'Do you stay in this dusty bookshop all day long?' Alfred wondered aloud as he carried Arthur's books to the back.

'No,' Arthur bristled. 'I have a life, you know.'

'Could've fooled me.' Alfred smiled in a way Arthur was starting to recognize, absolutely full to spilling with his amusement and delight at his own teasing. He thought he was so clever.

'What about you, American boy?' Arthur asked. 'You seem to run off all the time- what's so interesting about London to you?'

'Oh, Artie, everything in London is interesting to me,' Alfred said with a broad wink. 'But your pilots get me the best.'

'Pilots,' Arthur groaned. 'Bloody pilots, that's all they ever talk about now. Hurricanes and Halifaxes and Spitfires-'

Alfred's eyes all but glowed. 'Spitfires,' he breathed.

'You said you wanted to be a pilot, didn't you? Don't tell me you want to be a fighter pilot too.'

Alfred just stood there and grinned at him. 'I'll bite my tongue then.'

Arthur hefted some books up on a shelf. 'Don't you know how fast they die?'

'I won't.'

Arthur turned to appraise him. 'Better tell the Germans that.'

Alfred waggled a book at him with a look of mock disapproval. 'Show not tell, Artie. That's the first rule of being an author. I'm gonna show them that I'm the best fighter pilot in the world.' He propped his chin on his knuckles in contemplation. 'I wouldn't say no to your papers running a couple pieces about me, though…'

'Last time I checked, you weren't even a pilot at all. How do you think you'll become the next Baron if you don't even have a plane?'

Alfred waved airily at him. 'I'll get there soon. Just trust me.'

Arthur scoffed. 'If someone like you gets a Spitfire, I'll get the paper to run as many pieces about you as you could ever want.'

Suddenly, Alfred was right up against him, bright as the sun.

'Promise?' he asked. Arthur lost his words for a moment in the light of his eyes, dancing like a pilot doing stunts.

His smile was the most infuriating thing Arthur had ever seen.

He jutted out his chin and smiled right back. 'That's right. If you manage to get a plane- you, an American- I'll write the pieces myself. I'll call you whatever you please. I'll name you the hero if you want.'

'I'll hold you to that,' Alfred said. His hands landed on his shoulders, nearly knocking him back, heavy and warm, and held on tight. 'The hero, huh? I like that. And I'll see it before the end of the war.'

Alfred spent the rest of the day wandering in and out of his shop, stopping occasionally to read a paper. He seemed exactly like the kind of happy-go-lucky American to blunder headfirst into his plans and expect them to work out simply because he wanted them to. Arthur had never put much stock by that kind before, and even less during a war, but something about Alfred striding off down the street, lit by the sunset, almost fooled Arthur into thinking that he might actually make it.

After shutting the door he immediately reconsidered. Alfred wasn't one of the Eagle volunteer pilots, which meant that he simply couldn't be a pilot. Arthur would love to know how he planned to get a plane, considering all of that. It would be a good story, whatever he was planning.

Arthur kept watch on the door all day, but Alfred didn't arrive that day, or the day after next, or even after next. It made him feel strange. He had, somehow, gotten used to having a firework in the shop with him, blazing through his books and offering him sugar, but he didn't show up.

He kept a copy of the newspaper the day he didn't arrive, and the days after that too. He even checked the calendar, as if somehow the days of the week in their neat lines would reveal to him the strange secrets of American minds, even though Alfred tended to show up on weekends as often as he didn't. He piled the papers behind his desk, a week's worth of them, greyish papers and feathery ink. At least Francis had one repeat customer this week. It was quiet in the shop, finally, and Arthur almost caught himself wishing for some entertainment.

When he wrote that line down in his journal, he immediately crossed it back out.

It was Saturday when Alfred came back, and raining as always. He pushed his way into the shop and ruffled his hair, spraying water droplets everywhere.

'Go ahead, ruin my stock,' Arthur invited, even as he felt warm for the first time in days. Alfred looked up and beamed at him.

'Artie!' He bounded closer and tossed his soaking wet jacket down on Arthur's wooden stool like the entire store was his. 'God, sorry I've been out so long, you wouldn't believe the week I've had.' He paused and looked at him expectantly.

