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mercurygray · 25 days

Note

Release, for Fred & Brady? 💙

I hope you don't mind, Killy, but I decided to use this as a second part to this piece.

She'd made a terrible mistake.

It wasn't that she'd kissed him - or been kissed, however you wanted to think about it. It wasn't even that she'd run away afterwards - she stood by that decision, even if her knees still hurt from the jump down, and her hands were still sore.

It was that he'd gone out this morning and she hadn't said a word goodbye.

She'd offered to take the early morning shift making the donuts, so she wouldn't have to see anyone, but Mary had places to be in the afternoon and wouldn't swap, so she'd been on coffee duty with Tatty, just outside the briefing room. She was one of them now, part of their good luck charms and superstitions. Hambone would only take a donut if she passed it with her left hand and Curt always spilled the first sip of his coffee, for the angels, and John - John always said good bye and she always said good luck and he'd always say "I won't need it" with one of those small smiles of his.

But not today. Today he hadn't said a word - only glanced at her, and then just as quickly looked away, and he'd gotten in the truck without a word to anyone, his face stormy and closed.

She felt like she had been left holding something - a package that didn't belong to her, a parachute. Good …luck. But what if he needs it today? Superstition closed those loops - if they'd spilled their coffee and made their jokes and wore their sweaters backwards and carried their lucky snow globes then they'd done all they could possibly do, and the rest of it was with God, or Fate. She'd spent the day in nervous watchfulness, waiting for the sound overhead that would let her know that they were back, that it was time to count them in, that she could finally give him back this thing that she'd been carrying for him all day long.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen - everyone back home. A minor miracle, even if someone's engine was on fire, and she could hear, from the far side of the airfield, the rising whine of the siren calling out the fire brigade and the ambulances.

Up in the control tower, she knew that Mae and Cord and Anita would be talking to the pilots on the radio, assessing and evaluating, relaying the information back to where it could be acted upon, and after they got out, those that could get out were bussed over to interrogation, and then they'd come to her - end the day as they had started, with a cup of coffee and a donut, so that Major Bowman and Captain Brennan and Phoebe and the rest could ask them how it had gone, where the flak was worst, how many bombs they'd dropped and whether they'd dropped true, whether the luck they'd carried with them had truly been lucky.

They were always quieter now then when they'd gone out in the morning - no jokes, no laughter. She'd heard Captain Brennan call what they did 'returning to themselves' and so they were. Here was Dickie, and here was Curt, small smiles and grateful gulps of coffee and bourbon as Doc Stover checked them over on the way in. Egan, putting on some sort of smile like he thought she and Tatty would believe him untouched by this.

And here he was.

She was glad there was a table between them. The things she wanted to do wouldn't have stood up to close observation - to grab his arms, observe the cuts on his face from the raw edges of his mask, brush his hair out of his eyes. And her lips longed for his skin - to kiss every last inch of him, to be close the way they'd been close last night in his plane, with the sunset dying around them, and see if it would make him smile the way he'd smiled yesterday, since he certainly wasn't smiling now.

He tossed back his bourbon and didn't even glance at the coffee, and her heart was the heaviest it had been all day.

Phoebe had his table - nine men. Someone was missing and she couldn't tell who. The room emptied; he grabbed his bag and headed back outside, and she did something she wasn't supposed to - she followed him.

"John! Wait!"

She grabbed his hand and pulled him around the side of the hut, and when she kissed him, it was like pulling the release cord on that parachute, because everything was falling, but slower and steadier, and his hands were light on her hips, and when they stopped, foreheads touching, she felt like she was on solid ground again.

"Fred." There was a touch of wonder in his voice.

"I'm sorry," she said, her words coming out in a jumble. "I'm sorry I let you leave like that this morning and I'm sorry I ran away and I'm sorry I'm scared." I don't like breaking rules, but I'll do it for you. "But don't you ever forget to say good bye again," she threatened with a waver in her voice that made him laugh, and tighten his hands on her waist. "Now, you - you can't be jealous when I dance with everyone else. And you can't be angry when someone else makes me laugh. And I can't always sit with you, or hold hands with you, or even kiss you. But I'll be yours," she said, feeling like she was flying and falling and foolish for all of it. "Your …best girl."

