Archive of Our Own

The bullet wasn’t just a graze. Grady had been playing it cool for the rest of the crew, but the longer they rode to camp, the more he felt that damn thing lodge harder and harder into his side. 

“Now you hold on Grady, you hear me?” Bible kept telling him, in between Gordo’s “Fuck!” repeated steadily all the way to the base.

“Ain’t nothin’, quit fussin’,” Grady muttered, feeling more and more lightheaded with every time Fury hit a bump on the road.

Once they got him out of the tank, Grady hit the mud with a grunt, clutchin’ his side while the boys shouted over him. Don yelled for a medic, voice hoarse with urgency.

“Grady. Grady, fuck man! Look at me.” Bible tried to hoist him up, which only made the pain worse and Grady nearly fell on him, some two hundred pounds of bleeding Cajun deadweight.

Then, over the noise, came a voice Grady hadn’t heard before—sharp, female, cutting clean through the chaos. He blinked through the haze, and there you were on the far side of camp. Red Cross band on your arm, medical bag damn near dragging you into the mud. 

“The fuck’s that?” Grady rasped, pointing.

You were screaming at the truck driver who’d just dumped you here, in the middle of their own private hell. You cursed like a dockhand, making the nearby soldiers turn their heads. Then you stomped straight into camp, bag slung on your shoulder.

The entire crew was already watching you go and so Don screamed for a medic one more time. You turned his way and, like a bloodhound, you caught sight of Grady bleeding out. Didn’t even pause—you stormed over, nearly shoving Don out of the way.

“Bullet still in?” you demanded to know. 

“Uh… ‘S untellin’,” Grady grumbled, but then your hands were on him and you checked the back for the through-and-through.

Moments later, you already got a stretcher from who even knows where, and instructed Gordo and Bible how to move him.

Well, instructed being a relative word.

“Stop your prayin’ and move ‘im, dammit, or I’ll stitch your goddamn fool mouths shut first!” you snapped, thick Georgia twang rolling off your every word.

“Fuck me,” Gordo grunted.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bible muttered, still worried.

Don scoffed. “Now, wait just a goddamn minute—”

Grady let out a wheezing laugh, then groaned, head falling back. Figures. Leave it to him to get saved by a crazy Southerner. “Hey, Top,” he croaked, clutching at the man’s sleeve, “Naw, don’t leave me with the mad woman, ain’t—”

Grady groaned as the stretcher jostled under him, every bump sending fresh waves of pain through his side. He tried to focus on your face hovering above him. Didn’t seem fair, someone so goddamn pretty yelling at him like a drill sergeant.

“Fuckin’... hellcat,” Grady gritted out between clenched teeth, one hand gripping the stretcher rail so hard his knuckles went white. “Just stab me with whatever’s in that bag.” His laugh turned into a cough, the metallic tang of blood sharp on his tongue. Shit. That ain’t good.

“You two! Stop!” You noticed blood on his lips and immediately leaned over him, eyes sharp. “You. Soldier. Hey, look at me,” you ordered and Grady honestly didn’t know what to do with that. 

Then you knelt beside him in the mud and got to work then and there. You opened that medical bag full of monstrous tools, opened up his shirt and got a packet of sulfa powder. For the first time in his life, Grady honestly wished the woman undressing him wasn’t so goddamn pretty, because he was losing what was left of his goddamn mind.

“You two! Get me a blood plasma from the medical and more sulfa powder.” 

Don stood there and watched as you ordered his crew around with an odd expression.

Grady hissed through his teeth as you tore into his hide like it wasn’t attached to him. “Christ! Fuck! Bitch!”

You just shook your head. “Yeah, yeah, been called that since ‘40, ya ain’t special.”

“Yeah? An’ ya ever heard of gentle, woman?!”

“Shut your trap already, less you wanna cough up blood next,” you snapped at him, already packing the wound full of gauze and rummaging in there for the bullet.

Dying suddenly seemed secondary and Grady squinted up at you. “Ya from Georgia.”

“Savannah,” you muttered, not looking up as you pressed down on the wound to stop the bleeding, which resulted in Bible and Don having to hold Grady down so he wouldn’t lunge at you. 

“ARGH—!” he roared. “Ya trynna kill me?!”

But you weren’t having it. “Save your breath—ain’t got time for your lip, soldier.”

In fact, your movements were sharp and precise, like you’ve done it a million times before. And, hells, you probably have. Grady couldn’t decide how to feel about that just yet.

Already high from blood loss, he barked a pained laugh. “Hell. Shoulda known. Only a Georgia peach’d talk to a man that way.”

You glared at him again. Your hands were already stained with his blood. “That you trynna flirt?” 

Grady thought about it. You could tell—his frown deepened.

“Yeah, why not,” he grumbled. “It workin’?”

“Hell naw.” You laughed. “Be glad if I don’t leave the bullet in, Louisiana.”

“The fuck ya callin’ me that for?” Grady grunted roughly. “I’m from goddamn Arkansas.”

You shook your head. “Got lotsa fight left in ya, huh?”

“Damn right.” Grady just grinned, his teeth tinged with blood and tobacco stains. “Ain’t scared a’ you, sugar.”

“Oh, well. Reckon now you are.”

And then you jabbed… Whatever the fuck it was, it was in. Sharp as fuck. He screamed.

Now, Grady knew pain. He knew how to take a punch to the face, that’s for damn sure. How it felt to get your rotten tooth pulled out by a lousy town barber. Ever since he joined this hell, he even had to be stitched up a couple times.

