#masters of the air OC

[winniemaywebber]

Honeysuckle Rose - Part 9

read previous parts here.

It's time for the truth to come out, no matter what the cost. With friendship on the line, will Olive finally find it within herself to be truly honest?

Brakes screeching, cars colliding in the pouring rain. The smell of burning oil. An abrupt pain in the chest, a girl struggling to breathe. A man slumped on her, ailing gasps leaving his mouth as his life slipped away…

“No!” Olive yells, awakening herself with a cry. Feeling a heat rise in her chest, she tries to steady herself and breathe, gripping fistfuls of the blanket she'd been sleeping under. The soft snores of her best friend, Valencia DiRosano, in the bed opposite her own begin to settle her, Olive keeping in time with the hum of Val's breathing. 

Counting her lucky stars that her sudden yelp didn't awaken Val, she wipes the sheen of sweat from her face with her nightgown as she sits up, beginning to pad across to the bathroom. 

As she washes her face, Olive begins to count on her soapy fingers and tries to calculate how many days she'd been here without going to check on Pearl. Was it three? No, more. Four or five? A week? Surely not. Olive shakes her head at herself in the mirror in front of her, toothbrush in her mouth. She sees the tiredness etched on her face, her eyes beginning to look withdrawn. Something had to give, and soon. 

Rushing out the door, she's surprised to see a thick fog upon the air today. So thick, in fact, that she's unable to see much in her trajectory, walking to the hardstand by memory alone. It's when she bumps her shoulder on the wing of Just A-Snappin that she hears a loud bark in the distance, a gruff voice following it.

“Who is it, fella? Someone else out with us this early?”

“Shit,” Olive breathes, recognizing the voice as her friend Benny Demarco's. 

“Go get her then, buddy, go say good morning!”

Running up the stairs at a startling speed, Olive slams the door of the aircraft shut, hoping she wasn’t spotted after all.

***

The sun shines almost too brightly on Olive as she makes the walk to Pearl’s, quietly swinging open the metal gate and ridiculously shushing it as it squeaks, the scraping noise making her cringe. It’s when she reaches the door that she feels something untoward, the energy from outside seeming different than usual. Making her way in, pushing on the warped wooden door as she unlocks it, she is surprised to find Pearl alone in the kitchen, staring at the kettle and willing for it to boil faster. 

Olive accidentally shocks her Grandmother, making her presence known a lot more prematurely than planned when her keys clatter on the dining table.

“Christ alive!” Pearl yells, dramatically clutching her chest. “You little devil!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she laughs, holding her hands up in apology and mock surrender. “That wasn’t meant to be so loud.”

“Just like your bloody father,” she teases. “The expression ‘bull in a china shop’ comes to mind.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t know where we get it,” she replies, as Pearl clatters around with the sugar tin and stirs her now prepared tea with a spoon, clanging it on the mug with each clockwise spin. “You’re awake early, Grandma.”

“God forbid I want some alone time,” she winks, sipping at the beverage. “Between you coming in and out and Joan hovering, I barely get any time to myself in this place.”

“Hey, we can back off,” Olive cackles, taking the glass bottle of milk from the counter and putting it to her lips.

“I don’t think so, lady,” Pearl scolds, eyebrows raised. “Get a glass.”

“Yes, Grandma,” she sighs, leaning up on her tiptoes to retrieve her favorite one - Tots TV, a show from her childhood. Pearl spots it and smiles, her eyes softening with the nostalgia of remembering this young woman in front of her as a toddler, squeezed in the armchair with her as they both dozed, the sounds of the gentle theme song somehow lulling them both to sleep. 

“You know I’m only kidding, right, Ollie Pop?”

“About what?”

“The alone time, Joan hovering…”

“No, pal, I know. I’d feel quite the same to be honest.”

“I just miss my independence, y’know. Just being able to do little things myself. I seem to be getting stronger each day, though. Look, I even made my own tea!”

“I know. I’m proud of you,” Olive begins, emotion threatening to get the better of her. “You’ve come a long way. Soon enough, you’ll be back to your old self, up to your old tricks. Beating all the other ladies at bingo and seeing them bubble with anger over it.”

Her eyes narrow, a titter leaving her lips. “They know they’ve all got it coming, especially that Doreen. Cheating old hag.”

“Pearl!” Olive snorts, milk almost streaming from her nostrils. “At least you kept your humor.”

“At least there’s that, hm?” 

Pearl reaches over and grips her granddaughter’s hand, staring into her eyes for just a moment. 

“I like the outfit,” she says as Olive looks down at herself. Her eyes widen a little, realizing that she’d gotten dressed on autopilot: blue jumpsuit, boots, button down underneath. “Something for work?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Olive stutters, shaking her head at the inner voice picking at her brain, bullying her to tell the truth. “Something like that.”

“I don’t usually go for re-enactment stuff, Ol, but I must say, they’re keeping very accurate.”

“How so?”

“Well, putting British girls in Red Cross uniforms. I don’t know how they managed it, but when I was over at the base, doing my work as a Land Girl, the lovely American girls acquired one more lass. It’s as if she appeared out nowhere; a British girl, but she fit right in. I don’t know how they got to keep her on because I heard the requirements were crazy!”

“Haha,” Olive forces out, keeping her eyes on the table. She hopes that, by avoiding eye contact, she won’t be able to give anything away. Nevertheless, Pearl carries on.

“She had a lovely boyfriend. He was gorgeous, had these beautiful blue eyes. She was always laughing at everything he said.”

“Obviously a funny guy, Pearly,” Olive giggles, the thought of every silly joke of Dougie’s coming to mind.

“Must’ve been,” she nods. “But I had my eye on someone else, you see.”

“Who?” Olive urges, keen to be reminded. She rests her elbow on the table, her cheek resting on her hand. “Tell me, tell me!”

“I don’t remember his name, but I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before. He was so handsome. He and his dog would cause such chaos.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Olive mumbles, clearing her throat. “You never thought to ask him for a dance?”

“He asked me out for a drink, but it never happened. I was moving away by the time I could say yes, and I never remembered his name to send him a letter to apologize. Poor boy probably thinks I stood him up!”

“Yeah,” Olive laughs weakly. She stands, walking over to Pearl and plants a kiss on her cheek. 

“What’s that for?”

“Just love your little stories, girly. You should write them all down for me.”

“I actually–”

The pair are distracted by the door swinging open, the wind seeming to try to take it off its hinges as it slams against the wall. 

“And you thought I was loud,” Olive gestures, shaking her head. “Hi, Joan.”

“Ah, this is a surprise.”

“Not really, Joan. I do live here.”

“You know what I mean, Olive,” she sighs, patting Pearl on the shoulder. “Thanks for getting her up.”

“No need, she did that all by herself. Made a tea and everything.”

“You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not in the bloody room,” she interjects, exasperated. “Yes, Joan, I got out of my own bed and made my own tea. Like a regular person should.”

“I’m glad,” Joan says, her shoulders falling a little with relief. “Fancy going into town and having a look around the shops? Lunch, too? My treat.”

“That’ll be lovely,” Pearl smiles, nodding along at her suggestion. “Change of scenery and some fresh air will do me good.”

Joan turns to Olive before going to pour her own cup of tea. “You’re welcome to join us, of course, Olive.”

“Thanks, Joan, but I’m gonna clean up around here a little. My bedroom is a sty and it needs a good tidy. You two have fun, though!”

“You need anything bringing back, kiddo?”

“Nah, Pearly. I’m all set.”

***

After showering - Olive willing to never take a power shower for granted ever again - and throwing on her comfiest clothes while her jumpsuit was in the washing machine, she began to tidy. She began at her bookshelf, placing her precious books straight before becoming easily distracted, thumbing through well worn copies of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Hamlet and Much Ado About Nothing. Fishing for a backpack from under her bed, she stuffs each book in with care, glad to find something to occupy her mind when there was no work to be done on mission days.

It’s when she’s dusting the shelves that something falls from a height. A sparkling gold catches her eye from the floor, Olive holding her breath in both disbelief and anticipation as she bends down to pick it up. She holds the locket in her hands for the first time in years, turning it over in her hands thrice before opening it up.

“Hello,” she speaks softly, keeping the words for the man in the picture. “Where’ve you been hiding?” 

Olive holds the heart shaped pendant in her hand a few moments more, taking in the features and expressions of her father, Oscar. There he was, smiling so gleefully that he was blushing, his cheeks a delightful shade of pink as he holds a small baby close to him. Baby Olive, a few weeks old, is looking at her father with awe, the same expression she carried on her face for the rest of his life whenever he was around. Her heart pounds unpleasantly as her mind reruns her dream from this morning; the crash, the car buckling all around them. Oscar slumping on his daughter as he took his final breath…

Olive snaps the locket closed at the memory, willing her brain to muster up better ones they shared. She places the chain around her neck and clasps it at the back, hoping that by wearing it, by keeping him close again, the bad memories can be saturated. 

***

Olive pulls out a sheet of paper and grabs a pen, intending to write Pearl and Joan a letter to explain her absence from the house when the door opens, the pair of them traipsing in with a shiver. 

“It’s cold out there, Ollie Pop,” Pearl shudders, nodding her head towards Olive’s coat that’s upon the hook as she looks at the jumpsuit she is wearing. “Wear something more than that if you’re heading out.”

“I was just about to write down that I was off again. Are you sure you don’t need me?”

“Absolutely sure,” Joan responds, closing the door behind her out of habit despite Olive saying she was about to leave. “Your grandma is right though, it’s bloody freezing. That wind has got a bite to it.”

“Turned quickly,” Olive observes, pulling on the mentioned jacket. “It was sunny when I got here.”

“Wasn’t it? Good old temperamental British weather, hm?”

“Got that right. Well, I’m off,” Olive announces, pecking Pearl on the cheek and giving her a quick squeeze.

“Don’t get lost!”

“Me? Never.”

***

There had been some ungraceful descents from the fort over the few weeks of going back and forth between the years, but today’s was about to go on record as the worst. Assuming that Kenny, Wink or one of the ground crew, had seen fit to leave the stairs exactly where they had been earlier this morning, Olive sticks one foot out of the door, only to be surprisingly greeted with air beneath her feet. Before she can register what’s happening, she steps down, sending herself flying through the air to the ground with a yelp.

“Fuck me,” she cries, once again finding herself winded on the hardstand of Thorpe Abbotts. Slowly gaining her breath back, she sits up, only to be greeted by a rowdy husky who is intent on giving one of his favorite girls a good morning kiss as a hello.

“Dang dog,” she giggles, scritching the space between his ears. “Morning.”

“Olive! Knew it was you,” Benny says, making his presence known by coming out of the fog. “What the hell are you doing all the way out here this early? Lemmons isn’t hankering for a donut that bad is he?”

“No, errm, no, no, he isn’t,” Olive winces, her voice raising a few octaves as she bites through another set of lies today. She sighs, standing up and brushing herself off. “I was just coming back from–”

His face is suddenly serious, the most solemn she’s ever seen him. “What are you doing out here, Ol?”

“Well, I–it’s just…” she stutters, her mouth filling with saliva as she talks. “I’m–ugh, Benny, I can’t lie to you.”

He crosses his arms, ready for an answer. He shakes his head, his eyebrows raised in an agitated manner. “Well?”

“Remember how I fell at your feet a few weeks ago?”

“Uh-huh…”

“And how it’s like I just appeared out of nowhere? Thin air?”

“Get to the point, Ol.”

“Jeez, okay,” she snides back, wincing in preparation for his reaction. “I’m from the future.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m from the future,” she repeats, seeing Benny’s arms uncross and his face go back to its usual kind expression. “I’m from the year 2021.”

“Hold on,” he says, the palm of his hand now resting on his forehead. “But how–”

“Dunno, bud. I clambered into this thing in my time and ended up here, in 1943. Fighting this war with you all.”

“I just–who else knows?”

“Kenny, Wink, and now you.”

“Val?”

“Not yet, Benny. I haven’t found the right time, or the right way to explain it. I mean, listen to me. It’s insane!”

“Got that right,” he exhales, puffing his cheeks. “Kenny found out before me? Before Dougie? Before Val?!”

“Listen, Kenny caught me the other night and I can’t lie very well, as you’ve just beared witness to. What else was I supposed to do when he caught me clambering up the stairs of a B-17?”

“Look, I can understand you not telling me, Dougie and Ev just yet. But Val? I’m surprised at you, Olive.”

“Yeah,” she squeaks, her throat closing around a lump within it. “Because, like, what if they don’t believe me, hm? What then?”

“I believe you,” Benny says, his voice soft on the cool morning breeze. “You’re my baby sis. I believe you. I’ll back you up, Ol.”

“You will?”

“Always! It’s fucking nuts,” he laughs, shaking his head and shrugging. “But I believe you.”

“How do you believe me so easily? And with no questions?”

“I don't know. I just feel like you of all people wouldn't lie to me.” He pauses for a second. “Also, pretty wild thing to lie about, huh?”

She laughs, the sound crawling up from her belly.

“Right? Anyway, baby sis is actually quite literal now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he laughs again. “What year were you born?”

“1997.”

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, running a hand through his hair. Looking a little less stressed, he finds her hand and grips it. “Something tells me you were always meant to be here, pal.”

“You know what, I think so, too. Meatball wouldn’t have led me here otherwise.”

He nods, petting the dog at his feet. “You want me to walk you home?”

“Please,” she agrees, linking her arm through his. “I’m knackered.”

“Nah-kurred,” Benny mocks, keeping Olive close so they don’t lose one another in the thick fog that hasn’t budged since they woke up this morning.

“Don’t take the piss, Bernard. I’ll spit in your eye.”

“There it is. I see learning from Val is going well.”

***

Benny pulls her into a comforting embrace upon escorting her back to the Red Cross hut, opening the door for her as gently as he can while trying - and failing -  to keep Meatball quiet so as to not wake the other girls. 

“Shut your pie hole, pal,” he whispers, his teeth gritted. “Yes, yes, it is breakfast time. You think I don’t know that? Maybe put your friends before your stomach just this once.” 

As Benny talks, Meatball’s head tilts this way and that as if he is truly listening and understanding every word. Both Olive and Benny see the dog’s ears prick up just once during their exchange: when the word ‘breakfast’ was mentioned. 

“Heard your belly rumble, too, Demarco,” Olive observes, the subtle sound ceasing as he lets out a sigh. 

“I am. But I’m not crazy about those eggs, Ol.”

“No shit, buddy. Be patient; East Anglia’s finest donuts, coming right up.”

“Can’t wait,” he says, beginning to walk away. “C’mon, Meatball, let’s go.”

Seeing him and the mutt disappear back into the fog, Olive creeps through the door that Benny had opened for her, hoping that both Val and Helen were still snoozing. Much to her relief, they are, Valencia still snoring the same way she was when Olive left, and Helen, wrapped up in her blanket like a caterpillar waiting to emerge from its chrysalis. 

Olive slings the bag off her shoulder and places it on her bunk before sitting down, pulling the dog-eared copies of the books she retrieved from her bedroom at Pearl’s out of the bag. She begins thumbing through them once again, grabbing a stray pencil and begins to annotate, already keen to present Brady’s girl, Jules, with another analysis in the coming weeks. It’s a line in Hamlet that catches her eye, quickly underlining it before snapping the book shut as Valencia begins to stir.

‘This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day…Thou canst not then be false to any man.’

“Morning, chickie,” Val yawns, stretching her arms above her head with a groan before standing up and making her way to the washroom, rubbing at her eyes as she goes. On her way, she shakes Helen awake, a pained moan coming from the cocoon she’s created herself. 

“Not yet,” she whines, nuzzling back into her pillow. “I was just about to have my big kissing moment with Jimmy Stewart.”

“Well, you can resume that at bedtime,” Val shouts behind her. “There’s donuts to be made, and a certain Herbert Nash to look at.”

“Well, if you’re putting it that way…”

“If it gets you out of bed, doll, I’ll say anything.

***

“Good morning, kids,” Tattie greets, flinging open the door to the hut with her foot. Her hands are full, the objects clanging as she sets them down on a small table. “Right, some housekeeping. Pulled some strings with the friends in high places, and Olive,” she says, turning to her with her hands on her hips, “you’re being allowed to stay.”

“All about who ya know, isn’t it, Tat?”

“Indeed,” she nods, a triumphant smile making her eyes crinkle. “I mean, look at this face! What kind of father would say no to this? Even if he can’t see it, he knows I’d be giving him the puppy eyes. Think the memory of that weakened him.” She pauses for a second, picking up the silver objects she’d discarded a moment earlier. “Anyway, in regards to that, we’ve all been given dog tags to wear now, as part of our uniform.” 

She gives each girl their dog tag, the tag itself looped on the regulation silver ball chain. Olive places hers around her neck before tucking it into her jumpsuit, the tag dangling just below where her locket sits neatly on her clavicle. 

“Let’s get going, girls,” Tattie coos, a mother hen herding her little chicks. The weather shocks both Valencia and Helen, the pair of them looking at their surroundings with wide eyes.

“They can’t fly in this, surely?” Helen says, shaking her head with worry.

“Surely not,” Val replies, slipping her hand into Olive’s. It feels clammy, Olive feeling the anxiety emanate off her instantly. “They’ll be grounded. Chicky will ground them, right?” Val squeezes at Olive’s hand for a response, the second girl unsure if Val was talking out loud or expecting an answer. Olive clears her throat, squeezing back reassuringly.

“Right,” she agrees, her head on Val’s shoulder for just a fleeting moment. “I think you’re right.”

As they reach the truck, they are surprised to see four men standing around it, two leaning against it for balance. Jack Kidd, Everett Blakely, James Douglass and Herbert Nash all deep in conversation, exchanging stories of home and their families, perk up even more at the sight of their girls in the early morning light.

“What in the world…” Valencia begins, her footsteps picking up pace to greet Everett with a good morning kiss. Olive feels herself do the same to reach her guy, followed by Helen. The only one that keeps their cool is Tattie Spaatz, addressing Kidd with only a quiet hello. 

“Hello, you,” Olive murmurs, leaning up to kiss Dougie. “How are you?”

“Morning, dumpling,” he replies, nuzzling into her.

“What did you call me?” she laughs, her arms wrapping around him. “Never heard that as a pet name before.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Not my favorite,” she replies, rubbing her nose against his. “Maybe try some others?”

“Oh, uh. Don’t worry, there’s a few more up here,” he responds, tapping his finger to his temple.

“Get away,” she teases, shoving him softly. “When did you all orchestrate this early morning surprise, anyhow?”

“When we all walked to bed last night. The four of us, we thought it would be a nice idea.”

“It was. It really was,” she says, kissing him again. “If you stay, coffee will be ready in a few.”

“What do you think I’m here for? No sugar, please, lovey.”

“I know…oh, that one’s sweet. I like that one!”

He grins at her cheekily, that twinkle in his eye ever present. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, his cheeks turning pink. 

“You’re cute,” she teases, pinching his cheek softly and turning to climb into the truck.

***

Coffee finally brewed and a batch of donuts ready for the hungry men of Thorpe Abotts, the gang hears the slap of feet running on the pavement, and the sound of two small children giggling. Billy and Sammy race their way to the Clubmobile as fast as their legs would carry them, almost diving headfirst into the counter.

“Steady on, lads, you almost took out Captain Blakely!” Olive urges, picking up two fresh donuts for them. “Just out of the fryer.”

“Wow, thanks, Miss,” Sammy says. Val joins them, holding two cups of coffee for the boys. “Don’t tell your mothers, for God’s sake,” she says, patting Sammy on the shoulder and ruffling through Billy’s curls. The youngins cheer quietly, excited over being given this, to them, forbidden beverage.

“You’re giving already excitable children coffee? Before school? Jesus, that poor teacher.”

“Don’t sweat it, Ol. It’s mostly milk.”

“Ohhhh. Smart.”

“Not just a pretty face,” she cackles, heading back to the truck.

“The prettiest, though,” Ev interjects, handing her his half smoked cigarette. “Maude,” he nods in her direction. “Any idea where Dougie went?”

“Absolutely none,” she shrugs, confused. She hadn’t even seen him leave, and was a little sore at his sudden exit without so much as a goodbye. She huffs a little, lighting her own cigarette and letting the smoke from the first drag stream through her nostrils. 

“Okay, sourpuss,” Ev japes, pointing through the fog that's beginning to clear. “Here he comes.”

“Where did you go?” Olive asks, her face still etched with a little sadness.

“Forgot something,” he responds breathlessly, smiling down at his girl. He has a jacket strewn over his shoulder, and hands it to her as he takes the cigarette from her mouth and pulls on it. “This is for you.”

“For me?” she gasps, unfolding it. It smells just like him, and covered in different patches that he’d obviously exchanged for smokes. She grins at him, lost for words. “This is–wow.”

“It’s for when I’m not here,” he murmurs, helping her put it on. “So you can feel close to me.”

“That’s so sweet, Dougie. Thank you.” She fumbles for a second, panicking. “I don’t have anything to give you!”

“Hey, don’t worry about it–”

“Wait!” she yelps, fiddling with her collar. “I do have something.” 

She fiddles with the two chains around her neck, pulling at the spare dog tag that hangs a little lower than the other. She unclasps it and hands it to him; his turn to be speechless, his mouth open in surprise and a hand running quickly through his neatly pomaded hair. 

“Gee, Ollie. Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“That’s–heh, now I don’t know what to say. You’re really my girl, huh?”

“Sure am.” 

He grabs her by the back of her neck and kisses her deeply, her hands finding balance on his chest as she’s thrust into him. They feel one another smile as their lips meet, a moment that makes them feel like they’re in their own little world. 

He places the tag around his own chain after they break apart, Olive's tag dangling close to his heart. 

“Ah,” he mutters, patting it gently. “Perfect.” 

She grins at him, heat rising from her chest and spreading over her cheeks. He glances down at her open jumpsuit, her clavicle still visible. His eyes light up when he sees the gold locket sitting pretty, hand coming out to touch it. 

“Got room for me in there?”

“You know it,” she swoons. “Right next to my Papa.” Her fingers touch his as she takes the locket from his gentle grasp, beginning to open it and not paying a thought to the color picture of her father within it. The world seems to slow down as the locket almost opens, everything coming back into focus at the sound of Everett Blakely's voice from the back of the truck.

“Doug, you need more smokes?” he calls, Dougie planting a quick kiss to Olive’s forehead and rushing over to him. She exhales a breath she barely noticed she had been withholding, opening the locket for just a quick second. 

“I'll tell him, promise,” she whispers to the picture. “I'll tell them all.”

“Come on, ya rabble. Get inside!” Chick Harding struts out of the briefing room, making his way up to Val at the window of the truck. He opens his mouth to ask for his coffee, mouth left hanging open as Valencia places the cup in front of him, already made to his exact taste. She pours a second for Red Bowman before placing two donuts on napkins and wordlessly handing the goodies over. 

“Thank you, Valencia,” he says, clearly surprised. “I need to get you girls together real quick. Miss Tattie, can you close up once the fellas are all in briefing?”

“Errm…yes?” She replies, clearly confused. She looks towards her girls, shrugging. “I guess start cleaning up a little, we'll come back to it.”

“We're not in trouble, are we?” Helen asks, her eyes worriedly darting between her friends. “I mean, I know we aren't exactly allowed to form romances with the men, it's right there in the rules, but…”

“It's a silly rule,” Tattie responds, puffing on her cigarette. “How do they expect us not to form bonds with these fellas?”

“Don't stress yourself, chicken,” Olive joins, pulling her into a hug. “I'm sure Chicky just wants to remind us that we need to keep Meatball tied to the post.” 

“You're probably right. He hasn't mentioned knowing about Nash and I, neither has Red, so–”

“Helen, that man has eyes in the back of his ass. He knows everything: the all seeing eyes from the watchtower.”

“Okay, that's not terrifying at all. Save it for Halloween, English!”

***

Red Bowman stands broadly at the door of the briefing hut, hands on his hips as the girls walk towards him. Val is sporting that signature furrow, albeit softer this time, as if she is deep in anxious thought.

“Spaatz, DiRosano, Porter, Lewis,” he greets, nodding at each of them as he says their name. “Come on in.”

They follow him silently, the girls catching the eye of some of the men as they enter. Chicky spots them from where he is standing across the room, fat cigar freshly lit between his teeth.

“Girls,” he says in that thundering voice of his. 

“Chicky,” Tattie responds as he joins them near the door. Lighting a smoke of her own, she looks at him suspiciously. “Care to reveal why you’ve pulled us in here?”

“Need ya to look after that damn mutt,” he huffs, a billow of smoke leaving his nostrils and mouth as he replies. “Make sure he don’t distract the boys none.”

“Uh-huh,” Tattie responds, still staring at him narrow-eyed. “Surely you don’t need all four of us to do that? Meatball is hard work but, sir, not that dang hard.”

He laughs, gesturing for the girls to move closer to him. They bunch in, including Red, the communal circle growing tighter at his silent command. “Bowman, tell ‘em.”

Red clears his throat and finally relaxes his stance. “We don’t just want ya in here to watch the dog. We’ve seen how close some of ya have got to these men and we don’t feel it’s fair to keep ya in the dark. It’s a big one, and we don’t want ya moping around and playing guessing games. We want ya all in the know. Got me?”

“We gotcha,” Val replies. “Doesn’t lessen the worry though, Red.”

“No, I know,” he agrees, exhaling an audible deep breath through his nose. “But it takes away the mystery. They’d tell ya anyway, but…”

“But you think we deserve to know,” Olive squeaks, nodding in agreement. 

“That’s right.”

Tattie finally lets her eyes open wider, also nodding along. Helen joins, her lips pressed together in a line of worry. “Where shall we sit?”

“At the back if you don’t mind, girls,” Chicky interjects, showing them to four spare seats. “Keep that mutt under control. No playing fetch during the briefing!”

At the word ‘fetch,’ a whine shrills from Meatball, the husky suddenly ready to play. 

“Not now, buddy,” Olive soothes, scritching at his fur before taking her seat. “Later, mkay?”

Distracted by giving attention to Meatball, Olive doesn’t register the large presence of Curt Biddick sauntering up to them and greeting Val in the same way he has since childhood.

“There she is!” he cries. “There’s the gal. Hey, whatcha doin’ in here? This ain’t your usual spot before a mission.”

“We know,” she murmurs, standing to relay the information Red and Chicky gave them. They speak in hushed tones, Olive noticing Curt nodding at every appropriate stage of the conversation. 

“Well, that’s good of him to think of ya like that,” he says, his hand gripping at hers. “Yous all should be in the know. It’s only right.”

“You wanna sit with us?” Olive offers, patting a spare seat on the right of her.

“Nah, thanks though, Ol. Dickie saved me a spot up front.”

“Ah, grand,” she nods, going back to the dog and drowning him in the attention he keeps whining for.

“Well, I’ll be seein’ yous. Val, make me a coffee after.”

“Pain in my ass!”

***

As the briefing begins, Olive feels Helen next to her, elbowing her gently.

“Hey, Ol!” she whispers through her teeth, head nodding towards where James Douglass is sat next to Harry Crosby. 

“Mhm?” Olive replies, catching Dougie turn around and wink at her at the same moment. She smiles at him softly, winking back.

“That,” she giggles, hand covering her mouth to muffle the sound as Chick Harding’s voice blares throughout the room and capturing the attention of each airman. “I was trying to tell you that.”

“So high school,” she teases, shaking her head and joining in the giggles. “What a sweetie.”

“He loves you,” she says, a knowing look in her eyes.

“Oh, shut it, Porter,” she bites back, smiling nonetheless. 

“And you love him.”

“Give over, doll. I’ll spit in your eye.”

“Go for it. I’d take it, because I know I’m right.”

Olive sighs, shaking her head and leaning against her. She feels Meatball finally settle, his head on her legs and huffing slightly, surrounded by all his people and none of them willing to play.

“Quit sassing,” Olive softly scolds, petting his soft ears. “We will play later.”

“What’s up?” Val leans over, reaching to pat Meatball. 

“He’s having a tantrum ‘cos all his friends are in the same room and not a single one can play.”

“He’s just a baby, that’s why,” Helen coos, making kissy faces at him. 

“Girls, don’t make Chicky regret inviting us in here,” Tattie hisses, passing cigarettes down the line. “Hush up, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they all say in unison, suddenly sitting up straight and keen to listen.

The curtain that is covering a large map on the wall is pulled - almost with a flourish - by the Colonel, the airmen making noises of suspense. It's Curt, sitting a few rows ahead of the usual guys, next to his co-pilot Dickie, who speaks first, his voice a little softer than everyone else is used to. 

“Why's that line go all the way to Africa?”

“Africa?!” The word leaves Olive's mouth in a squeak before she can stop it, clapping a hand over her mouth immediately following it. Meatball whimpers at the sudden mood change, those literal puppy eyes full of concern that his girl is suddenly afraid. 

“Here,” Val says, elbowing Olive gently in the ribs. She hands her Tattie’s hip flask, shoving it in her hand. “Calm yourself.”

Olive does so, taking a chaste gulp from the flask and wincing at the burn of the alcohol racing down her throat. 

“Better?”

She nods, handing it back to Val so it reaches its original owner. Val looks back at Olive with the same concern that's gripped Meatball, her hand suddenly gripping Olive’s.

“Doll, you've never reacted like this.”

“I'm aware,” Olive whispers back, her voice shaking. “Fucking Africa, Valencia. Africa.”

Her nervousness momentarily fades away as Dougie turns around to smile at her again, her grinning back instantly. They hold it for a moment, Olive getting lost in his beautiful eyes even from this distance. She feels Helen nudge her again, nodding triumphantly.

“I didn't say you were wrong, doll.”

“Oh, I knew it, English!”

***

“See you all in a few days,” is Colonel Harding’s departing remark as the airmen begin to file out of the room. Tattie is the one to lead the girls out, the three others following her like ducks in a row once again. Olive is so distracted by not bumping into a dozen other men that she barely notices Dougie waiting for her in the doorway, along with Ev who is waiting for Valencia.

“How did you sneak in this time, babydoll?”

“No sneaking required, James,” she grins, him pulling her into an embrace. “We were invited. Chick and Red thought it appropriate to let us in on what you boys are doing - lessens the anxiety apparently.”

“And did it help any?”

“Not one bit,” Olive replies. “Enemy territory,” she says, her voice squeaking as her throat closes, the effort of keeping tears at bay. “Then fucking Africa.”

“Hey, now,” he soothes, his hand on the side of her neck, his thumb stroking her cheek. “I’ll be home before you know it. I’ll even write you.”

“There won't be much point,” she laughs. “I'll end up getting it after you get home.”

“Hey, it's the thought that counts, right?”

She smiles, despite the single tear falling from her cheek. He wipes it away as soon as he sees it drop, a soft, comforting smile on his face. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” she sniffs. “I’m a tough girl.”

He nods. “I know you are.”

“I can take care of myself, don’t you fret.”

“You have,” he says. “You still do. You always will.” He leans in and kisses her sweetly on the lips, his hand still upon her now blushed cheek. “I’ve just joined in, too. Now we take care of each other, hm?”

She nods, pressing her nose and forehead to his, feeling every worry melt away for just a moment. He breaks the silence, moving back a little and holding her hand with his free one.

“Kept seeing your cute little smile while we were in there. I loved it.”

“Gosh, you’re just obsessed with me, aren’t you?” She replies with a giggle, obviously joking; she doesn’t expect his face to fall serious, his eyes darting all over her face, not quite being able to figure out where to look first. He settles on her eyes and then her mouth as he moves to kiss her again.

“Sure am, sugar.”

The pair are distracted by Tattie sauntering over, being followed by an overly giggly Helen who is trying to control a very giddy Meatball.

“Girls, there’s a truck to re-open and more hungry fellas hankering for donuts. Quit necking!” Despite her clear irritation, she winks at both Olive and Val, beckoning them to follow her once again. 

“Come on, handsome,” Olive says, pulling Dougie by the hand. “Let me get you a snack for the journey.”

***

“Meatball! Meatball, no!” Helen scolds, trying her best to tie his leash to the pole that stands right beside the Clubmobile. Seeing Helen crouch in front of him, he thinks it’s time to play, the hyper husky panting in her face. His tail begins to wag as he sees her reach into the pocket of her jumpsuit but is dismayed to find she has only reached in there to grab a handkerchief, capturing a surprise sneeze. “This dog hair! Tickles my nose something fierce.” Eyes now streaming, Helen struggles with completing the knot and looks towards her companions for assistance.

“Ol, a little help please! You’re the only one he listens to besides DeMarco.”

At the mention of his owner’s name, Meatball howls loudly and continues panting and wagging in excitement. Making her way to him and Helen, Olive laughs.

“He can’t hear you from all the way out here, buddy!” She takes the leash from Helen and ties it with a flourish in seconds, Helen looking on impressively. “Helen, we cannot say his name! You know that by now!”

“My bad!” She titters, groaning as she wipes at her eyes again. “He’s adorable but my goodness, these allergies.” 

A Jeep breaks through the fog with a loud screech, the noise startling the girls and the dog. Val, lighting a cigarette as she exits the truck, joins the other girls in order to investigate while Tattie continues cleaning, mumbling out loud to herself - something that the girls have deciphered she does when she is anxious.

“Garcia,” Val greets, recognizing him instantly. “How can we help ya?”

“Just wanted to let you all know, the boys have got a thirty minute delay. If ya wanted to say goodbye again, drop em another hot coffee to keep their spirits up.”

“Say less,” Olive replies, unhooking Meatball from his leash and gesturing for him to follow her. She clambers in, the dog leaping into her lap instantly. Val grabs another two coffees and a bag of donuts, Tattie and Helen waving them off.

“Step on it, Garcia,” Val laughs. “They’ll take the news better if it comes from us.”

“You got that right, DiRosano. Sure they like looking at you both a hell of a lot more than they like looking at me!”

Speeding through the mist, Garcia huffs a little, the brightest setting of lights not able to break through it. “It’s a real pea-souper, this one.”

“Do you reckon they’ll call it off?” Olive enquires, hoping for the answer she wants to hear.

“Not a chance, Lewis. This is a big one. Brass have taken a lotta risks and–well, I’d better zip it.”

“Nothing I won’t find out in a few weeks when I’m typing Chicky’s reports up,” Val retorts, reaching around to pet Meatball. “No need to keep it quiet.”

They conclude their drive in silence, Garcia seeming to have run out of polite conversation within a few moments. The brakes screech as they come to a stop, Olive patting Meatball on the rear to get him off her lap. Swiping at her navy blue jumpsuit to rid it of the hair, she loses him in the smog instantly and throws a ball in the direction he ran off in. Grabbing Val’s hand, as if she’s somehow able to lead her to the crew of Just A-Snappin’, she smiles at her wanely.

“Chickie, I can see through this haze just as well as you.”

“This way we don’t lose each other,” Olive cackles in return, resting her head on Val’s shoulder for a short second.

“Oh, never, girl. Never ever.” 

She looks her friend up and down as they walk hand in hand, Olive trying to wrap Dougie’s jacket around her with her spare hand. 

“Dougie’s?” Val asks, gesturing. 

“Yeah! Sewed all these on himself. Ain't it neat?”

“Sewed…himself?”

“Yeah!”

“Ol, I've been sewing his stuff since Ev and I started dating…oh, wait til I get my hands on him!”

***

“Looky here!” Dougie yells, clumsily getting up from the ground. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Garcia wanted us to share some news…”

“Uh-huh?”

“Thirty minute delay!” The girls yell in unison, trying their best to add some cheer to it. Olive even accompanies it with a singsong voice and jazz hands, Dougie almost falling over himself laughing at her. 

“The Clubmobile serving snacks and putting on a show now, Maude?” Everett Blakely pipes up as Val kisses him on the cheek.

“Hey, get it for free while you can. Olive and The Clubmobile Gals. It's got some pizzazz to it, huh?”

“You gonna be a star, Maude? Take care of all of us?”

“You bet, Ernest,” she laughs, feeling Dougie wrap his arms around her waist and give her a squeeze.

“This is the best way bad news has ever been given to me.”

“Those three years of drama school had to come in handy somewhere, my love. Here,” she says, handing him a brown bag full to burst with donuts. “For everyone, mind!”

“All of us?” Ev asks. “No chance. Via and Saunders don’t like donuts, Kidd and I are too busy flying the damn fort to even think about having a snack break, and Croz…” The group look over at him, laying on the concrete hardstand with his eyes closed, his head upon his briefcase. 

“Croz won’t keep ‘em down,” Dougie interjects, a triumphant expression on his face. “Looks like they’re all for me!”

“I've got a bone to pick with you, Douglass!” Val interjects, that classic brow furrow joined by a mischievous smile.

“What?!” he snorts, mouth full of donut. “What've I done now?”

“You're in trouble, baby boy.”

“You! Sewing!?”

“Oh–shit,” he swallows, holding his hands up defensively around a grin. “I know when I've been caught!”

“I've been–”

“I know,” he replies, laughing at her extremely pissed off expression. “Just makes me feel safer.”

Val softens instantly, as does Olive, the pair of them aww-ing and cooing at him. 

“Darling,” Olive pouts, kissing his cheek. “Very cute.”

“The puppy eyes work every time,” he retorts, grabbing Olive’s hand.

“Oh, you little shit!”

The group  make their way to where Croz is snoozing, Dougie sitting behind Olive so she can lean on him to get somewhat comfy as Valencia,  joined by Ev, sidles up to Curt the moment she spots him appearing through the fog.

“Drew you somethin’,” Dougie murmurs, digging around in the pocket of his sheepskin. 

“When?” Olive asks, shoulders beginning to shake from giggling. “How?”

“Just before you got here. I was gonna send it with your letter but you may as well have it now.” He hands her a small piece of neatly folded paper, an expectant look on his face as she opens it. He has drawn two ladybirds, nestled together on a leaf with the caption ‘Can I bug you forever?’

“Oh, gee,” Olive says, absolutely tickled. “I love the ladybirds.”

“Ladybugs, honey girl.”

“Ladybir–what did you call me?”

She feels her cheeks glow pink at this new pet name, the first that’s made her insides feel like they’re melting. 

“Oh, you like that one!”

“I absolutely do. Stick with that one. That’s lovely.”

“You’re lovely.”

