[fic] Through Mist Or Open Sky, Part 1

[obstinatrix]

July, 1940

A ragged north-easterly wind swept across the Weald of Kent, tearing the low ceiling of nimbus cloud into vaporous shreds. Below, a bank of canopied trees marked the camouflaged hangars of Number 275 Fighter Squadron, their fabric flapping like wet sails in the unseasonable July wind. Unobtrusively, the sound of its approach muted by the raging of the weather, a lone Spitfire dropped out of the murk above the waterlogged landscape. With its engine throttled back, it circled once, shaking off excess height, and then drew in to ground, coming to rest near a low building that had once been a farmhouse before war demanded its service as an Officers' Mess and Squadron Office. As if out of nowhere, a small envoy of mechanics emerged to take charge of the machine while the pilot, after a brief investigatory glance about the aerodrome, leaped to the ground and set off towards the building.

The man was well-built, tall, and his upright, soldierly bearing made him appear taller still. The fur collar of his flying jacket was turned up against the wind, but he made short work of his helmet and goggles, pulling them off deftly to reveal a strong, handsome face and the salt-and-pepper hair of a man on the cusp of middle age. When he fumbled open his collar preparatory to entering the office, an observer might have seen the twin ribbons of the DSO and DFC on the lapel of his uniform jacket, declaring him to be an officer of long and distinguished service.

From his position atop an up-ended chock inside the biggest and least dilapidated of the makeshift hangars, Jensen Ackles did observe, and he did see. He watched dispassionately, the stub of a cigarette smouldering between his fingers, and blew out a slow cloud of smoke as the man disappeared into the building.

On the next chock, his long legs crossed and his jacket draped over his shoulders like a prince's cape, sat Jared Padalecki, his hazel eyes fixed on the place where the newcomer had disappeared.

"Is that him, do you think?" he asked. There were still tells in his voice, lingering jagged edges of the strong Polish accent he had arrived with, but he and Ackles had served together for almost a year already. Long exposure to Ackles's Texan drawl had taken care of whatever the rowdy Englishmen of 43 Squadron had left behind.

When Ackles was irritable, the drawl emerged in force, and at this moment he was very irritable indeed. "I'd bet money on it," he said wryly. "That'll be him: Squadron Leader Morgan, come to sort us out." He spat into the grass and glanced over at his companion. "You think he'll sort us out, Jay?"

Beside him, Padalecki's face was soft, a smile threatening. "Not a chance." His hand crept across the space between the chocks and found the pocket of Ackles's jacket, slipped inside and emerged again with the crumpled remains of a pack of cigarettes. "I'd bet money on that, if I had any."

Ackles laughed. There was something about Padalecki's smiles that made it impossible not to respond, and Ackles, though often called surly, was as vulnerable as anyone. Perhaps more so.

"Guess we'll find out," he said. His lighter was in his other pocket, the heavy silver one his father had given him when he graduated high school. He pulled it out now and flicked it open, proffering it in Padalecki's direction. "You want a light with that, genius, or are you gonna eat it?"

Padalecki, grinning around the end of an unlit cigarette, threw him a wink and leaned in.

*

Squadron Leader Jeff Morgan was far from new to airfields, but he was new to this one. New, too, to his rank, or at least to the name of it, for he had ended the Great War as Major Morgan of the newborn RAF before it was decided that Army terminology was no longer good enough. It still felt uncomfortable, not yet broken in, like the new uniform belt that still squeaked when he moved and the flying boots yet to soften around his calves. When he entered the Squadron Office to announce himself, it tasted wrong in his mouth, but it couldn't be helped. Things changed. After all, that was why Jeff was here, assembling on a muddy airfield in deepest Kent instead of going about his commercial flying business with professional civility.

"Morgan, Jeffrey Dean." He set his gloves and cap down on the desk and fixed his eyes on the man behind it. "Squadron Leader, reporting."

The Recording Officer was tall and yellow-haired, about Jeff's age, with a patch strung across his right eye at a jaunty angle. He wore the pips of a Flight Lieutenant on his shoulder and he grinned at Jeff's introduction. "Oh, I know very well who you are, sir. We've been expecting you. Welcome to two-seven-five!" The man spoke too quickly for Jeff's comfort, his accent fruity and extravagant. "Big Irishman, indeed."

Jeff's brows pulled together and he sighed tightly. He could tell that this fellow might easily be riding his last nerve by the end of a week. "I'm from Belfast," he said, and the RO beamed and nodded as if he had no idea what that connoted. Probably he hadn't, or possibly he was being deliberately obtuse. Jeff could become quickly over-suspicious on this particular subject.

"Roche," he said, and held out his hand for Jeff to shake. "Bit of an old war horse, as you can see --" he gestured at the eye patch -- "but one doesn't need two eyes to keep track of who's here and who isn't. Usually." He spread open the Squadron Log one-handed and filled in Jeff's name in a meticulous copperplate cursive. "For the record, Squadron Leader, hardly anybody is here just yet, but I'm told they're on their way."

The slide in Roche's voice from affected airiness to competent efficiency was palpable, and served to ease the sinking feeling in Jeff's gut at least a little. "Yes, Richings told me it was an entirely new squadron -- I know they've put together several, given the circumstances. I'm going to have a full complement, though, I hope?"

