Chapter Text
. . . 20. July 1944
Well.. what are you supposed to say?
It's not a big surprise you hate your squad sergeant.
The first time you ever saw him, the day he introduced himself during basic, Technical Sergeant William Pierson demands for an answer why you're here-, and later that same day, lets you run three miles, just because he can.
You missed dinner. It's only thanks to Zussman, your first ever buddy, you get something to eat that day. He'd smuggled some bread and toppings with him, presenting it to your crumbled self once you returned hungry and drained from the showers. An introduction like this would usually prevent you from ever coming in contact with that same person again-
Except that, he is your squad sergeant after all. And that those 16 coming weeks of basic would be led by none other than him.
Not to mention the following campaign.
You can imagine how well it went. From humiliation to excessive physical training, sergeant Pierson let you suffer like no other under his hands. Everybody notices. Everybody speaks of it. Every night you fell asleep with the worst aches imaginable, and woke up with hatred even stronger than the day before.
He damn well tried, but ultimately failed to break you.
And now, it's your turn. You recon it's solely his fault he has to deal with someone like you now. You're obedient, no doubt, but at the same time you've sworn to never hold back again, to return the favour in the only way possible for a simple private like yourself.
Few say you remind them of an old, bickering couple. It's a lot worse than that. So much so, Lieutenant Turner needs to step in whenever things escalate again, in terms of arguing or punishments at least. Everyone was sure, no amount of counselling could ever weld you together. When stubbornness collides with similar calibre, they will burn the other down to the bone.
You've grown a lot since those brutal weeks of basic. Not in height, but as a person. You're not the scared, meek girl that once quivered under the bellows of a single demented sergeant. During your march through France, you have stared death in the eyes countless times. Your struggles top those you had back in America a hundredfold. And despite it all, you're standing-, strong and proud.
Not even Pierson could change that.
But- the universe could. And it will. As if your life wasn't hard enough already, the world would once more show its true face with a tasteless joke, that would,- quite literally, tie you to the one person you despise more than anyone else.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Fighting has always been part of your life, but the war had taken it to a more violent level. You've seen what people can do with their own hands, what lengths they are willing to go to save their own skin. You've seen it in yourself. Cracking skulls with rocks, squeezing throats until there's nothing left but a still body, shooting a magazine into a deceased out of fear they will rise from the dead for revenge.
Your hands are stained with blood and no matter how hard you try scrub them; it won't go away. You fear, you will have to carry this burden for a lifetime.
Today is no different. Chasing Krauts through French fields, past abandoned barns and into dark forests. You've got the bastards on the run, and the Lieutenant isn't willing to let up on them anytime soon. You've still got energy, adrenaline forcing even the last powers from the very corners of your body.
Though, amidst the shadows of the trees and the uneven terrain, the Germans manage to dig into cover, staggering the advance of your platoon to a halt. Without clear sight, trees obstructing your view every few meters, a dangerous game begins.
You had taken cover behind a thick oak tree, feeling bullets slowly chipping away on its corners. Bark splinters into every direction and as the wood digs aggressively into your cheeks, you know there's no time to waste.
Gripping your rifle tight, you time your leap, leaving behind your cover with a clear goal in sight. A smooth boulder dug into the side of the hill posed to be the closest point of safety. Although a lone soldier is already occupying this spot, you figure there has to be enough space for two. Either way, it's better than risk getting shot. Bullets easily bounce off the hard rock and it makes for a good place to act from.
Miraculously, you reach safety unharmed. As you crash down however, there's barely any time for relief, as you're elbowed hard in the side, almost falling over.
You send a furious glare into said direction, only to realize who exactly is the culprit behind this push.
"What the hell sarge?" You yell, his face twisting into a deep snarl. Sergeant William Pierson. A name like any other, though a curse for many.
"Get off of me, will you?"
"Is that really your concern right now Sir?"
"There's not enough room here for us both to shoot," he hisses loudly, trying to beat the loud noises of war with his voice. Gun sounds rattle through the forest, echoing from one tree to another, and your ears teeter on the edge of a tinnitus. It doesn't seem to bother Pierson though, you recon nothing does. His eyes hold an uncanny calmness that doesn't fit the situation you find yourselves in. Sergeant Pierson is never scared. He never shows emotion, besides anger and resentment. As if you're personally at fault for every misery that has happened in his life.