“Oh, stop,” she teases, leaning up so he can plant a kiss on her temple. She presses her forehead on his chin, him squeezing her to his body in reciprocation. “You’re such a sweetie.”

They’re silent for a few moments, them both savoring the embrace. His hands feel warm as he places them in her lap, his nose burying itself in her neck as he kisses her there gently. With Everett joining them again, sans Val, she looks to her left, spotting Val and Curt a short distance away - a sign that the fog is clearing just a little. Olive sees them hug, Val holding him a little tighter this time. He smiles softly at her, bidding her farewell. She stares after him wistfully as he walks away and disappears into the ether. 

***

As Valencia returns to rejoin the group, sitting and chatting underneath their fort, Everett stands to greet her. 

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” she stammers out, a shaky breath leaving her lips as Ev reaches up to wipe her eyes and pull her into a hug. He takes her hand as he sits on the concrete again, gently pulling her with him.

“C'mere, come sit,” he says, patting his knee. “Got a riddle to share.”

She perches on his lap as Dougie wakes a snoring Croz by whacking him on the leg. 

“Hmm!” Croz grumbles, his brow furiously furrowed. “What now, Doug?”

“Ev has a riddle to tell us.”

“You woke me up for a friggin’ riddle?”

“Thought you could do with waking up your brain,” Dougie teases, Crosby swatting at him.

“Fine. Go on, Blakely, the floor is yours.”

The captain takes a pull from his Lucky Strike before beginning, clearing his throat as he speaks:

“You’re on the way to purgatory–”

“Purgatory?”

“Yes, Maude, purgatory. You’re on the way to purgatory, and one road goes to Valhalla. The other goes to Hell, damnation, the abyss, what have you.”

“Uh huh?” Croz says, his tired face now clouded with confusion and curiosity.

“On each of the roads, is a goblin…”

“A goblin?” Olive exclaims, trying to stifle a giggle. “Ernest, where is this going?”

“If you'd let me get through more than one line, English, you'd find out. One goblin tells the truth, the other always lies. He's a tricky little fucker, a little mischievous.”

“An imp,” Olive chuckles, catching Val’s eye.

“Birichino,” she enunciates, winking at Ev. “That's what Ma calls Curt.”

“Wait…would you ask both of them if either are the good goblin?”

“Jesus, English, I was about to say that!” Croz yelps, frisbeeing his crush cap at her.

“Snooze ya lose, Harry!” She throws it right back, catching him in the abdomen. It winds him slightly, Crosby sitting up quickly and wincing. 

“Good shot,” he wheezes, holding a hand up in defeat as Olive checks on him, laughing at his faux coughs. 

With a laugh, Dougie brings the group back to the conversation. 

“I have a riddle!” 

“Please, regale us,” Val says, lighting a cigarette and handing it across to Olive. Dougie winks down at Olive, a knowing glint in his eye.

“What's the difference between a hippo, and a–”

“And a zippo? Douglass, we've heard that one a thousand times now, pal.”

Despite hearing it for what feels like the thousandth time herself, Olive begins to giggle in front of James, him joining in as he nuzzles into her again. “Yeah, but this is why I tell it. For the prettiest smile in the world.”

“I love that one,” she titters, reaching up to kiss him.

“I know you do,” he murmurs, reciprocating her kiss just as lovingly. “And I love y–”

“That a flare?” Croz cuts in, his eyes narrowing as he tries to make sense of the light in the distance that's now falling speedily to the ground. 

“Time to go, fellas,” Ev commands, his crew jumping up at his tone. He kisses Val deeply, before wrapping his arms around her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear to look forward to his return home. 

After he helps her stand, Dougie takes Olive’s face in his hands and traces her mouth with the pad of his thumb, as if to try and memorize its shape.

“What were you about to say?” she asks, their faces coming closer together and their noses meeting. 

“Tell you when I get home, honey girl.”

“No, now!” she demands, kissing him deeply. 

“You're cute when you're pissed off.”

“Doesn't mean you should do it often, cheeky.”

“I'll write you, okay?”

“Okay,” she quivers, hand on his sweet face. “Please come home to me.”

“Nowhere else I'd rather be, babydoll.” 

He moves her hand from his face, kissing her palm one, two, three times before walking away, Olive watching him until he's out of sight.

***

“You heard that, right?” Olive gasps, her hand gripping on to Val's arm. “What Dougie said, you heard it?”

“Yes, I did. I heard it, Ol. He loves you!” she squeals, handing Meatball’s leash back to her as he leads them back to the truck, sniffing through the mist. 

“I didn't think–”

“Olive Lewis!” Val shouts, that Brooklyn twang adding an extra umph to Olive’s name. “Don't make me give you a slap.”

“I'm not!” she protests, rolling her eyes. “I just…”

“We all know you love him, too, doll. You'd have to be blind to not notice it.”

“Is it really that obvious?” 

“Limpido come il giorno, my girl.”

“In English, please.”

“As plain as the nose on ya face.”

Arriving back at the Clubmobile thanks to Meatball’s dog senses, Val and Olive rejoin Helen and Tattie, the girls standing outside of the truck sharing a cigarette. Dainty coughs leave Helen as she tries to inhale, her sweet, kind eyes filling up with tears at every drag. 

“Helen, what have I told you about that? You’re going to hurt yourself, coughing like that.”

“I can’t…seem to…do it!”

“Then don’t, chicken!”

They hear a ruckus coming through the fog, Rosie and his group  breaking out of the mist and greeting the girls. 

“Hiya, boys!” Tattie calls, climbing back into the truck. “Last few donuts are yours if you want ‘em!”

“Thank ya, Miss Tattie,” Rosie politely replies, shaking his head in mock dismay as he spots Nash making a beeline for Helen. “How’s your day been?”

“Oh, easy enough. It’s trying to find a way to keep ourselves occupied while the boys are up that’ll be the trouble. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any ideas?”

“Nothing that doesn’t involve sitting with a book, I’m afraid.”

“Hm, maybe not. I’d get restless.”

“You, restless? Now I don’t believe that.”

She pauses for a second, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee. “Girls!” she calls, the three of them breaking away from their conversation with Nash, Pappy and Speas. “What do you say we name this old girl?” She pats the open window of the Clubmobile fondly before continuing. “A few of the other girls out in Europe have named theirs, why don’t we?”

“Oh, yes!” Helen replies excitedly. “But what?”

There’s a pause as they all begin to ponder, each person occasionally offering a “hm,” or a “aha!” Pappy, at one point, scratches his head as if he’s deep in thought. “Why don’t you name it after one of the states you’re all from?”

“Pappy,” Olive says, looking at him side-eyed. “Think about that again.”

“Scratch that,” he laughs. “Well then, I’m stumped!”

“You did have a semblance of a good idea though! We totally could keep it in relation to all of us girls.”

“Do-Nut Enter,” Tattie suggests, cackling at her own joke. 

“All Things Nice?” Helen shrugs. “Because we’ve got sugar on the donuts, Val is the spice–”

“Why, thank you!”

“Olive, any ideas?”

“None!” She walks over to Meatball, tying him to his post. “My brain is fried.”

“That’ll be the lack of sleep, kid. I’ve got my eye on you!” she pokes, winking at her.

“That’s it!” Val calls, seeing Olive begin to pet the dog. “Something to do with Meatball!”

“Uh-huh? What did you have in mind?”

“Meatball, Meatball…” she murmurs, before snapping her fingers. “Got it! Spaghetti ‘n’ Meatball!”

“Oh, that’s precious!” Olive squeals, looking between everyone else. “Don’t you all think?”

Tattie smiles with a soft chuckle, Helen also nodding in agreement. 

“Spaghetti ‘n’ Meatball it is.”

***

Inducting Kenny and Winks to be their painters, their brilliant nose art designs speaking for themselves, the gang all rally around with trays of coffee and a fresh batch of donuts to satiate their hungry helpers. Rosie and Pappy were on ribbon duty, finding something for the girls to cut for the grand reopening of the truck with its brand new name. Speas was in charge of gathering the remaining men for the celebration, rallying them from all corners of the base. Nash was supposed to have joined him, but remains stuck to Helen’s side like he was velcroed to her.

“Nash,” Olive says, teasingly. “I promise she won’t disappear while you help Speas out.”

“Olive, you can’t let a pretty girl like this outta your sight if you can help it!”

“Soppy sod,” she giggles, watching Helen blush. “I’ll need her once Rosie and Cousin Pappy have arrived back, though.”

“Hey, what’s all that about?” Nash asks. “I tried to ask but I couldn’t make head nor tail about what he was yappin’ about.”

“Oh! We share the same surname and the moment Pappy heard it, he declared we obviously had to be related. I’m not protesting,” she laughs, covering her mouth to stifle it slightly. “It’s not like I have a big family myself. It’s nice to add to the fold, actually.”

“What’s that, doll?” Helen asks, her face now a picture of both curiosity and concern. Olive feels herself heat up, almost beginning to boil over as the reality of what she has said begins to set it.

“Nothing, nothing!” she swallows, willing the stressed warmth to leave her cheeks.

“No, tell me what you meant!”

“Later,” she replies, dismissively, racing back around to the front of the truck. Through the haze of panic, she barely notices Lemmons sneak up behind her and snatch a donut from the tray she had been holding.

“Hey!” Sammy yells, telling on him within seconds. “You didn’t ask Miss Olive first!”

“Yeah!” Billy echoes. “Lemmons, you need to ask nicely!”

“Boys!” he laughs. “I don’t need to ask. Miss Olive and I have an agreement.”

“Oh!” They say in realization, before carrying on petting Meatball who is happily lapping up all the extra attention.

“What does that mean?” Val asks, Olive jumping at her presence.

“What does what mean?” she snaps, shaking her head. “What?”

“You and Kenny having a deal.”

“Oh my God, nothing!” she barks, feeling her eyes begin to swim with tears. “Just leave it.”

“Huh…”

As Olive turns her back, Val walks away, shaking her head. Clutching the locket, Olive sniffs as the tears dry in her eyes. “Don’t worry, Papa. They’ll know by tonight. No more secrets.”

Olive is quickly distracted by a chorus of voices calling her name, Helen and Tattie pulling a trail of toilet paper across the Clubmobile to create a makeshift ribbon to cut for the grand reopening. Just as Chick Harding approaches, he speaks up again. 

“Whose twenty two sheet daily ration did ya take?” 

“Yours, sir,” Tattie quips back, joining the rest of the group. “After three! One, two…”

“You little–”

Just as Chick is prepared to tear the paper, Meatball leaps. It’s as if it all happens in slow motion, everyone’s faces a picture of surprise as the dog jumps and grabs the paper with his teeth, pulling it apart before Tattie even manages to get to three. 

“Meatball!” They all moan disdainfully, the dog happily panting at his efforts, looking terribly pleased with himself. 

“Good thing you’re cute,” Olive scolds, kissing him on the head. “Wait til your Dad hears about this!”

***

The Silver Wings Club is the emptiest it’s ever been - usually packed to the brim, the few service members sat deep in quiet conversation as a few members of the band play softly on stage adds an eerie feel to the environment.

Olive was already feeling uneasy, both Val and Helen noticing how subdued she was as they changed uniforms, her shrugging them off and reassuring them she was fine at every turn. She’d seen herself grow ever paler in the mirror, willing herself to put one foot in front of the other as they approached Rosie and his crew in the club. As they all stand to offer their seats, Olive declines and makes a beeline for the bar where she orders a large whiskey. She gulps it down the moment it is placed in front of her, her friends looking on in surprise as she turns back to them.

“Rosie, Pappy…lads. I need to talk to the girls. Alone.”

“Sure thing, Miss Olive.”

Pappy remains still, arms crossed as he smiles jovially between Olive and their friends. “You too, Cousin Pappy.”

“Oh, what? Why?”

“Because it’s private.”

“We’re family!”

“It’s girl stuff!” she blurts, closing her eyes and wincing as she snaps at him.

“Say no more!” he guffaws, the insinuation of that alone enough to have him pick up his drink and follow Rosie.

“What’s up, kid?” Tattie says, side eyeing Olive as she lights a cigarette. “You’ve been off all day. Lay it on us.”

“Well, it’s uh–”

“Is it because Dougie and Ev, and the rest of the fellas are away? I know it’s the first time you’ve dealt with something like this, but–”

“Nope, not that. There’s something–oh, Jesus Christ…” Olive gasps, swallowing the bile that’s beginning to creep up her throat. She shudders, her whole body seeming to convulse. 

“What something?”

“I need to tell you something. About me, about my life. And I’m worried - terrified, in fact - that you all won’t believe me.”

“We’ve heard it all, Ol,” Helen laughs, sipping her cocktail.

“Oh, I doubt you’ve heard this, Helen.”

“Christ sake!” Val yells, gently kicking Olive’s shin. “Spit it out, English!”

“Right, well. Tattie, you know how I, in your words, appeared suddenly?”

“Yeah? From thin air, it seems.”

“Well, I was on the hardstand that day, because I fell out of a fort.”

“Why were you in a fort, Ol?” Helen places her drink down, her brow softly furrowed. Olive takes a deep breath in, bracing herself to finally tell the truth.

“I was in a fort because that’s how I got here. I’m not from here, from this time.”

“W-what?” Val asks, equally as confused as the rest of the group. “Huh?” Olive sees her chest rise and fall quickly, her breaths becoming uneven and jagged.

“I’m from the future,” Olive replies quietly, her eyes falling on her hands that she’s placed in her lap, wringing them together. “I’m from the year two thousand and twenty one. In my time, I climbed into a model fort because I thought I heard a dog barking for help in there and I fell out. Here.”

“Olive–”

“Who else knows?” Val demands. “Does anyone else know?”

Olive nods without looking up. “Kenny, and now Benny.”

“Before me?!” 

Olive looks up as her friend's voice borders on yelling, and sees her eyes begin to fill with tears. 

“I thought we were friends, Olive.”

“We are!” she yells in response as Val stands, stalking towards the door. “I didn’t know what else to do!”  She begins to follow her, but is quickly pulled back by Helen and Tattie who return her to her chair.

“Let her go,” Tattie says, stubbing her cigarette into the ashtray in front of her. “Give her a moment.”

“But–”

“No buts, girl. Now…you’re not lying to us?”

“I have been, yes. But this…this is me telling the truth. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to land on my ass somewhere so removed from my own life and find this.”

“What is it you’ve found, hm?”

“You guys…a family. I don’t–I don’t really have one aside from my grandmother and this…” she feels hot, fat tears begin to streak down her cheeks as she sobs through her words. “This is such a gift.”

“Look, we can’t say we’re not shocked,” Helen says, taking her hand. “But, I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Mhm. Now I think about it, it all makes sense. Can’t set your hair, can’t seem to get your nails right…”

“Gee, thanks,” Olive snorts, wiping her nose with a handkerchief.

“You know what I mean, girlie,” she comforts, hand now stroking hers. “Aside from all that, you’re one of us now. I feel like you always have been.”

Tattie nods, wordlessly confirming what Helen has said. “You don’t just have your grandmother anymore, Ol. You have me, Helen, the boys, and Val.”

“Not so sure about that last one right now,” Olive weeps, Helen shushing her softly. 

“Yes, you are. She’s upset she wasn’t told, and rightfully so. She has every right to be mad at you right now, doll.”

“Yeah,” Olive says softly, dabbing at her eyes again. “I’m gonna go see to her, but when I come back, I have something to show you.”

“What is it?” Tattie asks, eyes glowing with excitement.

“Proof.”

***

“Can I come in?” Olive asks as she taps on the door to the Red Cross hut.

“Free country,” Val responds, her tone sulky. Olive sees her slumped on her bunk with Meatball as she walks in, deciding against sitting next to her and opting to sit on the bunk opposite.

“I’m sorry,” Olive starts, her voice quiet. “I wanted to tell you, I just–”

“Just what? Decided to tell Kenny and DeMarco before I even got a look in?”

“I didn’t intend to tell them. They caught me.”

“Come again?”

“Kenny caught me one night, and I couldn’t lie to him. Truth be told, I’d had one too many Old Fashioneds and didn’t have my wits about me.”

“And DeMarco?”

“The dog gave me away this morning as I fell out of the plane.” Meatball whines at the mention of his presence, his ears pricking up. “Yes, I’m talking about you, ya damn mutt.”

She hears Val take a deep inhale, the breath leaving her slowly. “So you did wanna tell me?”

“More than anything. I just couldn’t figure out how.”

“Why now?”

“It was all getting too risky. So many things almost gave me away today and I can’t keep lying to everyone. Especially you, Val. You’re my person.”

“Thought that would be Dougie,” she replies snarkily, a smile growing on her lips nevertheless.

“Hm, maybe, romantically. But you? This shit is for keeps.”

“I feel the same.”

“Good.”

A moment of silence passes between them, Val reaching over to take Olive’s hand.

“Sorry I was a big baby,” she sniffs, shaking her head. “I just don’t like being left out.”

“Does anyone?” Olive laughs. “You believe me?”

“Y’know what, I actually do. It all makes sense now.”

“Yes, yes, I know, Helen already ate me up about my hair and my nails, I don’t need it repeated.”

“Ate you up?” Val asks, a snort leaving her as she tries to stifle a giggle.

“Chewed me up and spat me right out.”

“Oh, I love that. I need to use it.”

“Feel free! It’s one of my favorites.”

“Any more secrets you have to tell me? Might as well air it all out now while we’re here.”

“Nothing much else to tell, really. Dead dad, abandoned by my mum, raised by my grandmother.”

“Oh, me too. The–the first one.”

“I’m so sorry, honey. It’s not a nice club to be a member of.”

“Club?” she asks. “There’s a club?”

“Hmm. Dead Dads Club. Nobody chooses to be a member, it’s sort of thrust upon you. I was 13 when I got my badge.”

“I was much younger. Only a small child. It’s just been me, mom and Nonna ever since.”

“I only ever had Pearl after. My mum didn’t take my dad passing well–I mean, of course she didn’t but…anyway, that’s a story for another day.” She pulls her locket out of her collar, showing it to Valencia. “Would you like to see him?”

“I’d be honored.”

She opens the locket as Val perches on the bed next to her, her eyes squinting a little to see the small heart shaped picture inside. “You look just like him. Same eyes…same chin and jaw…wow, that’s your dad.”

“That’s my dad. My Papa,” she breathes, closing the necklace. “He was a sweetheart.”

“You think he’d approve of Dougie?”

“Without a doubt. Both with the same silly sense of humor. I’m beginning to think James has a hotline to heaven, the way he’s coming out with similar jokes.”

“And this?”

“I think he would. I think he’d just be happy to see me happy, y’know. It all scares me silly. He’s gone, and once Pearl goes, I’m all alone.”

“I’ll smack you, English,” Val scolds, wrapping an arm around her. “No, you’re not. We’re your family now.”

“Not just blowing smoke up my arse?”

“Never.”

“Come on,” Olive suggests, pulling Val up off the bed. “We’d better get back. I have something to show you.” She digs around in her bag, pulling out her phone as the door suddenly swings open.

“What on earth is that thing?” Tattie laughs, pointing at the object in Olive’s hand as Helen follows her in. “Sorry, we just wanted to check up on you. The conversation with Rosie and the boys became less and less riveting. Pah, get it. Riveting! Oh, what am I like?”

“Drunk, is what you are, Spaatz,” Helen teases, sitting her on a bunk. “You weren’t complaining when Pappy and Speas were buying you whiskey after whiskey.”

“Exactly! Now, what’s in your hand, English? A futuristic contraption?” She slurs through each word, her speech sounding like she has a mouth full of candy. 

“Here’s the proof I mentioned.” Olive presses the phone’s lock button for it to flash on, the girls all screeching in terror.

“What the fuck?!” Helen screams, a rarity for her to curse. “What is that?”

“A phone. Or a doo-hickey, as Lemmons likes to call it.” 

“But where’s the wire? The numbers? The–huh?!”

“I can’t do much with it here. But, I can play music, and take photos.”

“On a telephone?” Val shouts, grabbing it from her hands. “Let me see!”

Olive swipes the screen with her finger, swapping the camera to selfie mode. “Look, it’s us!”

“B-but…how?”

“Magic,” Olive replies. “I actually don’t know, I don’t ask questions.”

“Take our picture!” Val demands.

“Shit, alright. Calm it down.”

Olive presses the camera button, the shutter sound startling the three girls who obviously don’t expect it. “Yeah, we’ll delete that one. Try again,” Olive laughs, taking in the still of their shocked faces. 

“I need to print all these,” Olive laughs as she scrolls through about fifty images, finding her favorites amongst the shots. “You girls wanna hear some music?”

“Uh, yeah?!” Helen keenly agrees, Olive hitting play on a downloaded playlist and placing the phone into a glass. 

By the end of the night, they all have preferences: Helen has fallen in love with Elvis Presley, Tattie Spaatz has learned to headbang to AC/DC, and Val has become enamored with 80s era Madonna. 

“What do you think Ev will like?”

“We’ll soon find out. I’ll bring some vinyls from Pearl’s, save using the phone. She still has my dad’s and her records somewhere.”

They hear a soft snore emanating from one of the bunks, Tattie knocked out in her uniform. Helen covers her with a blanket with a giggle, holding a finger to her lips to get everyone to shush. 

“She’s on to something,” Olive yawns. “I’m knackered.”

“Nah-kurred!” Both Val and Helen tease, Val poking Olive softly on the nose.

“Leave it, Yanks!”

“Oooh! Getting bold now?”

“Yep. Now I know we’re stuck together forever, I can now be totally myself.”

“Good,” Val says, planting a kiss on her cheek as she retires to her own bunk. Olive and Helen follow suit, Olive wrapping herself up in Dougie’s jacket and breathing in his scent, wishing more than anything that he was right there beside her. As she snuffles her nose into the collar, she hears the camera shutter click for the final time that night, Val giggling away as she captures Olive curled up.

“Love you,” Olive whispers.

“Love you more.”

Olive lets herself snuggle up and fall fast asleep in minutes. A deep sleep, the sort of sleep she’s sought after for years, the warmth of it sending her into gentle dreams. Those of a future, a comfortable life with a family by her side. A sense of peace and hope washes over her, praying that everything is finally coming up roses.

taglist: @blakelysco-pilot @sagesolsticewrites @hephaestn @manonsmanicmind @derry-rain @bobparkhurst @archival-hogwash @lestweforget5 @ptvstvrrr @claireelizabeth85 @butterfly9012

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 1

Masterlist |-| Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19

AO3

Summary: As Frankie reaches the end of her second week at Thorpe Abbotts Airfield, she begins to find her footing among the men of the 100th Bomb Group

Warnings: Excessive alcohol consumption, language

Word Count: 4k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee

The setting sun cast a golden blanket over Thorpe Abbotts airfield, basking everything in an idyllic, orange glow that was almost beautiful enough to distract from the heady stench of motor oil that lay thick on the air, permeating hair and clothes so thoroughly that anyone who spent even five minutes in the place would carry it with them for the rest of the day.

Frankie Bevan clamped a flashlight tight between her teeth, the narrow beam of light illuminating the underside of the B-17's gun turret as she surveyed it for any cracks or gaps in the glass that could compromise its integrity. The rest of the ground crew had called it a day almost two hours ago, but the Yanks always did prefer to work in the daylight. She was nearing the end of her third year in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, and after so many nights spent running the airstrips in the darkness for the RAF, Frankie was well accustomed to toiling away into the night.

Thorpe Abbotts was new, and yet much the same. It was only her second week here, compensating for the Americans' manpower shortages. The job was always the same, no matter where she went or what planes she worked on - checks, fixes, refuelling, over and over again - but thus was the nature of a mechanic's job. What she was not yet quite used to was the Americans themselves. Loud and brash and self-assured, Frankie was sometimes glad they worked different hours.

Taking note of a few cracks in the glass panelling, she reached up to swipe the torch from her mouth, offering a satisfied nod as she completed her checks for the night. All that was left was to pin her list of concerns up on the board inside the mechanics' Nissen hut, and then it was off to the pub for her.

Once she changed out of her oil-stained coveralls, that was.

"They're working you like a dog down there on the strip," Georgina, one of Frankie's bunkmates, pointed out, flipping nonchalantly through a magazine as she lounged on her bed.

"Someone's gotta do it," She shrugged, kicking off her coveralls as she rummaged in the shared wardrobe for the correct service uniform. "Some of the mechanics they've brought over are practically kids, not sure I'd trust 'em to fix my plane if I was going up there."

"You'd better show 'em what for, then," George smiled, glancing over as Frankie finished buttoning up her blouse, reaching for the navy blue jacket.

"You coming for drinks?"

"Uh, nah - I'll go tomorrow. Sandra thinks we'll be starting early tomorrow so I wanna get a decent night's sleep."

"Ooh, luxury," Frankie teased, shimmying her shoulders as she made her way to the door of the hut. "Alright, see you later."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The pub was crammed from door to door as she forced her way inside, the sound of chattering overpowering the music blaring from a radio in the corner. The American invasion of Thorpe Abbotts had well and truly been successful, scarcely a flash of RAF blue visible amongst the sea of khaki as Frankie burrowed her way through the crowds towards the bar.

"Pint of Guinness, please," She called over the din, the bartender offering a friendly nod of affirmation as she felt the crowd behind her push her body further into the edge of the bar.

"There y'are, love," The man nodded, placing the pint glass in front of her as she smiled her thanks, foam lining her top lip as she took her first sip. Frankie barely had time to wipe it away, turning to take a step back from the bar, before another body collided with hers. She gasped as the beer she had so looked forward to sloshed over the rim of the glass, pooling on the floor and staining the front of her uniform, as the other man's drink did the same.

"Woah, careful there!" The man cried, flicking a few stray droplets of spilt beer from his hand onto the floor. A deep frown creased her features as she peered up at him. The soldier was so tall that the tip of her head didn't quite pass his shoulder, and yet the irritation in her expression was so palpable that he took a full step back.

"Oh, that was my fault, was it?" Frankie tutted.

"Well, sweetheart, maybe if you'd been looking where you were going-"

"Maybe if you bloody Yanks gave us some room to breathe in here we wouldn't have a problem!"

There was an easy smile on the man's face that struck her as distinctly annoying. Discarding his now almost empty glass on the bar, the man put up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Look. We're not gonna agree on this, so what d'ya say we settle this with a little friendly competition?"

She raised a brow. "What sort of competition?"

"Uh... how 'bout a drinking contest?"

Frankie let out a guffaw so forceful that the man's confident smile disappeared, and a few nearby airmen turned to watch the scene unfold. "Y'know what? Yeah. You're on."

With a nod, he turned away, marching towards the closest table. "Alright boys, gimme some space, I got a contest to win against half-pint over here."

She approached the table, sitting down opposite the soldier, smirking at his arrogance. The airmen he had kicked out of their seats were lingering to watch the spectacle unfold, and it was clear their bets were on her opponent.

"Now," He sighed, taking a seat. "In the spirit of good sportsmanship, I oughta introduce myself. John Egan," He said, reaching a hand across the table.

"Frances Bevan. Frankie," She nodded, shaking his hand.

Egan nodded. "So, normal rules apply. No spilling, no vomiting, gotta drain the glass. Still wanna do this?"

Frankie nodded firmly. "I'd never pass up such a wonderful opportunity to humble you Yanks," She grinned.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Egan was turning red, his smug smile long since vanished, the motion of his arm slowing as he reached for the next shot glass, glancing across at her with a slightly nauseated expression. The crowd surrounding them had long since grown since they had begun, although how long ago that was she couldn't quite remember. The huge pile of empty shot glasses in the centre of the table did nothing to jog her memory.

"Oh, come on, Egan, you've gotta do better than that," Frankie teased, reaching forward and downing her next shot. In fairness, she too was beginning to feel light-headed, but it never showed on her face, her demeanour as cool and collected as it had been when she first sat down.

"I thought... I thought this would be easy," John complained, grimacing as he brought the next glass to his lips. "You're so small, where are you storing all this liquor?"

"I'm British - pretty sure it's in our bloodstream," She teased. Egan's eyes narrowed as he weakly upturned the contents of his glass into his mouth, screwing up his face as the liquid ran down his throat.

"I really like her," John admitted, letting out a long sigh as he drew a hand over his eyes. A few of the airmen laughed, clapping him over the shoulders.

"I think we're done here," Frankie chuckled.

"You forfeit?" He asked hopefully.

"No, I'm saying you're about to. That or you're gonna throw up - either way, I win."

"Nuh-uh," Egan shook his head. "Not gonna happen," He fought to suppress a burp, and the room seemed to brace itself for the inevitable vomit that would follow, letting out a collective sigh of relief when he swallowed his nausea back down. "...Yeah. Ok."

She clapped, throwing up her hands in victory as a couple of the men standing behind her cheered. "Well, it's been a real pleasure doing business with you Major," Frankie chuckled, fighting through the splitting headache that was growing in her temples as she rose from her seat, offering him a hand to help him stand.

John batted her away, but stumbled as he got up, one of his friends pressing a firm hand on his back to keep him upright. She smiled. "I'll help you get him back since it's my fault. Gotta get back to the huts anyway."

The airman accepted, each of them slinging one of Egan's arms around their shoulders as he tilted haphazardly over to one side, struggling to prop himself up against her due to her height. Trailing towards the door, a few of the men let out celebratory whoops at her as she passed, praising her victory.

"Thanks for the night, gents - I'm here all war," Frankie called over her shoulders, a cheer erupting from the crowd as they dragged Egan sideways out of the door.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was growing difficult to see as they marched John back to the huts, the street lights growing more and more sparse the closer they got to the airfield. "You gotta teach me how to do that," He slurred, tilting his head down towards her, the smell of liquor thick on his breath.

"You gotta get more practice in - you Americans with your 'no alcohol until you're 21' rule never stood a chance, we've just been in the game longer."

"Ah," He nodded, pausing for a moment. "Hey, why'd you call yourself Frankie?"

"Because Frances is a terrible name," She scoffed.

"Can I call you Fran?"

"Only if you want to die."

"Fair enough."

As they reached the end of the row of men's huts, she shrugged his arm off of her shoulders, relinquishing custody of John to the other airman, who thanked her for her help.

"See ya 'round, Shortcake!" Egan called as they trailed away, grinning proudly to himself at the nickname. Frankie scoffed, rolling her eyes and massaging her temples as her headache steadily worsened.

"You look like shit," George whispered as she wandered back into their hut. She had rolled her hair up into pin curls, protected beneath a headscarf, and was reading a copy of Wuthering Heights in the dim light of her bedside lamp.

"Got into a drinking contest with one of the Americans," She shrugged, tossing her beer-stained blouse and jacket into a crumpled heap at the foot of her bed, a reminder to wash them tomorrow.

"Did you win?"

"Of course."

"Shh!" One of the other women hissed from the opposite end of the room, shrouded in the darkness. Frankie pulled a face at her scolding, dragging a brush through the knots in her dark brown hair as George stifled a laugh, discarding her book and turning off the light once her friend had changed and gotten into bed.

It was silent for a while as she lay beneath the blankets, staring up at what would have been the ceiling if not for the complete absence of light. Her alcohol-induced headache thrummed behind her eyes, a constant, dull pain keeping her from sleep.

"George?" She whispered.

"What?"

"Do you have an aspirin?"

The sound of quiet rummaging was audible in the stillness of the hut, and she struggled to suppress a laugh as she felt the tube smack her in the face, a result of Georgina tossing it blindly in the darkness.

"Thank you," She giggled, trying not to gag as she took the pills dry, lying back and waiting for the pain to subside as she thought back on the night's events.

I'm not that short.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The blinding morning sun was unwelcome the next day as Frankie made her way to the airfield from her hut, bike resting against her hip as she made a momentary stop to fix her hair for the day ahead, hair tie held between her teeth as she scooped it into a ponytail. Most of the women she shared the Nissen hut with had left over an hour ago, hurrying to the flight tower in anticipation of the arrival of yet more American pilots, but her job didn't begin until after the planes landed, so fortunately for her, she had been afforded a little more sleep, her headache now more or less dissipated.

A loud honking startled her, the hair tie slipping from her teeth and falling to the floor. As she bent to pick it up, a jeep rolled to a stop in front of her, the horn parping once more.

"Fuck's sake, what?" Frankie muttered, glancing up to see the cheery grin of Major John Egan smiling down at her.

"Mornin'."

"Are you even fit to drive after last night?"

"Fifty-fifty. Hop in, throw your bike in the back."

She frowned as she noticed the pile of bikes already forming in the back of the car, but stacked her on top all the same, sliding into the passenger seat beside him. "Starting a collection?"

"Won them in a bet, night before last. Got one for me and my buddy Buck, he's arriving today."

"Is that Major Cleven?" She asked.

"Sure is," John nodded as the engine roared to life, taking them sailing along the road towards the airstrip, the wind ruining her hair before she even had a chance to finish it.

"So..." He began, swerving slightly to dodge a few maintenance workers on bikes. "Where ya from, Frankie?"

"Stratford."

"I... do not know where that is."

"I didn't expect you to," She chuckled. "Grew up with my dad working his garage, that's what got me into it. Always preferred planes to cars, though."

"You and me both," John nodded, slowing as they neared the landing strip. Up ahead, the flight crew were beginning to disembark, and Frankie's eyes narrowed as she noticed one of the airmen carrying a large dog.

"If they let that dog shit in the plane, I'm not cleaning it up," She stated. "You've heard me say it, that's on the record now."

"Yes ma'am," Egan affirmed, pulling to a stop, a grin spreading across his face as he got close enough to recognise his friends.

As he clambered out of the car, stepping forward to greet his comrades, she climbed out of her seat, wandering around the back of the jeep to disentangle her bike from the pile, tugging it free as the sounds of wind and aeroplane engines overpowered the men's voices.

"Oh, and, uh - This is Frankie Bevan," John called, guiding Cleven towards her, speaking louder so that she could hear. She raised her hand in a somewhat awkward wave, almost dropping her bike on her foot as she hauled it off the back of the jeep. "Best damn mechanic we've got, she's holdin' us together, that's for sure."

"Ma'am," Cleven greeted her with a tilt of his cap.

"He's never seen me work," Frankie shook her head, stepping forward to shake Cleven's hand. "We only met yesterday, he's just being nice in the hopes I won't tell you about how I drank him under the table last night."

John scoffed. "That is not what-" She raised a brow and he stuttered. "Yeah, that - that did happen."

Cleven laughed, squeezing Egan's shoulder. "Well, I'm sure glad he's had someone to keep him humble before I got here. Thank you for your work, ma'am, I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other soon."

She nodded, grinning at Egan's embarrassment. "How was your flight?"

"Smooth sailin', not sure there'll be anything to fix up this time."

A soldier she had heard John greet as Demarco spoke up from where he was stood, scratching his dog's stomach. "The dog dropped a deuce in the cockpit."

Clicking her fingers, she pointed to Egan. "She's not doing that!" He called, craning his head over his shoulder as Demarco put his hands up in surrender.

"Well, that works wonders," Frankie chuckled, lifting her leg to straddle the seat of her bike. "Now, if all you gents have planned is standing around, I've got work to do."

"Bye Shortcake," John grinned as she pedalled the bicycle into motion, ringing the bell and offering up a middle finger as she left. He chuckled, feeling Cleven clap him over the shoulder again.

"She's interesting... nice," His friend began. "Bucky, I know you're sick of Marge tryna set you up, but she is definitely-"

"She's definitely my friend, Buck. Besides, I could never date a woman with a higher alcohol tolerance than me. That's just embarrassing."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The wind whipped her hair this way and that as Frankie hammered at the pedals, gaining speed faster and faster with each second until the rolling fields beyond the airstrip were little more than a green blur. She'd always loved to cycle, preferably as fast as she possibly could. Her father used to say she should try racing, but his ambition curtailed rather when she got in trouble for almost taking out a couple of tourists outside Shakespeare's birthplace on her way home from school. Besides, she'd never quite had the discipline for sports.

Her breaks squeaked noisily as she rolled to a stop outside the mechanics' Nissen hut, stationed just beyond the main runway. They had been given a single hut for all of their operations, much to the chagrin of many. The back end was an orderly pile of spare parts - buckets of rivets, piles of sheet metal - but someone had supplied them with a table and chairs, and the recent addition of a gas stove and kettle had proved a huge hit.

Ken Lemmons was sat at the table as she wandered in, glancing at the corkboard by the door where she and the others posted notice of anything in need of urgent repair.

"A couple of the guys replaced the glass in the gun turrets earlier - thanks for the shout," Lemmons spoke up.

"Ah, good," Frankie nodded, taking a seat opposite him. As much as she bemoaned her younger, American co-workers, she had grown fond of Ken. He was sipping a cup of coffee, and by the look on his face, he was not enjoying it. She tossed the paper bag containing her lunch onto the table, retrieving a cucumber sandwich - meagre subsistence, and a sight that made the boy frown.

"I think I'd actually murder someone for some Hershey's right about now," He remarked, grimacing as he took another sip of coffee.

"Hey, we make do with what we've got," She shrugged, attempting to devour the sandwich before the cucumber could soak through the thin slices of bread. "I know one of the girls in the Land Army - I darn her jumpers in exchange for a bit of her extra cheese ration."

Lemmons chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "I miss good chocolate. I can't get used to... Cad-berry's?"

"Oh, that's sacrilege," She laughed, tossing a slice of cucumber at him, which stuck to the breast pocket of his coveralls. "If you'd come a couple years ago when they were still making Dairy Milk you'd've thought you'd died and gone to heaven."

"I'll believe it when I see it," He grinned, plucking the slice off of his clothes. There was a pause before he spoke again. "One of the fellas says they're actually taking off later."

Frankie nodded, lifting a hand to cover her mouth as she spoke around her food. "Oh yeah? This gonna be your first proper go at it?"

"Yeah..." Lemmons admitted, looking momentarily nervous. "You?"

She snorted back a laugh. "Nah. I've been in the WAAF nearly four years - moved around a bit, but whether it's Attlebridge or Docking or Thorpe Abbotts, it's all the same gig. You stick with me when the planes start coming back down and you'll be fine."

The corner of his mouth tilted upwards in a smile. "You're gonna babysit me?"

Frankie grinned, standing up to reach across the table and ruffle his curls. "With a cute little face like yours, who could help it?" She teased, laughing as he batted her away.

