I Wanted Wings

by LyingMonsters

Alfred F. Jones would have been a fighter pilot if it weren't for his heart defect. Arthur Kirkland would have had a calm life if it weren't for someone like Alfred, who flies into his London bookshop one sunny summer afternoon in 1940 and changes both their lives forever. Inspired by the flying song "I Wanted Wings". WWII AU.

I wanted wings, 'till I got the goddamn things, now I don't want them anymore…

-World War Two flying song

0o0o0o

The American had been in his bookshop three times today, acting like Arthur wouldn't notice him. He was in the front near the newspapers now, trying to read them without Arthur realizing.

'I know what you're doing,' Arthur said as he carried a pile of poetry books into the back. 'You should pay for them if you're going to read them all the way through.'

He dropped the paper. Arthur set the books on his counter and raised an eyebrow.

'Don't act so surprised I saw you. You don't exactly blend in.'

The American turned to him with a shameless smile. 'I've heard that,' he said. He raked a hand through his hair and straightened up. 'What gave me away?'

'It's the accent, really.' Arthur turned around and went back to putting the books away. He could feel the young man's gaze on his back, intense and bright. He glanced back, and to his surprise, the American didn't look away. His eyes were a startlingly bright blue. He smiled.

'Not much I can do about that.' He focused on the nametag on Arthur's shirt. 'Artie?'

'It says Arthur.'

'My bad. I can't read cursive all too well.' He fiddled with the edge of the paper. 'Can I finish your paper? I'm just looking for a certain bit in it.'

'Of course,' Arthur said dryly. 'As soon as you pay.'

The American furrowed his brow and dug into his pockets. 'I don't have any money,' he said, 'but I've got some rations you can have.'

Despite himself, Arthur was interested. 'What kind?'

'What do you say to sugar?' The American held them out.

It had been a few days since he'd had any sugar. 'That seems acceptable.'

'I'll make you a deal. You get my sugar rations, I get to read your newspapers for a while. I won't take too long, or scare off any of your other customers. I'm just looking for one thing, and you get the papers earliest.'

Arthur wondered if all people in America smiled as much as this one did, or if he had the misfortune to chance upon the one American who did, and who walked into bookshops to try his smiles out on people. If nothing else, he was right about Arthur getting the papers first.

'Deal,' he said. 'What are you so interested in?'

The American handed him the slips. His hands were sun-warm and broad. He tilted his head and the sun glinted off his goldenrod hair.

'Pilots,' he said.

0o0o0o

The American came in the next day to flip through the paper again. Arthur had got his shipment so recently that the pages still smeared if you rubbed at them too hard, and the American ended up with ink stains on his fingertips that matched Arthur's.

'Where do you get these?' he asked.

'I get most of them from the place next door.'

The American spent the next few minutes wandering through the bookshop looking through all the different books. He found a book on anatomy and spent some time poring through it.

'Enjoying your sugar?' he asked as Arthur walked by with his arms overfull of books. He had the book open to a diagram of the heart, and his eyes sparked with amusement.

'Very much,' Arthur snapped. 'Excuse me if I can't talk while I balance these books.'

'Artie,' the American chuckled, 'you could have just asked.' He took the top half of the tower of books, balancing them on one palm while he flipped through the anatomy book with another, like he couldn't bear not moving.

Arthur wanted to correct him, but he decided it would have been in poor taste. He let the American set the books down on the shelf with ease. He could reach the top shelf easily, the one Arthur still needed to stretch for.

'You'd be a good assistant in a bookshop,' he said.

'I know,' he said. 'Too bad I'm on the hunt for a different job, though. Maybe after the war?'

That brought Arthur up short. Nobody really talked about after the war, that golden hazy faraway time. 'Maybe,' he said. 'Don't get ideas about me hiring you.'

'What do you want to do after the war?' the American asked. He pulled over Arthur's stool and sat down, all sprawling limbs and gawky energy, tapping his fingers.

'I don't know,' Arthur said, surprised. He'd vaguely assumed that this would be his life for as long as the war went on, until he was called to duty, and he would return here at the end, but the way this man phrased it, it was like he was expected to change. 'I quite like my bookshop. I don't think that'll change after I take my tour.'

