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 readingâ€ïž.
Part 1 X
âWhatâs wrong?â
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.Â
âLeave me alone, Jack.â It doesnât have the impact you want, not when youâre sniffling and struggling to breathe without gaps in your breathing.Â
You donât want to talk. You donât want to see him or rather have him see you. Itâs hard..when people say things and hurt you. When they point out all your âflawsâ, it is so dreadfully hard to be around him. Because thatâs the problem. People say horrible things to you because of him...because theyâre interested in him or because they know him and they feel itâs their right to say something because look at you. How could the Jack Collins fall in love with a fat girl?Â
âNow, why would I do thaâ, love?âÂ
âPlease leave...I donât...â
âWhat did they say?â
Youâre 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 youâre angry and sad and so many feelings twist inside you, itâs hard to hide the truth when you feel so much.
âWhat 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? Theyâve all decided iâm not good enough for you. That iâm not important. That Iâm someone to be tossed to the side because I donât look like all the other girls, with their perfect hair, and small waists, and long legs. Iâm tired of it...Iâm so tired of it.â Â
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 wasnât his fault, but you just couldnât right now.Â
âWhat did ye say ta me when I felt at me worst? That iâm important. Yer important too. I donât give a ratâs arse what they say and neither should ye.â
âWell, I do! They look at us together and they think itâs a joke...theyâre waiting for you to leave me...to bugger off and find someone smaller and prettier and more feminine. Less homely.â
âI bloody love ye. I donât care that yer bigger than the other girls, yer beautiful, yer my girl.â He cups your soft cheek in his hand, pressing his forehead to yours. âI think yer beautiful like this, I love yer body, I love ye...They can bugger off because I ainât going anywhere. I actually had the opposite plan in mind.âÂ
He reaches between you, hand digging in his trouser pocket before he finds what heâs looking for. You canât see whatâs 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. âJack...â
âOpen it. Go on.â 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 doesnât put all your doubts to rest, but it does put one to bed. Jack does love you...he isnât 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 peopleâs comments and know that you will still worry about the eyes watching you...you also know that Jack will be there and heâll be there to help remind you of what he sees when he looks at you.Â
âI was going ta wait...I had a plan, but now seems a better time than ever.â He takes the box from your fingers, carefully, oh so carefully, before kneeling at your feet. âI love ye, probably since I first saw ye. I donât 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?âÂ
There are tears again, but theyâre 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.Â
âYes...yes!â 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 doesnât 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 didnât matter what people say; not your family, not your neighbours, or the local men. Jack Collins wanted to marry you, not someone else, you. Thatâs all that mattered and the rest? Who gives a ratâs arse?
Summary/Request: Based off Anne Sheltonâs âSilver Wings In The Moonlightâ: Jack finally comes home after the war is over.Â
Notes: No Gender Pronouns used, neutral partner terms, but marriage is mentioned just in case thatâs off putting.Â
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.Â
You would always share him with his love of flying, you knew heâd be torn between the two and you never asked him to stop flying, to finding a safer job in the war...because that wasnât fair and because ultimately you knew that heâd 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 heâd survive every single encounter and that youâd finally get to live in a world without war together.Â
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 heâd be home...because while you knew heâd stay in the RAF post-war, you also knew without the war on heâd have more time for you, more safety, and youâd actually get to fall asleep in his arms for once.Â
When you finally got the letter telling you he was coming home it was the biggest relief youâd ever felt. Knowing youâd see him again.Â
Dearest Y/N,
This is a short letter compared to our usual exchanges, but iâm writing to let you know that iâll be home soon. Theyâre stationing me back nearby now that the wars over. Giving me leave too, three whole weeks!Â
Iâve 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.Â
I always told you iâd make it back, even though I know youâve worried every day for the past six years. It seems so strange that after six years weâre finally done with this bloody war.Â
Forever yours,
JackÂ
It had been brief considering his usual letters spanned two or three pages, but youâd 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 youâd missed over the six years of war.Â
You hadnât 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. Youâd 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 heâd be working nearby, perhaps able to live at home and go to base each day.Â
Youâd 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, âIâm home!â Youâd been so excited you dropped the paper on the floor and rushed out of the living area, not stopping until youâd almost launched yourself at him for a long awaited hug.Â
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.Â
âIâve missed you.â 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 couldnât simply get a hug any time you wanted, a kiss on a cheek, a hand on the small of your back. The physicality just didnât translate the way words did.Â
His grip tightens on you and you can hear and feel him take deep breaths, contented ones, taking in everything that surrounded him. âIâve missed ye too, love...so much.âÂ
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 hadnât changed much, older, certainly older. You both were. Youâd first started dating when you were barely in your twenties. Now you were in the latter part of that decade of your life. Youâd spent so much time apart, writing letters, keeping your relationship going.Â
âI can barely believe youâre actually here...finally...six years.â 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.