It's always been like that. He can't stand you. And he never once tried hiding it, always spitting his thoughts of you right into your face, without any regard of your feelings. Sergeant Pierson doesn't have feelings; it shows in the way he behaves towards his own.
Your inner voice screams. And overcome by anger, mixed with the fear for your life, you let this rage out with an unthoughtful, "Oh- see if I care!"
His fiery gaze finds you, the growl on his lips telling more of a promise than a threat.
"You better watch your lip!"
The eyes of soldiers nearby find your confrontation, and there's no room for debate that there's countless better times to do what you two are doing at the moment. But despite the fear induced from the obvious fight going on, your hate for him has grown into an equally big factor. So much so, you sometimes lose control.
"Screw you sarge-, you don't scare me anymore!"
He bellows. "This will have consequences l/n, you just wait!" You're certain if he wouldn't hold the rifle in hand right now, he'd be long on your throat.
You open your mouth to start with your sentence, when a small flying object catches your attention. With a dull splash, it lands in the mud in front of your feet. Before you can even begin to react, the image surreal to your mind, Pierson has already lunged forwards and grabs the grenade by its handle, throwing it back where it came from.
As his shout, GRENADE! , finally reaches you, you begin to react and start sprinting into the opposite direction, deeper into the bushes, hoping to get enough distance between you and the explosive. As the detonation occurs seconds later, you're pushed forwards and onto hands and knees, but instead of the floor, you find yourself falling.
You scream, the hole you fell into too deep to see the end, and darkness soon begins to swallow you whole and without mercy. You manage to shout a last desperate, HELP! before it all fades to black, and you find yourself falling unconscious without any reason to.
The last thing you perceive, the outcry of your own name.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Once you awake, everything is bright once more. The ground is uncomfortable and dusty, and it doesn't take long for you to realize you are simply laying on the hard floor.
A groan from deep within your throat. Your head aches. As does your back. Carefully, your eyes flutter open. The foliage of the trees above protects you from the blinding sun. A gentle breeze drifts through the forest, cooling your pounding head.
Silence.
You're laying inside a shallow hole, maybe waist level, and by far not as deep as the one you swore you fell into was.
" 'The fuck-? Was I tripping?" You whisper under your breath, try rubbing your forehead with your dominant hand, only to find it restricted by a newfound weight. You try lift it again and turn your face to your side as you find it not budging.
You blink a couple of times, processing the picture you're seeing.
Your squad leader lies besides you, uncomfortably close. He faces you, though appears to still be sound asleep- or unconscious, you name it. As weird as this already is, however, something stunningly bright red catches your attention next.
A red... string is attached to his wrist, and the end of it is tied around your own. You can't see where it begins on each hand, or where the knots are. All you know, it's pretty tight, sealing the back of your hand against his.
You try to pull on it. All that happens, is both your hands wiggling. A flash of hot embarrassment washes over you as you finally notice the sensation of his skin against yours, warm and foreign.
"Hey-... hey! What the hell?!"
In your blind panic, you scramble up, accidentally pulling his arm with you. You recoil as the string burns into your hand, the weight of Pierson's limb hanging on it. With your loud outcry, you seem to have woken the sleeping beauty, who stirs awake at once. His face constricts, he blinks hard a couple of times, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
"What?"
"What the hell happened?!"
"Oh great, you,-" He groans, then finally seems to notice the situation both your hands are in. His brows furrow.
"Wait... the fuck is this?"
"I don't fucking know! You tell me!"
He sits up slowly, still dazed from whatever has knocked him out cold in the first place. He rubs his eyes with the back of his free hand, getting rid of the last bits of sleep left. Then he squints at the string entangling your hands, sends the same look at you. You return it with a glare of your own.
"Don't look at me like that. It wasn't me."
"Who else?"
"Well, I don't fucking know, but there's a hundred things I could imagine doing other than tying myself to you while you're unconscious."
