blind-dates-fest

[blind-dates-fest]

A couple of months ago I floated the idea for some kind of summer OC Friendship Fest - the idea that you'd be assigned another writer and then would pick a character of theirs to write a brief crossover scene involving one of your own original characters and as many or as few canon characters as you liked.

After some consideration, I don't think I'll be able to host or organize that event this year, but I still think it's a great idea and I'd love to see what more people do with it!

If the spirit moves you, reach out to a friend or fandom acquaintance asking if it would be okay to borrow one of their characters for a short scene. (Hopefully they will say yes!) Maybe you think these two characters would get along really well. Maybe they have the same job, or the same love interest. Maybe you just really like this character and you want to share some of that love with their author.

Unless you know this person really well, I might err on the side of writing a friendly scene, rather than a fistfight. (Unless both of these characters really enjoy fistfights, in which case, go nuts.)

When you post your piece, tag the other author and this blog!

[blind-dates-fest]

I keep coming back to this idea, so I'm going to out it on the table and see what everyone else thinks.

As some of you may know, I run the @blind-dates-fest in February as an opportunity to test out new OCs. For a while now, I've been playing with this idea of a friendship fest - an opportunity to be given the name of another author and write something (a small scene, just like Blind Dates) with one of their characters and yours.

Does that sound like fun, or like a terrible idea?

[blind-dates-fest]

Well Earned

Summary: If there's one thing Bucky enjoys, it's making a woman smile. (He-ey, guess who it is showing up four days late with a pair of aviators (by which i mean the glasses but also - yes, I know I'm not funny). In truth, ya girl 100% thought that the end date for @blind-dates-fest was today, not Saturday, so even in spite of figuring out that was wrong...anyway, I'm not happy about it (in like. any sense.) if that helps. This is the result of having just finished Niels Lyhne, Callum talking about wanting to make Austin smile/laugh, and not kidding when I said the Buck/Meatball dance was my favorite scene. Is it a mess? Yes. Are we just happy to have written something after months of nothing? Yes!)

-

There’s nothing like the smile of a woman.

There’s nothing like the smile of a beautiful woman, and one you’ve caused yourself, at that. Which explains the conflicting feelings at seeing just one such a golden, radiant smile such as he’s never seen before on the face of Lavinia Fennimore. If only he’d caused that.

But no, those brightly painted lips had only parted in utter delight at the sight of Meatball, knees falling out from under her in such a way that he’d have been worried had she not been so clearly thrilled and quite immediately more talkative than he’d ever heard her.

“Aren’t you a gorgeous fellow?” She asks, burying her hands in the soft white fur of his neck. They roam from his shoulder blades to his ears, scratching here and there as she continues — well, Bucky wouldn’t believe it if it weren’t right in front of his eyes — cooing over him. 

And that smile — it flits in and out of view as it presses against Meatball’s head.

“If I’d known that’s all it took,” he trails off, half under his breath.

“I told you,” comes the reply of one Grace Fennimore, smug as only a fourteen year old could be and oblivious, too, to the way he hadn’t quite meant for the comment to be heard. But she’d always been his ally here. Hadn't she said Lavinia loved dogs? Hadn’t she offered up Vinnie’s person well before she’d even begun to offer herself? Hadn’t she been the reason her sister frequented base? Even just now before he’d insisted there was someone I want you to meet, Lavinia had been retrieving Grace from wandering on land that wasn’t theirs anymore and hadn’t been for eons — eons. Just the memory of the word makes him snort.

He winks at Grace just the same. He’d been told not to do that — she’s half in love with you already — and Lavinia might well be right about that but —

Well, he did love to make a woman smile.

Sure, one might argue that Grace isn’t quite yet a woman, but she will be before long and, in spite of the fact that he can’t imagine ever seeing her as anything but the kid she is now, it isn’t hard to see the promise of beauty in her. Fact is, if he really looks, it’s not hard to see her softer face has already begun sharpening like her sister’s in the handful of months he’s known her. And it’s pleasant, really, the way her smile lights up those bright eyes, even if she ducks her head to hide the flush spreading over her cheeks. 

What could a guy say? She’s cute.

“Don’t give him too many compliments. It’ll go right to his head.” Buck’s typically measured voice sounds a bit more gravelly than usual this morning and Bucky’s got more than an idea of why — their eyes lock and Buck shakes his head with a barely concealed smile at the insinuation of the night before in his eyes. Bucky’s grin can only widen, morph into something of the shit eating variety.

So, okay, maybe to be more accurate, he ought to just flat out admit to enjoying making women and Buck smile.

“Oh, the truth does sound like a compliment sometimes. Anyway,” Lavinia pauses at the sight of Gale Cleven, all done up like a proper officer of the Army Air Corps. Bucky doesn’t miss it, even if she covers it up well, hands redoubling their efforts in Meatball’s fur as she makes to right herself. Hadn’t she herself said once that what wasn’t said was often much more interesting than what was? “Isn’t a sizable ego a basic qualification for your Corps?”

Bucky mockingly clutches at his chest, earning a giggle from Grace in concert with his excessive oof. “Didn’t I tell you Lavinia Fennimore could knock a guy down before she even met him?” The ghost of a smile on Buck’s face and nothing more than a lightly quirked brow on Lavinia’s — yeah, that was about right.

“Gale —“

“Buck.”

“— Cleven.”

It’s exactly the kind of exasperated, routine introduction that usually earns at least a little laugh from someone new, even if it’s only confused.

“Buck.” If it can’t be satisfying, Lavinia’s echo of Bucky’s interjection is at least gratifying, in its way. She’s deliberately (even while giving the air of being rather absentmindedly) allowing her fingers to ghost across the top of Meatball’s head in a repetitive little dance. At first, it’s so feather light that he gives a little shake of his head as to remove the sensation, but both — dog and woman — adjust easily, almost imperceptibly — Meatball sitting up just that extra inch more, while Lavinia’s palm drops to the space between his ears and turns so that her whole hand takes up the employment. 

That’s a little miracle in and of itself, that Meatball stays put under her hand instead of heeling under Buck’s.

He can only imagine what she might be thinking, studying Buck’s features against the somewhat uncharacteristically clear blue sky. Or, no, that’s not particularly true — he has a pretty certain idea of what she’s thinking, but he hasn’t a clue how she might be thinking it. Which is to say, she’s probably already composing something about the curve of his jaw, or the way his sunglasses obscure his eyes, or the way his uniform compliments his stature, or — hell, there’s probably something about that one loose little curl of hair, right there against the fair forehead. And there’s no end of ways she might be contrasting against the sky. There’s probably some obscure name for the exact shade of blue it is just now —

He only half expects the usual script of you’re Buck and he’s Bucky? 

“It suits you.”

He’s really not all that surprised she deviates. She’s been doing that from the start. Sure, he’d known that the English weren’t necessarily as friendly, had read somewhere — someone had read somewhere — that they didn’t smile in greeting like the girls back home, but he’d been confident enough in himself to earn them within a few minutes with fairly consistent regularity in those first few weeks. Those first few weeks until he’d come across Lavinia, that is, cozied up in a corner down the pub with a notebook, of all things, splayed out next to her half empty pint glass, pen scratching away in between long looks around the loud, bustling, smoky atmosphere of the room. That he’d talked to her immediately hadn’t been a question — that perfectly coiffed golden hair against wholly unblemished makeup (in spite of the late hour) bringing out every sharply angled feature in her face was too strong a temptation to ignore (and John Egan wasn’t much for not giving into temptation, anyway) — but the lack of even a hint of an uptick at the edge of those perfectly proportion lips had been a surprise.

So, too, was the slow way it had finally come, some ten days and several conversations later, when he’d learned from her little sister that she was a poet and had finally asked her in a half teasing, half frustrated manner what would you know of pain and suffering anyway. He’d never forget it — bright eyes flashing up to his as she’d leaned back against the booth for the first time, her body somehow at ease now, relaxed, and there — white teeth in sharp contrast to a pair of red lips parted over them, and rising, rising —

“I agree,” Grace says now, crossing her arms and shifting her weight as she leans in survey of his best friend, almost as though she means to imitate her sister — but it didn’t take a particularly long acquaintance to know she’d be offended by the notion if he said as much. Said sister’s head whips in her direction. Strange. Like she’s almost forgotten Grace is there, though she certainly never would’ve been here herself if not.

“Oh? Why’s that?” 

“You look like Buck,” Bucky says, each word measured in emphasis that also somehow manages to be a tease on Buck’s own speech patterns. It pulls that grin back to Grace’s face, the one that had been slipping as she’d looked back toward her sister in uncertainty as to why they’d said the name suited.

“Have you ever read Jack London?” Lavinia asks, ignoring them both. Bucky pulls a face in Grace’s direction and the laugh that might one day be considered melodic, once she learned to tone it appropriately, bursts forth. He doesn’t even have to look at Lavinia’s face to know exactly what her eyes are saying. 

Don’t encourage her.

“The local library’s not exactly teeming, ‘Vinia,” he says, one finger expertly adjusting his cap with the knock of his knuckle and damn, he can practically hear Grace’s little sigh.

Yeah, maybe Lavinia had a point there.

“I admire your skepticism, Major, and I suppose you’re right. A personal library can only be so large, but I can assure you we’re quite the largest in the neighborhood.”

“And we’re always open,” Grace adds. Whether it’s as helpful as she intended is a matter of some debate.

“We hold reasonable hours,” Lavinia offers in compromise and Bucky doesn’t have to do much to imagine why. A widower with a pair of pretty daughters and a large estate isn’t likely to have patience for a local young man coming around at all hours, let alone gung-ho American airmen. “I’ll drop London off sometime, if you’d like.”

Buck might’ve been open to it, but Bucky has more pressing issues.

“‘Major’? What happened to ‘Bucky’?”

“Ignore him,” Buck offers, instead, rolling his eyes good naturedly. But Lavinia’s known him long enough already herself, and knows just how to respond.

“I really couldn’t say and yet, happily, you’re quite uniquely suited to answer that question yourself.” With that, she offers another particularly strong scratch to the head of the dog at her side, a little smile tugging at her lips as his own part in a pant looking up at her. God, the dog does better than he does — “As it is, if you’ll excuse us, we really ought to be going. Pleasure to meet you, Buck.” Fuck, she just smiled at him. “Major.”

“Vinnie,” Grace groans, just as Bucky laughs with an, “oh, come on!”

She’s wheedling him and she knows she’s doing it, too. What’s more — she knows he knows she’s doing it.

“Shakespeare won’t wait forever, duck,” she says, spinning Grace around with a hand on each shoulder. They look like they’re prepared to march and the muttered that’s all he’s been doing for hundreds of years under Grace’s breath rather insinuates she sees it as more or less the precise case — marching to the gallows, as it were — and he has some experience with that.

But what really knocks him is the last tilt of her head back in his direction just before they really take off, a mischievous glint in her eye that he’s getting better at reading, and adds, “He’s more my speed than you.”

A deep chuckle sounds at his side with their retreat, grows into a real laugh as Bucky shoves the source and shouts after them.

“We go the same speed, Vinnie!”

It’s a shame, really, that he can’t see the loud grin Lavinia doesn’t even bother trying to stifle. After all, she thinks, maybe he’s finally earned it.

