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All John could think about with that flag in his hands was Gale. All John could think about when he scaled that wretched flag post was Gale. Even as the prisoners below him screamed their victory, all John could do was press his forehead to the flag post and hold his breath. All he could think about was Gale.
Had he made it? Did he make it over the wall? John knows he saved his life in that moment but he had no idea if he had actually saved him. Was he back at Thorpe Abbotts, or was he face down dead in a ditch somewhere?
John could barely concentrate when he was carted out of the Stalag, barely saw anything when he was loaded into a plane that was going to take him back to base, didn't hear Alex's well wishes when they inevitably parted and he stepped foot back on the dewy soil of Thorpe Abbotts. All he wanted, all he needed, was to know that Gale was okay.
His hands shook when he returned to his quarters, saw his trunk packed up but not shipped away, opened it to find his few dismal belongings that lost all sort of sentimental value now. He had a pack of cigarettes, though, and he pockets the entire thing.
John wanders, aimlessly, searching for anyone he knew, any face he'd recognize. He was mostly searching for Gale, though. Searching in all the crevices they liked to hide in, all of their secret spots that were reserved just for them. The air surrounding the base was quiet. Too quiet. He hated it.
A private eventually found him wandering, and John immediately felt an unchecked hatred for the boy. Where was everyone? All of his friends were dead and only this dewy eyed, scared, child was left. Where was everyone? Where was Gale?
"Major Egan, sir, I was told you needed to clear the runway. The drop mission is coming back soon," The boy said and his voice grated at John's ears like a boy pretending to be his father.
"Drop mission?" John rasps, hating the scratch of his voice on his vocal chords.
The private nods.
"The Germans surrendered, so we sent a fleet with supplies and food to give them to the Dutch that were occupied by them. One last mission, so to speak,"
John nods, hands trembling again.
"Was, uh, was Major Cleven with them? Did he make it back?" John asks, voice catching horrendously on Gale's name.
The private nods shortly.
"Yes sir, they should be coming back soon," He says, all professional and polite and he doesn't even seem to know that he just mended John's heart, that he just soothed every worry that troubled John for the last several months.
John's hand shakes when he goes to clap the private on his back, giving a short nod because he feels like he's choking on words. He can't speak, can barely breathe, and before he knows it his feet are taking him to the control tower.
It's not as busy or as tense as it always seemed to be. There were officers leaning on the railing, chatting like it was Sunday after church, the men in the control box sat leisurely, waiting for a signal that the forts were coming back. No one sat with their nails bitten to shreds, knuckles white on the railing as they silently said a prayer that everyone would make it back. It was comforting and horrifying to John at the same time.
Jack Kidd sat in the control towers seat, listening for the head pilots voice that they were coming in, leaned back as if he was listening to the radio. His ear perks up when John loudly enters the small room, hands still shaking.
"Major Egan, it's good to have you back," Jack says, standing and extending his hand for John to shake.
He does, albeit poorly, because the radio crackles as soon as their hands touch and the sound of Gale's crackly voice fills the room, deep and gravelly and asking for landing instructions. Jack takes his hand from John's and grabs the headphones to speak but John stops him with an arm, overwhelmed, overjoyed. Oh so scared.
"Can I, can I tell him? Please, let me talk to him," John says and he hates how terrified and desperate his voice sounds.
Jack pauses, the headphones still gripped in his hands, before he hands them over to John with a silent nod. John feels his mouth break into a grin as he leans down and blabs off instructions for Gale to land, his heart racing and his pulse giddy.
He can practically see the way Gale's brow furrows, see the look of confusion on his face, it makes him burst into a foolish smile.
"Control tower, repeat?" Gale asks.
"You heard me the first goddamn time, Gale," John says, biting his lip to hide the smile on his face from an ever judging Jack Kidd.
He doesn't even hand the headphones back to Jack, just leaps out of the seat and runs to the railing, seeing those God forsaken forts, all in perfect formation, coming in to land. His mouth is still broken into a pleased smile when Gale's fort, inevitably at the front, lands on the runway.
There's no sirens or screams, no smoking forts or crushed hulls. All of the planes that left returned. John doesn't know how to feel.