Roche nodded, one finger moving down the list of names in the logbook as he scanned it. "If we get everyone we're supposed to be getting, then yes. The ground crew is mostly intact, but you're only the fourth officer to arrive so far, sir, other than me."

"The fourth?" Despite the wind chill, it was warm in the little room where the RO's desk and other accoutrements had been installed; the big brick fireplace led Jeff to suspect that it had once been a kitchen. He shrugged out of his heavy leather jacket and draped it over one arm. "Who're the other three?"

Roche cleared his throat delicately. "I can get you their dossiers, if you like. But, sir, the Wing Commander asked me specifically to tell you he'd written an, uh, explanatory letter about this squadron. I was to make sure you got it. It might explain some things."

The sinking feeling was back. Jeff frowned. "A letter --?" This was just like Richings, to hold back information until Jeff was already in too deep to climb back out again. "Well, where is it?"

"On the mantelpiece in your room," Roche said promptly. "Which is the second door on the left, just down here." He indicated with one arm outstretched. "We've got Ackles, Padalecki and Collins so far, sir. Would you like their dossiers?"

There was going to be enough paperwork already without more files to go through. Jeff sighed. "No -- thanks, RO. I'll go and get settled in first, see what Richings has to say, and then if I want them, I'll come back and get them. That sound okay to you?"

Roche shrugged and nodded. "As you like, sir. You're the boss."

Which was perfectly true. Jeff nodded smartly, retrieved his discarded flying gear, and set off in the direction of his room.

*

The letter stood out immediately as the only remotely personal item in the room. Otherwise, it was sparsely furnished and free of ornament: bed, wardrobe, washstand, mirror. The CO couldn't be expected to function without a desk, but Jeff supposed this must have been set up in another part of the building, there being definitively no space for anything else in here.

With a heavy sigh, Jeff deposited his kitbag and outside clothes on the bed and reached for the envelope in its place on the mantel. "Home sweet bloody home," he muttered as he tore it open. "What the hell have you done to me this time, Richings?"

The contents of the letter were brief, handwritten in Richings' long-familiar upright script. As usual, there was no formality to it -- Richings had rejected due ceremony when he was a Colonel in the RFC; it seemed he had no more respect for the office of Wing Commander. Not, at least, when it concerned Jeff, long a favourite of his.

"Hello Jeffrey," (it began)

"I assume that, as you are reading this, you've found your way to the airfield. Given the weather we've been having lately, I think this is an excellent start to what may well prove a taxing assignment.

"Now, don't look at me like that! And don't pretend you aren't, either. We know each other far too well to dissemble, and that's exactly why I'm giving this job to you and not to some twenty five year old kid fresh out of Cranwell: I know you can handle it.

"I imagine you're starting to worry. I suppose I'd better tell you what it is I want you to handle. As you undoubtedly know, there's always been something of an issue in the Service with officers, often brilliant fighters and flyers, who do not take kindly to discipline. You know exactly the type I mean. The ass on the ground is often the ace in the air, and so on, and it's no use trying to keep them off flying duties; it only makes them worse. These are the fellows we're discussing here, and the fact is, Higher Command is sick of having them pop up like unexpected flies in the custard, giving their new COs headaches. A couple of months ago, we began a sort of register, as it were, of those officers we believed to fall into this category: loose cannons, but strong ones. Things started off quiet, and these troublemakers were easier to manage then, but Intelligence has suspected something big brewing with the Luftwaffe for a while. Now that they've stepped up their game in the Channel, we think it highly unlikely that it'll stop there. They're going to move in, and soon, and we want plenty of airmen ready with the welcome mat. Moreover, we want to make sure we've got all our flies where we can see them, in a place they'll be useful instead of distracting.

"I can tell you've got the face on again, Jeffrey. You think you know what I'm about to say: well, then, let me say it. We have decided to collect together these officers, based upon this register, and send them, as an experiment, to a special squadron, hoping they'll at least be able to knock a few spots off Jerry before they kill themselves in some fit of adrenaline-fuelled idiocy. Madmen do well in total war. We think that kind of war in the air is coming.

"The squadron in question will be, as you have no doubt figured out, number 275. In light of your long and varied experience, military and otherwise, we have put you in command of it. Yes, I was largely to blame for the appointment and I, personally, have no doubt that you will be fully up to the task. Your officers will be reporting to you immediately."

Jeff let the letter drop for a moment, the paper caught between his fingers as he struggled to take deep, calming breaths and otherwise restrain himself from heading straight back to the Squadron Office to get Richings on the telephone and offer him a piece of his mind. This -- this lunatic squadron, and Richings had put him in charge of it? Jeff was forty, and had returned to the RAF after the Phoney War began to hot up, only out of love, and as a favour. Evidently, it did not intend to do him any favours in return.

There was more letter to go. Jeff sighed and lifted it up again.

"A word of advice, Jeff. Don't be quick to judge. Give them plenty of rope and they'll probably hang a few bandits with it, even if things get a little tangled up for you in the process. I know you, and I know you're a very gifted disentangler. Just be patient. Give it -- and them -- a try before you dismiss this as a bad job.

