Chapter 3

Arthur was in his peripheral vision. "Don't play coy with me, Jones."

Alfred was grateful for the distraction Arthur provided. War was often ingrained in the mind, hard to escape from, but Arthur had a certain quality, a certain aura, that allowed you to escape and focus on solely him. Blue eyes met green. "Naming my plane. That's what I'm doin' with the paint."

Arthur bit his lip, and Alfred, at the time, didn't understand why. "Ah, I see. Cheerio, then."

But I don't want you to leave, Alfred thought he said, but Arthur kept on walking- and then everything burst into colors and disoriented shapes-

"Alfred."

His eyes opened, and he sat up straighter in his seat. Arthur was driving- it was still dark, early morning. He looked uncomfortable, fingers drumming on the wheel, and he glanced back at Alfred, face dancing with shadows from outside. "Apologies for waking you, but I must ask you a question."

"Uh-huh?"

His lips tilted upward, and he looked as if he were holding back laughter. "Where on earth did you learn how to fly?"

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

Arthur hummed, looking up at the top of the Mini Cooper with a finger on his chin. "I suppose both."

"I think the real question is how did an old man like you learn how to fly."

"And I thought your deductive skills were on par," Arthur sniffed. "I may not have been outward about it, but I was trained in the RAF before World War II."

"Why didn't you fly?" Alfred asked, ignoring the jab to his pride, eyes trained on Arthur's profile.

Arthur visibly stiffened, and his eyes fell for a brief moment, before he changed the subject. "Quite talkative, aren't you? We never get along this well, let alone have nice conversation."

Alfred raised his eyebrows and decided to leave his previous question alone. "If you're asking for a mean debate, I've got one ready-"

"No thank you. Contrary to popular belief, I don't go around asking for fights." He paused, and then cynically added, "Especially with people lesser than me."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Well, isn't that a problem? Because I'm bigger than you."

Arthur threw up a hand. "And here we go."

"You started it."

"You're an immature arse and I refuse to banter meaninglessly with you."

"But we're bantering right now."

"We are not!"

"Are so."

"Are not."

"Ha!" Alfred pointed at him triumphantly. "Now you're the 'immature arse,'" Alfred mimicked.

They both paused, glanced at each other, and Arthur frowned. "Well played, Jones. But I still whooped your bloody arse flying, didn't I?"

"I was running out of fuel. If you think shooting at someone who is obviously at a disadvantage is 'whooping,' then by all means, go tell everyone you shot down someone who was trying to land anyway."

Arthur was smirking, and he glanced at Alfred. "Arseface."

"Asshole."

It was strange to Alfred that Arthur just had gallons of gasoline in his garage, but hey, "everyone has their own," as the nice old lady down the street always said.

The ride back was much quieter than the first, and Alfred found himself sneaking glances at his ally. He still looked the same as he always had. Eyes jade green, blonde hair unruly and stringy, eyebrows monstrous in a way only he could make look good. And Alfred, every time he glanced at him, remembered a time he only dreamed about, a perfect moment that hadn't lasted, a moment that he would never admit he had cherished.

Since when did I become so fond of you?

"I thought Israel didn't have an Air Force. How are you the head of it?"

Arthur looked like he had been shaken out of a dream, but he recovered quickly, and responded, "Well, I suppose that is a slight exaggeration." He looked at Alfred pointedly. "Slight. Right now, we just need to smuggle planes into Israel. And people- we need people to fly. There are no ranks or uniforms. It's very disorganized, and I'm in charge of organizing it."

"How many recruits do you have?"

"Not many. And we're working on smuggling planes from Czechoslovakia."

They both fell into an uncomfortable silence until Alfred brought up another question. "At the meeting, you said Israel had no chance."

Arthur looked straight ahead, expression neutral. "I did."

"And you obviously had a change of heart. Why?"

"I never said I didn't hope that the Israelites would win. And I have learned much about them the past few months, where the Israeli Air Force- IAF- has been stationed in Tel Aviv. They are tough, quite a force to be reckoned with." He glanced at Alfred. "I came back to England on a mission to acquire more aircraft- So, let me be clear when I say that you aren't the only one who is fleeing their country, Jones." Their eyes locked, and Arthur quickly looked back to the road.