"Get off, I'm serious," Lemmons chuckled, but the smile never faded from his expression.

Ken's buddy hadn't been wrong, per se, but his fabled mission had come not hours, but days later, with a hammering knock on the door to her hut, the women stirring from their sleep in a wave of disgruntled moans.

"What time is it?" Frankie whined as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, resisting the urge to burrow her head beneath the pillow and block out the relentless knocking outside.

"Four thirty," George groaned, frowning vindictively at her watch as she put it on, as if time itself had caused her personal grievance.

"They're flying today, get ready!" A young male voice bellowed from the other side of the door, clearly too shy to bare his face to a room of half-dressed, irritated women.

"Fuck me, I'm coming," She muttered, brushing her hair with one hand as she buttoned up the front of her coveralls with the other.

"Spot me! How's my lipstick?" George called, and Frankie leant across the bed that separated them to wipe a stray smudge of red away with her thumb.

"All good."

"Right," Her bunkmate huffed. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

"See you later," Frankie affirmed.

"I'll join you for drinks this time if all goes well!" George called over her shoulder as she scurried towards the door.

"I'll hold you to that!" She replied, smiling as she laced up her boots.

The planes left and returned in mere hours, but the in-between had felt never-ending as the ground crew waited in tense anticipation to see how many would return and in what state. Frankie had sent Egan away to the flight tower after his nervous hovering had started to get on her nerves, and she had since spent the last half-hour sitting in the grass beside the runway making daisy chains with a few of the local children as a way to pass the time.

"Frankie! They're comin' in!" She heard Lemmons yell from across the airstrip. Hurriedly sending the children back to their parents as the sound of plane engines grew steadily louder overhead, she scrambled to her feet, grass stains streaking the knees of her coveralls as she jogged over, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as the planes began to descend towards them.

"...10, 11, 12..." Frankie muttered, coming to the slow realisation that many of the men they'd sent away that morning had not returned. But that loss did not negate the importance of the work they had to do now. "Ok, let's go," She patted Lemmons on the shoulder, and they reached for the bikes they had discarded on the ground nearby, pedalling hard towards the landing strip.

From the second they arrived, she was surveying the damage, scanning the planes for the areas that would need the most attention. It was impossible to pick just one.

"There's a reason we go at night," She muttered, so softly no one else could hear over the din of shouts and dying engines. The mechanics weren't emergency staff, but she'd seen a fair few planes come in either on fire, half-collapsed or both over the years, enough to learn it was best to get in as soon as possible.

"Shit," Lemmons huffed beside her, staring up at a huge, jagged hole in the metal of one of the plane's wings.

"Send a couple of the boys back to the hut - tell them to bring a car back with all the sheet metal they can put in it. Oh - and get me a welder!" She called to him, and the young man began barking orders at the other mechanics, the crew erupting to life around the plane as they began to fix the mess that had returned.

"Frankie!" Egan's voice rang from down below as she climbed up onto the top of the plane, marking out the areas of the body that needed replacing. She looked down at him as he yelled again. "You need anything?"

"Nope, we're good here!" Frankie replied, holding up a thumbs-up in case the wind drowned out her voice. Looking down at the work to do below her, it was as if she could map out every fix in her mind, envision every action in order, play it out in her head until the beast was as good as new. She smiled to herself. "This is what I do."

[major-mads]

Chapter 1: Welcome to Thorpe Abbotts

John "Bucky" Egan x Ruth Morgan (OFC)

Series Masterlist

A/N: Ruth has been living in my head for months now, and I'm so so so excited to share her with y'all! This series is Jess (footprintsinthesxnd) and I's brainchild. Our ideas just seamlessly fit tegether, and here we are! We actually wrote this first chapter a week before the 26th, so if anything happens to almost exactly match the show, we came up with it before we saw it on there! (we're just good like that 😎)

Collab: On a Wing and a Prayer by @footprintsinthesxnd

Word Count: 5.3k

The hum of the engine was the only sound in the C-47 as it soared over the English countryside. The patients had finally settled, and the morphine finally took effect and brought them some sense of relief. Hope slumped back into her seat with a sigh, smiling over at Ruth who looked as exhausted as she was. 

“You looked tired,” Hope smiled at her friend who just sighed.

“It’s been a long day. I can’t wait to get back to base,” Ruth pushed her short blonde hair out of her eyes, sighing again. 

“Hey Frank, how much longer have we got,” Hope called to one of the pilots.

“We’ve had to make a detour, doll. We’re heading to Thorpe Abbotts airfield and will evacuate the wounded to Thorpe St. Andrews Hospital. It’s not far now.” 

Hope felt her heart flutter, her throat drying as she slouched back against her seat. 

“Hey Hope, what’s wrong?” Ruth leaned forward, gripping Hope’s hand and squeezing it, her large blue eyes filled with worry. 

“It’s Hugh,” Hope muttered, her eyes a little teary but a smile on her lips nonetheless. “My brother is stationed at Thorpe Abbotts with the 100th Bomb Group. I haven’t seen him in so long.” 

Ruth’s concerned frown turned to a smile, “So I’m finally going to meet this Hugh I’ve heard so much about.” 

Hope laughed, patting her friend on the back gently, “You will, but don’t get any ideas.” 

The aircraft soared towards its destination, and the occasional jolting and shaking on the metal bird brought no fear to the flight nurses anymore. Once, the ratting metal coffin struck the fear of God into them but now this was a peaceful ride.

Hope watched out the window as the lush, green countryside grew closer and closer. 

“Hey, Frank! Stop hugging the hedgerows for crying out loud. Don’t let the girl down before we’ve reached the field,” Hope called, grimacing as the trees seemed to grow ever closer.

“Who’s flying this bird, Armstrong? You or me?” Frank retorted, not looking away from the cockpit.

“Well, maybe you could use some lessons in keeping the old girl airborne then. We’ll beat up the airfield at this rate.” 

Ruth laughed, watching Hope argue with the pilot once more, “You know Hope, maybe you should have gotten your wings. Then you could be flying us instead of Frank.” 

“You’ve got a good point there, Ruth. Ya hear that Frank, Ruth wants me flying instead of you.” 

Frank’s reply was a muffled curse, and both girls found themselves giggling in response. The plane tooled along for a while longer until it finally began to descend, rattling as it lost altitude and shaking its victims vigorously. The wheels touching down on the tarmac filled everyone with great relief. 

“Well that was one ropey landing, Frank. Maybe I could give ya a few lessons?” Hope asked politely, batting her eyelashes at the pilot who just huffed.

“Shove off, Hope. Now get to it, your blood wagons are waiting.” 

Hope cringed at the nickname the ambulances had been given, they were lifesaving vehicles transporting sick men, why make it sound so ominous? 

Hope hopped down from the plane, instructing the stretcher-bearers on which soldiers were in the worst condition. Between them, Hope and Ruth helped carry three wounded men to the ambulances when an obnoxiously loud voice called, “Well, I’ll be damned!” 

Hope spun round, her boots scuffing at the earth. 

“HUGH!” Her brother laughed jovially, jogging over to them. 

“Gosh, I’ve missed you, Little Bird,” Hugh threw his arms around Hope’s shoulders, nestling his head into her neck as he always did. Hope couldn’t comprehend what was happening. She was finally in her brother's arms, finally reunited with him after so long. She gripped tightly onto the back of his uniform, burying her face in his chest. He smelt of smoke and engine oil just like he did back home. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” she murmured, just loud enough for Hugh to hear as he tightened his grip on her further. She could feel Ruth hovering awkwardly behind her and she turned to greet her friend, pulling out of her brother's arms.

“Ruth, this is my brother, Hugh. Hugh, this is my friend, Ruth.” 

Ruth smiled sweetly, sticking out her hand to shake Hugh’s but instead, he pulled her into a bear hug.

“Any friend of Hope’s is a friend of mine,” he assured Ruth and she smiled, her cheeks turning a deep red at the embarrassment of the situation.

“Hugh, put her down. Look, you're making the poor girl blush,” Hope laughed, which only caused Ruth to blush harder. 

“My apologies Ruthie, where are my manners,” he bowed, taking her hand and placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles. 

“Oh, uh- nice to meet you.” Ruth stumbled over her words, quickly using the excuse that she needed her flight jacket as an excuse to return to the plane.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” Hope groaned, shoving her brother playfully in the ribs. 

“I don’t know, I’ve always considered myself rather charming,” Hugh protested, puffing out his chest in pride. 

Hope nodded, spinning around to call Ruth to join them. The blonde soon was walking back toward the group, now wearing her fleece aviation jacket, and to her relief, without a rosy dusting on her cheeks. 

“I still can’t believe out of all the airfields in England, you managed to land at this one,” Hugh laughed, throwing an arm around both girls' shoulders. “You two are in for a real treat.” 

As they walked through the base, Hugh pointed out the various hard stands. 

“See, right there,” he pointed at a few heavies. “That’s “Just-a-Snappin’, Our Baby, and the M’lle Zig Zig.”

“Where do you guys get these names, Hugh?” Hope laughed, her eyes trailing over each one’s elaborate nose art, along with some very proud-looking engineers and artists who had clearly put so much love into the bombers.

Shrugging his shoulders, Hugh sighed, shaking his head. “I couldn’t tell ya. What’s your plane named?”

“Just the Angel of Death,” Hope chirped.

Hugh stared at her for a moment before shaking his head. “Always with the dark humor, aren’t you, Hope.”

After hearing so much about the man from Hope, Ruth felt as if she’d known Hugh for years when in reality she’d only known him for a few minutes. She knew the stories of how the siblings played in the woods of Columbia, Missouri, exploring the famous rock bridge that brought hikers and tourists into the town. She knew of his love for the St. Louis Cardinals, and how he wore his battered and dirty Dizzy Dean jersey for a week straight after they won the World Series in ‘31 and ‘34. Maybe he’d heard so much about Ruth from Hope that he felt the same way. 

‘It would make sense based on his initial reaction.’ she thought, absentmindedly reaching up and grabbing the small pendant hanging from her neck, running her fingers over its smooth edges.

Before they knew it, the trio reached their destination: his officer nissen hut. They were long semi-circular metal huts, not known for their warmth or comfortability, but they were a soft place to land at the end of the day…which is a lot more than most young men of the time could say. 

“Welcome to my humble abode, ladies,” he announced as they neared the building, holding out his arms in a ‘ta-da’ motion. “She’s not much, but she’s home.”

He began to open the door for them, but a voice in the distance stopped him.

“Charlie! No girls in the huts,” the voice called. “I told you that a few weeks ago.”

Turning toward the voice, Hope did a double take when she saw who its owner. Approaching them was a tall, tan, brunette, who wore a bomber jacket with his hair messily combed to the side. He walked with a swagger that instantly put a bad taste in Hope’s mouth.

She sighed to herself, thinking, ‘Why do all the cute ones have to be cocky?’ 

Hugh groaned, pointing at Hope. “Buck, come on, this is my-” 

The man finally reached them, and Hope stopped herself from being captivated by his blue-green eyes.

“I don’t care who she is. You know the rules,” he interrupted, turning to the girls. “Sorry girls, but I think it’s time for you to go.”

Ruth cringed and side-eyed Hope, already expecting a snarky response to his comment. 

“Well,” she paused, checking her watch for effect. “Seeing as we have patients in the infirmary, it actually isn’t time for us to go.”

It was then that he looked down at her upper arm, taking in the bright red and white medic band that adorned her uniform. Ruth could see the slightest show of remorse in his expression as his eyes rose back up to Hope’s. 

“My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t know-”

Hope didn’t let him finish, cutting him off. “Maybe you should know all the facts before you make an assumption, Buck.”

“Hope!” Ruth hissed, trying to placate her friend, but the woman ignored her.

“See, other than my brother, this is why I can’t stand airmen. They’re cocky-”

Realizing the flaw in Hope’s argument, Ruth ran a hand down her face, secondhand embarrassment filling her. Just when she was about to interject, Buck beat her to it.

“Now hold on. Maybe you should know all the facts before you make an assumption, sweetheart.”

Hope’s mind ran rampant with frustration, and she stared up at him with contempt as he smiled cheekily at her. His eyes were locked on hers as they had a stare-down, neither wanting to be the first to give in. 

“So,” Hugh cleared his throat in an attempt to break their silent battle. “Let me introduce you guys. Ladies, this is my squadron commander, Major Buck Cleven.”

Buck tilted his head slightly, not breaking eye contact with Hope. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she replied dryly.

Ruth shook her head and sighed, amazed at her fellow nurse’s childlike stubbornness.

“And Buck, this is my sister, Hope, and her friend Ruth. They’re flight nurses with the 806th MAETS.”

Ruth raised a hand and waved with a quiet, “Hello,” and Hope felt a little satisfaction when the man’s eyes widened at the word sister. 

Buck’s eys left Hope for a moment to acknowledge Ruth, who stood beside her, with a nod and a smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“You, too, Major,” she responded with a small grin. He then turned back to Hope.

“So, you’re the infamous little sister we’ve all heard about?” Buck chuckled, placing his hands on his hips.

The woman glanced over at Hugh, who wore a guilty expression. “All good things, I hope.”

“For the most part,” Buck chimed, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know about your little escapade to Kansas City, and how–” 

Hope’s eyes widened in disbelief that her brother had divulged her most embarrassing moment. “Hugh!!” she cried, smacking his chest. “You lying piece of crap! You promised!”

“It’s not like I thought you’d ever meet anyone here, Hope!”

Composing herself, she took a deep breath and sent Buck a tight-lipped smile. “It looks like you know a lot more about me than I do about you, Major.”

“It would seem so, Nurse Armstrong.”

As Ruth amusedly listened to Gale and Hope’s banter, she felt like she was being watched. Glancing around the group, her heart skipped a beat as her eyes met another set of icy blues, ones that were new to the group. 

‘How did I miss him walking up?’ she wondered.

Their gazes locked for a few seconds that seemed to last minutes, and a shudder ran through her. Breaking from his stupor, he quickly looked away with a light pink dusting on his cheeks. Ruth felt her own blush creeping up her neck and wrapped her flight jacket closer to her body, the English chill suddenly getting to her. 

Her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own as they fought to return to the handsome stranger. It took all her willpower to keep them on Hugh, who was talking to the group.

“I can’t imagine going up without weapons on board. We’ve got 12 50-cal brownings and sometimes I feel that’s not enough.”

The battle within herself became too much, and Ruth finally gave in to her temptation. Her eyes flitted over to the man, and she silently sighed in relief when she found his gaze elsewhere. It was then that she discovered her first assumption of the man being ‘handsome’ was an understatement. He had a strong and well-defined jawline, expressive and striking blue-grey eyes, a straight nose, and a slightly curved lip, which held a pencil-thin mustache.

She liked the mustache.

He wore a crooked crusher cap and a white fleece-lined flying jacket that looked somewhat dirty, accompanied by his brown service top poking out at the jacket collar.

Ruth was mesmerized by the man, and she didn’t even know his name. A wide grin broke out on his face as he engaged in the group’s conversation, his upper lip curling up, allowing a few teeth to peek out the top, and Ruth felt her stomach lurch for the second time in a short few minutes. 

Focus, Ruth. Focus.

An elbow to her side broke her stare, and the group’s eyes were suddenly on her as Hope looked at her expectantly. 

“What?” Ruth asked, looking like a deer in headlights.

“I said that we would go insane without each other up there.”

“Oh,” she sighed with a small smile. “You would probably kill Frank if I weren’t there.”

The group broke out in laughter, and Ruth found her eyes absentmindedly moving to the mystery man. As he chuckled, his eyes wrinkled at the edges, and his full smile revealed a dazzlingly straight set of pearly whites. His loud laughter was infectious, and a few giggles escaped her mouth. 

As the group’s chuckles started to die down, Hope looked over at Ruth. She took in her friend’s shy smile and blush, then followed her gaze to the airman across the circle. Realizing what was happening, she nudged Ruth lightly, a teasing eyebrow raised.

“What?” Ruth grumbled under her breath, leaning closer to her friend’s ear as the guys carried on the group’s conversation. 

“You like him.”

The blonde’s smile fell and heat rushed up her neck. “Who?”

Hope tilted her head incredulously, rolling her eyes. “You know who.”

“No, I don’t,” she defended, 

“He’s staring,” Hope grinned, nodding his direction subtly. 

Ruth’s eyes rose to his, and sure enough, his striking eyes were gazing into hers yet again. This time, however, he didn’t look away. The corner of his lips quirked up into a barely noticeable grin, and she felt as if she was shrinking under the intensity of his gaze.

“Uh, I need to go check on the patients,” she sputtered, pointing her fingers in the direction of the infirmary. With a curt nod to Hope, she quickly turned and started toward the infirmary, her blonde curls bouncing with each step. A few seconds later, she spun to face the group and called, “But it was…uh…nice to meet y’all.”

Hugh didn’t miss a beat and hollered back his reply. “You, too, Ruthie!” He then paused until she was out of earshot. “She alright?” 

“She’s fine,” Hope sighed, used to her friend’s more timid personality. She had hoped that over time, her extroversion would rub off on the nurse, but so far, she had no such luck. Ruth was more of a one-on-one person, not one for groups of people unless she knew them pretty well. It seemed the smaller the group got, the more Ruth seemed to come alive. It was like pulling teeth to get Ruth to agree to go out with the other girls of the unit, but when she finally stepped out of her comfort zone, she usually had a good time filled with friends, fellas, and amazing big band music.

Ruth’s admirer joined the conversation, and Hope smirked, watching his eyes follow her friend. “How far away is your base?” 

“We’re in Berkshire, so by car, it’s about three hours, but by plane, probably 45 minutes.”

“So not far,” he chimed, raising his eyebrows and nodding to himself. Before anyone else could comment, he spoke again. 

“See you boys later,” he said absentmindedly as he watched Ruth’s figure go around a corner. Clapping Buck’s shoulder, he set off and followed the nurse’s path around the corner, missing the raised eyebrows and confused expressions sent his way. All eyes followed him as he, too, disappeared around the corner.

Hope pursed her lips at the new development, unsure of the man following Ruth. “Should I be worried?”

“Yep,” Hugh confirmed with a curt nod.

Buck hit him on the chest, chuckling under his breath. “Johnny’s a good man, darlin’.”

Hugh suppressed a snort thinking of the commander’s wild habits and how Buck didn't exactly answer her question.

“Anyways, back wh-”

And just like that, the conversation continued, and Hope had a strange feeling of contentment being on base. Finally being with family again.

As Ruth briskly made her way around the nissen huts to the infirmary, her heart continued to beat rapidly in her chest, and her mind replayed his smile non-stop. 

Get it together, Ruth!

When she finally reached the infirmary, she stopped at the door, taking a deep breath to gain some composure. Within seconds of opening the heavy door, the base’s head surgeon approached her, wiping his hands with a rag.

“Hello,” he greeted. “I’m Captain Emory Kinder, and I’m assuming you’re one of the flight nurses who landed earlier?”

Ruth wore her signature toothy grin and nodded. “Yes, sir. Ruth Morgan. My other half is visiting with her brother as we speak.”

“Brother?”

“Yep, Hugh Armstrong,” she replied, her smile widening as his face lit up.

“Charlie! Oh yeah, I know him. He’s been in here for a few hangovers after a rowdy night in Dickleburgh.”

“Really?” Ruth chuckled, picturing the confident young man drunk as a skunk.

“Oh yeah. We love him though. He’s a good one for sure.”

A patient called out to him, and with a nod, he was off, helping the man. Ruth busied herself however she could, bringing airmen water, re-wrapping their bandages, and pretty much anything that would get her mind off the man from earlier. She was inspecting a man’s arm wound when the creaking of the door opening filled the building. Paying it no mind, she kept working, noting how the tissue was already healing. 

“It looks good, Sergeant. You should be back in the air soon,” she said quietly.

His wide-eyed morphine-induced expression looked pitiful, but he managed to mumble out a, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Ruth gathered her supplies and stood to her feet, throwing away the bloody bandages when Emory's voice rang through the air.

“Speaking of rowdy nights in Dickleburgh...Major, what can I do for ya? Is that shoulder giving you problems again?”

“No, Doc,” the newcomer began, his deep voice breaking the relative quiet. “The shoulder’s fine. I just wanted to, you know, come see the boy-men.”

When she turned toward them and saw the white jacket, the roll of bandages fell from her grasp and hit the floor with a thud, rolling a few feet away to the man’s feet. The heat returned to her cheeks in a rush, and her eyes froze on the bandages for a moment, silently cursing the little white bundle. She watched in horror as the man slowly bent down and picked it up, walking toward her as he threw it up in the air and caught it.

“I think this yours,” he said, one side of his lips quirking up into a smirk as he held it out to her.

Raising her eyes from the bandage to his eyes, she prayed her voice would stay steady. “Thank you, sir.”

She took the bandage and tried to remain calm, her free hand raising to run her fingers over the cool metal of her locket.

“John. Major John Egan,” he introduced himself, extending his hand to her. “But you can call me Bucky.”

Ruth’s brows furrowed in confusion as she took his much larger hand and shook it gently. It was surprisingly soft compared to the men she’d treated from the lines.  “Bucky? It’s there another-”

“Yeah,” John chuckled and slowly released her hand, shoving his in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “We call Cleven Buck, too. He hates it, but he deals with it.”

Grimacing playfully, she decided to go out on a limb despite her pounding heart. “Well, I, um, don’t know if I’ll be able to remember who’s who.”

“Oh no,” John tutted, his eyebrows raised and a wide-mouthed smile painting his lips. “We can’t have that. You can call me John, Johnny, whatever you want, doll, but I don’t think you’re going to have a hard time remembering my name.”

“And why would that be, Johnny?”

“Because you’ll see it at the bottom of each letter you’ll get from me.”

The blonde froze, dropping her necklace in disbelief as she swallowed thickly.

‘There is no way he just said that,’ her mind repeated. ‘There is no way he just said that.”

Pushing through her reserved personality and the tingling sensation swirling in her stomach, she decided to take a page from Hope’s book.

“What makes you think I’d let you write me, hotshot?”

Her mind went haywire. ‘‘Why did I just say that? I’m never taking Hope’s advice again. This is too stressful.’

For the first time in their interaction, his confident bravado seemed to fade and he didn’t quite know what to say. Perhaps he was always used to women giving in to his advances easily, but Ruth was not just another woman begging to be wooed. Johnny stood before her with furrowed brows, his upper lip sticking out slightly. He pushed back his jacket and placed his hands on his hips, his head ducking to the floor.

“Because I’d like to get to know you,” he replied earnestly, taking off his cap. “You’re gorgeous, and I would like to write you, Ruth.“

That was the last thing she expected.

In that moment, Ruth Morgan had a decision to make. Was she going to reject the airman or give him a chance? She knew she was attracted to him and there was chemistry there, but was she willing to put herself out there? The timid parts of her personality screamed at her to tell him no, but the parts that Hope had influenced were urging her to accept his offer. In the end, Ruth already liked Johnny, and she saw the sincerity in his statement as a deciding factor in the matter.

“Alright, you can write to me,” she answered quietly, pushing her hair behind her ear.

John watched as she walked to the infirmary desk and got a sheet of paper, scribbling down what he expected to be her address. He took in her features, just like he had earlier. Starting at her light blonde hair, his gaze traveled down her face to her familiar blue eyes, down her adorable nose, to her lips, which were pursed slightly as she concentrated on writing down her information. She was stunning, and Johnny knew that he wanted to see her again just from their short conversation.

Approaching him again, she held up a slip of paper, a toothy grin on her lips. “This is sensitive information, Major. It better not end up in enemy hands, and that includes your fellow airmen.”

“Yes ma’am,” he nodded once before fake saluting her, unable to keep his excitement inside. “Mission understood.”

“But just to be safe, I’m going to hold onto it for a little bit.” she leaned a little closer to him, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Just in case I, you know, change my mind.”

John grinned down at her and yet again raised his eyebrows as he nodded. Ruth noticed he did that a lot. “I’ll be on my best behavior, scout’s honor.”

Sliding the slip into her pocket, she started her nursing tasks once again, looking at him over her shoulder. “So, you were in the Boy Scouts?”

“No,” he chuckled, putting back on his cap as he moved next to Ruth to help. “I wasn’t, but Buck was. He ended up being an Eagle Scout before he aged out. One of the best in Wyoming, he says, but I don't buy it.”

He stood a good 5 or so inches above her, so his chin was at her eye level. In the small area at the nursing station, his shoulder was just barely pressed against hers as they both worked to roll bandages, and Ruth could feel the warmth radiating from his touch.

“It seems like you know each other pretty well,” she stated, looking up at him briefly.

His concentration remained on the bandage in his hands as he spoke. “Yeah. He’s my best friend.”

“How long have you known each other?” She asked, reaching up to mess with her necklace.

“We both joined up in ‘40 and were roommates in basic. Been together ever since.”

“That reminds me of Hope and I, although we haven’t known each other for nearly that long.”

John placed the finished bandage in the basket and turned to face her, leaning a hip against the counter as his earnest expression returned. “War makes people closer. Makes ‘em realize who’s important. What’s important.”

The blonde mirrored his stance, taking in his words. He was right. War did have a way of bringing people together. She gazed up at him with a shared understanding of how something as terrible as the war had brought out the best and worst in people, as well as brought people into their lives for the better. The pair’s eyes remained locked for a few moments, both realizing that perhaps there was something deeper than the flirting between them. His warm eyes seemed to search hers, and to her surprise, she didn’t feel nervous in that moment. Johnny’s gaze was like a warm blanket enveloping all of her senses to the point that all she could see was him.

“I feel the same way,” Ruth finally answered, fixing a stray curl that had fallen into her eyes.

Half of his lips curled up in a grin and he took a step toward her. “Ruth, I-”

The loud opening of the door jolted them from the moment, sending both their heads in the direction of the entrance. There stood an out-of-breath Frank, whose face was bright red and shimmering with sweat.

“Ruth! Do you know how long I’ve been looking for ya?” He cried, approaching them quickly.

Unsure of the man’s intentions, Johnny straightened and moved just barely in front of her, holding out a hand towards Frank. “Woah, buddy.”

Although it was an endearing effort, she couldn’t hold in a loud giggle at Frank’s offended expression that followed. “No, Johnny,” she laughed, gently lowering his hand.  “This is our pilot, Frank. Frank, this is Major John Egan. What is it?”

The pilot’s eyes flicked between Ruth and Johnny for a few seconds before he sighed. “I’ve filled the Angel up and it’s time to go. Find Hope and meet me back at the plane.”

Just like that, he was out the door again, probably to get ready for takeoff. Ruth’s heart sank at the realization that she was having to leave. It seemed he also came to the same conclusion as he turned toward her and sighed. 

“Looks like you’ve gotta go,” he said softly, slightly tilting his head to the side as he peered down at her. 

The nurse looked at the door, then lowered her gaze to her feet. “It sure does.”

She almost gasped in surprise when something warm grasped her hand gently. Her eyes shot up to John’s hand that held delicately held hers. The contact sent a tingle up her arm and seemingly straight to her mind, muddying her thoughts. 

“I'd like to see you again,” he murmured where only she could hear.

This quieter, softer version of him was unknown to Ruth, but she knew instantly that she liked the duality of Johnny. 

The blush she’d resisted finally won and dusted her cheeks as she looked up at him. “I’d like that, too.”

John softly tugged her hand closer and bridged the distance between them slowly, his entrancing eyes flicking between her eyes and lips. Ruth could hear her heartbeat in her ears as she stood on her toes to meet him. She felt his warm breath on her face, and her eyes fluttered closed, anticipating the kiss. But before their lips could meet, the door opened again, and Frank called out to her.

“Ruth, come on! You can neck the Major later!”

The door quickly creaked closed.

Heat rushed to Ruth’s face, and she reluctantly pulled back from Johnny, setting her heels back on the ground. Johnny awkwardly stood to his full height, glaring at the door where Frank stood moments before.

“I’ll see you next time, Johnny,” Ruth smiled bashfully, gently squeezing his hand once before dropping it. She walked backward to the door, praying she wouldn’t trip. 

Johnny let out a huff of air as the biggest smile grew on his face. “So there will be a next time?” 

She simply grinned at him, shrugging her shoulders when she turned to open the door. With one last look over her shoulder, she closed the door behind her. 

The infirmary was silent for a few seconds, and then the patients erupted in hollers, cheers, and whistles. 

“Way to go, Bucky!”

“Leave some for the rest of us, Major!”

Amid their uproar, John remembered a crucial detail: She hadn’t given him her address! He took off toward the door, reaching for the handle when it creaked open, revealing a laughing Ruth on the other side. She held out the slip to him.

“I think you behaved well enough, Major.”

“Told you,” he chimed, his eyebrows raising. “Scout’s honor.”

John took the paper from her outstretched hand and watched as she left once again. When the door had slammed shut behind her, he read the note to himself with a wide smile.

Hotshot, 

You can write me at the Grove, Berkshire, Hut 4. I like you, so try not to get shot down before I can return your letter, and I’ll do the same.

Safe Flying,

Ruth Morgan

Johnny shot his hand with the paper into the air, and the men cheered once again. Ruth, on the other hand, was in disbelief of what had just transpired. She had almost kissed him! She wanted to kiss him! Running her hands through her hair, she tried to focus on the task at hand: finding Hope.

Ruth ran around the base like a chicken with her head cut off looking for the woman, and was about to give up when she saw her sitting in a jeep with Buck in the distance.

“HOPE! There you are, I've been looking everywhere. Frank fueled up the plane. We have to go,” Ruth huffed, clearly out of breath from running, but her flushed cheeks, Hope thought, told a different story. 

“Okay, I'll be over in five minutes,” Hope promised, but Ruth didn't look convinced.

“Your five minutes or an actual five minutes?” She asked, and the glare Hope sent her way had Ruth turning around and heading back in the direction she’d come. 

“Okay, but I'll be timing you,” she yelled over her shoulder.

When Ruth looked back to see Hope kissing Buck on the cheek, it occurred to her that maybe there were more trips to Thorpe Abbotts in the cards for both of them.

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[therealslimshakespeare]

A Wedding & a Willy

Those Who Can - The Postwar Years

Summary: Cpt. Jack Brady’s freshly stateside wedding is understandably hectic, joyful and packs his childhood home to the gills with former Air Force buddies. But amongst the revelry and the guests are a few ghosts.

Cast of characters: so many characters and so many dynamics and so many storylines, this is my magnum opus of Avengers assemble style fic. And they all made it to the wedding because I said so. We’ve got- Bradys and Bucky Egan, Blakely, the Hamilton’s, the Crosbies, Lt. Macon, Lt. Glen Graham, Charles Cruikshank, Douglass, Maureen, Tilly Brady, Eugene Brady…and Rosie Rosenthal on the phone but don’t count him out, he’s devastating

Warnings: 18+ mature and distressing thematic material. beyond innuendo and wedding night jokes there’s nothing very current in this postwar fic that should be bothersome. HOWEVER— many different duos have many different discussions about past traumas, including miscarriage, war, ptsd, sexual abuse both male and female, some rifts between the victims, general angst

“Howard, dance with me.” Ida had a firm hold on the scruff of his uniform, smartly fitted and bedecked with polished buttons, Howard Hamilton cut a fine figure even though she had just drug him off the drainage pipe leading to the upstairs bedroom.

…The bedroom where Ida’s brother and his little wife had recently absconded after a very raucous leave-taking at the foot of the stairs. The wedding party had swamped the landing and it was by fortitude alone that Johnny picked up his bride and made a run through them. Ida had been loudest amongst the well wishing hecklers as the two, pink cheeked darlings rushed upstairs to seal the deal and taste what they’d waited five years for.

But while heckling, teasing and rice-wielding-gauntlets were one thing in his big sister’s book, climbing up the outside drainage pipe to play a practical joke on his pilot while said pilot what was practically engaged in a sacrament, was another thing.

And this Ida informed Hambone of with a fist in his jacket and a stern order to dance. His ideas were always far less amusing even to himself once sober, and she was saving him regret by her actions tonight.

“I’d be honored.” Hamilton swore as he allowed himself to be dragged back into the Brady family’s crowded house by the lady Colonel, casting backward glances at his abashed co-conspirators -Hoer, Tallulah, Murphy and Douglass- as they trailed behind.

Only the most looney among them were still strongly celebrating, it was late and the house had become a red hot furnace of merriment that reflected in the many paned windows of the rural New York dwelling. Couches had been pushed to the perimeter and every surface was littered with cake and wine, confetti strewing the floor and out back on the wooden deck, there were tiki lights hung and the gramophone in full projection and Ida placed Hambone's hand on her waist out there and began a spirited Lindy.

It was almost enough to keep Ida from remembering how thoroughly she’d cried as Johnny disappeared upstairs to begin his new life. She had proven shockingly sentimental today and she tried her hardest to dance it off. When Hambone begged off the fifth song, Ev Blakely took over but he was too kind in his conversation, too astute to her bubbling nostalgia and so she accepted Douglass’ butting in, if only to be sharply twirled and kept busy with inane chatter.

Bucky Egan meandered about the outskirts of the frivolity, one conversation after another, the festivities were beginning to blur and the drink in his hand had stayed oddly full. How many was this one? He didn’t know, but that was the wonderful thing about stateside peacetime -there was no shortages of booze. Even at a Catholic wedding. But even booze couldn’t keep the sinking, gnawing feeling of boredom away. Bride and groom were off, most other guests were departing and the few who weren’t he didn’t doubt intended to crash on the couches or on the rugs. The Hamilton’s had been given the the office bedroom and Lieutenant Macon the guest room, for reason of being the bride’s cousin. Eugene Brady was bunked with some Air Force bandmate and Ev Blakely was already asleep on the nearest couch by the time of Ida’s third jive with Douglass.

Bucky should have asked her to dance, but he was drunk and she wasn’t fond of him that way and he was tired, too. Not fit for driving and not seeing much purpose in hauling off when Brady had specifically asked for him to be at breakfast tomorrow.

So, John decided to make himself at home.

It felt right, in a curious, childlike sort of way, to help himself up the stairs while everyone below was too spastic or sleepy to notice him slinking away. He climbed the stairs and passed the framed photographs of Mr and Mrs Brady, of Ida and Johnny and Eugene at graduation and also as cherubic little children. At the top of the landing he looked down at the party, happy havoc proving a testament to a good day. He paused on the landing and hazarded a guess regarding which door would be Ida’s blessedly empty room. Straight in front of him was a large door and with indefensible surety he assumed it belonged to their parent. He tiptoed past and down the darkened hall, staying on the carpeted runner to muffle the floorboard’s squeak. On his left was dark and silent, to his right a door with a chunk of light showing through. From further down the hall, at the very end by the bathroom came sounds of stumbling and furniture being abused and rearranged.

There were also…giggles.

Egan grinned to himself and whispered a fond commendation for Jack Brady before choosing the right door, bravely turning the knob and entering the cool, empty space.

The electric light flipped on at his batting touch and he was met with the sight of organza curtains and a patchwork quilt, a pastel painted desk and plush violet colored carpet. It reeked of feminine adolescence and was so very foreign to Ida as he knew her that his fingers tingled in anticipation of learning this part of her.

Seashells hung from ribbons on the wall, a poster advertising for a boating tour of the Miami Everglades, sheet music in a basket by the bed, her trombone case leaning against a very full bookcase. Classics mainly, a little history and some science, three large volumes on something called “baroque.” Her flight jacket was hung on a knob of the hat stand, a wide brimmed plum stained straw hat, too, and a silk scarf. He crossed the threshold to it and lifted the scarf in his palm, bringing it to his nose and breathing deeply.

It smelled like a man. Cologne, perhaps whisky, musk for sure. Crestfallen, Egan dropped the silk and spun ‘round to take in the rest of the room. Her dress from the rehearsal was lying on the bed, crumpled, worn, probably in need of washing from the heat. He was suddenly very hot himself and he tore off his already unbuttoned jacket and hung it on the peg next to her flight jacket. He wasn’t fit to drive, he insisted to himself, as he tugged off his boots and set them beside her pair of white heeled sandals.

He staggered to the bed and plopped himself face down in the counterpane, crushing the worn dress beneath him. This smelled of Ida, her sweat and her familiarity. She wouldn’t mind, she would understand -Brady wanted him for breakfast and he was too drunk to drive.

——

There was humorous endearment in the task of putting grown men to bed, Ida oversaw to it cheerfully despite sporting a limp from a blister on her heel worse than any she’d gotten on that forced march. It was worth it to clear glasses from an accidental spill onto the carpets in the middle of the night or an elbow into an eye, an offending socked foot into a nose. She had expected a crash of sorts after the festivities and the blankets were piled at the ready in the music room. She got her hands kissed about a dozen times by a dozen men as she draped the covers over where they’d collapsed and wished them a good night. It was closer to three in the morning but the sentiment stood.

Flicking off the last light after the Hamilton’s had made it to the guest room, Ida ascended the stairs, bone tired and genuinely pleased. The sudden stillness in the house was a little jarring, but if she listened closely there were snores below, and upon the upstairs landing she might discern far down the hall the sounds of activities far more indiscreet. Mildly disgusted, she hastened to her room and found the door adjar, lights ablaze, bed occupied.

Bucky.

Feet hanging off the end and his tie still choking him, his red and sweaty face was buried in the fabric of her recently tailored dress suit, navy wool and sensibly cut, she’d still been cat-called while crossing the street in it and she found she didn’t mind that, glad the camp hadn’t taken the charm of her legs, too.

Making a grimace tinged with dogged fondness, Ida closed the door behind her and sat down on the bed, tugging off her offending high heels. Little white sling backs, and there were terrible red welts along her feet from the straps. “Bucky?” she tried in a normal voice, fiddling with the zipper at the nape of her neck, her curls back there sweaty and thick.

He didn’t even twitch. “Bucky.” she insisted with a hand to his shoulder, trying to jar him awake with a shake. The space between his brows creased mournfully and a twitch of his hand balled it into a fist. He mumbled something and from his expression alone she knew he was incorporating her motions into his nightmare. “Hush sweet man.” she sighed, defeated, and bent over him instead, pressing a kiss to his damp temple.

The crease between his brows smoothed. Apparently they’d be bunking together tonight. She envied his ability to sleep at all, weary as she was she didn’t expect it. Not after all the excitement, not now with all the quiet. She let her fingers find the knot of his tie, pushing his face away so she might undo it, popping the top buttons of his collar lest he hang himself in the night.