"You should be at full strength within a fortnight or so. If I recall correctly, you should find your three Flight Lieutenants ready to greet you when you arrive -- Ackles, Collins, Padalecki. They're good lads -- queer, but they'll do you proud if you let them. Ackles comes to us from Texas, but he was a copper in New York, I believe -- somewhere that made him nice and angry, at any rate. He taught himself to fly at his own expense before the war, then came over here and joined up the first chance he got. He and Padalecki have served together since the start, and they're thick as thieves.

"Padalecki's problem is an overabundance of energy, not to mention limbs. He barely fits in the cockpit of a Spitfire but he's damn well determined not to let anyone shove him out of things. We tried to put him on bombers, and he just started doing unlogged solo flights on the Spits in the night, looking for things to shoot. He's Polish, as you've probably guessed, and those fellows are good -- I suppose because things are already so personal for them. But he needs to be watched like a hawk. Ackles will do that for you, provided you don't rub him up the wrong way. If you do, he's liable to encourage his mate to greater and greater heights of lunacy just out of spite, and because he has no handbrake himself once he gets going.

"Collins is a different sort of bird. He's a little older, mid-thirties, and his passport says he's British -- he's lived here ten years or so -- but he was educated in some New England prep school and sounds like it, and I think the greater part of him is actually Russian. He's something of an eccentric, but that isn't really the problem. He's an excellent gunman, but he seems to have the most unfortunate knack for breaking things. His flying is most unorthodox, horrible to watch, but he's got his own set of theories and won't be prised off them, despite the trail of broken aeroplanes he left behind him at the flying school. Once up in the air, he's a marvel -- he was extremely popular at the Coastal squadron he's been serving with, and he inspires cult-like devotion in the men he leads -- but you have to get him up there first, and most COs' nerves wouldn't take watching him.

"So, that's your little run-down. The rest of them you'll have to tease out on your own when they come through. You ought to have all the WAAF girls you need, and there's a Hurricane squadron sharing the base with you, too. If you pop over there, you might meet a familiar face.

"That's all for now. I'll try to let you have some more machines shortly - I have an idea you'll need them.

"Best of luck,

Richings (Wing Commander, if you're interested)."

Jeff blew out a long sigh through his teeth and sank down onto the bed as if his legs could no longer support him. “What the hell have I got myself into?” he demanded weakly, addressing the blank wall. “I'm going to be grey as a goose by the time this assignment's over with, aren't I?”

The wall wisely kept its peace, and Jeff found that he could not blame it.

*

The Hurricane squadron on base was in rather a better state than 275, if only because it was, at least, in possession of all of its NCOs and most of its flying officers. The Hurricane was a larger machine than the Spitfire, thicker in the wing. Jeff told himself that 275 squadron would win out ultimately with its smoother, cleaner kites, although he knew the Hurricane could beat a Spit to a turn, something a Spitfire pilot must never admit aloud. Jeff noted the long rank of machines as he crossed the aerodrome in search of the building, twin to his own, in which the offices were based. If, as Richings had suggested, Jeff could find a familiar face in command of the Hurricanes, he had every intention of sounding it out, and fast.

Naturally - as it seemed, given Jeff's recent luck - the desk in the office, when he found it, was empty. Jeff was just in the process of lifting his hands to his face in desperation when a familiar voice sounded from behind him, low amusement threading through the distinctive Sheffield accent. “Looking for someone?”

Jeff spun on a sixpence, his pulse spiking embarrassingly with surprise. “Is that - no --”

“Aye,” said the newcomer, grinning, and stuck out a big square hand Jeff well remembered. “Bean in the flesh, my old mate. Must have been - what - five years since I saw you. What've you been doing with yourself?”

“Oh, this and that,” Jeff said dazedly around his own grin, taking the other man's hand and pumping it vigorously, gripped between both of his. Broad-shouldered and good-natured and fair, Sean Bean had always reminded Jeff of some sort of Norse mercenary, roaming foreign lands bearing a sword (mostly) for good. He hadn't changed much since their last meeting. The scar that ran from the corner of one eye to the base of his nostril had been there far longer than five years. “Charter flying, mostly. You?”

Bean snorted. “Never left the service, have I?” he said, predictable and proud. “Couldn't kill me then, won't kill me now, that's how I see it. And hell - “ He shrugged expansively -- “if they do, I'll be dead, so what'll it matter?”

“Ever the philosopher,” Jeff said, laughing. Bean had been his friend since the drizzled October day in 1917 when the two of them had drifted together at the Pool at St Omer, spurred mostly by their common ground of being the only officers not out of the public school system. Bean was a grammar school boy who had won his commission as squarely as he'd won his education, on wit and a little deviousness. Jeff's father had been an officer in the Army and, although he had died when Jeff was only small, the family history had won him enough points with the RFC to make a commission possible, despite Jeff's rather substandard schooling. A warm feeling had glowed in Jeff's chest for Sean since the moment he heard that accent and breathed a sigh of relief at being elevated from his loneliness, and it glowed still.

Bean shrugged and clapped Jeff happily on the shoulder. “When I heard they were posting you to this shithole of a job, I said to Richings, I said, 'you gotta give me that Hurricane squadron.'” He laughed, open-mouthed, teeth showing. They were improbably nice teeth. The laugh was a nice one, too. “He said 'okay, Joe, it's your job to keep him from pestering me about the posting', and that was that.”

