𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔: Y/N has been assigned on a solo undercover mission. Infiltrate the warehouse, secure the flash drive, and evade detection; seems simple enough. But what happens if she gets caught by a dangerous criminal & her life hangs in the balance?
𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔: Y/N is leaving work from Slough House rather late one evening and passes River's office to find him still sitting at his desk. She persuades him to not be so uptight & to come have a drink with her at the pub. She learns a bit more about him that night - including the fact that River Cartwright is a massive lightweight.
𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔: They despised one another & barely tolerated each other while working at Slough House. Tensions rise as they are sent out into the field together, working undercover to search for a sleeper agent in the cozy village of Upshott. To avoid being caught, they are forced to pretend that they are "together". Being so close in each others company causes certain feelings rise to the surface that they have both tried to bury for far too long.
𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔: Amongst the chaos of World War II breaking out, 23 year old Charlotte Brooks was desperate to be of use to her country. Fresh out of training, she is sent to the coast of France to work in a British base field hospital. It soon becomes clear that no amount of training could have prepared her for the traumatic sights she would see. One night, the hospital receives a convoy of trauma patients, soldiers who have been brutally injured while fighting on the front line. That night, an RAF pilot is taken into her care and it seems that she ends up finding love where she didn't go searching for it.
It’s been a long time coming this one. But it was time.
Collins becomes a father and a bombing mission goes awry with disastrous consequences.
Trigger Warning: battle, war, mentions of the Holocaust
This was always the plan.
Fic Masterlist all previous chapters are posted here.
We’ll Meet Again 13: The Way You Look Tonight/The White Cliffs of Dover
Jack was in the air when your daughter was born, but you weren't alone, you were surrounded by Violet, Della and Mary, though your heart still ached for him, even through the pain. One day you would tell her that she was born in an Underground shelter on the last day of the Blitz. You had hoped that meant it was the beginning of the end for the war, but how terribly wrong you all were on that count. A telegram was dispatched to inform Collins that he was now a father, the letter that followed told him she had his hair and eyes and a set of very healthy lungs. You had discussed names in your letters and decided to name her Carys for your mother, she would have loved that, and it wasn’t until you held your own child in your arms that you realized how much you still missed her. It was a month before Jack could get a day’s leave and he admitted that he now owed a lot of boys a great many favors in order to pull it off.
Standing at the door of the boarding house you cradled Carys in your arms as you waited for him. A proper party had been planned in the garden to celebrate your little family and you were anxious for Collins to arrive and just as anxious to hide the fact that you were already heartbroken at the thought of him having to leave again.
'Y/N!' you heard a shout and whipped your head around to see Jack trotting down the street, a small rucksack thrown to the ground as he opened his arms.
Tears were in your eyes as you flew down the steps, running to throw an arm arm around him as he spun you around, laughing. His arm wrapped around your waist, his mouth on yours before you could say a word. You kissed him back, not caring if your lips bruised, feeling like a thirsty man at a desert oasis. The whole world ceased to exist for a moment as six months of missing him came down to this one moment and you poured every ounce of love and longing you had into kissing him. It was Carys who eventually decided to bring you both back to reality, letting you know, loudly, that she did not appreciate being squished between her parents.
Jack pulled away, blue eyes shining brightly as he looked down to see his daughter for the first time.
'She's so tiny,' he whispered, his finger brushing her brow.
'Daddy, meet Carys Margot Alex Collins.'
"Alex?' He whispered.
"For Farrier.’
Collins nodded and you saw him choke down a lump in his throat. You hoped there would be news about his friend, good or bad, it had to be better than not knowing. Blinking away tears
he let you place her in his arms, holding her as though she was made of the most delicate glass.
"Hello there, darlin, I'm yer da.'
You watched, your heart swelling as he smiled down at her, rocking his arms with as much love in his eyes as you had ever seen. Looking back up at you he reached out a hand to cradle your cheek, his smile so blinding it made you sigh. He was so beautiful.
'I'm sorry I wasnae here, I wanted tae be so badly."
"It's not like you had much of a choice, Jack, you wrapped an arm around his waist, leaning your head on his shoulder as you walked back to the boarding house. Everyone was gathered in the garden, just as they had been the first day he came to visit. There were new faces now, as well as the ghosts of those who had gone. Jacob and Mary greeted Jack as though he was their own son, a deep sadness in Jacob's eyes. There was no chance any of his family in Poland were still alive and it tore at him more than if he had lost them in a battle. They had been murdered, along with who knew how many others. Still, on such a day he rallied and mingled, keeping everyone entertained with funny stories you all knew weren't true.
Collins was never without a well-wisher and for just a few hours it was as though the war hadn’t even happened. There was even cake for the brave new father. Margot's photographer friend was there too, having kept in touch even after her death, and he made sure to take as many photos as he could. When questioned about it he simply shrugged and said, 'We should have as many reminders of those we love as we can. For when they are gone, they should be remembered.’ His picture-taking was encouraged after that and even he seemed content for a time, his subjects all happy and alive, unlike the ones he took photos of on a daily basis.
For his part, Jack had fallen head over heels with his child, never more than a foot away from either of you at any time. He looked on with wide-eyed wonder when you nursed her, and when she was unbundled for a nappy change he couldn't keep his hands off her, counting every finger and toe. When her fingers grabbed onto his thumb and she opened her eyes to look at him he
actually cried. Your strong, brave fighter was an absolute softie at heart and you knew Carys would have him wrapped around her little finger for life. You could already see them ganging up against you, knowing you would never be able to not give in.
Later that night as darkness fell, you placed the baby in her cradle, willing her to sleep for at least a few hours. You wanted time alone with your husband, who at that moment walked out of the bathroom in his skivvies and wrapped his arms around you. Looking down at Carys he squeezed you tightly.
Can ye believe we did this?’ there was wonder in his voice. "We
made a whole person together.’
‘And when all this is over we should make a couple more. Hopefully at least one of them will look like me. you chuckled.
"What? Ye dinnae want a litter o my carbon copies then? I feel almost hurt, lass.' he pouted before sneaking a peck at your lips.
"But I am glad tae have ye to meself fer a wee while. I missed ye."
For a moment you both stood there, your arms around his waist, head resting on his chest while he stroked your hair.
"I missed you too, Jack.' you murmured, squeezing your eyes shut and breathing in the smell of him.
‘Come.' he whispered, taking your hand and walking to the bed.
He placed your arms around his neck, leaning down to kiss you as though he had all the time in the world, his lips soft and warm on yours, his tongue teasing your mouth open. Even though you had cursed him and his whole sex while in labor, going so far as to swear you wouldn't let him touch you again, it took only seconds before you felt your desire for him break to the
surface. Heat gathered in your belly, your body coming alive for him as if no time had passed at all. You pressed yourself against him, moaning into his mouth as his hands ran the length of your back,grabbing your rear and tugging you closer.
"Wait.' he pulled away for a moment. 'Is it ok? I don't wan tae
hurt ye.’
"It's been a month, I'm all healed." Even if you hadn’t been you never would have stopped him.
"Alright then. You'll tell me if ye need me tae stop?'
You nodded your assent, fingers tangling in his head and pulling his face down so you could kiss him again. He smiled against your lips as he started undoing the buttons of your dress, making short work of it and your slip. Shivering in delight you helped him peel off his white singlet, running your palms down his chest, feeling him tense under your touch. Silently, you divested one another of your underclothes until you stood naked in front of one another. Collins
placed his hands on your waist, his eyes following their path up your sides to cup your breasts. He was gentle as he touched you, his thumbs grazing your nipples until they peaked, smiling sweetly as you trembled, goosebumps breaking out on your skin. His hands trailed down toward your belly and instinctively you tried to cover yourself. Still recovering from pregnancy you were self-conscious about the extra rolls and the marks that marred your skin.
"Don't.' he whispered softly, kneeling down in front of you and gently moving your hands to your sides. "You are beautiful, you know that right?’
He looked up at you earnestly, and you managed a nod.
‘Don't ever be ashamed of this,' he pressed his mouth to your belly, blowing warm air over your skin. ‘You brought a new life into the world, with this body, my child. That's an incredible feat and
you have never looked more stunning to be than you do right now.’
His words made you want to cry, but his mouth had other ideas, his tongue tracing the path of each stretch mark making you moan his name, dampness flooding between your legs. Sparks of electricity shot from where his lips brushed your skin, prickling through your limbs until they met at a point, throbbing and aching for him.
In a flash of movement he had you up in his arms, crawling onto the bed until your head met the pillows and his body covered yours. He kissed you senseless, your head spinning as his hand pushed on your thigh, opening you under him. Your back arched off bed as his fingers dragged through your wetness, circling around that tiny bundle with frustrating slowness, never quite touching you where you needed him to. Blood pulsed in your veins, rushing in your ears while he took his time, allowing you all the time you might need to be ready for him, which was too slow for you.
"Jack.’ you whined, rolling your hips toward him.
"Hold on love.' he crooned, his lips marking a heated path down your neck.
He slid a finger inside you, slowly, testing for any discomfort from you. His name slipped from your lips breathlessly, it wouldn't have mattered if there had been pain, you still would have wanted him. These moments you could steal away were precious, never knowing when the
the next one might be. Or even if there would be any more.
'I'm fine, I promise, I just want to be with you."
He caught your eyes, the same unspoken fear of the future reflected back at you, then acceptance, love and finally passion. Guiding himself to your entrance and pushing forward slightly, he never moved his eyes from yours, hands holding your head still as he kept searching and finding your love for him staring back at him. With a soft smile he moved again, slowly, but not stopping until he was seated inside you. Wrapping your arms around his back you encouraged him to move, pressing butterfly kisses up and down his neck, your body pulsating
and humming. With a groan, Jack moved, setting a leisurely pace that was loving, gentle, tender and sweet. You both took your time to simply enjoy one-another, to memorize every movement,
every sigh and every whispered endearment. Your pleasure grew slow and warm, spilling through you until you basked in it, blooming and opening until you gave over. He held you tightly as you shivered and trembled, swallowing your low moan with his mouth as you rippled around him. He followed a few moments later, lips against your ear as he whispered his love for you over and over. You held him close to you, and waited until you both stopped shaking, not knowing when the next time you could hold him again would be.
