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liebgotts-lovergirl · 1 year

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Fire On Fire: Chapter 12

Gallery II Tag List Application II Symbol Guide

(Ch. 11) . . . (Ch. 1)

Summary: "A turning point has just been reached. Maybe I'm not who I used to be."

A/N: Oh Alix, bby, I'm so sorry.

WARNINGS: Death, Angst, Murder, Emotional Blunting Via PTSD, Foxhunting Mention

Tag List: @latibvles @softguarnere @mccall-muffin @brassknucklespeirs @holdingforgeneralhugs @emmythespacecowgirl

Contemporary: September 17th, 1944. Eindhoven, Netherlands.

Alix had been working with the Dutch Resistance for less than a day on the outskirts of Eindhoven and already, she was about ready to strangle someone.

"I'm telling you, Kristof, your information is wrong."

"And I’m telling you to back off, Adelina. Let the SOE handle this.”

Alix shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her trousers, clenching her fists in a vain attempt to stave off the sudden, powerful urge to wring the older man’s neck.

Kristof was supposedly a good agent, one of the best…or so she’d been told. She wasn’t sure if she believed it. He came with the highest security clearance the SOE could offer but there was just something about him that Alix didn’t trust, especially not with an operation so sensitive.

The information he was bringing back felt too good to be true and some of it simply didn’t make any logical sense. Why would the Wehrmacht leave only kids and old men to guard the doorway to Germany? Surely they couldn’t be that stupid.

If the Nazis were as blissfully unaware of the Allied advance as the British agent claimed, if they were truly that tactically weak and woefully underprepared, the war should have been over already…right?

Alix thought back to the “Spot The Difference” puzzles in the game books that Gio would always bring home with him from school.

There were always two nearly-identical illustrations with the most minute of differences drawn in somewhere, just waiting for her to find them.

“Take your time,” Gio would coach her over her shoulder as they sat on the plush shag carpet of the parlor. “Go line by line if you have to.”

She would painstakingly comb through each of the drawings, tracing each detail with her finger, until she came across the item that didn’t belong. Sometimes it would take minutes, sometimes an hour, but she just couldn’t let it rest until she’d figured it out.

That’s what this feels like, Alix thought as she looked over Kristof’s report, noting each hidden hole and blatant inconsistency. Like another puzzle.

Except this time, people’s lives hung in the balance.

“The SOE has been working with us for some time now,” Van Kooijk stated casually while he skimmed over some maps, as though that was all the proof Alix should require. “These are reliable reports, I would swear to it.”

“Don’t bother.”

Alix’s response was clipped but she didn't trust herself to say more without getting heated.

The American OSS and the British SOE were receiving conflicting reports as to the size and strength of the German Army, which only intensified Alix’s belief that the rumors about a mole in the SOE were true.

This had to be some sort of attempt at a disinformation campaign, planting false reports within Resistance movements who would then pass them on to the Allies.

There was no other logical explanation for this many holes in an intelligence report.

Exchanging glances with Nixon, she could tell he was thinking the same thing but there was nothing either of them could do. The OSS was not in control of the espionage operations running concurrently with Market Garden; the SOE was. Like it or not, they were under British command this time and they would have to obey.

"Everyone is clear on their orders, yes?"

Van Kooijk was speaking to her in particular, watching her with his unsettlingly seaglass-green eyes as though he suspected she might do something to jeopardize the mission.

Alix was ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his "suspicions" when she felt a cautioning, brotherly hand on her shoulder.

"Watch it, Lina." Lieutenant Nixon had switched to Italian this time, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"We have about 3 hours tops before the rest of the 101st arrives. We don't have time for more enemies right now."

Alix huffed but she knew her case officer was right.

Boy, did it really irritate her when he was right.

"Fine," she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. "Go coordinate the Airborne arrival. I just wanna get this over with."

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

The first targets on Alix’s list were Captain Bernhard Neumann and SS Lieutenant Klemens Kruger.

As two of the highest-ranking officers in what the SOE assured them was an already-crumbling military force, eliminating both Neumann and Kruger would cut the Wehrmacht off at its knees and hopefully cause significant chaos among German troops.

They had both been on Resistance radar for some time but were far too visible for untrained assassins to kill without being noticed. Which was where Alix and her handler came in.

"Niccolò, this is Lina." She was whispering into the transceiver, her Italian coming out slightly garbled over the line. "Do you read me? Over."

"Roger, Lina. Proceed as ordered. Out."

As she nonchalantly made her way toward Neumann's secret residence, Alix's training took over.

"Locard's Exchange Principle," she remembered Nixon barking at her during the early phases of her SERE instruction. "What is it?"

The first rule of tracking.

"Every contact leaves a trace, sir!" she had answered just as loudly, the pair repeating the phrases back and forth until her voice went hoarse.

And no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, it was Alix's job to find that trace.

When she arrived at the address, noting the rolling fields behind the building, she crouched to examine the dark, slightly moist soil leading to the back door, which was telling her a story she didn't want to hear.

German officers like Neumann and Kruger wore fancy boots with very recognizable tread patterns. They should have been the only two in the area among a sea of regular grunt-style Wehrmacht boots, but they weren't; on the contrary, the ground was littered with the tracks of several different officers leading in various directions.

Like Alix had suspected, there were at least a dozen more officers than they'd been told in the reports, which meant there were more troops too. Whether on purpose or on accident, the SOE had miscalculated.

This was bad.

Alix couldn't risk radioing back her findings, not when she was this close to making contact. The Germans could track a radio signal in a matter of minutes now and there was no excuse for having a clandestine radio on her person, none at all. All she could do was wait behind the shop next door and hope that the news would get to the right people in time.

Alix leaned her head back against the cool brick wall as the time passed. She was steps away from the secret home base of German officers and the urge to burst in was killing her. But she had to wait.

When Neumann finally came outside, he wasn't alone but he wasn't with SS Lieutenant Klemens either.

Beside him was Ludwig Schreiber, a prominent member of the Hitler Youth and well-known errand boy for the Wehrmacht. The pair appeared to be in a hurry, probably to reconvene with reinforcements.

And Alix couldn't let that happen.

Slipping into the street a few feet behind them, she casually adjusted her gray cashmere sweater as she walked, keeping her eyes peeled for…

Oh there he was, thank God.

Far ahead of them, a tall, rail-thin teenager with sandy blond hair was exiting a shop, nonchalantly adjusting his beaten bomber jacket for the autumn wind and lighting up a cigarette before he went on his way.

He's been trained well, Alix thought as she watched him eye storefronts that he passed, checking their reflections to ensure the target was still behind him.

Alix knew the plan: Front & Follow surveillance for as many blocks as it took to isolate the targets. Diederik would be leading them. When the signal was given, Alix would eliminate the target and any present company, meaning Schreiber.

No witnesses.

No mercy.

It had to be done.

Out of the corner of her eye as she walked, Alix could see the quick glint of a gun barrel in the sunlight as it disappeared over a nearby rooftop.

She knew better than to look; it would only draw attention to his position.

Andries, their sniper, was lying prone above, waiting for someone's signal but she wasn't sure whose or, frankly, why.

It wasn't as though she needed the back-up. It would be messy but she could still take care of this.

After about fifteen to twenty minutes, the last block was ending and she saw Diederik pause to discard his cigarette before ducking inside another shop.

It was time.

Neumann and Schreiber turned the corner behind the last building and Alix quickened her pace, slipping behind them soundlessly as she too disappeared from view.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Captain Neumann had been first. As he was the most capable target, Alix needed to ensure he didn't have time to react. Two bullets in the back of the head; he was dead before he hit the ground.

Schreiber was a different story.

He had tried to make a run for it: a fool's error.

As though he would get far.

As though they weren't prepared.

The second he tried to round the corner, he slammed smack-dab into the chest of John Van Kooijk, who had materialized out of the shadows like a spectre.

In his faded jacket and sweater, he resembled more a schoolteacher than a viable threat, but the bright orange band around his sleeve had Schreiber recoiling like he'd accidentally singed his hand on a hot stove.

Van Kooijk said something in German, his tone soft yet mocking and Alix understood the gist of it:

"Going somewhere, Ludwig?"

The teenager began stammering in rapid-fire German as he looked fearfully from Alix to Van Kooijk and back to Alix, wild-eyed as he noticed the loaded gun in her hand.

"What is he saying?" Alix asked out of the corner of her mouth in French and Van Kooijk shrugged casually.

"Begging for his life, offering us money, nothing out of the ordinary."

Alix wished she hadn't asked. The look of pure terror in the boy's eyes was stomach-churning enough as it is.

But he'd seen her face.

He could compromise them.

He had to die.

Besides, if she didn't do it, Andries the sniper would, and she trusted her own hand more.

She would be gentle, Alix decided silently as she cocked her revolver. As gentle as Death could be. He was still a child.

Schreiber was trying to shrink away but his back hit the unforgiving brick wall behind him; there was nowhere to run.

Alix wished to God she would go blind or her hands would shake or her heart would stop, something for her body to be in congruence with the stream of doubts clouding her mind.

At the end of the day, Schreiber was still just a brainwashed kid who’d been manipulated and he would pay for it with his life.

How was that fair?

How was that justice?

But despite her fervent wishes, her training betrayed her: her sight was clear, hand still, heartbeat steady.

This was her job.

This was her purpose.

She’d read his file. Schreiber was a Senior Section Leader of the Hitler Youth, after all, and a runner for the Wehrmacht. Whatever information the eighteen year old was carrying could be vital and they would never get it from him alive.

But the frantic look in Schreiber's terrified eyes brought back an unwanted memory and Alix felt her chest tighten like a vise.

╔══ •🖤🖤•🖤🖤•🖤🖤• ══╗

7 Years Earlier: November 24th, 1937. Susquehanna Hunt Club, Pennsylvania.

"Pull the trigger already," her father hissed from behind her. "Sbrigati, while it's still there."

Sixteen year old Alix gulped nervously as she stared down the barrel of her borrowed shotgun into the clearing ahead of them.

The slender, almost skeletal form of the flame-red fox was in full view, just steps away, as it bent gracefully to drink from one of the preserve’s many ponds.

The fresh, cherry stain of blood was visible on its muzzle so Gio had surmised that it must’ve made a recent kill, probably a rabbit or some other small, unfortunate forest-dweller it had happened across.

Alix's finger hovered anxiously over the trigger, her hands quivering so much that she could hardly aim properly.

As if sensing her hesitation, the canid froze before glancing up directly across the pond, its delicate nose twitching and ears pricked as it located the threat: Her.

Its sharp, pointed features and wide, fear-filled eyes seemed to stare into her soul and Alix was struggling to breathe, suddenly feeling as though she'd swallowed a boulder.

Noticing his sister's discomfort, Gio let out a muffled cough into his elbow. It was barely audible but it was enough to startle the fox, which immediately darted back into the mottled green woods, disappearing from view as quickly as it had appeared.

Once it was gone, the tension in the sixteen year old's shoulders released but she was still shaking.

“For God’s sake, figlia mia,” their father had fumed as the three of them made their way back to the car, the weight of his footsteps telling her exactly how pissed off he was.

“They’re vermin.”

“They're still living things!” Alix retorted incredulously. "Besides, if the club wanted them gone, they'd be gone!"

"They're a nuisance is what they are," Emilio continued contemptuously, ignoring her as he yanked the car door open. "Your brother knows. He would have shot it, wouldn't you, Gio? Would've brought us home a nice fox pelt."

"So she didn't shoot it, big deal," nineteen year old Gio replied, immediately jumping to his sister's defense and Alix gave her brother a wan smile of appreciation.

As the family’s golden boy, Gio was the only person in the world who could get away with talking to their father like that.

"Alix isn't a hunter and she doesn't have to be. She's not me, Pa."

"I'm all too aware, believe me," Emilio replied acerbically, the barb in his tone stinging like the tears starting to slide down Alix's cheeks.

Gio reached over and silently put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

"He can go fuck himself," her brother whispered. "You just stay gentle, okay? It's who you are."

"Cavolo," their father swore under his breath with a roll of his eyes as they began the drive home. "Getting weepy over a damn fox. Pathetic."

╚══ •🖤🖤•🖤🖤•🖤🖤• ══╝

Contemporary: September 17th, 1944. Eindhoven, Netherlands.

“Tell him he’s free to go,” Alix said so quietly at first that it was barely audible.

“What?” Van Kooijk peered at her as though she’d sprung a second head, his brows furrowing. “Forgive me, I must have misunderstood.”

The OSS agent gritted her teeth and repeated herself tersely once again, overenunciating each word so her French was impossible to mishear.

“Tell. Him. He’s. Free. To. Go.”

"But he isn't," the Resistance leader maintained doggedly.

A strong look of contempt crossed his face and Alix wasn't sure whether it was aimed at her or Schreiber.

"You realize he is Hitlerjugend, yes?"

Van Kooijk kept talking, not waiting for an answer. "I am telling you, letting him go would be a mistake."

"I'm aware. Tell him anyway."

Despite what Alix could only assume were muttered curses, Van Kooijk grudgingly obeyed, addressing the boy in a clipped tone.

Schreiber's eyes went round with surprise and he broke into a toothy grin of relief.

He looked over to Alix but she couldn't meet his gaze, studying the ground intently instead as she tried to wrestle her misgivings under control.

The handgun at her side felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

"Danke!" he kept repeating over and over. "Danke! Vielen dank!"

Van Kooijk didn't reply, instead spitting vehemently at the soil under their feet, seemingly the only act of displeasure he could think of that didn't include butchering the boy on the spot.

Half-laughing with relief, Schreiber quickly turned to leave.

A fatal mistake.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alix's OSS-issue suppressor ensured he never heard the shots.

The first bullet hit him square in the upper back, the sheer force of it sending him lurching forward as though he'd been shoved.

Crimson began to blossom through the back of his tan shirt, still neatly tucked into his uniform as he stumbled to his knees and Alix squeezed the trigger a second time, the final shot landing just behind his right ear, keeling him over entirely as his face met the earth.

The agent tucked her gun back into the waistband of her trousers and took a couple steps toward the bodies before turning back to Van Kooijk.

Even he was still, leaning a shoulder against the building in stunned silence.

Alix felt bile rising in her throat at the sight of the two bloodied corpses at her feet but she forced her nausea back down, focusing instead on discarding her blood-stained sweater, tearing and scattering the pieces in the dirt with a frightening ferocity.

She was just in her undershirt and trousers now but she couldn't even feel the wind anymore. As quickly as the nausea had appeared, it vanished, replaced only by...a numbness.

"Hey John?”

The Resistance leader glanced up at the sound of his name and Alix met his gaze head-on, dark eyes boring into glass-green.

Any warmth in her tone was gone, her voice as cold and deadly as the winter chill.

“Don’t ever question me again.”

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kindsummer · 8 months

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i'm driving past ghosts - kindsummer

If love could have saved you, you would have lived. Lewis remembered how irrationally angry he had been when his father chose that specific epitaph for Blanche’s headstone. His sister had killed herself, and Stanhope had decided that irony was worth the esteem from his wealthy social circle. Despite Blanche having an incredibly small social circle, the funeral had been as widely attended as their mother’s a few years before. The flashbulbs of paparazzi’s cameras had blinded Lewis when he’d given the eulogy, but he’d powered through, his teeth gritted and his jaw clenched so tightly it was sore afterward.

#band of brothers #lewis nixon #winnix #fics #and this angst masterpiece #grief is real bad and lewis reacts somewhat sanely to it i think #pls pay attention to the tws tho

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wexhappyxfew · 2 years

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Landslide | Chapter 87 | Fault of Emotionless Plateaus

"I always am in a role, lovely – for you, for them – even for myself. Yeah... Even when I'm alone, I am still in a role – and I myself am the most exacting audience I have ever had."

