[fic] Through Mist Or Open Sky, Part 3

[obstinatrix]

He meant to be most of the way to the bottom of a bottle of Scotch by dawn. That was what Bean had always touted, after all, as the solution to every problem, and it now remained to Jeff to honour Bean's memory through the perpetuation of his ideals. But he had barely made it four shots before the tap came on the door, a timid little thing, and then Jensen's un-timid voice: "Jeff? Jeff. Let me in."

Jeff let his head fall back and sighed. The whisky bottle clinked against the tumbler lolling in his hand and the headboard rattled against the plaster. "No."

He wasn't doing anyone any favours, he knew that. He was the damn CO, not some expendable pilot officer who could be done without for an evening. But Jeff had been in the Service long enough to know that COs were human, too -- that they had, in some ways, the hardest time of it, choosing which poor little lambs to send off to the slaughter. "Fuck off, Ackles."

Apparently, however, if a CO were to become too human, it was all right for his lieutenants to override his orders and force an intervention. Such Jeff inferred, at any rate, from the way the door popped open as immediately as if he had called out in welcome, admitting Ackles, rid of his boots and outer gear and with a glass in hand. Jeff narrowed his eyes in protest, but Jensen simply held up one hand and perched himself on the foot of the bed. "Stow the crap," he said. "Sir."

God, but he was so -- familiar. This kid, the mould he'd been made in, so cocky and competent and quick that Jeff could have laughed at the way his belly leaped in fondness, remembering. Instead, he said, "What, come to cheer the Old Man up, have you?"

His tone was a challenge, but Jensen only shrugged. "Something like that." He wasn't, Jeff knew, a tactile person, not like Padalecki with his groping hands, but now his hand crept out to encircle Jeff's ankle, a warm reassuring grip. "It's okay, you know. To be sad."

"Jesus, Jensen!" Jeff set his glass down with a thunk and looked up, suddenly furious. "I know it's okay. He was my best friend, since I was practically still in utero; of course it's okay to be sad."

Jensen, to his credit, barely blinked, and his voice, when it came, was calm. "Well, it's okay to show it too, you know. Ask for help." He shrugged. "Take comfort in something other than just the bottle."

Jeff snorted. "I'll keep the bottle, thanks." He lifted it in mock-salute.

"How long were you guys together?"

That took him off guard. Jeff spluttered, choking on whisky. His mind raced to recollect itself, not step into any potholes of its own half-drunken creation. "I, uh." His tongue felt thick and slurring in his mouth. "We fought together in the last Show. You know that."

Jensen's next words left no further room for misinterpretation. "Hell, Jeff, everyone knows that. I meant how long were you guys..." He raised his eyebrows pointedly.

Jeff felt himself flash hot and cold. "I don't know what you mean," he muttered, and Jensen rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Fucking. Tryin' to be delicate here, but screw that for a bad job in this place, I guess."

He looked so sure, that was the bugger of it. He always did, but then, he was normally right. He was so wrong about this that it was painful, made Jeff's chest hurt all the way down, and he pressed a hand to his eyes, shaking his head. "God, Jensen -- no. We weren't -- he would never --" He broke off.

Jensen was faltering a little now, eyebrows pulled together. "I've seen you," he accused, half-defensive, "noticing, me and -- and -- "

"You and Jared," Jeff finished wearily, "your boy, I know. I..." He laughed, but the sound was hollow. "He would never." The emphasis was firm and clear. "I, I woulda. Any day, anything he wanted. Women are fine, but they're not --" He stopped, bit his lip against the final fucking treachery of pressure needling behind his eyes. "Shit."

The look on Jensen's face now was nothing short of stricken. Jeff didn't think he'd ever seen him look so affected. "Oh, Jeff." Jensen had always played himself as a cynic, a bringer of dark humour, but this was not that man, not quite. "Man, I -- did he know?"

Jeff snorted. "Never told him, if that's what you mean. Not about the men in general, or him in particular, but..." He shook his head. "I don't know; maybe he did. There were times, in the first War, I thought..." He shrugged. "God, Jensen, it doesn't matter, all right? I know you think you came here to make it better, but at the moment you're only making me feel even worse, so if you could --" He waved a hand towards the door.

He didn't know what exactly he expected, but it wasn't the way Jensen smiled and hove closer instead of getting up, the hand on Jeff's ankle -- whose casual pressure Jeff had almost forgotten about -- shifting up to squeeze his knee. "Hey," Jensen said, and his voice had changed somehow, subtle and dark. "Don't tell me I don't know how to make this better when you haven't even let me try."

Alarm bells went off in the back of Jeff's brain, but on the surface, his whole body was reacting, his own breath loud in his ears and his skin singing with nerves. "You can't fix," he tried, "can't fix something like this, Flight Lieutenant."

