blind-dates-fest

[blind-dates-fest]

2025 Blind Dates Fest Submissions

A big round of applause for everyone who participated in this year's fest! Characters have been listed in alphabetical order by first name.

Authors with an asterisk (*) are first time participants!

Ava O'Reilly | Masters of the Air | @victoryrollsandredlips *

Bina Glassberg | Band of Brothers | @vintagelavenderskies *

Bridget McAlister | A Discovery of Witches | @aloveforjaneausten

Carrie Ingram | Masters of the Air | @noneedtoamputate

Charlotte "Charlie" Ayres | Band of Brothers | @the-cinnamontography-is-amazing *

Charla Danvers | Grantchester | @yoursweetheartsrevenge *

Chiara Cammarata | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @6thofapril1917

Corrie Brewster | Band of Brothers | @letters-to-gene-roe *

Eleanor D. Wilcox | Masters of the Air | @loveduringthewar

Lucy "Luca" Torrio | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @hesbuckcompton-baby

Felicity Collins | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @emma-ofnormandy Frances "Cessie" Harrison | Masters of the Air | @bcolfanfic * Maria Grazia "Grace" Spadolo | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @mercurygray

Mariya Kincaid | Masters of the Air | @wexhappyxfew

Mollie Jacobs | Masters of the Air | @shoshiwrites

Phoebe Sutherland | The Halycon | @yoursweetheartsrevenge *

Ruari O'Conor | SAS: Rogue Heroes | @moghraidhs

Sally | Masters of the Air | @basilone

The Girl (unnamed) | The Last Kingdom | @bobparkhurst *

Ursula Warren (neé Hastings) | Poirot | @darkhorse-javert

[blind-dates-fest]

Dashing in though a partly closed door to squeak in my @blind-dates-fest submission a day late. Trying something by having the character talk, and seeing what comes through from the inside -thoughts. (Non-canon slash relationship is mentioned.)

A Sister remembers a Brother- Mrs Ursula Warren (nee Hastings).

"So - you want to know about my brother? You're not the first, you know, not even the tenth to come here, all these years since M. Poirot died. If they can't get my brother to ask him directly about the great man they seem to think it's quite alright to come and badger his kin in order to find out about the ever faithful Hastings, as compensation.

Tututut, they have no manners any of them.

But, you, so far you've been very polite, so ask your questions, and as you want to say, I communicated with the Post first. So ask if you will.

What was my brother like? You'll have to do better than that young man.

As a boy? Rather like having an over excitable puppy he was the youngest of us three, of course, and my paents were thrilled when he arrived, a son to carry on the name and to inherit what was left. That's how things were in those days. Very tedious to you younglings now.

He could be annoying frankly, he always wanted to be doing what we were. Then when he went to school he cane back with a very tedious habit of trying to pull our plaits, apparently a game the other boys talked him into. I slapped him full in the face once or twice for that, till he leaned. But really he wasn't that bad. He was...

Have you ever seen a young horse or calf? Hmm good, a bit like that, trying to work out how he fitted and how he fit in, but all over the place. He had nice eyes even then, he never lost them even as he grew up. I'll let you into a secret, If he hadn't been my brother, I would have fancied him as he grew up.

I saw less of him once he was well into Harrow and Eton, he'd be off with his friends in the vacs, riding, shooting on their estates, eventually trips to Europe - developing silly amours for this or that sisters, about every two weeks. It was amusing, except fir how he drooped when a girl went off with somone else, he was back to being a puppy then, a puppy someone had dumped in a waterbutt, we had to do a bit of comforting then, between our own beaus. Darling Artie.

M. Poirot, I'll come to that. They first met in Summer 1913, the summer before the summer-before-the-war. Arthur had gone to Europe with one of his University Pals, blundered into the middle some bother or other, as only he could, and the M'suier was the Police Officer investigating.

He came back different, at the end of that summer. He was full of tales, but almost too busy with them, and there were things he'd normally be talking about that he wasn't. No-one else would have noted it, except myself, Elisa, and maybe our Mother, if she cared to see.

Then he went to War, as did so many. That was a terrible, terrible time. The only truly bright letter we got was just after that Styles Affair, and it was all full of the M. Poirot, to see him again and his deduction. And how glad he was that M. Poirot was alive, had escaped the war. When you mentioned M. Poirot the light came back into his eyes for a moment.

The Arthur who came back at the end of the war wasn't the Artie who had strode off to it. He stayed here for a few weeks, with my late husband and I (I was married by then) and then the note came, M. Poirot, saying he had taken lodging at Whitehaven Mansions, but the only flat was really too large for one person, and perhaps M. Hastings if he did not have lodgings, might go in with him. Arthur was packed so fast it was like a West Wind flying through the house. And there they were, Hastings and Poirot at Whitehaven Mansions, Arthur with his car and his charm, M. Poirot with a sounding board and his 'lettle grey cells'. Always those two.

Argentina? Artie had always read the adventure stories, I think he wanted a bit of that, but really he was fooling and stocking up on thrilling hunting stories. He brought a caiman back, dead fortunately, intending it as a gift for John, my son. My husband wouldn't have the creature in the house, couldn't abide the glinting eye.

But Arthur He always came back to M. Poirot and I know he always wrote letters back, always found his way home when he was bruised, or when M. Poirot was bored of common-place cases. You could lengthen the bond over distance, but it was always there. When it was thought M. Poirot had been killed, I met him at Croydon, it was as bad as when he'd come back from the war. At least that came out alright.

I can see you trying not to think, young man, so I'll answer what you shan't dare ask. Yes, they were a Francais, in that way. I sometimes wondered why they did not both go to Europe once everything had calmed down a bit, after Versailles. M. Poirot always complained about England, and they would have been unchallenged over there - Napoleon saw to that. But Arthur's French was excreable, and either M. Poirot did not wish to subject himself to that permanently, or he did not wish for my brother to be given the cold shoulder for it on the other side of the channel. And of course, here he could use his own foreigness to his advantage, even after 30 years. So here they stayed, to the end.

Why am I telling you this, revealing as it is? Artie asked, before he died. 'Tell them when I'm gone, Ursie, and when it's finally safe and a better time for such things Tell them so they stop wondering, and maybe it will be comfort to someone to know.'

So there, young man. You wanted to know. Now you do. May this change mean better times for many, as Forster wished. You may record me as Mrs Ursula Warren (nee Hastings).

[blind-dates-fest]

Ava O'Reilly, MOTA OFC

This is my first @blind-dates-fest! I'm excited to introduce you all to Ava O'Reilly, my Masters of the Air OFC! Many thanks to @mercurygray for hosting!

A welcome blast of cool air met Ava O’Reilly as she climbed up to street level from the too-warm subway, sending her long brown hair flaring behind her shoulders. She tucked her thin tote tighter under her arm, and turned down the damp sidewalk toward a bright set of lights two blocks down. In vintage script, a neon sign lined with chasing white lights announced “The Candlestick Ballroom;” lights that had not illuminated in decades, save for a few test runs, until tonight. It was a welcome beacon set against the New York's darkening skies.

At the double front doors, she took a moment to check her reflection in the frosted windows, the sounds of the crowd and band inside drifting out to greet her. She wiped the corners of her mouth free of any smudged lipstick, and checked that the bobby pins holding her victory rolls in place were still snug.

One last glance at herself, shoulders rolled back and wiggling a little in anticipation, and she pulled the doors open.

The sounds of sirens and taxi horns faded almost immediately behind her as she stepped inside. The lobby was electric, crowded with conversation and people and music. She had had a feeling it was going to be like this, and the sight made her heart swell with excitement and pride. The Grand Reopening of the Candlestick Ballroom had been a hotly anticipated event across New York City’s swing dance community, ever since plans for its restoration were announced unexpectedly almost four years prior. The city had plenty of storied venues still open and running weekly dances, but the addition of another injected the scene with much-need buzz and life. The supply meant there was demand, and vintage enthusiasts reveled in the idea that swing was not dying, but alive and well in the 21st century.

A rumor had spread weeks earlier that the Candle’s ownership was looking for the most authentic experience to the 40’s a ballroom could offer, so for the first month of operation it would enforce a strict dress code: Vintage Only.

It worked.

As Ava pushed her way to the ticket counter, just on the other side of coat check, she marveled at the dresses and suits in the crowd around her, each person dressed to the nines in their best 1940’s ware. She glanced down at her own dress, a navy blue number with tiny white polka dots and a flaring swing skirt, and wondered if the modern reproduction was authentic enough.

Mindful of the “Vintage Only” rule, she tucked herself next to the wall to quickly check her phone, expecting a text from her roommate who had been due to arrive well before her.

Her phone was blank; a dead, black brick.

“Damnit,” she hissed, and shoved it back into her bag before anyone saw her modern contraband.

At the ticket counter, she first asked the attendant if he had a phone charger she could borrow.

“A… what?” He sounded confused.

“A phone charger!” Maybe the lobby was too loud to be heard properly.

He pointed behind Ava, in the direction of a line of phone booths built into the wall on the other side of the lobby.

Ava blurted out a laugh, less that it was a funny situation and more that it was just annoying, ironic timing. “Oh yeah, sorry. Vintage only. I forgot.” Maybe the rule wasn’t so fun after all. “Anyway… One, please.”

“Fifty cents.”

Her eyes widened. “Fifty cents? Wow, you guys really are going for authenticity. Is that just for tonight, for the Grand Opening?”

His forehead wrinkled further in confusion. “Miss, we’re always 50 cents.”

“Oh, sure, of course you are.” This town, when it committed to a bit, never looked back. Ava picked through the loose change in her wallet, pushing past the new national park coins she knew her dad would be excited to add to his collection, and pulled out two old quarters. She slid them under the glass of the ticket booth with a small smile, a silent apology for confusing the young man. He smiled back, and ripped one half of a lilac-colored ticket off, passing it toward her.

“Do you know if Natalie Lambert is here yet?” Ava asked as she slipped the stub into her wallet.

“Who?”

“Natalie. Lambert,” she said slowly, clearly, to be heard over the crowd. “She’s one of the promoters. She booked the band.”

The attendant shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

She shrugged. “That’s fine. Have a good night.”

“You too, miss. Next!”

Ava stepped to the side, pushing herself right into the middle of the crowd, shoulder-to-shoulder with everyone around her so that no one would have the chance to look down and see her high-top Converse. This was a standard practice for swing dancers; everyday-wear shoes were frowned upon on the dance floor, so everyone brought their own clean pair, from sneakers to the more professional ballroom shoes with suede bottoms, to change into once inside the venue.

A swinging door led from the lobby to the ballroom, and Ava slid in after a woman in a teal dress and brown fur stole.

The ballroom was a sea of people, breaking slightly at the edge of the dance floor in the middle of the large, rectangular space, but even the dance floor was packed. At one end of the long room was a bar, mirror-backed with a sweeping wood frame and red leather stools. Men in smart white coats bustled around behind the bar, pouring drinks and guffawing with lively patrons. At the other end, a raised band shell, with a full band in matching suits deep in their first set. A large banner hung over the band, and in a spirited font announced, WELCOME BACK BOYS! In between the bookends of the bar and the band shell, lining the dance floor three rows deep, were tables that could seat up to six people, eight if their elbows touched, packed in so close the back of your chair would bump up against the neighboring table’s if you weren’t careful.

Ava stopped at the edge of the dance floor a moment to watch the dancers gathered there, impressed with their floor craft, how they deftly maneuvered around each other and still made their moves look flashy. A strange stare from a passerby reminded Ava she was still wearing her Converse high-tops, so she pushed back into the crowd again, and made her way to an empty stool at the end of the bar to change into her ballroom shoes.

She had just gotten her Converse off and stowed in her bag, safe from the “Vintage Only” rule, when one of the older white-clad bartenders positioned himself across from her.

He leaned forward, arms spread out against the bar, and cleared his throat loudly. “Lady, I can serve you real quick-like, but you gotta leave right after as that seat’s reserved.”

“I just need a minute; I need to get my shoes—” She bent over to pull her ballroom shoes on; the ones with the suede bottoms, ankle straps, and sensible one-inch heels.

“Your shoes? Lady, what kinda establishment you think this is? Comin’ in here barefoot?”

She ignored him and buckled the right shoe.

