Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Georgia sun scorched fiercely on Camp Toccoa, making the red earth as hot as an oven, and the heat was felt even through their boots. Donald Malarkey wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of dirt across his forehead as he watched the latest batch of recruits stumble through their first day of training.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, watching one particularly unfortunate soul face-plant into the dirt during what should have been a simple obstacle course run. "Where the hell do they find these guys."

"Same place they found you, I imagine. "
The sound emerged from behind him, serene and deliberate with a slight touch of jest.

Malarkey glanced over to notice a tall, slim individual with black hair and sharp eyes observing the events with the same blend of intrigue and dread that he had felt.

"I've been working on this for years," he continued, "and I've seen the best and worst of it."

"Don Malarkey," he responded, shaking the offered hand. More's grip was firm but not aggressive, the kind of handshake that suggested confidence without the need to prove anything. "Oregon, originally. You?"

"Wyoming. Small village you've never visited. More's lips curled up a bit. "I'm beginning to believe location isn't significant here. They're intending to make us identical."

Malarkey observed More's expression while they conversed. There appeared to be a quality in the man that gave an impression of being. at peace, in a way. Like he'd already figured out something that the rest of them were still scrambling to understand. It wasn't arrogance – Malarkey had seen plenty of that already in their short time at Toccoa – but rather a quiet self-assurance that was oddly comforting.

"You've been here long. " Malarkey inquired, truly interested.

"Three days longer than you, which makes me practically a veteran," More said dryly. "Long enough to figure out that Lieutenant Sobel enjoys making grown men cry, and that the mess hall coffee could strip paint.

It's the best in town." Even though he didn't mean to, Malarkey chuckled. "Indeed, you're correct about the coffee. It's the finest here. " I think they're using it as a chemical weapon."

"Wouldn't surprise me. This whole place seems designed to break us down. " More paused, watching as another recruit struggled with the rope climb. "Question is whether they plan to build us back up into something worthwhile, or just leave us in pieces.

"It was a deeper thought than Malarkey anticipated from everyday talk, and he began to see More with fresh curiosity.

Most of the men he'd met so far fit into one of two groups: either they were noisy and bragging, always chatting about their plans to attack the Germans, or they were silent and fearful, making everyMore appeared to be nothing. He seemed truly calm about their situation, not as if he was pretending to be strong, but as if he had just accepted it and was interested in seeing what would happen next.

"You volunteered for this," Malarkey said. It wasn't a query,everyone had, or they wouldn't be present, but he was interested in More's motives.

"Same as everyone else, I suppose. You're not going to join us, are you. "If I was going to be part of this conflict, I'd want to have a voice in the process. 1. "Oregon is far from Georgia. ". 2. "Georgia is distant from Oregon."

"It's not just about the thrill," he continued, "it's about the challenge and the skill involved."

"But that's the part that got you to sign on the dotted line," More finished for him, and there was no judgment in his voice. "Nothing wrong with that. d: A more sensible explanation than most, likely."

They remained in a relaxed quiet for a while, observing the structured disorder of practice as it happened. Malarkey felt strangely thankful for More's company. After three days of being constantly surrounded by noise and aggression and barely controlled panic, it was nice to find someone who seemed capable of just. being quiet.

"Malarkey. More. "
The loud shout of Sergeant Lipton pierced their quiet time. Both men adjusted themselves by themselves, though Malarkey observed that More's change in stance appeared somewhat less intense than his own. Like he'd been ready for it.

"You two done with your social hour. " Lipton approached them with that particular expression of mild exasperation that Malarkey was learning to associate with the non-commissioned officers at Toccoa. "Because Lieutenant Sobel has some thoughts about men who stand around watching instead of training.

"Apologies, Sergeant," Malarkey interjected hastily.

"We were merely...Observing training techniques," More said smoothly. "Learning from others' mistakes before we make our own."

Lipton's expression didn't change, but Malarkey caught a brief flicker of something that might have been amusement in his eyes. "How thoughtful of you. I'm confident Lieutenant Sobel will value your. active method of acquiring knowledge. Now drop and give me twenty. Both of you."

As they landed on the ground for push-ups, Malarkey found himself smiling despite the situation. More had simply escaped a harsher penalty by stating what was essentially the truth, with such genuine honesty that even Lipton couldn't criticize it.

"Seventeen. eighteen. " Malarkey counted under his breath, his arms already starting to burn.

"I'm not sure I'd do it again," he admitted, "but it was a thrilling experience.

"Be quiet," Malarkey gasped, yet he was still smiling.

Chapter Text

After two weeks of practice, Malarkey had grasped several crucial lessons about existence at Camp Toccoa. Initially, it seemed that Lieutenant Sobel's ability to devise unique penalties was apparently boundless. Secondly, the stories about paratrooper training being difficult were, if anything, not exaggerated enough. And third, that Alton More was turning out to be one of the most consistently surprising people he'd ever met.

It wasn't that More was showy or intense, quite the opposite, actually. He would blend into the scene during the noisy times, later coming forward with unique insights or fixes that others hadn't considered. He was the kind of man who noticed things: which routes through the obstacle course were fastest, which instructors were more likely to be lenient if you approached them at the right time, which of their fellow recruits were struggling and might need a quiet word of encouragement.

"You're like a complete reference book," Malarkey mentioned one evening while they were outside their barracks, cleaning their guns in the dimming light. More had just finished explaining, in careful detail, exactly why Malarkey's weapon kept jamming during live fire exercises.

"Just observant," More replied, running a cloth along the barrel of his own rifle with practiced efficiency. "My father taught me to pay attention to how things work. d: Stated it was the distinction between enduring and merely existing."

""Smart man, your father. "
"He was." There was a hint in More's voice that made Malarkey look up from his task. More's demeanor remained unchanged, yet there was a distinct calmness about him that implied the dialogue had entered a realm of significance.

"Was. " Malarkey asked gently. "Died when I was sixteen. Heart attack. " More's hands never stopped moving as he spoke, methodically cleaning each component of his weapon. "Left me to run the ranch pretty much on my own until I turned eighteen and could legally inherit it."

""Christ, Al. That's. that's rough. "
More shrugged, but Malarkey was beginning to recognize that More's shrugs often covered up feelings he wasn't ready to discuss. "Taught me a lot about taking care of myself, anyway. 1. Observing individuals' tasks: identifying requirements, strengths, and challenges.

It was the most personal information More had shared since they'd met, and Malarkey found himself wanting to reciprocate. "My old man's still kicking around, back in Oregon. Operates a shop selling tools. Keeps writing me letters about how I should come home and help him expand the business.

"You planning to. "
"After the war, maybe. If there's still a business to come back to. " Malarkey paused in his cleaning, looking out across the Georgia landscape. "If there's still a me to come back to."

More was silent for a moment. "No, there won't."

When he talked, his tone was straightforward. "Yes, there will be. " "No, there won't."

"How can you be so sure. "
"Because you're too stubborn to die easily, and too smart to get yourself killed for something stupid. " More glanced at him sideways. "Plus, someone's got to keep an eye on you when you inevitably do something heroic and idiotic."

"That's a fine line," he quipped, his tone light and playful. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"They're not like the others. It's a soldier mix," More stated dryly. "I've been observing the men here for weeks now. They're not like the others. Half of them are going to die trying to prove something, and the other half are going to die trying to save the first half. You're definitely in the second group."

"And what group are you in."
For a long time, there was silence, making Malarkey doubt if he would respond. "The group that's going to try to make sure as many people as possible make it home."

There was a certain manner in which he spoke that caused Malarkey's chest to feel constricted. Not only the phrases, but also the significance they carry. Like More had already accepted responsibility for something far heavier than any nineteen-year-old should have to carry.

"That's a large task for a single individual," Malarkey stated cautiously.

"Fortunate I won't be tackling it by myself. " More gazed at him straight on, and Malarkey sensed a change in the atmosphere between them. Not much – Less was done in a dramatic way – but like a door opening a bit, showing a hint of something more profound.

"I'm not going to let you get away with this," he said, his voice rising in anger.

They completed the cleaning of their guns quietly, yet Malarkey's focus was split between the routine tasks of upkeep and the increasing realization that his bond with Alton More was evolving into a deeper connection than he had first anticipated Not romantic, he was cautious not to let his thoughts drift in that direction, not here, not now, but something deeper than friendly companionship.

Trust, maybe. The trust that emerged from seeing a part of yourself in someone else.

As they prepared to head back into the barracks, More paused. "Don."

"Yeah. "
"Thanks. For asking about my father, I mean. Most people don't know how to handle that kind of conversation.

"They're too busy thinking about what they're going to say next. They're occupied in anticipating their chance to talk.

I'm not sure I'm ready for this," he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty. I noticed that about you.

""Noticed what."
"That you listen."
It was a basic observation, but the manner in which More expressed it made Malarkey feel as though he had received the most praise of his existence.

Chapter Text

The announcement was made during morning formation, conveyed in Lieutenant Sobel's familiar commanding voice: a three-day field exercise simulating full combat, designed with parameters that left even the most self-assured recruits feeling uneasy. This is your opportunity to show you belong, Sobel stated, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men with a predatory satisfaction that Malarkey had come to recognize. Or you can wash out spectacularly. I honestly don't care which, as long as it happens quickly.

Malarkey locked eyes with More across the formation. More's face was typically calm, but after spending enough time with him, Malarkey noticed the slight tension in his posture and the focused intensity in his gaze as he absorbed the details of the briefing. They would be split into squads of eight, supplied with basic gear, and dropped at various locations in the Georgia wilderness, tasked with reaching a series of checkpoints while evading instructors who, according to rumors, took too much pleasure in their roles.

The exercise would evaluate everything they had learned so far: navigation, fieldcraft, small unit tactics, and teamwork under pressure. Squad assignments are posted, Sobel continued. You have thirty minutes to gather your gear and report to your designated staging areas. Any questions? No one dared to ask questions during a Sobel briefing. As the formation dispersed, Malarkey rushed to the assignment board, scanning for his name. He found it midway down the second squad roster and felt a wave of relief upon seeing More's name just three spots below his own.

Well, that's something, More commented, appearing beside him. At least we won’t have to worry about each other getting killed by incompetent leadership. Speak for yourself, Malarkey shot back. I’ve never led anyone in combat. Neither have any of us. That’s the point of training, More replied, examining the rest of their squad list. It could be worse. Liebgott is solid, and Babe has good instincts, even if he’s still figuring them out. Malarkey nodded but was more focused on the fact that More seemed to assume one of them would take on a leadership role.

This assumption was reasonable, they had both excelled in individual exercises, but it revealed something Malarkey was starting to notice about More. More didn’t just observe people and situations; he anticipated future possibilities and prepared for outcomes that might never happen. It was a mindset beneficial for a soldier, but Malarkey sometimes wondered if it came with its own burdens. More seemed to carry a weight of responsibility that wasn't entirely his, as if he had already accepted accountability for events that had yet to unfold.

Thirty minutes later, they found themselves crammed in the back of a truck with their squadmates, bouncing along a rough dirt road that seemed intent on testing both the vehicle's and passengers' endurance. The atmosphere was a blend of anxious excitement and grim determination that Malarkey was beginning to associate with paratroopers facing a new challenge. "Anyone know where they’re dropping us?" Liebgott asked from across the truck, gripping his rifle between his knees. "Does it matter?" Babe replied. It’s all trees and hills, places for instructors to hide and make our lives miserable.

"It matters if we want to know which way to go when we hit the ground." More said quietly. He had been studying a map during the ride, matching it with compass readings and notes from their brief time at the staging area. "Based on the route we’ve taken and how long we’ve been traveling, I’d guess they’re dropping us near the northwest boundary of the training area."

"Are you sure about that?" Liebgott asked. "Sure enough to bet money on it." More answered. "Which means our first checkpoint is likely southeast of our drop point, and we’ll need to cross at least two ridgelines to get there."

Malarkey observed More as he worked, admiring the confidence with which he interpreted the map and noting how the others in the squad naturally turned to him for guidance. More wasn’t trying to dominate; his tone remained collaborative and conversational. Yet, his competence drew people to him. The truck came to a sudden stop, and Sergeant Lipton pulled back the canvas flap at the rear.

"End of the line, gentlemen." Lipton announced. "You have your orders, equipment, and your wits. Don’t disappoint me." As they climbed out of the truck, Malarkey caught Lipton’s eye. "Sergeant? Any advice?" Lipton’s expression softened slightly. "Trust your training, Malarkey. And trust each other. That’s what will get you through this."

The truck drove away, leaving them in a small clearing surrounded by thick forest. For a moment, silence fell over them as the reality of their situation sank in: they were alone in unfamiliar territory with limited supplies, tasked with reaching objectives possibly miles away while avoiding capture by instructors who knew the terrain better than they did.

"Alright." More said, breaking the silence. "First things first—let’s determine exactly where we are." He knelt and spread the map on the ground, inviting the others to gather around. "Based on the truck route and the terrain features I can see, I think we’re right about here." He pointed to a spot on the map. "This means checkpoint alpha should be roughly four miles southeast." "Four miles through that" Liebgott gestured toward the dense trees surrounding them. "It’s not as bad as it looks." More replied. "There’s a ridge system that runs parallel to our route. If we can get up to higher ground, we should move faster and have better visibility." "What about enemy patrols?" Babe inquired. More thought for a moment.

"They’ll likely be concentrated around the checkpoints and the most obvious paths between them. The ridge system may be tougher to navigate, but it’s also less predictable. I think it’s worth the trade-off." Malarkey noticed the dynamic between More and the rest of the squad, recognizing how naturally he had taken charge of the planning.

His approach was not aggressive or overbearing; he carefully framed suggestions as questions and welcomed input from others, yet his competence was clear, and the men responded positively. "What do you think, Don?" More asked, looking up from the map. The question surprised Malarkey, partly because he had been so focused on observing More’s leadership style that he hadn’t fully engaged in the conversation, but also because More had specifically sought his opinion in front of the group.
" I think you’re right about the ridge system." Malarkey replied, kneeling to examine the map closely. "But we should probably have a backup plan in case we encounter issues up there. If we need to get down quickly, where are the best routes?"

More smiled, not in a smug way, but with genuine pleasure at having his ideas challenged. "Good point. There are a couple of draws that lead into the valley system. We can identify them as we go and ensure everyone is aware of their locations." As they finalized their route and prepared to set out, Malarkey reflected on leadership and responsibility and how different individuals reacted to pressure.

Some men, he was learning, became smaller under stress—more cautious, more dependent, more focused on immediate challenges. Others, like More, seemed to expand in the face of pressure, becoming more decisive and accepting responsibility for the outcomes that affected others. This quality was appealing to Malarkey, not just in a professional sense, given More's competence in their current situation, but personally as well. There was something deeply reassuring about being around someone who could remain calm and thoughtful when faced with difficulties.

"Ready?" More asked, shouldering his pack. "Lead the way, Malarkey replied" meaning it in more ways than one.

Chapter Text

They had been on the move for six hours when the first shots fired. The squad had progressed quickly along the ridge system, with More's navigation proving precise and the terrain more manageable than anticipated. They had reached their initial checkpoint without any issues, confirmed their location, and were headed toward their second objective when the surrounding forest erupted with the sharp sounds of blank ammunition and the loud commands of their instructors turned adversaries.

"Contact left!" More shouted, his voice cutting through the turmoil with unexpected authority. "Babe, Liebgott – cover the right flank! Everyone else, find cover and return fire!"

Malarkey ducked behind a fallen log, his heart racing as he tried to grasp the situation. The exercise had escalated into a very real scenario, and the careful plans they had made were quickly dissolving into the type of chaos he suspected was typical of combat.

"Where are they?" Babe shouted, his voice tense with adrenaline.

"Approximately thirty yards northwest," More replied, remarkably calm under the circumstances. "Two positions, maybe three. They're trying to pin us down while another group flanks us from the south."

"How can you tell?" Liebgott asked.

"Because that's what I would do," More answered simply. "Don – can you see the southern approach from your position?"

Malarkey cautiously lifted his head, scanning the tree line to his right. After a moment, he noticed movement – the unmistakable outline of an instructor navigating the underbrush, likely believing he was concealed.

"Got him," Malarkey called back. "About fifty yards south-southeast, moving slowly."

"Good. Wait until he gets closer, then take him out. The rest of us will suppress the main position while you work."

Malarkey recognized this as a solid tactical plan delivered with a confidence that made it easy to follow. More had assessed the situation, identified the threat, devised a response, and communicated it clearly, all while under fire and with no more training than the rest of them.

The following minutes blurred with movement and gunfire. Malarkey waited until the flanking instructor was well within range, then fired three rounds center mass, earning a begrudging "You're dead, asshole" from his target. Meanwhile, More orchestrated the squad's suppressing fire with a precision that suggested he had years of experience rather than just months.

When the firing finally ceased and the instructors emerged to conduct the after-action review, Malarkey found himself breathing heavily despite the engagement lasting less than ten minutes.

"Not bad," Sergeant Lipton remarked, appearing from behind a tree with his rifle slung over his shoulder. "You quickly identified the threat, responded appropriately, and maintained unit cohesion under fire. More – good job coordinating the response. Malarkey – nice shooting on the flanking element."

As Lipton moved on to debrief the other squad members, More caught Malarkey's gaze.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just... man, that felt real."

"It was supposed to," More said, his expression serious. "That's the point – to see how we react when things go awry and we don't have time to think everything through."

Malarkey nodded but scrutinized More's face as they spoke. "You seemed to have plenty of time to think it through."

"Not really. I just focused on what needed to happen next, rather than worrying about everything that could go wrong." More paused. "It's something my father taught me when I was learning to work with livestock. Animals can sense panic, so you learn to stay calm even amid chaos. Turns out that principle applies to people too."

It was a simple explanation, but it illuminated something Malarkey was beginning to realize about his friend. More didn't just remain composed under pressure; he became a stabilizing force for those around him. It was a rare quality and likely explained why the other men in the squad instinctively deferred to his leadership during the engagement.

"Your father sounds like a wise man," Malarkey remarked.

"He was. I just wish he had more time to teach me everything." More's voice was matter-of-fact, but Malarkey sensed the undertone of loss that surfaced whenever More spoke of his father.

As they continued toward their next checkpoint, the dynamic within the squad had shifted. More still phrased suggestions as questions and invited input, but there was an unspoken acknowledgment of his proven leadership in a critical moment. The men looked to him for guidance more readily, and he accepted the responsibility with a quiet confidence that Malarkey found both admirable and compelling.

That realization surprised him. Compelling? Where had that thought come from? Malarkey tried to dismiss it, redirecting his focus to navigation and other practical concerns. But as they traversed the forest, he began observing More with a new awareness. The way he navigated the terrain with effortless grace, how he listened intently when others spoke, and the way he made people feel valued even when disagreeing – it was all compelling.

Malarkey knew he was treading into dangerous territory. Such thoughts could lead to significant trouble, especially in the Army where such feelings were not only discouraged but actively punished. Yet, despite his attempts to refocus, he couldn't shake the growing realization that his feelings for Alton More were evolving into something more complex than mere friendship.

The second engagement occurred two hours later, just as they neared their final checkpoint. This time, the instructors had established a more intricate scenario – a defended position requiring the squad to coordinate movement and fire to achieve their objective. Once again, More assumed command of the tactical planning, but this time, he approached it differently. Rather than simply giving orders, he turned to Malarkey.

"What do you think, Don? How would you tackle this?"

The question surprised Malarkey, especially since More had already shown superior tactical instincts during their first engagement. However, as he assessed the terrain and enemy position, an idea began to form.

"What if we split into two elements?" he proposed. "One group provides suppressing fire from the front while the other flanks around to the east. That ridgeline would give us a good angle on their side."

