#mota oc
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|| My fellow Colonel
Y’all asked for it and here it is. Whew, I wrote all of it today so here’s to hoping it is tolerably alright. Also, as an aside, I am just shy of 1k followers and that’s astounding to me. I had to rebuild this blog from scratch in December after two previous deactivations where I lost a similar amount collected over a far longer time. I’m truly so grateful for each of you who take an interest in sharing this little corner of the internet with me. Thank you, thank you!
Warnings: usual universe warnings apply, 18+ with additional chapter warnings for gore and violent character death, brief mention of racial discrimination and a very dark headspace for Ida at times including brief yet crassly recollected sexual assault
April 1945, escape spoilers ahead
“Bitte.” Ida kept her hands placating, outstretched and harmless by her side, the most open expression on her face that she could summon as she stared the woman down, “Bitte nicht!”
For eleven days she and Smith and Cleven had managed to scrounge their way westward, evading recapture or altercation. But eating from the dead horses on the side of the road was out of the question, agricultural fields were churned to sludge by Amtrak’s and the small amount of wheat berries they found in one abandoned supply truck had long since ceased to fuel their weakening bodies.
They had passed by a camp, one that they observed from the shelter of the woods to be abandoned or liquidated, once used for civilian labor, judging by the signs. After a careful reconnaissance it was agreed that Ida should go and act on her hope that the commandant's empty dwelling may not have been completely ransacked. That there might be some leftover provisions either there, or in the homes of the other personnel. She had had no luck at the commandant’s, it had been empty, no luck in the next idyllic little shack either, only the eerie knickknacks of some bygone person whose vocation it was to deal in pure evil.
In the third house she had found jars of spoiled milk, tubers of some sort gone to sprouts but she did not care, she grabbed a ratty towel lying on the floor and made a sling for them. She was in the process of prying a loose floorboard up, anticipating some root cellar below when the whining creak of a sneaking step sounded behind her in the still place.
She whirled around in a crouch, half expecting either one of her companions or else one of the many starving children they encountered on the road. Instead, silhouetted inside the bright doorway there was a woman, in the uniform of a guard and with a Lugar poised at the ready. Ida felt a cold spike of fear at the flashing recollection of her last encounter with such a female, at the horrid misery that was Ravensbruck, the complete and entire lack of respect shown to her or her girls by these indoctrinated tools.
Ida’s grasp of German had been sufficient enough to keep herself and her companions away from suspicion in their occasional interactions with passersby. While she wore the heavy overcoat of a military man, it had no markings, and it was just as likely for some freezing civilian to steal it off a carcass as it was for an American female officer to be on the loose. Ida knew this and she tried to play at being dumb, pointing to the food, explaining in unstudied desperation that she was starving.
The female guard observed her coldly, her impassive face showing a certain lack of curiosity or even remote interest in Ida’s narrative that made her heart quicken with a presentment of a swift and sudden execution. She has seen these guards lift a gun, squeeze the trigger, and move on boredly all in the matter of a second. What about her own features or story were so compelling to prevent it?
“Bitte nicht!” She repeated again, choosing to take a step forward, eyeing the woman’s grip and posture, professional, soldierly, the woman left little opening for Ida to capitalize on, but she would rather get a bullet in the gut while fighting than be shot hunkering over stolen potatoes.
There was a darkening in the doorway, it caught Ida’s eye right before she timed her launch. It was Cleven. His appearance made her hesitate a moment too long. He had his arm barred around the guard’s throat in an instant but the pistol was out of his reach and one stride too far away from Ida’s grasp. Unlike the hapless children in the forest that had attacked them days ago, this officer had bullets. Ida felt the searing tear of its bite smart her shoulder, blurring her vision in pain before she rushed in, clasping her own hands around the pale wrist.
Cleven had the woman’s eyes rolling back with his grip, her grapple at his forearm growing feeble as her oxygen ran low. Another shot rang out, a bullet embedding in the ceiling rafters as Ida managed to wrench it away at last. She turned it on the woman and fired, only to find her luck run out again, as well as the chamber.
There was a knife in the guard's boot, both women seemed to think of it at the same instant as the guard became possessed with a final animated struggle to reach for it, desperate to break out of Cleven’s strangle. But Ida wasn’t about to watch another friend die, or miss her chance to go home, to bear witness to what her girls, her men, her brother were yet enduring, not to spare herself a fleeting moment of misplaced mercy. She dove for the boot, wrenched the knife free from its sheath and drove the blade in under the sternum, carving it upwards as she herself rose to her feet. Her wrist was fully in the chest cavity, arm covered with warm still living blood, by the time she saw the guard’s head loll impassively against Cleven’s chest, the soul finally gone dim behind the eyes.
“Sweet Jesus.” He stepped back from the corpse, letting go. Ida felt the weight of the body in her wrist as her grip on the knife was all that kept it standing. She tore the weapon free with another sickly gush, and blearily observed it crumple to the floor.
“There are spuds.” she told Cleven as she braced her hands on her knees, nodding to her abandoned sack of potatoes. The edges of her vision were blurring from the exertion, her coat sleeve was soaked to the elbow, but she had a weapon now and a dead Nazi at her feet. Both sat well with her.
The potatoes bought them another days walk, with Smith using the ratty towel to wrap Ida’s shoulder, it was only a flesh wound. That evening they had another run in, but this time it was with the friendly faces of gum chewing yanks who were welcoming with their smokes and their K rations. Poor infantry boys, they were bamboozled by the existence of a female officer, the experiment of integration having only added to the flyboys somewhat derisive glamor. But it was mostly awe, and a healthy amount of respect, that they showed for the blood smeared lady Colonel.
“That make you one of Brady’s Banshees?” one bright corporal made conversation with Ida as he allowed her a seat beside himself on the hood of a tank, it was a hitched ride into Belgium.
“She is Brady.” Smith drawled for her, enjoying far more than Ida how gobsmacked the man was to be in the presence of feminine greatness.
They were welcomed warmly everywhere by their fellow allies, ferried like heroes on any conveyance possible. Smith was their cheery intercessor, knowing her superiors were of so torn a spirit and conflicted of conscience as to be half inclined to go back to where they came from. In truth, Ida could hardly bring herself to board the last plane -an unbelievable courtesy taking them from Paris straight to Thorpe- as all she could think on were what repercussions might have been exacted on the others for their escape. And what cruelties she had left her brother to endure without her.
Cleven was not much better; Egan, Maureen, all of them still left behind. As they took their seats on the benches, felt the old nostalgic rumble of the engines, not of a Fort but of a Gooneybird, what should have been a lightening of spirits as they soared over the channel was instead a dismal camaraderie of guilt.
That fateful night when they had all agreed to escape before crossing the Danube, the organization had been infuriatingly chaotic yet the groups were chosen with emphatic pragmatism. The guards were used to watching certain persons in company with their favorite fellows. The Bradys, the Buckys, Smith and Murph, each had some comrade the Germans expected to be their partner in any subversive endeavor. With this in mind, their agreed-upon groups were intentionally fractured to confuse their captors, each hoping to meet up somewhere on the road or in the forest.
Cleven and Ida had waited only a few hundred yards in the tree line for over an hour, hoping to be joined by their fellows. In the end only Smith came, with the word that the gig was up, Egan had been detained, John Brady never even began to saunter off before they closed the perimeter. No more were coming. It took all of Smith’s vicious logic to keep the officers from going back, she had to lean on reminders of reprisals and certain death, how they could in no way alleviate the suffering of the others by rejoining them.
What they could do was carry through, escape, go back to England, spread the word, liberate.
Despite this inner turmoil, Ida felt like kissing the ground when her feet landed on East Anglian soil. Or, rather, the cement of the old familiar runway. Instead she settled for Crosby‘s cheeks, the beaming fellow being so utterly honest in his welcome that some tiny part of her melted in momentary relief at having actually made it. That hadn’t really sunk in, not until there was an English mist pelting her face and Harry’s crinkled cheeks between her hands.
“A major?!” she repeated his rank and felt prouder than his mother in that moment while Harry blushed scarlet under the affirmation.
“A-and a father.” tumbled out of his mouth as a deflection except, that subject made a great hullabaloo too, with even Cleven growing exuberant in his congratulatory shoulder slapping. “What am I doing makin’ you stand out here, get in the jeep sirs, I’ll take you to a hut, or-or the club? Or the doctor?”
Both Ida and Cleven stiffened in their swing into the jeep at the last suggestion, a brittle defensiveness tightening their smiles, “Bed and board are all we need, thanks Crosby.” Gale gave him one of those devastatingly final little nods of his.
They kept him occupied and rambling on the ride, updates on new crews, new buildings, Jeffreys, Meatball, the improvement of rations, tales of bombing Berlin, the prospect of victory within reach. By the time he’d parked outside Cleven’s old barracks, Harry knew next to nothing about their own experiences, and he felt that somehow to have been quite calculated.
“There’s still a ladies sector, Colonel,” Harry assured Ida, much to her confusion as to why there wouldn’t be, “I’ll take you and Smith there.”
The old hut was as she remembered it, same as all the others, curved metal amplifying the patter of rain and the monotonous comfort of Air Force regulated bunking. It hit then, no more wooden combines or roadside shelters. She was really back.
“Where the hell is everyone?” Smith asked, the place eerily quiet, even for midday.
“There at- there at work.” Crosby offered haltingly.
Suspecting something dreadful, or as Bucky liked to say of her instincts -sniffing out bullshit- Ida slowly turned to Crosby and gave him a stare, one she recalled having once effectively shrank the man by a few literal inches. Perhaps because it was remarkably similar to her brother’s. Harry bore up under it better now, oak leaf cluster on his breast or a hard three years adding some spine to him, she didn’t know, but still his expression wavered guiltily.
“At work?” she repeated his phrasing, “That what the kids call war these days?”
“A few, a couple, -some,” he settled on, “are on missions. We’ve been uh, we’ve been running a lot of missions. Picking up prisoners -like you guys.”
“The rest?”
“At work.”
“Where’s this work?”
“Uh, well, various posts, you know how it is-“
“-grounded?” She supplied.
“Well, yeah. Just like Douglass and me and-“
“They badly hurt? Who’re we talking about?”
“Colonel,” Harry begged her, looking mildly close to drowning on dry land and sending a wet eyed sos at Smith, “dozens of them are posted here. Grounded yes, but, in good positions, required positions-“
“Did they get corresponding promotions?” Ida hit back, “Were they grounded because they were too valuable or were they hurt? Or did they just get squirreled away in some cupboard with a typewriter?”
“Look, uh, sir,” Harry chuckled nervously, “a lot of them are on missions, some of them are at their jobs -where I should be right now. But, it’s true, uh, the brass thought that, well they weren’t sure, Ida, when we got word you’d escaped we wanted to welcome you back right and uh, we didn’t know what to expect. We’ve had a lot of reports. Some reassuring and a lot…not. Not reassuring at all. And uh, we didn’t know what to expect, they didn’t know and uh, depending on how you were, it could affect the morale. So they thought, clear the place out a little, yeah? Make sure you were -you were…”
“Didn’t wanna scare the kids.” Ida supplied, tone softened, suspecting she probably did look half witch from all her trials.
“We didn’t know what to expect.” Harry repeated, a significant amount of relief bleeding into his voice, like he was going to get choked up on her mere continued existence.
“Well I need a change of clothes, and I need a shower.” Ida smiled at him until he gave her a fastidious look while glancing at her blood stained coat and she sent him a sour glare in return, “And a nap. And then I dare say nothing about me will be cause for alarm, not even for general LeMay.”
Harry was back to chuckling nervously as he walked his way backwards out the hut. “Of course, yeah, uh, we tried to supply uniforms, laid them out -best we could scrounge, for now.”
“Thanks Croz.” Smith offered, trying to soften the ending of this interaction.
“Before you go,” Ida stalled him, “tell me a little about the new ones? Who should I know? What should I know? Hate to wake up in here and have to start making acquaintances from scratch.”
“Colonel,” Harry answered her in the most mournful voice, “there aren’t any new ones.”
That old whiff of cold dread was back. “Crosby.”
“They uh, after you went down, colonel they, they scrapped the program.”
“You cannot be-“ Ida rubbed at her throat, trying to get it to open up, wondering what the hell it must be like to be Gale Cleven and get to come back to Thorpe Abotts and nothing be different, get to be home and get to find everything where it should be because your own higher ups aren’t fighting against you right along with the bastards with the flak and the barbed wire and the endless taunts about women being made for breeding. “Crosby what do you mean scrapped? They shut it down?” she wished she sounded angry, but she knew it was a cry, and to his credit he looked ready to cry for her.
“Colonel I’m so sorry, the reports were so alarming and the-“ he shook his head, “-they grounded all female servicemen right after. Cut the program, if it wasn’t for Kidd they might’ve sent them all back, discharged or moved to the WASPS. Well, they stayed, but, it’s not- it’s not what it was, colonel.”
Ida bit her lip, that old throbbing pain from the old injury of her cheek bloomed again, it felt like arriving at the stalag in one too many ways. “Y-you said something about, you said some were up on missions.” She wracked her brain for it and found it, that one bit of hope and she clung to it like a woman drowning.
“Yeah!” Crosby was over eager to soothe the pain with the modicum of good news he had, “They are! Rosenthal he uh, he’s over the squadrons now and uh, he’s seen to it they are allowed up. Mostly uh, mercy runs or behind allied lines, they don’t want anyone captured but, they’re up. They’re getting their thirty missions. They’ve uh, they’ve changed the number, since you were here.”
“Thirty.” she repeated numbly.
Harry’s footsteps had long ago receded along the gravel outside by the time Ida allowed herself enough movement to sink atop the pristinely made bed in her filthy clothes and just stare at the opposite bunk of equally pristine sheets and all of it so pristine and so rigorous and so proud and so pristine and so-
The echo of her own scream startled her, banging off the tin walls and circling back to her. Ida felt more than saw the implacable Tallulah Smith jump in fright beside her, but that level headed woman knew better than to soothe her officer. Not after what they’d just learned. She bit her tongue and busied herself sorting amongst the clothes and provisions for towels, combs, soap, toothbrushes. Ida watched this rich display of care on the part of their fellows with a snarl bending her lip, she could taste salt and knew she was also crying and all that she could hear amongst the cacophony in her head was a desperate wail -she didn’t want combs and towels, she wanted her squadron back.
Some aspect of this heartbroken petulance must’ve shown on her face as Smith extended both a comb and towel to her with forceful kindness, “LeMay didn’t lay these out.” was all she commented. “Think of it as Harry’s hospitality. You look a mess, and won’t get any respect for it.”
Smith had some vantage point from which to speak, Ida knew. Native American with bronzed skin just shy of being segregated twice over, getting screwed over was something Smith had made into an art form of cat and mouse. Ida had long admiringly observed it; she never thought she’d need to adopt a similar posture to this degree. Not when she felt like grabbing at the knife still in her trench coat pocket and making a charming scene and all it would get her was confirmation of the reports.
Whatever those were. Alarming reports, apparently. It was so very upper brass of them all to find the enemy’s methods unfortunate and so shoot themselves in the foot like it evened things out.
“I’ll be along in a minute.” Ida insisted to Smith from her bunk, refusing more than the towel and comb.
They’d all been through hell for daring to be combatants. But Ida, at this news of her loss, was beginning to recall particular parts of her own hell she had not dwelt on since they occurred.
Colonel -the way each had called her that, sneering at the mere concept of a colonel with a cunt, an officer so easily breached, a leader made by her Creator to be bent over and taken. She’d had a squadron then, and no amount of scorn or cruelty could take that from her; no, only her friends could take that away.
And they had.
Robert Rosenthal was giving himself a little pump up speech as he stalled outside with his hand on the door knob, knowing he needed to knock first and that knocking would buy him a little more time to ready himself, and so he really should go ahead and knock. The pattering drizzle on his hat brim should have been human incentive enough to get inside already, if duty and honor and admiration weren’t quite cutting it today. But he stalled, even went so far as to cast an indefensibly juvenile and furtive glance over his shoulder at the shrinking form of the accommodating lady who’d passed him on his march here. A Lieutenant Smith, who had told him she was glad to be back and that her famed superior was still inside-
“Angry as God after catching the Israelites worshiping cows at Mount Carmel.”
Rosenthal knew Ida Brady had every reason to be utterly furious, hell -he was furious for her, with her, about her. And he had no right to stand there and wish she wouldn’t take it out on him, to defend himself with shitty excuses like the fact a few of the girls got to see the top of clouds because he had put his shiny and promoted boot down and asked for it. He wasn’t exactly the problem, perhaps, but he was, by sheer implication of it being men like him unable to require better treatment, at fault. And so, Rosie stood in the drizzle and gave himself one last minute to think about Colonel Ida Brady as she had been the last time he’d seen her, terrifyingly formidable and utterly kind.
“It’s no worse than your dread of it, I swear.” she had told him and Nash that night before their first time up, “I was relieved to have seen it.”
What had she seen since? He stared at the little leather binder in his hand and scoffed at the administrative mission that carried him here. To hell with it. He knocked, he waited, he knocked once more, and he went in.
The stipple of rain on the roof of an empty Nissen hut was a calming background noise he himself savored whenever possible. Despite their bare aesthetic and extreme practicality, there was a serenity to them as well, and on spotting a seated figure a few bunks down from the entrance, he felt a pang of empathy for the desire to just decompress.
She looked up at the sound of his footfalls, not startled in the least. Not angry. In fact, she looked utterly dazed, like the men he’d helped out of their forts after a bad run of it. A face he’d seen in the mirror once or twice or a couple dozen. There was a docile listlessness in her gaze that he knew better than to be comforted by, despite the selfish feeling of relief at not immediately being eviscerated about her squadron. She was gaunt, understandably so, her strong jaw so pronounced he could cut his thumb on it, the pallor of her skin jarred unsettlingly with her dark brows, set off in stark relief by her tangled, jet black hair. Her overcoat was half muddy brown, half doleful rust. There was a bloody story there, a recent one, not washed away by a hard rain or bath. Rosenthal didn’t have any doubt how that struggle had ended for her assailant: she was here, wasn’t she?
He’d never seen anything more magnificent in all his life than this battered figure sat on a pristine cot with dawning recognition in her eyes.
“Welcome back, Colonel!” he ventured, keeping his tone soft as befitted the setting, yet unable to keep the creeping happiness at her return from showing in his voice.
“Mm, yes. Rosenthal.” Ida was straightening automatically, rising from her seat, shrugging off her clumsy overcoat and standing near to attention at sight of the brass on his lapel, “I remember you. A Colonel now, I see. Well done.”
Rosie felt his cheeks burn, another juvenile thing, her hand extended itself to his surprise and he clasped it warmly, maybe a little too firmly. “Well that’s kind of you, Ma’am. Very kind. Welcome back, Colonel.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“Apologies.” he stumbled, releasing her hand in hopes of regaining his thoughts. She didn’t look angry yet, she looked wary, “Just glad to have you back. There was…a lotta concern.”
“It was touch and go but -here I am.”
“Right.” There was silence after that, it was so thick that the quirk of his kind lips and the gleam of his eager eyes slowly dimmed and fell as no small talk resumed. “Uh, colonel,” he ventured, “due to those aforementioned concerns, uh, I’ve been asked-“
“Aforementioned? What kind of talk is that?”
“Ha, well, lawyerly talk I’m afraid. I need to get a report from you, colonel.”
“For God’s sake man, I just got here, maybe with a shower and a nap and a cup of joe I might have a report for you but- I just got here.”
“Yes.” he refused to wince, he refused to. He was a colonel now, he had to require unpleasant things every day from his friends. Today it was required from a hero. Small difference in a war. “And if it were up to me I’d give you weeks to do all that before asking a thing from you. But I can’t, colonel. They wanted an immediate, preliminary report. It’s -it’s the same as an integration after a mission. Less interaction beforehand, less time to confuse the details- you get my drift.”
“You’re under orders.”
“I am.”
“Why didn’t you say? God’s sake Rosenthal.” she was close to angry now.
“Sorry, ok, Colonel I-“
“Why the whole welcoming committee schtik? Just say what you mean.”
“It’s not a schtick, Ma’am,” he insited, heatedly, “it’s a genuine honor to have you back with us and a relief to see you safe. And yes, I have orders to get a preliminary report.”
“In future you can save us both precious minutes of our lives by being this forthright, please?”
“Understood.”
“Right, well. What’s wanted? What kind of report?” He didn’t fail to notice the sudden and very studied nonchalance that took over her gait, the way she leaned against the railing of her footboard, almost a slouch that made the lean line of her look entirely unperturbed. He wasn’t a good lawyer out of naïveté about such posturing. She was braced like hell for this, probably worse than he was.
“On uh, on your general treatment. Ma’am.” he decided to summarize it thusly.
“Well Colonel,” he had forgotten what a nice voice she had, it wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t gruff, it was simply nice, “if Gale Cleven’s under eyes didn’t tell you the food was meager and hardly nutritious, I’ll go on record to say so. But they did try, I think I can give them that. Looked like everyone was starving by the end.”
“Conduct of your guards?” he had his stupid little leather case open on his forearm and the not quite soggy notepad in it was being dutifully filled with scribbles.
“I’ve little to say against the Luftwaffe, they were honorable for the most part. I think you’ll get that same report from the others. There were a few incidents, but we were enemies. To be expected.”
“Right, uh,” the pencil drug a little “this is a general report so I’ll spare an inquiry into those incidents.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course.”
“Anything else?” Ida tried to smooth her face, she really did.
“Colonel -yes.” she watched him as he deliberated for a moment before seeming to recall her scathing admonition of before, and carried on resolutely in the bluntest manner he could summon, “Regarding your prolonged detention before the stalag. It’s our understanding you were not always under Luftwaffe jurisdiction?”
“That’s correct. Combatant status was not recognized for four and a half weeks.” Ida gave a clipped nod. “We were even briefly detained at a concentration camp.”
“I can’t imagine what you must’ve seen there.”
Ida stared back with some slight emotion flitting over her mask-like face at long last and Rosie felt maybe his own showed it, too, “From what I’ve heard, we may be the only ones to have left alive.” she said at last.
“Your testimony, what you saw there, it could become-“ Rosie drew in breath, “-invaluable.”
“I’d do anything to see justice done, Major.” she agreed, “Sometimes I think I dreamed such mass cruelty. Seems too large to be real, too awful to be abetted for so long by so many.”
