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lostloveletters · 3 months

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Love Like an Ache in the Jaw (John Brady x OC)

Summary: Kate "Woody" Woodward isn't quite sure what to make of love when she's finally got it, presented to her with unwavering devotion by the freshly promoted Captain John Brady.

Note: This is an expanded version of With a Rose Between Your Teeth (Is That Blood in Your Mouth for Me?) Title comes from Sweet Dreams, TN by The Last Shadow Puppets. Also, a million thanks to Kara @karasnonsense99 for letting me ramble about these two all the time ilysm🖤 Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Inevitable historical and technical inaccuracies. Depictions of blood. Sexually explicit content involving oral sex (m. receiving).

The shining double bars on his collar said it all, catching the sunlight as he walked over to her on the tarmac. Unprecedented pride bubbled up in Woody’s stomach at the sight of him, and for a careless moment, she allowed it to boil over into a congratulatory kiss on his cheek. John didn’t protest, his hands on her waist, kissing her as best as he could with his lips pulled into a smile. Whispered about going out that night to celebrate. Not alone. Never alone, but typically with good enough company that she didn’t mind.

They were joined by most of his crew, guys she’d gotten to know well enough by virtue of hanging around John, but she managed to talk Darla into coming along when Holly declined her invitation, a regretful tiredness in her smile when she insisted Woody go out without her. But her fellow mechanic was fun, if not a little rowdy—perfect for a night of celebrating.

In all honesty, the night panned out to be a bit tamer than she’d been expecting. She zoned out from Hoerr and Hambone’s argument over whether Rita Hayworth or Betty Grable had better legs. John didn’t hesitate to input his preference for Hayworth, something Woody occasionally teased him about, asking if she should dye her hair red just to watch his ears burn the same color. Always muttered something about liking her the best, taking her into his arms and kissing her as if she needed the reassurance she wouldn’t lose him to the likes of the bombshell actress.

No, the conversation being held behind them caught her attention, a man musing at the billiards table over finding someone to play eight-ball with, having just been paid and ready to supplement his payday. Her fingers twitched as she brought her cigarette to her lips, inhaling as her mind raced. She’d played plenty stateside, back when she was still going by Kate.

Woody wasn’t sure what the hell he meant by quid, but her serpentine confidence slithered over the necessity of understanding exactly how much was on the table. When the car business was slow, hustling pool had been her next best bet. Good enough that she was sure even after two years of eschewing such habits, she would come out on top.

She turned around in her seat, and before she could stop herself, said, “I’ll play you.”

An RAF pilot and his buddies. They shared incredulous looks, snickering amongst themselves until one chuckled, “That would hardly be a fair game.”

“Double it.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

The corners of her lips twitched, and she snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray in the middle of the table as she stood up. “Whatever you’re betting, double it, if you’re so sure.”

The voices at the table fell to a hush, and she felt John’s fingers brush the small of her back through her blouse, as if to give her an out if she wanted. Too late. She let the beast rear its ugly head, forked tongue and all, as she stared down the pilot. He relented, holding out the pool cue for her. Probably figured it’d be an easy win. Line his pockets with her misguided cockiness.

Woody grabbed the cue. Watched with curiosity as they set up the rack, placing the eight ball at the foot instead of in the middle. Licked her lips as she realized there may have been differences in the way the British played than how she was used to, but she wasn’t about to betray her own ignorance by asking what exactly the rules were.

Instead, with a deceptively bored-sounding self assurance asked, “So am I stripes or solids?”

He considered her for a moment. “Stripes.” Motioned to the table. “Ladies first.”

She scoffed, cooly rolling her eyes at his false chivalry as she leaned over to break the rack. Spared a glance at John, his arms folded across his chest, watching her with an intensity that nearly sent a shiver down her spine. She hit the cue ball, sending stripes and solids across the felted table.

Standing up straight, she followed the striped ten as it rolled into a corner pocket. Missed the next one, but so did the pilot, and it was her turn again. She made up for her sloppy performance with nine and twelve in another corner pocket.

Woody stalked around the table and leaned over in front of John, making a bit more of a show than was necessary in shifting her hips to make the hit. Fourteen in the middle pocket. Looked over at him, the slightest smile on her face when they locked eyes. Everything else faded into the background, white noise and static compared to the way he was looking at her.

Acutely aware of his attention, drinking in the sight of her as she leaned over every so often, deliberately biting her lip or sticking her tongue between her teeth just to see his reaction, playing a different game entirely by the time she hit all of the stripes into the pockets, finally finishing off the eight ball.

Darla laughed. “Goddamn Woody, I didn’t know you could play like that.”

“She must’ve cheated somehow,” the pilot said dismissively to his friends, as if she weren’t even there.

“Jesus Christ, these guys,” Hambone muttered.

“There’s no way she could have cheated,” John said. “Be a man and pay up.”

“Or what?”

Woody shot him a glare, leaning against the cue. “Or I’ll shove this up your—”

It happened so fast. Too fast. Before she could even blink, a wad of spit landed on her face.

