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mrs-murder-daddy · 20 days

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A/N: It's finally here, and it's only part one! I'm so sorry everyone but I've been fucking miserable for the last few months. But I'm here, I promise!

Requests are also open for BoB and MotA!

The Heart of the Ocean (Part One)

Gale "Buck" Cleven x Reader

The stateroom is much smaller than you anticipated, though perhaps your expectations were too high. After all, this is just a boat with a lot of people on it.

It feels suffocating, though perhaps that’s a consequence of your circumstances more than your room.

You stare at yourself in the vanity’s mirror. You look tired, but maybe you should cut yourself some slack. You’re getting married in a few weeks. Every bride looks this sallow before their wedding day.

There’s a knock on the door, gentle and polite. You haven’t even responded when it opens. Caledon Hockley, your fiance, walks in. If you had never spoken to the man, you’d say that smile on his face is genuine.

He brandishes a velvet jewellery box and presents it to you with all the showmanship of a salesman. You’re not sure why. You’re marrying the bastard, not buying a house from him.

Cal crowds up behind you, opening the box, expecting you to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over it. He gives you some long speech about how the diamond used to belong to some long dead king. All you can do is stare. It’s so… big. It’s gaudy and awful. At least it matches your engagement ring.

He clasps the necklace, the chain feeling rather literal. He kisses your temple and grins at his most prized possession. You paste on a smile and thank him for his kindness. As he leaves, reminding you of the lunch you were already supposed to be at, you wrap a hand around the massive blue diamond. It’ll at least weigh me down, you joke.

Despite your mother’s hatred of her, Mrs Margaret “my-friends-call-me-Molly” Brown is the only person you can talk to that actually listens. You walk into the dining room for lunch, hands gently wrapped around one of Cal’s arms and the first thing you hear is, “that necklace is gorgeous darling!”

Your mother fawns over it and you almost tell her to just take it if she wants it so bad.

Molly says, “Not as beautiful as the woman wearing it.”

Her beaming smile is not enough to distract you from your mother’s eye roll, but it is enough for you to respond with a genuine thanks. You can’t remember the last time you got a compliment.

Stuck at a table between a rock (Cal) and a hard place (your mother), you wait anxiously to eat. You would listen to the conversations around you, but it’s mostly your mother bragging about the family you’re marrying into, and the men discussing which type of cigar they’ll smoke next or other trivial nonsense.

When the waiter approaches, you perk up. but Cal takes over. “We'll both have the lamb, medium-rare with very little mint sauce.” He turns to you and pats your hand, “You like lamb, don't you sweet-pea?”

You stare at him silently, god his face was just so punchable. A pinch on your thigh reminds you that there’s an audience. “Of course, darling.”

Molly jumps in, noticing the distinct pinch of your mouth. “You gonna cut her meat for her, too, Cal?” The table bursts into laughter and even your fiance forces a tight smile.

The food is not quite to your taste, the bitterness of Cal’s mistreatment tainting your meal. But the conversation takes a turn for the better.

Molly posits, “So, how do ya reckon they got to the name Titanic?”

An older fellow married to a woman 3 years your junior speaks up, “Well the name obviously conveys size, thus it also conveys strength.”

You jump in, “Perhaps Dr Freud’s ideas about the male preoccupation with size will interest you, Mr Higginbotham.”

Your mother pinches your thigh again and you jolt. The conversation changes once more and even Molly’s boisterous laughter can’t calm your temper. You excuse yourself and race outside for some fresh air.

The ocean breeze cools you down somewhat. You bask in the sun’s rays, gripping the rail in front of you and leaning back just a little.

Your reverie is interrupted by a loud shout of “Miss!”

You look down to see two brunets wrestling playfully. Their blonde friend shakes his head before looking up at you. Your knees turn to butter. He’s quite possibly the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your life.

The two of you stare at each other for so long, his friends have stopped wrestling, instead looking between you two like a tennis match. The Greek statue below only stops the staring contest when a frown takes over.

Your own face falls when you realise why: Cal. Your fiance grips your arm and begins to berate you quietly while dragging you back inside.

But the beautiful blonde man is all you see. His smile as his friends begin to tease is enough to feed you for a lifetime.

Dinner is much the same, only your noose feels tighter than before. Your newfound wealth is still the only topic of conversation your mother cares about and your fiance is content to make every little decision for you.

Of all your companions, at least Molly Brown tries to reach out with some gentle questions about the wedding. Cal fields all of them, he and your mother having planned everything to the very flowers of your bouquet.

Your ears begin to ring. Your mother over one shoulder, your fiance over the other. A hand touches yours lightly. It’s gloved but still warm. Molly’s Southern accent cuts through the rest of the conversation.

“You okay darling?”

You nod and beam brightly. “Of course, just excited for the wedding.”

It’s clearly not enough for her. Then an icy glare from the people either side of you reminds her of your precarious position.

“Well who wouldn’t be? It all sounds so beautiful!”

You power through dinner, Cal ordered the beef for you both, though you would rather have eaten dirt.

He kisses your gloved hand as the men retire to the smoking room. Molly rubs your shoulder gently as she bids you goodbye.

Your mother hisses at you for acting up. You simply smile apologetically and ask to get some fresh air. She waves you off with an angry “I’ll see you later.”

Thankfully, no one else is on deck as you sprint across the wood. Your chest is heaving with panicked breaths and barely concealed sobs. The theatrics catch the attention of a man laying on a bench staring up at the stars.

You crash into the rail at the stern of the ship and hastily climb over. Your breath gets stuck in your throat as the wind brushes past your face, cooling the tears on your cheeks.

The skin over your knuckles stretches as you cling to the only tether you have left. The water looks cold but so inviting.

Then a voice. It’s quiet and gentle, but it nearly startles you into letting go.

“Easy, easy, didn’t mean to scare you.” He approaches, palms up in surrender.

“Go away.” You’re beyond embarrassed to have someone witness your breakdown. Your consideration of the unthinkable.

“Well that I’m not gonna do.” He creeps closer like you’re a wounded animal. It’s perhaps a cliche, but you imagine that’s what you are. Hunted for your beauty and trapped in the snare of a loveless marriage.

“You should leave. If you know what’s good for you.” You wish your voice sounds stronger. The creaking of your throat doesn’t make you sound very intimidating.

He just sighs and sits down on the deck. He begins to… remove his shoes? You frown and look over your shoulder as much as you can.

“What are you doing?”

“If you’re going down there,” he nods to the water below you, “I’m coming after you. And these are a new pair. Can’t get ‘em all soggy.”

You begin to laugh, a little hysterically. “That water’s freezing. There’s no way you’ll jump after me.”

“That’s not the part I’m worried about.” He stands up and begins to remove his jacket. Your face grows serious once more. His shoulders are broad, he must be a steel worker or something. But his face is too pretty for that kind of work. “You know a fall from this height into water, it’s like hitting pavement. Then you add the freezing water and-“ he hissed through his teeth.

You take another look, it is a very long way down. How did you not notice that before? A few moments of contemplative silence pass and the broad shouldered man moves closer.

You look over your shoulder at him. “You ever feel alone? Like truly alone in the world.”

He frowns sympathetically, “Can’t say I have, ma’am.”

You smile sadly. “That’s good.” Your hands begin to loosen their grip.

His voice now sounds like it’s right next to you, but you can’t bring yourself to look. “Maybe you should come back over this rail and tell me all about it. Maybe I can help you.”

A sad little smile appears on your face. “I wish you could.”

Then warmth wraps around your wrist. The man’s hands are calloused but much softer than you expected.

“You never know if you don’t try.” He’s practically begging, anxiously waiting for your response.

You turn your head to look at him, tears threatening to choke you. You realise just who this man is. “Okay.”

He wraps a gentle but firm arm around your waist and helps you pull yourself back over the rail. When you finally set your heeled feet on the deck, your body feels like it’s going to collapse. The man leads you to a bench and wraps his jacket tight around you.

“I’m Gale by the way, Gale Cleven.”

You introduce yourself, still feeling rather defeated.

“Now tell me about what happened just now.” The words imply an interrogation, but looking into those baby blues you see… concern. What is with the people on this boat?

You’ll know them for only about a week and yet they’re the only ones in your life who seem to actually care for you.

“I know what you must be thinking.” You sigh, “Poor little rich girl. What does she know about misery?”

Gale leans his head forward to make eye contact, “Not at all. What I’m thinking is what could have happened to this girl to make her think she has no way out?”

You flash the giant ring on your finger, “I’m getting married next month.”

He jokes, “Wow! You would have gone straight to the bottom.”

But you can’t laugh, you just stare at it. “All of Boston society will be there. 500 invitations.”

You finally look at his face, counting his freckles subconsciously, “Sometimes I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming at the top of my lungs and no one even looks up.”

He frowns and you’re hit with a sudden wave of shame. “Thank you for your help, Gale.” You take his jacket off hastily and drop it in his lap.

“Wait-” He tries to process the abrupt end to your conversation but you’re already halfway down the deck, surreptitiously wiping away tears.

The next morning, you beg your mother to let you have some space and fresh air. Really, you want to find the handsome blond from the night before. To apologise and to assure him that you will be just fine.