“I saw what was left of one of the smaller camps. In Poland.”
“Mm, so you can imagine.” she retorted, but it was a kind retort.
“I don’t see much else when I close my eyes.”
“Mm.”
“Right, back to this uh, report, the question is, how were you treated before civilian status was adhered to?”
“Is this a personal report or a general one?” Ida inquired suddenly.
“The assignment was to ask about your own observations as senior officer of the female contingent of-“
“-then in that case, the treatment was barbaric, Major Rosenthal.” Ida informed him forcefully, “The Luftwaffe used plenty of rough tactics and one officer was particularly cruel to Cleven. I was informed my brother was dying and that my obstinance in denying giving them information was prolonging his torment. All of that I was prepared for, it was one soldier’s attempt to break another. The gestapo, on the other hand, were beasts. And the SS -sadists. They dealt in cruelty for the pleasure of it and my girls went through hell. Once in the stalag there was a reprieve. Then the Luftwaffe were relieved of command and it began again- if you expect details, come back with a larger notepad.”
Rosie gave a curt nod of his own in understanding, his brow creased at the implication.
“No one wants to see justice done for them more than I.” Ida went on, “But they’re still out there, and I’m here. And I-I don’t know that those are my stories to tell, Colonel. What I saw is plenty enough to hang a village. And it wasn’t just toward my girls.”
“At…at a later point, you’d be willing then?” he ventured, softly, no longer professional, “To tell me what you saw?”
“Larger notebook, Rosenthal.”
“Yes ma’am.” he knew a dismissal when he heard one, he even felt a brief and heinous relief at the prospect of slipping away on a high note. The dreaded scrapping of the program still undiscussed. “I’ll uh, leave ya to that shower.”
“It’s good to be back, Colonel.” she called to him while he was still maneuvering through a somewhat meandering exit, she called out this concession as if it were meant only in regards to him, “Like what you’ve done with the place.”
Well now that was -that was kind and that was unexpected and Colonel Robert Rosenthal may have let the door hit him on the way out.
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Still Crazy After All These Years (Bucky Egan x OC)
Summary: It's a perfect Saturday evening in spring, which means only one thing for the Egans: baseball (specifically their son's Little League game).
Note: Fluffy post-war fic of Holly and Bucky being unhinged Little League parents (but we love them for it🥲) Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.
Word count: 1.9k
Warnings: None.
“C’mon ump, that was out!” Bucky shouted from the bleachers. “Foul ball my as—butt,” he muttered to Holly, who had three-year-old Cynthia in her lap, her chestnut hair pulled up in twin ponytails that blew along with the late spring breeze.
The mid-May air was heavy with DC’s summer creeping up on them. The swampy, humid season dragged along until he finally reached fall’s reprieve. Spring was perfect, though, with its early season baseball games and cherry blossom festival.
“It’s ridiculous.” Holly shook her head, her hand in the bag of pretzels she brought along, having carefully broken some into smaller pieces for Cindy.
“Who’s pitching? Is that the Baker kid?”
She nodded. “Yeah, Terry and Lynn’s youngest boy, Danny. He’s pretty good when he’s focused.”
“I can’t see,” Cindy pouted.
“Come on up, princess,” Bucky said, lifting his daughter and holding her on his hip. “Better?”
She nodded, wrapping her small arms around him as best as she could.
“You know, when you’re a little older, they have leagues just like this for girls.”
“Honey.”
“I’m just letting Cindy know she has options!”
“Where’s Henry?” Cindy asked.
“You see him, right over there?” Bucky pointed at the boy playing shortstop whose dark, curly hair was barely contained beneath his blue baseball cap, a big orange ‘B’ for Bears embroidered on it. All of the local Little League teams were named after some type of animal, and Henry’s game schedule made him feel like he was in the Wizard of Oz with how many lions and tigers and bears were on the sheet of paper he brought home from his first day of practice.
“Henry! It’s Cindy!” she shouted, waving frantically at her brother.
The boy looked up, waving in the general direction of his family. Bucky and Holly had been in the middle of packing up the Christmas decorations when Henry asked them if he could sign up for the neighborhood Little League team that upcoming spring. Holly nearly dropped a box of glass ornaments in excitement.
Watching a major league game, Yankees or not, paled in comparison to cheering on for his own son. Even strikeouts and missed catches made Bucky overwhelmed with pride, because Henry was out there trying, making mistakes he could improve on in their backyard with Bucky’s encouragement to buoy Henry’s spirits if he felt a little discouraged—or got distracted. He had to give the coach credit. Keeping the attention of a dozen six- and seven-year-old boys long enough to teach them how to play a decent game of baseball couldn’t have been an easy feat.
“Out!” the umpire shouted.
Holly clapped as Henry’s team left the field to line up near home plate. “Now we’re talking.”
The kid batting before Henry hit a pop fly and was out before he could even make it a few feet from home plate. Bucky heard Holly take a deep breath when Henry walked up to bat. First pitch was a strike, but the second was almost perfect, the crack of the bat breaking through the crowd’s murmuring. The ball flew into the outfield, landing just in front of the chain link fence that separated the baseball field from the playground.
“Nice hit, Henry!” Bucky shouted.
Holly jumped up, bag of pretzels spilling across the bleachers. “Way to go, sweetheart!”
Bucky grabbed Holly’s hand as they watched their son pass first and make it to second before the centerfielder could throw the ball back to the infield.
“Kid’s a natural,” Bucky whispered excitedly, as all good parents do, adoration filling his chest. He pressed a kiss to the top of Cindy’s head. Holly liked to joke that the day Henry was born, Bucky cried more than their newborn baby did, but their son, and later their daughter, too, were the culmination of every hope and dream he desperately clung to for the better part of two years of just surviving. Because of that, he’d do anything for them.
He watched as the inning continued, his eyes on Henry the whole time. The next batter managed to get to first, but Henry flew past third and made a break for home just as the second baseman caught the ball.
“Go Henry!” Holly shouted. “Go go go!”
“You got this Henry! Come on buddy!”
Bucky was sure his heart was going to explode by the time Henry slid to home plate, barely a second before the ball flew into the catcher’s hand.
“Safe!” the umpire announced, nearly drowned out by Holly’s screaming.
“Attaboy Henry!” Bucky cheered.
“He did it! He fuc—flipping did it!” Holly gave Bucky a celebratory kiss, the two of them hardly able to contain their smiles long enough for their lips to meet for all that long.
The rest of the game flew by. Nothing could compare to the rush of watching Henry steal home. The Bears won by a run, and Holly and Bucky were equally convinced it was thanks to their son. As soon as they found him after the game was over, Holly engulfed him in a hug, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
“You did fantastic, sweetie! What a game!” she exclaimed, almost looking a bit teary-eyed when she took Cindy’s hand in hers.
“Look at you! Stole home like a champ,” Bucky said with a smile, pulling off Henry’s cap to ruffle his hair.
Henry smiled, front tooth missing, the first of his baby teeth to fall out. The tooth fairy had left him a quarter to mark the occasion. “Thanks, dad.”
“I think this calls for ice cream,” Holly said, as if they didn’t go for ice cream after every game Bucky was able to go to.
Bucky nodded. “Definitely. Whatever you kids want.”
——
Scoopland was one of the first places Holly had taken him to when they were stateside and he made the move to DC with her. A neighborhood staple she frequented before the war, she’d been excited to bring him there. The place boasted over 20 different flavors of ice cream, and after trying them all over the course of their first summer together after the war, found he liked their Rocky Road the best. Holly was partial to mint chocolate chip, a newer flavor which he thought tasted like toothpaste.
Bucky walked up to the counter, tasked with ordering the ice cream while Holly wrangled Henry and Cindy into a nearby booth. She had the most difficulty getting Henry to sit down, since he spotted some friends from his baseball team on the other side of the ice cream shop.
“How’s it going Mr. Egan?” the teenage boy behind the counter asked.
“Can’t complain.”
“The usual for you guys?”
Bucky smiled. The usual. He wasn’t sure he ever figured himself to be the type of guy to have a usual at an ice cream place, but parenthood changed a lot of things. Sometimes, Cindy dealt out tea parties and temper tantrums in the same day. Henry got himself a trip to the emergency room just a few months prior while he was sledding on a snow day with his friends and went straight through a neighbor’s fence. He wasn’t sure how Holly managed on her own when he’d go away for work. At least her parents were nearby and took every opportunity to spoil their grandchildren that was presented to them.
He brought the four cups of ice cream over to the table, two in each hand, and placed the hot fudge sundae in front of Henry and tutti frutti with extra rainbow sprinkles in front of Cindy. He gave Holly a kiss as he handed her the cup of mint chocolate chip and snickered to himself when he sat down next to Cindy and saw Henry’s nose scrunched on the other side of the table.
“Listen champ, if there’s ever a day I don’t kiss your mom, that’s when you should be making that face.”
“‘S gross,” Henry said through a mouthful of ice cream.
“So is talking with your mouth full.”
Cindy stuck out her tongue, a distorted rainbow of ice cream and toppings that made Henry laugh.
“Next time, we’re taking you both to the zoo and leaving you there so the monkeys can raise you,” Holly said.
“We’re going to the zoo?” Henry asked. “When?”
“I wanna see a zebra and a giraffe!” Cindy exclaimed.
“How about next weekend?” Bucky looked to Holly for her approval, which was given in the smile that’d begrudgingly spread across her face.
Everything said and done, they made a damn good team as parents. Maybe he indulged the kids a little more than he should have, but Holly did her fair share of it too, letting Henry skip school to bring him and Cindy to weekday Nationals games for the hell of it.
“Can I go say ‘hi’ to Danny and Paul?” Henry asked, looking over his shoulder at his friends who were waving at him.
“Fifteen minutes, but we’re heading home soon. It’s past your sister’s bedtime,” Holly said. “Don’t climb over the seat, Henry, that’s—” She sighed as he climbed over the back of the booth anyway, leaving a streak of dirt from his sneakers behind him. “He definitely gets it from you.”
“Me? The first time I met your parents, they made a point to tell me how much of a wild child you were,” Bucky reminded her with a grin.
Her parents were gracious enough to let him stay with them until he and Holly found a place of their own, although he was sure her returning with a ring on her finger made it easier for them to welcome him into their home. Holly must have done a hell of a job talking him up in her letters to them, because none of the awkward tension he’d been expecting was there when he first walked through the door to meet them.
Holly laughed to herself as she wiped off the seat with a napkin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Drawing on your bedroom walls?” he pressed.
“Can I draw on my walls?” Cindy asked.
“No. It wasn’t good when mommy did it.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have nice paper we bought for you to draw on, baby,” Holly said.
“It’s not as fun.”
“Sure it is,” Bucky said. “Remember the other day when we drew that castle with the unicorn and the dragon?”
She yawned. “You made the unicorn look funny.”
“Are you sleepy, Cin?” Holly asked.
Despite shaking her head, Cindy rubbed her eyes. She always did whatever she could to push out her bedtime, as if she were afraid she might miss something big if she went to sleep.
“I guess I should’ve asked mom and dad to watch her, huh?” Holly said. “I didn’t think we’d be out this late.”
Cindy mumbled something incomprehensible before dozing off.
Holly laughed softly, “And she’s out.”
“I got her,” Bucky said, picking up Cindy from her seat and placing her in his lap. She immediately curled up against him, and he tried not to think too much about how he wouldn’t know when the last time she’d ever do that would be. Hell, Henry was six and already ditching them to hang out with his friends. He glanced over at his son, face scrunched up in laughter at a joke one of them told him. His smile was like looking in a little mirror.
Bucky ate a spoonful of ice cream, trying to tamper down the ache in his chest.
“You ever thought this would be how you’d spend your Saturday nights?” Holly asked teasingly.
“No.” Bucky smiled. “This is a lot better.”
#bucky egan x oc#john egan x oc#masters of the air x oc#masters of the air#bucky egan#john egan#mota#mota oc#mota fanfic#hbo war#hbo war fanfic
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Better Off - Bernard DeMarco x OFC - Chapter 6
Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
AO3
Summary: After finally acknowledging the grief of losing her sister, Susie opens a door for her and DeMarco to grow closer
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 4.1k
Tags: @xxluckystrike @latibvles @footprintsinthesxnd @mads-weasley @joyfulbookreviewmarvelspy
Sunlight blinded her the moment her eyelids peeled open, spilling forth through the gap in the curtains and bathing her in a bright, warm glow. Susie groaned, a headache thrumming behind her eyes, an unbearable dryness coating the inside of her throat. Tossing an arm over her face to shield herself from the sun, it took her a long moment to realise she didn't know where she was.
This registered with a sudden panic, a jolt of electricity shocking her awake as she pushed herself to sit up, thick, comfortable bedsheets rustling with each sharp movement. She wasn't in her hut - for a moment her mind even wondered if she'd somehow ended up home, back in Manchester, until she realised her mother had never been able to afford blankets as nice as these.
An indiscernible mass weighed down her feet, and with a gentle kick, Meatball let out a tired whimper, peeking his head up from beneath the opposite end of the duvet. Susie would have laughed had she not been so dumbfounded by her surroundings, the huge double bed and floral wallpaper utterly unfamiliar to her. Turning her head, she noticed a crumpled scrap of paper on the nightstand, and reached across to seize it, resting uncomfortably on one elbow.
Out on a mission. Called in sick on your behalf.
Meatball's been fed. Coffee downstairs.
See you later
Benny
She'd had to squint to read his handwriting, chicken scratch letters almost indecipherable in her freshly conscious state. It took her a second to recall who 'Benny' even was, the nickname so foreign to her. He'd scribbled a smiley face next to his name, and Susie felt the corner of her lips curl upwards, oddly comforted by the gesture.
Memories of the night before began to return to her. Everything since the call with Beatrice had been a blur the moment she'd awoken, but the longer she sat there, watching Meatball roll back and forth across the mattress, things seemed to return to clarity. She was in one of the rooms above the pub - the owner had been reluctant to admit them so late at night, but she faintly recalled DeMarco slipping the man some extra cash. He'd been there when she'd fallen asleep. She'd woken up earlier that morning - at the time she thought she was dreaming, but now it grew apparent that it had been real. He'd been getting ready to leave, treading carefully so as not to make a sound. As he'd placed the note on the table beside her, he'd whispered something... but now she had no idea what on earth he had said.
Unceremoniously casting away the blankets, Susie rose from her bed groaning as she stretched her arms as high above her head as they could go. Beatrice's words from the night before remained etched clearly in her memory, the only thing she could truly recall with any lucidity. She'd forgotten how good it felt to cry. She had no idea how long it had been since the last time she let it happen - not since Ellie died, for certain. The combination of far too much wine and the sudden release of years of pent-up grief certainly had its way of making its effects felt the morning after. Susie staggered towards the bathroom, drinking cold water from her cupped palms with the fervour of someone dying of thirst, the relief to her throat immediate and heavenly.
Meatball darted back and forth between her feet as she dressed, and it was a constant fight not to trip as she pulled on her trousers. She'd awoken wearing what definitely was her sweater, but where it had come from she had no clue, as it had been tucked away in her drawers back at the hut the last time she remembered seeing it.
At least DeMarco had been right about the coffee. It felt strange to drink it sitting up at the bar, the rest of the pub lit with daylight and entirely deserted save for the barman, still cleaning pint glasses from the night before.
"You look like shit," He pointed out.
"Thank you," Susie nodded. There was a clock up on the wall behind the bar, its steady ticking piercing the veil of silence that lingered over the place. She stared at it for a while, watching the second hand rotate around and around as Meatball sniffed at her feet, nudging her toe with his nose. Tilting her cup, she felt a mouthful of hot coffee scald her throat as it worked its way down.
"Hey - d'you know what time the planes left?" She called to the barman as he wandered past, a keg of beer tucked under each arm.
He glanced up at the clock, blowing out a long breath. "Not sure, love. Think your fella left here about four hours ago, but I could be wrong."
"Oh, he's- ...Thanks." Susie gnawed at the inside of her lip, deciding the correction wasn't worth the energy it would take to make.
But there was something pecking away at her insides, something deep in her stomach that made her feel slightly ill the longer she stared up at the clock, watching the minutes tick by. Her heel began to tap incessantly against the leg of her barstool, heaving in one long sigh after the other, fingers drumming against the outside of her mug. There was a restlessness in her that was beginning to drive her mad, and it only worsened with each passing moment she spent just sitting there. Whatever this feeling was, she couldn't just wallow in it.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Meatball let out a joyful bark as they left the pub, sprinting down to the end of the road and straight back up to her, tail wagging wildly, tongue dangling to the side. Susie had tugged her sweater back on over her uniform shirt from the night before, slightly-too-long sleeves hanging down past her palms, the wool fraying in places around the hems from years of wear and tear.
She'd never attempted to walk all the way to the airstrip from the village, and the further she trekked it was beginning to become clear why. The hike was far longer than she'd envisioned, and by the time they arrived at the runway, her feet ached for release, although Meatball remained as chipper as ever, the familiar surroundings exciting him as he began to sniff around for friendly faces.
"Oi!" Susie was ripped from her thoughts by the echo of Charlotte's voice as the woman approached. Crowds had already begun to assemble, ambulances and medics waiting nearby in preparation for the worst. It was a formation she'd seen countless times before, but for some reason this time it felt different, a bolt of nausea running through her before she forced herself to look away, turning towards her friend. "You look terrible."
"Yeah, I know. Morning to you too."
"They said you were off sick today," Charlotte frowned, brow arched in question. Of course, she had noticed Susie's absence the night before. Whatever had happened - however her sweater had made its way from the hut to her sleeping form - she was bound to have questions.
"Uh, yeah, I am. I just - I wanted to come up here... are they on their way back?"
"Any minute now," She nodded. Folding her arms tight across her chest, Charlotte moved to stand beside Susie, swaying slightly on the balls of her feet as they both stared up at the grey sky above.
"... Y'know," Charlotte began. "I don't mind if you don't tell me where you went. But you can."
Susie leant towards her, their shoulders pressing together. "I know."
Almost as if on cue, the steady hum of engines came into earshot, the dark shapes of returning planes just visible through the thin blanket of cloud. She hadn't realised that she'd begun picking at her nails in agitation until Charlotte reached out and grabbed her wrist, tugging her hands away from each other. Susie peered down at them, pink flesh raw and sore around the edges of her nails, then glanced across at her friend. Charlotte had noticed what she was doing without even having to look. She shoved her fists into her pockets.
The sounds of engines rose to a deafening roar as they swooped into land, propellers spinning to a slow halt as tyres skidded against concrete, coming to a slow stop one by one in various states of disrepair. Ground crews and medics were already springing into action from the moment the first bomber made touch-down, and all the two women could do was stand and watch, trying their best to make out the names scrawled across the noses of each passing fort.
She had long lost sight of Meatball, the dog skittering around the place and darting between legs in search of anyone familiar to him. Susie had begun to grow paranoid at her inability to locate 'Our Baby' when his bark split the air and he came bounding up to her from within the crowds, leaping up onto his hind legs as one of his claws caught on her sweater.
"Hey, hey, shhh," She cooed, stroking his head until he calmed down, stilling long enough for her to untangle his paw from the knots of wool. Meatball's tail wouldn't stop wagging, his head snapping back and forth between Susie and the crowds that covered the runway. When she glanced up, Charlotte was already walking away, a faint smirk creasing her cheek.
"Suze!" Her gaze darted towards the sudden voice, spotting DeMarco as he crossed the tarmac towards her, dark hair slick with sweat and plastered to his temples.
"Hey," She breathed, wide-eyed as he approached, a laugh escaping his throat as Meatball jumped up at him, barking with glee.
DeMarco stopped in front of her, lifting his hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. Yesterday she would've flinched.
"You look nice," He said.
"Oh, shut up," Susie shook her head, breaking their moment of eye contact. He let out a low chuckle, clearly anticipating such a response. "...You alright?"
Nodding for a long moment, DeMarco took a deep breath. "Yeah. Could ask you the same."
"Right, well I was never at risk of getting blown up, but thanks," She huffed, squinting in the sunlight as she began to smile. As he began to shrug off his jacket, DeMarco let out a faint hiss of pain. Susie's eyes narrowed at him, folding her arms across her chest. "Uh-huh, right, so when you said you were fine you were full of shit?"
He batted a hand at her, shaking his head. "It's just a stiff back - woke up with it. 'S what happens when you sleep in a chair all night, y'know."
"You... Did you stay all night?"
DeMarco froze for a second, and from the way he was staring at her, she could tell he was trying to gauge her reaction, to predict her response.
"I... don't wanna answer that if it'll make you mad at me."
"I assumed you'd just come back in the morning. When I saw you leaving-"
"I thought you were asleep when I left."
"Mostly. I thought I was dreaming at the time."
A lopsided, boyish grin spread across his face. "Oh yeah? You dream about me a lot?"
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Susie rolled her eyes, whacking him across the shoulder and making him wince again. "... Sorry."
"It's cool. Hey, I gotta go debrief - I'll see you later, ok?"
"Yeah, yeah, see you later," She nodded. As he began to walk away, she felt a question burning on the tip of her tongue, desperate to be asked. "Oh, hey - DeMarco?"
He stopped, turning back as he waited for her to speak. What had she wanted to say? Why did you stay? What did you say to me before you left? Why can't I think of anything but whether you're alright when you leave?
"Uh- it's nothing. Don't worry about it."
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Susie reached into the paper bag in her lap, passing a sandwich across to DeMarco as he poured a cup of coffee from the thermos, fending off Meatball to prevent him from snatching the meat out from between the bread. It had become a usual occurrence for him to join her on her lunch break, bringing with him food of his own to add to her meagre feast, and he came almost every day when he wasn't flying a mission. Charlotte and Maeve had joined them initially, but after returning to work the pair had been left alone, sitting in the grass beneath one of the trees at the edge of the airfield.
Lying back against the ground, she lifted her foot in the air, holding her toe to blot out the blinding afternoon sun. It was almost perfectly quiet here, the wall of trees muffling the constant noise of the ground crews, toiling away across the field.
"So," DeMarco began, propping himself up on his elbows. "If you weren't working here - if there wasn't a war and we didn't have to do all this - what d'you think you'd be doing right now?"
Susie frowned, letting out a faint huff. "God, I dunno. Probably still be in my old job."
"Which was-?"