He'd thought the use of Jensen's rank might have slowed him a little, pulled him up short, but it seemed almost to be having the opposite effect, Jensen shifting closer, his other hand finding Jeff's shoulder and gripping it gently. "I didn't say fix," Jensen said. "What're we doing tomorrow, Squadron Leader?"

Jeff blinked, startled, the question so jarringly incongruous. "I -- I haven't had the order through yet." He laughed shortly. "There'll be a hell of a reaction to Berlin, so we'll be reacting to that, I suppose."

He felt awkward, but Jensen nodded, like this was exactly what he'd wanted Jeff to say. "Exactly. Reacting. And you need to be in good form for that, S/L, not tanked on whisky and misery, so let me --" His hand slid up Jeff's shoulder, brushed his bare throat -- "help you, okay? It's all just energy; we can turn it into something else. Get you angry tomorrow like you need to be, 'stead of suicidal."

"I'm not --" Jeff began, but Jensen cut him off with a brief press of his mouth, brush of his lips to Jeff's.

"I know," he said. "Just makin' sure."

It wasn't a good idea, Jeff knew that. But he knew, too, that Jensen was right -- that flying out tomorrow feeling the way he felt now could only end one way, and however sick of his life he might be just now, Jeff didn't want to die. Jensen's mouth was warm, soft, and every touch of it to Jeff's only reinforced the feeling, Jensen's hands creeping into Jeff's hair, Jensen shifting until his knees clamped firmly either side of Jeff's thighs. He felt good, the skin of his back hot against Jeff's palm when he let his hand wander there, and this was what Jeff needed now: proof of life. Proof that life went on.

Still, though, beneath the distraction of Jensen's mouth, the firm weight of him pressing Jeff into the mattress, there was something else, a niggle, and Jeff couldn't seem to let himself ignore it, assume it taken care of and just fucking take. "Jensen." The word came out a little smushed against Jensen's lips, but Jeff's hands on Jensen's biceps were surely clamped tight enough, bracing, to convey pause. "Jensen, I don't --"

"Mmm," Jensen put in, unconcerned, and his mouth tripped low along the line of Jeff's jaw, found the bolt of it and worried at it, teeth catching. Jeff sucked in an unsteady breath and forced his hands to remain steady, chin lifted, stalwart.

"Jared," he got out. "What about Jared?"

He didn't know what arrangement the two of them had; if they had an arrangement at all. But if Jeff knew anything about people, it was that a relationship did not have to be official before it could breed jealousies. He expected, he supposed, either evasion from Jensen or assurance -- that they weren't exclusive in their activities, should other options present themselves. What he didn't expect was Jensen's distracted hum, the wet slide of his mouth to Jeff's ear where it formed: "Be here any minute, S.L., don't worry. "

That did it. Jeff felt himself freeze with almost comical immediacy, head jerking back. "He'll -- what --?"

Jensen, as if in reaction to Jeff's sudden and palpable discomfort, sat back a little and touched Jeff's face, the curve of his palm gentle on Jeff's cheek. "I asked him to give me ten minutes," he said, soft, "and then come find me." His mouth twisted suddenly, wry. "Not that I came here specifically to -- I don't know -- suggest this, do this, but..." He shrugged. "We've talked about this before, Jared an' me. And he knew you were in a bad way, that we wanted to help."

Jeff laughed shortly. "With what, a pity fuck?" He'd intended it to come out harshly, shock them both back to their senses, convey some level of indignation, but in reality, he didn't feel it. It was show outrage only, could hardly be anything else with the way Jensen was looking at him, uncharacteristically soft. Hell, with the knowledge that they'd talked about this before, before there was anything to pity Jeff for, and the fact that they cared enough.

And then there was the fact of Jensen, young and smoothly muscled and unfeasibly attractive, effectively straddling Jeff's dick and promising the attentions of a second beautiful boy in addition. Jeff would have had to be dead, he thought, not to react favourably to that.

So when Jensen said, low, "Not exactly," and leaned in, Jeff lifted his chin to meet him, parting his lips to Jensen's. And when a tap came on the door, and Jared's voice -- "Can I come in?" -- he couldn't help the way his blood skipped as Jensen pulled back wetly to bid Jared enter.

"Oh," Jared said, as the door closed behind him. Just oh, and Jeff's cheeks burned as he glanced over towards him, but there was nothing but open appreciation in Jared's face, his chest expanding broadly with his breaths beneath the single layer of his t-shirt and his eyes dark, all pupil. That expression was like a mirror held up to Jeff's own arousal, and it hit him like a slap, how clever Jensen was to have thought of this as a distraction; how generous the two of them were to share. Above him, Jensen was watching Jared, too, but he was unmoving, and so was Jared. Jeff swallowed, let his sudden surety buoy him, and held out his hand.

"Yes," he said, and his voice felt dry when it emerged through the scratchy tunnel of his throat. "Oh. Come here, Lieutenant."

