[fanfic] Take Me On Your Wings
Title: Take Me On Your Wings
Author: me
Characters/Pairings: US/UK, random civilians
Rating: PG for kissing?
Warnings: ...errors.
Summary: America meets a servicewoman on a flight back home from Iraq.
The atmosphere in airports, clean and airy and somehow smelling of nothing and everything in the world at the same time, was infinitely comforting to him now. He’d been in nearly every major airport in the world by now, he figured, many of them more than once. Most of the stewardesses and pilots on the British Airways flights out of Boston and New York knew him by name now, and would greet him with friendly, knowing smiles and questions of “how long will you be in London this time, Mr. Jones?”
This airport in particular, with its dizzying architecture and beautiful panoramas of Baghdad’s skyline, held a note of melancholy for him. He’d seen too many of his boys pass through here, packs on their backs, anxious and raring for action, or weary and yearning for home. He’d seen too many of his men come through the terminals, seen the looks on their faces as they remembered the people who had arrived here with them, and who wouldn’t be going home.
He leaned back tiredly into one of the chairs in the back of the terminal, losing himself in the music of a couple speaking Arabic beside him as he waited for his flight to be called. It had been his tenth tour in Iraq-only three months, far shorter a period of time than many of his soldiers had to serve-and he knew he would like to be there for much longer, but his boss needed him too. Things were even more hectic in the Oval Office than they were in the Iraqi deserts.
He insisted on taking civilian flights back to the States, or, in this case, to London. His bosses had objected at first-even though giving him special treatment was far too expensive these days anyway-but he stood firm. If his boys (and girls) had to wait the duration of a five-hour flight to be reunited with their loved ones, why shouldn’t he have to?
The tour had been somewhat of an uneventful one, though he had concluded it with one of his customary rousing speeches to his soldiers-a morale boost for those going back out to the front, and a gesture of gratitude for those going home. He tried his best to be the ever-cheerful, encouraging Commander of U.S. Forces overseas, for he knew what it was like to have your commander come back from the front looking weary, war-torn and beaten, and it was indescribably frightening. He figured it was the least he could do for them.
The muffled voice finally came over the intercom above their heads, announcing the boarding of their flight in Arabic and then English. With a little buzzing of anticipation in his stomach, he picked up his duffel-heavy with fatigues, combat boots and equipment-and his carry-on and headed for the plane.
Many of the people on the flight were civilians, Iraqis. But he could pick out the odd American soldier, even in their civvies, as he made his way into the tunnel, which was hotter and stuffier than the cooled airport.
He spotted a trio of soldiers in a row, men he’d seen and perhaps even served with before, and he smiled at them as he passed. They sat up straight in their seats and gave him obedient greetings, but he joked with them as he made his way down the aisle and soon they were laughing, smiling. He felt a small sigh of relief-they seemed tired, ready to be home, but at least they were still cheerful.
His seat was in a row of two, and the person next to him, a young girl, was already seated, fast asleep against the side of the plane. When he opened the overhead compartment to stuff his duffel in, there was an identical one already sitting there, combat boots placed next to it. He peered into the compartment slightly as he stuffed his own pack in-“Mason, Ella” was embroidered onto the side, next to a patch of the flag of the United Kingdom. Alfred gave a small smile before shutting the door and taking his seat.
There was no delay in getting off the ground, and Alfred sat back with his iPod in his ears as the plane’s altitude leveled off, ready to doze off for as much of the flight as he could.
He felt movement at the very edge of his awareness, from beside him, and his eyes opened with a start as a light pressure was suddenly put against his shoulder. The girl-Ella-had fallen to the other side in her sleep, and was resting against him, the blanket from the stewardess pulled up around her chin. Alfred smiled a bit and shifted very gently, to make her more comfortable. She was a pretty young thing, now that he was looking at her. Her hair was a light, champagne blonde and was cropped boyishly short at her neck. Her face was round, lips full and slightly parted in her sleep. He guessed she wasn’t much older than nineteen or twenty, and he sighed slightly at the thought; no matter how many wars or drafts he’d seen, he’d never really gotten used to how young they were.
