Prompt: Green

Characters: America and England

Exhilaration was a funny feeling that drove people and nations alike to do some strange things. Not that America would consider this mission strange, of course. It made perfect sense: England needed help and America would pay any price to help him, neutrality laws and military orders be damned. Heroes operated without borders, without restrictions. His people had risked their citizenship for strangers; how was he supposed to sacrifice anything less for his brothers?

Thousands of miles beneath his airplane in the cloud-spotted sky, the green grass, stretched as far as he could see, curling around shimmering ponds and muddy ditches swelling with water from the English rains. Beautiful as the scenery was, America still preferred to fly at night, with the city lights clustered together like luminous galaxies against the backdrop of the dark universe and each home a star within the galaxy, its inhabitants planets who sometimes wandered but inexorably returned, bound by the gravity of love and family. Here, with the Blitz casting a shadow over his brother's land every night, America could only fly during the day. He laughed a little at the thought of England trying to shoot down his plane—a study model made in the world's Air Capital, his own Wichita—thinking he was Germany.

"What's so funny, Captain Jones?" a voice asked over the radio.

America waved his hand flippantly, though he knew the other pilot could not see him. "Oh, just the thought of those silly Brits chasing us away. That tends to happen a lot. Have you heard anything from the guys who went to help in Canada?"

"Yeah. They met a man there named Matthew Williams—I think? I can't remember his name exactly—who'll help be in charge of them."

America smiled. "Glad to hear it. They're in good hands."

"You know him?"

"You could say we have history. Oh, that's Tadcaster up ahead. We'll be landing soon. Y'all hear that?"

A chorus of voices shouting "yes!" rang in the nation's ears.

Much as America anticipated England's reaction to his totally heroic entrance, he still cherished every second he had in the sky. Above the world, somehow simultaneously inside and outside it, his heart was free. The adrenaline rush that taking off and landing gave him made him feel like a god who had tamed gravity and the wind itself. No longer was America confined to the ground—no, now he could venture into the skies and do more than just dream of the fabled wild blue yonder. He had found Shangri-La, and it was not in the mountains but up here, thirty thousand feet above ground. He'd soared to Mount Olympus and beyond.

Yet every time he flew, America remembered the tragic fates of so many of his aviators. Lindbergh had lost his baby. Amelia Earhart had lost her life. It was in her honor that he had named his plane, the Beautiful Meeley. The Kansans who had assembled it had been more than happy to paint a picture of one of their own on the nose of the aircraft. There she was, her curls framing her youthful face that seemed so real, so alive, though the aviator was now no more than a closely held memory that smiled only in his heart.

Perhaps not all the memories the clouds conjured in his mind were bad. Especially not the ones of her hands over his while he had taught her to fly. Though he had never had more than a silly, boyish crush on her, America still treasured the touch of those warm, thin hands.

She was beautiful.

Flying was beautiful.

"RAF Church Fenton." America fiddled with his radio for a moment before pressing a series of buttons on the control panel to deploy the craft's landing gear. "This is Captain Alfred F. Jones of the No. 71 Squadron, requesting permission to land."

A loud crackling of static came over the radio.

"Sorry," said a male voice after a moment. "Didn't catch that."

America pressed his headphones over his ears (even though he knew doing so wouldn't help the man in the air control tower hear him) and repeated himself louder than before.

"Captain Alfred F. Jones of the No. 71 Squadron. The Eagle Squadron. Requesting permission to land."

A pause. Then, a laugh.

"Permission given." America could hear the man's smile in his voice. "Welcome, you Yanks."

America pushed his foggy aviator goggles onto his forehead and wiped a thin sheen of sweat off his face. Being back on solid ground sure felt strange, he thought. But for now, he would be fine. The other members of the squadron had landed safely, although one of the younger men had messed up the formation order, eliciting a collective sigh from the Americans and Englishmen alike. At least they were all okay. That came before making a good first impression, America knew.

He climbed out of the spacious cockpit and jumped to the ground, half-expecting it to move beneath him. With a light shiver, America pulled his warm bomber jacket around himself. His brother's land just had to be chilly and windy, although the cool September weather contrasted nicely with the heat inside the airplane. Normally, America thought it too cold, but with the sun having beaten down on his cockpit as he had flown over the Atlantic—the great ocean whose history ran as deep as its waters—he had gotten warmer than he liked.

But all of it was worth a little discomfort. This mission was worth more than America could imagine.

He couldn't wait to see England's face.

"Hey!" America raised his hand and waved at a group of British airmen and an officer approaching them at the other end of the runway. His face fell when he saw England was not with them.

"Welcome, all of you!" A tall officer with a shock of blond hair that peeked underneath his tightly fitted cap shook America's hand. "Flight Lieutenant Mark Lindsey."

"Captain Alfred F. Jones."

"We're glad to have your help—is something wrong?"

America frowned. He still hadn't seen England. Hadn't Canada been there waiting on the runway for the RCAF volunteers?

"I was just wondering where Arthur Kirkland was. I was kinda expecting him."

"Kirkland? You know him?"

"Yeah. We go way back." Way, way back.

"Hm." Lindsey turned to the group of airmen behind him. "Any of you know where he got off to?"

"I think I last saw him in the control tower, sir," said one young man, his cap cocked a little too far to one side. He fixed it with fumbling hands once the officer noticed him.

"Thank you." Lindsey turned back to America. "Seems it'd be best to look there for him."

America nodded his thanks. "If it's okay, I'd like to go see him now."

