#robert rosenthal fanfiction

[luminouslywriting]

what do you think would be the reactions of the different men when they’re falling for a single mum? I think going with the time it’s more likely a young widow than a girl with a kid out of wedlock but who knows maybe John Brady just feels the desire to make an honest woman out of a poor girl at church who’s man ran off or Bucky takes to teaching his neighbors kid baseball because he sees their mom is stressed… just whatever guys you think would fit this

Nonny, this gave me actual brainrot so I hope you enjoy this so much 🥰🤍 as always, my requests are open and I don’t mind spam haha! More under the cut, cut for length, light spice sprinkled in:

Bucky Egan: (I had to run with the baseball idea haha)

-Absolutely the type of man who does not care about the past sexual history or life of a partner....and he's kinda looking for someone to date at the moment??

-But there's this kid on his block who's about six and he watches this kid attempt to throw a baseball every day and it just pains his soul because the form is awful and where is this kid's dad??

-So one day, he rolls on over to the yard of said kid and just starts offering pointers—he always wanted to be a baseball coach in his free-time and he just hasn't gotten around to it yet

-This sweet little boy makes him a deal that if Bucky comes over and teaches him how to throw a ball, lemonade will be made and given by you (his mom) and he will help Bucky paint his fence

-Bucky thinks it's a swell idea and it's at this surprising point to you that your son brings in the attractive war hero Bucky Egan straight to the kitchen and demands lemonade

-Well you and Bucky get to talking and you tell him that your husband died in the Pacific pretty early on in the war and your son has never really known a father

-That being said, it's a slow burn. He really enjoys getting to spend time with you and your son and he's afraid that he'll mess things up. But then your kid is inviting Bucky to dinner and you're telling him that it's no problem and you usually make too much food anyway.

-And somewhere along the way, he starts thinking of your house as more of a home to him than his own lonely home that he purchased. So naturally, this man panICS and has to call Gale and ask what he should do because he doesn't want to spook you or ruin the nice thing you've got going on.

-Gale definitely has to reassure him that if you both clearly want him there, then he should just go for it; Bucky deserves to be happy too.

-But he DRAGS his feet in the process....right up until your son accidentally calls him dad after hitting the ball with the baseball bat

-And then there's actual panic between you and Bucky and he's trying to apologize because clearly he's overstepped

-It would be at this point that you have to tell him that it's quite alright and you'd really like to get to know him more...because you like having him around and clearly your son adores him

-CUE THE FIRST KISS (first of many, might I add)

-It's the most darling domestic thing and he absolutely views your son as his son and he's never been so happy in his life

Gale Cleven:

-I think the most logical move here is that he finds you after Marge's passing. It was a short and love-filled marriage for them, but it was gone so quickly.

-He's devastated, naturally. And he doesn't really have anything left in Wyoming, so he sets out for Wisconsin.

-Now the thing about this is that John Egan has married Josephine Pitz—and Josephine Pitz's best friend is you. Your husband was a Marine during the war and died in action, leaving you with two little kids.

-You're doing your best but it's hard being a working single mom during the early 1950s.

-Cut to Josie and John setting this up just so

-Bucky makes the point that your car needs some work and you're a good friend of Josie's

-So this is how Gale Cleven is introduced to you—matchmaking via car-service haha

-Your two boys? Absolutely just wanna watch him work and wanna hear about everything that he's doing to the car

-But you're no fool and you know that Josie and Bucky are trying to set this up for the two of you

-So you just flat-out confront him about it and tell him that they're trying to be sneaky and that you're sorry he got caught up in their schemes

-But the thing is?? He's perfectly happy and used to their schemes. There's also the fact that this is the safest and calmest he's felt since Marge died.

-So he admits that he'd be willing to give this thing a chance if you are

-So it's a slow-burn for the two of you as you're trying to navigate around the fact that you've both already lost a partner and the fact that you have kids

-But he's so good with them and helps with the homework and genuinely just tries his best

-It's not a surprise to anyone when you're married a year later

Robert Rosenthal:

-On his way to the Nuremberg Trials, he meets you—a young lawyer who has recently just found out that you're pregnant (not that you're telling anyone that).

-You two become fast friends and he finds out that your husband was a British RAF Pilot who died. He's entirely sympathetic and sweet about the situation.

-The pair of you team up for the trials and it's amidst the preparations for the Trials that he finds you doubled over with morning sickness. This man assumes that it's the flu. Babe, it is not the flu.

-So a few weeks into you being sick and dealing with the trials, he's getting real concerned and you just have to spill the tea that you're pregnant.

-Not gonna lie, Rosie's heart shatters a little bit for you. It's not as if you want to leave the Trials to deal with pregnancy but you're also a whole ocean away and who do you have to rely on?

-Well he makes a promise that he's gonna help you through it

-And along the way, he's absolutely falling in love with you—with your dedication and kindness, the way that you're soft about the baby and continue to focus on work, and the way in which you're so determined to do everything entirely on your own

-He definitely very quickly makes you an offer that you're a little befuddled by

-The offer is marriage—and the thing is?? It's a damn good offer. You're a recent widow trying to do her job at the Nuremberg Trials, just found out you're pregnant, away from home, and have no support system

-So naturally you accept and this is a marriage born out of convenience and kindness to you....but there is so much affection and care.

-He's had feelings for you for a while and he's perfectly happy taking his time in the relationship and understands that you might not reciprocate the feelings in the same way.

-If nothing else, at least you'll be provided for, your child will have a father, and you'll always have a friend by your side

-It's at this point that your feelings start to develop because he's just such a good person and treats you so well and so clearly loves you

-The two of you are icons during the trials (Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal), and he comes back from Europe with a wife and daughter on his arm....and no, he didn't tell anyone so it was quite a shock to everyone.

John Brady: (Also decided to run with it haha)

-Listen, this man has a picture perfect plan for what he wants to have happen when he gets home from the war and that's all fine and dandy, but this man was NOT planning on you haha

-You faithfully attend the same church as he does and it's pretty obvious that you're pregnant.....

-But man the gossip is bad. And he's not one to listen to idle gossip and just believe what people say. But evidently your fianceé had run off when he found out you were pregnant and had taken any chance of a reputable life. It's ROUGH, okay??

-And the thing is, John Brady is out here just trying to do his Christian duty by seeing if you need any help over at your house....because he also passes it on the way to Church and YIKES, your yard is going through it

-It's the first time that someone just offers to do something nice for you??? You're so thrilled about it

-So he comes over that summer and does your yard work for you and you make little sandwiches and he gets to have lunch with you

-The thing is, you two get to talking and he finds out that you weren't even planning on having kids for a while anyway and it was YOUR former man who wanted to do the deed and refused to help out in any way. This is entirely a man's folly and has ruined things for you.

-Now he feels bad, he does....

-But he's not trying to make a move or anything. At the moment anyway haha. Instead, he invites you to spend some time with his sisters because you need friends anyway and they all have kids so they can help you know what to expect for pregnancy.

-Well it's all going great and he's pretty happy with the fact that you now have a support system and he's starting to make some waves in work. And then the yard is done and finished.

-And for some reason he's offering to help with the plumbing and the inside work too? It's definitely not because he's worried about you and it's definitely not because he's very very attracted to you in any way shape or form lol.

-I don't think anything actually happens until you're right ready to pop....at which case YOU kiss HIM because you're just real impatient

-And he doesn't get to respond to anything because your water breaks and he's taking you to the hospital

-So while you're in labor, this man is processing the fact that he MAYBE really really likes you and has already planned out the rest of your lives together, but that's BESIDES the point

-He still feels like he's taking advantage here....right up until you have a son and you name him Johnny because Brady was the only person that was kind to you during pregnancy and this man just melts on the spot, professes love to you—and tells you that he wants to take care of you for the rest of your life.

-Chef's kiss tbh

[suraemoon]

Rosie Rosenthal Headcanons

~Mr. and Mrs. Rosenthal Edition ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A constant cycle of robe wearing

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

Soft jazz fills warmly lit rooms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking of drinks, Rosie likes his coffee black

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

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

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

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

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

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

You two always make up though!

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

My last thot for today…dad jokes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————————————————————————

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

[blurredcolour]

What If We Just Fall?

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

Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x ATA!Female Reader

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

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

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

Word Count: 5729

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

October 1944

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Standard practice in the ATA, just me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You must be starving…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why did it still hurt so damn much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You as well.”

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

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

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

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

Masters of the Air Masterlist

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

[precious-little-scoundrel]

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

Pairing: Rosie Rosenthal & Ida Brady, intimacy journey.

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

Requested? ☑️

Circa: October 1945

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

Together. Nuremberg.

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

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

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

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

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

-companions didn’t wear things like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning.” she whispered.

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

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[softspeirs]

gosh, these prompts are just so fluffy, it makes me want to cry! 🥹

maybe these for whoever you're feeling in the moment:

❛ what, am i not allowed to look at you? ❜

❛ seeing you happy is all that matters. ❜

A/N: First, you asked for this so long ago, I'm sorry it took so long! I wanted to explore a lil reunion for Rosie and Grace after (one of the times) his plane goes down and he makes it back. I did a smidge of research for this, but to be clear, this isn't the time he lands in Russia that we see in the show. This is an earlier mission where he crash lands in France - p422 (? I think?) in Masters of the Air if you want to read more. I tweaked the dialogue of that second prompt just a tiny bit, hope that's okay. These Heartbeats Clear Masterlist

Seven. Wounded.

When Robert Rosenthal opens his eyes, for a moment he doesn't remember where he is. There's a brief unsettling moment of sheer panic where he tries to get his bearings, tries to sit up and tries to remember what's happened to him in the last 48 hours.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." A voice says. American. He sighs in relief.

An unfamiliar worried face swims into his vision. "Major Rosenthal?"

"What--" His throat hurts, his entire body hurts, and he stops trying to talk.

"You've been asleep for almost two days."

"Where am I?"

"Please, try to relax. You're safe. You're in Oxford."

Now that he hears the words, he remembers loud, urgent voices, he remembers flashing lights and the feeling of being manhandled around. It doesn't do much to quell the fear rising in his gut. "My crew."

"They're fine. Some wounded, but everyone's going to be okay." She moves around the bed with quick, sure steps, checking his chart before meeting his eyes again. "You've got a broken arm and a few broken ribs, Major. Now that you're awake, we'd just like to monitor you for a few hours and then we can talk about a transport back to your base."

He nods, thanking her, and she smiles before disappearing down a corridor, leaving him to his thoughts. His mind is slow, fuzzy, but there's one thought blaring like an alarm louder than anything else - he needs to find a way to call Grace.

He swore to her a long time ago that he'd never give her a reason to think he wasn't coming back. He has no idea if anyone knows he and his crew are here.

He also has a panicked thought that he won't be able to fly again, not if they were helped the French resistance. He forces himself to take deep breaths and tries to beat back the anxiety fluttering in his ribcage.

