Imagines. | Band of Brothers [𝗥𝗘𝗤𝗨𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗦 𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗢𝗣𝗘𝗡]

pinky promise. | george luz

for stressedinadress on tumblr

***

George Luz stared off into the distance, his eyes, so typically full of life and warmth, now cold and distant. He had watched helplessly as Muck and Penkala's foxhole got hit, and since then, he hadn't said a word. They had found him trying to dig up the foxhole at the break of dawn.

You stared at him from aboveground, watching as George picked at a hole in his sleeve. His mouth was slightly agape, his breath coming out in little swirls.

"Luz," you heard Malarkey call for him, his voice intensely gentle. You knew he was hurting as well- Muck and Penkala were his best friends after all. At first, George didn't move, and you suspected he hadn't heard, but after a few breaths, he looked up at the two of you.

"Hey," he breathed, his eyes glassy, "Did you guys need something?" His voice was so soft, you could feel your heart breaking as well.

"No," you shook your head, crouching down to hand him a canteen filled with warm stew, "Domingus cooked us something up."

George stared at the canteen in your hands, seemingly zoning out. You waved it in front of him, watching him snap back into reality, cupping it with both hands. "You mind if I sit with you?" you whispered, and he nodded in response. You looked up at Donald who was just watching, and gave him a look that assured him that you could handle this. He smiled at you sadly, turning on his heel and leaving.

"You should eat while it's warm," you mumbled, jumping in the foxhole with him. George was back to staring off into the distance, making no move to eating the food in his hands. "It actually tastes good this time." After a considerable amount of urging, he brought the cold metal to his lips and took a sip. From the expression on his face, you gathered that it did not, in fact, taste good this time.

"This tastes like shit, Y/N," he mumbled halfheartedly, but continued eating anyway, "Like actual dog shit."

"Hey," you chuckled, trying to lighten the mood, "That's a good thing. The dog shit really brings out the flavour." George looked at you and made a gagging face, the most expression he had done all day.

"Don't say that to a man eating, love," he replied, but you saw a small smile form on his face.

You shrugged, resting your head on his shoulder, "I learned it from you."

"That you did."

The two of you sat in silence as he ate, the only sound coming from gunshots coming from the distance and the voices of the men as they sang behind you. Their songs were less joyous this time.

"You think I'll ever stop seeing their faces?" George suddenly asked, setting his empty canteen on the snow. His voice was barely above a whisper, and he leaned in to speak to you. Looking around to see if anyone was watching, you lowered your head as well.

You shook your head, answering honestly. His face fell sullen, his shoulders dropping. "You'll always remember their faces when we sat in the grass in France. Remember that?" you asked, using your finger to tilt up his chin. "Skip was telling a stupid joke about something as he always was, Penkala agreeing with his every word like it was the law." George sniffled.

"Or," you continued, turning your whole body so you were both facing each other, sitting with your legs crossed, "Back in Holland, when we had to completely peel poor Penkala off of that woman. Do you remember that?" He nodded slowly, he did remember. "You'll never forget, and maybe it'll haunt you forever, and that's okay. We're in this together. Pinky promise," you whispered, resting your forehead on his and extending your pinky towards him.

George exhaled and intertwined your pinky with his.

***

George leaned down to kiss you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You had made dinner that night, and was washing the dishes when he offered to do it himself. "I'll do it," he grinned, pushing you to the side with his hip, "You go upstairs and rest."

Despite how quickly he bounced back from everything, George never fully recovered from that night in Belgium. You rarely left him alone in the dark.

You pouted at him, but did as you were told anyway, watching his shadow from the staircase as he washed the dishes. It had been years after the war ended, and the two of you instantly moved in together. It just felt like the right thing to do, and besides, no one understood George Luz like you did.

He was hunched over the sink now, looking nowhere near like the man he was during the war. He was a lot older, a lot less skinny, and he always looked tired now. But who he was in Europe was still him, and it would be him forever. You bit your lip and headed up the stairs to prepare for bed.

As you laid in bed with a book in hand, you heard something crash downstairs. Rushing down, you spotted him on the ground, head in his hands, remnants of a broken plate by his feet. "George?" you called, rushing to him. You quickly brushed away the broken plate, and sat by him. He had tears streaming down his face. 

You held his face in your hands briefly, and he quickly pulled away, turning from you. Instead, you wrapped your arms tightly around him. "I'm here. We're at home," you breathed slowly, "We just had a lovely dinner, you were just washing the dishes."

Sometimes, you both needed reminding that you weren't still in Europe. His shoulders trembled under you, and he clenched at your clothes as he cried. "I could have helped them," he cried, his lips trembling, "If I had called them out with me."

You shook your head fervently, lifting his head to look at you. "No, George," you said as he shut his eyes, "That's not your fault. There was nothing you could do. You did all you could."

"I could've saved them," he whispered against your hair, slowly calming down. He was no longer crying, but George still clung to you tightly.

"Maybe you could've," you replied, resting your cheek against his head, "But also think about all the other people you've saved in turn."

The two of you sat there, on the kitchen floor, illuminated only by the small lamp in the corner. You were both leaned up against the kitchen sink, hands intertwined, staring off into the distance like you had done many, many times since the war ended. You often got lost in thought during dark nights like these.

"I'm sorry," George said, a sigh escaping his lips, "I tried to fight it this time."

You looked at him and smiled, planting a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. "That's alright," you extended your pinky towards him, "We all have those days. We're in this together, remember? Pinky promise."

George linked his pinky with yours, like he had done nearly a thousand times since that morning in Belgium. 

Both of you had kept your promise and were in it, nightmares and attacks, together.

***

a/n: ooooh been meaning to write something like this for awhile, so i loved every part of this.

i hope you enjoy it! feedbacks & comments are much appreciated. 

thank you!

with love, 

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