[blind-dates-fest]

2024 Blind Dates Fest Submissions

Anne Julia Randall | Outlander | @aloveforjaneausten

Anthony "Tonk-Tonk" Roberts | Foyle's War | @darkhorse-javert

Cressida Dorrance-Jones | Masters of the Air | @basilone

Eliana "Ana" Holloway | Masters of the Air | @jump-wings

Freda "Fred" Torvaldsen | Masters of the Air | @mercurygray

Florence "Flo" Godfrey | Masters of the Air | @wexhappyxfew

Genevieve Laurent | Masters of the Air | @latibvles

Lavinia Fennimore | Masters of the Air | @loveduringthewar

Lisbeth Hahn | Masters of the Air | @fidelias

Lucy Jones | Masters of the Air | @basilone

Magdalena "Maggie" Zielinski | Masters of the Air | @trenchenjoyer

Marion Brennan | Masters of the Air | @mercurygray

Patsy Harangody | The Pacific | @noneedtoamputate

Paulette Schafer | Band of Brothers | @shoshiwrites

Samantha "Mandy" Majors | The Pacific | @softguarnere

Simon "Sim" Stewart | Foyle's War | @darkhorse-javert

Winifred "Winnie" Harris | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @ladyyennefer

We did this for fun, to try something new, to try a new fandom, to get back into writing, to challenge ourselves, to keep it short and simple, to get an idea that wouldn't leave us alone out of our heads, and I love this for all of us.

A huge round of applause to everyone who participated this year as a writer, reader, or general-hanger-on.

[blind-dates-fest]

2024 Fest - By the Numbers!

16 fest submissions for 6 different fandoms 3 authors wrote multiple characters 5 first-time fest participants

[blind-dates-fest]

'News to the Desert'

Introducing Simon 'Sim' Stewart, and to some extent his father Benjamin Stewart (who has made a prior apperance in my writing). Respectively they're Sam's Cousion and Uncle. @blind-dates-fest

North African Desert 1942

A towselled head pops out of the canvas back of the lorry, grins at him, offering a thick bundle in oilskin, “Post has come in, Sir.”

“Righto, Sergeant” He takes the offered bundle, turns to the thick group of his men, cramped together behind him in the path of their camp. They're standing steady, but they're concentrated on the letters in his arms. He pulls them out of the packet, turns up the first one

“Tods, J.” One man presses forwards, takes a bunch of letters wrapped together

“Smith, A J,

“Sergeant Todd..”

It carries on

At last, only one packet is left, a thin one, perhaps only two letters.or a thick one. He pulls off the cover. Two it is, numbered as is the family want.

He pulls out the first, father's familiar handwriting rolling across the thin page, and shimmering through from the other side.

Dear Sim,

We hope you are well out there and in good spirits. We two are quite well here at home, and you probably have heard more of Edwin than we have here, his last letter spoke of being ‘well but dusty’. But then, we suppose, sending post from where we guess you are is not the easiest undertaking.

Things have been very peaceful here, the church choir is carrying on very well, in spite of everything. I confess to being selfishly glad when James Robbins failed his call-up medical a few weeks ago - on account of the rheumatic fever he had as a baby - at least for now we may retain one reliable baritone voice, especially as we lost many of the younger Altos last year. But those are minor matters, and highly selfish in motivation to boot. Services are still well attended here.

‘The two scamps’ send you their luck and good wishes (if we’re being literal, they ask that you “get lots of Nazi’s” - bloodthirsty young pair, I and your mother only ask that you stay safe).

The wider family all report they are well, your Uncle Iain and Aunt Margaret have had no close shaves, despite being on the South Coast. 

By far the grandest item of news from the family is that Samatha is to be married, on 6th November. Her husband-to-be is an RAF fighter pilot, and also the son of the Detective Inspector she has been driving since she was attached to the Police.

He pauses, quietly re-reads the sentences for a moment, then continues the letter.

You may find this news to come out of the blue, but cannot be as surprised as your Uncle Iain was.  If I am reading his letter correctly,  the first he heard of the young gentleman was when a letter from the young man arrived asking for consent to the marriage. It has later emerged that Samantha has been walking out with him, his duties permitting, since the autumn of 1940. And for not one of us to any the wiser to it in the intervening time. 

He smiles at the letter, 

Oh, well played, Sammy, well done indeed. We always think of you as our ‘little cousin’, myself included in that regard. But - he lets his mind drift back to that last pre-war Summer - you were quite grown up back then, the Lady of the Vicarage with Aunt Margaret’s health as it was, joining the forces won’t have hindered that, probably helped. You’re not a girl in plaits anymore, to be trotted out in Sunday Best. Another memory; ginger plaits and a freckled face as he looked down through gaps in tree branches, to see a much younger Sammy determinedly climbing after him 

His father’s pen has paused, and then continued with blacker ink; You may perhaps be able to imagine your Uncle Iain’s reaction to all of this, Sim. 

Chuckles tickle his throat and wobble his shoulders at that. Dear Uncle Iain, as pastorally and kindly minded as he is, will have been roundly knocked for six by the apparently sudden news, and knocked again when Samantha’s ‘deception’ came to light. He almost feels sorry for his youngest uncle, what little of him isn’t childishly egging Sam on in her little flash of independence, perhaps even defiance 

That said his father’s letter continues, Iain has been a little mollified since actually meeting the young man (Andrew by name) in person. He reports he is a very decent and well-mannered young man, who clearly cares deeply for Samantha. I would also add, and your mother reckons similarly, that the depth of feeling is mutual between them, given she has been keeping Andrew so quiet- and away from ‘familial interference’. We await further news as to the location of the wedding and other particulars. We’re planning to get together a hamper here, as a present. If you get this before early November, send a telegram down to Hastings for congratulations would you?

With our prayers for your safety and health, do write when you can

And much love

Your Father and Mother

Simon consults the date on the letter, mid-October. And right now it’s 3rd November. 

He pauses, At least I think it is 

This poor letter has been wandering across the desert at snails pace -or to be more charitable at Post pace, while they’ve been moving at speed after Rommel’s boys. There might be time to get a telegram in before the wedding, if the telegram operators are nearby, and there isn’t anything of greater priority to go down the line. If not, it will have to go by post as a letter, and then be telegramed,but worth a try at least.

[blind-dates-fest]

Anthony 'Tonk-Tonk’ Roberts (Blind Dates OC)

This might be a bit of a cheat @blind-dates-fest (?), as I have written about this character before, and in passing in some of my fic. But here's another whole peice from his perspective.

Late Summer 1945 France

The flat land is plain and simple, smooth fields, distinguised from from England by the beautifully lined trees on some of the roads, otherwise it isn't really that different. Strange how feral and dangerous it had been only two years ago. Music reaches his ears and he realises he's humming again, very softly. Clair de Lune. Well, safer than La Marseillaise used to be, or God forbid, one of the favoured songs from the Mess. How often in the blind terror of needing to be quiet, had those got stuck in his head, and he'd had to swallow them back.

A wall rises in front of them, and the bus draws up. The conductor stands and calls out clearly, "Nouvion, Messieurs and Mesdames, Nouvion."

It's a sudden shock, the word pronounced so clearly, in the French accent. He climbes to his feet and pulls down the haversack, joining the exodus down the centre aisle. He climbs down the steps and stills. I'm here

A French bark of annoyance behind him and an elbow jolts him forwards, so he stumble walks through the arch. this time he stops with his back to the town wall.

It's all here, exactly the same as it had been. The fountain, the spindly trees- those look better than he remembers actually - the shops, that shabby little blue awning over the cafe, even the cobbles have barely changed.

No, there's one different thing. He crosses the square to the statue set in the dip in the wall. It is Him, the cafe owner, as to the very life, even holding out a menu.

'E is Msuir Rene" a woman's voice says in heavily accented English "E 'Nighthawk' in La Resistance in La Guerre. 'E very brave."

"Yes He helped me in the War." He tries to say in French, knows it comes out garbled, more broken than he wants. He can at least ask. Monsieur Rene, is he alive?" He's had one of the exiles drill that question into his head, the sylabelles rote.

The woman nods and waves to the building they are next to "Yes, yes "'E iz alive. 'e run the Café."

He turns with her guesture. The painted name is proud on the front. Café Réné. Here at last.

He bows slightly to the woman "Merci, Madame." Now if i remember, he weaves through the little tables and their woven chairs, then pushes open the door.

The bell clatters it's warning as he steps inside,and the black and white back of the broad man behind the bar turned, revealing Monsuir Rene in his long plainfaced, slightly portly way. Still the same

"Good Afternoon"- the man called in French "You would like a table?"

These phrases he knows easily, knows through the repetition of the months living here, and hearing them day in day out. Even if they are now spoken more quickly -the speed of full french, not dragged out for his or the German's benefit.

His mouth is dry, as if he's been chewing leftover ship-biscuit, "Msuir - je suis un aviator." Was it un?, he racked his mind, it would have to do "un Pilote British." He tapped his chest, waved back towards Rene In La guerre vous-" Oh, what the sod was 'help' in French? he pointed to himself, then the floor "moi hide ici. Je suis RAF. je suis Anthony Roberts."

Monsuer Rene was frowning in concentration as he listened, then his face lit up with a slightly too wide smile. "You (something) here, Welcome, Welcome, Good very good." The man is keeping his French very simple.

"Thank you, Monsieur. Thank You." It's all he can manage suddenly, to repete the words with great fervour, as if that is really enough. They could have been shot for hiding me.

And there's one of the waitresses, the taller dark-haired one he remembers, comes trotting up "What is your name?" she asks in good English "zere were many pilots here."

"Je suis Robert Je suis- he flutters his fingers in the air, at which they both look blank. The piano is still there, he strides over to it, flipping the cover, even as they rush, probably to try and stop him.

Those were the notes. Bent over he begins to play, one of the lead pieces from the Madame's Caberet evenings. He looks over his shoulder towards them, and there is dawning understanding and recognition. He

"Rober, Rober." Yvette claps her hands, "Welcome back."

He grins, sits down and morphs the tune into La Marseillaise. how many times had he wanted to do that, but hadn't dared. Now I can.

[blind-dates-fest]

Funny Girl

BLIND DATES FEST 2024

Introducing: Magdalena "Maggie" Zielinski (ft. Ken Lemmons) I'm so excited to be participating in @blind-dates-fest 2024! Thank you to @mercurygray for hosting. I didn't even realize this was happening until today, but I just knew I had to participate. Meet Maggie, your new favorite ground crew girl - I hope you guys love her as much as I do. Show: Masters of the Air

“And that’s how you clean a hardstand.”

Maggie whooped as she watched the fuel go up in flames. Somehow, despite hardstand cleaning being a near-daily occurrence in the ground crew’s lives, watching the oil burn off the concrete never really lost its allure.

“That’s one hot bastard!” the boy next to Lemmons yelled, voice full of a wonder entirely at odds with the profanity that spilled from his lips. Maggie burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” a small, oh-so-English voice asked.

“Nothing, Grace,” she replied, trying desperately to smother her laughter. “Now try to keep your head still for me, okay?”

For an air base, Thorpe Abbotts sure had a lot of children running around. And by god, had those kids already seen enough war to last a lifetime.

So, in between fixing engines and cleaning hardstands, she and the rest of the ground crew did their best to make sure that their childhood memories wouldn’t entirely consist of air raids and rationing.

Grace was a sweet, shy little girl with a mop of shiny brown hair and perpetually dirty knees. That afternoon, she’d scurried up to Maggie and asked her, voice barely louder than a whisper, if Maggie could please plait her hair the way she plaits hers because she thinks it’s really pretty and she’s tried to do it herself but it never looks quite right.

Maggie had obliged, obviously—how on earth could she ever say no? Besides, she was glad that at least someone on base appreciated her hairstyle. She knew her two twin braids weren’t the most fashionable hairdo on earth, but they kept the hair out of her eyes better than anything else she’d tried. Lord knew there was nothing worse than having to constantly swipe flyaways out of your face when repairing a fort.

Her hands made light work of Grace’s hair. For all that it looked wild and unkempt, it was surprisingly soft. She tied off each braid with a little piece of cord—she wished she had ribbons, but this would have to do for now.

