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hesbuckcompton-baby · 3 months

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I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 1

AO3

Summary: As Frankie reaches the end of her second week at Thorpe Abbotts Airfield, she begins to find her footing among the men of the 100th Bomb Group

Warnings: Excessive alcohol consumption, language

Word Count: 4k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee

The setting sun cast a golden blanket over Thorpe Abbotts airfield, basking everything in an idyllic, orange glow that was almost beautiful enough to distract from the heady stench of motor oil that lay thick on the air, permeating hair and clothes so thoroughly that anyone who spent even five minutes in the place would carry it with them for the rest of the day.

Frankie Bevan clamped a flashlight tight between her teeth, the narrow beam of light illuminating the underside of the B-17's gun turret as she surveyed it for any cracks or gaps in the glass that could compromise its integrity. The rest of the ground crew had called it a day almost two hours ago, but the Yanks always did prefer to work in the daylight. She was nearing the end of her third year in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, and after so many nights spent running the airstrips in the darkness for the RAF, Frankie was well accustomed to toiling away into the night.

Thorpe Abbotts was new, and yet much the same. It was only her second week here, compensating for the Americans' manpower shortages. The job was always the same, no matter where she went or what planes she worked on - checks, fixes, refuelling, over and over again - but thus was the nature of a mechanic's job. What she was not yet quite used to was the Americans themselves. Loud and brash and self-assured, Frankie was sometimes glad they worked different hours.

Taking note of a few cracks in the glass panelling, she reached up to swipe the torch from her mouth, offering a satisfied nod as she completed her checks for the night. All that was left was to pin her list of concerns up on the board inside the mechanics' Nissen hut, and then it was off to the pub for her.

Once she changed out of her oil-stained coveralls, that was.

"They're working you like a dog down there on the strip," Georgina, one of Frankie's bunkmates, pointed out, flipping nonchalantly through a magazine as she lounged on her bed.

"Someone's gotta do it," She shrugged, kicking off her coveralls as she rummaged in the shared wardrobe for the correct service uniform. "Some of the mechanics they've brought over are practically kids, not sure I'd trust 'em to fix my plane if I was going up there."

"You'd better show 'em what for, then," George smiled, glancing over as Frankie finished buttoning up her blouse, reaching for the navy blue jacket.

"You coming for drinks?"

"Uh, nah - I'll go tomorrow. Sandra thinks we'll be starting early tomorrow so I wanna get a decent night's sleep."

"Ooh, luxury," Frankie teased, shimmying her shoulders as she made her way to the door of the hut. "Alright, see you later."

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The pub was crammed from door to door as she forced her way inside, the sound of chattering overpowering the music blaring from a radio in the corner. The American invasion of Thorpe Abbotts had well and truly been successful, scarcely a flash of RAF blue visible amongst the sea of khaki as Frankie burrowed her way through the crowds towards the bar.

"Pint of Guinness, please," She called over the din, the bartender offering a friendly nod of affirmation as she felt the crowd behind her push her body further into the edge of the bar.

"There y'are, love," The man nodded, placing the pint glass in front of her as she smiled her thanks, foam lining her top lip as she took her first sip. Frankie barely had time to wipe it away, turning to take a step back from the bar, before another body collided with hers. She gasped as the beer she had so looked forward to sloshed over the rim of the glass, pooling on the floor and staining the front of her uniform, as the other man's drink did the same.

"Woah, careful there!" The man cried, flicking a few stray droplets of spilt beer from his hand onto the floor. A deep frown creased her features as she peered up at him. The soldier was so tall that the tip of her head didn't quite pass his shoulder, and yet the irritation in her expression was so palpable that he took a full step back.

"Oh, that was my fault, was it?" Frankie tutted.

"Well, sweetheart, maybe if you'd been looking where you were going-"

"Maybe if you bloody Yanks gave us some room to breathe in here we wouldn't have a problem!"

There was an easy smile on the man's face that struck her as distinctly annoying. Discarding his now almost empty glass on the bar, the man put up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Look. We're not gonna agree on this, so what d'ya say we settle this with a little friendly competition?"

She raised a brow. "What sort of competition?"

"Uh... how 'bout a drinking contest?"

Frankie let out a guffaw so forceful that the man's confident smile disappeared, and a few nearby airmen turned to watch the scene unfold. "Y'know what? Yeah. You're on."

With a nod, he turned away, marching towards the closest table. "Alright boys, gimme some space, I got a contest to win against half-pint over here."

She approached the table, sitting down opposite the soldier, smirking at his arrogance. The airmen he had kicked out of their seats were lingering to watch the spectacle unfold, and it was clear their bets were on her opponent.

"Now," He sighed, taking a seat. "In the spirit of good sportsmanship, I oughta introduce myself. John Egan," He said, reaching a hand across the table.

"Frances Bevan. Frankie," She nodded, shaking his hand.

Egan nodded. "So, normal rules apply. No spilling, no vomiting, gotta drain the glass. Still wanna do this?"

Frankie nodded firmly. "I'd never pass up such a wonderful opportunity to humble you Yanks," She grinned.

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Egan was turning red, his smug smile long since vanished, the motion of his arm slowing as he reached for the next shot glass, glancing across at her with a slightly nauseated expression. The crowd surrounding them had long since grown since they had begun, although how long ago that was she couldn't quite remember. The huge pile of empty shot glasses in the centre of the table did nothing to jog her memory.

"Oh, come on, Egan, you've gotta do better than that," Frankie teased, reaching forward and downing her next shot. In fairness, she too was beginning to feel light-headed, but it never showed on her face, her demeanour as cool and collected as it had been when she first sat down.

"I thought... I thought this would be easy," John complained, grimacing as he brought the next glass to his lips. "You're so small, where are you storing all this liquor?"

"I'm British - pretty sure it's in our bloodstream," She teased. Egan's eyes narrowed as he weakly upturned the contents of his glass into his mouth, screwing up his face as the liquid ran down his throat.

"I really like her," John admitted, letting out a long sigh as he drew a hand over his eyes. A few of the airmen laughed, clapping him over the shoulders.

"I think we're done here," Frankie chuckled.

"You forfeit?" He asked hopefully.

"No, I'm saying you're about to. That or you're gonna throw up - either way, I win."

"Nuh-uh," Egan shook his head. "Not gonna happen," He fought to suppress a burp, and the room seemed to brace itself for the inevitable vomit that would follow, letting out a collective sigh of relief when he swallowed his nausea back down. "...Yeah. Ok."

She clapped, throwing up her hands in victory as a couple of the men standing behind her cheered. "Well, it's been a real pleasure doing business with you Major," Frankie chuckled, fighting through the splitting headache that was growing in her temples as she rose from her seat, offering him a hand to help him stand.

John batted her away, but stumbled as he got up, one of his friends pressing a firm hand on his back to keep him upright. She smiled. "I'll help you get him back since it's my fault. Gotta get back to the huts anyway."

The airman accepted, each of them slinging one of Egan's arms around their shoulders as he tilted haphazardly over to one side, struggling to prop himself up against her due to her height. Trailing towards the door, a few of the men let out celebratory whoops at her as she passed, praising her victory.

"Thanks for the night, gents - I'm here all war," Frankie called over her shoulders, a cheer erupting from the crowd as they dragged Egan sideways out of the door.

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It was growing difficult to see as they marched John back to the huts, the street lights growing more and more sparse the closer they got to the airfield. "You gotta teach me how to do that," He slurred, tilting his head down towards her, the smell of liquor thick on his breath.

"You gotta get more practice in - you Americans with your 'no alcohol until you're 21' rule never stood a chance, we've just been in the game longer."

"Ah," He nodded, pausing for a moment. "Hey, why'd you call yourself Frankie?"

"Because Frances is a terrible name," She scoffed.

"Can I call you Fran?"

"Only if you want to die."

"Fair enough."

As they reached the end of the row of men's huts, she shrugged his arm off of her shoulders, relinquishing custody of John to the other airman, who thanked her for her help.

"See ya 'round, Shortcake!" Egan called as they trailed away, grinning proudly to himself at the nickname. Frankie scoffed, rolling her eyes and massaging her temples as her headache steadily worsened.

"You look like shit," George whispered as she wandered back into their hut. She had rolled her hair up into pin curls, protected beneath a headscarf, and was reading a copy of Wuthering Heights in the dim light of her bedside lamp.

"Got into a drinking contest with one of the Americans," She shrugged, tossing her beer-stained blouse and jacket into a crumpled heap at the foot of her bed, a reminder to wash them tomorrow.

"Did you win?"

"Of course."

"Shh!" One of the other women hissed from the opposite end of the room, shrouded in the darkness. Frankie pulled a face at her scolding, dragging a brush through the knots in her dark brown hair as George stifled a laugh, discarding her book and turning off the light once her friend had changed and gotten into bed.

It was silent for a while as she lay beneath the blankets, staring up at what would have been the ceiling if not for the complete absence of light. Her alcohol-induced headache thrummed behind her eyes, a constant, dull pain keeping her from sleep.

"George?" She whispered.

"What?"

"Do you have an aspirin?"

The sound of quiet rummaging was audible in the stillness of the hut, and she struggled to suppress a laugh as she felt the tube smack her in the face, a result of Georgina tossing it blindly in the darkness.

"Thank you," She giggled, trying not to gag as she took the pills dry, lying back and waiting for the pain to subside as she thought back on the night's events.

I'm not that short.

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The blinding morning sun was unwelcome the next day as Frankie made her way to the airfield from her hut, bike resting against her hip as she made a momentary stop to fix her hair for the day ahead, hair tie held between her teeth as she scooped it into a ponytail. Most of the women she shared the Nissen hut with had left over an hour ago, hurrying to the flight tower in anticipation of the arrival of yet more American pilots, but her job didn't begin until after the planes landed, so fortunately for her, she had been afforded a little more sleep, her headache now more or less dissipated.

A loud honking startled her, the hair tie slipping from her teeth and falling to the floor. As she bent to pick it up, a jeep rolled to a stop in front of her, the horn parping once more.

"Fuck's sake, what?" Frankie muttered, glancing up to see the cheery grin of Major John Egan smiling down at her.

"Mornin'."

"Are you even fit to drive after last night?"

"Fifty-fifty. Hop in, throw your bike in the back."

She frowned as she noticed the pile of bikes already forming in the back of the car, but stacked her on top all the same, sliding into the passenger seat beside him. "Starting a collection?"

"Won them in a bet, night before last. Got one for me and my buddy Buck, he's arriving today."

"Is that Major Cleven?" She asked.

"Sure is," John nodded as the engine roared to life, taking them sailing along the road towards the airstrip, the wind ruining her hair before she even had a chance to finish it.

"So..." He began, swerving slightly to dodge a few maintenance workers on bikes. "Where ya from, Frankie?"

"Stratford."

"I... do not know where that is."

"I didn't expect you to," She chuckled. "Grew up with my dad working his garage, that's what got me into it. Always preferred planes to cars, though."

"You and me both," John nodded, slowing as they neared the landing strip. Up ahead, the flight crew were beginning to disembark, and Frankie's eyes narrowed as she noticed one of the airmen carrying a large dog.

"If they let that dog shit in the plane, I'm not cleaning it up," She stated. "You've heard me say it, that's on the record now."

"Yes ma'am," Egan affirmed, pulling to a stop, a grin spreading across his face as he got close enough to recognise his friends.

As he clambered out of the car, stepping forward to greet his comrades, she climbed out of her seat, wandering around the back of the jeep to disentangle her bike from the pile, tugging it free as the sounds of wind and aeroplane engines overpowered the men's voices.

"Oh, and, uh - This is Frankie Bevan," John called, guiding Cleven towards her, speaking louder so that she could hear. She raised her hand in a somewhat awkward wave, almost dropping her bike on her foot as she hauled it off the back of the jeep. "Best damn mechanic we've got, she's holdin' us together, that's for sure."

"Ma'am," Cleven greeted her with a tilt of his cap.

"He's never seen me work," Frankie shook her head, stepping forward to shake Cleven's hand. "We only met yesterday, he's just being nice in the hopes I won't tell you about how I drank him under the table last night."

John scoffed. "That is not what-" She raised a brow and he stuttered. "Yeah, that - that did happen."

Cleven laughed, squeezing Egan's shoulder. "Well, I'm sure glad he's had someone to keep him humble before I got here. Thank you for your work, ma'am, I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other soon."

She nodded, grinning at Egan's embarrassment. "How was your flight?"

"Smooth sailin', not sure there'll be anything to fix up this time."

A soldier she had heard John greet as Demarco spoke up from where he was stood, scratching his dog's stomach. "The dog dropped a deuce in the cockpit."

Clicking her fingers, she pointed to Egan. "She's not doing that!" He called, craning his head over his shoulder as Demarco put his hands up in surrender.

"Well, that works wonders," Frankie chuckled, lifting her leg to straddle the seat of her bike. "Now, if all you gents have planned is standing around, I've got work to do."

"Bye Shortcake," John grinned as she pedalled the bicycle into motion, ringing the bell and offering up a middle finger as she left. He chuckled, feeling Cleven clap him over the shoulder again.

"She's interesting... nice," His friend began. "Bucky, I know you're sick of Marge tryna set you up, but she is definitely-"

"She's definitely my friend, Buck. Besides, I could never date a woman with a higher alcohol tolerance than me. That's just embarrassing."

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The wind whipped her hair this way and that as Frankie hammered at the pedals, gaining speed faster and faster with each second until the rolling fields beyond the airstrip were little more than a green blur. She'd always loved to cycle, preferably as fast as she possibly could. Her father used to say she should try racing, but his ambition curtailed rather when she got in trouble for almost taking out a couple of tourists outside Shakespeare's birthplace on her way home from school. Besides, she'd never quite had the discipline for sports.

Her breaks squeaked noisily as she rolled to a stop outside the mechanics' Nissen hut, stationed just beyond the main runway. They had been given a single hut for all of their operations, much to the chagrin of many. The back end was an orderly pile of spare parts - buckets of rivets, piles of sheet metal - but someone had supplied them with a table and chairs, and the recent addition of a gas stove and kettle had proved a huge hit.

Ken Lemmons was sat at the table as she wandered in, glancing at the corkboard by the door where she and the others posted notice of anything in need of urgent repair.

"A couple of the guys replaced the glass in the gun turrets earlier - thanks for the shout," Lemmons spoke up.

"Ah, good," Frankie nodded, taking a seat opposite him. As much as she bemoaned her younger, American co-workers, she had grown fond of Ken. He was sipping a cup of coffee, and by the look on his face, he was not enjoying it. She tossed the paper bag containing her lunch onto the table, retrieving a cucumber sandwich - meagre subsistence, and a sight that made the boy frown.

"I think I'd actually murder someone for some Hershey's right about now," He remarked, grimacing as he took another sip of coffee.

"Hey, we make do with what we've got," She shrugged, attempting to devour the sandwich before the cucumber could soak through the thin slices of bread. "I know one of the girls in the Land Army - I darn her jumpers in exchange for a bit of her extra cheese ration."

Lemmons chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "I miss good chocolate. I can't get used to... Cad-berry's?"

"Oh, that's sacrilege," She laughed, tossing a slice of cucumber at him, which stuck to the breast pocket of his coveralls. "If you'd come a couple years ago when they were still making Dairy Milk you'd've thought you'd died and gone to heaven."

"I'll believe it when I see it," He grinned, plucking the slice off of his clothes. There was a pause before he spoke again. "One of the fellas says they're actually taking off later."

Frankie nodded, lifting a hand to cover her mouth as she spoke around her food. "Oh yeah? This gonna be your first proper go at it?"

"Yeah..." Lemmons admitted, looking momentarily nervous. "You?"

She snorted back a laugh. "Nah. I've been in the WAAF nearly four years - moved around a bit, but whether it's Attlebridge or Docking or Thorpe Abbotts, it's all the same gig. You stick with me when the planes start coming back down and you'll be fine."

The corner of his mouth tilted upwards in a smile. "You're gonna babysit me?"

Frankie grinned, standing up to reach across the table and ruffle his curls. "With a cute little face like yours, who could help it?" She teased, laughing as he batted her away.

"Get off, I'm serious," Lemmons chuckled, but the smile never faded from his expression.

Ken's buddy hadn't been wrong, per se, but his fabled mission had come not hours, but days later, with a hammering knock on the door to her hut, the women stirring from their sleep in a wave of disgruntled moans.

"What time is it?" Frankie whined as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, resisting the urge to burrow her head beneath the pillow and block out the relentless knocking outside.

"Four thirty," George groaned, frowning vindictively at her watch as she put it on, as if time itself had caused her personal grievance.

"They're flying today, get ready!" A young male voice bellowed from the other side of the door, clearly too shy to bare his face to a room of half-dressed, irritated women.

"Fuck me, I'm coming," She muttered, brushing her hair with one hand as she buttoned up the front of her coveralls with the other.

"Spot me! How's my lipstick?" George called, and Frankie leant across the bed that separated them to wipe a stray smudge of red away with her thumb.

"All good."

"Right," Her bunkmate huffed. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

"See you later," Frankie affirmed.

"I'll join you for drinks this time if all goes well!" George called over her shoulder as she scurried towards the door.

"I'll hold you to that!" She replied, smiling as she laced up her boots.

The planes left and returned in mere hours, but the in-between had felt never-ending as the ground crew waited in tense anticipation to see how many would return and in what state. Frankie had sent Egan away to the flight tower after his nervous hovering had started to get on her nerves, and she had since spent the last half-hour sitting in the grass beside the runway making daisy chains with a few of the local children as a way to pass the time.

"Frankie! They're comin' in!" She heard Lemmons yell from across the airstrip. Hurriedly sending the children back to their parents as the sound of plane engines grew steadily louder overhead, she scrambled to her feet, grass stains streaking the knees of her coveralls as she jogged over, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as the planes began to descend towards them.

"...10, 11, 12..." Frankie muttered, coming to the slow realisation that many of the men they'd sent away that morning had not returned. But that loss did not negate the importance of the work they had to do now. "Ok, let's go," She patted Lemmons on the shoulder, and they reached for the bikes they had discarded on the ground nearby, pedalling hard towards the landing strip.

From the second they arrived, she was surveying the damage, scanning the planes for the areas that would need the most attention. It was impossible to pick just one.

"There's a reason we go at night," She muttered, so softly no one else could hear over the din of shouts and dying engines. The mechanics weren't emergency staff, but she'd seen a fair few planes come in either on fire, half-collapsed or both over the years, enough to learn it was best to get in as soon as possible.

"Shit," Lemmons huffed beside her, staring up at a huge, jagged hole in the metal of one of the plane's wings.

"Send a couple of the boys back to the hut - tell them to bring a car back with all the sheet metal they can put in it. Oh - and get me a welder!" She called to him, and the young man began barking orders at the other mechanics, the crew erupting to life around the plane as they began to fix the mess that had returned.

"Frankie!" Egan's voice rang from down below as she climbed up onto the top of the plane, marking out the areas of the body that needed replacing. She looked down at him as he yelled again. "You need anything?"

"Nope, we're good here!" Frankie replied, holding up a thumbs-up in case the wind drowned out her voice. Looking down at the work to do below her, it was as if she could map out every fix in her mind, envision every action in order, play it out in her head until the beast was as good as new. She smiled to herself. "This is what I do."

#masters of the air #masters of the air fic #masters of the air oc #mota oc #hbo war #john egan #gale cleven #ken lemmons #rosie rosenthal x oc #oc: frankie #mota #fic | i'm your man #oc: george

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bloodynereid · 1 month

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play the game, first lines!

thank you to the incredible @callumsgirl for this tag <333

rules: List the first lines of your last 10 published fics and see if there’s a pattern.

(going to be skipping over my hcs btw)

Double Sided (Luke Riordan x Reader) GEN V

You looked up from your desk in the library when a large bag thudded next to you. The owner of said bag grimaced slightly and looked at you with a sheepish expression on his face. You knew who he was in an instant, his face was practically plastered across campus… Golden Boy.

Those Sunlit Kisses (Rosie Rosenthal x Lucy Everett) MoTA

Rosie rested his head against the cool window, the train was hot. It was almost too hot. How Britain had turned from a pea soup to a tropical country is beyond him. He had been forced to take leave… again. So he booked a little place by the beach, far away from basically everything and he felt tentatively excited.

Encroaching Darkness (Bucky x Buck) MoTA

John was tired. A tiredness that seemed to seep through his bones and into this soul. He was trapped, tired, hungry… the list went on and all John could think of was that he wasn’t getting out.

Zodiac Suite (Rosie Rosenthal x Reader) MoTA

Rosie felt right at home at the busy night club, the smoke from many lit cigarettes and the scotch rushing through his veins combined with the dulcet tones of jazz almost made him forget that he had been at war just a few months ago.

Strangers in the Night (Bucky x Reader) MoTA

Running a hand down your face you take a deep breath and relax into the pub’s atmosphere. The bustling of the crowd, a mix of men in uniforms and beautiful women, captivated your tired eyes.

Navy Blue Ink Part 2 (Bucky x Reader) MoTA

You stood anxiously at the side of the airfield. A letter clutched in your left hand and a leash in your right. Ghost nudged his head against your pant covered leg, making you look down at your companion.

Navy Blue Ink Part 1 (Bucky x Reader) MoTA

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?

Stained Glass (Jordan Li x Reader) GEN V

You were lying in bed, headphones snugly around your head and loud music blaring in your ears. It had been a week. A week of feeling like complete and utter shit because you broke up with Jordan.