But this… This, he couldn’t even describe.

Grady’s grin faltered, his whole body tensing. “Sonuvabitch—!” He sucked air through his teeth as you rummaged through his side. 

“Ma’am…” Don exhaled, still watching that impromptu surgery closely. “That how y’all say hello down in Savannah or sumthin’?”

“Naw,” you drawled, unfazed. You leaned in and still dug for that bullet. “This here’s just me bein’ friendly. Hello’s the part where I don’t let your friend choke on his own blood, Sergeant.”

Goddamn, the pain got worse, but you—you were efficient, clinical, like Grady was a piece of broken machinery (the irony of which wasn’t lost on Don). He looked almost impressed. 

Gordo finally came back with that plasma bag, then took one look at the surgery and walked away, shaking his head and muttering curses in Spanish.

“You,” you looked up at Bible, who was still nervously hovering and muttering prayers. “Get me morphine from my bag.”

Bible did. You told him how to fill up the syringe while you kept Grady from bleeding out. The needle felt like a jab of betrayal and Grady scowled harder. “You had morphine the whole time?!”

“Shut it, soldier.”

“Naw, fuck—”

Dark spots swam in his vision. The last thing Grady saw before his eyes fluttered shut was your lips, pressed thin in annoyance.

“Wake your ass up, Coon-Ass,” came the rough command, accompanied by a sharp smack against his leg—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to jolt him. His eyelids peeled open to the sight of the medical tent, moaning and groaning wounded all around him. 

Don was standing over his bed and Grady cursed under his breath. “I ain’t dead?”

“Nah.” Don chuckled, that wry smirk on his lips. “Why? You sound disappointed.”

Grady groaned as he pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing at the sharp pull in his side. Everything around him smelled like blood and gangrene, a combination that turned his stomach worse than last week’s rations.

“No, no, don’t do that.” Don moved quickly and pushed Grady back down. “You pull them stitches out, it’ll be both our heads that devil woman’ll have for it.”

Grady squinted at Don’s tired face. “They got you playin’ nursemaid now, Top? War must be goin’ real bad.”

His attempt at humor fell flat when a fresh wave of pain lanced through him. Grady’s hand fumbled at the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs, fingers coming away clean—no fresh blood at least. That was something.

“Nurse Hellcat did one helluva job.” Don smirked, trying to lighten the situation. Grady knew that tone too well. “Even the doc said so.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Don looked more hopeful than last time Grady saw him—his blood staining half the tank. 

“Why’s she here anyway?”

“Moved from 101st.”

“Planes?” Grady sounded a bit impressed. Don understood why. 

Operating a tank was one thing—but flying a plane, now that was something. They’ve seen a lot of the 101st during their time in Germany. Each time they flew over to rain hellfire on the Nazis, Don could see that boyish glint in Grady’s eyes.

The canvas flap at the tent entrance rustled, and Grady’s head snapped up so fast he saw stars. For a second, he thought it might be you—but it was just some private delivering rations.

Grady slumped back against the thin pillow, suddenly exhausted. “Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than Don. “What now, huh? They gonna give ya ‘nother loader or what?”

“Who even knows.” Don sat down on the metal chair beside the bed. It was a rare moment of quiet—relative quiet—around them. They still amputated limbs in another tent over, but at least soldiers in recovery didn’t have to watch.

“How long they keepin’ me for?” Grady tried to sound gruff, but was doing a poor job of it.

The truth was, the cot felt too soft after months of tank steel, and the lack of artillery raining down on his ass was getting him real uneasy.

Don exhaled sharply through his nose. “Doc says ‘nother week, maybe two.” He paused, watching Grady’s face carefully. “Command ain’t decided on a replacement yet. Got no orders. Fury’s sittin’ idle ‘til you’re back or they find some poor bastard to throw in your spot.”

The idea of some green kid loading for his crew made Grady’s gut twist worse than the wound. “Two fuckin’ weeks?” he scoffed, pushing himself up again despite Don’s warning look. “Hell, I could load blindfolded right now. This ain’t nothin’.”

Then the tent flap rustled again, and this time Grady didn’t bother looking up—big mistake.

“That ‘nothin’’ took fifty-two stitches to close, soldier, and if you pop one, I swear to Christ I’ll throttle ya m’self!”

Grady huffed out a laugh, the pain in his side suddenly forgotten. “Ya will? I might oughta start bleedin’ on purpose.”

You walked up to Grady in two strides and… Then you just looked at him. Silent. Grady couldn’t explain it, but the way you got angrier and angrier sent a sick kind of thrill through him—better than morphine, that fire in your eyes.

“Your crew asked ‘bout you,” you told him, your voice much quieter now. “So I told ‘em not to worry. Don’t make me go back on my word, cowboy.” You nodded at Don, who was watching you closely. “Sergeant.”

“Ma’am.”

“You got yourself a colorful team.”

“So I’ve been told, ma’am.”

You jutted your chin towards Grady. “I ain’t gon’ berate a grown man like a child, Sergeant, but that don’t mean I don’t wanna.”

That made Don laugh—the genuine kind. Grady looked between you two, confusion etched deep into his face.

“They done told me some of what y’all do and the others said your loader’s entitled to be the way he is,” you said. “So I’ll ignore the lip.”

“Appreciate it, ma’am.”

“The—” Grady frowned, unsure if he should be insulted, because goddamn, you talked fast. “She’s got me all sortsa confused, Top.”