Jeff snorted, pushing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Oh, that's your job, is it?”

“Allegedly,” Bean said, winking. “Not that I could likely stop you if you wanted to have a go at him, could I?”

“No,” Jeff shot back, sighing, “and I mean to. What does the silly bugger think he's doing, assembling all the nutcases and morons and rolling them together so they can cause more trouble?”

Bean shrugged, mouth twisting as if he were considering the point. “I dunno, Jeff. They're all doo-lally-tap, that's for sure, but I think the old man's got a point. Leave them spread out and they'll kill each other, and everyone else. There can't be any harm in trying a different tack, can there?”

“I'd be more inclined to agree,” Jeff said glumly, “if I didn't have to be the poor bastard stuck looking after the lot of them on the fucking guinea-pig run, with this Hun storm coming in.” He glanced past the empty desk and into the building beyond. “Don't suppose you've got a bar up and running in here, have you? I could do with a bloody drink.”

Bean threw his head back and laughed uproariously at that, throwing an arm around Jeff's shoulders, casually possessive. “Me, stop a week in a place with no booze? Not bloody likely.” He waved a hand in the direction of the corridor. “This way for the whisky, Jeff. Get enough down you and all this will seem like the best idea anyone's ever had.” He squeezed Jeff's shoulder, at the juncture where it met his neck. “I'll look after you. Don't I bloody always?”

And that, at least, was something Jeff could not contest. Bean always had.

*
"Whisky," offered Flight Lt. Misha Collins, holding up a bottle, "or gin? I can't decide. Jared?"

"No good asking him," Jensen cut in cynically. "He'll just say 'vodka', whether it was an option or not. Won't you?" He jabbed an elbow into Jared's side as he reached across for the whisky, but his mouth curved up with it, and Jared grinned.

"Vodka," he announced grandly, "should always be an option. But, failing that..." He shrugged. "Whisky will do."

"Damn right, it'll do," said Misha, snorting. "This is a single malt, Padalecki. You'll appreciate it or you'll buy your own."

"Hey, hey," Jared protested, "Nobody ever said I wasn't capable of appreciating your whisky." He pushed his tumbler across the table towards Jensen and then leaned back in his chair, his expression contemplative. "I bet the CO appreciates a good malt. What do you think?"

"The CO." Jensen's tone was scathing. He nudged Jared's now-full glass towards him and took a sip from his own. "Christ knows what he'd appreciate. Hopefully, a good kick in the pants."

"Sounds naughty," Misha observed, rescuing the bottle and taking a long swig of his own. "Bags I that job, if it's going. I do like to administer kickings."

"How's your girl feel about that?" Jared teased, and Misha shrugged.

"She'd probably like to watch me putting all my manly prowess into action," he said breezily. Misha's girl, Squadron Officer Cohan, had been imported a couple of weeks earlier to rule the WAAFs on base with an iron fist, and from what Jensen had seen of her, he could have believed anything Misha said about her. Misha smiled briefly, as if he were thinking the same thing, and then said, "Seriously, though, Jen -- we don't even know the man yet, he could be okay. What have you got against him?"

And wasn't that, Jensen thought, the million dollar question? He sighed, one hand lifting automatically to scratch at the nape of his neck. "You know what he's here for, right? Hell, you know what we're all here for -- they think we're troublemakers, and somebody at Wing reckons Morgan's the man to sort us out. Not an idea I'd be that fond of at the best of times, but --" He shrugged. "Then I looked him up, this Morgan, and turns out he's a teacher's pet of the most incorrigible sort. Great War ace, decorated at eighteen, done odd jobs for Richings on and off since the last show folded; you name it." Jensen looked down into his whisky and scowled. "Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure we're not gonna get along."

Misha raised pensive eyebrows, but his tone, when he spoke, was quite calm. "Doesn't sound like you want to get along with him, either."

Jensen shrugged. "There ain't too many people I stick to," he said flatly. "More trouble than it's worth, mostly."

It was a true enough observation, but the solid bulk of Jared at his elbow sufficed to remind him of exceptions he'd made to his rule -- Jared someone else he'd been prepared to loathe, and in the event, he'd knocked the breath right out of Jensen and never given it back. Misha, damn him, was obviously thinking along the same lines, because he said, eyes on Jared, "Not always the case, though, right?"

Jensen sighed, but Jared stepped in for him, voice unsubtly warm when he said, "I don't count, man. I'm special, you know that."

"Morgan could turn out special, too," Misha pushed, but Jensen was distracted from the issue, now, by the warmth of Jared's knee nudged up against his, his straight-toothed smile and the open promise in his face. Jared had been shooting him glances -- touching his arm, his shoulder, his knee -- for the better part of an hour, now, but it had been an undercurrent only, enough to fizz through Jensen in a deep-seated way. Now, the press of Jared's knee to the crease of Jensen's had intent, a firm, sure point of contact, and Jensen's throat flexed dryly with the sudden rush of interest making itself definitively known.

