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bobparkhurst · 1 year

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Okay, how about [dance] from the last prompt list - and someone from SAS Rogue Heroes. Dealer's choice.

Ok, sorry, it took a month because reasons. And then it turned from a few hundred words to... more than that. But here is a little slice of Mike & Augustin.

[ 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ] ― sender asks receiver for a dance upon hearing a song

(on Ao3 here)

The night is not quite yet cool, barely just enough so that Augustin pulls his jacket around his shoulders and lights his cigarette in the shelter of a wall. Behind him, the raucous sounds of laughter and off-key singing rises into the dark and for a moment, as solitude wraps sharp fingers around his heart, he thinks about turning back and joining them, but then his head throbs again so instead he stays where he is, looking out into the expanse and counting stars until the world has stopped spinning. It is too easy to drink these days, to let rum burn down his throat to his belly, until pleasing warmth turns into raging fire that consumes memory, fear, feeling, and all the other human things he doesn’t know how to hold onto in a world like this. He lets smoke curl on his tongue; it blends bitterly with the taste of bile. Somewhere from the direction of the mess comes the sound of something shattering. He ignores it.

When his cigarette has burned down, he grinds what’s left of it into stone and begins slowly to walk around the outside of the fort, calling out only to let the men on watch know he is there. The ache in his head has softened into a dull sort of pain which is by now so familiar a companion as to be barely noticeable. All he wants is to sink into his bed, pull a blanket above his head and sleep for a week. One day, maybe, when all of this is done and over, and he has by some miracle survived it all, he will do just that. For now, it must be enough to meander to his tent and wait patiently for the hangover to kick in.

Not all of the tents he passes are empty, he can hear low conversation and shuffled movements, a card game, maybe, between friends who, like he, look for something apart of the rising party. From another floats the sound of quiet laughter mingling, muffled behind more than just canvas walls. He finds his pace slacken even further as he passes by. The clandestine intimacy of it all makes his heart pound with longing in his chest. Almost involuntarily, he comes to a stop, listening.

“Lieutenant Jordan.”

There is a note of warning in the greeting. Augustin’s cheeks flush. There are possibilities here, for what he looks like, he thinks, and perhaps none of them are good. He recognises the shape of Sadler - Mike, he has insisted - who is sitting on a rock not so far away, fiddling with some dark shape in front of him. Despite himself, Augustin smiles. He likes Mike, with his wry-dark humour and clever hands that always seem to be working on something. A lamp has been set up beside him, illuminating this latest project with a warm, faintly yellow glow. It catches in the gold of his hair like specks of starlight. He could count those too, maybe.

“Good evening, Mike,” he says instead.

Mike looks at him expectantly, as his left hand clicks something into place. He glances down and sounds a pleased hmmph from the back of his throat.

“I was…” Augustin lets his voice trail off when Mike looks back up again. “It doesn’t matter what I was doing. There was no…. ill intent.”

Mike nods. There is a distinct lack of artifice in the grin he throws Augustin’s way, but his eyes hold a sharp appraising sort of look that Augustin hates and has come to expect since arriving here. The scrutiny makes his face heat again, though with anger or some other emotion, he cannot bring himself to care, and so he meets the gaze with his own stare, skin prickling, and waits for judgment to be passed. He does not miss the softening of the other man’s expression.

“Come on, old chap, let’s leave people to their business,” Mike says, in a gentler tone. It suits him better than suspicion. He taps the shape in front of him and stands, tucking it up under his arm. “How about I show you something fun. You look like you could do with it..”

“I’m going to bed,” Augustin says, to which Mike shrugs as if the announcement is entirely irrelevant.

“Then at least help me by carrying the lamp.”

He could point out that Mike has a hand free, that he does not need Augustin to fetch and carry for him, but instead he picks the light up and follows him in silence a small distance away, to where Mike’s own tent is stretched out over the sand. He ducks into the entrance after him and stands there, as if waiting for instruction. He supposes that he must be.

