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Chapter Text

Glory, that’s what the Nazis promised Sebastian when he enlisted in Görrings air force. The next Red Baron, another mythological flying ace. Sebastian would finally have his mythos outside his family. They would see his strength. His bravery. There was nothing they could do to stop him. 

He took to flight like he’d been starved before. Sure, Sebastian was a remarkable mechanic and navigator, but in flight, everyone could see true talents. It wasn’t a surprise when he was given a Messerschmidt and a crew of his own. Even if his family wanted to stop him, they couldn’t now. 

The first few years, before the war began, were the best. More often than not, Sebastian was able to take his boys up into the blue over Saxony and just fly. It didn’t matter if they practiced any training, they weren’t on earth anymore. Anything below was insignificant. In the air, there was only him and his crew, battling gravity, marvelling at the rolling hills and meandering rivers. It was a dream. 

Of course, all dreams had to come to an end. 

Strategic bombing; that’s how it was introduced. There was no difference between government and civilian targets in Poland. It took all of Sebastian’s mental power not to think of the destruction below. It was probably for the better that he couldn't see the decimated cities and towns and villages, lest he start thinking about how these were once his people too. 

Still, the war went on and the skies welcomed him with open arms. In the air, he could forget. In the air, he didn’t have to think about the horrors below. He didn’t have the time. Sometimes Sebastian wished he could stay in the air forever, but nothing in the world could fly for that long. Even the birds Roderich often talked about with envy could only stay airborne for so long. 

On the ground, he was subject to horrors beyond his comprehension. Thousands of people, crammed into train cars, mothers pulling their dead children from the rubble of allied bombs wailing and begging god for retribution, the bruises and cuts on Roderich’s face after Johann’s rages, knowing they paled in comparison to those hidden beneath his clothes. On the ground, he couldn’t remember why he supported the war in the first place. On the ground, all he could feel was the overwhelming guilt and self hatred that not even Laura could replace. She was trying, he knew that, but she didn’t understand. What he saw, no one could ever understand unless they’d seen it for himself. Perhaps Johann was right in the end, the Luftwaffe is suicide. 

Excitement, that was all Alfred could feel when the war finally came to his doorstep. Finally, a chance to get back in the pilot’s seat and have another go at the Gerries. The planes were bigger. The planes were faster. The planes were better. How could he possibly feel anything else? And now, with ground training complete, he’d been handed the keys to a shiny and new B-17 and a crew that followed his every command. And if that hadn’t been enough, he was a Lieutenant Colonel with an entire wing under his command.

Matthew had kept his lips tight whenever he asked what it was really like up there. If it had been anyone else, he would have been convinced it was so horrible that no words could describe it, but it had been Matthew. He always smiled and said “you’ll see when you finally get your lazy ass up there” and that was the end of it. If Matthew could smile, then it couldn’t be any worse than anything he’d seen before. 

He’d been in fantastic dog fights during the Great War and always came out okay, if not a little battered and bloody, but this was war, and that’s what war was. So long as you came out with your limbs intact and your wits about, you’d always be fine in the long run. He learned that the hard way when Wyatt decided he would be better off alone. At least it prepared him for the trenches enough to keep his limbs and wits, which was more than could be said for legions of men. But this would be different. There would be no more trenches. This was warfare he was well acquainted with. This was going back to his roots. He spared a moment’s thought to the revolution and the men he tried every day to make proud, even though they were all dead over 100 years by now. He missed them, sure, but he understood they were better off now. 

Flying over the oceans he’d only ever sailed on before, he didn’t feel as small as the Atlantic always made him feel. For the first time in his life, he could see for miles and miles before him and knew that they would see land sooner rather than later. Greenland to the North of Ireland. Ireland to the eastern coasts of England where he would be stationed at RAF Coltishall. He could only hope to be close to Matthew. He had no idea where he was stationed. He didn’t even know what kind of plane he flew. Arthur explained it to him a thousand times, “loose lips sink ships”, but he could never understand how knowing what plane to look for in the sky, and knowing Matthew was up there with him, was a problem. Arthur never had a response to that one. It was like he forgot what it was to be a brother and not the world’s master.

“Nav to pilot, we’ll be heading up on Ireland in a few minutes.” 

“Copy that. Pilot to crew, we’re dropping below 10,000 feet, masks off boys.” 

Give ‘Em Blue Bells shutters in excitement along with the crew as the coast of Ireland rolled into view. Saoirse always told him about the rolling emerald hills, but he didn’t believe her until he saw it for himself through the clouds. He follows his navigator’s orders with a “Wilco” and soon they’re landing and it’s raining. They slide a little on the landing, but Alfred is a seasoned pilot with a war already under his belt. He could land in a blizzard if he had to. 

There was a routine here. Matthew appreciated it. The more he had to do, the less he had to think about the skies and the men he’d seen blow up. Fly days were good days. They woke up from whatever nightmare trench his brain could find with a flashlight in his eyes and a sad, almost apologetic tone, “you’re flying tonight, Major.”

Without a second thought, he rolled out of bed, shuffled into his flight gear, and made his way to the briefing, where Arthur would look him in the eyes and tell him how he was expected to nearly die that evening. Tonight was to be a milk run, according to the RAF brass. All they had to do was escort their bombers over the channel and into enemy territory as far as they could bear before turning back and limping back to RAF Marham on fumes. They had no clue what they were talking about. If they were lucky enough to make it through the flak in the pitch, then they had to master the enemy fighters. And that, of course, did nothing to factor in the Nazi bomb raids they would inevitably run into. 

He went to his second, far more tedious briefing, wherein he learned exactly how the Hawks were to be organised, knowing god damn well they would fall out of formation the minute enemy fighters appeared. They weren’t bombers, they didn’t need each other to protect themselves. Tight formations only did so much against the waspish patterns of the Luftwaffe. 

“Now let's go get those Gerries!” Arthur shouted over the cheers. What did he know? He’d never stepped foot in a plane let alone seen what the real combat looked like. He was Top Brass. He planned the missions. He never learned that the pilots weren’t calling the Luftwaffe Gerries. He almost had too much respect for them to do that. In the cold blue, bravery was rewarded and admired. He would know, Sebastian escorted him back to the channel once in his bomber. Matthew still couldn’t figure out why Sebastian went out of his way to help the enemy, but he didn’t end up in the Stallag that night, and for that he was grateful. There was no sense in looking for teeth, or at least, that’s what Wyatt would have said. 

In the seat of his Hawk, Matthew finally felt like himself. He was in control, not his racing thoughts and freakish nightmares that he swore to Francis and Arthur went away years ago. He looked up at the darkening, grey skies and knew it was now or never. He flipped the final switches and pumped the engines to life. The roar flooded his system with adrenaline and he pulled forward. He was leading today. He waited for the flare and took a deep breath. His hand on the throttle saw the double green before his brain, and suddenly he was lifting off the ground and heading towards the coast, the bombers he was tasked to protect, and the camouflaged flak he knew not everyone would survive. 

Alfred herds his crew into their bunk and waits for them to sleep before slipping out to look at the foreign stars, only to be surprised when they were almost in the same spot as they were in his backyard on the Cape. He supposed he should have expected it. 

There was a strange peace for him in Ireland. One that almost felt like being home even though home was technically thousands of miles away. He wondered if Dublin and Belfast had the same thrum as Boston or if he was just imagining a connection that did not exist. 

“You alright there, lad? Ye lost?” 

“No. I’m alright…” 

“Yer American?” 

“Yeah… what gave it away?”

“Yer accent.” 

Alfred opened and closed his mouth. He was a foreigner here. He was the one with the accent. Was this how Saoirse, Tolys, and Lovino felt in Manhattan? Of course it was. 

“You one of them?” The Irishman pointed to the field of B-17s collecting evening dew. 

“Sightseeing before we get to England tomorrow.” 

“Best not mention those people around ‘ere. The bastards don’t have many friendly faces in these parts.” 

Alfred nodded and stared at his feet. “I believe in a free and united Ireland, you know.” He had no idea why he said it, but it felt like it needed to be said. “‘S not right to divide a nation like that.” 

The man nodded but said nothing more. He nodded at him goodnight and turned back the way he came, probably heading home, leaving Alfred in the light rainfall.

They weren’t supposed to spend the night in wherever the hell Ireland, but when the 8th sent word that the Brits were running a night raid and needed the runway, they were left with no choice. He had half the mind to go back to the makeshift officer’s lounge to listen to the radio, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. In the low light, he could barely make out the forts against the trees. He wondered if Matthew was a part of this mission. He wondered if they would be stationed at the same base, or at least close if he could get his hands on a pass. At least he knew his brother was still alive. Or at least he hoped he was. 

There was nothing quite like scrambling while running on no sleep. He couldn’t help but think about how he was technically supposed to be on his way back to Berlin by now, but the coastal bases reported Hawks and Halifaxes crossing the channel. His date with Laura would have to wait… again. They needed pilots and he could fly any plane they put in front of him. Anything to make sure they didn’t make it to Berlin. He sent a prayer to whatever god was listening–although, he was beginning to believe that either God was dead or never existed in the first place–and climbed into the cockpit of his Bf 110. His crew rattled off their preflight, and before Sebastian knew it, they were in the air and heading towards the Belgian border. There was no need to feel guilty this time, he wasn’t the one dropping bombs. The Belgian people were his people too, now. It was his duty to protect them. That’s why he joined up in the first place, to help protect his family. 

Secretly, Sebastian hoped he would see Matthew up there and shoot him down once and for all. He’d escorted him back to safety only to be shot out of the sky the very next flight. He was lucky Belgium was friendly territory or he would have been well and truly fucked. Since then, there was no more mercy for the Canadian. There was no honour in Matthew, Sebastian was sure of that now. He would take joy in shooting him down and hunting him like a trophy. Anything to avenge his brother.

“Lights! 12 o’clock low,” his radioman said. 

“Alright boys, let’s give ‘em hell.”

Matthew’s head was on a swivel. The Nazis were out there somewhere, waiting to descend like a pack of dogs. He knew the moment the flak slowed that their supposed milk run would be anything but. He could hear talking on the radio, but he paid it no mind. It was only bombers trying to pull themselves into tighter formations to defend themselves from the Germans. He steered clear of the Halifaxes and circled above, waiting. 

And waiting. 

And waiting.

Until he saw it. A burst of machine gun fire from above. “Enemies 12 o’clock high!” 

Like a swarm the Hawks flew at the Messerschmitts guns blazing. All he could hear was the pop of gunfire as he swerved and dove through the mess of German fighters. He could feel the bullets ripping holes in his wings and fuselage, but he didn’t back down. He couldn’t. The Halifaxes needed as much help as he could give them before being forced to turn back. They were the distraction the bombers so desperately needed to make it to the IP. 

He watched the plane next to him fall from the sky. No shoot. Only fire. He hoped it was a German, but he knew it probably wasn’t. It was too dark to make it out. They would find out when they limped back to base. He kept shooting and shouting until he saw it. 

The Messer he’d come to know so well. His favourite enemy. He grinned to himself and pulled up underneath him, guns blazing. Matthew couldn’t see what he was hitting, but he could hear he was hitting something. He climbed up behind the German and dove back down in front of him, shooting bullets into the cockpit until the glass broke. Now Sebastian would be forced back. He shot at their engines for good measure as he watched the Halifaxes disappear into the night.

“Alright boys, let’s go home.” 

The pilots jeered and turned back, picking off anyone unlucky enough to fall into range. All Matthew could do was pray no one else went down in the flak or stalled out over the channel. 

Sebastian’s tail gunner and radio man were dead. His entire crew was dead, and it was Matthew who killed them. He knew it was him when the bastard dove in front of him, guns blazing, shattering the glass and his heart. 

He wanted to go after them. Force Matthew to face him. Force Matthew to watch him lay waste to his group before shooting him out of the sky until he burned in an inferno. But he knew he couldn’t. He needed to make a choice - stay up and fight or turn back to Gardelegen. 

His crew was dead and he wanted revenge. Damn the gaping hole in the nose of the plane.

Without second thought, Sebastian turned back towards the Halifaxes and prayed he could catch up before they dropped their bombs. If not, at least shoot a few down for the sake of his own bloodlust. 

He watched his fuel closely as he moved deeper into Germany. The hole in the nose was causing a drag; try as he might, he couldn’t catch up to the Halifaxes. They were too far ahead, until they practically melted into darkness. Where the fuck had they gone? His radio was silent and he couldn’t see another plane for miles. If his radio man was still alive, he’d know for certain. For all he knew, he was alone and too close to Switzerland for his own safety. If his gunner was still kicking, he’d know for certain. He looked to the stars and slowly made his way home, trying to ignore the smell of the corpses behind and the rapidly depleting fuel tank. 

Sebastian made it halfway back to Gardelegen before he saw it. Fires below, faint lights in the distance. Too far to catch up to. He cursed and sent bullets their way anyway, knowing they would do nothing but fall to the ground. He wondered what happened to those bullets… if they were fast enough to still harm someone below. 

Chapter Text

They had a few days on base before their first mission came through, interrupting what was about to become a raunchy game of strip poker.

Alfred and his crew walked in first to the briefing room, expecting a room full of brass, only to spot a short blond man he hadn’t seen over a decade. He watched his crew slip into their seats before joining them at the front of the room, trying to feign a cool, collected composure as he tried his best to ignore the voice in his head calling him immature and arrogant. If he weren’t saving his bravery for the skies, he would say something to him. Instead, he stared at the map in front of him, trying his best to memorise it. He was a pilot, geography wasn’t his forte. 

His thoughts meandered through the last few days, sticking on a particularly uncomfortable conversation with some RAF pilots about a US navigator a little further south, who accidentally mistook France for England. It’s not your fault, you Yanks hardly know where England is on a map, they said. I wonder if you could place any of the 50 states, Alfred had wanted to say. Three days and he was already fed up with European superiority. 

“Why are you staring at me?” 

Alfred jolted back to his body, looking right up at Arthur’s annoyed eyes. 

“I wasn’t…” 

“Uh-huh.” Arthur’s arms moved from his chest to his hips. Alfred flinched slightly. 

“I was just thinking…” He could see the comment in Arthur’s eyes before he could open his mouth. “Bein’ over here makes me wonder if any of your riff RAF could place Iowa on a map.” 

“Oh please, we’ve all heard about that crew that almost ended up in France! Your lot can’t even find the correct country!” 

“It’s not our fault the weather around here is so shit we can’t even see our wings!” Alfred snapped. “But let’s be honest, not even you could find Iowa on a map, Arthur. Or Manitoba.” It was a low dig, but finally, swinging back felt good. 

“Right, well, it was a pleasure, as always. The rest of your boys are coming in. Best we don’t cause a scene.” 

Alfred scoffed, watching the Brit return to the Brass at the front of the room. Why Arthur was there, of all people, he had no clue. It wasn’t like Arthur had any experience flying. He was a navy man at heart. There were rumours that Arthur was a tactical genius, but from what he saw in the last war, Alfred wasn’t so sure. 

“What was that about, bud?”

Alfred knew that voice in an instant. He leapt from his seat and pulled his brother into a tight hug. Alive, alive, alive, Matthew was alive. He was healthy. He was safe. Alfred could feel the weight fall from his shoulders. 

“Al, I can’t breathe,” Matthew gasped, trying to free himself from his brother’s grasp. 

“Don’ care,” Alfred mumbled into his shoulder.

“You will when you’re down an escort, buddy.”

Alfred jumped back with stars in his eyes. His first mission, and his brother was going to be up there with him? That certainly made up for having to see Arthur so early in the morning. He pulled Matthew down into the seat next to him, not caring about the RAF's mutters of mixing blood. As far as he was concerned, Canadians had far more in common with Americans than the British. 
 
“This your famous brother, Jones?” The southern drawl was so heavy Matthew had to do a double take. The man in front of him looked nothing like Wyatt, but sounded identical. “Sutton…” the man stuck his hand out for Matthew to shake. “Walter Sutton.”

“My co-pilot,” Alfred supplied. “And next to him, my bombardier Sutton Walter.” 

Matthew froze for a second before slapping his brother in the chest. There was no way the US Air Force would put people with that similar of a name on the same plane. “I hate you.” 

“Stoney Walensky.” 

Matthew shook their hands and leaned back into his seat, letting his brother talk about their flight here, and Stoney’s brilliant idea for a game of strip poker that involved several bottles of alcohol and some Red Cross girls. He chuckled to himself at the thought of his brother in a room with half-naked women. He was always a bit more conservative with nudity between the two of them. Besides, he knew his brother had slept with exactly one woman during the Civil War and even then he admitted to not being able to look at her naked. Either Stoney magically broke through Alfred’s religious upbringing, or Alfred was lying about his newfound attraction to the well dressed and pretty eyed girls that gave them coffee and whiskey with a dazzling smile. 

“We’ll just have to play when we get back on the ground!” Sutton laughed. “Hey Herbie, what do you think, huh?” 

Matthew jumped when a head poked over his and Alfred’s shoulders. “Keep me out of it! I don’ wanna piss off my wife!”

“Please, you ain’t got a wife! She ain’t ever sent you a letter, and I sure as hell ain’t seen a photo of ‘er!” 

Alfred laughed and ruffled Herbie’s hair. Wife or not, Herbert was a good guy, always thinking about his crew. That’s what made him so good on the radio. He stayed calm, listening to everyone in the air, and talking his boys through it all like it was a baseball game.  

“What part of Canada are you from?” Herbie asked. It seemed like Alfred’s crew knew he was a nation.

“Montréal.” He ran his hands through his hair and straightened his glasses. “Learned to fly in Winnipeg.”  

“So you’re what, a Habs fan?” Stoney said with mild disdain. 

“Better than the Leafs!”

“Now that I can get behind!” Alfred laughed, ever the Bruins fan. 

“What team do you like then?” 

“Blackhawks. Chicago born and raised, baby!” Stoney beat his chest with his fist. “The greatest city on Earth! We got da Hawks! We got da Cubs! We got da Bears!”

Several Americans booed him from around the room, muttering how their city or state was better. They’d heard this spiel a thousand times over. 

“So Stoney’s from Chicago-” Stoney whooped again. “Sutton’s from…”

“Macon, Georgia.” 

“And Herbie?”

“Kansas. Real small town on the border. Kanorado.” 

Before Matthew could say anything, another significantly shorter man jumped on Stoney’s back to join the conversation.

“You’re the famous Matthew! ‘M Orville. Navigator by day, professional surfer in my dreams.” 

Alfred leaned over and whispered in his ear, “He’s from Oahu… ya know, Hawaii.” 

“Thought they’d put ya in the Pacific!” Matthew said with a smile. 

“Me too, but the Eighth gets what it wants and they want me here! Probably for the better, anyway. If I were in the Pacific, there’s no way I’d show any mercy to those—”

“Alright, gentlemen,” Arthur all but shouted, cutting off whatever Orville was about to say. “Take a seat.” 

Alfred’s crew did as ordered, muttering about the buzzkill Brit in charge, and how they, as Americans, shouldn’t be taking orders from the British. He wanted to laugh, but it died in his throat when he caught the disappointed stare Arthur sent his way. It made him sick for whatever reason. It wasn’t like he cared about what Arthur thought about him, anyway. 

“Should this mission go well, you lot will get a transfer to RAF Marham, where joint missions will be your permanent order.” Alfred could feel Arthur’s gaze boring holes into his head. “Between our night raids and the Eighth's day time raids, we have the Luftwaffe on minimal sleep and over consuming gas. You will be tasked with strategic raids that target manufacturing, train lines, and military bases! There can be no errors. Am I understood?”

The room chanted ‘Yes Sir’ and Arthur went on with the briefing, explaining in excruciating detail about the flight path, formations, rendezvous points, the IP, and what to expect from the Germans. Alfred couldn’t help but notice Matthew’s attention fading in and out, like some of what Arthur had to say didn’t apply to him and his boys. Weren’t they supposed to take them all the way there and back? That was always how it was practiced stateside, anyway. 

Before he knew it, Arthur was finished and everyone was filtering out to the Jeeps that would take them to their forts. 

Matthew grabbed his arm and pulled him into a tight hug. “I’ll see you up there, buddy.” 

“Yeah, I’ll see you.” He watched his brother jump into the Jeep with the rest of the Canadian fighter pilots. 

“Look for the Hawk with the golden nose!” Matthew shouted as they pulled away. 

Alfred nodded and turned back to his crew, horsing around in the Jeep. There was no reason to tell them off. They worked well as a unit and focused when they needed to. It was fine if they were a little rowdy. It kept spirits high. 

“Alfred, a word?” 

