#postwar

[goshyesvintageads]

Admiral Corp, 1947

[comic-covers]

(1948)

[sahind]

GODZILLA: MINUS ONE (2023) Directed by Takashi Yamazaki

[miaomiaochui]

Post-war domestic clegan:

Bucky brought home a rabbit. Dutiful wife and farm girl Gale cleaned it and cooked it immediately. When Bucky's home from work, he's like where is Roxy? Gale was silent. Roxy's in the owen.

[retropopcult]

Kodachrome shot of a beauty contestant in California, 1947

[lonestarbattleship]

USS NEW YORK (BB-34) departing San Francisco, California.

"HEADING WESTWARD out of San Francisco bay is the battleship NEW YORK, with destinations of Honolulu and Bikini atoll in the Pacific, where the big warship will be one of the test vessels in atomic bomb tests this summer-(Wirephoto)"

Recorded on May 2, 1946.

source, source

[lonestarflight]

"A Curtiss SC-1 Seahawk floatplane is being hoisted aboard USS MANCHESTER (CL-83). MANCHESTER was part of the task group around USS MIDWAY (CVB-41) during a deployment to the Mediterranean Sea from October 29, 1947 to March 11, 1948."

Photographed in 1947.

source

[hogans-heroes]

Something old and new

@mota-collab Whumpfest Day 2: Wet tiles, hiding injury. (Read on AO3)

Set in a postwar AU where John’s head injury after getting shot down did a lot more damage.

****

Gale toed off his shoes at the door and padded down the hallway towards the sound of the running shower, dropping his bag against the wall. It was late, darkness having already settled outside, and light from the open bathroom door painted a strip over the floor. Gale paused outside of it, knocking.

“Bucky? M’home.”

A strange quiet lingered in the room, the water falling seemingly unobstructed. Frowning, Gale pushed open the door to see the tile floor covered in water, and his stomach sank to his feet.

“John!” he cried.

A soft grunt came from the room as Gale barrelled in, uncaring his socks and pant hems were getting soaked. The shower curtain was already open, and John looked up from where he sat naked under the flow, back against the wall and one leg stretched out in front of him. The side of his torso and hip were covered in huge, mottled, bruises—so dark in places they were almost black, with swirls of purple and greens spread further like a sick painting—and Gale’s heart stopped.

“What happened?” 

The words came out strangled and Gale turned the water off with shaking hands, snatching a towel from the rack and crouching to wrap it around John’s shoulders. John blinked, chest expanding and falling slowly as his tired eyes studied Gale. 

Gale sucked in a trembling breath and waited. He had learned to wait, since the time he first spotted John walking through the gates of the stalag, head nearly bashed in and a brain that would never be the same. They learned to live with the words that got tangled in John’s throat, with the unsteady steps and forgetfulness and headaches, and so much more. Maybe Gale was naive to think John was getting better, that he was alright by himself when Gale went to work.

“M’ok,” John said finally, licking his lips, and Gale grit his teeth.

“Really? What’s all this then?” He gestured to the ugly bruises, screaming up at Gale in harsh colors of harm, of his failure to care for the only thing he loved, that he had left. Vision tunneling, he took a deep breath and held it.

John reached out, squeezing Gale’s arm.

“Fell,” he rasped.

“What? When?”

Another long pause where Gale could only hear his own, thunderous heartbeat, and taste the bile building in this throat. He tore his gaze away from Bucky’s eyes back to the bruising, carefully settling a hand above the worst damage.

“Yesterday,” John managed. “Working on the patio.”

Gale’s head spun. John had said nothing about it last night when Gale got home, but now that he thought about it, John hadn’t moved much either, had already been in pajamas and on the couch, then gone to bed early without cuddling as usual.

“Head hurts sometimes,” John’s halting voice broke through Gale’s spiral. “Get…dizzy…” 

“I know,” Gale said, sighing. He reached up to pull the towel around John’s head, gently massaging the curls dry in silence. When he was finished, he cupped John’s face, brushing a thumb over the scar on John’s eyebrow, and John’s shoulders slumped, leaning into Gale. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” Gale murmured.

John nodded, jaw working around words, yet none came out. A lump grew in Gale’s throat and he pulled John closer, pressing his mouth to the damp cheek. 

It was hard getting up and into the bedroom, slow going with pained hisses and grunts from John who didn’t have a reason to stifle them anymore. Each sound stabbed deep in Gale’s gut, and when he finally got John settled on the bed and sat next to him he was shaking too, apparently stricken enough for John to grab his arm and pin him with a look.

“Stop–” John said, voice tight. “Fussin’...too much worryin.”

“I can’t help it,” Gale muttered, pulling away. “I fucking love you.”

Bitter nausea churned in his stomach, and he shoved the blanket into place with more force than necessary, avoiding John’s eyes. He leaned away to dig through the bedside table for the soothing cream, and by the time he turned back John’s eyelids were fluttering slower. At Gale’s first touch on his wounds he only flinched slightly, and Gale did his best to spread gently and thoroughly. John’s hand returned to his arm, squeezing, and when the back of John’s knuckles trailed up his arm to his cheek, Gale’s eyes stung.

“Just rest,” he instructed quietly, dragging a palm over John’s ribs. “And you’re not hiding something like this again.”

John pressed his lips together, apology and affection shimmering in his eyes that soothed the jagged edges of Gale’s composure. Scooping more of the cream, he returned his fingers to the marred, shivering skin.