"Maybe," he said, but he wasn't really thinking about it anymore, attention diverted. "Guess we'll find out in the morning. " Impatience took him over like a fever. He knew he was being rude, but in Jensen's experience, a real friend was someone you could be rude too with impunity. He bounced his knee, the one Jared hadn't claimed, and scratched at the back of his neck. "Don't know about you, but --"

"You're shattered, correct?" Misha's mouth twisted sceptically, but he was grinning. Nothing much got past Misha's wide-open, Continental mind. "Point taken: I'm off back to my room. Don't scare off the CO on the first night, hmm?"

"Fuck you," Jared yelled after him as the door closed, but he was laughing, face still open and a little wicked when he turned to Jensen. "You know how to be quiet, don't you?"

"Yeah," Jensen allowed, reaching out to palm Jared's jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. "Just sometimes I don't want to."

Buggery in the RAF was a bootable offence. Jensen intended to make damn sure he got his money's worth before the boot stuck in. He and Jared had never been obvious -- they were neither of them suicidal -- but they were both civilian homos (not to be confused with military homos, who took dick when there was no pussy going) and that meant they'd spoken each other's language from the start, figured each other out. Some people, like Misha, who'd befriended a lot of civilian homos of his own before the war, had seen through them, but not maliciously. Everyone else was too blind to see and not interested enough to look, which was exactly the way Jensen liked it.

"Clothes off -- get your boots," Jared said, and Jensen could see no flaw in his argument. His boots landed with a heavy thump in the middle of the room, and he twisted sideways to work himself out of his trousers, fingers fumbling blindly back up to his shirt as he watched Jared do the same. When Jared unzipped his trousers, the sound of it sharp in the still air of the room, Jensen's eyes went immediately to his dick where it pushed out through his shorts, fat and heavy, the head shiny with precome.

"Fuck, Jared," Jensen muttered. His muscles clenched emptily in anticipation of all that dick inside of him, splaying him open around its girth, and he reached for Jared's pants, tugging. "C'mon, stop messing around and do it."

"Do what?" Jared shot back, but he knew damn well, bastard, and he certainly moved as if he did, big hand cupping the nape of Jensen's neck to reel him in. He kissed hard, mouth opening to Jensen's without preamble, and Jensen let him, rubbed his tongue along the flat of Jared's and chased it afterward when Jared pulled back with a bite to Jensen's lip.

"Jared," he protested, but then Jared's hands were at his waist, sure and firm as they turned him around, and it was evident to Jensen that protesting this wouldn't get him what he wanted any faster. All he wanted at this moment was to get fucked, and Jared's intentions seemed perfectly in line with his own.

"Undershirt," Jared ordered, voice low, and his hands followed his own instruction before Jensen could move to do so, hauling the tee over Jensen's head and tossing it aside. Naked to the waist, now, Jensen shivered, but Jared was there, the warm solidity of him, thumbs slipping into the groove of Jensen's spine and fingers curling around to his hipbones, creeping under the waistband of his shorts. "God, Jensen." He tugged; the shorts caught for a second on the resistance of Jensen's dick and then broke free, slithered down his thighs, the whisper touch lighting up the nerves all the way down.

"Jared." Outside of this, Jensen was in casual command of their friendship. Anyone could see it; that was the way they'd always been, Jensen older and more jaded and generally unwilling to take anyone's shit. When they were together like this, though, it was Jared who took control and kept it; Jensen who found himself breathless and aching for whatever touch he could get. He knew how he sounded, the tone of his voice wheedling and undignified, but it was worth it for the way Jared manhandled him so readily, so effortlessly, pushing him onto the bed as if he were weightless.

"Ssshh." Jared's hands were firm on his hips, pulling him up onto his knees. Jensen knew very well why -- Jared didn't like it when Jensen rubbed himself off on the bed when Jared was still in a mind to tease him -- and he groaned, rolling his hips against nothing, but it was all for show, really. When Jared wanted Jensen to wait, it made waiting almost better than getting. "Listen," Jared whispered, and Jensen felt the warmth of it on the back of his thigh; shuddered as Jared palmed his backside and spread him open.

"Jared, I --"

"Listen." Iron, now, in Jared's voice, and then his mouth was wet on the sensitive juncture of ass and thigh, teasing, and Jensen felt himself tense in anticipation. It was hard to pay attention to anything outside of this moment, outside of the dull ache of pleasure in his dick and the way his spine tingled with Jared's proximity, but he couldn't argue with that voice. It was inadvisable.

"Hear that?" Jared's tongue, then, a first slick flutter across the clench of his hole, and Jensen couldn't help but jerk at the touch, breath catching.

"Yeah, I -- someone in the hall, someone's -- nngh -- someone's gramophone next door --"

"What're they playing?" Jared shot back, conversational, and then his tongue was there again, teasing little circles that made Jensen flush hot and cold with want.

"Uh -- don't know; Glenn Miller? Not In The Mood -- some other one --"

"Pennsylvania," Jared said smoothly, "six-five thousand." He traced a thumb down the length of Jensen's cleft, and Jensen felt the touch in his bones, in the full weight of his balls. "And if you can hear them, Jensen, what does that tell you?"

Jensen clenched his jaw, eyes screwing shut at the thought of it, people on the other side of that wall, oblivious, while he and Jared were here doing -- doing this. "They can hear me," he said, weak, and Jared grinned, this warm, smirking thing that Jensen felt like a palpable vibration against his skin.

"They can hear you," Jared confirmed. "So, if you don't want me to stop, you'd better keep quiet."

