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precious-little-scoundrel · 1 month

Text

Masters of the Air Fanfiction

Requested: yes…Virgin!Gale + Maureen/Gale bonding

Universe: Friends in the Crucible (pacific au)

Summary: “Get laid, Buck.” Doc Egan prescribed with his peculiar brand of deathly serious compassion, “Hell, I’ll write you a prescription for it, if it soothes your conscience, but I’m serious. Serve your jitters better than any syrette or Amphetamine.”

Warnings: all the sex! 18+.|| both tender and feral || Doc Egan being a unorthodox but loving menace, a theme of ptsd and body tremors/insomnia -poor Gale is going through it after a whole war, drug mentions, erectile disfunction, Maureen is aggressive but everything’s consensual, usage of the word “Jap”. Graphic descriptions of Gale’s virginity loss, male overstimulation and an amusing amount of thought given to Bucky’s existence during the act … im sure that won’t lead to anything when Maureen returns to base and reports to Egan about it, right? Hahaha of course not, that would be craaazy

Word count: 10k

“Buck, come on now, it’s not a prison sentence, it’s just a little time off.”

“I don’t need time off.” Gale reiterated, a panicked sort of fierceness creeping into his tone as his appeal now stretched into something longer than the usual flippant favors Egan was customarily so eager to dole out.

“Those hands suggest ya do.” John gave a not unkind glance of sympathy at the twitching fingers rattling on the armrests of Cleven’s chair.

12 rescue missions in 15 days. Flying upwards of ten hours each. He’d done worse before, but then again, that had been when he was fresh, younger, less banged up from the head hitting the cockpit wall.

“Sending me to go watch flamingos and contemplate sand or some shit isn’t gonna make me steadier.” Gale very much feared his gripes were beginning to sound like begs, “Don’t send me off like this. Don’t.”

“Petrified of flamingos?” John hummed, glancing down at his chart as if contemplating making a note of this new malady, “Maybe if your dad had taken you to a zoo once or twice as a kid you’d not be scared stiff of the prospect.”

Cleven stared back at him with the most hurt eyes John had ever seen. He balled his own fist up to remember the rightness of his point, even if he’d delivered it about as clumsily as a marriage proposal at a funeral. “The hell would you say something like that?” Buck whispered, not even angry, just utterly lost.

“Buck, I’m just sayin’ -inability to slow or be alone, it’s classic symptoms of battle fatigue.”

“I don’t wanna sit on a beach when I could be helping, I’m perfectly capable of still helping! You know it!”

“But you can’t sleep.” John circled back to where this all began, with Gale asking if there was anything to knock a fella out when 82 hours of insomnia wasn’t sufficiently exhausting.

“Give me something, you’re a doctor! Goddamnit, John!” Gale finally broke, voice raising and fists clenched.

“Surgeon, technically.” John gave him a wane smile, “And I can’t dope up an active pilot.”

“Just an active surgeon.” Gale sneered, tit for tat on the insults.

John nodded grimly but murmured, “The day Gale Cleven becomes John Egan is a day this whole operation can pack up and go home.”

“So you're being the better man,” Gale scoffed, “-sending me to watch flamingos.”

“I’m not givin’ you shit.“ he confirmed, “Unless it’s an assignment.”

“Will it keep me outta the flak asylum?”

“If you comply to all the regulations, maybe.” Egan shrugged.

“Go on?”

“Get laid, Buck.” his friend prescribed with his peculiar brand of deathly serious compassion, “Hell, I’ll write you a prescription for it, if it soothes your conscience, but I’m serious. Serve you better than any syrette or Amphetamine.”

“That’s your ultimatum?”

“No, no, my ultimatum is that you go on a little sabbatical with one of my nurses, she’ll keep an eye on you and you can make yourself useful, helping her unload heavy shit at the aid station they’re setting up at Peleliu. My recommendation is that when she comes into your room at the end of the day and drops her knickers, you lay back and think of Wyoming.”

Major Cleven had thought of a million and one ways to bribe or ally the prospective nurse to his side of the deal once he knew which unfortunate female Egan was going to pick for this deplorable detail. Calling his friend a pimp and a bastard had done little good, threatening malpractice and a hardness of heart towards Gale’s own principles -even less. So Gale figured when the time came he’d just gently turn the well meaning comfort gal away and maybe pay her off to lie that they’d done it: for his hand’s sake.

After all, if she was willing to do this, was she even a nurse or was she someone Bucky dressed up in Red Cross arm bands like some sleazy fantasy? Gale didn’t think any of the nurses he’d encountered would be willing to go along with such a sordid “assignment.” Sure, some of them were -carefree. Indulgent. Easy, as the men sometimes called them before getting a stinging cheek that proved them wrong. But they were a proud bunch and they had earned it.

Rolling a toothpick in his cheek, Buck pondered these things while sat on the bench of a Goony Bird waiting for his nurse to hop into the cargo hold with him and off they’d go to Pelilu. The situation was made worse by the suspense of who it might be and the insulting foreignness of being on a plane but not piloting. It made Gale feel an odd sort of feeling close to self pity that he hadn’t felt in ages, not since he was a kid and the nostalgia of it wrung him out of all energy. He made himself sit on that metal bench motionless as the heat index rose on the tarmac and made up a fun little game involving trying to see if he could get his hands to stop tremoring for five seconds straight.

So far he’d lost his own wager each time. He told himself if he could make it to five seconds then the nurse Bucky had sent would be a gray haired matron and this really was just a sabbatical to lift boxes and breathe ocean air and get Gale to laugh at himself.

Then Maureen Kendeigh climbed into the hold and squeezed past their cargo of medicine crates and plopped down right next to him, leg bumping his and breathing like a race horse. “I have jogged here the entire way from administration.” she wheezed, tugging at the collar of her shirt where her glistening throat was bobbing in thirst. “Sorry I’m so late, Major. Am I late?”

It could have been Bucky sat next to him: the choice of phrasing was so familiar, the damnable ability to force forgiveness for tardiness with a single smile so predictable. Gale found dread knotting his stomach at the realization it would be her, even as a warmth spread all over him at her sweet presence that had the odd effect of steadying his hands despite the panicked fuzz of his brain at her proximity.

Oh he didn’t want this. No, no, no. He’d like to think of Maureen very much apart, apart from anything but her heroism, not her wide spread stance on the bench beside him or the idea of her dropping her knickers and making him think of Wyoming. He preferred her very much not attainable in the deeper ways and very much not what he saw himself with when all this was over. Whatever she and Doc Egan had was between them and he’d held it up like a shield to keep himself in check, a boy's code of honor about not encroaching on his friend’s girl. Even if said friend didn’t have the decency to make said girl “his” girl.

But to have Maureen dished up to him on a platter by John when John must have suspected some of Gale’s appreciation for her professional merits -it was somehow worse than any dressed up floozy or the easy new intern. He’d not be able to pay Maureen off without insulting her. Or outing Egan’s intent. Maybe she didn’t know. What if Gale spilled the beans and she was as harmless as himself? What if—

“God, Major, did you sleep at all?” Maureen’s steady fingers were gripping his expressionless face and suddenly turned him towards her, one thumb swiping a tender crescent in his under eyes.

Gale’s eyes seemed to forget blinking was a thing, they grew wide and stayed wide at her inspection and the sandy wind blowing in from the tarmac stung at them as they dried out. “No,” he found his voice and it came out more winded than hers, “you’re not late.” he lied.

Once they get to the island, touchdown and unload, there’s then three hours of driving around the pitted old warzone to the aid station. There’s more foliage the more they go, less mortar pitted earth, but the increasing tropical paradise surroundings put Gale on edge. Maureen drives them to their unexplored destination as confident and recklessly as Bucky would, little surprise there. Gale can’t help glancing at her with unabashed amusement for the way she keeps her pistol propped on top of the steering wheel with one grip, facing out like a top turret for their hood, while keeping the map balanced on her thigh.

He cradles his own BAR with loose arms, ready to use it. Sure they secured the island months ago, but still, not infrequently some Jap comes out of his hiding hole, a cave, or whatever fucking tree he resides in and surrenders. Or, conversely, some of them have charged with guns blazing or sword drawn, deciding to go out and a bang of glory and take with them whichever hapless American happens to be nearby. That Emperor worship shit ain’t happening on on Gale’s watch, and so Maureen gets to drive -she didn’t have to beg like that, he was going to let her- and he shoulders the duty of keeping his eyes peeled for the next bush becoming animate and running at them, pulled pin grenade in hand.

“Some relaxation.” he jokes as their jeep lurches into another crater. If it’s not the bomb pits it’s the massive roots crawling over the smashed earth the Marine Corps call a road.

“It’s a reverse strategy!” she informs, grin wide as a shark’s and Gale could almost draw a little pencil mustache above that top lip and pretend it’s Bucky torturing him thus -hey, that might be a good mode of thought to keep everything strictly professional- “Like when nothing else works, you kick the broken thing.” Gale politely ignores the urge to argue about being broken, that’s not her point… he hopes, “You’re all shook up,” she goes on, voice raised to be heard over the rev of her driving, “and calm hasn’t worked, so why not shake you up worse?!”

He squints at her, fully aware he isn’t being chummy like she is trying to be, knowing he’s being a stick in the mud but he’s dying under the uncertainty, chafing under the pretense. Does she know? Or does she not? Five times today he’s resisted the urge to slap her chest like he would Demarco’s and ask her levelly, man to man, if she knows. “If this doesn’t work then what?” he asks anyway, sober as hell despite the comedic jostling and even Maureen’s joviality dims in the face of his dour mood.

“Then we’ll have to get real unorthodox.” she replies, allowing something close to annoyance at his attitude to seep into her own expression and Gale refuses to pull his eyes off her.

Do you know? He wants to ask.

“Stop scowling at me and watch for Japs.” she snaps at him so suddenly and so heated he genuinely spooks and turns his body back towards their horizon.

It’s worse than he thought. Worse than he imagined on the times he lost the bet with his hands and let his mind go somewhere besides a practical joke from Bucky and a gray haired spinster nurse as his companion. The aid station is on the edge of the new camp, far off enough to be genuinely secluded from both sights and smells of the navy station. It’s a tiki hut, thatched roof and swinging mesh door and lovely little veranda and palm trees and waves lapping up the back steps.

It looks like the sorta place people advertise for honeymoons and Gale stares at it with a 100 yard stare once Maureen grinds the gears to park.

“Jesus.” he knows his mouth is curling in disgust and beside him Maureen huffs in disgust with him.

She jumps out of her side of the jeep, not a shred of amusement left on her face. Gale sits and stares and listens to the roar of surf and the clinking of the cooling engine.

“Not bad.” she grunts under the burden of a crate which Gale should be lifting if he could just make his legs work and his mind obey. “But I bet it’s gonna be a bitch to keep the gnats out though, so much foliage around.”

Her hips sway like a tantalizing pendulum when she jogs up the bungalow stairs, her waist somehow accentuated by the way her arms are lifted to keep the crate hoisted on her strong shoulder and Gale has the perfect seat to watch it. How did he never notice the lines on her before she was doing hard labor? Then he recalls, she’s mostly been in flight suits around him, he’s never seen her paired down to collared shirts and belted pants. How’d he never notice the lines on that gi-

“Don’t make me drive this thing in the surf to wake you up.” her slap on his listless forearm rouses him to realize she’s back out at the jeep, standing beside him looking at him as he sits here catatonic like the mental case he’s showing symptoms of being. “And take your jacket off, you’re gonna get overheated being so formal.”

“Are you in on it?” he snaps suddenly as she grins at him over his first crate. He can’t tell if she’s mocking him or not but he’s damn tired of it.

“In on what?” Her face falls.

He can’t do it. He just can’t do it and he hates himself for being such a coward. “This.” he chooses vagueness and it tastes foreign and awful on his tongue.

“It’s a week out of the cockpit in paradise, Cleven,” Maureen’s own expression holds back no disdain for his pissy attitude, “man the hell up.”

What Maureen, Gale and five other technicians had loaded into the jeep and it’s buggy in the course of two hours, takes the mere two of them close to four to unload. And that’s even with Gale keeping a rapid pace to his work like a sweating maniac, feverishly wanting to stop thinking for once. His jacket and shirt are thrown over the chairs that are actually provided as furniture in the place and Maureen’s tie lays discarded on the accompanying desk. The rooms are bare but there’s two beds in the bedroom with crisp sheets that have only a bit of pollen dusting them and there’s a desk, as mentioned, three chairs in the main room and Maureen insists they can use crates for a table.

The back room is for the actual medical aid, and Maureen insists nothing gets moved into it until she can sanitize the whole place. So they stack the boxes in the main room and in the bedroom and when the sun gets lower they’re relieved to find there’s some dubious provisions for electricity in the place.

“I can get it to work.” Gale decides as Maureen tries flicking the light switch ten times as if to see if the bare bulb will grow a will of its own and turn on for her. It reminds him so much of Bucky’s brand of idiocy that Gale almost forgets himself and reaches out to swat her hand away from the futile flicking.

“Ok, then you do that while I keep unloading.” she insists, “Won’t be able to do anything if it’s pitch dark in here.”

So Gale drags a chair over and begins to fiddle with the wires tacked to the ceiling, risking electrocution so Maureen Kendeigh can see her way around as she tromps past him again and again in the same path with yet another crate.

He’s good with his hands. Excellent, in fact, judging by how one bulb flickers then stays steady, then another and another until the inside of the bungalow is aglow with cozy light: enough light for Maureen to appreciate his sweat soaked singlet and the way it rides up his belly when his arms are up and how it’s bright enough for her to scrub the exam room effectively when laying in a room with an insomniatic Gale Cleven gets to her at 3:00 am.

As it surely will. God! -the man is as impossible as he is beautiful, and while she doubted she’d manage it with him before, the sheer amount of fury she feels towards him right now leaves no doubt. She’ll shake him up. Like a Fuckin’ Martini. And he doesn’t have to like it, probably won’t, but they’ll both feel better after. “In on it” -he’s got the gall to ask but not the balls to spell it out, she can’t abide a quasi gentleman and so far Gale Cleven’s been nothing but the genuine article. Until now, now when he can’t accept certain human things about himself like fatigue or attraction, and he takes it out on her with a sullenness belonging to a much older man.

Maureen’s fine with that, she thinks as ogles the glowing golden skin of his sheened shoulders on one of her passes with a crate, she can take her mad out on him, too. And she’s got a lot of it. More than John Egan was ever able to lick away.

By 15:00, and some change to the second hand, Gale Cleven was still awake. Little surprise there, not to him, but even though it didn’t matter he found himself thoroughly annoyed and taking it out with a lethal glare at the vague gray ceiling, lit by a massive moon over the ocean. Wire and chairs but no curtains -an oversight about the furnishings. It wouldn’t have mattered, he knew that, and still the racket Maureen was making put his teeth on edge. It wasn’t Benny’s snoring or John’s drunken mumbling but it was a consistent *swoosh, swish* of industry that had Gale feeling a mixture of guilt and determination to keep lying here while she scrubbed.

It had not occurred to him she might’ve needed this break, too. Such as it was, effective as it was not proving. He knew she’d seen some combat in the beginning at Manila, maybe even worse than Iwo but long hours doing what she was doing now, where she was doing it, was no joke.

The urge to get up and help her was strong but then, so was the crippling fear of being around her in the dead of night and inviting any more of the bossy familiarity she’d tucked him into bed with. A magnesium capsule! She’d made him take three of the maternity horse pills and told him to calm the hell down as if he didn't have ample reason to be on edge with her laying a foot away on another bed, stripped down to her cotton slip. Of course Gale would cite war horrors if anyone asked why he couldn’t sleep but to be frank, he wasn’t sure why he wasn’t managing it these days and it had started awhile ago. Before Maureen Kendeigh glowed sweaty and luminous in the moonlight while gripping his cheeks and puckering his protesting mouth and plopping pills on his lolling tongue.

Thinking of it made his face flame with embarrassment for such a childish resistance. But god, her nursley familiarity sent a cross signal to his brain each time she helped herself to his flesh and no amount of berating himself while sweating in these rough sheets could dislodge the reaction. Closer to fifteen hundred than was remotely chivalrous, Gale threw off his sweat soaked bedding and tromped into the glow of light outside their bedroom, shuffling blearily into the little exam room. He faltered for a brief ten seconds at the doorway watching her undulating movements with sponge in hand and knees on the floor, white slip clinging like a second skin from the sweat.

