#teirbm story

[basilone]

“Morrison.” Her name is spoken like lead, heavy and unwelcome. “I wasn’t aware you get paid to sit down and do nothing.”

Max almost rolls her eyes. Almost makes it a full-body event the way she’s seen Lottie do, all well-practiced shoulders and an expression of affected annoyance written all over her face. Catches herself just in time, though she still topples back against the crates in what she hopes looks like an intended sort of reclining.

Captain Brady doesn’t look fooled by it, if the slight uptick of his brow is anything to go by.

“Push told me to sit here and, I quote, touch nothing, Max,” she says, even though Push had technically said that yesterday and not today. “Gotta listen to your flight engineer, sir. Also”– she blows the next words out like they’re air, hot and stuffy –“Dee’s mad at me. Again.”

“Perrault needs to stop bossing everyone around,” says Captain Brady, with the air of a man who’s been on the receiving end of Push’s orders one too many times. He looks tired, here, squinting against the sunlight, hugging a bag to his chest. “And you,” he says, then, squint turning into glare the longer Max looks at him, “are not exempt from your duties just because Llewellyn takes offense at everything that moves.”

“Not everything, sir.”

“Close enough.” He drops his bag on one of the ammo crates. Leans against a stack of other crates that George hasn’t seen fit to move yet. “I get that it’s not ideal…”

Jules screaming over comms. One-Eye limping across the tarmac, eyes wild. Max shakes her head. Shuts her eyes. Tiny collapsing against Dorrance-Jones during interrogation. Lucy repeating “there’s nothing I can do” over and over until Jack Ellis pulls her hands off another man who died before Max even learned his name. She shakes her head again. Feels her breath whoosh out of her. Lifeless eyes, staring eyes. Lottie sobbing into her pillow night after night, Frosty sleeping outside, Dee punching the door over and over.

“It’s not,” she forces out, opening her eyes to Captain Brady’s frown. “But it’s what we’ve got.” She doesn’t think she could stomach Bucky’s well-meant jokes over comms. Doesn’t think she could take Major Cleven’s prolonged silences, either. Is entirely sure she can’t be on a plane with Benny DeMarco, who always greets her like he will remember her. “Blakely wouldn’t take us, said Push would jinx his luck or something,” she says, which is a version of the truth as good as any, “and Dee said she needed a pilot without a mustache, sir, so that’s you winning in her book by a landslide.”

“Which I am certain explains her asking after my shaving habits.”

Max nods, careful to not let the fresh bubble of mirth rise from her belly to her mouth. “Her ex-fiancé had a most dreadful mustache, sir.”

Captain Brady’s nod is as sharp as it is measuring. “I assume any letters she sets on fire come from him?”

“Yup.” The ‘p’ pops nice and round in her mouth. “Everyone says that’s healthy. Lottie does the same with her letters, I think,” she says, frowning as though she isn’t fully aware of every move Lottie makes in their space. “Seems to me like you ought to be able to tell people to quit writing, though.”

“Some people might not listen,” he says, gingerly taking the crate two places over from hers to perch upon. “Especially not if they feel wronged in some way.” He exhales loudly. Fixes his gaze on their plane, which is almost through with repairs. “You have the right idea, Morrison. Just perhaps not the tact required to tell others about it.”

Max’s eyes narrow. “Dee told you.” She hisses through her teeth as he gives her a little affirmative nod. Swallows down a cuss word that would make One-Eye blanch and Tiny start another lecture. “She tell you what she said to me, too?” She keeps her eyes fixed on their plane’s yellow lettering, which Darlene still needs to go over with another brush. “That at least she, unlike poor little orphan me, got someone to return-to-sender any letters to?”

“No, she did not.”

“Figures,” she snorts out. Dee’s always been that. Half-stories that keep herself out of trouble. Max would’ve knocked her teeth out about some of it if it wasn’t just so damn sad. “Well, sir, now you know. I need more tact, Dee needs more honesty. We’re all right together because of that.” Better than Lana or Polly had been, in training, before they’d washed out and joined the WACs instead. “Ask Push if you don’t buy it.”

“I prefer to be my own judge of character, Morrison.”

“Is that why half the base avoids meeting your eye, sir?”

