Author's Note: Come, all you curious lurkers and let us celebrate Day Five of Poker Pair Week 2021! Okay, that opening line was really cringey. Let's start over. Hi, everyone!
The prompt I chose for today is 'dance'.
Warning: Fem!Allen Walker; PokerPair; Aged-Up Character; World War I!AU; Period Typical Attitudes; Possible Historical Inaccuracies; Probable OOC-ness
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to the D. Gray – Man franchise.
Dancing at the Western Front
-xXx-
The reserve trench near Neuve-Chapelle, France
April 6th, 1918
"There we go," Ellen murmured under her breath, giving the spanner one last turn until the new sparking plug was completely secure within one of many plug-specific holes in the T-head engine. After removing the socket and spanner and reattaching the ignition coil, the young mechanic gave one more visual scan of the engine proper before she carefully removed her head from the hidden compartment within the FWD Model B truck. "I think that's it," she told the other mechanic present. "Unless you can think of anything that we might have missed, Ms. Maria."
Maria Thrussell, an older and quite taller woman wearing the same uniform as Ellen, also gave the intricate collection of sparking plugs, springs, wires, and other engine parts a searching look with beautiful green eyes. "Hmm… no, not really. We've replaced all the old worn sparking plugs and wiped off excess oil on the remaining ones, checked the valve springs, tightened some loose nuts- we even took the liberty of flushing out the radiator, and that was more to nip any upcoming overboiling in the bud than to fix the engine misfiring." A slender eyebrow perked up and full lips formed an amused smile as she added, "There isn't much left for us mechanics to do. All that's left is seeing whether the original problem has been resolved."
"All right, Ms. Maria," Ellen agreed before turning to address the soldier nervously but patiently standing by the hand crank. "If you would please, Private Charles."
Private Charles nodded in response, then bent down and pushed on the crank until it was all the way in. With that accomplished, the older man then began the task of cranking the engine by turning the crank's handle in a south-to-north hemisphere before going in reverse and starting the process all over again. Now, while he was a heavyset man around his forties, it still took him a considerable amount of effort for him to move the piece of metal. Nonetheless, after several turns and a few grunts, his diligence was rewarded by the sound of the engine coming to life.
Ellen gave a sigh of relief as she heard the familiar hum emanating from the truck. "Well, now," the young woman grinned at the private's whoop of joy, "it looks like you have nothing more to worry about this vehicle, Private Charles."
Charles laughed and gave the radiator a solid pat. "I'll say! The engine's sounds good as new. Now I can finally make it to the supply drop without losing too much time!" The older man quickly went to the driver's side and climbed onto its leather seat.
"And that's wonderful," Maria replied, her melodic voice stopping him from grabbing the hand brake keeping the truck in place. Then the older woman held up the panel which used to cover the engine from view and said, "But before you leave, let us put this back where it belongs."
"Er… right…"
Ellen held back a giggle at the private's embarrassed flush and moved to help Maria with the panel. The two women quickly screwed the piece of metal back onto the truck, then took a step back, gathered up their packs and toolbox, and signaled via salutes that he was now free to drive off.
Giving a nod in their direction, Private Charles took hold of the brake and released it before fiddling around with the gear levers and clutch to switch to a gear more appropriate for the uneven roads ahead. The soldier then carefully applied pressure to the gas pedal with his foot and made the chattering vehicle begin to move forward without shooting off and landing in a trench. Simultaneously he turned the steering wheel, perpendicular to his chest, to the left, performing a U-turn that oriented the truck in the same manner as a few of its brethren and much more numerous horse-drawn wagons traveling away from the front. Their common goal? To fetch essential ammunition and other supplies shipped by rail from the supply drop-off point.
"Thanks again, loves!" the private cheerfully shouted as he accelerated the truck towards the long trail of horses and machines. Soon enough he and his truck joined them; yet another part of the Allies' logistics artery that kept war against the Central Powers going.
Ellen and Maria waved goodbye for a few more seconds before the younger turned to her elder and smiled. "Well, that was rather fortunate for Private Charles; having his impromptu passengers end up being the ones who fix his truck's sudden inability to produce a spark. It wasn't what I had in mind, though."
Maria released an amused chuckle and mused, "You were hoping for something more dramatic, then? Like us trying to fix the axles while German shells rain all around us?"
Though that last one wasn't really a hypothetical scenario for them. As members of the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps, the two women had served alongside British and other Allied soldiers at multiple and dangerous places within France and Flanders. They, along with thousands of other women from the British Isles, were no strangers to risking their lives for king and country. From clerks keeping track of paperwork to cooks using any food on hand to feed the men, all WAAC members were at risk of being killed by bullets or artillery bombardments. And even though the Corps was formed a little over a year ago, several members had already given up their lives to the cause.
