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?”
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❤️.
Part 1 X
“What’s wrong?”
He finds you crying quietly on your bed. Your make up is smudge from frustrated fists rubbing at your eyes. Half the pins in your hair have come out. Your shoulders are slumped and defeated. His face falls at the sight of you, a heavy sigh leaving his chest.
“Leave me alone, Jack.” It doesn’t have the impact you want, not when you’re sniffling and struggling to breathe without gaps in your breathing.
You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to see him or rather have him see you. It’s hard..when people say things and hurt you. When they point out all your ‘flaws’, it is so dreadfully hard to be around him. Because that’s the problem. People say horrible things to you because of him...because they’re interested in him or because they know him and they feel it’s their right to say something because look at you. How could the Jack Collins fall in love with a fat girl?
“Now, why would I do tha’, love?”
“Please leave...I don’t...”
“What did they say?”
You’re quiet for a few moments, unsure whether you should sugar coat the truth or give it all in visceral detail. You decide on the latter because you’re angry and sad and so many feelings twist inside you, it’s hard to hide the truth when you feel so much.
“What do they normally say? How could Jack Collins fall in love with a girl like you? How could Jack Collins be interested in you? Have you seen yourself? Have you tried taking better care of yourself? They’ve all decided i’m not good enough for you. That i’m not important. That I’m someone to be tossed to the side because I don’t look like all the other girls, with their perfect hair, and small waists, and long legs. I’m tired of it...I’m so tired of it.”
His hands press into your shoulders, urging you to move, to twist to face him. They slide down your arms and come to rest on the thickness of your waist. You pull away from his hands, the feeling of them on your body, on the places people had said were bad...it wasn’t his fault, but you just couldn’t right now.
“What did ye say ta me when I felt at me worst? That i’m important. Yer important too. I don’t give a rat’s arse what they say and neither should ye.”
“Well, I do! They look at us together and they think it’s a joke...they’re waiting for you to leave me...to bugger off and find someone smaller and prettier and more feminine. Less homely.”
“I bloody love ye. I don’t care that yer bigger than the other girls, yer beautiful, yer my girl.” He cups your soft cheek in his hand, pressing his forehead to yours. “I think yer beautiful like this, I love yer body, I love ye...They can bugger off because I ain’t going anywhere. I actually had the opposite plan in mind.”
He reaches between you, hand digging in his trouser pocket before he finds what he’s looking for. You can’t see what’s in his hand, not before he passes it to you. You feel something small, straight edges, and boxy land in your palm.
You pull back from him, wiping the last tears from your round cheeks as you stare at the little box in your hand. “Jack...”
“Open it. Go on.” He nudges you with his leg and you follow his instructions. The box pops open, a sound so loud in the quiet of your room. What you see is both what you hope to see and what you doubt...a little ring, nothing that would be considered spectacular, but an engagement ring nonetheless. One bought on a small wage, during war time.
It doesn’t put all your doubts to rest, but it does put one to bed. Jack does love you...he isn’t looking for the next woman to come along, he thinks your pretty and he likes you just as you are...and while you still feel the sting of other people’s comments and know that you will still worry about the eyes watching you...you also know that Jack will be there and he’ll be there to help remind you of what he sees when he looks at you.
“I was going ta wait...I had a plan, but now seems a better time than ever.” He takes the box from your fingers, carefully, oh so carefully, before kneeling at your feet. “I love ye, probably since I first saw ye. I don’t care what people think, but I care what ye think...and I would love nothing more than to marry ye. Y/N, will ye be my wife?”
There are tears again, but they’re different sort of tears. The sort that come from an unbelievable, incomprehensible happiness, the sort that takes over your whole body and controls your every action.
“Yes...yes!” You slip off the bed to kneel in front of him, on the same level. You throw your arms around him and pull him close and it doesn’t really matter that the ring box and its contents are on the floor or that simply minutes ago the thought of Jack Collins wanting to marry you seemed impossible. All that matters is his arms around your thick waist and the reality that has sunken in. That it didn’t matter what people say; not your family, not your neighbours, or the local men. Jack Collins wanted to marry you, not someone else, you. That’s all that mattered and the rest? Who gives a rat’s arse?
