Two more Merlin snippets
Both from the kissing memes this weekend. Merlin is, of course, the property of the BBC. No series 2 spoilers in these, and neither is higher than a PG.
First, Summer Kisses (yes, I suck at titles), Merlin/Arthur, 1255 words.
It was May, the first of Arthur's reign, and world danced on the edge between spring and summer: the sunlight was bright and clear, and the colonnades remained cool even as the courtyards warmed under the kiss of the sun. Swallows, bringers of consolation, were darting around the stable eaves, and the air resounded with the sound of birdsong.
This dawn, Arthur had been watching from the top of the tallest tower of Camelot, as he often did, and had seen the land lie green and bright before him, the road west shining like a river between hedges white with blossom. From above, he could see where the maypole still stood in the town square, its many-coloured ribbons dancing in the breeze.
Now he sat in the hall to hear petitions, sunlight streaming through open windows to shine around his throne. It was a dull task, and once he would have complained about it, but he had long since learned to look beyond his own concerns (though both of those who had taught him that lesson were long lost to him, gone into the misty hills of the west, and living without complaint was easy when there was no one left with the courage to laugh at you).
The seat of the throne was hard, and he shifted as discreetly as he could whilst maintaining the appearance of interest in the meandering tale of a straying goat, an uprooted mangelwurzel patch and, through some twist he hadn't quite followed, newborn twins who hiccuped flowers every time they cried.
The banners which marked his father's victories, and more than a few of his own, stirred under the breath of the wind. Outside, he could hear an old horse neighing, made young again by the season.
A falcon flew through the open doors, blue-grey wings flashing between the pillars of the hall with a swift, impossible grace. It circled twice and then swooped down towards Arthur, its eyes bright and golden as the petitioners scattered.
Arthur was on his feet without thinking about it, throwing up his arm in welcome. The falcon alighted, claws barely piercing the folds of Arthur's sleeve, and turned its head to look at him.
Then it said, voice clear and silvery, with a hint of a hawk's cry, "I bring you greetings, Arthur, Once and Future King, from the Owl of Cwm Cowlwyd, the Eagle of Gwernabwy, and the Blackbird of Celli Gadaran, who are the elders of the world." Then it fluffed up its wings, looking ridiculously proud of itself for remembering all that, and added, "Is this the same jacket you were wearing when I left? Honestly, can you not afford a new one?"
"Well, I'm going to need a new one now you've shredded it, you idiot," Arthur retorted before he remembered where he was. His heart was clenching in his chest, though he could barely recognise the emotion surging through him.
A hastily smothered cough of amusement from one of the knights behind the throne recalled him to his place and he said, "Well, was there a message, beyond the greetings? Or shall I send you straight back with my reply?"
"Oh, just that they welcome you to the throne and hope you will continue to match the clarity of youth with the wisdom of age. And they don't want me back. I think they were getting a bit fed up with me, actually."
"I can't imagine why," Arthur said, turning the sudden surge of feeling into sarcasm. "Well, change back, then."
"Er," the falcon said, looking embarrassed.
Arthur lifted him closer and lowered his voice. "Look, now you've made your entrance, change back. So I can finally introduce my Court Sorcerer, I mean."
"Your what?" Merlin squeaked, flailing backwards with spread wings.
Arthur, with the benefit of years spent on falconry, tilted his arm to keep him balanced. "Months ago. Do keep up, Merlin."
"But I wasn't here!"
"Well, it wasn't as if I expected you to be any better at this job."
"What if I don't want-" Merlin started, and then faltered at Arthur's incredulous stare. "All right, fine, job offer accepted. Thank you so very much for the courtesy of, y'know, asking."
"Good," Arthur said, and he hadn't felt this sort of affectionate impatience in years. "Now change back, before everyone decides I'm the sort of the king who appoints his pets as councillors."
"Er," Merlin said. "About that."
"Merlin."
"The transformation spell is - that is - I'm - er, I haven't figured out how to get my clothes back when I turn human again. Not yet."