“Lady? Hey lady!” the bartender called, louder. “That ain’t your seat; you’re gonna have’ta move!”

“Just—hang on!” she said firmly, fingers fumbling with the finicky buckle of her left shoe. It was always the left shoe, and buckling one’s shoes while wearing a skirt and seated on a high bar stool was a dance itself. Ava teetered on her seat as she tried not to fall, or share the color of her underwear with the rest of the ballroom patrons.

“That’s for one of our regulars!”

“Yelling at me will totally make me go faster, thank you!”

“What’s going on here?” A third voice spoke up, seemingly out of nowhere. Suddenly, Ava was aware of a pair of men’s brown oxfords coming to a stop in front of her. She looked up through the dark waves that had fallen around her face, to see the most striking blue eyes she’s ever seen on a man.

Everything around her went quiet.

He was young and handsome, with a perfect jawline, trimmed mustache, and a pile of neat curly dark hair. There was something in the way he stared back at her; lips parted in wide-eyed awe, as if struck by the same lightning.

The bartender started shouting again, and all her senses came slamming back. The sound of the band, the push and pull of the crowd, the clinking glassware, and the strong scent of cigarette smoke. “Sorry, Rosie, I tried!” the bartender shouted at the younger man, and put his hands up in the air as if he was surrendering.

The younger man took a moment to pull his gaze away from Ava’s, then casually waved the bartender off. “Thanks, Frank, but it’s fine.” His accent was distinctly New York; Brooklyn. It had to be. “Can I get another Manhattan, please? And whatever the lady likes.”

“You don’t have to,” Ava said without missing a beat, and shook her head. “As soon as I get my shoe on, I’m done, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“What for? Frank doesn’t have any hair for you to get into.”

“Just one sec—”

“Here, let me help.” Before Ava could protest, he was down on one knee, her ankle in his hand. He hummed a few notes along with the band as he examined her shoe. “The buckle’s twisted around; this thing’s never gonna latch like that. Mind if I—”

“Fine! That’s fine, sure.” Ava could feel Frank’s disapproval from the other side of the bar, so she turned to face it head-on. The bartender rolled his eyes, and Ava shot him a quick glare in return.

The younger man pulled her strap around her ankle, and made quick work of buckling it closed.

“Not too tight?” he asked when he looked up, and there were those blue eyes again.

She shook her head, too embarrassed for even the most clipped of sentences.

“All set, Cinderella!” He gave her a quick wink before standing. “Off to see Prince Charming now?”

“Just a few mice.” She hopped off the stool and shouldered her bag. “Thanks! Have a good night.” Not willing to let another awkward second with the handsome man pass, she quickly stepped away from the bar, back into the crowd.

[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]

2023 Blind Dates Submissions

Birgida Eirikrsdotter | Vikings: Valhalla | @emma-ofnormandy

Cecily Portman | Downton Abbey | @aloveforjaneausten

Christina Church | Band of Brothers | @shoshiwrites

Cora Blackburn | The Pacific | @thoughpoppiesblow

Johnathon 'Jonny' Johnston | Foyle's War | @darkhorse-javert

Naera | House of the Dragon | @mercurygray

Pippa "Church" Waters | Top Gun: Maverick | @loveduringthewar

Philippa "Pip" | Band of Brothers | @cetaitlaverite

Tove the Wise | Vikings: Valhalla | @vikingstrash

Valerie Laurent | Band of Brothers | @basilone

Victoria Crawley | Downton Abbey + Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries | @muse-oleum

Vicki Graves | The Pacfic | @latibvles

Friends, I am so proud of all of us this year. We did this for fun, but we also did it 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.

[blind-dates-fest]

forgive me for this very last-minute entry to the @blind-dates-fest! allow me to introduce lucy 'luca' torrio to you all - my favourite partisan and jock mcdiarmid's deeply unhinged future wife

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

communion

Music filled the midnight air as someone thumped out a tune on the piano the SAS had commandeered in Augusta. The clumsy playing almost entirely drowned out by the din of voices, the partisans belting out an old Italian song, its lyrics as familiar to her as the pages of a childhood book.

Luca liked to drink - she liked to sing - and neither activity was in short supply tonight. Yet there she was, sitting on the church steps and watching on in motionless silence.

In the hours since news of Mussolini's arrest had made its way over the radio waves, her comrades' celebration had been impossible to avoid. The alcohol stores had been swiftly depleted - much to the eventual chagrin of those not involved - and she didn't doubt that the Irishman would have some choice words about it come morning. But for now, things were good; many of the SAS men joined with the music where they could, emptying their cups just as swiftly as the Italians. McDiarmid's deep, Scottish tone rang clear as it cut through the song, warbling along off-key and without any knowledge of the words in a reckless merriment that made an involuntary smile tug at her lip.

Her glass had been empty for a while. Too long.

Her boot scuffed against the stone steps as Luca hauled herself to her feet, glass balanced between her fingertips, scraping a few stray strands of red hair away from her face. The night breeze was cool against alcohol-flushed cheeks as she turned towards the church door, the din from outside muffled the moment she stepped inside. Each footstep echoed against the arched ceiling, throwing each inch of her intrusion back at her, amplified. It had been a long time since Luca had felt God had any place in her life - a long time since she hadn't felt betrayed.

The communion wine perched high upon the altar, a glimmer of moonlight catching against the glass as it streamed in through one of the narrow windows, glittering silver in the dark. It looked good. Perhaps more importantly, it looked easy to take.

Luca ran a hand across her face, tugging slightly at the skin, fighting against exhaustion with what may have also been a subconscious effort at snapping herself out of what she was about to do. The wine sloshed slightly as it was decanted into the chalice, the red pool almost black in the dark. She stared at it; a moment's hesitation. She could hear her father's voice from the long-ago days of her childhood, chiding her for any tiny misbehaviour in such a holy place. How his face would run pale to see her now. And yet, the wine slid down her throat as smoothly as any other.

"What would God say?" A Scottish accent rang out from the far end of the aisle, Jock's voice growing steadily familiar to her as their days of proximity ticked by.

His arrival had startled her. She didn't let it reach her expression. "Well are you gonna tell him?" Luca glanced back over her shoulder, offering a smirk.

He chuckled, a slight grin parting his lips. "Not if you share." Letting out a snort, she held out the bottle to him, using her free hand to lift the chalice to her lips again.

A yawn escaped Luca between sips, raising a hand to cover her mouth as her eyes screwed tightly shut. Jock shot her a smile as he stepped up to the altar beside her, accepting the drink.

"Not celebrating?" He asked after a long swig.

"Not 'til he's dead."

"Atta girl," Jock grunted with a nod of approval as Luca rolled her eyes, unable to stop the hint of a smile breaking out across her expression.

She wouldn't tell him why the fire that burnt inside her was different - why it couldn't be dimmed by something as fragile as progress, why the inferno would never lose its heat until the object of her hate was dead and buried. She wouldn't be known by him. Not like that. Not even when he gave her that look and she felt her resolve weaken for a moment. Even when she wasn't looking, her gaze wandering across the dimly lit pews and the glint of moonlight through stained glass, she knew he was staring. He often was - Luca wasn't quite sure if he couldn't tell or if he just didn't care, heedlessness and over-confidence both equally characteristic.

"Yunno," He said. "Your friends don't like me, I reckon."

"Really?" Luca gasped sarcastically, leaning back on her elbows against the altar. He snorted at her tone, a bubble of honest laughter popping in her throat, the sound echoing against the arched ceiling above.

"They don't think you're serious," She shrugged.

"They might be onto somethin' there."

Luca dug a tooth into the inside of her lip. "You wanna know what I think of you?"

Jock's brow arched, beginning to grin. "Oh, aye - now I do."

"I think I could put any woman within a hundred-mile radius in front of you right now and you'd flirt with her. Because you don't care about who's attached to a nice pair of legs."

"Okay, that's…" He paused to think for a moment, taking a sip of wine. "That's not entirely untrue," Luca snorted at the confession, his grin widening. "-But! I resent the accusation that I only flirt with you for your legs. Haven't even seen 'em - your trousers are too baggy."

She laughed again. "So you admit you've been flirting with me."

"I think we're past denying that, love."

Sucking in a long, deep breath, Luca nodded slowly. Eyes fluttering shut, she tilted the chalice, the remainder of her wine sliding down her throat in a single gulp, metal cold against her bottom lip. When she reopened her eyes, Jock was staring. Again. More blatantly than ever.

"You have a real staring problem."

He shrugged. "Not a problem. I can stop."

Luca's brow arched in challenge. "You sure about that?"

"Aye," Jock nodded, smirking as he lifted the bottle to refill her cup. "Just don't wanna."

[blind-dates-fest]

I'm thrilled to bring my first submission to @blind-dates-fest! Thank you to the wonderful @mercurygray for hosting this event! I've been saying forever we need more women in the OSS around here, so for the Band of Brothers fandom, I'd like to introduce my OC, Charlie Ayres! Here's a little vignette between her and our favorite S-2 officer, Nix, guest starring Harry Welsh. This is my first time diving into fanfic, so what better way to test the waters? I also love any chance to info dump about the OSS. This piece is in 1st POV, and heavily inspired by the song, No Choir by Florence + The Machine. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys!

REPORT: LONDON STATION, OSS: 02/1945 AYRES, CHARLIE (SO) Agent en route to LONDON via MOURMELON, FR. Waiting on contact:

“Un autre verre, Madame?”

“Non, merci.”

My hand was tingling from the lack of circulation as I peeled my big head away—if my big head was smart, I’d down about three more drinks and continue to pretend I was back New York. Springtime, when the final grasps of winter eased up, and a cool breeze would sweep across our faces—before I let myself spiral into a deeper yearning, I stood up from the bar. Perhaps one day, I’ll yearn for this moment too. That’s what frightened me. Would I be able to stop the idealization of a place that I hardly existed in?

“Combien pour la boisson, Monsieur?” I asked the tired bartender.

“Deux, s’il vous plaît.” 

I dropped a couple of coins on the counter, and lugged on my coat.

“Merci, Madame. Au revoir.”

“Bonne soirée,” I gave a halfhearted smile, and slipped out onto the corner of the street. 

It felt much later than it truly was. The overcast of clouds made the sky darker, illuminating the wet streets in a blue haze, and although it was a bit warmer than yesterday, few people were out enjoying the shitty weather. A few soldiers here and there trying to escape boredom, trying to forget...

I headed down the cobblestone street, around the corner, and up to the hotel I was billeted at. My room was small, and if I was staying for more than two days, I might have gone crazy in the close quarters. I stripped off my coat and uniform jacket, tossing them on the chair in the corner of the room. I wasn’t sure if I should try to sleep, pace around like a caged animal, or stare at the chipped paint on the walls. 

I settled on reading, and pulled out a book from my small suitcase—my only form of ‘off duty’ entertainment in these last few months. Intelligence doesn’t offer a lot of closet space. I threw myself on the creaky bed, noticing the dust fly up around the lamp, and opened where I left off. I only made it through the first page before I couldn’t stomach any more fantasy or adventure. Another thing I will miss about my pre-war life, my attention span. It seemed like the only things I could focus on were the timings of detonations, risk analysis, and the intra-political dealings of resistance groups.  

I considered a second attempt in fixing the small radio propped on the side table, but I wouldn’t have the option to quit in a rage again. It would be considered in poor taste to show up at the bar for a second time in one evening.

I got up and dug through my bag to pull out a cigarette. I thought I had carefully planned out my stash, but only one laid in the silver case. I had promised myself that I would have the last one on the plane back to London. I didn’t smoke much before the war, and didn’t want to continue after. I don’t think I would be able to bare the taste again, taking my mind back to all those nights I’d rather forget—cheap cigarettes and incendiary powder… I started to get restless, irritated even. I wanted to be in London now, but was also disappointed I’d been called back. I had hoped for some closure for my time here, but it’s all ended with a quiet irreverence.

I walked over to the small window overlooking the street and threw it open for some air. Below, there were a two men enjoying a loud conversation. I didn’t like this aggravation that seemed to plague me over innocuous things. I’ve always been good at focusing my anger towards the things that matter. Maybe that was my problem… I haven’t blown anything up in awhile.

