A.N. So, this a 30s AU, requested by the amazing chrisrose, and I feel like I'm required to disclaim the parts of history I pretty much rewrote in my attempt to make good Mash fic.

THINGS THAT ARE MENTIONED THAT MAYBE AREN'T TRUE BUT THAT I INCLUDED ANYWAY, AND WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED:

-the 32nd unit of the United States Air Force may or may not have existed. Pilot!Bash is kind of a dream, so with a 30s!fic, well, VeteranPilot!Bash had to become a thing.

-La Vie En Rose technically was released to the public in 1947, roughly ten years after the events of this one-shot. It has been pushed earlier in time, circa 1910s.

-although most historians consider the first wave of feminism to have begun in the 1920s (although it was not consistently present throughout the early 1900s), the odds of a female reporter being given any kind of responsibility, at all, and of that same female reporter being sent overseas- well. There is probably no chance it ever would've happened. Ever.

-so there was a 1937 World Fair that took place in Paris, but it was mostly a series of art exhibitions, so i've taken the liberty of adding some events to it.

-at said World Fair, there was plenty of animosity (as well as plenty of anti-Semitic artwork), but to my knowledge, no actual attacks.

Also.

This is was ready for posting on Tuesday, but on Wednesday I had to volunteer, and yesterday was a vocal concert, so today is the first i've been able to get near the computer. Coincidentally, today also happens to be my birthday :)

also, as much as I ship greer/leith, lord castleroy is turning out to be the actual shit. In last night's episode, I fell more than a little bit in love with him. that happened.

So, this one's for you, chrisrose! Happy reading!


Miss Mary Stuart, of Chicago, Illinois, is sitting at her desk when her boss, Dave, practically floats in.

"The World Fair. Paris, France," he says without preamble, and Mary sighs.

"It's a great opportunity, my dear," Dave tells her cheerfully, slamming the folder down on her tiny desk. "It could launch your career as an international reporter!"

"Why in God's name," Mary spits back, "Would I willingly travel half way around the world to do a fluff piece on women's clothing in a city still devastated by the effects of a war that ruined the world, which I won't even get credit for because Burt Higgins is going to get the byline? ?"

"….because you love your boss?" Dave smiles winningly at her. "And you love Paris?"

Mary takes a second to pause.

"I'll need you to give me funding for French pastries," She says, and Dave squeals.


A word on Miss Mary Stuart:

She doesn't like change, very much. Also, she's scared of water.

Her friends call her a stick-in-the-mud; the men she turns down call her a frigid old bird.

She calls herself dedicated, that's all.

But whether she's dedicated or spinsterly, the fact remains that she's no prom-trotter, and she hasn't gone on a date since 1932, five years ago, when her mama forced her to let Manny Wilds take her to the Lincoln High School dance and try to paw his way up her skirt.

Journalism is Mary's love; while all her other friends squandered their lives away on men and babies and home making, Mary broke her way onto the journalism scene bit by bit, becoming the first female writer at the New York Post, even if all she writes goes under that idiot Burt's name.


Paris is hot and sticky and smoggy at the docks; the smell of good and animals and unwashed bodies assaults her as soon as she steps foot off of the the boat.

(Dry land has never, ever, felt so very good.)

She checks into her hotel late that night, after much traveling in a tiny rail car that belched gas, and she doubts she's ever been this tired before. She is too tired to take note of any of her fellow guests, barely awake enough to walk straight, but as she ascends the stairs she sees peripherally a shock of black hair and clear blue eyes.

It's the last thing she remembers before she falls asleep.


It is May 20th, 1937; the first festival begins in three days, and Mary is absolutely and frantically unprepared.

She's been to Paris exactly twice, each time with a strict itinerary and a gaggle of Joes all cackling and trying to prove their manhood, and here she is, alone, in the city, with representatives from all the major countries in the world.

It's a reporter's dream, but Mary has no idea where she is, and her back up team (Kenna, Franklin, George, Dave, and Lucas) isn't scheduled to arrive until the third fair.