"Rosie?" A familiar voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he tries to sit up before pain laces up his spine, making him wince.

"Croz?"

Harry's worried face peeks around the curtain. "Jesus." He says, making Rosie wonder what he must look like.

"What are you doing here?"

"We got a call. Wasn't going to let you guys walk back to Thorpe Abbotts, was I?" He takes a few steps closer, scraping a chair closer to the bed before sitting down. He looks exhausted. "I volunteered to come get you."

"How long--"

"It's been five days since the mission." Harry rubs a hand over his face. "Can't begin to tell you how lucky you were, Rosie."

It starts to hit him, how close he was to not coming back. He doesn't even remember the plane going down, not entirely. He has no memory of being rescued. He feels strangely guilty. He's the one that's supposed to lead and help his crew when he can.

"Have you talked to a doctor?" Harry asks.

Rosie shakes his head. "Not yet, just a nurse. Obviously I can't do much with this--" He struggles to shrug with his injured arm in a sling.

"It'll be fine. Desk duty until you're well."

"Croz, you know I hate--"

"You can't fly like that, Rosie. Technically you should be pulled from duty altogether."

Rosie clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down. It's not Harry's call, even though he knows he's right. He's going to do everything he can to get back in the seat again, even if he has to get demoted to do it.

.

He discharges himself so he can leave with his crew and with Crosby and hitch a ride back to base. The doctor fixes him with a stern look as he does it, but he must see the determination on Rosie's face, and just tells him to take it easy for the next few weeks.

Fat chance of that.

"Stop looking at me like that." He grouses to Harry as they bounce along the road back to Thorpe Abbotts, Rosie biting back a wince with grit teeth as the road jostles his muscles uncomfortably.

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

Harry has long stopped trying to convince Rosie of anything, just like Rosie has stopped trying to tell him to get more sleep or eat more. They're all just doing whatever they can to survive at this point. The cost of it all is secondary.

"I'll save the lecture for Grace." He mutters.

Rosie's head snaps up. "Is she--"

"Worried sick? Probably, but you know her. Once she knew you were alive, she went from worried to furious."

"Not like I had any say in the matter," Rosie counters, voice dry. "Didn't try asking them not to shoot at us, though."

Harry smiles, shaking his head. "You know what I mean. Angry at the circumstances. Frustrated with herself for being emotional. That's Grace."

That's Grace. And isn't that the truth. Rosie can't help but smile softly, because he knows Harry is right - he's going to get an earful when he gets back. But he must be a masochist, because he's almost looking forward to it - it means she cares. Not that he's ever had any reason to doubt that.

The truck rumbles along for miles. Rosie hadn't thought about how long it would take them to get back to the base, but he tries to close his eyes and get relatively comfortable until they arrive.

He hears the noise of the gates and opens his eyes to find the sun nearly down. There's a big commotion as they enter and he takes a deep breath to try to get his bearings.

"We'll go to command first, and then to the infirmary. You'll probably have to sleep there." Harry says groggily.

They're let out in front of the command building, Jack Kidd already there waiting for him along with the Colonel. Both look like they haven't slept in days. A few paces behind them is Grace, and the sight of her softens Rosie, makes his shoulders lose their tension. He meets her eyes and tries for a smile, but he thinks it comes off as more of a grimace.

Grace, for her part, is restraining herself. She feels a mixture of relief and anger wash over her at the sight of him, arm in a sling and bruises and cuts littering his handsome face. He looks exhausted, and she's sure she looks much the same.

She knows being angry is the wrong thing. It's not his fault he got shot down, after all. Really, she's angry at herself. She's angry at her heart, at the way it plummeted to her feet when she heard the news that his plane didn't come back, and she's angrier that every day since confirms to her what she already knows: she's in love with him.

And that's as terrifying as it is liberating, because there's a very real chance he could break her heart, whether he means to or not. (She knows that Robert Rosenthal doesn't have a cruel bone in his body, but sometimes, in war, the choice isn't his)

"Jesus Christ, Rosie." Jack says quietly, voice heavy. "I--" He takes a deep breath, and seems to remember what he needs to do. "It's good to see you back. We need to go to interrogation."

"The crew isn't ready--"

Kidd shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Rosie, but the quicker we do this, the better. It's already been a few days."

"Who's back?"

"Maddox, Rubick, Palmer, and Hartos. The others won't be back until tomorrow, but we'll debrief them then. I don't want to wait an extra day."

Jack looks over his shoulder, and Rosie is sure he catches an apologetic look on his face that's there and gone quickly as he sees Grace there. "Twenty minutes, then go to the infirmary." He says as he turns back to Rosie. "Let's go."

The interrogation is as grueling as Rosie expected. He's glad to see some of the members of his crew again. Despite his brain telling him that none of this is his fault, his heart can't help but beat wildly, flooding him with guilt as they give their account of what happened after they went down, when Rosie was knocked unconscious.

It feels like hours before he's trudging towards the infirmary, luckily only a few steps away from the interrogation hut.

The door is opening before he arrives, and Grace's worry-filled face fills his vision. "Grace." Her name leaves his mouth without his permission, his tone exhausted, but full of emotion.

She swallows hard. "Major." Her tone is relieved and... frustrated. He's not surprised, but he hopes she'll spare him Nurse Grace and instead give him the Grace he's been dreaming of for days, though he knows it's selfish, knows that she has a job to do.

He sees the doctor hovering behind her. She opens the door wider so he can come through.

All he wants is to be alone with her. He wants to tell her he's sorry, he wants to tell her that she was on his mind every second, that she is one of the reasons not only that he gets in the seat, but the reason he comes home.

Home.

The exam is quick, thankfully. They took good care of him in Oxford. The doctor leaves Grace to administer pain meds and do the paperwork, and it's only when they're finally alone that he sees the emotion on her face, though she's trying valiantly to hide it.

With each injury she catalogues, her face hardens. Her eyes meet his as she tilts his face up to dab a cooling salve on a bruise forming on his orbital bone.

"You have a look on your face." He says quietly.

"What, I'm not allowed to look at you?" She asks, and he can see how she's trying so hard to hold it together. Pretending. Pretending this is all business for her. He wishes she wouldn't.

"I'm sorry." He croaks, throat dry from overuse.

"Please don't apologize," she says, expression suddenly stricken, as if she realizes what she must look and sound like. "You didn't--" She stops herself, eyes closing for a moment as she gathers her professionalism. "I'm just so relieved you're alive." She whispers. "I'm not angry at you. I'm upset... I'm angry at the war. At these circumstances. That you're hurt--" She stops herself.

He wishes more than anything he had the use of both his arms. He settles for reaching out with one hand, thankful when she doesn't hesitate to take it, lacing their fingers together.

"I never want you to worry." He says, and it's the truth, even though they both know it's pointless.

She shrugs. "Comes with the territory, Major." She squeezes his hand. Her voice lowers to a whisper. "Worry happens naturally when you love someone."

His pulse pounding in his ears is all he can hear. He feels like the world tilts on its axis and then rights itself, all at once.

"Maybe it's too soon or too big for me to say it, but I don't want you to fly ever again without knowing it." She says, voice strong this time. He loves her for it.

He loves her.

He tugs her a little closer and she seems to understand, her face softening as she stands as close as she can, leaning down to meet him halfway. He tries to tell her how he feels when he kisses her gently, mindful of the black eye he's sure he's sporting and the soreness of his cheekbone. His hand leaves hers in favor of cradling her jaw, and the sigh that leaves her is music to his ears.

"Of course I love you." He murmurs, barely a centimeter between them when they break apart. "Probably have for a long time, Grace."

She pulls herself away, just for a moment, and starts to tidy up the triage area where he sits with her. He recognizes what she's doing and gives her the space she needs to gather herself, to come to terms with whatever she needs to. He's relieved at least that the smile hasn't left her face.

"Winning this war and seeing you happy are just about all that matter to me anymore." He admits, and watches as she stops what she's doing to turn back to face him.

"I just want to be sure I'm not a distraction for you."

He shakes his head. "No."

"Rosie, I'm--"

He shakes his head again, cutting her off. "Grace, you don't think I'm going to let you tell me you love me and then push me away, do you?" He tilts his head to one side.

"That's not what I'm doing. I promise."

"Then come over here and let me kiss you again."

She smiles, and he swears to himself that he's going to be responsible for that smile on her face every day, for as long as he can help it. He has no doubt that they have some trials ahead, but they have each other, and sometimes the will of the heart is stronger than anything else.

[rosienthal]

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

[claireelizabeth85]

Come Home To Me - Chapter 10

John Egan x OC!Female

Summary: When the idea of a past life turns out it isn't just an idea or a dream.

AN: I'm back!! I am quite proud of this chapter as it is the first one I've written since my writer's block grabbed her chute and left. It's not the longest but I think it packs a bit of a punch. The chapters from now on alternate between Sarah who is living life at Thorpe Abbotts and will follow the normal progression of time and Lizzy who we pick up after she has gone through the cloud back to her last mission, which was the Berlin mission in Feb 1945 with Rosie. Where the wording is in italics for Lizzy, these are memories.

AN2: This is a work of fiction and is based on the TV characters from the Apple TV series. No disrespect is intended towards the real men of the 100th BG.

Warnings: mentions of blood, injury, death.

The previous chapter can be found here

Lizzy tumbled through the sky, the wind roaring past her ears, tearing at her clothes, and stinging her eyes as she fought to stabilise herself. The overwhelming noise drowned out her thoughts, leaving only raw, instinctive fear. Panic surged through her like a cold wave, but she forced it down, clinging to the slender thread of training that remained. This was all new. This moment—falling, fighting against gravity with nothing but a piece of fabric between her and death—was something she’d never experienced in any of the fragmented but vivid memories she experienced in the future. Those memories, once her guide, now abandoned her at the worst possible time.

The ground was rushing up to meet her, an unforgiving blur of green and brown. Her leg throbbed, a sharp reminder of the injury that had slowed her down and threatened to ruin everything. She glanced down, trying to see through the wind induced tears and the disorienting speed of her descent. Where was Rosie? Was he alright? The thought of him being captured by the Germans made her chest tighten with a new kind of fear, one that clawed at her more fiercely than the impending impact. She could barely make out the vague shape of his parachute somewhere below, but it was impossible to tell if he had landed safely.

She tried to focus, tried to force her mind to clear, but the shrapnel in her leg was like a hot poker digging into her flesh, sending sharp jolts through her body with every heartbeat. She tried to concentrate because if she didn’t land correctly if she let herself lose control, she would be nothing more than a broken heap when she hit the ground.

With trembling hands, she yanked on the ripcord. The parachute snapped open with a sudden, violent jolt that nearly tore her in two. The force of it wrenched her body upward, the harness digging painfully into her shoulders, but the ground was still coming too fast—much too fast. She struggled to steer, to slow her descent, but there was no time, no room to correct her course. Her body hurtled downward, her mind a frantic mess of fear and determination.