House of Cards (Bradley Bradshaw x Reader) TGM

The aftermath of the suicide mission was spent in multiple bars (mainly the Hard Deck) and getting drunk beyond belief. That led to a variety of messy pool games, slurred singing and some potentially regretful decisions.

Sorrys & I Love Yous (Bradley Bradshaw x Reader) TGM

It had been a good day at work. You had been able to finish a piece your editor had been nagging you about and you were actually happy with the final product. It seemed like it was the opposite for Bradley though.

summary: it seems like i like to set the scene or how the character is interacting with the world around them. there is a definite pattern haha.

tagging the wonderful @simiinthemirror and @romeulusroy love youuu OH and anyone who wants to ofc

#tag games #maria's random stuff #maria writes

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derry-rain · 2 months

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fanwork masterlist: derry_rain/bobparkhurst/regseekings

fic

i’ve been writing stuff that doesn’t make it to ao3 all the time these days. ficlets that have transferred to ao3 already largely aren’t linked here.

find me on ao3 and check my general fic tag

sas: rogue heroes (reg: fic)

here, this made me think of you - reg x johnny

seashells - dave x reg

star trek au - david stirling

greedy animal - david x paddy

oc fic:

snippet: mat - paddy mayne x omc

snippet: christine - mike sadler x ofc

the terror

i don’t think i’ll ever stop loving you - hickeygibson

courage, devotion - goodsilna

you’re stronger than you think - tommy armitage

secret love - joplittle

band of brothers (all hbo war fic collected under the tag bob: fic)

“i’m not fragile y'know” - speirsroe

evening school au - ron speirs x chuck grant

oc fic:

snippet: sanne - renee lemaire x ofc

snippet: ruby - roy cobb x ofc

snippet: kitty - don malarkey x ofc

a shortcut through a cemetery at night - don malarkey x ofc (kitty beck)

dead doesn’t mean gone, officially - don malarkey x ofc (kitty beck)

the pacific

sober - runner x leckie

masters of the air

to be where i’m going - ken lemmons x rosie rosenthal

untitled ken lemmons x rosie rosenthal

another untitled ken lemmons x rosie rosenthal

oc fic:

snippet: maureen - gen, pre- ofc x gale cleven

justified

can you hold my hand? please? - givenson

strange canyon road: star wars au - givenson

other:

[1899] untitled tove x clemence

other fanworks

all my gifsets can be found under the tag: derry: gifs

#apologies for the spam #i belatedly realise pages don't work well on mobile #so making a post for this as well #derry: masterlist #long post #the tags are wildly underutilised #but i think i found everything that didn't get transferred to ao3 or deleted

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softspeirs · 4 years

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softspeirs masterlist

UPDATED 4-11-24

disclaimer: my depiction and description of these characters are never about the real men, and always about the actors’ portrayal in the hbo and apple tv+ miniseries. i don’t own hbo or apple or any affiliated networks, please don’t sue!

quick links: band of brothers fic | the pacific fic | masters of the air fic FIC REC TAG!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

please note: i no longer write for character/reader, or “y/n”. nothing against it, but my special interest lies more with my OCs these days.

A note: I have several female OC’s that feature in my fics:

Kathryn “Kat” Gray: Combat medic. Part of an experimental group of women as combat medics to join the Airborne, assigned to Easy. First appearance in Barren Soul, a multi-chapter fic. Paired with Speirs.

Ruth Kelley: OSS. Works with intelligence and often as a regimental runner. Has also been known to chip in at the aid station, and do whatever needs getting done. Mother hen of the group, second only to Lipton. First appearance in Morning. Paired with Speirs, but in a separate fic universe than Kat Gray.

Anna Cunningham: Sniper, one of the best in the 101st. A huge chip on her shoulder. Small, but smart and cunning, much like her name suggests. First appearance in One Step Closer. Paired with Lieb.

Emma Burns: USO performer sent to the Pacific, though she had an ulterior motive for signing up - to find her brother. First appearance in No Wrong Roads. Paired with Hoosier.

Eileen Sanders: Regimental runner. Stealthy, observant, quiet, but smart as a whip. Landed at Normandy with the gang, but tossed around between companies before ending up with Easy in Haugenau. First appearance in Rumors. No romantic pairing for her (yet).

Lillian: Nurse with the ANC who served at General Hospital Two in Manila First appearance in Beautiful and Wild at Every Turn. Paired with Hoosier.

Julia Martin: Legal assistant who we meet working at the DA’s office with Hoosier after the war. First appearance in this untitled fic, paired with Hoosier.

Elizabeth Parks: War correspondent for the Times. Ends up attached to Easy when she goes AWOL from assignment to look for her brother. First appearance in Inside Source. Paired with Nixon.

Grace Fleming: Army Nurse Corps stationed at Thorpe Abbotts. First appearance in this untitled drabble with our favorite twinkletoes, Rosie Rosenthal.

Eleanor “Ellie” Peters: Daughter of a pub owner near Thorpe Abbotts where many of the fliers spend their days off. Sharp-witted, gentle, and kind, she has a soft spot for our dear Major Egan. First appearance here.

B A N D O F B R O T H E R S

General (No pairing or platonic pairings)

Prompt: Eileen Sanders + "wait, the tears are good tears?" Eileen delivers some news to Major Winters and ensemble.

Rumors: No romantic pairing, but Speirs centric. Eileen’s first impression of Easy’s newest CO is that he isn’t what she was expecting.

Paying Attention: A scene between Kat (OFC) and Nixon based on a story of Nixon throwing TNT at soldiers who weren’t paying attention during a lecture.

We’ll Be Okay: Prompt: “How long was I asleep?” Takes place after Bastogne. Platonic Malark x OFC Kat.

Untitled: What if Harry Welsh and Hoosier Smith met at a diner after the war?

Everything Will Break: TW for heavy angst and death. Sort of a choose-your-own-adventure: no specific character or OC here, it’s all in second person. Pick your own BoB/TP/Gen Kill character! No specific war is mentioned, either.

War Stories: Harry Welsh loves pushing Ron Speirs’ buttons. He also can’t believe that Easy’s new CO hasn’t heard all about his gallantry at Carentan.

Prompt: “Zero fucks given. Next please.” + Speirs. Feat. Eileen Sanders, but no romantic pairing.

Ron Speirs

Barren Soul: (Multi-chapter; ongoing - updated 3-25-24) Kathryn Gray feels adrift. Born into a wealthy family, all that’s expected of her in her early twenties is to marry well, but she wants more out of life. When the war begins, she makes the decision to join the Nurse Corps and requests a transfer to the Airborne when it seems like the scales of war are tipping in the wrong direction. Along the way she discovers who she is, how far she can push herself, and what it really means to have a family you choose.

Lost Your Head (Inside Your Heart): Post-War Easy officers reunion + you.

MISSING SCENE from Lost Your Head: You’re hit in Foy. Your new CO doesn’t take it well.

Officer’s Club: She and Speirs are sneaking around at Toccoa.

Dark Corners: An outside perspective on the relationship between Speirs and Easy’s favorite female medic - set in The Last Patrol.

Asleep: Prompt: “How long was I asleep?”

Prompt: “Why are you following me?” Secret relationship OFC (Kat Gray x Speirs)

Morning: Soft Speirs x OFC Ruth Kelley.

Wounded: A frustrated Ruth mends Speirs after a patrol.

Cry: Prompt: “I made her cry. How could I do that?”

Prompt: "I'll protect you" + Speirs. (Ron Speirs x Kat)

Prompt: “Don’t even think about it” + Speirs. (Ron Speirs x Kat)

Lewis Nixon

Rest: Nixon/Nurse OFC. A series of moments when Nixon is vulnerable.

Untitled angsty drabble: Nixon/OFC. Post-war with pre-war flashbacks. He wonders if she’ll even care that he’s coming home.

Inside Source (multi-chap, complete): A war correspondent with an ulterior motive. That’s one move the intelligence officer didn’t see coming. He also didn’t expect the correspondent to be a woman.

One / Two / Three / Four / Five / Six

Breathe: Nixon/OC - She goes missing after Market Garden and tries to find her way back to Easy. A certain Captain doesn’t take her disappearance well.

Dick Winters

Paris: Winters/OFC. Winters runs into her in Paris. Outside their ranks, they get to know each other.

Joe Liebgott

Be Here: Post-War. On the train home, Joe finds a familiar face.

Liebgott + “Can you just hold my hand?”

One Step Closer: 5 times Joe Liebgott wanted to kiss her, and 1 time he finally did. Lieb x OC (Anna)

Everything Has Its Place: Anna and Joe have a heart-to-heart after an argument.

Don Malarkey

Malarkey + “things you said I wasn’t meant to hear”

Carwood Lipton

Pain: Prompt: “Pain is not an easy thing to ignore”

Johnny Martin

Every Moment: Prompt: “I just want to spend every moment with you”

Floyd Talbert

One Date: It was only ever supposed to be one date. Tab x OC

T H E P A C I F I C

Bill “Hoosier” Smith

Clouds Overhead: In Melbourne, Hoosier finds her, and they both find some peace. (Could be read as reader insert or as an unnamed OFC)

Then and There, the Wind in Your Hair: (technically a sequel to Clouds Overhead) After their meeting in Melbourne, Hoosier writes a few letters, dreams a few dreams, and finds her again after coming home.

So Hang On: Bill acts like he’s annoyed with the world (because he is, he really is), but he can also recognize when the situation calls for some empathy.

No Wrong Roads: Bill can’t stand the quiet anymore. (Post War. Hoosier x OC - Emma)

Beautiful and Wild at Every Turn: Hoosier thinks he’s adjusting alright. But then the most miniscule thing happens to set him back, and it feels like a never-ending cycle. Turns out he’s not the only one. (Hoosier x Lillian)

Untitled: Hoosier becomes a lawyer, and finds a kindred spirit in his new secretary, who he soon learns has more to offer than doing paperwork and fetching coffee. (Hoosier x Julia)

Lew "Chuckler" Juergens

Prompt: Chuckler + "I think you'd look cuter with me". A familiar face from Chuckler's past shows up on the island.

M A S T E R S O F T H E A I R

Gen fic

On Leave (Band of Brothers crossover feat. my OC Kat Gray): “You know, it’s nice that the Airborne finally decided to show up.” Bucky says, tilting his head and gesturing with his glass. // Next to him, Cleven and DeMarco share an aggrieved look. // “What?” // “Can you just–” Gale straightens his jacket, leans in, “–try not to start a fight? For once?” // “Don’t count on it.” Bucky grins.

John “Bucky” Egan

Daisies + Love Letters Series: (WIP) Egan/OC: “You shouldn’t get attached.” He says, rising from his seat. Halfway to the door, he looks over his shoulder. “To any of us.” His smirk is small, bitter. “Here today, gone tomorrow.”

Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal

The Major and the Nurse Series: (WIP) Rosie/OC: The new guys will be an adjustment - she’s not sure she can manage getting attached to any of them. Because it’s inevitable, what happens after. But the line has already been crossed with this man, looking at her in the fading sunlight.

Harry Crosby

Prompt: Stress/caffeine (platonic - no pairing, but featuring my OC Grace): Something tells her that every working moment for him for months has been to try, somehow, to make up for all the losses. He thinks that if he works himself to death, he can at least keep everyone else alive.

#softspeirs fanfiction #softspeirs writing #my writing #band of brothers fanfiction #the pacific fanfiction #masters of the air fanfiction

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ginabaker1666 · 11 days

Text

This Is Always

From the Love Letter Series

Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal x Josephine Harris (OFC)

The holidays are usually a time to be spent together, cold noses warmed by the fire, and joyful cheers as the New Year approaches. This year, Rosie is struggling with being away from Jo, and acknowledging the future that he dreams of sharing with her. A heart to heart with Crosby helps put things into perspective for both of them.

Read Part 3 Here Follow along with the Love Letters Playlist

January 1944

My Dearest Jo,

Happy New Year, honey pie! It’s just after midnight here, and though I wanted to be the first person to wish you a Happy New Year, I know that by the time you get this, it will be after the fact. I guess by writing this now, while it’s still ‘43 back home, I’m letting myself be greedy in being the first to send you those wishes. I hope you’re doing something fun tonight, and getting all dolled up to paint the town red. Your last letter came just after Christmas, but I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you just how happy it made me to hear that you were still doing all of your usual Christmas favorites, even if I’m not home to carry all your shopping bags back to Brooklyn after a full day in the city. Believe me, I even miss doing that, no matter how heavy some of them are.

I got Ma’s last letter just a few days before yours arrived, and she mentioned that you went by the house to celebrate Hanukkah with her and Jeanie. I know that made her really happy, and I can’t thank you enough for keeping an extra eye on both of them for me while I’m stuck over here. My sister would argue that she doesn’t need anyone keeping an eye on her, but I’m sure she appreciates your company, and will rub it in my face after the fact that she got to spend so much time with you. That’s what little sisters do, isn’t it?

We had a small thing in the Officers Club for the holidays; nothing too fancy, but there was music, and some good liquor that someone managed to scrounge up for the occasion. The Red Cross Clubmobile girls pulled some resources and, even with rationing, managed to bake a few cookies for us. They were good, but they couldn't hold a candle to yours.

I have never wanted one of your Christmas cookies more than after reading your letter, and to know that Jean Crosby took over as the official taste tester this year; oh it broke my heart darling. But, I’m glad to know that you two girls are keeping each other company, and I know that Croz is happy knowing that she’s not alone. I do hope you two aren’t causing too much trouble while we’re away. Knowing you the way that I do, I know that’s a bit of a pipe dream, but one of the reasons I adore you the way that I do.

At the risk of sounding melancholy, I’ve spent most of today wishing I could take you dancing; spin you around until we’re both dizzy, until finally we can ring in the new year with champagne. Crowded on the dance floor at Minton’s, wrapped up in each other. Maybe it’s bold of me to ask, or maybe it’s the whiskey, but would you have allowed me a midnight kiss, Jo? I can’t picture kissing anyone else as the clock strikes twelve, nor do I want to, on this holiday or any other day. I hope that by next year, we'll be able to spend the evening together, and not have to send holiday wishes in letters that take too long to get there.

I dream of you every night, sweetheart, and every night these sweet dreams end with a kiss before I’m pulled back to reality. I’ve been dreaming of the future, and if the real thing is anything like my dreams, I can’t wait for those days to begin. I wonder,do you dream of those days too? Of building a home together, a life that’s just ours. Living in the city, maybe somewhere near Harry and Jean. We could go to the pictures on Friday nights, and sleep in on Saturday’s, warm under the blankets until we peel ourselves from the sheets only because we need to make coffee. I’d spin you around the kitchen while we made breakfast, a record on the Victrola, the two of us tangled together while the eggs burned. The more I think about it, the more it all sounds like a dream come true.

Maybe it is the whiskey talking, but it’s getting late here. Or early depending on how you look at it, and even though we aren’t flying tomorrow, I’m sure the rest of the fellas will be returning from the Officers Club soon enough. I’ll be dreaming of you tonight, sweetheart, and counting the days until we’re together again.

Sending you millions of hugs and kisses, and all of my love.

Yours for always

Robbie

Rosie took a deep breath, and without giving himself a chance to second guess anything in his letter, folded it up and slid it inside the envelope. He’d address it in the morning and drop it off at APO so that it went out with the next mail call; tonight it would remain on the nightstand next to his bed, with Jo’s photo. He was still in his uniform, not having bothered changing after he returned to the Officer’s hut, and was about to take advantage of the empty shower stall, when the door swung open and Harry walked in.

“Thought I’d find you in here.” Harry spoke, hand coming up to loosen his tie.

“Yea, I uh, wanted to get a letter out to Jo,” Rosie signed, dragging his hand down his face. ‘Or at the very least, written.”

“It’s rough around the holidays isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. Harry knew as well as he did, and he knew his friend was giving him an opening to get his feelings off his chest.

“Probably the most difficult part of all this. We’ve spent every Christmas and Hanukkah together since we met.”

“She celebrates Hanukkah with you and your mom?”

“Jo is the best gift giver in our family, according to my sister.” Rosie grinned.

“Sounds like your sister will be the disappointed one if you don’t put a ring on Jo’s finger when we get home.” Harry chuckled, dropping down onto his own bed, across from Rosie’s.

“She’d have to fight my Ma for the top spot, if I don’t marry Jo.”

The two shared a quiet moment as their thoughts drifted to a place far from England. Far from flak and casualties and torn fuselages. No thoughts of missing friends, mission counts or that damned red light never blinking off.

Rosie knew that Harry understood better than anyone; how it felt to be so devoted to someone, and yet, he felt compelled to ask the one question that, if he had to wager, everyone asks at some point.

“How’d you know Jean was the one?” He asked after a moment, gaze turned upward to meet that of his friend.

“She wanted nothing to do with me when we met,” Harry balked so loudly that it seemed to echo off the walls of the Nissen Hut. “But I knew. I didn’t want to spend another day without her.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“Oh yeah, you just know,” Harry nodded. “When did you know Jo was the one? And don’t tell me you didn’t…”

“Let’s just say I should have opened my mouth a long time ago.”

“Well, better late than never.”

“What if I was too late, Croz?”

Harry stood from his bed, moving around the front to lean himself against the footboard. With a determined gaze, he made sure he had Rosie’s full attention before saying what was on his mind.

“You can’t think like that. You need to believe you’re going home to her, that you two will have a life after all this.”

“God, I hope so.”

“I don’t know Jo as well as you do,” He started. “I only know what Jean tells me in her letters, but it sounds to me like she’s really something. And I’m not just saying that because she went out of her way to befriend my wife.”

“I told her I want a life with her, a future, our own place, Saturday mornings in bed, lazy days…”

“You want the dream.” Harry nodded in understanding.

“Told her maybe we’d move to the city, leave Brooklyn, get a place near you and Jean.”

“Sounds like we’ll be in trouble if that happens, Jo and Jean a stone's throw away from each other?”

“I think the two of us are going to have our hands full when we get home, Croz.”

“I bet they’re saying the same thing about us,” Harry laughed. “And I wouldn’t blame Jean. I’ve been a real handful as of late.”

“Oh yea, you’re causing lots of trouble all the way over here.” Rosie chuckled, propping his legs up on the bed, feet hanging off the edge so as to not dirty the sheets. He didn’t miss the slight look of distress that flashed across his friend's face.

He regarded him carefully; he looked like he had something on the tip of his tongue. His face looked worried, like he had something weighing him down exponentially, and Rosie would allow his friend the moment if he needed it. After all, it was the holiday’s and they were the best source of camaraderie that they had; friends should be there for each other. No one understood that better than he did.

“No, I’ve been a handful…” Harry finally continued.

“Croz?”

“Remember after Munster? When Harding sent me to Oxford?”

“Yea…”

“They double you up when you’re at those conferences, and my roommate, she-”

“Ah jeez, Croz…”

Harry sighed, dropping his head, too ashamed to look his friend in the eye. The moment had turned in the blink of an eye, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it, or get his friend through it. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

“I don’t know how to tell Jean.”

“Is this why you kept disappearing up to London? To see her?”

“How do I tell my wife that I slept with another woman?”

“You just do, Croz.”

“That’s the worst possible thing to write in a letter. ‘Honey, I miss you terribly, by the way…’”

“Alright, I see your point. But you need to tell her.”

“This fucking war,” Harry sighed. “I swear, it peels the humanity right from your bones.”

“Then you fight it.”

“More than we already have? More than what we’ve given and lost?”

Rosie knew he was referring to Bubbles, and for a moment he let his mind wander to Nash, and that first mission to Bremen. It would be easy to fold; to pack it up and let the fight take from you more and more. But he would be damned if he’d let it take more from him, and if he had to fight a little extra to make sure it didn’t take any more from his friend, he’d do that too.

“You’re not fighting it alone, Croz.”

“Feels like it most of the time.”

“And you’re fighting for something back home, even if you feel like you don’t deserve it at the moment.”

“I don't deserve her.”

“Yea, you do. And you’ll tell her everything, whether you write it, or tell her when we get home. And Jo and I will be there for you both.”

Harry looked like he was about to respond when the door to the Officers Hut swung open. He turned, half expecting a replacement officer, but was surprised to see Blakely and Douglass, the former with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and Douglass swinging a bottle of something in his left hand.

“Nightcap, fellas?” Douglass lifted the bottle, and Rosie could just make out the label. Vat 69.

“Where the hell did you get that, Dougie?” Harry’s eyes went wide at the familiar label from back home. A very expensive label.

“Been saving it, so come on, let’s have a drink.”

“No, seriously, who’d you steal that from?” Rosie asked, watching as Blakely gathered four of the glasses the boys kept on their side tables for brushing their teeth.

“I won it in a bet, if you must know.” Douglass grinned, pulling the wax seal from the neck of the bottle before pulling the cork out.

“The details are not of importance,” Blakely chimed in, swatting Rosie’s legs off the bed to take up the space next to him. “What is important is that we’re here, and alive, so stop asking questions and have a drink would ya?”

Douglass poured for the four of them, dropping himself down on the bed next to Rosie’s, while waiting for Harry to join them.

“Any day now, Croz…” he groaned, glass between two fingers as he held it out for the navigator. “It’ll be ‘45 by the time you move.”

“Dougie… fuck off.” Harry stood with a laugh, brushing off his slacks before snatching the glass and taking the seat next to him. “And anyway, we’d all better be home by ‘45.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Blakely nodded, holding his glass up to cheers his friends, the only ones left that weren’t replacement crews, or trapped somewhere in the Stalag.

