Work Text:
He’s never been shot before.
The sound cracks the air, but Farrier doesn’t even register what’s happened until pain blossoms through his shoulder and he's knocked to the ground. He can't stop the scream that escapes him, muffled into the hard mud and light dusting of snow that stings his face and hands, dampens his clothes.
There's blood splattered before him. His blood.
“Farrier!”
More yelling, echoing through the trees as if all around them. He picks up what bits of German he's learned, hears whistles blowing out, a few dogs barking like mad. It’s gaining on their little party of escapees.
Damn it all.
They'd come out too close to the eastern guard tower, caught just at the edges of its lights. That damn Belgian engineer. Wilburg had said he wouldn't trust that man to accurately measure a yard to save his life.
Gritting his teeth against the agony, Farrier rises to his knees to see the beams of torches breaking through the trees. Blood slips between his fingers when he presses a hand over the bullet hole, soaking into his jumper and staining his overcoat.
Mathers is in his face, sliding to the ground and grabbing at his good arm.
“Farrier, let’s go,” he hisses low, frantic eyes scanning the woods. “Come on, they’re coming.”
Another shot rings out. It shatters the bark of a nearby tree.
He’s unceremoniously hauled to his feet, biting back a groan until his teeth leave indents in his lip. His feet move before his mind’s even caught up, breath a steaming cloud against his face as he breaks into a run.
Ahead, the Captain—as he’s always insisted they call him—Barrows, and Wilburg are waiting in a dark hollow of trees and brush.
They don’t stop, even as lungs stab with pain and his throat turns raw and his muscles start to scream.
Farrier squeezes down on his wound agonizingly, trying in vain to stop the blood dripping down his arm.
In the air he’d always had the protection of his kite. Their Spits aren’t impenetrable, he knows, but it was easy enough to pretend you were indestructible.
His greatest realization since being stuck on the ground back in ‘40 was how vulnerable he is without his wings. He's truly begun to fear the guns down here.
The bellows of their pursuers are unnervingly close, voices echoing all around as if encircling and ensnaring them, dissuading any chance of escape. Farrier’s eyes wander to the hatchet the Captain has clutched in his hand, wondering how prepared he is to use it.
“How much farther?” he pants.
There’s almost no light to see by, the moon snuffed behind gloomy cloud cover. The snow drifting down isn’t helping matters.
“We shouldn’t be too far from the river,” Barrows says, trying to keep his breathless voice low. “We’ll have to follow it north some. This blasted snow’s going to give us away.”
“You’re sure the map’s right?” Mathers asks.
Barrows grunts. “I paid good money for it, it bloody well better be. That guard’s been helping wire-jumpers for months. He should be good for it.”
Farrier makes a face.
He's never been too keen on trusting the Germans. There's just too many unknowns; too many men who, regardless of their sympathies, would sell them out in a heartbeat to save their own necks.
But he says nothing, just follows the backs of his comrades, listening for the Hun at their heels, fingers slick with blood. He can feel the mad thumping of his veins.
He doesn't know how long they run. All he can think about is the pain and the cold creeping into every inch of his body.
In his ears he catches the growing roar of water, and moments later they're stumbling out of the trees to the river's edge. Even at her narrower breadth she's an imposing sight, but they don't pause for even a moment, already wading into the frigid, knee-deep flow, fighting against her angry thrashing. The current nearly sweeps Farrier's feet out from under him, sending a cold shock up his body.
At least the numbness offers some relief.
The Captain pushes into the lead. "Quickly, lads. Upriver.”
“We’ll freeze if we stay too long in this,” Wilburg mutters through chattering teeth.
The sound of their pursuers is muted under rushing water, and somewhere along the way they manage to lose the Germans and their dogs entirely. All the foreign noise fades away, and the glare of torch beams disappear in the night. Nothing left but their own ragged breathing and splashing and mumbling.
It makes the trek through icy water almost tolerable, although Farrier worries over the loss of sensation in his toes.
They split off once they’re deeper down the valley and the river starts to widen, sloshing back up onto the banks and into a fine blanket of snow.
The Captain and Wilburg head farther north with the map.
Mathers helps Farrier stumble a ways east along with Barrows, trusting him to follow the memorized route in his head.
