He sees him spread out in the shade under the wing of a Hurricane, arms pillowing his head and eyes closed, not asleep but caught in that trance state of every pilot waiting for the call. He double-takes, and ends up transfixed by the bunched lines and waxed leather of America's flight jacket.
It looks well-used, not to mention well-loved, and under the strain of constant attack it infuriates England beyond reason. He shouldn't be allowed to wear it, to call himself a pilot –
He shouldn't be allowed to be here on England's bomb-scared land without doing something to help.
His heart is pounding in the middle of his throat. His stomach turns somersaults, and quite suddenly he finds himself marching in long strides over to America's make-shift bed.
He doesn't bother with niceties, demanding immediately, "Get out!"
"England?"
He shivers suddenly at the slow smile consuming America's face as he sits up, running a hand through his messy hair, and staring up at England with eyes as wide and blue as the sky itself.
His fists clench and unclench, and he manages to say again, "Get out of here!"
"Don't be so mean, England."
He traces the line of America's arms as he stretches them above his head, trying to scowl.
His jacket rides up, and England's stomach somersaults again as another couple inches of khaki fabric are revealed. It should look bland and unappealing, but on America it turns into something eye-catching and dangerous.
England opens his mouth, closes it, and tries to ignore America's returning smile as he fails to respond. "You shouldn't be here, America."
"Lighten up! I'm just checking on some guys."
"Excuse me?"
He steps back as America springs suddenly to his feet, dodging the wing and spinning to lean against the Hurricane's fuselage, almost directly beneath the cockpit.
He ruffles his hair again, the motion almost nervous, and England gestures impatiently for an answer.
"Two of mine are here, okay?"
England feels his expression freeze on his face in surprise, and he stares as America continues in a blushing mutter, "I wanna make sure you're taking good care of 'em."
"I didn't know."
"They're tricky devils," America laughs, "They keep following Canada around."
England flushes, and says, "I'll be having a word with him."
He stops paying attention about the time he notices America's body framed by the glinting silver of the Hurricane, though, and now he finds himself stepping slowly closer.
He licks his lips, marvelling, infatuated with the idea that America would break his own laws to be here.
Damn the fact America won't formally enter the war.
He wants to be here.
England knows, now, giddy with the information, and his fingers grasp, fold themselves into the fur lining America's weathered flight jacket, tugging him down the extra inch to meet England's lips.
"England, what are –"
His protests die as England's tongue threads its way into his mouth, and England's heart jumps as America suddenly hugs him close, practically crushing their bodies together, and leaning back against the fuselage, letting it support their weight as they continue to kiss.
He slips the first button of America's uniform jacket from its hole, and continues on with the second. He bites lightly into the kiss, and America hums, sliding a hand around the back of England's neck and digging in with blunt nails.
England's fingers catch and tug at America's dog tags, urging him to take England's mouth deeper.
"England, I, I want to be here, all of this waiting is driving me nuts," America says, forcing England to open his eyes and look at him, at that expression too bright to be believed.
The Few [1/2]
He sees him spread out in the shade under the wing of a Hurricane, arms pillowing his head and eyes closed, not asleep but caught in that trance state of every pilot waiting for the call. He double-takes, and ends up transfixed by the bunched lines and waxed leather of America's flight jacket.
It looks well-used, not to mention well-loved, and under the strain of constant attack it infuriates England beyond reason. He shouldn't be allowed to wear it, to call himself a pilot –
He shouldn't be allowed to be here on England's bomb-scared land without doing something to help.
His heart is pounding in the middle of his throat. His stomach turns somersaults, and quite suddenly he finds himself marching in long strides over to America's make-shift bed.
He doesn't bother with niceties, demanding immediately, "Get out!"
"England?"
He shivers suddenly at the slow smile consuming America's face as he sits up, running a hand through his messy hair, and staring up at England with eyes as wide and blue as the sky itself.
His fists clench and unclench, and he manages to say again, "Get out of here!"
"Don't be so mean, England."
He traces the line of America's arms as he stretches them above his head, trying to scowl.
His jacket rides up, and England's stomach somersaults again as another couple inches of khaki fabric are revealed. It should look bland and unappealing, but on America it turns into something eye-catching and dangerous.
England opens his mouth, closes it, and tries to ignore America's returning smile as he fails to respond. "You shouldn't be here, America."
"Lighten up! I'm just checking on some guys."
"Excuse me?"
He steps back as America springs suddenly to his feet, dodging the wing and spinning to lean against the Hurricane's fuselage, almost directly beneath the cockpit.
He ruffles his hair again, the motion almost nervous, and England gestures impatiently for an answer.
"Two of mine are here, okay?"
England feels his expression freeze on his face in surprise, and he stares as America continues in a blushing mutter, "I wanna make sure you're taking good care of 'em."
"I didn't know."
"They're tricky devils," America laughs, "They keep following Canada around."
England flushes, and says, "I'll be having a word with him."
He stops paying attention about the time he notices America's body framed by the glinting silver of the Hurricane, though, and now he finds himself stepping slowly closer.
He licks his lips, marvelling, infatuated with the idea that America would break his own laws to be here.
Damn the fact America won't formally enter the war.
He wants to be here.
England knows, now, giddy with the information, and his fingers grasp, fold themselves into the fur lining America's weathered flight jacket, tugging him down the extra inch to meet England's lips.
"England, what are –"
His protests die as England's tongue threads its way into his mouth, and England's heart jumps as America suddenly hugs him close, practically crushing their bodies together, and leaning back against the fuselage, letting it support their weight as they continue to kiss.
He slips the first button of America's uniform jacket from its hole, and continues on with the second. He bites lightly into the kiss, and America hums, sliding a hand around the back of England's neck and digging in with blunt nails.
England's fingers catch and tug at America's dog tags, urging him to take England's mouth deeper.
"England, I, I want to be here, all of this waiting is driving me nuts," America says, forcing England to open his eyes and look at him, at that expression too bright to be believed.