He expected, maybe, some hesitation -- after all, this was surreal, all of it, the boy in Jeff's lap and the boy at the door and the burn of tears blurring into heat in Jeff's gut. But Jared seemed mindless of the craziness of it, once the meaning of Jeff's words became clear to him. He crossed the room in two long strides, eyes wide and sparking gold, and then the bed was dipping as he climbed onto it, on his knees, nudging Jeff's legs as he settled himself behind Jensen.

Jensen wasted no time. He reached for Jared immediately, leaning back in Jeff's lap to loop an arm around Jared's neck to pull him close so the long lines of them both bled together. "Hi," Jensen said, almost into Jared's mouth, but his eyes were on Jeff. Jared laughed, shot Jeff a dark look of his own as he leaned in to brush his mouth against Jensen's, a second of chaste touch before Jared opened to Jensen's tongue.

"Jesus." This was a showy kiss, all filthy-wide and wet, and the fact that Jeff could tell it was meant to arouse him didn't keep it from achieving its ends. Heat flashed through him like a pain, and he shifted, his dick pressing hard, now, against the zip of his trousers. "I'd have had to pay half a crown for this in Soho."

Pulling back slightly, Jared laughed and raised an eyebrow. "For 'this'? What are you expecting -- a show?"

"I don't know," Jeff retorted, arousal making him cocky. He spread his thighs a little on the bed, inching them wider under Jensen's solid weight. "If I said yes, would I get one?"

A look passed between them at that, brief, but enough for Jeff to notice. Then Jensen said, slow, "If that's what you want, Sir," and the dirty way he rolled the sir off his tongue made Jeff's breath catch. Jensen's hand slipped, deliberate, from Jared's nape, over his shoulder, down the front of his shirt; reached the waistband and slid back up again, lifting the shirt with it. "What do you want? This is for you." He was teasing, his voice hot and sultry enough that Jeff could tell he was on the verge of self-parody, but he heard, too, the way it softened when Jensen added, "We just want to make you happy, Jeff. Just for a little while."

God, but Jensen was beautiful. Jeff's fingers were aching to touch him, and that, above all, was the decider. However attractive an image the boys made together, if this was to be a one-time offer, Jeff wanted to touch them; get his hands all over both of them; own them any way he could. He reached out, tracing the line of Jensen's shoulder like a blind man feeling his way until he found Jared's cheek, pushed back the comma of hair that always fell into his face. His other hand still rested firm on Jensen's hip, and he shook his head minutely. "No," he said, "no show." He cleared his throat. His heart was beating in his wrists, now, his skin tingling, the pull of his shirt tangible across his nipples. "Get each other's clothes off."

They undressed efficiently, quickly, as if they were used to a great deal more hurry than was necessary just now. It didn't matter, though, with these two. They had no need to resort to striptease. By the time Jeff had grappled his way out of his own clothes, he was breathless just from looking at them, the way their palms skimmed each other's napes, chests, waists, as if touching were a physical imperative. Looking at them, Jeff could understand why. "Fuck," he breathed, almost reverent, "you boys are beautiful."

Sitting back on his haunches, hand slipping finally from Jensen's chest, Jared laughed. The bed wasn't big enough, really, for two people, let alone three, especially when one of them was Jared, and the kid's long golden legs were tucked up underneath him, muscles of his abdomen taut with the strain of holding the position. Between his spread thighs, his cock jutted upward, heavy and shameless. Saliva burst under Jeff's tongue, and he swallowed thickly.

Then Jared said, low and warm, "Jeff," and the way he smiled caught at Jeff somewhere deep in his chest, getting all mixed up with the pain throbbing there dully with his heartbeat. Jared reached out a long arm, big hand closing over Jeff's shoulder, and the feeling scudded lower, as if Jared were squeezing his dick and not his bicep, God. When Jared said, gently urging, "Come on," he tugged with it, but there was no need, not really. Jeff went.

Jared had these shoulders, built like a fucking barn door, but he went down easily at Jeff's urging, and while they would never have fitted together on the bed side by side, things seemed to work well enough with them piled on top of each other, Jared's thighs parting to accommodate Jeff between. The long, long legs unfurled, came up around Jeff's hips, and God, there was so much goddamn skin, the blazing, butter-smooth heat of Jared touching him everywhere, head of his dick dragging slickly against Jeff's stomach.

"Christ, kid," Jeff ground out, his skin coming alive everywhere Jared's touched it, and Jared laughed, hands fisting in Jeff's hair, hauling him in.

Jared kissed like Jensen, hot and wet and hard, as if they'd honed this skill together. His mouth slotted easily over Jeff's, sideways on so that Jeff could do nothing but open for it, shove his tongue back against Jared's and chase his groan.

