coucoumelle

[hephaestn]

sky set to burst — chapter 4: unearthed

robert 'rosie' rosenthal (masters of the air) x maggie hurley (original female character) teen and up audiences · f/m · word count: 20.9k · chapters: 4/?

ao3 | tumblr tag

There was a daunting feeling haunting the mess hall this evening. It was eerily quiet as they dined—an unusual stillness had replaced the usual clatter of plates and echoing voices.  Rosie’s eyes drifted to Bailey, who kept playing with his food, swirling his fork through his mashed potatoes. He had a faraway look in his eyes, his mind completely absent.  Today’s mission to Marienburg hadn’t been too terrible—only one ship had been lost. But their minds were still in Bremen, seeing Nash’s fortress go into an uncontrollable dive.  Rosie knew from the start this would happen; the knowledge he’d be losing friends and colleagues was forever present in his mind. He had accepted it, knew it was the cost of what they were fighting for. But the reality of it, of living through it, was all too different. They had to carry on, though. It was the only way forward. “Anyone else’s potatoes drier than the desert, or is it just mine?” Pappy broke the silence, a welcome intrusion into the heavy air.

continue reading on ao3

it's finally here! it's been worse than childbirth to write this chapter, so here you go enjoy the baby (hope it's a good baby) 🌷💕

[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.

[therealslimshakespeare]

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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[wexhappyxfew]

you, me, and the stars

(a/n): judy x rosie girlies, this is for you!! this is for all the ones who have never been in love, who are trying to protect the last parts of themselves in the face of others, and for the ones deserving of love!! these two represent all those awkward, newly-found emotions and feelings, that surprise even themselves, so please enjoy! :)

Judy had dwindled into down to just this; home was more of a feeling, not entirely a place.

The flak house was beautiful, an escape, somewhere to get one's mind off of the mental torment that was the God-forsaken war they all seemed stuck in.

But, it wasn't Thorpe Abbotts; with its metallic scent of air, voices and grinding machine parts echoing at all hours of the day, the marching, the footsteps, the way the air danced through the tree leaves. The flak house was quiet, save for the occasional flight path overtop. Thorpe Abbotts was loud and enough to make you feel like your brain was being knocked about inside, but it was home in a way the flak house wasn't.

The thing that made Thorpe Abbotts feel like home was especially the people. All the men in the 100th, their leaders both lost and MIA, and the women of Silver Bullets.

It was just like her home, in North Carolina. With Ma and Pa, that large house on the river, big meals to feed all six kids, making sure the lambs, chickens and cows were kept up with, that laundry was hung, crops harvested, plates and bowls washed in the river.

They didn't have much, but they had each other.

And even across the ocean they still did - in more ways than one.

Now, Judy felt them even in the women beside her. Strong and courageous, putting on their brave faces against the waging war of the world. Something her family had done ever since they'd come to America.

"The stars are so bright out here," Bessie said from Judy, their arms interlinked, sat side by side on the steps in front of the flak house, the light dripping out from the main door where cool, night air rushed in,

"I almost wish Tommy could see it." Judy looked towards her with a small smile.

"He does," Judy whispered quietly, reaching a hand forward to gently brush her hand over Bessie's calloused palm, "where ever he is right now. He sees it. Maybe not this instance, but he does." She watched Bessie smile, the corners of her lips turning upward, before she glanced over at Judy, a big grin on her face, her eyes glowing, the softest they'd been in days, the least stressed Judy had seen the navigator.

"You know, when we were kids," Bessie started, "we sat in his parents' apartment, right by one of the windows and watched the stars one night, all night practically, side by side. Not only was it my first kiss, but…he also told me he'd name a star after me. I think he named it 'Bee'….something or other." Judy giggled into Bessie's side and clasped a hand over her mouth with a gleeful smile.

"You two were meant to be," Judy whispered quietly, "everything you say, about him, about you, about the two of you together. God, you'll make the cutest babies, Bessie, I'll tell ya." Now, it was Bessie's turn to laugh and shook her head.

"You know he told me one time that if he had a daughter, he'd name her Charlotte," Bessie said, "he thought the nickname, Charlie, would be cute."

"Taste." Judy said with a laugh, nudging Bessie's side, "Charlotte McKenzie has a ring to it."

"And so does Bessie McKenzie." Bessie said back, sending the two of them into a fit of chuckles under the moving dusk. They fell quiet for a beat and then Bessie sighed and wrapped an arm around Judy's side, giving her a tight squeeze and rubbing her shoulder.

"Well, I'm heading up, going to get some rest and enjoy waking up and drinking coffee without having to hear a bunch of bullshit from Blakely," Bessie said with a chuckle, "you good out here? Staying up a bit?" Judy smiled and wrapped her arms around her sides and nodded.

"Yeah, just a bit more," Judy said, "you go though, I'll be up in a bit. And…Bessie?" Bessie watched her as she stood and sent her a smile.

"Just...give Lieutenant Bradshaw an extra hug for me," Judy said sadly, "her eyes looked like she'd been crying all night. About Captain Brady, so….incase I get in late, just do that for me, please?" Bessie smiled at her and nodded.

"You think she loves him?" Bessie asked Judy. Judy stilled.

"I don't know a whole lot about love, but I know he looks at her like she's the only woman in the room," Judy said softly, "and she gets all blushy around him, all soft and sweet. I like to think the universe doesn't just do things for the hell of it." Ripping them from each other, Judy thought to herself. Bessie grinned and then looked at her sadly.

"Try and get some rest," Bessie said, "don't stay up too late, okay? You need to keep yourself well-rested. Goodnight, honey."

"Night, Bes." Judy called after her, watching Bessie offer her a smile and then disappear inside. Judy smiled softly, looking forward again towards the oncoming darkness and comfort of nightfall, the singing birds and bugs all around and sighed.

Lieutenant Bradshaw's eyes looked sadder more often than not, but she was trying and that's all the credit a person like Annie Bradshaw needed - that she was being seen.

To be seen, was to be loved.

"Hey," Judy looked over her shoulder and was almost surprised to see Rosie Rosenthal there, coming towards her from the doorway, hands in his pant pockets, his A-2 jacket over his shoulders and a soft smile on his face, "mind if I join you?" Judy watched him for a moment - he looked so….different, a nice different. A different that made her think they weren't in war for a second.

"Of course, sir," Judy said, watching as he came forward and settled down on the step beside her where Bessie had been, "come to watch the stars?" Rosie let out a chuckle and then glanced towards her, his face bathed in blues and purples from the night, his eyes like a doe's as he watched her.

"You could say that." he said, then he grinned, nodding at her,

"How've you been?" Judy watched him, unable to contain the grin wanting to grow on her face and then chuckled lightly.

"Good," she said, and then smiled nervously, "sir, uh, good, being away from base, it's been….a breath of fresh air, I'll admit. Just, not having to get those planes going in the morning, get in the ball turret and shoot, over and over. It's nice to just….." she watched as he watched her, "be."

"Good," Rosie said, his voice light, "good, good, I'm glad. Really. You've all been putting out the last few months. I know that - Pappy's been talking Kennedy's ear off and well…."

"Collateral damage." Judy supplied and Rosie nodded with a small chuckle, looking down at his hands in his lap.

"Exactly, exactly," Rosie said and then glanced up at her, "I'm just glad the Silver Bullets crew is getting some deserved rest. All of you."

"Thank you, sir." Judy said, her voice tender, watching him in a moment of seriousness that was different than a few seconds previous.

He watched her for a moment, just taking in the feeling it seemed, the same she was allowing herself to feel in her heart. They both seemed to come to at the same time and smiled, laughs leaving both their lips as Judy shyly looked away and crossed her arms.

"I'm sorry, Judy, are you, uh, cold?" Rosie asked leaning forward a bit, and placing a hand on her shoulder, "October's never been a great month for short sleeves." Judy watched him, looking between his face, his hand and him. Short sleeves, right, she was in that right now. And freezing; he was right. How'd he know? She glanced down at her short sleeves, her right side hidden beneath his hand and then looked to him, his face full of worry and seriousness. And then she let out a shy laugh and blushed quickly and then nodded.

"A bit, but," she shook her head, "I was planning to go upstairs in a bit anyway, so, it's okay."

"Here," Rosie said quickly, shrugging himself out of his A-2 and then leaning to his side to lay it over her shoulders, "just to warm up." And warm up she did in fact do; to the point, she was blushing all over and inhaling the scent from his jacket and him beside her and suddenly very overwhelmed with his presence. Alright, so it was a stupid feeling she had been trying to hide, but it was a feeling she had never felt all too well. And in a war, she wasn't sure what to even feel. But right now, with this jacket and him beside her, she wasn't as eager to head up to bed anymore.

"Thank you," she said softly, grasping the edges and then looking at him, "I appreciate it really." Rosie watched her with that tender gaze of his again before leaning back a bit and looking up.

"You can really see the stars from here," he said, his voice a small bit of astonishment and adornment for the world above them, glowing with the life of the night, shining little orbs so far away they'd never be able to actually grasp them, "they're beautiful."

"Yeah," Judy said, her eyes traveling back up to the night sky above them, "sitting in the darkness, on the ground, staring at the stars? It's almost like home." She could feel Rosie staring now, and glanced his way. Something so harrowing, yet nostalgic in a way. A mixture of feelings lingering between them at her simple statement - thoughts of home, seemingly so far away now, a place that'd be changed in a thousand different ways by the time they did actually got home - if they got home.

"Where is home?" he asked quietly, leaning to his side to bump her shoulder. She laughed quietly.

"North Carolina." she said, glancing at him in the quiet - she could practically hear him breathing. It was so … comforting.

"A tiny town," she admitted, "nothing big, a river, a general market, a wood mill, friends here and there down the road. But it was home." Judy looked over slowly towards Rosie beside her and quirked out a smile as she saw him sitting there, grinning.

"What?" she said grinning, "Where you from?"

"Brooklyn." he said, looking at her. Judy's face hurt from smiling, but it was okay because it was Rosie.

"Brooklyn," Judy said with a soft smile, "never really been in one of those big cities."

"You'd like it," Rosie said, looking out towards the darkness, "you'd fit right in. Bright lights, the people, the music. All of it." He looked at her. Judy smiled and pulled her knees to her chest, and glanced towards him again.

"Music, huh?" she asked him and he looked at her with a smile.

"Yeah, can't sing real well, but my mom, my sisters, they're pretty good. Far better than me," he said with a nod, and then grinned, "still love music though. You can never go wrong with Artie Shaw." Judy smiled, her thoughts consumed with the idea of what a younger version of this Rosie could've been, home with his family, dancing and attempting to sing. Far away from war and fear and grief. She liked the thought of that at some point, they were all like that. Young, youthful and free.

"Did you do a lot of music and dancing before the war then?" Judy asked him quietly, with a hopeful smile, watching as he comprehended her sentence and then let out a small smile. He shook his head and then leaned forward on his bent knees.

