#maeve r.l. o'leavy

[sergeant-spoons]

15. The Grotto at Gargaphie

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​ @chaosklutz​​ @wexhappyxfew​​ @50svibes​​ @tvserie-s-world​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​ @whovian45810​​ @brokennerdalert​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​ @claire-bear-1218​​ @heirsoflilith​​ @itswormtrain​​ @actualtrashpanda​​ @wtrpxrks​​​

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The wind was warm, the sky was clear, and Maeve O'Leavy was getting antsy.

A week had passed since Easy Company took the town of Carentan and yet Battalion seemed to possess no intention of letting her go anytime soon. Lieutenant Welsh had let slip yesterday that some of the higher-ups had filed for a report on her activities and the officers in Intelligence were scrambling for the right paperwork. His intel had been unfortunately correct, as Maeve had spent the better part of the following morning trapped indoors with men she didn't want to talk to and who didn't much want to talk to her. Papers shimmied through her hands and by the time she was excused, she had two papercuts on the same finger and a fuzzy head. Frustrated, she'd gone to get her pack and found it had been moved without her knowledge. That was enough frustration to make her grab her pack (once she'd located it) and march off into the woods alone. Gossip of desertion followed her, but she paid the whispers no mind. She knew if she up and left, questions would be asked, dangerous questions, and the chances of her being welcomed back into Airborne-controlled territory would plummet like a stone in a lake. The men with their paperwork knew it, too.

Standing on the sloping dirt in a particularly peaceful stretch of the woods, Maeve watched a slender pebble leave her hand. It skipped four times before losing its luck and sinking beneath the green-blue ripples of its journey. She picked up another, tossed it from her left hand to her right and then back to her (dominant) left, and threw it. She'd come across this grotto by following a stream that was first a brook. The sound of rushing water and the twittering birds (a relief to hear after days of uncanny silence due to the frightened flight of natural beasts) calmed her nerves, and she followed its flow. She realized she'd begun to hum only when the rippling cove of the grotto pool came into sight. The water was still, here, not quite silent but almost, and she was still humming now as she skipped stones across the tranquil surface. Even the breeze—what little of it blew today—did not disturb the water. A thought occurred—

What I wouldn't give for a bath.

—and a smile quickly followed it.

Turning over each shoulder, Maeve studied her surroundings and decided her best chance at shelter was the large boulder on the immediate shore. If she had approached from this direction, chances were anyone else coming from the direction of the town would do the same. She deposited her pack and rummaged through it, kicking off her boots and shedding her vest and wrist wrappings as she went. With a fresh change of clothes laid out atop of the boulder for her future self, she stripped off the last of her underthings and waded into the pool, armed with a bar of soap and a growing smile. The water was cold at first—the canopy was thick, and consequently, the sun could not get much light through—but Maeve swam around a little, warming her limbs and acclimating herself until she was comfortable with the temperature. She stepped out briefly to retrieve her dirty clothing and immediately started shivering. She was quick to jump back in, all but hurling herself into the water once it was deep enough.

"Ahhh," she sighed as she surfaced, shaking ginger curls out of her eyes, and watched the droplets sprayed by the motion catch and twinkle in the sunlight.

She washed her clothing first, then hung it all out to dry on two low tree limbs and sank back into the water to bathe herself. It was her first bath in weeks, and Maeve thought it nothing short of a blessing. The water and the soap felt heavenly on her skin. She relaxed, drifting about and looking up at the trees and the birds just as often as she bothered to scrub. There was a comb somewhere in her pack, but she'd forgotten to get it out in her eagerness. She didn't want to drip all over her things, but she knew she'd have to comb her hair before she tied it up to dry, or it would never untangle. She set the dwindling soap bar on the shore and laid down in the water, kicking off from the bank with her bare feet. She floated on her back out into the middle of the pool and looked up at the sky through the leaves. It was blue, bluer than she'd seen in months. Was the sky in France always this bright? Back home, clouds were more of a constant than the sun.

A twig snapped nearby—and then another, closer.

Her sensibility for survival kicked in, and Maeve windmilled her arms and forced herself underwater. Water shot up her nose, and though it stung, she gritted her teeth and bore it. She swam with her arms only, making sure not to kick, for that would give away her presence and position. As soon as she reached the base of the shore where the boulder was, she surfaced, keeping one hand shielding her mouth in an attempt to her spluttering and gasping unheard.

"Hullo?"

That voice—did she know it? The greeting came again, still tentative, and she affirmed that at least the person was a speaker of English, so not likely an enemy. Carefully, she treaded her way around the boulder until she could poke her head around a crag and see the shore. There was a figure coming down the same faint path she had followed down the stream, looking up at the woods here and there but mostly eyeing the ground before his boots.

Damnit. My footprints.

"Anybody out here?" the man called. His voice was soft and Southern, and Maeve had an inkling as to his identity but could not tell over the burbling of the stream. She put one hand on the small outcropping and pushed herself up a little to get a closer look, taking care not to reveal herself below the chin. There was a rifle in his hands but an uncertainty to his step, and Maeve would have deemed him not a threat had she (A) recognized him and (B) been clothed.

And then the breeze blew, the soldier looked up, and Maeve caught the exact moment he saw her clothing hanging from the tree.

"What in the-"

His face went red as a beet. He'd seen her undergarments—her unmentionables, if you would—and stumbled back a step, averting his eyes. In doing so, he looked down through the grotto, and then at Maeve, and she shoved herself back into the water, sure her cheeks were turning the same hue as his.

Of course, it just had to be him.

"-sorry, I'm sorry," he was saying when she came up for want of air, not lack of embarrassment. "I ain't seen nothin', I swear! Nothin' at all!"

"Máthair Chríost Uilechumhachtach!" Maeve swore, hiding behind the boulder. "Turn around, fer feck's sake!"

"I did!" he gulped. "I swear, I did! As soon as I saw you-"

"Are ye alone? Did ye come alone?"

"Yes, yes!"

"What the feck'd ye come out here for?!"

"I got worried and came lookin' for you!"

Some of the tension left her body. She flexed her fingers, which had gone stiff from gripping the rock.

"Why were ye worried?"

"I, uh..."

She peeked over the side of the rock and saw him standing with his back to her. When he ducked his head toward his shoulder, she saw he had his eyes squeezed firmly shut with his hands tented over his face to boot.

"I oughta tell you when you're right and- and clothed again, Miss Maeve."

Oh, Shifty—still polite even in such an inelegant situation. Maeve dared to swim out from behind the boulder toward the shore. Her mortified visitor lowered his head more fully as if hearing her parting the water made him ever the more determined not to look.

"Keep yer eyes shut and don't turn around."

"I won't. I swear on the cross, I won't."

She believed him. When she got out of the water and reached for her clothes, she realized she'd forgotten that essential thing, the towel, and slipped back into the water. It was too clear to conceal her much, but it was enough that she managed to raise her courage and her voice and ask Shifty for the favor of retrieving her towel from her pack. He complied without question, never looking behind him, shuffling backward in the general direction of the pool with his arm outstretched clumsily behind him to hand it to her. She took it and he promptly took several strides forward, giving her space on the shore to rise. Toweling off as quickly as she could, she looked at the rigid way he was standing and wondered if she should try to put him at ease.

"Thanks," she said at last.

"Sure thing," came his meek reply.

They both fell silent. Shifty hesitated a moment, then cleared his throat.

"If you want me to leave, just say the word, an' I will."

She didn't reply. To her mixed embarrassment and relief, he stayed. He had several minutes to steal a glance back as she dressed, but he never did. As soon as she was fully clothed, the towel draped around her neck in a poor attempt to keep her soaked hair off her shoulders, she came up to Shifty but gave pause. Turning, she affirmed her clothing was still hanging off the branch. Finding it just damp after nearly two hours of drying time—her watch, returned to her wrist, informed her just how long she'd been out here—she determined it was fine and wrapped it up in the towel, forsaking the back of her shirt to the wetness of her hair. Once that was done, she returned to Shifty and tapped his bicep with her first three fingers. He jumped where he stood but did not move otherwise. She repeated the gesture, and though he turned, his eyes remained firmly shut. Maeve had never seen a man so devoted to a woman's privacy. In a burst of trust and affection, she leaned up and kissed his right cheek. His eyes flew open and searched hers, his face scarlet and his expression a mixture of awe and befuddlement. Before her resolve wavered too much and she kissed him again (this time a little more to the left), she turned around and crouched at her pack.

"So why were ye worried?"

Shifty mumbled a half-response that Maeve did not understand. Expecting him to take her silence as a cue to repeat himself, she rose, comb in hand, and surmounted the boulder. She settled on the warm stone and was just raising the comb to her head when she finally looked back at Shifty, who was still staring at her like he expected her to shoot him where he stood.

"I'm not the huntress Diana," she chuckled. "Ye needn't be nervous."

"But-"

"Call it an honest mistake." She shrugged, starting to comb. "Ye haven't offended me, if that's what's nippin' at ye."

He finally relaxed, and when she gestured for him to take a seat, he did so right where he was standing. She tilted her head and he turned sheepish when he realized he was too distant to hold a proper conversation. He came up closer, sitting not too far from her pack, and turned his chin up toward her, mirroring her crossed legs.

"I got worried with you bein' gone all day," he told her. "Webster said you'd gone off into the woods all by yourself. And it's not that I don't think you can take care of yourself, I know mighty well you can, I just got worried. Folks been talkin' 'bout wolves out here, and so far as I know, they ain't never come alone."

He was just too sweet, wasn't he? Even the tangles Maeve was clawing at with her comb no longer seemed bothersome with him here, looking at her like that with those chocolate brown eyes.

"No wolves today," she reassured him, "just a couple o' birds."

A fond smile crept onto Shifty's face, and when he saw she would not frown it away, he let it grow.

"I heard them singin'," he told her. "It's nice to hear 'em, after so long in the quiet."

Maeve's own lips started to tug upward.

"I was thinkin' the same thing when I found this place. Lots o' the birds flyin' over. Ye should have seen the sparrows—they kept on circlin' and circlin' till they went up above the treetops and flew away."

A faraway look came into Shifty's eyes.

"I used to go birdwatchin' with my Dad," he told her. "Bird-huntin' too, but only the game fowl, yes'm, nothin' we shouldn't'a been shootin'."

"Did yer Dad teach ye how to shoot?"

"He sure did," he said, and it was the most cheerful she'd heard him in two weeks. "He's the best shot I know, Dad. Not that you ain't an excellent shot, miss, with the bow even more'n the rifle."

"If somehow he's better than you," she replied after a beat of consideration, "then he's beaten me by a kilometer."

Shifty blushed. "I ain't that good."

She quirked a brow. "Are ye sayin' me eyes're playin' tricks on me when I see yer shootin'? Yer pure class with a rifle, Shifty, an' don't ye ever think otherwise."

He shifted, embarrassed, and stuck one leg out, leaning on a stump he'd only just noticed to the slight left and behind of him.

"Maybe."

"Mhmm."

They shared a small smile.

"Shifty?"

"Yeah?"

"Ye came lookin' all on yer own."

He glanced aside, then back at her. She hadn't meant to put him on the spot, but she had, and she wasn't about to apologize until he gave her those puppy dog eyes. The look was obviously unintentional, but it certainly had an effect, and she backtracked.

"Sorry, ye don't hafta-"

"Like I said," he told her, his voice quieter than before, "I got worried."

She understood him a bit better now, and the motion of her comb through her hair slowed. When his eyes started to widen, she supposed he'd taken her reaction poorly and imagined he'd said or implied something he shouldn't have. Quickly, she resumed combing and tidied up the last unwieldy curls. Tying it all back with a plain, fraying length of fabric (one could not be choicy about hair accessories when on the run), she stretched her legs out; as soon as she had her hands back, she slid down the side of the boulder.

"It's a nice pool," she remarked as she shouldered her pack, catching him looking almost longingly at the water. "Good fer a dip."

"If it gets any hotter, I might have to come back here," he said, turning back to her, but his movement slowed as he watched her pick up her bow, quiver, and rifle, arranging them on her back.

"What?"

"Hmm?"

The corner of her mouth twitched up.

"Ye were starin' a bit."

Not for the first nor the last time that afternoon, he pinkened.

"You, um..."

She glanced down at herself.

"Am I forgettin' somethin'?"

"No, it's just, um..." 

She looked over her shoulder. No wolf awaited her.

"You look like a hero, you know? All brave an' strong, like a warrior queen from some old, important story." He shrugged. "Aw, but hell, I don't know much. I'm just a country boy. I don't know much 'bout your Ireland—or, hell, anywhere that ain't home."

Maeve took a moment to look at him, really look. She hadn't gotten much of a chance for that these last few weeks, what with the Normandy campaign taking her (and him) every which way across northern France.

"And where is that?"

"Hmm?"

"Home." 

She bumped her shoulder against his, urging him to walk alongside her, together, they turned away from the grotto and toward the stream-path.

"Where are you from, Shif- Darrell?"

He liked his name from her lips, it was clear as day, but she pretended not to notice lest she accidentally embarrassed him again.

"Clinchco," he told her at last. "Clinchco, Virginia."

"Clinchco." She rolled the name across her tongue. "I bet it's bleedin' grand."

He understood it was a compliment. "You think so?"

"Yeh, sure. How could it not be?"

She flashed him a smile, and when he returned it, she found the courage to add the endearment on the tip of her tongue.

"It gave us you, after all."

Shifty tripped over a root and nearly lost his rifle off his shoulder. Maeve fixed the strap and laughed off the stumble, pretending she couldn't feel him staring at her like she'd just told him Jesus wasn't from Nazareth after all but Virginia.

"Ah, Jaesus," she exclaimed, trying to convince herself she wasn't cowardly as she hid her gaze on her watch. "Is tha' really the time?"

She showed Shifty and he made a face.

"We should hurry up."

They shared a look and promptly broke into a run.

"If we've missed supper," she called back, outpacing him just slightly, "ye owe me another meal!"

The way she pronounced 'another' as 'anudder' made Shifty's heard do a flip in his chest, and he stammered as he asked:

"D'you mean like a date?"

