#rebeccapearson | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sergeant-spoons · 1 year

Text

Secret Santa ‘22 (Pt 2)

@rebeccapearson ~ Secret Santa Pt 2: electric boogaloo. I swear, these just keep getting away from me and getting longer! Your third fic will be published tomorrow (and it’s twice as long as today’s). I hope you like this one! 💕

Your Typical Annual Nixon Christmas Party

Pairing: Lewis Nixon x Female OC

Word count: 5629

Tone: Friends to lovers, mutual pining, only one bed, ballroom dancing, all my homies hate Stanhope Nixon, angst with a happy ending

Warnings: A bit risqué at some parts, nonsexual & nongraphic nudity (taking a shower), brief mentions of body shaming and childhood trauma (I repeat: all my homies hate Stanhope Nixon)

Prompt: “If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?”

Summary: He needs a date to the annual family Christmas party to stick it to his father, and she’s more than happy to go along with the ploy—until she realizes just how bad his father really is. OR The one where Lewis Nixon loves her too much to ever let her go.

Read it here on AO3!

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

"My father is hosting the annual Nixon Christmas party and I need a girlfriend ASAP."

Marisa blinks at Lewis. When he told her he had a favor to ask of her, something of this caliber did not cross her mind. They've been friends for so long that she can usually read him like a book.

Usually.

"Uh... why?"

"Because he'll be twice as unbearable if I go alone."

"Ah." Marisa feels a wave of sympathy. "So... you want me to be your-"

At the same time as Marisa says, "-fake girlfriend to get your father off your back?", Lewis agrees, "fake girlfriend to get my father off my back. Yes. Exactly."

"Why do you of all people need a fake girlfriend?"

He starts to answer, then hesitates.

"I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or an insult."

"I mean I'm surprised you can't find a real date." Marisa reaches over and dusts a piece of lint off his shoulder, adding, "Charmer that you are."

"I'm flattered," he chuckles, "but I'm not really... in that scene, right now."

She softens. "Right."

"If I don't go with someone," he admits, fiddling with the hem of his sweater, the one she bought him last Christmas, "he'll set me up with some socialite and I'll be married again by the end of the year. And I..." He glances aside. "I can't do that again. Not to me or to her, whoever she would be."

Marisa nods sympathetically, reaching over to smooth down his sleeve. She gets it. He's been divorced twice. No wonder he's not looking for anything right now.

"I understand."

His smile is a little sad.

"I knew you would." A beat. "So?"

They both know she'd go to the ends of the earth for him. It's only a matter of time before she agrees.

"Well," she supposes, having made up her mind, "because you are such a dear friend to me, I'll consider it."

"It's next week," he informs her quickly. "That should give you plenty of time to decide."

"Next week?" She scrunches up her nose as if anything could dissuade her now. "I'm not sure if I can get a dress in time."

"Oh, I took care of that."

Lewis goes over to the Christmas tree in the corner of his apartment and picks up a rather large box adorned with a big green bow. As he brings it over to the sofa, Marisa realizes it is labeled with her name. He comes back to the sofa and deposits it on the table, then slides it her way and gestures for her to take a look.

"Go on. Open it."

Marisa eyes him with playful suspicion; nevertheless, she accepts the box and draws it to her.

"Lewis Nixon, are you trying to bribe me?" she teases as she reaches out and tugs the bow off.

"What can I say?" Lewis shrugs as Marisa lifts the lid to reveal the most beautiful gown she's ever seen. "It reminded me of you."

"Lewis!" she gasps. "It's gorgeous."

"A beautiful dress for a beautiful woman."

She holds the gown to her chest and turns to him with tears of genuine gratitude in her eyes. Lewis shifts uncomfortably and offers her a slightly nervous smile.

"Hey, now, don't look at me like that."

"It's such a lovely gift."

"It's yours," he promises, "whether or not you go with me."

"Oh, Lewis—!"

"Merry Christmas, Risa. But, ah-" He clears his throat. "-you know, you might want somewhere to wear that dress-"

Marisa can't help the soft laugh bubbling up from a chest full of warmth for his kindness.

"Lewis-"

"-and what better place than a party? You'll go with me, of course-"

"Lewis-"

"-and everyone will see just how beautiful you are and be so incredibly jealous of me-"

"Alright, alright," she laughs, gently letting the dress fall back into the box. "You can stop buttering me up now. I'll go."

"You'll go? You'll go!" Lewis wraps his arms around her and plants a wet kiss on her cheek. "See, this is why you're the best."

"Yes, yes, I'll go-" Marisa wriggles out of his arms, laughing. "-but I've got one condition."

"What? Anything!"

"If it gets to be 10 o'clock and they've still got us trapped, we stage an escape."

Lewis sighs fondly, laying his hand over his heart.

"I could never have asked for a more perfect partner in crime."

A week later, they arrive at the house just before midnight, per Lewis' assumption that his father won't be up to 'greet' them. They carry their own luggage, to the tired-looking butler's relief, and follow him upstairs, trying to walk as quietly as they can past Stanhope Nixon's unfriendly quarters. Thankfully, they continue on and cross from the East Wing of the house to the West Wing, which is far more warmly lit and forgiving. They pass a bathroom with the door open and the light from the wired chandelier inside bleeding out into the hall. A woman in a silk dressing gown is sitting on the edge of a lavish bathtub, painting her nails. She waves lazily at Lewis through the open door and eyes Marisa curiously but not unkindly. They both wave back, and as they continue down the hall, Lewis leans toward Marisa's ear and mutters that she just met his sister Blanche.

"She's the good one, right?" Marisa asks, and when Lewis makes a face, she giggles softly. “Other than you.”

“Other than me, yes.”

"So you two get along?"

Lewis smiles, one side of his mouth turned up a little higher than the other.

"We bicker the same as any siblings, but I'll never let anyone say a bad thing about her, and she'll do the same for me." He ducks his head. "Well, anyone except..."

Marisa frowns sympathetically. "Anyone except your father?"

He doesn't respond, just turns his head aside as if he's ashamed of the answer, and Marisa knows she's right. She reaches out and takes his hand, and maybe it's a bold thing to do, but after a moment, he curls his fingers around her and relaxes. She catches him looking at their joined hands with a smile as they come up to the door the butler has indicated and her heart gives an unusual flutter.

What's that all about?