After a time Jack sighed, rolling over onto his back and tucking you in beside him. You lay silently for a time, listening to one another breathe, his fingers stroking your arm softly.
"Have ye given any thought tae going tae Scotland?'
'I have. I'm staying here unțil this is over. I'm not going somewhere where
we won't be able to see you.’
‘You would both be safer there, ye know.’
'I know, but what if this war drags on for years?"
He sighed again and you knew he was torn, while you wanted to grab hold
of any moment with him you could. It was selfish, you knew that.
"Promise me ye'll go if it gets bad again."
You nodded your assent, not wanting to think about all the terrible things that could happen, that had already happened. You talked into the wee hours of the morning, about everything except
the future. Instead you talked about books, music, how his parents farm ran, all happy things that helped you shut out the outside world for just a little longer. Carys woke up once, but fell back to sleep quickly after eating. You tried so hard not to fall asleep, there would be enough
time for that later, but sometime in the dark your eyes had grown heavy and with the soothing comfort of your husband beside you, you had surrendered.
Waking with a start you sat up in bed, the space beside you empty. For a moment your heart stopped, had Jack gone, had he slipped out in the night? No. He would never have done that, it would be too cruel to the both of you. A shadow passed by the window and you held your breath as you heard his voice singing so softly you almost couldn't hear it.
"Can ye no hush yer weepin'
A the wee lambs are sleepin'
Birdies are nestin', nestin' together
Dream Angus is hirplin ower the heather
Dreams to sell, fine dreams to sell
Angus is here wi' dreams to sell
Hush ye my baby un' sleep without fear
Dream Angus has brought ye a dream my dear”
You didn't move a muscle as Jack’s shadow rocked back and forth gently, repeating the chorus of the lullaby until he finally laid Carys in her cradle and backed away. Turning to the bed he saw
your shadow in the pre-dawn light and climbed beside you holding you tight against his chest as you both laid back.
‘I didna wan tae wake ye, she just had a wee nightmare. My mam
used that lullaby tae sing me that tha' lullaby when I was a we’en. Always did the trick.’
‘It's beautiful.’ you murmured, looking to see the tiniest purple tinge to the sky through the window.
Dawn was coming, and with it Collins would leave again. Tears stung your eyes and you blinked them back, you wouldn't make him see you cry. He had enough to worry about, and you had to be strong so he didn’t go back to war worrying about you rather than himself.
The mood at breakfast was much more somber than the day before, everyone knew what it meant to go back, and though none of you spoke of it, the specter of death hung over you all.
By midmorning he was showered and back in uniform, ready to catch the train north, looking grim when he thought you weren't watching him.
This farewell was like all the rest, and not the only one happening around you. The station was full of young, uniformed men, weeping women and fathers trying to hold it together as their sons went off to war. You stood in each other's arms until the train arrived, Jack quietly singing in your ear as you swayed gently.
"We'll meet again, don't know where,
don't know when, but
I know we'll meet again some sunny day.'
He kissed you when it was time to board, his blue eyes shining as yours were with unshed tears.Uniformed men were leaning out of the windows, saying their farewells, kissing their sweethearts as they smiled and promised they would be home soon. Realistically you knew probably half of them would die far away from all those they loved. Finding a window Jack leaned out with a smile, reaching out his hand for you to grab, all the while telling you he loved you, that he would be back, not be afraid. You held on as long as you could as the train started to move, but soon it was too fast for you and he slipped out of your grasp. You ran after him as long as you could, until you could do more than wave until he rolled out of sight and was gone
July 20 1941
Collins.
Collins barely made mail call and it was with much relief that he managed to toss the letter into the bag before it was too late. He had taken his newest RAF photo a few days earlier and was anxious to send you a copy, he had grown a mustache and hoped that you would find it rather
dashing when you saw him, he certainly liked it and was determined to grow a beard as soon as all this was over. He could already see you laughing and playfully pushing him away as he tried to nuzzle your face with it, then he would do the same to his children, enjoying their playful squeals when he chased them. The other men teased him good-naturedly for his eagerness, all of them having had to run to catch the mail at some point. The sooner you got a letter out the sooner you got one back and they all lived for those loving words from home, often reading them aloud and passing pictures around. He had done it two weeks ago after you had sent him copies of photos taken at the party and all the boys had awed over little Carys, a few of them had even offered to take his pretty wife off his hands. This had led to some friendly wrestling for the photo and sheepish grins when their Commander had come out to yell at them for behaving like children. The whole thing was a basic ritual between them now, along with the gathering of those things for the family when someone didn't come back. Which was more often than any of them cared to admit.
It was a beautiful day, bright sun and a cool, soft breeze and the men were all lying about on the grass next to the airfield. His squadron was stood down for a day so they could rest before
going back out there on their bombing missions. Collins was at war with himself about what he did now. In the spitfires, the enemy was easy to identify, and engage. The German pilots had the exact same mission as he did. When he shot down an enemy pilot he knew what he had done and who he had killed, though it never sat easy with any of them, the killing of another human being, no matter the reason. They tried to justify it by remembering that the same human would just have soon killed them without any hesitation, it was enough to bring a form of acceptance. But now, they crept through the skies under the cover of darkness, dropping bombs on the ground and most of the time sneaking away undetected. But on the ground were civilians, some likely innocent and that sat harder with him. There was not a small amount of guilt for the suffering he helped to inflict, but he would always do his duty. For King and Country and
all that, though he knew he would carry the guilt for the rest of his life. It was one of the many costs of surviving the war.
A football was produced from somewhere and several hours were spent kicking it about, right beside all the planes taking off and landing, the bullet holes in many of them a solemn reminder of reality. It was an unspoken superstition among the men at Feltwell and possibly everywhere else, that they didn't speak of the future after the war, it was considered a jinx and all too often it
had proven to be just so. Farrier had told stories about his plans almost every night and look at what had happened to him. His family may never know what had happened to him and they certainly would never have a body to bury, most of the families wouldn't. Where you fell was
where you stayed and if they found your tags and gave you a wooden cross with your name on it you were lucky.
Trying to shake the depression he was feeling, Collins pulled your photos out of his pouch and gazed at them. A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered how happy you had all been that
day, they had captured a moment of pure happiness frozen in time. A smile
spread across his face as he looked at his family, someone handed him a cigarette and he lay back in the grass, the sun hot on his bare arms as he remembered all your happy moments
together. The sound of laughter filled the air, the kind of raucous noises that could only come from the play of hot-blooded young men letting off steam. It could almost make him forget, at least until the next plane landed.
'Fall in!'' A voice boomed from near the hangar and every man on the field was instantly back in duty mode, lining up and standing at attention.
Their commander stood before them along with four men, all dressed in the uniform of the New Zealand RAF, all with bright, friendly smiles on their faces. Collins had a feeling he knew what this was about and judging from the grim faces on the others, so did they.
'Right lads, I’m looking for a volunteer to lend these Kiwis a hand tonight, their Flight Sergeant has the runs and they need a replacement for a run tonight, anyone want to offer their assistance?'
Dead silence, no-one ever actually wanted to go on a run. Collins looked at the four kiwis, all of whom looked younger than they had any right to be and saw the grim acceptance in their eyes. With or without a volunteer they would be in the air that night, with one they stood a better chance of surviving.
'I'll go!' Collins' hand was in the air before he even realized what he was doing. ‘Someone needs to show the colonists some real swagger. Aye lads?’
He stepped forward with a grin,trying to lighten the pall that had fallen over them all, the looks of relief on the Kiwi’s faces more than enough to convince him he'd done the right thing.
They all introduced themselves over tea, he would be flying with some great guys, and experienced at that, between them all they had almost 200 sorties done and dusted. In fact there had been more than one occasion when he and the Kiwi crew had been in the air on the same mission, flying alongside one another without ever knowing. The war may have been on many fronts but sometimes it shrunk down so small that it was uncanny.
The other men went back to their leisure time while Collins quietly got himself ready, photos in his pocket for luck and a shot of scotch for courage. The men of RNZAF Squadron 75 quartered on the other side of the base, and boy were they a rowdy lot. He smiled as he walked into the mess and the men started ribbing him about having a stiff upper lip. It was normal and he gave back by asking them if they all had pictures of their sheep. A few laughs and pats on the back later and he was one of the lads, although he was sure he understood their accents
about as much as they understood his..
As it started to get dark, Collins and his four crewmates silently dressed in their flight suits and parachute packs before joining the rest of the squadron on the runway. The ground crew were fueling the five Vickers Wellington bombers that would be flying the mission. There were no escorts, Bomber Command had deemed them non-feasible in the long term and the Wellingtons
were heavily armored and carried a considerable amount of fire power. But they weren't as maneuverable as fighter planes, which often led to problems when they were faced with them. Still, Collins thought, staring at the metal fortress towering above them, these missions were considerably safer than dog-fighting in Spitfires.
‘Time to go mate.’ The wireless operator slapped his back as he walked by, breaking Collins from his thoughts.
"Hey, I thought it was the Aussies that said "mate”’
'Nah, who do you think the thieving bastards stole it from?'
The Kiwi / Aussie rivalry rumors had apparently not been exaggerated. Collins laughed as he slid into his seat in the cockpit of the plane, buckling himself in tightly and immediately beginning
to check his instruments. The pilot, a lad of 19 took his own seat and set about doing his own checks. The others took their own positions and chatted happily as they prepared.