But while such occurrences were always tragic, it did nothing to dissuade the survivors and new arrivals from doing their duty.
"Of course not," the silver-gray-eyed mechanic replied, cleaning her hands with a rag. "I simply assumed that our first day at a new location would begin with meeting new people who hail from Portugal and can speak Portuguese."
Up until yesterday, Ellen and Maria were kept at the sections of the front manned by the British Second Army stationed in Flanders, with occasional visits to the Belgian Army to render needed assistance. Today, though, was a bit different. Instead of fixing military automobiles near Ypres, the mechanics had been told by their forewoman and Unit Administrator Hevlaska Lvellie that not only they were being transferred to the location of the First Army, but they were also stopping by the eleven-kilometer strip of front which the Portuguese Expeditionary Corps Second Division controlled to conduct needed repairs.
An unusual order, yes – particularly since they had to forgo the customary escort by the Royal Military Police to the site, due to all members being too busy with investigating crimes, handling prisoners of war, or trying to bring traffic order to Ypres' heavily shelled streets to be spared. But the Portuguese army was under temporary command of the British XI Corps. As such, the unit administrator stressed it was imperative that the vehicles operated by their ally remained in working condition until their withdrawal from the front. And any Allied military vehicles arriving with supplies or news would be serviced too, of course.
"And that's important, because…?" the green-eyed woman questioned as she put on her until then forgotten helmet, shielding most of her raven hair once more. Technically, she should have never taken off that piece of gear in the first place. But when one had to stick their head in an enclosed space to check an engine, sometimes it was best not to wear something with a brim that could poke your companion in the eye – and vice versa.
Certain that her hands were now free of oil, Ellen hung the used rag on her arm, next to the strap attached to her helmet, that also and fished out an old, slightly yellowed pamphlet that had been folded in half to better fit in her pocket. She unfolded it to reveal a front panel covered with Portuguese words and a dancing couple frozen amid their activity by some unknown photographer. Pointing at the sole word in the largest font, she revealed her reason. "This. I would like their help with translating this guide to the maxixe."
"'Maxixe'?" Maria frowned as she pronounced the foreign word, trying to remember if she had ever heard of it. "Wait, isn't that the Brazilian Tango? But you already know how to do that, Ellen."
"The version taught by most English ragtime manuals, yes," Ellen corrected as she opened the pamphlet, "but this teaches the reader how to perform the original, more spirited dance." A glance down at a block of text next to the step diagram triggered a sigh as she added on, "Well, those who know how to read Portuguese, at least. For others, they must make do with trying to decipher the illustrations. And not all of them are straight forward."
The older mechanic nodded as she also looked at the printed dance steps. They certainly appeared to be more complicated than those performed in European dance halls.
'Wait a minute…' the older woman's green eyes widened with realization. 'Dance halls… could it be…?' She looked back at her younger friend and asked, "Does this have anything to do with the YMCA-sponsored dance that Private Charles told us on the drive to here?"
A light pink blush appeared on pale cheeks before Ellen sheepishly looked to the side and said, "Yes…?"
Maria felt her lips twitch up into a smile in response to the other's embarrassment. Ellen often acted older than her twenty-one years, so her carrying around a dance pamphlet and using it for a dance they had just learned about was rather endearing. "Honestly, I'm surprised they're holding a dance in Neuve-Chapelle," she mused with a hum as her eyes wandered over to the pamphlet once more. "Normally those are only reserved for the larger cities, like Paris, where there are plenty of old dance halls to use if their own social centres aren't large enough."
"Perhaps they managed to find a spacious barn, or another suitable space that could be used for dancing," the silver-gray-eyed mechanic reasoned as she temporarily tucked the pamphlet into the crook of her arm before pocketing the rag and picking up her own pack. A quick shuffle of all items she possessed resulted in her pack resting on her back, and her helmet and pamphlet in pale hands. "Or maybe the people running the YMCA hut decided that the men need more physical action than sports events. It would certainly give us WAAC members an opportunity to spend time with young men that doesn't involve wrenches and grease."
"Perhaps. But isn't the dance supposed to be held a few days from now? Even if you do manage to persuade a soldier here to translate the pamphlet for you, we'll have to go straight to whichever Nissan hut will be assigned to us after completing our work here. While we can still attend the dance, there'll be very little time for you to practice those new dance steps," Maria kindly warned as she slipped on her pack. She didn't want to discourage her normally work-focused younger friend from looking forward to the dance. But if there was one youthful folly that she thought the other female possessed, it was the occasional tendency to overestimate how much she could accomplish in a tiny space of time.
