#John Egan fanfic

[stylespresleyhearted]

THE MAJOR’S WIFE

warnings: mentions of miscarriage, adultery, nsfw, marital problems, oral (m! receiving), spanking, being turned on even when your brain isn’t in it, bucky in 1x04, bucky married pre-war, slight age gap bc reader can come off slightly immature (i think?) angst, historical inaccuracies, new mediocre writer be nice

summary: John Egan gets to know his wife again

word count: 9.7k

notes: i’m not sure where this came from i wrote it all today and got no part of my research paper done. there’s really no point to it and also irl john egan was actually really close to his mother so i emphasized that here. he wrote to her so much. no disrespect to any of the real people, this is based on the show/show timeline as well.

Lila gets the call on the 2nd of October and her dreams come true.

Not entirely, no. The real dream would be having him home safe and the tragic war being over but she knows how fortunate she is to have the next best thing happen. Her husband’s been granted a few days leave and Colonel Harding believed it would do Major Egan some good to have his sweet, young wife join him during those days overseas. For the good of John’s mental health the Colonel or the President - or whoever was in charge, Lila really had no idea - had agreed to pay for her ticket and their hotel. There was only one thing they asked for in return and although it wasn’t explicitly said, Lila caught their drift: sort your husband out.

Lila knows it would do her no good to sit and wonder how horribly John must be doing in order for them to declare an all expenses paid trip for his spouse. All she does is worry for him anyhow so she forces herself to focus on the one good thing of the entire ordeal - she’s going to see her man.

There’d been letters, although not as many as she liked and she tried not to let it show how it hurt as every other wife received more than one letter at a time. Her John wasn’t the sort, she knew that when she married him. He was the kind of person who needed endless skies and land to maintain his sense of stability. Having him cooped up would do him no good and she partly wondered how much of what he was struggling with was the trauma he witnessed in the air and how much of it was feeling caged on base. At least his plane, good ol’ Mugwump (he wrote about her quite often) offered him the opportunity to head anywhere he wanted.

The only person he wrote consistently and readily to was his mother. It was rare if a week went by and she received no letter. During these instances it was more times than not an issue with the postal service.

Be that as it may, Lila knew who she married and it made her love him no less so she tried not to let it get to her. His mother was a saint. Firm and strong and loving all the same. Lila would have never survived sending John off if his mother wasn’t who and how she was. She held Lila at night when her cries woke her and she let Lila sleep in his old childhood bed. She kept food on their table and ensured everyone got their work done through the worry.

When John first left and Lila was sick to her stomach and vomiting multiple times of the day it was his mother who consoled her through the night when her sheets turned a crimson red and any ideals of having their baby through the war was lost.

Frances Egan was the glue holding them together. All of them, even her son who was an entire ocean way - so no. Lila would not be angry that she was John’s preferred pen-pal.

“You fix him right up,” Mama Egan had said in lieu of goodbye when leaving her at the airport, “you give him the loving he needs as his wife and the smacks he needs from me to get on the straight and narrow before sending him off to continue saving the world. You do it for him, not for any of them war bastards. You hear me?”

All Lila could do was nod. Dropping her bags on the floor and clutching her pseudo mother tightly. She was excited as she was frightened.

They had only gotten two months together before he had been pulled away. She didn’t want to complain, loads of women had gotten less time at all while others had only ever been left with the promise.

But her two months as Mrs. Egan? They’d been a dream. Her man was a romancer. He hadn’t hesitated in introducing her as the newly (and younger) Mrs. Egan, always resulting in an arm slap from his mother, he held open doors and he never stopped courting her; however she thinks the best times were when he was teaching her how to act married.

In their bed, at a home he had spent a year building for them. Using any extra pennies he had to pay off younger boys to help him hurry it along. Giving her the wrap-around porch she had always envisioned.

He showed her how to kiss. How to undress him. He had laid her underneath him, using his large frame to cover her completely, protecting her from the cold as he threw the sheets off them and making her feel tiny compared to him. She had never felt safer.

It had hurt the first time but he had held her through it. Never allowing any inches of space between their bodies; as if telling her they were in it together. She’d always known he was large, everything about him was large in general, but she never thought how much it would hurt to have all of him fit inside her. Lila hadn't wanted to disappoint him so she tried to muffle her tears and whimpers but he had swallowed her cries and gone slow, soft.

“If this is it, it’ll be enough,” he had promised, only about half way inside her and wiping away her tears with his thumbs. As a thank you she had taken that calloused thumb into her mouth and sucked. He allowed her; hiding his face in her neck and pressing wet kisses along there.

And for the first few times that had been it. She couldn’t take all of him and his thrusts couldn’t get too deep so he would only slip inside until her tight hole resisted and pulsed and he’d hump against that spot until reaching his pleasure.

“Do other girls take all of it?” She had asked a couple days later, trying to wrap her head around it.

She was no idiot. John Egan was no virgin.

“Yes.” Lila could always count on him to be honest. At least there was that. Meanwhile she couldn’t even fully pleasure him. She was failing as a wife. “Hey,” he lay facing her and she lay on her back. He tapped her cheek until she turned her face. “You’re my wife. That’s what makes this feel better.”

And she had beamed at his reassurance even though she didn’t feel much better. She knew John would never push her, and he couldn’t stand to see her cry, so if she ever wanted to learn to be a good wife she would have to take it upon herself.

So that’s what she did.

He was always on top and she was always on her back. That’s the first thing she had to change. From her understanding of it, from her talks with friends that always ended in giggles and blushing cheeks and from what she learned from John, it could be done in many different ways.

“I prefer to be in charge,” her school friend, Linda, had admitted to her. “Not like that -” she clarified, cheeks pink, “Just - if I’m gonna take it, I’d rather do it at my pace. Be on top. Some husbands are good like that. They’ll allow it.”

And knowing her husband wasn’t just good, he was great, she knew he would hold no qualms about it. The next time they lay in bed kissing it was easy to turn him over and straddle him. Move her wetness against his belly to let him know there was still more she just needed him to accept it.

Except he thought she was asking him to do it so he flipped her on her back again. And without breaking their kiss, she turned him over again.

It was more like they were wrestling.

Lila pulls away from his mouth, reluctantly, noticing his lips were wet and red and swollen and wondering if hers were much the same. They had been kissing for so long her mouth felt raw.

She loved it.

Straddling him, she reached behind her, feeling him standing straight and hard against her backside in between her cheeks. Sticky.

He gasped, bucking into her fist with a loud, guttural groan. It was so manly she rocked against his stomach again in need.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, “what’re you doing?”

“I want to try it like this,” she breathed, leaning over to whisper in his mouth, her tiny hand still wrapped around him and lining her up to her hole. “I want it all.” Lila clarified.

And John allowed it, like she knew he would. Let her take control and go at her pace. Let her swivel her hips on the way down to help with the tightness of being stretched so wide and thick.

Nothing but curses and promises of love leaving his lips. Gasping mine, mine, mine and my perfect fucking wife and I’m gonna fuck you forever.

He felt large inside of her, like if she was being split in two but it felt so good as the tip of him repeatedly hit a spongy part inside that had her coming with no contact to her clit for the first time.

She was beautiful, red splotches appearing on her body from the heat of their love-making, her hair tangled in his fists, her mouth falling open as she threw her head back - all of it was too much. He was flipping her over and pounding into her trying to chase his peak and a second one from her, their headboard banging against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts.

Things changed from then on. Sexually, that is. Becoming aware of how badly she needed to feel like she was pleasing him, John was not above using it against her. Like letting him lick at her.

“Good wives allow their husbands everything,” he would say, lips wide in a smile and eyes bright at the prospect of getting his way but Lila always knew the choice was really hers. He would respect what she wanted.

He was just too damn addicting. She couldn’t stand to tell him no.

His favorite times were when she allowed him to sit her over his face and let him feast. It drowned the outside world for him and he kept at it even after she had reached multiple orgasms and was pulling on his hair and the only thing keeping her up was his forearms locking around her thighs.

Her favorite was when he allowed her to taste him at the same time he was licking her. It was a tie between those times and when he held her down until all of him was in her mouth and she was spluttering, choking, gagging. Knowing she made a filthy vision and he adored it did something to her.

Now she was in London, closer to him than she had been in years, and all their intimacies were within reach. She could almost taste him, feel him petting back her hair and settling a hand at the low of her back. She still remembers the smell of his after shave and sweat, how he’d come into the kitchen asking for some of her homemade lemonade to help with the heat.

Jack Kidd was tasked with picking up Mrs. Egan from the airport and having her arrive at base with him. She remembers meeting him a couple of times before John shipped out early. Originally she was meant to wait for John at their hotel but there had been an issue when planning her flight and she arrived sooner than intended.

“Ma’am,” he greeted, placing a friendly kiss on her cheeks and taking her bags from her. “Bucky’s gonna be happy as hell to see your face.”

The tone in his voice - relief? alleviation? - had some of her happy wife's facade crumbling. How badly was her Johnny hurting that everyone was looking at her at his only chance to remain sane or alive?

Stop it. Maybe everyone’s just aware Johnny misses you. You’re his wife.

“Not as happy as me, I wager,” she returned with a smile. “I’m glad to see you’re doing okay, Jack. Glad to see you still kicking.”

His shrug didn’t soothe her worry but she saw him try to mask it with a smile.

“All we boys can do is pray.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, gathering his attention. “You boys have got the prayers of our entire country protecting you.”

Jack simply nodded in response.

For the most part the ride to base was quiet. Her bags would be kept in the trunk until her and John were ready to drive out to London in a couple of hours and until then, she’d be his surprise at the officer’s club. Silver Wings, Jack called it. Where all the boys gathered and had drinks and celebrated accomplishments. And where some chose to mourn, too.

Her stomach was turning as she neared the hut, following Jack’s footsteps. There was so much that could go wrong and although this was meant to be a surprise, the U.S Army showing their gratitude towards a brave Major, she suddenly wished she would have called John and told him. She wished he knew so that she wouldn’t have to walk in feeling alone and unwanted.

Not that Lila thought John would turn her away, she simply wanted to have him hold her hand as she walked through the threshold.

“Stick close by,” Jack murmured, being respectful of where he touched her before deciding to lead her by her shoulder. “It gets crowded but I’ll take ya to him.”

As she walked through different groups, she felt the offending eyes of men and women alike. Wondering who she was. With a pang in her heart she realized she had met John’s squadrons before but all these crews were new. The boys she met, most of them at least from what she could tell, hadn’t made it. John never wrote about who passed away (except to inform her of Curt) ; most of their letters were him expressing his love and how he missed her so and asking what she got up to.

Having walked around the roundabout bar in the center of the room, her stomach in knots and fingers tangled in front of her - she caught sight of her husband smack middle in the dance floor. Pressed against a beautiful brunette.

Lila caught sight of him before even Jack did. That’s how connected she was to her husband. Jack whistled from beside her to gain Gale’s attention who was resting against the bar holding his signature ginger ale, also watching John Egan chat up the woman he was swaying with with something like disapproval in his eyes.

His large hands were occupying most of the space of her waist, keeping her body tethered to his as she laughed.

“Lila,” he gasped, eyes wide. He was smart enough to not turn and look at his buddy. To act as if nothing was amiss and she expected nothing less from Gale Cleven, “damn it all to hell. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Mrs. Egan.”

Because he was close to John, he didn’t hesitate in wrapping her up in a tight hug and pressing a kiss to her tinted cheeks. He knew John wouldn’t mind.

When he pulled back she patted his chubby cheek in return, “You still shame the rest of us with your good looks, Gale,” she laughed. “I’ll let Marge know when I see her next.”

Lila also knew she would share with Marge that while Gale was being loyal, standing off to the side her husband was exchanging oxygen with a woman on the dance floor.

His cheeks tinted at the mention of his girl. Buck and Bucky were both aware Lila and Marge wrote to one another and visited each other whenever time made it possible.

“Colonel Harding said Major Egan was in need of something from home,” she said, studying his reaction to see what she could read but Gale had always been aloof, cold. He wasn’t close to her like he was with Marge and John.

Gale thought back to a few moments earlier when John had disrespected their Colonel and all his actions before that too - disrespecting superiors, drinking more consistently, becoming angry - hopelessness in his eyes.

“He’s in need of you Lila,” Gale clarified and it wasn’t lost on either one of them that he they were referring to was currently on the floor wooing another woman.

“Holy shit! It’s Mrs. Egan!” Hambone animatedly announced and suddenly it felt like the eyes of everyone in there were on her. Her cheeks tinted pink, never having been one for the spotlight like her husband.

She was greeted with welcoming cheers and hugs.

John, for his part, disentangled from the woman he was holding at the mention of his missus. He was sober enough to appear sheepish and guilty, but in the next second it was gone as he stalked towards her. Determined. Quick. His smile growing the more he neared like he was becoming more aware she was really there and it wasn’t a fucked up scenario in his head.

“God, Lila,” she managed to hear him say before she was elevated in the air, his arms tight around her waist and lifting her high so they were at face level and he could kiss her. Channeling his love and exuberance and aggression into kissing his wife. “It’s you, it’s you, it’s really you,” he was saying in between smooches, “I missed you. So fucking much, doll.”

Basking in his love she didn’t feel the need to mention the woman that was so kindly keeping him preoccupied before she entered.

She couldn’t help the first tear from falling or the rest from following. It was like the tightness in her chest unlocked as she finally got to hold him and feel his heat surround her. He still smelled of after shave and the same hair gel that was kept in their bathroom at home but he tasted strongly of whiskey and cigarettes and strawberry lipstick.

John tucked his face into her neck, setting her down and bending to her level. Sniffling in there as he continued to hold her.

“None of that,” she did her best to stop her voice from wobbling or breaking, “we’re together. That’s all that matters.” She drew his face out from where he had hidden to pepper him with a few more kisses.

None of it was enough.

The rest of the guys were kind enough to return to the dance floor and act like they couldn’t see them.

“Who? What - why? How?” He was obviously having trouble forming coherent thoughts in between the kisses he continued stealing from her.

She was crying and laughing and trying to return all his touches. It was a terribly difficult ordeal but she had never been happier.

“Colonel Harding called and said you had a weekend leave. He said he talked to some of the higher ups but they couldn’t allow you a leave home so this was the next best thing,” she explained, cupping his cheek as she rubbed her thumb over his cheekbone. He had minor scars that weren’t there before.

She wanted to kiss every single one of them.

He was still bent towards her height, taking her in as she was taking him in.

She forgot how blue his eyes were.

He was whole. Complete. Hers.

“You’re here for the entire weekend?” He asked to confirm and she nodded, laughing when he lifted her again with a loud whoop to celebrate. That got a few of the guys to join in although they had no idea what their Major was celebrating.

“I need you,” his voice suddenly dropped, setting her down as he turned to the door. “Let’s go.” He was buckling up her coat to make sure she was protected from the freezing London air. She was lucky he was too far gone to scold her for arriving with it unbuckled in the first place - she could get sick.

“John, John - relax, my sweet man,” she laughed, cupping his cheek to get his attention. “We can stay for a while. We don’t have to go yet.”

It’s why she was at the officer’s club in the first place. She had arrived early.

John turned stiff in her hold, straightening to his full height as he suddenly loomed over her. “I’ve got you in my arms for the first time and you want to stay here?” His voice was tight. His face stern.

“Yes - no, I -” she was unsure of where she went wrong or how to fix it. She clasped his hands in hers but he didn’t allow her to thread their fingers together so it was just her holding on. “I just meant we’ve got time, John.”

The way he was looking at her made her want to cry. She felt her lower lip quivering.

She felt ashamed, whispering, trying to get him to keep his cool.

“Time? Time?” He laughed loudly. She was mildly aware of Gale breaking away from a group of guys to near them, worried but she was mostly focused on John. The tense lines on his face even as he laughed and the quirked eyebrow even though she found no amusement in their situation. “You think I’ve got time? You have no idea what it’s like up there.”

She shook her head but didn’t try to verbally explain herself. She wasn’t sure she could manage a few words before breaking into tears.

“Come on, Bucky,” that was Gale stepping in to save the day. Perhaps the only person who could get John to listen. “When have you ever left before dancing with your girl? You gotta show these rookies how it’s properly done right?”

With Gale slapping a hand to John’s shoulders, he seemed to snap out of it. Releasing a deep breath and seemingly all the tightness in body with it.

He leaned down again, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, clasping a hand around her neck so she wouldn’t pull her head back. As their eyes locked she felt a tear fall again and this one wasn’t happy. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby. It’s this place. It’s fucking with my head.”

And she chose to believe him, nodding her head in understanding and trying not to think about how she wasn’t his preferred person to write letters to or the one who could clear his head.

Maybe the Colonel should have allowed a weekend pass for Gale and John.

Lila swallowed the thought, allowing John to pull her to the dance floor as he lost all anger and aggression and became charming and loving all over again.

“Everyone, this is my wife!” He bellowed and everyone cheered in response. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and -” he hiccuped and she realized he was drunker than she thought, “and I bet we can out dance any couples here tonight!”

So for the next hour she found herself being twirled around the dance floor by her husband. She almost forgot their prior negative interaction; his love and energy was so infectious. For the slow songs he would hold her close and she would rest her head against his chest, letting it lull her to a relaxing state. He was alive and she was with him. That had to be enough. For the more upbeat songs, he was challenging any couple beside them. Asking those sitting who were better dancers? Who could perform certain dance moves better?

And all throughout, he was like he used to be back home. Loud and happy and the center of attention, keeping everyone entertained. He kept announcing to his boys that his beautiful wife was there and then he’d place a wet kiss on her mouth that had their cheeks (and hers) turning red but all he would do is smile and continue on.

She was finally able to disentangle herself from him when Crosby pulled him in for a conversation. Lila wonders if her state of disheveled hair and panting breaths made him want to aid her in allowing her to sit and grab a refresher.

Once she accepts Crosby’s hug and cheek kiss, she excuses herself to go grab a drink. John only pulls her back once to steal a kiss before she gets too far.

Her lips might be bruised by the time they leave if he kept it up.

She orders a cup of ice water from the man tending the bar, looking back out at her husband as she waits. He’d always been tall and strong, but she notices the change in his posture. The bulges in his arms as he twirled her around and lifted her in the air. His eyes were only bright when he forced it. They had lost their shine and she wishes she brought the picture from back home. Where he looks young and full of life and joyful. Even when he smiles he seems hollow; hopeless.

She’s there but he doesn’t really care because in his head he’s already thinking of when she leaves again.

She wasn’t used to that. Her John only lived in the moment.

“He keepin’ you busy?”

Gale settles up behind her and pushes the glass water towards her. She didn’t even notice when it was put down.

“Dizzy, more like,” she jokes and gets him to crack a smile. She thinks to when she walked in and seen Gale, how he’d been watching the scene unfold but with a disapproving look in his eyes. How he didn’t try to hide the scene from her or excuse it. He let it be. And she knows John has never shied away from attention. He’s always been handsome and charming and girls always swarmed but Lila wasn’t aware she had to be around to keep him loyal. She thought he just was. And she knows it’s not too long before they leave now so she decides to be direct with him. “So, does that happen often?”

She sees Gale’s expression split for a second, like he debates playing dumb before deciding against it and she respects him even more for it.

“I think you should talk to John about it.” He decides on.

“Is it something that needs to be mentioned?” She doesn’t like playing this game with him but she knows at the first words of cheating and adultery Gale is going to excuse himself and her chance will be lost.

She can’t be simple and ask: Does my husband cheat on me?

“Another ginger ale, Marty,” Gale raises two fingers to grab the man’s attention and mutters a thanks as his drink is immediately refilled. He turns his attention back to Lila. “He still loves you, Lila. It’s just - hard. Being out here.”

“You seem to be coping fine.”

She feels bitter. Crazy. There’s a sob she has to choke back.

Lila’s too embarrassed to meet Gale’s gaze. Ashamed that everyone knows what’s been going on and she was the ditzy woman being twirled on the dance floor.

“I think I was used to loneliness. He isn’t.”

And he says nothing else as he leaves her behind heading back to his boys. It’s just Lila and her shattering heart and her husband calling to beckon her back to the dance floor.

Luckily they didn’t stay much longer. She walked over to Bucky but he wasn’t able to pull her back out for a dance - it’s my song, Lila! - because Jack Kidd was approaching, letting them know it was time to leave them at the train station.

Lila waited in the car while Bucky ran into his quarters to pack his bag. He didn’t have many things to take, he would be stuck wearing his uniform anyway. Gale walks him back out to the car and despite the earlier conversation Lila exits the safety of the interior to say her goodbyes.

“Take care of yourself, Major,” she squeezes him, “I need you to stick around after this weekend to look after my man.”

“It’s a hard job but I try,” he replies, both of them ignoring Bucky’s protests.

Besides that, Bucky’s quiet on the ride to the train station. He carries her bag on board but he’s quiet for the duration of the train ride. Lila doesn’t disturb him; he might be tired or hungover or both.

And if she’s honest she’s scared of him snapping at her like the night before.

Instead she takes the time to take him in. He’s handsome in his suit. Tall and big and strong, his sharp jaw and powerful mouth, his eyes blue like a sunny day and his curls coming undone from the gel after all the dancing he did.

Lila doesn’t allow her mind to wander down this path too often but suddenly she can’t help it. Would their baby have looked like him or like her? She wishes more than anything they would have had his ears. She wishes they would have had his heart and his strength - but her loyalty. Her faith in them.

It’s crazy when she stops to think she was nineteen when she married him and now she’s twenty-one. She’s loved him for more than she’s been allowed to have him. She has changed without him like he has without her and it’s frightening to think neither of them could be accepting of those changes. Whatever they may be.

Lila shuts those thoughts out, closing the distance between them to sit on his lap. Passerby’s and his horrible mood and what scares her could be damned to hell - all she wants is her man.

John doesn’t deny her; she admits she was a little scared he would.

“I love you,” she tells him, catching his eyes.

“I know.”

He doesn’t return the words as they continue staring at one another but she refuses to let it get her down. This is her husband. She has the rest of her life to get to know him; new or old habits, she doesn’t care.

So instead, Lila plasters a smile onto her face. “What’re you gonna show me first in London, Major?”

“Well I really wanna show you our hotel room,” he plays along, allowing her to trace the edges of his mustache. She lets out a knowing chortle. “And I really want to show you -” he cuts himself off to look around, making sure no one was near them as he leans in to whisper, “- my cock, Mrs. Egan.”

She turns a bright red, trying to sputter out a proper response for that but all she can do is indignantly scold him. “John Clarence! If your mom were here -” and they both break out in loud laughter at the many possibilities of what his mother would exactly do to him if she heard his wicked mouth.

“Wanna grab some grub first?” He asks instead, knowing she hadn’t eaten at the officers club and before then she had been stuck on a plane. “I know a few places.”

Lila nods happily, pressing a kiss to his mouth. His lips are warm and as plump as she remembers them. His mustache tickles her.

“Let me feed you first, woman!” He groans, trying to be a gentleman. “When’s the last time you ate?”

She puckers her lips to think about it and that’s the only answer he needs: food is definitely first.

When they arrive at the hotel John enters to check them in but he slips a few bills into the bell boy’s hand with strict instructions to leave the bags in their room before pulling her back out to the London streets.

Lila felt underdressed surrounded by women in diamonds and fancy hats, and it didn’t help that John was beside her in his uniform looking dapper and catching the eye of many. They were stopped multiple times on the way to the diner; men wanting to shake his hand and show their gratitude while the women introduced themselves, uncaring of Lila under his right arm.

As long as he wasn’t ignoring or dismissing her she realized she didn’t really care. It wasn’t much different back home; everyone knew and loved John Egan.

The diner he chose was small and cozy and his legs were too long to fit under their table so his boot and his knee kept bumping into her own and she adored it. She wanted to feel close to him and since sitting on his lap currently wasn’t an option she figured this would have to do.

He tells her many stories but none of them are sad or tragic. He only shares the happy ones. He talks about how he convinced the Colonel to allow Buck, Curt, and himself a London weekend pass one time and they had shoved Gale into a haberdashery where he tried on a multitude of top hats worth more money any of them would ever see combined. But because they were soldiers and majors at that, the owner allowed it. There’s a museum nearby he talks about wanting to take her too, it showcases art from as early as the 1400s and he says he’s gotten lost in there plenty of times and it was lovely.

All the while, she listens without hearing him. Choosing to take him in and letting her mind wander to how it would be if things were different. It pains her to think how much older he looks since she last saw him. Looking more like it was ten years instead of the measly two. John’s always been one to smile freely but the wrinkles by his mouth, eyes, and forehead aren’t from smiling or laughing too much.

Lila knows they’re from worrying and stressing and being scared and she hates that she can’t understand him or be there for him. No matter how hard he tries.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes when a sob breaks free. She curls in over the table and John’s reaching over to rub her shoulders. She grabs a hold of her hand in his. “I just missed you so much.” She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I don’t think I know how to not miss you.”

John doesn’t say anything but he motions a server over to settle the bill and once that’s done, he’s taking her hand and pulling her out the chair.

“You got enough food in you?”

All she can do is nod.

Her body feels electric on the short walk back to the hotel. He doesn’t do more than hold her hand and she thinks that is what has her nerves jittery, his palm in her hand sets her alight. She can feel his rough skin and the calluses on his fingers and the fingertips he runs over her skin and she bites back a moan.

Moaning in the middle of a bustling London street? She’d be thrown into an asylum she’s sure.

Beside her he’s quiet but his steps are quick. She has to lightly jog to keep up with long strides. He pulls on her hand to help her keep pace. It makes her think he’s as impatient for it as she is so she was surprised when upon closing the hotel room behind him he stays by the door. Not nearing or touching or kissing.

Just - nothing.

Her throat becomes tight again as she remembers the girl from the night before and her conversation with Gale. Is that the reason why?

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he says before she can spiral any further. Approaching her and bringing their lips together in a searing kiss, wasting no time in sliding his tongue alongside hers.

“I love you,” she responds and once again he doesn’t say it back. She figured he wouldn’t but she wanted to try. He takes her mouth in his again.

She gets irrationally angry, suddenly feeling the need to claim him so she bites at his bottom lip. He pulls back to press a finger to his lip, wiping the blood there.

Lila pulls on his belt, dropping to her knees right there in the middle of the room.

Mine. He’s mine.

“Make me your wife again,” she’s not sure but it sounds like she’s begging as she manages to unbuckle his belt and pull them around his strong thighs.