"Hey Collins, you got a sweetheart?"
"Aye, a wife and a wee bairn." he pulled a picture of the three of you out to show the others.
"That's a lovely family you have there, Collins,’ the front gunner showed you a picture of his sweetheart, a pretty blonde girl of about 20. 'Hattie's parents said I couldn't marry her until I got home, so we better move this war along fast, so someone else doesn’t have time to try and steal her away.”
"Right then lads, let's go show the Krauts a thing or two about superior races!”
Collins slid his photo into the instrument panel after kissing it for luck. The bombers powered up and taxied to the runway, taking off into the night in quick succession. For a moment there was silence as they gained their altitude and moved into formation.
“What’s the mission then?”
The Flight-Officer/Wireless Operator unfolded his bundle of papers and pointed to a spot on the map.
“Here.” he handed Collins the aerial photo of their target so the pilots knew what to aim for. “A munitions factory just outside Gelsenkirchen.”
“Where the fuck is that?’
“Near Belgium and the Netherlands, the biggest city close to both of those borders.”
“That’s Western Germany ain’t it?” The young pilot looked unnerved, and Collins couldn’t blame him.
“Sure is, but we are flying up and around to avoid the worst of the Front.”
Collins had flown into Germany many times, but never so close to the Front. From the sounds of things the other men had only done it a handful of times and none were happy about doing it again. Then again orders were orders and they were well trained to follow them without question.
“So then, the flight time should be about one and half hours and it’s hot as soon as we cross the Channel, so stay sharp boys and let’s get home in one piece.”
With that the Flight Officer took his place at the radio and silence settled on the small crew. They remained undetected as they flew over Belgium, their target was closer to the Netherlands but the Germans had control there, so a straight route was out of the question. It was amazing how quiet it was on the ground, at least until they flew closer to Germany and Collins could see the flashes in the dark, the fires and explosions. A prayer was whispered for the men down in the dark as the formation turned North North West toward the small town of Weseke, from where they would turn South toward their target. Intelligence had the area relatively clear of air traffic and at only 40 miles from the target it seemed they were well on course to complete the mission. They were only 20 minutes from dropping their bombs and getting the hell out of dodge.
There was a crackle through the radio and a voice came over sounding concerned.
“Be advised we think we spotted three Me.109’s, stay sharp lads.”
“Fuck.” Collins muttered under his breath, looking out the windows into the darkness.
There was barely enough moonlight to allow any of them to see any more than half a mile in any direction, meaning the Germans could be on them before they even had time to react.
“There!” He spotted a shape that seemed to be keeping pace with them. “One at 2 O’clock, about half a mile away!”
The gunner in the turret turned to aim, spotting the fighter where Collins said it would be. He was good, taking a mere second to open fire, the bullets streaking through the air, silver in the darkness. The German pilot easily dove out of the way before coming back into position. What the hell was he doing?
Collins didn’t like this at all.
“Anyone got eyes on the other two?” he asked into the headset.
“Confirmed, one Me. at 10 O’clock, half a mile out.” This from the other Wellington who was bringing up the rear of the formation.
They were being flanked and there was no sign of the third one anywhere. Their new 'companions' seemed in no rush to engage which had a shiver of unease running down Collins' spine. Looking over at the pilot he saw the same unease mirrored back at him.
Something was very wrong here.
“Heads up, they're moving.”
Collins watched as the fighter beside them banked away and out of sight, a voice on the radio confirming the same move from no. 2.
'This is it! Whatever their plan is it's happening now"
In almost perfect harmony, the five Wellingtons moved defensively, zig zagging across the sky in the hopes the Germans couldn't get a fix on them.
"Fuck me!" Where the hell are they?” he craned his neck to look out the window at all angles but there was nothing, except darkness.
"How are you as a gunner Collins?" the flight officer asked, poking his head into the cockpit.
"I'm a better pilot than gunner, Sir.”
"Actually, I'm good as a gunner, I have excellent aim." the young pilot spoke up.
“Collins, you have control, keep zig zagging” Gunner we need you in the rear in case those bastards come from behind.”
The bullets that hit the perspex in front of his face came out of nowhere and Collins felt his heart start to race from the unexpected shock.
'We're takin fire from the front!' He banked the Wellington as hard as he could, barely escaping the next barrage.
Like a monster rising out of the darkness, he saw the Me. coming straight ahead at him and he pushed the plane down, the bullets streaking overhead by centimeters, followed by lines of return fire, like shooting stars into the night. The Me. was gone before the bullets even got there. He heard the rear gunner firing and a loud curse.
"It's like he's a fucking ghost'' he yelled, searching for any sign of their enemy.
From the radio Collins could hear that the rest of the formation was under attack, men were shouting and the sound of gunfire was alive in the air. They were all well-trained men and if
anything they were going to make it bloody difficult for the Germans to get the better of them.
They were so busy trying to stave off the German fighters that everyone had forgotten one thing.
The third one.
The blast came out of nowhere and if Collins hadn't been strapped into his seat he would have hit the roof of the cockpit. The Wellington shuddered and groaned, the sound of metal buckling and crumpling screaming in the air. He could smell fuel, taste the heavy tang of metal in the air, and could hear the men crying out behind him.
“We’ve been hit!’ he barked into the radio, forcing himself to stay calm while the fear tried to overtake him.
They were still in the air. Chancing a look behind him he saw that the middle of the plane was caved in, trapping the young pilot in the back of the fuselage where he continued to fire relentlessly on the enemy. The Flight - Officer and Bomber were either unconscious or dead, their bodies trapped under crushed metal and framing. Sparks cracked in the air and at any moment one of them could ignite a fire, killing them all.
"Sir, he's coming again!' The gunner in the turret cried out, letting loose a barrage of bullets while Collins tried to bank the Wellington out of the way with no luck. The ability to maneuver was gone, none of the pedals or sticks would respond and it was pure dumb luck that they
were even still in the air. The plane was dead. For the first time he felt terror. They
were going to go down and there was nothing he could do about it.
“If you can bail out, do it!' he called out to the two men, even though he already knew there was no way out.
“No chance for me, I'm stuck in here!” The rear Gunner called
back.
“Same up here.” The front gunner responded. “Let’s at least try and take the Nazi bastard with us!”
Collins could hear the fear in their voices. He could feel it rising in his chest, catching his breath away from him. He was trapped as well, the only escape route now buckled into the middle of the fuselage. His eyes darted around with the speed and terror of a caged animal. Less than a minute had passed since they were first hit, and yet it seemed like hours. In what seemed like slow motion, Collins saw the Me. coming back at them and he called out to the others, bullets flying back and forth in the sky, the other bombers under attack and moving ahead. Banking
and turning sharply, the Me. flew overhead until it could come down behind them, like a lion coming in for the kill.
He heard the bullets, the scream of the pilot as they pierced the tail of the plane, managing to tear it off, along with half the rear gun compartment.
Immediately the Wellington began to whine, the nose falling forward toward the unseen ground. As the plane began its final dive, Collins looked at the photo in front of him. Suddenly he felt no fear, only a heart-aching heaviness in his chest. He could see every memory, every moment you had spent together flashing in his head. So many happy memories. He felt sad that he would never see his daughter grow up, or see your eyes light up again, but he was thankful for the time he'd been given.
The plane fell fast, spinning as it dove, trailing acrid smoke behind it. It took a minute and as it crashed into the ground, crumpling into almost nothing, Collins smiled as he slipped into unconsciousness. He was at peace.
Then the world went dark.
Author’s Notes
On July 20 1940 a Vickers Wellington bomber carrying five souls, was lost near the town of Weseke. They were on a mission to bomb oil and coal infrastructures near the city of Gelsenkirchen in Germany. All on board were killed.
Nothing is known as to how they were lost, only that they were there and then they were gone..
Other crews with them that night reported seeing Me. 109's “Messerschmitts” in the area, so it is
assumed that they were shot down. It would have taken no more than two minutes.
German Ace Pilot (he was not an Ace yet as this was his first confirmed kill), Siegfried Wandam
reported downing a Wellington bomber in the same vicinity on the same night. He was later killed coming in to land, badly damaged in 1943, having claimed 10 kills.
The crew of the Wellington consisted of four Kiwis and two Brits, the Kiwis part of the famous 75th Squadron, the first non- British to fight and suffer losses in the air. The 75th were known for their high success rate and tenacity, they flew the most missions of any squadron, dropped the second highest payload, and suffered the most losses of any other unit.
Bomber and Fighter Command did not believe that fighter escorts were necessary for night-time bombing raids, a belief that left the Wellingtons vulnerable as they only had the ability
to defend themselves from the front and back. In one mission in 1942, 20 Wellingtons were lost out of 33 Allied aircraft downed. A total of 73 men went down . Only 13 survived as P.O.W’s.
The crew of Wellington Mk. Ic R. 3165 AA-L were buried in a communal grave by persons unknown, a marker with their names erected. The only way to identify them was with their dog tags which were collected and returned to their families. At a later time the remains were transferred to be interred at Reichswald Forest War Cemetery in Germany.
7671 men are interred there.
Their names were:
Samuel Miles Mackenzie Watson Age 27
Edward Colin Joseph Cameron Age 19
Ronald John Alexander Anderson Age 26
John Lewis Owen Age 24
G. M. Cumming Age 27
H Wilson Age 21
Ronald Alexander John Anderson was my great-uncle.
From top left: Anderson, Reichswald Forest War Cemetery, Cameron.
Middle Left: Final resting place1, communal grave with marker, final resting place 2.
Bottom left: Watson, Wandam, Owen.
I could find no photos or information on Wilson or Cumming, who were the two Brits on the sortie.
Summary/Request: Requested by anon: Hi! I saw you wanted to write for Dunkirk, so I thought maybe you could use the prompt: "You're important too," with Collins x Plus-Size Reader. Thanks for reading❤️.