"That's fine." He had no idea why, but Lindsey thought that this American pilot deserved his full trust. Something about him struck the Englishman as odd—and it wasn't his accent or his airplane (although he did think its nose art strangely endearing). He had a je ne sais quoi about him that the other American airmen lacked.

"Thanks." America shook Lindsey's hand again and took off for the green and rust-colored brick building just off the runway. Even at a distance, he thought he saw a figure standing behind the blue-tinted windows of the observation area on top of the tower. The pleasant fire burned in his heart; he knew his fellow nation was there waiting for the arrival of the American volunteers. And not expecting America himself to lead them, to come to his aid.

Official stances be damned. Government policy be damned. Something higher compelled him to fly across the ocean and near hostile territory and away from home. Well. Not quite away from home. By his people's side America found his home, and he was more than happy to be here with some of his most daring young men, those who had given up the safety of neutrality to aid their greatest allies.

America was so proud of them.

Sneaking around the other side of the building facing away from the runway and toward the empty green field surrounding the nearby village, America stole up the rickety staircase as quietly as possible. Unfortunately, he couldn't exactly surprise one of his allies—England would certainly notice the interior warmth from the other nation's presence—but he still wanted to have at least a little fun.

The door from the rooftop to the glass-enclosed observation area squeaked as America opened it, but England took no notice. He stood with his back to the American, his gaze focused on the floor by the window. The younger nation held his breath and crept closer, painstakingly controlling every muscle in his legs to mute his footfalls.

Just a little closer… No, don't turn around! Closer, closer…

"Gotcha!" America grabbed his brother's shoulders and squeezed them tight.

"Ack!" The Briton whirled, his expression a mix of shock and anger and… fear? America couldn't tell.

"Relax, England. It's just me."

The older nation nearly slapped America across the face.

"Do you think that's funny? Do you really? Bloody hell, America."

"Sorry." America scuffed the heel of his boot on the ground.

England rolled his eyes but lowered his hands, which he had been clenching in fists near his face.

"Y'know," America said after a strained pause, "you're the one who taught me that."

"Taught you what?"

"How to sneak up on people."

"Hmph. Grow up, America."

"If you ask the rest of the squadron, they'll tell you I grew up a whole year."

"You didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Lie about your age to get in! Oh, for goodness' sake. Did you think any of this through? Aren't you supposed to be neutral?"

America grinned and placed his arms akimbo. "Well, maybe. America is. But I don't remember Alfred ever saying so."

England sighed. He needed to yell at the other nation, to send him home—where he was safe from the war, where he was happy, where things were okay. But he almost didn't want to.

"Speaking of which," America said, "how's Artie holding up?"

"Mm." He shrugged. He felt his people's fear, but he also felt their resilience and their courage in the face of their terror. The bombs both shook and strengthened him. "The last hope of free Europe": it was far from light and frivolous a title. Even so, the more the Luftwaffe attacked him, the more he swore to spit back in their faces. "I'm okay."

"That's good. And now, you'll be even better with us here to help you!"

"Not if you keep trying to scare me. I'll have you court-martialed."

"You can't court-martial the United States of America!"

"Don't tempt me. And I thought you came here as Alfred."

"Well… whatever."

England turned to look out the window at the mingling armies. Less than an hour together, and the men had already befriended each other. He smiled in spite of himself.

"'Nor law nor duty bade me fight,'" he said, America coming to stand by his side, "'Nor public man, nor cheering crowds. A lonely impulse of delight drove to this tumult in the clouds.'"

England took a deep breath, as if trying to inhale and taste the poignant verses.

"William Butler Yeats."

"Say what?"

"Yeats." He glanced at America. "'An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.' It's a poem."

"Oh."

America looked at his brother. He had expected to find him more worried and tired than he was. True, the Englishman was a bit jumpy, and the bombs kept him up at night. But he was strong. And stubborn.

America laughed inside. To think, people wondered where he got his headstrong nature.

"America?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did you come here? You know you can't possibly stay long."

The younger nation took in the sight of the elder's determined emerald eyes and starched green uniform. He smelled of rain showers and bergamot and honey and everything wonderful America remembered from his childhood.

The fire in his chest grew more robust. Not only because he wanted to fight and to fly, but also because he raged at the thought of someone hurting his beloved brother.

"Why d'ya think?"

England smirked.

"C'mon, you." He elbowed America. "Let's get back to our people."

"Okay! Time to go save England!"

The Briton snorted but didn't roll his eyes this time as he pulled America behind him by the sleeve of his jacket.

"Hey, England?"

"Mm?"

"I came because you're my lonely impulse of delight."

Historical Notes:

The Eagle Squadron (Squadrons No. 71, 121, and 133) was the name of the group of Americans who, in 1940 during the Battle of Britain, joined the RAF and RCAF as volunteer pilots. Since the US was officially neutral at this point in the war, these pilots risked losing their citizenship and being imprisoned if they were caught (and some were on their way to the Canadian border). Men who joined this squadron were supposed to be between 20 and 31, meaning Alfie must have lied about his age (his "human age" is 19, I believe).

RAF Church Fenton was an RAF base near Tadcaster.

Charles Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart were famous American pilots. In 1932, Lindbergh's infant son was kidnapped from his house and murdered in one of the most highly publicized crimes of the century. Amelia Earhart, born in Atchison, Kansas, disappeared during a solo circumnavigational flight and was declared dead two years later, in 1939. No one knows what happened to her.

Wichita, Kansas, is nicknamed the "Air Capital of the World." During WWII, it became the main manufacturing site for B-29 bombers, some of the most iconic planes of the war.

Next is "Blue," also with America and England. I'm almost done with them, I promise. xD