He felt the sudden medical urge to lick her like the cattle back home lick at the salt block, a strange way of quenching thirst. Was ninety two hours without sleep considered genuine grounds for insanity? He felt like maybe he should be keeping a diary of these fevered thoughts to report back to John and see if he needed to get turned in. This wasn’t horniness, this was salt cravings. Yeah, yeah that’s what it was.

“You hypocrite.” he felt emboldened to tease and his voice came out rough and lower than even he expected, the disuse of laying there for ages taking a toll.

Maureen looked up like she’d been spooked herself, a slip and stall of her scrubbing, hair hanging about her face so unprofessionally he realized he’d never seen it in such…disarray. “Oh, the baby’s awake.” she grinned back and he felt an indulgence settle in his gut for her he didn’t know existed, “I see my magnesium capsules were a cure all.”

“Oh yeah, knock a horse out.” he agreed derisively.

“Your eyes are droopier.” she found a silver lining and as if reminded of the grit in them, his large fists came up and rubbed them meanly.

Like a little boy, she thought, watching him in the harsh light of the bare bulb, warm wood all around him the same color as all that sweaty skin and those skivvies hanging onto the lithest set of hips she may have ever seen. Looked as if one deep breath of that lean belly and the fabric would be goners, slipping down to the floor dramatically like a woman’s pantyhose in those unfortunate comics where that’s always occurring just when she wants to cross a busy street. Maybe if she could make him belly laugh-

She wished she knew how. She wondered if he knew how.

“Got another Sponge?” he asked and she was reminded why she liked him so much.

“Top crate, there, left, there that one.” She directed him with jerks of her chin until he was at the right one, “I’m using antiseptic.” she warned.

“I know,” he answered, dropping to his knees beside her and making use of her bucket to dunk his sponge, “smell’s been givin’ me a headache.”

Maureen’s mouth twitched at his tired grumpiness, more endearing now he was still putting effort into being near the caustic shit and the way his golden hair flopped on his forehead with his scrubbing movements. If his hips were that fluid, that rhythmic in cleaning a floor, how much more could she teach him to be—“Yeah, I’m sure it’s the anti-septic giving you a headache.” she snarked.

They ate sandwiches he’d gotten from the navy camp’s mess on the back porch, letting the sea water lap at their feet. A little stale but it was a much needed breakfast and Gale brought fresh water back, too, and a report that they were nice fellas and entirely too undressed for her to ever go see. That suited her fine, they’d be a pest if they knew a woman was up here and personally speaking she only needed one man for company, crate lifting, and doing the job well. And she rather had her heart set on it being Gale Cleven. Especially now she got to stare at him under the bright morning sun with a tropical breeze and more skin on display than at a swimsuit contest. He’d put on a singlet, as if to mark that a day had begun even if they hadn’t slept the night, but that was promptly sweat soaked and tiny nipples were pebbling under it from the breeze.

“Did they ask if a nurse came with you?” she pressed him between bites.

“Yeah.” he swallowed his bite thickly and licked at the mayo collecting at the corner of his mouth with typical precision, “And I lied.”

“Well, well,” she cooed, making him roll his eyes, “how’d that feel?”

“I have lied before.” he balked.

The look he gave her was both thunderous and remincent and she repented that line of questioning, used to distinguishing in her patients whether a wound was from wartime or stemmed from childhood. “Well who’d you say came with?” she asked.

“A technician.” he mumbled, blushing for some reason.

“Mm, someone nice and hairy and stinky-“

“Stop.” he begged.

“-not anyone they’d wanna meet.”

“I did it for you!”

“-if that makes you sleep at night, Cleven.” she humored him and like lightning, the back of his hand had flicked out and thumped her on the sternum, hard.

“Shit!” Maureen clutched the place, more in surprise than pain although he’d walloped her good and well.

“Shit!” He parroted in mortification, holding his hand like it was an offensive weapon.

“What was that for?” she laughed, “Do I remind you that much of Benny? Are you missing him that bad? Is that who you pretended was with you up here? Huh? Huh? Benny Demarco, now that’s a beauty to hide under a bushel-“

She was crowding him in on the steps and he was teetering towards falling off, too alarmed at his own outburst to trust his instincts now to shove her off without causing harm -and she knew it. She pressed her advantage and crawled over him with her teasing comments about Demarco until his long body had bowed so far away from her’s it was levitating and then toppled predictably into the surf.

“Fuck it’s cold!” he wheezed out as the embrace of the old pacific drenched him and rolled him about at her feet for a few delightful moments before he got his footing and rose, shaking his hair out of his eyes and grabbing for the steps.

“Sea bathing was in doctor Egan’s regimen.” she informed remorselessly before extending a merciful hand to help him up. He was slippery and shiny as an eel coming up and the grip of his hand was as strong as she expected. And still she found it intoxicating, the duality of him as he stood there pouting and bitchy over being cooled off. “Stay right there baby, I’ll get you a towel.” she patted his chest, right where he’d smacked hers, and went inside.

“I’m not your baby.” She heard him holler to her through the door-less porch. “I’m not your baby.” he reiterated vehemently but lower again when she came out with the towel.

“Yes you are.” she argued, “For this week you’re my baby, whether that’s a literal infant or not is your choice -and don’t start arguing, you’ve got to stop it, no one’s making you do a damn thing.” she insisted, hand raised and his mouth closed satisfyingly as a result, “You’ll be my baby. I know you already had a baby, no? Our baby? Shared her with ten other men, that’s generous of you-“

“-Ensign!-“

“-so I’m not gonna be your baby. You’ll be mine and you can find me something to be for the week.” she watched closely as recognition of her logic began to dawn and settle on him, “I could be anyone. I could be Benny Demarco, for instance. If that’s who you wanna lay next to.”

Gale didn’t speak for a long while, eyes off to the side watching the surf lap at the steps and she was still standing there, holding his unused towel. “Who do you want me to be?” he asked finally and his grave perception just about winded her in its raw honesty.

“You.” she replied honestly, “Whichever version of you made it here with me.”

“An infant -a baby.” he scoffed and she was suspicious those eyes were watery. And too delayed for it to be from the salt.

“My baby.” she replied, “Never had one before.”

“With respect ma’am, that’s Bullshit.” he argued in a fierce hiss, “I know you have, with John and -and-“

“I’ve been somebody’s,” she clarified, “but I think I’ve grown out of that. You’ll be my baby, huh? It’s not marriage, Cleven, it’s a week in paradise and hopefully some shut eye, too. So do you want me to be Benny?”

Those watery eyes let one single tear go trickling down his pink cheek alongside the rivulets of ocean water dripping from his hair and Maureen had never felt a single thing heat her up quite like it. “No,” his chuckle was thick and he sniffed, “not Benny. Maybe uh, God, I dunno, I’ve never had anyone.”

“Then we can make it up entirely.” she was pleased by the idea of not being a stand-in, although god knows she and John could sympathize more about the need for that than anyone. “We’ll be castaways.” she suggested, sitting back down on the porch now the confrontation was dwindling and in full confirmation of her suspicions, he sat again beside her without fuss.

“Marooned.” he disagreed, chin resting on his hands and a boyish tug pulling up the corner of his lips. “Something insane you did landed us here.”

“Mm, took liberties with the captain's daughter, perhaps?” she teased, daring to run a finger along those golden shoulders and collect a few salt drops. He shuddered under her but stayed put.

“I’m not playing fair maiden for you.” he retorted but his eyes were fond.

“Mm, I’ll believe it when I see it.” Maureen was still impossible and Gale felt his gut burn in a bizzare sort of drive to prove her wrong. He’d hardly ever felt this even with all the jokes from the boys, not even with all the temptations from the girls, it just hadn’t seemed something that needed proving. Every flea and salmon could do it, he never doubted when he got married he could manage it credibly enough.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jones.” his voice sounded like he’d come to a decision and Maureen squinted at his profile until it clicked.

“I’ve never been married before.” she observed breezily.

“And I never planned on being married for just a week.” he replied.

“Isn’t there a film about this?” she asked, “Cary Grant gets stuck on an island and he marries his castaway but then they get rescued and there’s a first wife?”

“Yeah, I think so, actually.” he thumbed at his bottom lip in contemplation and Maureen found it endlessly distracting, along with the bird song and the ocean crash and the sunshine.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jones.” she agreed then, settling back on her elbows to stare up at the sun and let it add a few freckles, “And when it’s over and you’re rescued, I’ll be the better woman and let Our Baby have you.”

“You’ll always be the best of women, Maureen.” he sounded like the admittance took every fiber of his resolve to say, but she’d heard it before in his voice weeks ago when she was patching him up.

If a tear slipped out the corner of her shut eyes and down a sun warmed cheek, she wasn’t going to make a deal of it, not until she felt his finger catch it tenderly before it dropped from her jaw and rolled it back up.

She felt her lip wobble traitorously and perhaps there were more tears planning to follow and betray her but the shivering shock of his full lips, pressed to her bare shoulder, stemmed the flood. Maureen held her breath and kept her eyelids sealed, an orange glow of sunshine behind them as all her senses attuned to the drag of his caresses up to the juncture of her shoulder, the press of his body next to her on the porch boards, the suspenseful absence of his hands. They were soft as marshmallows, those lips, and a stray tip of his tongue caught her clavicle as he worked his way up a path that almost seemed premeditated, as if he’d thought of doing this a million times but held back. Now he allowed himself and the assured intimacy of his mouth made her body heat soar almost beyond her endurance as he crept up her throat and onto her cheek.

A kitten lick to that tear track down her cheek and Maureen was whimpering from something else entirely, breaking ranks and turning her head to gaze at him, nearly stunned by how close he was, how alive, how beautiful, how blue. There were his hands now, one propped beneath her shoulder, the other cupping her cheek. Her lips were tingling with anticipation by the time he’d lowered his face far enough and brushed her mouth with his.

Maybe he’d done his fair share of kissing the girls back home goodbye, or maybe it was a talent given along with this impossible lips, or perhaps she’d wanted it so long that the final having of it sent Maureen spiraling with something oddly like obsession.

Kissing was enough for the longest time, the shore sounds and the squawking of ocean birds and the feel of Gale Cleven laying more and more atop her as his tongue met hers and danced. She scratched the back of that tanned neck like she dreamed of doing a dozen times, little scritches to his hairline that had him sagging against her kisses to the point of crushing.

She allowed herself the liberty of running her hands along his lean sides, taking in the graceful taper of his waist, the dip of his back, the sopping wet waistband of his briefs. She wondered if this is how men feel with a young girl, when there’s so much loveliness one wants to maul it and mark it and watch it respond. Anything to make him moan again into her mouth, wrenched and helpless and appreciative of her all at once, anything for him to hump his hips against her thigh in a manner so mindless he didn’t seem himself at all.

When he pulled away, dazed and winded from his own exertions, he seemed to have left behind all his inhibitions, stark need written on his face and only some doubt of what he was allowed yet remaining. “Are we gonna?-“ he trailed off, raspy voiced and trembling with suspense.

“Going to what?” she couldn’t abide it any longer, his demureness, “Say your mind, Cleven.”

“Do it.” he let out with a wince.

“Well I don’t know, Mr. Jones, you tell me. Are we gonna?”

Gale huffed and threw his head back, trying to regain some sense of mind, lip savagely pulled between his teeth. “Yeah. We are.” he decided.

“Then finish your sandwich.” she patted his waist and pushed him off.

“I can’t!” he begged with a groan from where he’d spilled out on the porch like a boneless dummy. “Not now.”

“You’re gonna need it, the water too, trust me on this.”

“Are we gonna -make love? Or go for a forced march?” he protested but lifted the canteen to his lips anyways when she gave him a look and proceeded to drink it dry.

“How would you know the difference?” she teased and he had the good humor to roll his eyes. If all went according to Egan’s plan, they oughta hibernate for twelve hours of sleep afterwards and she wanted him hydrated and ready for that. Maureen had a plan of her own, which certainly might lead to such a sleep, but it also involved not getting off that boy for love of God or money until he was as useless as a wet rag and the impertinent gnawing between her own legs was replaced by a good ache.

Cleven was staring at his sandwich remorsefully, “I can’t get this down, Maureen.” he declared with sudden finality and then, without preamble he threw it into the sea. “C’mon, Mrs Jones.” he held out his hand for her as he stood up, something close to an excited grin taking over his face.

He was so confident now, having come to a decision, and Maureen found herself naturally bending to his direction, placing her hand in his large palm and allowing him to haul her to her feet as gently as a dance partner. “We’ve got a bed.” she reminded blissfully into another kiss, anchored to his face by the persistent hands snarled lovingly into her salt tousled curls: this hair Maureen, this hair drove me mad.

“And we’re gonna use it.” he agreed, walking her backwards up the porch until he feet were skidding over the threshold, his tongue still sucking her own.

She stopped him there with a hand to the willowy plane of his belly, a regulated, principled woman to the last, and snapped the still soaked waistband of his drawers. “Off, you’ll make the sheets wet and sandy.”

Their sweat would accomplish dampening them enough in this muggy heat, they didn’t need sand and ocean water to boot. Maureen ducked beneath his arm and went back out to grab the discarded towel.

“I don’t want a trail of drips on our clean floor.”

Gale smiled softly at the usage of “our” -it felt right somehow, to share things with her. They’d been at it for some time, it came naturally like it had with Bucky and the few other boys who he knew would be something special and unlike anything else after this. It was a little bittersweet to know he was living the best days of his life, right here and now, enviable, irretrievable moments of raw connection slipping away with each drip, drip, drip onto the threshold. It was a heartache in the making and it was a spur for the moment. Back home they’d never understand, and any old observer would see nothing unique, but Gale could allow himself the rightness of sharing just one more thing. Why not cement it fully, irrevocably, as the closest brush he’d ever come to with another soul- he’d asked himself the same with Bucky, knew it was already an established fact.

Maureen’s lips were warm where they pressed to his back, the space between his shoulders, towel held to his waist. “You’re not shy of me, are ya, baby?” she whispered in his ear, thumbing at the still worn briefs.

He could feel himself this past hour hardening and softening, so many times in the space of so many minutes he was dizzy with it, the way his brain would have the upper hand and then, suddenly no, it all rushed south. Which now left shyness as the only real excuse for the way he burned and shrank and burned and shrank in turn at each of her touches.

“You gonna give me the towel?” he asked instead.

“Once it’s safe to do so.” she replied primly, in her familiar nursing voice, and he hated the shudder that tore through him. She stepped under his arm again, around him and into the house, and stood in the shade of the it with the towel spread invitingly, tauntingly. A whole yard and a half between then and she’d decreed no drips past the threshold. Gale’s cheeks burned as did his eyes, smarting with brimming tears from an odd frustration he’d only ever felt over a botched mission, an anger at not being able to bomb his target and make it worthwhile, a petty frustration he always felt before the cold rage of lost men fully registered.

Futile tears: Gale yanked the skivvies down and stepped out of them efficiently.

Maureen wasn’t smiling at him from the shade anymore, not even a smirk, she looked hungry. She looked like Bucky, taking in “a view.” Gale didn’t know ladies ticked that way -or maybe they didn’t, maybe only Maureen did. The blush in his cheeks ran down his chest and spilled onto his belly and his fists clenched without thought.

“When the man of the house,” Maureen was reciting some inane pamphlet she no doubt did not heed or else they’d never be here, “respects the whims of the lady in small matters, he will find the lady more submissive to issues of larger stake such a-“

Gale made a dash at her, to shut her up, and she fled from him to the bedroom, feet smacking on the hardwood and cotton slip fluttering up her thighs -his towel with her.

“I want you bare.” he told her when he had her, struggling in his arms before the bed, a lush friction where he pressed tightly behind her.

“Then sit,” she sounded genuinely breathy, trapped to him and he had never heard her like that before, it made him want to hold fast, “and I’ll make your dreams come true.”

It was just a slip, no garters and no braisere or girdle, yet still Gale sat himself on the bed and Maureen bit her cheek to keep from laughing at the modest way he deposited the towel on his lap, covering what she’d been eyeing and thanking her luck for. A cock as pretty as his face -now if she could just make it stand up fully.

