Archive of Our Own ^beta

Story Title: Had we but world enough, and time
Author: amber1960
Artist: mella68
Fandom: Supernatural RPF (AU)
Period: World War II
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jensen/Jared though there is no actual sex.

Warnings: It’s war, folks. Major character deaths (but with a hopeful, positive ending). Jensen has permanent injuries (amputated legs). Passing mentions of war related things; Nazis, Bolsheviks, internment camps, homophobia, etc.

Story Summary: Jensen Ackles had only fallen in love once in his life, and that was with someone he’d never met. Now in his twilight years, he tells the story of how he fell in love with Polish bomber pilot, Jared Padalecki. It is a tale of courage, loss, supressed desires and ultimately, redemption.
Acknowledgements. Massive thanks to my artist, mella68 , for the lovely art she did to go with my story. It fits so perfectly I couldn’t have been happier. You need to go and show your appreciation for her work HERE, right now!
Also thank you to my beta downjune, and to my two language advisors, judith_88_g and Elisa Andersen. They pointed me in the right direction - hopefully that is where I ended up, but any deviations from the path are all my own fault! The historical note and info about the research I did is all at the end of the fic, together with translations of the Polish and Danish phrases I used.

Had we but world enough, and time

Had we but world enough, and time… We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Andrew Marvell

Jensen Ackles had only fallen in love once in his life, and that was with someone he’d never met. After all these years, even knowing death was standing beside him, resting one skeletal hand on his shoulder, it was the one thing he had never regretted.

New Year’s Eve 2004

Elise didn’t begrudge spending New Year’s Eve with her great uncle Jensen. He might be ancient, pushing 90 in fact, but her mother’s favourite uncle had always held a special place in her heart, too. Always charming, a complete old-school gentleman, he had a wicked sense of humour and a cutting wit and Elise had always felt able to confide in him, things she wouldn’t dream of telling her parents. So when the nursing home rang her that morning, to say Flight Lieutenant Ackles was asking for her, she didn’t think twice about jumping in her Mini Cooper and driving the fifty odd miles across the lonely Lincolnshire fens to the home for retired Royal Air Force officers, situated in the beautifully appointed Apsley Hall.

If part of her willingness to drive all that way revolved around avoiding talking to her boyfriend about his plans for their future, then that was between her and her currently very guilty conscience. Harry’s shining love for her was at once both beautiful and terrifying, and she had a horrible feeling that his eagerness to see in the New Year with her tonight might involve kneeling and a ring. And if that was the case, Elise didn’t know what she was going to do. Not for the first time, she cursed Jack and the scars his betrayal had left behind. Her ex-boyfriend seemed to have left her so afraid of being hurt that she would rather run away than allow anyone else to get close, however much she liked them.

The Matron, Imogen Evans, met her in reception, her expression grave. Elise had been anxious when the call had come. It was very unlike Uncle Jensen to make any requests on his own behalf, and seeing the look on Imogen’s face did nothing to ease the fluttering in her stomach.

“How is he, Imogen?” Elise asked. “Is there anything wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, not exactly. Come. I’ll walk with you.”

Elise fell into step with Matron Imogen with the ease of familiarity as they made their way through the classically decorated hallways towards Uncle Jensen’s private room. Apsley Hall had been the heart of the country estate of some Duke or other until the aristocratic owner turned over the house and grounds to the State, having fallen on hard times during the Depression. In the late ‘30s, it had been turned over to the RAF, so when war broke out it was ripe for conversion into a centre for rehabilitating wounded RAF officers.

Her great uncle Jensen had actually been one of those injured officers, though he never talked about his wartime experiences. Elise had only learned about his previous involvement with his current home when she had spotted his face in a group photograph that was hanging in one of the smaller common rooms. On closer inspection she recognised Apsley Hall in the background, and here he was. The caption said it was taken in December 1943, with thirty or so other RAF officers, all looking so heartbreakingly smart in their uniforms, in spite of the various bandages and slings. From where Uncle Jen was stood, tall and debonair on the back row, you couldn’t see his crutches, or guess that half his legs were gone.

Now, Apsley Hall was a nursing home dedicated to the care of RAF veterans nearing the end of their lives. Everyone said how lucky Uncle Jensen had been to get a place here when his efforts at independent living finally became too much for him, just four years ago. Elise guessed he was lucky in a way. Though, spending your last days in any kind of nursing home felt wrong, even knowing that Jensen’s disability and increasing frailty meant having professional nurses on hand was a necessity.

“I want you to prepare yourself, Elise.” Imogen’s voice brought Elise’s attention back to the here and now.

“Flight Lieutenant Ackles,” Matron began - the staff at Apsley always used their residents’ full rank, “Flight Lieutenant Ackles has been getting weaker and weaker over the last few days since you and your mother last visited. I think we should be ready for him to let go very soon.”

“He’s dying? But he seemed so full of life last time I was here. Shouldn’t we call my mother?”

Elise wanted to protest further, to break something, but all that came out was that useless squeak and a cry for her mother. She felt vaguely ashamed of herself, and afraid. Very afraid. She was totally unprepared to face death for what was effectively the first time. Her grandparents on her mother’s side had died before she was born, and on her father’s side – well, she had never really known them. Once her father had left her mother in the lurch, her mother had eschewed his name, changing her surname back to Ackles, and cut all ties to his family. Elise had never seen any of the Johnsons again after the Ackles family (what was left of it) moved to Norfolk.

Imogen was holding open the door of great Uncle Jensen’s room, waiting for her, and Elise realised she had stopped in the middle of the hallway, and was biting at her knuckles like a small child. What if he had already departed? Even her thoughts shied away from the word death. Angry at her cowardice, she squared her shoulders and entered.

Uncle Jensen was asleep. Elise could see the reassuring rise and fall of his chest where he sat in his usual chair, bathed in the late winter sunshine pouring through the big bay window. The twin stumps of his legs were propped up on a cushioned stool and draped with the fleece blanket her mum had bought him last Christmas. The scene was so normal and domestic Elise was absurdly relieved, and unreasonably irritated with Imogen for having wound her up so. She was smiling as she took her place in her usual chair by Jensen’s side, and she didn’t even notice when the Matron quietly shut the door, leaving them in private.

Either the click of the door closing, or some innate sense told her great uncle that she was there, because he spoke without turning his head.

“Good morning, Elise. Have I ever told you that your mother let me help choose your name? It was my mother’s, that is your great-grandmother’s, name you know.”

Uncle Jensen’s voice was deep and husky, and Elise had always loved that. She turned to see his eyes were open, glinting green and gold. Before she could do more than greet him with a peck on the cheek, he was talking again. As if time was short. When she drew back to nestle into the armchair beside him, she could hear his breath rattling disturbingly in his chest.

“Do you remember last time you were here, you told me about that chap of yours, Henry? Harry? What is his name?”

“It’s Harry, Uncle Jen,” Elise nodded, puzzled at the odd choice of subject matter. She’d have thought there would be more important topics to talk about when you are possibly dying than her messy love life.