“She’s sayin’ you’re doin’ a good job, Coon-Ass.”

“Heh.” Grady grinned at you. “Damn right I am.”

You shook your head, exasperated. “Yeah, word’s even the Krauts piss themselves when they hear your tank’s comin’.” 

“Impressed, sugar?”

“Watch it, cowboy. I ain’t nobody’s ‘sugar’.”

You noticed Grady moving again and you shot him a look. “I ain’t gonna be too hard on ya, less you give me a reason. And ya don’t wanna give me a reason.”

That got Grady all smug. “So what, you’re gon’ be real sweet, Georgia?”

“Don’t push it, soldier.”

“Name’s Grady,” he grumbled.

As for Don, he was watching that exchange with brows raised high.

He had seen men explode in rage before. Hell, he’d seen Grady cause plenty of it himself—Grady tended to have that effect on people. But this was different. Your anger was quiet and you had a mouth on you. That there was worse. Don could already tell it would make Grady want to poke you just to see what’d happen.

“Fifty-two stitches, huh?” Grady spoke again. His grin was all teeth, reckless, even as Don shot him a warning look. “What’s the matter, darlin’? Ain’t never had a patient thank you proper before?”

“You just… Get better, hm?” Don cleared his throat and stood abruptly, deciding that this here was not his problem.

Grady barely noticed him leave, too busy looking at you. Like so many times before in his life, he got that nagging feeling at the back of his head—like he should maybe shut his goddamn mouth. 

But again, Grady had never been good at doing what he should. It’s how he had found himself on the front in the first place. First, Uncle Sam asked him real nice. Then threatened to throw his ass in Leavenworth if he wouldn’t go.

“So what, huh,” he moved on the cot, now getting irritated at the silence. “Ya gonna stand there glarin’ all fuckin’ day, Georgia?”

“Naw. But if ya don’t stop movin’ and rip those stitches, we’re gonna have a problem, Arkansas.”

Some of the others were looking up from their cots and Grady suddenly got uneasy. He didn’t much like people looking at him anyway.

He looked at you, all serious, then tried to sit up. 

“Jesus, what’d I just say!” You rushed to his cot and pushed him back down.

Grady could almost taste the reckoning coming, and Christ help him, he wanted it. He’d seen men scream themselves hoarse in combat, but this anger of yours, it made his heart pound in a way no artillery barrage ever had. “Or what, are ya gon’ yell? Then yell, sugar, the hell,” he goaded, smirking. 

“The fuck you starin’ at me for, huh?” He shouted at the private in the nearby cot.

The private gasped loud enough Grady nearly laughed—imagine thinking shock was still possible after Normandy.

You scowled. “I ain’t sewin’ ya back up if you keep tryin’ my patience.”

For a second Grady thought you might actually slap him, and damn if part of him didn’t hope for it. Anything.

“No?” Grady prodded. “So this here’s you tellin’ me I ain’t fit to wipe my own ass yet or what?” 

The words tasted wrong even as he said them—he couldn’t help but being an ass even while half-hoping for scraps of human kindness.

“I seen soldiers rip out stitches to get attention before an’ I seen them do it to get sent back home,” you finally spoke, voice low. “So I will tell ya plain, soldier, ‘cause you might talk outta your ass, but you don’t seem too stupid. None of our boats are goin’ home anytime soon. Ya gotta learn how to survive inside your own head here.”

Grady felt something inside him twist. Whatever you felt towards him right then, it wasn’t anger anymore. Hell, it was something worse. Something that looked dangerously close to pity.

He opened his mouth, when the distant shouts for medics shook the tent canvas. Someone screamed outside and the strange spell between you shattered. You snapped to attention and rushed outside.

Grady lay back down, torn between relief and rage at being left behind. But like Don always said, war waited for no one—least of all a goddamn Arkansas dog, dumb enough to get himself sidelined by a lucky shot.

The outside was a cacophony of shouts. Grady closed his eyes, letting the noise wash over him like he did so many times before. He’d never been good at staying put. Never been good at much really, except loading shells and pissing people off. And right now, he wasn’t even fit for that.

It was dark when he woke up next, the recovery tent pitch-black save for one small gas lamp hanging above the entrance. Grady didn’t even realize he had fallen asleep. He slept well for the first time in four years of hell and while he should have enjoyed it, he couldn’t. Not really. 

He wondered what time it was, if his crew was okay—and most importantly if he would get any more goddamn painkillers. His side was killing him. The morphine had worn off hours ago, leaving that hole in his side throbbing in pain. 

A rustle at the tent flap made him turn his head. For a second, he thought it might be you, but it was just some fresh-faced orderly. The kid took one look at Grady’s scowl and kept walking. 

“Yeah. Real brave bunch they got nursin’ now,” Grady muttered to no one in particular. He reached for the canteen beside his cot and winced as the movement pulled at his stitches. The water was warm and tasted like metal.

Outside, the camp was settling into that eerie half-quiet that came after chaos. The tent flap moved again and suddenly there you were.

“I’ll take over, Private. You can go,” you said, quiet. Probably mindful of all the other poor fucks around here, trying to sleep.

The boy couldn’t get out of the tent fast enough. You checked on all the serious cases first—amputated limbs, missing eyes, all the shebang.

Then you came up to Grady. You yanked at the blanket unceremoniously and checked his bandages.