“Drink?” Mike asks. Augustin shakes his head. He sets the lamp down on a small table, next to what looks to be a well-worn journal, stuffed full of loose pieces of paper. A ticket stub edges half out of a page and he tucks it back in with the back of his thumb. It feels curiously intimate, despite the invitation; he feels like he’s strayed into someone else’s garden, quite by accident. Mike doesn’t seem to care, busying himself with the business of pouring himself something from a weatherbeaten flask.

“Fair enough. You do look a little green around the gills. Head all right?”

“As much as it ever is.”

Augustin shrugs. In return, he receives a genial thump on his arm.

“Well I don’t have a cure for that except what I offered you, but maybe there’s a distraction to be had. Look what I found.”

He gestures to the small portable gramophone he has set down on the floor. Augustin frowns.

“Ah. This is your something fun?”

Mike doesn’t look abashed in the slightest. “It’s not much,” he says, cheerfully, “but you can’t be picky about finding amusement in a place like this. Came across it last time I was in Cairo. Broken of course, though the chap who sold it to me wouldn’t admit that.” He nudges Augustin with his elbow. “I talked him around eventually.”

“You have fixed it?”

“It would be rather less fun if I hadn’t.”

Augustin laughs. “True.”

He watches as Mike sets his cup precariously on his bed and goes digging underneath it. A miscellany of objects begins to roll out, bits of metal, wire, a wrench, a candle, a book, another candle; as each comes close, he picks them up and places them on the nearby table. After a moment, he retrieves Mike’s drink too, and holds it in one hand while he waits for the other man to find whatever it is he’s searching for. It is a few moments before Mike emerges with a small box of records and a smug expression.

“I don’t have a particularly large collection, I’m afraid.” He offers the box to Augustin, who trades it for the cup. “If you want something different, you might ask Paddy Mayne. He has a few things.”

Augustin snorts.

“Your decision,” Mike says. “But this one is mine.”

His fingers dig quickly through the records. Paper sleeves rustle against one another as Mike hums to himself. His voice is low and not particularly tuneful. There’s a charm in such unselfconsciousness. Augustin has never quite had the knack of it, feels his own presence in every moment; even an adult of accomplishments and accolades might never quite shake the gangling child they remember being.

He frowns down at the box with no real anger behind it. “Am I here only to hold things for you?”

“You were doing such a very good job of it before,” Mike says cheerfully. “Seems a shame to stop now. Aha!”

Evidently finding what he was looking for, he drops a small disc from its sleeve. “Let’s see if I didn’t fuck it up, shall we.”

His hands are delicate as they set the gramophone up, elegant and sure as if he is already moving to some melody that nobody else can hear. Augustin watches, half-entranced, as he pulls the lever down, sets the record spinning in turn.

The noise from the mess melts away entirely as music begins to fill the small space. It is a song Augustin does not recognise, but from the way Mike’s face gentles and his lips begin to move with the words, it is more than familiar to him. He follows the movement, as Mike sways in the low light, and thinks about sitting down and pretending like he will stay.

He does not.

“Do you dance, Augustin?” Mike asks suddenly. His eyes are all but closed, head lolling back on his shoulders like he has no care in the world. Augustin knows this is not true. He admires the commitment anyway. “I don’t, usually. Not one of my skills.”

“Sometimes,” Augustin says. “Though my wife is fonder of it than I am.”

“You have a wife?”

“And a daughter.”

“Lucky thing.” Mike pauses in his movements, brushes something invisible from his shirt and lets his palm rest on the centre of his chest. “I’d like a daughter someday. I’d spoil her rotten.”

A longing sparks through Augustin like fire, white-hot and enough to stagger him, were he not already so well acquainted with its path. Still, he flinches in a way that surely those sharp eyes will not have missed, and when he feels a strong grasp at his elbow, he knows that he was right. He feels the weight of Mike’s touch sliding up to his shoulder and doesn’t resist leaning into it, allowing himself to be steadied.

“You’ll see them-” Mike begins.

“Don’t.”

