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hesbuckcompton-baby · 11 months ago

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I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 8

AO3

Summary: After an encounter at Coombe House leaves Frankie and Rosie's relationship fragile, they seek to repair it when she is given leave for Christmas

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 6.5k (BUCKLE UP FOLKS)

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58

The sun disappeared as soon as it had come, and as the weeks rolled steadily into December the men at Thorpe Abbotts learned the truth of the great English winter. At sunrise, the grass lay encrusted with frost, but by midday the ice was washed away by downpours, leaving the fields a muddy marshland. Every day was dreary, cold, and damp, and Rosie was beginning to feel mocked by it, the outside world mirroring the misery he felt within.

Frankie was avoiding him. She wouldn't admit to it, but she hadn't spoken to him alone in weeks. Sure, she would sit with the Riveters in the pub or come to see them before a mission, but since their trip to Coombe House, he couldn't get her alone. Whenever he thought the chance had arisen, some pressing matter would suddenly arise that she had to attend to, and she was gone as soon as she'd arrived.

He missed her. He missed her so badly that it hurt - he missed her face being the first he saw after every mission, missed being able to tell her everything, missed making her laugh. Rosie didn't care that she hadn't kissed him anymore. He just wanted her back.

"Tell me what happened again," George demanded, perched on the edge of her bed, watching Frankie as she brushed the stubborn knots out of her hair.

Frankie sighed. "I have told you a million times already."

"I know. I'm just still trying to fathom how you could be such a fucking idiot!" She cried, grabbing one of her pillows and throwing it across the room, colliding with Frankie with a soft thump.

"Oi!" Frankie exclaimed, lobbing it right back, a shriek escaping George as it smacked her in the face.

"He's so obviously in love with you - has been for months - I just don't get it. Coombe House was the perfect opportunity. Bit of a snog and a shag, yunno."

"Jesus Christ," She muttered, shaking her head. "You're the one who warned me against getting too attached. I'm just... starting to think you were right."

George's smile dropped, and she swore she felt her stomach lurch. "Oh, Frankie, no-"

"What? Am I seriously supposed to just go for it knowing what will happen if he doesn't come back?"

Frankie hadn't uttered a word of this to her, but it was clear it had been plaguing her for some time. "I'm not supposed to be a cautionary tale, I'm supposed to be your friend. Which means I want you to be happy - find it where you can, don't just avoid it because of what happened to me."

Her entire face furrowed with her frown. "I'm just... I'm in too deep already. And I'm scared, George."

"Oh, c'mere," George sighed, rising to stand as she gestured for Frankie to come closer. Enveloping her in an embrace, her nostrils inhaled the always-lingering scent of engine oil. "I don't regret Curt. I miss him like hell and sometimes it feels really really shit. But I wouldn't trade the time I had with him to make it hurt less - if anything it's more special to me now. Don't hold back because you're scared it'll hurt later, because if anything does go wrong you'll regret it more than anything."

Frankie frowned, chin burrowed into the crook of George's neck. "You think so?"

"I know it."

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The pub was packed as always, the sea of faces ever-changing with the constant stream of replacements. It didn't matter that it was just as busy as it had always been, the place felt half-empty with so many familiar faces missing. Rosie's Riveters were always guaranteed a table, their reputation as the 100th's finest flyers preceding them - boys would actually give up their chairs when Rosie came in, and he could never dissuade them, no matter how much he cringed at the attention.

Half-empty pint glasses littered the table, conversation and laughter flowing freely among the team, but Rosie couldn't help but let his gaze wander. She was usually here - usually posted at the same spot at the bar with George, hogging the space in front of the beer taps so they could always get the bartender's attention whenever they needed another round. But when he looked up now, their spot was taken by a pair of replacements who scarcely looked old enough to fly.

"Rosie agrees, dontcha?" Bailey's voice came, and it was as if he'd been forcefully dragged back to reality.

"Hm?"

