#also i know these are supposed to be fic STARTERS but ehhhh... yeah

[smuggsy]

Can I have a "i sleep better in your bed" for flyboys please 🥺

All right, I know those are supposed to be comfort prompts but I didn’t quite get there. Just a helpless pining Collins for you, my friend.

Collins doesn't fall into unhealthy habits. He thinks it must have something to do with him coming from a very small village, born into an even smaller family. An early bird that took care of the farm in the wee hours of the morning when everyone else enjoyed an hour or two of extra sleep.

A fag or two a day? That's alright, it's only common in the ranks; but he's never been one for alcohol. It would serve a purpose, he thinks, as he turns on his bed for the third time that minute.

Maybe if he knocked down a pint or two he'd get a wink of sleep on this godforsaken place. Which is anything but forsaken, of course. Quite the opposite. They've been sent out to an airfield in Croydon and it's beaming with personnel and new recruits being noisy and chipper, the word "inexperienced" written all over their faces.

Collins knows that's about to change, and he turns once again on his bed as that intruding thought downs on him at 2 in the morning. They've been transferred here for a reason and he reckons any day now the Luftwaffe will give those cheerful new lads a reason to finally get in the air and they will soon have no extra energy to burn off, no impromptu football matches to organize, no more bets to make on their card games.

At that, he finally sits up on his bed and weights his chances. He'd promised himself he wouldn't do this again. It was just a one-night thing, and he didn't even ask for permission to go and use someone else's bed.

(Although, to be fair, Farrier wasn't there to be asked. If he'd been, he'd have probably kicked him back to his own bed with a gruffly grunt.)

There is no infestation of ants round this side of the room tonight, so tonight he's got no real reason to scoot over to the opposite bed and lay down on it, the same thin and overly-soft army-issued mattress underneath but feeling much more comfortable.

Because it smells like Farrier.

Fuck it. He's always up before anyone else and Farrier won't be here till six.

And he's going to be awful tired for his early flight tomorrow morning if he doesn't get a proper four hours of shut-eye.

Farrier's not here.

What Farrier doesn't know won't hurt him.

So, in the dead of night, with about twenty-five other pilots sound asleep, he tiptoes over and gets under the covers with a sigh, his shoulders relaxing and his eyes shutting close with easiness at the familiar smell.

Collins doesn't really have any unhealthy habits.

But this may just be becoming one.

* * *

He's over by the runway when Farrier meets him at eight. His hair is wet and he looks very clean, and Collins actually hears him approaching before he sees him. That same cadence to his footsteps, careless and easy-going yet firmly getting closer.

"Morning," Farrier says, and Jenkins nods his way. Collins finishes fastening up his lifejacket and turns around to greet him, smell of coffee filling the air.

And also the smell of shampoo.

"'Elo," he says with a smile, avoiding Farrier's intent stare because it feels weird, because he really needs to stop using his bed every night when he can't sleep, because it's a violation of his privacy and it's wrong and it's becoming a thing, "good night?"

"Uneventful," Farrier shrugs and he comes closer to stand next to him with his cup of coffee, his free hand buried deep inside the front pocket of his navy-blue trousers, "you'll have a quiet day as well, I reckon."

"I hope not," Jenkins blurts out, turning around and heading for his own Spitfire at seeing their Squadron Leader hopping up, mumbling something about Jerries and the weather forecast.

Collins turns to Farrier with an awkward smile, feeling immensely inadequate standing next to him and smelling that same scent from up close. That's what his pillowcase smells like.

Stop it.

He clears his throat and checks his lifejacket's in place again, unaware of how twitchy he's behaving. Unaware of Farrier following his every nervous movement with an almost-smirk on his face.

"See ya then," he says in lieu of a goodbye, but when he takes a step forward Farrier catches his arm and stops him from leaving.

Collins turns around with sweat on his brow.

"What's up with you?"

"What? Nothing - stomachache. Milk was sour, I think. Good thing yer havin’ coffee," he rants, gesturing towards the half-empty cup Farrier's holding, ignoring the way his ex wing-mate is frowning at him like he's grown a second head, "I need to go."

Farrier's still got a hold of him and he frowns unapprovingly for a couple more seconds before stepping back. Collins makes a run for the cockpit and keeps his eyes forward until they take off.

They're not even out for sixty minutes before they must head back, storm looming over London and air so wet and hot they all make a beeline for the showers soon as they step back on land.

Collins keeps himself busy. He replies to a letter, he plays some poker, he sits down by Hugh when he picks up his guitar and starts singing away the afternoon.