It was on the tip of Jensen's tongue to point out that Jared, the fucker, hadn't actually started anything yet; but then Jared leaned in, flattened his tongue forcefully against him, and all that came out was a thready little sound, capitulation.

God, but Jared was good at this. Jensen never knew how he learned it or where, never asked, but he'd had his share of men and they'd none of them ever done this the way Jared did it, firm, hot strokes of his tongue and sucking little kisses like he couldn't get enough of it. There was nothing tentative about it, Jared shouldered up close between Jensen's thighs and his whole mouth wet and open against him, and Jensen could feel himself twitching, dick spooling out precome in sticky pulses.

He wanted to beg, to demand, but Jared had been firm on what the rules were, and Jensen knew they were sensible, self-preservation. Still, he couldn't bite back the whine in his throat when Jared worked a finger into him, smooth and slow, if just this side of too dry. Jared was good at this, too, knew just how to twist his finger so it caught all the nerves Jensen had as it dragged back out, and Jensen bit his lip, fucking back onto the intrusion that wasn't anywhere near enough.

"C'mon," he hissed, and Jared laughed, but Jensen could hear the tension in it as Jared reached a long arm past him for the drawer with Jensen's kit in it -- toothbrush, shaving cream, Vaseline.

"Give me a second," Jared said, and Jensen huffed through his teeth.

"Could say the same th--oh, fuck, yeah, Jared."

God, that was better, the muscle burning a little with the added stretch but soothed by the slickness of the Vaseline as Jared pushed two fingers inside, twisting them deftly on the backstroke. Jensen hitched his hips back into it as if he could speed things up that way, and Jared laughed again, nipped gently at the swell of Jensen's ass. "More?"

"Yes," Jensen rapped out, trying to modulate his volume, but his dick was just getting harder with every thrust of Jared's strong hand and modulation wasn't much at the forefront of his mind. Then -- "No, Jesus, don't need, not more -- just -- put it in me, Jared, c'mon," and he heard Jared's breath catch as Jensen's muscles spasmed vice-tight around his fingers.

"Okay," Jared breathed, and Jensen could feel him shifting around behind him, kneeing up close between Jensen's spread knees as he slipped his fingers free and splayed them on Jensen's hip. "Okay...ssshh...sshhh..."

It was intended to be calming, Jensen knew, but Jared's tone was about as calm as Jensen felt and when the blunt head of Jared's dick nudged up against his hole, it was all he could do not to cry out. Jared was big; it had to be this way -- the first press a slow, firm slide, Jensen swallowing the fat head first, then the girth of the shaft -- but the further Jared breached him, the emptier Jensen felt right at the core, where he wanted all of him. "Come on," he urged, pushing back into it, "come on." By the time Jared was in him to the root, Jensen was breathless, stuffed so full his lungs felt tight with it, but God, yeah, this was what he wanted, the smooth heat of Jared against his back and the splay of him inside.

"Got you," Jared murmured, and swivelled his hips so the head of his dick ground against Jensen's prostate, so deep he could almost taste it. "Let me -- fuck," and he pulled back slow, Jensen's body grasping for him all the way to the tip.

"Come on," Jensen ground out, half-desperate, but Jared was with him, coming back for him, sliding back into him deep and hard and good.

"Got you," Jared repeated, voice gone to nothing, and Jensen moaned against the back of his hand, couldn't keep it in.

The first few thrusts were short, stabbing things, Jared churning his hips against the pressure, but Jensen was ready for it, shoving back into it, panting. By the fifth stroke, the friction was lessened and Jensen was writhing with it, Jared slamming into him till Jensen felt the smack of his balls against his ass. "Fuck, please," Jensen whispered, and Jared buried a groan in the centre of his back, nip of his teeth between Jensen's shoulder blades.

"Jensen," Jared panted, "Jensen." His hips were working faster, now, deft little figure-eights that spiked heat off Jensen's prostate before the thrusts grew harder, less controlled, and then Jared's free hand was curving around Jensen's waist and Jensen yelped into his forearm at the first brush of fingers to his cock.

"Jesus." Jensen was boneless, now, shoulders an ungainly slump against the bed, but Jared had him, fucking him hard enough that Jensen felt the sharp spurs of his hips at the crest of each thrust. "Oh, fuck, God."

"Got you," Jared repeated, and his hand was big and capable on Jensen's dick, wringing motions up and down the shaft, slicking back and forth through the sluices of his precome. Jensen could feel his orgasm gathered like a thunderstorm at the base of his spine, and every stroke of Jared's hand just brought it closer, every smooth slam of his dick. Behind him, Jared was moaning, low and hushed and constant, and Jensen could feel himself clenching around him on every push in, as if he could swallow him up entirely, keep him inside.

"Jensen," Jared groaned, and then his thumb slipped down into the sweaty cleft of Jensen's ass, touched the rim of his stretched hole where his dick was pounding in and out, relentless and deep. "Jesus --"

"Fuck." That was enough, the tease of Jared's fingers and the slam of his dick against Jensen's prostate. Jared's hand on his dick squeezed reflexively and Jensen bit back a yell as he felt the first jet of come pulse up the length of his shaft and spurt out over Jared's fingers, over his knuckles, over the bed.

