One Shots || Call of Duty: WW2 ED

by orphan_account

Summary:

❝ 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝.
𝐈𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬. ❞

Chapter 1: ˏˋ 𝙎𝙏𝙄𝙇𝙀𝙎

Summary:

fluff
𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙨𝙢𝙤𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜- 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙎𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣'𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡.
Stiles/Fem!Reader

𝐀 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟, 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐞 echos through the dark forest.

In the cover of the night, the little flame is seen for miles. Dancing on the tip of the lighter, it sheds warmth against your thumb, burns you- if you dared to get too close. You've always had this lighter, received it once as a gift from your grandfather. It fits in your palm snugly, has a pastel golden colour, and is engraved with the image of a fox.

Fox. That's what they tease you with, ever since spotting the mammal on your lighter.

It's supposed to calm you. Flipping the lid open and closing it again, the fidgeting usually helps soothing your strained nerves, gave you something to focus on. As silly as it may sound.

Darkness envelops the world. Only silence follows the wind on its travel through the woods. Long had owls and birds escaped the lands you fought on, deafened and terrified by the loud noises of war. The camp is far away, with it anyone who could catch you awake at such an ungodly hour.

You lean against a tree, feeling snippets of bark dig into your back.

Flipping open the lighter is a familiar movement; however, uncertainty marks your hands as you squeeze the cigarette between your chapped lips. You've never been a smoker. And you didn't want to be caught doing so, 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝.

An unpleasant smell soon lays in the air, and your eyes close in discomfort. Gripping the end of the cigarette, you muster the strength to take a long drag. Immediately, your lungs fill with the burning sensation of hot smoke, and you feel it roll through your chest.

Holding it trapped in your lungs for a moment longer, you finally pull the cigarette from your lips, and exhale the toxic smoke into the dark night sky.

The burn makes your throat sore. Upon swallowing and feeling the tiny needles poking into your flesh, you can't help but start coughing.

God, the smell.

"A German sniper could've spotted that flame from miles away."

Looking up, your body still wrecked with a coughing fit, you don't even have the breath left to gasp. Turning away from the dark figure, you cough especially hard once, twice, then manage to rasp a struggled, "𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬?"

"In the flesh."

"What the hell are you doing out here?"

He steps towards you and without missing a beat, pulls the cigarette out of your fingers' grasp. You're still distracted and can't react in time, so you only stare at him in bewilderment, luckily finding your lungs calming down again.

"Hey-!"

You try scooting forwards and reaching out, however are stopped by a hand pushing against your lower neckline.

"What I'm doing here? That's what I should be asking you," Stiles utters accusingly, lifting up the cigarette in hand. You move your arm, though find the cig still out of your range.

"You don't smoke, l/n."

And there's a hint of disappointment in his voice that makes your knees weak and tears at your heart in ways it shouldn't. You shouldn't feel bad for this. You needed this. It's your choice.

"So what? I do now!"

"According to what I just witnessed, you're either lying to me or you're seriously bad at smoking."

You can only watch in appal as the cigarette slips from his hand, falls to the forest floor and moments later, is buried under his boot. His face hardens.

"-Which begs the question why exactly you would 𝐥𝐢𝐞 to me."

Staring at his boot, then up at him, you curse a loud, "Christ!" under your breath. Angrily, you push his arm away. 𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 ℎ𝑒 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑒?

You walk a few steps before turning back around and asking annoyed,

"How the hell did you even know I was here in the first place?"

His arms cross, in that sassy manner you always found intriguing. Funny even, when he was using it against Aiello during one of their heated arguments. But like this? Using his cards against you? Now you truly understand why Aiello is always fuming while arguing with him. He has these small, cocky quips and gestures that make it so hard to resist punching his face.

How in the world did he survive high school like this?

"I followed you when I noticed you were leaving,- again."

You feel your heart freeze for a moment, clearly caught off guard. Again? So he knows this isn't the first time?

You grimace. "I--... and why are you awake?"

"Truth is, you're as silent as a dying moose leaving the tent at night."

You throw him a deep glare, the dark shadows thrown by the moon intensifying the look of frustration on your face. He shrugs innocently.

"𝐀𝐧𝐝 I have a light sleep."

"𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫."

Something runs down your spine, urgent and uncomfortable. You don't want to be here anymore. Not with him.

You care a lot about your boys, but with Stiles it has always been different. You usually don't care about what others may think of you, 'cause the people worth keeping will always face you with an honest mindset.

But out of everyone-- having Stiles catch you? It was straight up embarrassing.

He meant a lot to you. Too much some would even say. While you're lucky he hasn't found out about these feelings yet, this right here would probably shape his image of you into a completely different. Sorrow fills your chest, at the mere thought of him finding you 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑔𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

And yet, he was right to do so. It was only a matter of time until he realized too. 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞. The invasion had only been the trigger- and with every day out here, with every added kill resting heavy on your shoulders, it got worse.

You're not the same anymore. And you don't want them to see.

You don't want him to see.

You walk away quietly. Your arms are crossed across your chest and your head points down, eyes focused on the path before you. You don't want to stumble. Embarrass yourself even further.

And still, you hear the rustling of footsteps behind you. Following you adamantly, and no matter how far you go, he never stops his chase.

At one point, you halt instead. You turn around and look up at him, admiring him for a short moment before forcing an irritated frown onto your features.

"Stiles.."

Your voice breaks a little towards the end. It's a silent plea, for him to leave you alone like everyone else does. Why can't he just ignore you? Acknowledge your dismissive behaviour and return the gesture accordingly?

"Tell me why you smoked?" He asks again, much softer now.

"No reason at all."

"There's no smoke without a fire."

You stare at him with furrowed brows. "You've been waiting for the right moment to hit me with that saying, haven't you?"

Something in your chest melts as his lips pull into a sneaky smile, and it's clear he tries to hide his satisfaction as he proudly utters, "𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞."

You have no idea what a treasure you are.

A long, dragged sigh leaves your lips. Finding a fallen tree to your side, you step away and sit down on the hard log. Your hands fold on your lap, head hanging low. Not soon after, Stiles takes a seat beside you.

"L/n,"

His hand finds your shoulder. He squeezes it lightly, in a reassuring way.

"You don't like smoking. In fact, I know you absolutely despise it." His head cocks a little to the side. "I'm not judging you. It's the exact opposite,- I just want to know why you would do that to yourself."

"I-..." you begin,- then with a small huff, break your silence. "All of the guys seem to find relief in it. And I want to feel it too."

He scoots closer. Clearly, he's surprised.

"The relief? Well, nicotine reaches your brain within the first 10 seconds of when it enters your body. Your brain releases adrenaline, and that creates a wave of pleasure and energy."

"Sounds easy enough."

"The wave quickly fades, though. As a result, you'll feel tired and maybe a little down. So, what do you do?" He lifts a hand, presses two fingers against his lips, pretending to take a drag.

"You take another. And another. And soon you'll look like a tank gun from the inside."

You snort silently. "You mean like Aiello?"

"That blackness might just be the fella's soul."

You can't help but laugh at his absurdness. You love the love-hate relationship the two got going on. Ever since basic too. To imagine you first thought Stiles had no chance to ever come out on top. He appeared so unassuming the first time you met him. But there's spice in his words.

As your laughter slowly subsides, you're left with an ache in your chest. The need to tell him. 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. Everything that's plaguing you, everything that's holding you up at night. And after all he's done to be right here, by your side, you might as well spill it out.

With a sigh, you lean towards him, until your head rests on his firm shoulder. His warmth is comforting.

"I can hardly sleep," you murmur.

"Yeah. I noticed."

A beat of silence.

"How did you do it?" You finally manage to ask. "You never changed. You're still the same man I met all those months ago. You were never a farmer like Daniels, a boy used to hard work and guns ever since childhood. And- you never were a street kid like Aiello or Zussman, both who grew up in rough circumstances. You were... like me."

Your fingers curl around the fabric of his thigh and you hold onto him, your heart so heavy it can barely handle the pressure. The feeling of overwhelm in your stomach makes it hard to breathe.

"We're from normal families, normal lives in the city. Ripped out of their comfort zone and now we're here,- in this whole mess."

Something stings the back of your eyes. They squint, and the darkness around you grows blurry.

"And... I changed. I feel like I'm so much more different now."

Stunned silence settles above your heads.

You have caught him off guard, haven't you? Fuck. You should've just stayed quiet. Now he not only had to deal with his own problems, but yours too. Had it been a selfish decision?

Even before you have a chance to excuse yourself, however, he speaks up. He nudges your shoulder carefully.

"Hey,"

You look up at him, and he's staring down with a gentle expression of disbelief.

"What are you talking about? Beneath all that grime, you're the same too."

You hold his stare for a little longer, brows slowly furrowing. Upon sensing your doubt, he turns his whole body towards you. You do the same,- and your knees touch.

"Look."

He digs a hand into his inner pocket, rummaging around the junk that gathers when wearing the same clothes for much too long. Then, finally, he finds what he searches for.

With a small smile, he pulls a slim tin box in front of him. Its content rattles silently against its inner walls, and intrigued, you lean a little forward.

Clicking open the clasp, you watch with wide eyes as he opens the box, only to reveal dozens of collected images. The first one at the top shows your group, posing like dumbasses and pulling ridiculous faces.

You smile, remembering the day.

Stiles flips through the photos; some having turned out a little better than others. An ache settles in your chest, as you're reminded of days that had long passed.

He got a lot better at photography. You also observe he snaps pictures of about everything he deems worthy. The tanks, a tin can of disgusting broth, a bird sitting on a tree,- there's even one of Zussman being scolded by your platoon sergeant.

And then,-

Surprised, you see him flip to the next photo, and recognize the woman on it almost immediately. It's you, posing with a gun, wearing your metal helmet. You're smiling proudly at the camera. It was made in basic, the first time you've ever been introduced to a weapon.

"You haven't changed at all."

The tears still sit on the rims of your eyes as he hands it to you, and you hold it carefully, afraid to put even the slightest crease in it.

"You might not see, but I do. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲."

You... hadn't?

"Despite the war,-- you still love (flavour) chocolate. Your favourite activity is (activity). And you enjoy dancing to swing, as uncomfortable as the stares may make you. After what I've seen in Paris though? The stares are more than justified."

He lifts a hand, places it gently against your cheek, and brushes the few stray tears on your skin away. As you look up, surprised by the intimate gesture, he asks silently, "Hey. Can you smile for me?"

And you do. At the man who's always done everything in his power to make you happy. His head cocks a little and his eyes switch between the image and your present self. Then, he utters, "See? The same pretty face."

Heat rises to your face and maybe a tad shame. After all, these things he says, they don't describe you at all. Still, most of it is drowned out by the feelings these affectionate words have inflicted upon you.

"Of course we can't express ourselves the way we used to. Not out here. But no matter what, deep in our hearts we will never change."

His hand falls back to his side as you reach up to wipe the tears from your face, laughing a little at the silliness of the situation.

You sniffle, then ask with humorous voice, "How do you know all of this crap about me?"

The grin seems to be etched onto his face. "Well, I usually listen when you talk. Even when the other guys don't."

"Very charming," you say with mocking tone, and honestly? It is. God, it is so very charming.

All of a sudden, Stiles reaches out. He grabs a hold of the picture and carefully pulls it from your hands. You watch as he stares at it himself, then utters, "Sorry, but I need that back. It's one of my favourite photos of you."

Pressing it against his chest, he leans a little forwards and teases cheekily, "And since you won't let me take any of you nowadays, I need to protect this one with my life."

"Ah, really?" You lift a challenging brow.

His smile widens. As he wags the photo like a fan, he boasts, "Lifetime magazines, war archives- It's gonna go places once I'm out of this dump,"

You gasp, hitting his chest playfully. He doesn't flinch, though holds the spot you smacked with a hand.

"Stiles! Don't you dare!"

"No one can stop me."

"I can," you utter, more so referring to it in a legal sense, though Stiles sees it more practical.

"Pah, I'd like to see you try."

Teasingly, he holds the photo out. You eye first the image, and then him.

"You bastard!" You laugh, "𝐆𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭!"

You lunge forwards, trying to grab what he holds so closely in front of you. But Stiles, despite once being nothing but a freshly baked college graduate, has improved a lot. Reaction time, strength, agility, he'd grown in every aspect. And before you have a chance to swipe your picture away, he's holding it above him.

"Stiles, c'mon!"

"You gotta try a little harder than that!"

You laugh again and watching your futile tries, Stiles can't help but laugh too. You scoot further forwards, up his lap and rest a hand on his chest, but he proceeds to hold the photo behind him, always so close but just barely out of reach.

Boosting yourself forwards at once, you almost manage to grasp it, and that's when the tree trunk ends for the both of you.

Stiles falls backwards down the log, landing back first in the soft grass behind him. You follow suit, squealing silently. Your fall is much shorter, and you land right on top of him.

You take a second to catch up with what just happened. And then the both of you burst out laughing. The warmest laughter you have heard in a while. His legs are still angled up the log, calves resting on wood. You have a more comfortable seat, sitting on his stomach, your knees digging into dirt on either side of him.

His helmet has rolled off, revealing a mess of dark hair beneath.

You laugh and you curse him loudly, but those insults can't be taken seriously. It's obvious they're not meant to be. Minutes ago, you had cried. And now, you were laughing your heart out. Stiles always manages to do this to you.

Stiles had always been perfect.

You laugh. After some time, it dies down into just a few chuckles. And then, your laughter subsides completely, and you're locked in a stare down, your eyes resting on his hazel.

You blink a couple of times, your gaze never leaving his. Studying his face in the moonlight and with a chest rid from all problems, your feelings well up harder than ever. Finally, you have the emotional breath for the important things.

Swallowing hard, you grab the edges of your helmet, pulling it off and leaving it to clutter to the ground.

"Can I kiss you?" You blurt out.

His eyes widen a little, clearly surprised by your seemingly out of the blue question. Little does he know, how long it had actually danced on the tip of your tongue.

He waits another moment, then asks with sarcastic voice, "You want our first kiss to be this cliché?"

"I don't fucking care how cliché it is. I just want to kiss you."

He laughs out of breath, clearly overwhelmed by your firm statement. But he's far from being reluctant to answer your question.

"Hah... well. I'm gonna be the last person to stop you."

And that's all you needed. Without wasting another of your rare moments, one of the few quiet times between the storms, you slowly lean down. His hands reach up to meet your face halfway, grabbing it tenderly, and you feel your heart jump.

Holding you, he guides you towards him. Your eyes close. The cold wind is pushed aside as you get closer, his warmth drowning out everything that isn't him. And after what feels like an eternity of build-up, your lips finally meet his. You melt against him immediately, his lips so incredibly soft, much softer than everything else out here has ever been. You incline your head and manage to push yourself even tighter against him, and somewhere in the back of your mind you think you can't ever get enough of this.

You groan against him, as embarrassing as it may be, but you can't seem to find yourself caring. The fireworks in your mind make everything but him so unimportant and your body is enveloped with a burning feeling that puts lava to shame.

As if he  weren't  good enough already,-  he's  a great kisser too.

Only as the urge to breathe becomes too overwhelming, do you part. You're panting just slightly, though seeing him do the same makes you a little less self-conscious.

"Wow," you utter silently.

"Wow is an understatement."

You swallow hard, contemplating what your next words should be. After a few moments of recovery, you break the silence.

"I... I like you a lot Stiles. I really do."

"Since when?"

"Always,"

As it slips from your lips, much too easy for a confession this grand, you can't stop the blush from creeping up your face. It is true,- though hearing it out loud and telling him, it somehow makes it worse.

"Ever since basic?"

