#rosie rosenthal fanfiction

[therealslimshakespeare]

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

Pairing: Rosie Rosenthal & Ida Brady, intimacy journey.

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

Requested? ☑️

Circa: October 1945

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

Together. Nuremberg.

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

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

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

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

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

-companions didn’t wear things like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning.” she whispered.

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

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

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[rosienthal]

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

[beingalive1]

Bibi And Her Blue-Eyed Baby ⎯ Pt. 2

Rosie Rosenthal x Oc [Batya Bernstein]

Part 1: Here

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

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

September 20th, 1943

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

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

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

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

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

Perks of the job.  

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

She heard him before she saw him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She almost killed Egan.

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

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

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

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

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

She’d force him to buy her multiple. 

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

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

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

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

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

Two years later. 

Thousands of miles away from New York. 

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

Her Blue-eyed baby. 

Hashem help her. 

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

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

[cetaitlaverite]

Why All This Music? - Bonus Chapter

Masters of the Air - Rosie Rosenthal x OC

the first of the three bonus chapters!! the context is quite obvious, but it takes place when freddie is first making her way to new york after the war. hope you love!!! <3333

masterlist is linked here

Freddie Arrives in New York

The journey from England to America was long. Two weeks long, to be exact. Freddie and Millie passed the time daydreaming about the lovers they had waiting for them in New York, about the lives they were about to start. They chatted endlessly over breakfast, lunch, and dinner about what their weddings would look like, how they’d decorate their homes at Christmas, how many children they’d like to have. They fantasised about all the parts of their lives they’d never really expected to encounter and yet, with every passing day, were drawing closer to.

The ship was full of American soldiers and their European girlfriends. As such, when it docked, the harbour was full to bursting with families and friends, waving frantically and calling out to loved ones they hadn’t seen in years.

War was really over. Peace was really here. Some would never be returning home, others were now in search of it.

Freddie squinted through the morning sunshine, holding tight to Meatball’s lead on one side and Millie’s hand on the other, and kept her eyes peeled for Rosie or Brady. Finding them was bound to be impossible; there were so many people waiting to greet the ship’s passengers it was like searching for one specific snowflake in a snowstorm.

��Do you see them?” Millie called above the din, shielding her eyes from the sun with her free hand and craning her neck every which way in search of Brady or Rosie.

Freddie shook her head, gnawing on her bottom lip as she scanned the crowd for a familiar face. “No,” she called back, her voice shaky. All of this was so nerve-wracking. At least, she comforted herself, it would be over soon, and then she’d be with Rosie in his apartment, revelling in the peace of their new life together.

The sun was warm and it was making Freddie sweat. As she and Millie followed the crowd down the ramp onto the dock, people were pushing closer and closer to her. But it was Meatball she was most worried about, so much shorter than everyone else and probably so confused by the chaos. She wished, not for the first time, that she could pick him up, but she knew she just wasn’t strong enough.

At least, she reminded herself, they didn’t have their luggage to worry about just yet. That would come later, and then Rosie would carry it for her, she was sure.

It was Brady who found them first. Almost the instant they set foot on land he was turning Millie to face him and drawing her into his arms, pressing her tight against him. He swayed the two of them from side to side and pressed firm kisses into the side of her face, murmuring to her and smiling so wide Freddie could see it in every muscle in his face.

She couldn’t hear what they were saying and she didn’t want to. With a small smile, she turned away to afford them their privacy and continued searching the hundreds of faces in the crowd for the one she loved most in the world.

“Hi, Fred,” Brady greeted her with a hand on her shoulder once he and Millie were thoroughly reunited.

Turning, Freddie accepted his hug, greeting him with a smile in return. She allowed him to take Meatball off of her so she could better seek out Rosie but, in the end, it was Rosie who found her first.

“Fred!” she heard him calling from somewhere to her left.

Freddie’s head whipped in his direction, her eyes squinted as she searched for him. None of the faces which glanced back at her were familiar until they were, until Rosie was pushing through them with a grin on his face, his eyes set firmly on her.

“Rosie!” Freddie exclaimed in return. She rushed forward to meet him halfway, giggling when he swept her up into his arms and spun her in a circle. “Rosie, Rosie, Rosie!” she chanted.

The instant he set her down, Rosie was cupping her face and leaning down for their very first kiss in their new home. The world around them, cacophonous as it had been before, went quiet as soon as their lips met. Freddie smiled into the kiss and laughed when she felt Rosie smile back, and when they pulled apart she jumped into his arms once more.

“I missed you so much!” she told him as she pressed herself against him. “My love, my darling, my sweetheart! I missed you so, so much!”

“God, Fred,” Rosie breathed as he clutched her to him, burying his face in her hair and inhaling the smell of her. “I missed you so bad. So bad. I love you so bad.”

“I love you too,” Freddie answered him, nuzzling into his neck. “Let’s never be apart ever again, okay?”

Rosie smiled into the kiss he pressed to her temple. “Sounds like a plan to me, honey.”

Eventually, they detangled themselves from each other long enough for Millie and Brady to come over with Meatball, and then commenced the chaos that was trying to get to their luggage. Moving to an entirely new country meant that Freddie and Millie hadn’t exactly packed lightly and in a crowd filled with so many people it was nothing short of bedlam.

By the time they had found all of their luggage it was time to say goodbye - for Freddie and Millie, at least. After barely spending more than two weeks apart the entire time they’d known each other, the two of them had known in advance that going their separate ways was going to be hard. Added onto the fact that they were both in a new country, about to start their adult lives in peacetime for the first time, the overwhelm made the pair of them burst into tears as soon as Rosie and Brady stepped away to give them a moment.

They hugged tighter than they ever had, assured each other again and again that they would meet up frequently for sleepovers and visit soon, and professed their undying love for each other several hundred times over. In the end, they had to be pried apart, since Millie and Brady had another train to catch to take them out of the city and to his home in Victor. So Rosie stood behind Freddie and wrapped his arms snug around her, resting his chin on her head and holding Meatball’s lead tightly in his hand, while they watched Millie and Brady depart. And after they’d disappeared from sight, Freddie turned in Rosie’s hold and buried her face into his shirt.

He let her weep for as long as she needed to. He pressed kisses to the top of her head while he waited.

When Freddie managed to get her tears to slow, she withdrew her face from Rosie’s shirt, sniffling, wiping at her eyes and nose. She gave him a wet, weepy smile - sheepish, really, that she’d started off their new life in New York by crying so hysterically - but Rosie simply stroked her cheek with his free hand and smoothed her hair away from her face.

“You ready to go home, sweetheart?” he asked her quietly, cupping her cheek tenderly. His eyes were soft and fond, his smile shy and warm, his voice unspeakably gentle.

Freddie mustered another more enthusiastic smile for him as she nodded. “Yes,” she said, nuzzling into his palm. “Take me home, Rosie.”

In contrast to the hours long journey Millie and Brady were embarking on, Freddie, Rosie, and Meatball took a cab which lasted half an hour before they were pulling up outside Rosie’s apartment building in Brooklyn. Freddie had spent the entire journey looking out the window, gazing at the sheer size of the city she was now living in, at the tall buildings and crowded streets, bright yellow cabs and flashing lights.

She was floored by the unfamiliarity of it. She’d known cities before but none like this.

But after they had lugged all of her suitcases and Meatball upstairs to the apartment and Rosie had unlocked the door, the feeling of unfamiliarity faded. There was something nostalgic about Rosie’s apartment, even though she’d never been there before. Maybe it was because so much of it so clearly belonged to him, his identity evident in the records stacked beside the record player, the books on the bookshelf, the cosy and yet distinguished decor. But maybe it was because he’d added touches in preparation for her arrival. On the bookshelf beside the door were books of poetry scattered amongst Rosie’s novels. Beside his photos on the walls were some of her photos, too, of her parents and her dogs and her friends. In the bedroom, he’d bought and set up a dressing table for her, already displaying a couple of bottles of perfume, and in the kitchen he’d bought matching mugs for them, a gold R inscribed on his and an F on hers. He’d set up a water bowl for Meatball in the kitchen, too, even though Freddie had brought his water bowl from home with them, and there was a box filled with dog toys in the corner of the living room.

So much of what Rosie had done to the apartment before she’d even arrived made it feel like she already lived here, like she’d already been calling it home for weeks. It was impossible to feel as though she didn’t know this place when so much of her life was already here waiting for her.

