#Gale Cleven fanfiction

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It��s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

[jointherebellion215]

Birdie

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader

Summary: A rare night out in London has Bucky coming to terms with his feelings for you.

Word Count: 2.9k

Tags: mechanic!reader, songbird!reader, female!reader, she/her pronouns used, drinking culture, cursing, mutual pining, moderate bouts of denial, insecurities, women supporting women because it's what we deserve, let's pretend that The Old Therebefore is an ancient Appalachian folk song in this universe, maybe she's a Mary Sue idgaf, I just wanted to write something happy so LET ME LIVE, WWII era, there's no Y/N but reader has the nickname "Birdie"

A/N: Yeah, I'm obsessed with Masters of the Air. I had to write something for my mans before the creative procrastination literally killed me. Please leave a like, comment, or even a reblog if you're so inclined :)

You can read my OC version of this story on AO3!

Songs Mentioned in This Fic:

Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy by The Andrews Sisters

G.I. Jive by Johnny Mercer

The Ole Therebefore (Accapella) by Rachel Zegler

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This story and any recognizably named characters are based solely on dramatic portrayals of the characters from the series, not the real individuals they represent. All the respect to the actual service people who fought and died in the Second World War. Also, don't copy my writing without explicit permission. That includes you, you AI sonuvabitch.

Your heels clicked on the cobblestone streets, turning into the pub you’d heard so much about. You were out celebrating a very rare weekend off. The Brass had somehow allowed you and twenty other mechanics from base two days leave, so you took advantage of the opportunity and headed straight to London.

Your two best girlfriends from base were with you. Teresa was one of the toughest nurses you’d ever come across. She could give you a wide grin, crinkles around her hazel eyes, and reset a broken bone without breaking a sweat. It helps that she was already working towards becoming a nurse back in New Mexico, the war just sped along that process. You had bonded over your love of books, giving each other recommendations almost weekly.

You’d met Irene on the boat to England. She puked on your shoes almost thirty minutes exactly after leaving the port in New York. You gave a small grin, offering her a handkerchief and a piece of ginger candy and the rest was history. Finding out that she was a fellow mechanic was the icing on the cake. Coming in at a whopping five foot two, the spritely blonde could easily be found in a crowd with her loud Appalachian accent.

It seemed almost like fate for the three of you to have found each other. Being some of the few women on base naturally made you close, but you were closer with Irene and Teresa than any of the others. That’s not to say that you weren’t friends with any of the men, because you were. Friendly. 

All three of you were dressed to the nines, in contradiction to your everyday work wear. You all got ready together in your hotel room, giggling while you applied makeup here, spritzed some perfume there. You all felt confident and were ready to have a good time. You spotted some familiar faces and made your way over towards them, your friends linked arm-in-arm with you. Lemmons was the first to greet you.

Of the fifty men on the ground crew, Sgt. Ken Lemmons was the most welcoming of them all. From the get-go, he didn’t care if you were a man or woman. He just wanted to know that you were capable. You were sure he had to go through some hazing because of his age, which probably changed his perspective on gatekeeping the job. This made earning and maintaining respect a lot easier for the women on your crew. We all came over with the same goal, it was better for all if we just helped each other out.

“Hey Birdie! Nice to see you out and about.”

Ah, the famed nickname. You tend to hum and sing under your breath when elbow-deep in a project. It helps you pass the time and clear your mind. Of course, the rest of the ground crew quickly caught on to this habit of yours, which quickly earned you the nickname “Birdie”. You, of course, never sing solo in public, so this confuses anyone who’s not around you while you’re working. But the name stuck, so here you are. Birdie.

Chairs are quickly cleared for you and your friends, which you all graciously take. You go up to buy some drinks, knowing what your friends like, and quickly return with your drinks of choice. Conversation flows, laughs are shared, and a few drinking games are played over the next hours. Teresa soon speaks up on a topic you’d been hoping to avoid.

“Do you think he’ll be here tonight?”

You shrug and look into your drink, “Dunno. Why does it matter?”

Irene, the ever supportive best friend that she is, backs up Teresa. “What do you mean ‘why’? This is your chance to finally make a move!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You quickly deny, taking another sip.

An unladylike snort leaves Irene, “My ass! You and Major Egan have been making googly eyes at each other when you think the other’s not looking for months. I’m saying it’s time for you to perk your tits up, buck on over and ride that—!” You slam your drink on the table, pressing your hand over Irene’s mouth, heat rising to your cheeks in embarrassment.

“Are you insane?” You whisper harshly, looking around to make sure no one overheard you. You seem to be in the clear, which makes you calm down a bit. Irene pushes off your hand, takes a swig of her drink, and consults the person who started this whole conversation.

“Am I wrong?” You look to Teresa, who cringes slightly in agreement.

You gape at the pair of them. Normally, you were the median between the two girls who had vastly differing opinions. But this is what made them come to a consensus? Unbelievable.

“Look, I’m not saying that I don’t want to.” You start, which makes your friends nod encouragingly at you. “It’s just that… Is he really as interested as you think he is?”

They both groan and slump against each other, like they’d just run a marathon. Teresa sits up, scooching your chair in closer so that the three of you were in a private triangle, cut off from the rest of the group.

“Let’s look at the facts here, okay?” Teresa starts to tick off a finger with each point she and Irene make. But you seem to always have a rebuttal at the ready.

“He brings you coffee every morning.”

“I thought he does that for everyone.”

“He constantly fixes his hair when you’re around.”

“He takes care of his appearance!”

“He walks you to the mess hall every day for dinner.”

“We just happen to be going the same way. And we happen to have the same dinner schedule.”

“He read The Hobbit when you said how much you loved it.”

“He’s an adventurous guy, it’s an adventurous book, what’s not to like about it?”

“You two literally will walk and talk outside alone for hours.”

“A man can’t have a stimulating conversation with a woman?”

“He laughs at all your dumb jokes.”

“Hey! They’re not all dumb. Like, the one with the goose and the—”

“Point proven. Anyways! He has your picture in the inside pocket of his jacket.”

That one stops you in your tracks. You brain tries to justify this meaning but comes up blank.

“He…” You struggle with an excuse. “He…” Your best friends give victorious smirks in your direction.

“He… likes the extra padding in his jacket?” You stutter over what is possibly the most pathetic, sorry excuse you could have ever come up with.

“When are you gonna admit to yourself that he likes you? Like, actually truly likes you?” 

You gave a sad sigh, letting the insecurity you were feeling deep down come to the surface. “I just… He’s just so…” You had stomped down your feelings for so long that it was becoming hard to articulate what exactly you’re feeling.

“He just seems so unreal. Like, of everyone he could have chosen, why me? I mean, I know I’m great. But you’ve seen the other girls on base. They’re all so beautiful, smart, classy… and none of them are covered in engine oil ninety percent of the time.” You looked down at your hands, specks of grease and oil peeking out from beneath your nail beds. It seems like it would never completely wash out, no matter how hard you scrubbed. You hadn’t even painted your nails for this weekend, knowing it would be money wasted come Monday morning when you’re back on the clock.

Teresa and Irene share a look that you don’t see, then come forward and grab each of your hands. 

“The words you just used to describe those girls. All of that is you, Birdie. That and more. You being a mechanic doesn’t make you any less of a woman, and to hell with anyone else who thinks otherwise.”  You nodded in agreement, Irene’s words of encouragement slowly washing away your anxieties.

Teresa spoke up next, “You deserve someone who will rearrange the stars and the whole night sky for you. And I’m more than willing to bet that Major Egan is up for the job.” 

“Besides, none of that 'unreal' stuff. At the end of the day, John Egan is nothing more than a man. If he can’t look past his nose and his d—" You gave a squeak to cover up the vulgar word Irene was about to blurt in public. She rolled her eyes fondly and continued.

“If he can’t see what you’re worth and make the effort to treat you a hundred times better than that? That’s on him. Not you. You know what you deserve, and you deserve everything you want. Absolutely everything.”

You sniffed, happy tears coming to your eyes. You brought your best friends in for a hug, thanking them profusely. 

“Don’t sweat it,” Teresa grins into your shoulder “every girl needs to be pulled out of her well sometime.”

You pull back from the hug, grabbing your glass and tipping your head back, finishing the rest of your drink. “Even if he’s not gonna be here, let’s have a ball!” Your girlfriends cheer as the three of you go to the bar for refills.

One drink turns into two, which turns into a few more, and suddenly you’re buzzed. Your group are having a rambunctious time, Irene dancing by the local piano player. Once Irene looks over to you, she stops and whispers in the player’s ear. He nods, then starts a new tune. Irene starts up her voice, walking over to you and Teresa, encouraging you to join her. 

The alcohol has loosened you up enough that you don’t feel the nausea you usually associate with being perceived, so you join in the harmonies you and your friends have practiced in your bunks at night.

He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way

He had a boogie style that no one else could play

He was the top man at his craft

But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft

Soon the whole pub was jumping and dancing along to the tune as you brought a new vibe to the pub. It was like a spark that started an entirely new night and everyone was eager to go on forever.

One song turns into an entire set, which ends with a full rendition of G.I. Jive, which had everyone singing along. It was a magical moment; made you feel like you were a part of something important.

Irene sidles up to you, giving you a hug. She says in your ear,

“I think it’s time to slow it down a bit. How about you sing that song I taught you.”

She means an old Appalachian folk song that’s been in her family for generations. You had heard her sing it one night and immediately loved the dark, but strong nature of the lyrics. It was an honor to learn it from her. 

“I don’t know, it’s your family’s song and…”

“And I can’t think of anyone better to sing it to these soldiers.” You gave each other a look, her slight eyebrow raise gave you the courage to nod in acceptance. She smiled, hugging you again, her voice yelled out to the crowd. 

“Birdie’s gonna sing solo!”

The announcement is met with raucous applause, Irene and Teresa shoving you towards a dodgy looking table. Crank offers a hand up, which you take gratefully. As you find your bearings on the tabletop, you quickly spin around and find all eyes on you. 

The crackling energy in the air seemed to simmer, the fast-beating hearts of the pubgoers recognizing a moment to acknowledge you. Nausea starts to make an appearance, but a deep breath quells the sensation within you for the time being.

You take another deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

You close your eyes, open your mouth, and sing.

Meanwhile…. 

Majors Gale Cleven and John Egan walk down the familiar street, one eager to catch up with his fellow countrymen’s alcohol intake, the other just happy to spend time with his friends. They were arriving later to the festivities due to being caught up in filling out reports. By far the worst part of having a higher rank was the paperwork.

“It’s pretty quiet.” Buck acknowledges. “They’re usually rowdier by this point.”

Bucky sniffs, shrugging off the concern. “Ah, it’s probably nothing.” 

As the two men approach the pub, they find that a crowd has formed. Soldiers, civilians, RAF, USAAF, old, young— people had obviously stopped to watch whatever was going on. It was dead silent, save for a voice singing. Was there a radio show on or something?

A familiar face peeks out at them from the crowd, DeMarco quickly waving them over. 

Bucky is quick to question, “Hey, what’s going on?” but is immediately shushed by nearby crowd members. Buck cringes in apology, despite not being the one to disturb the peace. His best friend, ever unshaken by the opinion of strangers, carries on.

DeMarco leans in, whispering, “Your girl’s taking us all to church.”

“My girl..?” Bucky’s nose scrunches in confusion. He makes space through the crowd and quickly makes sense of DeMarco’s words. It was you.

I’ll catch you up

When I’ve emptied my cup

When I’ve worn out my friends

When I’ve burned out both ends

Standing on a tabletop, watchful eyes sat all around you like baby ducks flocking to their mama. You were captivating everyone with each note and word that flows from your mouth. Damn, you've got a set of pipes— a voice that belongs on the radio, in concert halls, on Hollywood records. He had no idea.

His little Birdie.

“Wow.” Buck mutters in awe from behind him, and Bucky couldn’t be more in agreement.

When I’m pure like a dove

When I’ve learned how to love

He hadn’t noticed before, but her eyes were closed. Like she needed to concentrate on each and every breath she took, every single movement her body made, before letting them out in an angelic melody.

As if by divine intervention, her eyes pop open and lock on his as she belts “how to love” 

It could’ve been an eternity, for all he knows, the amount of time that they spent locked in each other’s gaze. The world pauses around them, everything frozen. Her eyes were already the kind to knock a man clean off his feet with a single gaze, but he thinks- for a brief moment- that his heart completely stops beating.

John Clarence Egan would swear every day from then on, until his dying breath, that the course of his life was altered in that very moment. He knew how it would continue from then on, and how it would end. How he wanted it to end.

Then the world starts back up and carries on.

Right here in the old therebefore

When nothing is left anymore

Her final hums are joined by a short blonde woman who stands nearby, another face he recognizes from base. 

The applause that picks up after the end of the song is near deafening. The star of the hour gives a shy smile, a quick curtsy and is given a hand to step down from the table.

Everyone soon starts mingling, the normal chatter of the bar returning. But Bucky is stuck in his spot, dumbfounded. In all the conversations you’d had together, somehow this never came up. He should’ve put two and two together, as he recalls overhearing your hums one morning as he made his daily coffee delivery to you. But you had been caught off guard, so much so that you tripped off the ladder you stood on and fell. Luckily, his quick reflexes kicked in to catch you before any serious injuries occurred. 

Remembering the sensation of his hands on your waist and thighs, face just inches from yours, sent his brain into a tailspin. That’s not even considering just how damn cute you were when, after a beat, you turned away from him and playfully mourned the cups of coffee that were splattered all over the hardstand.

“John. John?” A hand waving in front of his face knocks him out of his reverie. He blinks once, twice. Then looks to his best friend.

His voice comes out uncharacteristically weak in response, to which he then clears his throat and corrects. “Yes—yeah?” He pops the collar of his sheepskin jacket to try and hide the rampant red of his ears that signals the heat radiating from them.

Buck just shakes his head and gives him a knowing smile. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Egan. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“See what day?” Bucky starts to consciously return to his body, leaning on the bar.

“The day when a girl finally knocks you on your ass. I knew you had a thing for her, but that?” He points to his face and motions to indicate where they had just been standing. “That’s something else. That’s something real.”

Bucky gives another shrug in response, to which Buck throws back an unconvinced frown. He turns his head to gaze over the pub patrons and is distracted by you once again. Any denial he was about to spout immediately dies in his mouth when you lock eyes with him again and give him a dazzling smile. The world starts to fade away again.

His heart pumps faster in his chest at the sight. Damnit. He sighs, telling his best friend the truth he’s been privately wrestling with for a while now, all the while keeping his eyes locked on yours.

“I know, Buck. I know.”

Bucky smiles back at you and is elated when your face lights up. You give him a wave.

“She kinda snuck up on me.”

[austinbutlerslovers]

Major Gale Fantasy

(He Racks You Down and Knocks You Up)

The poll on this was so close! 172 votes

The winner 53.5 Sweet and Gentle 💖

VS. 46.5 Hard and Commanding ❤️‍🔥

Thank you for all the votes enjoy!

Major Gale (Austin) is obsessed with the thought of getting you pregnant before he leaves to war. After envisioning you pregnant with his child he goes through great lengths to ensure you conceive.

Label 18+ mature

Established relationship married

Domestic fluff then straight to breeding kink

Smut• fluff • domestic •edging • mutual stimulation •in heat •breeding kink •p in v •mating press •multiple orgasms • cream pie • aftercare

I have no idea what they did in the 40s or how they really speak 😊 just go with it it’s cute

Inspiration: Austin butler looking so seductive in that uniform

(Historically Inaccurate spelling errors, grammatical mistakes, repeat words etc)

Master List

He Racks You Down & Knocks You Up

You were putting the finishing touches on your dish a beautiful roast chicken with vegetables. The cherry pie was warming in the oven Gale would be home any minute. You briskly walk to the wash room and click on the lights. Your makeup kit readily available near the wash basin. You reach in and pull out your favorite rouge lip stick marking up your lips and dabbing some on your cheeks.

You coif up your hair staring at yourself in the mirror and run a hand down your dress blowing a kiss like a pin up girl, you look ravishing.

Even more risqué was the idea to wear a fastener corset under your form fitting dress tonight putting your décolleté on full display.

Your legs were caged by thigh straps holding up your stockings and satin panties covering your derrière rubbing deliciously against your heat.

Gale said to get yourself a treat, and now it’s a treat for him too. He would be deploying after all and you wanted to give him an experience he would never forget to write home about.

At that thought you hear his key in the front door and hurry back into the living room to greet him. He turns the knob and steps in slipping the key into his pocket as his tall frame ducks into the door way. He removes his officers hat and hangs it on the entry way rack.

His handsome features always stun you at first glance. His big blue eyes and wispy lashes, his perfectly angular nose, firm chin and plump lips. He is an absolute dream especially in uniform. His suitcase in one hand and jacket draped on the other, he finally locks eyes with you and your heart flutters. He is slack jawed in return admiring how perfectly pretty you look in this moment.

“Well well well let me get a good look at you doll, do a little spin for me” his deep rich voice breaking the silence as his eyes admire your form.

