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Chapter Text

“Right, plan to make a go-around and climb to maintain altitude at 4000 ft in a holding pattern. Dunsfold’s too crowded with all of the planes diverted from the weather right now.”

“If we crash into a field, I’m blaming your dodgy maths, Hammond.”

The cloud cover was indeed quite significant. Richard and James had spent the better part of their day flying across the dull grey expanses of British airspace, carrying out their routine patrols of possible enemies alongside the coastline. After all, World War 2 seemed to rage on just kilometers away.

James had grown weary of their small talk that occupied the silence during most of their time spent together on assignment. There hadn’t been any new debates to be had about the most flashy aircraft the Royal Air Force possessed in its arsenal, or something as juvenile as their rankings of the hottest field nurses on base, despite Hammond’s apparent engagement with a London girl named Mindy.

James had decided to take things in a different direction.

“Ever imagine what you’d be doing right now if we weren’t cooped up in this aircraft?” he questioned.

Hammond brought a hand to his face in mock pensiveness, mindlessly rubbing his left ring finger. “Hmm. I dunno. Probably in the garage, lying across the bonnet of a Morris Eight. If only Mindy’d let me,” he added, slightly wistful.

“Your feet probably wouldn’t even touch the ground. Mindy would need to come to your rescue just to get you down,” May quipped, spurring a swift punch from Hammond.

“Hey!” May scolded. “You can be mad all you like, but I’m still flying this plane. I’d crash it to prove a point, you spanner.”

“I don’t think Churchill’d be very pleased with that sentiment, May. Are you revealing your true treasonous identity as a Nazi suicide bomber?”

“Nein, sir.”

Hammond laughed at May’s response.

“I just like flying my planes. Being able to settle in and think of England or whatnot,” he concluded, his fingertips gently brushing the controls across the cockpit.

“You haven’t got anything else waitin’ up for you?” Hammond thought out loud, eyebrows insinuating.

“Err… No, not exactly. I’d always thought myself too straight-laced and focused on my motors and aviation studies for anything else to muck it up,” James replied.

“I meant to ask if you had a girl at home, or something,” Richard muttered after a beat of pensive silence, unsure of how to navigate the direction this conversation was going.

Hammond turns his head inquisitively towards May, warm doe-eyes taking in the slightly perturbed look on James’ visage, and witnesses it change to a sardonic smile. “There’s no one waiting for me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I see.” Hammond nods curtly and fiddles with the aircraft’s landing gear. The mood seemed to shift slightly. James’ bright blue eyes narrowed in deep focus as his strong hands maneuvered the gears to begin their descent at last.

Hammond busied himself with communications and radio, asking for their landing clearance and exactly how much longer they had on their final approach. They landed without any hiccups and promptly executed their post-flight checks and tasks.

Richard Hammond and James May were the unlikely duo paired together for the past 5 months on assignment for the Royal Air Force’s airspace defense and patrol. Hammond, the naive, slightly ill-tempered hotshot navigator, alongside May’s meticulous, introverted, and reserved nature as an experienced jet pilot, may or may not have been intentional as part of an elaborate prank on May from the General in charge.

The bloke had beaten him in darts at the pub, after all.

“Er.. James,” Richard beckoned as they walked back to the hangar from the tarmac. “Jeremy and I are gonna grab a pint at the pub after dinner tonight, if you’d like to join us.”

James’s long chestnut hair, cropped to about ear length in cascading waves, seemed to blow every which way in the English wind as he paused to think about Rich’s proposition. There was a slight smile and a glint in his eyes despite the miserable weather. “I’ll think about it.”

Richard smiled in response and promptly walked towards the soldier’s dormitories, leaving James on his own accord with a warm feeling settling in his chest at the spring in his partner’s step.

Inside the halls of the RAF quarters, James is called by a superior into the General’s office. It’s hardly a good sign, as the warm feeling quickly turns to a heavy pit in his stomach as he follows him inside. The door shuts behind him as the superior exits the room.

“May,” the General greets him. “Have a seat.”

James swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

“The war continues to worsen. The Blitz bombings on our soil have cost us enough in this conflict, which leads me to my next point: the RAF will carry out air raids alongside the key German cities of Dresden and Hamburg, among others. I need you, May, as our experienced ace, to carry out these duties.”

James’ hands tremble slightly as he begins to nervously run them through his hair. “I–I-er..” he stumbles over his words, then asks, “When?”

The general replies, “In three weeks. I trust that you will have the resolve to carry out your sworn duties?”

“Yes, sir,” James replies without thought. In actuality, James had been having doubts of his own.

James joined the Royal Air Force with dreams of serving his country and carried over his love for aviation and engineering, but soon became burdened with bombed houses and endless civilian bloodshed. Now, he was being asked once again to undoubtedly terminate thousands of civilian lives who hadn’t deserved one bit of this conflict.

These days, his dreams don’t exactly consist of pre-flight check rituals and long-form critiques of the newest automotive vehicles. When James closes his eyes, he sees Earl Grey tea being brewed over a kettle, and sunlight filtering through warm curtains. He sees brown doe eyes, warm tanned skin, and cropped brunette hair beaming towards him with a quick-witted joke.

A tinge of pink dusts his cheeks at the thought before the General’s voice brings him back to grey reality.

“You’ve served well, May. You’re very meticulous and focused.”

He pauses in the dead air before continuing. “Maybe a little too focused, at times.”

James opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“I’ve been in this Force long enough to know what a man looks like when he’s carrying more than just Britain’s future on his shoulders. You’ve kept to yourself, I’ve noticed. No letters from home. No girl back in Bristol or Manchester waiting for your safe return.”

James attempts to smile weakly, praying he is joking.

“No one is questioning your dedication or your excellence,” he adds. “But your sort of reserve can be… misinterpreted, so to speak. You understand what I’m getting at, do you not?”

The General’s eyes meet May’s widened blue ones, careful to mask the extent of their fear.

“Yes, sir,” he replies meekly.

“You are a smart man. And I imagine you’d rather not become the subject of unwanted attention, especially if it would overshadow your upcoming feats in Germany. I would suggest you… Make an effort once in a while. It wouldn’t do you any harm to chat up some of our field nurses, or even mention a phantom sweetheart back home.”

James nods.

The General smiles before his closing word of advice. “And one more thing, May. I’d be very cautious about the male company you keep. False accusations can ruin a pilot’s livelihood. I would hate to see your esteemed career be tarnished due to rumors.”

“I understand, sir.” James acknowledges.

“Good. That’ll be all, May,” the General concludes, satisfied.

James makes the twenty steps to his living quarters and barely closes his door before collapsing to the floor in tears. He breathes a choked sob, attempting to quiet himself through the paper-thin walls by biting into his knuckles until he breaks skin.

A faint knock at the door stops May in his tracks.

Chapter Text

It’s Jeremy. All bellowing voice and ungraceful demeanor, clamoring to be let in as James is late for the pub.

Clarkson had been a rank above both May and Hammond, yet it seemed as though he couldn’t tell his rights from his lefts. Perhaps it was a front he put up for some levity amid the War.

“James, I know it’s you in there, you spanner. You don’t have to let me in, but you better have your arse downstairs in twenty minutes. Or else you’re on night watch tonight, again,” he yelled, voice muffled through a scuffed wooden door.

Begrudgingly, after a few moments, James wipes his eyes and splashes some cold water on his face before following Jeremy’s path downstairs.

The pub seems livelier than usual. He gives a small wave toward Hammond and Clarkson, already sitting and in the middle of a somewhat edible-looking dinner, and about two pints deep. James curtly orders a gin and tonic—this time, a double. He figures he needs it.

James swears the smile Hammond gave him as he joined their booth raised the temperature of the room, at least by a few degrees. “Hey, mate,” Hammond offers. Jeremy simply raises his pint towards him.

“Hello,” he replies, in typical James fashion.