In my attempt to slam the window down, hoping that would grant me the catharsis I needed, a piece of the wooden ledge below the window frame came loose and fell two stories down. The two men jumped behind them starting at the splintered wood, then up at me. 

Son of a bitch. I opened up the window again. 

“Sorry.” I yelled down to the inquisitive eyes. 

I quickly raced out of the room, down the stairs and onto the street while wrestling my jacket, all witnessed by a few concerned citizens as I rounded the corner. I slowed my gait and approached them hovering over the two by four, like they were watching bugs under a rock. I caught the edge of their eagle patches. Paratroopers.

“I’m so sorry, the window…got stuck.” I lied. 

The men looked up at me with bright eyes. I braced for impact at the numerous ways this could go. One was shorter than the other, curly blonde hair, a lieutenant. The other man, completely opposite—tall, dark eyes and hair. A captain. 

“It’s fine, windows have the tendency to fall out.” The Captain smirked as I picked up the wood. 

“It’d be swell if they didn’t while I’m around.” I gazed up, "This is going to be fun to fix."

“Just charge it to Uncle Sam.” He smiled. 

“One Sherman, one window…” I muttered. They both seemed to enjoy the joke. I let out a breath and focused back down to the sidewalk. 

“Harry Welsh.” The Lieutenant stuck out his hand, wasting no time. “Or should I salute…Captain?” He gazed at my bars on my epaulets. 

“Handshake is fine.” I smiled, awkwardly moving the wood piece to my other hand. “Charlie Ayres.” 

“Pleasure,” Harry smiled.

“Lewis Nixon.” The Captain extended his hand. 

“Hi.” I nodded, returning the pleasantries.

“So what brings you to Mourmelon? You with the WAC’s?” Harry asked. 

“I’m with Intelligence, actually. Just passing through.” I bit my lip, wondering if they would actually believe me.  

“Boy, you’re in luck,” Harry shook Lewis’ shoulder, “Nix here is our trusty, S-2 officer.”

“Ah,” I glanced towards the Captain, he was looking down, humbled at his friend’s flattery. 

“I’m sure you both have a lot in common,” Harry slyly glanced between the both of us for several uncomfortable seconds.

“Weren’t you on your way to send a letter Kitty?” Lewis teased, breaking the stagnation.

“Yeah, I am.” Harry narrowed his eyes, all too aware of what he was alluding. “I also better go make sure Dick isn’t having a wild night out.”

Lewis laughed, “Yeah right. I’ll catch up with you later.” It seemed like there was a joke between them I was not privy to.

“Captain, pleasure to meet you. Good luck with the window.” He half saluted—almost bowed over for that matter, and turned on his heels.

“Thanks.” I nodded. We awkwardly stood there for a moment, watching Harry fade into the distance. I examined the dumb piece of wood—It’d be a good piece of shrapnel to plant somewhere. 

“So, intelligence huh?” Lewis asked. I shifted my weight, pretending like I just wasn’t planning a detailed method of destruction,

“Uh huh—you don't have to stick around on my account, I think I can manage—” 

“OSS?” he nodded to the pins on my jacket.

“Well, I’m not SOE.” I quipped. 

“Right.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, placing one in between his lips. “I’ve come across a few of you, well not—”

“A woman?”  

“Yeah,” he said after a few painful seconds. I don’t think he knew how to respond to my bluntness. He offered the pack over, as to make up for any possible inconsiderations. 

“Thanks, I was just teasing.” I stuck one between my own lips. “Though I should be offering you some, since I almost killed you with a window.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time dodging things from the sky, ” he snickered and lit his own, then offered me the light. 

“I’m sure.” I took a full drag. “You guys in the 101st got the hell beat out of you.”

“A few times.” His tone was less playful, but still blasé about the whole thing. 

“I should also apologize for Market Garden on behalf of intelligence.”

“What?” He laughed with an edge of nervousness, furrowing his eyebrows. 

“Actually your grievances should lie more with the British. They didn’t trust the Dutch resistance groups…” I stopped myself from saying anymore out loud. Although the war was pretty much decided at this point, the Germans were still hanging on. I better not test any luck. 

“Can’t disagree with that.” The Captain sighed. 

“Holland is a great place to jump though. All flat.” I smiled.

“You jumped into Holland?” He turned to me with furrowed eyebrows.

“No,” I took another drag. A smug smile crept across his face, one that all men share when they are proven right. 

“I was too busy jumping in and out of France. My Dutch isn’t all that great anyway.” I returned the smug disposition. Outside of bad timing and poor communications, SFHQ sent the Jedburghs in the day of the invasion. No time to mount a true resistance against the Nazis. In France, we spent months coordinating sabotage and resistance after D-Day and beyond. The Netherlands seemed to be the middle child in the invasion of Europe. 

“Anyway, doesn’t really matter now,” I snapped back into reality, forgoing my detailed explanation, “There’s nothing wrong with extending things for six more months.” I shrugged. 

This time he let out a genuine laugh, “Yeah, wouldn’t want to end the fun.” 

He looked ahead, finishing the cigarette while gazing down the street. It seems like we shared the same dark circles under our eyes.

“You wanna get a drink?” He abruptly asked. I quickly looked away to avoid being caught staring, 

“Maybe one. I’ve already reached my limit for the night.” I said.

“It’s only six o’clock?” He looked at his watch. 

“I like an early start, so by the time happy hour hits, I can go straight to regret.” I dryly said. 

“Right, a spy can’t loose their inhibitions.” He teased.  

“I’m not a spy—in the technical sense.” I muttered. “But don’t let me stop you, if you had something else planned.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.” He smiled.

“What did you have in mind?” 

“How about that small place around the corner?” 

“Would you believe that’s the exact place I reached my limit?” I cocked my head back towards the building. 

“You think the bartender took the night off after you left?” He smiled.

I shrugged, “If he’s a good union bartender.” 

“I suppose we could go back to my side of town?” He suggested.

“I don’t know, I’m not quite used to…standing out.” 

“Why would you? You’re a captain, you jump out of planes?” He reassurance was strangely comforting. 

“Right, nothing else unusual about me.” I pondered my options—a bartender that might judge, or some decent quarters to hang out in with the risk of ogling paratroopers. Lewis caught onto my contemplation, 

“We can sneak you in the back, if you really don’t want to be noticed. Should be easy for a spy.” He smiled. “I think it’d be fun.” 

I rolled my eyes, “I’ll come if you stop calling me a spy.” 

“I didn’t think you were a real spy…in the technical sense?” He quoted me almost perfectly. 

“You should know saying that out loud, has the potential to be very compromising.” I snipped. 

“You think Germans are around?” He stepped closer. “Next to an airbase full of paratroopers?” 

“I see you didn’t watch your training videos.”

“It’s been awhile.” He is charming, I’ll give him that. 

“Let me go up and grab my coat,” I realized the wood was still in my hand,  “And dispose of this.” 

“You need help with the window?” 

“Well, you’re more than welcome to come up to safety.” 

We made our way back around the corner,

“So is Charlie a nickname?” He asked. 

“Yeah, I don’t like Charlotte.” I said. “And it also lets me…blend in more, on paper at least.”  

“Makes sense. How long are you here for?” 

“Uh, until tomorrow night.”

“Then to?”

“Back to London, the states, maybe east, I don’t know.” I had a feeling my field work would be over and I’d be stuck in a lab with Dr. Lovell or at that uppity country club, training men who won’t listen.

“Damn, no jumping into Berlin?”

“Afraid not.” I exhaled. 

“I’ll send a postcard.” 

“I’ll be looking out for it.” I looked down, trying not to smile too much. It felt strange… We got back to the hotel, and I ran into the receptionist on our way up the stairs.

“Ah Madame, je suis désolé pour la fenêtre…” I quickly explained what happened as Lewis lingered a few steps behind me. The woman was very forgiving, even apologetic. She took the wood, and of course, her face was painted with that specific look of judgement, while passing Lewis on the stairs. That would not be happening tonight. Lewis looked a little embarrassed himself.

"You have good accent." he said.

"Thanks. It could be better."

"Better than mine." He confessed.

We continued up the stairs and to my room. The door was locked,

“Shit,” I dug around my trouser pockets. 

“Do you have a key?” He asked. 

“Yeah, in there.” I sighed. “It must’ve latched while I ran out.” 

“Should we call after the woman?” 

“Let me see if I can break in first.” I started to jiggle the door handle. “Oh, so the window falls apart but not the door?” I groveled, as I shoved my shoulder into it.

“Let me try.” Lewis offered, attempting the same move to no avail. 

“You’ve gotta have some sort of spy gadget on you, right?” He smirked. 

I glared at him while I was already pulling out a hairpin. I knelt down and started picking the lock. 

“Did they teach you that, or was that a prerequisite skill?” He continued. Despite many fellow members of the OSS having nefarious backgrounds, the principle of the comment irritated me, 

“No, they taught me, but if you must know, I have a background in engineering. Picking the lock was the easiest option, sans blowing off the door.” 

I got it unlatched and kicked open the door, obnoxiously waving my hand, gesturing for him to enter.  

“Engineering, huh?” He said, while walking in. He seemed to be impressed. 

“Yeah, know any?” I quipped, following him into the room. 

“I may have studied some of it.” 

“Where?” I headed towards the window. 

“Yale. You?” 

I was glad the sound of the window closing covered any physical cringe I may have shown due to my under-assumption, Of course he comes from wealth...I turned back towards him,

“Cornell. Physics and chemistry—on a scholarship.” I didn’t want him to think my parents bought my way in. I was proud of working my way up from nearly nothing. “I was working on my doctoral degree when this all broke out.” 

He whistled, “Impressive.” 

“Cause I’m not a man?” I laughed, grabbing my coat off the chair. 

“No, not at all.” he started to get flustered. “I mean, good for you. That’s great.” 

I was being unfair, he has been nothing but gracious. I’m always primed for a knee-jerk reaction.

“Thanks. Did you like engineering?” I asked. 

“Yeah, it was alright,” He didn’t seem interested in talking about himself. I had no interest either. For once in my life, I was content with inconsequential conversation. 

“But let me guess,” he followed up, “You’re in demolitions?”

“Something like that.” I narrowed my eyes, I don’t enjoy guessing games.

“Don’t worry, I won’t pry. Classified information.” He mocked. 

“Physical sabotage is only a small part of my work, even if could tell you, there isn’t a whole lot of interest to share.” 

“Oh I’m sure there’s at least one crumbled bridge in Europe with your name on it.” He mused. 

There were buildings, modes of transportation, even people, all with my name on them. I shook my head, as if I could erase it all. 

 “Only one bridge, but that was a group effort.” I admitted. 

He enjoyed the comment, “I don’t know, that’s pretty interesting.”

“I appreciate the support.” I let out a quiet, involuntary laugh as I took a seat on the edge of the bed. “I hardly remember doing it.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you will when this is all over.” 

“That’s a frightening thought.” 

“Oh I know.” He took a few steps over and sat in the chair. “It’ll make for a good story.” 

“I’m not going to be in any history book.” I relaxed, fumbling with the buttons on my coat.

“You could write it yourself?” He suggested.

“And do you, Captain Nixon, have a desire to write a book?” I leaned towards him, lifting the corner of my mouth.

“Why would I write about all this? Then I’d have to re-read it.” He scoffed.

“I don’t know, for someone else too? Historical representation?” I agreed with his sentiments, but I’d like to think there could be a greater purpose to it all. 

“Then what’s stopping you?” He retorted. I knew he was trying to get an answer out of me. I sighed, gazing down to my boots, 

“I don’t know. How often do you think the whole story gets told in those books? I’m not good at exaggerating things.” 

“There is always some truth to it somewhere.” His gaze was on the edge of the chair, fidgeting with the old threads.

“I’m not so sure I could do that either.” I furrowed my eyes, forming my lips into a straight line. “I’m too good at censoring my own thoughts.” I attempted to laugh to lighten the mood, but instead it was just a shaky exhale. 

“Yeah, better to forget the details...” His smile slowly faded into a stark indifference, but his eyes gave away something deeper. We said nothing for several moments.

His eyes soften as he caught my gaze. I almost felt like I was standing in front of a mirror; two sets of brown eyes, dark circles...two people so deeply indulged in their own delusions, as if that would protect our sanities. Then again, maybe I'm just projecting myself... He looked away after a moment, I think he was becoming unsettled.

