Title: Learning to fly
Fandom: Dunkirk
Rating: NC-17
Length: >8k words
Pairing: Collins/Farrier
Content notes: Author chooses not to warn
Author notes: This is what happens when a new fandom hits me like a ton of bricks, adding to an existing fascination with flyboys. Many thanks to Fen for being so encouraging with this and keeping me going until the boys got to their happy ever after.
Summary: Five times Collins and Farrier remind each other not to drink alone, and one time they don’t have to.
1: Wheels up
Collins comes to the squadron as a wet behind the ears pilot, barely out of training. The squadron leader gives him a brief once over and then tells him, in official language, to piss off. He gets a Spit assigned to him and a bunk in a Nissen hut. The bunk must have belonged to someone else recently because he finds a photo tucked behind it when he's unpacking. A girl he doesn't know. He doesn't know what to do with it, whether to say something to the other men watching him. He feels like an ass in his still smart uniform, the only one without shadows under his eyes and without the battered creases in his flying jacket. The new kid. Just like being back at school.
It feels like barely any time at all before he’s on active duty, sitting in his flight kit and waiting for the call to scramble. The tension is unbearable, waiting and waiting for the call to come and never knowing when it will be. He keeps himself still only through sheer force of will, when nobody else seems to acknowledge any nerves. He can't imagine being calm enough to sit there playing cards or taking a nap. One of the other men gives him a nod that might be meant as reassurance or encouragement. He offers Collins a cigarette so at least he has something to do with his hands. It helps.
When the call comes, he has no time to think, only time to run for his plane and get in the air. Up there, it’s like nothing else on earth.
He doesn’t manage to hit anyone as far has he can tell in the confusion, but at least he doesn’t get hit himself other than a couple of bullet holes in his tail. He can do nothing but act and react. He used to think he was a good pilot, one of the best in his training unit. Now he knows that he knows nothing. Survival has become luck not judgement.
On the ground he struggles out of the cockpit, dizzy with adrenaline. The other pilots are talking about drinks in the bar, horsing around. Perhaps for them getting home with all planes intact makes it a good day. Collins only just manages to get to the latrine before he’s horribly, violently sick. It leaves him sweating through his shirt, mouth tasting vile and legs trembling. The last thing he wants is for anyone to see him like this.
He rinses his mouth and heads for the hut alone. Everyone else seems to be occupied with drinks or what passes as a meal in the canteen and he’s got a half bottle of whiskey in his kit bag. He’d thought he’d save it for something special but this seems like an emergency. He pours a finger or two into his mug. His hands are trembling and he has to hold both the mug and the bottle.
“You shouldn't go drinking alone, you know.”
Collins jumps and wedges his shaking hands between his knees. The man who nodded at him earlier is standing in the door of the hut. Farrier, Collins thinks, one of the older and more experienced pilots out of the lot of them. Not somebody he wants to see him in this state.
“It’s alright,” Farrier says, then, “Collins, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
"Scottish?"
Collins doesn't bother answering, he just gives him a look. He's had a whole lifetime of people taking the piss out of his accent. Farrier doesn't rise to the bait.
“You did alright up there. Next time’s easier.” Farrier offers him a half smile. “And you’re not the first to lose his breakfast after.”
Collins gives him a sheepish smile. “I was hoping nobody noticed.”
Farrier shrugs. “You’ll see worse. Got any more to drink?”
Collins offers up the bottle and Farrier finds a mug of his own to pour a measure into. “Thanks,” he says. He sips, apparently unconcerned by long silences. “If you want advice I’ve got two rules for you. Go easy with your bullets. New pilots fire too many, you’ve got to save them, only got a few seconds.”
“I’ll remember. What’s the second?”
Farrier gives him a crooked smile. “Already given it: don’t drink alone. Remember that, you’ll be alright.”
From then on, Farrier takes Collins under his wing. Not so obviously that it's an embarrassment, but he introduces him to some of the other pilots who in turn start to accept he might be going to stick around. You learn to tell after a time, who might have a few flights left in him and who is on borrowed time. A sixth sense perhaps, not that they talk about it.
Farrier has his back in the air. Collins is learning, flight by flight, how to make sense of the dogfights and how to keep himself alive. He's glad to know that there's someone up there with half an eye for him and he keeps a watch for Farrier as well. They work well together, well enough that they get paired up more and more. After a certain time you get a feeling for what your fellow pilot is going to do: when he'll bank, what his plans are. With surprise, Collins realises that enough of the existing pilots have gone and enough new boys come in that he's already becoming one of the old hands himself. New pilots look at him with a certain respect. He's earned his place at the bar too, next to Farrier, and a reasonable chance of his drink of choice being lined up there when he lands.
Whenever they come back from a dogfight, however bad it's been, Farrier looks at Collins and says, "remember, never drink alone." Then despite the exhaustion and the fear, the frayed nerves and constant loss, that's how Collins knows that things are alright.
2: With the bluebirds
A few months in and the squadron hears of a new instalment of WAAFs on a nearby airfield. RAF gossip has it that this means there are WAAFs are to be found in the local pub of an evening, and the squadron hums with all the atmosphere of a group of men who have been separated too long from female company. Collins is settling in fairly well by this point, but some of the jokes about the women make him wince and he's never really understood the fascination with RAF issued uniform knickers. Rumour has it that they were designed to be as dampening to amorous intentions as possible.
He has had long practice at giving the right kind of non-answers and half smiles when it comes to talk about girls. The fear he feels at being identified as not fitting in, as being other, means he ends up getting dragged along to the pub with what feels like half the squadron.
In the pub the atmosphere is lively to say the least. Collins loiters, uncertain of himself. He'd underestimated the skill of his fellow pilots in the art of picking up women and knows himself to be out of his depth. Lacking the expected flyboy charm, he finds himself left at the end of the bar, relegated to observer and nursing a pint with more attention than the quality of the beer deserves.
Farrier finds him. He had been in the middle of the crowd but extracted himself without being noticed.
"Drinking alone, Collins?" he asks. He perches on a stool and summons a beer for himself. "You know what they say about that."
There's a squeal from the corner of the room and it seems as if Peters has made good on his bet to see whether the WAAFs were wearing winter or summer weight knickers. The WAAF in question doesn't seem particularly unhappy about it, but Collins finds himself frowning. He thinks gloomily about his sister in this kind crowd.
"Not your thing, is it?" Farrier asks him. He's got his eyes fixed on the corner of the room as if he's waiting for trouble to start.
"I suppose not, not really."
"Not mine either." Farrier glances at him and Collins wonders if he's imagining the look in his eye. It feels like a hint of shared understanding, but perhaps he's being overly optimistic.
Of course there's no way to say what he's thinking but Farrier keeps him company all night, perched together in their corner, keeping an eye on the crowd and making their leisurely way through a few pints.
When things get a bit rowdier and the landlord starts to frown, he does the gentlemanly thing with Farrier and walks the WAAFs home. He doesn't know it at the time but it will earn him an entirely underserved reputation on the squadron when he's seen walking off with a girl on each arm and a pretty good reputation with the WAAFs as well for not trying anything on, which is no bad thing. It helps to have his quietness about women seen as confidence rather than a disguise.
He and Farrier walk back to base that night in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Despite his tiredness and the knowledge of another day of flying tomorrow, Collins feels a strange, light feeling in his chest. Happiness, he realises, happiness even here. He lets his shoulder bump against Farrier, just because he can.
3: Dogfight
By now Collins can hardly believe he was ever an outsider here. The time before the RAF feels like another life. A time when he didn't know how far he could push himself on how little sleep, how it felt to fly when he was dead tired and buzzed on the pills they hand out like sweets. He doesn't end up frozen on the stick any more, although he's got the tell-tale shakes that they all pretend not to have. In contrast to the suffocating waiting game they play on the ground, being up in the blue sky with Farrier's voice in his ear feels like being really alive.
It's been a quiet day for them today, which is always worse for the jitters. He's smoked too much and run out of things to do while waiting, even writing to all his siblings in their various posts across the world. Other people feel it too: the air in the dispersals hut is thick with anxiety. Men snap at each other and stupid arguments spring up out of nowhere. The ring of the phone has them all jumping. It's almost a relief when the call finally comes to scramble.
Like the rest of them, Collins was already in his Mae West and parachute, nothing left to do except climb into the cockpit and feel his Spitfire come to life around him. He checks the rudder and then the stick, craning his head to the side to see the flaps moving as they should. The ritual of it calms him. He has the feeling of her now. He shouts ‘clear prop’ to the ground crew and starts the engine.
Following Farrier, he lifts his plane up into the air and into formation, circling over the airfield while the others in A flight to come up to join them. He is on alert already, waiting for the small black specks in the sky that will mean enemy aircraft approaching.
"Form up Fortis one and two, Angels five." Canfield’s voice crackles over the radio.
Collins acknowledges and the three of them in Fortis section climb steadily into the sky. It's blue all around him as he climbs and the fierce sunlight blinds him. The engines of his Spit whine into the steep ascent. He breathes in the sharp metallic and rubber scented oxygen from his mask. Turning right, he can see that Fortis one is there. Flying wingtip to wingtip they wait.