It took a moment, and then a few more to imagine the chaos that would result from a bare and pale sorceror in the middle of the hall, but then Arthur hissed, "Merlin. Are you naked?"
There was another muffled cough from behind the throne, and Arthur took a moment to glare at the culprit. Ah, Gawain, unsurprisingly.
"Well, birds don't usually wear clothes, my lord," Merlin tried. "So, it isn't really as if I'm doing something completely inappropriate, at least not until-"
Another, rather hiccuping, noise from Gawain, and Arthur had had enough.
"Sir Gawain," he said icily. "Take over here, will you. I need to consult with my new advisor."
Gawain, at least, had the grace to obey an order promptly, but Arthur hadn't quite forgiven that second laugh, let alone the third. He waited until he had reached the door of the hall before turning back to add, "Oh, and, Gawain, I expect a full report on all cases. Do make sure to take notes."
"That wasn't very nice," Merlin said, swivelling his head to glare.
"I don't have to be nice to the knights."
"Still a prat, then."
"You still can't talk to me like that."
"Can, too. Prat."
"Idiot."
"Buffoon."
"Dolt."
A passing servant gave them a strange look and scurried onwards. Probably the sight of the king trading insults with talking falcon wasn't even the strangest thing she'd seen in the last few months. Magic seemed to oozing out of the woodwork these days.
"Given up?" Merlin asked.
"I'm not wasting my dignity on this," Arthur said. "Dizzard."
"Clotpole," Merlin crowed happily and pecked his ear.
Luckily, they were at Arthur's chambers by then, so he ignored that in favour of walking inside. Even as the door thudded shut behind him, he kept going, heading towards the window because he didn't know what else to do.
He wasn't ready for it when Merlin changed, the weight of the falcon falling off his arm in a sigh of golden light and rushing air. Arthur turned into the light, blinking as Merlin appeared.
He looked the same as ever, all stupid hair and ridiculous ears and a grin so wide it made Arthur want to laugh in response. Then he fell over his own feet, arms flapping, and knocked Arthur into the wall.
Arthur narrowly avoided hitting his head on the wall. He opened his mouth to complain, but Merlin was there, pressed warmly along his front, warm skin bare under Arthur's hands. Arthur pulled him even closer, turning his head to press his mouth against Merlin's.
Merlin made a startled sound into the kiss, but then his hands curled into Arthur's jacket and his mouth opened eagerly under Arthur's, and all Arthur could do was kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, with the sun-warmed stones of the wall at his back and the first light of summer washing over them.
~#~
Secondly, A Lonely Impulse of Delight, Gwen/Morgana, Spitfire AU, 1514 words. I've been reading about the female pilots of the Air Transport Auxiliary, and it seemed like the perfect wartime job for Gwen and Morgana. I kind of want to write the rest of this AU now, with Morgana being wildly jealous that Arthur actually gets to fight in his plane (which is called Excalibur, and Merlin, who is the engineer, has painted a stupid picture on the nose and is terrified every time Arthur and Lancelot go flying off. Er, yes, stopping now).
Gwen stayed above the bad weather as long as she could, watching the shadow of the Spitfire float over the fleecy tops of the clouds. Up here, the sun was bright, but there was nothing to tell her where she was, whether she was even over land or sea. She kept to her heading, watching for any break in the clouds.
None appeared, and she looked at the petrol gauge. Twenty minutes, and she should have heeded her common sense and not let anyone goad her into flying in poor weather. Taking a breath, she eased the plane back down, anxiously watching the instruments she'd never been formally trained to use.
The clouds closed around her, wrapping her in greyness, and she sank down as if through water: two thousand feet, fifteen hundred, a thousand, six hundred and if she emerged into hilly country she was too low to pull out of a crash, but she couldn't risk rising again, not without something to give her bearings.
Then she was breaking free of the fog, over low fenland, and she could see the unmistakeable shape of an airfield a few miles ahead, mist curling up around the edges of the runway.
Once she set the plane down, she walked to the waiting officer. He stared at her, like they all did. She had long since stopped wondering if they were more astounded at her gender or her colour, so she just smiled politely and said, "Guinevere Smith, ATA, heading towards Grantham."