Too tongue-tied at the notion to reply, Maeve raised her hands in a clumsy shrug and kept running—alas, not looking back cost her the sight of Shifty's smile spreading across his face like the sunshine lighting up the summer sky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

#maeve r.l. o'leavy #shifty powers #maeve r.l. o'leavy ficlet #maeve r.l. o'leavy 15: the grotto at gargaphie #band of brothers #gallant heart #band of brothers oc ficlet #band of brothers oc #band of brothers ficlet #hbo war show #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war show ficlet #oc ficlet #oc fanfiction #shifty powers x oc

[sergeant-spoons]

14. Foxes and Hounds

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow @chaosklutz @wexhappyxfew @50svibes @tvserie-s-world​ @adamantiumdragonfly @ask-you-what-sir @whovian45810 @brokennerdalert​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​ @claire-bear-1218​ @heirsoflilith @itswormtrain​ @actualtrashpanda​ @wtrpxrks​

Finally taking this fic off hiatus! Hurrah! Updates will likely continue to be sporadic, but I’ve got a solid plan going forward and intend to post at least once a month until I can really get my feet underneath me again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Maeve slept well in Shifty's arms. Dawn came all too soon, and the shoot-out that ensued just as the sun crept over the hilly horizon was one hell of a thing.

The smuggler out-of-sorts was awoken by a youthful trooper she didn't recognize. He shook her shoulder and only ceased when she opened her eyes. Flashing her a gap-toothed smile, he offered her a tin mug of coffee, and just as she accepted it, hastily rubbing sleep from her eyes, the first mortar landed on the line not far past the hillock. As the soldier fell over, scrambling not to spill his coffee, Maeve threw her own cup aside and lunged for her rifle. She took note that Shifty was no longer with her and shoved aside a flare-up of fear at his disappearance, knowing there were more important things to focus on right now. Rolling onto her stomach, she crawled up the hill and eyed the enemy encampment. There was movement, for sure. Men were shouting, both here and there, and it was hardly an instant before the first bullets flew. No order had been given, and Maeve looked back curiously to find the officers running amuck, trying to gather their men and arrange a defense. She knew the importance of holding the line and not falling back to Carentan lest the enemy took it, but she was confused by the lethargy of the response. Finally, the order rang out, and just as Maeve was bypassed by an unfamiliar fellow running about like a chicken with its head cut off, she turned back over her shoulder, cocked her rifle, and started shooting.

She'd never trained as a rifle-bearer or a sniper. In fact, she'd never trained at all in the military way of things. The time she was spending with this American regiment was only her second military involvement of the entire war, and that was an impressive statistic, considering that she'd been fighting (in her own way) since 1939. She'd been present for a portion of Dunkirk, but she'd only fired her gun a number of times and her bow even less. She had no child with her at the time, and that was a grand relief, for she doubted either of them would have made it through. Maeve herself only made it across the border into Belgium with less than an hour to spare before the Luftwaffe filled the night, the Nazis having halted their tank-heavy advance and turned to the skies. The bombings that night were so abundant that the sky was lit up enough for Maeve to not warrant the use of her flashlight. The only thing military about it had been the prioritization of officers and the staggering coordination of the retreat.

This skirmish was nothing like Dunkirk.

There were no tanks, for one—at least, not yet, those would come later—and the two engaged parties were stationary. This was a trench shoot-out of the ilk seen far more often in the First World War but just as divisive and decisive in the Second. Maeve heard men shouting to fire and so discharged her weapon, aiming at anything that moved across the ridge. Her aim was fair and she took down several foes before the bullets began to turn in her direction. They were trying to locate her through the bushes and foliage, suspecting a sniper. Understanding the danger, she retreated, pushing herself backward by way of her elbows, hips, and knees down the slope. Someone tripped over her and rolled, blustering profanity, and Maeve was quick to scramble out of the way in case he'd caught any of the grenades these Americans kept so often on their chests on the hard earth. He had not, thankfully, and she took a beat to glance him over. He threw his head up, his helmet knocking about, and she recognized him from the way he stuck the gum in his mouth between the gap in his teeth and scrunched up his nose at what she guessed to be the taste of the dirt.

"Welsh!" she cried, relieved to see a familiar face after what could have been five minutes of the battle or fifteen. "What'd ye put right fer the plan?"

He gaped at her, one hand on the ground, ready to push himself back up, and the other fixing his lopsided helmet.

"What?!"

"What's the plan?" she asked again, raising her voice in an attempt to be heard, and he seemed to get the gist of her query. He said something she didn't catch over the rising cacophony of the battle, and her puzzlement must have shown on her face, for he pushed himself to his feet, grabbed her hand, and tugged her after him.

Follow me.

"A'right, sir!" she cried though she doubted he could hear her and dashed after him as he ran doggedly through the ranks. They quickly came to a soldier with a large metal contraption beside him and a bazooka launcher held to his chest like the heaviest of babies. Welsh said something to him and he looked out over the battlefield, his reply rapidly growing in volume as his tone and intention changed. He pointed across the battlefield and Lieutenant Welsh and Maeve turned as one to see.

"What the hell are those?!"

"Shit!" Welsh swore. "Panzers!"

"Mary, Mother of Jesus!" Maeve exclaimed. "Where'd they get the tanks?!"

"No fuckin' clue!" The soldier Welsh had brought her to looked up at Maeve. "Who the fuck are you?"

Before she could respond, branches snapped overhead, and she and Welsh dropped to their knees, ducking their heads.

"Keep your head down! Shit!" 

Welsh peered out over the lip of the hill. Maeve joined him. The foremost advancing tank and the soldiers behind it were firing on an embankment not far from their own. There were screams coming from there, screams and curses, and Maeve could only hope silence would not take their place.

"Clear out of there!" someone was shouting as they ran past, keeping wide of the tank's target but waving past it at people Maeve could not see. "Move it, move it, move it!"

"Let's go, McGrath, on me!" Welsh ordered the man between him and Maeve before turning to two machine gunners who'd just arrived. "Shift your fire right!"

The men with the machine gun picked up their equipment just as soon as they'd set it down and followed Welsh and McGrath a short way down the line. Maeve followed, suspecting Welsh would want her to, and she was proven correct when he gestured for her to fall opposite the machine gunners' new position.

"Provide covering fire!" he instructed, hardly stopping to breathe, and he was racing out onto the field before Maeve could even nod. She dropped to her knee, using one of the sparse thicker trees as cover, and shot over the lieutenant's head, forcing the enemy opposite to keep their heads down. McGrath matched the lieutenant's every footstep, lugging his heavy artillery piece with him, and practically dove onto his knee when Welsh came to a skidding halt. Welsh grabbed a brown satchel from McGrath and started to wrench out the contents as McGrath set up his bazooka, and Maeve did her damnedest to keep their watchful foes occupied while Welsh sat out in the open.

"The hell is he doing?!" asked one of the machine gunners.

"Damned Irish!" shouted the other.

Maeve grimaced and would have shrugged at them had she not known it would dislodge her rifle and cost her precious seconds of readjustment. Their comments were throw-away, anyway—forgettable to even themselves and not worth the attention.

"Come on!" 

Maeve could hear snippets of McGrath's shouts through the firefight and listened intently, trying to clue in to Welsh's plan.

"You're gonna get me killed, Lieutenant!"

Not a second later, Welsh pulled the fuse and a shell launched directly into the side of the nearest rolling tank. The hulking beast seemed entirely unaffected. As Maeve watched, now firing on the metal fortress directly, the tank started to turn, waffling as if trying to find the perpetrator of this attempted assault.

"I knew you'd get me killed!" McGrath screamed.

"Wait until I tell you, McGrath!" Welsh replied, stuffing another bazooka shell into the long metal tube on the artilleryman's shoulder. "Hold your fire!"

"But it's too close!"

"Bitch- Son of a bitch!"

"Bleedin' Christ!" Maeve hollered, slapping another round into her rifle. "Get on with it, Welshie!"

The barrel of the tank swung to the left and pointed directly at the two men on the ground, the treads rumbling in the same direction. Maeve dove out of the way, and in the nick of time—the tank fired and the tree she'd been behind was severed at the trunk not two feet off the ground. Bark and leaves and other arboreal detritus hurtled down around her and several twigs caught on her sleeves as she crawled away. Something falling fast hit her helmet and she mumbled a quick thanks to God and to Lieutenant Nixon, who'd provided her with the protective gear.

"Now fire, McGrath!" came a shout through the haze. "Fire!"

With the tank blast still ringing in Maeve's ears, she looked up from where she'd dragged herself over to the dazed machine gunners and saw Welsh and McGrath were still out there. The tank rose up on the crest of the hill, rearing up due to the force of its artillery shot, and they all saw its underside exposed halfway. Welsh snatched his helmet off the ground where it had fallen, shouting at McGrath as he stuck it back on his dirty curls, and the instant the order was given, the bazooka sang with the shot. The tank's right tread (from Maeve's angle) flashed with fire and as Welsh and McGrath scrambled back toward the line, the tank lurched haphazardly like a clumsy animal falling on its face. The turf before it flew in the air—a shot must have been prepped just before it fell—and the successful lieutenant and bazooka bearer kept one hand on their helmets, ensuring protection from the debris. Maeve realized they were more exposed than they'd yet been and so swung her rifle back up to her shoulder, ignoring the smarting of her chin when the metal knocked against the bone there unpleasantly.

"Ye got 'im!" she told McGrath as he ran past her. "Ye got 'im right in the belly!"

"Right where it counts, yeah!" he agreed, rushing to his knees and tossing the bazooka aside in favor of his rifle, and Maeve caught sight of Welsh doing the same just a few yards down the line. Other soldiers issued their praise, but their bullets flew and were returned without recess, and the firestorm only grew from there on out. Maeve had never heard so many guns going off at the same time in her life, not even yesterday when they took the town. Men were shouting Fire! in two languages Maeve understood and one she did not, the ground was shaking, bloody screams of Medic! soaked the air, and just when it seemed there would be no end, the tanks came. The good tanks, the American tanks, and that was the turning of the tide. A sergeant Maeve vaguely recognized said something along the lines of "About damn time!" as he ran past her, and she started laughing. She couldn't help it. This whole thing was just so awful that she had to push it into the realm of ridiculousness to keep down the nausea clawing at the back of her throat.

"That's right!"

"Woohoo!"

"Kick their asses!"

Soldiers were cheering and passing around cigarettes, and Maeve found herself the recipient of several sloppy kisses on the cheek and helmet from elated troopers who didn't know her and never asked to. Welsh had a cigarette between his lips when Maeve found him, and she crouched, a smile slowly spreading across her lips in return to his own infectious grin.

"So whaddaya think, Galway Girl?" He gestured with a kind of boyish bravado she found charming. "We Americans up to snuff?"

"I think ye were 'up to snuff' the second ye got to France," she told him. "At this rate, you'll get 'em freed by the end o' the summer."

He beamed. "You think so?"

"Yeh, I think so."

She rose, slinging her quiver and bow back over her shoulder from where she'd moved them in front of her to check their condition.

"I oughta walk around a wee bit. Make sure everybody's happy out an' alright."

"Yeah, you go do that." He leaned back, lazily blowing a flute of smoke, all but ignoring the tanks still firing behind him as they chased off the last of the Germans. "I'll be... Hey, wait a second."

She dropped back down, nodding for him to go on.

"You hear about Talbert?"

Her heart sank.

"Haven't heard a whisper, no."

"Got sent off the line late last night. Some jumpy kid on the watch dozed off and got all stab-happy." Welsh's expression fell at the solemn look on Maeve's face. "He'll be fine. Just a few puncture wounds. Nothing a good Easy man can't handle."

"Righ'." Maeve cleared her throat. "I oughta get walkin'."

"Go ahead," he urged, waving her off. "Find your friends."

Friends. Maeve hadn't considered the men she knew by name in the Company as such, having only known them a little longer than a week, but she supposed they were her friends. When it came to this group, at least, she didn't know anyone more closely than she knew them. And perhaps it was friendliness that made her chest feel heavy and cold as she traveled down the line, searching for familiar faces in good health. First Popeye, who she'd heard of really only through extension of Shifty, and now Talbert. But no, she must drop this guilt, their luck had nothing to do with her. Just because she was friendly with them did not mean she was at fault for their wounds. She took a deep breath and continued her search, finding Hoobler and Luz with little delay. They were in fine condition and all but demanded her company for a little while as they smoked and joked, and then Shifty appeared (reportedly looking for her) and relief overtook her weighty regret.

"Any of ye seen Blithe 'round?" she asked after a time, having kept an eye out but seeing nothing of the fourth man she sought, and Shifty was the first to shake his head, worry creasing his brow.

"You think we oughta go find him?"

She didn't even have to reply before he was already getting to his feet, fetching his helmet from where he'd been sitting on it and tucking his rifle neatly over his shoulder. She saw how he moved it like an extension of his arm and related—she felt very much the same about her bow, though its use was dwindling fast the more the war waged on.

"C'mon," he said, offering her a hand up. "Last I saw he was over this way."

And they did find Blithe, not far from where Shifty had indicated. A young man with glasses and a yellow, red, and blue triangle patch on his arm was standing over an empty foxhole, and when they approached, he supposed in a Midwestern American accent that they were looking for their comrade. They agreed and he pointed the way across the vacated, smoking field.

"Blithe!" Shifty called. "Hey, Blithe!"

The soldier turned around, switching his rifle to his other hand, and scanned the treeline. He'd heard them but did not seem to understand who had spoken up. Maeve slowed her pace, watching him go, and Shifty stopped with her. He brought his hand up to his brow, shielding his eyes, and Maeve glanced at him momentarily before looking back to Blithe.

"Where's he goin'?"

"I dunno."

Blithe turned back around and marched steadily up the last incline of the hill where the Germans had previously held their position. He stopped just before a tree, staring at the earth just before his boots, and Maeve hesitated, one foot forward and the other grounded.

"He's gone to find something," she realized. "I can't tell wha', but it's somethin', alright." A beat. "He's still not movin'."

Maeve looked away, batting at a mosquito on her arm, and Shifty pointed.

"There he goes."