It’s not difficult to spot his incredibly handsome profile. He’s hunched over a sketchbook, head bobbing as he looks to his reference then back down. Trying to follow his eyeline, you see a sweet looking older man dancing with his little daughter. She stands on his feet as they sway to nothing in particular.

You approach carefully, worried you’d break the warm quiet, or disturb the family’s moment. You decide to just sit next to Gale. He tilts his head in acknowledgment but continues his work.

“I wanted to apologise for my behaviour last night,” you begin, “it was inappropriate for a woman of my station.”

He gives a little half-smile and looks up at you. His stare is like looking into the sun. “You’re allowed to feel how you feel. And I felt honoured you trusted me enough to share your pain.”

Your face warms, you’re not sure if it’s shame or those baby blues trained on yours. The girl and her dad are still dancing, but he’s picked her up. Her curls swish around as he twirls them and her giggles almost bring a tear to your eye. You can’t remember the last time your parents showed you any affection, let alone danced with you just to make you laugh.

Gale clears his throat and holds his sketchbook out. His work is incredible. Not only is his technical work beautiful but he’s captured the loving glint in the father’s eyes and the little girl’s missing tooth. You can’t help your beaming smile.

“This is incredible work! You should be proud. Is this what you plan to do back in the States?” You brush a gentle finger over the drawing’s finer details.

He blushes and shakes his head, “I’m going back to my tiny hometown to see my family. Where I go from there, I don’t know.”

“You have a real talent here, Gale! You should explore this.” You hand the drawing back to him.

His plush lips part like he wants to respond, but you’re interrupted. The sweet little girl taps your shoulder, her tiny hand covered in freckles. She introduces herself as Niamh, and asks if you’re some kind of fairy. You frown, confused, but hear Gale chuckle behind you.

“She absolutely is, Miss Niamh.” When you turn your head to look at him, he winks. You look back at Niamh and smile.

“He’s right, I am a fairy! And I have a gift for you, little one.” You pull out one of the many pins in your hair, a bejewelled butterfly on the end. You hold it out to her; she seems hesitant to take it.

Niamh looks back at her dad who nods in her direction. She takes the pin and gives it a little kiss, “I promise, I’ll take care of it.” She runs back to her dad, giggling.

“I gotta go soon,” Gale’s voice draws you back to your previous conversation. “It’s almost lunchtime, but I wanted to ask.” He closes his sketchbook and faces you head on. “You ever been to a party?”

You had assumed when Gale asked you about a party there would be drinking and music, but nothing to this level.

The small parlour is packed to the brim with warm bodies and free-flowing drinks. Gale is up on a makeshift stage dancing with a cat in one arm and Niamh on the other. You remember his two brunet friends from yesterday and search for their faces, hopefully one of them will remember you.

One is preparing to arm wrestle a big bald man while the other claps him on the shoulder for support. A pregnant woman stands behind them, arms folded and a big grin on her face. You make your way through everyone, feeling very overdressed. By the time you reach them, the arm wrestling match is done and everyone cheers for “Curt”. By the big smile on his face, you assume Curt is one of Gale’s friends.

You can’t quite find a way to interject yourself into the celebrations so you find yourself leaning against the wall awkwardly. Gale finally notices you and tries to wave, only he has no hands free. So he quickly gestures to his friends.

“Hey!” The taller brunet shouts, holding his arms out for a hug. You shake your head, not quite there in your acquaintanceship with him. Instead the pregnant woman wraps her arms around him instead. “You’re the dame who Buck can’t stop talking about.”

“Buck?” You look over his shoulder at Gale whose attention is divided between you and Niamh. “Oh Gale!” Your face heats up, “I hope he’s been kind.”

Curt butts in, “Darling you’ve got nothing to worry about, the man is already picking out a ring for ya.”

The tall brunet holds his hand out to shake yours, introducing himself as John, “But my friends call me Bucky.” He also introduces the woman under his arm as Angel. She gives you her real name but says she prefers the nickname.

Curt gives you an official introduction, and Gale peels himself away from Niamh and the cat long enough to come join you all.

“I’m glad to see you here, sweetheart.” Gale smiles and wraps an arm around your shoulder. You lose yourself in his eyes again.

“Glad to be here.” Your voice is breathy, but for once you’re saying what you truly mean.

The night is long and restless, you drink and you dance and you laugh and you dream. This is the life you’d sorely missed, friends, fun, and blossoming love.

The night winds down, Curt has passed out on a bench near the makeshift stage. There’s only one fiddle player left, the rest of his musician family gone to bed. Niamh is asleep in her dad’s arms while her mother dances around them.

Bucky and Angel dance together, looking more in love than anyone you’ve ever seen. He whispers sweet nothings in a low tone just to see her blush. Gale clears his throat next to you and you snap your eyes towards him. He holds his large hand out, inviting you to dance. As you join him, slow dancing next to your new friends, you wonder. Maybe you can learn to love Gale like Angel loves her Bucky.

It’s late when you return to your room. A familiar face greets you. Cal sits on his reading chair with a whiskey in one hand and your massive blue diamond necklace in the other.

“Where were you?” He doesn’t look at you, only the necklace.

“Out.”

“And what, precisely, does that mean?”

“I… was with friends.”

“Is that why you smell like a brewery?”

You roll your eyes, but choose just the wrong time to do as his eyes shift to you.

His voice is dark and angry, and your palms begin to sweat. “You are my fiance, and you are to be my wife. You will wear this gift at all times and you will not leave my side without my express permission. In fact, I’ve come to an agreement with your mother.” He stands, looming over you. “You will stay in this room and share this bed with me.”

Your eyes widen, “That would be inappropriate, we’re unmarried.”

“You are still mine.” He clasps the necklace around your throat once more.

#masters of the air x reader #gale cleven x reader #buck cleven x reader #mota x reader #masters of the air fic

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precious-little-scoundrel · 3 months

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Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

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obessedwithfictionalmen · 2 months

Text

Told you she was real

Buck Cleven X nurse! Reader

Summary: Buck has a girlfriend, Bucky does not believe such "lies"

Warning: none

Word count: 500 words

When Buck told his best friend that he had a girlfriend, Bucky laughed for minutes before saying that he didn’t believe him. But he was wrong, she was just never around the base. She was a travel nurse, that means that the Red Cross send her when she was most needed. That’s how they met, he’d fall and open his knee and she healed him, after they kept talking until, she was going to be send away. Buck gave her the address of his base, so she’d write to him.

Buck closed her last letter, grinning like the town idiot. ‘’What got you smiling like that?’’ Bucky asked. ‘’My girlfriend is coming here’’ he says, smiling. ‘’Oh, I don’t say this to be mean, but are you sure you’re okay, mentally? Because there’s no way she’s real’’ Bucky said. Buck rolled his eyes and showed his friend the letter, he read it. ‘’Nah, I’m still not convinced. I have to see her in real life to believe you’’ he gently taps his back before leaving the room. Buck was happy, his girlfriend was coming on his base, he could prove to his best friend that she’s real and dating him. Plus, he was sure that Bucky was going to be jealous of him, Y/n was really beautiful.

She got out of the truck, looking around the base, looking for her boyfriend. When she spotted him, she dropped her bags and ran in his direction. She jumped in his arms as they spun around. ‘’I’ve missed you so much!’’ she squealed in his ears. Other soldiers were looking at the couple with confusion, his mysterious girlfriend was real? John Egan walked out of a building and saw his best friend kissing a girl, his jaw dropped, and he rose his eyebrows, what the hell? He thought. ‘’Wait a damn second!? She’s your imaginary girlfriend, she’s real?!’’ he exclaimed. ‘’Not so imaginary now, I’m Y/n, you must be Bucky. Gale told me a lot about you’’ she extended her hand for the pilot to shake. Bucky was even more in shock she had repartee, what was she doing with him? ‘’Great things?’’ he looked at his friend. ‘’Yes, but he did mention a certain unicorn story’’ she laughs. ‘’You did not tell her about that!’’ Bucky exclaimed. Buck only nodded, making Bucky face palm. ‘’I’m really happy to see that you are real, and I don’t have to send my best friend to a mental institute’’ Bucky says. ‘’Happy to be real’’ Y/n smirk. Buck smiles, proud of his girl. He kissed her again, happy that she came here. ‘’I can’t believe you’re in front of me’’ Buck says. ‘’Me neither, but I have a great news’’ she says. They stop walking and she looks at him. ‘’I got transferred here, permanently’’ she smiles. Buck hugs her tightly. ‘’Oh my! That’s amazing! We’re going to be together all the time’’ He cries out in joy. Bucky surely believed his friend now.