“Well,” I sprung up, breaking the silence, “Here is to forgetting. Shall we start?” 

“Good idea—” Lewis stopped the upright momentum and reached behind his back, “What’s this?” He held up the green, baseball sized device. 

“A beano.” I said matter of factly. It must’ve fallen out of my coat pocket. 

“Looks like a grenade.” He quickly stood up, following me to the door. 

“Cause it is.” I put my coat on. He wasn’t concerned per se, but it looked like he was doing a math problem. Causal concentration to his predicament. 

“It’s a dud, I’m pretty sure.” I smiled, I knew it was safe, but I wondered if I could pull any other emotion or reaction out of him. 

“Pretty sure?” He laughed, eyes still narrowed on the device.

“It’s a prototype, really. You can pull the top off and everything. Supposed to throw it like a baseball.” 

“Model or not, it would get people to listen.” he muttered. 

“I would offer it to you but ya know, classified materials.” 

“I appreciate the gesture.” He carefully set it on the side table. 

“Well, I have been instructed to cooperate with the armed forces.” I smirked, quoting the endless OSS manuals as we stepped out the door.

Notes:

I know first person POV is a little uncommon for fic, but I love getting directly into the heads of characters! I also wanted to make this historically accurate as possible, referencing elements of the OSS and its operations. If anyone wants to learn more about the OSS, especially the role of women in the organization, check out my tag! This is a long piece, so if you make it to the end, thank you so much! 🫶

[blind-dates-fest]

Blind Dates 2025: Carrie Ingram

Meet my Masters of the Air OFC and @blind-dates-fest submission, Sgt. Carrie Ingram, a radio repair technician from Quincy, Illinois. She's good friends with Ken Lemmons, loves the St. Louis Cardinals (Capt. DeMarco enjoys ribbing her when the Cubs win and the Redbirds lose), and is committed to her work. But maybe there's time for a little fun.

Thanks as always to @mercurygray for hosting, and I'm looking forward to reading all of this year's submissions.

The brisk air felt good as Sargeant Carrie Ingram stepped outside the makeshift hall. So many guests had come to Thorpe Abbotts for the party that the dance floor was packed to the gills, and her rarely-worn dress uniform felt itchy against her skin. 

She walked over to Lieutenant Linhart, who was in the middle of warmly greeting a local politician and his wife.

The officer looked down at her watch. “You don’t take over for another five minutes,” she pointed out. 

Carrie shrugged. “I don’t mind, and I noticed Major Kidd looking around for a dance partner.”

Lieutenant Linhart’s eyes lit up. “Thanks, Carrie. You’re a brick,” she said over her shoulder as she quickly walked away. 

Carrie squinted her eyes and shook her head, but she quickly composed herself and took over as hostess, welcoming locals - and, in one case, a group of girls so young Carrie wondered if their mothers knew where they were tonight - and pointing them in the direction of the music and food and Army Air Corps servicemen.

When her thirty minutes was almost up, a carload of women Carrie recognized as local Women’s Land Army members pulled up. The girls were dressed to the nines, or at least what passed as the nines for wartime Norfolk, ready for a night away from the farm.

“Maybe that cute Sergeant Lemmons will be here,” Carrie heard one of the girls say.

“He’s married,” Carrie shared.

“So am I, sweetie. Doesn't mean we can’t have a little bit of fun.” The group erupted into laughter, and Carrie couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. It was going to take a lot more than what she had to turn Ken’s head. He wrote to his wife, Fonda, faithfully twice a week.

Carrie turned back towards the car and noticed a man exit the driver’s side door. He wore a button-down shirt beneath a blue sweater - or jumper, as the English called it - and brown trousers, which were not the same as pants on this side of the pond. His reddish-brown hair seemed a bit too long to meet military regulations. 

He startled a bit when he heard her footsteps on the gravel. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to let you know you’re more than welcome to join the party,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, but I’m fine out here,” he answered.

“Can I at least get you a drink?” she asked. 

He shook his head. “I’m here to make sure the girls get back to the farm safely. It wouldn’t do us any good to have me unsteady at the wheel.”

Carrie nodded and returned to her post. A few minutes later, Dolly from the meteorology department came to take her place. 

The man was stubbing out a cigarette when Carrie came back out, a bottle of Coca-Cola and a doughnut in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

“No alcohol, I promise,” she said. “Just plain old Coke and milk and sugar in the coffee. Take your pick.”

She finally got him to smile. “It’s been some time since I’ve had either.” His eyes moved between the two drinks. “I’ll have the coffee, please,” he decided. 

She extended her arm, and he gently took the cup from her hand. “Please, have a seat,” he said, opening the passenger side door for her. 

Once they were both inside the car, she handed him the doughnut still in her hand. 

“I don't think I’ve ever had one of these,” he admitted.

“They go well with coffee,” she said. 

He took a bite and closed his eyes. “That’s nice. Are you sure you don’t want half of it?”

“There’s plenty more where that one came from,” she explained. 

They sipped more of their drinks before he asked, “Where are you from, sergeant?”

Carrie swallowed. “Quincy, Illinois. On the Mississippi River.”

“And what did you do in Quincy, Illinois before all of this?” He waved his hand toward the hangers. 

“Well, my parents are what you would call shopkeepers here,” she explained.

“And what are shopkeepers called in the United States?”

He has a nice grin, she thought.

“Well, if you said shopkeeper, everyone would understand what you meant. But business owners would probably be the more common expression. They own Ingram Radio and Repair,” she shared.

“Please tell me that the army had sense enough to put you in radio operations,” he said, and they both laughed.

She nodded. “My father said it’s the most logical decision he’s ever seen the army make. He was in the first war.”

“Then he knows the army isn’t usually known for doing what is logical.” He took a sip of his coffee before continuing. “You’re doing the same work here, but things must be very different.”

“Oh yes. For starters, I would never be caught sitting in a car with you back home. ‘Caroline, a gentleman would never ask a lady to sit in a parked car.’ I know you’ve never met my mother, but that’s a pretty good impression.” She couldn’t help but be a little satisfied with herself. 

“Your name is Caroline Ingram?” he asked. 

“Yes, but only my mother calls me Caroline. Everyone else calls me Carrie.”

He shook his head. “Of course. Why should you be different from every other Yank? You all have perfectly good names, but none of you go by any of them.”

“What’s your name?” she returned.

“Robert Bessey,” he replied.

“And let me guess. Everyone calls you Robert?” she joked.

“What would I be called if I were American?” 

“Well, Bobby when you were little, and Bob now.” She frowned. “But that doesn’t work, because a bobby is a policeman and a bob is some amount of money I haven’t quite figured out yet,”

“Well done you. Have you been studying your serviceman’s guide?”

She shook her head. “One of our officers has quickly picked up your phrases. No one will understand her when she’s back in Ohio.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “She called me a brick earlier. I hope that’s a good thing.”

“It is,” he confirmed, but his smile turned into a grimace, and he grabbed his right leg.

“Are you alright,” Carried asked, concerned. 

He breathed through the pain. 

“Did you hurt it somehow?” 

“I didn’t hurt it as much as the bullet that went through it did.” Carrie’s eyes widened. “North Africa. British Eighth Army. Captain.”

“Does it still give you a lot of problems?’ Carrie didn’t know if she was being rude. She barely knew him, and the English didn’t seem to share a lot about themselves.

He shrugged. “It comes and goes. Enough that I received a medical discharge, but I can still do my bit by helping manage the family farm,” he said sarcastically.

She looked down at his empty coffee cup. “Time for a refill? We can go in and get you another -”

“I’m fine, thank you,” he cut her off. 

She looked down at her watch. “It’s getting a bit later now, when the band starts to play all the older songs, the slower ones. I can’t jitterbug for the life of me, but I’m not too bad at the foxtrot.”

He looked out the window, and Carrie knew he was far away with his thoughts. 

“All right,” he finally said. “You wait there. I may have a medical discharge, but I’m still a gentleman, even if your mother wouldn’t think so.”

He gingerly got out of the car and came around to open the door for Carrie, holding out his hand to assist. Carrie noticed his slight limp, but only because she knew to look for it. Once they made it into the dance hall, Robert’s eyes zeroed in on the food table, where treats of every kind were available to take.

“You weren’t joking about the spread,” he said. 

Like Carrie predicted, the lights were low, and the band broke into “Where or When.” 

“May I have the pleasure of this dance, Carrie Ingram?” he asked. It would have sounded corny if one of the pilots or mechanics had worded it that way, but coming from Robert, it came off as rather sincere.

 “Of course,” she answered, and the two fell in step together.

It had been a while since Carrie last danced. She made it a point not to go with anyone at the base - life was just simpler that way. And it had been months since she’d gotten a pass to go down to London. It felt nice to be held in someone’s arms, and despite his bad leg, he was a perfectly respectable dancer. 

She was just about to say that when another couple danced their way over to them.

“Hope you’re having a good evening, Sergeant.” Lieutenant Linhart winked at Carrie.

“Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Robert Bessey, formerly of the British Eighth Army. This is Lieutenant Trudie Linhart and Major Jack Kidd.” The lieutenant smiled and the major narrowed his eyes, not completely sold on Carrie’s companion.

“Call me Bob,” Robert said. “This sure is a swell party.”

“Ta!” exclaimed Lieutenant Linhart. Major Kidd simply nodded and spun her away.

“So that’s your Anglophile officer who called you a brick, and her dance partner looks like he keeps a close watch on everyone in his unit.”

“Were you an intelligence officer? I think when the war is over, Major Kidd is going to go home and take a nap for about a year.” She sighed. “What was with calling yourself Bob? And I’m sure you’ve never said swell in your life.”

Robert shrugged his shoulders. “You’ve been so polite speaking my language tonight, I thought I would return the favor. And Trudie and Jack can’t be their real names. When in Rome.” He pulled her a little closer. “She’s right, your lieutenant. You are a brick.”

“Would you mind translating for me?” Carrie asked, enjoying the feel of his hands on her waist.

“A brick is a steadfast, dependable person,” he explained.

“That sounds rather boring,” she complained. Did anyone woman want the first word a man thought about her to be steadfast?

“That’s because you’re American. Everything doesn’t need to be flashy. Sometimes a worn jumper is as good as a dress uniform. Sometimes a slow dance is as much fun as a jitterbug. You reminded me of that tonight.”

She could feel herself blush, so she rested her head on his shoulder in the hopes that he wouldn’t see. But she wasn’t too worried he would say anything about it.

He was a rather nice bloke.

[blind-dates-fest]

a time of sweetness

*drumroll* meet bina glassberg, my first ever oc for @blind-dates-fest

fandom: band of brothers, pairing joe liebgott x ofc

Bina had never been one to care about big cities. Somehow, she’d been convinced to come here. The weather was amenable, though it never snowed. That was one thing she missed most of all. 

Her brown curls blew in the breeze as she rushed down the street. The bakery would be closing soon and she’d promised to pick up challah for Rosh Hashana. She’d not decided whether she was going to services, but Raizel was dragging her to a dinner whether she wanted it or not. 

The bakery came into view. She picked up her pace, not seeing the person who’d come out of nowhere and knocked her to the ground. 

“Great, there’s dirt on my dress,” she mumbled. Her light blue dress was one of the few things she’d managed not to ruin. Until now. Just my luck. 

“Here, let me help you up.” She glanced up at the man in front of her, hand extended out to her. He was a good few inches taller than her with honey colored eyes and dark brown hair that was perfectly messy. 

“No, you can’t.” Puzzlement played across his expression and she sighed. She hated explaining. People rarely understood. “I don’t have physical contact with men outside of my family.”

“You’re shomer?” 

Her mouth fell open before closing it just as quickly. “You know what it is?” 

Nodding, he grinned. “I’m Joe Liebgott.”

“Bina Glassberg.” Her lips curved upwards ever so slightly.

He gestured in the direction of the bakery. “I take it you’re also a last minute buyer of challah.” 

“I wasn’t sure I was going to celebrate. My friend, Raizel, is dragging me to a dinner tonight.” 

The light in his eyes was dizzying as he met her gaze. “The Blumbergs’? I’ll be there, too.” 

She couldn’t bring herself to speak. What in the world is wrong with me? 