"I was a lawyer before the war actually," Rosie said and Judy's eye widened in near amazement, "yeah, was doing that and then the war broke out. Couldn't just sit back and do nothing." His face grew serious at that last statement and then melted as he looked at her.

"What about you? What was the thing Judy Rybinski was doing before this whole thing started?" he asked, leaning forward, with genuine curiosity and she watched him before letting out a laugh and shaking her head.

"I'm afraid nothing as cool as being a lawyer," she admitted and she watched Rosie's face soften as he tilted his head towards her, "but I was 3 years removed from high school, didn't have money for college so….I worked in the local mechanics, fixing cars, boats, anything and everything. Learning what I could. Made some good money, too." Judy watched him and sighed.

"But….I always dreamed of getting to go to college, continue to learn, allow myself to grow," she said, her thoughts swimming back to that time her parents told her they didn't have enough to help get her through schooling and Judy had cried herself to sleep and then gathered herself together and gone to the mechanic to start learning some trade, "maybe get a job teaching. Maybe geography or something of that sort….I don't know. One day, that's the goal." Rosie stayed watching her, his eyes holding her gaze as she looked at him.

"You should go for it," Rosie told her, "when the war is over, I mean. You'd be a great teacher, great with kids, getting to teach, you just…." Rosie cut himself off for a moment and then smiled at her, suddenly looking more shy and unsure of himself than in recent minutes. Judy watched him, her cheeks warming slightly at his encouragement and genuine thought. It made her stomach twist pleasingly. Rosie let out a nervous laugh and then looked at her, crossing his arms and leaning against his upbent knees.

"You're just someone I like being around," Rosie admitted quickly, running a hand behind his neck and then glancing at her, "and I think you'd be someone good at teaching kids. And being a teacher so….I think you should go for it." Judy was watching him, her cheeks all crimson and her heart racing and for a moment, she caught his gaze and she saw things that made her heart race faster.

Rosie Rosenthal was equally someone she liked being around, but the thought of telling him that made her sweaty and panicky and she figured she'd embarrass herself, so instead, she blushed further and smiled.

"Thank you, sir," she said quietly, and then let out a small laugh, "sorry, it's just….I haven't really told many people that, so…it just means a lot - the support I mean." Rosie smiled at her and nodded.

"You deserve good things after this war, Judy," Rosie said and then swallowed, "all of us do." Judy watched him, this urge to reach out and brush her palm against his cheek inviting her closer, a wish to curl up beside him and let the stars stare down at them, the need for human touch, to be looked at and loved.

By Rosie.

"You too, sir," she said quietly, her smile soft, "only the best." This staring, these lingering glances, they seemed to be whatever they couldn't say and just that look in his eyes made her blush further. Judy tried to control her racing heart, and her breath, and then cleared her throat.

"I think I'll be heading up now," Judy said, and pressed her palms against her cheeks and then sighed and looked to him, "Bessie said she'd braid my hair and I don't want to keep her up."

"Of course," Rosie said, standing to his feet and then offering his own hand towards her, which she took rather quickly, and then stood there, staring up at him like a goof, "try and get some rest tonight, alright?"

"You too," she said, and then chuckled, "sorry, Lieutenant Bradshaw said she couldn't sleep last night and it ended up being the two of you down here, with Doc, unable to fall asleep, just talking and stuff. So….yeah, just, you too, sir." Rosie laughed at her words and then schooled his facial expressions again.

"Thanks, Judy."

Staring at him, she couldn't constrain what she felt and stood on her tiptoes, before placing a small kiss to his cheek, and then turned and walked away, as fast as her feet could carry her and up the stairs, towards the room she was sharing with Bessie. Her mind raced, her thoughts knocking at the edges of her brain as she hurried in, shut the door, and let out a sigh, before turning to the two beds, where Bessie was sat up in one, reading a book and staring at her, confused.

"Since when did you get a jacket….like that?" Bessie said, raising a brow, "And that, large?" Judy blushed and then tried to speak and choked on her air a bit before clearing herself up.

"It's just Lieutenant Rosenthal's," she said, stepping forward and settling on the side of her bed to take her shoes off, "he saw me outside, gave it to me because he said I looked cold."

"Judith Rybinski," Bessie, sitting up and then practically launching out of the bed to sit beside her, "you're blushing like a loon! What happened?" Judy looked at Bessie, her heart pounding, her thoughts racing, emotions running high in far too many wacky ways. Bessie watched her excitedly, but then slowly let her face fall and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

"I think he's just being nice," Judy whispered quietly and then shook her head, "and then I gave him a kiss on the cheek because I wasn't thinking-"

"-a kiss? On the cheek?"

"Yes, yes, a kiss on the cheek, it was stupid, he was just trying to be nice-"

"Giving you his jacket in this cold is never just him being nice, Judy-"

"It's a part of it-"

"But not all of it!" Bessie said and looked at her, and smirked, "He probably wants to you know….get to know you more." Judy stared at her and then let her shoulders fall and shook her head.

"No….I don't think so," Judy said and then crossed her arms and bit back her lip, "and plus, did you know he was a lawyer before the war? Bes, he's probably, I don't know, someone from some sort of money to do that sort of thing, ya know? My family comes from people who've lived on the streets, we showered once a week as kids. What am I thinking?" Judy ran her hands over her face and sighed, before squeezing her eyes shut.

"It's stupid," Judy said quietly, "it's just a stupid crush, it'll go away. He's just being nice, and I latched onto that because a nice guy, is a nice guy. But that's it. And….it's fine. I'll be fine." She grew quiet and watched as Bessie stared at her, eyes full of that lingering worry.

"It's not a stupid crush, alright?" Bessie told her, "You're allowed to feel that and if someone's ever told you otherwise, they're the stupid ones. He clearly is someone who is interested, too, Judy. Don't discredit that about yourself. You're one of the sweetest peaches I've ever met. And someone like that? You deserve that." Judy looked over at Bessie and then offered a small smile.

"Thank you, Bessie," Judy said, leaning to her side to pull Bessie into a hug, "you're too nice to me." Bessie chuckled into the hug and patted her back.

"You deserve it, Judy." Bessie said, "A whole lot of things, but sweetness is one of the many."

[luminouslywriting]

Hiya,

I hope you are doing OK and recuperating after your surgery. Absolutely love our writing! Please could you do headcanons or a one shot for one of the Masters of the Air men and a crippling shy oc. I'm so shy, especially in social situations and this is very self-indulgent. No worries if not :)

Hi sweet Nonny! I appreciate your kindness! My surgery is next week (on the 21st) and I am so grateful for you checking in on me! My requests are open and I seriously love this one 🥰

Cut for length, more under the cut:

Bucky Egan:

-This man can be a lot for people at times, but he also cares more deeply than anyone else

-He’s attentive to social and physical cues for anxiety

-Is a cuddle bug when it comes to you being anxious

-Loves being able to just hold you on his lap or sit with his arm around you in social interactions and is very happy to take over and be the social one

-He loves feeling like he’s taking care of you and loves getting to be gentle and calm with you….it also helps him clear his head

-Definitely knows all the words to your favorite songs and sings them to you when you’re upset

-And he loves bringing you flowers to cheer you up

Gale Cleven:

-Soft energy KING!! This man right here is so understanding and sweet about your shyness and is absolutely your rock

-Is really attentive in public and encourages you to drink water or to take things at your own pace

-Is very physically there for you and a grounding presence in times of anxiousness

-Since Gale doesn’t like being out a lot anyway, he’s more than happy to have a night in with you

-Whispers sweet assurances to you in your ear

-Also very good at talking through how you’re feeling and prefers to be communicative

-Gives the best hugs when you’re anxious

Rosie Rosenthal:

-Literally a hype king and always down for whatever you’re feeling. Whether you’re anxious or want to try something out, he’ll be right by your side. -Is super tender and patient with you, especially when you’re taking the time to try and express yourself

-Does his own research about anxiety and might propose helpful ideas for how to make life easier for you

-Loves the quiet moments when it’s just the two of you and you’re able to be open

-Forehead kisses when you’re anxious

-Literally just wants to hug you and make sure you never cry ever

John Brady:

-A patient listener who quietly reassures you that he’s always going to be there for you

-He’s fairly quiet and chill himself, AND he’s very attentive. Because he’s a giver, he’s going to constantly be looking for things to brighten you up or help ease your anxiety. -Probably the type to get into meditations for anxiety to help you with positive affirmations

-He likes going out just fine but if he knows that you’re not, this man is PREPARED to hunker down and just give you some loving. -Discovers that music and rhythm really help when you’re anxious and he’s always prepared to step in with his instruments or with a steady beat that you can count. -Also a massive cuddles and loves being able to hold you….he treasures this time

-Always takes the time to tell you how brave you are and how proud he is of you and how much he loves you

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 3

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |-| Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18

AO3

Summary: In the wake of a terrible loss, the arrival of a new airman at Thorpe Abbotts promises to change the trajectory of Frankie's life forever

Warnings: Death, grief

Word Count: 3.9k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles

A/N: HE'S HEREEEE 🗣🗣🗣

It was dark in the mechanics' hut, the lights kept off during the day to preserve power, but the overcast nature of the afternoon did nothing to light the space from the outside. Hours had passed since the pilots had left, and although Frankie was never made privy to the specifics of their missions, she could tell by the amount of fuel that had been requested that they were going far, much further than they ever had before. There was not a man among them who hadn't seemed to have a dark cloud over his head as they had prepared to depart that morning.

She and Lemmons sat on the floor together, backs propped up against the wall, both too troubled by worry to work. Frankie had an old fashion magazine in her lap, and they passed the time by flicking through each section and poking fun at a myriad of ugly sweaters and ridiculous hats.

"Those are nice," Ken stated, pointing at a pair of green brogued shoes.

"Seriously? I think they're garish."

He shrugged. "My Fonda has some like it. They look nice on her."

She let out a low whistle, teasingly nudging his side as his face turned bright red, a satisfied smile curling his lips. For a boy as young as he was, he sure loved Fonda. Frankie had noticed the heart-shaped locket that hung from his neck the very first day they'd worked together, but it had taken weeks for him to let her have a look inside. It must have been nice to be loved the way she was.

The magazine was losing its charm. It had been over an hour, and they were running out of pages. With a huff, she tossed it across the room, landing in a heap of crumpled pages underneath the table. Ken looked over at her, raising a brow.

She shrugged. "Bored. Want a cigarette?"

Without waiting for an answer, Frankie dug around in her pocket and produced two loose, slightly bent cigarettes, passing one to Lemmons. She lit hers swiftly, taking in an inhale of smoke. He rolled his between his fingers, never bothering to light it. Sometimes she forgot he didn't smoke.

"I'm gonna take you for a drink tonight. We deserve it."

"I'm nineteen."

Frankie stared at him for a long moment. "...So?"

