It's now or never, come hold me tight

Kiss me my darling, be mine tonight
Tomorrow will be too late

-Now Or Never

0o0o0o

September 1961, West Berlin

Arthur had a pounding headache from the new American forces that had arrived earlier. They were loud and arrogant and they had already driven him out of his favourite bar to this smaller but marginally quieter one within a few weeks of their arrival. Scowling into his drink, Arthur drained the glass. He'd even tolerate the frogs over the Americans because at least they didn't act like everyone should kiss their shined boots because they were the heroes. He just wanted a calm term in Berlin and be able to go home intact, but of course, the bloody Yanks flew in and did what they did best-turning the world upside down.

Drinking to get rid of the headache might not have been Arthur's smartest idea twenty minutes ago, but if he was about to be defeated by his own weak constitution, he may as well have not come.

'Another,' he told the bartender, who he thought might have given him a very funny look as he did so.

'You sure about that?' someone across the table asked. Arthur couldn't tell if he'd been there this whole time, but he wasn't about to let somebody with an American accent tell him what was or wasn't safe. He knew his limits! He was fine, and he told the nosy man exactly so right before slamming back half the glass.

'Jesus Christ,' he coughed after his eyes had stopped watering. His throat was on fire. 'What the hell was in that thing?'

'You got mine, I think.' The American swirled the remains and laughed. 'Yep! Straight bourbon.'

'It's terrible,' Arthur said. 'Give it back.'

The man raised an eyebrow. Arthur grabbed for it and only missed the mark once. He took another gulp and managed not to cough.

'You don't look great,' the American told him. Arthur waved him off. Once you got past the burn, the taste wasn't entirely horrible. He took a smaller sip and decided it might even be tolerable. It felt like fire in his stomach, too, hot and prideful and as liquid as courage could get, and if the Americans drank this, he could almost understand why they acted how they did. Arthur leaned back in his chair and tried for confidence.

'Bourbon, you said?'

'Yeah. This pretty high gravity to you?'

'Gravity?'

'Strong. Pretty strong?' He poured his own glass and drank it without flinching. Show-off. 'What's your normal?'

'Tennents.'

'The ones with the pinup girls on the can?' his American asked after a short pause. He sounded almost unhappy, no longer so teasing, and Arthur didn't know why that made him feel all hot and prickly inside.

'Well, not those!' Arthur took another gulp and tried to steady his racing heartbeat, which didn't work. 'I don't get it for that. I get it to drink. There's probably better ways to do those things than buying cans of beer.'

'Better ways,' he repeated.

Arthur decided it would be good to leave before this conversation was pursued further and he revealed things he'd rather not ever be mentioned again, because the American would probably spread rumours and then he'd be out of this military job he desperately needed.

'Yes. Well, unless you have some urgent business with me you've failed to inform me about, I'll be going.' He coughed and tried to stand up, but the floor swayed and he decided to stay put for a second.

'We've never been introduced, have we?' the man asked.

'No,' Arthur said, hoping he'd get the hint. Unfortunately, his American didn't seem to know what subtlety was. Not that any of them did, but this one was especially stubborn and brash and loud and generally too American.

'Officer Alfred F. Jones, American flying ace here to save the world. At your service, Mr…?'

'Right, then, Alfred, your friends have already driven me out of my favourite bar, kindly leave me to enjoy this one. In peace.' He slid the bourbon across to Alfred and tried to stand up. The world tipped aggressively and he grabbed the back of his chair to stop from falling. Alfred's eyes were the only non-spinning thing in the room, and it wasn't his fault he focused on them-they were sky blue, like he'd flown his plane too much and gotten the sunlight and atmosphere stuck in his skin and hair and eyes.

'And you are?' Alfred hinted again, pouring two glasses, and since it really would have been a shame to let it go to waste, Arthur sat back down and took the glass. He caught a flicker of a smile from Alfred, a different smile, unabashedly happy, which made his head spin. Why was he even still drinking? Why was he drinking with Alfred, of all people? Alfred should know he wasn't everything, and that there was definitely better options if he would just go home even if he didn't know who they were right now.

'You're drinking with me because-well, you said it yourself! I'm the all-American pilot, and you can't resist my charm. I don't blame you, I am the hero.' He brought out that stupidly winning smile again. 'Or because you don't look like you can stand up.'

Arthur reminded himself that Alfred was one of the self-professed heroes and more particularly a boasting, rowdy pilot, for the love of God. He was definitely too drunk to be thinking clearly, and that he should probably just leave and go back to camp to sleep and never think of this persistent American soldier ever again, but he didn't think he could leave his thoughts of Alfred entirely in this place if he wanted.

'Come on, what's your name?'

'Arthur Kirkland, I suppose. Pleasure.' He tipped back his glass and scowled. It was already empty. Alfred made a sound that Arthur hoped wasn't a laugh and refilled. 'What does the F stand for?' he asked, determinedly not looking at Alfred, who was definitely smiling now, if not laughing, and bent closer than Arthur had thought he was. Damn that smile, and damn his bright blue eyes, and while he was at it, damn his whole stupid pilot thing. He was stupid, all of this was completely stupid, but Arthur found himself pausing for Alfred's answer.