It's alright, old girl, she steels herself. You'll make it out fine. Always do. You're nobody's doll but your own.

She doesn't make it out of the hotel lobby before her heart pounds a little faster with nerves, and she wants to vomit.

How is she supposed to do all of this by herself? Two bloody fairs she'll be covering, two of them, and even though it's technically only her job to comment on fashion and Coco Chanel's new collection, she knows they'll want her to get some real deal low down on the place, so Burt will have good, presentable articles.

She sinks down on the cushion, watches the floor until it swirls beneath her eyes, and tries to calm her breathing, because she is not one of those swooning dames, not a princess in a pretty tower, she doesn't need no dimpled Joe with his bright smile, fresh home from fighting overseas with the other good American boys.

Mary can save herself, she can save herself, she can-

"Excuse me, miss," a voice says, but she can't look up from the floor. "Only if you clutch that pillow any tighter you're gonna tear it right down the middle."

She still can't look up.

"Hey, hey, doll, it's alright," the voice continues soothingly, the slight hint of an accent peaking through. "Whatever's got you all worked up, it's all good, darlin'. It's nothing worth all this fuss."

Now she looks up.

"I am not your darlin', mister," she snaps at him. "And I'm much obliged at you for tossing yourself in my business, which i'd thank you to remember you know nothing about."

His eyes are a familiar blue, and they seem unfazed at her rudeness. "I'm not trying to crust you, ma'am. Just you looked like you were about to faint."

"I didn't want your help," Mary says stubbornly, wobbling onto her feet, and the man's jaw sets.

"I know, darlin'," he says, his concerned look gone, his eye guarded, like she's filled them up with concrete. "Don't mean you didn't need it, though."

(Her mouth falls open a little bit and she watches him as he walks away, and then she remembers where she's seen that particular shade of blue eyes before.

He's staying at the hotel.

She inwardly groans.)


The night before the first exhibition, the hotel throws a soiree. All guests are invited, and as Mary has strict instructions not to barricade herself in her room and only come out for the fairs, she attends.

She stands awkwardly in the corner, the fans above her doing little to stay the sticky beads of sweat tracing across the back of her neck, her body itching and uncomfortable in the satin dress she's forced herself into.

"Mademosielle Stuart," Monsieur Rieux, the manager of the hotel, says charmingly, and Mary very nearly jumps out of her skin. "How are you?"

Mary forces a smile and fans herself gently. "Quite well, Monsieur," she demures.

(It doesn't even sound right to her own ears.)

She makes awkward conversation for a little longer, but then a glint appears in Monsieur Rieux's eyes at something behind her, and he grins broadly and takes her hands.

"Mademosielle Stuart," Monsieur says proudly, "May I introduce to you one of the hotel's finest, Major Sebastian Leopold, of the United States Army."

She turns around, and-

oh, no.

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," he says with a charming smile and the same hint of accent she'd heard when he'd tried to comfort her earlier. His eyes glint playfully, blue and bright.

And oh, Mary just wants to die.

"Pleasure's all mine, Major," she stammers, and he has the nerve to laugh at her embarrassment, his mirth visible in his eyes.

He takes her hand, a secret joke in his eyes, and presses his lips not to the back of her hand, but to the ticklish part of her palm, where the lines on her skin converge.

(Her hand tingles, and a shiver crawls up her spin.)


It's like they can't stay away from each other, after that; he's in the lobby when she comes down to visit the fair, she's at the Coco Chanel viewing he promised he'd take his cousin to, they both visit the same éclair vendor after the fair's over.

She can't run away from him when she finds herself waiting with him at the same corner for a taxi, but it's dark outside, and she doesn't want any part of the chivalry that's coming off him in ways.

Right on cue, he flashes those pearly whites her direction and says, "Hello, Miss Stuart,"

"Hello, Major," she says quietly, looking anywhere but him.

"Are you alone?" He asks, and she almost wants to say no, because she knows that if she tells him the truth he'll try to be the good Army flyboy and walk her home.

"Yes," she spits out, because she'll not reduce herself to lying.