Summary/Request: Based off Anne Shelton’s ‘Silver Wings In The Moonlight’: Jack finally comes home after the war is over.
Notes: No Gender Pronouns used, neutral partner terms, but marriage is mentioned just in case that’s off putting.
Jack Collins loved flying. You knew that form the moment you met him. That he loved flying with everything in him, that it brought a thrill to him, as much as it scared him. He once told you that he felt the same way about you. That he loved you, you thrilled him, excited him, but that you scared him as well. That he was scared of how much he loved you, scared of leaving you to go fly in the war...that it was all a rather scary thing, being in love that is. You found it funny that he thought falling in love was as scary as fighting in the war.
You would always share him with his love of flying, you knew he’d be torn between the two and you never asked him to stop flying, to finding a safer job in the war...because that wasn’t fair and because ultimately you knew that he’d never stop you doing what you loved, no matter how dangerous, so what right did you have of doing the same.
You had just hoped, much as the familiar Anne Shelton song went, that eventually his love of flying, of his silver wings, of his plane, would bring him home safely. That he’d survive every single encounter and that you’d finally get to live in a world without war together.
Demobilisation was a long process, however. When the war in Europe was announced as over, won, done, completed, everyone had been happy, excited, overjoyed knowing that so many could finally come home even with the war in the pacific still ongoing. You were rather lucky that demobilisation of the Royal Air Force was a rather quick affair compared to the hundreds of thousands of men in the Army or Navy. You had known that Jack would be stationed at a nearby air base, that he’d be home...because while you knew he’d stay in the RAF post-war, you also knew without the war on he’d have more time for you, more safety, and you’d actually get to fall asleep in his arms for once.
When you finally got the letter telling you he was coming home it was the biggest relief you’d ever felt. Knowing you’d see him again.
Dearest Y/N,
This is a short letter compared to our usual exchanges, but i’m writing to let you know that i’ll be home soon. They’re stationing me back nearby now that the wars over. Giving me leave too, three whole weeks!
I’ve missed you with all my heart, as much as I love flying it is horrible being away from you. It will be great to be able to see you and fly again rather than having to choose between the both of you.
I always told you i’d make it back, even though I know you’ve worried every day for the past six years. It seems so strange that after six years we’re finally done with this bloody war.
Forever yours,
Jack
It had been brief considering his usual letters spanned two or three pages, but you’d understood why. He was coming home and why write about things that were happening when he could simply talk to you again, hold you in his arms and tell you every funny story, every sad happening, every moment that you’d missed over the six years of war.
You hadn’t a date for his arrival, but every day you made sure the house was perfect. That it was clean, that you had a good stock of tea, that you had enough to make a nice meal. It was the little things you wanted him to come back and not have to worry about going down the shop or clean up a tiny bit of mess. You wanted him to be able to come in and just hold you. For hours. Without any responsibilities or things to worry about. You’d spent six years with rare leave dotted here and there. A few days often at most to spend time together. Now you had three weeks. Three weeks and he’d be working nearby, perhaps able to live at home and go to base each day.
You’d been reading the paper when you heard the door unlock and open, close shut, and the sound of a familiar voice call down the hallway, “I’m home!” You’d been so excited you dropped the paper on the floor and rushed out of the living area, not stopping until you’d almost launched yourself at him for a long awaited hug.
He still smelt the same like carbolic soap and the aftershave he always used. He still felt the same, solid, warm, arms wrapping around you and pulling you tighter as he buried his face into your shoulder.
“I’ve missed you.” You mumble it into the blue of his uniform, not wanting to pull away even for a second to talk to him. Letters allowed you to talk to him, but the physicality of having someone there? Nothing could replicate that. You couldn’t simply get a hug any time you wanted, a kiss on a cheek, a hand on the small of your back. The physicality just didn’t translate the way words did.
His grip tightens on you and you can hear and feel him take deep breaths, contented ones, taking in everything that surrounded him. “I’ve missed ye too, love...so much.”
