And so it was, that, many eons ago, andsoitgoeschild prompted me to write a cophine au fic set in the 1940s. This is what became of that prompt: A WWII Spy au. I hope you enjoy it. A million thanks to whatiwrite4, rewindreplayok and cophinaphile for beta-ing! Note: Rated M for violence, sex and mature themes. This is set in wartime, so watch for your triggers.

The radio was silent too long. Delphine Cormier nervously bit her lower lip and pushed her blonde curls aside, so she could move the second earpiece of her headset over her left ear. She checked the dials to make sure she was at the right frequency. Nothing.

It was hot in her flat. Summer was approaching Paris in 1944. Her nerves made her feel the sheen of sweat on her face even more keenly.

She switched to broadcast.

"Bonjour, this is The Swan. Connect 17?"

Back to receiving. She twisted the tuning dial lightly from side to side, hit a sudden blast of static and clutched her earpiece. Before she could turn the volume down, however, there was an abrupt splash of music, fuzzy and distant. She turned the dial again and it came in clearer. A lone clarinet reeled sweetly over a big band. Delphine breathed a quick sigh of relief.

The music faded out and a voice came on.

"Connecting 17, 17 for The Swan. Bonjour,"

Delphine's brow furrowed. This was not the usual voice. This was the voice of a woman — one with less correct French pronunciation than her usual contact.

"Oui, 17. I have seen the bear," Delphine responded.

The line was silent for a moment.

"The…bear…" repeated the voice on the other end, somewhat hesitantly. There was series of noises like pages being shuffled, and the mic being moved around.

"Roger, the bear, gotchya, Swan," the woman finally declared, this time in unexpected English. "Please begin transmission."

Delphine hesitated. The change in voice, the bobbled password, the delay in reception gave her a quick, cold chill. She had to decide quickly if the line had been compromised.

"17," she responded. "Non. I need station confirmation."

"Oh," the woman answered. "Oh, crap. Hold on."

Delphine's fingers hovered over the OFF switch. This was too suspicious. She should cut her connection. But something in the youthful, open sound of the woman's voice on the other end made her pause, give it another chance.

"Shush, dzeh, wollachee, gah," the voice came through again. "And remember, there's no cigarette like a cigarette made from fine, Turkish tobacco."

Delphine's hand went to her forehead. The code was correct, but the woman's voice trying to sound like a regular radio announcer almost cut through her nerves to make her laugh.

"Okay, 17. Swan transmitting," she relayed into the mic, and proceeded to read off a list of paired letters. This went on for some minutes. She tried to be clear and give time for the recipient to get them down, but the longer this broadcast went on the more vulnerable she felt.

"Okay, Swan. Orders," the woman on the other end confirmed. She read out a shorter sequence of letters.

"Mercí, 17," Delphine hesitated once again, concern and curiosity pushing her to ask. "17, who is your announcer? Is Deercatcher there?" Her usual contact had been there from day one. Not hearing his familiar baritone was almost disorienting.

"Negative, Swan. Deercatcher is off the air," the woman responded, after a brief pause, again mixing English with her French. There was something apologetic, sad in her tone.

"He won't be back," she offered, dropping any of the usual military cadence. "This is The Dove."

Delphine blinked. What could have happened to him? And who was this Dove person? She actually sounded more like some American teenager than a British SIS officer. And why "the Dove?" Was that some reference to the "Wrens," the Women's Royal Naval Service? Delphine wasn't sure what to think, or if she should say any more.

There was a sigh on the other end of the line.

"Swan, listen, I'm sorry. I can't tell you any more right now. Just keep your eyes on the chimneys."

"On… the chimneys?" Delphine was truly baffled now.

"Just keep your eyes open. Good work, don't worry, and good luck. Signing off."

Music faded back in. Delphine actually let it run for a few bars before switching off. Every transmission from her Allied contacts had been orderly, carefully coded, and clear until now.

"Merde," she breathed to herself. She was going to have to move her radio set.

Special Agent Cosima Niehaus was going through the file again, head cocked, serious, squinting in thought even though she was wearing her usual eyeglasses. Specialist Scott Smith observed the scattered radio parts around her, the tools, the crumpled maps and dog-eared books.

"How's it going?" he asked, putting a mostly-warm cup of officer's club coffee on her desk. She had been through the file several times, and she was lingering on the photos once more. He had to admit, that Delphine Cormier was quite a doll. In fact, he'd probably trade his locker pin-up of Betty Grable for a good one of her, and Marie McDonald wouldn't even be a contest.

"Oh, hmph," Cosima grunted, flipping the folder closed and picking up the coffee. "Fine. She's just really interesting, this one. She's been in some close calls, and she's gotten pretty high up. Frankly, I'm tickled that we can get voice transmissions with her. I guess if her parents hadn't been shortwave enthusiasts, she'd just be another set of dots and dashes — if she even got a set at all." Cosima cocked her head in the other direction. "She's got a real nice voice, doesn't she?"

Scott couldn't help but grin.

"Yeah, a reeeeal nice voice — and how!"

"Alright, brother, don't get all worked up," Cosima smirked. "You're gonna steam up your glasses. Thing is, I'm kind of worried. I kind of get the sense she isn't the best liar in the world, and things are really startin' to cook in Paris right now, but I don't see any plans to pull her before she gets grilled." She leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of the coffee. "And y'know, von Leekie is no joke."

"Huh, I'll say," Scott answered. "Although I guess we've got a lot of agents in the same boat."

"That's the thing," Cosima pointed out. "We don't. She's not an SOE or OSS agent. She's been in France the whole time. She didn't even try to escape or lie low when the Germans came in. She got herself back to Paris and looked for contacts at her own risk, then went ahead with pulling a high ranking SS officer in, which, being with that kind of creep, has gotta practically be torture itself. That takes crazy guts. But it also means she's not trained in combat and evacuation. She's practically a sitting duck, especially if we're not careful about these transmissions."

"Wow," Scott frowned. He gestured at one of the parts on her desk. "So is that what you're working on with that piano roll? You still want to try that?"

"I know it'll work, even if I make it smaller," Cosima nodded, then interjected as Scott began to open his mouth "and I know the Navy put the kibosh on it, but we're not Navy, are we?"

Scott gave a nervous smile and shook his head. "Nope, I guess not. So you're planning to…"

"Get her operation in defilade, as it were," she answered, with one of her mischievous grins. Scott knew it just might get him in trouble, but he also knew Cosima's plans usually led to some pretty fun hijinks.