Before she can give it any more than a fleeting consideration, the butler is ushering them inside the bedroom, reaching for the light switch to reveal a handsome spread of maroon and gold. There's a grand old bed with a tall spruce headboard, a sideless bookshelf that Marisa is pretty sure is called an étagère, a Victorian-style chaise lounge, a dozen velvety pillows all across the furniture, and even a miniature Christmas tree draped with tinsel atop the dresser—and that's just at first glance. The butler explains there's a bathroom attached to one end of the room and a walk-in closet to the other, and as Marisa's still reeling, Lewis, who grew up accustomed to this luxury, thanks the man and bids him goodnight. The butler shuts the door behind him and it's only then that Marisa realizes this isn't meant to be just Lewis' space but both of theirs.

"Uh, Lewis?"

He's busy dragging their suitcases over to the dresser as quietly as he can and doesn't hear her, so she repeats his name.

"Lewis."

"Hmm?"

Marisa licks her lips, a nervous habit.

"How in the name of Father Christmas is there, in this enormous house, only one bed left?"

From where he's bent over, laying his suitcase down, Lewis looks up, tossing dark waves out of his eyes.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

Marisa eyes the chaise lounge. It's pretty big, for a truncated couch with an asymmetrical back. The gold gilding is a nice touch. Lewis sees where she's looking and rises as he shakes his head.

"No, Risa. You're not sleeping on that old thing. There's plenty of room on the bed for the both of us."

Marisa knows he's right, but that little heart flutter has put a sort of nervousness into her that she's not used to feeling, and knowing Lewis has got something to do with it makes her a little wary to share a bed with him.

It's only one night, she reminds herself, and it's not like you haven't been friends for ages.

Lewis looks torn between wanting to apologize and wanting to tease, and it's so like him that Marisa relaxes.

If he didn't trust you, he wouldn't have asked you to come.

"Right," she says aloud, "we'll share the bed," and with that, the matter is settled.

The next morning, they wake up to the cold Winter sun, streaming through the window and illuminating the room. Before Marisa even opens her eyes, she knows it's too early, and from Lewis' soft, wordless grumbling, he feels the same. She snuggles further into him, then realizes what she's doing and freezes. His hand, which has been smoothing down her hair, stills after a moment, and she can feel it against his chest when he sucks in a sharp breath.

Maybe it's not too early to get up, after all.

Marisa tumbles out of bed, yawning, and sleepily flees to the shower. Lewis mumbles a good morning as she goes and she just bobs her head, too shy in the moment to reply with something just as mundane. The bathroom is just as ornate as the bedroom. Marisa starts the water running and turns to the sink to brush her teeth. She looks a little ragged, with her hair all mussed up on one side, her eyes drooping with drowsiness, and one side of her chin redder than the other from how she slept with it smushed into the pillow. She can't imagine how she must have looked to Lewis, creeping away into the bathroom like that. She must have seemed to him shamefaced or sheepish—but he knows better than to tolerate the notion. They both know what their lie is and that it is a lie, and that once this is over, they will still be friends and nothing more.

Marisa's heart gives a pang. She does her best to ignore it.

Once the water is hot enough, she steps into the shower and shuts the glass door behind her. Her whole body relaxes under the stream and she gives a long sigh. She takes a moment just to stand there, stretching her neck and arms, relishing in the water cascading down her frame. The Nixons spared no expense in building this mansion, and the water pressure is no exception.

"Risa?" comes a slightly awkward call from outside the door. Marisa almost misses it with the shower pounding past her ears. She leans out of the stream and acknowledges she heard him, wincing at how scratchy her voice feels and how rough it sounds.

"I'm, uh, I'm going downstairs to get some coffee. You want some?"

She does. When he comes back, she's brushing her hair in front of the mirror. She's opened the bathroom door to let the steam out (blowdrying always makes her dizzy, especially in a hot room), and when he pokes his head in, he's got one hand over his eyes.

"Coffee for the lady."

"Why, thank you, sir."

As Risa takes the mug, she notices the stiffness of his shoulders and the slight downturn of his brow. As soon as she's got the coffee, he tries to leave, but she takes his hand and pulls it down from his face so she can kiss his cheek. He still keeps his eyes closed, but he relaxes, and so does she—they're back on the same page.

"Are you decent?"

"Decently dressed? Yes. Decently caffeinated? I will be soon."

She takes a sip as he finally looks at her, and it scares her, just how much she missed those dark, intelligent eyes of his.

"Ooh, yum." She looks down into the coffee, hiding from this perfectly normal interaction. "Is that peppermint?"

Lewis shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

"I thought it'd be festive."

"Well, it's good. Thanks."

There's something tender in his eyes when he replies, "Sure," and Marisa has a strange inkling that it's been there all along.

After he's done with his own coffee, they swap, and he showers while she gets dressed. When he emerges, toweling off his hair, shirtless, she pretends she's not allowed to look at him and silently chastises herself for the heat creeping into her cheeks. As she faces away, putting in little earrings by feel, he tells her she looks nice. She thanks him, but then he hesitates, and when she asks what's the matter, he tells her they're going out for the day and she might want something warmer. He turns his back and she swaps her blouse for a sweater, and this time, she can't look away from his smile.

"Better?" she asks a bit meekly, and his smile grows.

"I like that color on you," he says, "it goes nice with your eyes," and before Marisa has time to even consider what he means, he's slipped back into the bathroom, clothes in hand.

They spend most of the day out in the city, avoiding Lewis' family (especially his father). They walk most of the way, but eventually, their feet grow tired and Lewis hails a taxi to take them to his favorite lunch spot. Blanche meets up with them there and stays with them for the rest of the afternoon. She and Marisa hit it off, so much so that Lewis jokes they should be each other's date instead. Marisa, who has taken to walking on his arm, teases him that he's jealous, and although he rolls his eyes, his cheeks have assumed a hint of pink, and he's quick to move on to the next distraction. Blanche shoots Marisa a wink and Marisa giggles despite herself—maybe there's something in the air today that's making her flutter her lashes just a little more every time Lewis looks her way.

They head back mid-afternoon to get ready for the party. Marisa and Lewis confine themselves to their room and play cards to pass the time, betting on promises that might make the inevitable event more bearable.

"If I win, you have to dance with me tonight."

"If I win, you have to dance with me tonight and let me dip you."

Marisa's winning streak is not to be broken. Lewis groans, tossing down his hand, and she reaches over to pat his knee in mock sympathy.

"It's okay," she says around a mouthful of chocolate, "I'll still let you dip me."

Blanche has warned them not to be late, but even then, they stall until they really can't put it off any longer. He takes his tux into the walk-in closet and shut the door, and just for kicks, she yells after him:

"No peeking!"

She hears a muffled laugh. "I wouldn't dare."

"That's right," she replies, getting a goofy grin on her face, and at the same time as she says "I'd kick your ass," he choruses, "You'd kick my ass."

