A/N: Okay, so I struggled a long time with whether or not I should post this. I admit, I started it four years ago, and then suddenly, I found it again, and…in the past month, I've been writing up a storm (I'm at 300 pages total, currently). I'm actually almost done with it, so while I'll post the chapters a few at a time, I'm definitely gonna have it finished soon. I am also working on AUs that features the same character (-cough-SoulmateModernAU-cough-) Anywho, I hope you enjoy. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
This is done purely for fun, I mean absolutely no offense by any of it! I hope no one is offended. I have nothing but the utmost respect for these men.
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"Sometimes I sit alone under the stars and think of the galaxies inside my heart and truly wonder if anyone will ever want to make sense of all that I am." ―Christopher Poindexter
Chapter 1: Renegade Runaway
"I'm tellin' ya, I didn't take nothin' from ya, Roe!"
"You ain't nothin' but a liar, Branigan! I know you took my fav'rite toy firetruck from me! Give it back!"
"I didn't take nothin'!"
The twin shouts of anger were followed by a chorus of cries and encouragements, as a circle of young boys closed in around the two combatants. Their chanting rose to a crescendo as the two circled each other angrily, one accusing, and one defending.
The accuser lunged, but the defendant ducked, catching the other boy off guard and barreling into him. They hit the ground as a cloud of dirt rose up around them, their already torn and tattered clothing taking as much of a beating as the two combatants.
The defendant had the other boy pinned, fists raised back and falling down hard as they struck, defending words and honor and the injustice of being called a liar and a thief. The pinned youth squawked and hollered, shouting his outrage as the ring of boys closed in, intent on some blood-letting and a good old fashioned brawl. But the defendant ignored it all and threw punch after punch, intent on pounding some sense into the accuser.
All of a sudden, the circle of boys was shoved back, and a pair of strong hands wrapped around the back of the defendant, yanking them backwards as the boy on the ground squalled like a hurt piglet. The defendant writhed in the grasp of the hand on the back of their shirt, never making more noise than a few grunts and savage snarls in the process.
"-The hell is wrong with you two?!"
Both defendant and accuser stared up into a face twisted with angry rage and annoyance at a man, no older than twenty-five, and both went still immediately. The crowd of boys, with the threat of some form of punishment looming overhead, had long since dispersed and vanished as inconspicuously as a large mob was able.
"He accused me of-" the defendant began, pointing a trembling finger at the boy in front of them.
"I don't care what he accused you of." The man turned imperious blue eyes towards the first boy, and growled. "You're that Roe kid, ain'tcha?" At the nod of assent from the accuser, the man growled again. "You better get your skinny little ass home before I whoop it for you, boy. I don't want to catch neither of you two fightin' again, ya hear? Or by God, I'll make sure you can't sit down for a week."
The accuser went rigid, eyes widening at the threat of punishment, and turned on his heel, taking off as fast as his dignity and his legs would carry him. Once he was out of sight, the man turned his gaze to the remainder of the guilty party. "Well, what do you have to say fer yourself?"
The defendant crossed arms scuffed with mud, dirt and a few fresh scrapes from the tumble. "I won."
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"Sam Branigan, you keep gettin' into fights like that, and your face is going to turn into one big lump of bruises."
Sam sat studiously on the chair, not so much twitching even as Mrs. Martha Branigan dabbed a cloth over the wounds her child had acquired in the fight. Sam had long ago become accustomed to being pampered by the matriarch of the family after every fight; and there were certainly a lot of them. Head down, eyes bulled up and defiant, Mrs. Branigan was suddenly struck with how much Sam and her husband resembled each other.
"Oh, you stop giving me that look," she chided, smoothing the cloth over Sam's face and getting a scowl in response. "I swear, you and your father is just like two peas in a pod. Both got that bulled up look on yer face when you get angry. Do you even know who it was you was fightin' with?" A morose face was all she got in response. "You never do. Always just pickin' fights. Lucky your pa shook some sense into that boy. He won't bother you no more." A chuckle from near the door startled her, and in response, she rubbed the cloth a little too roughly over Sam's face, eliciting a smothered yelp.
"Gosh darn it, Seamus Branigan, don't you sneak up on me like that when I'm concentrated on gettin' this rascal of a child of yours all cleaned up." Sam sniggered, and Martha shot a look so cross, her child instantly, and wisely, clammed up.
"Aw, don't be mad, hon. I gotta say, beyond the first few minutes of bein' so damn angry I couldn't see straight, I think Sam won that fight. Or nearly would've, if I hadn't'a come along."
"You watch your mouth, Seamus Branigan !" Martha snapped, scolding him for his use of swears in her presence. "Or you won't be gettin' dinner fer a week. I declare." She huffed, and set the cloth down in the small water basin on the table, before she shooed Sam off the chair. "You two get along and get them cows tended to. I'll get started on makin' dinner."