The foursome sat silently as they sipped their prize whiskey, thoughts turned presumably to home and memories of Christmas and New Years’ spent with people they loved and missed.

“Alright, what would you be doing if you were home right now?” Ev broke the silence, leaning his elbows on his knees, gaze landing on Harry.

“His wife, dumbass.” Douglass chuckled.

“Woah hey, none of that.” Rosie looked between the two, the rules immediately being put into place without having to say them.

They didn’t talk like that, but he assumed it had been a bit too much whiskey already for Douglass, and with there no mission on the horizon for tomorrow, their guards were all down a bit.

“Right, right, sorry Croz,” Douglass held his hands up in apology. “For real, what would you and Jean be doing if you were home?”

“We’d go out for dinner, but I think we’d probably be home for the bells,” he closed his eyes wistfully, and Rosie knew his friend was simply hoping that he’d be able to do that next year. “Dance in the living room, and yea, off to bed.”

Blakely nodded, reaching across to drop his hand to Crosby’s knee in a gesture of good faith, that he felt for him in a way, and was hoping he’d get that moment sooner rather than later.

“What about you?” Ev turned to his right, finding Rosie sitting quietly.

“What about me?” Rosie brought the glass to his lips, taking a small sip and letting the taste linger on his tongue a moment.

“Would you and Josephine be out on the town?” Douglass asked, gesturing to the photo on Rosie’s side table.

“Oh yea, we’d be at Minton’s, dancing until they kicked us out I’m sure.” Rosie laughed.

“Together at the club then?”

“Every year we go dancing on New Years,” Rosie started. “Christmas and Hanukkah are for family, New Years is for friends.”

“She’s more than a friend.” Harry looked at him pointedly.

“She is, and a fella can dream that she’ll say yes when I get home.”

Blakely, who had been pulling the cigarette from behind his ear to light it, fumbled, dropping it to the ground at Rosie’s confession.

“You got a ring?!”

“No, but, that’s my second order of business once I’m back stateside.”

“And the first?”

“To kiss the hell out of her.” Rosie confessed.

“Good man.” Blakely slapped him on the shoulder, a smile on his face.

It was absolutely the whiskey talking this time, but he was among friends. The trust was insurmountable. Between the confessions that had taken place before Ev and Dougie had joined them, and the warmth flowing through his veins, Rosie lifted the glass to his lips to drain it, before standing from his place on the bed. Swiping the envelope from earlier, and a clean sheet of paper from the table, he glanced at his friends with a grin, and offered a two fingered salute.

“Gentlemen, I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going! We still have more whiskey!” Douglass hollered after him.

“Save it for another occasion!” Rosie called back as he pushed through the doors and out into the chilly January air.

He walked until he found a spot under one of the lamp posts, the bench undoubtedly cold as he sat down, but he wouldn’t be out here for long. Just enough time, and privacy, to get the thoughts swarming around in his head out on the page before he lost his nerve.

Pulling his pen from his breast pocket, he carefully let the paper rest on his thigh before he began scrawling his extra note.

Hi Sweetheart,

I know this is coming with no context but, I want you to know how much I adore you. I know I’ve said it in different ways, and a few times by now, but, I mean it. Truly, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. And to say it from thousands of miles away, with a war on no less. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to hit me once I’m back home.

Just know that I’ll always, always, carry your heart with the most careful of hands. I’ll keep you safe, and treasure every moment we have together. Anything you want, it’s yours, Jo. A quiet life together, or a herd of children that jump on the bed on Sunday mornings. I’ll make sure you have it honey.

Just know, I’m yours for however long you’ll have me, Josephine. I’m hoping for forever, but that’s a question for another day.

I love you,

Robbie

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

Tag List: @rowdy-redhead @winniemaywebber @sagesolsticewrites @rosiesriveter @bobparkhurst @victoryrollsandredlips @bcolfanfic @major-mads @footprintsinthesxnd @basilone @roosevelt-stalin-cocacola @justheretoreadthxxs @claireelizabeth85 @hephaestn @ktredshoes @barrykeoghussy @peachessndreamss @hellfirequinnie

#masters of the air #love letters: rosie & jo #mota fanfic #rosie rosenthal x ofc #rosie rosenthal fic #robert rosenthal x ofc #rosie rosenthal x oc #nate mann #hbo war #gina baker writes

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ginabaker1666 · 23 days

Text

All Of Me

From the Love Letters Series

Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal x Josephine Harris (OFC)

Jo struggles with her response to Rosie's first letter but later finds help in an unlikely friend with shared common ground. It's his second letter back-to-back, however, that stacks her worry like wobbly apple crates, ready to tumble at a moment's notice.

Read part 2 Here Follow along with the Love Letters Playlist

October 1943

My Dearest Robbie,

Today is Halloween, so it would be remiss of me not to wish you a Happy one. I know you won’t be celebrating; not that we are either, but it’s still heartwarming to see some of the littles in the neighborhood running up and down the streets looking for sweets. I’m saving a Hershey bar for when you’re back, so that we can share it like we always do. The leaves have all turned by now, and Prospect Park is a beautiful shade of golden hues. I’ve taken to walking with your sister, as it fills a small void in my days. She’s excellent company, and somehow always has some local gossip at the ready for when I need cheering up. I couldn’t help myself and told her the story of your bicycling disaster. Please don’t be too mad at me. I hope that by now, you’ve learned to ride a bike properly, and that poor Pappy hasn’t had to fish you out of any more ditches. Please thank him for me, because I don’t know what I would have done if he had not been there to rescue you.

If I know you at all, I know that you’ve been hemming and hawing over the weather over there, but the longer it rains in England, the better I feel knowing you’re on solid ground. I’m glad to know you’re able to find some respite in the Officers Club, even if it’s just some jazz records and mediocre scotch. Good company can make all the difference and it warms my heart to know you have that in your crew and fellow officers. I’m putting my bet in now on Nash and the Red Cross girl. Having someone is important, so if he finds that in her, I’m glad for them both. Tell Pappy not to be so pessimistic though, I’m sure Nash will make her very happy.

Speaking of having someone waiting, I paid a visit to Harry Crosby’s wife, Jean. I thought she could use a friend, so we spent an afternoon in the city, having lunch and doing some shopping. It’s lonely enough moving to a new city, but with her husband overseas, I can’t imagine how she feels. I know how I feel waiting for you, and so she must feel it tenfold. With the holidays approaching, I’ve invited her to spend Thanksgiving with us. I couldn’t bear the idea of her spending it alone. She’s a darling woman, and I agree, we will have to double with her and Harry once you’re both home.

Sweetheart, how you could ever think that I will not worry about you while you’re over there, is a mystery. I will worry, and miss you, every single day until you’re back home. I will be holding you to that date, Robbie, and am counting the days until we’re on the dance floor, together. Until then…

Forever yours,

Reaching for the bottle of perfume on the dresser, Jo quickly spritzed a generous helping of the floral scent on the paper in her hand, to ensure it lasted the long journey, before folding it up and sliding it into its designated envelope. Carefully, and with a delicate hand, she addressed the letter to Thorpe Abbotts Airbase. She had received Rosie’s first letter earlier in the week, and had spent that time drafting multiple responses; all of which had ended up in the waste paper basket in the corner of her bedroom. She had spent three nights mulling it over, before deciding that she should clear her head, and write as if he was sitting next to her. Well, it was not so much her deciding as it was advice from Jean Crosby. If anyone had experience in writing these types of letters, it was Jean. And so, Jo had written as if Rosie was sitting next to her; as if he was leaning across the table and telling her the details of his latest adventure with enthusiasm, and she had written back with equal vigor.

Picking up the letter, and her purse, she made her way from the bedroom, downstairs to where her mother was having coffee with Mrs. Rosenthal. Entering the kitchen, both women ceased their discussion to greet her, her mother holding out an envelope for her.

“Josephine, this came in the mail for you.”

Jo gently plucked the envelope from her mothers hand, smiling when she saw the handwriting on the front was none other than Rosie’s. Carefully, she slipped it into her purse to read once she was alone.

“Another letter so quickly?” Her mother’s grin widened. “He must miss you terribly.”

“He doesn’t write to me that frequently,” Mrs. Rosenthal joked, sending a subtle wink in Jo’s direction. “But then again, he’s not in love with me.”

“Somehow, I think he’ll always love you most, Mrs. Rosenthal, and I’m quite alright with that.” Jo smiled.

“Where are you off to?” Her mother asked, noticing that she had her purse in hand.

“Off to post this to Robbie, and then to meet Jean Crosby for lunch.”

“Oh, well then, travel safely, and let her know she’s welcome to come here for dinner tonight if she wants.”

“I’ll let her know, mom,” Jo smiled, moving to bid her mother goodbye with a quick peck to the cheek, before doing the same with Mrs. Rosenthal. “Now, you two can go back to your gossip.”

“It’s not gossip, Josephine, if we’re talking about our children.” The older woman’s voice held a lilt to it as Jo exited the kitchen.

“Then stop planning our wedding!” Jo called back with a laugh as she exited their home and made her way out into the Brooklyn sunshine.

The fall air was chilly, but not unbearably so as she walked down the block to the Post Office, letter in hand and a prayer in her mind that it would reach Rosie safely. She knew that the post could be unreliable, and take time to reach those stationed overseas, but she hoped against all odds that maybe her letter would get to its intended recipient a little faster than all the rest. It was silly of her to think so, after all, she wasn’t the only woman in New York who was missing her sweetheart, but this was new to her. To both of them. Beginning a romance with thousands of miles between them. Some days Jo regretted not saying anything sooner, wondering if they would have had time before he shipped out. But, then she thinks to herself that they did have time; years together growing up, and learning the ways of each other inside and out, and for that she would always be thankful.

A short cab ride later, and Jo was knocking on Jean Crosby’s front door. When the door swung open, Jean on the other side, the two women greeted each other as if they were old friends. A kinship that was shared in the dark times of war, but somehow found a ray of light to brighten their days.

“Jo! I was starting to think you got lost!” Her friend teased.

“No,” Jo grinned, red lips stretched into a smile. “I had to stop by the post and drop off Robbie’s letter.”

“Finally finished it, then?”

“I did. And just in time to reply to the one I got this morning.”

“Back to back?” Jean looked at her, eyebrow raised in what Jo could only describe as concern.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jean sighed, stopping mid way of pulling her white gloves on, to face Jo with a serious expression.

“Well…”

“You don’t think…”

“The only time I get back to back letters from Bing, is when something bad is happening over there.”

“Jean…”

“If it came from him, he’s fine, honey.” she reached out, hand coming down over Jo’s in reassurance.

“It’s in my purse,” Jo confessed. “I haven’t read it yet.”

“Do you want to go sit and read it before we leave?”

“I suppose I’d feel better if I knew for sure he was alright.”

Nodding, Jean pulled off her gloves, and dropped her purse back on the credenza by the door, before guiding Jo further into the house.

Once settled in the living room, Jean began to step away, to allow Jo the privacy that a letter from your man overseas deserved, when Jo’s hand shot out to stop her.

“Could you…?”

“Of course.” Jean smiled softly, settling into the sofa next to her, but with enough space not to read over her shoulder.

Jo carefully opened the envelope, fingers trembling as she slid the paper from its confines. Unfolding it, her eyes scanned over the paper quickly, before releasing a shuddering breath of relief.

“He’s alright,” her hand flew to her chest as the words escaped her. “He’s somewhere called the Flak House?”

“Never heard of that,” Jean looked confused. “What is it?”

My Dearest Jo,

Sweetheart, I can’t promise this letter will be as happy as my last one. What I can promise is that I’m alright, and spending the next week in the English countryside at a place called the Flak House. It’s a place used to help soldiers rest after rough missions. Jo, it’s been three rough ones, back to back, with what felt like no end in sight. I will spare you the details, because you shouldn’t have to read about all of the blood, and horrors, but I do sadly need to tell you that we lost Herbert Nash on the first mission. It happened so quickly, it didn’t register until I had my feet on the ground again. I broke the news to Helen, his Red Cross girl, and I pray that what I saw on her face, is something no one will ever have to see on yours.

One day, maybe, I will give you the details of our third mission, but for now, I know I should be counting my blessings. And enjoying this time, because sweetheart, this estate truly is something, but the kind of something I would want to be enjoying with you. Together, in the warm sun, reading our favorite books, or rowing on the lake. The boys are enjoying their week of R&R, but I can’t find it in me to relax. Though, I suppose you knew that already. Nobody knows me better than you, Jo, and it’s a time like this that I wish I had you near.

I couldn’t sleep, which is the reason for this letter, and I think a part of it is that I needed to make sure you knew I was alright. The other part of me, in some way, needed to get this all off my chest. I’m sorry for burdening you with these ugly truths. I’ll try not to do it often, and I hope that it doesn’t become a habit with every mission, that I’m left rattled to my core with fear. I can hear you telling me to take care of myself, and honey, I promise I’m trying. By the time this makes it to you back home, I will be long gone from my stay here, and back on base. I’m sorry for the short letter, darling. I promise the next one will be longer, and happier. Until then…

All of my love, always

Robbie

Jo finished reading, her stomach dropping as she turned to Jean, to confirm that the other woman had in fact, been right.

“Jo, what is it?”

“He couldn’t say much, spared most of the details, but he said it was rough up there.”

“Is he alright?”

“Robbie’s fine,” Jo confirmed. “But, Herbert Nash, is dead.”

“Oh that poor Red Cross girl!” She gasped, hand coming to cover her mouth in shock. “Didn’t they just meet?”

“They did,” Jo nodded. “I told Robbie I was rooting for the pair in the letter I just posted.”

“How could you have known?”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel sore over it.”

“I know you do,” Jean sympathized. The woman had enough sense to stand, and pull Jo up with her, knowing if she didn’t get them out of the house, her friend would likely spiral with worry. “Now come on, put that letter back in your purse, and let’s get out of the house for a bit.”

With a sigh, Jo nodded, and carefully put the letter back in the safety of her purse, before turning and following Jean towards the front door. For now, she could breathe easy, knowing that Rosie was safe. She knew that his mind was likely full of dark clouds, replaying events of the damage over and over, causing him grief and sadness; it brought with it a melancholy feeling that she wasn’t with him, and couldn’t be there for him to lean on. She knew he had his crew, and now, Harry Crosby, and she prayed that he had the sense to use that to his advantage.

Jo was grateful that she had Jean. Their afternoon out kept her mind off of the letter that was burning a hole in her purse, and the man who was an ocean away, suffering the loss of a friend. They had stopped by the Automat for lunch, before taking the train uptown for some window shopping, and at Jo’s insistence, a new hat for Jean. By the time she had gotten back home, her mother was already cleaning up dinner. Her father was in the living room, the radio on while he listened to the nightly news.

“Josephine, you missed dinner.” Her mother lamented at the sound of the front door closing behind her.

“I’m sorry, mom,” Jo sighed, entering the kitchen and sliding into one of the empty chairs. “We got a late start on our lunch.”

Turning from her spot at the sink, Mrs. Harris surveyed her daughter, before promptly shutting the water and moving to sit across from her.

“What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Jean and I just had a busy day is all.”

“Josephine, don’t lie to me.” She spoke with the authority of a mother who meant business, and Jo couldn’t help the few tears that escaped from behind her eyes.

“Robbie’s letter,” she swiftly wiped away the first stray tear. “Oh mom, he lost one of his closest friends!”

Mrs. Harris let out a shuddering breath at Jo’s admission. The fear she had felt at the sight of her daughter's tears made her think the absolute worst for the young man who had become part of their family, and stolen her daughter’s heart.

“Who was it?” Mrs. Harris asked.

“Herbert Nash. He trained with Robbie in Texas, and he was killed on their first mission.”

“May his soul rest in peace.” Mrs. Harris made the sign of the cross.

“Robbie said it was so bad, three flights, back to back. He didn’t say much else, just that it was too much blood and horror to share.”

“Jesus, that poor boy.”

Jo fished the letter from her purse, sliding it across the table to her mother, giving a small nod for her to read it.

“Are you sure you want me to?”

“Just the once.” Jo smiled slightly.

“Well, alright then.”

Mrs. Harris pulled the paper from the envelope, and then the only sound in the room was the breathing of mother and daughter, and the muffled sound of the radio coming from the living room. The pair sat together until Jo’s mother folded the paper back up, and handed it back to her. The silence was growing thicker the longer they sat there, neither sure of what to say. When Jo’s father joined them in the kitchen, the two women seemed to snap out of their daze.

“What’s going on in here then?”

“She’s got another letter from Robert.”

“Didn’t you just get one? Is he alright?”

Jo nor her mother missed the recognition in Mr. Harris’ eyes. Having served in The Great War, he knew what could be in any one of the letters his daughter received, and he hoped for her sake, that none of them would make her cry the way she was now.

“He’s fine. Lost a man during his first mission, and was sent to an estate for rest.” Her mother filled him in for her.

“Jesus, already? Didn’t the boy just get over there?” Her father looked shocked.

“He said it was really bad, dad.” Jo spoke up, finding her voice again.

“Well, the best thing you can do is be there for him, even though you’re far away right now.” Her mother let her hand fall to cover hers, eyes filled with the understanding of a woman whose husband had been away once before.

“Your mother was what kept me going during the war,” Her father agreed. “I can promise you, Robert will take your words with him up there when he’s flying.”

“Go now,” her mother ushered her out of the kitchen. “Clean yourself up and write him back. You’ll sleep better tonight knowing you got your feelings out.”

She felt heavy as she stood from her chair, her legs like lead as she made her way upstairs to her bedroom, numbness encompassing her until she had the door shut securely behind her. The words blood and horror swirling around in her mind over and over, like the edges of a cyclone that showed no signs of slowing down. Is that what this was? A storm that would continue to speed up, with nothing to stop it, until the last bomb was dropped, the last round fired? She wasn’t sure, but she turned the ideas over and over, words sticking together in her head as she changed for bed, removed her makeup, until finally, she pulled out the chair at her desk to begin her reply to Rosie.

My Dearest Robbie,

Sweetheart, I don’t think there are enough words for me to express just how sorry I am for you after opening your last letter. To lose Nash so quickly, and in such a way. I hope that it didn’t pain you too deeply to break that news to his Red Cross sweetheart, and that she is able to find some happiness again soon. Do not apologize for the length of your last letter. Every letter from you is something I treasure, whether it’s three words, or three pages. I will always reply, so long as you’ll have me.

I’d like to hear more about the Estate you spent the week at, if you’re willing to talk about it. It does sound like the kind of place I would love to spend time with you, though, anywhere you are, is somewhere I want to be. Maybe we can escape somewhere lush and green once you return, and spend our days under the sun, with nothing but time on our hands. Until then, yes, you were right, I do wish you’d take care of yourself. I know you will, but that sometimes it takes a bit of pushing. Don’t try and shoulder the burden all alone, Robbie. You have people who will shoulder it with you; Pappy isn’t just your co-pilot in the sky. Try and remember that.

I’d like to try and make you smile, if only for a moment. I found our mothers gossiping at the kitchen table this afternoon as I headed out. They claim it’s not gossip if they’re talking about their children; I suspect they’re plotting as usual. Speaking of your mother, try and squeeze in an extra letter for her, if you can. She misses you, though she claims to be alright with you writing to me more than her, I know she’d appreciate an extra piece of mail and to know you’re doing well. Don’t give her too much grief for the gossip, you know she can’t help it.

I’m counting the days until you’re here again, Robbie, and we can carry on as we were meant to; together. Until that time comes, I’m sending you all of my love.

All of me, always

Read Part 4 Here

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ginabaker1666 · 1 month

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All I Do Is Dream of You

From the Love Letter Series

Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal x Josephine Harris (OFC)

The morning of the Bremen Raid, Rosie finds himself unable to sleep, and the only person who could ease his nerves is an ocean away in New York. He does the only thing he knows how, when so far away, and thus, pens his first of letters to Jo.

Read Part 1 Here Follow along with the Love Letters playlist

October 1943

Dearest Jo,

It’s fall in East Anglia, yet I can’t bring myself to enjoy it as much as usual. The weather is so different than it is back home. It rains all the time, and it’s hard to get anywhere with all the mud. I much prefer walking around the city huddled under an umbrella with you, than trying to get around on a bike, with all the puddles. I’m not made for these bikes, sweetheart; and if I know you, I know you’d get a good laugh at my expense. I’ve fallen off quite a few times. The latest landed me in the shallow end of a ditch, half soaked, on my way back from the supply hut. The only thing I could think to do was inflate my life vest. Pappy found me laying there and hasn’t let me live it down since. Now that I’ve told you, I don’t think you will either. I can almost hear you laughing as I write this. I miss the sound of your laugh, Jo. I didn’t think it was possible to miss someone so much, but I do. I miss you terribly. I hope you’re managing in Brooklyn without me, and by managing I mean not worrying about me too much.

The good news, depending on how you look at it, is that this weather has afforded us no shortage of evenings in the Officers Club. It’s definitely not Minton’s but it fills the void for the time being. The fellas are good company. Nash met a Red Cross girl stationed here and he’s been trying to woo her since we stepped foot on base. Pappy thinks he has no shot. I’ll let you know how that works out for him. But, the drinks are alright, and the music fills the silence. Remember when we went to Carnegie to see Benny Goodman? This is nothing like that, but I like to pretend it is.

I found out that Harry Crosby, and his wife live in the city. He said they moved before he shipped out. When this is all over, we’ll have to go out with them on a double. But not before I take you out, just us. Remember my promise, Jo. I’ll be waiting for you at Minton’s. Until then, I’ll wait for your reply.