Blithe kept going up the hill, following the ridge, and would have gone out of sight around a bush had Maeve not started after him. He was walking slowly enough that she was able to follow him easily, taking note of the way he glanced about as if searching for something. She knew that look instantly—he was following a trail only he could see. She'd become very familiar with tracking in her line of work, and it only took her a moment to identify what Blithe's gaze lingered on and sent him forward. There was a strip of white cloth on the ground, drenched with blood still red and wet and recent. Had someone Blithe knew been shot and limped away? If so, the man was likely American and an ally, a wounded ally. Alarmed, Maeve made to catch up to Blithe, but Shifty held her back.

"It ain't one of us," he told her softly. "You see the way he's walkin', all slow-like? He's lookin' for somebody he's not sure he wants to find."

Maeve stopped, and in a moment of vulnerability, she reached up and laid her hand over Shifty's on her shoulder. He squeezed. They stayed there for a few minutes until Blithe reemerged from the woods and gave a start to see them there. He swung his rifle up but quickly lowered it, recognizing them, and mumbled something that could have been an apology but was just as likely a prayer or a curse. He blinked at them, rubbing his eyes, and as Shifty went up, offering a kind encouragement to get him some water and then to a foxhole—"We're all tired, don't you worry."—Maeve studied his weary stance. There was something off about him, more so than had been the last few days, and she caught a speck of white where she had not seen it before. There was an edelweiss blossom tucked in his breast pocket. He saw her looking but made no mention, and she said nothing in turn. Maeve didn't know it yet, but they would never speak of that flower. She would never know where he got it or why. At that moment, however, she wanted to forget the flower and hug him, but she didn't know the right words to offer without perturbing or embarrassing him.

"It's gettin' closer to noon," she said as she turned to follow them back to the friendly side of the ridge. "Are ye hungry, Blithe? Ye ought to eat somethin' fer luncheon."

"Not hungry," he mumbled.

"I don't believe ye," she replied at once, and he looked surprised but then reticent again.

"Alright."

"And," she told him, leaning closer as if this was a serious secret, "I might have a bit o' chocolate in my pack, if ye'd like some."

He looked at her, and his eyes seemed a little less foggy than she was used to seeing them.

"Alright," he said again. "And..."

She didn't push him, and it was only many hours later, wishing him goodnight as she went off to find herself a nice foxhole, that he took her hand and whispered it to her:

"Thank you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#band of brothers #maeve r.l. o'leavy #maeve r.l. o'leavy ficlet #maeve r.l. o'leavy 14: foxes and hounds #band of brothers oc ficlet #band of brothers oc #band of brothers ficlet #gallant heart #hbo war show #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war show ficlet #oc ficlet #oc fanfiction #shifty powers x oc

[sergeant-spoons]

👀👀 take it maybe??

Tagging bc why not:  @thoughpoppiesblow​​​ @vintagelavenderskies​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​ @50svibes​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​ @whovian45810​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​ @generousdreamlanddestiny​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​ @heirsoflilith

#band of brothers #i made something :D #uquiz #hbo war show #my OCs #bernadette noel #calliope macreli #éva delafose #harlow 'harley' gibbs #jules hartmann #lottie hartmann #kate august #leslie sheppard #maeve r.l. o'leavy #neve davenport #olympia bird #phyllis dotson #rhea nantucket #sutton flynn-marshall #therese knox #verity/victor rich #winifred pechy

[sergeant-spoons]

The SPIRIT Rangers

Hello, hello! I am super excited to announce the completion of the first (17k word) chapter of a project I have been chipping away at for the last two months. This is a large-scale crossover collection of one shots featuring my Band of Brothers OCs (including the ones I have yet to introduce!). If you choose to check it out sometime, I will absolutely love you forever. :)

So here’s the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33714205/chapters/83795506 

Thank you for all the love and support towards my fics, especially my longer ones. Readers like you are the reason I have the motivation and support to write things like this, and those longer fics, and everything else I post (and even some of the stuff I don’t). 💕

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow @vintagelavenderskies @wexhappyxfew @50svibes @tvserie-s-world @adamantiumdragonfly @ask-you-what-sir @whovian45810 @brokennerdalert @holdingforgeneralhugs @onlyyouexisthere

#band of brothers #oc fanfiction #crossover fic #crossover #oc crossover #sorry for the abundance of tags here but here we go #the SPIRIT rangers #band of brothers fanfiction #bernadette noel #calliope macreli #éva delafose #harlow 'harley' gibbs #jules hartmann #lottie hartmann #leslie sheppard #kate august #maeve r.l. o'leavy #olympia bird #phyllis dotson #rhea nantucket #sutton flynn-marshall #therese knox #verity/victor rich #winifred pechy #neve davenport

[sergeant-spoons]

🌱🙈🖍️🌠💚💙 with Maeve, please❤️

FRANCY tysm for sending this in!! ily 💕

🌱 SEEDLING - what is their most vivid memory from childhood?

The first Christmas morning after her nephew Peter was born with her family. She went to her sister and brother-in-law’s place in Toormakeady and they watched the snow falling on the frozen Lough Mask as her brother-in-law’s best friend lit the fireplace. She vividly remembers the smell of cinnamon buns, a Christmas breakfast tradition of the O’Leavy clan since Maeve was just a babe herself. She was 15 years old; she began her smuggling work a year and a half later (June ‘39), a few months before the outbreak of war.

🙈 SEE-NO-EVIL - whats a side of your oc that they don't want to show other people?

Pain. Maeve absolutely refuses to show when she’s hurting. She will not ask for help, will not voice hurt. She struggles to overcome this after the war, to realize that she doesn’t need to be so strong all the time anymore. This one-off I wrote last May comes to mind- it is, in essence, an answer to this question by itself.

🖍️ CRAYON - what advice would you give to them?

You are enough. You have always been enough and you will always be enough.

🌠 SHOOTING STAR - if they could make any wish with no repercussions, what wish would they make?

If she didn’t know it wouldn’t end at all the way she wanted, she would wish for the war to be over. Instead, she would wish for all the children she wants to help/has helped, including the ones she doesn’t yet know about, to be safe and free and healthy and happy.

💚 GREEN HEART - what things make your oc feel comforted? hugs, kisses, food?

Any sort of physical contact. She loves to cuddle and just be near the people she cares about. Kisses on the top of the head from Shifty make her feel so mushy inside, she just loves it. Sleep is the other big one- she spends so long forcing herself to work twenty hour days (or longer) throughout the war that she sees sleep as a luxury and a comfort.

💙 BLUE HEART - do they miss their s/o easily? how do they act when their s/o isn't around?

She misses him very much when they’re apart, especially during the war and right after it. When she goes to be with him in the States, he’s the only person she knows (other than Popeye) and that’s a little terrifying, even if she’d never say so. She doesn’t like to be alone in the house, so it isn’t long before they adopt a tabby cat to keep her company while Shifty’s at work.

Go check out more of Maeve in ‘Gallant Heart’! (tumblr | ao3)

#maeve r.l. o'leavy #oc ask game #band of brothers #gallant heart #tvserie-s-world #thanks for the ask! #Francy 💕

[sergeant-spoons]

13. Scéalta ár Linne

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​ @vintagelavenderskies​​ @wexhappyxfew​​ @50svibes​​ @tvserie-s-world​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​ @whovian45810​​ @brokennerdalert​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​

​~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the tail end of the day's heavy fighting, Maeve squinted across the field, back toward the town. They'd succeeded in taking it from the Germans, but their victory was surely far from over. A skirmish would be had by the time the next dawn broke, she was sure of it. They wouldn't let the town go just like that. They couldn't. Beside her, Lieutenant Welsh, popping his gum, lowered his binoculars from his eyes. He suggested she 'catch some z's', whatever that meant, and retreated toward a pair of officers strolling past. They were quick to engage in discussion, their low voices soon out of the range of her hearing, and Maeve shifted on her feet, at a loss for where to turn next.

In a spark of good fortune, two men whose names and creeds were growing familiar to her came near as soon as they spotted her alone. They sported equally lopsided grins, and Maeve half considered mimicking them before settling on a quieter expression. They greeted her in surprisingly good cheer, considering the day they'd just all had, as each took her lightly by one elbow. She let them guide her, too weary to be wary of their intentions. Once they determined she would follow along, her companions dropped their hands and they walked together in a slow-paced trinity. Before long, they stooped halfway, passing by a low slope corraled by bushes the height of any good oak or birch and three times as broad.

"Carentan's still smoking," Luz mumbled, squinting through the treeline.

"Well tha's just bleedin' grand," Maeve replied rather dejectedly.

Hoobler crooked his brow at her. "What?"

"The place's all in bleedin' bits, if ye ken what I me'n."

"Uh, not really."

Maeve blushed and pursed her lips, trying to think of a way to say what she meant so an American could comprehend her thoughts.

"Well, ah, it's not good."

Both her companions nodded along gloomily. She winced, regretting how her musings had brought their spirits down. They didn't need that now, not after a long day of hard, brutal fighting. Before she could think up something to brighten them up- a story about one of the children she'd shepherded, perhaps -she caught sight of the duo she was being guided towards and her thoughts tumbled out of focus. Shifty Powers leaned against an embankment, his legs at a slightly inclined angle from how he sat in a shallow attempt at a foxhole. He was speaking to someone, but when that person, their face shrouded by the shadow of their helmet, saw Maeve approaching, they rose and departed in the other direction.

"Shifty."

"Miss Lawlor-"

"Maeve."

They remained there for a good four or five seconds, him staring up at her, half on his feet, mouth open and eyes wide; her clutching one elbow with the opposite hand, her knees locked so fully she would soon dizzy, lips carefully shut and gaze shy.

"Maeve?"

"Yeh. Maeve." 

The air between them seemed to clear. She slung off her pack and crouched, and he shuffled back into his earlier position as she sat across from him. Her spine curved as she slouched, meaning to keep her head below the uppermost rim of the ridge rising behind his back.

"Maeve. That's a nice name."

He tipped his head just a little and she had to swallow to keep from squeaking at how her heart leaped just then like a wild rabbit on the moors.

"So's Darrell."

His whole torso shifted back as he stared at her, and she thought about the nice color of his eyes to keep from realizing he hadn't looked away from her once since he'd spied her and his Easy companions heading towards him... and then just her. Speaking of, where had Luz and Hoobler gone? She half-cursed and half-thanked them for leaving her and Shifty alone for a spell. Meanwhile, he sat there and tried to process that she'd remembered his first name perfectly although she'd only ever heard it once.

"It's, um, Maeve O'Leavy." She tugged at her sleeves, straightening them out so the seams pressed to the outside of each limb, to the uttermost left on that same arm and vice versa on the right. "Not O'Leary. Most folks think tha' at first."

"Maeve. Maeve O'Leavy."

"Maeve Roac Lawlor O'Leavy, in all." She dropped her chin so far it bumped against her chest right where her collarbones met. "Sorry, oh, tá brón orm, I dunno- I, um- er-" She took a breath. "Sorry fer ramblin' like that. I'm goin' soft." At her weak chuckle, she expected him to laugh and agree that she was being silly, but to her surprise, he sat up straighter, shaking his head.

"I don't mind. Really, I don't." He smiled, a little shy, just like herself, and this time when her heart began to dance, she let it. "I'm- I'm glad to know it."

She gave a start, and as he watched her, motionless, she stared right back. Hazel eyes locked with brown for so long she was afraid she was making a fool out of herself.

"Cén fáth a bhfuil tú chomh dathúil?"

"What?"

Maeve's muttered supposition clearly did not go unheard by her companion as she'd meant it to, and she blushed for what was not the first time nor the last because of something she'd done in front of Shifty.

"Just, ah, thinking. Aloud. On accident."

'Why are you so handsome?' is hardly an appropriate question, Maeve. He's your friend, nothing more. Even if he does have the eyes of an angel.

Thank God for Shifty's voice drawing her out of her thoroughly captivating thoughts.

"You were thinkin'... in Irish?"

"Yeh."

He brightened up. "That's- that's so- so neat!" 

She smiled too, finding his enthusiasm contagious. "I grew up speakin' Irish. My Da's a teacher, a real academic. He knows all about our history an' all, and he made sure my sister an' I learned it growin' up."

Shifty nodded, invested, and Maeve realized this was the most she'd told anyone about her personal life- her family -in years.

"Is it like English, in the States? Where everybody learns it?"

"I wish," she sighed sincerely. "No, there aren't many places that speak it anymore. All the big city folk talk in English. Pa had us learn tha', too, when he took the job at the university in Galway and we moved there. Ma was up to here with us, tryin' to teach us at home, so Pa said we had t' go to school with all the other city kiddies, too. And we did."

The smile on his face pleaded with her to tell him more, so she did. She went on about her sister Robyn, the first story coming to mind about how she'd met her future husband at the National University of Galway. Séamus was his name- "Can't get any more Irish than tha', I tell ye." -and he was interning as Prof. O'Leavy's teaching assistant when Robyn walked in to bring her forgetful father his lunch bag from home. She'd taken the day off school to look after an eleven-year-old Maeve with a bad throat infection while her mother ran into town to do the over-neglected grocery shopping. 

So, Maeve related, as soon as Séamus set eyes on Robyn (this, he told anyone and everyone who would listen for years and years to come), he knew she was the end-all, be-all for him. Professor O'Leavy caught him staring and immediately lectured him on staying away from his daughter. In front of his entire class. With Robyn hovering in the doorway, flushed, unsure whether to leave or stay.

Shifty gasped. "Professor O'Leavy is your father?"

"The same."

He feigned a wince. "I'm just a bit worried 'bout how this ended, now."

Maeve smiled and leaned a little further against his shoulder. How she'd gotten there, she couldn't quite remember, but she wouldn't have moved for the world.

"Don't fret. All's well tha' ends well."

So Robyn went home and cared for Maeve, and within three days, the fever broke. The sharpshooter's younger self chattered so much in the joy of having her voice back that she wore it out completely and went mute the next day. Shifty chuckled at that part of the story, and she couldn't help but be pleased that he seemed endeared.

"On the fourth day, Séamus knocked on the door with a whole bouquet of daisies." She chuckled. "Flowers of any kind are brutal to get in March in Galway, if ye can imagine."

"I sure can."

"I answered the knock but I couldn't shout fer Robyn-"

"Because you'd worn your voice out the day before!" Shifty laughed before clapping his hand over his mouth, turning a sheepish gaze toward her. "Sorry. I won't interrupt anymore."

"It's alright. I don't mind." And she really didn't. Still, she tried not to think about how he was one of very few people to whom she could honestly say that.