There's an itchy feeling at the back of his neck, the sensation that someone is watching him. He turns his head again and again. Most pilots wear a warm jumper to fly but Collins never does. He tells them it's because he's Scottish and he doesn't feel the cold, but really he hates anything that gets in the way of turning his head. Squinting into sunlight, eyes watering, at last he sees the enemy planes coming and all too soon it begins.
Dogfights are usually a blur. A cat and mouse game of turns and spins, always trying to be the one behind the enemy, never letting him get you in his sights. Today Collins isn’t so lucky. They end up outnumbered with him in the middle between two Messerschmitts that were flying escort. He gets a shot in at one but as he twists and turns to see behind him, he is aware of the shadow of the other pilot coming up behind. Bullets clatter into his wing and he banks as tightly as he can, feeling the force of it start to grey his vision. Farrier is on the tail of the other plane, distracting him enough that Collins can turn again, taking advantage of the tighter curve the Spitfire can follow. He gets another shot across the cockpit and the ME 109 nosedives.
He isn’t even aware of what was happening behind him until he lands and finds an argument brewing between Farrier and Barnes. He hovers, aware that his name is somehow involved but unsure exactly how until he pieces it together: Farrier, in pursuit of the German on Collins' tail, had flown directly into Barnes’ flight path, forcing him into a steep climb and losing him precious seconds in his own fight. Collins can sympathise. Seconds are all they have at times.
"Don't you get under my fucking nose again!"
Farrier holds his hands up in a placatory gesture. Barnes is not willing to be appeased.
"Leave it," Peters says to Barnes, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You made your point. What's done is done. Bar's already open and I need a drink."
"No, I don't want a fucking drink, I want Farrier to stop chasing after Collins every time he gets himself in trouble."
That was never going to be the right thing to say to Farrier. He’s been a rugby player and a rower, always about the team. "Unlike you, I look out for my section."
Barnes gets closer, expression ugly. "Your section, is it? What about the rest of us? You don't mind if I take a hit. I don't think the rest of us even cross your mind." He gets right into Farrier's face, despite Peters trying to tug him away. He says something, too quiet to hear but with such a venomous expression that Collins isn't even surprised when Farrier lashes out and punches Barnes solidly in the jaw.
Peters must have heard it too because he makes a disapproving sound and lunges for Barnes while Collins makes a grab for Farrier, holding his wrist when he tries to take another swing. Canfield steps between them. "Enough," he says, and there’s no arguing with Canfield. "I won't have any more of this."
Barnes wrenches himself away first, followed by two of his friends. The audience of ground crew scatters, pretending they were never watching at all. They descend on the Spitfires, assessing damage, starting on repairs and refueling.
"Get off me Collins," Farrier snaps. Collins had hardly noticed that he still had his arms wrapped round the other man. He lets go, and Farrier jerks away from him. He strides off in the direction of their hut. When Collins starts to follow, he is halted by a hand on his arm.
"Leave him for a bit," Peters says quietly, "let him get over it."
"I didn't ask him to have my back."
"I know. You're a good pilot, Collins. You've got our backs as often as we've got yours, but Barnes has got the twitch and Farrier pisses him off on a good day.” Peters sighs, then smiles at him. “Come and have a drink and forget about it."
Collins goes, because Peters has known Farrier for longer and is insistent about it, but he tries to slip away after his second pint. His worry for Farrier is nagging at him. Peters, watching him, gives him a nod and tells him he's got an hour to get Farrier fit to live with before the rest of them come back. "It's not about what Barnes said," he tells Collins in an undertone, “it’s about whether it’s true or not. Think about that.”
Collins does nothing but think as he crosses the airfield from the bar. Turning Peters’ words over in his mind and trying to decide if he’s being logical or if it’s just wishful thinking. He’s not stupid. It’s obvious that Barnes said something about Collins, about Farrier and Collins. The question is, was the punch because Farrier was insulted by it or because he was hurt by it. Hurt in the way that Collins hurts sometimes, when he looks at Farrier and knows he could trust him with his life but still wants something more.
In the hut, Farrier is half lying on his bunk, back propped against the wall and his arms resting on his knees. His flying jacket has been discarded somewhere. There’s a lit cigarette in his hand, but isn't smoking. His knuckles are raw.
"Fuck off Collins," he says, but doesn't sound like he means it. Collins sits down uninvited on the end of Farrier's bed.
"Didn't want you to end up drinking alone." He picks up the bottle lying on the blankets and sniffs it cautiously. It smells like gin, probably the hideous stuff that Redgrave brought back off leave and nobody could face drinking. He takes a sip and grimaces. "Jesus, you'll go blind drinking that."
Farrier's face twists, not quite a smile. He takes a drag of the cigarette and taps the ash into the ash tray. "Not me."
Collins puts the lid on the bottle again anyway and dumps it out of reach. "Not worth risking. If you've nothing better to drink, do you want to come to the bar?"
"Did it occur to you I might want to be left alone?" Farrier's face is creased into a deep frown. Collins, God help him, wants nothing more than to smooth the frown away. It the sort of impulse he's been struggling with for a while.
"Perhaps," he shrugs, "but I wanted to talk to you."
Farrier breathes a sigh that sounds a lot like 'fuck'.
"I wanted to ask you what he said, to get you to hit him like that. Was it about me?"
Farrier sighs again, his expression world weary. They are all so bloody tired all the time: it makes everything worse. "Collins..." he says, but no more.
"Did he imply I'm a rotten pilot? Or is that what you think, that I need a nursemaid up there?"
"No!" Farrier looks gratifyingly appalled at the suggestion.
"Then it must be something else about me, about you and me? About why you've always got my back?"
"Don't Collins." Farrier's tone darkens into warning. "You really don't want to know what he said."
"I do. You see... there's a reason I have to know. I have to know whether what he said was true." Collins hovers on the edge of speaking or holding his peace. Of risking everything, against never having a chance.
"Just fucking ask me then. And if you don’t like it, I’m not going to hold it against you." Farrier stubs his cigarette out with some force, then returns his gaze to his hands, picking at the skin.
Collins pauses, wondering if he's really about to be a reckless as he thinks he is. "The thing is Farrier, I have to ask because I need to know if you're going to punch me in the face or have me put on a charge for this."
Farrier looks up at him for a startled split second before Collins leans forward and kisses him. No words needed after all, just the kiss he's been longing for so long it feels like all his life.
Collins feels Farrier tense beneath him and braces himself to be shoved away, but then Farrier gives in to it, far more sweetly than Collins ever expected. His free hand comes up to cradle the back of Collins' head and Collins takes it as an invitation to do the same, running his fingers into Farrier’s shorter hair. They end up lying on top of one another, Collins held between Farrier’s thighs and leaning appreciatively against his broader chest.
“So,” Collins says after a while, to the half inch space between them.
“So?”
“We’re alright then?”
Farrier wraps his arms around Collins, holding him tight in a way that makes him feel lightheaded and breathless. He kisses Collins on the forehead, which nobody has ever done before and he likes more than he thought he would. They’ll have to let go in a minute, before anyone comes back from the bar, but Collins can’t bear to move just yet.
“Yes,” Farrier says into his hair, “yes we are.”
4: Flyboy
Time alone is hard to come by. They spend so many hours in the air and there are always men around when they aren't flying. Every moment they get together is furtive apart from a few sparse days of shared leave or when the weather is warm enough to find somewhere private out of doors. Collins thinks longingly of a place the two of them could stay, where they could live in whole days rather than in moments, but he never says it out loud. Pilots don't plan for the future. He's not even sure if that's what Farrier would want. Thankfully he doesn't often have enough time to let it bother him and the moments together are all the sweeter for being rare.
There are also innocuous pleasures to be had as well. Nothing that two friends wouldn't do, but better because it's him and Farrier. Shared meals, sitting together in the sunset and sharing a smoke, cards while they wait to scramble and darts in the pub when they're both too drunk to throw straight. Sometimes when Farrier brings him a mug of tea, he does it with a look that makes warmth rise in Collins' chest. Nothing is said, but then nothing needs saying.
Still, after a while the lack of physical closeness starts to bite at him. He wants more than an illicit exchange of kisses in the bathroom or a clumsy grappling of hands and trousers in the dark behind the main hangar.
His chance comes when the other three men in their hut get leave at the same time. Collins watches them making plans for a trip to town, for the girls they'll meet, and feels the thrill of promised time alone. He looks at Farrier, who meets his eyes over the top of the newspaper he's been reading and smiles.
Unfortunately the plan to have an evening just the two of them before the others come back on the early hours only works until Annersley from hut six, spotting that Collins is alone, drags him off to the bar. Unable to think of an excuse that doesn't include a desperate need to get Farrier alone and preferably naked, he goes.
Sneaking away after the minimum number of drinks he could get away with, Collins hurries back to the hut and finds Farrier sitting in his bunk with a borrowed paperback, bare feet and an expression that makes Collins suddenly stiflingly hot in his uniform.
"Thought you'd forgotten," Farrier says, putting his book down.
"Of course not. Just had to get them off my tail." Collins wedges a chair under the door handle. Not the best lock, but it might give them a moment of warning if necessary. "Told them I couldn't leave you drinking alone." He crosses the room, already tugging at his tie.
"Is that what we're doing? Drinking alone?" Farrier is pulling his jumper over his head. It leaves his hair in ruffled spikes.