“God,” he breathed, “fuck. Look at you.”

Swollen lips parted for him to put to use. John wrapped his fist around her long hair to maintain a good grip, allowing the tip of his cock to hit the back of her throat. There was no resistance, no gag, her body remembering how it was taught to take all of him even though time had passed. John loved that fucking mouth and he found himself angry as thoughts entered his mind - if anyone had fucked her mouth while he’d been away - and he jerks his hips more forcefully. Rough.

This time Lila does gag. Her hand goes to push against his hip but he doesn’t allow her to pull away.

“Did anyone else do this?”

She splutters, eyes on him and confused with a mouthful of cock, unable to talk.

“Did you suck someone else’s cock? This is mine, Lila. Mine.”

He holds her down for a couple of more seconds before allowing her reprieve. She sputters and coughs, looking at him the entire time.

His dick is still hard and long, standing to attention, and he’s not sure whether he should apologize before she’s taking his bobbing dick back into her mouth. To the back of her throat and gulping and fondling his balls. Her nose kissing the coarse hairs on his belly trail and although it feels fucking amazing - he can feel the anger too. Her anger.

How dare he accuse her.

When she pulls off there’s a strand of saliva connecting his prick to her tongue. She has half a mind to go back for more but he’s pulling her back by her hair.

“I’m so lucky to have a wife who’s cock hungry,” he groans, pulling her to her feet by her hair and connecting their mouths in a rough kiss. Their teeths crash and tongues wrestly and he feels fucking crazy that she tastes like him. Simultaneously ripping each other’s clothes off.

Lila didn’t have any warning. One second she was kissing him and ripping open his shirt and the next she was bent over the bed with her ass in the air. John ran a finger over the wet patch on her underwear. The bite on her cheek was also unexpected and she clawed at the sheets, sure she could come from the feeling alone.

“This is mine, Lila,” he leaned in close, burying his face in her underwear. “Mine.”

All she could do was whimper and agree.

John smacked her ass so hard it jiggled. Lila yelled and after the pain ceded, time seemed to stop. Nothing but their rough breathing filling the room. John had never done that before.

She wasn’t sobbing but there were tears escaping. She was sure he didn’t know. He was waiting for a reaction.

Lila wasn’t sure where this side of her husband came from. Had he held back those two months? Did he learn it in Europe? Was that why there was another woman - because she couldn’t satisfy him?

She can’t lose him.

“Please,” she begs, hiding tears in the duvet, “do it again.”

Lies. It was all lies but John believes her and he strikes again. She yelps, fisiting the sheets. He believes it’s in pleasure.

Ten slaps. That’s how many she endures before he begins shushing and petting her again. He runs his fingers through her folds and although she didn’t enjoy the punishment mentally - she did nothing wrong, he was the liar - her body certainly did. She’s sopping wet, she’s gonna have to throw out her underwear because they’re destroyed.

“Did you enjoy that?” He grabs a fistful of her hair to sit her up, her back against his sweaty, matter chest. “You like being spanked, baby?”

“Yes.” It’s only half of a lie.

“Now - now, I’m going to fuck you. Nice and hard, just how you like it,” she wants to scream at him. She wants to hit him. When did she ever like it hard? When was hard ever nice? Who was he thinking about because it wasn’t her.

But at the same time she rocks back against him to feel his cock hard between her cheeks. She can’t say she doesn’t want it. Him. This.

He pushes her back down at her teasing, using his now free hands to spread her cheeks and show her tight asshole. Untouched and pure. He presses the tip of his cock against it but he doesn’t push. He doesn’t move.

She jerks at the pressure. Drools on the mattress as she tries to bite down to temper her screams.

Do it.

No, don’t.

“One day,” he promises, pressing deeper so her hole opens but not deep enough to push. “But today, today I want this.” And without any prepping like she’s used to, without any more warning, he’s sliding down and pushing into her. Hard. Deep.

She screams, can’t help it, claws at the mattress in an attempt to crawl away.

It hurt but it felt so good.

Who was she?

“You think you can go be with other men? Let them use the holes I trained? The ones that belong to me?” He pumps into her deep. Once, twice. She’s so wet the noises filling the room are pornographic, her yelling and his panting and her sopping wet vagina smacking against his thighs and taking his cock so well. “You like it like this, Lila? Like when I fucking own you?”

“Yes, yes,” she swears and this time she isn’t lying. It’s all she can manage; she thinks she’s gone cock dumb. There are no words, no feelings, just the feeling of him filling her.

She clenches tight when he slides out. She wants him inside her forever.

He releases his hold of her hair, stepping away. He’s tired of muffling her moans and words. He’s tired of not being able to see her beautiful face.

John’s favorite face in the entire world.

“Turn around,” he commands.

Lila kneels on wobbly legs as she turns over, having little to no energy and bouncing as her body lands with no grace on the mattress. John grabs one of her jiggling breasts in his large hand, squeezing tightly.

“I fucking missed these.” He takes one in his mouth, biting down on her nipple hard. She shrieks but holds his head to pull him closer.

Her thighs are forced open by his hand and then he’s taking hold of himself and thrusting in deep again. Releasing her breasts from his mouth in order to look at her mouth. Lila’s face when he’s fucking her is as close to heaven as he thinks he’ll ever get. She’s incoherent but she’s begging for more - that much he can make out. She manages to gather the strength to grab hold of him and pull him down, clawing at his back.

He hisses at the pain and bites on her collarbone to reciprocate it.

When she grabs the nape of his neck, the cool touch of her wedding ring against his skin, it gives him pause. This was his wife. His wife.

John has been gone so long he thinks he forgot he was married.

“I love you,” he finally says it, pressing his forehead against hers as he slows down. He sniffles then, leaning down to press a wet open-mouthed kiss against hers and swallow her moans. John can’t believe he forgot he had this; can’t believe he forgot for a minute how lucky he was. She’s gorgeous (and not just externally) and he’s quite sure he somehow managed to dream her up. “I love you,” he swears again.

This time she’s the one who doesn’t say it.

She clutches at neck and pulls him down to take a boob in his mouth. Looking him in the eye hurts too damn much. Why did he have to do this now? She was lost in the pain; she had been taking her punishment.

Lila squeezed her eyes shut, moaning loudly as she thrashed around the bed. Her orgasm taking over her body. She wrapped both legs tighter around John, squeezing and pulsing around him and dragging him to the edge with her.

“Fuck, fuck,” he roared, “so damn tight. Yes, Lila. My perfect wife.”

For a couple of seconds, they lay in the aftermath. Lila could feel the heat of John’s breath against her neck. She counted how many breaths they shared in between one another as they recuperated.

Forty-seven that’s how many breaths they shared as they stayed connected.

Forty-eight that’s when John managed to lift his head and place a peck against her mouth. One she didn’t return.

Forty-nine that’s when John pulled back in concern. Lila was so still.

Fifty. That’s the breath she used to say, “you cheated on me,” looking him right in the eyes as she broke out in uncontrollable sobs.

She cried and cried underneath him. Unable to move because her legs felt like jello and they held no power. Unable to push him off because she didn’t want to let him go. Unable to speak because she was suffocating in her heartbreak.

John watched her until he couldn’t, until he was afraid she was going to choke on her own tears and then he was sitting her up, trying to ignore the way she fought against his touch.

I’m sorry, I’m here, he kept saying.

I hate you, she thought but didn’t say.

Until finally, “don’t touch me!” She yelled when he got too close and made to wrap her up in a hug. “Get away from me, John. Stay away.” She crawled to the edge of the bed and curled herself into a tiny ball. Aware she was fully naked and he was still leaking out of her but she couldn’t find it in herself to do anything except cry.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t open her lungs and get any air in. She slapped at the headboard, aware that she was having a panic attack as suddenly everything hit her all at once. It was entirely consuming and she couldn’t do anything to fight against it except cry. All the feelings rushed her at once.

This was going to be it. The weekend of two lovers reunited was the weekend from hell and this was going to be it. She was going to return home in a day and he would stay in Europe and continue to fight the war and seek out other girls and when he returned she wouldn’t be his wife anymore.

Lila would be scornful and full of resentment and miserable and he would leave her. This last time was going to be all she had and she hated him for ruining it.

Why couldn’t he hide his affairs better?

Why did she have to surprise him?

She was perfectly happy not knowing. She was worried and stressed to hell and crying every night missing him but, oh God, all that was better than this.

Lila isn’t sure how long it’s been since she last took a breath but she feels herself fading. She’s shivering and naked in their bed and she can only slightly take in that John’s wrapping her up in the duvet and curling himself around her to warm her up. She’s trying to tell him she can’t breathe, she’s suffocating, at the same time he’s blowing air in her face.

She’s fading when she feels it. A sting on the left side of her face. Hard and sharp and enough to have her gasping for a deep breath.

“Baby, please, wake up,” he’s crying over her, his head on her chest, “wake up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her chest aches. She coughs.

He whips his head up so fast she almost laughs. Almost.

“Lila,” he holds her against his chest, rocking them back and forth on the bed as she takes in her surroundings. She isn’t sure how long she was out or how long she was panicking for. Had the sun been setting while she lost her shit? It was dark outside now. “Don’t leave me, you can’t leave me. Please.”

She taps at his arms to get him to release. She doesn’t think she can talk.

John allows her the space but he doesn’t remove himself from the bed. He stays kneeling, watching her. His hands keep twitching like he wants to reach out and touch her but he’s trying to respect her wishes of not being touched.

She doesn’t lay back down, she stays resting against the headboard. Breathing hurts. She’s scared of suffocating once more. Her left cheek begins burning and she wishes she had the strength to go look in the mirror. Did he mark her? She hopes he did.

Lila’s glad he made it hurt.

“You need to go,” she finally manages to say, ignoring the way he’s already shaking his head in defiance. “Leave me here, John. I want you to go. Get another room.” Find another woman. “I leave in a day.” She wishes she never came to stupid London. She wishes she could forget this entire trip.

“Lila it’s the war,” he starts, shaking in his own tears. “It’s all the shit I see, baby. None of it was because of you okay? None. You don’t fucking know what it’s like up there for us but I stay alive in hopes of coming home to you.” He promises.

She shakes her head, fighting back any more tears. How the hell could she still have any tears left?

“But Gale didn’t cheat,” it bursts out of her before she can stop it and she knows it’s the wrong thing to say entirely.

John stops his apologies, clearing his throat as he gets up and begins dressing into his suit. She doesn’t stop him. She doesn’t take back any of what she said. She gets tired of sitting so she lays on her side, staring out the window and noticing London doesn’t have many stars. Is that why it’s so horrible here? Because there were no stars to wish upon.

She could hear his boots stomping on the ground as he reached the door. “Maybe you should have married Gale fucking Cleven then.” And the door slams shut behind him.

She wonders if he’s angry enough to find a girl and sleep with her. Her eyes blur. The time on the clock is six p.m and London’s already dark. She realizes she hasn’t slept since her plane ride. About 19 hours awake - her and John.

Lila allows her eyes to close, hoping when she wakes everything will be better.

Shadows over her eyelids wake her up. Lila finds she hasn’t moved. She’s in the same position facing the window. Facing London, only now bombs are dropping over it. The prettiest colors burst forward in the window but she knows it's truly only tragedy and loss. Murder.

She recognizes John sitting in the arm chair and she wonders when he got back. He isn’t facing her, he’s watching bomb after bomb drop and land no more than mere miles away from them. He’s holding a whiskey on ice, twirling the ice so it hits against the glass.

Lila wonders then if it was the shadows or the noise that woke her up.

“I must have punched in my card a long time ago,” his voice is strong in the dead of the night, seemingly even louder than when he’s singing in the pub. “It must be the reason for all of this. Karma.” He scoffs.

I deserve this, is what he’s trying to say.

Lila feels her stomach twist and spin and there’s bile sitting in her throat. She closes her eyes to stop herself from imagining John in a plane, dropping a bomb that lands on children. She closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see the hurt sitting on his shoulders.

She remembers how angry she was when he first signed up. Before they were married. They had been dating for over a month, barely, and she already scribbled ‘Mrs. Egan’ over her notebooks. She’d heard it from his younger sister, Eileen, and she felt her world stop. She hadn’t hesitated to run to the stables he worked at and confront him in front of all the men.

“You’re leaving me,” she had accused him. “You’re gonna leave! I’ll never forgive you, John Egan.”

And in front of everyone he’d knelt down and produced a ring, the one his father had given his mother and said, “Marry me.” He didn’t ask because they both knew it wasn’t a question.

She was already his.

And he was hers.

Lila had forgiven him and promised to love, honor, and obey for the rest of her life.

She doesn’t have the strength to stand so even though her throat burns she speaks. “Lay with me,” she croaks. Her voice is raspy and broken and even clearing it aches.

John shakes his head. “You don’t want me to.”

“Lay with me,” she repeats, firm. “I just want to fall asleep with you.”

He looks at her like he's scared to believe. Trying to figure out whether she’s simply being cruel and going to kick him out in her next breath. Or more likely, he’s scared she’ll lose her shit being near him again.

John, hopeful and never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, sets his drink down and nears the bed. Lila keeps her eyes locked on his and he does the same. Their moves and tension resemble a game of chicken, one of them afraid any sudden change can have the other running off.

“Take off your uniform,” she says when he pushes back the covers while still fully dressed. He jerks his head in confusion and she bites her lip to contain a laugh at his dirty mind. Sex is the last thing on her mind. “I want to feel you, that’s all.”

John does as she asks, setting his cap down and shredding every layer before he’s naked and gorgeous and sliding in beside her. She doesn’t allow herself to think about what it means when she immediately slides closer.

Lila’s the one to wrap her arms around him.

Lila’s the one to intertwine their legs.

John follows her lead, lifting an arm so she can raise her head and use it as a pillow. She scoots her face closer and she nuzzles into her armpit, smelling his deodorant and feeling his hairs poke at her nose. She moves further along, escaping the cocoon of his armpit to press her cheek against his chest. She clutches his dog tags in her palm, tight, so he can’t get up in the middle of the night.

“Can we fall asleep together?” She asks, but when she looks up John’s already there.

The next time Lila wakes up her palm aches. She releases what she’s gripping, remembering how she clung to John’s dog tags when he slid into bed beside her. She lifts her head and finds John already looking at her.

He’s got the saddest eyes she’s ever seen and she hates that she’s partly why.

“We should talk,” her voice is low and cracks from not being used. John nods his head but makes no move to begin.

Lila lays her head back on his chest, lightly picking at his matted, curly chest hair. She presses her lips to a freckle near his nipple and his intake of breath lets her know he felt it,

“I’m not the one you write the most letters too,” she starts, finding it easier to not have to look him in the eye. “You write the most to your mom. And I’m not the one who can calm you down when your anger gets the best of you,” she’s so tired of crying, “that’s Gale. “And I can’t even be here for you at the end of a mission to console you or kiss you or help you forget,” she chokes on a sob. “That’s whoever else.”

I couldn’t even keep our baby healthy, she leaves out.

“What’s your point with all this, Lila?”

Lila lifts her head from his chest, “My point is I’m a horrible wife. I - I don’t know if it was too soon or just not thought out but this - I- ” she can’t get the rest of the words out.

“Don’t say that,” John sits up against the headboard, forcing her up as well. He grabs both her wrists in one of his hands to pull her closer and grab her attention. “Don’t fucking tell me that, Lila.”

“I don’t make you happy,” she shakes her head.

“You do. Everything I do, everything I’m doing - it’s for you Lila.”

“I don’t want to marry Gale. Or someone like him. I love you. Only you. But I’m scared that I don’t make you happy. You deserve better.”

“Oh you dumbass,” John coos, suddenly finding the entire situation amusing. He pulls her in for a hug. “You’re my entire fucking heart, Lila Egan. You don’t think you make me happy? You’re the only thing in my life, in my head, that makes me happy.”

She pulls away to hold his face. “If you’re gonna leave me John you need to tell me now. I don’t care about the girls if all they are is to pass the time. And I don’t care that you write to your mom more than me and I don’t care that Gale is the one you listen to but I just need to be the one you love the most. I need to know I’m making you happy.”

His heart aches at the fact that he made her feel she was ever anything less than the most important person in his life. “Lila,” he presses a kiss to her lips, “Rose,” another kiss, “Egan,” another. “Are my only reason for staying alive.”

[thedeviltohisangel]

MASTERLIST

ACOTAR

CASSIAN

All The Things I Did:

(Just So I Could Call You Mine)

Canon Universe:

"The most beautiful part is, I wasn't even looking when I found you."

Chapter One: All The Things I Did

Chapter Two: It's All Around, It's All The Time

Interlude: A Sight For Sore Eyes

Chapter Three: Don't Leave Me Alone

Interlude: A Feeling I Want To Get Used To

Chapter Four: The Only Thing That I See

Chapter Five: I Hope I Don't Lose You

Chapter Six: All's Well That Ends Well

Chapter Seven: I Thought About Thinking It Through

Chapter Eight: That Girl Is Going, Going, Gone

Chapter Nine: It's Not Fair To Make Me Feel This Much

Chapter Ten: Together We Can Get Somewhere

Chapter Eleven: Love Me To My Bones

Interlude: I Want To Give You The World

Interlude: I'm Such A Fool

Interlude: All I Brought Back With Me

Interlude: Wave Goodbye to the End of the Beginning

Interlude: The One Thing I've Been Wanting

Interlude: I'd Give Up Forever To Touch You

Interlude: My Little Bunnies

Interlude: My Little Loves

Interlude: Happy Birthday, Flyboy

"Souls don't meet by accident."

The Modern Era: John x Cass Modern AU

You'd Have to Stop the World Just to Stop the Feeling

"It terrifies me what I would do for you."

The Princess Era: Knight!John x Princess!Cass AU

I Would Be Your Only Dream

I Love You, It's Ruining My Life

"And then she knew, that you could become homesick for people too."

Special Editions:

Four Times They Speak About Each Other And One Time They Spoke To Each Other

"Darling, you are all I ever wanted love to be."

Misc.

Cass x John Blurbs

"The day I met you I began to forget a life without you."

For A Fortnight There We Were:

(Forever Run Into You)

Hollywood Universe:

The story of Callum Turner and Evelyn Shaw, the actress who plays Cassandra Cooper in Masters of the Air.

One Shots:

He Got My Heartbeat

What About Your Quiet Treason?

It Fit Too Right

If It's Forever, It's Even Better

"You are too well tangled in my soul."

Misc.

Evelyn x Callum Blurbs/Inspo

"I told the stars about you."

"I want to feel your love on my skin."

Other:

Bradley Bradshaw

Tommy Shelby

Austin Butler

Theseus Scamander

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Even my Friends just Love Her

|| Dear John Series 💌

Warnings: 18+ sexual and thematic material, not a lot in this chapter but some brief voyeurism and mention of naughty photographs, letters and imagined sex acts

Coauthored: honestly bless my baby Bri who I begged to beta read this when I was stumped three quarters of the way to completion and she went above and beyond and gave the ending of this segment so much life, pretty phrasing and a beating heart. It was a total joy to work on this with you, darling, thanks for your lovely idea that spawned this whole series in the first place.💋 so many thanks to Christi and Ashley who endured my screams about Spangles and writers block

April-May 1945

Her tenth night in Paris found Marge Spencer hard at work earning her keep as a trusted member of The Lana Tierney’s retinue.

She didn’t mind the labor, it had paid for a boat ride and a plane over the pond and the prettiest shared suite in the Ritz, with a view of the iconic skyline and more macaroons than Marge knew what to do with. An American girl of average means, moderate schooling and a vast imagination, Marge felt like pinching herself that her view consisted of the Eiffel Tower; instead, she applied herself more earnestly to her occupation and diligently set about petting the soft white fur fringing Spangles’ little pink nose.

That was the extent of Marge’s job description, pet Spangles, feed Spangles, brush Spangles, wash Spangles, walk Spangles, carry Spangles; anytime Julie Jean couldn't tend to Spangles herself, Marge was at the ready.

Spangles, you see, was a white bunny rabbit of the masculine sex given to Julie on her latest War Bond tour by a Marine gunner and nothing short of death could part the two. He had a blue velvet collar, a fetching little name tag hanging from it and a very active set of whiskers.

“Spangles was my dearest friend before you.” Julie had told Marge when she first introduced them and Marge had done her best to not crumple at that unwittingly dismal revelation.

There had been a lot of those. Julie Jean, as Miss Lana insisted Marge call her, was a unicorn of sorts. Very magical, very shiny, very fragile, dubiously real even to herself. For someone so universally adored she was the loneliest creature Marge had ever encountered, before meeting her she had assumed that waifish little fairies like Julie didn’t exist outside of rather maudlin novels. That felt like a very cruel denial of a very real predicament in retrospect. Julie's happiness was unbounded, universally ignited and childlike in its exuberance, her sadness was without a bit of restraint beyond some brittle and fleeting acting capabilities of keeping it together until she got to the powder room.

During their brief friendship, Marge had already spent a great deal of time hugging the starlet and patting her milk white shoulders in powder rooms. Anyone else indulging in such frequent fits might have caused Marge to give them a little shove and advice to ‘chin up’, but Julie did “chin up” so thoroughly and profitably in between -more than anyone Marge had ever known- that Marge felt rather unentitled to that specific sermon. When Julie was up, she was really up and so was everyone within a mile radius of her. And when she was down -only the single person with her or Spangles knew it. And Marge figured that was a pretty decent way to live; as were three room suites at the Ritz and more flowers on flat spots than a funeral home.

What was missing was someone specific to channel it all into. But that, Marge knew, was why they were in Paris: so that Julie Jean could pour out what she had to offer to an entire crowd of furloughed GI’s or else the recently liberated POWs still waiting for transit and looking altogether too thin and too shocked by their first female sighting in over a year. Julie managed them all beautifully, standing under hot afternoon suns and chilly evening spring breezes like a champ, in spindly heels and fetching chiffon straps, collecting flowers and kisses and horror stories with unfading aplomb.

Tagging behind her each day, cradling Spangles and the overflow of flowers not even Herb could manage, Marge grew tired just by observing. You had to have some kind of heart to keep doing what Julie did day after day. Wake up looking forward to it. You had to have an awfully large receptacle to receive what she had to give, too.

A revolving crowd of hundreds of GIs -or Bucky Egan.

Tagging behind, ever watchful for threatening Hollywood acquaintances or freshly liberated boyfriends in the crowd, Marge had no luck so far. She went to each show, mingled in each press of the crowd before and after, scanning, always scanning for blue eyes and golden hair and the sweetest face she’d ever known.

Gale. There was no reason to think he’d be here, but it had been ages since their last letters, only word had been that they’d been moved and that was from some other pilot in the same gargantuan holding place. As the flurry of a world war wrapping up took hold of bedraggled Europe, no one knew where anyone was. Unless you were a world famous starlet residing at the Ritz in a very promoted continental tour -then folks knew how to find you and serenade you under your hotel window.

Communication lagged terribly and it was a roll of the dice whether your next bit of news would be the most tragic or joyful you’d ever received. Whether you’d hold the person you missed or the telegram regarding them first.

So Marge scanned the crowds and tried her best to receive the overflow of flowers -and the occasional kiss- from the men around her with half the grace Julie showed each. It was really all very flattering, very exciting, and while back home in America there was felt the buzz of approaching victory, nowhere exuded it in such frantic merriment of expectation like Paris.

“Everything’s better in Paris.” Julie had told Marge on the way over, dreamy and giddy herself that her plan had worked, that they were headed over to the same land mass as their men, and that Marge was with her, “Even the best things in the world get magnified in Paris. That’s why everyone doubts it’s real. But it is Marge! It is!”

So far, even sitting on the carpeted floor of the suite, staring out the balcony after ten nights spent here, and petting Spangles wet fur for a living, Marge had to agree it felt more than a little magical.

“Laaaa!” Julie’s exclamation interrupted her reverie, silver belled voice matching the atmosphere to perfection, “Wasn’t that a bop?”

She’d been soaking in that tub for two hours, tap turning and on and off to add more hot water and Marge thought her poor, no doubt sore, feet deserved every second of the extravagance. Plus the room now smelled of bath salts that Marge was pretty sure were the very distilled essence of seduction. And that complimented her view of the Parisian skyline, too.

“Always is with you at the mic.” Marge swore, meaning it, too. Nine shows in ten days and even though she had ulterior motives for attending Lana’s shows -scanning, always scanning- Marge was astounded by the variety and interest the entertainment retained after repeated tastings.

“Yeah? Really? Honest?” Julie sat herself cross legged on the fluffy duvet at the foot of their shared, king sized bed, and chewed her lip like it was her first performance ever. There had been another suite with another bed, and after the second night when Julie heard Marge crying her little heart out over Gale, the consolation had been made. Julie was eager for sleepovers. Never had them before, she swore.

Now these chats happened each night.

“Honest.” Marge got up from seat on the floor and came over to the bed, setting Spangles between them, “You gotta know that? Like those screams and yells were all hoo haa. Trust me, Julie, it was electric. You were electric. Again.”

They sat and pet Spangles in silence for a few moments before Julie spoke up again, soft and sweet as she watched Marge’s dimple deepen, “You’ve made this trip so much better than any other I’ve taken, you know that, Margie? Paris is how it should be with you.” she proclaimed triumphantly, “Lovely and pretty and makes me feel like I can float.”

“You can in my book.” Marge drawled, chucking under Julie’s chin, the girl looked half too young without the makeup and Marge felt it was easier to be friends like that.

Just two girls and a bunny in Paris.

“What do you think they’re doing right now?” Julie whispered.

They spent most of their sleepovers talking about them -the boys. Speculating happy little comforts for them and spinning happy little ever-after’s for themselves when this all wrapped up.

“Hopefully cuddling for warmth.” Marge’s grin grew sly, the mental picture too amusing even if it was bittersweet.

A small commotion in the hall outside sent both girls into high alert suddenly, Spangles’ whiskers twitching in solidarity for their anticipation. This had been happening most nights, too.

“Is it them do you think?” Julie gleefully whispered, untangling her legs and tiptoeing to the door with Marge begrudgingly protesting but following nonetheless.

Julie was generous with the peephole and Marge had given up pretending to be above the jovial pastime of people watching -especially when their swanky floor at the Ritz meant they had the most shocking sort of neighbors. Ingrid Bergman for one, and as of the last six days; accompanied by a man who was not her husband.