You’re going to see two different perspectives for this prompt hence the 2 parts. This one focuses more on Collins and how he feels and the other focuses on the reader.
You know that every comment cuts him, its obvious from the way he writes to you when he’s on base and the way he talks about them when he’s home. Collins takes every comment to heart. It hurts...to see that people take their anger out on him when he and the other pilots try so hard to support the troops and to protect the air around Britain itself. You know that he’s not just sitting back and failing to do his job. You know that he goes out and risks his life and does what he can considering the limitations of the relatively new technology that was air travel...the Royal Air Force was barely out of its infancy.
You understood why people took it out on him and the other members of the RAF...people, soldiers and sailors in particular, were angry. They’d seen people die, they’d probably nearly died themselves. It created a lot of anger...but that didn’t mean that it was right to take it out on people who were actually doing the best they could and were doing something incredibly important. Every time you looked at the streets in Portsmouth, at the ruins of houses, and the damage caused by the Luftwaffe you thought of how much worse it would be if the air force weren’t doing their job...or simply didn’t exist.
It was one of the rare weekends where Jack Collins was home on leave and it was proving to be rather...dower. He was trying to be his usual smiley, happy self, but it was obvious that he wasn’t as happy as he pretended to be.
When he didn’t come down for breakfast you went up to check on him, only to find him sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. It hurt to see him like this when he spent so much time making you feel beautiful and happy, and teaching you to ignore the words that other people threw at you because of your weight. To see someone who stressed how important you were, doubt his own importance hurt.
You climbed onto the bed behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your soft cheek into his shoulder. He lifted his hands to hold yours at his waist and just sat there. Didn’t say a word. You just held him there for a while, your soft body pressed into his, hoping that simply holding him might bring him some comfort.
"You're important too, I hope you realise that.” You say quietly over his shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to it.
“They don’t think so.”
“They’re angry...not at you...but at everything. When people are angry they say things that aren’t true or they don’t mean. You taught me that. Remember?”
“That’s different...what they say about ye isn’t true. Yer lovely. But I...How can I say I’m important when people are dying?” He turns in your arms, wrapping his around your thick waist and finally looking you in the eye.
“What they’re saying isn’t true either.” You cup his face in your hands, “You do so much...this city would be in absolute ruins if people like you didn’t do your job. More people would be dead and homeless. Just because you’re limited by technology does not mean that you aren’t important. You’re so important. You do so much for everyone...and especially me. You have made my life a joy. You remind me every chance you get that I deserve to be happy, that I’m deserving of your love and appreciation. I don’t care what they think...because you were the first person in my life to actually tell me that I deserved more than I was getting.” You don’t break eye contact the entire time. You want him...need him to understand just how important he is. Even if its just to you.
You press your forehead to his and press a quick kiss to his mouth before speaking again. “I love you, Jack Collins. I am happier for knowing you. I am safer because of you. You do so much for me and so much for this country and angry, hurt comments are just that...comments. They’re not facts, they’re not the truth. They don’t matter. They shouldn’t. They’re muttered words from men disillusioned with a war they shouldn’t be fighting...its not about you.”
Blue eyes pool with tears, but the corners of his mouth tilt upwards and his eyes soften. “What did I do to deserve ye?”
Unfortunately, that first day was the start of a staircase, the first step down. And Genevieve, with her leg, hated stairs.
It started like every other day the past couple of months: Stella crying at five in the morning after falling asleep at half one and waking up again at three. Genevieve was awakened from an unpleasant dream that was in fact a memory she cared not to remember. With a stretch to the sky, she began taking her turn to go check in with her baby. Her body felt like it weighed tons; heaving it out of bed was a trial she grew weary of more and more every time she had to do it. Feet dragging along the floor, she left behind Jack and followed the noise to the nursery.
That sound, it was not the screaming siren like it had been before. Just a simple cry that was as tired as Genevieve, who took up the child and held her close in her chest.
“Hello, darling,” She whispered against Stella’s head, “I’m here, shh.”
In a daze, she took the pair of them downstairs. Her hand gripped the banister tightly to keep her balance. Made the trip slower, but that was part of her newest daily task: ignoring her leg pain in favour of Stella’s care. This began as she sat on the sofa and tried to get Stella to have some breakfast.
“Come on,” She whispered as Stella’s head turned away, finding interest in looking everywhere but where she needed to get her feed. “Stella, love. This isn’t fun for me either.”
Both of them moaned at each other, their wants and needs repelling like the matching ends of magnets. Genevieve sank back into the sofa, still begging to a baby who couldn’t understand her until eventually Stella took to her. With a muttered thanks, Genevieve waited whilst her patience rebuilt itself brick by brick.
The burping was always a nightmare. Within a couple of pats, Stella was squirming to get away from her own spit-up with a strong grimace that her Da would be proud of.
“Ok, ok, ok,” Genevieve dabbed at her mouth while Stella made her displeasure known to all. A trial and a half, but then again Stella was too young to understand that it would be over a lot quicker if she just sat still.
Neither had expected to fall asleep. Coupled with the clock on the fireplace chiming eight o’clock, footsteps travelling down the stairs woke them up. Sitting up and carefully waking Stella, Genevieve spied Jack in the sitting room door frame, his work clothes clean from the wash yesterday. She didn’t know whether she loved or hated the moustache that he was “just trying out”. She was simply indifferent at the moment. Bigger worries at the moment.
Jack crossed over to her side, greeting her with a gentle “good morning” and a hand on her shoulder. A hum was the reply he got as Genevieve let him take Stella from her, falling back onto the couch with eyes closed as soon as she was gone.
Only a couple of minutes could be spared for Genevieve. She didn’t even think she actually went to sleep; sounds of Jack mumbling to his daughter filled her ears, even as she buried her head under the throw. But just resting her eyes, a soft space embracing her, felt glorious. Even her leg was giving her a break before the long day ahead; the pain had slipped off her thigh and been forgotten somewhere on the stairs. As a result, she prolonged her time on this sofa as long as she could, only removing the throw to let in the morning when she heard Jack stop in front of her.
“Stella, you be good for your Ma, alright?” Jack kissed Stella’s cheek then passed her back over to Genevieve, “Call me if you need anything, if the doctor says anything.”
And he kissed her on the crown of her head. It tilted to follow him as he pulled away. Genevieve’s mouth fell open, but she bit her tongue, holding back the desire to tell Jack her dream. It would help no one; he was already leaving the house, what could he do to help her in the seconds spare he had before driving away?
The lock in the front door twisted into place, and Genevieve began counting. Her thumb brushed across Stella’s cheek for each count, keep her quiet for just a moment. Genevieve reached the number twenty-three before she heard the car engine being switched on. It rumbled away from the house, shrinking into the distance until it disappeared. With a sigh, Genevieve lightly pinched Stella’s cheek and exhaled as she made a noise connoting a smile in return. Sure enough, when she looked, Stella was grinning up at her. Sort of. It was a wide-open mouth with the corners turned up ever so slightly.
From the floor, Genevieve collected the steaming cup of tea and a plate of buttered toast beside her cane – all of which Jack must have left for her. She wished she noticed sooner, to thank him. As she ate her breakfast, she kept Stella lying down in her lap.
“Ready for the doctor’s today, my lovely? We’re gonna do some house stuffs first though.”
Changing her nappy for a clean cloth did not go as planned. It never did. Stella’s legs kicked wildly and – like today – landed themselves in poo. Mock crying to the ceiling helped Genevieve cope as she wiped away the mess; holding her breath played its part too.
Even when clean, Stella continued to writhe. Mostly away from the arm holes, leg holes, head holes, in her clothes and she whined despite Genevieve’s assurances. Her aversion for cooperation was sated when Genevieve rested her head to Stella’s belly, curled up in front of her, and Stella thought this exhaustion was a game. Bit of a dick move, but Genevieve took advantage of Stella’s longing for play time to force her into an outfit. Stella seemed shocked at this, her eyes wide, her body stiff.
She remained that way as Genevieve lay her amongst pillows for protection – so that she could keep her eye on her while she cleaned the sitting room. It was slow work, the cleaning of clutter and the dusting and polishing, and slower now that Stella required seeing Genevieve every few seconds to stop her crying as much.
This was just killing time until lunch, which would be killing time until Stella’s nap was over, which was killing time until the doctor’s appointment. The whole day really was planned around the baby.
When lunch time arrived, Genevieve was glad to stop faffing around. None of her efforts seemed to show in the room. She put Stella down after rocking her to sleep for twenty minutes. Sat beside the crib, her hypothesis was proven: upon sitting down, she would be stuck and want to stay there for a nap. That was, until Stella drifted off and Genevieve had to perform a delicate act to place her down without disturbance.
No sooner was she in the kitchen, her forearms were drawn to the table like a moth to a flame, weariness flaring in her chest to reach up her spine. It wasn’t long before she was lying beside her poorly made sandwich instead of eating it. Not sleeping though. Somehow she didn’t have the energy and her longing to close her eyes swapped for opening them the second she gave into it.
Counting the minutes before Stella should be woken, a new hobby that Genevieve did not enjoy but partook in nevertheless. Always it was such an enticing opportunity to let Stella oversleep, just a little more peace. As much as she wanted to, it would be worse for her in the long run.
In no time at all, Genevieve was creeping back into the nursery. She knelt before the bars of the crib; she held them loosely. Stella lay there with her arms and body folded in a bundle. Her eyes were closed, face still. But her feet were moving beneath the blanket, snuffling softly between noises, so she was definitely awake. To prove it beyond doubt, Stella’s brow crinkled and her mouth was drawn open wide.
“Hello you,” Genevieve spoke under her breath as Stella blinked over at her. With care, she stood and reached into the crib. A grizzling accompanied the baby as she was lifted up and into her mother’s arms, the top of her swaddle unfolded to free her arms. Genevieve traced her fingers along Stella’s chubby chin, “Let’s go.”
