#the funny part is that this is not at all what a tourniquet is meant to be used for. but it is now
Hello! can i request a lewis nixon / reader, angst/fluff where she’s a nurse or a medic and sometimes when she runs to help the soldiers she’s a little reckless and he’s worried about her?
thanks! have a great day ✨
Ah sweet Nix, time to scare him to death! I know ppl who ask for that kinda "nurse running into live fire" premise expect a Roe-in-Bastogne vibe but I just watched A Bridge Too Far so u get my Market Garden feels, hope u enjoy~
Objectively speaking, Eindhoven was the easiest part of Operation Market Garden. Close to Allied land, benefiting from ground support in the form of the armoured XXX Corps, and all in all welcoming of troops once the city was seized. Nixon could only imagine what troubles the Brits over in Arnhem would have to endure while they forged a path to the Rhine.
So why, among the festivities of liberation, was he so tense?
Even squeaky-clean Winters hadn't objected to a few celebratory kisses in passing, though he'd remained the most professional of Easy Company (unlike Talbert, who was demonstrating to all Dutch dames how effective his mouth-to-mouth technique was. The French truly had nothing on that heartbreaker).
Amid the singing and mirth, a starkly more violent wave gripped the good people of the Netherlands. The men wrestled women to an empty circle in the crowd, an artificial space engineered in the confusion, an agora where they could be shorn like sheep under the vitriol of virtuous citizens. Traitors, traitors, traitors, the ugly lot of whores.
The American soldiers watched on, claiming disdain or disgust, but feeling mere indifference. Ultimately they didn't deign oppose the locals' ritual, and certainly wouldn't let it dampen their mood. With a cynical smile, Nixon noted how fortuitous it turned out to be, that you'd be sent up to Nijmegen with the rest of the Airborne. If you'd seen that brutish spectacle, he could hardly fathom your outrage.
It's barbaric, Lew, barbaric! Those poor women, suffering the brunt of years of war and oppression, do you think they had a choice? Any say at all? Why should they suffer just when they thought they were finally free?
Yeah, maybe it was better you didn't have to see it. He wouldn't know what to tell you.
Taking a drag from his cigarette, Nixon shouted over the clamour to Winters, "When are we getting back on the move? We're behind schedule."
"We still ought to link with the Dutch resistance for information," he said with an assured nod as he read his map. "Don't worry. Y/N will be fine. She's got more life in her than a whole battalion."
That wasn't what he'd asked, but it was his tacit question. Funny how simply Dick could read him. Not well enough to assuage his bone-chilling concern, unfortunately.
Nixon had seen you on D-Day, hopping from trench to trench as if to rival Speirs in recklessness. And although you'd saved untold lives, he couldn't help the deadly panic that seized his heart each and every time you sprinted under live fire. No man's land — you didn't get the memo, evidently. Or did it not apply to nurses?
He'd witnessed bullets plough the ground at your feet, some bounce off your helmet, shrapnel lodge itself in your calf. Always benign in your eyes. Always terrifying in his. Above all, always, always, without fault, you smiled through it and delivered necessary aid to men who were sometimes less wounded than yourself. As long as you carried syrettes and bandages, you'd heal soldiers in spite of your own safety.
And now he was expected to keep his cool while you were 40 miles North, doing God-knows-what to get yourself shot?
Absolutely not, no sir.
The 82nd Airborne had lost a baffling number of troopers in Normandy, of which too many medics, resulting in your transfer from one Easy Company to the other. If it hadn't been for that coincidence offering a delightful icebreaker, you doubted the veterans would've adopted you quite so fast. Couldn't blame 'em. Hell, you would've been as reluctant had Roe or Spina died and been replaced with some guy from the 508th.
Field Marshal Montgomery had seen it fit to drop you above Grave. Despite Sergeant Thomas Van de Berg assuring you it was pronounced with the same A as America, you couldn't help but think of a sepulchre.
Off to a fun start.
You landed in an open, quiet field, less than a kilometer from the DZ. Around you, paratroopers shed their chutes and adjusted their equipment, gun at the ready, an odd air of tranquil habit to their movements. The company assembled within minutes, not one man lost.
"Already better than Normandy," said Bug, a bucktoothed sniper who made the same whistling sound when he breathed through his mouth as when he shot an enemy. "We could almost stop for tea time!"
"Shoulda jumped with the Brits then," you snided. If you stared out towards the Rhine, you could make out dots in the sky over Arnhem and imagine they were allies.
Had Lew landed as safely as you?
