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latibvles · 1 year

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SAD, BEAUTIFUL, TRAGIC.

beautiful, tragic // amen, amen, amen.

sometimes i can’t help blaming you for leaving me here, what am i supposed to do?

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TAGLIST: @liebgotts-lovergirl , @softguarnere , @monalisastwin , @brassknucklespeirs , @mads-weasley

WARNINGS: major character death , descriptions of bombings , civilian death , gore , etc.

SUMMARY: As Christmas Eve comes around, it proves challenging for the battered medics of Bastogne to find reason to celebrate — as General McAuliffe’s response reaps lethal consequence.

She used to love Christmas

Well… used to love wouldn’t be the right term. She still does — but Christmases at home, with her brother, with Ron, with warm fires and a belly full of food. It nearly slipped her mind that Christmas was tomorrow, until Laura slipped a coin on a string to her with a soft smile and a “Merry Christmas Eve, Lieutenant.” Daisy put it on, took note of the matching one hanging from Laura’s neck — and it was the first time she smiled that morning.

It’s been four days since they were cut off, and three days since another Aid Station opened down the road with staff from 82nd Airborne and 705th Tank Destroyer. Ironically, the opening of it is an astute reminder of the Army’s lackluster medical training — filled with green replacements who make mistakes that Daisy has to amend. She doesn’t know when it was agreed upon by the officers that the enlisted would come to her for any and all questions, but she has a feeling it has to do with the ones who don’t like her very much. Now it’s just another thing on the long list of responsibilities she has to shoulder.

When the skies cleared yesterday it did little to lift her mood — but the supply drop certainly helped. Still, with men coming up to her for questions on even the most self-explanatory of procedure or direction, her patience ran thin. Poor Sergeant Lipton became victim to her outburst; she mistook him for another doe-eyed medic, but he took it in stride. He’d even cracked a joke, flashed her a smile, no harm, no foul.

“It’s bullshit and you know it, Charles.” Daisy spits out, her words sharp as they make their way down the street of the bombed out town. Lieutenant Phalen, or rather, Charles Phalen, as he asked her to call him, says nothing — so she continues. “I swear to God it’s like all those men learned was how to pester their goddamn nurses. And if Evans gives me that sideways glance one more time I’m gonna—”

“Tug his ear?” Daisy looks at him and shakes her head.

“Break his glasses.”

Charles takes a tentative glance towards the sky as an engine whirrs overhead, and Daisy looks up at it too. To her reluctant relief, she recognizes the black and white stars and stripes of the C-47. For two nights they’ve been getting hit with bombs all over town, and Daisy finds herself praying way more frequently now that the bombs don’t hit the church.

“Wonder where he’s headed,” Charles muses.

“Fiji, probably. Holiday vacations and all that.” She hears him snort beside her.

“You know a lot about vacations, Daisy?”

“Oh yeah — I’ve actually got a holiday foot massage in an hour with my best friend George Evans.” She fires back dryly, garnering another small laugh.

She can laugh and rant and curse all she likes, but none of it shakes this helpless feeling that’s long-since festered in her heart and taken root like a weed. There’s not much any of them can do, and Daisy hates that especially. That feeling that no matter how many people get back on their feet — it’ll never be enough. Trying not to give in to her own despair has proven harder as of late, with the crumbling buildings and civilian casualties demanding her attention.

The streets reek of rot. The air smells like smoke. The once-clear roads are littered with debris. It looks like the end of the world. She can only imagine what it’s like out on the line.

As they return to the Church, Daisy watches for a moment as they carry Smokey Gordon out by stretcher. They’d been so busy when he was brought in that morning, she couldn’t give Eugene more than a sympathetic look before she was being whisked away by her other duties. His eyes are half-lidded and his skin is sallow, but he’s alive, and he might get to go home. She feels Charles clap her shoulder and give it a squeeze.

“I’m gonna be with 82nd tonight, if you need anything.” He offers, and Daisy gives him a stiff nod.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She puts a hand over his and gives it a squeeze, before shaking it off to head back down into the stuffy Church, bursting at the seams with civilians and soldiers all in desperate need of a relief Daisy doesn’t know how to provide.

“There you go. Take this. Couverture? Couverture?” The French in Laura’s thick accent sounds a little strange rolling off her tongue, but something’s better than nothing. In the supplies had been some extra blankets, and they’d scavenged for what they could in the ruined buildings, washing the sheets until their fingers pruned and the water ran black with dirt and grime. Now they pass them out to the people finding shelter — elderly and women and children with dirt-smudged faces and tired eyes.