"And a foine dinner it will be, Mrs. Branigan !" Seamus declared dramatically in his rough, Irish brogue. Both he and Sam had to duck out at a run to avoid the water she sloshed their way.
"Yer lucky I'm even makin' it for you!"
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"Dad?"
"Yeah Sam?"
"Dad…how come everyone is always pickin' fights with me, huh? I didn't do nothin' to them. I never do nothin' wrong. How come, huh?"
Sam's father looked up from the pitch fork he held tightly in hands. hard and callused from years of tough and trying labor. Sam was holding out a bag of feed as one of their older cows (Aptly named 'Bessie,' as most cows were), munched leisurely from the rare and well-loved treat. A few of their other cows, a Jersey or two, some Holsteins, and a Guernsey, had begun meandering over to get their share of the feed, which Sam had begun to scatter around on the ground.
"Well now, Sam. I can't rightly say. Could be because they sense the Irish in you." Here he grinned, clearly making a joke, before he sobered up quickly enough, scooping another fork-full of hay and tossing it over his shoulder to mingle with the feed. "I don't really know, Sam. But you gotta stop this fightin' business. You can't go 'round beating up everyone who throws a cross word yer way. Ya just gotta learn to let it go, kiddo. That's the way things work. 'Sides, once we move up north, you'll be startin' all over. Might as well make an effort to try and get along with people."
Sam pulled a face, and Seamus laughed. "Now, don't ya go givin' me that face, kiddo. Listen, if you promise me you'll try not to get into any more fights, then I'll teach ya how to fight, the real Irish way."
With the way Sam's eyes lit up, Seamus could tell he'd said the right thing. "Ya can't tell your mother, though. And you gotta promise me you'll behave. No more fights, if you can help it. And you're goin' to school and church without any whinin', no questions asked. And at least try tuh look presentable when ya do. Deal?"
Sam grinned broadly, elated at the prospect of learning to fight for real. "It's a deal!"
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"All right, you. Time to wash up fer bed."
Sam whined, the type of whine a kid makes when they really don't want to do anything they're told. Martha just shook her head, pursing her lips and fixing her child with a stern glare as she cleared the table.
"All right, fine," Sam muttered, slinking away from the table to do what Martha had instructed. Martha watched with a triumphant eye, as Seamus just chuckled faintly.
"Ah, leave it to a lass to get things done, eh? Don't know how we'd survive without ya, Martha, me dear."
"Oh shove it," she said playfully, shooting him an impish smile as she cleared the table, setting the dishes in the wash basin to be cleaned later. "Come along then. We better make sure our little fighter gets into bed all right. Never can trust that one, I tell ya," she finished with a quirk of her lips, faintly amused.
They followed Sam to the other room, where a small candle flickered cheerily in the cool night air. Sam had already washed, and was currently pulling on an old, worn, but very comfortable set of sleepwear.
"Into bed, you little rascal," Seamus said fondly, lifting the thick duvet and tucking Sam in. He leaned down and pressed a kiss against Sam's temple, as Martha leaned in to do the same. "Tomorrow," Seamus said sternly. "Yer workin' on the farm with me. No more of this fightin' nonsense, ya hear?"
Sam made a small noise that could've been agreement or annoyance but snuggled down into the comforter. Seamus and Martha smiled softly, snuffing out the candle on the way out as they left their child safely tucked away in bed for a good night's sleep.
"Good night, Samantha. Sweet dreams, my little angel," her mother called from the doorway.
Wrapped up in her blankets, Sam could only smile as she drifted off into a dreamless slumber.
"…Five minutes away from throwing myself off a bridge, Lizzie, I really am."
Elizabeth, or Lizzie, as she was called, turned to see a tall, willowy soldier striding through the tent flap, a scowl on his face that could clear a room. It took her another moment to recognize said face and realize that it didn't belong to a man, but to a woman. "Geeze, Sam," she replied airily, checking something off on her clipboard. "You get any more manly, and you're going to have to start shaving."
"Ha, ha," Sam replied dryly, though couldn't deny it was probably true.
In 1941, the United States had officially gone to war. Sam had been no more than seventeen years old, just barely out of high school (if you could count fist fighting her way through the grades 'school') and had immediately jumped at the chance to volunteer and fight for her country.
Well, maybe 'fight' was a bit of an overstatement.
She'd been labeled a 'nurse,' shoved into a dress, and thrown into a haphazard battlefield nursing school. Whereupon completing, she had immediately rebelled, literally burned her dress, and begged, borrowed or stole a uniform that consisted of regular army fatigues, no dress involved.
With heavy boots, shapeless clothing, and hair so short it could almost be called 'shorn,' Sam was probably the least nurse-iest nurse in the entire army.
