#idontknowhowtousecommas

um… Winston Churchill x George Washington

warnings: slight angst; extreme cringe

London, 1942. The war howled beyond the city like a restless beast, but inside the war rooms, Winston Churchill found silence. He stared into a glass of brandy, lost in the weight of it all burdens, decisions, deaths.

Then, light burst from nowhere. A portal. A man. Tall and composed. A presence like stone and thunder.

“What in the world—?” Churchill began, rising from his seat.

“I mean no harm,” the man said. His voice was calm, deep, familiar in some ancient way.

“I am George Washington.” Churchill’s breath caught in disbelief. The paintings, the statues, the myth of the man, and now, he was real. Breathing, beautiful, in that haunted kind of way men like him always are.

Churchill blinked once, then twice. “You’re early, General. I wasn’t expecting you until after I died.”

Washington chuckled “History had other plans.”

They talked deep into the night. Strategy, war idealism, wounds.

Churchill felt an ache stir in his chest, an ache he hadn’t felt in decades. Washington’s eyes held a kind of gentleness Churchill hadn’t known existed in military men.

A man who had fought for freedom yet longed, perhaps, for something soft.

Washington reached out once ,an accidental brush of fingers, as Churchill handed him a pen. Their hands lingered a second too long.

Neither mentioned it, but something passed between them in that still air, a quiet question neither dared ask.

Days passed. Washington stayed. Officially, he was Churchill’s “visiting cousin from Virginia.” Unofficially, he became a constant shadow. They walked London streets during air raid lulls, sharing cigars beneath blackout skies. One night, under the flicker of oil lamps, Churchill found himself staring.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I’ve lived a life full of speeches. But lately I find myself tongue-tied around you.”

Washington looked up from his drink. “It’s not your tongue that interests me, Winston.”

Silence.

Then Churchill laughed low and surprised. “God help me. That was almost flirtatious.”

Washington stood, slow and deliberate, and crossed the room. “History’s written in ink Prime Minister. But the space between the lines? That’s ours.”

Churchill rose their faces only inches apart now. The war outside was a storm. Inside, there was only warmth.

“I never thought,” Churchill whispered, “that liberty might feel like this.”

Washington leaned in, voice like smoke “Neither did I.”

They never spoke of forever only of now, of moments stolen between meetings, of midnight touches hidden behind layers of wool and formality.

Washington showed Churchill what it meant to be revered and seen. Churchill showed Washington that vulnerability wasn’t weakness, but trust, freely given.

Eventually, the portal returned, humming with inevitability.

Washington stood before it, torn.

“You could stay,” Churchill said, voice rough.

“You know I can’t,” Washington answered. “But if time itself bends once, perhaps it will again.”

Churchill’s heart was pounding in his chest, almost loud enough to drown out the war cries outside. He stared into his lovers eyes. Then Washington leaned in close and pressed a kiss against Churchill’s soft lips. Deep and impossibly gentle. Their lips met for what they both knew would be the last time. When they parted Churchill released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“I fought for freedom,” Washington said, resting his forehead against Churchill’s “but I found peace here.”

Then he was gone.

Churchill kept a locked drawer in his desk for the rest of his life. Inside, a compass, a note in calligraphy, and a small American flag.

He never spoke of them, but sometimes when no one was watching, he would trace the edges of that note and whisper:

“I found peace in you”

a/n: I’m really sorry