In those last seconds, all she could think of was the life she had yet to live, the things she hadn’t done, and the people she might never see again. She tried hard to tuck her legs in, to roll just as she’d been trained, but the ground was relentless, unforgiving. The impact was brutal. Her body crashed down hard, the force of it rattling her bones and sending shockwaves of pain through her entire being. Her head whipped back, smashing against something solid. Pain exploded in her skull, blinding her to everything else.

For a moment, she lay there, stunned, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. It was as though her entire consciousness was trapped in a bottle that had been violently shaken, with no way to make sense of what had just happened. Darkness edged her vision, threatening to consume her, but then, through the haze of pain, a memory surfaced, as vivid and sharp as if it were happening all over again. A memory of John, his warmth, his strength, his touch. But it was a memory that, in this moment of stark reality, felt almost cruel in its contrast to the cold, hard ground beneath her.

“Ow!” Lizzy had gasped, her voice a whisper. They both started to laugh, muffling the sound behind their hands as if afraid someone might hear. The back of her head had hit the door, and she rubbed it gingerly, still giggling. “You know we could get into a hell of a lot of trouble for this, Major!”

John Egan, the Group Air Exec, had her pressed against the door inside the Control Tower’s lower supply closet. It was the third time this week that he had spirited her away to steal kisses from her. His warm body enveloped hers, and she felt safe, cherished, in a way she rarely allowed herself to feel. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned about the risk, too busy leaving a trail of kisses down her neck, each one sending a shiver down her spine. His lips were soft but firm, and they lingered on her skin as if savouring every moment. John was intoxicating, his unique smell of sandalwood and cigarette smoke making her forget everything—where they were, the danger they faced, even the war that loomed over them like a shadow.

“I know,” John murmured against her skin, his voice a low rumble that sent another thrill through her. “We could get into a lot of trouble, Lieutenant. Maybe we should stop.” He pulled back just enough to flash her that signature smile of his, the one that made her knees weak. It was devilishly charming, full of mischief and promise.

“Not on your life,” Lizzy shot back, her own smile mirroring his. She grabbed hold of his uniform, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The world outside that closet ceased to exist as John leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss that made her head spin. It was the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt—it was full of desire, a hunger that simmered just below the surface, and a tenderness that she cherished, even if she couldn’t admit it to herself.

Lizzy could feel the heat of his hands through her jacket as they slid up her back, pulling her even closer. She responded in kind, winding her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. It was easy to get lost in John, to let herself drown in the sensations he stirred in her. Every time they kissed, it was like the first time all over again—new, exciting, and tinged with the knowledge that it was forbidden, that they could be caught at any moment.

But as much as Lizzy wanted to stay in this moment forever, she knew she had to leave. The reality of their situation was never far from her mind. Gently, she pushed against John’s chest, breaking the kiss. Her breath came in quick, shallow bursts, her heart pounding not just from the adrenaline but from the intensity of their stolen moment.

“It’s late, and I need to get going. I’m flying tomorrow.” Her voice was tinged with regret, the words she hated to say but knew she had to.

John frowned, his brow furrowing in surprise. “Huglin’s letting you fly?” The disbelief in his voice was clear. It was well known that Colonel Huglin didn’t approve of Lizzy’s presence in the Group. Despite the orders she carried, he had stubbornly refused to assign her to a squadron.

“Yeah, begrudgingly.” Lizzy rolled her eyes, the frustration evident in her tone. “One of Veal’s pilots broke his arm climbing out of the Fort after a practice run. There’s no one on standby here to take his place. I guess one of the supernumerary pilots could take his spot, but it’s too short notice to get them over here, and besides, I think Major Bowman reminded him that General LeMay might come checking up on me.”

John’s expression softened, concern replacing the earlier surprise. He pulled her into his chest, his arms wrapping around her in a protective embrace. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just held her close, as if trying to memorise the feel of her in his arms. Lizzy rested her head against his chest, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of his uniform, the faint hint of aftershave that clung to him.

“You be careful up there, d’ya hear me? No doing any stupid shit to impress people. The guys might give you a hard time, but they respect you 'cause you can fly.” His voice was soft but firm, the unspoken worry threading through his words.

Lizzy chuckled softly, her breath warm against his neck. “I got it, Major. No stupid shit.” But even as she said it, she knew that being careful was a luxury she might not have. Flying was dangerous, and she couldn’t afford to play it safe. But for John’s sake, she would try—she had to.

Now, as Lizzy lay crumpled on the ground, her body battered and bruised, those memories felt like a cruel joke. The pounding in her head and the searing pain in her leg made it difficult to think clearly. She was slipping in and out of focus, her consciousness struggling to hold on as the world spun around her. The sounds of gunfire, distant at first, grew louder, more insistent, until the chaos was all around her. She tried to move, to drag herself to some semblance of cover, but her body wouldn’t obey.

Through the haze, she saw them—two figures moving through the smoke and confusion. Russian soldiers, their faces hard, their eyes wary. They were surprised to see her, a woman lying badly wounded in the middle of the battlefield. Lizzy’s semi-lucid state made her feel as if she were moving through thick, syrupy fog. Her lips parted in a desperate, fractured attempt to communicate.

“British... British...” she mumbled repeatedly, her voice trembling with fear and pain. She tried to push the two soldiers away, her movements weak and erratic, as though she could somehow resist the help she so desperately needed. Her screams, hoarse and ragged, were filled with a primal terror as the soldiers began to carry her away from the chaos.

The two Russians exchanged glances, their brows furrowing as they noticed the blood coming from Lizzy’s leg and the back of her head. The sight of her suffering was so stark, so visceral, that it made them pause. They laid her back on the ground as one of the soldiers crouched beside her, mumbling something incomprehensible to his companion. Lizzy felt his hands tear open her trousers, exposing the shrapnel wound on her leg. The Russian sprinkled something on it and tightly wrapped something around her thigh. Lizzy screamed at the blinding pain that shot through her body as the embedded metal lit her nerves on fire. 

Breathing heavily, she tried to think clearly, but the pain consumed her. In the fleeting moments of respite, Lizzy’s mind flickered to memories of Rosie, her friend who practically manhandled her out of her set and told her to jump. Through the pain and confusion, she called out, her voice cracking. “Rosie!! Rosie!!” Her cries were weak, barely more than a whisper, but they carried the weight of her fear and despair.

Then, as darkness began to claim her again, Lizzy’s thoughts turned to John. The pain was overwhelming, and she could feel her consciousness slipping away. Sarah had found information in the future that she would die here. She had accepted that, but now, at this moment that acceptance crumbled. What if it wasn’t the crash that killed her? What if it was the Russians? What if they decided she was an enemy, a spy, and ended it right here? Panic clawed at her, her breaths coming in shallow, frantic gasps. She was terrified, more than she had ever been, terrified that she'd never see John again, that she'd never get the chance to tell him how much he meant to her.

With a final, anguished cry, she managed to call out his name, her voice breaking with the strain. “John!”

Her plea was swallowed by the void as she lost her grip on consciousness, her body limp in the arms of one of the Russian soldiers. The battlefield's chaos faded into a distant murmur as she drifted into the dark abyss, her last thoughts a jumbled mess of fear, love, and the faintest hope of reunion.

Tags: @ginabaker1666 @winniemaywebber @bobparkhurst @thedeviltohisangel @prettyinlimegreenboots @instructionsnotincluded @victoryrollsandredlips @luminouslywriting

[beingalive1]

Bibi And Her Blue-Eyed Baby ⎯ Pt. 2

Rosie Rosenthal x Oc [Batya Bernstein]

Part 1: Here

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

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

September 20th, 1943

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

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

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

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

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

Perks of the job.  

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

She heard him before she saw him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She almost killed Egan.

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

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

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

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

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

She’d force him to buy her multiple. 

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

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

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

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

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

Two years later. 

Thousands of miles away from New York. 

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

Her Blue-eyed baby. 

Hashem help her. 

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

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

[cetaitlaverite]

Why All This Music?

Masters of the Air - Rosie Rosenthal x OC

i believe an update was requested? ;) masterlist is linked here <3

22. The One Left Behind

When she woke up in an empty hut, Freddie was confused for a few moments. She was lying beneath two blankets, one she recognised as an old blanket from her footlocker and the other was a standard issue quilt everyone who lived at Thorpe Abbotts had. All of the beds in the hut were empty, except the bed beside hers which still had its top sheet and pillow.

Sitting up, Freddie noticed the sound of a shower for the first time. And then she remembered where she was.

It would be Rosie in the shower, trying to wash away the inevitable hangover. And it was his hut she’d been sleeping in because the rest of the Riveters had left yesterday and she hadn’t wanted to leave him alone. He must have laid his duvet over her when he got up.

Sighing, Freddie sat back to lean against the wall. She rubbed her eyes and wiped the corners of her mouth to make sure she hadn’t dribbled, then smoothed out and readjusted her nightdress to make sure nothing was on show that she didn’t want to be. True, Rosie had already seen it all, but that didn’t mean he was allowed to see it now.

The shower turned off. Freddie listened to Rosie dry off and then get changed, then brush his teeth. He was clearly surprised to find her awake when he re-entered the main room.

“Hi,” Freddie greeted softly.

“Hi,” Rosie replied. He looked as though he was holding his breath, waiting for her to start shouting at him or else just to leave. But she simply sat there quietly, looking at him. He lingered only a moment in the doorway, then crossed the room to replace his things in his footlocker.

Freddie watched him idly, fiddling with the blanket in her lap, until she realised she was cold and lifted Rosie’s quilt to drape over her shoulders.

Rosie came to sit on the edge of his bed, facing her with his elbows on his knees. His face was drawn in a frown. “Can we talk?” he ventured carefully. His eyes were clearer than they had been last night and the deep bags under them were slightly less prominent even after one night’s rest. He looked better but still not entirely himself.

Freddie nodded, scrunching up one corner of the quilt in her hands. “I’m already here, so we may as well.”

“I, uh,” Rosie began tentatively, clasping his hands together in the gap between his legs, “I’m sorry about last night.”

“Oh,” Freddie said, caught off guard. “No, that’s - that’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you or cross any lines or anything,” he went on. There was a slight embarrassed hue creeping up his cheeks.

Freddie nodded, looking away so she didn’t stare. “That’s okay.” She fixed her eyes on the bed directly across from her, a skeletal frame with an empty mattress on top of it. These huts were so cosy and joyful when they were full, so cold when they were empty.

“And I know you don’t wanna hear any more explanations but I just wanna make sure you know that I wouldn’t have decided to re-up if I felt that there was any part of me that could get on with my life instead,” Rosie hurried to add when Freddie didn’t say anything more. “I just - I just really had to do it, Fred. And I know it hurts you real bad and that hurts me more than I can say, but I had to do it. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do it.”