And one too many times he finds Farrier looking at him from afar.

Just looking. Pondering. Not approaching.

He must know he's avoiding him, Collins thinks, and he feels like an idiot. Like a jittery teenager every time he glances around to find Farrier smiling at something his wingmates say but meeting his gaze immediately when he finds him looking.

The sky falling outside doesn't help a single bit.

There's nowhere to go.

When Farrier approaches him, like he'd been waiting for Jenkins to go away to come and chat, Collins runs a hand over his eyes and nods towards him, tired of the idleness and tired of his very useless infatuation.

Maybe he should stop turning down invitations from pretty birds at the pub and have some fun. Fuck the image of Farrier away from his brain, have his very musky scent erased from his memory and replaced by some soft flowery perfume.

"Alright?" Farrier greets.

Collins answers with a sigh and lights up a fag.

"Fuckin' bored," he says, with the cigarette in between his lips and leaning against the window overlooking the runway. It's immensely dark outside, save for one or two bolts of lightning flashing prettily in the distance.

Farrier lets out a laugh next to him.

"You sound like the boys," he comes round to block Collins' view and his eyes glitter with mischief as he takes a bite of his very red apple, "you should know better. Enjoy a quiet day for once."

He offers him the apple as he chews, and Collins shakes his head and can't help but smile at his air of playfulness, the awkward exchange of looks feeling distant and utterly silly.

This is Farrier.

They've been together since they got their wings.

Just his mate.

Nothing else.

"Yeah, well," Collins takes a deep draw and when he talks next, the smoke goes in Farrier's direction, "maybe they're growing on me."

"Yeah," Farrier says, half-heartedly like his mind's someplace else, and he just stares.

From then on, it starts getting awkward again and Collins shifts his weight from foot to foot, at a loss for words and feeling like he's being read like an open book.

It feels like ages before Farrier gestures towards him with the half-eaten apple again and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

"You have a very nice cologne, don't think I ever said."

Collins almost chokes.

But it's just smoke in his throat so he simply plays it off as a cough.

"Quite strong," Farrier continues; Collins feels like his soul is leaving his body, like he's imploding, like he's about to pass out, "but nice."

He looks around, maybe someone nearby will come and drag him out of this situation, out of this conversation, is Jenkins gone off already?

"My bedsheets stink of it."

Oh fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Dear me, don't look so mortified!" Farrier laughs, he laughs, "I don't mind, but someone will notice, and they'll start talkin'."

Oh fuck, we are having this conversation.

"Shite, look - sorry, I'm sorry, I just, it's - I dunno," yes you do, you do know, you bleedin' idiot, "I sleep better in yer bed, I won' do it again."

"Do it all you want.”

And Collins stops himself from blurting out any more apologies at that, frozen in place whereas Farrier looks positively amused by the whole affair.

The fact that he's taking it so lightly is almost insulting.

"You wha'?" Collins blinks stupidly.

Farrier checks that no-one else is within earshot and shifts the slightest bit closer to him. Just a silent and quick look around that sends off alarms in Collins' brain.

The Scot swallows through a very dry throat and he most definitely doesn't look down at Farrier's throat when he swallows another piece of his apple, that very sweet apple he can smell from where he's standing.

"Is this why you've been avoiding me lately? Acting all weird because you've been sleeping in my bed?"

Collins makes a face. Farrier laughs again, the bastard.

"God, don't say it like that, ye make it sound-"

"What? I make it sound what?"

Collins can't make a sound. He can only look at Farrier, with his hazelnut twinkling eyes staring right into his soul, the brightest of lightning making his pupils go small for half a second, those juicy lips that would most definitely taste of fruit, the collar of his shirt buttoned-down, the suspenders firmly in place on top of both wide shoulders and BANG!

The loudest and closest thunder so far sinks the whole hall into deep darkness, only the very dim light from cigarette tips visible here and there. A collective wave of groans and colourful swearwords can be heard all throughout.

Collins jumps in his place at the sudden deafening sound, and instantly two strong arms come to grab each side of his shoulders to prevent him from moving, and he can't see a thing but he can feel, he can feel Farrier's fingers grabbing insistently at the fabric around his biceps and he can feel him suddenly leaning closer.

And he can feel him kiss him too.

Deep and needy and just a flash.

Like that lightning.

So fast and unpredictable it leaves him heaving for breath and needing to brace himself against the thick window glass. It leaves him tasting apple.