It's Day Four and though I really had to scramble to get this one done – as in, I came home from work and wrote it all in one sitting, aaaaaarghhhhh – I did manage to finish it, so here we are! We're still on schedule! :)
Thank you for an overwhelming response in favour of yesterday's prompt! As I said, it was my favourite and I'm so happy that I got to include it here and that people liked it! :3 With thanks to: callinthetides, Pandora of Ithilien, splitDEVOTION, sabacat, TheWonderBunny, Em, ElricLawliet, Starfire, bleach-otaku, Renuki, nadrixam, IrisWill, Hada-Fiction, This Could Theoretically Be Sparta, HalloweenPumpkin, Lamashtar Two and CrashTheMIGHTY (and Hakuku for your sweet FB message)!
Today's prompt, which clocked in at fourth place with 50 votes, was the air force pilots with major UST having to spend Christmas Day together in the same POW camp. Summed up: RAF/USAF USUK UST XMAS POW~
Comin' In On A Wing And A Prayer: Written in 1943 by Jimmie McHugh and Harold Adamson, this patriotic song was a huge hit, tapping into the public's admiration for the US Air Force. It was covered by lots of different artists during the war and a film released in 1944, Wing and a Prayer, even borrowed the song's title for its own.
Comin' In On A Wing And A Prayer
"No fucking way."
Alfred F. Jones stopped dead in the doorway to the wooden hut he would be sharing with – according to his captor – one other captured pilot, a Royal Air Force bomber who had been shot down five months before.
"Seriously?" Alfred turned to the stern-looking German officer escorting him, unable to suppress a grin despite his predicament. "I'm sharing with this guy?"
The German blinked at him, his blue eyes widening somewhat.
"Yes," he said, seeming unsettled by the question. "I do not see why it should be a problem. You are both Allied pilots. I am sure that you will have... ah, some things in common."
Alfred laughed, wheeling towards his room-mate once more.
"Sure thing," he said, waving his hand. "Well, don't let me keep you. I'm sure I can figure out how things work around here."
The German looked rather bemused; but eventually he gave a silent, confused nod and left the hut, locking it firmly behind him.
"So." Alfred folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Long time no see, Wing Commander Kirkland."
"So it has been, Lieutenant Colonel Jones." Arthur finally looked up from his ratty book, scowling. "There goes my peace and quiet. It was too much to hope you'd leave me alone even after I got captured."
Alfred snorted.
"This is pretty pathetic," he said, looking around. "Five months you've been here. You mighta been the toast of the RAF back in England but you couldn't even be bothered to escape from here."
"It would be pointless," Arthur sighed, going back to his book. "I have considered escape from every conceivable angle but the fact is that I speak no German, have no papers and am wearing an RAF uniform. Even if I were to somehow get out of this camp, I would be lucky to get half a mile before being soundly escorted back here."
"Tch, what a lame excuse." Alfred smirked, pushing off the doorframe and coming to the table in the middle of the small cabin. "I see how it is. Our rivalry was getting too much for you, wasn't it? You know I'm better than you so you thought it would be better to just lie low here instead, rather than show your face back at base."
Arthur simply gave a deep sigh, turning his page.
"This again already?" he asked blandly. "You know I haven't much patience for your impudence, Jones. When you've graduated from Royal Air Force College Cranwell with a First – and only then – you can discuss with me which of us is the better pilot."
"Oh, blah blah blah again about your fancy-pants flying school," Alfred scoffed; he put his feet up on the table, smirking at Arthur past the chunky soles of his fur-lined boots. "Being Top Boy—"
"Head Boy."
"Sorry, Head Boy didn't stop you from getting captured a whole five months before me – so haha, I win."
"Well," Arthur said coolly, scrunching his nose in delicate disgust at Alfred putting his boots up on the table, "now we're even – so shut your gob before I shut it for you. And," he added acidly, "if you can't do that, then at least try to be civil."
Alfred laughed uproariously, genuinely amused.
"I'm not doing either of those things," he replied loudly, tipping his chair back on two legs and rocking back and forth. "You should know perfectly well that I'm going to go right back to making your life miserable."
"Very well, then." Arthur met his gaze briefly over his book. "I can rise to that challenge. Again."
—
Having expected a miserable life consisting of a damp cell, nothing but bread and water for sustenance and cold showers every morning, Alfred was grudgingly surprised by the comfort he found himself in. Sure, it wasn't exactly The Ritz but it wasn't bad considering it was a POW camp in the middle of Germany. The cabin he shared with only Arthur could hold six men and was tolerably warm; there were plenty of blankets to spare and the place was furnished rather well with chairs, a dining table, two desks and a tattered rug. There was also a radio, although the signal wasn't very good, and they were free to come and go as they pleased between the cabin and the fenced-in enclosure beyond, not that there was much to do there but smoke and kick rocks.
Arthur had been shrewd in stockpiling many of the supplies he had been sent in Red Cross POW packages – and he grew very angry when Alfred, mostly out of boredom, raided his hoard and occasionally made off with chocolate or a tin of spam or a candle to whittle into something more interesting (or ruder, depending on his mood). The very fact that there were luxuries to steal – books and ration sweets and cigarettes – made Alfred feel that this was all a bit of an adventure and he grew relaxed about his predicament, spending more and more of his time tormenting Arthur than he did coming up with wild escape ideas.