"You and me both," he grins, and he doesn't offer to walk her home, but she gets the feeling it's less about not being chivalrous, and more about not making her uncomfortable. "Did you enjoy the exhibition?"

Mary shrugs. "I don't much enjoy art, but then it's not art I'm here to cover. On the whole it was fun, just a little….overwhelming."

"It can be, if you've never experienced the busy side of Paris, before," he nods.

"I just wish I had a guide," she finds herself saying suddenly. "You know, someone to show me around, give me the local's scoop on how they really feel about the fair, about the real things that are happening. Not a puff piece on Coco Chanel's latest suit and the color of the German ambassador's wife's dress."

He laughs. "A local, you say? Someone who knows their way around the city? That's what you want?"

"That'd be perfect."

"Then," he grins. "May I volunteer myself as your personal guide? I'll show you all the ins and outs of the city, and of the fair itself."

Mary gulps.


It's the morning of the second fair, and Mary is all balled up in her hotel room, leanin' up against the mirror, utterly convinced she's made a terrible, no good, very bad choice.

Lettin' some average Joe she didn't even know cart her around the streets of a city she'd never been to- was she going bonkers, or just dumb?

Dumb, she decides, as against her better judgment she bites her lip and scours her closet for an appropriate dress. Definitely dumb.

It's times like this when she needs Kenna, but the only other female reporter comes along with the rest of the crew day after tomorrow, so Mary's up a creek without a paddle, no doubt about it.

She's supposed to meet the Major downstairs in the lobby at ten to nine, but it's twenty til before she's even picked a dress, and she wants to hit herself 'cause she can tell she's already begun playing into every female stereotype the sexist birds down at the lobby toss around.

1. Agreeing to much-needed help from a man.

2. Spending an obscene amount of time picking out clothes to wear, for no apparent reason.

She descends the stairs to the lobby two minutes past ten til, and she's rushing down so quickly that she can almost blame the woosh of air from her lungs when she reaches the lobby on the running, and not on Major Leopold's eyes as they train on her and send warm-blue shivers down her spine.

3. Swoonin' like crazy over afore-mentioned helpful man.

Jesus save her, next she'll be fainting and playing housewife.


A word on Sebastian David Leopold, Major in the 32nd Regiment of the United States Air Force.

His nickname in the 32nd was Bash, on account of his reckless flying, his tendency to disregard orders for the good of the regiment, and his talent for bashing in the noses of those who talked bad about the 32nd ; if you ask him, he'll tell you that some of his best years were spent up in the air, riding the iron horses of war and fighting for the cause.

(Those are also his worst years, but he won't tell you that.)


Mary's list of events for the second fair include the showcasing of fabric, a diamond show, and a Picasso exhibition, and it all goes seamlessly. The Major is kind and patient as a tour guide, and he obviously knows his onions, but he makes her laugh too, laugh so hard her stomach hurts and she stops worrying about all the things she's got to prove; maybe it makes her a sap, but he makes her forget, and she's grateful for it.

It all goes downhill, though, when they near their swanky hotel at the end of the day, and the low jazz wafting from it into the streets, combined with the bright lights adorning the whole damn thing alert Mary to exactly what's happening; she spent enough of her childhood trying to escape dances to know one when she sees it.

(It takes literally all the willpower she's got not to beat it right then.)

"Major," She says frantically. "Major, the hotel's throwing a shinding."

He takes an appraising look at the hotel and nods. "Seems like it."

"Well, I'm not really in a dancing mood," She says, hoping he'll get the picture and let her sneak up to her room unseen.

"You and me both, Ace," He says with a dimpled grin, and she hates the way her stomach flutters.

(No, no, no, Mary, she thinks. No, you don't need a man, you don't want to feel like this. You can do it by yourself. You can.)

"Ace?" She inquires, and his eyes go all twinkly and mischievous and she thinks she might be swooning like a dame in the pictures.

"I can just tell you're an ace reporter," He explains. "And it's more fun than Miss Mary Stuart. You wanna make it even, you call me Bash. All the boys overseas did."

