#turns out frantically googling the only lines like ''women meeting in the bathroom''

[inkskinned]

"it's so embarrassing you like that popular thing" "oh ew that geeky/strange thing is so cringe lol" "oh it's kind of weird you get excited about that harmless shit"

dude i love how ironic and jaded you are and that's so cool and sexy of you. and i am so so glad to tell you - you won!! we all had a meeting and we decided that you won, and we are writing your name on the inside of a burger king crown. the marker smeared, sorry, but we knew any form of real effort is ugly to you. but anyway. congrats! you are officially the coolest, most ironic, most jaded person in-the-world-right-now. we would throw you a party but you would think it was totally boring - and besides, we're weird so we wouldn't have been coming. we would have brought our love of beetles and of baking and of little canapes. we would have brought our artsy videogames and pages of writing. we would have written a poem with you, our hands covered in ink, and spread out a canvas to dance on, the night so lurid and pink.

but do not worry. we will not throw the party. we will just get you a ringlight and that crown i mentioned. it is a nice crown, except for where one of us dropped it.

the vote was a really hard one because we had so many cool ironic people to pick off the shelves. all of you have hands that rot fruit, how strange is that - you can't look at something without destroying it for other people. you like it when you can squeeze a person into a pinpoint - all us small ones scampering our little feet around our ugly joys. the vote was also a hard one because we kept our voices down because you don't like it when we talk too loud. you were on your phone at the time, talking to people other than us. you are a ghoul of every moment - half in, half out, you resent us for being here without shame or embarrassment.

so good news! we have invented an island for people like you. you get to go there and speak into the air things like if you still like watching harmless twitch streamers in 2023 you're fucking boring. you will say things like liveplay podcasts are fucking ugly and it's kind of awkward they try to make everything gay. on the island we made you, all of your words will have weight. they will form in the air like icicles, large white behemoth letters that will crumple in anvils around your feet. maybe we will send someone there once in a while to sweep, but honestly you might be there for a while, alone, waiting. we are busy being outside looking for mushrooms and flapping our hands and humming. we are busy kicking our little heels while we watch cringey tv. we are busy - sorry! as an apology, we have pre-filled the island with every bland, mediocre, unscented thing we could find. the island has the texture of american cheese. the island has an ocean that never gets angry. the island is perfect for you, trust me. you will be so happy there - as happy as you can be, ironically.

we want to say we are sorry for doing harmless things that you find annoying, childish, or unappealing - but we are not sorry. we thought we could help you, because we don't mind laughing at ourselves, but it turns out you are allergic to color and noise and atmosphere, so this is the best that we can do for now. we are all making a big shirt that says i voted in the ironic monarchy. we got you one that is just a fast fashion buttondown. i am so excited for you and this island and the big life you have won. you have a cool jaded grey life and miles of irony to roam. i love you! be well.

now leave us alone.

#spilled ink #writeblr #slam poetry #i started this as a joke and ended up taking after #the poem about all the women in the world meeting in the bathroom #i can't find it to link it directly i've been googling for like 15 minutes if someone can remember #turns out frantically googling the only lines like ''women meeting in the bathroom'' #''secret womens meeting you always believed happened" is not useful for . to search??? help :( #also the reason this says harmless so many times is bc like #this is 100% about like #yeah man when ppl are mean about ppl enjoying things like. fuckin lady gaga #like this is so obviously about ppl who steal ur joy for no reason (i WILL steal ur joy if ur a bigot btw) #also yes it's bc someone was like ''liking the mcelroys in 2023 is cringe'' #and im like. dude what the fuck literally just let people like things it's LITERALLY not that deep. #like i dont like centipedes theyre one of like the 2 bugs im squicked out by ... but like. #if u really like centipedes. im like so happy for you. i hope you can put socks on ur centipedes #so they can speedclean ur floors. that would be fun and cool!!! #i love u i hope all of you have a weird passion i love you i hope that passion fills your life like soap bubbles

[itstheanxietyforme]

The Set Up: Part 1

An introduction to Ella Evans, the (willing and totally consenting) sacrificial lamb to my #getmarcusmorenolaidchallenge (see my Set It Up drabble) 

Summary: Seeking an experienced teacher to lead an exciting new classroom! Grades K-8, all core subjects, experience with gifted students a must. Ella Evans just wants this interview to go well. Fate had other plans. 