More nodded thoughtfully. "That could work. Who do you want for the flanking element?"

"You and Liebgott. You're better at moving quietly, and Joe's a good shot."

"What about command and control? If we split up, someone needs to coordinate between the elements."

It was a valid point that underscored the complexity of small-unit tactics. But as Malarkey considered it, he realized that More was not only asking for tactical input but also for leadership.

"I'll take the base of fire element," Malarkey decided. "You coordinate the flanking movement. We'll use hand signals until you're in position, then I'll initiate contact and you can hit them from the side."

More smiled – a genuine smile this time, not just the polite expression he usually wore. "Sounds like a plan."

The engagement surpassed both their expectations. Malarkey's unit effectively pinned the defenders in place with sustained fire, while More's flanking team maneuvered into an excellent position and eliminated the entire enemy force with a coordinated assault. When it ended, even the instructors appeared impressed.

"Outstanding work," Lipton remarked during the debrief. "Both elements executed their roles perfectly, and the coordination between them was textbook. More, Malarkey – you two work well together."

As they gathered their gear for the final movement to the extraction point, More walked beside Malarkey.

"Good call on the flanking maneuver," he said quietly. "I wouldn't have thought to use the ridgeline like that."

"You would have," Malarkey replied. "You just would have gotten there another way."

"Maybe. But that's not the point." More paused for a moment. "You trusted me to execute your plan, even though you could have done it yourself. That's... not something everyone would do."

There was something in More's tone that prompted Malarkey to look at him more closely. "What do you mean?"

"Most people in charge want to maintain control over everything. They hesitate to delegate important tasks because they're worried about what might happen if someone else makes a mistake." More took a breath. "You assigned me the most challenging task and trusted me to get it right."

"Of course I did. You're the best soldier in the squad."

"Am I?" More's voice was genuinely curious, not fishing for compliments.

"Yeah, you are. Everyone knows it." Malarkey scrutinized More's profile as they walked. "The question is whether you recognize it."

More remained quiet for a while after that, and Malarkey began to feel he had overstepped. But just as they approached the extraction point, More spoke again.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For trusting me, I mean. It... means something."

Malarkey experienced that familiar tightening in his chest, which seemed to happen more frequently when More let his guard down slightly. "You don't have to thank me for that, Al. It's just the truth."

"Still means something," More replied, and when he looked at Malarkey, there was an intensity in his expression that caused Malarkey's breath to catch.

It was fleeting – a moment of vulnerability, gratitude, and something deeper than mere friendship. But it was enough to confirm what Malarkey had been trying to deny: his feelings for Alton More had undeniably progressed beyond simple camaraderie. The question now was what, if anything, he intended to do about it.

Chapter Text

Camp Toccoa had its own rhythm, as Malarkey discovered. There were the clear routines—reveille, meals, training sessions, and lights out—but there were also subtler patterns. Conversations in the barracks would start off lively at the beginning of the week and become more introspective by Friday. Mail call had the power to alter the entire atmosphere, depending on who received letters and who did not. Sunday afternoons felt different, as if even the Army recognized that the men needed time to think about matters beyond war.

On one such Sunday afternoon, Malarkey found himself outside the barracks with a piece of paper and a pen, grappling with how to write to his family about experiences that were difficult to explain.

"Having trouble with your letter?" More asked, sitting beside him on the wooden steps.

"Something like that," Malarkey replied, gesturing at the mostly blank page. "How do you explain this place to your family when you're not even sure you get it yourself?"

More nodded, contemplating. He held a letter that appeared to be finished. "Who are you writing to?" he inquired.

"My parents and my sister," Malarkey said, pausing. "They keep asking if I've made friends, if I'm settling in. I want to say yes, but I'm not sure how to define friendship here."

"Different from civilian life?" More prompted.

"Yes, but not in the way I thought it would be." Malarkey shifted his gaze to More as he continued. "Back home, friendships are formed over shared interests or growing up in the same area. Here, it's more complex."

More was silent for a moment, and Malarkey sensed he was reflecting on deeper issues regarding military camaraderie.

"I believe friendship here hinges on trust—who you can rely on when things go awry and who you want to support in return," More said thoughtfully.

It was a simple yet profound insight that resonated with Malarkey. "Yeah," he replied. "That's... right. So tell them that. Let them know you've met people you trust, and who trust you back. They'll understand."

Malarkey nodded, but he remained focused on More, pondering his thoughts on trust and connection in such a setting. "What about you? Do you write to family?" he asked.

"I write to my aunt," More answered. "She's my only remaining family, and she worries about me." He lifted his letter. "I mostly share about training and the guys I've met. She likes knowing I'm not alone."

"Do you mention me?" The question slipped out, and Malarkey felt a blush creeping up. It felt too personal, hinting at his recent thoughts. Yet, More didn't seem uneasy.

"I do, actually. I told her I met someone who reminds me of my father—someone who cares about people and strives to do things right."

The comparison surprised Malarkey. "Your father?"

"He had a way of making others feel significant—not in a flashy manner, but in a way that showed their thoughts and feelings mattered, even if he disagreed." More paused, looking down at his hands. "You do that too."

Malarkey felt a familiar tightening in his chest, but this time it was accompanied by a sense of recognition, as if More had named something within him that he hadn't fully acknowledged. "I never saw myself that way," he admitted softly.

"Most people don't view themselves as others see them," More replied, meeting Malarkey's gaze. "That's part of what makes you worthwhile."

In More's eyes, Malarkey saw something that made his breath catch—not just affection, but something deeper, almost resembling longing, though he couldn't be certain if that was real or a projection of his own feelings.

"Al," he began, uncertain of how to proceed, but sensing that something needed to be expressed.

"I should finish my letter," More interjected, standing up with the fluid motion that indicated he was retreating from emotional territory. "Your family is probably worried."

"They are," Malarkey affirmed, yet he didn't move to resume his writing. "But they're not the only ones I think about when trying to explain this place."

More paused, hand on the barracks door. "What do you mean?"

Malarkey hesitated, searching for a way to articulate his feelings without crossing any boundaries. "I mean that the friendship aspect is more complicated than I anticipated too."

For a moment, More was silent. When he spoke, his voice was measured. "Complicated how?"

"Complicated like... some friendships seem to matter more than others, and you're unsure how to navigate that."

More remained still, processing Malarkey's words, weighing their significance. "Don," he finally said, his tone almost cautionary, "you need to be careful about what you say and where you say it."

"I know," Malarkey replied calmly. "I'm not naïve. I understand what's safe to express." But he continued, "I also recognize the difference between friendship and... something more."

More returned to sit beside Malarkey but kept a greater distance this time. "And what is that difference?"

It was a risky question that could lead to discussions neither could undo. Yet, looking at More's face, with its careful neutrality that concealed underlying tension, Malarkey realized they were already engaged in this conversation, whether they acknowledged it or not.

"The difference," Malarkey said softly, "is that friendship is about wanting someone to be safe and happy. The other is about wanting to be the one who ensures their safety and happiness."

More was quiet for a long while. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. "Don... I'm not asking for anything."

"I'm not expecting anything either," Malarkey quickly clarified. "I won't do anything reckless that could jeopardize either of us. I just... needed you to know that you matter to me. More than what friendship usually encompasses."

More's hands were clasped tightly, and Malarkey could see the internal conflict on his face. Finally, More responded, "You matter to me too," he said so quietly that Malarkey had to listen closely. "More than is probably wise."

The weight of that admission lingered between them, filled with implications neither could fully explore given their circumstances. Yet, it also brought relief to Malarkey, who realized he wasn't imagining their connection, that the feelings he was navigating weren't solely one-sided.

"So what do we do?" he asked.

"We be careful," More replied. "We avoid actions that might put us or anyone else at risk. And we..." he paused, searching for the right words. "We take care of each other as we have been, without worrying too much about labeling it."

It wasn't a declaration of love or a promise for the future, but it was an acknowledgment of something genuine between them and a commitment to safeguard that bond as they figured out its meaning.

"I can accept that," Malarkey said.

"Good," More said, his voice regaining steadiness, though the emotional weight of their conversation lingered in his eyes. "Because I don't think I could handle losing you, in any way."

The truth of this statement was almost overwhelming. Malarkey had to look away for a moment, focusing on the expansive Georgia landscape before him while he processed the depth of More's words.

"You won't," he assured him. "I mean it. No matter what happens, you won't lose me."

More nodded, and when he spoke again, his tone turned practical. "We should probably finish our letters. People will wonder if we don't write home regularly."

"Yeah," Malarkey said, picking up his pen. But before he began, he glanced at More once more. "Al?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For trusting me enough to be honest about this."

More's smile was small yet sincere. "Thank you for making it safe to be open."

As they settled into the comfortable quiet of writing, Malarkey found the words flowed more freely now. He wrote about training, the challenges faced, and victories achieved. He wrote about the friendships he was cultivating and the confidence he was gaining. And in between the lines, he expressed how caring for someone could make you feel both stronger and more vulnerable simultaneously.

When he sealed the envelope, he realized he had managed to convey something true about his experiences in this place—not the entirety of his truth, as there were aspects he could never share, but enough for his family to understand that he was evolving into someone different from the young man who had left Oregon months before. Someone who recognized that the most significant connections in life often required the greatest courage to acknowledge.

Chapter Text

Fort Benning, Georgia, was distinctly different from Toccoa, not just in its geography but also in the nature of the training. It was more specialized, concentrating on skills essential for survival when they leaped from perfectly good airplanes. The instructors had a different approach as well; they focused less on breaking down the trainees and more on developing the specific skills that would make them effective paratroopers.

For Malarkey, however, the most significant change was the evolution of his relationship with More in the weeks following their conversation outside the barracks. While nothing overtly changed, their careful public dynamic of close friendship remained intact. Yet, an unspoken awareness of deeper feelings now colored their interactions in subtle ways that Malarkey was constantly conscious of. He noticed how More's hand would linger slightly when helping him with his parachute harness, or how he found himself studying More's expressions during briefings, paying attention not just to the words but to the emotions behind them. They had developed a system of small gestures and meaningful glances that allowed them to convey unspoken thoughts and feelings. This delicate balance between acknowledgment and restraint was both exhilarating and frightening.

One morning, as they prepared for their third practice jump, More noticed Malarkey's distraction. "Something on your mind?" he asked in the ready room as they meticulously checked their equipment. While other men were engrossed in their own routines, Malarkey was primarily focused on More's presence and the concern in his tone.

"Just thinking about the jump," Malarkey replied, which was partly true. He was indeed thinking about the jump, but he was also preoccupied with More's awareness of his distraction and the reliance he felt on that attention, which brought both comfort and concern.

"Are you nervous?" More inquired, and Malarkey could sense no judgment in his question, only genuine curiosity.

"A little," Malarkey admitted, finishing up his reserve chute check, and he met More's gaze, which was filled with the intent to understand.

"Do you want to talk about it?" More asked, creating an inviting space for Malarkey to express whatever was weighing on him—be it tactical worries, personal anxieties, or the complex emotions between them. It was a rare gift, this unconditional support, but it also felt like a responsibility, as Malarkey wanted to be deserving of such care. At times, like now, he feared that his emotional struggles might become a burden for More.

"It's not the jump itself," Malarkey finally confessed. "It's everything else—the fact that we're getting closer to shipping out, that this training leads to something real."

More asked if he was scared, his tone devoid of judgment, merely interested in Malarkey's feelings.

"Yeah, but not in the way you might think," Malarkey said, pausing to articulate his thoughts. "I'm afraid of what war will do to us—not just physically, but who we'll become and whether we'll still be the same people afterward."

More considered this for a moment. "You're worried about losing yourself."

Malarkey nodded, glancing around to ensure they weren't overheard. "And I'm concerned about losing what matters to me." Although he didn't say it directly, More understood the implication.

More then reached out for a brief moment, squeezing Malarkey's shoulder—a gesture of reassurance loaded with unspoken meaning. "You won't lose what matters, not if we take care to protect it," More said quietly.

"How can you be so sure?" Malarkey asked.

"Because the connections that truly count—how we care for one another—are more resilient than they appear. They can endure far more than you might think."

Malarkey recognized the wisdom in More's words, not from military experience, but from someone who had faced loss and learned to distinguish what could be preserved.

"Your father?" Malarkey asked, understanding the context.

"Among other things," More replied, his tone steady yet emotional. "When he passed, I thought I would lose everything that tied me to him. But I didn't. The essential things remained—the lessons he taught me, his worldview, the person he hoped I would become."

"That's different, though. That's memory," Malarkey argued.

"Is it?" More countered, meeting his gaze. "What do you think you'll remember about this place and the people here? Will it be specific conversations, or something larger?"

Reflecting on this, Malarkey realized More was right. Years later, when he looked back, it wouldn't be the singular moments he recalled, but the essence of feeling understood by someone who saw him clearly and cared for him regardless. It was about belonging to something greater and recognizing his own capabilities.

"The bigger thing," Malarkey concluded.

"Exactly. And that's not something war can take away from you because it's intrinsic to who you are now."

Just then, the call came for them to line up for boarding. As they fell into formation, Malarkey pondered resilience and how to safeguard what truly mattered.

The jump itself was routine; they had practiced enough that the mechanics felt automatic. Yet, as he descended under his canopy, taking in the sprawling Georgia landscape, he reflected on their earlier conversation and the various forms of courage the impending war would demand. Physical courage was necessary—the readiness to face danger, leap from planes, and perform the tasks of a paratrooper. But equally important was emotional courage—the willingness to care for others despite the vulnerability it entailed and to maintain connections, even when they came with risks.

Landing smoothly, Malarkey began gathering his chute just as More touched down nearby. They walked toward the collection point side by side.

"Good jump," More remarked.

"Yeah, it was," Malarkey replied, hesitating. "Al?"

"Yeah?" More responded.

"What you said earlier about protecting what matters—just know that I understand what you mean. I'll do my best to be worthy of… whatever this is between us."

After a brief pause, More spoke softly but firmly, "You already are, Don. You've been worthy from the start."

It was a simple affirmation, yet it carried the weight of their unexpressed feelings. As they merged back with their group for equipment turn-in and debriefing, Malarkey held onto those words like a protective charm against the uncertainties ahead. Whatever awaited them in Europe, whatever challenges the war might bring, he knew he had this: the reassurance that someone recognized his worth and understood him. It wasn't everything, but it was enough to build upon, and in a world growing increasingly uncertain, that felt like more than sufficient.

Chapter Text

The notification arrived on a Tuesday morning in late spring: Easy Company was set to depart for England within the week. The news electrified the barracks, generating a tension that Malarkey had come to associate with moments of impending change.

"Finally," Liebgott exclaimed, his voice a blend of excitement and anxiety, capturing the overall sentiment. "I was starting to think they were going to keep us here forever."

"Be careful what you wish for," Babe interjected. "Once we're over there, there's no coming back until it's over."

Malarkey absorbed the chatter around him but remained focused on More, who was methodically packing his gear on his bunk with the same meticulousness he applied to everything. More's stance—a slight tightness in his shoulders and a purposeful manner in his actions—hinted that he was preoccupied with more than just his belongings.

"You okay?" Malarkey asked quietly, taking a seat on his own bunk across from More.

"Fine," More replied, not lifting his gaze from his packing. "I just want to make sure I don't forget anything important."

While that seemed plausible, Malarkey had spent enough time with More to recognize when he was deflecting emotional issues with practical ones.

"Al," Malarkey urged.

More paused, finally meeting his eyes. "What?"

"What's really going on?"

More hesitated, surrounded by the bustle of men packing, writing letters, and chatting, yet Malarkey felt a profound silence between them, sensing the struggle within More.

"It's stupid," More finally admitted.

"Try me," Malarkey encouraged.

After a moment of silence, More put down the shirt he was folding. "I keep thinking this is it. No more training, no more practice jumps, no more pretending. Once we get on that ship, everything becomes real."

"You having second thoughts?" Malarkey asked.

"No," More responded firmly, without hesitation. "Not about the war or being here. But..." He trailed off, searching for the right words. "I keep thinking about how things might change once we're in combat. How people change, and what could be lost."

Malarkey understood now; More wasn't concerned about the physical dangers of war—though those were genuine—but about the emotional toll it might take. He feared that the bonds they had formed might not withstand the shift from training to combat.

"You're worried about us," Malarkey said softly.

"Among other things," More replied, his voice cautious, yet the vulnerability was clear. "What we have here, the way we... the way things are between us. It's possible because this place is separate from reality. But once we're over there..."

"Once we're over there, we'll still be us," Malarkey reassured him. "The war may change some things, but it won't alter what's truly important."

"How can you be so sure?" More asked, a valid question that Malarkey had been grappling with too.

The truth was, he could not be certain. War transformed people in unpredictable ways, and there was no assurance that their connection would endure under the strain they were about to face. However, looking at More—at the careful way he seemed to be shielding himself from potential loss—Malarkey realized that uncertainty didn't equate to hopelessness.

"I can't be sure," he admitted. "But I know what I want to protect, and what I'm willing to fight for. And that includes us."

More's expression softened, some tension easing from his face. "Don..."

"I know we can't promise things we can't control," Malarkey continued. "But I can promise that I won't let go of what we have without a fight. Whatever happens over there, whatever we have to face or become, I will remember who we are to each other."

"Even if it gets complicated? Even if it becomes dangerous?"

"Especially then," Malarkey affirmed, his voice steady, carrying the weight of a promise made not just to More, but to himself. "The things that matter most often require the most courage to hold onto."

More fell silent for a long moment, processing Malarkey's words against his own fears and uncertainties. Finally, he nodded.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, yeah. You're right."

"About which part?" Malarkey inquired.

"About fighting for what matters," More replied with more confidence. "About remembering who we are to each other."

Their conversation was interrupted by Sergeant Lipton, who entered the barracks with a purposeful gait, signaling that important information was forthcoming.

"Listen up," Lipton announced. "I've got your shipping orders and what to expect when we reach England."

As Lipton began his briefing, Malarkey found himself only partially focused. The practical details—departure times, what to bring, and ship conditions—were important, but he was more aware of the larger reality settling in. This was the end of training, the conclusion of the relatively safe space they had occupied for the past year, and the start of whatever lay ahead.

Soon, they would be on a ship crossing the Atlantic, heading toward a war that would test everything they had learned and become. Yet, as he glanced at More, who was absorbing Lipton's words with the same careful attention he brought to everything meaningful, Malarkey felt a surge stronger than fear—perhaps determination or hope. He realized that no matter what challenges awaited them, he would not face them alone; he had something worth protecting and someone to protect it with.

When the briefing concluded and the men began to disperse, More caught Malarkey's gaze.

"Want to take a walk?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, I'd like that."

They stepped outside the barracks, making their way toward the camp's edge, where the training grounds met the Georgia forest. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows, and Malarkey found himself trying to imprint the scene in his memory. This place had been home for nearly a year, and despite its challenges, it had been where he'd discovered parts of himself he might not have otherwise.

"Strange to think we won't be coming back here," More remarked, echoing Malarkey's thoughts.

"Yeah," Malarkey replied. "But we're taking the important parts with us."

"The important parts?" More asked.

Malarkey gestured broadly at the camp before looking directly at him. "What we learned here. Who we became. The people we..." He paused, carefully choosing his words. "The people we care about."

More nodded slowly. "Yeah, we are."

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, each lost in thoughts about what they were leaving behind and what lay ahead. As the sun set, casting a warm glow over the forest, More spoke again.

"Don?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever happens over there, whatever we have to do or see or become—I want you to know that this time, this place, what we've found here... it's been the best part of my life so far."

Malarkey felt his breath catch at More's honesty. "Al..."

"I'm not saying this to make things harder," More continued. "I'm saying it because I want you to know. If something happens to one of us, I want there to be no doubt about what this meant to me."