“There should be an abandoned farm not too far,” Barrows is muttering. “If we’re where I think we are.”
How reassuring.
Blood stains all down Farrier’s sleeve, his skin wet and warm with it. Glancing at his shoulder, he winces at the torn fabric and flesh around the wound.
“Alright?” Mathers says.
Farrier’s aware he’s shaking from more than just the cold, and his breathing is much too heavy. His bangs—grown longer than he would have liked—slip over his eyes with flop sweat.
He grimaces. “I’ll manage.”
Right now the damn water in his shoes and the raw rub of blisters on his heels is more irritating.
It’s a slow crawl through the valley, in and out of forests stripped of leaves and everything but dead undergrowth. The land looks nothing more than bare stalks reaching like mangled fingers towards the sky.
Dizziness is starting to set in, and his muscles shudder until his feet start to catch on any patch of uneven earth or stone. He sways a little more the longer they trudge on.
“There!” Barrows whispers up ahead.
Farrier just about collapses to his knees before the rundown old farmhouse peeking up through the trees.
It’s not much, smelling of rot and mold and full of dust, falling apart in places, but at least it blocks out the snow and wind.
Farrier sits on an old milk stool, prodding at his wound, turning his fingers crimson.
So much blood. Too much blood.
A little while later and he startles as Wilburg and the Captain come stumbling into their safe haven. A little mucked up and damp and red-cheeked from cold, but otherwise fine, though Wilburg is muttering obscenities about this and that while he settles in.
They're all understandably a bit miserable. Farrier's just relieved to have made it this far.
“This place has been long abandoned.” The Captain is panting as he digs the hatchet into a few old floorboards, prying them up. “One of the Polish fellows back at the camp made it this far once. Fellow said that this was a good place for runners. Some of the locals hide supplies here…”
It sounds too good to be true, and Farrier is about to scoff at the idea when the Captain jumps down into the hole he’s made in the floor and rises back up hauling with him a small crate.
Inside is bread and biscuits, a canteen, matches, a knife…
“Doesn’t that mean the German’s know we'd come through here?” he says even as he’s handed a small chunk of bread, which he takes with shaking fingers, stomach already churning.
“I’m not sure they know about it yet. But even so, we shouldn’t stay long. They’ll be crawling all over these hills looking for us.”
Barrows sparks up a match and is about to light the little pit of twigs and bark and wood he's collected from the pile out back when the Captain nudges him with his foot and scuffs it out.
“No fires. Too risky.”
Mood soured, Barrows clicks his tongue and breathes hot air onto his frozen fingers. Farrier quietly laments his own numb toes and soaked trousers.
Swaddling himself in his patched-up coat, he pulls his old flying scarf from the inner pocket. It’s worn and frayed and faded, covered in dirt and mud, and now blood.
Remnants of a lifetime ago; an old life he’s desperate for. Sullied by his time here, like everything else.
He scoops up the knife from the crate, eyeing the slightly dull blade with some apprehension. It’s been poorly cleaned. But he has no choice.
“Mathers,” Farrier waves him over without meeting his eyes. “The bullet’s still in there.”
The scarf is pried from his unstable hand, but when Farrier holds the knife out, Mathers hesitates.
“Do it,” Farrier insists.
“Even if I can get it out, the bleeding...”
He’s already near to passing out. He doesn’t care about infection or anything else right now. He’s just sick of staring at his own blood trailing down his arm, leaving petals of red on the ground. Sick of the pain, which only reminds him how far he still has to go before he’s finally free.
“Just do it.”
Everything as it comes.
In the crate is a half-empty bottle of whiskey, buried under a single scratchy wool blanket. Silently the Captain hands it to Farrier, who nods and takes a swig, letting it burn down his throat. It won’t be enough.
Mathers makes a face, then sighs. “Fine. You may want to bite down on something.”
It’s unskilled; Mathers is no doctor, none of them are. But he was an artist, so at least Farrier hopes his hands are stable enough.
The knife goes in, slicing into tender flesh.
He jolts, inhaling sharply through his nose.
“Farrier…”
Farrier bites down on his own sleeve until his eyes water, trying not to taste it on his tongue or make too much noise.
“It’s fine,” he muffles around the saliva pooling in his mouth. “I’m fine. Keep going.”