You twirl around on your toes smiling as you trace your hands along your bodice enjoying the corset hidden beneath. You blush once your eyes meet, he has a seduced look on his face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, let me settle my things and come appreciate you.” he flashes his flirtatious grin.

He hangs his coat and sets his suit case by the door he struggles to unbutton the top neck of his military shirt but you are right there to assist him lifting on your tiptoes brushing up against him and easily prying the button open with your smaller fingers.

The closeness makes you swoon for each other. He stares into your eyes before taking a peek down at your breasts resting against his chest, a naughty smirk plays across his face. You place your hands delicately on the nape of his neck and trace your fingers lightly over his sensitive skin there giving him goosebumps.

He looks back into your eyes as you stare up at him seductively through your lashes, his breathing increases as passion begins to cloud his thoughts “Gosh I’ve missed you” he nearly whispers it staring at your sultry red lips going directly in for the kiss. Your lips meet passionately and he scoops you into his arms lifting you from the floor.

Feeling his strength and the smell of his cologne arouses you completely. You are overtaken by his presence feeling so safe in his strong arms. You kiss across his lips as he holds you up to his chest. He begins rubbing his soft plush lips back against yours the sexual tension stifling you both. He slowly sets you back to the ground holding fast to your waist with every intention of taking you to the bedroom and having his way with you.

His lips are the beautiful rouge color that you imprinted on him. “Oh my” you say covering your mouth with one hand “What is it darling?“ he asks holding you to him by your waist brushing his hand across your cheek. He’s mesmerized by you, the way he’s staring into your eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

“I..I.. have gotten my lipstick all over you…let me clean you up and come! I’ve made a wonderful supper for you” you pipe up as you regain your thoughts, so proud of yourself for making one of his favorite meals.

He takes your hand and you lead him to the dining room table. He sits in his designated seat at the head taking the time to unlace his shoes and remove his socks setting them in the corner. You arrange his plate and set his dinner in front of him. It is a beautiful display of herb roasted chicken breast, mashed russet potatoes layered in gravy and sautéed green peas.

As his eyes settle in delight on the meal you prepared for him you slip away to the liquor cabinet fetching his favorite brandy. You pour it in one of the set glasses on the shelf and bring it to place next to him on the table. You grab a cloth from the kitchen drawer and soak it in the sink coming back to dab the lipstick off his lips and wipe his hands clean. He smiles at you appreciatively.

You both begin to eat. He cuts into the delicate chicken and takes a bite. His eyes close and he nods enjoying the taste, opening his eyes looking to you admiringly to show his approval. You gush knowing just how much he loves your home cooked meals after a long day on base.

You really can’t focus on your meal watching him eat. As a fully grown man he still looks so adorable as he chews. He’s slender yet toned and you love to see him full it melts your heart. You begin to eat in small bites, enjoying each others company and the meal.

You finish first with your smaller portions and he clears his plate soon after. You collect the dishes and rinse them in the sink

Feeling sated he completely unbuttons his shirt taking it off and hanging it over the back of his chair. Now in a white undershirt and tan military slacks, he rests back holding his glass of brandy slowly sipping it down watching you work.

You fidget with the oven turning it off and opening the door. The smell of the hot pie wafting through the kitchen. You grab your mits removing the pie from the oven and placing it on the stove top. You blow a strand of loose hair falling in your face the heat from the oven making you perspire slightly. You are in an odd state today feeling so sensual wearing the expensive lingerie.

Gale is set back watching the whole thing you bent over your breasts spilling out of your dress. The flash of the back of your thighs to him when your dress lifts as you reach into the oven.

He suddenly has a vision of you mixing pancake batter in the kitchen. You’re wearing a satin gown hair pinned up loosely in a bun your belly big and round growing with his child. His heart skips a beat as you whisk the mixture placing your hand on your hip to support your back. He imagines himself standing behind you planting a kiss on your head inhaling your scent and gently squeezing his hands around your breasts which will soon be full with milk.

He delicately places his hands down around the front of you to embrace your womb. Once he touches it an intensity fires in him of pure unyielding love for you. It infatuates him so strongly he is unable to keep his hands away from your pregnant belly. He begins passionately kissing behind your ear and down your neck completely obsessed with you having his child.

He was so deep in his thought he didn’t notice you trying to get his attention until you sweetly asked him again “Is everything alright?”

He palms himself under the table his cock growing stiff with anticipation of fulfilling his desires. He smiles at you nodding reassuringly taking another big swig of his brandy and setting his empty glass down.

He then pushes away from the table in his chair setting his sights on you and spreading his legs wordlessly patting his lap for you to sit. You notice the change in his gaze, how his pupils have dilated, how his eyes are fixated on you. It’s such a sultry look you don’t know what’s gotten into him.

You approach his lap and try to sit pretty with your legs together but he grabs hold of your waist pulling you to straddle him. It makes your heart flutter from the abrupt closeness. He looks into your eyes with a coy smile wondering if you can feel his rock hard erection pressing against you yet.

Taking his left hand he softly runs it across the nape of your neck moving your hair over one shoulder, trailing his hand down your spine. He begins unbuttoning your dress with both hands looking you directly in the eyes, each pop of a button making the excitement of having you naked increases.

He unbuttons your dress down to your waist and slowly pulls it from your shoulders to reveal your chest. His eyes lock on the delicate lace covering your décolleté. He pulls your dress farther and his mouth falls open in delight at your breasts in lingerie on full display for him. “All this for me?” He asks staring intently at your chest he caresses the soft fabric covering your nipples “Yes of course” you answer your voice soft from arousal.

He tweaks your nipples making them stiff then gently squeezes them with his fingers he looks up to gauge your reaction. It makes you part your lips wanting to cry out, you clench inside involuntarily pressing your heat against his stiff cock. He has a smile on his face sensing exactly what you need. He begins grinding his hips up gently rocking his massive erection against you. It’s so naughty and good at the same time a high moan escapes your lips as you double over onto him wanting more.

He grabs ahold of you by your arms pressing you down on him and grinding against you harder. He’s so strong and resolute with his actions it has you breathlessly panting and dizzy for him building an ache inside you that needs relief.

Seeing your face flush as your breathing increases he pulls you to him and plants kisses along your exposed neck and jaw line. The smell of you is devine to him he reaches and grabs the base of your neck tilting your head back farther to kiss his open mouth along your throat, It makes you close your eyes and grind back onto him the feeling so good building between your legs you don’t want him to stop.

He pulls back his lips from your neck and stares into your eyes as you grind each other fully clothed completely drunk in love “I want to fill you up tonight” he says kissing your lips and you taste the brandy “ I want to satisfy you completely” he kisses your neck again. Then he places his hand on your stomach “I want my baby growing inside of you” his voice almost a hush full of so much contained passion.

You grab onto the back of his neck pressing your forehead to his and closing your eyes “Yes…Gale please fill me and get me pregnant tonight ” your voice shakes with anticipation. The way he’s making you feel between your legs has your mind reeling as you grind against him with your panties absolutely soaked.

Hearing your words he slowly picks you up from his lap and gently places you to stand in front of him. He rises from the chair and removes his shirt then unbuttons and unzips his pants before unbuckling his belt. As he releases the leather his pants fall to the floor and the buckle clatters. You stare in awe at his massive erection strained back against his woven boxers shorts.

“Finish showing me that lingerie doll “ his deep voice breaks the silence redirecting your thoughts. He sits back into his chair spreading his legs and placing a hand on his cock to watch you. He wants to thoroughly enjoy the surprise you have for him.

You turn your back to him and peer over your shoulder. His eyes are completely fixated on you as you slide the dress down from your shoulders to the floor bending over to show him your black silk panties as you deliberately step out of it. You turn around to face him and he sits back in awe of your beautiful body.

The black silk bra and panties with the corset elaborate your curves, accentuating your hips and chest in the most delicious way. You begin swaying your hips and tracing your hands over your body as if they are his own giving him a show of how badly you need him.

He stands up from his seat and slides his boxers down stepping out of them his large cock slinging as he walks toward you. Your knees buckle a little as you hold the table behind you bracing yourself in anticipation.

He reaches for your corset and begins quickly unsnapping the clasps rocking your body as he looses each one. The corset breaks free and falls to the floor. He easily picks you up by your waist and sets you down on the dinner table.

Your legs are wide open and he eagerly moves himself to stand between them. He grabs you by your hips pulling you flush against him kissing you passionately parting your lips with his tongue his cock caged between your navels. Hes trying to go slow but his mind is racing with the thought of feeling your tightness squeeze around him as he’s pumping you full of his seed.

He refocuses on your pleasure placing his hands on the sides of your breast softly rubbing into your silk brassiere pressing your nipples up and down with his thumbs . A moan escapes you into his mouth everything he’s doing sending pleasurable sensations where you need to be touched the most. You begin winding your hips in small circles on the table to relieve the tension.

He senses your need as the heat is now emitting from your body your eyes pleading him for more. He takes a step back noticing his empty liquor glass behind you on the table and takes it safely to the sink.

As he returns to stand between your legs he places his hands behind your head lovingly holding your gaze. “I would do anything for you” he says softly his heart swelling wanting to make you his forever, the vision of you pregnant with his child burning in his mind. “I’m going to push you over the edge tonight I want to spill my seed into you and I want you to take it all for me”

You stare at him drunk from arousal your heart is pounding so hard you feel the strongest pulses in your pelvis you'll to do anything to make him tear your lingerie off and take you now.

“I want to hear you say it “ he says noticing you are not able to focus on his words.

You regain some composure to respond

“I will take it all tonight every drop you give me” you loosely repeat his words too distracted now staring at his perfectly chiseled naked body down to his large veiny erect cock wondering how good it will feel when he fills you up for the first time instead of pulling out.

“I’ll give you what you need “ he says with a coy smile knowing you’re not paying attention anymore. He’s never seen you so riled up, it warms him seeing you want his baby so badly it’s giving you a fever.

He places his hand on your chest pushing you down to lay flat on the table. He grabs your thighs and slides you down to him your heat directly against his cock your legs on either side of his waist. Your breathing quickens and your heart skips you need him inside of you he has you exposed in the perfect position on the table like you are his meal.

He brushes his hand against your silk panties admiringly not wanting to remove them just yet. His touch there alone makes you feel like he’s set a fire all over your body.

He reaches his fingers between your legs hooking your panties rubbing his knuckles against your slick folds. Your back arcs from the table as you restrain yourself from grinding against his fingers so aroused and needing to be touched so badly you begin panting loudly unable to calm down.

He knows you need him now and quickly pulls your panties to the side. His cock is pulsing hard as he rests it on your wet entrance, it’s covered in a silky liquid so he rubs his tip up through it and groans as you moan not thinking it would feel so good. He looks down into your eyes now needing you too, he lines himself up and slowly pushes inside your tight entrance.

You both cry out in a pleasurable moan his cock guiding in perfectly your walls greedily sucking him in. He penetrates you inch by inch making you gasp as the stretch becomes wider.

He gently caresses your pelvis making you feel the pressure of how far he’s gotten inside. You are impossibly more wet as his cock is going in.

He stares down at you in admiration when you finally take his full length. He stays still inside you for a moment letting you adjust. You feel so full of him, the pleasure coursing through your entire body as you try to focus gazing up at him.

He begins to work you gently, sliding himself halfway out and fully back in. His cock becoming completely covered in your slick making you feel every sensation as he begins gliding in and out it’s already earning the sweetest moans out of you.

You close your eyes as he begins rocking into your body against the table each thrust making your heart want to explode. Your continuous moans are music to his ears he stares at the reaction on your pretty face while you take him the perfect mix of pleasure and pain.

He has a drive to impregnate you tonight that he’s never had before. He wants to paint your walls inside and make you cry out for him before he finishes. It makes him high at the thought.

He releases his hands from your waist and hoists your legs up holding onto the back of your thighs spreading you like a “V” he pushes slowly into you on the table the new angle he’s hitting makes you delirious with pleasure he has you in a mating press and it sparks something deep inside you that tightens your core making it feel like it will snap at any moment.

Hes going so much deeper using your legs as leverage, he wants to feel you all the way through he presses his length the farthest and touches his cock head against the deepest part inside you making you moan out incredibly loud for him. He loves that feeling and thrusts into it repeatedly wanting his strongest and deepest ejaculation there.

You begin to feel hotter against his throbbing cock he keeps rocking you back and forth on his length jostling you on the table. He’s working into you with so much virility youre seeing stars. You are so overwhelmed with passion you can’t even think straight each hit pressing the exact button inside to cause a riot in your core. He pauses at the end of his deepest thrusts feeling like he will split you, your body tenses your voice in your ears sounding so foreign as you moan in an unending rhythm, the tightness building inside your core finally snaps.

A relief washes over you as your back arcs from the table your walls flutter tightly around him as liquids pour from your core squishing around his cock as you scream for him. It makes him start sliding into you at breeding speed. He thrusts into you deeper and harder your legs bouncing around at each strong jolt. His abs tighten as he is sucks in breaths through his teeth.

He presses your legs back farther grunting and angling his cock pressing his deepest inside you it pushes him over the edge “Im going to cum so deep in you …take it …all for me” he says through clenched teeth he pushes forward all the way into you and spills thick ropes of hot cum deep inside you painting your walls. He leans forward between your legs heavily breathing from exertion, laying on top of you and propping up lightly on his elbows he holds your face as he continues to empty every last drop inside to get you pregnant. His final thrust hits so deep you squeeze his cock with your walls a second time and moan for him almost crying at how good it makes you feel. You stare at each other panting and sweating you both start spontaneously laughing deliriously high with a sudden surge of endorphins.

As you calm down he stays completely still inside of you laying on top. Propped on his elbows he holds your head lovingly. He pets your hair back and stares into your beautiful eyes “I think we did it” he says suddenly as if the thought was ruminating in his mind . You smile at him “I’ve never felt anything like that” you admit gently stroking his sweaty hair from his face in return. He leans in and kisses your chest just at your heart, he loves you completely. He puts his ear on your chest listening for your heart beat to slow down so he can pull out saftey. When your breathing and heart rate decrease he lifts his chest off on yours.

“Are you ready?” He asks adjusting himself to pull out of you “yes” you say completely void of thought only how wonderful you feel. He holds your upper thighs and slides his cock out slowly when he pulls out the head you both moan from the loss of contact. Slowly you feel his seed trickling out of you. His eyes grow wide and he uses his fingers to push it back inside you. You lift your head to see as he pushes more back in and cups his hand to hold it. “put your legs up” he says quickly thinking. You put your legs up and hold them to your chest.

“How long?” You ask giggling this whole concept so foreign to you “I don’t know but until it takes” he laughs at how absurd he sounds. He grabs a wash cloth and rinses his hands. He turns to check on you and doesn’t like the way you are curled up on the table you look so uncomfortable.

He comes to your side and scoops you into his arms he easily carries you to the bedroom and kicks the door open walking you to the bed and laying you down. It’s so much softer and comfortable for you. He pets your head “ that’s much better “ he says seeing your face relax. He runs to get a washcloth and soaks it with water.

When he returns your still with your knees up. He kneels on the bed in front of you “You can put your knees down now you’ve been so good for me” he says gently as he caresses your thighs. He doesn’t see any more cum spill out of you so he starts undressing you. He uses his hands to slide your panties off with your stockings and fasters. As you lower your legs down he pats and wipes you carefully. He climbs on top of you reaching around your back and unclasping your bra you sit up and pull it off discarding it at the foot of the bed with your panties. He stares at you now fully naked glowing so radiantly from sex. He pulls the covers down behind you and you lift up to pull the covers back over you both as he lays beside you. He kisses your temple staring at the side of you face deep in thought about how much he loves you. He places his and on your stomach thinking about how much he wants his baby growing there, you place your hand on top of his

“honey?” He asks shyly a new thought popping into his head “ yes ” you answer sweetly “I …want to keep those panties with me when I deploy” he divulges.

You blush thinking of what he wants to do with them “Alright I’ll do them with the laundry then the day before you deploy I’ll wear them all day and slip them in your pocket when I kiss you goodbye.” He smiles so big and squeezes you to him. “ I would like that” he says whispering in your ear and kissing it. “And Gale” you ask “yes?” He answers intrigued “I want to write you when I find out if I’m pregnant…” you turn and look into his love filled eyes he wants that more than anything. You kiss his forehead and he tilts your face lower to him and kisses your lips. You reach over his head and click the light off you both rest your eyes and he keeps his hand on your stomach the entire night as you sleep.

~*To Be Continued*~

[saturnville]

stolen moments, major john egan

pairing: major john "bucky" egan x black fem oc (amelia mae egan)

content: john manages to call amelia after not hearing her voice for weeks.

an: this was the top choice in the poll so far. I've been anxious to write so we knocked this off the list first lol. enjoy!

“Are you alright, Major?” 

They’d just arrived at a new station. It smelled like sweat and fear. Men streamed throught the doors like a school of fish. Their deep voices shook the brick walls as their conversations bellowed throughout the building. Dozens of men struggled to keep their composure. He was one of them.

He was overwhelmed. Tired. Desparate. His clothes felt tight against his body. The scent of gasoline and fumes clung to his vest. His hat damp and chilled against his forehead. His shoes were coated in black soot.

