#Robert Rosenthal Fanfiction

[luminouslywriting]

what do you think would be the reactions of the different men when they’re falling for a single mum? I think going with the time it’s more likely a young widow than a girl with a kid out of wedlock but who knows maybe John Brady just feels the desire to make an honest woman out of a poor girl at church who’s man ran off or Bucky takes to teaching his neighbors kid baseball because he sees their mom is stressed… just whatever guys you think would fit this

Nonny, this gave me actual brainrot so I hope you enjoy this so much 🥰🤍 as always, my requests are open and I don’t mind spam haha! More under the cut, cut for length, light spice sprinkled in:

Bucky Egan: (I had to run with the baseball idea haha)

-Absolutely the type of man who does not care about the past sexual history or life of a partner....and he's kinda looking for someone to date at the moment??

-But there's this kid on his block who's about six and he watches this kid attempt to throw a baseball every day and it just pains his soul because the form is awful and where is this kid's dad??

-So one day, he rolls on over to the yard of said kid and just starts offering pointers—he always wanted to be a baseball coach in his free-time and he just hasn't gotten around to it yet

-This sweet little boy makes him a deal that if Bucky comes over and teaches him how to throw a ball, lemonade will be made and given by you (his mom) and he will help Bucky paint his fence

-Bucky thinks it's a swell idea and it's at this surprising point to you that your son brings in the attractive war hero Bucky Egan straight to the kitchen and demands lemonade

-Well you and Bucky get to talking and you tell him that your husband died in the Pacific pretty early on in the war and your son has never really known a father

-That being said, it's a slow burn. He really enjoys getting to spend time with you and your son and he's afraid that he'll mess things up. But then your kid is inviting Bucky to dinner and you're telling him that it's no problem and you usually make too much food anyway.

-And somewhere along the way, he starts thinking of your house as more of a home to him than his own lonely home that he purchased. So naturally, this man panICS and has to call Gale and ask what he should do because he doesn't want to spook you or ruin the nice thing you've got going on.

-Gale definitely has to reassure him that if you both clearly want him there, then he should just go for it; Bucky deserves to be happy too.

-But he DRAGS his feet in the process....right up until your son accidentally calls him dad after hitting the ball with the baseball bat

-And then there's actual panic between you and Bucky and he's trying to apologize because clearly he's overstepped

-It would be at this point that you have to tell him that it's quite alright and you'd really like to get to know him more...because you like having him around and clearly your son adores him

-CUE THE FIRST KISS (first of many, might I add)

-It's the most darling domestic thing and he absolutely views your son as his son and he's never been so happy in his life

Gale Cleven:

-I think the most logical move here is that he finds you after Marge's passing. It was a short and love-filled marriage for them, but it was gone so quickly.

-He's devastated, naturally. And he doesn't really have anything left in Wyoming, so he sets out for Wisconsin.

-Now the thing about this is that John Egan has married Josephine Pitz—and Josephine Pitz's best friend is you. Your husband was a Marine during the war and died in action, leaving you with two little kids.

-You're doing your best but it's hard being a working single mom during the early 1950s.

-Cut to Josie and John setting this up just so

-Bucky makes the point that your car needs some work and you're a good friend of Josie's

-So this is how Gale Cleven is introduced to you—matchmaking via car-service haha

-Your two boys? Absolutely just wanna watch him work and wanna hear about everything that he's doing to the car

-But you're no fool and you know that Josie and Bucky are trying to set this up for the two of you

-So you just flat-out confront him about it and tell him that they're trying to be sneaky and that you're sorry he got caught up in their schemes

-But the thing is?? He's perfectly happy and used to their schemes. There's also the fact that this is the safest and calmest he's felt since Marge died.

-So he admits that he'd be willing to give this thing a chance if you are

-So it's a slow-burn for the two of you as you're trying to navigate around the fact that you've both already lost a partner and the fact that you have kids

-But he's so good with them and helps with the homework and genuinely just tries his best

-It's not a surprise to anyone when you're married a year later

Robert Rosenthal:

-On his way to the Nuremberg Trials, he meets you—a young lawyer who has recently just found out that you're pregnant (not that you're telling anyone that).

-You two become fast friends and he finds out that your husband was a British RAF Pilot who died. He's entirely sympathetic and sweet about the situation.

-The pair of you team up for the trials and it's amidst the preparations for the Trials that he finds you doubled over with morning sickness. This man assumes that it's the flu. Babe, it is not the flu.

-So a few weeks into you being sick and dealing with the trials, he's getting real concerned and you just have to spill the tea that you're pregnant.

-Not gonna lie, Rosie's heart shatters a little bit for you. It's not as if you want to leave the Trials to deal with pregnancy but you're also a whole ocean away and who do you have to rely on?

-Well he makes a promise that he's gonna help you through it

-And along the way, he's absolutely falling in love with you—with your dedication and kindness, the way that you're soft about the baby and continue to focus on work, and the way in which you're so determined to do everything entirely on your own

-He definitely very quickly makes you an offer that you're a little befuddled by

-The offer is marriage—and the thing is?? It's a damn good offer. You're a recent widow trying to do her job at the Nuremberg Trials, just found out you're pregnant, away from home, and have no support system

-So naturally you accept and this is a marriage born out of convenience and kindness to you....but there is so much affection and care.

-He's had feelings for you for a while and he's perfectly happy taking his time in the relationship and understands that you might not reciprocate the feelings in the same way.

-If nothing else, at least you'll be provided for, your child will have a father, and you'll always have a friend by your side

-It's at this point that your feelings start to develop because he's just such a good person and treats you so well and so clearly loves you

-The two of you are icons during the trials (Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal), and he comes back from Europe with a wife and daughter on his arm....and no, he didn't tell anyone so it was quite a shock to everyone.

John Brady: (Also decided to run with it haha)

-Listen, this man has a picture perfect plan for what he wants to have happen when he gets home from the war and that's all fine and dandy, but this man was NOT planning on you haha

-You faithfully attend the same church as he does and it's pretty obvious that you're pregnant.....

-But man the gossip is bad. And he's not one to listen to idle gossip and just believe what people say. But evidently your fianceé had run off when he found out you were pregnant and had taken any chance of a reputable life. It's ROUGH, okay??

-And the thing is, John Brady is out here just trying to do his Christian duty by seeing if you need any help over at your house....because he also passes it on the way to Church and YIKES, your yard is going through it

-It's the first time that someone just offers to do something nice for you??? You're so thrilled about it

-So he comes over that summer and does your yard work for you and you make little sandwiches and he gets to have lunch with you

-The thing is, you two get to talking and he finds out that you weren't even planning on having kids for a while anyway and it was YOUR former man who wanted to do the deed and refused to help out in any way. This is entirely a man's folly and has ruined things for you.

-Now he feels bad, he does....

-But he's not trying to make a move or anything. At the moment anyway haha. Instead, he invites you to spend some time with his sisters because you need friends anyway and they all have kids so they can help you know what to expect for pregnancy.

-Well it's all going great and he's pretty happy with the fact that you now have a support system and he's starting to make some waves in work. And then the yard is done and finished.

-And for some reason he's offering to help with the plumbing and the inside work too? It's definitely not because he's worried about you and it's definitely not because he's very very attracted to you in any way shape or form lol.

-I don't think anything actually happens until you're right ready to pop....at which case YOU kiss HIM because you're just real impatient

-And he doesn't get to respond to anything because your water breaks and he's taking you to the hospital

-So while you're in labor, this man is processing the fact that he MAYBE really really likes you and has already planned out the rest of your lives together, but that's BESIDES the point

-He still feels like he's taking advantage here....right up until you have a son and you name him Johnny because Brady was the only person that was kind to you during pregnancy and this man just melts on the spot, professes love to you—and tells you that he wants to take care of you for the rest of your life.

-Chef's kiss tbh

[therealslimshakespeare]

I demand you and Ash to share more of the Dark Rosie story 😤

*whispers* pwease

Why of course we can share…or…ya know, how about I just share with you what may end up being the first part of the first chapter? These entire vibes are hard for me to blandly describe when me and Ash have so much lore to this and nowhere to begin to tell it except by telling the story itself, so here, have a Autumn of 1945 scene:

To hear Jean Crosby tell it, Rosie owes her his insurance policy, his new flat on tenth and his goddamn firstborn all because she managed to convince her babysitter to not babysit tonight but come instead as Rosie’s date. If it were any other woman, Rosie would let fly with a smart comment about just how snazzy and sexy babysitters are, how they really get him going and he can totally see some spit-up-covered nanny shimmering in a place like the Stork Club. How he’s sure little Stevie’s best friend and diaper changer will really shine bright here, probably bust some killer moves, grind real good and suggest gettin’ outta here right when Rosie wants to get it wet.

But it’s Jean Crosby, so he holds his tongue and lets his smile do the snarking for him and she weathers it with the ease of a woman utterly sure of herself and her designs.

Rosie really only has himself to blame. Or maybe Croz. If Croz hadn’t blabbed like such a loose lipped, cock drained, well fed husband to Jean about Rosie’s morose desire to marry and settle, to be socially respectable, live the life they went through hell for, and do it quick before the bottle and the temper and the ghosts got to him- then maybe he wouldn’t be at the Stork Club, looking pretty dandy if he says so himself, and waiting for a nanny to show as his date.

She’s probably gonna wear calico. Hopefully remembered to take her apron off. Rosie supposed there could be some charm to an apron, in another setting, with nothing else underneath.

She’s not exactly late but rather, they’re early, because jazz clubs don’t have a time for arrival besides sometime after dinner and after the old fuddy duddies go to sleep, leaving the hot tickets and the wild beats to the ones who can feel it and move to it and enjoy midnight as a sorta youthful carnival.

She’s not here yet, and really it’s making her sexier, the fact she’s fifteen minutes past eight and not in bed, shocking for a nursemaid. Close to scandalous. Rosie lights up his cigarette and puff it to the side, sending Croz a look that says it all and Croz stares back at him, arm thrown comfortably around the back of Jean’s seat, tracing the divets of her spine with his fingers as far as as the plunging back of her party dress will allow him. Croz’s smile turns from something ironic to smug, he’s not focused on Rosie and Rosie’s humiliating date anymore, no, he’s focused on his pretty wife allowing him this and swaying in her seat to the music and getting just the right amount of tipsy she’ll probably let him try it in the car tonight.

All in all, Harry is living the sorta vision Rosie has for his own immediate future. He needs a wife, but until then, he downs his second whiskey and prepares to make bad conversation with a fucking nanny.

“Stop looking like that.” Croz apparently is paying enough attention to Rosie to take exception to his expression, “It’s the other way around, you won’t deserve her. She’s sweet.”

Rosie is sure she is. Sweet. He watches ruby lipped women in tight velvet wrapping with promising faces and knowledgeable hands and well trained thighs shimmy just beyond their table, so attuned to the liquidy brass they’re pouring out of themselves onto their partners. Rosie knows about sweet, he’s never tried it but he doesn’t doubt it’s just that- sweet, the pink heart of a strawberry you press your thumb into and it turns to mush, dribbling pink, dribbling sweet, so airy and light you could toss it up into the clouds and it wouldn’t come down, sweet, not a thought in the head just kindness.

“Don’t doubt she is.” he assures Croz, not so sure he’s actually wiped his offending expression off completely. He hasn’t, to judge by Harry’s upset little sigh and the way he looks to Jean to see if she sees what a bad idea this was, to introduce Sweetness to Rosie when all Rosie wants is-

-Jean isn’t looking at him though, Jean is rising up from the table, hands outstretched, face delighted. There’s a girl weaving her way to her with all the bug eyed timidity of a newborn foal. No calico, but the most homely lace collar right at her throat on top of a basic, broachless, pleated navy dress. (((More exposition please)))

Rosie thinks for a split second of staying the course, playing the cad, ruining her night, making himself a funny little memory by absolutely wrecking her little facade of social experience. Instead he finds himself standing up, smooth and gentlemanly, a gallant hand outstretched and persuading, because for all that she’s sickeningly demure, Rosie finds endearment curdling with the disdain in his gut. She paints a terrible picture here, utterly out of place, no credit at all as a date on the dance floor even though that poorly styled watch suggests a pretty decent allowance from papa. What she’s missing is any clue of how to be worldly, alluring, confident even.

She’s sweetness incarnate and it’s really off putting and Rosie gets a desperate thrill from it, when her hand timidly lays in his for a shake, he gets a thrill imaging the appalled shock on her face if he were to take advantage of her. The thought shakes right down through him, a lewd and perverse fascination with how poorly she handles even the clasp of his fingers and the twitch of his mustache, an easy rumbled “and you must be Ruthie.”

Ruth Steinem, actually, but nobody that pale and shaky and doe eyed deserves to be called Ruth and she certainly won’t be getting a Miss Steinem out of him and so, Rosie tacks on the endearment, because she’s a silly little thing and deserves a silly little name and it passes for an attempt to make her comfortable even though it has the predictable and intended effect of making her flush well past that stupidly high collar. It’s already fun before time is up to let her hand go, he holds it longer than necessary because technically they’re still greeting each other, a process taking longer due than propriety suggest entirely due to the fact she can’t manage to stammer out a reply for a few moments. It’s in her if they’re stuck here, hands molded together, hunched over a white table cloth. He takes advantage of that, keeping hold as any polite man would and smiling her through it.

“M-Major, Major Rosenthal it’s- it’s an honor, really, such an honor, sir.”

Oh it’s like that is it? An honor? Sir?

He feels his interest pique, not intellectually, at least not much more than when observing an insect or a cloud pattern, and not in his heart because when he’s straight with himself he’s aware he hasn’t felt much stirring in that quarter for some time now. Somewhere lower, his gut, maybe, but that’s likely the scotch. Lower still. Somewhere positively disgraceful. Something about it must show in his eyes, Miss Ruthie’s earnest hero worship morphs to some embarrassed form of concern, half for her own virtue’s safety and half for the propriety of the surrounding club members, subjected as they have been these last fifteen seconds to a lengthy hand hold between unmarried members of the opposite sex.

He gives her his most practiced, most podium worthy, medal receiving, exemplar of heroism embodying wink before letting go. He sees her old admiring image of him as The Major collect again behind her saucer wide eyes, fragmented and never quite fitting right again but there all the same; Rosie gives her a most urbane smile before pulling out her chair for her. When she goes to sit, bashful and appreciative, he puts his toe in the under-slats and slides it nearer his. She almost misses her seat due to it but his gallant arm makes up for her clumsiness, the pitying yet assuring look he gives her chastens her against suggesting the chair moved at all. He takes his seat again, now beside and quite close to her’s, and while offering her the light now wedged between his own lips, is tickled pink to find that hunted little bunny look has returned.

Oh Ruthie, maybe not too good for him as Croz says, but definitely too good for this mucky little world of theirs. She oughta be kept in a hutch somewhere.

That intrigues him, not intellectually, somewhere lower. She declines the light.

[suraemoon]

Rosie Rosenthal Headcanons

~Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal Edition ~

🌹: Hi, Mrs. Rosenthal. Hope you’re doing well. How’s the hubby? These are some Rosie x Reader cute and domestic headcanons that cover some tiny details that make married life even more special

♥️: Fluffy fluff. If you’re feeling horny, stay to the end and I’ll help you, doll. Thats really it. Hope u enjoy.

Humming. He hums softly during the most comfortable silences, making them even more cozy. You could be reading a book on a quiet May afternoon, watching him work at his desk on a cold January night, holding hands while watching the August sunset from your balcony.

Whenever you’re singing a tune, he’s going to hum along with you

Can’t remember the name of that one Ella Fitzgerald song for the life of you? Hum it together until a namesake lyric pops into one of your brilliant minds. Followed by a “Ohhhh, you’re right. It is that one!”