“Not getting anything to eat?” Hammond inquires.

“Just not feeling pretty hungry.”

“You should eat,” Hammond advises, tutting like a worried mother. “Here.” He slides over the rest of his metal tray containing something that vaguely resembles beans and chips, with a side of mushy peas.

“Cheers,” James quips, picking up a single chip. He doesn't pick up another; instead, he takes a rather large swig of his tonic.

“Are you sure you’re sound?” Clarkson prods. “You look like you’ve been to the gallows, mate.”

Hammond matches his worried expression, enticing James to unravel himself in front of them.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, but suddenly loses his nerve. Instead, he polishes off his drink rather quickly, gathering himself with a “Right, I’m off to smoke a fag.”

Hammond and Clarkson exchange glances with each other, confused and a tinge worried. Clarkson gives a flippant, “Don’t know what’s goin’ on with him, then,” and follows suit, heading off to the Air Force dormitories.

Hammond shifts uncomfortably as he sits alone now, fingers itching to reach for his own packet of fags stuffed down his pocket. He figures there’s nothing else to do but bother his co-pilot, exiting into the cool night air.

James is found easily near the stoop of the base’s staircase, hands struggling to keep the cigarette steady in the freezing temperatures. He isn’t aware of Richard’s presence until he flinches from Richard appearing to sit directly next to him on the step, promptly pulling out a fresh cigarette from his carton.

“Bugger, I think I left my lighter in the dorms,” Richard exclaims to no one in particular.

Wordlessly, James sticks the end of his cherry-red flame to Richard’s unlit one, hands protecting the flame from the wind and lips still enclosed around the butt.

“Cheers,” Richard replies, before inhaling a deep drag and sighing.

No one speaks at first, as the men are soothed by the sounds of droning aircraft in the distance and occasional chatter from soldiers around the mess.

Richard’s penchant for conversation and socialization overtakes him, finally breaking his streak. “Were you actually alright back there, then?”

James studies Richard’s sincere expression briefly, almost as if he didn’t expect him to ask such a question, before resuming his normal stoic demeanor and taking another drag. “They’re sending me on a mission to Dresden to bomb their civilians,” he states, deadpan.

“What?” Richard replies, unsure if he heard him correctly.

“General said things are heating up in the War after the Blitz. He thinks that carrying out air raids on Dresden and Hamburg will kill their morale.”

“It’ll certainly kill yours.”

James laughs humorlessly.

“I mean, are we wrong, though? Eye for an eye and that,” Richard questions.

“I just can’t see myself ending any more lives of civilians. I wanted…” James trails off, thinking of how best to articulate his feelings, but realizes he can’t, somehow. Richard regards him sympathetically.

“It’s futile, anyways. I have to complete this mission.” James makes a pained expression and runs his fingers through his long hair, seeming as if he doesn’t want to speak of this any further.

Richard stares off with a blank expression into the pitch darkness of the night. “Mindy’s pregnant.”

James turns his head and shakes Richard’s shoulders in celebration, uncharacteristically displaying emotion for his comrade. “Congratulations, mate. That’s amazing.”

Richard keeps his eyes trained on a tree in the distance. “I haven’t seen her in 14 months.”

Well, shit. James thinks to himself, hands dropping to his sides. “I–er, I’m sorry to hear that, then,” he replies, his blue eyes cast on the ground.

“I received a letter from her this morning. She said she thought I was never coming home.”

Another drag and exhale. “Maybe, we just weren’t as in love as we thought.”

James stubs the butt of his cigarette into a nearby ashtray. He turns to focus on Hammond’s face as he opens up to him, and realizes he’s never looked quite so beautiful.

The subtle warm glow of the torchlight illuminates his youthful, boyish complexion, while his honey-golden brown eyes soften his sad expression, trembling slightly. James wants to reach out and steady his face with strong, calloused hands to wipe away any tears threatening to spill.

But he can’t. Richard’s a straight man, after all. The cruelest thing James could do is taint Richard with his own forbidden urges, bringing him right down with him to the gallows at the hands of the Crown Prosecution Service.

Richard doesn’t deserve that.

Instead, all James can do is offer him another light of his cigarette, their hands briefly touching as Richard exhales more smoke into the frigid night. Yet, both James and Richard have never felt so warm as they sit side by side, bodies leaning in closer without thinking.

“I suppose we’ve both been fucked over by God, then,” James says.

Richard chuckles slightly. “Is it God, or Churchill?”

“What’s the difference?” James quips, grinning faintly.

Richard laughs again, a bit more unabashed despite himself. The tension eases, falling back into comfortable silence.

“It’s easier, somehow, when you’re around,” James murmurs.

Richard is thankful for the veil of night as it hides the flush creeping up his cheeks.

Chapter Text

The midday sun sparkles against the horizon of the English Channel as May and Hammond’s squadron fly off the coast of Dover—Hammond’s plane following May’s just slightly lower and to his right.

Their RAF squadron is currently on a patrolling mission of the English Coastline, ready to intercept any airborne threats. Hammond and May, usually co-pilots in their Short Stirling bomber, have been placed in separate fighters for this particular formation.

In the very back of his mind, an irrational, insecure part of James’s mind worries about Hammond on his own. He knows he very much prefers being James’ eyes and ears in the sort of dysfunctional duo dynamic they’ve arranged.

The Luftwaffe is surely afoot. May scans the sky and spots a formation of German Stuka planes just beyond the horizon, his eyes narrowing and gripping the controls a bit more tightly.

A particular Stuka catches his eye, heading straight towards British radar installations along the coastline.

“RAF Squadron 29, Luftwaffe formation spotted to our right. Over.” May announces over the crackling radio.

May, in his careful wisdom from experience in dogfighting battles, waits until the last minute before breaking formation to intercept the Germans. Hammond, on the other hand, breaks off with impressive speed in pursuit of the plane, his engines screaming downward at full throttle.

“I’m on it,” Hammond declares.

James feels a brief moment of pride as Hammond attempts to take them down, firing rounds at the German bomber and seeming to actually bring them down.

But something feels off. The ugly screech of another bomber makes itself heard, and James finally realizes: It’s a trap.

A second bomber veers behind Hammond’s plane, lining itself up and firing rounds past Hammond’s canopy.

Before James can communicate to warn him, he’s already been hit. He aggressively jerks to the side to avoid gunfire, but he hasn’t escaped unscathed, or even escaped at all. His right engine is starting to smoke and losing altitude fast as the second bomber continues its barrage.

“Hammond! You’re smoking—are you still with us? How is engine function?” James manages to exclaim over the radio.

“...Still here,” Richard replies weakly. “Smoke is starting to enter the cabin. Just…just keep talking, yeah?”

James’s heart drops. Protocol tells him he should remain in formation with his squadron and ensure the greatest number of men survive, but in a split-second decision, he realizes he just can’t do that.

Deep down, James knows that if Richard were gone, he’d have nothing else to keep fighting for. He knows it’s dramatic and saccharine, but to him, Richard represents that blind, naïve hope that idiots cling to and keep on for a chance at a warless world.

Perhaps, a world with warm Earl Grey tea and the sun bringing out the golden amber in kind brown eyes.

James physically shakes his head to rid himself of the thought and breaks off from formation, diving downwards to Hammond’s ailing plane.

“I’m here, Richard,” James states over the vast void of the airwaves, to no reply.

He pulls into position behind the German assailant, making sure to keep Hammond out of his line of fire.

“Come on.. Come on..” James whispers, voice trembling slightly.

He fires. One tracer round goes directly into the German bomber’s tail, which promptly explodes into flame and sharply falls towards the Channel.

Hammond, by the grace of God, is still airborne, albeit in distress with a smoking engine. James takes a breath.

“Hammond, are you there? We need to get you on the ground.” More dead air.

Hammond’s plane continues to lose altitude, thankfully crawling towards the green expanses of English countryside.

