Women of War - A Band of Brothers Story

Steps Forward

A/N: Would you look at that, I'm still alive. Goodness, almost 5 months since the last update and I couldn't tell you where half that time has gone. Work, uni, hobbies and life's general whackiness, I suppose. And when I finally had free time, seasonal depression hit me like a freight train and the ideas in my head refused to let themselves be put into words.

I'm really sorry that I kept you all waiting for so long, but I didn't want to post something half-baked and it took me nearly a month to rework and edit this chapter until I was satisfied. It's in a more episodic style, which was interesting to try. Let me know what you think.

There will be two more chapters after this one, another episodic chapter and then an epilogue of sorts like in the show, with a description of each woman's life - family, career, achievements, notable events, when they died or if they're still around. I won't make any predictions when these two chapters will be up, but most likely not before late February.

As always, thank you all for reading and leaving comments and if you have any suggestions or ideas, let me know.

9 July 1945

To her own surprise, Frances tolerated her family's well-intended coddling for longer than expected before losing her temper. It might have had something to do with them slowly realising that her injuries rarely bothered or impeded her apart from the slight limp which she suspected was going to be permanent. Unfortunately, this realisation didn't stop her father from trying to make sure she didn't overtax herself – or keep them from fretting over her on those days when her leg or shoulder did bother her.

For the sake of keeping the peace, she grit her teeth and bore the concerned looks and inquiries on the rare occasions she hobbled around with a cane, but eventually, one anxious "oh let me do it, you need to rest your leg" proved to be one too many.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!", she screamed, ignoring the bolt of fire that shot from her knee all the way down to her heel as she surged up from the couch. "For fuck's sake, stop treating me like an invalid!"

Aunt Lola gasped in shock and disapproval. "Frances!"

"But, honey", her Dad began and the concerned confusion in his voice was like oil on the fire inside her.

"No! I'm not an invalid, Dad! I got blown up, yeah, and my leg's pretty fucked up, true, but Jesus Christ, most days, all I have is a bit of a limp! Just because I won't be doing the Charleston anymore doesn't mean I'm fragile or helpless!"

"Sweetheart, nobody is saying that."

"You are!", she accused, tears of frustrated anger springing to her eyes. "With your constant hovering and worrying and fussing! 'Be careful, Frances', 'Don't overdo it, Frances', 'Is it your leg, Frances?'! All you see when you look at me is my injuries!"

The words hung in the air for a beat like gunpowder smoke after an artillery barrage. Her father sat down heavily in the nearest armchair, his brows furrowed and pinched. All of a sudden, he looked every one of his 46 years, and then some.

"Frances Yvonne Shea, I will not stand for such talk under this roof!"

"Lola–"

Aunt Lola cut off his protest: "No, Jim, I won't have it." Hands on her hips, she turned back to her niece, fixing her with a severe stare. "This is not how you respond to concern for your wellbeing and it certainly ain't the way to speak to your father. You sit yourself down and apologise for taking that tone and then you are going have a conversation about what bothers you like the grown-up you are."