Disclaimer: Not mine.

AN: Connected to Hartwin story 'Tailor-Made', but not sequel and not a crossover. That will happen in the last of this little trilogy.

I watched 'Dunkirk' and I swear most of this story came from one particular scene at the end. If you've seen the movie, you will know exactly which one it is after you read this story in its entirety.

Updates on Tuesdays.


His Lads


Arthur loved coffee.

Didn't matter where it came from, how it was brewed, 'caf' or 'decaf', he loved coffee.

So, naturally, upon landing at the airport the weekend before starting his new job - even before stepping foot in his new, unfurnished apartment -, he went looking for a place to get his coffee fix.

He didn't mind chain coffee places, but he much preferred hole-in-the-wall local favorites, because he liked different coffees and chain shops weren't how you got unique blends.

It wasn't until exactly two weeks later that he found his Coffee Place.

Spitfire was an odd name for a coffee shop, but Arthur took one sip of the Brew of the Day and was immediately in love.

"How is the line not around the corner and five streets over?" he almost blurted one afternoon as his usual barista smiled warmly at him. "I mean, seriously? This place is the best, bar none."

"A glowing review, Darling? Be still my heart," amused grey eyes didn't look away from his incredulous expression as Eames rang him up.

"Eames, be serious. I mean it. How is this place not popular?"

The Spitfire served food and Arthur had the whole menu of it within the first week, especially this one blueberry thing that started his crush on Eames, and had nothing but good things to say about all of it.

The drinks, though, oh my god.

"Would you prefer personal service or more recognition of my genius?" Eames raised a brow.

"You'd give everyone your attention, anyway," he waved dismissively. "It's what you do. You take care of people."

And Eames really did take care of people.

He owned the place, but he thrived on working there and cooking and baking and doing barista things and he knew the regulars like Ariadne with her scarves – so much so that he could tell her mood by the style of scarf and how tightly she wore them around her neck – and Saito, who came in twice on Wednesdays for green tea and strawberry scones.

Eames took care of all of them – knew moods, families, personalities, favorite orders – and Benjamin, a black cat who wandered in a couple of years ago and never left.

Arthur had never seen such a blatant display of caretaking in all his life, especially when it got colder outside and the Mother Hen definitely came out.

He would look up from his projects, Benjamin a comforting weight in his lap, and see Eames try to – almost literally at times – spoon feed people soup and other hot liquids. He also had a strong suspicion that Eames had actually spooned soup into his mouth when he hadn't been paying attention.

But that was neither here nor there.

"Well?" he crossed his arms with a challenging brow.

"But I don't need popularity when I've already got all I need," Eames smiled slightly.

Arthur blinked at that, taken aback at the sincerity, and felt his ears warm in embarrassment.

He couldn't find a response, so he took his order and slinked off to his usual table.


It was about a year after Arthur found the place when he finally found out why it was called 'Spitfire'.

Eames was sitting at a table near his own during a lull and Arthur had half a mind to look at what he was reading that had captured his attention so thoroughly, but watching him was more alluring somehow.

Arthur liked seeing the wonder on Eames' face, the delight and excitement in his grey eyes, the absent way he would run his fingers through his short hair as he concentrated on his book.

He didn't realize he was staring until Eames looked up at him with a slight smile.

"The World Wars," he answered, Arthur startling slightly as he was abruptly jolted from his thoughts.

"What?" he asked smoothly.

Eames tapped the page he was reading. "Noticed you looking over. Thought you were curious."

"I can be – I mean, I am," he mentally winced.

"Come take a look, then," he invited, kicking out the chair across from him in invitation.

Arthur barely registered moving, perching uncertainly on the chair's edge as he looked down at wide, glossy pages.

"I'm just reliving the Second World War," Eames explained, tapping the section title on the side of the page. "Haven't gotten to the Battle of Britain, yet, but it'll be along soon enough."

Arthur glanced over the paragraphs and accompanying pictures and illustrations. "So, you like the Wars?"