Bug shrugged. "Eh, gotta give the Krauts a fightin' chance. It wouldn't be fair if we took every bridge."
"I dunno man," piped up Simmons. "The faster we take Berlin, the sooner we get home."
Bug quirked a brow at the replacement, but didn't comment on his decidedly uncombattive attitude. In a way, the silent judgement was worse, and Simmons hunched on himself with an abashed grimace.
"Not to mention how many more Krauts we'd get to shoot on the other side of that river," said Thomas.
"See? That's a good argument. He gets it," Bug laughed with that involuntary whistle of his, jabbing a thumb at him.
"Enough chitchat, boys." Lieutenant Shelly came forward, map in hand, and waved the company over. "We've got a bridge to take."
They lost Randleman, the bridge on the Wilhelmina Canal, 36 hours to build a Bailey, and Nixon's mind.
"It'll be all right, Lew. Our boys are all doing their best," Dick's reassurances fell on deaf ears. "We can't get to Nijmegen any faster."
They weren't supposed to go to Nijmegen at all — the 101st's mission began and ended around Eindhoven. But since finding out you'd jump up there, Lew had insisted to link up with you, which convinced Dick to come with, which eventually resulted in the whole of Easy Company hitching a ride North. Sink had never let out such a long, weary sigh.
"If that's what you all want," he'd said with a mix of reluctance and admiration, "then I'm sure the 82nd will be glad to see you. They need all the support they can get."
Thus, rows of tanks and armoured vehicles from the British Army advanced into the Netherlands, an impromptu American company in tow. Nix gripped the frame of the truck until his knuckles whitened. Behind him, the members of Easy who hadn't been evacuated were still celebrating Bull's miraculous resurrection and joked about pulling the same trick with their dear nurse.
"Need the support?" Lew practically shrilled. "Need the support? God damn, what does that mean? How bad is it?"
"Communications are down," said Dick. "Sink must have meant it in general. We can always use support, no matter how well we think it's going."
"We're at war. It's never going well."
Three hours and half a dozen German outposts later, Nijmegen wasn't in view, but well within earshot. Panzers, mortars, machine guns — beating back paratroopers who hadn't more than the Thompson they landed with. Paratroopers who should've received ground support yesterday.
"Medic!" was the first word they heard from the 82nd.
Roe's head snapped to Winters, and the Captain nodded in tacit agreement. He leapt out of the truck to tend to the men of their sister division, syrettes and tourniquet at the ready, following the cries like he could see a bright trail to the maimed soldiers. Soon, all of Easy Company was deployed to aid and attack.
The Shermans fired at the Krauts posted in town. Explosions doubled; bullets whizzed by; shells boomed. The ringing in their skulls grew and grew and grew — until the last house blew up, the last Tiger broke down, the last sniper died. When the artillery fell quiet, dust and smoke hung in the air, wafting with an iron tang, ethereal and visceral.
Nixon stopped every person he came across, even a few dazed farmers who'd come out to check on their bloodied fields. "Have you seen Y/N? Nurse, really pretty, about yay tall? Y/N? Anyone?"
"Y/N?" A bucktoothed soldier stopped in his track. "The nurse from the 101st? That Y/N?"
"Yes, yes, exactly," Nixon drew in a sharp, impatient breath.
"She got evac'ed almost an hour ago."
You hated being on this side of the hospital bed. Laying down on it. As a nurse, it was worse than humiliating — it went against the very core of your existence, insulted your role in the scheme of war. You ought to be on the battlefield, tending to the soldiers' wounds, not resting with them.
What a waste of resources you had become.
"Y/N!" boomed throughout the ward, followed by much hushing and shushing from doctors.
You sat up, alarmed and exalted. "Lew?"
Your name echoed again. Now, you could hear footfalls hurrying down the labyrinthine corridors. The nurses tending to your wounded fellows kept working, administering medicine and changing bandages. They didn't even bother glancing up when Lewis Nixon shoved his way past the guards and trekked up to you.
"Oh my God, Y/N, you're alive." Lewis hesitantly brushed your cheek, scared to apply too much pressure on your wounds. "I don't know if I want to send you home or keep you in Easy Company forever."
A low, airy chuckle echoed — technically, you never left Easy Company. The sober worry darkening his face didn't lend itself to such quip.
"Keep me," you said, "or I might resent you all my life."
"But it's so dangerous on the front line."
"That's exactly why I must be there. What will you tell their mother if a soldier dies because the nurse was away?"