"Yeah."

"And you still do?"

You bite your lip anxiously. "Why the hell would I kiss you if not, dumbass?"

He laughs. Stiles has the audacity to 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡. It's airy and higher pitched than usually and you frown in surprise.

"You do too?"

Your heart skips a few beats, before you burst out with an excited, "You like me too?"

You grasp at his clothing, staring down at him with wide eyes. He laughs again and you feel the corners of your lips rise.

"We just kissed y/n! Of course I do!"

"Man, how would I know! I suck at this!"

This might be the silliest confession you had ever made. It almost felt like high school all over again. Or rather... college.

You two laugh. And you hold onto him, tight, in this very moment deciding you would never let him go again.

At one point you two finally decide to head back. You get off of him and help him up. He complains about his wet back, whining that he'd have to go change now. You see the dumb smile still lingering on his face and know it can't be so bad after all.

You return to the camp and find your absence had gone unnoticed- luckily. Everyone is still asleep, except for a few shadowy figures sitting by the campfires.

"So, what did we learn today?" Stiles asks. You can already see your tent in the distance.

"Uh,- you're... a great kisser?"

"Dumbass," he snorts. "That's not what I meant."

You pretend to ponder, grinning sneakily.

"That you... like me 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭?"

He rolls his eyes in a soft way. "No. And even then, 'a lot' is an underestimation."

"Welp,- then I'm clueless."

"Never trust how you feel about your life past 9pm," he announces firmly. It's clear between all the jokes,- this he wants you to take seriously.

You nod.

The tent comes closer. Before you get too close though, you halt. He does too, sending you a questioning look.

"Isn't calling you Drew from now on too obvious?" You whisper.

Shaking his head with a smile, he steps in front of you. His hands find your waist and you welcome the feeling of being pulled against him firmly. He'd acquired a broad frame during his months out here.

"Like I give a shit what the other guys think. You can call me whatever you like y/n."

Whatever you liked?

You laugh. "Really? I think you'll regret that."

A big smile lights up his features. The campfire far away illuminates his features in an everlasting golden glow. He intertwines your hands, lifts them up, and places a series of gentle kisses across your knuckles. Your knees grow weak.

"I think I won't ever. So, let's find out who's right, huh?"

You snicker silently, pushing your head against his chest, hiding your beet red face in his clothing.

For once, you wouldn't mind losing at all.

Chapter 2: ˏˋ 𝙍𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙎𝙀𝘼𝙐

Summary:

⚠️ TW: smut (f/f)
𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙛𝙞𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙤𝙛 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙍𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙪, 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧.
Rousseau/Fem!Reader

"𝐕𝐢𝐯𝐚 𝐥𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞!"

Thunder in the sky. This time, it isn't the endless bombardments washing over Paris ever since the plague arrived. It's the most colourful lights, flashing and sparkling, and finally, the darkness that had enveloped France for months is hunted out.

And yet,- despite it all, the lights, the cheers, the music, she is the only object of your interest. She always is. And you fear she will always be.

Gun clutched in hand tightly, you stare across the liberated plaza, watching Camille admire what you're supposed to admire too.

Everybody stares at what would be the last fireworks for the next coming months. Because after all, the war is far from being over.

𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥. Camille was so much more beautiful than any coloured sky would ever be. Her dress uniform is patterned with blood, evidence of her accomplished deed. She had revenged all those she had lost. Her home was back in her people's hands. And her face is eased with a sense of peace, in a way you had never seen,- but had always wished for.

𝐹𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑦. 𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑛 𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙.

You had known her forever. Even back before she lost everything. You knew her husband well. Her son. People that were now gone. Her parents. Most her closest friends. And ever since she had failed to protect what she loved most, regret and pain had etched her features into an everlasting scowl, a wall of stone too high and far for anyone to reach past.

You were all she had left now. As much as the members of the SOE tried to welcome her into their circle, it was always she herself who shut herself off. She's the leader of the Maquis-, loved and admired by all and still, she keeps a professional distance towards everyone.

Excluding you. But you're a complete different part of her messed up life.

Swept in the lights of liberty, the golden glow frames her entire being. A bittersweet well of pride squeezes your chest. Her dark eyes shimmer and glitter like the richest of oceans in the falling evening sun.

She's too good for this world. She pushes aside her own happiness to save her people, over and over again. She's sacrificed so much, and you wonder if it will ever stop. If her soul can still find rest after the terrors she endured.

Torture. Fear. And of course, loss.

Long nights of talking and a bottle of straight whiskey had revealed to you her fears of growing close, just to lose everything she cares for a second time. You had held her as she broke down, mask finally slipping. Crying and trembling, it was the first and last time you had ever witnessed her raw emotions like this.

Hidden by four walls, in your arms, she allowed you to see what no one ever had.

It didn't take long for her to pass out. And as you placed her down on the bed, tears slowly drying against rosy cheeks, you had pressed a kiss to her forehead-, and felt only but 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥.

Ever since that fateful first meeting, you have been hopelessly entangled in her life. Ever since meeting her, you were unable to continue the way you had.

Ever since that forsaken day, you knew all you wanted was her.

And yet, when her husband died, she slipped further away than you could've ever imagined.

There was never a time you hadn't been separated by duty and marriage. The world wasn't ready yet. Sometimes it still feels like it never will. And this in return, the acceptance you two knew you'd never experience, it filled you with uncertainty.

Only one of you moved on after understanding this.

Seeing how after all these years, you were still so hopelessly enamoured by her, it's obvious that 𝐨𝐧𝐞 wasn't you. She had married a close friend- while you kept to yourself instead.

You know there's only one way you can start living your own life again. It rips your heart out simply thinking of it, but it's the only way.

Now that Paris is saved and the stone has been set rolling, there is no real reason for you to stay. Your services in the Maquis are no longer be required. You're not needed. And seeing her every day, knowing what might've been if you weren't such a damn coward- it pains too much to endure.

So without telling her, you decided to take Crowley up on his offer and agreed to join the SOE. You'd operate far away from her, but it's the only solution you see to your hopeless situation.

You wake up in the morning and think of her, wonder how she would like to drink her coffee. If she's the sweet type,- or bitter, like her past. During the day, you'd always search for the red hair between the other dull colours. And at night, the last thoughts before you pass out in bed are of her, and you marvel what it'd feel like, holding her close.

She's everything.

You take yourself a heart. A last time. Or is it the first time? You don't know. All you know,- you won't get the chance to do so again.

You stride over while she's still caught up staring. You're undetected,- unimportant compared to everything else.

You're the sidekick. A weak side character. You're no one noteworthy. Just a simple person doing their job. And it never bothered you until you met her.

You cross the street. She only notices you approaching when you're too close already, and by then you've already grabbed a hold of her face.

She has no time to react as you pull her towards you, and press your lips against hers with one swift motion.

And under the colourful Parisian night sky, you finally manage to kiss your long-lost love, Camille.

It's just the way you always imagined.

Your eyes close as her lips move against yours, and you're swept with a wave of emotions too heavy to properly handle. Desire. Love. And loss. Bittersweet loss. All your thoughts and fears vanish for one doomed moment and all that's left is that forsaken love that has persevered since day one.

Coward, you hear a voice in the back of your mind. Your grip on her tightens unwillingly.

You da mn coward.

Seconds pass. Your lips, your curves, your stories, it all fits together much too perfect. And it takes your last bit of energy to pull away and let go of an overwhelmed Camille.

Let her go.

Ashamed, weak and broken, you turn around and hurry to leave the scene, tug your tail between your legs like a beat dog. You could care less if people are watching. If she's staring at you with dawning 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭.

You needed this.

You need her too.

But it's so much easier to just walk away. Leave self-hatred to fill in the empty spot in your chest. Hatred takes care of itself anyways.

Per usual, you run. From her but mostly yourself. Because it's not normal to be attached to someone like this. And yet, here you are.

When you return to your room in HQ that evening, your backpack is already prepared. Ever since joining the resistance, a backpack is all you've left. And Rousseau.

Now  it's  really just this pathetic backpack.

You sling it over a single shoulder, then grasp the letter with a free hand. The first character of your name is written across the envelope, so unassuming and fragile.

The HQ of the Maquis is outside the city, a simple building modified for the temporary housing of agents. You find it devoid of all life. Everyone had helped fighting and now they're celebrating, having finally achieved what they had worked so hard for the last two years.

Her room lays upstairs, much too far away from yours. Old floorboards squeal under your heavy boots and dust tingles your nose. You open the door in one familiar movement, seeing a complete empty room before you.

Most photos she'd locked in a box, their sight too painful to endure.

Now there's only a tidy bed and a desk left, and a little commode with clothes.

You walk inside, avoiding contact with the carpet to not unnecessarily put dirt on it. You lift the letter as you reach the table. With upmost tenderness, you press a kiss to the envelope, and your face contorts with sorrow involuntarily.

You don't know if she'll ever forgive you. For both the kiss and leaving. Frankly enough, for once you cannot think about her feelings. As selfish as it may sound. If you did, you might end up not going after all.

You need to leave.

𝐍𝐨𝐰-

In an unexpected turn of events and before you can waste a moment longer sulking in self-pity, the door is kicked open. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲, the poor thing almost falls from its hinges.

You flinch hard, the letter falling to the table. Your backpack slides off your shoulder, the strap landing in your elbow bend. Immediately, your head twists, an angry curse dancing on the tip of your tongue. As you recognize who awaits you on the other side, however, you halt mid motion.

Your voice, your heart, your stomach, everything drops to the floor.

You feel your body freeze up and your mouth opens in a silent gasp.

"Camille?" You whisper.

Impossible. She  had   just  been  with the SOE.

And oh God. The kiss.

You turn towards her fully, still can't read her face properly. It's too dark. The lights from the hallway illuminate her from behind, obscuring her features.

She must have front row seats to your reaction though. Pale face, wide eyes, trembling fingers. Your backpack clutters to the floor too.

"I--... I'm sorry."

She slams the door shut behind her. The slam echoes from the walls and you flinch yet again. The room is dark, so dark.

"No wait--!" She marches towards you, determinedly. Quietly. That quiet you were always afraid of.

"I'm leaving! You won't ever have to see me again, I promise!"

And then she's in front of you, and although your eyes still struggle adjusting, you recognize that hazel brown you always loved falling deep into.

She halts, looks at you for a brief moment.

"Camille,"

You exhale shakily.

She's so close-

One moment, you're battling her in a stare down, losing harder than the Germans had today, then suddenly, you're helplessly overwhelmed as her hands press against your chest hard.

You stumble backwards, further and further, mouth opened but no words able to escape. Your breath is laboured, trying to get oxygen back into your lungs. Air's the good you were lacking the most right now- and maybe any sense of control.

Camille has you pinned against the wall before you can properly understand, and the back of your head connects with stone. The pain is only temporary though, as her hands land firm on your hips and her lips press urgently against yours.

You don't understand. Though, there's no use in trying to resist.

You fall deeper into the kiss autonomously. You could never be able to protest. So you push back harder instead, as she tries to lick her way into your mouth.

You shiver hard as her snow teeth drag across your bottom lip. Subconsciously, you had waited for this exact moment your whole life- as much as your actions contradicted this. You fought back hard against your desires and after today- thought you finally won. You rejected your feelings and left her side, and thought this- this was the right way. The only way.

You pushed each other actively away, and it's almost amusing now that you're here,- feeling no shame as you run your hands up her smooth belly, all the way until your wrists strain against the hem of her shirt.

A hand lands on your head, pushing your face roughly aside. Soon after, you feel her suck a mark into the flesh on the underside of your chin. You groan as your skin is pulled demandingly.

"Camille,-- why?" You voice shakes the same way your whole body does.

Another sloppy kiss on your lips. Your face must be red kissed by now. You feel your entire frame flush with warmth.

"Don't you understand?" Her husky voice spills against your cheeks in hot waves and makes your knees weak.

Her hand lands on the hollow of your neck, slowly trailing across skin before her sweet touch is disrupted by cloth. Still- despite wearing a thick uniform, you can feel her trail over your collar bones, across your sternum and down the valley of your breasts.

Her hand stops at the waistband of your pants, and she easily hooks two fingers under your belt. As she pulls you towards her, your lips connect in another rough kiss. Your hands land on her neck and face and you cradle her like you always dreamt of doing.

"Don't you understand why you're the only one who calls me by my real name?"

You are. And it's no new revelation to you. No one knows her better than you. Or should you rephrase better?

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐬.

"I do," you breathe back. You feel her hand clench harder around your waistband. She begins tugging, and together, with agonisingly slow steps, you two stumble backwards.

This time it's you who pushes her down on the bed, and as she lies flat on the mattress, you crawl up on her, straddling her with your legs and pressing a series of rough kisses along her throat.

You shudder again when a soft groan leaves her throat in response to your actions. Her sensitive pale flesh that had not been touched in ages. You're slow at first, testing the waters. Though receiving the reaction you intended, you begin to work your way around. Pulling down cloth wherever you could, you watch Camille unfold before you.

Of course she doesn't allow this position for long. A low grunt slips from your lips as she grabs a hold of you and flips you over, successfully switching positions without uttering as much as a word.

Instead of starting off tame however, you notice the thigh between your own right away. She had always been rougher and more domineering than you. Apparently not just during training.

You groan beneath her touch, and cant your hips up against her curve. The friction is too little to grant enough satisfaction. You feel your mouth run dry.

"Why?"

The questions always plague you. They never stop. They're there, in the back of your mind, making themselves noticeable whenever happiness seems to finally win the upper hand.

You already know the answer. You've always known. You just wanted her to say.

And you almost break right then and there when she does.

"I was afraid."

By God  were  you  too.

She leans above you, the moon shining light down on her. The cool grey empathises her pale scars and skin, her regretful gaze.

"It should've never bothered me and I still let it happen. But now I know there's things so much worse than being hated by people I don't care about. Losing you, for example."

Your hands are on her hips, pulling her down against you, though as you see the undeniable drip down her cheeks and chin, they wander up.

You grab her face gently, thumbs carefully wiping across her scarred cheeks. It's little cuts and bruises she hates with a passion. Reminders of moments she'd give everything to forget. She thinks they're disgusting, a sign of weakness.

But you, you love them all.

At the sound of her strangled words, you feel your chest squeeze with sorrow.

"I love you. I always did. And I need you. So don't you dare leaving."

Your foreheads touch. Such a simple gesture and yet, you've never been allowed to get closer. Maybe it had reason after all.

"Please don't leave me."

Your eyes close. Her hands dig into your broad shoulders, her weight on top of you fuelling the burning desire to make her yours.

And you whisper back a hushed, "Never," because you were foolish to believe a life beyond hers exists. Leaving her side, it would've only taken you so long to return. Despite never being allowed to feel her love as you are now, the sole thought of a 'we' made it much more worthwhile than anything else could ever come close to.

Camille is quick and precise. Her hands work on your clothes and with loud cluttering from your belt, your pants are soon discarded in some unimportant corner.

She's on top of you, not heavy and still firm- and God, she's so fucking gorgeous.

We have all the time we need, you realized this very moment. The thought alone made you a little emotional. And at the same time, it serves as more fuel for your desires.

You had all the time in the world to explore each other's lips thoroughly, push past the annoying covers shielding her body from yours, and it felt like ecstasy when you could finally caress her skin with your hands. Everywhere you wanted.

You run your nails across her naked back as she pushes her mouth against yours. She groans.

You're confused for a moment, when she suddenly sits upright, and cold washes over your chest where previously there was warmth.

