December 1943

Nukufetau Airfield, Ellice Islands

The sun burned Ben's shoulders where he crouched on the stoop of the barrack next to his fellow airman. He shielded his eyes with his broad palm, squinting from behind his sunglasses to see what was being written.

Blame Poe, he supposed. Blame Dameron and his teasing that he was sitting here, sweating down his back in the blazing sun.

The month of Christmas 1943 felt like summer. He'd gone from spring in Indiana, to what felt to him like mild summer in San Francisco, arrived to the South Pacific in the midst of tropical winter, and now languished in the heat of the summer once more in the southern hemisphere. The only relief was the constant breeze off the ocean. The spindly palm trees had been razed to construct the runways, and even now, on Sunday, he could still see a bulldozer working over the filled area in the distance, leveling it in preparation for asphalt to be graded on the surface. It would be the fighter runway when it was finished. He imagined taking off from such a strip would be no different than the grass runway near his folk's place: bumpy, slightly short, and requiring a steep climb at the end to avoid clipping the gear on the trees at the end.

Of course these military planes had the fancy folding landing gear, but there wasn't time for that before reaching the lone grove of coconut trees still intact at the far point. Better to clear them, then retract while turning away from the pattern. They'd been over it a million times in briefings.

"Teach?" The questioning lilt to the man's voice indicated he'd been waiting for an answer.

Ben turned his attention back to his companion and peered at the paper. He scanned the few lines and nodded. "That's a good start. Did you mean, 'I wish you were here'?'" He pointed to the mistake in usage. "Your lady's not deaf, is she?"

Miller stared at the paper, slowly shaking his head. "You tell me, Solo. I never could write a lick." A slight drawl dragged the i's in his speech more adjacent to the sound of an a. He reluctantly crossed out the word and replaced it. H-e-e-r.

Ben suppressed a frustrated sigh. He pictured his mother, her hand wrapped around his small one as he perched on her lap at her desk. She showed him how to make the shape of the letters. She never showed her frustration, even as he insisted on making the stem of his h's so short they were indistinct from n's.

He wasn't sure how she had stood to be so patient.

He decided not to point out the further mistake. At least it was the right letters, albeit the wrong order.

"I don't know what else to say," Miller pouted a bit. "What would you write?"

Ben squinted at the horizon once more, knowing where this would lead. "Well, I'm not you, am I? What matters is what you want to say."

Miller's shoulders slumped further and he tapped the stub of his pencil on the pad. "I guess I should tell her what I'd like to do, if we were together?"

Ben managed to contain his grin to the offside of his mouth. He shifted, trying to ease strain on his lower back. "I'm happy to proofread it, but you have to write it."

The man huffed beside him. "I miss her, y'know? Just… miss her."

Ben studied his companion's profile. "Why don't you just say that- that you miss her." A drop of sweat began to inch its way down his temple before Miller replied.

"We were trying," Miller said, a blush rising on his cheeks. "Trying to have a baby before I left."

Ben wasn't sure what to say- neither congratulations nor condolences were quite adequate. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes behind his sunglasses. He couldn't sympathize, not exactly, not when he'd taken such pains to keep Rey from bearing the burden of caring for their child without the certainty of his support.

But there were moments. Moments of boredom when he caught himself fantasizing about her, about what their children would look like. An almost unbearable lust would seize him to think of how her belly would swell with his child, and he knew he could not begrudge Miller the same.

"Alright," he acquiesced, his eyes still closed. "I'll help you write it."


In the countdown towards Christmas, the routine on base felt like a holding pattern over the runway that was still being constructed. If they weren't flying, they were briefing about flying, and if they weren't briefing about flying, they were talking about the briefings about flying. If he had thought his academic life was repetitive, this brought a new meaning to the word. He and Poe exchanged sideways glances and doodled in their notepads as certain fellow flyboys questioned the details of missions being outlined for the umpteeth time.

Gifts and small packages had begun arriving from the homefront weeks earlier, and the squadron carefully examined and rattled each brown-paper package before placing them back beneath the makeshift tree in the corner of their Quonset hut. It was a sad, drooping thing, dried palm fronds lashed together with a length of soldering wire and held upright with someone's dress pants wrapped around it as a tree skirt. The fronds didn't have the same quality as pine needles at all, making decorations impossible until one man stationed in the front office thought to relieve the supply cabinet of a pocketful of paper clips.

The decorations quickly took on a life of their own: a bit of foil shredded like tinsel from the mess, a red string from someone's gift, a gold button that had separated from a uniform. It was the strangest tree any of them had ever seen, but their hearts swelled with a certain longing each time they glanced at it.

On December 22, they rose to find a new gift from Santa hanging carefully from it.

Ben awoke to a whoop of laughter followed by sharp shushing sounds. He shifted onto his back with his eyes still closed, trying to track the hushed conversation that was gathering steam in the corner. Each new person who rose and joined the cluster of men let out an astonished guffaw, only to be silenced. The whispering took on a fevered pitch by the time he swung his legs off his bed and stretched.

The men didn't make room for him, but he was tall enough to peer over their heads at the source of the excitement.