Ida rose and undid her dress while facing her sleeping friend, having a deep seated conviction that were she to turn her back, some inherent masculine sensor of Egan’s would detect a stripping woman and rouse him to watch, just when she needed him lights out.

Pared down to her slip, Ida left her nightly routine at that, tossing her dress over the chair before repenting of such slovenly, peacetime carelessness and hanging it instead on the hat rack.

His scarf still hung there. Ida glanced back at Egan’s snoring face and, feeling safe, she lifted the silk and buried her face in it, breathing him in. That cemented it, the urge. It was inevitable but perhaps if Bucky had woken she might have proven to herself she could go a solitary night without it. Without him.

Ida isn’t sure when it came to this, curled up on the carpet by the window, phone cord dragging off the side table and entangling with the lamp wires, making sense of her day to him. When had it become a common, daily thing? It is troubling that his hums and murmurs are required for her to process normality, it is comforting to hear him answer, warm, just a hint of tired huskiness:

“Hello?”

“Hello you.” She’ll answer back each time and then he’ll say it: Robert will say her name and it’ll sound so warm and carmelly and relieved like he’s been waiting all day for this, too.

She doesn’t dare hope he has. “How was it?” He asks this time and he’s so jovial that a grin breaks out again over her weary smile lines; she’s been smiling so much today and ought to be pillowed and asleep. But dusty violet though the sky has gotten, she is awake and unsurprised.

“It was perfectly bonkers.” She replies honestly, “And they’re disgustingly happy and everyone else too, cooperative to the last and it couldn’t have been sweeter.” She processes it all as she tells him, and a satisfaction seeps in for today's goodness that wasn’t fully her’s until she relayed it to Robert.

Concerning. But then he’s humming happily on the other end, a buzz of warm static that she feels in her toes, “As it should be.” he sounds as satisfied as she feels, “Not a hitch?“

“Not a one. Except we’re all very hot.”

Another hum, this one pragmatically soothing, “To be expected in August. If they weren’t so loved there’d be less people and you could've held it indoors.” Ida nods to that, unheeding of the motion going unregistered on the other end, “Besides, they won’t need clothes for the job.” Robert’s joke lands so perfectly from the beyond that Ida is snorting before she can even think to chastise.

“They were very eager for that part.” she is afraid she’s giggling but then, he sounds close as well and Johnny had been very fidgety all day and his Tilly even worse. And now, down the hall, someone else, or two someones, sound very awake to keep her company at dawn, busy at being married. She blushes for them and it’s worsened by his voice come again:

“And you? Have fun?” Robert prods, not questioning her sleeplessness, she might ask him the same if they were new to this routine.

They are not.

“Very hard to see him off.” she admits, again, a revelation even to herself and then wants to snort at herself for being dramatic, he is not so far away down the hall making a holy racket of his new liberties, “I’m going to miss it, it being just us and Gene. First chink in the family. I know all the sayings about marriage being an addition to families and such- but I feel like I’ve lost him a little. But he’s very happy. You know how I like Tilly.”

“Yes, said you liked her ‘tremendously.’ Which is good, you’re gonna be related for a while.”

“She’ll be good for him. They’re horridly happy.” she emphasizes and her smile comes through, reaches him all the way in NYC and his own replies;

“Wish I could say the same.” he affects glumness, she knows it is an offered out and she takes it:

“Why? The hot jazz not so hot?”

They have a long-standing insult between them, big city versus upstate, they had been very stubborn about it while away in England. Now making an intimate go of being at home, they are both sleepless and melancholy in their once defended utopias.

“Nah, it’s good, it’s just me. I’m off. It’s just noisy without -“ Robert pauses and Ida is intrigued, he so rarely fumbles near her these days.

“Without?”

“Friends, I guess.” He decides and Ida wonders if she counts. “All my dance partners want to talk about what happened over there, and all their mothers want to talk about my practice. And the truth is, I can’t remember my clients names as it’s boring as hell in comparison, and over there is -I just want to dance. And I keep thinking about whether you’d like the arrangements. I’ve even thought about Johnny there, ya know?”

Dangerous, concerning, her cheeks are blushing for herself now. “You’ll have Croz there soon.”

“We really should get you into the city, Ida.” whenever Robert ignores her segues, whenever he says her name, she finds her throat dry. He is persistent tonight and her eyes have already shed a tear over the happy domesticity of her married-off brother, she's pliable and foolish, and he wants to dance with her in the big apple.

“I danced with Hambone tonight.” she tells him instead, fingers dancing over the cord, a squeaky and nervous motion but her tone grows in humor, “It was the only way to keep him from practical jokes after the happy couple had gone upstairs.”

“God! Wish I’d been there.”

“If it wasn’t him it was Dougie.” she lamented, recalling the rounds around the dance floor and wiggling her poor toes even now in chagrin, “I had hoped the presence of Mrs. Hamilton might have tamed him but I have been disappointed. She’s magnificently rabid.”

“What a relief.” Rosie rebutted, “Gives me a cold sweat to think of that man with a sweet little thing.”

“Good point.”

“How’s your go at it’?” Robert’s voice turns to teasing and she braces, he’s lethal at it and she is laid out on the carpet now, fancy dress cast aside and only in her slip as the room lightens, cold dawn breeze ruffling her curtains and she allows a hand between her breasts, to steady her heart, to imagine it is his. Bucky is snoring away in the bed above her, she fiddles with the dust ruffle.

“At what?” she’s gone raspy, too.

“At being a sweet little thing.”

The hand on her chest clenches and her belly, ever curious and bewildered when hearing him, follows suit. Down the hall there are giggles, something that sounds very like muffled begging, and Ida presses her face towards the window and its cooling breeze, “I’ll be lost when they all leave.” she admits, having felt very much a part of it all despite the frilly dresses and pinned boutonnieres and cloying flower sprays; the boys of the 418th and some from the 100th at large had been in town, packed into the Brady’s house for the wedding. While they were here she was still a Colonel, even if she was a colonel who liked to dance. “They’re pushing me out, you know that, right? It’s settled, just waiting for the discharge.”

There’s a lump in her throat and it’s pitiful to be so sad about it when she’d foreseen it for ages. But it’s more than ungrateful, for the upper brass to force her out after all the time she’s served. It’s worse as she’s given up all other life for it. She had no recourse and yet, not dead or even married, she is cut loose.

“I know.” Robert is angrier over it than she is, had fought harder against it than she could. It allows her room to feel the hurt of it. Concerning, unfortunate. “Come to the city. You might like the law.”

She’d be under him there.

It jars her, being a novice at something. She’d be under him, and at the cost of it she’d been near him and his smile at all times and then he’d find a blonde little secretary and marry her and Ida would be at yet another wedding and she’d be clapping at the foot of the stairs again as the handsome groom carried his bride up to bliss and Ida would have sore feet from dancing with Pappy too long and when the day ended she would have no one to call. Robert would be a married man, abed with his wife, not coming in to work for ten days, she’d have his case files and he’d have someone fit to love him.

“I’ll think about it.” she lies, but it is nice to keep one’s options open when faced with a life of rural placitude and spinsterly church duties.

“What did they decide on for the cake?”

Robert remembers everything, he remembers the debate between carrot and lemon. Even, she supposes, the way she sounds when she lies under oath but instead he asks about cake. He’s good for her, to her -concerning, dangerous.

“Lemon.” She informs him, her tone carrying the weight of that final decision.

“Do -do I hear snoring?” He asks suddenly, incredulous humor in his voice.

“Ah, that would be Major Egan.” She glances back at her bed and his sprawled form in the pale dark, “This place is crawling, bunked two a’piece to the couches downstairs.”

“They’re just stayin’ to haze the newlyweds before they leave for the honeymoon.” Rosie was laughing on the other end, the silliest sound in the world.

“They’ll have a new couple to plague next week.”

“Ah, yes, Major Cleven and Lt. Kendeigh.”

“Yes.” Ida is not sure why Gale Cleven did not manage to come to this wedding, or why beyond being busy with a honeymoon, her brother will not be attending his. There is a discreet intentionality about this remiss behavior that Ida and even Bucky have not dared inquire about, even as the rest of the guests lamented their absence, well meaning and ignorant. Ida supposes that when two men share a secret of a nature they do, an experience and a crime, it is not wise to continue the closeness their captivity once enforced. Perhaps instead of a show of solidarity to appear at each other's nuptials, it would instead be an unkind reminder of how unfit they were for such a peacetime endeavor. Ida wondered, in that case, who she should expect to not show at her own wedding were she to marry, by the logic of Johnny and Gale, that would be her own brother and Bucky and Rosie and Maureen and Smith and-. Ah silly men. They didn’t handle such things well, Ida decided then, only to snort at herself again, as Johnny was the one moving on and marrying and she was the one turning to an icesickle at a crowd of men. Perhaps she wasn’t moving on well at all—

“Where’d you go off to?” Rosie’s voice woke her.

“Mm, just-“ Ida shook herself, “Thinking of getting to heckle Maureen next week.”

“I have a feeling Buck may have accounted for that.” Rosie sounds smug and in the know and Ida does not doubt him, “You are going, aren’t you?“

“Of course.” she defends, “It’s Maureen! It’s Buck!”

“Right, right of course.”

“Aren’t you?” she hates the urgency that question hides.

“Yeah, for sure.” she thinks she tastes him playing at cool, but sure enough he adds an addendum that turns her into a puddle, “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you at it for weeks.”

There’s barely been many “weeks” since they knew a wedding was on at all. But she does not argue.

“I should sleep.” She realizes.

“Yeah.” he agrees, “Well, good night Ida.”

It is light here now. “Good night, Robert.”

Ida climbs into her crowded bed, tugging the comforter from under Egan’s feet as best she can before slotting herself around him, arms over his chest and his back bowed to her belly. He responds like a house cat and curls in, shrinking himself to her big spoon and moaning something childlike and content as his hand reaches to hold hers in a firm lock over his chest.

Today, like most of her mornings, Ida is confirmed in her suspicion that she slept at all only by the fact she catches herself awakening. There is a furnace plied to the front of her that is clammy and broad, groggily Ida registers in disgust that between the heatwave pouring through the opened window and Egan’s natural temperature, she is actually wet from sweat. And yet, in perfect keeping with his nature, Bucky has not moved an inch from her and retains his grip on her forearm like she were some bouy for his dreams. Except, she feels the calloused pads of his fingers swirling up her forearm, up and back down, featherlight little paisleys and circles and mindless shapes that he is tracing, endlessly, as his other hand keeps her tethered to him.

“Bucky,” she accuses because he is awake and they are drenched and she firmly believes that upon waking he should’ve had the good sense to extricate himself for both hygiene’s sake and also their reputations, “you’re awake.”

There is a very thick and gross sounding snort beside her, morning stuffiness and hangover sludge stuck in his throat, “M’not.” he inelegantly protests and his voice is terribly thick and oddly weak.

Ida pulls at her arm but he won’t let it go, she tries to sit up, pry it out, “Ok funny guy, come on, let go, I’m supposed to start breakfast ahead of everyone waking up and-“ she yanks again but he just keeps hold and rolls her hand under himself a little more, effectively burying his face in the pillow as she strains to see his face over his massive shoulder “-and my mother is already convinced we’re secretly engaged.” It’s so preposterous she laughs but either his headache is too bad or something else, as he does not join in, “Bucky I need you up before someone sees.” she tries pleading this time, unsure of what mood she’s caught him in but desperate to get him into the hall before taunts can be made by any guests.

There is another thick gurgle buried into the pillow and a rough snort. The shoulder beneath her hand shudders.

That gives Ida pause. “Bucky,” she stops her attempts to pull away and instead exerts more effort in turning him over, out of the smothering pillow, closer and to face her, “Bucky are you crying?” it’s no accusation, only he would have a sob so ungainly it could be mistaken for hacking up a lugy.

“M’not.” Comes out after moments of silence and repeated prods by Ida. And he is most definitely crying.

Not wishing to jump to conclusions -there are, after all, an absolute endless supply of genuinely good reasons to cry- Ida simply stops her struggling and tries to temper her anxiety about their being caught with whatever tenderness he may need right now. Perhaps he’s crying over Johnny or even Buck’s impending nuptials, perhaps he sees in her what he will be in a week’s time: surplus love. Or maybe he is crying over his dreams. Or maybe his head is spectacularly throbbing. There are so many things, and Ida knows well enough that the man responds best to gentleness, however tenaciously he seeks out rough usage.

She manages to get her arm back, only because he is now so intent on hiding his face. She uses her liberated hand to thumb at his face, smudging tear tracks she was in no doubt were there. “Want to talk about it?” she offers even though he rarely takes her up on the offer, she owes it to him for how often he has made her speak of unspeakable things.

There is a stubborn silence in which she can hear his labored breaths practically repeating that he is not, in fact, weeping into her pillow mid morning on a Saturday in Victor, New York. She pats his arm -suit yourself- and pulls away to begin her day. She lights a cigarette, not having fully quit the filthy habit since camp, and grabs a pair of slacks and a shirt from the closet, needing a shower after his embrace.

“You kept your baby doll.” his voice comes muffled and stuffy from the bed, she glances over and sees he has barely moved, only turned on his side to stare at the threadbare doll propped on her bookcase.

“That’s Minnie.” she introduces them with a grin, “Don’t sound so shocked Major, I’d have thought you’ve been in enough boudoirs to know that plenty of women keep their dolls.”

Bucky keeps staring at Minnie morosely, not laughing at her tease. “Did you keep it for your daughter?” he asks.

Sometimes John Egan reminds Ida of a callously curious child, his sympathy sometimes as wounding as his barbs. She refuses to read into it, he is hungover and he is confused by her childish relic; she keeps pace in her routine and replies with honesty, “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well I do.” he mutters instantly, bitterly, accusingly.

“Beg pardon?” she cautions him.

“I think about your baby all the damn time.” he turns around in the sheets then, sits himself up in her bed, eyes raw and dangerous.

The frog from Egan’s throat now takes up residence in Ida’s, she thinks she might choke on her own breath. “Why-“ panicked, her chest begins to shutter, ears ringing, hands cold. Why would he say that? “Bucky!” she'd have taken a stab in the heart over this, why would he- “Why would you say that?” she begs hoarsely, forced to sit beside him on the bed as her legs are no longer steady.

“You really don’t?” he begs in turn, looking as wretched as she feels.

“I-I-“ Ida digs her fingernails into her thigh, willing the cacophony in her head to cease, to get a grip back on the lid of that tiny coffin, “I’m not doing this. Not this morning, not when I’ve got breakfast to make for a household of people and -my brother just got married, Egan! Is this really the time to bring it up? They’re going to make jokes about you being in here! God’s sake -can’t you possess a modicum of sensitivity.”

It’s not a question. It’s an insult and he takes it on the chin. He knows that his own question -asking if she even recalls her dead child- was one of his own. That doesn’t prevent one last building tear to slip the dam and join the mess on his cheeks, because his heart is nothing if not on the opposing team.

It does earn him a sigh from Ida and a very hoarse, “Or course I think of- of course, I do, you bastard.”

“Her.” he pronounces forcefully, he was looking back at the doll, “You should think of her. You know, it was always a girl in my dreams, had so many dreams about her and when we wrapped her up, it was a girl, Ida.”

Ida knew that, Johnny had told her after she’d insisted on knowing. “I know.” she muttered, placing her hand over his on his large thigh, crumpled slacks and red knuckles, “And I know you loved her.”

More than Ida did, goes unsaid. More than Ida could, is perhaps the more honest essence of it all. “I was gonna take such good care of you both.” he swore, looking for all the world like he was right back in camp with Ida’s swelling belly and filling chest beneath her layers making him grow more and more insistent and reckless to save her. “We were gonna get out and I was gonna take care of you. I was gonna manage it, I know you didn’t think i could but we were so close to pulling it off when- I was going to make it happen, Ida, and any future I planned for was always us three.”

She’d have been so loved, that poor lost child, she’d have thought Bucky her father. And in her wildest moments of foolish hope, Ida had imagined them as a trio, too. Camped out in the Polish wilderness, eating fish and berries and teaching her babe how to speak two languages, with never a clue how the war turned out. Ida knew this dream was the intellectual property of Bucky’s own zealously fabricated reality, she knew it and she had long ago left it behind. Maybe when the stalag burned and the grave was lost. Maybe when her brother didn’t offer condolences for a loss they’d both secretly hoped for, even if they prayed for forgiveness right after.

“Someday, you’re going to make someone a wonderful father.” Ida told him now.

“Can’t seem to plan anything else.” he shook his head , “That’s- I know it’s been ages but every dream about after the war had always been us. Mornings like this, you and me and sunshine coming through the windows just like this- and her between us.”

Ida watched his fingers fiddle from underneath her own until he was clasping hers and rubbing a thumb along her knuckles. “It’s a sweet dream, Bucky.” And that’s what it had to stay, a dream, a contingency plan never enacted. “We wouldn’t work now, you know we’d be a mess, we can’t get that back, it-“

“-Don’t worry, I’m not about to propose.” he huffed a laugh, turning fully to her for the first time and giving her a genuinely wide smile, freckles crinkling in his cheeks.

“I didn’t think you were!” she was flustered at the mere concept, despite talks of living ever after together with her daughter from too many fathers. “I’m just saying, now we’re here, we must go forward.”

“Yeah.” he smacked his lips, eyes flitting over her face, before his brows creased again, “What did you name her?”

Ida felt her heart break again, he was like a dog with a bone. She let her spine go lax and fell back into the covers, listless. “I didn’t even -I never let myself.”

Bucky just nodded, understanding. Even back then he understood. More than anyone maybe.

“It’s just as well,” she cleared her throat noisily, “I’d have named her Johnny. And she wouldn’t have stood a chance at being popular with that name.”

He barked out a laugh before his face fell sober. “Really?” he sounded almost scared.

Ida recognized it as that most fragile of things: hope. “Yes.” she swore, realizing she would have.

“For -for your brother.” he clarified, in check, reigned in.

“For the overabundance of John’s that God threw my way when I needed them most”

Egan’s cheeks went pink, his nose again too, and that likely heralded more tears but at least he was smiling, a shy, happy, satisfied smile. Her heart had never felt more broken and raw than it did lying on her childhood bed, naming her babe a year and a half after she’d lost her. Oh she’d have to have a word with Minnie for starting this all, but for now, she lay there and let the exhaustion of acceptance take over.

Carefully he laid down beside, on his side, cheek propped on a palm, looking down at her. “Well,” he drug it out in a huff that sagged him nearer, she lay there and wondered when or if she’d need to raise a hand and push him back, “I’ll tell you what I’d like to do for one day. This day.” he specified. “Will you give me that?”

“What?” she was too wary to promise Egan anything but the alarm in her eyes warred with the mirth on her lips.

“I wanna make breakfast with you,” he stipulated, laying one finger down on her arm, the next followed, “wanna ask Johnny if those tips I gave him worked as well as they shoulda-“

“-Bucky you didn’t?!”

“and I wanna -course I did doll, didn’t want him making a hash of that poor girl, we’re counting on him to break the baby tie- and I want you to promise that you’ll think about, really think- about trying the law.”

Ida snapped upright, turning on him aghast, “You were asleep! How did you-“

Egan just grinned. “I was.” He insisted, “But I don’t see any other scarves in here.”

Ida’s eyes raked over to the hatstand and Rosie’s white dotted momento. “That’s- that's not...” she groaned, “He gave it to me after I buzzed the tower. You remember?”

“I remember.”

“Stop smirking like that, it was my last mission, too. Last one ever, it seems likely now.”

“All the more reason to go to New York.”

“I’m not ready for that.”

“Kicking ass? I’d say you’re havin’ withdrawls, more like, Miss Brady.” Egan cheesed back up at her, tugging her shoulder until she fell back beside him one more time.

There were footsteps in the hall and a general hum of awakening guests. “All of it.” she settled for, because if they were being honest, New York would be far more than just the law. And Egan deserved to know that. “I’m not ready.”

Egan’s firm hand reached up from her shoulder and she felt rough knuckles against her cheek, along with the creeping closeness of him closing in, eyes sharp with purpose as the tickle of a mustache brushed against her face. He’d just clipped the corner of her lips. “I think you are.” he said as he pulled away. “Nothing to do but go on, right?”

Oh he was always so very good. It deserved a repayment somehow but she didn’t know how, so she lay there and patted his back, thinking of Buck’s wedding next week. She’d make him dance with her.

“How many eggs we crackin’ for this madhouse?” he asked, jerking his head at the door.

“Thirty nine.” she grinned back.

“Then let’s get on ‘em.” he rose and extended his hand to haul her up.

“I’ll let you know I’m very rigorous about eggshells.” she warned in a giggle.

“These hands?” he raised those massive appendages of his, wiggling his fingers like he were smashing out a piano concerto, “Made for dainty work.”

“Mm, sure.”

“Well,” he tucked his rumpled shirt back in with offended dignity, “I taught your wiggly fingered brother a thing or two in preparation yesterday morning-“

“-Bucky!” Ida swatted at him with her towel as they ventured into the hall.

“I did!”

“Of course you did.” they were vying for who could reach the shower at the end of the hall first, competitive shoulders bumping into framed photographs on the walls.

“Ten bucks says the little girl is smiling this morning.” he bet, “And that’s me she has to thank.”

“Don’t you dare-“

“I’m gonna ask him.”

“Bucky!”

“I’m gonna!”

“Keep your voice down!” they were right next door to the love birds now, an unavoidable consequence of the bathroom’s proximity to Johnny’s old room.

“I’m gonna.”

In the end, as the challenge to beat her to the bathmat was all he had really wanted, Bucky stepped aside and allowed Ida first dibs on the shower. She was as efficient as their army days and before ten minutes were up the door was opening again and she was coming out in a slightly steamy haze that smelled wonderfully minty. She was wearing slacks, a shirt tied up for she had not filled out again despite her mother’s cooking, and one of those fancy little head scarves that made her dark curls tuck round under her ears in a way Bucky often thought he’d like to arrange his own if he were a girl.

“Don’t let anyone crack my eggs, I’ll be right down.” he threatened as he took his turn.

“Alright, alright.” she rolled her eyes.

He had been home, home to Ma and let his sisters fuss and cook for him, he’d showered in Ma’s house and he’d slept in a bed he had once tossed in as boy -none of it felt quite this domestic somehow. Hot water, eggs to whisk, an olive green tub and the Brady kids’ sensible soaps, such is what peacetime was made of. Maybe it was Eugene’s razor, or one of Johnny’s forgotten ones, lying on the tub side, but Egan snagged it for some maintenance on the neck hairs and five o’clock shadow in the fogged mirror. He should have premeditated his crash here, he should have brought an overnight kit. But there was a spontaneous courage required for crashing on Ida’s bed and he hadn’t wanted to screw it up by being sensible and having a spare change.

Bucky wrapped the towel securly around his hips and flung his crumpled slacks and damp shirt over his arm, determining to seek out an iron before everyone heckled the living fuck out of his old drunken habits coming back to the fore. Couldn’t do that to Ida, he did have some sensibility, despite what she may have thought.

Upon opening the door, however, he was greeted by something far more pressing than hecklers and indeed, at least in his mind, something far more salacious than the drunken crashing into a friend's bedroom or roaming the halls in nothing but a towel: it was the newlyweds, caught betwixt their door and his with their goal no doubt the far off stair landing.

“Well, look who finally woke to the land of the living.” he clapped at the door frame, mouth wide in a guffaw.

Both of the young darlings looked like little cast ashore fishes, mouths open and eyes unblinking. Ah yes, he was a little scant on the clothing but, hell -he’d practically gotten to hear the girl’s cherry get popped, goddamn Catholics and their brazen prudery.

Sweet, freshly minted Tilly Brady belatedly let out a gasping little “oh Major!” at his naked state in a voice that suggested she was somehow to blame for catching him this way, before wheeling round to flee in embarrassment only to smack into her blushing groom’s chest. That proximity seemed to send another shudder through the poor thing which inspired Brady to soothingly lift his own arm and scoot her back under it into their room with a gentle press between the shoulder blades. A goddamn natural, that one, Bucky rocked back on his heels in pride.

“Major?” there was that tone again, asking what the damn score was, somber owl eyes with a flicker of something akin to devine rage in them. Oh, he was pissed.

“Need an iron,” Bucky gesticulated to his slacks, “there an iron in this joint?”

“Allow me,” Brady gritted out, hand outstretched, thoroughly unamused or maybe that scowl was just for show.

“Aww now, hell Johnny-“

“-no, really. Anything so long as it puts you back in clothes, you ape!”

“Now, now, not like you to be sensitive about somethin’ like chest hair, boy.” Egan slung the slacks out of the young groom’s reach, “Marriage makin’ you vain?”

“You’re embarrassing Tilly!” Brady hissed, always angry for someone else’s good cause and that’s why Egan found him to be a dear old thing.

“Well if she’s that skittish, how did she ever survive what you did to her last night?” he barked another laugh.

Johnny went beet red against his pale blue sweater but his mouth wavered into something like a sheepish smile.

“Tell me Johnny,” Egan leaned closer to him in the empty hall, “which one did it for her? This one?” he crooked his fingers in a suggestive gesture, “or this one?” he made a somehow even lewder one.

Brady suddenly began to cough, choked up on his own spit at the sight of the well rehearsed crook of the digits and the minty shower steam still swirling around them. “Knew it.” Egan grinned, slapping Brady on the back, “Good man.” and sauntered back down the hall to Ida’s room feeling a few inches taller. And whistling.

Damn the slacks. He had thirty nine eggs to crack.

Breakfast was a raucous affair, jubilant and perhaps the first time Ida felt that home was truly as it should be despite her late father’s absence. That morning, with a crowd of friends around the table and hanging off the couches and sat on the steps with precariously balanced plates and tumblers full of orange juice, the morning held a jubilant chaos that was absent of the melancholy nostalgia of the ceremonial day before. Bucky was not deft in his egg cracking as promised, but Jean Crosby was a genius at fishing out shell fragments, and he redeemed himself when it came time to whisk the gigantic bowl together.

“There’s no way you’ve got a pan big enough for all that.” Graham took great interest in the breakfast plans, and he held his tongue until it was time to cook up the mess. But his doubt was unfounded, and it did not take into account the sheer amount of potlucks Mrs. Brady had supplied in her time. The skillet Ida hauled out from under the stove was large enough to kill a man with one blow.

“I think you’ll find we do.” she grinned at her erstwhile copilot and he conceded with a wondrous look of awe at the cast iron monstrosity.

No amount of ribbing or cajoling at breakfast could extract from Johnny the intended destination for the honeymoon. Ida was well aware it was somewhere cozy, modest and utterly private in the Adirondack Mountains. She had been presented with two different brochures for two different cabins by her brother, and she didn’t need to ask to know the purpose of it. She had chosen the smaller of the two because it had a river in back, rather like the creek here at home, and Johnny had agreed that was his inclination, too. This morning he met her eye over sausages, not a warning or pleading look as he never doubted her discretion, but a small smug smile that filled Ida with a little ripple of happiness at their shared secret, that she had been his trusted advisor, one last time, in the middle of all these nosy little bastards.

Someone was trying to make a euphemism about how Tilly liked her eggs -scrambled, apparently. There was a great deal of emphasis put on the word scrambled, as if that somehow translated to something else, and Ida was about to shut that line of humor down, for her sister-in-law’s sake, when Jim Douglass and Harry Crosby burst in the front door, having taken their breakfast with Stevie out to the front steps to watch the horses. They informed them all in an unmistakably excited cheer that Buck Cleven and Maureen Kendeigh were coming up the drive.

“Driving seperate cars.” Douglass elaborated amongst the frenzy, “One’s a goddamn Willy.”

“Buck? Candy? -And a Jeep?” a repetitious chorus of surprise and happiness broke out as various men -and their children and wives- sprang from their seats and rushed out front.

It left Bucky and Ida and Tilly, and Johnny, with Mama, alone at the table, exchanging a series of wordless and half misinterpreted glances of communication about why Buck Cleven would show up now after having intentionally kept away from the big day. Of course Mama, like the rest of the men, didn’t know even the first bit about it. Ida wasn’t sure Tilly knew much either, if anything regarding the shared history there, and both she and Bucky were somewhat in the dark themselves, except for a vaguely ominous concern felt about the two men’s relationship. Truly, only Johnny knew what on earth was going on between himself and Cleven since liberation, and as he had been as reticent as usual, no one knew what he thought about the no-show, or if it had even been something agreed-upon amicably.

“A jeep.” the groom himself finally spoke up, a wry grin on his face and nudged Tilly until she giggled and it broke the tense silence. “Well come on, you gotta meet the legends.” he told his new wife and stood up himself, a cue for Ida and Bucky to follow.

Mama fussed around the table. “I’ll be right out, I’m just going to out covers on these-“

Bucky seemed to shake himself and turned to the door abruptly, striding out to see his friends, leaving Ida loitering back as Johnny pulled Tilly's chair out for her. She must’ve been wearing some sort of face because as her brother passed her, he sent her an exasperated look of reproof. Guiltily, Ida cleared her face of all perturbed speculation and followed the new couple out to the drive where Cleven was already in the thick of shaking hands while Maureen was alighting from the prettiest little civilian Jeep you ever did.

“Johnny!” Maureen cried over everyone's heads, vantage point gained from standing on the running boards, “Congratulations, foxy! Don’t you two look pretty in blushes? Well come on, do you like your present?”

She was gesturing in a showman’s arc to the Willy Jeep in question and Tilly glanced up at her new husband in bewilderment, trying to gauge by his expression if this was all some grand practical joke.

Apparently Gale Cleven didn’t joke much because Johnny stared at him in shock which only confirmed the gift as genuine. “Th-that’s your gift?” he did clarify, eyes skittering back to Maureen before taking his turn at shaking the Major’s hand.

“Yup.” Gale grinned back, gentle and mildly smug, “Part of a grand plan by Ida to keep you in the country. This thing could ford that creek you got in back.”

“No kidding.” Brady marveled, “Earnest?”

“Yeah it’s yours,” Cleven took his hand back and rubbed at his neck with it, a nervous gesture, “congratulations Jack.”

“Well fuck I-“ Johnny seemed stunned speechless before recalling the most important thing, “-Sir this is my Tilly.”

“Mrs. Brady, it’s a pleasure.” Gale Cleven took her in little hand in a gesture so chivalrous the only thing missing was a kiss to it, and that was almost done by the swipe of his thumb over her knuckles.

Maureen lovingly shoved her fiance aside to take the girl by the shoulders, an admiring assessment ongoing in her eyes. “Well, you look good for him.” she remarked with a beaming grin of approval before kissing the bride’s cheeks. “So? How was it? I’m never forgiving Gale for making us miss it, goddamn Air Force has some timing for their reports.”

“It was wonderful.” Johnny reported with pink cheeked simplicity that shied from Cleven’s observation, before adding for Maureen’s benefit, “You were missed.”

Something sympathetic and doubtful flashed over Maureen’s face before she leaned in once more to kiss his cheek, much to the amused chatter of those around.

“What’d ya do to get this thing? Rob a bank while you were in California?” Bucky was asking, interested thoroughly in the jeep’s dash and his body was half in the driver’s seat under the excuse of showing baby Stevie Crosby the wheel.

“Or are you already settling in to being a kept man?” Tallulah ribbed Maureen and her much touted pedigree.

“Uncle gave me the mine.” Cleven replied instead, simple and direct. “Deeded it and everything.”

Ida gasped, pleased at the news, exchanging a delighted glance with Kendeigh, “The one back in Wyoming, Gale? The one you worked at?”

“Yeah.”

“Hell, that’s wonderful!” Bucky cried from fully behind the wheel, a progression not unnoticed by Brady, “Coal Baron Cleven.”

“Oh leave off.”

“So we split this puppy, half and half,” Maureen slapped the hood, “anything to make sure you kids don’t forget us.”

“Compensation for knowing ya, more like” Murph grumbled and was smacked for saying his truth.

“You honeymooning with us, Bucky?” Brady asked harmlessly while apparching his gift, leaning over the passenger side and smiling at baby Stevie who was sucking on the knob of the gear shift, his babysitter thoroughly distracted by the dials.

“Huh? Nah just, lettin’ the little guy play.” Bucky assured, “S’all yours. You’re not thinkin’ of takin’ this on the honeymoon, are ya?” he suddenly asked.

“Course I am!” Johnny insisted, turning back to beam at his benefactors, boyish anticipation on his face, “Can’t just let a gift like this idle.”

“There’s not even a roof, John.” Jean Crosby gently pointed out to the excited groom, tactfully trying to remind him his bachelor days were over.

“Yeah, - I know.” he didn’t get it.

“So if it rains-“ Jean tried to supply.

“Then I guess we’ll just get wet.” Tilly Brady responded for him from her place by the headlight, a very wicked grin on her face. “Can we go now?” she begged her groom in a laugh.

“Hop in!” Bucky beckoned magnanimously and she rolled her eyes.

“Well if you’re taking that then you can’t go yet.” Douglass insisted, before explaining,, “We’ve got the cans hitched and have chalked up the windows on your Buick. We gotta move it all over to this one now.”

“Oh yeah, crucial.” Ida snarked while exchanging a look with her oddly complacent brother. By now he’d usually be exasperated with them all; it seemed marriage had a truly calming effect on him.

“You willing to wait?” he asked Tilly instead, smiling gently at his new wife.

“Of course, after all, I’ve just met Maureen!”

“Yes,” Maureen agreed, arm thrown back around the girl, “I have an evaluation to complete.”

“And Stevie wants to feel how it drives!” Bucky added hopefully despite Gale’s disbelieving stare.

Brady shook his head, grin unmoving, “Fifteen minutes for all it, cans, joyride, all of it. Don’t wreck the thing and Candy, be nice to my wife, she has very sharp fingernails.”

He ignored the ensuing chorus of “oooh’s” and the flurry of reiterated breakfast table jests and Ida watched him turn instead to the quiet presence of Major Cleven and ask discreetly, “Sir, I’d like you to meet my mother, if you’ve time. She’s just inside, at the dishes probably.”

Cleven’s face brightened considerably at the invitation, a typical yet rare look of deep seated pleasure softening his face. Ida found herself relaxing her fists for the first time since these two came up the drive: “I’d love that, Jack.”

Ida watched them disappear into the house, Johnny holding open the recently painted front door to usher him into their childhood home, and saying something with a nod to the Jeep as Gale passed him; they both shared a short laugh before the closed door hid them.

“Alright who wants a ride?” Bucky’s loud call jarred her.

“Please go and hold Stevie!” Jean Crosby was begging at her elbow, as worried sick over the attention Major Egan paid her small son as she was gratified by it.

“I’ll keep a grip of steel on him.” Ida assured her and realized as she climbed beside Bucky into the bench seat, this meant she was going for a joy ride with him. She wished she had her flight gear with her, a maywest and a parachute at the least. “Come here little guy.” she scooped Stevie off the floorboard and into her lap, Maureen settled afterward on her other side and it felt just like old times, wedged between her friends..

“That scarf of yours gonna stay on?” Bucky asked her, fiddling with it himself before she could reply, tucking a few more curls in.

“Just -keep us upright. Wheels down, Egan.” Ida begged with a laugh that was drowned in the rev of the engine.

💋 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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[sagesolsticewrites]

Hot Summer Night (John Brady x Juliet (OFC))

In which John Brady helps his wife through a stiflingly hot night in upstate New York.

a/n: wrote this forever ago after seeing that 👀 pic of Ben, came back to it after suffering through an AC-less Tennessee summer when we lost power last night 🫠 enjoy Brady girlies!

Word count: 1k

Warnings: mature content (unprotected PinV penetration) (18+ MINORS DNI), John Brady being husband of the year, I think that’s it? Please let me know if I missed anything!

Disclaimer: 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.

Taglist: @winniemaywebber @ginabaker1666

Masterlist

Juliet threw off the thin sheet with a huff, unable to stand one more thing covering her. At first she had been fine with the fact that the air conditioning in their home didn’t quite reach the master bedroom— happy, in fact, for the excuse to keep the windows open at night. But this year’s New England summer was even more hot and humid than the last, and the stagnant air outside was doing nothing to soothe her.

“Jules? Everything okay?” Came her husband’s concerned voice from the other side of the bed. John Brady was a notoriously light sleeper, and even after just a few months of marriage somehow always knew when his wife was anything less than perfectly content

“‘M fine, honey, just… hot,” she whines, fanning herself, and stopping when all that did was push more hot air towards her.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he chuckles softly, “Maybe I can help.”

She rolls to face him, gaze tracing over the significant lack of clothes on her husband— clad in just a sleeveless undershirt and boxers in an attempt to ward off the heat, moonlight glinting off the dog tags he wears even now and highlighting the sheen of sweat along his forehead and collarbone.

A gentle hand on her waist draws her closer, closer, until their noses are nearly touching. Her confused expression— how exactly is this meant to help?— falls into relief as he gently blows a stream of cool air over her face.

“Better?” He murmurs, breath fanning over her as his thumb strokes along her cheek.

“Much,” Juliet sighs, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

He resumes his role as her personal fan, occasionally leaning in to brush soft kisses to her forehead, her nose, her cheeks. The combination of cool air and kisses has Juliet nearly melting into his arms, their legs tangling as his hand drifts lower on her hip to pull her flush against him, sparking heat in her belly that has nothing to do with the humid summer night.

It seems to have the same effect on John, given the way he abandons the pretense of cooling her off in favor of skimming his lips across her cheek to capture her lips in earnest. She sighs into the kiss, her hand trailing up his chest to toy with the soft hair at the nape of his neck as he pulls her impossibly closer.

Lost in each other, Juliet isn’t quite sure how John ended up on his back with her straddling him, his shirt tossed to a corner of the room, but she isn’t complaining. His hand tangles in her curls, lifting them from her neck to allow what little breeze there is to reach her as her hands wander over his broad, sculpted shoulders and chest, their soft sighs and groans punctuated by the occasional gasp as they broke for air the only sound in the room.