He can’t hear it. Not a platitude. He doesn’t want platitudes tonight. It is the wrong space for half-believed wishes and they don’t fall right from Mike’s lips anyway. Augustin raises his hand, presses his fingers against Mike’s.

“You are too honest to say such things,” he says. “But I thank you for trying.”

Mike smiles, something small and careful, and squeezes his shoulder. He does not move away and Augustin is grateful for that too. His head still thrums a little from the drink and the starlight and it is a heady thing, too heady for him to think on now, the way he does not want to step outside again. Records turn over, he thinks. The song does not have to end quite yet.

“I could dance,” he says. “I think I would like to dance.”

#sas rogue heroes #mike sadler #augustin jordan #bob: fic #mercurygray

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arrthurpendragon · 9 months

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🫂 I am so excited to hear about your new job. I'm glad you'll be starting a new school year in a place where they appreciate your skills and talents!

D'awww!! Thank you!

You are such a kind person - you reached out to me even though we really didn't know each other. That says a lot about your character and how amazing you are. Truly, I appreciated you reaching out to me so much. In general, I suck at making the first move - but even worse when I'm in that state. You were so brave to do that.

Also, I admire the heck out of you for all your period OCs. Honestly, you're a person I aspire to be like - OC-wise and general human being-wise. You deserve so much love!

#creator compliments #mercurygray

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upontherisers · 1 year

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Cari! I am here requesting #9 (Historic) and/or # 20 (Mist) for Flo!

"You got a word for this?" asked Guarno, pointing to the gray all around them.

Flo adjusted her life jacket to get some of the cool sea air under the bulky padding. "Whaduya mean, 'a word'?"

Bill waved his hand with a scowl. "In your language, do ya got word for the weather and stuff?"

"Like the mist?"

Bill nodded, and she thought for a moment. "'Awa," she said eventually. "That's mist or fog, but usually around mountains. Kualau is rain over the ocean. Lilinoe for the mists and rains around Hawai'i and Maui."

"You ain't got just one word?"

"No," Flo said with a small laugh, "we like to be more specific."

He nodded with an affirmative jut of his jaw, eyes scanning the blurred horizon. He spoke after a moment. "What about cloud?"

#mail call #mercurygray #olelo lessons with flo #flo kanaka'ole #prompt fill #my writing #meet 'em in the skies

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therealvikingstrash · 2 years

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Happy Birthday @mercurygray 🥳 A little something with Godwin and Eadith for you💕

#vikings valhalla #eadith #godwin #godwin x eadith #some marriage aesthetic thingie #mercurygray #I wish my brain wasn't mush today T-T I hope this is still okay #vtrash edits #birthday wish

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the-scariest-librarian · 2 years

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Amor Vincit Omnia

Things You Said When We Were Afraid.

This is for @mercurygray‘s 1000 follower celebration, and for the 2 year anniversary of The Darkening Sky! Congratulations, Merc!

This ultimately ended up nothing like I had originally intended, but I hope it's okay nonetheless. I hope I did it justice.

There isn’t a science to it, when one will Remember. Some go their entire cycle without the memories of selves past, and some –her name is Molly this time around– live countless lifetimes at once. “An old soul,” her nana once called her, mistaking the imprint of millenia for solemnity uncommon in a girl of just eight.

Lewis Nixon remembers; she knows as soon as she sees him in the blazing Georgia sun and he sends her a cheeky wink. The last time they had seen each other was in the court of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, and before that in Londinium. For all that their numbers are comparatively few, the Reincarnated always seemed to find each other.

There are a surprising number in Easy Company. Eileen and Connie both give her a knowing nod when they’re introduced, as do Shifty and Joe Toye. The looks Marjorie shares with her sometimes make her think that the other woman’s trigger was recent, but she can be counted among the number of those who remember at least something. The others just think that their quips are some odd sort of humor.

“Why would I play with you when you still owe me six denarii?” Molly asks blandly as she idly flips through a dog-eared copy of ancient poetry.

Billie wags a finger at her playfully from the poker game occurring several seats down.

“Don’t give me that; you know damn well I paid you back in the ninth century.”

Molly doesn’t even look up from her book.

