Took way to long to find the motivation to write this.
Word count; 2,172
Frances
We walked together back to 1st Platoon's billets, knuckles brushing as our arms swayed.
"Can I ask you something?"
He almost chuckled, "Yes?"
I could barely see his face in the dark - perhaps not at all if it weren't for the constant presence of a cigarette, the lanterns that plagued the streets - but I pictured his smirk, nearly antagonising.
"Does any of this feel real, to you?"
He didn't answer yet, sensing there was more.
"I keep remembering things. Small pieces." I explained. "And being here, away from there, it feels..."
"Wrong?" He supplied, taking his cigarette away from his lips. "I get it."
"You do?"
He nodded, "It feels better when... when I'm with you."
My smallest finger hooked onto his briefly, and following his words I decided to intertwine our hands. He looked down at our palms, squeezing gently.
"Listen, Frances." His voice was rough, like he needed to cough out the smoke. "What do you want from this?"
Something in my centre fell, as if perhaps all of this was some kind of sick joke.
"Isn't there some kind of rule o-or protocol about... this. About... us." Another awkward chuckle, "I just... I don't want to put you in a position where we lose... this. Not again."
The feeling intensified, still wary. At no point had I thought about protocol or rule. Sensing my caution, he halted, pivoting to stand in front of me, breaths hitting my forehead. We stood in silence for a while; he blew the smoke over his shoulder, I stared at our feet.
"I just," He cleared his throat. "I don't know what it is, Frances. When you're around, I can't take my eyes off of you. When you're not, I can't think of anything else. I start doubting everything. I wonder where you are, if you're okay or if you're in trouble. My mind's a mess. Will you please look at me?"
My gaze shot up.
"Do you hear anything I'm saying?"
"I hear everything you're saying." I was partially annoyed that he thought I wasn't.
"Then why are you so quiet?" He said delicately.
You. I wanted to say. Because I love your voice and don't want mine to plague yours.
"You ask protocol." I said, matter-of-fact. "Protocol is made to protect me from those around me. To prevent..."
His head darted away, flooded with memories from a bleaker time.
"I can't..." I sought for the right word. "I have to stay..."
His eyes focused back on me, widened as he realised what I was inferring.
"You know the U.S. Army." I attempted to lighten the mood. "Women in combat is a push, pregnant women is a bit further..."
He laughed, "God, Frances..."
"It's true." I beamed.
"Well..." His brows furrowed.
"What?"
YOU ARE READING
𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; band of brothers ✔
Historical Fiction𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 "You're either with me or against me, you choose." To Dianne, fearlessness never had a meaning, all because she never had to use it. Up until the paratroopers were involved. [Completed]
