#just another reason for rosie and grace to be in emotionally vulnerable situations :)

[softspeirs]

These Heartbeats Clear (4): Rosie Rosenthal x OC

A/N: You mean I was supposed to watch ep 7 and Rosie run towards a recently landed B-17 all heroically and not write something where he helps with the wounded? *laughs maniacally*

four (loss & grief)

Heads tilted upwards, every stood-down pilot, crew member, and civilian on base counts the number of planes coming in.

It's always fewer than they expect.

The 100th is taking so many losses at this point in the war, Rosie is not surprised when two planes barely make the runway. Red-red flares, wounded aboard. Landing gear screeching, holes in wings smoking, and he's moving before he can even think about what he's doing.

The hatch is open and a slew of bullet casings come tumbling out, a crew member not far behind, dazed. Rosie reaches for him out of instinct, gripping his elbow to keep him upright.

"You're all right, son." He says, but the Captain either doesn't hear him, or hasn't processed it. Rosie lets go.

His attention is drawn, as it tends to be, to the arrival of Lieutenant Grace Fleming. Her face is pale, but set in grim determination.

She meets his eyes for a split second. If she’s surprised to see him there, she doesn’t show it, instead she focuses on the man in front of her, fallen to his knees. His breath comes in fits and spurts.

“Captain—“ She barks, eyes flicking up to Rosie’s once more. “A hand.”

It’s not a request. If he’s here, he has to make himself useful. Another nurse on her left, they’re lowering the man to the ground.

“Need him on a litter right away.”

“Count of three.” Rosie confirms, another member of the medical corps arriving at their side with a stretcher.

“Nurse—“ the man stutters, blood seeping from between his chattering teeth. “Miss Grace, please.”

Grace freezes for only a moment, but it’s enough for Rosie to see. Her jaw clenches. “I’m here, you’re alright. Try to slow your breathing for me, okay?” Her hands are gentle as she clasps his. She presses their interlocked hands to the man’s chest, leaning over him. “You’ve got a bad leg wound and some shrapnel elsewhere, we’re going to get you inside and take care of you.”

“Please,” he begs again. “Grace, I don’t want to die.”

Rosie is relieved when Grace looks at him, nodding once. “Count of three.” She says.

One, two, three, and they’re lifting. Into the ambulance the young Lieutenant goes, and Grace is right behind. Rosie helps her in, hands gripping around her waist and hoisting her inside before he can second guess touching her like that.

“Later.” She says to him quietly before shutting the door.

It didn’t need to be said - their sunset meetings on the hard stand have been a staple for the both of them since he came back from the flak house.

He turns back to the chaotic scene behind him, wanting to help. Scenes like this are becoming more and more common. It makes alarm bells ring in his head. Somehow, though, it makes him more sure about his next move.

.

He waits around on the hard stand for a half hour before a feeling in his gut has him turning back towards the barracks.

He goes to the women's hut first. Shaking his head at his sudden nervousness, he raps his knuckles on the door. Entering uninvited seems wrong, and when the door is opened in front of him, he hastily whips off his hat and clutches it between his fingers.

"Captain!" The woman says, and Rosie is embarrassed to admit to himself that he doesn't know her name.

"I'm looking for--"

"Grace?" Word has gotten around, then. "She hasn't been here. Still at the hospital as far as I know. She missed dinner."

Rosie frowns. That's not like her.

Following his gut, he thanks the woman at the door and turns on his heels, heading in the opposite direction. Not for the first time, he wishes he had a jeep or a bike at his disposal - he knows he could find someone to give him a lift, but he doesn't want to draw any more attention to his meeting with Grace than he apparently already has.

The hospital is eerily silent. He forces himself inside - he still hates the smell and the way everything is so blindingly white.

A few men he recognizes from the landing earlier are in bed, most asleep. Their wounds range from what appear to be minor to a man who is bandaged nearly from head to toe.

There is still blood on the floor.

He steps carefully past the last bed. Still no sign of Grace.

Water runs in a small room to his left, and he makes his footfalls a little heavier in hopes that he doesn't startle her if she is indeed still here, preparing to leave for the day.

He peers around the corner to see her, hands deep in the washing basin. She is scrubbing at her hands so hard, she sounds out of breath. A sick, sinking feeling hits him in the gut.

"Grace." He says her name softly. It comes out hoarse. He takes a few steps closer when she doesn't react. "Grace?"

She's still scrubbing at her hands. When he gets close enough, he can see the color of her skin - bright pink, the water so hot steam is rising from the tap. The soap running from her fingers is clean, not a tinge of any color that shouldn't be there running down the drain.

Her hands are shaking.

Without saying anything else, he reaches for the tap and shuts it off. She doesn't stop rubbing at her hands, her knuckles, her fingernails.