"Of course." Collins abandons his jacket to the floor and straddles Farrier in his bunk. It creaks alarmingly under their weight. He pulls the bottle of whiskey from the chair where he'd left it earlier, takes a sip straight from the bottle and offers it to Farrier. "See, we're just drinking." Farrier's hands are busy with the buttons of Collins' shirt so Collins hold the bottle to his lips for him to drink. The sight of it makes him think of other places he'd like that mouth. With the taste of the alcohol still on his lips, Collins kisses Farrier with every bit of pent up hunger he has. It's the end of the talking for quite some time.
Afterwards, Collins lies with his head pillowed on Farrier's chest, tracing his fingers over the contours of Farrier's body, the patterns of muscle and hair. Farrier is drowsy and pliant beneath him. Collins has never seen him in quite this mood before but he likes it. He's never really done this. Never laid in bed with a man, a man who had shuddered and sighed beneath him and parted his thighs like a welcome. As Farrier runs fingers through his hair and kisses him again, Collins thinks he might be ruined for anyone else.
"It's late," Farrier says quietly.
"I know."
"We'll have to move some time."
"Mmm... later." He can't remember the last time he felt this warm. He presses his face into Farrier's shoulder and inhales the scent of his skin. His thighs are wrapped around Farrier's and he rocks against him instinctively.
"Come on Collins," Farrier says in the tone he uses in flight. He pats Collins' arse, which leads to a tussle and more kisses. Farrier ends up on top of him this time and if Collins weren't so tired, he'd be wanting to try this as well. Instead, Farrier kisses him one last time and gets up.
Tidied up and in pyjamas, they lie there in the almost darkness, the hut lit only by the glow of the stove. They don't talk much, but it's good to know they are together. Collins holds his hand out across the hut and Farrier reaches back. The distance is just short enough for them to link their fingers. It's the last thing Collins is aware of before he falls asleep.
The others return with dawn and Collins stirs in his bunk, reluctant to give up the last vestiges of sleep. Farrier is awake already, stoking up the stove and putting the kettle on to heat. He is always the first to get up in the morning.
"Someone got lucky then," Redgrave announces to the room at large, and Collins tenses, suddenly afraid that despite their care, they have left some clue to what happened last night.
Farrier, as calmly as if he were reading a weather report, says, "yes, someone brought a WAAF home last night." From the emphasis on ‘someone’, Collins assumes Farrier is pointing at him rather than meaning himself. He keeps his eyes shut, pretending to be oblivious.
"Lucky dog!"
"Always the quiet ones." Peters sounds like he’s laughing.
"I actually meant me," Redgrave says, sounding peeved, "I met a lovely little nurse last night, but oh well, good luck to you Collins." He bounces down on the end of Collins' bed. There's no point feigning sleep after that so Collins pulls himself out from under the covers, running hands through his hair. Thompson whoops.
"Blimey Collins, she's done a number on you alright."
Collins frowns in bewilderment, then looks into the shaving mirror that Peters is holding up to him. Sure enough, his hair is sticking up in wild tufts on the top of his head and he has a sizeable bruise on his neck. He attempts a nonchalant grin. Peters gets him in a headlock and Thompson ruffles his hair. Looking past them, Collins can see Farrier watching him. He's going about his business with the kettle, making tea, but his smile is small and private. When he meets Collins' eyes the smile turns a bit smug. He winks.
Collins extracts himself from Peters and makes his way to the bathroom with a swagger. He's a flyboy, and he's on top of the world.
5: Ditching
Dunkirk makes Collins nervous, not that he'd ever acknowledge it. It's such a significant target and there's no surprise to rely on. Sitting ducks on the beach and precious little to be done about it with so few planes. The calm he relies on when he flies gets him through the inevitable dogfight and the loss of Canfield as Fortis leader. Even when he's ditching, he's aware of Farrier's voice in his ear before all his concentration is taken by the sea racing towards him, judging the moment to cut the engine and the hammer blow of landing. It's only when he sees Farrier, engine choking to a halt, gliding powerless above the beaches, that he remembers to feel fear. His stomach drops. Later, he tells himself, think about it later. Come on Farrier, come on.
After the return to England, Collins finds himself caught up in the mass of humanity being gathered, sorted and sent on to their next destinations. He is a pilot alone among a sea of brown jacketed soldiers. He hears the muttering around him, the rumble of anger against his blue uniform, his absence from the skies above Dunkirk. He doesn't know if Farrier is alive or dead. He could be here somewhere, lost among the crowd of men if he managed to land, managed to get on one of the ships. He might be a prisoner somewhere, or dead, if the landing went badly. Not easy to land without fuel.
Collins can't quite imagine Farrier dead. But then, he can't really imagine any of the other pilots dead either: they are just gone, lost to the wide blue yonder. The line between the living and dead becomes blurred after a time.
He thinks about finding somewhere, going to a pub and drinking until he's too pissed to think straight, until the sharp edges of not knowing are softened to bearable.
“You shouldn't go drinking alone, you know.”
He hears Farrier's voice as clearly as if he'd been walking beside him. It stops him in his tracks until someone bumps into him from behind and he has to apologise and keep walking. He wonders if hearing his voice means that Farrier is dead after all. Whether a promise to a dead man still counts.
Whether it does or not, he doesn't go drinking that night or the night he returns to the squadron. He has his debrief as the last surviving member of Fortis section and goes to get himself a square meal and a kip. He dreams of Farrier. He dreams of reaching out and feeling Farrier’s hand reaching back.
In the morning, he packs Farrier's belongings into his kit bag to be sent back to his family. He strips the bed: the pillow case that smells of Farrier's hair and the sheets that smell of his skin. Farrier has kissed him in this bed, wrapped him in this blanket, laid his head beside Collins on this pillow. There'll be somebody new sleeping here soon enough. Somehow, throughout it all, Collins manages to keep the cold calmness of flight. His face stays blank, his hands don't shake.
He folds spare socks and shirts, packing them neatly around the minimal possessions Farrier had with him: a couple of books, his shaving kit. Inside the small and unexpected Bible, Collins finds his own photograph. Taken by a friend there had been three photographs in total: one of each of them and one taken together with their arms around each other. Nothing so very much, apart from the fact that Farrier has kept the one of Collins like something treasured.
Seeing the photograph tucked so carefully away makes his heart ache. He takes it, and hides it in the envelope which contains a letter to Farrier, written in case Collins was killed first. He has three of those letters: Farrier's and then one for his parents, one for his sister Mary in the WAAF. Farrier's letter is unlikely to be sent now, but at least it gives him a private place for the memories contained in those three small squares of card.
Everything else he packs away for Farrier's family. His only concession is to allow himself to stroke his fingers over the fabric of the last folded shirt before he tucks it away. A kiss that is not a kiss.
Next time the squadron goes out and comes back two men short, Collins makes sure he drinks with the rest of the pilots. The dregs of the whiskey in the bottle remain untouched. He keeps his promise.
It takes nearly three months before word comes that Farrier is alive in a POW camp and the relief is shocking. That night, Collins digs out the photograph of Farrier for the first time since the day he packed his bags. He stares at it and can hardly think.
A month or so later, there's a letter waiting for him when he lands. Small and battered, forwarded on from the Red Cross and printed on the envelope with German. He fumbles to open it, holding his gloves in his teeth, not even bothering to get out of his Mae West and flying jacket. Farrier's writing scrawls across the page. He devours the words: Farrier is safe, unharmed in the landing, conditions not too bad. Collins assumes this is a lie, but is comforted by it nonetheless. He's forgotten how much he has missed the sound of Farrier's voice, hearing it so clearly as he reads.
At the end of the letter is a postscript.
You know my girl, so kiss her for me. Tell her that I miss her, but tell her that she doesn't have to wait for me.
Collins stares at the words, feeling stupid. Farrier doesn't have a girl, not in the time Collins has known him, and none that he's mentioned from before. No girls, only... Collins. And with that being the case... kiss her for me. A kiss. I miss you. You don't have to wait.
He hardly sleeps that night for imagining the letter he wants to write but has no time to reply until three days later. All the time he's been turning the words over and over in his head. He writes his letter slowly. Between the censors and the risk of divulging information to the enemy, the topic is necessarily limited. He manages something that he hopes stays general enough to arrive intact, without the black lines of the censor's pen. Something one friend might write to another, trying to keep his spirits up. At the end he writes "I told your girl as you asked me. She says she'll wait anyway. She sent a kiss in return but as I cannot deliver it this letter will have to do instead."
It is the first in a scattering of letters between them. The post is slow and Collins is frequently too busy to write. He's also hampered by what to say. It's too risky to keep mentioning the fictitious girl so Collins has to leave unsaid all the affectionate things that he wants to say. Yet the letters continue, marking the time, bright moments in days that have become a blur of waking and waiting, flying over and over until he feels like his whole body is at breaking point with tiredness. And then being asked for one more flight. More men die than he thought it was possible to lose.
Sometimes he feels so very old.
Eventually, his luck runs out. An ME109 on his tail and no Farrier there behind him. He loses control completely, unable to get free with his parachute, trying to pull out of the spin. He manages in the end, but not quickly enough, and the ground comes up to meet him, striking his head with a bright and blinding pain.