“Richard, respond.” James pleads, a pang of anxiety coursing through him.

His plane begins on a slow descent, seeming to be unpowered with the nose upturned.

James quickly prepares for a parallel landing alongside the same approaching field of grass. He dares to hope there’s intent behind this suddenly careful approach, but the smoke in his cabin appears to obscure any signs of life.

Richard’s plane hits the grass hard, bouncing brutally before skidding to a smoky halt. A wing catches in the dirt, throwing the fuselage sideways.

James’s knuckles holding the throttle go white on his final approach. “Say something. Please, bloody say something,” he pleads again.

After finally landing, James runs faster than he ever has in his life to the lopsided smoking aircraft. He manages to pull the latch from the glass cockpit, bracing himself for a surefire picture of horror before him.

Smoke pours out as he opens the door. Coughing, James shields his eyes to attempt to get a view of Hammond, arms reaching blindly for him.

An unconscious, yet warm face meets his fumbling hands. James lets out a muffled cry. Before he can fully breathe again, James carefully places two fingers on the junction between Richard’s slumped-over neck and jaw, checking for a pulse.

A slow, but steady rhythm dances below his shaking fingers.

“Oh, thank God,” James whines, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Richard’s temple is bleeding, and his head is dead weight against James’s arms, but my God, Richard is bloody alive.

It's funny, James thinks to himself, how he's started thinking so much about God all of a sudden.

Hammond stirs slightly at the intrusion, coughing. Strong, capable hands enclose themselves around his waist and back, pulling him into blinding daylight.

His ears are ringing, and his eyes can’t process anything beyond bright sunlight. He should feel scared, disoriented, panic-stricken, you name it.
But for some reason, he doesn’t. Someone carries him out bridal-style to the grass of an open field.

Someone warm and safe, with arms that hold him protectively like one does their most prized possession.

As this anonymous savior slowly corrals Richard to the grass, Richard finally takes an even, deep breath, opening his eyes fully. There's a strange pressure on his chest.

A mess of wavy brown hair resembling a Spaniel rests there as an ear presses to his sternum, carefully listening to his heart and breathing.

James doesn’t notice Richard prop himself up by his elbows, much too focused on his ministrations.

“James,” Richard croaks, coughing.

James’s head darts up at once, sky-blue eyes wide and an expression of gratitude one only wears after a brush with death across his face.

He wants to press his forehead to Richard’s and embrace him, holding him forever if that’s what makes him stay right here. No, he wants to press his lips to Richard’s half-open mouth that's currently attempting to catch his breath, and breathe life back into him.

Instead, James says all he can manage to sputter out while grasping onto Richard’s shoulders. “You bloody idiot, Hamster!”

Richard barks out a laugh while attempting to sit up fully, grimacing in pain.

“See, I always stick the landing,” he quips.

The mood lightens, but Richard’s face is sincere when he notices James is still trembling (and attempting to mask it), bringing him into a tight embrace. A silent thank you, if you will.

James hesitates, arms glued to his sides until he lets out a shaky breath and hugs him back tightly, remaining in their little halo for moments that feel like years.

A distant siren is heard in the distance, and James promptly releases Richard from his grip, maintaining steady eye contact.

“You didn’t have to do that for me, James. That was terribly reckless; it was my own bloody fault,” Richard states, almost in a scolding manner.

“I know,” James replies, averting eye contact.

“I ought to report you to the General for suspicions of insanity. I’m not worthy of being saved,” Richard smiles sardonically.

A pang of hurt flashes through his chest at that comment, his jaw tightening. James doesn’t like how Richard speaks of himself, not one bit. How could he regard himself this lowly?

After a beat, James simply replies, “Good thing I’m not much for protocol, then.”

Richard looks up skyward, pressing his hands to his bleeding temple. “Clearly.”

The medics finally arrive at the scene via ambulance, as the aircraft continues to smoulder.

Richard’s okay, the nurses assure James as they prepare to bring them both back to Dunsfold. Just a gash on his temple, a broken rib, and some minor smoke inhalation burns. They start to dress his wounds and start IVs.

As the vehicle starts to pull away, James regards the passing fields outside the window. Although his head is restrained towards the gurney as the nurses work on him, Richard finds he can't do much else but stare at James fondly, oblivious to his gaze in deep contemplation. A warm, soothing feeling blooms somewhere in his chest upon the sight. He doesn't know where that came from, but it feels nice.

His hero, he resolves.

James is none the wiser. That damned comment from Richard still gnawed at him internally, his face tense.

It was then, James decided, that his new mission in life was to show Richard just how bloody wrong he was.

Chapter Text

The infirmary is cold and dim when Richard stirs against sandpaper white sheets. The first thing Richard sees as his eyes fully open in the too-early break of day is James. Slumped rather uncomfortably against a hard plastic chair, for that matter. 

Had he been here all night (or day? Richard didn’t know how long he’d been out for.) 

As if on cue, James peeks open one eye towards Richard. No doubt, he was constantly in a twilight state of sleep in that awful chair. 

“You’re awake,” James says, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. 

“So’re you,” Richard replies. “What time is it?”

James checks his watch. “Six in the morning.” 

“Christ. How long have you been here? You... don’t look great, mate,” Richard replies. 

James scoffs a little, smiling. “Says the man with a big, ugly goose egg on his head.” 

“Touché,” Richard concedes. 

“Do you always go out of your way to save rookies out in the air, Ace ?” Richard asks mockingly, the curiosity too much to bear. 

“Only the reckless ones. Keeping them around makes my job more interesting,” James replies deadpan, flicking through a dog-eared copy of an auto magazine left on his chair. 

Richard studies the curtain near his cot, making a sound of mild appreciation in response. 

“Right, I’m going to get some tea,” James decides, closing the magazine and exiting the room. 

Just as he arrives back at Richard’s cot, he finds Richard fast asleep. 

He smiles at the sight, eyes crinkling. Bloody hell, James thinks. He feels a sickening feeling in his stomach; all of these new… behaviors James has been displaying seem to point towards the actions of a man in love. 

How unfortunate for Richard to be the object of May’s affections—it may as well be a death sentence for the poor rookie, placing a giant red target on his back in this rather tiny RAF base. He doesn’t deserve to be subjected to the dirty desires James laments over when it’s late at night and he’s lonely, having had too much to drink.

It’s not fair to him.

Gazing at the rising sun breaking over the horizon at Dunsfold, James’s grave thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the doorframe. 

It appeared to be a Flight Officer, judging by his uniform. “Good morning, Flight Lieutenant May. You’re needed in the General’s office,” he stated curtly, adjusting the sleeve of his uniform. 

“Right,” James replies, walking away from where he stood close by the window to follow him. 

“What was your business near Flight Lieutenant Hammond’s cot during such early hours?” he asks, head straight. 

“Just… briefing Lieutenant Hammond on his terribly miscalculated actions that occurred during the Dover mission, sir,” James replies, almost too quickly. 

“Lieutenant Hammond didn’t appear to be awake, May,” the officer said, matter-of-factly.

James bites the inside of his now-burning cheek and averts his eyes as he follows the higher-up officer whose name he still doesn’t know. 

James entered the office upon the officer’s courtesy of opening the door, exiting curtly. He stands at attention before the General, with a pit of anxiety in his stomach. 

The General began by subjecting droning words of appreciation of James’ leadership exemplified in the Dover mission on deaf ears. Instead, James averts his eyes, noticing a large planning paper on his desk marked up in red ink. He squints, making out the words “Dresden” “13 February 1945” and “collateral damage,” and his heart drops once again. No. He knew this was inevitable and final, but it makes him want to collapse at the thought of the day approaching. 

James’ hands begin trembling, and decides to placate them behind his back to mask his unraveling. He can’t seem to understand a word the General’s saying. Something about how practice drills for Dresden must begin at once, and that he’s been far too distracted recently. 