"I was the projectionist at the Paramount in Manchester. Y'know - splicing the reels, switching them over, keeping the projectors running. Did that for five years before the war - got bloody good at it." When she looked over at him, he was smiling. "What?"
"Nothin', I just wouldn't have guessed it. You liked it?"
"Well, I got to sit around watching films on my own and no one talked to me."
"That tracks, actually."
Susie laughed, a deep chuckle vibrating from her chest. It had been a long time since she'd thought about that theatre, of the hours she'd spent sitting up in that tiny booth, only half paying attention to whatever book she had in her lap so that she was ready when the film ran its course. The constant clicking, rolling, scrolling sound of the reels of film had once occupied her mind almost permanently - she'd swear she could still hear it at dinner, or lying awake in bed at night, the noise etched into her very brain. But it had been years since she'd heard it now.
She lifted a hand to her mouth, biting nervously at her thumbnail for a moment as she built up the courage to speak again, feeling her heart rate begin to speed up inside her chest.
"I have a question, too."
"Oh yeah?" DeMarco shifted in the grass, propping himself up on one side so that he could face her properly. She wished he'd stop staring at her like that. It was awkward enough to ask what she needed to without those damn eyes on her, his expression always so open and forgiving no matter what venom seemed to lace her tongue.
Susie grunted, pushing herself up to stand as she paced back and forth in front of him for a while. He watched her go this way and that, over and over, beginning to frown. "You havin' a breakdown over there?"
"Will you come with me to Charlotte's wedding?" She blurted, rambling so quickly she was worried the words might have blurred together into a single, unintelligible slur.
"What?" DeMarco grinned, although there wasn't a hint of mockery in his smile.
"Charlotte said I could bring someone, I - I dunno, it's stupid, don't worry about it," Susie shook her head, a hint of red colouring her cheeks.
"No, no! I'll come. Not stupid," He hadn't moved from his spot, cheeks creasing with the weight of his grin.
She threw her hands up, refusing to meet his gaze. "It's just, I'm gonna be the only person showing up on my own otherwise, and it'll be weird and embarrassing and-"
"Hey, Susie! Susie. I already said I'll go. I'm just... I dunno, surprised to be your first choice."
Sitting back down again, Susie let out a long, deep breath, feeling a weight rise off her shoulders now that the question was out there in the open. The idea of showing up alone had been bugging her for weeks, but it wasn't until that morning, sitting alone in the bed he'd paid for, did she realise the answer had been in front of her all this time.
"Well, it's- ...Whatever, it's not like I had any old boyfriends to dig up for the occasion."
"You never had a boyfriend?" DeMarco scoffed in disbelief.
She narrowed her eyes at him, shrugging. "Don't act like it's so unbelievable. I mean, I've done the sex and the snoggin' and all that stuff but... no. Nothing serious. But I'm a bit bloody miserable and not very pretty so it adds up."
"Don't say that," He shook his head slightly, tone suddenly firm.
"Don't say what?"
"Don't say you're not pretty - you're very pretty, Suze."
"Oh, but I am miserable, eh?" Susie joked, attempting to hide how taken aback she'd been by his sudden seriousness.
"Hey, I'm sworn to honesty," DeMarco shrugged, laughing as she lashed out, smacking him on the chest with the back of her hand.
"Bastard."
They slipped into silence, watching Meatball attempt to chase a small group of geese across the field. She chuckled as the dog darted back and forth, the birds leaping to fly over his head whenever he got too close. DeMarco let his head loll to the side again, watching her face as she smiled. Who the hell had told her she wasn't pretty? He couldn't believe it - couldn't fathom how she could either. There was something effortless to her that he found wonderful - how she never bothered to curl or pin her hair, how her uniform was never quite up to regulation, how she never seemed able to tie her necktie the same way twice.
Susie let out a groan, her head tilting back. "What is it now?" He asked.
"Remembered I have a job."
"That's rough. You should probably go do that."
With a sigh, she took the last sip of her coffee and scrambled to her feet, brushing stray pieces of grass off her trousers, a faint patch of damp creeping up her back. There was a leaf stuck to the back of her hair, and as Susie scrambled to collect her things, DeMarco stood up, trying and failing to reach it through her constant movement. She turned, almost bumping into him, their faces only inches apart.
"Can I help you?" Susie asked quietly.
He reached around to the back of her head, plucking away the leaf and holding it up so she could see. "Got it."
Letting out a snort of amusement, she nodded, taking a step back and turning to leave. "Come 'round my hut sometime and I'll give you the wedding invitation," She called over her shoulder, the sunlight hitting her auburn hair and lighting the frizz around its edges a bright, flaming orange.
"Will do!" DeMarco shouted in reply, standing perfectly still as he watched her hike up the slope to the top of the field and disappear. Looking down, he realised he was still holding the leaf in his hand.
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Darkness had begun to fall over Thorpe Abbotts by the time Susie returned from work, a cigarette burning away between her lips as she approached her hut, keys jangling in her palm as she flicked through to find the right one. Sliding it into the lock and opening the door with a click, the place was already almost full as she entered, her bunkmates reading and chatting and pinning their hair into curlers in preparation for the next day. In the centre of the room, Charlotte and Maeve were holding up a long, white wedding gown, each of them gripping one end, eyeing it closely as they talked amongst themselves. Charlotte had spent months preparing the thing, sewing it herself out of scraps of parachute silk, and it was now achingly close to completion with only two weeks to spare.
"How's it lookin'?" Susie asked, strolling past them to get to her bed, shrugging off her jacket as she went.
"Come over here and put it on," Charlotte ordered.
She sighed, kicking her shoes off. "Again?" She and Charlotte shared almost identical measurements, and in the absence of any sort of mannequin, Susie found herself modelling the dress far more often than she would've liked.
"I think this should be the last time - I just need to sew the lace on once it comes in the post. But I'm not sure about the cut of the sleeves."
"Why can't you just put it on yourself?"
"Fine! Fine, God," Shaking her head, Susie crossed the room towards them, stripping off her uniform as she went. Her friends helped her into the dress, feeling almost lost beneath the layers of identical silk. Charlotte was slightly taller than her, so the hem of the skirt crumpled itself against the floor, but it was otherwise an almost perfect fit.
Maeve sat on the end of her bed, watching as Charlotte surveyed the dress, muttering inaudibly to herself as she poked at the sleeves and the fit of the bodice. Susie refused to turn her head for fear that she'd catch sight of her reflection in one of the girls' mirrors. She'd seen Charlotte wear it enough times to know what it must have looked like on her, but something about the idea of seeing it made her intensely uncomfortable.
"See, I'm thinking of taking the sleeves up a bit," Charlotte explained, marking out with her finger where she wanted to raise the fabric. "Like this, see?"
"Yeah, I think that'd be nice," Mave nodded. She had been dragged into the project just as involuntarily as Susie had, but they played their parts diligently for Charlotte's sake.
A knock sounded at the front door to the hut, and one of the other women scrambled up off her bed to go and answer it. People came by all the time, so the interruption hadn't even caught Susie's attention until her name was called.
"Susie! It's for you."
Her brow furrowed. "Who is it?" She replied, already thinking up an excuse to avoid having to go to the door. The woman stuck her head around the door again, talking briefly to whoever was outside.
"Says his name's Benny."
Maeve's face seemed to light up, grinning over at her. "Fuck's sake," Susie muttered, hiking up her skirts with as much care for Charlotte's handiwork as she could as she marched towards the front door.
DeMarco stood out in the darkness, a nearby streetlight basking half of his face in a warm glow. He'd smiled the moment she'd appeared in the doorway, but it faded into confusion as he took a moment to process her appearance.
"... Oh?"
She rolled her eyes. "Charlotte's wedding dress. We're the same size, she's- ...I dunno what she's doing really."
He let out a chuckle, nodding. She hadn't had a chance to deal with her hair since getting back, and curls protruded at all angles from the bun on the back of her head, which had been steadily slipping out of place for hours. Paired with the wedding gown, it was a distinctly strange combination.
"Well, I just came by to get the invite, I didn't mean to interrupt... whatever this is."
"Ooh, right," Susie nodded, using one of the other girls' boots as a makeshift doorstop as she scurried back inside, skirt held up to her knees as she rummaged in the drawer of her nightstand until she found it.
"There you go," She declared, holding it out to him as she returned.
"Thanks," DeMarco nodded, slipping the invitation into his pocket. Looking back up at her, he couldn't help but stare for a moment. Despite the strangeness of the situation, he couldn't deny that it suited her. He cleared his throat, shaking his head before his mind was allowed to wander to places he wasn't ready for. "Ok, well. Have fun with this," He said, gesturing to her dress. "I'll see you around."
"Yes," Susie spoke slowly, flashing him an awkward smile. As she reached back to close the door, a forgotten pin hidden inside one of the seams poked through her flesh, eliciting a hiss of pain. "Fuck! Charlotte, you haven't taken all the pins out of this thing!"
From somewhere inside, Charlotte's voice echoed. "Take it off before you get blood on it!"
Benny cleared his throat, feeling heat rise to his face. "Oh, right, ok - I'll be on my way."
"Bye!" She yelped, practically slamming the door in his face in her desperation to get out of the dress. Through the door, he could hear muffled voices, fast and irritated, and he let out a chuckle, gravel crunching beneath his feet as he walked away.
#masters of the air#masters of the air oc#bernard demarco#bernard demarco x oc#mota#mota oc#mota fic#masters of the air fic#oc: susie#fic | better off
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Hi! I’m the anon that requested the handholding prompt, and I just wanted to say thank you. It was everything I could have hoped for and more!! It made me smile!!
If you are still taking requests, I would request Jo/Egan with the prompt touching foreheads or bandaging/stitching an injury. As you can see, I couldn’t decide between one prompt, once again. I look forward to whatever you write and of course, never feel pressured to write anything. I hope you are doing well 🫶🏼
Hello anon! Thank you so much for your lovely message. I'm so glad you liked that prompt, and I appreciate your understanding very much. I've kept "bandaging/stitching an injury" on my list, and filled this one for "touching foreheads."
This is my first try at Bucky POV, and we kind of ended up on the depression-nap side of things (see my terrible header below). Thank you to @mercurygray for helping me work the end. Bucky Egan x War correspondent OC.
Six months.
And he’s felt every minute of every one, or at least it seems that way on days like this. Gray as all hell, like a storm gathering over the lake. Every minute if you didn’t count the gaps, the headaches, the days he sleeps away, the things he couldn’t remember those first few weeks. His jaw still wakes him in the night, dull if he’s lucky, a screaming pain if he’s not. He can never forget the things he’d actually want to forget, can he? Now that would be too easy.
Never coughed up an explanation for Buck either, even when Buck looked at him sideways about something or the other. Even if he wanted to, his throat goes dry at the thought, like the dust and dirt along the floorboards.
Holding onto it gives him something to hold onto, at least. The anger.
Six months of this damn nightmare, the bloodshot bone-chilled day and night. Different nightmare than the sky. He has those too. This is the kind of dream where you’re stuck in it, you can’t move, there’s footsteps outside the door. He’d had those as a kid. Terrified him.
It’s sure not the the kind they nail up pictures for, paper edges catching on the unfinished timber, hoping to summon some kind of vision. He’s so tired he’s practically drooling into the pillow, letting his eyes wander far enough along the wall that it hurts, over Rita and Ginger and Ava’s shining faces.
There are pictures kept in books too, pouches and the occasional wallet, those all but sewn into jacket pockets. Girls back home.
Not even a letter. Not one goddamn letter, he thinks, the sigh of it harder than seems fair to his mother or his sisters, trying to get around the mail delays and sending cards for every holiday they could think of. What the hell even was Arbor Day, anyway?
(“Trees,” Brady had said, not looking up from the keys of his saxophone.
“...right.”)
He thinks about Texas, and Florida, and Idaho, and Nebraska. Girls and dresses and perfume, manicured hands, no dirt around them. Marge’s friend, he can’t remember her name, pretty, dark hair, disinterested in a kiss but amenable to dancing. They’d all wanted to forget, right? Not when you’re flying out the next day.
He thinks of Lil, the cupid’s bow of her lip and the goosebumps under her sweater. She’d wanted to forget too. A brother somewhere in…he can’t remember now. Burma? Her grandfather hadn’t had too many nice words for him, John. Not that he could blame the man.
He thinks of Jo. Crouched over that little green typewriter the way Brady fiddles with his sax, the sound of the bell, the sound of the keys. Like Buck over the radio. The way she looked up at him, like she’d just realized something important. The way she smelled when she let him get close enough, like flowers after a spring rain.
The air’s sour in here, and cold. Showering helps, besides freezing your damn balls off.
He lets himself think it, about his head in her lap in the grass, or on a sofa, or anywhere, really, where she’s leaning down and she’s touching him, the little calluses on her hands, and her forehead close to his.
It hurts too much, and maybe he can admit it, here in this damn coffin of a bunk, mattress about as comfortable as one, that maybe she’d wanted to forget too.
You don’t kiss like that, he thinks, with acid in his throat, when you care what comes next.
She writes like she cares, though. She writes like she believes in all of them, like it’s real and not just what her paper wants or somebody wants to hear.
Maybe he can admit that now, if he doesn’t think about the note she’d left.
He’d rather think about anything else, hell, he’d rather walk outside with no shoes on, listen to the Yankees lose by a single run.
He’d rather wish this damn pillow was a different kind, her thigh or her body or her forehead, even, pressed against his. Not that he’d admit it out loud.
And her mouth right there, he thinks, like he can just make that half-second trip to kiss her, and kiss her again.
#masters of the air oc#mota oc#bucky egan x oc#john egan x oc#shoshi writes#jo's tag#motaverse#anonymous#i am...still figuring this out
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bucky who very openly manspreads, he always sits down with a grunt, slumping down into the seat with his legs instantly parting from each other. and it’s not like it was a little part, something barely noticeable— no, his legs were spread as far as they could possibly be. buck always gripes at him about it, telling him he looks ‘easy’ in which bucky just scoffs, rolling his eyes and spreading even farther just to annoy buck.
bucky who reeks of mint, coffee, and the cologne he deems the best ever made, pour un humme.
bucky who rarely ever gets hurt, but when he does? he loves to put on a show for the nurses, wincing and groaning in pain over something simple like a paper cut, or stumbling into the infirmary with a busted lip after he decided it would be funny to box one of the majors on the british air forces. he’s always flirting, too, saying something cheesy like, “gonna take good care of me, doc?“
bucky who makes you call him sir when you’re in the empty barracks with him, as everyone else is attending the bar, he’ll tease and tease you until you’re pathetically begging him for him to fuck you— but you left out the one thing he wanted, making him click his tongue disapprovingly, “please who, huh? you gonna be good for me and call me sir, right?”
bucky who puts his military visor hat on you when you’re riding him, chuckling whenever your thighs shake at the feeling of his thick cock stretching you out, making some idiotic joke like, “tryna ride me like ‘m an airplane, huh, doll-face?”
#୨୧ (jules yapping) .ᐟ#♡ ׂ bucky ៵ 💋 ࣪ ִֶָ ⋆#major john egan#masters of the air#john egan x you#john egan#john egan x reader#john egan x oc#john egan fanfiction#bucky egan#mota smut#mota fanfic#mota#mota spoilers#mota cast#mota edit#mota oc#major john egan x reader#major john egan x oc#bucky egan x reader#bucky egan x oc#callum turner major john bucky egan#callum turner fanfiction#callum turner x reader#callum turner#callum turner imagine#austin butler
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much ado about nothing, major
i. bubbles & battle scars
gif creds @sakuragifs !
pairing: john “bucky” egan x (ofc) maude “blue” bluell
warnings: this story will contain mature themes, descriptions of injury, blood, sexual content, swearing, as well as, physical and mental illness. proceed with caution.
— i: mentions of injury, death, & puking. (pretty much just maude, bubbles, & croz being a dynamic trio, total bestie vibes — & then there’s john. he’s just there haha)
word count: 3.4k
there must be something or nothing at all
July 24, 1943 was the date — a date marked in the history books as the start of the Hamburg attacks, and in the journal of Nurse Maude Bluell, an inclusion of her very first introduction to one Major John Egan.
It was just past 0900 hours when the doors swung open to the infirmary rather unexpectedly. Bluell was organizing a new shipment of supplies, placing gauze, bandages, and wraps alike in their respective places, Lottie wa re-evaluating the health passes for the men who were flying today — confirming that they has passed inspection so to speak, and Q — well Q was reading newspaper cutouts of her favorite gossip columns, courtesy of her girlfriends back home. A red cherry sucker laid limply in her mouth as she took in the recent excepades of the Hollywood starlets she fawned over.
For Q, it was better for her to dive her nose into the latest gossip than worry about a certain Lieutenant she had tethered a liking too. A certain Lieutenant Curtis Biddick — "Curt" for short — who was scheduled to fly today. Q would deny the prospect of liking the New Yorker with the heavy accent, but it wasn't deniable to Lottie and Maude who had seen the Lieutenant saunter in every morning just to talk to her at the nurse's station. He used the need for a sucker to subside his "apparent" drops in blood sugar as his excuse of choice.
Lottie reprimanded her every time, claiming that they were only for the patients, not for the healthy airmen — hiding the sugary sweet lollipops from her colleague.
But, Lottie's attempts proved to be fruitless as Q would find them at every turn in every single hiding spot, opening a sucker of her own just to push Lottie's buttons.
And, she was doing that just now — not just to bother the blonde, but to also hold some sort of reminder of Biddick, that he was here with her as much as she was there with him — the cherry red sucker that mirrored the very same shade of her hair — tucked safely in the pocket of his flight uniform for a victory treat.
Alas — in other words — there wasn't much to do until their men came flooding back in waves.
Until there was.
The sound of a door swinging open broke the dead silence that pervaded the medical unit. The three women immediately dropped everything they were doing once they saw the sight of Colonel Harding sauntering in with Lieutenant Payne following suit — under the haven of a thick blanket, accompanied by the the arm of one of his fellow airmen.
Or well — Maude and Lottie did.
Susan was trying to consume the last line of the article in front of her as fast as she could. She didn't want to be left wondering what Bettie Davis was doing nowadays in the middle of assessing what was to come.
Lottie, being under the wing of Doctor Stover longer than the two nurses beside her, did not hesitate to meet Harding half way. "Good morning, Colonel'' she greeted, pressing her clip board of names close to her chest as a means of suppressing the shock of it all. It was rather unusual to see any of the airmen, let alone the Colonel until the conclusion of a mission, especially when every health pass had been confirmed and processed.
"Morning. Ladies," Harding replied to the three nurses present respectfully as he always did, curt, and to the point. "Lieutenant Payne is coming down with something and will no longer be navigating today's mission," he explained. "You ladies mind checking up on him?"
"Oh not at all, sir!" Lottie chirped, setting her clipboard down and immediately swinging into action. She nodded over at her colleagues, urging them to take the clearly pale and ill Lieutenant from the hold of the corporal present.
It didn't take long for Bluell and Q to get the Lieutenant situated and comfortable in a bed with brand new sheets — pressed and floral scented. Maude felt lucky and rather grateful that they had completed that task in time for such a situation to occur. Q was still quite busy with her cherry sucker while simultaneously taking the man's blood pressure, so Bluell decided to do the evaluating — not that she minded anyways. It was refreshing to see a man in front of her who wasn't bleeding out and barely coherent. She could already tell without really knowing that Payne would be just fine. That she wouldn't be losing another one of their men just yet, and that made the weight in her chest subside with the sweetest relief.
"Lieutenant Payne," Maude enunciated carefully, smiling fondly at the poor man in front of her. It was obvious from the sight in front of her that illness had racked his bones. The color was draining from his skin, a dull gray taking over, a line of sweat was creasing his brow, and his eyes drooped heavily doused with a glossy sheen. "Please, if you could tell me what seems to be going on. How are you feeling?"
"Well, quite shitty," he laughed dryly, yet a smile still managed to grace his features and prove to be rather contagious to Maude's expression in seconds flat. "I was fine. I mean, I thought I was. 'Twas until I was propped up ready to fly, feeling like I could hurl if I even moved a muscle. Major Egan shut that down real quick though. Got me a sub with Croz."
And there it was, a title attached to the name of a man Maude Bluell would have scorched into the back of her mind soon enough. Yet, now – now in that very moment, her unfamiliarity with that very same man would simply fly over her head. Instead, she would find a tying point to her patient in the traces of his explanation, one that made her eyes light up in genuine interest. "Lieutenant Crosby?" She asked while dropping the back of her hand to Payne's forehead, inspecting the extent of his temperature."
"Yuh-huh," he nodded
At the same time as Q announced "one-nineteen over seventy," but it really sounded like, "nun-eye-dee ova even-yee," with that sucker still tucked dedicatedly in her mouth.
Maude's hand dropped from Payne's forehead then, seeming pleased to know that he wasn't burning up as bad as she expected – definitely warm but more mildly speaking – and his blood pressure was relatively normal. The wheels were already turning in her head, coming to the conclusion that he merely had some sort of bug. But, she couldn't really come to one until Doctor Stover came to access the man himself.
"Lemme guess," Payne began, getting Maude's attention after she instructed Q to get the Lieutenant a glass of water. If she got his prognosis right, he would need to remain hydrated to subside the urge to vomit. "He's here quite often ain't –" Payne's words seemed to lodge in his throat then, his features twisting just the same.
The clear indication of his illness brought Nurse Bluell to flight mode and she picked up the bucket adjacent to his bed in mere seconds. "Let it out, Lieutenant," she urged as she situated it on his lap just in time for him to spill out the contents into the bin instead of his bed. He did just that, and Bluell did not hesitate to keep the bucket steady and rub his back in a soothing motion, hoping to ease the strain in his back from achy muscles.
Once he was done, he slumped back against the headboard – his eyes appearing glossier than they had before. He was spent, but that did not stop him from mumbling out his appreciation. "Thank you Nurse – Nurse?" He trailed off, a crease forming on his sweaty forehead with a curious sort of confusion.
"Bluell. Nurse Bluell," she introduced herself, moving the bucket off the bed, tying up the old one, and replacing it with a brand new one. "But you can just call me Maude."
"Maude. The powerful battler," a droopy smile spanned across his face, recalling the meaning behind the name of the nurse in front of him.
"Yes, but –" her cheeks dusted pink, and she looked away from him as she got rid of the previous trash close by. "Not me. All you – All you boys."