It’s an eternity of agony as Mathers carves out the small metal round from his shoulder, leaking blood and bits of tissue until Farrier is sure he’ll pass out from the pain alone. Every part of him shakes violently, and his eyes overflow.
His teeth have carved through his sleeve and deep into his forearm.
He forces himself to think of home; of England and his mother and the squadron and the open sky and his kite.
He thinks of Collins, as he has done so many times before; in most of his waking hours. It steel his resolve more than most anything else.
Finally, with his head swimming and his brow slick with sweat, he hears more than feels the bullet clatter to the floor. His nerves sizzle.
Mathers wipes at the blood and with an apologetic look pours a dollop of whiskey over the open wound.
Farrier just about screams, body rigid and shuddering, clawing so deep into the stool splinters dig under his nails. If his heart beats any harder, it’s bound to break his ribs.
Finally, Mathers tightens the scarf around his wound, pulling hard on the knot before giving a pat to Farrier’s good shoulder.
“It’s done.”
Farrier’s arm falls limp from his mouth and his jaw hangs open, breathing hard and shallow, sweat glistening on his skin. The pain radiates right down to the bone, leaving him light-headed and dizzy.
He grunts out a weak, “Thank you,” to Mathers.
Once the ordeal is over and he's able to breathe normally again, the others huddle in close, sharing what warmth they can.
Between them they pass around what’s left of the bottle of whiskey, and Farrier downs another mouthful in a desperate attempt to dull his senses.
It’s not enough to satisfy. If he had a smoke right now, that'd do him better.
With a sigh he falls flat on his back until his head hit’s Wilburg’s thigh, turning his eyes to the sky through a hole in the thatched roof. The clouds have thinned and broken up, and the snow has ceased. He can see stars.
Mathers sighs, rubbing the blood off his fingers with the musty straw littering the ground. "How the hell are you still standing?"
Instantly his muddled mind is full of blue eyes and golden hair, a crooked smile, an accent. Of late nights on the airfield, mornings in the Mess, shared smokes and stories, soaring an open sky wing-to-wing. Of secrets and broken promises.
"Because I can't afford to stop," Farrier says, voice raw and abused. "There's someone waiting for me."
"Your girl?" Barrows says.
Farrier chuckles. "A pilot."
His companions go quiet.
It's been years. They've all known each other well enough in some capacity or another, been in the thick of it, so right now he doesn't rightly care what they think of him. He has no patience left for discretion, after all this.
Barrows says awkwardly, "So, she's with the A.T.A., or…?"
Farrier scoffs, face to the sky, eyes brimming. Then he sighs.
"He is a fighter pilot. A damn good one these days, I hear."
He's still got Collins' letters crushed in his breast pocket, along with that little candid photograph; a stolen moment back before this all started.
Barrows and Wilburg exude an air of discomfort. The Captain on the other hand is unreadable, which if Farrier’s learned one thing about the man, means he simply doesn’t care to comment one way or the other.
But to his surprise, Mathers asks with complete sincerity, "Were you and him…?", and lets the silent implication hang heavy in the air.
Farrier stops smiling. A stubborn tear slips free from the corner of his eye, stinging in the cold. He sniffs and wipes it away.
"No… we weren't."
Friends, yes. Brothers, most certainly. They were never anything so fanciful as ‘lovers’.
But he did love him. Still does.
Bit complicated, that one.
There's no right word for what they are. Not one, maybe not a thousand. But he’d like to get back and find out what they can be.
Pausing, he stares skyward once more. It's so close he can nearly touch it again. The same sky he's soared in his dreams, all the way back to England.
Farrier swallows hard.
"I left him alone," he says mournfully. His heart feels set to burst. "I left him behind. That’s something I need to rectify.”
He’d kissed Collins back then, before that fateful day over Dunkirk. Just gone and cupped his cheek in the middle of his anxious rambling and pacing around and pulled him right in.
It was entirely spontaneous. They were probably equally as startled.
Farrier’s still not sure what made him do it; what made him cross that line.
Fear, perhaps. Worry over what was to come.
Or maybe the opposite; a spark of confidence, of boldness. Reassurance that they’d return home victorious.