"So, I can't drink."

"Jesus Christ. Welcome to England mate, you might be the only nineteen-year-old currently in the country who doesn't already have a drinking problem."

He opened his mouth to respond, but before the words could emerge they were interrupted by a rapid knocking at the door. Far from the usual pounding thuds the men usually used, this knock was delicate, polite, but its urgency set Frankie's heart to beating twice as fast.

Scrambling to her feet, she rushed for the door, tossing her cigarette into the ashtray on the table as she passed. Hauling it open, a wave of nausea coursed through her as she saw George standing outside, hair damp from the drizzle, tie pulled loose away from her neck, her eyes red and puffy from crying.

"Wh-" Frankie trailed off as she slammed into her, gripping her in the tightest hug she'd ever felt. As she wrapped her arms around George's back, she could feel her shaking beneath her palms.

George let out one sob after another, face buried in Frankie's shoulder as her tears soaked the fabric of her coveralls. Looking back over at Lemmons, their gazes met in wide-eyed expressions of anxiety, and if George hadn't been crying so loudly Frankie was sure the thumping of her heart would've been audible.

"George- George," She spoke firmly, hands pressed to George's cheeks as she forced her to meet her eye. To be so harsh to a woman who needed nothing but softness ripped a hole through her, the guilt churning her stomach, but she needed to know. "Tell me what happened."

She nodded hurriedly, wiping her tears away with the backs of her hands. "They made it to Africa - we started getting messages through about an hour ago, but, uh..." George's lip trembled, and she sucked in a long, haggard breath. "Curt's dead, Frankie."

Lemmons let out some sort of strangled gasp as Frankie felt all of the blood drain from her face. For a moment she didn't know how to process the words, she just knew she needed to hold George - to hold her tight, tighter than anyone ever had. There was not an inch between them as she stroked a gentle hand through her golden hair, trying with all her might to keep breathing as she felt a warm tear roll down her cheek.

Over George's shoulder, she spied Ken making for the door, a frown casting a shadow over his boyish face. He met her eyes, and she offered him a nod, freeing him from the scene so he could inevitably tell the others.

The two women held each other for a long moment, Frankie's chin burrowed against George's collar. When she finally spoke, it was little more than a hoarse whisper, her throat suddenly dry as a bone.

"...And Bucky?"

Sniffing loudly, George pulled back, shaking her head. "No, no, he's okay. He made it to Algeria." Frankie hadn't released she was holding her breath until she let it escape her, raising a hand to cover her mouth as she nodded.

"Yeah? Yeah. Alright," She could worry about the others later - for now, knowing Egan was alive was enough to settle her drumming heart. "You need to go home, ok? You need to rest."

"My shift's not over, I still have to-"

"I am gonna walk up there myself and tell them you're not coming back today. Not tomorrow, neither. And if they've got a problem with that they can take it up with me - believe me, I don't give a shit if I take an insubordination charge over this."

A tearful smile broke out across George's face, holding onto Frankie's hand as it cupped her cheek. "Tangling with you? I don't fancy their chances."

Frankie chuckled, pulling her into one last hug and pressing her lips firmly to her temple. "Go, go. I'll see you soon, ok?"

"Yeah," She whispered against her neck, reaching out to squeeze her hand as she broke the hug, stepping backwards towards the door and disappearing.

As soon as she was alone, Frankie sucked in a long, laboured breath, collapsing into one of the rickety chairs that surrounded the table in the middle of the room. Doubling forward, she lay her head in her hands, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes as she focused on taking one breath after the next.

Since the war had begun, she had been cycling through phases of fear and calm, letting herself slip into the all too comfortable belief that it couldn't touch her here - couldn't take from her as long as she was home, as long as she was safe.

But God, how the world kept proving her wrong.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Almost a month had passed. Every mission took a toll, but the trip that had killed Curtis Biddick seemed to hang heavier than any other ever had.

Or perhaps it just seemed that way because of George.

Some nights Frankie would stay up late, rubbing exhaustion from her eyes as she fought to stay awake long enough to finish a chapter of her book, lit by the dim bulb of her bedside lamp. And then in the darkness she would hear a rustling, a casting aside of the course, army-issue bedsheets, and feel a weight press into the mattress beside her as George slipped under the covers, silently resting her head against Frankie's shoulder. She liked to listen to her heartbeat on the nights she felt most alone - when she felt the farthest from home, the most separated from the boy she almost loved - it brought her comfort to listen to that telltale sign of life radiating from the person closest to her. She had someone, and that was enough to live with.

Frankie had liked Curt, but she hadn't known him well. Sometimes she wished she had, if only so that she wouldn't feel so guilty, comforting her best friend over a loss she no longer felt so keenly. Instead, all she could do was softly whisper the words she was reading to her, and let her mere presence be the comfort as they both drifted off to sleep.

It had grown warm overnight, and the humidity combined with the heat of George's body burrowed close next to hers left Frankie slick with sweat by the time she woke up, her hair sticking to her neck in damp strands. Peeling the covers away as she clambered out of bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping friend, she made a beeline for the showers, hoping to wash away the unpleasant, sticky sensation that coated her skin. She was used to evening showers after a long day's work, and it felt strange to stare down at the hot water rolling off of her body and see it come away clear, clean, not streaked with the dirt and oil she was often coated with by the time she made it home each night.

Wringing her hair out with a towel as she made her way out of the bathroom, Frankie dodged the other women emerging from their beds as she reached her own area, her coveralls and workboots waiting for her on a nearby chair. George had moved back to her own bed, carefully removing each of the curlers she meticulously applied every night, just like all of the other servicewomen who were afforded the luxury of working indoors, a far cry from Frankie's reality. It wasn't that Frankie didn't like to dress up - she loved the chance to do her hair and makeup, to dress up and feel pretty for once - it just wasn't a practicality her profession afforded. Her hair needed to be out of the way, and it made no sense to waste money on makeup that would be ruined by sweat and grime within the hour.

"If Dye makes it back, there'll be a party tonight," George stated, watching her reflection as she looped her tie into a knot. "You gonna go?"

"Uh," Frankie considered this for a moment, sniffing her coveralls from the previous day and grimacing at the smell, switching them out for a clean pair. "Nah, not tonight, I don't think. I've already got some outstanding stuff from the last few days that needs sorting, it's gonna be a busy one."

"Alright, I'll see if Sandra and Helen are going."

"I'm glad you're going," Frankie smiled.

George's gaze turned to her, and she considered this for a moment before shrugging. "Can't sit here forever."

It was a fact that didn't need dwelling on, and Frankie wouldn't patronise her with praise. This was just the way their lives worked now. One by one, the women in their hut finished getting ready and left for their various jobs until Frankie was the only one left, locking up the front door as she exited. The burn that had scorched her palm had long since healed, leaving a mottled pink scar across her hand, but she could clutch the handlebars of her bike without pain now, so she had returned to her morning ritual of cycling as fast as she physically could to the airstrip, revelling in the feeling of the warm morning air blowing through her hair.

Dye's plane was swooping in as she arrived, and Frankie couldn't help but smile at the chorus of whoops and cheers that pierced the air, flight and ground crews alike lining the runway to await his valiant return. Twenty-five missions. She could barely fathom it. For as long as she could remember, planes like this had been her life, but she'd never flown in one - Dye had done it twenty-five times. The number boggled her, a reality so close to and yet so distinctly separate from her own.

"Frankie!" Lemmons called over from where he was sitting with a few of the local boys. The village kids had taken a shine to the young mechanic, and she found she rather enjoyed their presence, childish wit relieving the strain of their long working hours. She crossed the grass towards them as he spoke up again. "Gonna replace the panelling on the bombers from last week, you in?"

She shook her head, batting a hand dismissively. "Nah, you go enjoy the celebrations with the others, I'll handle it."

He frowned, a crease appearing between his brows. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure, I hardly even know Dye, I'm not missing out. Take the night off, you deserve it."

A smile began to spread across his expression. "Well thanks, Frankie."

"No worries. Hey - did we get that delivery of rivets that was meant to come in?" Lemmons shook his head, and she shrugged. "Don't worry about it, I'll take a list to the boss of everything we need."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was growing dark, a work light on the tarmac illuminating one of the B-17 engines as she worked away at it, a pile of scattered tools littering the ground from where she had tried and failed to toss them back into her toolbox without paying proper attention. She could hear the muffled music far off in the distance, the lights from the party casting a golden reflection against the clouds like a beacon in the night. Tightening one of the bolts, Frankie prayed to herself that George was having fun.

The sound of footsteps approaching from behind alerted her to sudden company, but she was too engrossed in her work to turn. Besides, she could already guess who it was.

"Heya, Frankie," Bucky's voice came, and she suppressed a smirk at the accuracy of her prediction.

"Evenin'."

"We missed you at the party," He stated.

"Busy," She replied, letting out a grunt as she pinched the skin of her thumb with her wrench, flapping her hand for a moment to relieve the pain.

"Just came to see ya 'cause I don't think you've met Rosie yet."

Frankie let out a sigh, sliding her wrench into her pocket, speaking as she began to turn. "Bucky, if you boys have got yourselves another fucking dog, I swear-"

There was another man there, standing next to Egan, blue eyes watching her as she stumbled over her words, trailing to an awkward stop. She had a smear of oil across her forehead from where she had absent-mindedly wiped the sweat from her brow with a filthy hand, and Bucky pursed his lips tightly as he tried not to laugh.

"Not a dog," Rosie stated, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile.

"No," She breathed, snapping herself out of her awkwardness. "No, uh, sorry - Frankie, I'm Frankie," Holding out her hand to shake, she noticed its filthiness and grimaced, swiftly retracting it.

"Frankie's one of our mechanics," Egan explained. "She'd be happiest if we fired the rest of the ground crew and let her do the whole thing herself."

"But then who'd clean the dog shit and vomit out for me, eh?" Frankie shrugged, a pink spatter colouring her cheeks. Bucky almost frowned, taken aback by her uncharacteristically awkward demeanour.

"Look, I promised Buck I'd only be gone five minutes, so," He looked down at his watch, shrugging.

"No, no, that's fine, you have a good night," Frankie smiled, wiping her dirty palms on the sides of her trousers.

Bucky turned to leave, pausing for a moment. "Rosenthal?"

"Oh, no, I was gonna head off anyway, thanks Major," Rosie nodded, and they lingered in silence for a moment after Egan left, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness down the runway.

"Sorry I thought you were a dog," She chuckled slightly, breaking the quiet as she rubbed her thumb where she'd pinched the skin, a red mark forming.

"Well," Rosie shrugged, standing with his hands in his pockets. "Been called worse."

Frankie smiled, a flash of teeth in her grin as she glanced back at the engine for a moment, the great thing looming over her in its frame. "And... sorry Bucky dragged you all the way out here, I'm sure the party is much more interesting, and-"

"Hey, you don't have to apologise," He shook his head. With the work light shining on them, it seemed to cast a halo around her head, brown hair running golden along its edges. Even covered in filth, she must've been one of the prettiest girls he'd seen in... well, he couldn't quite recall. "How long have you been out here?"