"Christ," Jared spat, then something guttural in Polish as his pace went hectic and loose inside Jensen, fucking recklessly into the orgasm-clench of his body until he stilled, slammed in deep, and let go. Jensen felt his dick twitch valiantly at the sensation of wet heat flooding his insides, Jared coming for him, in him, but he was spent, face on his forearms and body gone limp. The moment Jared pulled out, he collapsed, thighs akimbo, and groaned as Jared flung himself flat beside him, one sweaty arm bracketing his waist.

"Jesus fuck," Jared murmured. A hot line of come dribbled wetly down the inside of Jensen's thigh and Jared's hand went to it immediately, smearing it into the skin so that Jensen laughed and shivered.

"Aren't you done?"

"Mmm," Jared retorted, sleepy and slow, and leaned up to press a kiss to Jensen's shoulder. "For tonight." He lay still a moment, and then forced himself to his feet, the bed shaking as he climbed off it. "Better get cleaned up. Early start tomorrow."

Sometimes - not often, but when he was feeling sorry for himself - Jensen let himself imagine what it might be like to have Jared stay the night, his long warm limbs tangled through Jensen's and his chest rising and falling under Jensen's cheek. Sometimes he wished for that so hard it hurt, but there were husbands and wives who didn't have that pleasure in the current state of crisis. He and Jared - this was just the way it was, and Jensen might know it was Jared who made his heart twist, but he didn't expect anyone else ever to understand it.

Maybe after the war, he thought, when he let himself daydream. But right now, after the war seemed far away, and Jared had to get up off Jensen's bed before someone came and issued them a court martial.

Groaning, Jensen got up and reached for his pants.

*

The main landing strip ran alongside the row of hangars, beyond which an incongruously countrified bench still sat, shoved up against the outside of the cottage that was now Jeff's headquarters. The earth beneath the bench was soft, overripe with summer rain, but the way it squelched under the soles of Jeff's boots was oddly appealing, a guilty pleasure entirely inappropriate to Jeff's station. Jeff rocked his feet against the mud and watched the Hurricanes draw in.

It was almost seven. The face of Jeff's watch glowed palely iridescent in the dawn light, standard issue. It felt later, but that was a feeling Jeff had been used to since the old days of being rolled out of bed at five by a batman (no longer provided), such that seven o'clock was comfortably time for elevenses. Now, there was nobody to wake him but his own alarm clock, but Roche had tapped on his door at six to say a troop transport had arrived with a number of officers in it and, after that, he'd felt indolent in his pyjamas.

Bean was leading the Hurricanes. Jeff knew as much without asking, recognising his handling of the machine as easily as he might have recognised his loping stride or the way he had of holding cigarettes awkwardly between thumb and two fingers, like a six year old child clutching a first pen. Bean was not supposed to be leading the Hurricanes, because Bean was a Squadron Leader now, and the current word from HQ was that Squadron Leaders were supposed to stay on the ground, but Jeff was frankly unsurprised. If a squadron like Jeff's had existed twenty years ago, Bean would have been the cocky, stubborn feather in its cap.

The wheels of the leading plane kissed the ground lightly, neatly, with the efficiency of long practice, and the machine had barely come to a halt before the top was thrown back and Bean popped out of it like a grinning Jack-in-the-box. "Morgan!" he yelled, brash over the roar of the engines, and Jeff laughed. The earth squished messily under his heels.

"Shouldn't you be flying a desk somewhere?" he demanded, as Bean came towards him over the turf at a rolling jog.

"Shouldn't you be briefing some lunatics somewhere?" Bean shot back, pulling off his gauntlets and tucking them into the pocket of his bomber jacket. "The rest of your cartload of bad apples arrived while you were still in your pit, lazybones."

Jeff snorted. "Thanks. No, I know; Roche is arranging it now. I'm briefing them all at nine." He sighed heavily. "Not that I have the foggiest clue what to say. I mean, are they meant to know why they're here, or what?"

"I have a sneaking suspicion," Bean said, helping himself to the crumpled cigarette packet in the pocket of Jeff's tunic, "that blokes like this'll know exactly why they're here, whether they're meant to or not." He shrugged. "So you might as well come clean, for my money. They'll have more respect for you if they know you know what they're capable of."

"Deception and espionage, you mean?" But Bean was right, naturally. Jeff snatched the fag-packet back and shook out a cigarette of his own. "Larcenist."

Bean laughed. "Hey, I've run out!"

"There's a village five miles that way; get some more," Jeff suggested. "God knows I'm going to need a smoke after I've dealt with this lot, blast 'em."

"Substance dependency," Bean said solemnly, "is how we win our wars, old mate. Best get a big box, hand 'em round. Works on dogs."

Jeff blinked. "Passing round cigarettes works on dogs?"

Bean rolled his eyes and slung his scarf over his shoulder. There was a flurry of movement behind him, now, a cluster of damp and rather frazzled-looking young officers moving in a herd towards the Hurricanes' mess building, and Bean took a step towards the melee himself, shaking his head. "You know what I mean. Give me a ring when you've briefed them, will you? I want to know how bad it is."

He had the audacity to wink before he turned to catch up with the rest of his flight, the sadistic bastard. Jeff sighed and pushed his toes back down into the mud, taking a final moment to luxuriate in the simple pleasure of it yielding to his boots, easy. Uncomplicated.