Alfred sighed, but stopped. Arthur always had impeccable timing. 

“What do you need, Artie,” Alfred grinned. 

“Be safe up there. Don’t try to be the hero, just come back.” 

Alfred laughed and patted Arthur’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry about me! I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ll have Mattie with me. Nothing will happen!” 

Arthur swallowed and nodded, clearly annoyed by something Alfred said. 

“Well, unless you have anything else, I should save Orville from Stoney’s headlock… oh, and save Europe from the Germans… again!” With that, Alfred saluted and walked away. He jumped into the Jeep next to his boys, leaving Arthur to watch as they pulled away. 

Daytime flying always felt different. Safer and far more dangerous at the same time. Matthew could see the surrounding planes. There was no chance of accidentally running into each other, but high visibility meant the Nazis could see them coming for miles. 

It wasn’t difficult to spot his brother leading a group of B17s over the channel. His radio had been mostly quiet. He wondered if his plane was the same. He wished he could tell his brother what to expect, but there were no words to describe what was about to hit. They neared France, and the flak started bursting around them. He watched a Hawk take a hit to the wing and turn back to England. Another Hawk shifted down to take his place. They couldn’t have any gaps in the defences for the sake of the B17s. 

Matthew hummed to himself, admiring the planes in formation around him. It was a spectacular sight. 30 or so bombers and almost twice as many Hawks for support. There was no such thing as a milk run in the skies, but this may be as close as they would ever get. The flak continued, and Matthew could only hope the Germans would show up before he and his crew had to turn back for England, leaving the Americans alone in the skies to fend for themselves. Of course, he didn’t tell Alfred about that before they left. Perhaps he should have. 

Over the radio, he could hear his boys rattling off their fuel levels and how much more they thought they could stand before turning back. Where were they? 

The flak was worse than anyone expected, especially after a Hawk turned back and another was blown from the sky. Give ‘Em Blue Bells shuttered and bounced from the bursts, but Alfred held her steady. He could manage this no problem. Just a little turbulence. He could hear his boys over the radio rattling off tail numbers and positions. He could hear Montgomery clambering into the ball turret. Then, all of a sudden, there was silence. 

Ahead of him, he could see Matthew in his Hawk patrolling the skies. He couldn’t help the fear bubbling in his throat whenever flak burst too close to his brother. Alfred knew his brother was just as good of, if not a better pilot than himself. There was no reason to worry, but he couldn’t help the nagging in his head, especially as the flak slowed. 

“Flak’s stopping boys. What do ya think that means?” Herbie said. 

Over the radio, he could hear his boys pulling their guns into position and stocking their stations with crates of bullets. 

“Anyone else craving sauerkraut?” Stoney laughed. 

The rest of the plane, Alfred included, groaned and the pathetic excuse of a joke. 

They heard them before they saw them. The Hawks swarmed, then shot off in different directions, guns blazing. 

“Bogies three o’clock low!” Montgomery shouted.

“Let’s sauer this kraut!” 

“Next fucking sauerkraut joke I hear, I’m pushing you out the bomb bay, no shoot,” Herbie growled. “Get your head out of the cabbage patch and pay some fucking attention to your gun, Walensky!” 

“I think that counts as a sauerkraut joke, Herb!” Orville said with a laugh. 

“I think you should be lucky we need you or I’d send you out with Stoney.” 

“That’s great! Explain to the brass why we’re missing our lead navigator and bombardier, but still have two more shoots than usual!” Orville said between bursts of gunfire. 

“Who said I wasn’t going to get rid of the shoots?” Herbie shot at a German plane until it exploded. He jotted it on the log, listening to his crew’s congratulations and praise. “I’ll just throw ‘em out the window. Maybe some poor Belgian can use it to make a shirt or something.” 

Alfred focused on the sky in front of him, happy to know his crew was still having fun. No one was paralysed by fear yet. Good. He watched his brother shoot one German out of the sky after another with practiced ease. It was like he knew where all the weak points were. As they neared the IP, the Hawks peeled off and turned back to Britain. 

“Red Meat lead to Little Friend lead, what’s going on down there? Over.” 

There was a crackle and some swearing over the radio. 

“Repeat: Red Meat lead to Little Friend lead. What’s going on down there?” 

“Little Friend, lead to Red Meat lead, we’re low on gas. We’re gonna try to stick around as long as possible, but we’re losing fuel fast down here. Over” 

“Copy that, Little Friend.” Alfred took a deep breath. He hadn’t expected to be left up here alone without some kind of coverage from their little friends. They’d already lost a fort, and that was with their help. This is what Arthur meant by no errors, not missing the IP or‌ accidentally carpet bombing a town like he thought. “Red Meat lead, to Pacer lead. We’ll be losing our little friends soon. Tighten formations until we reach the IP. Over”

He saw the green flare ahead and before he knew it; the B17s pulled into a tighter formation. 

“Twenty minutes to the IP,” Orville said, watching the last few Hawks peel away.

“Little Friend lead to Red Meat lead…” 

“Go ahead,” Herbie said. 

“Al, I gotta turn back. I’m sorry. I’m gonna be on fumes when I get to the channel…” 

Alfred could see his brother turning back ahead of him. 

“I wish I could stay but-” 

“Get outta here. We’ll be fine.” 

Matthew saluted as he flew past, and the B17s were alone in enemy airspace, surrounded by Messerschmidts. There was nothing to do but shoot the enemies down before they were shot down themselves. Alfred’s crew shot at oncoming planes, shouting whatever information they could. Alfred knew Herbie wasn’t writing anything down. There was no time.

“Ten minutes to IP.” Orville’s voice broke clear through the shouting. Even with bullet casings clattering to the ground, he sounded as calm as ever. 

“I’m pulling the pins now.” 

It was the waiting that would kill Arthur in the end. It wasn’t just his boys anymore. It wasn’t just Matthew, which was worry enough as it was. Now it was his boys, Matthew, and Alfred, and there was nothing he could do to escape the nauseous weight in his stomach. There was only so much he could plan. Only so many things he could control. Once the boys were in the sky, there was nothing left to do but wait and pray. 

He remembered Matthew’s first mission. The light and joy that had been in his eye when he first arrived in base, so similar to the gleam in Alfred’s eye, that was long dead by the time he landed again. He never spoke about what he saw outside of interrogation–which Arthur was barred from for reasons he didn’t know himself–and he never saw the gleam again. Whatever Matthew saw was so horrible, he turned to drinking. He could only hope the same wouldn’t happen to Alfred when he returned.

He couldn’t help but wonder if putting the two together was a mistake. Alfred and Matthew had never fought on the same front, let alone been on the same base together. If something happened to one, it wouldn’t be so easy to keep it secret from the other as it was in the last war. 

In the tower overlooking the runway, Arthur watched as ground crews fixed and washed planes, burned off leaking oil from the hardstands, and tried to keep the wandering cattle from the runway. He glanced at his watch. Matthew and the rest of the Hawks would be returning soon. Alfred and the bombers should be heading up on the IP any minute. If all went well, he’d have everyone back in time for tea. 

He could hear the Hawks before he spotted them. Arthur snatched the binoculars from the desk and went out to count. 

“One… two… three…” He could feel someone slide up next to him, marking a page with every plane he counted. “Seven… eight… nine…” They were shooting flares as they came down. Red, red, yellow, red, green, green. “Sixteen… seventeen… eighteen…” More flares. “Twenty two… twenty three… twenty four…” The whirring of sirens and the shouts of medics and Red Cross girls couldn’t distract him. “Twenty eight… twenty nine… thirty…” Where the hell was Matthew? More flares: green, red, yellow, yellow, yellow, green, red, red, green, yellow. “Thirty four… thirty five…” More shouts and sirens. Screaming too. “Thirty six… thirty seven…” Plane thirty eight stalls and crashes into the field in a plume of fire, and then there’s nothing. 

“Did you see Major Williams?” 

“No, sir…” 

Arthur took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. Matthew would be fine. Sometimes the Hawks came back in waves. Maybe there was another wave. 37 planes of 60. There had to be more. 

Chapter Text

Alfred could hardly believe what he saw. 10 forts, 100 men gone like that. They would never see home again. Never smile with their families, hold their wives and girlfriends, or wake to see the sun again. Some of his men swore they saw shoots, but even if they did, there was no guarantee they made it to the ground alive with all the bullets slicing through the air. And if they made it to the ground, there was no guarantee they would survive the war in a POW camp, however long that would be, anyway. 

Over the channel, the B-17s talked between themselves, trying to piece together a timeline of what happened. Herbie had been particularly good at writing down what was happening in his own shorthand, even if he forwent logging the times and approximate locations. Perfect logs were futile. Alfred could only hope that Arthur understood. He probably wouldn’t. Maybe he could get Herbie to draw references to his watch hands… maybe Herbie had thought of it too and never had time. Herbie was smart like that. 

“Coast of England ahead,” Orville said. The crew cheered as the green and white coast line sailed past below. “Thank fuck, we made it.” 

“Y’all think Freddy ‘n I would let ‘er drop?” 

The radio was silent. 

“Wow. Fuck all y’all,” Sutton muttered. 

“Turn right now!” 

“Wilco,” Alfred said, before Sutton could make another snarky reply. “Pilot to crew, prepare for landing.” 

Nothing was worse than the post-interrogation crash, when all the adrenaline finally left his system and Matthew was forced to reckon with the horrors he saw in the sky. Sebastian hadn’t been up there, so he was at least able to focus on protecting his younger twin from the hornet like Messerschmitts. 15 Hawks and at least four B-17s were gone or missing in action by the time he turned back to England. In the end it was 16 Hawks and god knew how many B-17s gone in a blink. It was trench warfare all over again, but no one would admit it. 

He knew he had limited options with half the base still technically on mission, so he went to the officer’s lounge for a drink. Inside, he was met with an unfamiliar stillness. This wasn’t the officer’s lounge on RAF Marham, which was a revolving door of pilots, navigators, and bombardiers, smoking, and drinking and carding away their time until the next mission. RAF Coltishall was nothing if not abnormally silent. There weren’t even Red Cross girls to talk to. 

“Whiskey, double.” 

The bartender nodded and poured his glass silently. 

“Leave the bottle… I’ll be here a while.” 

Again, the bartender nodded but said nothing. He looked American, but he couldn’t tell with the white shirt and green tie he wore. 

Matthew sat in silence, nursing his whiskey, running through the list of names he knew were dead or missing. The list only grew. He knew there was nothing healthy about remembering the list of dead names, but he couldn’t help it. He was the last person left from his original group that came over in 1939. There would likely be a day when Alfred would be next to him, mourning the same miserable fact. If war is hell, then aerial warfare was something worse entirely.

He hoped Alfred wouldn’t be too upset with his failure to disclose what was actually happening in the cold blue skies. There were no words to describe the black clouds of flak and the bright flashes of gunfire, knowing one small error was the difference between staying up or going down. Matthew didn’t want to have to talk about it. He just wanted someone who understood. 

“I thought I’d find you here,” a soft voice said as the stool next to him pulled out. Arthur. 

“Yeah…” Matthew threw back his whiskey and poured another, motioning to the bartender for another glass. “You know I have a hard time waiting…” 

“They’ll be back soon… Alfred will have crossed the channel by now.” 

Matthew nodded but said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. 

“Matthew, you know you can talk to me…”

Matthew nodded, silent. Even if he could put words to the horrors he faced, Arthur would never understand, even if he thought he did. Sometimes he wished Arthur were at sea or somewhere in Africa, so he didn’t have to pretend to be fine. Sometimes he wished he stayed in Canada and watched the war from afar. He wished sitting next to Arthur brought more comfort than it did. 

“Chin up, lad,” Arthur patted his back. “We’ll get through this.”

You, maybe, Matthew thought to himself. He poured another drink and tipped it Arthur’s way—a silent cheers to a sentiment he could hardly believe in—and left knowing Arthur would settle his tab. 

Interrogation was a blur. Alfred and his crew, once pulled from the plane and done spewing their guts on the hardstand, were herded onto a Jeep and told not to speak until they were with brass. He looked over his crew, taking in the scrapes and bruises on their faces, still trying to comprehend what in the hell he just saw. He took the whiskey handed to him by some Red Cross girl and threw it back without a second thought. Alfred wasn’t a big drinker anymore, but after the mission he had, there was nothing in the world that could take the edge off like whiskey. The room was loud. Crews shouted over one another to get their accounts of the raid over and done with, so they didn’t have to think about the men they lost ever again. Walensky and Sutton did most of the talking, while Alfred searched the room for a familiar blond. 

“That’s when the Canadians fucking abandon us!” Stoney growls. 

“They didn’t have the gas,” Alfred sighed. He wished Matthew told him their escort was temporary. “Can’t do anything about that.” 

“That’s when Herb, here, saw Higgins and his crew go up in flames.” 

“Any shoots?” The interrogator asked. 

“They fucking blew up. Did you–”

“No shoots.” Alfred said, cutting Stoney off. No wasn’t the time to start arguments with the Brass, even if they deserved it. “I didn’t see a single shoot from any of the downed forts.” He wished he didn’t feel their losses squeezing his throat so tight, like their ghosts were stringing him up for surviving.

“And the coil factory?”

“Gone.” If Stoney was going to say more, he thought better of it. 

“Well, then,” the man said, standing and gathering his papers. “Congratulations on a successful mission. 24 to go for you and your crew. Go get cleaned up.” 

Alfred felt sick to his stomach. This is what they considered a successful mission? 150 American and 17 Canadian airmen were gone in a matter of hours. Yes, the factory was gone, but Alfred wasn’t sure that counted as a success. 

He and his crew shuffled out of the interrogation in silence. No one knew what to say to each other. They’d all seen the limbless and lifeless airmen getting pulled from other forts, and knew that any day that could be them. Silently, they tugged off their flight suits and stumbled into the showers. 

Herbie threw up again, his knuckles turning white against the rim of the toilet bowl. Alfred silently patted his back and handed him a cup of water to clean his mouth. 

“I ain’t gonna let the plane go down, alright?” Alfred murmured. “No matter what, Herb, you’re goin’ back to your wife.” Even if she isn’t real, he thought to himself. Herb nodded weakly, shrugged Alfred’s hand off his back. He took it as his queue to leave the man to deal with his thoughts in private. 

There was only one thing to do once he was back in uniform: find Matthew. He wanted to shout at him, ask him why he said nothing about anything. It felt surreal back on the ground, almost like the flak and roar of the engines ten thousand feet in the air never happened in the first place. Like waking up from a nightmare in total safety, not that he would admit to having nightmares to anyone. 

He spotted his brother sitting on the wing of a Hawk, cigarette in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. There was no need to announce his presence as he approached the plane. Matthew would notice him soon enough. The Hawks looked huge on the ground, without the massive flying fortresses to dwarf it. The golden nose shone in the weak English sun. 

“Permission to come aboard, Major Williams?” 

“Granted.” Matthew’s voice slurred.

Alfred clambered up the wing, using the fuselage to keep him upright. Silently, he took the whiskey from his brother’s hand and took a long drink, staring out into nothing. 

“Fucked up, up there, eh?” 

“Yeah…” Alfred didn’t know what to say. “I hope you know Stoney feels thoroughly abandoned by you.” It was the only way he could say, how could you?

“Tell Stoney, I’m sorry.” Matthew blew smoke into the air and reached for the whiskey. 

“You didn’t say–”

“What was I gonna tell you, bud? How could I possibly begin to explain what was going to happen up there when I don’t know myself? Every time I go up, it’s different!” 

Alfred looked at his hands. “You could have said something .”

“Would you have gone up there half as confident if I did?” Matthew waited for him to think about it first. There was no telling what would have happened if he knew what he was walking into. Maybe 150 men would still be alive if he had. “Well?”

“I could ha-” 

“No, buddy, you couldn’t have protected everyone. Coming back with half the bombers that were deployed is a success. Anytime a crew comes back, it’s a success.” 

Alfred felt like his brother just poured cement into his stomach. How many crews were they losing? How many more would they lose? How long would it be before he or Matthew went up in a ball of fire? Could they even come back from that? 

“You’ll get used to it. I promise.” 

Alfred didn’t know if he wanted to get used to it. The brothers sat in silence, watching the sun dip below the horizon, knowing on other bases, RAF men were suiting up and preparing to fly over Germany again. A never-ending cycle of up and down, of bombing and being bombed, until either someone capitulated or no one was left. There was a nagging feeling in his stomach that he had to ignore. This couldn’t be like trench warfare. Nothing in the world could resemble that again, right?

Intelligence claimed Alfred was flying as well. There was no doubt in Sebastian’s mind Alfred was flying missions now the US had joined the war in earnest. The American was‌ just as bloodthirsty as the rest of them, even if he seemed to hide it better. While they weren’t certain which base he was at, they knew the US 8th and the RAF were flying joint missions, meaning there was a high chance the Jones-Williams brothers were stationed together. He had no doubts in his mind Matthew and Alfred would fly the same missions, or as many of them as they were allowed, meaning Matthew was flying distracted. Frankly, Sebastian didn’t care about Alfred. He just wanted Matthew to pay for his crew and his brother. Sebastian supposed he could blow Alfred and his crew out of the sky in front of Matthew and it would have a similar effect. Maybe he blew Alfred out of the sky after he forced Matthew to eject from his Hawk. Then there would be nothing he could do but suffer the death of his brother and the end of the war in a Stalag. It didn’t matter who won, so long as Matthew suffered.

Outside his office, he could hear Johann yelling for Roderich, Francis whining about his near constant supervision, and Feliks shouting at the air. Sebastian could feel the migraine forming behind his eyes. He needed sleep, but ever since he had to land and pull his dead crew from the plane, men he’d been flying with since before the war, and write to their families to tell them their sons and husbands were gone, sleep evaded him. What little sleep he got was plagued by scalped heads and blown off limbs. He should never have gotten to know his crew so well. 

A knock at the door pulled him from the macabre thoughts invading his mind. 

“Come in!” 

The door swung open and Laura, put together and stunning, even in her pajamas, strode in, closing the door with her foot behind. She carried cups of what he could only guess was tea in her hands. 

“You need sleep, Bas,” she said, placing the cup next to him and perching against his desk. 

“Can’t,” he muttered, leaning forward to press his head against her stomach. Laura was warm and soft and smelled nice. Everything the planes were not.

“You could at least let your brain rest.” Laura glanced down at the maps and flight logs surrounding her boyfriend. “Come to bed with me.” 

Sebastian shook his head.

“You don’t have to sleep. I just want to be with you.” 

“Laura,” 

“Sebastian. Bed. Now.” She left no room for an argument. 

Sebastian heaved himself out of his chair, reaching for his half full tumbler. 

“And leave the god damn whiskey. You don’t need it.” 

He let Laura pull him from his study and down the hall to her room, which Sebastian started sleeping in when he wasn’t on base. She lay back on the bed, pulling him down into her arms. 

“I’m so sorry, Sebastian,” she whispered, kissing his head. 

He took a shaky breath, trying his hardest not to cry. He couldn’t let himself. If he started, he’d never stop. Laura ran her fingers through his cropped hair. He wished it was longer. He wished his crew were still alive. He wished the war wasn’t happening. 

“You can cry, it’s okay,” she whispered. “I won’t tell.” 

A choked sob passed through Sebastian’s lips. He shook his head, forcing his tears back. Laura didn’t need to deal with the horrors he was seeing. She didn’t deserve to go through that hell. She didn’t need to know her boyfriend was weak. 

“Bas…” She tugged at the ends of his hair so he was forced to look up at her. “It’s okay. You can cry. I’m here.” 

He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a gut wrenching sob. He’d seen too many men die. Laura, for her part, said nothing, as she continued to hold him. She was too good to him, too kind. She shouldn’t even like him. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve to survive a mission his crew did not. He didn’t deserve to survive as long as he had. And now, here he was, showing weakness. This was war. Men died all the time. It shouldn’t be impacting him so terribly. Sebastian tried to catch his breath, but only succeeded in hyperventilating. His thoughts were coming too quickly to hold on to and too quickly to comprehend.

“Sebastian?”

He choked out a sob. 

“Schatteke, can you sit up?” 

Sebastian struggled upright, clinging to his knees like a small child. Laura took his face in her hands, wiping away his tears with a soft smile. 

“In and out, okay?” She took a deep breath, waiting for Sebastian to copy. 

He took a few shaky breaths before sobbing again. The way she looked at him, like he was still worth something, only made the weight on his chest worse. 