“You ready?” she deferred to him as she stood there before the bed, being looked on with all the reverence and trepidation of a goddess by this seated acolyte.

“Please,” he nodded furiously, “please show me.”

It felt a little wrong to expose oneself in front of such an angelic being, curtainless windows throwing in the sun on him all golden and untouched, white scratchy sheets and white draped towel making it a bower of innocence for a brief moment. It also felt right, to throw off everything but what they’d been born with. Off went rank, obligations and expectations, as easily as dragging the slip over her head.

She tossed the article of clothing behind her for good measure -and dramatic effect- then noted with satisfaction the bleary eyed comprehension of her charms from Gale Cleven where he sat with his mouth hung so slack he was liable to drool.

“Incredible.” he muttered, husky and a little slurred, his hand raising without his own volition to beckon her closer, a plea, command.

Maureen swayed on her feet, nearer and nearer until she was standing above him, between his parted legs and she shuddered as he laid that broad palm on her hip and dragged it up her side in an admiring swath, thumbing at her belly and catching her ribs in his hold.

“Those flight suits of yours, they don’t…they don’t let show the half of it.” Gale declared, mesmerized, face hovering closer and closer until his lips were pressing against her flesh, right under her sternum, his forehead pressed to the underside of one pendulous breast, nuzzling as he became aware of that, bunting like a calf at her breast with his face, gone silly with access.

“Whadda ya think?” she giggled, the silliness of Gale Cleven gone stupid over making yams jiggle being the exact sort of thing that made life worth living, and being a woman exquisitely satisfying.

“They’re so goddamn soft.” he moaned around a bit of the underside, still hadn’t worked his way to a nipple. He seemed too preoccupied with their give and bounce to make a more calculated use of them. Maybe if men hadn’t been told what to do with them, they’d do what Gale Cleven was doing and rub their face against them and let them rest on their foreheads. There was a charm to this ignorance as he licked the salty sweat from their undersides with a surprisingly brave tongue.

The clumsy misuse was oddly effective for Maureen, what Gale lacked in skill he made up for in unstudied appreciation and nothing got her quite so ready as being appreciated to the point of foolishness. Her first conquest had been a boy at school who hadn’t minded tripping in his track shoes, day after day, to try to catch up to her on her bicycle, just to give her a flower or trinket. He was laughed at for his devotion until he broke the school track record next year, and Maureen was sure to remind him of her role in his success. They’d soon found a mutually beneficial reward system and Maureen had adopted that attitude as a maxim for the future, her dates and conquests may have been many but each of them in their own way had been appreciative -or else she was jumping out the window, damn the twelve foot drop out the dormitory.

No one, however, had looked quite so gifted by her mere existence as Gale Cleven did while he clutched at her hips and smushed her flesh between his hands like it were some fine dough and he was an artisan.

Discreetly, and it was easy to be so with his face buried in her bosoms, Maureen glanced between them at the tool she had such hopes for and found it, unsurprisingly, twitching and dribbling against his thigh, half hard but flapping about like a fish on dry land, the discarded towel no match for its movement. He’d need a hand, literally and metaphorically, and as she raked her nails through his blond curls and directed his slick mouth to a nipple, she felt him sag even further into her hold. Maureen weighed her next step carefully, trying to tamp down her own wants. She’d need to be sure but slow, careful not to spook him, or antagonize or embarrass.

She wondered if he even realized the same banged-up-head condition that sent him out here was most likely responsible for the jitters that kept him flopping. She wasn’t so conceited as to assume he’d not bedded a woman yet out of mere dysfunction, Cleven was a man of principle and strict notions regarding how the world should be, and he wasn’t one to build those notions on passing medical conditions.

“You like ‘em?” Maureen teased him, shocked at how hoarse her own voice had gone in the interim.

“Gonna make a home in here.” he mumbled in the affirmative, slack grin molded to the valley between them, blue eyes wide as the skies outside peering up at her.

“Got a job for you, baby.” she murmured, thumbing at the scar on his cheek.

“What’s that Mrs. Jones?” his voice alone made her mad with need, as did the saucy turn of his mouth so wonderfully foreign she didn’t know how she’d control herself until he was ready.

“Need you to lick a little landing strip, right here.” she ran her finger along the somewhat tacky skin between her breasts, sweat and his sloppy kisses having partway done the job already.

“What for?” Gale asked, hushed and curious.

“You’ll see soon enough.” she recalled how effective her nursing voice had been on him, and pulled it out now it seemed beneficial.

She had been right, with only a hesitant spark of aggravated defiance, Gale dipped his head and stuck out that pink tongue, lapping a swath up between her breasts as directed, flaming eyes locked on hers as she shivered from the breeze on spit slicked flesh.

“Again.” she told him, and his hands came up to hold her breasts apart as he did it again, and again and once more under his own direction until it was shiny and messy and his nose was gleaming, too.

“What’s it for?” He demanded once more, pink cheeked and swallowing hard as his mouth had dried out from his efforts.

“I told you, silly,” she replied casually, “it’s a landing strip.” and with as little fuss as possible she got to her knees before he’d registered the absence of her standing above him. “Gale, let go of the damned towel.”

She held in a laugh of delight at the tortured color he had grown to, veins running like so much ivy up and down him and a vibrant pink tip that matched his lips. Maureen wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to look him in the face again without thinking of this drizzling little pink mushroom.

“You oughta count your blessings, Gale Cleven, it was a close call, my coming along at all.” she informed him soberly while his mind visibly vacated his body at the repeated sighting of his sputtering cock emerging from between the pillowy press of her breasts, “It was pretty touch and go there for a bit, I was quite sure in fact, that Bucky was gonna help himself to this assignment.”

“Maureen!” Gale thundered, except his usual imposing ire was much diluted by his quivering belly and hoarse voice.

“What?” she brushed off his scandalized displeasure with a grin, feeling cocky herself as he hadn’t flagged on her in minutes and was beginning to gush in earnest, “Bucky loves the beach.”

“Sure, Maureen.”

“In the end he decided I had what it takes.” she went on conversationally, ignoring the inhuman sounds that came out of him when she casually spit on his tip, the better to work her lips around him, “These.” she clarified, pressing her breasts to his thighs as she wrapped her mouth around him and sucked.

“Fuck, hell, Maureen! Sorry, sorry, oh fuck!” -not even Gale Cleven had expected his hips to fly up that hard and fast, knocking on the back of her throat.

She laid her hands on his squirmy hips and did her best impression of a Listerine gargle round his tip, which sent a shudder through him so strong she thought he might’ve climaxed already.

“Maureen, Maureen come on, get up here, please.” now he yanked at her hair, desperate for once and that was a pleasure to hear.

“What baby?” she pulled off him.

“Gotta kiss you.” he told her firmly, and hauled her bodily up by her armpits, rolling her under him in the bed.

Kisses -sure, Gale, kisses.

He was moaning atop her, wiry and flexing his hips against her, wriggling to get between her thighs and she let him, hungry and expectant when he slotted easily in place. He pressed his lips to hers ardently, then reared back in shock at the taste of his own precum in her mouth and on her lips.

“Salty.” he whispered as if to himself before licking his lips and going back for more. “What do I need’to do?” he whispered urgently against her mouth as she rocked against him and he rocked back until they’d frustrated each other thoroughly with mere caresses.

“Put it in, my baby.” she whispered back.

“First though, don’t I need to-to do- something? Something first?” he could barely think straight but he’d heard enough talk about this, about gentlemen and the necessity of some form of chivalrous preparation. The way discipline and intuition set apart an average pilot from an excellent one. Bucky had talked a lot about getting girls ready, making them squirm, revving them up, for all his apparent disinterest during the topic, Gale had been listening.

“You’ve done it already, Mr. Jones.” she giggled, reaching between them to drag him more firmly through the wanton swamp he’d made of her. “I’m ready, I’m so ready.”

“Oh fuck, s’wet.” he mumbled the obvious before willingly letting her guide him in, his body following her tug like his cock were a leash.

“Jesus,— Gale!” Maureen choked as he bottomed out in a sudden plunge, shocked at the stretch despite the gauging of his size. “You’re so deep, oh baby you’re a big one aren't ya.”

“You ok?” he whimpered, shuddering on top of her again and again at the incomparable feeling of being inside another’s body.

“Oh yeah, yeah I’m fine,” she gasped, “Hurts so good, you can move, baby.”

“You’re so warm.” he sounded close to worshipful he was so drunk off her, and Maureen spared a moment to smirk at the fate of man: come tearing their way out of a woman to begin their lives only to spend the rest of it trying to and needing to get back in.

He did try to move, she’d give him that. And while Maureen was more than half expecting it, still, it was mildly comical to see the confusion flash across his blissful face right as the buildup was snatched from him and he was suddenly shaking into the real event before he knew it, betrayed and euphoric all at once. The muscles in his belly and back and neck seized and his hips lunged in a series of uncoordinated pumps and she could read the panic in his eyes right before they rolled back -a begrudging admittance that this was nothing at all like the steady predictability of his hand.

“That’s it baby, that’s my baby, feel nice, huh?”

Gale didn’t answer her, too occupied whimpering with a taut throat and jaw clenched so tight he could snap a hinge like that. He was shaking worse than before when the spasms subsided and the tiniest pressure to his sweat slicked neck had him buckling to lay pressed against her, half senseless from the force of his release.

Maureen had always loved this part of sex, the pliable, bewildered, smushed man atop her like she’d sucked his soul out, when he’d rendered it up to her so willingly, so desperately, forcefully even, chasing his own eventual weakness. Long limbs aligning on top of hers, the hot pants of winded breath against her breasts, the hands listlessly holding on wherever that had last tried to grip and control her. The view from above with Gale Cleven was something additional, beautiful and glistening with bronzed swaths of sun exposed skin and the pale whites of his thighs and ass making a perfect little outline of absent shorts, his golden hair tousled beyond salvaging and that luscious mouth, drooling like a babe’s.

“So this is what Bucky’s been talkin’ about.” he mumbled into her breast, cheek smashed and enunciation shot to hell.

Maureen laughed in disbelief, “Thinking of him even now? Really, he’s going to be impossible if we tell him.”

“Just sayin’, now I know.” he defended, lazily rubbing his partly softened cock inside her with a shimmy of his hips that was quickly followed by an overly sensitive mewl.

“You don’t know anything, Angel boy.” she insisted and Gale raised his head at that, sour that she’d still contradict him after thirty seconds of vigorous pumping. “Let me see your hands.”

He had some trouble recalling where he put them but eventually he found them under her hips and withdrew them from their warm shelter to present them, warily. “Well, damn.” he muttered to himself, somewhat shocked by just how badly the shakes had worsened. “Looks like that treatment backfired.”

“More of a dose dependent case, I’d say.” Maureen corrected and circled each wrist with her hands and brought them up to her lips to kiss.

Gale’s face smoothed at her softness and a shy smile lit up his bleary eyes while she felt a twitch of his spent cock deep inside her, swishing about the mess he’d made like a dog’s tail after getting pats. “You have the most beautiful hands.” she informed him earnestly and balls deep inside her she watched as one single innocuous compliment sent him scarlet with a blush. “And they’ll be yours again soon.” she promised.

His gentle expression and bright red cheeks crumpled rather suddenly and before either of them seemed to expect it, fat teardrops had escaped the blue of his eyes and rolled down the crimson flesh of his face.

“Goddamnit.” he cursed hoarsely, in an absolute rage at himself, regaining his hands from her grip insistently to bring them up to his own face, hiding from her behind harsh fists that rubbed at his wet eyes like he could grind the grief and weariness out between his knuckles.

Unbalanced as he was without hands to support him, and legs gone jellied from his fast fading pleasure, Maureen chose to capitalize on it as a nurse would a brief state of insensibility to move a patient to a cleaner cot. Remorselessly she pressed at his shoulder and lifted their still joined hips until he tipped over, rolling onto his back beneath her. “We’ll have none of that.” she told him with loving adamance from her new perch, prying his hands away and pressing them to the sheets beside his head. “The hiding, I mean.” she clarified and he looked all of hardly past twenty laying there with wobbly lips and wet eyes unobscured, “I’m a very great proponent of crying,” she went on conversationally which confused him more but kept him too preoccupied to stifle his tears, “De-sanguination is still a highly esteemed practice, you know, it means to drain the body. One type of draining often triggers the other.”

“You gonna start bleeding me?” he asked wryly.

“Oh, maybe, you’d look so pretty all streaked up.” she teased and ran a sharp thumbnail over his pinned wrist.

Well, that got him hard again. Fascinating.

“You know what’s got your hands like this-“ she whispered softly, “-probably the same reason you flop, too.”

“Huh.”

“Pretty common.” she assured.

“Quit tellin’ me I’m common.” He growled, tickling her sides and she grabbed his hands, pinning them again playfully.

“Nothing common about you, sweet baby.” she swore, leaning down to kiss him and enjoying the way he met her strongly, surely, “Gale, can I move?” she asked, half strangled by the taut string of need coiled in her belly, tugged to madness by the bulk of him still resting limply inside.

“Move?” he was perplexed.

“I’m going to die if I don’t get some friction.” she whispered, somehow shy to admit that in the face of his innocent bewilderment, “God -please tell me someone has informed you women finish, too?”

“Bucky says they clamp up so tight you can’t help but blow.” Gale recited dutifully, “Which is what just happened, right?”

Maureen grinned wide and wicked before dragging her hips up till he was barely in, then plopping down into the cradle of his hips, making him let out a “oomph.”

“Maureen?” he questioned, half knowing already he had been mistaken but hell, to go again? “Maureen- I’ll die if we go again.”

“What a way to go.” she muttered, her pace atop him increasing as did the tortured gasps tumbling from his lips. His spunk was making terribly wet, lewdly sloppy sounds of suction each time she slammed down on his cock and the visual of her exerting herself on top of him was something so blatant and jiggly he could hardly endure the visual feast of it.

“Shit, shit I can’t-“ he growled while his trembling hands latched onto her hips in a grip that was anything but dissuading. “Maureen.” he begged her for…he knew not what.

“Come on Mr. Jones,” she clasped her hands around his face and aligned their noses, rubbing like a kiss with each movement of her lower body, “you’re not one to leave your missus needy, I know you’re not. Not when you’ve got such pretty hands-“

-a shudder from him.

“and a clever tongue-“

-a whine from him that sounded close to a wounded dog’s it was so lasting.

“-or a tool this capable.”

“Maureen.” he groaned.

“Baby, my baby.” she begged, “You’ve got what I need, come on, take me apart.”

Like he trusted himself for the first time since they began this endeavor, she felt his body bow up beneath her, his arm flexing strongly across her hips, his legs braced beneath her and a heavy hand clutching her neck, then he was driving up into her with a wild abandon she only ever hoped was simmering beneath that cool exterior. When she finished he hadn’t stopped, and Maureen found herself crying out like a feral thing into the hollow of his clavicle as the brutal pummeling went on, satisfaction drug out of her over and over in harsh ruts.

“That more like it?” he panted the harsher he grew, a hand around her jaw pushing her face away from his so he might see the damage he was doing.

“Yes, yes oh baby, yes!” she swore through clenched teeth, it had been too long and each blissful peak only aggravated her further, made her hungrier, that and the fact he was so proportioned as to be a constant delight just shy of pain, “Hell Gale, do ya hear us?” she gloated, propping herself back on his thighs to watch the shiny pink of him flash in and out of her wet sheath.

Mesmerized, Gale didn’t reply, but he dragged a hand up her belly and felt for the way it tensed at each intrusion, the span of his fingers an incredible thing across her skin. “Can’t believe you can take it, easy as that.” he marveled, his thumb straying and pulling apart her petals the better to watch.

“Thumb it right there.” she directed gently, reaching down to move his calloused finger over her bud, right above where he split her apart, “That’s it, ya feel that too, huh?”

“Fuck you’re tight.” his voice cracked and his eyes shot wide again.

“Are you -?”

“Maybe.” there was a wobble of blissed uncertainty in his voice until she stopped her movements and he let out a sob before he could catch it. “Maureen, please.”

“Please what, baby?” she was chuckling at him, pushing his hair off his sweaty forehead, “I let you-“ he pleaded, still thinking things worked that way, “-now I need, please Maureen...”