âWell, ye better believe it. Iâm not goinâ anywhere anytime soon.â 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.Â
Youâre not really prepared for him to sink to one knee, mostly because youâre still finding it hard to believe that heâs finally back, that the war is over and heâs finally back. So its rather something else to find him sinking to one knee.Â
âI donât have a ring yet...I was going to wait till I found one, but weâve waited six years and I just want to marry ye finally. I spent six years without ye and youâre the best partner I could ever ask for. Youâve put up with me for six years, without me help around the house, with me shitty handwriting. Will ye marry me?âÂ
Its not something you really have to think about after so long, because youâve 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.
âOf course I will, Jackâ You pull him back to his feet and grip him in a tight embrace once again. You donât really need a ring or something fancy or a big speech, the fact that heâs here, that heâs alive, that he wants to marry you, that is enough.Â
âI love you.â 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 hasnât mellowed, hasnât dissipated. Its still as strong as ever.
Summary/Request: Inspired by I Wrung My Hands by Anna Akhmatova. You say something you shouldnât during an argument, you worry he wonât come back.
Notes: Gender neutral, no pronouns/gender suggested/used
âYou canât just come back and expect me to be all smiles and open arms! Do you know how scared I am whenever youâre not here? All anyone ever tells me is how dangerous it is for you to be a fighter pilot!â Worry, day in, day out, the only time you donât worry is when heâs on leave, back at home. When you can be sure heâs not hurt, that heâs fine. You knew what you were getting into when you married Jack Collins, but that didnât make it any easier when you were worried and scared.
âYe knew thaâ this wouldnât be easy! What de ye want me ta do? Just leave?!âÂ
âMaybe!â You regret it the moment you say it. You donât want him to leave. Thatâs a lie, something that you shouldnât have said in anger and worry. Yes, it was horrible to know he could die, but youâd rather have him and know that, than not.Â
Jackâs 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 donât care that itâs pouring it down outside or that youâre 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.
âJack! Please donât leave! Iâm sorry, I never...Iâd rather have you here once in a blue moon than not at all! Please...â You canât bear the thought of him just being gone, not after years of him, after loving him for so long. You canât bear the thought of one stupid, hastily said word being the reason that you donât see him again.
âWhy donât ye get out of the rain? Go back inside, love.â
âJack...â You watch as he stops after opening the gate, turning to look at you with a sad smile. He still looks like heâs more concerned for you than anything else, but you can see the hurt in his eyes at what you said.Â
âIâll be back in the morning...I need ta cool off. Iâll be back, I promise.â
You donât fight him on his leaving anymore because you know heâs going to leave whether you want him to or not. You just have to trust that in the morning heâll be back and you can truly apologise for saying something you never should have said. It didnât matter that youâd been scared for him, worried, you never should have said that and you just hope itâll only be a night that heâs 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 donât know where he is, when you know youâve hurt him. The guilt gnaws at you for many hours before you manage to fall asleep.Â
Youâre 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. Jackâs sat next to you on the bed, he looks like he hasnât 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.
âJack...I never should have said that. I was angry and scared and that doesnât excuse what I said...but iâm sorry. I love you. Iâd 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 youâre right. I knew this wasnât going to be easy when we got married. I knew and I decided to marry you anyway, because I love you. Iâm sorry for letting my worry get the best me.â You press your forehead into his shoulder, you want him to forgive you. You want him to say its okay because youâre sure the only thing worse than him not being at home because of war would be not being at home because he decided heâd had enough of your marriage.
âI know...I know youâre sorry...and I should have realised that ye were scared. Iâm sorry. I escalated things, rather than talking abouâ how scared ye were...we both messed up somewhat.â
âDoes that mean youâre staying?â You pull back to properly look at him, heâs looks less troubled now, the same way you feel less troubled. The relief at knowing he forgives you, that he doesnât hate you is immense.Â
âDo ye really think I could ever walk away from ye? I love ye with all my heart and one fight ainât gonna change thaâ.â You reach up and press your lips to his, sighing slightly at the familiar feeling. Itâs 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 youâre both okay. Youâre both here.Â
Summary/Request: I was listening to Hurts like Hell by Fleurie and...angst happened: Basically readers experience of grief.