"Bash," she says, and the name somehow feels heavy on her tongue, like she's said it a million times before and will say it a million times more. "Why'd they call you that?"

"Better than Pugface," He says, and she snorts.

They're at the entrance to the hotel, now, and the jazz is raising bumps on her skin just like the Maj- Bash, she tells herself in her mind, is.

"So, this is goodbye, Bash?" She says, and she meant for it to be a statement, but somehow he's turned it into a question, like he's turning everything about her, even the things she said, upside down and floppy and crazy like nothing else. "At least until next time?"

"Nah," He says, and her stomach does cartwheels. "Nah, I think we owe ourselves a dance."

"I don't need a dance," She says quickly. "I'm perfectly happy being in debt to myself. Doesn't bother me none."

"Alright, well, you owe me a dance. This is me cashing in."

(Dancing I can do, she tells herself. Dancing is something everyone does, not just debutantes. Dancing can happen.)


But see, what ends up happening is this:

The moment they enter the lobby, the band in the corner starts playing a song Mary only vaguely recognize, but that causes Sebastian's eyes to light up in recognition.

"La Vie en Rose," He says quietly to her, and he places his hands on her waist and draws her in. "You leave me before we dance to this song, I'll never forgive you."

So she doesn't leave him; she rests her head on his chest, and sways as he does, and the little bits of her that are apprehensive of being this close to him are overshadowed by the bits that relish in this closeness.

All they ever do is sway, but it's more than enough.


(He hums the words along, right above her ears, and her whole body vibrates with him.)

(Later that night, she can't fall asleep, so she goes to the tiny window in the room and looks at the stars outside, until the bright lights appear in behind her eyelids, and the sky turns the color of his eyes.)


The rest of the news crew shows up with loud chatter, and the moment Bash so much as smiles at her, Kenna goes bonkers and stirs up a big flame.

"Look at you, ol' Mrs. Grundy," Her friend giggles and pokes her chest playfully. "Becoming some flyboy's sheba. Who'da thunk it?"

"I'm not his sheba, Ken," Mary says sternly. "He's just a good fella, is all."

"Oh, yeah?" Kenna grins. "Soon you'll be spooning, and your ma will toss her knickers and throw a party."

Mary pretends her blushing is 'cause of the thought of her ma sans knickers, and not because she's thinking of spooning with the Major.


Dom calls a team meeting in the room he's splitting with Lucas, and three minutes in, Mary is 1000% done with it all.

"I heard some crazy sonofabitch pulled a shiv on a quiff last night," Lucas speaks into his pillow. "Let's do a story on that, and then we can get out of this country and call it a day."

"No one cares about a quiff full of strike-me-dead, Lu, especially one in a completely different country," Dom says, waving his hands at Lu dramatically. Kenna slicks some lipstick on and smacks her lips.

Mary sighs.

Deeply.

"No one cares about you, Dom, and that's the honest-to-Jesus truth." Kenna says, boredly, and Lucas looks up and gives her a doe-eyed look that makes Mary sigh for a completely different reason.

Lu and Kenna take the third fair, and Dom goes commando and takes the fourth by himself, but it's Mary and Major, Ace and Bash, back together for the fifth one, and by this time it feels like old hat for them.

He makes her laugh as they stroll through the street, and a lady laughs at them and asks them how long they've been together.

She finds herself sort of wishing there was an honest answer she could give. "10 years tomorrow, and I'm two months pregnant", or something of the sort.

There isn't, though, so she settles for holding his hand.


And then, it all blows up in their faces.


The last fair is held in Versailles, and the German delegation doesn't even bother to hide the bitterness on their faces.

The whole time, while Mary's been swooning over flyboys and writing puff pieces on Chanel and diamond exhibitions, the tensions between the international delegations are reaching an all-time, soaring, crazy-ace high.

You can see it in the artwork submitted, in the glances shared, in the things said and unsaid.

It's enough to make you ask yourself what's driving people. What's driving you.

Is it hate? Fear? Love?