They continued walking down the street, an easy silence filling the emptiness. All the while, she tried to keep her smile from growing wider. “So, are you from here?” 

“Originally from Poland. We moved here when I was younger.” Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“Austria. My parents came over before I was born.” He paused briefly. “Some of my family was still there.” Longing laced his words as his expression darkened. She understood intimately. It was a hole in one’s neshama, one that she refused to acknowledge herself. 

The line to get in the bakery stretched down the block. “Oy vey, guess we weren’t the only ones who waited,” she said as they walked to the end of the line. 

“Just means we get to talk more.” He smirked. Still, there was something in his voice that seemed sincere. She’d met plenty of guys before, but never one like him. The others had been so stuffy and boring. 

“Have you been to Poland?” 

How do I explain? Where do I even start? She settled on the simplest answer. “I was there during the war.” Her voice was barely loud enough for him to hear.

“I’m sorry.” 

Her hands curled into fists. “No. Do not be sorry. I fought for years. I never once dreamed of giving up.” 

Putting his hands up defensively, he stepped back slightly. “That was brave of you,” he whispered. There was the softness again. It made her neshama sing, though she knew not what it was saying. “I was in the Airborne.” 

“What was it like?” 

“Well, I jumped out of perfectly good planes. So, it wasn’t too smart.” 

She giggled at this, stepping forward as the line moved. “I did different things.” 

They lapsed into silence. It was easier to let it speak than try to explain. Finally, they were inside the bakery. The smell of honey and sugar and vanilla floated into the air. It reminded her of home. 

“Bina, my dear. Where have you been?” Chaya asked. Her tichel had flecks of flour on it, making it look like snow. 

“I know. I know. I’ve been tired.” 

“You need to eat more. You’re too thin. Now, you had two round challah, yes?” 

Bina nodded and reached into her pocket for the money. Before she could take it out, Joe had beat her to it. 

Chaya gave her a smile as she handed her the challah. 

Once they were outside, she looked him in the eyes, frowning. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“We’ll call it tzedakah,” he shrugged. 

“I should probably get going,” she said, breaking the silence. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

The walk to the Blumbergs’ was a short one, which hardly gave her time to think about what she was going to do. She couldn’t get Joe out of her head. I’m doomed. The house was packed with people. Everyone in the neighborhood seemed to be here. 

“Bina! There you are.” Joe crossed the room in a few quick paces. He was wearing black slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled slightly. “Who is that?” Raizel whispered.

She didn’t get a chance to respond before he was standing in front of her, wearing that same smile he had earlier. 

“You must be Raizel. I’m Joe.” 

She nodded, “Nice to meet you.” 

“I met Joe this morning. When I was buying challah.” 

“Oh, that’s why you took so long.” Raizel gave her a knowing grin. She didn’t acknowledge it, keeping her gaze focused on Joe. 

The silence that followed was awkward and heavy. 

“Oh, I see Yitzchak. I’ll see you later.” Raizel walked away without another word. 

Shaking her head, Bina tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. 

Silence enveloped them. “I should get this on the table.” She gestured to the challah. Before he could respond, she hurried off. A gold tablecloth covered the table. Plates of food were piled high, spread all over. Pomegranates, dates, apples, honey, and fish were among the staples. 

“Wow. It looks amazing.” 

Nodding, she groaned. “I’m starved.” 

“Take a date. No one will notice.” 

“I will not,” she guffawed. 

He gave her a look as if to say, really? “Come on, I’ll keep watch.” 

She whirled around, plucking two dates off a plate. “Here.” 

He grabbed the date, careful not to touch her hand. “Delicious,” he mumbled. 

He nodded. “Something strong, preferably.” 

She bit back a laugh and followed. He grabbed two glasses and poured before setting hers on the table. “L’chaim.” 

He nodded, murmuring the same before saying ha’gefen. 

The wine was sweet on her lips as she took a long sip. Her muscles relaxed slightly. 

She rocked back and forth on her heels briefly. 

“Are you nervous?” he asked. 

“No. Maybe.” She took a quick breath before continuing. “I haven’t been too active in the community since coming back here.” 

His expression softened. She wished he would reach for her hand. Stop. You barely know him. Even so, she tried to imagine how it would feel. “Do you want to go outside?” 

“Please. I’m pretty sure everyone’s staring.” They walked to the door and slipped outside, sitting down on the steps. The cold air was a balm on her warm cheeks. 

“It’s because you’re with me. They’ve been trying to find me someone for years.” 

Laughter bubbled in her chest. It had been a long time since she’d laughed freely. So much of the past few years were spent running, trying to survive. Trying to rescue everyone she could. 

He furrowed his brows and frowned. “I don’t believe that.” The warmth in his eyes was intoxicating. Her heart pounded in her chest. She took another drink. 

She opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted. 

“Hey, you twoץ You’re going to miss Shehechiyanu,” Raizel called.  

She tilted her head back to meet her gaze. “We’re coming.” Letting out a sigh, she stood and started to head back inside. 

Everyone stared as they made their way to the table. Heat flooded her cheeks. As she set her glass down, she sat in one of the empty seats, not daring to look up. 

Chaim led them in shehecheyanu. The words rolled off her tongue. She smiled as she spoke, stealing a glance at Joe, who smirked.

After the blessings, she piled her plate high with food. “I’m impressed,” he said, looking at her plate. 

“I didn’t eat much today.” 

Nodding, he popped some pomegranate seeds into his mouth. She sensed he wanted to say something more, though he didn’t say. 

“You’re staring,” she whispered, though no one could hear with the loud chatter.  

“I can’t hear you. Outside?” 

They slipped out of their seats and walked back outside. Some of the weight she’d been carrying lifted off her shoulders. She sat down, spreading her skirt over her legs. 

“I’ll never get used to this.” 

“What?” 

“Living.” The word left her mouth before she realized. “I, didn’t, uh…” she trailed off, staring intently at her plate. 

His eyes held a sadness in him that made her heart ache. “I get it. We all saw things we can’t talk about.” 

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Why did I say that? I’m stupid, that’s why. No one wants to talk about that anymore. She reached for her glass and finished off her wine. “I should be going.” She started to stand. 

“Maybe we can do this again.” 

“You’re not going to talk to me until next Rosh Hashana?” she said, laughing softly. “No, no. I see you tomorrow. We’ll go to the beach.” 

He laughed, flashing her a smile that made her cheeks burn. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Now, are you going to walk me home or what?” 

“You’re a little bossy, you know that?” 

Giggling, she nodded, “I’ve been told.” Silence wrapped around them as they walked in the opposite direction. There was a lightness to her steps that had been missing. She found herself glancing at Joe, who laughed softly, making her smile bigger. 

They arrived at her apartment minutes later. She didn’t move to walk up the stairs. “I don’t want to say goodbye yet.” 

He leaned against the railing silently. “What if I come here in the morning?” 

“I have to daven first.” 

“So do I.” Pushing himself off the railing, he gave a small wave. “Shana tova, Bina.” 

“Shana tova.” As she headed up the steps and inside, she couldn’t stop grinning at the boy who’d seemingly taken over her heart. “I can't believe how much we've grown.” 

[blind-dates-fest]

always the war

(a/n): IT'S BLIND DATES TIME!!!! huge shoutout to Merc over at @blind-dates-fest for this incredibly fun time!!! it's been a few years now that i've done this and each and every time i get to try out a little something new that i haven't been able to. this year, i was bouncing between a few ideas, but landed on this one. please enjoy meeting mariya kincaid, a nurse stationed with the 100th, who clearly has some experience in a warzone (+ a familiar face we all love). thank you and please enjoy!!! <333

It was one of the newer pilots sat on the edge of the cot; Doc Stover had let him lumber him, settle down with a wet rag and hold it to his knuckles so the bleeding could at least subside. He had marks strewn all up and down the lengths of his hands - which suggested to her that at some point in the chill of the plane hundreds of feet in the air, he had removed the gloves.

"It was supposed to be an observation mission." Doc Stover had said, coming over to her with a look on his face that suggested a more grim realization than warranted, "Nearly lost their bombardier." Doc Stover looked over his shoulder and nodded at the pilot on the cot.

"I think the guy's in shock." Doc Stover murmured, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it up on his lip. She blinked, turning her head briefly to glance at the pilot, head hanging low, wet rag on his hands and knuckles, turning shades of pink and red by the minute, his hair in wet strands clinging to his face and neck, his leg bouncing up and down.

Shock.

That's what they were calling it now.

With the clipboard pressed into her arms, her fingers curled around the edges nearly turning white, her mind in a somewhat distant place, back to that plane hangar in Morocco, she let her eyes trail to the pilot again.

"I can clean him up." she said quietly, a gentle smile growing on her face, "Nothing a little good hospitality can't do." And it was true.

Back home in Iowa, the place where she'd grown up in nothing but cornfields and a school with 30 other kids, Ma had opened a bed and breakfast called Mandy's, once the population jumped (and by jumped, it made the slightest dent in the margin). She had spent plenty of days after school helping around the place - cleaning, cooking, helping with the laundry. Sometimes all it took was a smile, a good morning, an extra hand (which had meant her teenage self, lanky limbs and all, hauled luggage up the steep staircase in the center of the house multiple times a day). She turned, grabbing the long strands of bandages, along with hydrogen peroxide and a few cotton balls, before placing them in a pan and moving over towards the pilot.

As she neared him, she watched as he looked upwards at her, his eyes moving to the Red Cross wrapped around her bicep, the supplies in her arms and then to her face. His eyes were glazed, looking more distracted than anything, and there was something hidden underneath that look in her eyes that made her insides twist. Like he couldn't believe what he'd seen. That he was sitting here now and not still in the sky.

He looked like the boys in Morocco; with the dirt and sand askew, the crimson blood of a wound cut along their body, eyes emboldened with fear and shock. There was that word again - shock. The pilot was still staring at her.

Mariya Kincaid knew when to smile.

"Hi." she said softly as she neared, her eyes going to his hands and the wet rag almost immediately, "How are you feeling?" Admittedly, they were always told to greet the men and assure they're okay, even if what they'd gone through had just been pure living hell. Addressing them as a human being rather than a piece to a war machine was better than nothing.

"Fine." the man grumbled out, looking up at her again with somewhat curious eyes as he looked down to the bandages in her grasp, "You don't need to waste your time with those, I'll be fine." Mariya looked at him for a moment - they were usually like this. A bit stubborn, saying they're fine, eyes hazy, and words monotone. She could still see it; that look. She blinked away it all, smiling again at him.

"You'll be fixin' to get those cuts infected, Major." she said quietly, her joking tone dancing on her tongue, a small smile on her face, eyeing his lapel, "I won't be too happy to see you back in here in a few days complaining of soreness and pain on them, hm?" He looked at her again, his brow furrowing.

"First person who won't be too happy to see me then." he said, the corner of his mouth lifting upwards as she let out a quiet laugh. He managed a slightly strained chuckle before it fell from his lips and he was silent again.

At that, Mariya slowly settled beside him on the cot, moving the pan filled with supplies to her side and then looked up and over at him beside her. He was watching her cautiously, but equally curious, his eyes shining a bit in the early afternoon light that the sun provided through the Med Bay windows. It was the first time he didn't seem to so guarded, so constrained and in limbo. Mariya smiled again at him, before looking down at his hands.

"These should heal up well," she said quietly, looking up at him through her lashes, "may I?" He was still watching her.

"You don't need to be wasting your time, really." the pilot said, somewhat frustrated it seemed, flashing her a wide grin, his eyes wearily lingering somewhere near her lips, "I gotta meet with the Colonel anyway-" The pilot shut his mouth, shutting his eyes briefly before letting out a sigh. He was just like them. Frustrated, overwhelmed, filled with a pain they couldn't describe. She didn't take it for more than what it was though. They were never angry at people like her. It was always the war.

Always the war.

"Look, I'm sorry," the pilot said, wincing at what she knew was the raw wounds on his hands again, "you gotta enough to deal with, you don't need me all up in the Med Bay with something I could slap a napkin on." She watched him. She smiled again. And she watched the tension roll out of his shoulders a bit.

"Slap a napkin on?" she asked in a soft joking tone, "Let me at least help you out with that then." She smiled again. The pilot watched her, before letting his shoulders drop.