"Brooklyn's better than Queens, ain't it?"

"Oh. Definitely," He nodded, attempting to be as subtle as he could as he continued to scan the room.

Suddenly, the piano in the corner started up, thumping out a raucous tune. He'd only seen it used once or twice the entire time he'd been at Thorpe Abbotts, but the nearing advent of Christmas seemed to be putting the Brits in much higher spirits. A crowd of RAF and WAAF staff had formed around the piano player, drinks in hand as they began to perform a sequence of rowdy old drinking songs, more yelling than they were singing.

The words were foreign to American ears, but the English seemed to know them all by heart, belting out sordid tales of prostitutes and the like in a jolly, musical fashion. The pilots seemed roused by the scene, and Bailey began to clap along to the beat in encouragement, grinning as he watched the crowd. There was a sense of joy in the air, enough even to make Rosie crack a smile, elbow resting on the back of his chair as he listened.

And then he saw her.

Frankie was leant against the lid of the piano, pint in hand, belting out the words with the rest of them, grinning as she sang. She was wearing her proper WAAF uniform, her hair curled tight beneath her chin, lips painted a deep red. He never saw her in dress uniform, and for a moment he was taken aback by how well it suited her. Before Rosie had formed any sort of plan for what he was doing, he had risen to his feet, and was crossing the room towards her, weaving his way through the crowd.

A hand seized his arm. George was certainly strong when she wanted to be, and she wanted to be now, dragging him sideways away from the group, gnawing at her bottom lip, her teeth coming away with lipstick stains.

"It's my fault," She stated firmly, speaking loudly to be heard over the music.

Rosie's brow furrowed in confusion. "George, what're you talking about?"

"It's my fault Frankie won't talk to you - I only just figured it out, I'm sorry."

His shoulders squared, a frown forming. "What do you mean it's your fault, what did you do?"

"I... I told her that I haven't been speaking to the pilots since Curtis Biddick died - you don't know him, but he was... kinda my boyfriend."

"Oh, George, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, it sucks. But I think she took it to heart, and now she's scared to get too close to you in case something happens."

"... She told you that?"

"Not explicitly, but I'm not an idiot. And I know her very well."

Rosie nodded hurriedly as he considered this, passing his weight from one foot to the other as he debated approaching Frankie. Sucking in a deep breath, he nodded determinedly. "George," He held her by the shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. "Thank you."

"Don't ever do that again."

"I am sorry," He nodded, hands held up in surrender as he backed away, turning on his heel to make a beeline towards Frankie. George watched him go, brow raised at the sudden spring in his step.

"Weird bloke," She muttered.

They were halfway through a frankly awful rendition of Three Jolly Rogues when Frankie heard someone calling her name. Her gaze travelled across the crowd, words trailing off as she noticed Rosie at the edge of the group, unable to penetrate the mass of people as he craned to catch her eye. Eyes widening for a moment, she instantly felt her heart begin to beat faster as she chugged the remainder of her beer, abandoning her empty glass atop the piano as she tried to shove her way through to him.

"Frankie!" "Rosie!"

They spoke simultaneously, words to rambled and quick to make out, especially over the din of the pub. "Let's - let's go outside, yeah?" Frankie called over the music, and he nodded in agreement. His hand on her back came as a reflex, an instinct as they moved towards the door. She didn't step away.

Stepping out into the night air was like running head-first into a wall of ice, the sudden cold almost making Frankie gasp, her breath erupting in a visible cloud in front of her face. The sheer number of bodies inside the pub kept it permanently warm, so much so that it was easy to forget they were in the thick of December. Sucking in a breath, she rubbed at her arms to generate some warmth, her uniform jacket offering little in the way of insulation.

Rosie opened his mouth to speak, but she got there first. "I'm sorry. I've been treating you like shit and you don't deserve it, I was just being a fucking coward and-"

"Hey - no, no, no, you're ok. George told me what was going on and I get it. I get it, ok?"

