#laura simpson

"I do not," Cord replied in a huff, but it was apparent she would not be heard. "You do so," Portia shot back, fondness in every word. "If it had been any of us driving he wouldn't have even stopped to ask. You have a certain …air de l'ingenue." "I'll try to take that as a compliment," Cord shot back, knowing perfectly well what the French implied. Portia, for her part, only grinned, and went back to her chartreuse and vermouth with relish. "So what other …formative theatrics can you share regarding our esteemed flight officer, Miss DeNemours?" Blakely asked, clearly with an eye out for the main chance where teasing was concerned. But Portia was an old hand at this, and she'd been managing men like Blakely since she'd been old enough to walk. "Oh, I'm afraid if you want another story you'll need to bribe me for it first, Lieutenant. I require another dance, and a very brisk one." No one needed to tell him twice - Ev trotted over to have a word with the bandleader and after a fair bit of paper-flipping they started up again in brassy double-time, John Brady wailing away on his trumpet like he was being paid for it. It had been one hell of an afternoon. The day's mission had gone as well as it could have, only one fort damaged, with casualties within acceptable bounds, and then the replacement planes had arrived from Framlingham, accompanied, today, by old friends - Laura Simpson, who was known to Thorpe Abbotts, and Portia DeNemours, who was not, but who had started her acquaintance with the base by dropping down from her plane with her hat cocked just so and her jacket as rakish as can be and shouting, in her cut glass Mid-Atlantic accent, "Where's Cordelia Callaway? She owes me a whiskey and an explanation." The whiskey was easy, the explanation less so - Cord was fetched from the tower to the officers club for hugs and kisses and threats of violence if Portia did not immediately meet everyone Laura had told her about, up to and including this Egan fellow, whom she was told (cruel thought) her old friend was now dating. So now they were in the officer's club, the band going on full blast and the party very much in full swing. Portia had gotten her whiskey and her meeting with Bucky (and a dance, too, because Portia never did things by halves) and had moved on to meeting everyone else she'd heard about from Laura, and share stories from their misspent youth as pilots in the air races.

"You're being awfully quiet this evening, Major Egan," Cord said, making her way to the chairs at the side of the room. Bucky was, for once in his life, only watching the festivities instead of being smack dab in the middle of them. He moved his hand and let her sit down on his lap, the better to both talk to him and continue to watch the dancing.

"I thought you liked me quiet," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and looking up at her with fondness in his eyes.

"Not when it feels like you're up to something," she said, accusing. "You're suspiciously quiet."

Bucky gave a brief smile, obviously caught. "I was just thinking about what it might have been like if I'd met you then - the Cord that they know. The one flooring fast cars to ninety. Might have taken me a little less time to get a date." "A hotshot military pilot from Kearney and a powderpuff winner with a speed record?" He shrugged. "Well, I hadn't joined the army in thirty nine, so I wasn't a hotshot pilot just yet." Bucky in civies was hard to summon. "I'm having a hard time picturing that." He scoffed. "I'll bet you saw dozens of me. Tall city kid in a rumpled suit who'd spent his whole life dreaming of something different and saved all month to go to the air races, asking you to sign his program and wishing he could ask you more."

She could see that boy he was describing easily enough, all smiles and shirtsleeves and a battered hat, but that boy wasn't ever holding out a program and a pen. "No one asked us to sign programs. That was for the boys. They always just asked us for …more." Bucky's face turned stormy, but he said nothing. Cord suddenly felt the closeness of his body and swallowed nervously. "Everyone thinks a girl with a fast plane is …fast with everything. That's why we all got close - Laura and Portia and the others. We were competitors but no one else had our backs. You learn who you can trust pretty quickly like that. So they…they did get a different Cordelia." John's hands tightened around her waist, her leg, heavy and warm through the fabric of her uniform trousers. "And anyway, you wouldn't have looked twice at me," she added, looking at the dancers out on the floor and trying to lighten the mood. "Portia would have pulled you to dance just like she did today and you wouldn't have thought about anyone else."

"Portia's not really my type," he assured her, and then leaned in close, ready with a secret. "And I don't think I'm hers, either, unless I'm reading her glances at Tatty wrong." Cord felt herself tense, the familiar protective urge rising in her throat. Portia was always the fearless one, the ringleader of the whole circus of young women and they were all fine until they were not fine, and someone saw something they shouldn't. Escape was easy for her - the gossip never seemed to stick to her gossamer wings and even when it did there was always that mansion along the Brandywine for her to retreat to until someone found a juicier bone to flaunt. Cord always felt more earthbound next to Portia - she'd forgotten that until tonight, watching her dance effortlessly with half of the squadron and laugh and drink with the other half. "She complimented me on my good taste, when we were dancing," he shared, pulling her just the tiniest bit closer.

"Did she?"

Bucky nodded. "Flat out told me she didn't trust fliers, too. She warmed a little, when I said you'd hated me first." He paused. "They're good friends, Cord. You're lucky to have them."