John’s eyes caught the telephone in the corner of the station. It was secluded from the rest of the quarters, in a corner, protected by a frosted glass divider. John's shoes grazed the dirty floor as he strode purposefully towards the telephone.

“M’fine. Head in and get your rest. Long day in the morning.” He didn’t know how he was able to make out coherent sentences. Gale stepped in, noticing his friend’s disheveled state and guided the men to the resting quarters. 

John’s shoes kissed the dirty floor as he stood long strides to the telephone. He shrugged off his backpack and slid it by his feet. His hands trembled as he plucked the phone off the hook and typed in the number he had engraved in his heart. 

It rang. And rang. And rang. His heartbeat was in his ears. His nails scratched as the black paint around the phone as he succumbed to his anxiety. He sent a silent prayer to God above. 

Then he heard it. “Hello?” John’s forehead tapped the frosted glass as he rested against it. Relief washed over him like a tidal wave. He’d never been particularly sensitive, but he was overwhelmed with emotion, good and bad, and hearing her sweet voice made his eyes well with tears. 

The words were stuck in his throat and all he could release was a heavy sigh. That seemed to be enough for her to identify the caller. “Johnny?” 

He shut his eyes. A lone tear fell from his eye. “Hey, Rosie.”

Amelia let out a soft cry. “Oh, thank God! I-I thought something happened to you; I hadn’t heard from you in weeks. Are you okay, where are you now? Is Gale alright, when are you coming…” His first instinct was to cut her rambling short, but the sound of her voice was the choir-like song his soul ached to hear. 

He’d gone three weeks without hearing her voice. It was the most tortuous three weeks of his life. For 21 days, he survived by remembering the last words she said before they hung up, Whatever you do, do not die on me, do you understand? I love you, John. I love you. I love you. I love you. It kept his heart beating.

A small smile tugged on his lips. “I’m okay, baby, I promise. Things got a little rough; didn’t stay in one place too long. I didn’t mean to scare you.”  

“I’m just happy to hear your voice…are you okay?” 

His stomach churned at her question. A feeling of despair threatened to creep upon him. Thirty men lost. A plane in the middle of the ocean. An uneasy stomach and even more uneasy mental state. His head pounded, his body shook with unwanted adrenaline, and his hands craved the feeling of her hot skin. He was not okay. 

“No,” he replied honestly, rubbing his eye with the stump of his palm. “I’m not okay but I will be. Especially because I get to talk to my favorite girl. Tell me about your day..”

He heard her heavy sigh. “Deflection won’t rid you of what you’re feeling.” 

“Talking about it won’t do too much good, either. It’s…it’s hard, Rose. I just.” John’s jaw clenched as he struggled to articulate what he felt. “I just can’t talk about it right now, Amelia. If I do, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it together.” 

Silence stretched on, interrupted only by the sound of her shuffling on the other end. She was probably sitting at the edge of her bed. He imagined her, looking pretty in her long-sleeved pajamas and satin scarf, with a blanket tucked under her chin.

“Then how about this,” she started. “You make it home in one piece to tell me about it later, yeah?” 

“Always making demands,” John laughed. The first genuine sound of joy he’d made all day. And it made her smile. So wide that her cheeks were sore and her dimples made an appearance. “But you’ve got a deal.” He readied himself to speak again, but a tap on his shoulder interrupted him. 

Gale. Meeting with the CO in five minutes, he mouthed. John nodded. He ran a hand through his dirty hair. “Darlin’, I’ve got a meeting in five minutes; I’m sorry.  If I don’t call in the morning, know I love you, alright?” 

“I know. I love you, too. Don’t apologize. Just make it back to me.”

“Always.”

[youaintnothinbuta]

could u write something for austin where reader is obsessed with his hair especially when she goes with him on set and they get wet bc he’s sweating too much, and once it turns her on sm that it ends up with him eating her out with her hands buried in them and when it’s too much she pulls it a little harder and austin just loves it

“You're so good at this.” — austin butler x reader

Summary: see request^^

Pairing: austin butler x fem!reader

Word count: 1.2K

Warnings: SMUT, 18+, mature language, oral (f receiving), probably typos im sorryyyy

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You stood nervously outside the set of Masters of the Air, clutching your pass, waiting to be let in. Your boyfriend, Austin, was in the middle of filming, and you didn't want be any cause of distraction. His manager, a familiar face to you, greeted you and whispered, “Just slip in quietly, Y/N. They should be done with these takes in about 20 minutes.”

You nodded, your heart racing with excitement, as you followed her onto the set. The lights were blindingly bright, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and costume fabric. You spotted Austin immediately, his chiseled features set in a determined expression as he delivered his lines. His voice too —deep, commanding, and authoritative— it sent shivers down your spine as he barked orders at his fellow actors.

You sat down quietly and out of view of him and any of the other actors. You couldn't help but notice how good he looked, his blonde hair mussed and his eyes gleaming with intensity. The layered costume added bulk to his already impressive physique, and the sweat dripping down his face only added to his sexiness. You felt that familiar fire ignite in your tummy as you watched your man at work. You pressed your thighs firmly together, trying to contain the desire that was building inside you.

After what felt like an eternity, the director called for a lunch break, and immediately the chatter in the room began.

“Austin!” You called. He perked up, a bright smile spreading across his face as he heard your voice, his eyes locking onto yours instantly.

“Baby, hi,” he said, striding towards you with long, purposeful strides.

You smiled, feeling a little shy but also incredibly turned on. You felt a flutter in your chest as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace, pulling you into a gentle kiss.

“I didn't know you were coming today,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “Sorry,” he apologised for being sweaty, tugging on his thick coat, “I feel like I’m melting in this thing.”

"I wanted to surprise you," you whispered back, your hands sliding up his chest to toy with the buttons on his costume, “and you look amazing.”

Austin chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Do I?”

You nodded, responding to him. You found yourself getting more and more turned on by Austin's proximity. You could smell the sweat on his skin mixing with his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body, and see the way his eyes seemed to devour you, and the way his wet hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. You knew you had to get him alone, and fast.

“How long do you have?” You asked, your words came out heavy, thick with desire.

Austin's eyes narrowed, his pupils dilating with interest. “40 minutes ish, why?”

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear. “I need you,” you whispered, the words sending a thrill through your entire body.

Austin's eyes flashed with desire, and he pulled back, his face set in a determined expression. “Let's find a quiet spot,” he growled, taking your hand, leading you to his trailer, the door closing behind you with a soft click. You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on his knees, his fingers deftly undoing your pants and pulling them down. His mouth closed over your pussy with a hungry growl.

"I've missed you," he said, his voice low and husky. You felt your body respond to his words, your nipples hardening beneath your shirt. His fingers dug into your skin as he pulled your core even closer to his lips.

You moaned as his hot breath washed over your skin, his tongue darting out to taste you. Your hands buried themselves in his hair, the soft strands tangling around your fingers as you pulled him closer.

“Fuck, Austin,” you breathed, your body trembling with pleasure. “You're so good at this.”

He chuckled against your flesh, “I know.”

He groaned, allowing you to feel the vibrations of his vocal cords, his mouth working magic on your clit. He slid his middle finger inside of you, curling upwards as his tongue lapped over your most sensitive spot. You gasped, your body tightening around his finger as he pumped it in and out of you. Your legs began to shake. You felt yourself building towards orgasm, your hands tightening in his hair as you tugged and pulled.

“Yes, baby, like that,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin.

Austin loved when you pulled at his hair, and he responded by increasing the pressure, his tongue lashing against you with reckless abandon. You felt yourself hurtling towards the edge, your body coiling tighter and tighter.

You were so close, your body trembling with anticipation. The pleasure was getting too much, you pulled his head back by his hair, when you finally let out a loud cry and came all over his face. Austin groaned, his eyes closed in ecstasy, as you pulsed against his mouth.

He gently pressed his tongue on your clit, allowing you to milk yourself of your orgasm using his face until you were empty.

For a moment, you just sat there, panting and trembling, as Austin slowly got to his feet, his face smeared with your juices. He smiled, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and pulled you into a deep, wet kiss, his saliva and yours mixing with your slick.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice husky.

“I love you too,” you replied, a smile spreading across your face too. Austin's gaze never left yours as he reached for a towel that was draped over the back of a nearby chair. He gently wiped the remnants of your orgasm from his chin. Then, with a gentle touch, he brought the towel between your legs, softly wiping away your fluid. The intimate gesture sent a flutter through your chest, and you felt your heart swell with affection for this man.

As he helped you to your feet, Austin's hands lingered on your waist, his fingers brushing against the skin beneath your shirt. He zipped up the fly of your jeans, then fastened the button with a gentle tug. The simple act felt like a declaration of ownership, a reminder that you belonged to him, and he to you.

“Come on, let’s get food,” Austin said, his voice still thick, as he held your hand, leading you back to the catering area. He handed you a plate and took one for himself, both of you eyeing all the delicious looking food that was provided. Just then, the ten-minute call rang out across the room, a reminder that your break was drawing to a close. Austin's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, his voice low and teasing.

“You’re terrible,” he kissed your temple, pulling your head to his chest, “making me miss out on half my lunch break like that.”

You laughed as you leaned into him, “I’ll return the favour tonight.”

His stomach flipped at your words, he shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Hush,” he teased, shoving a strawberry in your mouth. You bit down innocently, humming with delight at the sweetness.

a/n I know for a fact no one eats pussy like Austin Butler does end of conversation

[wandawxdow]

Masters of the Air fic recs

(*) = includes smut

gale ‘buck’ clevens x john ‘bucky’ egan

in london / on leave

bomber’s moon by moonrocks

in london, secret & established relationship, (*)

level-off manoeuvres by wormringers

together in london, (*)

dallas girls by hcneymooners

london, fluff and dash of angst

hurt/comfort & angst

good men die too / oh i’d rather be with you by moonrocks

grief/mourning, first kiss, injured!bucky

falling apart by cloudystars

post-mission hurt/comfort

Whatever Happens Tomorrow, We Had Today by MaShEd_Potat_os

angst, love confessions

a good dream by lilium

hurt/comfort, protective bf, 1x04 au

dear john by ForASecondThereWedWon

angst, love letters, 1x04, (*)

you’ll never be alone (i’ll be there for you) by tearsricochets

first kiss, pining, emotional hurt/comfort, 1x01-1x02

make you feel alive by signifier

emotional hurt/comfort, happy ending, presumed dead

it had to be you by MaShEd_Potat_os

post-war, angst with a happy ending, insecure!bucky

stalag / imprisoned

greyspace by cloudystars

sick!bucky, protective!buck, hurt/comfort

night terrors by cloudystars

trauma, nightmares, hurt/comfort

I’ll Get By (As Long As I Have You) by JediRobertHogan

hurt/comfort, reunited

whatever you want me to do (i will do) by tkachukypls

angst, unrequited love, 1x07

scars by cloudystars

protective!bucky, fights, 1x07

You Put Your Arms Around Me (And I’m Home) by johnslittlespoon

fluff, sharing a bed, 1x07

Full Count by madeitsimple

angst and (*), 1x07-1x08, fights

judgement by the hounds by anonymous

1x08, hurt/comfort, fights, sharing a bed

Whatever you want me to do, I will do by Anonymous

john brady!centric, protective!buck & bucky

rainfall by switchgrassdevil

sick!buck, hurt/comfort, sharing a bed

I Won’t Rot by GrayFingers

hurt!bucky, protective!buck, injuries

Fluff + AUs

back home where you’re safe from, that’s the measure of a man by wolfhalls

established relationship, learning to dance, (*)

Reverie by Avonne

soulmate au (*)

the secret list of very serious (and sober) 100th’s rules by Amethyste_Blanche

fluff

Look The Other Way by Disastrous_Canasta

first meeting, fluff

all roads lead home by cloudystars

biker!au and abo!au, modern universe

A Kiss With A Fist by perpetualmotion

buck defends bucky’s honour

Love Tokens by perpetualmotion

gift giving

moonlight serenade by puffanities

abo!au, omega!bucky, alpha!buck, ongoing series

You and Me (5 Times) by stopstopstopit

various jokes about buck & bucky being married

any day now by tkachukypls

gift giving, bucky gives buck a puppy

Garden in My Heart by 13SapphireStars13

abo!au, omega!bucky, alpha!buck, courting

Smut - no Plot

A Suite at the Ritz by stillheremydear

secret relationship & sneaking around (*)

buck x bucky x curtis fics

I’ll be looking at the moon (but i’ll be seeing you) by moonrocks

1x03, grief/mourning

different but equal by Ikharys

fluff, pre-relationship, sharing beds

my hand was the one you reached for (all throughout the great war) by RavenOfRao

fluff, pre-relationship

A Brief Moment of Mourning by Perpetual Motion

angst, emotional hurt/comfort

First Meetings (and Punishments) by scaraheather

first meetings, pre-relationship

Both (*) by Ikharys

fluff and smut, sharing a bed

each man has got his classification (*) by mpix

smut, jealousy

Out of Reach by studies in subjunctive

unrequited love, (*)

The Long Way Home by livelaughlove_write

post-war, ptsd, love confession

x reader recs

jealous!buck request by @sansaorgana

jealous!buck request (2) by ↑

to the rescue (curtis biddick) by @sagesolsticewrites

with all my gratitude, hope and adoration, john (2) (3) by @buckysegan

twenty five (to life) by MissFreakingFortune

blurb (bucky egan) by @swiftiekisses

Hitchin’ A Ride by @pisupsala

girl dad!gale request by @sansaorgana

Because the Night by @gloryofroses19

Birdie by @jointherebellion215

amor aeternus series by @saturnville

[xxanaduwrites]

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

[bucking-mustangs-with-wings]

Game of Survival edit (buck x bucky au)

read it HERE

[pearlparty]

Distraction

Note to self: never ask for a spot ever again.  Just die like a woman when you drop the bar. 

Pairing: Austin x Reader (no use of y/n)

Summary: Austin teases you at the gym and you get distracted from your workout.

Warnings: Language, innuendo, flirting, established relationship

Word Count: 2075 ish

Note: Breaking another impromptu indefinite hiatus to post lol. Based on this post/reblog to cure writer’s block. Lol I wrote this in like a day and a half and in an airport so take that for what you will. I just really like men sweating and grunting I’m sorry. Feedback is a writer’s life blood, so please tell me what sucks about this so I can improve!!

Austin had always gone to the gym with you. You’d go together, but usually stayed in your own lanes doing your own workouts, and then leave together.  The routine allowed some space to breathe and work individually—do things separately together. It happened organically for one reason: different desired routines. And that’s how it stayed for weeks, leaving each of you satisfied at the end of the hour and a half.

Today provided another reason for why separate workout routines proved more effective than working together. 

You’d walked in with the intention of setting a personal record on the squat rack.  You’d been working your way up for weeks.  Maybe you truly felt prepared to lift it, or perhaps it was the extra zing that the pre-workout put in your step, but either way you stepped up to the rack prepared to put your legs to the test.  The cute dark blue crop and legging combo probably gave you an extra boost, too. It did make your ass look good, after all, and that little “I’m sexy and I know it” boost worked like magic for motivation. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t see the way Austin’s eyes lingered a little too long when you put your jacket and bag into the locker. Maybe if you’d seen his eyes darken, you’d have caught onto his little game instead of being taken by surprise. 

Still, before you parted ways at the locker, you couldn’t help but admire the curves of his bare shoulders beneath his muscle tee. Such fond memories of those shoulders and the weights they occasionally carried: your niece when you went to the park weeks ago, the heavy cement bag for your parents’ backyard, your thighs—

You shook the thought from your head, and moved to the track to warm up. You’d moved closer to the weight section to do some warm up Bulgarian Split Squats when Austin called you over to his spot at one of the benches. 

“Babe,” he called out, “can I get a spot real quick?” The question fazed you a moment; he rarely asked for a spot, but you supposed that the empty gym deprived him of many other options. 

“Yeah,” you chirped as you rose from the mat. “Yeah, sure.” 

Austin positioned himself on the bench and prepped for his heavy set. You couldn't help but admire the way his muscles rippled beneath his skin, the determination etched on his face as he focused on the task at hand. The veins in his hands and forearms seemed to pulse as he gripped the bar, and a small part of you wished they were wrapped around your neck—

"Ready, babe?" His voice snapped you out of your reverie, and you quickly positioned herself at the end of the bench, ready to spot him. You cleared your throat. 

"Ready," you replied as you braced yourself for the weight that was about to come crashing down. He grinned but didn’t say anything. 

As Austin began his set, your eyes were drawn to the flex of his muscles, the strain evident in every movement. You couldn't tear your gaze away, mesmerized by the raw power and intensity he exuded with each repetition.

With each huff and grunt that escaped Austin’s lips, you felt a flush of heat rise to your cheeks. You tried to focus on the task at hand, on keeping him safe as he pushed himself to his limits, but you couldn't shake the feeling of arousal that pulsed through your veins.

As Austin finished his set and racked the bar, he flashed you a grin, his chest heaving with exertion. He rose from the bench breathing heavy, sweat dotting his brow. 