"What will I tell your mother?" Lew squeezed your hand and lifted it to his lips. "You kill me, you know that? You kill me every time I have to watch you dash into the line of fire to save someone. I'm not — I can't blame you, nothing like that, but... I just wish you wouldn't put yourself in so much danger."
You smiled sarcastically. "I know I'm no good to anyone dead."
"No — yes — ah, stop messing with my head." He pinched the bridge of his nose and scrunched his eyes. "To Hell with it all. I love you, and I'm not letting you die whether you like it or not."
"Don't you dare put me away," you gritted your teeth.
"Of course not. But I'm assigning you to me."
29 notes · View notes
Part XIV: The American Dream
September 22, 1987
New Orleans, Louisiana
3 hours, 24 minutes til show time.
Izzy stay slumped against a leather sofa in the back of the arena, his mind swimming with thoughts.
Guitar, set list, airport plans, Eli.
That brought a silly smile to his lips as he drunk cheap bear from a red solo cup. Steven was pumped, tapping away at a makeshift drum set in the corner.
Axl was stowed away in some private room at the back of the venue, enjoying some “quiet time.”
Whenever any of the boys requested “quiet time,” that was usually code for a girl and some some Grade A blow.
“Hey man,” Slash said as he took a seat next to Izzy on the sofa, downing what seemed to be his tenth beer.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be able to play? You just downed like three six packs,” his voice was laced with slight worry.
Slash had a tendency to push it to the limit, and he was a believer in applying this principle to everything.
Playing guitar, sex, drugs and booze.
“Yea yea,” he bent down to pull something from his back pocket.
“Plus I got a little to take the edge off,” he whispered as he brought the bag up to Izzy’s face.
Gulping lightly, he tried to keep his face impassive as he looked down at the clear baggie. He loved Eli, he truly did. But he didn’t think he had a problem with curbing his urges. I mean, it was just some fun he would indulge in from time to time. It wasn’t anything serious.
But, at the same time, he respected her. He always indulged in secret and now that she wasn’t around, he could experiment more freely.
“It’s the good shit. Found this dealer who used to sell shit to Page when he was with Zeppelin. Zeppelin man!” He yelled as he grabbed onto Izzy’s shirt. His lips tilted into a blissful smile.
“Imagine that! Our idols man, the people we looked up to.”
Izzy nodded his head, and did his best to settle Slash down before he got up and was making his way to the pay phones that lined the back of where they were currently at.
Putting in a few quarters Izzy listened for the ring, waiting until he could hear his girl’s voice again.
“Hi baby,” he said as he leaned against the telephone box.
“Izzy!” She squealed.
“I missed you too E.”
“Ah where are you guys now? Wait let me guess,” it was a game they had come accustomed to playing whenever he would phone her. They hadn’t expected to be playing this many shows, most days they would be hopping on multiple flights a day to make it to another gig in time. Sometimes he would call her and he would’ve been in Albuquerque, and later that night he would be in Ibiza.
“Ummm, Boston?” She asked, like an excited child.
“No. We’re in NOLA.”
“Ah, I wish I could be there with you,” he could hear the disappointment in her voice. In truth he was elated she wasn’t there. That she didn’t have to see the band creep towards the edge of their greatest desires and sometimes get lost on the top.
“I do too... But we play San Fran in December,” he tried to cheer her up.
“And I will be in the front motherfucking row.”
He laughed at her curse, “Nah baby, you’ll be right back stage. And right after we are gonna head back home so that we continue where left off before I had to leave.”
“Oh lover boy, don’t get me excited! It’s been too long,” she sighed into the receiver.
He felt the arousal rush into his body, and he had to squirm to take care of his slight erection that began to build up.
That was another thing he hadn’t thought about before getting married. For the past few months Eli was the only girl he actually cared to give any affection to. And now that she wasn’t there, sexual frustrations ran high.
“Tell me about it,” he murmured.
He could hear her slump against the kitchen wall and thought back to the apartment. That little apartment that meant everything to him now because it was his home.
“I’m playing you’re song tonight,” he said suddenly.
She scoffed. He knew she hated it whenever he referred to Think About You as her song. When he first played it for her they had woken up in the middle of the night, after an intense night of sex, hungry. She had made them eggs and toast while he sat in the living room in only his boxers, as he played out the chords of the song.
“That’s pretty,” she whispered as she took a seat next to him, placing their dishes on the coffee table.
She saw the light blush that made its way onto his creamy skin.
“I wrote it for you.”
She almost choked on her coffee when he told her that.
“Y-you what?” She asked as he rubbed her back.
“The song. I’m not the best singer but,” he picked the guitar back up as he began to strum.