Her expression was contorted in something like fear. "You do?"

"Of course," A smile flickered across his face. Of course he did. "I have no idea how hard it must be for you to wait for us all to come back, knowing what can happen up there. But... I don't wanna sound selfish Frankie but I can't stand the thought of dying without us being friends. You make coming back worth it and I- ... I miss you."

Frankie was silent for a long moment, and Rosie braced himself for whatever she was going to say.

"Come to my house for Christmas," She said. His mind had been racing trying to predict her response. He had not expected that.

"... What?"

"I got a forty-eight-hour pass for Christmas, I'm going over to my Dad's house. You can't spend it with your family, and we've got plenty of room... Well. You'd probably have to sleep on the floor but-"

She trailed off as she realised he was laughing, her brow furrowing as Rosie chuckled, nodding continuously. "Yeah," He beamed.

"Yeah?" The corner of her lips curled upwards in that wonky smile he so adored.

"Yeah, I'll come," Rosie grinned, taking a step forward and enveloping her in a hug, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders and she instinctively reached around to hug him back, her head resting against his chest.

"That would've been really awkward if you'd said no," Frankie said, her voice muffled against his jacket. Rosie laughed again, and she felt the vibrations through his chest.

"I was never gonna say no."

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They took a train on Christmas Eve, each carriage so packed with servicemen and women on leave and families visiting each other for the holiday that they were forced to stand, shuffling awkwardly out of the way whenever someone had to squeeze past. The pair had nothing to do except for a single pack of cards, although it soon became evident that the lack of space forced them to stand so close that they could always see each other's hand, and every game rapidly became pointless.

"So George isn't coming? Or Ken?" Rosie asked, fiddling with his watch as they plodded steadily onwards through the countryside, plumes of smoke from the coal engine partly obscuring the view of the trees and fields outside.

"George's family lives down in Dover - though you'd never guess it from her accent," Frankie chuckled. "She's got a pass too, so she's gone down this morning. Ken got invited for dinner by the parents of those lads he's always looking after - he'll be over there tomorrow."

He nodded along as she spoke. It had been almost an hour since anyone had tried to shuffle past them, so they'd taken to sitting on the floor, legs outstretched as far as they could go across the dirty old carpet. "Say, how'd you and George meet anyway? I never asked."

"We were both working at RAF Docking from about the middle of '41. There were a lot more WAAF there than at Abbotts, so we didn't bunk together, but we just sort of stuck, I s'pose. She only came here because of me - I got asked to come 'cause of your manpower shortage, but she reapplied so she could come too. Good thing too, I'd have been fucked without her. I think we got a bit co-dependent," She smiled to herself as she spoke, and he couldn't help but mirror it.

There was not a single sign or announcement to indicate where they were on their journey along the way. Frankie had told him it was a part of the government's anti-invasion measures, so that any would-be invaders would be unable to find their way, but really it just made him paranoid that they had missed their stop. Nevertheless, the moment they pulled into their station, she was up on her feet, a sudden air of excitement about her as she scrambled to gather their belongings. Rosie followed her out onto the platform, trying not to cough at the puffs of coal smoke that filled the station.

"Not far now," She assured him, a suitcase full of clothes in one hand, a satchel of presents in the other. It was a surprisingly sunny afternoon, although the biting cold would have suggested otherwise, and he trailed after her as they descended the high street, Rosie's head turning this way and that to take in his unfamiliar surroundings.

Frankie breezed through the place with practised familiarity, letting out a huff as she realised she'd almost lost him to the Shakespeare memorial as they passed. He had become entirely distracted by it, peering closely at the engravings that lined the base of the statue.

"Oi! Don't go all tourist on me, flyboy - I won't be late for dinner," She teased, and Rosie held up his hands in surrender, scurrying to catch up.