"Uh, what time is it - eight?"

Rosie let out a laugh. "Gone midnight."

"Jesus Christ," She flashed him a tired grin. "Shit, I missed dinner."

"Well," He shrugged. "I am a Captain. Sure we can find something."

"You're on," Frankie agreed, the empty feeling in her stomach suddenly amplified once she realised how long it had been since she'd eaten. "Although, I'd better clean up first," She noted, wiping her hands on one of the engine rags.

"By the way, you've got a little-" Rosie gestured to his own forehead.

"Oh, shit," Frankie muttered, reaching up with the rag and just managing to miss the oil stain. He let out a chuckle, stepping forward.

"Here, lemme just-" She offered up the rag, and he dabbed at the stain, which less went away than it did smudge even more. He furrowed his brow as he tried to get rid of it, and she couldn't help but let out a laugh at the sheer concentration in his expression, their faces far closer than she would ever usually allow with a man she'd only just met. But there was something endearing in him, something safe. "I think... I think I got it."

"Thanks," Frankie chuckled, taking back the rag and stepping back towards the Nissen hut. "I'm just gonna wheel this engine inside and wash the crap off my hands, then we can go."

"I await your return, milady," Rosie nodded, smile turning to a cringe as she turned away from him. What was that? Don't say that!

She smiled to herself as she entered the hut, her pleased expression turning to a grimace as she got a waft of herself, the twelve-hour shift out in the sun making itself known. Oh shit.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The mess hall was completely deserted, the only light coming from the kitchens as Frankie waited patiently for Rosie to return. He had volunteered to go and scrounge for food, confident that his rank would protect them if they were discovered, and she grinned as he returned, proudly carrying a large tin of peaches and a couple of bars of ration chocolate.

"Oh, perfect. Midnight feast," She beamed, taking a seat on one of the long benches that lined the tables as he sat down opposite, producing a tin opener from his pocket.

"Food fit for kings, I'd say," Rosie agreed, wrestling with the peaches for a moment until he was able to break the lid. Producing two forks, Frankie held one out to him, using her own to skewer a slice of the orange fruit.

"I'd just like to preface this by saying that I don't usually smell like this... actually, I do," She admitted, picking at some dirt stuck beneath her nail.

"Hey, I'm not judging - you wouldn't either once you'd smelled the inside of our flight suits," He shrugged, and she let out a huff of laughter, chewing on her peach slices, a droplet of sweet juice running down her lip. "So... how long've you been a mechanic?"

"Dad's been running an auto repair shop at home since before I was born, I grew up on it," Frankie explained, skewering another slice with one hand as she unwrapped her chocolate bar with the other. "He wanted to go over to France, help fix army jeeps, but he lost his foot in the Great War so they won't take him - I was born when he was away, see, he'd been over there for six months or so when a shell went off and he lost it. So the cars were all we had. I switched to planes when I was about fifteen - bit of an impractical hobby, but I've read every single book on it they had in Stratford library," She chuckled.

"Stratford... Shakespeare, right?"

Her brow raised. "Yeah. Right. Y'know I think the only good thing about this war is that the tourist buses have stopped coming around," She joked, and Rosie laughed, nodding along as he ate. Why was she telling him all this? In the last hour, he'd found out more about her than Bucky or Lemmons had in months. But she found she didn't feel embarrassed telling him any of it, the words just flowed naturally.

They sat there in the dim mess hall eating peaches until they started to feel sick, the hands of Rosie's watch ticking steadily past 1am by the time they left, making sure to hide all evidence of their midnight raid. It had begun to rain by the time they stepped out into the night air, and before Frankie could utter a single word of complaint he had shrugged off his uniform jacket and given it to her to hold over her head, her own makeshift shelter whilst his own curls fell flat, the water leaving dark streaks down his shirt.

"Are you sure about this?" She asked for what must have been the third time as they reached the end of her row of Nissen huts, Rosie's hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, his skin almost visible through the drenched state of his clothes.

"I said stop asking," He assured her, nodding confidently despite the visible trembling in his shoulders.

"I'm just worried I'm gonna ruin your jacket."

"Well, it'd die for a worthy cause."

Frankie grinned, slowing to a stop as she reached the front door of her hut. The lights were all off inside, not a single sign of life as her bunkmates enjoyed their well-earned sleep. When she spoke again, it was in whispers, careful not to wake them even despite the hammering of rain against the metal roof.

"Thank you for dinner, it was... unexpected."

"Very," Rosie nodded in agreement, mirroring her smile. She handed over his jacket, and he folded it, tucking it beneath his arm, already well past its usefulness.

"Tomorrow's gonna be a rough morning."

"Take the day off, have a lie-in, you deserve it."

She raised a brow, and he laughed. "You know I won't."

"I suspected as much," He agreed, nodding firmly. "G'night, Frankie."

"Goodnight."

Frankie slipped carefully inside, cautious not to make a sound as she crept over to her bed, stripping off her wet coveralls as she reached quickly for her nice, warm pyjamas.

When George's whispered voice broke the silence, she swore she almost had a heart attack. "You've been... working?"

"Something like that," Frankie shrugged, taking the fact she was awake as a sign of consent to turn her lamp on, giving her the light she needed to untie her boots. "Have you met the new Captain?"

"Who, Rosenthal? No. Why?"

She didn't answer for a long moment, buttoning up her pyjama shirt before flicking off the lamp, plunging the room into total darkness as she climbed beneath the blankets, letting out a satisfied sigh at the warmth.

"He's nice."

George let the silence simmer for a moment, her tone laced with suspicion. "... Right."

[blakelysco-pilot]

You Belong To Me

From the Love Letter Series

Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal x Josephine Harris (OFC)

The revelation that Robert Rosenthal does in fact love his best friend, Josephine Harris, comes too little too late as he’s getting ready to ship out to England. With a promise to write exchanged on the train platform, and an even bigger pinky promise that he come home to her, Rosie and Jo forge a romance detailed in their letters. Now that he’s returned home, he intends to make good on his promises.

“I’d better see you at Minton’s…”

He remembered the good natured teasing in his own voice as he began his semi-goodbye to Crosby on the hardstand the day they left Thorpe Abbotts. Croz had chuckled and promised he’d see him there; a sense of familiarity between the two as they felt their lives back home creeping upon them.

Now… well, now he was standing in front of the bar at Minton’s, fingers tapping idly on the short rocks glass in his hand, eyes sweeping over the sea of people. Men in their dress uniforms, pressed sharp; women wearing their favorite red lipstick and best stockings, all crowded together on the dance floor while the band played on.

New York was still swept up in the victory of the war; sweethearts who couldn’t get enough of dancing with their soldier who had just come home. Men looking to meet someone, to quell the ache of the last few years with a female companion.

Bringing the glass to his lips, Rosie let the familiar taste of the scotch soothe him, as he continued his people watching. Thinking back on it, sure, he had told Crosby that in no uncertain terms he’d be at Minton’s upon getting home; but it was a sentence almost identical to the one he had spoken moments before he shipped out, that resonated with him like the aftershocks of ringing a bell.

He couldn’t help but conjure up his own vision of red lips, smooth skin and a bright smile; the piece of home he had taken with him to East Anglia, and carried close to his heart (in the breast pocket of his uniform) on every single mission.

Josephine.

They had been childhood friends who grew up on the same block. Their moms were almost always having coffee together or, if the weather was nice, out on the stoop of their homes while Robert and Josephine played on the sidewalk. As kids, he had called her Jo, and she affectionately called him Robbie; and his Ma, well, his Ma would just shake her head with a fond smile and chuckle, muttering about how one day he would see it.

He’s twenty-eight now and he finally sees it, though, he supposes he saw it long before he shipped out. He had wanted to run down the block, knock on her door until her mother answered with a scowl on her face at all the noise, but something had stopped him. His Ma had said he thinks too much, but the laundry list of what-if’s had violently plagued him before deciding no, on his behalf. How could he drop that revelation on her, and then leave for god knows how long? His Ma had taught him better than that.

What he had asked her instead, was if he could write to her; but when the words tumbled forth past his lips, one or two getting tangled in his wiry mustache, she was already asking him the same thing.

“Would it be alright if I wrote to you?”

The pair both fell silent, before a soft laugh escaped Jo’s lips, and he knew he would be counting the days until he was able to hear it again.

“Should have known you’d beat me to the punch.” He grinned, head shaking in jest.

Jo just smiled and threw her arms around him, holding him close for as many minutes as she could before the conductor at Grand Central Station called for the ‘All Aboard.”

“Robbie…” She had looked up at him, big brown eyes filled with unshed tears for him; for this war, and if he had to guess, herself.

“I’ll meet you at Minton’s as soon as I’m back.” He had assured her, thumb swiping under her cheek to catch the first tear.

“You promise?”

He hated to make promises when the future was so uncertain for them, but, this was Josephine and he would be damned if he didn’t attempt to make her smile one more time before he got on that train.

“I’ll do you one better,” He grinned, holding out his right hand. “I pinky promise you, I’ll be at Minton’s, waiting for you.”

It was as close as he could get to saying ‘I Love You’.

Jo grinned, hooking the pinky of her own hand with his, just as the conductor yelled the last call for passengers.

“I’ll be waiting for your letters…” he had whispered, pulling her close once more. “With bated breath, Jo.”

“Not nearly as much as I’ll be waiting for yours,” She sniffled softly before leaning up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Come home to me in one piece, Robbie, please.”

That had been then. Before Thorpe Abbotts, Rosie's Riveters, twenty-five successful missions and reupping for a second tour. Before he had bailed out over Russia, before the horrors of Nuremberg and a hell of a journey back to base. He often thought back to that night after he had returned to East Anglia, sitting in the Officers Club with Croz, wondering if they were becoming the monsters they had been sent to fight.

No, they hadn’t become the monsters, but he had felt that the longer he was away from home the more he lost bits and pieces of himself from the ‘before’ and had to learn to live with the Robert Rosenthal of ‘after’. Would she like the ‘after’. The thought entered his mind so quickly, he almost missed it. Hell, he was still processing it all, and as he turned back to face the bar for a refill, his gaze caught on the entrance of the club.

There she was, his Jo, purse clutched in her hands as she looked around the crowded room for a familiar face. Dark brown eyes scanning over the bodies packed in like sardines, brown curls immaculately pinned up, bright red lips pursed in concentration. Abandoning his empty glass, he smoothed a hand over his curls, straightened his jacket, and pushed off the bar. Weaving his way through the throngs of people, he kept his gaze locked on her, as his feet carried him across the floor.