Grady’s mouth went dry. He should’ve had some smartass remark ready, but he didn’t. He could see the dirt still smudged on your cheeks, the dried blood on your uniform. You’d been out there in the thick of it, while he’d been lying here like a useless deadweight. And your eyes held the same kind of resigned exhaustion he knew so goddamn well. 

“Y’ wanna sit?” Grady jerked his chin to the metal chair next to his cot. “I ain’t gon’ run my mouth again, God’s honest.”

The words tasted pathetic as soon as he said them, but then, against all his expectations, you sat down with a deep sigh. 

He could see the way your shoulders slumped—he had felt that same bone-deep weariness nearly every damn day.

“So… This thing gon’ kill me or what?” He gestured vaguely at his side.

You smiled, an exasperated type of smile. “You’ll live.”

“Uh-huh.” He nodded and reached for you, a little more eager. You saw that hand and slapped it away. Hard. 

Seeing you get all annoyed again, Grady felt better.

“They really sendin’ a replacement loader?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. The question was just an excuse to fill the silence, to keep you there a little longer.

You didn’t answer right away, just rubbed at your eyes with the heel of your hand. “You really that eager to get back out there, cowboy?”

Grady looked away, suddenly unable to meet your gaze. But the nickname made him smirk. Not that he didn’t like his war name, but this one was something just for him. Something you made up on the spot and made him not want to answer to anything else. 

“Ain’t ‘bout bein’ eager,” he muttered. “Just don’t like sittin’ ‘round while…”

He didn’t add the rest.

You wiped your palm against your thigh where you’d swatted Grady’s hand away, your mouth twisting in mild amusement despite yourself. “I asked. Command ain’t decided ‘bout replacements yet,” you admitted, voice hushed enough not to disturb sleeping patients.

Grady’s eyes darted to you, the faded lamplight illuminating the surprise on his face. “Ya asked ‘em?”

You leaned back in the chair and shrugged. “It was either this or watchin’ you try to rip them stitches out every damn hour.”

Grady looked smug. At this point you just let him have it.

“Your crew’s holdin’ down Fury with some private they dragged outta the clerk office. Kid looks ‘bout twelve.” You smirked, shaking your head. 

Grady shifted on the cot, careful not to pull at his stitches this time—not with you watching him like that. “Hell, I was drinkin’ moonshine outta mason jars by twelve.” 

“Stole a horse when I was ‘bout thirteen,” you murmured.

“Shit fire, Georgia.” Grady’s eyes went wide. “If this ain’t somethin’, I don’t know what is.”

His smirk widened at your admission—it was the first real thing you’d given him, something honest, just for him to know. At least that’s how he thought about it and you couldn’t stop him.

“You should be good for light duty in a week or so. ‘Less you rip those stitches horsin’ ‘round before then.” Your lips quirked despite the warning tone. “‘Course, reckon we both know ya ain’t got the sense God gave gravel…”

“The fuck’s light duty?” Grady frowned, confused like a child told he couldn’t play outside.

You didn’t answer right away, just studied him with those tired eyes that saw too damn much. Grady was suddenly deeply aware that Fury was out there with some greenhorn loading his shells—and here he was, while the war moved on without him. 

“Could mean runnin’ messages,” you finally said, voice softer than he deserved.

“Goddamn,” he grunted. “Messages? Loadin’ that tank’s the most schoolin’ I ever seen.”

He could barely spell his own name without missing half the letters. All of a sudden the truth of it scraped against his pride.

You smiled, just barely, the kind of smile that made Grady want to poke at it until it turned real. “Could be helpin’ in the motor pool if you promise not to cuss out every private within earshot.” 

“Ain’t promisin’ shit ‘bout my mouth.” Then you saw these wheels turning in his head and Grady licked his lips. “‘Less you wanna…”

“No.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He grinned. “Fine.”

“So you’ll behave?”

Grady shook his head. “Those grease monkeys got hands like goddamn waffles.”

“Waffles?” 

Your confused frown made him grin harder. “Means drop more wrenches than they turn.”

You actually laughed at that and his chest did something very stupid at the sound. He wasn’t smooth, wasn’t charming—but stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery, that’s for damn sure.

“What kinda horse was it?” he asked, not ready to let you go just yet.

“Uh…” You let out a deep sigh and looked at him. “One of them spotted ones. Real beauty. Brown an’ white spots, black mane.”

Up close, you could see just how dark his eyes were. And his focus was fixed on you, entirely, the way he’d fixate on a jammed shell casing—like you were a problem he meant to solve with his teeth if he had to.

“Thirteen,” he muttered. “Bet you didn’t even look back.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Ain’t that right, Georgia?”

But you were quiet again. That uneasy feeling settled in his gut—the one that said he’d misread this whole dance between you.

Then, your eyes filled with a nostalgic look—for a moment, Grady could have sworn he was seeing the ghost of that wild-haired girl in the weary medic before him.

“Georgia,” he started, then faltered. What was he even asking for? More stories? More time?

“You want a book?” you asked him all of a sudden and Grady huffed.

“A book?” He frowned. “Like for what?”

Your brows shot up and you looked at him, incredulous. It took him a moment to catch on.

“Nah, ain’t much for readin’,” he grumbled, like he was admitting to something shameful.

“You gotta do somethin’,” you insisted. “It’s what I saw helps y’all recover. If you just sit an’ stay in your head, ain’t gonna get much better.”

Then you rummaged through your bag and got him some paper and a small pencil. “Draw somethin’, dunno.”