Malarkey stopped walking and turned to face More directly. They were alone in the forest, and for a moment, the boundaries they maintained felt less significant than acknowledging what existed between them.

"It's been the best part of my life too," Malarkey replied quietly. "And nothing that happens over there is going to change that."

More stepped closer, just within reach, and Malarkey could see the emotions in his eyes, the careful control he upheld even in moments like this.

"I wish..." More started, then paused.

"What do you wish?" Malarkey prompted.

"I wish things were different. I wish we lived in a world where this could be simple."

"So do I," Malarkey responded softly but firmly. "But we don't. And that doesn't lessen its reality or importance."

More nodded, and for a moment, they stood close enough to touch, yet maintaining the necessary distance dictated by their circumstances. Eventually, More stepped back, shifting the focus back to practicality.

"We should head back," he said. "People will wonder where we are."

"Yeah," Malarkey agreed.

As they walked back to the barracks, Malarkey reflected on the courage it took to love someone in a time and place where that love couldn't be fully acknowledged. It wasn't the kind of bravery that earned medals or recognition, but it was courageous nonetheless—the willingness to care deeply about someone, even when such feelings came with risks.

Tomorrow, they would begin their journey away from this place and toward whatever the war had in store. But that night, strolling through the darkness with More by his side, Malarkey felt prepared for whatever lay ahead. He had something worth fighting for, and that had to be enough.

Chapter Text

The troop transport Samaria lived up to its reputation: overcrowded, uncomfortable, and built with practicality in mind rather than comfort. Five thousand men were crammed into a space that would have felt tight even with half that number, sleeping in stacked bunks with hardly any room to turn, and eating meals that were adequate in nutrition but little else.

Yet for Malarkey, the physical discomforts of the journey paled in comparison to the strange psychological shift he felt as they moved farther from American shores. The familiar routines of training and camp life faded, replaced by the ship's relentless motion and a peculiar mix of boredom and anticipation, knowing they were heading toward something significant but lacking any means to prepare beyond their prior experiences.

"How many more days?" Babe asked, slumped against his bunk, his face showing the slight green hue common among those struggling with seasickness.

"Six, maybe seven," More replied. He was one of the few unaffected by the ship's motion, navigating the confined space with the same ease he had on land. "It depends on the weather and any course changes."

"Christ, I'll be glad when this is over," Liebgott grumbled. "I'd take a foxhole over this floating prison any day."

Malarkey listened to the familiar complaints with only half an ear, more interested in observing how More was adjusting to the situation. While most of the men battled seasickness or restlessness, More adapted to ship life with his usual practicality. He discovered the best times to navigate the ship without dealing with crowds, found spots for a few moments of privacy, and established a routine that made the time pass more easily. Malarkey recognized this as yet another instance of More's ability to find stability amid chaos—not by ignoring the problems but by accepting them and working within the limits they imposed.

"Want to get some air?" More asked quietly, appearing at Malarkey's side as if he had been attuned to his mood.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

They made their way through the ship's narrow passages to one of the deck areas where men were allowed during designated hours. The Atlantic stretched endlessly before them, gray under an overcast sky. The wind was sharp and cold, but after the stale air below deck, it felt refreshing.

"Better?" More inquired.

"Much," Malarkey replied, moving to the rail to gaze out at the water. "Sometimes I can't believe we're actually doing this—crossing the ocean to fight in a war that most of us couldn't have pointed out on a map two years ago."

"Strange way to see the world," More acknowledged. "Though I suppose there are worse ways to travel."

"Are there? I can't think of any right now."

More laughed, the sound whisked away by the wind. "Fair point. But think about it—how many people from our hometowns will ever see England or France or wherever we end up?"

This perspective struck Malarkey, revealing another facet of More that he was still discovering. Despite the circumstances that had brought them to this point and the dangers ahead, More seemed capable of finding a sense of wonder in the experience.

"You're looking forward to it," Malarkey said, referring to seeing Europe.

"Parts of it, yeah," More replied, pausing. "My father used to share stories about the places he wished to visit—England, France, Italy. He never got beyond Colorado, but he absorbed everything he could find about those places. I always thought I'd travel there someday and bring back pictures for him."

"And now you're going."

"Now I'm going," More said, his voice tinged with both excitement and regret, sentiments that Malarkey was beginning to associate with discussions about his father. "Not how either of us imagined, but still."

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the water and the occasional seabird that trailed the ship. Other men around them engaged in similar conversations—about home, the future, the surreal experience of being suspended between two lives.

"Don?" More's voice was softer now, nearly lost in the wind.

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

More appeared to be contemplating how to phrase his thoughts. "Do you ever think about what happens after? When the war's over?"

"Sometimes. Why?"

"I've been thinking about it more lately—what I want to do, where I want to go." He paused. "About who I want to do it with."

The weight of those words hung between them, laden with implications that Malarkey hesitated to explore.

"Al…"

"I know we can't make plans," More added quickly. "I know there are too many variables, too many uncertainties. But I can't help thinking about it."

Malarkey met his gaze directly. "What do you think about?"

"About going back to Colorado. About the ranch, and whether I want to rebuild or sell it and pursue something entirely different." More spoke thoughtfully, as if he was processing his ideas in real time. "About whether I want to do it alone."

The implication was unmistakable, and Malarkey felt his heart race. They were discussing a future together—not directly, and not in a way that could be easily overheard, but the meaning lingered nonetheless.

"That's a big ranch for one person," Malarkey said cautiously.

"It is. I always thought it would be better with a partner—someone who understood the work, who cared about doing it right. Someone you trust. Someone I trust completely." More's voice was soft yet clear. "Someone I couldn't imagine doing it without."

Malarkey's grip on the rail tightened. They were venturing into a space that was both exhilarating and daunting, discussing possibilities that seemed both inevitable and impossible.

"What about Oregon? Your family business?" More asked.

"My father has my sister to help him now. And honestly…" Malarkey hesitated, reflecting on a realization that had developed over the past months. "I don't think I'm the same person who left Oregon. I'm not sure I could go back to that life even if I wanted to."

"What kind of life do you want?"

That simple question cut straight to the core of everything Malarkey had been struggling with. What did he truly want? Not just regarding the war or the immediate future, but for his entire life?

"I want something that matters," he finally replied. "Work that makes a difference, connections with people who understand what that entails. I want…" He grappled for the right words to express feelings he had never articulated. "I want to build something with someone who sees the world as I do."

"Someone like me?"

The question was so quiet that Malarkey almost missed it. When he looked at More, he saw a blend of vulnerability, hope, and fear in his expression.

"Someone exactly like you," Malarkey affirmed.

For a moment, silence enveloped them. The admission lingered between them, more explicit than anything they had previously shared, carrying implications that both thrilled and terrified Malarkey. They were contemplating a shared future, the prospect of constructing a life that honored their feelings for each other.

"We should be cautious with this conversation," More advised at last. "About where we have it and who might overhear."

"I know. But Al…" Malarkey turned fully to him. "I'm glad we're having it. Even if we can't act on it right now, I'm relieved to know I'm not the only one thinking about it."

"You're not. You're definitely not."

Their moment was interrupted by the arrival of other men seeking fresh air, shifting the atmosphere back to the careful normalcy they maintained in public. As they returned below deck, Malarkey held onto the conversation like a comforting warmth against the cold Atlantic winds.

They had discussed the future and the possibility of building something together, envisioning a life beyond the war. It wasn't a promise—too much was uncertain—but it was hope. In the middle of the ocean, heading toward an unknown conflict, hope felt like the most precious thing in the world.

That night, lying in his cramped bunk and listening to the sounds of five thousand men attempting to sleep in tight quarters, Malarkey found his thoughts drifting to Colorado. To vast open spaces and work that connected one to the land and seasons. To waking up next to someone who understood what mattered to him and why.

He recognized it was a risky dream, one that could shatter his heart if he clung to it too tightly. But as the ship carried them through the darkness toward whatever awaited them across the ocean, Malarkey resolved that some dreams were indeed worth the risk.

Chapter Text

Aldbourne was both similar and dissimilar to what Malarkey had envisioned for an English village. The thatched roofs and narrow streets mirrored the images he had seen in books, yet the experience of being there—listening to the English accents in everyday dialogue, seeing signposts pointing to places he had only read about—felt oddly dreamlike.

"It's strange to consider that people have been living here for centuries," More reflected as they strolled through the village on their first day of freedom. "It gives the impression that you're merely passing through history rather than creating it."

"Speak for yourself," Liebgott interjected. "I intend to make a lot of history before this is done."

"That's what I'm worried about," More replied dryly, and Malarkey noticed the smile that accompanied his words.

The accommodations in Aldbourne were a notable improvement from those on the ship, though that wasn't saying much. Easy Company was spread across various houses in the village, with most men sharing rooms in a crowded but manageable manner. Malarkey and More ended up in the same billet, sharing a small house with Babe and Liebgott, owned by an elderly woman who seemed both pleased and frightened to have American paratroopers in her home.

"She keeps bringing us food," Babe noted after their first week. "Little cakes and treats. I think she's trying to fatten us up."

"Or poison us," Liebgott countered. "Maybe she's a German spy."

"Mrs. Shaw is not a German spy," More said patiently. "She's just a kind old lady who worries about us."

"How do you know?" Liebgott challenged.

"Because she asks about my mother every time I walk in," More responded, grinning slightly. "And then she gives me tea as if that will solve all the world's problems."

"Maybe it will," Malarkey mused, sitting by the fireplace with one leg draped over the other, watching as More neatly folded his overshirt. The domesticity of their evenings and the rhythm of village life felt like a memory being crafted rather than a current reality.

However, even amidst Aldbourne's tranquility, ominous signs were beginning to emerge. It started with more drills, night exercises, equipment checks, and additional parachute rigging inspections. The officers appeared more tense. Winters wore that familiar expression once again—the one that indicated he had information he couldn't share yet.

Rumors began to circulate, too: a new moon approaching, a significant increase in Allied aircraft, General Eisenhower visiting nearby camps, and finally, sealed orders. They all sensed it was imminent. The day they had been preparing for since Toccoa, the day that had haunted their nightmares and influenced every moment—they knew it was just around the corner.

Within their billet, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations grew less frequent, and a more serious routine took hold, with men staring at the walls for a bit too long.

One evening, Malarkey descended the narrow stairs to find More at the kitchen table, maps scattered around his tea mug, one boot unlaced and resting on his knee.

"You can't sleep either," Malarkey observed quietly.

"No," More replied, not looking up at first. "Too much on my mind. Logistics, mostly. And everything else."

Malarkey crossed the room and settled beside him, opting not to sit across the table. They no longer needed that distance.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

More exhaled slowly. "No one is ready for this. But I know what I have to do. That's as close as we get."

Malarkey nodded and picked up one of the folded maps, turning it over in his hands as if it might hold answers. "They say it's France. Normandy."

"That's the impression I get." More finally met his gaze, the lamplight highlighting the shadows under his eyes and the weight of responsibility on his face.

"Are you scared?" Malarkey admitted. "Yeah. Not just about getting shot. About everything. About witnessing something I can't recover from. About who I will become afterward."

More nodded slowly. "I've thought about that, too."

"And?"

"I don't want to lose the part of me that found you," he whispered.

Malarkey closed his eyes for a moment, feeling that familiar surge in his chest. "Then don't," he urged. "Whatever happens over there, hold onto it. Hold onto us."

After a brief pause, More reached across the table and grasped Malarkey's hand for a moment before the moment slipped away.

They packed in silence the next morning, folding gear and checking equipment, polishing boots, and securing dog tags, all while pretending that these small tasks mattered when their destinies had already been set. As dusk approached, they were on their way to the airfield, the sky heavy and gray above them. The hedgerows of Wiltshire gradually gave way to staging areas filled with canvas tents and restless soldiers.

As night fell, so did the barrier between one life and another. Tomorrow, they would parachute into France. Tomorrow, everything would change.

Chapter Text

The airfield at Upottery unfolded like an expansive canvas, a chaotic yet organized flurry of activity as men prepared for the monumental task ahead. Rows of C-47s stood waiting on the tarmac, their engines silent for now, yet the atmosphere buzzed with an unshakeable anticipation, an electric charge felt by every soldier in Easy Company. The mingling scents of aviation fuel and the dampness of the English air created a unique aroma that would forever be etched in Malarkey's memory, serving as a poignant reminder of these moments—the final hours before their lives would irrevocably change.

As Easy Company gathered around their assigned aircraft, they bore the marks of impending battle; dark streaks of war paint adorned their faces, transforming them into figures reminiscent of ancient warriors preparing for a fierce confrontation. Malarkey glanced at his reflection on the metal surface of the plane, feeling almost unrecognizable. The young man from Astoria had been replaced by someone forged through trials, someone hardened by the rigorous training and the weight of responsibility now resting on his shoulders.

"Stick thirteen!" Winters called out, his voice resonating across the tarmac with the authority that had guided them through the arduous challenges of Toccoa, enduring Sobel's harsh leadership, and countless grueling exercises. "Final equipment check!"

Malarkey adjusted his parachute harness for what felt like the hundredth time, the heavy load of his gear pressing down, a constant reminder of the stakes at hand. His rifle, ammunition, first aid kit, rations, and water were all secured, each item meticulously strapped to him like armor, essential for survival in the uncertain hours ahead. Beside him, More was methodically checking his own gear, his familiar precision evident even in the dim light of the airfield.

"You know what I keep thinking about?" Babe's voice broke through the tension, barely audible over the distant rumble of engines awakening around them. "My mother's meatloaf. Isn't that stupid? Of all the things to think about right now."

"Not stupid," Liebgott interjected, applying another layer of camouflage to his cheekbones. "I keep thinking about this girl I knew in San Francisco. I never even kissed her, but I wonder what might have been."

Malarkey exchanged a glance with More, who was lost in thought, his maps carefully folded in his jacket pocket. The weight of unspoken words loomed between them, a heavy silence filled with promises they couldn't make as the uncertainty of tomorrow loomed large.

Lieutenant Speirs approached their group, his face painted, resembling a specter come to guide them into battle. "Listen up!" he commanded, cutting through the pre-flight conversation with the sharpness of his tone. "Intelligence reports indicate heavy resistance at the drop zones. Expect scattered landings, confusion, and chaos. Your mission is to find your unit, complete your objectives, and above all, stay alive."

He paused, scanning their faces with the coldness of someone who had witnessed far too much. "Some of you won't make it through tomorrow. That's the stark reality. But those who do will earn the right to call themselves veterans. Don't let your buddies down."

His words hung in the air like a heavy shroud, a somber reminder of the gravity of their situation. Malarkey felt his throat tighten—not solely from fear but from the immense weight of the reality they were about to face. This was no longer just training; this was the moment when everything became real, and there would be no second chances.

"Mount up!" came the call from the shadows, prompting them to file toward the open door of the C-47, each man carrying the hopes and fears not just of themselves, but of an entire nation on their backs. Malarkey paused at the threshold, taking one last glance at the rolling English countryside. Somewhere out there was Aldbourne, the quaint village that had become home, where he discovered parts of himself he had never known existed.

---

Inside the plane, the atmosphere was cramped and stifling, the air thick with the smell of sweat and weapon oil. He found himself wedged between More and Babe, their knees touching in the narrow confines. As the engines roared to life, drowning out any conversation, each man was left to grapple with his own thoughts.

As they began their flight across the English Channel, the experience was filled with a mix of adrenaline and fear. Twenty men were crammed into the metal aircraft, surrounded by darkness and the weight of uncertainty. Some attempted to sleep, others stared blankly at the ceiling, and a few whispered prayers, hoping for safety. Malarkey felt himself oscillating between anxiety and a peculiar sense of calm, as if he had come to terms with the fact that some elements were beyond his control.

More sat next to him, eyes closed but clearly not resting, hands resting on his knees, fingers occasionally twitching as though he was mentally rehearsing every possible scenario they might encounter upon landing.

"You okay?" Malarkey whispered, his voice barely rising above the roar of the engines.

More opened his eyes just a fraction and nodded. "Just thinking about the rally points. If we get scattered—and we will—the key is getting everyone back together quickly."

"That's not what I meant," Malarkey replied, locking eyes with More. He sensed a flicker of shared emotions between them—fear, perhaps, or regret, or just the weight of all the unsaid words.

More's hand shifted slightly as if he wanted to reach out, but he hesitated before pulling back. "I know," he said quietly. "I'm okay. We're going to be okay."

It was a comforting lie; both men understood that sometimes, such fabrications were necessary, especially when the truth felt too burdensome to carry into battle.

---

Suddenly, the plane shuddered, and red lights began flashing near the cockpit. Malarkey's heart raced as realization struck—anti-aircraft fire. They were now flying over France, deep in enemy territory, and the Germans were firing back.

"Ten minutes!" the jumpmaster shouted, his voice slicing through the engine noise. The men sprang into action, finalizing their preparations, adjusting straps, and perhaps making peace with whatever deities they held dear. Malarkey felt his heart pounding fiercely, the familiar tightness in his chest growing stronger than ever before a jump. But this time was different; this time, they would be under fire before they even touched the ground.

"Five minutes!" The men rose in unison, shadows shifting against the dim red light of the aircraft. The jumpmaster moved to the door, working to open it against the rushing wind that would soon greet them. As the door swung open, the sound of distant explosions and the acrid scent of smoke poured in.

Malarkey scanned the line of men, recognizing familiar faces that had become like family—Babe, wide-eyed yet resolute; Liebgott, grinning with wild determination; Guarnere, steadfast and solid. More stood at the front of the line, ready to lead them into whatever awaited.

"One minute!" the jumpmaster shouted, and the green light flashed. In that moment, they surged forward, propelled by instinct and training, each man edging toward the open door like cattle moving toward slaughter. Malarkey felt himself moving without conscious thought, muscle memory taking over as anxiety clouded his mind.

More reached the door first, silhouetted against the night sky. He turned back briefly, locking eyes with Malarkey. No words passed between them, but a silent promise lingered in the space—a pledge, perhaps, or a farewell, or simply the acknowledgment that they had found something worth fighting for. Then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness below.

Malarkey approached the door, looking down at the vast expanse of France beneath him. Somewhere down there awaited German soldiers, and the fate of the war hinged on what would happen next. The jumpmaster's hand landed firmly on Malarkey's shoulder, and he stepped into the void.

---

The descent was pure chaos. Tracer fire illuminated the night sky like deadly fireworks, with anti-aircraft guns barking from hidden positions below. Malarkey felt bullets whiz past, heard the sharp cracks of rifle fire, and witnessed parachutes collapsing as their occupants fell victim to enemy fire before reaching safety.

He attempted to steer toward what appeared to be an open field, but the wind caught his chute, pulling him toward a dense line of trees. He hit the branches hard, limbs tearing at his face and gear before he crashed through to the ground below. The impact knocked the breath out of him, stars exploding in his vision.

For a moment, he lay still, assessing himself. Arms, legs, everything was intact—his rifle still strapped on, ammunition secure. Most importantly, he was alive.

Voices echoed through the darkness, German voices alarmingly close. Malarkey carefully extricated himself from his parachute harness, instinctively moving like a shadow through the underbrush, every sense heightened and alert. The rally point was to be a crossroads marked by a stone church, yet the darkness made everything appear the same.

He could hear sporadic gunfire in the distance, the sounds of fellow paratroopers navigating chaos or clashing with German patrols. Using the stars as his guide, he moved cautiously, stopping to listen for any friendly calls. The password was "flash," with the countersign "thunder," but so far, he had heard nothing but German and the occasional burst of American fire.

After what felt like an eternity—which was probably just thirty minutes—Malarkey finally heard what he had been longing for: the unmistakable sound of an American voice.