Freddie’s eyes fell to the blanket where she was fiddling with it. “I know,” she mumbled quietly, picking at a fraying seam. “You wouldn’t be who you are if you could stand to let someone else take over.” She laughed quietly, reluctantly, sadly. “I already knew this about you, really. I worried from the instant I heard about the brass upping the tours that you would stick around. I just thought you’d discuss it with me first before going ahead and telling the colonel.”

“I know,” Rosie said softly. “I’m sorry. The decision wasn’t made until I stepped into his office. I didn’t know I was gonna do it, I swear.”

“I would have liked to know you were considering it at all, Rosie,” Freddie told him, finally meeting his eyes. “I tell you everything, even when it’s hard.”

“I know,” he said again. “I’m sorry. You were right the other day, I was being a coward.”

Freddie nodded. She wasn’t going to deny it.

“When you’re in a relationship,” she began slowly, keeping her eyes locked on his, “it’s not just you you have to think about anymore. Your decisions don’t just affect you. Even if you didn’t know you were going to decide to do it beforehand, you should have let me in to hear about it and consider how I felt about it, too. And of course we would have fought about it - I would’ve been upset and tried to stop you and you would’ve been angry with me for trying to stop you. But at least I would have been prepared. I shouldn’t have had to accept the reality of the situation without being able to sit with the possibility of it first.”

Rosie nodded, his blue eyes solemn. “I know. I’m real sorry, Fred.”

“I just…” Freddie sighed, letting her head tip back to rest against the wall behind her. The ceiling above her was dirty, its whitewash long since faded to grey. “I need time. And space. I know the decision’s already been made and the damage has already been done but I need to wrap my head around it.”

“Sure,” Rosie agreed immediately. “Of course. Yeah. Absolutely.”

“I need to learn to trust you again, Rosie,” Freddie apprised him quietly.

It was clear he hadn’t been expecting this. The light he’d just started to recover in his eyes went out all at once.

“But I don’t want you to be alone,” Freddie pushed on, forcing some semblance of strength back into her voice. “I don’t want you to sleep here by yourself and then go to breakfast by yourself and spend all day being a leader but having no one to talk to.”

He let a hopeful smile tug at the corner of his lips.

Freddie sighed, her eyes falling closed. “We’ll be friends,” she decided. “Nothing more. Not just yet. But I think you need a friend right now and I think I might be qualified for the position.”

Rosie didn’t say anything for a moment. All Freddie could hear was his quiet breathing.

Prying open her eyes, she glanced over to find him with his own eyes resignedly closed. He looked like he was in pain. “Fred, I love you,” he said.

Freddie smiled sadly. “I know.” And she did know. Every denial of this fact she’d made had been out of anger and hurt and resentment. She knew he loved her, she’d just been trying to protect herself. “I’m not telling you not to love me, Rosie, I’m telling you I need time to let you.”

He dropped his head forward. “I messed up real bad, huh?”

Reluctantly and in spite of herself, Freddie laughed softly. “Kind of, yeah.” She reached out and stroked the back of his hair because she couldn’t help it. In spite of what she needed, what she wanted was to cuddle him and shower him in affection. All she would let herself have was this.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his words directed at the floor.

Freddie smiled sadly. “I know. But it’ll - it’ll work itself out.”

“I don’t wanna lose you.”

“You won’t.”

If Freddie had been reluctant to extend an olive branch to Rosie, Millie and Jem were downright throwing a tantrum about it.

“He doesn’t deserve it!” Jem exclaimed as they stood around the back of the mess hall after breakfast. They hadn’t liked walking in to find Freddie and Rosie sitting together.

“He made a mistake, Jem, he’s only human,” Freddie insisted.

“A really fucking big mistake if you ask me, Fred!” Millie argued. “Pretending everything is fine while he’s plotting a second tour, perfectly happy to get you into bed every evening but not to tell you what he’s thinking.”

“If you’re angry about it, imagine how I feel!” Freddie volleyed back. “But I’m so tired of being angry about it! I loved Daniel and I lost him. I thought that was the end of it. Then I find Rosie and he’s everything I could ever have wished for but he makes one mistake - a big one, yes, but still just one - and all of a sudden I’m right back at square one? No. I’m not. I refuse to be. I want him. I’m choosing him. Not right now, because I’m still hurting, but when I’m ready I’ll be with Rosie because that’s what I want. And I never allowed myself to want that before so I’m going to fight for it now.”

Millie sighed and fell back to rest against the mess hall wall. “Oh, Fred.”

“What if he dies?” Jem asked abruptly. “What if he re-ups and he gets shot down and he dies?”

“Jem,” Millie snapped.

“I can’t live my life that way, Jem,” Freddie replied calmly. Even just considering the possibility made her heart drop into her stomach, made it skip over a couple of its beats. “It’s him or it’s no one. I’m not just going to go and find someone else because he won’t be in the line of fire. I want Rosie. I don’t want anyone else. I can either have him now and lose him if that’s the way god’s decided it, or I can never let myself have him at all. I know which one I’d prefer.”

Jem passed a hand over her eyes.

Millie drew in a deep breath. “Alright,” she decided.

Jem let her hand fall to her side and nodded reluctantly. “Alright,” she agreed. “But don’t expect me to be best friends with him. I’m still so pissed at him I could strangle the bastard.”

“We’ll be civil,” Millie declared, shooting a meaningful look at Jem. “But he’s got a lot of work to do before I welcome him back in with open arms.”

Freddie breathed a smile, relieved to have won this battle, at least. “For me as well,” she assured Millie. “But at least he’s getting the chance.”

Freddie moved all of her everyday essential belongings to Rosie’s hut and took to living there while they waited for his new crew to arrive. It was against the rules but no one was going to say anything, not to the two of them. 

Meatball couldn’t have been happier about the arrangement, since it meant he got a bed of his own with his little dog bed he’d gotten for Christmas sat on top of it. His bed was the one opposite Rosie’s while Freddie remained in the one beside Rosie’s, the one which used to belong to Pappy.

It was torture for Rosie to live that way, to have Freddie so close but so far. But she wasn’t budging. She needed time and space, and she was being a good friend to him but she’d been serious when she’d told him he’d be getting nothing more. His fingers kept itching to brush her hair back from her face when she read before bed and he’d find himself having to fight the habit of dropping a kiss on her forehead as she passed him to go into the bathroom. This distance he’d fought so hard to close was firmly back in place, even more rigid than it had been before.

The two of them ate breakfast together - well, the two of them and Meatball, of course. After a while Millie joined them, and then Jem and Emma, until Rosie just joined the wireless operators’ table. And they were frosty with him, to be sure, but just because they were protective. They started to warm up as the days went by.

Rosie found his closest confidant in Croz. They’d been friendly before, naturally, but with all of Croz’s friends, the men he’d started all of this with, having gone down in Münster and with all of Rosie’s friends now back in the States, they found in each other someone who could understand the loneliness of being the one left behind better than anyone else.

Croz confided in Rosie about the affair he was having with a British officer of the Auxiliary Territorial Service, a woman named Sandra he’d met while attending a conference in Oxford. The fact of it made Rosie uneasy but he didn’t say anything. Croz was a grown man who made his own decisions and it was probably for the best if Rosie didn’t go ruining one of the only friendships he had left by sticking his opinions in where they weren’t wanted.

Instead, he focused on the fact of Croz visiting Oxford. Rosie had known he was going off base to a conference at a university while he was at the flak house but he hadn’t known he’d gone to Oxford. That was where Freddie went to university before the war.

“Yeah,” Croz told him with a small grin. “They put me up in one of the university dorms. There was obviously some sort of mix up in administration so my roommate - Subaltern Westgate - turned out to be a woman. Sandra.”

“Freddie’s from Oxford,” Rosie informed him.

Croz rolled his eyes. “I know. Just in case you forgot, Rosie, I’ve known her longer than you have.”

“Right.” He gave a sheepish laugh.

Croz laughed at him. “I went to visit her parents when I was there - she asked me to deliver a letter and some chocolate she stole from the mess hall,” he said. “Nice house she’s got, huh? Cute dogs, too. I liked the little one.”

“Earnie,” Rosie supplied, smiling at the memory of the little white dog he’d met over Christmas. “Yeah, I like him too.”

Croz rolled his eyes as he watched Rosie grin at the memory of one of Freddie’s dogs. “When’s the wedding, Rosie?” he teased, smirking into his coffee.

Rosie rolled his eyes with a scoff. “Shut up, Croz.”

When Rosie’s new crew arrived he was a lot more himself again. He helped Freddie move back into her own hut and left her with a kiss on the forehead before heading off to greet the men he’d be flying with from now on. It was so strange to imagine flying with anyone other than Pappy beside him but this was what he’d chosen. This was what he’d risked everything for.

The new guys were alright, they were just green. It was impossible to know how good they’d be at their jobs before they ever went up so Rosie didn’t try to draw any conclusions, he just tried to make them feel comfortable with him. 

It was jarring, the way all the men looked at him now. They looked at him the way he’d once looked at Majors Egan and Cleven. He wasn’t just Rosie to his new crew but instead Major Rosenthal, the man who’d survived twenty-five missions and stayed behind to continue the fight. They all looked at him with admiration as he passed, likely in awe of his bravery. He wanted to tell them not to admire him for it - he hadn’t done it out of courage but because he hadn’t been able to not do it, and it had damn near cost him everything.

“How are they?” Freddie wanted to know in the officers’ club that night. “Are they all nervous?” She didn’t speak much to the new boys anymore, not after Münster.

“Yeah,” Rosie admitted, glancing at her sidelong as they leaned against the bar. “They all look at me like I’m so much higher above them.”

“They’ve experienced no combat flying yet,” Freddie reminded him. “You’ve done an entire tour. Plus, you’re a major now. To them you may as well be a hero.”

“Only one hero around here, Fred, and it ain’t me,” Rosie replied, a reference to the night they met. That was the day Freddie had talked a German fighter pilot into landing at Thorpe Abbotts after he’d gotten confused in the air. She wouldn’t now be a leader in her own right if not for that.

Freddie laughed, rolling her eyes and hitting him playfully in the arm.

Rosie ordered and paid for their drinks but they stayed leaning against the bar. Rosie lingered wherever Freddie was these days, soaking up all the time she spared him before she inevitably left him to his own devices.

Freddie turned to face the rest of the room, leaning back against the bar as she sipped her lemonade through her straw, but Rosie turned to face her. He wanted to ask her to dance but knew she wouldn’t let him. The baby steps they were taking now felt slower, even, than the ones he’d had to take before he’d screwed everything up. 

“Thoughts?” Freddie asked him, feeling his eyes on her profile. 

“I miss you,” Rosie said. These days he liked to make a habit of always saying exactly what he was thinking. He had learned from his mistake and he wanted to prove it.

Freddie smiled at him, her brown eyes warm. “I’m right here.”

So close and yet still so very far.

“I got my first mission with my new crew next week,” Rosie informed her in place of a response to that. There was nothing else constructive he could say on the matter. “Next Thursday.”