Maeve cleared her throat.

"She was in the kitchen, an' I remember jumpin' up an' down in the doorway, wavin' like a moran, smackin' the flowers right outta his hand."

Shifty's next inhalation came sharply through his teeth.

"She still went out on the town with him tha' night, an' married him a year later, so at least my shenanigans didn't do much harm other'n leave 'im standin' in the door with daises at his feet an' me tryin' to blubber an apology with no voice at all."

"A love story for the ages," Shifty mused, and Maeve smiled against the breast pocket of his shirt. When had she leaned this fully against him? She could feel his ribcage against her cheek. He didn't seem to mind, and she was steadily growing too sleepy to care, the events of the day catching up to her as the last of her battle-born adrenaline finally dissipated. They sat in silence for a few more minutes, her posture slowly slackening until she was hardly sitting up at all. 

Shifty moved a little, adjusting his arm around Maeve, and felt a weight drop into his lap. Looking down, he saw she had decided to use him as a pillow, though evidently by no conscious decision. She was out like a light, curling up against him instinctively as sleep overcame her. He doubted she would remember doing this in the morning, but he was certain he'd never forget it. The way her body looked nestled into his. The peace that spread across her expression now that she had fallen to the haven of sleep. His hands itching to run through her hair like fire, his brain warning him with the blare of an air raid siren not to dare.

"G'night, Maeve," he whispered, wondering if he should lean down to kiss her forehead.

A few compatriots passed by and shot him winks and low whistles, and he lost his nerve. Still, he ventured to brush a single lock of spirally ginger away from her cheekbone before it could get caught on her eyelash. He smiled, calmed by the serenity of her slumbering self so close to him.

"Sleep well, darlin'."

​~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#band of brothers #maeve r.l. o'leavy #maeve r.l. o'leavy ficlet #maeve r.l. o'leavy 13: scéalta ár linne #Scéalta ár Linne = Stories Of Our Time #band of brothers oc ficlet #band of brothers oc #band of brothers ficlet #gallant heart #oc ficlet #oc fanfiction #hbo war show #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war show ficlet

[sergeant-spoons]

4. A Southern Dawn

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​ @vintagelavenderskies​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​ @50svibes​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​​

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Though the bed of a truck wasn't the most comfortable of accommodations, at least Maeve wasn't sleeping in the dirt.

She drew her legs up closer to her chest against the morning chill, draping one arm over her face. The road rumbled on past as the truck mosied on toward France. Switzerland was nice and all, but she had business elsewhere. Even in rest, she couldn't risk stillness, so she'd bribed a farmer to take her along toward the border overnight. Maeve was sure she'd crossed frontiers like this hundreds of times during this war. Years ago, she'd hardly considered leaving her dear Ireland behind; she never could have imagined that there would be a time in which she was absent from those rolling hills for many years.

Opening one eye, the first light of day poked at her vision through the thin fabric of her jacket. She sat up halfway, blinking away slumber, and wondered how long it would be before she was able to sleep a full night again. Perhaps she should take to rest again, while she had the chance- but no, they must be close to France by now. The hay under her body shifted, sleek enough that it did not poke her in the back or the legs and just stiff enough that she would not slide around if the truck hit a rut in the road. Her pack, bow, and arrow lay buried in the fodder, just in case an unfriendly face discovered and arrested her. She could never be sure of her security, in places like this, where the country claimed its neutrality yet its citizens firmly chose sides.

The clouds hung low today. They seemed to swallow the better part of the mountains on the past horizon. To the East, a pale sunrise; to the West, darkness- a storm was on its way. Maeve hoped she wouldn't have to complete her journey in poor weather. The rain had a miserable effect on her bow and it was hard enough to keep the gunpowder in her hip pouch dry on humid days, nevertheless during a downpour. She rolled her shoulders as she fully sat up, leaning against the cab of the truck, and looked to the East. 

It was peaceful, to view the sunrise like this. Almost made her forget the world was in shambles. On mornings like this, back in Toormakeady, she'd be rising to find the suds bucket to start the laundry while Robyn woke Peter for school. A wistfulness came upon her, to remember her sister and sister's son, and she let out a long exhale. It would be some time yet before she would see her family again. She waited, watching and wondering, until her neck began to ache and the clouds had parted enough for the sun to hurt her eyes if she looked too long.

Maeve thought of the children, then, those she had parted from seven nights prior. After a fortnight of long, hard, fast travel, they were safe in Switzerland. How had their week been? Were they eating well? Was the boy recovered from his terrible cough? Did the girls help with the cooking, as they'd seemed so eager to the night they arrived, despite their strenuous journey? When did Frau Landau put them to bed, and were they sleeping well? How often did they ask after their parents, and what did she tell them?

The answers to these questions, she may never know. When she first began this business, that was the hardest part, the not-knowing after she squeezed small hands and kissed plump cheeks for the last time. Over the years, she'd grown accustomed to it, though the questioning still stuck around. Gratefully, she possessed the fortune to be affirmed of their safety (to some reasonable degree). All she could do now was trust the validity and care of her contacts and rely on them, hope, and luck to see the children through their nightmare come to life.

A shiver ran across Maeve's arms and she rolled up her right sleeve to examine the goosebumps on her skin. It fascinated her, for a few moments' time, to see how the color of her freckles faded the further up her arm she looked. Her forearm, more often exposed to the sun, was just a little tanned. As the summer season wore on and she left more of her skin bare- the heat brought the advantage of lighter weighted clothing in her travel, meaning she could carry more in her pack -she would become less pale. Every year, she watched as it happened, and again in the autumn, as a pallor began to fall upon her complexion and she relayered her garments.

Maeve knew she was lucky to witness such a cycle. It meant she was still alive and venturing on her missions.

The truck tripped over a rise in the road, knocking Maeve about enough that she mumbled a half-hearted, "Oh, for goodness sakes," as she readjusted herself in the hay bed. Staring after the knotted knoll until it faded from view, she reminded herself how long it would have taken her to walk this path and was again grateful that for the farmer's assistance. In turn, however, her money purse wore thin; this would not bother her in the slightest if it were not the main exchange for medicine, food, tickets, and- as in this case -bribery, all of which were vital to her operations.

A knock on the side of the truck alerted her to the driver's attention and she turned over the side of the bed, one hand on the pistol holstered to her hip.

Just in case.

"Almost there," the farmer announced, his tone cheerful despite the early hour and the gravity of his unexpected passenger, "we see the border soon."

"Splendid." Maeve relaxed the readiness of the hand near her belt. "And thank ye, again, for the ride."

Her driver laughed. "You feed my family two weeks, I bring you to border. Easy deal!"

"Alright then." 

Maeve leaned back and resettled on the hay, drawing her knees up into a cross-legged position. She knew she should not relax all that much, knowing they were a ripe target, riding through an open, flat plain. Her stomach twisted and she sent up a silent prayer to whoever may hear it that this farmer and his family would not be harmed as a result of his aiding her. The truck began to slow, and over the horizon crept the sight of a military standout. Maeve found it sorry, that even in a neutral country, troops were deployed to keep the war outside their own borders.

As her ride rolled to a halt right before the checkpoint, she stood up in the back, one hand on the cab of the truck to steady herself. Two of the guards shared a look, and as one began to raise his gun toward her, a third waved him down, waving up at Maeve.

"Lawlor!" he greeted her, and a wide smile broke across her own face as she hopped down.

"Texas!" 

He drew her into a hug, and as she patted his back, he exclaimed how glad he was to see her. "Lawlor, I cannot believe it!" he exclaimed in the thick southern American accent she had not heard for many years, "I never thought I'd see you again!" 

"How'd ye, of all folk, end up with the border cops?" she asked, tilting her head in genuine curiosity, and he grinned as he stepped back.

"Wandered around for a while, then things turned stale in Holland and I thought I might do some good over here." He shook his head in delighted disbelief. "How 'bout you? Still runnin' the smugglin' ring?"

Maeve laughed. "Never stopped," she replied, teasing.

A frown crossed each brow of their uncertain companions and one started over, fishing through his pockets.

She leaned in closer, muttering to her old ally, "That may not be the best thing t' call it, though, at a border crossin'."

"Ah, right, right." Turning back, the man she called Texas introduced the woman he knew by only a codename to his fellow soldiers. "Everybody, this here is Miss Lawlor. She's been smugglin' kids from under them ugly Kraut noses since '39, can you believe it?"

The new approach seemed relieved as he produced a Swiss military ID card, and Maeve stooped to retrieve her own documentation from the inside of her boot. As she unbuckled the strap, Texas continued on with the tale of how he and she met. It was September of 1942, and Maeve had just arrived in Cologne, Germany, scheming her biggest mission yet: the evacuation of twelve Jewish children currently in hiding in a Christian church orphanage. Texas was serving as the accompanying officer to an American ambassador, who, it turned out, was sympathetic to the Nazi cause and determined to stay in Germany. 

"Now Miss Lawlor here, she could smell a traitor a mile away, like my ol' boss," he praised as she handed her papers to the more serious of the soldiers before her, stumbling a step forward when Texas laid a friendly smack upon her shoulder. "I knew I had to do somethin', so when I did myself some snoopin' and turned up a rumor of a lady plannin' to get some innocent kids away from that place." He shook his head, dramatically sad. "At the time, I didn't know nothin' 'bout the violence 'gainst the Jews, but I knew in my good Christian heart it was my duty-" He emphatically slung his arm to the side. "-to get those young'uns outta that warzone."

By the time he was done, a good ten minutes later, the farmer, Maeve, and the second border officer were standing in a semi-circle around Texas as he went on and on and on. That was one thing she hadn't missed about him, she thought wryly, his neverending stories. Finally, he wrapped his spiel up with an anecdote about his own heroic involvement in the mission- a success that would have made the headlines had anyone of importance outside of Germany known the significance of the matter -and a hearty, self-important laugh.

"Alright, alright," he allowed, "you go save more of them lil' tykes, Lawlor, y'hear?"

"Yeh, that'd be the plan, Tex," she replied, and let him hug her one more time before hopping back onto the truck. Her driver shot her a long eye roll, unamused at the rambling of her former associate, and she stifled a laugh as she resettled on the hay. She hadn't imagined meeting him again, but the memories she possessed of the overzealous American were fond (if fraught with danger). It was nice, to be recognized for her deeds, even it was in Texas' braggadocio manner to overshadow her accomplishments with his own.

Maeve knew she was not lauded much- if at all -in her line of work, but at least she could suppose others (such as Texas) would remember her well.

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#maeve r.l. o'leavy #maeve r.l. o'leavy ficlet #maeve r.l. o'leavy 4: a southern dawn #band of brothers #gallant heart #band of brothers ficlet #band of brothers oc #band of brothers oc ficlet #hbo war #hbo war show #hbo war ficlet #hbo war oc ficlet #hbo war oc #oc ficlet #oc #oc fanfiction #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war show ficlet

[sergeant-spoons]

5. Bellegarde

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​ @vintagelavenderskies​ @wexhappyxfew​ @50svibes​ @tvserie-s-world​ @adamantiumdragonfly​ @ask-you-what-sir​ @whovian45810​ @brokennerdalert​​

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Lyon, France.

In a city nearly eponymous with a fierce beast of the African savannah, the third-largest in France, to see such lack of life on the streets was strange. No lights burned in windows. No children played on the sidewalks. No flags of France, only the red and black sort that sent a shiver up Maeve's spine, even after five years of knowing its brand and the wickedness that came with it. The quiet made her uneasy. Even the slightest tumble of a pebble across the road, sent off by the tip of her boot, woke her instinct to flinch. She knew better than to allow the urge to play out; anything other than meek composure would draw unwanted attention. Her hands remained steady and her expression did not waver.

Traveling in the shadows as best she could, knowing she was breaking the Nazi-enforced curfew, Maeve was as glad as any good child on Christmas morning when she arrived at the address she called her safe house in this city. Creeping around to the back fence, she found the loose boards- the fifth and sixth away from the house -and pushed them up. It took her a little squirming, but she got through in the end, and when she straightened up, the light from an open door momentarily blinded her. Squinting at the outlined figure in the doorway, she was, for an instant, reminded of Frau Landau, waiting for the children, her hand clasped to her bosom; the thought eased Maeve's panic and she loosened her instinctive grip on her sidearm.

"Drop the pistol, Lawlor, it's only me."

Relief swept through her as Maeve straightened up from the shadows. Though she could not see the familiar face of Joëlle Bellegarde, she knew it was her from the words that came floating from her silhouetted self. What other voice could be so harsh and sweet at the same time, speaking in such an educated timbre strange for a country-born girl? Hurrying up to the back door, she was welcomed inside, and once her contact swept her suspicious gaze across the area, she shut the door and stepped back. Busying herself by drawing the curtains on every window, Joëlle gestured to the stove with an unblemished hand.

"There are bowls in the cupboard, take your fill."

Once Maeve had retrieved a solid helping of vegetable stew and Joëlle was satisfied with the concealment of the goings-on within her home, they sat together at the small kitchen table and ate in silence. Maeve's bowl contained mostly potatoes, but she didn't mind, as the flavor reminded her of her earliest childhood, in the days before her father went back to university, graduated, and earned a position at the same school as the professor of national literature. Those days were long past, she thought in a rare moment of grief for the years spent so far from her family. She had not spoken to them in over five years. No letters, no telegrams, not even a confirmation of her continued existence on this mortal plane sent by word of mouth.

It's for their own safety, Maeve reminded herself. I'll see them again, someday.

"It's good to see you're still alive and kicking, Lawlor." Joëlle pushed her bowl aside, her meal consumed in such a hurry that Maeve nearly forgot it was not empty in the first place. "The S.S. is looking for you," she went on, getting straight to business as usual. "They have you marked as a high-alert target."

Maeve chuckled around a mouthful of spud. "Took 'em long enough."

"You cannot return to Germany."

"What?!" Her spoon splashed a bit of broth onto her sleeve as Maeve dropped it into her bowl. "Ye don't mean tha-"

"What choice do you have?" Joëlle leaned closer across the table. "You simply cannot become a victim of the very same evil you're saving all those children from."

After a long while of hushed consideration, Maeve reluctantly nodded, and Joëlle returned to fully sit upon her chair.