"Grace." His voice is firmer this time. His hands settle over hers. He almost pulls away because of how hot her touch is, but the shaking only gets worse in her long fingers, and he grips her tighter out of instinct.

"He didn't make it." She says, voice like he's never heard it before. Flat. Emotionless. "The Lieutenant from--" She stops, and it's not really a cry, but more of a strangled noise that leaves her throat. "His plane was called Borrowed Time."

Rosie's throat is tight as he watches her. He gently guides her away from the sink, hands still tight around hers. "Come on, sit down for a second."

"I can't-- I have to get the blood off."

"Gracie, you're clean, okay?"

"He-- he begged me." She looks at him then. There are tears in her eyes, but he knows her well enough to know she won't let them fall. "He didn't call for his mother, or for God. He begged me."

Rosie throws all caution to the wind. He pulls her sideways so she's half in his lap. His arms go around her, tugging her close, her head finding purchase on his shoulder. Her breathing is strangled, and he knows she's trying not to break.

"You did everything you could." He assures her. "I know you did everything you could."

"You don't know that. Not for sure."

He's shaking his head before she can even finish her sentence. "Yes, I do. There's no one better than you, Grace."

She's quiet for a long time before she pulls away from him. His arms open automatically, and he clears his throat as a sudden awkwardness lands between them like an anvil. "I need to get out of here." She whispers.

"Come on." He says, holding his hand out to her. It feels like an eternity waiting to see if she'll take it.

She does.

.

Lemmons appears at some point to hand over a hastily wrapped parcel of sandwiches and sodas. Rosie looks up at him gratefully, even more grateful when Ken doesn't say anything - he's gotten used to seeing Rosie and Grace out here together.

Grace's face is a mask of stoicism, but Rosie knows better by now. He can see the crease in between her eyebrows that only shows up when she's tired or worried.

He can see the way her shoulders slump downward, her posture normally ramrod straight from years of being shouted at by her parents.

When they're alone again, he watches her carefully for signs that she's knitting herself back together. He doesn't know if his more-than-forward touch in the hospital was wanted, so he doesn't try again, though his fingers itch with the urge to take her hand or pull her close so he can feel her warmth.

"Your twenty-fifth is coming soon." She says suddenly.

He frowns at her. "Why are you thinking about that?"

"You have to go home, Rosie." Her voice trembles.

He takes a step backward. "What? I--"

"Captain Rosenthal, so help me, if you go up there again, you're going to end up in a hospital bed, and if you make me have to tend to you like that, I'll never speak to you again."

His hands go to his hips as he weighs his words. He doesn't want to upset her, he doesn't want to pretend that everything is going to be fine -- hell, he might not make it back at all, let alone without a scratch.

"I can't promise you that."

She stares at him. "You're going to re-up after twenty five." It's not a question.

"The thought has crossed my mind."

She wraps her arms around herself, and he sees it for what it is, shielding herself for what she sees as an unavoidable blow coming her way.

He takes a few steps closer to her, unable to stand the distance any longer. "I'm going to come back." His voice is firm, full of the conviction he feels because he trusts himself, he trusts his men, and because he has something to come back for. He's tired of pretending that's not the case. "I'm going to come back, and I swear I won't have more than minor mending for you to do, all right?"

She looks up at him, the slight widening of her eyes the only indication that he's standing closer than she thought he was. But she doesn't back away.

Her arms fall from around her waist, and reach for him instead. He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Her touch moves from grasping his hand up to his elbow, and then she's tugging him closer, folding him into an embrace. This time it's him who finds a spot for his forehead on her shoulder, inhaling as he feels her grip him tight.

"Thank you." She whispers. Whether it's for the promise of coming back or for pulling her back from the brink today, he wants to tell her that she doesn't need to thank him, that he would be the one to pull her back a hundred times over if it meant he'd get to have these moments with her.

When they pull apart, arms still around each other, he watches the fading sunlight in her eyes and thinks he's never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his entire life.

How he restrains himself, he has no idea.

They walk back to the barracks hand in hand after he stares her down, laughing when she rolls her eyes at him demanding she eat some food in his presence before she goes to sleep.

At the door, he watches her shoulders straighten and hears her take a big, deep breath. He recognizes the motions because he does them too, every time before he hauls himself through the hatch again.

Once more unto the breach.

He's so proud of her. For fighting her way through the hardest day of the war for her so far, for getting up each day and finding a way to be a comforting touch, a healing hand, and a smiling face for these men. He wonders if she has any idea how many lives she's saved, and not just from medicine.

One day he'll have the courage to put into words what she means to him, too.

Today, though, he raises his hand in a farewell as he takes a few steps backward, and laughs under his breath as she blushes just a little.

Her smile plays on a loop over and over again as he falls asleep that night.