"You're not letting me outta here until you get that bandage wrapped around my hand, huh?"

"Precisely." The pilot smirked at her words and then sighed, before moving his right hand forward towards her.

Score.

Mariya found that she'd never been one to over-fluff things, especially in war - she found all she needed to do was meet them halfway, provide the care for human beings that she always held to the highest standard and give what comfort she could in a time like this. Perform her duty, her life goal. The bloodied parts of his hand didn't look great, but she'd seen far worse in her time as a nurse - especially in Morocco.

"It's not looking too hot, I'm guessing." the Major said from beside her, a slightly joking tone to his voice. She looked up in feigned surprised - he was actually attempting to joke back, pulling a lighter tone to the previous guarded and rough-around-the-edges voice he'd had just moments before.

"No, not bad." she said, reaching into the pan for the cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide, "I've seen worse. This one will heal right up." She could feel his eyes on her once she fell back into focusing on his hand, which lay in her lap, the warmth spreading through the apron wrapped around her body and onto her legs.

Maybe it was partially unintentional, and the fact they were sat side by side, but his unwavering gaze focused intently on her was slightly overwhelming. It always would be though. When they'd come to the realization they were safe, with a nurse that cared, someone that would do anything they could for their wounds both inside and out.

"This'll sting at first." she said quietly, dabbing some hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton ball gently, and then moving to his hand. She took his hand into her own, carefully holding it there in her palm and began to gently dab at the reddened areas. He grimaced at first, his whole body stiffening up beside her as she continued to move along the red cuts lining his hand like a spiderweb.

"I'm sorry." she said, hearing his wince again beside her and earnestly trying to hide it.

"It's your job," he managed out, "gotta do what you gotta do. Jokes on me anyway, I'm the one who took off my gloves." Mariya felt herself briefly pause there, hoping it wasn't that noticeable and glanced over at him. His eyes were kind, she could get that much, even slightly in pain, and the look on his rather handsome face made her want to lay him down in the cot and let him get a long nights rest for once in his life it seemed.

"What made you take off the gloves?" she asked him quietly - she could sense he wanted to talk about it, just from his quiet and worn-down demeanor beside her. He sighed, grimacing again as she dabbed more of the cotton ball over the cuts.

"Our bombardier." he said quietly, "Took a hit. Could barely breathe. I…" He stopped and she continued on his hand, hoping the constant presence of the cotton ball and hydrogen peroxide were enough to keep him out of that trance.

"I understand." she said quietly, "I was just with him. Your bombardier. He'll be okay." She looked up at him again, offering a small smile and watched as his own nerves seemed to settle, emitting a small nod in her direction this time. She smiled again, before continuing to dab at the reddened wounds.

Morocco had provided her with what happened when they didn't make it - some of the boys from stateside that had been deployed, never to return home again.

Coming in from planes, from the war on the ground and in the sky.

No one ever really made it out alive from that place.

"I, uh, never got your name." he said, the curiosity brimming at the edge of his voice. Mariya watched him, her eyes slightly widened for a moment, as her cheeks reddened.

God, when was the last time she'd even been asked for her name?

Through the screaming, the bristling sand, the crimson blood that stained her hands and her mind, she felt less of the Mariya Kincaid that she normally was. The cotton ball was practically forgotten in her hand.

"Mariya." she said softly, her smile growing, "With a 'y' right after the 'i'. Mariya Kincaid." The Major smiled at her words, tilting his head slightly. "And you?"

"John Egan." he said, "You're a helluva nurse, Kincaid." It took her initially by surprise his words, but she took them with a wide grin and tilted her head.

"Are you trying to butter me up for something sweet or just trying to get out of here before I finish off your cleanings and dressings, hm, Major?" she asked him and watched as he let out a laugh and scooted closer beside her, his presence now intoxicating beside her as he looked down at her, his eyes boring into her own, a grin on his lips.

"Maybe a bit of both," he answered, smirking, "it usually goes that way."

"So, you've done this before?" she asked as she continued to clean the last bits of his hand, smiling at the small laugh she heard from his lips.

"Don't tell me that's my first impression." he murmured. Mariya let out a laugh and shook her head.

"I'm afraid to tell you that it may just be." she said, glancing his way as she discarded the few cotton balls she was using and grabbed the bandage. She was met with his rather soft gaze, his usual haziness that she had first been met with now dissipated. His hand still in her lap, his body practically pressed right against her side, she felt her heart drop a bit into the pit in her stomach. There was a sadness about him that she couldn't quite pinpoint; something deep down inside him that had not yet been unearthed in years it felt.

"What are you doing in East Anglia?" he asked her, breaking from the stupor of questioning and eager thoughts that she'd been inundated with in her mind.

Morocco.

That's why she was here. Because she couldn't be in Morocco. Her heart began to race a bit as she glanced up at him.

"I've always wanted to help people. Especially in a war." she said quietly, "I worked with kids before the war started, fresh out of my schooling. And then the war came, and I couldn't just sit back. Especially when we have people risking their lives every day for the greater good of the world." She smiled at him. "Just like you."

Just like the boys in Morocco.

With his quiet looks and gentle gaze, she took to finishing off his wrappings, carefully trimming the edge and pinning it back before observing her work. It was a craft, to see the bandage in its completion. To know what it meant.

"Looks like you're all set." she said, carefully placing the rest of her supplies back in the pan, Major Egan taking back his hand (which was always a good thing of course), allowing her to stand to her feet again and turn to look at him on the cot.

"Feel free to bed out here, get some shut eye as well. Shock has its ways with people." she said, watching as he watched her back, "And you deserve it, too." He watched her.

"I'll be okay-"

"Get some rest." she said stopping him, her voice turning heavy with emotion at the thought, "The bed's open. I've been places where I've operated on sand floors, and the next closest thing to a bed is a jacket on the ground." She stared at him. "Please, get some rest." She didn't want that to come out of her, but when it did it reminded her of what she had experienced, where she'd come from. And what that one doctor had said - it's okay to relive it, to feel what she had felt there, in Morocco. It may stick around in your memory for years to come, he'd said. Mariya blinked, turning and pulling the pan into the hands, and then looked at Major Egan.

"Let me know if you need anything." she said, before moving to turn.

"Hey, Mariya." she heard somewhere behind her, the presence causing her to turn and look up at the Major. He watched her, smiling a bit, his grin on his cheeks, one clearly worn down, but gentle.

"Would you still be upset with me if I stopped by tomorrow, then?" he asked her, almost proudly and with pride, smirking at her like never before. Mariya watched him for a moment, before a small laugh left her lips - and if she were being honest, she was almost a little bit speechless. Was he….?

"Don't think I could be too upset with that smile of yours flashing around here, Major."

[blind-dates-fest]

More submissions have been added to the queue for today!

I know several folks are still working, so I may wait a few days to post the masterlist in an effort to make sure that everyone ends up on it.

I am happy to share that as of this posting, we have six new-to-the-fest writers, the most ever, and at least one writer who wrote their first ever fanfic for the event this year!

Today, February 15, also happens to be International Fanworks Day, a day to celebrate fan work in all its forms, and one of the ways we're encouraged to celebrate is by leaving comments and sharing work that you enjoyed! This fest is often a place where people try new things, and I can't think of a better way to encourage taking chances and trying something new than with some recognition.

If you really want to go above and beyond, I know several fest participants try to read and comment on all the submissions!

[blind-dates-fest]

Blind Dates 2022 - Masterlist

A huge thank-you to everyone who made this year's Blind Dates a roaring success! I know there a still a couple of folks working on last-minute entries, but we had 9 authors write 11 different OCs in 5 different fandoms and all of them were GREAT!

Adelaide Johnson, Foyle's War, @darkhorse-javert

Alexandra Wolff, Vikings, @serasvictoria

Ellis White, Band of Brothers, @bandagesandloveletters

Harriet Parker, Band of Brothers, @junojelli

Isabel Corbett, All Creatures Great and Small, @mercurygray

Pippa Kent, Band of Brothers, @captainkilly/@basilone

Ruby Rosinsky, Band of Brothers, @shoshiwrites

Samuel Wellerun, Foyles's War, darkhorse-javert

Svala, Vikings, captainkilly/@underragingwaves

Winnie Chapman, Band of Brothers, @wexhappyxfew

Wren Porter, Ted Lasso @penguinated/@follower-of-romcommunism

I'm so proud and so pleased with everyone who wrote fic as well as everyone who read and commented on others' work - especially if it made you take a chance on a fandom you don't usually work or read in!

Also, if you enjoyed this event, or want to use your character for something else, be sure to keep your calendars clear for June or July - I'd like to try out something new this year in the way of some sort of...OC friendship fest or similar. I know that so many of the authors here are folks I like or admire and it's one thing to write *your* character very well and quite another to try your hand at writing an homage to someone else's. Like a crossover. Still working on a concept - but watch this space!

[blind-dates-fest]

hi all! meet chiara cammarata, my entry for this year's @blind-dates-fest. i thought alessia biondi from sas:rh deserved a girlfriend (or at least a girl so devoted to her it blurs the lines between platonic and romantic), so here we are!

///

“I’m sorry, I must be hearing things,” Chiara exclaimed. The wooden floor creaked loudly under her hobnailed boots as she paced back and forth. “The soldiers who just landed here have decided to meet with Cavalli? They’re meeting with the Cosa Nostra, but not with us? Are they simple-headed, or what?”

“No, Chiara,” Alessia reassured her, though she couldn’t fully mask the disappointment in her tone. “They’re just English.”

“I can’t believe this,” Chiara muttered with a shake of her head. “Cavalli’s a snake, and everyone knows it.” 

“And how were they supposed to know that?” Alfredo interjected. “They only landed last night.”

Chiara scoffed in disbelief. “That hardly matters. We don’t have any more time for these kinds of mistakes.”

She stopped pacing and walked over to where Alessia was sitting on the windowsill, placing a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. She took a deep breath in, trying to calm herself. It wasn’t entirely working.

“You know what will happen, Alessia,” she said softly. “Those men aren’t from here, the mafiosi have no reason to honor their promises to them. The moment they do something Cavalli doesn’t approve of, he’ll turn them in, and then where will we be?”

Alessia sighed, leaning back against the window jamb with perhaps more force than necessary. Her long, slim hand reached up to cover Chiara’s shorter, wider one, her thumb brushing over the blistered knuckles absentmindedly. 

“I know,” she muttered. “I don’t like this situation any more than you do. But what choice do we have?” she asked. “They’ve made their decision, and now we have to live with it.”

Chiara smothered the urge to reach out and smooth out the furrow between Alessia’s brows. She settled for a nod, instead.

“So, what’s the plan?” Alfredo asked. He sat at the wooden kitchen table, cleaning under his nails with a butter knife. “Sit here and wait for them to get killed?”

“Don’t be an ass, Alfredo,” Chiara scolded. Beneath her hand, she felt Alessia’s shoulder tense. 

“We’ll be meeting with them,” Alessia muttered.

Chiara’s heart jumped.

“What did you say?”

“I said, we’ll be meeting with them. According to the British, we’ve been invited to sit at the long table.”

Chiara’s heart dropped like a stone. Absolutely not. Not after what they did to my family. She ripped her hand away from Alessia’s shoulder as though she’d been burned, stumbling back from the windowsill.”

“Tell me you said no, Alessia,” she begged. “Tell me you didn’t agree to this.”

Alessia’s mouth was pressed into a thin, white line, but her eyes were soft, apologetic.

“I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think it would help,” she said.

“What do you mean, help?” Chiara demanded. “We agreed, Alessia. We said we would work with the Cosa Nostra for as long as this war lasted, but we wouldn’t sit at their table. That was the line we said we wouldn’t cross—that you said we wouldn’t cross.”

“I know that, Chiara!” Alessia exclaimed, rising to her feet. “I tried to tell the man in charge—Stirling—the same. He wouldn’t listen.” She sighed wearily. “What’s done is done. The best we can hope for is that we meet these British soldiers before the mafiosi do. Let them know they need to be on their guard.”

Chiara closed her eyes. She didn’t feel at all ready for this – for them – but she supposed that there was no other choice. She’d sacrificed so many things for the partisans already. What was one more?

“Chiara?”