Notes: As usual when thereâs not specifics in the pairing section: this is a gender neutral reader.
He died bravely. Weâre sorry. Our condolences. Alex. Phrases in a little letter sent through your door, supposed to console you, supposed to inform you of his death. But it didnât console. It didnât make any of this any easier.Â
Youâd loved him with all your heart, youâd felt it deep in your chest every day you woke up. The ache that missed him, the ache of affection, the ache of him. Now the ache was for him, for it to be a mistake, for them to write another letter letting you know that they had made a grave error, that he was really still alive. What made it worse was that the war had just ended in Europe. That had he stayed alive a few more weeks...heâd be on his way home to you. 6 years of war and heâd nearly made it home for good. But nearly wasnât good enough.Â
It felt like there was a hole in your chest where he used to be, a hole thatâs begging to have him back, begging for him to fill it again. You couldnât even repatriate his body. They wouldnât allow it because no one was allowed, just like in the Great War. He was going to stay in France and you werenât going to be able to mourn him properly. You werenât going to be able to regularly visit his grave, place sunflowers on his grave, talk to him, let him know that you miss him, that you loved him. That he was the key to your lock. The handle on your door. He was a vital part of you.Â
It hurt so much. Hurt so much that you had to force yourself to eat, to get out of bed, to wash, to clean your clothes, to go to your work. You finally understood what so many people had said about the pain, about the grief. Youâd never really understood how crippling it could be before Alex, before that letter. Your mother knew it rather well having lost her only brother in the Great War. Having never been able to get his body home. Having to travel simply to say goodbye.Â
âAre you going to be okay on your own, darling?â You look up at her now from your seat, cold tea in front of you. You know she understands, that its empathy not pity that you see. She knows exactly what its like to lose someone that you love, that is a staple of your life.Â
âNo...no.â The tears fall, like they always fall. Ugly, heavy, gasping. Whoever said crying was beautiful was wrong. Crying out for the one person youâll never get back, crying with everything in you, that was ugly, it was gritty, it was dirty. It was pure hurt, pure pain.Â
She wraps her arms around you like she used to do when you were child and you fall into them, sobbing against her dress. You know that she understands, you know that this is a position she has been in before...but you donât know how youâll move past this. How do you live a life without the one person you were supposed to build that life with? The one person you wanted to build your life with?
âI just want him back...I just want him back. Itâs not fair! It...â
Summary/Request: You greet Alex at the train station after Dunkirk and bring him home. For however long the war allows.Â
âYou have no idea how terrified I was...â You mumble it into his jacket because even though he smells like dirt and oil and sea water, heâs here. Thatâs what matters. Youâd been absolutely petrified, everyone knew what was happening in Dunkirk, everyone knew that it was a bloody terrible situation. But no one knew who was alive, who was dead, who would return to England and who wouldnât. Whether or not the war was going be over, if you were going to surrender.
When Alex joined the Army you knew it was going to be hard. He was going off to war and you werenât naive nor ignorant of the fact that youâd spend most of it scared for him. But you never imagined how horrible it could be knowing he was in direct danger, but not knowing how he was.
ââm sorry...I...â
âYou donât have to talk about it...â You canât imagine what heâs been through in the last 48 hours. He looks so haggard that you know it wasnât an easy ride out of Dunkirk that whatever happened there was terrifying, terrible, and something that no one should ever experience. But that was war.
He presses his lips to your temple and just sighs, âThanks, loveâ You know heâll have to go back soon, that heâll get orders to go to a base and then be sent back out to France. But until then youâre going to take him home, get him a nice bath, and as good a meal as possible with the rationing on.
âLets go homeâ You pull away and grab his hand, pulling him from the station platform and down the road. Homeâs been so far away for him for so long. He hasnât had leave since the war began and its been so long since heâs seen it. He forgot how home could feel.
The walk is a relatively short one, the streets are busy however, men in uniform can be seen at every turn and everyone seems to be out on the streets to greet them. He hasnât seen this much joy in quite a while and its jarring considering the past 48 hours have been filled with anger, frustration, fear, death...
The house looks the same as when he left. The red front doorâs pain peeling slightly, the number 89 crooked. The brick and mortar the same, the plants still trying to take over the house. A deep breath leaves him, his shoulders fall, relax, and heâs reminded that heâs safe now, heâs home. Even if its for a little while and heâs going to make the most of however little that while is.