“Oh you can.” she assured and his face lightened but his eyes stayed wary, “But just know, I won’t be stopping.”

“What?”

“You remember how that feels, don’t ya baby?” she reminded, gently pushing him to lie back and beginning their movements anew, “So good you can’t stand it, so messy and easy for me, so tender and much for you?”

“Jesus.” he wheezed, his lean belly caving in with his heavy pants, but she felt him throbbing inside her and his pupils were large as saucers, “You’re as mean as Bucky.” he whined, voice gone high in panicked pleasure.

“Thank you, but really I’m not.” she laughed, gently thumbing away an errant tear that rolled down his cheek. “Not quite.”

“Maureen, please, please you’re too pretty!” he begged nonsensically even as his hips began to snap into hers, invigorated and forceful.

“Hold it Gale, try to hold it.” Maureen gasped, staring down at the prettiest face she’d ever seen as his brow began to furrow, “Or don’t, all the same to me.”

“I’m gonna flip you.” he swore and a few seconds of inaction passed, marked by the slam of her hips down onto his, and she thought he didn’t mean it until she gave him a daring look and suddenly she was careening backwards, head jolting against the sheets and body laid out firmly beneath him.

“Goddamn.” she swore at the way he hadn’t dislodged an inch during the whole maneuver, suddenly pressed just as deeply as before, his hips working like a piston and his hands tight and strong on her neck. “Goddamn baby. Oh goddamn that’s good.”

“S’good?” he begged her to repeat, some dizzying natural force propelling him harder and faster and needier.

“You’re so good.” she was adamant as she hung about his neck and locked her ankles in the small of his back. “You’re so good I’m - I’m -gonna-“

“What was that about holdin’ it?” he hissed, smile cocky and smug.

“Bull ain’t out of the gate yet Cleven,” she cautioned but her hips had begun to lift of their own accord, a tremble taking hold of her, “But I’m close, I’m, i'm real cl- oh God!”

“Come on sweet Maureen, wanna make ya -wanna do it for ya. Give ya what you need, Mrs Jones.” Gale’s hoarse and sweet nothings poured hot and breathy in her ear and Maureen found herself locked and gripping him before she knew it, moaning into his neck as he moved in and out, in and out as she’d only ever dreamed of.

When she cracked her dazzled eyes open again he was panting above her, the clink of his dog tags gently bumping her chin with each sway deeper, lashes batting in a golden flutter as he too began to lose himself, slower, more drawn out and yet every bit as desperate as the first time.

“Look at me baby, look at me when ya do.” she pleaded, gently gripping his chin as his mouth fell open in a series of little noises of effort that went straight to her belly grown hot and molten with the feeling of him spurting inside.

“Ugh, ugh, ugh,” Gale was working atop her in pained delight, lips so smeared and face so sweaty he looked like he might melt at any minute, “thank you, oh fuck, thank you, sweet Maureen.” he chanted low and dreamy, again and again until he drove in once more and stayed.

Those clear blue eyes fagged in an exhausted ecstasy, his head dropping impossibly further with each ragged pant until his face was barely hovering over her breasts, neck bent and forhead slowly pressing into the swell of them. His forearms gave out and those hands of his stayed trapped beneath her shoulder blades.

“Sleep Angel baby,” Maureen coaxed, hand cradling the back of his dear head to her breasts, feeling a low lazy peace settle over her at the feel of his dead weight plugging her up and the lovely wringing out she’d just endured, “let’s just sleep, dear boy.”

Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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#masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #mota fanfiction #masters of the air fanfiction #the pacific #friends in the crucible #mota smut #gale cleven x oc #gale cleven #gale cleven x john egan #hints of at least #Gale x Maureen #Gale Cleven fanfic #austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler smut #austin butler imagine

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sgtgrunt0331-3 · 6 months

Text

A U.S. Marine dog handler and his war dog, from the 1st Marine Division, take cover from incoming Japanese fire during the battle of Peleliu, September 1944.

#usmc #us marines #dog handler #war dogs #peleliu #island #world war 2 #wwii #military #history

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mads-nixon · 4 months

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See the Good

Eugene Sledge x Medic!Reader

Masterlist

A/N: Merry Christmas @iceman-kazansky!! I literally squealed when I saw I got you as my giftee! I loved your prompts, and I hope you like what I did with them!! I'm going to post one gift per day so that they'll be a little spaced out! hbo owns the rights, and this is about the fictional portrayal of k company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Prompt: “You always see the good in people. Even me.”

Word Count: 5.7k

Summary: When Gene can only see himself as the terrible things he's done in the war, (y/n) is right there to remind him who he really is.

Warnings: descriptions of dead bodies (non-graphic)

OKINAWA, JAPAN: MAY, 1945:

The ground beneath their boots trembled, and the deafening whistles of mortars filled the air as (y/n) and the rest of K Company ran for cover. They sunk into the muddy sludge below them, turning each step into a battle against the sucking earth. Gripping her corpsman pack with white knuckles, (y/n) followed Gene, not daring to stop in the barrage.

“They have us targeted!” Burgie yelled, hurdling over a giant boulder in his path. “Get to cover!”

Just as (y/n) ran past the remnants of a demolished shed, a sudden blast threw her violently to the ground, sending a cascade of mud in all directions. Her ears rang with disorientation as she blinked slowly, struggling to regain her senses. The ringing faded into a muffled whine and a face appeared in (y/n)‘s vision. Although the figure’s face was blurred, she knew it was Eugene. His mouth moved rapidly, but she couldn’t understand a word he said. Realizing this, he quickly grasped the front of her uniform and hoisted her to her feet, throwing an arm around her waist to keep her upright as they bolted for cover.

Reaching the rocks, (y/n)‘s hearing slowly faded back, and the sounds of booming artillery reached her ears.

Sledge pulled on her arm, helping her over the rugged terrain. “Come on. We’re almost there!”

Finally reaching the safety of cover, the company continued farther into the rocks to escape the barrage. Snafu was in front of them and on the verge of a panicked breakdown.

“This is bullshit!” he cried, plopping down on a rock. “If I ever find the FO that called that arty, I’ll shoot him!”

Gene maintained his hold on (y/n) as he led them toward a big rock, his frustration evident. “They’ll just do it again,” he huffed, gritting his teeth. “All because some asshole officer read a map wrong and nobody gives a shit about us!”

After he sat (y/n) on the boulder beside Snafu, Eugene took a deep breath and sank beside her. He turned to the dazed woman beside him, her once white corpsman armband a brown and muddy mess. “You alright?” he asked her, knowing even he himself wasn’t alright after what happened before the shelling.

The woman and her baby…

(Y/n) nodded slowly, her eyes rising from the ground to meet his. ”Yeah. Just got my bell rung. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Sledge persisted.

“Yes, Gene. I’m okay,” she murmured wearily, rubbing her eyes. “Really.”

Removing her helmet, she threaded her fingers through her (y/h/c) hair, wincing at the dried mud that pulled at the roots. Over their time on the dreadful island, they all discovered that the jungle was just as much an enemy as the Japs.

Snafu stared wide-eyed at the ground below him, hands on his head as his chest heaved. His expression was the same one that each marine wore as they grappled with the massacre they’d just witnessed.

What country uses its own civilians as shields for a surprise attack?

As a corpsman, (y/n) had seen more death than the average marine, and after the fierce fighting on the islands of Peleliu and Pavuvu, she was struggling to remain afloat in the vast ocean of numbness that threatened to drown her. The only thing keeping her above water were her boys, the men of K Company: Sledge, Snafu, Burgin, and De L’eau, although Jay had been transferred to intelligence. They’d lost so many good men, and it made her even more thankful for the guys who had always been there for her.

“Corpsman up front!”

The call snapped (y/n) from her thoughts, and she quickly rose, momentarily losing her balance until a strong hand grasped her upper arm, holding her steady. She felt the warmth of his hand through her thin ODs as he held her in place, accompanied by a blush creeping up her neck.

“(Y/n)-” Gene started.

Shrugging him off gently, she turned toward the call. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Be careful,” he whispered after her, watching her form disappear into a sea of olive-green uniforms. With another deep breath, Sledge sat back down, trying to calm his still-racing heart. She had been right behind him…until she wasn’t. Panic had gripped him when he saw her motionless figure in the mud as the artillery rained down around them. When she opened her eyes, he felt a weight lift off his chest.

Rain drenched the marines through the night as they held their position looking up to the ridge. Around 2000HRS the next day, (y/n) trudged back to her squad, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Dried blood clung to her cracked hands, refusing to wash away, no matter how many times she’d scrubbed them raw. The casualties were unending like the rain that constantly poured on them. Luckily, the downpour had come to a stop in the early morning.

She’d been at the BAS since the previous afternoon treating and evacuating wounded marines from the already bloody battle. Continued artillery and fire throughout the day brought a steady stream of bleeding men through the tent’s entrance. One of these men had been Bill Leyden. He wasn’t in good shape, and when (y/n) saw the damage on her friend’s body, the air rushed from her lungs. After pushing away the panic, she quickly helped other corpsmen stabilize him, before sending him off to a hospital ship. As she watched him go, her heart sank at the realization the company had lost another man…another friend.

“Hey Doc,” Snafu called out gently as she approached.

She looked up from her feet at the man with a tired smile. “Hey, Snaf,” she whispered. “You seen Gene?”

Motioning over his shoulder, Snafu replied, “He’s right over there. But, Bill…“

“Yeah,” she sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We got him stabilized. He should make a full recovery. Lost a few fingers, though.”

In a trance-like state, Snafu nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. It was something they all did. A way to escape the horrors they lived through. With a gentle squeeze of his shoulder, (y/n) moved to find Sledge, but the Cajun’s voice stopped her.

“Eugene. He got a letter…his dog died.”

She turned to face him with raised brows. “Deacon?”

“I guess,” the man nodded. “I think he’s bothered more than he’s letting on. You know how Eugene is.”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to him.”

She found him staring into space ahead of him as he sat up against one of the island’s many rocks. Before she approached, (y/n) simply watched the man before her. She could see his growing stubble and the mud that splattered his cheeks, but what worried her was the blank expression on his face. She longed to see the lopsided smile that used to hang from his lips. (Y/n) didn’t know how long it had been since she’d seen that smile…too long.

Pulling her satchel off her shoulder, she quietly approached him and slouched down beside him. They sat silently for a moment, the warmth of their touching shoulders spreading through them. Gene was the first to break the silence.

“Did you see Bill?” he asked quietly, his eyes still glued on the rocks in front of him.

(Y/n) nodded, looking up at him with a small smile. “Yeah, he’s gonna be okay.”

Gene leaned his head back against the ground with a thud, his eyes closed as a shuttering sigh escaped his lips. She sat up off the rock and turned toward him, gently taking his hand.

“I’m sorry about Deacon.”

The second her fingers intertwined with his, Sledge’s heartbeat accelerated, and the man felt heat spread through his body. He took a moment to compose himself before he opened his eyes. He looked down at their intertwined hands before meeting her concerned gaze.

In that moment, Eugene could have sworn she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. It didn’t matter that she was coated in blood, mud, and sweat. She was there for him like nobody else had ever been in his whole life. Sure, he was close with his parents, but he felt they never completely understood him.

Who’d have thought that he’d have to travel almost eight thousand miles to find someone who could do so?

Eugene’s eyes flashed down to her lips, unable to control himself as their closeness made him suddenly bold. He always wondered what they’d taste like. How they’d feel against his. They were chapped, just like everyone else's, but that didn’t matter. The young man wanted a way to show her how much she meant to him. Sure, there had been moments where he told himself he was going to kiss her, but the moment ended before he had the opportunity. Something in the moment felt wrong, though, and he decided to wait once more.

“Thank you,” he whispered, swallowing thickly as he tried to regain his composure and keep the memories of his beloved dog at bay. “He was a good dog.”

“How old was he? 10? 11?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “10.”

The woman’s eyes searched his face, trying to get a read of what he needed from her. She saw pain in his hazel eyes. Pain from the loss of Bill. Pain from the loss of Deacon. Pain caused by the war.

She decided he needed some hope. Some laughter.

“Did I tell you about the time Snaf and I almost got caught stealing from an Army captain?”

Later that day, Gene and the rest of his squad sat among the rocks, each lost in their mind. (Y/n) was beside him, writing in her journal, and they were doing the same…all except Peck, who was attempting to dig a foxhole in the soaked ground. Since the day they arrived on the wretched island, Sledge kept up with how many days they spent there with tallies in the back of his Bible. With the days running together, they rarely knew what day it was or how long they’d been there.

“What’s the date?” Burgie asked, putting down his small journal.

The group turned to Gene, who took a deep breath. “June 5th, maybe. Might be the 6th.” He turned to (y/n). “(Y/n/n), which one you got?”

“I have no idea,” she sighed. “I gave up keeping track a while ago.”

Peck decided to chime in as he dug. “We’re never getting off this island.”

Everyone was thinking it, but he was the one person who dared to speak it aloud.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, glancing over at Gene with an annoyed expression. If looks could kill, Peck would be six feet deep from the redhead’s glare. His jaw clenched tightly, and his chest began to heave as he stared at the replacement.

Sensing his rising anger, (y/n) reached over and placed a hand on his thigh. His eyes moved to meet hers, and her (y/e/c) irises seemed to whisper, ”He’s not worth it,” and, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Gene took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. Beating the crap out of Peck wouldn’t bring Bill back, and letting anger consume you was a dangerous game. Every time he was tempted to let it in, (y/n) was right there, a soft presence telling him that hate was not the answer. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted daily. Sledge had seen what men could do to each other. He had seen what the Japs did to his friends.

Looking away from Gene, she was met with a strange stare from Snafu, who was smoking a cigarette and sitting on their makeshift toilet. His gaze was questioning, but not criticizing. When the man’s eyes drifted down to her hand, her stomach dropped, and she felt like she was caught red-handed. (Y/n) quickly removed her hand from Gene’s leg and shot to her feet.

“I’m gonna go-uh-do some rounds,” she announced, not daring to look at Gene or Snafu.

A few seconds later, she went treading through the sludge, her corpsman satchel pressed tightly to her side. The men all watched in confusion as she left, unsure what had made her so jumpy all of a sudden.

“She alright?” Hamm asked once she’d disappeared from view.

Burgie, always an observer, glanced over at Sledge to watch his reaction. He looked somewhat like a kicked puppy. Wrapping up his Bible, Gene began to tuck it into his pocket without a word.

“Don’t worry about (y/n), Hamm,” Burgie replied with a nod.

Hamm raised an eyebrow at his sergeant. “But did you see her-”

“She’s fine,” Snafu interrupted, pulling up his pants and rejoining the group. “Besides, she’s already got someone to worry about her.”

At the statement, Eugene froze, a cold chill running through him despite the heat. A million thoughts ran rampant in his mind.

Is there someone else in her life?

Does he know something I don’t?

Does he know how I feel?

Groaning, Burgie smacked the Cajun’s shoulder. “Shut up, Snaf. Don’t go starting crap.”

The sergeant first noticed the bond between Sledge and (y/n) back in training, but especially when the company landed on Peleliu. They always stuck by one another when they could, and she seemed to help calm the Marine amid his anxiety. As time went on and their relationship changed, Romus knew they had feelings for one another, even if they didn’t admit it. He’d never spoken about it to anyone, fearing it could become a rumor that would possibly get the pair in trouble if they ever acted on their feelings. Hearing Snafu insinuate something between them sent a pang of panic through him.

“We all worry about (y/n),” he continued. “But she’s a great corpsman. She can hold her own.”

Before he could finish his sentence, Eugene rose to his feet and went to take a leak. He did have to relieve himself, but he also wanted to get away from the conversation. If Snafu knew about how he felt, the man would never stop tormenting him. Even if it was in a joking way, Gene didn’t want to be the subject of Shelton’s teasing.

Just as he made it to a somewhat secluded spot, he heard Mac’s voice ring out from above him.

“I need a stovepipe boy up top!” he yelled, coming down from the ridge.

Gene slightly ducked his head behind a rock, hoping the lieutenant would miss him. To his dismay, Mac caught his movement in the corner of his eye.

“Sledge, that’s you. Bring some comm wire.”

Sighing when his superior disappeared over the ridge, he muttered, “Yes, sir,” and went to follow his orders.