There was nothing Laura could do but wait until his tears ran dry. She kept Sebastian wrapped up tight in her arms, letting him sob into the crook of her neck. He couldn’t help but feel grateful for her patience. He didn’t pull away until well after his tears dried. He felt safe in Laura’s arms. 

“Thank you…” 

Laura kissed him gently. “Always. I love you, Sebastian.” 

Sebastian’s heart swooped. She’d never said it before. “I love you too.” 

She smiled and kissed Sebastian again, straddling his lap. He smiled against her lips, running his hands down her sides to where the skirt of her silk nightgown bunched at her hips. “What would I do without you?” He whispered in between kisses. 

“Wallow and mope, I’m sure.” She grinned, rocking her hips slightly. “Catch a disease somewhere.” 

“Very funny.” He slipped his hands under her nightgown, holding her hips that much tighter. “I could still go catch a disease.” 

Laura tugged hard on his hair. Sebastian groaned. “I can think of a few things I’d rather you do, baby.”

Sebastian shivered and pushed Laura to her back, hiking up her nightgown until her stomach was exposed. He licked down her navel, only stopping when he reached her hips. Sebastian looked up at Laura through his eyelashes, waiting for permission to go after what he really wanted. 

“Are you hungry, baby?” 

Sebastian nodded, nuzzling the inside of her thigh. This was better than the drink he so desperately craved. 

“Go ahead, sweet boy.”

Chapter Text

Arthur didn’t see Alfred again until nearly two weeks after his unit transferred to RAF Marham. They’d flown five more missions and were looking down the nose of 19 more. Alfred seemed to remain bright eyed, and all smiles around his crew, but Arthur knew better. They were similar like that, burying their sorrows and fear in layers of collected confidence and flawless smiles for the sake of others. Rumour had it, Alfred and his crew had become the centre of raunch in the air force. From what he’d observed, it was likely Orville and Stoney taking the lead, but then the stories of Alfred and the Red Cross girls, and how they danced and kissed and disappeared, passed his desk. He hadn’t believed them, but now, face to face with his disorderly conduct in the Officers' Lounge, disappointment and something else he didn’t want to name flared in his chest. 

Alfred was standing at the centre of the crowd of women, talking to them like he was Clark Gable, scarf, whiskey, and all. One woman, shorter and red headed, clung to his side, practically grinding on his hip, but Alfred didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his hand was just shy of inappropriately placed on the small of her back. 

“I hate to disturb you ladies, but might I borrow Lieutenant Colonel Jones? It won’t be more than a moment.” 

Alfred raised his eyebrow, trying and failing to hide his annoyance. 

“It is urgent…” Arthur held Alfred’s gaze. He couldn’t help but feel as though he were silently begging him for a scrap of attention.

The girls sighed and moved so Alfred could pass. Arthur couldn’t help but notice their gaze on his broad shoulders and well-defined rear. It was all he could do to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Didn’t they have anything better to do? 

“Well?” Alfred said, almost sounding relieved. 

“Come to my office. Fewer ears.” 

Alfred nodded and let Arthur lead him down a series of corridors and into an office no larger than a closet. Arthur locked the door and drew the curtains shut, waiting for Alfred to make an inevitable and stupid joke about its size. 

“You kept that?” Alfred said instead. He pointed to a tin redcoat soldier perched on the bookshelf. Arthur had given it to him as a parting gift while he was still a colony. Alfred gave him this one during the last war. A good luck charm. “I thought you thought it was silly.”

“No… it, uh, it reminds me of you.” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Oh.” Was Alfred blushing? “So, you need to talk?” 

“Erm, yes…”

“Okay…”

Arthur skirted what he wanted to talk about, bringing up all kinds of potential targets, formations, and flight paths, asking Alfred what he thought of them, making mental notes to adjust to Alfred’s experience. He wanted to make sure as many men came home as possible every time. They talked a little about upcoming leaves and plans for training rowdy crews as they came in. 

“I would have thought you would hold your crew to higher standards. Yourself included.” You are supposed to be the example for them. 

“If you’re going to stand there and criticise me, then I’m going to leave.” Alfred crossed his arms over his chest defensively. “I’m sure Stoney and Herb’ll be lookin’ for me, anyway.” 

It was all Arthur could do not to frown. Surely Alfred would rather go back to his gaggle of pretty smiled admirers than his crew. “All I’m saying—”

“I know what you’re trying to say! Morale is high, leave it alone.” 

“We’ve had complaints—”

Alfred scoffed. “We can’t help the fact that the ladies like us better than your riffraff.” 

The comment stung more than Alfred intended. “You’re novel,” he snapped. “That’s all. It’ll wear off soon.” 

“Right well. Not sure how this is so important as to—”

“I only worry you and your crews are getting a little flak happy.”

“We’re fine!” Alfred snapped. Arthur could tell it took every ounce of maturity to not stomp his foot on the ground. 

“Alfred—”

“We’re fine,” Alfred said, again. “We go up; we do the job; we come home. Simple as that.” 

“I know you’re lying. You can convince them, but not me.” Arthur wanted to reach out and touch Alfred, but knew he would take it the wrong way. 

“I’m fine, Arthur…” Arthur looked at the ground, trying to hide his disappointment. Why couldn’t Alfred simply let him be there for him? “But I’ll come to you if that changes, okay?”

“Yeah…” Arthur straightened, putting on a winning smile. “Although I am going to need you to reign Captain Walensky in. His trail of braziers and tears is a detriment to the morale of the entire base.” 

“This is controlled. I know my crew. I’ll worry about them.” Alfred went to leave Arthur’s shoebox office.

“Alfred—”

“For fuck's sake, what?” He spun around, his hand hitting the doorknob with a thwack. Alfred hissed in pain. 

“Have you spoken with Matthew recently?” 

“Yeah, every day. Why?”

“Is he alright?”

“I’d call him flak happy.” There was something in Alfred’s eyes that resembled the hatred he saw when he failed to protect Matthew from the horrors of the last war. “When was the last time he had a break?” 

Arthur paused, trying to remember the last time Matthew took even a few hours' leave from base, let alone the last time he could get him to speak more than a few sentences to him that weren’t dripped with sarcasm and abrasive cockiness. It frustrated him to no end that, even with Matthew on the same base, he could never seem to pin him down.  

“How many missions has he flown, Arthur?” Alfred sounded livid.

Arthur paused and tried to count before giving up and pulling his file. “Twenty this year… so far. He’s been here nearly two years now. He skirts leave, trades his passes—we can’t get him to leave base to go anywhere other than the pub in town! What the fuck else am I supposed to do? Keep him grounded and let him cause worse problems?” 

Alfred stared at him, unimpressed. “Is this why I’m here, and not on an American base?”

“Yes.” Arthur whispered after a long silence. He could hardly look Alfred in the eye. 

“Right, so I’m supposed to help you save Europe, reform my crew to—I don’t know—stuffy faux British men because you say so, and now what? Magically fix my brother for you? Jesus Christ, Arthur.” Have you considered you’re asking too much of me?

“Alf—-”

“Yeah… sorry. I know. I’m not being fair…” He sighed. “If I’m going to be a leader in this war, I need to act like it.” With that, Alfred left Arthur to his thoughts. 

Matthew wasn’t trying to avoid Arthur per se, it just so happened that he was suddenly needed elsewhere whenever he was around. He couldn’t stand the watchful eye that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Of course, it wasn’t just Arthur’s watchful eye that he was chafing under. He could feel the brass’s unease the more missions he flew without a break. It wasn’t his fault, really. He simply didn’t see a point in disrupting the rhythm he fell into in the skies. Matthew was almost certain if he went to the flak house, he’d never return to the skies. 

He blew smoke out of his open cockpit and listened to the ground crew fix the flak holes in his Hawk. He needed to know what they were doing to his baby. No screw would be out of place either way, but sometimes Matthew wasn’t certain where his plane ended and where he began. When they worked on the plane, they were working on him. As they patched the holes, Matthew could pretend they were patching up his problems too, making the nightmares and persistent cravings for something only the skies could bring invisible to everyone on the ground. The only one who knew what the damage looked like was him. It became somewhat of a routine for Matthew in the near two years he’d been in England. 

“We’re all finished, Major!” The leader, Jack, shouted. 

“Thank you! I’ll bring ‘er back in better shape next time!” 

“I’ll hold you to that!” Jack laughed, following his crew to the next bird in need. Jack was a fine man, if not suspiciously young looking. 

Alone, Matthew couldn't escape the nagging feeling that his time was running out. He’d seen hundreds of men blown out of the sky or forced to eject from their planes only to become prisoners of war, and yet, he had managed to skirt the same fate. Not that he hadn’t had a few close calls, but even then, he hadn’t been in half the danger as he was now. That was the difference between defending London and defending Alfred, he supposed. Home ice advantage.

There was no telling what would happen on the next mission, or the mission after that, only that someone would join the never ending list of dead names that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He refused to think about his brother possibly joining that list before he did. He could only pray they made it back. 

Alfred needed to get out, remembering why he fought so hard for his independence in the first place. He couldn’t stand Arthur constantly looking down his nose at him, pointing out every flaw for the world to see. Something painful tugged at his heart. He knew Arthur thought he was irresponsible at the very least, but to hear that he was all but a failure in Arthur’s eyes bordered on cataclysmic. Didn’t he understand he was trying his best, and that being the hero was more work than anyone believed?

“Freddy!” 

The name pulled him right out of his thoughts. Sutton sat on a hill, smoking a cigarette, watching new crews unload their bags and find their barracks. 

“The ladies said you would be back, but…” 

“I needed to clear my head. Had to chat with the brass.” 

“You mean that Kirkland fella?” 

“Yes.” His name put a sour taste in his mouth. 

“Y’all know each other because of…” 

“Yeah, that smug bastard is England.” 

Sutton frowned. He’d never heard Alfred talk about Arthur or any of his other fellow nations that way. Usually, he was singing their praises if he said anything at all.  

“Said I’m not a good enough example for the rest of y’all… that our crew is supposed to be perfect little Brit boys.” 

Sutton howled with laughter, handing a lit cigarette to Alfred. “You’d have to lobotomise Stoney… or castrate him… cut his hands off… and his tongue… fuck, you’ll just have to kill him.”

Alfred snickered, smoke blowing out his nose. 

“Why do you care about what he says anyway? You’re Alfred fucking Jones!” 

“I dunno, I just do, I guess…” 

“Well, don’t. We can’t be distracted, especially by a snobby little shit like him.”

He’s not though, Alfred wanted to say. Instead, he nodded, blowing smoke out into the crowds of new recruits. He’d give them a mission or two before he really got to know them. It was better that way. 

“Where is Walensky, anyway?”

“Last I saw, he was gettin’ chewed out by some land army gal.” 

Arthur's words rang clear as day in the back of his head: braziers and tears. He wished he could shout at it to shut up, but that would draw attention, and possibly later jokes, at his expense, from Sutton. 

“No missions on the books…” They looked at each other with a glint in their eye. “And it sounds like Stoney’ll need a drink…” 

“Pub?” Sutton asked, already standing and sticking a hand out for Alfred.

“Pub.” 

Sebastian knew a mission was coming long before the papers dropped on his desk. He’d been taken out of the flight rotation and forced behind a desk following the deaths of his crew. He needed time to mourn; they said. Between the unceasing nightmares and near constant bickering with Johann and Ludwig about the state of the war, Sebastian craved the crisp skies, but no one would listen. Didn’t they understand he was all but useless on the ground? They said they needed him to aid in planning. He never saw the inside of the briefing room. 

“Oberstleutenent?” Unteroffizier Müller knocked on his open door. 

“Come in.” He tried to sound as friendly as possible. It wasn’t Müller’s fault he was grounded. That blame could be placed squarely on Christoph’s shoulders.

“Your brother is here…” He sounded almost apologetic. Johann. No one else would bother to visit him at Gardelegen, instead waiting for him to return home to talk.

“Let him in.” Sebastian shuffled his papers to hide the worst of it from wandering eyes. Not that he didn’t trust his brother, he simply didn’t trust Drieber and the strange relationship he held with Johann. 

“You know, it’s almost rude you brought Roderich here, but not me…” Johann’s words cut like a knife, despite the lackadaisical tone. “Don’t you trust me, Bas?” 

“Of course I do.” He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. 

“I’m sure.” Johann flopped into the seat across from him, kicking a foot up on the corner of the desk. He looked far too comfortable for someone who claimed to never have been there before.

“Why are you here?” Not that he didn’t want to see Johann. It just seemed absurd that he would make a social call.

“I’m just here to tell you that you are no longer on desk duty. Christoph believes he can manipulate our duty, but he is sorely mistaken.” There was something sinister in the way Johann said it. Like he was blaming him for more than just being overprotective. “He cannot act like a petulant child and expect to be treated like an adult.” 

Sebastian wanted to say that wasn’t fair, but he knew better than to argue. Johann was far too unpredictable for that to end with anything other than a bullet between his eyes. 

“Besides, you and I both know Christoph is no longer well suited for war.” 

“I’m confused…” 

Johann rolled his eyes, kicking his foot back to the ground so he could lean over the desk. “Christoph has no right to ground our best pilot.” 

Sebastian tried not to preen at the praise. All he ever wanted was to be seen and appreciated for what he was good at, not who people mistook him for. 

“And rumour has it,” Johann’s hand inched closer to the pile of paper. “There’s a raid on London tonight…” 

Sebastian swallowed. “How did you know that?” 

Johann grinned like a shark and left the room without a word. He understood what he was being told. Still, it scared him to know Johann knew what was happening at Gardelegen despite never stepping foot on base before. Was it Drieber that told Johann these things as they became necessary, or was he not as single focused on Roderich as they all believed? 

Sebastian watched the light in his office switch red, and the base came to life. He threw back the watery dregs of whiskey in his glass and rushed to the planes before someone was sent to fetch him. 

Chapter Text

Arthur knew there were things he said that he shouldn’t have. He wasn’t being fair to Alfred, nor could he expect him not to live as though he were to die tomorrow. That was how everyone else on base lived, anyway. Still, by the time the guilt and need to apologise hit him, the sun had sunk well below the treeline and the RAF night crews were shuffling about, preparing for their own missions. He wished he could say he knew where Alfred was bunked, but he did not. The semicircle, metal, barracks all looked the same, regardless of who occupied them. Arthur sighed in frustration, wishing he had access to all records on base, not just the ones for the Empire. 

The further he walked from the Officers’ lounge and mess hall, the quieter the base seemed to be. Soft yellow lights shone in the twilight. He could hear the new American crews laughing and racing each other to the mess. Part of him wanted to shout and tell them to settle down. Part of him thought better of it. Moral is high, leave it alone , Alfred’s words echoed in his ears. 

“Are you looking for someone?” One of the Red Cross girls called out. She was smoking a cigarette on the barrack porch, an American airman sitting on the ground, staring up at her as if she were an angel. 

“Lieutenant Colonel Jones?”

“Keep goin’ that way! Seven down on the left.” 

“Thank you, love!” He saluted her and kept walking down the path, counting the barracks as they passed, incapable of helping the anxiety bubbling up in his chest. It was Alfred, for God’s sake. He was not going to meet the King. 

He knocked on the door, only for no one to answer it. The lights inside were on, so someone had to be home. It wasn’t like the US 8th Air Force would be any more accepting of wasting resources than the RAF. Arthur knocked again, and nothing. He had half the mind to turn and walk away when the door swung open. 

“Jesus, Alfie, what did you forget this time? You walle—oh! You’re not Alfred,” Herbert said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, the same way Alfred would. He shifted to the side, letting Arthur in without another word. 

Arthur looked around the barrack. Crisply made single beds lined the walls, a desk sitting between each one. Maps of various states, movie posters, and photos of celebrities covered the corrugated metal walls. He’d never really spoken to any of Alfred’s crew outside of a brief introduction shortly after they arrived at RAF Coltishall. 

Herbert tucked a sheet of paper between the pages of a well-read book as if it were a matter of national security. 

“I was looking for Alfred…” Arthur said awkwardly. 

“He and the boys went to the pub.” 

Arthur frowned. “You’re not with them?” 

“Nah, I wanted to write home.” Herbert laughed easily. “Besides, I need a break from Stoney and his sauerkraut jokes.” 

Arthur nodded, relief washing over him. He took a moment to study Herbert, who was sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over a photo he could only assume was his family, or perhaps the wife he overheard Alfred’s crew discussing their first day. “Is she…”

“My sister,” he whispered, tipping the photo to the side for Arthur to see. 

“May I?” Arthur gestured to the empty space on the bed. 

“Of course!” He said all too happily. Almost as if he knew exactly who he was… 

That was an unsettling thought to Arthur, who spent most of his existence until the beginning of the century hiding who he was from anyone that was not of import. To be recognised at all was uncomfortable, but for an American to recognise him was all the more unsettling.

“Who is he?” 

“Charles…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve known him since we were kids.” 

“Are they…”

“No.” Herbert brushed the side of Charles’ face with his thumb in what Arthur could only interpret as longing. 

“Is he…” 

Herbert swallowed. “Yes.” 

Arthur smiled, patting his shoulder easily. “He’s quite handsome.” 

“He’s funny. Real smart, too.” Herbert looked like a deer in the headlights. 

“I won’t say anything. I’m the same way, anyway, so what’s it to me?” 

Herbert nodded, seeming to mull over what Arthur said. Whether he meant to, he relaxed slightly. 

“Can I ask you something?” Arthur said after a long silence. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

“Does Alfred know?” 

Herbert flushed red and nodded. “Since basic.” 

Arthur wasn’t sure what surprised him more, that Herbert and Alfred had a history that warranted blushing, or that the US army put Alfred through basic training on top of flight school despite his centuries of experience.

“He wasn’t always like this…”

I know, Arthur wanted to say. 

“The Clark Gable act is entirely Stoney and Sutton’s influence. They got him talkin’ and dancing with all sorts of girls… he never used to do that.” Herbert seemed to remember who he was talking to and straightened. “Course he’s still good to me. I never had someone I could trust like him before… other than Charlie.” 

Arthur smiled. It was almost impossible for him to picture a version of Alfred that could treat Herbert, or anyone else for that matter, poorly. His heart was too big and his smile too warm for that. “What about the others?” 

“I don’t think they have a clue except Stone…” Arthur knew there was a story there for sure. “They’ll know if he can’t take it upon himself to let the joke pass unseized.” 

“Do you think the others would—- “

“Nah…” Herbert smiled. “If I don’t make a pass at Sutton…that would upset his delicate antebellum spirit.” Arthur laughed before he could stop himself. “And even then, they don’t care enough to make it a problem… I’m the reason they’re alive half the time, anyway.” 

“What do you do?” 

“Radio. Nowhere near as glamorous as Alfie.” 

“Still important…” 

“I guess…” 

They lapsed into silence. Arthur took a moment to study the boy next to him. It was almost easy to forget he was not immortal. Behind Herbert’s soft smile, the fear of death was palpable. But then again, so was his own. They were no more immortal than the humans they represented, only suspended in time until the gods finally saw fit to end it all. Arthur could list hundreds of nations and city states that had come and gone, his own mother among them. Perhaps their fear of death did not differ from the other. 

“He’s going to the Pacific,” Herbert whispered. “He ain’t ready for that. Charlie’s hardly been out of Kanorado…” Arthur’s heart sank. It never occurred to him how many of these kids were small town boys that had never been out of their state, let alone country. “I ain’t even seen a big city until I enlisted. Never even went past Yuma...” 

“Where is Kanorado?” 

“Kansas…It's a real small town right on the border with Colorado. So far east you can’t even see the mountains.”

Arthur frowned. He forgot how large America really was. “Those are close to Texas, right?” You couldn’t even place Iowa on a map. Perhaps there was more truth in Alfred’s assessment than he would like to admit. 

“Yeah. Only the Oklahoma panhandle between them.” 

“Do you know what he’s doing?” 

“No…best if I don’t. I’m not gonna be the reason we lose the Pacific.” 

——

Matthew wasn’t meant to be flying tonight, but there was no one who could stop him. He craved the sky like nothing else.

Tonight, he wasn’t flying over the channel. Tonight, he will be defending London from German bombs. He liked these missions. He enjoyed being seen as the hero for once. No one had a bad word to say about the men who defended Britain’s skies. For once, Matthew felt important. He would let no one take that from him.

The waiting was the hardest. Sitting high over the city, flood lights passed in front of him, nearly blinding him in the darkness. It would only be so long before someone reported something. He tried to keep his breathing calm, trying to ignore the urge to listen for the telltale whistle signalling troops over the edge of the trench. This wasn’t Vimy-Ridge, no matter how similar it was all starting to feel. 