“You forgot almost eight hundred years of interest.”

For all that she grew up with the memories of numerous lifetimes, none of it prepares her for the punch to the gut that is seeing the man who spent millenia at her side. He was Glaucus and she was Agape. When she was Iðunn, he was Eadric. No matter what tore them apart, be it war, disaster, or old age, they always found each other again.

In Troy, when Greek ships darkened their shores, he spoke to her the words that never failed to soothe her. In Pompeii, when ash and pumice fell from the sky and the ground shook with Vulcan’s terrifying might, he held her to his chest –she was Hadriana then, Molly remembers– and spoke them again.

Again, before every raid. Again, when he left to explore the New World. Again, when he donned the Patriot’s blue, and later the Union’s.

“I will always return to you.”

And so he has, even if she can see in his eyes that he does not know her as she knows him.

She doesn’t push; it wouldn’t change anything even if she did. Still, if he notices that she keeps an eye on him more than most, he doesn’t give any indication.

When he’s stabbed by a jumpy comrade, Molly feels as if the rest of her life has already been stolen from her. Something of it must show on her face as she watches him –his name is Floyd this time around– being carted away, because he calls to her as he passes, voice tight with pain.

“Aww, don’t worry Mahoney; I’ll be back before you even have time to miss my handsome face.”

When artillery around them shatters trees and bodies alike, he pries her anxious hand from his jacket and makes to leave the meager protection of their shallow foxhole to answer a nearby call for help.

“Stay down, Molly, I’ll come right back. Promise.”

When the war is over and this goodbye could very well mean forever, she gets just a moment’s hesitation and a muttered “See ya around, Moll.”

She can't remember a single lifetime where it ever took them this long to return to each other, both in body and soul. They’d always been lucky before, but it seemed their luck had finally run out and this would become their first life apart. It’s happened to others.

She'd rather live with his ghost than stay with this shadow who doesn't understand why earthquakes terrify her, or why she sometimes dreams of being thrown to her death from an ancient city's walls. She could have done it, once, she thinks, but she's used up a lifetime of strength in these last few bloody years.

So, Molly lets him go.

She watches him until his jeep turns the corner and then banishes the thought of him from her mind. It works for a time, at least until she returns to her remaining comrades and Joan meets her gaze with sad, knowing eyes.

When she’s back stateside for the first time in years, Molly immediately enrolls in UC Berkeley’s anthropology program and leaves it as Dr. Mahoney. Four years of graduate school work well enough to keep her busy, but although she keeps regular correspondence with several members of Easy, there is still a kind of hollowness inside of her that finally makes her desperate enough to upend her life once again.

She moves to Italy in 1951 to assist in the restarted excavation of Pompeii. She’s seen the pictures; she knows what’s there. Still, it takes her several weeks to muster the will to seek it. She’s not afraid that it will hurt; she knows it will. It’s the fear that seeing it will make her regret ever letting him leave at all.

Despite the Allied bombs that damaged chunks of the city, ancient feet guide her path as if she had never left, stepping easily over crooked paving stones and wheel ruts in the street. She doesn’t work in this section of the city –doesn’t know if she could bear it if she had to– but she remembers every home and every storefront. The graffiti on the walls she passes has faded with time, but she was there when her countrymen scratched their thoughts into plaster, and she is still here as it is rediscovered.

At last, but also much too soon, Molly stops in front of a small villa, more familiar than the rest. It’s in poor shape; she knows by sight alone that the building is unstable enough to be dangerous, but she cannot find it in her to turn back. She’s already come all this way.

With a deep breath, she steps into the shade.

The inside is just as she remembers, and yet not at all. The roof is gone, although some of the second floor walls remain. The paint that decorates the walls is faded and the plaster is missing in chunks, but it is still their home, Hadriana’s and Marcus’.

Careful steps take her around a crumbling corner, and there, frozen in plaster, they sit. She is curled in his lap, head tucked beneath his chin. The plaster is rough, but she can just make out a fold of fabric here, the curve of his nose there. It’s the closest she’s been to him in both six years and two millenia at once, even if all that remains is just an imprint of his life left in stone and ash.