You pull him into the house and close the door behind you, giving him a few moments to take in the familiar surroundings, the hallway, the stair case, the kitchen, the living room, the settee that he found on the side of the road and decided would do until you had a little more money. You had both worked incredibly hard for this house, for everything in it, and youâd planned on making it a proper home right when the war started. You should have seen it coming, known that that flimsy peace treaty Chamberlain procured would do little in the end. But optimism was a funny thing, as was hindsight.
âIt looks the same.â
âI tried not to change anything...it reminded me of you and I...I thought youâd want it to be the same when you came home.â Every day you thought of Alex, thought of the past, but also thought of the present. How was he? How was he feeling? Was he okay? Was he fed well? Was he warm? Did he miss you the way you missed him?
âWhat if I hadnât? Come home, I mean.â He turned to you, brow furrowed in obvious pain at the thought, at how close heâd come to not coming home. Your own face drops at the thought.
âThen it wouldnât have changed it. Ever.â You mean it, every little thing reminds you of him, of your relationship. From the ratty settee he found, to the pictures on the walls to the ugly vase his mother had brought the two of you as a house warming gift. If he was no longer around, if you no longer had him, then at least you would have the little memories attached to the items in your home.
He knows he has to come back then. Not just because he wants to, but because he canât hurt you like that. He doesnât ever want to cause you to feel that sort of pain. He knows its stupid to think that heâll definitely survive this war, but at the very least heâll try his damned best.
âWhy don't you go have a bath? Get some clean clothes on, iâll start on dinner. Think you could do with a good meal, love.â
ââm famished.â He is, heâs gone at least a day without eating anything and his stomach long since stopped complaining, knowing it was getting nowhere. But real, honest to god, home cooked food? That was something he desperately wanted. A bath sounded good. Clean clothes sounded good. The small comforts of life just sounded good.
âGo on.â You press a quick kiss to his lips, like you always did, like the habit hadnât been broken at all by the war. Urging him to go upstairs before turning to the kitchen.
Even if you had a day youâd make the most of that day with him. A day where it was him and not his letters that greeted you. Just having him here for a day was enough to keep you going.
Summary/Request: You had rather bad luck with dates and dance halls, but this time turns out rather better than you expected.Â
Notes: Because iâm 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. Weâre not all small, lithe, petite and we should still get to enjoy reader inserts and a fandom if weâre not. Consider this a protest over the exclusionary writing in reader inserts, at least state at the start if youâre describing the reader a certain way. It can be rather off putting to be enjoying something and then suddenly feel excluded.Â
Using Jack as Collinsâ first name because it seems to be the fandoms choice since we donât actually have his first name.
I havenât 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 Dadâs ex RN and its a long running joke between the Army and the Navy that the RAF are the junior service.
Youâre not Hollywood Starlet, no Greta Garbo or Joan Bennett. Youâre 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 didnât lie flat, large thighs, arms, soft round cheeks. You accepted that fact, it wasnât 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 didnât need to be leggy or thin to be in the nursing corps. You just needed to be good at your job and you were.Â
You didnât 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 didnât need that. You were okay without it. You had a job to do and a war was on. But just because you didnât need something, didnât mean you didnât 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.Â
You meet a lot of men in your line of work, some that make unnecessary, nasty comments because theyâre 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 youâre 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 donât understand. They ask why you havenât a sweetheart yet and how do you explain that men just donât seem to want to view you that way, that despite your outward confidence thereâs a scared little girl inside of you. Who worries youâre too ugly, too fat, too this, too that. That youâll always be alone while everyone else around you pairs off. You know deep down those are the insecurities of a little girl, that theyâre irrational, that at some point youâll meet the right person. But it seems like everyone else has so many right people and you donât have single one. That for some thereâs a new right person every week and for you thereâs never a single one. Itâs 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.Â
You donât except that to suddenly change.Â
âYouâre coming to the dance hall tonight, right?â You look up from where youâre 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.Â
âAnne...You know I always end up sitting there alone!â You donât 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 itâs never some romantic or happy occasion for you, itâs rather boring when youâre just sat there watching everyone else have fun. The few times sheâd found a friend of Albertâs to come with, theyâve always gone off to dance with another girl. Youâve had some rather poor luck with it.Â
âNot this time. Albert has a friend heâs bringing along. Heâs in the RAF.â She says it like itâs supposed to impress you and it probably would if firstly you didnât spend your day around men in uniform and secondly if you thought he might actually like you. Which you didnât. Because they never had before. It was useless getting your hopes up.Â
âWhoâs to say heâll even want to dance with me Anne...Iâm no Betty Grable.â
âYou donât have to be! How many bloody times have we told you that just because youâre a bit plumper than the rest of us doesnât mean youâre not pretty or that people wonât want to dance with you?â She was always so adamant that you were pretty, beautiful even, that youâd find someone you just needed a little time. Part of you believed her because surely she wouldnât lie to you and because you knew that really being bigger than other girls didnât 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.