(Eventual) Pairing: Marcus Moreno x OFC (I am categorically terrible at 1st person writing, thus the creation of this character)

Rating: PG-13 lite. 

Warnings: light swearing, OFC checks out Marcus because duh. Second-hand embarrassment from foot in mouth. Eventual fluff and smut, but slow burn here. 

Ella Evans checks herself over in the bathroom mirror of her modest apartment for the umpteenth time. She had managed to sweep her unruly thick hair into a low bun, though a few waves have already escaped, and her makeup is simple; a little bit of blush and mascara to frame her green-grey eyes. Dressing for an interview always resulted in her agonizing for hours, trying to land on what struck a balance between professional without being overdone. After trying on every combination of skirt, blouse, dress, and dress pant she owned (which was admittedly a small selection but enough to make problematic combinations), she landed on a knee length navy pencil skirt with a crisp red blouse. The only thing that Ella didn’t struggle to narrow down was a pair of sleek black flats; tripping over her own two feet because she attempted to strut in heels was not how she wanted this interview to go. And Ella would be the first to admit that she is far from graceful and with a profession that required hours on her feet, there was no sense in suffering unnecessarily.

The job itself was exciting enough, assuming of course she made it past the first interview. A one class, all subjects K-8 position with highly competitive pay. Given the range of ages and the discretely advertised “excellent teacher to student ratio,” Ella knew it likely meant some intense behaviors or needs amongst the kids. But then again, those had always been the kids that Ella loved most: the ones other teachers “couldn’t handle.” It was hokey, but those were her babies. The fact that the position would also be another 10 grand a year was huge, and would be the push Ella needed to go back to school for another masters. Maybe she could even save up to travel. No getting ahead of myself, she chides herself gently. 

Casting one last nervous glance in the mirror, Ella steels herself with a reminder: I’m a good teacher, and I can do this. On the way out, she grabs her work bag, a worn leather tote with lesson samples, extra copies of her resume and a few other essentials. The details that the school head, a Ms. Granada, has sent her were vague at best, enough so that Ella had briefly entertained the idea of this being a scam. A quick google search though had yielded enough information though to explain that it was a newer program for tweens and the application process posted was impressive. Worst case scenario? She would bolt for doors. Considering her current work environment, more specifically the human slug of boss she had endured for over 5 years now since moving to the area, anything would be an improvement. Hell, I’d work for an alien at this point, she thinks sullenly. 

It only takes a half hour for her to arrive at the coffee shop where the interview was taking place. “Due to massive renovations to our campus taking place this summer, we are unable to hold interviews at our site. We will be holding all interviews off-site and appreciate your understanding.” That’s what the follow up email had said when Ella learned she had an interview. Truthfully, Ella is almost relieved for a more informal environment, especially considering how nervous she is. So when Ella strolls into the small cafe a solid 15 minutes before her scheduled time, she takes a deep breath and tries to calm her nerves. 

Glancing around, Ella can’t see anyone she imagines to be the interview team. She spots a handful of children perched in a booth with mugs of chocolate milk and stacks of coloring books spread out; the booth to the left hosts five women, slowly sipping their drinks and laughing lightly as they glance over every once in a while. The sight makes Ella smile. Several teens or possibly even college students are scattered around, headphones on all of them as they stare mutely at their variety of devices. Beyond that, there are only a few other strays in the small shop, none dressed so formally as to make her assume they’re here to hire. It’s enough time to order a drink and try and calm her nerves. 