Almost a two years later, Sam found herself in Europe, working alongside her fellow nurses and aiding the British army in the fight against the Germans. She'd been stationed in England, and in France, and along with her friend Elizabeth, was now back in England, in Aldbourne, moving supplies in and out of the makeshift base.
Sam had only one friend in the nursing corps, and that was Elizabeth Nixon, who, like herself, had volunteered to serve their country in 1941. They'd trained together, lived together, and had become the best of friends; Lizzie easily put up with Sam's 'quirks' and her apparent 'oddness.' It was the only reason Sam put up with Lizzie, despite the fact that she was an 'annoying woman.' Sam didn't like or trust most people in general unless she really got to know them, so it had taken a while for her to warm up to the Nixon girl. Once she did, though, she didn't regret it.
Mostly.
"I'm serious!" Sam continued, side-stepping Lizzie and grabbing one of the large boxes with ease. Lizzie lifted a brow.
"Serious about what? And by the way, how the hell do you lift those so easily?"
"Watch your mouth, young lady," Sam chastised, usually unwilling to curse since her mother had taught her that it was a terrible, rude habit. Sam was full of contradictions, but being around so many soldiers for so long made it difficult to stick to her guns and the occasional curse did slip out. "Years of getting the snot beat out of you as a kid and beating the snot out of everyone else really helps a gal work out the muscles, ya know?" She snorted, hefting the box higher in her arms. "Anyway, the girls here, Lizzie! I mean, you're all right Liz, but the rest? If I don't strangle, smack, or kick one of them, I'm going to just throw myself off a bridge. It's always 'Oh, they're so dreamy!' 'Oh, just look at those uniforms!' 'Oh, I can't wait to see him again!' If I have to hear one more thing from some lovesick, doe-eyed, air-headed idiot, I'm going to just…" She ended her rant in an inarticulate growl as Lizzie giggled.
"Oh come on. They aren't all that bad, right?"
"One of them asked me on a date."
"Okay, never mind."
Lizzie giggled again as Sam toted the box outside to the back of a waiting truck. "You have to admit," she began as Sam reappeared to grab another. "You do make an awfully appealing target. You're such a pretty man."
"Don't make me smack you, Liz."
Sam scowled as she grabbed the next box. "Boy, will I be glad when our boys get back over here. Give me a break for once." She grunted as she hefted the box up into the air. "They're always making calf-eyes at me, and it's disturbing. Gives me the willies."
"Well, you're in luck, Sammy-girl." Lizzie ignored the look Sam shot her as she stepped back outside. "'Cuz word around town is that the boys are headed back here."
"Really? So I take it they'll be coming in straight from Normandy, eh?"
"Yep. Soon enough."
"Thank God."
Lizzie giggled again, setting her clipboard down as Sam reappeared and swiped her hands together. "All right!" Sam crowed happily. "What say you and I go get a drink, huh? I'm parched. And if you come with me, maybe the girls will stop trying to get me to have dinner with them. I swear, one more time and…" She marched out the tent door, a laughing Lizzie in tow as the two of them strolled down the street.
Sam shoved her hands into her pockets, trying very hard to ignore the pointed looks some of the women shot her as she walked along. "Do I really look that much like a man? Is it that bad, Liz?" she asked, suddenly feeling an unfamiliar surge of self-consciousness as a group of girls flounced by, tittering and flashing her coy smiles as they passed. "I mean, yeah, my hair is short and I don't wear those dam- uh, dang dresses, but I can't be that manly, right?"
"Hon," Lizzie began, smiling earnestly. "You're the prettiest man I ever seen, remember?" She giggled as Sam scowled. "But in all honesty, Sam, you do look…a lot like a guy. But that's just you. This uniform is who you are. If you were in a dress…by God, I doubt I'd even know who you were if we hadn't already trained together back home. Those dresses never suited you. I remember that sour look on your face almost every day!" She leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially. "I can't see no curves or anything in any of the obvious places; you're just one big unshapely lump in that thing. Even out of it, Sam, you don't have the most…curvaceous body out there. You kinda look like a slightly rounded boy in PT gear too. But rest assured, you've got a lovely feminine face, and pretty eyes. I think it's the hair that does it. It's just…you ain't got nothing up top."
Lizzie reached up and battled at one of the tiny curls peeking out from beneath Sam's cap. Her hair was so short; it was almost difficult to find a piece of it to tug on playfully to make a point.
"I do so! You just can't see it 'cuz I keep it all under wraps, so to speak. Geeze," Sam huffed, batting her hand away in mock annoyance when Lizzie shot her a look. "All right. You've made your point, Miss Nixon. Now shut up and walk faster; I really need that drink."
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A/N: Hope you enjoyed! If anything is amiss, please let me know. Reviews are so very much appreciated! Let me know I wasn't wrong to post this garbage I'm writing, hahaha!