âAnne...â
âLook, I know youâve had some rotten luck. But trust me on this one.â She looked so sure that this would work out. That this time youâd have a good time. That this one would like you. Would dance with you, that you couldnât exactly find it within yourself to say no. At least youâd get to dress up, listen to some nice music. There was always a bright side if this went poorly.Â
âFine.â You cut off her excited clapping, âBut only because you seem so sure and I trust you. But...that doesnât mean I believe this is actually going to be better than the last timeâ You look at her pointedly, the last time had been one of the worst; he hadnât even said hello to you before heâd gone off to find another girl to dance with. Poor Albert had been dreadfully embarrassed.Â
âIâm sure it will be better than...that time. He wasnât worth your time anyway! So rude!â 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?Â
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 werenât your type and you didnât want to dance with them either, everyone had their preferences. It just seemed like you werenât really anyone's.Â
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 youâd 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, youâd look nice for yourself. If no one wanted to dance with you at least youâd feel good.Â
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 Matronâs newest rule or how the General on base always seemed to smile at her particularly brightly.Â
âI think sheâs been going on dates with him, she seems particularly flustered lately by his affectionsâ
âItâs strange to think of such a stern woman being flustered.â You pointed out as you neared the hall, the music leaking out into the street.Â
âSheâs only that way because she wants our work to be the best, you know sheâs not as stoic as she pretends to be!â You knew that to be true, on more than one occasion youâd 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.Â
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 thatâs playing and some are sat at a table.Â
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 wasnât unattractive, but he wasnât spectacularly handsome either.Â
âHello, sweetheartâ
âHello, AlbertâÂ
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 âdatesâ. It was always someone he knew and every time it didnât 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.
âHello, darling; Y/N, you look lovely tonight, Charles, doesnât she look lovely tonight?â 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.Â
âYes. Lovely.â You force your own smile and take a seat. Charles isnât someone youâd necessarily go out of your way to impress, even more so when he seems completely disinterested and isnât even being particularly nice to Albert.Â
âSoâŠyouâre in the Royal Air Force?âÂ
âYes.â
âIâm a nurse.â Youâre trying, really hard to make this work because for once youâd 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.Â
âWonderful, we havenât had too many troublesome men come in for attention yet, not too much screaming or complaining lately and Matronâs been downright sweet!âÂ
âSince she went on that date with the General!â Anne chimed in and you could still see her excitement over the relationship she believed Matron was getting herself into. She grabbed Albertâs hand in her excitement. Charles seemed utterly bored with the conversation, but you found you didnât care for the man at all. Let him be miserable if he wanted to be.Â
âSince we think she went on that date. We donât know, Anne.âÂ
âWell, at least sheâs finally lightened up, eh?âÂ
âToo right! She didnât even criticise my corners before we left!â She had simply praised you and thanked you for making the beds, it had been a rather surreal experience.Â
The three of you fall into comfortable conversation, Charles simply staring at other women around the room. Heâs a rather dull fellow and his apparent negativity is rather irritating, after all if he didnât want to stay around you lot he could simply leave.
âDavis? That you?â You hear a distinct Scottish brogue over the clamour of the music calling Albertâs surname and turn with the others to look at who had called out.Â
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 Charlesâ. 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.Â
âOi, Collins! Good to see you!â Albert stands from the table to pull âCollinsâ 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.Â
âLook at you lucky bugger, two pretty girls?â 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.Â
âThis is my girlfriend, Anne, and her friend, Y/N,â You wave at Collins as youâre introduced, smiling sweetly. You think that heâs at the least the most talkative and entertaining of Albertâs friends.Â
âJack Collins, and whoâs this? I havenât seen you around base, mate?â He turns his attention to Charles who as he has been for the past half hour is bored looking and doesnât seem particularly interested in the new comer.Â
âCharles Newman, Iâm one of the engineers.â Even the shake he gives Collins appears half-hearted. You wonder why heâs so...so dull and well, rather rude, but you suppose that perhaps itâs none of your business.