“All done,” she said as she finished tying the last knot. “You look swell.”

Grace turned and smiled, missing teeth and all. 

“Thank you!” she cried.

“No problem, sweetheart,” Maggie replied. “I don’t got a mirror for you, but I think Helen might have one. Maybe you can convince her to give you a donut, too.”

She didn’t have to tell her twice. The girl leapt off of the stack of crates which the two were sitting on and bolted off, braids flapping in the wind.

“That was pretty damn sweet of you, Zielinski.” 

Ken Lemmons had just finished shooing the two boys off the hardstand as the fuel fire quickly petered out. 

Maggie looked up. Had any other man on base told her that, she would have assumed he was making fun of her. With Lemmons, there was never any doubt that the man was being genuine. It was just the way he was.

“Well, not all of us can teach the kids to swear and light things on fire,” she replied.

Lemmons chuckled.

“Hey, you thought it was funny, too. I’m pretty sure the whole base could hear you cackling.”

“Oh, please, I wasn’t that loud, was I?” she asked, face flushing. “Oh, who am I kidding. Getting that little Englishman to curse was the funniest thing I’ve seen all week.”

Lemmons began to snicker. It was contagious. Before she knew it, Maggie was laughing to.

“C’mon,” he said, holding out a hand. “The forts’ll be back any minute. We’d better get ready.”

“Yeah,” Maggie replied, accepting his outstretched hand and hopping off the crates. “I suppose we should.”

[blind-dates-fest]

first submission for @blind-dates-fest and my first oc in...well, a long time :) it's good to be back!

Thorpe Abbotts was different from London in lots of ways, but only one of those mattered to Lisbeth.

There was no screaming.

In London, it seemed like there was always screaming. From the wail of the air raid sirens to the cries of people who’d woken up to find out they’d lost loved ones, the noise never stopped. Lisbeth could hear it even when she slept. She couldn’t help but wonder if it would follow her down here too.

“You’re the new girl, right?”

The voice made Lisbeth jump. She turned, fingers clutched tight around the handle of her suitcase. “Yes?” Too soft. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes.”

The pretty dark-haired woman who had spoken jumped down lightly from the Red Cross truck and held out her hand, a smile on her face. “Nice to meet you. I’m Helen. I came here to pick you up.”

Lisbeth took the offered hand and dredged up a smile of her own, though it felt weak even to her. “I’m Lisbeth. Lisbeth Hahn.”

“Welcome to Thorpe Abbotts, Lisbeth. Do you need some help with that? Seems kind of heavy.”

Lisbeth glanced down at the suitcase and back up, shaking her head. “Uh, n-no. Thank you. It’s fine.” 

Helen didn’t seem upset by her refusal. “Alright, then. Come on, I’ll take you back to base in time for dinner. You must be starving.”

“A little.” As if to refute the understatement, Lisbeth’s stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. Her cheeks burned and she dropped her head. “Sorry.”

Helen only laughed. “Don’t apologise. When I first arrived, I was still seasick from the boat and I think I’d only had a sandwich in the morning before taking the train down here. The others were the same. You’re in good company.” 

Lisbeth's lips curled up into a smile involuntarily. It was a strange feeling. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled without faking it.

“You’re not from the States, are you?” Helen asked as they drove through the village.

“No. English, born and bred.” Well. At least three quarters of her was. But Helen didn’t need to know that.

“Most of us are Americans, but don’t worry, we’ve got Brits too. Even a couple of French and Dutch girls. To be honest, it doesn’t really matter. We’re all like family now.

“Speaking of family, how do your folks feel about you coming out here?” Helen continued as she turned a corner.

Lisbeth dug her nails into her palms so hard it hurt. “They’re…fine. Worried. But proud, I think.”

Maybe. Hard to say when she didn't even know if they were alive. There had been no news from Warsaw since Hitler had taken over. But she hoped so hard they would be. It was bad enough that she’d left them, not to mention failing out of nursing training barely two months in. At least this way when she saw them, she could say that she’d done something. 

If I ever see them again. The dark, insinuating fear uncurled itself from the corner where she’d buried it and coiled itself around her throat. 

No. She couldn’t break down like this, not now. Not on her first day. 

Breathe. In, out. In, out. She turned her head to stare out the window, not wanting Helen to notice. 

Children raced by, laughing and chattering among themselves. An elderly woman in a pinafore hung her washing out in the front yard. Several RAF men in blue stood smoking cigarettes outside the pub. It was strangely…peaceful. Little by little, the air eased its way back into her lungs.

“When do I start work?” she asked, partly curious, and partly to fill the silence. The last thing she needed was to alienate someone she would be working with later. 

“Tomorrow morning. There’s a party on base tonight, so we might be up a bit later than usual, but we only get up really early on mission days.”

Lisbeth’s mouth went dry. “Party?”

Helen nodded brightly. “It’s not all work and no play. We celebrate any time a mission goes well.”

“And you’re allowed to go?” 

Helen glanced at her. “We’re part of the team, so yes. Fraternisation is allowed but not overly encouraged - I’m supposed to tell you that beforehand. Personally, I like Benny Goodman and free drinks, and it’s one of the few times we get to relax. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, though.”

Lisbeth nodded. This job certainly seemed different to nursing. Hopefully she wouldn’t let everyone down.

“Anything else you want to know before we arrive?” Helen asked as they turned the bend out of the village and down a muddy road flanked by marsh grass. In the distance, Lisbeth could see the blurry outlines of planes and hastily constructed metal buildings. 

“Are there any pets?” It was an stupid question, one she instantly regretted. But Helen only smiled.

“You’re in luck. We’ve got two cats who come around every so often for a saucer of milk, and then there’s the dog, Meatball. Technically he belongs to one of the pilots, but everyone on base spoils him rotten. Unless…you’re not scared of dogs, are you?”

Some of the tightness in Lisbeth’s chest abated. “No. I like them.”

Maybe the screaming wouldn’t follow her here after all. 

[blind-dates-fest]

Fandom: Masters of the Air Written for: @blind-dates-fest as my second 2024 entry! Introducing: Lucy Jones

Bubbles can’t fly like this.

It’s the first thing that pushes past the loop of flying today up in the sky today flying today that has been rampaging through his head since they sent for him. Harry needs to take only one look at Bubbles – miserable, shivering, looking pale and peaky – to know that his friend’s grounded by circumstances beyond his control. It’s a fact of life that Bubbles would be up there no problem if his stomach allowed for it, just as it is a fact that he’s huddled beneath a blanket looking mightily sorry for himself right now.

He pays Bubbles the same glowing compliment the man always pays him – you look like shit – and is rewarded for it with a supply hand-off and the worst news Harry’s heard all week.

“We’re leading the wing today.”

Harry’s somewhat proud of himself for not dropping any of his supplies. Even prouder of the fact that his voice doesn’t quite squeak, really, when he tells Bubbles he can’t just lead a wing. They can’t let him do that. They can’t just stick him up there and make that happen. Aren’t there rules to this sort of thing?

But Bubbles is talking already – talking mission, talking fact – and Harry’s got no choice but to try and commit it all to memory. He’s creating a visual in his head that he hopes Bubbles stored on paper in that hand-off somewhere. A map, a direction, anything beyond the vague sense of foreboding that resides in his gut and the near-gibberish that’s running its course in the back of his mind. Leading the wing. Leading the goddamn wing.

“Great Yarmouth,” he confirms once Bubbles finishes up. Harry feels as sick as Bubbles looks – all queasy inside – but he nods to make Bubbles feel better about handing off a bombing run like that. “Yeah.”

“Don’t be nervous.”

“And don’t stand so close to your buddy,” pipes up a new, rather upbeat voice somewhere to his left. “Unless you wanna get sick on the plane.”

The first thing Harry sees when he looks in the voice’s direction is a raised eyebrow that could rival his mother’s. The second thing he sees is a white uniform, pristine except for some faded pink stains at the sleeve cuffs, and dark hair pulled into a tight knot. Her face is passably familiar – dark eyes, button nose, little dimple in her chin – but Harry will be damned if he can remember a name to go with that.

“Nobody’s getting sick on the plane, Lu!” shouts Major Egan, clearly knowing the woman a hell of a lot better than Harry does. “Scout’s honor!”

“Boy, you’d better pray that’s true,” mutters the woman – Lu – loud enough for Harry to make out. “Don’t know what the hell you were thinking letting him on the damn plane in the first place. Sick as a dog and all. If this is a virus, John”– she remarks, now raising her voice for Major Egan to hear –“you are gonna regret that take-off like no tomorrow!”

“Hey, if we all get sick, can we be in your club?”

Harry decides he rather likes Lu when she heaves a deep sigh and stalks over to the jeep Bubbles is seated on. She is thoroughly ignoring the major, who’s standing behind her with his arms wide and looking almost as quizzical as Meatball does when DeMarco’s hiding his treats again. Lu slings her bag into the back of the jeep before stepping closer to Bubbles.

“When I drive you,” she says without preamble, “you lean backward as far as you can go. Tilt your head back and breathe. I’ll not have you sick up in my baby, all right?” She pats the jeep’s side almost lovingly. “Any move the jeep makes, you lean the other way. Breathe deep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Does that help?” asks Harry, curious despite himself. “The breathing?”

“Eh, fifty fifty,” she says, wobbling her hand back and forth uncertainly. “Sure doesn’t hurt, though! Little trick one of the airsick girls taught us. She’s in ops now, but we owe her for that one.” Lu’s hand disappears into one of her pockets. “Got something else that might… Yeah… Hang on.”

“Lu, the club?” asks Egan again, coming to stand beside Harry. “Are we in or not?”

“Which club?”

“Y-Yeah,” shivers Bubbles, “what club?”

“No, John, you won’t be in my Lucy’s Losers club,” she remarks patiently as she pulls her hand out of her pocket to proudly show off a small bottle. “You’ll be chewing on this. Ginger. Keeps you from sicking up in your plane. Keeps whatever he’s got”– she nods at an increasingly morose-looking Bubbles –“at bay, too.” A pause. A frown. “I hope.”

“It’s probably just food poisoning…”

“That is in no way the reassurance you probably intended for it to be,” says Lu, frowning even more deeply at Bubbles as she holds the bottle out to them. “You’ve all been eating the same meals, for crying out loud. You, what’s your name?”

Harry blinks at her. “Me? It’s, uh, Harry. Harry Crosby. Ma’am.”

“Okay, Harry, you take the bottle. John’s going to be popping these like candy if left unsupervised, so I am entrusting you with it.” Her frown vanishes into a bright flash of a smile as Harry takes the bottle from her outstretched hand. He smiles back a little tremulously, not daring to hope that she’s just handed him his actual salvation. “There’s a good man. You hold on tight to that, okay?”

“Hold on to this, too,” says Bubbles, shoving something else into Harry’s increasingly full hands. It’s small, round, and entirely too fragile for Harry to be holding. He swallows as Bubbles clarifies. “Lucky snow globe.”

“Thanks?”

“Lu, if we still get sick despite the ginger and the breathing,” says Egan, clearly not feeling the same slight glimmer of hope that’s taken firm root in Harry’s belly despite his best efforts to remain calm, “I’m going to rename my plane.”

“You do that.”

“I’ll name it Lucy’s Losers. Can just see it now. Nice lettering on the side. Splash of color.”

“You’re forgetting I have friends in high places.”

“Your twin might disown you at last, though,” he counters, smiling. “Can just hear her now. Unbecoming of the Dorrance-Jones name and all that.”

“That’s not new,” snorts Lu, “but my boot up your ass is going to feel real new if you dare put my name on the side of a fortress, John Clarence Egan.”