He lay back against the headrest, ready to relax again, when suddenly she was awake, jarred, and sitting up, ramrod-straight in her seat, her blanket falling off of her. Alfred recognized the alertness on her face-after a tour of duty, it took a long time for him to sleep soundly, too used to the half-sleep that was necessary for constant awareness of one’s surroundings, a readiness to be alert at the slightest disturbance.
She looked at him briefly, and recognition sparked violently in her eyes. She sat even straighter than before, her back flexed proudly, her chin in the air, eyes facing straight forward. “Commander,” she greeted flatly, her voice thick with sleep but aggressively regulated.
“Sorry I woke you up,” he replied affably, taking out his earbuds. She made no move to look at him, but the embarrassed flush crept farther into her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her words clipped, obedient. Her voice was very light, airy, like spring air, and her English accent curved around the stiff words, bending them, making them beautiful.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward so that she could see him smiling, reassuring her. “It’s a five-hour flight-my shoulder’s the least I can give.”
She nodded curtly, but her posture remained stiff, her eyes fixed on the front of the plane. He fidgeted slightly in his lap, looking at her profile with a slight smirk on his face.
“You on active duty?’ he asked, his tone casual to match his posture, hoping she’d follow his example. She was unperturbed.
“Yes, sir.”
“How long’s it been since you’ve been home?”
“Eleven months, sir.”
Alfred smiled sadly at her stolid gaze, only now detecting the very slight tiredness, the over-practiced rigidity in her voice and eyes that he doubted anyone but he could see. He suddenly felt subservient to this loyal soldier, spoiled next to a woman fighting a war far from home, for not only her own country but one which was foreign to her.
“And how long do you get to stay?”
Here she hesitated, her lips pursing slightly, her posture sagging almost imperceptibly.
“Two days, sir.”
“And you’re off to the States after that?”
“Yes, sir. A training mission.”
“Hey, stop with the ‘sir,’ okay?” he said, grinning at her. She turned her head slightly, to look at him, her eyes wary. “I’m just Jones in my civvies. Alfred, if you want.”
“With all due respect, sir,” she said, her head turned back to its straight position, “it would be much too strange for me to call you that.”
He laughed at that, full and deep, and damn it felt good to laugh. She bit her lips against a smile, and the sight of it, forming dimples in her rounded cheeks and making her gray eyes sparkle, only made him laugh harder.
He held out his hand, smiling at her. “Jones,” he said, and she took his palm in her smaller hand, her grip firm. “Mason,” she replied, her voice sounding like bells with the laughter peppered in it. “Ella Mason.”
“Good to meet you, Ella,” he said. “If it’s not too strange for me to call you that.”
Her back moved very slightly from its straightened posture, as she let a small laugh escape her, and Alfred only grinned, relieved at seeing her relaxed. He preferred when his soldiers could feel easy around him, could treat him like a buddy, like their fellow serviceman.
“You have loved ones at home?” he asked her, glad to see she finally looked him in the eye when she responded.
“No, sir. Only an older brother, in the U.S.”
He nodded slightly. He’d seen makeup on her, when she had turned to him, and he knew nobody wore makeup on duty. She must have someone to look pretty for, he thought, and the idea made him curious. “No husband?” he asked, and she shook her head slightly. “Boyfriend?”
At this her gaze abruptly dropped, and she cleared her throat delicately. She was clearly deliberating if it was an appropriate thing to share with her Commander, but he gave her a friendly, open smile that seemed to encourage her.
“Um… three rows back, behind you. No-don’t bloody look!”
“I’m not, I’m not!”
He turned back to the front, snickering mischievously, and she laughed slightly as well, her apprehension dropped as she smiled, a bashful flush in her cheeks that made her look pretty. He’d seen him, though-one of the men he’d been joking with as he boarded. A handsome fellow, with a strong jaw and bright, intelligent eyes.
“American?”
She nodded again, her eyes straying in the other soldier’s direction just slightly, over the backs of the seats. Alfred had to stifle another laugh.
“Do you have someone in London, sir?”
He nodded, smiling a soft and wistful smile. She nodded as well, silently, and he knew she understood-was probably trained to, trained to notice things like that. To read people.