Freddie walked around her new home with a bright smile on her face, but when she walked into the bedroom she burst into tears anew. She’d sent Rosie off in his plane back to America with her childhood stuffed bunny, Wilfred, for him to look after, to make sure he had a safe flight. And there in the centre of the pillows on the double bed sat Wilfred, waiting for her with his bows in his ears and his gradually unstitching nose.

Rosie had made sure it felt like home for her so she didn’t ever have to feel far away.

She turned and threw herself into his arms.

“I love it,” she wept, smiling even as she sobbed. “It’s perfect, Rosie. Everything you’ve done, it’s - it just feels like home.”

“Yeah?” Rosie asked, smiling into the top of her head. “You like it?”

“So much,” Freddie assured him. She looked up at him so he could see her smile. “It’s perfect. We’re going to be so happy here, I just know it.”

“We can decorate it a little while we look for a house,” Rosie began with a shy smile. “And I still gotta get a piano -”

“No hurry,” Freddie cut him off, smiling wide. “I like it here. We don’t have to rush into buying a house yet. I think this will suit us just fine.”

Meatball seemed to wholeheartedly agree. When they returned to the living room to start taking some of the luggage into the bedroom, they found him curled up on the couch, his eyes closed as he settled into sleep.

Freddie laughed. “Looks like he knows he’s home, too.”

Rosie smiled down at her before kissing her forehead. “Good. He’s family now, just like you are.”

Their first night together in New York was quiet. Freddie was tired from the travelling and the stress of it all - exhausted from the overwhelm - so Rosie picked up dinner for them from a nearby restaurant and they ate it at the kitchen table on plates with knives and forks instead of on the floor of hotel rooms, like a real married couple.

They took Meatball outside for a walk, played fetch with him in a nearby park, and when they returned he crashed into sleep in his dog bed, which they set beside the couch.

Then Freddie and Rosie settled into their first night in their first proper bed by wrapping themselves up in each other. In spite of Freddie’s exhaustion, they didn’t manage to get to sleep until the early hours of the morning.

The next day was a big day. Freddie was meeting Rosie’s family.

Hosted by his mother at the apartment she still shared with his sister, Jeanette, Freddie and Rosie were invited to dinner so that Freddie could become acquainted with her in-laws. Meatball was invited too, at Jeanette’s request, which made Freddie like her on principle.

Freddie agonised for hours over which dress to wear and which shoes, how to style her hair and how much makeup was too much. By the time they left the apartment to head to dinner, Freddie felt she’d stressed all of the stress out of her body, but when they were taking the lift up to the right floor she felt familiar nerves bubbling in her stomach again.

Rosie knew her well enough by now to sense it immediately.

“They’ll love you, honey,” he assured her, giving her hand a squeeze. “Not that it would matter all that much if they didn’t, because I love you more than life itself and nothing would ever change that - not to mention the fact that we’re already married. But they’ll love you, I know they will. My ma already loves you just based on the letters I wrote about you during the war.”

Freddie cracked a smile but it was shaky at best. “Will they not be angry that we got married in England?” she asked softly, her voice small and uncertain. “That my parents got to come but they couldn’t?”

Rosie smiled and drew her towards him gently with his hands on her waist. “No, sweetheart,” he replied quietly, pressing a delicate kiss to her forehead. “They already know we’re married, and they know about how I went down during the war and how everyone thought I was dead, and they know about your past with Daniel. They were happy for us when I first wrote home about it, and they’ll still be happy for us now.” He cracked a grin before pressing another kiss to her forehead. “Besides, we’ve got another wedding to look forward to that they’ll come to. Ain’t the end of the world that they missed the first one.”

Freddie smiled at this. “And it’ll be a Jewish wedding this time,” she added. Then her smile fell straight off her face. “Wait, do they know I’m not Jewish?”

Rosie laughed right as the doors to the lift opened on the floor the apartment was on. “Yes, Fred,” he answered her indulgently as he ushered her and Meatball ahead of him into the hallway. “They know you’re not Jewish,” he continued once the lift doors were shut behind them. He took her free hand and led her down the hallway towards the apartment. “They don’t mind one bit that you’re not Jewish, same as you and your parents don’t mind one bit that I am.”

“Will they want me to convert?” Freddie asked next, wide-eyed as she gazed up at him from his side.

Rosie glanced down at her with an amused smile. “No, honey. You’re perfect the way you are.”

Freddie nodded, gnawing on her bottom lip before recalling her lipstick and instead letting out an almighty sigh. “I just really want them to like me,” she confessed in the midst of her exhaled breath. “You charmed my parents so easily and I’m worried I won’t be able to do the same.”

Rosie’s eyes went soft, his smile turned gentle, but whatever reassurances had been on the tip of his tongue vanished as the door they stopped in front of was flung open before they could even knock.

“Hi!” exclaimed the woman on the other side. She had dark, curly hair, left awry as it fell to her shoulders, and a wide smile on her lips, bright blue eyes and thick eyebrows above them. She was likely in her early thirties and was unmistakably Rosie’s sister. “You must be Freddie! I’m Jeanette!”

“Hi,” greeted Freddie in return, as chirpily as she was able with all the nerves. “It’s so lovely to meet you! Rosie has told me so much about you.”

“Rosie,” Jeanette echoed with a growing grin. “He did mention that that’s what people were calling him during the war but it’s so strange to hear it from the lips of his wife.”

Freddie smiled politely, unsure of what to say in reply, but Rosie saved her from having to think of anything by stepping forward, placing his hand on the small of her back, and raising an eyebrow at his sister. “You gonna let us in or what?”

Jeanette made a show of mimicking him but she stepped aside to allow them in all the same, and promptly spent the better part of the next five minutes fussing over Meatball while Rosie showed Freddie to the kitchen.

She tensed inadvertently, knowing this was where she’d meet his mother, but Rosie kept his hand on her back, rubbing it in light circles to set her at ease as he guided her forward.

“Ma?” he called as they lingered in the doorway.

His mother had her back turned as she bent over the oven but she jumped up at the sound of his voice.

“Robbie!” she exclaimed, turning and smiling warmly. “And you must be my new daughter in law!”

Freddie smiled shyly. “I’m Freddie,” she offered.

Rosie’s mother’s smile went soft. “Freddie,” she repeated. “I’ve heard so much about you I feel as if I know you already, but you’re a million times more beautiful than I imagined. Goodness! Robbie gushed about your beauty, naturally, but he’s a man in love so I dismissed him, but he was right to wax lyrical. Your babies are going to be dolls!”

“Ma!” Rosie exclaimed.

Freddie grinned at the heat in his cheeks.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Freddie said, blushing herself. “I, um - well, we’re not at the babies stage yet but when we are I just hope they’ll be happy and healthy.”

Rosie’s mother nodded, wiping her hands off on her apron before holding her arms out to Freddie as she approached. “Freddie, dear,” she said softly, enveloping her in a hug. “I know you were looking after my little boy for me while he was away and I can’t thank you enough for it.”

Freddie smiled into her shoulder. “I didn’t look after him even half as much as he looked after me.”

“He told me you sent your parents to sit with him in the hospital the first time his plane went down,” Mrs. Rosenthal disagreed.

Freddie laughed softly to herself as Mrs. Rosenthal stepped out of their hug.

“He told me you took him home with you for Christmas and made an effort to incorporate Hanukkah traditions into your celebrations. He told me you and your parents gave him gifts, that he had his own stocking up on the fireplace. He told me that he always had you to go to whenever he was down about anything.” Mrs. Rosenthal’s smile was gentle. “Freddie, my darling, you did everything a mother could ever hope for from the woman her son loves.”

Suddenly and inexplicably, Freddie was overcome with a wave of emotion. Gratitude and relief that she’d been accepted by Rosie’s family so readily, longing and loneliness because her own family was so far away, overwhelm because this new life she was beginning was now so very real and so very tangible.

Her eyes filled with tears and, hastily, she tucked herself into Rosie’s side where it was warm and safe and familiar, shutting her eyes and sighing in relief as he twined both of his arms around her.

Rosie, of course, started fussing over her instantly, but Freddie was quick to assure him that she was fine, just overwhelmed. So they left the kitchen and allowed his mother to finish making dinner, headed further into the apartment to see Rosie’s childhood bedroom, and sat together on his childhood bed, Freddie in Rosie’s lap.

“I like your family,” she spoke into the silence.

She felt Rosie smile as he pressed a lingering kiss into the top of her head where it was tucked beneath his chin. “Good, ‘cause they like you back.”

“Just makes my family feel so far away,” she confessed.

Rosie nodded. He didn’t say anything but he kissed her head again.