“You’re not wearing boots, so I’ll be safe.”

“You’re not getting sick,” she warns, smiling back, “so the point is moot. Now go on, off with you. You’ve got a flight to catch, don’t ya?”

“Nurse’s orders,” grins Egan as he strides off toward their plane without so much as a farewell word for Lu and Bubbles beyond a wink. “You ever argue with those?”

“Can’t say I have, sir,” says Harry, trying to keep up while juggling multiple items in his hands. “Doesn’t seem smart to. Like arguing with your wife.” He hasn’t argued with Jean except for that one time she was stressing out over napkin placement at their wedding. Still, the point stands. “They know what’s good for us.” He holds the bottle up to the light. Squints at the pieces of ginger inside. “Worth a try?”

“I don’t get sick easily, but pass it around the plane. Just in case she’s right. It’s a bit of a ride to Norway.”

I’m gonna need all the help I can get. Harry nods. Clutches the bottle a little tighter. Leading the wing. Norway. He takes a deep breath. Then another. Follows Egan up into the fortress and prays Lucy Dorrance-Jones knows her way around queasy stomachs.

It can’t get worse, surely?

[blind-dates-fest]

Gathered up my courage and jumped in on @blind-dates-fest 2024 with a fandom I have not written for before (that’s in a time period I’m slightly terrified to write for)- so yay for getting outside the comfort zone!

I’ve also dropped a tiny morsel of my other OC that I had already created but have yet to introduce to the fandom while I was at it because, well, I can.

Thank you so much @mercurygray for hosting this wonderful event.

Without further ado, please let me introduce Cpl. Winifred “Winnie” Harris for the SAS: Rogue Heroes fandom.

If there was one thing Winnie loved about Cairo, it was that the sun was always shining. Granted, it was hot and sticky, making sweat drip down her back, but it was bright and consistent and that was something to a girl who grew up with a weather pattern that changed by the hour. The sky was always blue too, and it was frequently the backdrop to an array of strange and beautiful birds that fascinated her. She would miss it when she returned home. 

If there is even a home to go back to, she thought miserably.

She knew what the papers reported, heard the gossip through headquarters, connected enough calls, that she inevitably thought of her father and little brother still at home. Though they insisted the bombings were far from them and everything was running as smoothly as ever, with the exception of the poor performing ram her father bought off the neighbor last spring, it was hard to chase the worry completely from her mind. 

The nature of war, she imagined. Everyone was worried about someone or something. All she had to do was look in the faces of those working around her to know that.

The green was bustling with activity; all the benches and a good portion of the grass had been claimed by people like her, taking a moment to enjoy the weather, some relaxing with lunches or a mid day nap, while others rushed across to finish their daily errands. Officers and enlisted personnel came and went from headquarters in a steady pace, most of them clean and fresh faced, their worries of the day involving various forms of paper shuffling, or perhaps the occasional bout of plotting, but she didn’t miss the few that wore the desert and the marks of war on their uniform. The look in their eyes told her all she needed to know. 

Tobruk had been hit again and the hospital had been inundated with the casualties all day. She’d spent much of her shift connecting lines in and out of the upstairs offices, the switchboard alight with demands from across the ocean and pleas for help from those still holding their ground, and it was only now, three hours past noon, that there had been a lull long enough that Winnie had been able to step away and eat the measly lunch that was provided. Not that anything looked appealing at the moment. It never looked particularly appealing, if she was to be honest, and it was a good thing that the Army did not rely on the promise of good food to up their recruitment numbers in the African campaign.

Beside her, a dirt covered mongrel leaned against her, its large brown eyes looking up at her in wonder. “I don’t think this is even fit for you to eat, but I can’t say no to a face like that.”  

The dog offered no complaint and finished the offering in two quick bites before giving her hand a nudge, demanding his customary post lunch pats.

Since she first landed in Cairo, Winnie had taken it upon herself to offer food to a friendly stray if they approached her and this one was just the latest of her wards. The unnamed pooch had joined her for lunch a few weeks back and since then he waited around for her each day to share a meal and receive some pats before they both went their separate ways. It was a bright spot in her day, and she liked to think it was one for him as well. 

Had the circumstances been different, Winnie would have brought him home the first day they’d met, hating the idea of him living on the streets, at the mercy of men who had hardened with war and on more than one occasion, had proven they had little empathy for the strays of Cairo, but the apartment she lived in was small and she didn’t dare push the hospitality of her roommate. 

Felicity wouldn’t have batted an eye, had Winnie brought the dog home, welcoming the four legged friend in with open arms, but Winnie felt like she had already imposed enough on her friend. Not only had Felicity offered up the spare bedroom of her apartment so Winnie didn’t have to stay in army housing, and left a standing invitation to her family’s Sunday dinners, but she was also tolerating a handful of misfit creatures that had already made their way home on various occasions. 

Currently, the apartment was a landing spot for a parrot that had belonged to a sailor, who had offered no promise of a return date, a litter of kittens that Winnie swore she was just feeding until they were big enough to go back to their home in the alley behind the apartment building, a mud colored terrier that had been rescued from a group of drunken enlisted men and was supposed to be going to Felicity’s parent’s house any day now, and a one eyed cat named Miss Fiz that had belonged to an elderly lady in the building who had passed away and had, on her own accord, claimed Winnie’s bed as her new home. 

They were, for better or worse, at full capacity.

“More wounded are expected,” she told the dog, “and General Auchinleck doesn’t seem to have an answer for the troops still holding position. None of the supplies are making it.”

The dog groaned in appreciation when she moved to scratch behind his ears.

“And you know those crates of champagne I told you about a couple weeks ago? Apparently, they were for some well to do for the upper brass. It would seem anyone with a pin on their shoulder in the greater Cairo area were enjoying themselves while men were getting shelled on the coast. What do you think about that?” 

“I imagine he doesn’t approve of it much.”

Startled, Winnie jerked her head up. A tall, lean soldier, his hair neatly parted on one side, stood in front of her. His army issued kaki was just like all the rest, worn but serviceable, and though his sunglasses hid his eyes, his face was clean and he didn’t smell like death, so she surmised he must be posted somewhere near the city rather than a man who came in from Tobruk.

“I would hope so.” Unfazed at being caught talking to a dog, a common occurrence at this point, she smiled up at the stranger. “But he doesn’t say much one way or the other, so for now, we’ll just have to put him on the side of the enlisted men.” 

The corner of the tall man’s mouth tipped up with amusement before he crouched down to the dog’s level and reached out to ruffle his ears. “Does your companion have a name?”

“Not yet.”

His brows drew down in confusion, but when he spoke it was to the dog and not her. “Well no wonder you don’t tell her much. What kind of owner doesn’t name their dog.”

It was Winnie’s turn to frown. “He’s not my dog. He’s a stray,” she said, indignantly. “Besides, I haven’t found a name that suits him yet.”

The man studied the dog’s face for a moment, squishing the skin up around the eyes like one the wrinkle faced pugs Winnie’s aunt used to own before releasing it and scratching his ears once more. “He seems like a Withers to me.”

“Withers? What kind of name is Withers?”

“A good one.”

She scoffed.

“And I suppose you would have preferred what… Scout? Or maybe Champ?”

“Actually, I had been thinking of calling him Milo.” She hadn’t been, he certainly didn’t look like a Milo to her, but she had to think of something. Anything would be better than Withers.

He huffed, his distaste of the name obvious.

“And what,” she searched for any sort of identification on his person, her eyes finally settling on the star on his shoulder, “is wrong with the name Milo, Lieutenant?”

“What’s wrong with the name Withers?” he countered.

“It’s a spot on a horse’s back, not a name for a dog.”

“Well, his shoulders sure stick out enough to look like a horse’s withers.”

He wasn’t wrong. Her lunch rations and the few bits she saved for him from her breakfast was not enough to keep him well fed. But something was better than nothing and he wasn’t running around skin and bones so she figured he was finding food elsewhere.

“Sadly, additional canine rations are not provided in the enlisted personnel’s lunch.”

“No, I imagine they aren’t. But I have a feeling he has eaten his fair share all the same.”

There wasn’t a hint of reprimand in his voice and Winnie found herself charmed by the stranger. “Perhaps, Lieutenant…”

“Fraser.” He rose from his spot beside the dog and extended a hand towards her. “Bill Fraser”

“Corporal Winifred Harris,” she said, ignoring his hand, instead saluting him as she rose. His face seemed to flush under the Egyptian sun and she couldn’t hide her amusement. “First time being saluted by a woman?”

The men at headquarters seemed to live and die by the gesture, if the way they puffed out their chest every time was any indicator, but Lieutenant Fraser was obviously uncomfortable with it. Either the men in the field were not as strict when it came to rank or it was just the fact that she was a woman that flustered him. Her bet was on the latter.

“No, that's not-” He stopped short. “Yes. And the formality isn’t required or wanted.”

She chuckled. “Fair enough.” At least he was honest, and she would never pass up a moment to forgo the formalities. 

“So Corporal Harris, what is it that you do in Cairo?” 

Between them, having been ignored long enough by the newcomer, the dog gave an annoyed huff and returned to his spot beside Winnie, once again leaning against her for a scratch, to which she obliged.

“I man the switchboards out of headquarters.” 

The lieutenant seemed to accept that position as reasonable, or that’s what she gathered from the idle nod he gave.

“Is it all that you thought it would be? Being a switchboard operator.”

Winnie couldn’t hold back her chuckle. While manning the board for a war headquarters offered much more activity than it did in her small village, she wouldn’t consider it particularly adrenaline pumping on the day to day front. But, it was something she knew how to do and the army had been scrambling to fill the positions. 

Besides, it got her off the farm and gave her the opportunity to see someplace new, and she was grateful for that.

“They weren’t hiring for shepherdess positions when I went to the enlistment office, so I had to offer up my next best skill. Not as picturesque, but at least it’s warm here.”

There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Not a need for sheep herders in Egypt, then?”

“Apparently not,” she lamented. “Too bad for them, I’ve got a lifetime of experience in sheep and only a few years at the switchboard, but I suppose that’s where they needed me the most.” 

“A lifetime huh?” 

Though hidden by glasses, she could feel his gaze roam over her, as if trying to pinpoint just how long a lifetime was. He could just keep trying to pinpoint it, too.

She smiled down at the dog as she spoke again. “And you? Who are you with?”

Bill idly rubbed at his chin, his previous train of thought seemingly forgotten as he gave heavy consideration to a question she thought was fairly straightforward. 

“The SAS.”

Winnie in no way considered herself an expert in all the units based out of Cairo, but the nature of her job meant she was fairly well versed with who was who and their locations and she was confident SAS was not in the area.

“SAS? Never heard of that unit before.”

“Imagine not.”

She arched a brow. He offered no more information and Winnie couldn’t help the curious bug that began to crawl through her. “Are you new to Cairo? I can’t say any unit remotely matching that name has come across my line before.”

The lieutenant scratched his head as he tilted it up to watch as a pair of plovers flew overhead, avoiding her gaze completely.

Pluvianus aegyptius she thought, distractedly. They were one of her favorites.

“You could say that,” he finally muttered.

His evasiveness only made her interest grow. An advantage to being stationed at headquarters was that it was where all the gossip started, official and unofficial, and it would only take a few shifts before she was able to figure out what she wanted to know about this mysterious regiment. 

“So, Lieutenant Fraser, you aren’t stationed at headquarters, and you don’t look, or smell, as if you came in with the wounded from Tobruk earlier, so forgive me for asking, but what brings you and your secret unit to this part of Cairo? Usually, men such as yourself prefer far more… amusing exploits on the other side of town.”