'Would you believe me if I said it stood for Freedom?'

Arthur snorted and sat back, the odd allure broken and reprimanding himself for feeling it. 'No.'

'Then I'll have to tell you that it's actually for Foster. Don't tell my friends that, though, they're still calling me Alfred Fucking Jones.' He leaned further forward and Arthur almost slopped his drink down his front. 'Don't tell anyone, right?'

'Right. Fine.' Arthur turned away and took another sip to steady his nerves. Alfred was eyeing him, and if he'd just stop smiling, Arthur could maybe think of anything at all.

'Come on, aren't you happy to see me? I'm the hero who's taking this place out of the dumps and putting it back on the streets!' Alfred nudged his arm and Arthur tried to not inhale his bourbon.

'Do you do this to everyone you meet?' Arthur asked, wiping off his mouth. Alfred raised an eyebrow. 'This whole-this whole hero routine. Doesn't it get old?'

'Of course I do it, what else would I do?' Alfred grinned. 'Well, not for everyone. Just those I feel like getting to know better. You can't say my charm isn't working at least a little bit. See, you're smiling!'

'I am not,' Arthur said, hurriedly schooling his face back into neutrality.

'You should. You look good when you smile.' He fell silent, eyeing Arthur over the rim of his glass, the lamplight playing off his own smile. 'You look good any time, really.'

Arthur took a drink and didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.

'I have a deal for you,' Alfred said suddenly, holding out a hand. Arthur stared at it incredulously. 'Come on, unless you're a Russian spy, I don't bite.'

'I'm not.' Arthur shook his hand. His American squeezed gently before letting go.

'I'm not Soviet, either.'

'If you were, I'd wonder how the Russians got someone as American as you,' Arthur said, and was rewarded with a surprised flash of white teeth. 'Don't smile at me like that, it wasn't supposed to be a compliment. You bloody Yanks are always so...American.' The drinking was definitely affecting him now. 'Give me another.'

'That's like saying you're really British,' Alfred noted with a grin, refilling his glass.

'I'm English, and that's not an insult,' Arthur said loftily. Really, the bourbon wasn't bad at all.

'English, then. Either way, you're a soldier of the refined gentleman sort, and that's exactly the type for an American from New York.'

'Type?'

'For a partner.' Alfred's eyes caught his for a second, surprisingly intense. He had a cowlick, which was a strange thing to notice in the midst of this smoky bar conversation, but he did.

Arthur looked away first and heard Alfred cough and sit back. His pulse pounded in his ears.

'For the plan,' Alfred clarified lowly.

'Oh.' Arthur knew that sounded stupid and a little bit pathetic, but he'd thought-

'About the plan-'

'Right. The plan. What is your plan?' He raised his glass, prepared for something like vandalizing an officer's quarters and already prepared to say he had urgent business elsewhere.

'I need to get into the East,' Alfred said. 'Incognito, you understand?'

Arthur choked on his mouthful of bourbon and collapsed forward onto the table, wheezing for air. Alfred jumped up and thumped him on the back.

'Careful, there, Artie.'

'Don't call me Artie,' Arthur groaned into the table. It was cool, or his face was burning up, and he felt like going to sleep right here. 'Forget it, Alfred. I'm not helping you start a war on whichever officer's orders you follow.'

'Actually, I'm the officer.' Alfred tapped his insignia with a proud smile. 'One of the youngest ever. This isn't on orders. I just want to see the Brandenburg Gate.'

'You're going to start another war over seeing the Brandenburg Gate,' Arthur said. 'Why can't you just look at it from this side?'

'That's not the real experience, and besides-well, that's not important. I won't start anything! I'll be careful.'

'Like you even know what the word means.' Arthur groped for his glass and couldn't find it. 'Where's my bourbon?'

'I'm not giving it back until you agree to help me out. Word says you Brits don't have curfew, so you can do it.'

'That's ridiculous,' Arthur said, trying to grab for his glass. Alfred held it up over his head. 'You're ridiculous. Bloody pilots, never should trust a single one of you, my da said so…wanted to get into the RAF myself, didn't make it.'

'Help me get into the East and you'll never hear from me again,' Alfred said. Arthur made another lunge for it and finally slumped across the table.

'Who even says I don't want to see you?' he slurred. 'Alfred F. Jones. You've got a stupid name, you know, too American. American pilot. You're hell. Give me back my bourbon.'

'I fly a bomber, if you want to know. See the jacket?'

'Stupid jacket. I want it,' Arthur told him, the world spinning.

Alfred chuckled, and Arthur's glass was pushed back into his hands.

'Take it. But if you want another…'

'I have to get you to Brandenburg,' Arthur complained, nearly knocking the bottle over. 'You're going to start a war, Alfred. You know there's thirty thousand Stasi spies behind the Wall, all looking for someone idiotic enough to decide that their military term is a great time for sightseeing.'

'There's no way there's that many, and besides, they'll never catch me. You'll keep me safe, right? And I'll keep you safe.'