“That’s… quite a commute,” she said, looking far-away all of a sudden, shifting slightly in her seat. “For both of you.”
He shrugged and sat back against the headrest, a soft smile playing across his face as he looked out the window, as if looking to who he was thinking of, and then to her. “I’m in love,” he said simply, as though it was the explanation for everything; and it was, he thought to himself with fondness.
She sat back silently, staring forward with a thoughtful expression, soaking up and comprehending his words slowly. He busied himself with looking up at the television above their heads, watching the animated plane’s agonizing progress along it’s specified path-just barely into Syrian territory, now. He sighed deeply, already itching for soft sheets and warm, thin arms around him, fingers running through his hair softly-a feeling he’d been dreaming of for months. His eyes slid closed in contentment at the thought of it, the calm spreading through his limbs.
“Sir?”
He opened his eyes again, and she was looking at him apprehensively, her hands knotted together in her lap, the flush on her cheeks an embarrassed one.
“Yeah?”
She squirmed again, sighing tensely, almost silently, and averting her eyes before looking at him again.
“Is it worth it?”
He smiled softly, his eyes flicking in the direction of the soldier behind him before moving back to her, to the hesitation and confusion in her eyes.
“Do you love him?”
The flush in her face deepened, and she straightened again, her gaze sharpening towards the front of the plane. “Very much, sir,” she said, and he laughed.
“Does he love you?”
She looked at him fully now, her eyes wide, face reading slight surprise, but she recovered, nodding slightly, then more assuredly, biting her lip. He knew the hesitation in every bit of her body all too well-an apprehension to call yourself theirs, to claim to have their love, a modesty that always made your devotion stronger than theirs in your mind. He smiled knowingly at her, fond, recognizing a surprising amount of himself in her as she looked at him, imploringly, for the answers.
“Then anything’s worth it,” he said, and she sighed, a slight smile curving over her mouth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The smell of Heathrow was a welcome one as he stepped off the plane into the terminal, and he stopped for a brief moment to look out at the London skyline, and feel himself to be there, to finally be home-for it was home to him, in a way, and had been since he was young.
He hurried through the airport, the lilting sounds of English accents filling the air around him and making him giddy and anxious, antsy to get a cab and leave. He scanned the baggage claim hurriedly, and pushed politely through the people to grab his own suitcase and haul it off the conveyor belt.
His shoulder brushed Ella’s as he made his way to the exit, and he turned to say goodbye.
“Good luck, Commander,” she said with a small smile, and as she turned he saw her hand, linked with the American soldier’s, who looked at him slightly owlishly. He grinned and clapped his shoes together, straightening to give her a smart salute.
“America owes you a great debt, soldier,” he said, flicking his hand and lowering it to his side. She smiled, mirroring his posture to salute back, her chin high and proud in the air.
“It’s given me so much already,” she said, her smile wide and bright and beautiful, and he watched her boyfriend smile subtly behind her as she gave their joined hands a gentle squeeze.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alfred fumbled impatiently with the key he’d taken from under the doormat, shoving it at the lock a few times before it actually slid in, and he nearly took the handle off as he vigorously turned it and shoved the heavy door open.
The house was silent when he entered, and for a brief moment Alfred feared Arthur had gone out. But his Bentley was in the driveway, his shoes on the floor beside the door. Alfred called his name impatiently, loudly, hearing his voice carry through the old house, dumping his bags and jacket with a readiness to go hunting for him.
“Alfred?”
The footsteps were hurried across the floor above his head, soon banging down the staircase, and Alfred smiled, the sound of that voice so melodious to him after months of only hearing it crackled and distorted through a phone receiver.
Arthur appeared from under the overhang of the landing, dressed in slacks and, surprisingly, a t-shirt, his face flushed and eyes wide, disbelieving, as if he was unwilling to believe his own ears. He paused slightly on the steps as their eyes met, and then he was smiling, his eyes lit brilliantly, and they closed the distance cooperatively, Alfred moving forward to catch Arthur in his arms as he flew down the remainder of the stairs.
“Alfred,” Arthur breathed, breathless and smothered in Alfred’s shoulder as he pressed himself impossibly close, his arms constricting around Alfred’s neck tightly enough to cut off his air. Alfred didn’t care.