― Simona Panova, Nightmarish Sacrifice

A repeated knocking on the wooden door frame woke her up from her cramped position curled against the ground, where her head pounded, and her throat ran dry, and her palms ached. There was a faint muffled voice on the opposite side calling out to her and it was enough to push her fatigued body up from the ground onto shaking legs like a newborn deer. A quick glance in the mirror told her all she needed to know about her current state of affair; her eyes, her hair, her cheeks, the expression that drew on horror across her entire face. Natia turned to the threshold and opened up the wooden door to find Captain Speirs stood on the opposite side, a thin layer of sweat across his forehead as he suddenly took in her appearance.

" Agent-"

" Did the medical teams arrive?" Natia asked as she watched Captain Speirs' eyes darting to her face, then to her hands and the letter clutched and tarnished in blood grasped within them.

" They did. Those people are in good hands. But Agent-"

" Will they have enough blankets and pillows? I can try and scrounge for some if you need me-"

" Agent-"

" They deserve to have at least that after what they went through....and will still go through-"

"Agent!"

[read the rest on AO3 + Wattpad!]

｡↷ ✧*̥₊˚‧☆ﾐ

HELLO FRIENDS! sorry about no update yesterday; between stranger things and obi wan kenobi coming out + work, i had too much going on (lol) and figured today would be better! :) this chapter holds a special place in my heart and for all lovers of natia and george’s friendship, i assure you, this chapter might be one you love!!! (it’s definitely one i love them for them!) thank you all so much for reading and continuing to enjoy more than anything, it will always mean the world and i always say it, but it’s true!! thank you all! happy reading!

tags: @chaosklutz @julianneday1701 @huenoclue @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @tvserie-s-world @wecomrades @thoughpoppiesblow @cetaitlaverite @liebegott @rogue-sunday @jalapeno-peaches-andhersheybars @embersjanuary @lovingunderratedcharacters @legally-devorak @alejodi0nysus @mrsalwayswrite @supervalcsi @heffrcns @xthefourthx @whoahersheybars @kryzes @papersergeant-pencilsoldier @whovian45810 @how-are-those-nuts-sarge @geniedocroe @holdingforgeneralhugs @martinsrestingbitchface @pipster4107 @mads-weasley @hinkel-im-home @heirsoflilith @icantdecideofthename

-> if you would like to be added/removed from the taglist, just shoot me a message or ask! :D

#band of brothers #landslide #natia filipska #bob fic #band of brothers oc #band of brothers fandom #band of brothers fic #bob oc #george luz #ronald speirs #lewis nixon #natia + george = besties (and they have a very fluffy bestie moment w angst ofc LMAO)#AHHHH

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ithinkabouttzu · 1 month

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Easy co.’s reaction to their s/o getting injured

genre! angst; romance

warnings! cursing, anxiety, mentions of blood and death, mentions of war, and sad themes.

description! The easy co. boys reaction to you being injured. (no disrespect to any real vets.)

a/n: I made this pretty vague so you can imagine it however you like 😭 but for each persons I feel like it gets progressively longer. Anyways have fun reading!!

taglist: @executethyself35 @linhkhanhcps @1waveshortofashipwreck @grumpy-liebgott @barbeygirl @samwinchesterslostshoe @ronsparky @sweetxvanixlla (sorry i’ve been forgetting to put the taglist friends!! If you want to be on this list, let me know!! :))

(gn! reader)

Dick winters: He would be so worried. His mind wouldn’t be on anything else at the moment other than your well-being. He feels like a bad boyfriend because he wasn’t there to protect you :( He gets so nervous and would try his best to be by your side the entire time that you’re getting well.

Lewis Nixon: He freaks out when he finds out that you got hurt. He rushes to wherever you are and demands to see you. When he does finally see you he’s so gentle and soft. He holds your hand and reminds you over and over again that he will always be there for you.

Carwood Lipton: He somehow feels like it’s his fault. There was nothing he could have possibly done to prevent it, but he feels like a crappy boyfriend for it, he apologizes to you multiple times. Because he thinks he should have been there for you.

Joe Toye:He gets so mad. He’s ready to go out and hunt whoever hurt you. He will honestly go out looking for a fight. When he sees you he gets even angrier though because who could do that to you? He’s hard on himself because he thinks he should have been there to protect you.

Joe Liebgott :When he hears that you got hurt he goes out to find you immediately. He doesn’t care if he gets in trouble or not, you are his first priority. He’s definitely pissed but would never show that you, mostly at himself and the person that got you hurt. But he makes sure not to make his feelings show and tend by your side.

Bill Guarnere: He would be completely irate, but instead of going out and trying to find the fucker that hurt you he would check to make sure you were okay and stable first. “I’ll get him doll. Don’t worry” He would most likely be irritable around the guys for the rest of the day or longer because of it.

George Luz: He’s so so worried. He can’t think about anything else but you. He would hope and pray that you’re okay until he can finally see you. When he does he holds your hand to his chest and rubs your hand softly. Telling you over and over again that everything will be okay.

Bull Randleman: He gets so protective. He would find you almost immediately and wouldn’t leave you out of his sight for a second. He’s so patient and caring while you’re in such a vulnerable state. “Trust me. I’ll never let someone do that to you again, darling. I promise.”

Floyd Talbert: He freaks out immediately, the tough guy act would be completely gone when he sees you get hurt. He doesn’t care about anything at the moment other than you and your safety. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not leaving.” He stays so close to you until you get better.

Eugene Roe: He gets there almost immediately and when he sees you he stops. He’s completely frozen for a second because he hates seeing you in such pain. “It’s gonna be okay, I promise.” He prays in his head the entire time while he fixes you up and hopes that you’ll make it through.

Skip Muck: He gets so serious when they tell him that you got hurt. He wants to know everything that happened to you. How it happened and if you would be okay, he would ask roe relentlessly until he got the answer he wanted. When you finally get better enough to see him he’s so sweet and gentle with you.

Don Malarkey : He wants to go find whoever hurt you but he also knows that he needs to be with you in the moment. He gets so so worried and the other guys would have to reassure him that you’re gonna be okay. He swears he can’t lose you. He can’t bear to do anything until he gets the “yes” that you’re okay.

Shifty Powers: When they tell him that you’ve been hurt, you were already taken away before he could see you. He would just sit by himself in silence. Not talking to anyone or engaging in conversation like he usually does. His spark would be gone until they let him know that you were gonna be alright.

Babe Heffron: His reaction would be a mixture of emotions, he would seem very angry and stressed when he finds out that you’re hurt. He feels like a horrible boyfriend because he thinks he could have protected you from being hurt. On the inside, he’s scared and terrified that you won’t make it back to him.

Frank Perconte: He needs to know where you are immediately once the guys let him know that you’ve been hurt. He feels sick to his stomach when they tell him something bad happened to you. He wish he could just take away your pain and you be happy and healthy. He wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep until he knew you were back to normal.

Ronald Speirs: He gets furious. One because he should have been there with you when it happened, and secondly because he believes that it could’ve been prevented if one of the other men were looking out for you. Until you get back from the hospital he would sink himself into paper work to pass time, waiting until he could see you again.

Chuck Grant: He doesn’t care for all of the details, he just needs to know if you’re okay or not. He honestly wishes that it was him getting hurt instead of you. He hopes that you will be okay and he really wishes that you won’t be in the hospital for too long. He would miss you too much :(

Johnny Martin: He honestly just gets pissed at the world. You’re the least deserving to get hurt and now you’re the one who is in such bad condition . He wishes he could do something to make you feel better. He feels like a bad s/o because he can’t immediately take the pain away from you.

Skinny Sisk: He would be in total shock. It never occurred to him that there was a possibility you could get hurt, his plans of you and him making it out perfectly fine vanished from his mind. If he does get the chance to see you he will promise to do anything to help you get better, and to be there for you no matter what.

David Webster : He thinks it’s a horrible joke when the guys tell him that you were hurt and now in the hospital. He’s in denial for a while. Still shocked that you got hurt when you were just talking to him moments ago. He tries to find a way to see you even if he gets in trouble.

Buck Compton: It breaks his heart when he sees you like that, fear would creep up into his mind and overwhelm him until he knew that you were going to be alright. He genuinely thought he lost you for a second and feels so much more protective over you afterwards.

If you enjoyed this, make sure to like or reblog!! Have a wonderful day friends! :))

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inglourious-imagines · 8 months

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practically begging for some george luz w/ enemies to lovers. everyone always writes amazing friends to lovers but there’s sm potential w e2l !!! love ur writing btw xx

Jokes on You (George Luz x Fem!Reader)

Requested by: anon

Summary: George Luz is a funny guy, there is absolutely no denying that. He likes making jokes, and he likes it even more when people laugh at them. So what happens when there comes a person who makes just as good jokes as George? Or maybe even better? Some enemies to lovers for y’all.

Taglist: @alienoresimagines @teenmagazines @meteora-fc @eugenesmorphine @band-of-brothers-cz @real-fans @not-john-watsons-blog @tealaquinn @ok-roemanov @mrseasycompany @punkgeekchic @wexhappyxfew @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @rayofshanshine @mavysnavy @easynix @georgeluzwarmhugs @easy-company-tradition @immrsronaldspeirs @snafus-peckuh @curraheewestandalone @warrior-healer @justamadgirlinabox @happyveday @order-of-river-phoenix @whoahersheybars @nixoninc

Warnings: like two swear words, angst in the form of Bastogne

A/N: I so suck at endings.

Cracking jokes and making people laugh is George’s thing and his only, that’s how it’s always been. He is the funny guy in the group, that’s how he likes to define himself, the funny one. But to define is to limit and George has made the mistake of limiting himself to clinging to one particular personality trait, humour.

And then Y/N came along; about four months into the boot camp Y/N got reassigned from Dog Company to Easy Company for reasons no one knew, except for Lewis Nixon perhaps. George did not start hating her per say right from the moment he met her, but ever since she beat him to the joke when watching his favourite movie he’s strongly despised her. From then on, the feelings only got stronger; she’s always making the whole Company laugh, some of the jokes even on his account which George does not like one bit, hell she even managed to make Blithe chuckle that one day after D-Day.

Y/N had no idea what she triggered by her naturally jokester nature until she had to face a very pissed off George after she blabbed some joke about some actress and then a very pissed off George is the only kind of George she has had the privilege of meeting. The woman has pondered greatly about what she could have possibly done to anger the man so, but nothing came to mind and she soon gave up. George continued and stubbornly continues to be rude to her so she should only repay his “kindness”.

After Carentan, the word of Operation Market Garden is in the air and the Allies are particularly optimistic. Easy is in the pub, celebrating its successes in the war, while some reinforcements are trying to mingle. Y/N is watching it all from behind, the old breed not wanting to socialize with the newbies at all and sometimes the situations can get truly hilarious.

Somehow, in a few minutes, she finds herself behind a table with Luz, Malarkey, Muck and other three reinforcements who are just drinking up George’s story about his valour in Normandy. Her lips itch upwards from now and then, George’s drunkenness making it all the more amusing. Y/N can tell the new guys are impressed and somewhat terrified as well and one of them puts a pin on it when he asks Luz, “And what rank are you?”

The table sits in silence for a moment, for absolutely no one expected such question, not even the other reinforcements, then Malarkey and Muck burst out laughing, almost tipping over their beers.

Y/N chuckles, reaches over, and pats the guy’s arm. “Oh c’mon, it is Private!”

That absolutely finishes off Don and Skip, Skip eventually falls off his chair, the reinforcements are now laughing too; the mood slightly more friendly and at ease than before. Not for everyone though.

George is red to his ears, as he frowns. “The joke wasn’t that good. And it’s not even true.”

Donald is hiccupping now but manages to answer, “A- a bit c- corny, yes, but f-fucking b-brilliant.”

***

At this point the Company is divided into two parts only, one part bets on the two of them killing each other and the other parts bets on them fucking; which it will be is truly in the stars for George and Y/N are face to face again, both of them red in the cheeks from all the anger, both of them shouting some incoherent insults, and as Penkala has put it, “See? Honestly I can really see both happening. They will either kill each other or fuck, there is absolutely nothing in between.”

But then Market Garden happens, an underestimated operation, that leaves behind too many dead than it should and when all of Easy is boarded on trucks, retreating, the company is two people short.

Bull Randleman and Y/N Y/L/N.

The officers discuss what can be done, and despite all of the men wanting to go and save the two of the best soldiers in the company, they know they can’t. And exactly that is making George Luz lose his mind. He can’t really understand why he is so restless, anxious, and downright terrified throughout the whole night; he tosses and turns, he is not able to bring himself to close his eyes.

But then in the morning he sees Y/N on the jeep next to Bull and suddenly he feels like he could fly and go to Berlin and kill Hitler, just so he could see the carefree smile on her face.

It clicks in him just then, and Malarkey pats his shoulder. “So, you’ve finally figured it out, huh?”

George turns to him, confused. “What?”

Malarkey laughs, shaking his head, and says, “Don’t play dumb with me, you idiot, I saw it just now.”

As much as George would like to answer his friend, he truly has no idea what he is talking about, and when that dawns on Donald, he offers George a sympathetic smile.

“Okay, let me put your thoughts to words, ‘cause you’re such an oblivious idiot that you probably wouldn’t figure it out by the time this motherfucking war is over,” Malarkey continues, “you don’t hate her, do you, not really.”

It is not even a question, more of a statement, and George really wants to protest, more than anything, because it is ridiculous, right?

***

The plan to be home by Christmas isn’t really working out for the Allies but the soldiers of Easy Company have already forgotten about those false hopes, they aren’t the ones to be bothered with when you freeze your ass off in a foxhole in the middle of a forest where the trees blow up every now and then and the place becomes a tornado.

Y/N shares a foxhole with Muck and Penkala, the trio trying to lighten up their gloomy moods with laughter. But even Y/N is running out of jokes now, so when doc Roe runs up to them, asking for scissors, she’s more than happy to go look for them with him too, the need to stretch her stiff and frozen body overpowering her whole self.

She’s just a couple of meters away from her foxhole when another German artillery attack comes and the whole forest becomes a hurricane of explosions, splinters, and blood. The soldier throws herself to the ground, crawling her way, slowly, back to her foxhole, Muck and Penkala shouting something at her she can’t hear, encouraging her to hurry up.

Dirt is everywhere, she barely can see, she covers her ears and head with her hands as another hit comes; she continues right after the explosion, crawling, crawling, crawling.

Muck and Penkala are still shouting at her, she is getting closer; Y/N can hear another artillery attack coming but this time she doesn’t stop proceeding, she knows she has to get into the foxhole soon, so she keeps on pushing.

The explosion comes. Everything goes white for a moment. The pressure wave makes her stop moving, and she is forced to close her eyes and cover her head with her hands.

She opens her eyes. There is nothing.

Seconds ago, there were two people, now there is nothing, nothing left, not a single trace that there have ever human beings stood.

Y/N can’t bring herself to move, she stares blankly into the space before her, her limbs are stiff. But then some arms grab her body, she can hear someone shouting at her.

3 seconds. That’s all it takes her to get back. She holds on to George’s arms as they run together to another foxhole, jumping right in. He immediately brings her into his body, she wraps her arms around his torso instinctively, holding onto him so tight, her head resting on his chest. George shields her body from everything outside and when the bombing finally stops, they don’t let go of each other for another few moments.

It isn’t until a few years after the war and they are married to each other, when they finally talk about what happened that day in the forest of Bois Jacques, not a day sooner. Ever since then, their relationship has been changed, both very much aware of it, neither of them brave enough to bring it up just yet.

It is in Haguenau, where they finally share a conversation. George finds her on her own, behind some building, hiding behind some sacks, looking at the river. He throws a Hershey bar into her lap and when she looks up in confusion, he offers her a warm tired smile.

“What did I do to deserve the affection of the one and only George Luz?” she tries to crack up a joke and chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. George knows Y/N is exhausted beyond words.