You recoil as the words leave your mouth, uttering a surprised, "Wow. It sounds even creepier out loud."
Pierson shakes his head. He scoffs. "Whatever."
His free hand reaches for something in his pocket and he pulls out a sharp knife, the blade reflecting light against the dirt surrounding you.
You swallow as he positions himself properly, almost straddling one of your crossed legs.
"Don't cut me," you warn.
He sends you a lazy face, matching the sarcasm in his voice as he utters, "Wouldn't dream of it."
He places the sharp edge of the knife against one of the many threads leading around your bound wrists, then with one quick motion-
Your brows shoot up in surprise, watching the knife slide over the thread without leaving as much as a hint of a cut on it. Confusion is written across the sergeant's features.
"Great knife. Sarge, I thought you said we're supposed to look after our stuff?"
Your smirk is met with a growl.
"It is sharp."
"I can see that."
Ignoring your taunts, Pierson places the knife once more against the red string. He tries slicing it again, letting the edge of the weapon trace the same spot over and over again, but no matter how much pressure he applies, how hard he cuts, nothing happens.
"What the hell is this thing made of?!" Pierson bellows in frustration. You shrug.
"Maybe your knife isn't sharp enough,"
"Of course it fucking is smartass!" He yells again, grabs a random branch braced against the side of the hole and with one hard tug with his knife, cuts the piece of wood in half.
The other side falls to the ground in defeat and it's the first time you actually understand what has him so mad. All of a sudden, the same sense of panic and foreboding twists your gut and you stare at Pierson flabbergasted.
"Wait... Then why doesn't this string...? "
"Glad you've finally caught up, dimwit."
"Woah, woah, hey, we gotta get this thing off, I can't stay tied to you,"
Not even his insult could dampen the panic beginning to bloom in your chest. Was this a contraption of the Krauts? Had they applied it to you while you two were left unconscious by the grenade blast?
Your names are getting called and both of you look up.
"We're here!" You call out, scrambling up immediately. You force Pierson to get up with you, something you don't notice in your feverish search for help. Someone had to know how to get rid of this- thing. Your upper bodies can easily lurk out the hole as you stand straight. It's Daniels who spots you first, alerting the rest of the platoon, and some more soldiers come rushing over. The heavy equipment on their bodies rattles loudly as they push through the green thicket.
"You two okay?" Daniels asks.
Aiello, a tad out of breath as he arrives, raises his brow as he sees the state of your hands.
"What the hell is that?"
"I have no idea man," you lament, wiggling your arm to show how tightly it's wrapped around Pierson's. The man in question doesn't look too happy about that and shoots you a warning glare.
"Lieutenant!" Daniels shouts.
Turner soon joins the platoon at the hole, everybody staring down at you like some kind of attraction. It doesn't bother you as much as it seems to bother Pierson, according to the foul look at least.
"You two, get out of there," Turner orders strictly, obviously not as amused as the platoon by your shenanigans. His eyes narrow as he finally spots what everybody is already whispering about.
Climbing out the hole is harder than previously imagined. As Pierson decides it's his privilege to jump out first, he seems to forget that your hands are tied together pretty tightly. He accidentally pulls you with him as he pushes himself out and stands, resulting in you bumping hard against the wall, arm straining upwards in the direction of his hand.
You growl, even more so as you see his face turn towards you with an obvious smirk.
"Sorry."
"Sorry my ass," you whisper under your breath. With your entire bodyweight, you let yourself fall against the wall next, forcing him to bend down as you climb out yourself. He yells for you to watch it, the grin now etched onto your face.
"What the hell are you two doing?"
Turner looks sternly. He grabs something from his belt, pulling out a small pocketknife. "Get that thing off!"
"Turner, don't you think we already tried that?" Pierson asks.
Still, Turner goes for it, stands next to you and tries to cut through the string with one sharp tug,- with unsurprising little success. His face twists, lips slightly apart as a whispered, "What?" leaves his mouth.
"It won't. Go. Off," Pierson whispers back at him, in a frightfully sobering way. Sobering to you anyways, and you see Zussmans look of worry as he spots the growing paleness on your face. You do feel like passing out, honestly.