âAh, aye, that would explain it.âÂ
âWhat do you do, Jack?â Heâs obviously not one of the engineers if he doesnât 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.Â
âIâm fighter pilot, Spitfires.âÂ
âThatâs awfully dangerous.â 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.Â
âA little, but, someoneâs got to do it, and iâm not half bad if I do say so myself.â You can see a look in his eyes that tells you heâs seen just how dangerous it can be. You wonder what itâs been like for him, this war, his job.
âI donât doubt that youâre an excellent pilot.â 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 donât mind being left with Jack, although youâd rather have Charles leave as well.Â
âSo what do you do, Y/N?â He takes a seat across from you, with a charming smile and find yourself wanting to sigh like some lovesick little girl.Â
âIâm a nurse, so is Anne.â
âAh, so youâll be tending my wounds if I fall from the sky then?â
âWell, Iâd hope youâd stay in the air, but yes. If you needed a little bedside manner then iâd be there, or someone else I know.â You canât guarantee after all that you would be his nurse. Although, it would be a reason to speak to him again. Although youâd prefer him to stay flying high, rather than plummeting to the earth. Â
âIâll make you a promise, for a dance, Iâll do me best to stay aloft and out of your medical building.â You havenât been asked to dance in a long while and you donât for a second think heâs doing it to be kind. For once youâre rather sure that heâs genuinely interested in you and you find yourself smiling broadly at him.
âA dance? I think I can manage that price.â You let him help you from your seat and leave Charles behind at the table on his own. You canât find it in you to feel sorry for him, not when heâs been so dour.Â
Youâre led to the dance floor just as Iâll Be Seeing You begins to be sung. You wrap your arms around Jackâs neck and fluster a little as his arms wrap around your waist, to sway along with you. Heâs so incredibly handsome, but even more so up close. His eyes seem to sparkle, crinkling at the corners with his smile.Â
âWas Newman your date?â
âAlbert brought him along...he does every other Friday, not Charles, but a âfriendâ of his.â Always a âfriendâ, always someone for you to dance with and usually someone who doesnât particularly want to dance with you. Heâs rather bad at this. Especially if he could have introduced you to Jack all along.Â
âNever worked out before?â You watch his brow furrow and find you much prefer it when heâs smiling.Â
âTheyâre never particularly interested...thereâs usually someone else whoâs caught their eye.â Your words are heavy and loaded, because you know why theyâre never particularly interested and itâs been a rather horrible low blow every other week.Â
âWhy?â He gives you a curious look, like he doesnât quite believe that every man youâve been introduced to before him hasnât been interested.Â
âI suppose...I...â
âI wonât judge...why do you think theyâve not been interested?â You believe him, believe that he wonât judge you, that heâs simply confused and a little curious. Besides heâd already shown he was interested unlike the others. That earned him at least an answer.Â
âWell, Iâm no Betty Grable...Iâm not thin or tall or...Iâm just not the prettiest girl in the room to them. That doesnât mean I donât think Iâm pretty, but...I donât think that they think I am.â Itâs 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.Â
âYou donât need to be Betty Grable...you donât need to be tall or thin or...â 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. âI think youâre beautiful and...And when I walked over and I saw you I was...I was blown away and I wouldnât want you to change anything about yourself. Youâre lovely. Iâm sure youâd look lovely wearing in a potato sack.âÂ
Youâve never been told that before. Not by anyone but Anne, Albert and your family. Youâre not sure itâs the same thing. To be told youâre wonderful as you are, that he thinks youâre 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.Â
âYouâre not so bad yourself...iâm sure youâd look spiffy in a potato sack, Jack.â You both laugh at the little rhyme and you let him pull you closer, leaning your cheek against his shoulder.Â
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 havenât felt since you were in school. He makes you want to smile until your cheeks hurt.Â
âYou really are bonnie, you know.â He whispers it in your ear and a shiver runs down your spine. Your curl closer to him without stopping your swaying.Â
âThank you...for being so lovely.â
âThank you for letting me dance with you.âÂ
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 youâre sure youâve annoyed a few people with your loud laughs, but you canât seem to care. Not when youâre around him.Â
âDo...could I walk you back?â 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.