John grabbed Woody’s shoulder, pushing her behind him. Scraping chairs and mangled shouts drowned out the music playing from the jukebox. She wiped the spit off of her cheek with the back of her hand, cringing as she shook it out. Her stomach sank. Why the fuck did she say that? Lost herself for just a minute, let herself be the person she tried to leave behind in San Francisco, and it all went to shit, like everything Kate touched tended to do at some point.

Her eyes frantically searched for John in the fight that erupted. The sinking feeling in her stomach warped into something else entirely at the sight of him, taking a punch to his jaw before throwing a solid one in return. Always found guys who fought for their girls teeming with unearned bravado, something to prove. But John’s bravado had been wholly earned. Proved himself with his promotion to Captain, which he was putting in jeopardy on her behalf. More than that, it looked good on him.

Still, she wouldn't let him bear the brunt of her mistake if she could help it. She shuffled forward, narrowly avoiding an elbow to the face as she grabbed his arm.

“John, come on! He’s an idiot!”

She practically had to wrestle him away from the chaos and into the bathroom. A cramped space with peeling paint and a naked lightbulb that almost didn’t let her close the door behind them until she forced it shut.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?”

Water poured freely from the faucet. She watched as he splashed some in his mouth, swishing it between puffed up cheeks.

“People might think we’re in love or something.”

He spit into the sink. Water pink with blood pooled at the rusty drain. It dripped from his chin as he stared her down with blown out pupils, reflecting her own unspoken desire. “We are.”

She reached out and wiped his chin with the pad of her thumb. Glanced at the glistening residue on her finger before sticking it in her mouth, letting the faint coppery taste settle sweetly on her tongue.

“Yeah. We are.”

And all at once she was consumed by it, the fiery desolation of being loved and loving in return. Made her skin burn, feel more alive than she had in months. No wonder it made people go crazy. Like him, her calm and collected pilot who suddenly didn’t hesitate to throw punches over a woman with no honor to defend except for the fact that he loved her.

He loved her.

She kissed him with a ferocity that forced him to grip the sink to keep himself steady. The faint traces of blood still in his mouth sent an almost vampiric fervor through her. Brought her hand up to his neck and felt the way his Adam’s apple bobbed at her touch. Always privately lamented that she couldn’t mark up his throat the way she desperately wanted to, sink her teeth into him and let everyone know he was hers.

She wanted more of him. Always more. Lowered her hands to unbuckle his belt.

“Sweetheart, what are you—”

“Got that handsome face of yours roughed up over me,” she rasped, pressing her lips to his jaw as she unzipped his pants. “‘S the least I can do, Johnny.”

He uttered a low ‘fuck’ as he watched her drop to her knees in the tight space. Nuzzled her nose against his crotch, the dim lighting nearly concealing the playful smile that's spread across her lips. She pulled his pants and underwear down to his knees. He swallowed roughly, licking his lips in anticipation.

She spit into her palm, then took his cock in her hand, wet and calloused as she pumped his length. Pressed a kiss to his head before wrapping her lips around it, her tongue warm and inviting. He threaded his fingers through her hair, his blunt nails scratching against her scalp.

She watched him intently, his face contorting with pleasure as she took more of him in her mouth. Noticed with obsessive observation what made him moan louder or tug on her hair a little harder. All of the noises he made echoed in the cramped space, and only served to drive her wild, give her more motivation to bring him to climax.

Her fingernails pressed crescent-shaped marks into his thighs when he thrust in her mouth. Didn’t matter that her jaw started to ache a little, lips were probably swollen and puffy. She wanted him to feel good, to know how much he meant to her, to use the memory of her on her knees in any fantasy he conjured up for himself in his private moments. She wanted to be it for him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he forced out, his voice low and gravelly. “I’m close.”

She choked a bit when he thrust harder, the tip of his cock hitting the back of her throat. It twitched against her tongue, pulsing and veiny, his length almost too much for her to handle when he came, her name falling from his lips like a prayer though she was the one on her knees.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised as she swallowed his cum, fondly stroking her messy blonde hair. “Such a good fucking girl.” Her body purred at his words, claiming her with a gentle ownership she keened at the thought of.

She figured she loved him for much longer than just that night, except she hadn’t realized because it felt so different from the way other people described it. Not particularly soft or sweet, but it made her feel powerful, alive. Like staring down everything she feared and finally feeling able to conquer it all instead of running—she was so damn tired of running.

He offered his hand, pulling her up from the floor. His lips brushed her cheek, adoration pouring from the simple gesture of affection. “I love you,” he whispered against her warm skin.

“I love you too.”

Woody leaned against the door, catching her breath as John pulled his pants back on. Took a look at himself in the mirror, straightening himself out to appear every bit of the no-nonsense Captain who had her wrapped around his finger.

Turning around, he gave her a once over, taking in her ragged appearance in comparison.

“Your nylons—“

She looked down, finding a tear at the knee. “I don’t give a damn. Let’s just get outta here, Johnny.”