This couldn't be happening.
Not to him, God, out of all the people in this world, why him?
As the platoon begins to break into whispers, you hear Stiles' snicker, "Damn, it really hit the right ones."
"Quiet now!" Turner holds his head, thinking. The sun slowly begins lowering itself towards the horizon, drenching the sky a deep orange. There's no point in trying to continue. "We are setting up camp in the old farmhouse. Move, before it gets too late."
Upon his orders, the platoon scrambles back to life, sparing your hands a last glance before doing as told. The Lieutenant watches his men leave, then turns back to the two of you.
He eyes you with the usual fatherly concern, a look reserved for you and only you. As the only woman in his platoon, he often verbalizes his worries, asking how the boys are treating you, or how you're coping with the aftermath of the battles. He sees you as a full member of the platoon, still, he had an undeniable soft spot for you in particular that he never admits to. Then again, so does everyone in this camp except for Pierson.
Being a woman has good and bad sides to it. You're the centre of attention a lot of times, which-, with your hard work to show off, usually leaves you to be liked by most soldiers. You'd even go as far as to say they respect you a fair amount- after all you've done though, you feel like it's right of them to do. Mutual respect is important, and after hearing of cases where implementing women into a platoon backlashed horribly, you're glad it worked out in your case.
It's hard sometimes, spotting the different kinds of men though. In few cases, friendly faces are a mere tactic to lure you into their arms. Once they realize that there's no chance for them to get what they want, kindness is short lived.
You're glad to know that no matter what happens, you will always have your boys by your side. Zuss, Daniels, Stiles, Aiello. They weren't always your family, some beginnings were bumpy even, and still, these four are much more than just names. They are your guardian angels, your friends, brothers in arms.
"You okay l/n?"
"If I'm okay?" You repeat, slowly shaking your buzzing head. "Sir, how the hell am I supposed to be alright when I'm stuck with him?"
"We will find a solution, don't worry. How did this happen in the first place?"
You tell Turner everything that happened leading up to this point, how Pierson and you argued about some nonsense again, you ran to dodge the grenade blast and fell into a deep hole that apparently was not as deep as it felt like at first. Pierson simply agrees with everything, though sees the need to add a low, "If you had just stayed where you were, all of this wouldn't have happened."
You turn towards him furiously. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Enough," Turner warns firmly, shutting the two of you up before it has any chance to grow into a discussion once again. He places a hand on the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes.
"Why does this always happen to me?"
A tingle of guilt in your gut. It's true, you two cause a lot of trouble for the poor man. As if leading a platoon into war wasn't hard enough already, your shared war also follows everywhere he goes.
And now this.
"Meet the platoon further up ahead, help them set up camp- if you can. I need time to think. This doesn't make any sense right now."
You agree, it doesn't. And you're pretty sure it won't ever. There doesn't seem to be any logical explanation for this, except of course Pierson is behind all of it- which, in all honesty, makes no sense either. He hates you equally much. So why would he be the one tying you to him? With a string made of material that seemed to magically withstand everything?
You obey the orders given, moodily trudge up the forest path with the sergeant right next to you. His mere presence makes you want to scream and as long as he's here, right next to you, invading your personal space like an annoying family relative, you don't think that will change anytime soon.
As expected, you can barely help the platoon with your tied hands. They're bound together in a way that allows only one of you to hold or move something, leaving the other with only a single hand to spare. Soldiers come and inspect the string every now and then, receiving a harsh warning from Pierson that sends them back on their merry way.
Later that day after work's done, in a last desperate act, everyone's allowed to try their luck with their own knife. Though no matter how many soldiers try, no matter how fancy the knifes, the string won't come off. The more people try, the funnier it gets for them--
And the more horrible the realization becomes for you.
This thing won't come off. You have no idea how you're supposed to live, tied to the one person you can't even imagine talking to. That might be the worst realization of them all-- the fact you had to live with him. Eat. Sleep. And your face flushes red as another factor pops up in your mind.
How the hell were you supposed to maintain your physical hygiene? Bathing in his presence?