You pull back, only enough to see his face. He looks the same. Blonde hair, cut short back and sides, long on the top, combed over neatly. Blue eyes that are so soft and kind, eyes that helped you fall in love with him. Soft smile, the type of smile that still managed to make you flustered and just a little bashful. He hadn’t changed much, older, certainly older. You both were. You’d first started dating when you were barely in your twenties. Now you were in the latter part of that decade of your life. You’d spent so much time apart, writing letters, keeping your relationship going.
“I can barely believe you’re actually here...finally...six years.” You press your forehead to his, close your eyes, taking in the feel of him, the smell of him, the presence of him once gain.
“Well, ye better believe it. I’m not goin’ anywhere anytime soon.” You open your eyes again, scan his face briefly, before pressing your lips to his. A little chapped and slightly unfamiliar after so long apart, but still Jack. Still the soft press of lips, the sweet hum of happiness from his throat before he pulls back and smiles down at you.
You’re not really prepared for him to sink to one knee, mostly because you’re still finding it hard to believe that he’s finally back, that the war is over and he’s finally back. So its rather something else to find him sinking to one knee.
“I don’t have a ring yet...I was going to wait till I found one, but we’ve waited six years and I just want to marry ye finally. I spent six years without ye and you’re the best partner I could ever ask for. You’ve put up with me for six years, without me help around the house, with me shitty handwriting. Will ye marry me?”
Its not something you really have to think about after so long, because you’ve already thought the answer before today, thought of this possibly happening a million times. You decided that if you could survive being away from him during a war, then you could manage the trials of married life. Of a life during peace time.
“Of course I will, Jack” You pull him back to his feet and grip him in a tight embrace once again. You don’t really need a ring or something fancy or a big speech, the fact that he’s here, that he’s alive, that he wants to marry you, that is enough.
“I love you.” You cup his cheeks in your hand and meet his eyes. You want to make sure he knows just how much you love him, that after everything you still love him the same as when you first fell for him. It hasn’t mellowed, hasn’t dissipated. Its still as strong as ever.
Summary/Request: Inspired by I Wrung My Hands by Anna Akhmatova. You say something you shouldn’t during an argument, you worry he won’t come back.
Notes: Gender neutral, no pronouns/gender suggested/used
“You can’t just come back and expect me to be all smiles and open arms! Do you know how scared I am whenever you’re not here? All anyone ever tells me is how dangerous it is for you to be a fighter pilot!” Worry, day in, day out, the only time you don’t worry is when he’s on leave, back at home. When you can be sure he’s not hurt, that he’s fine. You knew what you were getting into when you married Jack Collins, but that didn’t make it any easier when you were worried and scared.
“Ye knew tha’ this wouldn’t be easy! What de ye want me ta do? Just leave?!”
“Maybe!” You regret it the moment you say it. You don’t want him to leave. That’s a lie, something that you shouldn’t have said in anger and worry. Yes, it was horrible to know he could die, but you’d rather have him and know that, than not.
Jack’s mouth turns down into a sad frown and you rush after him as he makes his way down the stairs and out the front door of your joint home. You don’t care that it’s pouring it down outside or that you’re only in your night clothes as you stand at the bottom of the steps calling after him before he opens that gate. Before he can leave your sight completely.
“Jack! Please don’t leave! I’m sorry, I never...I’d rather have you here once in a blue moon than not at all! Please...” You can’t bear the thought of him just being gone, not after years of him, after loving him for so long. You can’t bear the thought of one stupid, hastily said word being the reason that you don’t see him again.
“Why don’t ye get out of the rain? Go back inside, love.”
“Jack...” You watch as he stops after opening the gate, turning to look at you with a sad smile. He still looks like he’s more concerned for you than anything else, but you can see the hurt in his eyes at what you said.
“I’ll be back in the morning...I need ta cool off. I’ll be back, I promise.”
You don’t fight him on his leaving anymore because you know he’s going to leave whether you want him to or not. You just have to trust that in the morning he’ll be back and you can truly apologise for saying something you never should have said. It didn’t matter that you’d been scared for him, worried, you never should have said that and you just hope it’ll only be a night that he’s gone.