Everything is all good and well, relatively speaking, until he clears his throat to speak again, “The Royal Air Force has been making strides recently to combat against any forms of distraction or insubordination, by any force necessary.”

James swallows. The General elaborates, stating, “Sometimes, one’s… proclivities can cloud their judgement and even compromise the focus of others.” 

“I understand, sir,” is all James can muster in response. 

It became so quiet you could hear a pin drop, then, “We want to ensure everyone’s aware, that those who partake in compromising their loyalty to the Crown will be swiftly punished.” 

James doesn’t remember much else from their conversation beyond him finally stepping out of the General’s office on now-unsteady feet. 

—-----------

The room is quiet, empty, and seemingly colder when Richard comes to again. There are now two plastic cups of tea on his bedside table, the one furthest from him nearly empty. Hammond absentmindedly brushes his fingers across the now-room-temperature cup. 

He didn’t even ask for tea. Richard doesn’t know what to do with this information. Why James was doing so much for his sorry arse was beyond him. 

“Sappy sod,” Richard murmurs to himself as he peels off a layer of blankets, suddenly feeling warm all over. 

—------------

Two weeks had passed since Richard’s little incident, and James hadn’t spoken to him once. Their partnership was temporarily suspended while Richard recovered from his injuries, but normally, James always made an effort to meet at the pub or crack a quick joke during long deliberations within the Force. 

For the most part, James may as well have been a figment of his pain-medicine-induced lucid dreams, except for one time. 

Richard had caught him heading towards the hangars for what he presumed was another training drill with his temporary squadron reassignment. Eyes trained downwards as he walked, it appeared as though he was completely unaware of his surroundings. 

Richard had tried to catch his attention by goofily waving his arms around and calling him by his infamous diminutive, Captain Slow, from across the crowded hall. 

It seemed as if James hadn’t heard him, brushing right past. Or, perhaps, he was ignoring him entirely. Both possibilities stung Richard somewhere deep inside. 

Richard catches Jeremy by his quarters a day or so after, rather exasperated. 

“Jeremy!” Richard pants. 

Jeremy observes his mate’s current state, having just caught up to him. “Hamster… have they got you running conditioning drills outdoors again?” 

“Err… no,” Richard replies self-consciously. Time to get to the point. “Have you spoken to James at all?” 

“Come to think of it, I haven’t. You know how Captain Slow gets, a little disappearing act here or there,” Jeremy concludes, his hand on his chin in thought. 

“Actually, the Dresden mission is coming up in…Err...” he pauses, faux-glancing at his watch, “....Three days. Maybe he’s stuck doing mechanical work for the pilots assigned to that.” 

“Jeremy.” Richard states, a grave expression on his face like it hurts to say it: “James is the pilot assigned to Dresden.”

Jeremy drops his casual act immediately, eyes widening. “..No.” They come to a mutual moment of realization: Richard realizing James’ days are numbered (and rapidly approaching), and Jeremy realizing his mate of seven years is forced to do the very thing he swore not to do again. 

He seems to fully understand the gravity of the situation, fortunately without much more specification from Richard. 

You see, the uniqueness of their predicament was that most accomplished pilots, such as James or Jeremy, would be ecstatic about an assignment of this magnitude. These were the highlights of men’s careers; a feat to boast about at pub crawls for however many decades they’ve got left to come. 

James, however proficient he may be in aviation and air combat, was impervious to reveling in such glory. He was… sensitive, as Jeremy would put it. Things and people affected him deeply. He cared a lot—a rarity within the Air Force’s ranks and something Jeremy greatly valued him for. 

James’ struggles with faith in the Force, his country, and himself were well-documented within him and Jeremy’s companionship, only confessed after a long, watery night of alcohol and regret. 

Jeremy knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that another mission of this scale would break James. He hesitated to share that information with Richard, as he knew killing the morale of his mate’s co-pilot and steadfast companion would get them nowhere. 

“Well, what do we do, now?” Richard asked, defeated. 

Jeremy sighed, resigning himself to something Richard couldn’t read from his facial expressions. “We need to find James.”

Chapter Text

12 February 1945. 

The room is pitch black, Richard notices, save for the small crack of light underneath the closed door. It’s warm and dry underneath bedsheets he does not recognize.

The next thing he notices is the encompassing feeling of strong arms caged around his waist, clutched closely to a steadily breathing chest. James’s chest, he deduces. James wears a contented expression on his face—his lips softly curved upwards, and kind blue eyes on the verge of sleep.

There’s a sound of bombs crashing down in the distance, paired with aftershocks and an unsettling rumbling felt throughout the room. Richard stiffens at the sensation, to which James starts rubbing soothing circles alongside his back.

“Shhh…It’s alright, it’s alright,” James coos, curving one hand around the curve of Richard’s jaw, “C’mere.”

James coerces Richard’s head to be level with his. Richard goes slightly cross-eyed. James parts his lips and focuses his eyes on Richard’s, thinking considerably about the next words he wants to say.

“I will always protect you, Hammond,” James says, smiling, before pressing his lips to Richard’s parted ones. He finds it’s the most soothing sensation he’s ever felt, all of his worries melting away. 

-------------

Richard rouses with a start. Alone, he notices and is sweating profusely. Some weird trick of the mind, that was. 

He’d like to chalk it up to simply subconscious concern for his senior assignment partner’s upcoming mission and general anxiety about the state of the War, but Richard knows damn well that just isn’t the case. 

Ever since he found out about Mindy, he’d been quite, well, lonely. And in some very deep part of his mind, buried away from anyone else, he had a penchant for being attracted to power and competence. Protection, really. He couldn’t help it—he thought Mindy a very capable woman, strong enough to hold on while he served. And when that perception fell apart, he felt lost. 

It seemed only natural that James was the next person who’d imprint on him, what with all his selfless acts during their partnership, despite the indisputable maleness surrounding him . Internally, Richard didn’t mind the fact that James was a man. But he knew that such a forbidden act within these ranks was career-ending. Not to mention, of course, the fact that the Crown would have their heads the minute the War ended.

The reckless portion of Richard’s brain figured that if James were headed to his death tomorrow anyway, then maybe it’d be worth it. 

Stop thinking so suicidal, Hammond , he thinks, scolding himself.

He makes his bed and gets dressed to meet the others for preparation. 

—------------

The day is spent in anxious suspended animation, with Jeremy and Richard exchanging knowing glances throughout their preparations and proposing their best guesses for how to get in contact with James.

The team of pilots assigned to Dresden, which had James at the spearhead (along with the partnership of the Americans), was due to meet at the pub tonight for a pre-mission celebration. A toast to the next steps in defeating the Nazis, Richard supposed. 

The morale was high among the airmen, if the distant jeering and shouting Richard heard from across the base was anything to go by.

Hammond and Clarkson knew better than to assume May was partaking in the boorishness, but they filtered through the crowds in search of him regardless. The mystery was further developed when his fellow assignees hadn’t a clue where he was after the first rounds went around. 

Had James truly cut ties with the two men he considered his mates? Richard didn’t want to think about that possibility. 

“Right, start checking the linen closets. Who knows what…activities… May might’ve gotten up to if he’s in there,” Jeremy commanded. Images of May getting creative with the spare rope in the Air Force’s closet space struck Hammond’s brain at the unspecific implication of “activities,” striking fear in his heart. Oh, James, please be alive, he thinks. 

They’re heading down a sparsely used corridor when Jeremy hears the unmistakable sound of officers nearby, engaging in idle chatter. While helping Richard look down another hallway for James, he considers briefly asking them for information. But a second thought stops that in its tracks: Whatever state James is in, if found by them, will no doubt ruin his career and reputation. 

Jeremy then decides that this must be a matter kept between the three of them alone. 

And it’s then that Richard hears a stifled cough by the staircase—the unused one that leads to their decrepit bunkers in case of nuclear attacks. 