“Mmm, yes. Harry. You said you think you love him, but you aren’t certain that he loves you back. Have you talked to him yet? Told him how you feel?”

“I…no. There just hasn’t been time.... I’m waiting for the right moment, you know?”

Jensen shook his head emphatically. “That’s a mistake, Ellie. The only right time is now. You are young, you think everything lasts forever, but nothing does. Nothing lasts forever and you have to seize the moment. Carpe diem, you know that phrase?”

“I’m not that young, Uncle Jen, I’m twenty-six! Yes, of course I know the saying, but....”

“No buts, Ellie. I was in love once. Just the once, in my 90 years, and it only lasted for a matter of hours. I never even saw his face. But it was worth it. Every second counted like it was a day, and I never forgot him.”

Elise gaped. This was unexpected in every respect – great Uncle Jensen had always been a loner, and she had never even heard a rumour that he’d had any relationships in the past, let alone with other men.

Jensen was still smiling, but she could see it was no longer reaching his eyes. All of a sudden, he looked every one of his ninety years.

“Ah, I see I’ve shocked you. Nobody ever told you that Great Uncle Jensen was a raging poofter, eh?”

Elise blushed when she became aware that she was staring at her great uncle as if she’d never seen him before. It must look as though she disapproved, or was disgusted by the revelation of his sexual orientation, and that was completely untrue. She rushed to put the record straight.

“No! No, really, I was just surprised. You never seemed...I mean, I’d wondered why you never got married or talked about anyone special in your life, but I’d just assumed there had been someone, that perhaps you’d lost someone....”

Jensen put her out of her misery with another smile, genuine this time, that lit up his face and revealed the devastatingly handsome man he’d been all those years ago. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a photograph, worn at the edges but obviously treasured. He handed it over to her.

“I did lose someone. Someone very special.”

The man in the picture, perhaps in his early twenties, was gazing out at the camera with an expression of happy pride. His uniform looked brand new, buttons gleaming but outshone by his beaming smile. His cap was slightly askew over thick, wavy hair, and his eyes reminded Elise of a cat, slanted and mischievous.

“This is him; my Jared. Shall I tell you how we never met?”

There was something tentative about Jensen’s expression, as if he was half convinced Elise would still turn her back and walk away simply because her great uncle had loved another man. Elise handed back the photograph.

“Yes, please,” she said. “Tell me everything.”

0x0x0x0

Sunday 12th November 1944

“Where are we, Rogers?”

Squadron Leader Jared Padalecki had to shout to be heard due to the huge hole in his baby’s undercarriage. The roaring of the Avro Lancaster BIII’s labouring engines was in direct competition with the howling wind, her innards exposed to the cold night air. The radio was still working, just, but the destruction was extensive. At least they had finally shaken off the damned Messerschmitt that had caused most of the damage, though not before it had obliterated their bomb aimer, Joey Walsh.

The enemy fighter had come up from beneath them, rising out of the night like a metal-clad wraith. The German plane had shot away the nose gun that lay beneath Jared’s feet, taking poor old Joey with it. A stray bullet had caught Jared in the lower leg, probably shattering his shin. He was so cold, it was hard to assess what damage had been done to him, but with that and the fact that his parachute has also been shredded in the attack, he was sure there was no way he’d be jumping any time soon. With fingers made clumsy by the leather flying gloves, Jared touched the makeshift tourniquet he’d tied just above his knee, and tried not to think about home.

The mission had been successful: their squadron of Allied bombers had totally fritzed the Nazi railway line in the Brenner Pass, but Padalecki’s plane had run the gauntlet of flak from anti-aircraft guns as they’d emerged from the Alps. They had come out over “fucking Strasbourg”, as Rogers the navigator had so succinctly put it, which meant that while caught up in the thick layer of cloud that had descended over the mountains, they had strayed a fair few miles north of their intended exit route, and in doing so had somehow lost contact with the rest of their Allied squadron, mostly Yanks and Canadians.

Not for the first time, Jared wished his crew had been able to refuse this assignment. The rest of 109 Squadron had headed north from Lossiemouth that night, probably to a target in Norway, though obviously the precise information about their destination was on a need to know basis. And the Małgorzata’s crew didn’t need to know, because Padalecki had been ordered to head south and east instead.

Jared knew with damage like this, the odds were stacked against the Lancaster making it home. It was his responsibility to see his remaining crew safe while they still had sufficient altitude to bail out and while there was land beneath them instead of the freezing cold sea, where chances of survival would be nil. He was relieved when Rogers told him that their current location was Gent.

“You have to get out, lads,” Jared said. “Evacuate. Now.”

Behind Allied lines, and with a chance of a safe landing were the best odds they could hope for. Jared started a little at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Kazimierz Wierzbicki, his flight engineer and fellow Pole, was leaning over him.

“Zonstanę z tobą,” Wierzbicki said in Polish.

“No, you’re not staying, Kaz. You are bailing out with everyone else,” Jared replied, his tone clipped and full of authority. He didn’t need to add that this was an order. The fact that he’d replied in English instead of their mother tongue made that crystal clear.

The gaping hole in the wounded plane’s undercarriage made the evacuation far easier than it would have been had the plane been intact. Lancasters were notorious for being buggers to escape from, their hatches being too small to comfortably accommodate a man in full air gear plus a parachute. Something Jared didn’t have to worry about. With his leg injury, and the lack of a chute for him to use that option was no longer relevant.

One by one, Jared’s remaining crew made their way out of the aircraft. Ginger, Buster and Wierzbicki came and gripped Jared’s shoulder in a silent farewell, while Rogers and Morris just waved before they jumped. They all knew the odds were against ever seeing their Squadron Leader again, and no words could cover that sort of goodbye. Better to say nothing.

Jared twisted round as best he could to see their parachutes open one by one, like pale mushrooms against the midnight blue sky. He wasn’t a praying man, though he’d never have told his Mama that. She’d be turning in her grave. This war tended to bludgeon faith right out of even the best of Catholics, and Jared would hardly have classed himself among those. But he still found himself hoping to God that his comrades would survive.

Finally alone, Jared closed his eyes for a moment. All he needed to do now was head the Małgorzata out to sea and turn her broken nose northwards. Away from land, away from any innocent civilians. There he could find a place to bring her down and rest.

“Pieprzyć to. Come on, Padalecki, pull yourself together.” He muttered, and began to sing. There was nobody to hear his terrible voice, and he needed something to keep him awake enough to crash his broken baby properly. Blood loss mixed with the altitude was making him giddy, even though he was losing both in equal measures.

He belted out his favourite song with gusto.

“When I pretend I'm gay I never feel that way I'm only painting the clouds with sunshine. When I hold back a tear To make a smile appear I'm only painting the clouds with sunshine. Painting the blue, beautiful hues, Coloured with gold and old rose. Playing the clown, Trying to drown all of my woes. Though things may not look bright They all turn out alright If I keep painting the clouds with sunshine.”

He’d barely started on an atrocious rendition of the instrumental section when his radio crackled into life, making him jump.