“He’s dark.” Marge reported, finally getting a better look at the man in question as the illicit lovers grappled in a kiss and fumbled longer than usual at their key.

“Lemme!” Julie shoved at Marge’s giggling frame and tiptoed to line her eye up, “Ooooh, lord! Marge, Marge I think that’s Capa!”

Marge made a disgusted little face. “Frank Capra? ‘Why We Fight’ Capra? Isn’t he old?”

“No, no.” Julie swatted at her without tearing her eye from her spying view, “Robert Capa -life magazine. War Photographer, Hungarian, very dangerous profession.”

“Being hungarian?” Marge snorted, “Or stealing wives?”

“Oh hush they’re so in love.” Julie whined, rapt attention until the door of the opposite suite banged shut with a decisive crash. “They’re so in love.” she moaned, letting her forehead thud against the door, allowing herself to dramatically slide down the length of the door to the plush carpet.

“He’s very hairy.” Marge was amusedly unimpressed.

“I don’t want him for meeeee!” Julie whined and Marge sensed another little fir coming on and cast a furtive glance at the macarons and tissues across the room on the side table. “It just reminds one of being in love.”

“Well, don’t fret, that’ll be you and John Egan in no time, clawing wallpaper and ruining respectable people’s evenings.”

Julie looked up at her unimpressed and Marge could have recited from memory the next fussy little cry: “He’ll probably hate me.”

Marge sighed and knowing this was going to be a little bit of a moment, sat down beside her, back to the door, matching pajamas a cool silk rub against each other as she hugged the poor girl. “No he won’t.” She insisted, “He’ll think you’re a silly little goose for crying so much over him and he’ll think you’re smart as anything for all the money you’ve raised -and the good you’ve done. He’s an ambitious man, he’s not one to knock a good idea. I bet he’s proud as anything. If he knows about acorn -he’s proud. You can count on it.”

They did this every evening, too.

Julie had never known a lovelier creature more convinced they were unlovable. It helped that the comforting sentiments she dished out like tranquilizers were firmly true; in fact, if anything, Marge was a little braced for the shock of Julie being quite happily eaten alive by the most voracious man she’d ever had the fortune to meet.

“I might as well jump into the Seine if not.” Julie commented casually.

“Yeah, well,” Marge tempered with a squeeze, “maybe don’t come on to him with that one.”

After some time of more innocuous conversation, a commotion startled them, the triple rap of knuckles on the door behind their backs -Herb’s special little knock. They shared a spooked look. Marge, quite settled in her protector mode, rose first. She gave the peephole a cursory little look to make certain before sliding the lock and cracking the door open as wide as was respectable in silk pajamas.

“Herb?”

“Miss Spencer, Miss Julie,” he gave a nod, something odd in his bearing, a simmering thing near to nervous excitement that jarred with his sober expression, “sorry to bother, but there’s been a development in the lobby -I, ya see, I’ve been turnin’ all the young bucks away after you go up, as you asked but -there’s one down there now-“

“Does he need a room?” Julie inquired anxiously, she’d put up about ten refugee families in various little suites and over a couple dozen servicemen, “That silly concierge not letting you put it on my tab?”

“No miss, this one’s not lookin’ for a room.” Herb’s keen eyes skittered to Marge, an almost cautionary expression on his face, “He says he recently escaped a camp and by the look of him I’d belive it. He’s asking for -for Miss. Spencer, Miss.”

“What?” Marge was not one to be cautioned against hope, “Herb! What did he say? Where is -what’s he look like? What did he say his name-“

“Gale.” Herb let it drop gently. “Said his name was Gale Cleven, and that Miss Turner didn’t know him but her Bunny Friend did. That he saw Miss Spencer’s face in the papers when he got in this evening, he’s meant to be flown out tomorrow.”

“Julie’s Bunny Friend!” Marge repeated with a hysterical little cry, watery smile gone megawatt, “Julie!! Julie it’s gotta be him!”

“Well, well should we-“ Julie patted her pajamaed self down in a bewildered state of companion joy, “-should we go down? Should he- Herb!” too flustered she begged for some direction.

“Up here, I’d think miss.” he advised, “If he’s not the one, there’s no scene made, I can keep him in the hallway while Miss Spencer’s makes use of the peephole -as she is so fond of doing ages after I knock.”

Marge gave him a wry face which he returned in kind.

“Herb, is he -alone?” Julie asked suddenly, voice quite small and Marge could have knocked herself over the head with the ice bucket for being so very callous.

“Yes? Is there a dark haired, tall, big, loud-“

“-American major with him named John?” Herb supplied, ever astute and dampening in the extreme, “No, he’s alone. Or that is, besides the army man who drove him in.”

“Right.” Julie wiped her sweating palms on her thighs, sitting heavily on the bed but doing her damndest to maintain a bright smile. “Don’t leave poor Major Cleven down there any longer, Herb! Bring him up! I’ll wring for room service.”

“He -he may not be-“ Herb cautioned once more but Julie was adamant, already dialing:

“No, no more buts, it’ll be him. And he’ll have news of John. Go! Go go go!”

Marge gave Herb a pitying shrug of solidarity but the minute he was out in the hall she gave all pretense of calm, turning in a giddy spin that spooked poor Spangled and took out an already precarious floral arrangement. “Should I dress? Should I-“ Marge patted herself down now, but Julie, having primly placed her order and tipped it with a sugar coated thanks came over to her, and merely began to take Marge’s blond strands out of their rag curlers.

“No, you should have your hair undone.” the actress proclaimed, “And your top button, too.”

“Julie!“ Marge gasped, somehow it all felt so very likely, with him possibly downstairs, maybe in the elevator now, all their naughty little girls chats suddenly leaving the realm of hypothetical at the likelihood of Gale actually seeing that extra sliver of skin in mere moments.

“Marge.” Julie gave it back to her, fingers insistent on the silk, “It’s up to you to welcome him home.” she preached with girlish simplicity, “And as you’re not home yourself, you must make do, bring home with you.”

“How?” Marge stressed.

“There is nothing more domestic than a lady in a carefully crafted state of repose.”

“There’s not?”

“No, there’s not. ‘Me? Just rolled outta bed to welcome ya honey!’ See?” Julie parroted her alter ego with a little shimmy that sent her own curves jiggling beneath the shiny fabric in such a blatant way that even Marge had to admit she had a point. “Besides,” she added with practicality that sounded very much parroted from Marge herself, “we don’t have time and there’s nothing sexy or welcoming about a woman struggling into her house dress.”

“Ohhh shooo!” Marge began to hit at her when another knock sounded.

“Oh god.” Julie vocalized for her, squeezing Marge’s hand encouragingly, “It’ll be him.” she rallied.

“Yes.” Marge set her chin firmly and having plucked up her bravery, strode to the door purposefully. Somehow it felt like a doubt unworthy of their love for her to use the peephole, so without even a moment's delay in turning the handle, Marge flung wide the suite door and stared back at the two men outside in the hall.

He was pale as spector, those dear and onetime soft features nearly gaunt from deprivation, a criss-cross of purpling scars cutting across parchment skin; but the eyes were the same, sunken and dulled as they were, the same soul stared back at her and the thread between them held firm.

“Marge?” that voice was just as deep and thrilling and homey as she remembered, it had melted her belly and filled her with devotion from his first greeting in Texas. She had not stood a chance, not then and not now.

She was throwing her silk clad self against his filthy overcoat before she could fully comprehend anything else beyond it being him -it was him.

“Gale, Gale, Gale it’s you!” Marge panted in his embrace, the heavy feeling of his hand cradling her head a long imagined thing that winded her in reality.

Julie stood back mildly stunned. She fiddled with her own turban, having forgotten to see to her own appearance. If watching Capra and Bergman hurt so good this- this was bone deep beauty that hurt like a hundred little cuts soothed by a warm bath. Major Cleven was muttering about dirt and redefining what missing her meant into something eternal and something else comparing Marge to angels.

Julie and Herb exchanged the communicative glance of well satisfied colleagues over the lovebirds’ shoulders. If she looked hard she thought she could see commiseration in his face, too. It was intolerable, and she turned her back on the scene and fumbled on the bureau for her cigarette case. The latch was being pesky, it made a clatter as she tried to wrestle it open on the tortoiseshell table top. She’d dropped the thing one too many times, and now the latch was busted just so that it was a bore to get it open.

“Miss Turner.” her real name spoken by a man made her jump, all the more so as he was so close behind her, suddenly deep into the suite as Julie had let too many moments go in her fight with the case.

Julie braced herself on the bureau and turned round to give Major Cleven his deserved smile. He really was as beautiful and ethereal as Marge talked of, recognizing in him some matching features to her own made her want to giggle in embarrassed disbelief at Egan’s obvious preferences. But her quips and greetings died on her tongue at his intense stare, a pink flush making it into his sallow cheeks the longer he looked at her and she recalled how he had seen her picture. But still he held her gaze and behind him Marge looked encouragingly expectant, and as if he could feel his girl’s prodding, he rallied.

“Miss Turner I-“ Gale Cleven looked at a loss for a brief moment, “-for everything! Thank you, for everything.”

“Why, whatever for? I-“ Julie’s batting little laugh was smothered by a sudden and engulfing hug of her own, and while she’d endured and repaid many a hug from soldiers and men alike, this one was different. “Oh Major Cleven, it’s alright, it’s a joy really.” She patted at his back and tried to grin back at Marge’s watery eyed happiness. Herb had gratefully closed the door behind the bedraggled major.

“You saved his life, ya know?” Cleven had pulled away suddenly, very emphatic hands on her shoulders and Julie caught a glimpse of something fatherly like she’d only imagined. “You’re what kept him going.”

“Did he-“ Julie felt her voice grow thin, in aggravation she about stomped her foot in his embrace, “-did he hear? I tried to send messages after-“

“He heard, ‘em.” Gale’s little nod shook her, too.

“He did?” Some chipped and unsettled hope was suddenly falling right into place in her heart, cemented and sure, “He did. But, he’s not with you?” she couldn’t help the little beg.

Cleven’s face fell and so did his hands. Marge approached them, feeling a presentiment. “What happened?”

“We planned to make a run for it together.” Cleven sounded guilty as hell, “Had to be that night. Two went over the wall just fine and I was following and he was behind and they spotted us.” If Julie could have found it in herself to hate him, the wretched look he flashed her would have compelled forgiveness on the spot, “He told me to go -and I did. And I heard shots after and I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Stunned, not at all expecting something of that nature, Julie clung to her furniture a little harder and tried to lean on that newly fastened hope in her heart. They had been connected all this time, she had felt it and now Gale had confirmed it and, she may be insane for it but- “It’s alright, we don’t know, which means we don’t know anything bad either.”

“Yes!” Marge’s voice was a little overly emphatic for the quiet moment, “That’s true! Nothing bad.”

“I know he’d take care of himself,” Gale offered, “-he has been. Just for you. Only thing keeping him on the straight and narrow.”

“Then I think,” Julie dared, feeling her cheeks growing hot and wet, this night being altogether too much to pretend at something close to sanity when with dear friends, “I think we’d know, don’t you? Me and you, we'd

know if he wasn't ... here anymore."

Gale looked at her like she was crazy but at the same time, understanding unfurled behind his eyes, as if he wasn’t used to relying on feelings like this, but it didn’t mean he didn’t know they were real.

Julie meant it, and believing it made some loathsome part of himself calm under the comfort of it. “Yeah,” he muttered, “I think we would.”

“Now!” Julie clapped her hands, Lana’s mask coming to smooth her face and brighten her smile, it wasn’t fair to Gale or to Marge to make this a somber evening, late as it was -this was Paris! The Ritz! If a celebration couldn’t be had and comforts procured, where could they be? “What we do have on our hands -is you! And you look as if you could use a burger and coke and a bath! And I’ve got all of them here, don’t argue, don’t you dare, Marge deserves to see you fed and moderately clean, don’t you think?”

Put that way, as a service to someone else, Gale Cleven only had weak thanks and pale rebuttals about needing to be at the newly rebuilt airport outside the city to get back to Thorpe Abbots tomorrow. He was still enthralled to military time, he hadn’t counted on this, not at all, but it didn’t change things-

“I’ve got a valet, Major, he could get you to Siberia tomorrow if you needed. Now hush, I’ve rung for food. Where are they? Herb! Herb!”

“It’s best to just go with it.” Marge teased him as he catatonically watched the starlet boss about the waiters and her valet, bewildered and bamboozled at the sudden luxury. The sudden proximity of his girl, too.

Suddenly there was nothing else on his mind but one thing, “You said yes.” he reminded in the middle of the chaos swirling around them.

“Yeah,” Marge’s dimples popped, “yeah I did.”

“You still of that mind?” he nudged closer, noses brushing and he was aware that he was filthy, but she was magnetic and willing.

“You’d have to drop off the earth to get out of this one, Major Cleven.”

Gale refused to sit on anything while Julie and Marge fed him from a sumptuous buffet off the cart. He swore he was too dirty to even stand in such a nice place like this but he was also shaky, pale and in dire need of food and with two little blondes plying him with the first bits of American cuisine he’d had in years, he wavered and stayed. His insistence on going to his original billet grew weaker with each passing moment as Marge smiled at him and fed him fries. By the time Herb had been sent down to inform Major Cleven’s jeep driver that his passenger was lost to welcoming arms, Gale had quite forgotten much of anything beyond the feel of a full stomach and the promise of a bath.

For a long time he sat in the cold porcelain shell and ran the water over himself, such a terrible amount of filth and grim didn’t deserve a bath, it would turn even his hardened stomach to sit in the juices of a year and a half’s captivity. So after being shooed by Julie Jean into her intolerably bright and ornate en-suite bathroom, complete with a star’s assortment of toiletries and the bunny’s monogrammed food and water bowls, Gale gingerly let his ratty clothes fall to the marble floor and stepped into the tub.

Over the roar of the faucet he was unaware of the tittering whispers at the door -still slightly ajar and unlatched as Julie Jean was nothing if not a little wicked. And concerned.

“People drown in bathtubs where I come from all the time!” She refuted Marge’s scandalized objections.

“Yes, because they’re pickled with booze!”

“After what he’s been through he’s in about as good of shape.”

Marge knew that statement wasn’t false exactly but her hand still fluttered over her belly in nervousness at the impropriety. “Alright.” she went with it, breathlessly anxious and a little flustered at the blurry something beyond that chink in the hinge.

“Aren’t you going to peak?” Julie unfolded the rest of her play with an alarming smirk. “Come on, he’s going to marry you, how many times will you see him in his natural state at the ritz?”

It wasn’t fair to put it like that, to remind Marge she was living on borrowed fairytale time. It was a deep seated fear she had shared with Julie once as they had the covers tucked up to their chin’s and their hearts out on their pillow cases -that she woke sometimes with a feeling of terrifying urgency and nothing but regrets for a laundry list of bypassed chances she had not taken. Upon waking further and regaining some sanity, she couldn’t for the life of her recall what these fateful omissions that startled her so badly had even been. But times like these, when she went to be good but then was asked if that really was worth her time, such urgency crept back, nagging. “Go on then.” Julie slipped aside, her battle won as Marge surrendered and delicately placed her cheek against the door frame, an eye to the crack.

She had spent many nights imagining the whole of Gale, a beautiful back she had only seen beneath drab olive, the nipped waist and the lanky legs that sent his trousers on a mile long spill of fabric. Her breath hitched at the pale expanse now before her, each proportion how she lovingly recalled but this time without obstruction or disguise, a strange dichotomy: the youthful taper and swell of his backside jarring with stark ribs and a mottle of ugly bruises and festered creases. She didn’t know if her gasp came from desire or commiseration, jerking her face back from the sliver of light as Gale turned his head sharply, as if feeling her observation even as the water had hid her inadvertent noise. Either uncaring or convinced he was mistaken, she watched as Gale stepped into his tub and promptly sank his head beneath the splash.

Julie watched Marge as she watched Gale and she wondered if this is what it was like in fairytales when the gates of the kingdom are thrown open, everything wanted and wished for is there. The protagonists never know what to do with a dream come true, do you eat it? Fondle, crush, preserve it in a glass case? Such a cruel kindness, dreams that come true; Marge’s twitching fingers and gasping lips suggested a torture going on inside her, heavy lidded love and belly hot want.

Julie swore to herself then, she’d feel it too. Soon, she’d be watching the man who owned the jacket as he showed her himself, just as he’d written his heart out for her eyes alone, one day soon he’d be naked and hers and she could watch him and do what people do with dreams.

Perhaps feeling vindictive for being ignored, or perhaps merely thirsty, Spangles suddenly made a series of determined little hops across the suite floor, threaded the blockade of the girls’ feet with ease and, perhaps seeing his chance, nudged open the crack of the bathroom door only to bounce along the marble floor in a cacophonous clatter of little paws that even Gale could hear over the faucet’s roar. Like a slippery fish, he skidded to his side along the bottom of the wide tub, a pink, bath-warmed hand clutching at the edge and hauling his sopping head above the lip to observe his long eared visitor -and the guilty little audience of girls in their night clothes at the threshold.

The look he leveled Marge made Julie’s toes tingle and second guess how chaste these two’s reportedly tame trysts pre-war had really been. “We merely wanted to make sure you didn’t-“ Marge clasped and unclasped her hands, “-drown.” it was a deflated little excuse by the time she got it out.

Spangles had begun to sneeze, ever sensitive to steam and Yardley’s lavender soap, his poor little legs skidding apart further and further on the damp floor. Gale bit his lip from laughing at the cute little creature’s plight.

“Oh laa!” Julie gave up all pretense and entered to save him -the bunny, that is- causing Gale to flail a little harder as if there was a deeper level to the bottom of his tub where he could take refuge. “Add in the bubbles, Major,” Julie always had a remedy, “it’ll hide everything nicely. Don’t ruin poor Marge’s first evening with you by being a prude, she misses you. It’s been years, you know.”

They spent much of that evening in the following way, Gale in his topped off tub, Marge with a mostly useless cloth beside him on the ledge, and Julie primly sat with Spangles in her lap on the closed toilet seat.

“Bucky’s confirmed as best man.” He told Marge, sheepish grin breaking out until both girls laughed at the thought of the boys indulging in their own wedding planning.

He tells them about the radio he built, about the first time they heard her broadcasts, of the photo she’d sent which Bucky and him divided in half each keeping their girl in their pocket,

about Brady and the liturgy of devotion he made up for Egan to recite to Julie’s printed picture on the combine wall. The particulars were left out, Gale being a gentleman to the last, but Julie glowed and wept under the obtuse assurance anyway.

“I trust you kept him warm.” Julie demands, “Seeing as how it’s your fault he didn’t take his jacket.”

Gale tells her of Egan’s presumptuous bunk sharing, how strange things were happening every day and that grew to be commonplace. At her inquiring look he only blushes and stares down at the water, the bruise on his throat blooming under the flush, and for once Julie thinks she knows Gale Cleven better than his Marge.

“I’ve gotta be on that flight tomorrow early!” Gale had just enough energy left to fret even as he was led in a fluffy terry cloth robe to the sofa and made to lay down on fluffed pillows under a velvet duvet.

“Don’t worry about it major, I’ve got everything sorted. We’re coming with you.” Julie insisted, without having even discussed it with anyone as it didn’t require it -of course they’d be going to England with him! And no, she had nothing sorted but as soon as she had Gale deposited on the sofa with Marge’s hands entwined with his from her place on the floor, Julie Jean sent for Herb and summarily entrusted him with sorting it.

“Before seven thirty am tomorrow, please.”

Alone in bed, as Marge had made a poor showing of joining her only to go “check on his breathing” and predictably not returned, Julie lay awake and thought of John. Fat, hot tears rolled out the corner of her eyes and into her ears, tickling her, making a miserable spot on her pillow. Whispering prayers with her eyes on the skyline, she begged him to stay alive for her. “We’re so close, sweet man. We are so close and I love you too much.”

By next morning Herb did indeed have things sorted. Or close to it. There was a small hitch. “Mr. Huston is confused by your change of plans.” Herb informed her as he oversaw the bellman with the last of the trunks. He had ensured Major Cleven’s threadbare uniform had been cleaned and pressed in the night, and when Gale appeared out the en-suite bathroom this morning he looked a modicum closer to how Marge recalled him shipping out.

“What doesn’t he understand?” Julie asked, feeling cross and dreadful suddenly.

“He asked to hear it from you. Room 608.”

“Well I, I suppose I should run by it and then we can be on our way.” Julie decided with brave sprightliness, fixing the little net on her hat to cover more than just her eyes.

“We’ll go with you.” Marge decided with forceful kindness; her pull on his arm was all the command Gale needed not to protest.

“Who’s Huston?” he asked as the elevator whirled them one floor higher.

“My business partner in the broadcast.” Julie replied, “And the man paying for this excursion. I suppose he’d like to make certain I’ve not gone looney.”

Mr. Huston’s cuban valet opened the door and behind him, despite the fresh morning hour, was a scene out of one of Gatsby’s parties. Multiple women in little clothing and a significant amount of discarded booze littered the place, and Huston, smoking a cigarette and flicking through the paper, did not even bother to leave his perch against the headboard. Julie suddenly felt as if she were seeing the scene through newcomers eyes and her face burned to be associated with it.

“Jack.” She greeted, knowing that despite how he had moved on for the most part, he would have teased her maliciously for trying to distance herself in front of her friends.

“Baby.” He flopped down his newspaper, “What’re you doing in here wearin’ tweeds? You know how I hate tweed, does nothing for your assets. God take off that jacket and pour a drink -who’re your friends?”

Julie clutched the donned sheepskin even tighter and could almost sense Gale Cleven shifting from one foot to the other, a loose stance of being on guard. “This is Major Cleven of the mighty eighth, and you know my dear friend Marge -she’s is his fiancé.”

“Ah, a fellow airman!” Jack perked up, rising off the bed with his full chest on display under a gaping embroidered robe and approached Cleven with a smug sense of equality. He stuck out his hand and Gale made him wait five whole seconds before he returned the grip, tightly. “Pleasure, Major.”

“Do I know your squadron?” He drawled.

“Oh, I’m an observer mostly. But I’ve seen some combat.” Jack didn’t have a group, those wings on his uniform meant about as much as Lana’s broach collection in regard to brave service.

It was like Gale could smell the costume party off him, and Lana admired him immensely for that. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Pacific theater mainly”

Gale was smiling sympathetically and it was the most unsettling thing Marge had ever seen, and it satisfied something deep inside her that had loathed Huston since she first met him in the lobby ten days ago, his hand encroaching down her back and his language towards Lana so territorially possessive it gave the impression of her friend being a collectors item instead of flesh and blood.”Heard it was real windy on those atolls.” Gale remarked.

Huston’s smile wavered but only in confusion, no shard of doubt finding its way into his mind that it was derision curling Gale’s lip. “So- London?”

“East Anglia, actually.” Julie dared, “Major Cleven is in need of a ride” that wasn’t exactly true but “and I thought it would mean a great deal to give him a lift.” After a lengthy pause where Jack just stared at her with a smokescreen between them from his cigarette she added, “Great press, too.”

“You soft hearted little dolt.” Jack barked a laugh and it made Julie jump like all his rash emotions did, he pinched her cheek and tickled her ribs right beneath the swell of herbrassier as he went around her to his desk. “Ok, ok, you can have it. I’ll swing by to collect it and maybe get some footage for the documentary. What’s your group?” he asked Cleven.

“100th.”

“Oh, hell, I’ll definitely be swinging by.” Huston whistled, mind already ablaze with prospective press. “And you,” he pointed at Julie with his checkbook poised like a loaded gun, “better find something to do over there besides playing chauffeuring cupid, something that’ll make your mother think you aren’t going off script.” Julie gave him a frantic nod as victory was in sight and he went on, “But I’ll definitely be swinging by, I’ll pick you up, we’ll go back home out of London. Say, first week of May.”

Julie had no capacity to argue with her benefactor and meekly accepted his proffered momentary advance. She could only pray that John Egan would be in East Anglia by then, and she’d know something of her future: whether ‘home’ would depend on men such a Huston and their fickle lust or a steady ever after with an honest man like John.

“Thanks Jack I-I-I won’t forget t-this.” she managed, before they all dashed out the suite, Cleven having to be pulled from measuring up his seedy benefactor, and down to the taxi stand -England bound.

————————————————

Harry Crosby was taking sharp turns down the long runway at a pace and tempo Rosie Rosenthal did not find suitable but they made it alright, just as the anomaly of a jet came to a full stop on the runway, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the utilitarian bombers stacked alongside on the hardstands. When the radio tower had gotten buzzed for landing instructions from a foreign craft everyone had gone a little bizerk with speculation, but the pilot himself put them out of their suspense when he told Kidd that his cargo included The Lana Tierney and a Major Gale Cleven.

Harry had raced Rosie down the stairs to the nearest jeep and had begun to accelerate before his friend even fully landed in shotgun. Now they were just in time to see the hatch opened and the lanky and familiar figure of Gale Cleven drop to the tarmac in a graceful crouch.

“Harry!” He greeted as he straightened, his voice robust even if his constitution appeared battered by captivity, “They still got you at this dump?”

“Fresh outta the stalag Major,” Harry gave him grief back, “and getting dropped off on base in a private plane with Lana Tierney?”

“Yeah,” Rosie added, “What kinda war you been runnin’ anyway?”

Gale laughed off their backslapping greetings before suddenly recollecting, “Oh, right I forget. Ladies?” and turned back to offer his arms for Marge to take and he swung her gently to the ground.

“Boys, this is Marge.”

“Of course it is.” Harry admired with a hand outstretched to shake hers before he peered up into the plane, not being disappointed when he caught sight of a pair of ever so delicate ankles. “Holy mackerel, it is Bucky’s girl.” he blurted loudly as Lana’s angelic face peered back at him, as pristine and fuckable as her photographs but the delectable whole of her was swathed in Egan’s goddamn sheepskin.

“Aren’t you pretty.” Julie Jean admired Crosby right back, liking him immensely already for the fact he recognized her as Bucky’s girl. “Are you also strong?”

“I- I mean, sorta, not as much as-“ Harry stammered before realizing her meaning and so stretched out his arms to be of use, “allow me, Miss Tierney.” he helped her to the ground with a swing that was perhaps the most graceful of his life, gods be good. She was holding a little white bunny and Harry was instantly charmed.

“Thank you.” she kissed his flaming cheek.