“I can’t speak for other people’s decisions,” he says, which Max translates as a yes without too much difficulty. “You might say I am not one for tact, either”– and isn’t that a funny little something –“nor am I someone who… sugarcoats.” His sharpening tone speaks greater volumes than his words. “Is that something you foresee yourself having a problem with, Morrison?”

Max hums thoughtfully. “Not me, sir,” she allows, casting a glance sideways only to find him looking straight at her. His eyes are flinty, much like Major Cleven’s are when calling Bucky to order, but Max doesn’t quite mind the blatant measuring. “At least you’re honest about it,” she adds, tucking her spiraling curls behind her ear best she can. “And you’re not singling me out any. You’re just like that with everybody.”

She longs to call it reassuring. Bites her tongue just in time, because she’s already said plenty about it without quite saying it. Doesn’t want to jinx things with a new captain now that Jules is gone and Tiny’s thinly veiled judgment finally isn’t anywhere near Max while flying.

“Morrison.”

“Sir?”

“If you experience any…. singling out,” he says, emphasizing the term with a mouthful of abject distaste, “I want to know about it.”

The fuck’s a white boy from a nice little town upstate gonna do about it? Max digs her fingernails into the palms of her hands to stop herself from scowling. “Yessir,” she answers, gaze fixed on his neat little pressed uniform collar. Wonders if there’s a difference, for him, between knowing and doing something about it. Doubts she’ll involve him when it happens again. “I’ll let you know.”

“Especially,” he adds, hopping off his crate and stretching out, “if they tell you it’s just a joke.”

“Everything is just a joke when you have enough power to make it sound like just a joke,” counters Max sourly, huddling into her fur-lined collar despite the fact that the weather is balmy today. “Most people don’t know the difference.”

“Most people,” says Captain Brady, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “are not very clever.”

But you are, aren’t you? Max exhales. Remembers that Captain Brady can hold his own when talking with Push and George, who know more about planes than anybody she’s ever met. Recalls, too, that he’d put himself between Lucy and some belligerent replacement quicker than anything. You’re clever enough to realize some of the men aren’t joking when they try to ship me off to Tuskegee territory in Italy.

“– or not, Morrison?”

Max blinks. “Sir?”

“Are you going to help fix the plane or not, Morrison? She’s your bird now, too.”

“Still says Brady’s Crash Wagon on the side, sir,” quips Max cheekily, sliding down from her own crate. “Push has opinions about that, you know. She’s been saying it’s bad luck.”

“What do you think it is?”

Max stops. Considers. Narrows her eyes at him in a most flinty-gazed mimicry of his best stare. “Might be an honor, sir,” she says, testing the words out in her mouth. Liking how they sound. Liking, even more, the way he blinks in surprise. “Unless you crash us. I’m going to be mad as a buzzing beehive about that.”

“Noted,” he says wryly, turning his gaze toward the wing. “Fix her up right and we might get lucky.”

She isn’t entirely certain why, out of his mouth, hope starts to sound an awful lot like prayer.

[basilone]

Some of the men are new to war. These women aren't. or: the first Bremen mission.

Every new crew’s arrival works the same. Loud-voiced claims laid to bunk, seat, and hardstand. Bags full of belongings to trip over, only made worse by crates of new supplies. A throng of jackets and names the poor Clubmobile girls must try to treat as though each one is unique.

And then, of course, there are always the surprised-sounding whispers.

Julie heaves a sigh. Picks her tray up and sets her shoulders in a straight line. She’s quick to move out of the way of the next guy, who’d already been leaning too close for comfort as it was. Even quicker to dash past several tables as fast as her legs – and the food on her tray – can handle.

It’s not that she doesn’t hear the comments, but more the fact that most of those comments come from guys who’ve obviously never read a newspaper a day in their lives. What are those dames doing here? They can’t seriously be thinking… Pilots, them? At this point, the questions begin to blur. So do the faces of those asking. It’s nothing Julie hasn’t heard before – the multitude of letters they all got had this judgment in writing – but it’s shit to hear from guys who’re supposed to have your back. Or your wing.

[read the rest here on AO3!]

[basilone]

"Tongue" and John Brady

Thank you so much for sending this! One John Brady/OFC fic coming right up! As always, can be read as a stand alone work in this series.💙

“Graham.”

“Brady,” she nods, voice scarcely more than a whisper. Her brow furrows as she looks him up and down. “Do you need anything, sir?”

