gods and kings
Title: gods and kings
Author: silenceguardian
Rating: pg-13 for war scenes i guess??
Characters/Pairings: babe/roe
Summary: There's shelling in Bastogne and they can only find solace in each other.
Wordcount: ~500
Disclaimer:This is fiction and is based off of characters. I do not own Band of Brothers nor do I mean any disrespect.
Notes or Warnings: In light of this day being probably the worst ever due to the cancellation of the Band of Brothers event in Palm Beach, FL, I decided to channel my sadness into this tiny ficlet.
His feet slam on the rocks and snow as he runs, too-large boots causing him to stumble. The cross on his sleeve is his bleeding heart, worn and frayed, and he is so tired. His breath shoves out between his teeth, the stuttering exhales mumbling soft prayers. Tree shards litter the marble mixture of the ground, earth-shattering shells explode all around him. There are screams for him and he can’t stop. Cold seeps into his bones, the wind cuts through his uniform. Pained cries of familiar friends engrain in his mind with no hope of decay.
He only fully registers one voice.
His heel pivots in the direction of the sound, a mere whisper beneath the roaring barrage. He’s weighed down by the infectious stench of fear that’s hung throughout the foliage, a garland of misery and desperation. He wants to give in, but the boots still clatter their way past foxholes and red stained ground. Shouts delivered by officers plead for him to find some cover, but damn it all to hell if he lets Heffron die.
Roe slides into the depression in the icy dirt, immediately patting his hands-those thin, special, healing hands-all over Heffron’s fatigues, each time anticipating the thick wetness of blood. He doesn’t expect the thin arm wrapping around his back and pulling him deeper into the foxhole, closer to that uniform and the faint warmth that it provides.
“Christ, Edward, let me go!” He shouts over the deafening scene.
And Heffron’s lips are at the shell of his ear whispering in rough, faltered phrases, “Please Doc, please don’t leave. Don’t go, Gene. Don’t leave me here.” His hands are grasped so tightly onto the fabric that rests on Roe’s shoulder and spine.
Roe turns his head to look at Heffron, his eyes are watery and they speak in volumes of fear. His lips are chapped and bloody and Roe knows his aren’t in any better shape. The earth still trembles around them, as if it is scared for its own life, steadily losing everything it holds dear. The thoughts in Roe’s head are staccato sentences, and he can’t do anything but wind his arms around Edward and close his eyes. He can hear the other’s faint requests to God.
Roe pulls Heffron down to murmur to him, “Do you really think someone is watchin’ over us righ’ now?”
“I’m alive and you’re alive, that’s proof enough, Gene.” comes the strained reply.
The shells whistle over their heads, pairs of bloody lips find each other in the illuminated darkness.
Author: silenceguardian
Rating: pg-13 for war scenes i guess??
Characters/Pairings: babe/roe
Summary: There's shelling in Bastogne and they can only find solace in each other.
Wordcount: ~500
Disclaimer:This is fiction and is based off of characters. I do not own Band of Brothers nor do I mean any disrespect.
Notes or Warnings: In light of this day being probably the worst ever due to the cancellation of the Band of Brothers event in Palm Beach, FL, I decided to channel my sadness into this tiny ficlet.
His feet slam on the rocks and snow as he runs, too-large boots causing him to stumble. The cross on his sleeve is his bleeding heart, worn and frayed, and he is so tired. His breath shoves out between his teeth, the stuttering exhales mumbling soft prayers. Tree shards litter the marble mixture of the ground, earth-shattering shells explode all around him. There are screams for him and he can’t stop. Cold seeps into his bones, the wind cuts through his uniform. Pained cries of familiar friends engrain in his mind with no hope of decay.
He only fully registers one voice.
His heel pivots in the direction of the sound, a mere whisper beneath the roaring barrage. He’s weighed down by the infectious stench of fear that’s hung throughout the foliage, a garland of misery and desperation. He wants to give in, but the boots still clatter their way past foxholes and red stained ground. Shouts delivered by officers plead for him to find some cover, but damn it all to hell if he lets Heffron die.
Roe slides into the depression in the icy dirt, immediately patting his hands-those thin, special, healing hands-all over Heffron’s fatigues, each time anticipating the thick wetness of blood. He doesn’t expect the thin arm wrapping around his back and pulling him deeper into the foxhole, closer to that uniform and the faint warmth that it provides.
“Christ, Edward, let me go!” He shouts over the deafening scene.
And Heffron’s lips are at the shell of his ear whispering in rough, faltered phrases, “Please Doc, please don’t leave. Don’t go, Gene. Don’t leave me here.” His hands are grasped so tightly onto the fabric that rests on Roe’s shoulder and spine.
Roe turns his head to look at Heffron, his eyes are watery and they speak in volumes of fear. His lips are chapped and bloody and Roe knows his aren’t in any better shape. The earth still trembles around them, as if it is scared for its own life, steadily losing everything it holds dear. The thoughts in Roe’s head are staccato sentences, and he can’t do anything but wind his arms around Edward and close his eyes. He can hear the other’s faint requests to God.
Roe pulls Heffron down to murmur to him, “Do you really think someone is watchin’ over us righ’ now?”
“I’m alive and you’re alive, that’s proof enough, Gene.” comes the strained reply.
The shells whistle over their heads, pairs of bloody lips find each other in the illuminated darkness.