Pilots
I think you all probably know by now, I've been having trouble with my writing and my courage lately. I had a small, one off inspiration this afternoon. So I wrote it. And I refuse to obsess about every word like I usually do. I'm just going to put it up and cover my eyes. :D
This is for the darling danna7001
Pilots
A gift from my wonderfully talented, long-time friend mwrgana
“You musn’t take it so hard.”
The American patted Spike on the arm, joggling his drink just enough to spill it.
“Shit, sorry.”
The big Yank took the blame on himself, though they both knew it was the pathetic twitch of Spike’s fingers, and not Liam’s consoling pat, that made a tremble run down the length of Spike’s arm and splash amber liquid on the table between them.
Outside the pub window, fog curled in chill coils. The RAF airfield was hidden behind the gray, moving curtain. It cloaked the shadowed shapes of the returned squadron...and the planes that hadn’t come back.
Spike screwed his eyes shut and gulped down the last of the whiskey left in his glass. All those dead boys. Oz. Wes. Gunn. He shuddered, imagining their faces pressed to the clouded glass, peering in at him in accusation. He put his head in his hands and felt the shakes take him again.
“Look. It wasn’t your fault. There are always casualties. You know that.”
“Ah. This from the ‘observer’ who don’t know shite about anything.” Spike’s blood-shot eyes held Liam in their sights. “Was my fault! Squadron leader sittin’ here in the warm and cosy, while my men are down with the fishes. Lost six today, mate. Six bloody planes, and I’m here in one fucking piece.”
“Jesus, Spike. You couldn’t have saved them. I saw what happened.”
“Don’t.” Spike could hear the belligerence in his tone, and waved his hand in wordless apology. He lifted his chin and stared at Liam’s wavering face. Man must be drunk. The drunken American, that’s what he’d call him. And he was pretty, too, in a big, shiny, American way. Spike blinked, forgetting for a moment what he was saying, before finding the thread again. “We always come back with a few less. Nothing bloody new ‘bout that. You’ll understand soon enough once you start going up. I’ll be sitting here drinking to your demise before we know it. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
Spike shuddered weakly, pressing his head to the beer-scented table, wanting some privacy, needing to get flat on his arse blotto, so he could forget for a few minutes the torture that was his life. He loved every sodding, bloody one of them, and when they died, he died too. Hell. For all he knew, it would be his turn next. And he was only twenty five. He didn’t want to fucking die.
Liam, watching the Englishman’s anguish, was suddenly overwhelmed with compassion for the pitiful, drunken wreck of the cocky bastard he’d seen only hours ago, swinging up into his Spitfire. All bravado. Full of the kind of leadership that made men put their lives on the line time and again just to see the glow of approbation in his fierce blue eyes. Liam couldn’t blame them.
“You need to ease off the booze. Get some rest. Come on. I’m gonna see if they’ve got a room upstairs. You’ll feel better for a little sleep.”
Spike was mumbling to himself, his cheek flat on the rough wood as Liam pushed back his chair and went in search of the landlord. He found him at the bar, polishing glasses and dispensing whiskey with a resigned hand. There was a sad smile for Liam when he asked about a room for his friend.
“I can see the poor lad’s had a rough go of it today. Take him upstairs. First door on the right. Compliments of the house. Nothing’s too good for our boys.”
Liam scooped the limp form into his arms, carrying Spike up the worn staircase, the steps creaking noisily under his feet as he climbed. With its small lamp clicked on, the room looked welcoming, a haven amid the ravages of the day. An eider down covered the bed, and when Liam pulled it away, the sheet smelled clean and starched. He worked Spike’s boots off and then his uniform jacket, smiling when the man roused enough to catch him around the neck and pull him down for a sloppy kiss on the cheek.
“Lend Lease.” The foggy slur of words made Liam grin. “Don’t never let them tell you it’s a bad thing. Cus shiny Yanks. Yeah.” The slim, strong body rolled closer, capturing Liam’s wrist. “Don’t leave me alone. Need you to hold me. Just for awhile. Until...it’s not so bloody dark.”
The lamplight fell like warm honey over the contours of Spike’s beautiful face. There were jeweled tears on his cheeks that glittered as they found their way to the crease of his lips. Liam wasn’t exactly sure what he was being asked, but the bruised eyes were looking up at him with a bewildered, unspoken plea. All he knew was that he wanted to offer comfort. Suddenly, it was the most important thing in his world to ease and protect this wounded person.
He slipped his jacket off and placed it carefully over a spindly wooden chair. His shoes came next. Then he was laying down on the bed, pulling Spike’s smaller form into the shelter of his arms, smelling the sweet, fresh smell of his hair pressed to his nose. For a long, peaceful time they lay together in a quiet embrace. When Spike finally turned, blue eyes meeting brown, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for their lips to touch in a gentle kiss. Then another and another.
Shirts and pants were shed in rising need. Silky skin, sweet and warm as fresh spring rain, filled Liam’s mouth as he closed it around the urgently erect penis. He heard Spike cry out in lost surrender, hands painful on his shoulders, as he worked the pale, thick length to release, running his fingers through the curls brushing his chin. When they slept at last, it was deep and dreamless.
In the pale light of morning, they woke slowly, uncertain of where they were and what had passed between them. Below, the sounds of the pub beginning to stir brought reality back.