As she winds her way up to the counter to order, she is a mere four feet away the bar when she manages to trip on, well, nothing really. A hot flash of adrenaline spikes through her chest as she sails forward, but the panic settles slightly when she inexplicably doesn’t fall. The shock of the near miss reels back, just in time for her to notice what saved her. Or more specifically, who. Two hands are sealed to her arms, and slowly, she is pulled backwards and righted to her feet. It takes Ella a minute to calm her racing heart enough to turn and meet her savior, but the face she finds really does nothing ground her. No one should look that damn good on a Wednesday morning in a freaking coffee shop. And have lightning fast reflexes to boot.

Rich, warm brown eyes study her carefully, dark brows knit in worry. Even behind the glasses he wears, his gaze traps her on the spot as he looks her over carefully. And Ella, almost involuntarily, returns the favor. Dressed in a pair of nice jeans, a pale blue button up, and a leather jacket, he’s the picture of confidence, though the gentleness in his eyes puts her at ease. His skin is golden, and his strong jaw and full lips are dappled with a line of dark hair. He’s distractingly handsome, and it takes longer than is decent for Ella to realize that he’s speaking to her. 

“Miss, are you okay? Can you hear me?” Ugh, even his voice is nice, she thinks ruefully, but then the bell hanging by the front door of the shop chimes and Ella snaps back to reality. Her head snaps up suddenly and she cranes around the Adonis of a man in front of her to see a gorgeous woman stroll in. She’s dressed impeccably in a white skirt suit, complete with terrifying black stilettos and an impossibly nice leather attaché in tow. 

“Oh shit,” Ella mutters, much to the confusion of the man who is still very much so holding onto her arms. “I am so sorry!” She finally manages to say, looking frantically at the clock on the wall. Her interview is in 3 minutes. “I’m so— I mean, I mean thank you,” words spill from her lips as she watches the elegant woman take a seat at a large table near the window and immediately take out a stylus and tablet. Double shit. She looks back to her rescuer, whose eyes are crinkling in a mixture of confusion and mirth. “Seriously, thank you, and I’m sorry, for the, for swearing,” two minutes until her interview, “it wasn’t at you, or anything, it’s just...I just have this big interview in a few minutes and now my nerves are completely shot all to hell.” The confession falls off her tongue before she can stop herself, but she’s silenced when the man suddenly drops her arms. Those dark brows suddenly crease in the middle and the pouty mouth grimaces a little. A look of pity, she thinks, as she has succeeded in making a fool of herself in more ways than one. Before Ella can wedge her foot even more firmly in her mouth, the stunning woman in white appears beside them quite suddenly. 

“Ah, Marcus,” she speaks, her voice sultry and sure. The man, Marcus, returns a tight smile and then glances back at Ella with sympathetic eyes. “I see you have already met our candidate, Ms. Evans.” All of the blood drains from Ella’s face then, and the pit that settles in her stomach is a heavy thing. Suddenly, she wishes she had just knocked herself out cold on the coffee shop floor. In absence of reasonable injury, Ella settles for closing her eyes for a quick moment and saying a prayer to be struck down by lightning. The woman, Ms. Granada, waves a manicured hand to the small table she procured across the shop. “Shall we?” 

#the get marcus moreno laid challenge #i volunteer #we can be heroes #pedro #pedrito #pedro pascal #get Marcus Moreno laid #marcus moreno/OFC #granada #that's a mighty fine looking alien #pray for lightning #poor ella

[kienova66]

Since you're interested in history, it would be interesting to have an AU story involving Turnadette with Timothy and Angela as kindertransport children during WWII. You always have great stories! Keep up your writing.

First off - Thank you for the compliment. Really. You’re spectacular. Secondly, you have NO IDEA how excited I was to get this as a prompt. (I may have jumped around at work when I read it.) As someone that teaches history and that has taught about this particuar section of history to multiple grade levels it was great to combine it with something else I love - writing and fanfiction.