He could tell they were close when her shoulders drooped, excitement replaced by a comfortable calm. They reached a row of short, terraced houses, set back slightly from the main road, the thin strip of shared lawn still wet from the morning's blanket of frost. Frankie had begun grinning as she approached the house on the far end of the row, a spring of holly tied to the knocker with a messy knot of string. She shot him a smile, knocking firmly upon the wood, before spying an elderly woman a few doors down, struggling under the weight of her shopping bags as she fumbled with her door keys.

"Let me help with that, Mrs Higgins!" Frankie called, leaving Rosie alone on the doorstep as she hurried to help the old woman, gently prying the bags from her grip.

"My, Frances, haven't you grown!" Mrs Higgins declared, beaming up at her, made tiny by her stooped shoulders.

"Not since I was twelve, dear," She assured her, helping her in through the door as she carried the shopping behind her. Rosie smiled, watching on with his hands in his pockets, and he wondered how he could feel nostalgic in a place he'd never seen before.

Suddenly the door to Frankie's house swung open, and he found himself faced with a red-faced man, peering down at him with a frown. "Can I help you?"

"Dad, that's just Rosie! Let 'im in!" Frankie cried from down the street, hurriedly exiting Mrs Higgins' house as she scurried to catch up.

Mr Bevan was a huge man in every sense of the word - so tall and wide that he practically filled the entire doorway, and it almost seemed a miracle that he and his daughter were even related. But the moment he heard Frankie's voice, his face lit up with such love Rosie wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything like it, unleashing a hearty, belly laugh as she ran into his arms, practically throwing herself at the man.

"Rosie? Who's Rosie?" Another voice rang from inside - a girl's voice, high-pitched and certainly familiar. "I thought you were bringing the pilot!"

"Rosie is the pilot!" Frankie called down the hall, chuckling as she broke free of her father's embrace. She ushered Rosie inside, piling her bags at the bottom of the narrow staircase. As he entered, a girl was peering suspiciously at him from the kitchen doorway. She couldn't have been older than thirteen, a crop of golden hair flowing from her scalp, and at her hip cowered another child, a little girl of about three of four, hair so blonde it was almost white.

"But Rosie's a girl's name!" The older girl protested.

He chuckled. "Well, in fairness, my real name's Robert."

"Alice, be nice," Frankie scolded gently, lifting up the smaller child with one arm as Alice's cheeks bloomed a bright red. He realised she must have been Jill, recalling her name from the phone call all those weeks ago at Coombe House.

The Bevans' house was inescapably narrow, the five of them struggling to pass each other as bags were brought in and Frankie's father bustled through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. But as she sidled into the living room, she let out a gasp, a grin creasing her cheeks.

It was a sparsely furnished place, but in all honesty there probably wasn't room for anything else. A thin pine tree was propped up in the corner, strings of tinsel and chipped old baubles hanging from its branches, and newspaper chains hung from the curtain rails.

"Oh, isn't this just wonderful," Frankie remarked as Jill wrapped her chubby arms around her neck in a sideways hug. She turned her head, nodding at Rosie, prompting him to say something.

"Oh! Yeah. Very nice, it's just like back home," He nodded in agreement, slightly tense under the eyes of strangers, even if they were both little girls.

"Rosie, d'you want a cuppa?" Mr Bevan's voice boomed from the next room. For a moment he panicked, staring at Frankie with wide eyes like a deer caught in headlights.

"Tea. Do you want tea?" She whispered, putting Jill down on the sofa.

"Oh, uh - Yes! Thank you, Mr Bevan!"

"Oh, bloody hell, it's Allen, son," He shook his head, carrying in a teapot on a tray to place on the small table in the middle of the room.

"Even the boys at the garage call you Allen, eh Dad?" Frankie pointed out, pouring a cup of tea and straining the leaves before passing it to Rosie.

"Reason I hired 'em," He agreed, lowering himself into one of the armchairs with a heavy grunt. Rosie accepted the tea with a smile, and had just brought the cup to his lips when Allen leant down and unstrapped his foot, pulling it off and propping it against the wall. He almost choked. Alice let out a snort that sounded remarkably like Frankie's.