He sat up straighter. 'You're enlisted?'

Arthur pressed his lips together, feeling a cold, bitter knot settle in his gut as he remembered everything he was, and the reason he hadn't joined any unit yet. 'I will be, some day.'

The American's gaze sharpened. For someone with such wild, seemingly undirected energy, his sudden intensity was shocking.

'I get that, Artie,' he said softly.

Arthur could have laughed. 'I sincerely doubt that we have the same reasons for it.'

'Really-' he began, but Arthur ushered him out of the shop.

'I'm sorry. I have work,' he said. He could feel that burning blue gaze on his back even as he went back to his office, securely shut the door, and started sorting through the latest radio transmissions from his insufferable neighbor in publishing.

Francis walked in hours later with a fresh draft of the next day's paper, which he dropped on Arthur's desk directly on top of his book.

'Your American found my office.'

'What?' Arthur asked, trying to salvage his book from beneath the print-hot pages.

'Your American. Tall, solid. Farmer's boy type. Blue eyes.' Francis looked at him expectantly. 'He's found my office.'

'He is not my American,' Arthur snapped. 'And what do I care about your office? Maybe if someone came around to bother you every so often, you'd stop turning out such drivel.'

'My newspaper is very well received,' Francis said airly. 'It does not contain drivel. And what it also does not contain is information about pilots, and yet your American seems to be under the impression that it will. Care to enlighten me on why he's under this impression?'

'No,' Arthur said. His book, thankfully, was only slightly crumpled. 'Why would I know? He's likely a pilot himself. One of the- who were they, the new ones, the volunteers from America. The Eagles. Pilots always seem to be interested in themselves.'

Francis laughed. 'Perhaps. He seems like the type.'

Arthur rolled his eyes and remembered how the man seemed to take up so much space, like a fiery comet drawing up all the oxygen in the atmosphere. 'He does. Bloody pilots.'

The idea lingered. Someone as bright and kinetic as him felt like someone who would be a pilot. Arthur studied him as he came in the next day to check the paper, long legs kicked up and hair untamed.

'Are you a pilot?' Arthur asked. His American glanced up, and suddenly grinned.

'Do you think I am?' He set down his paper.

'I thought you might be one of the Eagles,' Arthur said. 'The volunteer American pilots.'

'I wish,' he said. He propped his chin on his knuckles. He really was quite tall. 'Do I really look like a pilot to you?'

'You certainly act like one.'

His grin broadened. 'What does that mean?'

'Nothing good, I can assure you. It's because you walk around like you're the King rather than just...' He gestured at him, and with a start, realized he didn't even know the man's name, despite him becoming a familiar presence, helping with books and wandering about before he was gone, quick as lightning. 'Whoever you are.'

'Well, Artie.' His American stood up with a flourish, arms spread wide. The sunlight caught his hair, the curve of his cheek, the broadness of his shoulders, and shone through the seams of his jacket, lighting him wholly in gold. 'I'm Alfred F. Jones, straight from the US of A, and I'm going to be the best damn fighter pilot the world's ever seen.'

Alfred F. Jones. God, you really couldn't get a more American name than that.

'Alfred F. Jones,' Arthur finished. 'You sound like you'll be a pilot.'

'I'll take that as a compliment,' he said. Arthur scoffed.

'It wasn't. Why aren't you one of the Eagles?'

Alfred tilted his head. Even when he was deep and still in contemplation, he burned with an impatience to move, fingers dancing over his cuffs, rocking back onto his heels.

'You really want to know why I'm not a pilot yet?' he asked. His eyes glinted in his dark silhouetted form. 'Maybe I'll tell you some day. It's a secret.'

Arthur thought of himself, of his own secrets, and the forbidden question rose to the tip of his tongue, wondering if Alfred was somehow the same way.

'Some day,' Alfred repeated. The sunlight shifted and ran in bright lines down his shirt. 'You seem like someone I can trust. I like you, Artie.'

He was gone long before Arthur could remember to tell him off for the nickname. The sunlight was bright in his eyes.

0o0o0o

Alfred came in with more sugar rations on the weekend, on the day where Arthur had to move his inventory.

'No papers today,' Arthur told him. 'Besides, I don't need more sugar right now.'