After a beat Freddie sat up straight, realising what she’d just said. Because they were married now, and that meant that this was her family, too. As much as she’d marvelled that her parents were now Rosie’s parents-in-law, she had to accept that she’d just encountered her new sister- and mother-in-law, too. These people, unfamiliar to her as they were, were her family now. And Rosie could have corrected her, could have reminded her of that immediately, but he didn’t.

He was too good for her, she knew. Too kind. Too patient and understanding.

“I don’t deserve you,” she said.

Rosie frowned. “Fred, baby…” He shook his head, lifting a hand to cup her cheek and rubbing his thumb across it. “You’re a good deal too good for me, not the other way around. What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

Freddie took a beat to gather her thoughts before she replied. Words weren’t coming easily to her this evening. But, when she felt ready, she wrapped her arms around Rosie’s neck and kissed him once, very softly, on the lips, before admitting, “My family is here now, too, and I didn’t acknowledge that. I said my family feels far away and you could have reminded me that they’re only a wall away from us right now, but you didn’t. You could have pointed out that I’m being selfish missing my family when you’ve been missing yours the entire time we’ve known each other, but you didn’t.” She sighed, shaking her head, starting to fiddle with the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re too good to me, Rosie. Too understanding and too gentle. I worry it makes me take advantage of you.”

Rosie shook his head. “You’re not taking advantage of me.”

“I don’t ever want to take your kindness for granted,” Freddie added.

“You won’t,” he assured her. “I know you and I know that you won’t.”

“Don’t let me.”

He dusted a delicate kiss on her forehead. “I won’t.”

All throughout dinner and dessert, Rosie kept an eye on Freddie, making sure her smiles were genuine, trying to discern how she was feeling. He let her take the lead in conversation but picked up the slack when she seemed to be flagging, prevented his sister from prying too deeply into her personal life but encouraged his mother to get to know her better.

He knew it was going well, knew that his mother and sister loved her - he’d never doubted that they would - but he was itching to hear them say it. He got his opportunity when Freddie excused herself to go and take Meatball outside to relieve himself.

“So?” he asked after he’d listened to Freddie and Meatball’s footsteps retreat down the hall. “What do you think?”

Jeanette was grinning. “How the hell did you pull that off, Robbie?” she asked, and she was already laughing at herself. “That is not a woman that is a goddess and she is your wife!”

Rosie laughed. “I ask myself the same thing everyday.”

“I like her so much, Robbie,” Jeanette said next, her smile still equally as wide. “I’m so happy for you. You look so in love.”

“I am,” Rosie replied. He was grinning. “I’m - yeah.” He cut himself off. He’d made a lot of progress on talking about his emotions during the war, but he wasn’t quite ready to start gushing about how in love he was to his mother and sister. “Yeah,” he said again. “I am.”

When he turned to his mother, he found her smiling softly as she watched him.

“Ma?” he asked tentatively.

His mother only kept on smiling. “Cuddly little thing, isn’t she?” she asked.

In spite of himself, Rosie laughed. “Yeah,” he admitted. Freddie had spent the evening holding onto his hands and combing back his hair and pressing kisses to his cheeks. She was always like this, even in front of her own parents, so Rosie had had an idea that she would be like it in front of his family. It made him smile all the same. These people were unfamiliar to her but she still felt safe enough to cling to him, still wanted to make sure he knew he was loved. “I love that about her,” he confessed.

Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head with an indulgent, affectionate smile. “It’s far from a bad thing, Robbie,” she informed him.

Rosie’s smile widened. “So you like her?”

“She’s wonderful,” his mother assured him. “If I could have hand-picked a wife for you it would have been her. Luckily, she’s saved me the trouble.”

“I can’t wait for you to get to know her properly,” Rosie said, shaking his head in relief, passing a hand over the sweat on the back of his neck. “Everything about her is just - just beautiful. You’re gonna love her so much.”

“Not as much as you, I hope,” Jeanette teased.

Rosie rolled his eyes. “Impossible,” he said. “No one’s ever loved anyone as much as I love her.”

When he looked back at his mother, Rosie found that her eyes and her smile had both gone quiet. There was something almost melancholic about the way she was looking at him, as though she realised now that she finally, properly, had to let him go.

“I think you two will make a beautiful life together,” Mrs. Rosenthal told him softly, sincerely.

Rosie shared her smile. It widened when he heard his wife’s heels clacking back down the hallway towards the apartment, heard her shushing the husky who was yapping as he walked beside her.

“We will,” he agreed, unable to fight his grin. “We already have.”

[softspeirs]

Ooooo heck yes, one word prompts! I'd like to submit #12 - stranger for whoever you heart feels most inclined.

Ema, I'm sorry this took me so long! I had to do something with our guy Rosie for you. Fellow reader, I am still taking one word prompts for my OCs if you're interested! These Heartbeats Clear Masterlist

Her laughter filters through the air towards him, and his grip tightens on the glass in his hand.

"I see what the plan is." Douglass says on his left, and Rosie struggles not to roll his eyes. "Get so annoyed you break the glass, and then she has to pay attention to you. Y'know, to give you stitches."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Rosie replies, tone even, betraying nothing, even as his gut roils, hearing another trill of laugher from a few feet to his right.

Grace is at the officer's club tonight. She looks lovely. She always looks lovely, but he so rarely sees her out of uniform.

It burns him a little that she got dressed up for someone else.

A stranger, someone he doesn't know. Someone who, out of the corner of Rosie's eye, he can see is standing a little too close to Grace. Acting a little too casual.

"Really didn't think you were the jealous type, Rosie."

Rosie is saved from having to reply when the woman in question rejoins their circle, her cheeks pink from drink and laughter. His body relaxes when she's close enough that he can smell her perfume, and he doesn't even feel bad for the way he sways towards her a little.

"Boys." She says, greeting Douglass and Crosby. "Major." She says, softer, addressing Rosie directly.

"Who's your friend?" Douglass asks, not even attempting to be subtle.

"Doctor Abbington is over from London. He's pioneering a few new techniques and teaching here for two days before heading back to the city."

"Huh." Douglass takes another swig of his drink. "Well, good luck with that." He says, gesturing at Rosie before leaving them alone, dragging Crosby with him.

"What was that about?" Grace asks, a furrow between her brows.

"Nothing." Rosie says, voice soft as he looks down at her. He opens his mouth to say something else, when they're interrupted.

"Captain Fleming," The doctor says, ignoring Rosie completely.

Rosie, not one to normally care about rank, or standing on ceremony, raises his eyebrows so high they disappear into his hairline at the brush-off, Doctor Abbington standing with his back to Rosie entirely as he speaks to Grace.

"I'm headed out. I hope to see you in the morning?" He asks, tone brusque.

"Of course, we'll be at the lecture in the morning." Grace confirms, sending an apologetic look over the doctor's shoulder at Rosie. "Let me walk you out..."

"Grace." Rosie doesn't know what possesses him to reach for her hand. He doesn't want to embarrass her in front of a colleague, but he's feeling a little forgotten, and yes, a little jealous. It makes him grit his teeth.

"I'll be right back." She assures him, and then she's gone, one last look over her shoulder at him all he gets as she walks off with a stranger.

It's not five minutes before Crosby comes barrelling inside. Rosie, having taken a seat with Kidd at the bar, is instantly on his feet, hackles up.

"You gotta come on," Crosby is saying, yanking on Rosie's arm.

"What happened?"

"Grace."

Rosie doesn't need to hear anything else. He and Kidd are hot on Crosby's heels, Rosie's heart pounding so hard he can barely hear anything else. He knew he shouldn't have let her leave alone with that doctor. Jesus Christ but he knows better, he has sisters--

He stops abruptly. The scene is not what he expected.

Ev Blakley is there, hands up in a placating manner in between Grace and the doctor. "Come on, Fleming. Leave him with some dignity, huh?"

"Dignity!" Grace's voice is high-pitched, irritated. "He wasn't so concerned about his dignity a few moments ago."

"You've been spending too much time with these fly boys, Captain. DIsappointing." The doctor says, voice tight as he holds his nose. He's -- he's bleeding?

"I'd shut up if I were you, or I might let her have another go." Blakely says calmly. He sees Rosie, Kidd, and Crosby out of the corner of his eye and gives a half shrug, as if to say I'm trying my best, here.

"Grace." Kidd's voice is hard, the sound of authority. "What's going on?"

"What's going on is she hit me, Major, and I have never experienced this type of treatment--"

"She hit him after he tried to get fresh," Blakely adds, his jaw clenched.