“You sure?”

“We can sneak out the back and spend the rest of the night alone. They all probably think we left already.”

“Sounds like you have somewhere in mind.”

Woody smiled, turning the knob to crack the door open, checking if anyone would notice the two of them slipping out together. Taking his hand in hers, she gently squeezed it. “I might.”

#john brady x oc #john brady x ofc #john brady #masters of the air #mota #mota x oc #mota oc #masters of the air x oc #mota x ofc #hbo war #hbo war x oc #hbo war fanfic #mota fanfic #ch: woody #i know maybe like 3 people will actually read this after like 2 months of not posting anything for them but fuck it we ball

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assortedseaglass · 1 year

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The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty Two

Tom Bennett x Bess Vaughn (OFC)

[Masterlist]

Volume II Summary: Tom escapes occupied Europe to find home irreversibly changed. How will Tom and Bess cope when what was once familiar has changed forever?

Warnings: Strong Language, Angst, Smut, Violence (fairly mild), Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Depictions of PTSD, Injury Detail, Era typical Sexism, Era typical Homophobia, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mentions of Domestic Abuse (very brief), Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

A/N: Characters we haven’t seen for a while? Trauma from way back in volume one? You betcha. Posted in haste, will fix mistakes later.

Fucking war.

Tom ripped open the cardboard packet of his Marlboro’s just in case. Nothing. No Rita Hayworth. No Betty Grable. Not even Vera fucking Lynn. He lit a cigarette and sighed.

A pint of pale was put on the table before him. Through a haze of cigarette fog and beer-blurred eyes he looked at the barkeeper.

“We’ve had men in here trading their old cigarette cards. Anything for something new,” he scoffed and picked up Tom’s three empty glasses. “’Waste of resources’, ‘s’what they say on the wireless. You’d think a bit of leg would do everyone good. Keep morale high.”

Tom took a long gulp of the beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his jacket sleeve. “Well, if you ever run for office, you’ve got my vote. Bring back the tart card.” He raised the half-drunk glass but the man had already walked away. “To Winston fucking Churchill!”

From their position at the bar, a few patrons looked over their shoulders at him. None could have been younger than fifty. “What?” Tom said to them, his volume a touch too loud, eyes dark over the rim of the glass. They ignored him.

“Dunkierka!”

Tom screwed his eyes shut. It had been hours, but still Grzegroz’s voice rattled around his mind.

“Dunkierka!”

How strange, incredible really, that he could be transported so quickly to the battlefield once more. One moment he was playing football with Jan in Mrs Chase’s garden, the next he was watching the man with the terrified eyes screaming at him on the beach.

“Shoot me!”

“Fuck.” Tom downed the rest of the beer. Eight o’clock. The pub was busying now. He’d arrived not an hour before, having walked from Mrs Chase’s back into town. Now, the shift’s had changed at the dockyard and the factory, and the weekend was free for these men to take.

The table wobbled as Tom used all of his weight to stand. He blinked hard. A rush of blood drained from his head and he faltered. A lifetime’s worth of bad memories did not mix with four pints and an empty stomach.

Tom wasn’t drunk. Not by his standards at least. Instead, he was balanced on a precipice. A precipice that could turn the night into one of infinite wonder or have him fear the world by 8 o’clock next morning. Would it send him down the Palais with Bess? Hadn’t she said there was a dance on? Or would it be a night in the pub, taking on any Tom, Dick or Harry that dared, and sleeping under a bench? Tom found he didn’t care which. One drink more would do him right. Let Lady Luck decide.

Tom wasn’t drunk. However, he did not slide onto the bar stool with as much grace as he would’ve liked and a few men tittered. “Another pint please.”

“Right you are, Tom.” The barkeep gave him a wary look but poured the pint all the same. He’d seen enough soldiers and marines to know that if they weren’t drinking in his pub, they were out drinking and making a nuisance. God knows he remembered the last war well enough.

Another pint appeared before him, and Tom watched the foam settle. He leant forward, caressing the cool glass, and took a long, pleasured sip.

“How’s the navy treating you anyway, Tom?”

“The navy? The bloody navy? Can’t even steer a pedalo.”

Tom jolted and looked over his shoulder. It had happened the night before too, and that morning. Drifting off, he’d heard his father’s voice. “My brave, brave boy.” Only to wake up and have reality hit him hard, all air leaving his chest before he’d taken his first waking breath. His dad was gone.

A glass smashed in the corner of the pub and a roar of laughter rang up.

“Watch it! You lot break anymore, and you’ll be paying.” The barkeeper sighed. “Tom?”

“You what?”

The barkeeper watched him. “Ah, don’t worry about it, son.” He patted Tom’s arm and made his way to the end of the bar. Tom’s eyes followed as the man collected a sweeping brush and gathered the broken shards into a pile. One of the men in the party was gesturing wildly around, trying in vain to help. It was Fergal Vaughn.

“Sit down, man,” the barkeep said good-naturedly. “You’re a hindrance, not a help.”