"Welcome to Steeple Morden," he said, waving his hand limply at the surrounding field. "You're several counties out. You girls really are something. Wouldn't catch any of my boys up there in these conditions."
His tone was condescending, despite his words, and Gwen fought to keep her smile steady, and murmured something about doing one's bit, all in the line of duty, of course.
He gave a little laugh. "Quite something. You're the second of your lot to set down here today."
"Oh?" Gwen asked, wondering who else had been stubborn enough to fly.
"Other girl said she likes this weather," he said, shaking his head, and Gwen's heart leapt.
She followed him across the field to the mess hall, surreptiously checking that her skirt was straight and tucking a wayward curl back under a pin. The officer, who had still not offered his name, didn't speak to her. Well, that was to be expected. Few men appreciated the arrival of girl in a Spit on a day when they were scared to fly. Two in one afternoon was bound to cause more than a little pique.
The mess hall was crowded, men gathered around the figure sitting on a central table as if it were a throne, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigarette trailing flight paths in the other, voice low and husky as she described a hard landing in Ceylon, before the war. Morgana LeFay had been flying since she was fourteen. Her father had been a general, her brother was a decorated fighter pilot, and her step-father was in bomber command. She had been the first woman to fly across Africa, had broken six world records and had an engine named in her honour. Since the war began, she had been ferrying planes across Britain whilst she campaigned for women to be allowed to fight as well as ferry. She had been shot out of the sky over the English channel, rumour claimed, yet had managed to land her broken plane and step out not only alive, but with her make-up immaculate.
Rumour also claimed (though Gwen knew the truth) that she had left a trail of broken hearts across Europe, and had declared that no man was worth as much as a good plane.
Now she looked up and surged to her feet in delight, pressing her drink into one admirer's hand and pressing through the crowd. "Gwen! Gwen!" She seized Gwen's hand and pulled her into the middle of the crowd. "This is my good friend Gwen, gentlemen - the best pilot in the sky."
"You're too kind," Gwen said politely. She wasn't one who thrived on attention, but she didn't mind sitting by Morgana's side, especially when her eyes were glittering like this. It wasn't as if she had to endure much attention, not after the first few curious stares. Morgana was a magnet, drawing them towards a pointless collision, and Gwen faded beside her and didn't care.
She fielded a few questions and shy attempts at flirtation as Morgana held court, mostly from those sweet-faced boys who were too intimdated to approach Morgana.
"What made you want to be a pilot?" one of them asked, staring over her shoulder at Morgana as her laugh rang out. It was code for what is someone who looks like you doing in a plane?, of course, but Gwen chose to avoid that. At least he had the tact not to ask outright, though that was happening less as the war went on.
"My father flew in the last war," she said simply, and left the rest of the story untold.
At last Morgana appeared at her side. There was a flush along her cheekbones, from the whiskey or the attention. "I'm for bed," she announced.
Gwen rose to her feet. "Where are we staying?" She hoped it wasn't too far out, or that one of Morgana's admirers was still fit to drive.
"There's a bed for us here," Morgana said and cast a warm glance over her shoulder. "Commander Owen is very kind."
Only to you, Gwen thought wryly, but followed Morgana out into the night.
*
The air was cold and sharp as they crossed the airfield, frost already crunching under their feet. Gwen huddled into her jacket, and kept close to Morgana, who was gazing at the sky as she walked, eyes fierce and hungry.
The commander's hut was little more than a shed, with one narrow cot and thick black-out blinds. It wasn't much warmer than the open air, but they'd slept in worse over the last few years, in empty waiting rooms and crowded tube stations, under canvas and below hedges, trekking their way back to HQ for the next flight. Gwen didn't bother to undress, but tucked her shoes under the bed and took the pins out of her hair. Then she slid under the blanket and held the edge up for Morgana. "Come on."
Morgana put out the lamp and slipped in next to her, pressing close so they could share the blanket. "They think they're so superior."