Yours, no matter how far away

Robbie

Rosie gave the letter a once over before carefully folding it and slipping it inside the envelope that was on the desk next to him. Once he had sealed it, he took care in making sure that Jo’s address was legible. It was nerve wracking enough that he had to worry about mail making it safely across an entire ocean before reaching home, but he didn’t want the reason it never got there to be because the address couldn’t be read.

Standing from the desk, he picked up his hat, and the envelope and made his way to the door. It was early, and he was flying today, but he wanted to make sure he made the post before the day got started. This was his first mission with the Hundredth and he had woken up slightly on edge, so he had gotten himself dressed and sat down to write to Jo. When he was home, and found himself stressed, he would seek her out and she would help to ease his worries. A letter to her was as close to the real thing as he could get while he was away. He had spilled his thoughts onto the page in the hopes of conveying just how much he missed her. It had helped, only slightly. One part of him figuring that the nerves would ease after he had one under his belt. After Bremen. After she wrote back so that he knew these feelings weren’t entirely one sided. He knew he was thinking foolishly and the rational part of his brain would blame it on the nerves. He knew that she would never have said the things she did at the train station if she didn’t feel for him what he felt for her, but distance was a funny thing. Until he was back home with her, he’d never fully know.

The sun hadn’t even begun its ascent over the horizon when he ducked inside the APO hut to drop off his letter. The Corporal working the desk saluted him before accepting the envelope destined for New York, and Rosie watched as it was dropped in a basket along with dozens of other letters. He could only pray that it arrived safely to its intended recipient. Departing the building with a quick smile and a two fingered salute to the young Corporal, Rosie pushed through the doors and made his way back outside to journey to the mess hall. It was barely dawn, and when he entered, he found his crew and a few others already eating, but an empty seat had been saved for him next to Pappy. Quickly getting a plate and some chow, he made his way across the room to join his crew, sliding effortlessly into the seat next to his co-pilot.

“You were up and at em early this morning.” Pappy spoke around a mouthful of powdered eggs.

“Had to drop something off at APO on my way over.” Rosie replied, not sure just how much he wanted to give away. “Writing your mom already?” Nash joked from across the table.

Rosie didn’t reply, which in hindsight, he realized was the information his friends had been fishing for.

“You weren’t writing to your mom, were you?” Nash spoke again.

With a sigh, Rosie looked up, shaking his head at the Pilot before relenting.

“No, I wasn’t writing my Ma,” Rosie fixed Nash with a look. “I was writing to someone back home.”

“Is someone back home that pretty thing in the frame next to your cot ?” Pappy turned to him.

“Yes, it is, you nosey sonuvabitch,” Rosie gently shoved him with his shoulder. “And her name is Josephine.”

“Well, how come you never talk about sweet Josephine?”

“It’s…” He started, the words dying on his tongue as he tried to explain that she wasn’t his girl, not officially, and they had only made this discovery of feelings a mere few weeks ago.

“If you tell me she’s not actually your girl, well that’s a damn shame because she sure is something!” Nash whistled.

“She’s my girl,” Rosie finally conceded with a small smile. “She’s always been my girl.”

“Well how come you ain’t ever mentioned her?”

“The picture next to the bed isn’t enough? I have to spell it out?”

“If that was my girl I’d be spelling it out!” Nash wiggled his eyebrows lewdly.

In the seat next to Rosie, Pappy could feel the annoyance rolling off him in waves, and chose that moment to intervene on his friend's behalf.

“Nash, enough,” Pappy spoke, pointing his fork at the pilot to get his point across. “We don’t talk about wives, girlfriends, mothers or sisters that way.”

“Rosie knows I’m only kidding! Besides, I spent the night with Helen. I’m not trying to steal sweet Josephine away.”

The group collectively groaned at how unaware the pilot seemed to be, but no one pushed the argument.It was an unspoken rule; you didn’t take grudges or disagreements with you to the hardstand, or up in the sky. You left those on the ground, and when you came back, you thanked god you did and the grudges just didn’t seem to matter anymore. Because you were back on the ground.

Bremen cost them so many. Seven planes and 72 men. It had left his bones rattling under his skin, and the sound of flak bouncing around in his skull long after he had been back on solid ground. Marienburg had proven slightly better, in that all forts returned, but between the damage caused during the Bremen raid, and flak fire over Marienburg, Rosie’s Riveters was out of commission for the time being. Royal Flush didn’t sound promising to him, but, there was a war on and he didn’t have the right to be finicky over which plane they sent him up in. The fact of the matter was, the red light had been on all week, and he was going up a third time. Three missions in three days.

Lemmons had begged him for answers as he practically tumbled from the hatch of Royal Flush. It was all he could do to just stand there, watching as they pulled the men from the fort who needed medical attention, his eyes wild as he took in the sight of another crewmember throwing up what was left of his breakfast. Munster cost them everyone. Every plane that went up that morning had been shot down. How he’d been the exception, Rosie couldn’t quite figure out, even as he sat in interrogation repeating the same words over and over. No chutes. No record.

He had stumbled his way back to the equipment hut after interrogation. He scoffs at the word. He still thinks it wasn’t so much an interrogation as it was reciting a casualty list. The names of the down forts, the men inside of them, turning over and over in his mind. He barely registers that he’s removed his flight gear, exited the hut, and is stumbling to his own billet. He feels numb when he drops his jacket to his cot, grabs his toiletries and heads for the showers. Barely acknowledges Pappy calling out to him, mumbling a quiet response when his co-pilot tells him that Harding wants to see him after he’s sorted himself out.

Now, sitting in Harding’s office, he visibly balks when he hears that his crew is being sent on a mandatory week of R&R. They’re off to the Flak House. He had opened his mouth to complain, but the look that the Colonel sent his way was eerily reminiscent of one that his Ma had given him many times over the years. Being on the receiving end of that look was never a good thing, so he had promptly shut his mouth, and accepted his orders. When he was dismissed, and back in his hut, he found Pappy had waited around for him, anxious to know what Harding had wanted to see him about.

“So?” He prompted, his face paling as he watched Rosie pull his garment bag from under the bed.

“Pack your things,” Rosie glanced up at him only briefly. “Harding’s sending us to the Flak House.”

“We-wait, what?”

Picking Jo’s picture up off the side table next to his cot, he heaved a sigh as he placed it next to his toiletries bag. What he wouldn’t give to be able to talk to her right now. To pour every emotion of the last three days out, knowing that she wouldn’t judge him. That she would hold on to every word he spoke, no matter. But until he could do that, he would have to settle for what he could do, and hope that when he returned to Thorpe Abbotts, there would be an envelope waiting for him. Until then…

Dearest Jo…

Read part 3 Here

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ginabaker1666 · 1 month

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You Belong To Me

From the Love Letter Series

Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal x Josephine Harris (OFC)

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

“I’d better see you at Minton’s…”

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

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

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

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

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

Josephine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You promise?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did they make it right?” He asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…you did?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Jo.”

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

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

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

“Come on, pretty girl, let's dance!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh honey…”

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

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

“Pinky promise?”

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

Read Part 2 Here

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

#rosie rosenthal x oc #robert rosie rosenthal #masters of the air fic #Robert Rosie Rosenthal x ofc #Gina baker writes #mota fic #Nate Mann

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 26 days

Text

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 11

AO3

Warnings: Language, angst

Word Count: 3.9k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58

Rosie's palms were slick with sweat, the din of the band muffled to his ears beneath the deafening thumping of his heart as he pushed his way through the crowds, never faltering, even when people called to him as he passed. The door seemed all at once impossibly far away when every second meant not knowing where Frankie was, not knowing if she was ok.

A sudden silence fell upon him as he stepped out into the night air, taking a moment to adjust to the darkness. The sound of footsteps on gravel caught his attention, and he trailed after the crunch around to the side of the hut, stopping dead in his tracks as he took in the scene before him. George sat on the bench, leaning forward on her elbows, a deep frown creasing her cheeks. Frankie was pacing in front of her, a freshly lit cigarette letting off smoke as she held it to her lips. Even in the dim light, he could make out the redness in her eyes, and a wave of nausea coursed through him as he realised she'd been crying.

"Frankie?"

Their gazes snapped towards him, unaware of his presence until now. George was wide-eyed in concern, but there was something cold in Frankie's gaze - bitter, a type of ruefulness he'd never seen in her, especially not directed at him. She dropped the cigarette, stomping it out with her heel as she turned to walk away from him. "Frankie," George called, a warning tone in her voice, like a mother scolding a child.

It worked. She paused, face tilted up to the sky as she let out a long, exhausted sigh, and Rosie wanted nothing more but to step forward and hold her in his arms. But he knew in that moment she wouldn't let him. His eyes met George's for a moment, a nod of understanding passing between them. She rose to her feet, moving to give them some privacy, but as she passed him she paused.

"If you break her heart, I swear I'll kill you, Rosenthal."

"Understood, ma'am."

She walked away, the sound of her footsteps fading with distance. Frankie's shoulders were tense as she rubbed at her eyes, attempting to remove the evidence of the tears she'd shed over him.

"... Honey?" Rosie asked slowly. She stormed towards him, hands reaching out towards his chest to give him a shove, to release the anger bubbling inside her. But when the moment came, she froze, seizing the lapels of his jacket in her clenched fists, unable to meet his eye, gaze fixed on the line of medals that decorate his chest.

"Hey," He spoke gently, scarcely more than a whisper. Reaching a gentle hand to her arm, he felt her grip loosen, peeling her hand away from him so that he could lift it, placing a kiss to the inside of her wrist, gaze never leaving her face. She met his eyes the moment his lips brushed against her skin, jaw visibly clenched. "C'mon. Talk to me."

"You're going back up, aren't you?" Frankie's voice came low and hoarse. Her knuckle brushed against his cheek so briefly, yet he felt the urge to lean in against it, to feel her hand against his face.

"I don't know, I haven't decided yet."

"Yes, you have. You haven't realised it, but you'll go - that's who you are."

The corner of his mouth curled in an involuntary smile, charmed at the thought of being known so well. But her expression had no humour, and her fingers balled back into a fist, slipping out of his grasp.

"They'll replace me with someone who can't do the job as well as I can. I'm saving a life by staying - I can't just walk away from this, Frankie."

"What about me?" She knew the words were selfish the moment they left her, the shame making her squirm. "I'd been waiting for this for so long - it was keeping me going, knowing that I didn't have to live in fear for much longer, and now you're just dragging it out for what? So you can feel good about yourself?"

Rosie's brow furrowed, taking a half-step backwards away from her, lips parting for a moment as he searched for something to say. He had noted the smell of alcohol on her breath, telling himself she didn't mean what she said, but the words still stung.

"I want to stop. If I could, I would, but-"

"But you can-"

"No, I can't! This is bigger than any one person, I can't just give it up!"

Frankie's lip had begun to tremble, and she sniffed loudly, raising her hand to hastily wipe away the tears forming in her eyes before they could fall. Before he could think about it, he was stepping forward to envelop her in an embrace, but she batted his hand away before he could touch her, and Rosie swore he felt his heart skip a beat.

"I've been doing this for nearly five fucking years," She shook her head. "I deserved this, Rosie. Today wasn't just about you, I deserved to have this one thing."

He paused then, sucking in a long breath. He hadn't considered that - that this had been her war far longer than it had been his. How many bodies had she dragged out of planes in her time? How much blood had she wiped clean? More than he'd ever seen.

"I'm sorry."

"But you won't change anything."

"No. But I need you."

"That's not fair. I wait for you every time and it is agony, and every time we're together I can't help but think of all the ways your next mission could go wrong, and I don't know how much longer I can do it."

Taking a step forward, he raised a tentative hand, holding back a sigh of relief as she let him touch her, his thumb skirting across her cheek. "I think you're the reason I'm still alive." He admitted, noticing the way her chest heaved as she sucked in a deep breath. "This was never gonna work out perfectly for us, but you're what I come back for. It's like... I think of you and I can do whatever it takes to make it back alive... because I love you."

All at once Frankie collapsed into him, head pressed firm against his chest, arms wrapped almost unbearably tight around his back. If she had to, she could live without him - she could get up and live her life every day, but it wouldn't be the same. He had made himself essential to her, had burrowed beneath her skin like an itch she couldn't scratch, and that presence would never leave, alive or dead. But a part of her would die with him. He squeezed her shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, warm breath fanning her skin.

There was nothing she could do. She could stand there in the dark and call off the whole thing, refuse to ever speak to him again, but the part of her that he occupied wasn't going away. Distance wouldn't solve anything, it would simply amplify her misery. The fear wouldn't abate, so long as there was breath in his lungs.

Rosie's cheek rested against her head, listening quietly to the steady thump of her heart. His hand moved from her shoulder to her hip to her hair, as if trying to map every inch of her with his fingertips, unable to hold her close enough without fusing his skin to hers. This was what he came home for, this was what kept him alive - what was heaven to the sound of her breathing?

"I love you too," She uttered. After a moment, Frankie raised her head, chin resting against his chest as she looked up at him. Rosie lifted a hand, wiping away the remnants of unshed tears with the back of his palm, a tired smile curling her lip as she let her eyes flutter shut. If he could've spent the rest of his life staring at her, he would've. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, reaching an arm around his back to take her hand in his.

"C'mon," He spoke softly, stepping backwards out of the embrace and tugging her along by the hand.

"Come where?" Frankie asked, brow furrowed.

"Just come," A grin creased his cheeks as she fell in step, their footsteps breaking the late-night silence.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The single lightbulb illuminating the path to the mess hall buzzed intermittently, flickering slightly as moths hovered around its glow. There was no one around, the staff having long gone for the night, the rooms within laying deserted. Frankie began to chuckle as she realised what they were doing, struggling to restrain a laugh as Rosie jostled the doorknob, wrestling with the thing for a minute before it came open with a creak.

"See? Like magic," He proclaimed.

"Yeah, on your third try," She snorted as he held out his elbow for her to take his arm as if they were entering a high-class restaurant.

It was utterly still inside the hall, the quiet so piercing that they could almost hear the beating of their own hearts. Rosie led her through to the back, flicking on the kitchen light as the shelves and shelves of food came suddenly into view.

"You're a thief, Rosenthal," Frankie pointed out, pushing herself up to perch on the edge of the counter.

He hummed distractedly, rifling through the supplies now at their disposal. "They'll understand. Date night with the wife 'n all." For a moment he continued without realising what he'd said, and then he froze, turning his head slightly to glance nervously back at her.

Frankie was already smiling, and offered up a shrug, a wordless assurance of 'someday'. He turned back to the shelves, hoping the shadows would hide the tinge of red he could feel blooming in his cheeks.

"Aha," He declared, retrieving a pair of chocolate bars and tossing one across to her. Peeling back the paper, she took a bite as he pushed himself up onto the counter beside her, tapping the chocolate together as if they were toasting glasses.

"This is better than a party," Rosie sighed, leaning back against the wall as he raised a hand to loosen his tie, undoing the top button of his shirt.

"Really? You won't find any good booze in here," She raised a brow, holding the chocolate bar between her teeth as she shrugged off her jacket, tossing it unceremoniously onto the floor.

"I'd rather sit around with you."

"Mm, yeah. I'd rather eat chocolate," Frankie mused, staring down at the half-eaten bar in her hand before going in for another bite.

"Oh, nice - romantic," Rosie chuckled.

"What? I'm just being honest. That's gonna be the worst part about going to America - no Cadbury's. I'm making this sacrifice for you Robert, that's romantic."

"You're right, I'm sorry for not appreciating your suffering," Pushing himself upright, he leant over to press a kiss to her cheek, missing as she turned her head and accidentally pressing his lips to her chin.

Frankie let out a cackle, grabbing him by the tie and pulling him in for a real kiss as she slid sideways off the counter. He could taste chocolate on her lips, one hand squeezing her hip, the other cushioning her shoulder as she backed up against the wall. She ran a deliberate hand through his hair, messing up his curls in the way that always made her smile. He was going to have to stop buying hair gel.

Rosie could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her shirt, pressing against her with his palm as if they could meld into one. This wasn't like him. His mother would've been red in the face. But it wasn't his fault that Frankie was just so damn pretty. Simply breathing seemed twice as hard whenever she smiled - it was a wonder how he'd ever lived without it. The moment she'd left the party, his stomach had dropped so hard he thought he'd vomit, so scared had he been at the prospect of losing her. He cupped her jaw, tilting her face higher towards him, the press of her head against the wall messing up the curls George had no doubt spent ages tending to.

She snaked an arm around the back of his neck, trapped between his shoulders and the wall. It was an unwinnable situation, but she could survive the fear if it meant he was hers once it was all over. Rosie was good - no, scratch that - he was the best. If anyone could make it back, he could.

He had just begun to loosen her tie when a sudden banging at the door startled them, tearing themselves apart as someone hammered a heavy fist, shining a torch through the window at the front end of the mess hall.

"We know someone's in there!" A booming yell sounded. "Come out!"

Frankie clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling the laughter that threatened to erupt as Rosie gritted his teeth, trying his damndest not to do the same and give them away worse than they had already. She scrambled to collect her jacket, attempting to smooth down her hair with one hand as he hastily disposed of any evidence of their late-night feast.

The kitchen had a narrow back door, and Frankie pried it open as quietly as she could. Whoever had found them was still hammering on the front door, and as she peered out into the darkness she couldn't see any sign of reinforcements. "Go, go!" She whispered, shoes clutched in her hand to muffle her footsteps as they crept outside, scurrying across the grass towards the next row of Nissen huts.

As soon as they were home free she let a mighty laugh tear itself from her chest, splitting the air and undoubtedly waking up a few disgruntled workers. Rosie had begun to laugh too, their shoulders brushing as they swayed against each other, giddy on adrenaline. They were far too old to be sneaking around like teenagers, but he couldn't honestly remember the last time he'd had so much fun. Slinging an arm around her shoulders, she leaned against him as they wandered back towards her hut, the party's crowds not yet dissipated out into the world.

Approaching her door, Frankie turned to face him, walking backwards as she wrapped her arms around his back. She took a deep breath, letting out a sigh, giddiness wearing off. "See you tomorrow?"

Rosie nodded, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Yeah. I've gotta go see Bennett in the morning, I'll catch you after."

"Yeah, alright." Pushing herself up onto her toes, she kissed him one last time, before slipping inside.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was quiet inside, the bathroom light humming as George stepped into the doorway, toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, curls brushed out of her hair. "You're back."

"I'm back," Frankie sighed, scraping a hand through her hair as she collapsed backwards onto the bed, springs creaking beneath her. She heard desperate scrambling from the next room as George hurried to finish up, and the quick step of bare feet against the floor as she scurried over, sitting cross-legged on her bed beside her.

"...And?" She asked, tone laced with worry.

"I'm living with it," Frankie admitted, throwing up her hands in surrender.

"That's it?"

"Think about it, George!" She exclaimed, rolling over onto her stomach so that she could look up at her. "If I made him stop, if I said he had to go home, he'd be miserable. He'd resent it - he wouldn't resent me, 'cause he's too bloody good, but he'll hate it. He'll spend the rest of his life regretting it, and I don't wanna do that. I'll have to live with it too."

The corner of George's lip curled in a half-smirk. "It's that serious, huh? 'Rest of your life' type stuff?"

"... I think so."

"I get it. It's better in the long run."

"Yeah, if there is one," Frankie sighed, staring dejectedly down at the floor.

"Oi," George slid off the bed, crouching down before her, forcing Frankie to look at her. "Don't gimme that shit, ok? He's the best pilot this place has ever seen, no one has chances as good as he does. I know it's scary - you know I know that."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know. Sorry."

"Don't apologise. Get up and take that uniform off... you smell like chocolate."

Chuckling, Frankie pushed herself upright, beginning to peel away her clothes as George began to meticulously pin her hair into curlers for the next day. Sometimes she felt guilty - lamenting over the possibility of losing the man she loved when George had already lost hers. As if she were tempting fate, painting George's life as the worst possible version of her future.

"...You know I love you, right?" She asked slowly.

George looked up, brow raised. "Yeah, 'course. Why, are you dumping Rosie to run away with me now?"

Frankie let out a huff of laughter, buttoning up her pyjama shirt. "Yeah, that's the plan," She nodded, the pair grinning at each other as she climbed into bed. Flicking off the bedside lamp, she buried her head into the pillow, eyes shut tightly as she tried to fall asleep.

After a few minutes of silence, George spoke up again. "I would make a prettier bride than Rosie."

Grabbing her pillow, she hurled it at her, knocking George off balance and almost sending her tipping over the corner of the bed. "Oi!"

"I'm trying to sleep! Shut up and gimme my pillow back, or the engagement's off."

George chuckled, lobbing it back with as much, if not greater force, and Frankie yelped as it collided with her face, the sound muffled by the pillow.

"... I think you gave me a black eye."

"You're being a fucking baby."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"General Doolittle has ordered the air strategy to shift radically...

"to shoot them down we need to get them in the air...

"...With bombers as the bait."

Frankie lingered outside the closed door to Bennett's office, arms folded tightly across her chest as she listened to the conversation within. She'd had to argue her way past a fair few guards just to get this far, and was resisting the sudden urge to march through the door and break something - preferably Bennett's nose.

She hadn't told Rosie she was coming, and the more she listened in, the more she felt confident she didn't want him to know either. He'd probably try to stop her from starting a fight. Footsteps approached the door from the inside, and Frankie ducked into the nearest office and out of view as Rosie passed. The room's inhabitants looked up at her as she entered, brows furrowed in confusion, and she offered an awkward smile, pretending to fix one of the clocks until he was safely out of sight.