“James?” Richard shouts, too loudly. Jeremy’s eyebrows raise in alarm towards the officers he’d spotted earlier, keeping an eye out for any advancements. 

Hammond runs towards the staircase with vigor, with Clarkson not far behind him. When they finally turn the corner, they’re greeted by the sight of a disheveled figure slumped at the base of the stairs.

“James?” Richard calls, uncertain. 

With auburn hair stuck in wild tufts, a blue Royal Air Force airman uniform, and an arm cradling a half-empty bottle of gin, it’s abundantly clear that this was none other than James May.

Richard carefully steps down the stairs, lightly holding May’s slumped shoulders up like they’re fragile. He’s not quite unconscious—not yet at least—with eyes filtering in and out of awareness. 

“Mate?” Jeremy whispers from the top of the stairs.  

“Hammond,” James rasps, smelling of sickly sweet gin. 

“I’m–I’m here, James. Are you okay? You’re freezing,” Richard tuts, his hand resting against James’s cold forehead. The mediocre heating fitted around the airbase had never touched the depths of the bunker stairwell.   

“I’ve looked better,” James slurs, cracking a smile. “You weren’t…supposed to see me like this, that’s why,” he joked. 

Footsteps are heard up ahead, with Jeremy darting ahead to create a distraction. “Officer Wilman! What are you doing up at this hour?” he greets, voice having gone all radio-presenter style. 

“James, we need to get you out of the bunker and into your quarters,” Richard says, his eyes searching James’s face in concern. 

The footsteps step ever-so-slowly closer to the top of the staircase, as Jeremy attempts to babble his way out of the possibility. 

 “You can’t be here, Richard. Not-not with… me. You can’t be seen with me,” James stammers.

The officer points a torchlight towards the stairs, prompting James to make a split-second decision. He grabs hold of Richard’s waist in order to hide them behind the opposite wall of the staircase bunker. Richard tries not to dwell on the warm sensation too much, more concerned with his level of reflex in his inebriated state, and as to why James has become so wary of authority. 

In the darkness, away from any eyes or ears, the truth must come out. “May. I need you to talk to me. Why have you been avoiding me, avoiding everyone, like the sodding plague?” James averts his eyes before his face contorts into a pained expression and runs his fingers through his messy hair. 

Richard cast his eyes downward at his lack of response and murmured, “You were going to leave without saying anything.” 

James’s head perks up at that, looking apologetic through his stupor. “It’s over, Richard. The brass… they’re on to me.”

Richard’s head tilts, not catching what James is saying. “What do you mean? Who’s on to you?” he pleads, speaking softly. 

“I figured that if…I stayed away from you; they’d stop looking at you the way they look at me. And you’d…” James looks away, shuddering slightly, “...still have a future here.” 

“To do otherwise would be the most selfish act one could ever commit,” James says with finality.

There are a few moments of silence as Richard attempts to connect any sort of dots. James gazes into Richard’s eyes with the most sincere, solemn look ever, like it’s his last rites before execution. 

Their faces are awfully close together, Richard notes, as he can feel James’ breath fogging against his in the cold air underground. Richard’s face goes still, and a silent battle settles in his mind. 

“You might die tomorrow, James.” 

James flinches, something shifting in his face before Richard continues. 

 “And that thought…” Richard inhaled. “Absolutely terrifies me.” 

“So, be selfish. Sod what the Crown will do to us. I doubt any of us are living long under their reign, anyway,” Richard finishes, lips half curled into a smile.

James sees Hammond’s earnest smile and wide eyes and feels a pricking sensation in the corner of his own. This is the picture of innocence, he thinks. What a privilege to be in his warmth from the cold–wielded through small hands that grasp onto James’s arms and neck. 

“Look who’s talkin’ treason, now,” James quips, in an effort to lighten the mood.

James then lifts one cold hand around the expanse of Richard’s neck, trailing towards his cheek. “I worried that if I saw your face before I left,” he begins, hand cupping Richard’s cheek on the word face ,  “...I wouldn’t have been able to do it.” 

James continues, his candor surely spurred by lowered inhibitions and a bit of a ‘last rites’ mindset. “Before you, I..I never had anything to go home to. Nothing to look forward to, or fight for, really. But now, when I picture whatever future I’ve got left, in my mind’s eye, all I see is you.” 

“James….” Richard starts, trailing off. He decides there isn’t anything left to say; Promptly, he envelops two hands through tufts of hair and presses his lips to James’s.

James immediately reciprocates, kissing Richard like he needs air to breathe, like a vital function has been missing all his life. They desperately try to get closer to each other; May wraps his arms around Richard’s waist, as Richard swings a leg around to rest upon James’s lap.  

Richard continues pressing towards James’ mouth, tasting distinctly of gin and cigarettes with unpolished and raw fervor; yet both are reluctant to break apart for air. Eventually, James breaks the kiss, panting, which draws out a small whine of desperation from Richard. Richard seems transfixed on the trail of saliva still entwined between them. 

The white heat shared between their bodies dies down at the loss of contact, and May simply busies his hands in Hammond’s hair, pressing his head to his own chest. 

It’s quiet and dark here. There’s a shared sentiment felt that this small pocket of space and time, a dusty bunker in war-torn England, 1945, is the sole permitted witness to their tryst. 

“James.”

“Yes?” James replies, his chin touching Richard’s head. 

“When I think about the future, all I can see… is you, flying over Germany. And then something goes wrong, and then all I can see is smoke, you falling out of the sky, and then just nothingness. Just like that. And I never even…” Richard trails off. 

James becomes distressed again, stammering, “If the Force finds out—If anyone finds out….about this, ” while gesturing vaguely. 

“Then let this exist right here,” Richard reassures, “Just us. In this moment.” 

James looks temporarily relieved, inching his face closer to Richard’s for comfort. “If I make it through tomorrow, Hammond, then….”

Richard nodded, eyes glistening, “We’ll figure it out.” 

Their lips meet once again, a symbol of their promise to keep fighting for the chance at a future. James relaxes instantly as Richard grabs hold of his jaw, tasting his gin again, before painstakingly pulling apart, slowly. In their final moments alone together, they simply gaze into each other's eyes, golden brown upon sky blue, and bask in a small glimmer of hope. 

Sure enough, Jeremy calls down. “Are you two down there? Is May alright?”

Richard’s head turns the corner to double-check he’s alone. “Yes, mate. I’ve got ‘em.”

Richard pulls James up to standing, the gin bottle left long forgotten on the staircase, and slings an arm around his shoulder to march upwards. Optics-wise, it’s better to put on the “lad got too drunk before a mission” façade, as they stumble through the airbase corridors back to James’s quarters. 

“Christ, Wilman would not give up. He’d thought some rookies were sneaking around the base to hook up with the nurses. Luckily, due to my genius, I convinced him there was a raccoon loose on base and was making all of that racket,” Jeremy says, grinning smugly. 

James and Richard exchange knowing looks at Wilman’s suspicion, cheeks flushing. He was always rather astute. 

Eventually, Jeremy and Richard bid James goodbye before his mission. Jeremy gives him a tight hug, with some awe-inspiring and sarcastic words of encouragement for his surefire return to base. Richard simply places a hand on James’s shoulder, careful to not rouse any more suspicions, and says, “Good luck, mate. You’re the best of us. Go make Britain proud.” 

James laughs at the irony of his statement and retires to his room. 

It’s a long few minutes before Richard follows suit, his calm and confident demeanor for James starting to crack at the edges. His hands tremble slightly, and he paces a little around his room before reluctantly entering a restless sleep. 

-----------------

It’s about four in the morning when the Dresden squadron is making its final preparations for departure. Men filter around the hangars, checking engine fuel and double-checking flight plans. In the quiet, organized chaos, James slips away briefly. 

He makes a beeline for Hammond’s quarters, quietly cracking open his door and stepping towards his bed. His sleeping form looks so peaceful, James remarks to himself. In sleep, Hammond looked nothing like the reckless fool James had kissed. He looked small. Fragile, even. Like something James had no right to love. 