Collins had just stared at him, wide eyed and face full of a confusing array of emotions, probably with a million questions on his tongue. But there was no anger or disgust. In fact, he'd looked rather piqued. Even—dare he think—hopeful.
Farrier had stopped Collins from saying anything just to save himself. Instead he’d hardened, savouring the memory of the soft press of his lips and the sweet taste of his mouth.
“We’ll talk after,” Farrier had said.
They'd never get the chance.
Stumbling back to his feet, Farrier wipes the sweat from his brow and takes a few measured breaths to free himself of the sudden suffocation. His shoulder still burns, and he presses down hard over the wound as he paces around the room, contemplating the ghosts of his past, long buried but never dead.
"That's why I'm going to get home."
He can only hope there’s something to come home to.
"Christ," the Captain groans, though his tone is light-hearted. "And here I thought you were interested in getting back to fight the bloody war."
They rest for only a couple apprehensive hours, taking turns keeping eyes and ears open for the Germans. Farrier sleeps very little, if he ever really passes out at all. It only drains his energy more, but he can’t stop his thoughts from kicking about, startling him back to alertness every time anyone so much as twitches.
When they finally move out in the deep twilight, with the Captain leading them with their little fabric map of the area and a makeshift compass, it’s another hour or so of biting wind and devouring darkness.
Farrier lags behind for most of it, a headache brewing and weak from his wound which throbs with each jolt of his arm.
He fears the state he’ll be in if he doesn’t make it out.
Finally, just as the sun starts to claw its way towards the horizon, they come to a rest at the apex of a steep hill sloping down into the valley. Crouched on the hilltop they overlook the lustrous mountains in the distance, the river and forests carving through to create a sight so picturesque it could be framed in a museum.
They’re within throwing distance of Switzerland.
"Almost there," Mathers breathes easily.
The morning sun is warm on his face, blinding light reflecting off the snow, and Farrier can’t help the relief that washes over him.
Down below, blocking the road and nearby rails in and out of the valley is a checkpoint swarming with guards and vehicles. A train sits idling on the tracks; their way out.
Roaming along the snow-capped hills, they come down a slippery side path to the main gravel road, trying their best to look like nothing but locals out for a morning stroll.
It’s a short lived charade.
He’s not even sure what gives them away.
Farrier flinches when he hears shouting, watching as a few of the guards at the gate barring the road make towards them. Rifles are poised threateningly in their hands.
The group stops, tense and quiet.
“How’s that German coming along, lads?” the Captain utters.
Barrows says through grit teeth. “Not well enough for this.”
“Right… make a run for it.”
They only get a few yards before there’s the crack of gunfire, and Wilburg cries out, crumpling to the ground.
Farrier stumbles over him, twisting his bad shoulder, and he can't stop himself crying out as the air is forced from his lungs.
He comes face to face with Wilburg's wide open eyes, frozen in shock, and a bullet hole right through his chest.
Farrier stares, unable to look away from the horrible sight of one of his companions suddenly dead at his feet.
The Captain hauls him up. “No time, no time. Damn it… make for the train!”
Everything erupts into chaos. There’s nothing left to think about outside of sheer survival.
Already Farrier can see the guards scrambling, hear yelling in a foreign tongue.
They’re so close.
There’s a fence blocking the path down to the rails, heading towards neutral territory and their ticket home.
So close, so close…
It’s a slow sprint for him, exhausted and weak from blood loss and the probable infection he’s got stewing in his system. He trails at the back of the group even with Mathers trying fruitlessly to drag him onwards.
They come to the fence blocking their way, and through the spin of his vision Farrier can see the distance left to run, and he frowns. His overtired mind starts to calculate, and the results are doubtful.
They’re forced to stop and clamour over the fence line one at a time, caught between thick brush hedges and thickets on either side. Their pursuers closing in.
“We may not all make it at this rate,” Barrows grits as he’s climbing over.
Farrier blinks away the sweat on his brow, swallowing dry.
Even if he gets over, it’s still one last haul to freedom, one he’s already struggling to make.
He looks back, watching his own breath steam the air.
Fingers twitch in the cold. The blood pounding through his veins deafens him.
“Farrier, come on,” Mathers ushers just as he gets a foot up on the fence. The others have already crossed, disappearing down the snow-dusted hill.