She can’t help but grin at the way his breath hitches, her name escaping him in a groan as she moves down his neck, sucking the salt from his skin. Her lips glide over every inch of him she can reach, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of his throat before recapturing his lips with hers, slowly rocking against him as heat pools between her thighs.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he gasps into her mouth, his hands moving to rest at her hips before trailing up her sides, taking her thin nightgown with him, the gauzy fabric sliding over her head to be tossed aside as she pulls back to meet his gaze. His eyes are a stunning silvery blue in the moonlight, pupils dilated, lips deliciously kiss-swollen, and she knows she must look just as dazed as he does.

“You’re beautiful, Johnny,” is all she can think to say as she grinds against him once more in earnest, her fingers tracing along the waistband of his boxers.

He lets out a desperate groan, his head falling back against the pillows as his hips buck up into her, “Jules—”

She knows what he wants, and she can’t wait any longer either, his hips lifting as she sheds both of their underwear. She lets out a moan as she drags her slick folds along his bare cock, one hand planted on his chest to steady herself. 

Their breaths mingle as he positions himself at her entrance and she slowly, slowly, sinks down onto him, biting back a stuttering moan as she stretches around him.

“Oh sweetheart,” John groans, pretty blue eyes fluttering shut, “Fuck— you feel so good, honey, so tight—”

She lets out a soft whine at the praise, slowly rocking in his lap as she adjusts to his size, gradually moving up and down his length.

She leans down to capture his lips once more, his mouth moving hungrily against hers as he grips her hips. There’s no words as they slowly move together, just soft sighs and gasps, her fingers closing around the dog tags dangling in the middle of his chest, his hand moving up her back to tangle in her hair. 

The tension in her core builds like an ember into flame, and the gasping moan she lets out in warning— “John…”— is acknowledged with a squeeze of her hip and a gasp of “Me too, honey” as she reaches her peak with a soft cry, burying her face in his neck as her husband follows suit shortly after, spilling into her with a muffled groan.

Juliet scatters kisses up his neck as they each catch their breath, slowly lifting herself off of him to lay beside him, the sheets suddenly cool against her skin.

John pulls her into his arms, playfully blowing a gentle stream of cool air onto her neck, eliciting a squeal from his wife. 

“Feel better, sweetheart?”

She can hear the satisfaction in his voice— not of the smug variety, more in a way that tells her he’s glad he could make her feel good.

“Much better, my love,” is her soft reply, punctuated by a tender kiss. She settles her head on his chest, her fingers reaching up to rake through his sweat-damp hair as they both drift back to a contented sleep, and a smile stretches across Juliet’s face as a gardenia-scented breeze drifts in through the window.

[shoshiwrites]

I shall join you in the trash can my dear. For Jo & Bucky from the NSFW prompts (because I am unhinged about this):

[ UNZIP ] sender unzips/unbuttons receiver’s dress/shirt - s l o w l y 🫠

Emaaaaa! Thank you so much for this prompt, and for entertaining my Jo/Bucky ramblings at any time of day. It means so much that you're in the trash can with me on board. This was......... supposed to be a smut prompt and we ended up with............3200 words of Scenes I Really Needed To Write For Them Actually, comma mildly spicy 🙈 Bucky Egan x War correspondent OC. Also on Ao3!

leading with my heart again

She’s read the same page three times.

The coffee’s drained, and the cup of tea, and maybe she ought to stop now, now that her hand is shaking a bit holding the pencil, from the caffeine or everything she hardly knows. 

A hotel bar with a hole in it. When she blinks she can still see the smoke. A few stragglers at the end of the night. Even though the nights don’t end here, they haven’t for years. Local drinkers. Society usuals. A handful of correspondents. Al Stern, a friend of Marian’s. She’d broken out a fresh bottle of gin in his honor. Blanche Aurand, narrowly escaped from Marseilles, her photographer friend. Salim? Jo’s met them all. 

You’re scared, she wants to say. Like it’s not her own self sitting here, the ticking of the clock and the tap of her foot, her toes in her shoes. She reaches up to fidget with the tiny gold hoop in her ear.

The bar is gone now, and so are they.

She hasn’t heard much by way of Thorpe Abbotts lately. She’s trying not to let that bother her. 

If Kay were here, she'd tell her to sit up straight and quit looking like a gargoyle. If-

“Thought I’d find you here.”

His voice is a momentary shock, and still familiar, like a sun-drenched room. He leans against the bar, nods at the man polishing glasses to let him know about an order — the bartender who looks too similar to the last. If she closes her eyes, she sees a white jacket covered in brick-dust, or blood. 

She smells the major’s aftershave, through the smoke of the bar and the bitter coffee. 

He dips his head, an explanation to what she imagines is her still-bewildered face. “Rang your office.”

She really does try to sit up straight, now. Suddenly ashamed, or something like it, of herself next to his freshly-cleaned uniform. Her slacks with a broken crease, a blouse with a wrinkle or two. Her hair’s a mess, or feels like it. “Oh.”

She blinks again, sees that he’s holding a metal tin in his hand — barley sweets, nestled in waxed paper — and a small bunch of torn green stems attached to white-petaled flowers. 

“No cherry,” he says. He looks fondly annoyed, almost. “I told them a few packs of smokes oughta change their tune, but I think they were really out.” 

He surveys the space in front of her, the rings of coffee and the scattered pages and the folded newspaper, the front splash of the dead. Her people, his people, their people. Everyone belonging to someone. She hears him clear his throat. Like he already knows the answer to the question, the one he doesn’t ask. Did you know them? Yes. 

The barkeep’s looking at the two of them expectantly. “What can I get for you?”

She replaces the cup on its saucer, places the little spoon next to it and slides the whole operation towards him. “I’m alright, thanks, Louie.”

The major orders a whiskey, doesn’t let her put it on her tab. He’s not too insulted about it though, he knows her. The question’s silent again, when he’s got his glass, the nod of his chin. Who’re we drinking to tonight?

But she knows now, she knows you don’t ask. His eyes are dark here, in the fading light. The mask-marks, the circles under his eyes. The stray curl always out of place.

“So,” he says, gathering himself, setting the glass back on the bar with a dull thud. “How much time do you need?”

“Time?”

“To get all…” he gestures with his hand. “Unless you’d rather we sit around here all night.”

She taps her fingers on the bar, watches her watch and chain catch the light. Looks up at Major Egan standing there, wondering just how much Kay will kill her if she walks back out of this hotel in a plain black dress. “Depends if you like a girl’s hair with only a few knots or none.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “I hope Kay won’t be too sore about me whisking you away.”

A remark about Captain Demarco takes shape on her tongue, but she swallows it. “Make it twenty, but I’ll be quick.” 

Upstairs, she does what she can with her curls, washes her face and tries to shape her brows, reapplies her lipstick. The deep cherry color is hardly forgiving, and she has to concentrate to be careful enough with the lines of her cupid’s bow. For a brief moment she thinks of it smudged, on her teeth, on his mouth.

The dress she’d brought over is indeed black, cocktail-length, collared, with a little piped pocket, a bit of detailing. Maybe it’s a little dated, she’ll acknowledge that, but she’s tried to keep it tailored to the current style, fitted, hemmed shorter. Kay would try to send her out in something bright, rose-colored or teal, never mind that it’s October in London. She admires Kay’s boldness. Loves it, in fact, but it’s not for her. 

The bracelet stays, the watch, her earrings, her mother’s medallion beneath the collar of the dress. Heels with thin ties wrapped ‘round her ankles, and her coat. 

Hastily, she’d put the flowers in an empty bottle of Fernet-Branca, figuring Kay wouldn’t mind. He’d had less of an explanation for them than the tin of sweets, something about passing them on his way, something like a boyish smile.  Just as quickly she plucks one, laces it into the back of her updo. It’s already been cut, anyway. She wonders where he’d got them, wonders if she’ll ask. She remembers the florist down the street from her apartment in Philadelphia, the spring flowers outside Pittsburgh. She can’t see it, but he will, standing above her. 

Back down in the lobby, the tips of her fingers brush his shoulder at the low armchair, the last of his drink still in front of him. 

“Now, aren’t you a sight.” It’s not the same voice as usual — quieter. Like he’s drinking her in, like the whiskey at the bottom of the glass. “Too pretty to be out with me, that’s for damn sure.”  

She smiles, and she doesn’t even have to try, sure that her cheeks are a little pink. “Kay won’t be sore about me leaving, but she might have my head about this dress.”

He looks truly confused. “Why?”

Her hand gestures without thinking at the simple sweep of the skirt; she’s suddenly very aware of her legs. “Too boring.”

He makes a face. “Hell with that.” A small sniff, as he reconsiders. “Sorry.”

For the first time, she laughs. “I won’t tell her you said that.”

“Tell her whatever you want, you still look too good to be true.”

Now she’s really blushing. “A sight for sore eyes, huh?” The pendant rests in the dip of her collarbone, beneath the neckline of her dress. She feels it, feels the clasp at the back of her neck and the chain. 

“You don’t know the half of it.” He stands, taking the glass, polishes the last sip of his drink.

She lets herself put a hand on his jacket. “Let me buy your next one?”

He reaches for her hand, for her wrist under the sleeve of her coat. “Now, I’ll have no more of that talk, Josephine.” 

The streets are dark outside, an excuse to stay close to him. A door materializes, a small place with small tables, glowing candles and bottles of liquor and wine. It’s all very respectable, the twirl they take around the floor, and then the next, his hands at her waist, hers up around his neck. A bead of sweat works its way down the back of her neck, between her shoulderblades. He dips his head to ask if she’d like to sit, his temple damp and tacky before her mouth, in the warm room. They do, after another dance, sit and watch the couples sway from a table on the side, listen to the jukebox. I need no soft lights to enchant me- 

She lets him buy her one drink, and then two, the dark rum color catching the candlelight at the bottom of the glass. She doesn’t feel under watch here like she does at the base. Though, there’d been plenty of moments there that maybe they shouldn’t have been allowed. They. She doesn’t know what that means, here in this war. You dance one night and find an empty space the next. Or someone else. His ankle nestles against hers under the table. She wants to kiss him.

What’s stopping her?

His eyes are so blue, and she knows she’s staring. “Got something for you. If- if you want it.” It snaps her out of it a moment, her brow furrowing as he reaches into his pocket. A small gold pin in his palm, the Air Corps insignia. The kind he wears on his collar. “Since I made off with that scarf of yours.”  

The white one, he means, with flowers and Swiss dots. She’d worn it up. He’d taken it as a joke afterwards, smiling, a crack about it being prettier than the one he’d got, but not as pretty as Major Cleven’s. Buck’s. A joke, or so she’d thought. Her mistake to think a pilot’s lucky charms weren’t the most deadly serious things of all. She knows, now. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to think he meant it. 

She could wear it, here in London. His pin. A person would know she had someone. Someone. She doesn’t know how to explain him, for all her words. Brave, like all of them. Brave and funny and flirting, the fiery death or the pretty girl. A heart she wants to curl up inside of. And he’s here in front of her, fidgeting, waiting for her to say something. Here, hands and shoulders and knees. It hurts to think of anything else. She would know who she had.

“See,” she says softly, meeting his eyes. She feels like a schoolgirl, watching him. “Knew what I was doing, wearing black and gold.” She reaches to touch his palm, about to take it and pin it on. He moves to do it himself, leaning forward. She shivers, the touch of his fingers at her throat, under the collar of her dress.

If you would only grant me the right-To hold you ever so tight-

Maybe it’s the light, or the drinks, or the music, or the fact that staying ten minutes past last call could have put her on the front page of that newspaper too. Every mission, the odds go down.

Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at her, like he’s hoping she’ll ask him for something he can give. 

He’s so close to her now. Maybe-

“Mmph-” He tastes like spice and alcohol, the sweat of his upper lip pressed to hers. He releases the pinch of fabric in his hands, the pin now fastened to her lapel. It hardly takes a second for his hands to find her jaw. His touch loosens the tension of her shoulders, sparks warm and firelit in her belly. She stays, lets the kiss grow sloppier until her tongue is pressing against his teeth.

They only stop because she needs a second to catch her breath, to watch him smile at her like she’s somehow surprised him.

“Why are you smiling?”

He doesn’t stop. “I’ll give you one guess, Josephine.”

She thinks better of a retort, lets her cheeks go red and leans forward again, a noisy kiss against his mouth. 

A voice in the back of her head sounds a warning, something distorted, through the sound of the music and the smoky haze. The singer’s own shines through, the brassy big band music that always makes her think of him. There I go, leading with my heart again- She ought to head back to the hotel now, before the night calls for another bar, another drink or three, a bed. And there I go, acting not-so-smart again-

She stands, smooths her skirt, adjusts the soles of her feet inside her shoes. “One more spin?” 

Something falls out of his eyes; he looks like he wants to argue with her, but he doesn’t. A few seconds before he answers. “Early morning?”

She nods, and it feels like the worst lie. Even though it isn’t, she’s got a briefing with the Ministry of Information tomorrow, and plans to meet another source for coffee. Probably more drinks, she thinks. It would hardly be the first time someone showed up for a meeting hungover.

But though it’s unwise, I can’t disguise my love-

Afterwards, they walk back out into the cold night, the smell of his aftershave still in her nose. He touches the flower at the back of her hair. “You got your last dance, can I get a last kiss?”

It surprises her, the forlorn note in her voice. “Where did I use the word last, Major?”

He sighs, or something like it. “Don’t have to, it’s written all over your face.”

Her fingertips find his lapels, the top of her head nuzzled under his chin. “I would hope I’m less readable than that.”

A laugh escapes him, though it’s hardly full of humor. “You’re really not.”

Like you, right? “A shitty pokerface, remember?” 

“‘Cept this time it’s not about the coffee.”

“What’s it about, then?”

He doesn’t answer, leans down and kisses her and steadies her with his hands, what she imagines is her own lipstick tacky against the sides of her mouth. He doesn’t stop, and neither does she. His hand burrows between her coat and her dress, hugging her waist. She presses against it.

They should be walking, or ducked under an eave, not out here like this after dark. This corner. 

Her back automatically straightens when they hear a bicyclist go past, a little huff from his lips and hers as she breaks away. 

“I can still bring you back-” he says belatedly, “if-”

He’s offering her this. Maybe she can admit it to herself now, wanting it too much to refuse.

She shakes her head. “It’s alright, John.”

There’s something in his eyes at that, no Major, just John. “I’m glad.” His voice is heavy when he answers her. Low. His fingertips press against her waist. “I’ve been thinking about this damn dress all night.”

“The dress?”

He smiles, the scratch of his mustache against her cheek. “Alright, the zipper.” He laughs softly, what he imagines her face must look like in the dark, under the cloud-filled sky. “Just bein’ honest.”

Her mouth hovers at the corner of his jaw. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“What else do you expect?” Her chest feels like it’s full of butterflies, when he asks.

“That…you won’t stop talking.” She kisses the spot under his ear. “Please.”

He snorts. Maybe she’s imagining it, the slightest breathiness to his voice. “Now tell me what you really think of me, Josephine.”

Can I? she thinks. “Well, what do you expect?”

He pauses, considering. “That you’ll keep kissing me. Makin’ me blush.”

“I make you blush?”

“Like a tomato, Josephine. ‘Least it feels like it. One flash of those knees and-” She smacks him lightly across the lapel. “Hey.”

“I guess I told you not to stop talking.”

“Yes, you did. Now where was I-”

“My knees.”

“Right.”

A few more couples make their way outside, swirls of perfume and rum and sweat, almost bumping into them. She knows what she’s asking, now. “Maybe we should, uh-”

“Maybe you’re right.”

His hotel is closer, they’d walked by it on the way. She tries not to duck her head in the lobby. He kisses her on the landing of the stairs and again outside the door, forehead lingering against hers.

It’s a large room, larger than she expected, certainly not the little thing she and Kay share at the Highgate, the wallpaper peeling by the radiator. There’s not much of him here besides a bed that’s half-made, a garment bag by the front leg of the desk.

“It’s a nice room,” she says, trying to banish the wobble in her stomach. 

He makes a noise that sounds almost like a laugh. “They know how to charge officers around here.”

“Still.” She reaches back to fidget with the clasp of her necklace. “I uh-”

“Something wrong?”

No. “It’s been-” She’s suddenly embarrassed, left ignorant as to how this is supposed to go. Not ignorant, just-

“Can I get you a drink? We could get something sent up.”

“No, thank you.” It’s probably too late, anyway. He takes off his jacket, drapes it over the back of the small chair at the desk. She takes a deep breath. “I suppose you should kiss me again.”

He smiles, deep and wolfish. “You suppose, huh?”

“Yes.” He does, lets her thread her fingers in his hair. “Suppose I should let you sit, too,” she says. 

“However you want, sweetheart.”

She wants to slap herself for what comes out next. “Really?” 

He looks at her like she’s a little bit crazy. His eyes are gleaming in the low light, dulled against the closed curtains. “You say jump, I say how high.”

She shakes her head before she can stop herself. Her voice is small, and wanting, and she feels suddenly like she’ll fall apart if he doesn’t keep holding her. “Please, just kiss me.” 

Don’t make me think. Let me forget everything except you. 

“Just say the word,” he says, but he’s already got his mouth on hers. 

She’d stopped caring about her lipstick hours ago, and to hell with everything else now. She’s in his lap, here in a locked room, his hand high up her thigh and her own pressed on top of it.

Soon, her dress is around her hips, and he’s got his hands on the top of the zipper, stopping when it catches. He presses a sloppy kiss to her neck, the dip of her collarbone, exposed. She helps him open the rest of the dress, awkwardly, twisting an elbow. He stops, and looks at her with a hazy stare; two kisses, one above each breast, and one to St. Christopher between them. She undoes his tie, not quite an easy task when he’s lavishing kisses on her shoulders. Keeping his promise. She ought to, too. She presses her mouth to the freckles dotting his chest, and one for his crucifix, another for the medallion. Maybe, she thinks, they should use the rest of the bed.

“I’m glad I stopped by,” he says, quiet and rasping and a little bit breathless, his cheeks a shade of coral in the light. 

“You found me,” she says, and it sounds like thank you.

He seems to consider this, his hands stilled under her dress. She can feel him, underneath her. It sends a rush of sparks through her chest, her stomach, her hips. “I did.”

“You did.”

I trust you, she wants to say. But she doesn’t, doesn’t know what to say next. Only brings a hand to his cheek, and his curls, only kisses him again.

[lostloveletters]

Sunday Eve (John Brady x OC)

Summary: On a freezing night blanketed with snow, John and Woody know how to keep each other warm.

Note: It’s been in the 80s here, so naturally I wrote a soft, smutty, post-war winter fic for them. I’m sorry if the formatting is weird, I’m posting this on mobile. Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: Period typical attitudes. Sexually explicit content involving vaginal sex (light breeding kink elements, but I wanted to mention it just in case). Do not interact if you’re under 18.

John privately wondered if his Californian sweetheart regretted moving to Upstate New York for him when he found her sitting next to the radio in their small living room, bundled up in not one, but two of his sweaters, with a quilt from his grandmother on her lap. Woody’s eyebrows furrowed as the newscaster announced more snow overnight. He figured she would be used to it by then. England was no stranger to snow.

But the way she reacted to their first snow day together brought the magic back into it. She threw her arms around him and pulled him back into bed when he told her the schools were closed, which meant he had the day off of work. They spent half the day in bed, the other half dancing around the apartment and drinking whiskey they’d gotten as an engagement present, all hopeful attempts to mitigate the heating bill while money was still a little tight.

After two days of scattered snowfall, she appeared baffled that it wasn't coming to an end for the foreseeable future. She knew to expect it. Saw firsthand the rush of people bringing their cars into the shop for snow tires and chains. She got the hang of it quickly. ‘You’d hardly know she was from Los Angeles,’ her boss, an old friend of his father’s, had told John after mass one particularly chilly October morning. ‘San Francisco,’ John reminded him, to which he received a shrug in response.

“Ready to head to bed?” John asked. “We’re meeting my mom for lunch after mass tomorrow morning.”

His family adored Woody, especially when she shared her intent to convert to Catholicism. He didn’t know how to feel when she confided later on she was doing it for him, rather than out of spiritual conviction, which he suspected, anyway. He never wanted her to feel as though he were forcing her to do anything. ‘It’ll make things easier for us,’ she assured him.

The part that bothered him just as much was that it did. His family suddenly weren’t making as much of a fuss about them living together. Probably assumed they wouldn’t push their beds together or keep condoms in the nightstand. The monsignor promised them a wedding mass in the spring, the most coveted time of year to celebrate the sacrament of holy matrimony—provided she completed catechism by then. She was on track to, so long as she kept showing up to mass.

“Will the roads even be cleared?” she asked.

He smiled. “We’re used to it here, sweetheart. You’d be surprised.”

She turned off the radio, getting up from the armchair and throwing the quilt over the back of it. He reached for her hand, taking it in his and pressing a kiss to her calloused palm.

Their bedroom was chilly when they slipped beneath the covers together after rushing through their respective nighttime routines, brushing teeth and changing into pajamas. In Woody’s case, taking off one of his two sweaters she’d requisitioned for herself, not having much of a winter wardrobe of her own.

Compared to the Stalags and freezing night marches, though, their drafty old apartment felt like heaven with the radiator buzzing and Woody in his arms. John dreamed about such a moment so many times, he needed to remind himself it was real. Pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, her hair soft and smooth against his lips. She trembled against him, breathing out a soft sigh.

“Sweetheart?”

“Keep me warm,” she whispered, nuzzling her nose against his cheek. “Please, Johnny?”

“We have to get up to go to mass tomorrow,” he gently reminded her.

Woody wanted him morning and night, and in between too, if he could manage it. Far from a complaint, but he was certain he was the only man in the world with such a dilemma as making sure to wake up early enough to sate his love’s desire before getting along with the day. When the topic came up among his coworkers or old college buddies, they grumbled with foreign tales of fiances and wives who feigned headaches or went to sleep early.

As soon as she shifted, better positioning herself to give him a kiss, he gave in. With little more than a glance his way or brush of their lips, she could silently transform her desires into his own, making him ache for it, too.

“Turn on a lamp,” she said, her voice low and husky. “I wanna see you, honey.”

And who was he to deny her? Nighttime could be formidable, but far less so with Woody around, ready to take on whatever haunted him with the determination that earned her the admiration of so many at Thorpe Abbotts. Didn’t care if it meant forgoing sleep or engaging in odd rituals when he needed a hand to reach out and bring him back from the depths. She dove in without hesitation.

So, within seconds of her request, the amber glow of his bedside lamp washed over them. She smiled, fondness and adoration in the gold-tinged forest of her eyes as she caressed his cheek, drawing him in for another heated kiss as he moved on top of her, straddling her hips, plusher and wider since they arrived stateside and received regular helpings of family cooking. Made it hard for him to keep his hands off of her even outside of their bedroom.

He reached down, slipping his hand down the waistband of her pajama pants and between her thighs—warm and wet, he easily slid two fingers inside her. He knew it wasn’t a sin. Not anymore. Not with her. It couldn’t be.

She moaned against his mouth when he rubbed her clit with his thumb. Rocked her hips for more friction.

“I want you inside me,” she said breathlessly, grabbing for his cock, tugging his pants down and croaking out a desperate, “please.”

He buried his length inside her, swallowing the groan that caught in his throat when he felt her pussy squeeze around his cock. Found a steady pace as she pulled him closer, pressing his body against hers, like she was trying to make him part of her.

She cried out for more as her eyelids fluttered shut. “John—oh my god—harder.”

“Look at me,” he demanded, echoing her earlier sentiments, “I wanna see you, sweetheart.”

She opened her eyes, bright and wild in a way that sent a delicious shiver down his spine. His fingers played with her clit, could feel how close she was. He thrust harder, rougher as her moans filled his ears, her voice hoarse as she came loudly, her pussy pulsing around his cock.

His hips shuddered. His brain felt fuzzy, almost lost himself before asking, “Where should I—“

“On my stomach.” She hastily bunched up her sweater just below her breasts, exposing it to him.

His blunt nails scratched gently against her bare stomach, soft and inviting. Tried not to think about it round and full with child, his child, one day when she wasn't so afraid. He recognized the uncertainty that flashed in her eyes whenever someone brought it up. ‘Not until you’re ready,’ he had promised with all the understanding he could manage despite the animal part of him trying to claw its way through. She’d look so pretty, so perfect. She’d be his wife soon, after all.

But it’d be worth the wait. She waited two years for him and didn’t waver. He’d do the same for her the world over. They belonged to each other.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling out just before he came, his seed spilling onto her stomach as his orgasm rocked through him. Buried his face in the crook of her neck, her skin warm with a sheen of sweat. Made his mind hazy with the feel, the smell of her intertwining with pleasure until he was spent.

With a shaky breath and equally shaky hand, he reached over to his nightstand, grabbing a handkerchief to wipe his cum off of her stomach. Didn’t need to look at her face to know she was eyeing him like a bird of prey. He threw the soiled fabric aside and pulled down her sweater to cover her again.

She grabbed him by the collar before he could move back to his side of the bed, pressing soft kisses to his neck, the prelude to gentle bites on his collarbones and then lower, and even lower. He took a deep breath, mustering up all of the resolve he could to pull away from her.

“We have to get up early tomorrow,” he said, as sternly as he could manage.

A small pout made its way onto her lips before she relented with a slight smile. “Alright, honey.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”

He turned off the bedside lamp. “I love you too.”

Heat radiated off of her as she curled up against him. He stroked her hair, tongue between his teeth as he tried to fight off the urge to indulge her—and himself. She always took a while to fall asleep, even when he was convinced he tired her out.

Slowly, his hand drifted lower until he found the thick, cuffed hem of her sweater and slid his hand up it, playing with her breasts, rolling one of her nipples between his fingers.

A pleased hum came from her throat before she gently taunted him. “You just said—“

“You’ll make me extra coffee in the morning to make up for it.”

Her laughter tore through the darkness as he pulled her on top of him with a wicked grin.

——

John woke up before Woody. He almost always did. She could sleep until nearly noon if he let her, which he did sometimes. Usually, though, around ten in the morning, after already being up for a few hours on his own, he’d find himself missing her and coax her awake.

He rolled out of bed, pulling on his old flannel robe before the frigid morning air could bite him too hard. He nearly winced at the loss of body heat, sparing a longing glance to Woody, still curled up under the covers.

Shuffled over to the bedroom window and pulled back the thick curtain, something he had to put up when they realized how much of a draft it let in otherwise. All he could see outside was white. The whole block was covered in a thick blanket of fresh snow—including the roads. He sighed in relief, something he’d surely have to confess the following week.

John hurried back to Woody’s side, eager to relay the good news to her. “Hey,” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “The roads haven’t been cleared yet.”

She smiled, grabbing him by his shirt and pulling him back into bed. “Thank god.”

[mercurygray]

Merc all of these prompts are so cute 😭😭 could I have “ice hitting glass” for Cord?

Well, here it is - the teasered bit from yesterday! I took the liberty of combining this prompt with another from @basilone - "Soft humming for Cord & Bucky?"

It's a follow up to this piece.

--

She was glad the officer's club was quiet tonight.

There was something comforting, about being able to hear the ice in your glass, to actually be able to identify the song playing on the radio. There had been too much noise in her life, recently, and the relative quiet was doing her good. If it was quiet, she could hear herself think again, sort through the emotions of the last few days.

She had kissed Bucky Egan, and she didn't have a single idea about where that left the two of them.

Cord supposed she could have said that it had come on suddenly, a momentary lapse of judgement for a handsome face and a willing smile, but it wasn't that, not really. She'd been putting up with his face and his smile for the better part of two months now and maybe that was the real problem - that the way he'd worked his way in had been gradual and sly. His tricks had been seen so often that they were known and expected, and in the face of losing them, and losing him, she'd realized what it would cost her if they were gone.

The handsome face helped, too - that had to be said. And the easy smile - the ease of all of him! A man who did not get caught up in anything about other people's assumptions, who would finally kiss a girl he'd been wanting to kiss for months.

It had been one hell of a kiss.

She kept coming back to it, in the silence of the day - the warmth of his hands on her face, her waist, the way his head had tipped down to hers and her hands had been pinned in between them. With her eyes closed it was easier, somehow, to let him kiss her, pull him closer, fall onto his bed. He was everyone and no one all at once, and it was easy to get lost in the nearness of him until she'd realized that she was nearly half-way out of her uniform and wishing, desperately, to be out of all of it.

He made her feel like she was flying again - like between the two of them they were piloting something, each moving in compliment with the other, known and unknown all at once.

But it was one thing to kiss him like that in his barracks - in his bed - and another to own up to it where other people could see. He'd been ready for that. Was she?

(Who was she joking? He was always ready to kiss someone. What made her any different from a dozen other girls?)

"Lieutenant Callaway, I'm going to need you to dance with me." Cord looked up from her glass, her heart leaping far too high for the voice now saying her name. "You're far too pretty to leave sitting at this bar." Egan was smiling like this dance was a foregone conclusion. He was alone - no crowd of friends with him. That was something, at least. She wasn't sure she wanted an audience for this. And he hadn't used her first name, either. That was something, too.

She tried to think of cool things - ice cubes and snowbanks and polished chrome - and smoothed out her skirt, trying to remember the woman she'd been two days ago, before the mission and the landing and the yelling and the kiss. "I don't have much of a choice here, do I?"

"No," Bucky declared with his most earnest smile. "You do not." He held out a hand and she took it, hesitating for a moment. The club wasn't as empty as she thought, and Bucky was loud. But he was always loud - and she was always saying no.

Could they tell, just by looking, that something had changed? They had danced together before, more than once, but that was before, and this was after. It almost pained her, to let him take her hand in his own, their bodies close together, to have his hand warm and heavy on her shoulder when she wanted it around her waist. She didn't trust herself right now, but what could she do but follow?

She couldn't hear the music - she was too fixed on the sound of his breathing, the off-key way he was humming along, keeping time with the music. It was too good, standing here in his arms. After a while he stopped his humming and spoke. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You just …feel far away, is all."

"I feel far away?" I'm right here and we're dancing.

He made a face. "Physical feedback is very important to flying a plane, Cordelia. A fellow's trained to notice these things. You're tense."

She did not know, in the moment, what she thought of him using her whole name. Well, he's not wrong. "I'm thinking about how everyone's staring at us."

He scoffed, pulled her a little closer. "Let 'em stare. We look good. They're all just jealous I'm dancing with the prettiest girl here."

Am I, Bucky? Because I've heard you say that to a lot of girls. "I just…don't know how I feel about…"

"About dancing with a man you hated two days ago?" He sure knew how to get to the heart of things, but he didn't seem as bothered by it as she. "There's a war on. We're all allowed to be a little stupid. And you're allowed to change your mind about people. About me." He took a breath and considered. "Unless you haven't changed your mind, and yesterday was a …misunderstanding."

The way her heart soared and fell on the way he said misunderstanding was hard to quantify. "No, it…it wasn't…that." Should she tell him? Would he understand? "You - Laura told you, about Jimmy. And I told you he wasn't my boyfriend, but I - " She hadn't said this part aloud, to anyone, and once it was out, in the air, it could not be taken back. "I wanted him to be. He'd always say he was dancing with the prettiest girl, too. But… never did anything after that. And I…I let myself…get caught up in it." I let myself think that he meant things that he didn't, and it hurt just that much more when he was dead, knowing that I cared so much more than he did.

He thought about this for a moment. "You're afraid I'm not serious."

"You're not exactly known for it, Bucky." Well, there it is. I don't like being a joke. And I was, to his friends - helping his mother with his things when I wasn't anything to him.

"Were you this cautious when you were flying?" There was an edge to his voice that she'd never heard before, an accusatory tone.

"No, I wasn't." And maybe I'm ashamed of that, a little. "But things changed." I'm not that girl now. I can't care that way again if I'm not going to get anything back and I'm still going to lose you in the end.

He took a breath and nodded to himself, working through all of this. "I got here in May, and one of the first people I met was this crackerjack brunette who was supposed to be in charge of our control tower. She was smart, and sharp, and I would have started something sooner but she didn't want to have a thing to do with me. And I didn't much like that, but it made me - made me see a lot of things about her that I might have missed, if she'd said yes right away." His eyes locked with hers. "When you say serious is that what you mean?"

The music had ended and they had stopped dancing, the announcer warbling something that she couldn't really hear. Tell me you're not going to drop me tomorrow, Bucky. Tell me you're not going to leave.

His eyes were dark and full of promises. "We're pilots, Cord. We've only got today to give. But I'll get you tomorrow, if I've got it. How much more serious can I get?"

She kissed him for that - for calling her a pilot. His arms instinctively wrapped tighter around her body, pulling her closer, and she felt herself melt into him, lose where he stopped and she began.

After what seemed like forever they broke apart, Bucky's broad grin unmistakable. "You want to finish this up somewhere more private, Lieutenant, or should we keep scandalizing the neighbors?" She had to hit him for that, but she could not stop smiling, even if she'd wanted to. "I'll punch the next guy who jokes," he whispered, glancing around the room, and she felt her heart thrill for it.

"Bucky."

But even when she was warning him, he was still grinning. "That's my girl."

See, he meant that, her heart assured her. His girl. And for the moment, there was quiet in that, too.

[latibvles]

THE TASTE THAT YOUR LIPS ALLOW.

this week on longform ficwriting that nobody asked for — june & benny first kiss that has been rotating in my head like a rotisserie chicken for the past few months. a special thanks to @flipfloplogic & @upontherisers for lending me two lovely girls who get some name drops in this (Missy Campbell and Henrietta Hobbs, namely)! No warnings for this one besides yanno, June being dramatic as per usual.

[ Read it here on AO3! ]

The lipstick’s out in the hut tonight.

Fern’s singing, so it’s a given. They flew a practice mission today while the other three squads flew over the channel — she went right to the Red Cross girls to ask about hair rollers after the fact. Her hair’s long enough for that now, and she was brimming with excitement about the prospect of “dolling herself up.”

As usual, the beds are alight with conversation.

“And you all better be on your feet,” Fern declares from her spot by the mirror, near the door. “Or I’ll never forgive you for it.” She’s dappling rouge onto her cheeks, soft and subtle enough to get past uniform regulation.

“Yes ma’am,” Missy Campbell, one of Rivera’s girls, affirms from her spot on Jo’s bed, where she’d been showing Jo a letter she’d gotten from her husband down in… Australia? Something like that.

“Oh I know you got me, Soup,” Fern hums, June can practically hear the wink that accompanies the affirmation. “I’m talking to that little rain cloud in the corner over there.”

June lifts her hand, and gives Fern the bird from her spot laid out on her bed, staring up at the curved ceiling. Fern giggles still, and June feels her cheeks burning.

“Come on, Juney,” she pleads in that sing-song tone that she so often uses to get whatever she wants, whenever she wants. June’s resolved to not give in this time. Instead she scoffs, rolling her eyes from her spot and letting her hand fall unceremoniously onto her stomach.

“Hm. No. I could say it in Polish if you want.”

“Nie, right?”

“Well somebody better call the General, Sergeant Carmine’s trilingual!” June announces sarcastically, raising her hand in a faux-triumphant fist before letting it fall once more. That garners a laugh, although it might just be because of the ridiculousness of their current bickering.

“So mean,” Fern counters, more than likely faux-pouting in the mirror, which garners in a few scattered, quiet laughs.

“S’fine,” Lena hums. June can see her crossing the room to sidle up behind Fern, patting her shoulders. “Just send DeMarco after her. She’ll sing a different tune then.”

June’s head snaps up.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” She asks — or rather, demands — her voice raising in pitch. She can see Lena’s smile in the mirror’s reflection, watches her shrug her shoulders and June has to fight every urge to cross the threshold and shake the woman around until she fesses up her secrets. As if Lena can sense June’s current urges, her grin only grows infuriatingly wide.

“You just seem to be spending a lot of time together is all,” Lena hums, but June scowls.

“We do not.”

“Very convincing,” Lena counters, “It’s like he’s got Meatball on a leash and you’ve got him on a leash. Making sure he doesn’t wander off or something. Like he’s gonna get lost and wind up in France.” June hates that it’s a good joke. There’s another round of laughter from the other girls, she even sees Willie in her corner of the hut running a hand over her mouth, trying to maintain a level of composure. June has half a mind to shove her head beneath her pillow and call it an early night. She doesn’t though. She rolls her eyes, standing up and crossing over to swat at Lena’s head. Lena ducks out of it and grins, sticking her tongue out.

“Missed me.”

“I was doing you a favor. Trying to knock your goddamn screws back into place.” June declares, cheeks burning as she glowers at Lena, who’s unsurprisingly all smiles.

“If you two mess me up, I’ll tell Benny you’ve both got the hots for him and started a cat-fight in the barracks over it,” Fern declares as she sweeps a brush over her upper lashes, drawing attention to the vibrant green of her eyes as she paints her eyelashes black. Lena takes a couple steps back, hands in the air in mock surrender. She's still snickering and June thinks her head might just light on fire.

"He's all yours, Junebug," she offers, and June scoffs, throwing her hands up in the air before making her way out of the hut into the waning twilight. Sometimes the clouds break and make for a half-decent sunset out here — orange and purple broken up by chunks of white clouds and wispy chem-trails.

A few feet off, she hears a dog barking, and elects to ignore the beat of butterfly wings once again making themselves present in the pit of her stomach.

—

It isn't that she has a problem with liking Benny DeMarco.

Okay, that's not exactly the truth, either. She does have a problem with it. Mostly that she doesn't want to like him — didn't want to before, but for some reason he wasn't deterred by her habit of snapping at whatever and whoever inconvenienced her in a day. It made him a good friend, and presumably, a great pilot to his boys. That patience of his that has him dragging her to the nurse's station after dark to tend to her torn knuckles. That keeps him from being mad at her when she does something admittedly dumb.

She knows that she is, innately, hard to swallow. And while June isn't especially ashamed of that fact, she also knows that there are easier girls to be around — even in the influx of female crews coming to replace the ones lost. Nice, pretty girls, who he doesn't have to scruff like a stray kitten trying to take out someone's eyes.

So maybe it's not a problem with liking Benny DeMarco, and more like a problem with the nearly-impossible chance that he could like her, too. There's a war on, which is much more pressing than whatever inconveniences she could thrust upon him. And either way: he never would, a fact that has her stomach twisting in a knot in a weird mix of rejection and relief.