A comfortable hum during the times when you’re crying on his shoulder, his hand rubbing your back in small circles, your cheek against the fabric of his grandpa sweater

Rosie’s blue eyes have always been one of your favorite features of his.

They are as vibrant as technicolor, always displaying so much emotion.

Looking into Rosie’s eyes is a constant reminder that as long as you have him, life will never again be sepia toned.

Rosie spoils you in the most nonchalant ways. Buying his wife a gift is never made into its own big event.

He notices how you eye a certain sparkling necklace while walking hand in hand by the jewelry store window? The next day, those same diamonds are lying on your vanity, waiting to be worn.

For some reason the flowers in the vase on the dining room table never seem to die? Hmm I wonder why.

Little do you know, those roses were replaced with fresh ones last night

Rosie buys beautiful bouquets of flowers as pink as his wife’s cheeks on a chilly day

Hides them in places you’d never look until the sun goes down to rest for the night and you are securely fast asleep next to him

As soft light floods through the windows in the morning, the glass of the vase creates a rainbow and the flowers sitting delicately on display look new as ever

Another small detail that your home would like an incomplete puzzle without?

Him and Hers plaid robes hang gently on delicate hooks behind the bathroom door

Technically, both robes were bought and owned by Rosie before he even met you

But they’re so damn comfy that they’ve become happily coparented between the two of you

Whenever your choice of robe starts to lose the distinct and comforting scent of your beloved husband, the two of you switch in order to replenish

A constant cycle of robe wearing

The record player is the most used and well loved item in the household

Soft jazz fills warmly lit rooms

Not much of a dancer are you? Rosie insists that the two of you slow dance to his favorite love song anyway

Don’t worry, it is not a game of skill. Maybe he hits a silly dance move now and then to distract you from the worry of accidentally stepping on his feet.

He spins you around like Prince Charming does Cinderella until both the rotating and romance makes you a little lightheaded.

He also loves a good candle. (Don’t we all?)

Not only for when he is trying to set the right mood for homemade dates at the kitchen table and nights full of lovemaking in your bedroom

but also to further enhance the warm and comforting atmosphere that fills any room that his love steps into

Cuddling in eachother’s warmth where the cold evening air of the bustling city outside cannot touch you

What else sometimes happens while you two lying in bed on a weeknight? Gossip.

It’s a safe space to talk about anyone or anything

When your little ones start school and the two of you join the PTA, the reason being not because you want to but instead having the “new parent” fear you were the only ones not in it. Do you regret it? No. The tea is unexpectedly piping hot.

“Remember how late we stayed up making those cookies after finding that bake sale flier at the bottom of her bookbag? Today, the Joneses went on and on about how they had a family recipe. Guess what?…their brownie container had a price tag, Rosie.”

Maybe a family member said something utterly ridiculous at the family reunion that you aren’t able to talk about until you’re in the comfort of your own walls

Something that even has Rosie uttering “Now if I was his wife…” or “I don’t know about his mother but if my mother caught me doing that…”

A lot of “I can’t believe that happened” head shakes

A lot of “You were right about that, honey” nods in agreement

Rosie also takes the time to tell you about his cases. Him and his co-workers always act so professional but sometimes you need an outside opinion to confirm how ridiculous some people are.

That outside opinion is Mrs. Rosenthal sitting on the bed stirring a cup of cocoa

Speaking of drinks, Rosie likes his coffee black

You learn that the morning after you spend your first night at his

What else do you learn after that riveting first night? Your man fancies a bath. A warm bath after sex is only part of his phenomenal aftercare routine.

He puts oils into the water, massages your sore thighs, and wraps you in a comfy soft robe when you get out

You two don’t argue often but when you do? You hate to admit it but Rosie is usually right

Even when he isn’t right, he has you second guessing yourself because…he’s a lawyer and being a good arguer is part of the job description

He’s a “I need to get the last word in” kind of person, even if it’s just a snarky or sarcastic comment

You two always make up though!

Make up, makeout, and make love is always the order

My last thot for today…dad jokes

If Rosie is going to do one thing, it’s make you laugh

He’s goes out of his way to see your pretty smile as much as he can

Your sweet giggles can easily compete and win against the sparkling sound of wind chimes

Your laugh is as melodic as his favorite song. It *is* his favorite song.

He’s so good at dad jokes, you have to make him a father. That’s good logic, hm? I definitely think so.

They’re purposefully bad and cheesy. So unfunny that they’re funny and trying to hold in the laugh always fails.

Your husband’s a dork and you love him that way

————————————————————————

Thanks for reading! If you’re like “Excuse me ma’am, wheres the smut?” I know where to redirect you. All my dirty thots went towards my friend Marina’s (@precious-little-scoundrel) lovely post about Rosie. It’s so chef’s kiss. 110% recommend. xxxx 💋

[blurredcolour]

What If We Just Fall?

Oh my goodness @supervalcsi this has been the hardest secret to keep! 'Tis I, your summer exchange gift writer! Thank you for all your hard work as the moderator of HBO War Daily, we deeply appreciate you!! It's been a pleasure getting to know you and I hope you enjoy your summer as well as this lovely interlude with sweet Rosie!!!

Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x ATA!Female Reader

Flying with the Air Transport Auxiliary has taught you many lessons – including the importance of guarding your heart carefully. It seems fate, however, has much more to teach you when you are forced to make an emergency landing in East Anglia.

Warnings: Language, Era Typical Sexism, Fear, Crying, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - T.

Author's note: No descriptions of reader other than the fact that she is not British. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 5729

-------------------------

October 1944

Meeting a man like Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal was not something you had expected when you volunteered for the Air Transport Auxiliary. In fact, you were not even supposed to land at Thorpe Abbotts Airfield until fate, or more accurately faulty wiring, intervened. Ferrying a Wellington bomber from its repair depot back to the RAF in Norfolk for use in their nighttime bombing runs, you were piloting the five-man aircraft alone – standard practice in the ATA. There was no radio, no navigator, and most definitely no guns. You were a civilian non-combatant and if any Luftwaffe fighter pilots happened to get onto your tail, you simply had to outfly them.

This was not your first Wellington, not by a long stretch, and while you preferred Spitfires for their speed and manoeuverability, these mid-sized bombers were usually fairly docile once they got off the ground. This particular aircraft, however, had been displaying a bad attitude from the moment it took to the air. How it had passed quality control inspection was beyond you. The wonders the mechanics were able to work in short turn arounds were usually feats of precision and skill, but almost immediately you noticed the rudder seemed reluctant to obey your steering commands.

A cascade of instrumentation issues followed before the left engine quit. There was a reason, however, that the ‘Wimpy’ as it was affectionately called by the boys who took the aircraft into combat, was still relied upon by the RAF despite the arrival of four-engine heavies like the Halifax and Lancaster. The Wellington could take a great deal of punishment; lose great chunks of its aluminium and linen airframe, be down one engine, and still get the crew to its destination. It was this reputation you were banking on as you pressed forward to your assigned airfield, hoping the ground crew there would treat this plane better than whomever had done it such a disservice at the repair depot.

You were, by your best guess of the landscape and quick glance at your maps, roughly twenty minutes out when the right engine began to choke and sputter.

“Shit.” You hissed under your breath, pleased no one could overhear you, and dropped your altitude to scan for a safe place to land.

During your pre-flight preparations, you had noted this area was dotted with American airfields as well as RAF; surely you could find a stretch of tarmac to keep both you and this precious piece of war material in one piece. The telltale ‘V’ of concrete, surrounded by still-lush grass waving in the autumn breeze, could not have come into view at a better time. Exhaling in relief as the indicator lights confirmed the wheels had descended at your command, you checked visually that the left was down and had to trust the right and rear were also – with no co-pilot to look for you, there was most definitely no way you could release the yoke and glance out the window yourself.

Hoping the allies would recognize you for a friendly, you lined up to make your landing, the right engine quitting on you as you decreased your speed. Holding your eyes open wide with focus, you leaned forward in your seat, gripping the yoke almost painfully, willing the aircraft to stay aloft to meet the first few inches of runway. The silence in the cockpit was agonizing, a tense ringing in your ears replacing the normal, companionable thrum of the engines, sweat stinging at your eyes and prickling in your armpits. Seconds drew out into hours until at last your tires – all three of them – bumped down to land on the runway.

With a sigh of relief, you quickly pulled up on the flaps, frowning deeply as, with no engines to throw into reverse, the large object in motion seemed reluctant to come to a stop. Mortifyingly, you overshot the end of the runway, skidding to a halt some one hundred meters in the grass like a wet-behind-the-ears trainee, and yet…and yet both you and the plane that you had been charged with delivering were still in one piece. Not at all where you were intended to be, but landed safely, for now.

The sound of several vehicles approaching from down the runway refocused your attention and you pulled off your leather flying helmet, smoothing your hair before gathering your things into your flight bag. Climbing from the dead aircraft, you were greeted by a host of astonished male faces.

“Jesus Christ, she’s a dame!” One of the younger men exclaimed, not so quietly, from the back of the crowd and you did your best to keep a straight face.

“I’m so sorry to intrude on your airfield, gentlemen, ran into a little trouble during my flight. I appreciated the safe place to land.”

Several eyebrows shot up at your distinct lack of British accent, at least one astute gaze dropping to the gold wire weave badge bearing the name of your home country just below your shoulders.

“Well, we’re just glad you’re alright, ma’am. We got very nervous when we couldn’t raise you on the radio.” The owner of said astute, piercing blue gaze spoke, a hint of…New York, was it?...colouring his tone.

“Ah, of course, we aren’t connected to radio in the Air Transport Auxiliary, sorry for the confusion that must have caused.” Stepping forward you offered your hand as you introduced yourself. “Second Officer, ATA.”

“Robert Rosental, Major, United States Army Air Force. What happened up there?”

It took a moment to register that he had asked you a question, the feel of his palm pressing against yours as he shook your hand in greeting more than a little distracting. Inhaling sharply, you turned back to look at the troublesome aircraft.

“Rudder was slow to respond, then I started losing my instruments one-by-one before the left engine cut out. I was hoping to make it on the right, but when it started to go, I knew I had no choice to put it down as soon as possible.”

“You flew that all by yourself?” Another member of the crowd piped up and you nodded patiently.

“Standard practice in the ATA, just me.”

“Maybe that was the real problem.” It was hard to tell where exactly the snide comment, spoken under some ignorant boy’s breath, had originated from.

You noted a flash of anger in Major Rosenthal’s eyes before he started to scan the crowd for the source of it, but this sort of response was something you had certainly encountered before.

“I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch that, could whoever said that please repeat it? I’d really appreciate the opportunity to improve on the over seven hundred ferry flights I’ve made since 1941, including one hundred with this very type of plane, so please, speak up.” A sort of stunned silence overtook the group, several of the men wearing bemused smiles, others a look of shock, while the rest shuffled their feet awkwardly in the grass. “Hn. My loss, I suppose.”

“I’m assuming you’re a long ways from where you ought to be?” Major Rosenthal chimed in, the luscious thatch of hair of his upper lip highlighting the way his mouth hitched up at the corner in amusement.

“You would be correct, Major, might I impose upon you for the use of a telephone?”

Some directions were shouted to tow your aircraft to a spare hardstand as it seemed there were replacements planes of their own expected in a few hours and you turned to address the same man Rosenthal was giving orders to – Lemmons, you believed.

“Please be careful, its not a metal skin, it’s linen.”

The look of shock on the boy’s cherubic face framed by copious curls spilling from beneath his knit cap finally broke your control, a small grin sneaking onto your lips as Major Rosenthal led you over to his jeep. Unclipping your parachute from your waist, you tossed it and your flight bag into the back, sliding into your passenger’s seat and finally feeling the ability to relax somewhat.

“Over seven hundred flights?” He glanced at you as he drove, and you nodded softly.

“There are a lot of planes needing to be moved around this island.”

“And here I thought my boys had it rough needing to hit thirty…” He shook his head, driving past the control toward a sea of the all-too-familiar Nissen huts that populated every airfield you had ever visited.

“Ferry flights and combat missions are in no way comparable, Major, the worst thing I face up there is usually English weather.”

The pair of you shared a laugh as he pulled up in front of a long row of buildings. “My CO will want to talk with you, unexpected guest and all.”

“Of course, caused quite the ruckus didn’t I.” You laughed ruefully, sliding from the jeep to collect your gear, startled as he beat you to it.

“Follow me.” He nodded warmly, holding open the door to lead you inside.

After a brief meeting with a very busy Colonel Jeffrey where he put ‘Rosie’ at your disposal, you were ushered into an empty office to use the telephone and contact your superiors. Providing a detailed report of your flight, you were instructed to sit tight pending further directions – most likely an RAF repair crew would be dispatched to try and get the plane operational, but they were also loathe to keep you grounded and out of the rotation for too long. Providing them with Jeffrey’s secretary’s number as the point of contact, you stepped out of the office to find Major Rosenthal waiting patiently in the hallway.

“You must be starving…”

“I would not say no to some food, by any means.” You smirked and followed him back out to the jeep for the short drive to the officer’s mess. “You sure its alright for me to eat in here? RAF doesn’t usually…”

“I insist.” He nodded and opened the door for you once more.

With a grateful nod, you stepped into the space flooded with natural light where row on row of tables covered in crisp white linens stood empty. Given that it was an odd hour for a meal, somewhere between breakfast and lunch, it was no surprise that you were practically alone in there. A server in a white coat quickly approached and Major Rosenthal looked to you to place your order from the choices on offer before requesting just a coffee for himself, pulling out a chair for you to sit before setting your kit in the empty chair beside you.

“This is really quite civilized, thank you again. I apologize that I’m not really dressed for the occasion…”

He chuckled warmly and shook his head. “You look prettier than me after I fly, though I’m quite confident you start out that way, too.” He winked and you smiled shyly, busying yourself with laying your napkin across your lap.

Major Rosenthal was not the first handsome airman to cross your path in your line of work, there had been countless men who had either jeered or flattered you. But after opening your heart to several early on and promptly losing them to a ruthless enemy, you had learned better than to let yourself fall for such girlish stupidity again.

“Having a second breakfast Rosie? Oh…oh I’m sorry I didn’t see you were entertaining…”

“No apologies Croz, one of the lovely ladies of the Air Transport Auxiliary dropped in for a visit.” He grinned and introduced you properly to his friend and Group Navigator Harry Crosby who was apparently only finishing his breakfast now.

“A pleasure, well I’ll leave you two to it. Make sure Rosie tells you about his love of jazz.” His knowing grin at his friend drew an exasperated exhale from Rosenthal, but before he could protest, the server was returning with food and hot beverages that were fit to make your mouth water and Crosby had disappeared.

“I don’t think I realized quite how hungry I was…” You murmured, fixing your drink to your liking before seizing your utensils to dive in.

“Well then, please, enjoy.” He leaned back, cradling his cup in his hands to allow you to enjoy your meal.

After a few bites, once you were feeling somewhat less ravenous, you tilted your head. “Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman?”

He raised an eyebrow slowly before huffing an incredulous laugh. “Artie Shaw, if I must.”

You nodded thoughtfully as you took a deep sip of your beverage.

“What other planes have you flown in your seven hundred ferry flights?” He parried with a question of his own.

“Oh, all sorts - Tiger Moths, Hurricanes, Mosquitos, Spitfires.”

He nodded thoughtfully, smoothing the edge of his moustache with his forefinger. “Favorite plane to fly?” He inquired.

“To fly? Spitfire, without a doubt.” You answered easily, licking a bit of food from your upper lip. “That plane knows what I want it to do before I even think it. Landing however…one the test pilots famously said, ‘she’s a lady in the air but a bi–’” you quickly cut yourself off with a rueful twist of your lips “she’s something else ‘on the ground.’” You finished the quote with more appropriate language inserted.