"Christ, sorry lad," He laughed, red face turning even redder. "Probably should've warned you about that."

Rosie forced out an awkward chuckle, nodding along. Jill was sat beside him on the sofa, staring up at him with wide eyes, mouth hanging slightly agape. He smiled down at her, noticing Frankie as she smirked at the whole scene.

Their dinner was a meagre feast of beans on toast, and Rosie suspected they were saving everything else for Christmas Day, saving it up to put on a true banquet. He and Frankie had been relegated to the living room to sleep, and she took the sofa whilst he lay on a pile of cushions and blankets on the floor. It wasn't a house built to serve any more than three - after all, it had only ever intended to house Frankie and her parents.

He was staring up at the picture frames that lined the wall as she came in - messy childhood drawings on aged paper, a laboured scrawl captioning each one with things like 'Me and Daddy' and 'My House'. Frankie had been putting the girls to bed, and padded across the carpet with a sigh, the sofa springs creaking as she collapsed backwards onto them.

"Did you draw those?" He asked, pointing up at the wall.

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "God, they're so awful, I keep telling him to take them down."

"No! They're great! I think it's really nice."

Frankie stared down at him for a moment. He'd changed into his pyjamas already, lying straight across the living room floor, blanket tucked under his arms. She began to giggle, cheeks flushed from the cool draft that filled the room.

"What?" He asked.

"It's only nine. You look like you've had mummy come and tuck you in for bed," She teased, unable to look at him without collapsing into giggles again.

"I'm tired!" He protested, throwing his hands up in the air.

"Yeah, yeah. So am I, to be fair. And - fair warning - Jill will be in here at five in the morning tomorrow to open her presents. She's so excited, I don't think she'll sleep a wink."

Frankie lay back along the sofa, feet propped up against the armrest as she draped a blanket over herself before reaching out to turn off the lamp. "They're sweet kids," Rosie spoke into the darkness.

"Alice is cagey around new people - just tell her a good flying story tomorrow and she'll love you. I think Jill loves you already. She doesn't talk much, but she'll want you to play with her toys, so you'd better do it," She instructed him, and he let out a chuckle.

"Alright. I promise."

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Rosie was awoken by the thunderous sound of little footsteps barrelling down the stairs, a shriek escaping Jill as she streaked into the room, making a beeline for the sofa as she hurled herself on top of Frankie. She let out an agonised groan at the sudden weight, retaliating as she tickled under Jill's arms, eliciting a series of squeals from the girl.

He groaned, grabbing one of the cushions and pressing it tight over his head to dull the sudden noise. He heard Frankie laugh, and felt her warm breath against his ear as she bent down to whisper "Told you so."

It was a half hour before the rest of the family made an appearance, time which Frankie spent desperately trying to prevent Jill from tearing open her presents, insisting she had to wait for her sister.

"Just one? Please? Please!" She whined, feet dangling off the edge of one of the kitchen chairs. Rosie wandered in and the girl went suddenly quiet, nervously pursing her lips.

"Hey Jill, why don't you show Rosie your cars, yeah?" Frankie said, pausing mid-sentence to let out a yawn as she put the kettle on the boil. The child's brow furrowed, considering this, and when she looked up at him she spoke with the seriousness of a businessman conducting an important negotiation.

"Rosie, will you play cars with me?"

"Absolutely I will," He nodded, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Jill grinned, pushing herself down from the chair as she scurried back into the living room. Rosie shot Frankie a glance, brow arched in confusion. "How does she have so much energy?"

"She's a kid," She shrugged. "I think they're all like that."

The cars were rusted and chipped, paint peeling off to expose the tarnished metal beneath, and Rosie couldn't help but suspect they must have been Frankie's years ago. He could picture her as a girl, playing with tiny tin cars on the floor of a garage somewhere whilst her father worked away fixing the real thing. The idea made him smile.