He sits down next to her, as he opens his mouth to say something, but he rethinks it in the last second and nothing comes out. They sit out there for a few minutes, sharing the silence and strangely enough, it feels nice. George finally does not feel the need to talk all the time, the need to prove himself funny or worthy of other people’s attention.

“Have you ever been to Rhode Island?” he suddenly blurts out, surprising himself and her at the choice of the question.

Y/N smiles, doesn’t ask why or what. “No, never.”

“Then come with me.”

This time she asks what.

“After the war I mean, come home after the war with me.”

“But- but, you-“ she stutters, her cheeks slightly red, “but you hate me.”

George chuckles at that and looks at her. She has bags under her eyes that are a bit bloodshot (she hasn’t slept much in the last few days), her hair is dirty from dirt and sweat, her face has several scratches and marks, his eyes finds the most visible one just below her left cheekbone (he recalls that day in Carentan when a piece of shrapnel hit her and the wound looked way worse then it actually was for she had blood all over her left side of face, freaking out silently has never been so hard – he hadn’t known at that time what will come). He has never seen anything to maddeningly and purely beautiful as her.

“I thought I did, a very long time ago,” he says, “but actually I never did. I don’t hate you. How could I?”

Y/N looks at him and through all the pain, horror, and grief, she feels peace. It surprises her.

And so she responds, “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I will come home with you. How could I not?”

#imagine #hbo war #fanfic #band of brothers #band of brothers imagines #george luz #band of brothers imagine #ronald speirs #eugene roe #lewis nixon #george luz x reader #george luz imagine #george luz oneshot

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bloodstainedsaint · 6 months

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things better left unsaid. (dick winters x nurse! reader)

summary: you find out that perhaps war is not the best time for romance. (written as two letters from the two of you)

word count: 1650+

warnings: sappiness, angst of the pining variety, breakup(?), and ofc mentions of war

notes: any feedback would be appreciated 🫶, also inspired by @currahee's post about dick's "completely platonic" female penpal. since i've never read the letters between him and that woman myself, i took one line and ran with it

Letters written two days before D-Day. Though they were never meant to, both letters accidentally, and in no way aided by nurses and Easy Company men (specifically a man named Lewis Nixon) alike, make their way to their receiver.

Dear Dick,

I still remember the day you came into the base's hospital, looking for one of your men who’d been injured during a field exercise. You had made it difficult to pay attention to the soldier I was treating, asking like a concerned father if he would be alright. Not to mention your flaming red hair out of the corner of my eye.

Noting stupidly in the back of my mind the entrancing blue-green shade of your eyes, I had smiled and told you he would make a quick recovery. You’d returned my smile and said you'd be back to check on him. Like some silly schoolgirl, I had secretly looked forward to the return of this tall, attractive man.

Over the course of your several returns, we’d talked about ourselves while your private slept. Our easy conversations concerned simple topics, like where we came from, what we did before the war, and what we would do after it was over—though the fighting had yet to truly begin for us. There was a rumor going around base that you were a Quaker; lucky me, I found out you weren't before everyone else did.

There weren't many injuries at that time, and I guess you'd decided to stick around to watch your soldier recover. I was grateful for your company, as you were unlike a lot of the men I had encountered working here: flirty, overconfident, vulgar, you know the like. You were reserved and gentlemanly, with a small smile that I could tell you didn't show many others and a dry sense of humor. I suppose your humble beginnings in Pennsylvania had shaped you into a humble man.

Even after your soldier was released from the hospital, you came to visit me. I wasn’t sure why, and still am not today. You were a busy man after all—why spend time with a random, dime-a-dozen nurse? I wasn't complaining, though; like the fool I am, I had already began catching feelings for you, which I was sure were unreciprocated. You were probably just being respectful, I reasoned when I found my mind was full of thoughts of you, someone so upstanding wouldn't risk a relationship in times like these. If only I knew I was right. I wouldn't have bothered staying up at night overthinking every little thing you did.

During your free time, you would help me treat other patients, keep stock, move boxes, routine things like that. Over time your visits grew in frequency; so much so that your men had started teasing you whenever they saw you enter — sneak away to, rather — the nurse’s facility. I missed your company when you couldn't come visit, when arduous training took up too much of your time.

Fortunately for me, we started meeting while I was off-duty. Not surrounded by dozens of men, these stolen moments proved to be much more intimate. Taking walks around the base during the early morning before anyone else had risen or late at night when the base was fast-asleep was one of my favorite past times with you. You'd walk me to my small living quarters and offer me your jacket if it was cold, tell me about the seemingly universally hated Captain Sobel and how your men were doing. Sometimes our hands would brush, and I would feel my cheeks get warmer despite the biting cold. I could've sworn I saw your cheeks redden as well as your eyes snapped to our hands and just as quickly were averted.

Winter was coming to an end, and as the planned date for the Normandy invasion came closer, nerves were rising all around base. One mild evening, after a week of not being able to visit, you confided to me your concerns about the war. I boldly, brazenly, took your hands in mine and reassured you that everything would work out in the end. Holding my breath, we stared into each other’s eyes for what felt like a lifetime before you tentatively leaned your head down and kissed me. That was the first time I’d ever seen you unsure of yourself. My heart felt like it was going to beat out of my chest; what if we got caught? What would they do to us, to you, after everything you'd gone through? But at that moment, time slowed down. Nothing mattered. It was just you and me, my hands in yours, and your lips on mine.

After our kiss, your visits started becoming more sporadic, until days without you stretched into weeks of silence. Do you know how much I longed to hear your calm, steady voice during a busy day, to watch the dew on the grass in the morning with you, to feel the warmth of your presence next to me as the stars twinkled in the sky? Eventually, I resolved to pull you away somewhere private the next time I saw you and give you a piece of my mind.

And so I did. As soon as I saw your tall figure, I took you behind the hospital and confessed everything I was feeling towards you: the hurt, the bitterness, the betrayal, the love. Irritatingly composed, you firmly told me that you had no time for such frivolities in war. As the words left your lips, I felt my heart shatter into a million different pieces and settle like glass in my gut. I told you, my voice not even sounding like my own, “if that's what you want,” and I entered the hospital again.

It's been a week since then, and two days before you drop into Normandy. And though you'll never read this, I yearn ask you: is that what I was all along? Some distraction that you entertained before I had to be pushed aside? I would've waited for you to come back to me after the war, would've waited for a better time. Is this it for us?

Although it pains me to say that I still love you, it seems that some things are better left unsaid.

Sincerely, (Y/N)

Dear (Y/N),

It’s now two days before our drop into Normandy. Much has happened to Easy Company since Toccoa. Much has happened between you and I since we met here in England, while you were treating one of my men.

I never regarded you as a potential suitor; I couldn't do that to you. Knowing that in a few months time we would be parachuting into France, I was reluctant to develop things any further. As it stood, I had already taken an unprofessional liking to you since that day we met in the base's hospital. Our following conversations certainly did not help the matter. Starting a relationship would have jeopardized my men and myself. I had to focus on running the company, and when we got deployed, I knew having a sweetheart back somewhere safe would have fogged my mind and gotten me or someone else killed.

Yet in spite of my reservations, I got ahead of myself and began spending more and more time with you. Though it was never explicitly confirmed between the two of us, and though we never said it, many would have considered us dating. We both knew what we were doing. For a while, and with the encouragement of Nixon, I relished being with you, taking you out every morning and night, assisting you with your tasks for the day. It was nice to get away from the duty of watching over my men and focus on the person I adored.

In the spring, as the day of the invasion loomed ahead of us, things were ramping up. I couldn't see you as often as I used to or would've liked to. The day I could ended up being the day we kissed, when things changed irrevocably between us. I wasn’t acting like myself that day; I let my feelings get in the way. When I stared into your eyes, I saw a lifetime with you, and without meaning to and without much due thought, I leaned down and pressed my lips to yours. From that day on, I knew I couldn't let this continue.

I needed space from you after that, before I went careening into the uncharted territory that is romance. It pained me to avoid you, but it was for the best: I'm a ranking officer, and you're a ranking nurse. Being caught fraternizing puts us both at risk.

But more importantly, it wasn't fair to you, my men, or myself. Easy Company needs a levelheaded leader. If I were to panic in the midst of enemy fire thinking about getting back to a lover, I'd be letting them and myself down. And the thought of you receiving a letter informing you of my death is something I could never forgive myself for.

I said as much when I told you I had no time for such frivolities in war. You didn't deserve that. I'll never forget the hurt that flashed across your face. I see it every day, reflected in the morning dew on the grass and in the stars at night. In everything I used to enjoy with you.

Nixon has since convinced me to rethink my decision to break things off. Nix is a very persistent man, you could guess. I don't think two days is enough to mend what is irreparable. But I can start with a letter I'll never send, so that if the Lord allows us to meet again, I can tell you this personally:

There may not be time for frivolities in war. But when the war ends, there will be time enough for you.

Sincerely, Richard Winters

#band of brothers #dick winters #band of brothers fanfic #dick winters x reader #hbo war #richard winters #richard winters x reader #hbo war fanfic #101st airborne #easy company #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers imagine #lewis nixon #i love winters so much

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blurredcolour · 4 months

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I Wish You Love | Part One

I Wish You Love Masterlist

Lewis Nixon x Housemaid!Female Reader

Watching Miss Isobel encourage Lieutenant Nixon's affections only to ignore his letters as soon as he's deployed proves too much for you to bear.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Angst, Class Divide, Infidelity, Dishonesty, Discussion of War Wounds, Language, Smoking, Alcohol Consumption, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: Reader's nationality is British and liberties have been taken in describing her background and family life for the sake of plot. No physical descriptions or y/n used. A good portion of this fic will be letter-based. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the HBO series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 4611

--------------------------

You had met Lewis Nixon first. On a misty morning in early December 1943 when The Honourable Isobel St John’s dog, Dash III, was yet again carelessly let out of the house by the naïve kitchen maid Else. The poor girl, freshly arrived from Austria, meant well, truly. But she simply did not seem to comprehend the vastness of Lydiard Park, nor the fact that a great portion of it had become off limits, requestioned by the 101st Airborne to construct a field hospital in anticipation of the invasion of France.

Wrapping a shawl around the shoulders of your black service dress, lace collar at your throat, you had forced yourself out into the damp chill, shoes crunching on the pea gravel path as you had called out for the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Miss Isobel thought quite highly of herself, typical middle child syndrome if one were being quite honest, and had kept a series of Cavalier’s named after Queen Victoria’s own – though she preferred the Blenheim colouring to the original’s tri-coloured coat. Of all the staff, and humans, at Lydiard House, Dash III was most likely to respond to you and so this task was one with which you were quite familiar.

What you had not expected to find was the missing canine squirming in the arms of a handsome American Lieutenant, desperately trying to lick at his striking jawline.

“Dash!” You had cried out at the state of his filthy coat, the majority of the white streaked with mud.

“That’s your name, then, is it?” The Lieutenant had smirked, a label bearing the last name of ‘Nixon’ stitched onto his uniform above his left breast pocket.

“Dash the third, Leftenant.” You had gulped roughly at the broad grin that had unfurled across his features at your British pronunciation of his rank.

“Dash the third. I am Lewis Nixon the third, what destiny we should meet.” Nixon had addressed the filthy dog fondly, prompting him to squirm in delight, smearing all manner of muck onto his uniform.

“I am terribly sorry for the trouble, sir, please allow me.” You had moved to take Dash from Nixon, but the gentle shake of his head had halted your movements.

“Not at all, miss, I’m assuming this rogue Dash belongs up at the house?” He had raised an eyebrow and you had nodded quickly. “Allow me then, my clothes are meant to get dirty.” He had tucked the dog under his arm more securely and began walking back with you. “I take it this is not Dash’s first great escape?”

You had shaken your head quickly, biting back a laugh. “Unfortunately not, Leftenant. I truly appreciate your help returning him to us. Miss Isobel will be relieved.”

“And how about you?” Nixon had inquired with a grin.

You had looked to your feet quickly, the expression only making him transition from good looking to dangerously handsome. “Grateful, of course, sir.”

“And is that what I should call you? Grateful? Is that her name, Dash?” He had looked down to the dog beneath his arm, earning a warm tongue along his cheek in response.

A laugh had escaped your lips before you had introduced yourself properly as the pair of you neared the 18th century Palladian style home. “Please follow me to the kitchen door, Leftenant, I’ll need to give Dash a bath before he is unleashed upon the household.”

Nixon’s appearance in the servants’ hall had caused quite a stir, earning him an introduction to the family upstairs upon which Miss Isobel had immediately set her eyes on him. The Honourable Isobel St John was a complicated woman and while you were the same age, born in 1918, your experiences and perceptions of the world could not have been more different. Third child of Viscount Bolingbroke, what she lacked in social standing she more than made up for in entitlement.

While her parents, Bertrand and Elizabeth St John were disappointed in her unwed state at the age of twenty-five, four years into the war it was more common than not. And it was not for any lack of suitors on Miss Isobel’s part. A veritable parade of uniformed men had joined the family at the simpler dinner parties they now hosted, particularly with their eldest child and only son taken prisoner by the Japanese so early in the war. With eldest daughter Gwendoline busily running her own household with two children, and youngest Rosamund off with the Auxiliary Territorial Service, Lydiard House was held hostage by the whims and desires of Miss Isobel. And through the winter of 1943 into spring 1944 that had been Lieutenant Lewis Nixon.

From the glimpses you caught of him whilst serving cocktails and dinner, the lack of footmen pressing housemaids such as yourself into service in unusual roles, and the starry-eyed descriptions provided by Miss Isobel herself as you helped her dress and undress before said gatherings, it seemed Lieutenant Nixon fit in quite well at an upper-class table. Naturally his duties prevented him from visiting every weekend, but he was present more often than not, and as the weather grew warmer, he and Miss Isobel would take long walks on the grounds still available to the St John family, Dash happily accompanying them on a leash.

Lieutenant Nixon was polite and friendly, greeting you with a familiar nod when you would fetch Dash for his meal as they were lounging beside the lake, or throwing you a smile as you would hold out his preferred whiskey on a silver tray before dinner. But you by no means expected his generosity that rainy Sunday in mid-April. Having taken the majority of the day off for your father’s birthday, you had seen to it that Miss Isobel was dressed and on her way to breakfast, before changing into a once-colourful dress of your own, frowning as the skies opened up.

Pulling on your Macintosh, you tucked your small gift into the inside pocket before dashing out to the garage to fetch your bicycle, heading down the gravel drive toward the road into town when Lieutenant Nixon’s covered jeep pulled up beside you.

“Where are you going in this deluge?!” He peered out at you, and you swallowed.

“Good morning, Leftenant. Headed into Swindon to see my father. You’ll find Miss Isobel in the breakfast room, sir.”

Your eyes widened as he put the jeep in park, the door swinging open before he dashed around to open the tail gate. “Put your bike the back, I’ll drive you.”

“But sir, I…” You trailed off as the jacket of his uniform was growing darker with rain by the moment and found yourself unable to argue at the expense of his clothing.

You quickly dismounted and surrendered your bicycle, trying not to stare too intently as he easily hoisted it into the back before ushering you into the passenger’s seat on the right side of the vehicle – the positioning utterly foreign, but you quickly dashed inside, sliding off your hood as he jogged back to the driver’s side.

“This is truly unnecessary, Leftenant, it’s out of your way and will only delay you.” You pleaded with him once he was back under the canvas cover.

He gave you his lopsided grin, shaking his head, scattering some raindrops from his garrison cap. “Izzy’ll not even notice, let her enjoy her cold toast.”

You bit your lip savagely, well aware of the degree to which Miss Isobel loathed that nickname, yet she never seemed to correct him on it. Executing a smooth three-point turn, he aimed the jeep back toward the main road and began to drive to Swindon. “How long does it take you to cycle there?”

“About twenty minutes, sir. It’s a nice ride on a dry day.” You undid the buttons on your Macintosh, overheating in the garment, and slid it open to reveal your dress.