As the next soldier tries his luck, you turn your head to the side, burying your face in your free hand. This couldn't be happening. You wouldn't care for it if Zussman was tied to you, nor Daniels or Aiello. You've grown close to them, you see them as your own flesh and blood, brothers you rely on in battle. But William Pierson? The bastard singlehandedly causing you pain ever since you two met?
Words can't describe how much you despise him. And still, the skin resting mockingly against your own reminds you that this would now be the reality you'd have to live in.
As the sky grows darker, the circle surrounding you gets thinner. Soldiers leave to make themselves food or find a place to sleep for the night. You tell your friends that they too should leave and prepare for the next morning. They're hesitant to leave your side, though understand that there's nothing they can do right now.
This leaves you alone with Pierson, far off the campsite, who still tries to cut the string with everything he finds. He's tried with an axe, knifes of all kind, even tried rubbing on it long enough with a sharp piece of wood to maybe-, maybe burn a hole into it. Still, the red stares back at you with the same bright, crimson colour, and every little thread remains completely intact.
It's been hours. The sky is long dark.
You've finally reached your limit, huff an annoyed, "Sarge, stop. I'm getting tired of sitting here."
He doesn't even bother looking up from his work, just keeps on forcing the knife into the string, desperate for results.
It takes another yelled, Pierson! , for him to finally meet your gaze. He's furious.
"You might be okay with this, but I'm not!"
"Do you think I want to be tied to you?!" You stand up from the wooden cart you've been sitting on for too long, pulling your hand closer to yourself. He needs to stand up too.
"There's nothing we can do about it!"
"So what? You want to stay tied together for the rest of our fucking lives?!"
"No, of course not! But this is obviously doing nothing! And my back still hurts from that fall earlier! I want to go to bed!"
He hisses. "This is a much bigger problem than your back, princess! After all these months you still can't suck up a little pain?"
"You-!"
You push your hands against him, shoving him back a couple of steps. This action is met with a wave of rage flashing across his face, is then returned with twice the strength. You stumble over your heavy boots and trip-
Not surprising but apparently still not anticipated by Pierson-, you falling to the ground means he follows suit, and a wave of dust is whirled into the air as you two land in the dirt. Moments later, fuelled by rage, you find yourself on top of him, grabbing a fistful of his clothing.
"I hate you Pierson, I fucking hate you!" You tug hard at his uniform, "Do you think I wanted any of this, huh?! Are you really foolish enough to think that?!"
"Get off of me!"
"I'm sick and tired of your bullshit! Ever since you laid eyes on me that day, you made it your personal task to make my life living hell! You scream at me-, you punish me more than anyone else in this fucking camp! So don't tell me I can't suck up a little pain because you've been the reason for so many nights filled with burning aches that I've lost count!"
Finally, your words seem to have made him shut his damn mouth. His brows furrow hard, a shocked look in his eyes.
"There was a time I couldn't stand up in the morning-, Zussman brought me food to my cot, and after that bit of energy, I forced myself to stand and continue!"
Your face twists. For the first time, there's no malice in your voice. No anger, no hatred for the very person you're pinning to the ground. Just-, disappointment.
"And you still-- you still look down on me!"
You haven't noticed your breathing getting all messed up. Your hands keep a clammy grasp on his clothes. This has to be a first. Just telling him straight up what happened with you during those days of training.
And of course, what had you expected? Hammering in that disappointment even further, making it hurt even more, he whispers between clenched teeth,
"Get off of me,"
He proceeds to shove you off him before you have a chance to react in any way. As you roll back on the floor, you hit your temple against a toolbox standing close by, hissing as the metal scratches your skin. Then, he pulls you up with him, throwing the now dull knife into the dirt. He hisses.
A hand grabs your cheeks roughly and you're pulled closer towards him, malice in his voice as he barks, "Never fucking do that again!"
Without another word directed at you, and completely ignoring the statement you had just made, Pierson turns- and drags you with him towards the farmhouse.
He really doesn't care. And you're not sure why it hurts the way it does.
As you walk behind him, you stare down at the thread connecting your hands. You curse the world and you curse him.
The universe never has any luck to spare for you.
. .
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1st Infantry Division Discord
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