"Doesn't know that no means no." Grace says heatedly, her fiery eyes softening a little when she meets Rosie's gaze. "I'm fine."

Something like pride wells up in Rosie's chest as he starts to put the pieces together. This doctor, this stranger, who doesn't know Grace Fleming from Adam, tried to kiss her. He had been trying all night, really, if Rosie remembered right from inside. A lot easier to evade him in a crowded room, so looks like he tried to take it outside.

By the sight of his bloody nose, he certainly got what was coming to him.

"That's my girl." Rosie says quietly, taking a few steps closer so he can take her hand and pull her away. "Let's get you back to your room, yeah?"

"But--"

"We've got it, Grace." Jack Kidd says. "Go, before the matron sees you. She'll have your head if you hurt your hand."

"Her hand? What about my face?" Doctor Abbington protests.

"That busted beak is going to be the least of your problems if you don't shut it." Blakely drawls.

With a laugh, Rosie slings an arm around Grace's shoulders and begins to walk her the other direction, back towards the nurse's hut.

"Did you hurt your hand?" He asks, worried.

"Just bruised, like my ego."

He makes a face. "Your ego? What for?"

"I thought he really respected me, us, the other nurses--" She stops, frustrated. "The other girls have been complaining since he got here, and I thought they were just..." She stops, embarrassed. "I should have listened to them. I shouldn't have assumed just because he's a doctor that he was a good person."

Rosie stops her, reaching to hold her face in his hands. "You're determined to see the best in everyone, Grace. So he took advantage of that. But you know what? In this war, it's good that you're holding on to that. Plus, you got the better of him, didn't you?" He grins.

"Oh, shut up."

"I'm just sorry I missed it." He says, laughing and ducking out of the way as she swats at him. "Hey! Not me too, I've seen what you can do."

She settles back against his side as they walk, their laughter fading into the night as he walks her home.

[luminouslywriting]

my sweet Carley may I pls request MOTA men taking car of you when you’re sick (pls John Egan loml) 😭 dying of the flu currently 🫶

Hi sweetheart! I'm so sorry that you're sick! I've moved this request up so it will hopefully help you feel a bit better (at least emotionally). Hang in there :)

Cut for length, more under the cut, paragraph format....and if there's anyone I missed that you'd like to see, just request it:

Bucky Egan:

Bucky Egan is many things and a panicked caretaker is every single one of those things. He won't show the panic, but he's like a helicopter all of the sudden? He likes to linger and make sure that you take your medicine. And if you fall asleep, he'll come in and check on you to make sure you're still breathing (He gets nervous about that after the Stalags). He's the type to make a few light jokes and innuendos to see a smile appear on your face amidst the sickness, but jumps into action the minute you need him. He'll hold up your hair and call someone to bring over some soup for you. He's caring and doesn't worry about getting sick himself. That being said, he's the type to hop into your bed and hold you to soothe the body cramps or aches and just talk quietly to you about all sorts of things to keep you distracted. After all, cuddling is a great remedy. Right up until he gets sick haha.

Gale Cleven:

Gale Cleven is a sensible man and when it comes to illness, he doesn't like to joke around. He enjoys the time that he has to dote on you and care for you in a different way. He's consistent about opening the windows and making sure you get some fresh air. He'll help you walk around so you don't get sore and hold gently to your arm. He's the type to run a warm bath for you and help you wash your hair and body in the most wholesome and loving of ways. He doesn't get grossed out easily by runny noses or puke, so he will gently remind you that it's in sickness and in health and this is just one of those times where one of you is sick. He's tender and tries his hand at some simple foods that you can eat.

Robert Rosenthal:

Rosie Rosenthal is a such a caretaker, it's not even funny. Soft jazz music will play in the background and he'll do his best to keep your spirits up. He'll read to you when you're getting tired but can't quite fall asleep, then linger to watch you sleep for a moment. He worries incessantly about you when you're sick but is also trying to keep his distance so he doesn't get sick either. If you're shivering or running a fever, he keeps a close eye on that and tries to make sure that you have whatever you need—whether that be more blankets or a fan to keep you cooled off. He's attentive in a way that might be slightly overbearing, but it's all in genuine care and love.

John Brady:

John Brady comes from a large family and subsequently, knows all about helping take care of people who are sick. He's got all of the home remedies and can easily whip up some soup or a soothing tea for your throat. He's the type to take off of work if you're really sick and need some care—and he never complains about it. He genuinely just wants you to get feeling better. It pairs quite nicely with back rubs and soothing scalp massages as he tries to keep you from hacking up a lung or puking your guts out. He'll share stories from when he was a kid, all the while disinfecting and cleaning up the place so that the sickness won't linger in the house.

[loverrofmineee]

The Parting Glass - Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x OC

AO3 | Summary | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3- You Deserve It

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The past three weeks had not been kind to those at Thorpe Abbotts. Crews were going down left and right, and to top it all off, a crew had crashed during a test practice. Morale was low on base, and Bucky deemed that the remaining crews, alongside the women of the base, should all go out for a night at the local pub.

As the girls got ready, each one had a job to do. Anika was in charge of painting nails with clean coats of Victory Red, due to her perfectionism. Lilibet was helping each girl with makeup, helping to ensure their red lipstick would be smudge-proof for the evening ahead. Shiv provided the girls with sips of alcohol that had been swiped from the bar, and Aileen was doing her best to set the tone for the night. Sorcha had been tasked with doing each of the women’s hair, pushing aside each girl's complaint of her being too forceful.

“Ouch!” Aileen cried from her seat on Sorcha’s bed, “Why do you always have to be on hair?”

“You asked me to! And unfortunately, beauty is pain, love.”

Aileen sighed in agreement to her response, shifting the conversation so that she wouldn’t be focused on how much pain her head was in, “I’m going to dance with a man tonight.”

“Let me guess,” Shiv started, seemingly knowing how the conversation would go, “That man would be Egan?”

“No,” Aileen stated, causing the girls to gasp, “I’m done with him. There’s no point in chasing after a man when there’s so many available.”

Sorcha smiled at her friend's words, feeling a mixture of pride and sympathy. As much as she wanted the Major and Aileen to get together, there was only so much she could do. Aileen was right in her own way, seeing as there were dozens of men who would fall at her feet if she so much as smiled at them.

“Anika would know something about that, wouldn’t she?” Lilibet teased. Anika let out a noise of shock before launching her pillow at the girl. Harmonious laughter sounded from the chorus of girls, each reveling in the harmless teasing of the others. A sense of peace washed over Sorcha as she looked upon her friends. For a moment she forgot that they were all stationed on a military base, miles from home. The atmosphere of the hut felt like one of a college dorm, with girls giggling over boys they liked, sneaking sips of alcohol, all while getting ready for the night.

“Okay,” Shiv spoke, grabbing the girls' attention, “So we know Anika has DeMarco, Aileen will find whoever, and Lilibet has her boy at home. That leaves you and me, Devs.”

Sorcha was fast to shake her head at Shiv’s words, “Absolutely not. I have no interest in falling for anyone right now.”

The girls let out various sounds of protest at their friend's words. Each one of them wanted to see their friend appreciated as she should be. Sorcha was not one to discuss her dating history, firmly stuck in the belief that the past should remain in the past, and that there was no need to rehash what happened years ago. Still, her friends attempted to bring the topic of romance up when they felt it was necessary.

“There’s no point in changing my mind girls.” Sorcha stated as she finished up Aileen's hair, “Oh don’t you look gorgeous!” Aileen spun herself around, letting the girls shower her with praise as she giggled.

“Yes, yes, we all look gorgeous. But could we get going now? I don’t want to miss all the fun.”

“Ma’am yes ma’am. Anything you say, Major Shiv.” teased Anika, giving the girl a military salute and walking towards the door in a march. Aileen was quick to follow the girl, her giggles continuing as the group headed towards the door. Lilibet stood beside Sorcha, linking their arms as they stepped out into the darkness of the evening.

“They’re going to be a lot to handle tonight, aren’t they?”

“When are they not Lils?”

—-----------------------------------------—

The pub was bursting with energy when the women arrived, the sound of music combined with lively conversations was enough to make Sorcha burst from happiness. This atmosphere reminded Sorcha of home, as her parents would take their family to local pubs, eager to engage with fellow Irish immigrants in the community. Sorcha had learned to dance by the age of 3 and could list off the names of countless drinks by 8. Some would look at her upbringing and believe she was a walking stereotype, but Sorcha took it with pride, not being ashamed of how she was raised.