Chapter Text

The hedgerows were omnipresent, forming dense walls of intertwined roots and foliage, towering over the men and older than any of them could fathom. These natural barriers divided the Normandy landscape into narrow passages marked by mud and blood. Visibility was minimal, and every step felt like it could trigger an ambush. It had been two days since the parachute drop, and Malarkey had lost count of the firefights they had navigated or the dead they had bypassed. The chaos of the jump had scattered Easy Company throughout the French countryside, and even now, men were still trickling back in small groups.

“Anyone seen Blithe?” someone asked for the third time that day. Malarkey turned his head; it was Muck this time, scanning the treeline as if Blithe might appear out of nowhere. No one responded. More stood beside Malarkey, adjusting his rifle sling. “He jumped with us, right?” Malarkey confirmed. “Yeah, last I saw him, he was with Luz. That was… early morning after the drop?” More nodded but kept his gaze fixed on the hedgerow ahead, already assessing for potential movement, cover, and firing lines.

Since they landed, he had maintained a state of alertness, methodical and calm, as if his mind had shifted into an efficient mode while the rest struggled to cope. Malarkey both admired and worried about this focus. They were heading toward Carentan, a known strategic point connecting the beachheads.

They needed to capture it, and Easy Company was assigned to navigate through the maze of hedgerows to reach their goal. They moved in staggered formations, weaving between the thick natural barriers. Every hundred yards or so, Winters would call for a halt, checking their bearings and updating the platoon leaders. More and Malarkey typically found themselves near the front, as Winters valued More’s instinct for the terrain.

They hadn’t had a moment alone since the night before the jump; there simply hadn’t been time, just continuous marching, fighting, and snatched moments of sleep when someone else kept watch. Yet even without speaking, Malarkey felt a connection between them strengthen. Each time they lost sight of each other, his eyes sought More, and every gunshot made him tense until he saw that familiar silhouette again, rifle raised and scanning the area.

More rarely spoke, but when he did, his words were always quick and relevant. “Cover that angle,” he instructed Luz softly as they slipped into a narrow space between two hedgerows. “If they’re dug in on the other side, that’s where they’ll see us first.” Luz nodded without question. More may not have outranked anyone, but he moved with an understanding of the battlefield that others lacked. Winters recognized it too—he sought More’s input more than once, especially when the terrain became tricky.

A small farmhouse came into view, partially hidden behind a crumbling stone wall, prompting Winters to signal a halt. “Clear it,” he instructed quietly. “Two men.” Malarkey was already on the move before Winters finished speaking, and More fell in beside him in silence. The farmhouse was quiet as they approached from the east side, where a low wall offered some cover. Malarkey’s heart raced; he felt the sweat trickle down his back beneath the harness. Each doorway seemed like a potential threat. More signaled—he’d take the left, Malarkey the right. They burst through the door quickly, sweeping their weapons into the corners. Nothing. Just an empty space filled with broken furniture and the musty smell of damp straw.

Malarkey lowered his rifle slowly, breathing sharply. “You good?” More asked in a soft voice. “Yeah,” Malarkey replied, glancing around. “Just… a bit jumpy.” More nodded. “Stay jumpy. It keeps us alive.” They exited the farmhouse and signaled clear to Winters.

The column resumed its movement. The sun was rising higher, yet the air remained damp and chilly in the shadows of the hedgerows. Nearby, a machine gun fired off bursts—brief but distant. Everyone froze. “Not ours,” Lipton said. “Southwest, maybe two fields over.” “German patrol?” “Could be. Or someone else making a move,” came the response. Winters conferred with Nixon before giving the order to dig in. “Ten-minute break,” he said. “Stay alert.” They crouched behind the hedgerow, drinking from canteens and checking their weapons.

Someone passed around hardtack, and Luz struggled to light a cigarette, eventually giving up after the third match fizzled out. Malarkey leaned against the hedgerow, trying to steady his trembling legs. More settled down next to him without a word and, after a moment, offered half his rations. Malarkey glanced at him. “You haven’t eaten either,” he pointed out. More shrugged. “You need it more.” “That’s not how it works.” “It is if I say it is.” Malarkey chewed slowly, the dry food turning into paste in his mouth. “You think Blithe’s okay?” More took a moment to respond. “I think he’s quiet. Same as before. People like that tend to go unnoticed until it’s too late.” “You think he’s hiding?” “I think he’s scared. Like the rest of us. Maybe even more.” More looked at him. “That doesn’t mean he won’t turn up.” Malarkey wanted to believe that, wanted to hold onto hope.

As the break ended, they resumed their movement, now more cautiously, sensing resistance growing as they neared Carentan. Scattered mortar fire and tracer rounds lit the dusk. Two more men were wounded, one from another company. Blithe was still missing. By the second night, they had set up a makeshift camp behind a barn, sheltered by a sunken lane. They weren’t truly safe, but it was better than nothing. Winters ordered half the platoon to sleep in shifts while the other half took watch. Malarkey and More found themselves assigned the same rotation, as was customary.

Lipton preferred to keep effective pairs together, and Malarkey didn’t argue. They crouched behind the barn, rifles resting across their knees. The moon was thin overhead, providing just enough light to see by. Every distant noise could signal danger—be it a cow, a patrol, or worse. “Still with me?” Malarkey whispered. More shifted slightly. “Always.” Malarkey let that hang in the air for a moment before asking quietly, “Do you think we’ll make it?” More was silent for a long while. “I don’t know. But I think if I do, it’ll be because I wasn’t alone.” Malarkey turned to him, but More’s gaze remained fixed on the darkness beyond the hedgerow. “You know,” Malarkey said, lowering his voice again, “back home, I thought love was something that happened in summer. Easy, simple. Like songs on the radio.” More didn’t turn. “And now?” “Now I see it as something you find when everything is falling apart around you—something that remains steadfast.” More stayed quiet, but his fingers brushed against Malarkey’s for just a brief moment, conveying understanding. Dawn broke cold and gray, bringing orders. Carentan was their next objective. Tomorrow. They checked their gear—ammunition, bandages—writing letters, or at least trying to. Luz muttered curses under his breath as he crumpled his fourth attempt.

“Anyone seen Blithe?” Popeye asked. “Wasn’t he supposed to be with Dog?” “No,” Lipton clarified. “He was with Easy.” He surveyed the group. “Still hasn’t shown up?” Heads shook, some glancing toward the treeline. More remained silent, but Malarkey noticed his jaw tightening. “Do you think we’ll see him before the push?” Malarkey asked, but More didn’t reply. Later that night, as they were preparing for the final movement, a whisper came from the trees. “Blithe?” He appeared like a specter—mud-covered, hollow-eyed, tightly gripping his rifle. But he was alive. Malarkey clapped him on the shoulder. “Jesus. You made it.” Blithe nodded once, silently, before finding a spot next to the others and sitting down. More observed him for a long moment before turning to Malarkey.

“Tomorrow,” he said.
Malarkey met his gaze.
“Together.”
“Always.”

Chapter Text

They left before dawn, the hedgerows glistening with dew, the air thick with a silence that felt more like anticipation than calm. Malarkey sensed it in his chest, a tightness akin to the moment just before a parachute deploys. There was no turning back now. It was too early to relax.

Ahead of him in the line, rifle ready, boots moved silently over the disturbed ground. Malarkey had lost count of how many times they had executed this routine—advance, cover, sweep, clear. Yet, this time felt different. Carentan was not just a patrol; it was a town, a German stronghold, and Easy Company had orders to seize it.

They reached the outskirts as dawn's first light broke over the horizon. Shadows enveloped the buildings, their windows observing. The street narrowed into a funnel of uneven cobblestones, ideal for a machine gun position. Winters signaled, and squad leaders communicated with hand gestures. Go. Go. Go.

---

Blithe was behind Malarkey, and he could sense the man's quick, shallow, uneven breaths. He turned slightly to check.

"Blithe? You good?"

Blithe blinked, jaw tense, then nodded. "Yeah. Just... thinking."

Malarkey chose not to pry further. They pressed on.

Suddenly, shots rang out from a building on the right. Muck and Penkala retaliated. A smoke grenade was thrown, enveloping the street in a white haze.

"Move!" Winters commanded, and they charged forward, diving into doorways, alleys, and behind stone walls.

---

Malarkey found himself pressed against the wall of a dilapidated storefront with More beside him.

"Two targets spotted in an upstairs window," More said as he lifted his rifle.

Malarkey saw the muzzle flash and fired, one figure collapsed while the other retreated into the room. More pulled the pin from a grenade, counted to three, and tossed it through the window. Boom. Silence followed, then another shout—"Clear!"

They advanced further, moving through backyards and gardens littered with shattered glass and stained laundry. Each corner brought fresh gunfire, each turn claimed someone. Blithe stayed close, his rifle trembling slightly in his hands, but he kept moving. That was something.

---

They arrived at a junction where Winters called for a pause. Lipton pointed to two men. "Sweep the left flank."

"I got it," Malarkey replied.

More stepped forward too. "I'll go with him."

They slipped into a narrow lane. Every window felt like an eye, every alley an ominous passage. Malarkey's heart raced in his ears. He glanced at More, whose expression remained steady and focused. They reached the end of the street. It was deserted, marked only by a broken bicycle and a faint, unpleasant odor.

"Clear," Malarkey said quietly.

---

Back at the junction, the others had moved on. Blithe crouched next to a brick wall, scanning the upper floors of the nearest house. Malarkey approached him.

"You all right?"

Blithe nodded, eyes fixed ahead. "Trying to do my part." He sounded as if he needed to reassure himself more than anything.

Then a shot rang out, and Blithe jerked back.

"Sniper!" More yelled, pulling Blithe to safety.

Malarkey dropped beside them, heart racing. "Where?"

More pointed. "Third floor, left window, green shutters."

Malarkey aimed his rifle. Another shot rang out, shattering glass inches away from him. More then squeezed the trigger. One shot. Clean. The window darkened.

"Jesus," Malarkey whispered.

---

Blithe was clutching his shoulder, wide-eyed. Blood oozed between his fingers, but it wasn't gushing. Not deep.

"You're okay," Malarkey reassured him. "Just a graze."

Blithe nodded slowly, his mouth moving as if trying to articulate his thoughts. "I couldn't see him. I didn't..."

More placed a calming hand on Blithe's arm. "But you stayed. That matters."

They bandaged him up. Luz cracked a joke, and Popeye offered water. Blithe managed a shaky smile before they continued.

---

The push through Carentan lasted for hours, and at some point, rain began to fall. By midday, they reached the square where the last stronghold was positioned near the church. Winters rallied the squads for one final charge. Screams erupted, smoke billowed, and the sound of gunfire was like teeth chattering.

Then, silence.

Carentan was under their control.

---

Malarkey sat on the church steps, boots drenched, helmet tilted back. More sat beside him, cleaning his rifle.

"You okay?" Malarkey asked.

More nodded. "You?"

Malarkey surveyed the scene—the smoke, broken windows, and exhausted soldiers huddled in groups, too drained to talk. "Ask me tomorrow," he replied.

More offered a faint smile. "Deal."

Behind them, Blithe leaned against the wall, blinking slowly at the sky, appearing as if he were still waiting to awaken. Malarkey observed him for a long moment.

"He stayed," he said.

More followed his gaze. "He did."

This victory didn't come easily, nor would it ever. But it belonged to them. And for one more day, they were all still alive.

Chapter Text

The fight for Carentan had concluded, but the ensuing stillness was far from serene. Malarkey leaned against the decaying wall of an old stone house, methodically cleaning his rifle as if on autopilot. His fingers worked out of muscle memory rather than concentration. His thoughts drifted back to the square, where he could still hear the gunfire mingled with the church bells, recall the flash from a sniper's position, and visualize the dust kicked up by a bullet that narrowly missed him.

More sat opposite him, keeping watch over the street. Since the last offensive, he had hardly said a word—not due to a lack of thoughts, but because their unspoken words seemed buried beneath the rubble. Silence hung between them, not cold but taut like a drawn wire.

The town lay in a hushed state now. Easy Company secured the western perimeter, tucked into the remnants of buildings and half-burned shops, their weapons always close at hand, boots never fully unlaced. They took turns sleeping and ate their meals in quiet.

---

Blithe hadn't uttered a word since they treated his shoulder; he sat on a wooden crate outside a ruined café, gazing at the ground as if searching for something he had overlooked during the chaos. Malarkey approached, offering a tin of coffee.

"Here."

Blithe blinked slowly, taking a moment to comprehend before he nodded. "Thanks."

Malarkey settled beside him. The street was damp from the previous night's rain, with clouds hanging low, pressing down on the shattered roofs like hands trying to keep everything in place.

"You did well yesterday," Malarkey remarked.

Blithe remained silent.

"You stayed. That matters."

Blithe raised his gaze, his blue eyes wide and unfocused. "I couldn't see the sniper."

"No one could. Not until it was too late." He stared at his hands. "I keep thinking I'll freeze up. That when it really counts, I'll just stop moving."

---

Malarkey opened his mouth to reply, but More's voice broke through the morning stillness. "Heads up. Lieutenant."

Winters was crossing the square, flanked by Lipton and Nixon. His face was composed as always, but his gait hinted that something was about to unfold.

"Patrol," Winters stated. "We need eyes east. Just a sweep. Blithe, More, Malarkey—you're up."

Blithe tensed. Malarkey exchanged a glance with More, who nodded slightly.

"Grab your gear," Malarkey urged, giving Blithe a light pat on the arm.

---

Fifteen minutes later, the three of them moved out, navigating narrow alleys and partially collapsed structures. The air felt heavy with moisture. Each step crunched over shards of glass or slick cobblestones. They remained quiet, no words necessary. More led the way, his eyes constantly scanning. Malarkey brought up the rear while Blithe kept pace between them.

They passed a barn and a hedgerow torn apart by artillery. Fields stretched out ahead, lush and empty.

"Clear," More whispered as they crossed into the next street.

A distant dog barked, and a door creaked in the wind. Then, a shot rang out—sharp and close. Blithe gasped and collapsed.

"Sniper!" Malarkey yelled, diving behind a stone wall. "Where?"

---

More was already moving, pulling Blithe by his webbing into cover. Blood streamed from Blithe's neck, dark and fast.

"Jesus Christ, he's hit bad," Malarkey muttered, retrieving his field dressing. "We need pressure."

More was already applying firm pressure with the bandage. "Blithe. Stay with us. Look at me."

Blithe's eyes fluttered. "I didn't see him... again..."

"Doesn't matter. You're here. You're not done."

Malarkey scanned their surroundings, noting that nothing stirred. He reached for the radio in his pack. "This is Easy. We have a man down. Request immediate med evac. Sniper. Northeast building. Third floor, black shutters."

---

Minutes passed—too many. Blithe was growing pale. More didn't waver, maintaining pressure and speaking softly. "You're not dying today. You hear me? You're too damn stubborn."

When the medics arrived, they acted swiftly. One administered morphine while another secured Blithe tightly and lifted him onto a stretcher.

"Will he make it?" Malarkey asked.

The medic glanced up. "He's still breathing. That's all I can guarantee."

They watched as Blithe was carried back toward the square. Malarkey slumped against the wall. "Goddamn."

More wiped his hands on his pants. "It was one shot. Just one."

Malarkey nodded slowly. "That's all it takes."

Once more, they fell into silence, their eyes fixed on the trail of blood that marked their path.

---

Later that night, the rain returned. More lit a cigarette, his hands trembling. Malarkey observed him, then reached out to steady the lighter.

More glanced over. "I didn't see him either."

"Doesn't matter. You kept him alive."

More remained silent. They sat in that moment until the cigarette burned down to ash, while somewhere in the medical tent, Blithe continued to breathe.

Chapter Text

England once more. Not Aldbourne this time, but a location close enough to evoke familiar memories. The landscape was dotted with the same sturdy stone houses, weathered yet resilient against the persistent drizzle that seemed to be a constant companion. The narrow roads meandered through the countryside like veins, connecting various patches of green that spread out under the slate-gray sky.

Easy Company found themselves in a familiar position—waiting. Ahead loomed Operation Market Garden, though the name hadn't been revealed to them just yet. Instead, there were only briefings, filled with vague instructions that hinted at the challenges to come. The routine included more night jumps, thorough checks of their equipment, and meticulous counts of ammunition.

---

Malarkey perched on the edge of a low stone wall, skillfully peeling a bruised apple with his knife. The skin came off in long, thin spirals, a testament to his practiced hand. The air around him was infused with the comforting scents of smoke and wool, mingling with a subtle floral aroma from the field behind the barracks.

Nearby, More was engrossed in a book that appeared to have seen better days. Its cover was tattered, and the pages were yellowed with age, yet More's eyes moved steadily across the text, as if the words held significant meaning.

"Anything good?" Malarkey asked, breaking the silence.

More didn't look up, his focus unwavering. "It's poetry."

Malarkey smirked at the response, realizing the irony. "Of course it is. You asked."

He tossed a strip of apple peel toward a bird that flitted by, but it missed by mere inches, landing harmlessly in the grass.

---

"Do you think they'll have us jump again?" Malarkey inquired, curiosity edging his voice.

More marked his page with a torn ration card before responding. "Yes. Soon."

Malarkey raised an eyebrow, a hint of admiration in his tone. "You always seem to know things before the rest of us do."

More shrugged, a modest grin creeping across his face. "I just pay attention."

Chewing on a piece of apple, Malarkey pondered for a moment before asking, "Have you heard anything from Blithe?"

The question hung in the air, and More hesitated, the weight of the answer evident. "They say he pulled through. He got sent back to England. Might not return to the line."

---

A silence settled between them, and Malarkey felt a pang of loss. He missed Blithe—not in the way he missed home or the comfort of the past, but in a way that felt unresolved, like a loose thread in a fabric that needed mending.

"He was scared," Malarkey admitted, the words heavy on his tongue.

"So are we," More replied, his voice steady.

"Yeah," Malarkey echoed, and they lingered in the quiet, reflecting on their shared fears.

Men strolled past them, laughter ringing out as they lit cigarettes, their camaraderie a stark contrast to the tension in the air. Luz was caught up in a card game with Muck, clearly losing, while Lipton busily scribbled away, likely composing another letter to a loved one. Winters paced nearby, a man already in the throes of preparing for a briefing that had yet to be delivered.

Everything around them felt still, yet it was a stillness charged with anticipation—like the calm before an impending storm.

---

Finally, More stood up, breaking the silence. "Come on. Let's walk."

They made their way through the field, their boots crunching on the wet grass, while trees swayed gently overhead. The wind carried with it the distant smell of smoke from a nearby chimney, a reminder of home.

"Do you ever wonder," Malarkey began, his voice contemplative, "how long we can keep doing this before something breaks?"

More met his gaze, understanding the deeper implications of the question. "Yes. And?" he replied. "It doesn't matter."

Malarkey kicked at a stone, watching it bounce away as he mulled over the gravity of their situation. "You think we'll make it out of the next one?" he asked, his tone shifting to one of concern.

More shook his head slightly. "I don't think like that."

"Bullshit," Malarkey shot back, a mix of disbelief and hope in his voice.

More smiled faintly, as if to reassure him. "Okay. Then yes. I think we will."

"Even if it goes to hell?" Malarkey pressed.

"Especially then," More affirmed, a spark of determination in his eyes.

---

They paused beneath a tree, its branches heavy with late-summer leaves, the wind rustling through them like a gentle breath. Malarkey leaned against the sturdy trunk, contemplating the future.

"When this is over, if we get out… what then?"

More's gaze drifted away, lost in thought. "Then we build something better."

"With who?" Malarkey inquired, seeking a clearer vision for what lay ahead.