So you walk back inside, soaked to the bone, and rather absentmindedly go about your business. Having a bath, getting into dry clothes, tucking yourself into bed. Its hard to fall asleep when you don’t know where he is, when you know you’ve hurt him. The guilt gnaws at you for many hours before you manage to fall asleep.
You’re woken up by a dip in the bed next to you and the feeling of familiar, cool fingers brushing your hair away from your face. You open your eyes, blinking them a few times, letting everything come back into focus. Jack’s sat next to you on the bed, he looks like he hasn’t slept, dark circles under his usually bright blue eyes, messy clothes and hair. He looks haggard and the guilt from the night before wells up in you.
You sit up, pulling his hand from your hair to hold it in your own on your lap.
“Jack...I never should have said that. I was angry and scared and that doesn’t excuse what I said...but i’m sorry. I love you. I’d rather worry every day until the war is over, than never have you around at all, then have you walk out of my life. I married you for a reason...and you’re right. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy when we got married. I knew and I decided to marry you anyway, because I love you. I’m sorry for letting my worry get the best me.” You press your forehead into his shoulder, you want him to forgive you. You want him to say its okay because you’re sure the only thing worse than him not being at home because of war would be not being at home because he decided he’d had enough of your marriage.
“I know...I know you’re sorry...and I should have realised that ye were scared. I’m sorry. I escalated things, rather than talking abou’ how scared ye were...we both messed up somewhat.”
“Does that mean you’re staying?” You pull back to properly look at him, he’s looks less troubled now, the same way you feel less troubled. The relief at knowing he forgives you, that he doesn’t hate you is immense.
“Do ye really think I could ever walk away from ye? I love ye with all my heart and one fight ain’t gonna change tha’.” You reach up and press your lips to his, sighing slightly at the familiar feeling. It’s a little bit like coming home, its that familiar.
It is soft, nothing too rushed or harsh, just a sweet little kiss. A gentle reminder that you’re both okay. You’re both here.
Summary/Request: You had rather bad luck with dates and dance halls, but this time turns out rather better than you expected.
Notes: Because i’m a plump girl and with the limited reader inserts about Dunkirk plus the fact some heavily describe the reader as thin, this is a little bit of personal self indulgence. We’re not all small, lithe, petite and we should still get to enjoy reader inserts and a fandom if we’re not. Consider this a protest over the exclusionary writing in reader inserts, at least state at the start if you’re describing the reader a certain way. It can be rather off putting to be enjoying something and then suddenly feel excluded.
Using Jack as Collins’ first name because it seems to be the fandoms choice since we don’t actually have his first name.
I haven’t tried to write out a Scottish accent because that can sometimes go badly and be quite hard to keep reading with, so just imagine it in your head or read his parts in a Scottish accent.
Also the junior service joke is an actual real life thing. My Dad’s ex RN and its a long running joke between the Army and the Navy that the RAF are the junior service.
You’re not Hollywood Starlet, no Greta Garbo or Joan Bennett. You’re not tall or lithe, not perfectly proportioned or flat stomached. You had long come to terms with that fact. You were plump as your mother would put it. Wide hips, a soft stomach that didn’t lie flat, large thighs, arms, soft round cheeks. You accepted that fact, it wasn’t uncommon, not really. You knew most women walking down the street were no Jean Arthur or Carole Lombard. But you also knew that most of women who got asked to dance halls or out to cafes were closer to Greta Garbo than yourself. But it was okay. You didn’t need to be leggy or thin to be in the nursing corps. You just needed to be good at your job and you were.
You didn’t need to stun every man you treated, you just needed to make sure they were okay. So you did your best to ignore the sinking envy whenever you walked down the street to see women walking arm in arm with their sweethearts. Because you didn’t need that. You were okay without it. You had a job to do and a war was on. But just because you didn’t need something, didn’t mean you didn’t crave it, want it, and hope for it when you lied awake at night staring at the ceiling as your fellow nurses snored in the beds beside you.