Grady looked almost disgusted at the notion. He glared at you and shook his head in disbelief. “The fuck fuckin’ backwards med camp d’ ya come from, woman?”

But he took that pencil anyway and rolled it between his thumb and index finger for a while, like it was a particularly interesting cigarette.

One thing about Grady was you never had to wonder what he was thinking. He would either tell you or his face would do it for him. Truth be told, you kind of enjoyed that candor.

But to see him the next day so focused on that piece of paper was unusual to say the least. He was hunched over it like it was some kind of tactical map, his big hands dwarfing the tiny pencil. 

You almost didn’t want to interrupt.

He didn’t notice you approaching and you sneaked a glance at the page—an honestly not too bad attempt at Fury’s silhouette. The lines he drew were dark and bold, which was to be expected. He didn’t seem like a tiny, precise drawings kind of guy. 

Grady looked at the page with the same stubbornness he applied to everything—from loading shells to this godforsaken drawing. He even managed to get a smear of graphite across his nose at some point, which made you smile a little.

“Looks like a damn soup can,” he muttered before you could say anything, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. 

“Naw,” you argued. “You just gotta even out the edges.”

He let out an annoyed huff. “Ain’t you supposed to be stitchin’ people up, not playin’ schoolmarm?”

“Barrel’s longer than that,” you said, ignoring the question.

“Like you’d know,” he grumbled, but adjusted the sketch anyway. “Ain’t like y’ ever had to fix her.”

“Naw, but I had to fix you, cowboy, an’ that sure earned me some favors in Heaven for my patience.”

That actually made him laugh—a rough, surprised kind of sound. Then you reached into your bag and placed more mismatched sheets of paper on his cot. Grady stared at the paper, then at you. 

“Ain’t no damn artist,” he grumbled, then raised both hands. “There’s one thing these’re good for. Eh,” he mused, “maybe three.”

You squinted at him, already knowing one of them would be something like squeezing women’s backsides. But then some other thought took him and you watched the way his shoulders hunched, defensive like a cornered dog.

Somehow it made your chest tighten and you sat down beside him. That brought him back. “Ain’t askin’ for no damn art, it’s just somethin’ to keep ya busy. Before they get you punchin’ orderlies all day long.”

His laugh was rough, but for a moment it made his actual age show—so much younger than what war had done to him. 

“You do this for all your patients, Georgia?” he muttered. “Hand grown men crayons?”

“Wish I had crayons,” you sighed. “Add a bit of color to my day.”

Grady’s attention shifted to your face and an absurd thought struck him: you’d look good on paper. Wild hair and all. The realization sat uncomfortably in his chest. 

He had only survived this long because he wouldn’t let himself want for nothing more than to survive the day. Get some food and some smokes if he could find it, that was good enough for him.

But now he had way too much time on his hands. And there you were, making him think things he shouldn’t.

“You ever think ‘bout… what you’ll do when this mess’s over?” he asked, very quietly.

Your eyes met and for a moment you stayed quiet. 

Then—

“Easy. I’ll never see Germany again.”

“Naw, but…” The cot springs creaked as Grady shifted, suddenly needing space from your closeness. “Not like—not the bullshit. Like… ya could work at a normal hospital, I reckon.”

You thought about it and then shook your head. “No. I’d rather learn the typewriter, actually.”

“The typewriter?” He chewed on the word a bit, like it was foreign. 

“Yeah. You?” you asked.

“War don’t exactly make me wanna make plans,” he grumbled. “Ain’t got none.”

“But you made me tell ya!” You shook your head in disbelief. 

“Heh.” He grinned like the devil himself. “Guess I did.”

Grady stared at the sketch paper again and tilted his head. Truth was, the idea of you clicking away at some desk in a fancy dress made his stomach twist—that was a completely foreign territory. A different kind of world.

You plucked the pencil from his fingers before he could protest, turning it over in your hands. “We had one back home,” you said quietly. “Mama used it for church bulletins. Sounded like…” You tapped the pencil against the cot frame three times—clack, clack, clack. 

You tossed the pencil back to him. “Alright, cowboy. Got real patients to tend. You seem good enough to me.”

Hells, if bleeding was all it took to get your attention then… But Grady decided against it. He picked up that damn pencil instead.

A week later, they cleared him for light duty. Every young private in the motor pool came to curse the command for it.

“Jesus, dumbass, that ain’t how ya torque a damn bolt—gimme that!” Grady snatched the wrench from the kid’s shaking hands, demonstrating the motion with exaggerated slowness. “See?”

Grady wiped his grease-streaked hands on his already painfully dirty shirt, watching the wide-eyed privates scrambling to keep up.

You had a slower day so you came around to lurk—you traded another nurse half your lipstick for her coffee stash, so now you had a good drink and a show. 

Grady noticed you standing there and immediately turned his annoyance up a notch—performative as hell, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“The hell’d ya want?” he snapped, wiping at the black grease across his forehead and succeeding only in smearing it worse. “Ain’t got better things to do, Georgia?”

You noticed he had rolled his sleeves past his elbows, revealing well-muscled forearms. He moved differently now. Still quick, still sharp enough to intimidate everyone around him. But there was a cautiousness that hadn’t been there before. Like he was holding himself back from fully inhabiting his own skin until he was cleared for combat.

You walked up to him and took a very exaggerated sip of your coffee. “Decided to come see for myself who’s been screamin’ all over camp.”

But then you looked around the tent and had to admit all looked to be in a good—if slightly terrified—order. 

“I hear you’ve been a menace, cowboy,” you said.