More remained silent, lost in the weight of the unspoken possibilities. Malarkey stepped closer, their shoulders brushing against one another as he urged, "Say it."

More finally met his gaze, and in that moment, the world around them faded. "With you," he said softly, a promise hanging in the air.

---

A breeze stirred the leaves above, causing a gentle shower to fall around them, a moment of serenity amidst the chaos of their lives. Somewhere back at the barracks, a voice shouted about missing socks, prompting a laugh from Luz, but beneath the tree, it was peaceful.

Malarkey reached out and touched More's hand for just a fleeting moment, a simple gesture of connection that conveyed everything they felt without the need for further words. They let that moment linger, savoring the quiet before the storm.

The following day, the sound of trucks arriving shattered the stillness, and orders were posted. They were gearing up to jump again—this time, into Holland.

Chapter Text

The sky above Holland was a dazzling spectacle, almost too bright to behold. Parachutes blossomed like vibrant flowers on a vast pale blue canvas, thousands of them catching the wind gracefully as they floated down toward the meticulously arranged fields, bordered by glistening canals and dusty roads, where rows of cows stood startled by the sudden appearance of these strange, descending forms.

From above, the landscape presented itself as flat and orderly, reminiscent of a model village set out for display, as if challenging the ravages of war to encroach upon its serenity. Yet, despite this illusion of peace, the war was relentless and approached without hesitation.

---

When Malarkey hit the ground, the impact was jarring, his parachute pulling him several feet across the terrain before he could detach from it. He quickly rolled to his feet, his rifle already gripped tightly in his hands. All around him, the members of Easy Company were landing, their descent accompanied by a cacophony of yells, the thuds of bodies hitting the earth, and the sharp sound of parachutes collapsing.

In the distance to the east, the staccato rhythm of machine gun fire echoed, a reminder that danger lurked nearby, not too far away but close enough to feel the weight of its threat.

Malarkey scanned the sky and spotted More, descending expertly with arms stretched against the parachute's canopy and legs bent, executing a textbook landing. Within moments, More was on his feet, already heading toward Malarkey.

"You good?" he asked.

"Yeah," Malarkey replied, breathless.

More nodded affirmatively. "Rendezvous point's that way."

Without hesitation, they moved onward.

---

The village they entered was a quaint collection of brick buildings with charming red roofs, bicycles left abandoned in open doorways, and lace curtains fluttering gently behind shattered windows, remnants of lives interrupted. In the narrow alleys, they encountered resistance fighters, their faces etched with determination yet tinged with fear, armed with outdated rifles and offering tight, anxious smiles. Children peeked curiously from behind their mothers' skirts, embodying innocence amidst the chaos.

Winters, leading the company with an air of clinical precision, navigated through the winding roads, marking objectives with unyielding clarity. They were tasked with taking bridges and holding their positions, but the reality of combat soon became evident. The enemy forces were closer than anticipated, better equipped, and more resolute than they had prepared for.

---

By nightfall, Easy Company found themselves pinned down outside a canal house, exchanging gunfire with a machine gun nest stationed across a muddy orchard. The air was thick with the acrid smell of cordite mixed with the earthy scent of wet soil. Tracer rounds illuminated the darkening sky, streaking like fiery comets.

"We need to flank it," Winters ordered, his voice steady amidst the chaos. "Luz, Malarkey, More—take the left fence line. Go wide."

They moved stealthily, crouched low, using the cover of darkness and the din of gunfire to conceal their approach. The mud clung to their boots like an unwanted weight, each step a reminder of the heavy toll of the terrain. Malarkey's breaths were sharp and quick, his heart racing as if it might leap from his chest at any moment.

When they reached the far edge of the orchard, More signaled that he had spotted two Germans lying flat behind a crate, their attention focused on the front. Malarkey lifted his rifle, took aim, and fired a single shot. More followed suit, and in an instant, the orchard fell into an eerie silence.

With their path cleared, Easy Company advanced, taking the house and clearing the road, only to press forward once more.

---

Days passed in a relentless cycle of seizing towns, holding bridges, and fending off counterattacks. In the stretch between Eindhoven and Nijmegen, More had a near-miss when a mortar shell exploded just five feet away from him, sending him sprawling to the side.

Malarkey was at his side within moments. "Al!" he called out, seeing More dazed, his helmet missing and a trickle of blood marring his cheek.

Slowly, More sat up, shaking off the disorientation. "Just ears ringing. I'm okay," he reassured Malarkey, who still held onto his arm until he was certain of his friend's safety.

They found makeshift shelters in barns, scavenging for whatever rations they could unearth. As letters from home ceased to arrive, time began to feel distorted, with days blending into one another, each marked by the same rhythm of conflict.

---

Yet, amid the chaos, they discovered fleeting moments of respite. In a dim cellar beneath a half-destroyed bakery, Malarkey and More shared a solitary candle and a ration tin of soup, the flickering light casting shadows on the walls.

"We never get a second to just breathe," Malarkey muttered, his voice reflecting the weight of their experiences.

More silently passed him a spoon. "So we breathe now."

Their hands brushed against one another, and in that simple touch, they found a moment of connection that transcended the horrors surrounding them.

---

Outside, the relentless march of war continued unabated, and as the mission known as Market Garden began to unravel, the realization settled in among the men: failure was imminent. Yet, despite the overwhelming odds, Easy Company stood their ground, continued to push forward, and fought to survive.

In the midst of Holland's ravaged beauty, Malarkey came to a profound understanding—that survival was not merely about enduring the fight but about discovering something meaningful worth fighting for. And in that moment, he realized he already had found it.

Chapter Text

They were still in Holland, but a perceptible change had settled over the landscape. The days had grown noticeably shorter, and the air had turned colder, carrying with it a biting chill that seemed to seep into the very fabric of their uniforms—creeping into sleeves and collars, whispering of harsher winters that lay ahead.

Malarkey could feel this shift deep within his bones; it manifested in the tremors of his hands as he struggled to strike a match, and in the tense silence that enveloped them during the lulls between firefights, a silence that felt more like a conclusion than a temporary reprieve. The echoes of Operation Market Garden had faded; while they had not entirely failed—after all, they had successfully held bridges, penetrated enemy lines, and exceeded many expectations—the bitter truth was that it simply wasn't enough. Each soldier was acutely aware of this reality.

The front lines had quieted, and they found themselves withdrawn to a nondescript village, a place barely marked on any map, where the brick structures still stood defiantly but bore the scars of conflict. Some families had returned, attempting to reclaim their lives amidst homes that were now devoid of glass in their windows, a stark reminder of the war's destructiveness.

The Company made do, finding shelter in barns, basements, and on floors that still held the imprints of German boots. Malarkey shared a cramped loft above a stable with his comrade More. Their space contained two bedrolls, a broken lantern that flickered with uncertainty, and just enough distance between them to become acutely aware of whatever unspoken tension lingered in the air.

It all began in silence, as many significant moments do. They settled into their routines—checking their gear, going on patrols, sharing bowls of soup, and managing watch rotations. Yet, a subtle but undeniable shift had taken place.

One night, Malarkey awoke, chilled to the bone and instinctively reached for the blanket they had draped over both bedrolls, only to find More's hand instead. They remained still, neither willing to disrupt the fragile moment. More shifted slightly, just enough for their fingers to rest against one another, a gentle contact devoid of pressure or urgency. They lingered in that position until dawn broke, the night air giving way to the pale light of morning.

The following day, they ventured into the nearby woods to search for kindling. Malarkey found himself kicking at frost-crusted leaves, his breath rising in puffs of fog against the crisp air.

"I had a dream," he remarked, breaking the silence.

More turned to him, adjusting his collar to shield against the biting wind. "Yeah?" he prompted.

"I was home. My dad was fixing the truck, and my mom was brewing coffee. It felt like I never left," Malarkey explained, nostalgia tinged with sorrow evident in his voice.

More fell quiet for a few moments, contemplating the weight of the words. "Did it feel good?" he finally asked.

Malarkey shook his head, a frown crossing his features. "No, it felt fake."

More took a moment to process this, then shared a thought that had been swirling in his mind. "Sometimes I think this is the real life. Not what came before us or what will follow. Just this—this strange stretch of time where nothing seems to make sense except for the person beside you."

Malarkey halted, turning to face More with a sudden intensity. "Is that what I am to you?" he asked, searching for clarity in More's unwavering gaze.

Without a hint of hesitation, More replied, "You're the only thing that does make sense."

As the wind rustled through the trees, and the distant sounds of gunfire echoed in the background—harmless for the moment—Malarkey felt the weight of his emotions. He took a step closer, drawn to More.

"I don't know what this is," he confessed, vulnerability seeping through his words.

"Me neither," More admitted, leaning in so that their foreheads almost touched, the contact so soft it felt like the gentle caress of the wind. "But I know I look for you in every fight, and I breathe easier when you're near. If I make it out of this, it will be because I had you by my side."

Malarkey's hand grazed More's sleeve, a gesture filled with unspoken meaning. "Say it again," he urged, needing reassurance.

"Which part?" More asked playfully.

"That I matter," Malarkey replied earnestly.

With a tender sincerity, More leaned in closer, their foreheads barely touching. "You matter," he affirmed.

They didn't kiss—not yet, and certainly not in that moment—but the space that once felt insurmountable between them had all but vanished. As they returned from the woods, carrying the firewood that would warm their small haven, that night they found themselves sleeping closer together, not entirely oblivious to what was unfolding, not fully brave yet, but undeniably on the path toward something deeper.

Chapter Text

Malarkey had always believed he would recognize the moment when everything shifted. He imagined there would be an unmistakable sign—perhaps a sound, an omen, or a subtle whisper in the air that would declare: this is the turning point. However, as the days leading up to Bastogne unfolded, they arrived with a disquieting sense of suddenness.

Orders were issued, and trucks were hastily packed with supplies and equipment. Yet, there was no comprehensive briefing to prepare them for what lay ahead; it was simply a whirlwind of activity. The pervasive cold infiltrated every aspect of their existence, not just resting on the surface of their skin but penetrating deep into their joints, filling their chests, and affecting their very breath.

While they were issued winter gear, much of it proved inadequate; half of the clothing didn't fit properly, leading to discomfort and frustration among the men. Some found themselves with boots that were a size too small, while others had no suitable footwear at all.

As Malarkey sat in the back of the truck, he pulled his gloves tighter against the relentless chill and gazed out at the landscape passing by. The view was bleak—brown fields stretched as far as the eye could see, bare trees stood like sentinels against a sky that resembled the color of gunmetal, casting a somber shadow over everything.

Beside him sat More, whose knee bounced nervously, fingers tightly gripping the strap of his helmet, a subtle indication of his own anxiety. Don hadn't intended to be so observant, but he couldn't help it. He noticed the slight slope of More's shoulders when exhaustion weighed him down and the way he rubbed his temple when he was engrossed in reading something. There was also the quiet, almost instinctual way More would ask, "You okay?"—a question that felt loaded with understanding, as though he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it confirmed.

Their connection transcended mere words exchanged beneath the tree in Holland or the gradual closeness they had developed while sleeping. It was something deeper, a bond that felt like a lifeline, a profound truth that tied them together. Don had always had a knack for humor, for filling the air with laughter and easing the tension among his comrades. Yet, with More, he found he didn't need to put in any effort.

When they stopped for the night at a depot in some Belgian village—whose name Malarkey didn't quite catch—they were given a modest meal of soup and bread and a brief respite near a warm stove. Afterward, they were instructed to get some rest. Once again, he and More found themselves in a barn, lying on makeshift straw pallets beneath a low ceiling, their breath creating foggy clouds in the chilly darkness.

They lay side by side, not quite touching but close enough to feel each other's presence.

"Are you scared?" Don's voice broke the silence, quiet yet probing.

More took a moment before responding. "No. Not in the way I used to be."

Intrigued, Don pressed for clarification. "What way is that?"

More's response was profound: "The kind that makes you run. This is the kind that just... sits in your chest. Heavy."

Turning to face him, Don could see the outline of More's face illuminated faintly by the light outside, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the gentle curve of his mouth. "You make it feel lighter," he said sincerely.

More blinked in surprise. "You're not just saying that because we might die next week?"

Don offered a reassuring smile. "No. I'd say it regardless."

More shifted onto his side, their knees brushing against each other in the dark. "Good," he replied softly. "Because I think about you more than I should."

In that moment, Don reached out and found More's hand, intertwining their fingers without any hesitation. "Think about me all you want," he whispered, "just stay close. Always."

They didn't kiss that night—at least not yet. But as Don Malarkey lay there, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, his heart racing against his ribs, he realized something significant had transformed within him. He was in love, and for the first time, he felt a sense of peace with that realization rather than fear. This bond, forged in the crucible of war, was something worth holding onto, no matter what the future might hold.

Chapter Text

The trees engulfed them, towering and menacing. Bastogne had ceased to be a town in the traditional sense; it had transformed into a desolate landscape dominated by battered pines and snow-filled foxholes. The sky above was a harsh white, while the breath of the soldiers formed gray clouds in the frigid air. Their boots, perpetually damp from the snow, seemed to absorb the cold as if it were a part of them.

Explosions echoed around them in relentless waves, sometimes so close they could feel the ground shake beneath their feet, other times far away but always looming as an unending threat. It felt as if the earth itself was trembling, holding its breath in anticipation of the next strike.

They had arrived just before dawn, the trucks halting at the edge of the woods, where the promise of shelter lay just beyond the trees. From there, they made the final trek on foot, rifles slung over their shoulders, boots crunching on the frost-covered ground. The silence was oppressive and unnerving, not the kind that offered safety but rather a foreboding quiet that hinted at the danger lurking just beyond their sight.

Malarkey had never experienced cold like this; not even the harsh winters of Oregon compared to the biting chill that penetrated every layer of clothing, digging deep into his bones and settling in like an unwelcome guest. The foxholes they occupied were shallow, barely offering protection from the elements or the enemy's fire, so they dug them deeper in a desperate attempt to find some solace.

Supplies were running dangerously low, with dwindling food and ammunition. They lacked winter gear, blankets, or any semblance of comfort. All they had was the oppressive wilderness, the biting frost, and each other.

More worked beside Malarkey, the sound of his shovel scraping against the frozen earth the only noise in the stillness. They didn't speak; there was little to say in such a grim situation. When the foxhole was finally deep enough, they huddled together, shoulder to shoulder, seeking warmth from one another's presence. There was no fire to ward off the chill, no source of heat to offer relief, only the closeness of their bodies and the shared rhythm of their breaths.

Above them, shells screamed through the air, a grim reminder of their reality, while snow fell softly during the brief lulls between the barrages, creating a stark contrast to the violence surrounding them.

Days began to lose their meaning, time blurring into a monotonous cycle of survival. Malarkey found himself counting the passing days by the meager rations they received: how many crackers he could scrounge, how many sips of coffee he could savor. On rare occasions, they were fortunate enough to have soup, but often they went without any food at all.

The cold seeped into his hands, rendering them numb, and his feet throbbed incessantly. By the second night, he could no longer feel his fingertips, the medic's warnings about frostbite echoing in his mind. The medic advised him to keep moving his fingers, but offered little else in terms of comfort or hope.

Winters moved from one foxhole to another, maintaining a calm focus that belied the chaos around them. But their comrade Blithe had not returned, and the toll of war was evident as men fell one by one: Popeye, Toye, and Guarnere, who endured the loss of part of his leg. The air around them continued to vibrate with tension.

Malarkey buried himself further into the confines of the foxhole, wrapping his coat tighter around him as if it could shield him from the world outside. More sat beside him, a silent sentinel, a rock amid the storm. Yet, even in that silence, Don could feel the warmth radiating from him, a steady pulse of life that countered the frigid air. It was that presence that he clung to, a tether to humanity in a place that felt increasingly devoid of it.

Their conversations were hushed whispers, a fragile attempt at connection.

"You okay?" Malarkey would ask, to which More would respond simply, "Cold."

They shared the same burden, the same suffering. Sometimes, Don would reach over and place his hand on Al's knee, a small gesture to remind themselves that they were still alive, that something real existed between them. Al never recoiled from that touch, an unspoken agreement passing between them.

One night, following a particularly harrowing bombardment, Malarkey leaned fully against More, resting his head on his shoulder as exhaustion washed over him. In a quiet moment, he whispered, "If I don't make it out, just know I chose you. Every damn day."

More turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing against Don's temple. "Then keep choosing me. Live," he urged, a determination in his voice that resonated deeply within Malarkey.

The ordeal at Bastogne didn't conclude in a single moment; it was a slow erosion of their spirits, wearing them down bit by bit. Yet, despite the relentless cold and despair, Don held on. He held on because Al did, because in the harshest winter they had ever faced, their bond provided the only warmth left in a world that had grown increasingly dark and cold.

Chapter Text

The shell struck with an abruptness that was both terrifying and surreal. Just a heartbeat before, Malarkey had been sharing a laugh, a sound so soft and fleeting it barely registered above the cold air. The humor had been sparked by one of Muck's silly remarks, leading to an eye roll from Penkala as they all huddled together at the edge of their foxhole. They were enjoying a rare treat—a small piece of chocolate that had been traded from a medic, a small luxury in the chaos around them.

But then, in an instant, the world morphed into a blinding white. The brightness was followed by a vivid splash of red, and soon after, everything faded to black.

When Malarkey regained consciousness, he found himself face-down in a thick layer of snow. His ears were ringing painfully, a high-pitched sound that drowned out everything else, and his vision was a haze of confusion. He realized his gloves were no longer intact; they had been shredded, leaving his hands exposed to the biting cold.

As he blinked against the stinging sensation of snowflakes mixed with smoke, he caught sight of Muck and Penkala—or what remained of them. The details of the explosion were a blur in his mind, but he later learned from others that he had screamed in terror, his voice somehow piercing through the chaos of the next shell explosion. More and Luz had pulled him away from the frontlines, dragging him back to safety, but in his frantic state, he resisted, desperate to return to his friends.

Yet, there was nothing left to return to; only ash and the endless expanse of white snow.

In the days that followed, a heavy pall settled over Malarkey's spirit. Everything felt gray and lifeless. He fell silent, his appetite dwindling, and his sleep became restless and fleeting. He remained in the foxhole, staring blankly at the dirt beneath his boots, his fingers twitching aimlessly as if searching for something to grasp onto.

More stayed close by, a constant presence, always just within reach but never too intrusive. He brought food and water without asking questions, understanding the shape and weight of grief that enveloped them all in Bastogne. Yet, Malarkey's sorrow was distinct; it had sharp edges, a rawness that cut deeper than mere loss.

Muck and Penkala had been more than just friends to him; they were integral pieces of his existence. They had shared laughter, exchanged letters from home, and were the only ones who knew the exact way he preferred his coffee before the war changed everything. Their absence left an incomprehensible void, warping reality into something that no longer made sense.

That night, the snow began to fall again, thick and gentle, as if the world was trying to cloak itself in a soothing embrace. More descended into the foxhole and settled beside Malarkey in silence at first, respecting the overwhelming heaviness that hung in the air. Don remained still, lost in his thoughts.

"I know you're hurting," More eventually said softly, acknowledging the deep sorrow etched across his friend's face.

Malarkey's gaze remained fixed on the white snow accumulating on his boots, a stark reminder of the chaos they had just endured. "We were just joking," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was laughing, Al. And then they were just… gone."

More listened without interjecting, giving Malarkey the space to express his turmoil.

"I keep hearing it," Don confessed, his voice trembling. "The sound. The snap right before. I can't escape it. Every time I close my eyes, it comes rushing back."

More shifted closer, understanding the weight of Don's pain. "You're allowed to feel this," he reassured gently.

But Malarkey's voice cracked with anguish as he replied, "I don't want to feel anything." He buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed.