Later they tell him that his instinct to clutch at his head to protect the wound is what saved his face from burning, that he somehow had enough strength to help the farmer and two land girls haul him from the wreckage before the darkness rolled in. The call him lucky.
He spends a long time in hospital, suddenly cut off from the squadron that has been his life. He hopes for word, for someone like Peters to visit him, but afterwards they tell him that Peters is dead. Barely anyone is left. There are no more letters from Farrier either.
+1: Landing lights
Dear Collins
I don't know how to begin this letter because I never imagined that I would be writing it. I have thought for such a long time that you were dead.
I am in England, alive and mostly well although the journey home did not go as planned and I've been in hospital since. Today is the first day they have let me sit up and write a letter.
A long time ago Peters wrote to me and told me that you had been in a very bad crash. I never heard from him again, or from you, so I thought that you must be dead. They moved us to a new camp a few months later and I lost contact with everyone.
When we got back, they sent a woman from the Red Cross to speak to me. They say they are writing a list of the missing. I asked her about you. I thought if nothing else I'd know how you died. I didn't believe her when she said that you were alive.
I don't know if this letter is unwelcome. If you stopped writing because you no longer wanted to I understand, but if there's a chance it was just accidental I had to write. I don't expect or demand a reply.
Nurse has told me I've used up my time and have to finish my letter now. There's no arguing with her - she knows how to keep us all in line. She reminds me of Canfield that way.
Write if you want, but if not at least know how very glad I am to know you are still amongst the living.
F
In flight there are moments of terrifying disorientation: coming out of cloud to find your horizon is not where you expected it, spinning downwards and seeing the ground rushing up to meet you, pulling in and out of a steep dive and feeling the pressure of the g force threatening to render you unconscious. None of them compare to how Collins feels, sitting at the breakfast table and reading, over and over, that Farrier is alive.
It's as if he's been among the dead for years and only just remembered how to breathe.
He wonders if perhaps he is crying. He has a hundred different questions in his head, a thousand things he wants to say. Farrier is alive.
For the first time, he's late to arrive on base, stopping off at the post office to send a telegram to the hospital. Alive, alive, alive: he spends his evening drafting letters.
The reply comes eventually: not soon enough for his liking but altogether warmer. Farrier signs his letter Thomas and Collins goes about his day whistling with happiness. Even explaining the basics of formation flying to the embryonic pilots in his care cannot dampen his good spirits. He buys a bottle of whiskey, not to drink alone but because he has hope that someone will one day be there to share it with him.
The letter becomes letters. Flurries of them on thin blue paper, close written. He can see Farrier's handwriting become less shaky, the length of the letter increase. He hopes to be discharged soon. Collins gives him his new address and, recklessly hopeful, makes the offer of a visit. Any time, he says.
After the invite, three days pass without a letter. Collins tries to blame the post for it and ignore the creeping doubt. Perhaps it was too soon to offer, or meeting too much compared to exchanging letters. They have been apart for a long time and fears it’s been too far to turn the clock back.
On the third day, there's a knock at the door. Hoping for the postman, he hurries to answer it and instead finds Farrier, leaning on the porch.
"Farrier!"
"Collins." Farrier smiles at him, warm as the sun.
"God..." Collins is as frozen now as he was in his first dogfight.
"Do I look that terrible?" Farrier's smile turns wry. It's true he doesn't look as he used to. He is painfully thin: the bones of his face are sharply outlined and his skin is pale.
"No, no I just... fuck I never thought I'd see you again." Collins stumbles forwards and embraces him. Farrier hugs back tightly. He smells of hospital still and feels like a bag of bones beneath his clothes but there's still a fierce strength in the way he clings.
They break apart again to stare at one another.
"You look the same," Farrier says.
"I was lucky, most of the scars you can't see." Collins tugs the sleeve of his shirt up a fraction to show the edges of the pink, burnt skin of his forearms. There are scars on his head as well, but his hair hides them well.
"You should have had your flying jacket."
"I wear it now." Their eyes meet, and Collins has no idea what to say. Embarrassed, he retreats into an offer of tea.
Farrier follows him in to the cottage slowly, his eyes scanning everywhere as though he's in flight. He dumps his kit bag by the door and Collins hopes that it's a good sign, that Farrier might be persuaded to stay and Collins doesn't have to lose him again immediately.
"So what are you doing now?" Farrier asks him, folding himself into one of the kitchen chairs while Collins puts the kettle on.
"Teaching." Collins empties the teapot and wishes he has something better to offer, but its early still and Farrier looks too convalescent for whiskey. "I came here after the crash. Mary looked after me. You remember, my sister, she's in the WAAF."
"I remember. You and all your many siblings." Farrier has only a disinterested mother and a disapproving brother. He'd found Collins' sprawling but close knit family an oddity.
"Yes, well, she picked up the bits from hospital and put up with me cluttering up the house until I was supposedly fit enough to fly again. Only when I got back I found out that dogfights gave me blinding headaches and I blacked out a couple of times. The MO wasn't terrible impressed and packed me off. No good for being shot at any more. But I'd met the man in charge here and he offered me a job. I can do the flying alright apart from the real gymnastics and I'm not a bad teacher as it turns out."
Farrier is staring at him, slightly dazed. "I can imagine it. What do you teach them?"
"The basics. Squadron leader likes collecting crashed pilots: he says we make the best teachers because we know how not to do it. And I teach them the most important things. Don't waste your bullets and never drink alone."
"You remembered.” Farrier reaches out a hand. Collins takes it, and squeezes tight.
“Of course.”
“I was afraid that maybe things had changed.”
“Not for me. I said I’d wait, didn’t I?” Collins feels embarrassingly close to tears. They are so near again but there’s still a space between them and he doesn’t know how to close it.
Farrier gets up and closes it for him. He puts a gentle hand on Collins’ jaw, rests his thumb on his cheek bone, and kisses him. After the years of separation, it feels like coming home.
“We’ll be alright now, won’t we?”
“Yes,” Farrier says, between kisses, “yes.”
The whistle of the kettle interrupts them in the end, and Collins feels the need for them to take their time. There are more reminiscences to be had over tea: Collins still takes his the same way, Farrier has got used to a lack of sugar. They talk of fellow pilots, living and dead. “I miss Peters,” Farrier says, “I thought he’d come through.”
Collins eventually dares to ask about the escape. By the time the tale is done, they are sitting thigh to thigh at the kitchen table and Collins is covering Farrier’s cold hands with his own.
“You’re staying,” he says, and it’s not really a question.
“Can I? You said this was your sister’s house. She might not want a second pilot around.”
“It’s hers and mine. You’d be welcome.” Collins looks down at his empty cup. “She found your photograph when I was in hospital. I’d written her a letter in case something happened and the photograph was with it.”
“What did you say?”
“The truth, in the end. She’s got a girl you know. Julie, one of the ATA girls, she can fly anything with wings and her landings…” Collins whistles appreciatively. “Anyway, she comes here on leave, or when she’s flying out this way. Mary and I keep each other’s secrets.”
“You’re lucky.”
“I know. You can stay here as long as you want, until you know what you’re doing next.” Surely, Collins thinks, they won’t send him back to the war. A small part of him is already planning an introduction to the squadron leader, the chance of building a life together here, at least for a little while. He has to remind himself not to rush ahead.
Instead he waits for Mary to come home and makes introductions. Dinner with the three of them together goes surprisingly well, although Farrier gets quieter towards the end of the meal. He looks worn, and Collins realises he must be tired.
“When did you get out of hospital?” Mary asks.
Farrier grimaces. “This morning, not long before I decided to get on the train.”
She tuts at him, which Collins takes as a good sign. “You’re as bad as Andrew then. Leave the washing up to me and go to bed before you drop.”
“I can’t get used to her calling you Andrew,” Farrier says as they head upstairs and the two of them laugh at the ridiculousness of it.
On the landing, Collins pauses. “There’s a spare room,” he says, “no WAAFs billeted with us at the moment. You can have that or…”
“Or?”
“My room’s through there.”
Farrier links their hands together. “I’ve been waiting since ’39 to share a bed with you Collins. For God’s sake let me do it now.”
Farrier wakes in the morning to a soft bed, sunlight and the distant sound of chickens. Collins is beside him, tousle haired and warm, looking at him in a way that can only be described as fond.
“Back in a tick,” he says quietly and Farrier lets himself drift for a while, lulled by the domestic noises of a village waking up, so very unlike a hospital or prison camp.
Collins reappears some time later and Farrier sits up to look at him properly. He’s in blue striped pyjamas and an old woolen jumper, carrying two mugs of tea. Farrier has never seen a more welcome sight.
“Tea,” Collins says unnecessarily. “I thought you might want company while you drank it.”
Farrier grins at him. “I didn’t think avoiding drinking alone extended to tea.”
“It does now,” Collins tells him, sounding so sure and certain that Farrier finds it hard to swallow.
“I should have said, when I wrote to you from camp. I shouldn’t have said don’t wait. I was going to say I love you. I just didn’t know how.”
“It’s alright,” Collins says softly, “I already knew, Tom.”
Farrier just nods. The last piece has fallen into place. Collins tucks himself closer in the bed, sipping his tea with a contented sigh. He bumps their shoulders together.
“Just so you know, I love you too.”