Marisa prepares to wiggle her way into the gown, but to her surprise, when she steps into it, it slips right up her body like silk. She straightens everything out and feels a hint of pride when she manages to zip up the back all by herself. She hasn't looked properly in the mirror yet, but when she does, tugging at her hair, she just about freezes. Her hands drop down to her sides and she stares at herself for almost too long to be sensible. Lewis starts humming an old song from inside the closet and Marisa remembers she's not alone. Coming back to herself, she gives a slight turn to the left and then the right, just to test the flow of the gown. It twinkles in the light, and she gives a squeak, covering her mouth with her hands. Electrified, she bounces all around, watching the fabric ebb and flow, growing giddier by the minute. It's the most expensive piece of cloth Marisa's ever put on her body, and though a part of her feels like a fish out of water, she can't help but admire herself in the gown. When Lewis reappears, adjusting his tie, neither can he.

"Wow." He dares to whistle, and she blushes. "Risa, you look..."

"Good?" she suggests, shimmying to show him how the gown shimmers, and she thinks his jaw might drop.

"Stunning."

"Oh, you charmer, you," she refutes, feeling warm with affection, and comes over to help Lewis. "Here. Let me."

This has been a ritual of theirs for years, ever since they met at Officer Candidate School way back in '41. Marisa teased Lewis for being incapable of tying his own tie despite his wealthy upbringing, and Lewis shot right back, why don't you do it, then? She did, flawlessly, on the first try, and since that day, they've been inseparable. OCS led to the 101st Airborne and Easy Company, and they rode that train all the way to Europe and back. Somehow, throughout all of that, only rarely did they part. About a year after the war ended, Marisa made a quip at a party that the only reason Lewis still kept her around was to manage his ties for him. To her surprise, he drew her aside, gravely concerned that she truly believed what she'd said—for the first time in years, one of her jokes had gone right over his head.

I was only kidding. I know you love me too much to ever let me go, you big sap.

...

Lewis?

Look, Buck Compton's here. Let's go say hello.

It was a strange moment that Marisa still doesn't understand. Even stranger, they've never spoken of it since.

"Really, Risa," Lewis says, breaking the gentle silence and bringing her back to the moment, "you look exquisite."

Marisa chuckles despite the slight churning in her stomach. "You're not so bad yourself, Lew."

He softens. Though she's not expecting his arm to wrap around her waist, she's not startled by it. She's done with the tie, but she keeps ahold of it as he inches toward her and she reciprocates. She can feel his breath on her lips. He's never looked at her this way before—or maybe she's never noticed. His eyes keep darting between hers as if looking for a sign she doesn't know how to give. They're still drifting closer, and Lewis looks like he wants to do something about it—but then he steps back, smooths down his suit jacket, and offers her his arm.

"Shall we?"

Marisa hopes her sigh comes across as one of teasing chagrin and not of disappointment.

"If we must."

Lewis leads the way through the West Wing. He doesn't say a word and neither does she. They pass by Blanche's door—upon which she has pinned a sprig of mistletoe—and head for the main staircase. It isn't long before they can hear the music wafting up from downstairs. They're almost at the upstairs balcony when Lewis abruptly stops. In the shadows of the hall, he is able to hide his fear. For his sake, Marisa pretends she doesn't see it, but she can't help feeling twice as nervous. The butler from last night is standing at the top of the steps, introducing members of the Nixon family as they appear from their rooms and quarters throughout the house. God bless him, he's pretending he hasn't noticed them yet. Marisa is getting more and more anxious about making their grand entrance, and then Lewis turns to her and says he's got a better idea. She squeezes his arm and steps a little closer to his side, wordlessly communicating her relief, and he turns them back down the hall, explaining as they go. Half-hidden around the corner from his mother's old bedroom, there is a far plainer staircase that will take them around to the dining room, a smaller space adjacent to the ballroom. Someone will find them eventually, but this way, their arrival will be far less dramatic and might go mostly unnoticed.

"Ten o'clock," Marisa says quietly, pointing to the large grandfather clock adjacent to the landing.

"Ten o'clock," Lewis affirms with a nod, and just like that, they enter the lion's den.

Unfortunately, their arrival is one of note, and they are announced almost immediately. Standing awkwardly in the lofty arch between the dining room and the ballroom, they watch as the attention of all is redirected their way. Fury flashes in the icy eyes of a tall, hard-faced man who can be no other than Stanhope Nixon. He marches over and directs them to the center of the ballroom, loudly and sternly announcing that his son, the Nixon heir, must have the first dance with his date. The party began fifteen minutes ago, and dancing is already in full force; still, the host forces everyone to step to the side. Marisa's face feels hot. If this is how Stanhope treats his guests, she can't imagine what Lewis has had to deal with over the last twenty-eight years. All eyes are on them. Lewis looks like he wants to throw something—or throw up. They've been through a war and he's still frightened by his father. Marisa's afraid, too. When he sees her hand trembling on his arm, he takes it, squeezes, and draws her to him in the first position for a waltz.

"Ready?" he mouths as the music starts, and she's not sure how she finds it in herself to nod, but she does, and they begin.

Everyone is watching them. Marisa knows if she looks away from Lewis, she'll lose her footing, so she keeps her gaze trained on his, and that does the trick. For several months now, Lewis has been teaching her assorted ballroom dances. She told him once, several years ago, that she'd like to learn if she ever got the chance. Then the war ended and she became his neighbor in New Brunswick, and he, who seems to remember everything she's ever told him, offered to teach her. Tonight, his hand on the small of her back is soothing, and she admires him openly. His hair is neatly combed and coiffed. She wants to run her hands through it, knowing it will soothe him, but she can't. He's holding a great deal of tension in his handsome jaw, but she can see it slacken as they go through the motions without faltering. They make it through the dance, and as their undesirable audience politely applauds, they bow and wish to disappear.

The first hour isn't too awful, after that. Lewis walks Marisa around, introducing her to various family and family friends, some of which are actually quite agreeable. A very old woman with one pair of spectacles on her nose and another perched atop her feathery hair tells them point-blank that it's all her husband's fault for her son's wretched behavior. Lewis chuckles awkwardly and tries to placate her, but as soon as Marisa realizes the woman is Stanhope's mother, she interrupts Lewis and thanks the old matriarch for her sympathy. She brightens up (as much as she can for how slowly she moves) and pulls Marisa over to an excessively long sofa to tell her an equally lengthy story. In the half-hour that Marisa sits with Lewis' grandmother, no one bothers them except for one servant who's obligated to offer them hors d'oeuvres. Marisa is so grateful for the company that she almost blesses the old woman aloud. Then Lewis reappears and tells her they're wanted in the parlor, and her little bubble bursts. Once they have both bestowed his grandmother with a kiss on the cheek, he leads her away, whispering an apology in advance.