The stench of excrement and death permeated the air as (y/n) walked through their temporary camp checking on the men. Her eyes watered from the smell, and it took all her willpower not to gag. Even though she’d built a great tolerance to gruesome sights and smells over her time as a corpsman, sometimes it all got to her.

Snafu’s stare replayed in her mind, and she hoped that she didn’t accidentally give herself away to the group. Worry buzzed in her stomach like the disgusting flies that seemed to be ever-present among the mud and filth of Okinawa. (Y/n) tried to busy her mind with the long list of men to check on, but she couldn’t focus more than a few moments before getting lost in her head again.

Spotting a man on her list, she called out to him.

“Hey, James,” she greeted, approaching his muddy foxhole. “How’s the ankle?”

He groaned and shook his head. “As good as it’s gonna be, Doc.”

In the barrage the day prior, the private slipped and rolled his ankle in the mud trying to get to cover. He insisted he was fine, but some of his squadmates sent (y/n) to check on him. Henry James was a stubborn young man who wasn’t even old enough to drink, yet he was on a foreign island in Southeast Asia fighting for his country…fighting to survive. She crouched beside his hole, inspecting the ankle that was elevated above the entrance.

“Were you able to stay off it much?” (y/n) asked, gently prodding the bruised skin.

“A buddy of mine took my OP shift so I didn’t have to walk around on it. It’s more stiff than anything.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “That’s how ankles are. They’re tough-”

Her voice came to a stop as yelling filled the air. It wasn’t cheers of victory or anything of that nature. They were cries of attack…of desperation…of death. The second the sound registered in her mind, she was darting toward the ridge, hoping to get there before the shooting started in case someone got hit. The rapid beating of her heart filled her ears as she ran through the mud and past battle-weary marines. A few of them called out to her, but she didn’t hear them.

The first ping of an M-1 being fired echoed through the air as she made it to the base of the rocky ridge. Cursing under her breath, she quickly began her ascent. Finding the most solid footing, she climbed the hill, using the jagged rocks as handholds. Gunfire filled the air, silencing the screams of the enemy. (Y/n) was out of breath when she made it to the top, but she didn’t stop. Most of the fire had stopped, but a few shots still rang out.

At the moment the corpsman reached the other marines at the top of the ridge, her heart sank at the sight of Eugene unholstering his revolver and aiming at a wounded Jap.

“Cease fire!” Mac cried from the other side of the ridge. “Cease fire!”

Gene didn’t care.

“Damn, Sledge. Leave him,” Hamm muttered to the redhead.

Whipping around to face him, Eugene scowled. “What for? He’s a Jap, ain’t he?”

(Y/n) watched in horror as Gene opened fire on the man already wallowing in the mud. He missed the first two shots, but the third hit its mark, hitting the Jap just above his hip. The soldier sunk into the mud face down, his writhing coming to an end.

“Cease fire!” The Lieutenant repeated as he neared them. “Cease fire, damn it!”

Satisfied with his work, Sledge grabbed his rifle from beside Hamm and turned to descend the ridge. When he noticed (y/n) a few yards away, he froze for a moment, his eyes resembling a dark storm cloud that could start down pouring any second. Guilt seemed to cloud his usual hazel eyes, and he looked away, unable to stay steady beneath her gaze after what he’d just done. He then continued down the ridge.

Mac was quick to confront him, gripping his carbine in one hand with white knuckles.

“I told you to cease fire. What are you doing?”

The private spun to face Mac with gritted teeth.“Killing Japs,” he seethed, turning to go down the hill again.

Before he could get far, the lieutenant spoke again. “You just gave away our position!”

“I think they’ve got a pretty good idea of where we are,” Gene chuckled bitterly.

Mac pointed toward the dead Japs. “I told you to cease fire. You’re supposed to be observing, and then I see you with a damn sidearm!

“We were all sent here to kill Japs, weren’t we?” Sledge screamed, climbing back up to be nose-to-nose with his lieutenant. “So what the hell difference does it make what weapon we use?”

(Y/n) couldn’t help but flinch at Gene’s sudden outburst. She’d never seen him like this before, and she wondered what made him finally break. What was the straw that broke the camel’s back? What had happened in the five minutes she was gone?

A tear streaked down her cheek seeing the man she cared about more than anything giving in to the war. Seeing a man be reduced to a shell of who he once was was always heartbreaking, and (y/n) didn’t realize just how much until she witnessed him finally crack.

“I’d use my damn hands if I had to,” he whispered to a frozen Mac, who clenched his jaw and slowly walked past him. (Y/n) was quick to try and follow Gene once he stormed down the hill, but a gentle hand on her shoulder held her back.

It was Burgin, his face scrunched with concern. “Let ‘em cool off, (y/n/n).”

“Romus, he-”

“I know what he means to you,” he interrupted in a whisper as he glanced around them for any eavesdroppers. “But trust me. You need to leave him be for a little bit. Let him think.”

(Y/n) swallowed thickly. “Please don’t tell anyone, Burgie. I could be-”

“Your secret’s safe with me…He needs you, (y/l/n), but give him a few hours.”

Releasing a shuddering breath, her gaze dropped to the ground. “He was fine when I left. What happened?”

“I don’t know. But we did hear him hollering about something right before he went up top.”

“Thanks for everything, Burg,” she sighed, patting his shoulder softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you and the guys.”

A sheepish smile grew on his face, and he chuckled under his breath. “You’d be a lot more ladylike, that’s for sure. The other day, I’m pretty sure I saw you smoking Sledge’s pipe.”

“Whatever,” she groaned, rubbing a hand down her dirty face. “A lot of women actually smoke, ya know?”

The rest of the afternoon did not go according to (y/n)‘s plan, and she was unable to check on Gene after he cooled down. Within an hour of his outburst, she was called back to the field hospital to assist in an all-hands-on-deck emergency following a Jap ambush. The corpsman was up to her elbows in blood, bowels, and every other bodily fluid from vomit to urine. It was a hard night, and it got even worse when a terrible rainstorm moved in, trapping her from returning to her company due to poor visibility.

(Y/n) spent the night, and most of the next day, helping around the hospital. She dressed wounds, administered pain meds, and helped transport men to the hospital ships on a Jeep. A radio call was received that told of the 1st Marine’s plans to take the ridge, and (y/n) knew she needed to be there.

She caught a ride to the ridge just in time for the assault. The men were checking their weapons and quietly conversing with each other as she walked through the various companies. When she reached her squad, however, silence filled the air. They all had thousand-yard stares, and the group was missing two guys who had been there the day before. Her pace slowed as she approached them.

“Hey, guys,” (y/n) said softly, her eyes flicking from man to man. When none of them acknowledged her, she knew something bad had happened. “Where’s Hamm and Peck?”

Silence.

She took a deep breath, trying not to imagine the worst. “Please, guys, whe-”

“Gone,” Gene interrupted harshly, his gaze snapping to hers. “Hamm's dead and Peck’s gone. He cracked.”

(Y/n) felt the all-too-familiar punch of grief knock the air from her lungs. Eugene’s hazel eyes were dark and stormy, even more so than the previous day. She swallowed thickly, attempting to push down the emotion that clogged her throat.

“What happened?” she asked shakily, her eyes never leaving Gene’s.

Before he could respond, Snafu spoke. “Doesn’t matter. They’re gone.”

“Shelton’s right,” Burgin added. “It’s hard, but we’ve got other things to focus on.”

(Y/n) nodded once and dropped her gaze to the group, blinking away the tears that burned her eyes. Two more of their group were gone. Sure, Peck wasn’t her favorite person by any means, but he was still part of their company….on their side. And Hamm…he was a kid. A kid who deserved better than to die in the mud on some foreign island.

They all deserved better.

“Let’s move out!” Mac announced, waving for them to follow.

Each man followed suit, but Eugene hung back to wait on (y/n). Seeing her tear-filled eyes, he instantly regretted opening his mouth. The anger within him seemed to dissipate momentarily as he joined her side.

“Remember, you’ve got a bullseye on your arm,” he murmured, gesturing to the red and white medic brassard on her arm. “Please be careful.”

“I will.” (Y/n) lifted her helmet to look up at him through her lashes. “You take care of yourself, too, alright?”

“Yes ma’am,” he whispered, admiring her features. His eyes trailed from her eyes down to her nose, and then to her lips before flicking back to her (y/e/c) eyes. They stayed locked in each other’s gaze for a few moments, their eyes seeming to have a silent conversation communicating everything that was left unsaid. Gene slowly reached up to cup her cheek, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone. The racing of (y/n)‘s heart wasn’t from the artillery that had begun hammering the ridge, but Eugene’s warm caress against her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed at the gentle touch.

They both wished the moment could last forever.

Another yell from Mac shattered the moment, leaving (y/n) missing the tenderness of his hand in its absence.

“I’ll find you after,” he said, turning around and backpedaling to catch up with his squad. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

The corner of her lips quirked into a smirk. “I’ll leave that to you.”

Once the battle had died down and all the remaining Japanese were either killed or taken prisoner, (y/n) went searching for Gene. When the bullets began to fly, she couldn’t get the boy from Mobile off her mind, and anxiety churned in her stomach as she looked for him. The stench of gasoline, blood, and burnt flesh filled the air along her ascent to the ridge. Bodies of both marines and the enemy lined the narrow path up the hill, and her eyes scanned each one, praying that none of them were the men she’d come to love dearly.

“Burgie, you seen Sledgehammer? He was just over here.”

Hearing the familiar Cajun accent, she spun toward the voice and sighed in relief when she saw Snafu atop an old bunker, his legs swinging as he sat on the edge with a cigarette hanging from his lip. Romus was talking to another sergeant a few feet away, his rifle swung around his shoulder.

“There you are!” (Y/n) called out, reaching up and slapping Snafu’s foot. It was all she could reach from his elevated position on the concrete bunker. “You alright?”

He smiled and raised an eyebrow, blowing a puff of smoke into the humid air. “Not a scratch on me,” he mused. “I don’t know where Eugene is, but don’t worry, I just saw him. He’s okay, too.”

With this news, a wave of calm washed over her, and she let out the breath she’d been holding since they parted. “Thanks, Snaf. I’ll find him.”

“Have fun,” he laughed, waving his cigarette around in front of him. “And do me a favor and fuc-”

This caught Burgie's attention. “Hey!” He interrupted, scolding Snafu like he was a parent whose child was acting up in public. “Cut it out.”

Busting out laughing, Snafu winked at (y/n), who could feel the embarrassment creeping up her cheeks at his intended comment. She raised a hand and flipped him off with a grin before continuing her search for Gene.

It took her a few minutes of wandering to spot his familiar frame among the sea of dirty green uniforms, but when she did, a huge smile painted her face. (Y/n) almost called out to him, but something stopped her.

He was sitting alone on the busted remains of a bunker with his helmeted head in his hands, his weapon lying idle in the dirt beside him. She continued toward him slowly, observing the gentle shake of his shoulders that told her he was crying.

“Hey, Gene,” (y/n) murmured with a softness that matched the gravity of the moment, lowering herself onto the earth beside him. He reacted quickly, averting his gaze and hiding his face as he wiped the tears from his dirt-covered cheeks.

Reaching over, she softly turned his face toward her. After a moment of resistance, he gave in to her gentle touch. His eyes, glistening with unshed tears, met hers. (Y/n)‘s fingertips traced the dirt-streaked paths on his cheeks, her touch a soothing escape from the horror they lived in.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, ducking to meet his eyes. “I’m here.”

Gene’s lip began to quiver, and a stifled sob escaped him as he covered his face with trembling hands. “I’m a monster, (y/n). The things I’ve done…” he strained, moving away from her comforting touch.

(Y/n) watched the play of emotions on his face as he stood up abruptly, throwing an arm out to point to a bombed-out building. The skeletal remains of what once was a home loomed in the smoky haze. “There was a family in there. Now a baby with grow up without a family! I called in the mortars up there! I did that! I’m a monster!”

“No,” she shot up, her voice cutting him off. “You are not a monster, Eugene Sledge. We are at war. We’ve all done terrible things here, but it does not make you a monster. The fact that you’re feeling like you are proves you’re not. It means you’re human, Gene.”

Another tear streaked down his cheek as he clenched his teeth. “After Bill and everyone we’ve lost, I wanted to get them back. I wanted to. You saw me yesterday!”

“Eugene! Look at me!” she ordered, cupping his cheeks as she implored his attention. His gaze wandered everywhere but her face until she spoke again, her tone much softer this time. “Hon, please look at me.”

Tear-filled hazel eyes met hers, and she tugged him a little closer, they’re faces only inches apart. “We all want to get them back. You are not a monster.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he croaked, more tears spilling down his cheeks. “What if this is who I am now?”

“I know exactly who you are. You are Eugene Bondurant Sledge. You’re still that same boy from Mobile, Alabama who loved his dog more than anything, the same one who loved to fish with his father, and the very same one who I fell in love with before we even stepped foot on foreign soil.”

A sob escaped his lips, and his eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed by her words. “There’s no way you can love me like this. You deserve someone else who-”

“I don’t love anyone else, Gene!” she urged, tears stinging her eyes. “I love you, and I’ll say it over and over, every single day, for as long as it takes to make you believe me.”

Shaking his head, he tried to break free from her touch, but she held on. “I’m not a good man.”

“You are good, Eugene. You are a good man. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, but it’s how we respond to them that makes us who we are. This right here? It proves you’re a good man.”

Her words seemed to break through in his mind, and he froze for a moment. Pulling off his helmet, he moved (y/n)‘s hands from his face and cupped her cheeks, his red eyes still glossy. “I love you,” he murmured, voice wavering. “And I will spend the rest of my life working to be worthy of you if you’ll let me.”

The tears (y/n) had been holding back filled her eyes, a few of them trickling from her waterline. She nodded in his gentle hold. “You already are.”

He wiped a few tears away softly, a lopsided smile forming on his lips. “You’re too good for this world, darlin’,” Gene cooed. “You always see the good in people. Even me.”

With utmost care, Gene reached up and removed (y/n)‘s helmet, her tousled (y/h/c) spilling out. The fading sun added a soft glow to their faces, emphasizing the exhaustion etched in their features. As he delicately held the helmet aside, Eugene’s eyes met (y/n)‘s, a silent understanding passing between them. He closed the gap, his breath mixing with hers as his eyes lingered on her face, taking in every detail-the mud smudges, the fatigue-as if memorizing each nuance.

With a gentle touch, he pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was a tender blend of longing and comfort, a quiet promise to stay by the other’s side. In that moment, the world around them ceased to exist. Time slowed as they embraced, finding solace in the simple act of being together at last. The sounds of war faded into the background, replaced by the gentle symphony of two hearts seeking refuge in the warmth of each other’s touch.

#hbowarsanta23 #i hope you liked it!!#hbo war #the pacific #hbowar #the pacific x reader #the pacific imagines #the pacific imagine #eugene sledge #eugene sledgehammer sledge #eugene sledge x reader #eugene sledge x medic!reader #gene sledge #sledgehammer #eugene sledge imagines #snafu shelton #merriell shelton #ww2

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lostloveletters · 4 months

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Bruised Fruit Chapter 8 (Michael Corleone x OC)

Summary: The sound of no longer distant wedding bells loom in the air as the reality of Gloria's new life with Michael closes in on her.

Note: Pre-Cana is a retreat or series of courses that couples getting married in the Catholic Church attend (it varies by parish or diocese). It’s basically pre-marriage counseling from a Catholic perspective. Also, the novel doesn’t specify which battle Michael was wounded in, just that Life magazine ran the article on him at some point in 1944 and he was discharged in early 1945 after Vito bribed a military doctor to say Michael was too badly wounded for him to return to combat. With this in mind, I’m going with Peleliu, which would make the most sense considering the vague canon timeline and its high wounded and casualty rates.

Warnings: Descriptions of pregnancy symptoms, mainly morning sickness.

Chapter 7 | AO3 Link | Masterlist

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The moka pot on the stovetop hissed at Gloria while she was looking at the showtimes for Rio Bravo listed in that morning’s issue of Newsday. Grabbing a pen, she circled a few evening showings to present to Michael. If they got out of Pre-Cana early enough, they could catch a screening of it on the way to pick up the kids from her parents’ house.