“What are you doing here?” Arthur asked, and Alfred could hear his voice, thick with surprise and tears, and suddenly his throat felt tight too. He held Arthur closer. “I wasn’t expecting you for another week.”
“My boss said I could come here first, before I went home,” he replied, pressing eager lips against Arthur’s jaw and taking in his smell greedily, letting it fill his every sense. “I missed you so much.”
“Oh, Alfred, I-” Arthur shook his head, pressing himself ever closer, his face smothered against the warmth of Alfred’s neck, and Alfred could feel the fine trembling of Arthur’s jaw against his collarbone. His hands stroked gently, soothingly, over the back of England’s neck, over his shoulders, savoring the feeling of solidity, the tactile body in his arms. “I missed you too. God and heaven, I missed you.”
Alfred pulled away only slightly, to look down into Arthur’s eyes, cup his hands around his burning cheeks and stroke his thumbs along the high cheekbones, across the softness of his eyelashes. “Love you,” he said, feeling overwhelmed by everything and not really knowing how to have Arthur as close as he wanted him to be, close enough to make up for three months of being so far away.
“I love you,” Arthur responded, and lurched up to press his lips against Alfred’s, pushing and pulling and eager and desperate, his fists curling in Alfred’s shirt in a plea for closeness which Alfred happily obliged. Something settled deep and warm in his stomach, in his heart, in his limbs-something that had been stirring restlessly for months, churning in silent, subtle displeasure. Arthur’s eager touches gave him a calm he hadn’t felt since the last time they’d been together, since the last time he’d been able to feel Arthur’s frame fit, so wonderfully perfect, against his.
Arthur sighed against him, his hands curling into Alfred’s hair as the kiss slowed and deepened, and Alfred knew, very suddenly, that he had been right.
Anything, he knew, anything in the entire world, was completely and utterly worth it.
How this got to 3,000 words, I will never know. And I don't even like it very much, but shhhhh.
~For sakuratsukikage~ Hope you feel better soon dear ;___;
Please excuse any errors on inaccuracies! I hope you enjoy.
Author: me
Characters/Pairings: US/UK, random civilians
Rating: PG for kissing?
Warnings: ...errors.
Summary: America meets a servicewoman on a flight back home from Iraq.
The atmosphere in airports, clean and airy and somehow smelling of nothing and everything in the world at the same time, was infinitely comforting to him now. He’d been in nearly every major airport in the world by now, he figured, many of them more than once. Most of the stewardesses and pilots on the British Airways flights out of Boston and New York knew him by name now, and would greet him with friendly, knowing smiles and questions of “how long will you be in London this time, Mr. Jones?”
This airport in particular, with its dizzying architecture and beautiful panoramas of Baghdad’s skyline, held a note of melancholy for him. He’d seen too many of his boys pass through here, packs on their backs, anxious and raring for action, or weary and yearning for home. He’d seen too many of his men come through the terminals, seen the looks on their faces as they remembered the people who had arrived here with them, and who wouldn’t be going home.
He leaned back tiredly into one of the chairs in the back of the terminal, losing himself in the music of a couple speaking Arabic beside him as he waited for his flight to be called. It had been his tenth tour in Iraq-only three months, far shorter a period of time than many of his soldiers had to serve-and he knew he would like to be there for much longer, but his boss needed him too. Things were even more hectic in the Oval Office than they were in the Iraqi deserts.
He insisted on taking civilian flights back to the States, or, in this case, to London. His bosses had objected at first-even though giving him special treatment was far too expensive these days anyway-but he stood firm. If his boys (and girls) had to wait the duration of a five-hour flight to be reunited with their loved ones, why shouldn’t he have to?
The tour had been somewhat of an uneventful one, though he had concluded it with one of his customary rousing speeches to his soldiers-a morale boost for those going back out to the front, and a gesture of gratitude for those going home. He tried his best to be the ever-cheerful, encouraging Commander of U.S. Forces overseas, for he knew what it was like to have your commander come back from the front looking weary, war-torn and beaten, and it was indescribably frightening. He figured it was the least he could do for them.