"I know," Gwen said softly, touching Morgana's hair. It was soft and heavy on the pillow.
"They think we're a joke."
"We're not," Gwen murmured. Morgana smelt of leather and oil and, very faintly, of expensive perfume. Her cheek was very warm against Gwen's.
For a moment, Morgana was quiet. Then she said, "I shouldn't have flown today."
Gwen didn't know what to say to that, so she just curled her fingers further into Morgana's hair.
"I thought I was going to die." The English veneer of her accent suddenly peeled away. "Nor law, not duty bade me fight. I can't stay on the ground, Gwen. I can't bear not to fly."
"I know," Gwen said. "I know."
"They'll ground you all, when the war is done."
"They'll ground us," Gwen said sharply and felt Morgana smile against her cheek, lips brushing the corner of Gwen's mouth.
"I fly too dangerously," she confessed, voice soft, almost shy. "I'll die in the air, Gwen."
Gwen wanted to argue against it; beg her to take care, to think a little about her own life. But Morgana wouldn't be Morgana without risk, so she just sighed and shifted her head to brush her lips across Morgana's.
"Oh," Morgana said and returned the kiss, slow and warm and soft. They'd done this before, countless times, and it never failed to comfort Gwen, whether it was this gentle or as fierce and demanding as only Morgana could be.
Morgana's arms closed around her, tugging her close, her hands tracing slow circles on Gwen's back. They kissed for a long time, chapped lips catching as their breathing quickened and their hands roamed, but always slowing again, because they could not fly forever, could not grow wings and take to the air themselves, but this, this alone, could last.
When they slept, Morgana's head was pillowed on Gwen's shoulder, and Gwen's hand was tucked into Morgana's waistband, anchoring her to the ground.
#
The next day was the usual scramble across country, lifts in army trucks to unsignposted stations, trains delayed by bombing further up the line, the devastation of London. At last, though, they were on a train back to White Waltham, with a compartment to themselves. The skies were clear today, and the wind perfect, so they pulled the window down. Gwen rested her head on Morgana's shoulder, and Morgana pressed a sly kiss to her hair, and they both gazed up and out at the endless, waiting sky.
First, Summer Kisses (yes, I suck at titles), Merlin/Arthur, 1255 words.
It was May, the first of Arthur's reign, and world danced on the edge between spring and summer: the sunlight was bright and clear, and the colonnades remained cool even as the courtyards warmed under the kiss of the sun. Swallows, bringers of consolation, were darting around the stable eaves, and the air resounded with the sound of birdsong.
This dawn, Arthur had been watching from the top of the tallest tower of Camelot, as he often did, and had seen the land lie green and bright before him, the road west shining like a river between hedges white with blossom. From above, he could see where the maypole still stood in the town square, its many-coloured ribbons dancing in the breeze.
Now he sat in the hall to hear petitions, sunlight streaming through open windows to shine around his throne. It was a dull task, and once he would have complained about it, but he had long since learned to look beyond his own concerns (though both of those who had taught him that lesson were long lost to him, gone into the misty hills of the west, and living without complaint was easy when there was no one left with the courage to laugh at you).
The seat of the throne was hard, and he shifted as discreetly as he could whilst maintaining the appearance of interest in the meandering tale of a straying goat, an uprooted mangelwurzel patch and, through some twist he hadn't quite followed, newborn twins who hiccuped flowers every time they cried.
The banners which marked his father's victories, and more than a few of his own, stirred under the breath of the wind. Outside, he could hear an old horse neighing, made young again by the season.
A falcon flew through the open doors, blue-grey wings flashing between the pillars of the hall with a swift, impossible grace. It circled twice and then swooped down towards Arthur, its eyes bright and golden as the petitioners scattered.
Arthur was on his feet without thinking about it, throwing up his arm in welcome. The falcon alighted, claws barely piercing the folds of Arthur's sleeve, and turned its head to look at him.