Her elbow knocked against the espresso glasses she’d set out on the counter as she moved the moka pot off of the flame and onto a free burner. One of them nearly rolled onto the floor, but she managed to catch it just in time.

The espresso glasses were a brand new crystal set she’d bought at Lord & Taylor not long after they’d moved into the Long Beach house, making the drive upshore to Manhasset with Sandra. They were technically shot glasses, but the shop assistant in the housewares department enthusiastically assured her the glasses could withstand hotter temperatures. So far, they’d held up to the three or four small pots of espresso being made in the Corleone household each day.

Michael always drank some in the morning and then in the afternoons, usually an hour or two after lunch. Al took his with sambuca, as did Connie. Sandra drank hers black and piping hot, and Tom sometimes drank his cortado, though he didn’t drink espresso after 11am, claiming the caffeine would keep him up all night otherwise. Ciro drank his with lemon, and Dominic, Al’s protegee and another newer face around the house, would drink his straight, unless Al was around, and he’d add sambuca, too. Anthony had even started drinking espresso, acquiring a taste for it at her parents’ house and shocking her and Michael one morning when he asked for some.

Making espresso for everyone was one of the few ways Gloria was actually helpful in the kitchen, otherwise leaving the cooking to one of the Corleones or their maid, Margaret. The older woman had patiently taught Gloria how to cook Michael’s preferred breakfast of poached eggs and toast so she could make it when Margaret was off on the weekends.

Al Neri had let himself in, quietly, as he normally did, though his near silent arrival didn’t startle Gloria anymore.

“Morning, Al. Michael hasn’t come down yet. Espresso’s fresh, though. Help yourself.”

Al nodded. “Thanks, Gloria.”

“Have you eaten? I’m gonna make eggs when Michael comes down, and I think we have some leftovers from last night in the fridge.”

She’d already had a plate of cold ziti for breakfast herself.

Gloria couldn’t concentrate on cooking for long enough to get any good at it, finding each step of the process mind-numbingly boring and would get distracted if she felt like something was taking too long to chop or boil or whatever she was supposed to do with the ingredients. One of the benefits of working with the casino’s restaurant in Vegas was getting free meals from the kitchen, usually extra food or untouched meals the picky patrons had sent back. Except to make coffee or heat up leftovers from work, she rarely ventured into her kitchen when living on her own.

Espresso took only a few minutes to brew, though, and she could multitask while keeping an eye on the pot.

He shook his head. “I got a sandwich from that deli by my place on the way here.”

Al had bought a house in Lynbrook with the move, only a twenty minute drive from them, less if traffic wasn’t too bad. His place turned out to be about ten minutes from her parents’ house in Rosedale, which made Michael feel better about letting the kids spend the night there sometimes. Gloria liked Long Beach, though, especially since summer was rapidly approaching and some of the seasonal places were starting to open up.

“Do you go to the movies?” she asked, eyes flicking back to the showtimes in the paper on the counter.

“Not in a long time,” he said.

“I was thinking of asking Michael to take me.”

“Ask me to take you where?” Michael asked, walking into the kitchen and giving Gloria a kiss on the cheek. “Morning, Al.”

“To the movies. We should go see Rio Bravo.”

“Isn’t that a Western? You don’t like Westerns.”

“I like Ricky Nelson,” she said. “We haven’t been to the movies since we saw Cat on a Hot Tin Roof last year.”

He conceded more easily than she expected. “Alright, darling. How about after Pre-Cana? We can get dinner and then go to the movies since your parents are watching the kids today.”

“Great! Oh, let me get your breakfast ready. Are you sure you’re not hungry, Al?” she asked.

He shook his head, opting for his espresso.

Michael poured himself some, and Gloria got to work on making his breakfast. The toast was easy enough, but she always felt like she could do a little better on the poached eggs. Though if Michael thought so, he never said anything to her.

Gloria wasn’t sure what to expect from Pre-Cana. Michael hadn’t taken it with Kay since they didn’t have a Catholic wedding, and the concept was brand new when Jackie and Vivian had gotten married. The church secretary at St. Catherine’s said it wasn’t exactly a requirement, but strongly encouraged, which meant that if they wanted to keep their late August wedding date, they better go.

As soon as she scooped the poached eggs from the boiling water, the scent hit her nose in an unfamiliar, nauseating way, and she clumsily dropped the egg on top of the slice of toast, gagging as she did so.

Michael and Al shared a perplexed look as Gloria ran past them into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her.

She could hardly look at the contents of the toilet, promptly flushing it. A knock at the door startled her, though she should have expected Michael to check on her when she made such a scene.

“Gloria? Are you alright?”

“Yeah I—just give me a minute.” She clumsily grabbed a bottle of mouthwash beneath the sink, filling her mouth with the burning mint taste and spitting it out into the sink. She washed her hands, accidentally splashing the mirror with water when Michael abruptly opened the bathroom door.

“What made you sick?” he asked, concern evident in his features as he took in the burst blood vessels in her face, leaving the skin splotchy and her usual eyebags even darker.

“Maybe someone left the milk out too long,” she said, avoiding his gaze as she dried her hands. “I put it in my coffee earlier, and it smelled a little weird.”

Michael was silent, staring at her for a moment before seemingly accepting her explanation. “Should I call the parish and ask them to reschedule our Pre-Cana?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I’m just gonna sit outside. Get some air.” Because the mere thought of being in the room as those fucking eggs nearly made her gag again.

She knew Michael was watching her from the window as she made her way to one of the patio chairs next to the vegetable garden. It had been his late father’s hobby in his retirement. Everyone who lived there since had kept it up in one way or another, all friends of the family, Michael had told her. As the house had never gone to strangers, they tended to the garden in Vito’s honor. Tom’s wife Theresa usually busied herself with it. Gloria helped once in a while, though she could tell Theresa didn’t care much for her and only made polite conversation whenever she was around. Perhaps Gloria’s presence served as a reminder of her husband’s infidelity with her own sister-in-law, unless Theresa really didn’t know, and disliked Gloria on the principle of her having been Michael’s mistress. Regardless, Gloria certainly wasn’t one to snitch on such a situation, and she had no qualms about keeping whatever secrets she needed to from whichever Corleone she needed to.

Gloria kept secrets from Michael even after he told her about Apollonia. Hers was about his other ex-wife, the one who he probably wished were dead. Instead, Kay was back in New England, just outside of Hartford, to be exact. Gloria had gotten the address from Connie, who’d been keeping in touch with her former sister-in-law. Using her parents’ house as the return address, Gloria had sent Kay the colorful crafts Anthony and Mary had made in school for Mother’s Day earlier that month.

Trying to hide an almost certain pregnancy from him was becoming a near impossible task. She looked at the tomatoes growing in their vines, green in the late spring and soon to be ripe and red in the coming weeks. Michael would be glad she was pregnant, she had no doubt about that. It was exactly what he wanted, and just what she dreaded.

She brought her fingers to her temples in an attempt to massage out the dull headache that emerged. The screen door opened, and she didn’t bother to see who’d come outside. Michael stood next to her, his shadow shielding her from the sunlight that exacerbated her headache.

He handed her a glass of water. “Your head must be killing you.”

Gloria downed the water, cool droplets spilling from the corners of her mouth but paying it to mind. She set the glass down, wiping her face with the back of her hand, acutely aware of the way Michael was staring at her, deep in thought as he took in the state of her again.

“Thanks,” she said.

“I called the parish anyway, the secretary said there’s one we can go to next weekend. Think you’re up for a movie?” he asked.

She smiled. “I think I can manage that.”

“I checked the paper, we can go to the screening at two, get an early dinner, and then go to your parents’.”

“Alright, I’m gonna take a nap, then. Wake me by one if I’m not up?”

He nodded, taking her hand and kissing the top of it. “Get some rest, darling.”

The first thing Gloria did when she got to the master suite was brush her teeth, avoiding her reflection. How long would it be before she began losing teeth? She knew plenty of women who’d experienced that or hair loss or brittle bones, all a result of the baby leeching nutrients from its host.

When she got into bed, she buried her face in her pillow and screamed. So much had changed already, and the moment Michael caught wind she was pregnant, her life as she knew it would be his. There was no more hiding it, though, no possible way when there were eyes on her at all times. Every one of her soon-to-be in-laws were undyingly loyal to him in addition to the men he had at his disposal. Hell, he probably already knew.

Michael couldn’t have woken her up to go to the movies soon enough. Not that she figured she’s gotten any sleep anyway, too caught up in her thoughts to actually rest. But she needed to get out of the house and go somewhere. Maybe it’d be easier to tell him if they were in public, and she had to keep her composure.

In the theater, she focused on the movie, tried to enjoy herself despite Ricky Nelson not singing nearly as much as she’d hoped and her not caring much for Westerns to begin with. Michael had taken the time to go with her, though, and was trying to salvage the day so it wasn’t totally lost. His devotion, his attention was overwhelming at times, especially when so much of it belonged to her.

“I still don’t like Westerns, but I like that song Dean Martin and Ricky Nelson did,” she said as they walked out of the movie theater.

Michael nodded. “Dean Martin’s always good.”

“Did you get a chance to see him when he did that show with Jerry Lewis at the casino? What was it, four years ago now? It was a riot.”

“I did. Kay and I went.”

Right. Gloria hadn’t been scheduled to work the three days Michael and Kay were there. She didn’t see him for nearly a month after that and figured their affair of nearly a year was over, surprised it had even gone on that long. No hard feelings, no love lost, fun while it lasted. Then he returned to Las Vegas on business, something Fredo had avoided telling her in what he perceived as an attempt to spare her feelings. She was friendly when she and Michael crossed paths in the casino’s lounge. Less than an hour after she was off the clock, they were up in that hotel room again.

Thinking about Las Vegas felt like watching a movie itself, as though it were someone else’s life entirely. She still longed for it from her invisible cage of domesticity and privately mourned for it as if it were the greatest love of her life. Maybe it was.

“Anywhere specific you wanna eat?” Michael asked.

Gloria cleared her throat. “Maybe we could try that restaurant up the street, the one with the seashell on the sign? I’ve never been, but Janine was saying it’s good.”

“Who’s Janine?”

“Michael, she lives two houses down from us.”

“The Avon lady?”

Among their neighbors, Gloria liked Janine the most. She didn’t mind Gloria hanging out at her house a few days a week and was pretty good company. Her house wasn’t pristinely tidy, and she’d sometimes get tipsy on sherry by 3pm and end up ordering Chinese takeout or making TV dinners for her family. Or maybe it had something to do with Gloria buying something every time a new Avon catalog came out.

Gloria laughed. “Yeah, her. Mary’s going to her daughter Diana’s birthday party next month. She and my mom already picked out a gift.”

“Alright, let’s try it.”

“She said they have good Salisbury steak.”

“Salisbury steak? You must be feeling better from this morning.”

“I’m starving, actually.”

The few handfuls of popcorn she had in the theater certainly wasn’t enough to make up for two missed meals. Her stomach rumbled as they neared the restaurant, the smell of its kitchen mixed with the nearby sea breeze oddly enough to smell delicious in the moment. It wasn’t crowded for four in the afternoon on a Saturday. They were seated in a booth by a window that had a decent view of the beach.

“I’ll have a club soda, and she’ll have a rum and coke,” Michael said to the waiter.

Gloria shook her head. “Just a Coke for me, actually.”

Michael’s eyes shot over to his fiance, Gloria avoiding his gaze and playing with the corner of the tablecloth. The waiter took the hint to leave the couple alone, mumbling about giving them more time to look over the menu.

By the time Gloria let out a shaky breath, she knew he’d put two and two together, probably had since that morning. It wasn’t any easier for her to say it. “I think I’m pregnant.”

“Are you sure? Have you seen a doctor?” he asked.

“My period’s a few weeks late.”

“You’re scared,” he observed softly.

“I’ve never done this before,” she half-joked.

He reached over the table, taking one of her hands firmly in his. “You and our son will want for nothing. The best doctors are a phone call away.” When he noticed this didn’t seem to assuage her nerves, he added, “I’ll be with you through all of it.”

“I know you will.”

“Then you have no reason to worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You’ve known for a while, haven’t you?”

“I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Monday morning I want you to make an appointment to be sure.”

“I sure feel like I can eat for two,” Gloria said.

Michael smiled. “Then go ahead and order for two.”

The waiter returned with their drinks, seeming to wait until the intense discussion was over. He gave them another few minutes to look at the menu, and suddenly, Gloria wanted to order everything. Even asking Michael what he was getting, a grilled pork chop with green beans, didn’t help narrow down her options.

Gloria’s Salisbury steak came with two sides, and she chose mashed potatoes and creamed spinach after some internal debate. Before the waiter could walk back to the kitchen, she ordered a plate of grilled scallops, too. One of the things she had missed about living in New York when she was in Vegas was the fresh seafood.

“What do you think of Ciro looking after you?” Michael asked as he cut into his grilled pork chop. “Just whenever you leave the house, to be safe.”

“I like Ciro,” she said. “He’s nice. Kept a close eye on us during the bachelorette party.”

“Good. I trust him,” he said. “How are the scallops?”

She nodded her approval, sliding the plate toward him while chewing a chunk of steak she’d shoved in her mouth. As far as she was concerned, Salisbury steak and hamburger steak were the same thing, but for some reason, it felt like the greatest meal she’d ever eaten. Some of it was relief from not trying to hide her pregnancy from Michael anymore, even though she dreaded the thought of what the following eight months would involve.

She glanced over at Michael. For all the rotten luck or poor decision-making in the world, he chose the one Sicilian girl without a maternal bone in her body. Then again, he always saw something in her no one else seemed to, and it even left her at a loss sometimes. For his sake, she hoped the baby was a boy, but personally had no preference and was already thinking of how often she could pass child-rearing responsibilities onto her mother. At least buying stuff for the kid and redecorating one of the spare bedrooms into a nursery would be fun.

“I should get decaf, shouldn’t I?” Gloria mused aloud when they finished their meals, ready to order coffee.

Michael nodded. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

“That stuff’s awful.”

“It’s only a few months.”

“God, and I won’t even be able to drink at the wedding,” she lamented.

“Don’t worry, most of our guests will drink more than enough for the both of us.”

“How crazy is it gonna be?”

“I’d be surprised if there were less than two hundred people there.”

“Jesus,” Gloria whispered. “Is that including family?”

“Yours and mine, and then some acquaintances and business associates as well. I figured since we’re having the reception at the house, it wouldn’t hurt to invite the neighbors.”

“Really?”

“Like you said when we first moved in, they’ll notice if we’re antisocial. Just remember to keep them at arms’ length.”

The drive from the restaurant to her parents’ house felt oddly long for a weekend, but it gave her a chance to actually think about the wedding for the first time in a while. Connie and Sandra had taken on most of the wedding planning duties of their own volition, with Gloria in charge of picking out her dress, the cake, and a band to play at the reception. The latter was a task she took seriously, wanting to find a group that could play music to her tastes and also to that of the plethora of old school Sicilians who’d expect to hear a tarantella or two at some point during the celebration.

Gloria was relieved to see Vivian’s car in her parents’ driveway when Michael pulled up. Having Jackie and Vivian around always lowered the tension between her parents and Michael. Vivian liked him well enough, even though they’d butt heads at times. Jackie and Michael carried on friendly conversations on their own. Gloria wasn’t sure what she’d have done if Jackie disliked her fiance the way their father did.

“Hey Mike,” Jackie said, shaking Michael’s hand when they walked inside.

Michael smiled. “Good to see you, Jackie.”

“Hi Michael,” Jack said. “The kids are upstairs painting with Julia.”

“I’ll go see what they’re up to,” Michael said. “The kids love that craft room.”

Jack smiled. “Good, we’re glad to have them over any time.”

Michael disappeared upstairs, and Gloria followed her family into the living room, declining Vivian’s offer for coffee. Might as well try to be responsible, though if she’d known the shot of espresso she drank earlier that morning would be her last for the better part of a year, she would have savored it more. Or at least tried harder not to throw it up.

“How was Pre-Cana?” Jack asked.

“I got sick this morning, so we’re gonna go next weekend.”

“Again?” Julia asked as she made her way downstairs.

“It was some spoiled milk. I’m fine. We’re going next weekend, wedding’s still on, nothing to be concerned about,” Gloria said.

