"I believe humanity was born from conflict. Maybe that's why in all of us lives a dark side. Some of us choose to embrace it. Some have no choice. The rest of us fight it. But in the end, it is as natural as the air we breathe. At some point, all of us are forced to face the truth. Ourselves." -Penelope Garcia
January 1942 to March 1942
"France?" he asked in shock. "You want me to go to France?"
"Of course," Churchill replied. "We need to know what the Germans are doing, and France is the closest place to find them."
England stared at him. "But you're sending me."
"You're hardly the only one going," Churchill pointed out.
England sighed. Churchill didn't get it. "I'm your personification. You can't just send me off to spy. I'm your top commander, your ambassador to other personifications. I have more experience than anyone else you have, than all your other commanders combined, and I know these other nations. You can't afford to lose me." I can't lose my time with America.
"You are going to France," Churchill said in a tone of finality.
England found himself on one of his own airfields, preparing to train alongside his troops. This was something he usually tried to avoid, as it put him at risk of being remembered, always a danger for a personification, but he had his orders. He had set aside his commander's uniform, personification's uniform, for one worn by his regulars. After all, he was becoming a regular, for the time being.
He was being checked in, a difficult process. All his papers were essentially forgeries, as he didn't officially exist as a human, given him by his government. His human name was on there, proper as it could be, and his birthday was the same, although they had changed the year, placing his age at mid-twenties instead of the several hundred years he actually figured his age at.
"Arthur Kirkland," the officer read. "Coming into the SOE, to go to France. You speak French, presumably?"
England nodded, and the officer just kept watching him, waiting. England stared back, confused, then realized what the man was waiting for. "Yes, sir," he said respectfully. He was used to being one of the top officers in any situation, not an underling, but he could adjust.
"Good," said the officer. "A unit of the American Air Force is coming in soon, a group to supplement our own Air Force and help take you lads to France. You will start your training soon, and do some of it alongside them."
England was sitting in the mess with a cup of questionable tea when the Americans arrived. They were a loud, boisterous group-which England couldn't say surprised him, if he was honest-flight goggles on over their aviator caps, clearly what were known as "flying aces." England searched desperately among them for a red bomber jacket, although he knew he was hardly likely to find it. He knew that America harbored dreams of being a flying ace, and he missed his...whatever America was. But he was all but certain that America would be in his own country, with his president and generals and army in Washington rather than on some random airbase in England.
Hands came down on England's shoulders, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Hey there, Artie," a velvety voice purred in his ear.
England turned around so fast it made his head spin. "Alfred! Why are you here, and not in Washington?"
America ignored the question, instead grinning cockily at England and looking every inch the flying ace he had longed to be. "These seats taken?" he asked, gesturing at the empty benches around England. When the older nation shook his head, America raised a hand to get the attention of the other Americans. "Over here, boys," he called out, claiming his own seat right next to England.
"Who's the Brit?" one of the other pilots asked.
"This is Arthur," America replied, a huge grin on his face.
"The Arthur?" asked another American, raising an eyebrow.
America nodded, still with that proud grin, and the men laughed. "Jones here doesn't shut up about you," they told England. "You're like his closest friend."
England looked at America and raised his eyebrows. Friend?
America winked back. Not at all.
The SOE agents and pilots were in formation at opposites sides of the room, all facing towards the officer in the center. He was reading off pilot-agent pairings, and England and America both had their fingers crossed.
"Jones and Stuart," the officer called out, and England slumped a fraction of a centimeter. America had been paired with the pretty Scottish girl.
A runner skidded in, bringing a note with him, and the officer read it quickly. "Change of plans. Stuart, your pilot is now Brogan. Jones, you'll be taking Kirkland."
America caught England's eye from across the room and grinned.
England stared at both America and the plane he stood beside. "You can actually fly that thing?" he asked, a bit nervous. "Not that I don't trust you, but my life sort of depends on it."
One of the other Americans happened to be walking past. He heard the question and laughed. "Jones is the best pilot we've got. He took to flying like a fucking bird."
America looked so proud of himself, and England smiled. "My life is in your hands, love."
England and three other SOE agents-including that Scottish girl, Stuart-were huddled together in the back of the plane, strapping on their parachutes and other equipment. America and Brogan, one of their civilian pilots in the ATA, a girl who understood airplanes like no one else and Stuart's best friend, were in the cockpit, which was some small comfort-England had by now had plenty of opportunities to watch America fly, both from the ground and from the air as a passenger, and it was true that the younger nation was amazing at it (he didn't know why he was surprised-after all, airplanes were invented in the United States). But nothing could ease his nerves entirely at the prospect of his first parachute jump.