Rosenthal’s eyes danced with mirth as he enjoyed a hearty laugh at that and you could not help but notice the reddish hue to the whiskers on his upper lip, highlighted by the sunlight streaming in the windows. You wondered if that was where he had gotten the nickname ‘Rosie.’ Jarring yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you quickly turned back to your meal and peppered him with more questions about American jazz greats, enjoying the way he enthusiastically and engagingly spoke about the various band leaders he preferred and why before turning back to you with further questions about your service in the ATA and life before that. Conversation came dangerously easy between the two of you, an undeniable overlap of interests and motivation to contribute.

You were admittedly attracted to the man as well, but for the sake of your sanity, that was something you were going to have to set aside for as long as he continued his brave yet perilous missions over enemy territory. The mess gradually began to fill as true lunch time arrived, your meal and his coffee long finished, and you were about to get up and find somewhere else to wait out the repair crew when one of the servers approached with a message that they had already arrived and were looking for you.

A short drive to the hardstand revealed the four RAF men hard at work on the Wellington under the curious eye of Lemmons and others who were occasionally drifting by.

“When I get my hands on whatever git did this to this poor Wimpy…” You could hear the threats and grumblings emanating from inside the fuselage and pressed your lips together, hoping it was the previous repairperson they had it out for and not you.

“Gentlemen?” You popped your head into the bomber and were greeted by several flustered men.

“Ah there you are Ma’am, how on earth did you keep this lobotomized plane in the air for so long?!”

“Well you know, a good old Wimpy can always get you home…or at least a friendly field.”

“We’ve got…a good few hours ahead of us but then I think you’ll be able to finish the last leg of the journey.”

“Thank you very much, I’m sorry to take you away from your more pressing work. Can I get you anything?”

“Crew Chief Lemmons has been very helpful, Ma’am, but thank you.”

You offered the young man a smile of thanks over your shoulder before shuffling over to set your belongings on the grass. The afternoon was fair, the weather still warm, so you figured it was as good a place as any to wait it out. To your surprise and pleasure, Rosenthal settled onto the ground beside you, picking up your conversation right where you left off as you listened to the men work through the thin skin of the aircraft, watching the sun make its way to the western sky to sink toward the horizon.

“You know, Major, you really ought to come visit London some time. We may not have Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman live in concert but there’s still a great deal of jazz to be enjoyed.”

“Please, you can call me Rosie if you’d like.” He smiled softly and you nodded in response, not wanting to have been so bold without his permission. “You stationed that close that you can just pop into the jazz clubs?”

You nodded quickly. “White Waltham, near Windsor Castle. Very short train ride. Used to fly with the Spitfire girls out of Southampton but I wanted a chance to fly the twin engines…maybe even someday I’ll get inside a Halifax or a Lanc…but that was definitely not going to happen in a ferry pool right next to the Spitfire factory flying only short-range flights.”

“These four engine beasts are definitely a whole other ball game,” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder towards a B-17 looming behind him, dwarfing the Wellington with is height and breadth “would you still be alone?”

“ATA sends a flight engineer on four engine flights, but no co-pilot.”

He nodded thoughtfully, looking about to add something when the RAF repair crew suddenly emerged, grinning in satisfaction.

“Should be all set Ma’am, care to give it a whirl?”

Nodding quickly, you looked to your companion softly. “Thank you very much for an unexpectedly pleasant standby, Rosie.”

“My pleasure.” He responded with a grin, sliding to his feet and holding out his hand to pull you to yours.

Clipping your parachute in place on the back of your thighs, you slid on your helmet before climbing into the aircraft to try starting the engines. Running through an extended pre-flight check with one of the maintenance crew, they cleared you for take off, Rosie waving to you before driving off in the direction of the control tower. Beginning to taxi out, you could not help the grin as he returned to guide you down the runway, pulling off into the grass and waving once again from where he stood in the driver’s seat of his jeep.

Opening the cockpit window you shouted down to him, “See you in London, Rosie!” before taking off to the sound of his laughter.

To your delight, Rosie heeded your suggestion and made the trip to London – several times in fact, over the course of the winter, otherwise keeping in touch with you via letter. Despite the logical, cautious part of your brain demanding that you keep your feelings for him at bay, feelings that constantly threatened to swell and overwhelm you with each passing meeting and letter, you still found yourself constantly fretting for his safety. Awaiting his next contact, the next proof of life, with bated breath and firmly denied distraction whenever a friend or colleague would tease you about it.

How utterly rude it was of fate to throw such a perfect specimen in your path. Particularly one that could so very easily be taken away with the same rapidity. For not only was he breathtakingly handsome, but his understated confidence and capability in all things so far encountered simply made you yearn to discover his more hidden talents. To have survived so long in an occupation where the life expectancy was six-weeks, just forty-two days, and then sign up for a second tour after meeting his mission quota – yes, he’d had luck on his side thus far, but you had seen luck abandon far too many in the last few years.

The driving pace of your own worked helped distract you, undertaking training in the four engine Halifax bomber in December before the calendar turned to January 1945, and then onto February. Your commanding officer soon indicated you had nearly accumulated enough hours to begin flying Lancasters – much to your delight and eager anticipation. The pace of the production and demand on the frontlines required more ferry pilots for the British answer to the B-17 and you were more than ready to meet the challenge head on.

Not far into the month, however, you found yourself stranded near Diss on a weather delay, unable to fly back to White Waltham. With no trains until the next morning, you decided to hitch a ride to Thorpe Abbotts to take Rosie up on his standing offer to ‘drop by anytime.’ What greeted you, however, was a very concerned looking Crosby and no Rosie in sight. Sitting you down in the same spare office you had used to call in your emergency landing last October, the obviously under-slept man seemed to be having some difficulty getting down to the point.

“Major Crosby, I can assure you I am no stranger to the variety of outcomes of aerial combat, would you mind telling me as much as you are able before you asphyxiate from lack of oxygen?” You coaxed firmly, quite certain he had not taken a breath in over a minute as he paced anxiously in front of you.

His head jerked up at the sound of your voice and he nodded once before sinking heavily into the chair opposite you before taking a deep breath, to your minor relief, and beginning to speak.

“Rosie went up on a mission on the 3rd and we’ve had no news of him since he dropped out of formation.”

Your spine went completely rigid, snapping you almost painfully upright in your chair as you nodded in a cool, detached manner at the news. This. This was precisely the reason why you had been guarding your heart and fighting your feelings and putting every moment of wonderment and each smile of adoration you felt for the man in a small internal box for safe keeping. Because this very situation had seemed so very inevitable.

So why did it still hurt so damn much.

“No news is, is usually good news in these cases but it takes a while for us to hear…. well anything.”

You gulped once, twice in rapid succession as you nodded again before clearing your throat forcefully. “Well, Major, I have to go but,” grabbing a piece of paper from the desk, you scrawled the contact number for Ferry Pool No. 1, rapidly blinking as your eyes threatened to cloud over with tears “will you call if you hear anything? That you can share of course.”

“Of course I will, did you need a ride somewhere?”

You shook your head almost violently, looking forward to the walk to the pub in Diss, a good roadside cry would fix everything surely, before you had to show your face in public. Practically dashing out of there and off the base, you barely made it out of earshot of the gatehouse before your tears bubbled over. Fine lot of good all your cautious and careful planning had done you – you had been half a person in Rosie’s presence only to have the very emotions you willfully denied snap back at you tenfold now that he might very well be…and you never once got to see how his eyes might light up if you had told him how you really felt. Feel.

All the logic in the world could not save you now as you blindly sobbed your way towards town, stubbornly wiping at your nose with your handkerchief. If you had really lost him, a very real possibility that twisted your gut painfully and drew an extremely dramatic series of hitching sobs from your breast, he had deserved better. He had deserved to know that he was cherished and admired rather than just a friend to you, and on that front, you had failed so miserably you just might never forgive yourself.

The weeks of watchful waiting were long and painful. No news came, no messages awaited you at Pool Headquarters, no gossip on the bases you visited. Until the morning of the 26th when, to your great relief, and amusement, you learned that the man was alive and well, enjoying a hero’s stay in Moscow, of all places. The newspaper article quoting the absurd volume of vodka he had endured consuming brought a long-absent smile to your face and lightness to your chest, the news beating Major Crosby’s phone call by, at most, thirty minutes. All as you were on your way with your flight engineer to your first routine Lancaster ferry flight.

Climbing into the cockpit, you took the brief moment of solitude to close your eyes, inhaling deeply as you whispered words of gratitude to whatever higher entities had clearly been watching over him. Perhaps luck was never going to run out for Robert Rosenthal. Clearly you were a fool for thinking that was the eventuality here.

“Ma’am?” The timid voice of your flight engineer, Naylor – though everyone called him Tiny Tim for the young man hardly ever spoke above a whisper, pierced through your thoughts and you jolted back to reality quickly, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Let’s pop over to Wales and deliver this bird, shall we?” You did your best to display nothing but confidence in the task before you.

He smiled back with a nod, just as eager as you to get this great beast of a plane into the air. To say that heavies became the primary planes on your delivery roster would have been an overstatement, but they were most definitely a constant. As was the ever-present thought that someday soon you would find yourself face-to-face with Rosie once again and just how to handle that day of reckoning was certainly something you found impossible to decide upon.

Should you confess and apologize on sight? Wait for a few weeks for him to settle back into life on base before unloading your feelings onto him? Or continue on as you had before? The way your stomach plummeted like a wounded bird at the last option was a clear illustration of how impossible it would be to pretend you simply regarded him as a friend. But there was a growing fear as well. For all of your focus on concealing and compartmentalizing your own feelings, you had not once allowed yourself to consider how he might feel for you. Aside from some flattering comments that may have been construed as flirtatious, he had never displayed anything but the highest calibre of warmth and social graces towards you. But you found yourself constantly pondering just how Rosie might react to a confession of what had flickered into an irrepressible blaze in your chest.

In the end, you spent more time sitting with those concerns than those for his very well being, the unseasonable warmth of February continuing on into March, with more sunny days than you had grown accustomed to after living in England for so long. April was only a few days away on the calendar when your next ferry run took to you St. Mawgan to deliver a Lancaster to the RAF Overseas Aircraft Despatch Unit. Where exactly the aircraft’s journey would end was a point of mystery and you were admittedly envious of the pilot who would sit in the lefthand seat next and take it beyond the relative safety of England’s shores – territory that was strictly off limits to you as both a civilian and especially as a woman.

Parting with your flight Engineer Martens in the all-female WAAF mess, the girl avidly ensconced in a conversation comparing beaus with the girls stationed in Cornwall, you headed back out to pick up a damaged Spitfire that had just arrived from France, desperately in need of a visit to the repair depot. In the process of inspecting the aircraft, to ensure you knew precisely what damage you would be needing to overcome, a remarkably familiar voice broke through your concentration.

“She certainly still looks like a lady on the ground…rather mistreated, but definitely a lady nonetheless.”

Straightening and turning far too quickly, you cracked your head on the underside of the fuselage, earning a look of sympathy as his hands cupped your shoulders to pull you closer, out of danger of inflicting further harm to yourself.

“Rosie…” You whispered, staring at him, unable to stop your fingers from reaching out to brush his cheek, to confirm he was real.

The muscles of his face crinkled beneath your touch as he broke out into a smile, an expression you immediately echoed despite the unbidden prick of tears in the corners of your eyes.

“Hi there.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed sharply, face growing slightly solemn as he lay his hand atop yours, pressing your palm fully against his warm skin. “I’ve been a complete fool, and I’m not sure if you can forgive me.” You tilted your head, brows furrowing in bewilderment. “The world out there is dead set on tearing itself apart and I…” His tongue darted out to wet his lips nervously, an emotion you were quite confident you had never seen overcome him before. “The entire time I was struggling to get back here just to tell you. To tell you how much I care for you. You are much more than just a friend to me, and I was an idiot to think I was okay with putting this off until the war was over.”

Eyes widening as the man seemed to be stealing the very thoughts from your head and putting them into words before you even had the chance, you sniffled playful and wiped at a stray tear that had managed to sneak down your cheek. “Don’t you go taking all the credit now, Robert.” You chided warmly, earning a stunned look from him in return. “It has taken two complete fools to deny what we’ve become, wouldn’t you say?”

Huffing a soft laugh, Rosie conceded your point with a nod as he grasped the unbuckled ends of your leather flying helmet, tugging your face closer. “I love you, you incredible woman.”

Taking a notably shaky inhale, you nodded quickly, a few more tears spilling over. “I love you, too, Rosie.” You struggled to speak around the knot of emotions in your throat, fully intending to reciprocate with some sweet term of endearment, not quite certain you could manage.

Mercifully, his lips had the grace to press against yours and save you from trying to say anything more. Grasping the fleece collar of his bomber jacket, you pressed closer in the shadow of the plane you ought to be inspecting, but the Spitfire was doing a fine job of shielding you from prying eyes and five more minutes in the arms of the man you loved – yes, it was love – and had been separated from could easily be made up courtesy of the stiff tail wind you expected on your flight to Southampton.

The rasp of his facial hair made you shiver at the slightly ticklish sensation as he maintained a firm grip on your straps, delivering kiss after kiss as if to make up for lost time. An uncontrollable grin stretched across your lips, making it nearly impossible for him to continue and so he shifted to focus on erasing any trace of tears from your cheeks, only encouraging your grin to curl wider until you were simultaneously giggling and trembling at the feel of his moustache against your jaw.

“Someday, we’ll have a lot more time, and I’m going to spend every second of it kissing you…” His eyes were filled with a fiery intensity that made it awfully difficult to draw breath and you shifted forward to press your lips to his flushed cheek in turn.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Robert Rosenthal.” You nodded firmly as you pulled back, arching sharply as his hands slid to rest against your shoulder blades, his mouth landing on yours fiercely.

“First Officer, are you quite ready?!” The shrill bark of an encroaching member of St. Mawgan’s ground crew wrenched the pair of you apart as effectively as a physical intervention, a shared look of reluctance passing between you as you quickly straightened your clothing.

You noticed his eyes flick to your shoulders to admire your new rank badges.

“You’ve been busy.” He murmured and you smiled with quiet pride.

“Fly Lancasters now, too.” You nodded and pointed over his shoulder to the plane you had flown in that morning before turning to address your intruder as he called your name once more. “Nearly ready, thank you so much for your patience!” You poured on the sweetness in your tone, noting the way Rosie’s eyes narrowed slightly as they returned to your face.

Biting back a giggle you blew him a kiss before emerging around the nose to greet the harried RAF man. “Major Rosenthal of the USAAF has never seen a Spitfire before, he asked me to show him around.”

“Thank you again for your indulgence, Ma’am, they are definitely fine planes. But I will let you get on with it.” Rosie played his part admirably, the set of the intruder’s shoulders easing somewhat.

“Yes, yes, well we need you out of here in five.” He turned to look at the clipboard in his hand and your gaze met Rosie’s once more.

“It was my pleasure, Major. I’d best be off.”

“Of course.” He nodded firmly, eyes remaining locked on yours as he mouthed ‘love you’ making your heart lurch erratically for a few beats as you mouthed it back. “Safe flight.” You spoke aloud.

“You as well.”

Noting the RAF man was once again paying attention to his surroundings, you turned to finish your quick once over of the plane before stepping up onto the wing and slotting into the narrow cockpit before pulling the side flap closed and starting the engine. Once the coast was clear, you blew one last kiss to Rosie, laughing brightly as he made quite a show of catching it and tucking it into his pocket.

“Until next time!” He shouted and you nodded brightly, pulling the canopy closed.