Lieutenant Nixon’s glance in your direction, and quick double-take, had you smoothing the hem of it against your knees self-consciously. “I’m sorry, you look lovely, I’m just so used to seeing you in black and white it’s like we’ve landed in Oz and you’re suddenly in Technicolor over there.”

The analogy was so striking that you were completely taken aback. Laughter bubbled up from your throat as you shook your head and belatedly covered your mouth as he grinned broadly, seeming quite pleased with himself.

“So, you grew up in Swindon?” Nixon asked over the sound of rain pelting the roof and windshield and you nodded quickly.

“Yes, sir.” You swallowed, hands planted in your lap as you tugged at your fingertips nervously.

“Izzy tells me you have a brother fighting in Italy, is that right?”

You looked to him, startled to learn that you had ever been a topic of conversation between him and Miss Isobel. “I do, sir.”

“Is he older or younger than you?” He took his eyes off the road to meet yours briefly, seeming genuinely interested in your answer.

“Johnny is twelve minutes older, sir.”

“Twins?!” His wide, brown eyes flashed back to yours and you nodded with a soft laugh.

“I don’t think I’ve met a twin before…” He murmured thoughtfully. “And what does your father do?”

Swallowing nervously, you glanced out the window a moment to carefully formulate your answer. “He picks up work at the Swindon Railway Works.” You replied, leaving out the part that he only did so when he was physically well enough. The loss of his leg on the Somme was a wound that had never fully healed and nagged him more and more as he got older.

“Do you get to see him often?” He asked, making the turn into town easily as you shook your head sadly.

“Not as often as I should – it’s his birthday today, though, so I asked to take most of the day a few months ago.”

“Well, wish him a happy birthday for me, will you?” He smiled and you nodded before guiding him through the streets to the simpler, working-class neighbourhood where the one-bedroom flat you’d grown up in was located.

Lieutenant Nixon parked the jeep in front of the building and the pair of you hurried out into the rain to retrieve your bicycle from the back. You had just finished thanking him profusely when you turned to see your father standing in the doorway on his crutches, not wearing prosthetic leg. It was no surprise, actually, in weather like this he found the thing extremely uncomfortable.

A look of understanding crossed Lieutenant Nixon’s face and he insisted on walking you to the door, offering his hand to shake your father’s.

“Happy Birthday, sir.”

Your baffled father had shaken it in return with his thanks, completely taken aback by the American Lieutenant on his doorstep.

“Thank you again, Leftenant.”

“It was my pleasure, enjoy your afternoon off.” He smiled and dashed back to the car as you ushered your father inside, explaining everything as you helped him to his chair.

Mercifully, when it came time for you to return to Lydiard House for the evening, the rain had eased up and you were able to cycle back without getting soaked to the skin. As you came up the drive, you spotted Lieutenant Nixon and Miss Isobel walking arm in arm, heads bent toward one another as Dash walked alongside. You dismounted quickly, trying to be discrete, but the dog turned as soon as he caught your scent, barking happily in greeting.

“Ah, you’re back.” Miss Isobel said flatly.

“Good Evening Miss Isobel, Leftenant Ni–“

“Oh, don’t be so British, it’s Lieutenant.” Miss Isobel cut you off, tone rather condescending as she slipped the leash from the Lieutenant’s grasp and held it out toward you expectantly. “Will you take Dash inside for his meal? Then I’ll see you to change for dinner.”

You hurried to close the distance, pushing your bike along with you as you took the leash from her, Dash happily wending his way between your ankles in greeting. “Certainly, Miss.” You replied patiently before excusing yourself with a curtsy, leading the dog inside, finding it rather awkward to manage the bicycle as well but after nearly ten years of serving the St John family you knew better than to test Miss Isobel.

“I think it’s charming how she says it.” You bit the inside of your cheek savagely, trying not to overhear Lieutenant Nixon’s defense of your pronunciation, particularly when Miss Isobel replied in a sultry voice.

“I’ll tell you what’s charming…” The rest of her statement was mercifully out of the range of your hearing as you tucked your bicycle away in the garage.

As the calendar flipped to May, Lieutenant Nixon’s presence became less and less frequent at Lydiard and the ever-impatient Miss Isobel’s eye began to wander. It most certainly was not your place to have an opinion, or loyalties to any of her suitors, but the presence of a RAF pilot named Shore left a sour taste in your mouth.

It was early on June 7 when the first of Lieutenant Nixon’s letters to Miss Isobel arrived. Placing it on a silver tray, you took it up first thing in the morning when you went up to dress her for the day. It sat on her vanity, unopened still, when you changed her for dinner with Captain Shore, remained there while she flirted with him brightly through the meal, and was brushed into the dust bin as you undressed her for bed. “Oh, Miss I think you…”

“That will be all, good night.” She waved her hand dismissively and you frowned, excusing yourself with a nod before stepping out of the room.

Sitting heavily on your twin bed in the attic, the metal frame creaking in protest, your brow remained furrowed as all you could picture was Lieutenant Nixon’s caring face as he had listened attentively to your answers whilst going out of his way to drive you into town. He was a kind and considerate man, not to mention excruciatingly handsome, but now that he was out of sight, he was quite simply out of Miss Isobel’s mind. For all anyone knew he could be lying dead in France somewhere by now, the news of the invasion fresh in everyone’s mind, particularly the steep toll and tenuous hold.

“You keep making that face and it’ll get stuck like that.” Helen, your roommate chided warmly, and you blinked rapidly, shaking your head to clear it with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Just overthinking things, sorry Helen. Shall I get the light?”

With her agreement, you flicked the switch off at the wall and shuffled back to bed, sliding under the covers, mulling over the conundrum of the unopened letter upstairs. You would be emptying that dustbin tomorrow morning while Miss Isobel was at breakfast. Perhaps you should rescue it in case she changed her mind. Plan formulated, you were able to get some rest and later secured the correspondence, storing it in the bottom of your suitcase.

One week later, the second letter arrived, and you took it up to Miss Isobel hopefully.

“Oh, you can stop bringing these to me, I shan’t be taking up correspondence with him.” She muttered dismissively, not even taking the letter from the tray on which you presented it to her.

Your entire body went rigid for a moment, and it took a great summoning of strength to reply, “Yes, Miss.”

“And take Dash for an extra long walk, would you, he’s been positively listless the past few weeks and the weight of his gaze is quite a bore.” She sank in the vanity chair expectantly as you glanced over at the dog, lying forgotten on his plush, velvet bed, no longer of use to her as Captain Shore was allergic.

“Yes, Miss.” Your reply was perhaps terser than it ought to be, but to your good fortune, Miss Isobel was already flipping through a magazine idly as she waited for you to begin styling her hair.

Drawing deeply from your well of restraint, you managed not to jab her scalp with any pins as you secured her hair into a set of fashionable victory rolls before you called to Dash to take him for a walk. As you descended the stairs, you took the abandoned letter from its tray and shoved it into your pocket, grabbing Dash’s leash from the backdoor in the servant’s hall and heading out for a lengthy walk of the grounds. It did both of you good to get out of that house, Dash immediately perking up, tailing wagging as he trotted to-and-fro to inspect the foliage while you worked out your frustration at the petulant child you worked for by setting a brisk pace.

You only slowed after about thirty minutes, when a sheen of sweat had gathered at your brow and your legs were beginning to ache, changing to a stroll as you circled the lake, laughing softly as Dash barked at the ducks far out in the water who paid him no mind. “I promise to bring you out here more often, you silly boy.” You muttered, sliding a hand into your pocket and blinking as you found the letter, guilt twisting like a knife in your belly. “Because there’s a lot to make up for when it comes to your mistress.”

Swallowing tightly, you slowly pulled out the envelope, looking over Lieutenant Nixon’s tidy cursive. Certainly, there were laws against reading another’s mail, but the immorality of entertaining a man’s affections for six months only to throw him over as soon as he went to war seemed to outweigh all that in your mind. He had taken the time to write to an ungrateful, spoiled woman, the least someone could do was grant him the courtesy of reading it. Johnny had always said what a joy it was to send and receive letters, how it took his mind off life at the front first in North Africa and now Italy, and as someone who got to enjoy the safety and comfort of home it was a duty in your mind to do whatever you could to help those fighting for the Allies.

Taking a shaky breath, you carefully slipped the letter from the pre-sliced envelope – Miss Isobel was not even expected to open her own mail, after all – and unfolded the sheets of paper.

Pressing your fingertips to your lips, you only realized your feet had stopped their progress across the lawn when Dash’s leash tugged at your wrist insistently before he bounded over to you, pressing his paws onto your calf impatient to continue on. “Sorry, Dash, yes.” You whispered, carefully folding the letter and sliding it back into its envelope before returning it to your pocket.

For all his jokes and smirks, there had always been an air of melancholy about Lieutenant Nixon, one that he seemed to hide beneath a good story and strong drink. The only crime, as far as you could see, would be for his letters, written with such care and affection and filled with a need for connection, to remain unanswered. You could write well-enough, had received excellent marks on your cursive before you left school at sixteen to begin working and supporting your father as his old wound had become more and more troublesome.

You would, of course, toe the line of impersonating your employer. There would be no soppy declarations, just descriptions of the home and the family. Stories to keep his spirits up – just as he requested. Begging out of the after-dinner socializing with the rest of the staff due to a headache, you slipped up to your room to retrieve the first letter from the bottom of your suitcase and sat on your bed to read it as well, intending to reply to both.

Settling against the headboard with some fresh paper and a pen, you nibbled on the end of it thoughtfully, trying to decide how to begin your response.

Lieutenant Nixon

My Dear Lewis

Dearest Lewis

“You’d think I was trying to reinvent the wheel…” You hissed under your breath before grabbing a new sheet of paper and starting anew.

You bit your lip as you signed off, taking more than a little pleasure in perpetuating a nickname you knew Miss Isobel loathed. There were moments in the letter where you may have let a bit more of your own personality shine through but on the whole, you were satisfied that it was a rather good impersonation of your mistress. And most important of all, provided Lieutenant Nixon with the fuel for his imagination that he so longed for.

Preparing an envelope with the mailing address and Miss Isobel’s return address, you carefully folded it all up once the ink had properly dried and placed it in the outgoing post that night after you’d helped Miss Isobel change for bed. In your thoughts as you fell asleep was not only the hope for your brother’s safe return, but also that of Lieutenant Nixon, too.

--------------------------

Read Part Two

I Wish You Love Masterlist

Tag list: @ronsparky, @fuckoffthanos, @bcon24

#lewis nixon x reader #lewis nixon imagines #lewis nixon imagine #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers fic #band of brothers

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bellewintersroe · 1 year

Text

Band of brothers masterlist 🤍🩷🤍

Finally! Here’s some direct links to my work so far :)

All boys: general hc’s:

Platonic BoB x reader - angst. Easy boys reacting to seeing their lady lieutenant for the first time. Easy boys x reader how they react to accidentally upsetting you.

Easy boys x reader the morning after their first time. Easy boys x reader the morning after their first time, part 2.

Easy boys x reader in Bastogne.

Easy boys x nurse headcannons p1. Easy boys x nurse headcanons p2.

Easy boys x nurse headcannons p3. Easy’s reaction to nurse reader getting hurt.

Easy boys x nurse how they react to you finding them hurt. Easy boys x reader enemies to lovers.

Easy boys x reader they see you dressed up for the first time. Easy boys x reader they see your scars for the first time. Easy boys x nurse how they react to you having fun in the water.

Easy boys x reader they take care of your baby alone for the first time.

Easy boys x reader how they react to you going MIA.

Part 2.

Easy boys x reader how they comfort you when you’re overworked

Ron Speirs:

Protective Ron Speirs x reader. Snowy Days, Ron x reader.

British girl x Ron headcanons - Ron being in a relationship with a girl from Britain.

Ron Speirs x nurse! OC multiple part smut - when celebrations reach a high in the eagles nest, who knew their hook up would be more than a one time thing?

Part 1.

Part 2.

Part 3.

Part 4.

Part 5.

Part 6.

Part 7.

Ron Speirs x ArmyNurse! OC mini series - Margaret ‘Maggie’ Emerson, an army nurse attached to the 506th parachute infantry regiment, finds herself growing closer to her company’s captain, Ronald Speirs. With war drawing to an end, a side to the mystery that is Captain Speirs is revealed. Both Maggie and Ron have a difficult time resisting their attraction to one another.

Part 1.

Part 2.

Joe Liebgott:

Joe Liebgott x reader x Talbert smut. - you, joe and Floyd have some fun on New Year’s Eve in a foxhole. Joe x reader x Talbert smut p2- Joe and Floyd finally give you what you’ve been waiting for…

Untitled Joe Liebgott x reader Drabble. Joe Liebgott x reader angst- the two times Joe doesn’t want to see you and the one time he does.

Joe x reader x Shifty - a request for how Joe would react when he’s in love with you but you’re with Shifty.

Gene and Liebgott Headcannons - when they think they’ve lost you for good but then you reunite with them days later, worse for wear.

Babe Heffron:

Babe Heffron x oc smut- Babe and OC spend some well deserved time together.

Eugene Roe:

Quiet Confessions, Eugene x reader smut - as the title described, quiet confessions between Gene and reader. Sympathy for the Enemy, Gene x oc - oc struggles with hating the enemy, especially when some of them are just boys. Gene comforts her when the inevitable happens. Vocal Gene x reader smut- Requested by a reader! Gene is obsessed with you and expresses this through being vocal in the bedroom… Friends to Lovers, Eugene x reader smut - you and Gene are friends for the longest time until one night that changes with a steamy exchange whilst walking home…

Gene x reader headcanons - just some headcanons on how your friendship turns into a relationship throughout the time during the war you spend together.

Gene and Liebgott Headcannons - when they think they’ve lost you for good but then you reunite with them days later, worse for wear.

Floyd Talbert:

Floyd x reader smut - Floyd and your tension reaches a boiling point after two years together. Liebgott x reader x Talbert smut - threesome.

Liebgott x reader x Talbert smut p2. - threesome continued!

Talbert + Christenson headcanons.

James ‘Moe’ Alley:

Alley x oc was nurse! Jenny. Headcanons of their developing relationship throughout the war.

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5.

Skip Muck:

Skip x reader - mutual pinining - friends to lovers arc. Lewis Nixon:

One night stand, Nixon X Reader - after a long night of boozing you and Captain Nixon wake up besides each other, shocked by your actions of the night before.

Chuck Grant:

Chuck x nurse reader headcanons.

Chuck Grant x reader smut.

Alton More:

More x nurse reader headcanons. Shifty Powers:

Joe x reader x Shifty - a request for how Joe would react to being in love with you but you’re with Shifty. Pat Christenson:

Christenson x reader fluff - pat comforts you after Grant is wounded. Christenson + Talbert headcanons.

Dick Winters:

Dick x reader headcanons - on how Dick steals Sobel’s gf.

#Band of brothers masterlist #Band of brothers imagines #Band of brothers x reader #band of brothers headcannons #ron speirs #Joe liebgott #floyd Talbert #skip muck #Eugene Roe #Babe Heffron #james moe alley #Shifty powers #pat christenson

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softguarnere · 9 months

Note

hi dove! i can't believe i've never requested anything on your blog! could you possibly write a enemies to lovers - lewis nixon x reader? maybe where feelings are discovered after one of them gets hurt/captured/something like that! you know i'm a sucker for angst with tons of fluff! thanks for being awesome!

mads <3

Coming Clean

Lewis Nixon x reader

A/N: omg hi Mads! Thank you so much for the request 🤗 I love your work (especially the way you write Nix) so I really hope you enjoy this! I edited and wrote the last half of this fic while sick, so if this is totally incoherent, that's why - and I'll just have to do my best to fix it when I'm better😆 (As always this is written for the fictional depictions from the show - no disrespect to the real life veterans!) 💕🕊️ Warnings: language, mentions of war

“I am not being overdramatic,” Nixon insists in what can only fairly be described as a rather theatrical tone.