It steals the breath from her lungs, to see the only thing that proves that her memories are not just elaborate dreams. A gravestone is one thing, and any tintypes that once existed are lost to descendants she doesn’t know in this life, but this is real. They existed once, and here they remain.

Molly steps gently closer and a patch of purple catches her eye, stopping her short.

She stares in surprise at the flower, identical to the one clutched in her own hand but wilted a little from the heat of the day, that lies upon the tragic figures. In the weeks it took her to build up the courage to visit her ancient home, she hadn’t seen a single blossom left in remembrance for any of Pompeii’s dead. The flower there in her own lap –or at least it belonged to her two thousand years before– brings tears to her eyes. Someone has remembered them.

She kisses the petals of the crocus in her hand and places it gently beside the first. She thinks the words, but cannot find it in herself to say them out loud.

The sudden crunch of dirt behind her startles her, tells her that she is no longer alone. She straightens; guilty shoulders hitch up to her ears in anticipation of a scolding from one of the site supervisors for being in such an unstable building. She knows better.

The voice that comes from behind her doesn’t belong to an aging archaeologist at all, but rather someone she hadn’t dared hope to see again.

“Heya, Moll."

I told you I’d always return to you, didn’t I?

#So I completely lost track of time and cranked this out last night #I hope you like it!#The darkening sky #Molly Mahoney #Floyd Talbert #Band of Brothers #OC #Fanfiction #Mercurygray #this is my first published fanfic on here yikes #tds birthday bash

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shoshimakesstuff · 10 months

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“For every mile they run in twelve minutes, we have to run in eleven- and when we do it, and we will do it, they'll say that we cheated, or the watch was broken, or someone gave us a headstart. So we'll have to run it in ten. For every thirty pushups they do, we’ll have to do thirty five.”

THE DARKENING SKY — @mercurygray

#using the same caption for old times sake #and hey it's a great quote #mercurygray #this slightly got the popular fiction book cover treatment but i like the blue #work: the darkening sky

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shoshiwrites · 26 days

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27. How do they say “I love you” non-verbally? and 36. How do they feel about having kids? Are they in agreement? for Jo and John! >:))))

Mercccc thank you <33

27. How do they say “I love you” non-verbally?

Buying her notebooks at every PX and every store he passes, well past the point of her ever being able to fill them all. He keeps the magazines she’s published in; she’s got clippings of news items, assignments, promotions. She’s got a record for him too, with handwritten notes and photos. Knowing each other’s coffee orders in their sleep. Long kisses.

36. How do they feel about having kids? Are they in agreement?

Bucky wants a few, and Jo needs a little time to find her footing. She very much wants a family, but she (a) grew up an only child and (b) is quite seriously afraid she won’t be a good mother. She grew up with a mother she adored and a father who’s…not exactly easy to miss. She loves spending time with the big families of her friends, but it’s not something she knew herself. I think there are up to a couple of planned kids, and up to a couple of not-so-planned-but-very-much-welcomed kids.

[Ship asks!]

#mercurygray #answered #jo's tag #motaverse

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history-freak1 · 1 year

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Besties, there's been a The Darkening Sky Update.

#im about to go feral #mercurygray #the darkening sky #im literally losing it #i havent even read the chapter yet #this is not just my fave BoB fanfic #this may be my fave fanfic of all time

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encomium-emmae · 2 years

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things you said when we were in danger

For @mercurygray’s 1000 Followers Fest, featuring Emma of Normandy from Vikings: Valhalla and Edith, her lady-in-waiting

Emma was running.

Skirts fisted in her hands, she ran from the battlements, down past the gates and into the streets, through the doorway to the palace and up the winding staircase that led to the safety of her rooms. But it was not her own safety that was of concern to her.

