(On Tumblr, podgle said "No, leave the jacket on" and an Anon asked for history AUs.)
She sits there, her red dress shimmering like diamonds and a glass in her hand. She sees you, eyes the color of dark jade following your every movement. You take a seat near her, the better to see the exits, and count the number of soldiers. You can feel her eyes boring into the side of your head. Your cheeks are smudged and there's a bullet hole in your new jacket. Smoke billows a block away, and you wonder if one of the Germans will look too closely at you. Make the connection. Coming here suddenly seems like a bad idea.
A bad idea until the woman in red gets to her feet, sauntering past you. She trails one finger along your jaw and before you know what you're doing you're following her. Through a hallway and into a back room. Behind a bookshelf is a thin door, and you squeeze through it. Inside is propaganda. Leaflets and letters, underground newspapers, and a radio she built herself. You know what her voice sounds like through that radio. She's very good at motivating people through it. Or demotivating people, depending on who you ask. The woman leans her hip against a table with a map on it, and favors you with a smile. "How many this time?"
"We got a tank," you tell her, shoving the bookshelf back into place. She lures you over with her eyes and a crook of her finger, and you give her a sloppy smile. You think it makes her melt a little when you do that. You think that you can't help the way that thought makes you feel.
"Don't be careless," she warns, concern etching her voice. The woman wipes at your cheeks, then looks at the hole in your jacket. You're not sure if it's anger, or something else in her eyes when she looks back at you. It's dangerous, the way she looks at you. Dangerous, the way you feel about her. Whispers in the streets, people disappearing, deported, murdered.
You reason that your lives are already forfeit for being part of the resistance. Why not add another crime to the list. When she kisses you, her lips are soft and taste like wine. The warmth of her skin feels like something your hands don't deserve and when you free her from that dress you wonder when you stopped fighting just for France, and started fighting for her. Then you're both struggling to get your belt off and your trousers and her fingers dance across your stomach making it hard to think of anything else.
You start to shrug your jacket off.
"No," she says in her honey voice. "Leave the jacket on."
You're a soldier, and you know an order when you hear one. And this time when you grin at her you can tell it makes her melt. Her touch is suddenly gentler, though no less heated.
"Yes, ma'am," you say. But you really mean I love you.