Before the door to Bennett's office could fall close, she stepped in, propping her arm across the doorframe and blocking the exit.

"Can I help you ma'am?" He asked, brow raised as he stood up from his desk.

"Yeah, actually, I was wondering if you could direct me towards a CO with some basic fucking sense."

Bennett looked momentarily startled, before realisation seemed to flicker across his expression. "Ah. You're Rosenthal's girl, right?"

Frankie frowned. "I also happen to be the most experienced mechanic you've got. But yeah, I guess that works."

"In that case, you probably shouldn't come in here insulting your commanding officers."

"That'd certainly be a concern if I actually worked for you."

"Look... Sergeant? I get it. You found out about the new plan, somehow-"

"I was listening through the door just now."

"...You're really not allowed to do that."

"I really don't care."

"Frankie?" Rosie's voice echoed from the opposite end of the corridor, and she tried her best not to react as she heard his footsteps approaching behind her, felt a gentle hand on her arm. "What're you doing?"

"You know those orders are bullshit," Frankie continued, gaze never leaving Bennett. "And you're letting it happen because you're a fucking coward."

"Okay, Jesus Christ, let's go," Rosie spoke hurriedly, tugging on her arm. "Sir, I'm sorry about this."

"I'm not done-"

"Yes, you are."

The Lieutenant Colonel didn't get a chance to speak before Frankie was dragged out of his doorway, the door falling shut with a heavy thud as Rosie guided her away back down the hall.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? What was that?!"

"Plan A was to strangle him - I think it went well all things considered."

"Do not - what?!" Rosie shook his head, utterly dumbfounded as they stepped outside. "What are you doing?!"

Frankie stopped walking, turning on her heel to face him. "Those orders are gonna get these men killed. I mean, bait? Are they fucking serious?"

"Did you listen in on that entire conversation?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it. The point is, I'm sick of having to stand by and watch them give out these bullshit orders that nobody can stand up to. They're murdering those boys if they do this, they're-"

"I know!" Rosie exclaimed, raising his hands to her shoulders. "I know. I care about them too, you know I do, but they're making me Major now - I can lead them - I'm gonna do everything I can to bring them home."

"... Wait, what? They're making you Major?"

"So you missed that part?"

"I think I blacked out after the 'bait' thing."

"Yeah, I got that impression."

Frankie nodded for a long moment, gnawing at the inside of her cheek. "... I hate not being able to do anything."

"I know," Rosie reached for her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles.

"I'm the one who'll have to clean your blood out of the seat if you don't make it," She stated, unable to meet his eye. He felt the colour drain from his cheeks. "They'll give me your footlocker. I don't - I don't know what to do with it, I don't-" The more she spoke the faster the words came tumbling out, spiralling out of control.

"Hey, hey," Rosie cooed, wrapping an arm around the back of her neck to pull her into his chest. "We're good. We're okay, it's gonna be okay. I'm gonna make it. I dunno if anyone's told you, but I'm kind of a big deal around here."

"Oh, shut up," Frankie thumped a fist against his shoulder, her voice barely audible, muffled against his jacket. When she pulled away she was fighting a smile, a red tint flushing her cheeks as she swept her hair out of her face.

"Seriously," He nodded, lifting his hands to cup her face. "It'll be alright."

"... Yeah."

#masters of the air #rosie rosenthal #masters of the air oc #mota fic #masters of the air fic #rosie rosenthal x oc #fic | i'm your man #oc: frankie #oc: george

88 notes · View notes

hesbuckcompton-baby · 2 months

Text

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 9

AO3

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 3.6k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58

A/N: Sorry this chapter took a while! Please enjoy some filler fluff as a reward for your patience

The January cold was a biting, painful thing, with the uncanny ability to burrow its way deep beneath any clothing, regardless of the layers everyone at Thorpe Abbotts had desperately piled on for protection. Thick, wool socks and scarves were always in order, and a few of the elderly women in the village had begun to make a pretty penny by selling them on to disgruntled pilots who had never before experienced winter outside of California.

Major Kidd had given her Egan's sheepskin jacket. Well, he less gave it to her than he did leave it in the mechanics' hut for her, but she appreciated the gesture nevertheless. The sleeves were too long, but she made do, as it was loose enough on her to fit comfortably over her work overalls. Combined with the wool tights she'd stolen from George, and the fingerless gloves she'd found at the bottom of a drawer somewhere, the weather was almost bearable. Almost.

It had snowed overnight. There was too much ice on the roads to cycle without endangering life and limb, so Frankie had been forced to commandeer a phone and summon Lemmons in one of the jeeps. The man had looked so miserable upon his arrival, that it had been impossible not to laugh. Hat tugged down past his eyebrows, scarf pulled up over his chin, his face was only half visible, and what sliver she could see was contorted in a frown. His gloves were made of bright orange wool, and she suspected the women in the village had run out of the more appealing colours by the time he sought them out. Grinning to herself, she clambered into the jeep, stomping snow off of her boots as she sat down.

"I don't like this country anymore, Frankie," Ken complained, voice muffled by his scarf.

She laughed. "Oh, sweetheart, if you think this is bad..."

He was stricken with a look of complete and utter fear, and Frankie let out a snort. "It gets worse?"

"Probably!"

This information put him in a foul mood for the rest of the drive, muttering and grumbling to himself about 'goddamn snow' and 'goddamn ice' as they pulled up to the runway, tyres gouging fresh marks into the undisturbed blanket of white. They were both left sorely wishing they had finished their work the night before when the weather had been more palatable, but there was no getting around what they had to do now.

The metal of the planes' exteriors was frozen to the touch, bare fingertips left raw and red as they worked away at replacing and tightening various bolts and rivets, breath blooming in frozen clouds in front of their faces. Every five minutes they would have to step away from whatever they were doing and run a few laps around the place just to warm themselves up, aware of what a ridiculous sight they must have made.

"Think they'll go up again tomorrow?" Ken asked, panting as he jogged on the spot behind Frankie, occasionally pausing to throw in a few star jumps.

"Not if the weather doesn't clear up - they'll need better skies than this if the navigators want to get anywhere," She shrugged, pausing halfway through tightening another bolt to jump up and down, attempting to restore feeling to her legs.

"Everyone else is in bed right now," He complained.

"Lucky bastards."

The pair must have appeared entirely absurd, chatting away with stony, irritated expressions as they stomped and jumped around entirely out of synch, and they counted themselves lucky that there wasn't a single other soul out there that morning to bear witness. A lit cigarette hung from between Frankie's lips, the embers only just succeeding in warming her face. Their cheeks and noses had both turned red after only an hour out in the cold, and by the end of their second, neither could justify staying outside any longer.

Kicking the snow off their boots, they shut themselves in the mechanics' hut, the light that hung from the ceiling swaying in the drafty breeze - the result of a ceiling gap that they were unable to locate. Turning on the gas stove that was usually only used to make terrible coffee, the pair pulled up their chairs beside it, holding their frozen hands above the small flame until feeling returned to their fingers.

"I forgot to ask you about your Christmas," Frankie huffed, rubbing her palms together, creating heat from the friction.

"That was nearly a month ago," He pointed out.

"I know. Just felt a bit bad about not asking."

"It was good, yeah. Sammy's folks had a goose, I dunno where they got it from," Lemmons chuckled, pausing for a moment. When he spoke again, there was a glimmer of something in his eye. "How was your Christmas?"

She frowned at him. "I told you before. Good."

"...Mhm."

A sudden knock at the door took them both by surprise, heads snapping towards the unexpected sound. Brows furrowed, they glanced at one another, neither one wanting to get up from their spot beside the stove. "Door's open!" Ken called.

They could hear the sound of someone awkwardly fumbling with the door handle, and Frankie was about to get up when it finally opened. Rosie had to use his foot to pry his way inside, a steaming cup of Red Cross coffee in each hand as he shuffled through, flakes of snow still resting unmelted in his hair. His face was flushed pink, and he wasn't wearing anywhere near enough clothes to protect him from the cold, snow encrusting the soles of his boots.

"Hey!" Frankie beamed, pulling up another chair for him between her and Lemmons. "Jesus, were you trying to get hypothermia?"

"Brought coffee," He said simply, voice still slightly shaky as he sat down, holding the tin mugs out to the mechanics. "And uh-" Reaching into his pocket, Rosie produced a crumpled paper bag containing a couple of doughnuts. "Don't tell Helen. Was only supposed to take one."

"Gee, thanks, Cap," Lemmons nodded gratefully, shooting Frankie a pointed stare that she pretended not to have noticed. She nodded in agreement, both hands wrapped around her cup, feeling the heat seep through the metal. The Red Cross coffee always tasted so much better than the crap they had in the mechanics' hut, and she resisted the urge to grin at the gesture, especially as she realised he had brought nothing for himself.

They drank in silence for a while, the only sound the jagged, laboured breathing of one trying to wear off a chill. "...So, uh..." Rosie began, hands folded in his lap as he looked between the others. "...Work going well?"

"Y'know, I can go somewhere else if you guys want," Ken pointed out, peering at them over the rim of his mug.

"No!" "No!" Frankie and Rosie blurted simultaneously, assuring him hurriedly. "You need to keep warm, Ken," She told him.

He had slurped down his coffee quickly, the winter cold cooling it down so that it wouldn't burn his throat. Shaking his head, he pushed his chair backwards out of the little semi-circle they had created, scraping loudly across the floor. "The fuel cans we asked for arrived yesterday, I should go pick them up before I forget."

"You sure?" Frankie asked, getting up to trail after him as he made his way to the door. "The snow'll probably start melting soon, you should wait until it's not so icy."

"No, no. Now's good," Lemmons nodded determinedly, smirking at her as he opened the door, a gust of cold wind blowing its way inside. "Thanks again for the coffee, Rosie!"

"No problem, Ken," He nodded, tipping an imaginary cap at him as the mechanic disappeared outside.

Frankie paused a moment to process what had happened before letting out a huff of laughter. Rosie was still sat beside the stove, watching with a smile as she crossed the room towards him. She leant down, and he craned his head up to meet her, their lips meeting in a quick kiss, as casual and comfortable as a long-married couple.

"He definitely knows," She pointed out, lowering herself back into her seat and propping her legs up across his lap, his elbows resting gently on them.

"Oh yeah," Rosie nodded in agreement. "Have you properly told anyone yet? Only, I haven't - I was waiting until you wanted to."

"Oh, I've only told George, she won't tell anyone. But I tell her literally everything, so y'know."

"Yeah, yeah, I expected that," He continued nodding, pausing after a moment as a stricken look of realisation crossed his face. "Wait, does that mean you told her about when we-"

"No! No, not about that, Jesus," Frankie giggled, nose creasing as she took another sip of her coffee. A smile spread across Rosie's expression as he took a moment to actually take in her appearance, his thumb rubbing back and forth along the hem of her trousers.

"... Is that Egan's jacket?"

"Mhm," She hummed, wiping her top lip as she put down her mug. "Kidd left it for me. It doesn't fit-" Frankie flapped the ends of her sleeves to illustrate the point, making him chuckle. "-but the thought was nice."

"God, I absolutely humiliated myself the first time I met Egan," Rosie shook his head slightly, his cheeks reddening. "Kept talking about flying in my goddamn skivvies, I was pretty sure he only brought me to meet you so that you two could both laugh at the weird new Captain."

She laughed, taking one of his hands in hers, absent-mindedly twiddling his fingers as she spoke. "I'm sorry, you flew in your what?"

"Jesus, I'm doing it again, this is like a recurring nightmare. It gets real hot in Texas, right, so we practised flying in our underwear to stop us from over-heating - but of course I decided that was the best possible story to introduce myself to the Majors with. I mean, Christ, I still don't know what I was thinkin'."

"Well, the first time I met him I absolutely destroyed him in a drinking contest, so he's been offered his fair share of public humiliation."

"That... does help, actually," He admitted, and she grinned, running a hand through his hair and messing up his curls as she rose to her feet. His gaze followed her, tilting his head upwards, a few loose curls hanging in his face. "Where are you going?"

"Funny thing is, I actually have this thing called a job," Frankie teased, zipping up Egan's jacket as she headed for the door. "I have to, like, do it, and everything."

"Wow, that sounds really hard, I'm so impressed," Rosie replied flatly, a smirk curling his lip.

A gust of wind blew a cloud of snowflakes in through the door as she opened it, flipping her collar up to her chin against the breeze as she stepped outside. Lemmons was waiting there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, and his unexpected presence startled her, snow crunching beneath her feet as she jumped, sucking in a sharp breath.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Ken shrugged. "Thought I oughta give you a minute - didn't wanna interrupt anything private."

Frankie's eyes narrowed, glaring at him as they made their way back towards the hardstand. "Oh, shut up. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Can you seriously look me in the eyes and tell me I'm wrong?"

Turning on her heel, she stared at him, their gazes locked for a long, awkward moment of silence. She gnawed at her lip, saying nothing, until suddenly she broke, scoffing as she stomped away. "Fuck you, Ken."

"Told you!"

Before he could move, she had slung an arm around his neck, forcing him into a playful headlock. Lemmons squawked, wrestling against her unrelenting grip until he dug his fingers into her side, and she released him with a yelp, their hair both dusted white with snow.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It took three days for the weather to subside - three days of icy roads, relentless snowfall, and trying not to freeze on the hardstand. Every day like clockwork Rosie had brought the mechanics fresh, hot coffee, filling flasks with the stuff to satisfy more and more of the ground crews, who were growing steadily more irritable with each inch of snowfall. The pilots were grounded for the duration, but even the pub seemed too great of a trek under such circumstances. The only sanctuary was the small, cylindrical heaters inside the Nissen huts, and in the evenings many took to sitting around them to keep warm.

Early morning birdsong came as an unwelcome sound as Frankie's eyes peeled open, adjusting to consciousness as sunlight streamed in through the window above her bed. A gust of air hit her face as her bedsheets were ripped off of her, and she flinched as she waited for the sudden chill to grip her. But it didn't.

"George. What the fuck," She grumbled, pressing her palms against her eyelids as she sat up, hair knotted and sticking out at random angles on one side of her head.

"Get up. Snow's thawed, they'll be flying today."

The woman had a disturbing knack for always looking immaculate - golden hair falling in perfect curls, red lipstick that never smudged, and clothes that always fitted perfectly. George always told her that it was just that she put in the effort, but Frankie tended to suspect some sort of witchcraft.

"Well fuck me, in that case, why didn't you wake me up sooner?" She huffed, her hairbrush getting stuck halfway through a knotted patch. For a moment, she couldn't quite bear to deal with it, and just let it hang there, weighing down her scalp on one side.

"Thought you should get some beauty sleep before you see off your darling pilot," She teased, her voice taking on a sing-song quality. "Although admittedly, I wasn't expecting you to wake up looking like you'd been dragged sideways through a thornbush," George added, and Frankie let out a cry as she yanked on the hairbrush, dragging it forcefully through her hair until it fell straight.

"I'll drag you sideways through a bush in a minute," She muttered, rubbing at the sore spot on her scalp with one hand as she pulled on her coveralls with the other.

"I just think it took you long enough to finally snog him, you might as well try not to look like a dying cat whenever you see him."

"Oh, piss off!"

Huge meltwater puddles lined the roads on both sides, the grass reduced to muddy swampland, sodden with what remained of the snowfall. Frankie pedalled slowly, careful not to slip, calling out in greeting to the men who passed by in their jeeps, tyres kicking up water, spraying her legs and staining her trousers.

Her breaks screeched loudly to a halt as she stopped in front of a half-melted snowman on the side of the road, the last remaining evidence of the village children's play. Their laughter had filled the air since the first snowfall, the only remedy to the constant, freezing misery. The snowman's head was close to toppling off, its carrot nose drooping pathetically. She couldn't help but chuckle as one of the pebbles they had used for eyes slipped from its perch, landing with a thumb in the damp grass. She wondered if it had snowed back home, if Alice and Jill had made a snowman of their own. As a child, she'd used her mother's old scarf and gloves, the scent of perfume still lingering on them after so many years.

Another jeep rolled past, cutting it too close and too fast, a spray of puddle water splashing all the way up her back, the cold soaking through to her spine. Frankie let out a yelp, her train of thought lost as she flipped off the driver in his side mirror and began to pedal again, resuming her steady, cautious pace as the airstrip came into view.

The Riveters were gathered around their B-17 when she arrived, packs slung over their shoulders as they readied to board. Letting out a huge yawn, Frankie dismounted her bike, letting it lie on the tarmac as she approached, the uncomfortable stick of damp fabric against skin making her squirm. The moment Pappy saw her, he frowned. "D'you just get up? They've run the checks on our bus already, right?"

"Your plane's been ready to fly for days, Pap - I was out here in the snow making sure of it while you lot were warming your feet by the fire," She rolled her eyes, squeezing his shoulder as she passed.

Rosie was visibly fighting a grin as she approached, Bailey shooting him a confused look at his expression as he passed, clambering into the belly of the plane. One by one, the flight crew filed inside, hauling themselves up through the hatch in a series of grunts, until their Captain was the only one left standing on the tarmac. The moment they were alone, he let his smile show, a red tint flushing his cheeks. "Ma'am," He teased, tilting his cap at her as she approached.

Frankie smirked, stepping forward until their fronts were pressed together. "So... what number is this now?"

"Seventeenth mission," Rosie nodded.

"Hm. Not too shabby."

"Why thank you, dear," He grinned, leaning down to press his lips to hers. Just as Frankie began to reciprocate the kiss, a thought popped into his mind, and he pulled back, eliciting a tut of disappointment from her. "Y'know, I had this idea earlier that I'd bring you flowers, but it's too damn cold for 'em. Thought I'd let you know anyway, so you can appreciate the thought."

She hummed. "Duly noted," Grinning, she resumed the kiss, her teeth accidentally grazing his lip as she wrapped her arms around the back of his neck. Hands grasping at her back, his brow furrowed at the sudden dampness, but he figured she might send him away if he ruined the kiss again. He could smell the oil on her clothes, but the scent he had once found acrid now only succeeded in reminding him of her. Even miles up in the sky, hanging perilously over enemy territory, there was something calming in that smell, a constant tether to home.

The pair had been so engrossed in their embrace, that they had failed to notice Pappy reappearing through the hatch, sent to retrieve something they had forgotten in the jeep. But the moment his feet hit the tarmac, and he took in the scene before him, he froze, releasing a sort of strangled grunt that alerted them to his presence, springing away from each other, hands raised to wipe any evidence of the other from their mouths.

Wide-eyed in a mixture of shock and horror, he spoke in angry whispers, closing the hatch most of the way to muffle the sound. "Are you kidding me?!"

Rosie held up his hands as if begging for mercy. "Look, Pappy, I was gonna tell you, it's just-"

"I owe George so much money," Pappy huffed, running a hand across his brow.

Frankie frowned. "... You what?"

"We had drinks last week, we were betting on how long it'd take for... this to happen."

She resisted the urge to laugh, noticing how Rosie seemed to be suppressing a smile. "George already knew about this last week."

His expression was horror-stricken, face growing ever-redder with every second that passed. "... Are you fucking kidding me?!"

Rosie let out a chuckle. "I think you just got scammed, Pappy."

Brow furrowed, expression contorted in fury, Pappy muttered to himself in indecipherable fury as he marched over to the jeep, retrieved his forgotten cargo, and stomped back towards the plane, pausing briefly to interrupt his incensed murmuring. "Happy for you two. Or whatever," He sighed, waving a hand in their general direction as he failed to meet their eyes.

As soon as he was safely inside the plane and out of earshot, they collapsed into laughter, his utterly outraged frown seared into their minds. Rosie wheezed as he caught his breath, "I think George is using your friendship for evil," He pointed out, succumbing to laughter again as Frankie let out a cackle.

"I am not letting her collect on that debt," She shook her head, face flushed red, cheeks creased with a smile. Frankie looked up as she felt his hands against her face, palms cupping his cheeks as he brought her face to his, their foreheads simply resting against each other's as their breathing slowly returned to normal.

"I will see you later," He spoke softly, the tip of his nose brushing against hers.

"Yeah, you better," She reached up, straightening his tie. "I'll be really pissed off otherwise."

"And we can't have that."

"Nope."

With one last smile, Rosie pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, and Frankie scoffed as he pulled away, wiping her face with the back of her hand. He smirked to himself as he climbed up into the plane, arms burning with the weight of his body as he hauled himself up through the hatch. Navigating his way through to the cockpit with ease, he slid into the pilot's seat, feeling Pappy's gaze burning into the side of his skull.

"...Yes Pappy?" He asked after a moment of silence, his co-pilot shaking his head side to side, never retracting his penetrating stare.

"I fuckin' knew it."

#masters of the air #masters of the air oc #masters of the air fic #rosie rosenthal #rosie rosenthal x oc #ken lemmons #pappy lewis #oc: frankie #oc: george #fic | i'm your man

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 1 month

Text

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 10

AO3

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 3.5k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58

The room was silent, nothing but the sound of calm, steady breathing piercing the air, a single beam of sunlight stretching through a gap in the curtains, snaking across the bedsheets in a thin, golden ribbon. Frankie was sat up, hunched forward slightly, picking at a frayed edge of the blanket as she stared blankly down at the foot of the bed. Laid back against the pillows, Rosie watched her intently, his thumb rubbing slow, gentle circles against the skin of her back, poking up beneath the hem of her shirt.