“I said baby you been looking real good/ You know that I remember when we met/ It's funny how I never felt so good / It's a feeling that I know I know I'll never forget/ Oooh it was the best time I can remember/ Oooh and the love we shared/ Lovin' that'll last forever.”
When he stopped playing and looked up at her he was startled when she jumped on him. He swiftly placed the guitar on the floor as she began to kiss him passionately.
Leaning back she looked a little saddened, “I wish I could tell you how much I love you.”
Smiling he pushed back her hair that was slowly beginning to get longer. It hit just below her shoulders, as he skimmed through it.
“You agreed to marry me, I think that’s enough,” he laughed as they continued their late night rendezvous. The eggs and toast long forgotten.
“I’m not important enough to write a song about,” she spoke into the receiver as the memory retreated into the thicket of his mind.
“But you are E. Especially to me.”
She laughed, “Whatever you say Mr. Rockstar. I have to get going, early shift at the hospital today.”
And there it was. She was getting taken away from him, again.
“Okay, I think I gotta get going too. I’ll call you later?”
“Can’t, Durand is keeping me late to run through some stuff... I think he might be starting to like me.”
“I knew he would E. Everyone likes you.”
“Except you. You LOVEEEEEE me.”
He laughed at the way she dragged out the word love. He missed that laugh, wanted to hear it without the static of a faulty telephone line.
“I do loveeeee you Mrs. Isbell-Drago.”
“Aw, you got it right this time. See, I knew you would catch on!”
He chuckled at the way her voice grew in octaves to emulate his own. “Okay okay, I gotta go baby. Love you.”
“Love you too! Tell the guys I said hi and I miss em’!”
Without a second thought he placed the phone back on the hook, and made his way back to the guys.
“Ah! There he is! Romeo get off your ass, we have a show to do!” Axl said as Izzy walked his way back to the sofa he was set on and grabbed his white Gibson.
He took a few deep breaths and a sip of vodka that was left in the red Solo cup.
Strapping on the guitar, Duff came up to him and placed a warm hand on his shoulder, his green eyes bright as he spoke, “Let’s go make history.”
He couldn’t control it.
After their set, the excitement that ran through Izzy’s veins made it impossible for him to sit still.
He was excited and fulfilled, and he felt it with every thrum of his heart beat.
“Just one time,” he reasoned to himself as he made his way to where Slash and Steven were seated.
The after party’s became a usual splendor with the currency being drugs or pussy. At the table Izzy could see an assortment of syringes and lines of coke. Some of the lines were in the shapes of stars or hearts. Some of them spelled out words like “GNR” or “SEX”.
“Izzy!” Steven screamed over the loud rock music that played in the background.
He sat up from his seat and ushered Izzy into the secluded booth that looked over at the crowd.
“What will it be Izzy boy? Some snow,” he pointed to the coke, “Dreams?” He motioned towards and assortment of psychedelic stickers.
“He wants the big boy stuff,” Slash cut off Steven’s tirade by handing a syringe to Izzy. It was filled with a gooey, brown substance.
Izzy looked between the syringe and Slash’s dazed state.
Slash brought up a finger to his lips in a “shush” motion.
“It’ll be our little secret,” he whispered.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
Nodding, Izzy looked around realizing he didn’t have a tourniquet for the injection process. Steven laughed as he handed him a distressed belt.
Grabbing the built he made quick work of winding up the faux leather material and finding a protruding, green vein.
Slapping the croux of his arm a few times, the vein emerged. Grabbing the syringe he spent little time injecting the substance and allowing for it to penetrate the first defense of his mind.
It felt like he was flying.
Like everything was light and soft around him. Even the weight of the atom sphere felt different. It felt like it was placing little kisses all over his body.
Colors danced on his pupils as he looked around and admired the people around him. They were all different shapes and sizes.
Girls danced on tables, swaying their hips in seductive manners, trying to catch someone’s eye.
“Rock on gold dust woman/ Take your silver spoon/ Dig your grave” Izzy was entranced by Stevie Nicks’s voice.
It felt like the world was velvety and lined in the most luxurious silks as he stood up from the booth abruptly.
Losing himself in the crowd of faceless people, he pulled off his shirt and lost himself in a drug haze. Colors had tastes, and sounds had feelings.
Everything mushed together in the most poetic way.
He normally wasn’t apt to dancing, but whatever he had taken made him feel like he didn’t need to be as cautious.
He was limitless.
Feeling a set of hands on his back, Izzy turned around to come face to face with a pretty redhead.