"And Curt's," he added, with a waver of laughter in his voice, his eyes as blue as oceans. "I'd fight him but I know I'd lose."

The truth of that was worth the laugh. "And Curt's."

"And since when do you call me John?" She punched him in the arm for that, but the truth was the truth, whether she liked it or not. "But Curt doesn't get to do this," he said, and kissed her again. She closed her eyes, as light as air, and thought of sunsets and sunrises and all the luck in the world that had brought her here.

#asked and answered #basilone #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #tds cinematic universe #freda torvaldsen #john brady x oc

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shoshiwrites · 1 month

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Orange sunsets for Jo & Egan? 💚

Friend, this prompt would not exist without you and your Gale senses, @mercurygray's military vehicle expertise, and @junojelli, because I have never driven stick in my entire life, much less a 1940s jeep. Prompt list here.

Bucky Egan/War correspondent OC, also on Ao3!

Somewhere between writing up her latest story and the blue censor’s slashes that render it half as long, she runs out of typewriter ribbon.

She thought she’d been careful — both in the writing and in the paying close attention to her supplies. Jo — reporter Jo, Your Trusty Correspondent Jo, she figures out her own shit. Doesn’t ask for even so much as a pencil.

She’d thought it was a good piece, too.

The things she does have to ask about — meals, jeep rides up to Norwich to report on the bombing runs there, woven through with conversations with the civil defense men, almost all of them veterans of the last war — those are careful things, done in uniform and with something in her voice that approximates flattery. Apologies without apologizing. It’s a relief when a Red Cross girl or two offers to go with her, the way they can talk without minding themselves.

Longhand’ll be fine, for a bit.

It’s warm enough to sit outside, in the grass, in the shadow of a Nissen hut. Overcast, as usual, an early summer day. The air smells like pollen, half like the promise of rain.

“Hey, I know we’re short a few things up here but I think a chair might not be too big an ask.”

She squints up at him in the brightness from behind the clouds. “Major.”

“Seriously, you need a chair?”

“I’m alright, thank you.” It’s not the mud of spring anymore, at least. “Ground’s nice, on a day like this.”

The look that crosses his face seems to be considering a joke. “Where’s the machine?” He means her typewriter, the Underwood portable. Sitting inside.

She makes a noncommittal wave.

“I’m sure we could figure you one of those too,” he says, even though they both know full well that hot commodities like typewriters aren’t just growing out in the grass. “Sticky keys? Bad spring? Screw loose? Space bar not doing its job? I mean, I’d still read it, but-”

“Nah, just the ribbon.”

“You need a ribbon?”

God, he’s worse than the boys at the office. She laughs, just a little. “Has anyone ever told you you’d make a great copyboy?”

If he were chewing gum right now, it’d be a lazy clack on his back teeth. “Well, not too different than what they’ve got me doing now, if I’m honest.”

“If you’re honest.”

“Jeep’s right there,” he says, even though it’s not. “I mean-”

She weighs her options. Jeep ride. Typewriter ribbon. Maybe even one for Kay or to squirrel away for later. She wonders about ration books and cigarettes, not that she bothers much with anything besides Luckies these days. Small bars of wartime soap, small, pretty tins of hard candy, boiled sweets, they call them here.

On the other hand. No ride. No ribbon. No sweets. The air’s gotten thicker as she’s been sitting here. It sounds nice — careening through the greenery with the wind on her arms.

And he’d talk the whole time, she knows he will.

“What’s your afternoon look like?”

“Wide open.”

She highly suspects it’s not.

“Just the ribbon,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She’s glad she’s wearing trousers in the passenger seat, the open vehicle, the way she has to hold on to stay in. He’s used to the thing by now, he says, the way it handles, the good noises, the bad ones, the bite of the clutch. The road to Norwich is a straight line, and long, and he shouts over the wind, “oldest Roman road around! ‘S what I heard, at least.”

“And here we are, driving on it!”

“Yeah!”

The fields run by, the rows of trees, wagons, the Queen Anne’s lace, cow parsley, clusters of daisies.

“So, what’re you working on?”