"Fine. I'll go somewhere else then. Amsterdam, Poland, Czechoslovakia-"

"Actually-" Joëlle produced a folded, slightly-yellowed piece of parchment from her apron pocket. "-I have a special mission I hope you'll take."

Maeve lowered her spoon, her appetite fading.

"What kind o' mission?"

Receiving no verbal reply, and more interested in this offer than the remnants of her now-lukewarm stew, Maeve rose and followed her companion's beckon to the closet across the room. Pushing aside coats, they slipped through the cramped space, and Maeve, though she'd been in this house a dozen times before, nearly tripped on the lip of the first step. She followed the sunshine curls of her longtime associate- over two years had passed since their first mission together -down the narrow stairwell, squinting into the darkness below.

Joëlle retrieved a candle from the shelf half-hindering the entrance to the cellar and lit it with a match from her pocket. She went around the small underground sanctuary, lighting the three lamps, one on each wall, and did the same for the half-dozen candles scattered across the desk against the far wall. Maeve took a moment to breathe in and out the stuffy air, acclimating herself to the lower oxygen levels. Joëlle waved her over to the table and she crossed the single yard distance with two quick strides.

"The operation is codenamed 'Overlord'. Thousands upon thousands of American, British, and Canadian troops will swarm the beaches of Normandy-" As she spoke, Joëlle demonstrated the plan upon the crinkled map. "-as well as the skies."

"Where do I come in?"

"Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is one of guidance. You will escort five Allied intelligence agents to the crucial meeting point of Sainte-Marie-du-Mont. They are with the OSS-"

"The Office of Strategic Services," Maeve murmured, nodding along. "So they're American."

“Mhmm. They will jump- with parachutes -from C-47 Transports that will fly to Normandy from southern England; they will accompany the soldiers of the 101st Airborne."

"Paratroopers?"

“Oui.” Joëlle almost smirked. "More Americans.”

Maeve gave a slow nod. "How soon?"

"A week." Looking from the map to Maeve, Joëlle shifted on her feet. "I know it isn't what you would normally take on, but if these forces succeed, you would help to liberate all the children of France from the Nazis."

"Ye really think so?" Maeve's eyes, though she could not see them herself, gleamed in the candlelight with a new intensity. "That would be... monumental."

"It would." Joëlle tapped a pointed finger where the shores of Normandy lay bare of any notation. Maeve understood why: should her associate be captured and/or her house ransacked, any physical evidence of the operation could easily spell its doom. "That's why they need you up north as soon as possible."

Maeve reached for her pack, bow, and quiver, but her compatriot shook her blonde ringlets with a soft chuckle.

"Not tonight, Lawlor. Do not let the dogs catch your scent. Let the rain wash it away."

"The rain?"

Just then, a crack of thunder rang out, swiftly accompanied by the muffled pelting of sky-borne water onto the yard two meters or so above their heads. Maeve shook her head, mostly to herself, as she let the strap of her bag fall from her fingers. To her, it was almost witchcraft, how Joëlle always knew the weather's twists and turns. Impressive as it was inconceivable.

"Right. The rain." Maeve turned back to the table, blinking in quick repetition as her eyes readjusted to the low candlelight. "So I'll set out tomorrow."

"After you sleep," advised her companion, and Maeve agreed with a silent sigh coupled with a grateful nod.

"You'll have to make the northward journey solo. I trust you'll find your own way?"

"Tha' won't be an issue." Maeve examined the map, planning out the quickest route in her head, considering the terrain, patrols, and light conditions. "I'll need rations, an' some sort o' way t' let 'em know who I am."

"Done, and done." Joëlle hit her palm on the table, soft enough that the candles, though they flickered, remained alight. "I'll radio it up the line tonight. They will be pleased to hear of your agreement."

"I'll be glad t' help."

"I know." Joëlle clapped her on the shoulder. "Go to rest, mon amie."

"Will do. Thank ye."

Nodding her away, Joëlle turned back toward the table, and Maeve made for the cellar steps. Walking around them, she found the little door she was looking for and propped it open- the hatch latched with a spring -with a cinder block from the pile beside it. As she crept through, she breathed in the scent of musty wood and old brick. Retrieving her flashlight, she discerned that the mattress stuffed within was covered in dust. Maeve watched it for a moment, realizing just how long it had been since her last stay here. Any other circumstance and she would think to visit more often; as it were, however, the less she saw Joëlle, the safer they would both be.

She shook out the sheet on top, watching the particles dance in the beam of the flashlight, and laid down. Turning off the light, she closed her eyes and made for sleep, and in her weariness, it hurried upon her. Alas, the morning arrived in haste and the tidings of farewell were ever the swifter, breakfast neglected to ensure a departure posthaste.

"Adieu." Joëlle extended her hand to shake. "Good fortune to you, Lawlor."

Maeve accepted the gesture with the flicker of a smile. "Right back at ye, Bellegarde."

Joëlle turned down the street in one direction and Maeve in the other, sunrise coils and sunset curls disappearing East and West through the haze of the morning mist.

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#maeve r.l. o'leavy #maeve r.l. o'leavy ficlet #maeve r.l. o'leavy 5: bellegarde #band of brothers #gallant heart #band of brothers ficlet #band of brothers oc ficlet #band of brothers oc #hbo war show #hbo war #hbo war show ficlet #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war oc ficlet #oc fanfiction #oc ficlet #hbo war oc #hbo war ficlet

[sergeant-spoons]

6. The Midnight 506th

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​ @vintagelavenderskies​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​ @50svibes​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​ @whovian45810​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​

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Waiting in the undergrowth in the darkness of the last hours of June 5th, Maeve had a thought.

On her way to this supposed drop zone, she'd passed a German battery. Watching the sky lit up with streaking bullets, shining shrapnel, spotlights, and- if bad became worse -fire. Belatedly, she muttered a curse to herself. She probably should have done something about that battery... Three planes had already fallen prey to antiaircraft fire. The last of the unlucky trio went down in a magnificent, stomach-twisting display of anarchy ablaze, the screams of the burning men trapped within mixing with the screeching of the plane tearing itself apart.

Maeve shuddered, though the night was warm.

Amid the lights above, shadows crept toward the earth. Like a parade of ants, they vaulted from their hills in the sky and made for the ground, their purpose one and the same. She would bet good money that in the daytime, such a spectacle was jaw-dropping at the least and eye-popping at the most. Incredible, the risks these men took for the freedom of a country not even their own. She felt humbled to witness what would undoubtedly be a historic night. A tale for the ages, that's right. One she'd tell her kids about, someday.

If she was around to have them and narrate it to them, that is.

Better get through tonight, first.

As the hands on her watch ticked to show the day had turned into the next, Maeve rose from her secluded shelter. Raising both hands, she waved to the figure she now saw landing a dozen or so meters past her. He spotted her, his shadowy self scrambling for his gun. As quick as her voice would come, she called to him in a shouted whisper that she meant him no harm and was on his side. He kept his rifle pointed at her nonetheless, and she did not blame him. This was, by all reports, the first of real combat most of these Americans had ever seen.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Lawlor," she replied promptly, then nodded her head to her left jacket pocket. "Mind if I..?"

"Yeah, I do mind." The stranger approached, glancing her up and down, and halted a few feet away as a look of realization flashed across his gaze, glinting in the night. "Fuckin' hell, you're a dame!"

"Tha' I am," she confirmed, then made the same motion as before. "Really, I'm here t' help ye. Well, some o' ye Americans."

"Who?"

"The OSS. Are ye with 'em?"

"What's that?"

"A 'no', tha's what tha' is." She sighed and reached for her pocket, but the shake of his rifle paused her. "Bahjesus, won't ye let a girl at her hanky?"

Hesitantly, he watched as she slowly brought her hand to her waist and withdrew a colored strip of cloth. All the shades seemed grey in the sun's absence, but the pattern was clear enough. She offered it to him, and he snatched it from her, squinting with suspicion. The moment he realized what the flag was- that of his country's -he lowered his rifle and handed it back to her.

"What the fuck are you doin' out here?"

"Like I said," she repeated, "I'm here t' help the OSS."

"Yeah, and I still dunno what that-"

"Flash!"

Whirling around, Maeve's companion just about yelped, "Thunder!" His cry brought another figure forth through the tall grass, and she nodded a hello. He stared at her for a moment, and when she offered the flag, he gave a laugh.

"The OSS is our Office of Strategic Services, Liebgott," the newcomer explained, kneeling to adjust his bootstraps. "She's with us."

"Well, don't she fuckin' talk like she is?" the other soldier protested, and she glanced aside, stuffing the flag back into her pocket.

"Whaddaya mean?"

"She's not American, sir!" proclaimed the man Maeve supposed was named Liebgott.

"Yeh, no shite, Sherlock."

Liebgott's companion gave a laugh- to his growing dissatisfaction -and stepped up to Maeve. She flinched, expecting some sort of pat-down, but he offered her a handshake and a flash of a grin.

"Lieutenant Harry Welsh, and Private Joe Liebgott," he introduced himself, and then his companion (who seemed disgruntled for his name to be given away so freely). "We're with the 101st Airborne."

"Ah, good-" She accepted the gesture of cordiality with a brief, polite smile of her own. "-I'm in the right place. I go by Lawlor, fer the time bein'."

"Nice to meetcha, Lawlor," Welsh started to say, but Liebgott interrupted.

"I don't remember any strangers droppin' with us, sir."

Maeve frowned as Liebgott's reminder drew a sigh from Welsh.

"Well," he admitted, looking back to her, "you're not exactly where you're meant to be." He shrugged, checking the straps across his shoulder that bore six grenades. "If you're lookin' for the OSS agents, they're dropping with the 502nd. We're the 506th."

"Shite," Maeve groaned under her breath. What do I do now?

As if guessing her train of thought, Lt. Welsh spoke up again. "Hey, if you were planning to guide those OSS fellas to the rendezvous point-"

"Oh, they get an escort?" Liebgott grumbled to himself. "Lucky bastards."

"-why don't ya bring us there instead? If Nix makes it- God help him -he'll be able to point you the right way to find your contacts."

"Nix, sir?"

"Lieutenant Nixon," he clarified, waving his hand as if this were trivial information, "our intelligence officer."

"Ye think he'd be able to tell me where t' go?"

"I sure do. And Lawlor- don't bother with the 'sir' stuff, you're not part o' the troops. Just Welsh is fine." He winked. "Just not Harry. Only my Kitty and my best friends call me that."

"Oh- alright, si- alright, Welsh." She shifted on her feet, unsure what else to say. "Your, ah, your girl sounds nice."

"Nice?" he crowed, and she took a shuffling step back, sure she'd offended him. His grin reassured her, along with his declaration: "Oh, she's the best. I think you'd like her. She's a strong woman."

"We could always do with more o' those, sir."

"Just Welsh," he reminded, beaming at the praise of his dearest one. Clearly, he adored this 'Kitty'; Maeve considered his ardor quite likable. Liebgott, on the other hand, rolled his eyes behind his CO's back. 

Clapping his hand on her shoulder, Welsh swept his free arm across the grasslands from where they stood to the horizon. "So, where to, Lawlor?"

"Sainte-Marie-du-Mont, right?" she replied, puzzled as to why he was asking, and he grinned.

"Right. So, go on, lead the way!"

"Al- alright." Adjusting her longbow across her shoulder and chest, she turned toward the moonlight and fished in her pockets for her compass. "Ah, follow me, then."

"Sir, she has a bow," Liebgott muttered to Welsh as the pair fell into step behind her, "she's like some tribal lady! I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't know what a gun was."

Maeve pulled aside the flap of her jacket and patted the holster of her sidearm, calling over her shoulder, "I'm a decent shot with one or the other, lad. I don't think ye'd like to test my patience."

Disgruntled, he wrinkled up his entire face, and she had to return her gaze toward the direction in which she was walking to keep from laughing. She wasn't about to shoot him, not now, and hopefully, never- but he didn't know that.

"She's just messing with you, Liebgott," Welsh declared, quieting his subordinate before he'd voiced any sort of retribution or grievance. "'Sides, it's two against one if she tried anything."

"Also," she countered, "I've got no reason to harm ye."

"Why's 'at?"

"Ye aren't who I'm fightin' for."

"Who are you fighting for, then?" Liebgott challenged.

"The children."

"Whose?"

"All of them."

Welsh and Liebgott shared a look that she only caught the tail end of, glancing back on instinct to check behind them for unfriendly forms.

"You're an odd one, Lawlor, I'll say that.'

She chuckled as they crept past a crumbling boulder, keeping as close as clovers in a patch although two were strangers to the third.

"Ye aren't the first to claim it, Welsh-" A wry smile to herself. "-and ye certainly won't be the last."

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#maeve r.l. o'leavy #maeve r.l. o'leavy ficlet #maeve r.l. o'leavy 6: the midnight 506th #gallant heart #band of brothers #band of brothers oc #band of brothers oc ficlet #band of brothers ficlet #oc fanfiction #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war oc ficlet #oc ficlet #hbo war show #hbo war #hbo war oc #hbo war ficlet #hbo war show oc #hbo war show ficlet

[sergeant-spoons]

12. Oh, Lord, The Great Collapse

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​ @vintagelavenderskies​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​ @50svibes​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​ @brokennerdalert​

​~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Halfway through the sun's arc between dawn and midday, Easy Company led the creeping procession of their brothers-in-arms. Flanked by two other companies, their alphabetical identifiers similarly neighboring them, the men came to a crouching halt at the penultimate slope. The town ahead lay motionless and menacing. Maeve knew what it was like when the world held its breath. This was one of those moments, no doubt. Even the respiration of those around her seemed so soft it was all but silent. Someone was chewing sunflower seeds. He spit one out on the ground near the foot of one Shifty Powers, who scooted closer to her, too polite to grimace or grumble.

Maeve ran her hand over her left hip, reassuring her of her pistol's continued presence. She didn't blame her temporary commanders for declining to provide her with a rifle. Trust would have to be earned, in that regard. Her bow would provide her a decent offensive, for now. She only wished she'd brought along more arrows.

Lieutenant Winters shuffled back. "I need a volunteer for scout."

Maeve crept forward. "I'll go, sir."

He waved her on up, but before she could take another step, Shifty tugged on her sleeve.

"Be careful."