The second floor of the village pub consisted entirely of various bedrooms, a makeshift bed and breakfast, intended to make money out of the encroaching military population. With the Nissen huts so strictly segregated, the place had become a popular haunt for anyone hoping for a little 'alone time'. They came often. He liked to sleep beside her the night before a mission - to hold her close for what could always be the last time, to sit and talk somewhere entirely alone. Rosie did his best to avoid thinking about what else might have taken place in this bed - for now, it was simply their refuge.

Twenty-five missions. It was an impressive credential, a staggering achievement considering the almost impossible odds every pilot faced when he took off each day. And with it came the ultimate prize - a ticket home. Any man among them would give a limb for the chance - to never have to go up again, to truly live a life back home with their family.

It felt almost criminal not to want it.

But how could he? How could he burn for home the way the others did, when she wouldn't be there? When twenty-five missions meant being an ocean apart from the woman next to him, twenty-five missions was a death sentence.

"I want you to do it," Frankie croaked, her voice strained and quiet. His palm flattened against her back, and with a sigh she lay back, hair fanning out against the pillow.

"What do you mean?" He asked, brow furrowed.

Her head lolled to the side, meeting his gaze. "When you make twenty-five. I want you to go home."

"... What?" Rosie swore he felt his stomach sink, nausea bubbling in his chest as it burrowed deep into his gut.

Frankie shrugged, the sheets rustling with the movement. "You deserve to see your family, Rosie. You deserve not to live in a place that smells like oil and shit, especially after everything you've done."

A deep frown tugged at his expression as he shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to get a better look at her face. There was nothing in her eyes but utter, uncompromising sincerity. "W-..." He paused a moment, waiting for his mind to stop racing long enough to form a sentence. "What about you?"

She smiled, lifting a hand to cup his cheek, and he couldn't help but lean into it, revelling in the feeling of warmth. "I'll catch you up when I'm done."

Rosie let out a huff of almost-laughter, flashing a disbelieving grin as he fought to fathom what she was saying. "Are you serious?"

A self-satisfied smirk had wormed its way across her face. "Why not?"

"You'd seriously come to America for me?"

"Well, I have always wanted to see the Statue of Liberty," Frankie teased, cutting herself off with a laugh as he fell forward, lips hastily colliding with hers, one hand finding her waist, the other clasping the back of her neck. Her arms snaked around his neck the way they always did, holding his head in place as she reciprocated the kiss, smiling against his lips.

He'd wanted to marry her then. It wasn't the first time the thought had occurred to him, nowhere near in fact, but he wasn't sure it had ever felt so strong. If he asked he knew she'd say no - she'd say they needed more time, that they needed to wait until this was all over. He understood. If something went wrong, if he didn't come back, he didn't want her to carry his name like a badge of un-belonging for the rest of her life. If he could give her anything in death, he wanted it to be a clean break.

The kiss ended, and she was beaming at him, combing a hand through his ungelled curls as he pressed his forehead against hers. She would have given anything to just stay there, tucked beneath the blankets, feeling his breath against her cheek. Every time he climbed into that cockpit, his plane disappearing into the clouds over the horizon, it was like she was preparing for his death already, readying her mind for the news if he ever didn't make it home. Each return was a momentary relief, but it never lasted long. This was the last hurdle, the last bridge to cross before he was home safe, and she could put that constant, nagging fear aside.

A hurried knock came hammering against the door, and a groan escaped Rosie's throat burying his face in the crook of her neck, the weight of his body preventing Frankie from being able to move. She let out a grunt, shoving at his shoulders. "Get up!" She chuckled, and he reluctantly rolled over, pushing himself up off the bed with a huff.

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he padded over to the door, prying it open only a few inches, his shoulders blocking the gap in the doorway and shielding Frankie from the view of whoever was outside. Pappy was already in uniform, foot tapping irritably against the floor as he answered. "Just checking, you do actually plan to fly your twenty-fifth, right?" He asked sarcastically.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be there in a minute, just lemme get dressed," Rosie nodded, waving a hand of dismissal. Pappy didn't move, clearly waiting for him, and he began to frown as Rosie didn't move out of the doorway.

"Mornin', Frankie!" He called over Rosie's shoulder into the room behind him.

"Hey, Pappy!" Her voice rang out in return, and Rosie sighed, ignoring his friend's smirk as he closed the door on him.

"Y'know, it definitely would've looked weirder if you were just up here on your own," Frankie pointed out as Rosie began hurrying to grab his uniform and put it on. "That'd raise some questions."

It was later in the day than he'd thought, and he almost tugged his trousers on backwards in an attempt to get dressed as fast as possible, stuffing all of his belongings blindly into a bag as he raced to make his mission. Frankie was only half ready by the time he was done, and he pulled her attention away from the tying of her boot by capturing her lips in a quick goodbye kiss.

"Alright, I gotta go. I love you, I'll see you later."

His hand was already on the doorknob by the time he realised it. Turning his head, she was staring back at him. He'd never said those words before. In a million different ways he had made it abundantly clear that it was true, but this was the first time he'd truly looked her in the eye and said it.

"Yeah?" Frankie grinned.

"Oh, you have no idea," Rosie beamed, slipping out into the hall. Pappy was still waiting, a confused look contorting his expression as he noticed the red flush that filled his face. Making a beeline for the stairs, his copilot was close behind, the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

"Are you... ok?"

Rosie reached the bottom of the stairs, turning back to look up at him, slightly out of breath. "Told my girl I love her. First time."

"Oh! Congrats?"

"Thanks, Pap," He nodded, clapping him on the shoulder, unable to tear away his grin.

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It had been over an hour since the planes departed, and George and Frankie were sitting in the field that ran alongside the airstrip, propped up on their elbows as they lounged in the grass, sharing a bag of peanuts between them. The sun hung high and bright that day, and sunglasses rested on the bridges of their noses despite the slight chill in the air.

"So he told you he loved you," George nodded. "But you guys have been a thing for a while now, was that seriously the first time?"

"Nah. First time he'll remember, though - he says it a lot when he's drunk, but he's shy when he's sober."

She chuckled, red lips curling up in a smile. "Yunno, I always thought that guy was a bit of a weirdo, but you make me like him."

Frankie laughed, shaking her head. "God, you're a terrible person."

George gasped, head lolling to the side to look over at her friend. "Speaking of - you know Brenda? Red Cross Brenda? Well, apparently she-"

Before she got the chance to finish her sentence, Ken came bounding up, grinning like a lost puppy returned to its owner. "Heya!" He chirped, crouching down before the pair. It had become customary for the young mechanic to invade their conversations whenever he wasn't busy, eager for some company outside of his other sprightly, male colleagues. "What's goin' on?"

"Boooo!" George thundered at his intrusion, reaching for a fistful of peanuts and throwing them at him, a few pinging against his forehead.

"God, who invited you?" Frankie cried, her voice overlapping with George's. "Get your own friends!"

The hostilities were all in jest, the way a sister might poke fun at a brother, and neither woman objected as Lemmons wormed his way in between them, lifting their belongings out of the way to clear a space for him on the grass. Hands folded behind his head, he peered up at them, squinting in the sun. "So... what happened with Brenda?"

"Nuh-uh," George shook her head. "If you wanted to know you should've shown up on time. Those are the rules."

"There's rules now?"

"Obviously, we're not imbeciles," Frankie shrugged. "Get with the program or get fucked, Kenny."

"Jesus Christ."

"So, Ken, how's Fonda?" She asked, her voice taking on a singsong lilt, a teasing smirk curling her lip.

He let out a groan, folding his arms over his head so they couldn't see the red flush that had overtaken his face. "...She's good," After he wallowed in embarrassment for a moment, an indignant expression overtook him, and he bolted upright. "Hey, at least I'm married!"

"Yeah, at nineteen, 'cause that's normal," George snorted, fending him off as he tried to whack her over the head.

"I'm just sayin'! Frankie and Rosie gotta hurry it up a little, I think."

Frankie scoffed, throwing up her hands in surrender. "I... Actually, no, fuck off, I'm not going there with you - I'm sorry that I'm waiting to properly get to know the guy before I get hitched, ok?"

"Oh, she knows the guy, alright," George muttered, and Ken snorted a laugh, the pair letting out yelps as a fistful of peanuts collided with their heads.

"I'm content with my choices!" Frankie declared loudly, and the three of them stewed in silence for a moment before collectively descending into laughter, the sight of a dozen missed peanuts scattered in the grass only adding to the inexplicable hilarity.

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It was as if they'd almost forgotten what they were waiting for by the time the sound of faraway plane engines began to split the air, a familiar thrumming sound that sent an involuntary jolt of panic through Frankie whenever she heard it, her heart immediately pounding out of her chest as she leapt up, accidentally sticking a foot into the empty bag of nuts as she scrambled to her feet. She'd never felt quite like it, an equal mix of terror and elation flooding through her - fear that it might not be Rosie flying one of the returning buses, but delight at what it meant if he was.

Half of Thorpe Abbotts seemed to have turned up for his return, and Frankie almost burst into tears the moment 'Rosie's Riveters' came into view, George's whooping ringing in her ears as she wrapped her arms around her shoulders, jumping up and down in ecstatic celebration. It took a moment for the gravity of their situation to dawn on her, but when it did she couldn't stop grinning, her cheeks beginning to ache. Rosie was going home. He was safe.

The moment he left the plane, he was swarmed, a dozen hands lifting him up off the tarmac, hauling him up onto the men's shoulders as the barrage of cheers and applause filled his ears. But the second he had slipped through that door, his eyes had found her, standing at the back of the crowd, clapping along, her shoulder leant up against George's. Their gazes met, and she rolled her eyes teasingly - he could almost hear her voice in his head, jokingly begging him to stay humble as he was carried aloft through the crowd.

They were cheering his name, shaking his hand and patting him on the back as he passed, but as soon as his feet touched the tarmac, none of it mattered. The second he was on solid ground again, he was making a beeline towards Frankie, brow raised in question. They were too far apart, too bracketed by ear-splitting cheers for him to simply ask 'Can I kiss you?', but she could always tell. With a smirk and a nod, permission was granted, and the moment they collided his lips were on hers, hands cupping her cheeks, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin. A second, somehow ever more raucous cheer erupted, and he could feel her smiling into the kiss as her hands found his collar, pressing against his jaw. In that moment, even through the cacophony of whoops and yells, she was the only person in the world to him.

The kiss broke, but his hands stayed firmly planted on either side of her face, their foreheads pressed against each other, eyes locked. "Hi," Frankie beamed, speaking so softly that only he could hear.

"Hello."

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Frankie had never been quite so much at the centre of attention than she was that night. It was as if the moment Rosie had kissed her in front of everyone on the tarmac, it became her party as well as his, a celebration of just making it, of still having the person you loved at the end of the day. She'd showered three times that afternoon, desperately trying to scrub away the lingering smell of her work, and George had even made her put on lipstick. But Frankie couldn't deny it - she looked fucking good.

The band was in full swing, to such an extent that she had to yell over the incessant ring of trumpets just to order a drink, but as the night rolled on she never once felt Rosie's hand leave her - a gentle palm against her waist or back wherever they went, a quiet reminder that he was home safe, that they were going to be ok. Bailey had an arm around her shoulder, and her head tilted back as she laughed at one of Pappy's jokes, and for once they seemed to feel free - free to simply be each other's friends without having to worry about losing one another.

"So I said to her, I said "Hey Betty, you're gonna wanna paint those ceilings your favourite colour, 'cause you'll be seein' a lot of 'em when I get home," Bailey joked, and she let out a groan as the others laughed, gently slapping his shoulder with the back of her palm. Across the circle they had formed, Croz went digging in his pocket for a cigarette, and she reached out, holding up her lighter for him as he nodded his thanks.

Rosie's hands on her shoulders caught her attention as he slipped around behind her. "I'm gettin' another drink - you need anythin', honey?"

"No, I'm good," She nodded, raising her half-finished beer as proof as he stepped away towards the bar. Turning back to the others, she found Pappy grinning at her, sipping smugly at his whiskey. "Oh, shut up - what're you, twelve?"

"So you've been keeping it under wraps since Christmas?" Crosby asked, raising a brow in alarm as Bailey guffawed.

"Oh, yeah, 'keepin' it under wraps'," He chuckled. "Jesus, we could all tell from the day he got back," The other members of Rosie's flight crew began to laugh, nodding in agreement.

"Well, what can I say? I'm just that great," Frankie grinned, squeezing Bailey's arm as she shuffled past him, moving to follow Rosie towards the bar.

She hadn't had a chance to thank Kidd yet for giving her Bucky's jacket, and was already poised to speak as she approached, a warm smile curling her lip. But then she heard his words.

"Brass is upping the end-of-tour requirements from twenty-five to thirty missions."

Her stomach sank. Not just for the poor pilots, for every man who had been so goddamn close to getting to go home. But because she knew in that moment that Rosie wasn't done. Even if he hadn't realised it yet, even if the decision to stay hadn't yet crossed his mind, she knew him well enough. He wouldn't leave because he couldn't - couldn't give it up and take the easy way out when so many other, less experienced men had to die as a result of this decision. She loved him for it, but maybe she hated him a little too.

Frankie hadn't realised she'd stopped dead in her tracks until Kidd spotted her, his brow furrowing. Rosie turned to follow his gaze, eyes softening the moment they landed on her. "Frankie-"

Her glass went down on the bar with a thud, her desire to drink suddenly evaporated. "Thanks for the jacket, Jack," She nodded, forcing a smile. "That was really nice of you."

Before Rosie got the chance to reach out to her, she had walked away, brushing past them both as she forced her way through the crowd, the thumping of her heartbeat in her ears drowning out the sound of the music. She had begun searching for George without even realising it, spotting her familiar golden curls among a crowd of Red Cross volunteers. Making a move towards her, George turned immediately on her arrival, brow drawing with concern.

"Can we go?"

"Yeah," George accepted without hesitation, casting aside her drink as she shouldered her way towards the door, clearing a path for Frankie to trail along behind.

She hadn't realised quite how tightly she'd been holding her breath until they stepped outside, the cold air hitting her like a wall as she let it out in a gasp, running a hand through her hair as she marched around to the side of the building, sitting down on the nearest bench she could find. The wood creaked as George sat down beside her, placing a gentle hand on her knee and waiting quietly for her to speak.

"I have washed... so much blood out of those planes," Frankie said, her voice uneven, letting out a long, shaky exhale as she spoke. "Before I got this job I didn't really understand how much blood a person could have. Sometimes when they get hit by shrapnel, it tears the leather on the seats, n' the blood soaks into the stuffing. It's really hard to get it out then - usually I just have to seal the hole and leave it in there. But then it's like... whoever gets in that plane next just has to sit on that blood, like there's this permanent reminder that someone died there, but I'm the only one who knows it's there."

"Frankie... what happened? D'you want me to get Rosie?"

"No," She spoke hurriedly, shaking her head. "No, I don't-... I can't talk to him right now."

George turned sideways in her seat to properly look at her, raising a hand to swipe the hair away from her face. "Why? Did he do something?"

Frankie took a deep breath, finally meeting George's gaze, her eyes red and filled with tears. "He's going back up, George."

"What? Did he tell you that?"

"They've upped the number of missions the new guys have to do to be allowed to leave. Rosie's in the clear, but... we both know he won't take it now."

She sniffed, raising a hand to wipe away the tear that trailed down her cheek, and George pulled her forward into a hug, cheek pressed against her scalp as she rubbed her back.

"I'm so tired, George," Frankie croaked, her voice scarcely loud enough to hear.

"I know," She whispered. "... I know."

#masters of the air #masters of the air oc #masters of the air fic #rosie rosenthal #rosie rosenthal x oc #pappy lewis #harry crosby #jack kidd #oc: frankie #oc: george #fic | i'm your man

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 2 months

Text

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 8

AO3

Summary: After an encounter at Coombe House leaves Frankie and Rosie's relationship fragile, they seek to repair it when she is given leave for Christmas

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 6.5k (BUCKLE UP FOLKS)

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58

The sun disappeared as soon as it had come, and as the weeks rolled steadily into December the men at Thorpe Abbotts learned the truth of the great English winter. At sunrise, the grass lay encrusted with frost, but by midday the ice was washed away by downpours, leaving the fields a muddy marshland. Every day was dreary, cold, and damp, and Rosie was beginning to feel mocked by it, the outside world mirroring the misery he felt within.

Frankie was avoiding him. She wouldn't admit to it, but she hadn't spoken to him alone in weeks. Sure, she would sit with the Riveters in the pub or come to see them before a mission, but since their trip to Coombe House, he couldn't get her alone. Whenever he thought the chance had arisen, some pressing matter would suddenly arise that she had to attend to, and she was gone as soon as she'd arrived.

He missed her. He missed her so badly that it hurt - he missed her face being the first he saw after every mission, missed being able to tell her everything, missed making her laugh. Rosie didn't care that she hadn't kissed him anymore. He just wanted her back.

"Tell me what happened again," George demanded, perched on the edge of her bed, watching Frankie as she brushed the stubborn knots out of her hair.

Frankie sighed. "I have told you a million times already."

"I know. I'm just still trying to fathom how you could be such a fucking idiot!" She cried, grabbing one of her pillows and throwing it across the room, colliding with Frankie with a soft thump.

"Oi!" Frankie exclaimed, lobbing it right back, a shriek escaping George as it smacked her in the face.

"He's so obviously in love with you - has been for months - I just don't get it. Coombe House was the perfect opportunity. Bit of a snog and a shag, yunno."

"Jesus Christ," She muttered, shaking her head. "You're the one who warned me against getting too attached. I'm just... starting to think you were right."

George's smile dropped, and she swore she felt her stomach lurch. "Oh, Frankie, no-"

"What? Am I seriously supposed to just go for it knowing what will happen if he doesn't come back?"

Frankie hadn't uttered a word of this to her, but it was clear it had been plaguing her for some time. "I'm not supposed to be a cautionary tale, I'm supposed to be your friend. Which means I want you to be happy - find it where you can, don't just avoid it because of what happened to me."

Her entire face furrowed with her frown. "I'm just... I'm in too deep already. And I'm scared, George."

"Oh, c'mere," George sighed, rising to stand as she gestured for Frankie to come closer. Enveloping her in an embrace, her nostrils inhaled the always-lingering scent of engine oil. "I don't regret Curt. I miss him like hell and sometimes it feels really really shit. But I wouldn't trade the time I had with him to make it hurt less - if anything it's more special to me now. Don't hold back because you're scared it'll hurt later, because if anything does go wrong you'll regret it more than anything."

Frankie frowned, chin burrowed into the crook of George's neck. "You think so?"

"I know it."

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The pub was packed as always, the sea of faces ever-changing with the constant stream of replacements. It didn't matter that it was just as busy as it had always been, the place felt half-empty with so many familiar faces missing. Rosie's Riveters were always guaranteed a table, their reputation as the 100th's finest flyers preceding them - boys would actually give up their chairs when Rosie came in, and he could never dissuade them, no matter how much he cringed at the attention.

Half-empty pint glasses littered the table, conversation and laughter flowing freely among the team, but Rosie couldn't help but let his gaze wander. She was usually here - usually posted at the same spot at the bar with George, hogging the space in front of the beer taps so they could always get the bartender's attention whenever they needed another round. But when he looked up now, their spot was taken by a pair of replacements who scarcely looked old enough to fly.

"Rosie agrees, dontcha?" Bailey's voice came, and it was as if he'd been forcefully dragged back to reality.

"Hm?"

"Brooklyn's better than Queens, ain't it?"

"Oh. Definitely," He nodded, attempting to be as subtle as he could as he continued to scan the room.

Suddenly, the piano in the corner started up, thumping out a raucous tune. He'd only seen it used once or twice the entire time he'd been at Thorpe Abbotts, but the nearing advent of Christmas seemed to be putting the Brits in much higher spirits. A crowd of RAF and WAAF staff had formed around the piano player, drinks in hand as they began to perform a sequence of rowdy old drinking songs, more yelling than they were singing.

The words were foreign to American ears, but the English seemed to know them all by heart, belting out sordid tales of prostitutes and the like in a jolly, musical fashion. The pilots seemed roused by the scene, and Bailey began to clap along to the beat in encouragement, grinning as he watched the crowd. There was a sense of joy in the air, enough even to make Rosie crack a smile, elbow resting on the back of his chair as he listened.

And then he saw her.

Frankie was leant against the lid of the piano, pint in hand, belting out the words with the rest of them, grinning as she sang. She was wearing her proper WAAF uniform, her hair curled tight beneath her chin, lips painted a deep red. He never saw her in dress uniform, and for a moment he was taken aback by how well it suited her. Before Rosie had formed any sort of plan for what he was doing, he had risen to his feet, and was crossing the room towards her, weaving his way through the crowd.

A hand seized his arm. George was certainly strong when she wanted to be, and she wanted to be now, dragging him sideways away from the group, gnawing at her bottom lip, her teeth coming away with lipstick stains.

"It's my fault," She stated firmly, speaking loudly to be heard over the music.

Rosie's brow furrowed in confusion. "George, what're you talking about?"

"It's my fault Frankie won't talk to you - I only just figured it out, I'm sorry."

His shoulders squared, a frown forming. "What do you mean it's your fault, what did you do?"

"I... I told her that I haven't been speaking to the pilots since Curtis Biddick died - you don't know him, but he was... kinda my boyfriend."

"Oh, George, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, it sucks. But I think she took it to heart, and now she's scared to get too close to you in case something happens."

"... She told you that?"

"Not explicitly, but I'm not an idiot. And I know her very well."