As soon as the girls stepped foot in the building, John Egan was there to greet them. The man stumbled on his way over, but still exuded charm, “There’s my girls! We’ve been waiting up for ya.”

“Clearly not long enough,” Shiv stated as she gazed at the Major, unimpressed.

“You wound me, Shiv, you really do.” Bucky clutched his heart, exaggerating the effect the words had on him. Still unimpressed and unenthused by the Major, Shiv grabbed Aileen and Anika and moved towards the bar, leaving Lilibet and Sorcha on their own.

“She doesn’t like me,” Egan said as he turned to the women in front of him.

“No, she does not.”

“I love how you sugarcoat things for me Devs. Really makes a man feel good about himself.”

“If you wanted to feel good about yourself, you wouldn’t keep me around.”

Bucky chuckled as he took in Sorcha’s words, leaving the conversation as he pursued a new target. Lilibet looped her arm through Sorcha’s as she led them to the bar. Once they arrived, they could see Anika chatting with DeMarco, and a few feet away Shiv and Aileen were looking for a suitable candidate to be Aileen’s next match. A soft smile fell upon Sorcha’s lips as she watched the scenes around her. There were a few times she felt at peace during the war, and seeing her friends happy was one of those times.

“I ordered you a Whisky if that's ok,” Lilibet spoke as she noticed her friend's fond expression, “You do so much for these girls, Devs. Honestly, they all look up to you.”

Sorcha shook her head as she received her friend's compliments, “No. If anything, they look up to you. You’ve been here longer than we have.”

“Don’t try to deflect my praise and then call me old!”

“You know that’s not what I meant, Lils.”

“Do I?” Lilibet teased before taking a sip of her drink, “In all honesty, Devs. I know you’re not looking for anyone, but what about Egan? I mean you’re with him all the time. Practically glued to the hip.”

Sorcha was quick to dismiss her friend's words, “Trust me, that’s not a thing. First of all, it would crush Aileen, even though she says she’s over him. Plus, we’re just good friends. I know that because he hasn’t made any real advances on me. I know what everyone says, but it's better to let them continue than lose my friendship with him.”

“God, you’re so mature.”

“I only seem that way, Lils. Believe me, I’m not always this way.”

Lilibet rolled her eyes at Sorcha’s words, understanding that no amount of arguing would sway her position. The two women stood in comfortable silence as they sipped their drinks and watched the scenes in front of them. Occasionally they would whisper something to the other, whether it was poking fun at a pilot who was too drunk to walk, or checking in on their girls. Aileen was currently chatting with Curt Biddick, whereas Shiv had opted to converse with some Red Cross girls. Sorcha and Lilibet had to decline dances with a few men, given that Lilibet had a boyfriend, and Sorcha was just plain uninterested. Though to her credit, Lilibet only chastised her friend's lack of socializing a few times.

Sorcha was on her second drink of the evening when a blushing Aileen came in front of her, Curt on her heels. “Ma’am,” the young man spoke as he addressed the two women. Sorcha could feel the nerves pouring out of him, though she couldn’t blame him, seeing as the Tower Girls had built a reputation for being protective over one another.

“Curt, it’s nice to see you again.” Sorcha greeted as she eyed the man up and down. “I hope that you’re treating our Aileen all right.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Oh please don’t call any of us ma’am,” Lilibet groaned, “It makes me feel so old.”

Aileen was quick to chastise her friend, giving Lilibet a quick slap on the arm, “Leave him alone Lils.” Curt chuckled beside the girl as she wrapped an arm around his waist, not going unnoticed by Sorcha.

“Ease up on the guy, that’s my New York brethren you’re talking to.”

“That’s right,” Curt spoke with a sense of pride, “Aileen mentioned that you’re from New York and that you’re Irish. Seems like we have something in common.”

“Oh please,” Aileen interrupted with her thick accent, “You two are Irish-American. I’m the only Irish one in the group.”

Sorcha and Curt shared a look at the girl's words, laughing to themselves in a quiet understanding. “Of course you are, who else could compare?”

Aileen flushed at Curt’s words, unable to form a proper response. Before she could get her words in order, Bucky called for Curt to join the men at their table.

Curt turned to Aileen as he planted a brief kiss on her cheek, “Duty calls. I’ll be back soon.”

The Irish girl's face was bright red, matching her ginger hair as she avoided the knowing looks of her friends. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Sorcha cooly asked, receiving a glare from Aileen, “We’re just happy for you. Biddick’s a nice guy.”

“Just don’t get too attached already, sweetheart,” Lilibet said softly. She took it upon herself to be the mother hen of the group, having more life experience, as well as a strong relationship.

“I won’t!” Aileen protested, “I promise, I won’t. He’s just such a sweet guy.”

Sorcha and Lilibet chuckled at the girl's words, understanding them to be half-true. Aileen was the youngest out of their small group, so then others took it upon themselves to watch over her. Each girl had their own way of going about it, Shiv being the most direct with her advice. Sorcha viewed Aileen as the younger sister she had always wanted. The two were close, but no one could compare to Lilibet in Sorcha’s book. Sorcha met Lilibet on her first day at Thorpe Abbotts. Lilibet had recently been transferred there by the WAAF, to train the newcomers and share her 4 years of experience. Sorcha found herself drawn to Lilibet, asking her about her life since the start of the war, eager to try and understand what she was getting into. Lilibet was kind to her, divulging what she felt comfortable with, and in time, growing close to the girl filled with questions. By the time the crews arrived, the two were inseparable.

The women remained by their place at the bar, chatting about the work ahead of them tomorrow, that no one was looking forward to. Shiv and Anika eventually rejoined the group, falling into conversation alongside their friends, each girl attempting to pry information from Anika about her night with DeMarco.

Sounds of commotion outside broke the women out of their exchange, heading into the alleyway where the scene was occurring. When they stepped outside they were greeted by the image of an RAF officer lying on the cobblestone, and Curt being spun in the air by Bucky. All eyes fell on the group of women as they emerged, their cries of victory being replaced by shy silence.

Curt though, was undeterred as he made his way over to Aileen, “Guess who just socked an RAF prick in the face!”

Aileen avoided the man's eyes and she attempted to be judgemental, but a small smile cracked her terrible facade. Sorcha and Lilibet glanced at Aileen as Curt wrapped an arm around her, “What?” She exclaimed, “He probably deserved it.”

“Damn right, he did!” Cried Bucky who was standing alongside Buck and Croz, the latter meeting Sorcha’s eyes with a nervous smile.

“How about we get you boys home?” Lilibet asked as she attempted to herd the group down the alleyway and back into the street. Sorcha was about to follow before she felt an arm wrap around her shoulder. She didn’t need to look to know it was Bucky, alcohol reeking from him.

“What’s your stance on boxing, Devs?”

“I don’t really have one Bucky. Sorry to disappoint.”

“That’s a shame. You should’ve seen Curt go at that British know-it-all.” Bucky said as the two followed the rest of the group back to base. “That kid has fists of lightning I tell ya.”

Sorcha chuckled at the man's words before prompting a question, “Dare I ask what the fight was about?”

A sudden seriousness washed over Egan at his friend’s words, all the drunkenness leaving his body, “They were telling us how to bomb. Saying we’re going on suicide missions. As if I don’t know that! Believe me, I do. I’m up there as an air exec, watching my men go down mission after mission.”

Sorcha remained silent as Bucky spoke, taking in each of his grievances. She felt pained as he continued, wishing there was a way to help him in this moment. Both of them knew what the obvious fix for his problem was, but Bucky had a job as an air exec and would do his best until he could get demoted and back in the forts. All she could do to comfort Bucky was squeeze his hand, knowing that no amount of words would take away the pain and loss he felt.

“You’re doing what’s been asked of you. Every man on base looks up to you Bucky, all you can do is lead them the best you can.”

Bucky glanced down at Sorcha, a soft smile playing on his lips, “Enough of this sincerity, Devs. Doesn’t look good for my reputation.”

“God forbid I’m nice to you for a moment. I’ll remember this when you’re hungover tomorrow”

“I take it back,” Bucky replied quickly, “You can be a menace when I’m hungover.”

“I’m not that bad!” Sorcha protested as Bucky laughed at her, “You always think I’m a menace.”

“All in good fun, Devs.”

Sorcha shook her head as the pair returned to Thorpe Abbotts, heading to their barracks.

“Please, you’d be lost without me.”

“I’m sure that's true,” Bucky said as they approached Sorcha’s bunk. “Goodnight, Devs.”

“Night Bucky, drink plenty of water tomorrow!” Sorcha called as the man walked away.