Freddie nodded. Rosie was aware she likely already knew - Croz showed her his flight plans in advance in case she had any information on where the Luftwaffe resistance was likely to be the strongest, and she got advance warning to work through manipulation strategies anyway. But he’d wanted to be the one to tell her. 

“We’re flying over France,” he added.

“Over Bordeaux,” Freddie acknowledged. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

“To Bordeaux?” Rosie asked.

“Mh-hm,” Freddie hummed. “To anywhere in France, really. I’ve always dreamed about Paris.”

“I’ll take you,” Rosie offered. “Once it’s liberated.”

“Then I’ll take you to Vienna,” she decided in return. “It’s only fair.”

Rosie grinned. “Can’t wait.”

Freddie laughed. “I’m counting down the minutes.”

As her laughter slowly faded she considered Rosie thoughtfully, sipping on her lemonade, her fingers holding her straw steady. Her gaze was strong and resolute. Rosie felt like she was analysing every thought he’d ever had.

Finally, satisfied with whatever she saw in him, Freddie smiled. “I have leave this weekend,” she announced. “I’m going back home, naturally. If you can get leave as well then I would like for you to come. Friday to Sunday. I’ll be leaving here at eight Friday morning and getting back probably about six o’clock Sunday evening.”

Rosie nodded. He was fighting to tame his wide smile. He knew what this meant to her, letting him return home with her. He was making progress. “Yeah, I’d love to,” he replied. His heart was racing. “I’ll check with Jack to make sure he doesn’t need me for anything. Since we’ll be back before Monday I don’t see why he would.”

Freddie laughed quietly to herself. “I already checked with Jack.”

“Oh.”

“He says it’s fine. You just have to put in the request with Bennett, and seeing as he doesn’t seem to deny you anything these days I imagine he’ll approve it readily.”

Rosie didn’t know what to do with that little jab about his re-upping so he elected to ignore it. “Right,” he said. “I’ll ask first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Freddie said. “Do. Mum would like to know in advance.”

“Sure,” Rosie agreed. “I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”

Freddie eyed him curiously before nodding. “Alright.” Then she left him without another word to go and sit with her friends.

Rosie spent the rest of the evening talking to Croz and Jack, pretending not to look at her. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

[thatsrightice]

we rest amongst the tumult of war

chapter: 5/5

words: like 2.4k 💀 so like 8k total

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

chapter summary:

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

READ ON AO3 HERE

[loverrofmineee]

The Parting Glass - Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x OC

Summary | AO3

Chapter 1- Brief Flirtations With Landings

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Thorpe Abbotts was buzzing with a mix of excitement and worry as the first batch of American pilots would be landing later that day. The men and women of East Anglia had been anticipating this day for weeks, hoping that these men would help them to win the war. Sorcha’s bunkmates were included in this group, more on the excited side, as they were eager to meet the new men.

“-and American men are just so handsome in a way that the Brits aren’t. There’s a reason they have all the movie stars you know.” One of the girls, Aileen, spoke with great enthusiasm. She was a petite girl from Northern Ireland who had opted to work at Thorpe Abbotts to meet handsome American men, and also help the war effort.

“I understand that, but Brits have lovely accents that just make everything sound so much better than it is. The way they say darling is just so much more appealing than our boys.” Anika, another bunkmate, was quick to defend her position in the argument that had been going on for at least 10 minutes.

Sorcha remained to herself during her friend's verbal sparring, instead re-reading the most recent letter from her brother. He detailed his most recent mission, as they had just been allowed to start flying a little over a month ago, and the thrill had not worn off yet. Cormack was stationed in Kings Cliffe as a fighter pilot for the 61st Fighter Squadron. His position in combat often worried Sorcha, as was her right as the eldest sibling and the closest thing he had to a mother overseas, but she was glad her brother was enjoying himself, as war tended to leave men more desolate than how they began. A knock against the bunk door caused Sorcha to raise her eyes, to be met with the presence of Major John “Bucky” Egan.

“Morning ladies,” Egan said with an ever-present smirk in his voice.

Aileen, who may or may not have had a crush on the Major since he arrived, was fast to greet him, standing up from her seat, causing an unpleasant sound to emit from the wood scraping against the concrete. “Good morning Major!”

Bucky gave her a short glance over before addressing the rest of the girls, “Mind if I steal Miss Devlin from ya? The brass requested that she be my personal driver today.”

“And why would they do that?” Sorcha questioned giving Bucky a slight glare.

“Because I requested it.”

Bucky had a smug smile on his face after he spoke, enjoying the fact that he was making Sorcha annoyed. Ever since the two had met during Bucky’s first day on base, they continuously engaged in playful banter, seeing how far they could push each other. He enjoyed the challenge and viewed the Devlin girl as a good friend. Sorcha could say the same for Bucky, as he brought out a side of her she had planned to put away during the war but was quickly cracked open again due to the Major’s manner.

“You’re the worst.”

“I don’t think you really mean that. How could you not love a face like this.”

Sorcha just scoffed at the major’s words, gathering her things for the seemingly long day ahead of her. “I’ll see you later girls.”

“As always, it was lovely to see you ladies,” Egan said, shooting the girls a wink, causing a rapid flush to Aileen’s cheeks as she just waved, unable to speak.

The two friends made their way to Bucky’s jeep, given to him due to his status as Air Exec. Sorcha climbed into the driver's seat, barely giving Bucky time to get in before hitting the gas.

“Jesus Devs, it seems like you’re trying to kill me.”

“Now what would I gain from that? No one else lets me drive their cars. If I lose you, I lose all the perks I gain on your behalf.”

Egan chuckled at the girl's words as they drove past the tarmac, soon to be filled with B-17s. In truth, both were looking forward to the amount of airmen landing today. Thorpe Abbotts had felt too empty for their liking, only filled with office staff and higher-ranking officers who had no time for anything other than planning missions. Sorcha understood their positions, as wartime was not a place for days spent lounging about, but she wished they’d at least loosen up a little bit.

“I’m excited to finally meet this Buck you’ve been talking about nonstop for weeks,” Sorcha spoke with a hint of enthusiasm, not trying to start Bucky on a tangent about his best friend that would go on forever. She thought it was cute how much he cared about his friend, friendships like theirs were what men needed during war, someone to have throughout the horrors.

“I think you’ll like him. He’s not as fun as I am,” Egan spoke with a teasing grin, choosing to keep his emotions hidden from the girl, “but he’s a good time. One of the best damn pilots I’ve ever seen.”

“Huglin will be happy to have him then. He’s been like a rubber band just waiting to snap this week,” Sorcha had already experienced the frenzy within the tower as crews took to the skies, casualties and loss alongside them. Colonel Huglin was a strict man, which was a fitting trait for his line of work, but he was strict on promoting no fraternization between the women and men on the base. That rule had been long gone since the beginning, but he liked to remind all new crews about his policy. “, but God bless him for taking the job. Lord knows we need someone like him.”

Bucky nodded in agreement as they watched the planes on the tarmac taking their spots, trying to find Cleven's plane. Sorcha had slowed down as they approached the busy landing strip, but the lack of speed annoyed Bucky, “C’mon Devs, no point in slowing down now. Buck’s fort is right over there.”

Sorcha laughed at her friend's enthusiasm, pushing harder on the gas pedal to get them where they needed to be. As they pulled up in front of Cleven's plane, Bucky practically jumped out of the moving vehicle, “May I remind you of your earlier complaints when you were halfway out of a moving car?” Sorcha chastised the man.

“Time and place Devs!” Egan called with a smirk as he walked up to one of his friends, “DeMarco!”

“Hey, Major!” DeMarco responded, holding the leash of a husky in one of his hands, the dog trailing behind him. The sight of the dog made Sorcha get out of the jeep, eager to meet the pup in front of her.

“Where did you get that dog, Benny?”

DeMarco grinned at Bucky’s question, eager to tell the story, “I won him at craps!”

“You took this baby above 10,000 feet.”

“He’s got a mask,” DeMarco explained, “It cost me three bucks. But boy, does he love to fly.”

Benny’s grip had loosened on the leash, causing the dog to run up to the Devlin girl leaning against the jeep. She was quick to pet it, giving the husky all the attention it wanted. The voice of another pilot caused her to look up, while still petting the dog. “He wouldn’t stop howling.”

“That’s because he’s part wolf.”

“That wolf is part dog.”

Sorcha let out a small bark of laughter at the man's comment. The men's attention had now shifted to the uniformed woman petting the dog, looking to Bucky for an introduction. “Gentleman, this is the lovely Sorcha Devlin,” Egan began, horribly butchering her name, as he wasn’t familiar with Irish pronunciations. “She’s been putting up with me while I’ve been waiting for your crews to arrive.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘putting up’ per say,” Sorcha teased as she rose to greet the men, “I was the one to give him a tour on his first day and now he won’t leave me alone.”

“If that isn't the story of my life.” The other pilot chuckled at the girl's words before walking over to shake her hand, “Major Gale Cleven, pleased to meet you.”

A teasing smile grew on the girl's face as Cleven introduced himself, happy to finally meet the man Bucky had been talking about for weeks. “Ah, so this is the famous Buck I’ve been hearing all about.” She glanced at Egan, watching him shift uncomfortably during the interaction, “I think we’re going to be good friends, Major.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Bucky spoke, looking between his two friends, “It’ll turn out bad for me.”

“Think that highly of us do you Bucky?” Cleven asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice, “I tend to agree with Miss Devlin here.”

“You can call me Devs, practically everyone here does since they tend to mispronounce Irish names.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Devs.” Buck smiled softly at the girl, appreciating that Bucky had found a friend to keep him company while waiting for the crews.

The loud buzzing of a plane broke the silence that fell over the trio, all glancing to see whose fort it was, as if Sorcha had any clue. “Well, there’s Brady,” Bucky spoke, answering the girl's silent question.

Sorcha watched as the plane flew further from the tarmac, seemingly having a mechanical issue on board. The bells signaling emergency personnel rang throughout the field, nurses and Red Cross aids rushed to their ambulances to respond to the situation. The girl couldn’t help but feel stuck in her position, as she had little to no medical training and wouldn’t be of help on the mechanical side, but she could never get used to the feeling of helplessness when it came to situations like this.

“We should head over,” The voice of Bucky snapped the girl out of her thoughts, “You coming, Devs?”

The girl just simply nodded her head as she climbed into the vehicle, letting Bucky drive this time. She listened to the men chat idly in the front as they made their way over to the plane in the field, counting the number of uniformed men there were. Sorcha prayed there had been no casualties, as it would likely send the new men into a spiral before they were even in the air. As the Jeep pulled to a stop, she made brief eye contact with one of the men, seemingly talking to his captain. Sorcha offered the man a small smile in hopes of quelling his obvious worries.

“Everyone okay?”