Rosie nodded hurriedly as he considered this, passing his weight from one foot to the other as he debated approaching Frankie. Sucking in a deep breath, he nodded determinedly. "George," He held her by the shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. "Thank you."

"Don't ever do that again."

"I am sorry," He nodded, hands held up in surrender as he backed away, turning on his heel to make a beeline towards Frankie. George watched him go, brow raised at the sudden spring in his step.

"Weird bloke," She muttered.

They were halfway through a frankly awful rendition of Three Jolly Rogues when Frankie heard someone calling her name. Her gaze travelled across the crowd, words trailing off as she noticed Rosie at the edge of the group, unable to penetrate the mass of people as he craned to catch her eye. Eyes widening for a moment, she instantly felt her heart begin to beat faster as she chugged the remainder of her beer, abandoning her empty glass atop the piano as she tried to shove her way through to him.

"Frankie!" "Rosie!"

They spoke simultaneously, words to rambled and quick to make out, especially over the din of the pub. "Let's - let's go outside, yeah?" Frankie called over the music, and he nodded in agreement. His hand on her back came as a reflex, an instinct as they moved towards the door. She didn't step away.

Stepping out into the night air was like running head-first into a wall of ice, the sudden cold almost making Frankie gasp, her breath erupting in a visible cloud in front of her face. The sheer number of bodies inside the pub kept it permanently warm, so much so that it was easy to forget they were in the thick of December. Sucking in a breath, she rubbed at her arms to generate some warmth, her uniform jacket offering little in the way of insulation.

Rosie opened his mouth to speak, but she got there first. "I'm sorry. I've been treating you like shit and you don't deserve it, I was just being a fucking coward and-"

"Hey - no, no, no, you're ok. George told me what was going on and I get it. I get it, ok?"

Her expression was contorted in something like fear. "You do?"

"Of course," A smile flickered across his face. Of course he did. "I have no idea how hard it must be for you to wait for us all to come back, knowing what can happen up there. But... I don't wanna sound selfish Frankie but I can't stand the thought of dying without us being friends. You make coming back worth it and I- ... I miss you."

Frankie was silent for a long moment, and Rosie braced himself for whatever she was going to say.

"Come to my house for Christmas," She said. His mind had been racing trying to predict her response. He had not expected that.

"... What?"

"I got a forty-eight-hour pass for Christmas, I'm going over to my Dad's house. You can't spend it with your family, and we've got plenty of room... Well. You'd probably have to sleep on the floor but-"

She trailed off as she realised he was laughing, her brow furrowing as Rosie chuckled, nodding continuously. "Yeah," He beamed.

"Yeah?" The corner of her lips curled upwards in that wonky smile he so adored.

"Yeah, I'll come," Rosie grinned, taking a step forward and enveloping her in a hug, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders and she instinctively reached around to hug him back, her head resting against his chest.

"That would've been really awkward if you'd said no," Frankie said, her voice muffled against his jacket. Rosie laughed again, and she felt the vibrations through his chest.

"I was never gonna say no."

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They took a train on Christmas Eve, each carriage so packed with servicemen and women on leave and families visiting each other for the holiday that they were forced to stand, shuffling awkwardly out of the way whenever someone had to squeeze past. The pair had nothing to do except for a single pack of cards, although it soon became evident that the lack of space forced them to stand so close that they could always see each other's hand, and every game rapidly became pointless.

"So George isn't coming? Or Ken?" Rosie asked, fiddling with his watch as they plodded steadily onwards through the countryside, plumes of smoke from the coal engine partly obscuring the view of the trees and fields outside.

"George's family lives down in Dover - though you'd never guess it from her accent," Frankie chuckled. "She's got a pass too, so she's gone down this morning. Ken got invited for dinner by the parents of those lads he's always looking after - he'll be over there tomorrow."

He nodded along as she spoke. It had been almost an hour since anyone had tried to shuffle past them, so they'd taken to sitting on the floor, legs outstretched as far as they could go across the dirty old carpet. "Say, how'd you and George meet anyway? I never asked."

"We were both working at RAF Docking from about the middle of '41. There were a lot more WAAF there than at Abbotts, so we didn't bunk together, but we just sort of stuck, I s'pose. She only came here because of me - I got asked to come 'cause of your manpower shortage, but she reapplied so she could come too. Good thing too, I'd have been fucked without her. I think we got a bit co-dependent," She smiled to herself as she spoke, and he couldn't help but mirror it.

There was not a single sign or announcement to indicate where they were on their journey along the way. Frankie had told him it was a part of the government's anti-invasion measures, so that any would-be invaders would be unable to find their way, but really it just made him paranoid that they had missed their stop. Nevertheless, the moment they pulled into their station, she was up on her feet, a sudden air of excitement about her as she scrambled to gather their belongings. Rosie followed her out onto the platform, trying not to cough at the puffs of coal smoke that filled the station.

"Not far now," She assured him, a suitcase full of clothes in one hand, a satchel of presents in the other. It was a surprisingly sunny afternoon, although the biting cold would have suggested otherwise, and he trailed after her as they descended the high street, Rosie's head turning this way and that to take in his unfamiliar surroundings.

Frankie breezed through the place with practised familiarity, letting out a huff as she realised she'd almost lost him to the Shakespeare memorial as they passed. He had become entirely distracted by it, peering closely at the engravings that lined the base of the statue.

"Oi! Don't go all tourist on me, flyboy - I won't be late for dinner," She teased, and Rosie held up his hands in surrender, scurrying to catch up.

He could tell they were close when her shoulders drooped, excitement replaced by a comfortable calm. They reached a row of short, terraced houses, set back slightly from the main road, the thin strip of shared lawn still wet from the morning's blanket of frost. Frankie had begun grinning as she approached the house on the far end of the row, a spring of holly tied to the knocker with a messy knot of string. She shot him a smile, knocking firmly upon the wood, before spying an elderly woman a few doors down, struggling under the weight of her shopping bags as she fumbled with her door keys.

"Let me help with that, Mrs Higgins!" Frankie called, leaving Rosie alone on the doorstep as she hurried to help the old woman, gently prying the bags from her grip.

"My, Frances, haven't you grown!" Mrs Higgins declared, beaming up at her, made tiny by her stooped shoulders.

"Not since I was twelve, dear," She assured her, helping her in through the door as she carried the shopping behind her. Rosie smiled, watching on with his hands in his pockets, and he wondered how he could feel nostalgic in a place he'd never seen before.

Suddenly the door to Frankie's house swung open, and he found himself faced with a red-faced man, peering down at him with a frown. "Can I help you?"

"Dad, that's just Rosie! Let 'im in!" Frankie cried from down the street, hurriedly exiting Mrs Higgins' house as she scurried to catch up.

Mr Bevan was a huge man in every sense of the word - so tall and wide that he practically filled the entire doorway, and it almost seemed a miracle that he and his daughter were even related. But the moment he heard Frankie's voice, his face lit up with such love Rosie wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything like it, unleashing a hearty, belly laugh as she ran into his arms, practically throwing herself at the man.

"Rosie? Who's Rosie?" Another voice rang from inside - a girl's voice, high-pitched and certainly familiar. "I thought you were bringing the pilot!"

"Rosie is the pilot!" Frankie called down the hall, chuckling as she broke free of her father's embrace. She ushered Rosie inside, piling her bags at the bottom of the narrow staircase. As he entered, a girl was peering suspiciously at him from the kitchen doorway. She couldn't have been older than thirteen, a crop of golden hair flowing from her scalp, and at her hip cowered another child, a little girl of about three of four, hair so blonde it was almost white.

"But Rosie's a girl's name!" The older girl protested.

He chuckled. "Well, in fairness, my real name's Robert."

"Alice, be nice," Frankie scolded gently, lifting up the smaller child with one arm as Alice's cheeks bloomed a bright red. He realised she must have been Jill, recalling her name from the phone call all those weeks ago at Coombe House.

The Bevans' house was inescapably narrow, the five of them struggling to pass each other as bags were brought in and Frankie's father bustled through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. But as she sidled into the living room, she let out a gasp, a grin creasing her cheeks.

It was a sparsely furnished place, but in all honesty there probably wasn't room for anything else. A thin pine tree was propped up in the corner, strings of tinsel and chipped old baubles hanging from its branches, and newspaper chains hung from the curtain rails.

"Oh, isn't this just wonderful," Frankie remarked as Jill wrapped her chubby arms around her neck in a sideways hug. She turned her head, nodding at Rosie, prompting him to say something.

"Oh! Yeah. Very nice, it's just like back home," He nodded in agreement, slightly tense under the eyes of strangers, even if they were both little girls.

"Rosie, d'you want a cuppa?" Mr Bevan's voice boomed from the next room. For a moment he panicked, staring at Frankie with wide eyes like a deer caught in headlights.

"Tea. Do you want tea?" She whispered, putting Jill down on the sofa.

"Oh, uh - Yes! Thank you, Mr Bevan!"

"Oh, bloody hell, it's Allen, son," He shook his head, carrying in a teapot on a tray to place on the small table in the middle of the room.

"Even the boys at the garage call you Allen, eh Dad?" Frankie pointed out, pouring a cup of tea and straining the leaves before passing it to Rosie.

"Reason I hired 'em," He agreed, lowering himself into one of the armchairs with a heavy grunt. Rosie accepted the tea with a smile, and had just brought the cup to his lips when Allen leant down and unstrapped his foot, pulling it off and propping it against the wall. He almost choked. Alice let out a snort that sounded remarkably like Frankie's.

"Christ, sorry lad," He laughed, red face turning even redder. "Probably should've warned you about that."

Rosie forced out an awkward chuckle, nodding along. Jill was sat beside him on the sofa, staring up at him with wide eyes, mouth hanging slightly agape. He smiled down at her, noticing Frankie as she smirked at the whole scene.

Their dinner was a meagre feast of beans on toast, and Rosie suspected they were saving everything else for Christmas Day, saving it up to put on a true banquet. He and Frankie had been relegated to the living room to sleep, and she took the sofa whilst he lay on a pile of cushions and blankets on the floor. It wasn't a house built to serve any more than three - after all, it had only ever intended to house Frankie and her parents.

He was staring up at the picture frames that lined the wall as she came in - messy childhood drawings on aged paper, a laboured scrawl captioning each one with things like 'Me and Daddy' and 'My House'. Frankie had been putting the girls to bed, and padded across the carpet with a sigh, the sofa springs creaking as she collapsed backwards onto them.

"Did you draw those?" He asked, pointing up at the wall.

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "God, they're so awful, I keep telling him to take them down."

"No! They're great! I think it's really nice."

Frankie stared down at him for a moment. He'd changed into his pyjamas already, lying straight across the living room floor, blanket tucked under his arms. She began to giggle, cheeks flushed from the cool draft that filled the room.

"What?" He asked.

"It's only nine. You look like you've had mummy come and tuck you in for bed," She teased, unable to look at him without collapsing into giggles again.

"I'm tired!" He protested, throwing his hands up in the air.

"Yeah, yeah. So am I, to be fair. And - fair warning - Jill will be in here at five in the morning tomorrow to open her presents. She's so excited, I don't think she'll sleep a wink."

Frankie lay back along the sofa, feet propped up against the armrest as she draped a blanket over herself before reaching out to turn off the lamp. "They're sweet kids," Rosie spoke into the darkness.

"Alice is cagey around new people - just tell her a good flying story tomorrow and she'll love you. I think Jill loves you already. She doesn't talk much, but she'll want you to play with her toys, so you'd better do it," She instructed him, and he let out a chuckle.

"Alright. I promise."

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Rosie was awoken by the thunderous sound of little footsteps barrelling down the stairs, a shriek escaping Jill as she streaked into the room, making a beeline for the sofa as she hurled herself on top of Frankie. She let out an agonised groan at the sudden weight, retaliating as she tickled under Jill's arms, eliciting a series of squeals from the girl.

He groaned, grabbing one of the cushions and pressing it tight over his head to dull the sudden noise. He heard Frankie laugh, and felt her warm breath against his ear as she bent down to whisper "Told you so."

It was a half hour before the rest of the family made an appearance, time which Frankie spent desperately trying to prevent Jill from tearing open her presents, insisting she had to wait for her sister.

"Just one? Please? Please!" She whined, feet dangling off the edge of one of the kitchen chairs. Rosie wandered in and the girl went suddenly quiet, nervously pursing her lips.

"Hey Jill, why don't you show Rosie your cars, yeah?" Frankie said, pausing mid-sentence to let out a yawn as she put the kettle on the boil. The child's brow furrowed, considering this, and when she looked up at him she spoke with the seriousness of a businessman conducting an important negotiation.

"Rosie, will you play cars with me?"

"Absolutely I will," He nodded, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Jill grinned, pushing herself down from the chair as she scurried back into the living room. Rosie shot Frankie a glance, brow arched in confusion. "How does she have so much energy?"

"She's a kid," She shrugged. "I think they're all like that."

The cars were rusted and chipped, paint peeling off to expose the tarnished metal beneath, and Rosie couldn't help but suspect they must have been Frankie's years ago. He could picture her as a girl, playing with tiny tin cars on the floor of a garage somewhere whilst her father worked away fixing the real thing. The idea made him smile.

Jill made little whooshing engine sounds as she wheeled the cars around on the rug, occasionally ramming one into the table leg as she mimicked a crash - there was a groove in the wood from years of games such as this. Rosie found he did not know how to play with a child as small and as quiet as Jill, but he lined the toy racing cars up in a nice, neat row for her, quickly discovering the girl much preferred to destroy that work than admire it.

"This one's yours," She declared, holding out a chubby hand to present him with a tiny metal biplane, half of its propeller long since broken off.

"Why thank you," He grinned, accepting it gladly. They had been playing for a long time before Rosie realised he too had begun to mimic the sound of engines, lips pressed together as he tried to replicate the hum of his B-17.

Allan and Alice appeared after a while, and once the girls had opened their Christmas presents it was all hands on deck to prepare for their midday feast. The children were placed in charge of the bread stuffing, a charge they appeared to take incredibly seriously, and Rosie was presented with a pile of carrots and potatoes to peel. He sat at the table, dutifully toiling away, the kitchen gradually growing hotter and hotter as the chicken they'd bought from one of the neighbours slowly roasted in the oven.

The creak of a chair beside him caught his attention, and Rosie looked up as Frankie sat down, sliding a glass of sherry towards him. "Frankie, it's ten in the morning," He pointed out.

"If you're not at least halfway drunk by lunchtime, you're not doing Christmas right," Frankie shrugged. He noticed her father had already finished a glass. Taking a sip of her drink, she reached across the table, seizing one of the unpeeled potatoes from his pile, using a knife to whittle away at the skin. "You're very slow at this," She pointed out.

"Sorry, I'm not a practised potato peeler, dear."

She chuckled. "Guess we'll just have to train you up... Merry Christmas, Rosie."

He tore his gaze from his work, nicking the skin of his finger slightly with the blade, although he couldn't make himself mind. "Merry Christmas."

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A myriad of wonderful smells had filled the kitchen by the time they sat down to eat, his chair perched on a corner of the small table between Frankie and Jill. The girls had created little paper crowns for the occasion, crafted out of scraps of wallpaper and decorated with old buttons. Rosie's sat far too small atop his head, but he fought to keep it balanced on his scalp, replacing it every time it fell off. It was a simple banquet, but after the work they had put into creating it, he could've sworn it was the best food he'd ever eaten.

"This much like your Christmases in the States, Rosie?" Allen asked.

Rosie nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yeah. Good food and good company, that's what it's for, ain't it?"

"I'd offer to let you call your family, but we don't have a phone," Frankie admitted, reaching across him to take Jill's plate so that she could cut up her chicken for her.

"It's no trouble, really. This is all wonderful," He nodded again, and Alice snorted as his paper crown slipped off of his head, tumbling to the floor.

Frankie shot the girl a look, brow arched in warning. He suddenly remembered what she had told him the night before. "Say, I haven't told you any of my flying stories yet, have I?" It was as if Alice were a dog, the way her ears pricked, intrigue suddenly lacing her expression.

"No. You haven't."

"Please do!" Jill added, and her older sister nodded in agreement.

Rosie began to recount some of his most interesting missions - the narrow misses, the daring manoeuvres - every detail embellished for dramatic effect to such an extent that he was at times bordering on fabrication, and he could tell from Frankie's smirk that she knew not everything he was saying was strictly true. She was smiling at her father across the table, the two of them enjoying the utterly transfixed expressions plastered across the children's faces, so enthralled that they almost forgot to eat.

Any scepticism Alice had shown before was long gone, staring wide-eyed across the table at him, her cheeks blooming red as if she'd come face to face with her lifelong hero. Either that or she was developing a crush. Frankie was beginning to suspect the latter. When dinner was finished, the girl approached her as she was filling the sink with water to wash up, leaning over to whisper in her ear.

"Frankie - Is Rosie your boyfriend?"

"What? ...No, honey, I don't think so."

Alice's brow furrowed, a look of absolute horror painting her face. "What do you mean you 'don't think so'?"

Frankie chuckled. "You'll get it when you're older."

She rolled her eyes, golden curls bouncing as she gathered the dirty dishes, stacking them in an orderly pile beside the sink. Bing Crosby came over the radio on the windowsill in front of her, the faint drawl of the King's Christmas speech coming from the main radio in the living room. Her dad had taken off his false leg again, revelling in every moment he didn't have to wear the thing, and Frankie was elbow-deep in soapy water by the time Rosie reappeared.

"Where'd you go?" She asked, looking up as he came in through the back door, paper crown still balanced atop his head.

"Getting rid of leftovers - the neighbour took the chicken scraps for her dogs."

"Ah," She nodded, suppressing a smile as he sidled next to her, seizing the dishcloth and beginning to dry the plates and cups she had finished scrubbing.

"... Yunno. Alice thinks you're my boyfriend."

Rosie nodded, laughing softly. "I think Jill thinks we're married."

"Oh she loooves you," Frankie teased, knocking against him with her hip. "She'll be wanting you to put her to bed later."

She wasn't wrong. The adults sat around the living room that night, the children long since sent to bed. Empty glasses covered the coffee table as they held their hands of cards close to their chests, finally able to have a proper game - albeit a slightly addled one. The room itself smelled of sherry, and their cheeks were all flushed pink, laughing as they played, the radio still turned on in the corner, although nothing came from it but static.

They were having such a good time that they didn't hear the little patter of footsteps trailing down the staircase - didn't look up until she was stood in the doorway, a ragged old teddy clutched in her hands. Jill's voice came out meek and exhausted. "I can't sleep."

"Well, I'm not surprised, my lamb," Frankie's dad spoke warmly. "You ate a whole month's sweet ration today."

She rubbed tiredly at her eyes, and Frankie pushed herself up off the sofa. "Alright, let's go, eh?"

"I want Rosie to do it," Jill insisted, sleepy brown eyes looking back at him. "Please?"

Frankie glanced over at him, shrugging as if to say 'I don't see why not'. "Sure thing," Rosie nodded, grunting slightly as he hopped up from his seat. Jill grinned, clutching at the cuff of his sleeve with a tiny hand as they headed up the stairs together.

Returning to her seat, Frankie grinned, watching them go until they were out of sight. It was quiet for a long moment, and she reached over to turn off the radio. Her father cleared his throat slightly. "You never mentioned - how long have you been with yer fella then?"

She had been halfway through a last sip of sherry, and choked suddenly on it, almost spitting it back out. "Who, Rosie? No, dad, we're just-"

"Oh, bloody hell, petal," He shook his head, and she wondered how he could make a term of endearment sound so frustrated. "I'm not blind as well as legless."

"You've still got one leg Dad-"

"Don't gimme that. That lad's in love with you, else he wouldn't have crossed the bloody country on Christmas Eve to come eat old carrots with you. And you! Christ alive, you look at him like you used to look at Danny-boy from down the street when you were goin' out with him. Except worse."

Frankie let out a long, agonised groan, slumping so far back against the sofa cushions it was as if she were hoping to melt into the furniture. "Dad!" She exclaimed. "... He's American."

He snorted. "Bloody hell, didn't think I raised you to be a snob."

"No! Not like that! I just... he lives in America. I can't leave you, Dad."

"Oh, piss off, yes you can. You think I'll grow this feckin' leg back overnight through the grace of your presence, love? If I let you waste your life sittin' around here, then I've failed as a Dad. I've failed your mum, n'all."

"Don't say that," She shook her head, tears forming and clouding her vision.

"No. I mean it. If that lad is gonna make you happy you go with him, dammit. Gettin' to raise you has been the best thing that ever happened to me, but you're your own woman now, Frank. And I've got a couple more little-un's to deal with. Can't have you hanging around, there's not bloody room anymore."

Frankie laughed, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. Her dad made to stand, groaning as he put weight on his false leg, and she jumped to her feet to help him, but he raised a hand to her, and she had no choice but to back away.

"I love you, petal," He beamed down at her, pressing a firm kiss to her forehead. "And now I'm going to bed. Too much bloody sherry." She squeezed his hand, stepping out of the way so he could hobble past, grunting slightly as he hauled himself up the stairs.

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By the time Rosie returned, Frankie was lying on the floor atop the pile of cushions and blankets he had used as a bed the night before, staring at the pictures on the wall.

"You're in my bed," He pointed out.

"I got the sofa last night - your turn."

"No - no. It's your house, you take the couch."

"Look, Rosie, we are going back tomorrow and I'll not return you to the boys with a bad back. Make me look like a bad host n'all."

He let out a sigh. "Fine," It was dark in the living room, and she couldn't wholly tell what he was doing until she felt the blanket lift up, and he burrowed beneath it beside her.