He steals a jeep, as he always does when Gale flies without him, and careens it onto the runway alongside the perfectly pristine fort, arm resting on the back of the seat Gale usually sits in, smile as wide as ever. Gale's window is open and he can see a glimpse of a grin.
"Look who it is! Stone in my shoe," Gale hollars from the cockpit and John laughs with all of his stomach.
"Oh, I'm back!" John shouts back, biting his lip to unsuccessfully hide the smile that continues to creep onto his lips. He can't, Gale's alive. Gale's alive and making jokes when 24 hours ago John wasn't sure he'd ever see him again. He could hardly believe it.
When he reaches Gale's fort, Gale is already outside of the plane, cheeks a little ruddy, hair slightly mussed, draped in his large overcoat from the Stalag. He has a grin on his face and John can see his breath stop when their eyes meet. John can feel his feet start to run, a gallop almost as he closes the gap between them, stopping about a foot away from him.
Gale looks good. He looks healthy enough. The bags under his eyes haven't quite left and his cheeks are still hollow, but he's shaved, he's cleaned himself up. He's tried to wash what he could of the German prison camp off of himself. John's stomach hurts.
Gale extends his hand in a polite handshake and John almost wants to spit in his face. After all of this time, after all of this turmoil, Gale just wants to shake his hand? After John thought Gale was dead, after they had survived a war, after they had fallen in love and been separated, never sure if they were going to see each other, all Gale can do is extend his hand?
John takes it though, takes it like it's a priest's blessing, revels in the feeling of his war hardened skin against his. Yet still soft. Gale leans forward to clap John on the back, pressing him close to his chest and John could faint, he could collapse right here. Gale smells like kerosene and smoke, but there's something there that almost smells like home.
"Take me somewhere?" Gale whispers, almost a breath into John's ear, and John truly feels like his legs cannot hold him any longer.
That was their code, always was, when they wanted to be alone together, to be with each other and explore the creature comforts of a warm and trusting body together. It was so awfully familiar that John could feel his heart crush in two in Gale's hands. He always had that way with him.
So they go back to the jeep that John stole, John takes his position in the left seat, the only time he gets that seat, and Gale sits comfortably as a passenger. John puts his arm on the back of the leather seat, fingers ghosting over Gale's grimy overcoat. He wants to touch, but he knows he can't yet.
Their spot is a little hollow in the Thorpe Abbotts woods, a spot with a tiny clearing that's surrounded by dense trees, perfectly blocked from view. John parks the jeep along the side of the dirt road, no one uses this road anymore, and he follows Gale into the woods.
As soon as John steps foot into the small clearing he crashes his body against Gale's, taking great handfuls of him and trying to push their bodies as close to each other as possible. He makes an animalistic grunting sound into Gale's neck, his eyes dry from tears he can't cry anymore. Gale's hands are just as vicelike, his nose squashed into John's cheek as he, too, makes a sound like a wounded animal.
John's knees still feel weak and he allows himself to collapse, dragging Gale to the ground with him. He knows there will be crease marks in Gale's clothing, little kisses of the fabric in both of their cheeks because of how fervently they're pressed together.
"I thought I lost you, I was so fucking scared, Gale," John almost whimpers, his voice choked on long months of unknowing and fear.
"I thought you were dead. I shouldn't have run, I should have run back to you, I should have killed that kraut with my bare hands..." Gale whispers, voice shaky but John feels no tears.
John pulls away from the crevice of Gale's neck and cups Gale's cheeks, running his thumb over a too prominent cheekbone. His eyes are still a beautiful cornflower blue, his lips as pink as a dame, his hair wispy and the color of golden straw. He's still as beautiful as the day John lost him.
"Nah, nah, doll. You did just the right thing. You're free, we're free. Can you fucking believe it?" John asks, voice wavering only slightly.
Gale's eyes go wide, a tiny whisper of a smile ticking up the corner of his lips. His hands come up to cup John's cheeks, mirroring each other perfectly.
"We're free, John," Gale rasps.
"We're free, Gale," John whispers and he closes the gap between their lips. The sweetest Gale has ever tasted, both free men.