#gale cleven #gale cleven x reader #master of the air imagine #master of the air #gale buck cleven #buck cleven #austin butler

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youaintnothinbuta · 8 days

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could u write something for austin where reader is obsessed with his hair especially when she goes with him on set and they get wet bc he’s sweating too much, and once it turns her on sm that it ends up with him eating her out with her hands buried in them and when it’s too much she pulls it a little harder and austin just loves it

“You're so good at this.” — austin butler x reader

Summary: see request^^

Pairing: austin butler x fem!reader

Word count: 1.2K

Warnings: SMUT, 18+, mature language, oral (f receiving), probably typos im sorryyyy

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You stood nervously outside the set of Masters of the Air, clutching your pass, waiting to be let in. Your boyfriend, Austin, was in the middle of filming, and you didn't want be any cause of distraction. His manager, a familiar face to you, greeted you and whispered, “Just slip in quietly, Y/N. They should be done with these takes in about 20 minutes.”

You nodded, your heart racing with excitement, as you followed her onto the set. The lights were blindingly bright, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and costume fabric. You spotted Austin immediately, his chiseled features set in a determined expression as he delivered his lines. His voice too —deep, commanding, and authoritative— it sent shivers down your spine as he barked orders at his fellow actors.

You sat down quietly and out of view of him and any of the other actors. You couldn't help but notice how good he looked, his blonde hair mussed and his eyes gleaming with intensity. The layered costume added bulk to his already impressive physique, and the sweat dripping down his face only added to his sexiness. You felt that familiar fire ignite in your tummy as you watched your man at work. You pressed your thighs firmly together, trying to contain the desire that was building inside you.

After what felt like an eternity, the director called for a lunch break, and immediately the chatter in the room began.

“Austin!” You called. He perked up, a bright smile spreading across his face as he heard your voice, his eyes locking onto yours instantly.

“Baby, hi,” he said, striding towards you with long, purposeful strides.

You smiled, feeling a little shy but also incredibly turned on. You felt a flutter in your chest as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace, pulling you into a gentle kiss.

“I didn't know you were coming today,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “Sorry,” he apologised for being sweaty, tugging on his thick coat, “I feel like I’m melting in this thing.”

"I wanted to surprise you," you whispered back, your hands sliding up his chest to toy with the buttons on his costume, “and you look amazing.”

Austin chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Do I?”

You nodded, responding to him. You found yourself getting more and more turned on by Austin's proximity. You could smell the sweat on his skin mixing with his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body, and see the way his eyes seemed to devour you, and the way his wet hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. You knew you had to get him alone, and fast.

“How long do you have?” You asked, your words came out heavy, thick with desire.

Austin's eyes narrowed, his pupils dilating with interest. “40 minutes ish, why?”

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear. “I need you,” you whispered, the words sending a thrill through your entire body.

Austin's eyes flashed with desire, and he pulled back, his face set in a determined expression. “Let's find a quiet spot,” he growled, taking your hand, leading you to his trailer, the door closing behind you with a soft click. You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on his knees, his fingers deftly undoing your pants and pulling them down. His mouth closed over your pussy with a hungry growl.

"I've missed you," he said, his voice low and husky. You felt your body respond to his words, your nipples hardening beneath your shirt. His fingers dug into your skin as he pulled your core even closer to his lips.

You moaned as his hot breath washed over your skin, his tongue darting out to taste you. Your hands buried themselves in his hair, the soft strands tangling around your fingers as you pulled him closer.

“Fuck, Austin,” you breathed, your body trembling with pleasure. “You're so good at this.”

He chuckled against your flesh, “I know.”

He groaned, allowing you to feel the vibrations of his vocal cords, his mouth working magic on your clit. He slid his middle finger inside of you, curling upwards as his tongue lapped over your most sensitive spot. You gasped, your body tightening around his finger as he pumped it in and out of you. Your legs began to shake. You felt yourself building towards orgasm, your hands tightening in his hair as you tugged and pulled.

“Yes, baby, like that,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin.

Austin loved when you pulled at his hair, and he responded by increasing the pressure, his tongue lashing against you with reckless abandon. You felt yourself hurtling towards the edge, your body coiling tighter and tighter.

You were so close, your body trembling with anticipation. The pleasure was getting too much, you pulled his head back by his hair, when you finally let out a loud cry and came all over his face. Austin groaned, his eyes closed in ecstasy, as you pulsed against his mouth.

He gently pressed his tongue on your clit, allowing you to milk yourself of your orgasm using his face until you were empty.

For a moment, you just sat there, panting and trembling, as Austin slowly got to his feet, his face smeared with your juices. He smiled, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and pulled you into a deep, wet kiss, his saliva and yours mixing with your slick.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice husky.

“I love you too,” you replied, a smile spreading across your face too. Austin's gaze never left yours as he reached for a towel that was draped over the back of a nearby chair. He gently wiped the remnants of your orgasm from his chin. Then, with a gentle touch, he brought the towel between your legs, softly wiping away your fluid. The intimate gesture sent a flutter through your chest, and you felt your heart swell with affection for this man.

As he helped you to your feet, Austin's hands lingered on your waist, his fingers brushing against the skin beneath your shirt. He zipped up the fly of your jeans, then fastened the button with a gentle tug. The simple act felt like a declaration of ownership, a reminder that you belonged to him, and he to you.

“Come on, let’s get food,” Austin said, his voice still thick, as he held your hand, leading you back to the catering area. He handed you a plate and took one for himself, both of you eyeing all the delicious looking food that was provided. Just then, the ten-minute call rang out across the room, a reminder that your break was drawing to a close. Austin's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, his voice low and teasing.

“You’re terrible,” he kissed your temple, pulling your head to his chest, “making me miss out on half my lunch break like that.”

You laughed as you leaned into him, “I’ll return the favour tonight.”

His stomach flipped at your words, he shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Hush,” he teased, shoving a strawberry in your mouth. You bit down innocently, humming with delight at the sweetness.

a/n I know for a fact no one eats pussy like Austin Butler does end of conversation

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sansaorgana · 5 days

Note

Oh my God, would you write a little something about their little daughter/son or (twins?) walking in on reader and Buck? Pretty please? 😅🫠

hi, sugar! 🍬 thank you for your request, it's such a cute idea. 🥺 I love imagining Buck as a husband and a father and all these domestic things. 🏡

I had to currently close the requests because I got so many so I'm working on them atm 🙏🏻

🔞 THIS FIC IS 18+ 🔞

You hadn’t been intimate with your husband for a long while now. Taking care of energetic twin preschoolers was taking up most of your time and even when you happened to have free time at the end of the day, you were often too tired to start anything. Which was a misfortune because you wanted at least one more child with Buck. You dreaded the day your son and daughter would go to school – you wanted to be busy with another little baby in the meantime.

You gave it a try tonight because after a long day spent in the park, running around the playground, your twins had fallen asleep very quickly. So, there you were, laying under your husband’s warm and strong body, with your thighs around his waist pushing him deeper and deeper as your back arched and his full lips were muffling your soft moans with a kiss. Your hands were squeezing his biceps as his were cupping your face; the rhythm of his hips was steady but not too fast and not too rough. Buck Cleven was not the type to fuck. He was making love to you.

After a few weeks of no intimacy at all, you could feel your release coming very fast and you only hoped you’d have more than one round on that night. So lost in pleasure and chasing the high, enamoured by your husband’s flushed cheeks, a single golden hair strand falling down on his forehead and his beautiful blue eyes staring at you lovingly whenever he’d break the passionate kiss to catch a breath… you simply didn’t hear the noise in the corridor.

“Mummy, daddy…!” Your little girl’s whine interrupted you as she pushed the door open without knocking. Her twin brother followed and you froze with widened eyes as you panicked.

But Buck never panicked. That man was always calm and always knew what to do, it was impressive. No matter what the situation was, his calmness was working miracles to make you feel safe and taken care of. He made sure that you were both covered with the blanket and turned around to look at your children.

“Minnie, I’ve been telling you to always knock,” Buck scolded her gently. Her lower lip trembled as she squeezed tighter the teddy bear she was holding.

“But daddy, Bobby is mean to me! He says there is a monster under my bed…” She was on the verge of tears.

“I really saw him!” Bobby denied the accusations. “I wasn’t trying to scare her! There is a monster under her bed.”

“Funny!” Minnie faced him. “Why under mine and not yours then?”

You took a deep breath in and sighed. They were only children and it was difficult to be angry at them for this but you weren’t pleased either.

“And what are you doing?” Bobby squinted his eyes at his parents.

“We… We are talking,” Buck answered awkwardly, his cheeks flushing even more. However, your little boy didn’t seem to be convinced. “And cuddling,” Buck added quickly so the answer was more believable.

“Why are you naked?” Minnie asked and you furrowed your brows at her.

“How do you know?” You asked and she pointed at your nightgown on the floor. “Well, it’s hot here,” you quickly made up an excuse and rubbed your sweaty forehead. “Go back to sleep, darlings, there are no monsters under any bed in this house. Monsters are too scared of daddy,” you tried to make them go away as quickly as possible.

“Then daddy should inspect,” Bobby crossed his hands.

You looked up at Buck’s face and he sighed with a gentle smile. He was a big softie for his children and that was one of the reasons why you loved him so much. He moved away delicately, making sure you were still both covered with a blanket.

“Can you hand me that, love?” You pointed at your nightgown and your daughter picked it up to give it to you. You put it on over your head and let it fall down, allowing Buck to take more of the blanket for himself. He left the bed with it around his waist as if it was a towel and he picked up his own underwear from the carpet.

