move together in beautiful, unknown passion, contained for 2 years too long. You hope it never ends, the fiery dance you both are drawn into by love, for it gives you a new heightened sense of security and protection, despite the irony of your actual location. But maybe, just maybe, the world would stop for the two lovers.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Bullets. Everywhere. They leave puffs of dirt when they smack into the brick walled buildings.

Explosions. Much too loud for your ears. Each deafening 'Boom!' leaves behind a fiery ball of destruction in the form of a bowl-shaped crater.

Their eyes. The desperate, fleeting looks of agony. Of pain. Their fearful gazes as death waits for them to finish their last breath patiently. Holding his deadly sword of death above their head like a mistletoe.

Blood. Your comrades. The enemies. Your fathers. Crimson residue of death splattering on your face when they are gunned down. It reeks. The stench invades your nostrils, choking you out of your horrific and intricate labyrinth of nightmares.

You awoke with a jolt, cold sweat dotting your forehead. Your breathing is erratic. An irregular pattern as you recall the nightmare you were just shaken from.

When you look up towards the window you see the moon, shining high up in the sky, it's pale face staring you down, you feel the need for a breath of cold, fresh night air.

Rising from where you sit upright on the bed, you silently make your way out of your shared bedroom and out the front door - to the porch -

You stand, leaned against the railing of the house you share with your husband – James – who is currently peacefully asleep, staring at the night above. The stars twinkle beautifully, like mini diamonds of infinite light, blinking down upon your delicate form.

For minutes, you stay like that, watching the stars, listening to the blissful song sung by the creatures of the night. It's peaceful.

The door creaks open behind you, but you don't bother to look over your shoulder. You already know who it is.

"Are you okay?" He asks as he leans on the porch railing beside you, his stunning green gaze trailing your face.

With a quivering lip you look over to him, and his eyes go impossibly soft, "Oh, Honey."

He wraps you in his large arms, hugging you close to his chest in an effort to comfort you. He provides a place of warmth and security while the pent up fear and grief releases itself out in the form of hot tears.

For some silent moments, you just rock in the comfort of his arms, small and quiet sobs rack your body and hot tears drip off your chin and into his shirt.

"Why are you crying, darling?' He asks, his voice soft and a comforting warmth.

"I-" hiccuping, you pause for a moment, "I'm afraid, James."

He doesn't say anything, just stares at you, waiting for you to continue, "afraid of losing you. Losing you just like how I lost him."

He sighs, and hugs you again, kissing your forehead, "Oh, baby," He whispers, peppering your face with kisses, "You won't lose me."

"But what if you get drafted?"

"I won't." He says, as if that would be ensured, when deep down, you know the army might pull him back any day, tell him 'you need to come fight again,' and put him back into danger.

And with the war brewing in Korea, your fear did nothing but deepen, worries eating away at you as the war raged on. "You don't know that." You whisper.

Your husband presses a few kisses to your face, one to the tip of your nose, one to your cheek, below your eyes, another to your forehead, and finally a firm one to your lips, "I promise my love, I'm not going to war."

He grabs your hand delicately, his large palms enclosing your own, warm fingers pressed lightly against your own, "C'mon love, let's go back to bed."

Sniffling, you follow him back inside and back to your bedroom, where you both lay side by side.

He leans over and closes you in his arms, spooning you, whispering, "I love you" in your ear.

"I love you too."

Locked safely in his arms, back pressed into his chest while you cuddle, you fall asleep in peace. Surely, the thought of the impending war wouldn't leave you, the fear of losing your husband to war once more, so recently after your father's tragic passing, and nearly your whole squad's brutal death, where you'd first met James.

The world was cold that day.

You had stupidly thought that maybe, just maybe, the memory would leave. It wouldn’t ever show it’s ugly face to you again. Maybe even disappear forever.

But of course, that wasn’t how the human mind worked, wasn’t how any problem worked.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

You remember the way you had been walking through the cold confines of Bastogne, rifle in hand and snow crunching loudly beneath your feet while you walked.

It was then you heard it, the snapping of a branch a few feet away, a dark figure in the woods, moving through the trees, causing you to dive for cover behind a large coniferous tree.

The figure continued walking, unsuspecting of the danger you posed as he grew nearer and nearer. He nearly walked into you, but a surprised yelp left his lips when he emerged from the brush to see you, gun out and trained on him.

And then you’d shot him.

The peppery smell of gunpowder fresh in the frigid air and the beautiful white snow stained a sickening crimson blood as the bullet you’d placed between his eyes severed something in its wake.

Before you pulled the trigger you’d gotten a good look at his face, the boyish features and soft eyes. He was just a kid. No older than 18. And you’d killed him. Took his life with your gun. With your hands.

It was a long walk back to the front line Easy company was occupying, each second that passed felt like an hour, the snow a repetitive Crunch-Crunch-Crunch under each fall of your foot.