A nice warm drink, some music, and the promise of flying through clear skies with the sun’s rays gleaming off the wings. John Brady shakes his head. “Not really,” he lies as he stuffs his hands even deeper into his pockets. “The Major was looking for you, earlier. Said he needs some help running calculations.”

That, at least, earns him a rather derisive snort. “Buck Cleven knows his math,” says Graham. She plucks her pencil out from behind her ear and folds it between the pages of her book. “I highly doubt he needs that much help, unless Bucky’s talking baseball stats for the… twentieth time this morning?”

[read the rest here on ao3!]

[basilone]

There are some things in life you can't control. Things like the unfortunate name someone gave your plane. Things like falling in love in the middle of a warzone. Things like figuring out how to date the girl of your dreams while you might crash or die any day now. Luckily, Benny DeMarco is made of stronger stuff and figures it all out just fine.

Or, really, the Benny/Darlene fic that's been itching to get written for a while now. He's a charmer, that DeMarco fella. 😉 You've been warned!

Read the full fic here!

[basilone]

Sometimes, war is the province of women. An alternate take on the battle for air dominance over the skies of Europe during World War Two, as told through the stories of an American all-female bomber crew and the people around them.

This is a collection of standalone works that all interlock to form one big patchwork quilt of stories. It will see new additions every so often, especially because a lot of it is written to prompts. The collection on AO3 is my best attempt at organizing it in chronological order.

[click here for the WIP story collection!]

Want to know a little more about the OCs featured in this collection? Please click the readmore below!

Charlotte “Lottie” Rivers-Mayhew Fighter pilot turned bomber pilot Can fly anything, will try anything. Big mouth, little heart. Lives in the land of innuendo and crude jokes. Loud about her whole existence. Very smart, but downplays that like whoa. Julie “Jules” Langdon Bomber pilot Runs this gig and everyone else just needs to get with her program. Great at reading people the riot act. Comically unimpressed by everything that lands in her path. Nosewrinkles at any and all delays. Known for slipping people an extra bite to eat. Christina “Tiny” Heartfield Bomber co-pilot Needs five hours to get ready for any kind of social event. Silver spoon baby. Knows all the gossip and all the good songs. Gets a little bit stressed about flying in warzones. Loves a good ghost story. Eleanor “Nora” Graham Navigator The Mom Friend. Prone to giving hugs and peptalks. Bossy and quite rude when things don’t go her way. Cannot flirt her way out of anything. If you see her running, that’s just standard procedure. Valerie “Val” Hodges Radio operator Absolute poker-faced ballsy liar. Most innocent face in the whole crew. Smokes more than her job should allow. Will try to wiggle out of any lectures by offering the most inane excuses. There’s not a puzzle she can’t solve. Genevieve “Two” Hodgson Tail gunner Shows up late to everything except the war. Always chewing gum. Queen of half-hearted salutes and vague politeness. Keeps saying she’s too poor for this level of bullshit. Has a mean right hook. Madeleine “Push” Perrault Flight engineer Making lists calms her down. Can and will call you stupid in four different languages. Thinks planes are better than people. Voice like a foghorn with the attitude to match. Believes she can fix anything. Evelyn “One-Eye” Carter Ball turret gunner Happy-go-lucky baby of the group, rolling with life’s punches. Will talk your ear off. Could probably get away with murder. Best gunner in the crew. Can be painfully naïve. Dorothy “Dee” Llewellyn Waist gunner Born a pessimist. Genuinely thinks no man should ever sport a mustache. Has a limitless supply of stories about her family. Very protective. Would inspire a riot if anyone ever let her talk long enough without interruptions. Maxine “Max” Morrison Waist gunner Bold and brash and crackling with energy. Cracks more bad jokes than anyone alive. Has developed some rather complicated handshakes. Will interrupt any event or conversation. If you see her running, something’s probably chasing her. Stella “Frosty” Lombardi Bombardier Icy calm in any crisis. Can calculate any bomb drop. Complains about the food. Is a true girl’s girl and refuses to so much as speak to most men. Never wants to miss out on the fun.