'I'm not going, I told you.'

Alfred raised an eyebrow, filled another drink, and slid it across to Arthur.

'Will this convince you?'

'No,' Arthur mumbled firmly, trying to focus on Alfred before giving up, and drank it. 'You're not very good at following through on your promises, I already got two glasses out of you. Why the hell you wanna see the Gate, anyways? Bloody pretty building but not worth a war, God. Why cant'cha go on your own?'

'Well, because Alfred F. Jones is no longer welcome in East Berlin.' Alfred looked appropriately abashed, his ears pink.

'What did'ja do?' Arthur fairly shouted, waving a hand at him that ended up on his shoulder. 'How did you get the entire government mad at you in-how long you been here, two days?'

'A month or so.' Alfred didn't move his hand off his shoulder, which Arthur was thankful for since he probably would have collapsed forward without his steady warm weight. 'I got into a small disagreement with a colonel over there about a week ago, and they told me never to show my face there again.'

'How,' Arthur asked, wrapping his hands around the bottle and feeling the familiar fire in his throat, straining to keep his eyes focused-nothing really mattered except Alfred right now, strangely. '-have you not gotten yourself killed yet? No, shut up, I'm taking you over, bloody miracle you survived this long without someone like me to make sure you don't make stupid decisions.' He drained the glass and pulled on Alfred's arm, but he wouldn't move. Must be muscular.

'Really, man?' Alfred looked surprised as Arthur flung his wallet in the table, hauled him up and dragged him into the thankfully cooler air outside. 'Wait-hold on, I said-I think I got you way too blitzed, we can go tomorrow-oh, shit, sorry, Artie.'

'Don' call me that,' Arthur mumbled, dragging him further along the road. 'Where's the Gate?'

'Arthur, are you sure you're thinking straight? The Wall is back there.'

'You're the one who isn't,' Arthur shot back, right before tripping on a streetlight. 'Who put that there?'

Alfred swore, picking him up off the sidewalk with surprising ease.

'Oh, goddamn, that looked painful-how many fingers am I holding up, Artie-Arthur, I mean? Talk to me, man!'

'Eight,' Arthur tried, squinting into the moonlight. The multicoloured light pouring from the bars and streetlights and playing on his skin and hair made Alfred look unearthly, like a small series of miracles that hadn't gotten himself killed long enough to show up for Arthur like this.

'You're seeing double, let's get you home.'

'No!' Arthur struggled and ended up on a bench. He looked around in bemusement about how he'd gotten there. 'You wanted to get into the East.'

Alfred was sitting next to him, trying to look concerned. He was smiling and Arthur was fascinated by the little ways he couldn't hide happiness.

'Okay, we can't just go walking in. I have a car someone lent me, it has all the new plates and everything, but you're too drunk to drive me in.'

''M not too drunk,' Arthur said. 'Barely even dizzy-Alfred, that tree is going to fall on me.'

'You are way too dizzy.' Alfred gently pried Arthur's hands off his uniform. 'The tree is fine. You're the one who isn't. Can you even walk?'

''Course I can,' Arthur declared. Alfred caught him before he hit the pavement.

'Tomorrow.' Alfred picked him up, and Arthur hazily looked up at him. His eyes stayed blue in the thousand colours of night life, glancing down at him with a light like fondness.

''M cold,' Arthur mumbled, leaning against his chest. Alfred laughed quietly and pulled off his jacket to wrap Arthur in.

Alfred found the British quarters after a long time wandering. The good thing was that nobody saw them stumble in drunk and bleary, and the bad thing was that Alfred was shivering from so long in the cold.

'I gave you exact directions,' Arthur told him as Alfred carried him up the stairs of the apartments, slumping over his pillow as Alfred pulled off his boots. Everything was warm and silent and Alfred's hands were steady and smelled like sweets. 'You're lucky you have me to stop you from making stupid decisions, really, did you honestly think the British sector was down that Ku'damm street thing?'

'Okay, Artie.' Alfred arranged him in bed, hands lingering at his collar buttons before hastily pulling away. 'You can stay in your uniform for tonight, right? It shouldn't be too bad.'

'Mmm.' Arthur pulled the pillows into his face. 'You stayin'?'

'Naw, I gotta go home.'

'Stay,' Arthur insisted, catching his hand. 'Please.' He wanted Alfred here, wanted to keep his thousand colours and those sky blue eyes. Alfred hesitated, eyes searching his face, before gently stepping back.

'Can't. I wish I could, though, darlin', I really do. I'll take you up on that offer another day.'

Arthur nodded, too exhausted and exhilarated to do anything, the word darlin' settling into his soaring heart.

'G'night, Alfred,' he mumbled sleepily.

'Goodnight, Artie.' He felt more than saw Alfred lean down and kiss his forehead, breath quiet and hands brushing his sweaty bangs out of his face before he left.

0o0o0o

Eureka: a cry of joy or satisfaction when one finds or discovers something.

This is set in the same verse as Don't Ask Me Why, but is able to be read alone.

:: Old, towering brick buildings