It took a moment for him to fully process what he saw. Rey's letters thus far had been infrequent and their contents were chaste, but he knew well by now from his off-duty tutorial activities this was not the case for some of the others. It had made him doubt the tone of his own weekly updates when he'd learned the kinds of things the other men saw fit to share with their sweethearts and wives.

The woman in the photo did not look at all bothered by what might have been shared in a letter. She stood at a kitchen sink, the strings of her apron knotted in a neat bow just above the dimples on her back and the glorious curve of her pert, round bottom. Her back was arched invitingly, and the look she threw over her shoulder at the unseen audience sent a clear message. She braced her hands against the edge of the countertop and the toes of her left foot curled coyly around the back of her right. The peak of her nipple jutted out clearly even through the thick canvas of her apron.

Ben realized he was holding his breath against the prickling sensation in his groin as someone whispered, "Now that is a mess I wouldn't mind helping clean up in the kitchen, hot damn!"

Their capacity for food-related boasts proved almost endless once the dam had broken.

"Shit, I'd have signed up for home ec if our teacher had taught that recipe!"

"I bet those titties make a tasty sandwich!"

"Do you think she'd let me give her an extra serving of meat?"

"I got a sausage special for you right here, baby - double-stuffed!"

He turned away to visit the latrine when someone groaned openly and the whole group dissolved into giggles.

He lingered a long while outside, until he saw Dameron strolling up the path from the airstrip. He was smoking, his cigs rolled carefully into his shirt sleeve over his bicep. Ben didn't wave, and Poe didn't seem to notice him. He wondered what Dameron was doing up and about at such an early hour.

Over the next few days, many more pictures began to grace their tree. Some were torn from magazines, others homemade, and even a few crude, hand drawn cartoons came to be pinned to the palm fronds.

The mail plane arrived two days later and he was surprised to have a thick envelope addressed in her neat handwriting. Reclining on his bed, he settled in to read it and was astonished when a few photographs fell out onto his chest as he unfolded the pages. He swept them quickly off him towards the wall, eyes darting around the room.

No one had noticed, too busy with their own mail to see what had happened.

He hadn't gotten a full look at the pictures, but what he had seen was already burned into his mind's eye.

Rey. Lingerie.

His Rey, in lingerie.

Perhaps there really was a Maker, he thought, a smile tugging at his lips.

Her letter felt like an afterthought, but he dutifully read the scant lines.

November 14, 1943

San Francisco, Cal.

Hello Ben,

How are you? I hope this letter reaches you, and that you enjoy it. I imagine you may not have much space for gifts, but you might put these in a book for safekeeping.

All is well here, save for your absence. The factory remains as busy as ever - no sign of the war stopping! Jess sends her regards; we think Jack is also in the South Pacific, though his letters are as infrequent as yours.

He paused at this, but continued with a slight shake of his head. He hadn't had time to fully learn her sense of humor. His letters had been as regular as anyone he knew of.

The weather remains mild here, save for the increasing rainstorms. It is probably quite different than winter in Indiana. I wish you were here to keep me warm as Old Man Winter comes to stay.

Love,

R.

Ben reread her letter twice through before carefully shifting on his side to stash the photos in the envelope, sliding it up the scratchy, unnecessary wool blanket under his pillow. He was careful not to look at the pictures. What little he'd seen was already distraction enough.

The day crawled by an irritating haze of PT and briefings. Why they needed to brief on the twenty-fourth of December was not questioned. He closed his eyes doing push-ups, only partly to keep the sweat from trickling into them.

The mess hall was hung with garlands and mistletoe, and the cooks had done their best to spruce up the canned rations. They had found a few coconuts around and cracked them open, and some of the men tasted the thin, whitish fluid from inside.

Johanssen's face screwed up like a prune and he spit the liquid back into his cup. "That tastes like.. like…." He was at a loss for words.

"Your mom knows what it tastes like!"

The table erupted in howls of laughter and Johanssen's pale skin turned a shade close to his auburn hair. He was a polite, strapping farm kid from northern Minnesota and had the kind of cherubic countenance that invited endless teasing.

Dameron just grinned mysteriously and shook his head, taking a slug of strange juice as easily as he would a shot of whiskey.

Ben picked at his slice of ham and wondered what his family were doing. They had spent many holidays with his mother's university colleagues. He hadn't let himself think much about that since he'd left. The evenings almost always wound up the same, with Han and Luke dozing in armchairs near the fire after drinking several drinks too many, his mother debating all takers at the kitchen table, her own cheeks flushed and emboldened by liquid courage. This scene inevitably embarrassed him when he was younger, but as an adult, he grew fond of seeing her fired up, color licking up her cheeks and her eyes dancing as she refused, then eventually accepted, a forbidden cigarette. She hated the smell of them, banished Han to the porch to smoke, but would accept one reluctantly after much cajoling and a few glasses of scotch. He had asked her once why she did it, and she replied that it reminded her of being young.

He sawed a thick piece of meat and chewed it endlessly, the salt sucking every last bit of moisture from his tongue. The ham was tough and its hickory smoke faint, but it reminded him of home. That was the point, he guessed.