Dick only glances up from across the table, an eyebrow quirked as he studies his friend. He nods slightly. Thank you for proving my point, the gesture seems to say.

“Nix,” he says, his tone serious, even though he opts for his friend’s nickname instead of a more reprimanding Lewis. “I don’t think comparing anyone to Sobel is fair.”

Nixon drops his fork and holds his hands up in surrender. “Whoa, okay. All I said was that if she wanted to, (Y/N) could give him a run for his money. That’s all.”

“They’re nothing alike,” Dick deadpans.

Nothing alike? A bit nondramatic, in Nixon’s opinion. An understatement for sure. He starts to protest, but Dick cuts him off.

“I think the two of you just got off on the wrong foot.”

Scoffing, Nixon leans back in his chair. “Well, I wouldn’t call overhearing someone explicitly talking about how they think you’re unqualified for your job getting off on the wrong foot. But close enough, I guess.”

“That’s not what I said.”

The voice is enough to startle both Nixon and Winters – although the ginger presses his lips together in a way that suggests he’s only just managing to repress a smile as he takes in your arrival on the scene. Nixon, on the other hand, has to forcibly close his mouth to stop from gaping at your sudden presence.

“What I said,” you continue. “was that I wasn’t sure how well a Yale man would hold his ground amongst the other officers.”

A frown tugs at the corners of Nixon’s mouth. For once, he’s grateful that part of his upbringing included lessons in how to conceal one’s true emotions lest someone gain the upper hand by using them against him. He presses his lips into a thin line and steels himself.

“Remind me where you studied again, Lieutenant?”

Your face pales. Bingo! You may have had him there for a second, but he’s struck a nerve.

“It was just a joke,” you say, your voice quiet.

Nixon only shrugs before turning back to Dick. There are footsteps as you walk away, but he doesn’t turn to see you go. Instead, he tries to concentrate on his tray of food. Tries being the operative word, since Dick seems intent on staring at him with that look of utter disappointment on his face that could make a saint feel guilty.

“What?” He stabs some broccoli with his fork, not looking up.

Dick sighs. “It was a joke, Nix.”

The potatoes on the corner of his tray are his next victim. Unseasoned and questionably cooked as they are, Nixon still puts all his focus into getting them firmly on his fork.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

Now he looks up. “Huh?”

“The joke,” Dick clarifies. “Why did it bother you so much?”

It’s not so much that the jab at his alma mater bothers him. It’s just . . . Huh. Why does it bother him? The way it’s said, perhaps, or the people it was said in front of. After all, it was one of the first things that you said upon Nixon’s arrival after his promotion. Not a good look for a newcomer in such a prestigious position. If he wanted people to poke fun at him despite his achievements, he could have just stayed home.

Sure, that’s probably it, he tells himself. You’ve just hit a nerve. No need to psychoanalyze this whole thing.

To Dick’s question, he only shrugs.

His friend, thankfully, does not press the issue.

. . .

Lewis Nixon, you’re beginning to realize, does not forgive and forget.

Well, that’s too bad, because all the other officers seem to think that he’s funny and charming. And they’re right. But clearly those qualities are not on display whenever you’re around. And you’re not about to ingratiate yourself to him by groveling for forgiveness over some stupid offhanded joke.

Too bad. Because you’re a big enough person to admit that despite his flaws, Lewis Nixon has his good qualities – not to mention that he’s handsome.

“Why are you staring at me?”

The sudden question draws you out of your thoughts. You blink, back in the present moment.

“Pardon?”

“You’re staring at me,” Nixon says. He doesn’t look up from the stack of mail that he’s censoring, intent on his work.

You avert your gaze, trying to ignore the heat you feel rushing to your cheeks. The words on the letter in front of you turn to nonsense the more you try to focus on them. If you work hard enough, you won’t be tempted to let your thoughts wander to the man sitting across the table from you.

“Here.” A letter lands on top of the one you’re reading as Nixon, once again, interrupts your thoughts. Startled, you look up to find him looking at you rather expectantly.

The letter he’s tossed to you looks familiar. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s written in your handwriting – a letter that you wrote to your family back in the states. When you glance up at him, he turns back to his own work.

“You spelled accommodate wrong. Thought you might want to fix it before sending it off to your family.”

Oh of course he would point out your mistake like that! Anyone else would have let it go. Your family will be so thrilled by the letter that they wouldn’t even give the misspelling a second thought.

The sigh that you push through your nose comes out louder than you expect it to. Nixon, however, doesn’t look up. Swallowing your pride, you aim for a tone that’s halfway pleasant.

“Thank you, Nixon.”

Is it your imagination, or does the corner of his mouth twitch slightly? A smirk, perhaps.

“You’re welcome, (Y/L/N).”

. . .

Though the world no longer trembles with the barrage of artillery fire, you keep your hands pressed firmly over your ears, staying low in the foxhole. Is it the cold causing you to shake, or the adrenaline that still courses through your veins?

You had been out making rounds when the shelling began, just trying to make sure that the rest of Easy Company was okay. The shellings are always unexpected, but this one caught you out in the open, exposed. You had had to dive into the nearest foxhole, hoping for the best as you hid from the explosions just outside.

Someone had grunted when you fell into the foxhole, your elbow connecting with their stomach. There had been no chance to apologize over the loud, cracking booms that filled the air.

After a shelling, there always seems to be a moment – a split second, really – of silence before it all goes to hell again. Then the calls for a medic will break out and everyone will jump into action, throwing around orders amid the screams and groans of the injured.

Now, as you wait for the few seconds of silence, you feel the person beneath you shift.

“Sorry,” you mutter, your arms shaking as you attempt to push yourself off of them.

“Christ,” a familiar voice grumbles. “My fucking ribs.”

Nixon’s voice is all the motivation that you need to push yourself the rest of the way off of him. Still full of adrenaline, you push yourself back on your heels, staying low in the foxhole, but ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

The Princeton man rubs his ribs. “You came out of nowhere. That really – “ He pauses, his expression shifting into one that you’ve never seen on him before as his brows furrow. Gently, he leans towards you. “Hey, (Y/N). Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine.”

“You look – “

Ka-BOOM!

The air splits in two as the second round starts. The shell must hit somewhere very near your foxhole, because the reverberations its impact sends through the ground cause you to topple forward, straight into Nixon.

Before you can even think about pushing yourself away from him again, something strange happens: you feel his arms wrap around you, drawing you in, close and tight, as the barrage continues. You bury your face in his shoulder.

When the second round ends, you both remain still, breathing heavily as you wait for whatever comes next. Only when it’s clear that the Germans are no longer firing do you pull away from each other. Neither of you looks the other in the eye.

“Sorry about your ribs.”

“Huh? Oh. They’re fine.”

Neither of you leaves the foxhole until absolutely necessary. And the next time that the Germans begin firing, when you somehow find yourself back in the same foxhole, neither of you seem to question how easily you wrap your arms around each other, bracing for the impacts and explosions.

The fog of war is a hell of a thing.

. . .

“Medic! We need a medic!”

The call is so unexpected that Nixon actually stops midsentence and turns his attention towards the panicked voice. Several others follow suit. After all, in the middle of Berchtesgaden, who would need a medic? It’s not like they’re in combat. And there’s nothing and no one around that should be putting anyone in danger.

Dick jumps into action immediately. Of course he does; he cares so deeply for his men – anyone can see that. It’s especially evident in this moment as he steps forward to intercept the panicked looking Talbert.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“(Y/L/N) needs a medic.”

Despite his wishes, Nixon feels his heart skip a beat at the mention of your name. It’s because of the startling and unusual news that Tab is delivering, he tells himself.

“For what?” he asks at the same time that Dick takes charge of the situation, charging down the street they’ve been standing on, yelling out that he needs to find Doc Roe.

As soldiers snap to attention trying to find the trusted medic, Nixon moves closer to Talbert.

“What happened to (Y/L/N)?”

Talbert takes a step back, his eyes wide, like he’s being confronted by a madman. Sure, Nixon’s tone was a little demanding – a little worried – but there’s really no need for the other man to look so shocked.

“A couple of us were out exploring the woods,” Tab explains. “She caught her ankle on a root and tripped. Might be just a sprain, but it looks pretty nasty.”

“Where is she now?”

“We got her back to the house that she was quartering in – Hey! Nix, where are you going?”

Talbert’s voice fades behind him as Nixon rushes down the street. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s vaguely aware of people stopping to stare at him as he passes, his pace a barely restrained run.

Several shocked faces look up at him when he bursts into the house. He stops in the doorway of the living room, staring into where you are.

You sit on the couch, one leg propped up beside you. Other than the swelling in your ankle, you look okay – if not a little surprised, that is, to see Nixon gaping at you like this. For what it’s worth, the few Easy men who are scattered throughout the living room look just as stunned.

“(Y/N),” Nixon breathes. Coming back to himself, he clears his throat, willing his heart rate to slow down to normal levels.

“Um . . . I think we should – we should maybe clear out, yeah guys? Give (Y/N) some room to breathe,” Babe suggests.

Casting glances between you and Nixon, the other men squeeze past him in the doorway as they make their way out of the house. Behind him, the door closes, but Nixon doesn’t move. Somewhere within the house, through all the silence between the two of you, a clock chimes to signal the top of the hour.

“Can I help you?” You finally ask.

“We’re at the end of the war.” Nixon’s voice, once again, is louder than he intended it to be. He clears his throat again before pushing on. “We’re at the end of the war, and you somehow got hurt.”

“I tripped in the woods. So what?”

“So what? I was worried about you!” The words are out of his mouth before they have his permission to be spoken. They’ve escaped before he truly grasps the gravity of what he’s just said.

You quirk an eyebrow – a rather sarcastic expression that he’s come to know on you, but your voice is quiet when you ask, “You were worried about me?”

He was worried about you, he realizes suddenly. And he’s been worried about you for some time now, though he can’t place when his feelings towards you softened, when he started to care.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I want you to get home safely.”

“Why is that?”

His head spins. Maybe you should have been put in intelligence, the way that you’re pressuring him for answers while keeping a collected tone. It’s exasperating, honestly, how you’ve somehow gained the upper hand.

But part of him . . . likes the feeling it gives him when the two of you spar like this.

Something tugs at the corners of your mouth. It might be a smile you’re trying to suppress, or one of the smirks that he’s come to know so well.

“Nixon, I think you’re very bad at expressing your emotions.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” With your propped leg taking up the space beside you on the couch, you instead gesture to the chair that sits nearby. Without knowing why, Nixon takes a seat. It’s a bit like waiting outside the principal’s office, the anticipation of it all. “But,” you continue. “it’s kind of cute to see you so flustered.”

You’re messing with him, surely. Yet he can’t find any sort of witty comeback.

After a moment of staring at each other, you nod with the assurance of someone who has finally made up their mind and is resigned to their fate. “I think it’s time I finally came clean.”

“About?”

“I think you know. But just to watch you squirm, I’m going to start at the beginning.”

He’s heard you tell stories before. The two of you could be here for a long time.

But, he thinks as you start your narrative, he’s starting to realize that he wouldn’t want it any other way.

#band of brothers #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers fanfic #lewis nixon x reader #lewis nixon #my writing #mutuals #tumblr friends

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mads-weasley · 9 months

Text

Epiphany Pt. 1: Enchanted

Lewis Nixon x Reader

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: heyyy guys! i've decided to start a lewis nixon series!! and yes, the chapter titles are all taylor swift songs. i'm super excited to post this first chapter! please enjoy and let me know what you think! hbo owns the rights, and this is about the fictional portrayal of easy company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: Arriving at Camp Toccoa to join Easy Company, (y/n) (y/l/n), a participant in a new WAC program, has her first encounter with the men of Easy.

It was a hot and unbearable day under the Georgia sun when (y/n) (y/l/n) arrived at Camp Toccoa. She tried to ignore the looks she got from the men as she rumbled by in a jeep, but what she couldn’t ignore was the rambling of her driver.

“Hi,” he introduced, glancing over at her. “The name’s Lorraine. Well, it’s Gerald, but everyone calls me Lorraine.”

She shot him a kind smile. “Nice to meet you, Gerald. (Y/n) (y/l/n). I’m part of the Athena program.

“I haven’t heard of that.”

“Well,” (y/h/c) began. “it’s a new part of the WAC that’s sending a few women into the Army as a sort of trial run for the future.”

A look of disbelief passed over his face before he reigned it in quickly. “What made you want to join up, then?”

“Well, who wouldn’t after Pearl Harbor?” She asked, wiping sweat from her forehead.

Lorraine simply nodded and kept his eyes on the road, almost as if he was contemplating a woman’s place in war. To (y/n)’s relief, he chose to keep his conclusion to himself. Vest turned down another long dirt road that seemed to lead directly to the base of a mountain she assumed was the famous Curahee. With a deep breath, (y/n) silently prayed she had the strength to prove to him and everyone else that women belonged in the army; that she belonged.

The morning after Sobel’s canteen tirade, Winters and Nixon were in line for breakfast in the mess hall, trying to figure out what to do about their CO.

“So, what did you do?” Lew asked, walking toward an empty table. There were times when he was thankful he was in intelligence instead of with the rest of the men, and most were because of the hell Sobel put them through.

Dick trailed him with a sigh. “Picked six men and gave them latrine duty.”

“The lucky six?”

“McDonald, Toye, Perconte, Lipton, Muck, and Guarnere,” he stated, sitting across from Lew.

“Why them?”

“It was their turn.”

Nix chuckled, looking down at his messy food in thought. It was his job to know things, and he happened to hear about a controversial topic flowing down the ranks. “Hey, have you heard about the new WAC program integrating women into the Army?”

“I’m glad you mentioned it. Our own Athena participant should be arriving at 16:00.”

Lew’s head shot up. “In Easy?”

“Yep.”

Lew didn’t have anything against women in the military but also didn’t know how the men would handle it. “What do you think about it?”

“Well,” Dick began, putting down his utensils softly. “I’m trying to have an open mind, but I’m worried about some of the men.”

Nix nodded and took a sip of coffee with a smirk. “We’ll just have to wait and see, then.”

Little did he know that later that day, his life would change forever.

Lorraine and (y/n) arrived at Colonel Sink’s office a few minutes after 16:00, and the woman was almost sick to her stomach with anxiety. While Lorraine was inside informing Sink of their arrival, she tried to calm herself down. All she wanted was to make an excellent first impression on the Colonel and her superiors.

Lorraine returned and ushered her into the small building serving as Sink’s quarters. (Y/n) followed him down a hallway to a single office room. He nodded and closed the door behind her once she entered. The woman turned and raised her hand to salute him.

“Ah, Miss (y/l/n),” Sink called, words dripping with his North Carolina drawl as he held his hand out. “At ease. Welcome to Camp Toccoa.”

She shook it firmly, praying he overlooked their clamminess. “Thank you, sir. I’m happy to be here.”

Sink gestured for her to sit as he took a seat at his desk, which was neatly arranged in piles of folders and other stationery. “When I first heard about the Athena Project, I didn’t know what to think. My wife was the one who showed me that women have the same right to serve their country as us men. She’s a modern Abigail Adams if you understand my meaning.”

“Yes sir,” (y/n) replied.

He interlocked his fingers above the desk. “If I may ask, what made you volunteer for the program?”

“Well, sir,” she spoke softly, willing her voice to stay strong. “My brother was stationed on the Arizona at Pearl Harbor. He was 20. I couldn’t let the opportunity to follow his footsteps pass by.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Thank you for your family’s sacrifice.”

(Y/n) wanted to respond, but her throat seemed to close up on her. Unable to answer, she nodded stiffly, willing the tears from her waterline.