He didn’t seem insulted by her frankness or curiosity, which was a relief since she had never been very good with the delicacy of conversation. No matter how hard she tried, more often than not, she tripped over the line of propriety and straight into tactlessness.

“Had to drop paperwork off. The green is a nice detour back.”

“They sending you out?” There was the line and, again, she stomped right over it.

He chuckled. “Are you always this curious about all the soldiers you meet?”

Her face flushed, slightly embarrassed. “Most of the soldiers I meet are paper pushers. I know what their day consists of so I have no reason to ask them many questions.”

“Surely you meet more than just the ones that walk the halls there.” He gestured towards the main gate where trucks were waiting at the barricade of headquarters.

She didn’t, at least not regularly. Though she went out on occasion with some of the girls after shift and Felicity had drug her to several dinners at the Cairo Museum, she wasn’t what one would consider experienced in large cities, especially alone, and more often than not, she found herself curling up at home with Miss Fiz, sketching those strange yet fascinating birds, rather than going out. 

“Now who’s the curious one.”

That earned her a crooked smile and he raised his hands in surrender. 

She needed to head back inside, her shift at the board wasn’t over quite yet and it was past time that the dog should be headed off to wherever the next stop in his day was.

“I wish you and your unit luck, Lieutenant, wherever you are going next.” Wiping at invisible lint on her skirt, Winnie gave her new acquaintance a friendly smile. “It was nice to meet you, but I must be getting back to my wires.” She turned and began her way back across the green, the dog keeping pace by her side.

“Next time I am in the city, I may stop by,” she heard him yell. “To see how Withers is holding up!”

What do we have here? 

Winnie stooped and glanced at him over her shoulder. He was relaxed, hands crammed into the pockets of his shorts, and his mouth was kicked up in a lazy smile. She wasn’t sure what to make of the offer but decided it was strictly canine related. It had to be strictly canine related; she was going to let herself believe that there was still a soldier or two left in Cairo that had a soft spot for more than just women and rum.

With a casual wave over her shoulder, she kept walking and waited till she was a good distance away, letting her voice carry over the green like one of the strange birds that fascinated her. “I can’t guarantee that Milo will be around at that time, but it never hurts to stop by and check!”

[blind-dates-fest]

I've never participated in the lovely @blind-dates-fest before, so we're actually trying two new things this weekend: a new writing challenge, and writing for The Pacific for the first time. This OC has been banging around in my head for months now, so this seemed like a good time to introduce her - especially since she'll be making a cameo or two in one of my ongoing BOB fics. Without further ado, I hope y'all will enjoy Samantha "Mandy" Majors ♥️

The Deception of Appearances

Realistically, Mandy is aware that these are the men who are fighting for their country. The heroes of Guadalcanal can do as they please. But as MacDonald pushes his way through the bar’s crowd of wild, drinking men and boisterous women, dragging her along behind him, only one thought runs through her mind: What the hell am I doing here?

She knows, of course. She’s making money. She’s carving out a little space in journalism because, as her publisher always so kindly reminds her, the market is always changing, and fantasy stories will not be in fashion forever.

With that pleasant reminder, she lifts her chin and continues her walk into the unknown.

MacDonald struts ahead of her, openly ogling the men as if they’re an attraction at the zoo. There’s something distinctly unprofessional about the wide-eyed look that he’s always giving his subjects, like he’s got them trapped under a microscope and is poking around in their thoughts. He doesn’t seem to realize that he has a habit of making other people feel utterly invaded. Which, if Mandy had to guess, is probably why the Metropolitan Express has had her acting as his assistant for so many months. Well, that and, if she’s being honest, the fact that Duncan MacDonald cannot write to save his life.

As if reading her mind, MacDonald grabs her arm and hisses loudly in her ear to be heard over the celebrations, “Look at them! We’re bound to get a good story out of them.” Then, quietly, more urgently, “And quickly, too, because I don’t like the looks of this place.”

For once, Mandy finds herself agreeing with him. But, as is the way of the world, these things are easier said than done.

They manage to find a small table that’s miraculously unoccupied to set up shop at. Despite the look that MacDonald gives her when she orders a drink, Mandy settles in. Her boss might not want to spend any longer in this place than he has to, but that’s only because he’s not a real writer, and he doesn’t understand that the best stories come to those who are patient. These things can’t be forced, no matter how intent he seems on bending them to his will.

Besides his writing – or lack thereof – there’s the small matter of MacDonald himself. He’s too forthright, strutting up to the men and asking them bold questions with no sense of boundaries. Most respond by giving him a blank stare instead of a quote, and those who are willing to share any thoughts only give them the kind that cannot be put into print.

“Well I never,” MacDonald splutters as dark haired man with a wide smile answers his question – a completely tone deaf What’s been your favorite part of the war so far? – with a curt Wouldn’t you like to know, jackass? and a wink thrown at Mandy. MacDonald uselessly swabs his face with his handkerchief before sighing, “I don’t think this place agrees with me.” He mutters, perhaps thinking Mandy can’t hear him over the noise of the bar. “I should have stuck to vaudeville.”

I’ll drink to that, she thinks to herself as she surveys the man who’s supposed to be a war correspondent.

“He seemed to like you, though,” MacDonald says. He gives Mandy a curious look that she’s all too familiar with – one that suggests that she do all the work while he rests his delicate little mind. “Maybe you should try talking to them, without me.”

He’s throwing her to the wolves – or, more accurately, the Marines. But strangely, she finds that she doesn’t mind this time. After all, she came here to write about the war. Write about it accurately, honestly. People back home need to know what’s being fought for. And if she can lend her pen, her camera, and her typewriter to the cause, then by golly, she will. 

She nods. “Not such a bad idea.” And then she leaves him there, alone at the table, before he can change his mind.

Looking for a good story is not so different from hunting, if you think about it. At the edge of the room, Mandy surveys the scene before her. The Marines may be wild, but most of them are also intoxicated, which means their lips will be loose. She can use that to her advantage. Especially now that she’s free of MacDonald.

There. From across the bar, her eyes land on the dark-haired man who winked at her earlier. He’s one of the few men not entertaining one of the bar’s local Australian girls. An easy target.

As if to prove her point about patience, someone taps her on the shoulder just as she’s about to march through the fray to reach her intended target.

A different man, this one with blond hair, blushes slightly when she turns to him. “Um, excuse me, Miss,” he says, his thick accent taking her by surprise. For just a second, she mistakes him for one of the locals before she realizes that he’s wearing an American uniform with the name Phillips on his chest.

Maybe getting a quote will be easier than she thought it would be. “Yes?” 

Phillips nods across the bar to the man that was her original target. “My friend over there said you were a reporter, looking for quotes?”

Mandy nods, smiles, trying to make herself as bright and warm and trustworthy as possible. “That I am.” She holds up her notepad and taps it with a red fingernail. “You don’t happen to have one for me, do you Phillips?”

He’s not blushing anymore. He only smiles and shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. I don’t think I’m good enough with words for that kind of thing. But my friend is,” he adds before she can lose interest.

“Oh?” Mandy raises an eyebrow. “Do you think he would give me an interview?”

“I’m sure he would,” Phillips replies. “In fact, he was writing the entire time we were on Guadalcanal. He’ll probably give you some of his original notes.”

Mandy has to take a breath, remind herself not to get her hopes up. This could all be a rouse, after all, by some stranger.

But then again, even though she doesn’t know this Phillips, he doesn’t give off the energy of someone trying to pull a fast one on her. Maybe it’s just his southern charm, but she’s tempted to trust him right away.

“That would be great. Mind taking me to him?”

“Sure thing.” Phillips starts to weave through the crowd, leading her through the bar. He looks back and extends a hand part of the way through their walk. “I’m Sid Phillips, by the way.”

She accepts his hand. He’s got a firm shake. More of that southern charm, perhaps. “Samantha Majors. But my friends call me Mandy.”

As they push deeper into the bar, several men call out greetings to Phillips, slapping him on the back and palling around as they pass. Phillips returns their handshakes and smiles, only stopping to ask if anyone has seen the Professor. Most men shrug off the question, but one man finally points toward the farthest part of the bar and announces over all the noise, “Lucky is over there! Guess he needed a place to think.”

Lucky. The Professor. She’ll have to remember to ask about these nicknames during their interview. No doubt there’s a good story behind them both.

She slips her notebook out of her pocket as they walk, readies her pen as she turns to Phillips, ideas already churning in her head. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“There he is!” Phillips nods to a table in the bar’s far corner, where a small group of men sit drinking, partly obscured by shadow. “That’s him in the middle, with the curly hair. Robert Leckie.”

At the same moment that Phillips says his name, the man in question leans forward, throwing his face into light so that Mandy catches a glimpse of him for the first time. The sight makes her heart drop, and she freezes as if she’s just been caught red-handed.

“No,” she whispers. Then, in her head. It can’t be.

For a split second, she thinks that maybe her luck will be good, that she’s changed so much since their school days that he won’t recognize her. They’re not kids anymore. Maybe he’s forgotten her.

But the second that his eyes land on her, she knows that it’s no good. His expression changes quickly as he drops the thread of conversation with his friends to stare at her in confusion, then recognition. A small smile crosses his face and he stands, not frozen the way that she is.

“Sammy Majors?!” He calls, voice slightly too loud with the excitement of someone who has been drinking.

Phillips’ brow furrows as he glances between them. “You two know each other?”

“Yes,” Mandy whispers at the same time that Leckie announces, “We grew up down the street from each other!”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Phillips turns to her when he asks. “No awkward introductions to hold back your interview.”

Mandy has to force the words out of her mouth; they feel like they’re stuck to her tongue with paste. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Leckie, as usual, seems undaunted by everything before him. He shoves the man sitting next to him over and uses a grand gesture to indicate the vacated seat to Mandy. “Come join us!”

The confident demeanor that she’s worked so hard to build up all these years is slipping. With every step she takes towards him, Mandy feels like she’s clinging to it for dear life. She has to remind herself that she’s no longer Sammy Majors, the little girl who sits by the window writing fairytales because she couldn’t go out to play. She’s no longer Sammy Majors, who entered every writing competition their school hosted in vain, always losing out to lucky Robert Leckie, whose stories and poems were always so much better than hers. Robert Leckie, who had a job at the local newspaper before they had even finished high school.

As she takes the seat he offers her, one of the other men at the table laughs when he asks, “Hey, Lucky, does Vera know about this?”

Robert Leckie, who always so obviously had a crush on Vera Keller from across the street. Robert Leckie, who never seemed to realize that she existed . . . but who recognized her at first sight after all these years, and on the other side of the world, to boot.

Leckie smiles at her, so warm and open, as if his success in writing didn’t come so easily to him that it always crushed Mandy’s heart, her hopes, and her dreams. “What are you doing here?”

In response, Mandy raises her notepad and purses her lips, resetting her usual, casual demeanor that she has spent so many years working on. “I’m with the Metro Express, and my source tells me that you might be good for a quote.”

Several of his friends ooh and aah like a Greek chorus, jostling him as they laugh.

“He’s got more than just a quote for you!” One of them hoots.

“Yeah,” another man adds. “Try a whole novel!”

Mandy raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?” When Leckie shrugs in response, she allows herself to smile, to be friendly, even though it goes against her better instincts. “Robert Leckie, ever the writer.”

“Fight by day, write by night.”

She makes a small scribble on her notepad to make sure her pen still works. “Well, Private Leckie. Do you have time for a quick interview?”

Leckie leans back in his seat and takes a drag off his cigarette. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth as he exhales the smoke, nods. “Fire when ready, Miss Majors.”