Rosie felt everything around him fade into a dull buzz as soon as her eyes found his. He pushed his way to the edge of the crowd, finally coming to a stop in front of her. Now, face to face, Rosie and Jo could do nothing more than stare at each other. Neither wanted to be the first to speak, to break the bubble around them, but both felt compelled to do something.

“I promised, didn’t I?” Rosie broke the silence with a smile.

He just barely made out his name falling from her lips before she was in his arms. He caught her with ease and held on tight. It was proof that she was real, that he was home, and there was nothing to fear as they stood at the entrance to Minton’s. Nobody spared them a glance as they sidestepped the couple, a sort of mutual understanding as so many others reunited under the same roof.

“Let me look at you,” Jo had pulled away first, but only letting go of him enough to let her hands slide down his arms to take his. “Home in one piece I see.

“As requested,” Rosie grinned, giving her delicate hands a squeeze. “And as promised.”

“You know better than anyone, that to break a pinky promise is as good as treason, Robert Rosenthal.”

“And you should know that I don’t make pinky promises with just anyone, Josephine Harris.”

“Well, now that we’ve settled that…” she trailed off, a teasing grin on her lips as Rosie began to guide her towards where he had spotted an empty table near the back. Close enough to get to the dance floor when they were ready, but far enough back that they could talk and still hear each other over the din of music and other patrons.

“Are dirty martinis still your poison, or did that change while I was gone?”

“Nothing’s changed,” she looked up at him as if to reassure him that it wasn’t just her cocktail order that remained the same, but the sentiments they exchanged in their numerous letters while he had been over in England. “Everything is exactly as you left it.”

In lieu of a response, he pulled out the chair for her, holding it steady as she slid gracefully into the offered seat, before moving to the chair across from hers.

Instead of sitting, Rosie moved the empty chair next to the one Jo was currently occupying, so that he could sit closer to her, as opposed to having the table between them. Once he was happy with the placement, he lowered himself into the vacant space, body turned at an angle so he could face his companion. He just barely caught a waiter moving in their direction, and flagged the gentleman down, promptly ordering Jo her aforementioned martini, and another scotch for himself. Once the waiter was gone, Rosie’s warm, much larger hand, covered Jo’s, his palms still rough from countless hours behind the yolk, causing him to internally wince as he felt her soft skin against his. The thought was quickly snuffed out as her hand turned upward to his, their palms meeting before her fingers intertwined with his on the table top.

“I missed you,” Jo spoke first this time, breaking the silence. “So much, Robbie.”

“I missed you too. Like you wouldn’t believe,” He admitted. “Your letters, they were the only thing I looked forward to. Just don’t tell my Ma that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, Major.” She teased.

Rosie made a show of wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, mustache twitching upward as he smiled at Jo, stopping only when the waiter returned with their drinks. He watched as she lifted the martini glass to her lips; delicate fingers holding the top of the glass, nails painted a bright red, her eyes watching him over the rim as she took her first sip. He felt parched, regardless of the drink in front of him, as he watched her move with such precision and grace. Something he had missed sorely over the last few years, and fully intended on appreciating now that he could.

“Did they make it right?” He asked.

“Perfect,” She nodded, placing the glass back on the table. “Just as good as I remember.”

“It can’t have been that long since the last time you were here.” Rosie spoke, lifting his own glass to his lips.

“I haven’t been since… well, since the night before you left.”

“Minton’s is your favorite place! You mean to tell me you haven’t been here since–”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Jo finished for him.

Her confession hung in the air, Rosie both shocked but warmed at the thought that she hadn’t been here without him and that the last time she was here had been with him. That she reserved this place as something that belonged to just them. He felt there was no better time than to drop his own truth bomb; he only hoped it didn’t send her running back out the door.

“Since we’re confessing things,” He started carefully. “I uh.. I want you to know that I carried your picture with me while I was gone.”

“…you did?”

“Every day,” he nodded. “I took you on every mission with me.”

He wasn’t sure what to expect after confessing all of that to her, but the glistening of her own eyes as she looked back at him wasn’t it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what… I didn’t mean to make you cry, Jo.”

“Shush,” She spoke quickly, one finger over his lips. “You wonderful, handsome man.”

His eyebrow quirked in response. It was all he could do given that her finger was still over his lips, and she had asked him to stop talking. But he wanted to do more than just keep talking. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her silly, and then take her on the dance floor and spin her around until they were both giddy and dizzy and drunk on each other. And then he wanted to kiss her some more. All too gently, he took her hand in his, moved it away from his lips, and carefully tugged her towards him until she was close enough for him to wrap her up in his arms.

“I should have kissed you that day at the train station,” Rosie started. “I was convinced you wouldn’t want me the same way I wanted you, and there were so many what-if’s, and then I was leaving. Truth be told, I should have kissed you long before the train station.”

“I’ve always been yours, Robbie,” She smiled. “We just took the scenic route.”

And then there was silence, save for the gasp that Jo let loose as Rosie’s lips finally descended on hers. Firm, yet gentle, and with the slight tickle of his mustache, he poured every ounce of himself into making sure she knew just how much he loved her without words. Because the words had been written in many letters over the course of years; phrased with care and longing for each other, a desire that grew much like stoking the flames of a campfire until it reached the point of blazing uncontrollably and there was no turning back. For Rosie and Jo, the fire burned and neither cared to put it out, or attempt to quell the flames.

When they finally pulled apart, the need for oxygen too great to withstand, neither could stop their smiles from growing. There it was. Their love for the ages, that they had planted, grown and nurtured during the days of war, was finally seen blooming under the dim lighting of Minton’s Jazz Club.

“I love you, Jo.”

“I love you too,” She grinned. “More than I could have ever said in any letter.”

“Yet somehow, I always knew. I wonder how that happened.” He teased her, leaning forward to press his lips to hers again.

The smart remark she had been ready to dish his way died on her lips as the band began playing a song that had Rosie tapping out a beat, eyes widening with mirth as he grabbed Jo’s hand and stood, pulling her up with him.

“Come on, pretty girl, let's dance!”

He led them through the crowd of people until they reached the dance floor, and then he found them a spot where he could hold her close and spin her in his arms until his heart's content. The band played on, an Artie Shaw tune that had Rosie laughing to himself as he thought back to the sound of his crew imitating him as they sat around the poker table at the Flak House, way back when. It was a story he had only briefly shared in a letter that he had written from Coombe House during a night he couldn’t find sleep. But now, the sounds of Artie Shaw brought him a smile, as the woman in his arms smiled back at him.

The band moved into a slower song, and Rosie pulled Jo closer, pressing their bodies together as they moved together, cheek to cheek.

“You really took my picture with you on every flight?” She spoke quietly, her voice for his ears only.

“I did,” Rosie nodded. “I kept it in my jacket, close to me. Except for that one time.”

“You know… when your mother got that telegram from the War Department that you had gone down, she ran down the block to our house so I could read it.”

“Oh honey…”

“I refused to believe you had left me without a proper chance at us. Selfish as it may seem, I couldn’t picture my life without you.”

“You won’t have to; not now, or ever. I promise, I’m not going anywhere ever again where you can’t go too.”

“Pinky promise?”

“More than that,” He grinned, before pressing his lips to her own. When they pulled apart they couldn’t help the smiles that took hold. “We can seal this one with a kiss.”

Read Part 2 Here

A/N: Thanks for reading! This series will continue for Rosie & Jo, so if you enjoyed this, please like, comment, reblog- whichever is your poison. Feedback is always welcome & my ask box is always open. If you want to be added to my tag list, or removed, let me know!

Tag List:

@winniemaywebber @rosiesriveter @bobparkhurst @victoryrollsandredlips @bcolfanfic @rowdy-redhead @sagesolsticewrites @major-mads @footprintsinthesxnd

[liebgottsjumpwings]

AUGUST AFTERNOON | FAYE FISCHER | MASTERS OF THE AIR

Summary: Faye Fischer and her newly acquired friend Ken Lemmons spend a sunny afternoon at Thorpe Abbotts, Faye thinks about the past few years and is then (not so) rudely interrupted by a certain curly haired pilot. Who had managed to make her blush several times some days ago.

Warnings: general war violence, implied minor (and not canon) character death.

Word count: a bit over 2500

Note: this was meant to be a little less than 1k word blurb, turned into way more. I hope it isn't too boring as most of it delves into Faye's experiences before the mota canon. That is also because I use my ocs to study certain historical events, so this really is just self indulgence. Please pretty please let me know what you think of it! (This fic is also posted on AO3)

AUGUST 21, 1943, 16:32 

“What kind of name is ‘Just-a-Snappin’ even?” Faye Fischer wondered out loud, only half expecting an answer from the man in front of her as she came to sit up from her lying position in the grass. She squinted, just about able to make out the text on the B-17 Ken Lemmons was working on. Her squint disappeared as he came into her sight, blocking the warm ray of sunshine she had been enjoying moments prior, her eyebrows furrowed into a frown. “You’re gonna have to ask Blakely that one,” answered the curly haired man standing in her sun. Looking at him, she wondered why he would hide those curls under that beanie. Probably so all that working grease wouldn’t get into it. 

Faye shrugged, letting herself fall back into the grass. “Whenever I ask Blakely a question, the man answers with a goddamn riddle,” she let the end of her sentence continue into a sigh. Ken just laughed, his hands firm on his hips. The sun made the edge of his curls shine, almost like an aureole. Visually, him standing in her sun wasn’t so bad, it looked quite pretty. Her skin was starting to miss the warmth of the sun rays, though. Faye’s fingertips tapped on the cap of her camera lens, the Contax II had been laying on her stomach, under one of Ken’s work rags, to shield it from the sun. “Keep standing like that,” Faye ordered him as she removed the cap from the lens, turning on her camera. 

“Aren’t you only supposed to use that for… you know… work purposes?” she heard him ask as she fiddled with the exposure settings. A scoff escaped past her lips as she lined up the viewfinder with her left eye. “Shut up, they made me pay for my own film rolls when I arrived in England, so they’re mine technically anyway” Faye deadpanned in response, snapping a photo of Ken. “Besides,” she continued, putting her camera back under the rag again, letting her head fall back into the grass, “don’t you think the photo I just took wouldn’t go over well with all those war bond leaflets?” She held up her hands, reading an imaginary leaflet “Purchase a war bond so our curly haired cuties can maintain our bomber planes!” she sarcastically called out. It earned a belly-laugh from Ken, who then turned around, readying himself to get back to his maintenance work as he continued laughing, “I hope to God not.” Faye smiled in response, “Yeah, well, I’ve taken more leisure photos on this camera than the OSS would be comfortable knowing. It is only fair because nearly all film rolls were mine anyway,” she trailed off, closing her eyes again as the warm August sun blanketed her. 