"Well, I'm particularly attached to the Second. That doesn't make the First any less important, mind, but the Second had quite the toys," Eames flipped back a number of pages before stopping to point out the British forces and their equipment as the preferred 'toys' changed from the mid to late 1930s, all the way to war's end in 1945. "I'm especially enamored with this gorgeous creature," he smiled besottedly at the aircraft.

The Second World War, from what Arthur understood, had quite the array of aircraft on all sides.

The various Air Forces were critical in everything from Pearl Harbor to the dogfights to providing cover for their respective 'boots on the ground' forces and dropping bombs on civilian and military targets alike.

Arthur had more than once heard the question: Would you have dropped the Bomb?

He'd always said, 'Knowing what we do now, absolutely not. But I think we needed to do it.'

Prior to 1945, no one had any idea about what dropping the bombs would do – or what that kind of energy would do, period.

Then Chernobyl happened and the Sendai earthquake and tsunami damaged the Fukushima-Daiichi nuclear reactor and then, suddenly, the data collected from the two bombs and the fall out was useful.

Sometimes, bed things needed to happen for people to understand why it should never happen again.

As callous as it sounded, however, those things needed to be documented and studied thoroughly with every possible detail covered just in case that series of observations had to be used for the next time.

His brown eyes skimmed over the British planes as Eames waxed poetic next to him, when he caught a familiar name.

The RAF's Spitfires were – to his untrained eyes – beautiful things that basically kept the Allies in Europe from being too soundly trounced by the Axis forces.

"Is that why you named this place? After one of these planes?"

"I think so," Eames shrugged.

"You don't know?"

He sat back with thoughtfully crossed arms and took a moment to answer. "I opened this place, because I like to think people need looking after."

"We do," Arthur agreed. "Not all of us, but…" he didn't want to come across as creepy by blurting out 'I do', even if it was true or not, so he trailed off with a shrug.

"You're too kind, Darling," Eames simply shook his head with a smile, as if Arthur was just saying that to be nice. "But thank you for playing into my delusions of importance. Anyway, I've always liked the idea of cafés and coffee shops and I've had many compliments of my work in the kitchen and behind the bar, so that's what I did. You may not think much of café owners, but I think those who work at cafés and the like should want to take care of people. The world is dangerous and lonely and I've strived the best I can to create a place of refuge for everyone who wanders in. Life is a battle and I wanted people to remember that they had an ally in the 'Spitfire'."

"Just like in WWII," Arthur nodded in understanding.

"Quite so," he smiled in approval. "I actually have a pilot's license, so it's not quite off the mark. The British forces in the war are all made up of heroes – all in their own way -, each and every one, but to me, it's the pilots who were the real heroes," and Eames truly believed that. "I mean, it's one thing to be on the ground with places to hide, but up in the air…"

Arthur could understand Eames' near reverent tone and expression as he thought about it.

The ground forces had more of a chance in a skirmish, because all they had to do was dive for cover. There were more in number and plenty of others ready to take up the fight.

Anyone could be a soldier – an officer, even -, but there was a special kind of person who could become a pilot.

As far as the Air Force boys had been concerned, skill, teamwork and pure luck were all that stood between victorious return and uncontrollable freefall.

One wrong move and –

The Spitfires and their brave pilots almost singlehandedly kept the European Theatre on an even keel, being sent out to cover the ground troops who were sitting ducks.

They didn't always succeed, but hell if they didn't die trying.

"You have a lot of respect for those boys," Arthur studied him, unable to look away from his bright, sparkling eyes.

"I most certainly do. The pilots did their absolute best to take care of their charges. I'd be a poor Spitfire pilot myself if I didn't try to fly in their wake."

Arthur couldn't help finding it fitting that Eames considered himself something of a protégé of the original Spitfire pilots.

"They might be flying overhead right now," he told him. "You may not actually be one of them, but I bet they'd be proud of you, anyway."

Eames blinked, as if uncertain what to do with Arthur's words, before eventually softening with a smile that made him warm inside. "It's what I aspire to achieve."

What could he say to that?


TBC