You meet a lot of men in your line of work, some that make unnecessary, nasty comments because they’re in pain, some that are silent, some that are nice, but very rarely a man who wants to take you out on the town. In some ways you’re glad because your work is your work and that would surely interfere with it. In other ways you wish that just once someone would turn up and sweep you off your feet because the other girls don’t understand. They ask why you haven’t a sweetheart yet and how do you explain that men just don’t seem to want to view you that way, that despite your outward confidence there’s a scared little girl inside of you. Who worries you’re too ugly, too fat, too this, too that. That you’ll always be alone while everyone else around you pairs off. You know deep down those are the insecurities of a little girl, that they’re irrational, that at some point you’ll meet the right person. But it seems like everyone else has so many right people and you don’t have single one. That for some there’s a new right person every week and for you there’s never a single one. It’s a little disheartening, a little lonely, and it feeds those old insecurities that comment in your ear when you get dressed in the morning and stand in front of a mirror.
You don’t except that to suddenly change.
“You’re coming to the dance hall tonight, right?” You look up from where you’re making beds for any future men who come in for a little medical help, to see Anne perched on a table along the wall. Anne was one of your closest friends. Beautiful, funny, a good nurse, and kind. She was always kind, especially to you. But, she had a habit of making you go to the dance hall with her and her sweetheart, Albert.
“Anne...You know I always end up sitting there alone!” You don’t hate the dance hall because of the noise or the people or the dancing, you hate the dance hall because Anne always has Albert and you always end up sitting there watching everyone else dance. Because it’s never some romantic or happy occasion for you, it’s rather boring when you’re just sat there watching everyone else have fun. The few times she’d found a friend of Albert’s to come with, they’ve always gone off to dance with another girl. You’ve had some rather poor luck with it.
“Not this time. Albert has a friend he’s bringing along. He’s in the RAF.” She says it like it’s supposed to impress you and it probably would if firstly you didn’t spend your day around men in uniform and secondly if you thought he might actually like you. Which you didn’t. Because they never had before. It was useless getting your hopes up.
“Who’s to say he’ll even want to dance with me Anne...I’m no Betty Grable.”
“You don’t have to be! How many bloody times have we told you that just because you’re a bit plumper than the rest of us doesn’t mean you’re not pretty or that people won’t want to dance with you?” She was always so adamant that you were pretty, beautiful even, that you’d find someone you just needed a little time. Part of you believed her because surely she wouldn’t lie to you and because you knew that really being bigger than other girls didn’t inherently make you attractive or unattractive. But the little twelve year old in you that symbolised all your insecurities found it hard to believe her. It was a constant internal conflict.
“Anne...”
“Look, I know you’ve had some rotten luck. But trust me on this one.” She looked so sure that this would work out. That this time you’d have a good time. That this one would like you. Would dance with you, that you couldn’t exactly find it within yourself to say no. At least you’d get to dress up, listen to some nice music. There was always a bright side if this went poorly.
“Fine.” You cut off her excited clapping, “But only because you seem so sure and I trust you. But...that doesn’t mean I believe this is actually going to be better than the last time” You look at her pointedly, the last time had been one of the worst; he hadn’t even said hello to you before he’d gone off to find another girl to dance with. Poor Albert had been dreadfully embarrassed.
“I’m sure it will be better than...that time. He wasn’t worth your time anyway! So rude!” You huff a little laugh at that before returning to your corners. The beds have to be perfect or the Matron will have you redo them. It made little sense to you considering any man that slept in them or sat on them immediately messed up the hard work, but who were you to argue?
Friday nights were dance hall nights, everyone would fill the nearest hall after work and once they were off duty and dance the night away to good music and pleasant company. Anne convinced you to come along without fail every Friday and every Friday night you usually found yourself sat at a table listening to the music and watching her and Albert dance. Occasionally Albert brought a friend, but they usually only spent a few minutes with you before deciding they preferred to dance with someone else. Some were ruder than others, some would stay and talk with you for a good hour even though they clearly would rather be dancing with the pretty blonde in the corner. Sometimes you just told them to go have fun. Sometimes you barely got an introduction before they left. You understood of course, sometimes the men weren’t your type and you didn’t want to dance with them either, everyone had their preferences. It just seemed like you weren’t really anyone's.
