Archive of Our Own ^beta

1939

Farrier lit a cigarette, shifting from foot to foot as he watched the storm gather in intensity out the hangar doors. McGregor stood nearby, his eyes flickering over the greenish skies and quick flashes of lightning. Turning to drop his wet poncho onto the ground, Farrier grimaced at the feeling of it between his fingers. “This one’s horrid.”

Each of the men was glad for the storm, in their own ways. It meant a break from the boiling nerves surrounding the thought of war, a break from unending drills and flights. Maybe, if the storm lasted long enough, they’d just be marooned for the rest of time. The beginning and end of the war. Sure, they had the planes, but they needed fuel and if nobody had that, then they were stuck.

“Aye, it is,” McGregor agreed, a smile pulling at his lips as Collins and Zink appeared on the airstrip, hoods up against the winds. In all honesty, the ponchos acted more as sails than anything that protected them against the rain. Farrier’s lips pulled into an affectionate smile as the two made it into the hangar and Collins pulled his hood back, shaking out his wet hair with a loud laugh. It sent a nervous flutter through his chest, one that he did his best to ignore as the two young men made their way to Canfield to report. The flight commander sat on top of one of the spitfire’s wings, looking like a half-drowned cat. Not a fan of storms.

“You’re giving him that look again, Farrier,” McGregor chuckled as Farrier’s head jolted back, quickly exhaling the smoke from his cigarette as he gave the man a quick glare. The Scot raised his hands in a playful surrender motion, looking far too proud of himself. Farrier scowled, sticking his hands into his pockets. “Stop analyzing me, McGregor.”

The man laughed, turning to continue watching the rain. Farrier’s eyes slipped back over to Collins, who had seemingly finished his talk with Canfield and was going through the process of pulling his poncho over his head. He and Zink were slowly making their way over to Farrier and McGregor, chuckling and talking about something only they knew as they folded their ponchos. Farrier’s chest gave the strange flutter again, and he had to stop himself from smiling as the Scot’s gaze turned and caught him.

“There ye are, Farrier,” Collins grinned, slinging an arm around the older man’s shoulder as soon as he was close enough and effectively getting drops of water all over him. Farrier didn’t mind as much as he thought he would’ve, earning himself another pointed look from McGregor. He raised an eyebrow at Collins and the world seemed to melt around them. Leaning close, he let his voice drop to a whisper. “You look lovely tonight, Fortis Two.”

Face flushing, Collins glanced away before turning back to grin cheekily at him. Soaked and shivering, he had to remind himself not to move even closer to Farrier. His hair was dripping down his collar, hitting everything along the way. Never had been a fan of getting water in or on his ears. “I do love ye, ye bastard.”

Farrier grinned victoriously, as if he had won some contest. Maybe he had with how rare it was to hear those words from the younger man. Collins shoved him playfully, earning a chuckle from Zink as Farrier was forced to catch himself on the corner of a table. “All the planes are in and this is your way of celebrating?”

“Cannae let him be a cocky bastard,” Collins grunted, stumbling a bit as Farrier shoved him a bit harder than necessary, abruptly interrupting the conversation. He caught himself on McGregor’s sleeve, nearly landing on his ass and pulling his friend with him. Grinning devilishly up at Farrier, he let McGregor help him up. He rubbed his hands together, then placed them on his thighs in a way that was meant to warm himself up. “Such a bully, ye see, knocking me flat on my ass!”

Farrier’s eyes widened as Collins stood up and raised his hand. Despite the playful look in the man’s eyes and the laughter from their companions, he was certain he was going to get slapped. Then Collins leaned forward, his fingers brushing against Farrier’s lips as he pulled the cigarette from the man’s mouth. He popped it between his lips, grinning and turning, already knowing Farrier would chase after him.

“Oi, you twat!” He shouted, immediately running after the young man, just as he had hoped. Farrier and Collins could hear the sound of laughter behind them as they ran into the storm, the cigarette extinguished almost immediately by the fat raindrops. Farrier was certain that the other men wouldn’t step foot out into the rain, especially after having already taken their ponchos off. Maybe they’d play cards, or maybe darts, or something else to occupy their time. He couldn’t think much, with the flashes of lightning blinding him and wind buffeting him back and forth. He had been soaked through within a few seconds of being outside, but didn’t mind much with the sight of the young man running in front of him. It was a reward instead of a nightmare to be out in the rain with the man he loved.

They rounded the hangar, away from prying eyes, and that might’ve been the start to Farrier’s mistake. Having grown cocky with so much time spent on and around the base, Farrier paid less and less attention. His foot caught on a root, or maybe a bundle of grass— something that caught his foot— near the edge of one of the sheds, sending him flying into a faceplant. Collins turned at the strangled yelp, immediately doubling over with laughter that had him in tears.

Stumbling over and nearly getting thrown into the shed by the force of the wind, Collins reached down to help Farrier to his feet. Much to his surprise, a quick hand grabbed at his ankle and yanked him down. The two wrestled across the grass until Farrier ended up on top, lightly straddling Collins’ waist. Grinning victoriously— a look that he wore often, Collins noted, and one that suited him marvelously— he looked down at the wide-eyed Scotsman. “That’s for calling me a bastard.”