"Juuuuuuuney," Harrie's waving in her face, pulling her from her thoughts. She's sat between Jo on her left and Henry on her right. Across from her, Harrie's looking at her puzzled, with Carrie right next to her and an open seat right next to the younger girl. "You hear a thing I jus' said?"

June clears her throat, looks down at her beer.

"Repeat?"

Harrie smiles, seemingly unbothered by June's poor listening skills.

"Cap's birthday's next month, s'what I was sayin'. Wanna know what t'get 'er."

"We still do birthdays?"

"I'm still doin' birthdays," Harrie declares, tilting her nose up proudly into the stuffy air of the O-Club. "We did your birthday. N' we did Fern's in Iowa," she points out. Harrie casts a look across at Fern, who's talking to the conductor over by the band with her megawatt smile, made impossibly brighter by her red-painted lips. She claps and bounces on her feet, which is how June knows she's got her way again.

"So what're you gonna get her?" June asks, resting her fist on her cheek.

"I was thinkin' maybe a nice scarf or somethin'. Could ask my mama to knit it. Gets cold up here 'round fall," she explains, and June's listening, but she's also taking in the space around them. Lorraine and Lena are over by the bar, shoulder-to-shoulder. Willie's by the Bucks. Inez is listening to some conversation Croz and Payne are having that she can't hear from over here.

No Benny yet. She elects to ignore the urge to get up and go sniff him out, not wanting to give anyone at the table ammunition.

"Dunno what I'll get her. I'll sign the card, though," June leans back in her seat. Over on the other end of the room, Fern giggles into the mic and greets everyone with her signature: You all miss me?

Scattered clapping, a couple loud whistles and a Hey Fernie! from Dougie, somewhere else in the room. June feels a hand on her shoulder, and nearly jumps three feet in the air. She whips her head around, tilts it up.

Benny smiles down at her apologetically. There's a stray curl brushing his forehead, falling out of place.

"Didn't mean to scare you," he offers as the other girls start getting up, understanding the assignment given to them back in the huts.

"You didn't scare me," June huffs. "Just… surprised me." She feels warm again. Can see Lena's traitorous grin and Fern's half-baked threat about telling Benny she's got "the hots" for him.

"Alright. Didn't mean to surprise you then," Benny corrects. She thinks he'll make a move to sit, but he doesn't as the music kicks up again and Fern starts singing; loud and proud and melodic in a way that Bucky knows he's not. She recognizes the song, too — Harry James, Helen Forrest, she'd heard it a couple times stateside. His hand is still on her shoulder, a paperweight pressing her into her spot.

She thinks, briefly, that if he retracts it she might melt into the floor. It's a thought that bruises her ego, if nothing else.

Benny looks like he's debating something before he says it, hand moving to run through his hair instead of ensuring she doesn't run from him. The strand just flops back onto his forehead defiantly.

"Dance with me."

June pulls a face.

"Get turned down by a Red Cross Girl or something?" she asks, brows furrowing. Benny puts his hand over his chest, still smiling even as he feigns hurt.

"Low blows, Juney. You mad at me?"

"No," she counters, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "Just think you got options, is all." Easier ones, at that. Benny shrugs, lips pulling into a contemplative pout, nodding slowly.

"Maybe," he counters. "But I'm askin' you," he then casts a look towards Fern, over by the band. "And maybe saving your skin." June snorts at that, rolling her eyes.

"My hero," she chuckles a bit, looking down at the floor for a moment before meeting his warm, dark eyes once again.

"Yeah well, I'll be here all night." Benny grins, teasing, and offers his hand to her. She stares at it for a long second — a couple torn callouses on his palms. She's been yanked along by him enough times to know they're warm, rough. She tries not to shudder at the idea of those hands pressed into the small of her back.

She sighs, and takes it.

"Thanks for sparing my feelings," Benny teases again, half-tugging her towards the floor where people are already dancing.

"Sparing your feelings would be declining." June lets him tug her towards him, her hand finding his shoulder to steady herself. "The real victim here is gonna be your toes."

"I can forgive it," he offers of her. His hand is warm on the small of her back. June glances down at their feet, self-conscious in a way that's foreign to her. His thumb traces a small circle where it presses against her uniform. "I've gotcha though. Think I'm a halfway decent lead."

"You think?"

"I've got three sisters and a ma who all like dancing and I think at least one of them would tell me if I was bad by this point."

She laughs at that, looking up at him instead of fixing her gaze on the floor. He's laughing with her, breathy and still managing to crease the corners of his eyes.

"Well I'm trusting you, then." She offers and elects to ignore the weight of a sentence like that.

Benny nods, moving with her around the floor, and she tries to keep looking at him to ignore the feeling that she's being watched in some regard. Like there's something to laugh at right now. She preferred being the center of attention when it came to her crew's flying, not so much her own shortcomings. Benny spins her and is grinning like a madman when she settles back in his arms, wondering if he grew a second head.

"Your brothers never teach you?"

"And give boys another excuse to talk to me? Hell no. Think my dad would throw a fit," she admits after she gets her bearings once more. Benny chuckles at that, nodding slowly.

"And what would they think of it if they were here now?"

Why are you asking me that?

"Piotr would be whisking me away and Antoni would be taking you out back to have a word." It's an immediate response, one that has Benny whistling low and has his brows raising, slightly nudging that hair that she can't stop staring at.

"I'll keep that in mind when I visit."

"When you visit?" June fixes him with an odd look, but he just smiles. She thinks, briefly, about how Meatball stares up at the two of them sometimes — mouth open in a pant, tail wagging without a worry in the world.

"Well if I'm allowed that is. You banning me from the residence, Juney?"

"You don't even have my address."

"Well can I have it?" June blanches at him. She can't really tell if he's kidding or not when he asks that. He spins her again, a little slower, like he's giving her time to think about it without him staring at her. June sighs, reaches up to tuck that stray, defiant hair back into place, and rolls her eyes.

"You're ridiculous." She can feel her cheeks burning, and Benny chuckles.

"That wasn't a no." He points out, and he's right. No, it wasn't. But if she thinks too long about the idea of him showing up on her apartment building's front stoop in his dress uniform, she'll wrench herself out of his hold right now and run for the hills before she does something stupid.

"My mother likes violets," she says instead, tilting her nose up. He nods again.

"Hope that keeps me from getting thrown out on my ass, then."

"No promises," June declares.

And there it is again, butterflies in the pit of her stomach. She wonders if he can feel the sweat forming on her palms, which leads into her wondering if he's disgusted by the warm dampness of it.

When the fuck has she ever cared so much about what a person thinks of her?

The song ends and another begins, this one much slower in nature. For a moment, June's breath hitches, and she swallows hard, feeling shy for once.

"I can go sit if you— if you wanna sit this one out," she points out, feeling obligated to give him that chance to maybe get another girl on the floor. Benny's smile turns almost shy. His hand presses a little firmer into her back, the other giving hers a squeeze.

"Do you want to?" She hates when he asks that, bouncing the ball back into her court and leaving her to make the decision. Because her brain's telling her yes, I want to, this is getting ridiculous, but that stupid desire to be near him is screaming no, no, no.

So maybe Lena's had it wrong the whole time — Benny's the one who's been holding the leash, and she's the dog that might just wander into occupied France if he doesn't tug it with stupid, unassuming questions like this.

"I… don't know," June answers, feeling dumb. He smiles, arm looping around to rest on her hip, pressing her closer to him and leading them in a sway. He leans forward and she feels like she might light on fire with his lips so close to her ear.

"I'll let you figure it out then. Feel free to run whenever you want."

Whenever I want, June parrots internally, ruefully. Sure, Benny, you're really making a great case for me running for the goddamn hills.

He's so warm like this, solid beneath her hand on his shoulder. June wonders if he can feel the powerful hammering of her pulse in her wrist, if he heard it when he lent down to mutter in her ear near that spot by her neck. Fern's still singing, low, smooth and sweet, a proper showgirl if there ever was one. It makes her want to hide, press her face into the crook of Benny's tanned neck and pretend that they're not here.

A dance hall in Chicago would be nice. One of the ones her friends from high school would drag her to begrudgingly — she never liked going to them, because she was no good at this. And she didn't want to give anyone an excuse to laugh at her.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" he asks after a beat of quiet between them.

"First he wants to know my address and now he wants to read my mind. Anyone ever tell you that you're nosy?" June asks, just to feel that rumble of laughter against her.

"Mostly my sisters," he admits.

"Well they're right. And I was thinking of, uh, high school."

"Yeah? What about it?" June swallows, wondering how much she could share before she ends up as the butt of a joke.

"I used to hate dances. But I don't anymore. That's all."

He hums in that pensive, thoughtful way he always does when she says something that's more loaded than she means for it to be. Putting a little bit of space between them, he looks her over, and June tries not to squirm beneath his gaze. His lips part on a sentence she doesn't get to hear before the shrill sound of someone whistling pierces the room.

"C'mon everybody! Race in the Mess Hall!" she doesn't know who said it, but Benny tilts his head before letting go — not entirely, because he takes her hand in a familiar way and tugs along as people start flooding out of the O-Club. June makes a noise of protest, halfway between a whine and a shout of his name as they follow the flood of people.

"Didn't you eat dust last time?" June points out as the guys who have bikes start tugging them along towards the mess, from where they were lined up outside the club. Benny gives her a wide set grin, tugging her with one hand and his bike by the handles with the other.

"I did not, we had that bomb raid before we could call it. Have a little faith in me Juney," he counters, insistent as they stop in front of the mess. He pauses, swathed in the warm glow of the light from inside. It makes his hair look so much darker, his skin even more warm than before. His smile is blinding, the only thing between them being the bike handles. "Do I get a kiss for good luck?"

"What?"

"Benny! You in or what?" Benny looks into the room, then back at her. He hesitates, then walks into the room, still giving her that smile before he goes.

June feels like she's just been knocked in the chest, had all the oxygen siphoned from her lungs. Dizzy, she leans up against the entryway, watching all the guys shouldering and nudging at each other from their bikes, and her knees feel shaky. Her hands curl into fists.

He wasn't serious, she scolds herself, trying to shake it off. No way he was being serious.

And yet her feet can't move those couple steps to walk fully into the room — forcing people and, on occasion, their dates, to squeeze past her. She can't see him past so many people with dark hair and uniforms, and she doesn't even know if she wants to. What if he looks at her and she really does fizzle into dust, right there in the middle of their makeshift bike track?

She can't. She can't do any of it. She's stumbling back, until her feet hit the grass, and then she's standing there with cool summer wind piercing her clothes. It doesn't do much in way of cooling down her pinkened cheeks, but oxygen fills her lungs good and proper again as she turns her back to the door, hugging herself.

Her heart is still pounding, like it had when they danced, and when he'd touched her shoulder, and—

June could come up with an alphabetized list of all the times Benny DeMarco's made her heart race. She wishes it was something she could indulge happily, but really, it just makes her feel mad and dumb like a little kid with a school crush. Like he knows it and does it all on purpose to rile her.

She shuts her eyes, lets the wind brush against her face like it had a month ago when she'd laid in the grass and he'd watched over her to make sure "no other jokers let their dogs off the leash." The thought makes her squeeze herself tighter, like she could force the memory from her brain.

But she can't. He's embedded himself there.

June feels like she's been waiting there forever, but it's only maybe twenty minutes before the night swells again with laughter, people cheering and bemoaning losses, and of course—

"June! Hey, thought you went to—"

She's walking off before he can finish the sentence, towards the gravel road and down it, hoping that maybe Bucky's decided to go for a drunken nighttime drive and will run her over with a jeep. No such luck, the roads are empty and he can hear Benny behind her still.

"June? Slow down, would you?" Benny asks, and she feels the tips of his fingers brush her shoulder before she's turning around and trying to glare.

More hair brushing his forehead, expression so clearly puzzled.

"Your joke's not funny," June declares with a huff. His brows furrow.

"My… joke? What are you talking about?" June points an accusatory finger at him, face burning as she pokes his chest and crowds him.

"Your- your joke! That whole… kiss for good luck, visiting me stateside thing? It's not funny. It's mean!" She's thankful that they've moved far enough away that no one can pay much mind to her words, or her actions. "Did Lena put you up to it? Or was it- was it one of the Red Cross girls? Since it's so damn obvious, right? I'm just—"

"June, what are you talking about?!" Benny hasn't moved her finger from where it pokes at his chest, over his pilot's wings. The metal is cold against her finger tip, a sharp contrast from the warmth of him. She swallows hard.

"That I— That I like being around you! That I like you! It's all just a joke to you, right? That's why you asked that before that stupid bike race!"

"It wasn't a joke!"

Silence between them, heavy and only broken up by the distant murmurings of others. She stares at him, wide-eyed and flushed, finger still pressing into his wings. She feels like she's just run a marathon around the whole of England — heart pounding in her chest, ribs aching, face burning. She wants to bury her head in the dirt.

"What?"

She doesn't have any time to process it before it's Benny's hands on either side of her face. It's Benny, pulling her forward. It's Benny pressing his lips to hers, firm and insistent and warm. He's so warm. His lips taste like whiskey, and they're soft, and her knees are going weak — hardly registering what's happening here beyond that urge to kiss him back, which she does. Eyes fluttering shut, trying to match the pace he's set — insistent and hungry, like he's trying to convince her of something right now.

It's working, she thinks, feeling dumb as she reaches up to card her fingers through messy dark waves, ruining them further.

They part once her lungs start aching, but he hasn't let go of her. His finger traces a line against her jaw, and she stares up at him dumbfounded.

"I wasn't joking," Benny repeats, and June's well of words has run dry in the wake of it. Like in kissing her he's just stolen coherent thought from her as well. "Jesus Christ, June, you really think I'd be that mean? To you?"

She can't tell if she's really hurt him with that or not. She assumes that she has, and she stares at him for a long moment.

"I-I'm sorry.It's just—" June's lips press into a line. "…I'm pessimistic," she starts out. "And… and I'm not patient, not like you. And I hate losing, bad. And I'm really bad at staying up late and I suck at dancing and being all romantic and all that stuff that girls are s'posed to be good at and—"

"June," Benny cuts her off again, thumb sweeping over her cheek. "Makin' it real hard for me to follow you here, honey."

Her stomach twists at the nickname. She wants to kiss him again.

"I'm giving you a warning," June breathes out. Benny chuckles, searing a kiss between her brows.

"Don't need one. I know what I'm getting into," he insists. "S'why I like you."

Benny's smiling like he's just said the best pickup line of all time. And it works, because June is tilting her head to kiss him again and taste the last bits of whiskey on his lips.

[wexhappyxfew]

sweet-talking silver bullets

I in fact have never been normal about anything ever so enjoy a hodgepodge of MOTA OCs I've developed just because. You might've met Annie Bradshaw (who was Annie Chattaway) in another prompt request a few weeks back, but I wanted to do some more with her....and then I gave her a new position, changed her last name, and added an intriguing plot for some ideas, so....enjoy the introduction to some of the crew of Silver Bullets, and Annie, who is trying to navigate a crew who is suffering from a heavy loss, plus some John-squared (Egan and Brady)!

"You must be the new LT, huh?" a voice said from her left; turning sharply to her right, she noticed a woman sat at the bar, a cigarette hanging from her lip, and sad, downturned eyes staring at a piece of paper in front of her. Annie looked around briefly, slightly confused by the sudden addressing of herself, but then nodded - the woman couldn't see it evidently but it was out of habit - and stepped forward.

"Lieutenant Annie Bradshaw, just in from Fort Des Moines," Annie said, outstretching a hand forward to the woman, who glanced up from the piece of paper and then quickly shook her hand before turning and looking away again, "I'm-"

"Sorry for your loss." the woman said, glancing her way, "Yeah, we've gotten that quite a lot."

Annie went quiet and shut her eyes for a moment. She sucked in a deep breath before clearing her throat.

"You must be….?" Annie started, trying to see if this woman was who she thought she was.

"Francis Montez," she said with a nod, "Lieutenant. I was Faulkner's copilot."

"From what I heard, you landed the plane beautifully," Annie said with a firm tone, "it was brave of you to do." Montez glanced at her and pulled the cigarette from her lip.

"I didn't have a choice now, did I?" Montez muttered, before folding the paper and standing to her rather tall height and blowing smoke from her lips, "The rest of the girls are around. You'll meet 'em all soon enough." And with that, Montez was wavering away, disappearing between the folds of men in uniform and Clubmobile ladies. Annie remembered seeing the article - the day the 100th lost Captain Birdie Faulkner, the day her 2nd Lieutenant Francis Montez risked every inch of herself to get her, the plane and the crew to safety. The day she got the call to report to Thorpe Abbotts. Annie slowly leaned up against the bar and let out a breath.

"Lieutenant….uh….Bradshaw?" Annie looked up and found a shorter woman, with bright, blue eyes and beautifully curled, blonde hair stood in front of her, lips painted a deep cherry red, a careening smile on her face, "Margie Harlowe, put her there." Margie had her hand stretched out in front of her to shake, pristine uniform on point for all to see, and those bright eyes to match. Annie offered a pinprick of a smile and nodded, shaking her hand firmly before putting her hands in the pockets of the jacket over her own uniform.

"Real name's Marjorie, but…I don't know, Margie became easier to yell through comms thousands of feet in the air." she said with a growing grin, "Really a pleasure that you're here. I know Harding's been trying to get another one of you pilots in for days now. Scrambling and all."

"It's a pleasure to be here," Annie said quickly, her nerves bubbling over at the worst of times, before recognizing her manners, "Lieutenant Annie Bradshaw. Just in from Fort Des Moines, hopped one of the newer birds to get over here as quick as I could." Margie let out a barking laugh and crossed her arms, throwing her head back like it were the best joke in the world.

"Fort Des Moines, you say that funny, where you from?" Margie asked her and then held up her hands dramatically from her chest, "No, wait….let me guess. New England…..maybe Vermont." Margie seemed to understand the look in Annie's eyes and shook her head.

"Nah, gotta be midwest, you're sweet as peaches." she said, "Iowa?"

"Minnesota. Mankato." Annie offered with an attempt at a smile.

"Ah! You must've heard - Major Egan, he's a Wisconsin guy. 's a wonder that he's so chatty." Annie laughed at her words, "I assume you've met him then?"

"Out on the tarmac. Showed me the mess hall. Well….officers' club." Annie said and Margie seemed to get a kick out of that and nodded.

"Yeah, he's real sweet until you gotta start having to actually sweet-talk him." Margie said, noticing Annie's gaze again, "Don't ask." Annie smirked.

"So, you met Silver Bullets yet? She's a beaut." Margie said, with a gleam in her eyes, "Flies faster than you can bet on her with." Something passed over Annie's eyes and Margie seemed to notice it, the smile crinkling the slightest bit. Silver Bullets. The B-17 that Captain Faulkner had piloted on various missions and had died in as well.

The B-17 awaiting its newest pilot.

"Nah, not yet." Annie said, "Met Lieutenant Montez though…..said I'd find you all around here."

"Yeah, Monty, she's….she's not doing great. Well, after everything," Margie said with a half-hearted smile that looked more like a depleted frown, "she had to get the thing on the ground with Birdie's body next to her." Annie watched as Margie sighed and shut her eyes and seemed to shutter.

"We're really glad you're here," Margie said quietly, looking up at Annie, "It's been…..weird, without Birdie here. Everyone trusted Birdie, all the other pilots, Operations…..her being gone, I don't know….they don't like the thought of us going up with just anyone." The words 'just anyone' seemed to strike something deep inside of Annie as she stood there against the bar and she nodded. Just anyone, she thought to herself.

"I intend to prove our worth here," Annie said quietly, "you, me, the whole crew. Silver Bullets." Margie smiled at her and nodded.

"Really, though, we're glad you're here, ma'am." Annie did feel her nerves settle for a moment as she stood there, just hearing Margie's words directed at her with consolation and comfort all at once.

"Lieutenant 'No Name' Bradshaw," a incredibly distinct voice said from over her shoulder, Margie's eyes darting upwards and Annie slowly following her line of sight, "can't believe you actually came." Major Egan grinned.

"We were just talking about you, sir!" Margie exclaimed, jumping in with wide eyes, "Just near about summoned you like you were God."

"Don't inflate his ego," muttered a brunette coming in from Major Egan's side, "it's bursting the bubbles at this point." Annie looked to Major Egan.

"Captain Brady invited me." she offered towards him and he raised a surprised brow.

"Oh leave her alone, sir," Margie said with a scolding, but playful look, "just because you can pull all that sweet-talking with Farley here-"

"Hey." grumbled the woman - her assumption that it was Farley was evident.

"Don't go pulling it with Bradshaw alright, she could probably take you out swinging, sir." managed Margie and Major Egan chuckled.

"Dancing? Oh I'd love to." he said, with a nod, "Want to give me a spin, No Name?"

"Leave her alone," Farley said from beside Major Egan, "Kennedy Farley, gunner on Silver Bullets."

"Pleasure to meet you." Annie said with a quick smile, before noticing Major Egan was watching her again, "Is Captain Brady here, sir? I meant to go thank him."

"He's somewhere," Kennedy offered instead, "but don't mind him-" she swiftly pointed to Major Egan who was grinning as proud as he could, "-this is just Major John Egan for you." Quite the sentiment and statement about a Major in the 100th.

"Lieutenant Bradshaw," Annie turned from Major Egan, Margie and Kennedy and found Captain Brady there, removing the peak cap and tucking it under his armpit, before sticking out a hand, in what she assumed as a friendly reintroduction.

"Well, No Name, seems he came right to you," Major Egan said with a chuckle, as Annie reached forward and shook Captain Brady's hand firmly. He raised his brow and Annie felt her cheeks burn.

"I meant to thank you," she said quickly, crossing her arms, and smiling up at him, "for inviting me. I was going to look for you." Brady smiled, his eyes lingering on her for a few seconds longer than warranted, before he looked behind her.

"Not giving the 100th's newest pilot too much trouble, huh?" he asked, seemingly to mainly look at Major Egan, who, when she glanced over her shoulder, smirked proudly and gave a bow.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he offered, as Brady stepped to her side, with a smile.

"C'mon, let's get you a drink."

[luckyricochet]

𝐑𝐀𝐖, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋, 𝐑𝐄𝐃

— Masters of the Air fanfiction

For months, the Luftwaffe has been bombing London and Britain’s other industrial centers while Eilidh Hamilton looks after her grandmother in a little town on the east Fife coast of Scotland. When death strikes, the rest of Eilidh’s family calls her back south, though her bitterness only festers in the smoke and rubble of the capital. She departs to Thorpe Abbotts for another change of scenery but for once, not even the countryside can lift Eilidh's spirits—it's overrun with boisterous Americans who never seem to stop talking. There’s only one man who appears as melancholy as her, and his name is Jack Kidd. Misery sure loves company.

pairing | Jack Kidd / Eilidh Hamilton (OFC)

featuring | Grief-induced emotional distance, sporadic epistolary narrative, feelings of restlessness, survivor's guilt, the role of memory

warnings | Language, smoking, alcohol, allusions to Alzheimer's disease

tag list | ask for +/-

a/n below the cut

Hard-launching this impulse fic! The idea came to me literally about a week ago and within a few days I had Eilidh in my head and had to get her on the page. I'm planning to post a character intro for her very soon, so be on the lookout!

This story will be my humble contribution to the Jack Kidd fan club, because he is just a tired air exec and deserves it. I didn't expect to ever really write for him but now I have so many ideas I can't wait to explore them.

[winniemaywebber]

The exhaustion of living a double life is causing Olive to unravel. Between taking care of her grandma Pearl in 2021 and a gaggle of hungry, homesick airmen in 1943, Olive is spent - even more so when she realizes that her secret cannot be kept as such for much longer.

Part 9 of Honeysuckle Rose, coming soon.

taglist: @sagesolsticewrites @blakelysco-pilot @hephaestn @manonsmanicmind @derry-rain @archival-hogwash @butterfly9012 @ptvstvrrr @lestweforget5 @claireelizabeth85

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 11

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 |-| Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19

AO3

Warnings: Language, angst

Word Count: 3.9k

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

Rosie's palms were slick with sweat, the din of the band muffled to his ears beneath the deafening thumping of his heart as he pushed his way through the crowds, never faltering, even when people called to him as he passed. The door seemed all at once impossibly far away when every second meant not knowing where Frankie was, not knowing if she was ok.

A sudden silence fell upon him as he stepped out into the night air, taking a moment to adjust to the darkness. The sound of footsteps on gravel caught his attention, and he trailed after the crunch around to the side of the hut, stopping dead in his tracks as he took in the scene before him. George sat on the bench, leaning forward on her elbows, a deep frown creasing her cheeks. Frankie was pacing in front of her, a freshly lit cigarette letting off smoke as she held it to her lips. Even in the dim light, he could make out the redness in her eyes, and a wave of nausea coursed through him as he realised she'd been crying.

"Frankie?"

Their gazes snapped towards him, unaware of his presence until now. George was wide-eyed in concern, but there was something cold in Frankie's gaze - bitter, a type of ruefulness he'd never seen in her, especially not directed at him. She dropped the cigarette, stomping it out with her heel as she turned to walk away from him. "Frankie," George called, a warning tone in her voice, like a mother scolding a child.

It worked. She paused, face tilted up to the sky as she let out a long, exhausted sigh, and Rosie wanted nothing more but to step forward and hold her in his arms. But he knew in that moment she wouldn't let him. His eyes met George's for a moment, a nod of understanding passing between them. She rose to her feet, moving to give them some privacy, but as she passed him she paused.

"If you break her heart, I swear I'll kill you, Rosenthal."

"Understood, ma'am."

She walked away, the sound of her footsteps fading with distance. Frankie's shoulders were tense as she rubbed at her eyes, attempting to remove the evidence of the tears she'd shed over him.

"... Honey?" Rosie asked slowly. She stormed towards him, hands reaching out towards his chest to give him a shove, to release the anger bubbling inside her. But when the moment came, she froze, seizing the lapels of his jacket in her clenched fists, unable to meet his eye, gaze fixed on the line of medals that decorate his chest.

"Hey," He spoke gently, scarcely more than a whisper. Reaching a gentle hand to her arm, he felt her grip loosen, peeling her hand away from him so that he could lift it, placing a kiss to the inside of her wrist, gaze never leaving her face. She met his eyes the moment his lips brushed against her skin, jaw visibly clenched. "C'mon. Talk to me."

"You're going back up, aren't you?" Frankie's voice came low and hoarse. Her knuckle brushed against his cheek so briefly, yet he felt the urge to lean in against it, to feel her hand against his face.

"I don't know, I haven't decided yet."

"Yes, you have. You haven't realised it, but you'll go - that's who you are."

The corner of his mouth curled in an involuntary smile, charmed at the thought of being known so well. But her expression had no humour, and her fingers balled back into a fist, slipping out of his grasp.

"They'll replace me with someone who can't do the job as well as I can. I'm saving a life by staying - I can't just walk away from this, Frankie."

"What about me?" She knew the words were selfish the moment they left her, the shame making her squirm. "I'd been waiting for this for so long - it was keeping me going, knowing that I didn't have to live in fear for much longer, and now you're just dragging it out for what? So you can feel good about yourself?"

Rosie's brow furrowed, taking a half-step backwards away from her, lips parting for a moment as he searched for something to say. He had noted the smell of alcohol on her breath, telling himself she didn't mean what she said, but the words still stung.

"I want to stop. If I could, I would, but-"

"But you can-"

"No, I can't! This is bigger than any one person, I can't just give it up!"

Frankie's lip had begun to tremble, and she sniffed loudly, raising her hand to hastily wipe away the tears forming in her eyes before they could fall. Before he could think about it, he was stepping forward to envelop her in an embrace, but she batted his hand away before he could touch her, and Rosie swore he felt his heart skip a beat.

"I've been doing this for nearly five fucking years," She shook her head. "I deserved this, Rosie. Today wasn't just about you, I deserved to have this one thing."

He paused then, sucking in a long breath. He hadn't considered that - that this had been her war far longer than it had been his. How many bodies had she dragged out of planes in her time? How much blood had she wiped clean? More than he'd ever seen.

"I'm sorry."

"But you won't change anything."

"No. But I need you."

"That's not fair. I wait for you every time and it is agony, and every time we're together I can't help but think of all the ways your next mission could go wrong, and I don't know how much longer I can do it."

Taking a step forward, he raised a tentative hand, holding back a sigh of relief as she let him touch her, his thumb skirting across her cheek. "I think you're the reason I'm still alive." He admitted, noticing the way her chest heaved as she sucked in a deep breath. "This was never gonna work out perfectly for us, but you're what I come back for. It's like... I think of you and I can do whatever it takes to make it back alive... because I love you."

All at once Frankie collapsed into him, head pressed firm against his chest, arms wrapped almost unbearably tight around his back. If she had to, she could live without him - she could get up and live her life every day, but it wouldn't be the same. He had made himself essential to her, had burrowed beneath her skin like an itch she couldn't scratch, and that presence would never leave, alive or dead. But a part of her would die with him. He squeezed her shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, warm breath fanning her skin.

There was nothing she could do. She could stand there in the dark and call off the whole thing, refuse to ever speak to him again, but the part of her that he occupied wasn't going away. Distance wouldn't solve anything, it would simply amplify her misery. The fear wouldn't abate, so long as there was breath in his lungs.

Rosie's cheek rested against her head, listening quietly to the steady thump of her heart. His hand moved from her shoulder to her hip to her hair, as if trying to map every inch of her with his fingertips, unable to hold her close enough without fusing his skin to hers. This was what he came home for, this was what kept him alive - what was heaven to the sound of her breathing?

"I love you too," She uttered. After a moment, Frankie raised her head, chin resting against his chest as she looked up at him. Rosie lifted a hand, wiping away the remnants of unshed tears with the back of his palm, a tired smile curling her lip as she let her eyes flutter shut. If he could've spent the rest of his life staring at her, he would've. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, reaching an arm around his back to take her hand in his.

"C'mon," He spoke softly, stepping backwards out of the embrace and tugging her along by the hand.

"Come where?" Frankie asked, brow furrowed.

"Just come," A grin creased his cheeks as she fell in step, their footsteps breaking the late-night silence.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The single lightbulb illuminating the path to the mess hall buzzed intermittently, flickering slightly as moths hovered around its glow. There was no one around, the staff having long gone for the night, the rooms within laying deserted. Frankie began to chuckle as she realised what they were doing, struggling to restrain a laugh as Rosie jostled the doorknob, wrestling with the thing for a minute before it came open with a creak.

"See? Like magic," He proclaimed.

"Yeah, on your third try," She snorted as he held out his elbow for her to take his arm as if they were entering a high-class restaurant.

It was utterly still inside the hall, the quiet so piercing that they could almost hear the beating of their own hearts. Rosie led her through to the back, flicking on the kitchen light as the shelves and shelves of food came suddenly into view.

"You're a thief, Rosenthal," Frankie pointed out, pushing herself up to perch on the edge of the counter.

He hummed distractedly, rifling through the supplies now at their disposal. "They'll understand. Date night with the wife 'n all." For a moment he continued without realising what he'd said, and then he froze, turning his head slightly to glance nervously back at her.

Frankie was already smiling, and offered up a shrug, a wordless assurance of 'someday'. He turned back to the shelves, hoping the shadows would hide the tinge of red he could feel blooming in his cheeks.

"Aha," He declared, retrieving a pair of chocolate bars and tossing one across to her. Peeling back the paper, she took a bite as he pushed himself up onto the counter beside her, tapping the chocolate together as if they were toasting glasses.

"This is better than a party," Rosie sighed, leaning back against the wall as he raised a hand to loosen his tie, undoing the top button of his shirt.

"Really? You won't find any good booze in here," She raised a brow, holding the chocolate bar between her teeth as she shrugged off her jacket, tossing it unceremoniously onto the floor.

"I'd rather sit around with you."

"Mm, yeah. I'd rather eat chocolate," Frankie mused, staring down at the half-eaten bar in her hand before going in for another bite.

"Oh, nice - romantic," Rosie chuckled.

"What? I'm just being honest. That's gonna be the worst part about going to America - no Cadbury's. I'm making this sacrifice for you Robert, that's romantic."

"You're right, I'm sorry for not appreciating your suffering," Pushing himself upright, he leant over to press a kiss to her cheek, missing as she turned her head and accidentally pressing his lips to her chin.

Frankie let out a cackle, grabbing him by the tie and pulling him in for a real kiss as she slid sideways off the counter. He could taste chocolate on her lips, one hand squeezing her hip, the other cushioning her shoulder as she backed up against the wall. She ran a deliberate hand through his hair, messing up his curls in the way that always made her smile. He was going to have to stop buying hair gel.

Rosie could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her shirt, pressing against her with his palm as if they could meld into one. This wasn't like him. His mother would've been red in the face. But it wasn't his fault that Frankie was just so damn pretty. Simply breathing seemed twice as hard whenever she smiled - it was a wonder how he'd ever lived without it. The moment she'd left the party, his stomach had dropped so hard he thought he'd vomit, so scared had he been at the prospect of losing her. He cupped her jaw, tilting her face higher towards him, the press of her head against the wall messing up the curls George had no doubt spent ages tending to.

She snaked an arm around the back of his neck, trapped between his shoulders and the wall. It was an unwinnable situation, but she could survive the fear if it meant he was hers once it was all over. Rosie was good - no, scratch that - he was the best. If anyone could make it back, he could.

He had just begun to loosen her tie when a sudden banging at the door startled them, tearing themselves apart as someone hammered a heavy fist, shining a torch through the window at the front end of the mess hall.

"We know someone's in there!" A booming yell sounded. "Come out!"

Frankie clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling the laughter that threatened to erupt as Rosie gritted his teeth, trying his damndest not to do the same and give them away worse than they had already. She scrambled to collect her jacket, attempting to smooth down her hair with one hand as he hastily disposed of any evidence of their late-night feast.

The kitchen had a narrow back door, and Frankie pried it open as quietly as she could. Whoever had found them was still hammering on the front door, and as she peered out into the darkness she couldn't see any sign of reinforcements. "Go, go!" She whispered, shoes clutched in her hand to muffle her footsteps as they crept outside, scurrying across the grass towards the next row of Nissen huts.

As soon as they were home free she let a mighty laugh tear itself from her chest, splitting the air and undoubtedly waking up a few disgruntled workers. Rosie had begun to laugh too, their shoulders brushing as they swayed against each other, giddy on adrenaline. They were far too old to be sneaking around like teenagers, but he couldn't honestly remember the last time he'd had so much fun. Slinging an arm around her shoulders, she leaned against him as they wandered back towards her hut, the party's crowds not yet dissipated out into the world.

Approaching her door, Frankie turned to face him, walking backwards as she wrapped her arms around his back. She took a deep breath, letting out a sigh, giddiness wearing off. "See you tomorrow?"

Rosie nodded, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Yeah. I've gotta go see Bennett in the morning, I'll catch you after."

"Yeah, alright." Pushing herself up onto her toes, she kissed him one last time, before slipping inside.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was quiet inside, the bathroom light humming as George stepped into the doorway, toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, curls brushed out of her hair. "You're back."

"I'm back," Frankie sighed, scraping a hand through her hair as she collapsed backwards onto the bed, springs creaking beneath her. She heard desperate scrambling from the next room as George hurried to finish up, and the quick step of bare feet against the floor as she scurried over, sitting cross-legged on her bed beside her.

"...And?" She asked, tone laced with worry.

"I'm living with it," Frankie admitted, throwing up her hands in surrender.

"That's it?"

"Think about it, George!" She exclaimed, rolling over onto her stomach so that she could look up at her. "If I made him stop, if I said he had to go home, he'd be miserable. He'd resent it - he wouldn't resent me, 'cause he's too bloody good, but he'll hate it. He'll spend the rest of his life regretting it, and I don't wanna do that. I'll have to live with it too."

The corner of George's lip curled in a half-smirk. "It's that serious, huh? 'Rest of your life' type stuff?"

"... I think so."

"I get it. It's better in the long run."

"Yeah, if there is one," Frankie sighed, staring dejectedly down at the floor.

"Oi," George slid off the bed, crouching down before her, forcing Frankie to look at her. "Don't gimme that shit, ok? He's the best pilot this place has ever seen, no one has chances as good as he does. I know it's scary - you know I know that."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know. Sorry."

"Don't apologise. Get up and take that uniform off... you smell like chocolate."

Chuckling, Frankie pushed herself upright, beginning to peel away her clothes as George began to meticulously pin her hair into curlers for the next day. Sometimes she felt guilty - lamenting over the possibility of losing the man she loved when George had already lost hers. As if she were tempting fate, painting George's life as the worst possible version of her future.

"...You know I love you, right?" She asked slowly.

George looked up, brow raised. "Yeah, 'course. Why, are you dumping Rosie to run away with me now?"

Frankie let out a huff of laughter, buttoning up her pyjama shirt. "Yeah, that's the plan," She nodded, the pair grinning at each other as she climbed into bed. Flicking off the bedside lamp, she buried her head into the pillow, eyes shut tightly as she tried to fall asleep.

After a few minutes of silence, George spoke up again. "I would make a prettier bride than Rosie."

Grabbing her pillow, she hurled it at her, knocking George off balance and almost sending her tipping over the corner of the bed. "Oi!"

"I'm trying to sleep! Shut up and gimme my pillow back, or the engagement's off."

George chuckled, lobbing it back with as much, if not greater force, and Frankie yelped as it collided with her face, the sound muffled by the pillow.

"... I think you gave me a black eye."

"You're being a fucking baby."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"General Doolittle has ordered the air strategy to shift radically...

"to shoot them down we need to get them in the air...

"...With bombers as the bait."

Frankie lingered outside the closed door to Bennett's office, arms folded tightly across her chest as she listened to the conversation within. She'd had to argue her way past a fair few guards just to get this far, and was resisting the sudden urge to march through the door and break something - preferably Bennett's nose.

She hadn't told Rosie she was coming, and the more she listened in, the more she felt confident she didn't want him to know either. He'd probably try to stop her from starting a fight. Footsteps approached the door from the inside, and Frankie ducked into the nearest office and out of view as Rosie passed. The room's inhabitants looked up at her as she entered, brows furrowed in confusion, and she offered an awkward smile, pretending to fix one of the clocks until he was safely out of sight.