"God, Jeff." Jensen's voice, then, the rough Texan grit of it in his ear, and then there was Jensen's mouth at the bolt of his jaw, on his neck. Dimly, Jeff felt Jensen shifting closer on the bed, fitting himself against and around the tangle he and Jared made. Then, the wet head of his dick kissing Jeff's outer thigh, and Jeff caught his breath, rocked his hips down against Jared's, grinding their cocks together. Beneath him, Jared's hands tightened on his shoulders, fingernails digging into the muscle, and he writhed, hitching himself up against Jeff and groaning in his throat. At Jeff's ear, Jensen laughed, all heat, and the sound of it skittered down Jeff's spine on a shiver.

"Fuck, look at him," Jensen murmured, "all spread out for you." Jensen's hand was warm and broad on Jeff's back; it slipped lower, now, traced the uppermost curve of Jeff's ass and stopped there. "He's a controlling bastard, this one, always stickin' it in me, but for you?" Jensen's teeth caught, sharp and swift, in the soft hollow below Jeff's ear. "Let you do anything, Jeff, no question, like a fuckin' slut. You want his mouth?" Jensen hitched closer, and Jeff moved reflexively, trapped between the two of them, cock blood-hot and pounding with it. "You wanna fuck him while he fucks me?"

"Oh, Jesus," Jeff panted, wrenching away from Jared's mouth to breathe. His throat felt close, chest overfull with the claustrophobia of sex and sadness, but Jensen was on him in a second, licking at the bruise-bitten swell of his lower lip, sucking on his tongue before he had a chance to do anything so stupid as collect his thoughts. Jeff could feel himself trembling, hips rolling down restlessly into the cradle of Jared's legs, but Jensen was relentless, all hands and filthy kisses.

"Want my mouth?" he pushed, and Jeff bit his lip, head falling back, half at the image of it -- Jensen's pink mouth stretched wide around his girth, Jeff's precome glistening on his cheeks -- and half at the way Jared reared up, groaning, to scrape his teeth over Jeff's collarbone, ungentle and darkly good.

"Jensen," Jared hissed, and Jensen laughed, made a fist in Jared's hair and held him there in the hollow of Jeff's throat, against his neck.

"You want both of us," he went on, "sucking you off? You want to fuck me together, you an' him? You want Jared to fuck you? Anything, Jeff."

"Oh, fuck, Jensen, stop." He was stuttering, now, teeth and hips equally impossible to still, and it was too much, Jensen spewing filth in his ear so his pulse spiked, Jared beneath him clawing at him, bucking up harder with every word from Jensen's lips. Shit, he was -- he could get there like this, just like this; there was no way of choosing when all he really wanted was closeness and skin, the three of them a tangle of limbs and wet kisses. He couldn't find it in himself to want anything complicated, not tonight. "Please, I just -- just you boys, all right?"

Jensen's breath hitched, and when Jeff found his eyes, he saw from the way they shifted, a certain fierceness going out of the green, that Jensen understood. "Okay," he murmured, and then he was leaning in, nipping at the lobe of Jeff's ear as if in apology, throwing his leg over Jeff's thigh and Jared's together so his foot could brace in the space between their knees. "Okay."

When Jeff turned his head, Jared was ready for him, arching up to kiss him deep and slow. Against them, Jensen shifted, worked his hand between their hipbones into the heated space between Jeff and Jared and caught their cocks together in his fist. "Sssh," he murmured, licked at the helix of Jeff's ear and rubbed himself messy against Jeff's flank, hand moving slowly. Jeff shuddered, bit reflexively at Jared's mouth, and Jensen groaned in his ear; "Fuck -- Jared, I want."

It shouldn't have been comprehensible, but Jared and Jensen had worked together a long time, flown together, fucked together, and apparently this had given them a sixth sense for each other's meaning. Jared shifted, pulling his mouth from Jeff's to bite at the line of his jaw, and the next thing Jeff knew, he was being turned gently between them, pushed down onto his back. Vaguely, as if from a distance, he could hear himself panting, breath shivery and shallow, but it was as if his hearing had been blunted, the world reduced to the twin warring sensations of climax and loss, building in his stomach and behind his ribs. "Jared," he got out, groping blindly, disoriented; "Jen --"

But then Jensen was on him, two hands flat on the spurs of Jeff's hipbones, crouched between his legs, and Jeff understood.

"Jensen," he repeated, breathless. Against his stomach, his dick twitched powerfully, blurting precome where already he was slick and shining with it, and Jensen smiled, covered the fat head with his palm.

"Got you," he whispered, and then his hand was curling around the spine of Jeff's dick, angling it upward; the wet heat of his mouth was engulfing the crown of it, and Jeff was gone, any chance of keeping it together lost.

"Jesus." His head fell back into the mess of pillows, hips pulsing up jaggedly into the hot tunnel of Jensen's mouth as it slid down his shaft, practised, easy. His thighs shook with the effort of holding himself still, not just -- fucking Jensen's mouth, Jesus, because he was good at this, so fucking good, and Jeff's fingernails bit into Jared's shoulders when he found them again, hard enough to leave white crescents in the skin.