'Hello, Arthur, how was your week? I'm sorry that I came in sopping wet and didn't bother to use the mat, and then proceeded to dump my things everywhere.' Arthur dropped his American accent, as it was starting to make his throat hurt. 'How about you start with that?'

Alfred looked abashed for all of ten seconds. 'I was only out for a few minutes. You really do get a lot of rain here.' He cleared his throat and put on the most awful accent Arthur had ever heard. 'Hello Arthur, old chap, I bet your week was terribly boring without me. I'm dreadfully sorry I got your books all wet because you live in the rainiest city on Earth, and that's my stool anyways, so if you'll kindly give it here-'

'Stop,' Arthur said, wincing. 'Good God, no. That cannot be what you think I sound like.'

'I thought it was pretty good. Your accent, though? That's like-' Alfred's face contorted. 'You sound like Mattie when he tries to sound like me.'

Arthur remembered the name. 'Who's Mattie?'

Alfred grimaced a bit and shrugged one shoulder. 'Old friend. I'm trying to get him to help me out with getting a job here, but things are difficult.'

'I've been wondering. What job necessitates you to move all the way to London?'

Alfred mumbled something; Arthur only caught the words wouldn't let me before his American was blazing on again. 'Can I have my papers?'

Arthur slid them across the table. Alfred flipped through them, scanning each page, and began to narrate his week.

'I've been working with Mattie for a while, trying to get me on a plane somehow. He's been training for-' He cut himself off and grimaced apologetically. 'Sorry. Can't say. Promised.'

'Do you think I'm a spy?' Arthur half-joked. It fell flat. They'd forgotten, in this sunny bookshop, that there was a world of war out there.

Don't you know how fast pilots die?

'No,' Alfred said earnestly. 'I don't. I think you're the most damn British-y person I've ever met or ever will. I think I can trust you.'

Something twisted in Arthur's heart, and he pressed his lips together, trying to gather his thoughts.

'It's English, not British-y.'

'Close enough,' Alfred laughed, and Arthur almost forgot about that pang in his heart. 'Anyways, I've been doing odd jobs while Mattie pleads my case. He's smart, you know, could've been a lawyer or something once upon a time. He was thinking of being a professor before…' Alfred's wistful smile faded. 'All of it happened.'

They sat in silence for a moment with the weight of all of it above them, like the shadow of a circling thing that threatens to be far larger than either of them can comprehend.

'So.' Alfred nudged his shoulder, offering them both a way out of the idea of trenches, scarred lands, planes roaring their death rattles. 'You told me you'd just continue on in your little shop after the war. Anything else you've ever wanted to do?'

'Are you implying being a bookshop keeper isn't a good job?' Arthur bristled.

'No, no! Just what your other dreams were.' Alfred's look melted wide-open and longing. 'Like being a football star. I never-' His hand rose to his chest absently, and with a start he shoved it into his pocket. 'I wasn't ever really that good. But I dreamed of it for a while.'

'Never was good at football,' Arthur mused. Stepping into his dreams was a dangerous thing, full of unsteady truths and strange corners he was unwilling to dive into, especially in front of some American, and he strived to keep close to the surface on an even keel.

'Well…I used to want to do music.'

Alfred quirked an eyebrow with a curious look. 'Really?'

'Don't look at me like that. It was a long time ago,' Arthur defended. The memory of a bedazzled jacket he once owned made itself known, and he felt his face heat.

'Music. Never expected that out of you, Artie.' Alfred looked delighted. 'Can you sing?'

'Not for you.'

Alfred glowed even as he stuck his lip out in a playful pout. 'Come on,' he crooned, his tone as soft and sweet as all of Arthur's favourite singers used to be. 'Just a little song.'

'Never.'

'Even if I get you something to sing to?'

He hesitated at that for a precious moment too long, and Alfred was the cat with the canary, if the cat was an American who couldn't hide his heart to save his life and the canary was all of Arthur's fragile promises to himself not to get too close to impossible things, or to pilots, or to Americans who wanted to be both.

'I'll bring you music too,' Alfred declared, self-assured as anything, and to Arthur's disbelief, stood and flourished a pose in the middle of the shop, as the rain all fell outside. 'You know, we can dance with the best of them in America.'

Arthur made the mistake of saying, 'I'll believe it when I see it.'

'You will,' Alfred said, leaning forward over the counter. 'I'll make sure of it.'