[blind-dates-fest]

light up my lover's way

BLIND DATES FEST 2024

featuring: Florence 'Flo' Godfrey and Captain Bernard 'Benny' DeMarco + Meatball being the ultimate wingman Absolutely beyond excited to put this out. Florence has been living in my brain for some time, but Masters of the Air and @blind-dates-fest (thank you Merc for the fun!) offered the perfect opportunity to do some writing and recently, with the episodes we've gotten, I've become a big DeMarco fan and wanted to see what I could do. I tried to really nail down how I could write him since we don't have a whole lot of content from him, and I didn't feel the most comfortable writing in the MoTA universe yet just because I wanted to see all the episodes first, but I wanted to give it the old college try and really enjoyed how this piece and how Florence came out! She was a treat to write and considering her story, this was a night for her well deserved! I missed out last year because of school stress and this year, wanted to be kinder to myself and allow some time to test out the waters with writing in MoTA. Please enjoy Flo and her time with DeMarco! :)

The mirror stared back at her with a more than poignant look on her face, as she gazed at her rugged-looking hair that had surely seen better days.

Extensive time out in the sun on the tarmac, with plenty of harsh oils and chemicals meant for planes and not exactly hair would do the trick though. Self-assured, she reached back and ripped a brush through the caramel ends of her hair that were in need of cutting and sighed quietly to herself before glancing back at her reflection.

Lemmons had encouraged her to take the night off - you've been working hard, Godfrey, take the night to get a drink or better yet, a full night of sleep where you're not thinking entirely about all things plane-related. She'd been pretty hesitant, she'd even told him that he was the one who needed the night off, but he'd quickly brushed some dirt off her shoulder, helped her scrub out the paint stain from her OD jacket and then promptly shoved her off in the direction of the celebration in the nearby hall that a good portion of the men and pilots had gathered into. She'd taken the time to gather herself, clean herself up and look presentable, but she was left appearing hesitant to even leave her room.

Florence Godfrey felt more mechanic some days than woman, but on days like that, she usually found some of the Red Cross girls and spent nights trading cigarettes, telling stories and sharing coffee from the potbelly stove in the corner that worked to keep them all warm. Sometimes, she tried to work so stringently that when she got in, she'd lay down and reflect and cry.

But, tonight wouldn't be one of those nights, no, her hands weren't covered in grease, her hair wasn't matted with sweat and her boots weren't soaked with mud and ice-cold water.

No, she actually had washed up, powdered her face, pulled a bit of lipstick onto her slightly chapped lips, and smiled to herself, the dress that fell below her knees a beautiful baby-bird blue.

Lemmons had been right - finally do something for yourself, give yourself the wheel of life. She wanted to do that for herself, more than anything.

The celebration in the hall was dying down - she took a glance at her watch - it was past midnight and people were slowly pouring out, a few couples still slowly swaying in the middle of the floor, some others milling about or talking quietly with gentle smiles in corners outside of the main doors.

Florence smiled quietly to herself - even just to get a drink that wasn't her inhaling water to keep herself from feeling parched. She'd never really allowed herself a freedom like this away from the planes, away from the other mechanics and ground crewmen. She'd always told herself to do her job, do what was needed of her and then bed out and wake the next time she was needed. She had always been like that though ever since working with Dad at the Navy Yard as a 9-year-old, learning all the bits and bobs that made things run and function.

Florence waded into the softly lit bar where only a few people were still at, finishing last minute drinks or basking in the quietly gleaming Billie Holiday singing 'If You Were Mine' over the speakers in the corners of the room. Florence walked up to the edge of the bar and offered a smile at the bartender who came towards her and offered a smile back and nodded.

"What can I interest you in tonight, Miss….?"

"Godfrey. Florence Godfrey," Florence said with a soft smile, "I'll take a French 75 if it's possible." The bartender smiled with a nod and turned away, whisking himself away to start prepping. Florence grinned to herself and then looked up towards the wooden ceiling, covered in pretty lights and patterned carvings.

Suddenly, she felt a presence at her….feet? Florence took a moment to think before looking down and seeing a beautiful, gray dog sniffing at her shoes, a brown harness around his soft fur and his puppy-dog eyes quickly looking up at her in excitement and glee.

"Awe, hello there!" Florence said, kneeling down in front of the mixed-husky dog, petting his face, her heart immediately softening at the sight as she laughed quietly to herself, "Aren't you the prettiest thing I've seen in months." The dog licked at her cheeks and she let out a laugh as she rubbed behind his ears, the dog's tongue hanging out as his whole body seemed to shake with excitement, tail in all directions.

"Hey, Meatball, don't go sneaking up on the ladies," a voice called from behind the dog.

Florence looked up from, if she caught the name correctly - Meatball, the dog - and found instead one of the pilots of the B-17s walking towards her, gentle eyes lingering on her, long enough for a crimson color to rush her cheeks, his hair dark and nicely cut and styled, and the small smile on his face suddenly making her think that this pilot was actually the prettiest thing she'd seen in months. Florence felt a warmth enter her body, a quiet calm overcoming her as she felt an uncontrollable smile cross her lips, as she slowly rose back to her feet and watched the pilot come closer, the thrum of a quiet Louis Armstrong song entering her ears.

"Italian or Swedish?" Florence couldn't help but say as the pilot neared, his eyes deep and dark, but soothing and welcoming all the same. The pilot let out a soft laugh, his eyes trailing down to Meatball, the dog - she'd never get over how adorable that was - before looking to her.

"Italian." he said, with a nod, "Why? Don't think he fits the part?" Florence let out a quiet laugh and kneeled down again to Meatball and scratched beside his little head and laughed.

"I think he's adorable," she said, "how'd you get a hold on him?" The pilot smiled at her and leaned against the bar.

"Boarded a B-17 with me back in Greenland, was a real good sport the whole flight," the pilot said and then shrugged a bit, "I think I convinced him that he'd make a good co-pilot." Florence laughed as she stood to her feet again and looked at him with soft eyes.

"I don't think it'd be proper of me to only think of you as Meatball's Dad," she said, watching the small smile on his face quickly grow, "gotta name?"

"DeMarco. Captain Bernard DeMarco, but you can just call me DeMarco, whatever suites your fancy." he said, before chuckling slightly, before imitating, "Some of the guys like to yell, DeMarcooooo!" Then he looked to her and smiled.

"You don't have to do all that though," he said, leaning closer slightly, "Benny'll do just fine. Special cases." Florence stared at him quietly for a moment and then grinned.

"Benny it is…..Captain," she said, before holding out a hand, "Godfrey. Florence Godfrey, but you can just call me Godfrey, whatever suites your fancy." She smirked slightly at his face as he reached out and shook her hand.

"Some of the guys I work with like to yell," and she woefully imitated Lemmons, "Godfreyyyyy!" She then leaned closer to him and smiled up into his beautiful, tender eyes.

"You don't have to do all that though," she whispered, "Flo'll do just fine…..special cases." Benny stared at her for a moment, before breaking out into a wide smile and gently holding her hand in between them like a sacred piece of life.

"Goddess of flowers," he whispered quietly, his voice a soft rumble, "Flo." She smiled up at him.

"Ma thought it was pretty." she offered to him. He smiled at her in the dimmed light of the bar, that Ella Fitzgerald song she was always forgetting the name of somewhere above their heads, eyes warm and simply, only on her.

"Your Ma was right." he said back to her, staring at her with genuineness and fullness in his eyes. She felt her face warm and let out a laugh at his words, covering her mouth as she did so. Looking back up at him, she watched him stare right back at her and smiled as her hand fell from her mouth.

"I've never seen you around in here before," he said softly, "couldn't help but introduce myself, or well, Meatball, for introducing us." Florence looked down to Meatball, sat patiently staring up between them with his ever-caring eyes that dogs always seemed to have.

"He likes you," Benny said, his hand, which evidently was larger than hers, still clasped around her own, with no sign of disconnecting soon, "he's a friendly fella, but he don't just go up to anyone." Florence's eyes softened as she rubbed her free hand on top of Meatball's soft little head and glanced to Benny again.

"Dogs are probably some of the best creatures to ever walk to Earth," she said with a smile, "Sometimes they know us better than ourselves. I like to think sometimes they're protecting us, or….just there to guide us, be with us, give us someone who unconditionally loves you, ya know?" Benny's smile on his face was something that engrained itself quickly in her mind and he nodded.

"Yeah, yeah," he said softly, "I like to think of it that way, too." For a moment, as Ella Fitzgerald sang her part, the gentle thrum of a bass and brass to follow, they watched each other as if taking in the very quiet moment they had there between one another that night. An unexpected chance for Florence to get out of her normal gear and into a dress, to have her hands free of grease for the first time in a while, and to be looked at by a man with the softest eyes she'd ever seen - with a dog named after an Italian meatball no less.

"I'd ask for your hand in a dance, but I'm afraid that French 75 is calling your name and Meatball would take offense," Benny said, his eyes seemingly nervously flitting to the drink that had appeared at her side before meeting hers again, "and I know you're one of the women who works with the ground crews….I'd hate to steal an evening away from a good drink." Florence watched him.

"You know I work with the ground crews?" Benny nodded with a smile.

"You hang around Lemmons a lot," Benny offered, "and you work hard. We all see that. Buck does, too. Mentioned you were the best of the best. Didn't want to be too forward when I heard you tell the bartender your name." Florence watched him, as he gave Meatball a smile and a pet on the head before he looked to her again.

"Ma didn't raise me to be impolite either," he said with a nod, "and you've earned an off night like this and a drink like that."

"And a night getting to talk to a man like you." Florence said quietly to him, her heart starting to pound as he watched her - no one ever really had mentioned her in the way he had, having noticed her before and even made the effort to talk to her like he had. Her palms felt sweaty, and her mouth felt dry. Benny watched her for a moment as she took a sip of her drink and then looked to him.

"I'd be more than happy to spend a night dancing with you," she whispered.

There was something unspoken behind her words - like the realization was still there, they just hadn't mentioned in. In war, moments like this were precious and sheltered and held close in the palms of their hands. A night with someone with tender eyes was worth more than enough money in the world to her, especially in wartime. The thought saddened her heart and her mind as she stared at Benny DeMarco, with that million-dollar smile and those eyes. Benny let out a shaky breath that he looked like he'd been holding in and reached forward to take her hands in his and leaned forward the slightest bit so the only things she could see and hear were him and his voice.

"With you? I'd consider it a privilege." he whispered and then pressed a soft kiss to her hands clasped in his and then gently pulled her towards the open dance floor where only a few couples were left and had made it this late in the night. Wrapped in each other's warm embraces there in the middle of the floor, Billie Holiday's voice singing in the eves, and the gentle sway of their bodies so intimately close there, Florence let herself dance softly that night with Benny DeMarco.

Florence let herself live a bit for once.

[blind-dates-fest]

Blind Dates 2024: Patsy Harangody

Pasty is the secretary you wish had, but she's not going to put up with your foolishness - even if you were the most beloved Marine officer in the PTO.

A shout out to @shoshiwrites for being an absolute peach and for beta reading my fic. All remaining errors are entirely my own. And thanks to @mercurygray for being my Andy Haldane sounding board and for creating and running the @blind-dates-fest for all of us to enjoy.

Fandom: The Pacific (AU, postwar)

September 1947

Chicago, Illinois

He didn’t interrupt while she finished typing a memo. That was the first thing Patsy Harangody noticed about Andy Haldane, before she even got a proper look at him. Most of the coaches at the University of Chicago simply walked up to her desk and started talking, even if she was in the middle of work. At the very least, they faked a cough to get her attention, as if she couldn’t see them out of the corner of her eye. But Andy Haldane pretended to be interested in a photograph on the wall until he saw her pull the sheet of paper out of the typewriter.