Fergal flopped into his seat, the beer he held spraying everywhere. The friends surrounding him laughed. Sweat gleamed on the old man’s brow, his face red and shining. When he spoke, flecks of spittle flew from his mouth, and he laughed so hard Tom feared he might keel over for lack of breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Tom muttered into his pint. Well, at least the old bastard isn’t at home, bothering the girls.

There was a great commotion and Tom looked back to the party. Fergal had stood abruptly, his round belly pushing the table and knocking yet more glasses. He raised his near empty pint of Guinness in the air. “To my Cora, and to her Roger!”

The men cheered, raising their glasses and swigging their beers. “To her roger!” The two men nearest Tom cried and fell about laughing. Fergal swiped at them pathetically but giggled at their joke.

Tom should have laughed too. Should have joined in their merriment. But sat there, five pints deep, listening to Fergal Vaughn’s witterings while the ghost of his own father lingered just beyond reach, Tom felt his blood curdle. On the step of the stool, his leg began to bounce. The din of the pub’s patrons gave way to the swirling of blood and breath in his ears.

“Dunkierka!”

Tom slammed his fists into his eyes and tried to rub away the sound. Fergal guffawed behind him.

“You don’t think I’m genuine?”

“Are you, son?”

Bess’ voice joined the fray.

“You’ve never committed to anything or anyone. It’s not because you’re a womaniser, or because you don’t believe in the war. It’s because you’re a coward.”

“Just fuck off!” Tom shouted. He didn’t hear the way the pub stilled. Didn’t notice the way the man beside him got off his stool and shuffled away. Slowly, the noise around him picked up as everyone ignored the screwball at the bar.

He tried to calm himself and, naturally, thought of Bess. Almost half-past eight. She’d be at the dance by now. Hair rollered for once, a brush of lipstick. Tom’s body hummed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Who would she dance with, without himself or Albie there? Roger? From Fergal’s exclamations, it sounded like a night for celebration. Would Lois be there, singing with Connie? He hadn’t thought to ask Lois about her shift on the ambulance.

“You made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

The last words Lois hissed at him before he crumpled and made his way back to Bess. She’d spat them at him like a weapon. She’d meant to hurt him, and hurt him it did. The moment she’d uttered them Tom saw every disheartened, disapproving and disappointed look that had shadowed his father’s prematurely aged face. Each one, directed at him.

Yet another glass was placed next to him. An amber tot of whisky. “From Fergal,” said the barkeeper. Tom glanced over his shoulder to where Fergal had another pint raised in his direction.

“To Tom,” he slurred. “No doubt he’ll be stealing another of my girls away from me.” Fergal smiled at him and the other men silently raised their glasses.

Tom pushed the whisky away. “No thanks.”

“Right you are,” The barkeeper said after a moment, taking the glass away while eyeing something over Tom’s shoulder. With a hard smack, a meaty hand landed on Tom’s back and he didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The heavy breath and stench of ale told him everything.

“Rude to refuse a drink from your father-in-law-”

“You’re not my father-in-law.” Tom continued to stare straight ahead at the optics behind the bar.

“I’m as good as!” Fergal chortled. “And don’t you tell me I won’t be one day,” he tried to lean on the bar beside Tom but stumbled. Despite himself, Tom reached out a hand to steady him. “With Cora engaged, everyone will be looking to you and Bess.”

“Let them look.”

Fergal wobbled, leaning forward slightly to observe Tom. Fed up, Tom stared back at him, watching the man struggle to stand straight.

“God, you look like your Dad.” Fergal said after an unnaturally long pause. Tom snorted.

“You made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

“We all miss him terribly, me and Bess especially,” Fergal continued. Did Tom miss him? He supposed he did not. He hadn’t been given enough time to comprehend the fact he was dead, let alone miss him. “My favourite drinking partner.” Fergal finally found the bar and leant upon it.

“You’re doing alright, to me.” Tom watched the men in the corner watching him.

“Ah, but none were like your Da-A drink!” Fergal cut himself off. “Another whisky for me and Tom.” They appeared before them in an instant. Seemingly, the barkeeper hadn’t thrown them away. Fucking rationing.

“I don’t want it,” Tom pushed it back and Fergal made to sip his own.

“To Douglas!” The Irishman roared.

“Stop!” Tom grabbed Fergal’s hand before the drink could reach his lips. “Stop.”

“What’s gotten into you, boy? Used to love a drink with me and Albie and your Da-”

Tom stood from the bar and Fergal staggered backwards. “I’ll not share a drink with you, you fat old bastard. Not in my dad’s memory. Not when you’re like this.”

“Now just a minu-”

“You’re a drunk!” Tom spat in Fergal’s face. He was towering over the man now, and for a flicker of time, Fergal looked like a scared child. “I’ll not drink to my dad’s memory, when it should have been you in his place.”