Al reached out slowly, with a tenderness that suggested he was handling something fragile. His hand moved across Don's shoulder and down his arm before he drew him in for a comforting embrace. Don melted into the support, clinging to More as if he were the only anchor left in a tumultuous sea.

The foxhole enveloped them in a heavy silence, broken only by the uneven rhythm of Don's breathing. The snow continued to fall softly on their helmets and shoulders, melting into warmth between their bodies.

"They were my family," Don whispered into Al's coat, the words heavy with sorrow.

"I know," Al replied softly. "And I'm still here."

Don pulled back slightly to look into Al's eyes, searching for reassurance. He found none of the flinching he feared; instead, Al's gaze was steady and unwavering. With a desperate slowness, Don leaned in, their lips meeting in a kiss that felt like a release—a gravity that drew them together amidst the chaos.

It wasn't perfect, nor was it pristine, but it was undeniably real. Don pressed closer, trembling, and Al steadied him with both hands, grounding him in that shared moment.

When they finally separated, Don rested his forehead against Al's, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Tell me this means something," he implored.

Al closed his eyes briefly, gathering his thoughts. "It means everything," he affirmed.

And in the bitter chill of winter, for that fleeting moment, Don found a spark of warmth in their connection.

Chapter Text

The morning that followed the kiss between Malarkey and More in Bastogne bore an appearance that was strikingly unchanged. The landscape was still blanketed in snow, and wisps of smoke rose languidly from the tree line, creating a haunting visual against the stark white backdrop. The distant rumble of artillery echoed through the air, reminiscent of thunder from an unseen storm, a reminder of the persistent danger surrounding them.

Yet, within the confines of the foxhole that Malarkey and More shared, something profound had occurred—something that felt both monumental and intangible.

They initially refrained from discussing this shift verbally. Their silence spoke volumes; it manifested itself in subtle actions. For instance, Al made a deliberate choice to pour Don's coffee first, a small but meaningful gesture of care. Similarly, Don brushed the snow from Al's shoulders before settling down beside him, an act that conveyed warmth and intimacy. Their bodies leaned into one another just a fraction more than necessary, communicating a burgeoning connection that transcended words.

Don understood that their unspoken bond could not remain unacknowledged forever, but he was at a loss for how to articulate it.

It wasn't until they were in Foy that the moment of truth arrived. As the day dawned, the relentless shelling had momentarily paused, creating an unsettling calm that only heightened the soldiers' anxiety. Winters, their commanding officer, ordered patrols to survey any German movements toward the nearby village.

The terrain was treacherous; ice coated the roads, and the trees stood bare, their blackened limbs resembling the skeletal remains of a once-vibrant forest. The squad advanced with caution, each step producing a muted crunch on the frost-laden ground. Don trailed closely behind Al, his rifle cradled in his arms, with his breath escaping in visible puffs against the chill of the air.

They spread out, meticulously checking the fields and the tree lines for any signs of enemy activity. In the distance, Foy emerged as a mere blur; the faint outline of chimney smoke hinted at the presence of rooftops just beyond a ridge. The proximity of the town felt ominously close.

"Hold up," Al whispered, instinctively lowering himself and peering through a narrow gap in the trees.

Don quickly joined him on the ground, his pulse quickening as they observed a couple of German soldiers crossing the road with swift and deliberate movements. There were no gunshots, no sounds to betray their presence, but the implication was unmistakable: Foy was not deserted.

Upon returning to their unit, the men reported their findings to Winters, who responded with a terse nod, his jaw set tight in determination. It was clear to everyone that Foy would be the next target, transforming into another frozen hell for the soldiers.

That night, Don found himself unable to sleep, lying awake and fixated on the curve of Al's back, noting the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. A tumult of emotions surged within him—fear, desire, hope, and sorrow—all coiling beneath his skin like restless sparks yearning for release.

In a moment of courage, he reached out, placing a tentative hand on Al's shoulder. "You awake?" he asked softly.

Al turned to face him, his expression inscrutable in the dim light. "Yeah," he replied.

Don hesitated, his throat constricted with emotion. "That kiss," he finally said, breaking the silence, "it wasn't just grief. Not for me."

Al sat up, the blanket slipping away as he processed Don's words. "I know," he said quietly, "and I don't want it to be a secret. Not from you, not from me."

Al's nod reaffirmed their shared understanding. "It's not. Not anymore."

Drawing closer, Don's voice trembled as he confessed, "I think I love you. I don't know what that means here, in this place, but it's the only thing that feels real."

Al took Don's hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "I think I've loved you since Normandy. Maybe even before that. I just didn't have the right words."

This time, they chose not to kiss; the gravity of their feelings was enough as they simply held on to one another.

The following morning, the Company prepared to advance toward Foy, and Don walked alongside Al, their hearts racing beneath layers of wool and the weight of impending danger. As they moved forward, the trees around them began to thin, and snow drifted down like ashes from a long-burned fire.

Ahead lay the village, and whatever challenges awaited them there, they would confront it as one, united in their love, even amidst the chaos of war.

Chapter Text

The trees gave way to open ground, revealing the town of Foy, which lay ahead, crouched low against the horizon as if it sensed the impending chaos that was about to unfold. Wisps of smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, reminding the soldiers of a winter that was still very much a presence, barely being held at bay by the warmth of the hearths inside the homes. Beneath that veil of smoke, the enemy lay in wait, hidden and poised for action.

Malarkey felt an unsettling shift in the atmosphere before any movement occurred; it was a gut instinct that warned him of the danger lurking ahead. The snow beneath their boots was eerily quiet, a stillness that often precedes a violent eruption, filling the air with an ominous tension.

Lipton moved purposefully down the line, embodying a quiet confidence that bolstered those around him. Winters, their commanding officer, gave the signal to advance. Easy Company began to move through the trees like silent apparitions, rifles at the ready, with their boots sinking into the thick blanket of snow beneath them.

Don kept his focus on More, who was just ahead and slightly to his left. He observed the subtle way Al adjusted his stance, the instinctive movements that were so ingrained in him they required no conscious thought. This calm demeanor was contagious, providing Don with a sense of steady reassurance in the midst of the brewing storm.

And then, as if the calm had been a cruel joke, all hell broke loose.

A German machine gun erupted from the tree line near the town, sending a hail of bullets that tore through the air, splintering bark off the pines. Men instinctively dove for cover, the instinct for survival kicking in with urgency. Malarkey hit the ground hard, feeling the cold snow burn against his cheek, a sharp contrast to the chaos around him.

"Fire! Lay it down!" Winters shouted, his voice cutting through the din of battle.

Muck, their comrade, wasn't there to respond. Don's hands moved with the precision of instinct. He fired his weapon, reloaded in a fluid motion, shifted his aim, and fired again, each action driven by a primal need to survive. His teeth clenched tightly, causing a dull ache in his jaw as the tension mounted.

More was already flanking left with Luz and Lipton, vanishing into a snowbank only to emerge like specters near the shattered wall of a barn. With his heart racing, Don pushed forward, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Bullets zipped overhead with a menacing crack, and he heard Cobb's panicked shout behind him as the man went down. Someone quickly dragged Cobb back to safety, but the urgency of the moment pressed Don onward.

They reached the edge of the village, moving house by house and room by room. The fight was swift and merciless, filled with smoke, shouts, and the explosive sounds of grenades being hurled through broken windows. In the chaos, Don and Al found themselves pressed against the same wall, gasping for air, the shared intensity of their experience momentarily grounding them.

Their eyes locked for an instant, and in that fleeting moment, the war around them seemed to dissolve into the background.

"You good?" Al panted, concern etched on his face.

"Yeah. You?" Don replied, and Al nodded in response, his resolve unshakeable.

"Behind the stable. Two more," Al urged, and they moved as one, their movements synchronized in the heat of battle.

The Germans were lying in wait, but through sheer determination, Don took one down with a clean shot, the recoil jarring his shoulder. Al followed suit, dispatching the second enemy soldier with a flurry of rifle fire that sent snow and blood spraying into the air.

Then, just like that, it fell silent. Foy was theirs, but the victory came at a cost.

After the fray subsided, Don found himself sitting on the steps of a collapsed barn, his helmet resting in his lap, a stark reminder of the chaos they had just endured. Blood stained his sleeve, but it wasn't his own. More dropped down beside him, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon them both.

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, the enormity of their experiences hanging in the air.

Finally, Don broke the stillness, his voice low and strained, "I kept thinking I was going to lose you."

Al turned to him, his eyes shadowed but steady, grounding Don in the moment. "Not today," he replied firmly.

"Promise me something. Anything."

"If I fall, you live. You keep living. You find a world after this," Al insisted, his voice unwavering.

Don nodded slowly, understanding the depth of the vow they were making. "I promise."

Their hands met between them, a firm grip that solidified their pact, a vow forged in the crucible of conflict. Behind them, Foy smoldered, remnants of battle still lingering in the air, yet despite everything, they were still alive, together.

Chapter Text

Germany had always held significant meaning for the soldiers, a weighty presence that loomed over their experiences. From their rigorous training in Toccoa to the harrowing battles in Normandy, the name evoked a sense of purpose and inevitability. It was the destination toward which their entire mission had been directed—the source of every order they received, every loss they mourned, and every scar they bore.

The maps they'd studied countless times had made it seem abstract, a collection of lines and coordinates. But now, as they crossed into German territory, they were finally experiencing it firsthand. The landscape itself seemed to hold its breath, as if the very earth recognized the weight of what had transpired here.

The dense forest gradually transformed into a road, which then led them to small villages that appeared both eerily quiet and profoundly shaken. The remnants of conflict were evident everywhere—crumbling walls patched with rough boards, gardens trampled by boots and tank treads, windows boarded up or simply left gaping like hollow eyes. White flags hung limply from windows, symbols of surrender and fatigue, while the townsfolk avoided eye contact, their faces etched with the weight of their experiences.

Some of the older women clutched rosaries or prayer books, their lips moving in silent supplications. A few brave souls emerged to sweep their stoops with mechanical precision, as if normalcy could be restored through repetitive motion. The sound of their brooms scraped against cobblestones, creating an odd rhythm that seemed to echo the heartbeat of a town learning to live again.

Children peeked cautiously through splintered fences, their wide eyes betraying a mixture of fear and curiosity, while elderly men sat in silence, their expressions impenetrable and heavy with unspoken words. One small girl, perhaps six years old, held a doll with only one arm remaining. She pressed herself against her mother's skirts when the convoy passed, but her gaze followed Don's truck with an intensity that made his chest tighten.

The air itself seemed different here—thinner somehow, carrying the ghost of smoke and the metallic tang of spent ammunition. Even the birds seemed hesitant to sing, offering only tentative chirps before falling silent again. There was no overt welcome, yet neither was there any hostility; just a profound silence enveloped everything, broken only by the rumble of engines and the creak of leather and metal.

Don sat in the back of the truck, his boots resting on the edge as he observed the black pine trees whizzing by. His rifle lay across his knees, a constant reminder of their reality. The weapon had become an extension of himself over these long months, its weight both familiar and foreign depending on the moment. Today it felt heavier than usual, as if it too sensed they were entering a new phase of this endless war.

Beside him, Al leaned slightly against him, their shoulders touching in a small act of comfort. The warmth of the contact was more precious than any words could express. The morning had been characterized by a heavy silence between them—one that spoke volumes without the need for words. The shared experiences they had encountered together, such as that intimate kiss in Bastogne and the promises forged in the heat of battle after Foy, filled the air around them like an invisible thread binding them together.

Al's breathing had steadied into the rhythm Don had come to recognize as his thinking pattern—measured, deliberate, as if he were cataloguing every detail of their surroundings for future reference. His hands, usually restless when he was nervous, lay still on his rifle, though Don could see the slight tension in his knuckles.

Yet, amidst all that history, a new feeling began to emerge: a cautious, burgeoning hope that perhaps this conflict might soon reach its conclusion. It was dangerous to hope too much, they'd learned that lesson too many times. But the quality of light seemed different here, the way it filtered through the pine branches suggesting possibilities that hadn't existed before.

"You ever been this far from home?" Don asked quietly, breaking the silence. His voice barely carried over the engine noise, meant only for Al's ears.

Al shook his head, replying, "First time." The enormity of their situation pressed upon him like a physical weight. He'd grown up thinking Pennsylvania was vast, that the mountains near his hometown were the edge of everything important. Now he understood how small his world had been, how much lay beyond the borders of everything he'd known. "Feels like the edge of the world," he added.

A faint smile crossed Al's face, the first genuine expression Don had seen from him all morning. "Feels like we might fall off," he joked lightly, though there was truth beneath the humor. They were so far from everything familiar that gravity itself seemed negotiable.

Don's laughter burst forth, his breath forming clouds in the crisp air. The sound felt almost foreign after so much silence, but it was real and warm and exactly what they both needed. "If we do, I hope you're with me," he said, a hint of sincerity threading through the words that made Al's chest constrict with something that might have been happiness under different circumstances.

In that moment, Al's fingers brushed against Don's—a brief yet meaningful connection, hidden from view by the arrangement of their packs and weapons but undeniably real. The contact sent electricity up Al's arm, a reminder that despite everything they'd endured, he could still feel something other than fear or exhaustion.

The truck hit a pothole, jostling them apart, but the ghost of that touch lingered between them like a promise. Don found himself watching the landscape with new eyes, seeing not just a foreign country but a place where, perhaps, they might discover who they could be when the shooting finally stopped.

Their journey continued through farmland that showed signs of recent cultivation despite the war. Someone had been tending these fields, planting hope in soil that had seen too much blood. The sight of green shoots pushing through dark earth felt like a metaphor too obvious to ignore, yet too perfect to dismiss.

They eventually stopped in a small town near the border, where the buildings stood mostly intact. The architecture here was different—timber and stone construction that spoke of centuries of careful craftsmanship. Flower boxes still hung from some windows, though the blooms had long since withered. While the beds in the requisitioned buildings were cold and uninviting, they still offered a sense of refuge that felt almost luxurious after so many nights in foxholes and makeshift shelters.

The Company dispersed to establish guard rotations, their movements automatic after months of the same routine. But there was something different in the air—a looseness in their shoulders that suggested the possibility of actual rest. The officers were still cautious, still maintaining full security protocols, but even they seemed to move with less urgency.

Don and Al found themselves in a small upstairs room of what had once been a schoolhouse. The assignment felt deliberate, though neither mentioned it. The chalkboards bore remnants from another time, filled with arithmetic problems and the name of a child—"Johann" written in careful script—a stark reminder of the innocence that had been lost to war. Someone had tried to erase most of the writing, but ghost impressions remained, like memories that refused to fade completely.

A child's drawing was still pinned to one corner of the board—stick figures of a family standing in front of a house, with a sun and clouds sketched above. The crayon had faded, but the hope in those simple lines was unmistakable. Don found himself wondering where Johann was now, whether he was safe, whether he would ever return to this classroom to learn arithmetic and draw pictures of his family.

Don dropped his pack and settled onto the edge of the cot, feeling the weight of uncertainty press down on his shoulders like a familiar coat. The cot creaked under his weight, a sound that would have made them both freeze just days ago. Now it simply marked the transition from movement to stillness, from purpose to waiting.

Al stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the sun as it sank below the rooftops, casting long shadows that stretched across cobblestone streets like fingers reaching for something just out of grasp. The light was golden here, different from the harsh white light of winter battles or the gray dimness of England. This light suggested warmth, suggested seasons that might cycle naturally without the interruption of artillery and air raids.

From this vantage point, Al could see into other windows—glimpses of families beginning to reassemble their lives. An old woman tended a small garden, her movements careful but determined. A man repaired a fence with whatever materials he could find. These small acts of restoration felt monumental in their quiet defiance.

"This feels strange," Don remarked, breaking the quiet that had settled over them like dust motes in the afternoon light. "Because it's quiet. Because I don't know what to do with that quiet." His hands, usually busy with cleaning his rifle or checking equipment, lay idle in his lap. The stillness felt almost oppressive after so many months of constant vigilance.

Al turned to face him, leaning against the wall with a contemplative expression. The window frame cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones and the new lines around his eyes—marks of experience that hadn't been there when they'd first met. "We survive it," he replied, acknowledging the discomfort they both felt. Quiet had become more foreign than gunfire, more unsettling than the whistle of incoming shells.

The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of all the things they'd learned to leave unsaid. Al could hear his own heartbeat, could hear Don's breathing, could hear the settling of the old building around them. These were sounds they'd forgotten existed beneath the constant noise of war.

Don looked up, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice despite his efforts to remain steady. "You think this will end soon?" The question had been building in him for days, growing heavier with each mile they'd traveled into German territory. He needed to hear someone else voice the possibility, needed confirmation that this feeling of approaching conclusion wasn't just wishful thinking.

Al paused, weighing his response carefully. He'd learned to be cautious with hope, had seen too many men broken by premature optimism. But there was something different in the air now, something that felt like an ending rather than just another pause. "It feels like it," he said finally. "The way people look at us here. Like they're already living in whatever comes next." He was quiet for a moment, then asked the question that had been haunting them both: "If it does… what then?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implications neither was sure they were ready to face. What did men like them do in a world at peace? How did soldiers become civilians? How did two men who had found something precious in the midst of hell preserve it in the harsh light of ordinary life?

"Then we figure out how to be men in a world that doesn't want us like this," Don said, his resolve strengthening even as he acknowledged the challenge ahead. He thought of his hometown, of the expectations that would be waiting for him there, of the life he was supposed to want and the woman he was supposed to marry. The weight of it all pressed against his chest, but underneath the fear was something stronger. He stood slowly, crossing the room until he was directly in front of Al, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes. "But I want us like this."

Al met his gaze without flinching, his own voice steady when he replied. "So do I." The words carried the weight of a vow, of a decision made in full knowledge of its consequences. They both understood what they were choosing, understood the risks and the challenges that lay ahead. But they also understood that some things were worth fighting for, even when the enemy was the world itself.

Their foreheads touched, and in that intimate gesture they shared a breath, shared the weight of their decision, shared the fragile hope that love might be stronger than fear. When their lips met, this kiss was different from the others—it was devoid of panic or consequence, defined instead by the quiet choice they made together. It was a stolen moment, yes, but stolen from a war that had not fully released its grip on them rather than from a world that would deny them.

The kiss tasted of possibility, of a future that stretched beyond the next battle, beyond the next order, beyond the next day they might not see. Al's hand found the back of Don's neck, fingers threading through hair that had grown longer than regulation allowed. Don's hands settled on Al's waist, thumbs tracing the sharp angles of hip bones made more prominent by months of short rations and long marches.

When they finally broke apart, they remained close, breathing the same air, existing in the same small space that had become their entire world. The room around them—the chalkboard with its ghost writing, the child's drawing, the window looking out on a town learning to live again—seemed to bless their union with its quiet witness.

That night, they lay in separate cots, maintaining the pretense that had kept them safe for so long. But their hands instinctively sought each other in the darkness, fingers intertwining in a silent promise that transcended the physical distance between their narrow beds. Al's thumb traced circles on Don's palm, a rhythm that matched the beating of their hearts.

Neither of them spoke, afraid that words might break the spell of this moment, might invite in doubts that had no place here. Instead they listened to the sounds of the town settling into sleep around them—the distant murmur of conversation, the creak of settling wood, the whisper of wind through empty streets.

Neither of them let go, embracing the connection that had formed between them like a lifeline in a storm that was finally beginning to pass. Al's breathing gradually deepened into sleep, but his grip on Don's hand remained firm, unconscious but unwavering. Don lay awake longer, watching the play of moonlight on the ceiling, feeling the steady pulse of Al's blood through his fingers, and marveling at how something so simple could feel so revolutionary.