The two men responded with a brief “Sir,” before Bucky called the pilot, whose name was Brady, over. Sorcha suddenly felt an urge, whether it was maternal or sympathetic, to comfort the worried man a few feet away. She hopped out of the Jeep, going unnoticed by the men in the front, and made her way over.

“Hi,” She began, startling the man before her, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pop up like that.”

“Oh- oh no it’s ok, I was just…” The man trailed off, gesturing to the scene around them, obviously caught off guard by the woman in front of him. In an attempt to ease his nerves, Sorcha offered her hand for him to shake, “Apologies for the lack of introduction. I’m Sorcha Devlin, I work over in the tower as a navigation clerk.”

The man’s eyes lit up at her words, “Oh, that’s great. I’m Harry Crosby, but the guys call me Croz, no relation to the singer though. I’m um the navigator in Brady’s crew.”

“So we have something in common then!” Sorcha smiled at Croz, glad she had made him less anxious, “I should be seeing you around the tower then since you’ll be picking up your maps and such from my desk.”

Before Crosby could answer, Bucky slammed on his horn, gaining the pair's attention. “C’mon Devs, no flirting with the crews!”

“I’m not flirting Bucky, or are you just upset that you don’t have my undivided attention for once?”

“You wound me Devs, you truly do.”

Sorcha chuckled to herself and turned back to Croz, who had a questioning look on his face, “Devs?”

“You’re not the only one with their surname as a nickname. Honestly, these boys are lacking creativity.” Bucky’s horn beeped again, signaling that he was ready to leave. “I’ll see you around Croz.”

He gave her a small wave as she jumped back into the Jeep, Bucky taking off almost immediately. “So, making friends with the new guys already. What would Huglin have to say about this?” Egan teased as he drove.

“Oh shove off, the man was clearly going through a lot. Isn’t it part of your job to make the men feel welcome?”

“Not as welcome as a pretty girl would make him feel,” Bucky spoke, the joy of teasing his friend evident in his tone. Instead of responding, Sorcha sent him a sharp glare, not wanting to advance this particular conversation.

The three continued with small talk as they drove back to base, Sorcha learning more about Buck and Bucky through each other's teasing and stories. Buck Cleven was a charming man, to which no one’s surprise, had a girl at home waiting for him. Sorcha found the notion romantic, though she herself could not relate to the feeling. She had sympathy for the women who were forced to wait at home for their significant others to return. Sorcha had already dealt with this on a daily basis, and she had sworn to herself that she would never fall for a pilot. Her sole focus while on base was doing her job properly, and praying that her brother was ok.

As they drove closer to the barracks, Crosby was in the unfortunate position of practically being hit by Bucky’s Jeep, “Wrong side of the road, Lieutenant!” called Egan, reveling in getting to tease the new guys.

“Sir,” Croz started before glancing at Sorcha, adding a curt ma’am to his greeting.

Sorcha returned the smile as Bucky continued to speed away, “Welcome to England boys!”

[luminouslywriting]

Hey hey hey,

Absolutely obsessed with all your writing and I hope you're doing well atm <3 <3 <3

Was wondering if u could tell us a bit more about Rosie and his teasing in public, bc I know that man is an absolute menace!!

Nonny, Nonny 🤭 I’d love to expand on this lovable menace heheh! Spice under the cut, cut for length:

-This is a man of remarkable tenacity, charm, courage, and utterly horny at any given time

-But the thing is, he’s also very subtle and very very good at keeping these things on the down low

-He’s a pro at dancing with you and holding you close, fingers trailing and ghosting over portions of your body….and everyone assumes he’s whispering sweet nothings but he’s whispering filthy filthy things about what he wants to do to you and have you do to him.

-For instance, if you’re sitting next to him during a dinner and the table obscures the view, no one would be any the wiser that he’s fingering you because this man is carrying on a conversation with ease

-Games of footsie under tables are quite common especially during meals

-Innuendos all of the time

-Makes eye contact with you every single time and refuses to look away (and yes some people might find that intimidating)

-He might come up behind you and give you a passionate kiss and get a little handsy and then walk away to get back to work….which obviously leaves you frustrated

-Is absolutely the type to duck behind your desk and put his mouth to work while you’re working and trying to keep quiet

-Has a very particular habit of wetting his lips and biting down on it when he’s looking at you and imagining all of the positions you might find yourself in

-Would absolutely get handsy under the table at his parent’s house without so much as blinking an eye

-And if you’re trying to make excuses about how you need to go or leave or whatever? Yeah, he’s the king of patience and that’s not gonna fly with him

-The more frustrated you are, the more fun it is for him haha

-He has an authority kink though and if you utilize that, it’s more likely you’ll end up back at home and getting the very thing you need and want haha

[suraemoon]

Could I please request jealous Rosie hcs or Rosie reaction when you are the initiate the first move hcs. Thank you 😊

I’ll admit right now that the turn out time for this is embarrassing. You’ve caught me in…I think the most stressful week of 2024 so far buttt here we are. My deepest apologies. I’ll be better. Here’s some Rosie. 🌹

Jealousy, Jealousy:

Rosie is very protective of his girl but not overbearing. He knows how secure the relationship is and trusts you to make good decisions. But, of course he notices when another man is getting a little too friendly. When at public places, Rosie doesn’t usually get far enough away for stuff to like this to happen, but due to how drop dead gorgeous you are (the pretty smile that can brighten up anyone’s day, the sparkling eyes that resemble a steady pond, the million dollar legs that give Betty Grable a run for her money) the bold men stay bold. Laughing at things that aren’t meant to be jokes, getting a little too close, etc. He is the king of passive aggression and snark. It’s so obvious that he’s annoyed. Just by the tone of his voice, anyone with common sense can tell he isn’t amused.

An arm wrapped around your waist, interlocking fingers, a random kiss to the temple.

Increased use of the words “us” and “we”

Just plain out saying that you’re his ____ (girlfriend, fiancée, wife, etc)

He’s not subtle but that’s because he has no reason *to* be subtle. He’ll happily let the whole would know he’s yours and you’re his. He’ll redirect conversations, end them as soon as possible, whisk you away into the crowd.

The next day he casually comes across the same man while you’re at home, safe and absolutely clueless of the intersection. That talk isn’t pretty, I’ll tell you that. He’s a lawyer, he has a way with words. It’s direct, serious, and straight to the point. It’s in his job description to argue but it isn’t really an argument, due to the fact that the other man is left terrified of Rosie. Stood frozen in place, shocked. It’s like getting yelled at by a stern parent. Let’s just say…you never see that man again and if you do, he steers clear of your path like you’re a black cat on a halloween night.

A Feminine First Move:

Anon, you’ve got the thought of Rosie’s reaction to a girl making the first move stuck in my head and it’s so adorable. I’m thinking it happens when he first comes to Thorpe Abbotts and is so awkward and dorky. (Talking about flying planes in underwear, you know…the usual) His nickname is Rosie for more reasons then one, he has the prettiest blush. When you walk up to him offering a drink at the bar followed by a slow dance to the romantic jazz of the band, his cheeks are a shade of pink for the whole rest of the night. He’s taken back over how a girl as pretty as you can be so invested, so quick. Imagine his awkward conversation fillers; your siren eyes are so distracting, staring deep into his soul. You listen intently to every single word, a trait that’s appreciated but nervewracking at the same time. He stutters as he talks, trying not to bring up anything embarrassing that would bring it all to ruin.

He tries to keep up with your flirting by replying with some romantic remarks of his own. Soon he gets into the groove and you two have such a magnetic energy. It’s dazzling, it’s exciting, it’s everything. He really gets into his element once the surprise wears off. That doesn’t stop him from reverting back to his dorky, adorable self once you give him a kiss goodnight, your red lipstick on his pink cheek. He waits until your out of sight to dance his way to bed. You two dream of eachother that night. It’s the blossoming of something new, something special.

the dancing i’m talking about lol

[precious-little-scoundrel]

|| My fellow Colonel

Y’all asked for it and here it is. Whew, I wrote all of it today so here’s to hoping it is tolerably alright. Also, as an aside, I am just shy of 1k followers and that’s astounding to me. I had to rebuild this blog from scratch in December after two previous deactivations where I lost a similar amount collected over a far longer time. I’m truly so grateful for each of you who take an interest in sharing this little corner of the internet with me. Thank you, thank you!

Warnings: usual universe warnings apply, 18+ with additional chapter warnings for gore and violent character death, brief mention of racial discrimination and a very dark headspace for Ida at times including brief yet crassly recollected sexual assault

April 1945, escape spoilers ahead

“Bitte.” Ida kept her hands placating, outstretched and harmless by her side, the most open expression on her face that she could summon as she stared the woman down, “Bitte nicht!”

For eleven days she and Smith and Cleven had managed to scrounge their way westward, evading recapture or altercation. But eating from the dead horses on the side of the road was out of the question, agricultural fields were churned to sludge by Amtrak’s and the small amount of wheat berries they found in one abandoned supply truck had long since ceased to fuel their weakening bodies.

They had passed by a camp, one that they observed from the shelter of the woods to be abandoned or liquidated, once used for civilian labor, judging by the signs. After a careful reconnaissance it was agreed that Ida should go and act on her hope that the commandant's empty dwelling may not have been completely ransacked. That there might be some leftover provisions either there, or in the homes of the other personnel. She had had no luck at the commandant’s, it had been empty, no luck in the next idyllic little shack either, only the eerie knickknacks of some bygone person whose vocation it was to deal in pure evil.

In the third house she had found jars of spoiled milk, tubers of some sort gone to sprouts but she did not care, she grabbed a ratty towel lying on the floor and made a sling for them. She was in the process of prying a loose floorboard up, anticipating some root cellar below when the whining creak of a sneaking step sounded behind her in the still place.

She whirled around in a crouch, half expecting either one of her companions or else one of the many starving children they encountered on the road. Instead, silhouetted inside the bright doorway there was a woman, in the uniform of a guard and with a Lugar poised at the ready. Ida felt a cold spike of fear at the flashing recollection of her last encounter with such a female, at the horrid misery that was Ravensbruck, the complete and entire lack of respect shown to her or her girls by these indoctrinated tools.

Ida’s grasp of German had been sufficient enough to keep herself and her companions away from suspicion in their occasional interactions with passersby. While she wore the heavy overcoat of a military man, it had no markings, and it was just as likely for some freezing civilian to steal it off a carcass as it was for an American female officer to be on the loose. Ida knew this and she tried to play at being dumb, pointing to the food, explaining in unstudied desperation that she was starving.

The female guard observed her coldly, her impassive face showing a certain lack of curiosity or even remote interest in Ida’s narrative that made her heart quicken with a presentment of a swift and sudden execution. She has seen these guards lift a gun, squeeze the trigger, and move on boredly all in the matter of a second. What about her own features or story were so compelling to prevent it?

