Chapter Text
“Damn,” he cursed quietly.
Cecilia twisted to look over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Pencil wobbled. Hold still, I’ll fix it.” He licked his thumb.
Cecilia felt his damp thumb rub against the back of her leg, wiping away the mark.
He tightened his grip on her knee, and drew the pencil up her calf again. “Much better,” he murmured.
If someone had told Cecilia a few years ago that she would be standing barefoot in a shabby little London flat while a handsome American GI knelt at her feet and drew faux stocking seams on her legs with an eyebrow pencil, she would have been horrified.
But the man who leaned his cheek against her thigh was not one of those loud, brash, obnoxious American men she’d occasionally crossed paths with as a younger woman. He was quiet, measured, and rather pleasant to be around. And there was something erotic about the feeling of the waxy pencil being dragged across her bare legs and the slightly rough scratch from the pencil’s wooden casing.
Or maybe that was only because of the man at her feet. Cecilia ran her fingers through the springy curls on his forehead affectionately.
He gave her a soft smile. “I’m finished.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
It was almost evening. They’d slept together after luncheon, and then Cecilia had had her bath. In a few hours she would head downstairs to play the piano in the bar to accompany her Negro friend, Violette, who also lived in the building. Around one in the morning, she would stumble into bed with her American and make love until they were both falling asleep. If they were lucky, there would be able to sleep for a few hours in each other’s arms. It was all one long hazy waking nightmare, other than the comfort his kisses and touches brought her. They would also be lucky if they were able to sprint to the Anderson shelter around the corner.
Cecilia kissed his forehead, remembering how he’d crouched over her in one of the inner doorframes of the bar, sheltering her as part of the building collapsed only a few meters away.
“Can I see you tonight?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, love. I’m sorry.” Her menstrual period was about to start.
“Is this too much?”
“No. No!” All the sudden she was crying. Whatever happened, whatever rubble that would fall upon her and bury her in the bones of the city of her birthplace, she could not let go of him.
He staggered to his feet, and cradled her hips loosely. “What’s wrong, beautiful?”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, throwing her arms around him. “Don’t leave me,” she sobbed.
He hugged her tightly to his chest, rocking her gently in his arms. “Oh my angel, don’t cry.” He picked her up and carried her over to her little bed and sat down, cradling her in his lap.
Cecilia clung to him. There were some people who found the American soldiers an irritation - they were louder, handsomer, and better paid which meant they outshone British lads - but Cecilia couldn’t agree.
He stroked Cecilia’s hair. “Have I been pushing you too hard?”
Cecilia shook her head. She’d had a few boyfriends over the years, and two proposals from men before they’d shipped off that she’d realized she only thought of as friends. But there had been no one like him.
“What is it then? Tell me so I can fix it.”
Cecilia sobbed harder. That was her GI Joe in a nutshell - always eager to right the world’s wrongs, whether it was letting her have his leftovers on a dinner date or giving a stick of chewing gum to one of the little street rats who hung around the club, hopping to pick up a little money doing an odd job.
He kissed her head. “I want to help you, sweetheart.”
“It’s nothing serious,” she sniffled, lifting her head to look at him.
“Are you eating enough?” He asked gently, cupping her cheek with one hand.
She nodded. “It’s not that. It’s … women’s things.”
“You miss wearing real stockings?”
Coming from someone else, the words might sound mocking, but some part of Cecilia knew that he understood. They hadn’t been stepping out or even sleeping together for very long, but he’d already treated her to flowers and filling meals.
She pressed her lips together, hard. It was strange interacting with a man so intimately after years of being surrounded by women. With other women Cecilia could talk about the ugly things - perspiration and her fears about her hair falling out because she was missing some vital vitamin, and worst of all, menstruation. With men she was expected to keep her chin up and smile, and God forbid she ever let them see her cry or hear her complain. The fate of the world was on her shoulders, as it was on the shoulders of every other British citizen!
“That makes me sound terribly vain,” she murmured, toying with the buttons on his uniform.
He ran his hand along her right shin. “You’ve got beautiful legs, Cecilia. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to wear something pretty to show them off.”
She rested her forehead against his shoulder, and smiled. American men and their love of ankles!
“I’m no artist,” he said, “But if it makes you feel any better, no one will know you’re not wearing stockings.”
“It’s not that,” she protested. “I - I’m having the painters in.”
“Painters?”
She nodded miserably. Oh it was so embarrassing!
“You need somewhere else to sleep while they work? I’ll have to sneak you past my landlady but my bed’s big enough to two.”
She shook her head and blushed. “Not those kind of painters. My … monthly womanly -.”
“Oh!” He blushed as well. “Your uh, bleedin’ time?
She nodded. “I’m sorry.”
He cupped her face in his large hands. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Am I right in thinking you’re asking for a little time alone?”
“Please.”
“As you wish, sweetheart.”
She hugged him. “Thank you.”
He rubbed her back soothingly. “I always have paperwork. I’ll work on that.”
“It’ll last longer than a week,” she warned.
“I’m sorry. Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
She shook her head. “I just have to keep calm and carry on.”
He kissed her cheek. “My poor baby.”