“I’ll go and inspect in a moment, “ he winked at Bobby and went to the bathroom.

When he left the bed with the blanket, you spotted your panties scattered somewhere down the mattress. You quickly grabbed them before the kids could notice and you turned your back on them on the edge of the bed to put them back on.

When you were completely dressed up again, you spotted that Minnie was already in the middle of your bed, laying her head on your pillow and cuddling her teddy bear.

“What are you doing, Minnie?” You asked her and caressed her hair.

“I want to sleep here tonight,” she gave you puppy eyes.

“But daddy will go there and show you that there are no monsters,” you assured her.

Gale left the bathroom at that very moment, already in his pyjamas. He carefully put the blanket over you and Minnie as he leaned in to kiss her forehead.

“You coming with me, young man?” He asked Bobby and the boy nodded, feeling important as he followed his father out of the bedroom.

Minnie moved closer to you and put her tiny arms around your waist. You sighed and kissed the top of her head with a smile. You already knew there would be no way you’d go back to your lovemaking tonight. Minnie was starting to doze off in your arms and you watched her sweet angel face lovingly.

Buck and Bobby came back to your bedroom. Your husband had a playful smile on his lips and your heart skipped a beat at the sight. He was so adorable, you were so happy to be his wife.

“There are no monsters under the bed,” Gale ruffled his son’s hair as he stated. Then he raised an eyebrow at half-asleep Minnie.

“I guess she stays here tonight,” you whispered.

“Me too, then!” Bobby jumped inside the bed and laid beside his sister.

Minnie turned around and clinged to him adorably. Buck joined you all in bed and adjusted the blanket over you.

“You okay, baby?” He asked as he caressed your cheek.

“Yeah,” you nodded. The heat was long gone now, you were mostly sleepy. “And you, sweetheart?”

“Perfectly fine,” Buck assured you. He turned off the light on the bedside table and put his arm around his wife and babies, curled up together between their parents as they fell asleep; feeling safe and loved. Like you always wanted them to feel. It was the most important thing in the world for you.

When you woke up, the bed was already empty. You rubbed your eyes and glanced at the clock. It was nine already and you wondered how it was possible that you had been allowed to sleep for so long and no one had been trying to wake you up to prepare breakfast. The mystery was solved soon enough when Buck entered the bedroom quietly. He was still wearing pyjamas as well.

“Oh, you’re awake now,” he pointed out as he got under the blanket to greet you with a kiss. “You were sleeping so peacefully. I made them breakfast and now they’re watching the kids’ program on TV. That gives us about half an hour,” he pointed out in a whisper as he smirked.

“You’re so needy, Major Cleven,” you giggled and cupped his face.

“I’m starving, Mrs. Cleven,” he admitted before peppering your face with tiny sweet kisses. Once he was done, he focused on your exposed neck as his hips lowered down and you felt his erection between your legs already.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, you lifted yourself up and joined your lips together in a heated kiss as you got rid of each other’s clothes. You knew that you had no time to waste if you wanted to finally get the job done.

When you were both naked, hands wandering all around each other’s bodies while kissing and shushing each other, Gale pushed you down softly and positioned himself above you with his elbows on both sides of your head as you raised your thighs to put them around his waist and impatiently guide him inside you. He pressed his forehead to yours with a hiss at the feeling of your warm, wet and pulsating pussy.

Your back arched as you threw your head back, exposing your neck even further for your husband’s sweet and needy kisses as his hips thrusted into you firmly, hitting all the right spots with military precision.

Just like on the night before, it didn’t take long for you to feel the reaching peak overtaking you. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you gasped and dug your fingernails in his shoulders. Buck grunted softly and picked up his pace.

You came with a soft moan and he joined your lips together quickly to muffle the sounds leaving your mouth. He needed a few more chaotic thrusts before spilling himself inside of you as his eyes shut close and his sweaty forehead pressed to yours.

“God, finally,” you sighed with a chuckle and he smirked. You raised your hands to caress the scars on his cheeks gently.

“You better find them a nanny for the weekend,” he rubbed your nose with his, “because I don’t want you out of this bed for hours, Mrs. Cleven.”

You giggled like a schoolgirl at his words.

“Sir, yes, sir,” you nodded.

MASTERLIST || BUCK MASTERLIST

#sansaorgana: Answered #lovely anons #*buck #gale cleven x reader #austin butler x reader #lilysfiction

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bloodynereid · 2 months

Text

Navy Blue Ink

part 2

pairing: major john 'bucky' egan x fem! reader

tw: some angst, mentions of death, war, swearing, mentions of alcohol, the usual stuff idk it's sort of fluffy but also not really, both think it's unrequited love/platonic love (they're dumbasses (affectionate)), dogs??

description: when john actually sets it up right.

a/n: yeah idk something possessed me to write this, i was lying in my bathtub this morning and was like yup need to write this ASAP. apologies if john is sort of ooc, i haven't written for him before and i haven't written in a while so yeah! also i have so many requests atm but i decided to ignore all of those to write this so enjoy me procrastinating things i actually have to do. OH and obv this is about the show's characters not the real people. enjoy <3

You sat at your little desk at the edge of your flat, contemplating how to start the letter… again. Pieces of balled up paper lay littered around you. It was almost comedic how much time you had spent trying to write a simple little letter. But it wasn’t that simple was it?

You were writing to your childhood best friend, someone you had basically been in love with your entire life. Major John Egan, Bucky, went off to fight and you were left with a large gaping hole in your life.

Sure, it was horrible when you saw him kissing, dancing and singing to other girls… probably doing more than that. But he always came back to you.

One guarantee that war had was that men don’t always come back.

So you had put off writing letters to him ever since he swung by your house to drop off the address for his next station all that time ago. You were a different person now, you had a job, a flat and a husky you had decided to name Ghost. You were also sadder, war had a way of taking a toll on everyone it touched.

But this morning you had decided not to put it off any longer. The decision came to fruition as you were lying in the bathtub, trying to soak away your sorrows. That was the moment when you said fuck it, got out of the bathtub, grabbed a robe and sat down at your desk.

You took a deep breath and dipped your pen into the navy blue ink pot. Your hand shook slightly as the pen met paper and words started to flow.

A few hours later, you woke up suddenly from a nap and instantly ran over to your desk and quickly scribbled a short note, putting a picture into an envelope and running to post the second letter before it was too late.

John felt a wave of sadness and defeat wash over him when nothing came for him in the mail call. It was stupid. He urged the emotion away and ran a hand through his hair. Be a man. You don’t need a fucking letter.

He watched as Buck leaned against one of the chests of drawers with a stupid smile on his face. Envy seeped through his pores. He wanted that. Whatever Bucky was feeling when he read his letter from Marge.

Fuck this. John needed a glass of strong whiskey right the fuck now. His throat almost ached for that sweet burn.

“Major! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize these two were for you Bucky.” John’s mouth fell open as he stood up and quickly ambled over to see that there were in fact two letters addressed to him.

“Thanks.”

“Of course, Major.” John delicately took the papers and ignored Buck’s look of confusion as he gingerly cradled the letters to his chest and sat back down on the uncomfortable wooden chair.

There was no mistake that these were for him. Major John Egan was written in careful and delicate cursive, although on one of the letters the name looked more rushed than on the other.

He carefully tore open the first letter, the smell of woodsy perfume suddenly permeated his senses. A perfume he knew well. Y/N.

John could hardly believe it. She actually wrote to him. Nothing for months and then this. He pulled out the cream paper and carefully unfolded it.

Dear Bucky,

Twentieth time is the charm I guess. How are you? I have no idea how you’re supposed to write these things, maybe that’s why it took me so long to write to you.

God, I miss you John. I know that’s so stupid to say but I miss my best friend. I am truly sorry that I didn’t send you a letter sooner. I’m sure you’re missing me terribly as well and I have just been a cruel human being by not sending you letters.

I guess I didn’t send anything because I didn’t know what to say. I finally decided to just write a letter this morning while in the bathtub. No, don’t you dare smirk John it wasn’t like that. My ma might just murder me for being so unladylike but I can’t bring myself to start writing yet another letter that will just end up crumpled on my floor so you are getting the truth and nothing but the truth, Major. So yes I concede I was thinking about you in the bathtub.

Anyways, how's Buck? I remember you telling me about him during your visit so I thought I might mention it. You two seemed to be getting close and I’m glad you have someone out there to support you when I can’t. He can’t take the title of best friend though, that’s reserved for me!

What else? Well… I got a job and a dog! And I moved out. I now live in this tiny little flat (it’s very charming so don’t start scrunching your face up like you always do) and drink endless amounts of coffee. You got me hooked. What can I say?

I don’t know what else to say other than stay safe. I don’t think I could bear it if you died, Bucky. Maybe you already have and I just don’t know, so I’m hoping beyond hope that this letter reaches you. Remember that I love you always, you idiotic man.

Your best friend obviously,

Y/N L/N

John felt his eyes starting to sting. He had been so preoccupied with the war that he had also forgotten to write to her. The girl who had stolen his heart at age six when she threw mud at him when they were playing in the creek. His little angel who had just brought some light back into his life.