"What for?" she whispers back, but then they turn into the parlor, and Marisa understands.

Stanhope, Blanche, and Lewis' mother Doris are all gathered by the fireplace, talking stiffly and eyeing the doorway. Marisa only has time to recall that Stanhope and Doris are divorced before Stanhope spots them and drags them over, commanding that they join the conversation. The next twenty minutes are painful, to say the least, and Marisa does her best to maintain composure while answering every question under the sun as to her personal and professional life. Doris, with her upturned nose and wounded eyes, is clearly displeased to learn her son's date is a woman of literature. When Blanche starts to congratulate Marisa on her recent book deal, Doris interrupts and asks about Marisa's social life and what circles she runs in. Lewis is starting to look like he wants to jump out the window. At one point, Marisa mentions that she served in the Airborne too, and while Doris and Stanhope are practically appalled, she finds some relief in the gleam of admiration in Blanche's eye.

When she's finally unable to stomach Marisa any longer, Doris hauls Blanche off to meet a potential suitor. Marisa is confused why Blanche is looking at her pityingly until Stanhope tells Lewis to fetch him a glass of whiskey and she realizes she is the one in the mire. Lewis tries to take Marisa with him, but Stanhope won't permit it, and he leaves with a muttered promise to be back as soon as he can. Stanhope is neutral enough for a moment or two as they exchange a few words on the evening's décor, but then he eyes her up and down and she feels a shiver of disgust run up her spine. He's off like a shot, then, going on about how her dress doesn't fit her figure right, how unwomanly she is for still being unmarried at twenty-five (how he knew her age, Marisa doesn't know, but it makes her stomach churn to think), and how she ought to find someone more handsome than his son or else the babies will turn out hideous. She's half a second away from slapping him when Lewis returns and exchanges the whiskey glass for Marisa. Stanhope, peeved, saunters off to find ice (which Lewis purposefully left out of the drink), and Marisa falls into Lewis' arms, on the brink of tears.

"Wicked old bastard," she mumbles into his shoulder, and he hisses a breath through his teeth.

"Shit. You okay?"

"Ugh," she groans, huddling closer to him, her lifeline. "What a creep."

She has the feeling he'd hold her for as long as she needed, but people are starting to stare, and she knows she should step back. So she does, and when he asks her again if she's alright, she almost laughs, broken-hearted.

"I'll be fine."

His worried frown persists; she knows he can see right through her.

"Risa-"

"Not here." She shakes her head, touching her hand to her forehead. "How much longer do we have to stay?"

He considers for only a moment before he takes her hand and starts to lead her out of the parlor and back into the ballroom. Stanhope is at the bar against the far wall, drinking his whiskey. Doris and Blanche are a few yards away from him, talking to a suave-looking fellow that Blanche is trying desperately not to roll her eyes at.

"Lewis?"

"Not much longer, if you go along with this."

"With what?"

He wraps his arm around her waist, draws her to him, and asks in that low voice of his, scanning her face with a serious sort of hope, “If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people—really kiss me—will you do it?”

She grabs his tie and falls back against the wall, smashing her lips into his. He lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering closed. Marisa feels hot all over as he runs his hands up and down her sides. When he pokes his tongue against her bottom lip, asking permission, she lets him in with a hum of desire. As his lips fall from hers and latch onto her neck, somebody whistles, and then Stanhope bellows. As light-headed as Marisa is, she knows in an instant that this is their cue to run. She grabs Lewis' hand and they take off, darting into the dining room and then up the side stairs. The grandfather clock chimes right as they turn the corner and Lewis, spooked, takes a tumble. Marisa helps him to his feet, and they take off again, still hand in hand, laughing to know it is ten o'clock on the dot.

"Where to?" Marisa asks, trusting him to lead the way.

"Not our room," Lewis replies, turning down a narrow hallway Marisa hadn't noticed before. "We've got to hide for a bit."

Footsteps come running up behind them, fast enough to catch them, and as they whirl around, Lewis jumps in front of Marisa—but it is only Blanche. She skids to a stop and almost falls forward as she bends over her knees, wheezing.

"Father sent me after you," she half-laughs, half-gasps. "That was quite the show you put on. I thought Mother was going to faint."

"You won't actually...?"

"Oh, God, no," she says in earnest, lifting her head to look at her brother and his date. "I just came to say my thanks. I would never have escaped if it weren't for you."

To both Blanche and Lewis' surprise, Marisa goes and hugs her.

"You'll get out of here someday, Blanche," she says softly. "You're so much more than these people."

"Well, shit," Blanche replies as they part, sounding a little choked up. "Don't make me cry. My makeup's going to run."

"Sorry," Marisa chuckles, and Blanche squeezes her hand, stepping back.

"I've held you up too long," she says. "Go hide yourselves in Grandmama's old room. She hasn't been able to make it up the stairs for a decade but they still haven't redone it."

"On our way," Lewis agrees, sharing a nod with his sister. "Happy holidays, Blanche."

"The same to you, Lewis."

The door they seek is in the corner of the West Wing, tucked away between a laundry room and the back of the house. Inside, the room is just as hot and stuffy as the rest of the house but not nearly as dusty as Marisa expects. When she finds the light switch and flicks it, she sees it's actually pretty nice. The furniture is more modest in here, something closer to what Lewis has in his apartment back in New Brunswick. For a moment, she wishes they were there, slow dancing to the Christmas music on the radio, him in his tux and her in her gown. She watches him as he crosses to the window and throws it open, and though it's freezing outside, the cold breeze is a welcome change to the stifling hot house. Marisa goes over to feel it and Lewis steps aside, allowing her the window space. She leans back on it, her elbows propped up on the sill and her low-cut dress exposing her back to the elements. Her chest feels sore from the cold and the running, but she feels doubly alive from that surreal, searing kiss.

"Did you ask me to do that just to piss them off?" she asks, still trying to catch her breath. "I wouldn't blame you if you did."

Terrified of his rejection, she starts laughing, but as soon as she does, Lewis takes her face in his hands and kisses her, hard.

"I love you," he whispers when they part, tenderly smoothing his thumb over her cheek. "I've loved you since that first time you fixed my tie and called me a lazy rich boy for not knowing how to do it myself."

Marisa's eyes are wet, and she blinks desperately, allowing the tears to fall so she can see Lewis clearly again.

"All the way back at OCS?" she asks hoarsely, and he leans closer, taking a deep, shaky breath.

"All the way back at OCS."

She can feel his lips brushing hers, and she wants to kiss him, but there's something more that needs to be said, so she lets him say it.

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this mess," he whispers, his gaze dropping to her lips. "It wasn't fair of me to-"

She silences him with a kiss, trembling when he sighs into her mouth, eagerly giving up his apology.