Because there most definitely would be a next time for you and your man of endless luck, and that was something that you no longer wished to deny.

-------------------------

Masters of the Air Masterlist

Postscript - thank you ever so much to @precious-little-scoundrel for proofreading this for me!!

[softspeirs]

gosh, these prompts are just so fluffy, it makes me want to cry! 🥹

maybe these for whoever you're feeling in the moment:

❛ what, am i not allowed to look at you? ❜

❛ seeing you happy is all that matters. ❜

A/N: First, you asked for this so long ago, I'm sorry it took so long! I wanted to explore a lil reunion for Rosie and Grace after (one of the times) his plane goes down and he makes it back. I did a smidge of research for this, but to be clear, this isn't the time he lands in Russia that we see in the show. This is an earlier mission where he crash lands in France - p422 (? I think?) in Masters of the Air if you want to read more. I tweaked the dialogue of that second prompt just a tiny bit, hope that's okay. These Heartbeats Clear Masterlist

Seven. Wounded.

When Robert Rosenthal opens his eyes, for a moment he doesn't remember where he is. There's a brief unsettling moment of sheer panic where he tries to get his bearings, tries to sit up and tries to remember what's happened to him in the last 48 hours.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." A voice says. American. He sighs in relief.

An unfamiliar worried face swims into his vision. "Major Rosenthal?"

"What--" His throat hurts, his entire body hurts, and he stops trying to talk.

"You've been asleep for almost two days."

"Where am I?"

"Please, try to relax. You're safe. You're in Oxford."

Now that he hears the words, he remembers loud, urgent voices, he remembers flashing lights and the feeling of being manhandled around. It doesn't do much to quell the fear rising in his gut. "My crew."

"They're fine. Some wounded, but everyone's going to be okay." She moves around the bed with quick, sure steps, checking his chart before meeting his eyes again. "You've got a broken arm and a few broken ribs, Major. Now that you're awake, we'd just like to monitor you for a few hours and then we can talk about a transport back to your base."

He nods, thanking her, and she smiles before disappearing down a corridor, leaving him to his thoughts. His mind is slow, fuzzy, but there's one thought blaring like an alarm louder than anything else - he needs to find a way to call Grace.

He swore to her a long time ago that he'd never give her a reason to think he wasn't coming back. He has no idea if anyone knows he and his crew are here.

He also has a panicked thought that he won't be able to fly again, not if they were helped the French resistance. He forces himself to take deep breaths and tries to beat back the anxiety fluttering in his ribcage.

"Rosie?" A familiar voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he tries to sit up before pain laces up his spine, making him wince.

"Croz?"

Harry's worried face peeks around the curtain. "Jesus." He says, making Rosie wonder what he must look like.

"What are you doing here?"

"We got a call. Wasn't going to let you guys walk back to Thorpe Abbotts, was I?" He takes a few steps closer, scraping a chair closer to the bed before sitting down. He looks exhausted. "I volunteered to come get you."

"How long--"

"It's been five days since the mission." Harry rubs a hand over his face. "Can't begin to tell you how lucky you were, Rosie."

It starts to hit him, how close he was to not coming back. He doesn't even remember the plane going down, not entirely. He has no memory of being rescued. He feels strangely guilty. He's the one that's supposed to lead and help his crew when he can.

"Have you talked to a doctor?" Harry asks.

Rosie shakes his head. "Not yet, just a nurse. Obviously I can't do much with this--" He struggles to shrug with his injured arm in a sling.

"It'll be fine. Desk duty until you're well."

"Croz, you know I hate--"

"You can't fly like that, Rosie. Technically you should be pulled from duty altogether."

Rosie clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down. It's not Harry's call, even though he knows he's right. He's going to do everything he can to get back in the seat again, even if he has to get demoted to do it.

.

He discharges himself so he can leave with his crew and with Crosby and hitch a ride back to base. The doctor fixes him with a stern look as he does it, but he must see the determination on Rosie's face, and just tells him to take it easy for the next few weeks.

Fat chance of that.

"Stop looking at me like that." He grouses to Harry as they bounce along the road back to Thorpe Abbotts, Rosie biting back a wince with grit teeth as the road jostles his muscles uncomfortably.

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

Harry has long stopped trying to convince Rosie of anything, just like Rosie has stopped trying to tell him to get more sleep or eat more. They're all just doing whatever they can to survive at this point. The cost of it all is secondary.

"I'll save the lecture for Grace." He mutters.

Rosie's head snaps up. "Is she--"

"Worried sick? Probably, but you know her. Once she knew you were alive, she went from worried to furious."

"Not like I had any say in the matter," Rosie counters, voice dry. "Didn't try asking them not to shoot at us, though."

Harry smiles, shaking his head. "You know what I mean. Angry at the circumstances. Frustrated with herself for being emotional. That's Grace."

That's Grace. And isn't that the truth. Rosie can't help but smile softly, because he knows Harry is right - he's going to get an earful when he gets back. But he must be a masochist, because he's almost looking forward to it - it means she cares. Not that he's ever had any reason to doubt that.

The truck rumbles along for miles. Rosie hadn't thought about how long it would take them to get back to the base, but he tries to close his eyes and get relatively comfortable until they arrive.

He hears the noise of the gates and opens his eyes to find the sun nearly down. There's a big commotion as they enter and he takes a deep breath to try to get his bearings.

"We'll go to command first, and then to the infirmary. You'll probably have to sleep there." Harry says groggily.

They're let out in front of the command building, Jack Kidd already there waiting for him along with the Colonel. Both look like they haven't slept in days. A few paces behind them is Grace, and the sight of her softens Rosie, makes his shoulders lose their tension. He meets her eyes and tries for a smile, but he thinks it comes off as more of a grimace.

Grace, for her part, is restraining herself. She feels a mixture of relief and anger wash over her at the sight of him, arm in a sling and bruises and cuts littering his handsome face. He looks exhausted, and she's sure she looks much the same.

She knows being angry is the wrong thing. It's not his fault he got shot down, after all. Really, she's angry at herself. She's angry at her heart, at the way it plummeted to her feet when she heard the news that his plane didn't come back, and she's angrier that every day since confirms to her what she already knows: she's in love with him.

And that's as terrifying as it is liberating, because there's a very real chance he could break her heart, whether he means to or not. (She knows that Robert Rosenthal doesn't have a cruel bone in his body, but sometimes, in war, the choice isn't his)

"Jesus Christ, Rosie." Jack says quietly, voice heavy. "I--" He takes a deep breath, and seems to remember what he needs to do. "It's good to see you back. We need to go to interrogation."

"The crew isn't ready--"

Kidd shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Rosie, but the quicker we do this, the better. It's already been a few days."

"Who's back?"

"Maddox, Rubick, Palmer, and Hartos. The others won't be back until tomorrow, but we'll debrief them then. I don't want to wait an extra day."

Jack looks over his shoulder, and Rosie is sure he catches an apologetic look on his face that's there and gone quickly as he sees Grace there. "Twenty minutes, then go to the infirmary." He says as he turns back to Rosie. "Let's go."

The interrogation is as grueling as Rosie expected. He's glad to see some of the members of his crew again. Despite his brain telling him that none of this is his fault, his heart can't help but beat wildly, flooding him with guilt as they give their account of what happened after they went down, when Rosie was knocked unconscious.

It feels like hours before he's trudging towards the infirmary, luckily only a few steps away from the interrogation hut.

The door is opening before he arrives, and Grace's worry-filled face fills his vision. "Grace." Her name leaves his mouth without his permission, his tone exhausted, but full of emotion.

She swallows hard. "Major." Her tone is relieved and... frustrated. He's not surprised, but he hopes she'll spare him Nurse Grace and instead give him the Grace he's been dreaming of for days, though he knows it's selfish, knows that she has a job to do.

He sees the doctor hovering behind her. She opens the door wider so he can come through.

All he wants is to be alone with her. He wants to tell her he's sorry, he wants to tell her that she was on his mind every second, that she is one of the reasons not only that he gets in the seat, but the reason he comes home.

Home.

The exam is quick, thankfully. They took good care of him in Oxford. The doctor leaves Grace to administer pain meds and do the paperwork, and it's only when they're finally alone that he sees the emotion on her face, though she's trying valiantly to hide it.

With each injury she catalogues, her face hardens. Her eyes meet his as she tilts his face up to dab a cooling salve on a bruise forming on his orbital bone.

"You have a look on your face." He says quietly.

"What, I'm not allowed to look at you?" She asks, and he can see how she's trying so hard to hold it together. Pretending. Pretending this is all business for her. He wishes she wouldn't.

"I'm sorry." He croaks, throat dry from overuse.

"Please don't apologize," she says, expression suddenly stricken, as if she realizes what she must look and sound like. "You didn't--" She stops herself, eyes closing for a moment as she gathers her professionalism. "I'm just so relieved you're alive." She whispers. "I'm not angry at you. I'm upset... I'm angry at the war. At these circumstances. That you're hurt--" She stops herself.

He wishes more than anything he had the use of both his arms. He settles for reaching out with one hand, thankful when she doesn't hesitate to take it, lacing their fingers together.

"I never want you to worry." He says, and it's the truth, even though they both know it's pointless.

She shrugs. "Comes with the territory, Major." She squeezes his hand. Her voice lowers to a whisper. "Worry happens naturally when you love someone."

His pulse pounding in his ears is all he can hear. He feels like the world tilts on its axis and then rights itself, all at once.

"Maybe it's too soon or too big for me to say it, but I don't want you to fly ever again without knowing it." She says, voice strong this time. He loves her for it.

He loves her.

He tugs her a little closer and she seems to understand, her face softening as she stands as close as she can, leaning down to meet him halfway. He tries to tell her how he feels when he kisses her gently, mindful of the black eye he's sure he's sporting and the soreness of his cheekbone. His hand leaves hers in favor of cradling her jaw, and the sigh that leaves her is music to his ears.

"Of course I love you." He murmurs, barely a centimeter between them when they break apart. "Probably have for a long time, Grace."

She pulls herself away, just for a moment, and starts to tidy up the triage area where he sits with her. He recognizes what she's doing and gives her the space she needs to gather herself, to come to terms with whatever she needs to. He's relieved at least that the smile hasn't left her face.

"Winning this war and seeing you happy are just about all that matter to me anymore." He admits, and watches as she stops what she's doing to turn back to face him.

"I just want to be sure I'm not a distraction for you."

He shakes his head. "No."

"Rosie, I'm--"

He shakes his head again, cutting her off. "Grace, you don't think I'm going to let you tell me you love me and then push me away, do you?" He tilts his head to one side.

"That's not what I'm doing. I promise."

"Then come over here and let me kiss you again."

She smiles, and he swears to himself that he's going to be responsible for that smile on her face every day, for as long as he can help it. He has no doubt that they have some trials ahead, but they have each other, and sometimes the will of the heart is stronger than anything else.

[rosienthal]

looks like daddy loves the story so much he decided to read the rest of it after the kid's asleep.

[beingalive1]

Bibi And Her Blue-Eyed Baby ⎯ Pt. 2

Rosie Rosenthal x Oc [Batya Bernstein]

Part 1: Here

Summary: Coerced by Harry Crosby to sing at Captain Dye's 25th mission celebration, Batya spends her evening crooning on stage. Her dulcet tones enchanting everyone around her. Finally calling it a night Batya runs into someone unexpected as she breaks for the door, her toe almost breaking in the process...At least her attacker sounds rather guilty.

Author's Note: Ok so I sad a couple of days - I lied. I'm a woman obsessed so here is another chapter! Hope you enjoy x

September 20th, 1943

The evening had come too quickly. Frozen fingers gripping the singular telephone belonging to the entirety of the female officer dorms – manicured red fingernails shining as she gripped the cord with a newfound sense of cold. Even inside the confines of her dorm she couldn’t feel her ears, the scarf tightly wrapped around her face doing nothing to quell the icy breeze of the English air. Nights like these made her miss New York and her apartment’s central heating.

Her father’s voice transcended through the earpiece; it was too late to be listening to such loud exclamations. How stupid she was for leaving home and joining the war effort. How disappointed he was. How the Rabbi was no longer joining them for breaking of the fast on Yom Kippur due to her terrible behaviour. How he would most definitely have to build a second structural addition to the synagogue in order to make up for such a blunder. He briefly had mentioned her mother: how her mama had not stopped crying in multiple rooms of their apartment staining his new white fringe carpets. Batya assumed she had about ten more minutes of him shouting about shame and the rabbi before he eventually gave up trying to convince her to jump on the next boat back home and ask her what she was having for dinner. She’d tell him she was having whatever the cooks at the mess hall were making, he’d get upset again and rant for another ten minutes.

She’d been dealing with the same scenario for the last year. 

Holding the telephone in her left hand and a cigarette in her right, Batya balanced the earpiece of the phone precariously between her ear and the dirty white dorm room wall. Her eyes drifted around the metal tin box she had called home since she had been shipped over to Thorpe Abbots in the winter months of early 1942. It was unnaturally quiet without the poignant rush of the other girls. Her fellow officers most likely dancing the evening away in their sensible heels down at the officer’s club. She longed to be there. Her father’s speech of shame continued on in her ear. 

Abandoning her park avenue apartment and condemning her parents to a never-ending cycle of shame within the community, Batya had joined the war effort with a smile upon her red-rimmed lips. She was an Air-traffic operator and a damn good one at that. Her dulcet tones no longer crooning across a jazz club in downtown New York, but guiding her many pilots through take-offs and landings onto the cold tarmac of Thorpe Abbots air base. She leaned on the dorm room wall; hair tucked up into what her mother would surely dub as an “unflattering” bun. Her khaki dress uniform tight upon her figure. Thanks to good old President Roosevelt she had finally been granted a rank along with a pretty little badge upon the lapel of her uniform jacket. Second Lieutenant Bernstein. She thought it sounded pretentious, but it gave her first dibs on the red-cross donuts ahead of the other girls every morning, so she didn’t mind it too much. Helen, one of the red cross girls, had told Batya she looked professional with her bronze badge. Batya figured Helen just wanted a friend with a higher ranking than most of the male officers. 

Perks of the job.  

Her father’s time spent raving about her choices in life had finally come to an end. Batya had briefly said goodbye with horribly pathetic kissing noises and a poignant slam of the telephone onto its hook. She had places to be. A crowd to impress. Stepping out of the freezing interior of her dorm and into the even cooler exterior of Thorpe Abbots air base, Batya made her way to the officer’s club with a brisk pace. Her hands stuffed so deeply within her pockets she could feel the rough stitching of her dress jacket. She silently cursed whoever had made it compulsory for female officers to wear a sensible skirt and stockings with their dress jackets in favour of her comfortable tweed work trousers.  It must have been a man, only a man would think woman would prefer to freeze their assess off in the icy tundra that is the English Countryside. 

She heard him before she saw him.

The faint sound of his atrocious voice paired with the crushing noise of gravel under rubber tyres echoed through her ears. She continued on walking. Maybe if she pretended to ignore him, he’d drive past her. She heard the sound of the vehicle coming to a halt. Her eyes meeting his cheeky grin with a slight turn of her head. She was never so lucky. ‘Songbird.’ He greeted cheerfully, his tone dripping with excitement. She briefly wondered what he would do if she stopped and lay down in the path of his jeep’s tyres. Hopefully drive. 

Deciding that taking a ride in his jeep would get her to the officer’s club and out of the cold much quicker than walking in her uncomfortable heels, she climbed carefully into the passenger’s seat. He took off without haste. A cloud of dust formed in their wake. They drove swiftly across base, headlights illuminating the greenery of the surrounding English farmland. He lent across from his seat and reached towards the console placed in front of her person: two cigarettes. He held his face towards her as she lit the one placed within his mouth. ‘So,’ he began, his eyes stilling upon her figure before drifting back to the road. ‘heard you singing tonight.’