A smile twitched on his face, she was still his girl. And she said she loved him! Probably not the way he loved her but still, he would take anything she was willing to give him.

“Bucky?” The rasp of Buck’s voice shook him out of his reverie and he looked up to see his friend looking at him with a question in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Who’s the letter from?”

“None of your business, Buck.” John says with an easy smirk falling on his face, a little spark in his soul seemed to reignite, he missed you and now at least he knew you missed him too.

“Jesus, come on. Who the hell is writing to you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“John…”

“It’s from Y/N.” Buck’s eyebrows raised in response and John outright laughed at how surprised he looked. “She asked how you are.”

“Y/N? Is she the one-”

“Yes, now shut up. I still have another letter to read.” Buck laughed and raised his arms in defense before turning back to his own letter. He was glad his best friend had that sparkle back in his eyes, it had been missing for too damn long.

John placed the letter back into the envelope and grabbed the hastily addressed one. He was surprised to see that there were two things in this one. Pulling out the letter he quickly read the words before his jaw dropped.

Dear Bucky,

I completely forgot to attach a picture to the last letter, since I’m assuming you want to know what I look like now.

Anyways here is a picture of me and Ghost, the love of my life.

- Y/N

John carefully tipped the letter to the side and out fell a picture into his outstretched hand. And it was you, but also not you. You looked so much older and there was a hint of melancholy in your eyes but there was still that distinct bright smile on your face. Your arms were encased around a large husky with eyes that were almost as blue as Buck’s.

It was wrong but he felt a pang of jealousy. God he wished he was in that dog’s place.

yeah... i'm obsessed with all the men in mota. i think i have a problem

part 2

#masters of the air #john egan #john bucky egan #john egan x reader #john bucky egan x reader #mota #mota fanfic #mota spoilers #buck cleven #gale cleven #harry crosby #bucky egan #masters of the air fic #masters of the air x reader #maria writes

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flawdchaos · 1 month

Text

Pinky Promises

Robert Rosenthal x Reader

Word Count - 1840

- this is a part 2/continuation of Spilled Drinks that was requested by anon.

Ever since the night Y/N had literally ran into Rosie at the bar she couldn’t seem to rid herself of a small smile, no matter what she did. When the girls made it back to their barracks that night, the ambushing of questions went on for well over an hour and even into the next morning.

“You have to talk to him again, Y/N. We both saw the way he looked at you when you were dancing.” Violet declared as she pinned her hair back under the white cap the Red Cross was gracious enough to bless them with. “You know Violet is right, Y/N. He’s already dreaming of a house back in the states and curly headed babies running around.”

“Hazel!” Y/N stopped midway through her dress buttons to lightly smack her friend on the arm, cheeks burning bright red. “I just met the man and for all we know, he doesn’t care and will never speak to me again.” Reaching down to grab her work satchel packed full of supplies.

“Well Y/N if that was the case I don’t believe Mr. Rosenthal would be waiting outside for you, would he?” Violet taunted, Y/N’s head snapping up to meet her friend's gaze. Violet stood peering out the window, fingers holding the blinds open enough to see outside. Hurriedly, Y/N rushed over the window trying her best to not trip over her own feet.

Sure enough there stood Robert Rosenthal - hands shoved in his pockets gaze searching the area around him.

“Go get him, tiger!” Hazel bent forward, laughing.

There truly was not much left in this world that could phase Y/N. She had seen it all in the cruel reality that was war. Men she had grown close to over the span of their visits to the nurses stations would come back battered and broken, some beyond repair - and despite all of what she saw, she was always able to ground herself. She had to. But now, she felt like a young school girl again. Her body was littered with anxiety - sweaty palms, shaking hands, and a racing heart. Why?

All because Robert Rosenthal was standing outside of the nursing barracks.

The squeaking of the barrack front door brought her back down to reality for a moment before the brightness of the sun had her quickly shielding her eyes.

“Rosie, is that you?” she more than obviously knew the answer but she still could not convince herself that it really was him.

“Uh, yeah”, he let out an awkward chuckle “I wanted to stop by this morning and see how things were going. Maybe walk you to the nurses station since I’m heading in that direction.” he was rambling. She stood, head cocked up to him, eyes squinting still from the sun. “I mean, unless, that makes you uh - uncomfortable.”

“I’d love the company. The commute can get a bit lonely.” that same small smile making its way back onto her face. Rosie extended his hand for Y/N to lead the way and with one quick glance back inside she saw her friends staring out at her, smiles plastered on each of their faces.

“What is on your itinerary, today?” Robert finally spoke up.

“The usual. Work until roughly 1900, probably later since there is a mission today and hope to make it back to the barracks in time to do some reading before I get up and do it all again tomorrow.” Y/N paused, kicking a few pebbles along the path before she continued. “How is the day looking for you?”

“Nothing too crazy but I am going up today.” he said nonchalantly, stopping Y/N in her place.

“You’re flying today?” she almost felt like throwing up. Maybe it was selfishness or chosen ignorance but Y/N had grown to hope the war wouldn’t need Robert anymore. She hoped she could protect him from it but all she could do was treat the wounds he would inevitably bring back to her.

“Yeah, debriefing starts at 0730. I’m heading over there once we get you where you need to be.” Her anxiety ridden mind could not help but imagine this was Rosie’s goodbye to her.

Y/N stepped forward to Rosie, grabbing his hands in hers as she looked up to maintain eye contact.

“I know I am just a nurse and you can’t tell me what you're doing up there or where you’re going but you have to pinky promise me you’ll be safe.” Dropping his left hand, she stuck her pinky out expectantly.

“Cross my heart.” he said, as their pinkies connected tightly.

As they continued along their walk, conversation came easily. The pair were still strangers by most accounts and each of them hated it. Y/N wanted to know everything there was to know about Robert Rosenthal and she had made it her plan to figure it out. Stopping outside the nurses station, Rosie removed his hat and began anxiously squeezing it in his hands.

“Be safe up there, fly boy.” Y/N teased, attempting to keep the mood as lightened as she could.

“As long as you do the same down here.” Y/N nodded.

“This mission will be my 20th. I’ve got a two day pass calling my name once my feet hit the ground. Let me treat you to a real introduction and dinner.” Rosie spoke quickly, nerves taking over the brunette.

“I would love that, Mr. Rosenthal.” rising on her tiptoes to plant a quick kiss against his cheek. “You know where I'll be when you get back.” With that, Y/N took a step back and hurried inside to her awaiting duties.

There wasn’t any other time that Y/N had remembered the clock dragging by so slowly. The seconds ticking by was beginning to drive her up the wall and she had to busy herself with random duties. It was while she was restocking the gauze that she heard the all too familiar rumble of the engines overhead. She couldn’t make it to the window to count the returning planes but she hoped, with all her being, every single one of them returned. Hazel’s blonde curls popped around the closet corner, an all too familiar sign that the once quiet med bay was about to pure, unadulterated chaos.

“We’ve got boys already headed our way.” Hazel spoke softly, as if she tried to lessen the blow.

“How bad?” Y/N asked but was only met with a small head shake from the blonde - it was never a good sign.

When Y/N finally saw Robert Rosenthal, he appeared in the med bay doors adorning some cuts and scrapes across his face.

“I told you I would make it back, pretty lady. My leave starts at 0700 sharp. Let’s go to London.”

It was pure luck that her days off coincided with Rosie’s rendezvous and that Helen and Violet were great at covering for their friend. The train ride was where Y/N finally got to the bottom of who Robert Rosenthal truly was. Shortly after taking their seats, Y/N couldn’t help but start to prod.

“Alright, tell me everything Mr. Rosenthal. Give me all the dirty details.”, her cheeks flushed bright red ,”uh- not like that i mean tell me - uh - tell me something no one else knows about you or something.” She could have thrown herself off of the moving train at that point but Rosie just flashed her a smile and started speaking.

“Robert Rosenthal, from Brooklyn, New York. I was working in law before all this mess. I loved it. Graduated top of my class actually. But after Pearl Harbor, I couldn’t keep sitting on my ass while my country needed me so - I enlisted.”

“No secret wife or kids back at home?” Y/N poked.

“No ma’am. It’s just me. And - uh - as far as something no one on this side of the world knows about me - I was the captain for my college’s baseball team. I was trying to be the next DiMaggio.” a small chuckle escaping him as he finished his sentence. “Now what about you?” he asked, softly bumping his shoulder up against the girls.

“Nothing too crazy for me. I always loved helping folks, I was told my whole life I was meant to be a nurse. Once we started fighting this fight I knew I had to volunteer - sorta like you I guess. I’m not dropping bombs or toting a gun but knowing I patch you all up before you get back in the saddle is enough for me.” she sighed, turning up to glance at Rosie.

“And no secret husband out at war or kids back at home?” Rosie mimicked her early question. Y/N snorted, shaking her head. “God no, Robert. Where I’m from I don’t turn heads.” He took a moment to look at her, maintaining eye contact before he took his large hand and grasped over hers before pulling them on to his lap.

“Well Y/N Y/L/N you turned mine - and maybe after we get all this nonsense settled with the bad guys, I can give you a tour of Brooklyn. I know just the place that I’d love to take you dancing.”