"Hey." And that was Jared, long body tessellated against Jeff's side, now. His dick pressed against Jeff's straining thigh, a hot, hard line against the jumping muscle, and Jeff sucked in a breath, fought the thump of his pulse at the base of his spine urging him upward.

"Jared," he managed, fighting for breath, "Jared -- God --"

Jared's long fingers sought out the sensitive place on Jeff's throat where Jensen had worried at it earlier, rubbed across the reddened skin until Jeff felt it resonate in his nipples, the insides of his elbows, the backs of his knees, all the hot little places that only came alive when he was close. "Yeah," he breathed, mouth against Jeff's throat, then rubbing slackly over his parted lips. "So good at this, Jeff, isn't he? So fucking beautiful, your big dick in his perfect mouth, your -- nnngh --"

Jeff cut him off roughly, crushing a groan against Jared's mouth as he worked it open with his own, unceremonious, desperate. Between his legs, Jensen was driving him insane, jacking his mouth up and down, taking him deep until Jeff felt the flutter of Jensen's throat around him, and God, Jeff felt dismantled, as if he could fall apart, disappear. Against his hip, Jared was shifting restlessly, rutting, and Jeff groped for him, fisted the fat weight of his dick, smeared his thumb through the wetness at the crown.

"Oh, God." The words were lost in Jeff's mouth, but the tone was clear enough, and Jeff could feel how close Jared was, the way he swelled in Jeff's hand as he pumped it, uncoordinated, all wrist. His other hand had found its way, despite his best efforts, into Jensen's hair, and Jensen groaned, too, around him as he tugged him upward, forced him back down, fighting the urge toward roughness, but holy -- holy --

"Fuck!" Jared's voice, low and dark and frantic, and then he was falling apart against Jeff's side, mouth gone slack against Jeff's as he fucked his hand, hard and jerky and rhythm all gone to pot. Jeff panted, clutching too hard as the pit of his stomach lurched hotly, but Jared didn't seem to mind, muffling a yell in Jeff's shoulder as he came, spatter-wax hot over Jeff's hand and hip and navel.

"Oh, God," Jeff managed, head tipping back, and that was it, he was lost, grinding up hard so his dick hit the back of Jensen's throat and coming in deep, wrecked pulses, the hand in Jensen's hair trembling. It was gut-deep, more than coming, like the weight of everything was pumping out of him with his come, the ferric tightness of brand-new pain. By the time he remembered himself enough to relax his fingers, Jared, beside him on the bed, was stroking his hair, the curve of his jaw, and Jeff let himself collapse as Jensen lifted his head and pulled himself up over them, eyes hot and dark and pleased.

"Jen," Jared murmured, his smile soft with release, and Jensen grinned, shifted until he was straddling Jared's chest, one hand braced on Jeff's shoulder. From this angle -- hell, from every angle, but especially this one -- he was beautiful, like a golden god, cock shiny-wet and ready, every perfect line of him sheened with sweat. Another time, Jeff couldn't have kept his hands off him, but right now he was boneless, breathless, and the most he could manage was to reach over and slide his palm up the inside of Jensen's thigh, smiling up at him as he rubbed a thumb gently over his hole.

"Jesus wept, kid," he murmured, and Jensen laughed, shivered reflexively at the touch and let his head loll back, unconsciously wanton.

"Yeah," he murmured, "he would've, if I'd ever blown him -- oh, shit, Jared, fuck."

Jared's hands were big, capable, and Jeff watched, leisurely, the way they gripped the muscle of Jensen's backside as Jared craned up to mouth at the head of Jensen's dick, guiding him down. Jensen was close, visibly on edge just from sucking Jeff off, and, God, that was hot enough to make Jeff's dick twitch valiantly as Jensen rocked forward into Jared's soft mouth, fucking into it raggedly.

"Fuck," Jensen hissed, clutching at Jared's shoulder, at Jeff's chest, and then his hips were pistoning furiously, shallow and out of control, while Jared clung on, sucked at him and moaned. "Fuck!"

He pulled back with a jerk, and Jeff's breath caught, watching the swell of Jensen's dick, the way the slit gaped right before he started coming over Jared's upturned face, his pink, open mouth. Beneath him, Jared groaned, swallowing what he could, and Jensen made a choked-off, sobbing sound, thumbed at the corner of Jared's mouth as the shivers passed through him.

Jeff had no intention of leaning over -- no intention of moving any time soon, even -- until he was doing it, licking at Jared's cheeks, his lips; pushing the salt-sour taste of Jensen's come back into Jared's mouth. Somewhere close by, he heard Jensen groan, and then there was a third body mashed somehow into the long crush of them on the bed, a third mouth chasing the mess Jensen left.

