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itstheheebiejeebies · 10 hours ago

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Prompt: calling them a petname to try and comfort them, but only succeeding in upsetting them more at the reminder of what they can’t have

Pairing: CrozBrady

this is sooo devious, the way this blatantly encouraged me to torture brady even more >:-) my beautiful princess with so many disorders. this IS canon to 'your girl of the year'/infidelity fic verse-it takes place later in the timeline, closer to Mlle ZigZig being shot down :)))) they are soooo. delusional about how this will end. my lovelies.

***

The problem, John thinks, isn’t precisely that it’s a weakness, but that he doesn’t feel very sorry about it. Or he does, but not enough. Not in the way he should, the way God wants him to. It’s hard to feel regret, when you keep snatching life from Death’s claws, when you’re on the ground and you’re alive.

Another successful mission–victorious in that he got his boys home, not in how they’d had to call salvo on the run, turning tail with Jerry too close on their heels, the planes biting and snarling gunfire. And here he was, with jittery adrenaline crashing through his veins, and the stiffness in his hands from clutching the yoke too tight. Then, making sure his boys are all accounted for, and sitting through interrogation, and finally standing outside, dazed and blinking in the fading twilight like a newborn lamb. Men are brushing past him, off to shower or eat, shoulders hunched in exhaustion, sharing cigarettes or a joke for the gallows.

“John?” It’s Harry, appearing at his side in that startling way he does now, because he’s not on his crew anymore, swapped out to lead them all from Blakely’s plane. He’s wide eyed from nerves, a fine tremor in his hands that means he’ll crash in an hour or two, drop like a stone and sleep for 12 hours. This last mission was rough. John can feel the phantom throb in the back of his mouth from grinding his teeth for so long.

“Harry.” His brain feels soupy, wrung out and abused. Harry blinks at him, makes an aborted gesture and catches himself in time. John is suddenly, painfully aware of every hurt and ache of his worn out body, of every presence around them, and of every mission he has left. Harry seems to be realizing the same thing. He twitches minutely, swivels those worried eyes right back to him.

“30 minutes,” Harry says. Old refrain, a song and dance they’ve perfected over the last few months. John nods. Harry slips away, and he follows the dark curl of his head until he’s lost in the crowd. Somehow, he manages to choke down a few mouthfuls of food and do a perfunctory wash up. Tomorrow, when his nerves aren’t stretched so thin, he’ll shower and eat properly. Throwing his flight jacket back on–he feels better with it keeping him warm–it’s easy to sneak off to one of the forgotten supply sheds at the edge of the base. He sits for a long few minutes, hands in his pockets to warm them up after hours in the cold sky, and bounces one leg up and down in the half-forgotten melody of a song he heard at the O-Club last week. Harry pokes his head around the door a little while later, long enough that John’s brain is getting snappish and cross from the exhaustion weighing him down.

“Hey,” he says softly, getting into his lap without any preamble, a reassuring weight as he holds John so tight he thinks his ribs will creak from the force. Not that John isn’t holding him with any less white-knuckled apprehension. He smells like the sky, cool and metallic and a bit like rain. Inhuman smells, not Harry at all, who uses that stupid pomade for his curly hair, or has graphite on his hands all the time, or who frequently tastes like their terrible coffee rations. But he is alive. He buries his face in Harry’s shoulder and tries very, very hard not to think about how the flak had sounded, or the banshee wail a B-17 made when it was in a free fall and burning up.

“I can’t keep counting the ‘chutes,” Harry whispers after a minute, voice cracked and raw. John doesn’t know what to say. Words are trite, inadequate. He kept getting them all home, but more and more boys laid their bones in the soil of Germany or France each time. Harry’s not good with taking a failure, and a dead crew is the worst type. John turns his head so he can press a kiss to the soft skin of Harry’s throat, closed-mouthed and chaste, and the gesture undoes him at once. He shudders, makes a noise that John can’t parse is good or bad, and goes limp. He’s heavy but John doesn’t mind, would rather sit here for hours and let his legs go numb and let his world spiral down to just the sound of their breathing than be apart. If only it was possible to open himself up, or Harry, part the rib cage and nestle in the warm cavity there, away from everything and everyone.

And that’s the problem, he remembers. As the months pass it’s getting more and more challenging to feel remorse about any of it: wanting Harry and stealing him away from Jean, failing to admit it in confession, and the fact that it’s all a sin. God has to be cruel, to put this splinter of covetous desire in his heart and let it fester. John Brady has wanted so little throughout his life, and this being one thing he yearns for the most strikes him as less of a test and more of a punishment. A purgatory that he doesn’t even want to leave.

“Harry,” he says, kissing him again. His pulse is rabbit-fast as it always is after a mission. Harry breathes, slow and deep, and says, “Johnny, I can’t,” unable or unwilling to finish the sentence, and he doesn’t know what Harry means: it could be the war or it could be them and this tenuous connection they keep feeding into. Neither option is good, but they need their lead navigator if they’re going to survive. John Brady doesn’t need Harry Crosby.