"... What are you doing."

"Compromise," Rosie shrugged, their shoulders pressed together. "... Who's Danny?"

"Oh my God!" Frankie exclaimed, covering her face with her hands, voice strained in embarrassment. "How much of that did you hear?!"

"Just a little. I was waiting for Jill to brush her teeth. So?"

She sighed, arms dropping to her sides in defeat. "He was my boyfriend for a bit when I was seventeen. It wasn't a big deal, but Dad loved him so he brings it up all the time."

He chuckled, nodding. "You were right, by the way. I do like your dad."

"Told you."

Neither of them said anything for a long time, the room plunged into silence save for the sound of them breathing. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out his features, her head lolling to the side as she stared at him.

"Actually, I lied," He confessed. Her brow furrowed in confusion, watching as Rosie rolled onto his side to face her. "I heard everything."

Frankie did the same, the pair facing each other properly. "You sneaky shit," She teased, and he let out a huff of laughter.

She heard him take a deep breath before he spoke again. "Was he right?"

"About what?"

In the dim light, she could see his brow furrow. "You know what."

Rosie's hand moved to cup Frankie's cheek, but before he could make a move she had closed the gap, and he felt the warmth of her lips press against his, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. The blankets rustled as she pressed herself against him, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck as he lifted his head up off the pillow, moving to hover over her, their lips never parting.

After a moment, she pulled away, and they both took a second to catch their breath. "Jill's probably gonna get up again in a minute. She's a nightmare to put to bed, I swear."

"Understood," Rosie nodded firmly like a man on a mission, peppering kisses from her cheek down to the crook of her neck as she squirmed, trying not to laugh as she planted a palm flat on his forehead, prying him away.

He sighed, and a bubble of laughter escaped her throat. "I'm serious! We will scar that child for life."

"Alright," Rosie huffed, lying back down beside her. He raised his hand to her face once more, her skin sticky with sweat as he pushed her hair out of the way, getting a proper look at her as best he could in the dark.

"Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?"

Frankie hummed. "No. Don't think so."

"You are beautiful," He mused, winding a strand of her hair around his finger. "Even in the dark - even when you smell terrible and I say I don't care. Which I don't, by the way."

She snorted with laughter, briefly pressing her lips to his once more. "Well, I also don't mind when you smell like shit."

"Aw, that's sweet."

A small voice came from the doorway, and for a second both of their hearts stopped, hurling themselves away from each other as they tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. "I still can't sleep," Jill protested, frown audible in her voice. Rosie felt the urge to laugh at the accuracy of Frankie's prediction, and she clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

"That's ok sweetie, I'm coming," She called. The blankets rustled as she moved to stand, pressing her forehead against his just long enough to whisper.

"I told you so."

#masters of the air #masters of the air oc #masters of the air fic #rosie rosenthal #rosie rosenthal x oc #mota oc #mota fic #oc: frankie #frankie x rosie #oc: george #fic | i'm your man #i need to take a NAP after writing this one

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 3 months

Text

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 5

AO3

Summary: Egan's first mission since Cleven's disappearance proves disastrous, leaving Frankie to clean up the damage he left behind

Warnings: Language, vomit, this one's angsty guys

Word Count: 4k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58

The smell of cigarette smoke stung Bucky's nose, his warm breath fogging up the inside of the cockpit windows as he stared aimlessly at the early morning sky, dull grey gradually giving way to a vivid blue as the sun crept above the horizon. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, glaring at nothing, but this certainly wasn't his first cigarette, a pair of burnt-out butts on the floor by his feet a testament to this. It could have been sadness or anger that had driven him up here, but when the two combined it felt awfully more like numbness than anything else.

A sudden hammering against the glass broke his train of thought, dropping his cigarette in surprise as if left a small scorch mark on the inside of his trousers. Turning to his left, expression contorted in shock, he came face to face with Frankie, her furrowed brow only inches from the window after somehow managing to clamber up onto the wing without him noticing.

"What the- get down!" Egan cried, stomping out his cigarette before it could become a fire hazard.

"If that cockpit's full of cigarette butts now, I'm gonna beat your ass," She warned, her voice slightly muffled by the glass.

"...No," He shook his head, attempting to covertly use his uniform cap as a makeshift dustpan to clean up his mess, but when he looked back up at Frankie her eyes had narrowed at him. "What do you want?"

"Colonel Harding's looking for you. Personally, I just didn't want to deal with the smell after you drink and smoke yourself to death in here. I'd much rather you do it somewhere else, please."

A flicker of a smile crossed Egan's face, perhaps the first he could remember since he'd heard the news about Cleven. Half-empty flask tucked in his pocket, a hat full of ashes in his hand, he clambered out of the pilot's seat, weaving his way through the plane's interior to drop down out of the door. Frankie was waiting on the tarmac for him as his feet touched the ground, peering discerningly up at him. She swiped the flask from his pocket and took a swig for herself, giving a shrug of almost-approval at his choice of drink as she handed it back.

"I'm not gonna ask if you're ok," She frowned, yanking the cap from his hand and upturning its contents.

"Good," Bucky nodded, slinging an arm around her shoulder as they wandered back towards the jeep she had come in. "Weather report?"

Frankie glared up at him. He knew she objected to his participating in the next mission - it was only a matter of time before she actually tried to argue about it. Really, it was more a question of whether she was going to fight him, or try and take on the general. "Clearing up. D'you need me to drive you back?"

"If it was anyone else I might have said yes, but you... you're really bad at driving," Evidently she had anticipated this response, for her bike was already sticking out of the trunk, waiting for her to surrender the vehicle to him.

"Alright, one sec," Frankie gestured for him to turn and face her, surveying his appearance like she was a mother about to send her son off to the school dance. Reaching up, she tugged his tie straight, brushing a few flakes of ash from his jacket with the back of her hand. "Open," She demanded, and he opened his mouth without question, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Taking a whiff of the alcohol on his breath, Frankie frowned, and Egan found himself unable to utter a word before she shoved a couple of breath mints into his mouth with such force he almost choked.

"Gee, thanks," He spluttered, coughing. "Might choke to death, but at least I'm not gonna smell."

"I can't do everything," She shrugged, stepping away to grab her bike out of the jeep.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," Bucky drawled sarcastically, clearing his throat one last time as he slid into the driver's seat, the engine starting with a roar as he watched Frankie begin to cycle away in the rearview mirror.

It was barely beginning to rain, spots of cold water striking Frankie's face as she pedalled relentlessly, taking it at a somewhat leisurely pace for once, too distracted to sprint the way she usually would. They were running a mission today. They had run one yesterday. They had run one the day before. She was losing track of the last time she'd slept more than a couple of hours in a night, the constant missions meaning tougher, tighter deadlines for all her work. The fixes needed to be completed twice as fast, and it was becoming physically impossible to keep all the buses air-worthy as needed.

Lemmons and the others were already on site and working away as she arrived, a fact that lessened her anxiety ever-so-slightly. In the months since they'd arrived, her begrudging acceptance of the American mechanics had grown more and more willing - they'd proved their worth, their dedication, and she couldn't ask more than that.

"How many can fly today?" She called, abandoning her bike in the grass as she jogged over to the hardstand where Ken was working away.

"Still only seventeen," He sighed. "A couple need fixes to the return lines, but we just don't have time for any big repairs."

"I know," Frankie nodded grimly. "Daily missions are a nightmare, just pull through with what you can, they can't blame us for any of this."

His expression was tense, tainted with guilt. She could tell he was thinking of Cleven again. "Hey," Frankie urged, pressing a reassuring hand to his shoulder. "None of this is our fault." Lemmons nodded after a moment's pause, tilting his head to let his chin rest upon the spot where her hand gripped his shoulder.

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By the time the flight crews began rolling in in their jeeps, Frankie had grown so irritable that she swore her teeth would shatter if her jaw clenched itself any harder. The constant frustration of never being able to carry out the repairs she wanted, the ever-present worry that burrowed into her stomach whenever the pilots left, and the anger she felt at Egan for going with them, were all colliding in an explosive combination. And her fellow mechanics seemed to feel it - even Ken was keeping his distance.

Bucky's car slowed to a halt behind her as she finished up, and she turned to glare at him, a look he was sure he'd never seen crease her face before. "Now, Frankie," He approached with a plastered-on grin, seizing her by the shoulders as he tried to alleviate her mood with his own false joyfulness. "Why is it that we're only flying seventeen buses this morning? I hope Lemmons over there hasn't been screwing with your excellent work."

He had touched a nerve. Unfortunately for Egan, this realisation came a split-second too late. Before he knew it, there was a spanner jammed under his chin, as if she held a knife to his throat, her expression only made harsher by the remark. "Maybe if some people didn't force themselves in where they aren't needed we wouldn't have to pull everything together in such a fucking hurry, eh?"

"Ok, Frank, tough morning, I get it," He nodded, releasing her shoulders and taking a full step back. But he wasn't going to pretend her statement about him being unneeded hadn't sparked his own anger. "But don't take that out on me, I'll pass your concern on to Harding, and we'll see what he can-"

"The only thing I want Harding to get is a smack up the fucking head for letting you fly."

"This is war, Frankie, you think I'm gonna sit out because of what happened? I've never wanted this more than I do now!"

Without fully realising, their voices had begun to rise, argument audible to the other ground and flight crews nearby as they attempted to awkwardly go about their business.

"We both know you're not fit to fly - oh, or does a breakfast of whisky and cigarettes pass the military standard these days? You're burning the candle at both ends and you won't talk to me about it because you're embarrassed by how obvious it's become, John!"

"You really wanna go there? How 'bout we talk about how you spend every fucking night up here working until you drop, and the only times you don't is when you're drinking yourself to the same effect? How many hours did you sleep last night - or the night before, huh? Two? Three? Don't stand there and fucking lecture me about 'burning the candle at both ends'-" He lifted his hands in quotation marks, mockingly mimicking her accent. "- when I'm just following your example!"

Frankie didn't speak for a moment, but as Bucky tried to walk past her, she swivelled on her heel, yelling at him with such force that it was a miracle the entire bomb squad didn't hear. "Why do I have to lose my friend just because you lost yours?!"

He stopped dead in his tracks, stone-cold expression cracking for a second. "Frankie-"

Raising a hand to silence him, she shook her head. "No- you know what? Just fuck off. Get in your death trap and fuck off. At least I'll have one less mess to clean up when you don't come back. I'm sure Cleven will be so proud that his legacy amounted to that."

Frankie could tell she'd hurt him. His glare didn't falter, but she saw the way he flinched when she mentioned Cleven. If she'd been in a more forgiving mood, she might have apologised on the spot - taken it all back, promised she wanted nothing more than for him to return safe and in one piece. But she was tired and she was angry, and apologising was the last thing on her agenda. Hot tears were welling in her eyes as she stomped off, the clanging weight of her toolbox accentuating every step as she officially declared whatever happened next as Not Her Problem.

'Royal Flush' was the next plane along the runway, close enough so that every shouted word of Egan and Frankie's exchange had carried on the wind, the flight crew exchanging embarrassed glances as they tried to ignore the conversation they had suddenly found themselves privy to. Rosie had been about to climb in, but the sudden shouts had given him pause, waiting by the hatch as he watched on with a furrowed brow. Her boots thumped hard against the tarmac as she marched up to them, tools weighing her down on one side.

"Everything looks good?" She demanded, stopping in front of the plane, her usually jovial tone gone.

He frowned, concern twisting his expression. "Everything is - yeah - are you ok?"

Frankie's lip jutted out for a moment, and Rosie grew suddenly worried that she was about to burst into tears. Taking a sharp, shaky inhale, she nodded firmly. "Everything's great."

He slammed the hatch shut, gesturing for her to step underneath the plane's belly so that they were out of both sight and earshot of the rest of Rosie's Riveters. She did so, putting her toolbox down at her feet so that she could wipe away the tears that were forming with the heels of her palms. "I'm really tired."

Rosie almost laughed, a huff escaping him as she confirmed every suspicion he'd harboured about her unorthodox work hours. Lifting a hand to her cheek, he brushed her hair away from where it had stuck to half-dried tears. "Oh, honey," He uttered before he'd had a chance to actually consider the words, the pair of them brushing past the term of endearment without a second thought, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "He's gonna be fine. Egan'll come back in a couple hours, and you can both apologise to each other, and everything'll be fine."

She sniffed sharply, nodding, and he chuckled as she reached up to tug the zipper on his jacket all the way up past his collar, the sheepskin brushing against his chin. "Don't get... like... shot, or anything."

He grinned, nodding affirmatively. "Duly noted. Nice pep talk."

Frankie smiled then too, thumping him in the shoulder like she always did when he teased her. "I'm not kidding," She chuckled. "If every person I'm seen talking to before a flight fucking dies people will start thinking I'm bad luck."

Rosie raised a brow at this, flicking away another stray strand of hair that had gotten caught on her eyelash. "Well... of all the ways to go, I'll take your weird bad-luck-magic any day."

She sniffed again, her eyes still red from almost crying. "Thank you," She nodded earnestly.

"Alright. I'll see you later?"

"You hope," Frankie joked, smile flickering for a moment as she realised the remark may have been in bad taste, but he chuckled nonetheless, opening the hatch and climbing up into 'Royal Flush'. As his head popped up in the belly of the machine, Rosie noticed his co-pilot crouched on the floor beside him, eyeing him with a raised brow.

"... What?"

"Jesus Christ," Pappy muttered, pushing himself to his feet and worming his way through to the cockpit.

"Pappy, what?" Rosie insisted, close behind him. The man batted him away, and he threw up his hands in frustration, sliding into the pilot's seat.

"This thing ain't as sound-proof as you think it is, that's all I'm sayin'."

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Frankie squinted in the midday sun as she lay in the grass beside the runway, the tall grass blowing in and out of her peripherals on the cool breeze. The wait was always agony - the uncertainty, the sense of powerlessness, the surety that some of the men who had left were never coming back. It seemed word of her public argument with Major Egan had travelled fast, for as soon as lunchtime rolled around, there was George. She never bothered to walk all the way to the airstrip from the command centre, but today she had made the hike, a paper bag full of cheese and cucumber sandwiches in tow.

Lemmons sat silently, cross-legged in the grass as he enjoyed his lunch. "Thanks for this, ma'am, it was real nice of you," He nodded appreciatively, making up for his and George's lack of familiarity with polite flattery.

"Yeah," Frankie agreed, speaking with a mouth full of cheese. "Much better than the shit coffee and stale crackers we keep in the hut."

George furrowed her brow, frowning questioningly over at Ken. "No refrigerator," He shrugged, offering no further explanation.

Frankie ate with one hand, a difficult task when lying down, half of the sandwich filling falling out onto her chest. But her other hand was draped across George's leg as she painted her nails a subtle shade of mauve, scolding her whenever she twitched. When she was stressed, she smoked too much, and George had long since realised that the best way to curb the bad habit was to distract her with food, or to ensure her hands were indisposed. On a particularly stressful afternoon such as this one, it seemed combined efforts were in order.

"... You don't think Bucky hates me now, do you?" Frankie asked quietly, her two companions frowning down at her.

"What are you, twelve?" George snorted, carefully finishing off the edges of her thumbnail. "He'll get over it. Grown-ups fight, dear."

"You're both having a hard time," Ken added. "He's just blowing off steam, I don't think he meant any of it."

"I meant what I said. When I said it, that is."

"Once you got drunk and told me you wanted to rip my eyes out because I was too pretty - I haven't held it against you," George shrugged. "You definitely meant that at the time."

"I'm easily frustrated."

"Yeah, no shit."

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George's watch ticked steadily past the time they had expected the planes to return. She didn't return to work - didn't leave Frankie's side - sitting beside her in the grass, a deathly silence hanging over them as she began to pick and chip away at her freshly dried nail polish.

"They should have been back by-"

"Shh." Frankie interrupted sharply, an utterly dreadful sense of foreboding hollowing out her gut. She didn't realise how thoroughly she'd picked at her hand until her finger came away bloody. Where were they?

The sound of an engine rattling above made their ears prick, gazes locked on the same spot on the great blue horizon as a single plane came into view.

Just one.

Before she even realised she was nauseous, Frankie had vomited the contents of her stomach onto the grass in front of her. If none of them had returned, it could have meant any number of things. She knew exactly what one plane meant. She didn't even watch it land, just stared down at the stinking puddle before her as it soaked into the dirt.

In her mind, she had a choice now. When the time came to head over, she had to decide on who she was praying would climb out.

Bucky or Rosie.

Even if it was neither, it couldn't be both.

But then a second rumble sounded, and before she'd had time to look up and track its movements, another plane was pulling in, its wings jagged and torn, engines sputtering as it slowly descended.

'Royal Flush'.

A terrible, ragged noise escaped Frankie's throat, something between a sob and a sigh of relief. Scrambling to her feet, George thrust her half-empty flask of lukewarm coffee into her hand, and she downed the whole thing, the bitterness mixing with the acidic tang in her mouth, masking the smell of sickness as best she could.

Rosie hadn't even had time to register her approach. No sooner had he slipped out of the hatch did he feel the sudden crush of another body against his, her arms thrown around his neck, her hand in his hair, holding him steady. Suddenly he was breathing again.

He wasn't sure he'd ever held anybody so tight, relishing the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet as he wrapped his arms around her back, hands pressed so firmly against her skin that he could feel her rapid heartbeat beneath it, a desperate tether to life. She was breathing in his ear, his curls waving back and forth with it, and without thinking he reached up to pluck a piece of grass away that had gotten stuck in her hair.

Her breath didn't come easy - he could hear the laboured way she pulled in each inhale, as if a weight were pressing on her chest, keeping her lungs empty. When she spoke it was barely a whisper.

"Egan?"

Rosie shook his head ever so slightly, the guilt of what he knew he had to say eating away at him. "I gotta wait until after interrogation, I can't-"

Suddenly Frankie pulled out of the embrace, hands clutching either side of his face, forcing him to look at her. Her hands were gentle in the way they pressed against his cheeks, but in that moment it felt like a vice grip. That warmth he had become so fond of was gone, her eyes merciless, and Rosie knew in that moment that if he didn't tell her now she would never forgive him.

"He went down Frankie, they all- ... They all went down."

A horrible, agonising sound tore free from her throat, half whimper, half choke, and immediately she was blinded by the tears that filled her eyes. His fingers found hers, ever so gently prying her palms away from his face so that he could hold her again, pressing his lips briefly to her sweat-soaked temple. If he could, he would have stayed there for hours, for as long as she needed someone to be there whilst she wept. But he couldn't. For someone he'd known only weeks, walking away from her was suddenly the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

Frankie didn't turn to watch him go, didn't spare a glance to the surviving Riveters as they climbed into the back of one of the trucks, whisked away to interrogation.

What the fuck could they say that wasn't already obvious?

She felt a hand press against her shoulder, and turned her head to meet Ken's gaze, his expression twisted with fear.

"Bucky?" He asked. The simple question was enough to undo her, and all at once Frankie burst into tears, accepting his embrace as he offered it.

Just fuck off. Get in your death trap and fuck off.

At least I'll have one less mess to clean up when you don't come back.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't feel anything but a terrible, harrowing guilt, so heavy that it made her very bones ache. If she hadn't already upturned the contents of her stomach, she would have done so now, the desperate feeling of nausea left with nothing to cling to within her.

Frankie Bevan had lost people to war before. She had loved people and sent them away, and they had never returned. But not once in her life had she let them leave without them knowing she loved them. Not until now.

"He forgave you," She heard Lemmons murmur, his hand stroking her hair in that way her father used to soothe her when she got too mad - when the world got too heavy, too weighty for her hands alone. "He knew you didn't mean it."

She sniffed loudly, clutching at the dirty fabric of his coveralls. "He loved me, didn't he?"

"Oh yeah."

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Rosie sat on one of the benches outside the interrogation hut, staring down at the cup of Red Cross coffee that warmed his hands. They had made too many cups. He had walked in and seen them, laid out row by row, and taken the first of the front row like he was supposed to - leave the rest for the others. But there were no others. And suddenly the bitter liquid was the least appetising thing in the world.

The bench's wooden slats creaked as someone sat down beside him. Frankie was sitting on her hands, staring blankly at a fixed spot in the grass ahead. Wordlessly, he held the coffee out to her, and she took it, the hot liquid scalding her tongue as she took a sip.

"Jesus," She sputtered, grimacing at the sudden pain.

"Still hot," Rosie said.

"Yeah, I noticed," Frankie huffed, sucking in cool air through her teeth to soothe the burn.

"Hey, I'm really sorry about-"

"Don't," She interrupted, shaking her head. "You don't have to do that, it's okay."

At some point during their flight, Rosie had sliced the skin along his hairline, droplets of blood drying and encrusting his forehead. Frankie put the still-hot coffee down, reaching up to brush his curls out of the way with her thumb. Her hand was still warm from holding the cup, and he felt the urge to lean closer.

"That hurt?"

"Nah. It's just a scratch - I don't even know how I got it."

She nodded, hand falling back down at her side. Neither of them moved for a moment, but when Rosie lifted his arm she seemed to get the message, leaning into his side, arms wrapped around his torso. His chin rested atop Frankie's head, the smell of her hair filling his lungs with each slow inhale.

"I don't know what we're supposed to do now."

#masters of the air #masters of the air oc #masters of the air fic #rosie rosenthal #rosie rosenthal x oc #mota #mota fic #john egan #ken lemmons #oc: frankie #oc: george #fic | i'm your man

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