He noticed her distress and cleared his throat suddenly. “Let’s get to it, shall we? You’ll be in Easy Company of the 101st Airborne. You won’t get any special treatment, but we’ll try to accommodate you as much as possible.”

The door scraped open behind (y/n), and she resisted looking back at the newcomer. The footsteps sounded like a single person, and she hoped they wouldn’t catch on to her moment of emotion. Luckily, Sink addressed them, giving her time to gain control of herself.

“ Winters, where’s Lieutenant Sobel?” He asked with furrowed brows. “He’s supposed to be here.”

Dick spoke up. “I don’t know, sir. I last saw him in the mess hall around noon.”

With a huff, Sink rose and introduced her. “Lieutenant, this is (y/n) (y/l/n), our Athena participant.”

The redhead smiled politely. “Dick Winters. Nice to have you with us, (y/l/n).”

“Hi,” she nodded, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. Call me (y/n).”

Sink led them out of the office and into the main room of the building. “Lieutenant Winters here is going to show you around camp before supper.”

From there, the pair walked around the camp, and Dick informed her of their daily training routine, as well as the expectations of Easy company. Toward the end of their tour, he asked about her family back home and was surprised that she dodged the subject before having to answer. Sensing her discomfort, he made a mental note to not bring it up anymore.

Before they knew it, it was 18:00, and supper was being served at the mess hall. Dick led her to the large building and ushered them inside. When (y/n) walked into the room, the stench of sweat and body odor mixed with food hit her like a bus. Bile rose in her throat, and it was all she could do to keep from throwing up.

‘Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up,’ her mind repeated, eyes sinking to the floor.

Dick chuckled beside her. “You get used to the smell,” he quipped. “Let me introduce you to some of the men.”

Before he could take her to them, a shorter brunette man with a boyish look walked up to them, a sly grin on his face. “Lieutenant Winters, sir,” he saluted. “George Luz, ma’am. We’re all glad to have you.”

Two faces popped out from behind his shoulder with smiles of their own. Without missing a beat, George rolled his eyes and pointed at them. “These two idiots are Skip Muck and Alex Penkala.”

Skip smacked him on the back of the head with an aggravated look on his face. “You’re the one that had to be the first to meet her, George, so really, we’re not the idiots here.”

She squinted her eyes as giggles burst from her lips when Luz’s face turned beet red at the comment. She knew immediately that she liked the trio.

“Nice to meet you, too, boys. You can call me (y/n).”

Penkala’s eyes widened and glanced at the two in faux horror. “She called us boys.”

“We are boys.”

“We’re boys,” George mocked. “No, Skip, were men.”

“How old are you three anyways?” She asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

Alex was 18, Skip was 20, and George was 21. After hearing about their ages, she realized that they were just boys. They still had most of their lives to live, much like millions of other soldiers in their position. Much like her.

Dick left (y/n) with the trio and went to attend to his other duties. Once they took a seat, the boys started rambling on about everything from their terrible CO to the best types of slop they were given at mealtimes. (Y/n)’s eyes wandered around the room for a moment before another pair caught hers. When their eyes met across the crowded mess hall, everything around them seemed to vanish as time slowed to a standstill.

The soft, warm gaze in his eyes felt like a long-lost memory, a memory that had been tucked away in the depths of her heart, waiting for the perfect moment to resurface. (Y/n)’s heart fluttered as she felt an undeniable pull toward him, and she couldn’t help but be captivated by the genuine curiosity and surprise that emanated from his gaze. The man was, without a doubt, the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on, and her heart skipped a beat at the realization.

His eyes seemed to whisper, “Have we met?” And (y/n) found herself asking the same question.

She held the stranger’s gaze for a few seconds before he slowly got up and started making his way to her. As he approached her, she noticed him anxiously tousling his well-groomed dark chestnut hair with his hand. (Y/n) was suddenly self-conscious and did the same, taming her hair ruined by the southern humidity. Her heart was racing in her chest, almost anticipating the life-changing moment that was about to happen.

Making it to her table, Lewis grinned and sat beside her, his smile making her blush slightly. “It seems George likes you almost as much as he likes Rita Hayworth,” he said.

The soldier scoffed, ”No offense, (y/n), but Rita is the love of my life. She may not know who I am, but I plan to change that someday. It’s going to happen. Just wait and see, right Penk?”

Alex raised his eyebrows and nodded reluctantly, “Absolutely, buddy. You’ll show her what she’s been missing.”

(Y/n) pressed her lips tightly together, stifling the sound of her impending laughter. She scrunched her nose slightly as if trying to hold back a giggle. Her efforts, though valiant, were ultimately futile as a few muted snickers managed to slip through her defenses.

She soon gave up, and her laughter filled the air. He couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the sight before him. (Y/n)'s face lit up with joy, and her eyes sparkled with delight. The sound of her laughter was infectious, and he found himself chuckling along, almost entranced by how she expressed her happiness so freely.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, (y/l/n),” George said, getting up from the table. “See you all at breakfast.”

Skip and Alex bid their goodbyes as well, following him out of the mess hall. Realizing it was just her and the handsome soldier beside her, (y/n) turned to him with a smile.

Nix stuck out his hand. “Lewis Nixon. As an intelligence officer, it’s my job to know things, so I can’t believe I don’t know your name.”

(Y/n) couldn’t help but notice a subtle nervousness in his eyes matched with a hint of mischief. “Pleasure to meet you, Lewis. I’m (y/n) (y/l/n), Easy’s Athena.”

“Call me Lew,” he charmed, still shaking her hand softly. “We’re happy to have you, (y/n).”

When the realization dawned upon them that they were still holding hands, shy smiles spread across their faces. Lewis cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Have you met Captain Sobel yet?" He asked, grimacing.

"I don't think so. Is he over Easy Company?"

"Yeah. He's also the biggest jacka-"

"There's no way he's that bad," she interrupted, eyes widening.

Lewis chuckled under his breath. "Trust me. Every Friday night, he makes Easy march twelve miles in full gear, just out of spite."

"Do any other companies march?"

“Nope. Just Easy. And after marching last night, he made Dick make up six infractions and punish the men for it. He ended up giving latrine duty to the men who were on this week’s rotation.”

(Y/n) rubbed a hand down her face, groaning. “Lieutenant Winters didn’t say anything about Sobel when he was showing me around.”

“Well, Dick is pretty straight-laced,” Lewis said shrugging with a smirk. “Not everyone can be a cool, calm, and collected intelligence officer.”

"Someone's ego is a little over-inflated," she laughed, raising her eyebrows at him.

“So, how’re you liki-,” he started to ask but was interrupted by someone calling his name. Following the voice, he looked behind him to see Dick near the doors, motioning him over.

“Well,” Nix sighed, looking back at (y/n) with a sheepish smile. “Duty calls.”

As he got up, she called after him. “See you later, Nix.”

She didn’t miss the lack of a ring on his hand, and for the rest of the night, she replayed the enchanting encounter in her mind. How could a stranger seem so familiar?

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mads-nixon · 6 months

Text

Epiphany Pt. 14: Soon You'll Get Better

Lewis Nixon x Reader

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Song Inspo: Soon You'll Get Better: Taylor Swift (feat. The Chicks)

A/N: thanks for being patient with this one, guys! it really hurt me to write this one. this is about the fictional portrayal of easy company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: Easy finally reaches its breaking point, and (y/n) doesn't realize just how low that could be until tragedy strikes.

Warnings: main character death, intense grief, sorry for the pain guys

JANUARY 10, 1945: BOIS JACQUES, BELGIUM: 0900HRS

“Hey Doc,” Skip whispered as Eugene walked by. “Come here!”

Gene crouched just outside the hole, peering down at (y/n) who was silently sleeping in his arms. “Warren, how ya doin’?”

“Doc, (y/n)’s cast is killing her. Do you have anything for the itch?” Skip asked quietly, concern creasing his brows. “She tried to tear it off last night.”

“Casts ain’t supposed to get wet. That’s why it's itchin’ so much,” he replied, adjusting his helmet with a grimace. “I’ll see what I can do. For now, keep her mind off of it the best you can. She really needs to go back to the hospital.”

Skip thanked him with a nod and then he was gone, his form blurring in the snowfall as he walked away. An exaggerated yawn echoed in the air, and George stretched his arms above his head.

“It’s somehow even colder than before,” he groaned, pulling his coat closer to his body.

Muck tugged the blanket around (y/n)’s shoulders and sighed, noticing her cradling her cast in her sleep. “Yeah. It always is.”

George caught his eyes. “How’s she doing?”

“Not good, Luz. Last night…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m worried about her. After what happened with Captain Nixon and now this, I don’t know how much more she can take. Her arm isn’t going to get any better if she’s out here trying to pry her cast off.”

“What?” Luz asked, his eyes widening in disbelief. “She tried to pry it off? When?”

“Last night.”

Silence hung in the air as the duo pondered the situation. As much as they wanted (y/n) to be there with them, they knew that she’d be better off at the hospital, healing up properly.

Skip’s eyes floated to the frozen ground of the foxhole as he spoke sadly. “She needs to go back to the hospital.”

“Yeah,” Luz agreed. “She’s not gonna like it, though.”

The pair quickly became quiet as (y/n) stirred and blinked her eyes open, slowly becoming aware of her surroundings.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Skip greeted from above her as she sat up.

George chimed in with a teasing grin. “We were starting to think you were going to sleep through the whole war.”

Laughter bubbled up from within her, and for a brief moment, the itch in her cast was forgotten. “Well, I can’t have that now, can I? What would you knuckleheads do without me?”

“Have some peace and quiet,” Penkala grumbled, squinting his eyes in the bright morning light. “How’s the wrist today?”

George and Skip shot him a pointed glare, and (y/n) sighed, looking down at her casted arm. “About the same, but it’s not bothering me right now.”

Wanting to steer clear of the subject, Skip sat up against the frozen dirt wall. “(Y/n), did I ever tell you about how I swam the Niagra River once?”

Alex ran a hand down his face with a groan. “Not this story again!”

“No, you didn’t tell me that,” she grinned, rolling her eyes.

Skip ignored Penkala’s outburst and continued his tale. “It was a bet, so I went ten miles up from the falls and started across. The current was so strong that it must have carried me at least two miles downstream before I got across. But I got across.”

(Y/n) stared at him in disbelief. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, come on,” he defended. “Let me finish the story and then you can complain about how much of an idiot I am. These two have already said enough on the matter.

“I could always say more, Muck,” George chimed, smirking as his voice shook from the shivers that wracked his body.

“Whatever, Luz. Shut up and let me finish,” Skip grumbled. “Now, personally, I didn’t think it was all that stupid, but my mom, my sister, Ruth…they gave me all kinds of hell.”

The woman buried her face into her scarf, the scent…his scent…long gone as she envisioned his story in her mind. “Well, I would’ve, too! It was a stupid thing to do, Skip. Based on what you’ve told me, I bet Ruth was close to throwing you over the falls for doing something like that.”

“Well, luckily she didn’t,” he smiled, his voice softening as he looked down at the ground. “Faye was not happy.”

Seeing her friend so helplessly in love, (Y/n) couldn’t help but smile.

“Sweet Faye Tanner,” George drawled, winking at him.

Rolling his eyes, Skip kicked at George playfully. “Shut it, George.”

“Well,” Alex perked up. “As I said before…they had a point. You’re an idiot.”

The group broke out into chuckles, their icy breaths filling the foxhole. All of them seemed to get lost in their thoughts and silence hung over them. (Y/n) stared out at the frost-laden forest before them, seeing the carnage left by the constant shelling: splintered and fallen trees, splatters of blood against the white snow, and craters filled with frozen dirt. It all put an unsettled feeling in her stomach that she couldn’t quite shake, as if the world was waiting for the opportune time to flip her life upside down.

Her worries led her mind back to him. She couldn’t help but miss Lew, even though they’d fought. She also knew deep down that he didn’t mean the hurtful things that he said, but the sting of their argument still lingered. Apologizing was what she wanted to do, but the memory of her own outburst left her feeling embarrassed. (Y/n) sighed softly, vowing to herself that when the time presented itself, she would find a way to apologize and let Nix know that she still cared about him more than anything. For now, she waited, her mind filled with thoughts of the man she missed more than words could express.

“Hey, (y/n),” George called out into the silence. “We want to talk to you about something, but please don’t bite our heads off for it, alright?”

Curiosity coursed through her as she raised an eyebrow. “Okay…this sounds an awful lot like an intervention, guys. What’s going on?”

George nodded toward Muck, whose face wore a nervous expression as he spoke. “We think you should go back to the hospital.”

“What?” she asked, her voice tinged with irritation. “Why? I’m doing fine.”

“(Y/n), we know you’re struggling,” he said gently. “We also know that you’re not gonna get any better if you’re here in the cold with a sopping wet cast.”

As much as she hated to admit it, there was some truth in what Skip was saying. Taking a deep breath, she replied, “Look, I get it, okay? This cast is driving me crazy, but I can’t just leave. I’m not gonna leave you guys here.”

Alex chimed in, his voice filled with concern. “You need to heal. Doc said the same thing earlier.”

Muck raised a brow at him questioningly. “You heard that? I thought you were asleep.”

“I’m always listening,” he shrugged with a smirk. “Anyways, we’re just worried about you, (y/n/n).”

(Y/n) frowned as a mix of stubbornness and helplessness washed over her. She knew they had a point, but the thought of returning to the hospital and being separated from them didn’t sit well with her.

“I just need a bit more time,” she finally admitted. “I’ll get through it.”

Skip exchanged a worried look with George before he spoke, “We know you’re tough, (y/n), but sometimes the smart move is to take care of yourself. It’s not about abandoning us; it's about coming back a hundred percent.”

She turned her gaze to the ground, battling her inner conflict. “I’ll think about it, alright? Just give me a little more time.”

The trio nodded solemnly, realizing that she wouldn’t go unless forced. They had a decision to make, and Skip knew which one he’d make for Ruth. It was the same one he’d make for (y/n).

1900 HOURS

In the chill of their foxhole, Skip couldn’t shake his worry for (y/n). He got out of the foxhole with an “I’ll be back,” and a grunt as he made his way to one of the only people he knew could get her to see reason. The man breathed into his hands, trying to warm them among the constant pinprick sensation in them.

He pulled his rosary from his pocket, kissed it gently, and began to pray as he walked. “Please help us, God. Help (y/n) to see reason and get the help she needs. It's hard to see the people you love suffer, and I don’t know what else to do. I know you have the power to do anything, Lord, so please change her mind about this. Thank you for keeping us safe, and please continue to do so if it is your will, Father. Amen.”

When Skip made it to the Captain's measly shelter, he found Winters and Nixon pouring over maps in preparation for the upcoming objective. Hearing the crunch of his footsteps, Dick’s head shot up, and a blue-tinged smile formed on his face.

“Come on in, sergeant. What can I do for you?” he asked, folding the maps and laying them on a nearby table.

Skip returned the grin and walked in, taking his helmet off. “Well, sir, I actually came to speak to Captain Nixon.”

At his words, Lew raised a brow at his uncharacteristic serious expression. “Alright,” he replied, guiding Muck outside the tent for some privacy. “What’s going on?”

Skip hesitated for a moment, then decided to give it to him, straight. “It’s (y/n), sir. She’s been going through hell with that cast. Last night, she tried to take it off herself. I had to stop her, sir. Doc says she should go back to the hospital.”

Nixon’s brows furrowed in worry. He knew firsthand how stubborn and headstrong (y/n) could be, especially when it came to her own well-being. “She what? Why hasn’t she gone back to the hospital?”

Muck sighed, his breath visible in the air. “She doesn’t want to leave us, sir. You know how she gets.”

Lew clenched his jaw in frustration, his thoughts racing. “Where is she now? Is she okay?”

“She’s calmer now, but it’s still bothering her. It’s the worst at night,” Skip admitted. “We’ve tried to convince her to go back, but she says she’ll think about it. We all know she’s already made up her mind.”