"If you hadn't," she says, reluctantly parting from his lips, "you wouldn't have asked me to kiss you. And I wouldn't have had the courage to tell you..."

She walks her fingers up his chest to his chin and pulls him in for a slow, deep, breathtaking kiss.

"That you love me, too?" he guesses when they separate for want of air, his eyes sparkling with hope and longing and joy and a million other things that make her heart go wild in her chest.

"That I love you, too," she affirms, and he smiles, leaning his forehead against hers.

"So you liked that kiss, huh?"

Marisa laughs, swatting at his chest in retribution for ruining the moment, but he just grins and leans in.

"About that kiss..."

He crowds her against the window, careful not to let her lean too far back, and she hums happily, running her hands through his hair like she's wanted to all night.

"Where were we?"

He kisses her neck and she inhales sharply, tilting her head back to see the night sky up and behind her.

"Ah."

He smiles and she can feel it, his lips hot against her cool skin.

"Right here."

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

Taglist: @tvserie-s-world @thoughpoppiesblow @victoryrollsandredlips @now-im-a-belieber @50svibes @mgdln97 @tina1938 @drinkwhiskeyandsmile @ask-you-what-sir @indecisiveimpatience @whovian45810 @brokennerdalert @holdingforgeneralhugs @onlyyouexisthere

#band of brothers #hbowardaily's secret santa '22 #secret santa #lewis nixon #lewis nixon x oc #rebeccapearson #fanfiction #gift fic #band of brothers fanfiction #hbo war show #hbo war show fanfiction #band of brothers one shot #hbo war show one shot

21 notes · View notes

sergeant-spoons · 1 year

Text

Secret Santa ‘22 (Pt 1)

Surprise, @rebeccapearson! I’m your Secret Santa! The happiest of holidays to you and your loved ones. I hope you enjoy this fic - it’s the first of three that I will be posting over the next few days. I loved your prompts so much that I simply had to write all three of them! 💕

A Toast to the Idiot

Pairing: Bill Guarnere x Female OC

Word count: 4605

Tone: Friends to lovers, cluelessness, mutual pining, light angst with a happy ending

Prompt: “A girl could smack me on the head and I wouldn’t realize she was into me.” / (x) smacks him on the back of the head / “Ow! What the hell was that for?!”

Summary: She’s doing everything she can and more to make him understand the ways of her heart, but somehow, the message just isn’t getting across. OR The one where Bill Guarnere wouldn’t recognize a girl in love if she kissed him.

Read it here on AO3!

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

"The hell are you on about, Joe? 'Soft hands'. The fuck does that even mean?"

"It means I like a girl with soft hands!" Joe Toye throws up his own not-so-soft hands. "So sue me, Johnny. Jesus."

Dianne Soren quirks an amusedly confused brow as she comes around the side of her bunk, putting her hands on her hips.

"The hell did I miss? And why do y'all always end up sittin' on my bed?"

"Hi, Sarge," Joe and Johnny Martin chorus.

"Hi, boys." Dianne turns to their third companion. "Well? Bill? You got an explanation for me?"

"Your bed's just the comfiest, Di," he says in that usual charming manner of his. "Smells the best, too."

Dianne laughs. "Fair 'nuff. Now scoot."

She pushes lightly at Bill's shoulder until he makes room for her, and as she sits down with them, he looks her up and down.

"What?"

"Gimme your hands."

Dianne tries half-heartedly to avoid Bill's grabbing, quirking a skeptical brow.

"Are you tryin' to set me up with Joe? Again?"

"Gimme," he whines, ignoring her question, then seizes her hands and grins in triumph. "See! Soft hands, just like I thought."

Dianne (whose cheeks are a little warmer than before) snatches her fingers away, laughing.

"You are tryin' to set me up! Bill, for the tenth time, he ain't my type. No offense, Joe."

Joe chuckles, low and gravelly, and pokes Bill in the arm.

"None taken. I've got a girl back home, Bill, 'member?"

"Yeah, yeah-" Bill waves him off. "-but hey, what is your type, Di?"

All three of Bill's friends are caught off guard by his query—most likely because the answer is considered common knowledge—and when Dianne blinks at Bill in disbelief, she's not the only one. Joe and Johnny look at each other, then at Bill, who still seems blissfully unaware. Dianne glances him up and down, then looks away, musing at the spiderweb clinging to the corner of the ceiling.

"Hell, Bill, I dunno."

"C'mon, give it a try," he goads. "For me?"

"Yeah," Johnny snickers, "for him."

Without looking, Dianne swings her pillow and smacks him square in the mouth. He splutters and complains but she ignores him, trying not to smirk at Joe's suppressed laughter.

"Alright," she concedes to Bill. "Well, I do like a good smile."

He flashes his teeth at her, and she almost falters over her next words.

"He's gotta have a nice, strong jaw."

Bill's smile grows, and she thinks he might be catching on.

"Ain't nothin' sexier than two big, strong arms to hold me with," she adds, daring to squeeze his bicep, and when he runs his tongue over his upper teeth, her breath catches.

"Very sexy," he agrees.

"And-" She smirks, reaching over to ruffle his hair as she reminds herself how to breathe. "-he's gotta be shorter than me."

Joe (who is taller than Dianne) starts laughing, Johnny (who is shorter) rolls his eyes, and Bill simply chuckles and tugs at one of Dianne's curls.

"Half the Company's shorter than you, Di."

"Shorter than me when I'm not in heels," she amends, and Bill grins.

"Make that a quarter o' the Company."

"Including you," Johnny points out, only to get another mouthful of pillow and be nearly knocked off the bed. "You seein' this?" he splutters to Joe. "The hell'd I ever do to her?"

"Exist," Dianne teases, sticking her tongue out at him, and her smile grows when Bill's loud laugh rings out freely.

"That's my girl." He tugs her against his side. "So? Anything else you like in a fella?"

"Well, I'd like to be called his girl, for one," she offers, bracing herself, but Bill doesn't even bat an eye.

"'Course, you would!" he chuckles. "And he'd better call you his girl, or he ain't treatin' you right."

"And he'd better show me off on his arm whenever we go out."

"Who wouldn't?"

Bill's grin warps into a frown when he sees her visibly deflate. He tickles her side and she squirms, a laugh bubbling up past her lips.

"What? What?" he asks, still tickling her. "Somethin' else you wanna say?"

"Maybe she's embarrassed about it," Johnny teases with a smirk, and this time, Joe's the one to smack him with the pillow. "Oh, for fuck's sake-"

"I ain't embarrassed," Dianne refutes. "Just a little sad he don't get it."