"God," he muttered, huffing out smoke through his teeth, "I'm going to kill that bastard Richings. If this lot don't see me off first."

*

The largest room in what Misha had dubbed 'Squadron Farmhouse' was dark-panelled and cavernous, and Jensen suspected it had once housed somebody's dining table. Now, the only items of furniture it contained were several rows of standard-issue briefing-room benches.

"Glad we got here early," Jared muttered, leaning back against the wall and kicking out his long legs in front of him. "The place is overrun, all of a sudden."

On Jensen's other side, Misha leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and threw Jared a cynical look. "You're just happy to have scored the back row," he accused. "To hide from Teacher."

"Teacher," Jensen said, "and the other inhabitants of Bedlam." He gestured vaguely to the rows of benches in front of them, where three Flights' worth of young officers, uniform in various states of disarray, were successfully making enough noise for fifty-odd schoolboys. "Damned kids."

Jensen was twenty-eight. In this wartime RAF, he felt like Methuselah.

Jared laughed and opened his mouth as if to make some retort, but then the door swung open again and Morgan came in. Jared shut his mouth again. The three Flights' worth of noisy young officers, noticing the new arrival, followed suit, amidst a good deal of shushing.

The look on Morgan's face, Jensen noted, was a fairly close approximation of how he himself felt -- somewhere between disbelief, despair, and the desire to simply beat a hasty retreat and go to ground in a bunker filled with cynical, actually adult men. The hopeless little tic that twitched in Morgan's jaw filled Jensen with an uncharacteristic rush of sympathy.

Evidently, Morgan did not hold much with ceremony. He cast a brief eye over the assembly, but did not salute before he began, right off the bat, "Well, I suppose you folks all know why you're here, and who I am." He looked, Jensen thought, long-suffering, but not in any way that suggested weakness. This guy was no pushover. "Jerry's launching an air push. We're launching a bunch of new squadrons. This, 275, is one of 'em, and you lot are here because Richings thinks you'll make a hell of a killing machine all banded together." He gestured at the far wall, where, Jensen now saw, hung a noticeboard. "We're a three-flight squadron, so, obviously, we've got three active Flight Lieutenants. I think I'm right in saying they've all sensibly hidden at the back." Looking up, Morgan caught Jensen's eye, taking him momentarily by surprise. "Am I right, Flight Lieutenant?"

"Ackles," Jensen returned faintly, not completely sure he was being asked to identify himself, but figuring it couldn't do any harm to do so. He cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. This here's Padalecki --" he indicated Jared -- "and Collins. Guess you guys are our Flights."

Cole, Jensen's previous commanding officer, had always gotten a tight-lipped expression on his face over Jensen's laconic delivery, but Morgan seemed to appreciate his succinctness. He nodded curt acknowledgement, and pointed at the noticeboard again. "Right. So those are your Flight Lieutenants, and the board will tell you whether you're in A, B or C and who you'll be taking orders from." He held up the palm of one big hand, as if to forestall comment. "You're not divided up by ability, before you ask. The Recording Officer did it, and it's random. If you have any problems, take it up with him."

At this point, Cole would probably have launched into some kind of rousing sceptred-isle speech about how they all had to work together and strive for brilliance and punch Hitler in his beastly face, all that shit, but Morgan seemed pretty happy to give this part a miss. Jensen knew he wouldn't be the only man in the room who appreciated this. Maybe Richings really had done a good job, assigning this guy to this squadron of miscreants. Instead of getting into his public speaking stance, Morgan simply crossed his arms and said, "Briefings are done in here. Rotas for dawn and afternoon patrols will be on the board. When you're told to scramble, you scramble. Any questions?"

"Yeah," piped up some wise-ass in the front row, "there any birds on base, or do we have to go into town to find them?"

Morgan's brow creased irritably. "We've got exactly as many assigned WAAFs as any other squadron in the service, Mr..."

"Murray," supplied the kid, sullenly.

"Murray. The WAAFs will do their jobs and you will do yours. I'm not going to make a rule against fraternising, because frankly I don't care what you people do behind closed doors, but I do object to anyone treating my officers -- any of my officers -- like pieces of meat. I catch you behaving like an arsehole and I'll come down on you like a ton of bricks -- and that includes hanging around the Operations Room when they're dealing with the wireless and keeping you idiots alive. Is that clear?" Morgan glanced up, taking in the whole room. "Gentlemen?"

A low murmur of assent. Morgan nodded curtly and headed for the door. With one hand on the handle, he said flatly, "Get settled in. Don't anybody go to bed before checking the flight lists for tomorrow. Dismissed!"

He left the room to a sort of stunned silence, in which Jensen unwittingly joined. At length, when a general motion began in the rows in front, Jared said, "Well."

"Well," Misha echoed. It seemed to say it all.

Between them, Jensen was still staring at the door, remembering the efficient little frown between Morgan's brows as he spoke, his big hands. The cut of his jaw that meant business. "This guy," he said slowly, "might be okay." Ahead of him, there was a buzz of whispering, confusion, but that was okay; confusion was good. Morgan knew how to keep them on their toes, the only way to get respect from those disinclined to dish it out on demand. "This could be okay."

*

part two