James’s eyes crinkle as he smiles and gently ruffles a hand into Richard’s hair. An act of selfishness, James knows. But he finds he doesn’t care much if this is truly the end. 

The next thing James does could only be described as the purest form of selfishness, an act entirely for himself, and himself alone. Yet, if he hadn’t done so, James knew plain and clear that he would never have found the strength to leave for Dresden. 

He kisses Richard’s cheek and professes, “If I never come back from this, I want you to know that I love you, Hammond.” 

Richard remained enthralled in the throes of sleep, only stirring at the sound of a quietly closing door. 

-----------

There’s a muffled silence in James’s mind as he completes the motions of his final pre-flight check.

Afterburners flick on, and the whine of hundreds of jet engines spool up behind his ears and spill into his head. The high-pitched tone makes James think of Hammond—here of all places. He thinks not of his face, but the sound he made when he broke their kiss. 

Like pain. Like want. It seemed to be the last honest thing in this whole damn war.

Chapter Text

Hammond wakes up alone, exhausted after a night of restless sleep. Jeremy knocks at his door softly, letting himself in. 

“‘Bout noon, now, Hamster. They’re starting to return.”

With a pit in his stomach, Hammond quickly follows Jeremy downstairs. 

Near the hangar exit, airmen wait anxiously around a chalkboard marking arrivals. One of the ground crew began striking through tail numbers of those who’d returned already. 

Hammond stood before the board now, arms folded, and his gaze fixed. Next to James’s marking, which read, “FLIGHT LT. MAY:” were the words “ MISSING - NO CONTACT.” Missing, huh. How could that be? He’s the best out of all of them. 

He reached out unconsciously, smudging the chalk with his thumb and making his status a little less legible. Behind him, two officers spoke in hushed tones. “A few went down near Saxony–mostly from Squadron 5. May wasn’t with them, though. What d’ya reckon happened to him?” 

The other paused a moment, considering all of the possibilities that could explain May’s absence. “At this point, for someone of his ability? He could’ve diverted somewhere. Ran low on fuel. Engine trouble, maybe. If he made it over the Channel, he’d have radioed us…” he trailed off. 

So James should be back by now, Hammond concludes. A sharp pang runs through his system at that conclusion. 

-------------

“Hammond, the sun’s nearly setting, mate. Why don’t we grab a pint to pass the time?” Jeremy asks. 

“It’s half-past three, Jeremy,” Hammond replies, deadpan.

Jeremy thinks of the best way to lighten the mood. “Well, May’s not coming back any faster by you sitting there, now is he? We can save a seat for him at the pub, yeah?”

“All right, fine,” Hammond concedes. 

—----------

Jeremy’s on his second lager, now, eager to soothe his anxiety. Hammond takes a gin and tonic, with the same kind of gin that James tasted like the night he left. 

“I’m worried about James, mate. Where do ya think he is, this far from his departure? It’s been almost…” Richard checks his watch, “...nineteen hours, now.” 

Jeremy thinks considerably about his guesses, wondering how best to articulate them. “I have a feeling he’s alright. That blithering idiot always lands on his feet, through all our years here.”

“He’s always been a bit strange, that. I’ve never seen the RAF let a bloke have his hair that long,” Jeremy adds, in efforts to fill the silence with his drunken ramblings. 

Richard looks at him suspiciously, wondering what exactly Jeremy’s getting at, ‘cause it surely can’t just be James’s anachronistic hairstyle. “I think it suits him,” he replies, feigning nonchalance. 

“You know, I’ve known… about May,” Jeremy declares casually. 

“You what, mate?”

“His, er…sensitive side, so to speak. How he’s ‘that way inclined.’ What do they call it these days?” 

Richard knows Jeremy’s treading on shaky ground. “....I’m not even sure there is a name for it,” he replies flippantly. 

“A homosexualist, maybe?”

“Jeremy!” 

A pause. Then, “You knew for this many years? And you…you never thought less of him?” Richard questions in a hushed voice, incredulous.

Jeremy laughs. “‘Course not. James May has saved my arse more times than I can count. Never gave a damn who he shags behind closed doors,” he quips towards Richard pointedly, eyebrows wiggling.

Richard’s face goes bright red, but he’d swore it was the alcohol that did it. “I…’ Mortified, Richard sputters, struggling to keep his voice down amid the pub chatter, “...For Christ’s sake, I haven’t shagged him!”

Jeremy smirks, “Never said you did. Metaphor, mate. I’m not daft.”

A few moments of silence pass by as Richard fiddles with the rim of his glass, feeling regretful after his Freudian slip. Jeremy speaks again, an addendum to his last statement, “I’ll say this, though: I haven’t seen the bloke smile like he does with you since we were cadets. Thought you ought to know that.”

For the first time today, Richard smiles, albeit faintly. It seems as though Jeremy understands their relationship implicitly, without words or verbal declarations. 

“...He’s different like that, you know. All of this flying and fighting and war stuff… feels a little more hopeful with him around.” Richard swirls the drink in his glass, averting his eyes. “It’s bloody rare, that.” 

Jeremy tilts his head, watching him intently. “Yeah, it is.” 

“It’s—err…funny, you know. The General only paired my rookie arse with James to piss him off after James’d shown him up in a round of darts. Little did he know how much… trouble we’d cause him,” Richard amends to his statement, albeit a tad self-deprecating. 

Trouble was one way to put it. In the all-seeing eyes of the Crown, Hammond and May were seasoned criminals on their way to committing high treason. Richard laughs a little to himself at the imagery that conjures. 

Jeremy raises his glass slightly, “To troublemakers, then.”

Richard raises his in kind, clinking them together softly, “To the best kind. Cheers, mate.” 

Jeremy, now polishing his third pint of lager, steers the conversation to the new bomber he’s piloting, and how it’s so much better than his old one, yet Richard’s mind is elsewhere, merely nodding his head at the right times. 

For some reason, ‘trouble’ being used to describe him and James as one thing, one colloquial tie that constitutes a ‘we’ and ‘us’ when being referenced, makes Richard feel warm inside. Closing his eyes a little too long, images of the countryside flash behind his eyelids. Maybe somewhere near Sussex, with a cat or a dog or something. And James is there. He’s there, and he’s real, and he’s self-assured and prideful, and he’s alive , and all the things that Richard is very much uncertain of right now due to one cold truth: James still hasn’t come back yet. 

Hammond subsequently knocks back the rest of his glass, heading back to the chalkboard. 

“You alright, mate?” Jeremy asks after Richard stands up. 

“Yeah. I’m just… just going to check on James’s status,” Richard replies, already turned around and on his way.

“Sappy git,” Jeremy mutters into his lager, taking a long swig. 

Nothing has changed on the chalkboard, and the hangar is nearly empty. Drunk, and frustrated with the results, he retires to his quarters and attempts to get some sleep, to no avail. 

“Bloody hell,” Hammond curses to himself, ripping the sheets off of him and stalking back downstairs. 

Impulsively, Hammond drags a chair to the chalkboard in the hangar that taunts him. He huffs, impatient, before crossing his arms and screwing his eyes shut to try and sleep. 

—--------

It’s 4 in the morning when the hangar doors rattle at the sound of a landing plane. A figure in the distance saunters towards civilization, gait weary and holding a torn piece of his Royal Air Force uniform. 

It’s not long before the weary man notices an airman asleep before a chalkboard—marking the squadron returns, he assumes. The airman—a brunette of short stature—slumped uncomfortably against an army-grade chair, appearing worse for wear. Even in sleep, his eyelids were eclipsed with shadows; yet, the mere sight of him brought immense warmth to the newly returned man’s heart. 

For the first time in twenty-four hours, James smiles in recognition.