However, the question is soon answered. You're hot under her palm when she finally cups you between your legs, and compared to your heat, her fingers feel so forbiddingly cold. You moan and shudder at the sudden friction and squeeze her hip so tight, you fear you might cause some bruises.

You buckle your hips against her fingers, the touch sweet and forbidden and addicting. The ache inside you lessens and the wounds you thought would never heal begin to prickle comfortably.

Rousseau doesn't start slow or eases you into it. That's not how the world works for her. Right away she sets a fast pace with her fingers that leaves you gasping for air. But it's good, so bloody good.

"Camille," you breathe her name. Out of reflex, almost. When you're hurt. Lonely. Or craving. It's her name from your lips.

Your head falls back into the covers, eyes fluttering closed as her fingers squeeze deeper. The emptiness inside you suddenly filled, the first time in years. And then with a low grunt, muffled by closed lips and breathless lungs, you hit your climax, allowing only her to see you this way-- vulnerable and almost driven to madness by this stupid thing called love.

Fireworks send your fingers and toes curling. What follows-- nothing.

A moment of silence passes. You feel the cool breeze from the window wash over your moist skin. Sweat sits on your hairline, but it's already beginning to dry.

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.

When was the last time you felt as peaceful as you are just now? When was the last time the quiet didn't scare you?

Laying here, you realize there is not a trouble in the world that could bother you. A sense of dare you say... peace.

A figure settles down next to you. Your lips are caught in a swift kiss, and you lift a weak hand to hold the back of her head. Her hair is as damp too.

"You're such a good kisser," you blurt out.

Staring quietly at you for a moment of disbelief, a gentle chuckle then comes from her lips.

"You're not so bad yourself,"

Her voice sounds even more raw now. It hits you in a way nothing has ever managed to.

"I still have room for growth..." You muse silently. You let your hand travel to her neck and turn positions slowly, your faces close and your gaze never leaving hers. You can recognize the hunger in her eyes.

"Luckily, I have someone to practice with now."

She looks up at you with wide, round eyes, finally settling beneath you. You lean forwards, pushing your mouth against hers carefully. Despite being rough while fighting, despite seeing the world as harsh, you know what she truly needs is someone tender.

The whole world had always been 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧 to her. She was hurt and tossed around. It's easy to think that now, she'd want the same here too. But you know her better than that. Now, with you, she finally gets the chance to be treated with the dignity and love she deserves.

You'd make sure to kiss and caress her until she knows what she's really worth.

"Headboard," you whisper with a smile.

And she backs up slowly, sliding over the silk covers, until she rests against the wood. She hisses at its coolness.

You allow a finger to travel down her sternum, between her breasts, feeling her squirm under your teasing touch. Then you lean forwards, brush over the soft skin of her collarbone before you turn towards her breasts. You lick over the hardened peak of one side, and cup the other. Kneading motions draw a true moan for the first time, and a cold shower runs down your back.

Your confidence grows the more she enjoys your work.

Soon, her ragged breaths switch into desperate whimpers and moans as you caress and scratch and lick. You push closer against her, so much, she's able to grab you for another kiss.

Finally, after agonisingly long teasing, you press your fingers to her soaked centre and are rewarded with a sharp gasp and a sweet,

"Oh shit,"

Shit  ain't  the half of  it .

You swallow hard. You don't get the cocky, 'not so bad after all' across your lips, are surprised by your own body acting up again. You decide to not leave her struggling for too long.

You quicken the work of your fingers and watch satisfied and breathless as Rousseau shudders and falls apart beneath you-, back arching in a beautiful moment of taut pleasure before she collapses bonelessly onto the covers. You study her exposed figure for a moment.

She's really exhausted. You're not sure if it's because of what happened just now or if it's just in general. You lay down beside her eventually, though continue to watch as she stares at the ceiling intensely.

Moments pass. Lying next to each other,- quietly and nude, it's intimacy in a way you've never experienced. But it feels... nice.

The sheets rustle. Her head turns your way, and your eyes meet. You're once again reminded how drop-dead gorgeous she is.

Overcome by a welling feeling in your chest, you reach out and begin to comb through her hair and push away those small strands that obscure her view.

"Were you happy?"

You're surprised by how mellow your voice sounds. You need to be the rock she can always hold on to. She allows herself a moment of thought, then nods her head.

"I was."

Her eyes squint soon after. "But I was always aware it wasn't what I really wanted. That I chose what I did because everyone looked at me. That he was the perfect choice to satisfy them. I was afraid to show them who I really was. What I really desired."

You don't judge her for it. You can't. You have no right to. You have no one who could spit on you for your choice. Whereas she has things to lose, you do not.

She reaches up. She grasps your hand firmly, intertwining your fingers. Weaving a net that can't ever be ripped apart.

"And?" You ask.

She snuggles closer, her cheek almost against yours now. Your faces inches apart, you can't help yourself.

You lean down, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. Then her cheek. Then her nose.

"I'm much older now. I've seen things," she says in a whisper. Her eyes close as she's being peppered with kisses. "I know there's things much scarier than a fear this silly. If they dare to treat us bad, I will show them how bad I can be."

So, is this it? After years of refusal from both sides, you're finally brave enough to do it?

Well, it's not that simple. You're very aware. There will be countless struggles. Not just regarding the general public. Camille, too, has been thoroughly hurt. She's lost people that she's loved dearly, even if not in the way she pretended to. She learned to hate and distrust and it's hard ridding oneself of this way of thinking after countless years.

𝐒𝐡𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐒𝐡𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟. And she'll make irrational decisions out of fear.

But if there's one person you'd go through this journey with, it's her.

She who has  stolen  your heart entirely.

Her gaze hardens all of a sudden. Your fingers are squeezed between hers as she clutches your hand. "You're not joining the SOE, you hear? I've already told Arthur."

A smile forms on your lips.

"Don't worry, I have no reason to run. Not anymore."

A beat of silence follows. You're surprised to find her grow sheepish the next moment. She shifts closer towards you as if seeking comfort in your arms.

It makes sense the moment she confesses,

"... I may have punched him... Sorry, it was... an impulsive reaction."

She had what?

I  had told her of our deal. And she became angry quite quickly. There... was no time to  react  to what followed soon afterwards.

You blink a couple of times, then begin laughing as the image forms in your head. It eases her. She huffs out the breath she was holding and begins to smile too, the slightest of blushes on her cheeks.

"Geez Camille," you snicker. "You don't have to apologise,- not to me at least-... but don't worry, I'm sure he'll understand."

"God, I'm terrible."

You draw her in, feeling her warm skin rest against yours, her legs entangled with yours. With every move against you, you feel your heart jump up your throat.

You press another series of tender kisses onto her face, peppering her lovingly. Her grin melts into a gentle expression. She fights the urge to close her eyes, with little success.

"No one can stay mad at you for long."

"Thank you (y/n). Really. Thank you for always being there for me."

As her eyes flutter shut and she falls against you completely, you can't help but do the same.

Yes.

You're very much aware that a rough road lays ahead of you. It won't be easy- but then again, what is? With her by your side, you won't waste a single thought worrying about the future. You've done that for far too long and let it ruin way too much. Those times are over.

As long as she's with you, you know you will find a way to keep the world shining in a bright light.

Chapter 3: ˏˋ 𝘼𝙄𝙀𝙇𝙇𝙊

Summary:

fluff
𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙧, 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙮 𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝘼𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙤 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙁𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙝 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙩.
Aiello/Fem!Reader

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬. From devastating heat, to rainfall that would sweep even the heaviest vehicles away, France had proved to be a bag of mixed beans.

Although moderate warmth and a clear sky blessed you much more often than the extreme opposite of said weather,--- today, was one of those less lucky days.

Ever since taking seat in your foxhole, the grey clouds above you tried to squeeze even the lasts of their drops down onto earth. The mud you rested on was soon swimming above your ankles, and bucket and shovel proofed to be your last resort. The poncho you wore helped a great deal with your fight, as was the waterproofing grease you had smeared across your boots before stepping into hell.

You didn't like the weather at all, however found the mood created by the droplets crashing onto the leaves of the surrounding trees as quite serene. The melody was calming. To you, at least.

Your boyfriend Aiello though?

He was 𝐦𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝.

Foxhole duty was one of the few times you two had any kind of privacy. Sure, you laid in an open hole, only meters away from the camp, but it was still better than laying in a tent with three other dudes.

You weren't uncomfortable sleeping next to Aiello or hugging and kissing him in front of the boys, but it felt... different when they weren't there. Aiello let down his guard for once. When you two were alone, he allowed himself to be a lot more affectionate. Said sappy things he'd never admit to in front of anyone but you.

He held you and kissed you and snuggled into your arms as if you were the only thing that ever mattered.

So,- duty inside those damn uncomfortable holes was almost like heaven, because it gave you a chance to cuddle and kiss and love each other properly. By now it's an inside joke that this is exactly why you two are so eager to take over these shifts.

But really, it's the mere truth.

"𝐹𝑟𝑎𝑎𝑎𝑛𝑘," you tease with quiet voice. He's laying with his back against the dirt wall, water and mud running down the front of his poncho. If his socks are as wet as yours? Probably.

You lean over, pressing a hand to his face and dragging up one corner of his lips. His head angles towards you, and you can't help but laugh, seeing his awkwardly stretched features. His face tenses into a scowl, his skin pressing into your thumb as his expression fought against your finger.

"Stop," you hear him demand.

Of course you don't. No instead, you reach over even further, to push up his other corner too. You even manage to do so, though his already stretched thin patience seems to have finally run out. Angrily, he grabs both your wrists and pries you away.

Both your hands are in his grasp and you smirk.

"Y/n," he warns again.

You push yourself forwards with your knees and manage to place a quick peck onto his forehead. Rain is falling hard. His and your face are completely covered with water. You taste it on your chapped lips.

Watching him, your heart swells as you notice his grumpy expression easing ever so slightly. He lets go at once. You kneel in front of him, watching him sulk while rain pelts down onto his head.

"If your mom's laying on her sunbed right now?"

A scoff draws from his lips. "Most likely."

"I'd give everything to be there too."

"Who wouldn't."

You laugh, leaning backwards against your hands. You're dirty, you're wet, but as long as you were with him, these inconveniences seemed so small and unimportant.

"You're one grumpy bastard, you know that?"

"How can you still smile?" He asks annoyed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Wearing these cool ponchos, every man seemed so small and childlike. Sweet Aiello was no exception.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Have you looked around you?" He gestures heavily with his hands. The Italian charm.

You blink a few times, then shrug. Closing your eyes, you utter a calm, "I'm with you. We're alive. Healthy. Still madly in love. Why wouldn't I be happy?"

You emphasise the madly, smiling as his face clouds with overwhelm. His eyes narrow a little, head angling away as he falls into deep thought.

"You're not mad you're stuck here?"

"I volunteered, Frank. I'm doing this because I wanted to, I wasn't forced. And the cherry on top, I had the luck to meet you here."

"Cherry," he repeats with a scoffed laugh.

You smirk, scooting closer to him. You lean your head against his shoulder, not bothered by the rain. Even beneath layers of wet clothes, and during this rainstorm, you can feel the heat radiating off of him. He's incredibly warm.

"Oui oui chéri."

"French?"

"Gotta practice a little for what's coming for us, eh?"

"No, no, you don't need to call anyone chéri. You have your chéri now."

Almost possessively, he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer against him. You laugh quietly.

"Ah, really?"

He scoffs. "Really."

"What does cherry mean in Italian?"

"Literally, it means, 'ciliegia'. In your context 'tesoro' fits a lot better."

"Tesoro," you whisper to yourself. Although you do feel a little self-conscious regarding your pronunciation, seeing his face melt into an adorable lopsided smile, it's worth every ounce of embarrassment.

"Treasure, huh?" You grin. "You Italians aren't so different from us American after all."

"You take that back," he says. Funny to see him this offended, given he's never been in Italy, neither does he know his ancestors from over there.

"Make me Tesoro," you dare.

Aiello doesn't hesitate and moves in for the killing blow immediately. His hands find your sides, your body still close from the cuddling, and he begins poking you.

You squeak startled, trying to protect yourself with little success. He's just too fast. There's a point you can't hold in those laughs anymore, and you cry out, begging for him to stop. The merciful man he is, he does eventually let up on you, watching you try composing yourself with an oddly calm smile. He doesn't just look satisfied. He looks-- happy, yeah.

Suddenly, he angles his head aside, groaning loudly.

"For fucks sake--!"

You raise a brow at him.

"...What?"

"I can't believe you actually make me enjoy being out here."

A blush burns on his cheeks. Ironically enough, as he says so, you feel your own face heating up, flustered in a way only he can accomplish.

You start laughing, seeing his face deepen with embarrassment. You jump back against his side, wrapping your arms around him. He laughs. How you love that sound.

No-one can deny you two don't look content, despite all the rain pouring down on your heads.

══════════════════

Replacement comes eventually. Much to Aiello's dismay,- since it had stopped raining minutes before. The sky is blue once more.

Of course one might argue it changes nothing of the fact that you're still swimming in dirt. Though, Aiello had just grown comfortable with this situation, only to be chased off again. He was growing sick of it.

"Accipicchia! Are you serious?!"

"Frank--!" You grab him by the arm, pulling him away from the hole he'd just clambered out of. The men who had shown up to switch you out stare questioningly at the cursing Italian. You can't help but laugh, even as he trashes in your grip.

"Calm down, Jesus!"

It was kind of your fault. If you hadn't managed to get him comfortable, he wouldn't be so angered right now. Then again, how the fuck is any of this your fault?

"This fucking place is costing me the last of my nerves!"

"So are you," you say, smirking as you catch his dark glare. Your little gremlin is especially moody on this fine day.

You adjust your grip, so instead of holding onto his arm, you intertwine your fingers, pulling him along. The soldiers of your unit have stopped staring as they grew used to their environment and the people around them. Though, sometimes you still catch wondering gazes when you acted affectionate towards your boyfriend in public.

These are the things the men aren't used to seeing anymore. Sometimes, they appear saddened by you two. Sometimes melancholic. Sometimes envious.

Aiello, whose face is twisted with anger and defeat, let's himself be guided by you. Today is not really his lucky day. Actually, even the last few days have been hard on him, from both an emotional and physical standpoint. The war wasn't letting up on him,- neither was Pierson. You're starting to feel sorry for him.

You hurry and make a beeline towards your shared tent, determined to make at least this day a little brighter. If anyone can do so, it's you, right? Despite the heavy rain, your fortress remains standing. You push the wet folds aside, hearing water fall from the plastic.

Inside, you see only two of the three boys lounging about. You halt as you reach the middle, letting go of Aiello's hand, and instead stem them against your sides. Your voice holds confidence as you declare;

"For the next two hours, I do not want to be disturbed!"

Zuss and Stiles look at you with deep frowns, blinking profusely.

"You-- what?" Zuss scoffs.

He gets a cocky look in return. His eyes narrow.

"You still owe me. Both of you."

You had stitched up Zuss after a fist fight with two fellow comrades, while you had helped find the right parts for Stiles' broken camera. You went out of your way to help when they needed it most. And now you needed that same treatment returned. Easy as that.

Stiles grimaces, realizing you're actually in the right here.

"C'mon, please... not now. It just rained. I can't sit down anywhere."

"And it's cold outside," Zuss adds quietly.

You just keep your hands stemmed against your sides, lips pursed as you stare at them demandingly. A moment passes. Then another. Quiet falls upon the tent.

Then, Stiles sighs.

"Okay okay, I get it, man." He rolls his shoulders in an exasperated way, adding, "Don't you dare fuck anywhere near my bed."

"Hey!" Aiello calls out.