She shot him a small smile, trying not to blush at such a time. 

"I will."

As Maeve followed Winters up the line, Shifty watched. Talbert nudged his arm, smirking.

"Ooooooh-"

"Shut up, please."

"Shifty, you're staring at the lady's behind-"

For Shifty's sake, Smokey smacked Tab's helmet over his eyes, quieting him into grumbles at being mistreated for just a bit of fun.

Scanning the buildings from her perch at the front of the advance, she gathered no signs of life and turned in silence to Winters. He made a few gestures she didn't quite comprehend and squinted at him to convey this. He shuffled closer to her and nodded for Lt. Welsh to join them.

"I want you to take the 1st straight up the middle, hard and fast. You have to move quickly."

Welsh, chewing gum as if he were sitting in the back of a lecture hall instead of about to storm an enemy-occupied town, nodded once.

"I'll be right behind you with 2nd and 3rd." Winters looked to Maeve. "Lawlor, you're up here with Welsh. Do what you gotta do, but stick to his orders."

"Aye, sir."

He blinked for an instant and she realized she'd thrown him off-guard by her agreement. She supposed she'd deviated from the reply he was used to hearing and flushed, wondering if she'd made a mistake, corrupted his wary opinion of her. When he sent her a few feet up the road, she let her fingers brush the gravel, steadying her, peering over the lip of the slight slope. Still no movement. Shuffling back down, she informed him of this; he focused on his timepiece as Welsh spit out his gum in an impressive shot into the nearest ditch lining the road.

Maeve tensed her legs, ready to spring forward.

"Go."

"Let's go, First, let's go."

The whispered manner of the orders made them all the more weighted to Maeve. She stuck to Welsh's side as they started down the road. Her legs wanted to carry her faster, but she didn't want to leave him behind. At some point in her motion, she'd brought her bow into her hands, such a familiar and instinctive reaction she'd hardly noticed she'd done it. The wood against her palm soothed her and she reached over her shoulder for an arrow-

"Feuer!"

You did not have to speak German like Maeve to know what that fearsome scream entailed.

Bullets sprayed the road, tearing through ferns and shrubs, throwing up gravel, and, in the worst cases, rending flesh. Instinct took over and Maeve raced for cover, arrow neglected, glad for the helmet shifting to-and-fro on her head. The crumbling wall she'd chosen as her defense stood half-demolished, the only sign of wreckage on this side of the town. Her heart sped. Though she was no stranger to battle, she'd avoided combat for the most part in the last four years, unwilling to put any of her charges in such danger. And now, with men falling to the ground just behind her, she pressed her side to the wall (knowing better than to slam her back and thus her quiver into the brick) and forced herself to take stock of the situation.

Winters had given the order to take cover. Men were diving into the ditches. Maeve nearly smacked herself for supposing someone would find a wad of gum stuck to their uniform later. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what was she doing, thinking like that at a time like this?

Welsh was shouting something- "Where the fuck is everybody?!" -as Luz, the only companion to make it to the town along with his CO and Maeve, took wild shots through the rising dust and dirt spurts at the street.

Café de Normandie read the white lettering upon the blue sign of the nearest building. Maeve watched as the bullets sang forth from between some white shutters, but which? How many?

"Where'd everybody go?!"

"I have no idea!"

Winters had changed his tune, shouting for his men to keep moving, for Welsh's men to keep moving, for everyone to keep moving. As such, she knocked an arrow. It was easier to fight when you didn't have to make decisions for yourself, she decided as she rose out of her crouch. A thin trail of smoke from the machine gun- what else could be firing that fast? -drifted into the sky, and she followed it as swiftly as her eyes could move to the second-floor window of the Café, the one farthest from her current post. Ah, shite. She knew she couldn't get a shot at this angle. She'd have to run back up the road... right into the line of fire.

She waved to Welsh and Luz. "I need a distraction!"

"Why?!" Luz yelped, tugging his pack towards him in an attempt to keep his radio safe.

"Trust me!"

Welsh swore and grabbed a grenade from his shoulder strap. He and Luz swapped positions behind the shed they'd made their refuge.

"Go, go, go!" he screamed and as soon as his fingers had a hold of the pin, she darted back the way she'd come, the helmet inscribed with the symbol of a regiment she'd never truly belong to toppling off her head.

Winters bellowed something at her, she couldn't tell what, all the blood rushing to her ears as she spun, turning her feet with such precision one might suspect her a ballerina in a past life. For a split second, she allowed herself fear. A flurry of motion, she let the first arrow fly and knocked the second before her twirling hair had settled on her shoulders.

Schwizz. Schwick.

One down, she judged, never stopping, pitching into a sprint toward the shed. Luz let out a whoop as she made it to them, Welsh calling her a crazy lady though he tipped his helmet at her in appreciation. Luz pulled her in and kept her behind him as he fired at another window, tossing his head to resituate his helmet. She tipped it back for him so he could see better and he ran his hand across his forehead, smearing dirt there.

"Think you could get that one, too?" Welsh beseeched, denoting Luz's target.

She leaned around the radioman and guessed the second window housed two lone gunmen bearing only rifles. By that point, Winters had gotten most of his men on the move, and they took potshots at the Café, enough so that their enemies on high faltered in their attack.

"Not from this angle, sir!"

"Goddamnit- what if we got you into town?"

"Lawlor, fall out!" hollered Winters in between shouting "Go!" over and over at his men, even kicking one in the ass to get them moving.

"I can manage that, sir!" Without waiting for his command, she turned around the side of the shed opposite the Café and edged along the bare wall. Another machine gun had appeared in the bottommost window, she discovered as she snuck a look around the corner, and she mumbled a curse at her lack of grenades. Rushing back around, she discovered her companions had already dispersed, leaving her alone. A twisty sort of feeling took hold of her stomach as she dashed blindly across the street, her heart doing its best to remind her she was in great peril.

She ignored it. She had to.

Finding shelter near a stone-stacked chimney, Maeve drew two arrows, both grateful and dismayed she could spy no windows from her position. Three, no, four men appeared upon the hill that led to this particular street, abandoning the road. She could still hear Winters' voice from here between shots, sure he'd be hoarse by the end of the battle. Though Maeve knew she shouldn't wait and watch, she did just that. A familiar face was leading the charge, after all. Shifty burst through the gate and dashed for the nearest cover, a slim corner bordered by a chain fence. Maeve blinked, chasing away the memory of a similar border, acutely aware of the wire clippers shifting about in her pack right then and there.

Shifty saw her and flashed a frightened smile. She waved back, the feather of the arrow in her grasp flicking about at the motion, and knocked the projectile. Someone shouted a recognition of a sniper and she scanned the area for him, but her fellow sharpshooter was quicker. He took care of the enemy with the firing of just one bullet and returned to the corner. Maeve swallowed back the opinion leaping gleefully into her head that he was exceedingly handsome like that, directing his rifle like he knew precisely what he was doing. She was sure he did. Darting between her and Shifty, a soldier with jump wings glinting in the daylight fell to the street, nearly landing on top of a split cabbage. Maeve reached to help him, but another American pushed her back to her shelter.

Shifty gave a shout, but he wasn't looking at her. He took a shot across the road as a smattering of bullets pinged across the metal fence just a yard or so away from Maeve's chimney hideout. She realized with a sunken heart that she'd neglected to consider the lowermost floors of the Café, still in view. Whizzing past her ears, death chased her across the cobblestones. Her bow found purchase on her back despite the adrenaline rushing through her bloodstream, giving her only one objective: run. Shifty beckoned, eyes wide, hands shaking.

"C'mon, c'mon!"

She dove forward, nearly tripping on the lip of the sidewalk, his arms wrapping around her in something she might have called a hug had the moment been one of peace. Now, in battle, she called it sanctuary. The barrage followed her and guilt tugged at her racing heart for having brought the torrent right to Shifty. Edging as far as they could behind the grate of the fence, they clung to each other, shaking. His gun knocked against her quiver. Bullets passed so near, ricocheting off the metal with singsong hisses, she became convinced the end was nigh. Muffling a scream into Shifty's shirt, she squeezed her eyes shut, praying he would be okay, even if it meant she got hit.

"Aw, shit!"

Terrified he'd been shot, Maeve looked up, her hair brushing his chin, to find Shifty staring across the street. His chest heaved, drawing in the first full breath he had in a good minute, and she realized the fire had ceased. Leaning tentatively around him, she watched as smoke rose from the first-floor Café window.

"You okay, Shifty?" hollered an alien voice.

Any other time and Maeve might have smiled at how her friend shot his companion a smile and a thumbs-up. The awareness that she was still holding him close, most of their bodies pressed together, hit her with a flash and she stumbled a step back, flushing like a rose in bloom. He blinked, coming to the same realization, and rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.

"Where'd your helmet go?" he asked in a voice quieter than expected, and Maeve shook her head. She grabbed his hand, still reeling from the feeling of holding and being held by him, and tugged him across the street. They had to get going, and he knew it, so as soon as they were out on the street, he took the lead, tugging her toward the man who'd asked after his wellbeing.

"We gotta take that warehouse!" he shouted, and as Shifty dropped her hand, securing his rifle, he leaned toward Maeve.

"That's First Sergeant Lipton!"

"We should follow him, then?"

"Yeah!"

They joined the advance and ran up to Lipton.

"Shifty, hammer those windows." The first sergeant tipped his head to Maeve. "Glad you're alright, ma'am."

"Thank ye, sir."

"Go find Welsh, we've got it from here."

"Aye, sir." 

Maeve didn't look back to Shifty, knowing it would only distract her. Her heart needed to cool off, and though a battle wasn't the best place for such a thing, she knew distance would at least help. Sprinting across the street to the remnants of the Café, she spotted Welsh and Luz sheltering in a doorway. With two others, she ran up.

"Tipper, take Liebgott, start clearing these houses! Lawlor, you go with Luz, follow his lead!" He raised his hand, speaking to all as they departed. "Two to a house!"

Amid the wretched havoc surrounding them, Maeve followed her usually cheerful compatriot down the street, on edge and yet relieved, if only a little, to see how grimly he treated their situation. Her footsteps fell in time with his and they heard a commanding voice from somewhere behind them calling for Second Platoon to move out. Luz and Maeve landed on either side of a door, an unfamiliar ally scrambling up to her side. The trio shared a look. Luz bust a hole in the window as Maeve ducked. Their third companion completed the move by pitching a grenade into the building. She kept her head against his leg as they all ducked under the shutters, shielding herself as best she could without a helmet.

The two with rifles continued into the building before the smoke from the grenade had dissipated. Maeve kept a watch outside, bow notched. A few Germans fell to her arrows as she waited for her companions to reemerge, and they did in good time.

"Aw, hey, you're the Irish lady!"

"Not the time, Hoobler," Luz warned as they made their way to the next suspiciously closed-up house.

"Nice to meetcha!" their strangely optimistic compatriot chirped as a piece of flying shrapnel narrowly missed taking his ear off.

Luz shook his head, ducking past a smoking window. "Jesus Christ."

The trio ran up and surrounded the door of their new objective.

"Smash it!" Hoobler encouraged in a low voice through his teeth. "Grenade," he added, clearly denoting the weapon in his hand. "Luz? C'mon, Luz!"

But he'd heard something Maeve had, too. A whimper. A child's whimper. From inside the building. A house, a home, she realized almost too late, and burst through the door before either the men could make a move. Her pistol in hand, she ran in more or less blind, Luz following right behind, his rifle cocked over her shoulder. Hoobler cursed as he peered around Luz and Maeve had the feeling he thought them the foolhardy ones until he saw the family cowering on the floor. The old man said something none of them understood, half bent over his family, shielding them. Maeve waved down her companions.

"Go on," she urged, taking a much-needed charge of the situation, "I'll look after them."

Hoobler tugged Luz out of the door, muttering to himself about 'that Irish broad bein' crazier than I am', and they continued on to the next house, armed and ready. They were probably better off without her and her measly pistol, anyway. Realizing she still had it cocked and pointed at the cowering quartet on the floor, she flushed and quickly lowered it. She knew better than to holster it completely, but kept it at her side, beckoning with the other hand. The mother blanched and the father (so Maeve presumed were their relations) leaned further over their children, muttering something one might call a prayer if they'd understood his frantic mumbling.

She took stock of the area and spied a promising door down the hall. Leaving the family, she opened it and saw stairs leading into some sort of basement. Returning to the room, she found the children now hiding behind their parents, both staring at Maeve in grim defiance. She reached into her bag and the father leaped forward. He seemed to have a bad knee and fell as a result, just short of her. She knelt and as he scrambled for her arms, managed to offer her flashlight. He stared at it, and then her, and after a tense moment more, he released her wrists. The woman's stiff expression softened and her mouth dropped open just the slightest, the same as it had been when she and Luz burst in.

"Follow me," she coaxed, taking the risk to holster her pistol. "We don't have much time."

They didn't seem to understand her, so she waved upward, maintaining a crouch of her own to suggest their own positions, and pointed down the hall. The father led the way, the children between him and the mother, who came last. Maeve drew her bow, watching the door. Two soldiers ran past, shouting in German, but she did not care to translate for herself, glad they'd either ignored her or missed her entirely. The hinges of a door creaked, and she caught the sound despite the chaos outside. She looked over her shoulder. The woman with the pale face crossed herself, her other hand on the doorknob. Maeve replied with the same gestures, just as solemn, and the Frenchwoman bowed her chin as the Irishwoman raised her own.

Keep them safe, she pleaded up to the heavens. As the lock of their last chance at shelter snapped into place down the hall, she stepped into the space left by the open front door, notching an arrow.

Keep them safe, God. If not for me, or even the parents, for the children.

Following a trio of familiar uniforms with faces entirely unknown to her, Maeve felt the feather against her thumb tickle her skin at the breeze of motion.

And keep Shifty safe, while you're at it. 

Please.

