i'm finally back after a lengthy hiatus! this is my first fic for the x-men franchise. i'm in love with the whole hank/alex relationship dynamic, so i thought i'd throw my ideas into a WW2 au. enjoy!

i don't own x-men, nor do i own hank, alex or the dear mrs patmore, who i stole from downton abbey.

also, i am actually scottish so i'm not an expert on americanisms or the culture. i'm just trying to roll with it.

"This is all so fucking English, Hank. Look at those bloody decorations! It's not fucking Christmas," Alex grumbled, taking a long drag on his cigar and staring out onto the cobbles below. Unfortunately, their bedroom window looked straight out onto the main street, giving him the perfect view of the god-awful tea party commencing in his neighbourhood. "Why the fuck are they so happy about going to war?"

"That's bunting, Alex, not Christmas decorations. And I don't think it's that they're particularly happy, call it patriotism." Hank explained with a sigh; he'd been answering Alex's queries about the "fucking mini flags" lining the streets for the past 2 weeks now.

"Patriotism my ass," Alex scoffed, blowing rings of smoke into the windowpane, watching it dissipate and spread across the glass. "Tell me again why I've signed up for this?" He questioned, turning his back on the shitshow beneath the window and facing his lover, currently reclining on the bed with a dogeared book of poetry.

"Because-" Hank began, licking his index finger and flipping the page before turning to the blonde. "You're doing a service to your country."

"Right," Alex scoffed, rolling his eyes as he crossed the room towards the wardrobe, his bottle green uniform hanging on the door as the imminent angel of death. "So that's why you've enlisted then?"

"Alex," Hank sighed heavily, turning the corner of his page down and setting it on the bedside table beside a pillbox and Alex's polished handgun. "I've signed up as a medical volunteer, isn't that enough?"

"Oh, I don't give a shit what you do instead," Alex shrugged, brushing lint from the jacket and straightening the brass buttons. "I just don't see why I'm the one that has to go out to the front."

"Don't be rude, Alex. This could be our last day together for quite some time, don't cock it up because you're an egotistical bastard." Hank rolled his eyes, settling back against the headboard with a triumphant smirk as he watched the taut line of Alex's shoulders relax in defeat as he stubbed his cigar out into the glass dish by the armoire. The blonde turned slowly, the corner of his red, red mouth turned down slightly as he approached the bed, settling on the edge gently.

"M'sorry, Hank," he sighed, winding their fingers together and bringing their clasped hands up towards his lips, kissing each of Hank's knuckles in turn. "I know why you couldn't enlist, I'm just being a bitch." Alex mumbled, lips grazing Hank's pale skin as he spoke.

"Never worry," Hank smiled easily, nudging Alex's thigh with his knee. "How about we go down and join the festivites?"

"Hank, it's not fucking Christmas! This isn't a festivity, I refuse-" Alex protested, only for Hank to grin impishly and drag him downstairs.

Alex leaned against his own front door, a cup of cheap cider in his hand as he watched this fucking tea party thing. Hank had long since disappeared and was chatting animatedly with a few of the neighbours, eyes shining behind his thick glasses as he gesticulated wildly. Alex chuckled softly, gaze drifting from Hank and further up the tables, towards a bench of soldiers. They were rowdy; jostling together, gulping cider from the bottle and smoking a grey haze around themselves, talking of sweethearts and the excitement of war.

Scoffing to himself, Alex turned back to watching Hank, eyes settling upon his partner easily. They'd been lucky to find a neighbourhood that accepted them, for the most part anyway, though they cowered behind the façade of " best friends turned business partners". Only their closest neighbour, dear Mrs. Patmore, knew the truth of it. She was a sweet woman, ruddy faced and small with an ample bosom. She'd discovered them in a rather compromising position; pressed together on the sofa in a sweating heat wave, teeth clicking as they kissed desperately. Of course, she had apologized profusely, dropping her tray of sugary lemonade onto the stained kitchen table before making to scurry off, but Alex had stopped her, enticing her back for a chat about religion and love and all things in between. She would remain the only soul to acknowledge the unspoken union between them for quite some time.

Alex watched as Hank excused himself politely, pouring himself a cup of said sweet lemonade and lifting a plate of sandwiches as he retreated into the shade to greet Alex.

"Sulking, are we?" Hank chuckled, handing Alex the plate before hooking his ankle around the leg of a nearby chair and pulling it over, dropping into it with a sigh.

"I'm doing no such thing." Alex defended, handing Hank the plate back, but not before sneaking one from the top of the pile. Hank glared at him, but there was no heat behind the gesture, resting the plate across his bony thighs before helping himself.

"You're standing here in the shade all by yourself, watching me like some storybook villain ready to kidnap the fucking princess. I'd say you're sulking about something." Hank explained around a mouthful of ham and bitter cheese, swallowing it down with a gulp of lemon and sugar.

"I'm just being stupid, it doesn't matter," Alex muttered gruffly, setting his cup down on the cool paving stones beneath his feet and pulling a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one and shoving it between his teeth. "I'm going inside. Come in when you're ready." He said, brushing a thumb down the nape of Hank's neck discreetly before turning and pushing through the front door into their small house. Hank sighed heavily, picking at his sandwiches disinterestedly before giving up and heading inside after his lover.

Much, much later on, when the neighbourhood has been palled in a black shroud, ruptured by the pale circle of the moon, does Alex speak.

He's leaning back against the headboard, Hank lying with a cheek pressed to his bare stomach, honey breath fanning over his hipbone. He's smoking, watching the grey smoke curl into the air and dissipate along the ceiling, one hand tangled in Hank's thick locks, brushing a thumb over his temple every now and then.

"Hank?"

"Mhm?"

"Can you promise me something?"

Noticing the slight wobble in Alex's voice, Hank sat up, the space between his brows slightly creased in concern.

"What's going on?" Hank frowned, finding Alex's hand among the tangled white sheets and taking it between both of his own, tracing the lines slashing across his palm. The blonde sighed, turning and stubbing his cigarette out in the dish by the bed, gaze catching upon the silky handgun lying on the table.

"If I die, out there," Alex took a deep breath, training his eyes upon their clasped hands lying on the bed, a figure of thorns and sin for many. "You have to promise me that you'll move on with your life. Okay? Be-because I don't want you mourning me all your life, I want you to find someone else, settle down, maybe even start a family. Someone that can give you so much more than I can. I won't ruin your life."

"Alex," Hank sighed, cupping the blonde's face between both of his hands and leaning in for a lingering kiss that tasted of smoke and sugar and lemon. As he pulled back, he pressed another kiss to Alex's bottom lip before looking up through thick lashes. "You're not going to die, okay? It's your duty to come back to me every time. God knows you always do." Alex nodded slightly, tracing the sharp lines of Hank's face with his fingertips, running them over his lips and cheekbones and watching as those sinful lashes fluttered beneath his touch.

"I love you, y'know?" Alex smiled.

"I know. I love you too," Hank nodded, curling back down beneath the sheets and resting his head against Alex's chest again. "Now, be a good boyfriend and read me some poetry. The page I marked earlier."

Alex chuckled softly, reaching for Hank's treasured poetry book that always sat on the bedside table by his gun, the spine cracking and the lettering on the cover fading. Finding Hank's chosen page, he cleared his throat and began to read:

"This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience-calmed – see here it is –

I hold it towards you."

title taken from "crash land" by the amazing twin atlantic. poem is keats, of course. i hope you enjoyed! i have exams at the moment but i'll do my best to update asap, if people liked this!

xo