You went through your usual routine after getting off duty. A quick bath, choosing a nice dress, finding the nice stockings you had (the ones that you’d tried to keep in good condition what with rationing on), picking a comfortable pair of heels, pinning your hair, doing your make-up. You always decided that if you were going to go out, you’d look nice for yourself. If no one wanted to dance with you at least you’d feel good.
You always found that the walk with Anne was the nicest part of the night, the two of would joke and laugh as you made you way down the street. Usually commenting on Matron’s newest rule or how the General on base always seemed to smile at her particularly brightly.
“I think she’s been going on dates with him, she seems particularly flustered lately by his affections”
“It’s strange to think of such a stern woman being flustered.” You pointed out as you neared the hall, the music leaking out into the street.
“She’s only that way because she wants our work to be the best, you know she’s not as stoic as she pretends to be!” You knew that to be true, on more than one occasion you’d caught her smiling at a joke and quickly cover it up. Matron was a lady who wanted to be the best at her job, wanted you to all be the best nurses, but underneath that harsh exterior you all knew that she was soft as any of you.
You both enter the hall and it was already filled with bodies, women in pretty dresses, men in suites and a good few in uniform. Some are dancing already to the band that’s playing and some are sat at a table.
Albert is already at the table he always saved for your little group. Slightly off to the side, giving enough distance from the dance floor for those who want a break without being crowded. As Anne had already said he was sat next to a man in the blue uniform of the RAF. Brown hair, brown eyes, a rather bored expression on his face. He wasn’t unattractive, but he wasn’t spectacularly handsome either.
“Hello, sweetheart”
“Hello, Albert”
You speak at the same time, you smile at Albert and Anne is already clambering into the seat nearest him. You liked Albert, he was kind to you, a sort of brotherly figure. He always tried to make you comfortable and always felt bad for any failed ‘dates’. It was always someone he knew and every time it didn’t work out you knew he felt rather bad for it, like it was his fault. Which was absolute rubbish because he had no say in whether someone was interested in you or not.
“Hello, darling; Y/N, you look lovely tonight, Charles, doesn’t she look lovely tonight?” You can see Albert trying so hard to make this one work, but Charles looks over at you with a lack of interest and forces a smile.
“Yes. Lovely.” You force your own smile and take a seat. Charles isn’t someone you’d necessarily go out of your way to impress, even more so when he seems completely disinterested and isn’t even being particularly nice to Albert.
“So…you’re in the Royal Air Force?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a nurse.” You’re trying, really hard to make this work because for once you’d like just one dance, even if it was a friendly dance. But you can already see his eyes are more focused on the other girls around the room.
“How have you been, Y/N?” Albert tries to strike up a conversation with you and you’re thankful because this is incredibly uncomfortable for you. Albert is a handsome man, bright red hair, that Anne always says reminds her of bonfires on the 5th of November (rather cliché, but sweet), and bright happy eyes. The lines on his face aren’t from age but from smiling and laughing so much. He’s so incredibly lovely to Anne that you enjoy his company yourself. He’s a brotherly figure and you’re ever so glad to know him, he’s rather helpful when you’re having issues.
“Wonderful, we haven’t had too many troublesome men come in for attention yet, not too much screaming or complaining lately and Matron’s been downright sweet!”
“Since she went on that date with the General!” Anne chimed in and you could still see her excitement over the relationship she believed Matron was getting herself into. She grabbed Albert’s hand in her excitement. Charles seemed utterly bored with the conversation, but you found you didn’t care for the man at all. Let him be miserable if he wanted to be.
“Since we think she went on that date. We don’t know, Anne.”
“Well, at least she’s finally lightened up, eh?”
“Too right! She didn’t even criticise my corners before we left!” She had simply praised you and thanked you for making the beds, it had been a rather surreal experience.
The three of you fall into comfortable conversation, Charles simply staring at other women around the room. He’s a rather dull fellow and his apparent negativity is rather irritating, after all if he didn’t want to stay around you lot he could simply leave.
“Davis? That you?” You hear a distinct Scottish brogue over the clamour of the music calling Albert’s surname and turn with the others to look at who had called out.