She had long hair, with grey eyes. She had a leather jacket on and a fringe skirt that barely covered the apex of her pale thighs. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose, but he wasn’t able to continue his analysis before she was leaning in and kissing him.
Thinking delayed, he allowed his hands to wrap around her pretty hair that felt like cotton. Their bodies glued together as he allowed his other hand to trail up the nape of her neck and stalk residence there.
Everything felt so warm.
They continued to kiss, as he felt her hands make its way down to his pants, slipping in and taking a hold of his man hood.
Lost in the feeling of being so free he didn’t give a second thought to the girl or that he had a wife.
He had a wife.
“Shit,” he said as he attempted to pull the girl off of him. But whatever she was on seemed to be diluting her brain to the point that she couldn’t comprehend his advances for her to stop.
“I-I have a wife,” he slurred, his actions becoming lazy as he finally succumbed to allowing her to touch him.
“I won’t tell.”
She moved with him through the crowd until they found themselves in a dingy bathroom. Not bothering to lock the door she slumped to her knees and unfastened his zipper.
Leaning back against the counter, he kept repeating, “I have a w-wife.”
To which she carried on, unphased by his half assed attempts to push her back.
He was cut off when she took him into her mouth. Sucking long and hard, he felt himself slip farther into a state of utter euphoria.
His hand slipped into her scarlet hair. Although he knew what he was doing was wrong, whatever he had taken made him feel good. Really good.
She continued her assault until she finally succeeded in satisfying him. He came in a lazy way all over her over exposed chest.
Spent, he fell to the ground of the bathroom and felt his eyes grow heavy. He could faintly make out the door of the bathroom closing and the sound of heels clicking against the tile of the club.
As he succumbed to sleep he could still hear Stevie’s haunting lyrics echo in the empty cave of his mind, “Well did she make you cry/ Make you break down/ Shatter your illusions of love/ And is it over now, do you know how/ Pickup the pieces and go home.”
October 17, 1987
Ever since that night in New Orleans, Izzy has been on edge.
He fucked up. Really fucked up.
He hadn’t been married for more than a month before he was back on his two worst vices: women and drugs.
He felt guilty, like this weight was constantly sitting on his chest. On the few occasions he did ring Eli he tried to make it seem as normal as possible.
He would ask about her day, and then they’d go off on a tangent about how much they missed each other.
When that ended, he would preform and then numb his thoughts with a needle. He was doing it by himself now, no longer in the presence of others, he couldn’t trust himself.
Life had been hitting hard.
Duff drank himself to unconsciousness most nights. He now had a permanent slur whenever he would talk due to always being drunk.
When they would meet for breakfast at noon he would always order a vodka with his coffee.
“Can’t be hungover if you’re drunk,” he’d then proceed in downing half of the shot and putting the rest into his coffee.
Steven, the youngest out of all of them looked older beyond his years. At least his eyes did.
These days, he was only smiling when there was a mountain of coke in front of him.
Slash, was beyond fucked. He would drink with Duff and then switch over to Steven where they would proceed to trip off their balls. After that he would find company in some mystery woman and not be seen until the following day.
Axl was a mystery. His vice was women. He liked them, and he liked them at the same time. Sometimes Izzy would just be getting in and could look across the hall to see a group of girls standing outside of the door. Then another group would make their way out while those would make their way inside.
It was like a secret society, where anything they wanted was at their disposal.
Alan made sure they were comfortable at all times, and it felt like it was never going to end.
Izzy was balls deep in addiction at this point.
But he wouldn’t admit that. No addict can admit that.
Heroin, coke, and everything in between.
Allan would frequent his room, and when he would give Izzy a new batch his only response would be, “More, More, Fucking More!”
Sitting in a desolate hotel room, a few needles surrounding him, Izzy’s eyes were glazed over.
The last high felt like a million little orgasms erupting in his system.
In the background Scarface played. Sitting in front of the television, his eyes were half lidded as he thought about nothing and everything at the same time. The table next to him piled high with money, stacks of the stuff. The type of bricks you would only see in the movies. Next to that was a pile of blow, lined up to make an outline of the US.
The little boy from Indiana was gone. Instead of chasing cars and smoking pot in the woods, he was chasing Mr. Brownstone and cash.
He finally made it.
The tv flashed with blue colors. He watched in mild amusement as a blimp appeared on the screen.
“The world is yours,” he whispered.
A/N: Yes, I love Scarface.
Alsooooo, just to reiterate this is a work of fictionnn! Character portrayals and events are based on non real occurrences!
14 notes · View notes