The warmth took her back to August, nearly three years back, 1940. To the emerging hills behind Mulhouse, in the occupied region of the Alsace in France. Back then, she too had snapped a photo that the OSS would turn their noses up at. She couldn’t help it, though, the sleepy little cottage the, back then, above ground resistance she was attached to used as their base of operations was too pretty against the sunny hills. Plus, the whole rule against taking photos that do not directly aid the war effort was bullshit anyway. They increased her morale, no? Surely a heightened sense of morale would aid the war effort. Just like her friend, and resistance member Isidore was aiding the war effort by developing the photos Faye had taken recently. His girlfriend, Julienne, a distant cousin of Faye’s neighbors back in Louisiana, the Klotz family, laid next to her in the grass, yelling at her sweetheart to stop working so hard and join them in the warm sum. She still remembered the minty smell of the Ground Ivy that tickled against her cheeks in the field near the cottage as she watched Isidore exit the cottage, some of the successfully developed photos under his arm, he dropped them above the two women. The photographs whirled softly down onto them, like those propaganda leaflets that had recently been dropping from planes over the region. The association made her chuckle. She much preferred these photographs over those leaflets. 

Oh, how she longed back to be in that sleepy little field just behind Mulhouse. Unknowing and indifferent to what was about to wash over her. Over her dear friends. Over her distant relatives, up north in Sélestat.  How she wished to gain that sense of unknowing and indifference once more. The fleeting feeling of walking back home from the shul on those warm August evenings, taking the train from Mulhouse towards Sélestat, being greeted by her grandmother’s second brother, the one who stayed behind in Alsace. Being taken in to his family, learning about their extensive history and connection to this land. It made her feel proud, like her family here. All of that despite the impending feeling of calamity. That feeling grew more and more with each news item about the Germans inching closer. Forcing themselves back into the territory they’ve claimed as theirs for eras. This time, it came paired with a terrifying venom against a group of people so deeply rooted in this region. 

After the annexation of the Alsace into Nazi-Germany, the resistance group Faye had been attached to by the OSS was forced to go underground. Her work, instead of reporting back to the OSS on current events in the border region between France and Germany, became a high-risk operation that aided the Alsatian resistance in its activities against the Nazi occupier. When it happened, the OSS had forbidden her to associate publicly with her family and the community she had built up. They deemed it ‘too riskful’. And because Faye had no choice, she listened to those orders. And just like that, her growing connection with her ancestral home region, her family, the core of her very identity was snapped away. Just as quick as it had flourished. She watched the treatment of her people become more and more dire every day. She watched and she could do nothing but watch. Nothing outward anyway. In secret, she was doing more than she ever had done. Risking everything to make it harder for the Nazis to spread their hatred and evil. In return, she got the gnarly gift of having to distance herself from the recently cultivating bond with her family that lived halfway across the world from her. 

Yes, she still had Isidore, Julienne and the rest of their group. Though, as they were forced to become underground, a painful strain started to form on their friendship. Understandably so, tensions were high, risks were always there and the imminent feeling of doom never stopped looming over the group. 

Which ended up being for good reason. Come the early February days of 1943, Faye found herself with her left cheek pressed into the cold ground where the minty Ground Ivy once grew. The barrel of a Karabiner 98A straight against her right cheek. She still wasn’t sure who gave up their activities to the SS. She wasn’t sure if she cared enough by then either way. Or now, for that matter. In the two and a half years that spanned from that first summer in Alsace to February of 1943, Faye had grown disillusioned to the point that she wasn’t even sure if she cared about living, or dying. Maybe it was for the better that death seemed so close. That it came to her in the form of a German rifle. 

That was until she remembered why her family decided to migrate to the United States. Back in the late 19th century, the Jews of the Alsace were already facing hardships. And it was those hardships that made her grandparents decide that from there on out, their family line would not suffer under those hardships anymore. So they set sail to Louisiana, because their children, and their children, and their children (and so on), deserved a life of flourishing. So it was there, February 1943, with the cold barrel of a Karabiner 98A pressed to her face, that Faye decided that she would honor that wish. She would not die at the hands of those who wished her dead. 

She wasn’t sure how, but she ran, she ran until her feet gave out and Isidore made them duck into a dense shrub. His face stained with dirt, much like hers. And through the dirt on his face, tears traced their paths. Then it dawned on her that Julienne hadn’t made it out with them. Faye hoped with everything she had in her dear friend wasn’t left out, alone in that cold field. But there wasn’t much time for hoping. They had to make it to safety. To a place where they couldn’t be reached by those who were looking for them. 

Switzerland. Within a few days of frantic fleeing, both of them somehow made it to Basel, just over the border. Isidore’s previously tear-filled eyes had turned empty by then. And Faye feared for him. She feared for everyone they had to leave behind. The fear didn’t leave her when she walked away from the hospital she had helped Isidore to, so his wounds could be looked at. Not caring much for her own, and after the OSS had been made aware of her whereabouts, they had arranged a route to England for her. To ‘escape’ the risk she found herself in, according to the OSS. She still scoffs at the mention of ‘risk’, the OSS would never fully know. And so, after a goodbye ‘for now’ and a promise to keep in touch, she departed for the train station of Basel, on towards Bern, and from there, hopefully England. She watched the fields roll by, they were barren, empty of life. She tried to not let it remind her of Julienne too much. Hoping that her friend had somehow made it to safety, like her sweetheart and Faye.

Her memories were disturbed by the warm sun once again being taken away from her. This time, it wasn’t because a certain crew chief by the name of Ken Lemmons was standing in between her and her blanket of warmth, it was because Faye hadn’t noticed the time pass by and the sun having moved behind the officer’s buildings on the air base. She let out a groan at the feeling of her back cracking as she sat up, her camera falling into her lap. Slowly opening her eyes, to her surprise, ‘Just-a-Snappin’ had been exchanged for a different airplane. Though, her eyes were too blurry from the sun shining onto them, to make out the name. These damn pilots and their airplane names. 

What she did make out was Ken and what seemed to be a pilot, standing by the plane as Ken pointed out several things on the wing. The pilot nodding, seemingly intently listening to Ken. Faye, after rubbing her eyes intensely, was able to make out more of the scene in front of her. Her sight darted towards the plane again, reading. ‘Rosie's Riveters,’ she mouthed the words. Way better name for a plane than whatever Blakely was thinking with his one, Faye thought. Her gaze moved over to Ken and the still unknown pilot again. Squinting, she could make out the brown curls, kept small and neatly arranged on top of his head. The 100th and their tendency to hide their gorgeous curls irrationally annoyed Faye to no end. She eternally cursed Ken for hiding them behind his beanie, too. She looked back to the nose of the plane, ‘Rosie’s Riveters.’ Oh. Robert Rosenthal. The man that had made her blush the other night without even knowing he had. Robert Rosenthal had arrived at Thorpe Abbotts some two weeks after Faye herself did. She had been sitting with Helen and the other women as she watched him come into the officers’ club, his feet carrying him, dancing towards his crewmates. It was his little twist and the way his jacket moved in the air flow created by it; itt had been the first time she smiled that day. And Helen noticed. Sending Faye a teasing look as she dug the nose of her shoe into Faye’s shin. The action made Faye’s cheeks turn bright red, sinking deeper into her seat, disappearing into the shadow of the curved wall as she let out a soft, intoxicated giggle. 

It wasn’t much later, after Nash had successfully achieved a dance from Helen, that Rosenthal’s eyes locked with Faye’s. The same red from before creeping up from her throat to her cheeks as she gave him a shy smile. His returning smile was beaming, like a direct ray of sunlight across the room. She would receive a few more of such smiles from him throughout the night.

Now, with his pilot’s hat snug under his arm, Faye could see him smile at Ken, a thankful smile. And who wouldn’t be thankful for Ken Lemmons. The man worked tirelessly to send them up safely into the air. But, oh she was sure it was Robert Rosenthal standing there, alright. Yeah, that smile, of which she had been on the receiving end several times now, she recognized it. The familiar, uneasy yet welcomed feeling creeped up in her stomach again. She could feel the flush in her throat. Combined with the hours of direct sunlight she had received over the afternoon, remembering their shared looks made her slightly lightheaded as she rose to her feet. Hoping to quietly leave, as to not gain the perception of both men standing some feet away from her. 

Mission unsuccessful, though, damn it. “Fish!” she heard Ken call her. Her arms dropped beside her body as she turned around, her camera swinging with a little delay. She caught it, so it wouldn’t hit her on her stomach. For some stupid reason, her breathing increased in frequency as she watched the two men walk over to her. She had to consciously try to not take a step backward everytime they took one forward. She tried to keep her eyes strictly on Ken.“You think that is a better name for a plane?” he asked, pointing towards the B-17. Her eyes followed his pointing, reading the text on the nose of the plane for a third time. Before she realized, she already voiced her opinion. “I think naming anything but a pet or a human is a weird thing anyway,” she retorted, eyes dead set on Ken. Next to him, she heard a chuckle. “I’m actually quite proud of ‘Rosie’s Riveters’” she heard the curly haired brunette next to Ken say. There was no fighting it anymore, she had to actually look at him now. And she was sure you could compare the color of her cheeks to the apples they served in the breakfast hall, bright red. Still, like she always did, she came up with a retort; “Well, it’s better than Blakely’s, I guess,” she said, a sly, yet slightly shy smile appearing on her lips. The brunette in front of her let out a hearty laugh, his eyes crinkling. It tugged at Faye’s heartstrings, “Yeah, I’ll take that.” he said. And there it was again, that goddamned smile.

[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]

[hephaestn]

sky set to burst — chapter 3: chained

robert 'rosie' rosenthal (masters of the air) x maggie hurley (original female character) teen and up audiences · f/m · word count: 14.5k · chapters: 3/?

ao3 | tumblr tag

Flares of morning sunlight filtered through her thin white curtains. Maggie’s entire body ached with exhaustion. She hadn’t been able to sleep all night, tossing and turning in bed with every new unwanted thought. It was six, way past her usual rising hour. She could hear her mother downstairs, with the usual cluttered noises that came from cooking breakfast. Maggie was dreading the day ahead. There was nothing special about it—she would tend the sheep, the cows, the pigs, and cook supper, just as she did every day. But she couldn’t shake the daunting feeling that crawled between her ribs and seeped into her chest. And Maggie knew that feeling all too well. It was fear.

continue reading on ao3

This chapter took me a bit longer than I thought it would but it's finally here! I hope you guys enjoy it 🌷💕

[softspeirs]

These Heartbeats Clear (6): Rosie Rosenthal x OC

A/N: This is quite a bit shorter than the other parts, but I thought it deserved its own time to shine. I hope you enjoy this part, Rosie lovers. It's been one of my favorites to write. These Heartbeats Clear Masterlist

Six. Confession.

They land back at Thorpe Abbotts in the mid-afternoon. His breath rattles in his lungs, post-mission adrenaline making him feel twitchy and on edge.

He wants a nap, and he wants a cup of coffee.

Mostly, he just wants to talk to Grace.

He's been too in his own head to seek her out since their disagreement two days prior. He misses her with an ache he has never felt, one that leaves him rubbing at the spot over his heart like it's a physical wound.