Fandom: Dunkirk
Rating: NC-17
Length: >8k words
Pairing: Collins/Farrier
Content notes: Author chooses not to warn
Author notes: This is what happens when a new fandom hits me like a ton of bricks, adding to an existing fascination with flyboys. Many thanks to Fen for being so encouraging with this and keeping me going until the boys got to their happy ever after.
Summary: Five times Collins and Farrier remind each other not to drink alone, and one time they don’t have to.
1: Wheels up
Collins comes to the squadron as a wet behind the ears pilot, barely out of training. The squadron leader gives him a brief once over and then tells him, in official language, to piss off. He gets a Spit assigned to him and a bunk in a Nissen hut. The bunk must have belonged to someone else recently because he finds a photo tucked behind it when he's unpacking. A girl he doesn't know. He doesn't know what to do with it, whether to say something to the other men watching him. He feels like an ass in his still smart uniform, the only one without shadows under his eyes and without the battered creases in his flying jacket. The new kid. Just like being back at school.
It feels like barely any time at all before he’s on active duty, sitting in his flight kit and waiting for the call to scramble. The tension is unbearable, waiting and waiting for the call to come and never knowing when it will be. He keeps himself still only through sheer force of will, when nobody else seems to acknowledge any nerves. He can't imagine being calm enough to sit there playing cards or taking a nap. One of the other men gives him a nod that might be meant as reassurance or encouragement. He offers Collins a cigarette so at least he has something to do with his hands. It helps.
When the call comes, he has no time to think, only time to run for his plane and get in the air. Up there, it’s like nothing else on earth.
He doesn’t manage to hit anyone as far has he can tell in the confusion, but at least he doesn’t get hit himself other than a couple of bullet holes in his tail. He can do nothing but act and react. He used to think he was a good pilot, one of the best in his training unit. Now he knows that he knows nothing. Survival has become luck not judgement.
On the ground he struggles out of the cockpit, dizzy with adrenaline. The other pilots are talking about drinks in the bar, horsing around. Perhaps for them getting home with all planes intact makes it a good day. Collins only just manages to get to the latrine before he’s horribly, violently sick. It leaves him sweating through his shirt, mouth tasting vile and legs trembling. The last thing he wants is for anyone to see him like this.
He rinses his mouth and heads for the hut alone. Everyone else seems to be occupied with drinks or what passes as a meal in the canteen and he’s got a half bottle of whiskey in his kit bag. He’d thought he’d save it for something special but this seems like an emergency. He pours a finger or two into his mug. His hands are trembling and he has to hold both the mug and the bottle.
“You shouldn't go drinking alone, you know.”
Collins jumps and wedges his shaking hands between his knees. The man who nodded at him earlier is standing in the door of the hut. Farrier, Collins thinks, one of the older and more experienced pilots out of the lot of them. Not somebody he wants to see him in this state.
“It’s alright,” Farrier says, then, “Collins, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
"Scottish?"
Collins doesn't bother answering, he just gives him a look. He's had a whole lifetime of people taking the piss out of his accent. Farrier doesn't rise to the bait.
“You did alright up there. Next time’s easier.” Farrier offers him a half smile. “And you’re not the first to lose his breakfast after.”
Collins gives him a sheepish smile. “I was hoping nobody noticed.”
Farrier shrugs. “You’ll see worse. Got any more to drink?”
Collins offers up the bottle and Farrier finds a mug of his own to pour a measure into. “Thanks,” he says. He sips, apparently unconcerned by long silences. “If you want advice I’ve got two rules for you. Go easy with your bullets. New pilots fire too many, you’ve got to save them, only got a few seconds.”
“I’ll remember. What’s the second?”
Farrier gives him a crooked smile. “Already given it: don’t drink alone. Remember that, you’ll be alright.”
From then on, Farrier takes Collins under his wing. Not so obviously that it's an embarrassment, but he introduces him to some of the other pilots who in turn start to accept he might be going to stick around. You learn to tell after a time, who might have a few flights left in him and who is on borrowed time. A sixth sense perhaps, not that they talk about it.
Farrier has his back in the air. Collins is learning, flight by flight, how to make sense of the dogfights and how to keep himself alive. He's glad to know that there's someone up there with half an eye for him and he keeps a watch for Farrier as well. They work well together, well enough that they get paired up more and more. After a certain time you get a feeling for what your fellow pilot is going to do: when he'll bank, what his plans are. With surprise, Collins realises that enough of the existing pilots have gone and enough new boys come in that he's already becoming one of the old hands himself. New pilots look at him with a certain respect. He's earned his place at the bar too, next to Farrier, and a reasonable chance of his drink of choice being lined up there when he lands.
Whenever they come back from a dogfight, however bad it's been, Farrier looks at Collins and says, "remember, never drink alone." Then despite the exhaustion and the fear, the frayed nerves and constant loss, that's how Collins knows that things are alright.
2: With the bluebirds
A few months in and the squadron hears of a new instalment of WAAFs on a nearby airfield. RAF gossip has it that this means there are WAAFs are to be found in the local pub of an evening, and the squadron hums with all the atmosphere of a group of men who have been separated too long from female company. Collins is settling in fairly well by this point, but some of the jokes about the women make him wince and he's never really understood the fascination with RAF issued uniform knickers. Rumour has it that they were designed to be as dampening to amorous intentions as possible.
He has had long practice at giving the right kind of non-answers and half smiles when it comes to talk about girls. The fear he feels at being identified as not fitting in, as being other, means he ends up getting dragged along to the pub with what feels like half the squadron.
In the pub the atmosphere is lively to say the least. Collins loiters, uncertain of himself. He'd underestimated the skill of his fellow pilots in the art of picking up women and knows himself to be out of his depth. Lacking the expected flyboy charm, he finds himself left at the end of the bar, relegated to observer and nursing a pint with more attention than the quality of the beer deserves.
Farrier finds him. He had been in the middle of the crowd but extracted himself without being noticed.
"Drinking alone, Collins?" he asks. He perches on a stool and summons a beer for himself. "You know what they say about that."
There's a squeal from the corner of the room and it seems as if Peters has made good on his bet to see whether the WAAFs were wearing winter or summer weight knickers. The WAAF in question doesn't seem particularly unhappy about it, but Collins finds himself frowning. He thinks gloomily about his sister in this kind crowd.
"Not your thing, is it?" Farrier asks him. He's got his eyes fixed on the corner of the room as if he's waiting for trouble to start.
"I suppose not, not really."
"Not mine either." Farrier glances at him and Collins wonders if he's imagining the look in his eye. It feels like a hint of shared understanding, but perhaps he's being overly optimistic.
Of course there's no way to say what he's thinking but Farrier keeps him company all night, perched together in their corner, keeping an eye on the crowd and making their leisurely way through a few pints.
When things get a bit rowdier and the landlord starts to frown, he does the gentlemanly thing with Farrier and walks the WAAFs home. He doesn't know it at the time but it will earn him an entirely underserved reputation on the squadron when he's seen walking off with a girl on each arm and a pretty good reputation with the WAAFs as well for not trying anything on, which is no bad thing. It helps to have his quietness about women seen as confidence rather than a disguise.
He and Farrier walk back to base that night in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Despite his tiredness and the knowledge of another day of flying tomorrow, Collins feels a strange, light feeling in his chest. Happiness, he realises, happiness even here. He lets his shoulder bump against Farrier, just because he can.
3: Dogfight
By now Collins can hardly believe he was ever an outsider here. The time before the RAF feels like another life. A time when he didn't know how far he could push himself on how little sleep, how it felt to fly when he was dead tired and buzzed on the pills they hand out like sweets. He doesn't end up frozen on the stick any more, although he's got the tell-tale shakes that they all pretend not to have. In contrast to the suffocating waiting game they play on the ground, being up in the blue sky with Farrier's voice in his ear feels like being really alive.
It's been a quiet day for them today, which is always worse for the jitters. He's smoked too much and run out of things to do while waiting, even writing to all his siblings in their various posts across the world. Other people feel it too: the air in the dispersals hut is thick with anxiety. Men snap at each other and stupid arguments spring up out of nowhere. The ring of the phone has them all jumping. It's almost a relief when the call finally comes to scramble.
Like the rest of them, Collins was already in his Mae West and parachute, nothing left to do except climb into the cockpit and feel his Spitfire come to life around him. He checks the rudder and then the stick, craning his head to the side to see the flaps moving as they should. The ritual of it calms him. He has the feeling of her now. He shouts ‘clear prop’ to the ground crew and starts the engine.
Following Farrier, he lifts his plane up into the air and into formation, circling over the airfield while the others in A flight to come up to join them. He is on alert already, waiting for the small black specks in the sky that will mean enemy aircraft approaching.
"Form up Fortis one and two, Angels five." Canfield’s voice crackles over the radio.
Collins acknowledges and the three of them in Fortis section climb steadily into the sky. It's blue all around him as he climbs and the fierce sunlight blinds him. The engines of his Spit whine into the steep ascent. He breathes in the sharp metallic and rubber scented oxygen from his mask. Turning right, he can see that Fortis one is there. Flying wingtip to wingtip they wait.