“Planes reported over the Channel. Keep your eyes open boys, no need to get boot fucked for slight mistakes.”

Matthew felt as though he crash landed into his body. They were minutes away. Without a second thought, he turned to the Channel, racing to meet them before they reached the city proper; trying to stop the onslaught before it could even begin. He watched the lights go dark as the sirens blared distantly below. Matthew scanned the horizon for the telltale lights of enemy planes. Flak burst beneath him, bouncing his Hawk from the shock. 

“Anything Quebec?” Matthew’s radio crackled. 

“No. Just flak.” 

“Keep your eyes out.” 

“Wilco.” 

Matthew circled the air where he knew the Germans would arrive from. There were only so many paths to London. He kept his eyes forward, scanning for lights in the distance. He saw nothing but darkness. It was impossible to tell what was a cloud and what was enemy aircraft. 

“Can’t be right. They should be here!”

Matthew’s radio clicked and then once again before falling silent again. Someone tapped his radio. They came in almost total darkness this time, almost slipping past their defenses. His radio clicked again. 

“Fermez! Ils écoutent” Matthew hissed. “Ils sont là.”

He pulled up high above the flak, waiting for the floodlights to find their target. It would happen eventually, and when it did, he’d be ready for them. He didn’t blink, he hardly breathed. There would be no way of communicating with the rest of the Hurricanes and Spitfires cutting across the skies now they were being listened to. 

Matthew watched. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

Then he saw it. 

—

The pub was packed with British and American airmen, fighting over one another to get a drink from the bar. There were small pockets of townspeople who mostly kept to themselves, muttering about rowdy soldiers in their quiet villages. Alfred leaned back in his seat in the corner of the snug, grinning as Montgomery struggled to balance all their drinks on a tray as he wove through the crowd. He narrowly avoided an elbow to the face from one of the RAF crews. Alfred smiled at his lack of response. If it had been Stoney or Orville, they would get kicked out of the pub for fighting before they even got a drink. 

“You’re sure we’re alright leaving Herbie alone?” Stoney muttered in his ear. 

“Course!” Alfred grinned, trying to ignore his heart skipping a beat. “He said he'd be fine anyway, right?”

“But Charles—”

“Exactly!” Alfred hissed. “He needs some space.” 

“But—“

“Go back then, Steven. I’m staying here.”

Montgomery returned before Stoney could say anything else. He set the tray of beers in the middle, pulling one back for himself before the rest of the crew descended like vultures, spilling on their cuffs and coasters. 

“Next time, one of you chuckle fucks is getting the drinks,” Montgomery said. “Last fucking time I almost get hit in the face, I swear.” 

“Don’ flip your wig, Monty, you’re doin’ us a great service.” Sutton grinned, well on his way to being drunk. “Besides, you’re kneehigh compared to those boys.”

Montgomery threw a salt shaker at Sutton, hitting him square in the chest with a thud. Salt poured out the top and into his lap.

“The fuck was that for?”

“You asked me to pass the salt!”

“At breakfast, dumbass!”

The crew howled with laughter, patting Montgomery on the back. He was the most recent addition to their crew, getting assigned to Give ‘Em Blue Bells when they arrived at RAF Coltishall, and fell right into step with the rest of the crew despite being plucked fresh from his high school career. 

“I’ll get the next round,” Alfred grinned. 

“Do you have your wallet?” Orville snickered. 

“I forget one time!” 

“Three times,” Montgomery said. 

“I forget three times!” 

“I thought it was five…” Stoney said. 

“Gotta be closer to god damn near every single time!” Sutton howled with laughter.

“Okay, I got it. I forget my wallet, but I grabbed it this time!”

“Prove it, Jones.” 

Alfred dug around in his pockets, pulling out pens and scrap paper but no wallet. He checked the inside of his coat, but found nothing. 

“You watched me put it in my pocket.” He pointed at Orville. “Which one of you bastards took it?” 

Montgomery smiled, pulling Alfred’s battered wallet out of his pocket. “Consider it, paying your debts.” 

“Fine, you can get the drinks then short stack,” Alfred said, pushing the wallet into Montgomery’s hands. “I was just trying to save your pretty face.” 

“Oh no, whatever shall I do?” He deadpanned. “Probably for the better, anyway. There’s a blonde up there that’s just your type. You’d never come back if you went up there.” 

Alfred flushed, trying to hide his embarrassment with a laugh. He tipped his glass towards his turret gunner as a silent Touché and took a long drink. A blonde was about the last thing he wanted right now. He didn’t want anything to remind him of Arthur right now. 

“Well, if that ain’t the slowest I’ve ever seen Alfie get out of his seat to meet a lady!” Stoney said, ruffling Alfred’s hair. 

“Maybe in a little while…I want her to forget Monty before she sees me.” 

—

Floodlights caught the corner of the silver wing of the Messerschmidt just ahead. Matthew could just barely see the captain inside, illuminated by the soft glow of his dash. He pulled down on the trigger. Bullets cut through the air, hitting the plane hard, tearing into the fuselage. The floodlight caught the enemy’s position and flak burst heavily around him. He sent a few more bullets towards the propellers, taking out the engines in a plume of fire, and jet off to the next opponent. The flak guns could finish off the bomber if they wanted. It was not long for the skies, anyway. 

He tried not to think about the unlucky civilians the plane would hit. He tried not to think about the devastation that the inferno would cause. Instead, he tried to focus on what could happen to London if he was unsuccessful in defending it. That inferno made the smaller one worth it in the end.

Matthew knew the more enemy aircraft he shot at, the larger target he put on his back; not that he cared. He was the one with the home ice advantage, anyway. One after another, he shot at the Nazis, forcing them to turn back or crash to the ground. That was good. That meant fewer pilots in the Luftwaffe reserves. 

There was a crash and a rush of icy air on his neck. There wasn’t a chance to look back and see what hit him. He’d been made. 

Matthew tried to shake the bogey chasing after him, soaring high into the night before diving back down, trying to get behind it so he could take it down once and for all. There was little doubt in his mind the enemy craft was piloted by Sebastian. No other Luftwaffe pilots would stick to his trail for this long and with so much precision. He pulled hard to the right as he pulled up again, firing down on the Messerschmidt chasing him. 

“Tabarnak!” Matthew shouted, feeling his engine stutter. “Don’t you fucking dare do this to me.” 

The engine cut again, smoke wafting through the bullet holes in the fuselage. Another rain of bullets and he knew without a doubt his fuel had been hit. He watched the gauges plummet as he desperately flipped switches to feather the engines, trying to stay airborne. In the back of his mind, Matthew knew there was no way he could make it back to RAF Marham before he ran out of fuel. There was no way he could make it back limping on a half functional engine. 

In front of him, a Spitfire collided with a Messerschmidt, engulfing them both in white hot flames. That would be him if he didn’t do the right thing. 

“Quebec to Waterloo. I gotta bail.” 

“Roger that Quebec.”

Matthew could feel gravity pulling him down. He spared a glance for the inside of the plane that had become his home and pulled the lever and shot out of the plane and into the cold dark English skies, grateful he was bailing over friendly territory. The parachute flew open and his harness yanked him up. Beneath him, Matthew watched as his Hawk burst into flames falling to pieces before it hit the ground. 

—

Alfred didn’t end up going home with the blonde in the end. Her name was Dolores. Her husband went missing early in the war. She had three kids. Above all, everything about her reminded him of Arthur. Her green eyes were just a few shades too light, and her hair slightly too dark. She didn’t fawn over him the way the Red Cross girls did, either, making him all the more uncomfortable. He didn’t know if he was impressing her, just like he didn’t know if he was impressing Arthur. 

He watched his crew stubble out of the pub hours before, leaning on each other to stop the worst of their drunken staggering. While he knew it would be better for him to leave with them, he couldn’t find it in himself to go back, yet. For a moment, he wanted to pretend he wasn’t at war; that everything at RAF Marham didn’t remind him of Arthur. 

Alfred signalled the barman for another whiskey, only to be handed the bottle. 

“You’ll drink me dry, lad.” 

“Last one, I swear,” his voice slurred. 

“You’ve said that, already.” 

Alfred shrugged and turned to watch the dart game that sprung up between an RAF bomber and a local man from town. He didn’t mean to get so invested in the match, but the local man was giving the RAF man a run for his money, and he’d been deprived of actual competition like this since arriving in England. Reading the Red Sox recaps in the papers was fine, but nothing compared to spending a humid summer day sitting in Fenway. 

He cheered along with the crowd when the local man closed the gap in the lead. 

“What are you still doing here?” 

Alfred swallowed. He knew that voice well.

“Alfred, are you alright?”

Green eyes replaced the dartboard. He couldn’t help the flush of his cheeks. He only hoped Arthur would chalk it up to him drinking and nothing more. Alfred nodded absently, trying to think of anything other than how desperately he wanted Arthur to hold him for a little while. 

“Right…” Arthur looked back at the barman, silently asking if he could get a few waters. “Come on, lad… Let’s get you to the snug, so you can have a proper sit down, yeah?”

“Riffraff took it..” he mumbled, 

Arthur nodded and spun on his heel, marching to the snug as though it were his property. Alfred stumbled after him, trying to convince him they were fine at the bar, but to no avail. 

“Oi! You lot!” Arthur snapped. “Get out!” 

The RAF boys took a single look at the pair and shuffled out, one muttering something about getting Alfred home safe when he could finally walk straight. The rest muttered about how queer they were.

“There you go,” Arthur said, sitting Alfred down on the bench. “Drink this.”

Alfred did as he was told, taking slow sips of water until his nausea subsided. 

“What are you doin’ here, Artie?” 

“That doesn’t matter now…” 

“Does to me,” Alfred said, too drunk to care what he said and to whom. “Y’always do…”

Arthur shifted in his seat.

“Walensky told me you were still here when you left… mentioned something about leaving with a blonde, but something told me you’d still be here.” 

“Not one of your fairies, right?” Alfred smiled widely. 

“Not one of my fairies.” Arthur smiled. 

Alfred laughed, leaning across the table into Arthur’s space. He wished the table was gone. He wanted Arthur to wrap an arm around his shoulders again.

“Did you come lookin’ just for me?” 

Arthur raised an eyebrow and pushed the second glass of water Alfred’s way. 

“Arthur?” 

“I came to get a drink…”

“With me?”

“Sure, yeah, with you.” 

Alfred hummed happily, closing his eyes. He listened to his heart sing, reminding himself of the warmth Arthur made him feel. He wanted to reach out and take Arthur’s hand in his, even for just a moment. He wanted something to remember when he was eventually blown out of the skies. His heart stopped. The reality of the war slammed against him, leaving him breathless. He could be blown out of the sky at any moment. 

“Arthur?”

“Yeah?” 

“I think I wanna go home…”

Chapter Text

It was all Matthew could do not to cry when Alfred’s arms wrapped around his shoulders upon his return to RAF Marham 48 hours later. He could feel his brother’s choked sobs of relief in his core. He should have stayed on the ground. It was all he could do to not outright sob when Arthur let him fall into his arms, when Alfred finally let go. 

“It’s alright,” Arthur murmured. “You’re safe. You’re alright. Alfie and I got you. You’re alright.” 

Matthew shook his head. The parts of him that weren’t falling from the sky were climbing over trench walls. He was not alright. He was not safe. Bombs and bullets echoed in his ears. He knew Alfred and Arthur were discussing something, but he couldn’t hear what. If he tried to focus on their voices, the bombs crashed louder. Matthew opened his eyes, trying to escape the flashing lights behind his eyelids. God, he wanted a drink. No, he needed one.

As if consumed by the thought, Matthew pulled himself from Arthur’s grasp and tried to get his bearings. They were in Arthur’s office. How he ended up there, he had no clue. He was distantly aware of Alfred and Arthur staring at him while he looked around for the decanter of whiskey he knew Arthur kept for “special” occasions. 

“What are you looking for?” Arthur’s voice broke through the fog in his mind. 

He shrugged, turning to see if the decanter was behind him. Nothing. 

“Buddy?” Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m gonna go to the lounge…” His voice sounded distant, fighting with the rumbling of bombs in  his brain. “J’ai besoin d’un verre.” 

“Can I come?” Alfred’s voice was weak, and Matthew knew there would be no escaping his brother’s watchful gaze, no matter how desperately he wished he could. 

“Oui.” 

He felt Alfred take his hand and lead him through the winding halls of headquarters to the crowded Officer’s lounge. Alfred kept silent the whole way. Matthew hated it. Part of him knew it was his fault. He wanted to say something, but the doors to the lounge swung open and he was met with a raucous cheer. The boys missed him. The boys were excited he was back. Matthew took a deep breath, putting on a winning smile as he wove through the crowd. Everyone, it seemed, patted his shoulder, telling him it was good to have him back. He couldn’t help the pride bubbling in his chest. It was rare Matthew was seen as important, especially next to his brother. 

“They were all real worried,” Alfred said once they reached the bar. “Couldn’t get anyone to do anything.” 

Matthew smiled and hugged his brother again, this time grounded and in his body. The barman slid two tumblers of whiskey their way, saying nothing about their tab. He drank and talked to crews about what happened, carefully adding details to make the story far more exciting and far less horrifying than it really was. Everyone seemed to fall for it, hook, line, and sinker. Everyone except Alfred, who he could feel watching him from across the lounge. 

Soon enough, everyone who wanted to hear the tale had heard it, and Matthew was finally left to his own devices. He felt better for the whiskey lining his stomach. The bombs had faded to a distant thump that matched his heart and he could finally breathe clean air again, not the gas his brain pumped to his lungs. Logically, he knew he wouldn’t be flying for a while. Logically, he knew he belonged in the Flak House. 

Arthur stood hunched over his desk, trying to keep control of his breathing. Matthew was fine, just like he told Alfred he would be. There was hardly a scratch or bruise, but trauma marred him all the same. The ghost that walked back onto base was not the person who got himself onto a flight list a few days prior. 

It didn’t help that he was forced to watch Alfred fall apart from afar. Herbert came to him, begging him to help Alfred out of whatever stupor Matthew’s disappearance triggered, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He needed to find him. He needed to avenge him. Oh god, Francis was going to kill him. Never had he felt so utterly stuck, so utterly alone, and so utterly  weak. 

A firm knock at the door pulled him from his stupor. A RAF captain, no older than 20, stood in the doorway, papers stacked high in his arms. 

“Forgive me for the interruption, sir,” he said, almost apprehensively. “But I have a few things I need you to review.”

“Of course!” The war never ended, even when he needed it to. “Set them on my desk… There’s a good lad.” 

The boy nodded and rushed from his office without another word. Sometimes, Arthur envied how seamlessly Alfred and Matthew fell into stride with the rest of the men on base. They managed to make themselves equals, where Arthur stood so high on a pedestal that even Generals had a difficult time looking him in the eye. 

Arthur flipped through the pages stuck between manila folders; maps and charts for their next series of raids into Germany, photos of the damage to London from a few nights prior, reports on downed pilots and new prisoners of war, and sandwiched between it all, recuperation leave for Matthew Williams. 

God, he did not know how he was going to get Matthew to obey the order this time. He couldn’t let him continue the way he was, but he loathed the thought of Matthew ignoring his own suffering for the sake of the war effort, again.

Chapter Text

“You’re flying today, Lieutenant Colonel.”

Alfred groaned, trying to evade the flashlight burning through his eyelids. His head pounded against his skull. He regretted trying to keep up with his brother in the lounge. If only the barman cut him off like he threatened, he would. Really, he should have expected the revenge mission to come down the pipe any moment, but he got so lost in Matthew’s return that he almost forgot entirely about his place in the war. 

Around him, Alfred could hear his crew groaning and shuffling about the barrack. The light still shone through his eyelids. 

“Lieutenant Colonel Jones?” The voice said again. 

“Yeah?” He grunted. 

“You need to get up.” 

“Get the fucking light out of my face and I’ll consider it.” It was far ruder than Alfred meant, but the throbbing behind his eyes made him want to scream. 

“Get outta bed, Al!” Orville shouted. His voice reverberated through the metal barrack, shaking Alfred’s brain in his skull. 

It was all he could do to heave himself out of bed. Alfred sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, staring vacantly at the ground before him, waiting for the throbbing and swirling to subside. He’d be fine in an hour or so, anyway. He just needed to get his feet under him. Clothes hit the back of his head, shaking him from his hungover stupor. 

“Get with it!” Orville snapped. “Fuck’s sake, man.” 

Breakfast only did so much to quell the churning in his stomach. Real eggs, real coffee, real sugar. The hallmarks of the last meal they came to loathe. Real eggs and bacon were difficult to enjoy with the reaper looming over their shoulders. Real coffee, however, was a gift from God. At least now, Alfred could think without his head pounding like a drummer boy. 

No one said much at their table. It wasn’t much of a surprise following Matthew’s bailout. If Matthew could go down, so could they. Perhaps they never realised how much of a target Alfred had made his crew until now. He swallowed the guilt and looked at the faces that had become his brothers. Herbert was hunched over his second (notably Monty’s) cup of coffee, muttering something that sounded like a prayer for his safe return. And something about Charles, too. Monty’s nose was glued to the book he started after their last mission. He always had to finish before they went up, never knowing if he would come back down again. It was almost like a good luck charm. Sutton and Orville shovelled food in their mouths, paying no mind to the cloud of anxiety that hung over the rest of their crew. Stoney watched Herbie out of the corner of his eye, drumming a nonsensical pattern on the table, his plate of eggs and bacon long gone. 

Alfred counted the missions in his head. 10 down, 15 to go. He tried not to think about the crews that never made it this far. It felt like more and more crews were lost to the Luftwaffe on each mission. Sometimes Alfred wondered where the air force was finding these crews. 

“Williams survived,” Johann said, leaning back in his chair, mocking gravity’s pull. He’d become a semi frequent installation in his office since Sebastian returned to the skies. “It’s a shame he went down in London. I can’t wait to get my hands on him.” 

Sebastian grunted, wishing Johann could be anywhere else in the world. Whatever Drieber was doing to his brother made him more unrecognisable by the day. The Jahn he knew was not so intent on revenge and control. The Jahn he knew only wanted to protect his family from the horrors of their existence. The Jahn he knew dreamt of beauty. This Johann was a frightening imitation of their father. It made Sebastian sick. 

“I’m sure you’ll get him. I mean, he turned me into a torch. The least you could do is return the favour.” 

A chill ran down Sebastian’s spine. He couldn’t do that, even if he was ordered.

“How are things at home?” Sebastian didn’t want to hear anymore of Johann’s violent fantasies. 

“Fine,” Johann said, letting his chair hit the ground hard. Clearly, he was upset with the redirection. “Laura and Anna do well to keep the house.” 

“And our brothers?”

“Christoph is slacking. Ludwig is still taking Pervitin even if he thinks I don’t know, and Gilbert is intent on making my life a living hell, as always. I assure you, nothing is any different from when you left.” 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

Johann straightened, almost as if he thought he was in trouble. Sebastian watched as the colour drained from his face. 

“Are you alright?” 

Johann nodded, almost too quickly. His eyes darted around the room searching for something or someone, Sebastian didn’t know. 

“Jahn?”

Before he could respond, the red light in the corner of Sebastian’s office flickered on, alarms blared, and the pounding of footsteps rushed past his office door. 

The Americans were coming. 

Alfred felt himself come back into his body as they met up with the rest of the 8th high over the channel. He could hear his squadron talking on the radio around him, noting changes in wind speeds and visibility as the thick fog burned away under the sun. They punched through the flak with ease. Between day and nighttime raids, the combined efforts of the United States and the United Kingdom were finally paying off, even if the number of crews lost hardly justified it. 

Orville called out a series of commands and Sutton responded with a Wilco, turning the plane towards their target. 

“Twenty minutes to target,” Herbert said over the radio. “No more flak. Keep radio to a minimum, they’re listening to us.” 

The radio cut silent except for the occasional navigation correction and gunners confirming they were in place. 

It was Monty who spotted them. Small black flecks breaking through the clouds and firing bullets as they drew near. Alfred and Sutton nodded to one another, keeping the plane as steady as possible for their gunners to do their jobs. 

Bullet casings clattered to the metal floor, sending shocks through their feet. Distantly, Alfred could hear congratulations for well-placed hits and downed pilots, but he couldn’t focus on that. He and Sutton needed to stay on course so Stoney could do his job. 

Somewhere above Give ‘Em Blue Bells, a B-17 exploded, sending scrap metal every which way. A piece of the wing hit another B-17, sending it into a tale spin before exploding as well. Alfred swallowed. That was too close for comfort. 

