Fic - Intent
Feb. 12th, 2009 11:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dolevalanTitle: Intent
Fandom/original: Original
Rating: PG
A/N:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rougen's prompt was "entendre." I don't know how well the final story fits - it kind of got away from me. Another AU, with a sideways reference to her lovely character.
She checked herself quickly in the mirror, not from vanity, but from habit. Straight seams, hair in place, the lines of her uniform clean and pressed. No blood. No dirt. Good. Very good.
Well, perhaps it was slightly due to vanity, at that.
The café was full of people, nurses, soldiers, civilians. It was a lovely day in the South Pacific, and everyone was doing their best to ignore the reasons that most of them were there. There was a cool breeze, and the murmurs of voice and laughter mingled with guitar music where a busker was working for coins. In its way, it was almost surreal in its loveliness. Stella's heels clicked precisely against the sidewalk as she walked up. Though she was aware of the time, she felt no reason to rush.
He was laughing, of course. Not loud, but strong. But then again, she knew his laugh. Mark was sitting at a table with two of his buddies, one of them with a girl at his side. He was in profile to her, and reaching to sip his coffee as the captain continued his story. The three flyboys were the picture of youthful confidence. Mark was watching with an amused, mildly detached smile. The captain was gesturing as he spoke, his blond date hanging on his every word. The third pilot was leaning back in his chair, a casual half grin coloring his features, and he was the first to notice Stella.
"Hey, nurse Willoughby, I'm running a fever. Feel my forehead?"
"In your dreams, Lewis." She came to their table, moving to Mark's shoulder.
"Every night, sweetheart." Lewis grinned.
Mark reached back to catch her hand. "Ignore the lout. He was dropped on his head as a child." He grinned. "You look very official."
"They keep us on our toes. Speaking of, I only have 43 more minutes before I need to get back."
He arched a brow. "43 exactly, huh?"
"42 and a half." Her lips curved slightly upward.
"Ah, I see." He stood. "Well boys, I will see you in 42 minutes. Don't burn the place down."
The captain chuckled, while Lewis said, "Mind you don't muss that nice clean uniform, Wing Commander."
"Yeah, yeah." Mark waved them off as he and Stella moved away, down toward the boardwalk. "So. Keeping busy then."
"As ever. Compared to you layabout flyboys, at least."
He grinned. "Well, looking good is a full time job, you know. Takes a lot of concentration. Not all of us come by it naturally."
"Oh, of course not." She let him take her hand. He grinned, and she said, "What?"
"Just thinking about my luck. Beautiful tropical island, lovely girl..."
"...thousands of miles from the fiancée you left back home," she added, dryly.
"That is horrible slander. She is not my fiancée." A beat. "I mean..."
"Ah."
They were quiet for a moment, still walking together. Finally, he said, "Any word from the dashing colonel?"
"Nick is fine, I gather, though he writes seldom enough."
"Ah, well. Strong silent type. I'm sure his men just love him."
She smirked a bit. "Oh, doubtless." A pause, then she said, "Well. No sense planning ahead, is there?" She laughed softly. "If you hadn't heard, there's a war on."
He sighed. "I'd heard a rumor. Look, Stella..."
She shook her head. "I will still expect you at 7:30 tomorrow for that film, barring horrible emergencies, hm?"
"7:30, then. A pretty face like yours may even persuade me to buy the popcorn."
She gave his hand a light squeeze. "I will wait with baited breath."
He smiled, dark green eyes glinting. "Need to get back to work, miss 42 minutes?"
"I do suppose so." She met his gaze. "Until tomorrow, then?"
He theatrically kissed her hand, waves crashing in the background. It was easy to pretend things were perfect. "Until tomorrow, love."
Fandom/original: Original
Rating: PG
A/N:
rougen's prompt was "entendre." I don't know how well the final story fits - it kind of got away from me. Another AU, with a sideways reference to her lovely character.She checked herself quickly in the mirror, not from vanity, but from habit. Straight seams, hair in place, the lines of her uniform clean and pressed. No blood. No dirt. Good. Very good.
Well, perhaps it was slightly due to vanity, at that.
The café was full of people, nurses, soldiers, civilians. It was a lovely day in the South Pacific, and everyone was doing their best to ignore the reasons that most of them were there. There was a cool breeze, and the murmurs of voice and laughter mingled with guitar music where a busker was working for coins. In its way, it was almost surreal in its loveliness. Stella's heels clicked precisely against the sidewalk as she walked up. Though she was aware of the time, she felt no reason to rush.
He was laughing, of course. Not loud, but strong. But then again, she knew his laugh. Mark was sitting at a table with two of his buddies, one of them with a girl at his side. He was in profile to her, and reaching to sip his coffee as the captain continued his story. The three flyboys were the picture of youthful confidence. Mark was watching with an amused, mildly detached smile. The captain was gesturing as he spoke, his blond date hanging on his every word. The third pilot was leaning back in his chair, a casual half grin coloring his features, and he was the first to notice Stella.
"Hey, nurse Willoughby, I'm running a fever. Feel my forehead?"
"In your dreams, Lewis." She came to their table, moving to Mark's shoulder.
"Every night, sweetheart." Lewis grinned.
Mark reached back to catch her hand. "Ignore the lout. He was dropped on his head as a child." He grinned. "You look very official."
"They keep us on our toes. Speaking of, I only have 43 more minutes before I need to get back."
He arched a brow. "43 exactly, huh?"
"42 and a half." Her lips curved slightly upward.
"Ah, I see." He stood. "Well boys, I will see you in 42 minutes. Don't burn the place down."
The captain chuckled, while Lewis said, "Mind you don't muss that nice clean uniform, Wing Commander."
"Yeah, yeah." Mark waved them off as he and Stella moved away, down toward the boardwalk. "So. Keeping busy then."
"As ever. Compared to you layabout flyboys, at least."
He grinned. "Well, looking good is a full time job, you know. Takes a lot of concentration. Not all of us come by it naturally."
"Oh, of course not." She let him take her hand. He grinned, and she said, "What?"
"Just thinking about my luck. Beautiful tropical island, lovely girl..."
"...thousands of miles from the fiancée you left back home," she added, dryly.
"That is horrible slander. She is not my fiancée." A beat. "I mean..."
"Ah."
They were quiet for a moment, still walking together. Finally, he said, "Any word from the dashing colonel?"
"Nick is fine, I gather, though he writes seldom enough."
"Ah, well. Strong silent type. I'm sure his men just love him."
She smirked a bit. "Oh, doubtless." A pause, then she said, "Well. No sense planning ahead, is there?" She laughed softly. "If you hadn't heard, there's a war on."
He sighed. "I'd heard a rumor. Look, Stella..."
She shook her head. "I will still expect you at 7:30 tomorrow for that film, barring horrible emergencies, hm?"
"7:30, then. A pretty face like yours may even persuade me to buy the popcorn."
She gave his hand a light squeeze. "I will wait with baited breath."
He smiled, dark green eyes glinting. "Need to get back to work, miss 42 minutes?"
"I do suppose so." She met his gaze. "Until tomorrow, then?"
He theatrically kissed her hand, waves crashing in the background. It was easy to pretend things were perfect. "Until tomorrow, love."