She tells him, out here where it feels like they’re the only ones around, in the middle of the afternoon, even if they’re not. And he knows, of course, exactly what she’s talking about, the major who drinks among locals, the ones who tell stories and the ones who don’t.

He waits outside while she makes her purchase, and then ducks into another store to buy that tin of candy, slipped into her pocket. A magazine too, a small, short thing printed on rough paper. She ought to get him something, for the favor. A beer or a meal would be the real thing, if this wasn’t just an errand.

They walk back around the corner to where the jeep is parked, and he makes to toss her the keys. “Spin for the lady?”

She looks at him, unable to hide the confusion on her face.

Even if they let her have a jeep, she couldn’t drive it.

“Would if I could,” she says. “Though I hate to make you take the wheel all the way back, too.”

“Hey, it’s fine, I like this thing. But seriously, you never-?”

She looks at him, maybe a little too long, trying to figure out who he thinks she is. “City girls don’t get a lot of lessons in motoring.” Like it’s 1922 and she’s got a parasol and a skirt that doesn’t let her move. Steelworkers who drink away good wages don’t usually go for nice cars, either. William’s family had cars, plural. The two of them went for drives sometimes, out to the quieter, greener spots around the city. She always felt like she was going to do something wrong, smudge something that had just been polished or cleaned.

“Why don’t you hop in, I’ll show you.”

She looks at him again. “I’m sure the last thing anyone needs is an accident that puts a major out of commission.” And she’s pretty sure her on a ship home would be a welcome relief for at least as many people as she can count on her hands.

He makes a noise of dismissal, good-humored. Kind of a snort. “You’ll be fine.”

“You can tell that to the MPs.”

“Hey, would I tell you that if I didn’t think it was true?”

No, you wouldn’t.

“If I can park a plane, you can drive a jeep.”

She gets in the driver’s seat.

“So right here’s the steering wheel-”

She’s quick enough to bite it back. You know I got to England all by myself, right?

He sees the look on her face, puts his hand up. “Just covering all the bases, Brandt.”

“Steering wheel, roger.”

“Steering wheel-” he points, “shifter. This thing-” he points to the long handle protruding from the dashboard, “parking brake. Don’t worry about that one yet.”

He reaches an arm over, down to the well where her legs are. “Left is the clutch. That’s important. Right foot’s the brake. Also important. Long pedal’s the gas, you guessed it, important, if you wanna get back to base before chow or there’s someone chasin’ you.”

“Who’s chasing me?”

“I don’t know, somebody.”

“I’ll think something up.”

“You’re the writer, right? Now, you’re gonna start this baby up.” He hands her the keys, fingertips brushing her palm. "First turn that ignition, press the starter-” she does as she’s told, “and give it a little gas.”

It starts, mercifully, with a noise that he doesn’t wince at. “Now, if you wanna go faster than a farm wagon you’re gonna need to switch to second. But, can’t do that without gettin’ to first first.”

She’s fairly certain every window along the lane has someone looking at them, but she can’t worry about that right now.

“So, shifter’s in neutral, keep your foot on that brake- and the clutch, yep- just like dancin’-” he sees her face, “ok, maybe harder than dancin’, unless it’s a fast song playin’-” The clasp of her watch digs into her wrist against the wheel. “Doin’ great- now, I shoulda had you look at these before we started so I’ll just tell you- you’re gonna push down good on that clutch pedal, take the shifter, like this-”

She does, rewarded by an ungodly metallic noise and a corresponding smell. Her stomach wobbles. Nothing about his manner changes, except a handwave to get the smell away from his nose. This must be what’s he’s like up there. She’s surprised there hasn’t been a baseball metaphor yet. “You’re fine, just didn’t press hard enough is all. Need to get you some good boots like mine-”

She tries again, and the whole vehicle seems to take a cue from her stomach. “I hope you didn’t have anywhere you needed to be this afternoon.”

“Nope.” It’s clear she doesn’t quite believe that. A beat passes. “...you let me worry about that. Now-”

She reaches for the shifter again, just as he does the same, the tiniest spark of static. How, in this weather? If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear she heard something in his throat. “So I’ll handle this part now, you just focus on the clutch.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll tell you when.”

