Band of Brothers Fic: we’ll write memories of us somewhere
we’ll write memories of us somewhere
It ain’t what he’s gotta do, it’s what he’s doin’. there’s always that one man, the one with the story that folds neatly in his pocket. he’ll never tell a soul. band of brothers. doc roe. doc roe/renée. bastogne. 1562 words, r.
for falseeeyelashes. since we stared at the same time. *g*
It ain’t what he’s gotta do, it’s what he’s doin’ and he’s got some poor fuck’s guts spewed right over the palms of his hands, which are fuckin’ freezing anyway.
He sort of sits there, that night, coming right back from the infirmary where all sorts of guys are lying around and hopin’, hopin’ right there that God will be God and the merciful kind and take ‘em right there. But that’s not the kind of men people are waiting for to finish this mess and he knows, oh he knows, that he’s speakin’ right for the boys and their hands right here.
Roe keeps his eyes closed.
But he can smell the snow, only the snow, and imagines the way it speaks and spreads around the cluster of trees that faces his hole. He’s tryin’ to think of it all, the spices waiting around for him, right at him, along with the bitter air that keeps the bayou being the bayou that he knows.
His eyes open though, at the murmurs, and he sighs, crouching forward with his elbows writin’ thin on his knees. His eyes brush against the line to the next hole, the shuddering movement of helmets forcing a blink.
“Alive, Doc?”
The echo seems curl underneath him and he goes ahead and nods, as if they can see him, with a quick hand up and a twist of his fingers. He’s got good gloves somewhere - used to, he corrects himself - tradin’ for a rack of pistols that he bartered from some other guy, remember something about a promise to someone back home. But that promise slipped away and some other guy got his gloves.
It’s just the way he’s been. The shit coverin’ his fingers is thin, anyway, but whatever works for now.
And it’s here where he starts to think back to her, finally - he thinks it’s sorta that thing, you see a pretty girl and you know, you know you can’t help yourself even though there’s a something waitin’ tight and ready for him at home. It’s the hands definitely and he’s glancing down at his own, rewritin’ the sorta thing he might go and say to her.
“Renée,” he mumbles.
But he likes the way she says his name, that fancy French and none of that Cajun shit that he loves and learns. He feels his mouth start right on movin’, the slur of her name lost again to the shelter of his hands
Gotta be that he’s too far away from anything now and the loneliness is startin’ to eat way at him, thin between the trees and the occasional duck and fire from the fuckin’ Germans that like to leave him with a couple bodies or two, if he’s lucky.
They’re gonna need morphine soon.
-
Roe’s gotta go back again, sort of a ploy again, and feels kinda sick for really lookin’ forward to the brief time he’s going to get with her.
In the truck, he’s turnin’ his head back instead of keeping his eyes peeled forward. His eyes close before the sky’s gray again; there’s been no sun, even within the spits of snow and rain, and he’s got himself missin’ the heat again, the real thing. Snow’s soft against his cheeks until he moves forward again, pressing his chin over his palms in reason.
It ain’t ending, someone snapped earlier. ‘course the Germans saw it real fit to blow his fucking head off.
He sighs. Doesn’t bother following the clumps of buildings as they’re into what civilization is called these days.
The car stops.
He’s shoved with a quick hand, a brisk doc! from the guy in the front with knuckles that keep tearing ‘cause he keeps going around, hittin’ the trees instead of goin’ around and hittin’ the other guys.
Slowly, no God’s gonna keep them from screwin’ their own brains out.
So he’s out of the car, his boots swallowing the snow with a couple of steps. He’s over the stairs, down the stairs, and the moans and cries to God, no longer prayers, starting to drown out the ringing in his ears.
It’s a fucking sight to see, boys bleeding right out and open on cots that are barely holding up their weight. There’s the little black girl going around and washing faces, sayin’ nothing because nobody recognizes black and white anymore - you’re either the rest of the world or a fucking German.