For anyone else who is reading this, there are a giant pile of notes at the end of the story regarding the history of the Kindertransport if you’re interested in learning a little more about the reality of 1938 in Europe and Britain. ALSO: Please excuse my German. It is based off a dictionary and google translate. :)

–

“Nehmen Sie Ihre Schwester, gehenSie jetzt,” the words were barked out by the angry looking matron as she tiedcards to each child’s jacket, thrusting the infant into his arms. He looked up,confused as to what was going on as the entire population of the orphanage washastily shuffled out the door and towards the waiting trucks, an anxiouslooking woman with a clipboard standing next to the closest vehicle.

“Sind Familien auf sie warten?”the matron called, shoving a sobbing little girl into the arms of one of themen who was loading the trucks.

“Die meisten von ihnen,” came the clipped answer. “Beeil dich bitte.” He swallowed, hard, worried at thestatement. Would there be someone to meet him at the other end of the journeyhe was about to go on? Would they be able to care for him? Would they treat himwith detached concern with a hint of resentment like the matron of theorphanage, or would they welcome him like the parents that lived in therecesses of his memory, taken just days after his sister was born? He felthimself being lifted into the truck, settling the baby on his lap, holding hertight to him as the truck lurched into motion, heading for the train station.

The next day and a half flew by,filled with trains, adults speaking in rushed German, French, and English. Theolder children talking in hushed whispers, speculating what was happening,catching the rumblings of tension from the adults as they passed through cityafter city before ending up in a dreary train station, rain pattering againstthe windows as they were shuttled off the train, crowded onto the platformwhere uniformed men and women stood with clipboards and pens, rigid in the seaof children and anxious looking adults that lined the opposite end of theplatform.

“Es wird sein in ordnung Angelika,”he whispered, kissing the top of the baby’s head, watching how she lookedaround, unsure in the new surroundings. She scrunched up her nose beforeyawning, cuddling into the worn coat that adorned her brother’s slight frame. Hestrained his ears to listen, unsure of the dialect that the uniformed man wasusing as he bustled about the children, nudging them into a semblance of orderbased on the numbers that were pinned to their coats. He felt exhausted, thepanic from the last few days finally catching up with his young body, the fearof falling asleep to only find that something disastrous had happened havingkept him away for the majority of their journey.

“Timotei Kronecker!” the man yelled just as he felt himselfsway on his feet slightly. Shifting the baby in his arms he raised a hand,allowing himself to be pulled from the crowd and towards the group of adults atthe other end of the platform. “And I’m guessing the little one is AngelikaKronecker,” the man muttered, looking down at his clipboard before tapping thewoman at the typewriter on the shoulder.

“Got both of the Kronecker’s from Wijsmuller-Meijer’s batch in Vienna,” the mansaid, checking their names off his list. The woman turned, her kind eyesscanning over their haggard appearance as she gently reached out and checkedtheir number cards.

“Patrick Turner!” she yelled, glancing around the throng of adults as adark haired man moved towards her. “And Shelagh Mannion!” A blonde woman camefrom the opposite direction, her eyes wide.

“Mr. Turner, if you could show me your identification please,” the womaninstructed, accepting the piece of paper she was passed as the man ran a handthrough his hair, dark eyes looking over the children with care.

“They look exhausted,” he said, frowning.

“I’m afraid their journey was very short notice. Things in Europe areturning south quickly,” the woman replied, checking a few boxes before passingPatrick a paper to sign. “And Miss Mannion, if I could see your identificationtoo please.” The woman pulled the paperwork from her purse, a sob catching inher throat.

“The poor darlings,” she murmured, following Patrick’s actions of signingthe required documents.

“I’m afraid they don’t have much, they’ve both come from an orphanagethat had to be liquidated quickly. All the children are Jewish from that area,”the woman went on, signing a few things of her own before pulling two singlepieces of paper out, one for each child, which she passed to the two adults infront of her.

“Of course,” Patrick mused.