Of course, teasing Arthur was an art unto itself, one that Alfred had long since perfected; not that it was a safe game to play by any means. Arthur had a tongue like a knife and a mean right hook when it suited him. They had come to blows before and sported the black eyes for a week afterwards to prove it. Still, it was fun: Arthur was quite hilarious when he was indignant and Alfred admittedly got some sort of weird thrill out of winding him up. He enjoyed their rivalry and their banter on some level and he was pretty certain that Arthur did, too.
So life went on, downsized and claustrophobic, and Alfred idly watched Arthur painstakingly mark off the days on his Red Cross calendar. It was December and the days fell away, 21, 22, 23 – and on the 24th Alfred sighed and finally came to terms with the fact that he was going to be spending Christmas Day in this cabin with Arthur.
He doubted very much that their guard, Ludwig Beilschmidt, was going to be bringing them turkey and trimmings, though.
—
"This is the worst," Alfred groused, resting his chin in his palms and watching Arthur across the table. The cabin was lit only by candles and Arthur was absorbed in yet another book – a dogeared collection of Just William stories. "It's Christmas and you can't even tell. No presents, no tree, no food—"
"There's spam," Arthur offered blandly.
"—No good food," Alfred corrected with a huff. "Seriously, your guys think that's acceptable food for prisoners? I wouldn't make a Kraut eat that crap." He snorted. "I guess it figures. Sucky welfare packages for a sucky recipient, huh?"
No answer.
"Arthur!" Alfred whined. "Don't ignore me!"
"I've found that it's the best way of dealing with you." Though he answered, Arthur did not spare him a glance. "You're such a brat, you know. I don't see why I should give you the time of day."
Alfred sulkily buried his face in his arms, sighing once more.
"You're such a drag," he muttered. "It's Christmas Day and you won't even have a proper conversation with me. Goodwill to all men, Arthur!"
"All you want to do is insult me."
"Well, yeah, because you're lame."
"Then why do you want me to have a conversation with you?"
"Because I'm bored! I can't believe I'm spending Christmas doing... well, nothing!"
"I hardly think insulting me will alleviate your boredom," Arthur said. "You do that every day – and have done ever since the day we met."
"Hey, I'm not taking the blame for starting this!" Alfred exclaimed, bolting up right again. "I was perfectly willing to be nice to you! You were the one all... all stuck-up and like "Oh, I'm Arthur Kirkland, I went to this super-duper really expensive flying school and got the best grades there in the history of ever! Don't even try to talk to me, silly Yankee, for you are far beneath me!" So... yeah! Stick that in your pipe and smoke it!"
Arthur lowered his book at long last.
"I don't recall wording it quite like that," he said icily.
Alfred shrugged.
"Well, that was the message I got," he said. "So I figured I just had to beat you instead."
"I'm afraid to say that you haven't," Arthur said, smirking.
"Have so!" Alfred challenged.
"You have not."
"Have so!"
They both stood at the same time, Arthur slamming down his book as they leaned across the tiny table towards one another.
"I'd like to see you prove that," Arthur said dangerously. "Though frankly I don't think you can. Managing to not be captured for a little longer than I is hardly an achievement that I would rank – after all, I've been in this war for two years longer than you."
"That's no reason to act like you're too good for me!" Alfred snapped.
Arthur snorted.
"Your perception of this situation is completely skewed," he replied. "You're the one who came over to England announcing yourself as a hero and that you were going to save the whole of Europe all by yourself." He prodded Alfred in the chest. "Rather big talk from someone sitting here with me in this bloody POW camp, don't you think?"
Alfred pushed him back just that little bit rougher.
"I was the best in my class, too," he said irritably, "so suck on that, Head Boy. Besides, your puny Spitfire is no match for my mighty Mustang."
"Ha! Your Mustang would be nothing if not for our Rolls Royce engine!"
"You wouldn't have any planes at all if we hadn't given you the money for 'em!" Alfred pushed Arthur again.
"You only gave us the money because you wanted us to do all the work so you wouldn't have to get your hands dirty!" Arthur shoved Alfred right back.
"It's not our fault you guys are so piss-poor at fighting the Germans that you always need our help to beat them!"
"It's not our fault that you lot are too lazy to get off your arses and join in when you should!"
"Goddamn Limey!" Alfred burst out in utter frustration, seizing Arthur by the collar.
"Idiot Yankee!" Arthur fired back at him, grabbing Alfred's lapel.
And then, suddenly, they were kissing and there were no more words, untrue or otherwise.
—
"You have no idea how long I've needed to get that outta my system," Alfred groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes.
"Me too," Arthur admitted. "Though don't think that that's been the only reason I argue with you so often. You are actually just a twat at times."
"So are you." Alfred rolled over, slinging his arm over Arthur's waist and nuzzling against the back of his neck. He sighed. "...But I don't feel like wringing your neck anymore."
"Me too, as a matter of fact. That's just the orgasm talking, though." Arthur yawned and patted Alfred's hand. "Or it's the goodwill to all men."
Alfred laughed.
"I'm gonna go with the orgasm," he drawled.
"Oh, well, in that case, I do believe we've found a cure for our homicidal tendencies towards one another. Splendid."
"I know!" Alfred said cheerfully. "And it's great, too, that the solution solves both my want to punch you in the face for being a smart-ass and my want to get into your pants!"
He gave a happy sigh, resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder.
"Ah, Christmas is so magical!"
...I'm really sorry if this one has a lot of mistakes in it. I literally cranked it out and slapped it up here with a half-arsed read-through. I really need to go to bed. T.T
Catch you all tomorrow~!
xXx