Then it said, voice clear and silvery, with a hint of a hawk's cry, "I bring you greetings, Arthur, Once and Future King, from the Owl of Cwm Cowlwyd, the Eagle of Gwernabwy, and the Blackbird of Celli Gadaran, who are the elders of the world." Then it fluffed up its wings, looking ridiculously proud of itself for remembering all that, and added, "Is this the same jacket you were wearing when I left? Honestly, can you not afford a new one?"
"Well, I'm going to need a new one now you've shredded it, you idiot," Arthur retorted before he remembered where he was. His heart was clenching in his chest, though he could barely recognise the emotion surging through him.
A hastily smothered cough of amusement from one of the knights behind the throne recalled him to his place and he said, "Well, was there a message, beyond the greetings? Or shall I send you straight back with my reply?"
"Oh, just that they welcome you to the throne and hope you will continue to match the clarity of youth with the wisdom of age. And they don't want me back. I think they were getting a bit fed up with me, actually."
"I can't imagine why," Arthur said, turning the sudden surge of feeling into sarcasm. "Well, change back, then."
"Er," the falcon said, looking embarrassed.
Arthur lifted him closer and lowered his voice. "Look, now you've made your entrance, change back. So I can finally introduce my Court Sorcerer, I mean."
"Your what?" Merlin squeaked, flailing backwards with spread wings.
Arthur, with the benefit of years spent on falconry, tilted his arm to keep him balanced. "Months ago. Do keep up, Merlin."
"But I wasn't here!"
"Well, it wasn't as if I expected you to be any better at this job."
"What if I don't want-" Merlin started, and then faltered at Arthur's incredulous stare. "All right, fine, job offer accepted. Thank you so very much for the courtesy of, y'know, asking."
"Good," Arthur said, and he hadn't felt this sort of affectionate impatience in years. "Now change back, before everyone decides I'm the sort of the king who appoints his pets as councillors."
"Er," Merlin said. "About that."
"Merlin."
"The transformation spell is - that is - I'm - er, I haven't figured out how to get my clothes back when I turn human again. Not yet."
It took a moment, and then a few more to imagine the chaos that would result from a bare and pale sorceror in the middle of the hall, but then Arthur hissed, "Merlin. Are you naked?"
There was another muffled cough from behind the throne, and Arthur took a moment to glare at the culprit. Ah, Gawain, unsurprisingly.
"Well, birds don't usually wear clothes, my lord," Merlin tried. "So, it isn't really as if I'm doing something completely inappropriate, at least not until-"
Another, rather hiccuping, noise from Gawain, and Arthur had had enough.
"Sir Gawain," he said icily. "Take over here, will you. I need to consult with my new advisor."
Gawain, at least, had the grace to obey an order promptly, but Arthur hadn't quite forgiven that second laugh, let alone the third. He waited until he had reached the door of the hall before turning back to add, "Oh, and, Gawain, I expect a full report on all cases. Do make sure to take notes."
"That wasn't very nice," Merlin said, swivelling his head to glare.
"I don't have to be nice to the knights."
"Still a prat, then."
"You still can't talk to me like that."
"Can, too. Prat."
"Idiot."
"Buffoon."
"Dolt."
A passing servant gave them a strange look and scurried onwards. Probably the sight of the king trading insults with talking falcon wasn't even the strangest thing she'd seen in the last few months. Magic seemed to oozing out of the woodwork these days.
"Given up?" Merlin asked.
"I'm not wasting my dignity on this," Arthur said. "Dizzard."
"Clotpole," Merlin crowed happily and pecked his ear.
Luckily, they were at Arthur's chambers by then, so he ignored that in favour of walking inside. Even as the door thudded shut behind him, he kept going, heading towards the window because he didn't know what else to do.
He wasn't ready for it when Merlin changed, the weight of the falcon falling off his arm in a sigh of golden light and rushing air. Arthur turned into the light, blinking as Merlin appeared.
He looked the same as ever, all stupid hair and ridiculous ears and a grin so wide it made Arthur want to laugh in response. Then he fell over his own feet, arms flapping, and knocked Arthur into the wall.