“We just got the invitation in the mail. You can mark us as a definite yes,” Vivian said. “How many people are going to be there?”

“The guest list was a little over two hundred fifty people long, last I heard.”

“Two hundred fifty,” Julia repeated. “Jack, did you hear that? I don’t think we had more than thirty at ours, both our families combined.”

“That’s because theirs isn’t gonna be all family,” Jack said. “Your fiance’s business associates, I’m sure.”

“Dad, c’mon,” Vivian scolded, trying to keep the heat off Gloria.

“Oh, Gloria, that’s shameful if he uses your wedding day as a front for all of that,” Julia objected.

Jack scoffed. “What else is it for? A cover for all of those people slinking about for their debts and favors. Just watch, you’ll be surprised at who shows up for his generosity .”

“You two are ridiculous,” Gloria said. “That’s not what it’s going to be like at all.”

She actually didn’t know what the hell the wedding was going to be like, and it wouldn’t surprise her if Michael’s work did keep him away for some of the reception. Because there were things pertinent to running an olive oil importing company that required him to step away from family events for hours at a time. Even if he spent the day glued to her side, she was sure her parents would find something to pick apart.

Frustrated, she headed outside and couldn’t light a cigarette fast enough. Jackie followed her, though he kept his distance, standing closer to the back door than she was.

“Hey,” Jackie said. “Everything alright?”

“Just mom and dad being jerks about Michael and the wedding.”

“They’ll come around. He’s not a bad guy.”

“You really like him?”

“I don’t know what he does for a living, and I don’t really care. All I know is, this guy got transferred to my company after he got wounded on Peleliu. That article came out just before Christmas in ‘44. We got the magazines with these shitty rock-hard cookies that had nuts in them. But he said Michael was a good captain, saved his life. Some guys said it was a real shame he got discharged before Okinawa. They really admired him.”

Gloria took a long drag from her cigarette, letting out a shaky exhale. In nearly fifteen years, that was the most Jackie had said to her about his time overseas. All she knew was that he was with the First Marines and didn’t write many letters home, but when he did, it seemed like he was always on a different island and had less and less to say. After he returned to New York, he’d answer her questions with one-word responses or pretend he didn’t hear her at all.

She learned not to take his avoidance of the topic personally, though it took a while. The only person who knew the most about what Jackie experienced, besides the men he fought with–few of whom he kept in touch with over the years–was Vivian. In that case, Gloria didn’t pry, not wanting to pressure her sister-in-law to betray her brother’s confidence.

“Why is this the first time you’re telling me about it?”

“It wasn’t exactly a fucking vacation, Gloria.”

“I know that. Michael’s told me enough about it to have a clue. That’s why I talked to him in the first place five years ago, and that’s how I ended up back here. Because I wanted to understand what happened to you, but you shut me out.”

“What was I supposed to say to you back then? You were a thirteen-year-old kid!”

“I don’t know! Just…something. I missed you so much, Jackie, and it was like you left and never came back.”

“I didn’t. That’s what you have to understand, Gloria. Alright? Michael–he got fucking shot and came out of it better than most guys I know. Whatever the hell he does, he’s good at it. It’s like he can put his emotions in a box and leave them there. That’s why he’s good for you.”

“Compartmentalize.”

“What?”

“The emotions in a box thing. He compartmentalizes.”

“There you go.”

Gloria stubbed out her cigarette on her heel. “I’m glad you like him. I don’t think mom and dad ever will, though.”

“All that mob stuff’s true, huh?”

“He doesn’t tell me a lot, but probably.”

“I bet the cops are gonna be all over the wedding.”

“Oh, I can just see dad telling them all the details now.”

Jackie snickered. “It’ll be fine.”

“With two hundred fifty people there? Fat chance.”

#michael corleone x oc #michael corleone x ofc #the godfather #michael corleone #the godfather x oc #the godfather fanfic #michael corleone fanfic #the godfather part ii #bruised fruit fic

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ailendolin · 2 months

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Given that Roe is my favourite character from BoB and Bastogne my favourite episode, it's really no surprise Lemmons ended up becoming my favourite in MotA (even though I absolutely adored Rosie when I read the MotA book and Crosby made me very fond of Blakely with his book).

Just like Roe, Lemmons is part of the guys but not really. And just like Roe, he offers a different perspective on what's happening.

I'm grateful MotA devotes time to his story and shows us his journey, even just a little (and Raff Law does a fantastic job of portraying it given how little screentime he's had so far). The term unsung hero comes to mind here, and if there's one thing I love about the HBO war shows it's that they've always been great at shining the spotlight on people* that other WW2 media rarely focuses on.

*The Pacific took that to a whole new level by devoting three episodes to the Peleliu arc - a battle deemed unnecessary in hindsight and mostly forgotten about by history. It might not be about one specific character but it gives those who fought there a voice, especially those who lost their lives like Ack-Ack and Hillbilly.

#yes I definitely have a type when it comes to faves #Roe Hillbilly and Lemmons couldn't be more different and yet narratively they fall into the same category #unsung heroes indeed #masters of the air #band of brothers #the pacific

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realspacejunk · 7 months

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Well, I guess listening to first-person accounts from the Pacific theatre of WWII is one way to traumatize myself. Obvious content warning.

Every Island landing for the Americans and Japanese was like D-day but worse. And it just got worse the closer Americans came to the Japanese home islands. And the way the Imperial army just threw themselves into death, continuing to kill Americans until the last second, soldiers sometimes being chained to their machine gun nests, while involving the civilians in this, might have been the worst of it all. Some men had to be evacuated from the battlefields because their minds just broke. Some of this shit is just so difficult to grasp.

One soldier (named John Garcia) recalled his traumatic experience from Okinawa, and it just shows the psychological wounds this conflict caused:

We buried General Ushijima and his men inside a cave. This was the worst part of the war which I did not like about Okinawa. They were hiding in caves all the time. Women, children, soldiers. We get up on a cliff and lower down barrels of gasoline and then shoot at it. It would explode and just bury them to death. I personally shot one Japanese woman because she was coming across a field at night. We kept dropping leaflets not to cross the field at night because we couldn't tell if they were soldiers. We would set up a perimeter. Anything in front, we'd shoot at it. This one night I shot, and when it came daylight there was a woman there, and a baby tied to her back. The bullet had gone through her and out the baby's back. That still bothers me. That haunts me. I still feel I committed murder. You see a figure in the dark, it's stooped over. You don't know if it's a soldier or a civilian. I was drinking about a fifth and a half of Whisky every day. Sometimes homemade, sometimes what I could buy. It was the only way I could kill. I had friends who were Japanese. And I kept thinking every time I pulled the trigger on a man or pushed a flame thrower down into a hole: What is this person's family gonna say when he does not come back? He's got a wife, he's got children, somebody. Oh, I still lose nights of sleep because of that woman I shot. I still lose a lot of sleep. I still dream about her. I dreamed about it perhaps two weeks ago.

And on the other side, you have entire families being commanded to take their own lives. Under the fear that the Americans would do terrible things to them, some blew themselves up with grenades, some took poison, or used blades or ropes. And when neither worked or was available, they would assign one family member to beat the rest to death with rocks or sticks. Often these chosen were the only survivors of these mass killings. It was all pure madness. Mind-boggling. All the while propaganda was blasted to the Japanese civilians and soldiers in fluent Japanese from boats, promising them their lives, safety, food and medicine.

Stuff like this happened every day in the Pacific, on every island. From the jungles of New Guinea to the caves of Okinawa, and islands nobody has ever heard of.

And the most insane thing is that, during all this time, the Japanese leadership knew Japan was losing the war as early as the Battle of Midway.

I think these stories give context to every decision made on that side of the war, including the fire bombings and the A-bombs. I sometimes think about how the pilots felt when they dropped Little Boy and Fat Man, but I feel like I won't ever understand their mindset as a person who has not witnessed the fanaticism, determination, and madness that occurred during the Island hoppings.

In an angry letter, the mother of a soldier on Okinawa asks:

Why haven't reinforcements reached those boys on Okinawa? Why must the same troops fight for 45 days? Why only six divisions in the first place? Why must every battle in the Pacific be bloody? It was bloody Tarawa, bloody Saipan, bloody Peleliu, bloody Leyte, bloody Iwo Jima, bloody Okinawa, bloody Mindanao, all of three divisions there, bloody Luzon, not finished, and it will be bloody Borneo. Doesn't it ever enter anyone's mind that we are paying a needles too high a price in human blood in the Pacific?

Here in Europe, I don't think this side of the war gets enough attention in the WW2 canon.

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caffeinated-fan · 5 months

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oooh, may I ask what 'the boy die in the hill' WIP is about?

Fun fact you and another both asked about WIPs that I had barely started lol, so you encouraged me to write more for them.

The boys who died in the hills is a Pacific fic about K company during the battle of Peleliu. I had watched The Pacific before but didn't really pay attention, so when it came out on Netflix I decided to watch it again, and Holy Cow, did I not pay attention the first time. I had completely accepted my first impressions of each of the men and decided I didn't like it. But, with my rewatch I've really started enjoying it. So, I'm writing this as character practice, and as a way to really absorb what's happening. If my writing has a more poetic/Illiadic style, I am currently reading Helmet for My Pillow and I simply adore Leckie's style.

°° Distant fire from mortars thumped behind me. Oswalt was rubbing a stick on his teeth, he had an odd habit of cleaning them with an almost methodical brush. Snafu woke up, uncurling like an animal in its den, then sat up facing the airfield.

He spoke around a cigarette, “The hell you doing? Break this shit down, get ready to move.” By civilian standards this was quite rude, I knew if I had spoken as such my mother would have been so cross she might even have smacked my shoulder, and admonished me for such behavior. °°

#the pacific #eugene sledge #snafu shelton #merriell shelton #rv burgin #bill leyden #caffe answers #caffe writes

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taraross-1787 · 2 years

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Medal of Honor Monday: Heroes of Peleliu

During this week in 1925, a hero is born. John D. New was the first person in Mobile, Alabama to join the Marines after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

New is remembered for the sacrifice that he made at the Battle of Peleliu, nearly three years later. Unfortunately, the casualty rate during that World War II battle was high—too high. Americans expected to take the island of Peleliu from the Japanese in a few days. Instead, the effort lasted for two months.

Of the eight men who earned Medals during the conflict, a whopping six of these were awarded to Marines who threw themselves on grenades in order to protect others.

Think about that for a minute. Six Marines saw live grenades and reflexively ran *toward* the danger. Death was almost certain to follow, but they did it anyway to save a fellow Marine.

The story concludes here:

https://www.taraross.com/post/tdih-peleliu-moh

#this week in history #history #'history blog #medal of honor monday #medal monday #us marine corps #sharethehistory

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captain-price-unofficially · 2 months

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A Marine handler and his Doberman Pinscher transfer to a landing craft on the way to combat on Peleliu.

#battle of peleliu #pacific theater #wwii #Mariana and Palau Islands campaign

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deedeedaydreaming · 10 months

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The People’s Paintings

Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, Enter and take their place there sure enough, Though they come back and cannot tell the world. My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. The sudden blood of these men! at a word— Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. I, painting from myself and to myself, Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame Or their praise either.

That comes from Andrea del Sarto, published in 1855, a dramatic monologue inspired by the eponymous Renaissance painter. Robert Browning, through the figure of del Sarto, explores religion, love, and art. For now we shall focus on the third of these three things alone — though, perhaps, they are interminably intertwined and ineluctably inseparable. Well, it is not my place to ponder that question right now; 'tis yours. So I hand the proverbial microphone over to you. These are some of my favourite paintings...

An obscure painting by an obscure artist - “The Shining Plain” by Tom Lea (1907-2001).

A native of El Paso, Texas, Lea first worked as a painter and muralist, and later as a novelist and historian. During WWII, he served as an artist correspondent for LIFE magazine, embedded with the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps. He was witness to some of the most tragic and bloody days of the war–the sinking of the aircraft carrier Wasp by a Japanese submarine, and the bloody (and strategically questionable) battle of Peleliu, from which came his most well-known paintings, “The Two-Thousand Yard Stare” and “The Price”.

After his return from war, Lea returned to painting real and imagined scenes of his native Texas, perhaps as healing. “The Shining Plain” (1947) was one of these. It is a sparse painting, a field of knee-high grass under an overcast sky, likely inspired by similar plains that still cover much of central and northern Texas. A buckskin-clad man in a coonskin cap, perhaps a settler or trader, rides a horse, and is followed by a pack-carrying burro. Small details–the man’s expressionless, bearded face, the long gun, the conspicuously large knife in his belt–note that this is a man who has seen hardship, war, and death. But other details cast the scene in a more peaceful light. The man and his animals are facing left–westward, perhaps? The man carries his rifle comfortably, barrel facing to the rear. Both horse and burro are in mid-stride, and their ears are perked up and forward–a fearful animal would have their ears flat and lowered. Is there something of interest ahead? A water source? A destination? A place to call home? And above them all, the overcast skies are breaking, and sunlight is pouring through.

I hope this isn’t cheating as it’s a print of a drawing which I have always admired. It’s a festive dinner at the Seamen’s Hospital in Greenwich and signed WS. The Seamen’s hospital was paid for by Queen Mary wife of King William as she thought that disabled seamen should have a hospital the same as the Chelsea one for soldiers. In the event it proved to be far too grand for the seamen and the wonderful Painted Hall and other buildings were used by the trustees. The rules were strict, but in general life was a great deal better than having to fend for themselves.

This image is clearly a good deal later than the original foundation (probably mid Victorian) but the dinner looks like a good one and the mugs of ale are cheering. The artist has caught the expressions on the faces of the seamen wonderfully but they all seem much more focussed on eating than on conviviality. Perhaps that’s because such a feast was rare and because they would not have wished the female serving maids to hear what they were saying. It’s also good to see a black seaman in the company and a reminder that we have always been a diverse community. The diners are reminded to be loyal and religious by the texts on the wall and we, the viewers are reminded about the dreadful injuries sustained in the many wars in which so many of them were constrained to fight.

One of my favourite paintings is The Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanal. Everything about this painting is so beautifully haunting, from the angel's body pose to the emotions depicted in his face and eyes; sadness, anger, humiliation, and defiance.

The Birth of Venus is a painting by the Italian artist Sandro Botticelli probably made in the mid 1480s. It depicts the goddess Venus arriving at the shore after her birth, when she had emerged from the sea fully-grown (called Venus Anadyomene and often depicted in art). The painting is in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy.

Although the two are not a pair, the painting is inevitably discussed with Botticelli's other very large mythological painting, the Primavera, also in the Uffizi. They are among the most famous paintings in the world, and icons of the Italian Renaissance; of the two, the Birth is even better known than the Primavera. As depictions of subjects from classical mythology on a very large scale they were virtually unprecedented in Western art since classical antiquity, as was the size and prominence of a nude female figure in the Birth. It used to be thought that they were both commissioned by the same member of the Medici family, but this is now uncertain.

They have been endlessly analysed by art historians, with the main themes being: the emulation of ancient painters and the context of wedding celebrations (generally agreed), the influence of Renaissance Neo-Platonism (somewhat controversial), and the identity of the commissioners (not agreed). Most art historians agree, however, that the Birth does not require complex analysis to decode its meaning, in the way that the Primavera probably does. While there are subtleties in the painting, its main meaning is a straightforward, if individual, treatment of a traditional scene from Greek mythology, and its appeal is sensory and very accessible, hence its enormous popularity.

#painting #art #renaissance #alexandre cabanel #robert browning #poetry #poem #love #sandro botticelli #botticelli #classic #classical #the birth of venus #primavara #uffizi #oil painting

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sgtgrunt0331-3 · 7 months

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U.S. Marines using rifle grenades, hand grenades, and "Molotov cocktails" as they battle Japanese troops holed up in caves in the northern part of island of Peleliu on September 1944.

Note the torch in the foreground which was used to ignite the "cocktails" and the flaming bottle of gas ready to be thrown.

(Photo courtesy of the Department of Defense)

#usmc #us marines #infantry #grunts #world war 2 #wwii #peleliu #island #pacific #military #history

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mads-nixon · 7 months

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You Before Me

Bill 'Hoosier' Smith x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: hiiii! this is my first ever hoosier fic, so please let me know what y'all think!! i've recently become obsessed with jacob pitts lol! this is about the fictional portrayal of the H company boys. i have nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Summary: During the battle for the Peleliu Airfield, (y/n) and Bill are separated after both being injured by a mortar shell.