Spike touched the curve of Liam’s cheek softly. “Hi.”
Liam’s heart expanded as he drew Spike tenderly closer. “Hi.”
This is for the darling danna7001
Pilots
A gift from my wonderfully talented, long-time friend mwrgana
“You musn’t take it so hard.”
The American patted Spike on the arm, joggling his drink just enough to spill it.
“Shit, sorry.”
The big Yank took the blame on himself, though they both knew it was the pathetic twitch of Spike’s fingers, and not Liam’s consoling pat, that made a tremble run down the length of Spike’s arm and splash amber liquid on the table between them.
Outside the pub window, fog curled in chill coils. The RAF airfield was hidden behind the gray, moving curtain. It cloaked the shadowed shapes of the returned squadron...and the planes that hadn’t come back.
Spike screwed his eyes shut and gulped down the last of the whiskey left in his glass. All those dead boys. Oz. Wes. Gunn. He shuddered, imagining their faces pressed to the clouded glass, peering in at him in accusation. He put his head in his hands and felt the shakes take him again.
“Look. It wasn’t your fault. There are always casualties. You know that.”
“Ah. This from the ‘observer’ who don’t know shite about anything.” Spike’s blood-shot eyes held Liam in their sights. “Was my fault! Squadron leader sittin’ here in the warm and cosy, while my men are down with the fishes. Lost six today, mate. Six bloody planes, and I’m here in one fucking piece.”
“Jesus, Spike. You couldn’t have saved them. I saw what happened.”
“Don’t.” Spike could hear the belligerence in his tone, and waved his hand in wordless apology. He lifted his chin and stared at Liam’s wavering face. Man must be drunk. The drunken American, that’s what he’d call him. And he was pretty, too, in a big, shiny, American way. Spike blinked, forgetting for a moment what he was saying, before finding the thread again. “We always come back with a few less. Nothing bloody new ‘bout that. You’ll understand soon enough once you start going up. I’ll be sitting here drinking to your demise before we know it. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
Spike shuddered weakly, pressing his head to the beer-scented table, wanting some privacy, needing to get flat on his arse blotto, so he could forget for a few minutes the torture that was his life. He loved every sodding, bloody one of them, and when they died, he died too. Hell. For all he knew, it would be his turn next. And he was only twenty five. He didn’t want to fucking die.
Liam, watching the Englishman’s anguish, was suddenly overwhelmed with compassion for the pitiful, drunken wreck of the cocky bastard he’d seen only hours ago, swinging up into his Spitfire. All bravado. Full of the kind of leadership that made men put their lives on the line time and again just to see the glow of approbation in his fierce blue eyes. Liam couldn’t blame them.
“You need to ease off the booze. Get some rest. Come on. I’m gonna see if they’ve got a room upstairs. You’ll feel better for a little sleep.”
Spike was mumbling to himself, his cheek flat on the rough wood as Liam pushed back his chair and went in search of the landlord. He found him at the bar, polishing glasses and dispensing whiskey with a resigned hand. There was a sad smile for Liam when he asked about a room for his friend.
“I can see the poor lad’s had a rough go of it today. Take him upstairs. First door on the right. Compliments of the house. Nothing’s too good for our boys.”
Liam scooped the limp form into his arms, carrying Spike up the worn staircase, the steps creaking noisily under his feet as he climbed. With its small lamp clicked on, the room looked welcoming, a haven amid the ravages of the day. An eider down covered the bed, and when Liam pulled it away, the sheet smelled clean and starched. He worked Spike’s boots off and then his uniform jacket, smiling when the man roused enough to catch him around the neck and pull him down for a sloppy kiss on the cheek.
“Lend Lease.” The foggy slur of words made Liam grin. “Don’t never let them tell you it’s a bad thing. Cus shiny Yanks. Yeah.” The slim, strong body rolled closer, capturing Liam’s wrist. “Don’t leave me alone. Need you to hold me. Just for awhile. Until...it’s not so bloody dark.”
The lamplight fell like warm honey over the contours of Spike’s beautiful face. There were jeweled tears on his cheeks that glittered as they found their way to the crease of his lips. Liam wasn’t exactly sure what he was being asked, but the bruised eyes were looking up at him with a bewildered, unspoken plea. All he knew was that he wanted to offer comfort. Suddenly, it was the most important thing in his world to ease and protect this wounded person.
He slipped his jacket off and placed it carefully over a spindly wooden chair. His shoes came next. Then he was laying down on the bed, pulling Spike’s smaller form into the shelter of his arms, smelling the sweet, fresh smell of his hair pressed to his nose. For a long, peaceful time they lay together in a quiet embrace. When Spike finally turned, blue eyes meeting brown, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for their lips to touch in a gentle kiss. Then another and another.
Shirts and pants were shed in rising need. Silky skin, sweet and warm as fresh spring rain, filled Liam’s mouth as he closed it around the urgently erect penis. He heard Spike cry out in lost surrender, hands painful on his shoulders, as he worked the pale, thick length to release, running his fingers through the curls brushing his chin. When they slept at last, it was deep and dreamless.
In the pale light of morning, they woke slowly, uncertain of where they were and what had passed between them. Below, the sounds of the pub beginning to stir brought reality back.
Spike touched the curve of Liam’s cheek softly. “Hi.”
Liam’s heart expanded as he drew Spike tenderly closer. “Hi.”