The thing she had feared most—the nightmare she had tried at all costs to keep from happening—had come to pass. The Vikings had drawn them into battle, cutting their army down without mercy. Edmund was now their prisoner and the bridge, in her mind as solid as the ground under her feet, had been ripped apart by nothing more than wind and water and a handful of boats. Soon enough, Canute’s men would find their way to the other side of the river, a swarm of locusts looking to consume—and to enact vengeance. But before that happened, she had to get back to them, to make sure they were kept out of harm’s way. Nothing else mattered.

Her feet skimmed the flagstones as she ran down the corridor, eerily deserted. Emma slipped past the thick oaken door and into the room, her heart shuddering with relief at the sight before her.

Sitting on the floor next to the fireplace were Edward and Alfred, playing at soldiers with wooden men and horses, blissfully unaware of the real battle unfolding just beyond the palace walls. And seated in a chair, warming her legs by the fire, was Edith.

She had left them here only a few hours ago, even though it felt like days. Edith had helped her dress, tightening the laces of her brocade gown, adjusting the clasps of her rabbit-fur cape, and then Emma had kissed the tops of her sons’ heads, bidding them farewell before she made her way to the old Roman defenses. She had hoped to return with good news, to tell them that the enemy had been defeated and the danger now past.

Seeing Emma, her lady-in-waiting quickly rose to her feet, her blue eyes full of unspoken questions.

Emma shook her head, lips parting to let her catch her breath.

“All is lost,” she murmured. “They are coming.”

At the sight of their mother, Edward and Alfred quickly forgot their game and scrambled toward her, eager for her attention. She smoothed the silky strands of their hair along their heads and pulled them close, not wanting to think of when she might be able to do so again.

“Edith was telling us stories,” Alfred began to babble, “about Arthur and his men and how they killed giants and dragons and then how he became king...”

Emma glanced up at her lady-in-waiting, their gazes meeting in a shared look that conveyed much in the few moments it spanned. But Edith was always so clever; it never took long for her to understand what needed to be done—and then to do it.

“Shall I ready them to leave?” she asked.

Emma nodded. “Find them plain tunics, and traveling coats. If anyone asks, they are orphans or the children of a city merchant. Anything but the sons of Æthelred.”

“You are not coming with us?”

“I am a prize,” Emma said, unable to mask the waver in her breath. “The Vikings will be looking for me, and they will not stop. You are safer without me.”

Edith’s eyes widened in partial horror, then narrowed in defiance.

“I will not leave you to face them alone, my lady.”

Emma reached out, clasping the other woman’s hand in hers. There were few others she trusted as she did Edith, not just with her sons’ lives, but with her own. Even from those first abject days, when she could only speak in broken English, when silent tears gathered in her eyes with each visit of the king to the marital bed, Edith had been her only friend. Perhaps it was because Edith, too, was friendless, the eldest daughter of an impoverished, disgraced ealdorman. But in the years since, no one had proven themselves more loyal and more brave. More than anyone else, it was Edith who she could entrust Edward and Alfred to, knowing that she loved them as if they were her own.

“But you must. It will be enough for me to know that you have kept them safe.”

Edith pressed her lips together, her gaze fearful yet resolute.

“Where will you go?” she asked.

Emma paused, considering the question. Hiding would do no good—the Vikings knew well how to find their quarry and bring it to ground—and she refused to cower or to beg. She was a queen, after all, so perhaps she could simply let herself be found. And if she demanded protection from the king, even a Viking king like Canute, he would be honor-bound to grant it.

“If they want the Queen of England as their prize, I will make sure they know what they are getting.” She let out a rough breath, then squeezed along Edith’s hand, offering her a confiding smile. “Get them out of the palace, if you can. If not, somewhere quiet and hidden, where you will not draw attention.”

Edith nodded, the corners of her mouth quirking up. “I know well how to hide.”

“I know you do,” she said, thoughts sharpening with realization. Dearest Edith, you may have tried to keep yourself hidden. But I’ve always seen you.

Emma knelt down, clasping her sons along their shoulders. Their eyes were wide, trusting in the way that only children could be, and she wanted nothing more than to hold them in her arms and keep them there forever, protected from the evils of the world.