“Bitte nicht!” She repeated again, choosing to take a step forward, eyeing the woman’s grip and posture, professional, soldierly, the woman left little opening for Ida to capitalize on, but she would rather get a bullet in the gut while fighting than be shot hunkering over stolen potatoes.

There was a darkening in the doorway, it caught Ida’s eye right before she timed her launch. It was Cleven. His appearance made her hesitate a moment too long. He had his arm barred around the guard’s throat in an instant but the pistol was out of his reach and one stride too far away from Ida’s grasp. Unlike the hapless children in the forest that had attacked them days ago, this officer had bullets. Ida felt the searing tear of its bite smart her shoulder, blurring her vision in pain before she rushed in, clasping her own hands around the pale wrist.

Cleven had the woman’s eyes rolling back with his grip, her grapple at his forearm growing feeble as her oxygen ran low. Another shot rang out, a bullet embedding in the ceiling rafters as Ida managed to wrench it away at last. She turned it on the woman and fired, only to find her luck run out again, as well as the chamber.

There was a knife in the guard's boot, both women seemed to think of it at the same instant as the guard became possessed with a final animated struggle to reach for it, desperate to break out of Cleven’s strangle. But Ida wasn’t about to watch another friend die, or miss her chance to go home, to bear witness to what her girls, her men, her brother were yet enduring, not to spare herself a fleeting moment of misplaced mercy. She dove for the boot, wrenched the knife free from its sheath and drove the blade in under the sternum, carving it upwards as she herself rose to her feet. Her wrist was fully in the chest cavity, arm covered with warm still living blood, by the time she saw the guard’s head loll impassively against Cleven’s chest, the soul finally gone dim behind the eyes.

“Sweet Jesus.” He stepped back from the corpse, letting go. Ida felt the weight of the body in her wrist as her grip on the knife was all that kept it standing. She tore the weapon free with another sickly gush, and blearily observed it crumple to the floor.

“There are spuds.” she told Cleven as she braced her hands on her knees, nodding to her abandoned sack of potatoes. The edges of her vision were blurring from the exertion, her coat sleeve was soaked to the elbow, but she had a weapon now and a dead Nazi at her feet. Both sat well with her.

The potatoes bought them another days walk, with Smith using the ratty towel to wrap Ida’s shoulder, it was only a flesh wound. That evening they had another run in, but this time it was with the friendly faces of gum chewing yanks who were welcoming with their smokes and their K rations. Poor infantry boys, they were bamboozled by the existence of a female officer, the experiment of integration having only added to the flyboys somewhat derisive glamor. But it was mostly awe, and a healthy amount of respect, that they showed for the blood smeared lady Colonel.

“That make you one of Brady’s Banshees?” one bright corporal made conversation with Ida as he allowed her a seat beside himself on the hood of a tank, it was a hitched ride into Belgium.

“She is Brady.” Smith drawled for her, enjoying far more than Ida how gobsmacked the man was to be in the presence of feminine greatness.

They were welcomed warmly everywhere by their fellow allies, ferried like heroes on any conveyance possible. Smith was their cheery intercessor, knowing her superiors were of so torn a spirit and conflicted of conscience as to be half inclined to go back to where they came from. In truth, Ida could hardly bring herself to board the last plane -an unbelievable courtesy taking them from Paris straight to Thorpe- as all she could think on were what repercussions might have been exacted on the others for their escape. And what cruelties she had left her brother to endure without her.

Cleven was not much better; Egan, Maureen, all of them still left behind. As they took their seats on the benches, felt the old nostalgic rumble of the engines, not of a Fort but of a Gooneybird, what should have been a lightening of spirits as they soared over the channel was instead a dismal camaraderie of guilt.

That fateful night when they had all agreed to escape before crossing the Danube, the organization had been infuriatingly chaotic yet the groups were chosen with emphatic pragmatism. The guards were used to watching certain persons in company with their favorite fellows. The Bradys, the Buckys, Smith and Murph, each had some comrade the Germans expected to be their partner in any subversive endeavor. With this in mind, their agreed-upon groups were intentionally fractured to confuse their captors, each hoping to meet up somewhere on the road or in the forest.

Cleven and Ida had waited only a few hundred yards in the tree line for over an hour, hoping to be joined by their fellows. In the end only Smith came, with the word that the gig was up, Egan had been detained, John Brady never even began to saunter off before they closed the perimeter. No more were coming. It took all of Smith’s vicious logic to keep the officers from going back, she had to lean on reminders of reprisals and certain death, how they could in no way alleviate the suffering of the others by rejoining them.

What they could do was carry through, escape, go back to England, spread the word, liberate.

Despite this inner turmoil, Ida felt like kissing the ground when her feet landed on East Anglian soil. Or, rather, the cement of the old familiar runway. Instead she settled for Crosby‘s cheeks, the beaming fellow being so utterly honest in his welcome that some tiny part of her melted in momentary relief at having actually made it. That hadn’t really sunk in, not until there was an English mist pelting her face and Harry’s crinkled cheeks between her hands.

“A major?!” she repeated his rank and felt prouder than his mother in that moment while Harry blushed scarlet under the affirmation.

“A-and a father.” tumbled out of his mouth as a deflection except, that subject made a great hullabaloo too, with even Cleven growing exuberant in his congratulatory shoulder slapping. “What am I doing makin’ you stand out here, get in the jeep sirs, I’ll take you to a hut, or-or the club? Or the doctor?”

Both Ida and Cleven stiffened in their swing into the jeep at the last suggestion, a brittle defensiveness tightening their smiles, “Bed and board are all we need, thanks Crosby.” Gale gave him one of those devastatingly final little nods of his.

They kept him occupied and rambling on the ride, updates on new crews, new buildings, Jeffreys, Meatball, the improvement of rations, tales of bombing Berlin, the prospect of victory within reach. By the time he’d parked outside Cleven’s old barracks, Harry knew next to nothing about their own experiences, and he felt that somehow to have been quite calculated.

“There’s still a ladies sector, Colonel,” Harry assured Ida, much to her confusion as to why there wouldn’t be, “I’ll take you and Smith there.”

The old hut was as she remembered it, same as all the others, curved metal amplifying the patter of rain and the monotonous comfort of Air Force regulated bunking. It hit then, no more wooden combines or roadside shelters. She was really back.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Smith asked, the place eerily quiet, even for midday.

“There at- there at work.” Crosby offered haltingly.

Suspecting something dreadful, or as Bucky liked to say of her instincts -sniffing out bullshit- Ida slowly turned to Crosby and gave him a stare, one she recalled having once effectively shrank the man by a few literal inches. Perhaps because it was remarkably similar to her brother’s. Harry bore up under it better now, oak leaf cluster on his breast or a hard three years adding some spine to him, she didn’t know, but still his expression wavered guiltily.

“At work?” she repeated his phrasing, “That what the kids call war these days?”

“A few, a couple, -some,” he settled on, “are on missions. We’ve been uh, we’ve been running a lot of missions. Picking up prisoners -like you guys.”

“The rest?”

“At work.”

“Where’s this work?”

“Uh, well, various posts, you know how it is-“

“-grounded?” She supplied.

“Well, yeah. Just like Douglass and me and-“

“They badly hurt? Who’re we talking about?”

“Colonel,” Harry begged her, looking mildly close to drowning on dry land and sending a wet eyed sos at Smith, “dozens of them are posted here. Grounded yes, but, in good positions, required positions-“

“Did they get corresponding promotions?” Ida hit back, “Were they grounded because they were too valuable or were they hurt? Or did they just get squirreled away in some cupboard with a typewriter?”

“Look, uh, sir,” Harry chuckled nervously, “a lot of them are on missions, some of them are at their jobs -where I should be right now. But, it’s true, uh, the brass thought that, well they weren’t sure, Ida, when we got word you’d escaped we wanted to welcome you back right and uh, we didn’t know what to expect. We’ve had a lot of reports. Some reassuring and a lot…not. Not reassuring at all. And uh, we didn’t know what to expect, they didn’t know and uh, depending on how you were, it could affect the morale. So they thought, clear the place out a little, yeah? Make sure you were -you were…”

“Didn’t wanna scare the kids.” Ida supplied, tone softened, suspecting she probably did look half witch from all her trials.

“We didn’t know what to expect.” Harry repeated, a significant amount of relief bleeding into his voice, like he was going to get choked up on her mere continued existence.

“Well I need a change of clothes, and I need a shower.” Ida smiled at him until he gave her a fastidious look while glancing at her blood stained coat and she sent him a sour glare in return, “And a nap. And then I dare say nothing about me will be cause for alarm, not even for general LeMay.”

Harry was back to chuckling nervously as he walked his way backwards out the hut. “Of course, yeah, uh, we tried to supply uniforms, laid them out -best we could scrounge, for now.”

“Thanks Croz.” Smith offered, trying to soften the ending of this interaction.

“Before you go,” Ida stalled him, “tell me a little about the new ones? Who should I know? What should I know? Hate to wake up in here and have to start making acquaintances from scratch.”

“Colonel,” Harry answered her in the most mournful voice, “there aren’t any new ones.”

That old whiff of cold dread was back. “Crosby.”

“They uh, after you went down, colonel they, they scrapped the program.”

“You cannot be-“ Ida rubbed at her throat, trying to get it to open up, wondering what the hell it must be like to be Gale Cleven and get to come back to Thorpe Abotts and nothing be different, get to be home and get to find everything where it should be because your own higher ups aren’t fighting against you right along with the bastards with the flak and the barbed wire and the endless taunts about women being made for breeding. “Crosby what do you mean scrapped? They shut it down?” she wished she sounded angry, but she knew it was a cry, and to his credit he looked ready to cry for her.

“Colonel I’m so sorry, the reports were so alarming and the-“ he shook his head, “-they grounded all female servicemen right after. Cut the program, if it wasn’t for Kidd they might’ve sent them all back, discharged or moved to the WASPS. Well, they stayed, but, it’s not- it’s not what it was, colonel.”

Ida bit her lip, that old throbbing pain from the old injury of her cheek bloomed again, it felt like arriving at the stalag in one too many ways. “Y-you said something about, you said some were up on missions.” She wracked her brain for it and found it, that one bit of hope and she clung to it like a woman drowning.

“Yeah!” Crosby was over eager to soothe the pain with the modicum of good news he had, “They are! Rosenthal he uh, he’s over the squadrons now and uh, he’s seen to it they are allowed up. Mostly uh, mercy runs or behind allied lines, they don’t want anyone captured but, they’re up. They’re getting their thirty missions. They’ve uh, they’ve changed the number, since you were here.”

“Thirty.” she repeated numbly.