Stiles stands up unfazed, motioning for Zuss to follow him. The younger only stares in disbelief at him, all the way until Stiles has left the tent.

"I---! What? Seriously?" Groaning loudly, he gets to his feet. "Ah, man!"

He trots out, letting the folds flap loudly as he exits. A wave of relief floods your chest the moment they're gone. Phew. You weren't entirely sure they would comply, no matter how it may have looked to everyone.

Suddenly, a pair of hands sneak around your waist, pulling you closer. Aiello presses a kiss to your cheek, then nuzzles closer.

"I'm tired," he murmurs against your skin. Although you feel your heart being squeezed a little, you smile. You always do. You know he depends on it.

"Good thing we're done for the day,"

"Uh-huh..."

"Let's get out of these wet clothes."

You're quick to do exactly that. It's not really pleasant, having your clothes stick to your skin for hours on end. Not only is it uncomfortable, it's not healthy either. Adding to that, it gets pretty cold after a while too.

"Ah brrr," you shake your shoulders, feeling a sharp wave of cold wash over you. You only wear shirt and short pants, the rest is draped across a thin wash line.

"Let's heat up," Aiello suggests. He's about to walk to the bed, when you call out to him.

"Frank, wait!"

Grabbing a towel, you walk over to him with quick strides. He frowns at you questioningly.

"Lean down a little."

He does so without hesitation. Smiling, you reach up to him, draping the towel across his head. Carefully and with slow circles, you start rubbing his hair dry. You drag the square cloth down past his ears, across his nape and along his scalp. You rub his hairline dry, his ears, the tips of his hair, everything that was somehow still wet. He has fallen completely quiet, letting you do your work and noticeably enjoying it.

Once you deem it as enough, you withdraw, smiling and preparing for the look of faked exasperation you knew he was going to flash you. However, you're caught off guard when that is not the case. You smile falls as you see him stare at you, face oddly moved. Usually he hides it, when love gets too much. Not this time, however.

He's still hunched forward to make it easier for you, his own towel laying around his broad shoulders. You take notice of his long lashes, the way they make him appear so impossibly sad when rain falls. He leans towards you, his hand finding and sliding up your nape. Carefully, he pulls you into him, your lips landing on his.

Your eyes flutter closed for a short moment. You feel his thumb resting against the edge of your jaw, sliding in direction chin as he parts to look at you.

"Thank you y/n," he whispers. His warm breath fans your skin. It reminds you how cold you actually are. Goosebumps are sowed all across your skin, most prominently drawing up your bare arms. Aiello notices, of course he does, and grabs your hand with his warm.

The one-man cot is used to both your weights by now. Although space is very little, in times like these, it doesn't matter. You'd much rather fight for space in a narrow bed than lie alone in your own, hurt and overwhelmed by the events of everyday.

No-, in his arms, the war seems small and insignificant for just a few hours. Sharing the burden became a normal thing the further the war and your relationship advanced. You need his support just as much as he needs yours. You curl further into his arms, back against his chest. His arms wrap around you, holding you close. His forehead presses against the top of your head and he pecks your hair a few more times before he finally settles into a relaxed position.

"I hate rainy days," he murmurs, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine. You can't help but chuckle.

"I know baby."

"-But the sun? I love her. Very dearly."

Your breath makes a little hitch. Odd, he's usually not a man who speaks in riddles. Even when it's a weak one such as this.

"... you do?" You ask dumbly.

He hums his affirmative, snuggling closer. He draws slow circles on your stomach. You ponder for a moment, still moved by his calm words, then grasp his hands.

"Well... The rain feels a little moody sometimes, but I love the rain too."

"I'm glad you do." His voice is quiet. Sleepy, almost. "If not we wouldn't be here right now."

"That means I did everything right."

The noises around you die down. Carefully, you allow your eyes to close, the warmth of the arms you're in drowning out the cold of the world. You listen to the rhythm of his heart, beating steady in his chest.

You love rainy days.

Chapter 4: ˏˋ 𝙋𝙄𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙊𝙉

Summary:

angst
𝙋𝙞𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙋𝙊𝙒 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙮. 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙤.
Pierson/Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧. Another bruise taken.

The light above is dim, and somehow still manages to blind his sensitive eyes. He shakes his head in hopes to stop his world from spinning, to shake the blur off his vision, but none of it is really helping.

The walls are made of thick brick stone, radiating off deep coldness. He hears water running somewhere, faint screams bouncing off the hard walls. The location is run down, but there is no reason for it to be in shape. This place serves one purpose only, and it does so pretty well.

When Pierson had been captured, they started beating him up with everything they had. All of it in an effort to squeeze information out of him. The war changing information he knew he possessed.

But Pierson's loyalties are set in stone. It's true that his country had been merciless countless times, it had betrayed and hurt him more than he has fingers on both hands. But there's not a single chance in hell he'll betray his brothers in arms. His men. The young boys he had trained to survive.

"The insignia on your shoulder."

His head lifts with great effort, blood dripping from his chin. Despite all, he manages to throw a sinister look at the man infront of him. The Kraut wears his Schutzstaffel uniform proud, colours and batches of all kind decorating his barrel chest.

He has a different feeling to him than the other soldiers. Pierson doesn't need to know his rank to understand. The way he speaks, cold and insensible, there's not a trace of humanity left in him. Despite his hatred for men like him, he wonders how one comes to be like this. If these people are simply born evil or taught to be.

"You're a Technical Sergeant, if I'm not mistaken. You should possess information that is of great value to us."

"And what gave you the idea I am going to talk, asshole?"

The Kraut next to the officer punches Pierson hard in the gut and he doubles over,- as much as he can, tied to a chair. He's beginning to feel heavy numbness from the hourlong beating. Fog clouds his mind. His world spins.

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜. If they think any of this could make him talk, they're dead wrong. Years of war had taught him what real pain feels like. Nothing of this could compare to the sacrifices he'd made. None of this comes close to the pain of losing your own men.

The officer hisses, his patience finally running out. In fluent English he curses, "Well. If you want to make it hard for yourself-!"

He turns his head to the door and shouts loudly, "Holt mir die Gefangene!"

There's a long moment of silence. Pierson can hear his struggled breaths and the drumming of his heart in his ears. The cold begins to gnaw at his toes and fingers, even through socks and shoes. He feels his hands tremble from lack of food and sheer exhaustion.

The silence makes the fine hair on the back of his neck stand. A bolt of electricity runs through him, almost forebodingly.

Then, violent shuffling noises are heard behind the sturdy cellar door. Fierce struggling noises, a loud thump, and then the door is busted open with so much force, it crashes hard against the wall.

𝑁𝑜.

Pierson's numbness lifts away in an instant. He feels the last bits of colour drain from his face, until all that remains is the blood running from his nose and mouth. His eyes widen, all the way until they're big enough to properly see the horrific scene infront of him.

You don't appear any less surprised, a sharp gasp leaving your chapped lips, broken by the lack of water.

"William-!"

An alarmed whisper, and you rip yourself free from the Kraut's tight grip, falling to your knees infront of him.

You're right here. Almost in reach, if it weren't for his fucking tied hands. You're just another soldier. And at the same time, even when he hadn't told you properly yet, you're so much more.

You see the condition he's in, lift both hands to place them against his face. Your cool, gentle touch almost feels like haven, managing to calm the ache in his body for at least a few moments. Tears sit at the rim of your eyes, but you don't allow them to fall.

"What did they do to you?" You whisper, voice cracking halfway through.

"What are you doing here?" He finds himself asking instead.

His arms strain against the ties, wrists rubbing uncomfortably against the rope, his shoulders pulling and pushing. It's a weak attempt to free himself, he knows. But he wants to grab you so bad, to pull you close to him, to protect you. From them. From everything. God, he'd do anything to return the gesture, to assure you everything would be alright.

"They got us all, the whole squad,- they're sure we know something that can change the war."

Before he can ask anything else he's rendered breathless as a Kraut grabs you by your hair, pulls you back, and you land flat on your bottom. Hands wrap around your arms and you're pulled across the hard floor.

You trash in their grip, insulting and threatening them, and Pierson bellows loudly, "You fuckers! Don't you dare lay a fucking finger on her!"

It's a mess. His screams are ignored. He watches as you're thrown on a chair opposite him and fixated just like he was hours ago.

"Have you changed your mind yet, sergeant?"

He meets the tall Kraut's gaze, fury in his eyes as he yells, "Fuck you! Let her go!"

A sigh and a nod.

"I see. Then she can't be all that important to you."

It looks unreal to Pierson. Wrong. He's used to violence. He's seen it ever since the war begun. He's experienced it long before he joined the army. But you were never supposed to be part of these nightmares. He feels his breath get caught in his throat as he watches you take the hit, hard enough to make your head fling the same direction. Skin against skin. Bone on bone. A sickening sound and blood trails from your nose immediately.

A strangled gasp escapes your lips, throat tied and air forced out of your lungs. You blink hard- processing what had just occurred. Then you cough, and blood falls from your lips.

Ropes burn into his wrists, his arms, but they're too sturdy to grant him any chance of escaping. "You fucking bastards!" He screams, hates the vulnerability that squeezes past the anger in his voice. The fear.

"Talk or watch in silence!" The Kraut shouts back, lunges forwards to press a gloved hand across Pierson's mouth. He struggles and thrashes but there's nothing he can do but watch as you're beaten bloody, muffled cries mixing with your pained into a garbled mess in his mind.

His panic struck eyes watch the unforgiving beat-up continue, and it feels like an eternity until they finally let up and give you a break. A silent cry leaves your bleeding lips and you lean forwards, allowing the dripping blood to pool on the ground. A bruise forms on your cheek already, big and blue and his world crumbles into tiny pieces.

Your back rises and falls heavy with every heave, and he watches as your head turns up, your teary orbs meeting Pierson's.

In that moment he sees everything he's ever dreamt of. The nightmares he had of being helpless while you're endangered, being unable to do anything to stop the pain and blood.

The Kraut finally lets go of him, digs a hand into his shoulder instead. Moments later Pierson's view of you is obscured as the man forces himself between you two.

"Hurts, doesn't it?"

"Let her go,-" Pierson breaths are quick and uncomposed; "She's just a simple private. She knows nothing, you hear? Nothing."

The Kraut stares deep into the sergeant's eyes before he begins smiling. A foreboding shudder runs down Pierson's spine and he watches the Kraut stand straight once more. He shifts on his feet and walks your direction, ordering his footmen to leave the room entirely.

And there's not a single thing Pierson could do.

"Of course, I never expected her to know anything. But she appears to be an excellent leverage."

Pierson is blinded on one eye by a reflection, held at just the right angle to shimmer in the dull basement light. And his heart drops deep inside his stomach once he understands. His arms strain hard against the ties, his body flings forwards, and a loud, "NO!" falls from his mouth.

"Only you can prevent this, sergeant," he hums, lifts the knife closer to your eye, dangerously so. "𝐀𝐧 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐲𝐞."

His mouth opens to speak but no words escape him. His jaw trembles. Tell him, his mind demands. He can feel the information that wants to slip out his mouth linger just behind this last crumbling wall of determination. And he is about to. Your squirming, the tears, the screams of agony, it's too much for him to handle. It drives him insane. He just wants it to stop, the pain, your pain, even if it may only be for a short while.

Stop hurting her.

He can tolerate pain, he'll endure it all for the world, but watching you getting beaten into a bloody pulp? No world is worthy of that. Especially not this one.

He grimaces, and tastes acid in the back of his throat. It's the bitterness of loss. The realization that they had won. Because they had, hadn't they? They made him yield, they made him betray, and there is no excuse for that. He's selfish to choose you above anyone else.

Though much to his surprise, it never comes to that. His heart stops dead when he looks past the grinning Kraut, the man who's already celebrating victory, and instead he finds your gaze, your wide, unbelieving eyes, your horror and he's shaken when you suddenly begin shouting,

"𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓! 𝐖𝐄'𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐒, 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑?"

The Kraut whirls around at once, slams his hand against your mouth, muffling your protest, though in his haste he's not careful enough. You manage to dig your teeth deep into his hand, and even through the glove managing to squeeze some flesh with your strong jaw.

He howls and withdraws and for just a few moments,- it's only the two of you. Pierson's conflicted gaze clashes with your determined and a broken utter of your name leaves his lips.

No.

No.

He doesn't want to. He doesn't want them to hurt you. Everything up to this point is managable, the pain, the bruises, he can kiss it all away, but what he's about to do is irreversible.

"Don't make me do this," he begs silently.

"I know what I am. I know what I serve for," you whisper. Your face is wrinkled into an aching, and still, for a few seconds the expression lifts, and a little pained smile graces your face. It's a ghost of what it's once been. The remainder after a bloody beating. But it's there.

When the Kraut's standing again, hand pressed against your face once more, there's a couple of blonde strands hanging down his face, breaking the image of control he'd shown just earlier. You'd done it, you had broken his composure.

"TELL ME!" He yells.

You're so damn strong. And Pierson knows it's now his turn to be too, if only for your sake.

He feels his breath shake. His hands clench around the wooden armrests his hands are tied to. He loves you. He really does.

"Fuck you," he spits. Your shoulders tense involuntarily.

The Kraut stares at Pierson in disbelief, apparently not even he had expected this turn of events, and the look of pure shock slowly turns into deep anger. He turns towards you once more, lifts the knife.

There's no hesitation in his movement as he takes half your eyesight, just as he had promised to do.

The cries that follow will forever remain embedded in Pierson's mind.

His face twists in agony and he averts his head, eyes squeezed shut tightly. He tries thinking of something else, warm nights spent together, sneaking off camp and laying in the grass, the green hills still warm from a long day of blaring sun. How much he wishes to return to those times. It was all easier back then.

Pierson feels his body strain in disgust as he perceives blood splatter to the ground. The knife is thrown into a corner, his stained hands wiped off on your already bloody uniform. He can't bring himself to look. He can't.

"WACHEN! I need a break. Throw them into the cellar."

The entire process is a haze. Being dragged through dozens of grey corridors that look the same, loud voices talking in this foreign language he knows nothing of but hates. His numb feet trail on the floor, men carrying him to his cell.

He's freed from his ropes once they're there, and trips over his heavy limbs when he's pushed inside. He crashes to the ground, but it takes no more than two seconds for him to turn around when he hears your strained coughs.

"Y/n," he breathes, watching as you too, are thrown into his cell. He surges forward, catches your body before you can crash on the ground. You collapse into his arms, holding onto him for dear life as your legs give out beneath you.

Immediately he notices the smell of iron. The heaviness of this scent makes his stomach churn. He hears his name from your lips, much too silent to properly perceive.

Cradling you on the ground, he places a hand against your beaten face, careful to not further hurt you. You breathe unsteadily, still trying to find a grip in this world of pain. He feels your hands grasp at his shirt, tight, never letting go. The wound. God, the wound.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. He can't help but repeat his words, the cries still echo in his ears, those he knows he will never forget. He leans forward, presses a kiss against your hair, hands shaking as he holds you even closer.

"Together?" A Kraut asks somewhere, a language none of you two understand. The officer stares at the scene, pleased with the results. He nods.

"Leave them like this until the next morning."

Turning on his heels, he wanders off, murmuring with a wave of his hand,

"The longer they're together, the easier we'll get him to speak."

Chapter 5: ˏˋ 𝘾𝙍𝙊𝙒𝙇𝙀𝙔

Summary:

angst / fluff
𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙬𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣.
Crowley/Reader

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝.

By now you're sure it's all a well organized competition, one of who could make you feel the worst. The punches just don't stop. And it pisses you off more than you let on. Work is piling in your office, and every day there is so much new stuff, you don't get the chance to process half of it.