Her fingers found their place wrapped around her cigarette. The warm smoke emulating from her mouth a small aid in her fight against the cold. Her scarf blowing in the breeze behind her. If she were with anyone else it would seem almost romantic, an evening drive around the countryside, but she was with him. He wouldn’t know romance if it hit him in the face. ‘Yeah,’ she replied coyly, ‘you jealous?’ 

He laughed, a rough sound breaking through the stillness of their surroundings. ‘No’ he exclaimed, his chuckle still resounding through his words, ‘excited to hear you is all. Crosby’s been raving about you for a week now.’ 

Harry Crosby. The unlucky navigator had been in charge of the decorating committee for the little soiree they were on their way to. Celebrating Captain Glenn Dye completing his 25th mission. Hearing rumours about her enchanting voice from the red cross girls: Crosby had asked her to sing. She would have been ecstatic to preform again if it was for anyone else; but Captain Dye had given her dormmate Susan the clap and she was secretly hoping he’d be medically prevented from flying for weeks now. No such luck. The bastard came back unscathed. ‘Well,’ She sighed her eyes drifting to the officer’s club as it flew into view, ‘hope it lives up to your expectations Major.’ 

They screeched to a halt, her feet already on the ground by the time he had ran around the jeep to help her out. Major John Egan shook his head at her with a smile. ‘You, Bernie, never fail to make a gentleman feel small.’ It was said as a compliment, but the use of her nickname made her roll her eyes in frustration. She grabbed his arm roughly, he chuckled. Bernie. A new nickname given to her by one of her many pilots. They had been rather shocked at the realisation that their flight operator was a woman, but had quickly warmed up to her brash and sarcastic commentary. She had a sneaky suspicion it had to do with the pilot whose arm she held at this very moment. He had always seemed rather forward thinking. She might’ve even had found him chivalrous - if he wasn’t so downright annoying.  

Her red fingernails tapped his cheek in farewell, ‘See you later Johnny boy.’  A smile breaking out upon her face as she entered the warmth of the club. Removing her scarf, she placed it on the overrun hatstand by the club’s entrance door. The stand tilting slightly due to the sheer number of coats upon its hooks. He hated being called Johnny, but she figured it was a fair trade for the hideous name he and his crewmates had given her. Colonel Harding had been extremely confused as to why they were calling her by a man’s name; it had taken two meetings and five cups of coffee to reassure the Colonel that it was merely a nickname and that no man named Bernie was helping her in the radio tower. 

She almost killed Egan.

Her eyes caught the group of women she had been looking for: khaki uniforms of her fellow officers and the blue tint of red cross badges shining brightly in the warm light of the club. They cheered as she caught their eye; her girls welcoming her with a pat on her back and a cold iced martini thrusted into the palm of her hand. She sipped it slowly, the bitter taste bright upon her tongue. 

‘So’ began Helen, her face flushed due to the heat of the room and most definitely a few gin and tonics, ‘How was your talk with your dad?’ Helen’s voice, tinted with warmth and interest, was loud throughout the rush of the room. The small woman definitely succeeding in being heard despite the chaos of the club. 

Batya sighed as she swirled her drink. Ice tinkling against the sides of her glass as she thought back to her previous conversation. ‘Same old same old.’ She started, her finger immediately cooled as it entered her drink and fished out its olive garnish. ‘My mother is moments away from a self-inflicted stroke. The rabbi still hasn’t forgiven them. I’m a disappointment to my family. Normal father-daughter conversation.’ She popped the garnish into her mouth, the bitterness of her drink mixed with the tarte of the olive set her tastebuds alight.

Helen nodded in recognition. She was far from unaware of Batya’s status as the black sheep of the Bernstein family. Her eyes drifted around the room. ‘Well you didn’t miss much.’ She sighed airily, her hand gesturing vaguely to a group of men across the room. Batya didn’t bother turning to look. ‘We were only scoping out the new replacements that arrived this morning. There was this dancer guy that we thought you might’ve liked. Absolute twinkle toes. He looked Jewish, think his name was Ros-‘ Her sentence was cut off by a new arrival at their table. 

He looked flushed. His hair in disarray as he smiled widely at them. ‘Ladies,’ he greeted, his eyes jumping immediately towards Batya’s figure. ‘Bat.’ His head tilted awkwardly towards the stage. She briefly thought he resembled a cartoon character, his face screwed up into an expression she could only describe as mild guilt. She nodded in defeat. The blaring melody of the band tittering to a close as they made their way towards the wooden stage. The palm of his hand wrapped around hers as he led her up the stairs, her red lips drifting towards his ear. ‘You owe me for this Cros.’ He only nodded in resignation, his eyes easily conveying his day-old promise of buying her a drink after her performance.

She’d force him to buy her multiple. 

He swiftly made his way back down the stairs resembling that of a man fleeing a burning building. Her hand wrapped around the base of the microphone. A few of her pilots whistled, she smirked wildly as her eyes met Captain Dye’s across the room. ‘Before I begin, I just want to say congratulations to Captain Dye for achieving his 25th successful mission.’ Her voice echoed over the cheers. ‘Hope everyone clapped when your plane landed safely.’ Clapped. Even from across the hall she could see the burning of the Captain’s ears. Only a few people in this room would understand her peculiar choice of diction. Somewhere within the crowd Major Egan laughed loudly. She adjusted herself on stage, clearing her throat, ‘this one goes out to all of you lover boys out there searching for someone to spend your Saturday nights with. It’s a little song I wrote myself called "Bibi and her blue-eyed baby". Hope you all enjoy.’ The sound of trumpets burst through the air. The crowd roared with a fury.

She sang five songs before calling it a night. The incessant whines of the crowd only increasing when she happily told them that Major Egan would be taking her place on stage. It had made her laugh, a rare smile perched upon her lips as the sound of Blue Skies began to swirl through the room. She minced her way to the bar, the grin remaining upon her face as Crosby handed her a martini. He seemed relieved, the apparent stress of organising such a party and entertainment seemingly melting off of him as he leaned against the wooden counter.  

They spoke for about an hour, her eyes eventually drifting away from the bar and onto the now almost deserted dance floor. Helen seemed to be dancing with a handsome soldier whom Batya had not seen before; must have been a replacement. The smile upon the red cross woman’s face enough for Batya to decide against asking Helen to join her on her walk home. Batya instead headed towards the club’s entrance on her lonesome. Crosby’s promise of buying her another drink tomorrow evening wafting over her ears as she reached for the club’s brass doorhandles. The cool metal of the handle felt icy against the palm of her hand. 

The door opened from the outside swiftly, the wooden frame colliding briefly with her left toe as she stumbled backwards to avoid it. She cursed under her breath. Her head faced downwards towards her now most definitely blackened toe. Pain radiating up her shin as she willed herself not to hop on one foot like a child. ‘Oh god! I am so so sorry!’ A hand reached out and gently perched upon her elbow. The voice of her attacker rambling on as he helped her into the nearest chair he could find. ‘I don’t know why I was in such a rush. First night on base and I’m already injuring pretty officers. These doors should never open both ways I mean that’s just dangerous. You could sue. I would know I’m a lawyer, or I was one before the war –‘ She looked up at him, his ramblings coming to a swift halt at the sight of her face. 

 Through the haze of martinis and aching pain her mind vaguely registered a khaki uniform and a pilot’s badge upon his jacket. Her gaze drifting up and up until she met a pair of eyes. Her entire body froze. 

Two years later. 

Thousands of miles away from New York. 

Here he was, wearing a uniform of a pilot and slamming a door into her toe. 

Her Blue-eyed baby. 

Hashem help her. 

Yiddish/Jewish terms dictionary: • 'Yom Kippur' - incredibly high holy day. The day of fasting and asking G-d for repentance and forgiveness for any wrongdoings you have committed in the past year. Breaking of the fast is a huge deal - inviting the rabbi and him showing up is basically the jewish equivalent of winning an Oscar. • 'Hashem' - word for G-d meaning 'the name.' [If there are any parts of yiddish/jewish diction you are ever mildly confused about - never be afraid to ask! Happy to explain x ]

Authors note: thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! This is also posted on my AO3 if any of you prefer reading there: username is All_the_small_things. Link is here. [If you would like to be tagged in any future chapters - drop a note in the comments xx]

[cetaitlaverite]

Why All This Music? - Deleted Scene

Masters of the Air - Rosie Rosenthal x OC

hiii <3 another long awaited bonus chapter!! the only context you really need for this is that it is the first meeting from chapter 1 but from rosie's pov and, i suppose, if you're not following my other mota fic (ata) then it might help to know that alice, who features at the beginning of this deleted scene, is from there, a friend of my other oc, stella.

hope you loveeeee <3 masterlist is here

Freddie and Rosie's First Meeting From Rosie's Point of View

As Rosie adjusted to his new life at Thorpe Abbotts, he kept catching himself drafting up letters in his head of what he would write to his mother and sister about it; the lively parties in the officers’ club and the fancy officers’ mess with its tablecloths and table service, the whirlwind of trying to learn so many names and keep them reliably attached to faces, the sheer size of the airfield and the quaint little village it was attached to, the Red Cross girls and the ATA pilots and the wireless operators and the many, many American airmen.

It wasn’t what he’d been expecting and yet, somehow, it was exactly what he’d been hoping for.

And, no, he’d tell his mother and sister dutifully, indulgently, preempting their prying questions, he hadn’t fallen in love yet. His sister had joked about him returning home with a British girl on his arm and his mother had worried that instead he’d decide to stay in England, so head over heels he’d trade the life he loved at home for whichever one his sweetheart wanted. But his mother had little to fear, he’d assure her; he hadn’t met anyone like that.

Not, of course, for lack of trying on part of one ATA pilot. Her name was Alice and she was nice enough - she’d be another man’s dream, Rosie knew, but unfortunately she wasn’t his. He couldn’t altogether articulate why; she was pretty and smart and funny, had buckets of personality and confidence, and, of course, she was a pilot, which gave them common ground. It was more just that Rosie knew himself and he knew, as he always had, that when he met the right person he would know. It was why he’d never gone all the way with the previous girlfriends he’d had who his family had loved and who had, for all intents and purposes, been real catches. He hadn’t felt it yet. Really, he didn’t even know what it was supposed to feel like. But he would know it when he found it, of this much he was sure. And he hadn’t found it just yet.

Right now, with the warm light of the officers’ club dancing in her eyes, Alice of the ATA was making another valiant attempt at flirting with him as they stood by the bar. Rosie was smiling politely at her, blushing occasionally when she was bolder with her compliments, and sipping intermittently from his beer. All around he was enveloped by conversation and music, the band at the far end of the room playing a raucous tune which had many of the Red Cross girls swept up by partners.

But, in spite of the noise, the room wasn’t quite full yet; the wireless operators weren’t here. Rosie noticed because he’d found in Millie Harlow something of a friend - and one who didn’t try to flirt with him, at that. And the first time they’d met a couple of nights ago she’d told him about her best friend who was away on leave but who she promised he would just adore, and apparently this best friend was back at the airfield today.

As though orchestrated by the composer in the corner or else divined by some higher being, the door to the officers’ club was flung open right then and most everyone’s attention, willingly or otherwise, was diverted towards it. Because through the door spilled a sparkling, giggly crowd of wireless operators, their arms all flung around each other, their red-painted lips split wide with smiles. Some of them were cheering, others were calling to each other, and at the front of the group were Millie and her friend Jem, holding on tightly to a girl Rosie hadn’t met yet.

She was startlingly pretty, this girl, the one Millie must have been talking about the other night. With dark hair and warm brown eyes, full lips and dimples in her cheeks, Rosie realised quite suddenly that he was staring. It was impossible not to, really, and he certainly wasn’t the only one, but while most everyone else was staring that way because some of the other girls were shouting about war heroes and Victoria Crosses, Rosie was staring that way because there was some sort of magnetic force keeping his eyes stuck there, like if he looked away he’d miss out on the best moments of his life, like if he even blinked he’d never again lay eyes on anything that made him feel this way, warm and excited and alive.

“Ladies!” called Major Egan, standing up straight from where he’d been leaning back against the bar with Major Cleven a little ways away from Rosie. “There you are. We been missing you!”

“Looking this good takes time, Major,” Millie replied with a smirk and a conspiratorial pat to his shoulder as she passed.

The girl under her arm grinned, glancing at Millie with her eyes all lit up with fondness and good humour.

“Rosie,” Alice said from in front of Rosie, clicking her fingers in his face to divert his attention back to her. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh.” Rosie cleared his throat, refocusing his eyes on her but not quite getting the hang of forcing them to stay there. Every few seconds they would flick up over her shoulder to Millie’s friend where she was swept up into the conversation of the big group in the middle of the bar, smiling and rolling her eyes as she conversed with Majors Egan and Cleven and the other wireless operators and whichever other airmen managed to get a word in. “Sorry.”

“I was saying,” Alice began, but Rosie’s ears were pricking.

“For her,” Jem was correcting, her eyes narrowed on Major Egan. “Freddie’s our war hero.” She inclined her head in the direction of the new girl with the dimples and the eyes.

“Or heroine, I suppose,” added a different girl - Amy, he thought, who had also tried to flirt with him on his first night - winking in the first girl’s direction.

Freddie, Rosie thought, considering the name in his head. It seemed strange, a boy’s name for a girl that pretty, but somehow it also suited her. There was a sweetness to it that echoed in the gentle twitch of her lips and the pink hue in her cheeks as she blushed at the attention, and a musicality to it, too. Freddie. His lips noiselessly formed the word, trying it out for size.

He watched on, grinning, as one of the other wireless operators, the one with the thick Irish accent, started to explain just what had transpired earlier to gain Freddie her war hero status. His eyes were stuck to her as she fidgeted and shook her head, as though shooing away the praise, and as her eyes dipped to her shoes and she scrunched up her face in embarrassment.

“After a dogfight,” the Irish girl was explaining, “a German fighter must’ve gotten himself disoriented. He was flying over England but had convinced himself it was France. When I started receiving him on the radio I had no idea what to do, of course, and I started panicking and damn near started crying because I was so scared. But then Freddie - who, it turns out, speaks perfect German - took the receiver from me and started directing this German fighter in like she does it everyday. Cool and calm as you like, she guides him in, and then the second he’s down we’ve got him caught and captured and his plane is being taken in for analysis and now we have the newest German fighter in our hands to find out how it works.”

Rosie drank all this information in like it was water and he was stranded in a desert.

Amy leaped in to add, “Say what you like, but our RAF fighters are going to owe a lot to our Freddie when they know how to dogfight these new German Messers because we have one of them.”

“Yeah, well, we’re hoping we’ll know a lot about the German Air Force in general when the brass have finished interrogating the Jerry who fell for the whole charade,” commented Jem with a wry smirk.

“Well,” started Major Egan, grinning, clapping his hands together, “seems like maybe you really do need a drink, Fred.”

Fred. Her friends called her Fred.

Adorable.

“Rosie,” Alice complained from in front of him.

His eyes snapped back to her, heat creeping up his cheeks. He’d forgotten she was standing there. “Sorry,” he said hastily. “I’m just a little out of it tonight.”

“I’d say so,” Alice agreed with a bitter laugh. “Freddie Leroy caught your eye, has she?”

Rosie flushed harder. He’d been so focused on listening into the conversation about Freddie, on keeping his eyes on her, he hadn’t thought to even attempt subtlety.

“Leroy,” he said, without meaning to say it. Her last name was Leroy.