"Doubt that." Q brought over the water then and he thanked her kindly before taking a gentle sip. "Call me Bubbles."
"Pardon, Lieutenant?" Bluell stood straight then, completely taken aback by his sudden admission. She took a deep breath and sucked back the urge to laugh.
It wasn't uncommon by any means for nicknames to be a staple pass of courtesy and comradely around base. It served as an attempt to distinguish the tension of a deeply set reality and also comouflague identity to foreign forces. Like Charolette and Susan who replied to Lottie and Susie Q or just plain old Q. It was common knowledge. And she had found herself giving into such knowledge as she adjusted to the shortened form of her surname — replying to Blue more often than not. But, Bubbles. Bubbles? She hadn't heard something quite like that before.
"Bubbles. That's what they call me. Ain't heroic by any means. You can ask Croz the next time he's here, 'M sure he'll tell yuh," he elaborated.
A chuckle escaped her then, a genuine smile enveloping in her cheeks in a way that almost felt foreign. She couldn't remember the last time she smiled – really smiled since she'd arrived on base. "Quite heroic to me,." She flattened her hands across the edges of the mattress, making sure he was tucked into the sheets comfortably and then she fluffed up the back of his pillow for me good measure. "Should rest up now, Lieutenant. I'll be here if you need anything. Please don't hesitate to call us over," She affirmed, and in a sudden newfound sense of confidence or maybe it was simply just the comradery, she found herself adding, "that's an order, Bubbles."
Bubbles – still poorly, shivering, and pale as a ghost – managed a light laugh from his strained throat as Maude left the man be. "You got it, Maude"
Maude's spirits appeared to be more pleasant than usual as she busied herself in the next coming hours. Her conversation with Lieutenant Payne – or Bubbles if you will – subsided the nerves that usually rattled her in deep anticipation of what was to come. However, knowing that Lieutenant Crosby was navigating today still kept her worried.
Would his stomach be okay?
Would the natural herbs she recommended to brew in his tea ease him?
Those thoughts did not fail to plague her mind throughout the day, but she was grateful to have some distraction in the task of caring for Bubbles. She made sure to keep an eye on him as much as she could, so much so, that it started to concern Nurse Charlotte Reign and Susan Quinn who felt as if previous patterns from the young nurse were resurfacing. Patterns that were brought into light the very same day an airmen died in her arms for the very first time.
Yet, Maude felt fine – well, as fine as one could be in the circumstances placed upon her. She felt like she could breathe again the moment the boys returned from the Trondheim mission in the later afternoon. It had proved to be successful – and even more so in the hands of one Lieutenant Crosby who was currently at Bubble's bedside. With a chair situated over, he not only came to check on his best friend, but also report on the mission.
Maude was finishing up wrapping a flier's burn wounds adjacent to Lieutenant Payne when she unintentionally overheard the conversation at hand. "I mean the flak, it came in so hot. I didn't even think about it when I put it on. It – It must of froze, but then these chunks, they start rolling down my forehead, I think 'holy mackerel crosby, holy mackerel, you've been hit!"
"Of course you would narrate your own death." Bubbles laughed lightly at his friend's retelling.
She secured the wrap tightly and comfortably and practically repeated the earlier lines she had said to Bubbles. She was starting to become more and more accustomed to her script, finding it more and more natural as she annunciated each word within passing days.
"Well, I mean I could make overthinking into an Olympic sport." Lieutenant Crosby joked just as Maude appeared at Bubbles bedside. She smiled at the two men, acknowledging them as she refilled Payne's water cup without interrupting their conversation.
"I've been puking so much today, I'm starting to catch up to you. Ask Maude." He nodded to the nurse next to them.
"Evening Maude." Crosby greeted the nurse. "Hope Bubbles here ain't giving you too much flak.”
"No more than you have." She just about pulled the man's chain with that one, making Bubbles erupt in laughter.
"Hey, 'snot my fault, Nurse." Crosby held a hand to his chest as if she had wounded him with his words, but the knowing smirk on his face proved otherwise.
"Did you try the tea?" She asked Croz, handing the cup of water over to Bubbles. His color was starting to come back. He looked better than this morning but he still needed to stay hydrated if he was gonna get back in the skies anytime soon.
"Nah. Next time when I actually know I'm flying I will," he sent a look over to Bubbles, only pushing his friend's buttons for fun. "Thanks Bubbles."
"Anytime." He said laughing against the rim of his cup. He took one last sip before Maude placed it back on the side table for him.
It seemed like Croz wasn't gonna let that one slide so easily. "You know I washed my hair twice, I still can't get the smell out." He leaned over his friend, practically shoving his hair in the fellow Lieutenant's face."You wanna smell? Yeah, jump in."
"No. No!" Bubbles tensed up then.
"Yeah, Come on." Croz pushed on.
Maude couldn't help but laugh at the playful side of these men. Men who still managed to let their inner kid shine through all the horror and terror they had ensued in the skies.
"Get – get away. I will puke on you! Yuh gonna have to wash it out." Bubbles threatened, trying to push Croz away.
And then like a burst of unexpected flax, everything shifted.
For not only Croz who immediately stiffened back in his seat – putting on a serious and professional front, but for Maude who – for lack of her own sense of understanding – found herself freezing just the same, but for a whole other reason.
"There he is," a deep, firm, yet some-what carefree voice broke the ice within her. And there he was, one Major Egan looking and sounding like one of those Hollywood starlets in Q's paper clipping — just stepping out of a film in the cinema. And if he hadn't had a small cut just under his right eye, he could have passed as a man who hadn't just returned from an intense mission across the skies. Clean cut, pressed in his uniform, curls styled and gelled back to perfection, with his flight jacket wrapped around his arms. Arms that held a strong hand planted against the edge of the foot of Bubbles bed. "How you doing Bubbles?" He asked.
Maude hadn't realized she was staring at the six foot two bulk of a man in front of her until Bubbles spoke up. "Never better, sir."
"That's good." And then his eyes landed on her, so intense, she suddenly wondered if he had become even taller than he was a minute ago. Feeling caught, she looked away and busied herself with the water cup on Bubbles nightstand to give herself something to do. Would the Major report back to Doctor Stover that she was incompetent and unfit to take care of his men? Lucky for Maude, his gaze broke away from hers the moment she turned around. "And I was looking for you," He said to Croz.
The chair beneath Croz creaked in protest as he stood up to be at the Major's level. "I'm sorry, Major."
"What for?" Major Egan inquired loosely.
"I – I didn't give PRs the whole flight back, I messed up the rendezvous – "
"I know. I know. The radio silence really threw off those Jerries. It's that and hitting the deck." Egan affirmed. With the conversation becoming more detailed, Maude felt out of place and rather rude for overhearing. Yet, the next words that came out of the Major's mouth not only took Croz and Bubbles by surprise, but Maude too. Any previous contemplations seemed to dissipate the moment Egan said, “Now, Harding, he couldn't be more impressed by you so, I'm transferring you to Blakely's crew full time," and then, " Bubbles, you get better, we'll find you a new fort. And Croz, we gotta give you an actual nickname."
"They call him Bing back home." Bubbles added into the conversation just as Maude urged him to take another sip. "More?" He asked, and she simply nodded as she turned back into her previous position– her view of all three men near her resurfacing.
"Bing Crosby? That's just lazy, unless you can sing." Major Egan put in his two cents, and his eyes gleamed when he asked, "Can you sing?"
"I–I ca –" Croz tethered.
"Like a donkey." Bubbles confirmed with zero ounces of hesitation, truly on a roll at deflating Croz's ego today without letting an ounce of illness ruin the fun.
"No, no – not a note, sir."
"Ah, I'm no good either, but I'm loud and hell if you can commit with enough enthusiasm, it really don't matter." And this was when Maude would come to learn of the singing shenanigans that came with one Major Egan. If only she knew then that those shenanigans would very well start up something alright.
The shorter Lieutenant and the taller Major clapped hands then in parting – a shake of sealed establishments and confirmations, proving that they were on the same page. "I'll see you at the Club Croz. I'm buying," the one with height told him, referring to the same exact club Lottie and Q would be dragging Bluell against her will in just a few short hours. "Goodnight Bubbles."
"Sir."He croaked between sips and finally handed the cup back to Maude for good.
"Goodnight, sir." Croz bid farewell. When the Major was out of earshot could Maude breathe, and Croz seemed to be too because he was back to bantering as he commented, "He thinks my nickname is lazy."
Another patient called her over then, stealing her away from the two men she had found herself laughing along with, yet a part of her felt grateful for the sudden diversion – especially now, after the Major's interruption. She couldn't explain it – couldn't even compartmentalize it exactly, but something had shifted inside her the moment he had stepped foot into the infirmary. An instinctive feeling of sorts — awfully hard to pinpoint. It hurt her head too much trying to think about it, so much so, she momentarily wondered if she was coming down with the same exact virus as Bubbles.
She wasn't.
But, she knew it was something, but what was it?
That — she didn't know.
Yet, something deep inside her – against her better judgment – told her that she needed to know. So as Croz passed by and bid her a farewell of his own, she knew what she had to do. And when the girls pitched going out to the Club again tonight, practically begging her in their shared quarters — Lottie using Q's obvious need for a distraction with Curt's lack of a return — did she give into their demise.
Was there really much ado about one night on the town?
Lottie and Q wouldn't think so, and Major Egan – well he wouldn't think so either.
the way in which she is already whipped without "knowing" is so real.
+ Q — curt and susie got me giggling & kicking my feeties !!!
also, for important context purposes, the gifs in the beginning is how i imagine bucky diverting his gaze from eyeing miss. maude ;) sir, we all know you were LOOKING — respectfully!
p.s.: i love bubbles & croz so bad, ugh my HEART <3
ANYWAYS.....
more to come sooner than you think. lemme know what ya think so far? feedback is much appreciated as this is BRAND NEW. this is also my very FIRST historical-esce fic so my apologies if there is any inaccuracies, but it do be my own fiction twist anyways haha.
love ya'll a mil, smoochies!
— xanadu
tag list:
@rubberpsyche
@precious-little-scoundrel
@major-mads
@luminouslywriting
@justheretoreadthxxs
@karmasloverrr
#mota fanfiction#mota fic#mota#major john bucky egan x ofc#major john bucky egan#lieutenant harry crosby#lieutenant curtis biddick#lieutenant bubbles payne#callum turner#anthony boyle#barry keoghan#harry crosby#callum turner fandom#callum turner fans#major gale buck cleven#bucky egan and buck cleven#ofc maude blue bluell#wattpad#fanfiction#fanfic#mota oc#bucky egan#callum turner fanfiction
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Those Sunlit Kisses
part 2 here ! part 3 here! and part 4 here!
pairing: robert 'rosie' rosenthal x oc (lucy everett)
tw: mentions of war, alcohol drinking, death, mentions of nazis and hitler, domestic fluff, flirting, kissing, angsty ending-ish
description: a young man and woman meet while they're on a forced break and end up spending a weekend together.
a/n: so... this fic has sort of invaded my life these last few days and it's longer than i thought it would be (12k is insane). i've sort of become attached to it in a weird way ??? idk when you write something as a coping mechanism it sticks with you. i sort of have a plan for how this universe will work so there will probably be a few little fics that happen within it, look out for those! also this was lowkey inspired by before sunrise (haven't watched it but i've seen enough edits) and since we know real rosie fell in love and married his wife within like 3 days this is hopefully not all that ooc. ANYWAYS i hope you enjoy this and pls let me know your thoughts or if you want to send in any asks about lucy they are all welcome in my inbox! OH and this isn't about the real rosie, just the fictional character portrayed by nate mann (*swoon*). and to cut off this insanely long author's note, thank you for reading <333
Rosie rested his head against the cool window, the train was hot. It was almost too hot. How Britain had turned from a pea soup to a tropical country is beyond him. He had been forced to take leave… again. So he booked a little place by the beach, far away from basically everything and he felt tentatively excited.
The thin pages of The Great Gatsby turned in his hands, it almost felt too sticky to read but he hadn’t brought anything else with him, and he didn’t feel content by just looking out of the window.
Rosie didn’t like to take breaks but he knew he needed one after the last mission. His new crew was almost too different. He never faulted anyone for not reuping but it was still strange. So after another successful ten missions he was sent off. At least he wasn’t sent to the Flak House again.
The train finally ambled to a stop and Rosie caught a glimpse of the town name, this was his stop. Quickly grabbing the sparse luggage he had brought with him, Rosie walked off the train and onto the tiny platform. The loud whistle made him jump as the train started to move away.
At least he was finally here.
Lucy was daydreaming again. The taste of pencil filled her mouth as she nervously bit down on the wood. She was feeling better, better than she had in a while but she still felt like she was missing, well, everything.
She had just spent the past few weeks researching and slaving over an article on Hitler’s propaganda and it was a good article. Maybe even a great one, but the years spent working on articles about that vile monster were taking their toll on her.
Lucy could distinctly remember when her editor called her into his office after she had snapped at one of the top correspondents who made a comment about women belonging in the kitchen.
“I can’t have this anymore. Do you understand what I’m risking by even having a woman on my team? You may be good, but you’re not that good. Now take a damn break before I have to bar you from this bloody office!”
She understood that it was for her own good but his words stung. It irked her that a man was making her take a break when he would let any of her male counterparts strut around doing whatever they pleased and yelling at secretaries.
So Lucy booked a ticket and left on the afternoon train headed for her hometown. A place almost completely untouched by war… at least for now. She had spent the first few days in bed, trying to recover from the complete exhaustion that five years of war had wrought on her. Lucy also spent that time remembering.
Her parents had died a few months before Hitler invaded Poland. They passed away within weeks of each other in the same house that Lucy was in now. She was almost glad that they didn’t have to experience another war, even if she missed them more than she could handle sometimes.
Her father had risen through the ranks in the Great War, eventually becoming a Colonel and earning a few medals for his service. Lucy’s mother was a singer, she had met and fallen in love with John Everett during one of her performances when she caught his eye from across the room. Diana Everett always insisted it was love at first sight.
They were loving parents and did what they could to make Lucy’s childhood a happy one. Always aiding her in any of her hobbies, and allowing her to pursue her dream of becoming a journalist, even at a time when women were expected to go into gentler trades.
Lucy’s father was the one to die first, he had had a bad cough when Lucy first left for London and that quickly evolved into something worse. Lucy was able to make it back for the funeral and she spent the next few weeks watching as her mother became a shell of herself. One day she just found her mother lying in bed clutching a photo of her late husband and no longer breathing.
The doctors said she died of a heart attack but Lucy knew it was from a broken heart. The entire experience nearly shattered Lucy, she barely cried at either funeral and threw herself into her work, slowly getting more and more recognition for her radical articles informing the British people about the Nazis and Hitler.
But during those first few days at her childhood home, Lucy finally allowed herself to crack. She spent hours writing in her personal diary and crying more tears than she thought possible. Until Friday, when she finally made the decision to pull herself together, she still felt lost but at least she was writing something other than distressing poetry.
So now Lucy sat at her desk, the end of a pencil resting on her lips and the start of a rough outline of a story in front of her. It was a new day.
The smell of the sea filled Rosie’s senses, it felt strange to be walking through a town that looked normal, with no gaping wounds left by bombings. It gave him a renewed sense of duty, places like this needed to be kept safe from the monsters.
He had rented a little room in a B&B ten minutes from the beach. It was nestled between two colorful houses, one painted light green and the other white with a wash of blue. He overheard the sounds of jazz echoing from the blue one, and the soft tones of a woman singing along.
Rosie’s face broke out into a smile and he started humming before looking back at the B&B and heading into the cozy atmosphere. An old woman with a cheerful smile greeted him and took one look at his uniform before upgrading him to one of the larger rooms. He thanked her profusely before heading up the creaking staircase and depositing his luggage onto the quilt-covered bed.
After a few hours of work on the short story, Lucy needed a break and the outside was calling to her. Boiling some water in her favorite kettle, she put on a record and started to hum and eventually sing to one of her mum’s favorite songs.
Once the water was boiled, Lucy carefully went through the motions of pouring it over the Earl Gray leaves in the teapot and letting it steep for a while before straining it into a cup and pouring a splash of milk over it. All the while singing just like her mother used to do when she prepared tea for her.
Armed with a book and a steaming cup of tea, Lucy opened the front door of the house and sat on the porch swing. Carefully placing the cup on the side table and opening up the first pages of her book, Lucy looked around at the front garden. She could almost hear the sounds of joyful laughter and screams from her childhood when she used to play with the neighborhood kids on that very lawn.
With her bare feet up on the porch swing and the milky goodness of tea in her mouth, Lucy started to read the first pages of The Great Gatsby, and settled in for a book she had been waiting too long to read.
Rosie had changed into his civies before grabbing a spare towel and his book. He had to stop the owner for directions to the beach but other than that he was excited to see the ocean, and experience the sun for the first time in a long while.
As he headed down the street he was surprised to find a woman sitting on the porch of the blue house he had seen earlier. Her blonde hair was curled around her face and she was wearing an outfit similar to his own - a blue button down shirt and loose black pants. In her hands was a copy of a book that was identical to one he held in his hand.
All Rosie could think about was that she was beautiful. He was openly gaping in the middle of a sidewalk because a woman he didn’t even know had completely enraptured him. Shaking himself out of his reverie after he realized just how long he had been staring at her, he was almost tempted to say something, anything. Just to have her look at him.
He just couldn’t get his mouth to form the words. Rosie had always been a shy person, especially as a kid but it seemed like all those years of shyness were finally catching up to him. So instead of saying anything, Rosie just turned and walked over to the beach. His knuckles clenched around his own copy of The Great Gatsby, imagining the ways that he could approach the beautiful woman of the blue house and how the conversation would go.
Maybe he could ask her about the book, or the music streaming out of her window. Maybe he could ask her out to dinner or… suddenly Rosie’s thought process stopped short when he had the awful realization that the woman could be married. He hadn’t even realized he had made it to the beach when the sand crunched under foot and he was thrown off balance. Taking a few moments to steady himself he walked along until he found a sand dune that looked nice enough. All the while thinking of all the ways the blonde beauty could reject him.
Rosie had now convinced himself it would be the worst idea on Earth to even approach her, so he settled onto his blanket and cracked open his book. Allowing for the sun to finally seep into his pores and getting lost in the pages of Gatsby’s own romantic woes.
After all the tea was drunk and Lucy had gotten through quite a bit of The Great Gatsby, she decided to get back to writing. Instead of going inside Lucy quickly grabbed a picnic blanket and spread it out in the front lawn. The outline for her short story was coming along nicely and she needed sun after spending the last five years under a constant cover of smog and rain in London.
She also managed to make a couple of sandwiches to serve as her lunch and spread herself out onto the soft fabric of the blanket. Squinting her eyes in the sun she started to elaborate a bit more on the brother in her story, ruminating about how she would have loved to have siblings.
Once she had completed half of the outline, Lucy’s eyes travelled from the cream page to the sidewalk, where a few mothers were milling around with their children. Pushing them in prams or trying to balance picnic baskets and food as the kids ran circles around them. A warm smile spread itself across Lucy’s face, this town was like her little corner of heaven.
It was mid afternoon when she first spotted him, Lucy had abandoned her writing a while ago in favor of people watching and basking in the rays of sun. She could have gone to the beach, but she couldn’t be bothered to move from her lawn where the sun was hitting just right.
The man looked about her age, he was wearing civilian clothes but he had an air about him that made Lucy think he was at least part of some branch of the military. He had dark curly hair and a mustache and he looked like an angel sent down from heaven. In his hand, Lucy spied a copy of the very book sitting next to her and a towel covered in sand. He must have been at the beach.
Lucy knew she was blatantly staring but he was just so pretty. She was used to the men that made up her London office, balding and sexist, who flirted with her like she was an object to be used. So whenever she ventured out into the real world Lucy was basically set in a tailspin by the array of people that interested her, and for some reason this strange man made her heart skip a beat.
Almost like she had wished it to happen, the man caught her stare and smiled shyly. Bringing up his free hand in an awkward wave. Cute. In return, Lucy beamed at him and waved back, before quickly grabbing her copy of The Great Gatsby and lifting it up.
Rosie headed back from the beach feeling renewed, and he was also hopeful that he might get another glance at the beautiful blonde from the blue house. Ever lost in his thoughts, Rosie didn’t even realize he was on the sidewalk that led to his B&B until he caught the glance of the woman from the porch… except this time she was lying on a blanket in the middle of the yard.
He smiled at her when he realized she was staring at him, at him! Then he did the stupidest thing he could think of and waved. Rosie started to berate himself for how idiotic he was being when the blonde waved back and smiled at him with a smile that had his breath catching.
A moment later she held up her book, a copy of which he was also carrying, and he smiled even more broadly.
“Good book?” She called out to him with a voice that reminded him of the movies. A crisp British accent laced with laughter.
“It sure is.” Rosie answered, almost feeling slightly ashamed of his American accent which sounded so much more grating in comparison to hers.
“I’m Lucy!” The woman said, standing up and brushing herself off as she walked over to the whitewashed fence so she was now only a meter away from Rosie. How he wished she was even closer.
“I’m Rosie.”
“Ah, an American. I knew it!” Rosie blushed and ducked his head in embarrassment. “Hey! I never said it was a bad thing. It’s nice to meet you, Rosie. You have a pretty accent.”
“I think that’s the first time one of you Brits has ever said that to me.”
“We haven’t been very welcoming, have we? Well that must be remedied instantly! How have you been enjoying good ol’ Britain?” Rosie felt like he was watching a band play the most incredible set, Lucy talked like she could charm the entire air force in just seconds.
“First time I’ve seen the sun in years.” Rosie said, exaggerating the comment by squinting at her, making Lucy laugh - the sound making a blush spread across Rosie’s face, he wanted to hear that sound for the rest of his life.
“You and me both. I like to think of it as one of Britain's charms but it does get rather melancholic, don’t you think? Where are you usually stationed, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Thorpe Abbotts, I’m one of the pilots.”
“A fighter pilot?”
“Oh dear God no. I pilot B-17s.”
“Ah the big birds, that suits you better I would say.” Rosie inclined his head in agreement which had Lucy smiling at him.
“I’m a war correspondent - although I haven’t been on the front lines quite yet. My editor still has rather old-fashioned beliefs about women and war.” Lucy’s eyes dimmed at the last part which had Rosie wincing.