In that moment, Germany did not break them; rather, it provided the space they needed to begin anew, to explore the possibilities of their relationship amidst the chaos surrounding them. The country that had been their enemy, their destination, their obsession, had become the place where they could finally imagine a future that included both of them.

Outside, the night settled deeper, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled the hour. But inside their small room, time had stopped, suspended in the space between sleeping and waking, between war and peace, between the men they had been and the men they might become. In the morning, they would resume their roles as soldiers, would follow orders and maintain formations and prepare for whatever came next. But tonight, they were simply Don and Al, two young men who had found each other in the worst of circumstances and chosen to hold on despite everything the world had thrown at them.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The Rhine was far more expansive than Don had ever envisioned. It sliced through the landscape with a depth that seemed both profound and timeless, resembling an ancient scar carved into the earth by forces beyond human comprehension. The river commanded respect—not just for its size, but for its presence, the way it dominated the horizon and seemed to divide not just land but entire worlds.

Maps had made it seem like just another line to cross, another obstacle in their path toward victory. But standing here, witnessing its majesty firsthand, Don understood why generals had planned campaigns around this waterway, why armies had fought and died for control of its bridges. The Rhine wasn't just a river; it was a threshold, a boundary between what had been and what might be.

Spanning its width were steel bridges, some appearing damaged by Allied bombing runs, twisted metal reaching toward the sky like the fingers of fallen giants. Others showed signs of hasty but determined repair work—welded patches and reinforced supports that spoke of desperate necessity. Each crossing point was monitored by Allied checkpoints, their striped barriers and sandbag emplacements creating a sense of order amid the chaos of war. Soldiers stationed nearby moved with the practiced efficiency of men who had learned to make temporary positions feel permanent, their eyes constantly scanning both banks for signs of trouble.

The bridges themselves told stories of recent battles. Scorch marks on the concrete abutments, bullet holes in the guardrails, sections of roadway that had been hastily repaired with whatever materials could be found. Some spans still bore the twisted wreckage of vehicles that hadn't made it across, pushed to the sides but left as stark reminders of the cost of passage.

As the morning sun climbed higher, the far bank sparkled in the gentle haze of spring, creating a picturesque yet haunting scene that seemed almost too beautiful for the reality of their situation. The light caught the water's surface, transforming it into liquid silver that hurt to look at directly. Beyond the eastern shore, the land rolled away in gentle hills dotted with the dark green of pine forests and the lighter green of emerging spring grass.

Wildflowers had begun to bloom along the riverbank—small splashes of yellow and purple that seemed defiant in their beauty. Nature, it seemed, would reclaim its territory regardless of human conflicts. Birds had returned too, their songs creating a soundtrack that felt almost surreal after months of artillery and gunfire.

On the near side of the river, Easy Company found themselves in a moment of suspension, waiting patiently for orders that seemed perpetually delayed. This state of anticipation was a familiar one for them—the army's rhythm of hurry-up-and-wait had become as natural as breathing. But this waiting felt different, charged with the electricity of significant change.

Some of the men had begun to relax in small ways that would have been unthinkable just weeks before. Liebgott was teaching a few of the replacements card games, his usual intensity softened by something that might have been hope. Babe Heffron had found a patch of grass where he could lie back and watch the clouds, his rifle within reach but no longer clutched like a lifeline. Even Speirs seemed less wound tight, though his eyes still missed nothing.

Don stood at the water's edge with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his breath forming small clouds in the cool morning air. The ground beneath his feet was soft from recent rain, and he could smell the rich scent of earth beginning to warm under the spring sun. He gazed into the rushing current of the Rhine, mesmerized by its relentless power and the way it seemed to carry away everything in its path.

The water flowed swiftly, its surface occasionally broken by debris that told the story of the war's impact on the landscape. Branches torn from trees by shelling, remnants of broken crates that might have once contained supplies for either side, even a helmet—German, from the distinctive shape—that served as a stark reminder of the conflict they were still entrenched in. The helmet bobbed and spun in the current, sometimes disappearing beneath the surface only to emerge again yards downstream, a ghost of a soldier who might have been someone's son, someone's brother.

Don found himself wondering about the stories the river had witnessed. How many men had crossed here over the centuries? How many armies had stood on these banks, looking across at what lay beyond? The Rhine had seen Romans and barbarians, Napoleon and Wellington, and now them—American boys who had never imagined they would stand on foreign soil, contemplating the weight of history.

The river was indifferent to the chaos of war around it, continuing its relentless journey downstream toward the sea. It had been here long before the first shot was fired, and it would continue flowing long after the last peace treaty was signed. There was something both humbling and comforting in that permanence, a reminder that some things endured beyond human conflict.

Behind Don, Al approached quietly, his footsteps muffled by the soft ground. He had been watching Don from a distance, recognizing the contemplative mood that had settled over his friend like a familiar coat. Al had learned to read Don's silences, to understand when they meant worry and when they meant wonder.

"You're up early," he remarked, settling into the comfortable space they had learned to create between them—close enough for intimacy, distant enough for safety. His voice carried the roughness of recent sleep, but his eyes were alert, taking in both Don's posture and the scene before them.

Don turned his gaze to him, and Al could see the tracks of deep thought in the lines around his eyes. "Couldn't sleep," Don replied, his voice carrying the weight of too many restless nights. Sleep had become elusive for many of them, their bodies still conditioned to expect danger at any moment. "Kept thinking about what comes next."

Al settled beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed, yet he refrained from initiating any physical contact. The morning air was still cool enough to see their breath, and he could feel the warmth radiating from Don's body. They had learned to be careful, to maintain the appearance of casual friendship even when their hearts demanded more.

The silence between them was comfortable, filled with the sound of water against stone and the distant murmur of their fellow soldiers beginning to stir. A pair of ducks paddled near the far shore, seemingly oblivious to the human drama playing out around them. Their normalcy felt almost miraculous.

"It feels strange," Don admitted, his voice low enough that only Al could hear. "Crossing this... It's like we're on the verge of leaving something significant behind." He gestured toward the western bank, where they had spent so many months fighting and dying and somehow surviving. "Everything that happened back there, it's going to be on the other side of this water."

Al considered his words thoughtfully, understanding the deeper meaning beneath Don's observation. They weren't just crossing a river; they were crossing from one version of themselves to another. The men who had landed in Normandy, who had fought through hedgerows and winter snow, who had seen friends die and learned to kill—those men would remain on the western bank while they carried forward whatever they had become.

"Maybe we are," Al said finally. "Maybe that's okay." He paused, watching a piece of driftwood spin in an eddy near the shore. "Maybe some things are supposed to be left behind."

Their conversation hung in the air between them, enveloped in a comfortable silence that felt soft and inviting, reminiscent of the morning light filtering through clouds. The river continued its song, a constant murmur that seemed to encourage confession, to invite the sharing of thoughts too dangerous for other ears.

Don finally broke the stillness, asking the question that had been haunting him through the sleepless hours before dawn. "Do you think they'll let us stay together after the war?" The words came out quieter than he had intended, but Al heard them clearly.

The question hung between them like a bridge of its own, spanning the gap between their current reality and an uncertain future. Al knew what Don was really asking—not just about military assignments or discharge papers, but about the possibility of building a life together in a world that had no place for men like them.

Al turned to face him, contemplating the implications of the question. He had spent many nights considering the same possibilities, weighing hope against reality, love against survival. "The army?" he responded after a moment, his voice carrying the weight of certainty. "No. They'll scatter us to the winds the moment the shooting stops. Send us back to our home states, back to our families, back to the lives we're supposed to want."

He paused, watching Don's face for signs of disappointment or despair. But Don was listening with the same intensity he brought to everything that mattered, waiting for the complete answer.

"The world?" Al continued, his voice softer now. "I don't know. The world's not ready for us, might never be ready for us. But us?" He reached out, almost touching Don's hand before catching himself. "That's something we can decide for ourselves."

A faint smile crept across Don's face, a small flicker of hope igniting within him like a candle in a dark room. Al's words carried the promise of agency, of choice in a world that had given them so few choices. "That sounds like you," he said, recognizing the determination in Al's voice that had carried them through the darkest moments of their war.

Al nudged Don's shoulder playfully, a gesture that looked like casual camaraderie to any observer but carried deeper meaning between them. "You like it," he teased, his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth.

"Yeah, I do," Don replied, the admission carrying more weight than the simple words suggested. The warmth of their bond momentarily dispelled the weight of their circumstances, creating a small bubble of possibility in the midst of uncertainty.

The morning progressed around them, bringing the gradual awakening of the camp. Mess kits clattered as breakfast was prepared, voices called out across the bivouac area, and the familiar rhythms of military life asserted themselves. But for a few more minutes, they remained at the water's edge, watching the Rhine carry away the debris of war and dreaming of what lay beyond its far shore.

Later that afternoon, after hours of waiting and false alarms, the moment finally arrived for them to cross the river. The order came down the chain of command with the same matter-of-fact tone used for any military operation, but everyone understood the significance. This was the crossing they had been working toward for months, the moment when they would finally set foot on the heart of enemy territory.

The trucks rumbled to life with their familiar diesel growl, and the men climbed aboard with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The convoy formed up with practiced efficiency, each vehicle finding its place in the column, each soldier settling into the routine of movement that had become second nature.

As they approached the bridge, Don felt his heart rate increase. The structure looked even more imposing up close—a testament to German engineering that had somehow survived the bombing runs and artillery barrages that had destroyed so many other crossings. The metal framework rose above them like a cathedral of steel and concrete, its girders casting complex shadows on the roadway below.

The trucks rumbled over the makeshift metal bridge, the sound echoing like thunder as they traversed the structure. The entire span seemed to vibrate with the weight of the convoy, a rhythmic thrumming that could be felt in their bones. Don gripped the side rail of the truck bed, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to look down at the rushing water below.

The crossing felt both eternal and instantaneous. Each truck length seemed to take forever, the gap between them and the far shore stretching like an impossible distance. But suddenly they were there, the solid ground of the eastern bank beneath their wheels, the Rhine behind them like a threshold crossed.

Below, the river roared, a powerful force that underscored the gravity of their journey. The sound was different from up here—less musical, more primal, like the voice of something ancient and unstoppable. Don found himself fixated on the water, mesmerized by its power and the way it seemed to pull at something deep inside him.

Al, meanwhile, kept his gaze locked on Don, offering silent support through his unwavering presence. He could see the tension in Don's shoulders, the way his breathing had become shallow and controlled. Al wanted to reach out, to offer the comfort of touch, but surrounded by their fellow soldiers, he could only provide the steadiness of his attention.

The far bank rushed up to meet them, and suddenly they were across, the sound of the river fading behind them as they rolled onto German soil. The landscape here looked different somehow—not just because it was enemy territory, but because it felt like a different world entirely. The trees seemed taller, the hills more dramatic, the sky wider and more open than anything they had seen before.

When the trucks finally reached the far bank, there was no sense of celebration or fanfare; instead, a new urgency took over. The officers were already consulting their maps, calling out new coordinates and objectives. The river crossing had been just one step in a larger operation, and there was no time to pause and appreciate the milestone they had just achieved.

Orders were issued with the crisp efficiency of men who had learned to adapt quickly to changing circumstances. The convoy would continue deeper into Germany, following roads that led toward objectives whose names were still classified. They began to move again, the rolling hills and empty roads stretching out before them like an uncharted territory waiting to be explored.

Germany was now behind them—or rather, all around them. The western bank of the Rhine, with its familiar positions and hard-won ground, had become part of their past. But they knew that the challenges ahead were only just beginning. This was enemy territory in the most literal sense, land that had been defended by men who spoke a different language and fought for a different cause.

The landscape rolled past in a blur of green fields and dark forests, punctuated by small villages that seemed to crouch in the valleys like animals hiding from predators. Some showed signs of recent fighting—broken windows, damaged roofs, hastily constructed barricades—while others appeared almost untouched by the war, as if they existed in a different reality entirely.

That night, they made camp in an abandoned farmhouse nestled near the edge of a vineyard. The property showed signs of hasty abandonment—laundry still hanging on lines, dishes left on tables, family photographs scattered on the floor. The residents had clearly fled recently, leaving behind the evidence of lives interrupted by the advancing tide of war.

The house, though devoid of life, provided a dry refuge from the elements. Its thick stone walls and solid construction spoke of generations of careful maintenance, of families who had called this place home for decades or perhaps centuries. The irony wasn't lost on Don and Al that they were now the temporary occupants of someone else's sanctuary.

They explored the building carefully, checking each room for signs of booby traps or hidden weapons. The search revealed nothing dangerous, only the sad remnants of domestic life—children's toys, cooking utensils, books in German that none of them could read. In the kitchen, a pot of soup had been left on the stove, now cold and congealed, suggesting the family had fled in the middle of a meal.

Don and Al chose a small side room that had probably served as a study or small parlor. A cracked window allowed a glimpse of the outside world, where the vineyard stretched away in neat rows toward the horizon. The vines were just beginning to bud, promising a harvest that the current owners might never see. A small stove stood useless in the corner, its chimney pipe disappearing into the wall—a reminder of warmth and comfort that felt like luxuries from another world.

They settled on the floor, their backs against the wall, their sleeping bags spread out but not yet occupied. The hardwood floor was cold beneath them, but they had learned to find comfort in worse conditions. They sat with their knees touching, creating a small island of warmth and companionship amid the uncertainty surrounding them.

The room was quiet except for the distant sounds of their fellow soldiers settling in for the night. Through the cracked window, they could hear the wind moving through the vineyard, rustling the leaves and carrying with it the scent of earth and growing things. It was a peaceful sound, almost hypnotic after months of artillery and gunfire.

Don turned his head to break the stillness, his voice carrying a note of wonder that surprised even him. "We made it," he said softly, the words carrying the weight of all the obstacles they had overcome, all the battles they had survived, all the moments when their survival had seemed impossible.

Al nodded in agreement, his own voice quiet but steady. "We did." The simple acknowledgment carried volumes of meaning—not just that they had crossed the river, but that they had made it this far together, that whatever came next, they would face it as they had faced everything else.

The significance of the moment settled over them like a blanket. They had crossed the Rhine, had entered the heart of enemy territory, had survived everything the war had thrown at them so far. But more than that, they had found each other in the midst of chaos, had discovered something worth fighting for beyond mere survival.

Outside, the river continued its unyielding flow, now hidden by distance and darkness but still audible as a faint murmur on the wind. The Rhine had become part of their story now, a chapter in the book of their shared experience. They would carry its memory with them wherever they went, a reminder of the day they crossed from one world into another.

In a moment of tenderness that felt both spontaneous and inevitable, they kissed again—this time without the urgency born of imminent danger or the fear of discovery. This kiss was different, slower, more deliberate, filled with the quiet desire that had been building between them like water behind a dam. It tasted of possibility, of hope, of a future that stretched beyond the next battle or the next objective.

Their lips met with the softness of familiarity, the comfort of two people who had learned to find home in each other. Al's hand found the back of Don's neck, fingers threading through hair that had grown longer than regulation but softer than it had any right to be after months of field conditions. Don's hands settled on Al's shoulders, feeling the solid strength there, the warmth that spoke of life and resilience and the stubborn refusal to give up.

When they broke apart, they remained close, sharing breath and warmth and the quiet intimacy of two people who had chosen each other against all odds. Words felt unnecessary; their shared silence spoke volumes, filled with all the things they couldn't say aloud but understood perfectly.

The room around them seemed to hold its breath, as if the walls themselves were witnesses to this moment of connection. The cracked window let in slivers of moonlight that painted silver patterns on the floor, and the distant sound of the wind in the vineyard provided a soundtrack of peace that felt almost miraculous after so much violence.

They settled into their sleeping bags eventually, but not before Al reached out to touch Don's face one more time, his thumb tracing the line of Don's cheekbone with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the harshness of their daily reality. It was a gesture of tenderness that said everything their situation prevented them from speaking aloud.

As they lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of their fellow soldiers settling into sleep around them, they felt the weight of the day's significance. The Rhine lay behind them, a threshold crossed, a boundary between their past and their future. But more than that, they had found a moment of peace in the midst of war, a place where they could simply be themselves without fear or pretense.

The promise of the future awaited them in the distant mountains, filled with both hope and uncertainty. They didn't know what tomorrow would bring, didn't know how much longer the war would last or what would happen when it ended. But they knew they would face it together, carrying with them the memory of this night, this room, this moment when crossing a river had become something more than just another military objective.

Outside, the vineyard whispered its secrets to the wind, and somewhere in the distance, the Rhine continued its ancient journey toward the sea, carrying with it the debris of war and the promise of renewal. And in a small room in an abandoned farmhouse, two young men who had found love in the most unlikely of circumstances held onto each other and dreamed of a world where such love might be possible.

Chapter Text

Austria felt like a completely different realm, a stark contrast to the gray, war-torn remnants of Germany that they had just traversed. The transformation was so dramatic it seemed almost impossible that they were still on the same continent, still part of the same war that had consumed Europe for so many years. It was as if they had crossed an invisible threshold into a world where beauty had somehow survived the machinery of destruction.

The change had been gradual at first, so subtle that Don hadn't immediately noticed it. A farmhouse here with intact shutters painted in cheerful blue, a church there with its steeple still reaching proudly toward the sky. But as they moved deeper into Austrian territory, the contrast became impossible to ignore. This was a land that war had touched more gently, where the scars were fewer and the hope more visible.

As Easy Company pressed forward, the landscape transformed dramatically around them like pages turning in a book they had never dared to read. The fields were lush and vibrant, painted in shades of green that suggested life and renewal in ways that seemed almost miraculous after months of devastation. The grass grew thick and soft, unmarked by shell craters or the ugly brown scars of tank treads. Wildflowers dotted the meadows—yellow buttercups, purple clover, white daisies that nodded in the gentle breeze like tiny flags of surrender to beauty.

The hills, instead of being jagged and menacing like the broken landscape they had left behind, rolled gently, inviting the eye to explore their soft contours. They rose and fell in graceful waves, covered in forests that showed no signs of shelling or fire, their canopies full and green with the promise of summer. Stone walls meandered across the slopes, built by hands that had known peace, marking boundaries between fields where crops grew undisturbed.

In the distance, the majestic mountains still wore their winter coats of glistening snow, their peaks sharp and clean against the blue sky. The sight of them took Don's breath away—he had seen mountains before, but never like this, never unmarked by war, never beautiful simply for the sake of being beautiful. They stood like guardians over the valleys below, ancient and permanent, promising that some things endured beyond human conflict.

But down in the valleys, spring was asserting its dominance with an enthusiasm that felt almost defiant. The apple trees were adorned with delicate pink and white blossoms, their branches heavy with the promise of fruit that would ripen in peacetime. Cherry trees added their own splashes of white to the landscape, and pear trees contributed a softer pink that caught the light like scattered rose petals.

The orchards stretched in neat rows across the hillsides, tended with a care that spoke of generations of knowledge passed from father to son. Even now, in the midst of war, someone was maintaining these trees, pruning and caring for them with the faith that there would be a harvest, that there would be a future worth preparing for.

Birds, vibrant and lively, had returned to fill the air with their songs—not the harsh cries of carrion crows that had become the soundtrack of their war, but the sweet melodies of larks and thrushes, the liquid notes of blackbirds greeting the dawn. They perched on branches heavy with blossoms, built nests in hedgerows, and filled the air with music that spoke of cycles older than any human conflict.

Don found himself stopping sometimes just to listen, amazed that such sounds still existed in the world. He had forgotten that birds could sing for reasons other than warning or distress, that their voices could be beautiful rather than merely functional. The sound followed them as they marched, a constant reminder that life continued in ways that war could not touch.