“Thank you, baby,” he murmured with a breath, voice low and husky as he gently pinched your chin between his thumb and knuckle. 

Your heart fluttered at the sight of him, mind filled with images of his sweaty body entwined in passion with yours. You swallowed hard, trying to push aside the thoughts that threatened to consume your mind you helped Austin re-rack the weights.

"Anytime," you replied, voice barely convincing nonchalance as you tried to quell the desire that burned within your chest—a desire slowly spreading throughout your extremities and to your lower belly. "Anytime." 

Walking back to your mat, your mind swirled with overwhelming amounts of filthy thoughts, and the reps got increasingly hard to count (which ended up being fine because working to failure is good for growth, but still). Those damn grunts? Every huff and breath of exertion? The small whimper that escaped his lips when he struggled momentarily to get the bar up on the last rep? All played on a continuous, horny loop in your head as you spent the next few minutes finishing the exercises before your squats. 

His damn blue muscle tee, his damn cap that couldn’t cover his pretty curls at the back of his head, his damn gray joggers, his damn water dripping down his chin as he chugged from his water bottle after a couple of sets on the lat pulldown machine that made his damn muscles flex and sweat collect on his damn collarbones. Damn him damn him damn him.  

A trip the the gym had supposed to clear your mind, not fill it with insufferable horny thoughts. How were you supposed to focus on the movements properly when he walked around looking like that?

And now you needed him to spot you during your squats. Lovely.

His gaze wandered to you in the mirror as he took another gulp of water. You waved him over.

He adjusted his earbuds and wiped his chin with the collar of his shirt as he approached you. “Hey, gorgeous. Need a spot?” Was his voice always so deep? I must be ovulating because this is not normal.  

“If you’re not busy? I wanna beat my record from a couple weeks ago,” you answered. 

“New PR, baby!” he whooped, clapping his hands together once to try to hype you up.  He likely mistook your distraction for nerves. Hell, you wished it was, not an aching need that pulled your attention away from your workout.

A nervous laugh left your chest, suddenly rather timid at the prospect of him being so close while you were trying to lift something seriously heavy.  You turned to face the mirror behind the rack—turn away from him directly but still see him behind you in the reflection.  Had you seriously never appreciated how he dwarfed you before?

Okay, enough, focus on the damn lift you horny simpleton, the sane part of your mind berated.  You pushed the thoughts aside and stepped under the bar.

“Ready?”  you tossed over your shoulder to him as he stood a few feet back.  

“You got this,” he affirmed.  You took a breath and lifted the bar off the rack and stepped back.  Austin put a close but reasonable distance between the two of you and looped his arms under yours, prepared to pull you back if you were to fall forward.  

Another breath, and then you went down.  Austin followed your movements and you let out a puff of air as you tried to push yourself back to the top.  

“C’mon, you got it,” he gently coaxed from behind you.  It wasn’t the typical motivating voice he used in the gym.  No, it was much softer, teetering on the edge of something—well, you weren’t sure you wanted to find out or you’d surely drop the bar and hurt both you and him.  If you hadn’t been balancing over 200lbs on your shoulders, you might have shot him a wide eyed look.  You came to the top of the position.  “Alright, that’s one.  Just seven more.”  His voice seemed to have some extra smoke in it today.  

A flush of warmth spread through your torso, tingling in your extremities that had no connection to the exertion of the second rep. His words lit a fire, spurring you on as you sank into the third. 

“Doin’ so good,” Austin murmured, his hot breath fanning down your neck. “Just like that.” 

Fuck off fuck off fuck off you hot bastard. He was doing it on purpose. Whether it was to get a rise out of you or provide some extra motivation, you didn’t know.

Down.  Up. Four. Focus. Five.

“You’re killing it. Just focus on that form.” You could have sworn his hand brushed the side of your waist. 

Six. A breath. Seven. The burn in your quads nearly made you question whether you could do another rep. You hissed out a sharp breath and braced yourself, legs wavering at the top of the rep for only a second. 

“Nearly there,” Austin continued, the same salacious insinuation lining his words. “Can ya gimme one more, baby?” 

A thrill shot down your spine, and your breath caught in your throat.  Damn him.

You finished the set, legs trembling slightly as you stepped back to re-rack the bar with a huff. You set your hands on your hips to suck in a well deserved breath. A stupid smile graced your lips as you realized that you’d accomplished your goal despite Austin’s distracting encouragement.  The burn in your legs slowly turned to a sweet jelly-like sensation. 

Austin approached the rack, going around to meet you toward the front, a smirk lining his perfect lips. “Feeling good?”

You nearly rolled your eyes at his double-entendre. “Yeah,” you snorted, as you stepped around to meet him. “Feelin’ grea—“ You stumbled, the jelly in your legs making your knees fold momentarily. 

Right into his strong arms. 

“Woah, now,” he chuckled, pulling you back up with his hands firmly on your back and ribs. “Careful there, Bambi.” That time, you did roll your eyes with a laugh as you steadied yourself once more, but not pulling away from him yet. “Don't hurt yourself.” 

“Oh please,” you flicked the brim of his hat, “I’m canceling my membership; you are too damn distracting.” You giggled as you pushed him away to walk to the equipment spray, throwing a little extra sway in your hips as you strutted away. The jig was up; no sense in trying to focus on something when it would all be for naught. You wanted to play this out. 

“Is that right?” He cocked an eyebrow, that permanent smirk etched onto his face. “So you didn’t like my extra motivation, hm?” He gripped the brim of his cap and flipped it around, giving you a more than adequate view of his triceps and biceps as he pressed it down in the back. You sucked in a breath. He knew how much you liked it when he put his hat on backwards.

“I blame the endorphins. I’m taking my business elsewhere so I can actually focus,” you quipped. You stepped to the rack, deliberately putting it between you and him as you sprayed down the bar.

“Hm. That’s fair, I guess.” He moved in closer, placing his hands on either side of the rack and leaning over the bar, his voice low and suggestive, “Guess we’ll just have to find other ways to work out together then.”

You cocked an eyebrow, allowing yourself a moment to shamelessly look him up and down as the tip of your tongue wet your bottom lip before you pulled it between your teeth. Your delicate fingers curled around the bar as you rested your chin on it. The smell of his sweat mixed with his cologne and nearly made your knees weak again. You tapped your right toe behind your left heel, enjoying his proximity and the innuendo in the air.

You hummed as the tension crackled between the two of you. “Whatayasay we cut this strength session short and go home for some cardio?”

His eyebrows raised and he chewed the inside of his cheek, glancing dangerously down to your lips. A low hum resonated in his chest. “I like the sound of that.” 

He shortened the distance between you, tantalizing movements to tempt you closer to his lips. And then, “Meet ya by the treadmills, baby,” he teased with a wink and then pulled away. 

—

And that’s how you figured out that if you worked out with Austin, you’d end up horny and skip the workout for another sweaty activity.

tag: @mrsniallhoran505

[amiserableseriesofevents]

I firmly believe that Bucky's love language (besides the obvious physical touch) is acts of service - scrounging up the materials for Buck's radio, giving Buck the lucky deuce, getting him a bike, making sure that he's the first of them to try to escape, etc - while Buck's is words of affirmation - "don't you die on me before I get over there", "the last few years would have been a lot rougher without you", "this you will be the one worth knowing", etc.

[majoregan]

can someone make a fic where buck is tired and bucky notices and then he takes care of his buddy but buck is like "no im fine" but bucky insists "you need to rest, big boy"

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Those Who Can || integrated Female Air Force series

Introductory part 1: Flintenweiber, or “Rifle Broads”.

Summary: The American War Effort had conceded to the enlistment and commissioning of women into the Air Force at semi-integrated status. Deemed a more reliable if not safer combat post, the going rank of officer in the Air Force was intended to secure fair treatment and combatant status for these women, as it had for their male counterparts. Like most things in war -or life if one is a woman- such recognition must be fought for.

Authors Note: this is an Au, obviously, and I intend for the de-segregation in the force to not be entirely full, in fact in some ways they would mirror that of the Tuskegee Red Tails where they were held back from many opportunities and placed at a disadvantage, to say the least. However, as this is primarily a POW fic that aspect only effects their reception into the Stalag and the timeline of their crashes.

Inspo: thanks to all of y’all who contributed with suggestions and advice on this fic. I want to say that I based a great deal of the brutal treatment and indignity heaped on these fictional OC’s on the true and horrific treatment of the Soviet Female Soldiers taken as POWs. Taking into consideration that American ties would give these OC’s some leverage, I have moderated these horrors if anything, however as I intend for these girls to be some of the first of their kind, they in many ways endure the brunt of the cruel initiation. If you’ve got any questions or suggestions about this, have at the inbox.

Warnings: 18+ for disturbing content. War, brutality, cruelty, and references to sexual violence. Specifics: a woman’s head is forcefully shaved, a woman is kicked to death, a dog turned loose, concentration camps, brief infighting between Soviet’s and Americans, past tense illusions to rape which are underplayed and may be consequently more disturbing to some. Quite angsty ok?? It’s women at war. Rampant misogyny by Nazis.

Familiar faces: Gale Cleven, Benny Demarco, John Brady, “Hambone” Hamilton

Original Characters: Lt. Maureen Kendeigh (bombardier), Lt. Colonel Ida Brady, Lt. Tallulah Smith 

If Maureen Kendeigh heard the word “degenerate” used one more time in regards to her profession, her sacrifice and skill, -she just might do something regrettable.

By this point she was ready to get off this cattle car and go back to talk with Interrogator Glasses about stupid and unnerving shit like why the clock in the mess hall at Thorpe Abbots had a broken arm. Her distressed inner monologue of “how did he know that??” at the time was preferred to this newest method of demoralization: death by aspersion and suspense.

It was nice to be back with the girls, ones she knew and ones from other squadrons. But that held a misfortune too, the fact that it was just the girls, still not a single male crew member in sight. Apparently the Gestapo and the Luftwaffe were having a spat over who got to keep them, these Flintenweiber: “Rifle Broads”.

In the meantime Maureen and her fellows got punted back and forth between the two institutions like unwanted stepchildren. First the horrible isolation but humane treatment of the Air Force interrogation cells. Then back to the prison where all bets were off and the hope of safety came from a herd-like defense of each other against the ever more erratic guards. In these holdings, if one of their members hadn’t been executed by a pistol to the temple by end of day, it was considered a successful defense by the whole. All other atrocity, indignity and assault were unbearable’s that required bearing for the time being until the Luftwaffe took them back.

And then handed them back over.

And on and on it went.

It was effective, Maureen gave them that, after each hosting by the Gestapo, the girls were softer, tenderized and more susceptible to any deal that might procure them a shred of honor and safety. Only Ida Brady, the most senior amongst them at the incomprehensible rank of Lt. Colonel, had held ranks together, spine of steel and bearing more terrifying than most men’s, she’d fought for every grueling respect of rank they had been afforded. Even if it landed them in harsher conditions, worse interrogations -anything to ensure that what happened to her girls were considered as war crimes against lawful combatants when the time came for justice.

But they’d been collecting the downed girls and holding them apart like prized anomalies while conflicting orders came in from Berlin, and while the Red Cross fussed regarding combatant status. Now they had a tidy number collected, well over fifty by the time Maureen saw Ida Brady pushed into the cell, having been downed with a significant portion of them after Munich.

But now they hadn’t seen Brady in over a day. Not since they’d been loaded on this rail car headed to god knows where by soldiers with the dreaded lightning bolts on their collars.

The SS.

With Brady missing, Maureen supposed that made her and Lieutenant Smith a leader of sorts. Most of her “leading” currently took the form of not responding to a single vile threat or taunt by the guards mingling amongst them in the ever rocking car. Ida would be proud of her emotionless detachment at one guard’s suggestion to let the dog loose and see who it chose to maul.

Lieutenant Smith -tender hearted Tallulah with the bronzed skin and knack with animals that rivaled Snow White’s- had made the cryptic observation in Maureen’s ear that she’d never known a dog could be trained away from the throat to go for the breasts instead.

As of last Sunday they now knew, and none of them were likely to forget.

“I’ll be faster next time,” Smith had mumbled in a simmering rage, “I’ll be faster. I’ll have my fist down that cur’s throat before they finish slipping the leash.”

It was a nice sentiment, would’ve been made more so if Maureen wasn’t so sure it would land dear Smith with a bullet in her head. Would be made more so if Sergeant Forsyth had lived from her injuries long enough to benefit from it. Lots of things would be made nicer by heavier coats and the presence of drinking water.

One of the new ones, a terrified little replacement who wore her ordeal on her face, made the rookie mistake of asking for a drink. She’d been given the predictable initiation of being pissed on by a guard in answer and now she bore her thirst as doggedly as the veterans.

When the train cars rolled to a halt, and the great door was hauled back, sprawling out before them appeared the most idyllic scenery one could ever hope for. A crystalline blue lake, dotted on its border with charming structures adorned with red tile roofs, a quaint church of the same, lush fields and sparkling water and deep forest for miles. Maureen did not think they would haul them so near a town only to execute them. But then what did she know?

Nothing, not even where she was.

When they had lined the girls up, some in worse shape than others and a motley collective group from various military branches, they hauled off Ida Brady to the head of the pack, her bruised face considerably more busted than when she’d been loaded on. Maureen could see her craning her neck as she was drug past, counting down her flyer girls, looking for any missing from the trip.

They were marched, four abreast and with guns at their backs, down a wide and well traversed road into town, past cottages on its outskirts with little garden plots and clothes blowing on the line. Maureen was reminded of the idyllic countryside she had landed in with her chute before being seized and hauled off. There were women and children in row boats on the lake and the path they took through the woods was more peaceful than ominous. A traitorous sort of hope began to bloom in Maureen’s heart.

That was dashed when the tree line broke and out before them stretched what seemed to be miles of wire. And beside it a sign, welcoming them to Ravensbrück -a concentration camp. A camp for civilians, a camp to never return from.

Their new guards were ready for them, smiles on their faces and whips in their hands. Among them were a few remarkable for their sex, they were women too -if women who enjoyed such craft could still be called that. And for all the horror inflicted on them by their male captors so far, there seemed to be a general presentment amongst the arriving girls that the finer arts of terror had not yet been endured.

Standing for hours in the infamous square inside the compound, roll call and registration took on a form of torture yet unheard of. Round and round it went, repetitions of ranks and serials over and over and each time they were met with two alternatives. Renounce the ranks and be admitted as civilians with no further targeted harassment. Or-

“If you insist on being special, we will be forced to make you special.” as one officer put it to Brady’s stone cold face. “Ask your Soviet compatriots, the ones who wanted to be special like you. They claimed to be officers too, and now they service officers in Buchenwald. They have not left their beds in months. Special, no?”

“I’m not ‘claiming’ a goddamn thing.” Brady would go round and round with them in turn and up and down the line was the echo of ranks and serials.

Nothing but ranks and serials.

The minute they dropped one or the other, they’d be freed from this standing purgatory, and they’d be as good as dead. They might wish it were so anyway, if the threat was carried out but they’d suffer as officers, with honor. Whatever that meant this far from home and any appreciation of it. A fresh batch of guards relieved the first and the banter continued, even through roll call of the general camp where a mass of the most miserable specters of female kind poured out of the huts and were made to await the call of their one single number.

A serial for a serial. Maureen would keep hers. By dawn she had kept it, as had all but one of her group, a navy nurse with a broken leg who’d succumbed to the allure of a chair.

Civilian status for a seat.

Maureen thought a drop of water might be her own undoing were it offered, but one look at Smith's cracked yet unmoving lips cemented her in her own determination. As did Ida Brady’s talk, straight back in front of her, trousers bloodied on the inseam but not a cringe to be discerned in her stance.

By morning roll call for the entire camp, their guards were tiring of them, or else thought a new method of persuasion more likely to bring success. Off they were marched to their new billet to “meet their Allies” and what Smith wouldn’t give to have her brass knuckles back when met with a hut full of Soviet soldiers. Females, if females could have shoulders like that. They were impressive women with murder on their faces at the intrusion of a new gang of American blowhards.

“Did you give up already?” The one with the most English taunted and for the first time since capture, Maureen saw Ida Brady’s spine bow backwards just a fraction -a pacifying gesture in the face of the Russian’s nose to nose staredown.

“Hey, we’re not here to make trouble.” she insisted, cool and stern. “Did you?”

“We’d rather die.”

Brady gave a sharp nod, “Then we’re Allies in that, too.”

“Your precious Red Cross won’t come for you here.” That likely verdict seemed to bring the woman satisfaction, and Maureen wondered how many months, weeks, hours of this grueling place it would take before she too took savage satisfaction in another’s misfortune. How long before all better impulse to be glad for others was stamped out and all that was left was crowing self preservation. “You are not the firsts. There were others, Americans, like you, they are now wearing the ink of field whores- or they are dead.”

“One might assume the same of your predecessors.” Brady pointed out mildy, and both groups shifted behind their leaders, ready and tense.

“Anyone who accepts-“ the Russian warned, “-we kill.”

With that incentive clear, a tentative peace was made, which included a few trying to fraternize, converse and share news. There was little that aligned to create any cohesive figure, despite their shared experiences and sufferings.