“I’m most certainly holding you to it but for now, let’s explore London.” raising her free hand to the platform approaching quickly.

“Yes ma’am. How would you feel about a picnic?”

“That sounds absolutely lovely.”

Rosie stood up as soon as the train hissed to a stop, busying himself with gathering the overnight bags each of them had packed. He stubbornly insisted on carrying both to the hotel around the corner. Y/N knew they would have to enter as colleagues and nothing more, separating as they went to their respective rooms to drop off their bags before meeting again in the hallway.

“Let’s go find sandwiches.” he spoke quietly and Y/N nodded, falling in line behind him as they walked past the lobby and out to the streets. For the first time Y/N really took in the size of the city around her and she couldn’t even help that her jaw was almost to the floor. The Germans had done their share of damage but it didn’t lessen the experience for her at all.

“What is it, Y/N?” Rosie questioned, taking a step towards her.

“I’ve never seen a city like this before. This is just - wow.” Rosie broke out into an ear-to-ear grin. “It is awesome but wait until I take you to Brooklyn. We’ll catch the train to New York City and I’ll make sure you take the ferry to see the Statue of Liberty.”

“You promise?” Y/N broke from her trance to look up as Rosie smiled and turned to her fully, sticking out her left hand.

“I pinky promise.” he said, watching as Y/N connected their hands tightly. “You better believe it. I haven’t broken a promise yet.”

AUTHORS NOTE - hi friends, i hope everyone enjoyed this little part two to spilled drinks. there may be a part 3 to this little series if it’s wanted. please feel free to give me feedback or more requests as my inbox as open. i’m still new to this so i appreciate anything :)

#masters of the air #masters of the air imagines #masters of the air x reader #john egan #gale cleven #rosie rosenthal imagines #rosie rosenthal x reader #rosie rosenthal #robert rosenthal #robert rosenthal imagine #bucky egan x reader #buck cleven x reader #john egan imagine #gale cleven imagine

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thegettingbyp2 · 2 months

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Ok but Buck getting jealous and making sure the other guy knew you were his

No One Else

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In the past, Buck Cleven never considered himself to be a jealous person.

That all changed after he met you.

You were the one bright light for Buck during the war, the one person who made him determined to survive each mission and, what confused him about you was that you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

You and Buck were tucked away in a corner of the hall while everyone around you were drinking and celebrating another successful mission, watching Bucky sing and dance on the little stage that had been set up. You would have thought that anyone looking in on you two would have seen that you were together, the way the two of you were sitting so close together, Bucks arm slung across your shoulders and your heads close together as you spoke. So, when Buck got up to get you a drink and one of the other pilots asked you to dance, you agreed.

When Buck came back and saw that your chair was empty, his head automatically turned to find Bucky in the crowd, expecting you to be with him, only to find Bucky’s eyes trained on something ahead of him.

‘You seen (Y/N),’ Buck asked as he made his way over to his best friend. Bucky’s eyes shifted to look at Buck before nodding back in the direction he had been looking.

‘New guy, slid into your seat the second you got up and asked her to dance. You know she’s too nice to say no.’

Buck slapped his friend on the back in thanks and made his way through the people to where you were dancing with the other pilot. The moment you saw him heading your way, he felt smugness flood his body as a look of relief filled your face, the feeling disappearing instantly when the man you were dancing with tugged your waist slightly, making you turn back to face him. Reaching you, Buck wrapped an arm around your waist and smoothly yanked you away.

‘What’s happening here?’ he asked, staring at the other guy while his grip tightened on you slightly.

‘Tim saw that I was sitting on my own while you went to get me a drink and asked if I wanted to dance,’ you replied for him, reaching up to press a quick kiss to Buck’s cheek.

‘Yeah, the lady looked lonely, so I thought I’d keep her company,’ Tim said and you watched as Buck’s eyes narrowed slightly.

‘Well, you’ve done your job,’ Buck said, sarcasm playing lightly in his tone, ‘so you can go now, thanks.’

Tim nodded at Buck and said goodbye to you before disappearing in amongst the people again, leaving you and Buck standing on the dance floor. As soon as he was out of eye sight, you couldn’t stop the small giggle from escaping your lips and you moved around until you were standing in front of him, draping your arms over his shoulders as he held you close. ‘Was someone jealous?’ you teased, looking at him with a smirk playing on your face.

‘Just didn’t like seeing anyone else with their hands on you,’ Buck murmured in reply, leaning in to kiss you.

‘Then how about we dance, make sure everyone knows that they don’t need to ask me to dance if they see me on my own?’

Buck hummed thoughtfully for a second before beginning to walk you backwards slowly, away from everyone else. ‘I have a better idea on how we can make everyone realise that you’re mine.’

Your eyes flashed when you understood what he was saying and you pulled him down into a deep kiss before beginning to drag him out of the hall. ‘I like you’re thinking, Major.’

#gale cleven #gale cleven x reader #gale cleven imagine #buck cleven #buck cleven x reader #buck cleven imagine #masters of the air #austin butler

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obrowne21 · 1 month

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ʙᴀʙʏ ɪ’ᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ

Chapter 2 - “Hates the Perfect Word”

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“Don’t stay out here too late, Baby.”

Sergeant Ken Lemmons was only partly joking with Baby when he said this to her. However over the three weeks of getting to know the stubborn blonde, he realized it wasn’t so far fetched for her to lose track of time.

And that would be proven correct as Baby was still out on the Airstrip, working away. She found it difficult to leave seeing as the view was so beautiful. The sunset painted the sky a warm orange and pink tone. A calm breeze briefly passed her, ruffling the tall grass, the trees, and even the bottom of her dress as it did so.

Sighing, she found a comfortable spot on a nearby crate. Busying herself by screwing two engine pieces together with a basic rod. The action was done smoothly like muscle memory.

A loud sound of an engine and the screech of tires had broken her peaceful state. Internally rolling her eyes, Baby prepared herself.

That could mean only one thing.

The jeep made a rough stop in front of her causing her to look up at the person responsible for the interruption.

Major John ‘Bucky’ Egan.

Even the thought of his name sparked annoyance in Delilah. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was about him that was so infuriating.

Maybe it was the way he walked around base like he was the king of the world. He had everybody under his spell, especially her brother Gale. She couldn’t understand how the two had ever became friends.

Or maybe it was how he would sometimes get caught looking at her but would never say anything.

It was like a game of tug of war. Always giving her signs of interest but then taking it back as if he physically and mentally couldn’t bring himself to go there with her. Like something was stopping him, more like someone.

She had a pretty good idea of who.

“A little birdy told me you were out here.” Leaning back in his seat, Bucky faced the woman.

Delilah, uninterested, gave him a nod before focusing back onto her work. “Never really liked birds.”

“Sad to hear that. They’re real fascinating creatures. I’m more of a unicorn guy myself-”

“I bet you are.”

After a beat of silence, Delilah glanced up to see him staring at her once again. It could’ve been because she had just rudely interrupted him but by the way the corner of his mouth twitched into his signature smirk made her think differently.

His eyes held nothing but admiration as he kept his gaze on her. The way she smoothly worked away like it was her second nature was wildly attractive. Not to mention the quick wits that shamelessly left her pretty mouth, which instead of feeling insulted he would always feel more amazed by her.

“Gale send you out here?”

“No.”

“So tell me…Major Bucky,” The name rolled off her tongue as a taunt. Placing the tool and engine piece down beside her, she leaned back onto her hands. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being in your presence?”

Bucky watched as she seductively crossed her legs and tilted her head awaiting for an answer. The reminder that she was his best friends little sister kept blaring in the back of his mind. But it was so damn hard to listen to.

“Maybe I just want to be in yours.” Copying her action, Bucky tilted his head. “You ever think of that?”

”It’s hard to when you’ve been avoiding me like the plague.”

He knew exactly what she referring to. Part of it was intentional but at the same time he really never knew how to approach her. Which was odd for him.

John Egan never struggled in talking to women. However he would always overthink with Delilah. She made him nervous, in a good way.

“Can’t say I know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.” Bucky let out a nervous scoff knowing he had been called out.

The use of the nickname made Baby raise her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s a new one.”

“You like it?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been called many things, Major Bucky, but sweet has never been one of them.”

“What?” He dropped his jaw dramatically, pretended to be shocked. “You’re the sweetest.”

Bucky watched as she let out an adorable laugh as she threw her head back. A small wave of pride washed over him at the fact that he got her to smile, let alone talk to him for more than five seconds.

“If I’m sweet then you’re a good singer.” She playfully jutted.

“Oh,” He placed a hand on his heart. “You wound me, Baby. I’d have you know I’m an excellent singer.”

“A little birdy told me differently.”

Looking away Bucky chewed away on the piece of gum in his mouth. Damn, she was good.

“If this birdy happens to be tall, boring, and has a head full of blonde hair on his head than you should ignore him and come see for yourself.”

Delilah laughed not taking him seriously. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious.” He said. Eyes connecting with her honey brown ones. “There’s a dance, day after tomorrow. Come and I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Might skip out on this one.” She declined.