The only thing missing is the snow.
“Eugene!”
She’s already peeking out of the corner, her head dipping forward with hair sliding over the smudges of her forehead, right under that head scarf of hers. If he could, he’d go about and smile back at her, real nice too, but he knows what you gotta do for a pretty girl. Right then and there, he finds himself moving forward, out habit - he’s glancing back at the boys. Quiet today, or really, quiet at the hour; the boys don’t know when it’s all coming, shots forward or shells screamin’ right across the yard. He’s tense, but goes to see her anyway with a deep breath.
“Hey,” he nods.
“Hello,” she nods back.
There’s a box in front of her, supplies haphazardly running from end to end as she picks it up and hands it shakily to him. She’s tired. He’s tired. But she’s a different kind of tired, the faces of men written right over her own with her eyes dropping down as they stand there.
After awhile, she sighs. “You’ll be back, oui?”
“Oui,” he says, suddenly shamed by how crass his French sounds. He’s got the bayou on his tongue, fading quickly, but there. He tries again. “Oui.”
She doesn’t smile; he’s trained not to look back.
-
Don’t matter, he ain’t gonna go and tell anyone the story anyway -
She’s just standing right there, when he looks up, right after she had to go and help the new guy, the new addition to the ranks of men that are smearing against the walls and floors of the fucking church.
“Are you -” But it ain’t part of the vocabulary, his, askin’ a question that he’s got no right to ask her. It’s like going back and her askin’ him; these are the things that are silent, under the code and all the bureaucratic bullshit that they keep themselves attuned to.
She shakes her head.
He sees her though. He sees her and the foil of the chocolate, rising against her hip right over the gray of her coat. Holes at the elbow. Some peeking in her gloves. The silver rips with the light and she’s stepping forward before where he is. Her hand moves first and she lets it curl right around his jacket. There’s a deep sigh, a real deep sigh, and they’re just standing there again, the fire spitting and dyin’ real close to the their legs. There’s a moan, some fuck’s car ain’t working well and it’s the little things nowadays that just drive them to shame.
He’s whisperin’ then, real fine, and thinks he’s started to smell her. The softness. The peak of heat that curls around her neck. “Are you -”
She kisses him instead.
He doesn’t remember it. He doesn’t remember what it feels like, kissin’ a woman - the soft push of her lips against his, how they open and how she sighs right there, into his mouth, and lets herself be vulnerable against him. He starts moving then, his fingers curling around her neck and pushing lightly as his lips dry against hers. There’s a light sound against his mouth as she edges closer. It’s fucking cold, that’s for sure, and he’s thinking about everything else, about her, about feeling someone else, about understanding, and then it’s done.
She’s a step away, breathing heavily. He’s watchin’ right for some kind of reaction, waiting to see her.
But it ain’t the point, he thinks, it just ain’t the point - it’s not fair to want something, something all sorts of tangible to bring back to him to that wet, fucking hole in the ground just so he can grit his teeth and bare it, so to speak, even with hand around his goddamn cock.
“Goodbye, Eugene,” is her next step back, soft and slow.
And he stares right at her, waitin’ for that clarity, to see if she’s just as afraid as he is. Something else, something to add.
She smiles tiredly before a turn.
-
The trees are hollow again.
He can still smell her, his back facing the wall of the new hole. He’s counting ranks and numbers, the sons of bitches that he’s still got to worry about. But he can still smell her, smell her right in front of him.
His fingers slip into his pocket, practically numb as he shivers and pulls out the head scarf to cover his palm - the half that he has. The color’s gonna fade. He’ll probably grab it, like the other half, because he’s gotta keep these guys alive.
There’s no need for the memories passing memories.
“Pretty shade of blue, doc,” it’s Nixon peakin’ over him, curious and amused. He doesn’t reach for it. “Pretty shade of blue.”
It’ll go to the next guy. Somebody’s bound to lose somethin’ real soon.