There's an itchy feeling at the back of his neck, the sensation that someone is watching him. He turns his head again and again. Most pilots wear a warm jumper to fly but Collins never does. He tells them it's because he's Scottish and he doesn't feel the cold, but really he hates anything that gets in the way of turning his head. Squinting into sunlight, eyes watering, at last he sees the enemy planes coming and all too soon it begins.
Dogfights are usually a blur. A cat and mouse game of turns and spins, always trying to be the one behind the enemy, never letting him get you in his sights. Today Collins isn’t so lucky. They end up outnumbered with him in the middle between two Messerschmitts that were flying escort. He gets a shot in at one but as he twists and turns to see behind him, he is aware of the shadow of the other pilot coming up behind. Bullets clatter into his wing and he banks as tightly as he can, feeling the force of it start to grey his vision. Farrier is on the tail of the other plane, distracting him enough that Collins can turn again, taking advantage of the tighter curve the Spitfire can follow. He gets another shot across the cockpit and the ME 109 nosedives.
He isn’t even aware of what was happening behind him until he lands and finds an argument brewing between Farrier and Barnes. He hovers, aware that his name is somehow involved but unsure exactly how until he pieces it together: Farrier, in pursuit of the German on Collins' tail, had flown directly into Barnes’ flight path, forcing him into a steep climb and losing him precious seconds in his own fight. Collins can sympathise. Seconds are all they have at times.
"Don't you get under my fucking nose again!"
Farrier holds his hands up in a placatory gesture. Barnes is not willing to be appeased.
"Leave it," Peters says to Barnes, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You made your point. What's done is done. Bar's already open and I need a drink."
"No, I don't want a fucking drink, I want Farrier to stop chasing after Collins every time he gets himself in trouble."
That was never going to be the right thing to say to Farrier. He’s been a rugby player and a rower, always about the team. "Unlike you, I look out for my section."
Barnes gets closer, expression ugly. "Your section, is it? What about the rest of us? You don't mind if I take a hit. I don't think the rest of us even cross your mind." He gets right into Farrier's face, despite Peters trying to tug him away. He says something, too quiet to hear but with such a venomous expression that Collins isn't even surprised when Farrier lashes out and punches Barnes solidly in the jaw.
Peters must have heard it too because he makes a disapproving sound and lunges for Barnes while Collins makes a grab for Farrier, holding his wrist when he tries to take another swing. Canfield steps between them. "Enough," he says, and there’s no arguing with Canfield. "I won't have any more of this."
Barnes wrenches himself away first, followed by two of his friends. The audience of ground crew scatters, pretending they were never watching at all. They descend on the Spitfires, assessing damage, starting on repairs and refueling.
"Get off me Collins," Farrier snaps. Collins had hardly noticed that he still had his arms wrapped round the other man. He lets go, and Farrier jerks away from him. He strides off in the direction of their hut. When Collins starts to follow, he is halted by a hand on his arm.
"Leave him for a bit," Peters says quietly, "let him get over it."
"I didn't ask him to have my back."
"I know. You're a good pilot, Collins. You've got our backs as often as we've got yours, but Barnes has got the twitch and Farrier pisses him off on a good day.” Peters sighs, then smiles at him. “Come and have a drink and forget about it."
Collins goes, because Peters has known Farrier for longer and is insistent about it, but he tries to slip away after his second pint. His worry for Farrier is nagging at him. Peters, watching him, gives him a nod and tells him he's got an hour to get Farrier fit to live with before the rest of them come back. "It's not about what Barnes said," he tells Collins in an undertone, “it’s about whether it’s true or not. Think about that.”
Collins does nothing but think as he crosses the airfield from the bar. Turning Peters’ words over in his mind and trying to decide if he’s being logical or if it’s just wishful thinking. He’s not stupid. It’s obvious that Barnes said something about Collins, about Farrier and Collins. The question is, was the punch because Farrier was insulted by it or because he was hurt by it. Hurt in the way that Collins hurts sometimes, when he looks at Farrier and knows he could trust him with his life but still wants something more.
In the hut, Farrier is half lying on his bunk, back propped against the wall and his arms resting on his knees. His flying jacket has been discarded somewhere. There’s a lit cigarette in his hand, but isn't smoking. His knuckles are raw.
"Fuck off Collins," he says, but doesn't sound like he means it. Collins sits down uninvited on the end of Farrier's bed.
"Didn't want you to end up drinking alone." He picks up the bottle lying on the blankets and sniffs it cautiously. It smells like gin, probably the hideous stuff that Redgrave brought back off leave and nobody could face drinking. He takes a sip and grimaces. "Jesus, you'll go blind drinking that."
Farrier's face twists, not quite a smile. He takes a drag of the cigarette and taps the ash into the ash tray. "Not me."
Collins puts the lid on the bottle again anyway and dumps it out of reach. "Not worth risking. If you've nothing better to drink, do you want to come to the bar?"
"Did it occur to you I might want to be left alone?" Farrier's face is creased into a deep frown. Collins, God help him, wants nothing more than to smooth the frown away. It the sort of impulse he's been struggling with for a while.
"Perhaps," he shrugs, "but I wanted to talk to you."
Farrier breathes a sigh that sounds a lot like 'fuck'.
"I wanted to ask you what he said, to get you to hit him like that. Was it about me?"
Farrier sighs again, his expression world weary. They are all so bloody tired all the time: it makes everything worse. "Collins..." he says, but no more.
"Did he imply I'm a rotten pilot? Or is that what you think, that I need a nursemaid up there?"
"No!" Farrier looks gratifyingly appalled at the suggestion.
"Then it must be something else about me, about you and me? About why you've always got my back?"
"Don't Collins." Farrier's tone darkens into warning. "You really don't want to know what he said."
"I do. You see... there's a reason I have to know. I have to know whether what he said was true." Collins hovers on the edge of speaking or holding his peace. Of risking everything, against never having a chance.
"Just fucking ask me then. And if you don’t like it, I’m not going to hold it against you." Farrier stubs his cigarette out with some force, then returns his gaze to his hands, picking at the skin.
Collins pauses, wondering if he's really about to be a reckless as he thinks he is. "The thing is Farrier, I have to ask because I need to know if you're going to punch me in the face or have me put on a charge for this."
Farrier looks up at him for a startled split second before Collins leans forward and kisses him. No words needed after all, just the kiss he's been longing for so long it feels like all his life.
Collins feels Farrier tense beneath him and braces himself to be shoved away, but then Farrier gives in to it, far more sweetly than Collins ever expected. His free hand comes up to cradle the back of Collins' head and Collins takes it as an invitation to do the same, running his fingers into Farrier’s shorter hair. They end up lying on top of one another, Collins held between Farrier’s thighs and leaning appreciatively against his broader chest.
“So,” Collins says after a while, to the half inch space between them.
“So?”
“We’re alright then?”
Farrier wraps his arms around Collins, holding him tight in a way that makes him feel lightheaded and breathless. He kisses Collins on the forehead, which nobody has ever done before and he likes more than he thought he would. They’ll have to let go in a minute, before anyone comes back from the bar, but Collins can’t bear to move just yet.
“Yes,” Farrier says into his hair, “yes we are.”
4: Flyboy
Time alone is hard to come by. They spend so many hours in the air and there are always men around when they aren't flying. Every moment they get together is furtive apart from a few sparse days of shared leave or when the weather is warm enough to find somewhere private out of doors. Collins thinks longingly of a place the two of them could stay, where they could live in whole days rather than in moments, but he never says it out loud. Pilots don't plan for the future. He's not even sure if that's what Farrier would want. Thankfully he doesn't often have enough time to let it bother him and the moments together are all the sweeter for being rare.
There are also innocuous pleasures to be had as well. Nothing that two friends wouldn't do, but better because it's him and Farrier. Shared meals, sitting together in the sunset and sharing a smoke, cards while they wait to scramble and darts in the pub when they're both too drunk to throw straight. Sometimes when Farrier brings him a mug of tea, he does it with a look that makes warmth rise in Collins' chest. Nothing is said, but then nothing needs saying.
Still, after a while the lack of physical closeness starts to bite at him. He wants more than an illicit exchange of kisses in the bathroom or a clumsy grappling of hands and trousers in the dark behind the main hangar.
His chance comes when the other three men in their hut get leave at the same time. Collins watches them making plans for a trip to town, for the girls they'll meet, and feels the thrill of promised time alone. He looks at Farrier, who meets his eyes over the top of the newspaper he's been reading and smiles.
Unfortunately the plan to have an evening just the two of them before the others come back on the early hours only works until Annersley from hut six, spotting that Collins is alone, drags him off to the bar. Unable to think of an excuse that doesn't include a desperate need to get Farrier alone and preferably naked, he goes.
Sneaking away after the minimum number of drinks he could get away with, Collins hurries back to the hut and finds Farrier sitting in his bunk with a borrowed paperback, bare feet and an expression that makes Collins suddenly stiflingly hot in his uniform.
"Thought you'd forgotten," Farrier says, putting his book down.
"Of course not. Just had to get them off my tail." Collins wedges a chair under the door handle. Not the best lock, but it might give them a moment of warning if necessary. "Told them I couldn't leave you drinking alone." He crosses the room, already tugging at his tie.
"Is that what we're doing? Drinking alone?" Farrier is pulling his jumper over his head. It leaves his hair in ruffled spikes.