“All right,best to get this sorted. Timotei, you’re going to gowith Mr. Turner,” the woman said, rising from her chair only to crouch downnext to him, her grey skirt clinging to her legs. Timotei cocked his head,unsure of her words as she reached out and gently took Angelika from his arms.“Miss Mannion, you’ll be taking Angelika.” The adults exchanged a glance beforenodding, Shelagh reaching out to take Angelika who was falling asleep, andPatrick reaching for Timotei’s hand.

“It’s all right Tim,” Patrick said, bendingdown until he was eye-level with the boy. “You’re going to be all right. Ipromise.” Gently, he tugged the boy’s hand, leading him out of the crowdedstation with Shelagh not that far behind. “Do you think he understands what’sgoing on?” Patrick questioned, looking back at the blonde woman who wasfollowing him, tears in her eyes as she cuddled the little girl close.

“I don’t think any of them understand,” sheanswered, voice shaking. The air that hit them when they made it to the streetwas cold and damp, the occasional frigid raindrop splattering onto the greypavement. Shelagh shivered, pulling her coat tighter around herself andAngelika as she walked towards the bus stop at the other end of the road,leaving Patrick and Timotei to head in the opposite direction. It took a momentfor the boy to realise his sister was no longer with him, his little heelsdigging into the concrete and his hand frantically trying to rid itself ofPatrick’s grip when he noticed.

“Nien! Nicht ohne meine Schwester!” Timotei yelled, tears springing to his eyes ashe tried to escape, managing to pry himself away from Patrick as he raced downthe road towards Shelagh, grabbing her legs and holding on for dear life. Shelooked shocked, her blue eyes staring down at him with sorrow and trepidation.Patrick raced after him, eyes affright as he reached her side.

“Tim!” hescolded, lungs heaving.

“Nicht ohne meine Schwester,” the boy sobbed, holding tight. “P-please.”It was the only English word he really knew. He had heard it from a man not farfrom the orphanage a few times. The man had disappeared a few weeks before.That was when the matron had started talking about trains and protecting thechildren. He hadn’t understood it. He still didn’t. But he knew it was a way toask for something. A way to beg. He felt the woman’s hand in his hair then,stroking over his head, a cry coming from her throat.

“He doesn’twant to leave his sister,” she muttered, looking over at Patrick, tears slidingdown her cheeks.

“You speakGerman?” Patrick asked, resting his hand atop Shelagh’s on the boy’s head.

“Only alittle,” she confessed. “Enough to know he wants his sister.” Patrick sighed.

“What arewe supposed to do?” he questioned. He had never met the woman before, havingbeen so wrapped up in his studies at medical school that the thought of findingsomeone to spend his life with was far from his mind. He couldn’t remember thelast time he had gone dancing or out with his colleagues for a drink. Hedoubted he would have found this woman regardless, her eyes crystal clear andfilled with more emotion than he thought a person could convey in one look.

“I don’tknow,” she confessed, sniffing slightly.

“Pleasedon’t think me forward Miss, but maybe we could grab some tea. Get the childrensomething to eat and… maybe we will be able to figure something out given alittle time and something in our stomachs?” Patrick offered. Shelagh nodded, ashaking breath leaving her.

“Lassuns essen. Wir gehen zusammen,”Shelagh said, stumbling over the words slightly as she tried to speak to theboy who looked up at her, eyes watering and nose running. He nodded his headagainst her skirt, allowing Patrick to pry him away and wipe his face with ahandkerchief he pulled from his pocket as they moved down the street towards acafe.

Patrickordered them food while Shelagh tried to clean the children up slightly in thebathroom, washing Timotei’s hands and passing a damp cloth over Angelika’sfeatures before changing her nappy with the supplies she had luckily brought inher bag. The soup that awaited them on the table warmed Timotei as he drank it,his eyes drooping with each sip. He desperately wished to sleep, but was scaredif he closed his eyes he would never see Angelika again. The same thing hadhappened with his parents. He had gone to sleep with a loving family, andawoken an orphan with a screaming baby in the next room. Despite his bestefforts he nodded off, listing sideways until he was pressed against Patrick’sarm, his breathing low and even.