âIâd like that.â You grab your coat from where youâd 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. Itâs 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 âjunior serviceâ. 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.Â
âItâs been a really nice night, Jack. Thank you for dancing with me.â You hadnât 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.
âThank you for giving me the light of day.âÂ
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 donât have to pretend to be something youâre not.
âNurse Y/L/Nâ Youâre 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.Â
âBoys.â
âLooks like you found yourself a member of the junior service, eh?â
âBoys.â The stern tone to your voice tells them to back off somewhat, even though youâre 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.Â
âWell, I suppose this is goodnight.â
âI suppose it is.â The two of you stare at each other for a few moments, before he speaks again. âWould you like to go out sometime? Maybe next week? I can come wait for you out here...?â
âIâd like that, maybe Friday again? 7 oâclock?â
âItâs a date.â You smile at him, trying to ignore the two men watching your exchange, before reaching up and pressing a kiss to his cheek. âGoodnight, Jack.â
âGoodnight, love.âÂ
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.Â
Youâre rather glad you agreed to go to the dance hall that night.Â
Summary/Request:Â Requested by anon:Â Could you write something about the reader, Tommy (from Dunkirk)'s girlfriend, writing him every day while he's off at war until one day, the letters stop coming and she fears the worst but he really has come to surprise her? Thank you so much!!
Notes: Title Quote from John Donne
Thanks to the Royal Engineers letters are rather quick to be sent and to be received, while not necessarily a next day delivery, it was certainly first class, and you found that if on a Monday you sent Tommy a letter, that on the Monday afterwards you received one back. It was so regular, so recurring that it brought you great comfort. Each letter was a reminder that he was still okay, that he could still pen a letter in his familiar messy scrawl. It was a reminder that he was still able to come home. Youâd known many people who wrote letters to loved ones in France or Belgium, only for the letters to stop being written in return. You knew what it often meant and you knew how terrifying it could be.Â
The last letter youâd received had been over a week ago.Â
Dearest Y/N,
I know, I know dearest sounds too formal coming from me. But you are my dearest, other than my mother of course (she would never let me live it down if she wasnât at least equal to you). Iâve missed you, I hope iâll be able to come back home soon, even if for a week, just to see you.Â
Itâs not easy being here, nor is it easy being away from you. Sometimes the only thing that gives me strength is knowing that your still waiting for me. Somehow. You have the patience of a saint, you know that? I love that about you; I love a lot of things about you, enough to fill pages and pages of this letter.Â
Its nice to know that Mrs Jones is still baking those little pastries despite the rationing on, nothing could probably get between that woman and her baking, not even the law.Â
Forever yours,
Tommy xxxÂ
It had been such a normal letter and thatâs perhaps what concerned you most about the slow response to your reply. He hadnât mentioned the war much and he never did, you doubted he wanted to describe what was going on around him to you. Heâd always been a very protective person and you doubt he wanted to risk upsetting you or causing you more worry. He had responded to your comment on Mrs Jones, that she was still making those sweet little pastries she always made despite sugar, butter, flour and well most things, being rationed. He had seemed so normal...or as normal as any letter could be and so you came to the worst conclusion.
That he was missing, that he was hurt, that maybe...maybe he was dead and they simply hadnât found the time to tell you yet. It kept you up each night that past after your usual letter delivery time. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday morning you found yourself barely able to get out of bed you were so exhausted from the little sleep you had had since it had all begun.Â
You werenât sure what youâd do if he was dead. He was one of the most important people in your life. He was everything. Even away in a war zone he managed to make you smile and laugh through his letters. He asked you about your week, gave you advice, confirmed your annoyance or anger with people, he allowed you to vent, allowed you to be yourself even though he was in a much worse situation that yourself. He sent you joked and flirted with you heavily, reminded you that he loved you. Eve away at war he managed to show so much care for you. You hoped the same translated in your letters to him.Â
If he was no more. If you had to live without him...it would be the hardest thing youâve ever had to do.Â
The worry sank in your stomach, gnawed at your insides, ached in your chest, but you still forced yourself to get up, get dressed and do the few chores which needed doing. Washing your laundry with carbolic soap, squeezing the water out, before heading out the small garden out the rear of the house to hang it on the line. The day was dry, not especially warm, but dry. If it had reflected the feeling in your chest it would be pouring with rain, thunder and lightening flashing and growling over head. But as it was it reflected a much brighter disposition.Â
