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do-notexist · 2 years ago

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Heirborne

Summary: In 1940, hundreds of American pilots crossed the Atlantic and enlisted in the Royal Air Force to combat the Luftwaffe in the skies over Britain. Alfred F. Jones is one of them. When Arthur Kirkland finds out, the Battle of Britain becomes a difficult lesson in diplomacy and maturity as one Empire prepares to make way for the next. Rated for language and discussions of death/suicide

Word Count: 8,870

Content warnings: discussions of death, references to suicide (no death or suicide actually occurs)

Ao3 | FF.net

I believe @milesmorals asked me to tag them when I posted this! (@rainbowfruitpastilles this is what I posted for your WIP wednesday tag!) ——————–

Sweat glued his hair to his flight cap as he peeled it off, goggles falling to the ground with a clunk before he could catch them.

“Christ on a bike, those things get hot,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair to itch away the sweat and creases left by the musty leather.

“Better than those lunch pails they had us up in when we got here,” said a far calmer pilot, following the same scalp-scratching ritual as his compatriot.

“What, the Buffalos? I liked those things! Could see for miles, turn on a dime, and they kept me cool for fucking once.”

“Cool? They’d freeze the nuts off an elephant!” Interrupted a thick Jersey accent, which belonged to a lanky pilot whose coal-dark hair remained a mess as he lit up a cigarette. “I swear to god, Toni, if you ran any hotter the Krauts would catch you and use you as a bomb next time around.”

“Hey,” said the calm pilot, “don’t talk like that.”

“Relax, Hank, it was a fuckin’ joke.”

“I don’t care. This war isn’t a joke. Bombs aren’t jokes.”

“Jesus, lighten up, will ya? I almost got blown outta the sky today, so sue me if I want to-”

“Oh, let up, both of you,” said the tall blond called Toni. “Hank is right though, Joe. Bombs aren’t jokes. And don’t go shouting about it Hank, you know they got ears like radio dishes around here.” Both pilots shuffled under the admonishment. Though Toni was several years their junior, he was tall and authoritative, and had been flying far longer than anyone in their squadron. A kid wonder he might have been, but a kid wonder every pilot in the barracks would’ve liked to call their friend.

“Anyway,” Toni continued, scooping up his goggles and using their lenses as a mirror while he combed back his straw-gold hair, “I may run hot, but I ain’t never heard any complaints from your sister.”

“You fucking-” Joe dropped his kit and lunged just as Hank burst out laughing. Toni ducked with a shit-eating grin and caught Joe’s arm before he threw the first punch but missed the foot that shot out to catch his shin.

“Aw, sensitive subject,” Toni laughed even as he bent over his bruised leg.

“I’ll bash your head in!”

The brawl began to attract spectators, who laughed and cheered on the combatants, Toni still smiling, Joe hotheaded and itching for action.

“-up. I said break it up!” It was the accent that brought the gaggle of pilots to attention, breaking through their American chatter with an edge that struck a nerve in their national memory.

“Cadet Bianchi, Corporal Jalliet, I will remind you there will be no brawling in my barracks,” snapped the Englishman. The two pilots clambered off each other and stood to attention, realizing with some alarm that they were being addressed not by their squadron leader, but by the wing commander, who had their squadron leader standing at his side. Neither man looked pleased. Not one, but two commanding officers at four in the morning after a night raid? Someone had fucked up — whether that someone was a member of the Eagle Squadron or the German Fuhrer himself was unclear.

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” both men rattled off, backs straight and eyes trained dead ahead. The commander fixed them both with a look before adjusting his grip on the crop he held behind his back and jerking his head toward the rows of bunks.

“Jalliet, pack your things.”

The silence that followed could’ve been cut with a knife. Everyone quietly broke attention to turn their eyes to Toni.

“…sir?” Frowned the blond, glancing the commander’s way.

“You’ve been summoned to London, corporal. Pack your effects. You leave this morning.”

“London,” Toni repeated with some trepidation. He glanced at his squad mates on either side. All animosity Joe’s face had gone, replaced with concern. “May I… may I ask who’s summoned me, sir?”

The commander turned his head to look directly at Toni, eyes boring into him with a penetrating glare that made the pilot’s heart drop down to his toes.

“This morning, Jalliet. 0900 hours.” The commanders turned to leave, and Toni ducked his head down so he could stare wide-eyed at the floor.

“Shit,” he whispered.

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