Fergal looked like he had been struck. Tom didn’t care. A year’s worth of war, the immediacy of his grief, the way it awoke the longing he held for his mother, years of watching Fergal ruin his daughters. Tom felt every bruising blow life had dealt him, and was presented with the perfect outlet for his rage. The man before him.

“My dad fought for what he believed in. Did I agree with him? No, but I damn well do now!” Tom was shouting and the barkeeper laid a hand on his arm. He wrenched it from his grip but lowered his voice to a menacing hiss. “He didn’t have much, but he did enough to make himself proud. To make me proud. Gave everyone the time of day. Grafted. Put up with me,” his voice wobbled. “And then there’s you. What have you ever done?”

Fergal opened his mouth but Tom cut him off. “Who do you think’s gonna look after you now Cora’s engaged? Do you know what?” He grabbed the whisky and raised it in the air. “Here’s to Roger. If it weren’t for him, Cora would be left to a life looking after you with not one bit of thanks.” He downed the drink with a wince. “And Dot! You’ve spoiled her beyond reason. Five minutes in the real world will ruin her, Fergal! Don’t you remember the last time!? All them battered men coming back, what they did to the women waiting for them at home? And Bess!” Tom’s voice cracked and he jabbed a finger into Fergal’s fleshy shoulder. “Do you know how many nights she’s spent crying because you said she wasn’t woman enough, like Cora and Dot? Or how you never stood up for her at school? It was Etta marching down there every day to set Frank Smith and Walter Watson right. Etta giving the teachers a bollocking because you didn’t have the guts. What did you do? Fucking nothing. Only thing you’re good for is fucking fertiliser-”

It happened quick as a flash. Fergal grabbed Tom by the scruff of his collar and hoisted him over the bar. Glasses clattered around them and the murmuring of the pub crescendoed to an excited clamour. The edge of the bar was rammed into Tom’s ribs as Fergal held him there, leaning over and growling in his face. Any trace of drunkenness was gone.

“You’re one to talk, my boy.” He shoved Tom again, and Tom felt his head hit one of the pumps. “Fucking off to join the navy was the best thing you ever did. Brought nothing but shame to your father, and now you’re doing the same to my Bess.” At the mention of her name Tom struggled to get up. “You’re only courting my daughter because I see how happy you make her, God knows why, but when you get yourself blown up, well, it’ll be all the better.”

“ENOUGH!” The barkeeper bellowed, reaching between the two of them. Two of Fergal’s friends pulled him backwards off Tom, and he slid off the bar. “ENOUGH!”

Tom straightened his jacket, stared down at Fergal and laughed bitterly. By some miracle, Fergal’s whiskey still sat unbothered amongst the debris of their argument. Tom downed it in one and, with his hands in his pockets, swaggered from the pub and into the night.

“-our Florence tailored her mam’s old dress. I suppose Bess could help you with that. And Roger will have a mourning suit, won’t he? Or will he get married in uniform? Oh, that would be best I think, that beautiful air force blue. It’ll look excellent in your wedding photograph-”

On discovering Cora Vaughn’s engagement to Roger, Queenie Warren had not drawn breath. Her curls bouncing animatedly as she spoke, Queenie quizzed Cora on everything from the colour of her bridesmaids’ dresses to whether the cake would be fruit or Victoria sponge.

Bess had tuned Queenie out ten minutes ago. Instead, she leant against the bar, glass in her hand, cigarette between her lips, and watched couples spin around the dancefloor. She wondered if the Palais would ever be as full as it was before the war.

The red lights of the room hid a multitude of sins. The floor was becoming sticky under foot, and wallpaper was starting to peel from the high ceiling. The darkness did well to hide the few couples, and the fewer men. Indeed, it was mostly full of women from the factories. There were some fellas that Bess recognised from about town, and other uniformed men she did not recognise, no doubt visiting women they had met on the front, or nurses from the infirmary.

Dancing at the centre of circle were Roberta and the teacher from the primary. With so many of the men off fighting, it was the first time Bobby had been able to step into the light with the woman, under the rouse of needing a dance partner. Hiding in plain sight, Bess had never seen her happier. Indeed, when they turned so that Bobby could look upon the bar, she caught Bess’ eye. Bess winked, and Bobby giggled. Tough, feisty Roberta actually giggled.

“-you’ll have your hands full soon I expect, Bess.”

“Pardon?”

Queenie was watching her eagerly. “A wedding dress and bridesmaids’ clothes for yourself and Dot. That’s an awful lot to be doing.”

“She’ll have to ask me first,” with a smile Bess nudged Cora, who looked up from gazing at the modest ring on her finger.

Her betrothed was not far away, sharing a drink with Frank Smith and a few other lads from the air force. He was bright and merry, and though the others congratulated him, Bess noticed the glances they cast the bride-to-be and her sisters. Namely, herself.

Bess knew what she was doing when she’d stepped out that night. Bedecked in a pinstriped suit, she wanted people to look at her. She felt deflated after Tom’s flit from Mrs Chase’s and his inability to confide in her. This did just the job to make her feel powerful again. She’d seen Marlene Dietrich where something similar in a copy of Vogue she’d read years ago at the atelier. It just so happened that they had a pattern there too.