As she stepped into her bunk, Sorcha felt a wave of exhaustion crash over her. She knew everyone would feel the repercussions of the night the next day, but all she could focus on was getting a decent night’s rest.

[suraemoon]

Rosie Rosenthal Headcanons

~Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal Edition ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A constant cycle of robe wearing

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

Soft jazz fills warmly lit rooms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking of drinks, Rosie likes his coffee black

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

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

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

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

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

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

You two always make up though!

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

My last thot for today…dad jokes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————————————————————————

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

[blurredcolour]

What If We Just Fall?

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

Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x ATA!Female Reader

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

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

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

Word Count: 5729

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

October 1944

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Standard practice in the ATA, just me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You must be starving…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why did it still hurt so damn much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You as well.”

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

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

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

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

Masters of the Air Masterlist

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

[thatsrightice]

we rest amongst the tumult of war

chapter: 5/5

words: like 2.4k 💀 so like 8k total

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

chapter summary:

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

READ ON AO3 HERE

[therealslimshakespeare]

Hello love!

Could you please give a sneak peek of the day Rosie proposed to Ida and how she reacted?

Thank you !

Proposal #1 -for there were many

Thank you for this sweet request, how I adore these two and being given the nudge to finally dig into their fledgling dynamic. Thank you for your patience as I scribbled this out over weeks

Warnings: pretty fluffy, next to none besides a tiny bit of suggestive thoughts and a vague reminiscence of sexual abuse = brief thought process that being alone with a man is courting violence

Rosie x Ida

Date: fall of 1945

This apartment had hardwoods, cherry with perfectly straight painted crown molding and a fireplace. The city screeched and buzzed out the windows, a dizzying drop downward.

“Two doors down, you said?” she asked Robert again, not having in any way, shape or form forgotten how close his apartment was to this prospective new home of hers. It was downright scandalous, and Ida found herself half enjoying that, the look of affronted decorum the bellkeep gave them when Robert snagged the keys to show her -unescorted- the rooms for lease.

“Yeah, two down on the left.” Robert was leaning against the kitchen counter and watching her unproductively trail her fingertips over the hallways paint job. “We could go in together on it.” he added, and that sort of voice of his made her shiver. In a nice way, a panicked sort of nice. When Robert Rosenthal tested the limit it was always with finesse. “Or you could check mine out. It’s got a better fireplace.”

Ida was rusty at flirting but banter she knew. She stalwartly kept her back to him lest those blue eyes make her foolish and continued to stroke the paint. “Does it have hardwoods, though? Mm?”

“I’ve got hardwoods.” his voice had reached a new low and Ida’s spine was alight from it.

She hardly recognized this creature toeing the line with him, inviting scandal, enjoying a man in pursuit, asking to see his apartment. What did she hope to inspire? Presumption? Ruination? Violence, even? There were so many reasons not to enter a bachelor’s apartment alone, and yet Ida asked, “May I see them?”

Robert never denied her anything. That was what was intoxicating about him. Nothing of himself was off limits. Poor behavior and bad decisions? He halted them in her as unwaveringly as her father but of himself? He was a wellspring of generosity. “Of course.”

His apartment was beautiful, if a little bare. Cluttered more than homey, records and case files scattered about but it was clean in the ways that mattered. And it smelled of him, his soap and his cologne and whatever invention he used to maim his curls into submission. She had treasured those scents on his scarf and now she had a whole location to breathe him in. It was staggering.

Robert watched her in his space the same as he had in the empty one, closely, yearningly, from a distance. For Ida to have come at all meant a great deal, she’d told Egan as much in excuse for not going and he’d told her in return she was ready. And here she was, feeling very rash, very torn and not at all like an intern reviewing prospective housing in a new city.

It was never going to be just that. Not with Rosie. She knew that and it terrified her.

“Want coffee?” He offered, breaking the stillness, that’s something she loved about his company, the way he never had to fill the space with more than what they brought to it. “You’re here now.” he cajoled and was already scooping grounds before she gave him a shy nod.

“Coffee would be lovely.”

He hummed as he filled up the pan, tinkering around in a not fully sterile kitchen. It had elements and food products and Ida was glad to see he was taken care of. “Choose a record.” he told her as she spaced out, intrigued beyond reason at the rolled up sleeves along his forearms.

“What?” she startled.

“Put on a record.”

Out of mischief alone she put on Tommy Dorsey. They’d had arguments over this, but he shouldn’t have owned any of he didn’t want her to play a jest. The pumping beginnings of Sunny Side of the Street began to tug into melody when she felt him, so close it would have been reason for spooking except she caught his approach in the reflection of the great glass windows, it was growing dark outside and she was still here and he was making her coffee and his hand on her waist suggested he intended to dance with her.

They were very good at dancing together. She loved their easy flow, missed the feeling of his strength with every spin and turn, his shoulder during a sway, agile hands when he tossed her off. He’d never asked when they were alone. The intimacy was unlike anything she’d ever felt as the coffee gurgled in the background and Dorsey’s trumpets blared and Rosie Rosenthal swayed her beneath his hands and a heavy lidded gaze.

“—Grab your coat, don’t forget your hat but leave your worries, leave ‘em on the doorstep, life’s sweet, just direct your feet to the su-sunny side of the street—“

Ida folded her hand over the soft fabric of his shoulder and laid her cheek there, knowing with a lesser man she’d be asking for trouble. Robert had some in store for her, but not the sort to dread. “I’d make a great to do about this if I didn’t think you’d just up and leave a nice dinner in the middle of my speech—“ he began to talk and she closed her eyes, just breathing him in and feeling him move her in tiny steps along his living room rug. Perhaps his mother had picked it out for him. Ida liked his mother and she liked Ida and she had told her to look after her soon in that grand apartment building. Robert couldn’t budge her from Brooklyn— “so I’m doing it now and I don’t want an answer right now either. But Ida, you know, y-you know this is coming and I’ve got to say it. I want you to marry me.”

Maybe she knew but still, it was startling. She felt her eyes smart and that alone was a surprise, not a sort of response she anticipated of herself. She screwed them shut all the tighter and pressed her cheek nearer to him. He knew so much -how could he ever want this.

“I’ve applied, Ida, to be an assistant council. For the trials over in Germany.” his voice was professional, gentle, she tried to breathe, “The way I see it, you haven’t even begun exams yet, you’ll learn more as my assistant over there than a whole year here floundering without contacts. It wouldn’t be a waste even on the professional level, you know? But that’s not all, you know it’s not all.”

“Robert.” she breathed.

“If they accept me that’s a year apart, that’s me over in Germany and calling you every day and it being too many hours apart and-“ he sounded genuinely panicked himself at the thought, “there’ll be censors and I’ll only get to tell you about the bratwurst I had for breakfast and how we really did a number on the architecture and -Ida, I don’t know about you but I can’t do it. I can’t be without you that long. The you, I mean the you I call and I know and who sorts my day out every evening with your laughs and anecdotes. Ida think on it.”

Oh she’d only ever hoped he felt the same but now he did, it was the most dreadful thing. Because he was right and that was always hard to argue with, but he also seemed genuine and that meant when she declined him he’d only be hurt, genuinely hurt. “I could go, Robert,” she thought it out, “and there’d be no need to marry.”

He shook his head, vehemently and she didn’t have to raise her own to know his eyes were wild and blue, “No, no stay or go I’ve gotta marry you, Ida. You’re it.”

“You like what we have?”

“It’s everything to me.”

“Then let’s not ruin it.” she begged. “It’ll be horrible and awful and if you think you can manage it now that’s all very sweet but one day you’ll not feel the same, and when you do then I won’t be able to take it. I’ll hold you to it, I’ll tell you I told you so. I can’t look the other way, I’m not that sort but you’re young and why won’t you? And I won’t stand for it. Don’t -let’s not ruin it, Robert. You’re too dear to me.”

He cupped a hand under her chin and lifted her face to his, smile lines crunching as he tucked his chin, she loved when he directed her like this. God she loved it. “I’m not wanting to ruin anything.” he replied levelly, “I’m trying to preserve what we have. I want this forever, Ida, forever. This, just this. Doesn’t ever need to be more, I want this.”

The record had begun to skip. “You know so much-“ she choked, “why would you ever want-“

“I love you.” it was always that simple, “And I won’t ever not. And you’re no charmer so you know when your boys and your girls love you it’s for you and you don’t doubt them and I don’t deserve that either, you’re everything good and right and what I believe in, and I wanna wake up next to you in Nuremberg Germany or Victor, New York and I wanna be reminded I’ve got a reason to go on and I wanna slip in beside you at the end of the day in our pajamas and tell you what justice we’ve done and who we’ve locked up -Ida, look me in the eyes and tell me you can do without me. Even if you can, I can’t without you. I can’t. I want you. Think on it, please sweetheart; think on it.”

