𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄 | [W.PIERSON/Reader] | Call of Duty: WW2

04 | SLOW & STEADY

24th of July, 1944.
― pov. y/n

The village begins to glow as night-time falls upon the lands. Alcohol soothes restless souls, poison disguised as letters of indulgence.

I trudge behind Pierson, weapon slung lazily around one shoulder. Most soldiers are having dinner outside of the houses, though despite not having eaten for hours now, for some reason I'm just not hungry.

Passing the corner of a particular house, I begin smiling as I see my boys feasting, all of them sitting around a burning barrel. A yearning feeling to join them spreads through my stomach, but I know I can't possibly. Not right now.

My hand lifts for a small wave. Zussman beams.

"Hey girl! You alright?"

"Yeah, all good," I lie. I'm surprised to feel Pierson stop instead of just passing and dragging me along. I spare him a thankful look before turning back to Zuss. They all look healthy, I'm glad. I was especially worried for Zussman at first, who's only been back for a couple of weeks now, having returned early from his hospitalisation.

Stiles looks a little more battered than the rest, though I know that old Aiello, although always teasing, keeps looking out for him.

"Are you guys doing fine?"

"As fine as one can be out here," Aiello shrugs, staring first at me, then at Pierson, then taking an unimpressed sip from his mug. It's awkward, the way he just stands with one shoulder pointed towards them, pretending as if he weren't here. I'd appreciate the effort if it weren't for him always behaving like this. There are moments it's so infuriatingly obvious he cares for them all as much as I do. And still, he shows an icy shoulder even in quiet moments. When no one cares what rank you are, who you once were and who you are now.

When they're all sitting together, laughing, telling stories,― he stays far away.

"We miss ya," Zuss mutters silently. He tries to cover up the undeniable dread in his voice with a quick, "Cherry pit spitting is no fun without you."

A soft smile forms on my face. "Why not? For once you have a chance at winning too," I tease, earning a soft punch to the shoulder.

"Yeah, fuck you too."

"Cherry season's almost over, so you better hurry," Daniels adds.

"Yeah! ... yeah,― working on it." Just thinking of leaving the front forever makes me shudder deeply. Leaving them. "Don't worry. Once I'm freed, I will return to you in all my glory."

"You better!" Stiles barks.

I feel another smile on my lips, this time much smaller.

"Well, gotta go now―, take care of yourselves. See ya around,"

And Pierson begins walking again, not sparing and neither being spared any words.
I follow suit.

ıllıllııllıllı

Later, we report back to Turner.

Of course he hadn't expected anything to change in the span of just a few hours, but the look he sends the string is one of contempt. It makes sense too, despite his gruff nature, Pierson is one of the best there is. He's experienced, he knows the platoon well― it's strengths and weaknesses.

Without him, even the smallest tasks fall back on Turners shoulders and pile on him mercilessly.

It's only now that I realize I never really thanked the Lieutenant for keeping our condition a secret, only ever loathed him for his decision to have us swapped out. He could've long reported what's happened to us and gotten a new sergeant by his side. But he chose this rocky road just for the two of us.