Arthur narrowly avoided hitting his head on the wall. He opened his mouth to complain, but Merlin was there, pressed warmly along his front, warm skin bare under Arthur's hands. Arthur pulled him even closer, turning his head to press his mouth against Merlin's.
Merlin made a startled sound into the kiss, but then his hands curled into Arthur's jacket and his mouth opened eagerly under Arthur's, and all Arthur could do was kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, with the sun-warmed stones of the wall at his back and the first light of summer washing over them.
~#~
Secondly, A Lonely Impulse of Delight, Gwen/Morgana, Spitfire AU, 1514 words. I've been reading about the female pilots of the Air Transport Auxiliary, and it seemed like the perfect wartime job for Gwen and Morgana. I kind of want to write the rest of this AU now, with Morgana being wildly jealous that Arthur actually gets to fight in his plane (which is called Excalibur, and Merlin, who is the engineer, has painted a stupid picture on the nose and is terrified every time Arthur and Lancelot go flying off. Er, yes, stopping now).
Gwen stayed above the bad weather as long as she could, watching the shadow of the Spitfire float over the fleecy tops of the clouds. Up here, the sun was bright, but there was nothing to tell her where she was, whether she was even over land or sea. She kept to her heading, watching for any break in the clouds.
None appeared, and she looked at the petrol gauge. Twenty minutes, and she should have heeded her common sense and not let anyone goad her into flying in poor weather. Taking a breath, she eased the plane back down, anxiously watching the instruments she'd never been formally trained to use.
The clouds closed around her, wrapping her in greyness, and she sank down as if through water: two thousand feet, fifteen hundred, a thousand, six hundred and if she emerged into hilly country she was too low to pull out of a crash, but she couldn't risk rising again, not without something to give her bearings.
Then she was breaking free of the fog, over low fenland, and she could see the unmistakeable shape of an airfield a few miles ahead, mist curling up around the edges of the runway.
Once she set the plane down, she walked to the waiting officer. He stared at her, like they all did. She had long since stopped wondering if they were more astounded at her gender or her colour, so she just smiled politely and said, "Guinevere Smith, ATA, heading towards Grantham."
"Welcome to Steeple Morden," he said, waving his hand limply at the surrounding field. "You're several counties out. You girls really are something. Wouldn't catch any of my boys up there in these conditions."
His tone was condescending, despite his words, and Gwen fought to keep her smile steady, and murmured something about doing one's bit, all in the line of duty, of course.
He gave a little laugh. "Quite something. You're the second of your lot to set down here today."
"Oh?" Gwen asked, wondering who else had been stubborn enough to fly.
"Other girl said she likes this weather," he said, shaking his head, and Gwen's heart leapt.
She followed him across the field to the mess hall, surreptiously checking that her skirt was straight and tucking a wayward curl back under a pin. The officer, who had still not offered his name, didn't speak to her. Well, that was to be expected. Few men appreciated the arrival of girl in a Spit on a day when they were scared to fly. Two in one afternoon was bound to cause more than a little pique.
The mess hall was crowded, men gathered around the figure sitting on a central table as if it were a throne, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigarette trailing flight paths in the other, voice low and husky as she described a hard landing in Ceylon, before the war. Morgana LeFay had been flying since she was fourteen. Her father had been a general, her brother was a decorated fighter pilot, and her step-father was in bomber command. She had been the first woman to fly across Africa, had broken six world records and had an engine named in her honour. Since the war began, she had been ferrying planes across Britain whilst she campaigned for women to be allowed to fight as well as ferry. She had been shot out of the sky over the English channel, rumour claimed, yet had managed to land her broken plane and step out not only alive, but with her make-up immaculate.
Rumour also claimed (though Gwen knew the truth) that she had left a trail of broken hearts across Europe, and had declared that no man was worth as much as a good plane.
Now she looked up and surged to her feet in delight, pressing her drink into one admirer's hand and pressing through the crowd. "Gwen! Gwen!" She seized Gwen's hand and pulled her into the middle of the crowd. "This is my good friend Gwen, gentlemen - the best pilot in the sky."