Your radio broke down. You love hearing music; and the news often told of the war your better half fought in. It was very important. This thing was so expensive and now, having to be replaced, you have to use the money you originally wanted to spend on a nice vacation once your husband returned.

Gizmo died too. Your loyal pet rabbit. A little grey ball of fluff. Your only company on lonely, rain filled days, when you couldn't help but think of him.

𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬.

Today is no different. You left work late, having worked overtime as per usual, and the bus you normally took has long departed. A single, loud thunder had rattled the sky. No second later, the first drops of rain fell from the dark void opening above you.

Of course, this particular bus stop doesn't have any roofing.

Rain drenches your clothes. You're soaked through and through.

People run to shelter, protecting their heads and hair with the help of brief cases and hands. The masses that had previously crowded the streets disappear.

All that's left is you.

You stay. Right where you stand.

Staring blankly at the darkening streets, your bag under your arm, you don't even care enough to hold something over your head. No, not when you feel like you're going to burst any second. Slowly, your head tilts upwards, eyes closing as rain hits your face. So much of it, there's no way anyone can ever spot the tears forming and falling.

You miss him. God, do you miss him. Every day. Every minute of existence.

He is the reason you aren't concentrated, too unmotivated to do anything but sit around. You have no energy nowadays. You're often at the loss of words whilst in a conversation and sometimes, give up on it entirely. A headache plagues you constantly, buzzing away in the back of your mind whilst working.

𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚.

Arthur has always been working for the British government. He is intelligent. He is charming. And he knew how to utilise these skills well. No wonder he is so popular. Still, every evening, he came home to have dinner, and you fell asleep in each others arms. He told you of his days, his missions, no matter how classified they were. You went on walks. You visited caffes and restaurants. You lived and loved despite this dangerous job of his.

Nowadays, ever since he had joined the S.O.E. and entered the war, he is stationed in France. He helps the resistance with his wide set of languages and operates deep inside the wolfs den. He walks on thin ice and never backs off, no matter how many cracks form beneath his feet. You don't have to be a genius to see the risks.

Of course, you supported him the best you could. He was unbelievably grateful for this fact, though that didn't make his departure any easier.

There was a good chance he'd never return. He's always had a dangerous job, but this was well beyond any dangers he'd ever faced. He'd shake hands with the enemy. Drink and chat with them. And if anyone made a mistake, the gun would be pointed at his head first.

You inhale shakily, hand clenching firmly around the bag in your hand.

"𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑜," you had told him back then, breaking down crying the moment the ship was gone and set sail towards the colourful horizon.

Now, more than ever, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 needed him. You needed your hero. A sign of life would be a great start. The government isn't willing to give you any information about his whereabouts, despite your pleads. They deemed it as too dangerous, same goes with personal letters. After all, they could be intercepted and traced back. So; no information for you.

For months, your husband has been swallowed by the face of the earth.

"Arthur," you whisper silently. The rain devours your quiet words.

"Where are you?"

With the other bedside empty and cold, it's much harder to get out of bed in the mornings. You hug pillows and try forcing yourself to dream of him, but it doesn't work. A pillow can never replace his warmth. And he's much better than any dream can ever be. His gentle hands caressing your skin. His lopsided smile and raspy morning voice when he asks you how you've slept.

You'd give everything to see him again. Your husband. Another tear rolls quietly off your face.

The rain stops.

The noises are still there; the only difference being that no heavy drops connect with your drenched hair anymore. You listen to natures rhythm a little longer, then open your eyes carefully. You recognize a black ceiling above you.

𝐴𝑛 𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎.

Your brows furrow deeply. Did someone take pity on you?

"𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚."

This voice.

Your heart falls ten stories deep, connecting with the bottom of your stomach. Your knees almost buckle from the heavy drop. Your head turns and your body follows its lead, all the way until your gazes connect. Standing tall before you, dressed in a clean suit, is a dark figure.

Black eyes stare at you in amusement, something you're not able to share just yet. Not when he's here, finally, after being gone for so long.

It's him, you hear your mind whisper.

"Arthur?" You croak, voice breaking even before the first vowel leaves your lips properly. A shaking hand reaches out towards him. He's so close.

"It's me," he confirms. His smile slowly fades as he too realizes that words have no meaning in this vile world anymore. Not when you had dreamt of this moment so many times, only to wake up in an empty double bed again.

Your fingertips touch soft cloth. It rustles beneath your touch. Your fingers curl around the seam of his pocket, and despite your firm grip, your arm shakes heavily.

It's him, you hear your mind whisper. And it really is him.

"Love," he utters quietly. You realize in this very moment how much you had missed hearing him call you this. This kind of affection and love that was denied from you for months.

A sob breaks from your lips. You don't want to be like this. So dramatic. Not when this occasion is such a cheerful one. But the relief, it's too much, it hurts.

Your chin presses against your chest, lips shut tight, in an attempt to stop your cries.

His hand reaches down to yours, and warmth spreads through you as he envelops it with his own. He walks forwards, tracing up your arm, then pulls you close against him.

Your face hits his chest. Immediately, you recognize his scent. His curves. You grasp at his clothes, back jerking occasionally as you fight to stay composed,- but then you hear it, losing your grip all over again.

In his chest. Steadily. His heart beats.

He's alive. He has survived this stupid war. And he has returned to hold you in his arms.

"You're alive," you cry. More to yourself than him, really. Because that is all that matters now, isn't it? Arthur Crowley has returned. 𝐴𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒.

You sob harder as realization hits properly. He is back in your life. You get to love him again. And you realize how much time the two of you got robbed of. It's unfair, really.

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Please tell me I'm not dreaming,"

The umbrella crashes to the ground. For a second, your heart stills in fear. But its not because the man before you disappears like he'd always done in your dreams. Rather, because his arms find your figure, engulfing you properly.

You're pressed against him tight, his strong arms around you, and you feel your eyes fill with thick tears again. Rain falls down on your head and you know you will forever remember this feeling as a good one. The cold is washed away.

"You're not dreaming," you hear his voice. It rumbles straight into your skin, soothing your soul. His face leans against your head, his lips on your scalp. You can start breathing normally again. You stay a little longer like this, until the very last tremor in your body has stilled.

It's him who pulls away first, gently removing both your arms. He holds them in front of him. You can't help but stare in awe at the man standing before you, familiar and yet foreign. The rain had now also successfully drenched him. Wet, black curls stick to his forehead and thick drops roll off his face and chin. You take notice of new scars. Remains of battles that you never heard from, you're sure.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. Your eyes close upon the touch, brows furrowing deep as another sob builds up in your chest.

"You're not dreaming. I am taking you home now," he whispers softly, "Tonight, I'll hold you until the morning calls upon us. And you'll never have to wake up alone anymore, I promise."

No cold bedsheets. No grey mornings. No bitter taste of loneliness.

"I missed you so much," you utter. You want to tell him so many things, but it's too much for you right now. Stories of love and desire. Bloody dreams and empty eyes.

You fall deep into his gaze, and see all the pain that had yet to surface. Much more than words, Arthur had always preferred actions. Words can hurt. While actions can do the same, at least they never lie, pretending to be something else.

You free your hands, carefully cupping his face. Strong jaw and full cheeks. You pull him against you, capturing his lips for a long kiss. One that has been held back for much too long. It tells stories without any words being spoken.

You taste bitter loss and grief on his.

He tastes loneliness and despair.

So many months have come and gone. So much time has passed. War has raged and worlds were lost. He was gone, thousand miles across the sea. Unreachable.

Now, you hold him again. Wrecked and hurt and it will take years to repair the damage. Still, while death is a cruel sentence, this is a solvable problem.

And with time on your hands, and the love reignited, all you can think of, crying into his chest, is;

𝐻𝑒'𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒.

Notes:

Crowley needs more love. I adore him so much <3

Chapter 6: ˏˋ 𝘼𝙄𝙀𝙇𝙇𝙊 (𝐹𝐼𝐶𝐿𝐸𝑇)

Summary:

angst / fluff
𝘼𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙧.
Aiello/Fem!Reader

𝐑𝐞𝐝.

𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. On the ground. The walls. Seeping through his fingers. Staining his wedding ring. Red across your chest. Little bullets carving deep holes.

You had just stood there. No one had seen danger approaching with fast strides. A few shots, panicked gazes. Now you're bleeding out in his arms, choking and gasping for air. You're calling for him, weakly, and he answers every time, but he isn't sure you can even perceive him anymore.

And as your eye lids fall, so do his tears, and he cries in the most pathetic way, screams and pleads because all of it is too unfair.

A shout of his name- garbled and fuzzy but it's there. He's being shaken thoroughly, and suddenly, he hears your voice yell ever so clear;

"Frank!"

He jerks awake at once, wide yet tired eyes greeted by a dark ceiling. Silence rings in his ears- it's deafening. There's no cries of help. No machinery, no gun shots. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟. . 𝑤𝑎𝑟. Years, he had lived through hell. And now that it's over, it doesn't feel right. It feels undeserving.

He stares at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity. His chest rises and falls rapidly, despite his best tries to calm himself. He notices sweat pearling from his face, no doubt soaking the covers.

Finally, he musters the strength to look to his right. You're kneeling on the other side of the bed, one hand rests on his chest, the other on his shoulder. His eyes have adjusted enough to make out your face in the darkness.

You appear calm, but the remains of fear still linger just under the surface. He can see it shine through your glossy eyes, the light quiver of your fingertips against his body. The part lips.

He curses under his breath. He'd done it again, hadn't he? Thrashing in his sleep, uttering words. Every night, he wakes you with his reoccurring nightmares. And every night it's getting worse.

The war's over. But he's experienced violence and terror for a lifetime. The human brain isn't made for the load of brutality he'd lived through. Not to mention the emotional baggage.

And ever since...

No. Not again. He feels a deep shudder tear through his spine, leaving pain much worse than any bullet wound in its wake.

Aiello carefully guides your hands off of him, watching the confusion on your face grow. Freeing himself of your gentle hands, he begins to scramble with the blanket- tries to get it off of him so he can leave- but much further than that, he doesn't get.

"𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠?"

"Don't worry about me."

Both your voices are raspy under the cover of the night, but there's sorrow in your voice that makes his inners shake. He averts his gaze, trying to stay strong. He feels his hands shake and grasps the blankets tighter.

"Don't leave Frank."

"Mia amata- I won't be able to sleep anyways. Don't let me disturb you, get rest. Please."

He lets the covers slide over his shorts, his legs, moves across the bed to stand up- when suddenly, two arms wrap around his torso. He gasps quietly when he's pulled backwards a few centimeters, then feels your warm body press against his back. Slender arms around his waist.

Your head burrows in the crook of his neck. He feels your breath fan his skin, sowing goosebumps.

"No-," Your cry tears at his heart. Hearing you so utterly vulnerable always made him weak, and it doesn't take much more than that to make his eyes sting with tears.

"We both didn't survive a war just to sleep separated. There were times I thought we won't make it. And I almost didn't."

Ever since he'd almost lost you, his nights are plagued with pain. Your pain. He was too slow. And compared to a decade of war, there was nothing more horrible than holding your lifeless body, your blood all over his hands.

His hands find yours, wrapped around his waist, and he clutches them tight. He can't help but lean a little forward, body jerking as the first sob wrecks through him painfully.

No, he'll never let you go again. You're the strongest fucking woman he knows. Someone who lived through a rain of bullets and now you're here,- right by his side. He holds them because he can. Because you're alive and breathing, because there was a moment he thought the future he's living right now was lost forever.

"I need you," he hears your say. "And I know you need me too."

He turns his body just slightly, and feels himself immediately engulfed in a hug. His arms wrap around you, fingers desperately clutching at the back of your clothes. His face disappears in the crook of your neck. The cries that echo through the room are muffled. And still, each of them breaks your heart little by little.

You're right. Hell- you always are. He needs you. He can't do this without you. Wrapped in your loving arms, he realizes even more so.

So he lets himself be guided back on the bed by you, finds your body and kisses you hard.

When he sleeps he has these nightmares, images burnt into his mind he knows he won't ever forget. But when he's awake he lives his dream. A life with you, without a war just around the corner.

The constant fear of losing the one he loves most has vanished. He's free to do whatever he wants now, and you're by his side, always.

It seems as if these were such simple things, waking up everyday next to you, laying together and enjoying the other's warmth. But he's learned it's something that should never ever be taken for granted. And he's not as foolish as to do so anymore.

He settles down and you pull him into a position with his head nestled against your side. Careful strokes caress his head, fingertips tracing his scalp, the scars hidden behind dark hair and it leaves a prickling sensation.

On their own, his eyes close.

He remembers waking up in his narrow bunkbed, the times you'd decide to stay overnight. What the other guys would say in the mornings interested him very little. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 mattered. You were usually sound asleep, squeezed against his side, eyes closed. An indescribable feeling.

The slight rise and fall of your chest, hearing your shallow breathing, your warmth radiating against his skin. Mornings would usually be cold, but with you, it has changed.

And he'd drive through your hair, thinking how wonderful you were.

Your hand travels, caresses his jaw and cheeks, he feels warm and fuzzy and even with his eyes closed he notices his world beginning to spin.

"I love you;" And the words come from his mouth much too easy, three words he promised himself to never say to anyone again, because they had hurt him too much in the past.

Yet here he is, with his wife, someone who'd undoubtedly be worth the pain.

He doesn't realize it once he falls asleep under your touch, sinking into you with openly shown comfort and trust he's rarely showed anybody.

He sleeps, ridding himself of all the trouble that plagues him, and by God, he feels so light once he wakes up, something stings hard in his throat once he notices. How long has it been since he's felt this good?

And if that weren't good enough already, he catches sight of you. Soundlessly asleep in his arms, right here- here in his grasp-, and he can't help the tears rising to his eyes.

Smiling just faintly, he nuzzles closer and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

This. It's all he ever wanted. And for once, he may have actually gotten the happy ending he'd begged for ever since the war begun.

 

Chapter 7: ˏˋ 𝙋𝙄𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙊𝙉

Summary:

angst
𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.
Pierson/Fem!Reader

𝐏𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬.

He doesn't hide it. He could never, even if he were to try. The dooming mix of pain and adrenaline beginning to blossom in his chest knock him too far off the tracks to allow him to cover it up in any way. Suddenly, he feels the numbness that's taken ahold of his body lift away and give into something that burns all over.

It doesn't take long for you to notice the pair of dark orbs watching intently. Pierson sees you visibly stir as you realize who he is.

𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑠𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑑𝑎𝑦. A horrible situation, strong compassion at the wrong time, and it all lead to the wrong choices. Mistakes he could've never amend for. Mistakes that broke him apart.

Both of you don't know what to do. You had never expected to see eachother again after all these years. And neither have you expected it to still hurt this much.

He almost gives in to the feeling of weakness that washes over him. A feeling that almost pulls him to his knees. Something sits on his shoulders suddenly, heavy and unforgiving. Shame and cravings he'd hoped had long subsided. One look and it all reignites, burns him all over, reminds him where exactly the scars lay, even after all these years.

You were always the stronger one. And it's to no surprise it's you who takes yourself a heart and marches over. A bubble forms in the back of his throat, and as he tries to swallow, it pops,- sends needles into his throat and it stings so bad he wants to throw up.

Then you're right here, infront of him.

A ghost of his past. Long lost but never forgotten. 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫? The smell of coffee is secondary, as a scent tingles his nose that throws him back years. Back when it was all better. It makes him yearn long nights in your arms, warm embraces and tender kisses. These memories send shivers down his spine, and they are certainly not the good kind.

"𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑚. How long has it been?"

