#how harding stayed upright during his gallbladder issues i do not know

[sweaterkittensahoy]

JackHarding big time love feelings and idiots and their gallbladders

My dear, darling, perfect Jack:

Before you think I'm writing this after being given however much pain medicine military doctors think is needed for an impacted gallbladder (that's the problem, by the way), know that I am writing this between being told my diagnosis and that I'll be taking pain medication whether I want it or not and actually receiving that medication. 

I tried to argue that I'm fine, thank you, but apparently my fucking uppity Air Exec sent a telegram ahead of me to London and informed the doctors here how long I've been in pain and how much weight I've lost. 

Fuck you. I was fine. 

My begrudging love,

Chick

*

My favorite idiot Colonel: 

If you truly want this relationship to last beyond the war, you have to survive it, you jackass. 

I do not regret sending word ahead of you to London. It was a very easy decision after three (THREE) weeks of watching you pretend you weren't in severe pain to the point that you–in case you don't recall this–fainted in your goddamn office.

You're lucky your Air Exec likes you well enough to keep you breathing. I know a few Air Execs who would relish the chance at the sort of accident that literally fell at my feet. 

Fuck you and the angry affection you wrote on, 

Jack

P.S. Games have been in our favor, though we've had a few close ones. Rosie's team continues to lead in the series.

*

To the most obnoxious Air Exec in the entire 8th Army: 

I didn't faint. What a thing to say. Send me the names of the Air Execs who want to see the ghosts of their COs. That feels like treason. 

Pain medication isn't doing anything worth note except making me sleep. Useless. 

Keep me updated on Rosie's team. I have money on the outcome, even if I'm not there to see it. 

Doctors threatened to send me to the US. I told them there was no need. I won. Been informed I'll have a role in London once I'm recovered from surgery. It's scheduled for a week from now. They want to make sure I'm rested enough for it, apparently. It's a stupid requirement for any Colonel. 

Send word on any new pranks from the boys. I need something to keep me entertained. There aren't any leggy blonds of note here. 

Go fuck yourself,

Chick

*

Dear Chick, you exhausting bastard: 

You fainted. Deal with it. I don't like it any more than you do, and as the one who caught you before you smashed your head on your coffee table, you owe me. 

Honestly. 

Of all the cocky pilot assholes to fall for in this war, I had to meet you. Christ. My mother always warned me my prickly nature would attract the same, and I hate how right she was. 

Take your fucking pain medication and sleep. A week-and-a-half to sit and do nothing before a gallbladder surgery is excessive. You want a leggy blond of note to note you, then take care of yourself. 

A scattering of replacements thought it would be funny to set up scarecrows without telling anyone. Two scarecrows have been punched to the ground. One of the replacements got punched setting one up. I'd like to say it stopped the others from keeping the gag going, but it only encouraged them. 

The new CO is sympathetic to my terrible taste in men but can't spare me to visit London for at least three more weeks. I'm tempted to argue him down to two, but it won't be worth the mess when I come back. Not that you're bad company, but we've got more replacements coming in tomorrow, and it's better I know what stupidity they'll get put together sooner rather than later. 

Fuck, I miss you. You know these boys and their antics as well as I do. It'd be easier to enjoy the scarecrow stupidity if you were here. 

For fuck's sake, Chick, take care of yourself. You're the constant I have in this fucking war, and I want to keep you. 

I love you. Now act like you know it. 

No new games to report. Rosie's pre-season efforts were as effective as we hoped. A real big week over here.

My sincere and exasperated devotion, Jack

*

My favorite uppity Air Exec, leggy blond, and scarecrow fighter: 

Jack, if I loved you any more, I wouldn't be able to goad you, and if I couldn't goad you, I'd have to look myself in the mirror and think about how close I came to dropping dead at your feet. 

I fucked up. I'm sorry. There came a point where the physical pain of the stress of the job clearly took over any common sense, but to request leave or a transfer wasn't an option. Not just because I didn't want to leave the men but because I wanted to stay with you. I know you understand, but I also want to say it so you know that I know how I fucked up: I wouldn't be stuck in London for the foreseeable future if I'd just gone to the doctor when the pain didn't pause. Or if I'd told you about it before I fainted. 

I'm sorry. I'm not used to someone else worrying about me. But I think about what I'd do if our spots were switched, and you've honestly been kinder than I would have been. I hope you can make it to London as promised by your new CO. I promise I'll listen to every instruction from the doctor until you get here and even after as long as you smile at me a few times. 

I love you. I've got surgery tomorrow, and the doctor says there's no concerns since I've been taking the pain medication and resting up. As there is a war on, I can't help but think about what if something goes wrong. With that on my mind, let me say this: 

If the only good thing I take away from this war is your hand in mine, I can find peace with that. I'll miss all the men we've lost and be grateful you'll be by my side to mourn along with me. I hope I can wake up every day after the war and kiss you good morning for years and years and years. I want to sit in the audience when you finish your degree and brag to everyone who can hear me that I'm there to celebrate you. I want to tell everyone of your courage in this war: to give up the surety of flying and fighting in order to take on the complicated and deeply unsure business of asking other men to go into the sky without you.

Jack, I've loved before, but not like I love you. Not anywhere close to how I love you. If my stupidity in ignoring my gallbladder has made you unsure of me, I don't blame you a bit. I won't ever begrudge you to seek out the very best of what you deserve. I just hope that you're willing to let me deserve you a little longer so I can win in the long run. 

I'll love you forever if you'll give me the chance and even if you don't,

Chick

*

Chick's been at his new post in London for two days when his secretary comes into his office and hands him a note, looking confused. 

"What is this?" Chick asks.

"You know I didn't ask," his secretary responds.

Chick huffs a laugh and opens the note.

Of course I'll give you a chance, you fucking fainting idiot. 

"He didn't give his name," Chick's secretary says. "He says you'll know from the note."

"Jack Kidd," Chick says. "Major Jack Kidd." He rubs his thumb over the word idiot. "Send him in." 

His secretary leaves, and Jack walks in. He's as straight-backed and placid as the first time Chick saw him. But Chick remembers a few seconds after that first impression, when Jack had dropped the facade of placidity and informed Chick he had two minutes to explain why he should stay on the ground rather than go in the air like the fucking pilot he was trained to be. 

"Major Kidd," Chick greets as he stands. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

"You're one to talk," Jack replies. "Last time I saw you, you were on the floor."

Chick rounds his desk and takes Jack in his arms. Jack cups the back of Chick's head in both hands and presses their foreheads together. "Standing right here in front of you now, Jack. What are you gonna do about it?" He chuckles when Jack touches their mouths together then pulls back. "Come here," he says. 

"You come here," Jack challenges, and it's nothing for Chick to meet him more than halfway, grant Jack the affection he so deeply deserves.Especially after the last few weeks. Chick's been shipped to London, and Jack's broken in a new CO, and the air war has finally–finally–shifted in their favor.

"I've missed you," Chick says against Jack's mouth. "You have no idea how much I've missed you."

"I bet I can guess," Jack replies, and he kisses the smile off Chick's face. Because, well, he's right, and Chick won't argue. Not now that they're together again. Not now that he can believe that they'll get through this war together and build something honest and true between the two of them after. 

Of all the ways to fall in love, Chick thinks, during this fucking war is the worst and best option he's ever had. As Jack kisses him again, warm and promising and deep, he changes his mind. It's only the best option. Only.