“Five minutes.” Orville said. “Keep ‘er level.” 

“I’m trying!” Alfred shouted. Another boom behind them. Another plane down. “Fuck! Was that Humphry?” 

“Tail gunner to captain, I can confirm it was Humphry. Bogey flew right into him! No shoots.” 

“Fucking shock if there were,” Stoney said over the clatter of his gun. 

“Two minutes to IP,” Orville said, prompting Alfred and Sutton to flip switches until they were no longer in control of the plane. 

“Give ‘Em Blue Bells is all yours, Stoney,” Alfred said. “Don’t miss.” 

“Hold her steady for me and we’ll have nothing to worry about.” 

“It ain’t that I’m worried about,” Sutton murmured. 

He and Alfred watched another plane drop from the sky, this time white parachutes peppered the air. They worked to keep the plane level, unable to do anything else until the bombs had been dropped. He hated this part of the mission. 

Over the radio, they could hear Stoney calibrating his bombsight to the target, and then silence. Seconds moved like molasses. Everything but the enemy planes seemed suspended in the air, waiting. 

“Bombs away!” Stoney said. “Hope I fucking kill Hitler today.”

Give ‘Em Blue Bells jolted upwards in the air as the payload dropped from the bomb bay doors. A few clicks and Alfred could feel the control of the plane settling back into his hands. He felt like he could breathe again. The crew watched the bombs hit the ground one cloud of smoke after another. 

“Well done, Stoney.” Orville said, before rattling off commands for their return home. 

They picked off as many B-17s as they could before they dropped their bombs on a chemical factory. Sebastian wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. The chemical factory was a minor cog in the machine, and not one that directly impacted him. A nagging voice, one he learned to ignore as of late, celebrated the loss, knowing well what the chemicals manufactured were used for. 

Eleven of twenty made it to the target and dropped their bombs. They were to make sure not a single B-17 returned to England. Sebastian chased after the Americans, careful to avoid the flak that was shot into the sky with increasing fervor. Sometimes, he wondered if the men on the ground understood how much harder they were making his job as well. 

He watched another American crew bail before their plane burst into flames. They wouldn’t have made it back, anyway. They only had one engine left when they dropped their bombs. 

Sebastian watched a moment before picking out another straggler. Their right side engines were billowing black smoke. Flak hit their ball turret, sending a spatter of red everywhere. He shot at their broken engines, trying to catch a spark. Another B-17 blew up above, the tail of the plane hitting his target’s wing, ripping it clean off the fuselage. The crew he was targeting flew into a tailspin as it hurtled towards the ground. 

Sebastian moved on to the next struggling plane. 

“FUCK!” Monty shouted over the radio. “Marshman is gone! Barney too!”

Nine of twenty crews left in the air. 

“Orville, can we go any faster? They’re circling us like vultures,” Alfred said, watching their fuel gage closely. This was not the milk run they were promised by Brass.

Flak burst around them, putting holes in the belly of the plane. Alfred could hear his crew shouting at one another as bullets continued to rain. 

“There goes Reamer,” Stoney said. “Eight of us.”

“Herbert, send up a flare. We gotta pull closer together or they’ll keep picking us off!” Alfred said, doing his best to avoid the mess of plane parts falling through the sky. 

The B-17s pulled close together, forcing the Luftwaffe to back off, unable to get close enough to a straggling plane to make a decent or effective hit. Flak continued to pick up as enemy fighters peeled off and headed back to base, happy to let the flak guns do their work for them. 

Bursts of black jostled Give ‘Em Blue Bells, reminding Alfred of the choppy winter seas. The plane to their immediate left took a hit to the engine, but kept moving. Over the radio, Alfred could hear them urging everyone higher, even if their fuel wouldn’t last the same. They needed to get to safety. 

“Entering Belgium no–” Whatever Orville said was drowned out by a loud crash and a shout. 

“Oh, fuck!” It was Monty. “God, get me out of here!” 

The fear in his voice made Alfred sick to his stomach. He sounded like a child begging to be let into his parents’ room after a nightmare. 

“Please help me!” 

They could hear the wind whistling over the radio.

“I’m coming,” Herbert said. 

And then, there was silence.

Chapter Text

Matthew hated feeling useless. He hated sitting on a plush velvet couch in the middle of the Cotswolds, listening to the radio. He hated the plush bed and scratchy sheets. He hated being in his civies. He hated how everyone pretended like this was fixing him. If anything, it was making Matthew feel worse. He should be out there protecting his brother from Sebastian. He should be out there, helping the war effort by any means possible. 

The RAF mandated shrink said he was helping the war effort by giving his system a rest. He said Matthew would return to base more focused and with tools to cope, that would‌ help him protect his brother to the best of his ability. It felt like more of a platitude than anything else.

Matthew knew his shrink hated him for hating rest, but lazing about some aristocrat’s house, pretending there wasn’t a war, was the antithesis of what Matthew wanted. The women running the house did their best to keep news of the war far from the hands of the recuperating airmen, focusing on news from home. There always seemed to be a letter falling into some soldier’s lap, but never Matthew’s. 

Occasionally, Matthew would get his hands on the papers before they were censored even more. Like that morning; Matthew could not sleep, as he had almost every night since he arrived at the flak house, so he decided to smoke on the front stoop. In the small hours of the morning, no one was awake to intercept the newspapers from his prying eyes. On the front page, an image of a B-17, missing a tail flap and the bottom half of the ball turret, sat on a familiar hardstand. Above, in bold black words ‘Bloodiest Mission to Date!’. 

Matthew knew that plane. They didn’t need to show the name clearly for him to recognise the partial serial number. It was Give ‘Em Blue Bells. There was no saying what happened to Alfred and his crew after they landed again. There was no saying who survived and who was stolen into the night. His hands shook. He should have been there. He should have stopped it. Alfred could be injured or worse. Alfred’s crew could be dead and he wasn’t on base to comfort his brother. He smoked almost an entire pack of cigarettes afterwards, watching the sunrise over the misty rolling hills. He forewent breakfast, knowing he would only throw it back up. 

One nurse tried to coax water and a slice of toast into him, but all Matthew could think about was the bottle of whiskey sitting in his bedroom. He was supposed to talk to his shrink when he felt like this, but he didn’t want to. He just wanted to forget for a while.

Arthur hardly saw Alfred the days following his last mission. He tried to catch him following interrogation, but got shrugged off steps in front of the infirmary with hardly a word. Alfred hadn’t even taken off his blood stained flight clothes. He hoped against hope that it wasn’t his.

Arthur tried again at dinner, but Alfred never showed up. He asked Herbert what was keeping Alfred in the infirmary, but Herbert shook his head and looked sadly at the gap between Orville and Stoney. Alfred’s entire crew was like that. Tight-lipped and distant. That, of course, set off a new trail of tears on behalf of Stoney, who had stopped talking to his ladies almost immediately after landing. He almost seemed mildly annoyed by their presence. 

Sitting alone in his office, Arthur couldn’t help the tears that slipped past his tight emotional control. Matthew was gone, Alfred seemed further away than ever, and Francis was trapped in Berlin, leaving him no one to talk to. No one who could understand. For the first time in a long time, he found himself longing for Antonio’s obsessive presence for no other reason than company.

A shrill ring cut through the silence, releasing Arthur from its weight. The phone on his desk rang again. He wiped his eyes and sniffed, clearing his throat before answering. 

“Admir–Air Chief Marshal Kirkland,” Arthur said, hoping whoever was on the other end would not notice the slip in rank name. 

“ACM Kirkland, this is Major General Carl Spaatz of the US 8th Air Force,” the man–General Spaatz–said easily. 

“Major General Spaatz, how can I help you?” He asked, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. He rarely received a call from British high command as it was. To receive a call from an American General couldn’t mean anything good.

“I wanted to follow up on the photo in the papers…That was Lieutenant Colonel Jones’s craft, correct?”

“Yes sir,” Arthur said quickly.

Major General Spaatz hummed. Arthur didn’t need to know the man to know he was displeased by something. 

“Did you authorise that photo to be used in the press?” 

“No, sir…” It was the truth. “I was unaware the photo had been taken until I received the papers this morning.” 

“I’m sure.” Major General Spaatz sounded like he didn’t believe him. He probably didn’t. “Then who did?” 

“I would assume Churchill did, sir.” He kept his tone even, lest Spaatz accuse him of being smart. “His ministry gets a say in those kinds of things…” Spaatz muttered something, but Arthur couldn’t make it out over the hum of the phone line. “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?” 

“No. I am placing Lieutenant Colonel Jones and his crew on leave.”

“Sir, I don’t know if–”

“You saw the state of that ship! You read the article! If that’s the sanitised version, then I don’t give a rat's ass what you think!” Spaatz shouted. “Alfred may not be important to you, but he is to us! We need him to keep up morale. Do you know what this is going to look like when it makes it back to the states? I can tell you what it will look like! Failure. Never let that happen again, Kirkland. Next time you’ll be hearing from the Commander-in-Chief himself.” 

Arthur swallowed back a sharp response. Alfred meant more to him than the entire United States government could possibly begin to understand. Alfred meant more to him than even Alfred himself understood. He wasn’t just at RAF Marham for Matthew’s sake, but Arthur’s own selfish desire to be near him again. 

“They’ll be dispatched tomorrow. If they’re on any flight lists, remove them. I don’t care where you find the crew to replace him, but Jones does not step inside a plane again until I say so! Am I understood?”

“Yes sir,” Arthur whispered. 

The line went dead. Arthur let out a shaky breath, staring at the mahogany desk in front of him, feeling again like the world was pulled out from underneath him. 

The Flak House in Lincolnshire was massive, but warm. A stark contrast to the cramped, freezing planes they spend most of their days in, both in the air and on the ground. Some crews mingled with each other, but many opted to stick close to their own men. The crew of Give ‘Em Blue Bells was no different. No one seemed to want to be away from anyone–especially Monty–longer than a few minutes, as if they thought he would disappear if they blinked too long.

“I suppose there are worse places to heal…” Monty sighed, leaning heavily against Stoney. He was still a little high from the painkillers the doctors pumped into his system the last few days. “‘M happy I get to stay with y’all…”

Stoney ruffled Monty’s hair, careful not to touch the line of stitches in his forehead. “We’re lucky we still got ya, Gummy.”

Alfred smiled softly, thanking God and anyone else good enough to listen for saving John Montgomery’s life. He thanked God for Herbert Fitzwright’s endless pool of bravery. Getting through the flak in Belgium had been hell. They were lucky Herb managed to pull Monty out of the ball turret when he had. A moment longer, and Monty would have been flash frozen and dropped from the sky like a bomb. 

“Freddy?” Sutton nudged his shoulder, pulling him from the Belgium skies. “Knock or draw?”

Alfred stared down at the cards in his hands, wondering when they were even handed to him. He studied the coffee table, looking at the cards face up in front of a pile of quarters, then back again at his cards. A voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Arthur told him to draw. 

“Sorry, I got lost thinking about how grateful I am to wake up and see Monty’s beautiful brown eyes another day.” He smirked. “Draw.” 

Orville laughed, nudging Monty’s knee from his spot on the floor. “What did I tell ya? He’s just as much of a pansy as Herbie!”

Herb rolled his eyes and shook his head. As much as Alfred wanted to say something, he couldn’t. Not without putting Herb at risk. 

Sutton flipped the cards on the table and did the math. Alfred won. “You bastard! That was my pub money!” 

“You mean my pub money,” Herbie said, pulling the pile of quarters into his chest. “This puts a dent in the debt, I suppose…”

“You’re just gonna let him take your hard won money?” Sutton glared at the growing pile in front of Herb. 

“What’s the difference if he gets it now or later? You heard him. I owe a substantial financial debt!”

“I can’t believe keepin’ y’all alive ain’t enough to repay our debts,” Sutton grumbled. 

“It’s a win-win scenario. I stay alive, and I get your money,” Herbie said with a smile. 

“I think that’s win-lose…” Monty mumbled, half asleep. “I dunno. I didn’t take game theory.”

Stoney laughed, waking Monty entirely. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Stoney said. “You’re just funny, is all.” 

Matthew felt better for the whiskey in his system, dulling the edges of his failures. He managed to get away with skipping his session with his shrink, pretending to take a nap. The nurses felt no need to argue with him. They probably knew better than anyone how little he was actually sleeping. Instead, he drank until he couldn’t see clearly, even with his glasses. 

Sitting under one of the largest chestnut trees he'd ever seen, Matthew couldn’t focus on anything other than the soft grass underneath him and the warm, dappled light on his skin. It was almost relaxing. Under the raucous cheers of the crews racing and playing croquet, Matthew could hear the tree’s sturdy branches groaning with the wind, as if trying to sing along with the birds. 

The earth rocked beneath him, lulling him into a half asleep trance. Nothing around him mattered. Nothing around him existed anymore. The world was Matthew, the chestnut tree, and the gentle caress of wind and perhaps the occasional insect crawling over his bare arms. He felt safe in the land’s steady and unyielding embrace. Part of him wished he could sink into the ground and join the wise old chestnut tree in its vigil on the hill. 

Matthew felt the buzz of Earth’s energy under his fingertips. Even with his eyes closed, he felt like he could see the Cotswolds rolling out underneath him. He could see where each stone wall cut through the land and where they gave way to bramble hedges. He could see where every tree stood sentinel. He could see each crater in the ground left by German bombs. He could feel the pain like tender wounds. Suddenly, the world was so much bigger and angrier again. It was all Matthew could do not to cry.

Chapter Text

Sebastian was almost grateful for the mountain of paperwork sitting on his desk, preventing him from returning to Berlin. He couldn’t stand pretending like what was happening around him was even remotely close to civilised. At least, buried under his mountain of paperwork, Sebastian could pretend the war was only in the air, and that he was doing the right thing, playing both offence and defence for the sake of his people. 

Part of him kept waiting for a knock that would never come. Johann was away. Dreiber and Warner all but dragged him from the house in handcuffs and took him to wherever they went to make Johann such a violent attack dog. If only he could come up with an excuse to follow them, and find out, once and for all, what they were doing to him. 

Sometimes, he wished Roderich never mentioned anything about how Dreiber seemed to beat the softness out of Jahn. Of course, he noticed the pattern, too. Dreiber and Warner would take Johann, and he would come back violent and angry, then softening after a few weeks, only to be dragged from the house early in the morning before the rest of the subordinates woke up. 

He wished he could talk to Christoph, but ever since the United States joined the war, he was closed off. Even during their worst fights, Christoph never put up walls between himself and his siblings. Now, he was so unreachable, Matthias was starting to feel more like family. The thought made him want to gag. If Sebastian put a little thought into why Christoph was so reserved, there was no doubt he would make the connection between the walls and better mood, but he couldn’t bear to face what he knew to be the truth. Sebastian refused to believe his brother would betray them, even if he knew it was the right thing to do. He probably would have done the same thing if the war hadn’t become so personal so quickly. Perhaps it would have been better for him to not get involved in the first place. Perhaps he should have listened to Roderich for once in his life instead of trying to prove himself. 

“It doesn’t matter who you are,” Roderich said to him once. “Only what you do.”

At the time, Sebastian thought he was trying to make him feel better about being confused for Saxony, instead of Saxony Anhalt. Now, though, he could see the deeper meaning. One that Christoph understood immediately. It wasn’t just advice; it was a warning. One he should have headed with a little more caution. 

What was he doing? 

What was he doing?

Nothing. He was sitting by, letting Christoph do the heavy lifting while he played out some revenge scenario that Johann expertly convinced him was the true mission. 

Fuck, he needed a drink. 

Nights were lonely in Lincolnshire. Even with his crew surrounding him, Alfred couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. That someone was missing. At first, he chalked it up to missing Matthew. This was the longest they’d been separated since the beginning of the war, and he once again couldn’t help but ask himself why the Canadians had to be bunked up with the rest of the British. They were Americans. They belonged together. Continental solidarity and all that shit the rest of the Europeans always preached when he asked why he always felt like he was on the outside of everything. 

But then the hole persisted, even as Alfred wrote to Matthew. They didn’t talk about the war; they weren’t allowed. Instead, they talked about home until it hurt too much to think. He missed the eastern seaboard and the pervasive smell of shellfish in Oyster Bay. He missed watching the Red Sox play the Yankees with Lovino and the sunburns they got after spending hours in the sun. He missed the lightning bugs and moss that hung from the trees in Georgia. He missed the rolling fields and sunflowers of the midwestern states and the purple peaks of the Rockies. He missed the gold coast and the brutal heat of the west. He missed Cape Cod and the green trees that reminded him of Arthur’s eyes.

He missed Arthur. 

God, he missed Arthur like he had never had before. Usually, he could accept Arthur’s absence, particularly in his youth, but as he grew older and the playing field leveled between the two, Alfred couldn’t stand the thought of Arthur being inaccessible to him. He needed Arthur at his side to ground him or he’d float off into delusions of grandeur and total self-reliance without a second thought. 

Alfred rolled over in bed, trying to push the thoughts of Arthur from his mind. He had other things to focus on, especially now that Monty was expected to make a full recovery and resume flights as soon as General Spaatz decided they were clear for active duty again. Alfred’s crew had grown restless as crews came and went, while they were told to sit by and wait. Sometimes, he wondered if Brass understood that keeping them grounded was a detriment to morale.

“Can’t sleep?” Herbert whispered from the bed across from him. 

The Red Cross girls convinced them to move into bedrooms once Monty could walk. Of course, the best they could do was pair them up and hope that they wouldn’t wake to find a pile of airmen at the foot of Montgomery’s bed. They took turns sleeping in his room, keeping watch, still unsure if he was really there or not. Tonight was Stoney’s night. 

“Nah…” Alfred whispered. “You?”

“No. I fall asleep and see Charlie fighting, then I wake up and he’s gone,” Herbie said. “I don’t know what’s worse.”

Alfred thought about it for a moment, but instead of Charles, all he could see was Arthur. Arthur standing in his office alone, charting flights and dealing with the pressure of multiple nation’s air forces on his shoulders. He thought about him standing in the control tower, counting the returning planes. An image of Arthur in his military greens, hunched over in a trench, invaded his mind, making Alfred shudder. 

“I don’t either…” He wished he could be more of a comfort for Herbie. “He’s still…”

“Yeah. My sister sent a letter today. As of last week, he’s still alive.” 

“Good.” Alfred didn’t know what else to say. 

They lapsed into silence, trying not to think about how painful thinking of home could be. Alfred let out a shaky breath, wishing Arthur was there to run a hand through his hair. Wishing Arthur was there to wrap him up in his arms and sit with Alfred while he felt everything he needed to without fear of being consumed. 

“Herbie?” Alfred whispered weakly.

“Yeah, Freddy?” 

“I wanna go home…” 

Alfred listened to the sheets rustle and feet hit the floor. Before he could tell Herbert not to bother, he felt the covers of his bed pull back and the bed sink next to him. 

“Which home are you talking about?” Herbert asked, his face inches away from Alfred’s

Alfred paused, trying to think of an answer. Herbie always had a way of asking more without meaning to. Which home was he talking about? The States? He always wanted to be there instead of in Europe, but that didn’t feel right. Not even the cottage on the coast in Martha’s Vineyard was calling him the way home was. What was home now? Was it RAF Marham with Matthew and Arthur? That felt better, but even still not enough. No, home was something he didn’t want to admit to himself. 

“Is it Arthur?” Herbert asked in a nearly inaudible whisper. 

Alfred swallowed as his heart swooped at the mention of his name.

“Yes,” he said after a long pause. 

Herbert only smiled and kissed his forehead. Alfred tucked his head in Herbert’s chest, letting his radio engineer wrap his arms around him. As safe as he felt in Herbert’s arms, he wished it was Arthur holding him instead. 

All Matthew could feel was relief as he watched the gates to RAF Marham lift and welcome him back. Silently, he trudged back to his bunker and dropped his bag before heading to the Officers’ lounge. He needed a drink.

Three whiskies in and Matthew was telling anyone who would listen about how ready he was to get back into the skies. Everyone seemed happy to have him back, even the Red Cross girls he hardly spoke to. They all greeted him as Major Williams and gave him the charming smile they gave to every returning airman and asked if he needed anything before they went on their way. Matthew always said no. 

Eventually, he was caught up on all the camp news. Who was sleeping with whom, who went up and never returned, who was inching closer to the end of their tour and who was looking at re-upping. Hearing the list of the names of the dead, while short as they hardly flew more than four missions while he was gone, filled him with rage. If he had been there, instead of sitting on his ass at the flak house, then maybe they would have survived. His shrink said it was useless thinking like that, but it didn’t hurt Matthew anymore that the war already was. Besides, someone had to remember them. 