A man cut across Bess’ vision of Bobby on the dancefloor. “Fucking dyke,” he muttered as he passed. Bess stood straight, prepared to defend her friend from the man, when she faltered. As he passed, the man looked over his shoulder at her, eyeing her suit from sharp collar to perfectly-ironed trouser.

“Don’t be jealous she’s a better dresser than you!” Dot piped up, just as Cora took her glass.

“That’s enough sherry, Dot.”

Before Dot could so much as take a breath to retort, the Palais’ double doors burst open. Even over the playing of the band, the noise caused the sisters to jump and cast their eyes towards the doors.

Bess knew that silhouette.

Against the streetlamps outside, the figure staggered sideways before moving forward towards the bar. With his hands in his pockets, he nearly fell over, and a few people rushed to help him. He brushed them off and, ascending the steps to the bar, smirked lopsidedly at the group.

“Bobby,”

“Tom.”

The enmity that lingered between Bobby and Tom had dwindled of late, and Bess tensed at the renewed hostility.

“How’s your friend?” Tom wobbled as he glanced around the old ballroom, his words dripping with intentional sarcasm. Roberta said nothing. “Suits you well, doesn’t it? No men about.” He swaggered towards her, his body a millisecond behind the movement of his feet. Bess prickled with mortification. All evening she’d been worried about him, what he was thinking, what he was doing, and it turned out he was the same as any other man; leaving their problems at the door of the first pub they came to.

He staggered a step towards Roger and Frank. Frank, having experienced Tom’s devastating right-hook in childhood, edged backwards.

“Watch yourselves, lads, she’ll be giving your girls ideas.”

He can embarrass himself all he likes, but leave Bobby out of it. In three high-heeled strides, Bess placed herself between Tom and the others. “Enough,” she said warningly. Tom eyed her. There was a hint of pride in the dark blue of his eyes. Then he glanced at her suit.

“If I didn’t know you better,” Bess could smell the beer on him. The stale cigarettes. “I’d say you were going the same way as your Roberta.” He looked her up and down, amusement evident on his features.

At this closeness, Bess’ worry returned. When he’d returned, the first thing she noticed about him was the hollowness of his cheeks. The way the skin clung his cheekbones like wax. In the red light of the Palais, his pale skin looked near translucent, and his eyes…

His brow bone jutted forward, casting them into shadow. Below, the soft skin beneath his lower lashes sagged, as though gravity was working harder to root him in one place. She’d seen this dogged look before. On her father. What a sinister concoction; grief and grain.

Gently, as though calming a wounded animal, Bess whispered in Tom’s ear. “Go home, my love-”

“I haven’t got one,” Tom slurred, blinking slowly, that ridiculous smile still plastered on his face.

“Albie’s bed is always made up, just sle-”

“In a dead man’s bed?” The sisters and their companions each took a sharp breath. “I’ll not be tempting fate, ‘my love’,” Tom tapped Bess on the nose. “Besides, I’m here for a dance.” He held out a hand, the other still firmly in his pocket as he swayed on the spot. “Come on,”

“No,”

There it was. That wrinkled brow and jutted jaw. He knew he was pushing it. Still, as he always did, he carried on.

“Why do you have to go around winding the rest of us up? That’s what you do.” Vic’s voice joined the chorus of ghosts in Tom’s mind. He shook his head.

“Come on,” he waggled the hand he held out to Bess. “Gotta dance with my best girl while I’m back.”

“I said no.”

With speed unexpected of a drunk, Tom made a beeline for Bess. Just as his arms made to grip her close to his body, someone blocked his path.

“Go away, Tom.”

His held jolted backwards before his body, and he stumbled. “Fuck,” he said. In this light, in this state, the Vaughn girls all looked the same. Steely, dark eyes were boring into his. It was only the smaller stature of the girl before him that gave it away.

“Dotty-”

“Go away-”

“Oh shut up, Dot. You’ll never get a fella with a mouth like that,” Roger and Cora straightened at the bar. Bess came to stand at her sister’s side. Frank gripped Queenie by the arm and steered her away. This was it. The showdown. The two cockiest kids in Longsight. Dot Vaughn and Tom Bennett. “Shut up and use your mouth for something useful-”

SMACK

The force with which Dot walloped Tom near gave him whiplash. Like a felled tree, he hit the ground hard. No sooner was he looking up at the three red-headed furies, was someone dragging him along the ground. For the second time that night, someone had Tom by the scruff of his collar. His feet struggled to find footing as whoever had hold of him pulled him towards the door. He looked up.

“Fuck me. Didn’t think you had it in you Rog.”

The pilot said nothing, only continued to drag Tom from the Palais. The clacking of high heels followed the pair, and as Roger hurled Tom onto the damp road outside the dancehall, Cora came into view.

Tom lay there for a few seconds, looking up at the dark sky as drizzle speckled his face.

“Get up.”