You didnât hear the front door open, nor did you hear foot steps at the back door as you hung one of Tommyâs shirts, the one that you slept in when you missed him the most. You didnât know anyone was there until a pair of arms wrapped around your waist and a familiar voice whispered in your ear, âSurprise.â
You didnât turn just clung to the hands at your navel and felt tears of relief start to collect in your eyes as you held back a sob. Tommyâs voice. Tommy was here. You try to hold it in you really do, the little sob, the gasping sound that leaves your throat at the realisation that he was alive. That you had it all wrong, that heâd simply been travelling home surprise you.Â
âHey...hey...â His voice is soothing and soft as he turns you around to face him, his hands coming up to cup your face. Heâs still in his uniform, still as messy and dirty as when he left France, his hair needs a trim and he has dark circles under his eyes, but heâs Tommy. Heâs your Tommy and heâs genuinely in front of you. âWhatâs wrong?â
âI...you didnât...I thought youâd died! You didnât send a letter and its...I always get a letter on Monday...â You try to explain the sheer panic youâd felt all week without your usual Monday letter. The dread that you, like so many others, were going to be in grief.Â
âIâm so sorry, love...â He pulls you tight against him and you donât care that he smells, that he hasnât washed in days, because heâs so real and it reminds you that this isnât some hallucination or dream. âI wanted to surprise you with my leave...I didnât-I didnât think.â
Your hands ball into the back of his uniform jacket, scrunching the wool between your fingers as you allow yourself to calm down from the fear and the panic and relief. Taking deep breathes against his chest.Â
âIt was a lovely thought, Tommy...just donât do that again, please...at least send a letter for the Monday.â You canât explain what its like to have a reassuring routine broken. To receive a letter everyday for 3 years, only for one not to come.Â
âI promise, Iâll never do that ever again. I promise.â You pull back to look up at him, taking in the familiar freckles across his face, the mole by his chin, the seriousness in his eyes. You know he means it. Heâs always been protective of people he cares about and you know that it hurts him to realise that he scared you so much.Â
âIâm glad to see you again...even...even if it was a rather big shock.â You try to pull away from the fact that youâd been scared for the last 4 days because heâs back. Yes, you were scared, but heâs back and only temporarily before his leave is over again. You want to enjoy it.Â
âIâve missed you.â He presses his forehead against his and you close your eyes, taking in the familiar gesture. âIâve missed you too.â Before pressing forward to meet his lips with your own in a firm kiss. Its been so long since youâve last kissed him.
Itâs almost like coming home, even though you never left.Â
Summary/Request: Alex contemplates why heâs so willing to fight in this bloody war.Â
He knew a lot of men who carried pictures and trinkets from home in their pockets. Mementos, reminders of why they were in France, why they were fighting. Letters would reach them each week and heâd watch the men around him read them, watch the smiles, the tears, the obvious longing to go home and be with the people they cared most about.Â
He knew exactly what that felt like. Alex was a private man, but he still carried a photograph of you in his pocket, still wrote letters home when he could, still read your letters and showed his sadness, his longing at being away from you. But those letters, your photograph, they reminded him why heâd signed up in 1939, why heâd joined the Army, why he was fighting in this war. Because of you. Because Hitler, Germany, presented a danger to Britain, and to you. Because you wrote to him about the Black outs, about the bombs being dropped, the air raid shelters. He wanted you to be safe and if to do that he had to sacrifice himself, his soul, his body, he would.Â
He knew that every man on that beach felt exactly the same. That they had something, someone, they were willing to die for. They werenât the same breed of man as their fathers 20 years previous, they werenât fighting for honour and duty, they were fighting for individuals, for liberties, for the belief the peace for their loved oneâs was worth the risk, the fight.Â
Even now, stuck on this beach for a second time, after nearly drowning in that goddamn ship, after being dragged back to shore by a row boat, he fully believes that its worth the fight. To keep you safe. To make sure you have the best shot of living a peaceful life. While heâd give anything to be beside you, to watch you hum as you make breakfast and sing in the shower, he knows that you canât do those things if Hitler decides to take over the world like the insane bastard that he is. This is about ensuring you get to do those things...even if he doesnât survive long enough to be there when you do.
So when he gets off that damn beach, heâs giving up on the war. Not going AWOL, not hoping he can get out of it. Because it is a bloody shitty situation, but its worth it. Heâs sure itâll be worth it to know that youâll be safe even if heâs not. Even if heâs stuck surrounded by dying men and gun fire, itâll be worth it as long as youâre not.Â