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The phone rings out loudly around noon. Immediately everyone in the room - just six weary pilots who’ve been up since first light - all stop to stare in intense silence as an operator puts the receiver to his ear.
Collins and Farrier meet each other’s gaze from across the rickety table between them, their halfhearted card game all but forgotten. One more long inhale of smoke into his lungs and Farrier snuffs his cigarette out under his boot. Collins watches the dying embers smothered into the floor, wishing his pack wasn’t crushed and empty in his breast pocket.
There’s an irritable jump in his’ system every time the phone rings, and he swallows hard against the churning in his stomach. It’s long past breakfast, yet he feels a slight bout of nausea coming on, and his bouncing leg is his only means of expelling his nervous energy. He hasn’t mentioned the creeping blackness in his vision all day, or the dizzy spell he had this morning as he'd rolled out of bed with no more than a couple hours of fitful sleep.
Now adrenaline has him on high alert, more awake than he’s ever been.
The phone is hung up, the operator turning to face the room.
“Fortis Section, you’re airborne in five. Red Section on stand-by.”
Just like that the room jumps back to life, cigarettes stubbed out, books set down, straps and life vests done up hurriedly.
Canfield, their section leader, pats Collins’ shoulder as he passes. “Let’s go then, boys.”
It gets him a tight smile in return.
Collins hangs back only briefly, a few long breaths to bring his pulse down before he heads for the door. Dots flutter around his vision when he stands up, but he manages to shake them loose, avoiding the urge to stumble on over-tired legs.
He only gets one foot out the door before there’s a hand on his elbow tugging him back into the hut. Caught off balance he goes spinning back into the wall with a hard bite of old wood through his uniform, a body crushing up against him, pinning him in place.
Without a word there’s a mouth pressed over his, dragging a surprised groan from his throat, and his hands clamp down on Farrier’s shoulders hard enough to dig deep into the leather of his jacket. For a moment he’s lost to the sensation of fingers pressing tightly around his hip, the slide of a tongue over his lips, sending a much more enjoyable buzz along his nerves.
“What are you doing?” He mumbles breathlessly when he finally manages to put space between them.
It’s become second nature to keep a paranoid eye on their surroundings. Even now Collins does a quick check through the windows and door to make sure no one has seen.
Farrier doesn’t seem to mind one way or the other. He pulls Collins’ attention back to him with a gentle squeeze around his upper arms. Though his eyes are hardened and serious, his tone is light.
“For luck. And to help you relax.”
Collins huffs, but his grip tightens a bit. “Hard to relax with a war going on.”
“Which is why I’m worried about you. You haven’t been sleeping.” Farrier cups his cheek with a hand still free from his gloves, smoothing a thumb carefully along Collins’ skin, along the dark circles under his eyes.
“Like I said…” Collins mutters, and he practically feels the disapproval pointed at him. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine.”
“Are you? Because you’ve been unfocused all day. You’ve barely been eating. You’ve smoked through three packs in as many days. And to top it off, you nearly crash-landed yesterday.”
“I’m fine, Farrier,” Collins says irritably. “This really isn’t the time—”
“It is if it’s going to stop you from getting yourself killed,” Farrier snaps back.
Collins groans and tries to wriggle free. “If you’re worried about how it’ll affect the squadron—”
“This isn’t about them.”
Farrier grips harder, leaning in to kiss him again with a sort of over-eager desperation. Despite his simmering frustration Collins lets himself fall into another tender press of mouths and hands, body clinging to any gentle touch he can find with a satisfied moan. One hand slides down his arm to lace their fingers together, the other curling around the back of his head, tangling into short golden hair. He’s pressed back into the wall, Farrier a solid body of heat, an offer of support to soothe the nerves.
When they part for air again, Farrier slides his mouth up along Collins’ cheek until he's breathing in his ear, cradled close like something precious.
“You can’t keep going like this. Talk to me."
It’s not often Farrier is this brazen. When he worries, he keeps it controlled, wrapped up tight. But in actuality Farrier is just a million and one passions looking for an exit, and Collins has known him long enough and intimately enough to pry open the lock. He unwittingly became a focal point in Farrier’s otherwise reticent, reserved life.
Never before has it been more apparent that he bears so much of another man's soul. In his stubbornness he hadn’t stopped to consider what his distancing and silence has done to Farrier. God knows Collins is painfully familiar with the sentiment; he knows how it hurts like a bone-deep ache, like an anchor dragging in your chest.
Guilt coils in his gut. It should be easy to just let go, give into his exhaustion, let Farrier in. It used to be easy.
“You never say a damn word, either,” he mutters instead, staring blankly at the far wall.
Farrier sighs. “I know… I know, and that’s my point. We can’t keep doing this.”
“And you thought now was the best time?”
“Just listen to me—”
“We need to go,” Collins says distractedly. “Canfield’s going to yell at us.”