The muffled voice finally came over the intercom above their heads, announcing the boarding of their flight in Arabic and then English. With a little buzzing of anticipation in his stomach, he picked up his duffel-heavy with fatigues, combat boots and equipment-and his carry-on and headed for the plane.
Many of the people on the flight were civilians, Iraqis. But he could pick out the odd American soldier, even in their civvies, as he made his way into the tunnel, which was hotter and stuffier than the cooled airport.
He spotted a trio of soldiers in a row, men he’d seen and perhaps even served with before, and he smiled at them as he passed. They sat up straight in their seats and gave him obedient greetings, but he joked with them as he made his way down the aisle and soon they were laughing, smiling. He felt a small sigh of relief-they seemed tired, ready to be home, but at least they were still cheerful.
His seat was in a row of two, and the person next to him, a young girl, was already seated, fast asleep against the side of the plane. When he opened the overhead compartment to stuff his duffel in, there was an identical one already sitting there, combat boots placed next to it. He peered into the compartment slightly as he stuffed his own pack in-“Mason, Ella” was embroidered onto the side, next to a patch of the flag of the United Kingdom. Alfred gave a small smile before shutting the door and taking his seat.
There was no delay in getting off the ground, and Alfred sat back with his iPod in his ears as the plane’s altitude leveled off, ready to doze off for as much of the flight as he could.
He felt movement at the very edge of his awareness, from beside him, and his eyes opened with a start as a light pressure was suddenly put against his shoulder. The girl-Ella-had fallen to the other side in her sleep, and was resting against him, the blanket from the stewardess pulled up around her chin. Alfred smiled a bit and shifted very gently, to make her more comfortable. She was a pretty young thing, now that he was looking at her. Her hair was a light, champagne blonde and was cropped boyishly short at her neck. Her face was round, lips full and slightly parted in her sleep. He guessed she wasn’t much older than nineteen or twenty, and he sighed slightly at the thought; no matter how many wars or drafts he’d seen, he’d never really gotten used to how young they were.
He lay back against the headrest, ready to relax again, when suddenly she was awake, jarred, and sitting up, ramrod-straight in her seat, her blanket falling off of her. Alfred recognized the alertness on her face-after a tour of duty, it took a long time for him to sleep soundly, too used to the half-sleep that was necessary for constant awareness of one’s surroundings, a readiness to be alert at the slightest disturbance.
She looked at him briefly, and recognition sparked violently in her eyes. She sat even straighter than before, her back flexed proudly, her chin in the air, eyes facing straight forward. “Commander,” she greeted flatly, her voice thick with sleep but aggressively regulated.
“Sorry I woke you up,” he replied affably, taking out his earbuds. She made no move to look at him, but the embarrassed flush crept farther into her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her words clipped, obedient. Her voice was very light, airy, like spring air, and her English accent curved around the stiff words, bending them, making them beautiful.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward so that she could see him smiling, reassuring her. “It’s a five-hour flight-my shoulder’s the least I can give.”
She nodded curtly, but her posture remained stiff, her eyes fixed on the front of the plane. He fidgeted slightly in his lap, looking at her profile with a slight smirk on his face.
“You on active duty?’ he asked, his tone casual to match his posture, hoping she’d follow his example. She was unperturbed.
“Yes, sir.”
“How long’s it been since you’ve been home?”
“Eleven months, sir.”
Alfred smiled sadly at her stolid gaze, only now detecting the very slight tiredness, the over-practiced rigidity in her voice and eyes that he doubted anyone but he could see. He suddenly felt subservient to this loyal soldier, spoiled next to a woman fighting a war far from home, for not only her own country but one which was foreign to her.
“And how long do you get to stay?”
Here she hesitated, her lips pursing slightly, her posture sagging almost imperceptibly.
“Two days, sir.”
“And you’re off to the States after that?”
“Yes, sir. A training mission.”
“Hey, stop with the ‘sir,’ okay?” he said, grinning at her. She turned her head slightly, to look at him, her eyes wary. “I’m just Jones in my civvies. Alfred, if you want.”
“With all due respect, sir,” she said, her head turned back to its straight position, “it would be much too strange for me to call you that.”