“They should feel lucky to have you, not the other way around.” Blush covered Lucy’s cheeks at his statement and Rosie felt himself smile triumphantly.
“Oh you charmer. Would you like to come in for some tea or water, maybe?”
“That would be wonderful.”
Lucy felt a certain giddiness encasing her body, she never did this. She never invited strange men, albeit handsome strange men, into her home and yet she was doing this. At least he didn’t seem like an axe murderer, and he was an American! Mostly she was just trying to overcome the nerves of having someone she actually liked showing interest in her.
Rosie quickly followed her into the house, helping her carry the picnic blanket she had been using as well as all her writing materials. So he truly was a gentleman after all.
The record had stopped spinning a while ago so when Lucy saw Rosie eying the player she quickly took the blanket and papers out of his hands.
“Why don’t you put on some music? I need to put these things away anyways.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go right ahead.” Rosie smiled gratefully and walked over to the record player, Lucy watched him flick through the various options and let herself smile. She needed some good in her life, she was going to let herself have this, even if it’s only for a few hours.
Turning around, Lucy folded the blanket and set it on one of the wooden chairs by the door, placing the book on top of it before bounding over to the study and placing the sheets of paper into a neat pile next to the typewriter. The sounds of Artie Shaw suddenly filled the atmosphere and Lucy quickly walked back over to the living room, making the creaks of the wooden floor boards alert her presence.
Lucy found Rosie staring out of the window and tapping on the frame in time with the music. He looked completely lost in thought that Lucy almost felt bad disturbing him.
“Rosie?”
“Hmm?”
“Water?”
“I would love some.” Rosie said as he turned from the window and smiled at Lucy, her nerves of bothering him dissipating in an instant when he set his gray eyes on hers. “Do you need any help getting it?”
“No, just keep choosing good music and we should be fine.” Lucy turned to get to the kitchen and grabbed a few glasses as Rosie trailed in behind her. Leaning against the door frame as he watched her move around the kitchen.
“You have a great collection.”
“That would be my parents’ accomplishment. They drilled good music taste into me.” Lucy said with a sad smile on her face as she poured out some water from one of the pitchers.
“My mom was the same way. The one problem is that I am in no way musically inclined, I just know what sounds good.”
“Have you tried to sing?” Lucy asked with a teasing smile as she passed him the glass.
“Oh I have, you do not want to be there when that happens.”
“How bad?”
“Horrifying. I sound like a dying goat.” They both burst out laughing and Lucy felt a warm feeling spread through her limbs, it almost felt like she was being doused in joy.
“I cannot wait for the day when I hear you sing.”
“Why? So you can ridicule me? That will not be happening in a million years, ma’am.”
“I would never ridicule you! How can you think so lowly of me?”
“I barely even know you-”
“Exactly.” Lucy interrupted with a serious look on her face that had Rosie chuckling again. They quieted down into a comfortable silence as they each took little sips of water every now and then, just watching the way the other person reacted.
“How are you liking the book?” Rosie finally asked.
“I’m enjoying it, it isn’t the kind of book I usually pick up but it’s a nice reminder of a time when war wasn’t a part of daily life. I do have to say though, you Americans are quite strange.”
“I feel like I should rebuke that but it’s the truth. Doesn’t it almost feel like the book was set in a completely different world?”
“Yes!” Lucy fervently agreed as they started to drift back towards the living room, settling into the worn couch.
Over the next few hours, Lucy and Rosie inched closer and closer together on the couch. They talked about everything under the sun; their lives, their favorite books, pictures, music, war and their lives before it all. Lucy let Rosie take charge of the music and their conversation was soundtracked by various jazz hits and whatever obscure artist Rosie seemed to find fascinating in her collection.
Eventually the conversation turned to family and Lucy avidly started to talk about her parents, a subject which she almost never discussed with anyone she had just met.
“So yeah my mum met my dad at one of the pubs she was performing at and the rest is history.”
“Well now I have to get you to sing, it must run in the family! And it’s only fair.”
“Hey! That was a joke.” Lucy screeched, she never liked singing in front of other people she preferred doing it in the comfort of her own home and doing it alone.
“Aha so you do admit you were trying to ridicule me!” Rosie said triumphantly as he pointed at Lucy, making her face twist in complete disbelief.
“That is what you got from that?”
“Well it’s the truth isn’t it?”
“It is not! And I will not sing for you.”
“One day you will.”
“Will not.”
“Will.”
“You stupid, stubborn man.” Lucy said poking at Rosie’s shoulder, making him devolve into hysterics which had Lucy smiling stupidly at the man in front of her. The butterflies in her stomach hadn’t really gone away the entire time she had been talking to him, they had somehow managed to get worse.
That was when she realized how late it had gotten, the sun was just beginning to set and the living room was set alight with the glowing colors of the sky.
“Oh dear, I have kept you too late. You don’t have somewhere to be, do you?” Lucy asked nervously, once Rosie had started to calm down.
“No, no, not at all. I didn’t have much time to make any plans before I came here.”
“Well in that case how would you like to have dinner with me?” Lucy didn’t show it but she was practically buzzing with nerves - hoping and praying that he would say yes.
“Are you kidding?” Rosie was looking at Lucy with a completely gobsmacked expression on his face that had Lucy wondering if he truly thought she was messing with him.
“Not at all.”
“Well, in that case, I would love to have dinner with you.”
“Uh- wonderful. I haven’t cooked anything so you wouldn’t mind going out, do you?”
“Of course not, it would be a good opportunity to explore the town.”
“I’ll just grab my coat and we can go?” Lucy asked tentatively and Rosie nodded before settling back into the couch. Lucy yelled out a quick ‘I’ll be right back’ and disappeared into the hallways of the house.
Rosie felt like he was in paradise. Who would have known that going on mandatory leave would get him this? He wasn’t sure he had ever bonded with someone as quickly as he had bonded with Lucy. It was as if they were twin souls, linked so that it was inevitable that they would meet at one point or another.
The light in the living room changed as the sun started to set, it played with the shadows on the walls and highlighted the framed photographs and art which told a story of a happy childhood and a happy family. It reminded him of his own childhood home. Rosie hadn’t even realized how much he had missed laughing. Something that suddenly just became so easy around Lucy.
Rosie had to give it to his self-restraint, he somehow managed not to kiss Lucy even though many a time in the past few hours he fantasized of brushing his hands through her blonde curls and kissing her like his life depended on it.
“Rosie? Do you want me to find you a coat?” A muffled yell was heard from somewhere upstairs which had him looking up towards the ceiling.
“No, I think I should be fine!” Rosie yelled back.
“Are you sure? I can probably find something that fits you.”
“I’m sure it’s not that cold, Lucy.”
“Okay! Don’t go around blaming me when you’re freezing to death.”
Shaking his head in mock resolution and quietly chuckling, Rosie stood up from his place on the green couch and went to pick up his copy of The Great Gatsby and the towel he had brought with him all those hours ago. But he stopped short when he saw Lucy’s own copy haphazardly strewn on one of the wooden chairs that seemed to be scattered throughout the house. With a sly smile, Rosie left the book and walked towards the front door, empty handed.
“Hi! Sorry that took so long. My hair was a mess, are you ready?” Lucy quickly said as she basically ran down the stairs, a motion that had Rosie’s hair raising in alarm - worried that she would somehow trip and fall to a quick death.
“You’re going to crack your head open one of these days if you keep going down stairs that quickly.” Rosie said when she finally reached the bottom and went to grab her purse from the side table.
“I know those stairs like the back of my hand, Rosie. If I ever trip and fall I’m blaming your handsome face.” Rosie made an expression of mock horror, but inside he felt like a stupid teenager.
“I’m offended by such an allegation. It would be your fault for getting distracted.” Lucy hummed back in mock reply before opening the door and walking out into the brisk night air, which had Rosie quickly following after her.
“Milady.” Rosie said, as he offered his arm to Lucy once she had shut and locked the door. Lucy beamed at him before slipping her arm around his, physically linking them together.
“Alright, I know this little Italian place that a friend’s family owns. How does that sound?”
“Perfect. I’ve been eating army rations for the past few years, anything that isn’t that sounds incredible.”
The pair roamed through the cobbled streets, in search of the little alleyway that housed the restaurant and basking in each other’s presence. When they finally arrived at the quaint little restaurant, Rosie was surprised to see that there were various other couples seated and eating Italian dishes.
“Lucy! You didn’t tell us you were back in town.” Said a voice from behind the counter, it belonged to a tall, brunette woman whose hair was tied back into an elaborate bun.
“Hi, Renata! Yeah, sorry, this was a last minute thing. How have you been?”
“Good, good. Now who is this handsome man?”
“Major Rosenthal, ma’am.”
“How did you bag this one, Lucy?” The brunette asked, making a blush creep up over both of Lucy and Rosie’s faces.
“Renata…”
“Fine! I won’t ask anymore questions. A table for two, I presume? We have a nice one close to the back.”
“That sounds great.”
Rosie spent the next hour eating the best spaghetti he had ever eaten and staring at the woman he seemed to be quickly falling in love with. They seemed to never run out of topics of conversation, cycling through enough to fill an entire encyclopedia. Rosie learnt a lot more about the British news field than he had ever thought was possible and in turn Lucy seemed enraptured whenever he talked about flying.
They stayed until it was almost closing time,when Renata basically pushed them out and gave them a complimentary bottle of wine, which had Lucy blushing in embarrassment and Rosie laughing. Somehow the night air was still warm, even though the sun had long set and the world had started to fall asleep.
“I’m glad I met you Rosie.” Lucy finally ventured, after they had been walking for a while in complete silence. Just letting the energy of the day seep in.
“Me too. I never in a million years would have thought I would meet someone like you.”
“You really do have a way with words, Major. Have you ever thought of becoming a poet?”
“I will leave all the writing to you, sweetheart.”
“This is it.” Lucy muttered once they had arrived back at the blue house at the end of the street.
“And that would be me.” Rosie said, pointing at the B&B next to the house.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“You can bet on it, Lucy.”
“Great.” Lucy whispered the first word as Rosie started to move closer and closer to her. He felt a wave of dizziness hit him, but he carefully placed both of his hands on her cheeks and stroked the soft skin.
“I’m really glad I met you too, Lucy.” Rosie muttered before surging forward and finally doing what he had been meaning to do for the past few hours. He kissed her with such intensity that it caught Lucy off guard. She stood still for a few moments before kissing him back with the same intensity and love that he was emphasizing in that kiss.
Lucy tangled her hands in his brown curls and felt the world just go still. For the first time in a long while. They stayed like that, kissing and holding each other until they heard the distant sounds of a baby crying.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Rosie asked once they broke apart.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Lucy basically screeched in happiness once she had shut the door behind her. She finally understood what her mum was talking about when she talked about love at first sight. Rosie was her dream man, someone she didn’t even realize she had been looking for.
After carefully putting everything away and changing into her nightgown, Lucy settled into the comfort of her own bed and started to write lines upon lines about Rosie. She had filled up nearly two pages of her diary when her eyelids began to droop. It was almost midnight and she needed to be refreshed for tomorrow so she quickly signed off and pulled the covers over her body - allowing for sleep to pull her into its warm embrace.
The morning sun streamed through her window and softly woke Lucy up. Her relaxed joints groaned as she stretched and enjoyed the feeling of summer and sleep on her skin. Yesterday morning seemed like a distant memory. The darkness that usually invaded her waking hours felt almost less. Lucy had an excited thrill running through her body as she stretched.
Urging herself out of bed, Lucy slipped a robe over her nightgown and tied the sashes together loosely. The stairs creaked as her socked feet went down them and she was reminded of Rosie and his little comment about being careful. It was almost like this house was being reawakened with memories of the living, instead of being haunted by the ghosts of the past.
Once she arrived at the kitchen, Lucy started to go through her morning motions. Brewing a cup of Earl Gray tea, toasting some bread and starting to fry up some eggs. She was in the middle of beating the eggs together when a loud knock echoed through the house.
“There is no way that could be Rosie… could it?” Lucy wondered aloud, as she dried her hands on a tea towel and headed to answer the door. She turned the handle and pulled the door open to find that it was indeed Rosie. He was standing on the porch in civilian clothes again, his hair seemed a little less ordered than it was the day before and the morning sun was carefully lighting his face.
Lucy’s face broke out into a smile and Rosie returned it, before he carefully scanned her up and down and realized she was still in her nightgown. It was a long lacy and cotton thing that was only slightly covered by her robe. A light blush dusted his cheeks as he tried to focus on her face.
“Good morning. I hope I’m not disturbing…”
“Not all! Come, come. I’m just making breakfast.” Lucy stepped from out of the door frame, allowing for Rosie to walk into the house. She smiled and tried to contain her excitement as she focused on closing the door.
“Have you had anything to eat yet?” Lucy asked once she turned around and saw that Rosie was looking at her, he had a twinkle in his eye that wasn’t there a moment before and it made a surge of electricity run up her spine.
“I had some things at the B&B.”
“Alright, can I interest you in a cup of tea then?”
“Actually…” Rosie took a step closer to Lucy, making her raise her eyebrows in question. “I think I would like to do this first.”
Rosie pushed a stray curl away from her face and tucked it behind her ear before gently pressing his lips to hers. Lucy’s eyelids fell shut and she threw her arms around his neck, allowing herself to be swept away by the sensation. Once they drew apart, Lucy scrunched her nose up and looked at the handsome man in front of her.
“Well aren’t you presumptuous? Coming all the way here in the early morning just to kiss me.”
“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I met you, I think it was warranted.” Rosie said with a shrug as he looked at Lucy adoringly, stroking his knuckles against the apple of her cheek.
“Flirt.”
“You love it.”
“I’m not gracing that with a response, now come. I don’t want my tea to get cold.” Lucy entwined her hand with his and started to pull Rosie in the direction of the kitchen, he was all too happy to follow her command.
Rosie watched from one of the wooden chairs as Lucy busied herself with making breakfast. She was as graceful as a dancer, she seemed to have the routine nailed down to a ‘T’.
“Here.” Lucy said, as she carefully placed a cup of steaming hot tea in front of Rosie. “Let me know what you think.”
Rosie gingerly rose the mug to his lips and blew on the milky liquid. It smelled incredible, he usually just drank the weak coffee at base but this smelt like something out of a bakery. Then he took a sip and instead of tasting something incredible, it almost tasted flat. In an effort to not disappoint the woman in front of him, Rosie forced a smile and fake hummed in delight.
“You hate it.” Lucy said with a laugh, which instantly had Rosie’s façade falling and he too was laughing.
“I’m an American, what can I say?”
“I’ll excuse it. Here I just finished mine so I can drink the rest. No need for it to go to waste.” Lucy placed her hands over his and Rosie felt the familiar spark in his body that was elicited by being able to touch her. His beautiful Lucy.
“I’m sorry.” Rosie said once Lucy started to take moderated sips of the beverage.
“Don’t apologize, I, for one, hate the taste of coffee so I think we can move on from this.” Rosie’s face turned scandalized for a moment but he quickly schooled his expression and nodded seriously, making Lucy snort and continue drinking her tea before turning to stir the eggs in the frying pan.
“Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“Yes. Mrs. Sloane gave me plenty.” Rosie distinctly remembered the large feast the owner had prepared, it was almost too much to handle but she had been intent on doing it so he didn’t stop her.
“She’s wonderful, isn’t she? She used to babysit me when I was younger. I was supposedly a very difficult child.” Lucy muttered as she plated her breakfast and sat across from Rosie at the breakfast table.
“I don’t believe that, you seem like an angel.”
“Oh no I was very much a devil child. The amount of times I was lost in the sand dunes is beyond count.” Rosie guffawed and watched Lucy as she scooped up pieces of scrambled eggs with her unbuttered toast.
“Did you sleep well?”
“I did, you?” Lucy asked, after taking a few bites of her toast. Rosie nodded and stretched over the table to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, seeing as a light blush covered Lucy’s face.
“Do you have any plans for today?”
“Nope. I was going to write but I think there is something else I would much rather be doing.”
“And what would that be?” Rosie asked with a smirk starting to spread across his face, he liked getting to tease her. To see what he could say to get Lucy all flustered.
“You’re really going to make me say it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Fine, Major. I want to spend it with you.” Lucy said quickly, relenting under Rosie’s teasing glare.
“Good, because I have no plans.”
“Great.” Lucy nodded resolutely and then stood up to put the dishes in the sink. Rosie watched her as the fabric of her robe swayed around her. He stood up from his seat and walked up behind her, carefully placing his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her head.
“Hello there?”
“You look beautiful.”
“Do I?”
“Hmmm.”
“Rosie, I need to wash the dishes.”
“Just stay with me for a moment, then you can wash the dishes.” Lucy turned around so Rosie was staring into those deep brown eyes he loved.
“What are we doing, Rosie?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean with us. I’m assuming you will have to leave soon and I have to get back to London. I want this to be good but I can’t- I don’t deal well with loss, Rosie.” Lucy muttered, making Rosie’s heart almost break in half. He stood slightly speechless for a few moments as Lucy took to rearranging his hair. Rosie hadn’t even realized that this would all end soon. He didn’t realize he would have to leave her so soon.
“We’ll write and I promise I will do everything in my power to keep coming back. I want whatever this is, Lucy. Darling, I haven’t felt like this ever. I don’t want to lose you, even if I have just met you.”
“So we do this. We promise we will come back to each other.”
“Yes. And I get to call you mine.”
“Rosie, I- alright. Let’s do this. I’m in.”
“Good, because I was all in the moment I saw that beautiful face from across the lawn.” Lucy giggled and suddenly rested her head against his chest. Rosie was sure she could feel the thudding of his heart, so he wrapped her up in his arms and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. Lucy’s arms circled his middle and they stayed like that for a few long moments.
“What do you want to do today?” Rosie heard Lucy mutter against the fabric of his shirt, her hot breath making shivers run up his spine.
“Whatever you would like.”
“Does a picnic sound nice?”
“That sounds lovely.” Lucy started to unwind her arms and Rosie already started to miss the weight of her against him.
“I would need to get changed.” Rosie watched Lucy motioned at her clothes and smiled at the devastated expression on his face.
“Do you really?”
“Yes, you menace!” Rosie laughed at the scandalized expression on Lucy’s face.
“Fine, fine. I’ll start on the dishes.”
“Rosie… you don’t have to.”
“I want to. Now shoo, before I don’t let you get dressed.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Watch me.” Rosie said, ducking his head so he was looking at Lucy through his eyebrows. She just rolled her eyes and pulled herself away from his arms, but not before giving him a quick peck on the cheek. Rosie smiled as he watched her walk away from him, he knew he was beyond smitten.
Lucy was desperately searching for something to wear when the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald filtered in from downstairs. Rosie had put on music, and she could distantly hear him humming to himself over the rush of water.
Staring at the closer, Lucy realized that all her clothes suddenly seemed too ugly to work, she wanted to dress up enough that she looked nice but also didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard. Why is this so complicated?
Huffing, Lucy finally pulled out a dark pink dress she hadn’t worn since before the war. It was made of cotton and she knew it looked good on her… five years ago. There was no fault in trying it on so Lucy quickly changed out of her nightgown and buttoned up the cotton dress up. Fluffing up her curls, Lucy carefully folded the strewn clothes and arranged the closet.
She knew she was probably just trying to procrastinate going downstairs when Lucy started to smooth out the fabric of her dress for the fifth time.
“Deep breaths. It will be fine.” Lucy firmly nodded in resolution before opening the door of her bedroom and walking out.
Rosie was finishing drying the dishes when Lucy walked in, she watched as he stared out of the kitchen window absentmindedly humming to the music and drying one of the mugs.
“How do sandwiches sound?” Lucy finally asked as she pulled the old fridge door open, trying to find if she had enough things to make a suitable lunch.
“That sounds great. You don’t mind that I used the record player?”
“Darling, you are free to use that whenever you please.” Lucy reassured him as she emerged from the fridge holding a parcel of cheese and various pieces of produce. Her heart seemed to stop when she saw how he was looking at her. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No really, why are you staring at me like that?”
“You look like a vision.” Lucy ducked her head to stop Rosie from seeing her cheeks flaming bright red.
“Thank you.” Lucy placed the food on the cutting board and started to cut up the cheese into slices to go on the bread.
“You don’t take compliments well, do you?”
“I’m British, what do you expect?” Lucy said as she looked at Rosie over her shoulder, repeating the same words he had said to her. He had finished drying the dishes a while ago and now he was leaning on the counter with his arms crossed. The morning sun hit his face just right and Lucy was wondering how he had become a pilot when he clearly could have been put into major motion pictures.
Lucy turned back to the task at hand with a smile on her face, the song on the record player suddenly changed and Lucy started to hum in tune with the music.
She quickly finished making the sandwiches and ordered Rosie to try and find the basket that she had stowed away in the hall closet. When he returned, Rosie was also carrying the picnic blanket from the day before.
“Thought we might need this.”
“Perfect, you can set it- uh Rosie?” Lucy found herself being spun around and into Rosie’s arms. They were swaying in time with the music and she found herself looking at the man in front of her with a questioning look in her eyes.
“This song can’t not be danced to. And you look too beautiful for me not to take this opportunity.” Rosie said as he brought Lucy closer to him, leaning his forehead against hers.
“You need to stop that.”
“What? Saying the truth?”
“Rosie…”
“Nope, not taking requests. You’re stuck with me.”
“Oh God.” Lucy groaned in mock anguish and rested her head on his shoulder, feeling as he tightened his hold on her.
Once everything was packed and ready, Rosie found himself carrying the picnic basket in one hand and holding Lucy’s hand in the other. She truly looked like some kind of angel sent from heaven. Her blonde curls bounced as she walked and excitedly explained random bits of history or childhood stories about different areas of the town.
Supposedly they were on the way to one of the little alcoves that was the perfect picnic spot according to Lucy, but Rosie just felt happy to be around her. He still didn’t truly understand how exactly he had found Lucy. He could clearly imagine what would have happened if he never took leave, he would be going up again and would have never known about the blonde spitfire who hated compliments and lived in a blue house by the beach.
God, he can almost picture Crosby’s face when he tells him that he found a girl while on leave. That is going to be something that he would never want to miss.
“So tell me about you now, I think I’ve rambled on long enough.” Lucy said, as she beamed at Rosie, bumping her shoulder against his.
“You know almost everything about me, darling.”
“There has to be something. A dirty secret, perhaps?”