When night fell they were hauled out for roll call amongst the masses, and together after hours of waiting to be called upon, they answered with their ranks and serials, each in their own language. The Russian who had confronted Brady was beaten so badly she did not rise again after it. The guard left her lying there and asked Brady herself what her occupation was.

“Lt. Colonel in the United States Air Force.”

The unfortunate rookie who had so ill advisedly asked for water on the train stood beside Brady; and got a bullet to the head for her superior’s answer. What Colonel Brady thought of her judgment being given to another did not show, her face white and her lips sealed, only the speckle of blood on her profile stood in stark relief in the early morning.

“Kneel.” a very shiny Luger barrel was pressed, still smoking to Brady’s temple.

She did so, braced for the inevitable execution. A soldier's death, it’s what they’d signed up for. The Kommandant waved over one of the female guards and spoke to her in German. She took off at a run to one of the buildings with a bright smile, and Ida Brady stayed kneeling, the splattered brains of the unfortunate dripping out of her hair and into the leather of her jacket, a mockery of her own upcoming fate.

The female guard returned with scissors. “Your poor hair, so pretty. Now it is ruined.” the Kommandant bemoaned, gloved fingers sliding though Brady’s wet tresses, “See what happens to beauty when you pervert the order of things? Now it must be sacrificed. Perhaps then you will see how ugly you are become.”

Maureen felt Smith’s restraining arm before she had even registered her impulse to charge forward, caught about the middle she strained against her friend's surprising strength and in the end was forced thusly to keep ranks and watch with the rest as the Nazis fucks scalped the Colonel of her femininity with a pair of sheep shears.

Dribbling blood down her face and shaking with rage, Ida was in better shape than her Russian counterpart. When her ordeal was over, she rose again, even if she swayed dangerously upon doing so.

And when asked, she had her serial at the ready.

Crowded back into the hut, Maureen and Smith watched the Russians hopelessly fuss over their insensible leader, knowing all too well how likely it might be that they could be found doing the same tomorrow, in a week’s time, who knew. For now, Brady sank down against the wall with the rest of them, the scowl of her formidable brows deflecting any potential commiserations for her battery.

When the navy nurse was pushed into their hut next evening, a dead silence greeted her. One of the Soviets, a sniper by her markings, came up to her and unceremoniously tore open her shirt. If the girls had doubted the Russian’s warning about “wearing the ink of field whores” upon their skin as mere hyperbole, such speculation was removed. It was a dreadful tattoo, large and damning as was the reaction it elicited amongst the servicewomen.

By the end of the night there were two dead bodies on the hut floor. And it didn’t seem to matter who had killed which. One had died for honor, the other for giving it up. And in the end? Where was this ephemeral honor? Ida Brady could only find it in the tense faces of her girls, lining the room from their places along the wall, waiting for another roll call or worse.

But in war, as in peace, sometimes the dead sent favors and in this instance it came to them with screams of:“Amerikaner Soldat!” in the middle of the night. They were marched out to the square and stood to attention once more in the sweep of the spotlight, all the while were shouts of “Amerikaner Soldat!”

All they knew was the bitter waiting in the gray dawn chill and the choking anticipation of some sick, final joke, or some methodical mass execution. Maureen wished she could knock her shoulder into Ida’s one last time and tell her she’d been a rock -she was a rock- but Brady stood there in front alone, as was her privilege and her curse. Talullah Smith would not meet Maureen’s side eyed glance for a farewell. Maureen wished she had less of a roar inside her, wished she could step off calmly into whatever was on the other side but the idea was repulsive, even after all she’d endured, and she looked about in vain for some semblance of the same revolt on her fellow’s faces.

What came instead was the dreaded whistles and the order to march. They were marched right out of the gates and down the idyllic lane they’d been marched up days ago, back through town to the railway station. There the soldiers herded them back up into a cattle car that smelled more of death than livestock, and then the train pulled away, hurtling south -perhaps the only one to do so with living cargo.

There were no guards inside the car, only the cramped space to keep them docile and the lack of promise that the great door would ever grind open again.

“The hell do you think happened?” Maureen hissed to Ida, finding her superior propped up in the corner in a suspiciously casual pose that she suspected hid a limp and unfathomable fatigue.

“Haven’t got a clue, Kendeigh.”

“Maybe someone got word out.” Maureen suggested, thinking of their predecessors, thinking of the useful dead.

“Or we’re headed to a nice rural dumping ground.” was all Ida would speculate. “Or brothels.” she added after a long minute.

Maureen chewed her cheek and kept peering out the slats at the beautiful countryside flashing past. “Well, at least they’ve ensured you’ll be least wanted of the bunch at such an establishment.” she joked and watched with the careful precision of a trained bombardier as her mean joke landed and Ida Brady’s legendary eyebrow ticked up in something that might have been amused disbelief, had she any energy left for such a display.

“Pistol whipped in the mouth and still no respect for rank, Kendeigh.” Brady observed and it was so like her brother John’s flat lined humor that Mauren’s heart throbbed with something alarmingly akin to sentimentally. For John Brady -and all the other lucky souls still at Thorpe Abbots, God willing. “I’m not laying on any damn beds for them.” Brady suddenly broke the silence again in a low voice, one Maureen knew was meant between officers only.

She pitched her head closer in agreement. “Me either.”

“I don’t care if they shoot me first,” Ida went on, as if reciting it to herself, “-and I don’t care if they shoot all of you first. I’m not going to.”

“Wouldn’t want you to.” Maureen agreed again, vacillating briefly in her intent before proceeding to say, “That Sergeant -she wasn’t your fault. The nurse either.”

“I know that Lieutenant.”

“I know you know,” Maureen muttured, “but some stuff bears repeating. Places like these, we’re liable to lose our bearings without a little repetition.”

“Mm.”

Maureen shuffled beside her and wracked her brain for pleasant conversation, something besides the Soviet girls they’d abandoned and the skeletons they’d seen at Ravensbrück. “Ya know,” she remarked tiredly, “if someone in here’s hydrated enough to pee, I might be ready to drink it.”

Brady slowly turned from her view out the slats to give Maureen a blank faced stare. “Should I make an announcement or are you hoping to keep that between us?”

“Oh hell, Colonel,” Maureen grinned, mischief bubbling to the surface at the first chance, “I wouldn’t trust anyone else but you, liable to get stds from this lot.”

“Kendeigh.” Ida hissed warningly but there was that disbelieving wobble to her stern mouth, “That’s not funny -not with where we’ve come from.”

“It kinda is.”

“It’s not.”

“It is- a little. Admit it, a little.”

“It’s not.” And still her cheeks were pink with suppressed amusement, just like John’s got when Maureen pressed him on a dig about basic training.

“You sure you’re ok?” she ventured again, eyeing Brady’s extensive injuries visible above her clothes.

“Yeah?” Ida looked nonplussed, “I mean -what’re you ranking as ok, these days, Lt. Kendeigh?

“It’s just,” Maureen bit her own busted tongue briefly as a spur to get it out,

“-you’re bleeding a lot, Ida. Couldn’t help but notice.”

Ida Brady didn’t even glance down at her trousers or make a motion to feel her lacerated scalp, instead she answered in the same, almost bored way she always did, “Yeah, Candy, it’s called being a good Catholic.”

Maureen blinked. “Oh. Oh Shit.”

“You know, maybe some of you girls had the right of it,” Ida actually winced before staring back out the slats, “go off and do it ahead, in peacetime. But here I am, twenty eight and as sacrosanct as the Virgin Mary, dropping into occupied territory. What could go wrong!” To her credit, her snort was wonderfully genuine.

Maureen kept after her, “You signed up to fight, to get fought against. We all did -never this.”

“Mm, well, couldn’t choose a better gang to get put down with.” Brady smiled, begrudgingly raising an imaginary glass of her own to Maureen’s already raised one.

“To bitches who bite back.” Maureen toasted.

“To bitches who bite back.”

——————————————————-

Two cases of MIA troubled John Brady the most: Egan, who he had seen jump first after their dispute, and Maureen Kendeigh who he had learned from Blakely had jumped over Bremman. That’s two flyers who should’ve been here by now, before him even, in the case of Kendeigh, and yet they weren’t.

He went round and round the argument with Cleven and Crank and Hambone, all three downed from separate missions yet here together - proving his point. Cleven held staunchly to the belief they were being kept segregated, as befitted their ranks and sex. They could be one sector apart and not hear of them. It was the only hopeful response, it was a leader’s response. There had been women downed before Kendeigh, not many but a few of the escort fighters, and none of them had showed either. Brady wasn’t sure that was a good sign at all.

“So where’s Egan then?” he’d always hit back with, “They mistake his shoulders’ for a dame’s?”

“I dunno John.” Cleven would reply with that newly blank gaze of his somehow enhanced by the twin cuts on his cheeks.

Demarco took Brady aside when he arrived to tell him that whatever had happened to Cleven in interrogation wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t ethical. Those cheek scars weren’t both due to flack. Like a dog with a bone, Brady took this already suspected information about his stoic superior and ran with it, pointing out hotly to an uninterested Demarco, “if it’s happened to Cleven, what about them?”

“What can we do about it?” Was Cleven’s demand that always wrapped up the little circular arguments as they sat huddled in their hut. “Red Cross knows they’re not here, no colored flyers either. They know where they are. What can we do besides ask after them?”

He was right, there wasn’t anything, but still, like a presentiment hung over him, Brady found himself leaning on the wire each time a new batch was marched in, counting heads and scanning faces.

“Ida hasn’t even been shot down, John.” Crank kindly reminded again and again.

“As of two weeks ago.” John snapped.

As of two weeks, and then as of three, and then it became four and -where the hell was Kendeigh? Gale had stopped arguing when the subject came up, apparent but impotent fury slowly racking his wiry frame, face gone wane already above his grimey fleece collar. Winter wasn’t even here and they were fading.

And then it happened, what John had been waiting by the fence for, and boy was there a crush at the wire to see them marched in when they came up the muddy enclosure through the gates.

“The fuck are they bringing the women here for?”

“They don’t belong in here, bastards!”

“Ar’those Brady’s Banshees?”

“They’re not gonna hold ‘em here are they?”

Like he’d been reanimated by the presence of a cause, Major Cleven cut his way through the rabble to the front, addressing the German officer escorting them.

“Hey, hey you can’t bring them in here. They’re women, they belong in their own section.”

“If they are women,” the Commandant pointed out, not unkindly, “then perhaps your country should have recognized that before enlisting them? They belong here.”

Cleven shook his head, vehement in his conventions and rules, “It’s not right, you know it’s not.”

“Then tell your Lt. Colonel to stop fighting for combatant status.” he jerked his chin towards Ida Brady and Gale’s eyes widened at her injuries and tufted hair, “The SS had them tucked away at our most prestigious female camp. But they would not accept. They want to be men.”

“Combatants!” Gale argued the point Ida had been making since her feet touched occupied soul.

John Brady yanked his arm, whispering urgently in his ear, “She’s makin’ sign to me, torture, she says. Don’t fight it, Buck.”

Cleven searched the battered faces, some he knew like Ida, T.Smith and Maureen, and some from other squadrons, -ones who must’ve been damned unlucky to get captured considering their safer postings.

“If it can happen to you it c-“ John Brady was a bit of a pain in the ass, Cleven had found, but he had never found him to be wrong.

“Roger, loud and clear, captain.” Cleven warned him his point was made with a bite in his own tone.

“Have we come to an understanding?” The Commandant, amused by the fluster his female charges had caused, it was ample proof that women could never be fully integrated, not even by a society so pervertedly equal as the American’s. “Ja? Sehr gut. It wasn’t like you had a choice anyway, was it?

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writer’s life blood, let me hear your thoughts and screams, they mean so much to me.

We have so many prompts already thrown around for this AU, I can’t wait to explore them, and I welcome any more if you have them.

Taglist (if you’d like to be added please drop a note below):

@stylespresleyhearted

@ab4eva

@earth-to-lottie

@suraemoon

@blurredcolour

@steph-speaks

@crazymadpassionatelove

@rubyfruitjungle

@taestrwbrry

@storysimp

@javden

@sexualparkour

@jointherebellion215

@sunny747

@ask-you-what-sir

@xxanaduwrites

@pretty4u

@yorkshirekiwi

@waitedforlove743

@elvismylove04

@blikebarbie92

@luminouslywriting

[oatflatwhite]

buck x bucky mota fic!!! read her here!!! (locked to ao3 users only)

tags/stats below cut

[austinbutlerslovers]

I need more of your galen cleven if you have time for it, as I've read everything I could get my hands on (whole tumblr) and it's still ✨️not enough✨️

I loved your bucked and fxcked btw, so good 🧎‍♀️

TYSM 🙏🏻 Im constantly thinking of scenarios. Just saw these pics he’s like begging for a handjob in that war camp.

Yes Bucked & Fxcked ❤️‍🔥 💀

[saturnville]

sad girl, major john egan

pairing: major john "bucky" egan x amelia mae

content: in the beginning stages of their relationship, amelia finds herself questioning john and the nature of their relationship.

song reference: sad girl by lana del rey

an: idk this song does something to me. should I make a tag list?

John Egan was an enigma. A puzzle that was impossible to solve. A language she couldn’t translate. A concept she couldn’t grasp. It angered her. It sent her into emotional overload and overwhelmed her mind. She couldn’t make sense of him and it pained her. 

She found herself in her head, swimming through the sea of intrusive thoughts that invaded her mind. He wasn’t serious about her. He wasn’t capable of loving her. That was evident by the way his eyes followed the silhouette of a pretty blonde at the pub while she washed dishes and served drinks to the armymen. He didn’t know she noticed. Why would he? To him, she was nothing but a girl he’d gone on a few dates with. They weren’t committed; he owed her no loyalty. 

Her attempts at keeping her facial expressions at bay were a failure. When she rose her head, she caught the sympathetic eyes of the emphatic Gale Cleven. The smile on her face quivered as she turned her back and continued with her task. 

And his hesitancy, oh God, his hesitancy to decline a dance from a woman broke her even further. Sure, she should have been glad that he declined the brunette’s advances regardless, but the fact that he took the time to think. To ponder. To debate, made her sick to her stomach. 

She wept like a child that night. She accepted his peck on the cheek at the end of the evening, “You alright, doll?” His voice sent a chill down her spine. It stayed with her until she went home, then wept like a child. 

She was asked about him by her best friend. If only she could describe all that he was, and all that he wasn’t. He was a complex case that needed to be studied. Dissected and picked apart like an experiment. She nodded once and said, “He is a beautiful human, truly. Bold and wild like a fire. He walks in it with pride and warms everyone he comes in contact with.”

Her friend sensed the sadness laced in her words. With a small voice, she asked in return, “It sounds like you aren’t too happy about that. What’s that about?”

With a sad smile pulled at her lips. Amelia shrugged and dropped her hands into her lap defeatedly. Quietly she admitted, "I don't know if he can love me the way I love him. I think...my worst fear is that he'll light me on fire and leave me to burn in the flames...."

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[major-mads]

Chapter 7: Lucky 25

John "Bucky" Egan x Ruth Morgan (OFC)

Series Masterlist

A/N: please comment or reblog and tell us what you think!! thanks for reading!! <3

Collab: On a Wing and a Prayer by @footprintsinthesxnd

Word Count: 11k

Thursday, September 16th: Thorpe Abbotts AAF Base, Norwich: 1300 HRS: 1 PM

Hope’s back ached as she bent over her old Singer sewing machine, silk fabric sliding effortlessly as the needle punched thread through it. Silk was hard to come by with rationing, and there was no way, even with Hugh’s help, that she could afford a new wedding dress. Luckily for her, Frank had a knack for making things disappear from the storeroom on base and later making them reappear in the girls' hut. 

Ruth hummed Artie Shaw out of tune from behind her as the blonde cut out more fabric from the pattern, laying the pieces of cloth over the tissue paper cutouts. Tatty and Helen hand-sewed small pieces of lace together, just some odd cuts they’d gotten from the local fabric shop.

The girls worked hard all afternoon, measuring, cutting, and sewing. The dress was coming along nicely, and with only three weeks to go until the big day, Hope was anxious to get it finished in time. 

The Singer buzzed along nicely as three familiar heads poked around the nissen hut door.

“Knock, knock,” Hugh called out, stepping inside, his hands on his hips as he assessed the girl's work. Gale and John followed him closely. 

“You guys can’t be in here,” Helen scolded.

“It’s bad luck to see the dress before the wedding, Cleven,” Tatty hissed, marching over to the men. “You better get going before…”

“My dear Tatty, don’t be so defensive, I merely come to offer my services,” Hugh bowed dramatically. 

Hope snickered, all too aware of Hugh’s sewing skills, “I don’t think your skills are required here, Hugh. You’re not really one for a needle and thread.” 

Hugh scrunched his face up at her just like he’d done since they were children, and before he could throw out any more ridiculous ideas, Gale stepped forward.

“I don’t want to cause trouble, I merely want to spend some time with my girl,” Gale smiled charmingly at Tatty who moved aside.