“Who’s this?” Harry pet back the floppy ears, if only to have something to do besides gawk, he knew he needed to not gawk at Johnny Egan’s girl in Johnny Egan’s coat even if the girl in the coat was about as mouthwateringly perfect as—

“This,” Julie proclaimed with all the pride of a mother, “is Spangles.”

“You guys weren’t joking when you said Major Egan was pen pals with Lana Tierney?” Rosenthal shot Cleven a bewildered look.

“No, we weren’t.” Gale agreed.

“We should get you situated again.” Crosby rallied after Lana had sent Major Rosenthal siren red from a cheek kiss of his own, Harry was still vibrating under Lana’s assessing looks and the fond weight of her hand in the crook of his elbow, “We did not expect the company of ladies but I’m sure something could be sorted and uh, well, uh, we’ve got your billet, Major and we’ve got your footlocker. Bucky wouldn't let us ship it back to your folks. He kept saying ‘I expect him back.’ Heh, yeah he said his buddy was just MIA is all. Yeah.” Crosby trailed off before asking in a watery voice, “He not make it with you in the breakout? He ok?”

Julie watched Gale’s face go wretched again, truth dangling off his tongue too close to a damnable thing and she gently cut in for him, “He’s alive.” was all she supplied. “When have you ever known Major Egan or Major Cleven to leave behind their boys without either one of them?”

Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously close to tears before he gave a curt nod that so poorly disguised his emotion Julie immediately felt a kinship to him, “Probably just laggin’ behind, primpin’ his mustache for ya. He’ll be here in no time when he catches wind of our esteemed visitor.” Harry had also gone a little drunk under the influence of Julie’s perfume and Rosenthal had to admit it made him a little charming even if the balance could tip into cringeworthy at any moment.

“Oooh a Jeep ride.” instead Julie bounced Spangles gleefully in anticipation of utilizing the boy's regular mode of conveyance, taking a seat between Rosenthal and Crosby, the gearshift between her legs much to Harry’s driving distraction so that- “Gale and Marge can canoodle in peace” in the backseat.

Harry took the scenic route to Cleven’s old barracks, perhaps to give Gale and Marge more time, to brush Julie’s knee more often in shifting down or out of genuine desire to show her each storied handstand and Nissen hut. Probably a mixture of all three knowing Crosby. But the end result was Julie pink cheeked and wide eyed as a child, soaking in every bit of lore about the man she loved and never recalled, a hanky dabbing at errant tears now and again and Spangles being happily allowed to roam between her lap and Rosenthal’s.

Near the end of their little tour they stopped at one hard stand where Major Cleven seemed close to beside himself in joy to reunite with one of the mechanics, there were two children lagging about as well, civilians and Gale was very eager for them to meet his Marge. Not wishing to be aloof, Julie alighted as well and extended her hand to each of the ground crew, learning of their contributions and their marital status. There was a giggly stir amongst the group when suddenly a bouncing ball of fur attacked Gale from the back, bouncing on hind legs and nipping joyfully, it would appear the loving assailant was an overgrown husky.

“Meatball.” Gale sounded about as fond as he had when he first saw Marge and it made the girls titter behind their gloved hands.

Meatball, having exhausted his greeting of his old friend, turned to inspect the other newcomers, licking at Marge’s outstretched hand before turning with great interest to Julie. She was also inclined to stretch out her hand to him and give the pretty baby a good ear scratch when a sudden perk in the husky's face warned of a different interest: Spangles. If Gale had not noticed at the same time, there might have been a rather gruesome outcome but between Julie’s careful pivot with her precious rabbit and Gale’s strong restraint on Meatball’s collar, both pets lived to be reconciled another day.

“Guess we’re gonna have to train him not to think of Spangles as dinner.” Rosie laughed.

Their final stop was at Buck’s old hut, average in every way from the outside as the next cylindrical skinned hut, muddy path outside that the boys kindly spared the ladies by carrying them to the threshold, even if they protested they weren’t scared of a mired heel. Julie walked up and down the rows of beds, feeling the chilly air inside the metal shelter, footlocker names catching her eye as she scanned them. Somewhere behind her Gale was opening his footlocker, sounds of Marge’s pleased murmurs over finding her picture there reaching Julie from the end of the row. They deserved a minute to themselves and Julie had a specific thing she was searching for.

“Lookin’ for something in particular?” Crosby’s kind voice was very near her.

Julie turned and gave the mild mannered major a soft smile, shrugging her shoulders and her bunny before admitting her sentimentality, “I was trying to find John’s bunk. Felt like I might- know it somehow. But I’ve come up at a loss.”

“Oh he wasn’t in here.” Harry informed her, he always seemed beyond eager to talk about Egan and it warmed her, “He was with the 418th, you know, so he bunked with his boys. When he bunked at all.” He added as an afterthought and Julie’s mind went to all the letters she’d gotten from John dated with a slash between entries, as he wasn’t sure which date to sign as he began most of them at night and finished them at dawn. “Though he hung out here plenty to be with Buck and the other way around.” Harry added.

“Do you, do you think-“ Julie began, feeling shy despite how moderate she knew her request was.

“Wanna see his bunk?” Harry lept at her unspoken desire, “We kept his footlocker, too. We were all too scared to open it after he’d threatened us about your property in it.” Crosby’s creasing cheeks were flaming pink and Julie wanted to pinch them, then he went on, “And for the same reason we hated to send it to his mother. I mean, who knows what was in there, I mean, you’d know what but, I’m not saying there’s anything bad I just, we just-“

“Major Crosby, Harry, I’d love to see it.” Julie took his arm and he swallowed his tongue to shush himself, “Have you got the key?”

“I know a man with the keys.” Harry demurred his own influence yet his smile was sly.

“Major Crosby,” she murmured again as they slipped away from Gale and Marge’s preoccupied chat on his bunk and back out into a misting afternoon, the jeep left for them by a considerate Rosenthal, “I want it known I like you very much.”

Another metal hut. Nothing remarkable from the rest, but to Julie, stepping inside with Crosby at discrete hovering distance, it felt as hallowed as a cathedral. He stood here, he slapped this doorframe, knocked his fool head on that beam, paced a hell of a furrow between these bunks. Crosby had been generous with the anecdotes on the way over, and Julie had allowed herself to pester him, he liked it she could tell, and so she knew that Major Egan spent little time in here anyway, except to occasionally sleep, to dress and to read her letters.

Three of the most intimate activities she could conjure up, one’s she’d laid in her own room and imagined him doing. Basic, human, unpretentious necessities, she imagined John at them all the time until she felt like she’d truly played voyeur: the straightening of a tie, the scratching of an itch, the bleary coming to with a face down in the pillow.

He did those things here. Crosby was scraping a hefty metal thing from under one of the nondescript beds, and with a catch in her breath Julie realized it was his footlocker. “We couldn’t bear to stow it away, all the rookies who slept here after him had to deal with it. This was Major Egan’s bunk, they were just passing through.”

All the rookies. All of them. That meant many had slept here and then, truly passed through, passed on, a fiery death and mud hard landing. Sometimes she felt like the only girl in the world who’d lost something, and then she got told of rookies passing through his bunk and she thought of their mama’s who’d never allow their rooms to become the “spare.” Those rooms would always be theirs, even if they never came back. Just like John’s bunk.

But he was coming back. He had to.

“I-I imagine you’d like a moment to go through it.” Crosby had turned the key but left it dangling there, lid ponderously shut, Egan’s threats of evisceration and testicular imbibement still hanging loudly in the air for Harry, as if not a week had gone by since the last threat. No one looks into Major Egan’s footlocker.

“Yes, I would.” Julie whispered.

“Think you can manage the lid?” Harry hoped she’d not ask him to open it for her, that was too close to losing his balls for comfort. Jean needed them.

“I think I can.” Her voice was weak and her hands a little shaky but she wanted it, and what she wanted she always managed to find strength for. “I’d like to spend a little time in his bunk. Just -just to think of him.” she found herself saying, forgetting to blush under Crosby’s understanding gaze.

“Of course.” he didn’t bat an eye. “I-I could, I could take Spangles for you.”

A laugh bubbled out, “Why, you think I’ll need both hands?” Julie teased.

“Major Egan always did.” Crosby teased right back and Julie never would have suspected so puppyish a man could wear so lewd a look, it made her heart flip flop pleasantly.

“Shh, you’re awful!” She swatted at him with a beaming smile that she knew did the opposite of discourage him. “Take care of him, and get him somewhere warm.” she charged him with her pet, handing over the dear bunny.

“The officer’s club is two huts down.” Harry told her, “Turn right and it’s the second hut, you can’t miss it. Silver Wings. You’ll need to warm up too and that’s where we’ll be.”

“Alright.” she muttered and watched him leave before the slam of the door confirmed her as alone in vast space. It was chillingly sterile and looming as she turned to his footlocker in desperate need of something less monotonous and impersonal.

The lid was heavy and it had his name printed nearly on it. She kissed the C that stood for Clarence -what kind of middle name was that for a young buck anyways? It made her choke on her laugh before she bruised her fingertips by forcing the metal open. It was well stocked, all various sorts of items one might find in any man’s footlocker, soap that she had already become intimate with the scent of from the fleece of his jacket, a baseball, ever so many playing cards, razors, photographs of what she assumed were his family, a brown parcel that screamed of his mother so she left it untouched and books. A lot of books.

Guys and Dolls by Runyon was on top. He’d said that he was reading it in one of his last letters. She put it on the bunk. And then took out another book, and another, admiring the breadth of his taste, the way knowledge was balanced with humor in the collection, just like him. At the bottom of them she found an odd little wrapped thing in silk that her heart whispered was the thing it was secretly pacing its beats for.

His scarf came undone under her cold fingers and from its little makeshift bundle her envelopes poured out. Not a single one unaccounted for. She scooped them up and sat on the bed, allowing them to fan out, testimony and evidence of how much she cared, confession and declarations inside that could damn her a thousand lifetimes over.

-I love you.

That was the only line missing in them. Oh how she hoped he knew it. One envelope was an oddity. Blank, not from her, conspicuously fresh and unbattered by the postal system. She opened it and with a zap of arousal spied her photographs inside. She took them with her as she carefully laid back on the pillow. Sheets had been changed, pillows no doubt swapped, it wasn’t his bunk in more than metal and history but she laid there and held up the black and white prints and imagined him doing the same. The way her figure silhouetted against the hut’s curving ceiling, the patter of rain on the metal roof, the dismal gray light filtering through.

The fact he’d found inspiration to write her such stirring things from so blank a place suggested what kind of mind he had and she had ached, ached for him to not be restrained to suggesting only, but to doing, acting on every wickedly wonderful impulse his pen had confided. The throb grew so badly she wept, clutching and creasing the photographs to her breasts -they were so worn from his constant tracing and kissing and sticky with his smearing that a few more bends would be of no consequence. She pressed them to her face, wondering if she could smell his appreciation off the lewder ones. She could not, if she were being honest, but she felt her nose smudge against something tacky and imagined swallowing.

At the Silver Wings, Harry was trying to recollect if he’d ever been so popular. Maybe when he returned from Breman, they’d all slapped his back and joked about his charting them into a tree and they’d all meant it so admiringly he’d finally felt like he belonged a bit. But that was mostly Ev’s day, as it should have been. And then he’d been promoted, and he’d sent all his friends off into hell, and now days no one but the bartender and Rosie cared for him here as much as he’d have liked.

He should have brought a white rabbit with him sooner.

“The hell did you get that from?” Ev asked him, more intrigued than shocked at this point in the war, little bunny rabbits were a mild apparation.

“This is Spangles Egan.” Crosby informed him, being obtuse just to prove he could be funny when he wanted.

“Egan?” Jack barked from beside the bar, “Who’s naming their pets after Bucky?”

Harry grinned, “Well see, it’s his girl’s rabbit. Which makes it sorta their rabbit. Which means it’s an Egan.”

Ev didn’t look impressed but Jack just looked ever more concerned.

“Lana Tierney is on base and this belongs to her.” Harry finally fessed up although his original explanation still stood as true in his mind.

A repetition of her name and “Acorn? the Acorn?” rose up in the club, a battle between acorns and their varied associations rising up between the old timers, who recalled movie night with John Egan, and the youngsters, who’d spent their recent nights with an ear pinned to her broadcasts.

“Yeah, the ACORN.” Harry confirmed as both stood.

By the time Julie Jean had wiped her cheeks of tears and carefully folded her letters into her coat pocket for safe keeping, snapped the lid of his dear locker and set her sights for the outdoors, she had her face back in place: by the time she entered the Silver Wings, she was everything those service boys had ever dreamed of.

Platinum and cherry lipped and ever so thrilled to see and hug each and every one, Lana Tierney was well and truly in the house and those who knew it whispered amongst themselves about “Bucky’s girl.”

Upon meeting Jack Kidd he received a smattering of kisses on his face as she thanked him endlessly for sending her his jacket.

His laconic, “Glad it made it, ma’am.” was perhaps a little thicker than usual.

The newer arrivals couldn’t share any stories they personally had with Major Egan but they were more than happy to share stories told to them regarding the leader. Like how he paid off that one farmer after Meatball slaughtered his chicken. Or how he let a man from the village throw a dart at the apple above his head. From then on it continued and Lana delighted in hearing stories of her man told over and over again, of the impact he carried with these brave men and the life he brought to the crew. She sat in the middle of all of them as they regaled her with tale after tale, and she only wished he was there to tell the story from his perspective. She was sure he would have the most vibrant commentary.

“… told me he’ll buy me a jacket just like his,” one of the boys was telling Lana when Gale and Marge entered the Silver Wings. They were both flushed and her lipstick was on the collar of his jacket. “Major Cleven!” The soldier stood to attention at the sight of his superior being back.

Gale patted him on the shoulder, “At ease, soldier. And don’t go buying another ugly jacket like his. One on base is enough.”

“Major Egan said it’s about how one wears it.”

“I’m sure he did,” Gale returned, looking over how it currently cocooned Lana’s form. He took in the sight of her surrounded by over a handful of young boys and men, all eyes gawking at her and vying for her attention. Even Ev Blakely was seated beside her with his chin propped on his fist. He looked close to a lovesick idiot. “Now I’m sure you boys don’t want me telling Bucky you were all over his woman while he’s away. I trust you are being polite and proper and nothing else.”

Once again Lana beamed at being labeled as Bucky’s woman or Bucky’s girl. She had never felt so damn proud than in those moments; not even the achievements of Lana Tierney compared. If it was up to her she would gladly belong to Bucky Egan for the rest of her life.

But she also couldn’t shake the feeling of how wrong it felt to be there without him. He was supposed to be the one showing her the base. He would have loved to invite her to his bunk. He would take her to his favorite pub and introduce her as his girl to all the people in his life and having to do any of those greetings and events without him was only managing to further break her heart. Bucky would be so proud to show her around; she wouldn’t take that chance from him. As much as possible, she’d save that for him or not have it at all.

“Rosenthal says he knows a family who can put you and Marge up in the countryside,” Gale informed her. “They’re real big fans of you, he says. It only takes about twenty minutes to get there and back so you ladies can come down to base any time or, uh - I could go visit up there, as well.”

His cheeks tinted pink at his last admission, like anyone would bat an eye at Gale Cleven taking a day’s leave to visit his girl after everything he had recently endured. Julie Jean had half a mind to lock Gale and Marge in a room and let them have at each other, all propriety and waiting for marriage be damned. She didn’t begrudge their beliefs one bit, she saw the passion the two carried for one another and although she had never been in her Johnny’s presence, she knew all the longing and desire and love she had for him would have her undressing and bowing before him in seconds. She would gladly kneel before her man and knowing John Egan would just as happily do the same, settled any feelings of womanly resentment or weakness. Gale and Marge’s pent up passion made one wonder at the fire and electricity that would erupt their wedding night. Julie felt hot under the sheepskin collar simply thinking about it.

“I’m sure Marge would love having you come, sir,” she cajoled, patting the fist he rested on the table between them. Gale didn’t seem all too amused by her sentiments as he narrowed his eyes at her. “Oh, hush! I mean coming to visit. Get your mind outta the gutter, Buck Cleven!”

Gale sent her a look that said he didn’t believe a word out her lying little rosebud of a mouth. She was all mischievous passion under the dusting of make-up.

“Uh huh. I’m going to have my hands full with you and Bucky,” he states with a head nod, like he’s already resigning himself to the fact. There’s a comment on the tip of Julie Jean’s tongue - something about how happy Bucky would be to fill Buck’s hands and how she’s sure he’d enjoy watching Buck touch Julie - but she bites it back. She means no disrespect towards Marge and her loyalty is only to Johnny. She’s also no idiot and the love the boys carry for one another knows no bounds or familiarity, yet, if they wanted to choose to be blind and ignore it, who was she to step in on what they had going on?

Her eyes settled on the bruise on his neck once more and Gale seemed to feel her looking, tucking his neck further into the collar of his coat. Julie Jean bit back a smile. She didin’t want Bucky’s best friend to think of her as mean.

“John Egan is my best friend,” Gale started suddenly, and for a moment Julie Jean wondered if this is where he professes his love for the man or if he was going to interrogate her on behalf of his best friend’s best interests. Turned out to be the latter. “He’s got a real big heart, Bucky. Wears it on his sleeve and gives and gives and never expects anything different than what you give him back in return.” Gale had pondered that a lot over the years. How Bucky was always so openly affectionate and loud in his love and trust in their friendship and how Buck never managed to give that back to him until the end during the train ride. Curt was like that too and Buck wonders if that’s why the two men clicked so easily and never shied away from any of the jokes or weird looks. “If you aren’t here to stay, Miss Turner -” and by stay they were both aware he meant for forever. “- then maybe you shouldn’t be here when John gets back.”

Julie Jean clocked Marge at the center of the club, preoccupied under the arm of Douglass as he no doubt regaled her with stories of their brave Majors, and for Buck to stay away from Marge -she wondered how long he had been planning to say this. Waiting for a moment of privacy to lay it out on the table and not upset Marge while doing so, because this was between them.

“I don’t feel comfortable sharing my feelings with you when Bucky himself hasn’t had the chance to hear them,” she admited, tears burning the back of her eyes again. She took in a deep breath. “He had to have known though, right? Be honest with me, you know him better than anyone and he loves you the most and you him. Do you think he knew, Buck?”

Once again Gale wondered what on earth John must have written in his letters for this woman to understand and suspect the deep nature of their relationship so completely. It was just like him - a stone in Gale’s shoe even when he wasn’t aware.

There was a hope in her glistening eyes that Gale was aware can be crushed by him. He’d never felt so much like father than he did now.

He had no interest in hurting this sweet woman who embraced John and Gale and Marge exactly for who they are. This selfless woman who he was so thankful brought Marge to Paris. A gorgeous woman who kept John mildly sane in the camp when there was no hope - an, admittedly, tempting woman as Buck recalled the photo he picked up from the floor all those years ago. His thumb pressed against her black and white nipples -it had a flush setting in and he had to avert his gaze.

“He knew, Julie. He knows.” Truth of the matter is, Gale knew John was aware. John, who was self deprecating and going crazy stuck in the camp, with not enough sky or land to keep him occupied but who woke up every day and tried to stay alive and out of trouble because of a pinky swear he had made to the woman sitting across from Gale currently. John was frightened and he fought against believing it at his darkest times but Gale remembers times when John would stand too close to the fence and guards would point their guns, images of John getting pushed and provoked but one thing always brought him back from that point of no return. Julie Jean Turner. If John didn’t believe he had love to return, he wouldn’t have bothered.

Julie released a breath neither realized she’d been holding waiting for his response.

“What about your fiancé?” Buck asked.

“What about him?” Julie returned. “In my line of work, Major Cleven, a fiancee is the only guarantee against a husband. One ya don’t want. I can tell you this, there’s one man in my future, there’s only been one man since the one letter I got on the 18th, years ago. One sweet man who calls me acorn and tells me he adores me and asks me for naughty pictures in exchange for him staying alive.”

“And you’re okay with that? With him asking?”

“He doesn’t need to ask. I’d do it anyway. But he loves me so he still asks.” Sitting across from his best friend, she’m was near glowing in the love Johnny had for her. Gale wouldn’t give her the time of day if it wasn’t real.

“I’m glad we had this chat,” Julie slowly eased back into being Lana Tierney before Gale’s very eyes, a charming smile on her face with white teeth glinting behind her red stained lips, looking every bit the movie star like when he’d seen her on film or in magazines. She looked different than in the photos she sent Bucky. In those she always looked younger, vulnerable, needy even. “Now that I've got your approval I can breathe easier, Major.” She teased him and he managed a bashful smirk.

“He’s got two protective sisters and a momma who turns his world,” Buck warned in jest and that was how Marge found them at the table. Julie warm and beaming at the thought of hearing about his family and getting to meet them one day. Bucky hadn’t been shy to tell her his mom was his best friend before Buck came along and she was the only one able to keep him out of trouble.

—“Not scared of no Colonel’s or SS officer’s - they haven’t met my momma he wrote in a letter one time. She’s a one woman army.”

Julie took the conversation she had with Buck and held on to hope even when time continued passing and no word of Bucky reached them. She kept the promise she made to herself - she refused to spend any more time on base or at the officer’s club or at any spots Bucky wrote about in his letters to her, because she wanted to wait for him. Instead she spent time with the boys when they visited her and Marge at the swanky estate with the kind English family. In order to appease her mother she booked performances at local bars where they are more than happy to accommodate her and the hordes of army boys that followed her around.

The first week of May arrived and Julie found herself white knuckling her mic in anticipation of Huston showing up any minute and whisking her off. She was not sure if she was sadder about being torn away from her vigil as she was terrified of being stuck back in an enclosed plane cabin with that man for over a day. Marge too, began to fret a little on the second day of the month when Gale told her he was going to be flying mercy missions to Holland. He was too happy about and too assuring about its safety for her to question him, but it was hardly assuring with a war still on.

But Marge knew better than to show that, so she went to Thorpe to wave him off and watched him at his craft while Julie went further north to help co-host a charity event for servicemen’s families. The joy had gone out of it, worse than Paris, she used to be decent at distracting herself with the task at hand but as her days flitted by as uncaring and ephemeral as dreams, the end of the first week of May came in sight, and nothing could keep her mind off John Egan and the heartbreaking notion of not meeting him. Not even the supreme pleasure of dueting with Vera Lynn. All that honored pleasure made her think of was how much her John would have enjoyed listening to it.

Huston came on the sixth. He also left on the sixth. And he didn’t loiter at Thorpe to interview anyone. There were bigger fish to fry out near the Solomon Islands, according to him, and he was off to film it and at his side was an intrepid little secretary he’d met in Paris and thoroughly vetted in between his sheets.

Julie wondered if he’d entirely forgotten her own existence, an unlikely thing, seeing as how she was the entire reason his plane was in East Anglia, but as she was removed at a distance from Thorpe and he had a new adventure and a new lover, perhaps it was a happy case of out of sight out of mind. She breathed easier the minute she heard that he was off in a roar over to another hemisphere.

And right after, or later that evening to be precise, interrupting a charming dinner of rationed butter and plentiful pheasant, was a phone call from mother. The gig was up, in as many words, Huston had lost interest, the fiancée had only gained more and that of the suspicious sort, and mother wanted to know what on earth there was in bombed out England for Julie to find time and payment for. Julie had to list a growing set of fabricated engagements for her mother to even countenance another day spent there, working her name-dropping way up from canteens to a dazzling venue in London which gained her a hem-hawing allowance of three more days.

All the while keeping her sane and functional was one singular thought : John Egan coming home. It was terribly cruel and unfair of the world to have him be within her fingertips, to finally allow her to land in Europe, and then to take him so far away again. Sending his best friend back and leaving him behind felt like the punchline to the joke that was so obviously her heart.

Take that, the universe was saying, you still don’t get to have him, spoiled girl. In her lowest of times, right before she went on stage or nights that she spent having everyone around her praise her she wondered if fame was the price for her man. She didn’t want it either way; she wanted him always.

“Take it all away,” she prayed one night, once her tears had dried and her pillow was soaked and the smell of him on his jacket had wafted, “I only want him. I only need him.”

Meanwhile mother chided, “Have them send me the details on the honorariums, you’ve lost your head over there girl, just like I knew you would, I warned you, remember how I warned you? You’ve lost your head and you’ve grown very lax about these things. Make them send it to me before you even put your foot out for them to applaud, if it’s not top notch we aren’t doing it. And afterwards, you’re coming home and we’re getting this wedding settled. I’ve already got the dressmaker holding a nice dove gray-“

It all blended together in the end, her own lies and her mother’s requirements and in abashed desperation she had managed to plead and finagle Herb to actually book her into “something swanky in London, anything Herb, I just need it to be legitimate to stave her off!”

It was cruel torture to say goodbye to everyone at Thorpe, Julie took her sweet time with it and permitted herself to get a little sniffly about it. This prompted a flurry of produced tissues and solicitous hugs and assurances of Major Egan’s love. It made her sorely tempted to curl into a ball of sheepskin and hide in a footlocker in this nice place till doomsday -let the world try and find her if they dared.

“Send me word!” she charged Gale and Croz, gripping jacket sleeves for extra emphasis, “If he gets back -I’ll still be in London until late tomorrow. Send a telegram, call, whatever you must. Even if you just hear of him, you must tell me, you must! I’ll -I’ll change everything for him. If he comes, I’ll leave it all and come back. Tell him that.”

On the way to the airport Julie Jean only had their promises to do so reverberating in her head and Spangles on her lap to keep her warm. Croz’s eyes had been sadder than she’d ever seen them, sadder still then when he had asked Gale why Major Egan hadn’t followed him back home. And Buck - oh, sweet, virtuous Buck Cleven who had pulled her into his arms tightly and whispered promises of Bucky’s love and intents for their future in her ear. He had spent the entire week thanking Julie for making it possible that Marge stay with him longer with no worry for money or anything back home but in the moments where they had said goodbye, the last words he had left her with were only of Bucky.

Leaving Marge was no easy feat either. The girls had wobbled in their heels and held onto one another tightly and cried and laughed whilst feeling so ridiculous because they were aware the friendship they had formed was for life. Julie wasn’t sad to leave Marge - the only sad part of leaving was losing another piece of John - most of her sadness stemmed from having to be thrusted back to the land of selfish vultures with no care for her after being around the loveliest humans she had ever met. Everyone had been sure to level Spangles with kisses and cuddles and assuring him they would tell his father stories of the joy he brought to base.