After interrogation, he doesn't even stop to change out of his flight suit - he just turns in whatever gear doesn't belong to him, and then gets the hell out of dodge. He has too much nervous energy, too much adrenaline to go to the mess, or catch up with any of his guys.

He changes course, heads back towards his plane.

On the hardstand, his heart kicks into high gear when he sees a familiar form standing there, arms crossed over her chest, assessing his plane.

Her hair is falling out of its pins, and he knows he must look the same - she's never seen him directly after a mission except for once when Pappy had to go to the hospital, and he's strangely self conscious about his wild hair and the sweat drying at his temples. The smell of cordite is still thick in the air near his plane.

"What are you doing out here?" His voice sounds rough even to his own ears. He didn't think she'd be here.

She turns around, and he can see the tears in her eyes from paces away, and it startles him into action. "Grace." He says, worried.

"I thought-- someone said they saw flares, and I couldn't find you, you weren't in the hospital--"

He shakes his head, hands on her shoulders to try to get her to meet his eyes. "I'm fine, we're-- we had two wounded men, but it wasn't serious."

Her eyes are wide and wild as she looks up at him, cataloging for herself that he's intact. It's caught him completely off guard to be the sole focus of her attention like this.

She said she wasn't angry with him a few days ago during their argument, but he didn't really believe her. Couldn't figure out why she'd walk away from him if that were the case. But she's here, and that's got to be a sign, right?

She takes an enormous, steadying breath. "I'm sorry." She says on an exhale, the words washing over him.

"What?"

"I-- I made you upset, the other day. I'm sorry. I was too pushy. Too-- Everyone's always telling me that I can be too much sometimes."

"Everyone is wrong," he says vehemently. "You're not too much. And you don't owe me an apology."

Her words had hurt, yes, but they were also a wake-up call. She had been frustrated with him because he wouldn't let her in, and he's not going to make that mistake a second time. If there's anyone on earth that he's going to bare his soul to, it's going to be Grace Fleming. It's a foregone conclusion, already written in ink since the second he first met her, pristine in her nurse's uniform and sparkling eyes the day he arrived from the States with his unit and she had to declare them fit for duty.

He had felt it then, the electric current that ran between them with only a gaze, and it only got stronger the longer he spent getting to know her. Sometimes he feels like she's the only person on earth who understands him, so when she suddenly didn't -- that's what made him upset. Not that she was pushing him to be honest, be vulnerable, to let her in.

"I'm the one who's sorry." He says, voice cracking. "Grace, I have no idea how to do this." He can't look at her. He does a good job hiding it, but some days he feels unbearably unworthy of praise, hers or anyone else's. He feels shy, especially under her gaze. "I have to stay in a rhythm, you know? And if I let myself dwell on things in the past that I can't fix, I won't be able to keep going up there."

"I thought you died today." She croaks.

He takes a step closer. The tips of their shoes bump.

"I didn't."

"I know. I have faith in you, Rosie. Please don't ever doubt that. I want you to be safe. That’s all I can think about some days, and I never want you to feel like you have to keep all your feelings inside. Not with me.”

“I know.” His hand finds the side of her face, fingers grazing the shell of her ear, making sure she meets his eyes. “And I trust you to keep me safe, more than anyone else.”

“Up here too, right?” She asks, tapping his forehead in an echo of their previous conversation.

His conviction has never been a problem before - he's lucky that he's always been sure of his reasoning behind the choices he makes. He saw an injustice happening, and was determined to help stop it. When he became a lawyer, he wanted to help people.

So why is he so damned scared to make this one choice, even when he's sure of how he feels?

Looking in her eyes, he's starting to realize that this is what a good partnership is. Despite their disagreement, she was still here, still checking on him the way she always did.

Maybe nothing about that would change, even if he lets her in on that niggling voice in the back of his mind that makes him doubt himself. Even if he shows her that shy side of himself that people so rarely see.

And maybe that's how it is when you fall in love with someone - you trust them to catch you when it happens.

Mind made up, he leans in so there are only a few inches separating them. “Please let me kiss you.” His voice is so hoarse it's barely a whisper.

She nods, and before she can say another word, he surges forward, the frenetic energy of the day leaving him as soon as their bodies connect.

Her touch is a soothing balm, her heartbeat under his hand on the side of her neck a reminder that they’re both here and alive.

This quiet moment between them feels like a universe away from everything and everyone else, and when she sighs into his mouth, Rosie knows right then and there that he’s done for.

When they break apart, they’re both panting, her hands so tight on his lapels he can’t move an inch even if he wanted to.

“I’m crazy about you.” His voice is low and rough with intensity.

She laughs, a breathless thing that he feels all the way to the tips of his toes. ��I just adore you, Robert Rosenthal.”

His grin is wide as he leans back in, their noses brushing. They just linger there in the in between, basking in this newfound intimacy between them.

He has half a mind to remember that they're on the hardstand where anyone could see, but he also wonders if at this point anyone would care. They're all doing what they need to do to get through this war, and it's not uncommon to turn a corner in the darkened light of the evening and find a couple trying to salvage any kind of romance.

Still, she's just been promoted, and so with regret, he takes a step back from her, his fingertips grazing hers. "Can I take you to dinner?" He asks.

"Please."

They just end up in the officer's mess, the only place they can get to before dinner is over, but it's fine because it's them. No one raises an eyebrow or makes any suggestive comments. They don't touch, but a new awareness has sparked between them that Rosie can't get enough of. He's felt it for weeks, but now he knows it's mutual, and that feeling is a heady one.

They talk. Well, he talks. He's as honest with her as he can be about where his mind is. They talk about home. They talk about work. They talk about what it'll be like when this is all over.

Afterwards, he feels so stupid that he hadn't trusted himself to let go like this with her before. It could have saved two days worth of missing her, but then again, it lead them to right here, right now.

He walks her to the nurses hut as the sun is setting. Satisfied no one is around, he kisses her goodnight just as the field beyond them drifts into a dreamy twilight.

He flies again the next day, but this time the anxiety it normally causes is absent as he climbs into his rack later that night, the memory of the feeling of her finally in his arms sending him into a dreamless sleep.

[therealslimshakespeare]

|| 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.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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[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.

[winniemaywebber]

It's Been A Long, Long Time • Part 4

🌹🌸 Jo and Jean 🌸🌹

masterlist

read previous parts here: 1 2 3

“Rosie?” Jean murmurs, shaking him awake. He wakes with a start and a snort, the baby beginning to cry at the sudden ruckus. 

“Aw, jeez,” Rosie says, looking at you apologetically. “What time is it?”

“Six o'clock. Seems little guy here blessed you with a whole night of sleep and a little time to sleep in. Wish he'd do that for me and his Papa.” She winks at Rosie, patting him on the shoulder. “Go upstairs to bed, doll. That chair isn't the most comfortable.”

“You can say that again,” he groans, stretching as he gets up. “You look well rested.”

“I am. Thank you, Robert. I really appreciate it, we both do.”

He nods, yawning and scratching his head as he exits the room. 

“See ya later, Jean.”

—

Scooping the baby up, Jean begins to go through her regular morning routine: diaper change, bottle and a change of clothes. Her and the baby are both exhausted by the time this is all done, thankful for the moment the baby falls asleep with a warm, full belly so that she's able to fix herself breakfast. It's when the toast pops up that she hears her husband pad his way down the plush carpet stairs, greeting her sleepily.

“Morning, Mrs Crosby,” he murmurs, kissing her deeply. 

“Morning, Binger. Toast?”

“Yes please,” he answers, pouring himself coffee from the pot on the stove. “Rosie taking a nap?”

“Sure is. I don't think the baby gave him too much trouble. When I came down at six, the pair of them were still sleeping!”

“Six?” Bing replies, shocked. “That little imp.” He shakes his head, laughing as he takes a sip from his mug. “That's just the Uncle Rosie touch.”

“Hey, a little soft jazz, a soothing conversation and some swaying, he was out like a light,” Rosie announces himself, looking a lot more refreshed than he did two hours ago. 

“Here he is. Morning, buddy.”

“Hiya, Croz.” 

Jean places a cup of coffee in front of him, asking if he'd like some toast by pointing to the toaster. 

“Yes, please, Mrs Croz. Little man okay?”

“Oh, yeah! He's just taking his first cat nap of the day.”

“That's good. I hope you don't mind, but I made a few calls last night.”

“You know that's fine, Rosie. While you're here, treat it like your own home,” she says, handing him the plate of toast.

“Yeah, pal. You're family, Uncle Rosie.”

“Thank you, guys. I gotta tell ya, first call was to my Ma. Second to–”

“To Jo. We know, doll.”

“How sad is that? Can't even go one night without hearing her voice.”

“Neither can my wife,” Bing grumbles jokingly, wiping his mouth. 

“Seems we're in the same boat, Jean,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I promised her I'd bring her here to visit the very second we are married.”

“You'd better. But let us get home first. We can't be racing down the highway with a baby in tow!”

—

The boys clear up the dishes before getting ready for a day of golfing. Jean and the baby decide to take it easy, lazing around in bed, playing and snuggling until she hears a sudden knock on the door. The baby on her hip, she quickly descends the stairs in her stockinged feet, careful not to slip. Opening the door, she lets out a delighted scream, practically jumping up and down in the doorway.

“Josephine!” she squeals, the girls hugging tightly. Without a word, she takes the baby from Jean's arms and looks at him, a huge grin on her face and tears in her eyes.

“Oh, he's gotten so big!” she cries, holding Jean close again. “He looks just like you, doll.”

“Do you think?” 

“Apart from–”

“The eyes,” they both say, their words overlapping. 

“Oh yeah,” Jo laughs. “No mistaking those brown puppy dog eyes. How did Uncle Wosie do, huh, buddy? He do a good job?”

“Girl, I don't know what kind of magic touch your man has, but that baby slept all night long.”

“Was that after he called his Ma in a panic?”

“He called her panicking? Jeez, he told us he had it covered.”

“Robbie can be an excellent liar, Jean. Remember our favorite one? ‘I'll meet you at Minton’s when I'm home after my 25th mission.’ Psh.” The girls break into giggles, Jean taking her hand and leading her into the dining room.

“You need me to take him?” She asks as they sit down. 

“Absolutely not, lady. I'm getting my fill,” she says, squeezing the baby's cheeks and making him smile. “Oh, he's a darling.”

“How did you persuade your father to let you come out here? I thought his rule was you had to wait until you and Robbie were married.”

“Well,” Jo sighs, stroking the baby's soft blond hair with her cheek. “Mom saw how miserable I was when I returned home this morning from the Rosenthal house. I'd just slept in Robbie’s bed and it smelled so much of him that…I just missed him terribly, especially knowing he was here with you guys.  Mom saw that and rolled her eyes. ‘Go on then. I'll tell your father.’” 