“What if welet them see each other once a week?” Patrick offered, wrapping his arm aroundthe boy and pulling him in close. “I live in Poplar but I could come to you ifthe journey is too far with a little one in tow?”

“I’m justin Stepney so it isn’t that far. Maybe we could meet halfway? Or one week oneof us travels, and the next the other? My Godmother is in Poplar so we may bethere on occasion anyway,” Shelagh answered, rocking Angelika as the littlegirl slept. “Can I confess something to you Mr. Turner?” she asked after a beat.

“Of course.And… if we’re going to be seeing one another on a regular basis for the sakeof the little ones  please call mePatrick.”

“Patrick…I’ve no idea how to raise a baby,” she said, straight faced. The table wasengulfed by silence for a moment before he burst out laughing, Shelagh’sgiggles intermingling with the sound.

“I’ve noidea either,” he agreed, rubbing the tears from his eyes as he continued tochuckle, glad that both children were asleep. They exchanged information afterthat, Patrick insisting they split a cab back to their respective districts asthe sky opened up once again, soaking the late afternoon in a frigid downpour.He gathered Timotei into his arms, carrying the boy out to the taxi, watchinghow gingerly Shelagh settled Angelika into her lap once she was inside. Hecouldn’t help but smile, the terror in his heart subsiding at the picture thesleeping children made.

XxX

The firstweek was a near disaster. Timotei cried daily, begging for his sister and,despite Patrick’s attempts at reassurance that they would see her after churchon Sunday, the little boy’s language barrier made it near impossible for him tounderstand. It wasn’t until the boy saw his sister again, perched on Shelagh’ship on the steps of the church, that he calmed, racing up the concrete until hecould grab onto the woman, reaching for the giggling baby girl instantly.

“He’s beeninconsolable,” Patrick confessed, eyes rimmed in dark circles as he traversedthe entryway of the parish until he was standing next to the younger woman. Shesmiled up at him, her own eyes encircled in the red of an exhausted parent.“How has Angela been?” Shelagh laughed, shaking her head.

“Angelika,”she said, grinning up at him. “Although, I do admit, Angela is more to my taste.”She knelt down, passing the girl to her brother carefully before standingagain. “She’s been lovely. If only she would sleep through the night. Or formore than two hours at a time. I thought a child of her age would have a moreregular sleep schedule by now. Although, I’m sure the upset of the journey andleaving her home has been a nasty shock.” Patrick nodded, leaning against theentryway as Timotei cuddled Angelika.

“I’vestarted calling him Tim,” he mused. “Every time I try to say his name, it endsup coming out Timothy. I thought maybe a nickname would be better.” Shelaghchuckled, nodding, mirroring his position as she stifled a yawn behind herhand.

“I wouldn’tgive her up for anything. Especially with the things I’ve been hearing aboutthe Germans but… this will get easier, won’t it?” she whispered, looking upat Patrick.

“It will.In time,” he assured her.

XxX

The springand summer flew by, things easing until there was a regular schedule for bothadults and their respective charges. Timotei quickly picked up enough Englishto communicate, adapting to being called Timothy with startling clarity as soonas he realised he wasn’t going to lose his baby sister in the days they spentapart. Patrick was kind to him, bought him new clothes and gave him his ownroom and his own bed. He had been used to sharing with another boy at theorphanage and sometimes Angelika to boot, but he revelled in the freedom ofbeing able to move in his sleep.

MissMannion quickly became ‘Auntie Shelagh,’ the boy taking to her as much as hehad to Patrick after the initial shock wore off. She doted on him, sneaking himsweets when Patrick wasn’t looking during their weekly outings, running aroundthe park with him whenever he asked. Angelika giggled constantly, learning totoddle after the adults and her brother with clumsy steps.  