“I’ll be sure to give him a stern talking to for getting back so late!” Marge had insisted, clutching at the jacket she had never seen Julie without. “That Bucky Egan - it was bad enough when he changed my Gale’s name. I’m not the pen-pal type, that’s what he told me the night he shipped out. He had no idea you were right around the corner, Julie Jean.”

Her heart beat with the hope that she would never make it to the airport but now here she was. Julie Jean had convinced herself there’d be something happening that would stop her reaching their destination. The driver wouldn’t arrive. Her mother would call to inform of a high paying job. The sky would fall. Bucky would run in front of their vehicle and announce he was back. Anything. But no, none of that happened. The traffic was light and the drive was quick and every step she was taking was a step further away from the future she wanted. Away from her Johnny.

Julie Jean would have to marry Vincent. None of her future children, if they allowed her any, would be safe. Her mother would never relent. The studios would never stop demanding. With each passing thought her vision began to blur and the breaths she was taking came out quicker. On her own accord, she felt herself reach for Herb’s arm in order to maintain her stance. Paparazzi were snapping photos and journalists were yelling and a few regular folks had came out to speak with her - everyone unaware she was losing the love of her life and any chance of happiness.

Bucky had promised her babies. Bucky had promised her safety. “I’d marry you first chance I got,” he had written one letter when she teased possibly visiting Europe. They had been hopeless fools in love and the world wouldn’t relent to them it seemed. She was never going to get any of that.

“We’re almost there,” Herb reassured with a sympathetic pat to the hand gripping his suit, opening the door to allow her entry. “The cameras will know you were poorly from the change in weather and tired from the shows.”

Inside the airport she didn’t feel any better but at least there were no people there to yell in her face. Herb had led her inside a private room and had been sure to lock the door behind him and now he was allowing her silence and her grievance for what might have been. She clutched the jacket tighter around herself where she had curled up on a reclining chair, Spangles asleep on the open spot beside her. This would be all she ever had. And even maybe this they would take away. After all, they had taken away her letters.

The only way they will get this off me is if they pry it off my cold, dead body.

There was a knock on the door and whispers following it. “If it’s the press I’m not pretty enough to be looked at, Herb.” She said. Her make up was running and her hair was disheveled and hiding inside the thick coat of the jacket certainly wasn’t helping the heat in her face but Julie Jean didn’t care.

She was allowed to be heartbroken. John had always told her he would take all her moods, even when she wasn’t behaving like the Hollywood starlet her mom conditioned her to be.

Herb answered the door then, but only a crack so that he was able to see the person on the other side but allow no one to look inside. He excused her, saying the traveling and working hadn’t left her feeling her best but offering her apologies to England. Whoever was on the other side of the door was clearly disconcerted. Star-struck, possibly at getting so close. Their words were breathy and they were stuttering. Julie Jean could faintly make out them saying they adored her but actually - and everything else couldn’t be discerned. Whatever it was, it held Herb’s attention long enough that the door remained open a couple more seconds before he thanked the person and turned to Julie Jean.

“Well,” the tone in his voice, amusement for the first time all evening, had Julie Jean turning in her seat. Taking her face out of his jacket for the first time. There was a paper held in his hand, brown with an approval stamp from the army and the English postal service. “This certainly changes things.”

Julie Jean quickly stood to her feet, approaching Herb with her hands outstretched so she would reach the mail even before she was next to him. She startled poor Spangles who had been deep in sleep, causing him to hop to the floor. Herb wasn’t a cruel man, not to Julie Jean he wasn’t - he extended his own arm so it was within her grasp even faster.

Julie Jean [stop] hope this finds you well and in Europe [stop] Major John Egan is back [stop] Has returned to Thorpe Abbots [stop]

Sincerely,

Major Harry Crosby

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[floralcyanide]

ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴇꜱꜱᴏʀ!ᴊᴏʜɴ “ʙᴜᴄᴋʏ” ᴇɢᴀɴ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ ɪɪ

Your job at the museum teaches you more than you think when it’s opening night for a WWII exhibit.

pairing: professor!john "bucky" egan / fem!reader

warnings: none!

author’s note: I'm thinking the next part to this will be an actual fanfic but we'll see (:

masterlist | divider credit: @cafekitsune

this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ.

✦ You work hard on your first paper based on your thesis. Dr. Egan gives you pointers here and there. Sometimes, you go to his office just to chat when you aren’t doing research. 

✦ He doesn’t go into detail about his personal life, but you do know he’s divorced and has a kid who’s a teenager. He talks about his son a lot, and it brings a smile to your face. Dr. Egan says he hopes his son is just as smart as you when he gets to college. 

✦ He mentions a trip to DC for the Master’s program. You jump at the idea, much to Dr. Evan’s delight. You ask if he’s going, and he says no. You wonder why but don’t bother to ask. There’s a lot that Dr. Egan doesn’t seem like he wishes to tell you. And you wonder if it’s simply because he’s your superior or if it’s something else. Either way, you’re curious. But you don’t want to cross a line. 

✦ You talk a lot about your grandfather to Professor Egan; he always listens patiently and even gives you a moment to gather yourself when you become emotional. You also talk about your father a good bit. Dr. Egan asks what he does, and you explain that he used to be a pilot in the last war. Dr. Egan makes a peculiar face but brushes it off quickly.

✦ He asks what squadron your father was in. “My father was in the Hundredth. He talks about his experience a lot.” Dr. Egan suddenly checks his watch and excuses himself, saying he had to be somewhere and that you were welcome to return to his office tomorrow.

✦ You leave confused about what caused the sudden change in Professor Egan's demeanor but shake it off. You do come again the following day and bring coffee, apologizing for anything you may have bothered him with.

✦ “It wasn’t anything you said, don’t worry,” Dr. Egan says, “I just lost track of time. I tend to do that with you a lot.” You try not to get flustered at his comment when he gives you a soft smile with it. 

✦ Whenever you aren’t researching or hanging with Dr. Egan, you work at the local World War II museum, creating exhibits and giving guests tours. It’s the opening of the new exhibit of the airmen of the war tonight, and you’re dressed your best. You’re happy to explain to guests the timeline of the war and show them photographs and artifacts. 

✦ A familiar figure catches your eye. You notice a tall, graying man with his hands shoved in his pockets, eyeing photos of the squadron your father was in that he donated to the exhibit. You approach the man, “Have any questions?” he turns around, and sure enough, it’s Dr. Egan.

✦ “Professor Egan! I didn’t expect you to be here!” you smile as he looks at you knowingly, with a bit of defeat. “I knew you’d be here, actually,” he says. You give him a confused look.

✦ Dr. Egan points at the group photo of the remaining airmen from the 100th who live to V Day to a specific man with a dashing grin. “See this guy here? Does he look familiar to you?” You squint, leaning close to the photograph you’ve seen many times. Then you realize that dashing smile only belongs to one person.

✦ You carefully look over to Dr. Egan, unsure of what to say. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” you ask. “Didn’t want people, especially students, to see me differently.” “How would they see you in any way other than a hero?” you ask, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not really the ideal profession,” Dr. Egan swallows, unable to look you in the eye. You sigh, “It was war, Professor. You did what needed to be done, unfortunately. And it’s over now.”

✦ “I just felt you needed to know about my past,” Dr. Egan admits, “Especially since we’ve grown so close professionally and your father was in the same squadron as me. It was only time before you found out.”

✦ “I’d love to know everything you’re willing to tell me. Especially since it’ll help with my research. Not to mention there’s probably stuff my father never mentioned,” you chuckle. There’s a mischievous glint in Dr. Egan’s eye at that statement. “Lunch tomorrow?”

[ereardon]

In The Skies || Ch. 2

[Major John "Bucky" Egan x Reader]

Overview: On a night out in London, you meet fellow American Major John “Bucky” Egan of the 100th. As war rages on, you take a leave of absence during the spring of your third year at Oxford to sign up as a nurse on the front lines in England. Time and time again, you and Bucky find yourselves thrown together in the hospital ward as you tend to him and his teammates after missions gone awry. What happens when you find yourself falling for a man who might never return from the skies? 

Pairing: Major John “Bucky” Egan x Reader

Chapter summary: Six months after you first meet Major Egan, he shows up at the bedside of Sergeant Quinn who just happens to be your patient. Sparks fly, again.

Warnings: Smut, alcohol, cursing, definitely historical inaccuracies

WC: 2.8K

Masterlist here

“Nurse? Nurse!” 

Your head shot up, legs unfolding beneath you before you even realized, carrying you down the narrow hallway of the hospital, the floors squeaking beneath your shoes, a mixture of blood and urine and saline and muddy footprints all blurring into one. 

“It’s his leg!” You skidded to a stop in front of a man writhing in pain. 

“Morphine,” you said, nodding at the girl to your right who reached into her pocket, fingers returning with a small clear vial that you grabbed, driving it into the flesh of his thigh. The man let out a shriek, followed by blissful silence as you surveyed the scene. A severe bleed and a cracked tibia. The bone hadn’t shattered through the skin but you knew it was bad just by the way it was bulging against the flesh. “Over there,” you pointed at a gap against one wall. “I’ll get the surgeon.” 

They wheeled him away and you made your way through the maze of beds and walkways, eyes wide, a few strands of hair sticking to your temples. It was hot, too hot for how early in the year it was. Early June. You should have been graduating from Oxford. Instead, you spent your days nursing soldiers back to health, sending them back to the battlefield with missing limbs and poorly patched scars and wounds on their souls that would never heal. And somehow, it felt better than any degree ever could. 

“Dr. Peters!” Your voice rang out in the dingy corridor and the surgeon turned. He was short, with tight, dark curls and a pair of glasses that teetered on the edge of his nose. 

“Nurse,” he said, “what is it?” 

“Patient, Doctor, broken tibia.” 

“Are you sure?” 

You nodded. “Yes. I just did a visual exam, no x-ray, but I’m positive.” 

Dr. Peters eyed you. In the three months you had been stationed at Stoke Military Hospital in Devon, you hadn’t been wrong once about a patient. He knew that. The doctor sighed and put his hands in his lab coat pockets. “Alright. Show me this man.” 

***

“Y/N? Isn’t your shift done?” 

You shrugged, wiping your hands on a cloth before sticking it back in the pocket of your apron. “An hour ago, I don’t know. Still have to see Lieutenant Davies.” 

Anna raised an eyebrow. “I’ll see you at home?” 

“See you at home.” You rounded the corner and smiled. “Lieutenant Davies?” 

The gentleman on the gurney looked up with a grin. “Ma’am.” 

“How are you feeling tonight?” you asked softly, stepping closer. 

“Good as a man with one arm can be.” 

“You always keep good spirits. I like that about you.” 

“Go out with me, won’t you?” 

You laughed. “Now Lieutenant, we’ve been over this before. I don’t date patients.” 

“Won’t you make an exception?” he asked, brown eyes glittering. “Just this once? For all you know, I could be the best date you’ve ever had!” 

“Oh I bet you would be,” you said, ringing out a washcloth in a nearby basin and pressing it gently to his forehead, dragging it down the side of his face, washing his neck carefully. His soft eyes never left yours. “But that wouldn’t be fair to all the other men, now would it?” 

“Screw them,” he murmured and you laughed. “What do you say, darlin’? You and me, let’s get out of here.” 

You shook your head, dipping the washcloth once more and pressing it over his bare chest. “You’re forward, aren’t you?” 

“War taught me anything, it’s that we all die someday. Gotta make the most of every day that’s left.” 

“Amen,” you whispered, setting the rag down back in the pan. “I’m going home now. You be good, alright?” 

Davies grinned. “Aren’t I always, darlin’?” 

You chuckled, making your way down the hallway toward the doors when they burst open, a flash of night sky visible through the open doors before they swung shut. Everything in the hospital was a rush. Triage and move on. But you had long-term patients as well. Men who were there for days, weeks, even months. Ones who weren’t healthy enough to go home, and not whole enough to go back to battle. Men who had seen loss. Men who had nothing left to fight for. 

“Y/N?” A voice from your left startled you out of your thoughts. 

“Yes?” 

“Are you headed home?” 

“Just about.” 

“Can you do me a favor?” Jolene tipped her head to one side. “A patient in bed fourteen. Came in earlier today. Having a hard time sleeping. Think he just needs someone to sit with him and I’ve been here for going on twenty hours.” 

“Go home,” you insisted, practically pushing the girl out the door. “I’ll take it. What’s his name?” 

“Quinn.” She flushed. “Thank you. I owe you.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” You took a look around the room, spotting the bed that Jolene had mentioned. “Hi there,” you said quietly, inching toward the bed. “Lieutenant Quinn, is it? I’m Nurse Y/N.” 

The man who looked up at you was pale, practically ghostly. He had diminutive features, a small nose that curved upward, eyes that gapped at you from the hollows of his sockets. “Sergeant,” he croaked. There was sweat beading his forehead, his upper lip, the visible bones of his collar. “You’re promoting me.” 

You smiled, grabbing for a washcloth and pressing it to his forehead gently. “Sergeant Quinn,” you replied. “How are you feeling?” 

“Not bad, ma’am.” 

“Now don’t you go lying to me,” you reprimanded him. 

“Not good,” he said after a moment. “Feel cold. And dizzy. It’s like everything in my brain is static.” 

You pulled away the washcloth and sat down on the thin cot next to his leg. Quinn looked up, eyes wide. “What brought you here, sir?” 

“Got shot in the side,” he whispered. “Running from enemy fire.” 

“Are you a pilot?” 

“No, ma’am. I just fly with them.” 

“I met a pilot once,” you said. The memories of Bucky flooded your senses. The way his touch felt against your bare skin. The bristle of his mustache as he kissed you. You shook the memory out of your mind. You had been a different person, seven months before. Back then, war hadn’t felt so real. It was tangible now. It crept into every thought, it had made its way into every atom in your body. You were no longer a girl. You were a nurse. You were part of the war effort. 

“Oh yeah?” Quinn said, teeth chattering. “Maybe I know him.” 

You smiled. “Maybe.” You reached out, brushing one hand over his cheek, thumb stroking his sullen face gently. “Jolene said you’re not sleeping. How come that is?” 

“Every time I close my eyes,” he whispered, “I see them.” 

“See who?” 

“Them,” he murmured. “All the men we lost.” 

There was a type of pain in his voice that you hadn’t known until you joined the hospital. Now it was the only tone you could hear. It saturated every word that was spoken under this roof. “You try and sleep,” you whispered, settling down into the chair next to his bed and reaching out, taking his frail hand in yours. His was dirty, but yours was caked in dried blood as well. “I’ll stay here so you’re not alone.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“Yes, I do,” you replied. “Now close your eyes.” He closed his eyes, and you did too. The next thing you knew, it was the morning and your neck was bent to one side. Your eyes opened, trying to place where you were. And then the scent hit. It was as familiar as the smell of the ocean or a new book. 

Death. 

Sergeant Quinn was asleep on the bed and you dropped his hand gently, standing up, careful not to wake him. He looked peaceful. You took a mental picture of him. That was the best you could do, you had realized. Remembering them at their best was the only way to make it through the hard days. 

The flat you shared with two other girls, both nurses, was small and tidy. You spent as little time there as possible. Not because you didn’t like it, but the only place that you felt at peace was at the hospital. Doing your part. Helping people. All of the trivial things that had mattered so much less than a year before had vanished. You stopped wearing as much makeup or caring as much about how your hair was set. You had given up pantyhose entirely. You were a different girl than you had been. 

Back at the hospital, the stench of decay and the sharp bite of stringent solutions nipped at your nose. At first it had been jarring. Now it was simply familiar. The hustle and bustle no longer felt out of the ordinary. If anything, laying down to go to sleep at night felt uncomfortable in its near silence. 

“Jolene.” You stopped the girl with one hand against her arm. She swiveled around. “How’s Sargeant Quinn?” 

She smiled. “Good. Better. Says you were the one who got him to finally rest.” 

“I tried.” 

“Few of his friends from his unit stopped by, but you should check on him. Think it would make him feel even better.” 

“I will.” You weaved around the corridors, past incoming traumas: soldiers on gurneys, soldiers limping, ones with bandages across their faces and arms and necks. Every one you gave a sympathetic look. “Sergeant Quinn,” you said, rounding the corner where his bed sat. 

Four heads turned. Three men in uniform standing in a semicircle turned and your eyes scanned them quickly before doing a double take, backtracking to the man on the far left next to Quinn’s bedside. His warm eyes flashed in recognition. 

“Y/N,” he breathed out and you felt your breath catch in your throat. 

“John,” you whispered. The room, so crowded and cloying and loud, suddenly felt very still and very quiet. Just you and Major Egan standing beneath a street lamp on a bitingly cold London evening. 

He stepped forward and you saw how even over the course of half a year he had aged. Tiny crows feet in the corners of his eyes. There was a hollowness, too. He placed your hands in his. “You’re a nurse? What about Oxford?” 

“I deferred my last semester,” you replied quietly, suddenly aware of all of the eyes on the two of you. “To help.” 

He smiled, his fingers squeezing yours. “So you’re the fantastic nurse that Quinn here won’t stop yammering on about.” 

From the bed, Sergeant Quinn blushed. “Bucky, I didn’t know.” 

You shook your head. “Nothing to know, Sergeant. Major Egan and I met a few months back. Looks like you weren’t lying when you said you were in good hands.” The memory of that one night with John brought a tingle between your legs. He grinned. 

“Are you working?” Bucky asked. 

“Always,” you replied candidly. “It never stops, you know. It’s a constant revolving door of injured men.” 

His eyes darkened. “I know.” His mouth shifted into a smile. “Take a walk with me.” 

“I have some patients to check on,” you whispered. “How long are you here?” 

“Few days,” he replied. 

“Meet me for dinner.” You listed off a restaurant nearby and Bucky nodded. 

He squeezed your hand one more time before dropping it. “I’ll be there.” 

You smiled at Sargeant Quinn. “Now I’m going to have to ask you boys to leave so I can clean the Sargeant’s wounds and replace his bandages.” 

Bucky and the two other men exited the makeshift room and you felt a shiver work its way up your spine. 

You had thought you would never see Major John Egan ever again. 

***

Normally time in the hospital sped forward, like a clock that was wound too tight. But waiting for the sun to set so you could meet Bucky felt like it was taking an eternity.

You were fixing a dressing on a soldier when Jolene popped out around a corner. “Y/N?” 

“Yeah?” 

She tipped her head to the side. “Heard there was a handsome Major here earlier asking all about you.” 

You tried to hide your grin. “Gossip.” 

“I love gossip,” she replied and you laughed. “Does that mean Lieutenant Davies is on the market?” 

You raised an eyebrow. “What happened to not getting involved with patients?” 

“He’s so charming!” 

“He is,” you replied, wiping your hands on your apron and standing up straight. “They all are.” 

“So this Major?” she asked as the two of you made your way down the hall. “How well do you know him?” 

“We only met once,” you said. “Just before Christmas, at a bar in London.”

“And?” 

You grinned and hid it behind one hand, faking a yawn. “And nothing. He’s a gentleman. He’s taking me to dinner tonight.” 

Jolene shrieked and a few patients turned their heads. You shushed her but it was no use. She was practically giddy. “God, you’re lucky,” she whined. “Ask if he has a friend, why don’t you?” 

“He has a best friend who is also a Major,” you said and her eyebrows shot up. “But don’t get too attached. He’s engaged.” 

She sighed. “All the good ones are.” 

“Not all the good ones.” 

Jolene squeezed your hand. “You go have fun. I have it covered here.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes. Go!” She practically pushed you out of the door. 

***

When was the last time you had dressed up? Worn something other than a blood-soaked apron and saddle shoes? 

When was the last time you had gone on a date? 

Probably at Uni, but even then the lines were blurry. Was studying together over a tea equivalent to a date? Or a formal where everyone was required to attend? You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt the way you did that night in Bucky’s arms. 

Safe. 

You were late, hair pulling out of the messily placed pins, the neckline of your dress slightly crooked. As you whipped into the restaurant, peering around, you spotted John with a grin on his face, his eyes planted on yours. 

He stood as you approached the table and leaned over, pressing his lips to your cheek, one hand on the back of the chair, letting you settle into it before he pressed it inward. 

“Hi.” There was something so sincerely innocent about the way he said it. Almost shy. 

“What brings you to town, Major?” 

“A mission,” he replied. “Or the end of one, I guess.” 

“Sergeant Quinn. He’s quite impressed by you.” 

“He’s a good guy.” 

“He said you’re the better guy.” 

Bucky paused before lifting his glass of wine to his lips and taking a slow sip. Then, “I’ve thought a lot about you. Since that night.” 

“Had to send a fellow American off to war the only way I knew how.” 

His eyes darkened. “It was more than that, Y/N.” 

“What are you saying, Major Egan?” 

Bucky tipped his head. “I’m saying I haven’t stopped thinking about you, sweetheart. That not a day goes by where I haven’t wondered if I would ever see you again.” 

“Must have made an impression, then,” you whispered. 

His eyes were glued on yours. “Go out with me.” 

You laughed. “We’re on a date right now!” 

“Tomorrow,” he replied instantly. “And the night after that.”

“Let’s see how the date goes first,” you replied, “before we go making plans.” 

He shook his head. “Don’t need to wait to know what I already do. Which is that you’re the woman for me, Y/N.” 

“John,” you whispered, a blush creeping up your neck. “You’ve known me a total of two days. You can’t say something like that.” 

“I was five years old the first time I saw an airplane,” he replied. “And do you know what I thought?” 

“That you wanted to be a pilot.” 

He nodded. “Yes. The first time I ever saw a plane I knew that’s how I was going to spend my life. In the skies.” 

“You based your entire career, your whole life, around one glance at the sky when you were a child?” 

“I knew in my heart, with every inch of my body, that it was what I was meant to do.” He paused. “It’s how I felt when I saw you again earlier today. Something clicked. Something said this was right.” 

“You have to give me a second to process this,” you whispered. “I haven’t seen you in six months. And here you are, saying what exactly?” 

His fingertips met yours across the table. “All I know is that I knew the first time I saw a plane that it was going to change my life.” His eyes met yours. “And that’s how I feel now, looking at you.” 

Tagging some people I think may enjoy this:

@gretagerwigsmuse @gigisimsonmars @iangiemae @tgmavericklover @sunny747 @perfectprettypisces @na-ta-sh-aa @ryebecca @kmc1989 @spinning-away @yorkshirekiwi @clancycucumber230

#masters of the air#mota#john bucky egan#masters of the air series#major john egan x reader#bucky egan x reader#callum turner

[cetaitlaverite]

Anything to Anywhere - MASTERLIST

Masters of the Air - Bucky Egan x OC

You can also read on AO3 here!

01. An Overfull Rain Cloud

02. A Great Story

03. Top Fighting Condition

04. No Chance

05. Made An Impression

06. King and Country

07. Nothing to Worry About

08. And What Else?

09. Sweet Little Thing

10. What I’m Doing

11. Connected by A Thread

12. A Bad Answer

[claireelizabeth85]

Come home to me - part 1

This is my first John Egan fic. It's a bit of an unusual take but please bear with me. I kind of know where this is going but I need to see where my John Egan infected brain is leading me!!

John Egan x OC Female!Reader Summary: When the idea of a past life isn't just an idea or something that is only for dreams. Warnings: mentions of injury, blood, possible military inaccuracies (but I am a geek, so I've tried to do my research!)

Please let me know what you think, either in the comments or if you would prefer, shoot me a message.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lizzy had been haunted by nightmares from the past, reliving the harrowing experiences of flying during the war. These nightmares had been intensifying lately, becoming increasingly vivid and distressing.

“Red flare. I see a red flare. Get the ambulances ready!”

“Lizzy! Wake up!” Sarah's urgent voice jolted Lizzy from her torment.

“How many came back?” Lizzy's voice trembled as she regained consciousness, her eyes searching for reassurance.

“Sarah?” Lizzy blinked, disoriented, as she scanned the room. Her best friend and flatmate, Sarah, was perched on the edge of the bed, concern etched across her face.

“You were dreaming again! What happened this time?” Sarah's voice was gentle, yet filled with concern.

“There was another mission, another run and we lost…” Lizzy's voice trailed off, haunted by the memories of loss and tragedy. “I don’t know what’s happening to me! These dreams… they feel so real. It's like... when I sleep, I'm transported back to those moments. But now, being awake... I feel lost.”

Swinging her feet over the side of the bed, Lizzy headed for the bathroom, her mind still reeling from the lingering echoes of her nightmares. “Am I crazy?” She asked, her voice tinged with desperation.

Leaning against the door frame, Sarah tried to offer comfort through the closed door. “Are you crazy? No. These are just dreams. Look, I’ve been doing some reading - you know, to see if I can help. There are stories of young children, even as young as 3 or 4 years old, who have vivid memories of events they shouldn't remember. Like planes crashing and finding fallen soldiers. Perhaps your dreams are something similar.”

“But this feels different, Sarah. They’re not just dreams, they feel like memories... I feel like I know those people. I remember the roar of the planes, the mix of love and fear for them. I feel like I'm losing my mind.  Please tell me I’m not” Lizzy's voice wavered with uncertainty, her eyes pleading for understanding.

Sarah couldn’t bear to see her friend in such distress. “I’ll tell you what, let’s go.”

Lizzy yanked open the bathroom door, toothbrush hanging from her mouth, staring at Sarah as though she had suggested something absurd.

“What?”

“Let’s go. Let’s get in the car and go wherever you feel drawn to. I'm not saying you're crazy, but if it helps you cope, we'll go.” Lizzy's embrace was tight, grateful for even the smallest gesture of acceptance from her friend. She might not find all the answers, but at least Sarah was willing to try. 

As Lizzy stared at herself in the mirror, toothbrush in hand, she couldn't help but notice a faint scar in her hairline. Its presence seemed to defy explanation, appearing suddenly in the same spot she had dreamt of being injured. Closing her eyes, she was transported back to the aftermath of another intense bombing run. The memories flooded her senses, overwhelming her with vivid recollections.

The acrid scent of aviation fuel filled her nostrils as she sat on the tarmac, the chaos of the scene unfolding around her. The cacophony of voices, the urgent shouts for medical assistance, all merged into a disorienting symphony of noise. Trembling with adrenaline and pain, she clutched an untouched cigarette in her fingers, her shoulder and head throbbing from the injuries sustained. In that moment, she felt disconnected from reality, a bystander in her own body as she was ushered into a waiting ambulance and whisked away to the infirmary.