Before the door to Bennett's office could fall close, she stepped in, propping her arm across the doorframe and blocking the exit.

"Can I help you ma'am?" He asked, brow raised as he stood up from his desk.

"Yeah, actually, I was wondering if you could direct me towards a CO with some basic fucking sense."

Bennett looked momentarily startled, before realisation seemed to flicker across his expression. "Ah. You're Rosenthal's girl, right?"

Frankie frowned. "I also happen to be the most experienced mechanic you've got. But yeah, I guess that works."

"In that case, you probably shouldn't come in here insulting your commanding officers."

"That'd certainly be a concern if I actually worked for you."

"Look... Sergeant? I get it. You found out about the new plan, somehow-"

"I was listening through the door just now."

"...You're really not allowed to do that."

"I really don't care."

"Frankie?" Rosie's voice echoed from the opposite end of the corridor, and she tried her best not to react as she heard his footsteps approaching behind her, felt a gentle hand on her arm. "What're you doing?"

"You know those orders are bullshit," Frankie continued, gaze never leaving Bennett. "And you're letting it happen because you're a fucking coward."

"Okay, Jesus Christ, let's go," Rosie spoke hurriedly, tugging on her arm. "Sir, I'm sorry about this."

"I'm not done-"

"Yes, you are."

The Lieutenant Colonel didn't get a chance to speak before Frankie was dragged out of his doorway, the door falling shut with a heavy thud as Rosie guided her away back down the hall.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? What was that?!"

"Plan A was to strangle him - I think it went well all things considered."

"Do not - what?!" Rosie shook his head, utterly dumbfounded as they stepped outside. "What are you doing?!"

Frankie stopped walking, turning on her heel to face him. "Those orders are gonna get these men killed. I mean, bait? Are they fucking serious?"

"Did you listen in on that entire conversation?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it. The point is, I'm sick of having to stand by and watch them give out these bullshit orders that nobody can stand up to. They're murdering those boys if they do this, they're-"

"I know!" Rosie exclaimed, raising his hands to her shoulders. "I know. I care about them too, you know I do, but they're making me Major now - I can lead them - I'm gonna do everything I can to bring them home."

"... Wait, what? They're making you Major?"

"So you missed that part?"

"I think I blacked out after the 'bait' thing."

"Yeah, I got that impression."

Frankie nodded for a long moment, gnawing at the inside of her cheek. "... I hate not being able to do anything."

"I know," Rosie reached for her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles.

"I'm the one who'll have to clean your blood out of the seat if you don't make it," She stated, unable to meet his eye. He felt the colour drain from his cheeks. "They'll give me your footlocker. I don't - I don't know what to do with it, I don't-" The more she spoke the faster the words came tumbling out, spiralling out of control.

"Hey, hey," Rosie cooed, wrapping an arm around the back of her neck to pull her into his chest. "We're good. We're okay, it's gonna be okay. I'm gonna make it. I dunno if anyone's told you, but I'm kind of a big deal around here."

"Oh, shut up," Frankie thumped a fist against his shoulder, her voice barely audible, muffled against his jacket. When she pulled away she was fighting a smile, a red tint flushing her cheeks as she swept her hair out of her face.

"Seriously," He nodded, lifting his hands to cup her face. "It'll be alright."

"... Yeah."

[major-mads]

Chapter 13: At Last

John "Bucky" Egan x Ruth Morgan (OFC)

Series Masterlist

A/N: GUYS! Sorry for the SUPER long delay! I went out of the country for a while and had some other things come up, but here we are...the long-awaited chapter!! enjoy!

For some reason, tumblr won't let me tag more than 5 people, so I'll tag people in the comments instead!

Collab: On a Wing and a Prayer by @footprintsinthesxnd

Word Count: 9.4k

Wednesday, October 27, 1943: Stalag Luft III: Sagan, Germany: 1000 HRS

The dull scrapes of pencils, the ticking of the clock, and the sniffles of Jimmy Lambert in the far corner of the room were the only things keeping Ruth Morgan sane. She sat at her desk fidgeting with her ink pen as she stared down at the paper before her. Her eyes drifted over the page numerous times, but her mind was in no state to absorb information, even information as mundane as an analysis of characters in Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

5 Days Earlier

“We thought you were dead,” Murphy muttered from where he sat at the center table in the girls’ room. “They, uh, they said there were no chutes, ma’am.”

Frank’s brows furrowed slightly, his fingers brushing over his mustache. “No chutes? Someone saw us go down?” 

“Apparently. No one would tell us anything,” Crank added matter-of-factly, but his voice softened as he continued.” Especially not Buck or Bucky. We had to find out what happened through the grapevine.”

With Hope asleep on her bunk, the room’s eyes shifted to Ruth at the mention of the majors. She sat silently at the table, her eyes glistening in the room’s low light as she stared at the roughened wood before her. If everyone thought they were dead, she could only imagine how John must have reacted. How would she have reacted?

“John,” she shakily breathed, raising her teary gaze to the men. “How-How is he? ”

As soon as the words left her lips, Glenn shifted awkwardly in his seat and glanced at Crank and Murph, who acted much the same. Ruth’s brow creased in concern, her eyes searching their faces for answers when Frank draped his arm over the back of her chair. After a few moments, Glen sighed.

“He took it hard, ma’am. Both him, Buck, and Sparky. Bucky, he, uh…” Glen’s eyes flicked to his friend’s desperately for help, and Murph straightened in his chair, coming to the co-pilot's aid.

“Harding made him take a pass to London, but Buck went down over Bremen the day he got there, so he came back early to lead the next mission.”

“Münster was a frickin’ turkey shoot,” Crank grumbled. ”The Zig went down before us…We saw what? 9 chutes?”

Ruth’s breath hitched, and she clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her fingers digging into her palms. “Nine chutes,” she repeated softly, her voice trembling. “But Johnny? Have y’all seen him since?”

The room fell silent, the weight of Ruth’s question hanging heavily in the air. The men exchanged uneasy glances, the shadows in their eyes deepening.

Cruikshank cleared his throat, his voice low. “No. We haven’t seen him. None of us have.”

Ruth’s heart sank and a wave of fear crashed over her. Her vision blurred with unshed tears as she tried to process the news. “So, you don’t know if he’s...”

“It’s Bucky,” Crank nodded. “He’ll make it.”

She nodded, biting her lip to keep from crying. John was either evading, captured, or dead in a German field somewhere. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, not after everything they’d been through. Not after she’d told herself he was safe back at Thorpe Abbotts, convinced herself that he’d be waiting for her.

“Lieutenant Morgan?” A voice called out, but it barely registered in her mind.

“Lieutenant?” the voice repeated, more insistent this time.

Ruth continued to stare blankly at the paper, her mind caught in the memory, but when a shadow fell across her desk, she finally blinked. Her gaze slowly lifted to see one of her students standing there with concern etching his face. “Ruth, are you alright?” he asked softly.

“Oh,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly to clear the memory. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. Need some help?”

George, a 20 year old, baby-faced lieutenant with sandy hair and a kind expression, looked at her with a mixture of worry and sympathy. “You seem a bit…distant,” he said carefully. “Are you alright? Did something happen? Did the goons-”

Ruth forced a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and interrupted his endearing rambling.  “I’m fine, George. Just got a lot on my mind. Thanks for asking.”

He nodded, although not entirely convinced. “This class…it helps all of us so much. So if there’s anything we can do to help, please let us know.”

“I appreciate that, really. How’s your work going?”

George glanced back at the table where his papers were spread out. “It’s going well. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Her heart warmed at his concern. These young men relied on her, and she couldn’t let them down. “Thank you, George. I’ll be alright. If you need any help with your work, let me know.”

He gave her a small smile and returned to his table, leaving Ruth to gather her scattered thoughts. She took a deep breath and refocused on the task at hand, pushing her worries about John to the back of her mind for the moment. She had to stay strong. For herself, for her friends, and for the young men in her classes that clung to their lessons for a sense of normalcy.

1600 HRS: 4 PM

Ruth sat at room four’s table, attempting to organize her lesson plans, the soft scratch of a pencil the only sound in the room. No one had seen Hope since she left toward the infirmary following the 6am roll call, but it was almost time for her to come back. Murphy and Charlie Cruikshank lay in their beds staring up at the wooden slats above their heads. Glenn was off with Frank Martin checking out the garden and harvesting the last of the vegetables before winter came. The chill in the morning and evening air were sure signs it was coming, and fast.

“How was class today?” Murphy asked, sending her a half-smile from his bunk. Since their arrival, the three newcomers kept a close eye on the women.

“It was okay,” she groaned, placing a paper in her ‘graded’ stack. “I’ve got a lot of papers to grade.”

A few moments later, the echo of the siren at the entrance gate cut through the silence of the room. The men sprang to their feet and ran out the door, but Ruth remained in her seat, shaking her head with a grin.

“Ruth, you comin’?” Murphy asked, poking his head around the doorframe.

She shook her head, glancing up from her work. “No, but y’all go ahead. I’ll be fine in here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Ruth insisted, “Go on!”

With a final nod, Frank followed Crank out of the block, their boots echoing down the hallway. The room fell silent again, and Ruth took a deep breath. She picked up Macbeth, hoping to distract herself from the gnawing anxiety that settled in her chest. The words on the page blurred together as her mind wandered back to John. Between Hope pulling away and his unknown fate on top of the uncertainty of captivity, it was all she could do to keep functioning. 

The silence of the room was comforting yet heavy as the minutes ticked by, her mind drifting to the events of the past month. With a sigh, she closed her book and began to tidy up the room. Humming softly to herself, cleared and wiped down the table. With mud, dirt and everything else caked onto the surface, getting it off was a chore. 

Knock. Knock.

“Come on in.” She called, her back to the door that slowly creaked open. “Anyone interesting come in today?”

No response. The silence felt odd. 

Sighing, Ruth turned toward the entrance. “If y’all don’t start cleaning up, too-”

When Ruth’s gaze landed on the figure in the doorway, she didn’t feel her grip on the rag loosening, didn’t hear it hit the ground. All she could focus on was the man standing before her. He was battered and bruised, his uniform torn and dirty, but his eyes…his glossy blues were the same that filled her dreams, her cherished memories.

“John,” she whimpered, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper as tears welled in her eyes.

He slowly took a step into the room. “Hey, Ruthie.”

They simply stood there for a moment, locked in each other’s gaze. But then, a wide smile grew on his face and he crossed the room, throwing his arms around her small figure. Beneath his hold, John felt the sharpness of her features, the way she seemed impossibly smaller…but his mind quickly pushed away the thought because this was the moment he’d dreamed of. 

Ruth instantly returned the embrace with a choked sob, holding him as tightly as she could while John buried his face in her neck. His arms were warm and sturdy, familiar in a way that made her feel whole again.

Pulling back, he tearily grinned at her and gently cupped her face, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you,” he whispered quickly. “I should’ve told you, but I just-”

“Thank God. I love you, too,” Ruth interrupted with her own teary laugh. “I love you, John Egan.”

“I thought you were gone.”

She sniffled, wiping away a stray tear. “I know, I know. But I’m right here. I’m right here.”

Unable to hold off any longer, John kissed her gently, cradling her jaw as he connected their lips. The world melted away and they got lost in each other’s presence for a few moments until Ruth pulled away, her eyes taking in the damage done to his face. It was a mess of cuts and bruises, his right eye swollen and bloodshot. As a nurse, she was used to seeing people in pain, but seeing John in such a state caused that barrier to crumble.

“Oh honey,” she said softly as her thumb brushed lightly over a bruise on his cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He nodded and allowed her to lead him over to the table where he perched atop it. As he sat down, Ruth hurriedly grabbed their first aid kit from under Hope’s bunk before returning to his side. He seemed to notice her sling for the first time and concern flashed across his face.

“Your arm, doll.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she dismissed him, unwrapping some gauze and dabbing it with alcohol. “This happened when I, uh, bailed. Broke it when I went through some trees on the way down.”

John’s saw clenched as the next question filtered through his mind before leaving his lips. His voice was quiet with a barely contained rage at the thought of her suffering at the hands of their captors. “The Krauts. They haven’t...They haven’t touched you, have they?”

“No. Thank God.”

He visibly deflated. “Good.”

Silence again filled the room as she worked carefully to clean the cuts marring his face. When she inspected his it further, she noted the swelling and his bloodshot right eye. “Johnny, this is bad,” she whispered, her fingers trembling as she brushed over the injury. “Can you see okay? Any double vision?”

“Sometimes, but I’m fine, doll. Really. Strong as an ox.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Ruth, I’m alright…”

“Take off your shirt, John,” she demanded quietly.

Ruth expected a half-baked joke to fall from his lips, but when it didn’t, her heart sank. He sighed, gritting his teeth as he attempted to take off his jacket. Even the smallest movement felt like murder, and all he wanted to do was lie down, but she was there. Their reunion had pushed down the pain but it came rushing back in that moment.

“Here. Let me help.”

She carefully helped him remove his A2 jacket and unzip his flight suit down to his waist, revealing a dirty, once-white tank top underneath. As she slowly lifted the tank top, John’s jaw clenched and a few pained grunts escaped his lips when he raised his arms. The sight that greeted her was worse than she had feared. His torso was a canvas of bruises, the worst of which spread diagonally across his back. The center was an angry mix of red and purple, while the edges were turning a sickly brownish green.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, her voice cracking as she stared at the damage. Ruth’s eyes filled with tears and she raised a hand to cover her mouth. John set his jaw and stared at the floor silently, unable to meet her gaze. Her hands hesitantly touched the largest bruise across his back with feather-light pressure. 

“What happened?” she asked shakily as a tear streaked down her cheek.

Should he tell her? Subject her to the horrors he’d experienced in the month they’d been apart? He’d want to know. He wanted to know what happened to her, but the thought of watching his sweet, gentle, and caring Ruth crumble as he explained that night’s events and the days that followed was enough of a deterrent.

“I think it was a club,” he replied before glancing up at her with a exhausted smirk. It didn’t quite reach his eyes but he gave it anyways. “Chump had a terrible swing, though. Could’ve batted cleanup for the Braves with the season they're having.”

Deflection. His favorite game, favorite defense. Strong John Egan, the 418th’s CO, Major in the Army Air Force, didn’t want to think about the most helpless moment in his life. Didn’t want to think about how terrified he’d been. Bucky thought he was going to die as he sputtered for air on the ground that night, warm blood running down his face. Through the ringing in his ears and the pain in his head, he heard gunshot after gunshot echo off the brick buildings. Each sent a comrade to their grave, and he knew the next was for him…

“Hey. Please don’t do that,” said Ruth quietly.

“Do what?”

“You know what.”

With a sigh, he turned his gaze back to the dusty paneled floor.  “Me and a group of guys from the 381st were taken through a town, and the people…they just went crazy. I got knocked in the head a few times.”

Ruth swallowed thickly and took his face gently in her hands, tilting it up from the floor to meet her gaze. “What else?”

“Doll,” he sighed, his voice rising slightly as he reached out and gently grasped her waist, pulling her to stand between his legs. “I don’t think you should-”

“I want to know.”

“Well, I’d rather talk about you.”

Ruth blinked, momentarily taken back. “Me?” she repeated, her voice incredulous. “Johnny, look at you. You’re the one who’s hurt.”

“I know, but right now I just want to forget about it,” John said with the purse of his lips. “Tell me what happened…how you’ve been holding up.

Her eyes searched his face for any sign of his usual bravado, but she saw none and relented, taking a deep breath as she tried to shift her focus to herself. 

“We went through a flak field and fighters…they came out of nowhere. Killed our copilot,” she admitted quietly, still slotted between his legs. Ruth reached up, her fingers gently running through his dark curls, soothing his worried mind with each stroke. “Bailing was terrifying, and then we were captured and separated…it’s been a nightmare.” she sniffled quietly. “Definitely not what I expected when I joined up. But you’re here, now, and that makes things much better. Not that I want you to be here, but-”

John cut off her stressed ramble with a kiss. It was filled with more urgency as if to assure himself that she was really there, not just a figment of his imagination, not just a dream. She pulled back gently and placed a hand on his chest, a smooth metal chain beneath her touch.

Her cross. 

“You kept it?”

“It was all I had left of you. I never took it off.”

Tears once again burned in her eyes but she quickly blinked them away. “Enough about me. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” she said softly. “I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

He nodded reluctantly and Ruth went back to carefully tending to his face. As she worked, she continued talking in a feeble attempt to distract him from the pain. “Frank’s been looking out for us the whole time, and since your guys got here last week, they’ve done the same.”

John flinched as she cleaned a deep gash on his temple. “Good,” he managed through gritted teeth. “They’re. How’s Hope? I know Buck’s in another compound.”

“She’s not good. Hasn’t been sleeping because of nightmares, so Frank and I have tried to stay up with her… but she just shuts us out. We don’t know what to do.”

Johnny frowned, concern deepening the lines on his bruised face. “Hope’s tough but it sounds like you’ve both been through hell. It just looks like it’s taking her more time, doll.”

“I know, but it’s so hard to see her like this. She won’t talk to me, John. She won’t open up. I-I don’t know how to help her,” she whispered, her hands trembling as she carefully dabbed a cut on his eyebrow.

He reached up and gently cupped her cheek. “Hey, listen to me,” he said softly, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that escaped down her cheek. “You’re doing everything you can. Some people just need to deal with things their own way, in their own time.”

“But what if she never does?” Ruth whispered, her voice breaking. “What if I can’t help her?”

The major’s heart ached at the pain in her big blue eyes, and he pulled her closer, gently wrapping his arms around her waist. “She’ll come around. I know it.”

Just then, a series of rapid knocks on the door interrupted them, followed by the sound of familiar voices. “Ruth, Bucky, you two decent in there?”

She quickly wiped away her tears. John looked up, wincing slightly as he tried to sit up straight. “Come on in, you dodos,” he called out.

The door swung open, and Murph, Crank, and Glenn hurried into the room. Their eyes widened when they took in the sight of John’s bruised body.

“Shit,” Crank muttered. “Bucky, what did they do to you?”

Murphy’s face twisted in concern. “You look like you went ten rounds with a freight train and lost,” he said with the shake of his head. “You alright?”

John gave them a weak grin. “Just fine, boys. You should see the other guy.”

“If you say so, sir,” Graham grimaced.

Ruth helped John back into his shirt and into a seat, and the men sat around the table, asking John about the Münster mission, what happened to his plane, and if he knew about any of the other guys from his crew. While they spoke, her mind wandered to Frank and Hope. It was almost 5:30, almost time for supper…if you could call half a potato and a tiny sausage-looking meat stick supper.

Noticing her far-off stare, John placed a gentle hand on her thigh beneath the table and remained in the conversation, his touch offering little comfort against her worry. It wasn’t until the door creaked open a few minutes later that she could finally breathe. Frank and Hope appeared in the doorway, freezing as their eyes fell upon the group. The group’s hushed voices ceased and a few chairs scraped back as they turned to see who had entered. She felt John move beside her, turning to face the pair. 

“Hope! Frank! You’re back. Ruth’s been telling me all about you both since the crash.” John cracked a wide smile and Ruth noticed the way his eyes softened as they fell on Hope. 

 Frank stood behind Hope in the doorway, his eyes widening when his gaze fell on Bucky. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “It’s good to see you, Major, sorry it’s not under better circumstances.” 

John shrugged, his arm coming back around to rest on Ruth’s shoulders, “We’re at war Captain, worse things could have happened. To think that of all the camps I could have gone to I ended up back with my girl. It could have been worse, I could have been stuck in a different compound like Buck and…” 

The room fell silent and all eyes fell to Hope. Ruth held in the small gasp that threatened to fall from her lips. She saw Hope’s eyes trail to the floor, her brown eyes fighting against her emotions. 

“Ahh, Hope, I didn’t mean…” John began, his face etched with concern as he realized the weight of his words. 

“It’s fine, John. Really, it’s good to have you back. It’s nice to see Ruth so happy again.” 

Hope sent her friend a sincere smile and the blonde returned it, her shoulders relaxing a little. Ruth wasn’t convinced that was the truth, but to know Hope wasn’t about to run out on her again brought her a small amount of comfort. Everyone walked on eggshells around Hope. It was like she was an unexploded bomb that needed to be handled with such delicacy in fear of her going off at any moment. 

Hope sat herself down on her bunk, her dark eyes trailing over the group. Frank joined in the conversation and Ruth took that as her moment to slip out of John’s grasp and make her way over to her friend. 

Hope didn’t notice Ruth approaching her until the bed dipped beside her. 

“How are you doing?” Ruth asked, slipping her hand into Hope’s and squeezing it gently. “You’ve been really quiet since Gale arrived.” 

Ruth wanted to approach the subject but also didn’t want to drive her friend away further. She knew she’d have to be careful with her probing questions…one false move and Hope could close in on herself again. 

“I’m fine, Rue, really. Work’s just been busy and I’ve not been sleeping well, but I promise I’m fine,” she forced a smile that stretched across her pale cheeks. Ruth could see the dark, purple skin beneath her friends eyes and the way her skin pulled tightly across her cheekbones. She had always considered her friend to be beautiful, so striking with her dark hair and red lipstick, but now she look like a ghost of her former self. 

Ruth wasn’t convinced. Her once bright eyes looked tiredly at Hope, breaking her heart even more. 

What had become of them?

2200 HRS: 10 PM

The afternoon passed with introductions to fellow prisoners and supper, along with John’s first evening roll call. By lights out, the major was half-asleep in his chair around the table, pure exhaustion wafting off him after the journey he had from Dulag Luft. Everyone else was lying quietly in their bunks, leaving John, Ruth, and Crank alone at the table. She watched with a softened gaze as Bucky’s eyes drooped again and again. It was adorable, the way he continued to fight it, but Ruth knew he was beyond tired. She shared a glance with Crank across the table before returning her eyes to John’s half-lidded ones. 

“Come on,” Ruth patted his shoulder gently, his eyes opening wider. “Let’s get you into bed.”

John blinked a few times, trying to gather his thoughts. “Yeah, okay,” he murmured, pushing himself up from the table with a barely concealed wince. 

That afternoon, they decided he would get the bunk above Ruth’s. If their roommates were being honest, they guessed one of the beds would be empty more often than not. It wasn’t an easy task getting all six-foot-something of John up onto the second-row bunk, but he gritted his teeth and swallowed the pain as he climbed into the bed.

Charlie stood to help, but Johnny waved him off. “I’m good,” he insisted, though his voice lacked its usual strength.

“Sure you don’t,” Crank replied with a knowing eye-roll but stayed close just in case.

John gritted his teeth and tried to climb onto the second-row bunk on his own. He managed to get one leg up before a sharp pain shot through his side, making him grunt and pause.

“Let us help,” Ruth whispered.

He nodded reluctantly, the fight leaving him as he sighed. “Alright, alright. Just this once.”

Crank and Ruth each took an arm, Charlie doing more than the blonde, and they carefully helped him up onto the bunk. Only a small wince left his lips despite the ever-present ache throughout his whole body. Once he settled on the narrow mattress, he took a long breath.

“See? Easy,” he joked weakly, slightly out of breath from the movement.

Charlie clapped him gently on the shoulder before heading to his own bunk. “Sure, Bucky.”

Standing beside his bunk, Ruth’s face was slightly taller than eye level. She looked down at him with worry swirling in her mind. The cuts, the bruising, his eye, the avoidance…it all worried her. She wanted to know what happened. Needed to know. How could she be there for him if she didn’t know what he went through?

“You alright?” he asked sleepily, his face only visible from the moonlight streaming through the room’s small window. “What’s going through that head of yours?”

Ruth sighed and raised her hand to play with the messy curls hanging over his forehead. “I missed you. So much. Being here…it gives you a lot of time to think. Makes you realize what’s important. Who’s important. A part of me thought I’d never see you again.”

“Well, I’m here now, and I promise I’m not gonna leave you again, alright? I meant what I said earlier, doll. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replied softly, kissing his cheek. “Get some rest, okay? You need it.”

Groaning, john tiredly raised his eyebrows. “Come on. That’s all I get?” 

“So needy,” Ruth smirked with the roll of her eyes before kissing him properly. “Now really go to sleep, hotshot.”

A pleased smile curved John’s lips as his eyes slipped closed. “Night, Ruthie.

She gave him one last tender look before stepping back and moving to her own bunk below his. For the first night in a month, the overwhelming sense of doom, of panic, seemed to lessen, and she drifted off to sleep easily. Bucky, however, was subjected to the same nightmare that visited him nightly. 

Smoke and flames burned his eyes as he frantically looked around him. The twisted metal of the Angel lay scattered around the field, its normal green paint charred in the blaze. John stumbled over the debris, his heart pounding as he searched for any sign of life. The plane was nearly unrecognizable, the once proud C-47 reduced to a smoldering heap of metal and fire. John’s eyes darted frantically across the field, the smoke filling his lungs. He coughed violently and his hands trembled as he clawed his way through the debris. Then, in the fire’s dim light, he saw her…but the vibrance of her eyes was gone as she blankly stared up at the sky.

“No, no, no,” he gasped, his heart skipping as he rushed to her side, but his hands passed through her as if she was a ghost. 

John jolted awake with a gasp, and his heart pounded in his chest. His heaving chest was drenched with sweat as he tried to get his bearings. For a moment, he was disoriented, and the line between dream and reality blurred. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he remembered where he was. The stalag. Ruth was alive. He’d seen her, held her. But the lingering fear from the nightmare gnawed at him.

Ignoring the pain that shot through his body with every movement, Johnny carefully climbed down from his bunk and lowered himself slowly to the floor, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. 

He felt uneasy. An unnerving feeling spread through him as he turned and met a dark pair of eyes watching him from the window. His breath caught in his throat as his heart continued to pound. Hope watched him sympathetically. Her own eyes were rimmed red and her small frame looked childlike in her oversized coveralls bunched up against the window. The pair exchanged no words as John shuffled closer to Ruth’s cot. Leaning against the post of Ruth’s bunk, he fixed his eyes on her sleeping form. She looked so peaceful, her chest rising and falling with each gentle breath. He reached out hesitantly and lightly brushed a strand of hair from her face. Bucky had watched her for what felt like hours when she finally stirred. 

Ruth’s eyelids fluttered open as if finally sensing his presence, and she blinked sleepily, her eyes focusing on the figure sitting beside her bed. 

“Johnny?” she whispered, her voice heavy with sleep. “Why are you on the floor?”

He pursed his lips. “No reason. It reminded me of my lovely cell back at Dulag Luft.”

A small sigh left Ruth’s lips as she watched him in the dim light. Through the bruises and the bravado, she saw a wounded man…one wounded physically, emotionally, and mentally.

“John.”

The silence that followed was filled with Murph’s quiet snores.

“I, uh, just wanted to check on you,” the major murmured after a moment, fidgeting with his fingers in his lap, his eyes stuck on them. “To make sure you’re okay…That this isn’t some messed-up dream.”

It was then that Ruth remembered what the others said…He took it hard. But what all did that entail? Did he go out and drink himself away every night or did he pick up his old habits with women? She didn’t know, but what she did know was that he was there, they were finally together.

“Hey,” she whispered, sitting up and reaching out to him. She gently ran her hand through his greasy curls. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”

John’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, she saw raw vulnerability in them, but the strong facade quickly returned. He thought back to the long nights in the Officer’s Club, sitting around the bar with a drink in his hand, just trying to drown out the memories that followed him everywhere. John couldn’t go to Dickleburgh, couldn’t bear Tommy asking about Ruth, asking when he’d see her again. The first and only time it happened, Buck and Kidd looked at him warily, unsure whether he’d crumble or explode as Tommy stared up at him with his signature toothy grin. John simply took a big gulp of his pint and clenched his jaw, telling Tommy she’d be gone for a while. He didn’t remember much after that moment, but he remembered waking up the next morning with one of the worst hangovers of his life. He awoke knowing he couldn’t face Tommy or the memories that mercilessly replayed in his mind. 

He nodded and softly took her hand, running his thumb over the top of it as he spoke. “Yeah. I know. It’s just…They told us the Angel went down. Said there were no survivors. We - uh - spent the past month thinking both you and Hope were dead. I-” 

Bucky trailed off and looked away from Ruth, his gaze focusing on the dusty floor beside him. He couldn’t stop the burn in his eyes at the thought of the past month. He was no stranger to pain, to loss. Losing his father was heartbreaking, as was losing man after man as the war went on. But Ruth? Losing Ruth was the worst pain he’d ever felt. And to think, Haussmann was the reason he knew she was alive after all that time.  

“Johnny, look at me,” Ruth murmured as she softly turned his face toward her. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that alone. I wish more than anything I could’ve made it back to you.”

He blinked away the tears glistening in his eyes and took a deep breath with a nod. “Me, too, doll. Me, too.”

They stared at each other for a few moments, both soaking in the loving gaze of the other. Ruth noted the flecks of grey in his blue eyes. The grey reminded her of the clouds that almost always hung in the sky around The Grove and Thorpe Abbotts. A dog’s bark in the distance broke their trance, and Ruth lightly tugged on his hand.

“Come here.”

He hesitated but then slowly climbed onto the bunk, wincing quietly as he did so. Ruth made space for him, which wasn’t much, but they managed to fit. He lay on his back and she nestled herself on top of him, her body conforming to the limited space they had.

“Are you alright?” she asked softly, her eyes searching his face for any signs of discomfort.

John nodded, his mind finally able to rest with her in his arms. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No, Ruthie, you’re not hurting me. I promise.”

She carefully laid her head on his chest, her ear over his heart. The steady rhythm was comforting, a reminder that he was alive and here with her. That she was alive. Tears welled up in her eyes again as she clung to him.

“I missed you so much,” she whispered, sitting up on his chest and peering down at him. “I was worried sick about you. I couldn’t focus in class…”

“Class?”

Ruth’s lips formed a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I-uh,” she sniffled quietly, “teach English to some of the other kriegies.”

With a huff of air and a shake of his head, he relaxed against the straw pillow, staring at the wooden slats above him as a faint smile grew on his face. Since his capture, John had thought about how much his life was changing. The freedom he cherished would be gone, and no one knew how long he’d be stuck in the camp under German rule. But then there was Ruth, already stepping up and helping out where she could, not wallowing in self-pity like he had already begun to. 

“What?” she asked, sitting back up on his chest.

“Just you. You’re just amazing. Even here.”

Ruth blushed and her eyes dropped to his chest as she absent-mindedly traced patterns on his shirt. “It helps me feel like I’m doing something, you know? Like I’m not just sitting around, waiting for the war to end. It gives me purpose.”

“At least you’re able to do what you love. Those kids back home were lucky to have ya, and now these guys are, too.”

“It’s not the same, but it helps. And they seem to appreciate it,” she said, looking up at him. 

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “I bet they do. Doesn’t hurt that you’re gorgeous, either. You never stop amazing me, doll.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I don’t know about that. It gets my mind off of everything, though…Got my mind off you.”

He stared at her for a moment, really looking at the woman before him. She’d been through hell and was more worried about him than herself…him, who up two weeks prior had been sleeping in a warm bed in England while she was being forced across Germany. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Johnny murmured, tightening his hold on Ruth as his arms wrapped protectively around her. “You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

His question brought back a memory, and Ruth found herself being transported back to Thorpe Abbotts, to the night of Dye’s party when he’d asked the same thing. Everything was so different then. In that small hall bathroom in the Officer’s Club, John had also asked her to come to London with him. 

Oh, the things that would never be…or at least wouldn’t happen in the foreseeable future.

Her hand found its way to his cheek as she spoke. “You didn’t have to do anything, remember? I love you. Don’t let anything tell you different.” 

A few seconds passed before John sighed and looked up at the bunk above him. “You know, when I thought you were gone, I-I didn’t handle it too well. I drank…A lot. Went to London on my own, hoping to get some closure, but it…it didn’t help.”

Ruth just watched him, trying to keep her own emotions in check. To her dismay, almost everything she’d guessed had been true. The strong man she knew was reduced to someone who needed alcohol to get through the day, to go to sleep at night. He went on to tell her about London, the mission, and his interrogation, but he kept the most brutal parts to himself. She was already worried and didn’t need anything else to stress over. 

“But I do owe that Nazi chump one thing. He let me know you were alive, even if he didn’t realize it.”

“What?” she asked with furrowed brows. “How?”

“I didn’t tell him anything. But as I was leaving, he said something I wrote in my last letter to you. Told me the ‘Yankees always end on top…’ probably to try and rile me up, I guess. I knew that meant you went through there if he knew that.” 

Chuckling, Ruth shook her head. “Wow. Who’d’ve thought?”

“Speaking of the Yankees,” John began with a twinkle in his eye. “They won the World Series.”

She playfully groaned and turned away from him with a poorly hidden smirk. “I did not miss hearing crap from you about the Yankees, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, come on, doll. You know you missed it,” he teased as he turned onto his side and pulled her against him wincing slightly as pain shot through his ribs. “Don’t even deny it.”

A loud giggle involuntarily escaped her lips when he wrapped his arms around her again. The sound lifted a weight off of Johnny’s shoulder’s. It was a sound he’d heard night after night, memory after memory, and hearing it after believing he never would again eased his mind in a way he couldn’t describe. Ruth could’ve sworn she heard Frank gag from a nearby bunk, but he made no other complaints. 

They stayed like that for a while, both caught up in their thoughts. Ruth thanked God for keeping John safe, for sparing him and bringing him back to her, even if he was bloody and bruised and they were both prisoners of war. Bucky burrowed his face in her neck and breathed her scent, felt the warmth of her skin, the way she fit perfectly in his arms. She was alive. They were together. And in that moment, he promised to do whatever it took to keep her safe. 

“I love you,” he whispered after kissing her neck gently. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of saying that.”

“And I’ll never get tired of hearing it. Goodnight, hotshot. I love you.”

With a contented sigh, he closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her presence wash over him. “Goodnight, slugger.”

This time, sleep welcomed the major quickly, and for the first time in over a month, it was peaceful.

Two Days Later: October 29th: 0530 HRS: 5:30 AM

Bang. Bang.

“Aufstehen! Get up!”

The clacking of boots furthered down the hall as the occupants of room 4 slowly awoke. Ruth sat up with a yawn, running a tired hand down her face as John gingerly hopped from the bunk above her and kissed her cheek.

“Mornin, doll.”

“Morning,” she groaned, sliding on her boots and getting bundled up for the morning appell. Ruth layered her sweaters and flight jacket then wrapped her scarf around her neck. She glanced over at Hope on the bunk beside her and noticed the way her friend pulled her own scarf tightly around her neck. Taking a closer look, Ruth also noticed the redness around Hope’s eyes. Everyone knew Hope was struggling, and each time she shut down any conversations about it, Ruth became increasingly worried. In the almost month they’d been at the camp, Hope went from a little closed off to completely isolated…or maybe she just wanted to be away from Ruth? The blonde didn’t know, but she did know that it hurt her heart to see her best friend in such a state. 

Everyone quickly got ready and filed out the door for the morning roll call. It was almost always the same every morning and afternoon. The goons went down the line checking everyone was accounted for until they were satisfied. On special occasions when they felt extra cruel, the kreigies were forced to stand in their lines for hours. Luckily, that had only happened once since the girls arrived. As the chilly air turned colder with the passing days, Ruth wondered how long anyone would be able to stand exposed to the elements. It would snow soon, no doubt.

After roll call, everyone headed to the mess hall for breakfast. John threw his arm over Ruth’s shoulder, tucking her into his side. “I could eat a horse right now. I know you’re hungry, and you know I’m always hungry.”

He paused, waiting for her response, but Ruth didn’t hear a word he said. Her attention was too caught on Hope’s lonesome figure behind the group to notice he was speaking. Hope stood still, almost in a trance-like state as she stared at the mud in front of her. Bucky followed Ruth’s line of sight and sighed quietly, an understanding smile on his lips.

“Go on,” he said, squeezing her good shoulder gently.

Finally breaking from her stare, Ruth peered up at him, her brows drawn in concern. “I’ll just be a second.”

“You’re fine, doll.”

He nodded and kissed her temple. Everyone else seemed to notice the few stragglers and stood beside Bucky. Taking a deep breath, Ruth approached her friend, praying this would be the time she’d finally open up. But even as she stood three feet in front of her, Hope didn’t move. 

“Hope?” 

Hope’s tear-filled eyes snapped up to meet Ruth’s and quickly scanned the group beside John. A sudden redness crept up to her cheeks as Hope realized all the eyes that were on her. Frank appeared next to Ruth and reached out for Hope.

“You okay, Hope?” Frank asked, brushing his hand against hers. But before he could grasp it, she withdrew her hand and turned to avoid the other’s watchful eyes. Hurt flashed on his face for a moment until he reined in his expression, concern painting his face once again.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” she insisted. “I’m just tired. Lots of patients to see today, so I’ll head over to the infirmary.” She pushed past Ruth, moving through the group toward the infirmary. Ruth shared a helpless glance with Frank before following. 

“Hope! Hope, wait!” Ruth called after her, clutching onto her friend’s arm when she reached her. “Hey, you have to talk to me. Please don’t shut me out,” the blonde pleaded.

 “I’m not shutting you out, Rue. I’m busy, alright? I have things I need to do.”

Ruth’s grip remained firm on her forearm but Hope pushed her arm away. “Just go back to John, why don’t you? He’s waiting for you, so you should just go.”

Ruth felt a sharp pang in her chest at the words. The accusation, the resentment, it cut deep. After all they’d been through, this is how they were treating each other? She had been doing everything she could to be there for her friend, but it seemed like no matter what she did, it wasn’t enough. Ruth’s voice trembled as she responded, trying to keep the hurt from showing too much.

“Please, Hope. Please just talk to me.” Ruth bit her lip to stop it from wobbling as tears slowly filled her eyes.

All Hope did was step further away from the blonde. “I can’t talk to you about it. You won’t understand,” she replied plainly, pushing her dark hair away from her eyes. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks as she took a breath. “I should check on the men in the infirmary.”

Without another word, she continued down the muddy path to the infirmary block. Ruth’s watched her friend’s retreating figure until she disappeared from view. The ache in her chest was almost unbearable.

You wouldn’t understand.

What wouldn’t she understand? They’d been through the worst experience of their life together, ended up as prisoners of war together. What wouldn’t she understand? Ruth didn’t know what she was supposed to do now. She’d tried everything she knew to do.