Grady let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Sugar, this here’s me bein’ nice.”

You took another slow sip of coffee, looking at him. Grady noticed and rolled his shoulders with deliberate nonchalance.

“Ain’t my fault these greenhorns couldn’t tell a carburetor from a tire,” he muttered.

The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Grady thoroughly committed to being the loudest, most obnoxious bastard in any circumstances.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “You’re healin’ real good. Might be back with your crew by week’s end.”

“‘Bout damn time,” he grumbled.

Suddenly he was unable to meet your eyes. “They’re lettin’ you stay or you gettin’ a transfer outta here?”

“A transfer?” You snorted, shaking your head. “As if they’d let me. Nah, this here’s where I’ll be. Least until Hitler wises up and shoots his brains out.”

You studied Grady for a while and you could tell he didn’t much like it.

“What?” he grumbled, as if bracing for a fight.

“Nothin’.”

“Uh-huh.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Then what the hell’re ya starin’ at me for?”

He was healing, sure, but there was a restlessness in him you recognized—the kind that made men pick fights just to feel something other than useless. 

“Just…” You sighed. “Don’t go gettin’ yourself shot again.”

“Can’t promise ya nuthin.” He grinned. “I’m mean an’ dumb. There sure’s a bullet with my name on it somewhere.”

You finished that coffee, suddenly wishing you had bartered for something stronger. “You ain’t dumb. And I ain’t patchin’ ya up just so you can bitch at me.”

As soon as you said it, something changed in the way he looked at you. Grady watched you, then just nodded toward the nearest busted truck. “C’mere. Show ya somethin’.” 

He tugged you toward the shadowed side of the truck before you could protest. The sudden movement sent your empty coffee tin clattering to the dirt. “The hell—” you started, but his other hand came up to silence you, a rough palm pressing gently against your lips. 

“Ain’t gonna bite,” he murmured, voice low. “Just… wanted to see if you’d follow.”

You remembered there were some rules and regulations that specifically stated how this was a spectacularly bad idea. Suddenly you couldn’t name even one.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and you pulled him closer. Grady lowered his hands and grabbed your ass without preamble, before ducking his head to kiss you.

That first kiss was a harsh one, like he was starving for it. But you didn’t mind one bit. Your head was swimming a little and you did your damndest not to make a sound. After a while, Grady slowed down, his lips brushing yours almost tentatively. 

When he finally pulled back, you could tell he was waiting for you to bolt. But you didn’t move an inch.

Grady grinned, that smugness back in full force. “There. Now ya can remember which dog’s yours to patch up.”

You let out an incredulous, soft kind of chuckle and shook your head. “I don’t wanna see ya gettin’ shot ever again,” you said, quiet. 

He lowered his eyes, suddenly all serious. “Georgia…”

“I know,” you said quickly. “I know. But I ain’t gonna pretend it’s not nice to steal a moment.”

For a long time, neither of you spoke. Grady watched your face closely, those dark eyes flickering between your lips and the medic’s armband on your sleeve. 

Grady’s hand came up to run his fingers through your hair, lingering a heartbeat too long. “Shouldn’t’a done that,” he murmured, and you had no idea if he was talking to you or to himself.

“Too late now,” you murmured, completely disarming him.

You only held him tighter and now you actually let yourself embrace him. His whole body stiffened, obviously not used to any of whatever the hell this was. If he found a girl in any of them liberated towns, she’d usually be willing to sleep with him for cigarettes or a bar of chocolate. And he definitely wouldn’t get hugs after. 

Grady stood frozen in your arms, breathing slowly. He hadn’t been held like this since… hell, probably since before the war. Maybe never.

“This ‘s some right nonsense,” he grunted. 

You felt the exact moment he gave in—the way his shoulders dropped and his breathing slowed when he buried his face against your neck. His exhale shuddered out, hot and damp. 

“Goddamn it, Georgia,” he said, quiet and angry.

And he held you tight now, unwilling to let go. When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “They clear me for duty, I’m gone by dawn.”

You looked up at him and you had nothing to say. What could you even tell him that would make this better?

“I know,” you said instead, then pulled him in for another kiss. 

There were no sweet sendoffs out here on the front, and yet… You still stubbornly held out hope that there could be a happy ending. But you didn’t tell him that. You already knew he’d say you were smarter than that.

Grady’s hands tightened around you and he deepened the kiss with a roughness that bordered on desperation. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

Then he stepped back and swallowed hard, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Hell. Just… stay alive, will ya?”

“Me?” Your eyes widened. “I ain’t the one doin’ the fightin’.”

You just put together the pieces that were left.

Grady’s grip on your shoulders tightened like he was thinking the same. “Seen ‘nough medics catch stray bullets out there.”

He could see him wrestling with it—the urge to do something he had spent five years training himself absolutely not to do. You were both pretending you hadn’t gotten closer, on purpose at that, but you did. 

If they were to drag Grady back to that tank, you had hours together at best. And you both still pretended you wanted to do nothing. 

A small stupid part of you wanted to just laugh. Of all the men to get tangled up with...

Finally, Grady jerked his chin toward the motor pool where the privates were still keeping busy. “Best get back ‘fore they strip every damn engine for scrap.”

He took two steps before turning back abruptly. “You—” The words died in his throat. For once, the man who always had something to say came up empty.

All of a sudden, one of the medics from the next tent over appeared at the entrance. He whistled sharply to get your attention, jerking his thumb toward the surgical ward. Right. Duty called. You walked out and turned away from the motor pool, but not before catching Grady’s gaze one last time. He wasn’t grinning anymore.

