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The night of their wedding, after the ceremony and dinner and the reception and the waves of well wishes, Harry closes the door to their hotel room and just watches Jean walk around the room in her pretty white dress.
"You're staring, Mr. Crosby," she says without looking behind her.
"I'm staring at Mrs. Crosby," Harry replies. The way she turns and her skirt swirls and she smiles at him? He's going to remember that forever. "You like being Mrs. Crosby?"
"So far," she says and seems to glide across the room to grab him by the lapels of his dress uniform and pull him into a kiss that makes him moan and grab her waist.
"Jean," he breathes when she pulls away. She touches his cheeks, and he leans in, but she yawns hugely, and then he's yawning too, and then they're giggling and yawning and stumbling towards the bed to sit next to each other.
"I hate to say it—" Jean says, cutting off to yawn again.
"It'd be a real shame if we'd waited until tonight," Harry replies, and Jean smacks his knee in reprimand. He laughs and crowds her, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck. "What? It's just us in here. No one to overhear that you put out."
Jean bites his ear a little meanly. "You're the one who whimpered the first time," she says. "And the second."
"And every time since," Harry says, which isn't enitrley true but makes her laugh and throw her head back, so he dives in again, sucking lightly behind her ear.
"Oh, Bing," she murmurs and runs her fingers through his hair, breaking up his Brylcreem a little. "We can sleep together the whole night and not worry about getting caught."
Harry hums in agreement and pulls away to look at her. She's radiant as always, but the tiredness in her eyes can't be missed. He kisses the tip of her nose. "Pajamas?" he asks. "I'll put on the radio. I think we still have some gin."
"Will you call down for ice?" Jean asks, batting her lashes.
"Anything for my wife," Harry says, and she beams and snuggles into him for a moment before standing up.
"Unzip me, please," she says.
Harry does so, unhooking her bra as well. He kisses the back of her neck, then walks to the phone and calls the desk. He asks for ice and a bottle of champagne.
"You said we have gin," Jean says as Harry turns around. She's stripped down to her underwear, sitting on the stool in front of the vanity to undo her stockings from her garters.
"We do," Harry says. "But it's our wedding night."
"Romantic," Jean teases.
Harry shrugs. It's true. He starts to strip down as well, stopping at his undershirt and slacks so he's still decent enough to open the door for the ice and champagne. He sits on the bed and watches Jean start to pull hairpins free. She's been in a complicated updo all day that Harry's been afraid to touch. Watching her hair come down, he feels something in him loosen and relax after a long, wonderful day.
There's a knock on the door, and Harry answers it, accepting the ice and champagne. He hands the bottle to Jean to open, forever nervous he's going to break something if the cork pops in the wrong direction. He finishes stripping down and gets into his pajamas, then takes the open bottle from her and pours it into their water glasses as she gets into her nightgown. It's one he's seen before, a dark green satin with a lace panel under her breasts that shows her skin.
"You're beautiful," he says.
Jean giggles, glancing at herself in the mirror. Her hair's a bird's nest of curls and waves. "Does it suit, do you think?"
Harry hands her a glass of champagne and holds up his own. "To my wife," he says. "Who will always be the most beautiful woman I see."
"Bing," she practically purrs. "To my wonderful husband. Who will always be the most handsome man in the world."
Harry smiles as they tap their glasses together. He takes a sip of champagne and watches the way she wrinkles her nose at her own first drink. She always wrinkles her nose drinking champagne. He loves it.
Jean sits back on the stool and picks up her brush. She yawns again, as large as the first one. She slumps for a moment. "Bing," she says, dragging out the 'g'.
Harry chuckles and steps forward, setting his own glass next to hers. "What can I do?" he asks.
She holds up her brush and looks at him in the mirror. "Could you brush my hair out? I feel like I can barely lift my arms."
Harry kisses the crown of her head and takes the brush. "Of course," he says. "I'd love to."
Jean smiles at him and reaches for her champagne again, keeping her head straight as Harry starts to brush. He'll brush her hair, and they'll drink the champagne, and maybe they'll slow dance to the radio, Harry thinks. They won't have sex tonight, but that's fine by him. They can fall asleep together without fear of getting caught, like Jean said, and in the morning, he's sure he can wake her up with a few kisses and just the right touch, and they can start the first full day of their marriage making love for as long as they want.
"You've got that look, Bing," Jean says.
He glances up from where he's holding a lock of her hair, carefully brushing it out from bottom to top to catch any tangles without pulling too hard. "I am brushing the hair of a beautiful woman who decided to marry me," he says. "Of course I've got that look."
Jean leans against him for a moment. "Would you brush my hair every night if I asked?"
"Yes," Harry answers without hesitation. "Every night I could," he adds because he can't help it. He's only got two more days on his pass, then it's back to training and then overseas.
"Binger, look at me," Jean says.
Harry looks at her.
"When you come home from it all, I'll be here. Me and all this hair."
Harry smiles at her and touches her cheek. "I love you, Jean Crosby," he says. "I love you forever."
"Love you forever, too," Jean replies, then pulls his hand from her hair so she can kiss his knuckles.
Harry closes his eyes as she squeezes his hand, then opens them again and starts brushing again. Jean hums under her breath and rocks back and forth a little to the tune. Harry brushes her hair.