“Welcome to Chicago, Coach Haldane,” she said after he introduced himself. She could tell by his accent he wasn’t just new to the university but the city as well. “Please take a seat until Mr. Carlson is ready to meet with you.” She gestured to a nearby chair. “Coffee?” she asked as he sat down. 

“No, thank you,” and he trailed off as he looked at her finger. “No thank you, Miss Harangody.” The nameplate on her desk simply read Patricia Harangody, not giving away her marital status. While she addressed visitors with their titles - coach or mister, sometimes dean or professor - rarely did anyone return the respect. Just Patricia. Just Patsy. Just a secretary.

She opened a drawer and took out a file, pretending to look over its contents. Instead, she watched him continue his recon exercise. She saw him look at the photos on her desk, one of her family on the steps of their apartment and the one with Ginny and Abigail and Flo when they had leave and took the train down from Washington to Virginia Beach. He took in the sorry plant struggling to stay alive despite her best efforts and the sociology textbook she bought last week, storing these pieces of information away, in case they could help him later. He looked up at the clock on the wall behind her and compared its time with his wristwatch, frowning ever so slightly at Mr. Carlson’s lack of punctuality.

“Any words of advice before I go in there?” She looked up from her reading and saw him smiling at her. 

As the newest assistant football coach, it was now his job to meet with Don Carlson, the assistant athletic director, twice weekly - on Mondays to report on the game just played over the weekend, and on Thursdays to preview the game ahead  The assignment always fell to the newest coach, just as her position fell to the newest secretary, as it was common knowledge that Don Carlson was the stupidest man employed by the University of Chicago. 

Patsy could only guess what he had heard about her boss, and while she certainly had strong opinions, she wasn’t about to share them with a stranger, no matter how polite he was and how nice a smile he had. If she shared anything negative about Don Carlson and it got back to him, it would be her job on the line, not Andy Haldane’s . 

“Coach Haldane, please understand how important discretion is to being a successful secretary. While I haven’t seen your resume, I’m confident you have the education and work experience befitting a University of Chicago football coach. I have no doubt the meeting will go just fine.”

She caught him off guard for a moment, but he nodded, a sign of respect for what she refused to say.

Seconds later, Mr. Carlson came bumbling out of his office. “Coach Haldane, Don Carlson,” he said as he shook the younger man’s hand.” He turned to his secretary. “Patsy, why didn’t you tell me Coach Haldane was waiting?”

Patsy looked at the new coach, and she tilted her head to the side ever so slightly and rolled her eyes. 

I didn’t tell him you were waiting because he specifically told me not to interrupt him. He said he wanted to show you who was in charge here.

No actual words were exchanged, but he seemed to understand. 

“A pleasure meeting you, MIss Harangody,” he said before he walked into the office. 

When he walked out forty-five minutes later, he gave her a look.

What the hell was that? he silently asked her.

She shrugged her shoulders and looked down so she didn’t start laughing. He shook his head and walked out of the office, still in a daze.

The next morning, Patsy saw Coach Haldane on her walk from the train station to the athletic department office. 

“Miss Harangody,” he called out. “Do you have a minute?”

“Not really. I took a later train than usual this morning.” He nodded, understanding but seemingly disappointed at the same time. “You’re welcome to join me,” she added, and he smiled as they walked side by side.

Patsy loved this time of year, when you could almost smell the leaves change colors in the brisk morning air and motivated students gathered around the Gothic-style buildings, talking about classes and classmates. 

“It makes you almost forget we’re in Chicago,” he said. 

“What does?” she asked. 

“The trees and the buildings. The parks and the lake.” He waved his hand in the direction of the water. 

It was like he just read her thoughts. She felt unsettled and intrigued in equal measure.

“Were you in intelligence during the war?” she asked. 

He laughed. “Hardly. And my lack of intelligence is why I wanted to talk with you.” He put his hands in his jacket pockets. “I put you in an awkward position yesterday. I shouldn’t have asked you to divulge anything about your supervisor. It was disrespectful and unprofessional of me. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

“Of course, Coach Haldane. I’m sure it’s difficult being in a new place. I don’t begrudge you trying to get an advantage, but I’m glad you understand my situation,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said. He pulled out an envelope from his pocket. “These are for you. Two tickets to the game on Saturday. It’s one of the perks of the job, and you’re the only person I know here who isn’t part of the team.”

“I’m not sure about my weekend plans …” she trailed off. She didn’t care for football, but it felt rude admitting that to a football coach.

“Take them, just in case,” he said.

She grabbed the envelope. “Alright. Just in case.”

“Miss Harangody.” He looked at her a moment longer than necessary and walked on.

She walked into her building and saw Lorraine, her friend and a fellow secretary, in line for the elevator.

“Hiya, Pats,” Lorraine greeted her. “How’s things?”

She thought of the envelope in her purse, his patience before walking up to her desk and his apology when he knew he was in the wrong. Even if she didn’t like football, there were always the trees and the tailgate parties and the coach on the sideline who she knew would be scanning the crowd for the secretary who accepted his tickets. 

“I know it’s only Tuesday, but what are you doing on Saturday?” Patsy asked. “Two tickets to the football game just fell into my lap.”

[blind-dates-fest]

If you are just joining us for this year's fest - hello! Welcome! We are all so glad you are here!

If you have been sitting in the bleachers and thinking this looks fun, you can still participate, too! We will be commenting and reblogging for the next several days, until Valentine's Day on February 14th.

[blind-dates-fest]

Blind Dates 2024: Capt. Marion Brennan, WAC

My second submission for this year's @blind-dates-fest! I'd love to introduce you all to Marion Brennan.

Fandom: Masters of the Air (2023) The waiting was the worst part.

She’d been overseas for nearly a year now, and she could take everything else that came with the job in stride - the bloody faces, the vomit, the smell of piss and fear seeping out of flight suits, the way a boy tried to steady his shaking hands so that his buddies wouldn’t see that he was still scared. But the waiting was always fresh, always raw - and the fear returned anew each time the planes went up, and each time they came back down.

And when they came back down, she went to work. Except for today.

Marion surveyed the names on the large blackboard on the other side of the Operations Room, reading each one over as though she didn’t already know them all by heart. Her boys, day in and day out. Move them around, re-assign and re-group them, but she would know them even when their own mothers wouldn’t. Because I see them when no mother should - and hear the things no mother should ever have to hear.

Did you take any flak? Did you see any chutes?

And was he on the radio? What heading was that? Tell me what the plane’s condition was.

What time was that?

"Why, it’s barbaric," one of the new women had said once, after watching a particularly grueling session in the interrogation rooms. (Marion had made the flight engineer tell his part of the story twice, blood already clotting his face from a wound under his helmet, his face white with exhaustion.) "Making them tell you all that all over again. Those boys have just been through hell and you make them do it twice?"

Out loud, she explained about accurate after-action reports, finding coordinates for downed airmen, establishing times of death and declaring Killed In Action status. But it was more than that. If I have to explain it, you’ll never understand, Marion wanted to say. They come in bloody and shaking and afraid, and when we are done they leave the mission with me, and my girls, and I let them return to the world unburdened.

And who will do that for them in Telergma?

She knew the whole base was on edge. It was one thing to send out a task force knowing that they would come back to you, that after eight hours inside the inferno there was something you could do to ease their way in the world by bandaging a wound or patching a wing or serving a cup of coffee. But this waiting? This was the worst sort of waiting imaginable, because no one knew what they would find there. Was there an ambulance? Hot coffee? A bed with clean sheets?

When you land there, who will count you in? Who is there to care?

“Captain Brennan.” Marion turned away from the ops board to see Colonel Harding standing in the doorway. He looked like he’d slept in his uniform - a first, for him. Air Force COs didn’t just fall asleep on couches, and men from West Point even less so. “I didn’t think you took shifts in this room.”

It was a polite way of saying that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be - and he was right. Captains didn’t take night shifts in the ops room - even female captains, whom Man and the Army had decreed a somewhat lesser species. She tugged a little at her jacket. “I sent Sergeant Wilcox along to bed - the poor girl was nearly asleep in her chair and I didn’t think she was much use to anyone in that state. ”

Harding didn’t seem to think much of that. “That shift change was hours ago. Where was her relief?”

More bad news. Marion took a breath and braced for impact. “Sergeant Hastings has the flu, and Wilcox thought she could use the rest. She didn't want to leave the post unmanned. I told her to go to bed. I can answer a telephone as well as the next woman.”

She waited for the blow to fall, but it didn’t come. If anything, Harding looked...impressed. “That was kind of you, Captain.”

Kind! What a word. But Harding wasn’t made of stone. Everyone was worrying about this one, and he knew it. It was one of the things that made him a good leader - that he had his nose in the wind, as it were, instead of being unreachable in his office with his reports. Still. Kind wasn’t a word you were supposed to use for officers. “It was also against regulations,” Marion acknowledged, trying to be as matter-of fact about it as she could. “You can write me up for it tomorrow morning  if you feel it's appropriate.”

Harding actually laughed at that, and she realized, belatedly, that it wasn’t a sound she heard very often. (And why should she? Most of the time they spent together was reviewing debriefing reports.) “Do I already have a reputation for being that much of a hard-ass, Captain?” He winced and paused. “My apologies. My language.”

And just where do you think I’ve been the last twelve months, Colonel? Curse as much as you like - I won’t break for hearing it. “I've heard worse, sir,” she assured him. “Regulations exist for a reason, and as the CO you're responsible for maintaining order and making sure your instructions are followed. Including watch rotations. It might be good to set an example. ” He looked impressed by the answer - possibly more than he needed to be. “My father was a West-Pointer, sir. Career Army, too.”

That, at least, impressed him where it needed to. “Is that so?” He studied her for a moment, processing this new information. “I can see that, now that you've said it. Is that how you got here?”

She nodded. “We moved a lot as a kid, and when I turned 18...Army life was all I knew. I started as a clerk, and worked hard, got a few promotions here and there, and when they let us put in for overseas assignments...” She let that hang for a moment, smiling as she thought about what she’d been spared because she hadn’t gotten what she wanted all those years ago. “I never did make it to Manila, or Maui, but maybe that’s for the best. Hamilton Field was about as far West as I got.”

She wasn’t in the habit of giving her life story out around the base - her girls needed a leader more than they needed a friend, and the scant four or five years she had on most of them was only good for so much, where authority was concerned. But it felt right that Harding ought to know a little something. After all, wasn’t he the one coming in with a reputation behind him, and the shoes of the former CO to fill? Everyone knew that he’d been at West Point, that he’d coached football, that he’d come to Thorpe Abbotts by way of Palm Beach and Spokane, Washington.

“And you still like the work? Little bit different than what you’d be doing at home.”

“Free a man to fight” looks different from here, that’s for sure. After everything she’d seen, everything she’d heard, she could say that much. “I do, sir. It’s important - making sure that the facts are straight, that we’ve learned everything we can before it fades out.” She had another thought, and paused, considering whether or not she should share. “I think they tell things differently, to a woman. They used to try and be more precise - cut around the edges a little wide so I wouldn’t see the bad parts. I think they know that we’re all used to it, by now.” I’ve been in every single op this wing has flown - turret, tail, and cockpit. I fly them in my sleep.

Harding nodded, considering all of it in that thoughtful way of his - a coach reviewing game-day footage to look for his next play.

There was some movement, at the door of the ops room - a woman coming in and realizing, late, that the person she was looking for wasn’t there. Marion spoke up. “Lieutenant Callaway, can I help you with something?”

The lieutenant's face was plainly guilty - a daughter caught sneaking in the front door with her shoes off - but she was trying valiantly to play it cool. It almost made Marion smile. "I was just...wondering if there was any news yet, ma'am. My shift's just starting and I ...thought I'd tell the girls, if we’d heard. Sergeant Wilcox said she'd tell me, if she...got news."