"Who don't get it?" Bill quirks his brow amusedly. "Who's makin' ya sad, sweetheart?" He points over his shoulder at Johnny. "Is it this idiot? Want me to beat him up for ya?"

"Nah, Bill," she laughs, giving up the game now that she's sure she won't win it, "don't try to beat up Johnny."

"Try?" he scoffs as she gets up, untwisting one of her suspenders where it has tangled over her shoulder. "I could put this fool down in two seconds flat."

"You keep tellin' yourself that, sugar."

Johnny grins, proud of Dianne's endorsement, and Bill jumps to his feet, following her away from the bed.

"Sweetheart, that was mean," he scolds her, but when she laughs, he forgets he's supposed to be put off. "Where the hell are you goin'?"

"To try and find a broom," she says, grabbing her jacket off the bedpost of her bunk. "You think they've got one in the mess hall?"

"Prob'ly. What for?"

Dianne points distractedly at the spiderweb right above Bill's head, but then Bill jumps a full foot back and she pauses, turning to him.

"Are you...?"

"Don't say it," he grumbles, pinkening slightly as he backs away from the corner.

"I can't believe it," she says, the corners of her mouth tugging up.

"Di, don't."

"Wild Bill's afraid of spiders."

He groans, and though she tries not to laugh, she fails.

"I told ya not to," he scolds. "I warned ya!"

"Bill-" Dianne giggles, then gasps when Bill steals her cap right off her head and dances away. "Bill!"

"Say I'm not afraid of spiders!" He doesn't seem to realize why she's flustered, and she isn't sure if she's glad or disappointed. "Say it!"

"Alright, alright, you're not afraid of spiders!" she gasps, and when he returns her cap, she makes sure to jump out of his reach before she holds up the fingers she's crossed behind her back.

"Oh, you little shit-"

Dianne dashes out the door, laughing, and Bill runs after her. He catches her a short way down the road and wraps his arms around her torso, picking her up and spinning her around. She shrieks a laugh and when he puts her down, chuckling close to her ear, she spins around and pushes at his chest. Their eyes meet. In the movies, this would be the moment where Bill leaned in and kissed her, and her foot would pop up as she wrapped her arms around his neck. But this is real life, and in real life, Bill is 100% committed to her as a friend. Before she can do a damn thing other than breathe, he grabs her hand, twirls her under his arm, and starts walking away while she's still recovering—her dizziness is doubled, less so by the spin than by how close she'd gotten to him.

"Idiot," she mumbles under her breath, smoothing her hands over the lower half of her face, just as Bill turns over his shoulder, bearing a cheeky smirk.

"C'mon, sweetheart, what're ya waitin' for?"

"You to wise up," she teases, a little disgruntled, but he just looks confused, and she reminds herself he doesn't mean anything by his cluelessness.

"Huh?"

"I'm comin', I'm comin'."

He doesn't seem to think anything of her comment on wising up, and as they turn around the bend, passing the four storage sheds that mark the end of the residential part of the base, she shrugs more comfortably into her jacket and pokes her friend's arm.

"Alright, well, you asked me, so now I've got to ask you," she says once she's got his attention. "What's your type, Bill?"

"Any girl that likes me," he replies, puffing out his chest, and Dianne snickers.

"Oh, yeah? You got yourself any takers yet?"

"A couple-"

"Oh?"

"-dozen."

"Ohhh." Dianne nods as if she believes him. "Uh-huh. I could see that."

He wrinkles his nose up at her and pushes her, but that doesn't stop her laughter, and he doesn't seem to really mind.

"Ya shoulda seen the girls back in Philly," he brags, hooking his arm around hers. "They were all over me."

"I bet they were, hot shot."

He grins. "You wanna know a secret, sweetheart? Just 'cause I trust ya so much?"

"Always."

He leans over, and as he whispers, his breath tickles her ear and sends a shiver up her spine.

"I had to get my buddies to ask 'em if they liked me or not."

Dianne laughs, genuinely surprised. "You're foolin' with me."

"Am not." He shrugs, a little bashful but still grinning. "A girl could smack me on the head and I wouldn’t realize she was into me."

Dianne studies him for a moment, then reaches up and smacks him on the back of the head.

“Ow!" He jumps away from her, rubbing the spot where she smacked him as he pouts at her. "What the hell was that for?!”

Though Dianne wants to sigh, she laughs instead.

"Just testin' ya." Before he can think about it any harder, she grabs his arm and tugs him toward the steps to the mess hall. "Now c'mon, let's go get that broom."

A few days later, Dianne is back in the mess hall for lunch. She's got George Luz on one side, Joe Liebgott on the other, and Frank Perconte straight ahead. It's a rowdy group, but she likes it that way (and she'd like it even better if Bill was here, too). Then Liebgott gets up to have a row with some clumsy fool from Dog Company who's made a mess on the floor behind him, and Dianne, uninterested in a fight, turns to Luz only to find him gone and Donald Hoobler in his place.

"'Afternoon, Hoobs," Dianne says without batting an eye. She's used to the quick comings and goings around here. It's the Airborne way.

"Sergeant." Hoobler tips his cap at her, straddling the bench. "Mind if I sit here?"

Dianne looks up and tilts her head, clueing him in on the rising argument behind her, and he laughs.

"Point taken." He flashes her a smile as he settles in. "How's your day been, Sarge?"

"Couldn't be better. Sun came up in the mornin' and we've got Sobel down for the count with that glorious cold."

Hoobler kisses his fingers and raises them toward the heavens.

"Amen to that." He grins, then leans toward her. "You know, I've been hearin' rumors..."

"I can see 'em buzzin' around your ears like flies," Dianne retorts, and Hoobler sucks in a breath through his teeth, humbled.

"Ouch. I never met a woman with a sharper tongue."

Dianne chuckles, patting him on the shoulder, and he relaxes.

"So? What're these rumors about?"

"You and somebody special." The corner of Hoobler's mouth turns up. "Just wanted to... corroborate the story, y'know?"

"Yeah, sure." Dianne rolls her eyes. "I swear, you boys gossip more than any woman on this fine green earth."

"I'd believe it," he laughs. "So?"

"Brazen as you might be," she sighs, "I'll tell you."

He leans over and she whispers the name in his ear, and when he straightens back up, he's grinning.

"Jumping Jack Christ, I knew it!"

"You knew it? Just you?"

"Me and half the Company," he admits what she's long suspected, then thinks for a moment. "Actually more like three-quarters, if you include the officers."

Dianne makes a face. "Lord have mercy, that's pathetic."

"What, that everybody and their mother knows, but the fortunate fella himself doesn't?"

She waves her fork his way, sipping at her water.

"You said it, Hoobs, not me."