Daisy tries not to stare for too long as mothers wrap their children in the scratchy wool-covers, kissing their heads as the children let out wet coughs.

Christ, she misses her mother.

They’d be getting ready for Christmas Eve service right about how. Her mother, in her red-brown church dress and her father in a cable-knit sweater vest. And her eldest cousin, Mary, would be trying to wrangle in the other two, Abigail and Joseph. Her mother would be fretting over her father’s Christmas tie while her Aunt Marie desperately tries to calm her mother’s nerves. And the house would be warm — from Christmas lights and dinner cooking in the kitchen. It’s been two years since she walked the halls of her aunt’s stately Maryland colonial, and the thought makes her chest ache.

“Rogers, come with me. I wanna head to 82nd and see if they have any extra blankets. For the little ones.” Laura looks at her and nods.

“Sure thing!”

They make their way up the stairs and out into the frigid night quickly, and Laura hums to herself thoughtfully. Daisy looks at her with a raised brow.

“I’ve been thinkin’...” she starts out, “Tomorrow maybe a few of us could go n’ poke around, see if there’s any toys lying about that the kids might want. Since it’s Christmas n’ all. Somethin’ nice for the little ones,” The blonde suggests. Daisy smiles at that — her friend’s idea making her feel a little warmer.

“Wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Could see what we can scrounge liquor-wise for the guys. Something nicer than moonshine, maybe?” Laura’s grin grows wider at the thought.

“I like the way you think, Dais,” She throws her arm over Daisy’s shoulder, pulling her into her side as the lights from the other Aid station come into view around the corner. “That really oughta—”

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Their eyes snap up as 88s light up the sky, and make out the silhouette of planes. Then, there’s the familiar orange glow further in town — just like the one in Holland. Her blood turns to ice. A whistle pierces through the air and then…

She watches as a building goes up in a burst of brilliant orange flames. Her heartbeat picks up. It’s dangerously close to the Church and before she can register it, Laura’s taking off down the road.

“Rogers! Rogers!” Daisy calls out. The girl whips her head back, eyes lit up with courage.

“We’ve gotta get ‘em out of there, Dais!” Another whistle. Another explosion that shakes the ground. Daisy can’t look away. She takes a breath and nods. She’s right. No matter how much she wants to keep this woman close to her — she knows she’s right.

“I’m getting Phalen and some other guys and we’re gonna get everybody out, okay?”

“Yes ma’am!”

Daisy turns and takes off into the Aid Station. The able-bodied are ducked under tables and other means of cover. Her head whips around in search of Charles, calling out his name until the man comes from one of the off rooms of this building.

Another boom.

“What is it, Clarke?” he asks. Her face feels hot.

“We’re evacuating the people in the Church. Bombs are hitting way too close and I—,” Whistle. Boom. “Look. I just need guys, alright?! And a jeep.” Charles nods, his expression changing from concern to determination. He barks out a few names, and a couple medics spring up as he gives orders to each of them.

“I’ll get you that jeep.” He decides on, giving her shoulder another squeeze.

“Thank you.” Daisy responds, and she’s dashing out the door once again.

There’s fire, a lot of it. And screaming. Cries for people to clear the roads and get out mixed with the popping sound of 88s and the powerful groans of jet engines. She lifts her arms to cover her head as she runs, heart pounding in her ears, drowning out the cacophony. Gotta get back, she repeats, gotta make it back. As she approaches she sees specks in the distance rushing out of the building. She thinks she can make out those precious red crosses, and Laura’s blonde head as she rushes inside when—

Whistle. Boom.

The force of the explosion on her left is enough to thrust her into the opposing wall. Her head slams into the brick. Her ears are ringing. Glass and debris slice her skin and sting her eyes. Everything is muffled. She can’t see through the cloud of dust — she shuts her eyes. For a moment, Daisy just sits there in a daze. When she lifts her fingers to her temple, it’s warm and wet. She can taste blood in her mouth and her tongue aches.

“Get out! Quickly!”

“Clear the road! Outta the way!”

A flash of orange behind her eyelids, the screeching of tires. Her legs feel a little shaky. Gotta get up, she desperately tries to will herself into it. Stand up. Keep pushing forward. She holds her breath for a moment, pressing her palm into the brick and pushing herself up on trembling legs, squinting to see through the clouds of dust. Daisy takes a tentative step forward, and then another, forcing herself through the cloud and opening her eyes fully as she does so.