He was thumbing tears away now and his own cheeks seemed to glisten. “I can’t promise you anything.” she cried, “I don’t even know if I can sleep next to you.”

“Then we’ll buy matching sofas.” he argued, “Or the adjoining apartment.”

“That’s not a wife, that’s a roommate.”

“That’s a wife -a companion.”

“A companion? What are you, ninety five? Did you have mumps as a child, Robert? Is this where this is coming from?”

“Ida, I don’t expect a damn thing from you. You know it. I think you know it.”

“Yes, which is perturbing.” she hit back, “And if you think I will progress faster with someone breathing down my neck and tapping their foot in impatience -you’re more fool than I thought.”

“This, Ida.” he was implacable, “I want this. What we have right now.”

She pulled away from his embrace, realizing how long she had allowed his arms to cradle her after their dance had ended. How heatedly they had begun to discuss this, how close he was. How handsome he looked, how well he argued—“Arguments.” she scoffed, “You want arguments?”

“I wanna marry you.” he grinned back.

“Ah yes, no see,” Ida took to pacing, a habit picked up from him and there's the rub, “that’s where we differ. Marrying me would be quite the mistake and ruin -well I can’t take credit for your life, I don't think I’ve that much power, but I do think I could manage to ruin a decent portion of your late twenties and that would be most unfair for a man of your standing and…sweetness.”

“S’long as it’s you doin’ the ruining.” Rosie rejoined lazily from his steadfast position atop Till Death Do Us Part Hill. “How ‘bout that coffee?”

“I didn’t agree to anything!” she chased after him as he ambled into the kitchen, his back looked so broad in this domestic scene.

“And I didn’t ask for an answer.”

“You’re infuriating sometimes, Robert.”

“You called me sweet five seconds ago.”

“Case in point.”

“You’re going to love law school, Ida. They train you to snap professionally, you’ll take to it like a fish to water.”

“Truly insufferable.”

“You’d like Germany in the fall.”

“Robert!”

“Here’s your coffee; black, one sugar.”

“You remembered.”

“Ida. Please.”

💋 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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[rosienthal]

Blue

a Rosie Rosenthal drabble

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

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

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

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

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

You hate making him blue.

"I understand."

[beingalive1]

Bibi And Her Blue-Eyed Baby ⎯ Pt. 1

Rosie Rosenthal x Oc [Batya Bernstein]

Summary: In an attempt to escape his office and the mutterings of the war occurring an ocean away, Rosie Rosenthal hails a cab and finds himself in a dingy jazz club in downtown New York. Never did he think he'd find himself hopelessly enchanted by the jazz singer with the curly hair and white fur coat but he here he is following her outside, his legs moving on their own accord. Maybe he would see her again? Maybe he would ask her for a dance? Maybe she'd write a song for him?

Part two: Here

Author's Note: I've been hooked line and sinker with all these MOTA men and have felt the need to join the fray and write my own fic so here it is - hope ya'll enjoy x

September 5th, 1941

The dull purple glow of the club made the red lipstick placed carefully on her lips shine as she crooned into the microphone.  Many blocks away from her silver spooned upper east side apartment she knew if anyone saw her stood upon that stage swaying her hips to the music, she would never escape the judgemental gazes of the Jewish community. Batya Bernstein, twenty-one, unmarried and swaying precariously in a tight little black dress as she sang through a haze of cigarette smoke. The vague taste of a vodka soda still remained on her tongue; the drink adding to the delightful haze of her evening. 

This was downtown New York – nobody knew who she was here. 

Walking on a tightrope between never ending shame and the thrill of anonymity, Batya continued her swan song. The warmth of admiration caressed her skin like a summers ray; here she was loved and cherished for the gifts she possessed. Here she was merely a woman with an enchanting voice, not the daughter of the famous jeweller Harvey Bernstein. 

Harvey Bernstein. The prized and beloved chairman of the Park Avenue synagogue. The famed owner of Bernstein Jewels. Her father. She often wondered how a man like him could have a daughter like her. It must’ve felt rather shameful. His lack of a son and his only daughter being what many in the community dubbed as ‘wild.’ The park-avenue princess had refused every proposal he had sent her way. The only reason she had not been completely dismissed within the community was due to her quick wit, the love the rabbi had for her and the fact that her father had been the one to finance the new children’s school adjacent to the synagogue. For all her faults he did love her so, his secret Shanda singer of a daughter. 

She could imagine her papa’s face if he caught here tonight: his already greying hair would surely turn completely white at the sight of many men enthusiastically clapping along to the tune of her passionate lyrics. Her songs of melancholy and sadness set to a happy tune subdued her silent feelings of shame. Here, she was not Batya rather Bibi: the jazz singer who would frequent this club every second Saturday Night. As soon as Shabbos had come and gone, she’d greet her beloved audience with a flutter of her fingers, sing for twenty -five minutes, polish off two vodka sodas and leave before she became too memorable. 

But this night was different. 

This night she was going to be remembered. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The way her lips graced the metal expanse of her microphone. How her hair began to fall out of its silken scarf prison as she sang, a rich brown curl falling in front of her face. It was if he was cast under a spell, the dulcet tones of her voice dragging him under the surface and into the smoken depths of her influence. He wasn’t meant to be here. His need to escape the overpowering mutterings of his office had caused him to lose all rational thought, call a cab, and to command the driver to take him to the best jazz club he knew. 

That’s how he ended up here.

Watching her.

He knew her from somewhere. Couldn’t tell if she resembled a girl on a war-bond poster or in a movie he had watched at some point but somehow and somewhere he had seen her before. The familiar shape of her nose, her deep brown eyes, the way she smiled as the audience applauded. He didn’t know what overcame him, a force coercing him to stand from the rickety chair at the back of the room and to follow her bewitching figure out of the club’s back door. A fur coat had been placed on her shoulders; the white material glistened in the evening moonlight. He rushed out towards her, his feet splashing against the puddled gravel of the club’s back alley. 

Her figure froze, her fur-draped shoulders tensing as she turned to face him. Her dark eyes almost glowed as she gazed upon him, a perfectly shaped eyebrow moving upwards as she took him in. His feet shifted from side to side, a nervous grin on his lips as he looked upon her. He was a never a nervous man. He had no idea why he was acting so strange; he blamed the scotch he had sipped as he watched her sing, and the empty stomach he possessed due to his rush here from work. She smirked at him. “Can I help you?” Her voice echoed through the darkened alley, the same rich tone gracing his ears as she spoke. He coughed awkwardly. A futile attempt to pull himself together with a rough hand combed through his curls does nothing to cool the slight burning of his ears. She watched the movement with a curious look upon her face: as if she was waiting for him to scare and run off like a deer in headlights. She looked amused. He coughed once more. He wasn’t the running type.

‘I..’ He began, silently cursing himself for stammering so foolishly. He was a lawyer. His mother’s pride and joy. His ma’s favourite topic over the Shabbos dinner table: boasting to her friends about how his eloquent way of speaking could convince any judge. Why he was struck silent in the presence of this woman he knew not, his lips dry as he tried to throw a sentence together. ‘I enjoyed your show.’ The eyebrow remained raised. A grin broke out upon her face, he didn’t think he had ever seen something so bright. 

Her gaze drank him in like a cool drink on a hot summer’s day. Heat flushing upon his ears as he waited for her to reply. Her mouth opened as she attempted to speak, her dark curls fluttering slightly in the breeze. He couldn’t hear what she had said in reply, the rich tone of her voice drowned out in favour of the sound of a yellow cab screeching to a halt on the pavement next to them. Her hands tightened across her coat; he spotted red nail polish painted carefully upon her fingers. It reminded him of her lipstick. Red suited her. She smiled once more, her body gliding past his own as she entered the back seat of the cab. His eyes followed her powerlessly, his hand itching to reach out and stop her. To touch her red-nailed fingers and ask for a dance.

His eyes remained on her until the cab drove away, the white coat dazzling through the rear end window of the vehicle. He never heard her reply, but he had an inkling he’d see her again. 

She refused to look back as she drove away. The urge to gaze upon him once more burned through her like an inferno as she sat comfortably on the cab’s black leather seats. His eyes had been so blue. A crystalline colour that made her skin flush when he stared at her, his full attention on her figure. She didn’t get his name, but Batya had a feeling she’d see him again.