Over the next few days Alfred developed a bad habit of forgetting to leave his shop, lazing around in the armchairs and scribbling something. He seemed oblivious to Arthur's subtle motions that he should go and make himself useful elsewhere, which became increasingly more insistent as more people entered his bookshop and saw Alfred sprawled out on the chairs in the back, innocent of average men's feelings towards him.

'Is he your friend?' one of his regulars asked with a smile. Arthur loved having her around, she was old and stately and always unfailingly polite, but he forgot his manners and nearly gagged out the answer.

'Definitely not.'

'Absolutely!' Alfred shouted over him. 'Artie's tolerated me around this long, and he's got the best bookstore in London. 'Course we're friends now.'

He bounded over and shook her hand, preening like a rooster the whole time.

'Yes, ma'am, Arthur's had me around for a while now, but it's been so nice it only feels like it's been a couple days. He's a gracious man.' His laugh rose over her mention of his accent. 'I'm from the US of A,' he explained. 'Midwest, that's right, big wide fields, beautiful there, sun so bright you think you're flying all the time, but I'd say London's even more beautiful.'

At that, he shot Arthur a wink before bending to her again.

'I'm going to become a pilot here,' he said. 'This place seems like it needs some heroes, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let a place this pretty get all bombed up, right?'

Somehow, she seemed entranced by his words. It must be all that smoke from the new airfields. Couldn't be good for old minds. She was still laughing as she patted Arthur's arm.

'I had no idea you had an American around!' she exclaimed. 'He's charming.'

Arthur politely said nothing and let Alfred usher her out, until the door was shut and the sunlight was filtering golden through the window again.

'I won't hear any objection,' Alfred said as he turned around, holding up a finger to stop Arthur's words. 'Your bookstore is the best.'

Alfred had a way about him that left Arthur's words tangled like the patterns of migratory birds, all his thousands of words magnetized and flying away.

'We have only known each other for a few days.'

'Have we?' Alfred hoisted himself up onto the counter. 'It's been a couple weeks now, I'm sure. It has been real nice of you to let me stick around, keep out of the rain and all.'

Arthur had to think back on it. Days with Alfred felt like a wick being burnt, so quick and all-encompassing that they left Arthur breathless.

'Perhaps,' he acknowledged. 'And perhaps I should be less nice. You're always complaining about the rain, and then someone else comes in and you're acting like she's the Queen. London is even more beautiful,' he parroted. 'Really, Alfred?'

'The rain's what makes it pretty.' Alfred stuck out his lower lip with a laughing faux-pout. 'You're not mad, are you? I was trying to be nice to her.'

Arthur scoffed and mimicked his pout, unable to keep the smile from his face despite his efforts. 'I'd like you to be nicer to me.'

'I bring you sugar.' Alfred swung his legs, tapping his chin in thought. 'Guess I should be nicer to you, Artie, just to get you out of this stuffy old place. You'll age even faster, stuck up in this little shop all day. I'll have to bring you home one day, show you the sun we've got in America.'

'It feels like you drag the sun into my shop every day,' Arthur laughed. 'Why would I need to see America when I have more than enough of it every day right here?'

Alfred blinked and gave him that smile-like-the-sun and for once, let him have the last word.

Or at least, he did until the end of the day, where he spun Arthur around as he was closing up shop and grabbed him by the shoulders.

'London's a pretty place with the rain,' he said, 'but I bet it's prettier when you really get to know it. Tomorrow, you're gonna show me around the place so I can appreciate it for real, okay?'

Before he could so much as ask what Alfred was thinking, his American had ruffled his hair and stepped out into the street, shouting you're the best, Artie!

Arthur brushed his hair back down and leaned against his counter, bemused, perhaps a bit shell-shocked, and thinking, for some reason, of the little coffee shop around the corner.

I don't expect Alfred back tomorrow, he penned in his diary. It's Saturday, and he never comes by on the weekends.

0o0o0o

The morning dawned proud and quiet. Arthur woke with a luxurious yawn and lay around for a long time, feeling strangely satisfied, before he had the mind to wander down to his shop again through the rain.

The world was dove-grey and the water sluiced down in sheets, drumming on his umbrella. It was peaceful and dreamlike, and Arthur's mind wandered to the pleasing routine of an easy day. He'd make another tea when he got there.