As was with every outing, damage control was created with the blankets. Stella enjoyed wrapping her hand around a corner, chewing on it. Genevieve thought perhaps it brought her baby ease because she often moaned when they went outside, the bump of the pavement and bright weather unfamiliar to her. When the summer months would come, they would sit in the garden and Genevieve could work while Stella played, maybe she would be sitting by then.
With the pram taking both hands, Genevieve pushed them out the door. One last look at her cane hanging up with their coats and she left the house.
A clinically quiet room greeted them. Stella ensured that whoever was in the building knew they were there with her grizzling. Too weary to shush her daughter, Genevieve checked in and sat right beside the desk in a stiff chair, avoiding the temptation to rest her head against the handle by looking instead at a pamphlet that discussed the merits of penicillin.
“Mrs Collins?”
Into another rigid chair she sat, this time in a smaller office. Taking Stella out of the pram, Genevieve discussed with the nurse from her first visit what Stella had been like in the last two months. Some questions were asked: “what are her nappies like?”, “how does she take to feeding?”, “how often does she cry?” etc. The answers were as follows: “she uh, doesn’t do solid poos. I’m sure she empties her body weight in slush”, “she started off ok, but now she struggles a little, won’t take for minutes”, “all the time, I hardly know how to stop her”.
The nurse then weighed her – Stella, not Genevieve – and checked her little body. Going against all that Genevieve had said about her behaviour, Stella smiled for the nurse and barely made a sound. Genevieve was almost angry about that, but channelled it into a sardonic request for the nurse to teach all she knew about keeping babies quiet.
Scribbling all this down, the nurse took the sheet of paper off her desk and placed it into a file, “Despite all that, she’s very healthy, already started teething. You’ll need some medication for that.”
Genevieve prepared to place Stella back in the pram, when the nurse pulled out another form and asked, “How are you coping?”
Stopping, Genevieve frowned slightly at the question. Obligation and honesty began a tug of war in her heart, pulling it painfully back and forth. She looked down at Stella, who was rubbing her cheek into her mother’s chest to bring her back.
“Honestly?” Genevieve looked up at the nurse.
“Honestly, Mrs Collins,” The nurse nodded.
Drawing in a deep breath, Genevieve felt honesty win and she allowed herself to unload onto the form: “I feel like I’m not good enough for her. I can’t do anything anymore. I don’t want to. I’m so, so tired, but I don’t even want to sleep. I love her so much but feeling like this all the time makes it hard. I can’t tell anyone either; I know what they say about mothers who aren’t always delighted by their bundle of joy.”
“That’s understandable, Mrs Collins. You’ll be surprised to hear that a lot of mothers feel the same as you, unsatisfied by life, questioning why they became mothers, fatigued all the time.”
“It’s not just that,” “I keep thinking about my… time in France.”
The nurse tapped her pen against the desk before gesturing to Genevieve, “You know, the hospital had developments made to it towards the end of the war, in the psychiatric ward.”
The last two words froze in Genevieve’s ears, burned her brain with cold. Her grip on Stella tightened just a touch, grounding her with the feel of the soft clothes and the funny smell that mixed with her soap.
“They’ve altered part of the ward to allow mothers and their young babies to stay together. It’s voluntary, and you can check yourself out whenever you like.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think I need that,” Genevieve said, eager to leave this office as soon as possible. Thankfully the nurse concluded the visit shortly after passing Genevieve a slip of paper detailing what would happen if she did need that.
Stella began crying again upon being returned to the pram; she grew louder when outside, likely missing the warmth of the office. Another reason to move quickly. Along with her leg aching, that was only allowing her to move so quickly, Genevieve was feeling rather overwhelmed by her discretion and felt the need to return to her bed.
“Genevieve!”
A familiar face parted from the crowd. Mariane waved to her eagerly; Genevieve immediately forced a smile that she really didn’t have the energy for.
“Oh, hey Mariane.”
“Hello!” She embraced Genevieve then let her go, too quickly for Genevieve to respond. Then Mariane peered into the pram where the crying Stella looked up at her, “Oh she’s getting big already!”
Pushing the pram back and forth to soothe Stella, Genevieve said, “How’ve you been? How’s work?”
“School’s still standing. And yourself?”
“Oh, tired, with this one,” Genevieve tried to laugh as if it were all joke, shake it off, “Sometimes I think I’ll take all those bratty privileged girls back. At least they sometimes quieten down.”
There was no doubt in Genevieve’s mind that her baby’s wailing was at the front of Mariane’s mind, as well as everyone walking past. Swallowing, she made her excuses and an empty promise to meet up when she could with the others from work before pressing on. For once, she was pleased Stella was crying. Home was where she needed to be now.
Fifteen minutes could be a long time or no time at all. Genevieve did not compare this to the longest fifteen minutes of her life. Thinking about her boat torpedoed was not going to be helpful to getting back to her house. Even though she knew this, and told herself many times not to think on when she was sinking into the Channel, she felt it. That anxiety, that chill, a memory of it at least still pressing on her body amongst the pressure of being a mother. From the debilitating enervation that now filled her life, it had lowered her defences and made her immune to thoughts of war.
Getting inside, Genevieve could barely put Stella to bed, before collapsing into her own.
It felt like only seconds later that she opened her eyes at the sound of Stella crying again. Genevieve did not go to her child though. She pulled herself deeper into the duvet, the pillow over her head, and she counted down from ten as slow as she could. But, even as Stella did not settle, Genevieve did not move for a long time. Her eyes stayed closed now, grown accustomed to their contradictory need to open. Feeling like this was familiar, oddly enough, but she couldn’t put her finger on where it came from.
Minutes dragged until Genevieve couldn’t take it anymore. She shoved away from the bed and found the nursery, looked down on the red face of her baby.
“Oh Stella, you’ll be alright,” and she hoisted her from the cot.
The afternoon mirrored the morning with Genevieve and Stella taking their places back in the sitting room. A book fell off the arm of the couch. Another attempt to calm her daughter, Genevieve collected the book from the floor and began to read aloud to Stella. It was a book of little importance, a how to do manual for calligraphy that had made it in the move from her old flat. She barely took in the words, eyes scanning over them without lingering for more than a stammer should she get a word wrong. Every paragraph or so, she would stop reading and look at Stella. But every time she stopped, Stella would begin to whimper again - a warning that anything could set her off.
Eventually Genevieve dropped the book back to the floor and held her face to Stella’s.
“Aren’t you beautiful?” She whispered, “My lovely baby. You hungry?”
It seemed they were both beat: Stella took to her feeding almost straight away.
“Thank you,” Genevieve said, falling back into the cushions and feeling like she hadn’t really achieved anything since she was in the same position hours ago. Her peace, however mediocre, was not meant to last.
The radio playing an unnaturally jaunty tune cut out with the engine. Jack was pleased to be home, only slightly worn out from work.
Upon entering the house, he heard the crying. His shoes were off, his bag was dumped. His brief sprint landed him in the kitchen where Genevieve was consoling the screaming Stella.
“Ginny?”
“She doesn’t stop,” Genevieve sniffed, “She just keeps crying and I don’t know how to help her. Oh!”
Her voice raised at the end, for Stella had thrown up. It missed the rag and splashed down Genevieve’s shoulder, splattering across her face when Stella coughed then continued to cry.
At her side, Jack spoke quick, “Ok, ok, love, get to bed, I’ll clean her up.” He collected Stella in his arms, “I’ll bring you some tea, Ginny, go clean yourself up.”
Insisting she go to bed, Jack watched Genevieve collect her cane and climb back to their room. She made it only to ball up a towel and scream into it. She hadn’t done that before. Lilly suggested it as therapeutic when she had James. It was not. Genevieve had gotten spit-up that had dribbled down her front onto the towel.
Once his wife was out of sight, Jack looked on his child to assess the situation. Stella was already in her pyjamas, so Jack wiped Stella’s mouth clean and then her clothes until only a faint stain was left. Then he spoke to her. Whatever thought his mind picked out of many, he said to his daughter: what happened at work today, what he was like as a tyke, what colours were around them. As he chatted, Stella soothed herself with his sentences stroking her into stillness. Upon the instant her serenity was achieved, Jack placed her in bed, kissed her head, and left the nursery with only the lamp on and the door closed.
Both parents let Stella cry for a little, Jack while he was making the tea, Genevieve while she washed her face. It was different to when she had been sick; there was less effort in it, just a soft moan. Stella had worn herself out to the point where she simply dropped off. Genevieve leant on the sink, deep breaths from the nurse’s office returning to calm herself. Using the flannel, she wiped away a tear that forced its way down her cheek.
On tiptoe, Jack ascended the stairs at a snail’s pace. Every creak of the staircase was amplified to tear across the house. Every tick of the clock downstairs was like a gun’s steady firing.
His tea was abandoned by Genevieve, who simply lay down in bed. Now she could define this feeling, drinking tea didn’t feel like a priority.
The negative of sleeping early is waking early. For once, Genevieve opening her eyes before sun up was not caused by a wailing down the hall. The bedroom door was being closed and the click of the doorknob was what pulled her from her sleep that was lighter than a feather. She sat herself up to see Jack, holding a glass of water in one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other. Once again, she didn’t recall actually going to sleep.
And suddenly now seemed a good time to ask.
“Can I talk about something please?”
“Of course,” and Jack moved to her side of the bed. Genevieve looked down, pushing her hand back and forth on her thigh, across her scar.
“I had a dream about the plane the other night. The German one we saw on the way back to Dorset. The noise it made, and it just kept coming closer. It was like I was stuck in treacle. I couldn’t even scream; it just clogged up my throat and I couldn’t breathe.”