She nods, tries to look decisive about it.

“Alright- right- now-”

It bites, just like he said it would.

“BEAUTIFUL!”

It’s almost a laugh, the breath that escape her.

“Now, we’ll try second.”

She doesn’t get too excited, because it stalls out again. But she gets it going out of neutral, to first. He looks proud.

And second gear- the second time- it works.

“Hey, see, you’ve got this!”

“I think steering might also come in handy.”

“You may be right.”

She’s not very graceful about it, but she doesn’t land them in a ditch as she slowly maneuvers onto the main road. “I think you ought to take us back if you want to get there before dark.”

He looks like he’s thinking about it. “Ah, alright. But this ain’t over.”

“Part two?”

“Third gear. On the strip. When we get back.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Kind of a requirement.”

She gets it back down from second, stops it, hands him the keys. She’s shivering a little, back in the passenger seat, from the nerves, energy. He looks over at her and smiles. “Passed part one.”

“How do I stack up?”

“Well, Buck still has me drivin’ him around so, I’d say you’re the top of the class.”

She laughs, from relief, from the fact that it’s still not raining, from the fact that she’s forgotten the typewriter ribbon in the little box in her pocket, from his smile.

“I expect you to keep this thing running while I’m up there,” he says.

She wants to laugh, but the unspoken if hangs heavy, like clouds pregnant with rain.

“I don’t think that’s allowed,” she says.

He glances over at her, East Anglia passing them on both sides once again. “Well, I’ll get you permission.”

It’s not even your jeep, she wants to say. It puckers on her tongue, like the cherry-flavored sweets in her other pocket. None of this belongs to us.

By the time they make it back to Thorpe Abbotts, the sky has miraculously cleared, soft and blue, the other side of the afternoon.

“Now, we can just call this practice,” he says. “For the gear shifts.”

Gamely she gets in the driver’s seat again, bolstered by his confidence.

Another stall, again, this time from first to second, but she handles it. No one’s ever accused me of having a bad memory. Quite the opposite, sometimes.

The sensation of it runs through her arms, her legs. Something new, something she’d learned, something that might actually serve her, and not just what lipsticks to wear and how to dress for the season. Something he’d shared with her.

“I’m glad we’re not in Pittsburgh,” she says. “All the hills.”

“Hey, you’d handle them too. You’re a pro now. More practice than some of us got.” She’s a little afraid of what this looks like, although it’s not like discipline’s been the letter of the day at Thorpe Abbotts. Hardly something she’d write home about, aside from the swagger, the boldness. It meant something to her, though. Professionalism. William never thinks about any of it, she’s sure. “How about trying that third gear?”

“I hope whatever you’re missing right now isn’t too important.”

“Thought I told you to let me worry about that.”

“After dinner,” she says, unsure if she means it.

The next voice belonging to neither of them, low and a little amused, approaching. “Thought we’d have to send out a search party.”

“Just taking Josephine here for a little spin. Driving lesson.”

She shoots him a look. “An errand. I ran out of ribbon.”

“How was it?” Gale still looks faintly amused. “The lesson.”

“I told her if I can park a plane, she can drive a jeep.”

“Your ability to park a plane is questionable at best.” He smiles, just a little, before his expression is measured again. “John, Huglin wants to see you.” He can’t say what about in front of her, obviously. Jo hopes it isn’t about this. Something about what she knows of the colonel might tell her it’s not. Still, she feels guilty.

He leans over conspiratorially. “Jo, I won’t mind too much if you run him over.”

“Nice thing to say about your best friend,” Gale says.

“You’d be walking everywhere if it weren’t for me. Jeeps, bikes-”

“Sure, sure.”

“I’ll let you bring this back where you got it,” she says. “Better than me taking an hour to do the same.”

“After dinner, though?” Her mouth twitches a little.

“Come on, you’ll be thankin’ me one day.”

“He likes to say that,” says Gale.

If the sky stays clear, it’ll be beautiful. Clear blue until late, and then pink, orange, lemon yellow. Red streaks like the sweets in her pocket, dusted with powdered sugar.

How many sunsets like that could you hope for?