The man in question is tall and dressed in the familiar blue of the Royal Air Force much like Charles, but he wears it much better. It seems to fit his frame better, rather than hanging loosely like Charles’. He is handsome, that is obvious from the first glance at his face, neat blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a cheeky smile. It has your heart beating just a tad faster than before.
“Oi, Collins! Good to see you!” Albert stands from the table to pull ‘Collins’ into a brief hug, they seem incredibly familiar, more familiar with each other than Charles and Albert. You wonder if Albert is even friends with Charles or if they simply ran into each other a few times.
“Look at you lucky bugger, two pretty girls?” You find yourself a little flustered at the compliment to both you and Anne, not least because his gaze seems to linger on you just a tad longer than normal.
“This is my girlfriend, Anne, and her friend, Y/N,” You wave at Collins as you’re introduced, smiling sweetly. You think that he’s at the least the most talkative and entertaining of Albert’s friends.
“Jack Collins, and who’s this? I haven’t seen you around base, mate?” He turns his attention to Charles who as he has been for the past half hour is bored looking and doesn’t seem particularly interested in the new comer.
“Charles Newman, I’m one of the engineers.” Even the shake he gives Collins appears half-hearted. You wonder why he’s so...so dull and well, rather rude, but you suppose that perhaps it’s none of your business.
“Ah, aye, that would explain it.”
“What do you do, Jack?” He’s obviously not one of the engineers if he doesn’t know Charles and they work and live on the same base. You also find you like listening to him speak and want to keep him talking.
“I’m fighter pilot, Spitfires.”
“That’s awfully dangerous.” You all know that the life expectancy for pilots is rather bad compared to some, the air is a dangerous place to be in this war and you worry a little.
“A little, but, someone’s got to do it, and i’m not half bad if I do say so myself.” You can see a look in his eyes that tells you he’s seen just how dangerous it can be. You wonder what it’s been like for him, this war, his job.
“I don’t doubt that you’re an excellent pilot.” You can see Anne and Albert quietly leaving the table out of the corner of your eye, no doubt to finally go dance together. You find you don’t mind being left with Jack, although you’d rather have Charles leave as well.
“So what do you do, Y/N?” He takes a seat across from you, with a charming smile and find yourself wanting to sigh like some lovesick little girl.
“I’m a nurse, so is Anne.”
“Ah, so you’ll be tending my wounds if I fall from the sky then?”
“Well, I’d hope you’d stay in the air, but yes. If you needed a little bedside manner then i’d be there, or someone else I know.” You can’t guarantee after all that you would be his nurse. Although, it would be a reason to speak to him again. Although you’d prefer him to stay flying high, rather than plummeting to the earth.
“I’ll make you a promise, for a dance, I’ll do me best to stay aloft and out of your medical building.” You haven’t been asked to dance in a long while and you don’t for a second think he’s doing it to be kind. For once you’re rather sure that he’s genuinely interested in you and you find yourself smiling broadly at him.
“A dance? I think I can manage that price.” You let him help you from your seat and leave Charles behind at the table on his own. You can’t find it in you to feel sorry for him, not when he’s been so dour.
You’re led to the dance floor just as I’ll Be Seeing You begins to be sung. You wrap your arms around Jack’s neck and fluster a little as his arms wrap around your waist, to sway along with you. He’s so incredibly handsome, but even more so up close. His eyes seem to sparkle, crinkling at the corners with his smile.
“Was Newman your date?”
“Albert brought him along...he does every other Friday, not Charles, but a ‘friend’ of his.” Always a ‘friend’, always someone for you to dance with and usually someone who doesn’t particularly want to dance with you. He’s rather bad at this. Especially if he could have introduced you to Jack all along.
“Never worked out before?” You watch his brow furrow and find you much prefer it when he’s smiling.
“They’re never particularly interested...there’s usually someone else who’s caught their eye.” Your words are heavy and loaded, because you know why they’re never particularly interested and it’s been a rather horrible low blow every other week.
“Why?” He gives you a curious look, like he doesn’t quite believe that every man you’ve been introduced to before him hasn’t been interested.