Before moving to wake the sleeping man, he glances at his own name, inscribed and slightly smudged on the board: “ FLIGHT LT. MAY: MISSING.” May carefully wipes two fingers over the “MISSING” attributed to his name, careful to erase fully to cease scaring the object of his affection any more. A small victory. 

He wipes his chalk-covered hand on his tattered uniform, kneeling before the man, and gently brings a hand up to rouse the side of a tanned sleeping face—Hammond’s face. 

Hammond unconsciously leans into May’s light touch, sighing, before becoming unnaturally still. Suddenly, his eyes open, and he gasps. 

There’s a silent moment of recognition between the two, their faces level and mirroring what could only be described as pure adoration and gratitude. 

Hammond jumps up. “James!” he exclaims, his voice raw and full of emotion. He moves to encase him in a tight embrace, tattered uniform and all. James doesn’t speak—can’t speak, not yet, at least. He returns Richard’s embrace with fervor, wrapping his arms around his neck and closing his eyes tightly. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” James covertly whispers into Richard’s hair, still aware of where they are. After what felt like ages, Richard releases his grip and attempts to compose himself, in case any officers on night watch stroll by. 

“You look tired,” James comments, eyes scanning Richard’s hunched posture, dark circles, and mussed-up hair. 

Richard scoffs, incredulous. “Tired? You…look like you’ve been to hell and back, mate.”

“I have,” James replies evenly, his mind dissociating elsewhere at the thought of the past twenty-four hours. Richard finds James’ flippant manner regarding the hell he’s suffered today incredibly disconcerting. Whatever James saw, heard, …or did was guaranteed to inflict a lifetime’s worth of trauma upon a man. Hammond wants to soothe every bit of suffering that May experienced, wants to siphon the memories off of him like petrol. 

“Why did you come back so late? What… happened to you?” Hammond asks tentatively, vaguely gesturing towards James’s tattered uniform. 

A few moments of silence hang dead in the air. James casts his gaze downwards, attempting to find the words, but nothing comes. 

Hammond opens his mouth to speak again, before May interrupts, “I’m tired, Richard. Let’s go to bed.” Hammond finds he can’t argue with that. May walks to his quarters with purpose, careful to ensure Hammond follows closely behind. As he approaches the door, Hammond pauses to bid him goodnight. He figures James needs to be alone to process the horrors he’s just endured. 

James turns to face Richard, looking at him expectantly. A beat of a confused Richard mirrors him, then James places a hand on his shoulder, eyes pleading. 

The first sign of James’s stoicism cracks on his face as he grimaces in pain. “I couldn’t bear being alone tonight, Richard. Please…” he trails off. Richard grants James’ wish, slipping inside and promptly shutting the door. 

-------------

Across the airman’s quarters stand two officers on night watch, appearing to blend in with the veil of shadows. Flight Officer Andy Wilman and Flight Officer Jeremy Clarkson had volunteered to patrol in case James had come back through the early hours. 

As the door to James’s quarters shut, Andy exchanged a knowing glance with Jeremy. 

“Don’t you dare,” warns Jeremy. 

Andy nods in acknowledgement. 

Chapter Text

James and Richard stare at each other in the shrouded darkness of James’ living quarters. It’s somewhat nice, James thinks to himself. The emotions he wears on his face are less visible, so Hammond can’t see him hurting.

James takes a step closer to Richard, his lip wobbling. 

Richard doesn’t need to hear any more heartbreaking pleas. Wordlessly, Richard draws his hands around James’s neck once again, bringing him into a warm embrace. James’s body shudders, a quick sob escaping from his mouth as he returns the hug. 

Suddenly, Richard can feel familiar lips press behind his ear, traveling slowly towards his neck and collarbone. Each kiss feels like electricity, sending little shocks throughout the rest of his body. Richard pants slightly, before James pulls off to face him, his red-rimmed eyes asking for permission.

“Is this…okay? Can I…” James asks, trailing off. 

Richard doesn’t need any time to consider. To him, he could spend the rest of eternity here, their love only shared in increasingly dark and desolate spaces, sparing them from scrutiny. And if today has taught him anything, it’s that any moment could be their last. Here and now, he finds that he doesn’t care much to see through to it if he can’t have this.

Richard smiles, “It’s more than okay.”

James returns a shy smile before tentatively kissing Richard’s waiting lips. Richard responds in kind, his hands framing James’s jaw and neck. Every sense of Richard becomes filled with James, as long, deft fingertips explore Richard’s waist, his chest, his hips. 

Richard moans involuntarily as James’s hands graze the beginnings of his arse, breaking their kiss in fear of waking others. 

James smiles, his eyes honest and tender. “It’s alright, Hammond. Do you want to stop?” 

Immediately, Richard shakes his head rapidly, “No! No.. I was just rather…erm…surprised at myself. Please, keep going.” 

James grasps Richard’s body a little tighter now, kisses getting rougher, and the room a little warmer. Large calloused hands encompass almost the entire circumference of Richard’s waist easily, his face flushing at the feeling of James’s thumbs tucked around his hips. 

Richard’s hands grasp the collar of James’s tattered and dirty uniform, gently unbuttoning from the top downwards. He doesn’t want to think about how it got so torn. James helps him, smiling through their continued kissing and pulling off the rest of his airman jacket to reveal a simple white t-shirt underneath. 

Richard mirrors James’s state of undress, removing his own weathered training jacket. James presses his hips forward, walking them towards the empty bunk and continuing to excitedly kiss Richard’s lips, cheeks, nose, jaw, and collarbone. Richard giggles at the ticklish sensation, James’s ministrations incessant. Richard’s jeans can’t help but tighten at the feeling of James’ hips dwarfing his. He pants.

Hammond feels the cool frame of James’s bunk against his legs, attempting to turn around and right himself into the bottom bunk. But before he can do so, James moves one hand to the back of Hammond’s head and pulls him downwards slightly, gently protecting him from the brutal metal frame of the top bunk. After all, it was known to knock a few inattentive cadets’ heads about in their boot camp days. 

James does so without once pulling his lips off of Hammond’s, guiding him into his bed. Richard’s groin twitches at this realization, heightened by how James’ arms seem to cradle him protectively from above, like he were a rare jewel or mineral. 

James’s hands settle on the side of Richard’s face as his blue eyes study him. He plants a kiss on his nose, remarking, “Beautiful.” In return, Richard wraps his arms around James’s back to pull him closer, finally grinding their hips together and releasing some pent-up tension. Both Richard and James cry out at the sensation. 

“Christ,” James moans, eyes shut in pleasure just from the friction. 

Richard pulls his body closer, attempting to rut against him needily, begging, “ Please, James.” 

“...Anything you want,” James pants in response, breathless. He swipes a hand through his own cascading hair to push it out of the way, and drags his hands tantalizingly closer to Hammond’s trouser buckles. 

Finally, James undoes the buttons, the pressure of Richard’s hardness pushing open the zipper on its own. Richard sucks in a breath. 

He kicks his own pants and boxers off and flips James over, eager to return the favor. Richard pulls off James’s t-shirt, kissing across the now-thin expanses of his belly and waist before unbuttoning his trousers. He worried about the amount of stress James must have been under to drop so much weight. 

Upon breaching his trousers and boxers, Hammond grips his arousal firmly, sparking a deep and stifled moan from James. He ghosts hot, panting breaths over James’s cock as he grasps it, teasing him. Any longer would have been torture—soon enough, Hammond engulfs his hardness in warm, wet heat.

The action provokes James to flop his head back on the pillow, elbows buckling. “My God, Hammond.” Hammond moans at the praise, the vibration in his throat providing more sensations for James to tremble over as he sucks. He could cry. Actually, he might cry, as tears threaten to prick at just how good it all feels. To have this… beautiful little minx that’s somehow also ‘that way inclined’ seeing him for who he is, melting away any traumatic memories, and batting his eyelashes so damn coquettishly as he kitten-licks his arousal. 