September came quickly, the adults in Poplargrowing grim and frightened as the radio boomed out a message from a manTimothy didn’t know, the words “Britain is at war with Germany” echoing aroundthe community. He didn’t understand what it meant. He tried asking, but Patricknever explained, his own expression dimming when he received a letter in thepost one morning. The man picked up the phone, calling a number and waiting.

“I know itisn’t Sunday but… I need to speak with you. I’ve a letter from the ArmedServices Act…”  

In lessthan an hour the boy found himself playing with Angelika in the garden of aconvent, a gentle looking nun watching over them and crawling about on thegrass with Angelika when she was pulled down by the girl with littlehesitation, a laugh echoing out of the woman’s lungs. Shelagh had placed a handon the woman’s arm before following Patrick into the building.

“You’vebeen conscripted?” Shelagh asked once she closed the door to the office theyhad been leant by her God mother, Sister Julienne. Patrick nodded, face grim ashe held the letter out to her.

“I’m notsure how quickly they’ll ask me to go. I know I’m going to pass the medical…and will probably be placed in the medical corps because I’m a physician but…what am I to do with Tim? I know it is a lot to ask Shelagh. More than I shouldever wish to have to ask you. But I was wondering –”

“Patrick,you know I’ll take him in a heartbeat,” Shelagh answered, grabbing his hand. “Ijust… I don’t know if they’re going to let me. Single foster parents… we’rerestricted to one child. I don’t know if they will let me and –”

“Let’s getmarried.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think better aboutthem. Shelagh stared, eyes wide. He had been thinking about asking if he couldcourt the woman for a while, her gentle yet fiery nature complimenting his ownin a way he never thought possible. The way she cared for Angelika and Timalike, melted his heart, his pulse pounding every time he thought of her intheir time apart. Sundays, a day he had always dreaded, attending church onrote rather than because of actual devotion, had quickly become the day helooked forward to each week, knowing that he would see the woman across fromhim for a few hours.

“Are… areyou sure? We can try and look for another way if –” she stumbled, fidgetingwith her hands against the fabric of her skirt.

“I’m sure.I… I’ve been meaning to ask for weeks if… if you would like to see oneanother… more. For more than just the children getting to see each other. Astwo people that could… well… fall in love,” he rambled, suddenly nervous.Patrick felt his palms start to sweat, desperately trying to keep himself fromrubbing the back of his neck.

“You… youthink you could… love me?” The words sounded so shocked and unsure that itnearly broke him.

“I alreadyknow that I do,” he replied, crossing the few inches between them until hecould seize her hands in his own, holding them close to his heart. “I think Istarted falling in love with you the moment you told me you had no idea how toraise a baby. You were so pure and honest in that moment Shelagh. I had nochance of not loving you.” She responded by leaning up to kiss him, standing onher toes until their lips met.

XxX

He shippedout mere weeks after they married, holding her tight to him as long as possiblebefore pulling back to drop kisses on the foreheads of both children.

Hecherished the letters Shelagh sent, even as they broke his heart. Angelika, whoresponded to Angela more than her initial given name, had cried for him everynight for a month. Timothy had become subdued at home even as he attendedschool, learning English and mathematics with gusto.

The wardragged on. For nearly five years he found himself trudging through Europe,only allowed on leave every six months or so to go home and see his littlefamily. Shelagh and the children spent the majority of the war in Scotland on afarm owned by her cousins, safe from the constant threat of Nazi invasion andbombings that struck London. Every time he returned to the mainland he wantednothing more than to run back to the boat and return to Britain, shaking in hissleep at night in Italy as bombs rained down, as casualties piled into themedical tents.

When 1945hit and the call came that the war was over he fell to his knees and prayed,sobbing into the dirt ground of the hospital tent.

Shelagh andthe children were waiting for him at the docks when his boat finally landed inEngland two months after the war came to its official conclusion. She had broughtthe children back to London at the start of 1945 once the worst of the Nazithreat was over. She stood on the wooden pier, skirt blowing in the wind andhighlighting the swollen belly she had, a product of his last leave fromservice two months before Christmas. Timothy, now twelve, stood nearly as tallas his adoptive mother, looking more like Patrick than the man had thought waspossible. Angela, a bouncing six year old, raced towards him the minute hisfeet left the gangplank, throwing herself in his arms with a scream of “DADDY!”