“You gonna fight me, Rog?” He received no reply and, with great difficulty, stood up. His head was beginning to pound, as though his brain was fight to break free from his skull.

Roger’s arms were folded against his chest. Tom had never realised, despite Roger’s lanky height, how imposing he was. In his uniform, he looked like the perfect poster boy for the British military. Beside him, Cora glared.

“Where the hell have you been?” Her voice was quiet, challenging him to dare to fight back. Tom rolled his shoulders and squared his jaw.

“Pub.”

Cora tutted. “I might have guessed.”

“Saw your dad there,”

“I’m sure.” Cora’s eyes hadn’t left Tom’s. Her feet hadn’t faltered. All that distinguished her from a statue were the few strands of hair waving in the cold night air.

“Gave him a piece of my mind-”

“A very small piece then.”

Tom snorted. “Was there celebrating your happy news. Congratulations, by the way.” He added as an aside. “Never seen him at the pub so happy, usually there to forget his own fuck ups. Wouldn’t catch me in that state-”

“You’ve got a nerve.” Cora snapped. “Dadda’s got his faults but don’t think for a second that you don’t have your own, Thomas Bennett.”

Cora walked towards him, her steps so slow and purpose that for the first time in his life, Tom was scared of her. She folded her arms and looked at him with disgust.

“You’re not the only one that’s suffered-”

“Tell you about this afternoon, did she?” Tom shouted. Cora raised her eyebrows and he silenced like a petulant child.

“No, Bess didn’t,” Behind her, Roger watched on. He didn’t move, flanking her like a sentinel solider. “But I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a jumped-up little shit who never put much store by other people’s feelings, BE QUIET!” she shoutedwhen Tom opened his mouth to argue. “You’re not the only one that’s fighting. That’s lost someone. Roger flies over Germany every other night, looking at the destruction we’re wreaking. Coming home to discover who he lost along the way. You know Vernon was the last to go down? Disappeared over the Channel. I don’t suppose you’ve thought for one second that Lois lost her father and her fiancé?”

Tom shifted uncomfortably.

“That we loved your father too? That we lost our Albie?” Cora’s voiced wobbled and a few tears fell from her eyes. Her gaze, however, did not waver. “I can’t imagine what horrors you’ve seen, Tom, but it isn’t plain sailing here. The fear of getting bombed every night, worrying if we’ll ever see you all again? Pretending it’s all smiles when you come home in case you see the cracks and crumble. Because what’s the point of fighting for a world that doesn’t exist anymore?”

Finally, she brushed her tears from her eyes. With a shaky breath, as if to set herself right, Cora straightened.

“It’s not the world against Tom Bennett. I know it feels like it-”

“No you don’t.” Tom said bitterly. “You don’t have a fucking clue.” And with the little pride he had left, he turned on weak legs, stumbled down the nearest ginnel, and vanished from sight.

Next morning, Bess rose as the sun crept over the brick red houses of Longsight.

Beside her, Dot and Cora were sleeping soundly, their arms cast over each other’s waists. Slowly, so as not to wake them, Bess drew back the quilt and crept onto the landing. The floorboards creaked and she stilled. No-one stirred.

Tentatively, she opened the door to her father’s bedroom.

He was slumped, half sat against the cold wall, atop his bed. Albie’ remained empty, his folded jumper and photograph sat neatly on top of the covers.

A swell of dread rushed over Bess and she felt sick. So it had been dadda stumbling around the house, not Tom.

Fergal’s misuse of alcohol was no secret about the street, and every neighbour knew his routine. His daughters knew it better. Six o’clock. If Fergal wasn’t working as an air raid warden, he would arrive home from the dockyard, ready for his supper. After reading the newspaper and listening to the girls talk about their days, he would depart for the pub at approximately twenty past seven. If drinking at The Crown, he would be allowed room under one of the tables and arrive home next morning with the milk float or the postman. If The Red Lion took his fancy, Old Arthur, for that was what the girls had always called the publican, gave him board in the small flat he kept above the pub. Only if Fergal drank at The Swan did he stagger home, for Mrs Mallory always cast him out at eleven o’clock.

On tiptoe, Bess hurried down the stairs. The hammering of her heart doubled. Tom was not slumped on the piano stool, nor was he at the table or in Fergal’s armchair.

This was it. His years of aggravating, pestering, hiding, skiving and shirking had finally caught up with him. Or, someone had caught up with him.

Terrified, worried and entirely unsure of what to do, Bess busied her hands by rummaging through the Welsh dresser drawers. Flicking through dressmaker’s patterns, ones belonging to herself, her mother and her sisters too, she pulled out a set for women’s slacks.

For Kasia¸ she thought. Well, that was that job done.

Curled up in her father’s armchair, Bess watched the world beyond the window wake up. Mrs Mason collected the milk bottles from her front step. Dennis Warley, the miserable postman, began his rounds. A few men Fergal’s age cycled to work. She looked at the clock. Half past six. At seven, she would wake Cora, and together they would hunt from Tom. What good was it now, when most of the city was still sleeping? Who could help?