Starting at the top of the list, Matthew worked through the list of names again and again, starting with the Canadians before moving on to the American and British men he let down as well. 

“Matthew?” 

He tried not to think about the wave of rage associated with that voice. It wasn’t Arthur’s fault he was sent to the flak house. It was Sebastian’s. 

“Matthew?” The voice was closer now. “Ça va?”

“So la la…” He muttered into his drink. Why did Arthur need to talk to him now? Was it because Alfred was nowhere to be seen?

Arthur pulled a stool up next to him and ordered a gin and tonic before speaking. “I missed you while you were gone.” 

Matthew nodded, tracing his finger around the lip of the glass. 

“I hated that I had to send you away, but it was for the best, Matt. You were scaring me and then when you got shot down, I knew I had to step in…And Alfred…he was so angry when he found out you hadn’t had a break. I couldn’t stand his glare on the back of my head.” 

Matthew scoffed. Of course, Arthur only paid attention because Alfred was there telling him to. 

“Don’t start that, Matthew.” Arthur sounded exhausted. “You were the one ignoring my orders, refusing to take leave. You had to know it was coming.”

Matthew simply shrugged. He didn’t want Arthur’s half assed apology. He didn’t want to listen to Arthur justify what had been done. They should never have taken him out of the cockpit.

“I don’t know what you want me to say…” Arthur tried to catch his eye, but Matthew kept his gaze firmly on the rows of liquor behind the bar. “I’m sorry? Is that what you want to hear? That I’ll do what I can to make sure it doesn’t happen again?” 

Still, he said nothing. Matthew knew Arthur was wishing Francis was here to buffer their increasingly uncomfortable interactions the way he had been in Vimy-Ridge.

“Come on, Matthew,” Arthur said. “You’ve got to say something.” 

Matthew rolled his eyes, throwing back the last of his drink. He didn’t want to be around Arthur and his self pity any longer. He dropped a pile of coins on the counter and left without another word. Behind him, he could hear Arthur cursing him under his breath, wishing Alfred was there because he was at least reasonable and spoke with him. Matthew tried to ignore the growing lump in his throat as he all but ran from the officer’s lounge and to the hardstands. He needed to practice in his brand new Hawk before he was called into the sky. He needed to be as far away from RAF Marham as possible before he let his anger get the best of him and tear in Arthur like he always dreamed of.

Chapter Text

RAF Marham had become unusually quiet of late. With Alfred still in Lincolnshire, and Matthew putting in his all to avoid him, Arthur had little reason to join in on the raucous parties and lively dances put on by the Red Cross. It wasn’t in his best interest to get to know the men who would likely never return. Nor was it in his best interest to get into arguments with the flak-happy pilots that hated him for what the Luftwaffe was doing to them.

Keeping everyone alive was an impossible job that he gave up on centuries ago. The best he could do was minimise their losses and keep his men sane, though both seemed like impossible tasks of late. He hated the letters he had to write to the mothers and wives of men that would never come home. He hated knowing they hated him too for stealing their sons. He wished he could pass the responsibility off to someone else, but Churchill made it clear that it was important to the war effort. That nothing in the world carried more honour and weight than recognition from England himself. 

Absently, he wondered if Alfred was forced to do the same, or if the American Military had a stamp with his signature on it. Given that he was still on leave, it was likely the latter. 

Alfred…His brain got stuck on the thought. What was Alfred doing right now sequestered in a country home? Was he riding bikes with his crew? Or was he playing baseball and watching whatever movie was available? Would it even be possible to play baseball at some of these country homes with their rolling hills and massive trees? Would Alfred enjoy himself or would he compare everything to the shiny, new American goods at home?

Arthur wished he could go see him, but the rules were rules–some he put in place himself–nothing could be done. He could hear Captain Robert Maynard in the back of his head asking why he thought nationhood was enough to grant him an exception to the rule of law. Blackbeard’s head was sliced clean off shortly after. It was all he could do not to gag at the memory of hot, sticky blood splashing across his face. 

Matthew spent a week in the air before his first mission back came down the pipe. It was simple enough. Escort a small squadron of Lancashires to the French coast, where they would drop their bombs on a naval port and circle back to RAF Marham. Everything went according to plan. No one was shot out of the sky. For the first time in a long time, Matthew did his job perfectly. The high of his success drove him and a few Canadians to the officer’s lounge, where they drank and sang and danced until the sun came up. 

Then, he was back in the cockpit, drunk, soaring over the midlands under the guise of practice. His hands fumbled with the switches, brushing against things that weren’t meant to be touched. His Hawk groaned in protest, lurching in the sky, but Matthew hardly flinched. He took his time correcting his mistakes as gravity pulled on his plane. 

Matthew pulled back hard at the last possible second, shooting off high into the air. If he could do it like that when he was fighting Sebastian, then there was no way he could lose. He may even convince Sebastian he’s going down and trick him into peeling off before coming up underneath him and blasting him from the sky once and for all. Matthew smiled at the idea. 

He knew he’d have to turn back sooner rather than later. His fuel tank was dropping quickly with the loops and dives and steep climbs he was making, but Matthew didn’t care. He wanted to have a little fun for once in his life. A little fun before he died. 

Laura wasn’t sure how much more she could take. Sebastian was hardly around, frequently calling to let Ludwig know he needed to extend his stay on base. When Sebastian was around, he was a shell of the man he used to be. He stood like Johann; he talked like Johann; he fought like Johann. He hardened in the skies. Sometimes, Laura couldn’t help feeling that Sebastian’s heart froze up in the cold blue. 

She couldn’t stand the way his eyes no longer softened when she walked into a room. She couldn’t stand the hollow look in his eyes when he stared off into nothing. She hated the way he stopped sleeping with her and locked the door so she couldn’t come to him when he had nightmares. She loathed the glass glued to his hand. 

Laura wandered down the halls, pausing in front of canvases she swore weren’t there days prior. Some of the work was Feliciano’s. Peaceful and almost ethereal landscapes uninterrupted by humans and portraits of the Beilschmidt brothers with extra care taken to capture Ludwig alone. Some, she could have sworn belonged in Brussels and France. She wasn’t sure which works unsettled her more. Feliciano’s denial of the horrors happening outside their front gate, the gazes of the Beilschmidt brothers that seemed to follow her every move, or the masterworks stolen from their homes, reminding them that this was occupation, no matter how kind Christoph tried to be. 

Uneven footsteps marched down the hall, stopping next to her to look at one of Feliciano’s recent works.

“Abhorrent, isn’t it?” A gravelly voice said. 

Laura’s blood ran cold. “Yes…” She knew it was safer to agree.

“He’s talented. It’s a shame he can’t see reality for what it is,” Johann said simply. 

Laura frowned. She heard that before, but never from Johann. Antonio had always been quick to dismiss Feliciano’s work as shallow and based wholly in delusion. She wondered if Feliciano did it on purpose, drawing his viewers in with beauty and hitting them upside the head with the meaning that came hours later. He’d always been deceptively innocent like that. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked, the weight of his suspicion heavy on Laura’s shoulders. 

“Looking for Bas…” 

“Why?”

“I just want to talk…I’ve hardly seen him since he came home.” 

“And he’s about to leave again.” Johann smirked. “Do yourself a favour and leave him alone. If he wanted to see you, he would have sought you out by now.”

It was all Laura could do not to flinch. Johann, like Roderich, wielded words as their sharpest weapon, cutting deeper and leaving more damage than a sword ever could. She pushed back the tears welling in her eyes. 

“Where is he?” She bit out. 

“Laura, Sebastian wants to be alone right now,” Johann said almost earnestly. 

“Fuck you,” she hissed. 

“Are you really about to go into hysterics?”

Laura grit her teeth, turning to look at Johann in the eye. “Shouldn’t you be with Roderich?”

Worry flashed in his eyes, but Johann didn’t move. 

“Do you not know where he is?” She said, her voice laced with insincere pity. 

Johann took a shaky breath. Laura knew she was playing with fire, but she didn’t have it in her to care. Not after the way Johann spoke to her like she was nothing more than a pet. 

“Because I do.” She turned to walk away, but was yanked back by the wrist. 

“Where is he?” Johann loomed over her, squeezing her wrist tighter. “Tell me.”

“For a price,” she said, mustering all the courage she could. “I’ll tell you, if you tell me where to find Bas.”

“You’re not in a position to negotiate.” 

“Well then, I suppose we’ll just have to let Roderich continue to dig his grave.”

The colour drained from Johann’s face. “Where is he?”

“Where’s Sebastian?” 

“Laura, this is serious,” he growled, pushing her against the wall. “Where is he? Who is he with?”

Laura smiled, saying nothing. He knew her terms. “Tick tock…”

“Laura, please.” 

She looked down at her nails. They really needed to be reshaped. They had lost the sharp point at the end and the red polish had chipped beyond recognition. She knew Johann saw the polish. She wanted to see what he would do in the face of her breaking the law.

“He’s in his library…” Johann whispered.

“Roderich and Ludwig are in the garden, smoking.” 

Rage radiated from Johann as she walked down the hall to Sebastian’s personal library. Part of her knew it was unfair to use Roderich against Johann, but he was their best means of controlling the man. Laura was certain that without Roderich, Johann would become ungovernable. She shuddered at the thought. 

The door to Sebastian’s study was shut, but she could feel the black, brooding energy radiating from under the door. She stopped in front of a mirror, fixing the pleats of her skirt and retouching her lipstick. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, taking a deep breath, and opened the door without a knock. 

“What?” Sebastian growled. 

Laura didn’t need to see him to know he was drunk. 

“I wanted to check–”

“I’m fine, Laura,” Sebastian snapped. “Leave me alone.” 

She strode up to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” The words lacked any heat behind them. Still, he didn’t look at her.

“You shouldn’t be alone, Sebastian…you don’t have to be.” Her hand inched towards the tumbler in Sebastian’s hand, praying she could take it before he noticed. “Let me be with you. Let me look after you.” 

Sebastian brought the glass to his lips before Laura could take it from him and drank it dry. She swallowed her annoyance for his sake. Starting a fight would only make the void between them that much greater. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to…” She just wanted to sit with him. “I can just hold you a while, if you want.”

Sebastian looked up at her, nothing in his eyes. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I do not want to be touched right now.”

Laura pulled back as though she’s been burned. Sebastian never pushed her away like this before. She took a seat on the empty loveseat next to him. “Can I sit with you?”

“If you must.” Sebastian stood and poured himself another few fingers of whiskey. 

With his back to her, Laura let a tear roll down her cheek. Sebastian was so close and still stuck miles high in the sky. Once, she tried to tell him to compartmentalise everything, and keep what was happening in the air on base, but Sebastian never seemed capable of letting go. He took every loss and every injury personally, even though there was nothing he could do to prevent them. 

She wanted to open her mouth and speak to him, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing she did seemed to bring him comfort anymore. If anything, she felt more like a nuisance than a partner. He doesn’t want to see you echoed in the back of her head. 

Sebastian sat down and picked up a book, reading silently. Ignoring the breaking of her heart, Laura stayed in place, watching Sebastian closely until he fell asleep. Then she kept vigil until he woke up screaming Johann’s name. 

Despite having no missions to plan or letters to write, Arthur couldn’t sleep. The gap in his chest had become too large to ignore, and bright laughter echoed in his ears. Everywhere he went, he could feel Alfred’s absence like a vacuum. The only people who seemed to understand were the Red Cross girls who obsessed over the crew of Give ‘em Blue Bells like they were Clark Gable and Errol Flynn. He hated those girls more than he wanted to admit. He didn’t want to share Alfred’s attention. But then again, Alfred wasn’t his, no matter how much he wanted him to be. No one in the world could take better care of him like he could. 

His mind wandered to the interwar, when everything felt deceptively safe despite the post-war financial woes. Arthur and Alfred, for the first time, were able to maintain consistent contact with one another. Alfred wrote the way he spoke, full of slang he needed to use context to decipher and with an almost nonsensical rhythm that reminded him of the jazz shows Alfred took him to. 

Alfred dressed up a little more than he usually did that night. The small details made his eyes appear as blue as the Caribbean seas, and his hair almost golden. Arthur thought about the blush that crept across his face when he complimented his appearance and the muted thank you he got in return. Nothing like the suave turn of phrase he used with the ladies. That same blush when he found out Arthur kept the tin soldier in his office. Embarrassed with something more underneath. 

He would have to have been blind not to notice how Alfred looked at him. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that he liked it. Alfred’s gaze forced its way into his mind, so full of reverence and longing. He wished Alfred was there, looking up at him like that from between his legs. 

Arthur’s cock throbbed at the thought of Alfred on his knees before him. He groaned, thankful to have moved his cot into his office, where he had at least the illusion of privacy. He pulled his erection out of his boxers and squeezed. In his mind, Alfred’s eyes flooded with desire. 

Arthur smirked down at him, running his hands through Alfred’s hair. “Good boy.”

He felt Alfred shiver underneath him. Without prompting, he took his entire length into his mouth. Arthur groaned at the wet heat, doing everything he could to keep his hips still. He didn’t want to choke Alfred yet. Alfred bobbed his head and lavished his tip until Arthur was fucking into his mouth with abandon. 

“Fuck, you’re so good. Such a good boy for me,” he groaned. 

Alfred only moaned, letting Arthur use his mouth however he pleased. Arthur’s hands wove into his hair, pulling him back and forth in time with the thrusts of his hips. Arthur gasped, chasing his own orgasm with little thought for the man whose mouth he was fucking. Heat pooled in his stomach and he came with a shout. 

Arthur fell back, hitting his cot hard. He panted, coming back to reality, alone, with a fistful of cum. He wiped his hand on the side of the bed and rolled over, trying not to think about how perfect Alfred looked with his cock in his mouth as he drifted off to sleep. 

Chapter Text

Alfred couldn’t help the anxiety bubbling in his chest as he watched the gates to RAF Marham lift. He looked at his crew and knew they felt the same. There would be no more inning-less baseball or lawless football games to distract him from the image of Humphry’s plane ablaze and falling. No more movies and late night poker games with his crew piled close, knowing they were safe. Above all, there would be no more wondering when he was getting dragged back into the cockpit. Their leave was only meant to be a week, but then General Spaatz added a few days, making their week leave ten days instead. Then another week was tacked on and a few more days after that. On and on it went until they had been off base nearly a month and General Spaatz couldn’t come up with another reason to extend their leave another day. 

The covered jeep didn’t stop until they reached their barrack. 

“Home sweet home,” Stoney said, throwing his bag to the ground. “And here I was, hoping they’d move us a little closer to the mess.”

“And give the MPs less time to catch you and Freddy trying to steal food? I don’t think so!” Sutton laughed. 

“Yeah, well, I hope they enjoyed their vacation as much as we did. Daddy’s home and he’s gotta eat!” 

Herbert shook his head with a snort. “No one wants to call you that, Steven.” 

Stoney grabbed his heart in mock offence. “How dare you talk to your father that way?”

“What are you gonna do?” Herbert threw his bag and jumped out of the Jeep. “Spank me?”

Stoney swallowed. “Might have to.” 

Herbert patted his chest and walked into the barrack, swinging his bag around like it was weightless. Alfred couldn’t help the way Stoney’s eyes lingered on the door, even after it closed. After a month of peaceful, close quarters, Stoney had become attached to Herbert and Montgomery, hardly letting either from his sight unless it was to sleep. 

“You alright there, Steven?” Orville asked, a hint of something in his voice that Alfred didn’t want to name. 

“Yeah…” He cleared his throat, straightening his back. “Yeah, just feels weird bein’ back here.” 

“Well, we’re back now. Put that military cap back on and straighten up.” Orville said. His voice was hard in a way it hadn’t been even before leave. “We have a job to do.” 

Matthew was told his brother was back on base, but he didn’t make an effort to see him. He didn’t want to drag Alfred down with his cynicism. Alfred needed to be confident. Alfred needed to be unburdened if he had any hope of making it home in one piece. He didn’t need to know Matthew was stuck in an unending loop of crawling through no-man's-land and begging God to keep him alive. 

“Major Williams!” 

He sighed and slid off the wing of his Hawk, careful not to smash the bottle of whiskey on the flaps the ground crew was working on. 

“Jack?”

“You broke your landing gear! The fuck are you doing up there?”

“Killing Gerries.” Trying to stay alive.

“You need to be careful. You’re lucky to have made it to the ground in one piece. Next time, you may not be.” 

“Yeah, well, I can’t exactly control where the bullets and flak hit my plane, can I?” Matthew bit out. He wanted to shout. He wanted to swing at Jack for so much as insinuating he wasn’t working hard enough. That he wasn’t trying his best. 

“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it.”

“Then what are you saying?” He crossed his arms, daring Jack to continue. 

“You’re only as good as your equipment. It’s imperative that you report these things so they can be fixed before they kill you!”

“I didn’t even notice it…”

“Perhaps if you let the whiskey leave your system, you would.” 

“Excuse me?” Matthew’s voice was dangerously even. 

Jack shifted, preparing for a fight. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Matthew. If you’re a danger to yourself, then you’re a danger to the entire Royal Air Force. Get it together.” 

“Fuck this!” Matthew stormed off toward the officer’s lounge.

What did the ground crew know about what was happening in the skies? He was almost certain none of them had been on an airborne plane. If they had, they would know better than to comment on how he was coping. At least with liquor in his system, he didn’t feel the fear of waiting. 

Eventually, Alfred and his crew fell back into place on base. They flew missions and practiced when they could spare. Other than a few bruises and cuts, the crew of Give ‘Em Blue Bells came out unscathed and closer than ever. Alfred knew they were a model crew. He had young, green pilots lining up to ask questions about surviving in the cold blue and how it felt knowing everyone in America knew their names like they knew the crew of the Memphis Belle or any other movie stars. He hated it. Not because they were asking questions that were impossible to answer, but because he knew that only a handful of the men he talked to would live to see the end of the war alive or as a free man. No, Alfred had seen too many crews bail and burn to believe there was any hope for the 20-something year olds asking him how to survive their first mission. Still, he tried. 

He cheered for those who came home and mourned the ones who didn’t. He wrote the letters, not because he was asked, but because Arthur was doing so. Alfred could only hope that hearing from the person who represented the nation could bring solace in the loss of loved ones. He tried to picture himself on the other side, waiting for news from the front. He buried the nausea as quickly as it appeared. 

Off days were the hardest, when he had nothing to do but walk around base and hope that someone else was as bored as he was. There was only so much flying over England they could do before Brass raised concerns about fuel consumption.

“Is there someone I can help you find, sir?” 

Alfred spun on the ball of his feet, turning to face a young girl, no older than eighteen. She sounded English, but had an American look about her. 

He opened his mouth to say no, but then thought about it. “Have you seen Air Marshall Kirkland?” 

“I believe he’s in his office…I can show the way if you’d like?”

“Thank you, that would be great.” 

The girl nodded and led him down the winding hallways in silence. He didn’t remember going this way the first time Arthur brought him into British Headquarters, but then again, he wasn’t paying much attention to anything else than the way Arthur walked, head held high like he knew he was above everyone else. 

She stopped at the top of a poorly lit corridor. “He’s down there, third on the right.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.” Alfred tipped his hat to her, clicking his heels like he saw the soldiers in the movies do. 

She giggled and went on her way, leaving Alfred to deal with the anxiety settling in his stomach. He stood outside Arthur’s door for what felt like hours, trying to build the courage to knock. It was only Arthur. At worst, he would tell him he’s busy and to find him later, but Alfred didn’t want that. 

He lifted his hand to knock when the door opened. Arthur stood with his arms crossed. “Do you know how long you’ve been standing outside my door?”

Alfred flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry…”

“Fifteen minutes.”  Arthur smiled softly. “Why didn’t you knock, you wolly?” 

“I was about to, but you opened the door…”

“Come in,” Arthur sighed, stepping to the side. 

Alfred hesitated a moment before stepping into Arthur’s office. It differed from the last time he’d been there. Arthur’s desk had been pushed into a corner to make room for a cot and a small trunk. He could barely move between the stacks of books and the furniture without worrying he’d knock something over. 

“Are you alright, lad?” Arthur asked, sitting on the edge of his cot. 

Alfred stood in the middle of the room awkwardly. “I don’t know why I came here…”

Arthur patted the empty space next to him. Alfred sat almost robotically, keeping enough space between them that Arthur wouldn’t be uncomfortable. He could feel the world sitting on his shoulders and his knees buckling under the weight. This wasn’t some small territorial spat or an over-proportional revenge tour for a slight that could have been talked away. This was the future. This was a fight for what was right and good and just. This would be the war that determined the political landscape for at least a century and he could feel liberty losing. 