Your voice has changed. It's still silky soft, but he recognizes a dullness to it that was never there before. 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐥. Even on someone like you.

"I'm glad to see you're alive."

"I-. ." He loses his voice for just a moment. Clearing his throat silently, he wills himself to go on. "Same goes for you."

A small smile appears on your lips. He stares at it. Misses it.

"How has life been treating you?"

Absolutely horrible, is the correct answer. Without the war he realized there was no purpose for him left. He's still in the army, performs his duties praiseworthily, has even regained his old rank,- but he knows men like him aren't needed anymore. At least not in the way they used to.

Most his friends are gone. Either they're dead, missing, or have been forcefully retired. And the platoon he'd travelled with for the last two years is finally back home with their respective families. To say they have earned this is an underestimation.

All but him have returned.

Because after giving the army his life, it left him with nothing to return to. And although he doesn't want to admit it, loneliness plagues him at night. When he lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, and there is nothing he can do but think.

"Good- good, yeah," he utters absently, because his mind is all over the fucking place right now. He hopes his lie isn't all too obvious. Even if it is, he's glad you spare him the pain of having to explain himself, instead you flash him another of your warm smiles.

As his gaze travels, he finds 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰. His eyes widen.

What an unexpected twist.

It feels like a deep stab to the gut. And how he wishes it actually was.

God knows how deep his urge runs, to just man up and 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢. That the past years, the only thing he could think of was you. Regrets plague him, keep him awake at night, whispering in low tones what a horrible man he is. No matter what he wants to enjoy, he misses your warmth and every woman he meets just can't compare to what you have been.

He wants to tell you of the vivid memories he sometimes has, mornings when your fingers would trace up his scarred arms, drawing pictures of him he never fit. You had loved him in a way no one else ever had. No one comes close. No one tried coming close like you did. The love of others simply cannot compare. And he can't find himself loving anyone the way he had you.

Of course, he doesn't say any of these cravings out loud. He can't, even if he had the courage to speak.

𝐀 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦. The world spins, everything, and he feels like he's witnessing the last bits of himself shattering in this very moment.

You follow his gaze, recoil visibly as you understand what has him shaken all of a sudden.

After everything, he should've expected parts of him still rest with you. He had loved too hard for them to not remain.

You lift your hand. The ring on your finger can't be mistaken for anything else.

Kasserine had torn you two apart, had broken the other to the point there was no use in trying to find happiness in your misery. After years passed, only one had begun moving on. And here's the evidence,- a man who had undoubtedly won the jackpot. He'd gotten the woman of Pierson's dreams, someone Pierson couldn't find the strength holding onto after being broken by the war.

Your gaze rests on the ring now too. You don't look happy. Or maybe it's his mind playing tricks. Still, you try to smile.

"The wedding is in two weeks."

He can't find the strength to lift his gaze, it's tied to the ring. Beautiful engravings stare back at him, almost taunting. Suddenly, his chest isn't achingly empty anymore. No, he remembers. It's the same feeling he'd drowned in once he realized 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤. Here he is once more, and it feels like he's losing you all over again. How pathetic.

"Congrats."

There's no pettiness in his voice. No malice. After all- you don't deserve any hate for trying to love after witnessing true horror. And your expression melts into a soft, having expected anything but an honest congratulation.

You're overwhelmed-, an uncommon sight. You don't know what to say. He can't help but smile as he notices this, and your breath runs short.

"William...-"

You jump a little when your name's called, and quickly excuse yourself to go and grab your freshly brewed coffee from the counter. He sees your hand shake as you reach into your purse to pay. A strong wave of sorrow clenches his throat shut.

𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟, 𝑖𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑖𝑡?

The bell rings as Pierson pushes the door open for you, allowing you to slip under his arm into the streets. Your feet already take you into a particular direction, and he realizes the two of you would have to walk opposite paths.

The irony almost makes him want to laugh.

Tension in the air. Electricity. It's agonising how much it reminds him of old times. But the aftertaste is bitter. You were meant to be together. Then again, if you were- none of this should've happened in the first place.

"Well... It was nice seeing you again, William."

"It was."

Silence settles over you. Even after the small exchange, none of you budge. You're frozen in place. Pierson decides it's better he just keeps his mouth shut-, there's too many words garbling his mind right now and he doesn't want to say anything he knows he'd regret saying later on. He had hurt you too much already.

The sun has long begun setting and throws beautiful shades of colours across the crème streets. It's a warm summer's afternoon, perfect for a walk with your special someone.

Grab her hand and never let go.

Pierson has been staring at his feet this whole time, and finally manages to gather the strength to look you in the eyes. To say his goodbyes, even if it meant forever. But when he falls deep into your orbs, just like the first time you met, his resolve crumbles at once.

He hears the voice in his head scream. It begs and it pleads and it cries in such a pathetic way, it twists his gut. Move. Do something about this unfairness.

He loves you. He can't say goodbye, this couldn't be it. Not again. He can't lose you again.

Tears rise to your eyes, but you don't let them fall. Too many had been shed in his name already. Your words are merely a whisper, but carry more significance than any scream could ever serve it justice.

"I loved you. More than anything else in the world."

You did. And it was his fault this young love had been lost in such a brutal way. Scarring both of you for the rest of your lives.

His lips tremble for just a moment, then he presses them together harshly. His brows furrow deeply, eyes focused on your shoulders.

"I'm so sorry y/n," he whispers.

You shake your head.

"No. I am."

You walk forwards a few steps, until you're so close he can see the faint scars tracing your face. Scars he'd give anything to kiss. Your fingertips against his upper arm ignite his skin, even through the clothes.

Standing on the tips of your toes, you place a gentle kiss on his cheek. A peck. A light brush of your lips on his skin. Still, it's enough. He feels his heart stop beating, his breath getting caught in his throat. The whisper against his ear sends shivers along his back, but the words twist his guts with an iron sword, sealing his fate forever.

"Goodbye, William."

That day, you never look back again.

He can't remember how long he'd stood on the spot. Staring down the street, waiting for your figure to appear once more. That you'd just walk into his arms and give him another chance to love you.

Really, some trivial part of him thought that maybe, you'll come back. That he was enough for you to throw it all away.

When it's dark and his legs can't stand no more, he finally accepts that he is not. And still, he can't bear accepting that it's over, forever. When it hurts so much already, how is he supposed to survive knowing you would never return?

Two weeks later, in the same caffe, same time of day, he sits alone by the window and wonders. What would've happened if he'd told you everything he wanted to that day. 𝑁𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑦.

You still love him. He knows. And you know that the same applies for him.

But you're standing far too deep in a real life to let it all go now. Not for someone like him. Someone who breaks hearts without even realizing. Someone who's so caught up fixing their own vile self-, they don't notice what they're doing to the others around them.

There's no reality where he would've said any of these words he thinks of. There's no happy end for him in this life. He should've realized this long ago.

And he recons you're much better off without him.

He lays his head on the table. The smell of coffee has turned bitter.

That's the worst part of it, isn't it? He had a chance once. To have it all and so much more. And he's lost it, together with everyone else.

He closes his eyes. Pierson waits for the days to draw by, trying not to daydream of your return. Cause after all, that's all it is.

A mere dream.

 

Chapter 8: ˏˋ 𝙏𝙐𝙍𝙉𝙀𝙍

Summary:

fluff
𝙏𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙚.
Turner/Fem!Reader

"Has anyone seen Turner?"

One after the other, they shrug. Zuss is the last to do so, rising his head to meet your concerned gaze. You hadn't seen him in a long while, and by now the sun has long disappeared behind the horizon, throwing shadows across Aachen's ruins.

"Have you asked Sarge yet?"

You really didn't want to. He was one of the few who actually knew of your relationship with the Lieutenant, and you knew he still deems it as upmost inappropriate. Despite his feelings however, and the— at times, heated relationship the two men had, you're surprised Pierson hasn't told anyone yet.

Anyone being Colonel Davis or higher, that is.

It'd be devastating. You're sure if the old Colonel would find out, it would be over for the two of you. There's no place for love on a battlefield, especially when one of both is the platoon's leader. Love leads to weakness. And weakness is fatal in war. You'd be the first to be replaced or maybe, entirely thrown out the army. Neglection of duty, maybe. The army always finds ways.

Swallowing hard, you contemplate between sitting down next to the boys or pestering Sergeant Hardass with your question. You do wonder where Turner's run off to. Usually he sits in his tent, scheming and preparing. Ever since you waltzed into Aachen, he's always been close by, only a room or two away.

Since the platoon is holed up together closely, you saw one another accordingly much— yet, had no chance to express any feelings. You talk a lot. Though, no affectionate words, no hugs and no kisses. As much as you desired to. That the two of you are dating needed to be kept a secret at all costs.

Even at the cost of your relationship?

You shudder at the thought.

When you reminiscent of the time you two had spent, you know there is no other man that can ever fill the space such as he can. He is romantic. He loves fast and hard, unlike anyone you'd ever had the pleasure meeting. He is as kind as he is passionate. He's incredible, really. Thinking of him always makes a smile grace your lips.

Ad maybe that's exactly the reminder you needed.

"Ah, fuck it."

Instead of joining the boys, you stride past them with confident steps. Of course that confidence evaporates as soon as you round the room's corner, and you take notice of the man you're looking for. Pierson stands with his back against the wall, gun leaning beside him. His eyes are shut tight, both his arms crossed infront of his chest.

You swallow hard, stopping right where you stand.

Everyone in this room is sitting or lying on the ground, recovering and sleeping at least a little. Only he remains standing, ready to fend off attackers. For a moment you wonder if this was a good idea. Waking him would only make him mad, wouldn't it? He still held the information to ruin both your lives. Then again, if he wanted to, he could've done so ages ago.

Before you have a chance to further contemplate, his eyes flutter open. Dark eyes land on your still frame and you jump a little.

He blinks a few times, never averting your gaze. You're not sure he waits for you to speak or simply glowers like usually.

Eventually, he speaks up.

"Down the corridor. Up the stairs."

You furrow your brows in confusion, processing his words.

"Excuse me?"

"You're looking for Turner. Down the corridor, up the stairs."

Oh wow—

Caught red handed.

You freeze up, hands gripping the cloth of your pants tight. Despite trying to not be too obvious, you see an arrogant smirk push through his nonchalant expression. You can't help but notice however, the firmness in his voice.

"What else would you want from me?"

You allow a moment of silence to wash over you. Although you're a little flustered he read you so damn well, it's still nice of him.

"... Thank you, Sarge."

He nods. You feel his eyes on your back as you leave, walking the direction he's led you to. You make your way out the apartment the platoon's in, then walk up the staircase the only way you can. The lower bit had collapsed long before you arrived, most likely because of a bomb's detonation.

You jump the last part, across a large gap, landing with your heavy boots on the crumbly concrete. One door leads left and one leads right. Two identical apartments with the only difference,— one door is opened widely. It makes your choice pretty obvious.

"Joey?" You call out quietly.

You make your way towards the wooden door, carefully leaning against it to push your head through. Light shines from one of the rooms. Dim, but you can make it out clearly in the darkness.

You walk forward, perceiving rubble crack under your boot with every step. You still the moment you can finally see. You feel the fine hair on the back of your neck rise, the same time your heart skips a few beats.

A table is standing in the middle of the room, draped in an unsettling clean table cloth. Plates and silverware are laid out neatly, and a single lit candle rises from the middle of the table. The windows are boarded and closed-up, preventing light from giving away your position. He's a romantic man, not a dumb one.

Noticing someone entering, the man in question turns around, catching your tearful gaze.

"Y/n;" he utters with a smile. "Finally!" No second later, he's crossed the room, swooping you up by your waist and twirling your around once. You gasp surprised, hands clinging to his shoulders. When he sets you down, he does so with a quick peck to your temple.

"You did all this?" You ask in disbelief.

"Of course. Mind you, it's still only stew I'll be serving today. But..." He cocks his head a little to the side, smiling sheepishly.

"It's the thought that counts, right?"

Laughing out loud, you nod and wipe your eyes with your sleeves. Upon seeing this, Turner is quick to reach up, grabbing your face in tender fashion. Next you know, he presses his lips to yours. You allow your eyes to close, shoulders fully relaxing.

Lord, how long it's been since you last kissed him.

You realize just how much you've missed it. Not just that, but his closeness. The hands on yours. War is something so horrible, but the moments you can spend with him soothe your soul.

You place a hand against the back of his head, tilting your face to pull him closer against you. The action is met with a satisfied hum. Still, it's him who parts first, holding your face close as he stares into your eyes.

"Dinner's gonna grow cold," he reminds. His breath fans down your neck, sowing goosebumps. Another quick peck against your forehead. "Dessert later. C'mon."

He slides a hand down your arm, grabbing a hold of your hand. He pulls you along, guiding you towards your seat. Before you reach it, he hurries forwards, pulling out the chair so you can settle down like a real lady. You chuckle as he does so with exaggerated movements.

He holds your hand once more, guiding you as you sit down. Before he lets go, he presses a kiss to your knuckles, smiling cheekily. Of course your face is scorching hot as a result, burning hotter than all the universe's suns together, and still you laugh, amused by his silly shenanigans.

"Would you like to take a look at the menu?"

Your brows furrow, smile widening.

"Menu?"

"Yes. Here, Miss."

He grabs a card from under the table, handing it to you, bowing while doing so. Curiously, you take the thick paper, opening it up to reveal, written in thick letters and beautiful handwriting, STEW. A laugh draws from your lips, though for the sake of the roleplay, you try to compose yourself.

Clearing your throat, you fold closed the menu, handing it back to him.

"Is there anything you'd recommend?"

He hums, nodding. "Yes. Currently, stew's our top runner."

"Sounds good. I'll be trying the stew then."

"Excellent choice," he mocks.

He tosses the menu over his shoulder, leaving it to land in the corner with the other piles of rubble. Now that you notice, the ground where table and chairs are now standing must've been swept and cleaned before he placed them like this. So much effort for one silly evening.

You watch bemused as he takes off his jacket to work, revealing another long sleeved shirt beneath. You can see his muscles beneath the clothing much better now. What a sight.

He'd  be a good househusband for sure.

While he is busy preparing your food, you take off your jacket too, draping it across your backrest. You pull your hair from your updo, allowing it to fall free.

When Turner turns back around and sees you, a sheepish smile lights up his face. He's one of the few men who haven't lost their smile just yet. And you love the sight. This expression's a rare one out here. It almost reminds you of a school boy who's crushing for the first time. Sometimes he's so innocent, you forget what he's actually capable of. Get you a man who can do both, right?

He puts down the plate infront of you, a hand landing on your head. He pulls you toward him a little, placing another kiss to the top of your hair. He's very kiss-y today. Not that you'd complain. You're sure his kiss can heal any wound.

Okay, maybe that's a little exaggerated.

Turner takes a seat opposite you. The table is small enough to allow you to reach over and place a hand on his forearm.

"How did you get Pierson to not lose his shit when you told him?" You ask curiously.

"Despite our differences, we're still friends. And I think he has a soft spot for you as well." He places a hand over yours, his much warmer than your own. "Guess he has his moments too."

You chuckle a little. "You did a good job at sneaking away. No-one knew where you were. Not even the boys."

"At the OCS you learn how to camouflage and deceive." Letting go of you, you do the same, catching him wink at you.

"Besides, with how tired our boys must be, it's no big feat."

"You just keep talking down on yourself. I'm impressed by your skills either way."

You push a spoon of stew into your mouth, almost regretting it. It's still very hot. Turner chuckles, appearing bashful.

"I'm glad."

"Also, this stew is crazy good."

You laugh when he does.