Ellen understood Maria's point. Still, a stubborn part of her compelled her to say, "Well, it wouldn't hurt to at least try. And even if I can't use the moves tonight, the translation could lead to a Portuguese language lesson or two. I've always wanted to learn it."
Silver-grey was locked with green, until the owner of the latter shook her head while giving out a bemused smile. Before the young woman could put away her pamphlet and place her helmet back on her head, however, she noticed the smile slip off her older friend's face. "What is it?" she asked with concern.
The green-eyed mechanic let out a slightly exasperated sigh. "Well, if it's a translation and language lessons you want," she wryly commented while staring at some point over Ellen's shoulder, "you can start searching for a willing person among the crowd behind us."
'Crowd?'
Curiosity now piqued; the young mechanic turned her head and saw that there was indeed a crowd of men several feet behind her. While British soldiers wore khaki-colored uniforms and the French dressed in horizon blue, these men were outfitted in dull grey tunics and trousers without any of the adornments that she recognized as belonging to officers. The minimal amount of dirt on said clothing indicated that they had recently taken advantage of being stationed at the reserve trench to do laundry with clean water and reduced chance of death by shelling/sniping. And while most of the Portuguese were standing on the ground, a few heads on the outskirts also popped out of a hidden trench to catch a look.
The most striking detail, however, was how all members of the group just stared at the two women.
"Why are they looking at us like that?" Ellen whispered at Maria, not looking away from the men's steadfast gazes. "Do we have something on our faces?" A pale hand twitched, but she forced herself not to give in to the urge to check. A WAAC member must always maintain dignity, the supervisors always emphasized.
A few seconds passed before the older mechanic let out a rather cynical sigh. "It's not our faces that have caught their attention," she softly revealed, "but rather lower anatomical features."
"Oh!" Silver-gray eyes widened with shock, then took a more careful look at the Portuguese soldiers. Indeed, several of the men's glances were directed downwards to the area between the women's shoulders and knees. Some focused solely on ogling Maria's large bosom and flared hips, while others preferred her own slimmer yet gently curved physique.
Now, not all the Portuguese soldiers shamelessly ogled the duo's womanly assets. Others had disbelieving or bewildered expressions stuck on their faces. Those were easier to ignore because the WAAC members already knew what triggered them – the public demonstration of women successful completing 'men's' work. But a significant proportion of male gazes glued to their persons weren't filled with shock or confusion. No, what flickered within their eyes was lust and desire for female company.
One soldier muttered a string of unknown words to the others after tilting his head in the taller mechanic's direction, which prompted a round of laughter from everyone else. Their eyes were still pinned onto the women, but now felt more leering when paired with smirks and grins. It was if they were trying to divine what was hiding behind tailored jackets and coat dresses.
"I guess men will be men, no matter their homeland," the green-eyed woman opined with a weary note of acceptance, which made Ellen's heart ache with sympathy. Before the war and joining the WAAC, Maria had been a popular music hall singer who toured three continents and dazzled audiences with both her voice and beauty. Along with fame, however, had also regularly came unwanted leers and advances from the male half of the population. One particularly horrible moment she shared with her younger friend had featured a sweaty and overweight manager, a dinghy red velvet sofa, and a command for the then seventeen-year-old to sit on his lap sans drawers. All for the chance to perform as a solo singer rather than a mere chorus girl.
The younger mechanic felt her temper flare while remembering that. 'What gave that pig the right to talk about Ms. Maria that way?' she rhetorically questioned herself, for the answer was already known. It was the same reason why the Portuguese soldiers were still looking at her and her friend as though they were mere objects.
Just like with several French soldiers.
And Canadians.
And Americans.
And soldiers from their own homeland.
The until now neglected helmet was finally placed upon a fair head of hair, its wide brim casting shadows that enveloped sharp silver-grey eyes. "Best to correct that, then."
"Hmm? Did you say something, Ellen?" the raven-haired woman absently asked, still distracted by her own thoughts. That changed, however, once she noticed her younger friend starting to briskly walk away from her… and right towards the men. A brief moment of confusion was replaced with a growing sense of apprehension. She hissed out to the other, "Wait, what are you- come back here!"
The twenty-year-old ignored her elder's plea and continued her march. As she got closer to the soldiers, she noted how those cocky expressions gradually dropped off their faces to be replaced with confusion and surprise. A smirk of her own threatened to appear at that point. 'Didn't expect me to try for a confrontation now, did you?'
Fighting down her mirth, Ellen maintained a stoic visage as she stopped in front of the crowd of men. Her head slowly turned in both directions to take in them all, the gathering was that large.
But intimidation was the last thing the young mechanic was feeling. Closer inspection now finished, she looked straight at the man in front of her – the one who had said something about Maria earlier – with head held up high and eyes never wavering, and saluted them before asking in a strong clear voice, "Is there a problem here, sir?"