Lizzy could hear his footsteps before he came rushing through the double doors. His voice cut through the chaos of the infirmary. 

"Lizzy!" Concern etched across his features as John hurried to her side, disregarding the calls of the on-duty Matron. Reaching her bed, he exhaled in relief at the sight of her safe and conscious.

"You scared the shit out of me!" John's concern melted into teasing as he observed Lizzy, still in her white tank top with her flight suit folded at her hips. She chuckled, a mix of amusement and discomfort, as the nurse tended to her shoulder.

"Have to keep you on your toes, Major. Can't make things easy for you!" Lizzy retorted, her tone playful despite the pain. However, John's expression grew serious as he gently grasped her hand. "You weren't supposed to be up there. DeMarco should have been on that mission, not you," he murmured, his voice tinged with concern.

She flinched as the nurse finished the sutures. Collecting her equipment, she coughed quietly to get their attention. "You have 10 minutes Lizzy and then the Matron is going to come looking for the Major." Giving her thanks, the nurse drew the curtain, leaving her alone with John.

He gently brushed stray hair away from her face, his touch comforting as he cleaned away the blood. Lizzy winced when he caught the graze in her hairline.

“Benny is still recovering from the last run and I’m just as good of a pilot as any of you boys. So, I spoke to Chick and he said yes.” Lizzy’s words carried a hint of defiance, tempered by the vulnerability in her eyes. John held her face with both his hands, looking into her blue eyes, committing every freckle and now scar to memory. 

“You mean you told Chick you were flying and left before he could say no.” John whispered, a playful smirk dancing on his lips.   

"I would never presume to tell a senior officer what to do!" Lizzy feigned innocence, her tone laced with playful sarcasm. 

“Is that so, Lieutenant?" John whispered with a sly grin. "Well, I know for a fact you're not shy about giving orders to senior officers. If memory serves me right, you were quite commanding the other weekend, telling me to do all sorts of things..." Lizzy pressed a finger to his lips, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes, as she stifled his words. A soft chuckle escaped John's lips as he noticed the delicate pink blush spreading across her cheeks. John’s mischievous tone faltered, replaced by a sombre frown as he voiced his fears. 

“Liz, I can’t… I can’t lose you.  I won’t get through this if you…” Lizzy placed a finger back against his lips and gently hushed him. “I’m alright John. I’m here, I came back, just like I promised.”

[ereardonlibrary]

In The Skies Ch. 2 [Major John "Bucky" Egan x Reader]

Full chapter here

[callumsturn]

Sweet John

Summary: John keeps finding ways to stop by the hospital to see you, until he finally gets what he wants.

Pairing: Major John "Bucky" Egan x female reader Content/Warnings: John Egan being a charming bastard, 18+ smut (minors don't interact), unprotected sex. This starts real innocent, but it's really not. Notes: If you have any requests you’d like me to write please let me know! Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Thank you!

As you're helping wounded soldiers, rushing through the corridors of the campaign hospital at base, you bump into none other than Major John "Bucky" Egan.

You look up to see his smug smile. "Sorry, sweetheart." His hand gently over your arm as a way to balance you.

If you didn't know better, you'd even believe he might have done it unintentionally.

"It's alright Major." You tried to rush past him, with towels in both your arms to the end of the corridor.

"You shouldn't carry all that yourself." He takes half of the load from your arms. "Let me help. It's the least I could do."

He carries on up the corridor, following close behind you. You turn your head to him for a few seconds. You know you should be resisting. But he's very, very persuasive. Even when his uniform is covered with blood.

"You have blood on your uniform." You simply state.

"Oh, yeah." He shrugs, not bothered to wipe it off. "You know how it is." he tells you "Can't even breathe at battle without getting some blood splashed on you." He looks at you. "You've got some on you as well."

You look down at your own white uniform. "It has seen better days, yes." You continue to walk to the end of the corridor, entering one of the patient rooms.

John follows after you and looks around as soon as you're inside. "Oh, you're taking these to..." he trails off a bit as he sees who's laying in that bed. One of the men from his squad.

"Hi Sergeant. How are we feeling?" You spoke to the man resting on the bed.

The Sergeant looks up at you. "I've been better." As soon as he sees the Major behind you he tries to sit up, still a bit shaky. "Major." he says, his voice hoarse.

"I'm gonna clean that open wound and switch it up, is that alright?" you asked the man in the bed.

"Thank you, miss." he adds as you begin to gather your tools.

You can feel the Major's gaze on the back of your head as he watches from the doorway.

"It's gonna hurt a little. Take this." You hand the patient a bottle of alcohol to drink.

He takes it, grunting a little from the pain of just moving. He takes a sip and sets the bottle down. As you pour liquid over the wound to clean it, the Sergeant's leg moves in pain. He grunts loudly and moves in his bed. You feel the Major aproach the bed and hold the Sergeant with no trouble. He tries to move again but the Major's grip is firm.

"It's alright. Just hold still now." Major Egan tries to calm the man. You see the compassion and concern on his face. His hand is still on the Sergeant's lower body, ready to steady him again if necessary.

You say nothing, continuing to clean the wound and prepare the needle to stitch. The Major remains close. He watches you work, and his focus is almost entirely on exactly that. The Sergeant squirms in the bed again, but the Major remains in place.

"Easy." the Major tried to calm him down.

"Almost done, Sergeant." you mention as you finish stitching him up.

"Th- thank you." The Sergeant glances toward the Major. "She's real good, I'm telim' ya, sir."

You chuckle as you begin bandaging his wound. "Now... you shouldn't get up. Just try to rest and no missions for a few days. This needs to heal properly."

"Roger that, nurse." the Sergeant replies with a smile. "Will do." he finishes. "Could I get some more of that bottle, though? You know how it is."

You smile as you hand him the bottle for the second time. He takes another sip, as you hear Major Egan chuckle, keeping his eyes on the man and then on you as you put the remainder of the supplies away in a near medical cart, back turned to both men.

"She's pretty, ain't she, sir?" the Sergeant asks his Major who's sitting beside him still, in a lower voice.

As you barely hear the Sergeants comment, you tried to pay no attention to it, not curious to hear the Major's response.

You hear the Major chuckle again. "She is. I'm sure she's even got herself a fella already. Some lucky bastard."

"Probably some high rank fella, too." the Sergeant continues jokingly.

"Not a high enough rank for that, no." You barely hear Major John say.

As you finish storing all utensils, you approach both men again. "You rest up Sergeant. I'll tend to other soldiers now."

The man thanks you, as he rests his head back on the pillow and closes his eyes. The Major still has his gaze on you as you walk past him.

You continue to go about your shift, working on other patients in other beds. You do your best to ignore the Major's gaze when he is watching you from afar.

"Am I under some kind of evaluation, Major?" You asked unfazed, not looking at him, but still tending to a patient.

Somewhat caught off guard by the question, the Major's calm demeanour slips a bit. "Uh... no. I was-" he clears his throat "Just... checking up on... on your patient care."

"On my patient care?" You chuckled. "How's that going then?"

"It's going very well." he replies a little too quickly.

"Well I'm glad." You paused. "Thank you for the help back there."

"Any time." he replies. You see that he wants to say something else, but stops himself. "You've got everything under control in here then?"

"Sure thing."

"Great." He clears his throat again. "I'm..." He's having trouble finding the right words. "I'll let you get back to work then."

"Thank you, Major."

"Yeah. Sure, no problem." He finally leaves the room. You don't see him again for a while, but notice his eyes on you several times over the rest of the week or so.

A few weeks passed and the hospital became less busy. Patients were recovering and the missions were being successful over all. You notice the change. It's more peaceful, which is just what both you and the soldiers needed.

But there is one thing that has changed your routine. Major John "Bucky" Egan has been coming by to see you more often. And each time he does, he stays a little longer and talks a little more. He always makes sure to pay careful attention to everything you say, and always makes an effort to keep the conversation going. You can feel the other nurses and doctors giving you disguised looks, wondering if there's something going on with the two of you.

The Major even shows up when you're not working, and seems to hang around to see when you start your shift or finish for the day. He's always just hanging back, not being too obvious about it. You found it quite charming actually, the effort he would go into just to talk to you for a little while. It was definitely flattering. He's a handsome man, and he's got a certain charm and confidence about him that you can't help but like. Although you're still unsure how to feel about all of the attention, and that uncertainty definitely shows on your face as he approaches you yet again, and starts up another conversation.

"Major Egan." You say after he approaches you.

"Nurse." he replies with a polite smile. He's carrying a coffee mug and offerts it to you. "I figured you might be tired after your shift."

You gladly accepted it. "That's incredibly thoughtful of you."

"I try." he shrugs his shoulders with a smile. You can see his gaze still on you as you take the mug. For a little while he doesn't say a thing, just watching you as you take a small sip from the cup.

Suddenly, he clears his throat a little and speaks again. "I was wondering... there's a cafe outside the base... I though it'd be nice to go there and get something to eat." he says. He's still looking you straight in the eyes while saying it, his body relaxed and his hand resting casually on the mug. "Would you like to join me?" he adds after a moment.

"Right now?" you ask calmly.

He nods after a moment. "If you'd like." he responds. "We could both do with getting some real food. Maybe something more comforting than camp rations." He gives you a small smile, still watching you carefully as he waits for your answer.

You smiled at him for a second. "I'd like that."

His smile grows a little wider. "Great." He starts to back away. "I'll... I'll head out there now." he says "I'll be waiting just outside. The cafe's not far."

"I'll be right there." you smile.

He gives you one more little smile before making his way outside and waiting just out front of the camp, leaning agaisnt the wall and looking out the gate.

You head to the locker room where you find a colleague. You head inside to change out of your work clothes.

"Hey there." she grins "how have things been with you?"

"Good." you smile.

"Major's been going around again today, hasn't he?", she asks, glancing over at you.

"Um... yeah, he has." you continue to change into your clothes.

"Yeah, I figured as much. He coming around more often now? Spending more time talking to you?"

You chuckle, embarrassed. "I guess, yes."

"Well, I figured he had a thing for you" she laughs. "It was only a matter of time before he started getting a little flirtatious. He's not very good at hiding it."

"I think he's just being nice." you said as you buttoned your shirt.

"Sweetie, he's more than just nice. Major Egan has a reputation aroud here, you know. He doesn't go around being sweet to just anyone."

"Well, I don't know. I don't want everyone to go around and talk about this. The other nurses are real nosy!"

"Oh cm'on, don't worry. They'll just tease you a bit if they can tell that something's going on. And besides, nothing exciting happens around the hospital, so they cling to anything." she paused "But you're lucky. The Major's a looker, and I'm sure that you wouldn't mind his attentions, huh?" She gives you a playful nudge as she asks.

You chuckle as you looked at her. "He really is a looker isn't he?"

"Hell yeah he is." she laughs "A real man after my own heart. And the more things continue like this between you guys, the more certain I am that you might be the lady that gets to keep him to herself."

"Well, I don't know about that."

"Oh, come on. Just look at him. Just waiting right outside for you."

"Alright now. Enough of this." you said as you put your coat on. "I'm heading out."

"I'll see you back here later." she chuckles as you head out.

You find Major Egan just where he said he'd be. As you pass him and make your way to the gates outside, he starts walking with you, keeping his hands in his pockets.

"That's your work done for the day?" he asks casually.

"I have to get back in a few hours.... night shift."

"Ah... sure. Night shift. Busy workload tonight?"

"I don't think so."

He keeps his hands in his pockets the entire time, but he seems comfortable, confident, and content. "I bet it'll get busy in there." he adds, pointing to the cafe. "They have some of the best coffee and food around here."

"Have you been there lately?" you ask.

"It's been a little while now." he replies. "I had some time off last night and was going to go there, but I ended up making a stop by the hospital." he shrugs a little. "Had to see if you were looking after these soldiers properly, of course." he adds jokingly, raising an eyebrow at you.

"Yeah, you've been a real caring Major these last few weeks."

"Well, I was just making sure you were up to the task of caring for our troops." he continues.

"Oh, your soldiers never complained."

He smiles at your comment. "Glad to hear it." He looks at you again, a small grin on his face. "Or maybe it's just that they have something nice to look at while they're recovering?"

"Alright now Major Egan."

"Oh come on, why don't you just call me John, hm?"

You looked at him for a couple of seconds. "If you're sure."

He gives you a little nod, still smiling. "Absolutely."

You approach the cafe and he holds the door open for you as you walk inside.

The cafe is busy as John said it'd be. Off duty soldiers fill the place with their drinks, raised voices and the smell of cigars. Most of them are playing a game of cards at the tables. Several are chatting and laughing with each other, making it a very lively environment. Major Egan steps inside and closes the door behind him.

"It is busy, isn't it?" he asks as he guides you to an empty table. He holds your seat out for you before sitting down across from you. "You don't mind it being so busy, do you?"

"Not at all."

He smiles, his hands still in his pockets. A waiter comes to your table and takes your order. John asks you what you want and then orders for you. You just smile politely at the waiter before he heads off.

"I'm glad you agreed to come with me this afternoon." he says after a moment in silence. You notice him leaning forward on the table as the conversation continues. He seems quite calm, but you can tell how focused he is on you.

At one point, one of the soldiers at another table glances over at the two of you, and then nudged the others at the table. There's a murmur of conservation and a few more glances as the others take note of the Major and the nurse sitting together again.

The Major doesn't seem to notice though. It remains a lighthearted conversation, but there's an undercurrent of something a little bit more going on underneath the surface.

Before either of you realize, both of you have been talking to each other for half an hour. The Major shows no signs of losing interest in the conversation.

After a while, a couple first year Sergeants approach the table curiously, excitedly presenting themselves to John.

"Major Egan, sir!" the first says confidently.

"Major." the second follows. They both glance at you a tad nervously.

The Major looks up at them and smiles, still sitting at the table casually. "At ease, gentlemen" he says, raising his hands off the table, but still relaxed.

"Sir, a few of the men were wondering if they could get an extended leave, due to the successful mission earlier today."

The Major stares at the first Sergeant for a second, and his eyes dart over to you. He's still smiling a little, but there's a serious side to him that comes through as he talks with them.

"I understand that you were planning on extending their leave to allow them to rest?" he replies to both men.

"Yes, sir." the first replies "if that's alright with you, sir?"

"It's alright, Sergeant." the Major nods again. "There'll will be no issue on my part in regards to that. How many days are you looking at?" he asks, looking between the two Sergeants.

"Around a week" one of them replied boldly "if that's fine with you sir?"

"A week, hm?" he stares at them for a moment. "A week should be sufficient for them to recharge, especially after a mission like this morning. Make it happen."

The Sergeants both nod their heads. "Yes, sir." They both give you a resrpectful salute before turning back around and walking to the larger table.

"Major Egan..." you say mockingly. He was so different when he talked to you.

He glances over at you with a little half grin. "Yeah?" He laid back in his chair as he waits for you to continue.

"And just when I was about to call you John." You say.

He chuckles softly at that. "Go ahead and call me John. If anyone around here is going to call me that, it should be you." he took a sip from his beer.

That gave you a chill down your spine, out of nervousness.

He sees that he has gotten some sort of reacting out of you, but that smile still remains on his face. "Go ahead, call me John."

"Alright, stop that." you chuckle.

"I just want you to call me by my first name. Is that too much to ask?"

You look at him in the eyes for a second, before smiling. "In here?"

"Here" he pauses "or anywhere else if you'd like." He lays back and continues to smile. That damn smile.

As you take in his comment, music starts to blast and all the soldiers rise from their seats and grab the women to dance. The cafe instantly becomes an athmosphere of fun and liveliness.

The Major glances over at the dance floor. "Would you like to join me?"

You nod your head shyly, and take John's hands as he pulls you into the dance floor. The music is a classic swing tune, and the soldiers all seem to know the moves perfectly, moving with rhythm and flow in a very playful mood.

Major Egan seems to be familiar with the dance, and as he moves with you his confidence and skill is undeniable. He leads you easily, gently pulling you around and twirl you in his arms, and all the while, he stays completely focused on keeping you steady, stable.

"You're a good dancer." he tells you, still smiling playfully as he does. He spins you around in his arms and then back around again, pulling you close enough so that his face is inches from yours. He's still maintaining a comfortable distance between you two, but it's evident that he wants to be so much closer.

The music begins to pick up more, and as it does, his moves become just a little bit more intimate and playful. His arms around your waist. It's clear that he's more than just enjoying the dance.

Moving his hands down to your hips as he holds you, not giving you quite as much space as before. He tilts his head and gets closer to your face, maintaining that same playful grin.

"Careful, John." you say over the music, teasing him.

He chuckles at the teasing, but he doesn’t pull away, nor does he stop dancing with you.

His movements get a little bit more playful now, bringing you in even closer.

"John..." you begin.

“Yes?” He stares at you with that same grin on his face, but his eyes have become more intense now, as if wanting to know where this is going.

"Kiss me." you ask.

His eyes remain on you as he stares quietly for a second, but then he finally leans in to meet your offer. There is nothing playful or light-hearted about this exchange. This is a serious and bold moment for the both of you. Major Egan goes completely for it, pressing his lips against yours. And as he does, his hands moves to your hips and pulls you even closer to him. The kiss was slow but eager, like weeks of tension have been building up. Every movement and gesture felt intentional. His hands on your hips feel more intense and firm now. You pulled back and heard the music echo.

The moment of silence was deafening.

The music was no longer all that you could think about. He stares back at you, clearly still wanting more, but he holds back from following through in that very moment.

"Let's go." you say looking up at him.

He doesn't answer, but simply nods his head. He takes your hand in his own, and together, the two of you exit the dance floor and leave the cafe. As soon as you hit the street night air, John grabs your hand and pulls you close again, his lips finding his way to yours. Your bodies are pressed against one another, and the intimacy of the moment is undeniable. His lips find yours again, this time, more eagerly. And he lingers for a second or two, savoring the kiss. This time, it feels like he’s taking it further, as his hands start moving down to your waist more playfully.

“You wanna take me to bed?” You simply say.

He looks back at you, a bit amused at the question, but also somewhat surprised that you had the boldness to suggest that.

He stares for a second, his lips partially parted. “Yeah. I do.”

His answers are blunt and straightforward. But there’s also a confidence and assertiveness about him that makes it very evident that he is completely and totally up for that idea.

You smiled. He smiles back at you, before leaning forward to take your hand again. But this time, he doesn't just hold your hand. He interlocks his fingers with yours, his hand more possessive now as he glances down at your interwined fingers.

He leads you back into the base, guiding you towards his quarters.

The silence between you two is punctuated with little whispers and small talk here and there, but overall, the atmosphere is very much still intimate and playful between the two of you.

You noticed your environment. You've never been in this part of the base before, as it was only reserved for the Majors. It’s clear that this is a very private side of the base, for these higher ranking officers to be able to relax in the company of their women.

As you walk down the corridor, you hear the song My Funny Valentine by Chet Baker echoeing from a hall near by. Major Egan guides you through the hallway, the two of you still following hand in hand, until you both finally arrive at his room. You enter and before you could assimilate the space around you, John grabs your waist from behind, spins you around and you watch him close the door behind him so effortelessly, just before he kisses you gently, but passionately.

Everything around you has become a blur now, but you feel his hand on your back, leading you closer to his bed.

You start to walk backwards as he guided you. You put your arms around his neck, looking for support as he kisses you eagerly now. You jump, clinging into his body, as he grabs the back of your legs with his hands, easily supporting your weight. You moan quietly as he starts to feel your skin under your skirt as he holds you with both his hands.

John exhales soundly. "God..." he trailed off "You even sound beautiful."

His lips attack yours once again, filled with desire. His comment gave you chills all over your body. You felt him sit on the bed, you now straddling his lap. Being this close to him left you intoxicated, even speechless. You had nothing to say to him. Your attempts seemed to only come as careless whispers or moans as he explored your body with his hands.

"John..." you finally spoke.

You felt him smile into the kiss. "Yes?"

You took a second to answer, processing his touch. "Fuck me." You finally said.

He couldn't hide his smile. "I wanted to do this right." he paused as you looked at him. "I wanted to make love to you first."

The smirk plastered on his face made you melt. His eyes glistening with adoration for you.

You retributed the smile. "Sweet John..." you began tracing his features with your fingers. "Please do that."

You saw his smile grow slightly wider just before he closed the gap between both your lips.

He held you closer, his grip on you more firm, but never once hurting you.

“I imagined this moment a lot.” He confessed.

You began to take his uniform off. His shoulders so broad and his arms like two comforters around your torso. He did the same with your clothes but taking his sweet time to take in every little detail about you. The curve of your neck, the shape of your breasts and the freckles on your skin. Most of all he noticed the way your expression changed slightly when you became blushed with arousal.

His pants were bothering you, they were in the way. Your hand flew to his belt, trying to unbuckled it with no success. You saw him chuckle, surprisingly out of nervousness, as he helped you take it out. You always thought the Major John Egan would be swift in these manners, he had experience after all. It was the only thing nurses talked about, how much luck he had with women, inside or outside base. Was it so hard to believe that he could be actually nervous because you were the one unbuttoning his pants and trying to discard them? That was hard to grasp.

John grabbed the low of your back with one arm, supporting the other on the bed to lay you on top of it. He stood sat on the bed even after kicking his uniform pants, watching as you lay naked waiting for him to join you.

His expression was a mix of desire and adoration.

"What is it?" You asked laughing.

He shook his head slightly. "Nothing." he opened his mouth for a second before speaking. "I just think you're the most beautiful thing I've seen walk this earth."

You visibly blushed. How could you not? "You're just saying that because-" he interrumpted you immediately.

"Clothed or not." He said plainly, guessing the rest of your phrase. He looked at your face for a couple of seconds, and you did the same with difficulty. He was so handsome, his hair dischevelled falling perfectly on his forehead.

Not bearing it being away from him one more second, you grabbed his hand and pulled him to lay on top of you, opening your legs, allowing for him to fit in the empty space.

He immediately kissed you, your bodies now glued to each other. You could feel his hard member press against your core. You bent your kness, allowing him access. Your way of letting him know what you wanted.

He positioned himself at your entrance, ever so carefully. He looked at your expression as you gasped slightly, feeling him. He then kissed you gently, but eagerly, as he pushed himself inside you, slowly. Your mouth hang open as you threw your head slightly back on the pillow. He looked down at you, and he swore he could come undone right then and there, watching you in that blissful state.

You felt his lips on your neck, beginning in the low of your jaw until the base of your neck. You exhaled when you felt his touch and he could feel the vibrations of your voice on his lips.

His thrusts were purposely slow so you could adjust to his size. Soon enough he started to go deeper as you dig your nails in his upper back muscles.

"Faster." You pleaded, your voice only coming out as a low whimper.

He could hear it alright. John picked up his pace and you moaned louder as you felt every inch of him molding you.

"You feel so good." you heard him say between grunts into your lips.

You brought your lips to his, kissing him deeply. You broke it to speak finally. "John..." you called out his name. "I'm- I'm close."

"I know sweetheart, I know you are." his voice intoxicated you with desire, you could barely control yourself. "I can feel you closing on me." he continued thrusting in and out at that perfect pace. "You can let go... I wanna see that perfect face when you cum."

That was enough for you to explode. You soon came undone, your voice a higher pitch when you moaned his name a couple of times. You felt his warm release spill inside you. His face inches away from yours, mouths open, exhaling as you both reached your high. The moment that followed seemed like completely silent, only your breaths almost in perfect sync.

He smiled after noticing tears of pleasure in the corner of both your eyes, kissing each one of them away from your face. You both moaned when he removed himself inside you, both still very much overstimulated.

He laid next to you, immediately pushing you into his chest, arms wrapped around you. There were no words needed. You guys didn't have to talk about what happened. It was clear.

A few minutes were passed in silence. You looked at the clock on his wall, which marked almost twelve.

"Shit, I have to go. The night shift." you grabbed a bed sheet instinctively to cover yourself as you sat up, looking for your clothes scattered on his bedroom's floor.

"No." his voice lingered, pulling you back on the bed again. "You're staying here tonight."

You smiled as you looked at his sleepy expression. "I don't think that's up for you to decide. The doctors do our schedules, I have to show up to work."

His voice became deeper with tiredness. "I'm Major Egan. I can make a few calls." He suggested, his voice now more playful. "If you'd like to stay here with me tonight." his demeanour expectant.

You looked at him for a couple of seconds, giving thought to his offer. A smile escaped your lips, as you lay in the bed again, slightly embarrassed.

"They can get by without you one night. I can't." he admitted while wrapping his arms around your torso, setting the covers on top of you both.