It stays in his fist, for now.
º
It ain’t what he’s gotta do, it’s what he’s doin’. there’s always that one man, the one with the story that folds neatly in his pocket. he’ll never tell a soul. band of brothers. doc roe. doc roe/renée. bastogne. 1562 words, r.
for falseeeyelashes. since we stared at the same time. *g*
It ain’t what he’s gotta do, it’s what he’s doin’ and he’s got some poor fuck’s guts spewed right over the palms of his hands, which are fuckin’ freezing anyway.
He sort of sits there, that night, coming right back from the infirmary where all sorts of guys are lying around and hopin’, hopin’ right there that God will be God and the merciful kind and take ‘em right there. But that’s not the kind of men people are waiting for to finish this mess and he knows, oh he knows, that he’s speakin’ right for the boys and their hands right here.
Roe keeps his eyes closed.
But he can smell the snow, only the snow, and imagines the way it speaks and spreads around the cluster of trees that faces his hole. He’s tryin’ to think of it all, the spices waiting around for him, right at him, along with the bitter air that keeps the bayou being the bayou that he knows.
His eyes open though, at the murmurs, and he sighs, crouching forward with his elbows writin’ thin on his knees. His eyes brush against the line to the next hole, the shuddering movement of helmets forcing a blink.
“Alive, Doc?”
The echo seems curl underneath him and he goes ahead and nods, as if they can see him, with a quick hand up and a twist of his fingers. He’s got good gloves somewhere - used to, he corrects himself - tradin’ for a rack of pistols that he bartered from some other guy, remember something about a promise to someone back home. But that promise slipped away and some other guy got his gloves.
It’s just the way he’s been. The shit coverin’ his fingers is thin, anyway, but whatever works for now.
And it’s here where he starts to think back to her, finally - he thinks it’s sorta that thing, you see a pretty girl and you know, you know you can’t help yourself even though there’s a something waitin’ tight and ready for him at home. It’s the hands definitely and he’s glancing down at his own, rewritin’ the sorta thing he might go and say to her.
“Renée,” he mumbles.
But he likes the way she says his name, that fancy French and none of that Cajun shit that he loves and learns. He feels his mouth start right on movin’, the slur of her name lost again to the shelter of his hands
Gotta be that he’s too far away from anything now and the loneliness is startin’ to eat way at him, thin between the trees and the occasional duck and fire from the fuckin’ Germans that like to leave him with a couple bodies or two, if he’s lucky.
They’re gonna need morphine soon.
-
Roe’s gotta go back again, sort of a ploy again, and feels kinda sick for really lookin’ forward to the brief time he’s going to get with her.
In the truck, he’s turnin’ his head back instead of keeping his eyes peeled forward. His eyes close before the sky’s gray again; there’s been no sun, even within the spits of snow and rain, and he’s got himself missin’ the heat again, the real thing. Snow’s soft against his cheeks until he moves forward again, pressing his chin over his palms in reason.
It ain’t ending, someone snapped earlier. ‘course the Germans saw it real fit to blow his fucking head off.
He sighs. Doesn’t bother following the clumps of buildings as they’re into what civilization is called these days.
The car stops.
He’s shoved with a quick hand, a brisk doc! from the guy in the front with knuckles that keep tearing ‘cause he keeps going around, hittin’ the trees instead of goin’ around and hittin’ the other guys.
Slowly, no God’s gonna keep them from screwin’ their own brains out.
So he’s out of the car, his boots swallowing the snow with a couple of steps. He’s over the stairs, down the stairs, and the moans and cries to God, no longer prayers, starting to drown out the ringing in his ears.
It’s a fucking sight to see, boys bleeding right out and open on cots that are barely holding up their weight. There’s the little black girl going around and washing faces, sayin’ nothing because nobody recognizes black and white anymore - you’re either the rest of the world or a fucking German.
The only thing missing is the snow.
