#and esp. to mercurygray for her egan voice -if you're not reading her ocs what are you doing??

[shoshiwrites]

Into The Wind

I thought it might be fun to take my WarCo OC Jo, normally featuring in a Band of Brothers WIP, on a little field trip to Thorpe Abbots — no background knowledge necessary (I hope!) ♡

“See, they come in here, right, like we all learned how to do this for fun-”

“Did though, didn’t we?”

She leans against the doorframe, silent, the huddle of jackets and collars faced away from her.

The back of his hand flies out to lightly whack his friend on the arm. “Besides the point, Buck- hey- anyway, comes in here like he can fly our planes- like he’s got any idea-”

“Heard this one’s a dame though-”

He pauses. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Dunno why else Harding would be on the phone talking through his teeth about women’s facilities-”

“We got Tatty and Helen and the rest of ‘em, don’t we?”

“I’m just sorry for the poor bastards who have to listen to him next. Mr. Kalamazoo Dispatch. Think he’ll ditch the jacket?”

“The last thing we need is another reporter. Struttin’ around, getting in our business-”

“Right, there can only be one strut-er, one peacock around here-”

“Right.”

It’s not a surprise, not even a little. But she’s hardly leaving now, not with the strings someone had yanked to get her here. Maybe they wanted you for a reason. After Mr. Easy As Pie, in his leather jacket. It sits in her stomach like a stone. Her eyes refocus to the light streaming through the windows, the dust motes and the papers tacked to the walls. The tap of her shoe when she shifts her weight catches the ear and then the eye of one, and then the entire group. 

All eyes, on her. 

The one who’d been talking turns around, and she has no choice to but to walk towards the table. Guess you’re not leaving now, are you? He blinks like they’ve conjured her out of thin air.

A few ma’ams, the scrape of a chair foot.

“Would you call that a strut?” she asks. “Need to know if I should be careful.”

What the fuck, Jo?

She’s sure she sees the one next to him look amused, the tiniest tip-up of his mouth. 

He looks up at her, eyes stopping at her shoulders, the collar of her blouse and the tiny hoops in her ears glinting in the light. Like he’s daring her to argue with his assessment, just a little. “Just as long as you’re not looking for a ride on any practice missions.”

The words hang there like fruit past picking. Someone snorts. 

“No, I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.” He smiles, halfway to a smirk. It warms his eyes. “So, what’s your name, sunshine?”

The Clarion hadn’t been printing it — she was Your Special Correspondent, which she’d pressured them to change from Your Trusty Correspondent. They were angling for Your Girl Overseas. But, she had to go for something, right? How could she expect the same from them, otherwise?

“Jo Brandt.”

He goes like popcorn around the table, introducing — the quiet one is Major Cleven. Douglass. Blakely. Cruikshank. And he’s Major Egan. “You can call me Bucky.”

“Major Egan.”

He gives a theatrical huff. All legs, in that chair. Smiling, like something’s a foregone conclusion. His eyes dart to the class ring on her finger, her left hand. She’s got another security briefing at the top of the next hour, and it’s almost a relief. 

“My apologies for the interruption, gentlemen,” she says, even though it’s hardly one. “Please continue your meal.” They're already done anyway, she can see that, the haphazard silverware and empty coffee cups. 

“We’ll be seeing you, though, right?” he calls, even before she’s turned to go. “Around?”

“Yes. As long as I don’t strut?”

He’s still smiling. “Yes, ma’am.”

She can hear the mutters as she walks back out, the sound of at least one man getting elbowed in the ribs. “I wouldn’t say no-”

The breeze outside brings a chill through her, the smell of damp spring and grass deadened by the winter. She has a uniform to get made, back in London. No more homemade blouses, the ones with embroidery. No flight jackets, either. She doesn’t know who she’ll be to them, not yet, but she knows who she doesn’t want to be.