The Portuguese soldier and his comrades just blinked in confusion. At first the young woman had thought they had been momentarily stunned by her bold stride or salute. The latter must have especially strange for them; even with the British troops, there were still some not used to having women salute them. Then an important question popped into her mind: do these men understand English?
'Well, according to Cross, British officers did train them when they first arrived in France. Surely, they must have picked up some English during those sessions,' the silver-grey-eyed woman reasoned to herself. But further thought had her amending, 'then again, that wouldn't have necessarily lead to being able to conduct conversations with English speakers.'
Maria, meanwhile, had managed to catch up with the twenty-year-old after scooping up their toolbox. She stood next to the other and quietly whispered into her ear, "You don't have to do this, Ellen. Just let it go so that we can find where headquarters is to meet with an officer."
"It won't take long. I just want to clear up any misunderstandings," the fair-haired woman reassured her partner. Ignoring the responding groan, she decided to try using French next. The Portuguese had been fighting in France for about a year now. And it was a Romance language like their native tongue. There had to be some linguistic similarities… right?
With deliberately slow pronunciation, as her English accent still sometimes caused trouble when she spoke French, Ellen once again addressed the men. "Excuse me, gentlemen. Do you have a problem with us?"
This time, a response was given.
"That depends, moça."
In accented, but fluent English.
Forcing back a blink of surprise, the women turned their heads in the direction of where the voice came from. Silver-grey and green eyes drifted to the far-right side of the group, which was also the place furthest from themselves. The men occupying that section exchanged quick glances but made no move that narrowed down exactly who the speaker was.
"Depends on what, sir?" the younger mechanic ventured as both she and her older partner kept observation.
A chuckle floated through the air. But it hadn't been released from the mouths of the men the WAAC members could see, nor did it come from the other side or behind. That meant the only logical explanation was-
"On what you define as a 'problem'."
After that train of thought was cut off by a rather casual drawl, a man wearing a peaked cap and an amused grin peeked over the trench and in between the two poles of a hidden ladder. Since most trenches were at least eight feet deep, the fair-haired woman assumed that he was standing on the bottom rungs.
The men standing closest to the newcomer immediately stood at attention and saluted, prompting those further down the line to do the same. If the silver braid and chinstrap decorating his cap didn't already signal that he wasn't a common soldier, the others' reactions.
Ellen and Maria turned around to salute the newly revealed officer, though their movements were not as jerky as the Portuguese soldiers had been, and their gazes didn't go off onto the distant horizon. Instead, they were locked onto the higher-ranked stranger who provided a cheery contrast to his sober (assumed) subordinates. "Good afternoon, sir," they both greeted in voices softer than outright yells, but still louder than their normal speaking volume.
They were certainly loud enough to make the soldier the younger mechanic had tried to question wince. Not that she was paying him much attention, of course.
The officer, on the other hand, grew even more amused by the women's actions. "If I say, 'At ease', will you do so?" he questioned with his grin still present.
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, then. At ease."
The female duo smoothly lowered their respective arms and slightly relaxed their posture. "You mean there's more than one definition, sir?" the shorter woman prompted, her right eyebrow quirking up as well. It might not have been the most correct way to get the officer to explain himself further, and she wouldn't have used it against any other high-ranking military man. However, his informal demeanor demonstrated so far implied, at least to her, that he wouldn't be bothered by her questions.
A hunch that was soon affirmed by what happened next.
"Two, to be exact," the man easily responded, placing both hands on either side of the ladder before swiftly climbing up to join the others. During his ascension and stroll, the fair-haired mechanic suddenly noticed that his chest wasn't properly covered by a greatcoat or even a tunic. Instead, two arms of the latter were wrapped around his trim waist and tied into a simple knot. That left the items normally concealed by the tunic – a brown belt and grey shirt – to be exposed to the world. And they weren't the only things left at the mercy of the early April weather. For whatever unknown reason, he had saw fit to unbutton his cuffs and roll the long sleeves up to his elbows. Now finely sculpted forearms thicker than her own were on display.
'Not that I should be dwelling over that insignificant fact,' the twenty-year-old scolded herself while making sure her calm facial expression didn't change. 'Nor his rather broad shoulders. Or his tall height.'
Once the officer reached the crowd, he stopped close to the women and removed his hat in greeting. The gesture revealed even more aesthetically pleasing features, such as thick wavy hair the color of India ink, golden eyes, and a beauty mark taking residence under the right corner of his left eye, to tempt her to lose focus. The top unfastened buttons revealing a sliver of more skin – really, did the man have no concern for his health? – didn't help either. "I'm Capitão Tyki Mikk, by the way," he introduced himself.