“Alright,” she says. “Keep the keys ready.”

#mota oc #masters of the air oc #bucky egan x oc #basilone #sry i had to do a little cover #shoshi writes #jo's tag #motaverse #oops this one is a monster #what am i doing? great question #we talked about this a while ago and i could not help myself from trying to write it #despite knowing - truly - nothing

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shoshimakesstuff · 1 year

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Changes on our hands and on our faces, Memories are mapped out by the lines we'll trace.

Wishing you the happiest of birthdays @basilone! ♡

#basilone #show: band of brothers #c: chuck grant #c: joe liebgott #c: floyd talbert

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ziasol · 2 years

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#staffsargent #basilone #mcrdsandiego San Diego is where legends are born#oorahmarinecorps (at Marine Corps Recruit Depot San Diego) https://www.instagram.com/p/ChKbppCrhoJ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#staffsargent #basilone #mcrdsandiego #oorahmarinecorps

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hboww2rewatch · 28 days

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Welcome to HBO's WWII Fandom Rewatch!

You are cordially invited to join us in watching Band of Brothers, The Pacific, and Masters of the Air in chronological order April 29 - July 14, 2024.

We will be watching three episodes a week and will have prompts to boost fandom creation as we watch together!

You can find the episode schedule and prompts below the cut. Individual posts can be found here and here if you prefer shorter posts.

If you are unable to watch the show at the same time as the schedule, no worries. While we are personally planning to liveblog together the episodes per the schedule, we understand everyone has lives outside of tumblr. Watch whenever you are able - our goal is to bond over our love for these shows and experience them again together. Pop in when you are able! :)

Please tag all your posts during this event with #hboww2rewatch and give us a follow for all updates on the rewatch.

Please reblog this post to spread the word!

Schedule:

We are tentatively planning to watch Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturdays, but that is not set in stone - watch when you are able during the week!

Week 1: Mon April 29- Sun May 5

The Pacific E1 (Dec ‘41- Oct ‘42) The Pacific E2 (Oct ‘42) The Pacific E3 (Dec ‘42- Fall ‘43)

Week 2: Mon May 6- Sun May 12

Masters of the Air E1 (Spring ‘43) Masters of the Air E2 (Spring ‘43) Masters of the Air E3 (Aug ‘43)

Week 3: Mon May 13- Sun May 19

Masters of the Air E4 (Oct ‘43) Masters of the Air E5 (Oct ‘43) Masters of the Air E6 (Oct ‘43)

Week 4: Mon May 20- Sun May 26

The Pacific E4 (Dec ‘43) Masters of the Air E7 (march ‘44) Band of Brothers E1 (June ‘44)

Week 5: Mon May 27- Sun June 2

Masters of the Air E8 (June ‘44) Band of Brothers E2 (June 6, ‘44) Band of Brothers E3 (June 7, ‘44)

Week 6: Mon June 3- Sun June 9

The Pacific E5 (Sept ‘44) Band of Brothers E4 (Sept ‘44) The Pacific E6 (Sept-Oct ‘44)

Week 7: Mon June 10- Sun June 16

Band of Brothers E5 (Oct ‘44) The Pacific E7 (Oct-Dec ‘44) Band of Brothers E6 (Dec ‘44)

Week 8: Mon June 17- Sun June 23

Band of Brothers E7 (Jan ‘45) Band of Brothers E8 (Feb ‘45) The Pacific E8 (Feb ‘45)

Week 9: Mon June 24- Sun June 30

Band of Brothers E9 (April ‘45) The Pacific E9 (April-June ‘45) Masters of the Air E9 (Feb-June ‘45)

Week 10: Mon July 1- Sun July 7

Band of Brothers E10 (May-Aug ‘45) The Pacific E10 (Aug ‘45) Saving Private Ryan (Bonus event)

Week 11: Mon July 8- Sun July 14 - post rewatch events to encourage fellow fans!