War made liars of you all.

The medical truck jolted to a stop at the crossing, the stench of cordite and burning metal filling the air. You stepped out into carnage—smoldering tank husks, the acrid tang of spilled fuel, and the orange glow illuminating piles upon piles of dead SS soldiers. 

Your boots sank into churned earth. It went muddy with blood. You scanned the wreckage, watching the crew of the other two American tanks being escorted to safety. One of them must have driven straight on the landmine, and the rest of it was still on fire. And then you saw it—Fury, her barrel still hot, sides marked with shell impacts, but otherwise intact. There was a smoldering carcass of a Nazi tied to its front.

They had stood their ground and held that crossing. Now your crew was sent here to pick up the pieces and for a second or two you kept wondering if you even could force yourself to focus.

Movement near the tank made your breath catch and you sprinted that way before anyone could stop you. 

And then you saw him.

Grady was crouched beside a wounded private, pressing a filthy rag to the kid’s leg while barking something at Gordo. 

Half of him was completely blackened with soot, one sleeve torn open to reveal a nasty burn. He hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy keeping the young boy in one piece. They’d stared down death and spat in its face. Again.

None of them looked victorious, though. Just numb.

“Oh, shit fire, cowboy,” you muttered, unable to come up with anything else.

Grady finally looked up, blinking in shock. “Georgia?”

Then the private whimpered and Grady adjusted his grip. “Quit squirming, Norman, or I’ll knock ya out proper!” 

“Fuck… you,” Normal muttered, grinning wide.

Up close, you could see the fine tremor in Grady’s hands.

“I got it,” you said quickly and took out the gauze and the sulfa powder. “Don’t let nothin’ touch that burn,” you warned Grady, then pressed hard on the private’s wound. The boy, Norman, howled. But you held him firm. 

“None of that. You survived this far, you’re gonna get through this, ya hear me?” You looked at him sharply, then watched Norman give you a terrified nod. 

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Breathe.”

Grady watched you scare the boy into surviving with a faint smirk on his lips. There was something very close to fondness flickering in his eyes for half a moment. Then he sat down in the mud, leaning against Fury, entirely exhausted.

“Y’ did good, War Machine.” Grady grinned weakly, watching Norman’s pale face. “Kid took shrapnel tryin’ to play hero.” 

“Wasn’t playin’,” Norman muttered. “Just… did.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grady waved his hand, then regretted it quickly. That burn really was nasty. “Reckon y’ saved both our hides.”

Grady watched your hands as you were moving swiftly with the bandages. “Helluva place for a reunion, Georgia,” he said with a humorless chuckle.

“Somethin’ like that,” you replied, breathless. But you smiled when he reached for you, pressing one soot-stained hand to your cheek. 

Norman watched you both with an incredulous frown, eyes darting from Grady to you. “The hell kinda Cajun magic did ya pull to get a lady like her?”

Grady flicked his ear, his scowl back in place. “Watch it.”

“They got your sergeant back there,” you said, trying to change the subject. “He ain’t lookin’ too bad.”

As the stretcher bearers approached, Grady took a half-step back, watching you help Norman get on it. The kid was obviously in pain, but no longer bleeding. You very possibly just saved that leg.

Later on, you and the Fury boys were all packed in the medical van. It rattled along the dirt road, canvas walls trembling with every pothole. Grady sat stiffly on the bench, jaw clenched as you dabbed antiseptic on that angry red burn snaking up his arm. You could tell he was only half-lucid, exhausted like the rest of them.

“You keep on fussin’, I’m gonna think you like me, Georgia.”

The other crew members exchanged knowing smirks. 

“Hold still, you,” you muttered, fingers gentle despite your tone. The van hit another bump, making Grady hiss as your hand slipped. “Sorry.”

“Sure you are,” he grumbled, teeth gritted.

But he reached for you, placing his palm on your thigh as you worked on dressing that burn. Bible immediately pretended to study the floor, and Gordo suddenly became very interested in his boots.

Don cleared his throat from the opposite bench, eyes sharp despite his own injuries. “Coon-Ass ever tell you ‘bout the time he got that other burn on his—”

“No,” Grady grunted, opening one eye. “We ain’t sharin’ no stories ‘bout me, Top.” 

You could see his ears going pink even underneath all that black grime. The van went silent again. The grumble of the engine and the rustle of the bandage became the only sounds around you.

Then—

“Best job I ever had,” Gordo offered weakly and they all looked at each other.

Grady laughed first, then Bible, then all the rest. 

“Best job I ever had,” Grady muttered, eyes closed, his cocky smirk back in full force now that he had you fussing over him.

Don let out a quiet, relieved sort of laugh, and you found yourself right in the middle of a joke you didn’t understand. But it didn’t matter one bit. You wrapped that bandage carefully around Grady’s arm and then let out a deep, heavy sigh.

“You okay there, Georgia?” Grady asked.

You just nodded, trying not to fall apart. Because how could you even tell him you had expected to find all of them dead at that crossing?

The rumble of nearby engines signaled your return to base. Voices erupted around you, medics sprinting to action and escorting the most heavily wounded. The entire camp greeted the survivors like heroes. 

When the van stopped and the others moved out, Grady hesitated. “Georgia…” he started, voice rough. 

You decided to make it easy for him and just pulled him in for a kiss.