Miss Mary Stuart and Major Sebastian Leopold, of the 32nd regiment of the United States Airforce will never know what drove the riot to start; all they will know is the twinkling sound of breaking glass upon the sidewalk.


These are the facts, as she can recall them:

•it's nothing but a silly homemade pipe bomb, designed to cause a very loud sound but no real damage.
• aforementioned pipe bomb goes off not seven feet away from Bash.
• in the far off distance, trails of jazz color the air as the smoke clears.
• She doesn't know who sets the thing off, but she does know she wants to murder whoever it was.


"Four miles," she spits."That's how far away we are from the hotel, mister. Four miles, and you just had to be that close to the bomb."

Bash looks up from where he's leaning on her shoulder and rolls his eyes. "Yes, doll. Obviously I planned this in order to cause you the most amount of discomfort possible. Never mind the fact that the damn thing turned my legs to jelly, it was all apart of the master plan."

"And I don't know about you, mister," Mary continues heatedly. "But let me make this clear, this is not in my job description."

The glare he sends her is playful, but the wobbling of his legs is not.

And they're still four miles from the hotel, in a tiny little train station outside of Versailles that Mary knows absolutely nothing about.

Perfect.

She sighs. "I'd think a flyboy like you would be able to get over a simple thing like a bomb."

"Military isn't what it used to be," he agrees teasingly, but there's an edge that she doesn't want to test.

"I'd think," he continues. "That a supreme journalist like yourself would know her way around a news haven like Versailles."

She laughs quietly, and after a moment sighs. "Secretary."

"What?"

"I'm a journalist's secretary, technically. Even though I do the reporting, I get the information, for Pete's sake, but that bastard gets the credit."

He gazes at her, shocked. "What, you mean you do everything but sign your name on the damn thing?"

"Yep."

"Well," he breathes out. "That's fucked up."


The next train comes in at 7:30, so they wait for it, and by the time it comes around, well, Mary's just a little bit in love with the man sitting next to her.


He walks her up to her room when they're finally back to the hotel, and outside he takes her hands and braids their fingers together against the walls.

She leans up until she's at the most a few centimeters away from his face, so that every inhalation carries with it the scent of him, warm and musky with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg.

"Well, Major," she breathes. "It seems like you've grown on me, finally."

He chuckles a little. "Aw, hell, Ace," he says, and his eyes twinkle. "You ain't seen nothing yet."


When she's finally in her room, Mary squeals for ten minutes and then berates herself for the sheer femininity of it all.


Another word on Miss Mary Stuart:

She doesn't like depending on people. In fact, she hates it.

So, naturally, it's what she has to do all the time.

Her mother, because she's all Mary has, and vice versa. Kenna, because her friend cares about her, which is something she can't say about a lot of people. Even that asshole Burt, because without him she'd have no chance of ever getting published, even if it isn't her name.

So, no, she doesn't like it, and yes, she deals with it anyway (because let's be honest: there's no getting through this life on your own), but at the very top of the Things Mary Is NOT Ready To Deal With list is love. That's a whole new level of dependence, something that's terrifying.

And then there's the Major, who's fingers she can still feel in between hers, whose eyes sparkle like so many stars, things she'd like to hold but which are too far out of her reach, and somehow she thinks that if she had to depend on anyone, well, he wouldn't be so bad.


Next morning her hands are still tingling and he's sitting at the foot of the stairs when she comes down. Somehow, her feet grow light and airy, and she actually runs down the stairs, taking them two, three at a time.

He catches her, his hands landing firmly on her waist, swinging her down and setting her gently on the floor.

"Pleasure to see you again, ma'am," he grins.

"Pleasure's all mine, major," she breathes, and this time the kiss he places is on her lips, not her palm.

In the background, Dave and Lu catcall, and Kenna jumps up and down and squeals, "And she said she wasn't his sheba!"


"What's next, Major?" She breathes into the space between them after they separate.

"Well," he says. "I've always wanted to see Chicago."

She grins, and the sound of his laughter wraps around her heart, and if this is dependence, well, she'll deal with it.

Only for him, though. Only for him.