If he can draw even some of the guards away...
They have a chance. A better chance.
They deserve to be free.
“Farrier!”
“Go,” he shoves Mathers shoulder. “Get going. I’ll try to buy you some time.”
“Hang on a minute—”
Blood is seeping through the make-shift bandage. His knees are shaking.
“I’ll only slow you down. Run. Get home.”
His heart sinks, a void-less ache. Pressure builds behind his eyes.
Reaching into his breast pocket he pulls a letter free; a new one he’d not had the chance to send, written only the night before.
It’s a bit wet from the snow, and there’s a slight splattering of blood on it now. He winces, wishing he could write it anew, but there’s no time.
Despite his haste he grabs at Mathers’ arm once more, holding out the crumpled envelope.
“Just, please, do me a favour.” His jaw tenses as the yelling grows louder. “Send this. It’s… it’s for that pilot I told you about. His name’s Collins. Jack Collins. Find him, if you can.”
Farrier looks past Mathers’ shoulder at the sound of the train whistle, watching the dark plume escaping its funnel. The hulking beast of black metal starts to chug and belch as it roars to life.
He ushers Mathers over the fence, shoving the letter into his hand urgently.
“Go, go. And tell him… tell him… I’ll keep trying. To come home.”
Mathers shakes his head, but finally clasps tight to the wrinkled pages. “Tom…”
“Tell him I....” Farrier sighs, painting a sad smile on his face despite it all. “Ah, never mind. He should hear it from me.”
Mathers stares at the letter, then back up to the determination in Farrier’s eyes. Maybe he can see the pain hidden there too, because he finally curls his fingers around the envelope and nods.
“Alright, I’ll find him."
Mathers opens his mouth to say more, but Farrier gives him one last good shove until he’s toppling over the fence, waving him towards the downward slope of the hill, towards the train.
Towards freedom.
"I'll tell him what you did," Mathers utters as he goes.
Farrier grins, tight-lipped. "He'll hate me for it."
Once he's alone, he curls his hands to fists, fingers digging into the wood. Muscles twitch to remind him he could try; he could climb over and keep up the delusion that he could make it any farther with the Jerries nipping at their heels and his body on the verge of collapse.
No.
Deep breath.
He's made his choice.
Farrier turns his back on escape, watching the German’s coming his way with guns in hand, red-faced with cold and anger.
He grips tight to his wounded arm and starts running. The German's give chase.
There’s no chance of escaping for him. All he can do is give the others time.
He runs until his legs burn, until his blood is the only sound in his ears and his boots are slippery with snow.
Until adrenaline overpowers every other pain and he feels nothing but the sting in his lungs.
Until he can forget what he's just given up.
A bullet churns up the earth at his feet and the shock makes him slip, his ankle gives out with a sharp twist, and he hits the ground with a groan. Immediately he’s surrounded by bodies, and hands shove him roughly to his knees, pulling agonizingly at his arms and his wound. Blood leaks from his shoulder, but he doesn't care. He struggles and bites and screams because he knows nothing else he can do.
It’s in vain, but he won't give these bastards the satisfaction.
He manages to get a few good swings on them at least, but he receives a fist to the jaw for the trouble.
When he’s finally subdued and hauled back to his feet, there’s a gun digging into his lower back threateningly, and only then does he acquiesce. His hands are forced up to his head as best he can, until it hurts, and he welcomes the agony.
He spends the whole walk back in an exhausted daze, dizzy and shivering, full of deep regret and an emptiness in his chest. The sweat on his brow is cool, but the inside of his mouth burns.
Somewhere nearer the road he’s loaded into a lorry, and he frowns at seeing Barrows has been caught too, his face marred with a bruise and his hands bound. They don’t speak; don’t even look at each other, not even when Wilburg’s poor body is loaded up with them.
Instead Farrier watches the morning sky, envying the free flight of larks and songbirds passing overhead. Taunting him.
But he'd done what was always in his blood to do. He'd helped. He'd saved someone.
This war is bigger than Farrier; than any one man and one man's desires. Collins will understands that, even if it kills him.
They don't all get what they want. Rarely do they get what they deserve.
“Sorry, love,” Farrier mumbles, facing the rising sun. “A little while longer, yet.”