​~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#maeve r.l. o'leavy #maeve r.l. o'leavy ficlet #maeve r.l. o'leavy 12: oh lord the great collapse #gallant heart #hbo war show #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war show ficlet #hbo war #hbo war oc #hbo war oc ficlet #hbo war ficlet #band of brothers #band of brothers oc ficlet #band of brothers oc #band of brothers ficlet #oc ficlet #oc fanfiction

[sergeant-spoons]

Hi! 👋🏻 I’ve got an ask for you 😊

🏹 + 😢

Hi Mar! You got it. This one got real dark, real quick... so prepare for the angst, I s’pose? Sorry (mostly) 😅💕

Tin Man

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy - Gallant Heart

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow @vintagelavenderskies @wexhappyxfew @50svibes @tvserie-s-world @adamantiumdragonfly @indecisiveimpatience

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Hey there, Mr. Tin Man You don't know how lucky you are.

Maeve could remember every young face under her care. Each freckle, each scar, each dimple. When they wore spectacles, she recalled them pushing them up on their little noses; when they limped, she thought of the way they carried themselves, with a strength greater than any Maeve could wish to possess; when they coughed or sighed or wept, she felt them in her arms, leaning into her chest. Such love and life in those gap-toothed smiles, those gentle squeezes of their hands around her fingers, those sweet goodbye hugs around her knees, or waist, or chest.

It hurt, sometimes, to let them go on their way, but also such a relief. Departing from Maeve's side meant their lives were no longer at great risk. She fought tooth and nail to get them someplace safe, each and every one. Night or day, winter or summer, she crossed borders and mountains and lakes and, sometimes, an ocean. If you laid string on a map, she bet the whole of Western Europe would show a spider's web of her journey. With any and every thread, she'd know the face of the child, or children, who she'd held the hand of, guided through the fire.

Maeve marched through Hell itself to keep those young souls from heeding the pearly gates all too soon.

You shouldn't spend your whole life wishing For something bound to fall apart.

Today, she'd received the news one of her contacts in Switzerland had turned chicken. He'd 'gone fowl' in the worst possible way, betraying the three siblings he'd agreed to harbor until they could find safe passage to Canada. Handing them over to the S.S., he'd fled to Germany. Jewish children. Two girls and a boy. Maeve could still hear the youngest, the brother, trying to stifle his coughs as they took a rest in an abandoned plane in the middle of a field in Germany. Even the constellations lingered in her mind's eye, the swishing of the breeze through the grass, the familiar haze of exhaustion beginning to edge into her mind and body.

If you ever felt one breaking, You'd never want a heart.

Maeve was not ashamed to cry. What were tears if not the release of bitter grief? Healing, in some way.

Now, though, her cheeks remained dry, her eyes hollow, though she gasped and groaned and her chest heaved and shook. On her knees, she wept ghosts of anguish, until even they could not hold her, and she fell upon her side. Clutching at her shirt, her belt, her pockets, whatever she could touch in the vain hope of finding some purchase to steady her, she lay there, wracked by sobs, entirely alone.

The sun would rise and fall on a world devoid of three precious young lives, taken too soon. In the hands of the Nazis, their fates were sealed. Out there, somewhere, too far for Maeve to reach them in time. She was helpless to protect them, now. No angel would find them on this mortal plane. Only in death would they know peace again. All breath left her body and she struggled for air, watching as her vision darkened. Rolling onto her back, she ignored the way the sheath of her knife poked into her side, how the world harried on, dark and cruel and dismal.

Take it from me, darling: You don't want a heart.

Few would know, even less would understand, and none would comfort her, now.

How could she deserve sympathy? She had failed those young lives, abandoned the springy hair of the eldest, the fidgety habits of the middle child, the tired spark in the eyes of the youngest. Betrayed, even. Rationally, she knew it was not quite so, but in despair, she believed otherwise.

She let her eyes close. Guilt wracked her body and the sound that broke through her lips just then conveyed the weight of the world on her shoulders. Rarely did she show the burdens of her soul. Rarely did she imagine telling someone how hard it was to do what she did.

Never did she relate the pain of losing a life.

By the way there, Mr. Tin Man- If you don't mind the scars, You give me your armor And you can have my heart.

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Song inspiration: “Tin Man” by Miranda Lambert

Thank you so much for the request, Mar! 🥰💕

#maeve r.l. o'leavy #maeve r.l. o'leavy ficlet #maeve r.l. o'leavy song ficlet #song ficlet #gallant heart #band of brothers #band of brothers ficlet #hbo war show ficlet #hbo war show #hbo war #hbo war ficlet #oc ficlet #oc fanfiction #oc fanfic #oc fic #band of brothers oc ficlet #hbo war oc #hbo war oc ficlet #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #🏹😥

[sergeant-spoons]

11. Stars Seen

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​​ @vintagelavenderskies​​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​​ @50svibes​​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​

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Maeve was no stranger to the witching hours of the moon's diurnal dance across an indigo heaven. Flames, too, waved their in familiarity whenever she passed by. From damaged to destroyed, Spain to Holland to Nazi Germany itself, she had witnessed the wreckage of the world.

She was, however, not used to observing such a thing among scores of men in the midst of unnatural bonfires that reeked with death.

A few soldiers wrinkled their noses up, others had drawn their shirts over their faces up to the bridges of their nose; the majority acted indifferent at best and intrigued at worst. Maeve tried to steer clear of the lattermost sort. She'd seen enough of this war to know their interest would be short-lived.

Less than a week had passed since Maeve's integration into the 506th and yet a good three-quarters of the men in the platoons she frequented could recognize her on sight. She appreciated it, even if hers was a slightly silly gratitude. After all, what other five-foot-seven-inch red-haired Irishwoman was roaming the Normandy invasion corps with a bow, quiver, gun, and grenade belt all strapped to her person? Easy Company, vouching for themselves as the best of the regiment, had claimed her as theirs before the day of the 7th was up. By this midnight-graced morning of the 12th, each and every trooper who greeted her at some point had absorbed the awareness of her nickname (courtesy of one George Luz) and addressed her by it with a wink, a smile, a frown, or some combination of the three.

All except one.

"Um, Miss Lawlor?"

Maeve grimaced as she watched a relatively scrawny fellow filch a watch off the arm of a dead man stricken by late rigor mortis. His neglect for the sanctity of the dead made her ever the more grateful for the friends she had that would not dare the same. 

Particularly, she noted with no small bit of fluttering in her stomach, a certain Sergeant Powers.

"Yeah?"

When Shifty did not reply at once, as she'd thus far known him to do, she followed his gaze out past the front of the line. Whatever he was peering at, she couldn't perceive; she would have gone for her binoculars had she not known they'd be of little use in the darkness. Even the flames that flowered from this grisly graveyard of Germans and their vehicles (that of which lay indiscernible from a plane, truck, jeep, or what-have-you else in their mangled states and amid the night's shadow) provided little guidance.

"Do ye see somethin'?"

"It's what I don't see, miss."

Despite Maeve's initial requests for Shifty to quit epitaphs of such a formal standard, he persisted. When he voiced his disdain at what his mother would call disrespecting a lady, no matter that they were in the middle of the war, she softened; when he added that he personally believed any woman deserved great respect, but particularly one as courageous as she, the shyly flattered smuggler yielded. A little courtesy did well to tame the hurricane that was this brutal conflict, anyway. Truth be told, she enjoyed her new friend's decorum, a considerable novelty to her after the five years she'd spent crisscrossing the warpath. It was, though she'd admit it to none, just as attractive to her as the humble sugar in his smile.

Maeve's cheeks began to heat up at the thought. Nonetheless, she meekly excused the feeling to herself as the result of the heat brought by her surroundings. The smoldering wreckage strewn about the marshy lowland was quite hot, after all. The thought of Shifty Powers' delightful dimples as his fingers just so happened to brush hers had nothing to do with her face turning as red as her hair.

Thank goodness the firelight's glow was a faint one.

The man she'd spotted earlier claiming the prize of a battle unfought by him twisted his wrist, checking the glistening upon his arm all the way up to his elbow. Another beside him reached to take a peek and was swatted away. Lieutenant Welsh, discernable to Maeve by the trod of his toes, stopped the march. His helmet rocked back and forth on his narrow head as he listened, then seemed to give an order. The skinny man (who was not Skinny, another fellow in Easy who Maeve had met while Talbert measured the width of his shoulders against a maple sapling and marveled at the diameter comparison) turned around. Maeve did not want him to come their way, but he did, half-crouched, passing on the order to hold their position.

Looking to Shifty for answers, she was surprised to see him ushering a soundless sigh. He brought himself lower to the ground and she followed suit, ushering a little closer so they could speak in hushed voices while still maintaining a watch of the perimeter like they were supposed to.

"I didn't wanna be right, but I think I am." He itched at a spot behind his ear that his companion sympathetically identified as a bug bite by a glance. "Looks like we've lost F Company."

"Again?" grumbled a companion, overhearing, and passed the supposition down the line behind them.

Shifty dropped the volume of his voice even further. "Dunno how this keeps happenin', miss. Sorry for the holdup."

Maeve wanted to squeeze his arm or pat his shoulder or- no, she wouldn't allow herself the thought of lips to cheek -but dared not, settling for tilting her head his way.

"Not yer fault, Shifty."

His hand flicked to the same curvature of skin behind his ear and she allowed herself a gentle push down of his wrist.

"Don't itch, you'll only irritate it."

He blinked at her for a moment, then complied, dropping his hand to hook his fingers in the belt loops of his trousers. She got the impression he didn't mind her guidance in both touch and speech, and for that, she was grateful. He didn't have to want or appreciate it, so long as he took it for what it was: naught but friendly advice.

"Shifty?"

"Hmm?" As if feeling the need to correct himself, he added, "Yes, Miss Lawlor?"

"Can you see the stars?"

"No, miss."

She couldn't, either.

"It's all the smoke, isn't it?"

"I'd rightly think so, miss."

Maeve thought for a few moseying seconds, still gawking at the sky, though she knew her gaze was better utilized tracking the passage of movement- or, more fortunately, the lack thereof -within and past the hazy perimeter of their position. No light would come through the smog hovering above until it had all but cleared. Plausibly, it could take days or even weeks for this widespread debris (amid which, to her chagrin, bodies yet blistered) to spew the last of its murky fumes.

"I don't believe I've seen the stars all week," she whispered.

Despite the near-silence of her confession, he caught it and voiced his unity with her on the matter. After a moment's consideration, he supposed, "The constellations... they look so different here than how they did back home."

"Aye." She let her gaze fall in a solemn arc. "They're not quite the same."

They shared a soft smile, a little too soft, even. From different lives, meeting under a starless sky amidst the kind of conflict that did not deserve the blessing of those constellations. If anyone should look over, their observation somehow breaking through the gloom, they would spy a pair of blushing sharpshooters, glancing apart from each other, then back, then away again as soon as they were caught staring. A game of flirtations, an outsider might call it; to the duo involved, it was a tug-of-war between giving into admiration or adhering to the diffidence that most often guided their judgments.

The should-I-shouldn't-I could not have lasted for more than a minute before Lt. Welsh beckoned from up the line. His signal informed the men that they were back on track and should return to their previously scheduled progression into the woods up ahead. As such, they would get up. Yes, get up and move. Returned to the task at hand, the posture of each star-searcher shifted and they began to rise.

For the second time that night, Shifty's knuckles brushed the back of Maeve's hand.

Neither withdrew.

He hooked his smallest finger around hers. As if they were making a promise. She focused on her breathing, watching her sleeve slip down her arm and hide the innocuous connection. It wasn't quite holding hands, but somehow, this meant more to her. She could tell he was keeping his wrist bent at an unquestionably awkward angle just to maintain the contact. It only lasted for twenty seconds at the most until they had to part for a multitude of reasons, the least of which being ease of mobility. The whole while, her heart skipped about in her chest like her nephew Peter when he found out they'd be taking a trip down to the beach one particularly sweltering day in the midst of July... six years ago.

Six years since that memory, five since peace, four and some since she'd seen that little boy with the gap-toothed smile and hair somehow redder than hers or even his mother's.

Maeve swallowed back a rising sadness that she knew would produce only one tear, yet still one too many for her to afford.

For a cascade of precious seconds, she allowed herself to wish Shifty would wrap his smallest finger around her smaller one and hold on, and keep holding on, until the sunrise, and maybe even past that.

Then she straightened her gear, fiddled with the button on her leftmost jacket pocket, and followed her companions into a narrow strip of forest that would, in some fashion, give way to their destination-

And to battle.

​~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#maeve r.l. o'leavy #maeve r.l. o'leavy ficlet #maeve r.l. o'leavy 11: stars seen #band of brothers #gallant heart #band of brothers oc #band of brothers oc ficlet #band of brothers ficlet #hbo war show #hbo war #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war show ficlet #hbo war oc ficlet #hbo war oc #hbo war ficlet #oc ficlet #oc fanfiction

[sergeant-spoons]

2. Wires

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

Taglist: @easy-company-tradition @vintagelavenderskies @wexhappyxfew​ @50svibes​ @tvserie-s-world @adamantiumdragonfly

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Here: the border.

There: freedom.

Also here: guards.

Shite. She expected this, yet some part of her wished to believe they would be able to slip by, with a spot of luck. It appeared tonight would not grant them such fortune. Behind her, the two girls sat with their brother, silent as mice as they rubbed his back, attempting to soothe his cough, and stared into the night. Maeve's pistol sat at her hip- but no, she couldn't. Too loud. She couldn't risk alerting their presence. Only one thing to do, then.

Good thing I brought this ole thing.

Her musing, though rather wry, was fond; the item which she considered, she treasured. Slipping her bow off her back with one hand, she lifted the lid of the quiver on her hip, opposite to the holster of her gun. Twenty-two arrows, packed neatly within and muffled by the thin veil woven strategically between them, rested within, awaiting their ultimate purpose. Three of these, Maeve had fired more than once and retrieved after her enemy fell. Most, though, she lost once they were loosed from her bowstring.

The wood of her venerable weapon gave a soft creak as she raised the feathers to their perch. Once upon a time, first learning the art of the bow, they would tickle her nose and offset her aim as she giggled. Nowadays, she could not risk such reactions; nevertheless, during her long vigils, minding the children as they rested, the memories of her own youth surfaced, and she reminisced, and she sighed. That time was past, for her, and despite the weight of her current reality, she did not wish to return to simpler days. Her purpose was here and now, and she would not forsake it for the world.

Up went the bow, her skilled gaze tracking the pair of guards, chattering in German, as they approached, aided by the light of the moon, that same gleam she often disparaged for its exile of the stealth of darkness. Back came the string, silent. The night held its breath all around her. Maeve could feel the anxiety of the children behind her. She would not miss. She could not. A flutter of nerves invaded her chest for a second before she dismissed them entirely. 