John stepped beside her and placed a hand on her back. “I’m sorry if I’ve-”

“No, it’s not you,” Ruth interrupted, her voice breaking as she leaned into him. “You haven’t done anything. I-I just don’t know what to do. She refuses to talk to me. It’s like she’s shut me out completely.”

His hand moved to wrap around her waist, his warmth a small comfort in the cold. “Seems like you’ll have to wait for her to come to you, Ruthie.”

“I just wish there was something more I could do,” she nodded, resting her head on his shoulder.

The rest of the day passed the same as the past 35 they’d spent in the dreaded Stalag Luft III. That night, however, Hope never came back to their room. As the hours ticked by and Ruth, along with the other men, arrived from their jobs around the camp, everyone became increasingly worried. 

“Has anyone seen her?” Ruth asked frantically, running a hand quickly through her hair. “She’s usually back by now.”

Just as John opened his mouth to speak, the door opened and in walked Frank, soaked to the bone with a barely concealed frown. Glancing out the window, Ruth realized it was pouring.

When had it started raining?

Room 4’s occupants looked at the man expectantly. “Hope? You seen ‘er?” echoed Cruikshank.

Frank nodded slowly and closed the door behind him. “Yeah,” he breathed, “She, uh…She collapsed from exhaustion. Dr. Edmund is looking after her.”

“What?” Ruth blurted as her eyes widened in disbelief. Her whole body was on edge, the news sending shockwaves of panic through her. She could only imagine Hope laying in a scratchy bed surrounded by sick and injured men, forced to stay there for who knows how long. 

Collapsed? Exhaustion? Had something happened?

Before anyone could ask Frank further questions, she grabbed her jacket from her bed and pushed toward the door. “I need to see her.”

“Wait, Ruth.” Frank stepped in front of the door, a guilty look in his eyes as he blocked her path. “She doesn’t want visitors.”

Undeterred, she side-stepped him while pulling her jacket over her good arm. She needed to be there, had to be there for Hope. This wasn’t a time to let her handle things herself. “I’m not just a visitor, Frank. It’s me.”

But just as her hand reached the door handle, he put a hand on her shoulder, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. It was almost like the words pained him…like every syllable was a shot straight to the heart. “I know it’s you. She doesn’t want you to see her.”

Ruth froze, turning to stare at Frank as his words sunk in. “She doesn’t want me to see her?” Her voice wavered, and a mix of disbelief and hurt flashed over her face. “Why? Why doesn’t she want to see me?”

“Ruthie-” John started, taking a step toward her, but was interrupted.

She stepped out from under Frank’s hand on her shoulder and threw her arm up in the air. “No,” Ruth said, her voice raising as her frustration boiled over. She’d played this game the past few weeks, and enough was enough. “Why? Why doesn’t she want me there, Frank? Can you please tell me?” 

The outburst caught everyone off guard, the sharpness of her tone a stark contrast to her usual demeanor. Bucky’s eyes widened in surprise as he watched the scene before him. His heart ached for her, knowing how much she was hurting, and he felt a pang of helplessness. He always admired her quiet strength, her resilience, but seeing her like this…so vulnerable and desperate…it broke his heart.

Frank looked pained as he tried to explain. “She thinks she’s protecting you. She doesn’t want you to see her like this.”

Ruth’s shoulders slumped as the fight drained from her. “I’m sorry, Frank,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “Thanks for, uh, telling me.”

All eyes followed her figure as she walked to her bunk and laid down, turning her back to all of them. She didn’t know how much more of it she could take. Things were so much easier when they had each other, and in isolating herself, Hope had accidentally isolated Ruth as well. Without the other, they were the only woman in the camp. 

Frank and John exchanged a glance, pure helplessness evident in both their eyes at the situation. They couldn’t make Hope talk to Ruth, and the fact they couldn’t do anything hurt more than any punishment either of the men recieved in captivity. 

Sighing heavily, Frank ran a hand through his dripping hair. “I wish there was more we could do,” he murmured.

Johnny nodded, glancing back at Ruth’s figure across the room. “Yeah, me too.” His voice was thick, and the usually talkative Major struggled to find the right words. “It’s tearing her apart, Martin. I’ve-I’ve never seen her like this.”

“Hope’ll come around, eventually. She has to.”

“I hope you’re right,” Bucky replied softly as his eyes remained fixed on the woman he loved. “I really hope you’re right.”

Thursday, November 4th: 1500 HRS: 3 PM

The days passed slowly for everyone in room 4, especially Ruth. While Frank was able to check on Hope in the infirmary, no one else was allowed to visit…this didn’t stop Ruth from trying, however. But to her dismay, she was turned away by Dr. Edmunds before she could even make it through the door. 

She attended class as normal and went about her days, but a dark cloud of worry loomed over her mind, consuming her every thought. Even as she wrote on the chalkboard behind her, she wasn’t fully present. If her students could tell something was wrong, they didn’t comment on it. They just copied down the notes in the notebooks the Red Cross sent them in their packages. 

“So, Lady Macbeth,” Ruth said as she scribbled the character name on the board,” She is an example of character archetype?” 

Her eyes flitted across the room, scanning each of the young men’s faces. Some were searching through their notes to find the answer while others stared at the board in thought. A hand flew up in the front corner of the room, and it brought a smile to Ruth’s face when she saw it was George. 

“Go ahead, George,” she gestured to him.

“Is she a femme fatale?”

“Great job. Lady Macbeth is a great example of a femme fatale. Now can someone besides George tell me what a femme fatale is?”

Before anyone could raise their hand, a knock sounded through the classroom. “Come in,” she called.

A few of the men gave her a wary look, unsure of who would be stopping by in the middle of a lesson. Since Ruth started teaching a few weeks prior, they hadn’t had any visitors. She thought it could be John who’d said he might pop in sometime to see her. Who stuck their head around the corner, however, was the last person she’d ever expect.

Hope.

Did she finally want to talk? After all that time?

Ruth glanced at her watch and placed down the chalk. 

“I think that’ll be all for today. Make sure to read up to Act 3, scene 2, and we’ll go from there in the next lesson.” 

The men packed up quickly and exited the room, sensing the unspoken tension between the women. Ruth leaned against her desk, arms crossed over her chest as she waited expectantly. To say she was surprised to see her friend in her class was an understatement. In all the time she’d been teaching in the camp Hope had never once visited. 

Relief and frustration bubbled up inside Ruth. Of course, she was happy to see her friend, but Hope treated her poorly and her words cut deep. She didn’t quite look annoyed but Hope knew her well enough to know that she wasn’t exactly pleased that she hadn’t allowed her to visit the infirmary. 

“I’m glad to see you’re up and about again,” Ruth replied plainly, a faint smile on her lips. This was her best friend, but she felt like a stranger now. “You had me worried, Hope…had me worried for a while now. Since the crash, you’ve not been yourself, and I understand that but…” she cut herself off, pushing herself away from her desk and moving to a table a few feet away from Hope.

Hope kept her eyes trained on the floor, unable to meet Ruth’s, embarrassment clear on her reddening cheeks as the tears building in her eyes threatened to fall. 

“I’m sorry, Rue…” she mumbled softly. 

Ruth sighed, moving closer and standing before her. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I know things haven’t been easy for you, but things haven’t been easy for me, either. We need each other, and you pushed me away…pushed us all away.” 

Tears welled in Ruth’s eyes, too, and Hope felt a choked sob slipping from her lips, “I failed you, Ruth. I just keep failing and disappointing you.” 

Sympathy easily overpowered Ruth’s frustration, and she tugged Hope into an embrace. Hope’s head fell against the blonde's shoulder and she felt Ruth’s arms encasing her as she cried. It was the most relief she’d felt in months: to truly cry…to release all the emotions that had been bottled up for the past month. 

“I’m so sorry, Ruth.”

The two women remained still, each clinging to the other as they cried over the events of the last few months. Neither of them had truly faced what had become of them but it was good to finally share in their grief. To face reality together.

Ruth pulled back, rubbing away the stray tears that streaked down her pale cheeks. “Hope please tell me what happened. Frank said you collapsed from exhaustion and didn’t want anyone to visit. I tried to anyways but Dr. Edmund said you weren’t up for visitors.” 

She wanted answers…needed answers as to why Hope quite literally shut her out.

Hope bit her lip, seemingly caught in a battle within herself. A few moments passed until she shakily spoke. “Well, I’ve not been sleeping too well for a while now but I’d finally finished the letter to Gale that Edmund promised to pass onto him,” she began, inhaling sharply between each sentence. “I went to the infirmary earlier, I couldn’t sleep and I wanted Edmund to have it as soon as possible. I went to the infirmary to drop it off and there was this man there…”

Hope gulped.

“He was a patient and was as good as dead, but…”

Ruth couldn’t help the emotion that clawed at her throat as Hope spoke. Her friend’s voice sounded so broken and painful as she relived the events that Ruth didn’t know what to say. What could she say?

“He grabbed me and he tried too… Well, he didn’t manage it. Edmund said it was all the shock of that and the sleep deprivation that my body finally just gave up. He put me on bed rest. Frank only found out because I was unconscious when he arrived and Edmund let him in.” 

Hope let out a long sigh, reaching to take Ruth’s shaking hands in her own, “I didn’t want you to see me so broken, Rue. I’ve always promised that I’d look after you but all I do is keep failing and letting you down.”

Ruth shook her head, fighting to keep her lip from trembling, “You haven’t failed me, alright? You’re the strongest, most talented, hardest working person I know, and you’re the most incredible nurse. I wouldn’t be here without you. Thank you for taking care of me, but it’s my turn to take care of you. You just have to let me.” 

A painful wail slipped from Hope as she sobbed once more, surrendering to her own grief. How had she been so blind to the pain she’d caused her friend? 

“I love you, Rue, I love you so much and I can’t lose you.” 

Ruth’s hand smoothed down Hope’s back, “I love you too, Hope. And don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” 

Tag List: @xxluckystrike @precious-little-scoundrel @bcofl0ve @violetdaze25 @docroesmorphine -> will tag rest in comments!

let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! <3

[footprintsinthesxnd]

Chapter 11: The Wire

Gale Cleven × Hope Armstrong (ofc)

Series Masterlist

This story is based on on the fictional portrayal of these men from the MOTA to series.

Summary: As the girls realise their fate is sealed for the remainder of the war, Gale makes his last flight of the war.

Collab: A Pair of Silver Wings by @major-mads

October 1, 1943: Sagan, Germany

Two days.

Two days of squalor, of the constant smell of human excrement, of pure hell. They’d stopped a few times to pick up other prisoners, prolonging the journey deeper into Germany. When the train car door finally slid open, its occupants shielded their eyes as the bright morning light shone into the car. Frank, Hope, and Ruth remained in the corner, unable to stand when the harsh commands to do so echoed through the air.

“Up!”

The airmen did their best to follow the order, but their weakened bodies slowed their movements, angering the Germans who began roughly pulling them from the train. Once the dozens of legs surrounding them stepped toward the exit, Hope clambered to her feet, her legs shaking as she helped pull Ruth up. They shared an anxious glance while Frank grabbed their jacket sleeves and led the trio toward the door behind the other POWs.

“Stay close,” he stressed, looking to each of them for confirmation. “We’re not gonna get split up this time, alright?”

It took their eyes a few moments to adjust to the blinding light of the sun they hadn’t seen in a few days as they jumped down from the train, mud squelching beneath their boots. Hope could feel her heart pounding in her chest as her dark eyes scanned their surroundings. Her eyes fell upon the dark pine forest in the distance. She wondered if they always built camps surrounded by forests because it was easier to get lost if you tried to escape. The loud slam of the car door caused her to turn, noticing the hard faced guard standing at the front of their group.

The guard at the front of the group motioned toward the path with a yell. “Walk! Now!”

Ruth’s eyes widened in panic as they started walking. “Do you think they’re gonna kill us?”

“No,” Hope replied quietly, offering her friend a forced smile. She honestly didn’t know what the Krauts had planned for them but she wasn’t about to give Ruth more to worry about. “They wouldn’t transport us this far just to kill us.”

Though Ruth nodded in tentative agreement, Hope’s own doubts lingered, a silent weight pressing down upon her. The uncertainty of their fate was almost unbearable, each step forward carrying them deeper into the unknown.

Where were they going?

How long would they be there?

Would they ever see their loved ones again?

They could feel the filth clinging to their bodies with each step down the path. The mud, sweat, blood, and disgusting muck from the train car coated their clothes. It was far worse than any conditions they had experienced as nurses. The women prayed for a shower or just somewhere they could clean themselves of the grime painting their skin. After almost two weeks, the pain in Ruth’s arm dulled into a throb with every movement, and thankfully, Frank’s ribs were much the same. Hope’s bruises were beginning to fade and the deep gash above her eye had slowly closed. She still hadn’t talked about what happened to her in Dulag Luft. How could she explain it?

The path through the forest stretched on for about a half-mile before they reached the edge of the treeline. As they emerged from the forest, the sight before them stole their breath away. A vast clearing spread before them, dominated by a sprawling complex of buildings, huts, and sheds. The entire area was encircled by a pair of menacing barbed-wire fences, their twisted coils glinting ominously in the sunlight. Along the perimeter, wooden guard towers loomed tall, manned by German soldiers armed to the teeth with rifles, machine guns, and searchlights.

Frank’s jaw clenched as he took in the formidable sight, his mind racing with grim possibilities. “Looks like our new home,” he remarked, his tone laced with bitterness. “Real cosy.

Hope’s hand found Ruth’s, squeezing it tightly as their group approached the large main gate. Hope opened her mouth to speak but was cut off by a loud siren and the gate creaking open. As they walked through the gates and beyond the perimeter of barbed wire, prisoners flocked to the sides of the walkway, scanning the new arrivals for any familiar faces. They wore frayed and mismatched uniforms, many of them hanging loosely on the men’s slender frames. Some were dressed in American uniforms, further down the line were men dressed in British RAF uniforms but they didn’t all speak English. Hope thought she could make out Polish, or maybe Czech. Some called out to friends they recognized, their excited laughter lifting the atmosphere just slightly. Others murmured in disbelief when they caught sight of the women, their expressions filled with shock and pity.

“Can you believe it? Women here…” one muttered from where he leaned against the wire.

“Poor things,” the man beside him replied sadly. “Leave it to the Germans to make women POWs. I wonder what unit they’re with.”

Among the pitied glances were men whose eyes lingered on Hope and Ruth with a disturbing intensity. It was clear that some hadn’t seen women in years, and their unsettling stares sent a chill down the girls’ spines. Frank shot a warning glare at anyone who dared stare too long, his protective instincts kicking into high gear as he trailed closely behind them.

“Welcome to Stalag Luft III, ladies! This place is going to eat you alive.”

Hope turned to see who had spoke and her eyes fell on a man ahead of them, his sunken face bearing a smirk. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes and red sores sat along the corners of his lips. Hope had never seen a man in such desperate need of medical care but there wasn’t much she could do for him here, without any supplies. She wondered how long he had been here to end up in such a fate. The thought struck her that maybe this was their fate too.

Was that her future? To end up like him?

Frank’s voice behind them cut through the buzz of the crowd. “Ignore him,” he said, sparing the man a pointed glance. “He’s just a bitter old timer who’s been here too long.”

Hope nodded in agreement, her grip on Ruth’s hand tightening slightly as they continued past the wire, further into the camp. They were led into one of the buildings and lined up before being searched for any items considered contraband. Thankfully, their Luftwaffe searchers were more respectful than the soldiers who found them after the crash, patting them down without allowing their hands to linger.

Once the search was complete, they were fingerprinted and photographed, reminding the trio of their arrival at Dulag Luft. Thinking back on that day, Hope couldn’t help but wonder where Bob Wolff ended up. He was the only piece of home they had… the only tie to the small corner of East Anglia the women held so dearly to their hearts. The thought was pushed from her mind when a neatly folded pile of two thin blankets, a rough mattress cover, and a straw-filled pillow was thrust toward her. Hope’s heart sank at the sight of the pitiful bedding, knowing it would offer little comfort in the cold nights ahead. They were slightly nicer than the ones in Dulag Luft and the girls tried not to think about the infestation of lice they probably harboured.

In line before her, Ruth blinked away the tears filling her eyes as she was given a small package filled with eating utensils and toiletries. She clutched the scratchy towel close to her chest, struggling to hold it all with one hand. At the final stop, a man held out her new “dog tags,” her prisoner of war number stamped into the shiny metal.

Hope stood behind her, taking her own tag next. Her number read 2982. It was a far cry from her serial number, one that she’d been proud to quote. Now she was reduced down to just a number rather than a human being.

Hope joined Ruth against the wall, and Frank soon made his way over to them, and before they knew it, their group of about 30 Americans was led back through the camp to a gate leading into one of the many compounds on site. Hope and Ruth’s eyes scanned the large area, taking in the dozens of men walking around, some returning to their blocks after swarming the wire a few minutes before.

All eyes flew to the gate behind them as it shut, sealing them into the compound for the foreseeable future. It was like a finally deafening bang that saw their future sealed. Hope wasn’t sure what the future held for them, but after the confinement in Dulag Luft she knew that Stalag Luft couldn’t be as bad, she had her friends for a start. They would get through this together. Beside her, Hope could see Ruth beginning to lose her cool. Her shoulders sagged under her ragged breaths and she knew that she’d begin to spiral if she didn’t step in.

Hope passed her things to Frank, giving him a knowing look to which a sympathetic smile spread over his lips. She reached out to grab her shoulders, reassuringly squeezing them. “Rue, it’s okay,” she said softly, her voice steady and calming. “We’re gonna be alright.”

Frank stepped closer to them. “Take deep breaths, Ruth. In…and out.”

Hope saw Ruth tightening against the growing panic attack. They had been a common occurrence when she’d first joined them as a new nurse. Hope had feared at one point that she might not make it as a flight nurse. After a few moments, her breathing evened out and the panic passed. Frank and Hope sent each other a relieved glance, thankful the anxiety strike didn’t progress into a full-fledged attack. It wasn’t the first panic Ruth had around the pair, and Hope was surprised she hadn’t had one since they went down. In her eyes, it was long overdue.

“Welcome to the lovely South Compound,” a commanding voice called out to the group. “I’m Colonel Goodrich, and I’ll be your Commanding Officer during your stay here.”

Goodrich was a tall man with dark, curly hair. He stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke. The colonel’s sharp gaze swept over the faces of the men before him, assessing their conditions. But it was when his eyes landed on Ruth and Hope that his expression shifted, a flicker of surprise and concern crossing his features. He hesitated momentarily before gesturing to the shorter man beside him.

“This is Major Dodson. He’s going to assign you to blocks.”

Dodson stepped forward and began to lead the group toward the dozens of buildings across the clearing. The trio started to follow but froze when Goodrich’s voice filled the air.

“You three. Hold on a moment.”

The rest of the group murmured among themselves as they followed Dodson to get their bunking assignments, leaving Hope, Frank, and Ruth standing alone before the Colonel. He approached them with his hands in his pockets, his demeanor serious but not unkind.

“I apologize for singling you out, but we’ve never had women here. I thought maybe it was one thing the Germans wouldn’t do, but here we are…Do you need medical attention?”

Hope exchanged a quick glance with Ruth and Frank before replying, “No, sir. We’re alright, just a bit banged up from the crash.”

Colonel Goodrich nodded, his gaze lingering on the blood and cuts marring Ruth’s face and the grimy appearance of all three of them. “I see. What outfit are you with?”

“806th MAETS,” Frank replied.

“Ahh, so you’re flight nurses, I’m guessing.”

Hope stuck out her hand. “Yes, sir. First Lieutenant Hope Armstrong,” she gestured to herself. “This is my counterpart Second Lieutenant Ruth Morgan, and our pilot Captain Frank Martin.”

Goodrich shook each of their hands and offered the women a kind smile. “I hate you two are stuck here, but I’ll do what I can to help you out. I imagine you’d all like to clean up a bit. Major Dodson can arrange private showers for you, Lieutenants. It’s cold and might not be the Ritz, but it’s better than nothing.”

The thought of showers, of getting clean perked Ruth up, and she nodded once at the man. “Thank you, sir.”

“Of course, ma’am.” Goodrich glanced at his watch before taking a breath and walking away, motioning for them to follow. “I’ll take you to your assigned block. This compound has only been open a few weeks, so there’s a lot of empty rooms.“

The air inside the block was musty, but it felt like a sanctuary compared to the chaos and constant vigilance they’d endured the past few weeks. The Colonel stopped before a door and turned to face them.

“This building is relatively quiet,” he explained, looking down the long hallway at the few men entering their room further down. “You’ll have this room to yourselves. It’ll give you a little bit of privacy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Colonel Goodrich nodded, and Hope could tell he wished he could do more for them, but this was the best he could do. ”Dodson will be back soon to take you to the showers. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything.”

With that, he turned and left them standing in front of the door to their room, staring at the wood blankly. Frank took a deep breath and opened the door. The space was dimly lit by a small window, casting long shadows across the room. Triple-decker bunk beds lined the walls, each one with a thin straw mattress that looked as disgusting as the ones in their Dulag Luft cells. A single table stood in the middle of the room.

“Well, I guess this is it,” Frank remarked, dropping his handful of things to the table with a thud.

Hope nodded in agreement, her gaze lingering on the bunk beds. “At least we have a place to rest.”

Ruth was the first to choose a bunk, opting for the lower bunk farthest from the door, and Hope chose the one beside her. Frank decided on the bunk above Hope. It reminded Hope a little of being back home with Hugh. As young children he’d had the top bunk and would often ‘accidentally’ drop things on her in the night. Her heart ached for her brother. He always knew what to do and always knew how to make light of a situation. She could use a hug from her big brother right now, and Gale… she tried not to think of Gale as she set about making her bed before sinking down onto the stiff mattress. She could see the exhaustion clearly on Ruth’s face and she pitied the young teacher. She was sure this wasn’t what Ruth had envisioned when she’d joined up to help.

“That man,” she whispered, blinking away tears that stung her eyes, “The one at the gate…”

“What about him?” Hope could see the tears slipping slowly down Ruth’s cheeks.

“His eyes…they looked so hollow, so hopeless. I-I don’t want to end up like that.”

Hope sat on the edge of Ruth’s bed, placing a hand on her arm. “Hey, you won’t. You’ve got me. And you’ve got Frank. We’re not going anywhere.”

As Hope stared into her friend’s glistening eyes, she hoped the woman couldn’t see through her. That she couldn’t see the terror that possessed her every thought, every moment, every dream since the door of her cell slammed shut at Dulag Luft. It was no secret that they were at the mercy of their captors who could do anything they wanted, and Hope feared it was only a matter of time until the Germans took advantage of it.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, through the thin walls, and Hope’s heart skipped a beat. She could see it now: a German shoving open the door, dragging her and Ruth out by their hair to do unspeakable things to them. But when three quiet knocks filled the air, she furrowed her brows.

Germans wouldn’t knock.

The women watched with bated breath as Frank slowly approached the door, shooting them a warning glance that seemed to say, ‘get ready.’ Before he opened it, the visitor spoke on the other side, their voice muffled through the wood.

“It’s Major Dodson. I’ve arranged some showers for y’all.”

Hope let out a soft exhale, the tension in her shoulders easing as Frank shook his head and opened the door. Quickly blinking her eyes, Ruth tried to clear any sign of tears from her face before he could see. Dodson stepped inside, smiling kindly at the two women sitting on the bed. If he noticed the blonde’s red-rimmed eyes, he didn’t comment on it.

“Nice to meet you, Lieutenants.” He nodded at them, then turned to Frank. “And you, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dodson held out a bundle of clothing to him. “Here are some fresh clothes. I found the smallest ones possible for you two, but-”

“Thank you,” Hope interrupted. “I’m sure they’re fine, sir.”

“Grab your stuff and follow me. I reckon y’all are chomping at the bit to get clean. I know I was when I arrived.”

His accent held a slight southern twang, and Hope raised an eyebrow at Ruth, who instantly noticed and perked up, feeling a little bit at home. They each gathered their basic shower pack and towel quickly, following the Major out of the building.

Hope could feel Frank’s large hand pressing against the small of her back, a comforting reminder of his presence and an action he had done so many times before.

She smiled up at him, and he returned to sentiment. It occurred to Hope that in another life she may have ended up with Frank, they’d spent so much time together in such close proximity that something would have probably happened if it hadn’t been for their unwavering friendship.

“You alright?” He cocked an eyebrow at her and she just shook her head.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Hope?” Frank stopped her for a moment, brushing the lose strands of her dark hair away from the large gash on her forehead. His thumb knocked the wound and she winced, moving to follow after the Major. Frank caught up with her in a few strides, his arm coming around her and pulling her into his side.

“I’m not ever letting you out of my sight again, Hope. Not ever.”

It was a promise that she knew he might not be able to keep. Frank meant well but if the Krauts wanted her then they would have her, and there was nothing Frank would be able to do.

Dodson directed them around the corner of a block to a much smaller concrete building, resembling the shower building at Dulag Luft. The krauts sure weren’t original with their POW camp architecture, that was for sure. As they reached the door, the Major spun to face them.

“There are no curtains, so-”

“You two go first,” Frank interrupted, nodding at Hope and Ruth.

“Alright. There’s only one entrance, so Captain Martin and I will stand guard while you two are showerin’. Sound alright?”

Hope and Ruth held each other’s gaze for a moment before thanking him and stepping inside. The room was dark and damp with a row of sinks on one side and a few showerheads on the other. A couple of benches lined the middle, and they set down their packs and towels, exchanging another brief glance before turning their backs to each other before starting to undress.

Hope peeled away her B-3 jacket that clung to her body. She hadn’t removed it since the crash and the leather was now worn and looking far less presentable. Next camp her overalls, peeling the olive drab, blood-stained cloth from her body. The feeling of the cool air hitting her exposed skin caused goosebumps to raise upon her skin. She shivered, her teeth chattering.

“I can’t wait to get this thing off,” Ruth groaned, casting a longing glance at her arm, the splint’s once pristine bandages now a disgusting brown. “I can’t wait to get this thing off. I can’t even shower cause it’ll get wet.”

“How’s it feeling?” Hope asked sympathetically from behind her. She knew how annoying a splint could be. She’d broken her arm when she was climbing trees with Hugh as a child and the whole ordeal still haunted her.

“It still hurts, but it’s better than before.”

“And how long has it been since you got the splint?”

“Barely a week,” she sighed. “The nurse said 6-8 weeks.”

Hope paused, thinking it over for a moment. “I’d have to agree with her. Five more weeks, Rue.”

“Great.”

Silence again filled the small room and Hope gathered up her dirty clothes, piling them at the end of the bench. She pulled the contents from her overall pocket. She didn’t unfold the pictures, she didn’t dare. She wasn’t sure whether she’d ever be able to face Gale’s smiling face. How could such a happy memory live on in a place like this?

She moved quickly to the shower as Ruth finished undressing. She pulled the lever and allowed the frigid water to run down her exposed body. She gasped, closing her eyes as she stepped beneath the shower. Her head turned down as the water covered her body. The water around her feet grew dark, a mixture of mud and blood that had caked her body disappeared into the drain.

She rubbed the rough, tan cloth over her pale flesh, trying to ignore the purple, green and yellow tinted bruises that covered her body. The water stung at the scraps and cuts across her arms but she ignored it. The worst pain was her fingers, the sore blunt ends of her nails from where she had clawed at her cell door. They had scabbed over but now weeped once more.

She hated to think what she looked like. Her eyeliner had long since worn away and she’d always thought she looked pale and ill without a little bit of blush to give her some colour. Although her appearance was definitely the last of her problems at the current time.

She rubbed the cloth over her thigh, following the line of the deep, purple scar. It hadn’t healed well, the flesh remained raised and prominent. It was something that always made her doubt herself, her abilities, yet it was something that Gale assured her made her ever more beautiful. She was a fighter, she didn’t give up easily and it showed the sacrifice she had made to help others.

Silent, salty tears made their track down her cheeks at the thought of him. He was so far away now. So far from her.

She thought back to her shower at Thorpe Abbott, when Gale’s warm arms had supported her as she washed away her blood. His hands never once roaming too far but his fingers had trailed up her sides, rubbing comforting circles on her exposed flesh. The way his plump lips had pressed against her shoulders, his teeth grazing the smooth flesh. He had loved her so much, and she had loved him. She still loved him. It was one of her favourite memories, for that was all it was now.

She turned off the shower, shaking the memory that had so vividly haunted her. Gale’s memory didn’t deserve to be bought to such a place as this.

The final dregs of water stopped dripping, leaving the bath house deathly silent. Hope shuffled over to the pile of clothes that she’d left on the bench. She rubbed the rough sacking that substituted as a towel over her body, ignoring the way it sandpapered her skin. She longed for her scented soap that Hugh had bought for her birthday. Now she smelt of hay and a faint smell of sweat, still an improvement of how bad she had smelt prior to her shower.

Ruth was still deep in thought, bent over the sink. Hope didn’t utter a word, instead pulling on the ‘fresh’ clothes that Major Dodson had bought them. They hung on her small frame but she pulled the clothes on regardless, tucking the shirt into the oversized trousers and buttoning up the jacket.

She began racking her fingers through her dark, tangled locks, pulling at the strands and wincing as small clumps of hair pulled out between her fingers. She wrapped up the wet hair, pulling it into a bun and replacing the pins she had in her overall pocket. Her hand came to rest on the dog tags around her neck, the new and her old tags. Her index finger ran over the familiar engagement ring. She’d kept it tucked down in her overalls in Dulag Luft, she couldn’t bear to have it taken from her again.

She picked up the pictures next, placing them carefully in the top pocket of her new jacket. She still couldn’t bare to look at them, maybe tonight when she was on her own but not now.

Drawing in a sharp breath, she turned to see Ruth pulling on her own clothes. Her blonde hair was a tangled, wet mess and Hope sympathised as she watched her friend trying to pull it out of her way with one hand.

“I’ll plait it for you later if you’d like.”

Ruth had still been deep in thought and she looked a little startled but nodded in agreement. “Please.”

The girls finished in the bath house and joined Frank and Major Dodson outside.

“I’ll lead you back to your bunkhouse,” Dodson suggested and Frank nodded in agreement. “I’d like to think the men here are better than the Krauts, but some of them have been here so long that…” he trailed off.

“Thank you, Dodson,” Frank added, “I’ll have a quick wash up and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t rush, Frank. Ruth and I are just going to settle in,” Hope confirmed, linking her arm through Ruth’s, their eyes meeting for a brief moment.

Dodson had long strides and the girls struggled to keep up with him as he marched back across the camp to their bunkhouse. Hope and Ruth slipped in the mud and clung onto each other, the last thing they wanted was to end up covered in mud again.

Dodson opened the door to the wooden house for them and led them inside once more. “Do you girls need anything? Anything at all?”

Ruth flopped down onto her bunk with a sigh and Hope shook her head, “No, I think we’re good thank you, Major. I think we just need some sleep.”

The Major nodded, sending Hope a soft smile before he closed the door gently behind him. Now they were alone, Hope moved to sit next to Ruth. She began to run her fingers through Ruth’s damp locks, causing her friend to emit a long, satisfied groan.

“Sit up, Rue, I’ll plait your hair.”

The blonde obliged, sitting up as best she could without hitting her head on the low bed above her. As Hope moved her fingers through her hair Ruth sighed once more, finally feeling a little more relaxed. She’d been so uptight since they had crashed that she’d barely taken a moment to breathe.

Hope stayed silent behind her and Ruth turned to look at her friend, noticing the few tears that had slipped down her cheeks.

“Oh Hope, what’s wrong?”

Hope shook her head firmly, wiping the tears away quickly, “I’m fine, I promise, Rue.”

Ruth knew better than to believe her stoic friend but she knew pressing her on the subject would only cause Hope to close up further.

“Dodson seems nice,” she changed the subject, hoping she may be able to distract Hope from whatever was plaguing her.

She hummed in agreement but continued to run her fingers through Ruth’s hair. Grabbing the thin comb from her shower pack, Hope did her best to detangle the mess of blonde before her.She didn’t really feel like talking. The events of the past few weeks had finally caught up with her and she felt as though she might burst with the pent up emotions.

“I wonder what the guys are doing now?” Ruth replied absentmindedly as she tugged at a loose thread on her bedding. “What do you think they’re doing?”

Hope thought for a moment, trying to imagine the boys back at Thorpe Abbott. She honestly wasn’t sure what they would be doing but she knew Ruth was trying her best to make conversation.

“Hugh’s probably annoying John in some way and Gale’s probably trying to keep the peace.”

Ruth chuckled as she imagined Hugh bickering with John like two spoiled children. She could see Gale now, running his hand through his blond locks with an exasperated sigh.

“Poor Gale,” Ruth chuckled, “At least he’ll be good at breaking up fights if you guys have kids.” She was trying to be positive, to think of the future but from the look on Hope’s face she knew her friend was struggling.

Pulling her head away from Hope’s hands she pulled her into a tight hug, squishing her face into Hope’s neck. She could feel Hope relaxing a little beneath her touch.

Hope couldn’t help but relax as Ruth’s body collided with her own. It was one of the few things that still made her smile. She wasn’t sure what the coming weeks and months would hold for them, but at least they had each other.

October 8th, Thorpe Abbott AAF base, 06:00

It was mission day. They all knew it, even before the light went on and they were woken up early in the morning.

Gale and Hugh had been up for hours, sipping coffee atop ‘Our Baby’s’ wing as they watched the sun begin to slowly creep up from behind the trees, embracing the base in the warm glow.

John was in London on the trip he had planned with Ruth. He’d asked Gale to accompany him, but understood when Gale declined. He didn’t feel like spending his days leave trying to keep a drunk, grieving John under control while he still had so much of his own grief to deal with. Instead he stayed with Hugh and the pair leaned on each other for support.

“Gale?” Hugh asked, his dark eyes searching Gale’s face while the other man continued to stare blankly across the handstand. “Gale, there’s something I want you to have.”

Gale watched as Hugh rummaged in his A-2 jacket pocket, fumbling and pulling out a pack of cigarettes and several crumpled pieces of paper. He smoothed out one of the sheets before folding it in half and pressing it into Gale’s outstretched hand.

Gale looked up at Hugh questioningly, not daring to open the paper.

“I think this is the one,” Hugh sighed sadly, “This is the one that will get me.”

“You don’t know that,” Gale argued, shuffling closer to Hugh, and wrapping his arm around the pilot's shoulder. “You can’t say that.”

“Hope asked me to keep those safe,” he motioned to the paper in Gale’s hand. “But seeing as I don’t know what’s going to happen I thought you should have it.”

“What is it?” Gale asked, his throat tight and he couldn’t bring himself to open the paper.

“It’s her wedding vows, she never liked being original so she wrote her own. She told me not to read them but I couldn’t help myself,” Hugh took a shaky breath before squeezing Gale’s hand and standing up on the wing. “She really did love you Gale.”

Gale watched as Hugh climbed down from the wing, making his way back across the handstand. Staring down at the paper in his hand, Gale couldn’t find the strength in him to open it. He pushed it into his pocket, alongside Hope’s picture and letter. He’d read it later once Bremen had been a success.

Hugh found his eyes finding Gale’s across the handstand, sharing a single nod before Hugh moved to climb up into the cockpit. His co-pilot sent him a sympathetic smile and Hugh tried to ignore the talk amongst his crew. Some didn’t think he was fit to fly after losing Hope, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. It was a conversation he’d shared with Harry and Rosie that had given him the courage to climb back into the cockpit.

“You’re sister was an amazing woman, Hugh,” Harry spoke up, staring sadly into his beer. “She was a damn good nurse and I considered her one of my best friends.”

Harry’s dark eyes were tearful as he looked over at Hugh, swallowing hard.

“I didn’t really get a chance to know her very well,” Rosie added, his moustache turning down in a sad frown. “But from everything I’ve heard I’m sure I would have liked her very much.”

“You would,” Hugh interrupted, licking his lips as he inhaled shakily, “She was my better half. She saved my ass more times than I can remember…” He trailed off, unable to find the right words in the bustling pub to describe how much his sister meant to him.

Harry, sensing the tension in his friend, shuffled his chair around the table so he was beside Hugh and Rosie.

“To Hope! May she always live on through us.” He raised his glass in the air and Hugh and Rosie followed suit.

“To Hope.”

Hugh smiled, started his preflight checks with the photograph of Hope and himself at Dye’s party stuck to the control panel.

“This one’s for you, Hope.”

Gale didn’t know whether to take this as a coincidence or an omen, but this wasn’t how he planned to start the Bremen mission. One of the magnetos wasn’t working and despite Gale’s never-ending faith in Ken Lemmons, he couldn’t help but feel like maybe this was happening for a reason.

“What are you trying to tell me, Hope?” He mumbled to himself, glancing out the window to catch a glance of Lemmons from his spot on the wheel.

Demarco was comparing from his seat, soothing about pulling the plane over but Gale shook his head, remaining positive and grinning at Demarco

“Believe, Benny. Believe.”

Gale’s bright eyes fell into the control panel, smiling at the three pictures he’d placed lovingly along it. Hope and himself at Dye’s party, Hope and Meatball and Hope, Hugh and himself on one of the girls' visits to Thorpe Abbotts. His heart ached and he drew his hand to his chest, fumbling his dog tags at feeling instant relief as his index finger ran over the familiar gold bands, relishing in the comforting, smoothness of the ring. It was something he’d found himself doing more and more often, running his fingers around in a spherical motion, repeating, repeating, repeating until his heart rate slowed and his chest no longer felt so tight. He knew that wherever Hope was she would be looking out for him.

“Hey Buck, you with me?” Demarco chuckled, grinning at Gale who merely looked at him, dazed. “Lemmons has only gone and done it. We’re up.”

Gale nodded, re-engaging with the present and preparing the Fort for lift-off. He’d never felt more sure of a mission before, but he knew this one was going to be big and despite the nervous feeling bubbling inside him as the plane left the tarmac he knew he’d be alright because Hope would be with him.

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[sagesolsticewrites]

some news,,, I’ve made an OC for the latest fic I’m working on! Very excited for you all to meet my girl Juliet Thompson: English teacher, Shakespeare enthusiast, and girlfriend of one Captain John Brady 👀