“You’re no Jack Hylton, you know that, don’t you, airman? Over.” The voice was deep and whiskey-rough, and immediately made Jared feel warmer, just from knowing there was someone out there.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you with my singing; I didn’t know my radio was still transmitting, over.”

“This is Control Tower, Station 153. Do you need a fix? Over.”

Station 153 was Parham in Suffolk, Jared knew. He must be closer to the English coastline than he had thought. It was so difficult to say, with the low clouds this thick and most of his instruments literally shot to pieces.

“That won’t be necessary, Station 153. Squadron Leader Jared Padalecki at your service. Do you have a name?”

“Flight Lieutenant Jensen Ackles. Hey! You didn’t say over. Over.”

“Didn’t seem much point in saying it, when everything is over. I’m over. Over,” Jared said, then laughed, feeling a little embarrassed at the note of self-pity that he’d allowed to creep into the conversation. He barrelled on to quickly change the subject before the radio operator could respond. The last thing he wanted was to waste whatever time he had left getting maudlin.

“Jensen Ackles. That doesn’t sound very British to me. But what do I know, I’m only a crazy Polak.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, as if the radio operator was still waiting for the ‘over’, causing Jared to tense up. He really hoped that this Flight Lieutenant who was anchoring him to life would be happy to play along with his unspoken request for informality. He’d hate to be stuck with a job’s worth, stuffed shirt sort of chap for his dying moments.

“I’m half Danish,” Jensen eventually replied, and Jared relaxed. “Jensen was my mother’s maiden name, so they decided their first child would use it, keep the family connection with Denmark that way. Luckily, I turned out to be a boy, as Jensen would have made a rather strange name for a girl. My brother and sister have more conventional British names. What is your situation, Squadron Leader? Over.”

Jared sighed. It seemed that this Jensen chap wasn’t to be distracted from his duty so easily.

“Nose gunner dead, rest of the crew bailed out over Belgium, undercarriage gone. So Ackles is a British name then?”

“My father is Scottish. Are you bailing out, over?”

“My parachute got shredded, so did my leg, so no.”

“That’s rough luck….” Jared wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t appreciate the typically British understatement, and he smiled as Ackles continued. “What is your position? Can you make an emergency landing? Over.”

“My baby’s leaking fuel and the central landing gear is shot away, so there is no chance I could land her safely. I’m a fucking good flier, but nobody is that good. I’m bearing north northeast, taking her out to sea.”

As if saying it out loud had given Death permission to take a step closer, a shiver ran through his whole body. Jared swallowed hard. Come on Padalecki, you’re not dead yet. Get a grip.

“So, I was going to sing my way into heaven, but maybe you can keep me entertained with something a bit less…what is the word?”

Jensen’s response was rapid. “Excruciating?”

Jared laughed, slapping a hand to his heart in an exaggerated gesture totally lost on his remote audience of one.

“You cut me to the quick! I was going to say a bit less boring. Tell me, Jensen Ackles, how is it that you are manning the radios tonight? Usually I have a beautiful woman on the other end of the airwaves, guiding me home.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, no lovely ladies here tonight. As to why I’m here? Well, it’s a long story.”

“That’s fine, I’ve probably got a few hours to kill. What better way to spend the time than telling a good tale?” Jared hesitated as a thought struck him. “Unless your shift is over soon? Because I’d be grateful for some company.”

Jared was relieved when Jensen’s response came as swiftly as his friendly insult had before. “I’ve got nowhere else to be tonight. I’d be more than happy to swap a few stories with you.

How did I end up here tonight? Perhaps I need to start at the beginning to tell this right. I was serving with the 1st Battalion of the French Foreign Legion in Syria when the news broke that the war had begun. So I was in a bit of a fix, needed to get out.”

“Wait, you were in the Foreign Legion? How did that happen?” Jared interrupted.

“That’s a different long story, Polak. Which one do you want to hear? Because … it’s only two hours until dawn when my shift ends, and those pretty WAAF girls you wanted to talk to turn up. You’d better choose quick.”

Jared hadn’t missed the slight hesitation, and he appreciated that Ackles had managed to catch himself before saying out loud what they both knew was the real reason they didn’t have time for the long version. That it was Jared who didn’t have much time left.

Jared chuckled softly and chose. “Tell your story your way, Ackles. I’ll be quiet and listen.”

0x0x0x0

Jensen’s story.

“So there I was, stuck in Damascus when the news came through that the Germans had invaded Poland, and we had declared war. It’s strange how easy the decision was to desert from the Legion. I didn’t think twice about it. All I wanted to do was to get home as fast as possible, and to join the fight.

I packed up my kitbag and set out on foot from Damascus. It was a three-day march along those dusty back roads to get to Acre, where I hoped to join up with the British Forces in Palestine. If I’d been able to hitch a ride I’d have got there sooner, but I daren’t risk it. All the while I was looking over my shoulder to see if the Legion would send anyone after me for deserting. I met some strange and interesting characters along the way - at times I felt like I’d stepped into a ciné film about Laurence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Maybe one day I’ll write a book about that journey, but that is a tale for another day.

Once I arrived in Acre, I couldn’t believe how smoothly everything went. The authorities were shipping soldiers back to Blighty, so when I mentioned I’d been an air cadet at school they signed me up for the RAF then and there. Back in England, before I could blink I found myself assigned to Squadron 222, being trained to fly those beautiful new Spitfires. Some of the younger chaps said that at twenty-six I was too old to learn to fly, tried to tell me my reflexes would be too slow, but I showed them how wrong they were. Top of every class, commendations, the works – they soon shut up. Besides, the war wasn’t going to discriminate about a few years here or there. Gerry wouldn’t care if their bullets took out an eighteen-year-old or a thirty-year-old; a dead Brit was a dead Brit.

I don’t have to tell you that the training was tough,” Jensen paused as Jared laughed his agreement.

“Tell me about it!” He said. “The Brits insisted I go through their training regime before they’d allow me to fly one of their Lancasters, even though I had more flying and combat hours than half their instructors.

Sorry, Flight Lieutenant, I’m interrupting. Carry on.”

Jensen resumed his tale, and Jared was happy to hear the smile stay in the other man’s voice as he spoke. Call it intuition, or maybe it was just an innate ability to read people, but Jared had a feeling that perhaps this Jensen Ackles was in need of something to make him smile more.

“I didn’t have any flying experience, but I was fitter than most after my years with the Legion, so the physical tests were a doddle. I was more bothered by the medical and dental examinations; having a tooth extracted was a trauma I never want to face again. Those dentists are sadists. I’m sure they just use intolerance of metal fillings at altitude as an excuse to inflict pain…but I digress.

The thought of being able to take to the skies was dangling in front of me like a dream I’d never realised I’d wanted until that moment. It was that dream that spurred me on. My first flight was in a Tiger Moth. She was an old lady, but I didn’t care because I was airborne at last and I can’t tell you how that made my heart sing. The day I got my wings was one of the proudest days of my life.

I just wish that my family had felt the same way.