"Maybe you're just not... being obvious enough?" Hoobler shrugged. "Other than flat-out telling him, I mean."

"I wish you were right," she chuckles mildly. "Trust me, it don't matter what I say. Watch this."

Dianne leans back on the bench, sticks her pinkie fingers in the corners of her mouth, and whistles sharply. Bill looks up and sees her (as do a dozen others in the vicinity) and flashes her a grin. She grins right back.

"Lookin' good, hot stuff!"

His smile spreads from ear to ear, and he winks at her, then goes back to chatting with his buddies. Dianne turns back to Hoobler only to start laughing mid-shrug.

"Hoobs, you're gaping like a salmon."

She curves her hands and knocks her fingers together, sticking out her chin and moving her bottom lip up and down to imitate the fish. Hoobler pushes half-heartedly at her arm and her teasing devolves into laughter.

"Oh, shut up." He shakes his head. "Jeez, he's clueless."

"Ain't that the truth." She shrugs again. "At this point, I dunno what I'm even s'posed to do."

"Keep trying, I guess." Hoobler scrunches up his face. "Tough luck, Sarge."

"Yeah."

Dianne sighs and looks over at Bill. One of his buddies points her out and he flashes her a broad, charming, strictly-friendly grin.

"Tough luck, indeed."

A few cycles of the sun later, it's Saturday night, and every single Easy man (and woman) is out on the town, even the ones who don't usually drink. They're shipping out on Monday, either north or west, and then to God knows what shore, so they're partying it up while they still can. With a little liquid courage, Dianne decides to give it one last try. She saunters over to the darts board where Bill is clearly losing against the combined team of George Luz and Johnny Martin.

"Hey, y'all."

"Hey, Sarge," Luz and Johnny chorus, and Bill turns over his shoulder with a grin.

"Di!" He grabs her arm and tugs her over. "Fellas, prepare for your downfall."

Di laughs, slinging her arm over Bill's shoulder and leaning on him slightly. "Really, boys, two against one? Ain't you ever heard of a little thing called fairness?"

"No, ma'am," Luz replies with a cheeky grin, passing her a dart. "So? Show us what you got!"

Dianne, who played competitive darts at a renovated speakeasy during her first two years at college (the subsequent two have been delayed by the war), easily takes the win over Luz and Johnny. Blowing on her nails before pretending to buff them out on her shoulder, she gloats for a few seconds as they beg for another match. She's quick to give in, her ego boosted just a little when her opponents insist on taking several minutes to construct a game plan in order to beat her. While they're still debating, Bill leaves to fetch her another drink, proclaiming Dianne his champion; as soon as he's gone, she pulls Luz and Johnny aside and ropes them into her plan. They're good sports and agree, and when Bill returns, they pretend they've decided against challenging Dianne after all. Bill celebrates a bit too soon, however, and Luz and Johnny quickly clamor for him to play Dianne one-on-one. He turns to her with a gleam in his eye that makes her stomach flip and flicks his eyebrows until she laughs and agrees.

"Oh, you're goin' down, sweetheart."

"Sure," she scoffs, handing him the dart for the first throw. "Keep talkin' like that, a girl might think you're scared o' little old me."

"What're we bettin' on? Cigarettes? Chocolate? Cash?" He wiggles his eyebrows. "A kiss?"

Dianne chokes on her beer and Bill rubs her back as she coughs through it.

"I was only kiddin'. You want some water, honey?"

She shakes her head, her face still bowed so he won't see her embarrassment, and when Bill brings his hand to her forehead, his chuckling dies away.

"Shit, you're runnin' hot." He grabs Luz's arm. "Get the lady some water, yeah?"

He nods and goes off with Johnny close behind. Dianne has already recovered (for the most part), and tries to call off their mission but goes unheard. She sighs and turns toward Bill, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly.

"Sorry," she says, "breathed in right when I shouldn't have."

"Happens to the best of us," he says with a shrug, a hint of his teasing smile returning. "You still up for that game? Or did that little cough put ya outta commission?"

"Oh-ho, you did not," she laughs, pushing him toward the darts board. "I'm gonna whoop your Philly ass."

Luz comes back with the water, and Dianne, once revived, does indeed whoop Bill's Philly ass, coming away with a winning streak of four-to-none. As soon as Bill knows he's lost, he comes back at her with such moving pleas for another match that she can't find it in her heart to turn him down. When he turns to her the fifth time, she presses her hand to his mouth to silence him.

"No, sugar," she laughs. "You go on and take your losses like a man."

He pouts at her, and when that doesn't work, he slumps and starts digging through his pockets.

"Alright, what do I owe ya?"

"Hmm." Dianne pretends to consider although the answer's already on the tip of her tongue. "Well, you're the one who put a kiss on the table..."

"Four," he agrees, defying her expectations, his grin halfway to a smirk. "I lost four times, didn't I?"

Dianne can't help a slight chuckle. "You sure did."

She's tense and they can both tell, but then he plants a big kiss on her cheek and she relaxes, swatting his shoulder.

"Aww, c'mon, Bill, that ain't- mmph!"

He's kissed her for real this time, right on the lips, and though it's more of a peck than anything, it shuts her right up. As she blinks at him, reeling, Bill grins.

"Better?"

Before she's got the wits to answer, he's leaning in for another smooch, and she melts. The second kiss is nice but too short, and when Dianne chases his lips as he pulls away, Bill seems to get the hint. The third kiss is the real thing, the one that makes Dianne's knees go weak. He cups her face in his big, warm hands and tilts his head just a little to kiss her properly. She wraps her arms around his neck and he drops his hands to her waist. She kind of wants to put her foot up behind her the way they do in the movies, the way she's sort of always dreamed about doing with him—but then he leans back and she's lost the chance.

"Whoo!" he whoops, tossing his head back, and though he's holding her like a gentleman, he's grinning like a maniac. "Shit, sweetheart, I think you knocked the breath outta me."

Dianne giggles and almost says something about how much she likes him, but he's already turning away to talk to Johnny, and the words die on her lips. Though he tugs her snugly against his side, she can't help but feel like she's missed something. Or, more likely, he's missed something—yet again.

"I'm gonna get another drink," she says, and though she doesn't really expect Bill to hear her, he turns at once.

"You sure?"

"I've only had two."

"Right, right." He laughs. "Way you kissed me made me think it was more." He squeezes her side and lets her go, unaware of just how finely he's wounded her. "Just lookin' out for ya, sweetheart."

"As always," she agrees, but her heart isn't in it.

Dianne slips away to the bar and is lucky enough to find an empty seat beside Joe Toye. He's just the kind of friend she needs right now. He might tease her a bit, but he'll be more sympathetic than the rest, and seeing as she's more than ready to get wasted after that heart-shredding failure, he's also the best choice to walk her home—she's pretty sure it would take a whole keg to get him drunk.

