#wobblycompetencies

-quote from @leupagus‘ “To The Sky Without Wings”,...

(With thanks to @wobblycompetencies, who agreed to a scenes-for-pics swap that frankly means I am making out like a bandit, since not only are these pictures worth a thousand words, but they are worth far better words than I’m producing. But it’s too late now!)

*

Luke reached the top of the stairs and stepped out into the belfry, the wind up here significantly colder even than in the cavern of the main cathedral. But Poe, leaning against the stone parapet, his crutches tossed carelessly on the ground beside him, seemed blissful in the heights, his eyes shut and face turned toward the sun.

Luke found himself watching the young man with a disinterested eye; as though he were not a person but a painting, safe for Luke to regard. Poe had a drowsy, almost languid quality to his face, as though he were enjoying some pleasant dream or pleasurable thought. His cheek, which had begun to show alarming tendencies toward a beard, was once more clean-shaven and smooth, and Luke felt some strange regret that Poe had remembered his hideous scarf to wrap tightly around his neck. But if Poe had done something about his facial hair, he had as yet made no attempt to tame his curls, now well past regulation and hopelessly tangled by the wind. He looked like something drawn with care and consideration - with love.

He looked happy.

Rose of War-The Appetizer Edition.

At the instigation of my lovely @wobblycompetencies​, and in time for V-Day, here is the first chapter of a WWI au inspired by the work of the fabulous @leupagus​ (which you should totally read- it’s here)

The rain was pissing down from the sky as Oberst Luke Skywalker's monoplane landed on the airbase behind the German front lines at the Somme. He cut the engine and disembarked as quickly as possible, ready to change out his wet pilot's gear for something warm and dry. He would rather be back at Headquarters in Belgium, but his sister's instructions had been very clear.

The battle of the Somme was an utter disaster. It had left their troops in complete disarray and morale at an all-time low. "They need you, Luke," Leia had said in that tone that meant the meeting was over. "You're a hero to them, one of the greatest flying aces in the Luftstreitkrafte." When he had ventured to protest, she had fixed him with a hard gaze. "We lost 27 pilots, in a day, Luke. They need to see your face, now more than ever. If we don't win the fight against this mutiny, then we will lose the war overnight." Her grave voice had touched something in him, and so here he was, soaking wet on an airstrip, wishing more than ever that this damned war could come to an end.

As Leia had predicted, the Kommandant had greeted him with an excitement near to awe, ushering him inside the abandoned hall that they were using for headquarters with a textbook salute and a series of obsequious questions about his health and his journey. Luke answered, "Yes, Herr Kommandant. Fine, thank you, Herr Kommandant. Yes, Herr Kommandant, I am sure they will be satisfactory," along with a dozen other mindless phrases as they carried on into the officer's quarters.

"You will want to inspect our Group, Herr Skywalker?" the Kommandant asked, as Luke stripped off his wet flight jacket and goggles.

"Of course. I will see to it first thing in the morning." He tried to adopt a firmer tone. "Thank you for your welcome, Herr Kommandant, I will be quite fine here on my own until morning."

At last, with many protestations and invitations to summon him should he have any needs at all, the unctuous man finally took his leave, pulling the door closed behind him, and Luke was alone.

*

Thankfully, the morning of the inspection dawned cold but clear, with the iron grey clouds of the evening before having moved off to the east. As Luke strode along the lines of men stood at attention, he felt the back of his neck prickling. The men were well-disciplined, but he could feel their pride and admiration practically radiating off of them, so palpable that it made him somewhat nauseous. He did not want this. He had never wanted this. Any man here, he knew, would have leapt into battle at his command, risking life, limb, and anything else they were in possession of, for the famous Luke Skywalker. He did not deserve such devotion, and he hated Leia for using it to her advantage.

As he neared the end of the line, he felt something different. Something…refreshing. A pair of insolent eyes boring into his back from the direction of the prisoner barracks.

"Dismissed, Rittmeister," he said, his attention already wandering away from the airstrip.

"What kind of bird you fly in on, Oberst?" asked a voice in rusty but well taught German. Luke turned toward the single cell attached to the outer wall of the guardhouse. A short, but well-muscled young man stood leaning against the bars of the cell, a crooked smile on his lips. His dark curls bounced as he ducked his head towards Luke's plane, parked at the edge of the airstrip.