Even the scent in the air had shifted, transformed so completely that it seemed to belong to a different planet entirely. No longer was it tainted with the acrid odor of gunpowder and destruction, the sweet-sick smell of decay that had followed them across Europe. Instead, the air was infused with the earthy aroma of woodsmoke drifting from cottage chimneys, the rich smell of fresh soil turned by plows, the green scent of growing things stretching toward the sun.

There were other smells too—bread baking in village ovens, the clean smell of laundry hanging on lines, the floral perfume of fruit trees in bloom. These were the scents of normal life, of a world where people worried about harvest times and market days rather than artillery schedules and casualty reports.

As Easy Company moved cautiously through this transformed landscape, they noted that the resistance they had faced was waning like a tide going out. German units were surrendering in groups, some of them looking almost relieved to lay down their weapons. The fight had gone out of them, replaced by a weariness that mirrored what the Americans felt in their own bones.

The surrender ceremonies, when they happened, were brief and almost anticlimactic. Officers would present themselves with their sidearms, their soldiers would stack their rifles in neat piles, and that would be the end of it. There was no drama, no final desperate stands—just tired men acknowledging that the war had passed them by, that whatever they had been fighting for was already lost.

Whispers of peace circulated among the soldiers like rumors of treasure, passed from one man to another with the cautious hope of men who had learned not to trust good news too quickly. Stories filtered down through the chain of command—rumors of Hitler's demise, reports of concentration camps being liberated, talk of German commanders seeking terms for surrender.

Some of the rumors were true, others were wishful thinking, but all of them carried the same underlying message: the war was ending. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. The certainty of it hung in the air like the scent of apple blossoms, sweet and unmistakable.

The men reacted to these rumors in different ways. Some became more cautious, unwilling to take unnecessary risks now that survival seemed possible. Others grew careless, as if the promise of peace had already made them bulletproof. Most fell somewhere in between, continuing to do their jobs while allowing themselves to dream of home in ways they hadn't dared before.

For now, however, the march continued, with trucks winding their way through the picturesque mountain roads that seemed designed more for tourists than military convoys. The roads themselves were different here—better maintained, marked with signs in the Gothic script that made even mundane place names seem romantic and mysterious.

They passed through villages that looked like illustrations from fairy tales, complete with flower boxes in every window and cobblestone squares surrounded by buildings that had stood for centuries. The architecture was different too—more ornate, more colorful, with painted facades and carved wooden balconies that spoke of a culture that valued beauty as much as function.

The lodging situation had improved dramatically as well. Instead of sleeping in bombed-out ruins or hastily dug foxholes, they found themselves in various makeshift accommodations that felt almost luxurious by comparison—barns that were clean and dry, hunting lodges tucked into forest clearings like scenes from a storybook, and at times, in a quaint guesthouse that boasted flowered wallpaper and crisp, clean sheets that smelled of soap and sunlight.

One such guesthouse had become Don's favorite stop, though he tried not to let it show. The building was three stories of white plaster and dark timber, with window boxes full of geraniums and a beer garden where apple trees cast dappled shade on wooden tables. The proprietress, a woman in her sixties with silver hair and kind eyes, had insisted on serving them tea and small cakes, refusing any payment beyond the assurance that they meant no harm to her establishment.

Each new place offered a fleeting sense of normalcy, a glimpse of what life might be like when the war was over. Don found himself paying attention to details he had ignored for months—the way afternoon light fell through lace curtains, the sound of a clock ticking on a mantelpiece, the simple pleasure of sleeping in a real bed with real pillows.

But more than the physical comfort, it was the return of beauty to their world that affected him most deeply. After so many months of ugliness, of landscapes scarred by violence and settlements reduced to rubble, the sight of intact villages and blooming orchards felt like a miracle. It reminded him that there were still things worth preserving, still reasons to hope for a future beyond mere survival.

One serene evening, after they had made camp in a meadow overlooking a valley where a small river wound between pastures dotted with grazing cattle, Don perched on a stone wall that had probably marked property boundaries for generations. The stones were worn smooth by weather and time, warm from the day's sun, comfortable to sit on as he took in the sight of the sun sinking below the ridges.

The sunset painted the sky in shades of gold and pink that reflected off the snow-capped peaks, creating a light show that seemed too beautiful to be real. The valley below was bathed in that magical hour when everything seems to glow from within, when ordinary landscapes become extraordinary simply by virtue of being touched by such perfect light.

Al ambled over, moving with the loose-limbed gait of a man who was finally beginning to relax after months of constant tension. He carried a tin mug in his hand, steam rising from whatever hot liquid it contained. The sight of him approaching made Don's chest tighten with an emotion he was still learning to name—not just affection or desire, but something deeper, something that felt like coming home.

"Mind if I join you?" Al asked, though he was already settling onto the wall beside Don, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. The question was a formality between them now, a polite fiction they maintained even though they both knew the answer.

"Course not," Don replied, making room even though there was already plenty of space. The stone wall was long enough to seat a dozen men, but they chose to sit close, drawn together by an invisible force that had grown stronger with each passing day.

The silence between them was comfortable, filled with the sounds of evening settling over the countryside. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled the hour, its bronze voice carrying across the valley with a clarity that spoke of peace. Closer by, they could hear the gentle lowing of cattle, the rustle of wind through new leaves, the splash of the river over stones.

"You ever think it could look like this again?" Don inquired, his voice tinged with hope but also with the careful caution of a man who had learned not to trust good fortune too quickly. He gestured toward the valley below, toward the pristine landscape that seemed untouched by the war that had consumed so much of the world.

Al shook his head slowly, his expression thoughtful as he considered the question. "Not this soon," he said, and Don could hear the weight of experience in his voice. Al had seen too much destruction, too many beautiful places reduced to rubble, to believe that recovery could happen quickly. "It'll take years to rebuild what we've torn down. Maybe decades."

The honesty in Al's response was both disappointing and somehow reassuring. Don had grown to trust Al's judgment, to rely on his ability to see situations clearly without the filter of wishful thinking. If Al said recovery would take time, then it probably would. But the fact that he believed recovery was possible at all felt like a victory.

Don playfully nudged Al's knee with his own, a gesture that looked casual but carried deeper meaning between them. "But here we are," he replied, an edge of optimism creeping into his tone despite himself. "Sitting on a stone wall, watching the sunset, drinking..." He gestured toward Al's mug. "What is that, anyway?"

Al smiled, the expression transforming his face in ways that never failed to catch Don off guard. "Tea," he said, offering the mug. "Found some dried herbs in that last village. Mint, I think, and something else. The old lady who gave them to me tried to explain, but my German's not that good."

Don accepted the mug, their fingers brushing in the exchange—a contact that sent familiar electricity up his arm. The tea was still warm, sweetened with honey that added a golden complexity to the herbal blend. It tasted of summer afternoons and peaceful kitchens, of a world where the most pressing concern was whether to add another spoonful of honey.

"It's good," Don said, handing the mug back. "Sweet."

"Everything's sweeter here," Al observed, and Don wasn't entirely sure he was talking about the tea.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts while remaining acutely aware of the other's presence. The sun continued its descent toward the horizon, painting the landscape in increasingly dramatic shades of orange and red. The mountains stood in stark silhouette against the blazing sky, their peaks sharp as knife blades against the soft colors of evening.

Don found himself thinking about home, about the mountains of his childhood that had seemed so impressive before he had seen the Alps. He wondered if those familiar hills would look smaller when he returned, diminished by comparison to the grandeur he was witnessing now. Or perhaps they would look larger, more significant, because he would understand finally what it meant to have a place to call home.

The following day brought new experiences as they passed through a charming village that seemed to have stepped out of a different century entirely. The buildings were painted in cheerful colors—yellow, pink, pale blue—with dark timber framing that created patterns like elaborate geometric art. Flowers spilled from every window box, and the streets were so clean they seemed to have been scrubbed by hand.

Local children waved cheerfully at the soldiers from doorways and second-story windows, their innocent joy a stark contrast to the grim realities of war they had witnessed elsewhere. These children looked well-fed and healthy, their clothes clean and mended, their faces bright with curiosity rather than fear. Some of the bolder ones ran alongside the trucks for a few yards, calling out what might have been greetings in their musical dialect.

One little girl, perhaps seven years old, stood in the middle of the square clutching a bouquet of wildflowers. As Don's truck passed, she held them up toward him, her face radiant with the kind of pure generosity that only children possessed. Don reached out and accepted the flowers, their stems still warm from her small hands, and tucked them into his helmet band where they would stay for the rest of the day.

A kind woman approached and handed Lipton a loaf of freshly baked bread, the crust still crackling from the oven. The gesture was simple, but it carried profound meaning—an acknowledgment of shared humanity, a bridge built across the divide of language and nationality. The bread was dark and dense, studded with seeds, and when they broke it open later, it filled their truck with the scent of grain and yeast and the simple miracle of nourishment.

No one in the village regarded them with hatred or suspicion; instead, there was a palpable sense of relief and hope for the future. Old men nodded respectfully from doorways, women smiled tentatively from behind curtains, and everywhere there were signs that life was returning to normal—laundry hanging on lines, gardens being tended, shops beginning to reopen.

The contrast with other places they had liberated was striking. There, the populations had often been hostile or terrified, viewing the Americans as just another occupying army. Here, they seemed to understand that liberation meant something different, that these soldiers represented not conquest but the promise of peace.

That evening found them bivouacked in a meadow that sloped down toward a lake so blue it seemed to have captured pieces of the sky. The water was perfectly still, reflecting the mountains and clouds with mirror-like precision. Some of the men had gone down to the shore to wash, their voices carrying across the water with a clarity that made them sound closer than they were.

Don and Al found themselves alone in a small hunting cabin that perched on a rise overlooking the meadow. The structure was built of logs chinked with clay, weathered silver by decades of mountain weather. It was clean and inviting inside, equipped with a stone fireplace, simple furniture, and most luxuriously, a real bed with a feather mattress and soft, actual blankets—a luxury they had not experienced in longer than either could remember.

The cabin felt like a sanctuary, a place where they could drop their guard and simply be themselves without the constant awareness of watching eyes and listening ears. The isolation was both thrilling and terrifying, offering opportunities they had barely dared to imagine.

Al took the initiative to light a fire in the fireplace, gathering kindling from a neat stack beside the hearth and coaxing flames from tinder with the patience of a man who had learned to find comfort in simple tasks. The fire caught and spread, filling the room with warmth and the gentle sound of crackling wood. The light danced across the log walls, creating a golden glow that made everything seem softer, more intimate.

Don opened the shutters to let in the cool evening air, creating a perfect balance between the warmth of the fire and the freshness of the mountain breeze. The contrast felt symbolic somehow—the meeting of different elements, the harmony that could exist between seemingly opposite forces.

As they settled into their surroundings, an air of pretense still lingered between them, the habits of concealment still strong after so many months of necessary caution. But it was overshadowed by an undeniable sense of reality, the growing awareness that they were alone together in a way they had rarely been, with time and privacy and the promise of an uninterrupted night.

The silence stretched between them, filled with possibility and uncertainty in equal measure. Don sat on the edge of the bed, testing its softness, marveling at the simple luxury of real springs and genuine comfort. Al remained by the fire, poking at the logs with unnecessary attention, both of them aware of the tension building like pressure in the air before a storm.

"Do you think we could do this?" Don asked finally, his voice low and tentative, the words emerging from some deep place he hadn't known existed.

Al looked up from the fire, slightly puzzled, the poker still held in his hand. "Do what?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Don took a breath, gathering courage for words he had been forming in his mind for weeks but had never dared to speak aloud.

"This," he said, gesturing around the cabin but meaning something much larger. "A life. Us. Somewhere quiet like this." His gaze was steady now, holding Al's eyes with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

The words settled into the space between them like stones dropped into still water, creating ripples that spread outward in ever-widening circles. Al set down the poker with careful precision, his movements deliberate as he processed the full meaning of what Don was asking.

It wasn't just about physical desire or even romantic love, though both of those were certainly part of it. Don was asking about the possibility of a shared future, about building something together in a world that might not want to let them. He was asking whether the connection they had found in the midst of war could survive in peacetime, whether the love they had discovered could grow into something sustainable and real.

Al took a deep breath, the weight of the question settling into his chest like a stone. He had been thinking about the same possibilities for weeks now, turning them over in his mind during quiet moments, examining them from every angle like a puzzle he was trying to solve.

"I think I want that more than anything," he admitted finally, the sincerity in his voice resonating through the cabin like a bell struck in perfect pitch. The words came out quieter than he had intended, but they carried the weight of absolute truth.

The admission hung between them for a moment, precious and fragile as spun glass. Then Don was moving, crossing the small space of the cabin in three quick strides, reaching for Al with hands that shook slightly from the magnitude of what they were acknowledging.

Their connection was palpable, electric, charged with months of suppressed longing and the sudden possibility of expression. The kiss that followed felt natural, inevitable, as if it had been building toward this moment since the first time they had looked at each other and recognized something familiar and necessary.

Al's hands found Don's face, fingers tracing the familiar contours of cheekbones and jaw, the slight roughness of end-of-day stubble. Don's arms circled Al's waist, pulling him closer, eliminating the last few inches of distance between them. They kissed with the desperation of men who had waited too long and the tenderness of those who understood how precious and fragile this moment truly was.

The next kiss followed naturally, and the one after that, each one deeper and more certain than the last. They were learning each other's rhythms, discovering the particular way Al's breath caught when Don kissed the corner of his mouth, the soft sound Don made when Al's teeth grazed his lower lip.

Later, as they lay together beneath the heavy wool blankets, the fire burning low in the grate, the moment felt neither rushed nor frantic; it was enveloped in warmth and authenticity that seemed to transform the simple cabin into something sacred. The urgency that had characterized their previous encounters had been replaced by something slower, more deliberate, filled with the luxury of time and privacy.

They moved together with the careful attention of men who understood how rare and precious this opportunity was, who wanted to memorize every sensation, every sound, every moment of connection. The firelight played across their skin, creating patterns of light and shadow that shifted with their movements, and the sound of their breathing mingled with the crack and whisper of burning wood.

Afterward, they lay entwined beneath the blankets, their bodies fitting together with the comfortable precision of two pieces of a puzzle finally joined. The cabin was warm and quiet around them, filled with the scent of wood smoke and the lingering sweetness of mountain air.

Al brushed his lips gently against Don's temple as drowsiness began to claim him, the gesture so tender it made Don's chest tighten with emotion he couldn't name. It was a kiss of gratitude, of wonder, of promise—all the things they couldn't say aloud wrapped up in the simple touch of lips against skin.

For the first time since Normandy, Don found himself dreaming of something good when sleep finally took him. Not the nightmares that had plagued him for months, not the endless replay of battles and losses, but dreams of a future filled with possibilities. He dreamed of a small house with a garden, of morning coffee shared in comfortable silence, of the luxury of waking up beside someone who knew him completely and loved him anyway.

In his dreams, the mountains outside the cabin window were covered in apple blossoms instead of snow, and the sound of Al's breathing beside him was accompanied by the song of birds welcoming the dawn. It was a simple dream, almost mundane in its domestic contentment, but it felt revolutionary in its quiet hope.

Outside the real cabin, the mountains stood tall and silent, their peaks etched against a sky brilliant with stars. The lake reflected the moonlight like scattered diamonds, and somewhere in the distance, an owl called across the water, its voice carrying the ancient patience of creatures who understood that all things passed in their proper time.

The war continued around them, but here in this small sanctuary, peace felt not just possible but inevitable. The sounds of the night were gentle ones—wind in the pines, the lap of water against the shore, the settling of old wood in the cooling air. These were the sounds of a world learning to breathe again, of a continent slowly remembering what it meant to be at peace.

Peace was within reach, tantalizingly close yet still just out of grasp, like the summit of a mountain that seems just around the next bend but reveals itself to be further than expected with each step forward. But for the first time in longer than either of them could remember, it felt real, achievable, something more than just a desperate wish whispered in the dark moments before dawn.

In the morning, they would wake to find the world still beautiful, still touched with the promise of apple blossoms and clean sheets and the simple miracle of another day survived. They would pack their gear and rejoin their unit and continue the march toward whatever came next. But they would carry with them the memory of this night, this cabin, this moment when the future had felt not just possible but bright with promise.

The war was ending, and with it, one chapter of their lives was drawing to a close. But another was beginning, written in the language of shared glances and whispered hopes, in the courage to imagine a life beyond survival, in the radical act of choosing love in a world that had shown them mostly its capacity for destruction.

Outside, the mountains kept their ancient watch, silent guardians of the dreams and hopes of two young men who had found each other in the most unlikely of circumstances and dared to believe that love might be stronger than war, that beauty might outlast destruction, that somewhere in the world there was a place where they could build a life together, one quiet day at a time.

Chapter Text

The war concluded in an unexpectedly subdued manner, lacking any celebratory atmosphere or grand gestures that one might anticipate in such monumental moments. There were no triumphant trumpets heralding victory, no flags waving in the breeze to signal the end of hostilities. Instead, the scene was marked by an eerie stillness enveloping the mountains, punctuated only by the tense, breathless silence of soldiers waiting for the official word to cease their fighting.

Easy Company made their way to Berchtesgaden early in the morning, the dawn light casting a soft glow over the landscape. A thick fog clung to the winding roads, creating an almost mystical ambiance, while the trees sparkled with morning dew, a stark contrast to the harsh realities they had faced.

Perched high above them was Hitler's Eagle's Nest, a symbol of opulence and excess that now felt absurd in its grandeur. The lavish features of the place included crystal chandeliers, bottles of champagne, a fireplace large enough to accommodate a jeep, and silk sheets that seemed to mock the suffering experienced by countless individuals during the war. Yet, in this moment of luxury, there was an unsettling emptiness—no one remained to enjoy the spoils of this extravagant hideaway.

As Easy Company roamed the halls, they moved with a sense of quiet reverence, as if they were intruders in a surreal dream that belonged to someone else entirely. Don wandered through the opulent corridors, attempting to conjure up emotions that felt just out of reach—anger for the loss endured, triumph for the battles fought, a sense of closure for the chapters that had finally been closed. Despite his efforts, he found himself overwhelmed by a profound absence, a void that seemed to swallow any feelings he might have hoped to embrace.

Later, he came upon Al, who was sitting peacefully beneath a pine tree that offered a breathtaking view of the valley below. The remnants of winter had faded, leaving behind a coolness in the air that hinted at the changing seasons. Before them stretched an endless panorama of greens, grays, and golds, as if the earth itself had made the decision to rejuvenate and start afresh after the turmoil.

Don joined Al in silence, both men absorbing the beauty and serenity of the landscape. Eventually, breaking the stillness, Don spoke, reflecting on their journey.

"So that's it," he said, a mixture of disbelief and relief in his voice. "We made it."

Al responded with a nod, affirming their shared experience. "We did," he replied, his tone contemplative. "Doesn't feel real."

Don echoed the sentiment, pondering the surreal nature of their survival. "Maybe it never will," he mused, gazing out at the majestic mountains that had witnessed their trials. "What happens now?"

Al fell silent for a moment, lost in thought, before finally responding, "We go home. Try to live."

Don nodded slowly, the weight of that simple statement settling in. "Do you think we can?" he asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

"I don't know," Al admitted, "but I want to try. With you."

The warmth of their shared silence enveloped them, a comforting presence amidst the vastness of the landscape. In a moment of tenderness, Don reached over to take Al's hand, their fingers entwining naturally. They shared a slow, soft kiss beneath the pine tree, a gentle act of intimacy that felt profound in the stillness of the world around them.

This moment was not an ending; rather, it marked the beginning of a new chapter in their lives. They lingered in each other's company for what felt like an eternity, the mountains standing silent witness to their bond. The wind whispered softly through the trees, carrying with it a sense of understanding and hope for what lay ahead.