Summary: after entering L'école des Beaux-Arts, Winnie and Ronnie get invited to a peculiar party at Le Monocle, which opens their eyes about the Parisian lifestyle, modern times, and a part of themselves they didn't know existed.
Dolls: Winifred Hawthorne & Veronica Valero
Warnings: alcohol and that's it omg
A/N: another piece to prepare y'all for the hell that's gonna be unleashed on these poor girls during wartime. More sapphic content + a look at the lesbian culture in Paris through the eyes of two 18 year old repressed girls. SPECIAL THANKS TO @annasansh THANK YOU FOR BEING MY FRENCH CONSULTANT<3
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Mid December, 1937
It wasn't the first time Winnie and Ronnie got invited to Le Monocle. Their fellow colleagues at L'école des Beaux-Arts in Paris—the handful of women who had landed a chance to study there—, had snuck an invitation at Winifred at least thrice in the few months of their first year.
Veronica had gotten one, too; midway through their painting class, from a girl she thought was pretty. She had disregarded immediately.
Ronnie knew about Le Monocle; she'd been living in Paris with her father's sister for over a year already. She'd walked Montmartre's streets, and she'd seen the women at the cafés sitting together. Her aunt talked about it occasionally—said everything but good things, but for better or for worse, Ronnie rarely listened to anybody.
She listened to Winnie, though. Maybe it was because the shorthaired girl was the voice of reason Veronica very much needed in her life.
The Spaniard hadn't expected to make any friends when she applied for the scholarship. French girls were too different from what Ronnie was accustomed to, and she didn't expect to find anything different in a place like L'école, but she was lucky enough to cross paths with an anxious short Brit who seemed as our of place as her.
There were two main reasons why Winnie and Ronnie had collectively declined the invitations until now. First, Winnie's knowledge of the french language was close to non-existent when the course started—Ronnie having to almost fully translate for her during the first month. Second, Veronica had the tough luck to be born in mid December, which meant that, until that week, she'd been under her aunt's tutelage.
God knows what her aunt would do if she found out Ronnie had been out and about anywhere near Montmartre.
Now that both girls were of age and Winnie's french was decent, they'd decided to give it a shot together.
"If you do it, I will do it." Ronnie had whispered to the British girl between classes.
"Oi," Winnie whispered back, a bit flustered. "why're you puttin' it on me, then?"
"Because I don't want to go alone?"
And so that night they both headed to Le Monocle.
Missing the dress code entirely—the two girls realized the moment they stepped inside. Short-haired women in tuxedos, waistcoats and slacks, some smoking with swagger that looked lifted straight from film reels. A handful of women in dresses and lipstick dotted the room, but it was clear they were the exception.
The two immediately overwhelmed eighteen-year-olds froze in the doorway. Winnie's wide eyes darted around behind her wire-rimmed glasses, her mouth slightly open.
"Bloody hell." she muttered under her breath. God, was she far from Birmingham.
Ronnie tried to shove the whiplash down into her stomach and pull on a mask of nonchalance—as if this was normal for her. Yet, she reached out and caught Winnie's hand as they started down the stairs into the bar.
Winnie leaned in, whispering urgently, "Jesus—is that Colette? From Professeur Vannier's class?" She stretched her neck awkwardly to get a better look at a woman in a sharply tailored tuxedo and slicked-back hair.
"Don't look at her, Winnie! ¡Dios!" Veronica hissed, slapping her friend's fur-covered arm. "Let's just—keep walking."
Before they could reach the bar counter, a woman dressed in a tuxedo stepped smoothly into their path, wedging herself between them and the bar counter. She had the confidence of someone who knew she was beautiful—all angular lines and tailored confidence. Her gaze settled lazily on Winnie, and a smirk played at her lips.
"Quelle charmante demoiselle… J'crois pas t'avoir déjà vue ici, toi."
Winnie blinked. "Pardon?"
The woman chuckled softly and leaned back a little, tilting her head. "J'vais vous laisser tranquille, Ta copine et toi. Installez-vous, prenez l’ambiance… Viens me trouver quand tu veux, beauté."
She winked before melting back into the crowd.
Winnie followed the woman with her startled gaze before turning back to Ronnie, who was doing the exact same thing.
"Wha'd she say?"
"Dios mío… she think you are a…" She leaned closer, almost whispering into Winnie's ear. "…a lesbian."
Winifred felt the blood rush up to her cheeks. "Goodness—"
Veronica straightened up, piercing eyes scanning the room. "This place is full of lesbians."
Winnie turned her back to the counter, opposing Veronica's motion, and replied with, "Well what'd you expect, babs? You said—"
"I did not think there would be this many. Joder, you think Marie thinks we are lesbians? And that is why she invited us? Winnie?"
But Winnie had stopped listening.
Her mouth had fallen slightly open, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she stared across the room.
Two women were sitting on one of the velvet settees, leaning into each other, their mouths locked in a kiss that could've been pulled straight from a movie screen. One of those kisses—slow, heated, the kind with tongue and everything.
Except there was no man. Just two women. And one very overwhelmed British girl watching them with something more than curiosity creeping in.