'I've got coffee too,' Alfred offered.

'Keep it. I hate the ration coffee.'

Alfred smiled. He had his knee hooked up over the arm of the chair, which Arthur had told him not to do a few days ago. He looked magnificently relaxed. 'I'll keep that in mind.'

Arthur laboriously rearranged his stock as Alfred flipped his way through a few books. 'Do you not have other people to bother today?' he asked. 'I told you, no papers.'

'Mattie's busy at the airfield today,' Alfred said. Arthur glanced over his latest stack of books at him.

'So you are a pilot.'

'Not yet.' Alfred cocked his head again and smiled in that way he had. 'And I wanted to see you.'

Arthur scoffed. 'Well, work doesn't stop on the weekends, so I can't chat with you until I clean up.'

'I'll help.' Alfred swept in and took the books out of his arms with infuriating ease. He peered down at him from over the stack. 'Where to?'

Together, they changed out his inventory much quicker than usual. Arthur attempted to ignore Alfred whistling in clear, high notes as they ferried things in and out of storage until Arthur's arms felt like lead and the bookshop was overfull of sun.

'You know, you'd probably get things done faster if you hired an assistant,' Alfred said once they were done and he'd slung himself over the armchair again. His mouth quirked up and his eyes sparkled. 'Someone who could at least reach the top shelf. Maybe think about that before you get sent off to a nursing home.'

'Oh, you-' Arthur swung at the closest bit of Alfred, which ended up being his arm. Alfred didn't even flinch.

'Artie,' he said with disgusting amounts of amusement, 'that could not have been your best punch.'

'My arms are tired,' Arthur defended.

'No, come on.' Alfred offered his spread hand. His palm was calloused. 'Give me your best shot.'

Arthur crossed his arms.

'How are you going to defend your country if you can't even land a good punch?' he goaded. 'Imagine I'm a German and hit me.'

'You're already quite punchable just as you are,' Arthur snarked.

'I've heard.' Alfred grinned. 'Come on, old man.'

It was that smile- that terrible, infuriating, shameless smile, brighter than the midafternoon sunlight soaking into the room. Arthur punched at his spread palm, and Alfred caught it. His breath caught in his throat.

'Not too bad, Artie,' Alfred said. His voice was a note lower. Arthur's fist slowly relaxed under the gentle pressure of his hand, and Alfred spread their fingers together in mirror image. His hands were broader and tanned and very warm.

'I'm not that much older than you,' Arthur said. His own voice sounded faint. 'I'm only twenty-three. What are you, twenty-one?'

Alfred's fingertips wrapped around the tips of his. 'I'm nineteen.'

Nineteen. Arthur couldn't look away from where their hands met.

'Nineteen,' he said, 'and you already want to throw your life away? Do you know how fast the pilots die?'

'I've read about it,' Alfred said. 'But I can't help wanting it. You can't deny what your heart tells you, and mine has always sung to me that I wanted wings.'

He deserved them. If anything and anyone was suited to flight, it was Alfred F. Jones. It shone out of him. The poets in the books at the back would have listed his want for wings right alongside blue eyes or a brash laugh, like it was vital to him.

'Why are you so concerned, Artie?' Alfred tilted his head. 'I had the impression you didn't care too much for pilots or the men who want to become them.'

You can't deny what your heart tells you. Arthur's pulse jumped between his wrist and the centre of his palm.

'Where would I get my sugar without you?' he asked. His mouth was dry.

Alfred smiled like the sun. For a heartbeat, his fingers slipped into the gaps of Arthur's and he squeezed his hand.

'I'll see you tomorrow, Artie,' he said. 'And once I become a pilot, I'll send you chocolate. I promise.'

And then he was gone, a flash of lightning in the cloudless blue sky, and Arthur was warm all over. He thought of chocolate, melting on his tongue, and then of wings and blue and endless energy and flight itself.

0o0o0o

I wanted wings till I got the goddamn things

Now I don't want them anymore

They taught me how to fly, then they sent me off to die

Well, I've had a belly full of war

-I Wanted Wings

This is my WWII-verse. I have also written a 1961 Berlin AU.

:: Meeting someone again after years and falling in love with them the same way as you used to