Stuart and the other girl, a soft-spoken brunette from the outskirts of London, jumped first, as was protocol. Then, one by one, the men followed suit, until England was the only one left.
He stood a few feet away from the edge, petrified. He couldn't do this!
America, noticing his fear, handed full control over to Brogan and carefully unstrapped himself, then making his way over to England. "You'll be fine, love," he murmured, then, checking to make sure Brogan wasn't looking, gave England a quick kiss. "Now go, before I push you." He winked and worked his way back to the front.
Once back on the ground, England went searching for America. "He's out on maneuvers," another pilot informed him, pointing up at a block of American planes roaring across the sky. One by one they peeled off, rolling, diving, climbing steeply. England's heart pounded just watching them.
Finally they all landed and America hurried over to England. "So, we were talking a while ago, and I forgot to mention it to you. A bunch of us are going into town for dinner. You interested in coming with us? We also might buck in town." He raised an eyebrow suggestively. "They miss the particular comfort that comes from having a girl in their bed. I personally would prefer a certain Englishman in mine."
As England found no difficulty in getting the night off, as long as he was back on base by noon the next day, he soon joined a host of other men headed into town.
America pulled England away from the rest of the group and towards an upscale restaurant. "We're going here, instead of to the diner with everyone else," he announced.
England opened his mouth to argue, say that this was clearly an expensive restaurant, that it was too much, but America, knowing what he was going to say, put a hand over the other's mouth.
"I can afford it. And once we kick that German bastard out of France, I am taking you to a proper romantic dinner in Paris."
England found all arguments cut off by the unexpected romanticism, such as it was, and allowed America to usher him into the restaurant.
And then a few hours later America was paying for a motel room, England loudly protesting the fact that America was paying for this after paying for dinner as well, America in response rolling his eyes.
"I'm the hero," he said as soon as they got into the room. "And I'm going to take care of you, love."
England smiled sweetly and held his arms out in a pleading invitation. For the safety of both of them they hadn't been able to do much more than those quick pounding handshake-hugs men, and particularly soldiers, seemed to give each other, and he craved a lover's touch.
America took the hint and gently gathered England into his arms, a warm, comforting embrace of exactly the sort England had been craving.
After a moment he tugged on the lapels of America's jacket, pulling the taller nation down to his level for a kiss. Once they parted he yawned, and America laughed.
"Time for bed, I do believe," he announced starting to undo his tie.
Once they were both stripped down to boxers, and an undershirt, in England's case, they crawled into bed. England cuddled up against the taller, stronger man, nuzzling into the warmth and toned muscle of America's chest.
"I love you," he murmured sleepily.
"I love you, too, Arthur," was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep.
England watched the ground fall away as the airplane roared off the runway. After several weeks of training he was finally headed off to France. It was only a short trip, a week or so, almost in a way more to get his bearings for when he properly went for his real, longer, mission than anything else. But he had been told and knew anyway that if he was caught there would be the same and very real consequences were he caught.
When they reached the point where England was to jump he slid open the hatch. He and America had said their farewells on the ground, as they both had to be completely focused while in the air, and so there was nothing holding him back. Taking a deep breath, England jumped.
The jump went smoothly, and he was greeted by a smiling group of Frenchmen and -women when he reached the ground. Stuart was there as well, and he grinned at her. It was nice to see a familiar face.
"Verite?" the French asked. "Sourcils?"
England inclined his head slightly, irritated with the code name, and Stuart-Verity-nodded. From the very little England had heard, she was starting his her actual mission. She looked close to tears.
"You okay?" England whispered to her.
"We were hit by anti-aircraft fire on the way here. Maddie has to emergency land the plane, if she hasn't already gone down," she whispered back. England stared at her. Maddie Brogan might not make it to the morning alive. As awful as that was, he thanked any god there was that their roles weren't reversed, that it wasn't America having to land a crashing plane.
"Maddie will be fine," he said, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
He had never been more glad than when that week was up and he was flown home by some pilot he recognized but didn't know. It made him worry for America.
But one of the first things he saw once he was back on base and made it to the mess for a steadying cup of tea was America. "I was worried about you!" he snapped.