When, at length, they broke apart -- when there was nothing left to taste but the three of them, fucked-out and slack and used -- Jensen had found his way into the middle, back to Jared's chest, front to Jeff's front. Jeff was bone-tired, all of a sudden, melting into the bed, but when Jensen smiled at him, he found that he could smile back without the ache so new beneath his skin, without the pain so immediate and disorienting.

"Ready to fight?" Jensen asked him, soft, and his eyes were warm and green, clear as lake water. "For him, Jeff. For all of 'em."

Behind him, Jared shifted, hand sliding from Jensen's thigh to Jeff's hip, and the simple touch was warming, anchoring. Jeff breathed out, and when he said, "Yeah," he was surprised to find that it felt -- true. He wasn't okay, wouldn't be okay with this for a long while, but war wasn't about being okay. War was about being ready, spackled together well enough to function, and he was, he thought. Now, he was.

"I'm ready," he said.

*
The state of 'reaction' went on for over a week. More bombs fell on London, and the Luftwaffe continued to direct its energies onto the major airfields in the South of England -- Biggin Hill, Hornchurch, Debden, North Weald. Raids on Berlin, 275 discovered, were easier the second and third time. Misha, true to Richings' original report, managed to throw himself too fervently into a dogfight over Kent and was shot down over Maidstone, but despite the destruction of his machine, he succeeded in walking home with his parachute trailing behind him -- and he wasn't alone.

By the end of the first week of September, 275 had played host to no fewer than five Luftwaffe pilots. The atmosphere never became especially strained between airmen as it might with soldiers; Jeff remembered many similar occasions of a German in the Mess during the last Show. But it did occur to him -- as it had, no doubt, occurred to Wing -- that they had an advantage, here. Both sides were losing machines and pilots faster than they could replace them, but when an RAF pilot bailed out unharmed, he could be back to base by tea-time. When a German pilot came down on the green fields of England, his next destination would be a Prisoner of War camp. Add to this the fact that the RAF had recently received an injection of Polish and Czechoslovakian squadrons, and it couldn't be ignored: they were gaining the advantage. The Luftwaffe may have started out stronger, but there was always a benefit to fighting on home territory: a pilot was only lost if he was dead.

Jeff didn't intend to be dead. He was tired, goddamn, every part of him ached when he woke up and still ached when he went back to bed to snatch a nap between shows, but this could not go on, now, and that was a thought they all clung to. This state of affairs was untenable. It had to come to a breaking point, and 11 Group would be waiting.

*

15 September, 1940

Christ, but Jensen was exhausted. Not that he wasn't grateful to the Luftwaffe for waiting until the very human hour of eleven a.m. to launch their first attack on London, but 275 weren't stationed in London, and they'd only gotten back from that first sortie an hour ago. If Jensen'd known there'd be another scramble called almost as soon as the machines were done refuelling, he'd probably have opted for sleep over lunch. Especially what passed for lunch here.

"Come on," came Jeff's voice from the door of the Mess, and he clapped his hands briskly. "Chop chop! Jared, I don't think your undercarriage is fixed yet, so take Hollis's kite -- he's still in the medical room with his busted hand. Misha, try and remember that the objective isn't hari-kiri, all right? For me?"

"But sir," Misha protested languidly, as he headed for the door at a jog, "that irreverent bastard hit the Palace!"

"Which is of no strategic importance at all," Jeff muttered, but he clapped Misha on the back as he passed. "You just wanted a story to tell the grandkids, didn't you?"

"Naturally," said Misha, and Jeff nodded.

"Tip: you can't have any grandchildren if you don't come back. Jensen, the sooner you get in the air, the sooner you can come back to that sandwich."

Five minutes later, they were in the air, every aircraft the squadron had left, the Hurricanes waiting to follow them up. Green fields and roads drifted serenely beneath the smooth, porpoise-like bodies of the Spits, and Jensen found himself drumming his fingers against the window as if he could urge himself on, knowing that somewhere ahead lay turmoil. The sky was quite empty as far as he could see; no sight of the tell-tale black dots on the horizon, no Hun in the sun. Jensen was just about to let himself settle a little when Jeff's voice cut over the radio.

"My six-o-clock, Blue Flight."

Jensen turned immediately to seek out Jeff's position, and there they were, rising like a cloud of silvered fireflies as the sun caught on their windshields, the chromium parts of their engines and their glistening airscrew discs. As 275 moved nearer, the picture became clearer -- Jensen made out the yellow noses of a squadron of Messerschmitts escorting the bombers, and then what looked like another squadron on top of that. Christ, but they looked legion; the sky seemed full of them, deep layers of them wavering up from the horizon. Jensen felt his throat close up, and he groped for his gun.