“Eugene!”
She’s already peeking out of the corner, her head dipping forward with hair sliding over the smudges of her forehead, right under that head scarf of hers. If he could, he’d go about and smile back at her, real nice too, but he knows what you gotta do for a pretty girl. Right then and there, he finds himself moving forward, out habit - he’s glancing back at the boys. Quiet today, or really, quiet at the hour; the boys don’t know when it’s all coming, shots forward or shells screamin’ right across the yard. He’s tense, but goes to see her anyway with a deep breath.
“Hey,” he nods.
“Hello,” she nods back.
There’s a box in front of her, supplies haphazardly running from end to end as she picks it up and hands it shakily to him. She’s tired. He’s tired. But she’s a different kind of tired, the faces of men written right over her own with her eyes dropping down as they stand there.
After awhile, she sighs. “You’ll be back, oui?”
“Oui,” he says, suddenly shamed by how crass his French sounds. He’s got the bayou on his tongue, fading quickly, but there. He tries again. “Oui.”
She doesn’t smile; he’s trained not to look back.
-
Don’t matter, he ain’t gonna go and tell anyone the story anyway -
She’s just standing right there, when he looks up, right after she had to go and help the new guy, the new addition to the ranks of men that are smearing against the walls and floors of the fucking church.
“Are you -” But it ain’t part of the vocabulary, his, askin’ a question that he’s got no right to ask her. It’s like going back and her askin’ him; these are the things that are silent, under the code and all the bureaucratic bullshit that they keep themselves attuned to.
She shakes her head.
He sees her though. He sees her and the foil of the chocolate, rising against her hip right over the gray of her coat. Holes at the elbow. Some peeking in her gloves. The silver rips with the light and she’s stepping forward before where he is. Her hand moves first and she lets it curl right around his jacket. There’s a deep sigh, a real deep sigh, and they’re just standing there again, the fire spitting and dyin’ real close to the their legs. There’s a moan, some fuck’s car ain’t working well and it’s the little things nowadays that just drive them to shame.
He’s whisperin’ then, real fine, and thinks he’s started to smell her. The softness. The peak of heat that curls around her neck. “Are you -”
She kisses him instead.
He doesn’t remember it. He doesn’t remember what it feels like, kissin’ a woman - the soft push of her lips against his, how they open and how she sighs right there, into his mouth, and lets herself be vulnerable against him. He starts moving then, his fingers curling around her neck and pushing lightly as his lips dry against hers. There’s a light sound against his mouth as she edges closer. It’s fucking cold, that’s for sure, and he’s thinking about everything else, about her, about feeling someone else, about understanding, and then it’s done.
She’s a step away, breathing heavily. He’s watchin’ right for some kind of reaction, waiting to see her.
But it ain’t the point, he thinks, it just ain’t the point - it’s not fair to want something, something all sorts of tangible to bring back to him to that wet, fucking hole in the ground just so he can grit his teeth and bare it, so to speak, even with hand around his goddamn cock.
“Goodbye, Eugene,” is her next step back, soft and slow.
And he stares right at her, waitin’ for that clarity, to see if she’s just as afraid as he is. Something else, something to add.
She smiles tiredly before a turn.
-
The trees are hollow again.
He can still smell her, his back facing the wall of the new hole. He’s counting ranks and numbers, the sons of bitches that he’s still got to worry about. But he can still smell her, smell her right in front of him.
His fingers slip into his pocket, practically numb as he shivers and pulls out the head scarf to cover his palm - the half that he has. The color’s gonna fade. He’ll probably grab it, like the other half, because he’s gotta keep these guys alive.
There’s no need for the memories passing memories.
“Pretty shade of blue, doc,” it’s Nixon peakin’ over him, curious and amused. He doesn’t reach for it. “Pretty shade of blue.”
It’ll go to the next guy. Somebody’s bound to lose somethin’ real soon.
It stays in his fist, for now.
º