A sudden wailing caused Bess to startle. She jumped up from the armchair, clutching the trouser pattern to her chest. Dot looked lazily up from the table. Cora placed a plate of bacon and eggs upon it, and hurried to the window where baby Vera, in her Moses basket, continued to cry.

“Got used to living alone and don’t want to share the bed?” Dot poured herself a cup of tea.

“Probably fed up of your snoring,” said Cora good-naturedly, the delight of Roger’s proposal radiating from her. “But Bess, love, why were you sleeping in the armchair?”

“I must have just drifted off,” Bess brushed the frizzy hair from her face. “Went to check in on dadda’s room. Tom didn’t stay last night, Cora.” Much to her surprise, Cora did not seem worried. Instead, she raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Bess felt the temper she inherited from their mother spark into life. “Cora?”

“Connie said she saw him last night, on her way to her shift on the ambulance. Was with Frank and some other lads.” Dot said through a mouthful of food. Cora tutted.

“He-oh. Ok,” Bess deflated, relief Tom was alright and embarrassment at her assumptions fighting for pitiable dominance. “Connie was here?” She moved forward to take the now whinging Vera from Cora.

“Mhmm,”

“Dorothy Vaughn. Don’t eat with your mouthful.”

Dot swallowed pointedly at Cora and turned back to Bess. “She brought Vera over.”

“Why?”

Dot faced her sister fully and grasped her cup of tea eagerly in her hands. After new dresses, Dot’s favourite thing was gossip. “Lois had to go to the infirmary. Was helping a family out of a house that got hit in the raids last night over in Fallowfield, and the house came down around her. She’s fine,” Bess had gasped. “Cut her head but just fine. That’s why Connie brought Cora. Lois is resting.” Dot punctuated her news with a long slurp of tea.

Bess sat at the table beside her sister, Vera now settled back to sleep. “Tom won’t know, about Lois, he’ll have no idea-”

“Doubt she wants him to know.” Dot said matter-of-factly. Again, Cora tutted.

“Dot, stop being cryptic and-”

“Well,” Dot launched herself into hurried speech. “Connie told us that Lois told her that her and Tom had an argument the day he got back-something about Douglas dying and him not knowing-anyway he got all angry with Lois saying that if she’d been there then he-Douglas that is-might not have died-”

“Breathe, Dot.”

“-and of course Lois didn’t like that and gave him a piece of her mind about working on the ambulance and doing her bit for the war effort, and then Tom-get this Bess-Tom turned round and said her job was to look after Douglas and Vera!” She took a deep breath and another sip of tea.

The anger caused by Cora’s apathy was nothing compared to the flame roaring into life now. Bess’ cheeks reddened, her eyes darkened, and a rigidity settled in her bones that God himself could not have shaken.

“Oh he did, did he?”

Three miles away, in a terraced house that edged Cringle Park, Tom Bennett woke. The bedsprings beneath his back were hard, a few pressing into his bony side, and the frame wobbled as he struggled to get up.

Bile rose to his throat and he lay down again. Above him, the ceiling spun. At its centre, the ceiling light had been draped in a rose silk scarf. Turning his head slowly so that it lolled on the pillow, Tom looked over the vanity table. Make up covered its counter, and few dresses in reds, pinks and purples were crumpled on the stool.

Beside him, the clock read just after eight o’clock. Its ticking was so loud inside his head it sounded like machine gun fire, and he groaned. The knock that came at the door was thunderous and Tom thought the sound alone would make him vomit.

“Morning, pet,” A high voice said. “Brought you a cuppa. Poor thing,” a soft hand touched his forehead, as though testing his temperature, and brushed the hair from his eyes. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

Tom rubbed his bleary eyes and took the tea from the person above him. Perfectly manicured nails, ringlets, red lipstick and the overpowering smell of lavender.

“Cheers, Queenie.”

Notes: Cigarette cards (sometimes called tart cards, if they had women on) were banned in Britain at the start of 1940 because the government indeed declared them a “waste of raw material”. I don’t know about elsewhere, but in Britain “to roger” someone is to have sex, usually in a bit of a rough manner. In research, I also read a study about the increase in domestic violence post-WWI, in households with soldiers returning to civilian life. Fuck war and fuck the men that start them.

Thank you to @arcielee, who helped me unfuck this chapter more than she realises! There’s a line direct for one of our chats in here. And thanks again to @theoneeyedprince for help with the Polish. Below is the inspo for Bess’ outfit. Saw it and knew she’d wear it.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey@multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234@babyblue711 @heimtathurs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandompromptsside @allthefandomtherapy @reblogedworks @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol@beiigegalx@skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools@aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring @fangirlninja67 @evita-shelby @cherievictore @shmexie @ewanmitchellcrumbs @blairfox04

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #the seamstress & the sailor #tom bennett x reader #tom bennett x ofc x oc #world on fire #ewan mitchell fandom #hotd #bess vaughn #tom bennett x bess vaughn

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