When he rounded the street, instead of his pale green front of his shop, he saw Alfred- standing there in a light jacket, hardly fitting under the tiny overhang, soaked to the bone.

Arthur barely thought about running to him, only the shocking thunderclap-noise of his umbrella colliding with his storefront as he swung it over Alfred's head to keep the rain off.

'What in the name of God are you doing?' Arthur demanded, but he could barely get the words out from panting so hard. Warm hands found his shoulders and- held him back, Arthur realized, he hadn't even known he was pushing closer.

'You're gonna get soaked,' Alfred said. His hair was dripping wet and falling all over his face. He was smiling. Like the sun. Always.

'You tell me why you were standing out in the rain for hours waiting for me to open up or I'll…' Arthur ran out of ideas, and thankfully, breath as well.

'Let me get wet again?' Alfred teased.

'Run you through with my umbrella.'

Alfred put on his exaggerated pout. 'That's not very gentlemanly. Can you open it up?'

'Not before I learn what possesses a man to taunt God by catching cold so badly.'

Alfred ducked his head in, cat with the canary, all of Arthur's good sense that should be singing out its lungs in this coal mine instead washed away in the rain, rain, rain.

'I told you,' he said. 'I want to see London.'

Arthur had thought, or maybe prayed, he was joking. 'In this rain?'

Alfred shrugged. His eyes were even more blue under the rain. 'It's warm enough. Nobody else'll be out. It's a city all to ourselves.'

'A city all to ourselves. And how do you intend to take advantage of that, when you're ten seconds from freezing?'

'Maybe I wouldn't be, Artie, if you let me into the shop.' Alfred raised an eyebrow at him.

He was awful. Arthur unlocked the door and nearly pushed him in, pointing him down at the wooden chair with the umbrella and a firm 'Don't let me catch you on the upholstery!'

'You won't,' Alfred agreed. 'I bet you could put that right through a Gustav, one of those 109s the Germans have. What am I doing trying to become a pilot when Arthur Kirkland is far better suited to the task than I'll ever be?'

Arthur rolled his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Alfred looking pleased with himself and got the kettle.

'Keep talking, see where that gets you. Speaking of taunting God, here are your pilot papers.' He dropped them on the counter, the new one that talked military news. Alfred pushed them away.

'Not today. I just want to be shown around London a little.'

'And I want to make sure you don't freeze and die first. You're a madman.' He swatted at Alfred's hand when he tried to reach for the kettle. 'No, I'll handle it. Look at how you're shaking, you'll spill it all down yourself.'

He pushed a warm cup into his hands and waited until Alfred took a sip so he couldn't talk back. 'Take off your coat or you'll freeze.'

Alfred pulled his jacket tighter around himself, still shivering. 'I told you, it's- it's a warm rain.'

'You're an awful liar, Alfred Jones.'

Alfred stilled and looked up at him. The steam wreathed his face and his goldenrod hair, made dark and casting crooked shadows on his face. The rain kept singing on outside the window.

'It's warm,' he insisted, holding up his hand, palm out. 'I run hot.'

Arthur laughed at him and pressed his fingers to Alfred's blue lips, not thinking, simply caught up in rain, rain, rain.

'Do you?'

Alfred's breath was warm against his skin, warmer even than the steam of tea. He was slowly flushing back to gold, the golden sun rising in his bookshop. Alfred's mouth was barely open, as if he was caught in the moment before saying something infuriating and wonderful as always.

'Oh,' Arthur heard himself say. 'You do.'

Alfred's eyes were deeper than the sky. He felt like falling upwards forever. Arthur had to step back, catch his breath; he felt like he was the one rainstruck and burning.

Alfred's eyes fluttered and he looked away, gaze fixing on the window. Arthur turned and took it in, the falling sky, the rain.

'I'll have another cup,' Arthur said, fumbling with the words as if his were the hands blue at the knuckles with cold. 'Before we go.'

Behind the counter he could collect himself. He could pretend the heat aching in his hands was warm ceramic and not lips against his skin. He could feel Alfred watching him, the weight of him nearby like the heavy calm in the heart of the hurricane.

'I can wait,' Alfred said. His voice seemed to come from far away, and it was so warm. 'I can wait.'

0o0o0o

:: The brassy green shine of water at dusk