Chiara opened her eyes to see Alessia staring it her with a look that, to an outside observer, differed little from her usual “let’s-get-down-to-business” expression of gritty determination. Chiara wasn’t an outsider, though. It was Alessia who had first brought her to the partisans. It was Alessia who had taught her to fight. It was Alessia who told her what the capo’s men had done to her father. And in Alessia’s eyes, Chiara could see the faint glimmer of an apology. 

“Fine,” Chiara stated coolly. “Before Cavalli can put any more ideas into their heads.”

When the first Stuka droned over the long, elegant table, she felt bitter vindication.

[blind-dates-fest]

Five years of Blind Dates?! Five years of Blind Dates!! Created and run by the wonderful @mercurygray at @blind-dates-fest. I just really love this event, guys. And this year I wrote for MotA! I took several more liberties than I have in past years, inspired by a name generator, my great-aunt's service in the WAC, and the story of T/5 Ilene Hall. Title half-stolen from Glenn Miller's "Guess I'll Go Back Home (This Summer)." Without further ado, meet Mollie!

This Summer

Dear Sis,

Aunt Rose says I can’t have more dessert until I write you this letter. I don’t think that’s fair considering I was going to write you anyway. Have you met any pilots yet?

Mollie can see Aunt Rose coming out of the kitchen in her nice dress, the rose-print one she wears for holiday meals and outings with the matching belt. She’s holding a little china plate, rose-print too, along the edges, with the prized seconds. She smiles too at the thought, Mollie does, because Aunt Rose doesn’t let you leave the table unless you’ve finished everything she’s made. Especially on a holiday, especially when times were what they were. Mollie had finally succeeded in giving up on it the past few years, the second special bite of cheesecake you got on Shavuos and rare times else. Uncle Sy’s already rolled up his sleeves to start the dishes. 

She can see Max at the table, one hand with his pencil and the other reaching for the plate that hasn’t landed yet. He’s a straight shooter, her little brother. Max Jacobs liked adventure novels, his sister, and the Boston Red Sox, in that order. He’d be in heaven here, surrounded by green fields and tall heroes. 

But she doesn’t have time to reply just now. The jeep in front of her needs looking at before the hopeful returns, making some kind of noise even the sergeant who’d driven it over looked baffled by. She’s gotten good at diagnoses the past month and a half, engine problems and gear shift gremlins and things she’d only half-paid attention to over a decade and change of hanging out at the back of Uncle Sy’s garage, helping with paperwork and holding tools. The Bee-One-Seven mechanics have been joking about kidnapping her for weeks. 

She doesn’t know what feels bigger — the thought of a crew’s life in her hands or the driving work of the depot men, soldiers who crisscross bombs over country roads to get to each base and each ship.

One last bobby pin in her pocket isn’t quite enough to re-secure her braid at the back of her head. But it’s all she’s got, so she’s got to make it work — nimble fingers and the metal end digging into the back of her neck. 

She knows she ought to cut it. One of the WAACs who works plotting the bombing routes cuts hair on Sunday afternoons after she gets back from church. She’s sure Lieutenant Bergstrom would be delighted to give her a new style. She’s sure the neighbors would hear Aunt Rose’s scream if her beloved niece came back through the door with short hair.

She tucks her necklace back beneath her shirt and wills the pin in place, to keep the telltale strands of reddish-brown out of the motors and carburators and things that go vroom in the night. A few minutes of tinkering has the noise licked, just like she’d hoped. She’s glad she’s the only one in here this time of day, so she can sound all the little exclamations and curses she wants. Until she hears a motor cut, shoe-steps approaching, early afternoon sunshine and shadow on the poured concrete from the sliding workshop door.

“Corporal Jacobs?” 

She looks up to see her sergeant standing there. It isn’t surprising, considering how Sergeant Lee likes to see how all her girls are doing. She’d even volunteered to write Aunt Rose and let her know that Mollie was getting on just fine here in England. Mollie had tried not to turn pink from embarrassment, but the fact was that she was just freshly twenty, the baby of the group by far, and it had taken a signed permission from Uncle Sy to even get her into the Army. So she’d politely demurred, and made sure to say thank you. 

“Yes, sergeant?”

“It’s about time for the boys to be getting back in,” she says, the note in her voice too familiar by late June. Two other bases before they’d made real camp at this one. “But you know that. I just thought I’d see if you needed anything out here.”

Mollie smiles, and wipes a hand on the rag from her pocket. “Just a cup of coffee, ma’am, but that’s hardly your responsibility.”

“Tell you what- I’d say we’ve got enough time to swing by the mess before you need to be ready with your truck.” The one she uses to ferry crews to interrogation and out to the waiting planes, kept closer to the airstrip. It’s sure better than the little bike she’s got propped up outside, the one she and a fellow mechanic had wheedled out of a radio gunner during a game of craps. He’d been a good sport about it too, and it was only after they’d been assured the next day that he had another one well in hand that they felt alright to take it. “Hop in and I’ll scurry you over there. There’s a few things I need to check with the supply officers about.”

“Sure thing!” She sounds so chipper she almost winces. Maybe I don’t need that coffee after all.

But Sergeant Lee just smiles. Maybe with her attitude the mission will be the kind they hope for, each time. 

The crew she drives is smiling too, the taste of coffee on her tongue as she pulls her sunglasses down behind the wheel. Fidgeting and tired and the sweat cooling at their temples, damp collars, heavy flight jackets unzipped in the summer warmth. She can only guess it went well, thinking of Maxie’s letter as she makes one of the turns towards the interrogation hut, watches the distance close.

Adventure novels, his sister, and the Boston Red Sox, and she moves up a slot when she doesn’t call him Maxie. She’s seen pilots, but she can’t say she’s properly met them. She drives them, quiet witness to the quiet of the morning, the sweat of the afternoon and evening. Says a prayer or three in-between. She tells Aunt Rose that she goes to services. It’s not a lie, not really. The boys don’t look askance when she sneaks in back, the navigators and the gunners and the bombardiers, only a few years older than Max. She won’t be there when he’s bar mitzvah’d. She talks to the chaplain when she can. 

The pilots have swagger, the magazines say. She sees it herself. They wear their caps jauntily, and if they don’t quite yet they’re watching those who do, mimicking the walk or the lean or the staccato movie-talk with wide, drinking eyes.

They thank her with nods out of the truck, her deposit finished. “Thank you,” one says, a little louder than the others, and she catches thoughtful eyes. His voice, even in two words, sounds familiar. 

It’s nice enough outside that she hopes no one will miss her quite yet, standing with the toe of her boot in the sun, and then the rest of her. She watches the crew mechanics out on the hardstands — talk about needing coffee, they can’t be sleeping more than four or five hours a night — watches the breeze gently pull at the grass. Not that she sleeps too much more herself. She wonders what it would be like to work on a B-17. 

She watches the clouds move across the china-blue sky. In late June, it’ll be light out for a long while still. The aviation engineers are building more huts by a long line of trees. She thinks of home, and summer, and long days on Revere Beach. The crowds, the smell of suntan oil and popcorn. A few others across the way are wandering out into the sun, a bicycle or two on the far edge of the field. 

Mollie can tell that her cheeks are getting pink – maybe she’s been out here longer than she realizes. 

As if in response, a voice comes from behind her. “Beautiful day!”

“Oh,” she says, only a little surprised. “It is.” The pilot who’d thanked her. He’s got his jacket off, draped over his arm. “It really is.”

“I’m sorry if I startled you there.”

She knows her sun-pink cheeks would argue the alternative, but she tries anyway. “You didn’t.” Say, she wants to say. Where’re you from? You sound like half the boys I went to school with.

He’s squinting into the sky, his own cheeks red with the kiss of altitude. Hypothermia, more like. She can’t imagine coming down from such a height, such cold. “Name’s Charles,” he says, extending his hand after a belated second, like he’d just remembered. “Charles Cruikshank.” She shakes it, feels the warmth of his palm.

“You’re a captain?” She thinks he is. She’s almost certain he’s not a major.

He blinks, like he’s forgotten again. “Yes, ma’am.”

She can’t help but smile, his curls gone every which way. “Oh, please don’t call me ma’am.” I’m not Aunt Rose, or Aunt Sylvia. But I’m in the Army, maybe I should get used to it.

He smiles, really, this time, like he’s starting to land. “What should I call you?”

She folds her arms across her chest, straightens her shoulders. “Corporal Jacobs will do.” The look in his eyes melts when she laughs softly. “Mollie.”

“Corporal Mollie Jacobs.” 

“Yes. Captain Cruikshank.” 

“Do I hear a familiar accent, or is that just the altitude talking?”

“I was just thinking of summers on Revere Beach, if that gives you any clue.”

His entire face is fondness. “I knew I wasn’t dreaming.” She laughs. He stands there, remembering, points with a finger. “The ice cream shop across from the boardwalk.” The whole place was spilling over with people, places to get roasted peanuts and Cokes and ice cream. But she remembers, she thinks, the whir of the clunky old fan and the smell of sugar. 

“What’s your flavor?” 

He considers, serious as anything. “Strawberry?”

“Coffee marshmallow.” Before she’d tried to stop eyeing the tubs of ice cream, tried to steer herself towards a glass of buttermilk after ordering Max his scoop of chocolate chip.

“Everett Senior High School, Class of 1935.” 

Maybe they’d gone to different schools, certainly moved in different circles. She knows that. But it’s a relief she didn’t know she needed, to meet someone who’d felt the same sun. Her smile pokes wider across her face. “Pleased to meet you. Again.” She sticks out her hand, and he returns it.

“Pleased to meet you, too.”

[blind-dates-fest]

A round of applause for everyone who has posted their entries so far! I am adding posts to the queue as I see them and have really enjoyed everyone's work this year.

If you're still working - keep going! You can do it! You still have plenty of time to finish your writing and share it.

If you've already posted your work, please consider taking a little bit of time to read and comment on someone else's work!

[blind-dates-fest]

Well Bred

Summary: The daughter of an affluent horse breeder, Charla “Charlie” Denvers, approaches the Romani’s own resident horse expert looking to make a match between their fine breeding stock. However when strong personalities collide will the match simply remain between the stud and mare or bleed into their owners’ passions?  

Warnings: sexual tension, flirting, classism (Charlie's dad does not care nor understand the plights of the common people), MINORS DNI, 18+ 

Word Count: 1.8K

Author’s Note: For @blind-dates-fest. Starting off by saying I know absolutely nothing about horse breeding. The knowledge in this story was gained through research and not personal experience. Shout to my cousin who does have horse experience and assisted me in this story. If anything is incorrect within this story I apologize. Sometimes you just have an idea that involves a subject you don't know about then you spend several hours watching horses trout. Abraham is from one single episode of Grantchester so stretching out his personality was a bit fun.

Charlie had never been more put off in her whole life. 

Standing in front of her was a beautiful horse, a grey lipizzan with a soft freshly groomed mane. 

Her horse.

Her stud. 

She should have a say in who he was to breed with. 

The woman, as she had so often told her father she was now, had raised the sweet stallion since he was fresh out of his mother’s womb. Charlie had even helped pull away the afterbirth herself. He was her forever companion, a responsibility she took seriously despite what her parents thought would happen. 

Everyone always thought of Charla Denvers as another spoiled rich girl. 

She got everything she wanted being an only child of the most well off family in the area. All the dresses and pretty things were hers for the taking. Anything she demanded as a child was always within reach. Nothing had ever been off limits for Charla. 

Except this. 

The only thing she had ever wanted she could not even have. 

The horse seemed to sense her tension rocking his head up and down. Charlie placed her hand gently on his nose. 

“Shh, love. It’s alright.” It wasn’t. She could feel him snort at her lie, hot air teasing her palm. 

She reached with her other hand into her side bag for a treat for her pal. Charlie wasn’t sure what angry munching looked like, but Hades was certainly exhibiting such behavior. 

“Easy, boy. Let’s not lose our temper before we even meet the mare.” His lips quivered at her words chewing and sucking on the sugar cube. 

Charla stepped away brushing her hands together. 

Her father had found the mare after Charlie had proposed one evening at dinner that she would indeed like to get into the family business.

“Papa, I should like to breed Hades. He’s a fine stallion coming from an excellent line and the -” Her father had merely waved her off saying she was fine to do as she pleased. 

He hadn’t really been listening. 