Nodding, Nix’s face was etched with deep worry. He could imagine her struggling by herself, and it made his heart ache. “Alright, I’ll try to get her back to the hospital.”

The sergeant sighed in relief, grateful he was stepping in. “(Y/n) probably won’t be happy about it, but it’s for her own good. I’m worried it might be her breaking point, sir.”

Lew patted his shoulder with a nod, his brows pinched in concern. “Thanks for letting me know, Muck.”

He turned to leave but stopped and faced the Captain again with a deep breath. “Sir, I know this may be out of line, but I heard what was said between you last week. You never know what could happen out here, so don’t leave things unsaid.”

Before Nix could respond, Skip was gone, his figure disappearing into the haze of the snowy landscape. His words seeped into Lew’s mind, and he realized he had to speak to (y/n) immediately and make things right. Either one of them could be killed at any moment, and they were just wasting precious time not speaking to the other.

Returning to the tent, Nix grabbed his rifle and swung it over his shoulder. “I’ll be back, Dick. There’s something I’ve got to take care of.”

“You mean someone?” replied, a knowing smirk on his face.

Nix shrugged as he exited the tent. “Something like that.”

As he navigated the forest to (y/n)’s foxhole, he couldn’t help but dwell on their argument. He knew he had been harsh to her, even if he didn’t mean what he said. He’d called her ‘useless’ for crying out loud. That alone would hurt anyone, much less someone who’s wounded and trying their best to contribute despite that.

Finally, in the distance, he spotted Skip talking with Malarkey, Luz, and Penkala a little ways from their hole. Skip nodded at him, and led the group farther from the hole, wanting to give them actual privacy this time. Approaching her foxhole, he could barely see her huddled silhouette. She didn’t hear him approach, lost in thought or possibly asleep.

Lew sat down beside her and gazed at (y/n)’s sleeping form. The harsh cold couldn’t deter him from admiring the woman he loved as she lay there, wrapped in her coat and the warm scarf and gloves he had given her. Her features were softened by the dim light of the forest and the redness of her nose gave her an adorable charm that melted his heart.

He noticed her cradling her injured arm against her chest, the white of the cast peeking out from under her oversized coat and makeshift sock glove. “(Y/n)?” he called softly, his voice cutting through the stillness of the forest.

She stirred, her eyes slowly opening to meet his gaze. Surprise flickered across her face, and she shifted uncomfortably, wanting to meet his eyes but finding it hard. “Hi. I wanted to apologize…for how I acted the other day and how I’ve been acting. I know you didn’t mean it, but it did hurt, Lew.”

Lew felt his heart soften as he heard her words, a wave of relief washing over him. He knew she wasn’t one to apologize easily, and her willingness to do so meant a lot. “Thank you,” he replied quietly, “and I’m sorry too, for what I said. I love you and would never think you’re useless.”

With the tension lifting between them, their gazes finally locked. “I love you, too. I hate fighting,” she whispered, scanning their surroundings quickly. “I’d much rather do this.”

She snaked her good hand around his neck and pulled him closer, connecting their lips. As (y/n) and Nix’s lips met, the world around them faded into the background, and for that brief moment, it was just the two of them in their own world. No war, no Bastogne, no snow…only them. (Y/n) felt the warmth of Lew’s breath against her skin, and the gentle caress of his hand on her cheek sent warmth coursing through her body that she hadn’t felt for weeks.

As they pulled away, their breaths were slightly ragged, and the icy wind, which had been nipping at their cheeks, was now replaced with a comforting warmth. A soft, affectionate smile played on his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. She returned the smile, a sense of calm she only got around him washing over her.

With a gentle, lingering touch, Lew’s hand brushed her cheek, before dropping it to hold her hand again. “I’ve been worried about you, (y/n), and I’m not the only one. The guys are concerned, too.” Nix paused. “I know about the cast.”

“What about it?” she asked innocently.

Nix shook his head. “I know it’s bothering you, sweetheart. You don’t have to hide it. I also heard that you tried to pry it off last night.”

“What a traitor,” (Y/n) playfully scowled as she looked over her shoulder at Skip in the distance.

“I’m serious, (y/n),” Lew pleaded. “You know you won’t get better here.”

She sighed, looking down at the cast. “I’m not going back to the hospital, Lew. I won’t leave you or the guys. I can’t.”

“We’ll manage. And we’ll still be here when you get back,” Lew said as his fingers brushed her cheek, guiding her face to him once more with a voice full of worry. “Please.”

The sincerity in his voice pierced her heart, and for the first time in days, her wrist didn’t feel like the most significant pain. “I’ll think about it,” she conceded.

With a quick peck on her temple, he pulled her in for a quick hug, muttering in her ear, “If not for me, do it for Muck. He’s about worried sick about you.”

“He told me I remind him of his sister, Ruth,” (y/n) murmured into his neck.

Pulling away, a smirk quirked Lew’s lips. “Good, because I was starting to worry I had some competition.”

“Whatever,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes with a laugh. The pair stood to their feet and made their way toward the huddled group of men. “What did Skip say to you?”

Lew shrugged, his eyes staying forward. “Just that you were struggling and the guys were worried about you. I guess he thought I could talk some sense into you.”

“Good luck with that,” (y/n) chuckled as they neared the group.

Squeezing her upper arm gently, he peered down at her, his cheeks rosy from the frosty air. “Please think about it, for my sake…or Skip’s if that’s not enough. And be careful, you know I love you,” he whispered.

“I will, and I will. Love you, too,” she smiled, her wrist long forgotten as she was under his warm gaze. “Tell Dick hey for me.”

With a firm nod, he slowly turned and started back toward his tented foxhole. (Y/n) watched him go, her heart feeling lighter than before. Things were okay between them again, and it became one less thing she had to worry about.

A voice called her name, breaking her from her stare, and she turned to see Skip waving her over, a grin plastered on his face. Joining the group, she stood between George and Skip, the former in the middle of a great impression of Lieutenant Dike.

“Ah, 1st Sergeant Lipton,” he imitated. “You organize things here, and I’m gonna go for…help. I need to go polish my oak leaf clusters.”

The group broke out into laughter, and (y/n) raised a brow in confusion. “What?” she asked, unable to keep a goofy grin from her lips.

“(Y/n), you’re not gonna believe what I saw. So, you-know-who comes running up to Lipton. He’s got no helmet, no gear, no nothing, and then he says that.”

“What an idiot,” she laughed, throwing her helmeted head back slightly. “I can’t believe he’s still here.”

Skip wheezed beside her, almost doubling over in laughter. “Complete asshole,” he said between laughs. “That’s really good, George.”

Lip cleared his throat behind George and called out to him and beckoned him over. George bid his goodbye and went to talk to Lip, while (y/n), Skip, Don, and Alex did the same.

“Goodnight, goodnight all,” Mal remarked, walking toward his foxhole.

Skip wrapped an arm around (y/n)’s shoulder, calling out to his friends. “Yeah, see ya, Luz, see you Malark.”

The trio started to their foxhole in silence, but it was soon broken by Skip’s teasing voice. “Did your Captain talk some sense into you about going to the hospital?” he asked, squeezing her shoulder playfully.

“My Captain?” she teased. “I’m pretty sure he’s your captain, too, Skip.”

He raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Well, I’m not the one necking the guy.”

She gasped and quickly looked around, praying nobody else heard his comment. “Skip!”

“What?”

Alex chuckled from beside her as he pulled his beanie down over his ears. “Everyone knows it! None of us would ever turn you in, (y/n). You know that.”

“I know, I know,” she sighed, her feet crunching softly beneath her. “And to answer your question, Skip, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“(Y/n), come on. You’re putting yourself at risk of getting hurt again. Aaaand,” he drawled, “If you go now, you might be back in time to celebrate my birthday.”

“I can’t believe it’s a few weeks til the 31st,” she mused, peering up at him. “You’re turning 23, old man. What would you like for your present?”

“You going to the hospital and getting better would be the best birthday gift,” he answered softly, pulling her closer to his side.

The words hung in the air, resonating in (y/n)’s heart. As she looked at Skip, she saw the earnestness in his eyes and his brotherly smile, and a surge of emotions coursed through her. She realized that her stubbornness might not only be hurting herself but also the people who cared about her.

“You know what, Skip? I think I can work with that,” she smirked, elbowing his side. “Looks like you’re getting your wi-”

Before (y/n) could finish her sentence, the sky erupted in a deafening roar as artillery shells rained down upon them. Trees, splinters, and the earth trembled beneath their feet with each impact. The world turned to chaos as the air was filled with dust, snow, and the screams of their friends.

“Incoming!”

Without a second thought, Skip grabbed (y/n)’s arm and took off behind Penkala for their foxhole. With pounding hearts, they sprinted towards the safety of their hole, holding their helmets to their heads. The relentless explosions continued to rock the ground, and (y/n) would have lost her balance if it weren’t for Muck’s grip on her bicep.

Seconds later, they reached the foxhole just in time. The trio jumped down into the hole and immediately ducked in its cover. They peered over the edge at the German’s horrifying display of firepower as they were showered in dirt and wood splinters. Amongst the dust and explosions, they could make out a figure in the distance who couldn’t stay on their feet, falling to the ground every few seconds. They recognized it instantly.

“George!” (y/n) yelled. “Come on!”

Skip and Alex joined in, motioning for George to get in. “Luz!” they cried. “Hurry!”

She watched on for an agonizing moment as George scrambled to his feet but was then knocked down again, and she knew she had to do something. Jumping out of the foxhole, she sprinted toward George, her eyes locked on his figure. Skip reached out to grab her, but she slipped out of his grasp.

“(Y/n), no!” he yelled after her.

Skip’s heart raced as he watched her run off into the barrage, and panic ate at him. His protective instincts screamed at him to follow her, and in a burst of terror, he attempted to leap out of the foxhole after her. But before he could fully leave the hole, Alex grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back forcefully.

“Skip, you can’t!” Alex shouted, desperation filling his voice. “You can’t follow her out there!”

Muck’s body twisted and turned in a futile attempt to free himself from his friend’s grip, a mixture of frustration and terror etched across his face. Realizing he wasn’t getting to her, he yelled after the pair.

“(Y/n)! George!!”

As (y/n) dashed toward George, the world around her seemed to blur in the chaos of the artillery barrage. The deafening roar of exploding shells and the earth-shaking tremors filled the air, making it difficult to hear anything but the explosions and blood pumping in her ears. Every step through the snow-covered forest was a struggle, and her boots almost slipped on the icy ground.

Finally, (y/n) reached his side, her gloved hand wrapping around his arm in a vice-like grip. She yelled, but her voice was lost in the roar of the artillery. The dirt shook beneath them as another shell landed dangerously close, sending them both sprawling to the ground. (Y/n) and Luz frantically crawled forward on their hands and knees, their fingers digging into the frozen earth.

Back in the foxhole, Skip and Alex continued to scream for them, their voices somehow echoing among the chaos. Their pleas turned into frantic cries, “(Y/n)! George! Come on, get in here!”

With each painstaking crawl, the ground continued to shake as explosions sent dirt and shrapnel whizzing through the air. Her breaths came out in ragged gasps, and she kept her eyes on her friends ahead of them. The world around them seemed surreal, with bursts of blinding light and deafening explosions as the artillery barrage continued. It felt like an eternity had passed when they’d almost reached the foxhole.

“Come on! Come on, Luz! Hurry, (y/n/n)-”

The world seemed to blur as (y/n) and George saw a blinding light, followed by a colossal plume of dirt, debris, and flames engulfing their friend’s foxhole. The two friends who had been calling out to them just moments ago were silenced in an instant. (Y/n)’s surroundings slowed, and for a brief, excruciating moment, everything froze. The deafening roar of the artillery was drowned out by the sound of her racing heart. Her eyes widened, and her breath caught in her throat as she watched the horrifying scene unfold.

The realization hit her like a freight train, and her vision blurred as tears welled up in her eyes. Shock and disbelief passed through her, and her hands trembled uncontrollably. She clamped her gloved hand over her mouth, unable to comprehend what had just unfolded before her eyes. Skip and Alex were gone. Gone.

“No,” she whispered, her throat tight.

Reality slowly washed over them, and as another shell screamed towards them, George grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the nearest shelter, which happened to be Lip’s hole. Lip pulled (y/n) down into the hole first, wrapping her in his arms as Luz huddled next to them, the barrage continuing.

“Muck and Penkala,” George screamed.

Lip couldn’t hear him. “What?”

“Muck and Penkala got hit!”

As soon as the words left Luz’s mouth, a shell landed right behind their cover, sending the logs protecting them flying into the air. The men yelled, but (y/n) stayed silent. Her body trembled with each deafening explosion that rocked the earth, and her heart felt like it was tearing apart. The tears flowed uncontrollably, blurring her vision as she cried hysterically into Lip’s shoulder.

She was crammed between the two men, each covering her the best they could as the assault continued. After a few moments, the world stilled, and a haunting silence hung in the air, a stark contrast to the earlier chaos.

A whistling sound and a thud echoed through the foxhole, but (y/n) couldn’t bring herself to look up from her sheltered position. George’s movement beside her drew her attention, and she heard the familiar sound of a Zippo being opened, followed by the scent of cigarettes wafting through the air.

“(Y/n)? You okay?” Lip asked shakily. “You hurt?”

Lip’s concerned voice broke through the somber atmosphere, and he shifted to give her room to breathe. His question echoed in her ears, pulling her back from the brink of despair. She turned her tear-stained face towards him, her watery eyes shimmering in the moonlight. She attempted to respond, but all that escaped her was a shuddering gasp as she shook her head slowly from side to side.

“Skip and Alex,” she croaked, a sob racking through her body as she dropped her face into her hands. “They-”

Carwood’s heart broke for the girl, knowing how close she was to them. “I know, (y/n). I know.”

As she sat there in the foxhole, huddled with Lip and George, the weight of her grief bore down on her, and she couldn’t help but reminisce about the cherished moments she’d shared with her friends. The laughter that was always present in their company, the hilarious stories they swapped, the letters read, and the deep connection they all shared.

The realization that she’d never again hear Skip’s mischievous teasing or Alex’s sarcasm again unleashed a fresh surge of agony, leaving her feeling utterly distraught. The pain of knowing that Skip would never get to hug Ruth again, or experience the joy of marrying Faye Tanner pierced her very soul. The future he once envisioned had been cruelly snatched away.

He would never reach the age of 23, and Alex’s life would never extend to the milestone of 21. The cruel hand of fate had robbed them of their dreams and aspirations, leaving (y/n) with a grief-stricken heart, mourning not only their past but also the future that would never come to pass.

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liebgotts-lovergirl · 1 year

Text

Fire On Fire: Chapter 13

(Ch. 12) ... (Ch. 1)

Gallery II Tag List Application II Symbol Guide

Summary: Operation Market Garden is underway and American intelligence operatives, now commanded by the British SOE, have their own battles to fight. Sometimes painful situations demand painful sacrifices.

May or may not feature a Smol cameo...👀

WARNINGS: Death, Angst, Violence against women

A/N: Sorry this took so long; I tried to do the thing where I wait & release a chapter once I'm ahead but I'm way too impulsive for that so here lol 💀💖

Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere @brassknucklespeirs @mccall-muffin @emmythespacecowgirl @bellewintersroe @holdingforgeneralhugs

Contemporary: September 17th, 1944. Eindhoven, Netherlands.

Alix was just finishing up what would be her tenth interrogation of the day when she heard what sounded like singing in the streets outside the hotel they were using as a home base.

She cocked her head and looked over to Andries, the sniper standing beside her, with curiosity in her eyes.

He only shrugged.

"We are happy to be liberated," he said simply before aiming a glare at the man they had backed up against the room's wall.

"Most of us anyway."

The collaborator shook his head, quailing under the teenager's stern gaze.