“I suppose...I...”
“I won’t judge...why do you think they’ve not been interested?” You believe him, believe that he won’t judge you, that he’s simply confused and a little curious. Besides he’d already shown he was interested unlike the others. That earned him at least an answer.
“Well, I’m no Betty Grable...I’m not thin or tall or...I’m just not the prettiest girl in the room to them. That doesn’t mean I don’t think I’m pretty, but...I don’t think that they think I am.” It’s hard to explain how it feels so disjointed the way you see yourself sometimes verses how other people seem to see you or at least how men seem to see you.
“You don’t need to be Betty Grable...you don’t need to be tall or thin or...” His grip tightens around your wide waist and he looks down for a moment, before looking up again, a rather out of place redness to his cheeks considering his previous confidence. “I think you’re beautiful and...And when I walked over and I saw you I was...I was blown away and I wouldn’t want you to change anything about yourself. You’re lovely. I’m sure you’d look lovely wearing in a potato sack.”
You’ve never been told that before. Not by anyone but Anne, Albert and your family. You’re not sure it’s the same thing. To be told you’re wonderful as you are, that he thinks you’re beautiful. It makes your chest ache in a good way, and your mouth curl upwards without even thinking about it. You find you like Jack even more than you first thought.
“You’re not so bad yourself...i’m sure you’d look spiffy in a potato sack, Jack.” You both laugh at the little rhyme and you let him pull you closer, leaning your cheek against his shoulder.
He is kind. He is funny. He is handsome. He is warm. But, most importantly he makes you smile, makes your heart lift in your chest, makes your stomach buzz with the good sort of nerves that you haven’t felt since you were in school. He makes you want to smile until your cheeks hurt.
“You really are bonnie, you know.” He whispers it in your ear and a shiver runs down your spine. Your curl closer to him without stopping your swaying.
“Thank you...for being so lovely.”
“Thank you for letting me dance with you.”
The two of you dance for most of the night, stopping now and then to get a glass of water and take a seat to let your feet rest. He is so incredibly funny that you’re sure you’ve annoyed a few people with your loud laughs, but you can’t seem to care. Not when you’re around him.
“Do...could I walk you back?” The band is winding down and the hall has thinned of people and it really is time that you got back before Matron took a chunk out of you.
“I’d like that.” You grab your coat from where you’d left it and wave goodbye to Albert and Anne who appear to want to stay a little longer.
Jack holds his arm out to you and you happily wrap your arm through his. It’s not a long walk back to the base that you live and work on, its Army and you know the guys on duty at the front will probably make some comment about Jack being in the ‘junior service’. After all the RAF was only just over 20 years old compared to the much longer run of the Royal Navy and the British Army.
“It’s been a really nice night, Jack. Thank you for dancing with me.” You hadn’t had such a nice Friday night in a long while, and his appearance practically saved you from dealing with Charles all night. It was a relief to finally be around someone who genuinely wanted to be there.
“Thank you for giving me the light of day.”
The walk is nice and peaceful and you wonder if Jack will want to see you again after tonight. You certainly want to see him again. He makes you feel comfortable, happy, like you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not.
“Nurse Y/L/N” You’re greeted by the two at the front gate, most of the men know who you are by now, most of them have come in for at least something little. Whether a splinter or a stomach bug.
“Boys.”
“Looks like you found yourself a member of the junior service, eh?”
“Boys.” The stern tone to your voice tells them to back off somewhat, even though you’re sure Collins finds it amusing rather than insulting. As is the nature of the military. You turn to him, removing your grip on your arm.
“Well, I suppose this is goodnight.”
“I suppose it is.” The two of you stare at each other for a few moments, before he speaks again. “Would you like to go out sometime? Maybe next week? I can come wait for you out here...?”
“I’d like that, maybe Friday again? 7 o’clock?”
“It’s a date.” You smile at him, trying to ignore the two men watching your exchange, before reaching up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight, love.”
You force yourself to turn and walk through the entryway to the base, you try your hardest not to look back, but you do anyway only to see him standing there smiling at you. You return the smile.
You’re rather glad you agreed to go to the dance hall that night.