"Of course." Collins abandons his jacket to the floor and straddles Farrier in his bunk. It creaks alarmingly under their weight. He pulls the bottle of whiskey from the chair where he'd left it earlier, takes a sip straight from the bottle and offers it to Farrier. "See, we're just drinking." Farrier's hands are busy with the buttons of Collins' shirt so Collins hold the bottle to his lips for him to drink. The sight of it makes him think of other places he'd like that mouth. With the taste of the alcohol still on his lips, Collins kisses Farrier with every bit of pent up hunger he has. It's the end of the talking for quite some time.
Afterwards, Collins lies with his head pillowed on Farrier's chest, tracing his fingers over the contours of Farrier's body, the patterns of muscle and hair. Farrier is drowsy and pliant beneath him. Collins has never seen him in quite this mood before but he likes it. He's never really done this. Never laid in bed with a man, a man who had shuddered and sighed beneath him and parted his thighs like a welcome. As Farrier runs fingers through his hair and kisses him again, Collins thinks he might be ruined for anyone else.
"It's late," Farrier says quietly.
"I know."
"We'll have to move some time."
"Mmm... later." He can't remember the last time he felt this warm. He presses his face into Farrier's shoulder and inhales the scent of his skin. His thighs are wrapped around Farrier's and he rocks against him instinctively.
"Come on Collins," Farrier says in the tone he uses in flight. He pats Collins' arse, which leads to a tussle and more kisses. Farrier ends up on top of him this time and if Collins weren't so tired, he'd be wanting to try this as well. Instead, Farrier kisses him one last time and gets up.
Tidied up and in pyjamas, they lie there in the almost darkness, the hut lit only by the glow of the stove. They don't talk much, but it's good to know they are together. Collins holds his hand out across the hut and Farrier reaches back. The distance is just short enough for them to link their fingers. It's the last thing Collins is aware of before he falls asleep.
The others return with dawn and Collins stirs in his bunk, reluctant to give up the last vestiges of sleep. Farrier is awake already, stoking up the stove and putting the kettle on to heat. He is always the first to get up in the morning.
"Someone got lucky then," Redgrave announces to the room at large, and Collins tenses, suddenly afraid that despite their care, they have left some clue to what happened last night.
Farrier, as calmly as if he were reading a weather report, says, "yes, someone brought a WAAF home last night." From the emphasis on ‘someone’, Collins assumes Farrier is pointing at him rather than meaning himself. He keeps his eyes shut, pretending to be oblivious.
"Lucky dog!"
"Always the quiet ones." Peters sounds like he’s laughing.
"I actually meant me," Redgrave says, sounding peeved, "I met a lovely little nurse last night, but oh well, good luck to you Collins." He bounces down on the end of Collins' bed. There's no point feigning sleep after that so Collins pulls himself out from under the covers, running hands through his hair. Thompson whoops.
"Blimey Collins, she's done a number on you alright."
Collins frowns in bewilderment, then looks into the shaving mirror that Peters is holding up to him. Sure enough, his hair is sticking up in wild tufts on the top of his head and he has a sizeable bruise on his neck. He attempts a nonchalant grin. Peters gets him in a headlock and Thompson ruffles his hair. Looking past them, Collins can see Farrier watching him. He's going about his business with the kettle, making tea, but his smile is small and private. When he meets Collins' eyes the smile turns a bit smug. He winks.
Collins extracts himself from Peters and makes his way to the bathroom with a swagger. He's a flyboy, and he's on top of the world.
5: Ditching
Dunkirk makes Collins nervous, not that he'd ever acknowledge it. It's such a significant target and there's no surprise to rely on. Sitting ducks on the beach and precious little to be done about it with so few planes. The calm he relies on when he flies gets him through the inevitable dogfight and the loss of Canfield as Fortis leader. Even when he's ditching, he's aware of Farrier's voice in his ear before all his concentration is taken by the sea racing towards him, judging the moment to cut the engine and the hammer blow of landing. It's only when he sees Farrier, engine choking to a halt, gliding powerless above the beaches, that he remembers to feel fear. His stomach drops. Later, he tells himself, think about it later. Come on Farrier, come on.
After the return to England, Collins finds himself caught up in the mass of humanity being gathered, sorted and sent on to their next destinations. He is a pilot alone among a sea of brown jacketed soldiers. He hears the muttering around him, the rumble of anger against his blue uniform, his absence from the skies above Dunkirk. He doesn't know if Farrier is alive or dead. He could be here somewhere, lost among the crowd of men if he managed to land, managed to get on one of the ships. He might be a prisoner somewhere, or dead, if the landing went badly. Not easy to land without fuel.
Collins can't quite imagine Farrier dead. But then, he can't really imagine any of the other pilots dead either: they are just gone, lost to the wide blue yonder. The line between the living and dead becomes blurred after a time.
He thinks about finding somewhere, going to a pub and drinking until he's too pissed to think straight, until the sharp edges of not knowing are softened to bearable.
“You shouldn't go drinking alone, you know.”
He hears Farrier's voice as clearly as if he'd been walking beside him. It stops him in his tracks until someone bumps into him from behind and he has to apologise and keep walking. He wonders if hearing his voice means that Farrier is dead after all. Whether a promise to a dead man still counts.
Whether it does or not, he doesn't go drinking that night or the night he returns to the squadron. He has his debrief as the last surviving member of Fortis section and goes to get himself a square meal and a kip. He dreams of Farrier. He dreams of reaching out and feeling Farrier’s hand reaching back.
In the morning, he packs Farrier's belongings into his kit bag to be sent back to his family. He strips the bed: the pillow case that smells of Farrier's hair and the sheets that smell of his skin. Farrier has kissed him in this bed, wrapped him in this blanket, laid his head beside Collins on this pillow. There'll be somebody new sleeping here soon enough. Somehow, throughout it all, Collins manages to keep the cold calmness of flight. His face stays blank, his hands don't shake.
He folds spare socks and shirts, packing them neatly around the minimal possessions Farrier had with him: a couple of books, his shaving kit. Inside the small and unexpected Bible, Collins finds his own photograph. Taken by a friend there had been three photographs in total: one of each of them and one taken together with their arms around each other. Nothing so very much, apart from the fact that Farrier has kept the one of Collins like something treasured.
Seeing the photograph tucked so carefully away makes his heart ache. He takes it, and hides it in the envelope which contains a letter to Farrier, written in case Collins was killed first. He has three of those letters: Farrier's and then one for his parents, one for his sister Mary in the WAAF. Farrier's letter is unlikely to be sent now, but at least it gives him a private place for the memories contained in those three small squares of card.
Everything else he packs away for Farrier's family. His only concession is to allow himself to stroke his fingers over the fabric of the last folded shirt before he tucks it away. A kiss that is not a kiss.
Next time the squadron goes out and comes back two men short, Collins makes sure he drinks with the rest of the pilots. The dregs of the whiskey in the bottle remain untouched. He keeps his promise.
It takes nearly three months before word comes that Farrier is alive in a POW camp and the relief is shocking. That night, Collins digs out the photograph of Farrier for the first time since the day he packed his bags. He stares at it and can hardly think.
A month or so later, there's a letter waiting for him when he lands. Small and battered, forwarded on from the Red Cross and printed on the envelope with German. He fumbles to open it, holding his gloves in his teeth, not even bothering to get out of his Mae West and flying jacket. Farrier's writing scrawls across the page. He devours the words: Farrier is safe, unharmed in the landing, conditions not too bad. Collins assumes this is a lie, but is comforted by it nonetheless. He's forgotten how much he has missed the sound of Farrier's voice, hearing it so clearly as he reads.
At the end of the letter is a postscript.
You know my girl, so kiss her for me. Tell her that I miss her, but tell her that she doesn't have to wait for me.
Collins stares at the words, feeling stupid. Farrier doesn't have a girl, not in the time Collins has known him, and none that he's mentioned from before. No girls, only... Collins. And with that being the case... kiss her for me. A kiss. I miss you. You don't have to wait.
He hardly sleeps that night for imagining the letter he wants to write but has no time to reply until three days later. All the time he's been turning the words over and over in his head. He writes his letter slowly. Between the censors and the risk of divulging information to the enemy, the topic is necessarily limited. He manages something that he hopes stays general enough to arrive intact, without the black lines of the censor's pen. Something one friend might write to another, trying to keep his spirits up. At the end he writes "I told your girl as you asked me. She says she'll wait anyway. She sent a kiss in return but as I cannot deliver it this letter will have to do instead."
It is the first in a scattering of letters between them. The post is slow and Collins is frequently too busy to write. He's also hampered by what to say. It's too risky to keep mentioning the fictitious girl so Collins has to leave unsaid all the affectionate things that he wants to say. Yet the letters continue, marking the time, bright moments in days that have become a blur of waking and waiting, flying over and over until he feels like his whole body is at breaking point with tiredness. And then being asked for one more flight. More men die than he thought it was possible to lose.
Sometimes he feels so very old.
Eventually, his luck runs out. An ME109 on his tail and no Farrier there behind him. He loses control completely, unable to get free with his parachute, trying to pull out of the spin. He manages in the end, but not quickly enough, and the ground comes up to meet him, striking his head with a bright and blinding pain.
Later they tell him that his instinct to clutch at his head to protect the wound is what saved his face from burning, that he somehow had enough strength to help the farmer and two land girls haul him from the wreckage before the darkness rolled in. The call him lucky.