Nodding Bucky looked down. An idea popped into his head that might change her mind. “Huh, guess you Clevens are more alike than you want to admit.”

If there was anything he learned from witnessing the Cleven sibling duo was that they both were complete opposites. Buck was more serious, rule follower, and never really liked to do anything risky.

And although he didn’t talk to Delilah much, he would notice how she liked to do things in an untraditional way. Her presence here as one of the first female mechanics proves that. She also loved to make fun out of most situations. A small joke was always at the tip of her tongue and she could never keep it there.

He’d like to bet she loved to dance too.

Picking up the tool beside her she pointed it at Bucky with an annoyed glare. “Take that back right now.”

Bingo.

“Makes sense.” He shrugged his shoulders innocently. “Guess the ‘never have a good time’ genes got passed down to both of ya.”

“I can have a good time.” She rebutted.

Bucky nodded, not really convinced at all. “Okay.”

A moment of silence passed as Bucky continued to poke fun at Delilah as she thought over his words.

Letting go of her cheek, the one she was anxiously biting, Delilah sighed. “What times the stupid dance?”

A smile of victory took plastered across the Major's face as he mentally celebrated. “I’ll be there at 8:00, that’s when the real party starts.”

“Can’t wait.” She gave him a fake smile.

Taking a look around, they both knew that it was about to get dark soon and should head back.

Reaching over the passenger seat of the Jeep, Bucky propped open the door with one arm. “Hop in, sweetheart. I’ll give you a ride back.”

“I have a bike, you know?”

“That old thing?” Simultaneously the two turned to look at the bike leaning on the side of the crate she was sitting on.

“Yeah,” Delilah smiled proudly. It was one of the things she built on her own when she first got here. “Isn’t he pretty?”

“He?”

“Well you men always refer to your cars and planes as woman, so I’d thought I’d return the favor.”

As the blonde continued to admire her piece of work, Bucky’s gaze shifted to her. Taking in her smooth tan skin and pretty freckles that he’d like to individually kiss. And finally her full lips that were just calling his name.

He watched as she grabbed the handles of the bike and easily kicked her leg over to get on it. He furrowed his eyebrows. “Baby?”

“I’d rather ride a thousand miles on this old thang than one in there with you.”

He was left speechless as she petaled away without a second thought. The fact that her and a Buck were siblings was still a shock to him.

No matter how different the two were they both had something in common. The Clevens had captured John Egans heart. With a Buck it was respect and friendship. And with Delilah.

Oh, Delilah. He hadn’t even got to know her fully yet and she already had him hooked.

Snapping out of his trance he started the engine before catching up and riding along beside her. Now he was back to looking between the road and her pretty side profile.

“Still got you to go to the dance with me.” He gloated.

Once again, John Egan had managed to make her smile. Shaking her head she tried to petal faster but he would just match her speed. “I hate you!”

“Hates a strong word.”

“Hates the perfect word.”

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A/N : As y’all can tell I love a good slow burn. Hope y’all liked it! Let me know your thoughts on it please, I love to hear feedback.

ALSO DAYUM YALL REALLY CAME THREW WITH THE LIKES ON MY POSTS

Tag list(I can’t believe I have those now🤭):

@valenftcrush

@justheretoreadthhx

#john egan #john egan x reader #john egan x oc #madelyn cline #callum turner x reader #bucky egan #gale cleven #callum turner #buck cleven #austin butler #masters of the air #mota fanfic #motaedit #mota #mota spoilers #ken lemmons #harry crosby

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jointherebellion215 · 1 month

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Birdie

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader

Summary: A rare night out in London has Bucky coming to terms with his feelings for you.

Word Count: 2.9k

Tags: mechanic!reader, songbird!reader, female!reader, she/her pronouns used, drinking culture, cursing, mutual pining, moderate bouts of denial, insecurities, women supporting women because it's what we deserve, let's pretend that The Old Therebefore is an ancient Appalachian folk song in this universe, maybe she's a Mary Sue idgaf, I just wanted to write something happy so LET ME LIVE, WWII era, there's no Y/N but reader has the nickname "Birdie"

A/N: Yeah, I'm obsessed with Masters of the Air. I had to write something for my mans before the creative procrastination literally killed me. Please leave a like, comment, or even a reblog if you're so inclined :)

You can read my OC version of this story on AO3!

Songs Mentioned in This Fic:

Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy by The Andrews Sisters

G.I. Jive by Johnny Mercer

The Ole Therebefore (Accapella) by Rachel Zegler

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This story and any recognizably named characters are based solely on dramatic portrayals of the characters from the series, not the real individuals they represent. All the respect to the actual service people who fought and died in the Second World War. Also, don't copy my writing without explicit permission. That includes you, you AI sonuvabitch.

Your heels clicked on the cobblestone streets, turning into the pub you’d heard so much about. You were out celebrating a very rare weekend off. The Brass had somehow allowed you and twenty other mechanics from base two days leave, so you took advantage of the opportunity and headed straight to London.

Your two best girlfriends from base were with you. Teresa was one of the toughest nurses you’d ever come across. She could give you a wide grin, crinkles around her hazel eyes, and reset a broken bone without breaking a sweat. It helps that she was already working towards becoming a nurse back in New Mexico, the war just sped along that process. You had bonded over your love of books, giving each other recommendations almost weekly.

You’d met Irene on the boat to England. She puked on your shoes almost thirty minutes exactly after leaving the port in New York. You gave a small grin, offering her a handkerchief and a piece of ginger candy and the rest was history. Finding out that she was a fellow mechanic was the icing on the cake. Coming in at a whopping five foot two, the spritely blonde could easily be found in a crowd with her loud Appalachian accent.

It seemed almost like fate for the three of you to have found each other. Being some of the few women on base naturally made you close, but you were closer with Irene and Teresa than any of the others. That’s not to say that you weren’t friends with any of the men, because you were. Friendly.

All three of you were dressed to the nines, in contradiction to your everyday work wear. You all got ready together in your hotel room, giggling while you applied makeup here, spritzed some perfume there. You all felt confident and were ready to have a good time. You spotted some familiar faces and made your way over towards them, your friends linked arm-in-arm with you. Lemmons was the first to greet you.

Of the fifty men on the ground crew, Sgt. Ken Lemmons was the most welcoming of them all. From the get-go, he didn’t care if you were a man or woman. He just wanted to know that you were capable. You were sure he had to go through some hazing because of his age, which probably changed his perspective on gatekeeping the job. This made earning and maintaining respect a lot easier for the women on your crew. We all came over with the same goal, it was better for all if we just helped each other out.

“Hey Birdie! Nice to see you out and about.”

Ah, the famed nickname. You tend to hum and sing under your breath when elbow-deep in a project. It helps you pass the time and clear your mind. Of course, the rest of the ground crew quickly caught on to this habit of yours, which quickly earned you the nickname “Birdie”. You, of course, never sing solo in public, so this confuses anyone who’s not around you while you’re working. But the name stuck, so here you are. Birdie.

Chairs are quickly cleared for you and your friends, which you all graciously take. You go up to buy some drinks, knowing what your friends like, and quickly return with your drinks of choice. Conversation flows, laughs are shared, and a few drinking games are played over the next hours. Teresa soon speaks up on a topic you’d been hoping to avoid.

“Do you think he’ll be here tonight?”

You shrug and look into your drink, “Dunno. Why does it matter?”

Irene, the ever supportive best friend that she is, backs up Teresa. “What do you mean ‘why’? This is your chance to finally make a move!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You quickly deny, taking another sip.

An unladylike snort leaves Irene, “My ass! You and Major Egan have been making googly eyes at each other when you think the other’s not looking for months. I’m saying it’s time for you to perk your tits up, buck on over and ride that—!” You slam your drink on the table, pressing your hand over Irene’s mouth, heat rising to your cheeks in embarrassment.

“Are you insane?” You whisper harshly, looking around to make sure no one overheard you. You seem to be in the clear, which makes you calm down a bit. Irene pushes off your hand, takes a swig of her drink, and consults the person who started this whole conversation.

“Am I wrong?” You look to Teresa, who cringes slightly in agreement.

You gape at the pair of them. Normally, you were the median between the two girls who had vastly differing opinions. But this is what made them come to a consensus? Unbelievable.

“Look, I’m not saying that I don’t want to.” You start, which makes your friends nod encouragingly at you. “It’s just that… Is he really as interested as you think he is?”

They both groan and slump against each other, like they’d just run a marathon. Teresa sits up, scooching your chair in closer so that the three of you were in a private triangle, cut off from the rest of the group.

“Let’s look at the facts here, okay?” Teresa starts to tick off a finger with each point she and Irene make. But you seem to always have a rebuttal at the ready.

“He brings you coffee every morning.”

“I thought he does that for everyone.”

“He constantly fixes his hair when you’re around.”

“He takes care of his appearance!”

“He walks you to the mess hall every day for dinner.”

“We just happen to be going the same way. And we happen to have the same dinner schedule.”

“He read The Hobbit when you said how much you loved it.”

“He’s an adventurous guy, it’s an adventurous book, what’s not to like about it?”