“No, no. Nothing of the sort.”
“Alright fine, Saint Rosie.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Any dirty secrets.”
“Hmm, a few, but my lips are sealed.”
“Now that’s unfair.”
“It is not!”
They continued on like that for a while longer, until both Rosie and Lucy had started to feel tiny pangs of hunger in their stomachs. The sun was shining brightly as they continued to walk on the beach, Lucy still intent on finding the cove she used to go to.
“Aha! There it is. I told you, my parents used to take me here when I was a kid.”
Lucy unlaced her hand from Rosie’s and he watched her as she ran across the sand, twirling and laughing like she had just won the lottery. A feeling of complete happiness and joy spread through Rosie’s limbs and he carefully placed the picnic basket on the sand, running after Lucy. Once he reached her he pulled her into his arms and twirled her around. Their laughter quickly filled the cove with joy it hadn’t witnessed in a while.
They had calmed down after a while and Rosie quickly helped Lucy set up the picnic. The ginger beer somehow still cool to the touch after being carried under the sun for a while.
Once everything was ready, Rosie basically inhaled his sandwich, whether that was because of Lucy’s culinary skills or the hunger that had built up in him during the walk he did not know, but Rosie felt calm for the first time in a while.
He was now watching the push and pull of the waves against the sandy beach and stroking a hand through Lucy’s soft curls. With her head resting on his lap she seemed to almost be dozing off, a small content smile adorning her face.
“You know, I’m glad my editor made me take a break.” Lucy’s soft voice carefully broke the comfortable silence, Rosie hummed in appreciation - urging her to go on. “I haven’t stopped working ever since… my parents.”
“It’s almost like you settled into a routine, you thought you were handling it well and then suddenly…” Rosie trailed off as he thought back to his time at the Flak House, he had gotten better at handling missions after that, he felt more human but he knew exactly how hard it felt to just stop sometimes. Because when you stop, you start to feel everything.
“It gets too much…”
“Exactly. I had- have, the same problem.”
“Birds of a feather.”
“Yes.” Rosie murmured, his mind far away in the clouds. He felt so connected to Lucy for some reason. Maybe this is why. They were two sides of the same coin.
“Read to me, Rosie.” Lucy said after a few moments of silence. Rosie looked down to find that Lucy’s brown eyes were fixed on his face.
“You want the silly American to read to you?”
“Rosie… everything about you is beautiful, now, read to me. The silly Brit commands you.”
“Commanding me now, are we?” Rosie teasingly asked, largely ignoring the first part of Lucy’s comment which made him feel like he was floating.
“Rosie.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Rosie picked up the copy of The Great Gatsby that Lucy had packed and flicked to a random page, starting to read the tale of some rich fictional idiots who had no care in the world except for the sorrows of love.
Pastels painted the sky as the sun started to set. Lucy was still lying in the same position she had been for the past few hours. Rosie had abandoned reading after a while and they spent that time talking and sitting in comfortable silence.
It was easy just being around Rosie, Lucy felt completely safe in his presence. He had this reassuring air around him which made her sure he was a wonderful Major.
“Sometimes I wish I could paint. I can write about this moment all I want but to create a piece of it would be a completely different experience.”
“Why don’t you start it?”
“What? Painting? No never, you have a better chance of turning me into a singer.” Lucy answered, making the pair laugh.
“Do you think we should head back?”
“Let us stay for a while more, Rosie. It’s too perfect. I want something to remember when we leave.”
“We’ll come back here, Lucy. I swear it.” Lucy smiled up sadly at Rosie, examining the way he looked down at her. She thought he looked earnest enough, but who knew with this war? Who knew if he would ever come back to her?
“I hope we will, Rosie.”
Lucy noticed how much quieter the walk back to her house was, Rosie had slung his arm around her shoulder, tucking her into him and protecting Lucy from the biting night wind that had started to pick up. It was almost as if the realization of leaving was starting to weigh on them. Rosie would be leaving late the next afternoon and Lucy on Monday. Both headed back to their lives and away from the slice of heaven they had been able to cultivate.
“Do you want to come in?” Lucy asked once they arrived at her house. She had already started to move to grab the picnic basket, making up her mind that Rosie wanted to at least spend a meal by himself.
“I would love to.” Lucy smiled and moved back to her original position under Rosie’s arm. “But only if you don’t mind me cooking?”
“You cook?!” Lucy must have realized she looked beyond surprised because she schooled her face a few moments later.
“I do. I haven’t had the chance recently, but my mother taught me well.”
Lucy smiled and quickly pecked Rosie on the cheek before bounding over to the door to unlock it.
“Come on, Rosie. I’m desperate to see what you’ll make.”
Rosie just laughed and picked up his pace until he followed Lucy into the house and shut the door behind him. He placed the picnic basket on the floor and then headed towards the direction of the kitchen.
He passed Lucy, who was quickly flicking through the record collection, intent on finding something to put on while he cooked. Rosie already knew what he was going to make, he just hoped Lucy had the right ingredients for it.
Rosie quickly spent the next hour prepping and cooking his mom’s famous tomato soup. Lucy poured them each large cups of wine and watched him as he cooked. Rosie felt slightly embarrassed by her calculating stare, feeling her eyes on him the entire time he was slicing or stirring, but after a while he realized she was staring at him in admiration. Watching as he fluidly moved through her kitchen and prepared a dinner just for the two of them.
When Rosie was finally ready to plate the food, Lucy offered him two china bowls her mother must have saved for special occasions and Rosie distinctly felt his heart swell. He was rather nervous after they finished serving everything and sat down next to each other at the large dinner table that was usually left unused.
Rosie watched Lucy as dipped her spoon into the tomato soup, raised it to her lips and took a delicate sip. He watched as her face contorted in awe and she quickly took a larger sip.
“Rosie. How? This needs to be in a restaurant. This is incredible!”
“It can’t be that good.”
“Oh it is. You must tell me your secrets.” Rosie laughed, relieved that he was able to please her. He took a sip of his own soup and relished in the familiar taste of home.
After dinner and cleaning up the dishes, Rosie found himself nestled next to Lucy on the couch. She had gotten changed once they had finished drying the dishes and was now wearing the long lacy nightgown he had seen that morning. It seemed that it was tailored to be his own personal torture device.
“Lucy, you really need to stop me, because I really want to kiss you right now.” Rosie finally said, it seemed like the two glasses of wine had given him enough confidence that his brain was no longer filtering his mouth. Lucy turned her head to look at him directly and he watched as a smile blossomed on her face.
“Oh I’m not going to be the one to stop you.”
This kiss felt different from the others. It was as if it was imbued with a special kind of love that came from knowing the other person on a much deeper level. Rosie’s fingers were tangled in Lucy’s silky blonde curls and he could feel as his own curls were being ruffled from where Lucy’s hands had started to tug on them.
When they finally broke apart, both Rosie and Lucy were panting hard. Rosie knew he was looking at Lucy with more admiration than he thought was possible and she was looking at him with the same depth of love in her eyes.
“You are quite a man, Robert Rosenthal.”
“And you are quite a woman, Lucy Everett.” Lucy laughed and she tucked herself close to him once again. Rosie relished in the warmth that her body emanated, how he wished he could stay like this forever.
Little by little, the sound of Bing Crosby started to fade and Rosie felt himself drop into a slow slumber. Lucy’s eyes also began to close and the two lovers drifted off into the sweet escape of sleep.
Only once did one of them wake, Rosie woke up panting after having what seemed like a nightmare. The moon illuminated the living room and he could still hear the distant sounds of a woman screaming. He shook himself out of it and instead focused on the blonde in his arms. He carefully readjusted her and placed a kiss on her cheek before falling back asleep.
Lucy felt a warm solid body pressed against her own. She blearily blinked her eyes open and watched as her living room blossomed around her. Then she remembered where she was, and who she was with.
“You’re finally awake.” Rosie’s voice made Lucy smile contently and she looked up to see Rosie’s intent stare on her face.
“Hmmm, good morning.”
“It is indeed.”
“You stayed.”
“I wouldn’t leave unless I had to, Lucy.” Rosie said with a sad smile, Lucy watched as his eyes dimmed slightly and she quickly nestled closer into him. Sitting up slightly to press a kiss to his jaw, and then his cheek and finally his lips.
“What was that for?”
“I thought you needed it.” Lucy said with a shrug before she was too attacked with kisses. Rosie’s mustache tickled her skin as he placed a flurry of kisses all over her face. She shrieked in delight, making Rosie chuckle against her. “Rosie! Stop! I have to go make breakfast.”
“Nope.” Rosie stopped kissing her for a moment just to respond to her comment and Lucy let out a sigh of relief, which was instantly cut short as he started his assault once again.
“Rosie…”
“Okay, okay fine. Come on. I’ll help you make breakfast.” Rosie said, finally relenting. He stretched out his arms and let out a groan as Lucy also yawned and started to stand up from her place on the couch.
“What are you feeling like?”
“Anything you want, darling. Just none of that tea please.” Lucy narrowed her eyes at him, which had Rosie smiling sheepishly at her.
“Fine, come on.”
Lucy quickly busied herself as she picked out the meager ingredients she had to make eggless pancakes, since she had used up the last of the eggs yesterday. Lucy could feel Rosie’s eyes on her when she started to do her little tea ritual.
“Can you put on some music, honey?” Lucy asked once she had finished pouring herself a cup.
“Of course.”
After the click of the record sounded, Lucy distinctly felt the weight of Rosie behind her as he pulled her towards him and hugged her from behind. Lucy was carefully measuring out the ingredients but she let her head lean against his shoulder.
“Hmmm. I’m going to miss you.” Lucy whispered, Rosie hummed against her head and Lucy felt herself start to sway against him. She felt a slow tear run down the length of her cheek and she allowed herself to just feel for a few moments.
“I may be leaving but I’ll always be in your heart, and you will always be in mine.”
“You’re already making me cry, Rosie, stop saying things like that.” Lucy said with a strained laugh. Looking back at him, Lucy felt her heart both swell and break simultaneously.
“Lucy… I-”
“I love you.” Lucy muttered, interrupting Rosie mid sentence. She watched him as his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.
“You- you? You love me?”
“I think I’ve loved you since the moment I met you.”
“I love you too. I’ve loved you ever since I saw you sitting outside on your porch swing reading the same book I was. Lucy, darling, I-”
Lucy cut Rosie off again but this time with a kiss. She threw her arms around his shoulders and pulled him towards her. She put everything she had into that kiss and she felt as Rosie responded in turn. His lips cautiously moved against hers and she felt a tingle run over her body by how carefully he cradled her face against his.
“Rosie. I really need to get to those pancakes.” Lucy finally said after a few long minutes of kissing. She muttered her words against his lips, feeling as Rosie chuckled and pulled away from here.
“Nothing is stopping you, milady.” Lucy huffed but turned back around. Savoring the feeling of the man that she loved cradling her as she fixed breakfast and took sips of her tea.
Rosie’s tastebuds ignited when he placed a slice of pancake in his mouth. The day was already starting to shape out to be a good one. He still felt like he was floating after Lucy’s admission only half an hour ago, now he just watched her in awe from across the kitchen table. She was also taking careful bites of her pancakes and stealing glances at him.
They had almost become more bashful than they had ever been, whenever they met eyes either Rosie or Lucy would immediately break eye contact. There was a comfortable tension between them that neither person felt necessary to break.
Once they had both finished their respective breakfasts, Rosie leant over and entwined their hands together. He watched as Lucy smiled adoringly at him and leaned over to peck his lips.
“Rosie… I- do you want to finish The Great Gatsby?” Lucy asked against his lips, staring at him intently. Rosie nodded and they both rose from their seats and walked over to the living room. Leaving the dishes for another time.
The morning was spent in a quiet comfort. Rosie’s voice echoed through the rooms of the house, although he frequently stopped his reading to press languid kisses to Lucy’s lips, or to caress the exposed skin of her arm. At the pace that he ended up going, he finished the book at about midday. When Rosie leaned over to place the book on the coffee table, he felt Lucy stir from his side and start to stretch out.
“I need to get changed, Rosie.”
“Yeah?”
“Hmm. I wanted to walk with you to the station and I can’t do that wearing a nightgown.”
“I wouldn’t be complaining.”
“I know you wouldn’t be, but do you truly want everyone else staring at me.” Rosie blinked up at Lucy from his position on the couch when realization dawned on him. “I thought so. Now busy yourself with something while I get changed.”
“Yes ma’am.” Rosie said with a sarcastic nod which had Lucy shaking her head at him before disappearing out of the door.
Rosie took to scanning the living room he had basically lived in for the past few days. He wanted to commit it all to memory before he had to leave. At that thought, Rosie dragged a hand over his face - he was leaving in less than two hours and he was leaving her. How he wished he could take her with him and show her the planes that so fascinated her. Most of all he wanted this damned war to end so he could be in her arms for the rest of his life.
His fingers caressed the worn fabric of the couch he was sitting on, he felt more at home here than he had in a while. Rosie didn’t want to leave. He knew his duty and nothing would stop him from that, but how he wished it wasn’t like this. He wished he had met Lucy at a jazz bar, or at a bookstore, when war wasn’t a constant in both of their lives.
He wished the world was different, but unfortunately it wasn’t. All Rosie could do was keep coming back from missions, and now he had another reason to.
“Very well, how do I look?” Lucy’s voice almost made him jump, he had been so lost in his thoughts that Rosie hadn’t heard the creaking of the age old floorboards. He took a few moments to take in his beautiful Lucy. She was wearing a long light yellow dress with black flowers embroidered on the collar.
“You look radiant as always, my dear.” Rosie said, almost breathlessly as he rose from his spot on the sofa and walked over to her. He pressed a kiss to her lips, trying to memorize the feeling of her warm body against his.
“Hmm. Not that this isn’t wonderful, but we need to make lunch. And I wanted to make some sandwiches for your trip back.”
“You really don’t need to do that.” Rosie said as he pulled away from Lucy to look at her in surprise.
“I want to, now come.”
After a quick lunch, Lucy had disappeared into her study to write him a little note - leaving Rosie to do the dishes. She sat down at her desk and stretched her fingers before starting to type.
Dear Rosie,
I know you won’t read this until you get back, but I wanted you to have something to remember me by. I just wanted to say that I love you and I promise to write to you nearly every day and try to call you when I can because I’m not sure I will be able to survive without hearing or reading your words for a day.
You have turned my world into something I never expected. I never expected you, my darling. I wish we could spend more days like this weekend. I will never forget them, I will never forget you. I will always cherish these memories, until we are able to make new ones just like them.
I love you, my dear. Remember that when you’re flying your plane and have your head in the clouds.
All my love,
Lucy
With a final ding of the typewriter, Lucy pulled the paper out and blew a little on the ink before folding it into a neat rectangle. She grabbed Rosie’s copy of The Great Gatsby that had been hanging around the house for the past few days. Opening up the book she slipped the note in between the pages and then picked up her pencil to scribble her name on the inside cover page.
“Now what might you be up to?” Lucy swivelled around to find Rosie leaning on the doorframe. His arms were crossed and he seemed to have been standing there for quite a while.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Oh really? So you didn’t just slip something into my book.”
“Shhh, it’s supposed to be a secret. Be a dear and don’t open it until you get back.” Lucy said as she rose from her seat and placed the book into Rosie’s hands, an easy smile on her face.
“The suspense might kill me but I promise. When do you have to head back to London?”
“Tomorrow. I’m hoping for a new assignment.”
“I’m sure it’s going to be amazing.”
“You better buy a copy of the paper once it’s published.”
“Don’t worry, I will be on the lookout for it.” Rosie’s arms now encircled her waist, and Lucy was sure she was staring at him like a lovesick idiot.
“We better get going if we want to catch your train. You still need to pick up your luggage.”
“I know, but this is much more preferable.”
“Rosie… don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“Alright, alright.” Rosie’s hands rose in a defeated posture, making Lucy choke out a laugh.
“Come on.”
Lucy followed after Rosie as she went to grab the necessary things for leaving the house. She slipped on her shoes and tied the laces while watching Rosie take in the last details of the hallway before he left. He looked contemplative and Lucy wondered what exactly he was thinking about.
Rosie’s curls were all messed up from a night on the couch and from Lucy’s constant tugging and rearranging of them. Lucy thought he looked ethereal standing there in wrinkled clothes and messy hair. For the billionth time she wished she was a painter so she could capture him just like that.
“Ready?” She finally asked. Lucy’s question made Rosie’s eyes travel to her and he gave her a nod before going to open the door.
It felt final to Lucy, she knew she would see him again but there was always a chance, a high chance, that he wouldn’t come back to her. Even if he had promised he would.
She waited outside of the B&B for Rosie to collect his luggage, she had taken to kicking a pebble on the sidewalk and staring at the cracks in the pavement. Watching as the little weeds crept through the cement.
“Lucy… I have everything.” Rosie’s tentative voice broke her out of her thought spiral, making Lucy look over to him to find that he had changed into his uniform and had tamed his curls. He looked handsome, somehow even more handsome than he had while he wore civies. His hat was under his left arm and he held his luggage in the other.
“Well don’t you look handsome?” Rosie rewarded Lucy with a bashful smile and a blush. “Aww, don’t go getting all shy on me now.” Lucy teased as she came up to him and carefully took the hat from under his arm and placed it slightly lopsided on his head. She wrapped her hand around his now free arm and leaned against his shoulder.
The walk to the train station was filled with easy chatter, Lucy was trying to avoid facing the fact that he was leaving (possibly forever) and that she would have to return to a house that would now be void of Rosie. The small platform greeted the pair all too quickly, the station clock showing that it would only be a few minutes before the train that would take Rosie far, far away from her would arrive.
“Rosie, I- I don’t know what to say.”
“I don’t- Lucy, I don’t want this to be goodbye.”
“But you’re leaving, Rosie.”
“I’ll come back.”
“Oh, Rosie, you can’t promise me that.” She smiled tightly at him, and threw her arms around his shoulder. Feeling as he quickly reciprocated the hug. Hot, burning tears started to race down her face.
“I know, I know I can’t, but I promise that I’ll keep trying to come back. To come back to you.”
“I’m going to miss you so much. I love you.” Lucy whispered against his chest, as she let out a choked sob. She felt droplets of water hit her head and she realized that Rosie was crying too.
“And I’m going to miss you, my dear Lucy. I love you too, so much.” Rosie said as he leaned closer to Lucy.
“Promise me you’ll write.”
“Every day. Here, this is my address at the base and the phone number.” Rosie quickly pulled a piece of paper and pencil from his bag and scribbled a note on there, adding a heart for good measure.
The distant sound of the train whistle had Lucy’s heart clenching. She quickly swept away her tears and took the paper from Rosie’s hands. She pulled him in for one last kiss. Feeling as the top of his hat bumped against her forehead and how his lips pressed against hers.
The train whistle got louder and louder, making the urgency of the kiss increase. It felt like a goodbye kiss. Lucy hoped she would get to experience it again but she also knew this might be the last time, so she memorized the pressure and love that seemed to be behind Rosie’s actions. They finally pulled apart, reluctantly, when the train slowed into the station.
“Goodbye, Lucy Everett. Don’t cry, my darling. I’ll always be here. In our memories and in the love you know I hold for you.” Rosie muttered, Lucy stared deep into his eyes and nodded.
“Goodbye, Rosie. I love you so so much, now go.” Rosie smiled sadly and then pulled away from her. Lucy watched as her dear Major stepped onto the train and turned to wave at her and blow her a kiss one last time. She smiled as tears ran down her cheeks and waved back, making her remember that first wave he had sent her all those days ago.
Rosie was back on the train, except this time it wasn’t boiling hot and he was feeling the deep pangs of an aching heart. He missed her so much already and it had only been two hours. He would be arriving in London soon where he would have to change trains to get back to base, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything except stare at the piece of paper in his hands. He hadn’t opened it yet but he kept stroking the paper as if it would magically make Lucy appear in front of him.
He wanted desperately to ask the train to go back around, to abandon his life so he could run off into the sunset with his sweetheart but he had a job to do. A job which would keep her safe. So he spent the entire time on the train and then the jeep back to base thinking about Lucy’s silky curls and her ringing laughter.
Even Crosby seemed to notice something was up when he was quieter than usual at dinner. He tried to press him about it, but Rosie just brushed him off. Until he realized that Cros was now genuinely looking worried about him.
“Crosby, I’m fine.”
“What the hell happened during your leave that has suddenly turned you into a grouch?”
“I met someone.”
“You met someone?” Crosby tentatively asked.
“A girl.”
“You met a girl?!”
“Crosby, goddammit, quiet down.”
“Jesus, sorry. So you met a girl?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what? I met a girl, fell in love and now I’m dealing with the fact I might never get to see her again.”
“Did you give her your address? Wait- fell in love? Rosie, you scoundrel!”
“It isn’t like that, Cros.”
“Sure. But did you?”
“Yes, I gave her my address. I’m sure she’ll write-”
“There! You see, she loves you too right?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly, you need to stop overthinking this and just allow it to happen.”
“Crosby… I just- I promised I’d come back to her.”
“Then you better do it. You’re one of the best god damned pilots I know, Rosie. If anyone could do it, you can. You’ll make it back and you’ll make gorgeous babies with this girl of yours. What’s her name anyways?”
“Lucy Everett.”
part 2 part 3 part 4
so... thoughts? queries?
also here are the moodboards i've made so far: meet the oc lucy's outfits
there will probably be an epilogue of sorts and some little drabbles/fics scattered around the timeline so let me know if you want to be added to the taglist !!
taglist: @justheretoreadthhx @callumsgirl <33
#rosie rosenthal#robert rosenthal#robert rosie rosenthal#masters of the air#mota#mota spoilers#mota fanfic#mota oc#masters of the air oc#masters of the air x oc#rosie rosenthal x oc#rosie x oc#robert rosenthal x oc#my ocs <3#harry crosby#nate mann#maria writes
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Rating: M
Fandom: Masters of the Air
Characters: Benny DeMarco, Gale Cleven, Original Female Characters, mentions of other characters because they do not live in a bubble here
Note: features canon-typical refs to death/dying etc., but if you watch the show you can handle this fic just fine. The only thing you gotta know about this AU before you start is: the history's the same, but there are women added to the bomber crews.