“I want you both to go with Lady Edith, and I want you to be good for her. Perhaps she will tell you more stories about King Arthur and his bravery.”

“Are you going away again, mother?” Edward asked.

She gently brushed his hair back from his face. “Only for a little while,” she said. Was it a lie if she did not know what the truth was? Was it enough simply to pray it would be true? “I will see you both again, very soon.”

Emma kissed her sons, and held them one more time, their bodies so small and soft next to hers. She could feel tears forming and she was determined not to let them show.

She stood, watching as Edith took the children’s hands in her own and gathered them to her side. There was nothing left to say, no words to convey the depth of her love and fear or of the gratitude she felt at this final act of service. Emma let her eyes take their fill of all three of them, knowing it might be the last time she did so on this earth.

“Thank you, Edith. God keep you safe.”

“Bless you, my lady,” she replied, unshed tears pooling in the corners of her sky-blue eyes. With one final glance, she ushered the children from the room, the sound of skirts and small footsteps swiftly receding.

The quiet was deafening, a chasm in Emma’s heart, the silence slowly punctuated by the distant ringing of alarum bells. The Vikings had made it into the city, their cruelty and berserker rage about to be unleashed on all its inhabitants. But she could do little to protect her people unless she managed to keep herself alive—and for that she would need all her wits.

Slipping out the door, she followed the path of the stone-lined corridor, heading in the opposite direction that Edith and her sons had fled just a moment earlier. Emma knew where she would wait for the Vikings, and when they came for her she would meet them head on, as the Queen of England and everything that stood for.

She moved hastily, her thoughts on the battle she was now to undertake. But her heart was elsewhere, keeping company with three others, praying for the hour when God might see fit to return them to her arms.

#vikings: valhalla #vikings valhalla #emma of normandy #edith eadig #oc #fanfiction #mercurygray #tds birthday bash #i hope you enjoy it!#and i hope i've done right by your oc! :)

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incorrectbandofbrothersquotes · 2 years

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👩‍🌾 and👗 and ⌛ for Melanie, please and thank!

Oh, thank you, Merc!! <3

👩‍🌾 for a work headcanon

Melanie studied nursing at Charlotte Memorial Hospital and was top of her class. After that, she went right into a nursing job there in the maternity ward, but she took shifts in the ER for extra money when she could. That prepared her for the war. After the war, she goes back to labor and delivery, finding more hope in seeing new life come into the world. But after a brief tour in Korea training new nurses, and having a fourth child, Melanie decides she would rather focus on her family, and chooses to be a stay-at-home wife and mother.

👗 for a fashion headcanon

I have a whole pinterest board of clothes for Melanie, believe it or not, lol. But her style is simple. She gravitates more toward pastel colors like pinks and blues and lilacs, and she is almost always wearing a skirt or a dress (at least until the late 50s, when cigarette pants are more acceptable), unless she's gardening, when she wears overalls. For accessories, Melanie only wears her wedding band, earrings, and a brooch if the outfit calls for it.

⌛ for an alternate universe headcanon

Here is Mel's brief appearance in the soccer/football AU I'm working on!

Melanie knelt in the grass, her eyes fixed on the bit of blood dribbling down Lipton’s face. She dabbed it away, and he hissed. A sound he quickly cut short. But the gash above his lip was nothing to try and cover up.

“I’m sorry, Lip, you’ve gotta come off the pitch,” she told him.

He met her gaze. “They aren’t gonna sub me out, are they?”

He cast a nervous glance over to the sideline, where Shifty was warming up, loosening his hips and stretching his legs.

“That’s Coach Winters’ call,” she answered with a shrug. “But that was a nasty hit you took, and you’ve been down for too long. We’ve gotta check for a concussion.”

“This is what I get for trying headers at the goal,” Lip sighed and shook his head in disbelief.

She smiled and offered her hand, which he took. With the help of Roe, they got him to his feet and they helped him over to the sideline, where fans in their Toccoa FC kits cheered him on.

#band of brothers #mercurygray #melanie jo davis #winterie #dear heart series #dick winters #hbo war #easy company #ask game

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