The moment he flicked the button from 'Safe' to 'Fire', it was as if the tension had been drained from him at the touch. It was always that way in a fight, but Jensen had rarely been more grateful for it, so many machines milling in and out of the dark red dot of his reflector sight. Jeff's voice, when it came with his tactical orders, felt like the voice of some artificial intelligence, Jeff become nothing but the robotic god to whom they all reported, the all-seeing eye. It was comforting, somehow, to think of things that way, and Jensen let himself sink lower in his chair as he followed the formation round in a circle, ready to dive down into the thick of the bandits. Then came the order -- "Down!" -- and down they went, Jensen's hand sliding easily from throttle to stick to steady the gun, finger on the button.

They hit, and the sky was a maelstrom of furious energy, aircraft throwing themselves wildly in all directions, but Jensen had long learned the virtues of tunnel vision, and never did they come more easily than in a dogfight. He screamed down in a steeply banked dive, sights locked on the tail of a Heinkel bomber, and the Heinkel became the only thing there was, looming larger as Jensen came closer.

"The hell are you doing, you moron," he muttered between his teeth, as the Heinkel below continued almost straight on its original course, entirely heedless of the fighter on his tail. The inactivity struck Jensen as ridiculous, but it was something he'd seen before in bombers, and was none of his concern besides. The Heinkel was square in his sights now, and Jensen pressed the gun button. The vibration of the burst trembled through the walls of the Spit, and Jensen smelt the reek of cordite when it hit, plunging deep into the bomber's fuselage. A second burst -- Jensen was almost on top of him now -- and something flared red inside the Heinkel; leaped out as flames along the fuselage. Jensen set his lips grimly and began to climb away.

The Heinkel fell in a spin, but Jensen hadn't time to watch for a bail out, not in a dogfight like this one.

By the time the machine was level again, the sky, Jensen now saw, was clearing, but they had drifted fully over London, and up ahead, travelling north, he spied a smaller formation of bombers still flying within the tight embrace of their fighter escort.

"Oh, no, you don't," he muttered, but even as he sped towards them, a flurry of Hurricanes -- not their own co-squadron, Jensen thought -- came rearing up from beneath them, three flights spearing upward like the prongs of a trident. Jensen could see their guns going like fury, and the next second, the German formation exploded outward in one of the most extraordinary sights Jensen had ever witnessed in the air, eight bombers and their escort hurtling earthward in flames.

"Holy crap," he muttered, and turned away again.

His own flight was lost to him now, but the air was full of machines, increasingly more RAF than not. Jensen was close enough to ground now that the network of London streets was visible below, the green space of Kensington Gardens with its vast Round Pond. Jensen was heading toward it, on alert, when a Dornier 17 flashed across his gun sight, and after it, another Spit, with a Messerschmitt in pursuit.

"Misha," he realised, as the numbers on the fuselage swam into view. He toggled the radio transmitter furiously -- "Misha!"

No response. Jensen would be frankly unsurprised if something had disabled Misha's r/t, and he seemed too intent on the Dornier to have noticed the Messerschmitts in hot pursuit, but the positioning was, for Jensen, perfect. Allowing for careful deflection, he shot a burst into the air, and the Messerschmitt flew bang into it, coming to pieces in the air. Ahead, Misha's Dornier erupted into flames, and Jensen held his course just long enough to see the pilot jump out before he turned away --

-- into the path of a Messerschmitt, presumably the companion of the first. "Shit," Jensen muttered, glancing down at the instruments in his cockpit. The dogfight had gone on for too long already, he knew, and sure enough, his fuel reserve was running out; he hadn't enough ammunition to take on another Messerschmitt unaided. Hesitantly, he jerked forward, but the Messerschmitt, apparently no more eager than Jensen was for a further confrontation, simply turned away on its heel and zoomed off across the sky. Jensen assumed it was in the same position as he was, drained on all fronts, and a swift glance across the arena confirmed that most of the assembly seemed to be feeling the effects. Jensen couldn't see a single bomber, and, far above, he spotted what looked like Jared's plane heading for home.

Drawing a deep breath, Jensen put his nose down and did likewise.

**

When Jensen landed, Misha was home already. He was sitting on the bench outside the RO's office, accompanied by a balding guy in Luftwaffe grey.

"Hi!" Misha yelled, raising a hand. "Jensen!"

Jensen grinned and diverted his course. "Hey, Misha."

"This is Kurt," Misha said, gesturing to the German airman.

"He shot me down," said Kurt. He looked pretty pleased about it, so Jensen decided to go with it.

"Peachy," he said, and gave a double thumbs-up. "Hey, Kurt. Catch you later."

At any other time, Jensen might have felt more discombobulated by the odd scene, but today had been so full of odd scenes that he hardly knew what was normal any more; if this was the last of the madness or if it was only a misleading lull. Still, lull or not, all he wanted now was a drink, and he headed on toward the Mess to that end.