References to Catholic imagery and the Italian-language prayers (Our Father/Hail Mary), as well as Benny hailing from Chicago in this one, are firmly based in fact. You might recognize fractions of episode 3 in this one, though it's not a play-by-play retelling by any means!
Summary: Benny DeMarco omits one line from his prayers every time he pilots a bomber. The only time he speaks of mortality is when his feet hit the ground. Now, on a run that takes him all the way to Africa, he finds himself connecting with someone who'll call upon anything that's useful – from saints to baseball players – in order to make it out alive.
full of grace
He has lost count of how many Hail Marys he has held in his mind like rosary beads. Ave Maria, piena di grazia… Benny almost raises his eyes to the cockpit’s ceiling in supplication. Fixes his gaze on the point between the flak and debris instead – on that bright blue sky, colored like the robe on Mary’s statue back home – and rounds out the prayer that is taking shape in his mind. Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, please fucking save us, prega per noi peccatori, give us a goddamn break, amen.
There is a part to the prayer he does not bring into flight with him. Can’t. Bad luck all around to even think it, especially now that they’re so close to target. He’d have to do more than rap his bare knuckles on the strip of wood near his seat to ward that off. Would have to pray a thousand more Hail Marys, tumbling into the recesses of his thoughts like a game of marbles, before he’d feel safe flying this thing again.
There’s some things you just don’t take up with you. You don’t take fights. You don’t take grudges. You don’t take pictures of dames – no, Buck, not even Marge-with-the-pretty-smile – and you don’t take a completed prayer. It’s just common sense, like the dice and the strip of leather from Meatball’s harness he pocketed pre-flight. You take the things that bring luck. Leave out all the rest. Live with the feeling of your teeth about to rattle out of your skull with each hit you take, the twang of fear thicker on your tongue than the strongest liquor could ever be, and say a little half-moon prayer on every next breath.
And then, well, then there is that sweet, sweet feeling of being almost there.
[read the rest on AO3!]
#masters of the air#mota#bernard demarco#gale cleven#mota oc#oc: stella#basilonefic#I wrote a 5k goodiebag!#that I really really hope people will enjoy
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"The drum you stroke. Damn that beat so old. In the ground it grows there. To damn the sun. Gates of gold. In your head you hold, a kingdom molten. May the gods be on your side"
FAYE "FISH" FISCHER | MASTERS OF THE AIR
It made her squint, the way the sun reflected off the water in the stately looking pond across the street. It was early in the evening and the setting sun had been hanging low in the sky. Casting a golden glow onto the peaceful park she overlooked. Faye’s forehead was pressed against the sun-warmed glass. Her view of the park became blurry as the glass began to fog from Faye’s breathing. Rough shapes and colours were what remained of the scene across the street. Golden and green, sun, grass and trees. The same elements that made up the view from her childhood home back in Louisiana. It was also the last she had seen of the Alsatian town of Mulhouse as the train carried her westward. She had closed her eyes as it did, trying to keep the golden and green view in her mind for as long as possible.
“Fischer? Are you even listening?” she heard the OSS officer in front of her ask. “Your cover was about to be blown, we couldn’t just let you keep working in Mulhouse, I’m sure you’re also happy you’re not in the middle of it anymore,” the officer continued. Faye just nodded. He would never know what it was like to be in the heart of it. To have to hide the core elements of your identity. To witness the atrocities. To have to stand and watch, unable to do anything because if you did, you would risk the same fate, while also jeopardizing the OSS’s operation. He would never know, or understand. So she just nodded, her thumb and index finger pressing into the small, silver Magen David that hung from her necklace. “Considering the Krauts are onto you now, we’ve transferred you to a different position. One that doesn’t require you to drop into occupied Europe.” The golden and green outside became even more blurred, and then they disappeared as Faye closed her eyes in anticipation. “The unit is moving you to Thorpe Abbotts, there’s an Air Force base there and they want you to capture and archive their missions-” Faye sat up, interrupting the officer; "why on earth do they need those recorded?” her eyebrows raised. “On paper, it’s something about morale, something they can show back home,” Morale. She huffed, if only they knew.
"They also want photographic evidence of their hit targets, so I guess you're also supposed to do that." the officer continued. This made her move up from her chair, both of her hands leaning onto the desk. "You're gonna make me go up in those planes?!"
BIOGRAPHICAL INFORMATION
Name: Faye Geneva Fischer
Age: 23 (as of September 1943)
Date of birth: November 10, 1920 at 20:08
Place of birth: Plaquemine, Iberville Parish, Louisiana, United States
Hometown: New Orleans, Orleans Parish, Louisiana, United States
Occupation: OSS Combat Photographer
Affiliation: Office of Strategic Services; Photographic Unit & Eight Air Force; 100th Bombardment Group
PLAYLIST | PINTEREST
#masters of the air#masters of the air x oc#hbo war#i've paired her with rosie#oc: faye#rosie rosenthal#mota oc#mota#masters of the air one shot#robert rosenthal
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Harding had flipped through the folders carefully, studying the personnel photos attached to each record, the smiles for the camera, the tilt of heads and the slope of shoulders. That there was a woman in the pile gave him extra reason to pause.
Captain Marion Brennan - a born administrator and a focused intelligence officer. Efficient. Capable. Invaluable.
Huglin had underlined that last word, invaluable, as though he felt it needed to be said louder, and Harding felt that now more than he’d done when he started.
#marion brennan#yes this is a moodboard#you can come after me later#tds cinematic universe#mota oc#masters of the air oc
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some news,,, I’ve made an OC for the latest fic I’m working on! Very excited for you all to meet my girl Juliet Thompson: English teacher, Shakespeare enthusiast, and girlfriend of one Captain John Brady 👀
#I’ve had so much fun writing for her hehehe#she and brady are just ADORABLE 🥰#so excited to introduce y’all to her!#masters of the air#sage speaks#oc: juliet#oc: juliet thompson#… not gonna put any other oc tags here yet bc Spoilers lol#john brady#mota#mota oc#john brady x oc#masters of the air oc
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Lt. Colonel Brady, who upon being liberated from a prisoner of war camp in Poland has caused quite a stir in the top brass with her adamant testimony in regards to not only the treatment of her own female dominated squadron, but that of her male counterparts
#masters of the air#mota#mota oc#Ida Brady#mota fanfic#those who can#who’s afraid of little old me#tpd#tpd edit
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I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 1
Masterlist |-| Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11
AO3
Summary: As Frankie reaches the end of her second week at Thorpe Abbotts Airfield, she begins to find her footing among the men of the 100th Bomb Group
Warnings: Excessive alcohol consumption, language
Word Count: 4k
Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee
The setting sun cast a golden blanket over Thorpe Abbotts airfield, basking everything in an idyllic, orange glow that was almost beautiful enough to distract from the heady stench of motor oil that lay thick on the air, permeating hair and clothes so thoroughly that anyone who spent even five minutes in the place would carry it with them for the rest of the day.
Frankie Bevan clamped a flashlight tight between her teeth, the narrow beam of light illuminating the underside of the B-17's gun turret as she surveyed it for any cracks or gaps in the glass that could compromise its integrity. The rest of the ground crew had called it a day almost two hours ago, but the Yanks always did prefer to work in the daylight. She was nearing the end of her third year in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, and after so many nights spent running the airstrips in the darkness for the RAF, Frankie was well accustomed to toiling away into the night.
Thorpe Abbotts was new, and yet much the same. It was only her second week here, compensating for the Americans' manpower shortages. The job was always the same, no matter where she went or what planes she worked on - checks, fixes, refuelling, over and over again - but thus was the nature of a mechanic's job. What she was not yet quite used to was the Americans themselves. Loud and brash and self-assured, Frankie was sometimes glad they worked different hours.
Taking note of a few cracks in the glass panelling, she reached up to swipe the torch from her mouth, offering a satisfied nod as she completed her checks for the night. All that was left was to pin her list of concerns up on the board inside the mechanics' Nissen hut, and then it was off to the pub for her.
Once she changed out of her oil-stained coveralls, that was.
"They're working you like a dog down there on the strip," Georgina, one of Frankie's bunkmates, pointed out, flipping nonchalantly through a magazine as she lounged on her bed.
"Someone's gotta do it," She shrugged, kicking off her coveralls as she rummaged in the shared wardrobe for the correct service uniform. "Some of the mechanics they've brought over are practically kids, not sure I'd trust 'em to fix my plane if I was going up there."
"You'd better show 'em what for, then," George smiled, glancing over as Frankie finished buttoning up her blouse, reaching for the navy blue jacket.
"You coming for drinks?"
"Uh, nah - I'll go tomorrow. Sandra thinks we'll be starting early tomorrow so I wanna get a decent night's sleep."
"Ooh, luxury," Frankie teased, shimmying her shoulders as she made her way to the door of the hut. "Alright, see you later."
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The pub was crammed from door to door as she forced her way inside, the sound of chattering overpowering the music blaring from a radio in the corner. The American invasion of Thorpe Abbotts had well and truly been successful, scarcely a flash of RAF blue visible amongst the sea of khaki as Frankie burrowed her way through the crowds towards the bar.
"Pint of Guinness, please," She called over the din, the bartender offering a friendly nod of affirmation as she felt the crowd behind her push her body further into the edge of the bar.
"There y'are, love," The man nodded, placing the pint glass in front of her as she smiled her thanks, foam lining her top lip as she took her first sip. Frankie barely had time to wipe it away, turning to take a step back from the bar, before another body collided with hers. She gasped as the beer she had so looked forward to sloshed over the rim of the glass, pooling on the floor and staining the front of her uniform, as the other man's drink did the same.
"Woah, careful there!" The man cried, flicking a few stray droplets of spilt beer from his hand onto the floor. A deep frown creased her features as she peered up at him. The soldier was so tall that the tip of her head didn't quite pass his shoulder, and yet the irritation in her expression was so palpable that he took a full step back.
"Oh, that was my fault, was it?" Frankie tutted.
"Well, sweetheart, maybe if you'd been looking where you were going-"
"Maybe if you bloody Yanks gave us some room to breathe in here we wouldn't have a problem!"
There was an easy smile on the man's face that struck her as distinctly annoying. Discarding his now almost empty glass on the bar, the man put up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Look. We're not gonna agree on this, so what d'ya say we settle this with a little friendly competition?"
She raised a brow. "What sort of competition?"
"Uh... how 'bout a drinking contest?"
Frankie let out a guffaw so forceful that the man's confident smile disappeared, and a few nearby airmen turned to watch the scene unfold. "Y'know what? Yeah. You're on."
With a nod, he turned away, marching towards the closest table. "Alright boys, gimme some space, I got a contest to win against half-pint over here."
She approached the table, sitting down opposite the soldier, smirking at his arrogance. The airmen he had kicked out of their seats were lingering to watch the spectacle unfold, and it was clear their bets were on her opponent.
"Now," He sighed, taking a seat. "In the spirit of good sportsmanship, I oughta introduce myself. John Egan," He said, reaching a hand across the table.
"Frances Bevan. Frankie," She nodded, shaking his hand.
Egan nodded. "So, normal rules apply. No spilling, no vomiting, gotta drain the glass. Still wanna do this?"
Frankie nodded firmly. "I'd never pass up such a wonderful opportunity to humble you Yanks," She grinned.
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Egan was turning red, his smug smile long since vanished, the motion of his arm slowing as he reached for the next shot glass, glancing across at her with a slightly nauseated expression. The crowd surrounding them had long since grown since they had begun, although how long ago that was she couldn't quite remember. The huge pile of empty shot glasses in the centre of the table did nothing to jog her memory.
"Oh, come on, Egan, you've gotta do better than that," Frankie teased, reaching forward and downing her next shot. In fairness, she too was beginning to feel light-headed, but it never showed on her face, her demeanour as cool and collected as it had been when she first sat down.
"I thought... I thought this would be easy," John complained, grimacing as he brought the next glass to his lips. "You're so small, where are you storing all this liquor?"
"I'm British - pretty sure it's in our bloodstream," She teased. Egan's eyes narrowed as he weakly upturned the contents of his glass into his mouth, screwing up his face as the liquid ran down his throat.
"I really like her," John admitted, letting out a long sigh as he drew a hand over his eyes. A few of the airmen laughed, clapping him over the shoulders.
"I think we're done here," Frankie chuckled.
"You forfeit?" He asked hopefully.
"No, I'm saying you're about to. That or you're gonna throw up - either way, I win."
"Nuh-uh," Egan shook his head. "Not gonna happen," He fought to suppress a burp, and the room seemed to brace itself for the inevitable vomit that would follow, letting out a collective sigh of relief when he swallowed his nausea back down. "...Yeah. Ok."
She clapped, throwing up her hands in victory as a couple of the men standing behind her cheered. "Well, it's been a real pleasure doing business with you Major," Frankie chuckled, fighting through the splitting headache that was growing in her temples as she rose from her seat, offering him a hand to help him stand.
John batted her away, but stumbled as he got up, one of his friends pressing a firm hand on his back to keep him upright. She smiled. "I'll help you get him back since it's my fault. Gotta get back to the huts anyway."
The airman accepted, each of them slinging one of Egan's arms around their shoulders as he tilted haphazardly over to one side, struggling to prop himself up against her due to her height. Trailing towards the door, a few of the men let out celebratory whoops at her as she passed, praising her victory.
"Thanks for the night, gents - I'm here all war," Frankie called over her shoulders, a cheer erupting from the crowd as they dragged Egan sideways out of the door.
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It was growing difficult to see as they marched John back to the huts, the street lights growing more and more sparse the closer they got to the airfield. "You gotta teach me how to do that," He slurred, tilting his head down towards her, the smell of liquor thick on his breath.
"You gotta get more practice in - you Americans with your 'no alcohol until you're 21' rule never stood a chance, we've just been in the game longer."
"Ah," He nodded, pausing for a moment. "Hey, why'd you call yourself Frankie?"
"Because Frances is a terrible name," She scoffed.
"Can I call you Fran?"
"Only if you want to die."
"Fair enough."
As they reached the end of the row of men's huts, she shrugged his arm off of her shoulders, relinquishing custody of John to the other airman, who thanked her for her help.
"See ya 'round, Shortcake!" Egan called as they trailed away, grinning proudly to himself at the nickname. Frankie scoffed, rolling her eyes and massaging her temples as her headache steadily worsened.
"You look like shit," George whispered as she wandered back into their hut. She had rolled her hair up into pin curls, protected beneath a headscarf, and was reading a copy of Wuthering Heights in the dim light of her bedside lamp.
"Got into a drinking contest with one of the Americans," She shrugged, tossing her beer-stained blouse and jacket into a crumpled heap at the foot of her bed, a reminder to wash them tomorrow.
"Did you win?"
"Of course."
"Shh!" One of the other women hissed from the opposite end of the room, shrouded in the darkness. Frankie pulled a face at her scolding, dragging a brush through the knots in her dark brown hair as George stifled a laugh, discarding her book and turning off the light once her friend had changed and gotten into bed.
It was silent for a while as she lay beneath the blankets, staring up at what would have been the ceiling if not for the complete absence of light. Her alcohol-induced headache thrummed behind her eyes, a constant, dull pain keeping her from sleep.
"George?" She whispered.
"What?"
"Do you have an aspirin?"
The sound of quiet rummaging was audible in the stillness of the hut, and she struggled to suppress a laugh as she felt the tube smack her in the face, a result of Georgina tossing it blindly in the darkness.
"Thank you," She giggled, trying not to gag as she took the pills dry, lying back and waiting for the pain to subside as she thought back on the night's events.
I'm not that short.
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The blinding morning sun was unwelcome the next day as Frankie made her way to the airfield from her hut, bike resting against her hip as she made a momentary stop to fix her hair for the day ahead, hair tie held between her teeth as she scooped it into a ponytail. Most of the women she shared the Nissen hut with had left over an hour ago, hurrying to the flight tower in anticipation of the arrival of yet more American pilots, but her job didn't begin until after the planes landed, so fortunately for her, she had been afforded a little more sleep, her headache now more or less dissipated.
A loud honking startled her, the hair tie slipping from her teeth and falling to the floor. As she bent to pick it up, a jeep rolled to a stop in front of her, the horn parping once more.
"Fuck's sake, what?" Frankie muttered, glancing up to see the cheery grin of Major John Egan smiling down at her.
"Mornin'."
"Are you even fit to drive after last night?"
"Fifty-fifty. Hop in, throw your bike in the back."
She frowned as she noticed the pile of bikes already forming in the back of the car, but stacked her on top all the same, sliding into the passenger seat beside him. "Starting a collection?"
"Won them in a bet, night before last. Got one for me and my buddy Buck, he's arriving today."
"Is that Major Cleven?" She asked.
"Sure is," John nodded as the engine roared to life, taking them sailing along the road towards the airstrip, the wind ruining her hair before she even had a chance to finish it.
"So..." He began, swerving slightly to dodge a few maintenance workers on bikes. "Where ya from, Frankie?"
"Stratford."
"I... do not know where that is."
"I didn't expect you to," She chuckled. "Grew up with my dad working his garage, that's what got me into it. Always preferred planes to cars, though."
"You and me both," John nodded, slowing as they neared the landing strip. Up ahead, the flight crew were beginning to disembark, and Frankie's eyes narrowed as she noticed one of the airmen carrying a large dog.
"If they let that dog shit in the plane, I'm not cleaning it up," She stated. "You've heard me say it, that's on the record now."
"Yes ma'am," Egan affirmed, pulling to a stop, a grin spreading across his face as he got close enough to recognise his friends.
As he clambered out of the car, stepping forward to greet his comrades, she climbed out of her seat, wandering around the back of the jeep to disentangle her bike from the pile, tugging it free as the sounds of wind and aeroplane engines overpowered the men's voices.
"Oh, and, uh - This is Frankie Bevan," John called, guiding Cleven towards her, speaking louder so that she could hear. She raised her hand in a somewhat awkward wave, almost dropping her bike on her foot as she hauled it off the back of the jeep. "Best damn mechanic we've got, she's holdin' us together, that's for sure."
"Ma'am," Cleven greeted her with a tilt of his cap.
"He's never seen me work," Frankie shook her head, stepping forward to shake Cleven's hand. "We only met yesterday, he's just being nice in the hopes I won't tell you about how I drank him under the table last night."
John scoffed. "That is not what-" She raised a brow and he stuttered. "Yeah, that - that did happen."
Cleven laughed, squeezing Egan's shoulder. "Well, I'm sure glad he's had someone to keep him humble before I got here. Thank you for your work, ma'am, I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other soon."
She nodded, grinning at Egan's embarrassment. "How was your flight?"
"Smooth sailin', not sure there'll be anything to fix up this time."
A soldier she had heard John greet as Demarco spoke up from where he was stood, scratching his dog's stomach. "The dog dropped a deuce in the cockpit."
Clicking her fingers, she pointed to Egan. "She's not doing that!" He called, craning his head over his shoulder as Demarco put his hands up in surrender.
"Well, that works wonders," Frankie chuckled, lifting her leg to straddle the seat of her bike. "Now, if all you gents have planned is standing around, I've got work to do."
"Bye Shortcake," John grinned as she pedalled the bicycle into motion, ringing the bell and offering up a middle finger as she left. He chuckled, feeling Cleven clap him over the shoulder again.
"She's interesting... nice," His friend began. "Bucky, I know you're sick of Marge tryna set you up, but she is definitely-"
"She's definitely my friend, Buck. Besides, I could never date a woman with a higher alcohol tolerance than me. That's just embarrassing."
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The wind whipped her hair this way and that as Frankie hammered at the pedals, gaining speed faster and faster with each second until the rolling fields beyond the airstrip were little more than a green blur. She'd always loved to cycle, preferably as fast as she possibly could. Her father used to say she should try racing, but his ambition curtailed rather when she got in trouble for almost taking out a couple of tourists outside Shakespeare's birthplace on her way home from school. Besides, she'd never quite had the discipline for sports.
Her breaks squeaked noisily as she rolled to a stop outside the mechanics' Nissen hut, stationed just beyond the main runway. They had been given a single hut for all of their operations, much to the chagrin of many. The back end was an orderly pile of spare parts - buckets of rivets, piles of sheet metal - but someone had supplied them with a table and chairs, and the recent addition of a gas stove and kettle had proved a huge hit.
Ken Lemmons was sat at the table as she wandered in, glancing at the corkboard by the door where she and the others posted notice of anything in need of urgent repair.
"A couple of the guys replaced the glass in the gun turrets earlier - thanks for the shout," Lemmons spoke up.
"Ah, good," Frankie nodded, taking a seat opposite him. As much as she bemoaned her younger, American co-workers, she had grown fond of Ken. He was sipping a cup of coffee, and by the look on his face, he was not enjoying it. She tossed the paper bag containing her lunch onto the table, retrieving a cucumber sandwich - meagre subsistence, and a sight that made the boy frown.
"I think I'd actually murder someone for some Hershey's right about now," He remarked, grimacing as he took another sip of coffee.
"Hey, we make do with what we've got," She shrugged, attempting to devour the sandwich before the cucumber could soak through the thin slices of bread. "I know one of the girls in the Land Army - I darn her jumpers in exchange for a bit of her extra cheese ration."
Lemmons chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "I miss good chocolate. I can't get used to... Cad-berry's?"
"Oh, that's sacrilege," She laughed, tossing a slice of cucumber at him, which stuck to the breast pocket of his coveralls. "If you'd come a couple years ago when they were still making Dairy Milk you'd've thought you'd died and gone to heaven."
"I'll believe it when I see it," He grinned, plucking the slice off of his clothes. There was a pause before he spoke again. "One of the fellas says they're actually taking off later."
Frankie nodded, lifting a hand to cover her mouth as she spoke around her food. "Oh yeah? This gonna be your first proper go at it?"
"Yeah..." Lemmons admitted, looking momentarily nervous. "You?"
She snorted back a laugh. "Nah. I've been in the WAAF nearly four years - moved around a bit, but whether it's Attlebridge or Docking or Thorpe Abbotts, it's all the same gig. You stick with me when the planes start coming back down and you'll be fine."
The corner of his mouth tilted upwards in a smile. "You're gonna babysit me?"
Frankie grinned, standing up to reach across the table and ruffle his curls. "With a cute little face like yours, who could help it?" She teased, laughing as he batted her away.
"Get off, I'm serious," Lemmons chuckled, but the smile never faded from his expression.