"Oh, the Germans can't nab our Jones," the man sitting next to America said. "Even when he's stupid enough to land for a refuel on the outskirts of Paris."
America glared at him. "You promised not to mention that."
England folded his arms. "Alfred. Explain." His tone was harsh.
"I...um…" America stuttered, not meeting England's eyes. "Fuel was a little low. There was a field, one of the ones they told us was safe for landing in if we needed repairs. I landed for refueling. German sentry happened by. Things happened from there. I'm fine."
He shot a shot a furious glance at the man next to him, who had just opened his mouth.
"Go on," England told the man. "Alfred, don't. I need to know what happened to you."
"He's fine except for the bullet in his thigh. Or that was in his thigh. It was taken out," the man said quickly, looking down at his plate.
England was furious, but tried not to show it, not yet. "Come with me," he said coldly, spinning on his heel and stalked out of the room, assuming by the hurried footsteps he could hear that America was following him.
Once outside and away from any buildings, England rounded on America. "Alfred F. Jones!" he yelled. "What the bloody hell were you thinking? You know the dangers of landing like that! And you, of all people, should really know better. It's not like you're some nineteen-year-old cocky flyboy. You're a nation; you're over a hundred and fifty years old. And, more to the point, you are a nation. You get captured, you put your entire country, all of your people, at risk, too."
He was expecting puppy dog eyes, but, instead, America's blue eyes were cold and hard. England shuddered. America could look absolutely frightening when he wanted to. "Yes, I know that I put my country at risk. Yes, I was damned stupid, Artie, and I got fucking shot for it. Don't you think I've learned my lesson? You really don't have to yell at me." He shifted his weight off his left leg, grimacing. "Damn, that mad dash after you hurt like hell."
England's eyes widened. He had forgotten in his anger that America was injured and had to wait for his wounds to heal. "I'm so sorry, love."
America just glared at him. "I know you freaked out over my injury, but I practically worried myself sick while you were in France. They won't do nearly as much to a downed American pilot as they would to an SOE agent." He shook his head hard, as if to clear it. "Don't just go off on me like I'm some ignorant, idiotic child." He turned and hurried off as quickly as he could on his injured leg, leaving England to stare after him. America didn't often get angry, but when it did, it was something to behold.
The time had finally come for England to leave on his real mission, and America was almost more panicked than him. Everyone on the base had heard how they had lost both Stuart and Brogan to unknown circumstances, and America was terrified of losing England. They had gotten over their spat following a flurry of kisses in the corner of an abandoned bunker and another night spent together in a hotel in town, and America was realizing more and more that he couldn't lose his England.
"Relax, love," England soothed. "I'm a personification. I'll be fine. They can't kill me."
"That just means that they can hurt you more," America argued. "And they will, if they know what you are."
England just laughed. "But I'll be fine. I promise."
"You better be."
Once again, England watched as the ground of the airbase, the ground of his country, fell away from him. It was for real this time, and the nerves were really setting in. He was going to France to spy on the Germans. He was going to France to spy on the Germans.
Heart pounding in his throat, he strapped on his parachute. He could see the lights of Paris coming up rapidly, and knew it was time to go.
"Farewell, love," he murmured, though he knew America couldn't hear him, and jumped.
Woohoo, the actual story is starting!
Stuart and Brogan, the girls mentioned, are not OCs, exactly. If you remember, I mentioned in my notes in chapter one that I was inspired by the novel Code Name Verity. Stuart and Brogan are codenamed Verity and Kittyhawk, respectively, and the main characters of the novel. A nod, I suppose, to my inspiration. I'll have random references to other works throughout here...the Code Name Verity reference, a South Pacific reference, a Doctor Who quote…
And, okay, I'll be honest...I got a little lazy in researching this chapter. I basically went off Code Name Verity. SOE training didn't go quite like this, but I wanted to focus more on the USUK aspect before everything goes to hell. I mean France. As a result, I really don't have any historical notes for you all...sorry if this comes as a huge disappointment.
Also, there are two headcanons I love involving America and flying. One is that Amelia Earhart taught him. The other is that he prefers to fight from the sky-it makes him feel like a superhero, soaring up there among the clouds, and, more importantly, he doesn't have to see his enemy die.
Oh, and Sourcils, England's codename, means Eyebrows. I couldn't think of anything, and so came up with a joke, of sorts. I don't love it, but it works.
One final note-this could be the last chapter for a while. I'm still waiting for chapter four back from my betas.