“No wonder Hope can never say no to you, Major. That damn smile.” 

Gale made his way across the room just as Hope finished covering the dress with a sheet. “Hello darling,” he leaned down, pressing his lips to hers, “I’ve missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you too,” Hope stood up, pressing her lips against his again, smiling into his touch. 

“Tatty, come on,” John all but whined, pointing into the hut while Tatty stood firm on the doorstep. “It’s me.”

“And that is exactly why I’m not letting you in. You’d get your grubby mitts all over the dress.”

“I wouldn’t dare! Please,” John clasped his hands together, looking rather sad and pathetic until Tatty sighed. 

“Fine, but one step out of line, Major, and you’re out.” 

John moved past Tatty towards Ruth who was still sitting on the floor, surrounded by a collection of differently shaped pieces of silk. 

“Never knew you were such a seamstress,” he grinned, kissing her gently and enjoying the familiar blush that crept across her pale cheeks.

“Well, I’m a woman of many talents,” Ruth retorted, grinning up at the Major.

“That you are.”

“Hugh, put that fabric down now,” Hope hissed, moving away from Gale’s arms to scold her brother, smacking his arm until he released the precious fabric. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to get a hold of this?” 

“It’s just some silk, I’m sure any white fabric would do,” Hugh replied nonchalantly, pushing the reeling of cotton across Helen’s desk and glancing awkwardly around the room as it fell to the floor.

Hope sighed, “Hugh, for once in your life, please just be serious and stop acting like a child. It’s for my wedding day. Please don’t mess this up for me.” 

Hope loved her brother dearly, but sometimes it felt like she had to do all the work in their relationship.

Hugh nodded apologetically, “I will. I wouldn’t dream of ruining your big day, Little Bird.” Hope smiled at her childhood nickname, it had been a long time since he’d called her that. “But is there anything I can help with?” 

“Yes, there is,” Helen grabbed ahold of Gale and John’s sleeves, marching them towards Hugh, “You can take these two and keep them out of trouble until this evening.”

“Oh, come on, we just got here,” John groaned, glancing at Ruth in the hope of some sympathy, but she just waved at him. Gale glanced around Helen, blowing a kiss in Hope’s direction before the three men descended from the hut.

“You ladies have fun now, we’ll see you later,” Hugh called out, slamming the door dramatically. 

Helen turned back to the group, hurrying back to her spot beside Tatty, “I honestly don’t know how you’ve put up with Hugh for so long.” 

“I didn’t have much choice,” Hope laughed, turning back to the sewing machine, “He’s my brother after all.” 

A few moments passed until another knock sounded at the door, and Helen marched back over with a groan, slinging it open to reveal John leaning on the doorframe. 

“What is it?”

He peered around the woman, his eyes falling on Ruth. “Can I get a kiss?”

“You just got one!” she giggled, rising to her feet and approaching the door. “You’re so needy.”

Helen moved out of the doorway, chuckling as Ruth rose on her tiptoes and quickly kissed John before pushing him out the door with a wink. “See you later, hotshot!”

As the door closed in his face, John couldn’t help but shake his head at Ruth, his heart racing at the mere sight of her. Buck clapped his shoulder and turned him toward the nearby mess hall where Hugh walked a few feet ahead of them. “You gonna tell her tonight?”

“If Dye gets back in one piece, I will,” Johnny nodded, scratching his mustache. 

“He will.”

One Week Earlier: September 10: Thorpe Abbotts AAF Base

The mess hall was unusually quiet as John and Gale sat eating their breakfast, having missed the morning rush by sleeping in an extra hour. They both laid awake the night before, their minds unable to shut off after the events of John’s party. Since they’d arrived, Bucky was silent, only speaking to thank the mess hall worker for his coffee.

Buck stared at him skeptically, taking in his slightly pursed lips and distant gaze that focused on the plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of him. “I can hear the gears turning from here, John. What is it?”

A few beats passed until he spoke up, his eyes remaining on his food. “Ruth.”

“Hmm,” Gale nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “What about her?”

“Everything…I can’t get her off my mind, Buck. I don’t know what’s going on.”

‘I do,’ the younger man thought.

John shook his head with a sigh, his brow creasing as his conflicted gaze lifted from the table. “I can’t explain it.”

Gale put down his coffee cup and smiled softly at his friend. “I can…you love her.”

“I don’t know, Buck.”

“What don’t you know?” he asked as his brows furrowed. Gale saw the deep thought behind the Major’s eyes and realized the confident and boisterous John Egan was nowhere in sight. This Bucky was unsure of himself, facing emotions he’d never felt before. Buck’s voice softened as he continued. “What do you know?”

John raised a questioning brow and Gale leaned his elbows onto the table. “How do you feel around her?”

“I don’t-” Bucky frustratedly groaned, sitting back into his seat. ”I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Just try.”

Every moment he shared with Ruth replayed like a film in John’s mind as he tried to find the words to describe the way he felt.

“When I think about her,” he finally began, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It just…It just does somethin’ to me, Buck, and can’t think straight.”

Gale listened intently, nodding along as John continued, his voice growing softer.

“And after last night, how she did all that for me? I’ve never met anyone like her.” His brow creased in thought as he struggled to find his next words. “She’s…she’s-”

“Everything,” Buck finished, Hope’s smiling face forming in his mind.

Gale’s words hung in the air for a few moments as the Majors thought of their beloved nurses. 

Bucky nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the window where the morning sun filtered through the glass, lighting up the mess hall in a golden glow. He took a deep breath as he finally came to terms with what he was feeling. 

John Egan was in love.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. “She’s everything.”

A knowing grin painted Gale’s face as he repeated his earlier statement. “You love her.”

“That how you feel about Hope?”

“Yeah, it is.”

As Buck’s words settled over them, John felt a weight lift off his shoulders. It was as if hearing the words out loud made them easier to grasp, and he couldn’t deny it any longer…he was in love with Ruth Morgan.

But even as the realization settled in, Bucky couldn’t shake the uncertainty that lingered in the back of his mind. This was a new territory for him, uncharted skies that both excited and terrified him. He’d always prided himself on his wild heart, but now he found himself willingly surrendering to feelings he’d managed to avoid for so long.

“You know,” Gale began, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. “You should tell her. It’s pretty clear she feels the same way.”

“We said we’d take it slow.”

Cleven pushed his plate aside and leaned further over the table. “So? When have you ever been one to follow the rules?”

Finally, John’s serious expression faded and he shook his head with a chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “And when have you ever encouraged me to break them?”

“Today,” he shrugged. “But only cause you need an extra shove.”

“Should I get used to this new Buck?”

“Don’t count on it,” Gale smirked as he sat back in his chair, taking a sip of his coffee. 

1900 HRS: 7 PM 

The lively sound of Glenn Miller filled the Officer’s Club as the band brought the hall to life. Couples jitterbugged and lindy-hopped across the dance floor, and happy conversation filled the air, including loud cackles and laughter from a table in the bar section where Hope and Ruth sat with their Majors. They were reminiscing about their time in San Angelo, Texas, with the girls’ under their arms and Hugh to the right of his sister.

Buck took a sip of his ginger beer with a raised brow. “Isn’t that where you picked up that damned jacket?”

“Sure is,” John replied and sucked his teeth. “My pride and joy.”

“So that’s where you got it,” Ruth giggled, shaking her head.

“Well,” he shrugged, holding a hand up defensively. “It was being discontinued, so I had no choice.”

Sitting up in his chair across from them, Hugh let out something between a chuckle and a scoff. “It was a choice, alright.”

Hope’s eyes met Ruth’s at the comment, waiting for a snarky comeback from the Major, but the blonde just patted John’s chest consolingly before he could respond. “It was being discontinued for a reason, John. Have you seen that thing?”

“Thank you. It always looks dirty,” Gale interjected as he smirked at John. “Seems Ruth is on my side for this one, Bucky.”

A giggle escaped Ruth’s lips and she sheepishly looked up at Johnny to see him already staring down at her, a playful frown on his lips a few inches away. “Say it isn’t true, Ruthie.”

“Sorry, hotshot,” she laughed, her eyes unable to resist flicking to his mouth at their close proximity. “Buck’s right, hon, but know you’re still my favorite Major.”

John’s frown faded and his lips curled into a mischievous grin as her laughter filled the air, and to his surprise, she leaned up and kissed him softly. Ruth pulled away after a moment with bright pink cheeks. The taste of her drink lingered on Bucky’s lips as his gaze locked with hers, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

His plans to finally tell her how he cared about her, how he loved her, flashed in the forefront of his mind. But even as he stared down at her smiling face and a wave of pure adoration washed over him, his stomach swirled with nervousness. 

What if she thought it was too fast? Too soon? Too much?

Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, John forced himself to look away and took a sip of his pint before turning to Hope and pointing at her across the table. “And whaddya think, Hope? About my jacket? It’s nice, right?”

The woman met Ruth’s lovesick eyes and chuckled, shaking her head slightly. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve seen, but I prefer Gale’s.”

Gale smiled smugly, pressing his lips firmly to her forehead, “That’s my girl. Always knew you had good taste.” 

“Well, of course, I do. I picked you didn’t I?” She grinned at him, leaning up to press her lips to his, smiling into the kiss.

“Well, that’s right. You sure a lady with a good eye,” Gale mused, nuzzling his nose into her neck.

“Gale,” she chuckled, feeling his breath tickling against her collarbone, while her fingers carded through his tousled, blond locks. 

“Gaaaale,” John teased, dramatically drawing out the name with his eyes closed. “What kind of name is Gale, anyway?”

Hope’s eyes widened in amusement as Gale groaned beside her, having heard the joke a million times before. “Well, what kind of a name is Bucky?” she asked, tilting her head with a sarcastic grin. “Now Buck I can get because he’s a dashing young man, but Bucky? I don’t know…”

The group burst into laughter and John tried to send the woman a dirty look, but he couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from curling into a smirk and joining in with them. Before long, he itched for a dance and stood to his feet, pulling Ruth toward the dance floor.

“I think it’s time for a dance, Ruthie.”

“Alright, I’m coming!” she giggled, sending Hope a wave as she tried to keep up with Bucky’s long strides in her tight skirt.

The couple found themselves at the edge of the dancefloor, swaying hand in hand to the soft trumpet solo ringing through the hall. Ruth rested her head on John’s chest, calmed by the gentle thrum of his heartbeat beneath her ear and his warmth as they danced. 

She could’ve stayed there in that moment forever…just her and her hotshot…just her and the man she loved. 

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmured against her hair, breaking the silence between them. “I know I told you earlier, but you do.”

Lifting her head from his chest, Ruth smiled sheepishly at him. “Thank you. I don’t normally wear my dress uniform, but-”

“Oh, I’m so glad you did.”

She raised an eyebrow and slid her hands around his neck. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded with a smirk, his eyes drifting down to her breast pocket area that proudly displayed her pair of wings and lieutenant’s bars. “I’m a sucker for a woman in uniform.”

“So I need to worry about the WACs?”

Bucky chuckled, tugging Ruth against him. “Don’t worry. You’ve got nothing to worry about, lieutenant.”

As the music swirled around them, John’s gaze softened as he looked into her deep blues. Leaning down, he brushed his lips against hers in a tender kiss. Ruth’s cheeks flushed pink as she returned it, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, melting into his embrace. She felt him smile against her lips and pulled back to get a good look at him.

“What are you smiling about, Major?” she joked.

Bucky wanted to say, ‘How much I love you,’ but anxiety churned in his stomach and he couldn’t go through with it.

“Just you.”

Rolling her eyes, Ruth pecked the corner of his lips before returning her head to its place on his chest. “I’m so happy for Gale and Hope.”

“Me too,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room for the couple. “Speaking of Buck…where is he?”

Ruth joined him looking for their friends, but she had no luck and wiggled her eyebrows at Bucky. “They’re probably having some alone time.”

He sent her a mischievous smirk, and she knew what he planned to do. “Leave ‘em be, Johnny,” she groaned, sighing as he pulled her along behind him toward the door. “Don’t bother them.”

“But it’s my job to bother Buck.”

Before Ruth could respond, he flung open the side door and stuck his head outside. By the wild grin on his face, she knew he’d found them. “Hey, Lovebirds! Hurry up, you're missing the party!” 

“Five more minutes!” she heard Gale groan, and then John closed the door, a proud smirk hanging from his lips. 

“You’re terrible.”

Bucky shot her a wink and led her back to their table, settling back into their seats as they saw Gale and Hope enter the hall and begin swaying slowly. 

“Would you look at that?” John scoffed, sipping his pint and throwing an arm over the back of Ruth’s chair. “I’ve been trying to get Buck to dance for years and Hope did it in two months.”

The couple couldn’t help but watch their friends dance, both with lovesick smiles as they got lost in the song, spinning around the floor with a practiced grace that neither Ruth nor John expected. 

Buck was good at dancing.

Their concentration on the couple was broken when yells echoed through the air. Following the sound, they saw Harry throw peanuts across the table into Hugh’s mouth, laughing hysterically as Hugh caught another one. 

Ruth opened her mouth to speak but was cut off when Hope beat her to it.

“I leave you two alone for all of five minutes and you wreak havoc,” Hope tutted, patting Harry on the head like a small child. “If you choke on all those nuts Hugh, I swear…”

A giggle escaped the blonde’s lips at the comment and John chuckled beside her.

“Alright mother,” Hugh laughed, throwing one of the nuts at his sister. 

Hope and Gale took their seats beside Harry, settling easily beside each other with Gale’s hand draping lazily around her shoulder. The six of them fell into easy conversation, and soon, the table became more crowded when Veal, Crank, Brady, Blakely, and a few other airmen joined the group. Laughter and wisps of cigarette smoke filled the air as the men and the two nurses unwound, enjoying the company of friends.

Ruth remained tucked under Bucky’s arm, listening to yet another story from training in the States. This one was about a failed exercise where several forts experienced ‘equipment malfunctions’ and ‘discrepancies’ that forced them to land in or near the hometowns of family and girlfriends. 

Crank grinned, shaking his head. “Yeah, the Hundredth almost got canned after that.”

“And I got demoted for the first time,” John chimed as he thought about just how many times he’d changed commands over his time with the 100th.

Eyes widening in surprise, Ruth playfully smacked his chest. “For the first time? I thought you getting demoted back to Squadron CO only happened once?”

“It would’ve been three times if LeMay would have found him or Buck that day he came to base,” Kidd added.

Nudging Buck with her shoulder, Hope smirked. “And what about you, Gale?” 

Gale shrugged as he hid a smirk behind his glass of ginger beer. “I don’t know why LeMay thought both of us were responsible for the ‘raunchy discipline’ on base.”

“So you’re sayin’ it was just me?” John asked with an incredulous grin.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“I mean,” Benny started, trying to hold in a laugh as he rubbed Meatball’s head affectionately. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Buck tear up a bar with a narwhal tusk.”

Laughter erupted like a sudden burst of fireworks around the table, echoing around the lively room and drowning out the music. 

Narrowing his eyes at them, John pointed around the table.  “Technically, none of you dodos saw any of that!”

“We didn’t have to. We saw the aftermath,” Brady called out through his chuckles.

After a few moments, the laughter died down, and the large group broke into smaller conversations. 

Gale spoke quietly to Benny as Hope whispered with Hugh, and Ruth listened as Jack shared more stories of John’s escapades back in the States. Before long, the two majors went at it as they often did, but Ruth’s attention was drawn away by Hugh and Hope slinking away from the table and disappearing into the crowd.

‘This outta be good,’ she thought.

When the band slowly faded out, Ruth smirked, knowing what was most likely coming. She peered over at Gale, expecting him to be watching Hope, but he was engrossed in a conversation with Benny and didn’t seem to notice his fiancée’s absence from the seat beside him. 

The band thrummed to life, music springing out across the room in a less-than-subtle fashion that had all heads turning toward the siblings. Then Gale’s eyes found Hope’s across the room and he did a double take, glancing back at her empty chair in confusion. 

Ruth pointed at siblings, a wide smile painting her face as she whispered in John’s ear. “This is gonna be interesting. They both can sing.”

“Sparky? No way,” he griped with a grimace. “No way he’s got better pipes than me.”

Giggling, she patted his cheek lightly and turned back to the stage. “Just wait and see, hon.”

Hugh took his place in front of the microphone, encouraging Hope to do the same as he pressed his lips near the cool metal grille. The conductor gave them the queue, and she took a deep breath before singing into the microphone.

“One of our planes was missing, two hours overdue. 

Yes, one of our planes was missing with all its gallant crew,

The radio sets were hummin', they waited for the word,

Then a voice broke through that hummin',

And this is what they heard!”

The song, rather aptly chosen by Hugh for Dye’s 25th mission, began to flow easily. Hugh joined in, belting out,

“Comin' in on a wing and a prayer!”

The second Hugh’s voice rang through the speakers, the skeptical smirk on John’s lips fell, and he raised a brow at Ruth, who just rolled her eyes at his reaction.

“I told you he was good.”

“I never said he was good,” he defended.

The corners of the blonde’s eyes crinkled as she laughed. “You didn’t have to.”