"It's the same shit we get every day."

"No, this tastes special."

"To imagine I'd ever meet a woman this uncomplicated. But I guess out here, if you want to survive, you have to be."

"I try not to be too picky, yes," you muse. "But it's not like I'd turn down a burger right now."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," he says, smiling cheekily. He has dimples when he grins like this. You laugh again.

"Joey. Don't make promises to a girl that you can't keep."

"Of course. Wouldn't dream of it."

You lift the mug off the table, looking inside. Nothing in it yet. As you do so, Turner immediately shoots up.

"One moment!"

He ruses over to a broken cabin, opening it. The hinges squeak painfully as he does so. He reaches inside, pulling out a large, dark bottle. You squint your eyes, then finally recognize it.

"Wine?"

"Yeah. Red wine. Roughly... 70 years old?"

"What?" You gasp loudly, quickly covering your mouth with a hand. He smiles.

"The good stuff?" You whisper.

"The good stuff," he confirms with same quiet voice. You can't help but giggle stupidly. You're surprised yourself,— it's been a long time since you last heard that sound from your lips.

"Where did you get that?" You ask.

He walks over, pulling out his pocket knife. "Found it in these abandoned parts," he confesses. He pulls out a blade, forcing it into the cork and opens the bottle almost too easy. A loud pop echoes through the room. You wonder if the boys downstairs heard, with all the holes in these walls. Or if they noticed movement above their heads.

Turner tilts his head, looking at the worn out label. "Let's see if this baby still does its deed!"

He walks over to you first, one hand folded behind his back, the other carefully pouring the liquid into your cup.

"How elegant," you muse.

"Only the best for the best." When he leaves again, he does so with a quick peck to your cheek. You expected nothing less. Chuckling, you watch him pour himself his own mug of wine. He scoots back against the table, raising his mug to meet yours halfway.

"To celebrate our first anniversary!"

Your heart drops at once. As your hand slowly lowers, your eyes widen at him. He might not hear, but internally you're screaming. You can't possibly have forgotten. Right?

"You're joking, right?" You ask.

His face remains serious for a little longer, before he finally starts smiling. It feels as though a heavy boulder's lifted off your dang chest.

"I am, yes."

Goddamnit.

"Fucking ass!" You pout. "I knew it was way too early."

It's hard, keeping track of anything out here. Especially dates. The days pass as though life was a mere movie. Fast and unforgiving, time goes by and slowly robs you of a peaceful life. But you're not the only one. Turner, Sarge, the boys, every soldier doing their duty, they're forced to be out here, throwing away years of their life, not knowing if they will make it back.

The thought came sudden and sits heavy on your stomach. Of course, if things were different, there's an incredibly high chance you would have never gotten to know Turner. Then again, maybe you would have. Maybe your encounter was destined. And that there's a world out there, where you're sitting in a restaurant right now, feasting on something good instead of this.

You swallow another spoon of stew. It's not bad. Not at all. This is incredible, given what's possible while being stuck out here. But... the unfairness of the situation isn't lost on you.

"Was that too much?"

You look up to see Turners concerned face. You're quick to shake your head.

"Oh no, no! Everything's okay, really."

He stares a little longer, before his face melts into a soft smile.

"You're a terrible liar, darling."

You sigh, quietly placing the spoon next to the bowl. You almost flinch as you perceive him stand up and walk over. You eye the table as if it was the most interesting thing in this entire room, unable to meet his eyes.

How could you? Turner is a hopeless romantic. He organizes a whole fake dinner with candles and a menu whilst leading his men through an interwoven city like Aachen. The man has enough problems and still uses his skills and dedication to be the best boyfriend he can be.

And you?

One bad thought wells up in your mind and you ruin the entire date. How typical.

"C'mon darling, look at me."

A hand slides up your face, holding your cheek tenderly. Swallowing, you feel a lump has formed in your throat, big and heavy.

"Don't you think it's unfair?"

"What?" He asks.

"All these years prior, even now in countries much further away, people like us, we could live a normal life. But we? We're out here, fighting. Risking everything. When all I want..."

You halt. You're not sure how to say without sounding pathetic. Though, you're surprised when Turner grasps one of your knees, finishing silently, "— Is to love me?"

Oh well. No use in lying, right?

You nod with heavy heart. "..... Yes."

Your lips press into a thin line. The second hand is laid against your face. Finally, you gaze at him. His eyes are squinted, his entire face showing concern. Your mouth opens to apologize, when Turner speaks instead.

"I know how you feel. Much more than you may think. Just because I'm not showing it doesn't mean I prefer being out here than spending my life with you."

Your brows furrow in silent surprise. He feels the same?

Still, he sighs. There's always a catch.

"We can't forget. We came here because we have a duty to fulfil. There are people who are counting on us. We are here to drive out evil and restore peace. And despite the unfairness of it all, we have to continue. Even if the world will never know of 𝐨𝐮𝐫 sacrifice, we have to stay strong."

He won't put love above duty, that much is clear. And it's good that way. You don't want him to. You had lost sight of it for a moment too, but this war, it's necessary. It wasn't,— once, a long time ago. But now it is. And you won't return until you win. That's not how things work. 

"Yes. I understand."

He stands up, letting go of you. A hand moves across his mouth, muffling the words he speaks to himself. You wonder why he suddenly appears so... bashful. Your hands rest on your thighs as you gaze up quietly.

"I guess that makes this the perfect time."

He hums to himself. Your head tilts a little to the side.

"Perfect time for what?"

"I uh..... have been meaning to do this for an embarrassing long time, really."

Inhaling big time, he claps together his hands infront of him, fully facing you. This seems to mark the point of no return. Steeling his confidence, he reaches behind him, pulling something out of his uniforms pockets.

You sit upright with stiff shoulders as you see what he holds out infront of him, your eyes going wide. Your mouth falls open.

"WHAT?!"

"I know— I know!"

Turner falls down on one knee, one hand holding the ring close to his chest. The other reaches out to you as though trying to be a calming gesture, but really, you are anything but calm at the moment. What Turner had just proposed to you, in an ironic literal sense, was nothing less than a ring.

And the intention is very much obvious.

While the gesture is no doubt making you beyond happy, an equally big feeling, looming just in the shadow of this joy, is worry. He knew you well by now and at the same time, can he really? When all he sees is this version of you?

"Joseph, we have known each other for a little over half a year now!"

"I know—! I know, just listen."

He lifts his hands, head nodding slowly. His eyes focus on the ground as he thinks of what to say. 

"I mean—  If this were America, if I had met you there half a year ago, sure, all this, it'd be much too early. But here? Out here in these ruins?"

His eyes meet yours. He appears convinced.

"This, this dangerous war, here it can be over for us at any given moment. And there'd be nothing we can do about it. Because that's simply what it is. 𝐖𝐚𝐫."

A proposal. But you can't help but think it stands for so much more. He grasps both your hands. You feel the cool metal of the ring against your skin. His touch makes you weak. His nervous voice has grown into a determined— and at the same time, soft.

"I want to spend this time the best I can. I want to be able to die without regrets plaguing my last thoughts. I want to think of you, only you, when I lay face down in the dirt, taking my last breaths. I want to know that I loved you the best I could. That I did it all before it's over."

Fuck.

Damnit.

Even as a kid, hearing at what ages your friends got married, it didn't sit right with you. After a particular hard breakup, you even swore to never do this mistake. And most of all, half a year of dating was, in your opinion, not enough time to make a grand decision like this. Every lesson you had ever learned, every advice you had received, this proposal crashed right into it.

And yet, what makes you so incredibly frustrated, is that you can't deny the fact that you agree with him.

It doesn't matter how well you're trained when you're shot through the head. That's all it takes to end a life out here. And switching positions, you think about Turner's impact on you. If you'd lose him, would it make you mad that you had never gotten the chance to do it all with him?

It would, no doubt.

His brows furrow. "I want to use this as a way to hold on to you, Y/n. Only for now."

"But... if I die, wouldn't it hurt even more?"

His gaze lowers.

"I think that after the time we've spent loving oneanother, if the unspeakable were to come true, it would hurt like hell either way."

He's right. By God, he's right. This love you've experienced is unparalleled.

"Once we return to America, I will treat you to dinner. Every evening. We will catch up everything we could never do. And once we've recovered from the war, I will propose to you again. With a gorgeous ring and a suit and everything you could ever want."

"Oh Joey... hun,"

Tears rise to your eyes. Your brows furrow deep as you place your hands on your chest. The lengths he'd go through just for you. Just to make you happy.

He really is a hopeless romantic.

"You don't have to give me the world, you know?"

He inhales silently. "Oh yes, I do. Because we deserve this."

A moment passes. You stare at him, listening to what your heart says. You're not surprised it hasn't stopped feeling any different than before he spoke to you. Because Turner means a lot to you. You love him dearly. His words had changed nothing, because at the end of the day, all you wanted was him.

And that's what this proposal is all about, isn't it?

Showing how deeply you loved oneanother, even in times of war. Between bloodshed and killing, you had found eachother, you had found comfort in his arms, just like he did in yours. He's strong, so are you. And your love is too.

You swallow hard. You don't want to make him wait much longer. Quietly, you hold out your hand, a gesture that served as your answer. He looks at it for a few seconds, clearly taken aback, before he springs to life at once.

Goosebumps sow on your arms as he slides the simple ring down your finger, the metal caressing your skin. You notice the slight shake of his hands, his nervous breaths.

Once it sits right, he retreats, uttering a quiet, "There."

For a moment, the world stops. Or well... not really the entire world. You can still perceive commotion downstairs. Only your world stops. According to Turners overwhelmed expression though, you're not the only one deeply shaken by this evenings events.

You both needed comfort right now. So you use your hands, ring knocking against the wood of the chair as you grasp its edges tight. Pushing yourself forward, you slide down your seat, until you sit on your knees infront of him.

You look at eachother for a little while more, before you lean forward, pushing your face against his chest. It doesn't take long for his arms to wrap around you and you're pulled close. You listen to his heartbeat, the rhythm much faster than usually. So he was nervous to be rejected after all.

Now that you think about the whole thing, there really was no way you would've said no. Not with how you feel about him.

The longer you sit on the ground, the more he calms down again. You stare into his lap, and suddenly find yourself fighting tears. If one of you would die, it would surely break the other. Now more than ever.

You know you shouldn't think about it this way. Because it almost makes it seem like you're expecting it to happen. But... all of this, it made you understand how afraid you really are to lose him.

You reach out, grasping his shirt. The cloth wrinkles under your touch. He feels the same right now, you just know. And none of you had expected it to hurt this much, this realization, even when it was so blatantly obvious.

"I love you, Joseph," you whisper. These words you had said so many times already, suddenly hold an uncomfortably heavy weight. As you notice his arms pulling you closer into him, you nuzzle deeper into his chest. You feel his chin on your head. His hand grasps your shoulder and back firmly.

"I love you too," comes the quiet answer.

He won't let you go for a long while.

 

Chapter 9: ˏˋ 𝙋𝙄𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙊𝙉

Summary:

angst
𝙋𝙞𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙛𝙪𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙡.
Pierson/Fem!Reader

𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤.

He studies himself in the mirror. It's a stranger who answers his silent stares. His body doesn't feel like his own anymore, every movement appears acted out by someone else.

A dark suit. An odd sight even for him. Formal clothes make him uncomfortable, they don't fit him well. He dislikes the cream-coloured uniforms the army has too, but duty is duty.

Just like it's his duty to attend today.

He adjusts his tie, the dark coloured cloth clawing at his neck. He feels like he's choking. The family declined the military standard, blamed it on the army their daughter had left in the first place. Maybe they're right. But you were proud to be a soldier, he knows better than anyone else.

He stills for a moment. There's noise outside, kids yelling. Cars driving by. Birds cooing. Mourning doves. He shivers. It all seems so familiar, but it doesn't feel right after all he's been through. Everything manages to make him nostalgic these days, and it often leaves a stinging in his chest that never goes away completely. Maybe it's a sign he's getting old.

Sun shines through the crack between the curtains. The small ray of light ends right on him, leaving an imprint on his chest.

He lifts a hand, places it over the spot where his heart sits and his eyes fall shut. Warmth travels up his spine.

He remembers. Remembers kissing you. Telling you you'd only have one option to choose if you really wanted to see him in a suit. You had laughed, flustered for sure.

He can't look himself in the eyes anymore and rushes to leave his place by the mirror. It's almost time to go, though every time he stands opposite the door, he begins to doubt, and he contemplates if this is a good idea after all.

The world feels wrong. Empty. It's nothing but shades of grey. His head finds the cool door and he uses it for a moment of rest. He doesn't want to think about it. Up until now he had done a stellar job at procrastinating. Ignoring the emptiness he is forced to face. And he's glad that his mind hasn't caught up with the truth just yet.

He knows his limits. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥. But he also knows he needs to do this. Not for himself. But for you. This is the last time he can pay his proper respects, he knows you'd want this.

He inhales shakily, somehow manages to get a grip on— something,- he isn't sure what exactly, then releases a steady breath.

He opens the door by its handle, light crashing in through the hallway. For a moment, the darkness of his flat lifts. His world is spinning.

Off he goes.

══════════════════

He ducks as he exits the vehicle, casting his gaze towards the church standing upon the hill. Lots of cars have gathered by the sidewalks, no doubt here to visit the funeral too. A graveside service had been requested by the family. Apparently there had been a viewing too, not for outsiders like him of course. Not that he would've attended anyways.

Steep stone steps lead way to a giant wooden door, though his destination lays past the old structure.

Behind the tower, a small clearing surrounded by trees allows rest for the fallen. Countless bleach white crosses have already been placed, carefully, one after the other. Each resembling a fallen soldier.

And under a specific tree, a weeping willow, stands that forsaken casket. Lid closed, there's enormous amounts of flowers set up all around it, making it appear like a rising morning sun.

His knees sink away suddenly. It takes him all his strength to continue ahead. He ignores his heart telling him to run. Away. Far away from this place. He can make out the dug grave. He knows the smell of fresh dirt will forever haunt him.

It's as he expected, there's lots of people. Everyone is clothed in black, their gazes filled with sorrow. He recognizes your parents, your siblings, from the photos you would always carry with you.

He nods quietly whenever he passes a guest. They don't know who he is anyways. And he doesn't need them to. He will never be anything to them. In this suit, he looks like every other man— kind of ironic, actually.

Soon, he finds a familiar face beneath the crowd of strangers and with that, his assigned place right next to him. He settles down on the plastic chair. The man doesn't seem surprised, nor bothered by his sudden appearance.

"Hey," Joseph says silently. His voice sounds hoarse. Weak. His unwavering stare is directed ahead and doesn't meet Pierson's.

"Hey."

It's a weak exchange of words, he's aware. Not to mention it's followed by uncomfortable silence. The gloomy crowd is chatting in the background, no one dares to raise their voice above a whisper. Birds sing in the trees above them. The wind shakes the willows leaves. He follows Joseph's gaze out of curiosity and his heart stills for a moment.

Rich e/c eyes stare back at him, everlasting smile embedded on a flawless face. H/c hair falls like a halo. You're wearing your uniform proud, spotless, perfect.

The longer he stares, the further his chest constricts. He forces his gaze away from the picture, and maybe, yes, just maybe, coming here was a mistake after all.

"I've seen my own grave. Davis'. Yours," Joseph begins. "But hers?"

Not in a million years.

There's something uncanny about seeing a picture next to a casket, knowing that that smiling, goodhearted person is resting inside. Sleeping eternally.

His head is buzzing. Aching. His lips move before he can stop himself and Joseph sends him a hard look.