Harry’s footsteps had long ago receded along the gravel outside by the time Ida allowed herself enough movement to sink atop the pristinely made bed in her filthy clothes and just stare at the opposite bunk of equally pristine sheets and all of it so pristine and so rigorous and so proud and so pristine and so-

The echo of her own scream startled her, banging off the tin walls and circling back to her. Ida felt more than saw the implacable Tallulah Smith jump in fright beside her, but that level headed woman knew better than to soothe her officer. Not after what they’d just learned. She bit her tongue and busied herself sorting amongst the clothes and provisions for towels, combs, soap, toothbrushes. Ida watched this rich display of care on the part of their fellows with a snarl bending her lip, she could taste salt and knew she was also crying and all that she could hear amongst the cacophony in her head was a desperate wail -she didn’t want combs and towels, she wanted her squadron back.

Some aspect of this heartbroken petulance must’ve shown on her face as Smith extended both a comb and towel to her with forceful kindness, “LeMay didn’t lay these out.” was all she commented. “Think of it as Harry’s hospitality. You look a mess, and won’t get any respect for it.”

Smith had some vantage point from which to speak, Ida knew. Native American with bronzed skin just shy of being segregated twice over, getting screwed over was something Smith had made into an art form of cat and mouse. Ida had long admiringly observed it; she never thought she’d need to adopt a similar posture to this degree. Not when she felt like grabbing at the knife still in her trench coat pocket and making a charming scene and all it would get her was confirmation of the reports.

Whatever those were. Alarming reports, apparently. It was so very upper brass of them all to find the enemy’s methods unfortunate and so shoot themselves in the foot like it evened things out.

“I’ll be along in a minute.” Ida insisted to Smith from her bunk, refusing more than the towel and comb.

They’d all been through hell for daring to be combatants. But Ida, at this news of her loss, was beginning to recall particular parts of her own hell she had not dwelt on since they occurred.

Colonel -the way each had called her that, sneering at the mere concept of a colonel with a cunt, an officer so easily breached, a leader made by her Creator to be bent over and taken. She’d had a squadron then, and no amount of scorn or cruelty could take that from her; no, only her friends could take that away.

And they had.

Robert Rosenthal was giving himself a little pump up speech as he stalled outside with his hand on the door knob, knowing he needed to knock first and that knocking would buy him a little more time to ready himself, and so he really should go ahead and knock. The pattering drizzle on his hat brim should have been human incentive enough to get inside already, if duty and honor and admiration weren’t quite cutting it today. But he stalled, even went so far as to cast an indefensibly juvenile and furtive glance over his shoulder at the shrinking form of the accommodating lady who’d passed him on his march here. A Lieutenant Smith, who had told him she was glad to be back and that her famed superior was still inside-

“Angry as God after catching the Israelites worshiping cows at Mount Carmel.”

Rosenthal knew Ida Brady had every reason to be utterly furious, hell -he was furious for her, with her, about her. And he had no right to stand there and wish she wouldn’t take it out on him, to defend himself with shitty excuses like the fact a few of the girls got to see the top of clouds because he had put his shiny and promoted boot down and asked for it. He wasn’t exactly the problem, perhaps, but he was, by sheer implication of it being men like him unable to require better treatment, at fault. And so, Rosie stood in the drizzle and gave himself one last minute to think about Colonel Ida Brady as she had been the last time he’d seen her, terrifyingly formidable and utterly kind.

“It’s no worse than your dread of it, I swear.” she had told him and Nash that night before their first time up, “I was relieved to have seen it.”

What had she seen since? He stared at the little leather binder in his hand and scoffed at the administrative mission that carried him here. To hell with it. He knocked, he waited, he knocked once more, and he went in.

The stipple of rain on the roof of an empty Nissen hut was a calming background noise he himself savored whenever possible. Despite their bare aesthetic and extreme practicality, there was a serenity to them as well, and on spotting a seated figure a few bunks down from the entrance, he felt a pang of empathy for the desire to just decompress.

She looked up at the sound of his footfalls, not startled in the least. Not angry. In fact, she looked utterly dazed, like the men he’d helped out of their forts after a bad run of it. A face he’d seen in the mirror once or twice or a couple dozen. There was a docile listlessness in her gaze that he knew better than to be comforted by, despite the selfish feeling of relief at not immediately being eviscerated about her squadron. She was gaunt, understandably so, her strong jaw so pronounced he could cut his thumb on it, the pallor of her skin jarred unsettlingly with her dark brows, set off in stark relief by her tangled, jet black hair. Her overcoat was half muddy brown, half doleful rust. There was a bloody story there, a recent one, not washed away by a hard rain or bath. Rosenthal didn’t have any doubt how that struggle had ended for her assailant: she was here, wasn’t she?

He’d never seen anything more magnificent in all his life than this battered figure sat on a pristine cot with dawning recognition in her eyes.

“Welcome back, Colonel!” he ventured, keeping his tone soft as befitted the setting, yet unable to keep the creeping happiness at her return from showing in his voice.

“Mm, yes. Rosenthal.” Ida was straightening automatically, rising from her seat, shrugging off her clumsy overcoat and standing near to attention at sight of the brass on his lapel, “I remember you. A Colonel now, I see. Well done.”

Rosie felt his cheeks burn, another juvenile thing, her hand extended itself to his surprise and he clasped it warmly, maybe a little too firmly. “Well that’s kind of you, Ma’am. Very kind. Welcome back, Colonel.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Apologies.” he stumbled, releasing her hand in hopes of regaining his thoughts. She didn’t look angry yet, she looked wary, “Just glad to have you back. There was…a lotta concern.”

“It was touch and go but -here I am.”

“Right.” There was silence after that, it was so thick that the quirk of his kind lips and the gleam of his eager eyes slowly dimmed and fell as no small talk resumed. “Uh, colonel,” he ventured, “due to those aforementioned concerns, uh, I’ve been asked-“

“Aforementioned? What kind of talk is that?”

“Ha, well, lawyerly talk I’m afraid. I need to get a report from you, colonel.”

“For God’s sake man, I just got here, maybe with a shower and a nap and a cup of joe I might have a report for you but- I just got here.”

“Yes.” he refused to wince, he refused to. He was a colonel now, he had to require unpleasant things every day from his friends. Today it was required from a hero. Small difference in a war. “And if it were up to me I’d give you weeks to do all that before asking a thing from you. But I can’t, colonel. They wanted an immediate, preliminary report. It’s -it’s the same as an integration after a mission. Less interaction beforehand, less time to confuse the details- you get my drift.”

“You’re under orders.”

“I am.”

“Why didn’t you say? God’s sake Rosenthal.” she was close to angry now.

“Sorry, ok, Colonel I-“

“Why the whole welcoming committee schtik? Just say what you mean.”

“It’s not a schtick, Ma’am,” he insited, heatedly, “it’s a genuine honor to have you back with us and a relief to see you safe. And yes, I have orders to get a preliminary report.”

“In future you can save us both precious minutes of our lives by being this forthright, please?”

“Understood.”

“Right, well. What’s wanted? What kind of report?” He didn’t fail to notice the sudden and very studied nonchalance that took over her gait, the way she leaned against the railing of her footboard, almost a slouch that made the lean line of her look entirely unperturbed. He wasn’t a good lawyer out of naïveté about such posturing. She was braced like hell for this, probably worse than he was.

“On uh, on your general treatment. Ma’am.” he decided to summarize it thusly.

“Well Colonel,” he had forgotten what a nice voice she had, it wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t gruff, it was simply nice, “if Gale Cleven’s under eyes didn’t tell you the food was meager and hardly nutritious, I’ll go on record to say so. But they did try, I think I can give them that. Looked like everyone was starving by the end.”

“Conduct of your guards?” he had his stupid little leather case open on his forearm and the not quite soggy notepad in it was being dutifully filled with scribbles.

“I’ve little to say against the Luftwaffe, they were honorable for the most part. I think you’ll get that same report from the others. There were a few incidents, but we were enemies. To be expected.”

“Right, uh,” the pencil drug a little “this is a general report so I’ll spare an inquiry into those incidents.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“Anything else?” Ida tried to smooth her face, she really did.

“Colonel -yes.” she watched him as he deliberated for a moment before seeming to recall her scathing admonition of before, and carried on resolutely in the bluntest manner he could summon, “Regarding your prolonged detention before the stalag. It’s our understanding you were not always under Luftwaffe jurisdiction?”

“That’s correct. Combatant status was not recognized for four and a half weeks.” Ida gave a clipped nod. “We were even briefly detained at a concentration camp.”

“I can’t imagine what you must’ve seen there.”

Ida stared back with some slight emotion flitting over her mask-like face at long last and Rosie felt maybe his own showed it, too, “From what I’ve heard, we may be the only ones to have left alive.” she said at last.

“Your testimony, what you saw there, it could become-“ Rosie drew in breath, “-invaluable.”

“I’d do anything to see justice done, Colonel.” she agreed, “Sometimes I think I dreamed such mass cruelty. Seems too large to be real, too awful to be abetted for so long by so many.”

“I saw what was left of one of the smaller camps. In Poland.”

“Mm, so you can imagine.” she retorted, but it was a kind retort.

“I don’t see much else when I close my eyes.”

“Mm.”

“Right, back to this uh, report, the question is, how were you treated before civilian status was adhered to?”

“Is this a personal report or a general one?” Ida inquired suddenly.

“The assignment was to ask about your own observations as senior officer of the female contingent of-“

“-then in that case, the treatment was barbaric, Colonel Rosenthal.” Ida informed him forcefully, “The Luftwaffe used plenty of rough tactics and one officer was particularly cruel to Cleven. I was informed my brother was dying and that my obstinance in denying giving them information was prolonging his torment. All of that I was prepared for, it was one soldier’s attempt to break another. The gestapo, on the other hand, were beasts. And the SS -sadists. They dealt in cruelty for the pleasure of it and my girls went through hell. Once in the stalag there was a reprieve. Then the Luftwaffe were relieved of command and it began again- if you expect details, come back with a larger notepad.”

Rosie gave a curt nod of his own in understanding, his brow creased at the implication.

“No one wants to see justice done for them more than I.” Ida went on, “But they’re still out there, and I’m here. And I-I don’t know that those are my stories to tell, Colonel. What I saw is plenty enough to hang a village. And it wasn’t just toward my girls.”

“At…at a later point, you’d be willing then?” he ventured, softly, no longer professional, “To tell me what you saw?”

“Larger notebook, Rosenthal.”

“Yes ma’am.” he knew a dismissal when he heard one, he even felt a brief and heinous relief at the prospect of slipping away on a high note. The dreaded scrapping of the program still undiscussed. “I’ll uh, leave ya to that shower.”

“It’s good to be back, Colonel.” she called to him while he was still maneuvering through a somewhat meandering exit, she called out this concession as if it were meant only in regards to him, “Like what you’ve done with the place.”

Well now that was -that was kind and that was unexpected and Colonel Robert Rosenthal may have let the door hit him on the way out.

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[softspeirs]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happened?"

"Grace."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But--"

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

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

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

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

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

"Just bruised, like my ego."

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

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

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

"Oh, shut up."

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

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

[rosienthal]

Blue

a Rosie Rosenthal drabble

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

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

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

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

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

You hate making him blue.

"I understand."