Around them, some of the crowd began to join in, all looking at Dye whose cheeks were growing redder by the minute as he stood beside Lil, trying to shield his face. 

“What a show (What a show),

What a fight (What a fight).”

The instrumental section began to play, and the couple watched as Hugh took Hope’s arm and spun her around in quick concession. A wide grin spread on Ruth’s face that matched her best friend’s on stage. 

With her eyes glued on Hope, Ruth started to sing along. Her voice was slightly off-key, but she didn’t care, continuing to sing quietly where only John could hear. The man couldn’t look away from her smiling face as she sang. His gaze wandered over her face with a gentle intensity, watching how her lips moved, the slight quirk of her smile adding to her already breathtaking look.

“Yes, we really hit our target for tonight,

How we’ll sing as we limp through the air,

Look below, there’s a field over there.”

Ruth’s eyes flickered over to John and caught his gaze. For a brief moment, their eyes locked, and she noticed the same vulnerable glint in his eyes as the night he told her of his past. She offered him a questioning look, silently asking what was on his mind.

Johnny’s mind raced as his lips parted slightly. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he sent her a small, reassuring smile and barely shook his head as if to say, ‘nothing.’

There was something in his eyes that Ruth couldn’t quite put it into words, but it made her heart flutter nonetheless. With a soft nod, she turned her attention back to the stage, her hand reaching for John’s beneath the table, intertwining their fingers gently.

The Major’s heart sank as Ruth turned away, his own hand squeezing hers softly in response. He cursed himself silently for his inability to tell her how he felt, and frustration bubbled up within him.

How many more opportunities would he let slip away without telling her the truth?

“With our full crew aboard,

And our trust in the Lord,

Comin’ in on a wing and a prayer.”

As the song came to a close, Hugh wrapped his arms around his sister, squeezing her hard before grasping her hand and pulling her down from the stage. Hope hopped down the best she could, ignoring the small ripping noise from her skirt that would surely be a problem later. Hugh had a little skip in his step as they made their way back to the table.

Hugh threw himself down into his chair, downing the last of his whiskey, while Hope took her seat beside Gale, his face still in awe and his lips turned upwards into the largest smile.

“Have I ever told you how amazing you are?” He mumbled softly, kissing her cheek, letting the rough stubble on his chin graze against Hope’s cheek. 

She squirmed, laughing lightly, “Oh only about every hour that I’m on base and in every letter.”

“Good,” he mused, kissing her cheek once more, “Because you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met…” Gale was broken off by Bucky’s loud declaration. 

“What the hell was that, Sparky?” John asked with a mischievous grin, his eyebrows raised at Hugh. 

Scoffing as he settled into his chair, the lieutenant rolled his eyes. “I sounded a helluva lot better than you ever have…Isn’t that right, Croz?”

Harry’s expression dropped, his eyes widening nervously as he darted glances between Hugh and his Squadron CO, who sported a smirk and an eyebrow raised expectantly. “Uhhhhh…”

Ruth was in the middle of sipping her when the comment left Hugh’s lips, and she choked on the liquid, her hand flying to cover her mouth as she coughed, trying to regain her composure. Immediately, John’s hand on her chair moved to rub her back as he ducked to check on her, the rest of the table turning their attention to the pair. Before he could speak, she waved him off with a sheepish smile, finally managing to swallow. 

“Sorry about that,” she rasped, wiping at her eyes. “I’m alright…please continue.”

Looking around the group, Ruth met Hope’s concerned gaze and sent her a teary grin, her pale face splotchy as she caught her breath.

“Where was I?”

Bubbles chuckled under his breath before sending Hugh a smirk. “You were complimenting Bucky’s singing abilities.”

“Right! I-”

“Everyone look here!”

A flash of light momentarily blinded the group as Captain John Schwarz, the 100th’s photographer, stepped forward with his camera in hand. 

“Alright, everyone, let’s get a good one!” he called out cheerfully, adjusting the settings on his camera.

The group quickly turned toward him, and Ruth managed to put on a bright smile for the photo despite still trying to clear her throat. They all posed in their seats, and John’s arm draped casually over the blonde’s chair, her hand resting on his knee as she leaned into him.

With the click of the camera, the Captain took the picture, but before he could step back, John called out to him with a grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hey, Schwarz. Mind getting a picture of just the two of us?”

He nodded enthusiastically, adjusting the camera to focus on the couple. Bucky flashed a charming smile as he reached over and gently tugged Ruth from her chair into his lap.

“Hey!” she protested playfully, her cheeks flushing pink as John wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close.

Ruth giggled as Johnny leaned in, his cheek pressing against hers as they posed for the picture. Despite her initial protest, she found herself melting into his embrace. The photographer chuckled at their antics, capturing the moment with a few clicks of his camera. She glanced up at the Major just as Schwarz lowered his camera, and Bucky planted a soft kiss on her lips.

The table erupted into a chorus of whistles and hoots, their friends cheering them on as they kissed. Ruth laughed against John’s lips, feeling a rush of happiness and warmth enveloping her. Pulling back slightly, John gazed into her blue eyes, his own filled with pure adoration as her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. 

“Alright, lovebirds. That’s enough,” Gale grinned, repeating Bucky’s words from a few minutes before. 

Schwarz moved around the table, snapping a photo of Demarco and Meatball, Hugh with poor Harry in a headlock, until he moved around to Hope and Gale. Buck stood up, leading Hope slightly away from the table, and wrapping his arms around her from behind kissing her temple. Hope grinned widely at the photographer who snapped the picture with his own smile.

Hugh appeared beside the Captain, mumbling something under his breath before moving over to the couple. 

“Could I please borrow my sister, Cleven?”

Gale looked a little forlorn as he released Hope from his embrace, stepping back towards the table. Hugh pulled his sister into his side, a bright smile on his lips as Schwarz took the photo. 

Back at the table, Hope slipped into her seat beside Gale, his arm draping over her shoulder as they got comfortable. Ruth sent her a bright smile from her position on John’s lap, and soon the group’s conversation picked back up, laughter filling the air once more. This continued for a little while longer, but when Dye made his way over with Lil under his arm, there was a shift in the air.

It was almost unnoticeable at first.

Ruth chuckled under her breath, watching John take a drag of his cigarette across the table and point to Dye as he neared the group. “There’s our very own Charlie Robertson!”

She’d moved back to her own chair when he got up to get her another ginger beer. Ruth learned her lesson with alcohol after waking up with a raging migraine the morning following John’s birthday party.

“Charlie? Who’s Charlie?” Lil asked, trailing behind Glen and smiling at John as she passed him on his way back to Ruth.

“Not me,” Hugh snickered, sipping his whiskey with a grimace. The British liquor was nothing compared to the ‘good ole American stuff,’ as he called it. In his footlocker sat an unopened bottle of VAT-69 he was saving for his own 25th mission.

No one else thought anything was wrong with the alcohol, but Hugh just had his particular taste and he stuck to that.

“1922. White Sox at Tigers. No runs, no hits, no errors,” John answered, his hand gesturing in the air with each word before sinking into the chair beside Ruth. He kissed her on the cheek quickly, scooting his seat closer to her until their shoulders touched and she wrapped her arm around his bicep, whispering into his ear.

“He threw the last perfect game, right?”

“Sure did,”  he grinned, shooting her a wink. “Way to go, Slugger.”

Benny nodded from beside Hope and Gale, not having heard the blonde. “Yeah, he’s the last guy to throw a perfect game.”

“Til’ now!”

“You get to go home before Florida?” Jack asked, but the conversation soon Ruth faded as she turned her gaze to John with a fond smile. She traced the outline of his face, her eyes trailing over the dark pink scars from Regensburg, the slope of his nose, his mustache, and the natural pout of his lips…the soft lips she’d kissed dozens of times. The warmth of his touch seeped through her uniform, and a feeling of contentment washed over her. 

Over the last week, the couple exchanged multiple letters corresponding about the party and how each was doing, but John mainly raved about how much he liked his birthday present. 

‘Doll, I think I’m hooked…’ John wrote two days after the party.

She was broken from her inner dialogue when the toothy grin on John’s face suddenly fell, and Ruth’s heart jolted in concern as she became aware of the hush that fell over the group

“We’re all that’s left, aren’t we?” 

At Glen’s question, her eyes quickly scanned those around them and found that all the airmen shared the same pained and exhausted look. Curt’s smiling face flashed in her mind…a reminder of the sacrifices of the heroes from the 100th. 

Hope’s wandering eyes met Ruth’s across the table, and she sent her a weary frown at the way the lively men quieted, each lost in their thoughts. 

Blakely spoke first, breaking the silence that fell over the group “12 crews out of-”

“35 that flew in from Greenland,” Crank finished.

With his lips in a tight line, Bucky nodded solemnly. “That’s right.”

Ruth reached out, her free hand finding John’s atop his chair’s armrest, squeezing it gently. He didn’t meet her gaze, but she felt him deflate slightly beside her just before Gale began to speak.

“We’re just happy for you, Dye.”

“That’s right. We are,” John added, his voice deepening as he raised his glass. “Very happy for you. Very happy.”

Glen held out his drink to the group. “And to all the fellas that aren’t here tonight, who should’ve been.”

The table broke out into quiet mumbles of agreement as they all lifted their glasses in a toast before tipping them back. Ruth’s ginger beer fizzed as it traveled down her throat, and beside her, John downed the rest of the amber liquid in his glass, unfazed. She watched him stare at the tabletop in front of them for a few seconds until Dye’s voice filled the air.

“Gentlemen…and ladies, I’m gonna go check on the boys, make sure they aren’t celebrating too hard without me.”

As he walked away with Lil tugged against his side, John’s eyes followed them and he pointed in their direction, muttering, “Charlie Robertson,” under his breath.

The jovial atmosphere from before shattered as the group remained quiet despite the raging party around them. And to think…John’s day had started off so well, had gone off without a hitch until that very moment.

He got to see Ruth, and Dye made it back from his 25th Mission, but as Bucky leaned back in his chair, he couldn’t help but be bothered by all the new faces and the lack of old ones.

Even Ruth’s presence beside him wasn’t enough to quell the rising anger and frustration that swirled in his stomach when he thought of the numbers. 

Out of 35 crews that flew in from Greenland, only 12 remained. 

120 men out of 350…230 gone in the matter of a few months. 

‘Will we all just be another number? Another crew marked off the list until replacements come and fill the huts like we never existed in the first place?’ 

These questions floated in his mind while his gaze stayed on the empty glass in front of him. “I’m, uh, gonna get another drink. I’ll be back,” he announced quickly, rising from his chair and turning toward the bar. Ruth’s anxious eyes followed him before she glanced back at Hope.

Buck watched him go with a pang of concern and kissed Hope on the temple, promising his return before he got up and followed after his friend. The women shared a knowing look as they watched the men they loved disappear into the crowd. Seemingly following their Majors, the rest of the men got up and trailed after them a few minutes later, leaving Hope and Ruth alone at the table.

“I’m worried,” Ruth muttered, chewing her bottom lip nervously. “What happens if John or Gale don’t make it back one-”

Hope cut her off quickly and moved to sit beside her.  “Hey. They’re going to be fine, Rue. Before long, we’re gonna be celebrating their 25th mission, alright?”

“Alright,” she whispered as her gaze fell to the table.

The dance floor cleared over the next few minutes, and just a few couples remained dancing. In the middle of the floor was Helen, wrapped up in the arms of an airman they’d never seen before. Wide grins grew on their faces as they watched her place a few kisses against the dark-headed stranger’s jawline. Over his shoulder, Helen’s eyes wandered to the two women sitting alone, and Ruth smiled, giving her a thumbs up as Hope winked at her.

Feeling someone’s gaze on her, Hope scanned the room, meeting the familiar but concerned blues of Gale across the room from where he leaned against the bar beside John. They talked to yet another new airman the girls had never met, but even she could see the grimace on Bucky’s face as he leaned closer to the man, gesturing his hands out.

She glanced over at Ruth who thankfully was too busy tidying up the mess the men left before returning her eyes to her fiancée. In the few seconds she’d looked away, the replacement airman disappeared, and the two Majors stood alone.

“Come on, Rue. Let’s rejoin the party, shall we?” Hope asked, rising to her feet and offering Ruth her hand with a forced smile.

She knew something was up with John. She could tell by Gale’s body language alone.

The blonde took her hand, allowing Hope to lead them towards the men. But just as they passed Helen and the dancing soldier, Colonel Harding and Major Bowman stepped through the doors and sauntered over the bar, a fat cigar hanging from Chick’s lips. 

“My boys!”

Not wanting to interrupt, the women stood on the outskirts of the group, moving to stand beside Tatty, even though both Buck and Johnny sent them a questioning look. Ruth scanned Bucky’s face, but her smile fell when she immediately noticed the line between his brows and the muscle twitching in his jaw.

“Listen up! I just had a mood-killing conversation with Doc Stover. He thinks you sissies could be getting flack happy.”

“No, not us, sir,” the airmen chorused.

“I told him war is war. The longer you go at it, the more it screws a man up. And it’s been that way since the first caveman son of a bitch picked up a club and went after the other. Did cavemen go for head-shrinking?”

As the men shook their heads, Ruth and Hope shared a wary glance. 

Where was this going?

“No! Damn sure not! What counts is that you soldiers show up ready and able to fight. What you do between battles…” Harding trailed off with a chuckle, smirking as he took a drag of his cigar.

Hope watched as Buck remained stoic, no reaction on his face, but John looked over at Ruth, sending her a wink. “I like your style, sir!”

For the first time, Bucky’s wink didn’t make her heart skip a beat…it made it drop into her stomach. His grin was so clearly forced that her mind went haywire, and he was the only thing she could focus on. Sensing the blonde finally picked up on John’s demeanor, Hope silently intertwined their hands, squeezing Ruth’s reassuringly.

Red broke his silence, shaking his head slightly as he spoke. “Aerial combat like this hasn’t been around since the caveman, sir.”

“Of course not, Red. Every war has its novelties,” Harding dismissed the Major, turning to look at the dance hall. A few seconds later, his demeanor changed, and his voice grew serious. “Who the hell decorated this fiesta?”

Everyone looked around the group before Jack hesitantly spoke. “I put together a committee, sir.”

Craning their heads to see around the Colonel, the women confusedly searched the hall for what he possibly could be upset about, but had no such luck.

“The damned plane looks like it’s in a nosedive.”

The sound of chuckles filled the air as John grinned over at Ruth. “Fire ‘em. Fire the committee…Ruth can decorate next time.”

She did her best to smile back at him, but it was just as forced as the grin on his lips.

“I won’t bother next time,” Kidd muttered.

Harding seemed to move on and faced the men again, waving them all closer. “Come on, get in. Come here. Got something to tell ‘ya.”

Hope and Ruth stepped forward, watching the Colonel over Tatty’s shoulder, their eyes moving between their Majors and the CO. 

“You know how we could end this whole thing tonight?” Chick asked, his face scrunched into a half-grimace as he leaned into the group. “We fill up one of our forts with as many 500-pounders as she can hold, we bomb the hell out of Hitler’s hidey-hole.”

The grin on Johnny’s face fell, and he tilted his face to the floor with slightly pursed lips for a moment before returning his gaze to Harding. His forced smiles and strained banter only added to the underlying tension in the room. Ruth’s fingers tightened around Hope’s hand, seeking reassurance as Chick continued.

“I’m sure Red and Bubbles could locate that mustachioed little fucker.”

Bubbles grinned proudly. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, now who’s flack happy?”

The second the words left John’s mouth, Ruth’s heart plummeted, and a knot formed in the pit of her stomach. She held her breath waiting for what would happen next.

What happened in the last few minutes to change his attitude completely?

All the officer’s went silent, shooting each other worried looks while Bucky and Harding stared at each other.

“Who?”

“You are,” John nodded, his expression bearing no trace of any amusement.

Harding smirked, “You are.”

“No, you are,” Egan leaned forward, thwacking Harding’s chest with his hand. “Sir.” 

The next few seconds seemed to stretch on for hours as the atmosphere became even more tense, the room seeming to hold its breath. Gale quickly glanced over at Hope, his eyes filled with concern, much like the rest of the officers. The blonde beside her didn’t notice Buck, unable to tear her eyes away from John, who looked like he was teetering on the edge of an outburst.

The Major and the Colonel stared at each other until a smirk broke out on Chick’s face and he chuckled, the rest of the group following suit when the tension eased.

“Mmm, Single fillies. Come on, boys. Let’s get the lead out!” Harding smirked, taking a drag from his cigar, and left the party with Red trailing behind him.

The officers dispersed out onto the dance floor, leaving John, Gale, Hope, Ruth, and Benny at the bar. 

Gale turned to catch Hope’s eye, his face saying ‘hold on while I talk to him’. Hope nodded in agreement, catching Ruth’s arm and leading her away from their men. 

“What about John?” Ruth looked hastily over her shoulder for him, meeting his conflicted eyes momentarily, but Hope pulled her on. 

“Gale’s going to talk to him, it’ll be okay. They’ve been through a lot, remember? It’s bound to catch up with them all at some point, and we just need to be here to help them if they fall.” Hope led her back to the table, sitting her down and placing the glass of ginger beer in front of her. 