"Holy shit," is the first thing he says to her when she sits down, and though she grimaces at first, he then proceeds to slide her a full, frothing beer and she's quick to forgive.

"'Evenin', Joe."

"And a helluva-n evening, it is." He grins. "So you finally did it, huh?"

"Uh, yeah, about that-"

"Took you long enough!"

"-he didn't mean it."

"What?" Joe's smile drops. "You can't be serious."

Dianne takes a long dredge, then clears her throat and leans toward her friend.

"He still. Doesn't. Get it."

"Mary, Mother of Christ." Joe runs his hand over his face. "Sorry, Sarge, but I'm starting to think this is a lost cause."

"I'll say." Dianne scoffs into her beer. "It was a lost cause when this whole thing started."

Joe half-laughs and half-sighs as if he still can't believe it.

"It's been months!"

"You're tellin' me?" Dianne sets her dwindling beer on the countertop and rolls her shoulders back gracelessly. "For a while, I thought he just might be tryin' not to hurt my feelings, but after that-" The kisses, she means. "-he's got me convinced that he's honest-to-God clueless."

"Hey-" Joe nudges her shoulder with his own. "-you're not a quitter, Dianne. Don't you start now."

"Uh-huh."

"Hey, I mean it."

They sit in silence for a moment, passing on the peanuts the bartender tries to slide their way.

"So." Joe smoothes his hand over a nub in the countertop, looking at Dianne with a worry he disguises well. "What are you gonna do?"

"I dunno." She shrugs, fighting against the sudden urge to burst into delirious giggles. "Call him stupid to his face?"

"Hell, yeah," advises a familiar voice, sidling up to them at the bar. "Somebody's bein' stupid, call 'im out on it."

Dianne and Joe share a confused look, but Bill just waves and asks, "So who's the idiot?"

As Joe bursts out laughing, Dianne groans, leaning back so far on her stool that she nearly topples over. Bill's quick enough to right her, and she grabs her beer, raising it above her head.

"A toast to the idiot," she declares, looking right at Bill, "who wouldn't recognize a girl in love if she kissed him."

Dianne turns back to Joe as she downs the rest of her drink, shaking her head, and misses the way Bill's entire expression changes with the weight of realization.

"See y'all 'round."

Dianne slips off the stool and makes for the door. Behind her, Joe's laughter peters out as he realizes Bill is doing nothing but staring after Dianne with his mouth wide open.

"Oh, for Chrissakes-"

He grabs Bill by the shoulders and manhandles him off the stool.

"-go after her, you idiot!"

"I'm the idiot," Bill says almost reverentially, then finally lurches into motion. He takes off after Dianne, but she's more than halfway across the room, and it's going to take him some time to catch up with her. He curses under his breath, feeling quite possibly the dumbest he's ever felt. Dianne, meanwhile, is pressing on blindly. She can feel the sting of rising tears, and the way her throat closes up makes it hard for her to pardon her way through the crowd. She nearly trips over the chair acting as a coat rack by the door and groans to realize her jacket is somewhere in this pile of some fifty identical ones. Fortunately, the little red bead she sewed on her nametag in the gap between the line and the curve of the 'D' catches the light as she moves, and after that, she retrieves her jacket with ease. Behind her, the dancing and drinking go on; beneath her feet, the world still spins. She pushes open the door with a heavy sigh, and the brisk, friendly air of late August soothes her a bit. She doesn't look back as she leaves, but if she had, she might have seen Bill pushing through the crowd, trying to get to her, calling her name but going unheard in the general bedlam.

Back at the bar, Joe looks between him and her, chuckling as he sips at his beer. Now that Bill's finally come to his senses, Joe knows nothing short of the ending of the world can stop him from catching up to Dianne.

"Di! Wait, Di!"

Bill has skipped the pile of jackets and come flying out the door, nearly tripping down the steps in his haste. Dianne slows, then stops, and he can see how she's sneakily trying to scrub her face with her sleeve, bowing her head as to hide her embarrassment. He's not sure he could express just how deeply sorry he is for making her feel that way—and for God knows how long—even if she asked him to. His gait slows as doubt seeps into his mind. Has he wounded her enough to lose her heart even before he knew he had it? But then she turns around, and nothing seems to matter anymore except letting her know he's never going to be the idiot again. She's stopped right in the light cast by one of the bar windows, and God, she looks pretty. Her hair is a little messy like she's been messing with it anxiously and her eyes are a little wet from the alcohol and the disappointment, and he loves her so much, it hurts.

"Di, I've never been that fuckin' stupid in my whole goddamn life."

Dianne does a double-take. This is not at all what she was expecting to hear.

"What?"

"You know I'm not good at sorry's," he laments, "but Di, I am so goddamn fuckin' sorry- You gotta believe me, sweetheart-"

Frowning, she squints at him, then rubs her eyes. This is too abrupt—she can't believe it even if she wanted to.

"Great," she sighs, "now I'm seein' things."

Bill sucks in a breath. He's a man who likes to use his words, but right now, words aren't enough. So when he runs up to her, grabs her arms to hold her still, and kisses her, he doesn't say a word. She jumps back, her eyes widening, and belatedly, she gasps.

"Holy hell, it's actually you."

"It's me," he vows, "it's me, Di. And it's always gonna be me."

"You mean it?" she asks, searching his expression, and before he's even finished guaranteeing it, she grabs his face and kisses him, hard.

"Goddamn," he sighs, grinning like a fool. "You know how hard it was for me to stop kissin' you after that third time?"

Dianne pulls one of his own moves and pouts at him. "Seemed to me like it was awful easy."

"God, sweetheart," he groans, "it couldn't've been harder."

"Tell me more."

"Can't believe it took me this goddamn long to wise up," he grumbles as he holds her close, peeved at himself. "Could'a been doin' this a whole lot longer."

He kisses her again, and when she giggles against his lips, he knows he's a goner.

"You gonna take me on a date tomorrow?" she asks, playing with his tie as she leans into him.

"'Course, I am," he promises, wrapping his hand around hers. "Expect flowers. I'm gonna make it a real, proper date."

Dianne beams and something in Bill's heart clicks into place.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Oh, yeah."

He grins, nuzzling a kiss against her cheek.

"Somethin' tells me we're long overdue."

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

#band of brothers #bill guarnere x oc #secret santa #hbowardaily's secret santa '22 #rebeccapearson #bill guarnere #fanfiction #gift fic #band of brothers fanfiction #hbo war show #hbo war show fanfiction #band of brothers one shot #hbo war show one shot

20 notes · View notes