I will not miss.

Up went the bow, back came the string, down went the nearest guard.

The other's mouth opened, yet no sound came out. Grey feathers jutted from his jugular. Maeve made eye contact with him for just one moment before he fell with a sickening thud. She swallowed back the pity she often felt for these fallen soldiers- who knows, they could have been drafted against their will, barely out of high school, naïve to the true horrors of their dictator's regime -and rose from her crouched position, inch by inch. No other sign of life appeared as she kept a third arrow trained on the defeated Germans, lest one should have endured and reach for his weapon, so she crept halfway out of the brush and took a look around.

Trees. Three small hills, half-carpeted by the last decaying leaves of the previous Autumn. A fence, at least a dozen feet high and some. Barbed wire tangling with stringent chains every few feet. No footsteps, no voices, no sign of life but Maeve, her three charges, and the crickets.

Let's move.

Slinging her bow back on her back, she crept across the open area and examined the fence. This was, no doubt, far from her first experience when it came to cutting a hatch into a fence. By now, she knew quite well how to slice it just enough to let the human figure pass through and at such an angle that it was quite hard to notice by an eye not looking for it. She'd used the same 'gateways' more than once before; mayhaps this passage would become one of those familiar.

She dropped to her stomach, careful not to let any of her carry-ons hit the earth at her front lest she injure them or herself. The shears, slightly rusted from a night she'd had to spend out in the rain a few weeks ago, creaked as she pried them open and lifted them to the wire, and she made sure not to close them to the point where they squeaked again until she was done. Making quick work of the wire- this was not the most well-fortified of barriers she'd broken through, not by a long shot -Maeve drew herself halfway up to her knees and peeled aside the wire.

The sound was always the worst. No matter how many times she did this, altering the metal always made her heart stop for a moment. It was a terrible, wrenching sound, loud and harsh and dangerous. If someone heard, they could be upon her and the children in mere seconds. It had happened, just once. The kid was halfway through when the first shot rang out, swiftly followed by a shout, the same in German as in English: "Halt!"

The child ran, zig-zagged around the hill like she'd told him, as she drew her pistol. She was still lying down, one knee half-under her, face smeared with blood from a gash on her palm, cut by the barbed wire when she startled at the gunfire. She didn't have time to think, a child's life was at stake- she just fired.

Then three more soldiers came over the ridge, followed by another five, all shouting and waving their guns, and starting to shoot at Maeve as soon as they saw her.

The child disappeared. She never knew if he made it or not.

Maeve didn't like to think about that night.

Past grievances need not influence her mission now, she reminded herself as the girls urged their brother through the gap first. He held his breath, cheeks puffed out, as he stifled a cough. Smart child, she praised in her thoughts, others have not been so careful, even those in fine health. His sisters followed, then Maeve's equipment- if something went wrong here, it was best for the kids to be able to take the food bag and her knife, at the least - and she took a few seconds to adjust the clipped twisted wire, winding like the vines of the grapes of sin, barren of fruit, while the kids slipped away to cover.

Their journey, henceforth, would take them through more forest, then a mountainside town, and that was where Maeve and the three siblings would part ways. The most arduous portion of their mission was now over. The only challenges they would face forthwith were walking on uneven, sloped terrain, the boy's illness, and scanty rations. Freedom was in sight, for these young souls, and three pairs of eyes tracked her, shining in the moonlight, as she came back to them, her expression presenting calm to ease their doubtless troubled minds. 

Crouching, she offered words of comfort and encouragement: just a few more miles and they could sleep for the next week, if they wanted to. The girls seemed to understand the significance of the barrier they'd just crossed through, and the eldest whispered that they were on their way to paradise as the middle child reached to hold and squeeze Maeve's hand.

"Unser Engel wird uns retten."

Our angel will deliver us.

Her heart softened, and she knelt by the sick boy, opening the sling for him to climb into. His legs shook as he moved, and as soon as he was secure, she felt his little chest start to rise and fall with the slow rhythm of sleep. Rising once more, the young woman offered her hands, one each, to the girls, and they took them; the smallest hand wrapped barely around three of her fingers, the largest would still fit into her palm twice over.

I am no saint, she thought, but did not say so. Let the children believe. What mattered most was that she was, in fact, their guardian and guide, and she would see them to safety at endless risk to life and limb.

They were not alone tonight.

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#maeve r.l. o'leavy #maeve r.l. o'leavy 2: wires #band of brothers oc #oc ficlet #oc fanfiction #oc fanfic #band of brothers #band of brothers ficlet #band of brothers oc ficlet #hbo war show ficlet #hbo war show oc #hbo war show oc ficlet #hbo war show #hbo war #hbo war oc #hbo war ficlet #hbo war oc ficlet #hbo war imagine #hbo war show imagine #band of brothers imagine #gallant heart

[sergeant-spoons]

Bring Me The Night (Maeve)

Dearest @vintagelavenderskies​ sent in all the requests for all my girls 😂 ILY HON

So here’s a little Maeve content 💕

Bring Me The Night ~ Sam Tsui 🏹 x 🎨/🎵

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Bring Me The Night

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy - Gallant Heart

Taglist: @easy-company-tradition​​ @vintagelavenderskies​​ @wexhappyxfew​​ @50svibes​​ @tvserie-s-world​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​ @indecisiveimpatience​​

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Swear I don't know if the days are as slow as they seem, Wondering when you'll be with me again...

Maeve had learned to take issue with the daylight years ago, when she'd first taken up this calling. There was little stealth under the sun, the potential of exhaustion from its rays, and once- luckily, she'd been alone -on a day of particularly fearsome summer heat, the brush about her began to smoke. She still remembered sprinting through the field, strangely calm, for she was certain this could not be her end. She had so much more to do, so many more to save. She made it out of that field intact, hacking at the smoke burning about her throat, and as she slumped against a boulder, slinging her bow to the ground so it would not be crushed behind her back, she began shaking.

How much she wished someone had been there to hold her hand.

And then, a few weeks later, someone did.

And this finally can be more than just a dream.

Him. She missed him. More than her family, more than her home, more than the sleep she so sorely lacked. Moments to think of him were so brief. So short a time to know him, so few memories, but each as sweet and precious as a twinkling star in the heavens of her heart. The image of his smile could keep her going when her legs meant to falter. 'Home' had always conjured, to her, the visage of her childhood, family, country- now, she thought first and foremost of him, in the center of that portrait of her home.

For so long, she'd gone through the war with little regard for her own continued existence so long as she went out doing good.

Now, she fought for so much more.

But when I close my eyes, I want only to stay Where the farthest you are is a heartbeat away.

She didn't even know if he felt the same. Yet she hoped and she yearned and she dreamed and she loved. She could see herself, shockingly vividly, at his side, under a tree on a warm day, loving the sun again, sharing inside jokes, make plans and dreams, together. Where his hand held hers, hopeful and gentle, as everything she could ever need bloomed in his smile. The tree would be a willow, by a brook, somewhere she'd never been but he had and because of it, she'd feel right at home.

So bring me the night, send out the stars, 'Cause when I'm dreaming we don't seem so far.

One night, Maeve stretched her hand up at the night sky. She tilted her palm, studying the stars against the pallor of her skin, pinkened by the ardent sun during risky travel the previous day, dirt under each fingernail and staining every crease of skin it could reach. Was he looking at the same sky? What a thought, she scolded herself, and promptly kept thinking it. She hoped he was sleeping, that he was as safe as he could be (they were in a warzone, security was never assured and often limited), that if he was still awake, he might be thinking of her.

Darken the sky, and light up the moon, So that somehow you'll be here with me soon.

A hundred miles away, Shifty stared at the heavens. Covered by clouds a mere ten minutes prior, the stars waved in their lofty perches. Their light was distant. Like her. Shouldn't he feel bad, to think of her, when he had home to miss and friends to mourn, so much to grieve? No. She was the very incarnation of his hope. If she made it through, he truly believed everything else would, too: himself, his family, his home, and, though she knew not, his heart.

Bring me the night.

Maeve let her eyes flutter closed. With no children to keep the watch for, she could catch up on the slumber she suffered missing. Once this war was over, she'd sleep in every morning, and go to bed early, she promised herself, as much as it took to finally feel rested again.

Preferably, she thought, a shy smile slipping onto her face though no one was near to see it, side-by-side with him.

Bring me the night.

Shifty stepped back, hands in his pockets, spine curving back as he turned in a little circle. Up, up, up- those stars, if he squinted, seemed closer. Warmer, even. Like the twinkle in her smile. Precious.

That brings me to you.

Her fingers curled around nothing, reaching from the deepest burrow of her heart, and a hundred miles away, he did the same, tilting his chin up toward those stars.

And somehow, for just a moment, they felt so near.

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Song inspiration: “Bring Me The Night” by Sam Tsui.

Thanks again Krysta for all the love you’ve shown to my girls! 🥺💕

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[sergeant-spoons]

1. Four Years, One Month

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy

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Flashlight between her teeth, jacket flipped up over her head, knees in the mud, and map and compass on her lap, Maeve established her current coordinates. 21 km to go. Repacking her things and tossing her jacket back over her shoulders, the young woman took a quick inventory. Stillness came upon her as she discerned there was little food left. Medicinal supplies were just as sparse. Just one more day's travel and she'd be across the Germany-Switzerland border. One more day and they'd be safe.

Maeve rose from the ground, slow, crouching. Though it was nearly nightfall and the woods seemed quiet, she knew better than to risk sudden movement. Three waves of her hand, two fingers bent, signaled toward a bush. From behind the leaves appeared a small figure, then another. Thin and bedraggled and tired, but still alive, that's what mattered. They came to her side readily, and she glanced at the bush.

"Schläft er?"

"Ja."

With a nod, she crept around the bush and bit the tip of her tongue, a distraction measure. The child, sleeping, was barely three years old. Though sick with a cough, his slumber seemed peaceful, so she was gentle to scoop him up off the ground. He settled into the sling across her chest, wrapping his little arms around her neck, remaining in his slumber. Good; in his rest, his throaty hacking would not be a possible alert. Stealth was key, in this sort of thing. Maeve had taken a big chance bringing this ill child along with his sisters.

How ever could she leave him behind? He reminded her of her nephew, Peter, back home in Ireland. Though, he must have grown since last she saw him. Four years and one month had passed since the last time she'd hugged him farewell, exactly to the day. Four years and one month of this wicked war, of Maeve risking her life in ways that often went unappreciated and unheralded by those outside her purview. She did not care. Her work, though disregarded by many, saved lives.

Over bend and bluff, the party of four traveled. Even the eldest child was dragging her feet by the time they paused at the brink of the trees. The darkness did little to aide her squint across the brief moor, but what she could make out was a crumbling wall constructed at one end and a row of airplanes- fighters, it seemed -all the way across. Dropping to one knee, Maeve gestured for the young trio to crouch, and carefully slipped the boy from the sling. His sisters held him, and she turned back from the wood, instructing them to remain where they were.

 She crept forward alone, a few feet at a time, into the grass. It came up to her waist when she was down low like this, likely tall enough to tickle the elbows of the girls and the chin of the boy. As she grew closer, it became clear that plantlife had swept over the bodies of the planes. They were abandoned. Hearing naught but the crickets and the nightbirds, she rose, one inch at a time, from her cover. No resistance met her, not even a spooked field mouse. Knife in hand, she approached one of the planes and surveyed it.

The warmth of early May continued into the evening these days. It would be enough for comfort, at least until dawn. Her watch read 22:47 hours the last she checked, when she'd studied her map, it had to be nearly midnight by now. The children were exhausted, allowing them to rest now may speed their travel the following morning. Thus, she returned to the three and led them through the field, the littlest one sleepily rubbing his eyes as he stumbled along, having woken in her absence.

Lifting him up as they came to the entangled plane, Maeve decided, "We'll sleep here for the night."

"Müssen wir?"

She held back a sigh by the pinch of her lips, then replied in German, "I'm afraid we do have to."

Once she'd cut away the branches blocking the way to the cockpit, Maeve lifted the children, one by one, into the enclosed space. They curled up against each other, two quickly drifting off as the third, the eldest at nine, whispered a prayer to herself. Unraveling her scarf from her neck, the young woman unfolded it and draped it over the children, receiving a nod of thanks from the nine-year-old. In respect, she bowed her head until the girl was done with her prayer, then muttered a good-night and took up position on the wing of the plane.

Settling on the metal, bolts poking her back, shoulders, and legs, Maeve placed her knife on her lap, pointing to the east. Should she drift off, the light of sunrise glinting off the blade would wake her. These journeys were tiresome, to be sure, but she was strong in mind and body, and she'd learned over the last four years (and one month) how to function with little to no sleep for days on end. It took a toll on her spirits, to be sure, and when she did allow herself rest, she was out like a light for at least a full day, but it was a vital tool in her line of work.

Then again, she mused, what she did was not 'work'. She did not receive payment for her actions, sometimes not even thanks. There were no medals to be won, no valor proclaimed; her name would not make it into the papers. Even back home, her family could not know the extent of all she did. Children, stolen away and harmed for the religion they were born into, were her prize. To know they would smile again, would be safe, would live past this war: that was the only reward she needed. 

Tonight, she would keep watch for the young ones. Tomorrow, she would see them across the border to safety. The following day, they would part ways: the children would be taken to a convent by a Swiss ally of Maeve's, the Irishwoman herself would turn west after a day of recuperation, pressing forward into France. There were many more in need. Sometimes, it was as if she could see them when she closed her eyes, hundreds of small, smooth hands, reaching out to her for help.

And, as she'd done these past four years (and one month), she would answer their call.

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[sergeant-spoons]

Introducing...

Maeve R.L. O’Leavy: Smuggler, marksman, romantic.

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“Call me a hero all ye’d like, I’m just a mortal doin’ what I can to help, like all the rest o' ye.”

Gallant Heart

#maeve r.l. o'leavy #new oc! #band of brothers oc #band of brothers #hbo war moodboard #band of brothers moodboard #hbo war show moodboard #hbo war show #hbo war #hbo war oc #hbo war show oc #oc moodboard #stay tuned for more... #gallant heart