Jill made little whooshing engine sounds as she wheeled the cars around on the rug, occasionally ramming one into the table leg as she mimicked a crash - there was a groove in the wood from years of games such as this. Rosie found he did not know how to play with a child as small and as quiet as Jill, but he lined the toy racing cars up in a nice, neat row for her, quickly discovering the girl much preferred to destroy that work than admire it.

"This one's yours," She declared, holding out a chubby hand to present him with a tiny metal biplane, half of its propeller long since broken off.

"Why thank you," He grinned, accepting it gladly. They had been playing for a long time before Rosie realised he too had begun to mimic the sound of engines, lips pressed together as he tried to replicate the hum of his B-17.

Allan and Alice appeared after a while, and once the girls had opened their Christmas presents it was all hands on deck to prepare for their midday feast. The children were placed in charge of the bread stuffing, a charge they appeared to take incredibly seriously, and Rosie was presented with a pile of carrots and potatoes to peel. He sat at the table, dutifully toiling away, the kitchen gradually growing hotter and hotter as the chicken they'd bought from one of the neighbours slowly roasted in the oven.

The creak of a chair beside him caught his attention, and Rosie looked up as Frankie sat down, sliding a glass of sherry towards him. "Frankie, it's ten in the morning," He pointed out.

"If you're not at least halfway drunk by lunchtime, you're not doing Christmas right," Frankie shrugged. He noticed her father had already finished a glass. Taking a sip of her drink, she reached across the table, seizing one of the unpeeled potatoes from his pile, using a knife to whittle away at the skin. "You're very slow at this," She pointed out.

"Sorry, I'm not a practised potato peeler, dear."

She chuckled. "Guess we'll just have to train you up... Merry Christmas, Rosie."

He tore his gaze from his work, nicking the skin of his finger slightly with the blade, although he couldn't make himself mind. "Merry Christmas."

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A myriad of wonderful smells had filled the kitchen by the time they sat down to eat, his chair perched on a corner of the small table between Frankie and Jill. The girls had created little paper crowns for the occasion, crafted out of scraps of wallpaper and decorated with old buttons. Rosie's sat far too small atop his head, but he fought to keep it balanced on his scalp, replacing it every time it fell off. It was a simple banquet, but after the work they had put into creating it, he could've sworn it was the best food he'd ever eaten.

"This much like your Christmases in the States, Rosie?" Allen asked.

Rosie nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yeah. Good food and good company, that's what it's for, ain't it?"

"I'd offer to let you call your family, but we don't have a phone," Frankie admitted, reaching across him to take Jill's plate so that she could cut up her chicken for her.

"It's no trouble, really. This is all wonderful," He nodded again, and Alice snorted as his paper crown slipped off of his head, tumbling to the floor.

Frankie shot the girl a look, brow arched in warning. He suddenly remembered what she had told him the night before. "Say, I haven't told you any of my flying stories yet, have I?" It was as if Alice were a dog, the way her ears pricked, intrigue suddenly lacing her expression.

"No. You haven't."

"Please do!" Jill added, and her older sister nodded in agreement.

Rosie began to recount some of his most interesting missions - the narrow misses, the daring manoeuvres - every detail embellished for dramatic effect to such an extent that he was at times bordering on fabrication, and he could tell from Frankie's smirk that she knew not everything he was saying was strictly true. She was smiling at her father across the table, the two of them enjoying the utterly transfixed expressions plastered across the children's faces, so enthralled that they almost forgot to eat.

Any scepticism Alice had shown before was long gone, staring wide-eyed across the table at him, her cheeks blooming red as if she'd come face to face with her lifelong hero. Either that or she was developing a crush. Frankie was beginning to suspect the latter. When dinner was finished, the girl approached her as she was filling the sink with water to wash up, leaning over to whisper in her ear.

"Frankie - Is Rosie your boyfriend?"

"What? ...No, honey, I don't think so."