Alice rolled her eyes. “Yes, Freddie Leroy. One of the wireless operators.” She shifted on her feet, agitated. “Anyway, what I was saying was…”

“Beer?” Millie was asking Freddie Leroy, inching her way closer to the bar towards where Rosie was standing.

“Lemonade,” Freddie corrected.

Rosie chuckled softly under his breath.

Millie scowled. “No.”

Suddenly, Freddie was frowning. It was so utterly precious Rosie’s heart ached, coiled tight, like a dish towel being wrung out within an inch of its life, its water pouring into the sink. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” Freddie asked.

“I mean ‘no’,” Millie answered steadily. “I’m not buying you lemonade.”

“Why not?!”

“You can have beer or you can have wine.”

“I’ll buy it myself, then.”

Alice had stopped talking when Rosie next looked down at her. She had an expectant look on her face, clearly waiting for a reply to whatever she’d been saying, and all Rosie could do was offer an apologetic smile. It wasn’t like him to be this rude but he was powerless to stop it. There was something about that girl, Freddie, that wouldn’t let him rest, not while she was in the same room as him, within looking and hearing distance, not while there was the potential that he might talk to her.

“Sorry,” Rosie said again, resting both of his hands on Alice’s shoulders and giving them a gentle, friendly squeeze. “Will you excuse me?”

Alice deflated, like she knew what was happening. “You’re not interested in me at all, are you?” she asked, upfront and matter-of-fact as ever.

Once more, Rosie’s answering smile was apologetic. “I think you’re great,” he told her, and meant it. “And I think you’re gonna be some guy’s dream.”

“But not yours,” Alice deduced.

Rosie gave her shoulders one more gentle squeeze. “But not mine,” he agreed.

Sighing, Alice shrugged. Rosie’s hands fell away from her. She gave him a tight, though not disingenuous, smile. “Go get her, then, I suppose. Good luck.”

Smiling, Rosie nodded. “Thanks.”

When Alice left, Millie was quick to step into the space she’d vacated, trying to find space at the bar. Rosie knew he would have to be quick if he wanted to buy Freddie her drink before Millie did, so he sought out a couple of lower ranking airmen and stepped in beside them, and they let him order before them without a second thought. He would have to remember their faces, he thought as he ordered, and buy them all a drink later in thanks.

By the time he had ordered and paid for the lemonade, Freddie had only moved a little bit. As Rosie came up behind her he caught the tail end of her conversation - which was, apparently, still about lemonade.

“Exactly,” Freddie was saying to Major Egan and Jem, “and hotshot wireless operators drink lemonade.”

“No,” Jem replied, laughing, “we don’t.”

If there was ever going to be a gap in the conversation, Rosie knew this was it. Mustering all the courage and all the confidence he had inside of him, he drew in a deep breath and held out the glass of lemonade towards her, then ventured, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

Freddie turned and her eyes landed on him, wide and curious, warm and beautiful. She had to tilt her head back a little bit to meet his eyes and the angle made the light spill over her perfectly, like an angel in a Renaissance painting. She was even more startlingly beautiful up close.

Rosie’s heart squeezed before it resumed its beating.

“Hi,” Freddie greeted softly in what was almost a chirp.

“Hi,” Rosie replied, almost dazed under her attention. He had to shake his head slightly to clear it and refocus. “I hope you don’t mind, ma’am, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation and I thought - well, here’s your lemonade.” He offered the glass to her again, blushing as he fumbled his words.

“Oh,” Freddie said, accepting the glass of lemonade from him. Her fingers were warm where they grazed lightly against his even though he’d been careful to try not to place his hand in a place which would force her to touch him. “Thank you,” she added shyly, politely.

Rosie smiled. His heart was racing, loud and insistent in his ears. “Nothing at all, ma’am.”

Freddie hesitated, her wide eyed gaze uncertain and almost a little bit panicked, like she had no idea what to do with herself, so Rosie took a step back. He didn’t want to force her into a conversation she didn’t want to have, didn’t want her to feel trapped, so he inclined his head in farewell first to her and then turned to Majors Egan and Cleven by the bar.

“I’m Freddie,” Freddie blurted suddenly, and he turned right back.

Her voice was high-pitched and hasty, like she’d only decided to speak at the very moment she’d started to. She was blushing, like she hated the sound.

Rosie could only grin, unspeakably endeared. “Nice to meet you, Freddie,” he answered, revelling in the first time he properly got to say her name aloud. “I’m Rosie.” Belatedly, he wondered whether he should have introduced himself using his first name but the thought disappeared when Freddie smiled shyly, gazing at him from beneath her eyelashes.

“Rosie,” she repeated. “That’s a sweet name.”

Rosie smiled wider, brightening under the compliment. His eyes were stuck on the reappearance of her dimples. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, sure he was staring. “Comes from my last name - Rosenthal.”

Freddie nodded, then hastened to respond, “You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am’. Just Freddie is fine.” She shrugged one shoulder. “That’s how everyone knows me.”

“Alright,” Rosie conceded, trying not to smile too wide. “Freddie it is.”

He paused, searching desperately for something to say to keep her here for even a moment longer. He may as well have never had an interesting thought in his life. He could ask her about her German, about why she spoke it and whether she liked it, whether it caused her problems to speak a language so hated in England, but then he’d give away that he’d been eavesdropping. So maybe he could ask her about where she’d gone on leave. That seemed like a reasonable thing to reveal he knew about her, because he hadn’t seen her around before tonight.

“So, uh,” he began with a palpable degree of awkwardness. “They said you were on leave?”

“Yes,” Freddie confirmed, fiddling with the straw in her drink. “I went home for three days, to Oxford.”

Oxford. Rosie committed it to memory. Freddie Leroy, a German-speaking, lemonade-drinking wireless operator from Oxford.

“That must’ve been nice,” he told her. He hated how he suddenly had so very little to say. She must have thought he was so, so boring.

Mercifully, Freddie giggled, a sweet sound like the jingling of wind chimes. He could have melted. “Yes,” she replied again. “Yes, it was wonderful. Strange to be home, to be sure - I haven’t visited since Christmas - but it was especially lovely to see my dogs again. I don’t get any letters from them, see.”

Rosie chuckled lightly, nodding along with her, relieved at the release of the uncertainty. “Right,” he said. “They’re not big on writing letters, then?” Stupid joke, he chided himself, but inexplicably Freddie was grinning back at him.

“They’re dogs of few words,” she agreed with a short laugh.

“How many do you have?” he questioned next.

“Dogs?” Freddie wondered. “Two. The big one’s Bruno and the little one’s Earnie, both boys. A German Shepherd and a Westie.” Her eyes were all lit up, fond and excited, as she spoke about them, clearly imagining them in her mind’s eye.

Rosie was beaming at her. “What are they like?”

Freddie’s eyes glinted. “Trouble.”

“I always wanted a dog,” Rosie confided in her, even though it wasn’t entirely true. He had nothing against dogs and actually quite liked them, but he also hadn’t ever actually been truly interested in owning one - but he desperately wanted her to like him and she clearly adored her dogs, so it seemed a good place to start. “But where I’m from, in Brooklyn, we always lived in an apartment. No pets allowed.”

Freddie gasped. “That’s tragic.”

Rosie grinned. “I know. Someone oughta fix that rule.”

Freddie sipped on her lemonade, nodding, and her eyes found the floor.

Rosie took the opportunity to watch her, tapping his fingers against his glass of beer. She was so beautiful and she so clearly didn’t even know it. Even just looking at her made him feel like he was being bathed in sunlight.

Rosie opened his mouth to say something more - desperate to say something, anything, really, that might get her to smile again. Those dimples of hers - if he hadn’t signed up to go to war already he knew he would’ve enlisted just on their behalf. But whatever he was about to say never made it out. It was for the best, probably, since he couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t have been something incredibly forward, some grand statement about her startling prettiness which she was bound to have heard a million times before.

Instead, he was swiftly cut off by Millie, returning from the bar with a pint of beer in each hand. “Fred, I got your beer, and you are going to like it, god damn it, even if I have to pour it down your throat myself.”

Freddie flushed and turned to Millie.

Rosie forced himself to turn to her too.

“Oh,” Freddie said. “I have lemonade,” she added after a beat.

Millie laughed, her eyes flicking between Freddie and Rosie. She looked absolutely made up about catching them together. “Is that right?” she teased. “And who do I have to blame for it?”

Rosie shared a secret smile with Millie and, in the answering, subtle shift of her shoulders which betrayed her silent laugh, he knew she’d received everything he’d been trying to communicate to her; that she’d been right, and he was nothing short of utterly infatuated with her best friend. “That would be me, ma’am,” he told her.

“Rosie,” Millie replied with a tut. “Now why would you do that? You’ll only encourage her!”

Rosie shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “I just figured war heroes should get to choose what they have to drink,” he answered, playing along, “otherwise what’s the point of being one?”

Millie laughed along with Rosie’s joke and neither of them noticed the soft exchange taking place right beside them between Freddie and Benny DeMarco. And, when they did, it was too late; Freddie was already on her way over to the Siberian husky Rosie had been informed in passing was DeMarco’s dog where he was lying beneath a chair at a vacant table. She lowered herself to the ground beside him and curled her fingers into the hair around the scruff of his neck, bowing her head towards his as she began to speak to him.

Rosie’s heart clenched once more - seized up, like a kettle about to whistle. With locks of soft, dark hair falling into her face and her eyelashes sweeping her cheeks as she looked down into the dog’s face, she could have been some kind of goddess bestowing wisdom and goodness onto her earthly subjects.

Rosie wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong. He’d actually thought the whole affair had been going a hell of a lot better than he’d predicted. But maybe he’d been silly to believe a girl like her might give him the time of day, naïve and optimistic. He didn’t tend to struggle with getting female attention, no, but she wasn’t just any girl.

His eyes sought Millie’s and she smiled sadly at him, shaking her head. “It wasn’t anything you said,” she reassured him, “or anything you did. You just need to be patient with our Fred.”

Patient. He could do that. He could be as patient as she needed him to be if it meant there was hope.

There was a conversation about Freddie continuing around him but Rosie paid it no mind. Instead, of their own accord his eyes found their way over to her again where she was still talking to the dog while she pet him. And something inside him coiled tight, an elastic band the instant before it was either let go or snapped. You, he thought, gazing across the room at her, you, you, you. He hadn’t been looking but he’d found her anyway, found it anyway.

He really had always known.

Suddenly, inexplicably, and largely against his will, Rosie started to smile.

Sorry, mom, he imagined himself writing in his next correspondence home, remember when I said I wouldn’t fall in love with a British girl?

Oops.

[loverrofmineee]

The Parting Glass - Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x OC

AO3 | Summary | Previous Chapter

Chapter 8- Everything... In Its Own Time

Though Sorcha would never admit it to anyone but herself, she missed Bucky. 

Buck had managed to convince the brass to send his pal on a two-day leave, much to Bucky’s dismay. Both Sorcha and Buck had to deal with incessant complaining from their friend before he left, attempting to convince them to join him. 

“-absolutely not,” Sorcha shook her head as Bucky perched himself on the mess table she was sitting at. “I have things to do here, plus I don’t think the brass would appreciate me taking another leave. It’s not like I’m some hotshot pilot who can do whatever whenever he wants.”

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with mirth as his smile widened at his friend's teasing, “It helps to have friends in high places Devs, ‘specially ‘hotshot pilot’ places.” 

“Need I remind you that you got yourself demoted?” Sorcha raised her eyebrows at Bucky, who to his credit, seemed to enjoy her blunt but harmless ribbing. “I don’t think Harding would appreciate you using special privileges you no longer have.”

“C’mon, Devs. Harding loves me. M’sure he wouldn’t mind if I asked for an extra pass. I’ll say that I need someone to keep me in check!” 

“God knows you need that, but you won’t find it in me,” Sorcha teased, trying to put the conversation to bed. “I don’t think any girl you find out on the town would appreciate having me in tow. I’d hate to ruin your chances.” 

Bucky seemed to consider her point for a moment, exaggerating his contemplation by pulling a face, eyebrows creasing together in combination with the frown lines etched on his face, though a small smile tugging on his lips betrayed the name. Sorcha had half a mind to laugh at his obvious display for attention but realized she was getting some unkind looks from a table of Red Cross girls next to her. 

Gently putting a hand on his arm, Sorcha regained Bucky’s attention, “John,” she spoke softly, “I think it’ll be good for you to get away for a weekend, especially by yourself. There’s a good reason Buck and Harding chose this for you. Just revel in having a good time, ok?”

A faint sigh sounded from Bucky as he took in his friend's words, all sense of lighthearted teasing thrown out the window. He offered Sorcha a small smile as he stood, “You win, Devs. I’ll see you before I go.” 

“I promise to write you a thousand letters!” Sorcha teased as Bucky left, not wanting to end the conversation with such seriousness. His back was turned to her, but she knew he was laughing due to the rising and falling of his shoulders, giving her satisfaction as she turned back to her breakfast.

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It was a rowdy night in the officers club, the air a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. The replacement crews would be going on their first mission soon, giving them a reason to have a semi-wild night out. Sorcha had planned to have a quiet night in with the other girls, but there was something in the air that made everyone on base spark with anticipated electricity. Due to these circumstances, Sorcha found herself tucked away in a somewhat quiet corner with Meatball. She was busy running her fingers through Meatball's fur when Buck sat in the seat next to her, quietly announcing his presence with a small grunt, the aged leather seat squeaking under his weight.

“Bad day?” Sorcha tipped her head at the man to her side, taking in his seemingly tired mood. Buck wasn’t a vibrant man, usually remaining stoic unless someone, Bucky, elicited a grin from him. Still, Sorcha saw that his demeanor seemed quieter than usual.

A dry chuckle fell from Buck’s mouth as he looked at Sorcha, “Could ask the same thing to you,” Nodding to the others, who appeared to be in a lively drinking contest, Buck continued, “Why aren’t you over there?”

Sorcha briefly surveyed the scene, watching as Shiv and Aileen pounded back shots beside the replacements, yelling about some sort of pre-mission initiation. She was surprised to see Lil joining them, her arm slung around Croz as she forced him to participate. The wild illustration elicited a laugh from Sorcha, turning back to Buck, “Any other night I would, but I’m not up for it today.”

“Wonder why.”

Sorcha couldn’t miss the teasing smile on Buck’s face, something that was often rare, but charming when it appeared. Normally she would wave his teasing off, but his cadence gave him away, knowing that he was teasing himself as well. There was an unspoken understanding between the two. Their middle ground was missing, giving them reason to be somewhat reclusive tonight. 

“As much as it would boost his ego, I do miss him.” Sorcha sighed before switching her tone, “Don’t tell him I said that though.”

Buck let out a bark of laughter at Sorcha’s franticness, shaking his head at her. “If anyone thinks John doesn’t need an ego boost, it’s you and I.” 

“You didn’t swear not to tell him,” Sorcha pressed, her voice betraying her serious face.  

Sorcha couldn’t miss the eye-roll from Buck as she extended her hand to him, folding her fingers until only the pinky was raised. “Pinky promise?” 

Buck sized up Sorcha’s extended hand, taking in the sincerity of her tone and face. Her hopeful yet stern eyes clearly conveyed that her offering was serious, and her method was not to be questioned. Slightly chucking under his breath, Buck mimicked Sorcha’s hand, intertwining their fingers together for a brief moment before Sorcha was satisfied. “You’re a good man, Gale Cleven. Not many men, let alone majors would undertake such a serious covenant.” 

“If there’s anything I’ve learned throughout my life, it’s never to break a woman's trust.”

“Well then,” Sorcha began before taking a sip of her drink, “Marge is one lucky woman.”