Early in 1940, Squadron 222 moved to a new station at Kirton. I started out as a Flying Officer, and it was a Kirton that we were finally introduced to the new planes, our Supermarine Spitfires. Imagine being given the fastest and sleekest machine in the world, and being told to fly her to the limit. It’s hard to describe the excitement that was running through my veins the first time I sat inside that cockpit, curled my fingers around her controls.

But I don’t have to tell you how I felt, Padalecki. You’re a flier. You know how your heart lifts with the passage of the air over the wings; how even though you are heading out to rain down destruction, that moment when you see the curve of the earth as you breach that first bank of clouds is like your own slice of heaven. Your plane is like an extension of your body and soul, she responds to your touch like a lover. Flying is...was...better than sex, better than anything.”

And Jared did know exactly that feeling. Even now, in spite of the peril, it sang through his blood to be airborne. For a moment he lost track of what Ackles was saying, lost in his thoughts. When he mentally tuned in again, Jensen had moved on.

“I could pretend that I lost count of the missions I flew after I got my wings, but I would be lying. I remember every single sortie, every target I took out on the ground and in the air, the face of every German pilot I got close enough to see. I remember it all.

It’s strange then that I don’t recall much about being shot down. It was September ‘43, we were escorting a daylight bombing run when the Luftwaffe came straight out of the sun, strafed us with machine guns. My best mate, Tommy, bought it; I saw his engine catch and his Spitfire went down like a stone wrapped in a ball of flames. I was lucky; my girl was pretty torn up but at least we didn’t burn. I took a bullet in my shoulder, and another passed right through my body, apparently missing most vital parts, and somehow I managed to keep her in the air. I flew her in low and took her home, but I couldn’t tell you how I got there. Ironic really, they gave me a DFC for that. To be awarded a medal for merely surviving.

My injuries weren’t that bad, but I was out of action for a while, and my CO wouldn’t let me return to duty until I was fully fit again, so I thought I’d pass the time doing some volunteering. They were desperately short of qualified pilots to train the new recruits, so when I turned up at EFTS in Yorkshire they were all over me like a rash. Those Miles Masters might look a bit like Spitfires but they don’t handle much like them, and some of those recruits were total idiots, still wet behind the ears enough to think they were immortal. However, I didn’t care; flying was flying, wasn’t it? If putting up with a bunch of idiot puppies was what it took to keep me in the air, then it was a small price to pay.

That’s what I thought, but I was wrong. Stupid. Though, that is easy to see with hindsight.

On December 10th when I walked out of the mess rooms, it was one of those crisp bright winter days where everything seems crystal clear, edged with light. There had been a thick frost overnight, but the runways were pristine and the sky was cloudless, looking like it stretched forever. It was to be my last week as a trainer and I was feeling good. I’d had my recall to the Squadron the night before, and I can’t tell you what a relief that was. So much so my spirits could not be dampened, even when I saw that my last lesson was going to be with probably the most egotistical and overconfident of the present bunch, Toby Clifton-Barnes.”

Jared couldn’t help giving a knowing snort of derision. Jensen laughed.

“I can hear you thinking the same as me; that name just drips privilege, and you’d be right. Clifton-Barnes was eighteen, straight off the playing fields of Eton, and thought he knew everything.

I should have been paying more attention in the officers mess the previous night, because it seemed that Clifton-Barnes had made a bet with his cronies over a few drinks that he could show off a few creative aerobatic moves on his next flight. Which happened to be with me. Maybe if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my good news, I would have heard the ridiculous boasting, and nipped it in the bud. But like I said. Hindsight.

The trouble started when we had only been airborne for less than five minutes. Clifton-Barnes attempted to pull the Masters up into the steepest of climbs. I think the stupid fool intended to try an inverted loop; at least that is what they told me afterwards. When I tried to wrest the plane back out of the climb, I found that my dual controls had been tampered with, no doubt by one of Clifton-Barnes’ gang who knew a bit about engineering. Or perhaps he had slipped one of the ground crew a few bob to meddle with the wiring, who knows.

All I knew was that this arrogant little sod was likely to tear the plane apart from the stresses of the manoeuvres he was trying, and that there was nothing I could do about it. That feeling of helplessness as we came out of the climb and he turned us into a spiralling dive was one of the worst moments of my life. I was screaming at him through the radio, and ground control was yelling, too, when they realised what was going on, but the boy ignored us all, laughing as if this was some sort of game.

He laughed right up to the moment when he ploughed the Masters into a tree that he hadn’t seen and was much to late to avoid hitting.

Obviously, I survived, because here I am, talking to you.

There was no medal for me this time. There was no distinction to be had in failing to take a rash kid in hand and impose some discipline on him. No reward for allowing a callow novice to crash and kill himself, even though he took my legs with him. Sometimes I wish it had been the other way around. That I’d died that day, and Clifton-Barnes, aerobatic-fool, was the one who was sitting somewhere mourning the loss of his lower limbs.

But that would be overemotional, wouldn’t it. Self-indulgent.

Anyway, I am stuck hauling myself, my false legs and my useless stumps up the stairs to this control tower every night, doing the night shift the WAAFs hate so they can go out with their beaus without worrying about losing their beauty sleep.”

Jared wasn’t shocked to hear the extent of the other man’s injuries. As Jensen had been talking, he’d been half anticipating that it would be something like this that had an experienced Flight Lieutenant cooped up in a control tower manning the radios instead of being out, flying missions. No, it was the bitter despair in Jensen’s voice that clenched his heart and left him momentarily without words.

Go back to Part 1

Part 2

0x0x0x0

Jensen listened to the faint crackle of the radio-silence that went on just long enough for him to wonder if the bomber pilot had fallen asleep, or had gone down so quietly he’d missed it. If Jensen had been too self-absorbed to notice, that would have been icing on the cake of his little pity party.

When Jared finally spoke, the question took Jensen by surprise.

“You said you served with the 222 Squadron, didn’t you?”

“Yes, why?”

“So you must have served with Douglas Bader.”

Jensen’s shoulders tensed. He thought he knew where Jared was going with this, and part of him didn’t want to hear it. He answered reluctantly. “He was in my squadron for a few months, yes. Before he was promoted to Squadron Leader of the 242. A bit of a show-boater, but a great pilot.”

“Which means that you know that being an amputee doesn’t stop you flying. You don’t strike me as being a coward, Ackles, yet here you sit telling a dying man that you don’t want to live. And why? Because it’s too hard? Co to kurwa miało być? What the fuck, man?”

Jensen shrouded his anger round him like a cloak to hide the fact that he had no good answer to that.

“What the hell do you know about it, Padalecki? Bader lost his legs nearly a decade before the war; he was happy using prosthetics. He even boasted it gave him an advantage over the rest of us because his blood had nowhere to go when subjected to g-forces, stopped him blacking out.”

For the first time, Jared sounded serious and downright annoyed. “What do I know? I know that my right leg has been shattered and that I would have it off like a shot if I thought I could get out of this alive tonight. Christ, I’d give both my legs to see my father, be reconciled with my big brother, to be able to hold my little sister again. But you and I both know that isn’t going to happen, is it?”