"She looks like a beauty," he added, his light brown eyes sparkling with  mischief. Then, as though uncertain whether he had been understood, he pointed to the plane and repeated, "What's her make?"

Luke took a step towards the barracks, studying the man closely. He could feel the Rittmeister at his side, and turned, addressing him in a confiding tone. "Who is this man, Rittmeister?"

The Rittmeister looked aggrieved. "A prisoner, sir. A British pilot captured a week from Wednesday. I am sorry to say that he and his navigator were the only ones of his flight to survive the battle. He will not gain us much on a prisoner exchange, but he has been remarkably…sociable during his time here."

"I see," Luke murmured. He crossed the distance to the barracks and looked closely at the man behind the bars of the cell. It had not, Luke surmised, been the man's best week. His cheeks were lean, and he could see the dark circles beneath the his eyes. And, now that he took the time to look, he was not so much a man as a boy, one just on the edge of manhood, though he clearly tried to compensate for his lack of years with a cocky swagger and a confident attitude. Interesting.

"She is a Fokker E.I.," he said finally, seeing that the boy was quite uncomfortable with his leisured inspection. In response to the boy's grimace, he continues, "an older model, but one that still serves me well."

"A high ranking fellow like yourself, I would have thought you'd have snatched up one of those Albatrosses, first chance you got," the boy said.

"I see no reason to cast off a craft that is still in perfectly good working order," Luke responded. He knew he sounded huffy, but couldn't seem to help himself. There was something about the boy that…unsettled him. He took refuge in a formal tone. "What is your name, soldier?"

The boy withdrew from the bars and snapped him a salute, in the British style, but very fine. Something in him seemed to respond to the voice of authority. "Flight Sergeant Poe Dameron, Herr Oberst," he said, staring at a space of air just over Luke's left shoulder.

"At ease, Sergeant," Luke said softly, resisting the urge to smile. He was keen, to say the least. "How old are you?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"I couldn't have enlisted unless I was seventeen, Oberst," the boy responded, that strange half grin returning to his face.

"That wasn't what I asked you."

The boy's eyes slid to the side. "I'm seventeen, Oberst."

"Of course you are." Luke was unable to keep the smile from his voice this time.

"Pardon me, sir, but," the boy grinned up at him, "is there any place a fellow might get a cigarette in this shithole?"

In spite of himself, Luke laughed. "It certainly is a shithole, flight sergeant, but I will see what I can do. Are you well fed?"

"Sir?"

"Come, Flight Sergeant, we are German gentlemen, not animals. Prisoners of war are to be treated with respect. Besides, we are hardly able to use you in a prisoner exchange if you starve."

"I am as well fed as any of your men, I'm sure, Oberst," the boy said, his eyes dark and serious.

"Point taken," Luke admitted with a grimace. "I will see what I can do about those cigarettes."

*

Poe watched as the German Group Captain walked away towards the old town hall they were using for headquarters. "Nice chap, for a German, he said over his shoulder."

Bertrand Brown VIII, or Bertie, to his friends, looked up from the long strands of grass he had plucked from the side of the guard shed. "He looks pretty old to me."

"Getting old doesn't mean you stop being nice," Poe returned. He sat down on the bench beside his co-pilot.

"Are you meaning nice as in 'he'll bring you cigarettes' or nice as in the other thing?" Bertie asked, casting Poe a suspicious glance.

Poe's grin nearly split his face in half. "Does it matter?"

Bertie groaned. "He's German, Poe. You're British. We're at war. Snap out of it."

In an instant, Poe's grin was replaced by a look of pure innocence. "What, you think he won't bring me a cigarette?"

"Augh, forget it, you're hopeless."

Poe gazed after the retreating back of the Group Captain. "You might be right about that."

*

It took him most of the day, but as the sun set low in the west, casting a pink glow over the wings of the aircraft lined up along the airstrip, the Group Captain did return with cigarettes. He smiled when he saw the look on the Poe's face.

"These were hard to come by," he said, "I trust you'll appreciate them."

"Yes, sir!" Poe agreed readily, taking the proffered bundle of cigarettes from the Group Captain's gloved hand. Then, very carefully, he split them in two, stuffing three of them in the front pocket of his shirt. From the remaining half, he drew two, offering one back to the Group Captain. He smiled again. "Thank you, no," he said kindly, "I have my own habit," he pulled a well-worn pipe from his breast pocket, "but I appreciate the sentiment." He struck a match, and held it out, lighting Poe's cigarette. Poe took a deep draw, feeling the warm, smooth caress of the smoke as it flooded his lungs. He let it all back out in a contented sigh.