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: injuries, blood, straight angst with fluff

PELELIU AIRFIELD: SEPTEMBER, 1944

Ringing.

It was all that filled (y/n)’s senses, drowning out the surrounding chaos. She could taste the acrid tang of smoke in the air, making her cough and struggle to catch her breath. Everything seemed hazy and distorted, the world spinning around her. Blinking, she tried to clear her vision and make sense of what was happening. Dust and dirt swirled in the air, making it hard to see beyond a few feet. She lay on her back, helmet long gone, trying to remember what had led to that moment.

They were taking the airfield.

Hoosier was with her and then–BILL!

“Bill,” she croaked weakly, blindly reaching out for him with a shaky hand, finding nothing but dirt and rocks. She rolled onto her side to look for him, but the movement caused white-hot pain to shoot through her body, sending sharp jolts of agony up her left leg. The pain was fierce, radiating from her ankle and calf. Every motion seemed to intensify the pain, making her grit her teeth as she sat up on her elbows, her eyes nervously drifting to her legs. (Y/n)’s eyes widened as she took in the damage. Her left calf was littered with shrapnel, and her ankle was turned at an unnatural angle, both oozing with blood.

She took a nervous gulp, throwing her head back against the rocks of the crater.

This was not good.

Taking a shuttering breath, she called out again. “Bill, are you there?

Through the ringing, she heard a pained grunt from her left. She recognized the sound instantly, and her heart fell, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Bill!” she cried into the haze, panic gnawing at her as she searched frantically for him. She prayed the smoke would clear and she’d see him looking back at her, unscathed with his signature lopsided smirk, but answers to prayers aren’t always what we’d like them to be. Through the smoke, she spotted his still form to her left, sprawled out on his stomach, his face etched in pain. Her heart lurched with both relief and fear. When she spotted the growing red stain on his lower thigh, the relief disappeared.

“No, no, no,” (y/n) whispered to herself before raising her voice. “Bill? Can you hear me?”

Summoning every ounce of strength, she rolled over and began to crawl to him, dragging her injured leg behind her. As she forced herself to crawl towards him, her breaths came out in ragged gasps, chest heaving with the effort to overcome the searing torment. The muscles in her leg protested every inch of progress, and she gritted her teeth, trying to muffle the pained sounds that left her lips. (Y/n)’s broken ankle got caught on a particularly sharp rock, and she whimpered involuntarily, a low, guttural sound escaped her as she clutched the rocky ground for support.

Pushing through the pain, she extended a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against his uniform, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath. He’d managed to pull himself forward, flipping over and propping himself up against the rocky wall of the crater, pained grunts filling the air. His breaths were shallow and ragged, eyes barely open as he fought to stay conscious.

When he managed to pry them open further, they were clouded with pain and drowsiness, wandering aimlessly for a moment before attempting to find (y/n)’s gaze. He saw her face above him, her lips moving rapidly, but he couldn’t quite understand what she was saying.

“You’re okay, hon. You’re okay,” (y/n) whispered, painfully sitting up beside him and putting pressure on his wound. His slick blood coated her hands as she pushed with all her remaining strength. As Hoosier lazily looked up at her, his senses slowly came back to him.

“(Y/n),” he mumbled. “I dropped my weapon.”

“It’s a-alright, Bill,” she whimpered, the pain in her ankle and leg flaring, sending waves of dizziness and nausea through her. The pain seemed to meld with the fog of fatigue, weighing down her limbs and blurring her focus. (Y/n)’s eyelids became heavy, as if someone had placed weights on them. She blinked forcefully, attempting to stay alert.

“Shit,” she groaned, her eyes drooping as her strength dissipated, the pressure on his leg lessening. Just as she felt herself slipping away, a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

“Oh, Bill. (Y/n),” Bob called, and seconds later, he was by their side, his eyes taking in the carnage before him. He had arrived just in time to take over the task of applying pressure on Bill’s wound, giving (y/n) a much-needed break. She let out a shuddering breath, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her as she fell against the rocky wall of the crater beside Hoosier.

“Corpsman!” Leckie screamed. “Corpsman!”

(Y/n) watched through a haze of drowsiness as Bill clenched his eyes and leaned his head back, breathing heavily. She shakily reached out for his hand, intertwining their fingers gently. His once strong hand now felt almost limp and lifeless in her grasp, and she squeezed it in an effort to keep him awake.

“We’re gon’ be alright, ” she strained.

Glancing at her leg, Bob’s eyes widened and he quickly moved one hand off Hoosier’s wound to get a better look at the damage, but she weakly pushed his hand away.

“No, Bob,” she rasped, her voice hoarse and filled with worry. “Bill…Please, help Bill first. He’s h-hurt worse than I am. I’ll be okay, just…take care of him.”

Bill flopped his head to the side to look at her with concern in his half-lidden eyes. “No,” he grunted. “(Y/n/n), no.”

Leckie shook his head, trying to help her again. “Your leg, (y/l/n)!” he exclaimed. “You’re gonna-”

“Bob,” she interrupted, her eyes lowering to Bill’s wound, tears in her eyes. “I know. Help Bill.”

With a frustrated growl, Leckie brought his hand back to Hoosier’s thigh. “Corpsman!” he yelled again. “Hey, everything’s gonna be fine, you two. It ain’t shit. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

Bill lifted his head for a moment, lazily licking his lips before peering down at (y/n), his gaze traveling down to her foot and its horrific position. “Darlin’,” he breathed. “Your foot.”

“I’m fine, Bill.”

Bob felt his heart tear seeing the usually spunky couple in such a pitiful state. “It ain’t shit,” he reassured. “You’re both gonna be fine.”

Hoosier’s eyes drifted closed, and (y/n) shared a panicked look with Bob. “Damn it! Corpsman! Stay awake! Both of you.”

She nodded feebly, her grip on Bill’s hand tightening as she fought to stay conscious. Pain and exhaustion weighed heavily on her, but she knew she had to be there for Bill. She struggled to keep her eyes open, blinking against the weariness that threatened to pull her into the darkness. After a minute that crawled by like hours, two corpsmen slid down into the hole. One of them quickly evaluated the situation and dropped down beside Bill, barking orders at Leckie as the other knelt beside (y/n), speaking gently. “Ma’am we’ve gotta get him stabilized. We’re gonna take him first, but we’ll be back for you, I promise.

(Y/n)’s chest tightened at the words, and she nodded weakly.

“Bill?” she heard Bob mutter from beside her. “Bill?”

Her unfocused gaze flew over to his face, watching as he lost his battle against unconsciousness, his eyes fluttering shut, whispering, “Sorry.” (Y/n) felt his grip go limp, and her eyes widened in fear and desperation. She released his hand and shook his shoulder, her voice trembling.

“Bill, no, please,” she pleaded, her words choked with emotion.

“Help me carry him back,” a corpsman stated, roughly looping his arms under Bill’s shoulders and lifting him with the help of the other corpsman. (Y/n)’s eyes never left them as they quickly carried him out of the crater. The second they left her view, she felt a sudden rush of adrenaline leaving her body. The pain from her injuries hit her anew, and every ache and throb seemed to intensify twofold. She groaned, closing her eyes tightly.

Bob turned and put pressure on (y/n)’s trembling thigh. He urged her to breathe, to focus on anything but the pain, but the agony was now all over her body.

“Focus on my voice, (y/n),” Bob implored, his voice shaking. “Hoos would kill me if I let anything happen to ya, so you’ve gotta stay awake for me, sweetheart.”

Spots danced in her vision and her eyelids drooped as she began to drift away into the darkness that was invading. “Stay with me, (y/n),” Bob replied, pushing more of his weight onto her leg. “They’re coming back! Stay awake!”

USS SAMARITAN (AH-10): SEPTEMBER, 1944

It had been a long few days since Bill had woken up groggy from the fog of his pain medications. The medical ship rocked subtly beneath him as he lay in his cot, an itchy blanket covering him. He was going out of his mind looking at nothing but the gray steel of the ship’s interior and hearing the moans and cries of his fellow Marines.

Since the moment he’d woken up, he’d been asking about (y/n). He asked nurses, other wounded marines, and anyone he could get a hold of. After four days of this, anxiety settled into his stomach, and he decided to search for her himself. He scanned the room for nurses before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at how it pulled on his wound. The man in the bed beside him was dead asleep, so he snatched his crutches and used his left leg to push himself off the bed. Bill smirked as he slowly started toward the hallway, but his plan came to a screeching halt when he heard a voice behind him.

“Just where do you think you’re going, private?”

He sighed and turned around, coming face to face with one of his nurses, Evelyn, who wore a disapproving expression.

“Just going to the bathroom,” he lied, nodding toward the door.

“Really?” Evelyn asked, amusement lacing her tone as she pointed to the opposite side of the room. “Because the bathroom’s that way.”

“Fine,” Bill grumbled under his breath. “You caught me. I need to find someone.”

“So what’s the lucky girl’s name?” she asked, helping Bill back into the bed.

“How’d you know I was lookin’ for a woman?”

She smiled. “The look in your eyes.”

A fond smile formed on his lips as he replied. “Corporal (Y/n) (y/l/n). She’s my best friend.”

“Just a best friend?” Evelyn smirked, peering down at him with a skeptically raised eyebrow. “Sounds like she’s more than that to you, marine.”

“She is,” he chuckled. “I’m lucky to have her.”

After a moment, his expression fell and his eyes drifted to the stark white bandages on his leg. “We both got hit by the same mortar,” he said softly. “I don’t know what happened to her.”

Evelyn placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

Looking up at her with glossy eyes, Hoosier cleared his throat. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Another day passed, and there was still no word on (y/n) or her condition, and Bill became even more desperate. Later in the day, he saw Evelyn in the corner of his eye and waved her over.

“Ma’am,” Bill called out to her, his voice tight with worry. “Have you found her yet?”

Evelyn smiled gently and shook her head. “Sorry, private. No luck yet,” she sighed. “But I’ll keep asking around.”

He hung his head with a sigh, closing his eyes as he sunk back down onto the bed, bringing up a hand to run it down his face.

“I do have some good news, though,” she announced, getting a wheelchair from the corner. “We’re going on a trip to the top deck, and I think it’ll help you feel better.”

Bill grunted, turning onto his side and facing away from her. “No thanks.”

“Come on, private. Trust me,” Evelyn encouraged, her voice persuasive.

He hesitated for a moment, then sighed and relented. With a little help, he eased into the wheelchair. As they made their way to the top deck, he couldn’t help but be disinterested, his thoughts consumed by worry for the woman he loved. Once they reached the top deck, Bill was lost in his thoughts, absentmindedly watching the unending sea before him.

Evelyn pushed his wheelchair to a quiet spot, hoping the openness and fresh air would ease his worries. “It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” she asked, taking a deep breath.

Bill gave a faint nod but remained lost in his thoughts. As the sun caressed the deck with its warm embrace, he basked in its gentle rays, closing his eyes to fully immerse himself in the comforting warmth. The distant sounds of the ship and the gentle lull of the waves created a calming aura around him, temporarily easing the weight of the world from his shoulders. He thought of the last time he’d felt so relaxed: It had been beside (y/n) as they laid out on the beach in Melbourne, not a care in the world.

The distinct sound of a wheelchair being pushed beside him broke Bill from his memory, and a flicker of annoyance tinged his moment of peace. He wondered who was being wheeled so close. When he opened his eyes, however, annoyance quickly turned to a surge of relief and elation. There, right beside him, was (y/n) in a wheelchair, her head tilted toward him in a peaceful slumber. The second he saw her sleeping form, it was as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, the knot in his chest finally loosening. The anxiety and fears that had plagued him for days now seemed to disappear.

He found himself captivated by the soft curve of her lips and the way they seemed to hold a hint of a smile even in her dreams. They were lips he’d kissed a thousand times, each one bringing back a fond memory. Bill reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, tracing the delicate line of her jaw with his eyes. His heart swelled as he admired her every feature, from the sweep of her lashes to the graceful arc of her eyebrows. Hoosier couldn’t help but glance down at her foot, finding it wrapped in a large cast that reached from her toes to her knee. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he watched her, completely overwhelmed with emotion.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” he smiled, his hand tenderly cupping her jaw as his thumb gently rubbed against her cheek.

(Y/n)’s unconscious mind seemed to recognize the touch, and she leaned into his hand, a contented sigh escaping her lips. “Five more minutes,” she murmured sleepily. “I’m having a good dream.”

Bill chuckled softly, his gaze soft as he admired her peaceful form. “Well, darlin’, what dream could possibly be better than me?”

As if in response, her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the light as her eyes met his ocean-blue eyes. “Am I still dreaming?” she asked softly, a sparkle of hope lighting up her eyes.

Hoosier shook his head, his voice filled with reassurance. “No, (y/n/n), you’re not dreamin’.

“Are you sure?”

“I know how I can prove it to ya,” he grinned.

He leaned over and gently placed a kiss on her lips as undeniable proof that he was truly before her. His hand remained tenderly on her jaw, his touch grounding her spinning mind. As he pulled away, they rested their foreheads against each other. A radiant smile graced her lips as she fully registered her presence, his loving gaze warming her heart. “Bill,” she whispered, feeling his warm breath on her face.

He grinned back at her, his eyes reflecting the same joy and relief she felt in that moment. “Hey there, beautiful. “How’s my favorite girl doin’?

“Better now that you’re here,” she replied, her eyes shining.

Bill pulled back slightly, intertwining their hands before he looked down at her foot, concern etched on his features. “How’s your leg feeling?”

“I should be asking you that,” she scoffed, shaking her head at his tough-guy attitude.

He rolled his eyes, a playful smirk gracing his lips. “Answer the question, woman.”

“It aches. My ankle was broken in three places, so I’ll be in this cast for a while and then crutches for months after that. How are you? You scared me to death, Bill.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted nonchalantly with a shrug.

(Y/n) pointed to his bandaged thigh, a teasing glint in her eyes. “I have eyes, ya know.”

“Piece of shrapnel nicked my fe-female-femorum…whatever that artery is,” Bill remarked, struggling to find the right words.

Breaking out into a laugh, she squeezed his hand. “It’s femoral, hon. You were so close.”

“Whatever it is,” he chuckled. “It wasn’t shit. Just like Leckie said.”

Her smile faltered slightly, and she turned her gaze from his face to the vast ocean before them. “So you remember what happened?”

Bill followed her gaze. “Some of it,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “I remember you tellin’ Bob to help me instead of you…I can’t believe you did that.”

“I’ll always put you before me. Always,” she affirmed, their eyes meeting in a solemn gaze.

“I feel the same,” he whispered. “But please don’t do that again. For my sanity.”

Hearing sniffles behind them, they craned their heads back, following the sound. Behind them stood Evelyn and (y/n)’s nurse, Jackie, with tears glistening in their eyes.

“Y’all are just too precious,” Evelyn exclaimed, her voice laced with elation as she wiped a tear off her cheek.

(Y/n) glanced at Bill, trying to hold back a laugh at his surprised expression. “You won’t be saying that when he starts to get all grouchy,” she joked, earning a playful scoff from him. “But really, thank you both so much. We really mean it.”

Jackie beamed. “Of course. We’re glad to have helped you two find each other again. Y’all will have a great story to tell your kids someday.”

Bill, though not one to easily show his emotions, found himself touched by their kindness. He cleared his throat, his gratitude evident in his eyes. “Thanks,” he mumbled, a hint of newfound shyness coloring his words.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Evelyn smiled as she and Jackie walked away to help another patient.

The couple turned back to the front with their hands still intertwined, and neither of them spoke for a moment as they stared out at the vast sea. The soothing sounds of the waves lapping against the ship’s hull filled the air.

“This kind of reminds me of that day at the beach,” she mused, looking over at him with a sly grin.

“Oh absolutely,” he retorted, his signature sarcasm making an appearance. “Except for the part where we’re fully clothed, surrounded by stinking marines, and half blown to hell. So, you know, I’d say it’s just like that day.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and squeezed his hand, bringing it to her lips. “Damn, I love you,” she drawled.

“Good, ‘cause you ain’t ever getting rid of me, darlin’.”

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