Reblog people’s creations

Leave comments on fics

Consider making a new friend in someone else who participated

Prompts:

Week 1: Mon April 29- Sun May 5:

Heading Out

First Fight

Friends

Orange

Week 2: Mon May 6- Sun May 12:

Crash

Crew

Superstition

Blue

Week 3: Mon May 13- Sun May 19:

Dancing

Reunion

Kinship

Red

Week 4: Mon May 20- Sun May 26:

Recuperation

Camp Life

Training

Green

Week 5: Mon May 27- Sun June 2:

Tuskeegees

Parachute

Injured

Purple

Week 6: Mon June 3- Sun June 9

Reunited

Replacement

Airfield

White

Week 7: Mon June 10- Sun June 16:

Typewriter

Loss

Cold

Pink

Week 8: Mon June 17- Sun June 23:

Shelling

Translation

Wedding

Brown

Week 9: Mon June 24- Sun June 30:

Discovery

Humanity

Celebration

Yellow

Week 10: Mon July 1- Sun July 7:

Bonding

Adjustment

Sacrifice

Dress Uniform

Black

Week 11 Mon July 8- Sun July 14:

Favorite Crew

Favorite Company

Best Friendship

Humor

Underrated Character

Character + Quote

Headcanons

Crossover

Something Missing

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sharkboyandlavalieb · 1 month

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BAND OF BROTHERS vs THE PACIFIC

#band of brothers #the pacific #bobedit #thepacificedit #hbowaredit #skip muck #donald malarkey #eugene sledge #john basilone #I made myself sad with this #sharkboycollective #sharkboyedit

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tetragonia · 19 days

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save me men in green dress... save me... men in green dress save me....

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hbowardaily · 28 days

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I saw his grave on Iwo. He's got lots of good Marines on all sides of him. He... He would have appreciated that.

ANNIE PARISSE as SGT. LENA BASILONE THE PACIFIC (2010) | Part 10: "Home"

#the pacific #thepacificedit #tusershay #supervalcsi #underbetelgeuse #dailyflicks #tvedit #*ouredit #by holly #simizone #userstaud #ronsparky #olympain #violaobanion #userjack #lena basilone #annie parisse #hbowaredit #userrobin

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staud · 5 months

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- Here you go, Manny. - To Manny.

#the pacific #manny rodriguez #john basilone #hbo war #thepacificedit #gif #besties #was gonna include JP but decided to keep it simple

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pfenniged · 3 months

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I'm going to be honest- as HBO War shows go, I find The Pacific very difficult to watch, just due to the sheer open racism at play and the brutality of the pacific plane of the war. It's obviously very accurate to what occurred, but it's also just such a demonstration of the worst of what humanity has to offer, you have to be in the right mental space to watch it.

At the same time, I think it has some of the best character work in all of the HBO War/ Apple TV universe. Sometimes I just think of that one scene where John Basilone, this big ladies' man and war hero, just looks at the future Lena Basilone, by all measures a "spinster" by her age and so independent and capable she unintentionally isolated herself from those around her, and he just looks at her after calling her beautiful, just like he'd probably called countless women before her, and basically says semi-jokingly. "I bet you get that all the time."

And she looks at him, in her uniform, with her rank prominent, her hard work evident, and you can see her almost choke up. Because even if she was beautiful, or was pretty, women like Lena Basilone don't get told they're beautiful. Because they're always been the capable one. Or the smart one. Or the practical one. And we get the feeling she has accepted that she's not seen that way. Or will never be seen that way. But this man, who she poked a hole in his ego of any chance she got, sees her that way. Not in spite of her competence, but in tandem with it.

And then she smiles through the lump in her throat, and she simply says, "No- I don't get that often." Not pitying. Just a fact. That she most likely thought she'd come to terms with the fact that she'd never met a man who could accept all of her. And John looks at her like he can't believe that no one else has seen what he sees in all these years. And it's just SUCH good character work, it literally kills me.

#the pacific #John Basilone #lena basilone #hbo war #the character work honestly is great in this series tbh

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mercurygray · 1 month

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watching the rain forrrrr Fred & Brady?

Oh, this was a good one. Thank you for giving me an excuse to write them!!

It was bound to be quieter, out here with the rain.

She hadn't joined the Red Cross to be the center of attention - it was true enough that you got some of that being one of four girls in a truck, but that wasn't the same as having the spotlight on you for an unscheduled one-woman episode of Command Performance using a borrowed guitar.