"You're a life-saver, sir," he said with feeling.

The Group Captain chuckled as he lit his own pipe. "Hardly, Sergeant, but you are quite welcome."

Poe watched the man's long hands as he replaced his matchbox in his coat pocket. Strong, elegant, and aristocratic hands, he couldn't help noticing. "Tell me, sir, what makes you such a believer in the Fokker?" he asked.

The Group Captain's eyebrows rose, and he seemed to consider Poe's question very seriously. "I suppose that, in part, it is the model I learned in, and I am not quick to change," he said after a while, "but…well, let's say I'm sentimental."

"You  mean she's flown you safe for so long you can't quite bear to let her go?" the words were said before he had hardly thought about them.

The Group Captain shot him a surprised glance. "Yes, something like that," he said softly.

Poe nodded. "I was the same with my first Vickers. She was a lovely lady."

"Was?"

"She dumped me in a German trench last week," Poe said with a shrug. "I knew she was getting old and that she'd let me down some day, but I hadn't thought it would be that soon."

"You mean you knew she was going to stall?" came an outraged voice from the bench. Bertie had sat up, lifting his hat from his eyes and looking at Poe with an expression of horrified disbelief.

"I didn't know that was going to happen," Poe muttered. He pulled the three cigarettes from his breast pocket and passed them to Bertie, replacing them with his two.

"Well I wouldn't put it past you," Bertie grumbled, taking the proffered cigarettes.

"Now, that's not a fair thing to say." Poe's face coloured in embarrassment. "You know I always looked after her and kept her in as good a condition as I could."

Bertie waved a dismissive hand as he accepted a match from the Group Commander.

"After a certain point, maintenance is no longer a security," the Group Commander said equably, as though trying to smooth Poe's ruffled feathers. "Care can only take a craft so far, particularly when she's being shot at regularly."

"Fair," Poe conceded as Bertie returned to the bench. "So, turnabout's fair play, Oberst," he said to the Group Commander, a smile on his face, "I told you my name and rank, what's yours?"

"You already know my rank." Poe shot him a look. "You know what I mean."

The Group Commander sighed. "My name is Luke Skywalker," he muttered.

"No shit?" Poe demanded.

"I'm sorry?" the Group Commander seemed startled by his reaction, and then Poe remembered that expressions like that didn't tend to translate very well.

"You're not, you know…you're telling the truth?" he amended, stumbling a bit over the words.

The Group Commander gave him a strange look. "Why on earth would I lie to you about something like that?"

"Because you didn't want to tell me the truth, same as anyone else?" Poe was trying to contain his excitement. He was standing here smoking and, if he were being honest, flirting a bit, with Luke. Fucking. Skywalker. Best flying ace in the Luftstreitkrafte.

"You told me the truth about your name and rank, did you not?" Skywalker said mildly. Thankfully, he looked like he hadn't noticed the sudden flush in Poe's cheeks. Or he was politely pretending not to notice.

"Well yeah, but I'm not…you know…"

Skywalker shrugged, "I suppose not, but in light of your honesty with me, how else is a gentleman to behave?"

"Uh…"

wobblycompetencies replied to your photo:So the amigurumi lion is definitely happening. 

Cool! Amigurumi makes me want to learn to crochet (I’m a knitter myself)

My late-night letter fest would not be complete if I didn't write to you, my two lovely ladies. There's not much to say that hasn't already been said already, but I think most of it's still important. 

This has been a crazy time in our lives, with plenty of massive sweeping life changes, self discoveries, sad days, losses, victories, and glorious pasta dinners. We've all gotten older, wiser, and have steadfastly refused to grow up at all, which I think shows character. Through it all, you have been at my side, walked through the fires with me as my equals, and pulled me out the other side again. When I've been far from home, you've opened yours to me, and I can never begin to express the depth of my gratitude for all the wonderful things that you are. 

My Privateers, my Musketeers, my first and truest friends, we've ridden a hell of a ride together and, god wiling, we still have many more miles of adventure ahead of us yet. It gives me strength to know that, whatever terrors the future over the precipice holds, we will face them together. And we'll bloody well win. 

Yours with much love, 

wobbly: ...

me: it's a good thing we're friends, i think that makes it sound less weird.

wobbly:...i don't think it makes is less weird, i'm just more used to it.