"You think we could've prevented this if she never went first?"

The questions never stop. He wakes up with a new bunch every day, and there will never be answers. It's driving him insane.

It's what's been plaguing him ever since the news reached him. The uncertainty. The urge to do something about this utter unfairness, but there is nothing that can heal the damage done.

He knows he could've prevented this. He knows there's a reality where you've never left, where you stayed right where you should've.

By his side, that is.

And yet, the cold side of his bed reminds him every morning that he didn't. That you left and that you were shot in Africa, delaying the Krauts advance so your platoon could get to safety.

"We mustn't think about it that way," Joseph hisses. Deep lines carve a frown into his round face.

"Besides, we can't change anything about it now."

"But we could have, back then. That's the point."

"Bullshit, you'd be the first to mock her for being a scaredy cat. Just like when we were still in training! The things you made her do to prove herself— !"

"There's a damn difference between pushing someone over their limits to achieve greater and putting them in danger!"

After everything, going through training together and rising through the ranks, there's still differences between them that make Pierson want to pull out his hair sometimes.

Given Joseph's heavy sigh, he seems to fully agree.

"... If only she could see us right now. Bickering like the children we are."

But you cannot.

Pierson doesn't reply, just leaves the statement as it is. He watches white clouds draw by. He is mesmerised by the shallow shifts of the tree. He's heard voices whisper that this had been your favourite spot. As a kid, up until adulthood. He can see why, although he knows he won't ever return to this place once this is over.

He doesn't think he can.

A few minutes and the crowd slowly begins to take their seats. There's a smiling pastor at the front, lifting his arms as he begins speaking.

Pierson listens but the words don't really reach him. It's better like this anyways. He doesn't want to participate and he doesn't want to hold any speeches. Your shared story is none of their business. They will never experience you like he did.

He just wants to bid his farewell and then leave.

A couple of people tell stories that make the crowd chuckle and cry. He focuses on the winds caressing his cheeks. And then—

"I herby invite everyone to take a rose and place it atop the grave. You may whisper your farewells to the blooming flower, or a wish even. Every last goodbye."

Turner, him and many others stand up in unison. A line forms and Pierson somehow finds himself in the middle of it all, a single deep red rose clutched in one hand.

He sees most people don't utter anything, simply place the rose on the coffin and leave. He wonders what he should do.

Turner is infront of him. He doesn't say anything either. His hand rests on the wood a little longer than necessary. His face twists into a pained, and then he leaves.

It's his turn.

It feels like it takes him an eternity to march up to the big block of wood.

How many times he's lived through this. How many coffins he'd seen draped in this flag he's served under for so many years. It's tiring. Every time he'd seen another friend pass he thought he would be next— yet here he stands, the one to be left behind once more. 

He's sick of it. He's so sick of it.

He wants to get this over quickly. He lifts the rose, ready to lay it down and—

... freezes.

His eyes lock onto the casket. The roses. The smell of dirt. The silent cries. The loudest silence he's ever had to perceive. How is that even possible? Faint laughter somewhere in the trees, haunting him.

You're. . here.

Standing by your grave, surrounded by strangers, it was the moment it finally hit. It hit him. For the first time since the news dropped, he finds himself fully acknowledging that you're dead. 

Dead.

... You're dead. Gone forever.

And it hits him hard. He feels his chest starting to ache. All air leaves his lungs. It gets harder and harder to breathe, his lungs tighten like a vacuum, and this time, it's not stopped by anything.

He places his free hand atop the coffin, touching the polished wood. His skin feels the cool material, knowing, you're there. You're laying here. Right here. Just under the palm of his hand. And yet, there's nothing he can do to reach you.

He will never hold you again. He will never hear your voice again. You're nothing more than a memory now. A smiling face on a picture.

"She's dead," he whispers under his breath, for the first time.

God, he can't breathe.

His shaking hands curl into fists, clenching the rose. He feels thorns dig into his palm, drawing crimson blood.

His fingers itch to throw open the coffin and reveal you. Wearing a fine dress and smiling as you lay on a sky full of pillows. Taunting him for what a cry-baby he always is.

A hand is placed on his shoulder, belonging to a man he doesn't know and doesn't care to know. Pierson 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 he wasn't ready. But now he knows, he will never be.

Before anyone can urge him to go on, he walks away. He's rushing down between the isles of chairs, blurry faces passing, and if Turner wouldn't be too caught up biting back his own tears, maybe he would've gone after him.

There's a small bathroom in the building next to the church, a bit off the funeral site, just for visitors attending service or burials.

He throws open the doors, barely manages to get inside before he collapses against the sink. With erratic movements, he begins to tear at his tie— it's too fucking tight, it feels like he's asphyxiating. He never was the best at tying, he had you to make up for it ever since basic.

But you're not here anymore.

Strength leaves his body and he watches himself in the mirror as he slides to the nasty tile floor, head hitting the wall.

He can't.

He can't.

He wanted to be strong. 

He wanted to be strong and show himself he could make it. But every time he thinks of you, he feels unbearable pain. And when he doesn't, there's this aching emptiness inside him, one that hurts just as much, that makes him crave your touch— your voice, your everything.

And you're dead, shot dead, and he misses you so much it hurts so bad.

Pierson's hands catch tears and he curls together, head pressed against his knees and fingers digging deep into his hair. He pulls. And pulls and pulls, but no pain in this world can overshadow what's tearing him apart. The military gave him a purpose in life when he had nowhere to go. Times changed— he changed. He learned what life is really like. How wonderful it can feel. How good 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 feels.

Now you're gone. And his future with you. He doesn't know what he should do.

A lone rose lays by the door. He catches sight of it, his view blurry.

You know what you have to do, something inside him reminds. Even when he'd much rather continue sitting here, decaying as he's eaten up by sorrow. A long, tired exhale leaves his lips. When he closes his eyes, more tears fall.

Fuck.

What a pathetic man he is. Cowering in a bathroom, crying about something he cannot change anyways. Joseph's right. It's over. There's nothing that can be done about this situation,— except for one thing.

Pierson knows he has to do this. It's the least he needs to do. This will never be enough to give him closure. This will never be the beginning of his wounds healing. But he hears his heart begging, for her.

And the broken man manages to pick himself up one more time. For her. He cleans himself up the best he can and grabs the rose, leaving the shabby restroom. All for her.

He can't remember when he started running, the panic that he may be too late gripping his heart tight. Though doesn't stop, even as his lungs begin to burn from the strain. The casket has already been lowered as he returns, but it has yet to be closed with earth. Thank God. People look his direction, but he ignores them and continues marching down between the isles. They're unimportant.

You're important. This time he looks you right in the eyes, goosebumps on his arms. It feels as though you're staring back at him. Only at him. A proud smile on your lips.

The pastor stops his speech and steps aside without a word.

Now he stands infront of you, toes barely peeking over the edge. He feels the quiver in his entire body. No, this gesture is not simply one of respect.

Pierson lifts the rose to his lips, closing his eyes. Dead silence, just for the two of you. One last moment you share.

"I love you," he whispers, one last time.
Gently, he presses a kiss to the petals, as though they're made of spun glass. For a moment it feels like he kisses your skin.

Then, he allows the rose fall. It lands ontop of the others, somehow still managing to stand out. Seconds of silence pass, he feels the lump in his throat grow as he looks down at your grave. His last goodbye. 

You had said yours months ago. No one had thought it would be the last time they'd see you.

Moments later, Pierson sits back down, allowing the funeral to proceed as planned. Turner doesn't say a thing. He doesn't ask about his appearance, the red eyes, nor his uttered words.

Pierson leaves as soon as the burial is finished. He doesn't stay for coffee and cake. He has paid his respects, but that won't fill the gaping hole in his chest. It's the first time he grieves this hard— , and he'll make sure it's the last.

The war continues, whether you're dead or not. Pierson finds out the hard way. Your death is just another burden he has to carry on his shoulders now.

To this day, he claims he has never visited your grave again, because even after all those years that had passed, it's too much for him to bear.

But the truth is, every once in a month, your mother will find a single red rose laying on the grass infront of your cross. And she will know, while you've been taken away from them far too soon, that someone had loved you deeply.

And that he will never forget you.

 

Chapter 10: ˏˋ 𝙕𝙐𝙎𝙎𝙈𝘼𝙉

Summary:

angst / fluff
𝙕𝙪𝙨𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨.
Zussman/Reader

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. It was never meant to end this way, but how was it ever supposed to not when they were everywhere? Germans popping out from spaces he had never expected them to hide in the first place.

It was too dark in the old barn. It stunk of rotting, dead cows, their mouldy leftovers a horrible sight, and those stinking flies kept on hitting his face. 

The memories still haunt him, of dead flesh and evil shadows, those he cannot chase away.
The same moment that repeats before his opened eyes, no matter how often he grasps your still hand, sitting on the side of your bed.

He saw it before anyone else did, but it didn't change anything about the outcome. Zuss was still too slow. Everyone was. A Kraut emerges from the darkness of a tool cabinet, armed with nothing but a simple piece of sturdy wood.

He still sees it, as he turns toward you—, watching you stride past the corner of the cabin, focused ahead, unknowing. The way the man's arms lift and his heart drops ten stories deep. Fear shoots through his body and his mouth falls open to call out, but it's too late. Before the warning has a chance to reach you, you're already struck down, with such firmness one might think the Kraut was attempting to take out a grizzly bear.

His hands shake. The board hits you hard, the Kraut's knuckles white from how firm he grips it. A cracking sound— to this day he is unsure where it came from. By God, did he hope it was merely the wood splitting.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins, him and the boys rush forwards to your aid. Your head flings the same direction of the hit, face wiped clean of all emotions.

No pain, no fear. Nothing.

You fall forwards limply. There is not enough consciousness in your body to catch yourself.

From one moment to the other, you're just gone. Daniels tackles the attacker to the floor. Zuss is too caught up trying to catch you to care about the Kraut. He lunges forward, hands stretched out to reach you. He grabs ahold of you in the verzy last moment, preventing you from crashing face first onto the straw covered floorboards. You land against his chest, then your legs give out.

Zussman lowers you all the way to the ground, holding you tight. He grabs your face, trying to get you to look at him.

The others crowd around him immediately, calling for medical aid.

And Zussman still remembers. He remembers holding you, one hand on your back, the other holding you head— and there's warmth trickling between his fingers, so much of it. It makes his skin crawl.

He calls your name, your real name, over and over again, hoping to get a reaction from your still body,— but nothing works. You're breathing, he can feel the pulse under his shaking fingertips, but you're not waking up, no matter how desperate he pleads for you to.

It's all a haze. Carrying you in his arms, not even allowing Turner to check on you. He messes up the flood of words that spill from his lips as he tries to explain to the medics what had happened. When they take you away on the back of a muddy truck, he has a hard time letting go. But he's aware that he cannot help you.

He can't.

So he simply stares as they drive off, fingers covered in your blood, and he's still shaking even as Daniles pulls him along. The war doesn't stop.

Now, everytime he gets the chance to, he sits besides your bed in this damned hospital, holds your still hands and gazes longingly at your gorgeous face, yearning for the colour of your eyes.

You look peaceful.

If not for the circumstances, maybe he'd be glad. All the pain the war had etched onto your face was completely washed away. Not a single crease. Most bruises had healed, leaving only slightly visible rosy spots behind.

The sun shines through the curtains, and he finds you looking as gorgeous as the day he lost you.

His grip on your hand tightens, but only minimal. The fear of unintentionally hurting you is too great. Another hand rests on your face, caressing your cheek and down your jaw. Your skin is as soft as a newborns.

You're obviously well taken care of— but it's hard to be happy about something like that when no one knows if you'll ever wake up again. And if you do manage to wake up, no one knows if you will be the same. The hit had been very severe.

Maybe you won't recognize him at all? The thought alone is enough to almost drive out the tears he'd been holding back so hard.

Zuss talks to you a lot. To keep you entertained if you do happen to still be conscious behind those closed eyes of yours. He tells you jokes and stories from the front, but he doesn't hide the fact he'd much rather experience them together with you.

He misses your warm laughs and wide, cocky leers. Your clever comebacks, those that make Pierson light up with rage. And your emotional support throughout the toughest of times.

Ironically, just what he needs right now. But you're not there anymore.

Zuss can't see you as often as he wants to,— not when there's still a war raging outside. He misses you more than he let's on. And he's scared. So damn scared.

The doctors don't even know if you'll ever wake up again, so what is he supposed to think and believe? The hit had been strong enough to crack your skull, cutting your skin open in the process, the reason of the blood on his uniform after setting you down.

Out here, with how frequent he sees it, blood has become a substance like any other. But your blood? Yours makes his stomach churn, makes him want to empty his stomach around the next corner. It sends him into a panicked frenzy, and now it's all justified because you may not be dead, but you're definitely not alive either.

He's scared of the unknown. He's scared of not having control, and right now, there's nothing he can do but sit and watch.

And wait.

And wait.

Zuss still curses himself for not being perceptive enough. For letting something so stupid happen to someone he loves too much to lose. Whenever he travels here, everyone keeps telling him he's wasting time he could spend much better. Him sitting by your side won't change anything. You won't wake up faster when he does. And Zuss had gotten into too many fights trying to answer without losing his temper.

They don't understand. They never loved like he does. Of course it will not speed up anything. His presence won't magically make your eyes flutter open. This is not a romantic drama where you will simply wake up by him being by your side. No kiss, no plea will change reality.

For you, having him hold your hand changes nothing. 

But for him?  It changes everything.

This is the last piece he has of you to hold on to. This is the only way he can still be with you. He feels so lonely without you, the one who truly accepted him with all his flaws he's collected on the streets of Chicago. You're the woman he'd told everything and every feeling he's ever felt. You're his better half, you know his story from beginning to end. You've been supporting him since basic and he knows he can count on you, always.

You had loved him unconditionally. He may be a street kid, but that never bothered you. The fact that he's poor and not even half as intelligent as Stiles. He's not as strong as Daniels and Aiello knows more about combat than he ever wishes to. Still, you wanted him.

And now that you're not there anymore, and all that's left is the body that lies before him, there's an aching emptiness anchored deep inside his chest, and everything feels much too heavy and grim.

Seeing you breathe stills the unrest crawling under his skin at least a little. It stills the fidget in his body. He understands you're not here, even when he tells you countless stories while holding your hand, but as long as there's life within your body, it means there's a chance.

A chance, that's all he needs.

Zuss stands up. There's a crease now, where he's been sitting on the bed, for some hours now. He won't even bother smoothing it out.

He grips your hand one last time, squeezing it. Cradles and caresses it with his fingers, your palm, your tips and knuckles.

And then he lets go, leans over you and presses a lingering kiss against your temple.

It was bound to happen, this distance that kept increasing between you, that one day, his days of being able to visit would come to an end.

He's brought you flowers and chocolates that cost him way more than they were actually worth, but money doesn't matter. Not in face of love. He writes words on a slip of paper in case you wake up, words that would surely drive you right back into coma if you ever were to read them.

They're sappy and drenched in nothing but innocent love, but they're the things that he needs you to know.

The world is cruel. Even of you happen to wake up, he knows chances are high that death will find other ways to drive you apart.

His hand leaves you as he grabs his helmet, his rifle, all the belongings scattered throughout the room.

And he looks at you one last time before he leaves, memorises every inch of your face, the flawless, the scars, the colour of your cheeks and nose.

Zussman promises you to fight.

He will make sure to fight until his dying breath. So that when you do eventually awake, there will be a world for you to return to.

A good world.

A safe world.

A world in which the two of you are finally allowed to live out the happy ending you yearn for.