Jensen felt the heat rise in his face and was thankful that Jared couldn’t see his stupid schoolgirl blushes that he knew made his freckles stand out even more. For some reason over the course of their brief encounter, the good opinion of this Polish bomber pilot had come to matter, a lot. Jensen hastened to make amends.

“I…I’m sorry, Jared. You’re right, I’m being self centred and pathetic blathering on about my problems when you are stuck out there in the cold, carrying an injury.” Jensen ran a hand over his face, a nervous gesture that gave him a second’s breathing space. “You said it was your leg. How bad is it?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Jared sounded weary. “I’ve tied a tourniquet so it’s pretty numb. I’m losing altitude, down to just over a 1000 feet now, and we’re dropping all the time….”

His voice was lost in a burst of static and Jensen waited anxiously for the radio to come alive again. A minute passed, then another, before Jensen caved.

“Jared? Are you still there?”

There was a further anxious moment of white noise, and then Jared’s voice was back on the airwaves.

“I’m here. Sorry. So cold.”

Jensen gripped the microphone stem in frustration, feeling like smashing it into the wooden table. He hated feeling so helpless; it was like torture, but knowing that Jared was up there alone without any way out of the dreadful situation? That was worse.

“Stay with me, Squadron Leader.”

Jensen could hear the smile was back in Jared’s voice as he belted out a quick ‘yessir!’ response to the command, even though technically Jared’s Squadron Leader outranked Jensen’s Flight Lieutenant. Jensen groped around desperately for a suitably distracting topic of conversation.

“So tell me, do you have a special girl waiting for you back home?” Jensen blurted out, then could have kicked himself for both the grotesque lack of tact, as well as his lack of self-control.

He didn’t even know why it was so important for him to know. There was virtually no hope that Jared Padalecki was coming out of this alive. They were never even going to meet, let alone become friends. And anything more than friends was just the love that dare not speak its name – forbidden, illegal in civilian life, and a court martial offence in the Forces. In spite of all that, he couldn’t help the way his heart sank and his stomach knotted when Jared replied with an affirmative.

“Yes, a very special girl. My plane’s named after her in fact, - Małgorzata - though her human namesake changed hers to sound more English when she got married last year. She’s Megan Wallace now; my little Gosia, all grown up and anglicised. She’s a WAAF, and her husband is a pilot, like me. Not bombers, though. Spitfires. I think his squadron’s based up in Scotland at the moment, while she’s working somewhere in Suffolk. A wireless operator, like you. You might even know her.”

Jensen swallowed, something loosening inside him at hearing that Jared wasn’t courting anyone, even while he still grieved for something he could never have.

“Jensen? Are you still with me?”

“Yes, I’m still here. Not going anywhere.”

“Good. That’s good. Could you do me a favour?”

“Of course. Anything.” Jensen said, and meant it. He didn’t understand what was happening here between them, but in this briefest of interludes that he’d known this young Polish man, he had come to the realisation that he’d pluck down a star from the heavens and present it to him if Jared asked for it.

What Jared asked for was somewhat more prosaic.

“Could you send a telegram to my sister? 122 Norwich Road, Saxmundham, Suffolk. Say…Gosia, I love you. Say I wish our Mama could have seen her today, how proud she’d have been of her. Tell her to give my love to Jarosław, that I forgive him for being such a szowinista …what is the English word…such a chauvinist.”

Jensen grabbed a notepad and wrote furiously, the pencil lead biting into the soft paper.

“Did you get all that?” Jared asked, his voice roughened with emotion.

“Yes, Mrs. Megan Wallace, Saxmundham – I’ll make sure she gets your message. But…I was thinking, Jared, listening to me droning on isn’t going to help you stay awake. Why don’t you tell me about yourself, how you came to be fighting in this war. I told you my story, it’s only fair that you reciprocate, don’t you think?”

Jared made an ambiguous noise that Jensen decided to take as an affirmative. “You mentioned someone, Jarosław? Who’s he then?”

There was a noise that sounded like a heavy sigh, and Jensen thought perhaps the Polish pilot wasn’t going to take up the invitation to share, but then Jared started talking again.

0x0x0x0

Jared’s story.

“He’s my brother. Jarosław is my kretyn of a big brother. He, my sister, and my father are the only family I have left. Tata and Jarosław were released from a Siberian gulag in ‘41. Our mother, she didn’t survive the siege of Lwów, and losing her broke our father’s spirit. Jarosław managed to persuade Tata to keep on fighting to live, in spite of the hardships of the camp, so they were ready to join the march with other released prisoners to Persia when the Bolsheviks finally set all my surviving country-men free when Stalin finally got into bed with Churchill instead of Hitler.

In Persia my brother joined the II Corps Poland under British Command. But Tata was too old to join up, so he now lives here in England with Gosia, and does some tinkering on the Americans’ planes, while Jarosław is with the Corps, fighting the Nazis. He and I…we haven’t spoken since…well for a long time. But our falling out really has no bearing on how I came to be here. So.

I always wanted to fly. As long as I can remember, my ambition was to become a pilot. I know most kids have that dream when they are young, but I kept it, I nurtured it and worked like crazy to make sure it came true.

Tata was an engineer before the Great War, and when he came through that alive, he had made friends in high places who gave him an opportunity that he might never have dreamed of before. One of his closest friends was General Ludomil Rayski. Now I don’t expect you will have heard of Rayski, but the General was one of the key figures in getting our air force so well equipped that between the Wars it was the largest in Europe, maybe even the world. At least until the start of the ‘30s, anyway. The General got our father a job working on all the newest projects, so by the time I was old enough, I would follow Tata around the airfields, getting up close to all those beautiful flying machines, falling in love with each and every one of them.

It was a short step from watching from the ground to climbing into the cockpit. I had made it my business to know all the pilots, and they’d watched me grow up from a skinny little kid with big dreams to a ridiculously tall teenager who still wanted nothing but to touch the sky. And they understood. They knew exactly how I felt because they felt it, too.”

“You must have been very young for your first time, then? Much younger than most,” Jensen said.

“I was young, yes. I was sixteen when I took my first flight. One of the experienced pilots, Zdzisław Cybulski, had taken me under his wing and promised he’d teach me to fly when I was old enough. He was tall, blond, and handsome as hell, and I couldn’t help but idolise him. Cybulski was a hero.

So when my birthday came in July of ’34, I believed I’d waited long enough to fly. Eventually Zdzisław agreed. I don’t know whether I just wore him down with my childish attempts at persuasion, or whether he really thought I was ready, but to be honest, I didn’t care. All I cared about was the exhilaration I felt when the training plane left the ground with me sitting in that cockpit with Zdzisław behind me. I can’t describe how I felt when he allowed me to take the controls for just a minute, but I can tell you that moment changed my life forever. Nothing would ever persuade me that it was not my destiny to fly, not even my brother and his endless digs about airmen being effeminate cowards, too afraid to fight the enemy face to face and unwilling to get their hands dirty.”

Jensen was nodding. Army men never understood the fliers, or the risks they took. Soldiers on the ground thought it was braver to kill a chap if you could see his eyes; as if it was somehow purer that way. As far as Jensen was concerned, death was death, however you faced it or dealt it out.