"You're too kind," Gwen said politely. She wasn't one who thrived on attention, but she didn't mind sitting by Morgana's side, especially when her eyes were glittering like this. It wasn't as if she had to endure much attention, not after the first few curious stares. Morgana was a magnet, drawing them towards a pointless collision, and Gwen faded beside her and didn't care.
She fielded a few questions and shy attempts at flirtation as Morgana held court, mostly from those sweet-faced boys who were too intimdated to approach Morgana.
"What made you want to be a pilot?" one of them asked, staring over her shoulder at Morgana as her laugh rang out. It was code for what is someone who looks like you doing in a plane?, of course, but Gwen chose to avoid that. At least he had the tact not to ask outright, though that was happening less as the war went on.
"My father flew in the last war," she said simply, and left the rest of the story untold.
At last Morgana appeared at her side. There was a flush along her cheekbones, from the whiskey or the attention. "I'm for bed," she announced.
Gwen rose to her feet. "Where are we staying?" She hoped it wasn't too far out, or that one of Morgana's admirers was still fit to drive.
"There's a bed for us here," Morgana said and cast a warm glance over her shoulder. "Commander Owen is very kind."
Only to you, Gwen thought wryly, but followed Morgana out into the night.
*
The air was cold and sharp as they crossed the airfield, frost already crunching under their feet. Gwen huddled into her jacket, and kept close to Morgana, who was gazing at the sky as she walked, eyes fierce and hungry.
The commander's hut was little more than a shed, with one narrow cot and thick black-out blinds. It wasn't much warmer than the open air, but they'd slept in worse over the last few years, in empty waiting rooms and crowded tube stations, under canvas and below hedges, trekking their way back to HQ for the next flight. Gwen didn't bother to undress, but tucked her shoes under the bed and took the pins out of her hair. Then she slid under the blanket and held the edge up for Morgana. "Come on."
Morgana put out the lamp and slipped in next to her, pressing close so they could share the blanket. "They think they're so superior."
"I know," Gwen said softly, touching Morgana's hair. It was soft and heavy on the pillow.
"They think we're a joke."
"We're not," Gwen murmured. Morgana smelt of leather and oil and, very faintly, of expensive perfume. Her cheek was very warm against Gwen's.
For a moment, Morgana was quiet. Then she said, "I shouldn't have flown today."
Gwen didn't know what to say to that, so she just curled her fingers further into Morgana's hair.
"I thought I was going to die." The English veneer of her accent suddenly peeled away. "Nor law, not duty bade me fight. I can't stay on the ground, Gwen. I can't bear not to fly."
"I know," Gwen said. "I know."
"They'll ground you all, when the war is done."
"They'll ground us," Gwen said sharply and felt Morgana smile against her cheek, lips brushing the corner of Gwen's mouth.
"I fly too dangerously," she confessed, voice soft, almost shy. "I'll die in the air, Gwen."
Gwen wanted to argue against it; beg her to take care, to think a little about her own life. But Morgana wouldn't be Morgana without risk, so she just sighed and shifted her head to brush her lips across Morgana's.
"Oh," Morgana said and returned the kiss, slow and warm and soft. They'd done this before, countless times, and it never failed to comfort Gwen, whether it was this gentle or as fierce and demanding as only Morgana could be.
Morgana's arms closed around her, tugging her close, her hands tracing slow circles on Gwen's back. They kissed for a long time, chapped lips catching as their breathing quickened and their hands roamed, but always slowing again, because they could not fly forever, could not grow wings and take to the air themselves, but this, this alone, could last.
When they slept, Morgana's head was pillowed on Gwen's shoulder, and Gwen's hand was tucked into Morgana's waistband, anchoring her to the ground.
#
The next day was the usual scramble across country, lifts in army trucks to unsignposted stations, trains delayed by bombing further up the line, the devastation of London. At last, though, they were on a train back to White Waltham, with a compartment to themselves. The skies were clear today, and the wind perfect, so they pulled the window down. Gwen rested her head on Morgana's shoulder, and Morgana pressed a sly kiss to her hair, and they both gazed up and out at the endless, waiting sky.