Shelagh wason him next, peppering his face with kisses and pressing as close as her stomachwould allow.

“You’ve gotthem right? You’re discharged? They can’t take you back?” she rushed, lettingout a sob when Patrick pressed the discharge papers into her waiting hand.Timothy hugged his father from the other side, a sigh escaping the boy.

“You needto take care of Mum, I was worried I would be delivering a baby myself beforeyou got back. Sister Julienne would have been so cross if that was myintroduction to human anatomy,” Timothy mumbled, causing both of the adults tolaugh. He took his sister’s hand, leading her down the docks and towards thestreet.

“Well youwon’t have to wait long,” Shelagh whispered as Patrick wrapped an arm aroundher shoulders, starting to guide her back towards their flat. He raised aneyebrow, looking down at the woman he never would have imagined to be his wifehad anyone asked him before the war. Had he never been listening to the radiothe night foster parents were called for; had he never applied; had he neverwanted to keep the children who now walked in front of him happy and togetheras much as possible, he never would have gotten the life he now found himselfin.

“Why’sthat?” he asked, revelling in the weak British sunlight that streamed throughthe streets of Poplar as they walked. She grinned up at him and it was onlythen that he noticed the slight perspiration at her hairline, her eyesbetraying the pain she was in.

“I’ve beenhaving contractions for the last few hours.”

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AUTHOR’S NOTES

Quick notes regarding the historythis story is based around (mainly because I’m a history teacher and was soexcited to get this as a prompt because I could use my fandom love AND myhistory love in the same thing)

I took a few liberties with thisbecause of the way my writing muse wanted me to go. First let me apologise forchanging Tim and Angela’s names/spelling of them but chances are theAnglo-spelling of their names would not be common among Austrian-Jewish familiesin the 30’s.

Single parent homes were NOTapproved for members of the Kindertransport in 1938/1939. It was preferable forchildren to be placed with young/middle aged couples or elderly couples duringthis transition as long as they fit the requirements for being foster parentsfor the duration of the unrest in Europe. Although many children had decenthomes (500 applications were put in during the first call out for parents) manydid not have a safe new life in Britain as the reason for volunteer families tooffer up their homes was never taken into account. (Each child was given £50for their eventual return trip which often never occurred).

The first transport began on December 1, 1938from Berlin to England and the last Kindertransport left from the Netherlandson May 14, 1940. However, the last transport from Germany left on September 1,1939 – the same day that Germany invaded Poland. World War II was declared onSeptember 3, 1939 between Britain/France (and quickly the commonwealth) againstGermany. The National Service (Armed Forced) Act was declared the same day,calling for all fit men from ages 18-41 to be conscripted into service for theBritish military.

Geertruida Wijsmuller-Meijer was credited with helping to save over10,000 children through the Kindertransports. She fought with Adolf Eichmann,the man who would later go on to organize the transportation of the Jewishpeople to concentration camps, particularly Auschwitz. He first told her thatshe could have no children for the program, and then gave her 600 in one day,expecting that she would not be able to have them transported in his short timelimit. Geertruida managed to have all 600 transported out of Austria to GreatBritain and The Hague beginning December 10, 1938. Following this mass export of children inDecember of 1938, she continued to transport Jewish children out of Germanyseveral times a week until the invasion of the Netherlands and the closure ofEuropean borders at the outbreak of World War II.

THANKS FOR READING!

#call the midwife #call the midwife fanfiction #turnadette #kindertransport #WWII AU #AU #patrick turner #shelagh turner #shelagh mannion #timothy turner #angela turner #european history #writing #fanfiction #prompt fic #I LOVED WRITING THIS #history teacher having fun #ctmshare #world war ii