“Alfred?”  

Arthur’s hand was heavy and warm on his back. “Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you.” 

His throat closed. His eyes stung. He could feel himself shaking. Too many men died at his hands. Too many men died because of his mistakes. “You shouldn’t be.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for me, Alfie. I’m proud of you. Other nations would have crumbled by now.”

Alfred shook his head, swallowing a sob. He wasn’t about to break down in front of Arthur. He needed to know he was strong. 

“No, really. Older nations than you have tried and failed to do what you’re doing now. Most of them would rather have a nice office job–like me–rather than go out and fight. Even fewer truly believe what they’re fighting for. And here you are, fighting for what you believe in, not because it’s easy, but because it’s right. Because you believe, and you always have, that everyone deserves their freedom no matter who they are.”

A sob broke past his lips and tears streamed down his cheeks. 

Arthur’s heart cracked when he sobbed. This wasn’t right. Alfred wasn’t supposed to be this unsure of himself. He pulled him into his arms, stroking his back until he cried himself out. Alfred hiccupped against his chest but made no move to pull away. If anything, he settled deeper into his embrace. 

“What do you need, love?” Love , he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He meant lad. He only ever let himself use lad with Alfred lest he called him something stupid and forward like love or darling. 

“Can I stay here a while?” Alfred whispered. He sounded empty. 

“Of course,” Arthur said, letting Alfred lie back and kick his feet up on the cot. He moved to stand, but Alfred grabbed his wrist. 

“Stay, please?” 

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be at my desk–”

“No!” Alfred all but shouted. “I mean…” he flushed, trying to gather his thoughts. 

Arthur smiled. “Shove over.”

Arthur lay with Alfred until he was snoring, and nothing but nightmares could wake him. He kept a close eye on the American from his desk, searching for signs of terror on his face, but Alfred slept peacefully. Part of him wanted to peek into Alfred’s dreams, but he thought better of it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what or who was bringing him peace. 

He stared down at the maps and ledgers that consumed his desk. Squadrons with every plane in their possession needed to be placed precisely to ensure the success of the mission. They were delving deep into Germany, with plans to bomb Berlin in broad daylight. 

No matter what he did, he couldn’t map out a flight path that didn’t result in heavy losses. They would push the Hawkers to the absolute limit. At least they would have American P-51 fighters that could support the bombers after the Hawks turned back. 

Arthur stared at the red circle on the map of Berlin marking where he knew the Beilschmidts lived. No matter what, that house could not be hit. He had it on good authority that they were housing their prisoners there. Luckily, Gilbert had the foresight to build his house far away from government buildings. Perhaps, once upon a time, it was surrounded by fields and meadows instead of motorways and encroaching neighbours. Still, a stray bomb could land him in more trouble than a failed mission if he accidentally killed Francis or Christoph. 

He mapped the Hawks' path back, passing over the North Sea and down into Scotland. At least that way, they could land on friendly soil if they didn’t have the fuel to get to their refuel point in Yorkshire. Arthur could hear Matthew in the back of his head, curing him for what he could call the flight plan from hell. There was no room for error. He smirked to himself, writing the mission name on the brief for the Canadian pilots. Operation Goldilocks. 

Still, he couldn’t escape the nagging feeling in his gut that this was a suicide mission, and that Alfred and Matthew may not make it back in one piece.

Chapter Text

Everyone worked around the clock for months, punching into Germany and taking out vital aircraft manufacturing plants and depots, all while fighting off the Luftwaffe’s last offensive attacks on London. He hardly saw Matthew and Arthur outside of a briefing room, and even then they hardly had time to talk. Sometimes he could feel Arthur watching him. It was all he could do not to preen while his stomach tied itself in knots. 

Days and missions started blurring together and the only way he could tell how much time had passed was the bookshelf he and Sutton built next to Monty’s bed, which was piled to the limit with books. Sometimes he wondered how he would get all those books home when their part in the war ended. Perhaps he’d have to sell a few. 

It was hard to believe his crew had already flown 24 of their original 25 missions. Alfred knew he would re-up the moment he landed and hoped at least Sutton and Herbie would do the same. They always talked about seeing the war through to the end. Monty called them all sick in the head for willingly going back up. He was going home and going to school. Stoney and Orville always seemed to change their mind with the weather and news of the war. Now that Italy surrendered, they were both seeing the merits again. 

“I dunno, with the Mustangs in Italy, we have double the coverage we used to. We could actually get a milk run for once,” Orville said around a mouthful of real eggs. 

Alfred looked at his own plate. Real eggs, real bacon, real sausage, toasted white bread, and real sugary coffee. They didn’t need the red light or base on lockdown to know what was coming. He felt sick. 

“What do you think, Gummy?” Stony asked, leaning into Montgomery’s side like he was one of his girls. 

“I think you need to let me finish this book,” he muttered, turning the page. 

“Come on, Gummy, don’t be like that. This could very well be our last meal together!” 

“Don’t you dare say shit like that!” Herbie said, throwing down his napkin. “Gonna jinx us or something.” 

Alfred swallowed heavily. Superstition had taken his crew by force. Everyone had their routine. Everyone had things they didn’t say. Everyone had something in their pockets when they went up for ‌luck. Herbie had his photo of Charlie and his sister, Stoney had his rosary, Sutton wore his father’s watch still set to Georgia time, even Orville wouldn’t be found on Give ‘Em Blue Bells without his rock, which made its way from Hawaii to RAF Coltishall in the bottom of his trunk without his notice. Alfred pretended to keep a token in his breast pocket, refusing to tell the crew his only good luck charm was Montgomery finishing his book before they were called in for a mission. 

“Shut up. I’m trying to focus.” 

If Alfred had to guess, Monty had almost fifty pages left in his book. Usually, he wouldn’t worry, but even Monty admitted the book was far more dense than he realised. He really needed Monty to finish that book. 

“How’s–oh God, what’s her name–Mallory? Was it?” Sutton asked, turning to Alfred. 

“I haven’t seen her since before we left for the flak house…” Alfred said. He really didn’t want to talk about her. “Been busy, I guess…”

“And Celia?”

“Nope…”

“Well then, that leaves Margaret and Betsy. Have you seen either of them?”

Alfred wanted to roll his eyes. He wasn’t interested in either of them, nor were they interested in him in that way. Rather, they used him to hide their own relationship, and because it got Orville and Sutton off his back, he was more than happy to oblige. “They both stopped wanting to see me when I got back…apparently I’m too flak hardened now.”

Orville and Sutton looked at each other, having some kind of conversation Alfred couldn’t decipher. He shifted in his seat, pushing his breakfast far away from him. Food was the last thing on his mind. 

“You gonna eat that?” Stoney asked, eyeing the bacon and sausage like he hadn’t seen food in years. 

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “I can’t eat.” 

“Thanks pal.”

“Yeah, of course…” Alfred watched Monty flip the page. At this rate, he would never finish before they were dragged into the sky. 

Arthur led Generals Spaatz and Doolittle through mission command and into the briefing room. It wasn’t unusual to see one of the American generals wandering around base, keeping a close eye on Alfred Jones like they believed themselves to be the only ones capable of caring for him. Today, however, was different. 

Today, Spaatz and Doolittle rolled up their sleeves and helped Arthur finish planning a daytime raid on Berlin. They had already coordinated the P-51s in Italy, piloted by a group of men called Tuskegee. What that meant or who they were, Arthur didn’t know. Nor did either American general see fit to tell him. 

“You mean to tell me that instead of flying at a regular altitude that would provide some semblance of safety, you want to put the entire task force fifty percent lower than usual to conserve gas? Are you two out of your bloody minds? Do you know how many men will die?” Arthur shouted. They’d been at this since four in the morning. 

“We have no other options, Kirkland. If we want to get them there and back, they need to fly lower. It’s the only way to conserve fuel without reducing payload.” Doolittle crossed his arms and glared at Arthur. “They’re my men, not yours.”

Arthur felt sick. He’d been with these men–British and American–since the beginning. He knew their names; he knew which small towns in the Midwest they were from. He remembered every man who wouldn’t come home. He worked day and night to keep them as safe as possible, and now all of it was thrown out the door.

“It’s a risk we have to take, Arthur,” Spaatz said. “There’s no other way.” 

“It will be a maximum effort mission. Almost a thousand bombers. Over a thousand fighters with the Hawks.”

That didn’t make him feel any better. The Hawks would be forced to land in Italy, refuel, and fly back to England either over the Mediterranean or back through German-occupied lands. Neither path was a decent option. He knew Matthew would kill him when he saw it. 

“And there is a matter of missions we need to discuss,” Spaatz said. “We are adding five additional missions to the standard tour. 30 instead of 25.” 

Arthur’s heart sank through the floor. The men getting close were finally starting to believe they could make it. What would this do to morale? 

“Here’s a chart. We counted the tough missions as two. Please have someone convert all current crews’ missions to this system so we can project how many recruits we will need to see this war through.” 

“Will you tell them before or–”

“After. We need the boys going in focused on the mission.”

Arthur nodded, not wanting to say anything that could get him in trouble. The American Generals walked around as though they could make the world bow to their whims; like kings who believed that even the representatives of nations were beneath them. 

Matthew lost count of how many missions he’d flown ages ago. Up and down, day or night, like clockwork. One day he went up in the morning, the day after at night, and on the third day he could rest before starting it all over again. But then the schedule changed, and he wasn’t flying. No one was flying except to protect London from German bombs. 

More planes arrived by the day, and Matthew had to work to find places he could be alone. The entire base doubled in size overnight. The runway was never silent anymore, and there was nothing he could do to escape.

A mission had to be coming, and from the preparation happening, it was going to be massive. He’d read the briefs and the news when he could. The Luftwaffe was all but crippled in the West and the Russians were making a show in the East. For the first time, there was an end in sight, and Matthew could breathe easily for the first time in years. 

Brass herded him and a handful of other officers from the lounge into the briefing room. He knew he wreaked of whiskey and cigarettes, but then again, so did everyone else on base. Alfred waved him over, slinging an arm over his shoulder when he sat. It didn’t feel like the friendly weight he’d grown accustomed to. Alfred’s arm felt heavy in a way he could only describe as fear and possession. 

Arthur smiled at them as he walked up to the curtain, hiding the maps from view. He could feel Alfred relax a little next to him, but the weight of his arm went nowhere. 

Matthew looked around the crowded room. Crews were packed in like sardines, some sitting on top of each other to make room. It would have been hilarious if they weren’t about to fly off to their deaths. His gaze landed on the Brass sitting in a row at the front of the room. Some he recognised, some he had even flown with. But two of them, who watched Alfred intently, he’d never seen.

“Who are they?” He whispered in his brother’s ear. 

Alfred glanced around, catching sight of Doolittle and Spaatz immediately. He straightened and adjusted his tie slightly. “Generals Spaatz and Doolittle.”

“Where’s Eaker?”

“Italy I think…” 

Before Matthew could say another word, Arthur pulled back the curtain, and the room fell silent. Everyone studied the map in front of them. All paths lead to Berlin. 

“Gentlemen,” Arthur said. “Today we will bomb Berlin.” 

Someone in the crowd coughed. 

“In just a few hours, you will join nearly a thousand bombers on our largest daytime raid to date. In addition to Hawk coverage through the city, you will meet with the Tuskegee Airmen and other fighters based in Italy before punching a hole right into the heart of Germany.”

Matthew’s heart stopped. He followed the line of green that denoted the paths the Hawks would take. They weren’t turning around in the Rhineland. They were flying through Berlin and down into allied Italy. 

“I’m sorry. Is this a fucking joke?” He said without meaning to. 

“Major Williams–” Arthur started. 

He felt all the eyes in the room find his body. Even Spaatz and Doolittle were watching with bated breath. “Just answer the goddamn question, Arthur!”

Arthur opened and closed his mouth. 

“Do you know how much time in enemy airspace that is? Eight and a half fucking hours, Arthur! Tabarnak! Qui a organisé ça?” 

“How low are we flying?” Alfred asked quietly. He’d been looking at the map just as hard as Matthew. 

“Low,” General Doolittle said. “And slow on the way back.”

Matthew could feel Alfred seething next to him. He smiled to himself, glad to not be alone in his horror at the mission in front of them.

“Does anyone have anything else to say before I tell you how this will win us the war?” Arthur said, daring the airmen in the crowd to continue their mutiny. “No? Well then, I will take us through the flight paths, then General Doolittle will cover the rest.” 

Matthew could feel his attention fading the moment the Hawks were sent to Italy. They would have the Italian fighters escorting them to safety, or would at least in theory. Of course, that left the bombers almost entirely undefended for their return. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sutton going green around the gills.

“This is fucked up,” Alfred whispered. 

Matthew nodded. There was nothing else to say. He let his mind wander while flight plans and IPs were thrown around like hockey statistics. 

Matthew didn’t come back to himself until he was well over the channel, watching squadron after squadron of Fortresses and Liberators pull into formation. It was a sight to see. For miles around him, the sun glinted off the wings and fuselages of the planes, making them appear almost like stars in daylight. If they weren’t about to fly into a firefight, he would have thought it beautiful. 

Ahead, the flak over the Netherlands puffed weakly. The Luftwaffe ground forces pulled closer to Berlin the harder they hit their occupied territories. The new pilots thought nothing of it, not realising that this was only the beginning. 

He listened to the crews chatting, wishing he was a little closer to Alfred to tap his radio and listen to whatever outrageous story Stoney was undoubtedly telling. He liked Alfred’s crew more than he’d like to admit. Especially Stoney, who had become a drinking buddy and confidant when no one else was available. 

Alfred tried his best to focus on the dials and lights in front of him and not on how Montgomery had never finished his book. He barely made it ten pages before they were called in for their briefing. Over the radio, he could hear Herbie humming a song while he worked on the plane’s communication system. They didn’t joke anymore. They didn’t laugh when the flak missed them by a yard. They hardly even took their eyes off the sky. 

“Entering Germany now,” Orville said. “Eyes open, boys.”

They heard the ball turret shut and the tail gunner pull machine gun rounds close. Somewhere behind them, a B-24 burst into flames, bombs falling to the ground. Another plane pulled in, taking their spot. 

Alfred watched his brother patrol ahead of them. Fighters crisscrossed the skies overhead, picking off anyone who flew too close. Flak continued to burst around them, stopping Alfred’s heart with every blast. 

“Breathe Freddy,” Sutton said. “We do this all the time.”

“Yeah…” Alfred said, trying to fill his lungs with as much air as his mask would allow. He’d be useless if he passed out. But Monty didn’t finish his book this time, his brain supplied. 

“Hey, it’s blue skies…they can’t sneak up on us here.” 

“Yeah…” Alfred couldn’t escape the horrible feeling settling in his gut. “Nothing but blue skies…”

It was almost eerie how silent the air was around them. If it weren’t for the bursts of flak jostling the plane, he would have thought the Germans were capitulating. He knew better than to get his hopes up. 

Alfred watched his brother pull up and dive. He’d seen something, or rather, someone. 

“Fuck me!” Sutton said. “Look at that!” 

Ahead, a wall of black specks hurled towards them. As if out of nowhere, their little friends shot forward, meeting the Luftwaffe head on. The small planes dove and soared around their targets with precision. Bullet casings clattered and his crew swore. Pieces of planes hurtled to the ground. There was no way of knowing which belonged to whom. Alfred focused on holding the plane steady. If he paid too much attention to the battle going on around him, he would end up focusing on the severed limbs of his comrades. 

“Keep pushing, boys,” Orville said. “IP in thirty.”

“Roger that,” Alfred said. “How are we feeling up here?” 

“Like shit, Fred!” Stoney shouted. 

In front of them, a German plane exploded. Flames licked their wings and Alfred prayed it wouldn’t catch. There was a thud and a grinding noise, followed by shouts from his gunners. 

“Fucking disgusting!” One of them shouted. “He better not have had any diseases.”

“At least your mouth was closed!”

“What happened?” Alfred asked.

“Blue Bells got a kill of her own! Son of a bitch got sucked into the propeller.”

Alfred shuddered at the thought, grateful to have not seen it in person. The idea of getting sucked in was nightmare enough without having an image to support it. He patted the window and swore he felt Give ‘Em Blue Bells preen. God, he loved this plane. 

Ahead, Matthew spiralled back into view, a Messerschmidt hot on his tail. Matthew and Sebastian had found each other. Alfred couldn’t help but be mesmerised by their dance. Up and down they went, paying little attention to anyone else around them. Only when Sebastian started making swipes at Alfred and his crew did Matthew seem to remember he wasn’t alone. 

He watched Sebastian fly up in front of Matthew, guns blazing. 

Time stopped. 

Matthew’s engines sputtered and smoked. He watched in horror, unable to do anything to save him. His plane started dropping, the smoke blowing out, then Matthew’s engines were back on and he was soaring into the sky almost vertically. Sebastian turned back and dove after Matthew again. 

Over the radio, his crew shouted orders and locations, paying no mind to the gunfight in front of them. It wasn’t their job to do so. Alfred and Sutton did their best to avoid hitting another plane in the metal soup. He listened to Stoney pull the pins on their bombs and Monty pick planes out of the air with ease. 

It happened faster than Alfred could register it. Sebastian shot Matthew’s engine until it exploded into a ball of fire. He watched helplessly as his brother tried to put out the flame and stay in the air. Sebastian came around the other side, carving the wing from the fuselage. It was all Alfred could do not to scream. He watched Matthew crawl out of the plane as it entered a tailspin and pulled his parachute. 

Sebastian seemed to stop and watch Matthew float to the ground before peeling off and attacking other fighter jets, leaving Alfred to watch Matthew’s Hawk hit the ground in a fiery explosion. 

“Oh, my god…” Sutton whispered. 

Alfred swallowed lead. Matthew bailed. Matthew would be a prisoner of war if he wasn’t careful. Rage. That was all he could feel. Rage at Sebastian for being the one to shoot, at Arthur for putting Matthew and the rest of the Canadian Hawks in the air to begin with, at Doolittle and Spaatz for planning the entire thing, at himself for failing to protect his family.

“Five minutes to IP.” 

Alfred wished he was the bombardier, if nothing else, to blast Sebastian’s family home to hell. Bullets whizzed past, and there was nothing to do but finish the mission. He swallowed his pain, shoving it in the same place he kept his feelings for Arthur, and focused on the sky in front of him. He followed Orville’s orders and flipped a switch. 

They could hear Stoney calibrating the bombsight. A click here, a pop of a button there, and then “bombs away.” 

Herbert watched the bombs hit their target below. One blast after the next until thousands of bombs hit the city. Seeing the destruction of their city, the Luftwaffe returned with a vengeance. What planes they picked off careened into the neighbourhoods below, while crews floated aimlessly from their parachutes. 

Over the radio, he listened to the clicking of switches in the cockpit and Stoney and Orville trying to figure out just how Sebastian shot Matthew–who they believed to be invincible–out of the air. Bullets popped and hissed, and the mechanical pivot of the ball turret hummed. He didn’t want to think about Alfred telling him Monty didn’t finish his book. 

Around them, more planes fell. Some crews made it. Others did not. Sebastian seemed hell bent on following them as far as he could. He fired bullets at Give ‘Em Blue Bells, punching holes into the steel walls. He tried to ignore the scrape on his leg and the blood soaking his socks. 

More bullets popped and casings clattered. Flak cracked and Give ‘Em Blue Bells groaned. Then whistling so loud he felt like he was standing at the edge of the bomb bay doors in basic, about to jump for the first time, erupted over the radio. There was only one place that could make that much noise. 

He pulled his pen from his pocket and, with tears in his eyes, wrote the time and location, followed by a single name: John Montgomery. 

Chapter Text

The silence in the radio tower was deafening. No one could say or do anything more than sit and wait until the faint buzz of aircraft finally started crackling over the radio. Occasionally, the radio popped, making Arthur jump out of his skin. 

The weight of waiting kept him frozen in place. His tea had long since gone cold, forgotten when dread settled in his throat, choking him like rope. Something happened; Arthur was sure of it. He only hoped that Alfred was safe. 

Part of him wished he had gone up with Alfred instead of clinging to his office chair like his life depended on it. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and after everything he saw in the last war, Arthur didn’t think he could take part in trench warfare again . No, he knew he couldn’t. 

The radio hissed and crackled and then came to life. The survivors were crossing the Channel. No one was laughing or tallying their counts. Crews hardly spoke unless it was to correct the course. Arthur listened to a couple of planes bail into the water, knowing the coast guard would be there quickly to pull them out of the freezing water. 