Alfred held back surprise when Arthur (one of the most patriotic personas Alfred knew) implied that he was breaking rules to help Israel, too, but decided that was a touchy subject that Arthur clearly didn't want to speak about. He'd learned from long ago to tread carefully into Arthur's personal waters- you had to gain his trust, his friendship. And Alfred knew- he could tell- that Arthur was still very wary around him, despite the mildly friendly atmosphere that had surfaced. It was as if Arthur was just waiting for Alfred to stab him in the back and run off. And Alfred wondered if he could ever gain that trust back after he had damaged it so terribly. But, instead, he asked, "Why would you fight for someone that you think will lose?"

Arthur simply shrugged. "Because it's right."

May 10, 1948

Alfred had never been in Palestine- or what would soon be Israel in four days when the British Mandate expired- but it was quite different from what he expected.

Arthur and he were in Tel Aviv, which was located on the west coast. It was hot and sticky, and there were strange white buildings everywhere, mixed with palm trees and desert, and a beach- which Arthur strictly forbid Alfred from going to on the grounds that he should at least attempt to be a mature adult.

And the people all seemed happy. There were parades in the streets- nothing too flashy, but they still attracted many people. It was a relatively lively city- there seemed to be a cafe or bar open on every street, people conversing cheerfully. Alfred had received warm welcome from many, even if English wasn't the common language. Arthur was well-known in Tel Aviv, and knew hebrew: when Alfred had asked him why, he discovered that Arthur had been here many times throughout the British Mandate.

The headquarters of the IAF was on the outskirts of Tel Aviv. It was a small building, and beside it was a hangar for the planes and equipment, which had a short runway for take-off. It was small, it was unorganized, and there was barely any technology. According to Arthur, they were scrambling to gather planes- in Czechoslovakia, 25 Avia S-199s had been purchased and were en route.

Alfred would stay with Arthur in a small building, located in the heart of Tel Aviv. There were two bedrooms, a singe bathroom, and a kitchen crammed into a tiny space. When Alfred stepped in, he stated, "Please tell me there's at least a coffee maker."

Arthur walked past him, obviously amused. "Whatsoever did you do when coffee rations were enforced?"

Alfred huffed, "Oh, like you and the tea rations?"

"At least I have self-control. You can't go anywhere without the blasted beverage."

"First of all, no one calls coffee a beverage, old man. And secondly- does that mean there isn't a coffee machine?"

Arthur shook his head with a contemptuous smirk on his face. Alfred sighed, dejected, and wondered how smoothly mornings would go- 1942, the year of coffee rations, had felt like the toughest year of his life, and he wasn't looking forward to a relapse.

Arthur broke him from his thoughts. "We'll be living together again."

Alfred felt heavy tension suddenly rise between him and Arthur. Again. We've been separated for such a long time that I've forgotten what it's like living with him. Since the Revolutionary War…

They both spoke at the same time, and then awkwardly broke off, ushering the other to go ahead. What is this, middle school? Alfred mused. But he observed the way Arthur refused to make eye contact, the way Arthur rubbed his arms with his hands, the way Arthur bit his lip anxiously, and hoped to God that it wouldn't be this way the entire battle for Israel.

"Arthur, you know I don't want to talk about… that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur snapped, quickly and defensively, taking Alfred off guard at the ferocity of his tone. "I just want you to bloody well know that I get the bathroom first in the morning."

Alfred rolled his eyes, fiddled with the sleeves of his bomber jacket, and felt awkward and almost embarrassed for merely mentioning the past to an obviously reluctant and still bitter Arthur. But in my defense, he started it.

Arthur turned around and walked into his bedroom, slamming the door, leaving Alfred to watch helplessly after him. Well, you've managed to screw things up between you and Arthur once again. Good going.

Hello, everyone. This is my first author's note… and I have no idea what I'm doing. (If you can't tell by now.)

I want to thank everyone who has been so kind as to read this. Bear with me on the grammar, because as much as I try to check over it, I am extremely self-conscious and do not have a friend to beta. (Ironic, because you all are reading it, and I claim I'm self-conscious.)

So, I want to let everyone know that I try to mix fiction with history as best as I can. That being said, not everything is going to be necessarily accurate, and I apologize for that. I mean no disrespect whatsoever to anyone. (I assume everyone knows that Arthur Kirkland was, unfortunately, not the organizer of the IAF, as much as that is my head cannon.) XD