“You two literally will walk and talk outside alone for hours.”

“A man can’t have a stimulating conversation with a woman?”

“He laughs at all your dumb jokes.”

“Hey! They’re not all dumb. Like, the one with the goose and the—”

“Point proven. Anyways! He has your picture in the inside pocket of his jacket.”

That one stops you in your tracks. You brain tries to justify this meaning but comes up blank.

“He…” You struggle with an excuse. “He…” Your best friends give victorious smirks in your direction.

“He… likes the extra padding in his jacket?” You stutter over what is possibly the most pathetic, sorry excuse you could have ever come up with.

“When are you gonna admit to yourself that he likes you? Like, actually truly likes you?”

You gave a sad sigh, letting the insecurity you were feeling deep down come to the surface. “I just… He’s just so…” You had stomped down your feelings for so long that it was becoming hard to articulate what exactly you’re feeling.

“He just seems so unreal. Like, of everyone he could have chosen, why me? I mean, I know I’m great. But you’ve seen the other girls on base. They’re all so beautiful, smart, classy… and none of them are covered in engine oil ninety percent of the time.” You looked down at your hands, specks of grease and oil peeking out from beneath your nail beds. It seems like it would never completely wash out, no matter how hard you scrubbed. You hadn’t even painted your nails for this weekend, knowing it would be money wasted come Monday morning when you’re back on the clock.

Teresa and Irene share a look that you don’t see, then come forward and grab each of your hands.

“The words you just used to describe those girls. All of that is you, Birdie. That and more. You being a mechanic doesn’t make you any less of a woman, and to hell with anyone else who thinks otherwise.” You nodded in agreement, Irene’s words of encouragement slowly washing away your anxieties.

Teresa spoke up next, “You deserve someone who will rearrange the stars and the whole night sky for you. And I’m more than willing to bet that Major Egan is up for the job.”

“Besides, none of that 'unreal' stuff. At the end of the day, John Egan is nothing more than a man. If he can’t look past his nose and his d—" You gave a squeak to cover up the vulgar word Irene was about to blurt in public. She rolled her eyes fondly and continued.

“If he can’t see what you’re worth and make the effort to treat you a hundred times better than that? That’s on him. Not you. You know what you deserve, and you deserve everything you want. Absolutely everything.”

You sniffed, happy tears coming to your eyes. You brought your best friends in for a hug, thanking them profusely.

“Don’t sweat it,” Teresa grins into your shoulder “every girl needs to be pulled out of her well sometime.”

You pull back from the hug, grabbing your glass and tipping your head back, finishing the rest of your drink. “Even if he’s not gonna be here, let’s have a ball!” Your girlfriends cheer as the three of you go to the bar for refills.

One drink turns into two, which turns into a few more, and suddenly you’re buzzed. Your group are having a rambunctious time, Irene dancing by the local piano player. Once Irene looks over to you, she stops and whispers in the player’s ear. He nods, then starts a new tune. Irene starts up her voice, walking over to you and Teresa, encouraging you to join her.

The alcohol has loosened you up enough that you don’t feel the nausea you usually associate with being perceived, so you join in the harmonies you and your friends have practiced in your bunks at night.

He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way

He had a boogie style that no one else could play

He was the top man at his craft

But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft

Soon the whole pub was jumping and dancing along to the tune as you brought a new vibe to the pub. It was like a spark that started an entirely new night and everyone was eager to go on forever.

One song turns into an entire set, which ends with a full rendition of G.I. Jive, which had everyone singing along. It was a magical moment; made you feel like you were a part of something important.

Irene sidles up to you, giving you a hug. She says in your ear,

“I think it’s time to slow it down a bit. How about you sing that song I taught you.”

She means an old Appalachian folk song that’s been in her family for generations. You had heard her sing it one night and immediately loved the dark, but strong nature of the lyrics. It was an honor to learn it from her.

“I don’t know, it’s your family’s song and…”

“And I can’t think of anyone better to sing it to these soldiers.” You gave each other a look, her slight eyebrow raise gave you the courage to nod in acceptance. She smiled, hugging you again, her voice yelled out to the crowd.

“Birdie’s gonna sing solo!”

The announcement is met with raucous applause, Irene and Teresa shoving you towards a dodgy looking table. Crank offers a hand up, which you take gratefully. As you find your bearings on the tabletop, you quickly spin around and find all eyes on you.

The crackling energy in the air seemed to simmer, the fast-beating hearts of the pubgoers recognizing a moment to acknowledge you. Nausea starts to make an appearance, but a deep breath quells the sensation within you for the time being.

You take another deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

You close your eyes, open your mouth, and sing.

Meanwhile….

Majors Gale Cleven and John Egan walk down the familiar street, one eager to catch up with his fellow countrymen’s alcohol intake, the other just happy to spend time with his friends. They were arriving later to the festivities due to being caught up in filling out reports. By far the worst part of having a higher rank was the paperwork.

“It’s pretty quiet.” Buck acknowledges. “They’re usually rowdier by this point.”

Bucky sniffs, shrugging off the concern. “Ah, it’s probably nothing.”

As the two men approach the pub, they find that a crowd has formed. Soldiers, civilians, RAF, USAAF, old, young— people had obviously stopped to watch whatever was going on. It was dead silent, save for a voice singing. Was there a radio show on or something?

A familiar face peeks out at them from the crowd, DeMarco quickly waving them over.

Bucky is quick to question, “Hey, what’s going on?” but is immediately shushed by nearby crowd members. Buck cringes in apology, despite not being the one to disturb the peace. His best friend, ever unshaken by the opinion of strangers, carries on.

DeMarco leans in, whispering, “Your girl’s taking us all to church.”

“My girl..?” Bucky’s nose scrunches in confusion. He makes space through the crowd and quickly makes sense of DeMarco’s words. It was you.

I’ll catch you up

When I’ve emptied my cup

When I’ve worn out my friends

When I’ve burned out both ends

Standing on a tabletop, watchful eyes sat all around you like baby ducks flocking to their mama. You were captivating everyone with each note and word that flows from your mouth. Damn, you've got a set of pipes— a voice that belongs on the radio, in concert halls, on Hollywood records. He had no idea.

His little Birdie.

“Wow.” Buck mutters in awe from behind him, and Bucky couldn’t be more in agreement.

When I’m pure like a dove

When I’ve learned how to love

He hadn’t noticed before, but her eyes were closed. Like she needed to concentrate on each and every breath she took, every single movement her body made, before letting them out in an angelic melody.

As if by divine intervention, her eyes pop open and lock on his as she belts “how to love”

It could’ve been an eternity, for all he knows, the amount of time that they spent locked in each other’s gaze. The world pauses around them, everything frozen. Her eyes were already the kind to knock a man clean off his feet with a single gaze, but he thinks- for a brief moment- that his heart completely stops beating.

John Clarence Egan would swear every day from then on, until his dying breath, that the course of his life was altered in that very moment. He knew how it would continue from then on, and how it would end. How he wanted it to end.

Then the world starts back up and carries on.

Right here in the old therebefore

When nothing is left anymore

Her final hums are joined by a short blonde woman who stands nearby, another face he recognizes from base.

The applause that picks up after the end of the song is near deafening. The star of the hour gives a shy smile, a quick curtsy and is given a hand to step down from the table.

Everyone soon starts mingling, the normal chatter of the bar returning. But Bucky is stuck in his spot, dumbfounded. In all the conversations you’d had together, somehow this never came up. He should’ve put two and two together, as he recalls overhearing your hums one morning as he made his daily coffee delivery to you. But you had been caught off guard, so much so that you tripped off the ladder you stood on and fell. Luckily, his quick reflexes kicked in to catch you before any serious injuries occurred.

Remembering the sensation of his hands on your waist and thighs, face just inches from yours, sent his brain into a tailspin. That’s not even considering just how damn cute you were when, after a beat, you turned away from him and playfully mourned the cups of coffee that were splattered all over the hardstand.

“John. John?” A hand waving in front of his face knocks him out of his reverie. He blinks once, twice. Then looks to his best friend.

His voice comes out uncharacteristically weak in response, to which he then clears his throat and corrects. “Yes—yeah?” He pops the collar of his sheepskin jacket to try and hide the rampant red of his ears that signals the heat radiating from them.

Buck just shakes his head and gives him a knowing smile. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Egan. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“See what day?” Bucky starts to consciously return to his body, leaning on the bar.

“The day when a girl finally knocks you on your ass. I knew you had a thing for her, but that?” He points to his face and motions to indicate where they had just been standing. “That’s something else. That’s something real.”

Bucky gives another shrug in response, to which Buck throws back an unconvinced frown. He turns his head to gaze over the pub patrons and is distracted by you once again. Any denial he was about to spout immediately dies in his mouth when you lock eyes with him again and give him a dazzling smile. The world starts to fade away again.

His heart pumps faster in his chest at the sight. Damnit. He sighs, telling his best friend the truth he’s been privately wrestling with for a while now, all the while keeping his eyes locked on yours.

“I know, Buck. I know.”

Bucky smiles back at you and is elated when your face lights up. You give him a wave.

“She kinda snuck up on me.”

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