He laughed at that, full and deep, and damn it felt good to laugh. She bit her lips against a smile, and the sight of it, forming dimples in her rounded cheeks and making her gray eyes sparkle, only made him laugh harder.
He held out his hand, smiling at her. “Jones,” he said, and she took his palm in her smaller hand, her grip firm. “Mason,” she replied, her voice sounding like bells with the laughter peppered in it. “Ella Mason.”
“Good to meet you, Ella,” he said. “If it’s not too strange for me to call you that.”
Her back moved very slightly from its straightened posture, as she let a small laugh escape her, and Alfred only grinned, relieved at seeing her relaxed. He preferred when his soldiers could feel easy around him, could treat him like a buddy, like their fellow serviceman.
“You have loved ones at home?” he asked her, glad to see she finally looked him in the eye when she responded.
“No, sir. Only an older brother, in the U.S.”
He nodded slightly. He’d seen makeup on her, when she had turned to him, and he knew nobody wore makeup on duty. She must have someone to look pretty for, he thought, and the idea made him curious. “No husband?” he asked, and she shook her head slightly. “Boyfriend?”
At this her gaze abruptly dropped, and she cleared her throat delicately. She was clearly deliberating if it was an appropriate thing to share with her Commander, but he gave her a friendly, open smile that seemed to encourage her.
“Um… three rows back, behind you. No-don’t bloody look!”
“I’m not, I’m not!”
He turned back to the front, snickering mischievously, and she laughed slightly as well, her apprehension dropped as she smiled, a bashful flush in her cheeks that made her look pretty. He’d seen him, though-one of the men he’d been joking with as he boarded. A handsome fellow, with a strong jaw and bright, intelligent eyes.
“American?”
She nodded again, her eyes straying in the other soldier’s direction just slightly, over the backs of the seats. Alfred had to stifle another laugh.
“Do you have someone in London, sir?”
He nodded, smiling a soft and wistful smile. She nodded as well, silently, and he knew she understood-was probably trained to, trained to notice things like that. To read people.
“That’s… quite a commute,” she said, looking far-away all of a sudden, shifting slightly in her seat. “For both of you.”
He shrugged and sat back against the headrest, a soft smile playing across his face as he looked out the window, as if looking to who he was thinking of, and then to her. “I’m in love,” he said simply, as though it was the explanation for everything; and it was, he thought to himself with fondness.
She sat back silently, staring forward with a thoughtful expression, soaking up and comprehending his words slowly. He busied himself with looking up at the television above their heads, watching the animated plane’s agonizing progress along it’s specified path-just barely into Syrian territory, now. He sighed deeply, already itching for soft sheets and warm, thin arms around him, fingers running through his hair softly-a feeling he’d been dreaming of for months. His eyes slid closed in contentment at the thought of it, the calm spreading through his limbs.
“Sir?”
He opened his eyes again, and she was looking at him apprehensively, her hands knotted together in her lap, the flush on her cheeks an embarrassed one.
“Yeah?”
She squirmed again, sighing tensely, almost silently, and averting her eyes before looking at him again.
“Is it worth it?”
He smiled softly, his eyes flicking in the direction of the soldier behind him before moving back to her, to the hesitation and confusion in her eyes.
“Do you love him?”
The flush in her face deepened, and she straightened again, her gaze sharpening towards the front of the plane. “Very much, sir,” she said, and he laughed.
“Does he love you?”
She looked at him fully now, her eyes wide, face reading slight surprise, but she recovered, nodding slightly, then more assuredly, biting her lip. He knew the hesitation in every bit of her body all too well-an apprehension to call yourself theirs, to claim to have their love, a modesty that always made your devotion stronger than theirs in your mind. He smiled knowingly at her, fond, recognizing a surprising amount of himself in her as she looked at him, imploringly, for the answers.
“Then anything’s worth it,” he said, and she sighed, a slight smile curving over her mouth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The smell of Heathrow was a welcome one as he stepped off the plane into the terminal, and he stopped for a brief moment to look out at the London skyline, and feel himself to be there, to finally be home-for it was home to him, in a way, and had been since he was young.
