Notes: You may or may not recognize the names of the characters in this double drabble. They hold the same names as those in “Texas Floods”, another one of my stories. However, this is a slightly different ‘verse; WWII, pilots, the whole works. Enjoy!

After.

The room is small, and made up in Spartan design. There is a desk beneath the window (black shades shut out the night), a bed alongside the west wall, and a knee-high dresser containing fresh linens for the thin mattress. A vase of flowers has been placed on the desk, and the strong scent of the maid’s cheap cologne nearly covers up the smell of the war.

Merritt leans a hip against the desk as Hart slides down the wall, sitting on his heels, fingers laced beneath his chin. Merritt knows better than to coax his friend out of it, knows better than to move a muscle when the gears in Hart’s brain are turning.

Instead, he moves to the bed, takes a seat and stares at the wall by Hart’s head, waiting for this nightmare to pass, willing the burn in his eyes to cease. Knows it is useless, knows the grief and the terror of the past day will haunt him when he falls asleep.

They had killed 14 men between them, whooped with joy as BF 109s had taken their last graceful dives through the sky, burning arcs of greasy smoke plummeting to the ground, shook their captain’s hand and mourned the countless lost with remembering frowns on their faces. Better them than us, it had secretly been.

But now it is Hart unfolding himself and up on his feet, and now it is the door being locked. Now it is Merritt palming Hart’s cheek, kissing the side of Hart’s nose, leaning into the wall as Hart straddles his thighs, runs his hands over Merritt’s hair face neck shoulders back chest.

They’re alive.