[buckysegan]

We've been waiting for you, John Egan

summary: there's more waiting for john when he gets back from stalag luft iii. john egan x she. word count: 2.1K a/n: something in me felt a little feral tonight and this was needed. a little curvy fmc mention but nothing too much. i just love john egan and would give him all my babies i guess??? again we're rolling with some historical inaccuracies. a continuation from here

it had been five hundred and fifty one days. that was how long it had been since she had seen major john egan. that long since she had slept a whole nights sleep without worrying. that long since she'd known what i was like to be really settled. she tried not to think about it, how much time had passed and how hope seemed to get a little bit worse with each passing day. but it was so hard when she had such obvious proof of just how much john was missing whilst he was away.

she hadn't even realised at first, what the signs were. she had been so consumed in work with more pilots to care for in the hospital than ever before she had barely noticed that she was tired. the nausea was just a sure sign of how much she was missing john. she was confident of it. despite her not eating, the swell of her already generous hips was inconsequential compared to the rest of her worries so she barely paid attention to any of it.

it was douglass, sweet douglass that made the first joke about how if he didn't know better with how often he'd seen her run away to throw up he'd assumed she was pregnant. after that it hadn't taken long for the room to fall silent and for everyone to slowly do some of their own math. the other nurses has scooped her up, rushed her away to the infirmary and sat with her as she did her own calculations on what had happened. three months since she had last bled. dear god.

she should have been sent home. everyone around her knew that was likely when her bump started to show under her uniform and she was ready too, to be sent home and discharged, but the hundredth had always been an unruly bunch and it was almost as if no one could bare to send her away just in case. what would egan do if he got back and they weren't here? no one asked her, who the father might have been, everyone knew without anyone having to utter the words, hardin pulled plenty of strings to keep her around for his boys.

weeks of knowing, turned into months and each of the men around her stepped up in place of their friend. blakely rubbed at her shoulders when she looked a little tired. crosby was around day or night to fetch anything she might have needed. rosie tossed out baby names for girls and boys alike, offering sincere ones and ones that he knew would make her laugh. jack left the traded jacket for her on her bed and no one said a damn thing when she wore it around base. each of them did their best but when she laid on her bunk at night, hands cradling her bump it didn't take away the longing for her major.

those quiet times were when she let herself imagine what it would be like if all of this was happening at different times. how much larger johns rough hands would look splayed across her stretched stomach. just how good he would be at building things ready for the baby and preparing for their impending arrival. the soft spoken words that would have been offered in encouragement through her doubt.

it was two hundred and eighty two days since she had seen john, when the screams of a baby boy filled out a hospital wing and cheers of the hundred went up at the sound. a new soul welcomed into the world and surrounded with so much love despite the fact his dad was stuck somewhere out there.

jokes were passed around at the spirit of baby egan and the hope that he offered for the men. every time the men went up, there he was in the tower reminding them what they were all fighting to come back for. what good in the world still made it all worth while. as cheesy as she had always found it, she knew that the saying it took a village to raise a child had never been truer than it was here in thorpe abbotts.

gale cried when he saw them for the first time. the woman he knew his best friend had been fighting for and the bundle of brown curls in her arms. guilt flooding him that john had allowed him to escape when he had this to return home too. a family. a pair of matching blue and a smile that warmed his heart waiting for him to make it back. he told her as much, that he was sorry and it should have been bucky that made it home and she was quick to remind him that, john egan, wouldn't be the man either of them loved if he had ever left buck behind.

the days seemed to be longer now gale had made it home and she was still waiting on her bucky. each laugh her son offered and mile stone he hit causing a contradiction of emotions in her. joy that she got to witness it all and devastation john was missing it all.

it had been five hundred and fifty one days. that's how long she had been counting when blakely flew into the hospital, douglass and crosby on his tail. "john's home." the two words alone were enough to make her knees buckle as she looked back at the trio, who were all seemingly holding their breaths as they waited for her to respond. she would have cried, with joy, with relief, with the overwhelming sense of emotion that flooded through her. she was going to cry, she was sure of it but right now she needed to see john and she needed to make some introductions. with gale still away on relief mission, everyone knew who john would be asking for first.

bucky could feel something was wrong the second he landed. people had been happy to see him for sure, but there was a buzz around the boys. they were all looking at each other, over him, like they were all sharing a secret he couldn't be privy to right now. it was driving him crazy and that was saying something.

"buck alright?" he found himself asking because if anyone liked to tiptoe around him, it was usually around his best friend but everyone seemed to jovial for that to be the case. even kenny was here with that god damn stupid grin on his face that the rest of them seemed to be wearing. what was he missing?

"yea bucks fine, he's flying today but nothing to worry about, just dropping supplies, we just thought there might be someone else you wanted to see." blakely offered with a nod of his head, and john was sure his face was a continued picture of confusion as he watched the men part like some sort of celebrity was on base but his frown quickly vanished as he saw her. the last time he had seen her this clearly she had kissed him goodbye before they had dragged themselves away from each other.

"we've been waiting for you, john egan." god her voice was even sweeter then he remembered but it was the we in her statement that drew his attention to the small bundle in her arms. a baby. a boy by the looks of it and he felt his stomach drop. she had moved on, of course she had. without him around he wasn't surprised that someone else had scooped her up. he moved to look at each of his men, trying to find which one looked guilty but he was met with more excitement, a little confusion even, what were they surprised he was heart broken she hadn't waited for him.

"you going to stand there all day or are you going to come meet him?" she asked, voice soft as she raised a hand to him and bucky moved towards her without much of a thought because no one seemed ready to stop him and his fingers linked with hers as soon as they were in reach. "you had a baby." john smiled down at her softly, eyes full of wonder as he looked at the small version of herself that she had created.

" i sure did." she nodded with a smile the men hadn't seen in months, the one reserved just for bucky. "i'd like you to meet thomas gale egan." time stood still for a moment then, john was sure of it as he looked between her and the baby she was holding, his blue eyes taking in each feature of the infant before him. their eyes matched he realised after a moment, the dark curls on his head were the wrong shade to be hers, they were his. she was holding his son. "baby...you had my baby?" he asked, as if he needed some sort of further confirmation of what his eyes at told him.

"mhumm, i told you, we've been waiting for you, do you want to hold him?" she offered, her face a mirror of the men around them, all smiles and joy and as john took tommy in his hands with such care she stopped trying to fight the tears that had been ready to spill since she'd heard he was home. with tears rolling down his own cheeks john took in the baby that watched him with what he hoped was quiet wonder, he had a whole baby boy that he had never known about and he was perfect. "thomas gale egan, it sure is good to meet you." reaching a spare arm around her bucky pulled his girl close to his side, unable to move his gaze from his son.

"alright any of you clowns going to tell me what else i missed whilst i was gone?"

he had been sure that he would sleep for hours when he returned to base. that his body would crash and that he would need time to recover but he had never felt more wired than he did as he stretched out in bed. it had taken john far to long to shake the rest of the boys, listening to stories of how each of them had helped his girl at some point. stories of all tommy's firsts since he had been born, the photos they'd managed to get all offered to john so he could piece together the time he had missed.

he'd stepped away from them only to check on gale when he had landed who had offered him the biggest grin and wondered if he had met his name sake yet, john still unable to believe she had named their boy so well.

nothing about his should have surprised him though, she was perfect, she had been before he had gone and now as he watched her tucked into his side sleeping softly like her own body could finally rest. tommy was spread across his chest, warm skin to skin, sound sleep on him with his little mouth wide opened as he showed no sign of being anything other that utterly content as he slept on his dad, one of john's hand spread across his tiny back taking up the whole space but to afraid to let him or his mom go as if either of them might vanish on him.

feeling her stir a little in his arms john pulled his gaze from tommy for a second to meet sleepy eyes, his chest flooding with more love for her than he had ever thought possible when he'd had to leave her a life time ago now. "you struggling to sleep?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep as she checked on tommy for a second before her eyes met john's once more. "i'm scared i'm still in that camp and neither of you are real." his confession was quiet as he offered it and with a soft hum, she pushed gently, pressing her lips to his. "sleep daddy, we will both be here in the morning."

"i just want to watch him a little longer." john offered quietly, tucking her back into his arm so she could sleep once more. if he never slept again it wouldn't be a shock to him. how he was ever meant to stop looking at this? well bucky just didn't know. "thanks for waiting for me, baby." he offered, to her sleeping form, lips pressing a kiss to the top of her own curls. he'd been waiting for them too, he'd just not known how to dare dream of it, till they were here in his arms.

[blurredcolour]

"Trust"

[Complete]

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

Assigned to Thorpe Abbots airfield in East Anglia in the spring of 1943, your life becomes hopelessly entangled with that of Major John “Bucky” Egan. At the mercy of forces far beyond your control, events will inevitably change you forever – if forever is something you can even count on.

Series Warnings: Canon typical violence, Death, Injuries, Angst, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

I. "Do You Trust Me?"

II. "Just Had To Trust You."

III. "Trust Me, He's In Good Hands."

IV. “I Trust You Know What You’re Doing?”

V. "I Trusted You!"

VI. "Trust Me, Doll..."

Masters of the Air Masterlist

[julietsbody]

bucky who very openly manspreads, he always sits down with a grunt, slumping down into the seat with his legs instantly parting from each other. and it’s not like it was a little part, something barely noticeable— no, his legs were spread as far as they could possibly be. buck always gripes at him about it, telling him he looks ‘easy’ in which bucky just scoffs, rolling his eyes and spreading even farther just to annoy buck. 

bucky who reeks of mint, coffee, and the cologne he deems the best ever made, pour un humme. 

bucky who rarely ever gets hurt, but when he does? he loves to put on a show for the nurses, wincing and groaning in pain over something simple like a paper cut, or stumbling into the infirmary with a busted lip after he decided it would be funny to box one of the majors on the british air forces. he’s always flirting, too, saying something cheesy like, “gonna take good care of me, doc?“ 

bucky who makes you call him sir when you’re in the empty barracks with him, as everyone else is attending the bar, he’ll tease and tease you until you’re pathetically begging him for him to fuck you— but you left out the one thing he wanted, making him click his tongue disapprovingly, “please who, huh? you gonna be good for me and call me sir, right?”

bucky who puts his military visor hat on you when you’re riding him, chuckling whenever your thighs shake at the feeling of his thick cock stretching you out, making some idiotic joke like, “tryna ride me like ‘m an airplane, huh, doll-face?” 

[thedeviltohisangel]

All The Things I Did

a/n: welp i'm in over my head. accepting prompts.

Every time a plane landed from Greenland, she watched and assessed those who departed from afar. They were always flush with the cold of flying and the excitement of arriving. Chest filled with the pride of reaching the front and the longing to taste the adrenaline of flying in unfriendly skies. She hated watching them deteriorate the longer they were in the English countryside. Hated that no matter how many times she laced up her boots and tread into the darkness and came back with a map or a plan or a snippet of a conversation in Berlin that it was never enough. She chose, deliberately and emphatically, to not try and get to know them.

But then, one day, Major John Egan got off that plane. And he was loud and ever present. He made jokes and sang in the officer’s club and spent days asking around about the Lieutenant that read at the bar and wrote notes in the corner of the interrogation room.

Spook. That is what the men called her. The Colonel had introduced her as an intelligence officer to someone once but no one had been there to verify the designation now. But she fit the bill. Steady demeanor. Whip smart on the off chance she was asked to answer a question before a mission. Quietly discerning even when ordering a Coca-Cola. 

She wanted to blend in but Bucky wouldn’t let her. He picked her out almost instantly upon his arrival. Saw her head flitting between buildings and caught her gaze for a moment on his way to Colonel Huglin’s office. A big red folder with SECRET emblazoned across the front. 

“Major,” she spoke with a polite nod. She didn’t wait for him to respond in kind before she was off and around the corner like she had never actually been there. He welcomed the challenge.

----

He saw her again that night, sitting at the bar with a half-drank Coke collecting condensation and her nose buried in a book of maps of Western Europe. Music was playing and people were dancing and John was wondering why it felt so normal. Maybe he’d be able to get Buck to loosen up a little once he got here. 

“It’s good to see you again, Lieutenant.” But for now, John would settle for learning her name. She curled an eyebrow and cast him a sideways glance, John noticing the red pen in her hand for the first time. “I’ve heard great things about the work you do here.” He leant his elbow on the bar and took her in for the first time. Her uniform was pressed immaculately and fit her like it had been tailored by a professional yet she seemed uncomfortable in it. Hair curled perfectly with not a strand out of place and a dusting of pink powder across her cheeks.

“Well, Major, those kinds of discussions would fly in the face of my exact line of work, wouldn’t they?” She faced him fully and he swallowed thickly. She could probably read him just as well as she could that book in front of her.

“Still. You’ve got a good reputation for the crumbs you give these boys.” She looked around and took note of the stares. 

“They’re only boys until they go up for the first time.” She turned back to her work. He wasn’t giving up. She wasn’t quite sure what they were when they came back but it was something different. 

“No one will tell me about it. What to expect when I go up there in a couple days.” With a sigh, she closed the book in defeat and faced the Major, crossing her legs professionally.

“I can only assume it's because there are no words for them to describe it. And if they tried, pilots such as yourself may not be eager to join up.” He smirked.

“Such as myself? I promise the stories do me no justice.” It was her turn to roll her eyes.

“You’re the air exec for the 100th who arranged to be a part of a different company’s missions.”

“And?”

“Do you fancy yourself a hotshot, Major Egan?” John almost choked on the sip of his drink that went down his throat. She was studying him. Analyzing his reactions to her words like they were a math problem. Picking her conversational path accordingly. Instead of replying, he flagged down the man behind the bar.

“Can we get the Lieutenant something a little stiffer?” 

“I don’t drink,” she deadpanned as whatever Major Egan was drinking was placed in front of her.

“You dance?” The rest of his glass went down easily. 

“With the right partner.” She knew what he was really asking. Answered ambivalently anyways. And carefully considered his hand when he offered it. “You’ve known me less than a day, Major. You haven’t even asked my name.” She stood from the chair she had been occupying, pushing the Major’s hand into his chest and holding hers on top of it for a beat.

“Not the right partner?” he mumbled as she looked up at him with the clearest eyes he had ever seen.

“Not yet. Enjoy the rest of your night, Major. I’m sure I’ll see you at breakfast.” John wanted to do something to leave an impression. Maybe kiss her hand. Spin her around and coax her into joining him on the dance floor. Chase whatever was gnawing inside of him to figure out more about her. Instead he let their hands drop and watched her grab her things from the bar top and walk out of the party. He didn’t notice that they had had an audience the entire time they were talking. Didn’t notice the way she took a deep, steadying breath once she was out of the room. Didn’t know, may never know, that she wanted to dance. Wanted to smile and get to know people and experience everything this life had to offer her. But if one more airmen went up and didn’t come back down, especially one like Major John Egan, she doesn’t think she could handle it.

----

“This seat taken?” This time it was John’s turn to be surprised. He looked up from the morning paper to see Lieutenant…Cooper is what her name plate said, holding her cap and gesturing towards the chair across from him in the mess hall.

“All yours.” She sat quickly and thanked the attendant when he placed a cup of coffee and a plate of food in front of her, her napkin placed delicately across her lap. “You learn that in debutante school?” He meant it as a joke but she froze.

“Maybe.” He hid a triumphant grin behind his own mug. “But I also learned that the way I behaved last night was not appropriate and I wanted to apologize.” John leaned forward, snatching a ration of bacon from her plate. 

“I’ll accept your apology when you give me that dance you owe me.” The look behind his eyes was wicked. She hates that she enjoyed it.

“I’ll tell you what, Major Egan, come find me after your first mission and you can have your dance.”

“John.”

“Your oak cluster outranks my bar, Major-”

“We’re gonna ease you into calling me Bucky.” She giggled and John beamed.

“Bucky?”

“I’ll tell you while we dance…” He left the sentence hanging, silently asking for her to provide her name in turn.

“People who aren’t my mother call me Cass.” He whispered it, enjoying the way it rolled off his tongue. 

“Suits you,” he shrugged, leaning back in his chair. 

“I’m glad you think so.”

----

Cass did her best to keep her eyes off of him during the brief of his first mission. Did her best to keep busy with cables and news from Washington in the few hours it took to complete the mission. Did her best to keep her wits about her when the first plane landed back on the runway. She watched from afar, as she had been accustomed to, as Major Egan got out of his plane. He was flushed with flecks of blood across his face. There was less behind his eyes than there had been the morning they ate breakfast together. Disappointed, her eyes dropped to her shoes. No one was safe from this war.

She skipped listening in on interrogation, securing a copy of the notes instead, and retired to her billet without any interruption. Sleep eluded her, sheets tangled around her legs as she tossed and turned. Giving up, she headed out in her robe and slippers to the airfield. The cool air soothed her instantly and made her smile as she breathed deeply. 

“Didn’t think I’d cash in on my dance out here.” She nearly jumped out of her skin, spinning around to see Major Egan leaning against his plane. His curls were loose and he was wearing his sheepskin instead of his blazer. 

“I’m sorry to intrude, Major-” she fumbled over her words as she tugged the robe tighter around her body.

“You told me there would be no words to describe it. I don’t have the tools to think about it, let alone talk about it.” His voice was strained under the weight of what he had just experienced. She approached him cautiously. “What do I tell my boys when they get here?”

“Nothing. The same way you went up there and followed your instinct and it brought you back here, it will for them too.” She was close enough to rest her hands on his chest, the way she had that first night by the bar, and he didn’t think twice as he twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. The light of the moon kissed an ethereal glow to her. One more intoxicating than the bottle of whiskey he had brought out with him.

“Dance with me,” he whispered, melting under her gaze and giving himself permission to stroke his fingertips across her jaw. She obliged, unable to deny him anything after he had learned the horrible truth that everyone who came here eventually did, her head resting against his heart and his arm tucking securely around her waist.

“Tell me more about you, John Egan.” It was best he remembered who he was, where he came from and what had originally inspired him to come here. To fight this fight. 

“I’m from a little place in Wisconsin,” he murmured as he rested his cheek on top of her head and his eyes drifted shut, lulled into peace from their gentle swaying. “Joined up even before Pearl.” She smiled. Almost everyone in her town had joined up after Pearl, including her.

“I’ve never been to Wisconsin. Didn’t leave South Carolina until they sent me to training in DC.” John hummed.

“So I was right about debutante school.”

“Next time, I’ll teach you a proper waltz.”

“Gotta have something down here to get me through being up there,” he mused, his eyes opening to look down and enjoy the tranquil look on her face.

“Don’t get used to it. My next trip across the channel got approved while you were gone this morning.” John stopped abruptly and looked at her quizzically.

“Across the channel is a warzone. Occupied territory.” 

“I know you know what they call me. Spook. How do you think you get your images of bombing sites and civilian population density and everything else? Someone has to go and get it.”

“Colonel said intelligence officer, not spy.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. He felt a twinge at the thought of her in danger but couldn’t help but feel the kindred spirit of someone chasing danger.

“I never said anything about spying. Just procuring.” His smile broadened and he swore he was going to kiss her if the sound of a wrench being dropped onto pavement didn’t startle them apart. Lemmons ducked back under the plane as soon as he saw the moment he had interrupted, Cass already retreated back into herself and shaking the fog of John Egan from her head. “I should go try and get some sleep before…” He nodded in agreement, clearing his throat and straightening his tie.

“That’s a good idea. I’ll walk you back.” He did so in silence, neither of them sure how to get back to where they had been. Not sure if they should go back to that dangerous of a place. “I can pick you up for breakfast in a few hours,” he offered slowly as they arrived at her door.

“I’d like that.” 

“Good. So I’ll see you then.”

“Sweet dreams, Major.”

“You too, Lieutenant.” She threw him one last smile over her shoulder, John not leaving until she disappeared from his view. If only Gale could see him now.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

[pisupsala]

Hitchin' a ride

Or two times you told John Egan no, and the one time you said yes.

Part 1 of Are You Going My Way?

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader Words: 7k Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, hospitals

It gets dark early in winter in East Anglia. By the time you leave the ward, it’s pitch dark despite it barely being past dinner time. Huddled in your dark blue wool cape, you trudge along the side of the road, holding a small torch to light your way. There’s a cold, biting wind tonight, and it feels like it’s going through every layer you’re wearing, straight through your bones. Breath shuddering, you pick up your pace, the gravel barrier between the road and the grass crunching under your standard-issue brown boots. The faster you get back to the nurse’s barracks, the faster you’re out of this wind and soaking your sore feet and cold toes.

Thorpe Abbots sprawls strangely, but you usually don’t mind. The quiet walk at the end of the long shifts in the operating room, rounds on the intensive care ward, cleaning, and inventory is your moment of solace. A moment where you can finally let the smile fall off your face, where you can grit out the curses you've bitten back all day, the crinkle in time when you are allowing the tears to well up and drip down your face silently.

There is no textbook or training to prepare you for the horrific reality. Torn flesh, burns, and the blood. The fear and agony. The pained screaming. The blind panic.

You have never felt more that you are where you need to be, yet you are so completely and utterly powerless.

A light catches your eye, reflecting on the trees around you in a ghostly flicker. Glancing over your shoulder, the light floats through the darkness, gliding towards you. The soft ding of a bicycle bell pulls you out of your reverie. Turning fully, the light casting off your torch finally illuminates the figure on the bicycle. 

“Major Egan,” You greet him, trying to keep the surprise out of your voice. He has no reason to be here. There’s nothing down this road but the building with the nurses’ quarters. It’s not the first time you’ve encountered Major Egan somewhere he has no reason to be. But you, as an army nurse and merely a first lieutenant, are not about to question him on that.

“You shouldn’t be walking here alone at night, lieutenant,” He tells you, stopping next to you. You stop, too, taking a good look at him—because why wouldn’t you—as he gets off his bike. 

A little too friendly, a little too forward. His bright, sharp blue eyes are contrasted by luscious dark curls and that devilish smile. Tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with a confident grace, he is hard to miss. And if you were to somehow overlook him in a crowd, he commands, demands, attention. There is something dangerously magnetic about him, something electric.

You best keep your distance.

“Don’t worry about me, please, Major,” You reply politely. “It’s not late, and I know the way,” 

“Are you done for today?” He asks conversationally, smiling, his eyes crinkling happily. The tips of his ears are red from the cold. In the middle of a quiet road, in the dark, in freezing temperatures, it’s an odd place for polite conversation.

“Yes, I’m heading back to my quarters,” You smile. “Long day,” You add, hoping to cut the conversation short, desperately trying to suppress the full body shiver from the cold. You notice with some envy that Major Egan seems wonderfully unbothered by the biting wind in his sheepskin jacket. You nod at him, turning back in the direction you had been heading, gingerly taking a step. Hopefully, he gets the hint.

“I could give you a ride,” 

You stop dead in your tracks, looking back at him wide-eyed. 

“I’m heading in the same direction, so you’d get there quicker,” He beams at you with that brilliant smile, patting the carrier at the back of the bike. Instinctively, you start shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from vocalizing your thoughts.

You’d be out of the wind. You’d be in the warm faster. You’d have to get close to Major Egan and hold on to him. You bet that that sheepskin jacket is nice and warm. You bet Major Egan is nice and warm.

“Isn’t that the bike you almost lost an eye for?” Your sense of self-preservation is stronger, has to be stronger, than any magnetic force or joking flirtation from Major John Egan.

“Almost?” He seems surprised you brought it up but recovers quickly. “I remember it differently — it was a bullseye, not my eye,” 

He looks at you like he’s expecting you to laugh with him, but you just blink in disbelief. That’s an awful joke. For a mere second, in the reflected light of your torch, you see his smile falter—he’s smart; he knew that was a dud. You purse your lips.

“I suppose I like my rides without stories of near-eye trauma attached,” You muse. It’s such a flimsy excuse.  

“Do you think it’s bad luck?” It’s a chillingly honest question, and all cheer has suddenly disappeared from his voice. You pause to think. It hadn’t really occurred to you that Major Egan might be a particularly superstitious man; somehow, he didn’t seem the type. But in these times, superstition creeps up on even the most staunch rationalists.

“Luck has nothing to do with it, Major,” you finally admit, eyeing him carefully. He frowns, suddenly unsure of the gravity of the conversation through his own too-candid question. “I would just hate to encourage any of that sort of behavior,” You add lightly.

“So, you would have accepted if I had a different bike?” He sounds on the precipice of hopeful, but the laughter in his voice is evident again. He changes so quickly and bounces back from everything in a mere second — it’s all a joke, after all. He’ll do you a favor and then jokingly ask for a kiss. And then maybe another. And then he’ll move on to whatever or whoever catches his eye next. 

You wrinkle your nose. No. You’re not interested, you repeat to yourself. If you were, you might as well have stayed at home and practiced your good graces at dinner parties. You joined the Army Nurse Corps because you wanted to do something, mean something.

“I’m going now,” You clench your jaw to stop your teeth from clattering. “Good night, Major Egan,”

“Suit yourself, lieutenant,” He grins, undeterred, as he watches you turn on your heel, huddling into yourself to protect yourself from the wind. Truthfully, Bucky wasn’t expecting that you would accept his offer. If anything, he wanted to see how you’d react: your replies are always calm and composed, so very proper, but you have a bad poker face. From the way you scrunch up your nose in annoyance to how the corner of your mouth sometimes threatens to pull into a smile at his jokes. And Bucky notices that your gaze lingers just slightly longer than would be polite, although nothing coming out of your mouth would corroborate that. It’s adorable. It’s intriguing. And he knows you won’t make it easy on him.

But that’s not why he keeps thinking about you. That’s not why he goes out of his way to look for you.

You suddenly took root in his thoughts only a few weeks back. It had been a bad day. Worse than Bucky had seen in a while, there had been many bad days lately. 

Being Air Exec has some perks, mostly that other people don’t really question why he’s wandering the halls of the infirmary at the dead of night. In the hallway, set up on provisional cots, medics are asleep, still fully dressed. They just collapsed on the first soft spot the moment they could. He can hardly blame them.

His footsteps echo through the dark rooms. The wounded men in the beds are fast asleep — it’s eerily quiet except for the occasional snore. 

He’s not sure why he’s here. Maybe it’s to assuage some of the guilt he’s feeling — he’s fine after all. He didn’t go up with them, after all. Maybe because he needs to see the pain with his own eyes, afraid that he’ll forget.

The doctor on duty is doing rounds, his desk empty, when Bucky slips through the swinging double doors to where the heaviest casualties are put up. The air in the room feels different—heavier. It’s not quiet—labored breathing, raspy, sometimes gurgling, groans of pain in artificial sleep. He really shouldn’t be here. 

All beds are full.

It’s been a really bad day.

It’s there that he notices you first: sitting on the floor, arms crossed and tucked up against yourself, head leaning against the wall, and legs bent at an uncomfortable angle. In the first second, he thinks someone fell out of their bed. But as Bucky gets closer, he recognizes you — the seersucker cotton dress, the matching cap now crumpled and skewed on your head, and the clearly scuffed and dirty white oxfords. You are one of the OR nurses.

He’s seen you around, just in passing. In chaos between casualties, just from the corner of his eye. Sometimes, you showed up at dances or parties, and Bucky had noticed your cute laugh from across the room, the way your entire face lit up when you smiled. And he knows he’s not the only one who has noticed the delightful sway of your hips as you walk, evident even through your dress uniform. But you made damn sure to make yourself unavailable by sticking with your girlfriends. He’s never seen you accept a drink or dance with someone.

Your mouth is slightly open as you breathe deeply, your form cast in the pale moonlight peeking through the sides of the blinds. Bucky wouldn’t let a woman sleep on the floor in normal circumstances, but in this case, waking you up would be cruel — there isn’t a bed free in the whole hospital. And even bad sleep is better than no sleep.

He moves past you carefully, mentally putting names to all the men here. Those that made it. That’s a good thing, right? They made it. Bucky doesn’t recognize the figure moaning in pain louder and louder, hands desperately grasping at the neatly tucked-in covers —  his entire head is covered with a thick layer of white bandages, not even leaving a slit for his eyes, just a small opening for his mouth. He hesitates before his curiosity takes over and moves by the side of the bed to look closer. It’s a good thing, right?

He should do something to help him.