He hurried through the airport, the lilting sounds of English accents filling the air around him and making him giddy and anxious, antsy to get a cab and leave. He scanned the baggage claim hurriedly, and pushed politely through the people to grab his own suitcase and haul it off the conveyor belt.
His shoulder brushed Ella’s as he made his way to the exit, and he turned to say goodbye.
“Good luck, Commander,” she said with a small smile, and as she turned he saw her hand, linked with the American soldier’s, who looked at him slightly owlishly. He grinned and clapped his shoes together, straightening to give her a smart salute.
“America owes you a great debt, soldier,” he said, flicking his hand and lowering it to his side. She smiled, mirroring his posture to salute back, her chin high and proud in the air.
“It’s given me so much already,” she said, her smile wide and bright and beautiful, and he watched her boyfriend smile subtly behind her as she gave their joined hands a gentle squeeze.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alfred fumbled impatiently with the key he’d taken from under the doormat, shoving it at the lock a few times before it actually slid in, and he nearly took the handle off as he vigorously turned it and shoved the heavy door open.
The house was silent when he entered, and for a brief moment Alfred feared Arthur had gone out. But his Bentley was in the driveway, his shoes on the floor beside the door. Alfred called his name impatiently, loudly, hearing his voice carry through the old house, dumping his bags and jacket with a readiness to go hunting for him.
“Alfred?”
The footsteps were hurried across the floor above his head, soon banging down the staircase, and Alfred smiled, the sound of that voice so melodious to him after months of only hearing it crackled and distorted through a phone receiver.
Arthur appeared from under the overhang of the landing, dressed in slacks and, surprisingly, a t-shirt, his face flushed and eyes wide, disbelieving, as if he was unwilling to believe his own ears. He paused slightly on the steps as their eyes met, and then he was smiling, his eyes lit brilliantly, and they closed the distance cooperatively, Alfred moving forward to catch Arthur in his arms as he flew down the remainder of the stairs.
“Alfred,” Arthur breathed, breathless and smothered in Alfred’s shoulder as he pressed himself impossibly close, his arms constricting around Alfred’s neck tightly enough to cut off his air. Alfred didn’t care.
“What are you doing here?” Arthur asked, and Alfred could hear his voice, thick with surprise and tears, and suddenly his throat felt tight too. He held Arthur closer. “I wasn’t expecting you for another week.”
“My boss said I could come here first, before I went home,” he replied, pressing eager lips against Arthur’s jaw and taking in his smell greedily, letting it fill his every sense. “I missed you so much.”
“Oh, Alfred, I-” Arthur shook his head, pressing himself ever closer, his face smothered against the warmth of Alfred’s neck, and Alfred could feel the fine trembling of Arthur’s jaw against his collarbone. His hands stroked gently, soothingly, over the back of England’s neck, over his shoulders, savoring the feeling of solidity, the tactile body in his arms. “I missed you too. God and heaven, I missed you.”
Alfred pulled away only slightly, to look down into Arthur’s eyes, cup his hands around his burning cheeks and stroke his thumbs along the high cheekbones, across the softness of his eyelashes. “Love you,” he said, feeling overwhelmed by everything and not really knowing how to have Arthur as close as he wanted him to be, close enough to make up for three months of being so far away.
“I love you,” Arthur responded, and lurched up to press his lips against Alfred’s, pushing and pulling and eager and desperate, his fists curling in Alfred’s shirt in a plea for closeness which Alfred happily obliged. Something settled deep and warm in his stomach, in his heart, in his limbs-something that had been stirring restlessly for months, churning in silent, subtle displeasure. Arthur’s eager touches gave him a calm he hadn’t felt since the last time they’d been together, since the last time he’d been able to feel Arthur’s frame fit, so wonderfully perfect, against his.
Arthur sighed against him, his hands curling into Alfred’s hair as the kiss slowed and deepened, and Alfred knew, very suddenly, that he had been right.
Anything, he knew, anything in the entire world, was completely and utterly worth it.
How this got to 3,000 words, I will never know. And I don't even like it very much, but shhhhh.
~For sakuratsukikage~ Hope you feel better soon dear ;___;
Please excuse any errors on inaccuracies! I hope you enjoy.