Ken's buddy hadn't been wrong, per se, but his fabled mission had come not hours, but days later, with a hammering knock on the door to her hut, the women stirring from their sleep in a wave of disgruntled moans.
"What time is it?" Frankie whined as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, resisting the urge to burrow her head beneath the pillow and block out the relentless knocking outside.
"Four thirty," George groaned, frowning vindictively at her watch as she put it on, as if time itself had caused her personal grievance.
"They're flying today, get ready!" A young male voice bellowed from the other side of the door, clearly too shy to bare his face to a room of half-dressed, irritated women.
"Fuck me, I'm coming," She muttered, brushing her hair with one hand as she buttoned up the front of her coveralls with the other.
"Spot me! How's my lipstick?" George called, and Frankie leant across the bed that separated them to wipe a stray smudge of red away with her thumb.
"All good."
"Right," Her bunkmate huffed. "I'll see you later, yeah?"
"See you later," Frankie affirmed.
"I'll join you for drinks this time if all goes well!" George called over her shoulder as she scurried towards the door.
"I'll hold you to that!" She replied, smiling as she laced up her boots.
The planes left and returned in mere hours, but the in-between had felt never-ending as the ground crew waited in tense anticipation to see how many would return and in what state. Frankie had sent Egan away to the flight tower after his nervous hovering had started to get on her nerves, and she had since spent the last half-hour sitting in the grass beside the runway making daisy chains with a few of the local children as a way to pass the time.
"Frankie! They're comin' in!" She heard Lemmons yell from across the airstrip. Hurriedly sending the children back to their parents as the sound of plane engines grew steadily louder overhead, she scrambled to her feet, grass stains streaking the knees of her coveralls as she jogged over, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as the planes began to descend towards them.
"...10, 11, 12..." Frankie muttered, coming to the slow realisation that many of the men they'd sent away that morning had not returned. But that loss did not negate the importance of the work they had to do now. "Ok, let's go," She patted Lemmons on the shoulder, and they reached for the bikes they had discarded on the ground nearby, pedalling hard towards the landing strip.
From the second they arrived, she was surveying the damage, scanning the planes for the areas that would need the most attention. It was impossible to pick just one.
"There's a reason we go at night," She muttered, so softly no one else could hear over the din of shouts and dying engines. The mechanics weren't emergency staff, but she'd seen a fair few planes come in either on fire, half-collapsed or both over the years, enough to learn it was best to get in as soon as possible.
"Shit," Lemmons huffed beside her, staring up at a huge, jagged hole in the metal of one of the plane's wings.
"Send a couple of the boys back to the hut - tell them to bring a car back with all the sheet metal they can put in it. Oh - and get me a welder!" She called to him, and the young man began barking orders at the other mechanics, the crew erupting to life around the plane as they began to fix the mess that had returned.
"Frankie!" Egan's voice rang from down below as she climbed up onto the top of the plane, marking out the areas of the body that needed replacing. She looked down at him as he yelled again. "You need anything?"
"Nope, we're good here!" Frankie replied, holding up a thumbs-up in case the wind drowned out her voice. Looking down at the work to do below her, it was as if she could map out every fix in her mind, envision every action in order, play it out in her head until the beast was as good as new. She smiled to herself. "This is what I do."
#masters of the air#masters of the air fic#masters of the air oc#mota oc#hbo war#john egan#gale cleven#ken lemmons#rosie rosenthal x oc#oc: frankie#mota#fic | i'm your man#oc: george
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"gamble" or "quiet"? kissing out where nobody can catch them? - for Jo & Egan, of course, because I live the life of an enabler handing you another juicebox 🧃
You are the best, Killy, and thank you to you and @mercurygray for helping me break my little sick-time writer's block ♡
Bucky Egan/War correspondent OC, also on Ao3!
close to you
She’d gone with Kay back to London for a few days. Enough time to catch herself up, wire the stories she hadn’t already, knock her head against the wall a few more times over what did and didn’t go through. The damn blue slashes. Black ones too. Hell, a woman at the corner newsstand had showed Jo a letter from a boyfriend, cut into the RAF’s version of a paper snowflake. It fluttered strangely in the humid breeze, in the young woman’s hand.
She’d seen Bill March’s broken arm, sustained in some manner during an air raid, though the correspondent still had his usual cheerful smile for her, and the pallbearers carrying a distant cousin of Kay’s out of the church in Marylebone, all of twenty when his ship had been torpedoed off the coast of Italy.
She’d gotten back to Thorpe Abbotts on a Friday afternoon, the air still soupy, her suitcase with a half-broken latch and her bitten nails, a growing hole in her last pair of stockings.
It wasn’t raining. Maybe that counted for something.
Trousers then, and maybe she was optimistic, thinking she felt the air cooling a bit around her. There were small scraps of blue sky, like she’d found them in the bottom of her mother’s rag bin. Calico up in the firmament.
The coffee’s warm, if bitter, she hardly pays attention to that now. A few Clubmobile women cleaning trays in the kitchen take pity on her and sneak her a donut. She dips, sloshes, remembers the good old days of milk and cream, and wanders back outside, wondering if she’d made a mistake in coming here straight from London. Her room is still hers in Norwich. Mrs. Fitzgerald had made sure she knew that. It’s a kindness she doesn’t quite have the words for.
She’ll stay in the Clubmobile quarters tonight, on the extra cot. She’d left a book in Crosby’s care last week and he’d returned it to Tatty Spaatz, a piece of stationery stuck in the middle with neat, if hurried, observations. His handwriting reminds her of Evie’s, the block print of a planner.
“Major Egan will be happy to hear you’re back,” Tatty says, and there’s almost a smile playing at the corner of her mouth, her lipstick the color of red wine.
Jo hardly keeps stone-faced, a little scrunch somewhere between a question and an acknowledgement, distaste and curiosity. “I haven’t seen him,” she says.
They yawn, the seconds between the conversation outside and when he’s walking, seeing her, redirecting his path. His eyes look like he’s been squinting in low light, the mask-marks raw across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He’d come out of his office. Post-mission administration, she thinks. Letters home. He writes them longhand, someone had told her. He’s never spoken about it. She’s never asked him.
And she’s not sure happy is the word she’d use, right now. But Tatty knows what she said. Happy is on the ground. A girl smiling at you. The smell of her hair, clean.
The question comes on an exhale, the tie loosened around his neck. “You wanna go for a walk?”
It feels faintly ridiculous, the way she’s not used to being asked. And it’s faintly ridiculous too, the way propriety and a respectful difference between his boots and her lace-up shoes becomes a sneak-around, a glancing journey to the far edge of the airfield, the side of an outbuilding backed by trees.
Maybe he wants something else, she thinks. Another jigger of whiskey, playing cards on the table, chips or dice or jacks. Someone else. Someone who lets him forget.
He kisses her before they’ve even stopped moving, as she rounds the corner in the half-tall grass.
She hasn’t snuck around like this in — god — she can’t remember. Years.
She can’t remember the last time she’s been kissed like this. A sunlit kitchen, softer. Before the leather interiors of fancy cars and class rings. She never thought it could be dressed like this, callused hands and muscle. The flutter of tiny wings falls still. A fly buzzes around their ankles; she can hear it between the sounds of his mouth, breath hot between them.
She can feel that little swatch of damp at the small of her back, the feeling of her hipbones beneath the wool of her trousers. He breaks away to kiss the side of her mouth, the short hairs of his mustache brushing her upper lip.
John, she wants to say, but maybe she can help it, the desperate act of naming him. It all sticks in her throat, like a glob of too-soft caramel. Hardening. John, John, John. “Afternoon, Major.”
He looks like he’s trying to decide something, kisses her again by her nose while he does. She’ll do the same if he’ll let her, the cuts of the oxygen mask and the freckles she can see in the light. “Afternoon, Captain.”
#masters of the air oc#mota oc#john egan x oc#bucky egan x oc#title from listening to the sinatra vdiscs while writing#not to be confused with the carpenters#i mean. you could. it would be fine also.#i've had a really fun cold for the better part of a week so this may be a little....interesting. but i'm feeling a lot better!#hope people enjoy <3#motaverse#jo's tag#anyway!#shoshi writes
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MASTERS OF THE AIR OC // MAGGIE ZIELINSKI
you shut your mouth, how can you say i go about things the wrong way?
Name: Magdalena "Maggie" Zielinski
Date of Birth: February 19, 1922
Place of Origin: Detroit, Michigan
Religious Denomination: Catholic
Enlisted at: Detroit, Michigan on December 14th, 1941
#SHES HERE!!!!!!!#high time i made her a board tbh#ch: maggie#masters of the air#mota#mota oc#masters of the air oc#dispatches#motaverse
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Little Sunshine Fires: Chapter 1
Pairing: Benny DeMarco x OC [Marnie Cleven]
ch. after
Synopsis: Marnie requests a transfer to the 100th Bomb Group to stay close to her boxed in, reserved pilot of a brother, Buck Cleven. It's the last thing she expects, when she starts to anticipate another man's return to safety from the skies, nearly just as much.
Warning: historical inaccuracies, sad stuff to come
Welcome to my first ever fic on Tumblr, and really, everywhere. I have no strong argument as to why you should pay attention to my story, but I do hope that if you have any love for MOTA, MOTA OCs and specifically Benny DeMarco, you would give this long-winded meet cute a chance. It's just a little, fun project I've got going. <3 I fully intend to introduce Marnie individually, but I thought I'd give you a taste of her and Benny first. Enjoy! (and go easy on me T.T)
Disclaimer: none of these photos belong to me. :)
<3
To say it is not ideal that he nearly runs her over with his bike on their first proper interaction, is quite the understatement. In fact, with her petite stature, doing so would have been the equivalent to a man getting squashed by a tank on the field–but let’s not even go there.
It’s a ritual to her everyday, circling the village block for exactly half an hour, enjoying the crispness of her white uniform before it inevitably becomes splotched with red. The stains Marnie returns to her cot with every night is a minuscule droplet in the face of a full-blown war, but despite that, she is only human. If she has the chance to hold onto even just a sliver of normalcy in a place where men dropping like flies all came with the territory, then she did so wrenchingly tight.
And she enjoys strolling through the village of Thorpe Abbots, savoring the slow pace of her breathing with a cigarette between her lips. It resembles one of those folktales her mother theatrically read to her in bed every night as a kid. Townhouses of pastel pinks, yellows and blues, green vines weaving in and out of their windows. Sometimes she would have a set of freshly baked cupcakes at the ready for the farm owner just a few blocks behind base, and count each and every peony she spots on her way back home. Thirty minutes, just thirty minutes basking in this quiet.
Marnie just doesn’t recall having to budget her time for a bicycle crash.
“Shift, fuck, watch out!” the rider yells, face scrunched up in panic. The clock was about to hit 0700, when Marnie was trekking the roads back to the hospital, ready to tackle the day shift. There was no mission in their docket today, but ever since the 100th had landed from their first, soldiers were kicking in and out of those double doors non-stop. Her eyes were locked downwards at nothing in particular; distracted by the thought of Dickie as she rounded the corner, the exposed flesh on his hands that required fresh bandages, and failed to account for the sound of rubber wheels scraping against the gravel.
The officer swerves his bike right–Marnie’s body managing to stall at the perfect moment–his dog only exacerbating the chaos by tugging ferociously on his leash. Rock against flesh, he lands straight on his right side, the clang of his bike ripping through the Sunday morning. One would think that is enough to make the soldiers pause in their ruckus, a group of men practically sunbathing in the weeds, right by his ill fate, but no. She spots Bucky in the crowd, lying with his hands behind his head, now turned to the scene, and he has the audacity to simply cackle at this man’s misfortune. A full-blown cackle. She would absolutely, even in a million years, not admit that she herself was holding back a chuckle.
“Egan,” he groans, pushing himself on his shoulders, and it springs Marnie into action. She runs to his side, about to crouch down. “If you keep shitting your pants over there, I’m gonna fuckin–”
“Oh, forget him and just let me look over you,” she says, cutting him off mid-threat. “God, I’m so sorry.”
His movements freeze, but he angles his head to get a better look at whoever the culprit is. She was expecting him to chew her out for her lack of paying attention, but instead, the second their eyes make contact, there’s an intensity that floods into his gaze. The furrow between his brow softens as a mild surprise–or at least, she thinks it's surprise–washes over his face, his lips falling apart and twitching, ever so slightly. He can hardly keep the red flush at bay. It seeps through his neck and dusts his cheeks, the bustle of the base fading into white noise.
“That good a view, DeMarco?” Bucky, the giant man-child, interrupts. “Got drool coming down your chin.” And suddenly, those eyes no longer reflect a sense of wonder–oh, she should’ve locked that image in her mind and tossed the key into the sea–but a tinge of annoyance sends creases to his forehead, as he scrambles to stand. His dog, one giant, white and silver furry pup, starts to nip at her feet as she begins to rise, and he paws at her knees when her fingers fiddle with his ears. In the corner of her eyes, Marnie catches his owner, she presumes, cracking a fond smile.
“The most beautiful I’ve seen,” she hears him say, only just stopping himself from tugging an obnoxious smirk on his lips, a twinkle of mischief written across his face. It takes everything in her to tamper down a cheeky grin, straining her neck that threatens to inch towards the man she now knows as DeMarco. “But if you will excuse me,” he says, running his fingers through his thick, dark brown hair, and grabbing the handles of his bike and the pup’s leash. “I’m–”
“Not going anywhere.” She finishes his words, the officer’s mouth clamping shut. She’s seen him around before, those chocolate brown eyes and that easygoing charm–he was Buck’s co-pilot when his fort touched down in East Anglia, arms cradling his incessantly howling husky onto tarmac. Our Baby, she remembers his plane being called.
Stalking up to the man ‘til they’re face-to-face, she realizes that with the heels on her shoes, she isn’t too much shorter than him. Her eyes flicker to the way he straightens his shoulders, catches the sharp intake of his breath, and wonders if this man will ever exhale again. Slipping a handkerchief out of her pocket, blood fuses with the yellow of her cloth as she dabs away at minor gash across his temples. He’s about to curse Bucky, and Thayer, and all the soldiers blowing wolf whistles into the air, none bothering to inform him of the distorted skin on his face. “Unless you’re looking for that to get infected,” she says, completely calm, ignoring their audience. “Then come with me, sir.”
A light chuckle bubble in his throat. “Right,” he says, tipping his head, and there it is once again–that unmistakable gaze. “Yes lieutenant. Lead the way.”
She nods, gesturing her fingers to the doors of the hospital, vastly ignoring the way she can feel his eyes trained on her back. She misses the way they’re stiffly glued to the almost black lengths of her hair, keeping them in place from doing a most-likely unacceptable scan up and down.
“Oh, and it’s captain,” she says, turning her head slightly, and his steps come to a halt. “Captain Marianne.”
The man in question happens to be big-hearted Bernard DeMarco.
“But call me Benny,” he’s quick to correct as she sits him down on the edge of a vacant bed. “I’d rather lose my title than answer to that.” She was about to say it suited him, but bites it back.
He’s a pilot from Philadelphia, she learns. An affinity for the outdoors since he was a child, he had longed to take control of the cockpit, and feel the kiss of the sunshine against his skin. There is just something about the golden glow that illuminates his core with a vigor and excitement his body had never felt before. And she admires his zest for a life in the skies. It’s clear, with the way his head perks up like a jittery child on Christmas morning, when he recalls their days flying harmless training missions back in Iowa.
Digging into the metal tray she’s placed beside him, she can tell he’s still watching her movements like a hawk, and it makes her palms a little damp, her brain hyper aware of the way she’s tinkering with the gauze and the antiseptic. It’s as if she's trying to impress Benny. As chief nurse of the 100th Bomb Group, the trust of her abilities should probably not fall into the judgment of a mere man, but she can’t help but feel self-conscious, afraid to make a mess of herself for such a little cause.
“I have yet to find something,” he says, voice quiet as she leaves little space between them to clean his wound, the scent of her lavender lacing with something medicinal faintly clouding over his skin, “that makes me feel more alive.”
When she feels his eyes on her–an act she has been tactfully avoiding for the past 10-minutes–needles seem to prickle along her arms as they remain a little too still. It’s as if the sterile nurse wing has emptied itself out into an abyss where she can let go of her inhibitions and set herself free in front of a man she didn’t know. And all because he stares at her with a tenderness she can’t quite pinpoint.
Benny lets out a cough then, snapping her out of her daze and glances off to the rest of the men in the room. He nods his head at Dickie, who, right now wears the ugliest, knowing smirk that he wishes to slap off, only settles by regulating his breaths before Marnie can see how riled up he feels in his system. He wonders if everyone of them were treated as intimately as this, though he sure as hell hopes not.
“And you?” He looks up curiously, as she stands to clear up the equipment. “I take it you’ve at least been on a plane a couple times. I can’t imagine Buck wouldn’t have flown you about.”
“No, I actually haven’t. Took a ship here with Kenny.” She laughs at the way he reacts in utter disbelief. “Never? You’re kidding. What, you're scared of heights or something? Or, you just don’t like to fly.”
She raises a questioning bow, and he tilts his back down, a tinge of guilt on his face for assuming there is something wrong with such things. “You know, despite popular opinion, not everyone likes being above 30,000 feet in freezing cold air, Ben. And yes, I am afraid of heights. Does that turn you off all a sudden?” He hastily shakes his head no, and mutters a soft, “yeah, my bad.” Facing away, the corners of her lips quirk into a tiny smirk.
She thinks of her older brother, the reticent Gale Cleven, or Buck, who she hadn’t seen in about six months before he arrived in England. Marnie was always the more chipper one out of the two, always offering to do most of the talking when they charmed their town neighbors into letting them couch surf for the night.
His strength, on the other hand, always lay in his actions. It speaks to the way their mutual childhood best friend and the love of Buck’s life, Marge, had fallen for him. It was not about what he could muster the courage to say, or how he squared up his shoulders. It was because he waited every sunrise without fail, for Marge to arrive at the bus stop so they could head to school together. How he was often too timid to really show any verbal affection, but would never stop caressing her shoulders lightly each time they were side-by-side. Her brother was a man of a few words. If there is one thing he could babble on about though, like DeMarco, they were planes.
They breathed life into Buck Cleven, flew him into a sense of purpose. It was a beautiful sight, the way his wings launched him close to the sun where he glimmered into the pilot he was always meant to be. Marnie on the other hand, well, she doesn’t quite know when the seed of despair became rooted so deeply inside, but she started to despise the daylight since the war had reached their doorstep.
“There’s something about the sun, right after the rise of day,” Marnie begins, blue eyes glazed in thought, “it’s just so glaring. The closer you get to it…the more intimidating it becomes. It’s ruthless. Just rises and falls, and rises and falls, exposing each god fucking ugly corner of the world. You wake up to it, and with everything that’s going on, it’s just this blatant reminder that people are out there struggling, crying, and dying. That harsh reality just sinks deep into your gut, each time you gotta step out and work. I don’t hate the idea of flying….but, guess I’m just not interested in the skies. I don’t even like looking outside, and just sitting there, waiting for all of you to land. It kills me inside.”
When the plastic bottle of treatment hits the metal tray, it knocks into her senses just how oddly philosophical she had become. Embarrassment lingers into the silence between them, and she licks her lips as a staple nervous tick. Risking a peak over at him, she fears to see the awkwardness in the way he'd probably avoid her gaze. But relief escapes her conscience when he's looking on, straight at her with curiosity in his expression and a trace of a smile on his own lips. “Daylight’s a pretty big part of the day, if you didn’t notice,” he hears her snort at that, her figure retreating to the closet just a few doors down. “So tell me then, which part do you like the best?”
Medical tape in hand, she rips off a little piece to attach the gauze on his scraped temple. The gash that he had completely forgotten about, it was the reason he was there in the first place.
A younger, junior nurse with short, blonde hair calls out to Marnie, seeking help with some medic equipment. It’s not far too busy this late morning, luckily, the hospital finally settling into a stable rhythm as the airmen recover from their first mission. A luxury to hang onto before the pilots take off for a second. And she knows, having just been informed by Doc Stover yesterday, that it is happening at first daylight tomorrow.
“The sunset,” she replies, ushering Benny to his feet simultaneously. “It's the end of work. There is no mystery, or anxiety through how dark and lonely the night is. But no….terror and anticipation through the day. Just the plain, beautiful sunset.”
Bidding him her well wishes, her attention–regretfully so–begins to slip away from him, turning to assist her fellow nurse when Benny’s voice bounces off the walls, her name on his tongue. She turns towards him with a pinch in her eyebrows, shushing him so as to not disturb the other patients, and he squirms a little at the sterneness in her stare.
“Sorry, again,” he sheepishly says. “I wanted to know, what’s your favorite flower, captain?”
“Peonies. And don’t apologize…I’m sorry about our little mishap this morning.” A fling of curiosity, she masks the beam about to draw on her face by simply rolling her eyes, swallowing the nerves that have been pounding against her ribcage. “Marnie by the way. Chief nurse of the 100th.”
“Pilot with the 350th, and don’t mention it.” He laughs, a light melody that sings through her soul. Benny shakes his head as he makes his way to the doors. The sun is a welcome sight, but it does not make him feel as warm as the lady who apparently despises the way it shines. It’s time to hit the village.
It was 0600, the alarm clock a signal that the 100th would be on their way to their second mission.
Marnie’s shift doesn’t start until much later, when she punches in her timecard at 0800. But she likes to arrive a little early–getting her morning stroll on the agenda, then spending an hour scrubbing the hospital clean. Perhaps, she sees it as a blank canvas. A comforting sight before the planes return–if they even do–to store away the anxiety that pumps through her blood with each wounded man awaiting their savior. It’s the repetition of each action, a mental checklist which she follows from head to toe the second she gets into work, that keeps her mind from bursting at the seams.
Today though, as she smoothes down her knee-length skirt, and places the nurse cap on her head, there’s a speckle of color on her desk that seems completely misplaced to the monotone array. When she walks up to the wooden table, a large pink bouquet of peonies rests like the sunset casting an orange fluorescence against branches and trees of earthy browns and greens. Betraying all professionalism, an untamed, toothy grin crinkles at the corners of her eyes.
Doc Stover finds it odd that she spends all day looking out the window, ‘til the boys come home.
-sal. if you made it this far, thank you <3
#masters of the air#mota#benny demarco#benny demarco x oc#bernard demarco#benny x marnie <3#mota oc#buck cleven#gale cleven#marnie cleven
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