*

That wasn't the last of it, not quite, but it was close. Jeff had felt it over London that second time, watching the shredded remains of the Luftflotte speeding for home, and it was all the more obvious as each returning attack became smaller and smaller. In the evening, 275 scrambled for London again, picking off fighters over S1, but it was a weak effort. As the BBC untentatively put it on the ten o'clock news, "The Luftwaffe has been decisively repulsed."

Jared stretched out his long legs and propped them on the small, round table at Jeff's elbow. "They hit Clapham Junction, didn't they?" he pointed out. "The railways are down between Victoria and Clapham, and out in Croydon."

Jeff laughed and shrugged. "What's new? That happens whether there's a war on or not. 'Signal failure', so they say."

"Well," Jensen said, "Either way, there's not going to be any invasion. Not this time."

"No," Jeff allowed, breathing in slowly. "No, I think that idea's been scuppered."

"On to Russia," Misha said wryly. "Eh, Kurt?"

"Very probably. But not for me," said Kurt, with a little smile. "For me, the war is over."

"You're the lucky one, then," said Jeff, and signalled for the adjutant. "Barman? Another beer for Hauptmann Fuller. He's got the end of his war to celebrate."

*

October 1, 1940

Dear Jeff,

I don't think I've thanked you for your work here, have I? I need hardly tell you that 275's contribution to the battle we fought this summer was considerable, and is much appreciated by all here at Headquarters. (If I am also a little pleased at being proven correct in my little idea about many troublemakers making one squadron of aces worthy of the Red Baron...well, I think I can be forgiven, can I not?)

I'm sure you've noticed how things have quietened lately. Yes, we were still on alert throughout the final two weeks of September, but what attacks we saw were few and mostly seen off quite easily. We're going to need people here for the rest of the War, undoubtedly, because they will try again, but I don't feel that it will be now. From what our Intelligence is telling us, Hitler has decided to refocus his attentions on Russia. We can all breathe an enormous sigh of relief.

Well -- we can on this front, anyway.

Jeff, I can see you doing the face again. You know something's coming. And, of course, you're right. 275 is one of the best squadrons we have. One might think it would be sensible to keep you on the front line of defence, except that the other squadrons in Group 11 are all being put back together, and the boys who arrived untrained in the middle of the battle, if they survived, have now been honed into fighters. 275, on the other hand, is full of men who already had experience with war flying, and now have experience of war flying as a unit. Sorry, Jeff, but we can't afford to let you sit around here.

Now, come on. You'd get bored soon enough, anyway. You know you would.

You're going to get some orders from HQ in the morning. I am writing to you in advance so that you won't be so surprised when you get them, because -- and I won't mince words -- they may come as a shock to you. We are sending you a rather long way away, but you know we wouldn't do it without good reason.

I could tell you that Burma's nice this time of year, but I'm afraid it would be a colossal fib. Nevertheless, it's somewhere we have an interest in, and somewhere the Nazis have a stealth concern with, too. Get out a map, Jeffrey. I know you don't know where it is. Perhaps you can gen yourself up on the subject by morning, hmm?

Anyway, I'll be there to see you off at Croydon when you go. Burn this letter when you get it, please. I'll be sure to bring my body armour when I go to the airfield to receive you, but I'd be gratified if you'd think about this before you decide it's a horrid idea and you hate me. After all, aren't I sometimes right?

(That was a rhetorical question.)

Yours very sincerely,

Richings (WC)

*

The main landing strip at Croydon Aerodrome was a place Jeff had become very familiar with over a decade of flying civil craft back and forth across the Channel. Now, he stood amongst the sleep-slack officers of 275 Squadron, blinking at the bomber on the tarmac, and the place felt like a different world.

"Why," Jensen said, rubbing a weary hand across his face, "are we going to -- where is it?"

"Secret," Misha supplied succinctly. "Looks like a long-distance hedgehop. Here to somewhere else, to somewhere else, finally destination top secret, yada yada."

"Oh, God," Jared said, and looked at Jeff. "Whose bright idea was this?"

Jeff laughed. His breath puffed out in little white clouds, hot in the clammy chill of the morning. "Whose do you think?" he said dryly. "The show must go on. Lots to see and do!"

"Richings," Jensen snorted, grinding out the stub of his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot, and Jeff grinned.

"Richings. But, you know, it could be worse."

"Hell," Jared put in, "wherever we're going, it's got to be warmer than Kent. There are benefits to being the ones who always get picked on, right?"

The cold air was like a bracket at Jeff's back, hunching his shoulders. He thought, for a moment, of Burmese monsoons, of a sky full of humidity and Messerschmitts, a country Sean hadn't died in. He smiled and shrugged, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "Join the RAF," he said, "see the world. Anyone got a fag?"

Jensen's expression remained sceptical, but Jeff didn't miss the way his mouth curved up, just a fraction, as he pulled out his cigarette case and obliged.

*