“You should focus on the missions,” he suggests softly, “You can’t afford distractions.”

Harry shifts to peer at him curiously.

“You’re not a distraction.” Which is a kind sentiment, but John isn’t a complete fool. “John.” Harry takes his face in his hands so he’s forced to maintain eye contact. “You’re the only thing that keeps me from flying off the handle some days, you know that right?”

He didn’t.

“Oh,” Harry murmurs at whatever expression is on his face, “sweetheart.” And that’s the other problem: he’s too goddamn nice. John’s all sharp edges these days and if it phases Harry, makes him upset or discomforts him, he never shows it. He forces his eyes shut because if Harry keeps looking at him like that he’s going to do something really, truly stupid. Something he can’t ever take back, such as asking him to stay, or even saying, You help me feel grounded, too. It’s not his place, it would be disrespecting everything Harry and Jean promised each other.

“John, darling,” he repeats, laying one kiss to the side of his mouth. He should tell him to knock it off. It’s the same problem over and over: John comes to heel like a pathetic dog every time Harry so much as glances in his direction.

“Maybe we should stop.” The words feel like they’re being dragged out of him with sharp hooks. Harry jerks back so fast he nearly falls over, only saved by John grabbing him tighter. Harry’s face is pale and his eyes are wild at the edges in a way that concerns him, that speaks of post-mission fatigue and bad decisions.

“Do–” Harry goes very still, which is unusual for him. “Are you calling it quits, Johnny?”

That’s not fair, he nearly snaps. He doesn’t have a normal marriage as his out, waiting patiently for him. He doesn’t have anything, he’s put it all on the line and he can’t fucking take it anymore. His anger must be bleeding through, showing up on his face, because Harry gets off his lap–and the loss of him sends an unexpected pang through his chest–and kneels beside him, taking one hand in his own, staring up at him so seriously, a penitent saint.

“John,” he says slowly, “I’ll walk away, if that’s what you want.”

“But you don’t want to.”

Harry grimaces, but remains resolute. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate me lying.”

Damn him, he was right. John stares down at their joined hands, works to formulate an excuse, a defense, anything at all, his brain overworked and overtired. This is a turning point, he’s not too exhausted that he can’t see that. He could say, I’m done, and put it all to rest. Save his immortal soul–and his heart–and get his fucking head on straight, which he needs more than ever. Mlle ZigZig has finished over half her missions. They might make it, might defy the odds after all. He just might see the shores of America again, which feels so distant it’s a dream. A mirage, compared to Harry, who is right next to him and painfully alive, who wants him, with his warm hands holding John’s own.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“Have you eaten?” Harry asks, breaking him out of his uncertain, looping thoughts.

“Yeah,” he lies, not up for another lecture. Harry doesn’t eat before missions and John hardly eats at all before or after, too keyed up to keep much more than a few cups of coffee down. Unfortunately for him, Harry’s gotten skilled at spotting his bullshit.

“I think we should table this,” Harry suggests cautiously, “until tomorrow.”

“No.”

“John,” he sighs.

“You gave me a choice, so let me decide, goddammit.” The words come out sharp, and a small part of him is horrified at the tone. This is going all wrong–more pear shaped than a scrubbed mission, the opportunity slipping through his fingers like sand. He has to salvage this. He cups Harry’s face in one hand, his cheeks still a bit flushed and cold from the flight, and leans down to kiss him. They both need a shave, and Harry’s hair is growing past regulation, and he’s so goddamn tired and his back hurts hunched over like this and he doesn’t care. John Brady is a creature of want. This is a sin. He doesn’t care.

Harry follows him when he pulls back, nearly in his lap again, mouth pink and perfect. His hands are hot where they rest on John’s thighs, and it would be a kind of purity to be touched by him, stripped down until he’s nothing more than a man. Harry kisses him urgently, with teeth, riding the falling crest of his adrenaline high. They’ll both be too tired to do anything but sleep, soon.

“Okay, John,” Harry laughs lightly, laying a kiss to the side of his jaw, right at the tender juncture where it folds into his neck. John shivers. “I gotta stand, or I’ll cramp right up.” His knees crack when he does, John winces in sympathy.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to count your ‘chutes today,” Harry admits quietly, face turning somber. John sways forward so he can rest his head against his belly and breathe in the smell of human sweat and laundry soap, grounding scents that remind him he’s not in the clouds anymore. Harry sighs, runs a light hand through his hair. John doesn’t say that he wouldn’t let that happen, because he doesn’t make false promises, especially not to Harry.

“I was serious about dinner, by the way.”

“Five minutes,” John says, not moving. Five minutes more will get him through the night, and the next day, and the next, until the next mission when they have to do it all over again. John Brady is good at bargains, he’s been asking God for them since June. Harry exhales, rests his hand at the nape of his neck, where the skin is soft and sensitive, a place nobody but him has touched.

“Five minutes,” he agrees.

#bradycroz #MotA #Masters of the air #Going insane about this btw #fic

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