And even if she didn’t all would not be lost. 

After all, ‘Bibi and her blue-eyed baby’ sounded like a perfect addition to her Saturday Night set list. 

Word count: 1231

Yiddish dictionary: • 'Shanda' - shame, can be used in reference to a person who makes their family feel shame • 'Shabbos' - the sabbath.

Author's Note part 2: Thank you for reading! I'm really excited to share this with you guys - been a while since I've written something so I hope you liked it, next part I think will be out in the next few days x [if you would like to be tagged in any future chapters - drop a note in the comments]

[cetaitlaverite]

Why All This Music? - Deleted Scene

Masters of the Air - Rosie Rosenthal x OC

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

hope you loveeeee <3 masterlist is here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fred. Her friends called her Fred.

Adorable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lemonade,” Freddie corrected.

Rosie chuckled softly under his breath.

Millie scowled. “No.”

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

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

“Why not?!”

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

“I’ll buy it myself, then.”

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

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

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

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

“But not yours,” Alice deduced.

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

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

Smiling, Rosie nodded. “Thanks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rosie’s heart squeezed before it resumed its beating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freddie’s eyes glinted. “Trouble.”

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

Freddie gasped. “That’s tragic.”

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

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

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

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

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

Freddie flushed and turned to Millie.

Rosie forced himself to turn to her too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He really had always known.

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

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

Oops.

[softspeirs]

These Heartbeats Clear (1): Rosie Rosenthal x OC

A/N: Rosie/OC… literally couldn’t resist. I was torn between this OC and a Red Cross OC from the flak house, but I think I wanted someone who would see him during all the hard parts, not just for a week when he’s Suffering. Spoilers for eps 5 and 6 of MoTA. These Heartbeats Clear Masterlist

one - adjustment period.

Grace watches warily as the crew approaches on the jeep - she’s not sure what she expected… for them to be jubilant and laughing, looking refreshed and ready for action? Nervous, scared, resigned… some combination of the two?

Her eyes land on Rosie, as they’re prone to do. He seems calm. That’s not a surprise, but the glimpse of something — fear? hesitation? — in his eyes is.

Helen, standing on her left, shifts her weight, her posture the picture of worry and sadness.

“Try to pull yourself upright,” Grace says quietly.

"I'm trying--" Helen says, her voice dull. To her credit, she flashes a smile as the guys get closer, her frown softening.

"Ladies," Rosie says, fingers on the brim of his hat. "What's the welcome wagon for?"

"Coffee." Helen says, "Just brewed."

He smiles thankfully at her, but his eyes go back to Grace's. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, Lieutenant Fleming--"

"Bearer of semi-bad news, I'm afraid." Grace says, ignoring the way her heart picks up a little at his half smile. She rushes to finish before she can see his face transform - he can't afford any more bad news. "Doc wants to see everyone, just a quick chat. After that there's food in the mess."

He nods. "What's one more doctor?" He mutters. She suspects she wasn't supposed to hear that. Then, louder, "You heard her, gents. Doctor's orders."

They grumble a little, but head into the infirmary behind Grace and Helen, taking a cup of coffee each as they go. Helen follows behind, empty tray tucked under her arm. She looks back at Grace, but Rosie is lingering behind, twisting the brim of his cap in his hands, and Grace can't bring herself to leave him out here alone.

She waves Helen on, telling her she'll catch up in a minute.

“Captain?”

He starts, like he forgot she was there. He also looks like he’s forgotten about his promotion. And that’s the thing with flying — a promotion isn’t always wanted. Deserved, certainly. But it often comes at the expense of other pilots, and it’s always a tough pill to swallow. “How’s it been? How’s— everyone?” He asks her. His face is so earnest. It makes her throat tight.

“As well as we can be, Captain. Most of the replacements are here.” She hesitates before continuing. She’s been here right along, with the Red Cross girls and the doctor and the other nurses. But just because she’s been here as long as everyone else doesn’t mean she understands what the flight crews have gone through. “How was your week off?”

“Too long.” He says, no hesitation. His smile is small, wry, a barely-there upturn of his lips. “I wanted to get back.”

“And you’re alright?” The question comes out almost without her permission. They don’t even know each other that well - she’s patched up a few of his scrapes and bruises and they’ve made idle conversation as he checked on some of his crew that ended up in the infirmary, but this is bordering on too casual.

But she’d argued with him, the day before he went on leave. She’d been too casual then, too, and so had he, both of them lost in the emotions of the Munster mission.

It feels a little awkward now, but she does her best to press on.

She can’t help but worry about him. She admires him, at the heart of it. The way he kept his men together through it all, the way he always has a kind word and a joke for anyone who needs it.

She just hopes he’d say so if he’s the one who needs it, this time.

“I’m as good as I can be, Lieutenant.” He replies.

“Grace.” She reminds him softly. “It’s— you don’t have to call me Lieutenant.”

“Grace, then.” He echos. “I’m okay. Have to be. For them.”

“I hope—“ she pauses, looking down at her shoes. “Forgive me sir, but I hope you know that we’re all here for you. What you went through—“

“I know.” He interrupts her, not unkindly. “You think we haven’t seen the way you’ve been there for us? Even when you thought we didn’t notice?” He shakes his head. “You write our letters when our hands shake, and get us extra blankets, and tell us it’s going to be okay when it’s—“ He stops himself, shaking his head.

When his eyes meet hers, they’re so soft she can barely stand it. This is dangerous, what this conversation is turning into, but she’s also relieved to hear that what she’s been doing besides being a nurse and keeping them alive has made a difference.

“I appreciate it more than I can put into words, Grace.” His voice is rough.

There’s a long moment of prolonged eye contact. Her senses are screaming, danger, danger! But no matter how hard she tries, she can’t look away.

“You just keep yourself and those boys alive, Captain.” She says, her voice thick. “For the rest of us.”

He salutes, a jaunty thing that lightens the mood. “Yes ma’am.”

She laughs, and he grins at her in response. “Go on, you have to meet with the Doctor too. Just standard procedure.”

He hums. “Heard a lot of that the last week.” He takes a few steps away and then stops, “Grace?” His face is suddenly boyish, shy. “You’d better call me Rosie. Or at least by my first name.”

It feels right — she’s given up calling anyone else by their rank anymore. They’ve been through too much for that. The new guys will be an adjustment - she’s not sure she can manage getting attached to any of them. Because it’s inevitable, what happens after.

But the line has already been crossed with this man, looking at her in the fading sunlight.

“You got it, Rosie.”

His answering smile stays with her until the next day, long after the roar of B-17s fades into the distance.

[luminouslywriting]

Hey sweetie! Could you please write a prompt or headcanon where Rosie has a mild cold and behaves like a child because he wants the OC to look after him and pamper him? However, the OC is not the type to pamper; she will take care of him but will be more direct, insisting he keeps moving instead of letting him laze around in bed, much to Rosie's exaggerated dismay.

Lots of love 💕

Hi sweetheart! I love this idea and think it's absolutely spot on! Reminder that my requests are open and I don't mind spam, so keep sending me requests for MOTA or Band of Brothers!

More under the cut, cut for length!

-Rosie is used to getting pampered when he gets sick. As a kid, his mother was happy to wait on him hand and foot and treated him as though he was her special little boy (which of course, he was, but I digress).

-However, as an adult, things are a little different

-Namely, he's married and in a happy relationship with you

-And unfortunately for him, if he falls sick, he's absolutely falling into this mentality of wanting/needing someone to take care of him

-It's almost childish, the way he asks for more blankets, cuddles, and to turn on some of his favorite movies

-Which is not a problem

-But you're not the pampering type

-Rather than have him lay in bed all day, you force him to go and sit in the study with the window open for some fresh air

-You do clean the sheets and do a load of laundry, but that's a practical aspect of someone being sick

-You force him to take his medicine and to have a nap for a few hours

-Rather than have screen-time with movies playing, you would read a book to him and keep him on a strict schedule of getting up and walking every few hours, ensure that he has a warm bath or shower, and that he's nice and clean

-And yes, the entire time he's being a drama queen

"No, it's too cold, I don't wanna get out of bed." -Rosie

"If you get out of bed and sit by the window, the sun will warm you up too." -You

-Alternatively, he wants cuddles and kisses and physical affection and you're out here keeping your distance with your nose plugged and warding off his sickness

-You end up making him some soup that your parents used to make for you when you were sick

-Honey lemon hot water is great for throat problems

-And so this ends up being great prep for when you and Rosie have kids lol