“I know how fast you flew out that door!”

“Didn't even let her finish the sentence. Out of there like a shot. I missed you so much, Jean.”

“I've missed you, too, doll.” The pair hold hands across the table for a second, both of their eyes filling with tears at finally being reunited after so many months apart. They had been each other's glue, backbone and support system during war time, the both of them sharing a unique bond as they fought with their emotions involving their men being overseas, putting their lives in constant danger for the good of their country. Them having to be apart once the boys had returned home was heart wrenching, Jean finally moving into her marital home upstate while Josephine returned to her family home in Brooklyn after baby Crosby was born. That's why their bond was so incredibly strong and unbreakable: it was Jo that held her hand through labor pains, placing cool washcloths on her head as she screamed and fought through the indescribable pain childbirth brought. It was Josephine that was there as the baby entered the world, his father thousands of miles away. 

“There's a cute house for sale a couple blocks away. Perfect for a newly married couple,” Jean winks, looking knowingly across the table at her friend. 

“Ugh, I wish he'd hurry up with it already. I am dying to marry that man.”

“Don't we know it,” she laughs, standing up and turning to the stove to fix a pot of coffee. “I've been putting in a good word for you.”

“It's your job as my best friend to do such a thing,” she replies, staring down at the baby on her lap. “And yours, little man! Come on, tell me! Did Uncle Wosie say anything to you last night? I'm listening.” The baby gurgles, smiling up at his aunt. “Keeping it a secret, huh? He tell you to do that? Of course he did. The cheek of the man.”

“And yet,” Jean says, stirring the coffee. “You love him.”

“That I do, Jean. That I do.”

—

The door swings open a couple of hours later, the sun just beginning to set, the house sinking into the orange glow. The two men swing their golf bags in, neglecting to take off their shoes as they plod into the living room. 

“Jean?” Harry calls, gingerly opening the living room door. “We're home, sweetheart.” He takes in the vision of Jean and Josephine giggling on the couch, the baby napping in the bassinet next to them. “Well, I'll be damned. Look who's here!”

“Honey!” Rosie yells, rushing up to her and taking her in his arms. “Uggghh,” he growls as he squeezes her, his hands raking through her hair. “But how–when did you–”

“She turned on the sad eyes with Mrs Harris and she couldn't say no when she said she missed her best friend and nephew,” Jean answers, her heart melting as they embrace over and over again. Bing is grinning from ear to ear at the sight too, walking over to the couch and placing soft kisses all over his wife's face before finally kissing her on the mouth. 

“Hi,” he murmurs, reaching down to stroke the baby's head. “How was your day?”

“The best, Binger. I'm so happy she's here.”

“I know. I can see it. You tell her about that house yet?”

“Sure did. I'm sure she'll poke him about it as the evening goes on.” 

Harry nods, nuzzling into his wife as he sits on the couch. “Love you, Mrs Crosby.” 

“Love you more, Bing.” 

—

The four had sat down to dinner, all exchanging anecdotes as they ate. Rosie and Bing had regaled the girls with their heroic tales of war: Bing staying awake for seventy two hours to ensure Rosie and their other men were safe on the day of days. Rosie celebrating his twenty fifth mission by buzzing the tower, Josephine having received a play by play of the event from Red Cross Girl, Valencia. Beginning as a comforting penpal, Val had become a friend of Jo and Jean's, along with her friend Olive.

“Have you heard from Val, Jo?”

“Yes! This past week actually. What did she say? Let me think…” she trails off, brow furrowed as she tries to recall the letter's contents. “Oh, yes! She's back home with Blakely, and Olive went with her. It must be such a shock for her to go from little old England to New York City in the blink of an eye like that, but Val says she's taking to it very well. They're all very happy. Olive is staying with them until she’s ready to go to Michigan to be with Dougie.”

“We must see them before she leaves. I'm dying to meet Olive.”

“Me, too! She sounds so sweet according to Val’s letters.”

“Who, English?” Croz perks up, toying with his whiskey glass. “Oh, yeah, she's a doll. A little contained at first because of the British shyness, but once she gets out of her shell…”

“A funny, funny girl. As is Valencia. She really brings Olive out of that mentioned shell, actually. Birds of a feather. Remind me of you two, actually.”

“Well, seems we'll all get along just fine,” Jean says, beginning to tidy up the dessert plates. 

“Sit down, Jean. We've got it.” Jo shoots a look at Robbie, taking the plates from Jean. “You and Harry go sit.”

“If you're both sure?”

“Of course. Thank you for dinner, darling. It was magnificent.”

—

Retiring to the living room, Harry picks up his son, who is gurgling happily in his bassinet. 

“Hey, buddy!” he coos, kissing his face. He sits down next to his wife, his head leaning on her shoulder.

“Where are they gonna sleep?”

“Binger, we have something called a guest room. That's where our guests sleep, wouldn't you know.” He shakes his head at her, laughing. 

“Together?”

“Yes, together. I doubt they're going to consummate their long term relationship in the guest bedroom of their best friends’ house while their nephew is only down the hall.”

“You're right. My bad.”

“Mind in the gutter, as always, Crosby.”

“Only for you, Mrs.” 

Hearing a ruckus in the kitchen, Harry and Jean turn their heads towards the door. They hear sounds of splashing, Jo giggling and Rosie laughing heartily as someone slips, a squeak echoing on the tiled floor. Jean begins to snort, Harry joining in as he hears a thump. “Are you sure they're doing dishes in there?”

“I dread to think of the state of the sink, Bing,” she says, wiping her eyes. 

A few moments later, the couple join them in the living room, the front of their shirts soaked. 

“What in God's name?”

“Robert thought it would be funny to play with the soap. What he didn't know,” Josephine says, poking at his cheek playfully, “is that I can give it back just as good.”

“Is my floor flooded?”

“No, ma'am,” Rosie says sheepishly. “I dried it up.” 

Jean can't help but laugh at Rosie's expression, seeing that Jo - whose shirt was a little less wet than her man's - had obviously won the fight that Rosie had started. Looking between them, she smiles, seeing the twinkle in both of their eyes as they wipe soap from each other's hair, it flicking off of Rosie's curls.

“On that note, darlings, I'm off to bed. Jo, you're in the guest room with Rosie.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Jean, that okay? I can sleep on the couch.” 

Jean waves a hand in dismissal, shaking her head. “Josephine came here so you could be together with no disturbances or silly rules. Of course it's okay.”

“Well, I also came to see you and my nephew,” Jo says, hugging her gently. “But thank you. You're a darling.”

“Goodnight, friends,” she says, beginning to exit the room with Harry hot on her heels, carrying the bassinet and the baby upstairs.

“Let me tuck you in, honey,” he whispers as they get to the bedroom. “Make sure you're all cozy.”

“Yes please, sweetheart. That's a lovely idea.” 

“How would you feel about us putting this little fella in his nursery tonight? Try it out?”

“Maybe,” Jean hesitates. “I'd like to sleep, though.”

“Hey, it's the weekend. I'll listen for him.” 

“Okay,” she breathes out, shoulders falling. “If you're sure.”

“Always. He's my boy. I'd stay awake forever for him if I had to.”

“At least we know you could make it three days before you dropped, so that's something.”

“Hey, now. That was just a fluke.”

“Mhm,” she mutters, sliding into the bedsheets. “Are you coming to bed, too?”

“Soon, my love. I wanna make sure the baby goes to sleep first.”

“Okay,” she replies sadly. 

“Hey, now, Mrs Crosby. Don't give me that pout, as cute as it is. I'll be in bed with you soon.”

“Fine,” she huffs, arms crossed in mock upset. 

“Would a kiss make it better, hm?” 

“Yes,” she grins, arms uncrossed immediately to grab him. They kiss deeply for a few moments before she sinks down in her pillow, Bing tucking the sheet around her body. 

“I love you so much,” he says, kissing her temple. “So, so much.”

“I love you too, darling.”

taglist: @sagesolsticewrites @ginabaker1666 @manonsmanicmind @hephaestn

[luminouslywriting]

Sweetheart, I was wondering if you could please write something about Rosie.

Where he is desperately and utterly in love with OC so much that he literally jumps off his seat whenever OC enters the room, and his friends are tired of him being a lovesick puppy. OC also feels that way, but she keeps her feelings in check and only shows them when she is alone with Rosie. I also wonder how he kisses someone he loves so much.Is he more dominant during sex or do they switch?How expressive is OC when they are alone?

AHH!! My first Rosie ask!! I was literally just complaining to @lambcow that no one has sent in any Rosie asks haha 🤭😂 so this one absolutely made my day! Reminder that my asks and requests are pretty wide open and I don’t mind spam at all :)

More under the cut, cut for length!

-Robert Rosenthal wears his heart on his sleeve and the way he expresses love to you is very reminiscent of this fact

-Honestly, I don’t think he’d have a problem striding into a room and kissing you senseless if he was in good enough of a mood

-But given the fact that you are a little more reserved, he really tries to tone down the public displays of affection

-So I think if you’re in public, he’ll settle for a hug or a hand hold, or having an arm around your shoulder or chair

-He does give the best hugs (the ones where you just feel safe and like he’s your home)

-But when it comes to those kisses, it’s the sweetest most breathless thing you’ll ever experience

-When Rosie kisses someone, whether in public or not, whether short or long, he kisses them with his entire soul

-I think one of his love languages is physical affection and this absolutely expresses outwards

-And if you two are alone? This man is CLINGY and just wants to cuddle you and hold you in his arms

-The kisses are definitely more heated and passionate

-Is definitely a man who enjoys giving neck and jaw kisses and knows exactly where and how to kiss you in order to make you unravel

-And he’s gonna do it with a grin on his face the entire time too

-TUG ON HIS CURLS PLEASE

-Is a big fan of foreplay and the intimacy involved with that

-I imagine that you feel very comfortable when it’s just the two of you and expressing how you feel, whether it be verbally or through physical cues

-And he’s very attentive to those physical cues…..every moan or gasp is something he takes as confirmation that things are going well

-Is very big on making sure that you’re pleasured and taken care of before he is

-When it comes to sex, he’s a switch depending on his partner and the mood that they’re in

-And because you’re not especially expressive in public, this is his time to find out how you really feel about things

-So the sex is a little chatty, in the sense of him wanting you to tell him what you want

-Considering that and that he’s a fan of the foreplay, he’s always down to let you take the lead if you’re feeling especially bold or want to try something new

-Not a fan of quickies but is definitely testing the waters by teasing you Lowkey in public haha

-KING OF AFTERCARE

-And also of pillow talk

-Some of the best conversations about emotional depth or intimacy have taken place after sex

-Is a lover through and through….and puts everything into the relationship he has with you

-You are the thing he values most in this world and the way he treats you is reflective of that

[loverrofmineee]

The Parting Glass - Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x OC

Summary | AO3

Chapter 1- Brief Flirtations With Landings

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

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!”