A wistful sigh came from Buck at the mention of his girl's name. In an instant, his tired expression was replaced with one of love and adoration. The change in his demeanor was a clear indicator of how lovestruck he was, causing a small smile to creep onto Sorcha’s lips. “Tell me about her.”

Buck didn’t need the prompt to go on and on about Marge, but he easily welcomed the question. “She’s… everything. I know it sounds vague, but she truly is everything. She’s unfailingly warm, but when she’s upset, good luck.” Buck laughed to himself, trying his best to describe the woman he loved most in his life. 

“What do you miss most about her?” Sorcha softly posed the question, not wanting to break the bubble of trust and softness they were currently occupying. 

“Her smile.” Buck grinned to himself, “I have photos of her in my bunk, but nothing beats watching her smile rise on her face. That’s the moment I knew I was in love with her. On one of our first dates, I made some throwaway joke, but she found it hilarious. I just thought she was politely grinning up until then, nodding along to whatever I was saying, but once the joke landed her smile grew ten sizes bigger. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing.”

Sorcha listened to Buck intently, feeling her heart swell as he spoke. She felt as if she was being read poetry or a romance novel by the way Buck talked about Marge. Seeing the creases of his eyes grow larger with his smile, something so honest and real that nearly caused tears to fill her eyes. 

“She sounds amazing. Though after listening to you I’m not sure there’s one word that can describe her.”

“Everything” Buck quipped, the smile on his face somehow still growing.

“Yeah, everything.” Sorcha smiled as she took another sip of her drink. The two fell into a comfortable bout of silence, watching as their friends continued acting like high-schoolers, throwing shots back and spilling beer over one another. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

Sorcha turned to Buck, nodding and giving him permission to continue. 

“I know your whole stance on this, but would you want-”

“- something like you and Marge have?” Sorcha picked up on the nature of Buck’s question, opting to finish it herself. Buck nodded in response, watching Sorcha’s face contort as she thought about how to go about answering. 

“Contrary to popular belief, I am a romantic at heart. Honestly, I’ve always been. My parents have a wonderful relationship, raising my siblings and me in a house full of love. Like any family, their views on love and relationships rubbed off on us. Cormack’s always been the one who wears his heart on his sleeve. He had a new crush every week, it was pretty cute for a while.” Sorcha chuckled as she reminisced, ”My Mum and Dad have always been my prime example of what love is supposed to look like. They’ve been through the ups and downs together, balancing each other out. I’ve been lucky to witness a relationship as special as theirs. It's not that I’m saving myself for that perfect person who can mirror what I see as a ‘perfect’ romance, but I’d rather not lose myself to heartbreak in these circumstances. I’m self-aware enough to know that even if I did fall in love here, there’s a high chance that I would lose the guy in less than 3 months.”

Sorcha took in Buck’s crestfallen expression as she ended her rant. She felt a sudden surge of guilt for her words, “Sorry, that got depressing. All I mean is that I’ve seen so many girls fall in love, only to lose the man.”

“I understand. But isn’t it better to have love for a moment than to close yourself off completely?” Buck spoke as if he was stating a simple fact, “I know what my odds are, but it didn’t stop me from coming over. Marge and I may be miles apart, but it’s the thought of her love that keeps me going. It’s all worth it.”

Taking in Buck’s words, a semblance of realization crossed Sorcha’s face. It’s not like anything he said was revolutionary, but hearing it from the other side loosened her tight grip on the credo she carried overseas. 

“Now I’m not asking you to throw yourself at the next pilot that comes along,” Buck gave Sorcha a faux stern look, “but don’t be wary to get to know them.”

“I know,” Sorcha sighed, giving Buck a reassuring smile that let him know his words weren’t falling on deaf ears. “I just- I need to take everything at my own pace.”

“No need to convince me, Devs. I know how you are.”

Warmth rose in Sorcha’s chest at his comforting smile and words. It was nice to have someone truly know her. Sure Bucky and the girls did, but there was only so much she could tell them. She and Buck held a common understanding, reserving conversations for just the two of them. 

“You know, while we’re being serious and all, you’re kind of like an older brother to me. I don’t actually have one but you’re what I imagine they’re like.”

Buck chuckled at her statement, rolling his eyes teasingly at her sincerity. While the bluntness of her comment wasn’t typical, Sorcha knew Buck would appreciate it. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Please do!”

Before the pair could strike up another conversation, Buck was called by Blakely along with a plethora of pilots to join them at the bar. It seemed that the ‘initiation’ for the recruits now shifted responsibilities to getting the higher-ranking officers to join in. Sorcha laughed to herself as she caught sight of Croz and Bubbles being shoved around by Shiv and Aileen, large smiles upon all their faces. 

“Care to join in, little sister?” Buck extended a hand as he stood, a teasing smile on his face once more. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Can you believe they’re doing this again?” Aileen asked as she spun in her desk chair,

The men had left for their second attempt at Bremen only a few hours ago. Sorcha had managed to spot Buck and his crew at breakfast, wishing them luck on what she knew would be a heavy journey. She tried finding Rosie amongst the men, but couldn’t see him or his crew anywhere. Sorcha had wished him luck on his first mission, which had gone successfully, but wanted to give him a little extra luck today.

“As much as I’d like to say no, the realist in me knows it has to be a yes.” Lilibet sighed as she continued to file away. 

“If we’re going to be talking about the men, can we at least do it in a fun, romantic, gossipy way?” 

“Shiv!” Lilibet chided, only deepening Shiv’s smirk.

“I agree.” Aileen piped as she scooted her chair closer to the girls.

“I want to hear about what Anika and Benny were getting up to the night they ditched the officers club.”

Scarlet flushed Anika’s cheeks as the attention shifted to her, giggles surrounding the group as they gauged her reaction. “Well, we just had a night to ourselves is all.”

“Bullshit.” Shiv deadpanned, “We all know it was more than that.” 

“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. I’m not one to divulge my personal secrets.”

Aileen and Shiv groaned, slumping in their seats as they attempted to get information out of Anika. The girls continued to pry for a few more minutes until Anika finally caved in. They spent the next few minutes in fits of giggles in between gossip as they teased Anika over her relationship with Benny, as well as some secrets shared in confidence about the man. Sorcha was chuckling alongside Lilibet as Anika teased how Benny acts around her versus his crew when Jack Kidd cleared his throat to announce his presence. 

“Would you ladies mind if I pulled Sorcha away for a moment?” 

She quickly nodded, too wrapped up in her joyous state to notice Jack’s usage of her first name. She also failed to notice his worried expression and frown which was much deeper than usual. Sorcha barely questioned his shaky hands and anxious demeanor as he pulled her into a quiet hallway, assuming he was nervous about some external issue. 

“Jack,” Sorcha placed a hand on his arm to try and settle his nerves, “What’s wrong?”

“I have to tell you something.”

[thatsrightice]

we rest amongst the tumult of war

chapter: 5/5

words: like 2.4k 💀 so like 8k total

main themes: big fluff, big suggestive relationship but still technically platonic, much cuddles, slight emotional angst, I’m the writer and even I’m screaming “JUST KISS ALREADY”, entirely Croz & Rosie but can be read Croz/Rosie (in fact I encourage it)

chapter summary:

It’s a shame it has to end, Rosie is willing to admit for the first time since they arrived at the flak house. He would be perfectly content to remain here forever so long as Crosby kept him company. Despite their lack of belief in the positive impact of such flak houses, Rosie knew they both saw the beauty of such a place, of such a life. A beauty that cannot protect itself. And so they return to war, but they are returning together. They return to the fight where they are fighting for each other and they are fighting for the beauty of a life that would be worth living once the war was over.

READ ON AO3 HERE

[luminouslywriting]

I’m feeling angsty how do you think the mota men would handle relationship issues? ❤️❤️❤️

A/N: Hello darlings!! I hope that your December is going well! I thought I’d drop in and answer this since it’s been collecting dust for a while! Gif does not belong to me, it belongs to austinbutlermischief

Bucky Egan: It depends on the type of conflict. Overall, I think he’s the type to want to fight for a relationship. He’ll be communicative to the point of being argumentative. I could see him yelling if it gets heated enough but he’s feel bad about it later. He’s also the type to try coming back to a conversation or issue after a while and after he’s had some time to process or clear his head about it. He’s a yapper, so just be patient with him, whether the issue is on his side or on yours.

Gale Cleven: He’s going to stew on the issue for a little bit. As previously discussed in some of my posts, this is a man who is nonverbal for most of it. If there’s an issue, he’ll continue to show love through actions or deeds. I think he struggles to communicate when the issue becomes heated and so patience is a must when trying to work through things with him.

Robert Rosenthal: 10/10 this is the type of man that you want to have relationship issues with because he’s gentle, patient, understanding, and isn’t going to lash out or say something that he’ll regret later. He’s going to continue to prioritize you and your relationship no matter what, and he’s a firm believer that if you’re both working on yourselves and the relationship, things are going to work out.

John Brady: Does, in fact, get frustrated. But he never takes it out on you and he’s going to be more productive around the house and in actions while you both try to make things work. He looks into practical solutions, researches different ways to fix things, and approaches it in a kind and communicative way so that you can both resolve things.

[therealslimshakespeare]

Nine Times she thought she was, and the once she actually was #1

Pairing: Rosie Rosenthal & Ida Brady, intimacy journey.

Warnings: very few, still, typical warnings apply, 18+, discussions of a past rape and fear of intimacy

Requested? ☑️

Circa: October 1945

Mother held up a very frilly, decidedly see-through garment with a bashful grin, bridal boutique exclusivity and the comparative privacy of the dressing room making her as cheeky as a Catholic housewife ever dared. That was Robert’s effect on everyone, it seemed, he was so solidly wonderful, so obviously perfect, his mere attention so great a compliment that becoming his wife? —everyone rightfully gave Ida no peace over how fortunate she was. Her mother more than anyone, after watching the blood sport that was their courtship, egging on one declined proposal after another until at last they were here, a week out and assembling a hasty trousseau for an even hastier wedding to be followed by a lengthy overseas assignment.

Together. Nuremberg.

“You’d like Germany in the fall.” he’d told her.

It made one’s head spin, as did the very notion of donning that toilet paper excuse for nightwear. Maureen had not needed to be told, one grunt from Ida over the phone when a trousseau was mentioned was enough: “I’ll send you a portmanteau or two”, Maureen had concluded easily, without even needing to be told why. She’d also sent along perfume, rich and woodsy with just enough vanilla that Ida felt almost a bride in it. Ida worried such deep consideration was perhaps the product of the Clevens’ own marital struggles and adjustments to peace, but that was not her concern.

“Mother.” Ida begged now with a laugh, mildly unused to such familiarity with her parent, or with such liberal inclinations.

“You’ll be married Ida!” her mother responded, pleadingly happy, “If that’s not the time for it, when?”

When indeed? That hung like a thundercloud over this whole marriage and yet Rosie had set his face to the storm and welcomed it. “So long as you’re doing the ruining” he had blithely responded to her dire predictions for marital misery in his promising young life. Companions, he had declared them

-companions didn’t wear things like that.

“I- I don’t think it would suit me.” she fibbed, thumbing at a sensible set of mulberry colored silk shorts instead.

“My dear, think of him a little.” Mother meant well, words that would make Ida bristle were said so kindly and with such good intent she could only wince while deflecting them.

Ida gave her a curt nod before slipping behind the curtain and shimmying into a slip, very much like the ones she already owned with a pretty little trim of lace around the decollege. Dove gray and striking with her complexion. She already owned and wore such a piece often, the idea of wearing it next to him sent her stomach plummeting, suddenly she saw herself as he might, boyish limbs and the slight swell of breasts leading to a trim waist and only moderate hips; she was flat and tall —it still felt too clingy.

Mother’s voice startled her on the other side of the drape, “Here’s that other size you wanted.” she offered and Ida drew back the partition. Mother stood as if aghast in admiration.

“My beautiful girl.” her voice grew thick with emotion and Ida too felt a lump in her throat at the thought of how many years had been robbed from them, first by the seperation and then by the war, they might have had many such outings and none of them so burdened. “You’ll be irresistible in that.” she said it with such pride and Ida tried so hard to cling to that as her world grew cold and her fingers and lips with it, creeping doubt and pernicious terror raising itself at last at the sheer loneliness of not even her own mother having any idea what horror such a compliment evoked. “Ida, Eye Eye, what’s wrong? My sweets what’s wrong? What did I say? Sit, sit! -there, Ida, darling.”

Ida did not realize she was crying until she was sat on the pretty velvet bench beside the mirror, sobbing like a girl in her mothers arms. “I don’t want to be irresistible.” she tried to explain through her sobs, “I don’t want to tempt him at all.”

Confused as she was, mother did not argue the rightness or wrongness of temptation and desire within marriage. She just held her daughter like she had wanted to when her father died, when her plane had been downed, when they sent her away to Florida so someone else could feed her and she came back more pilot than woman. “Alright, then you don’t need to.” Mother said instead and it brought Ida such relief a new flood of tears were unleashed, years of pent up grief and disgust flowing out of her. “Be yourself. You’re precious Ida, never meant other than that.”

-see how ugly you have now become? the Kommandant had asked her before shearing her hair.

Crumpled against her mother, red faced and quite unimpressive, she wished she were even uglier for once. Poor Robert. She had warned him.

Gaining some composure back, Ida pulled herself away and squared her shoulders, allowing mother’s arm to stay loped around them. She did not deserve to be rebuffed after such kindness. “Mother,” Ida found her voice sounded gravelly and distant even to herself but needs must, “in the war, after I was downed-“ she chose her words carefully, eyes fixated on the most unoffensive thing in the mirror, mother’s sensible brown shoes, she had long debated whether to ever even tell her,, “-I think you know, or have heard or, but, there were things…done to me…that I cannot…easily forget. Robert knows, there’s no, no um, defrauding? no defrauding happening, I have told him, he knows. But I, I don’t want -I don’t want to be irresistible.”

Ida had watched the face of her brother process what had been inflicted on her, Johnny had watched her body swell with lurid proof of it, he had wrapped the bloody product of it in the only white garment left in the camp and buried it with last rites and a muttered Ave. A shroud of innocence for a life conceived in anything but.

Ida had no appetite left to watch a mother’s face when she learned her daughter had been violated.

Mother was now the one who cried, and Ida numbly felt the burgeoning impulse to hold her in return. Awkwardly but with growing surety, she lifted her arm and tucked mother’s smaller frame to her chest, holding her shuddering shoulders, “My brave child.” mother managed in grief, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’d do anything to take it away-“ it was a natural sentiment and Ida had grown to feel herself quite unnatural for not regretting the course of duty that had placed her in such jeopardy. “Robert is -he is a good man,” mother could not grieve for herself a full minute without returning reassurances, “I wouldn’t let a lesser man have you. But now I know— no one else will do. He will be good to you and if he is not, your father’s house is always yours.”

Ida had never doubted it but to hear it vocalized, to hear it with a recently unburdened heart, the last of her terror calmed to only simmering nervousness, and with the purchase of the demure mulberry shorts, it set her lightly on her last week of singlehood.

That night, the night of her wedding, Ida brushed her teeth alongside Rosie and splashed her face alongside her husband like she had with dozens of men hundreds of times in the shower rooms. Nothing remotely off there. Nothing until she closed the door on him, he to don his pajamas in the suite and she to don them in the bathroom, then the anxiety struck lethal and sharp.

“Don’t fail me now.” she muttered to her nerves as she tried her utmost to efficiently step into the sensible mulberry satin shorts after pulling off the sensible and smart wedding suit she’d been wearing.