Bucky is so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice you brushing past him. He almost jumps out of his skin when your torch suddenly clicks on at the foot of the bed. You are bleary-eyed, blinking rapidly as your eyes fly over the patient chart. 

“He is due for a new round of pain medication,” You state softly, voice still thick with sleep, before looking up at Bucky. “Major,” is all you say in acknowledgment of him.

“Nurse—lieutenant,” He mumbles in reply, increasingly on edge from the patient’s distress. “What are you—” Before he can start running his mouth in confused ramble, you trust the torch at him.

“Hold this, please, Major,” Your voice is barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the noises easily in its steadiness and calmness. The small torch is now in his hand, your fingers brushing over his palm unintentionally as you move through the dark. It’s like a small spark burned the spot where your fingertip touches his skin. “Up, please,”

Bucky complies, shining the light from a high angle as you prepare a syringe. You look exhausted, but nothing in your movement betrays that. Clinical, precise, and so calm. He watches you speak softly to your patient, your free hand wrapped loosely around his wrist, a syringe poised in the other. But the patient is struggling harder, too panicked, and in too much pain. 

It happens in a split second.

The patient sits up so quickly that Bucky almost stumbles back in surprise. The patient now has an iron grip on your lower arm, white knuckles, moving in a blind frenzy, pulling you clean off your feet, half over the bed. You yelp in as much surprise as in pain as your knee collides with the metal bed frame. Your face is contorted in pain as you struggle back, trying to regain your footing. 

“It’s okay, I’m here to help you,” You keep repeating patiently. Never let them know you are scared: they can’t calm down if you are not in control.

Your voice doesn’t waver one bit. Bucky clenches the small torch between his teeth, trying to free your arm from the patient’s grip. 

“N- no” You breathe, clearly in pain now. “Please, Major, just help me to hold him still,” 

You are still holding the syringe, poised to strike. Grabbing the patient by the shoulder and forcing him back against the pillow. In the struggle, the torch falls from his mouth. It clatters on the tile floor and rolls away. He is so focused on his task that it’s almost by surprise when the struggle ends within a few seconds, and the patient drifts off again. He never saw you give the injection.

You both stand there, breathing heavily. Bucky bends down to retrieve the torch from the floor. It’s still shining, although it flickers uncertainly with every move. When he straightens back up, he catches you looking at your arm, the brown sleeve of your vest rolled up messily. When you realize he’s looking at you, you pull the sleeve back down and busy yourself tucking the patient back in. But Bucky has seen the angry red fingerprints imprinted on your forearm.

“Thank you, Major Egan,” Not a quiver in your tone, although your breathing has barely slowed down. “It’s probably best you go now,” 

“Are you alright?” He cannot help but ask, gaze traveling to your arm. He can’t help but notice you must have been issued a vest a size up, as the sleeves are a bit too long on you. It’s adorable.

“Please don’t worry about me,” You reply, smiling, but it’s clearly a deflection. The corners of your mouth are quirked up, but your eyes just spell tired. “You should try to get some rest, Major. The sun will be up soon,”

There is a certain sense of irony in you telling him that. At least he has a bed to go to, you think wryly. You start walking towards the ward exit, signaling he should follow you. 

“Will you be okay here by yourself, lieutenant?” It’s not his place to worry about you, but you are just… you. And these men are in pain, scared, and -

“The doctor will be back from his rounds soon,” Your soft voice pulls Bucky from his thoughts. You stand at the door, holding it open for him. If he hadn’t just seen that chaos happen, he would have never guessed by your demeanor anything happened.  As he passes you, you salute him. He salutes you back, gazing over to you. The tips of your fingers are shaking. 

The thought is sudden and overwhelming: he wants to lace his fingers through yours, pull you against him, and hold you until you stop shaking.

“Goodnight, Major,” You whisper with a pointed look. You want him out of here so you can check on your throbbing knee and painful arm away from his prying eyes.

“Goodnight, lieutenant,” He replies, tearing his eyes away from you.

***

In early spring, it seems like the rain never stops, from semi-permanent drizzle to raindrops rhythmically ticking against the window pane to the torrential downpour you find yourself in now. The drab-colored trench coat is putting up a valiant fight to keep you dry.

You’re holding your purse over your head but to no avail. The cold trickle of water from your sodden hair travels down your spine. You’re trailing behind your friends, who are making good time through the storm. Water sloshes in your left boot, making it heavy, the drenched woolen sock rubbing painfully against your foot. 

Then you hear it. The all too-happy ding of a bicycle bell. 

You try to walk faster, gritting your teeth, but Major Egan has caught up with you in just seconds. You don’t stop to greet him, just glancing over at him with narrowed eyes. Gracefully, he jumps off the bike, matching your pace by foot easily. His dark curls are plastered to his forehead, his cap sagging under the weight of the water it must have absorbed. He shouldn’t look this good, sopping wet, especially when you feel so wretched.

“Lieutenant, I could get you where you need to be a whole lot quicker,” he calls out.

“No, thank you, Major,” Your tone is polite, but you keep walking, falling behind further and further from your friends as your left boot squelches with every step. You know he noticed. 

“You’re really not going to take me up on the offer? Even in this downpour?” 

“Most drops miss,” You can’t keep the scowl off your face as you march on. 

“You are so unbelievably stubborn,” He laughs. You don’t think you’re stubborn; you just don’t like feeling like your hand is being forced. 

“I don’t need you to save me, Major.” You tell him evenly, finally stopping and turning to him. You know your friends noticed you stopping but probably figured they were doing you a favor and kept going. 

Bucky regards you carefully — you look miserable. The curl has long been rained out of your hair; rivulets of water running down your face, dripping on the collar of your trench coat. The steep downturn of the corners of your mouth pretty much just seals the deal. But despite all the evidence, you would never admit you’re anything but fine. 

“Save you?” He sounds incredulous. Like the thought never even crossed his mind. 

You bite your lip — you might have said too much. But you are afraid that he might ask you for something if you owe Major Egan a favor. He will ask you for something. And you won’t be strong enough to tell him no maybe because you want him to ask. Who wouldn’t?

You’ve seen him look at you from across the room before, and when you scrape together the courage to meet his gaze, it’s like electricity. Short, intense, and almost painful. And then he looks away, his attention turning so fleetingly. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Forget it,” You mumble, clearly embarrassed. Closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, you wish nothing about this moment was happening right now. When you peek through your lashes at Major Egan, you note he looks concerned.

“For what it’s worth,” He clears his throat, not a trace of humor in his voice. “I never considered you to require saving, lieutenant.” 

You keep looking at him sharply, finally shaking your head. “You have a funny way of showing it.” 

There is something deeply absurd about the whole conversation. Just tell him no. Just bid him goodnight and leave. Why are you even entertaining him with your feelings on this? And it’s clearly entertainment to him.

“I’m going to my quarters now, Major,” You state, feeling the need to be polite despite your increasingly impolite feelings about the situation. “And you’re going in the wrong direction,” You add pointedly as you start walking again. It feels like you have an entire puddle in your boot now.

“So what would you prefer, lieutenant? A more classic approach?” That devastatingly handsome grin is back on his face again as he walks beside you. How is that what he took from your last statement? Your shoulders sag when you feel the butterflies in your stomach. “At the next dance, I buy you a drink and sweep you off your feet on the dance floor?” 

“I might be more agreeable when it’s not freezing or raining,” You sigh like it’s paining you to admit it. Maybe he’s imagining it, but Bucky likes to think he saw the shadow of a smile pass over your face as you say it, even though your voice is painfully neutral. 

“Is that a yes?” Again, that hopeful edge. 

“No,” You reply curtly, but you feel bad the moment you say it because you see his smile fall — he’s staring at you somewhere between confusion and growing frustration. It’s making you feel bad. A horrible little selfish part of you wants him to only smile at you. Major Egan could light up a room with that smile — he regularly does. The selfish little monster in you wants to be the reason that he smiles like that. 

“Ask me again at the dance, Major,” You amend carefully.

The way his face breaks out in that broad, beaming smile makes you weak at the knees. 

***

Bucky is on pins and needles tonight. Even Buck, usually so even-tempered, is getting irritated with him. Drumming his fingers on the bar, tapping his foot not to the beat of the music but to blow off some of the anxious energy. People are flittering in and out of the hall, but there is no sign of you yet. He’s going through his whiskey too quickly, and it’s doing very little to calm his anticipation.

After an hour of only half-listening to the conversation going on around him, constantly glancing at his watch, he finally sees the pack of nurses come in. Bucky’s heart drops a little because you aren’t with the group. You’re always with that group. Knocking back the rest of his drink, he resolutely makes his way to the table now occupied by five gossiping nurses. All eyes are on him as he approaches.

“Good evening, ladies,” He smiles, eyes searching the table. All chairs are occupied — clearly, your friends aren’t saving you a seat. A chorus of good evenings and giggles comes in reply.

“How can we help you, Major Egan?” A blonde nurse asks, peering up through her lashes.

“I’m actually looking for my favorite nurse,” He replies easily, holding his smile despite feeling mildly annoyed. When he mentiones your name, another chorus of giggles. 

“I thought I was your favorite nurse,” One of the girls pipes up. The girls burst out laughing.

“She’s on the night shift,” An earnest, young-looking nurse cuts in, pushing up her glasses. Bucky doesn’t really recognize her — she must be quite new. “I asked to switch shifts because I haven’t been to a dance here before.”

“You should have found someone from the afternoon shift,” the blonde nurse sighs in a bored tone. “The poor girl is putting in a double shift now,”

“No one else would switch with me,” The bespectacled nurse defends herself with a small voice.

Bucky should be annoyed. Did you scheme this out on purpose? You run so hot and cold between your lingering looks and thinly veiled barbs. But then again. Of course, you would switch shifts with the new girl out of kindness. You slept on the floor to stay close to those most needed care. Doc sang your praises in the officer’s mess regularly for staying late to finish inventory, covering in emergencies, and keeping the OR running smoothly. Kindly caring for everyone around you.

He should be annoyed. But instead, he feels jealous. It’s a horrible feeling. But you cared more about the new girl than him? Is it really so bad that he wants your kind attention aimed at him? That he wants to be your choice? You wouldn’t even give him a shot. 

It just won’t do. But now, at least, he knows where to find you.

At the end of the dark hall, a faint light. A lone lamp on a lone desk, with a lone nurse sitting at it. You hear him coming, of course. Your bright eyes look straight at him as he emerges from the darkness. You are already getting up out of your chair, ready to greet him, notes and medical textbook forgotten on the desk.

“Good evening, Major Egan,” you greet him, your voice soft. Your gentle tone carries sweetly through the quiet hall. You didn’t expect him to come find you. It feels far too serious, far too earnest. You haven’t seen or spoken to Major Egan for over a week now, and for your own sake, you decide that he hadn’t been serious—that you hadn’t been serious. It was just banter.

Truthfully, you were slightly relieved the new girl asked you to switch shifts. But as you sat at the duty desk by yourself, blankly staring at the pages of your medical textbook, your stomach twisted painfully with regret. 

“Good evening, lieutenant -” you cut him off with a sharp shush, tapping your index finger against your lips. You step a bit closer to him, voice a sweet whisper. “Please keep it down,” 

A beat of silence as you’re both clearly uncomfortable in the strange situation you have suddenly found yourself in.

“How can I help you, Major?” You whisper politely as your eyes nervously, guiltily, dart around the room—anywhere but him. He looks sharp in his dress uniform. He smells nice. He clearly made an effort. And you’re standing here in your day-old hospital uniform. Self-consciously, you try to straighten the standard-issue white and brown stripe wrap-around dress. 

“I came looking for my favorite nurse,” Bucky replies sincerely, eyes boring into yours. 

“Then you must not be looking for me,” The words tumble out before you can stop yourself. Bucky nearly bursts out laughing at the pained look that crosses your face as you clamp your mouth shut. 

“I was waiting for you to show up at the dance,” He says with that same heavy sincerity. His stance is casual, hands in pockets and shoulders relaxed. But the way he fidgets — tapping and shuffling his foot — as he waits for you to reply hints that he is not nearly as calm as he’d like to appear.

“I had to stay,” You reply, still avoiding his gaze. It’s a half-truth. You could have said no. But the new girl seemed to want to go to the dance more badly than you did. It felt unfair. And you had convinced yourself quite thoroughly that Major Egan wouldn’t care or notice anyway.

Another silence falls. Neither quite sure where to go from here.

“How are the boys doing?” Bucky asks conversationally, reaching out to the large doors leading into the intensive care unit. On a whim, you grab his hand before he touches the handle, your fingers gently wrapping over the top of his large hand. He stills, and for a moment, you think he’ll shake your hand off his. But instead, he waits in acceptance.

“It won’t help you,” You whisper. It took you a while to figure out why Major Egan was in the hospital that night. When people spoke of him, they spoke of how much he cared for his men — a heavy burden to bear.

“Help me?” His voice is suddenly loud. He is offended at the notion that he’s doing it for himself and offended that you called him out like that. He opens his mouth again to argue with you.

Startled by the volume, your brain misfires fully, and instead of replying, your free hand reaches out to his face, your index finger landing on his soft lips to silence him. He stares at you wide-eyed. You are sure you look as shocked as he does. You try to gather your thoughts quickly.

“I - I understand,” You implore him in an urgent whisper, finally looking at him. Bucky sees his own sorrow reflected in your eyes. 

Sometimes, you can only wait. There is no next round of medicine; there is no operation that will help. Waiting for the body to do its work can be frustrating and maddeningly slow.

“But there is nothing you can do now, so going in won’t help you or them,” You swallow. Why is your finger still on his lips, and why is he letting you do that? “They need to rest. You need to rest.”

His fingers lace through yours as he steps closer. It’s inappropriate how close he is standing to you. It’s inappropriate how the tips of your fingers caress the seam of his lips. It’s inappropriate how your hand has latched onto his, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the pulse point of your wrist.

“I don’t need rest.” His voice is soft and close. The intimacy of his lips moving against your fingers is intense, each breath setting your nerve endings on fire. He leans into your touch, trailing from the corner of his mouth to his jaw. Finally, you look at him.

“Then what do you need?” Your question comes automatically. Always looking for how to help. Always so kind. He could melt into your soft touch, warm voice, and how you look at him so sweetly.

“I need to know when you’re done here so I can sweep you off your feet,” His eyes meet yours, keenly following your every move. 

You want to take a step back and break the increasingly feverish connection, away from his oddly earnest confession, but Bucky pulls you closer with a small tug on your hand. Your head is swimming; your heart is hammering in your chest. You shouldn’t entertain any of this, but it feels like your heart is pouring out of your mouth.

“My shift ends at 0500,” 

Bucky grins at you—not in a teasing way, but with that infectious broad smile—the one you cannot help but smile back. It gives you butterflies. You’re smiling at him now, beautifully, genuinely. It feels like a victory to Bucky.

“I’ll keep the party going if you promise me the last dance.” His voice is low and inviting; he is reeling you in further with every word.

“Don’t torture everyone on my account, please,” You feebly try to inject some levity into the situation. You know yourself well enough: you are no match for John Egan and his attentions. From sparks across the room, now it’s like you’ve touched the live wire, and the current has a hold on you. That’s why you always avoided him so.  

“Torture? Darling, it’s a party,” He needles you gently, eyes glinting merrily. “Only you would equate that to torture.” 

“Major -,” “Bucky,” He interjects. You blink at him, biting your lip. 

“Bucky, please,” The moment you utter his name, so beguilingly, so breathlessly, he presses your palm against his face fully, his hand covering yours. He needs you closer. The golden buttons of his jacket brush against the front of your dress. His lips press against the soft flesh of your hand as he studies your reaction. The hitch in your breath is embarrassingly loud to your ears. 

“Please, what?” 

“Don’t torment me like this,” It sounds even more pathetic when you say it out loud. And exactly as you’d expect, the admission of your weakness, the slightest chink in your armor, is an in for him. 

“How do I torment you, exactly?” His voice is so warm, so encouraging. 

“You take far too much pleasure in making fun of me, for one,” You try to play it off in a last-ditch attempt. But under his heated gaze, his breath brushing on the sensitive skin of your wrist, you falter. You frown before you utter in a small voice: “It’s not nice how you toy with me, Bucky, because it’s obvious that… that it’s just a joke to you, and your idea of a joke could get me dismissed, and sent home,”

You look down at your shoes, embarrassed. You want to pull away, but Bucky is not allowing you an inch of slack.

“It’s not a joke to me.” He sounds surprised. You look up at him, unable to keep the skepticism off your face. “It wasn’t a joke from that night I saw how calmly you handled that panicked patient, the moment you saluted me with those shaky fingers, and then every time you denied my help, you stubborn, stubborn girl,” His face is so close to yours now; a finger tracing down the side of your neck, down, just along the collar of your dress, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The way your hand rests on his cheek, you could pull him even closer if you wanted to. “I’ve wanted to grab hold of you, wrap you around me-”

Footsteps. You pull back from Bucky with a jerky movement, who mercifully releases you immediately, stumbling back two steps, almost hitting the desk with your legs. It’s strangely cold suddenly without his hands wrapped around yours, without him so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. Blood is rushing in your ears. Bucky looks too collected, but to your relief, you spy a faint blush creeping up his neck. 

So it wasn’t just you.

Hands folded, you take another furtive step back behind the desk, making sure there’s a respectable distance between you as the doctor on duty turns the corner. Bucky and the doctor start talking in low voices, but you are not listening. In your mind, you keep returning to his words, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. 

That night on the ward. That was the first time you spoke and saw each other in more than passing. That’s when Bucky suddenly formed this habit of popping in places he had no business of being. Places you happened to frequent. You really hadn’t been vain enough to consider that the common denominator in those situations was you. It had to be a coincidence that he had just turned into a joke. 

“Nurse,” The doctor turns to you, handing you his clipboard. You nearly jump out of your skin, being so lost in thought. “Please update the log,”

“Yes, doctor,” You nod, trying not to look as flustered as you feel. The men start leaving, still talking. 

“Good night, lieutenant,” Bucky turns to you, unable to keep the cocky smile off his face. Before he turns, he winks at you. It makes your knees so weak you nearly collapse back into your chair. Covering your face with your hands, you try to focus, but the smile won’t come off your face.

Seven more hours until your shift ends.

***

It’s a misty summer morning, dew covering every inch. The sun is just breaking through the clouds, and it’s promising to be a beautiful day.

When you leave the infirmary, you blink against the early morning sun. It’s still so early that few people are around. You hesitate. Surely, the party is not still going on. You wouldn’t put it past Bucky to actually do it. Rubbing your eyes and yawning, you’re unsure if you could even stay on your feet long enough for a dance.  

Luckily, you don’t have to make a choice. 

The sound of the bicycle bell makes you smile now. Bucky’s looking remarkably fresh and well-rested. The party clearly didn’t go that far into the night. He dressed for duty, his signature sheepskin jacket hanging open.

“Are you going my way, darling?” 

You purse your lips because you’re fighting to keep the smile off your tired face. You don’t stand a chance. You dart over to him like you are pulled by a magnetic force, the live current arching between you.

Sliding onto the back of the bike, you grab handfuls of the thick sheepskin to steady yourself, trying to find your equilibrium. Bucky’s large, warm hands encircle your wrists and easily pull your hands off his jacket. Instead, he gently nudges you forward by your arms, tucking them under the side of his jacket, wrapping your arms around his waist. The side of your face is resting against his back. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm, resting just under his sternum; you move along with his every breath.

“Ready?” Bucky peers over his shoulder. 

“Hm–mh,” You hum in reply, face buried in the folds of Bucky’s jacket. “Drop me off before the last turn?” You mumble, gazing up at him pleadingly. “Matron will be awake and on the prowl by now,”

“Don’t worry, darling,” His free hand wraps over yours, pressing a kiss on your knuckles. “I’m not going to get you into any trouble,”

“I’m holding you to that,” You yawn, wrapping yourself around him tighter. You’re going to make the most of this moment — the quiet morning, the soft sheepskin, the smell of Bucky’s aftershave. 

You drift in and out of sleep, even though the trip by bike is tortuously short. After almost twenty hours on shift, you should be allowed this comfort. Whining in protest as Bucky starts to unlatch your arms from him, you feel his chuckle as much as you hear it. 

You slide off the back of the bike, ignoring where the metal was jabbing into your backside on the bumpy road, and rub your eyes, trying to get rid of the haze in your vision. A small yelp escapes you as Bucky tugs you against him by the tie at the waist of your wraparound seersucker dress. The bike lays forgotten in the grass by the side of the road. All the tension and anticipation from last night are suddenly back — you feel wide awake again.

Bucky’s fingers are resting lightly against your waist like he is testing the waters, slowly, gently guiding you closer to him until you are inches away from him. Automatically, your hands sneak back up his jacket, running up his sides to the front of his chest. He is so warm against the crisp morning air. 

“Are you going to ask me for a kiss now?” It comes out almost naively as you look up at him. God, you hope he says yes.

“I promised not to get you into trouble,” He teases gently, grinning, inclining his face closer anyway, his lips just ghosting over the corner of your mouth. He is rewarded with a shuddering sigh from you — his grip on your waist tightens, prompting you to close the remaining distance between you. 

“This, of course, is perfectly innocent,” Only you could be looking at him with those big eyes, full of want, your curious fingers roaming over his chest, and still speak so earnestly. Bucky buries his face in the crook of your neck, shaking from laughter. You wrap yourself around him, head buzzing. It’s like you’re short-circuiting, sparks flying with every move, every breath. 

Bucky nips at the sensitive flesh of your neck, hoping to elicit more of those small sounds from you. If it weren’t for the quiet morning, remnants of mist dissolving in the first light, he would have missed the softest moan of his name that falls from your lips. He could do this all day. Just explore every move of your body against his, every way you can say his name, every touch that brings you closer to him. You move in effortless synchronicity with him, purely on instinct. 

“Then it’s trouble you want, darling?” Bucky murmurs, pressing kisses along your jaw.

“It’s only trouble if we get caught,” You reply breathlessly. 

His finger is under your chin, tilting your face up to him, and finally, Bucky’s lips find yours. For a second, it’s just that: his lips pressed softly, almost chastely, against yours. You push yourself up on your tiptoes to get more leverage, wrapping your arm around his neck. Your other hand stays pressed against his chest, fisting his shirt, feeling how his heartbeat speeds up as you open your mouth for him with a sigh. Bucky doesn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss, cupping your face. His other hand is roaming boldly over your back, applying light pressure on your spine so you arch into him, skimming just over the curve of your behind, playfully tugging at the ribbon of your wraparound dress. He knows exactly what he is doing and how to get exactly what he wants from you, and you’re more than eager to please.

Your mouth starts to tentatively explore the column of his neck as he whispers your name longingly, encouraging your little adventure. When your lips touch a particularly sensitive spot right under his ear, Bucky hisses — you can feel his muscles clench. It’s exhilarating; he feels the sparks as much as you do. Bucky doesn’t allow you to bask in your small victory too long, greedily capturing your mouth with his again, wrapping you around him, tucking you against him. His soft touch turns feverish, grasping at your hip. You match in kind, nails grazing the nape of his neck, just along his hairline — anything to keep the tension, the current arching.

You can feel the sunshine on your skin and see it through closed eyes. Breathlessly, you pull away just a fraction — Bucky’s lips are still ghosting over yours. 

“What’s wrong, darling?” He asks so softly you’re unsure if you heard or felt the words against your lips.

“I have to go,” You mumble as you move to stand feet flat on the ground again. It’s like waking up from a dream. Time is getting away from you. You’re not ready to pull away from Bucky yet, wanting to stretch the moment out. You gently fix his collar, running your hands over his front once more, as much in an attempt to straighten out the wrinkles you left on his shirt as to feel him move under your palm again. When he steps away from you, you release a shuddering breath. You feel like you’ve just been hit by lighting. 

“I’ll come find you,” He winks at you, grinning. Bucky presses a kiss to your forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture feels intimate, more personal, than you could have imagined.

It was everything you feared happening when you said yes to John Egan. It was everything you dreamed it to be. As you watch him leave, you know that you’ll have a damn hard time giving that up. 

“I’ll be waiting.” 

note: this was literally supposed to be a quick 2k words fun meet cute kind of thing, just a quick adventure Morty, but oh god I'm in too deep. forgive me for this detour from Of All The Stars in The Sky, but it was necessary, you understand.

[saturnville]

sad girl, major john egan

pairing: major john "bucky" egan x amelia mae

content: in the beginning stages of their relationship, amelia finds herself questioning john and the nature of their relationship.

song reference: sad girl by lana del rey

an: idk this song does something to me. should I make a tag list?

John Egan was an enigma. A puzzle that was impossible to solve. A language she couldn’t translate. A concept she couldn’t grasp. It angered her. It sent her into emotional overload and overwhelmed her mind. She couldn’t make sense of him and it pained her. 

She found herself in her head, swimming through the sea of intrusive thoughts that invaded her mind. He wasn’t serious about her. He wasn’t capable of loving her. That was evident by the way his eyes followed the silhouette of a pretty blonde at the pub while she washed dishes and served drinks to the armymen. He didn’t know she noticed. Why would he? To him, she was nothing but a girl he’d gone on a few dates with. They weren’t committed; he owed her no loyalty. 

Her attempts at keeping her facial expressions at bay were a failure. When she rose her head, she caught the sympathetic eyes of the emphatic Gale Cleven. The smile on her face quivered as she turned her back and continued with her task. 

And his hesitancy, oh God, his hesitancy to decline a dance from a woman broke her even further. Sure, she should have been glad that he declined the brunette’s advances regardless, but the fact that he took the time to think. To ponder. To debate, made her sick to her stomach. 

She wept like a child that night. She accepted his peck on the cheek at the end of the evening, “You alright, doll?” His voice sent a chill down her spine. It stayed with her until she went home, then wept like a child. 

She was asked about him by her best friend. If only she could describe all that he was, and all that he wasn’t. He was a complex case that needed to be studied. Dissected and picked apart like an experiment. She nodded once and said, “He is a beautiful human, truly. Bold and wild like a fire. He walks in it with pride and warms everyone he comes in contact with.”

Her friend sensed the sadness laced in her words. With a small voice, she asked in return, “It sounds like you aren’t too happy about that. What’s that about?”

With a sad smile pulled at her lips. Amelia shrugged and dropped her hands into her lap defeatedly. Quietly she admitted, "I don't know if he can love me the way I love him. I think...my worst fear is that he'll light me on fire and leave me to burn in the flames...."

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