James places a hand in Richard’s hair as he moans softly, gently threading his fingers through the silky strands as some sort of anchor. Suddenly, he withdraws with an audible pop sound, his face looking sheepish. James pulls him towards himself  as if to ask, ‘What’s wrong?’

Richard pauses a moment, resting his hands on James’s chest and collecting his thoughts. “I.. erm, don’t know how long we’ve got left.”

James nods. 

“I thought you were a goner.”

James nods again, eyes downcast. 

“Could we… uhm…how do I say this..” Richard stammers, face reddening. 

“Are you asking me to make love to you, Hammond?” 

James feels the other man’s cock twitch whilst on top of him as his eyes widen, which tells him all he needs to know. “Er… yes.” 

“Please,” Hammond adds, a little desperate now.

Promptly, James grabs Hammond by his hips, reversing their positions and letting his body flop onto the soft bedsheets. He works his way down his body, kissing and caressing any spot he sees fit as Hammond writhes under his touch. Neck, collarbone, nipple, ribcage, navel, hips. 

Hammond opens his legs wider, impish and coy, as James gropes a particularly fleshy part of his arse, a silent invitation. James brings his left hand up to Hammond’s mouth, two fingers hanging in the air. 

“Suck, darling,” James requests. Hammond responds in earnest, closing his eyes and encasing his warm mouth around the fingers in order to sufficiently lubricate them.

“You’re taking quite some liberty with this, Hammond,” James quips to Hammond’s rather overachieving tongue performance. 

“Sorry.” James laughs.

Soon after, James releases his fingers with yet another pop. As he manually spreads Hammond’s thighs a little wider, he looks towards him, eyes wide. 

“Are you sure you want to do this, Hammond? We don’t have to.”

“I’ve not done it before, but I…well, I think I really want to. With you. Just be gentle, please.” 

James laughs earnestly, “Okay.”

One hand steadies Richard’s thigh as the other begins to prepare him, pressing only a finger gently. He gasps quietly, the sound quickly swallowed by James’s lips on his. 

A second finger causes Hammond to grasp onto James’s wrist a little tighter, prompting him to kiss his temple and murmur, “You’re alright. You’re alright. Just breathe, love, you’re doing so well.”

Richard whimpers as he adjusts fully to the intrusion, his cheeks reddened and glistening. “Okay, I think–I think I’m ready now.”  

James removes his fingers gently before carefully lining up his hips with Richard’s. He spreads Richard’s legs ever so much wider apart for access, prompting him to cover his face in embarrassment. As he finally presses inside, inch by slow inch, Richard sobs, his chest rocking. 

James stops his movement quickly in alarm. “I’m okay, really,” Hammond assures him, a single tear escaping down his cheek, “I guess I just didn’t know how…good this could feel.”

James regards him cautiously, still unmoving. 

“Move, please.”

“Right.”

James finally bottoms out inside of Richard, and presses their glistened foreheads together as he pants from pleasure. 

“You’re perfect,” James murmurs dazedly, face pink as he kisses Richard on the forehead. His strokes begin short and shallow, building a steady rhythm. A particularly deep thrust hits a certain spot in Richard that makes him cry out, “James!” throwing caution to the wind on their secrecy. 

Spurred on by Richard’s incessant moans, James begins to thrust harder, skin slapping skin. His eyes begin to close from the immense pleasure, which causes James to caress his jaw, cooing, “I’m right here. Stay with me, love,” as he wraps his arm around his midsection to a closer embrace. 

Richard’s fingers claw at James’s back, nails digging crescents into his shoulder blades as pleasure starts to mount. James changes his angle slightly, and Richard gasps in ecstasy, nearly shouting. Richard wraps his legs around James’s waist to pull him impossibly closer, deeper. James’s thrusts quickens, beginning to unravel Richard further and further as a white-hot sensation of pleasure builds inside of him. 

“James… God, I’m—” Richard pants, overstimulated.

“You feel so good, Hammond, God,” James mutters incoherently, his face buried in Richard’s neck. Sensing an impending release, he grasps a calloused hand around Richard’s leaking erection, pulling him off in time with his brutal thrusts. “Let go for me, love.” 

Within seconds, Richard’s spilling all over James’s hand and onto his own stomach with a wail, prompting James’s other hand to cover his mouth in order to muffle the sound. It doesn’t do much, but James finds he can’t think about that now as he chases his own orgasm. 

Suddenly, the emotional weight that ensues as James is on the brink of climax becomes too much. He notices the view of Richard before him, utterly debauched and beautiful, becoming blurry with tears as he thrusts into him for the last time, spilling his warmth deep inside him. 

All of a sudden, the absence of having Richard’s body to worship and distract himself with clears the repressed fog in his mind, throwing the awful memories of Dresden to the forefront. He collapses atop him, immediately burying his face in Richard’s neck, and without fully registering it, his body becomes racked with sobs, trembling violently. 

“Hey, hey, James, what’s wrong..? Did I do something wrong?” Richard asks as he brings a distraught James into his arms, a worried expression painted across his face.

James can’t speak at first, his voice wrecked and inconsolable. “...There were, hic … There were kids, Richard,” he cries. “....I killed innocent children. Killed their families with the weapons from my plane.” 

Richard is at a loss for words for a moment, simply rubbing James’s back and holding him in his arms. “You didn’t have any choice in the matter, James,” Richard attempts to reason, “You were just following orders.” 

“Just following orders? That’s…. That’s not good enough! Where’s anyone’s humanity? I can’t take this any–any more,” James wails, attempting to stifle his voice. 

“James, James, shhh,” Richard begins, feeling slightly inadequate to navigate this, “Soon, this war will be over. And we will be far, far away from all of this.” He knows that this is a poor argument as a rebuttal to James’s feelings, but War is hell; it is all consuming. Sometimes all soldiers can do to keep going is to be selfish, dare to have dreams and aspirations that span far beyond a bloody battle from the tyrant’s hands who use them as pawns. 

The tears have stopped flowing down James’s ruddy cheeks and onto Richard’s chest, but his uneven breathing remains, rapidly sucking in breaths like he’s underwater. 

“When all of this is over, where would you like to go?” Richard can’t think of anything else but to distract James. 

James sighs unevenly, grasping onto Richard’s waist tighter. “My, uh, house in Hammersmith was bombed in the Blitz. So, not there, I guess,” he says, voice raw. 

Richard dares to chuckle slightly. “I’m not looking too forward to returning back to my home, either.” A beat. Then he says, voice hopeful but uncertain, “I guess we’re both in the market for a new place to call home, after all of this?” 

“I guess we are,” James murmurs. 

“Where have you always wanted to live, James?” Richard asks while threading small hands through auburn locks, looking to further distract him.

“I’ve always like Brighton. The suburbs of it, mostly, but I spent a summer or two there on its beaches as a boy,” James replies, breathing a little more evenly. Richard can’t help but smile, reveling slightly in the fact that James cannot see his face. 

“Alright, then. When all of this is over, we’ll go to Brighton, and see the beach,” Richard resolves confidently, as if he’s got 10 Downing Street on his beck and call to end this bloody war. James lifts up his head of mussed up hair, finally, eyes red-rimmed and tear tracks prominent. He doesn’t remember the last time he cried in front of somebody. Maybe never. 

“I don’t know what tomorrow looks like,” James begins, kissing Richard’s jaw softly, “...but to me, you’re my future. I only want a future with you in it,” he professes shyly. In response, Richard captures his lips in a deep kiss, without need or tension in it, but pure passion, as if to say ‘I promise you.’ 

Beneath white sheets on barracks-style bunk beds, James holds Richard tightly, face pressed to the nape of Richard’s neck and legs entangled. In sleep, for once, James doesn’t dream of planes, or bombs, or terror; he dreams of a waveless sea, rocky shores with pesky seagulls, and a boy with brown eyes and an endearing smile at his side.