He spends a long time in hospital, suddenly cut off from the squadron that has been his life. He hopes for word, for someone like Peters to visit him, but afterwards they tell him that Peters is dead. Barely anyone is left. There are no more letters from Farrier either.
+1: Landing lights
Dear Collins
I don't know how to begin this letter because I never imagined that I would be writing it. I have thought for such a long time that you were dead.
I am in England, alive and mostly well although the journey home did not go as planned and I've been in hospital since. Today is the first day they have let me sit up and write a letter.
A long time ago Peters wrote to me and told me that you had been in a very bad crash. I never heard from him again, or from you, so I thought that you must be dead. They moved us to a new camp a few months later and I lost contact with everyone.
When we got back, they sent a woman from the Red Cross to speak to me. They say they are writing a list of the missing. I asked her about you. I thought if nothing else I'd know how you died. I didn't believe her when she said that you were alive.
I don't know if this letter is unwelcome. If you stopped writing because you no longer wanted to I understand, but if there's a chance it was just accidental I had to write. I don't expect or demand a reply.
Nurse has told me I've used up my time and have to finish my letter now. There's no arguing with her - she knows how to keep us all in line. She reminds me of Canfield that way.
Write if you want, but if not at least know how very glad I am to know you are still amongst the living.
F
In flight there are moments of terrifying disorientation: coming out of cloud to find your horizon is not where you expected it, spinning downwards and seeing the ground rushing up to meet you, pulling in and out of a steep dive and feeling the pressure of the g force threatening to render you unconscious. None of them compare to how Collins feels, sitting at the breakfast table and reading, over and over, that Farrier is alive.
It's as if he's been among the dead for years and only just remembered how to breathe.
He wonders if perhaps he is crying. He has a hundred different questions in his head, a thousand things he wants to say. Farrier is alive.
For the first time, he's late to arrive on base, stopping off at the post office to send a telegram to the hospital. Alive, alive, alive: he spends his evening drafting letters.
The reply comes eventually: not soon enough for his liking but altogether warmer. Farrier signs his letter Thomas and Collins goes about his day whistling with happiness. Even explaining the basics of formation flying to the embryonic pilots in his care cannot dampen his good spirits. He buys a bottle of whiskey, not to drink alone but because he has hope that someone will one day be there to share it with him.
The letter becomes letters. Flurries of them on thin blue paper, close written. He can see Farrier's handwriting become less shaky, the length of the letter increase. He hopes to be discharged soon. Collins gives him his new address and, recklessly hopeful, makes the offer of a visit. Any time, he says.
After the invite, three days pass without a letter. Collins tries to blame the post for it and ignore the creeping doubt. Perhaps it was too soon to offer, or meeting too much compared to exchanging letters. They have been apart for a long time and fears it’s been too far to turn the clock back.
On the third day, there's a knock at the door. Hoping for the postman, he hurries to answer it and instead finds Farrier, leaning on the porch.
"Farrier!"
"Collins." Farrier smiles at him, warm as the sun.
"God..." Collins is as frozen now as he was in his first dogfight.
"Do I look that terrible?" Farrier's smile turns wry. It's true he doesn't look as he used to. He is painfully thin: the bones of his face are sharply outlined and his skin is pale.
"No, no I just... fuck I never thought I'd see you again." Collins stumbles forwards and embraces him. Farrier hugs back tightly. He smells of hospital still and feels like a bag of bones beneath his clothes but there's still a fierce strength in the way he clings.
They break apart again to stare at one another.
"You look the same," Farrier says.
"I was lucky, most of the scars you can't see." Collins tugs the sleeve of his shirt up a fraction to show the edges of the pink, burnt skin of his forearms. There are scars on his head as well, but his hair hides them well.
"You should have had your flying jacket."
"I wear it now." Their eyes meet, and Collins has no idea what to say. Embarrassed, he retreats into an offer of tea.
Farrier follows him in to the cottage slowly, his eyes scanning everywhere as though he's in flight. He dumps his kit bag by the door and Collins hopes that it's a good sign, that Farrier might be persuaded to stay and Collins doesn't have to lose him again immediately.
"So what are you doing now?" Farrier asks him, folding himself into one of the kitchen chairs while Collins puts the kettle on.
"Teaching." Collins empties the teapot and wishes he has something better to offer, but its early still and Farrier looks too convalescent for whiskey. "I came here after the crash. Mary looked after me. You remember, my sister, she's in the WAAF."
"I remember. You and all your many siblings." Farrier has only a disinterested mother and a disapproving brother. He'd found Collins' sprawling but close knit family an oddity.
"Yes, well, she picked up the bits from hospital and put up with me cluttering up the house until I was supposedly fit enough to fly again. Only when I got back I found out that dogfights gave me blinding headaches and I blacked out a couple of times. The MO wasn't terrible impressed and packed me off. No good for being shot at any more. But I'd met the man in charge here and he offered me a job. I can do the flying alright apart from the real gymnastics and I'm not a bad teacher as it turns out."
Farrier is staring at him, slightly dazed. "I can imagine it. What do you teach them?"
"The basics. Squadron leader likes collecting crashed pilots: he says we make the best teachers because we know how not to do it. And I teach them the most important things. Don't waste your bullets and never drink alone."
"You remembered.” Farrier reaches out a hand. Collins takes it, and squeezes tight.
“Of course.”
“I was afraid that maybe things had changed.”
“Not for me. I said I’d wait, didn’t I?” Collins feels embarrassingly close to tears. They are so near again but there’s still a space between them and he doesn’t know how to close it.
Farrier gets up and closes it for him. He puts a gentle hand on Collins’ jaw, rests his thumb on his cheek bone, and kisses him. After the years of separation, it feels like coming home.
“We’ll be alright now, won’t we?”
“Yes,” Farrier says, between kisses, “yes.”
The whistle of the kettle interrupts them in the end, and Collins feels the need for them to take their time. There are more reminiscences to be had over tea: Collins still takes his the same way, Farrier has got used to a lack of sugar. They talk of fellow pilots, living and dead. “I miss Peters,” Farrier says, “I thought he’d come through.”
Collins eventually dares to ask about the escape. By the time the tale is done, they are sitting thigh to thigh at the kitchen table and Collins is covering Farrier’s cold hands with his own.
“You’re staying,” he says, and it’s not really a question.
“Can I? You said this was your sister’s house. She might not want a second pilot around.”
“It’s hers and mine. You’d be welcome.” Collins looks down at his empty cup. “She found your photograph when I was in hospital. I’d written her a letter in case something happened and the photograph was with it.”
“What did you say?”
“The truth, in the end. She’s got a girl you know. Julie, one of the ATA girls, she can fly anything with wings and her landings…” Collins whistles appreciatively. “Anyway, she comes here on leave, or when she’s flying out this way. Mary and I keep each other’s secrets.”
“You’re lucky.”
“I know. You can stay here as long as you want, until you know what you’re doing next.” Surely, Collins thinks, they won’t send him back to the war. A small part of him is already planning an introduction to the squadron leader, the chance of building a life together here, at least for a little while. He has to remind himself not to rush ahead.
Instead he waits for Mary to come home and makes introductions. Dinner with the three of them together goes surprisingly well, although Farrier gets quieter towards the end of the meal. He looks worn, and Collins realises he must be tired.
“When did you get out of hospital?” Mary asks.
Farrier grimaces. “This morning, not long before I decided to get on the train.”
She tuts at him, which Collins takes as a good sign. “You’re as bad as Andrew then. Leave the washing up to me and go to bed before you drop.”
“I can’t get used to her calling you Andrew,” Farrier says as they head upstairs and the two of them laugh at the ridiculousness of it.
On the landing, Collins pauses. “There’s a spare room,” he says, “no WAAFs billeted with us at the moment. You can have that or…”
“Or?”
“My room’s through there.”
Farrier links their hands together. “I’ve been waiting since ’39 to share a bed with you Collins. For God’s sake let me do it now.”
Farrier wakes in the morning to a soft bed, sunlight and the distant sound of chickens. Collins is beside him, tousle haired and warm, looking at him in a way that can only be described as fond.
“Back in a tick,” he says quietly and Farrier lets himself drift for a while, lulled by the domestic noises of a village waking up, so very unlike a hospital or prison camp.
Collins reappears some time later and Farrier sits up to look at him properly. He’s in blue striped pyjamas and an old woolen jumper, carrying two mugs of tea. Farrier has never seen a more welcome sight.
“Tea,” Collins says unnecessarily. “I thought you might want company while you drank it.”
Farrier grins at him. “I didn’t think avoiding drinking alone extended to tea.”
“It does now,” Collins tells him, sounding so sure and certain that Farrier finds it hard to swallow.
“I should have said, when I wrote to you from camp. I shouldn’t have said don’t wait. I was going to say I love you. I just didn’t know how.”
“It’s alright,” Collins says softly, “I already knew, Tom.”
Farrier just nods. The last piece has fallen into place. Collins tucks himself closer in the bed, sipping his tea with a contented sigh. He bumps their shoulders together.
“Just so you know, I love you too.”
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ALL THE TEA ♥
Thank you so much for your comment and all your help with the writing of this, particularly since it's not your fandom (yet).