Hope hated watching Ruth’s worried eyes keep darting back toward the boys, but she knew that her own eyes kept drifting back to Gale’s. If this evening had taught her anything, it was that life was more precious than they could ever realize, and each moment should be cherished. 

They needed a distraction from their anxieties, and Hope blurted the first story that came to mind.

“Do you remember that day when you were new to the Grove and you walked in on Frank naked?” 

The blonde’s cheeks immediately heated up as she buried her head in her hands, “How could I forget? I’d only known the man for three days.”

Hope laughed too, “Well, it could be worse. On my first day on base, he nearly ran me over with a jeep. That was before he realized I was on his plane. He bought me a beer that same evening to apologize.” 

Ruth laughed, imagining a younger Hope giving Frank hell for trying to run her down. 

“We had a medical technician on our plane with us back then. Joseph was his name. He was a right pretty boy…thought he was the bee's knees but I soon told him otherwise.” 

Ruth chuckled, knowing Hope probably gave the poor boy hell. It was strange thinking back to when they first came to the Grove, the airbase that had quickly become their home and safe haven. 

“It seems like a lifetime ago that I met you, Hope. I thought you hated me at first.”

“Oh, I didn’t hate you…I just thought you weren’t going to make it,” Hope replied honestly, feeling slightly guilty about how she’d misjudged her best friend. “You soon proved me wrong though, Rue. You’re a good nurse.” 

Hope looked up as Gale approached them, smiling brightly at her while John still stood near the bar still looking quite somber. Ruth stood up, quickly excusing herself as she made her way over to the bar, resting her hand against John’s arm.

“Hey,” she whispered, her blue eyes filled with worry. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

He nodded, allowing her to take his hand and tug him to the door.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” she finally asked when they excited the club into the English night, her voice soft with concern.

John pursed his lips and a flicker of hesitation crossed his features before he shrugged. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

“John,” Ruth urged, her voice hardening as she gave him the look that always made her students squirm in their seats. 

And her tone…it was only used when dealing with problem students, the ones who lied directly to her face when she already knew the truth.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “I’m fine.”

“What was that, then?” Ruth pressed, refusing to let it go. She needed to know exactly what was wrong…needed to help him in whatever way she could.

But how could he tell her the truth?

He could go down the next day and it would be like he never was there in the first place. Gone like the 230 men they’d lost.

How was he supposed to tell the woman he loved that she could lose him in the blink of an eye?

That he could lose her just the same?

That he couldn’t write another life-shattering letter to a boy’s family?

His nervousness to confess his feelings was replaced with guilt, anger, and frustration that compounded in his chest, creating a volatile mixture that was bound to explode. 

“Nothing,” he insisted, his tone growing defensive. “Like I said.”

“Please don’t lie to me,” Ruth pleaded as she grasped his hand, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know-”

The flood he’d been trying to hold back finally broke, and his voice raised just a fraction as he pulled his hand from hers. “Damn it, Ruth. I said I’m fine!”

The sharpness of his tone caught the woman off guard, and she recoiled slightly, blinking furiously to hold back the tears threatened to fill her eyes. “I’m just trying to help,” she whispered.

Without another word, she turned and walked back into the dance, leaving Bucky standing there in the chilly night. His hands moved to his hips as his chest heaved, the anger slowly leaving his body and morphing into guilt as his mind replayed her baby blues shining with tears and the tremble in her voice.

He was supposed to be a better man, someone worthy of her, and what did he do at the first chance?

Despite the mix of emotions within him, Johnny knew she was only trying to help, only trying to be there for him, and he’d raised his voice at her. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself before following after her, his heart pounding in his chest.

Pushing open the door and stepping inside, the sounds of the party filled Bucky’s ears, but for once, he couldn’t bring himself to care that the band played ‘Blue Skies’. His eyes scanned the bustling club and caught a glimpse of her blonde hair disappearing into the women’s bathroom.

John hesitated where he stood in the middle of the club, lost and unsure of what to do next. He knew he needed to talk to her, to make things right, but he also didn’t want to intrude on her privacy. Frustratingly running a hand over his mouth, he caught sight of Gale on the dance floor where he swayed slowly with Hope. Buck’s brow furrowed in confusion as he glanced in the direction Ruth had gone over Hope’s shoulder. With a nod of his head, he silently urged Johnny to go after her. 

It was the push that he needed to make a decision.

Swallowing thickly, he approached the bathroom door and knocked, his knuckles rapping against the wood gently. “Ruthie, can I come in?”

His heart sank when he heard sniffles from inside.

“Please,” John murmured softly, his voice barely audible through the door.

A few seconds ticked by and he was about to ask again when the door clicked open, giving him a view of her reddened and splotchy face. Ruth backed up, allowing him to slowly push in the door. She stood before him with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, barely meeting his gaze as her eyes remained on the floor. John silently stepped into the room and closed the door behind him gently, muffling the sounds of the party outside.

They stood there silently for a few moments until Ruth finally looked up at him, quickly wiping a tear from her cheek as she chewed on her bottom lip. 

“Come here,” he mumbled, pulling her softly into his chest, running a hand up and down her back. “I’m sorry, doll. So sorry.”

Ruth stiffened for a moment before relaxing against him, burying her face into his chest.

“I’m not mad at you. I just,” he sighed against her hair. “I hate myself for making you upset. I know you’re just trying to help me.”

She lifted her head from his chest and broke her silence, her voice wavering. “Then talk to me.”

John stared at her for a moment, running his fingers through her hair gently as he thought of a way to explain what he felt…the weight he felt on his shoulders. “There’s nothing you can do about it, Ruth,” he muttered, his face tilting to the ground.

“I don’t care,” the nurse answered quietly, reaching up and gently lifting his face to meet her teary gaze. "Just…just please don’t shut me out.”

For a moment, they stood there in silence as Bucky nodded to himself with his lips pulled into a tight line. When he finally found the words, his voice was barely audible as he fought to keep his composure. 

“You heard Crank earlier. We’ve lost so many boys, and I-,” he cleared his throat, looking over her shoulder at the wall while fighting the burning sensation in his eyes. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Ruth’s heart broke at his confession, and she cupped his cheeks and pulled him down to her, their foreheads pressing together.

“John, you are going to get through this. We are going to get through this,” Ruth whispered. “I’m right here, and I don’t plan on going anywhere. You can talk to me, alright?”

He released a shuddering breath against her face, allowing his eyes to flutter shut as he savored the feeling of her warm touch. The three words he’d been meaning to say all night danced on the tip of his tongue but refused to pour from his lips.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you. I-”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” she interrupted, her thumb caressing his cheekbone lightly. “I know I don’t say it enough, but thank you. You make me so happy, Johnny.”

Bucky raised his hand to cover her much smaller one on his cheek as he sent her a soft smile. “I should be the one thanking you. You…you mean everything to me, Ruth. Everything. And I’m so sorry for talking to you like-”

“Just kiss me,” she whispered, her eyes flicking to his lips.

John immediately obeyed, tilting his head to connect their lips softly, their worries fading away as they lost themselves in each other. Ruth’s hands slid from his face to the nape of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as she deepened the kiss with an eagerness he’d never seen from her before. He fought against every instinct in him urging him to take things farther, but she deserved more than that…they both did.

As they pulled away from the kiss, they remained wrapped in the other’s arms, their breaths mingling in the air between them. John’s gaze softened as he looked into Ruth’s eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. He noticed the remnants of tears still clinging to her lashes, her eyes red and puffy, and his hand raised to brush her hair behind her ear.

“I’m getting a weekend pass to London,” he said breathlessly, nervously peering down at her. “Come with me.”

Ruth grinned and pecked his lips again softly. “I’d want nothing more.”

In that moment, with Ruth in his arms, John Egan vowed London would be the place…would be the time he’d confess his love for her. 

How he couldn’t imagine life without her.

London…it would be the place that everything changed.

Monday, September 20th: AAF Grove, Berkshire: 0700 HRS: 7 AM

Hope let out a long sigh as the C-47’s wheels left the runway in one swoop, rising above the airstrip and leaving the base far below them as they climbed into the clouds. Frank talked quietly to Bill in the cockpit, and both girls couldn’t help but smile at their pilot's antics. He was a good pilot, but as a mentor, he was a hard task-master, and Bill was being put through his paces. Ruth pulled John’s latest letter from her pocket, rereading his words with a small smile.

September 17th My Ruth, Hey, slugger. I hope you’ve had a good few days. Have your runs been okay? Has Frank been nice to you? You know I won’t hesitate to rough him up if not. I have been unable to keep my mind off of you…as usual. Schwarz developed the pictures from the party yesterday, and I’ve found myself staring at our photo for longer than I’d like to admit. You’re just so beautiful…the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on…have I told you that? Schwarz also gave each Buck and Hugh individual pictures of them with Hope. I’m pretty sure Buck is sending copies of the letter he’s writing from his bunk. You’ll find one of us in this envelope, as well. I’m sure you’ll love it just as much as I do. I keep my copy in my breast pocket, next to my heart so you’ll be with me everywhere I go. When I start to spiral, I just look at you and your smiling face, and I remember what all this is for. Every day I ask myself how I got so lucky that you landed on my base out of the hundreds scattered around England, and after months of wondering, I still have no explanation.  All I know is that I kiss the lucky cross around my neck every time I leave and come back from a mission, thanking Mrs. Virginia Morgan that I made it back to the ground…back to you. I still can’t believe you wouldn’t take it back, Ruthie, but I promise to keep it safe until you’re ready to.  I can’t wait to take you to London, doll. Did your CO approve your leave? I can try to pull some strings if she doesn’t. Maybe I could give her a call and use my charm to convince her? What do you think? Stay safe up there for me, alright? Yours Completely, John Egan P.S. The Yankees swept the Athletics in their series, keeping their 9-game win streak alive. We’ve got the American League in the bag! What do I always say? The Yankees always end on top! Remember that, doll. You’ll be hearing it a lot after we win the World Series next month.

Both women received letters from their Majors late the night before and immediately wrote their responses, promising to send them the following morning. But when they were called up for a run before dawn, both dashed to the post room before hurrying back to ‘The Angel.’ 

“So how is the hotshot then?” Hope asked with a grin, amused by Ruth’s embarrassed expression, her pale cheeks blushing deeply. 

“How do you know I call him that?” Ruth asked curiously, but Hope just shook her head with a chuckle. 

“Ruth, you've read his letters out loud enough times when I’m around that I’ve basically read them myself.” The blonde nodded slowly, half listening to Hope and the other half of her too engrossed in John’s words as she reread them again. After a few moments, she looked up from the letter.

“I wrote to my parents about John the other day,” Ruth called out over the engine’s whine, a fond smile on her lips.

“Oh yeah?”

The blonde nodded. “Yeah.”

“What all did you tell them?” Hope asked with a raised brow.

Ruth’s innocent smile turned into a mischievous smirk as she chuckled to herself. “Well, my Mama always reads the letters, so I wrote the basics for her to tell my Dad and Jamie, but gave her all the details.”

“John’s right,” she laughed. “You are a sneaky woman.”

Shrugging, Ruth pulled out the picture he sent from her pocket, her heart fluttering as she studied it, tracing the lines of John’s face on the small photo. She was glad to finally have a piece of Johnny to carry around with her, being able to whip it out whenever she missed him or just wanted to see his handsome face.

The plane rocked from side to side as they gained altitude, and the large metal bird flew ‘through the ‘gate’ as Frank liked to call it as she moved to full throttle, soaring up into the clouds. 

“Stop being a clot,” Frank hissed to Bill, flicking a few switches in the cockpit with a long sigh, “You know what you’re doing kid, but shit, try using your head sometimes okay?” 

“Yes Sir,” Bill nodded shyly, turning his attention back to the plane's control panel. The girls smiled at each other, listening to the two men bickering in the cockpit

“Where do you think the boys are right now?” Ruth asked, looking up nervously at Hope. She always worried when she thought of where their men could be. The thought of them in harm's way made her sick to the stomach. 

Were they flying like girls were? Were they in danger? 

Hope slouched in her seat as the plane leveled out, “I don’t know, Rue. I’d like to think that they’re at Thorpe Abbotts. Hugh’s probably getting into some sort of trouble or terrorizing poor Harry Crosby. John is probably having some coffee with his whiskey about now at breakfast.” This caused Ruth to laugh lightly at the thought of John’s usual morning routine.

“What about Gale?” 

Hope took a little longer to reply this time. “I think Gale would… well I don’t know. He’s probably either eating breakfast with John, walking Meatball, or he’s with his baby.” 

“His baby?” Ruth sputtered, cocking her head and looking at her friend for the answer.

“His Fort, ‘Our Baby’,” Hope laughed, watching as Ruth nodded, understanding the men’s attachment to their Forts. She guessed they all felt the same way about their own plane, although Ruth thought if she never had to fly again it would be a blessing. 

The pair soon fell into silence, both organizing their mussette bags for the hundredth time, as if they hadn’t checked all their supplies pre-flight. Hope moved up to the cockpit to check in with the pilots while Ruth moved along the racks of supplies, laying out fresh blankets on each cot, humming an Artie Shaw song to herself as she went.

“How’s it going up here, boys?” Hope leant over Frank’s shoulder, watching as the cloudy sky unfolded before them. 

“Can’t complain,” Frank replied plainly. “I think Billy Boy here is getting the hang of things at last.” The young pilot grinned at the compliment and Hope couldn’t help the sense of pride that filled her chest. They’d had several copilots training with Frank, but Bill was definitely the girl's favorite. 

Looking back out the window, Hope pointed towards the dark clouds erupting ahead of them. 

“Hey Frank, what’s that up ahead? That’s not what I think it is…right?”

“That, my dear Hope, is flak fire,” he said regretfully. “Looks like we’re heading to the movies. I suggest you girls grab a seat…Ruth may want a blindfold for this next part.” 

Hope swallowed, nodding quickly before rushing back to her seat. Bill talked quickly to Frank in the cockpit but remained calm, it wasn’t anything they hadn’t been through before. 

Ruth’s fearful eyes widened as Hope explained what Frank had told her before swiftly strapping herself into her seat. Her mind raced at all the terrible outcomes that could occur. 

What happens if they go down? 

What would happen if they just blew up over Germany? 

She tried to put on a brave face but she knew Hope would see right through it, she always did. 

The plane swerved as flak erupted around them, swooping and diving as the black clouds and wuffs from the Ack-Acks flew wildly around them. Hope and Ruth were thrown around in their seats as the plane swerved, flack bursts shaking the bird. They were very grateful that they always secured all their supplies and stretchers down pre-flight.

Hope’s fingers dug into the metal seat and her eyes closed as her stomach flipped in circles with each turn. She’d not had any issues with her motion sickness since her training, but the urge to vomit up her breakfast only grew as the bile rose in the back of her throat. 

Ruth opposite from her was as white as a sheet, her already pale face now the color of a corpse with her lips set in a thin worried line. Her teeth clenched tightly together and her eyes squeezed shut as flack pierced through the plane's fuselage above her head. 

“Shit!” Ruth shrieked, covering her head with her hands.

“You okay, Rue?” Hope shouted over the noise of the war around them. A glossy-eyed and panting Ruth only nodded quickly in response.

Bullets ripped through the riveted sheets of the fuselage with a series of metallic pings, piercing through easily and sending metal flying into the cabin like confetti. With the chaos surrounding them, Ruth barely noticed when a piece of shrapnel flew past her face, just grazing her temple. Flak fire continued to blast in the air surrounding the skytrain and the noise was deafening to everyone inside. 

How could anyone think strategically in these conditions? 

“OH FUCK!” Frank’s voice shouted from the cockpit as he leaned over to Bill, “Stay with me, kid.” Bill’s lifeless body lay wide-eyed staring straight ahead, his young face frozen, expressionless. “DAMMIT!” 

“What’s wrong, Frank?” Hope called out as she unbuckled herself and stumbled from her seat, edging her way towards him. 

Ruth’s eyes widened. “Hope! What are you doing?!”

She simply sent her a worried glance, seeing the blood trickling down Ruth’s cheek before disappearing from view, and the blonde stared at her in disbelief. When another burst sent burning hot metal through the plane’s fuselage around her, Ruth’s eyes clenched shut, her head bowing as she mumbled a prayer for them, her hand instinctively reaching up for her usual comfort… her necklace….her lucky necklace that now hung around the neck of John Egan.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

In the cockpit, Frank didn’t turn to face Hope when he spoke, his eyes trained on the incoming fire from the Messerschmitts flying in all directions around them. 

“We have been fucked by the fickle finger of fate and today is not our day. We’re down to one engine and she isn’t sounding too healthy. We’re littered with holes and,” he paused, his throat constricting as he motioned to the young boy who lay dead beside him. “And the Krauts…they got Billy.” 

The plane juddered and smoke poured from the remaining engine with a horrendous screech as Frank took a steadying breath. The next words to leave his lips sent a shiver down Hope’s spine. 

They were the ones every airman, flight nurse, and pilot prayed they’d never have to hear…

“There goes the last engine. We’re going down!”

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