Ronnie smacked her friends back. "Winifred."
Winnie peeled her eyes off the two women to turn to her friend starstruck. "Sorry, what?"
"Do we look like lesbians?"
Winnie pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, heart thrumming in her chest, mind running wild with a million thoughts at once—the memory of that one girl back home who she wanted to be best friends forever, the one she use to draw.
"What?" Winnie repeated.
Ronnie huffed, flustered but trying not to show it. Before she could say more, the bartender caught her eye. She turned to the counter, forearms resting on the wooden surface, her accent switching gears with difficulty now that she was struggling to regain her footing.
"Deux verres de vin blanc, s'il vous plaît. Et… eh..." She shifted on the spot, moving half a step to the side to put space between her and the two girls courting beside her. "peut-être un peu de citron? si vous avez."
This is normal, she told herself as she handed over the coins. This is normal.
She took the two glasses, nodded a polite thanks, and motioned for Winnie to follow her. They weaved through the crowd, settling onto a small velvet couch tucked behind a pillar.
Before either of them could speak, another woman appeared, smooth and confident, and took the empty space beside Veronica. She was older, probably in her late twenties, with curled dark hair and a cigarette balanced between her fingers like it belonged there.
She leaned close, smiling with the kind of heat that made Ronnie stiffen slightly.
"De si beaux yeux…" the stranger began, voice like velvet. "Comment t'appelles tu?"
Ronnie blinked startled, and surprised herself with how smooth the French came out. "Eh bien, merci. Je m'appelle Ronnie."
"Ronnie. C'est… exotique." The woman's warm eyes skimmed over Ronnie's form. "Comme ta beauté."
Ronnie gave a polite smile, grasping her glass like it might anchor her. "Vous êtes trop aimable." She tried. "Je passe la soirée avec mon amie. Si cela ne vous dérange pas—"
"Je vois," The woman’s gaze flicked to Winnie, who was still staring off in semi-catatonic fascination at the women on the settee. "Ce fut un plaisir, Ronnie." She took Ronnie’s hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and slipped away like a ghost in silk.
Winnie leaned forward slightly, blinking out of her daze. "Did she just… kiss your hand?"
Ronnie huffed again, taking a long drink and avoiding eye contact with anyone who could spot the disorienting haze behind her irises. "I need air."
Winnie didn’t need to be told twice.
The two girls slipped away from the velvet murmur of the crowd and made their way back toward the entrance, glasses in hand. The air there was cooler, quieter — a little more like the world they knew.
For a moment, they just stood. Breathing. Watching. Processing.
Then, in a voice equal parts curious and panicked, Winnie broke the silence.
"Ron. You ever kissed a boy?"
Veronica traced the rim of her glass with her finger, not looking over. "Yes. Two times, when I lived in Salamanca." She took another sip, inquisitive eyes zeroing in on Winnie. "You?"
"Not really." Winnie replied, and quickly added, "You ever think about kissing a girl?"
Ronnie paused, and this time, the silence stretched. "I don't know." She tried not to dwell too long on the question. But she did think of someone—that girl at church, the strawberry blonde covered in freckles who always wore a blue ribbon. She remembered wondering what it would feel like, just once, to touch her face. "Do you?"
Winnie took a breath. Swallowed. "Dunno."
She rocked a little on her heels, a frown pulling at her brows. Her heart felt like it was in her throat. If there was anyone she could say this to, it was Ronnie. After all, she'd come here with her.
So, with quiet determination and her heart threatening to beat out of her chest, she corrected herself. "Yes."
The British girl attempted to read her friend's reaction, but panic bubbled up her throat before she could draw any conclusions.
"You reckon that makes me a lesbian?"
Ronnie finally looked at her then, shaking her head slowly, eyes drifting back toward the stairs where the women were still enjoying themselves, unbothered by the two girls' crisis.
"No, I don't think it does." She half shrugged. "I think every girl feels that. It doesn't make you a lesbian."
But Winnie wasn't just feeling it — she wanted it. Wanted to kiss women. Wanted to know what that meant. The realization hit her like cold water—sudden, shocking, impossible to unfeel.
And yet, just beneath the panic, there was something else; relief.
It took her a second to catch the other thing Ronnie had said. The thing Ronnie didn't seem to hear herself say.
'I think every girl feels that.'
Oh, Jesus, Winnie thought to herself.
This was bad.
Tags:
Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @metrofae @jetjuliette
Le Monocle was one of the first, and certainly the most famous, of lesbian nightclubs, stayed open from the 1920s thru early 1940s. It was opened by Lulu de Montparnasse in the Montmartre area, which at that time was the main gathering place for Parisian lesbians. The historian Florence Tamagne explains, lesbians during that time were often found sitting together at Montmartre’s “outdoor cafes or dancing at the Moulin Rouge”. As for Le Monocle, “All the women there dressed as men, in Tuxedos, and wore their hair in a bob”.
The name Le Monocle derived from a fad at the time where women who identified as lesbian would sport a monocle to indicate sexual preference. The writer Colette once observed the fad by describing women in the area as “often affecting a monocle and a white carnation in the buttonhole”.