Her father had never listened when she spoke most days. Same as her mother. He huffed and puffed stating it was better to agree to begin with, face consequences later. At least that was how he felt with the two women in his life. 

He had agreed to let her take on a foal from his prized mare, a white beauty fresh off the boat from Denmark when she was a teen. She was a fine mare, belly full of baby ready to give birth to a new friend for his daughter. Charlie had loved the mare, Crystalline as well. She still tended to her, but Hades was her boy. 

Her father had a large array of horses that did all sorts of things. He wasn’t an expert on breeds. Her father paid a nice young fellow to do that for him just like he paid others to manage other things in the house hold. 

This fine young fellow had betrayed her!

“Hades is a rare breed.” She knew that even as he spoke to her father. 

His breed was dwindling, yes, but Charla had already had it set in her head that breeding him to one of her childhood friend’s mares would be quite lovely. 

Charla didn’t care for things like money or preserving a notable line as her father had noted they would be doing breeding one lipizzan to another.

She wanted to have things her way. 

For the first time Charla Denvers would have to NOT get her way. 

She sighed loading up the stallion with more of her overnight equipment. At least she had convinced her father to let her go on this venture alone. He had found that a mare of this breed was close. Two villages over from the Denvers’ sprawling estate was a visiting Romani group spread out across the small community. They had intermingled according to her father enough that his “man on the inside” had found that one amongst them was nursing a sweet dark colored lipizzaner who happened to be female. 

What luck! 

What dread . . . Charlie thought, mounting her horse. 

She didn’t know the first thing about the Romani people, only that they were nomads, quick to wander. It was why her father had told her to make the offer to the young man in charge of tending horses quickly. Normally it was the mare owner that would pay the stud’s owner however in this case, her father was ready to make an offer. 

The thoroughbred foals would be worth more then what a silly breeding price the mare owner couldn’t afford. Her father assumed as he always did. For Charla, she would much rather have her horse breed with a mare she was familiar with, owned by a person she was friendly with. 

What did she know about this man who owned this lipizzaner? 

Absolutely nothing. 

Charlie kept her face void of any emotion. This was a business transaction, plain and simple. She pressed her heels to Hades motioning him forward. The stables were a distant memory as the pair marched forward to what she suspected would be doom for the pair of them. 

***

The village was very . . . quaint. 

She felt eyes lock to her as she entered. Her light eyes shifted knowing what they were seeing. Charla wasn’t the type of girl to hide herself. She hadn’t spent hours choosing her outfit or fusing with her hair. She had tied a white bow in her long chestnut brown hair. Charlie’s waist length black coat was pressed as she trouted pass the dirt road through the village. She knew she was out of place here as did everyone else.

The encampments were fixed about the edges of the village. Women hung up laundry. Droves of children played tag with one another, grabbing and laughing in the carefree afternoon. Charla felt her stomach rumble. Hades scoffed prancing forward. 

“Come on now. Almost there.” The two seemed to have a symbiotic relationship. She could tell her sweet boy was hungry as well. 

Charlie managed to ask where the Romani kept their horses. 

“You’re looking for Abraham.” She hadn’t gotten a name, but she supposed that could be the name of a wandering horse tender. The older man with a heavy pipe pointed to an open mock stable area where a few horses were kept. 

She maneuvered her way past a wagon or two to get to the area. There was a young man, a blonde quiff and sleeves of black inked tattoos on arms that were tense with hard muscles. She saw his blue eyes worked her over as she approached. He was feeding a gorgeous brown mare. 

Charla hated the fact that Hades seemed to pick up his trout upon sensing the female. 

“Alright, calm yourself.” She swallowed seeing his eyes lock on her. 

“You are?” He wondered.

“Charlie Denvers.” 

“Really? Was expecting a man.” His eyes lingered too long on her chest. Her eyes merely rolled. “You're posh.” 

“Thank you for noticing.” Hades shifted impatiently back and forth. 

“You can tie him up on the other post.” The young man poked his chin to another mock spot. “I got some feed here if he’s hungry. Travelled a bit. Don’t want the poor boy starving.” 

She nodded. At least he was considerate of the horses even if he seemed to have an issue with her. 

Charla did as she was instructed, tying him off on the post. She brushed her hands off. When she turned he was waiting there with a bucket of feed. He didn’t hand it to her instead eyeing her again, in a slow nearly menacing way before moving past her. Hades huffed at him. The young man smiled. 

“Feisty fellow, ain’t he?” He put the bucket down as an offering. The horse moved his hooves forward then back as if contemplating. “Don’t worry. I won’t mess with your girl. Much.” She rolled her eyes again to see him smirk. 

She held her own stomach as it rumbled. 

“Would you like some dinner then?” He looked at her. “Suppose we will need to get acquainted to make this deal. Go on then, say hello to my Heidi.” 

Charla turned to the beautiful mare. Her face was deep within a trough of water now spilling over the sides. She was flabbergasted how shiny her coat was complimenting it out loud to Abraham. Slowly her hand worked over the horse’s mid section petting her with hard strokes. The horse’s tail twitched. 

“She’s usually timid. Gave her a talking to. Said she’d be meeting her beau today.” Abraham patted Heidi's shoulder roughly. The mare seemed to be used to the touches. 

“She’s stunning.” 

“Not always the case. She was in real bad shape over a year ago. Nursed her back to health. Took a lot of time and effort. Poor girl was abused, frightened of everyone, especially men.” She was surprised when Abraham nuzzled his nose against her neck. “Nipped at me a few times, but I didn’t give up on my Heidi. She’s my best girl.” He gave the horse a little peck. 

Charla didn’t like that he was sweet. 

Not one bit. 

“But I suppose we should get this business over with.” He nearly sighed. “Wouldn’t want to keep you from your fancy mansion.”

He was sweet to the horses. 

“That depends on how you would like to -”

“I ain’t stupid, missus.” Abraham immediately piped in. “I know what I got. Your man that approached me, he thought I was . . . stupid that is . . . probably think you can one up me cause I’m Romi don’t you? Well you can’t because I know what I got.” He pat the horse again. “She’s pure money here.” 

Maybe she was starting to dislike Abraham a bit. 

“I’m not here because I want to be . . . Abraham . . . is it?” He looked at her nodding as she spoke. “I would rather take my horse and breed him elsewhere, but my father seems to want this deal to go through. For our two lipizzans to breed and secure a line meant for greatness. So yes, whatever you want is yours.” 

He watched her setting his jaw and swallowing. 

“Whatever I want?” He said it so suggestively it nearly made her blush.

Nearly. 

“Money, wise . . . that is.” Her voice was breathy in the stale air that smelt like manure, dry feed, and the dampness of their horses. 

“A shame.” He teased. Yes, he was only teasing. “I can name my price?”

“Mmmhm.” She clarified. 

“Right.” He swallowed, wiping his hands on his pant legs. “Da always said the best deals are made over a meal and a pint. Care to join me, missus?” He offered her his hand.  She did not take it. 

“It’s Charla.” She told him. He simply nodded. 

“Right, well, I’m Abrabram. Pleasure to meet you, Charla. I’m eager to make beautiful babies with you.” He gave her a soft wink as her face flushed a bit at his suggestion, breaking her stern demeanor. “Ponies that is.” 

Yes. 

She was starting to dislike Abraham very much.

[blind-dates-fest]

I had so much fun writing for this year's @blind-dates-fest ! This started when I re-read A Discovery of Witches last month and thought to myself that Diana deserved a friend to talk things over with.

This didn’t look alright.

Even if she had never met Diana before today, Bridget McAlister would have noticed how uncomfortable she appeared, and how upset she looked, at how the other woman was leaning down towards her. Whatever she was saying made her friend look heartbroken and at the same time furious.

This wouldn't do. Not at all.

Picking up her pace, ignoring the rows upon rows of dark mahogany bookcases that were held in the Duke Humfrey's Library which from today was going to become part of her day-to-day life, she crossed to the desk.

The other two women hadn’t realised she had approached.

“— a witch shouldn’t keep secrets from other witches. Bad things happen when she does.” Bridget was able to hear the stranger say as she came to stand behind them.

All thoughts of grabbing, pushing the stranger down on the ground, and yelling at her vanished immediately. Witches? Yes, Diana was a pagan same as she, but that didn’t mean she was a witch. And if it wasn't for a particular discussion they once had she may have thought Diana and the stranger were part of a performance of Macbeth. So what did the woman mean?

Questions needed to wait. She needed to put her thoughts back in order and focus on what was important right now. Stepping forward, she pushed her way between the two women. Her mum would both praise and admonish her if she could see the small smirk she couldn’t keep off her face as she felt her heel sink into the stranger's shoe.

“Diana! I'm so glad to see you again,” she said, as she threw her arms around her still-seated friend. And if her behind pushed the other woman a few steps further away then that was just perfect.

Ignoring the loud heel clicks on the hardwood floor as the other woman walked away, she kept her eyes on Diana. She looked paler than when they last saw each other in New Haven, but her paleness clearly had nothing to do with the English weather, but everything with what that woman had been saying to her.

“Hello, Bridget,” she said with a happy smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “How are you? How are you finding Oxford?

“I'm good. My rooms are small, though I expected that already. And the route you mentioned between them and here was easy to follow. But I've yet to find a good place where I can get a cup of coffee or tea. Would you be able to show your favourite friend where she can find them, for she desperately needs some caffeine in her?” She asked, fluttering her eyelashes at her.

It worked exactly as she hoped it would. The tension in Diana’s shoulders visibly lessened and a genuine smile appeared on her face.

“Yeah, I know a place,” Diana said and rose from her seat.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a corner of a bookstore’s second-floor cafe. It was still an hour before lunchtime, and only they and four other people were currently sitting there, letting their hands warm around their cups.

Looking over the brim of her coffee cup, she kept a close watch on Diana as she turned her cup of tea around and around in her hands.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bridget asked carefully.

Diana nodded. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Lifting her cup to her lips again, Bridget waited patiently. Past experience told her Diana could be as stubborn as a mule if she were pushed. Patience was the best course of action. Probably the only one.

Diana started tapping her fingers in a particular, but familiar, rhythm on her cup. Was it a song she was thinking of? Or perhaps a list of former presidents of America?

“You know, you do that every time we come close to talking about your family.”

“I don't,” Diana said defensively, quickly lifting her cup to her lips and taking a deep gulp.

“So, that afternoon at Beinecke when we were speaking about where we know our families have lived throughout history and you started doing that -” Bridget pointed at her friend's hands. “-you were what? Thinking of a knitting project you wanted to start?”

Diana’s shoulders hunched up. Her grip tightened on her cup.

Letting out a sigh, Bridget said gently, “Whatever is happening, and how it is connected to your family, you can trust me to tell the truth, Diana.”

Diana’s gaze was thoughtful. “I know. It's… just the last time, well the only time, I've told someone the full history of my family it was a disaster.”

Bridget raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

Diana sighed. “I told my roommate in my freshman year. She fainted.”

“Well, I've never been the fainting kind of person. Not even when we had that power outage remember? And Joshua thought it was funny to jump out from behind that wall. I neither fainted nor screamed.”

A soft laugh burst out of Diana. “No, you just broke his nose!”

“Well, Mamma was always adamant that I should know how to defend myself,” she said with a smirk.

Diana's smile disappeared from her face. Her eyes searched Bridget’s face.

“I don't know where to start. Things have, I don't know how, become even more complicated this last week.”

Bridget smiled encouragingly. “Alright, what was the cause of things getting more complicated?”

“A book… and a - a man called Matthew Clairmont.”

“Oooh! Diana!”

“Stop looking at me like that, it's not like that. We had breakfast together, sat in the library and he took me to yoga,” Diana said, narrowing her eyes at her.

Letting the subject go, at least for now, Bridget asked, “And how is this Matthew Clairmont and a book connected to your family and Miss Unpleasantness?”

She could almost hear the gears turning in Diana’s head.

“Perhaps you could just blurt it out?” She suggested after several minutes of silence.

Diana looked her in the eyes and nodded her head.

Bridget steeled herself. Whatever this thing was, no matter how strange, dangerous, weird, or just plain normal, she needed to be here. To listen, and probably help Diana with what appeared to be the full weight of the world on her shoulders.

Diana took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

“I'm a witch.”