During her speech, cautiously, Jack had knelt in front of her. The couple flinched at the floorboards beneath the carpet making themselves known with a groan, harmonising with the clink of his glass on the bedside table. Once they had ceased their song, Jack leant closer between her legs, his forehead close to hers.
“It’s not coming back, you shot that plane down,” He whispered.
However, reality wasn’t comforting to Genevieve. It rather had the opposite effect on here, setting her stomach ablaze with anxiety. Her head ached at his words.
“I didn’t think. I just took your flare gun, made you stand so I could use you to kill someone, like that.”
“Would have killed us if you and Dawson hadn’t done anything.”
Shaking her head, Genevieve disregarded what he was saying, tried again to say what she wanted to say that morning, “I didn’t think then but it’s all I do now. Think about how many people I got killed. I missed on that one too, was aiming for the cockpit. Quick death. Just like the others, because that’s all I could offer. You praised me for it!”
Her rambling ceased before it could reach a volume that would the sleeping babe next door. It was in a tense ten seconds that she took deep breaths to calm herself and waited for Jack’s reply.
It came in the form of her face being held, her eyes held in a gentle stare with him as he spoke: “You did what you had to. We both killed people, but we had to. Or else we wouldn’t be here, and Stella would be going through that. She might not have existed. Or worse: she’d be under the Nazis’ rule.”
Genevieve pressed her hands against Jack’s, “The nurse thinks I should go to the hospital, with Stella.”
Jack stilled between her palms and her cheeks, his voice hoarse, “A hospital?”
“I feel worse than when I did before she came, when you found me in the garden,” and Genevieve felt such frustration that she was crying again, “I feel so helpless here on my own. I know I’m not, but I feel it so deeply.”
Her hand flapped against her chest, reaching for her heart where all the pain boiled up. It slapped against her thigh when the build up of crying
“I’ll be check on her,” Jack said, kissing her lips quick with a rough bristle of his moustache, “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Jack hated seeing both his loves in pain. So he resolved to help Stella quick to get back to Genevieve’s long term problem. Part of him felt she had spent too much time in a hospital to go back. That part went into the back of his mind as he flicked on the light to the nursery.
“Oh, Stella Cosmos Josie Blancmange Collins!” Jack yawned. Stella didn’t hear him over her crying, such a gut-wrenching noise to hear that Jack didn’t even laugh at his joke. Dropping to her side, he wiped each of her tears away, clicking his tongue. When she was soothed enough that she had stopped shaking, Jack autonomously lifted her up from the cot and sniffed her nappy. Though he was in the know about late night romps with his baby and her crying, he would never grow accustomed to how stiff she would be when he held her in these times.
“Hey, it’s ok,” He hummed, lowering her onto the changing mat already out on the floor, “What we’re gonna do is we’re gonna clean you up and then we’re gonna get you back to a comfy ole sleep.”
He started popping off her sleepwear. It wasn’t a marvellous smell and Jack had to hold her feet still as he undid the latches, for her thighs had smeared themselves in what was in the cloth. It was then that Stella started to cry again, and not just tears, with screams too.
“Please, stop crying,” Jack stroked her wobbling cheeks, “Please. Your Ma needs rest. Stella, my darlin’.” God, why couldn’t she understand him? Why couldn’t he understand her? He quickly wrapped her back up, nice and clean as promised, but still she screamed. Her face was red with effort. The downy hairs on her brow were damp.
“Your Ma’s not doing well either. I’m sure she’ll bounce back. She always does. Strongest woman ever, your ma.” He consoled, trying to stay positive but he could already feel how Genevieve felt all day, every day. “Come on, Stella, work with me here.”
As he spun on the spot to try and entertain his baby into a slumber, Jack found Genevieve had followed him to the nursery and was watching him.
“Hey, I got the night shift,” He quietly reminded her.
Still, Genevieve moved closer and offered to take her, “It’s too hot to do anything, even sleep alone in bed.” With that, she eased Stella from him, and into her arms, “Hello, love, let’s try to get you off to sleep.”
When she was lowered her back into the cot, Stella began to whimper again. Genevieve knelt beside it, her arm through the bars and her hand carefully landed on Stella’s tummy. Jack followed her to the floor, sitting behind her and leaning his head between her shoulder blades. One hand rubbed next to his head.
“You should go to bed,” Genevieve said as quietly as she could whilst still trying to be heard, “You have work.”
“As do you, with this one. Plus, I’ve been given the day off tomorrow.”
Not once did he budge in the hour that Stella cried before settling down. He didn’t even crack his overdone joke: that if they had named her Sunny, the irony would have killed them.
It was never white noise, her gasping for breath before bawling with all her might one of the most unsettling to hear. When she finally rested her lungs to sleep, she still whined. Genevieve almost joined her in sleep, her head against the bars, Jack in her back. Both slumped at the same time, catching each other just before colliding with the floor. Only then did they collect each other and take their leave of the room.
As they fell into bed, Jack turned to his wife, “Ginny, would you hold me please?”
And Genevieve kicked away their covers and embraced her husband. His body was like a furnace bundled in cotton pyjamas. Nuzzling into the back of his neck, she kissed on his hairline and breathed in the lingering aftershave smell from his neck. He must’ve shaved this morning.
For both their sake, Genevieve whispered, “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
Jack squeezed her hand, then he kissed it, “Of course. The team.”
Summary: Reader, a searchlight operator, comforts their boyfriend after his plan crashes and he is injured in battle.
Prompt: Five word prompt requested by anon: “Please, you can’t die now”
Word Count: 1,075
Warnings: War, blood, death mention, angst
A/N: I cried writing this, so I’m sorry.
Jack Tag: @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff @la-fille-en-aiguilles @maiden-of-gondor @crayonwriting
You watched in horror as your boyfriend’s Spitfire plunged to the ground, crumpling like tinfoil amidst the heavy gunfire and shelling that was wreaking havoc around you. Pedestrians and soldiers alike were screaming for help, lying on the ground, injured. But now your only focus was the man inside the crashed plane lying several hundred meters away.
As a searchlight operator, you hadn’t really expected to find yourself in the throes of a battle, but you’d always known it wasn’t out of the question. Collins had been stationed nearby to where you worked and you knew the second you saw the German Bombers rolling in towards your hometown, three Spitfires tailing them closely, that it was him, based on the radio transmissions coming through to your station on the ground. His two counterparts had been shot down quickly, but they had ejected themselves and appeared to have made it out alright.
Collins, however, did no such thing, so you could only watch helplessly until his plane hit the ground. Ignoring all reason, you sprinted forward to help him, relieved when you saw movement within the cockpit as Collins opened his roof, smoke billowing out.
“Jack!” You yelled for him, voice hoarse.
His face contorted as he locked eyes with you, struggling to remove himself from the remains of the wreckage, and you saw the bullet holes littering the hull of the aircraft.
“Are you ok-“ You felt your voice trail off when the hand that had been clutching his side lifted slightly to reveal a deep stain in the fabric of his uniform above his abdomen.
“I’m,” he winced. “Just fine,” he said, but slowly slumped against the side of his ship, the color draining from his face.
“MEDIC!” You screamed, your head whipping from side to side to find help. “Can I get a medic?” You knew it was nearly pointless as chaos raged around you.
“It’s okay,” Jack insisted.
“I need to find someone to help,” you said, removing the scarf around your neck, pressing it firmly to his wound. “Hold this here, apply pressure,” you guided his hand over the injury. Moving to stand, you were stopped by his free hand.
“No,” he said. “Don’t leave me,” he coughed. “Please stay,” you saw the tears welling in his eyes and immediately knew. “I don’t want…” he trailed off then. “I don’t want to die alone.”
It wasn’t possible to process what was happening, you’d never felt so powerless in your life. “You’re going to be fine, Jack, you said so yourself.”
Collins didn’t respond, just let the tears fall quietly from his eyes as you moved to comfort him, brushing away the tears and cradling his cheek.
“I wanted so much more for us,” he said, his voice fading.
“You’ll get all of it, I promise,” You reassured him. “You’re going to be okay, we’re going to get you help. And we’ll have that big wedding you always talked about, and buy ourselves a house in Glencoe near your family-“ you began, trying your hardest to stay composed as you relayed to him the future you’d spoken about so many times in the letters you’d passed back and forth.
He laughed bitterly, you could almost see him imagining their future together, a garbled, choked noise leaving his mouth as his hand swiped under your eyes, wiping away tears that had begun to fall without you knowing. “Don’t cry, lass. You’ll be okay,” he said, giving you a weak smile.
“Not without you,” you answered him, but at that point he didn’t appear to be listening.
This wasn’t supposed to be the way he left you; crying, bleeding out, and terrified. Collins was meant to see the end of the war that had already tore you apart in more ways than one. He was supposed to grow old and die surrounded by your children and grandchildren, knowing he’d seen and done everything he’d wanted to, finally at peace. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair. You thought of all the other people who had died this way at the hands of the war, anger boiling inside you.
“I love you,” he managed, a weak cough bringing with it blood that stained his lips.
“I love you, Jack,” you answered, kissing him gently. “This isn’t the last time you’ll hear me say that.”
He just gave you sad smile, his eyes fluttering closed. All the color had drained from his face, he looked sullen and empty. The gunfire was calming down now as the German forces retreated, and despite the victory you’d never felt so empty.
“No, no-“ You said, whatever shock that had kept you calm was gone as you became frantic. “Wake up, Jack. You’re okay, we’re going to get you help. Please, you can’t die now,” your voice gave out on you as a sob quaked through your body.
He didn’t answer as you pressed two fingers to the inside of his wrist, his pulse still evident as you clung to him.
Then abruptly, you were pulled from his body. “You need to take a step back,” you heard a voice as you turned your head and met the eyes of a medic, who was standing with a few other medical personnel, one of whom knelt in front of Jack, examining him.