“Zdzisław wasn’t around for long, he was sent to the eastern borders just a few months after my first flight, to deal with incursions by the Bolsheviks. But over that long hot summer, but he took me under his wing and taught me everything he knew. I understood that having his full attention like this couldn’t last, so I threw myself into everything with unbridled passion, determined to show him that I was worthy. I wanted to make Zdzisław proud, even more than I wanted to show my father what I could do, or prove to Jarosław that I was as good as he was.

And I was good. All the pilots laughed at my enthusiasm at first but always with affection. Later, amusement became respect. Zdzisław called me their mascot, said I was their good luck charm, and when he left that winter for his posting on our eastern borders, everyone just assumed that I would stay on and train for real, so I did. I won my wings the following year, and as I filled out and grew taller, my commander decided I was better suited to fly bombers than fighters. So in ’37 I was assigned as a test pilot for my father’s latest project, the prototype for the PZL P.37 Los all metal bombers. The following year the P.37s went into production, and I got my first stripes.

I wish I’d been more aware of the world around me, but I was too wrapped up in the flying, with all that self-centred concentration that teenagers put into everything they do. I had so many opportunities to learn from the best of sources, because General Rayski would visit us as often as he could, claiming our Mama’s Pierogi dumplings were the best in Poland. But when Tata sat up late with the General and Jarosław, sharing a bottle of śliwowica and a cigar, arguing about politics, I just let it all wash over my head. Instead, I would sit there, dreaming about the way the sun caught the edge of the clouds just so when you are at 20 thousand feet, or practising an outside loop manoeuvre inside my head, because practice made perfect, you know.

So when war finally came in ‘39, I was largely taken by surprise, even though my command was not. My ignorance and naiveté wouldn’t have mattered, as a junior officer like me only needed to know enough to follow orders - except it meant that I never got a chance to say goodbye to my family before my squadron was on the move.

We were assigned to an army unit fighting on the western front as the Germans advanced. I shouldn’t say this, but what the hell. Most of our commanders are probably dead by now, and to be honest, they deserve to be. It was insane, those first few weeks of September. Crazy on the ground and crazy in the air.

Nothing had prepared us for the sheer might of the Nazi forces and so many of my countrymen were dying...I can’t tell you how it felt. I don’t have the words. Every day I saw my squadron get smaller and smaller as we were ordered into one suicide mission after another, in defence of ground troops who were being slaughtered in their hundreds by the superior tanks and weapons of the Germans. The army commanders would order us to fly too low, and all too often it was our own troops that were the ones firing on us. While in the air, the Luftwaffe outnumbered us more than two to one. I don’t know how many men we lost in just a few days, but as you English put it, we were sitting ducks.”

“That must have been hard,” Jensen said.

“It was frustrating and heartbreaking. We were all so tired. I was flying light bombers in a reconnaissance squadron at first, but as we kept losing craft, eventually I ended up flying fighters, even though I barely fit into the cockpit.

Everyone kept asking, where are the French? Where is the promised support from the British? We were a young, small country, and so alone.

Then we heard that the Russians had invaded from the East. With the Germans pushing towards Warsaw, and the Russians at our backs, it felt as if the breath was being squeezed from my own body while my country was feeling those pincers closing. All I wanted to do was to find my family and make sure that they were all right. An old school friend, Bronisław Langner, was serving with Jarosław in the 10th Motorised Brigade and he was my only means of staying in touch, as Jarek was refusing to have anything to do with me. Through Bronek I heard that Tata had sent Mama and Małgorzata back to our family home in Lwów, thinking that they would be safer there, away from Warsaw and the airfields where he’d worked.

It was Bronek who also told me that Tata had gone home with Jarek’s unit when it was despatched to reinforce the defence of the city, because the Germans now surrounded Lwów. Nowhere was safe any more.

Then any thought I’d had about going to Lwów was scuppered. I was ordered south to Rumania. We were told that finally the British were sending help. Several Hurricanes and Fairey Battles were being sent by ship, and we had to collect them from the Black Sea port of Galti. My heart lifted a little at that hopeful information, but I was torn, because I wanted so badly to be with my family, it was hurting my heart worse than my leg is hurting me right now.

But orders were orders, so I travelled south with my fellow pilots, heading for the border.

It was several days before I heard any more news from home, and it was nothing good. Although our forces had initially managed to retake Lwów, the Germans had been reinforced by Russian forces, and the city had been compelled to surrender to the Red Army. It was only later that I learned that the terms of the surrender were broken the very next day, and that my father and brother had both been arrested. Those lying Bolshevik bastards deported my Tata and Jarek along with hundreds of Polish officers to labour camps in Siberia and I had two excruciating years believing they were dead, while hoping against hope that they had survived. So many were murdered in those camps, I still can’t believe Tata and Jarosław lived through it all.

Mama wasn’t so lucky. She died in Lwów several days before the surrender, when the Germans shelled the hospital where she had been helping out.”

Jensen knew words were inadequate but they were all he had to offer. “I’m so sorry, Jared. This war…”

“I know. None of us have got here without loss, eh? But Małgorzata got out. That was the only good piece of news that I had. My little Gosia had been sent with the first wave of technicians and pilots to Galti, and she was still there when I arrived. So we were reunited in Rumania, just in time to learn that the promised help from our Allies was not coming, that the ship with those planes had turned back to Gibraltar. The Rumanians caved under pressure from the Germans and promised to intern all the Poles in their own makeshift detention camps.

At first I despaired, but the Rumanians were not Reds, or Nazis, and they weren’t interested in becoming prison guards just to please Hitler. The camps security was laughable and it was easy in the end to walk out of there, to collect my sister and stow us both away on a cargo ship to Marseilles. From there we travelled by train and boat, and made it to England just in time for the Battle of Britain. The minute the Brits heard I was an experienced pilot, I was drafted into the RAF along with so many other Poles, and so here I am, still flying. Just.”

0x0x0x0

Jared swallowed, his mouth dry from so much talking. He wished he hadn’t emptied the good whiskey in the hip flask Małgorzata had given him over his wounded leg. Given that he was almost certainly going to die, it would have been a better use of the 12-year-old Glenlivet to have drunk it.

“What happened? Between you and Jarosław?” Jensen asked, and then almost instantly recanted. “I’m sorry, that was personal, and none of my business. You don’t have to answer.”

While Jared had been talking, part of him had been thinking about the story Jensen had told him. One throw away remark Jensen had made had stuck in Jared’s mind and had been niggling away at him, even while he’d been thrown back into reliving the emotional roller coaster of the last few years. Strangely, Jensen’s question now opened the door for him to ask one of his own.

“No, it’s fine, I don’t mind. But before I answer, perhaps I could ask you something personal too.” Jared didn’t wait for Jensen to respond. If the other man said anything at all, he might lose the courage to ask what he really wanted to know. “You mentioned your family, that you don’t talk to them. Why is that?”

He waited anxiously, unsure why this small thing mattered so much when he had so little time left.