Alice's brow furrowed, a look of absolute horror painting her face. "What do you mean you 'don't think so'?"

Frankie chuckled. "You'll get it when you're older."

She rolled her eyes, golden curls bouncing as she gathered the dirty dishes, stacking them in an orderly pile beside the sink. Bing Crosby came over the radio on the windowsill in front of her, the faint drawl of the King's Christmas speech coming from the main radio in the living room. Her dad had taken off his false leg again, revelling in every moment he didn't have to wear the thing, and Frankie was elbow-deep in soapy water by the time Rosie reappeared.

"Where'd you go?" She asked, looking up as he came in through the back door, paper crown still balanced atop his head.

"Getting rid of leftovers - the neighbour took the chicken scraps for her dogs."

"Ah," She nodded, suppressing a smile as he sidled next to her, seizing the dishcloth and beginning to dry the plates and cups she had finished scrubbing.

"... Yunno. Alice thinks you're my boyfriend."

Rosie nodded, laughing softly. "I think Jill thinks we're married."

"Oh she loooves you," Frankie teased, knocking against him with her hip. "She'll be wanting you to put her to bed later."

She wasn't wrong. The adults sat around the living room that night, the children long since sent to bed. Empty glasses covered the coffee table as they held their hands of cards close to their chests, finally able to have a proper game - albeit a slightly addled one. The room itself smelled of sherry, and their cheeks were all flushed pink, laughing as they played, the radio still turned on in the corner, although nothing came from it but static.

They were having such a good time that they didn't hear the little patter of footsteps trailing down the staircase - didn't look up until she was stood in the doorway, a ragged old teddy clutched in her hands. Jill's voice came out meek and exhausted. "I can't sleep."

"Well, I'm not surprised, my lamb," Frankie's dad spoke warmly. "You ate a whole month's sweet ration today."

She rubbed tiredly at her eyes, and Frankie pushed herself up off the sofa. "Alright, let's go, eh?"

"I want Rosie to do it," Jill insisted, sleepy brown eyes looking back at him. "Please?"

Frankie glanced over at him, shrugging as if to say 'I don't see why not'. "Sure thing," Rosie nodded, grunting slightly as he hopped up from his seat. Jill grinned, clutching at the cuff of his sleeve with a tiny hand as they headed up the stairs together.

Returning to her seat, Frankie grinned, watching them go until they were out of sight. It was quiet for a long moment, and she reached over to turn off the radio. Her father cleared his throat slightly. "You never mentioned - how long have you been with yer fella then?"

She had been halfway through a last sip of sherry, and choked suddenly on it, almost spitting it back out. "Who, Rosie? No, dad, we're just-"

"Oh, bloody hell, petal," He shook his head, and she wondered how he could make a term of endearment sound so frustrated. "I'm not blind as well as legless."

"You've still got one leg Dad-"

"Don't gimme that. That lad's in love with you, else he wouldn't have crossed the bloody country on Christmas Eve to come eat old carrots with you. And you! Christ alive, you look at him like you used to look at Danny-boy from down the street when you were goin' out with him. Except worse."

Frankie let out a long, agonised groan, slumping so far back against the sofa cushions it was as if she were hoping to melt into the furniture. "Dad!" She exclaimed. "... He's American."

He snorted. "Bloody hell, didn't think I raised you to be a snob."

"No! Not like that! I just... he lives in America. I can't leave you, Dad."

"Oh, piss off, yes you can. You think I'll grow this feckin' leg back overnight through the grace of your presence, love? If I let you waste your life sittin' around here, then I've failed as a Dad. I've failed your mum, n'all."

"Don't say that," She shook her head, tears forming and clouding her vision.

"No. I mean it. If that lad is gonna make you happy you go with him, dammit. Gettin' to raise you has been the best thing that ever happened to me, but you're your own woman now, Frank. And I've got a couple more little-un's to deal with. Can't have you hanging around, there's not bloody room anymore."