Collins laughed, his head falling back into the grass. His hair was flattened by the rain, framing his face like a halo. They had to shout to hear each other, even as close as they were. Even as the storm slowed just slightly. He looked up, his hands reaching up to the front of Farrier’s uniform, pulling him down until they were only a few inches away from each other. Sitting there for a few moments behind the safety of the sheds, the two men stared at each other and seemed to have a silent conversation with their eyes. Farrier was the one who closed the distance, more than eager to have his lover’s lips against his own.

“I love ye,” Collins mumbled when they pulled away, his eyes sparkling with joy. Farrier smiled, rolling off of him and collapsing onto the ground beside him. Collins reached over and plucked a few strands of wet grass off of the older man’s face. Farrier watched him affectionately, the dwindling rain ignored by both despite how soaked they were. “I love you, too.”

“Do ye think we should get back?” No. He couldn’t describe how much he wanted to sit alone with Collins for as long as they could. It wasn’t even a want; if Farrier loved the man any less than he might’ve been able to say no. A need, maybe, but even that didn’t seem to describe the feeling correctly. Instead, his words formed three words that made him wince. “Up to you.”

Goddammit.

Collins hummed, glancing over at Farrier. “I think I’ll stay for a bit.”

The other man smiled in relief, leaning his head back into the wet grass and sliding his hand over to grab Collins’ in the grass. They laid like that for what felt like forever. Farrier would’ve been content if it did last forever. Even if their forever was just a bit. Just him and Collins in the slowing rain. That seemed like the perfect ending.

Far too soon for his liking, hurried footsteps rounded the shed, and they were forced to pull away from each other. Farrier cast one last longing-filled glance at Collins as he sat up, the younger’s eyes staring in surprise as McGregor rounded the corner.

“Lads, you’re needed back immediately,” McGregor shouted over the rain, although no longer necessary, holding a torch in one hand and pulling his poncho closer with the other. At a closer glance, he was trembling with a face as pale as the dead. If he hadn't been on such a cloud of exhilaration, Farrier would’ve been more worried. The young man was one of the calmest people he knew; it wasn’t often he was visibly worried. Farrier pulled Collins to his feet, and the two drenched men followed McGregor back towards the hangar the other men had gathered in. The atmosphere was much more solemn than before, sending shivers of dread through the men.

There was no talk over what the reason for his obvious shock was, leaving it up to their imagination. Had they been found out? The thought made Farrier’s blood run cold. Collins and Farrier rejoined the silent group, eagerly awaiting an explanation. Canfield had moved from the plane wing to the corner, his hand hovering over the telephone as he stared at nothing with wide eyes.

“What’s going on?” Farrier asked, his eyes glancing between the men. McGregor crossed his arms, his lips pursed and a thin crease appeared between his eyebrows. Even Zink looked ready to throw up, his hand nervously rubbing at his mustache. Farrier turned to Canfield, who was the emblem of seriousness as he turned. “Canfield?”

“England has officially declared war on Germany,” Canfield said from his spot, much paler than he should’ve been. War.  Simple as that, no extra fanfare, no speech with false bravado. Seven words that sent each of the men into stony silence. Farrier’s breath caught in his throat, glancing over at Collins with wide eyes. The hangar grew quiet, horror and dread creeping through every man. Collins’ lips were pursed, his gaze turning to catch sight of Farrier.

“Go back to your rooms, I’ll wait for further instructions,” Canfield seemed to be sinking into work mode, his shoulders tense and his hands clasped behind his back. “Be prepared to head out at any moment, men, especially now that the rain is done.”

Collins glanced over his shoulder, confirming that the rain had, in fact, finished while they were inside. He caught sight of a rainbow, and it was such a strange thing, so very peaceful in the newfound fear of war, that he almost laughed. Maybe it was comforting, to see the world carrying on around them.  Farrier let their hands brush together as they all made their way out of the hangar, back into a new world.

It wasn’t the end.

1944

Farrier curls up in the corner of the solitary confinement cell, shivering in the morning’s chill. He is covered in blood that is not his own. Bloodshot eyes brimming with tears, he blinks and squeezes them shut as if to make himself appear stronger than he felt. In truth, his entire world was crumbling as if made by sand. Gunfire echoed in his head, along with the screams of his companions. How does one forget the screams of hope being killed?

Was Farrier still hopeful? Maybe some small part of him; the parts he’s buried and kept hidden for the past four years. The parts nobody but him ever sees.

Letting out a strangled sob, Farrier pulls his knees to his chest and tries his best to ignore the pain shooting through him. The dream has left him aching for something familiar; he wants to go home, he wants the blonde Scot waiting for him, he wants to be kissed until he forgets all of the pain. He wants the fucking war to end.

Three failed escape attempts.

How many more would he survive?

And how long until he can make it back to Collins?