“My family.” Jensen sighed. “It isn’t that I don’t talk to them, rather that they don’t want anything to do with me. As you may not, if I tell you the cause of their…disapproval. It is not something I want shouted about.”

In spite of the all pervading chill that seemed to have settled into his bones, and the dull ache that his wounded leg had become, the irony struck him as funny. Jared couldn’t help it. He laughed, threw his hands out in an expansive gesture that Jensen couldn’t see.

“Who am I going to tell? If you ever wanted to confide in anybody, I’m the best person for the job, am I not?”

The silence that followed was filled with the knowledge of death, and Jared started to wish he’d kept his big mouth shut as he stared blindly through the cockpit glass at the slowly lightening sky. His Mama had always told him he should think before he spoke, but he’d grown up reckless all the same. Then he realised Jensen was answering, though his voice was pitched so low at first Jared had almost missed it.

“When I was eighteen, my father walked in on me kissing a friend from Air Cadets. A boy. My father…I thought he might have dismissed it, ignored it just like he’d ignored me most of my life, but he didn’t. It seems that I found the one thing in life that would gain his full attention, and it cost me my family. Father threw me out and cut me off. He forbade my mother to have any contact with me, and she obeyed him. I haven’t heard anything from her, or my brother and sister since that day. I didn’t know what to do; I had nowhere to go. Father stopped paying my school fees so I couldn’t finish there or go onto University as I’d always planned to do. So I ran. I emptied my meagre allowance account before Father could freeze it and made my way to Paris. The Legion became my family.”

“You sound bitter,” Jared observed, keeping his tone neutral.

“Do I? Maybe I have reason. My brother was my best friend when we were growing up. He was old enough to defy our father, but I never heard anything from him. Not a word. I wrote several times but he never wrote back. After a while I gave up, stopped sending letters. It was better to have clean break.”

Jared had always been told he was one of those sickeningly optimistic people, so he persisted.

“Maybe he never saw your letters. Maybe your parents intercepted them before he saw them?”

“That’s ridiculous, I….” Jensen stopped and Jared waited as the idea sunk in.

“You are thinking I might be right, aren’t you? I can hear the wheels turning from here,” Jared’s smile was in his voice, and Jensen sighed again.

“That could be true. Our mother would lay all the letters on a silver platter in the breakfast room for father to sort through. It was a pathetic attempt to make it seem that the Ackles household had more money and class than was actually the case. I suppose it would have been easy for father to have recognised his eldest son’s writing and to have destroyed those letters before either Mackenzie or Josh saw them.... I can’t believe I never thought of this before. Father told me the whole family was disgusted with me, never wanted to see me again. What I was, what I am – it’s an offense in the eyes of God and I was damned. I suppose a part of me believed him and thought that Josh and Mac would think the same. I never even gave them a chance to prove me wrong.”

“Hvor har jeg været en idiot,” Jensen muttered in Danish. He tended to lapse into his mother’s tongue when he was angry or upset. Right now he was both. “I need to find Josh, talk to him.”

“Yes, I think you do.”

“You seem very blasé about this whole topic, Squadron Leader. Especially since homosexual practices are a court martial offence.”

Jared smiled ruefully. Time to come clean, he thought. “Remember I told you about Zdzisław Cybulski?”

“Yes…No. Wait, you and Zdzisław…?”

“Yeah,” Jared hoped Jensen couldn’t hear the blush in his voice. “I…um…told you he taught me everything, didn’t I?”

Jensen’s laugh was rich, and Jared’s reaction to the sound surprised him. In spite of everything, hearing it spread warmth through his abused body and gave him the strength to finish this part of his story.

“So finding out about me and Zdzisław Cybulski was the reason Jarek stopped talking to me. One blessing, he never told my parents, because this is one sin I think they would have found it hard to forgive.”

Jared could no longer feel his foot below the injury, though the pulse in his knee had begun to throb painfully. He bit his lip and awkwardly loosened the tourniquet with frozen fingers. He allowed the blood to flow into the damaged limb and braced for the pain to hit; which it did in seconds, like a freight train had just ran over his leg. Panting through the agony, he fumbled to tie the rags tight again, part of him wondering why he was bothering. His altitude gauge showed he was barely clearing the wave tops at 200 feet, though he no longer needed his instruments to tell him his position, as the sun was rising to illuminate the scene. The early morning light was gilding the bleak North Sea, turning it into a path of burnished gold for his wounded bird Małgorzata to skim over.

The part of Jared that was stubbornly clinging to life knew why he wanted that burst of agony to wake him up. That part wanted to hold onto the connection he’d made with this stranger who was never going to be more than a voice to him, because something deep inside was crying out that this man could be the one. And in spite of everything, Jared was still naive enough to believe in happy endings.

“The sun’s coming up,” Jared said, even though he knew Jensen from his vantage point in his inland control tower would be as aware of that fact as Jared was, looking out over the rough metallic surface of the North Sea spread out below him.

He was low enough now to make out individual waves, ruffled by wind and tide. In the greying pre-dawn light he could distinguish the coastline of England to his port side, a sprawl of houses along a promenade that would have been a pleasant place to stroll in the summers before the War, before the beach was marred by the large concrete blocks of tank traps, barbed wire and mines. It was probably Felixstowe, Jared thought.

He saw an ARP warden waving from the shore but he was too tired to wave back. The man would have a show to watch very soon, when Jared finally put the Lancaster down.

A tale to tell his children.

0x0x0x0

Jensen shifted in his uncomfortable seat. Sitting still for so long made his stumps ache. He tapped his fingers nervously on the table as he watched the skyline to the east above the treeline, as though if he stared hard enough, he would be able to spy, across the miles of farmland and shingle beaches, Jared’s broken plane above the waves.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up, you know?” Jared’s voice stirred him out of his reverie.

Jensen nodded before he remembered Jared couldn’t see him. But the Polish pilot was carrying on regardless, following his train of thought, trusting that Jensen was listening.

“I never thought about dying, even when I was losing friends and comrades on nearly every mission. But if I had, I would never have imagined it would be like this. Here at the dawn of a new day, in the company of a new friend; how do the Yanks say it? Shooting the breeze. I always liked the sound of that.

I’ve been lucky, I know. I suppose it was only a matter of time until my luck ran out. At least I had the good fortune to spend my last hours in good company.”

Jensen didn’t know what to say, so he stayed silent.

“Can I tell you a secret, Flight Lieutenant Jensen Ackles?” Jared paused. “You sound like exactly the kind of man I would have been proud to shout about loving.”

Jensen had difficulty swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat. Before emotion could unman him further, he was interrupted by a shout from Jared.

“O kurwa!”

Jensen knew enough Polish swearwords from sharing a mess with the Polish Squadrons to recognise the exclamation meant nothing good.

“What is it? Jared?”

When Jared spoke again, his voice was uncharacteristically calm and emotionless.

“Jensen. I am going to put Małgorzata down now. We’re on fire.” Jared laughed, but the sound was bitter. “Better drown than burn, you know?”