Sadly for her, though, it looked like her usual seat was already taken. John Brady rose from one of the crates, his pipe giving him an almost patrician air. "Oh, I'm sorry. Didn't think there'd be anyone out here," Fred said, turning to go back inside.

"Plenty of room here for whoever wants it," Brady offered, gesturing to a second crate with his pipe. "If you don't mind a little company, that is - or the smoke."

"Reminds me of home, actually," Fred said, smoothing down her jacket and sitting down. Her grandfather had smoked a pipe - usually out on the fire escape, so the apartment wouldn't smell too awful. The smell of it calmed her. "It was getting a little loud in there for me."

"The sound of earnest appreciation," Brady said with a smile. "You made that guitar sound better than Jimmy does."

Fred blushed. It had been Curt's idea, because wasn't it always? Now, now - I think I'm owed a little treat for making it home in one piece, eh? Now where's - where's Fred? I wanna hear her sing me something. I know she's got a real sweet voice and we ain't all heard it yet.

She'd tried to beg off but Curt wouldn't take no for an answer, so they'd chivvied her up on stage, and Jimmy Hobart had handed over his guitar and pulled a stool out, and she'd tuned it up and asked Curt what he wanted to hear. Somethin' nice, he'd said with a grin. Somethin' sweet.

She wasn't about to go singing him a love song, so she'd pulled out one of those cowboy ballads she thought she'd be singing so often, I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences, Gaze at the moon till I lose my senses, Can't look at hobbles and I can't stand fences, Don't fence me in.

She'd done that one, and another by Gene Autry, until Egan had joined in and gotten the whole club singing, and then Hobart had come back and she'd been able to sneak out the back door, back to the rain and the smell of Brady's pipesmoke.

"Not all of us studied music in college, Lieutenant Brady."

"You know, I wouldn't mind if you called me John," he offered quietly. "Curt's not Lieutenant Biddick, is he?"

Well, Fred, you walked into that one. "Curt excels at making himself an exception. There are rules I'm supposed to follow - and up until I got here I was pretty good at it."

"What do you think changed?" Fred looked over at Brady and found he was watching her with careful, considerate eyes - an armchair philosopher with his pipe.

She snorted and looked out into the night at the rain. It was a good question - what had changed? She was still the same person who'd left Madison twelve months ago - still had the same parents, the same college degree, the same training. Was it this place, or these people? The answer came back very unannounced, and she smiled to herself about it. "Apparently flyboys are very persuasive."

Brady chuckled. "On behalf of my fellow flyboys I will accept that compliment. So do you have any other tricks in those uniform sleeves of yours, Miss Fred? You dance, you sing, you play the guitar, you charm hardened pilots out of their seats, you make excellent donuts and a hell of a good cup of coffee. Is there anything you don't do?"

Now it was her turn to laugh out loud. "I also play a pretty good game of cribbage."

He didn't have time to respond to that, because just as she'd said it the door was opening again and Curt, listing a little bit to starboard, joined them outside. "John Brady, are you getting my best girl a drink?"

Brady sat up a little straighter, taking his pipe out of his mouth. "I can be, if she needs one."

"Hey, what is your drink, by the way?" Curt had turned his attention to Fred. "The next time I phone in I'll know what to ask for."

"A whiskey soda." Fred looked over at John, a little impressed.

Curt clapped him on the shoulder. "He remembers! See, this is why you're never gonna leave us, Fred, because we spoil you. And do you know why? Because we know a good thing when we see it. And you, Fred, are a very, very good thing."

"Maybe even the best thing?" Fred asked, getting up from her crate. Duty called - somewhere in her mind she could see the shift supervisor tapping her wrist. She'd danced too long with the same soldier, and there was no more time for quiet.

Curt was laughing at that, pulling her back inside and saying something about the jitterbug and showing Blakeley what was what and who was who. And Fred couldn't help but notice the feeling of Brady following them, resuming his seat on the stage and his clarinet, the smell of rain and his pipesmoke lingering on her jacket.

#asked and answered #basilone #i have written a thing #mercurygraypresents #freda torvaldsen #masters of the air oc #john brady x oc

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