"I am innocent!" he babbled, his heavily Dutch-accented French coming out barely comprehensible due to his nerves. "What you accuse me of, I would never...You have the wrong man!"

"You're telling me you're not…" Alix checked the coded list of targets she'd kept stashed inside her fake Passport.

"Maurits Van Der Waal? Because if you're not, then there must be somebody else out there who looks just like you and lives at your address selling out your Jewish neighbors to the SS."

“N-No, I am Maurits,” the man stammered, rocking back and forth on his heels “But I…I never help the SS, never.”

“You were seen, you idiot,” Andries snapped harshly, pulling several photographs out of the pocket of his dark green coat and thrusting them into Van Der Waal’s shaking hands.

The collaborator inspected the photos silently, all the blood draining from his face as he realized he’d been caught.

Alix’s dark eyes narrowed as she watched the middle-aged collaborator blubbering excuses pathetically before her, her anger simmering in her stomach.

This rat would get a quick death, she thought bitterly. A mercy he didn’t deserve.

The thirty Jewish families he had sold out to the SS would not be so lucky.

“How much are they paying you, Maurits?” she demanded, cocking the gun with a click. “How much is a human life worth to you?”

“815 Guilder each, by the looks of it," the blond boy, Diederik, answered for him from the corner desk.

He held up a notepad full of decoded messages for them to see and read off, "All of them made out to a...Mr. Maurits Van Der Waal, imagine that."

"Those aren't mine!" Van Der Waal lied lamely, practically bleating through his tears like a goat. "I'm innocent!"

"Tragic," Alix remarked dryly. "Anyway, please face the wall now."

"And if…if I don't?" he sniveled pathetically, a note of hope raising his words. "Will you free me?"

A hope Alix would crush like an insect under her heel.

“If you don’t face the wall, then I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

"Well that went well!" Andries commented moments later, as Alix wordlessly knelt to retrieve items from the pockets of the tenth collaborator, who now lay dead on the floor.

Oh yeah, she wanted to snap. Just fucking splendid.

There was a fine line between doing one’s duty and reveling in it, and for the Dutch Resistance, that line seemed to be blurring more and more by the hour.

When she had finished collecting the necessary supplies from the dead man's pockets, one of the younger fighters, a small redheaded boy named Piers, joined Andries in dragging the body over to the corner with the other nine corpses.

Alix didn't know how the Resistance was disposing of the bodies but some things were better left unknown so she didn't ask. There were more pressing matters anyway.

The radio on the desk in front of Diederik crackled to life and he pressed the headset harder against his ear as he strained to hear.

Alix could tell by his concentration-scrunched face that the connection was poor but the boy appeared to still recognize the voice on the other end of the line.

He quickly jotted down some notes before turning to Alix, who had crossed the room to meet him.

"It's Kristof," he responded, tearing a page from his notepad and handing her the coded address he'd just taken down. "The SOE says it's time."

Alix nodded her assent. Nix and Van Kooijk were on the other side of town and she would have to meet them on her way.

The trick would be finding them in the crowds.

Checking herself for blood in the mirror one last time, she smoothed the invisible wrinkles from her skirt before slipping her gun and handheld radio into her purse and quietly exiting the room.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

Stepping out of the hotel and into the street was like being suddenly thrust into a carnival. Jubilant whoops filled the air and streams of bright ticker-tape rained down like flurries of rainbow-colored snow but Alix didn't have time to enjoy the celebration.

She was doing her best to wade through the ever-growing crush of people but she was being jostled from all sides like a toy boat on ocean waves as civilians and soldiers alike rushed to participate in the festivities.

Keeping a white-knuckle grip on her purse, Alix managed to shuffle her way further into the crowd, passing scores of troopers from Dog and Fox company on her way.

Seeing the almost frantic urgency with which the Dutch townspeople were greeting servicemembers, the young agent was suddenly grateful to be in civilian clothes because she didn't need that kind of attention right now.

She needed to find her handler and her contact so she could complete her mission. Nixon had her bottle of Prussic Acid in his pocket because he didn’t trust her to carry it– “It’s liquid cyanide for Christ’s sake!”-- so she would need to retrieve it before locating her target.

As she tried to blend in with the crowd, slipping in behind a cluster of ANC nurses, Alix couldn’t help but study them with a twinge of envy. She wore the same Red Cross armband as they did when she was in uniform, carried the same aid bag slung over her shoulder.

But instead of tourniquets, she carried garrote wire and guns. Instead of syringes, she carried knives. Instead of administering medicine, she would be administering poison.

The women walking next to her got to save lives; all Alix did was take them.

As if somehow reading her thoughts, the freckle-faced nurse to her left gave her a kindhearted smile and in her bright, toothy grin Alix was pretty sure she saw a glimpse of her friend Don shining through.

The spy returned the smile, the fleeting reminder of her own humanity equipping her with the necessary resolve to continue her journey.

She had work to do.

Gathering the dark polka-dotted material of her skirt in her hands and trying not to break an ankle on the cobblestones, Alix squeezed by the nurses and pressed on ahead.

∆∆━━━━∆∆━━━∆∆━━━∆∆

But by the time she reached the edge of the herd, the joy-filled singing had transformed into something else. Nightmarish, broken screams, jeers, and a grief-stricken wailing that made Alix's stomach twist echoed off the cobblestones. For a moment, she froze, almost unable to fully comprehend the hellish scenes of chaos unfolding in front of her.

The townspeople were brutal, seizing local women from the crowd and hurling them to their knees in the center of the circle. Some looked to be no older than their late teens, bawling as they were stripped to their slips in front of the merciless horde, the roaring of the mob only increasing in intensity as swastikas were daubed onto their foreheads with ink-like tar.

Alix couldn't understand Dutch but she could understand body language and every microexpression on the citizens' faces screamed disgust and hatred.

The women were sobbing, red-faced and quaking with fear as they were yanked by their hair to older women manning clippers like weapons, who would shear them and shove them away afterwards with an almost sanctimonious revulsion.

As the victims were being hauled to their feet, Alix managed to force her eyes away from the mob, searching the faces around her frantically as the harsh burn of rage began to sear her stomach.

Why was no one stopping this?

Even with her training, Alix knew she would never be able to take on a crowd this large by herself. She would need backup.

Where was Joe? Where were Skip and Don? Where the hell was the Resistance?

More and more women were being dragged into the fray and two tall, skinny teenagers shoved their way past Alix, forcing a terrified girl in a salmon-colored dress into the circle with them.

Her bloodshot hazel eyes were wide, tears streaming down her reddened face as the fabric was violently torn from her body.

For a brief second, she met Alix’s horrified gaze before thrusting a hand out in a desperate plea for the agent’s help.

Feeling a violent jolt of grief in her stomach, Alix strained as far forward as she could to reach the girl’s hand but she was too late.

The boy in the burgundy sweater pivoted, wrenching the girl’s arm away and holding her still as they began shearing her head and that’s when Alix saw it.

The boys were wearing orange armbands.

This was the Resistance.

Sickened and infuriated, Alix lunged toward the center of the circle, ready to rip the frightened girl from their grasp, when she felt a calloused hand clutching her upper arm.

Whipping her head around, she met the worried glance of Lieutenant Nixon, whose painfully tight grip on her bicep was the only thing keeping her from launching herself into the fray.

"Niccolò, let go or I swear to God, I’ll break your fucking hand."

It wasn’t an empty threat this time and her handler knew it too, but even so, he didn't flinch.

“The mission, Adelina,” he hissed, tightening his hold on her arm. "Do you want to blow our cover?"

Alix was practically seeing red.

Women were being mercilessly brutalized in the street and all Nix was worried about was their stupid fucking mission?!

But before she could reply, John Van Kooijk emerged from behind them, wearing his usual expression of thinly-veiled smugness.

“Problem?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow, and Alix narrowed her eyes.

“Oh there’s about to be,” she snarled.

The words had barely left her mouth when the agent felt Nixon’s fingers clamp down even harder on her bicep, strengthening his hold in case she decided to try something.

“Be civil to our friend, Lina,” her handler cautioned and Alix snorted with derision, swiveling her head back to meet his eyes.

“Given that my first instinct was to throttle our ‘friend’, I think I’m being perfectly fucking civil right now.”

Turning back to the Resistance leader, Alix gestured with her free hand to the chaos unfolding before them.

“Now, care to explain what the Hell is going on?”

The Dutchman was seemingly unfazed.

"They are collaborators," he stated with a careless shrug. "It is what they have earned."

"What exactly did they do?" Alix demanded, her French coming out rapid-fire in her fury. "Who did they betray?"

"They slept with the enemy," was the vague reply. "This is merciful. We could have had them shot for that."

"This is mercy?" Alix barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. "No, this is a bullshit attempt at retaliation."

Her nostrils were flaring with rage and one fist was balled when she spoke next, the boiling inside her building like a volcano seconds from erupting.

"And for the record, taking your misplaced anger out on people who have no say sounds an awful lot like the enemy we're supposed to be fighting."

"You interrogated and executed ten men only hours ago, yes?" The Resistance leader eyed her skeptically. "But now the Sparrow has a conscience?"

"It was quick,” Alix retorted defensively. “I wasn't torturing people!"

"Neither are we!" Van Kooijk seemed genuinely perplexed at her objections. "This is justice!"

"No, this is vengeance," Alix countered, yanking her arm out of Nixon's cautioning grasp.

"And I want none of it! Go find yourselves a new attack-dog because I'm done."

With that, she pushed past them, storming off ahead but Nixon followed her, keeping himself chained to her right side as they walked so he could deliberately block her from the circle.

"Simmer down, will you?" Nixon had switched from French to Italian effortlessly but even still, his words carried an unusually sharp edge that only served to fan the flames of Alix’s rage further.

“Simmer down, are you fucking kidding me?” Alix was bristling with indignation now but she fought to keep her face impartial and her voice steely calm to avoid arousing suspicion.

“After that? After what they were doing to those girls?”

A small gaggle of civilians passed them by, heading in the direction that the pair had just come from.

Noticing their glances, Nixon faked a laugh as though she’d just said something funny, as though they were merely two friends taking a stroll and not two intelligence operatives seconds away from a fistfight.

Alix played along, painting on a fake smile and nonchalantly lighting up a cigarette, her stride never faltering.

They were both in civilian clothing– Nix in his boxy khaki overcoat that concealed his uniform and Alix in her dark sweater and spotted skirt – so it didn’t take long for the eyes of the Dutch citizens to stray from them as they continued on their journey.

“Just focus on the mission, alright?” Nix commanded out of the corner of his mouth.

"Fuck the mission,” Alix returned quietly. “I'm not doing any favors for people who torture women for fun."

"Oh for Christ’s sake, Adelina, I don't like it either," Nixon sighed in exasperation once the Dutch citizens were out of earshot.

"But if you blow our cover trying to stop this shit, then you can’t take care of Kruger, and more people are going to get hurt. And it won't just be collaborators like this time, it'll be our assets too, other operatives, innocent civilians, maybe troopers too. Is that what you want?"

"Of course it isn’t," Alix snapped as she felt the sudden weight of the prepped cyanide vials being covertly dropped into her purse. "I’m still planning on finishing the mission. I'm just not working with those assholes to do it."

Lieutenant Nixon frowned.

He could already tell where this was going.

"No,” he stated firmly, cutting Alix off before she had even clarified.

“You’re not refusing backup on this one. Any other target, maybe, but not with an SS Lieutenant, not on my watch.”

“Niccolò,” Alix scolded, the clacking of her saddle shoes on the pavement accenting her words. “I’ll be fine. The man’s got trench fever, for Christ’s sake. He might be dead before I even get there.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Nixon argued. “You could be acting on faulty intel. There’s a leak in the SOE, remember?”

“That’s the risk we take with every mission. It’s never stopped us before.”

“The stakes were never this high before,” Nixon contended, massaging his temple. “The Wehrmacht is one thing but this is the goddamn SS. At least let me send Andries to Oosterbeek with you, just in case. One sniper and I’ll let it go, alright?”

Alix scowled.

“I said No,” she maintained testily after a short drag from her cigarette. “So you can save your breath. I don’t want anything to do with them after what the fuck we just saw. Either I go in alone or I don’t go at all.”

“Putain de merde, Adelina, will you fucking listen?” Realizing his tone had risen slightly, he took a deep breath before lowering his voice again. “You may be willing to gamble with your life but I'm not. I’ll be with the Brits and the 101st so I won’t be on comms and if something happens–”

“If something happens, I’ll take care of it myself,” Alix finished for him with a puff of smoke. “You told HQ I was more than capable, remember?”

“I knew I’d regret saying that,” Nixon muttered with a shake of his head. "I just didn't think it'd be so goddamn soon."

“Besides,” Alix reminded him with a reassuring, sisterly bump to the shoulder.

“Everyone knows Kruger’s an arrogant alcoholic who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. It should be a piece of cake to get him alone and finish the job. I'll be back in no time."

“Still,” Nixon grimaced. “He’s an SS officer. He was trained for adverse situations and if he gets the upper hand at any point, you’re done.”

“Which is why I won’t let him,” Alix assured bracingly. “The man’s not superhuman. He’s already sick, probably drunk, and once he drinks the Prussic Acid, he’s toast. No backup needed.”

Nixon let out a small huff of displeasure and as he glanced at his watch, his frown only deepened.

Both he and Alix knew he didn’t have time to argue. He still needed to ditch his coat somewhere, coordinate with Winters and rejoin Van Kooijk’s group before the Airborne offensive could truly begin.

“Fine,” he grunted with a shake of his head. “But if you get yourself killed, Liebgott, Muck, Malarkey and I are splitting the 10 Grand. Not that I need it.”

Alix cocked an eyebrow.

“I don’t remember designating you as a beneficiary. The others, yes, but not you.”

“Well I think I deserve to be too,” Nixon remarked wryly and hooked her into a light headlock, mussing up her hair with his knuckles.

“As compensation for putting up with your bullshit for 2 years. I already have one pain-in-the-ass sister, I never asked for another!”

Alix gave him a smack on the arm and he released her with a gentle push in the opposite direction.

“Now get a move-on, will you, before your mark leaves the country.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Alix commented with an eyeroll. “Just don’t go getting your hopes up on that payout, alright Gi-”

The younger agent cut herself off abruptly, the realization of her mistake briefly punching the breath out of her. Her smile slipped and she saw Nixon’s bushy eyebrows raise in surprise. But if he recognized the name from her file, he chose not to comment on it.

There was a second of silence as a mutual understanding seemed to pass between the two. There was nothing either of them could do about the dangers of the situation.

All they could do was trust each other: trust that he had prepared her enough for anything she might face and trust that at least some of the SOE's intel was good.

Her life would depend on it.

"Hey, any words of wisdom you'd like to impart before you go, oh great teacher?" Alix inquired jokingly as she tried to keep her mind off the very real possibility that she could be walking into an elaborate trap with no backup.

Lieutenant Nixon mulled the question over for a moment before responding, "You’d better not end up dead or I’ll kill you myself. Clear?”

“Careful, Nico,” Alix deadpanned, shortening his codename just to irk him. “I think you were almost nice for a second.”

Nixon snorted.

"Don’t get used to it,” he snarked. “Someone has to keep you humble.”

With that, her case officer reluctantly stepped off into an alleyway, leaving Alix to continue the rest of her journey alone.

Reaching the Post Office, the spy made her way to the employee side entrance, where according to plan, a slightly-rusted bicycle was waiting for her, propped up invitingly against the building.

And partially tucked underneath the back wheel was a faded orange hair ribbon, subtly designating the bike as belonging to a Resistance member. Easing it away from the wall, she gingerly placed her purse in the basket, arranging it with the utmost care so she could avoid any cyanide leaking onto her designer heels or her gun.

Taking one final breath to settle the uneasy feeling plaguing her, Alix bid a silent goodbye to Eindhoven and began the long ride to the SS headquarters in Oosterbeek.

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