Frankie laughed, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. Her dad made to stand, groaning as he put weight on his false leg, and she jumped to her feet to help him, but he raised a hand to her, and she had no choice but to back away.

"I love you, petal," He beamed down at her, pressing a firm kiss to her forehead. "And now I'm going to bed. Too much bloody sherry." She squeezed his hand, stepping out of the way so he could hobble past, grunting slightly as he hauled himself up the stairs.

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By the time Rosie returned, Frankie was lying on the floor atop the pile of cushions and blankets he had used as a bed the night before, staring at the pictures on the wall.

"You're in my bed," He pointed out.

"I got the sofa last night - your turn."

"No - no. It's your house, you take the couch."

"Look, Rosie, we are going back tomorrow and I'll not return you to the boys with a bad back. Make me look like a bad host n'all."

He let out a sigh. "Fine," It was dark in the living room, and she couldn't wholly tell what he was doing until she felt the blanket lift up, and he burrowed beneath it beside her.

"... What are you doing."

"Compromise," Rosie shrugged, their shoulders pressed together. "... Who's Danny?"

"Oh my God!" Frankie exclaimed, covering her face with her hands, voice strained in embarrassment. "How much of that did you hear?!"

"Just a little. I was waiting for Jill to brush her teeth. So?"

She sighed, arms dropping to her sides in defeat. "He was my boyfriend for a bit when I was seventeen. It wasn't a big deal, but Dad loved him so he brings it up all the time."

He chuckled, nodding. "You were right, by the way. I do like your dad."

"Told you."

Neither of them said anything for a long time, the room plunged into silence save for the sound of them breathing. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out his features, her head lolling to the side as she stared at him.

"Actually, I lied," He confessed. Her brow furrowed in confusion, watching as Rosie rolled onto his side to face her. "I heard everything."

Frankie did the same, the pair facing each other properly. "You sneaky shit," She teased, and he let out a huff of laughter.

She heard him take a deep breath before he spoke again. "Was he right?"

"About what?"

In the dim light, she could see his brow furrow. "You know what."

Rosie's hand moved to cup Frankie's cheek, but before he could make a move she had closed the gap, and he felt the warmth of her lips press against his, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. The blankets rustled as she pressed herself against him, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck as he lifted his head up off the pillow, moving to hover over her, their lips never parting.

After a moment, she pulled away, and they both took a second to catch their breath. "Jill's probably gonna get up again in a minute. She's a nightmare to put to bed, I swear."

"Understood," Rosie nodded firmly like a man on a mission, peppering kisses from her cheek down to the crook of her neck as she squirmed, trying not to laugh as she planted a palm flat on his forehead, prying him away.

He sighed, and a bubble of laughter escaped her throat. "I'm serious! We will scar that child for life."

"Alright," Rosie huffed, lying back down beside her. He raised his hand to her face once more, her skin sticky with sweat as he pushed her hair out of the way, getting a proper look at her as best he could in the dark.

"Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?"

Frankie hummed. "No. Don't think so."

"You are beautiful," He mused, winding a strand of her hair around his finger. "Even in the dark - even when you smell terrible and I say I don't care. Which I don't, by the way."

She snorted with laughter, briefly pressing her lips to his once more. "Well, I also don't mind when you smell like shit."

"Aw, that's sweet."

A small voice came from the doorway, and for a second both of their hearts stopped, hurling themselves away from each other as they tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. "I still can't sleep," Jill protested, frown audible in her voice. Rosie felt the urge to laugh at the accuracy of Frankie's prediction, and she clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

"That's ok sweetie, I'm coming," She called. The blankets rustled as she moved to stand, pressing her forehead against his just long enough to whisper.

"I told you so."

#masters of the air #masters of the air oc #masters of the air fic #rosie rosenthal #rosie rosenthal x oc #mota oc #mota fic #oc: frankie #frankie x rosie #oc: george #fic | i'm your man #i need to take a NAP after writing this one

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