You’d reported the German soldier straight to Dick, and something must've been apparent on your face for he’d asked if you were okay.

And as you intended to tell anyone who asked, you told him you were fine. Afterall, Why wouldn’t you be?

But that had been days ago. Yet, you still weren’t over it. Now you were stationed in Haganau. Perhaps a drink would calm your mind.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

That is where you found yourself; the bar.

Hours passed while you drank your sorrows away, and as far as you were drunkenly concerned, that's all you'd be doing tonight. Another ale was passed to you from the bartender when you asked, and you sat, sipping on the yellow liquor and enjoying the burning sensation it left in your throat.

Most of the regiment that had been gathered here earlier in the evening had already left, but a few stragglers were scattered in the fetid bar. The doors opened in the quiet bar, and you spared a glance backwards, barely recognizing the familiar face who had just walked in the bar.

Something in your mind told you that yes, it would be logical to quit the addictive drinking you were getting yourself into tonight, but your selfish want to pleasure yourself into forgetting was greater.

The familiar ginger approached you, hand cupping your shoulder gingerly in the late hours of the night. It was time to go, for the hangover you would experience tomorrow would not go well.

Dick helps you stand, arm hooking underneath your armpits to hoist you up onto your own two feet and offer a steady source to lean on. He guides you out of the bar and into the empty streets, where not a whisper can be heard in the chilly night air.

The cold of the night offers some sobriety in your drunken haze, the breeze tickling your cheek brisk against your sweat-beaded skin, hot from the bar. In the darkness you stumble, still guided by Dicks strong hands, "Watch your step," He says, voice soft while he resteadies you from tipping.

There's a large lump in your throat, choking you and ever more reminding you why you drank today, what atrocious thing you'd done not very long ago. You want to seek help, want to tell someone, anyone, willing to listen, the things you'd seen and wanted to unsee in this wretched time called war.

In your stupor, you look over your shoulder at Dick, who continues to guide you through the dark, not able to see the pain flickering in your eyes. You want to tell him.

The thought makes you disgusted with yourself, No! Your brain screams, I could not put him through the things I've seen, the things I've done, willingly.

Too preoccupied in your own thoughts you stop, Dick following shortly after, a puzzled look crossing his beautiful features.

For moments you both stand in the middle of the quiet street. There isn't a soul around. Not a whisper in the frigid night air.

The tension is thick, and you feel as if there is an unbearable weight, pressuring you into the truth. As if it's holding a gun to your temple, threatening you to tell your thoughts.

And the way Dick is staring at you isn't helping. He has your heart thump-thumping wildly like a race horse in your chest.

"Do you.." You start out shakily, but stop, because that doesn't sound right.

"I was drinking.." again. It doesn't have the right sound to it.

What was wrong with you? Spit it out.

"I hate war."

Wow. Great way to start off how you're thinking. Who doesn't?

"I hate this place. I do. And I don't know why I'm acting like this. I haven't had a problem with killing before," there you go! Your consciousness is cheering, find your words, "but he was a child. With a mother and a father waiting for his return, that will never happen because of me."

Dick looks at you, a deep fire of sympathy sparkling in his irises, "In order to survive in war one must kill or be killed. It isn't your fault. You were doing what you needed to in order to survive."

"But it is my fault! I shot him. Straight between his damn eyes. He looked no older than 16, Dick! And I-" You're stumbling. Oh god, what a way to make a damn fool of yourself. A foolish girl with some foolish emotions she can't handle.

You don't even realize the way tears are rolling hot and fast down your cheeks, small hiccups interrupting your sentences. You feel like you are drowning in anguish, appalled by your own actions. And he must be too. He must feel disgusted in you.

Yet still when you look up at him, standing a few feet taller than you, his ginger hair darkened in the short moonlit night, you don't see disappointment or resentment like you'd thought, you see tenderness, shimmering in the depths of his olive eyes. He looks at you with such affection present in his gaze, enough to make even the coldest of people have a little sympathy.

"It wasn't your fault. You did exactly what you had to. Do you think he wouldn't have done the same had the positions been reversed?"

You shake your head at him slightly, a small ounce of denial echoing in your head. "I didn't even–"

Dick cuts you off by pressing his lips to yours.

Did he just?

Your thoughts are raging and wild, like fire, crazed and climbing the dry tree trunks of a dense forest.

For a time you wish you could've put a seal over and keep it in a forever pose of two lovers, grasping onto each other in an unpredictable world, you kiss. It's filled with passion and comfort, giving you a calming sense of serendipity in the dark corners your mind has come to welcome even darker thoughts.

Dick pulls away first, his green eyes searching your face for any signs of regret, his mouth slightly parted to draw in a breath.

"You have no idea how long I've waited to do that," He whispers, forehead touching your own.