As three men stumble out of the Church, scattering to the wind, she brings a hand to her mouth.

It’s completely caved in — glass shattered and littering the ground. Dust pluming. A lump forms in her throat as she stumbles forward.

“Laura..?” Daisy whispers, her voice cracking as she approaches the entryway.

“Daisy?” Daisy whips her head around, only for her eyes to meet Eugene’s. He rushes forward, towards her and the debris as a medic warns them against it, falling to his knees and pulling out a familiar blue scarf. Daisy’s fingers ghost the coin hanging from her neck with trembling hands. She feels like she might be drowning. The throbbing of her head becomes a distant pain in comparison to the piercing pain in her chest.

“Gene, I—” Daisy struggles to find the words, grasping at something, anything, praying it isn’t real. “Renee and— Laura was right here. I saw her go inside and— and my nurses, and the women and the children. They were all…” she trails off, staring at the rubble with a quivering lip.

She feels a hand curl around her own in a death-grip. Squeezing tight enough for it to hurt. She doesn’t care. She looks at Eugene — his eyes aren’t glassy, but they hold the same grief that’s splitting her apart.

“Easy needs a medic.” He murmurs. Despite his grip, she squeezes back with all the strength she can muster, giving him a nod.

“Medic! Get your ass out here!” Eugene turns his head to look, and she follows, watching a man as he darts away. Then he’s climbing down the pile of rubble, and leading her with him. She doesn’t let go of his hand, not until they pile into a jeep headed back out onto the line, and even then she says nothing. She and Gene exchange looks, but nothing more. She wants to hold his hand again — but doesn’t. Daisy doesn’t even cry.

She says nothing when the jeep pulls into the woods she’s never been in before — not when they get out, and not when Liebgott practically springs out of his foxhole, scruffier with a bright red nose and a look of excitement that immediately shifts to worry upon seeing the state of her.

“Holy shit, Dais, what’re you doing out here?” He whispers. Eugene clears his throat.

“Can she share your foxhole t’night, Liebgott?” And then, shifting his eyes back to Daisy, “We can… talk to Captain Winters in the morning.” Daisy nods at that, weakly, as Joe places his hands on her shoulders, guiding her back towards the hole he sprung up from. When was the last time she’d slept in a foxhole? It had to be Normandy.

They slump into it, Joe placing an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. He’s warm, and familiar, and Daisy finds herself leaning into him.

“I slapped my father,” she whispers, her voice cracking in all the wrong places. Joe turns to look at her. She can feel his gaze on the top of her head, burning through her. “I almost died tonight and… and his last memory would’ve been of me slapping him before I got on the train.” There’s a heavy silence for a moment, before his fingers dig into her arm a little bit.

“But you made it.” Joe responds, definitive, in a way that makes her ache for home.

She stares at the dirt wall — and sees a dreamlike woman, with soft blonde hair and sky blue eyes. A smile to die for, an ability to charm almost everybody she ever met. A kid brother at home, a father, so determined to make it — she remembers that first day, when Daisy pressed her fingers into her back to push her over the finish line. Their first night out. The first time she followed Daisy without question, back in Holland. They were supposed to find toys and whiskey tomorrow, for the kids and the men.

But she didn’t, is what she says, except it comes out as a strangled sob. And then another one, that lurches her body forward, and before she knows it, she’s sobbing and hiccuping and Joe’s pulling her fully into his arms — so she’s sobbing into his chest now, incoherent and blubbering. Daisy can barely breathe, gripping onto him for dear life and trying to stifle her cries into his jacket. It hurts. She feels like she's drowning and scrambling for air, only for a hand to maliciously shove her down again and hold her under the water until her lungs cry out. Over and over, just when she thinks things could be a little okay, something happens for her to be proven stupidly, horrifically, wrong. And she hates it.

Joe says nothing, rubbing circles into her back, kissing the top of her head and keeping her close in a way that's so familiar it makes her cry harder. It's only then, that he tells her, soft as ever, to just breathe. Daisy doesn't know if she can do that.

She doesn’t know when she falls asleep — but it’s somewhere between the sobbing and a prayer

#fic // sad beautiful tragic #band of brothers fic #ronald speirs fic #ronald speirs x ofc #ronald speirs x oc #hbo war oc #hbo war fic #band of brothers oc #band of brothers ofc #yeah I didn’t write for like three days after writing this #because my heart was #quite frankly #BROKEN #and I was left in shambles because of it

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