“Gunshot wound to the upper right abdomen, there appears to be an exit wound, but he’s lost a lot of blood, he’s in critical condition.”
Despite their presence being the one thing you’d been screaming for, it wasn’t much of a comfort. “Is he going to be okay?” you asked, but the medic didn’t answer, as Jack was lifted unconscious onto a stretcher. “Is he going to be okay?” you spoke louder this time, trailing behind the group of nurses. The medic who had pulled you off stopped you with his arm.
“He’s in the right hands for now,” he said, and even though it was meant to be friendly only frustrated you. “I suggest you report back to your commanding officer and let us do our jobs.”
Paralyzed, you stared after the man you loved as you watched him get carried away into the distance, the one beacon of hope you had left in your life suddenly obscured.
Hi! Do you think you could maybe write a Dunkirk one shot in which the reader is engaged to Collins, and she's what gives him strength and courage when his plane goes down and during his darkest moments of doubt in general, promising himself he will marry her as soon as he comes back home and all that stuff? Could be extra angsty because I looove angst, but some fluff too? Take your time and thank you!
I’m Alive
Fandom: Dunkirk
Pairings: Collins x Reader
Y/N Your name.
Word Count: 1002
Warnings: none.
A/N: This is not as long and detailed as I wanted it to be but I still hope you like it! (Sorry if its not what you imagined, I tried my best (Even rewatched a little of Dunkirk for the feels of it)
The sound of the Rolls-Royce-Merlin-engine and the erratic clicking of the radio were the only noise, that Collins could hear at the moment. He focused on an enemy plane in front him that tried to escape but he was on her with all his attention. No thoughts were wasted at anything else, his whole concentration and mind focused on the aircraft in sight.
Once the single-engine plane was in the right spot, Collins pushed the lever, firing bullets at the enemy. “Got him! Got him!”, he informs Fortis One, Farrier.
Said Pilot was chasing another plane of the Luftwaffe, shooting more bullets at it, as it turned away. Collins was having an eye on his colleague, not losing sight of him. “Oh she’s turning. You must’ve damaged her.” “Where’s the escort?”, Farrier wondered and looked around, trying to figure out what happened to the other plane that was circling around earlier.
“Well I got one of-” Collins got suddenly interrupted by some loud shots that hit the right side of his plane. Startled, he checks his instruments if everything’s still okay but soon he finds out that there was no way out of his situation. His Spitfire was losing altitude fairly quick. “I’m going down”, he murmurs into the Radio, informing his colleague of his current situation. “I’m on him now, bail out”, orders Farrier while Collins tries to figure out what the next steps would be. Suddenly every second seems to go by way faster than before. The blonde Pilot had only limited time to decide what to do and while he was figuring out what his best survival chances were, a face suddenly appeared in front of his sight. Beautiful eyes, he couldn’t stop staring at. A voice so lovely and passionate, singing him to sleep every night. A sweet smell, the most delicious and beautiful thing he ever got the taste on. While Collins fumbled on his gear, getting closer to the water, his only thought was you. Every move he did in the aircraft felt mechanic, as in checking the sound of the engine, pressing buttons and making sure everything was prepared for the drop, he pictured you beside him. He remembered the first day he saw you, knowing that you would be the girl he wanted to take out. Your laughter filled his mind, your voice telling him that everything was gonna be okay. He promised you to be back as soon as possible, and he wanted to keep this promise.
But as the surface came closer, anxiety rose in neverending heights. Collins was tense, as he stared at the water, praying to survive the impact that would soon follow.“Best of Luck, Collins”, Farriers voice crackled through the Radio. He didn’t answer though, way too focused on what was about to happen in just less than a minute.
“Collins, do you read?”, Fortis One asked one more time, hoping that his colleague would make it out of the situation safe.
Collins steered his plane directly over the water, preparing his body for the hard impact that would follow once he’d shut off the running engine. As the aircraft crashed into the ice cold water, Collins could feel the adrenaline sink quickly in his blood flow. He survived the hardest part - landing the plane safe and sound. He unbuckled his seat and tried to open the cockpit but it got stuck after a few inches. Collins cursed under his breath as he stuck his arm through the opening. It wasn’t going to open any further so he had to try a different way to get out or otherwise he’d drown miserably.
As he tried to break through the glass of the Spitfire, the pressure of trying to survive was getting tighter. The blonde Pilot wasn’t a big believer in god but in this moment, he started praying to him. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’, he thought. ‘I’m such a fool. I shouldn’t have volunteered for that mission, should’ve stayed home with her instead, leaving to be a hero was so stupid.’ He pulled out a gun and started to punch the glass above him. ‘Please god, if I had one wish, please let me see Y/N again. I’ll never ask for anything again, I promise, if I could just see her one more time’ he begged internally as the water rose even more. His situation seemed desperate. The water already chin high. Collins dropped his weapon in an attempt to hit the glass again, another silent curse leaving his lips. Adrenalin was building up once more and the Pilot got hold of the gun again, trying to push through. But it seemed hopeless. He couldn’t get through and his thoughts formed goodbyes to your figure in his mind. ‘I’m so sorry Y/N’, he thought over and over as the water was already surrounding him. ‘I wanted to marry you. I wanted to be with you and now I’m gonna disappoint you’ were his last words before giving up.
A sudden impact above his head gave Collins a sign to break through the surface and swim out of his sinking spitfire. Thoughts and mind for a second blank, trying to figure out what just happened last minute.He glanced over to a blonde boy who was holding a hand down to him, giving him a questioning look. “Afternoon.”, he spoke, sudden relieve flowing through his body and while he swam to the boat, the Moonstone, thoughts of going back home to his beloved Y/N flooded his mind. The prayer Collins sent to god were worth it. He was able to go back home and see you again. That was the only wish that filled his mind at the moment. The thought of you, his home and safe haven. He knew, once he was back home in England, he’d propose to you. Make you his wife and never leave your side ever again.
No war on earth was worth leaving you, the love of his life.
Request from anon: Could you please make an imagine about Collins? You and Collins are dating or however you want to make it. Collins leaves to go to war, and you want to help, since your a nurse, but he says no that it’s too dangerous. Then later you hear the call about going to save people at Dunkirk and decide to go anyway. You get on board with Mr. Dawson, and when Collins finds you on board he freaks out and is super worried, and maybe you get hurt or something and at the end you take the train home together.
A/N: I gave Collins the first name Andrew (Scottish name, apt for the period, also JL’s middle name). he is never actually referred to as ‘Collins’, so sorry if this throws you off a bit, but I just can’t make his girlfriend call him by his last name. ALSO I feel like this is pretty shit. it’s kinda jumpy, and not very fluid. I struggled quit a lot to make it fit with the narrative of Dunkirk, as well as believable and accurate. It’s a wee bit of a mess, so please be kind :)
P.S. Sorry about all that gumpf you had to read through. Hope you like it x
You lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, on an unfamiliar bed. You were staying in a house in Weymouth, with a sweet old couple who had agreed to take you in. You were from the north of England, but had been posted in Dorset. It was well known by the nurses that the boys were stranded at Dunkirk, and preparations were being made for those who returned, as there would definitely be some injured Tommys. You had been in Weymouth for almost a week now, waiting for news. That was the hardest part; the waiting. When you were in the middle of it all, it was easy to switch into practical mode. But lying in a comfortable bed, after a hot meal donated by a kindly couple, was somehow much harder than the chaos of action. You stared at the gap in the curtains, just large enough to see the stars. The sky always gave you some small comfort, because you knew that Andrew was up there somewhere. That was his home now. His home used to be in your arms but, since the war broke out, he made a home in the arms of a Spitfire. He was a pilot in the RAF, and consequently, you hadn’t heard from him for over a month, and hadn’t seen him in almost six. You missed him desperately, the letters just weren’t enough. Every day you woke up, panicking that he hadn’t made it through a mission, that he would be lost to you forever. Every night you went to bed and lay awake, afraid you’d never see him again. Since you weren’t family, and you weren’t married, you wouldn’t necessarily find out if anything happened to him. The fear was constant, and ever present.
When he first told you he was joining the RAF, you were devastated, but understood his need to protect his country and were even proud of him. When he first came home in his uniform, with a shiny pair of silver wings pinned to his chest, your heart almost burst with pride. Though you were distressed at his leaving, you had let his kisses comfort you. You remembered vividly standing on that train platform as he brushed your hair behind your ear and dipped his head so his lips brushed your cheek so gently, before he whispered, “When I come home, when this is all over, I’m gonnae make an honest woman of ye.” Thinking back to that day usually gave you comfort, but tonight it brought tears to your eyes as the longing to see him grew exponentially in your chest, pressing painfully against your ribcage. You clutched your necklace, which held a picture of him inside, and wished on the stars that he would come home to you.
The next morning you trudged down to breakfast, functioning on very little sleep as always, and greeted Mr and Mrs Miller, the couple who were housing you, as they sat eating their breakfast.
You had your usual slice of toast with homemade jam and listened with fascination as Mr Miller told you about the call that had gone out that morning, for little vessels to travel to Dunkirk to rescue the man stranded on the beach. Without a second thought you raced to the docks to find a boat that would take you across with them to help. This was finally a chance to do something; the waiting was a far slower and more painful death than the risk of getting bombed on the channel. You walked along the dock, asking each skipper if they were going, and if they could take you. Even with your assurance that you were a nurse, all you encountered as a series of ‘no’s. Many of the boats were being requisitioned by the navy, who wouldn’t allow you aboard. Eventually you saw an older man and two boys loading life jackets onto a pleasure yacht. You saw the captain start up the engine, and eyeing the crew of naval officers. You could see in his eyes that he intended to set off alone, willing to risk everything to save the boys. If there was anyone that would take you, it was him.