"Sergeant Wilcox was sent to bed," Marion replied. (Was that why she’d stayed on duty past her time? Because she wanted to be there to report out to Callaway?) "There's been nothing so far. We'll send a runner to Tower if we hear anything."

Callway nodded, obviously disappointed by this news and more unnerved than she had a reason to be, and she left looking a little shaken. Marion looked over at the Colonel and saw he was studying the lieutenant's exit with mild interest.

"Something there you think I ought to know about, Captain?" He asked, his expression thoughtful and vague.

Marion knew what he meant. A total ban on fraternization was impossible, given the confines of the base, but there had to be some separation of church and state, and making girlfriends out of her officers was a good way to undermine productivity. Still, if Cordelia Callaway had a beau, Marion knew she also had enough brains to keep it to herself, and she wasn't about to go spoiling that for her. She was a good egg, at the end of the day - maybe just the thing one of those fly boys needed to keep himself on the straight and narrow. "They all care a little, Colonel. I think it's impossible to live like this and not to." That's the strange thing about the army, isn't it? You get assigned to a place and suddenly you've got a whole band of brothers you never asked for.

Brothers, husbands, sons. Everything to everyone - one big, mad, teeming family.

Another noise at the door - Sergeant Dacre, a tiny mouse of a woman, nearly squeaked when she saw her CO and her supervisor in deep conversation, the lights half-off and the day just beginning.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, I thought Sergeant Wilcox...”

“Captain Brennan was just leaving, Sergeant,” Harding said with a knowledgeable smile. (They were starting to teach that earlier - how to be a softer touch with the women. Marion could remember officers who would have shouted at Dacre to get her ass inside and moved her to tears.) “I don’t think we’ll need to do anything in the way of reprimands, Captain Brennan - for any of the business,” he added, being intentionally vague while Dacre readied her station. “But tell that Hastings girl she ought to get herself on the sick list, if she’s thinking she can just get out of work for a cold.”

“It’ll be the first thing I do, Colonel.”

The phone buzzed, and Harding swooped to answer it before Dacre could get her hand in. “Yes? Yes.” A visible sign of relief crossed his face, and she saw his shoulders relax. “Yes, very glad to hear it. We’ll look for those directly. Yes, thank you. Good-bye.” He put the phone back in its cradle and beamed. “Ground Control has them at Telergma. No details yet but - someone made it through.” He took a deep breath, still smiling. “I’ll get it out on the PA but you’d better tell Callaway out at Tower first. An officer doesn’t break her word.”

She almost smiled at him for that. The worst part, over. Now the details would come, but she could face that like she always did. “Of course, sir.' A pause, and - "I hope you have a good morning, sir.”

“And you, Brennan.”

Someone appeared with coffee, the room whirring into life as the day rotation came on board, and Marion took her leave, pausing at the door to look back at Harding, now studying the map with renewed enthusiasm.

Hughlin never made much of a father, she thought. All that waiting nearly did him in. But I think you’ll do just fine.

--

So that's Marion! She and the version of MOTA she inhabits can be perceived as being adjacent to the alternate history in my fic The Darkening Sky.

If you'd like to meet Cordelia Callaway, you can read more of my writing for her here at her tag on tumblr.

[blind-dates-fest]

Fandom: Masters of the Air Written for: @blind-dates-fest as my 2024 entry! Introducing: Cressida Dorrance-Jones, with sidenote entries for Valerie Hodges and Evelyn Carter.

"That's not a sawmill up there, Buck." The blonde woman's voice is even. Matter of fact. Cuts through the haze of several men talking at once, long enough to make their whole table go quiet. The look on her face is too serene to be accusatory. "That was a goddamn meat grinder."

Major Cleven – Buck – does not dissent. "Yeah." There's a barely-there sigh lurking in that one admission, as if he is only now releasing his breath. His crew seems to almost exhale at the same time he does. Following his lead even when on the ground, especially after he fixes each of them with a swift look. "Now we know."

"And I need to know everything about that meat grinder," interjects Cressida, unfolding the last part of the map out on the table. Sets her coffee cup on the part of the map that always seems to have a mind to curl back up and leave her hanging out to dry. "Rule of the table: you talk only when I address you. Rule of the table: you dig deep when I ask for clarification. Rule of the table: you paint the whole picture as you saw it up there. Understood?"

There's a scuffle under the table. A swift motion of feet that almost reaches her legs before aiming a little more to her right. The blonde woman is all but sinking down into her seat, tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth as she puts in just a bit more effort.

"Ow!" The blue-eyed lieutenant beside her jolts in his seat. Fixes the blonde with a glare. "Val, seriously?"

"Understood, ma'am," rasps Valerie Hodges, sitting up straight again now that her goal's seemingly been accomplished. Cressida makes a mental note of the fact that the woman doesn't object to the shortening of her name. "I have some notes, if they help?"

"You're the navigator?"

"Radio ops, sorry," comes the unapologetic grin, right before a small notepad is shoved her way. "I've marked the time Curt here"– a nod at the lieutenant she just kicked in the shins –"started to shout in my ears about flak. Hit that earlier than I'd thought, then had the fighters come in hot on the tails of that."

Cressida glances down at a sequence of numbers that would not have been amiss in an actual navigator's log. Notes the shakiness of the sevens and fives, followed by quick dashes and dots. Her eyebrow quirks up despite herself. It's not every day a log comes back with partial encoding on it that would slow the Germans down for all of a minute.

"Unorthodox," she remarks out loud, "but perhaps helpful." She'll allow it, if only because Val's well-aimed kick seems to have halted the lieutenant's previous staring in its tracks. "You were wheels up here," she continues, indicating their starting point on the map, "and headed to Bremen through the pre-marked blue path here"– a new map for every mission, no matter the complaints from supplies –"which would put the flak here."

"Earlier," says the Major, not even glancing up at her for confirmation the way other pilots do. "Right around there"– comes the mark of his finger that lingers just long enough for her to confirm it with a swift cross of her pencil –"which I know because we weren't the first to get the hit."

"Had enough time to confirm the fact that we were in some deep shit now," laughs the lieutenant, even when none of his bravado remotely reaches his eyes. "First to get hit was Bonny Lass. Luck of the Irish, and all."

"Bonny Lass was on our right wing at two o'clock, bearing east."

"Two fifteen."

Cressida narrows her eyes at the lack of accuracy. Her pencil hovers just between two and two fifteen on the east scale as the back-and-forth between lieutenant and one of the waist gunners does not seem to be dying down. They're not at raised voices yet like the table in the back clearly is – Rollins can never keep his table under control after mission for long – but letting them work it out between them is going to save her a spot of trouble once she actually does need to put her foot down. New tables are like this, sometimes. First time up, first time down. It’s never an easy deal, and she’s got enough sense to not make it harder than it needs to be.

"Two ten." The Major's voice is decisive. "Mark that. Miss Demeanor and the rest of that cluster was on our left flank when Bonny Lass was hit."

"Miss got her wing clipped about five minutes following that, is that right?" asks Cressida, making out a five and the Morse abbreviation for Miss Demeanor on Val's notes. Nods around the table have her marking out a half-moon clip on the map. "When did the fighters come in?"

"When the flak died."

"Yeah."

"There was a minute or two of nothing," allows the lieutenant, "and they swept in so damn fast from that bank of clouds."

"They were already wheels up?" Cressida arches her brow. "Unusual if so," she remarks, remembering the sit-downs with the fighter pilot crew that had scoped out the area prior to the bombing run. Charlotte Rivers, in particular, had been adamant about a ground base rise. "Where would you put them on the map, Lieutenant?"

"Curt, please," he repeats like he did when she was first introduced to him not ten minutes ago. "I'd put them here, ma'am."

"They came from the ground," corrects Evelyn Carter decisively, tapping a spot just beside Curt's indication. "Straight up from there, I saw them clear enough." Her finger stands out dark against Curt's paler hand, so much so that Cressida wonders how the young woman ever passed muster long enough to not be drafted into the Tuskegee side of the war. "They like to hide in the cloud banks, right? Damn bastards thought they could get high enough to be clear of me that way. Clipped one of them on the tail as they went past here, though."

"You got another on the wing."

"Nah, he was too steady on, think I missed him."

"One-Eye missing her prize? Never!"

"It's not a clean turkey shoot, asshole," laughs the young woman who was introduced to her as both Evelyn Carter and the moniker One-Eye. Both her dark eyes, despite her laughter, remain rather hollow as she looks around the table. "They were so much faster than I'd thought."

"A familiar comment," allows Cressida, now that the table's murmuring assent. It's not her habit to comfort anyone at this table, but sometimes it helps move matters along to let them know their experience is not a standalone. "We know they're fast. They work in teams that allow refuel. In comparison, our fortress is the fattest turkey they'll get to shoot at."

"Whole Thanksgiving dish," snorts Val beside her. "Hey, Major, when are we going up for seconds?"

"Eyes front," snaps Cressida, tapping the smaller woman's shoulder until she stops grinning up at Major Egan. Egan's just about the last one she needs to interrupt the table read. "Fighters came in there, who was at the helm?"

"Bunny?"

"Not Veal, at least?"

"Wasn't it Ferret?"

"Jesus Christ, what was your formation? Don't tell me you all lost your minds up there and broke it?" Cressida's voice rises above the din of confusion. She slaps the table for good measure. "Eyes on this map, navigator starts talking, radio ops can comment, the rest of you are mouth shut and watching for now. Got it?"

"Hell of an iron fist you’ve got there, Cressida."

"Stop talking, John," she says, not even bothering to glance up at him.

"We got it, Captain Dorrance-Jones," affirms Major Cleven, sending her the smallest of what appears to be an apologetic smile. She decides she likes him just a little bit more for not getting too friendly with her the way Egan so clearly wants to be. "We didn't lose our heads, ma'am. Formation was solid up there.” His next words ring out with a hint of warning. “Let's focus, guys."

Cressida leans forward over the map as their navigator finally breaks his silence and hauls out a sheet of notes she should have already had in her hands five minutes ago. Marks all the spaces the man indicates, aided swiftly by Val's insistent corrections and the Major's nods of allowance. A failed mission is still a mission. Sometimes even more so, or so she's stood and argued with John Egan in this room at least once before.

"Co-pilot, what was your bearing after mission aborted?" she asks, still feeling Egan's eyes on her back as she fixes the lieutenant beside her with the best of her beadiest stares. "Was there a system status check at some point in the interval of abort and recalculated bearing?"

"Not a full check. Engineer was putting out a small fire."

"Literal or figurative?"

"Figurative."

"Stop saying fire if it is figurative," sighs Cressida, making a small note in the margin of her own paper. "God knows we've had enough real ones on board."

John Egan's snort is a skosh louder than she'd like it to be. She's not sure if that derision is the thing that quietens her table again, or if it's finally sunken in that there could have been a lot of things on fire that somehow miraculously weren't. She grabs her coffee mug. Takes a rather large gulp of too-black, too-bitter coffee that she solely drinks to stay awake. Sets it down on the curling end of the map.

"Let's try again, shall we?" she asks nobody in particular as she grabs a red pen. Get the story out first. The facts straight. Done. Dusted. Now get the things that never make it into the official report. "This time, there'll be more questions about what you saw up there. If you have a thought, say it. If you have a hunch about anything, now's the time. Don't worry about sounding stupid, you hear? I'll decide how stupid it is after I hear it."

"She'll do the thinking part," says Egan, tapping the side of his head just as she shoots him another glare.

"That excuses you from the room, Major, wouldn't you say?" She jerks her head toward the door. "Co-pilot, radio ops, eyes front, don't make me tell you twice," she says to the restless lieutenants at either side of her. "You were wheels up at..."