He wondered how many of those crews actually came from Marham. 

The moment Matthew’s feet touched land, the hair on the back of his neck was on end. He was being watched. He knew that much. He landed too close to a city, too close to people who may recognise that he was not German. It wouldn’t be hard if anyone looked at him longer than a moment. 

He cut himself free from his parachute, wadded it up tight, and shoved it in a hole with little regard for who lived inside. He needed to get out of sight quickly. 

Matthew looked around, trying to find cover. In the distance, a thick grove of trees caught his attention. He would have an advantage there if he could climb into the boughs and move about that way. Only, between him and the trees stood a field of nothing. The grass was too short to crawl through without being seen, and there wasn’t a creek bed in sight that he could use for cover. His only option was to run and hope against hope that no one saw him. It would be an impossible feat, but Matthew couldn’t sit any longer. The Nazis would find him if he didn’t move now. He was on his feet before he could think of running. In broad daylight, all he could hope for was passing unseen.

The farther Matthew ran, the farther away the trees felt. Had he hit his head on the way down? Was the land playing tricks on him? Thoughts raced through Matthew’s mind. He felt like a fox being chased down by a pack of hounds. There was nothing he could do but keep going. His lungs ached, and he could tell he was bleeding, but from where he didn’t know. He just knew his neck was hot and sticky in a way only blood could make it. Matthew’s skin crawled, but he kept running. 

The grove of trees finally relinquished its game of cat and mouse, finally growing near. The trees loomed over Matthew, sucking the light from the sky until everything had a greyish hue. Matthew ignored the voice in the back of his head telling him to get away from there. He didn’t have a choice. He needed to hide. 

Matthew dove into the treeline, letting the underbrush suck him into the earth. His heart pounded in his ears. His lungs felt as though they were about to tear in half. Matthew whined despite himself. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Alfred wasn’t supposed to see him get shot down. Sebastian wasn’t supposed to win. 

Alfred could have cried when he saw the coast of France. They were finally leaving hell, and his crew made it through unscathed. All Alfred wanted was a drink. Distantly, he could hear Sutton talking to the other crews crossing the channel. They were the last wave of planes to return. Almost all of them from RAF Marham.

“Jesus, don’t look down,” Stoney said.

“Got somethin’ to share with the class?” Sutton asked. 

“Gotta be at least ten crews down–” Stoney stopped. “There goes Garland…He’s bailing into the channel, too.” 

“Coast guard will get them.”

“There’s ten other planes down there, Sutt…”

“Then they have company. There is nothing we can do. Herb, radio it in.” 

Alfred swallowed at the sharp, cold, hollowness that had weaselled its way into Sutton’s voice. He wasn’t supposed to sound like that; but then again, he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be calling the shots. Alfred was. 

“Monty, do you see any rafts?” Stoney asked. 

The radio crackled and hissed in response. 

“Montgomery? You hear me? How many rafts?”

Again, nothing. 

Alfred felt the oxygen leave his body. This couldn’t possibly be happening. They all made it; they had to. 

“John, this isn’t funny…” Stoney’s voice cracked. 

“Maybe his radio is broken!” Orville said.

Alfred swallowed, forcing the wall of tears away. He needed to believe Monty was still alive, despite every instinct telling him otherwise. 

“Herb…” Sutton said. “Montgomery’s radio status?”

There was a long silence. Over the radio, Alfred heard Herbert sigh, and everything came crashing down like a house of cards. The radio crackled and whistled, then stopped. 

“John’s gone…” Herbert said it so quietly, Alfred almost missed it. 

Everything fell still. Even Give ‘Em Blue Bells seemed to fall silent. No one knew what to say as Stoney emptied his stomach into a brown bag, or when sniffles and choked sobs echoed over the radio. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sutton shake his head and mouth something he couldn’t quite make out. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

The coast of England drew near, and reality set in. Alfred lost Matthew and Monty within hours of each other. He failed. His hands shook as he tried to flip switches to prepare for landing. Sutton grabbed his wrist and pulled it away from the dash before taking over and flipping switches himself. Alfred swallowed, trying not to let his embarrassment show. Sutton thought he was weak, Herbie didn’t trust him enough to control his emotions, and Stoney was probably blaming him for putting Monty in the air in the first place. He didn’t want to think about what Arthur would say when he landed. 

Alfred settled back into his seat, letting Sutton take the lead. His hands moved steadily over the switches. Give ‘Em Blue Bells hardly even shuttered. Orville called for a course correction, and Sutton responded in turn. Alfred could still hear Stoney sniff over the radio every so often.

“Pilot to crew, prepare for landing,” Sutton said. “Herb, red and yellow flares. We’re losing the second and fourth engines.”

RAF Marham buzzed with sirens and shouting men. Too many planes were firing off red-red and red-yellow flares. One fired green. It wasn’t Alfred. He was a new kid from Arizona. 

Arthur called out the serial numbers of the planes as they landed, keeping his eyes peeled for Alfred. He glanced down at his watch. The last crews should have passed the channel by now, and the Hawks long since landed in Italy. They were still waiting for a secure message from the air bases in Italy, where the Hawks were to refuel before flying back over the Mediterranean to England. He would know in time how many of them survived. He could count on Matthew to bring them back alive.

For now, he kept his eyes trained on the horizon. Arthur couldn't help the sigh of relief when he saw the last wave of B-17s making their way to the runway. Alfred had to be with them; he refused to consider the alternative. Flares flew into the sky, red-red, red-red, red-yellow, red-yellow, red-yellow, red-yellow-red, red-yellow, red-yellow, yellow-yellow, yellow-yellow. Not a single green. Not a single crew was unscathed.

Arthur watched the planes hit the ground and tear down the runway with burning engines and missing tail flaps. Even from a distance, Arthur could see the melon-sized holes punched into the fuselages of the planes. His stomach twisted in knots. Half the planes were nearly impossible to identify. One came in with all but one engine feathered, its lone prop sending it veering right into the field before stopping, another almost stalling right as it hit the ground. More sirens kicked to life, and Arthur was moving before the last plane touched the ground. 

Sebastian was certain of what he saw. Somehow, Matthew pulled himself from his plane before it went into a tailspin. Somehow, Matthew made it to the ground alive. So far, there had been no reports made of his or any other allied airmen’s location. Soon, they would flood his office, but Sebastian only cared about one. Matthew had been shot down somewhere over Hanover. So close to a city, he wouldn’t have many places to hide save for the forests and possibly a sympathetic farmer if he was so lucky. However, so close to a city decimated by the Allies, it was unlikely Matthew would find anyone willing to help him. 

Perhaps the people would kill Matthew for him. It wouldn’t be the first time; it wouldn’t be the last. Although part of him wanted to bring him in, if nothing else to see Johann smile again. He missed the man his brother used to be before the wars. A better version of himself that at least pretended to trust the people around him. Maybe bringing in Matthew would convince him that while Christoph likely turned coat, he had not. Maybe it would be enough to prove he was still loyal to his brother.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. 

“Enter!” 

The door opened slowly, as though the soldier on the other side was afraid. Perhaps he’d been too harsh. 

“Sir?”

“What is it?” Sebastian tried to sound at least somewhat kinder. 

“We located Williams’ craft, sir. The Gestapo is tracking him now, but without reports, there’s only so much to do.”

“Wait him out. Man the waterways. He’ll have to drink, eventually.” 

“Sir?”

“We cannot let him get to the resistance. We cannot let Lovino find him before I do. Matthew is mine .”

The soldier straightened. 

“Is there anything else?” 

“No, sir!” 

“Go then.” 

The soldier gave him one final salute and marched out of the room, his head higher than it had been before. Perhaps a distraction from the rapidly weakening Luftwaffe would be good for his men, and for himself as well. 

Matthew knew he needed to move deeper into the trees, but he couldn't convince himself to stand. His head throbbed, and his vision swam whenever he tried to open his eyes. Trying to move was no better. He felt as though he were strapped to the ground at the ankles. His shoulder screamed in protest with any small shift. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. 

In the dead silence of the forest, Matthew sounded like he was shouting. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he listened for even the faintest rustle of the wind in the trees, but there was nothing. Matthew’s skin crawled. Something or someone was watching him. He heaved himself up, leaning against a tree while his body protested. 

He forced himself to swallow the rush of heat in his chest, taking a few shaky steps deeper into the grey sickness blanketing the forest. Everything was telling him it was a mistake, that something was following him and waiting for him to let his guard down. It would be an even greater mistake to move towards the city. Matthew trekked deeper into the woods, careful not to make a sound. He had no other option. 

His footsteps echoed around him, slightly offbeat and clumsy. Matthew stopped, and the echo stopped with him. He needed to make a plan to get out of Germany without being caught. If he had to guess, and he did, he was somewhere near the middle of the country. North would land him in Denmark, which did nothing to help his escape. Further east wasn’t an option. West meant Belgium and France; south, Switzerland, and the promise of peace for the rest of the war. 

Matthew started walking again, pausing every so often to feel the ground for signs of water. Moss gave way to mud, and soon, he found a spring bubbling up from the ground. For the first time since before the Great War, Matthew thanked God for listening. He fell to his knees, slurping and splashing the water over his face until his vision cleared. Finally, he could breathe again. 

Matthew took stock of his injuries as he took one last sip of water. Here would be a decent place to camp for the night and figure out his plan. When he stood, a branch snapped. Matthew looked down at his feet, trying to find the offending stick, but saw nothing but pine needles. He whipped around, but saw nothing. He tried to steady himself. It was likely just a small animal.

He took one last longing look at the spring before turning and heading what he thought was west. Again, his footsteps echoed around him, and wind whispered through the trees. No wonder German fairytales are so fucked up, he thought to himself. Matthew continued on, watching as tree knots morphed into horrific faces practically screaming at him to turn around. 

The sun was setting, and what little light that leaked into the forest was sucked out. He figured this would be as good ‌a place to camp as any. Matthew stopped in front of a tree with a face that reminded him of Francis, but the echoing footsteps continued. Fear jolted through Matthew. He spun around in time to catch sight of a group of boys no older than sixteen running at him with pistols drawn. 

He grabbed the lowest branch he could find and heaved himself up. His shoulder burned, but he had to continue climbing. The higher into the boughs Matthew went, the more desperate the boys below sounded. A few fired bullets into the tree, missing him every time. Another tried to follow him up into the tree, but didn’t have the strength to heave himself up into the higher, more spread out branches above. 

Well out of harm's way, Matthew took a moment to watch his would-be captors. They were children dressed up in tan uniforms, playing soldier. It made him sick. Did they understand what they were fighting for? 

A rustle below spurred Matthew into action. He jumped from tree to another, putting as much distance between him and those boys as he could.

Alfred sat on the edge of the tarmac, watching ground crews flit around his plane, patching holes where they could and removing panels when they couldn’t. 

Several men were standing around the ball turret, trying to determine whether it was even possible to salvage. They shouted about something, but Alfred wasn’t listening. He was staring at the splatter of red that had once been his gunner. Monty probably didn’t even see it coming. A sick part of him wondered if there had been anything left of him to fall to the ground. 

Alfred forced himself to watch Montgomery’s blood wash away, removing any last trace of him from his life. The Air Exec packed away Monty’s things while they were in interrogation. Stoney begged them to let him keep his books. 

The power washers turned off, and the ground crew started unbolting the turret from the plane and a new one was placed on. 

Monty was gone. Alfred turned his back on the plane and went to get a drink. 

Chapter Text

Matthew had hardly slept, moving from tree to tree every time he heard so much as a rustle of leaves. A cornered animal was all he could think of himself as. He needed to get out of the forest, but he had no clue where to go. A lump settled in his throat as the realisation set in. It was only a matter of time before he was caught. His eyes stung. Matthew wanted to scream at fate. Perhaps there was something to Arthur’s insistence that he flew sober. This wouldn’t have happened if he weren’t such an idiot. This wouldn’t happen to Alfred. 

The thought of his brother made his heart clench. If Alfred were with him, he wouldn’t let him think like this. We can’t afford it, Alfred would say. The lump of nihilistic tears eased as Alfred spoke. He was right; Matthew couldn’t afford to think like that. He hadn’t been captured yet. Yes, he’d been seen, and he had no doubt that the report would make its way to Sebastian in time, but until he saw Sebastian with his own eyes, he could at least try to convince himself he would be fine. 

We can’t stay here forever, buddy , imaginary Alfred said. We've gotta start moving again.

He inched down to a sturdier branch and started making his way to the adjoining tree. Then again, and again until he was looking down on a stream. Here, light made it to the ground, pushing the sickly grey back to the shadows. It felt safe here. Light bounced off the stream prettily as it meandered over rocks. Here may very well be the last place untouched by the horrors of war. 

We can’t stop here. Alfred hissed.

Matthew ignored his warning, moving down to the stream. He needed water. The light seemed colder on the ground, but that didn’t matter. A single thought had taken over his brain. He kept his footfall soft, not wanting to alert anything or anyone to his presence. Just a little water, then he’d be off. Matthew plunged his hands in the cool rush of the stream, watching the dried blood and dirt wash away. He took a few sips and splashed his face. The cold water was grounding. 

Buddy, we have to go, Alfred said firmly. 

Reluctantly, Matthew heaved himself back on his feet, muttering to no one about Alfred rushing him. Didn’t he understand Matthew had just landed behind enemy lines without so much as a bottle to carry water in? 

He walked, following the stream, absently wondering what was happening with his crew. 

Sebastian slept in his office, waiting for word of Matthew to arrive. There was no way in hell he could let that man make it out of the Reich. 

“Sir!” The man didn’t even bother to knock. “He’s been seen!”

Sebastian shot to his feet, forgetting about the man’s interruption. “Where?”

“Burgdorf.” 

Sebastian couldn’t help the sharp smile that spread across his face. Matthew was close. “Pull a squadron and meet me at the garage. We’re going to get him.”

Matthew wasn’t certain how long he had been walking. Time seemed to move differently in the forest. He had no way of knowing what time it was. His watch broke in his dash to get away from the boys and their guns. His legs felt stiff, and his feet ached like they never had before. 

Just a little further, Alfred urged. 

Matthew shook his head, dropping to his knees in front of the stream. The ground cracked underneath him, startling him. Matthew scrambled back, looking for the source of the sound. He hadn’t hit the ground that hard, had he? 

Get up and keep going Alfred said. We don’t have time to investigate. It was a stick, okay? We’re fine; let's just go.

As Matthew got his feet under him, he caught the culprit of the crack. Yellowish-white shards littered the ground. He inspected it and lurched back. It was a hand. Matthew was on his feet and running before Alfred needed to tell him. He needed to get away from there. He needed to get out of the forest. 

Another crunch and he knew he had stepped on another bone, and then another. Frantically, he clambered into the closest tree, praying to anything that would listen to keep the branches strong. Matthew wasn’t naïve. He’d read the reports and seen the photos smuggled out by the resistance, but seeing it, being in the middle of it all, was entirely different. These bodies they left to the animals to pick apart and spread across the forest floor. People who had dreams, who identified as German, were slaughtered. 

Matthew stopped and leaned against the trunk. His breath shuddered. Alfred was unusually silent, perhaps the bones had startled him too. Nothing could convince him to move. Not even the threat of Sebastian spotting him. He stayed there until the sun began to set, trying to forget everything he’d just seen. 

Sebastian leapt from the van the moment he spotted the group of boys responsible for the report. He wanted to be the first person to hear it. He wanted to be the one to bring the Canadian to his knees. The boys snapped to attention quickly, rattling off the details of their pursuit. They’d seen Matthew run across the field while patrolling for resistance members and anyone else out during an air raid. 

He’d been fast, making it difficult to stalk him until he slowed down. They thought he had been American at first from the way he walked and how ignorant of his surroundings he was, but then they caught sight of the patch on his coat and saw he was Commonwealth. Sebastian tried not to laugh at them as they regaled losing him. It seemed almost comical that Matthew could have been brought down by a handful of teenagers. 

“He’s up in the trees,” the youngest said. “Using branches to move around like some kind of monkey.” 

Or lumberjack, Sebastian thought more practically. 

“It’s clear he doesn’t know where he’s going,” Sebastian said, turning to face his own men. “But he needs water. Track streams, look for signs that someone has been there. We will bring him in today!”

The boys led Sebastian and his men to where they had lost Matthew. From there, they broke off into smaller groups and started combing the trees for the blonde. He wouldn’t be able to go unnoticed for long. 

Matthew could hear dogs in the distance. His heart swooped. They were coming. He moved to a tree with thicker foliage and climbed until he was uncertain whether the branches could hold his weight. Up here at least, the air felt cleaner. He pushed himself closer to the trunk. 

Below, he could still see the stream meandering through the forest. He’d been stupid to follow it for this long. He should have moved in, away from the false sense of security he felt in the cool, golden light. He should have listened to Alfred and kept going. 

He tried to will Alfred’s voice to come back into his head but couldn’t. The sight of the bones knocked reality too deep into Matthew, and now he was painfully aware of how alone he really was. For the first time since he had seen the boys and their guns, Matthew felt hopeless. 

Below, he could hear voices shouting through the trees. He didn’t need to understand to know they were talking about him. Matthew swallowed, trying to keep his breath even and silent. The barking dogs drew near, and his heart raced. They were coming. They would see him. He had no prospect of getting out as a free man. His thoughts continued to race as the men passed beneath him. The barking faded, but Matthew kept still. They were going to see him. 

He heard a rustle beneath him and a soft swear. Rustling again, and this time giggling came along with it. Matthew’s blood turned to ice. Why were they laughing? Who was down there? 

Don’t start this , Alfred hissed. 

Matthew almost fell from his branch. He wanted to yell at his brother, but he wasn’t there. 

You need to get out of here.

Alfred was right. He needed to get away from the stream and as close to the edge of the forest as possible without being seen. If he could get there, maybe he could find someone willing to help him escape. 

You can’t trust anyone, bud , Alfred supplied rather unhelpfully. You’re in kraut territory . 

Matthew gathered the courage and leapt from one tree to the next as silently as possible. He made it a few in before his foot slipped on a branch with a loud scrape. Matthew hissed in pain as the bark dug through his pants. At least he managed to stay on the tree. Slowly, he inched towards the trunk, but it was too late. Someone heard him and was shouting for Sebastian. 

Sebastian wasted no time in locating the shouts. He kept a hand on his pistol as he ran. Matthew wasn’t getting away this time. 

“Up there!” One boy shouted. 

Sebastian tried to ignore the bruised red of his bottom lip, following where he was pointing to a strange knot in the tree trunk. He brought a finger to his mouth, waiting for the knot to move even slightly. It didn’t. 

Quietly, he stalked around the tree until he was out of Matthew’s line of sight. He pointed up and then looked at the boys, confirming what they had found. “He’s not here. Keep looking!” 

The boys cocked their heads to the side. 

Get over here, he mouthed at them. 

They rushed away towards the stream before looping back to Sebastian. Whatever he had planned, they didn’t want to interfere. Sebastian shed his jacket and tie, looking up at the tree trying to figure out how to get to Matthew. There weren’t any branches low enough to pull himself up with, nor was there an obvious spot to use as footholds. There would be no way to get into the tree without alerting Matthew of his presence. 

“What are you–”

“Hush,” Sebastian hissed. He pulled the knife from his belt and plunged it deep into the tree trunk. “Give me your knife.” 

One boy did, and Sebastian plunged that one in higher and slightly to the side. He pulled against them, testing their weight. If he were quick enough, he could get into the tree before the hilts broke from the daggers. He gave himself a running start, just taking hold of the lowest branch when the dagger fell out from beneath his feet. He heaved himself into the tree and started to climb. 

Matthew listened to Sebastian work his way up the trunk of the tree. It wasn’t an easy one to climb by any means. Sooner rather than later, he would have to move to another tree and then another, and hope that Sebastian was as incompetent in the trees as he was in the air. 

He shot you down though, buddy , Alfred said. You shouldn’t underestimate him.

Matthew huffed and tried to stand, but the branch dropped out from underneath him and he was free falling. He tried to catch a few branches to no avail. He landed on the ground with a thwack, sending shockwaves through his body. Matthew groaned, trying to get to his feet, but was kicked back down. 

A man placed a heavy boot on his back while the sounds of Sebastian gracefully descending the tree tormented him. This wasn’t supposed to be how it happened. Alfred wasn’t meant to lead him astray. 

“Major Williams,” Sebastian said tauntingly sweetly. He used his boot to force Matthew to look at him. “Face to face at last.”