Lucille Dorrance-Jones, goes by Lucy Jones Nurse The singlemost stubborn person on the planet. Thinks some injuries are fascinating. Harbors a healthy distrust of bureaucracy and paperwork. Can probably drink you under the table. Encourages anyone to sing. Cressida Dorrance-Jones Interrogator Sharp as a tack. Does not forgive, does not forget. Secretly more big-hearted than people would give her credit for. Really wants to fly a plane. Has an ongoing one-sided vendetta with Meatball. Darlene Mayfair Mechanic Cheerful and spirited. Very gifted storyteller. Turns shy when complimented. Ride or die for people and sticks with them longer than they might deserve. Marches to the beat of her own drum. Georgina “George” Campbell Mechanic Has a soft spot for strays. Suffers no fools. Is here to win a war, not ogle cute men. Perpetually fighting a losing battle against the grease stains on her uniform. The best co-conspirator you could ask for. Imogene “Genie” Chapman Clubmobile girl Very outgoing people-person. Better at giving advice than at taking it. Designated hair-cutter. Loves movies and dancing. Knows just about anybody by name. Jack Ellis OSS Doesn’t miss a beat. No-nonsense natural leader. Very determined to do what he believes is the right thing. Talks about the war in terms of “the game”. Warm and caring once he lets his guard down.

[basilone]

A little Gale & Lottie treat, because I wanted to write something self-indulgent to explore their relationship a little more. (aka the one where Gale knows how to cut hair and Lot's stupid enough to ask, featuring a fair amount of heart-to-heart and unresolved wacky feelings.) Hope you'll enjoy!

“Ya got me now, Gilly. Easy as pie, me.”

She tucks a lock of long blonde hair behind her ear. Fidgets on the spot beside him as though she can’t quite settle down. He’s only ever known Lot to sit quiet in her seat when they’re flying. She goes still up there, all tension washing away from her body as soon as they’re wheels up. It’s one of the things that’d made him argue to put him next to her again, that’d made him ask for her even when Harding and the rest of them weren’t sure she’d make the cut at all. You haven’t seen her, he’d said, finally, feeling his mouth curve into its most stubborn set. You haven’t flown with her like I have.

It hadn’t been a lie like the one he’d written to Marge about a week ago.

[read the rest here on ao3!]

[basilone]

question about lottie: how does she feel about her nickname?

Ooo, a good question, ty! 😊 We're going on a bit of a nickname journey here, as Lot's got a few...

Lottie's been Lottie since she turned seven and decided Charlotte was too grown-up a name to have, which of course did little to deter her family (they never call her Lottie) but sufficed for introducing herself to other kids her age. She likes the ease of being called Lottie and feels it's a bonus that this name sounds anything but stuck-up and rich. She's been Lot for a while, too, which is especially something Darlene calls her and makes her sound a skosh more mature.

As she was a fighter pilot before she went and flew bombers, her nickname Ace stems from those early days. It's a nickname given to those who've shot down five or more enemy aircraft during aerial combat, which tells you a fair bit about just how good Lottie is at what she does. Despite the chip on her shoulder, she's generally well-respected for those skills and is usually called either Lottie or Ace at Thorpe Abbotts. She loves the Ace nickname because it's something she earned. Loves it, except when it's Gale Cleven saying it.

Gale calls her Lottie, or Lot, after she almost hit him for attempting to call her Charlotte once. He doesn't really call her Ace very often, just like she doesn't usually call him Buck. When Gale does call her Ace, it means he's disappointed in her or angry with her or trying to keep his distance from her on some level. He often uses the nickname as a sharp and stinging reminder that she needs to live back up to it again, that she can't keep pushing the envelope like this, that she needs to stop and think about what she's doing. Lottie will do anything to get him to stop calling her Ace, really, which results in a bit of a struggle for her when the war drags on and she's not coping very well and acting out because of it.

In unguarded moments, usually when it's just them, Gale will sometimes call her Squeak or Squeaky. Lot used to make a face about it -- really, he based it on the rather undignified noise she made when she got spooked by a passing goose during a flight -- but that was before it registered with her that Gale Cleven is not a nickname-giving fella at all and bestowed one upon her anyway. It's something that feels warm to her, something that's just hers alone to have, something that makes her feel like she matters to him. I think if you asked Lottie what being loved feels like to her, you'd get a whole lot of "I dunno" followed by a mumbled "when I'm sat with Gilly an' he calls me Squeak without thinkin' too hard on it".