“Hey!” One of the medics waved at you, but then saw you were busy back there and he grinned.

“She comin’?” One of the nurses asked impatiently.

“We can give them a minute,” the medic replied.

Meanwhile, Grady kissed you back with a determined grunt that betrayed how badly he’d been thinking of you. When you pulled away, he pulled you back in. He wasn’t ready to let go, perhaps never would be. You got yourself one mud-stained loyal hound.

The medic outside cleared his throat pointedly. You could see the exact moment reality set back in—Grady’s gaze flicking past you to the camp, to Don, to where Norman was being loaded onto a stretcher.

“Yeah, go on then,” Grady grunted, jerking his chin toward the triage tents. “Bet they got boys bleedin’ out that need you more’n I do.”

Grady jumped out first and then carefully helped you down from that van. He held your hand a minute longer, giving you one more reassuring squeeze.

“You gonna be okay?” you asked, smiling. 

Grady chuckled, for a moment back to his usual cocky self again. “Naw, I ain’t that easy to kill, sugar.”

No, he really wasn’t. In fact, pretty much everything about him seemed solid. Easy. Maybe that’s why you liked him so much. 

“Finally! Kissed the livin’ daylights outta your man yet?” One of the nurses, Judy, teased when you entered the triage tent.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide that smile—even when you rushed to help her with another burn wound. “He ain’t my man,” you muttered.

“Oh, honey!” Judy chuckled. “If he ain’t yours, then butter my butt and call me a biscuit.”

The transport ship groaned underfoot as it cut through the Atlantic, the scent of sea salt a pleasant aroma after years and years spent in blood and mud. Somewhere below the deck, a harmonica started up with a wobbly rendition of “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”

Grady leaned against the railing, watching the coastline grow smaller and smaller through the morning haze. You moved closer to stand beside him. He didn’t look over, just put his arm around you. “Ain’t real yet,” he muttered, squinting at the distant shores fading away in the distance. “Keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up back in that damn tank.”

His breath was warm against your temple when he spoke again, voice rough. “You sure about this, Georgia? I ain’t… I ain’t much.”

You turned in his arms and looked up. Grady had faced down Panzers without flinching, and now apparently was sweating bullets at the thought of settling down.

“You can fix a tank. An’ draw one.” You shrugged. “Good enough for me, I reckon.”

Grady let out a huff, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, but I ain’t exactly what decent folk picture when their girl brings a man home.”

You arched one brow. “Uh-huh… And you think there’s a man back in Georgia who’d stand for my temper?” 

“Heh.” He smirked. “Guess not. But a sweet li’l thing like you with a knocked-’round bastard like me—”

Before he could finish that thought, you pulled him by the shirt and pressed your lips to his for a quick kiss. 

“I ain’t sweet,” you muttered, then kissed him again. 

He let out a sharp huff through his nose, then just pulled you closer, resting his chin on top of your head. “Yeah, you are.”

“You gettin’ sentimental on me, cowboy?”

“Yeah,” he muttered into your hair, voice gone rough. “Gonna build you a house, Georgia. An’ we can get a dog.”

“One that ain’t mouthy like you, preferably.”

“Goddamn.” Grady snorted like he couldn’t quite believe you. “That’s how it’s gonna be?”

“Well, if ya jump now, reckon you could still make it back to Ger—”

You didn’t manage to finish, because he pulled you to him roughly and kissed you like he wanted to glue you together. 

After he let you pull away, reluctantly, you just grinned at him madly. “Now who’s bein’ sweet?”

“Ain’t sweet.” Grady clicked his tongue once, grinning. “Just... plannin’.” The word came out awkward, unfamiliar.

“Last time you said you don’t make plans,” you reminded him.

“I lied.” His grin was all teeth. 

He grinned even harder when you hit his arm in annoyance. 

“Ya can plant a damn garden too,” he muttered. “Tomatoes. Corn. Whatever the hell else you like.”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head back to look at him again. 

“Yeah. Ain’t promisin’ I won’t kill the plants,” he admitted. “But I’ll dig the holes real nice.”

“You best build us a bookshelf,” you decided. “Someone’s gotta stay literate in the family.”

Grady’s entire body stiffened at the word family.

“Might get a radio,” he added, like it was an afterthought. “So you ain’t stuck listenin’ to me grumble all day.” 

You nudged him with your elbow. “What if I like your grumblin’?”

“Oh, darlin’.” He snorted and his arms tightened around you. “Yeah, now you’re lyin’.”

“You ain’t never caught me in a lie yet,” you drawled, stretching up on your tiptoes. “But I will say, if ya snore then we better build a doghouse out the back, too.”

That got his attention right quick—his whole face did this funny little twist between offense and amusement.

“The hell kinda—listen here, woman, I slept elbow-to-elbow with four other bastards in that tin can for two goddamn years and not once did—” He cut himself off when you started laughing, and the realization hit. “Eh, you’re pullin’ my leg…”

You laughed harder so he grabbed you by the hips and hoisted you up onto the railing suddenly enough to make you yelp—then he locked both arms around you, keeping you steady. “Yeah, guess I can make any noise ya like,” he muttered, leaning in until he nuzzled your neck.

Maybe it was the sunlight in your hair or the sea air making his head all hazy, but Grady just couldn’t stop looking at you.

“Alright,” he grumbled. “Gonna build ya a house so far out in the sticks, the only shit we’ll hear are the crickets and your smartass mouth. How’s that for a plan now?”

Then he kissed you before you could even think to argue.