She stalled at the door, trying to prepare herself for anything on the other side of it. Robert greeting her with excitement despite all their talks to the contrary of trying anything tonight, or any other night in the near future. Robert hitting the whiskey and passing out pleasantly only to forget his promises in the middle of the night. Or somehow worst of all -Robert lying in bed stiff as a board while waiting for her to shuffle under the sheets already and lay beside him. What then? shut the lights out like two senile dotards? That could hardly be borne, despite how dreamy he made it sound to have celebate sleepovers and chaste companionship. She’d rather take matters into her own hands tonight and pull him bodily inside than endure such stiltedness.

When she opened the door and spied him, nothing could quite prepare her. But then again, surprise was hardly the predominant sentiment. It was gratitude at being right. For deep down in all her doubting she had anticipated him taking her by such pleasant surprise she would never guess it -but never to be confounded.

Prim and homely in his flannel cover and blue pajamas, hair still immaculately lacquered except for where her voracious kisses had done them harm, sat Rosie on the suite carpet, cross legged before a meticulously stacked tower of wedding presents. Beside him was an ice bucket complete with champagne bottle and a plate of chocolate dipped strawberries.

“You absolute dreamboat.” she accused in a gush, hand over her gaping mouth.

Robert’s eyes flicked up, blue and warm all at once, and those smile lines carved their way deeper into his cheeks. “Come on,” he held up a neatly wrapped present, “I can’t guess this one by shape and it’s driving me nuts. Let’s get it open so I can sleep.”

When they had gone to sleep, Ida had imbibed so much champagne and indulged in enough kisses she was foolish and pliant. She wiggled her eyebrows when he rolled beside her, close enough to heat the cradle of her thighs; Robert had only laughed warningly and rolled off. When she woke to sunlight streaming into unfastened drapes, warmth near her but not pressing against her, and Rosie’s dark mustache aglow with amber flecks, she was rewarded for her good faith. The curls had come to harm in his sleep and she pushed them off his forehead to wake him.

“Morning.” she whispered.

His smile was dazzling, somehow even more so with his puffy eyes and his loose, drousy lips catching against her palm, “Morning, Mrs Rosenthal.” his voice tickled her, “We’ve got a boat to catch.”

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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[suraemoon]

Could I please request jealous Rosie hcs or Rosie reaction when you are the initiate the first move hcs. Thank you 😊

I’ll admit right now that the turn out time for this is embarrassing. You’ve caught me in…I think the most stressful week of 2024 so far buttt here we are. My deepest apologies. I’ll be better. Here’s some Rosie. 🌹

Jealousy, Jealousy:

Rosie is very protective of his girl but not overbearing. He knows how secure the relationship is and trusts you to make good decisions. But, of course he notices when another man is getting a little too friendly. When at public places, Rosie doesn’t usually get far enough away for stuff to like this to happen, but due to how drop dead gorgeous you are (the pretty smile that can brighten up anyone’s day, the sparkling eyes that resemble a steady pond, the million dollar legs that give Betty Grable a run for her money) the bold men stay bold. Laughing at things that aren’t meant to be jokes, getting a little too close, etc. He is the king of passive aggression and snark. It’s so obvious that he’s annoyed. Just by the tone of his voice, anyone with common sense can tell he isn’t amused.

An arm wrapped around your waist, interlocking fingers, a random kiss to the temple.

Increased use of the words “us” and “we”

Just plain out saying that you’re his ____ (girlfriend, fiancée, wife, etc)

He’s not subtle but that’s because he has no reason *to* be subtle. He’ll happily let the whole would know he’s yours and you’re his. He’ll redirect conversations, end them as soon as possible, whisk you away into the crowd.

The next day he casually comes across the same man while you’re at home, safe and absolutely clueless of the intersection. That talk isn’t pretty, I’ll tell you that. He’s a lawyer, he has a way with words. It’s direct, serious, and straight to the point. It’s in his job description to argue but it isn’t really an argument, due to the fact that the other man is left terrified of Rosie. Stood frozen in place, shocked. It’s like getting yelled at by a stern parent. Let’s just say…you never see that man again and if you do, he steers clear of your path like you’re a black cat on a halloween night.

A Feminine First Move:

Anon, you’ve got the thought of Rosie’s reaction to a girl making the first move stuck in my head and it’s so adorable. I’m thinking it happens when he first comes to Thorpe Abbotts and is so awkward and dorky. (Talking about flying planes in underwear, you know…the usual) His nickname is Rosie for more reasons then one, he has the prettiest blush. When you walk up to him offering a drink at the bar followed by a slow dance to the romantic jazz of the band, his cheeks are a shade of pink for the whole rest of the night. He’s taken back over how a girl as pretty as you can be so invested, so quick. Imagine his awkward conversation fillers; your siren eyes are so distracting, staring deep into his soul. You listen intently to every single word, a trait that’s appreciated but nervewracking at the same time. He stutters as he talks, trying not to bring up anything embarrassing that would bring it all to ruin.

He tries to keep up with your flirting by replying with some romantic remarks of his own. Soon he gets into the groove and you two have such a magnetic energy. It’s dazzling, it’s exciting, it’s everything. He really gets into his element once the surprise wears off. That doesn’t stop him from reverting back to his dorky, adorable self once you give him a kiss goodnight, your red lipstick on his pink cheek. He waits until your out of sight to dance his way to bed. You two dream of eachother that night. It’s the blossoming of something new, something special.

the dancing i’m talking about lol

[imasexypotato]

Hey, so I ended up writing that Rosie/Lemmons fanfiction in case anyone was interested in reading it. The link and synopsis are down below🤗🩷🩵

I'm planning on writing a John/Gale fanfiction tomorrow, but I'm not sure what it should be about.

_________

Synopsis:

Did, did the person just fall?

Rosie steps closer to get a better look. Before he can look in, a head pops out of the opening. A mop of brown curly hair is the first thing Rosie sees. Then it looks up.

Well, not it. He. He looks up.The prettiest hazel eyes he's ever seen greet his.

Or,

Rosie has successfully completed his second mission, so why doesn't he feel accomplished?

Rosie checks out his plane, meets someone new and starts to feel inexperienced emotions. How will he handle these feelings and unwanted(?) thoughts?

--------------

[softspeirs]

hello my friend! i was wondering if i could request the prompt with one of your OCs (whoever you most prefer, but kat or grace also appear in my mind best for this!): “yawning whilst trying to convince me you’re not tired tends to have the opposite effect.”

thank you thank you!!!✨

Hi Shannon!!!! Thank you for sending this - not me asking for prompts and then taking a hundred years to write them. ANYWAY, this one screamed Rosie and Grace to me, so here we are! Also this one really took a turn. Like a good turn, but one even I didn't expect!!! Whew!!!!!! Enjoy :)

Eight. Promises.

The hospital is quiet in the evening, and Grace wipes down the last of the exam tables before shoving a few curls that have slipped their pins behind her ears. She’s grateful for a chance to catch her breath - it’s been a long day.

They’re at capacity in the hospital due to missions from earlier in the week that went awfully. The worst of the casualties had been evacuated, but nearly every bed has a man in it in varying states of distress. It’s a full day’s work to keep herself and her staff from falling behind in their duties.

The familiar swish of the double doors causes her to look up, and she smiles at the familiar head of dark hair coming in. Her smile disappears quickly when she remembers what day it is.

“Rosie!” She gasps.

He’s already shaking his head as he walks toward her.

“I’m so sorry—“

“Don’t apologize.” He instinctively grabs her hand when he gets close enough. “You’ve been busy.”

“I should have left here an hour ago!” She’s mortified - it’s not often she was going to be off shift early enough to have a real, sit-down dinner, and here she is working right through it. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not like I made a reservation,” he says, chuckling. “We can go to the pub any time. Now, if you want.”

“Let me wash up. I don’t have time to change—“

“You’re lovely as you are. Don’t change a thing.” He says, grinning as he watches her blush.

She quickly excuses herself to the restroom and stares at herself in the mirror. Despite being tired, her eyes are bright. She has the Major to thank for that.

It still feels like a dream that they found each other, that the war is the thing that brought them together, even as it tore some families apart. The sense of belonging she feels when she's with him is so strong, it seems impossible that they haven't known each other all their lives.

I should tell him that, she thinks as she fiddles with her hair, trying to look at least a little bit put together. He deserves to hear that.

She rejoins him in the corridor outside the restroom, and he stands tall with his hands behind his back, hat tucked under his arm. He looks like a war bonds poster.

"Ready." She says.

"Are you sure you're not too tired?"

"Of course not!"

She loops her arm through his, and watches his face brighten at her touch. It makes her heart soar, because she feels the same way whenever they're together.

Back home, she wasn't the type of girl to go out with any boy who asked. As she got older, she was so wrapped up in her education that she worried she might have missed out on the one -- even if it wasn't guaranteed that she'd meet the love of her life in school, she didn't want to miss out on having fun and dating and making new friends.

She had hermit tendencies and she knew it, but she enjoyed her own company, and besides, most men she met in college thought her ambition was too offputting. They didn't want to date a woman who had ambitions besides becoming a wife. She didn't bother with those types of men for too long, but it became harder and harder to find someone who appreciated her company, and didn't pressure her into being someone she wasn't.

It's why she joined the Nurse Corps and why she left for England at the first opportunity. It's why, she suspects, she feels so comfortable with Robert Rosenthal, even though they've only known each other for a few months.

The pub is bustling with airmen and townsfolk alike, and they have to wait a little while to find a table. Someone offers theirs up for them, and Rosie is so embarrassed by it that Grace has to step in and tell them thank you, but she and her Major can wait like everyone else.

It amuses her to watch him struggle to accept that rank indeed have its privileges sometimes, even if he would never dream of abusing it.

"Major Rosenthal, Captain Fleming... there's a booth just opened up," a passing waitress tells them.

They settle in, and Grace's stomach rumbles. "I've hardly eaten a thing all day." She says.

Rosie frowns at her. "You're not getting enough breaks."

She shrugs. "There was no time this week. You saw the condition of those forts when they came back."

His expression turns solemn. "Yeah. How many..."

She shakes her head. "It's not for you to worry about. Not right now."

He takes her hand again across the table, and they decide to split the fish and chips. A soda for both of them land on the table next, and Rosie watches, chin resting in his free hand as he smiles at her.

"What?" Grace asks, self conscious.

"Nothing. Just, you're doing a bad job convincing me you're not tired. The nonstop yawning isn't really selling your argument, Miss Fleming."

"That's Captain Fleming to you." She says haughtily, "and I'm not tired. Not really. It's just been a long day. But I'm happy to be here. Happy to see you."

Rosie nods in satisfaction both at her words and at the steaming plates that are placed in front of them. The smell of the fried food has Grace's stomach rumbling again, and he lets go of her hand so they can both dig in.

"What about you?" She asks. "How was your day?"

"Busy." He says. "The Colonel wants me to lead the training runs with the new crews."

She frowns. "Do we have the time to spare for training runs?"

He shakes his head. "Not really, but it's better than throwing them in the thick of it on their first time up and having them come back like the crews two days ago did."

She chews slowly, thinking of the flurry of activity that had kicked off in the late afternoon a few days before. Lots of burn wounds, shrapnel wounds, and broken bones. Some of the boys barely old enough to shave, let alone go up in one mission only to be told they might never fly again.

It felt hopeless, at times. She tries her hardest not to let those thoughts get to her, but sometimes it's a lost cause. It just seems like such a waste as the war drags on and on.

"We got a letter from Cleven today." Rosie tells her. Grace's expression lifts at this news.

"No kidding."

"It's weeks old. Probably not the first time they tried to write to us, but everything is so censored if they get any mail out at all. He wrote to Crosby."

"Are they okay?"

"You know Buck." Rosie says, which makes Grace smile, because he himself had only known Buck for a handful of days before he went down. "He wouldn't say if any of them were in a bad way. He's there with Egan and DeMarco and the rest."

"At least they're together," Grace muses. "They'll look after each other."

She can't fathom those men who seemed so invincible there in a stalag. It seems impossible. She has to fight off anxious thoughts of Rosie ending up in a place like that. She knows he's the best flyer they've got. The fact that he makes it back as often as he does is pure skill, nothing to do with luck. Still though, she prays every night that he'll keep coming back, because she has no idea what she'd do if he didn't make it. She can't even think about it.

Rosie has been watching her with a strange look on his face for a few minutes, and she meets his eyes. Something shifts between them, and she feels her throat go tight.

"I want to make sure you'll be okay, if I go down." He says. His tone is rough with emotion, but firm and confident.

"Rosie. What do you-- I wouldn't be okay!"

"Not just emotionally." Grace blinks, tears filling her eyes. Rosie swallows hard. "I want you to be taken care of, in every way. I want to know that you won't be... that you won't have to rebuild your life completely." He shakes his head, a laugh escaping against his will. "I am not going to do this in the pub." He says to himself.

"Do what?" Grace nearly screeches.

He takes her hand, tugging her out of her side of the booth. He signals to the waitress that they'll be back, and he pulls her around the corner of the building where they're away from prying eyes.

"Rosie!" She says, trying to get him to slow down, but now that the thought has entered his mind, he has got to get the words out. Before he loses his nerve.

He had a whole plan for this. The plan was to get them both some leave in London, to find a nice restaurant, to have a ring and get down on one knee... the whole nine yards.

But if he had to watch that look on her face for one more second, if he had to watch her try to put herself in the place of any of the girls who were waiting on someone to come back from a camp, or someone who knew their sweetheart wouldn't come back at all... he couldn't stand it.

If he could do one thing, one thing to make sure she was secure in the aftermath, whatever that might be, it was this.

"Marry me." The words burst forth. They're rushed and they're almost too loud, and it's not the way he planned any of this.

She stares.

He panics.

"I want to make sure you're taken care of. Whatever that means. Financially, yes. But also... life is so short. Nothing is guaranteed. I don't know what tomorrow is going to bring, but I know that I want to spend it with you. I want to spend every single day with you. I want you to be my wife. Not just because I could go down any time, but because I just want to, because I love you."

Grace is speechless. She is crying before she can stop herself, because she hates crying. "I love you too," she says, her voice wobbly.

"That's good," he says, grinning. He looks a little wobbly himself.

"Are you sure?" She asks. She steps closer. "Are you sure you want to-- it's so permanent, and I'd marry you back inside that pub right now if you're sure. But I want you to be sure. I don't want you to tie yourself to me--"

"Tie myself?!" His hand finds the side of her face, cupping it gently. "I would never think of it that way." He smiles at her. "It would be an absolute honor to consider myself Mr. Captain Fleming, Grace."

"You're ridiculous." She chokes. "You're going to break a lot of girl's hearts around here, Rosie."

"We don't have to do anything right away. I'll wait as long as you want."

"Yes."

It's his turn to blink, looking a little shy. "Really?"

She smacks his chest. "Yes, really! Honestly, Rosie, you asked, you really think I'd say anything but--"

He kisses her. It's a hard, desperate thing. "Mrs. Rosenthal." He whispers when he pulls back, eyes sparkling.

"That's Captain Mrs. Rosenthal, to you."

[rosienthal]

Blue

a Rosie Rosenthal drabble

"Robert... I-I don't think we'd work out together," your voice breaks. You couldn't hold your tears any longer.

Rosie reaches the closest sofa to support his weight. Your words bug him in a way that they sting his chest under that blue shirt, legs wouldn't stop trembling he decides to sway impatiently.

"What do you mean?" his voice cracks. But even when his tone quivers slightly, he tries to be gentle. Like he always does.

Your heart sinks so fast you couldn't let out a voice, barely a whisper, "I've tried my best to calm myself down everytime you're out for a mission, but I'm so anxious it hurts me."

Rosie looks at you, eyes full with worry and sadness. Those clear blue eyes that you adore, but right now blue doesn't suit his pretty face.

You hate making him blue.

"I understand."