Thinking of Christmas made him think of someone else at home, but he tamped the thoughts down. He was determined to look forwards, to meet the challenge ahead of them.

The ensuing hours between dinner and all-quiet felt like a special eternity designed just to torture him. He waited until most of the barrack was sleeping that night before turning on his stomach and retrieving her letter, slowly working the flap open beneath his pillow so as not to wake them. He grasped the photos at the edges, careful not to touch the surface as he tucked them into the waistband of his undershorts and pulled down his shirt over it.

Creeping was not a motion that came naturally to someone of his stature, but he stole from the hut as gently as his impatience would allow, sidling through the screen door so as not to open it to the point of squeaking, then setting it closed without allowing it to slap as did so many on nighttime trips to the bathroom. The base was dark by design at night to prevent enemy detection, but a nearly-full moon provided enough light to see his way to the shower building. Stars twinkled overhead, and without the beating sun, Ben had to admit the climate of the island was not unpleasant. The latrine was closer, but there was too great a chance of being interrupted. Besides, they were little better than pit-toilets and smelled to high heaven.

He passed a sign tacked high on a tree of a buxom blonde hiking her skirts, reminding them to check their mosquito nets. Several men had taken ill with deadly fevers born by the insects, the likes of which they'd never encountered at home.

Safely inside a shower stall, Ben latched the crude door behind himself and finally withdrew his precious cargo from his waistband. He was sweating from the effort of arriving undetected, and hoped this had not damaged them.

It was fairly dark inside under the thatched roof, but the sharp contrast of the black and white photos he held between his thumb and forefinger transmitted a world of information. There were only three.

Where and when she had gotten this underwear, he didn't know; she hadn't had it in May when they'd married. To even call it such was generous: the dark material of her bra and panties was sheer, and while her expression read as shy, almost hesitant as she gazed back at him, her attire was anything but. He swallowed drily, shuffling through the poses a number of times. She was even more beautiful than he remembered.

Delicious, prickling heat spread up his belly and down his thighs instantly.

His Rey, kneeling on a bed with her thumb hooked suggestively in the band of her panties, her dark hair loose and across her cheeks. Her other hand pressed a pillow to her bare chest, hiding her perfect little tits from him but her underwear betrayed her modesty, the curve of her sex on display through the diaphanous material. He felt himself grow hard as he imagined tonguing her through them before pushing them aside to press his thick fingers into her. His imagination supplied the needy, pleading sound she made when he did this to her, and he reached down to free his cock from the confines of his pants.

He leaned back against the stall divider and studied the next photo, palming his length. It was sticky with sweat, and his hand caught at the delicate skin. He grimaced at the sensation but was not deterred.

Her second photo had her lying on her back, her slender legs stretched heavenwards in a blatant invitation. Her back was arched and her nipples showed clearly through her bra, little dark shadows beneath the fabric. She bit the tip of one finger, her other fingers splayed over her bare stomach as though she were contemplating touching herself elsewhere. His hand picked up speed as pictured looking down at her, spilling his seed onto the tiny swell beneath her navel that he loved to caress. It embarrassed her, but he loved it.

Or- perhaps he would relieve her of these silly panties, hook her knees over his shoulders and fill her until she bucked and writhed beneath him. His mind supplied him with endless possibilities given this limited fodder, uninhibited by physical constraints and concerns of practicality. His eyes wandered as his hand picked up speed, his breathing growing rapid and shallow. His shaft burned beneath the pressure of his hand and he stilled to notice a small tube propped on a cross-beam in the corner of the stall.

He leaned forward and peered at label, and a broad grin crinkled his cheeks to recognize it. They'd all been issued a standard ration of lube with prophylactics and been ordered, for the love of Maker and country, to use them each and every time, in combination and never otherwise.

Ben had never been so happy to disobey orders.

The thick gel warmed quickly on his palm and grew thinner as he slathered a generous amount on his erection, his stinging skin soothed as he gripped more tightly now.

The girl he had met and married in a matter of weeks was an eager pupil who had needed only patient encouragement to warm to him. The Rey of his imagination now was a seasoned seductress, a siren leading him astray and he was happy to oblige her every whim, to descend to the fires of a hell unknown to please her. He submitted and dominated in equal turns, his mind unable to stay on one thread for more than a few moments before he was rearranging her, changing her to please himself.

He slowed his hand as he felt the inevitable tightening in his balls, never wanting it to end but chasing his release. Ben's breathing stuttered and he managed not to cry out as he spurted thick, hot ropes of come through his fingers.

He sagged back against the door of the stall, panting and swearing, his hand a sticky mess of lube and his own spend. The photos were still clutched in his off-hand, safely away from the mess. He shifted them in his grasp, fanning them like a seasoned card player at the table.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered to the third Rey, the one whose bottom stuck up pert in the air, inverted with her chest pressed to the bed. Her black panties dangled halfway down her thigh on the way to her knees. She'd let him have his way with her once this way, and he dared say, she had very much liked it.

"Merry fucking Christmas."