Farrier pulls back just far enough to find and hold his gaze, fingers firmly squeezing around his hand.
“I can’t let you keep flying like this.”
“You can’t stop me from doing my job.”
“Collins, don’t make me have to request you be grounded.”
A threat that’s impassioned but lacking anger. It’s not worth a damn thing. Though his mind briefly plays with the idea, Collins stops himself from asking what it is Farrier is trying to say. It’s obvious; it was obvious the moment the war began all those months ago.
You cannot protect me.
And I cannot protect you.
Love is a kindness neither of them can afford.
The tension in the room ebbs away in the silence. Collins closes his eyes, taking a deep breath against the pounding of blood through his veins. He focuses back on the affectionate grip of Farrier’s hand around his, the subtle sound of his breathing, the almost palpable beating of his heart between them.
“You won’t have to. I’m fine. Promise.”
It’s a lie. He’s running on fumes. There's been too many sleepless nights since the evacuation started. They’ve lost too many pilots and twice as many planes. He can't stop feeling the rumbles and motions of his plane even when he sleeps. He can still smell his own sweat mixed with the tinge of oxygen and fuel. The pressure gives him headaches lasting hours after landing.
But he can’t stop. He cannot allow himself to be scared or exhausted or weighed upon by the losses. He may lack Farrier’s experience, but he refuses to fall behind because of it.
Farrier shakes his head, defeated. "You'll be the absolute death of me, I swear."
His face tightens and relaxes in an instant, reluctance crashing against his resolve. Their noses brush as he ducks in again, hovering with a mere sliver between their lips, a mingling of warm breath and a fond stroke of his thumb across the back of Collins’ hand. Leaning into each other, their mouths never quite meet, but nevertheless it’s peaceful. For a brief moment it’s just them, like a glimpse of a dream never to be realized. It would be so easy to get lost in this, if only things were simpler.
Finally Farrier backs off enough to allow Collins free.
“Alright… alright. But when we get back, we’re going to talk. About everything.”
“Everything?”
“Right. Both of us.”
“I don’t think I can afford to get that drunk,” Collins chuckles weakly.
Farrier smiles too, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll manage.”
Their fingers pull apart like the severing of a wire, and Collins swallows a twinge of disappointment. He nods slowly, voice suddenly stuck like tar in his throat, his body floating abandoned at sea without Farrier pressing into him.
Everything. Everything they’ve been bottling up since the war started.
The war that always comes first; before Collins, before Farrier, before whatever they are to each other. That’s why Collins never talks about his nightmares or his restless thoughts, why Farrier never tells him why he drinks himself into a stupor some nights, why they never mention the names of their dead, why they never talk too long about a future.
“Stay safe up there,” Farrier says.
Collins pulls his gloves on a little too hard as he makes for the door.
The world comes alive again the moment they’re free of the dispersal hut, their peace broken. The late-spring sky is a fading grey overcast with the sun just kissing the cloud-line, threatening to reveal itself. A cool breeze carries the smell of oil and fuel and grass. Engines growl, ground crew yell final checks. Canfield’s voice comes calling up from somewhere, and Collins hears their names shouted with a hint of frustration.
He follows Farrier in a jog towards their waiting Spitfires, shuffling awkwardly into his life vest, strapping on his parachute. The hard line of Farrier’s shoulders is a harsh reminder of the stiff professional he becomes in the air, and how he differs so much from the kinder, gentler soul on the ground.
Picking up the pace Collins catches him just as he’s getting a foot up on the wing of his plane, bumping a fist into his arm.
“See you in the air, yeah?” Collins yells over the rumbling engines around them.
Farrier looks over his shoulder, turning his back to the world just to allow them one last private moment. His face softens, the fighter pilot replaced with the man.
He sets a hand on Collins’ shoulder, squeezing gently. “Right. And I’ll see you on the ground.”
It's their usual pre-flight ritual; a naive promise at best, but it does enough to loosen Collins’ shoulders a bit. Maybe, in some small way, it’s the nearest thing to a declaration they can offer each other.
When he finally straps himself into his plane, his radio crackles to life in his ear.
“Nice of you two to join me,” Canfield quips. “We’ve got our orders from Control. Heading south, Vector 128, Angels point-five.”
They both speak their affirmatives, and Farrier throws Collins a thumbs-up from his cockpit before he taxis out towards the runway. With the hiss of oxygen through his mask, Collins breathes deeply to settle his heart and will away the minor tremors in his hand.
It’s just another flight. They’re all going to come back. When they do, they’ll talk; he’ll let Farrier shoulder the weight if he wants, and Collins can do the same in return. They’ll tell each other everything they should have said long ago; that they should have been saying all this time. It’s long overdue.
For now they get into the air, forming up before turning south towards the coast.
Towards the waiting war.
Towards Dunkirk.