And Jensen did know. It was every airman’s nightmare, to perish in flames. He’d been very lucky when that kid had brought them down that his plane hadn’t caught fire. It was the one thing he had been eternally grateful for.

“Jared.” He said, unable to think of any protest that wouldn’t sound meaningless.

“It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jensen Ackles. I wish…”

“Ja. Me too.”

“Thank you for staying with me.”

Jensen could hear the Lancaster’s engines changing tone, the note rising from a pained rumble to a high-pitched scream, and he knew what it meant. She was diving, and there was nothing he could do.

“Jared. Jeg ville ønske jeg kunne have kendt dig bedre … Jared?”

The radio gave out a last burst of white noise and fell silent. Jensen stared blindly out into the rising sun.

“For helvede.” He said quietly. “God damn it to Hell.”

0x0x0x0

New Year’s Eve 2004

Elise had tears in her eyes when Jensen finished his story. She realised that at some time during the telling, she had taken hold of her great uncle’s hand, and that she was now gripping it tightly. Slightly embarrassed, she loosened her grip only for Jensen to fold her hand between both palms. His skin was warm and dry, and his fingers still felt strong, even though they were wizened with age and brown-speckled with liver spots. She looked up and found Jensen was smiling, his green eyes undimmed.

“Jared saved me,” he said.

She must have looked puzzled, because he explained. “That conversation we had; all the confidences that we shared over those few short hours, it saved my life. I was this close to giving up.” Jensen lifted one hand to pinch a centimetre of air between thumb and forefinger to demonstrate. “I had been trying for months to come to terms with losing my legs, and worse still, losing my wings. All the work I had been putting in to learn to walk using my prosthetics, and all I had to show for it was pain and frustration. That night, before Jared came onto the radio, I had been cleaning my service revolver and wondering why I hadn’t already put a bullet through my skull.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “It would have been taking the coward’s way out, I know; but at the time, I thought my life was over, that nothing would ever be right again. All I wanted was for the pain to end, and if it took a bullet to end it, then so be it.”

Elise shook her head. “Nobody would ever call you a coward, Uncle Jen.”

“I would.”

Jensen let go of her hand and stared into the distance. “I went to see her, you know. Małgorzata. Megan, his little Gosia. Afterwards. He’d given me her address, and Saxmundham wasn’t very far from Parham, where I was based. I didn’t want to give her the news of her brother’s death in a telegram, and I thought she might like to hear about Jared’s final conversation. That his last thoughts had been full of love for her and for his family.”

“That’s where you got that photograph? I’d wondered about that.”

“Yes. We talked for hours that day – Megan, his father, Jerard Padalecki and I. They wanted to know every last word Jared had spoken, and I ... it was the least I could do. The only parts I withheld were the revelations about his -- and my – sexuality. But Megan, she knew. I don’t know how, but she could tell that I had feelings for her brother, and she pulled me aside before I left. She gave me this photograph, taken when he was only twenty, before the war came to tear everything apart, and she told me about Jarosław.

I wish Jared had known this, but his big brother had been angry about Jared and Zdzisław Cybulski, not because Jared was having intimate relations with a man, but because Cybulski was thirty years old, and Jared was just sixteen. Oh, I’m sure there was some homophobia mixed in with those feelings, but Jarosław still loved his little brother. It makes me very sad knowing Jared died without ever realising that.

Especially when he gave me back my brother, and my family. I followed his advice and I managed to track down Josh, your granddad. I don’t think our mother ever really understood, and your grandmother always hated me as an abomination, but Josh said he didn’t care. I’m sure it was easier to accept, as I never had any relationships with any other men. Nobody ever measured up to my Jared.”

Jensen’s eyes shut and he leaned his head back to rest against the big armchair. Elise was shocked at how weary and worn he looked without the spark that had animated in his features while he had been telling his story. She patted his hand awkwardly.

Jensen opened one eye and cocked an eyebrow, giving her a wry smile.

“Would you look at the time, eh? Nearly eight o’clock on New Year’s Eve and you are still here holding an old man’s hand instead of your lover’s. There’s still plenty of time for you to drive home safely if you leave now.”

“But….”

“But me no buts, young lady. Go and tell your boy that you love him. Have I taught you nothing?”

“Seize the day and drive safe,” Ellie said with a chuckle.

Jensen grinned back at her, the twinkle he reserved just for her back in his eye. “Exactly. The only risks worth taking are in here,” he said, and he took her hand and placed it firmly over his heart.

When the call came from Imogen the following morning with the news that Flight Lieutenant Jensen Ackles had passed away peacefully in the night, it was Harry who held Elise while she cried. But even through her tears, Ellie couldn’t help thinking that Jensen had managed one final achievement that she would willingly award him a medal for, if she could.

He had taught her how to fly.

0x0x0x0

Epilogue – No time and any time.

For those who always want a happy ending.

Jensen had expected fireworks to bring in the New Year, so was puzzled by the hush that surrounded him instead as he woke. He opened his eyes and gazed around with curiosity. He was standing in a wide-open space, all shining steel and clinically clean whites, and a dream for any modernist architect. The air smelt cold and fresh, with a slight tang of ozone, as if the sea was nearby. He looked down at himself and found to his surprise that he was clad in his RAF dress uniform, crisp creases down the dull blue serge of the trousers, buttons and medals gleaming on his chest. His shoes were polished to a high sheen, which wasn’t remarkable, but the fact that he could feel his toes wiggling inside those shoes, now that was astonishing. He raised a hand to tentatively touch his DFC medal, and he marvelled as he noticed how smooth his fingers appeared. How young.

But all of those sensations paled into insignificance at the sound of his name being spoken.

“Jensen!”

His heart leapt. That voice felt like home. He knew it in his very soul, because he had been waiting to hear it again these past sixty years. He spun round; one name leaping onto his lips, closely followed by the biggest smile ever known.

“Jared.”

“You took your own sweet time, Flight Lieutenant Ackles,” Jared said, sweeping Jensen into a crushing embrace. So intimate. So right. He didn’t want it to ever end, and now, perhaps it wouldn’t. He stepped back, holding Jared at arm’s length so he could see in full colour the face he’d known only through a sepia toned photograph.

Changeable hazel eyes sparkled down at him from under unruly strands of chestnut hair, a dimpled grin a mile wide reflected his own. A face at once familiar and totally unknown. Jensen couldn’t help himself; he ran his fingers through Jared’s shaggy locks and tugged.

“That’s not a regulation hair cut, airman,” he admonished, and then looked around, suddenly worried someone might have seen the moment of intimacy. Jared just kept grinning and pulled him back close.

“There’s no need to hide anymore. There’s no cottaging here, no pretending, no censure, no hate. Only one rule matters now, Jen,” Jared’s breath was warm against Jensen’s neck, the low sensual tone setting a fire in his belly. “And that is – love with all your heart.”

Then Jared’s lips found his, they were kissing and it was everything Jensen had ever dreamed it would be. When they finally broke apart, Jensen was flushed and breathless.

“I can’t believe you waited for me,” Jensen said, in wonder. Jared replied by taking Jensen’s hand and placing it over his heart.

“Always.” He said.

The End