“Excuse me, sir,” you called, racing towards him. the man’s head snapped round and you reached the edge of the boat, breathless. You offered him your name, and he replied that his was Mr Dawson, and the blonde boy loading lifejackets was his son, Peter.
“I’m a nurse with Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service, awaiting deployment,” you said with your head held high. “Do you have room for one more?”
Mr Dawson grinned, saying, “She’s not a big boat, but we’ve always room for a nurse.” He offered you his hand and helped you clamber aboard. Before long you were off, with an extra occupant whom you learned was a friend of Peter’s, by the name of George. They were sweet boys, and always helpful.
Your trip out was quiet for a long time, taking a good few hours to get across the channel. You sat on the prow of the boat, looking out to endless open sea, thinking about your Andrew. He would be furious if he knew where you were now. He had raged when he came home on leave once, early on in the war, to find that you were a qualified nurse. You had told him in a letter that you were training, but when he found out that you could be deployed abroad he was fuming. You could see the fear in his eyes as paced around, shouting that you were being foolish by putting yourself in danger for no reason. That had upset you, making tears sting in your eyes. You had screamed that you had a very good reason – you would be saving lives – and in any case, he had done exactly the same thing. The fight that ensued was heart-breaking for the both of you, but you knew it was only his need to protect you that drove his anger. You eventually made up, crying in each other’s arms, and when he left the next day it was harder than ever before. You sent a silent prayer to the sky to protect him, to carry him when you couldn’t, to hold him close and keep him safe when you weren’t there.
You were distracted from your reverie when you came across a man stranded in the sea. After that, it was all a bit of a blur. The man you had saved was silent, then he raved, and George had been hurt. You instantly called on your training, bandaging his head as best you could, but you knew that it was bad. Without a medical kit there was very little you could do for him. You tried to keep Peter’s spirits up, giving him some hope to cling to, though you had little. Spitfires flew overhead making your heart race. You knew it was naïve but you couldn’t help but hope that one of them was Andrew. To have him so close, to hold him again, was all you wanted. When a plane flew low over your head, the roar of the Merlin engine invading your senses, you all shuddered. That thrum, that low satisfied purring, was strangely comfortable, despite its warning of war.
When you saw the plane go down, however, your heart leapt to your throat and you were desperate for it not to be your sweetheart. You looked for a chute, but saw none. You prayed that it was just your eyes deceiving you, but Peter’s continued insistence that there was none confirmed your fear. If that was Andrew, and he had gone down… It couldn’t be him.
Wetness on your cheek told you that you were crying, and you were vaguely aware of Mr Dawson shouting something. You couldn’t bear to stay on deck as a raw need to run away overcame you. You wanted to hide, to flee, to find Andrew’s arms and wrap yourself in them. You hadn’t felt safe since he had gone to war and you craved the security he brought you. You went downstairs to check on George without a word, kneeling by his side and holding his hand. He had fallen asleep, which worried you somewhat, but you checked his pulse and it remained steady, if slow, and let him sleep. If he was asleep, he wouldn’t be afraid.
You vaguely heard the slosh of water and a grunt as someone was heaved aboard. A little of the tension in your shoulders relaxed, knowing that a life had been saved. You heard voices but didn’t listen. You head was spinning, all you could think about was Andrew. Over the course of your training you had developed the ability to put him out of your mind when you had to, and focus on the task in front of you. You held George’s hand, giving yourself a physical focal point on which to direct your energy, a tangible connection to the present. Even so, all you could see was Andrew’s face: his final smile that last time he boarded the train and left you alone again. Your overwhelming fear was that smile would be his last ever.
You were aware of footstep descending the stairs, and voices getting louder. Suddenly unable to face anyone, you snuck into a side room and pulled the door closed. You leant your back on the door, chest heaving and eyes closed. You had never felt so vulnerable. Peter’s voice sounded muffled through the door. You heard another man speak, the pilot you assumed, as it wasn’t anyone else’s from The Moonstone. Tears stung your eyes, as the pilot’s Scottish lilt drifted through the door. It sounded so very much like Andrew, so much it hurt. You knew it must be your imagination playing tricks on you; surely it couldn’t be him. The odds were too slim. You heard him again and your heart seemed to rip through your chest at the sound. That voice, so familiar, had been playing in your head since he left and you dared to let yourself hope, just a little, that it might be him. You turned, and placed you hand on the knob. Taking a deep breath, you opened the door just a sliver and peeked through.
He was a little blurry from the tears in your eyes, but you had no doubt. It was him. His hair was wet and stuck limply to his forehead. He held and towel tightly in his hands as he looked down at the boy in the floor. You stood, stunned, and watched as he sniffed, before nudging his nose with the towel. Your love for him overwhelmed you, and you pushed the door open fully, revealing yourself in the doorway. Andrew’s eyes shifted lazily from George to you, and went wide when they met yours. His mouth fell agape, and you took a few steps towards him. Before you could reach your arms out to him, he backed away, cursing, “Wha’ the hell are ye doing here, Y/N?”
“I.. I came to help.”
“Are ye trying to get yerself killed?”
You tried to steady yourself, knowing that he just wanted you to be safe, but you couldn’t help but feel hurt that he wasn’t happy to see you.
“Ye’re sailing into a warzone, what’re ye thinkin’?”
“I’m a qualified nurse Andrew, I’m thinking that I might save someone’s life,” you retorted, your voice firm and rising to meet his.
“I told ye, I dinnae want ye goin’ abroad-”
“I don’t care,” you cut him off, “I have to do my bit. I’m saving soldiers, men just like you. Men who have people at home who love them, and would miss them terribly. I’m trusting women like me to save your life if needs be, so I have to be there to do the same.”
You saw his lip tremble ever so slightly, and the glimmer of tears in his eyes.
His voice was desperately quiet when he finally spoke, “I just cannae bear to lose ye.”
You edged towards him, taking both his hand in your own, still clutching the towel.
“I know, darling. I know exactly how scary this is for you, because it’s the same fear I live with every day.”
You wiped a fallen tear from his cheek, and let him wrap you in his embrace.
You felt his chest shake with silent tears, so you stroked the back of his neck gently and bit back the tears in your own eyes.
“We’ll get through this, alright? We’ll be fine. And when it’s all over we’ll start a family together.”
You felt him pull away and before you knew it he was kissing you, hard and soft at the same time, hungry and timid. Desperate. The world fell away, all the fear and the pain. You wrapped your hands in his hair as he clutched at your waist, intertwining yourselves in each other. In that moment, that was enough.
As you neared Dunkirk, tension on board started to build. You had explained your relationship with Andrew, and everyone commented how unlikely it was that you should happen to meet in the middle of the channel, which lightened the mood momentarily. But the heavy atmosphere soon settled over you again. You sat beside Andrew outside, letting him hold you. Though apprehension started to build in your chest, you knew he would keep you safe at all costs.
When you saw a destroyer get bombed, you instantly leapt to action. You tried to make provisions for the men who had been saved, but kept getting distracted by Andrew. He muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on the Spitfire overhead, which you found strangely attractive. You bit you lip as he hauled men over the side and into the boat, eyes glued to the sky even then. You handed out towels and life jackets, trying to wipe away the oil from the soldiers’ faces. There was panic as the German plane went down and the oil in the water was ignited. The boat began sailing away. The sudden speed caught you off balance, making you stumble and fall into the lap of a soldier. He lashed out, the stress of his ordeal making him jumpy, and instantly pushed you off him. He was strong, and you flew through the air. There was shouting and confusion and pain, and you were aware of yourself lying on the floor but you were dizzy. The world was spinning so you shut your eyes. Through the clamour you heard Andrew’s voice sooth you. He sounded distressed, but you took comfort in it nonetheless.
“Y/N! Y/N are ye alrigh’?”
You groaned your assent, but found that your head throbbed when you tried to nod. There was warmth on the side of your head, and it felt sticky when you touched it. You opened your eyes to see Andrew crouching over you, along with a lot of unfamiliar faces. You tried to sit up, but would have fallen if he hadn’t caught you. He propped you against him.
“What happened?” you mumbled.
“You hit your head,” you heard Mr Dawson say as he came into view. He bent to examine the gash. “It doesn’t look deep, you’ll be okay.”
He started to clean the wound and bandage you up, and you were constantly aware of Andrew’s heavy breathing and muttered curses.
You were sure he whispered, “I’ll kill him,” at one point.
Luckily some of the men took the soldier below decks, and you kept Andrew with you the whole time. After a drink of water you felt much better, but feigned dizziness whenever he looked like his rage would boil over.
After a while you fell asleep, the stress of the day, coupled with a blow to the head, making you drift off almost without your permission. Your head was resting on Andrew’s shoulder, and he cradled you softly in his arms. He stroked your hair and kissed your head occasionally, making you feel at home even out on the sea. You must have slept for a couple of hours, as when you woke the sun was beginning to set. “Evenin’ sleepyhead,” Andrew muttered in your ear. You smiled at the feeling of his breath against your skin, revelling in having him so close.
You looked around, and many of the soldiers were asleep. In the quiet you noticed the sky. It was dyed a dusky indigo, with shoots of orange still scattered through it. It looked like a bruise, fresh with colour. The last rays reflected off the sea, sending ripples of light across the waves.
“How can the world be so beautiful, when we’ve come from a place of such pain?” you muttered, bitter at the thought. It felt as though the world was mocking you.
Andrew replied in a soft voice, hushed on the silent sea, “It’s a reminder, I suppose. The sun sets, everything ends, but it’s worth the fight ‘cause beauty lives on.”
You turned to him with a smile and saw the light reflected in his eyes. You were overwhelmed with love for him.
“I think that’s the most poetic thing you’ve ever said.”
“War changes folk, ye know.”
You smiled sadly, pulling him into a kiss, “Not too much I hope, I love you the way you are.”
Your lips met and you felt the sun’s fire blazing in your heart.
