George deValier Wiki | FANDOM powered by Wikia
We'll Meet Again has ratings and 5 reviews. Mari said: I'm so glad I'm finally getting around to reading George's work because this was amazing! The. Jul 18, We'll Meet Again. By: George deValier. WW2 AU. London pub owner The Americans were starting to drive Arthur mad. For weeks now his. Jul 18, By: George deValier. WW2 AU. Arthur's back creaked in protest as he dragged himself up the stairs of the pub. . "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when " "til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!".
He didn't know how Alfred managed to get so excited every day about something as simple as the mail arriving. He leafed through the pages and envelopes.
We'll Meet Again Chapter Epilogue, a hetalia - axis powers fanfic | FanFiction
Oh, and a postcard from Matthew and Francis. He leant back against the soft cushions and opened the newspaper.
It was a special issue to celebrate the 50th VE Day, the 50th anniversary of the end of the war in Europe. Alfred had been invited to numerous ceremonies of course, but he never was one to make a big deal of these sorts of things.
He had barely mentioned anything about the day and seemed quite content to simply watch the proceedings on television. Arthur focused on the newspaper. After flicking past a few articles on the end of the war and the current celebrations, he came to a page that made him pause in shock.
Is it about the UFO sighting I reported last month? Alfred leant forward and squinted.
We'll Meet Again
Hold on, I need my stronger glasses…" Alfred rummaged around on the coffee table. Arthur smiled slightly and shook his head. He looked exactly the way Arthur remembered.
Jones of the American Army Air Force only flew in combat for a few short months inbut quickly distinguished himself as one of the best fighter pilots of the war.
Known by the enemy as 'The Magician' for his unparalleled skills in evasion, his record of seven kills in a single flight has never been equalled by an American pilot, before or since. Lieutenant Jones' last flight, during which he was isolated by a squadron of German Messerschmitts in allied airspace, is still considered one of the most courageous moments in aviation history.
Greatly outnumbered, Jones took down seven enemy planes while defending strategic airspace and drawing fire away from his squad into enemy territory. Here he was shot down, captured, and…" Arthur faltered over the next few words. It was amazing how, even fifty years later, any mention of that incident still affected him so strongly.
He looked up at Alfred, who smiled gently back at him. He went on to become a greatly respected military flight instructor. He travelled extensively between England and the United States and has been formally recognised by the British government on several occasions for services to the Commonwealth.
Alfred Jones currently resides in London with his…" Arthur trailed off once again. Arthur's mind spun in disbelief. His mouth went dry and he could barely manage to choke out the words. Wait and see, we'll be walking down the aisle one of these days!
After all these years of being the partner of a war hero, it was the first time he had been publicly acknowledged as such. And the arrogance… Arthur had not been the least bit surprised to learn he was a fighter pilot.
Thought the whole bloody British Isle owed him their freedom and allegiance. Arthur gritted his teeth and snatched the glass. And kindly refrain from calling me your buddy.
He barely went through a bottle a year before the war. Since the Americans turned up, he went through a carton a night. He was obviously used to getting his way with that grin… but it bloody well wasn't going to work with Arthur. Let someone else pour the drinks for a while.
Take a load off. Alfred seemed able to stretch every word into seven syllables. Arthur suppressed his irritation, pushed the glass across the bar, and attempted to be polite. He had a reputation as a gentleman to uphold, after all.
That's an insult to a man, that is. The arrogance was unfathomable. Arthur felt the tiniest stab of guilt, and could not stop himself adding, "Maybe another time. I look forward to having that drink with ya. Arthur let out a deep breath. He turned and placed the bourbon back on the shelf, took a cloth from beneath the bar, and began wiping the bar top vigorously.
Arthur had never dealt with something like this before. Customers asked him for drinks, he served them. None of them ever asked him to join them — hell, most of them barely spared a word for him. Yet this American pilot had bothered him every night for a week: Arthur could not understand it.
Of course, a tiny, hopeful part of his brain held the smallest suspicion - but no. Arthur had spent too long suppressing that secret part of himself. The reason he had no close friends, the reason his brothers hated him; the reason he cut himself off from society, the reason even his country's armed services refused to accept him. He had learnt from his past mistakes, and knew better than to see his own secret wishes and desires where actually there was nothing.
But then, what was it about this bloody Yank? Why did he keep asking Arthur to drink with him? Why did he keep looking over at Arthur behind the bar and waving? Why did he have to grin like that? And why the bloody hell did it affect Arthur so much when he did? Arthur risked a glance over at the pilot's table. He always sat at the same one, by the second front window, with that other fellow who looked so much like him that Arthur wondered if they were brothers.
Sure enough, Alfred was looking right at him. Arthur quickly looked down. He ran a hand over his heated forehead and felt it burning red. Throwing the cloth down, Arthur stormed over to the other side of the busy pub. Surely there must be some empty glasses to pick up.
An elderly regular nodded to him as he passed. Don't even know why we need them here, it's not as though our boys can't take on the Jerry's without them! His eyes flashed fleetingly towards Alfred's table before he quickly turned to serve the table of rowdy soldiers. A few hours later, with the place thankfully somewhat quieter, Arthur finally had a chance to wipe down the vacant tables and collect empty glasses.
He did have a few staff, but they only worked occasionally, and Arthur barely even knew their names. He preferred to do most of the work here himself. This was his pub, after all.
It wasn't much, but it was his entire life; it was everything he knew. The long bar that ran across the room, the old wooden tables and chairs that had never been replaced. The huge fireplace and its ornate mantelpiece. The ancient brick walls; the creaky narrow staircases that led down to the cold, dark cellar and up to his cosy, familiar living area.
Arthur knew every part of this place like his own body. It had always been a family business, but Arthur was the last family member left here now. He felt it his duty to do as much as possible on his own. Arthur headed back to the bar, glancing around the room as he went. Most of the patrons left were locals.
The more intoxicated Americans had already been dragged back to base, but a few remained to have a few quiet drinks before close. Arthur tried to avoid looking his way, but could not ignore the loud voice that called to him as he walked past the American's table. This could not be a good idea… "Very well then. After all, the place was fairly quiet. Maybe this would finally stop Alfred's constant requests, as well as put Arthur's own curiosities to rest. Alfred was obviously just a friendly young guy who treated everyone like this.
Arthur sat down at the table, taking the seat closest to the bar. He half hoped for a patron to approach it for a drink, giving him an excuse to leave.
Much to his annoyance, he was far too nervous sitting this close to Alfred. Arthur glared at him. Alfred slapped the man on the shoulder and grinned at Arthur. He really did look remarkably like Alfred.
Lovely pub you have here. Are you a pilot as well, Lieutenant? And besides, it was probably safer to make conversation with Matthew than Alfred. Like get yourself killed. Confuses the hell out of some of the superiors, I tell ya what. Finally made Matt grow his hair so they can tell us apart. Alfred was not making it easy. Matthew started to reply but Alfred cut him off. No longer a subject of the British Empire, eh, Matt? Lives on maple syrup, carries little polar bears around…" Arthur furrowed his brow.
He's my lucky mascot. Anyway, we all have one… a lucky charm that is. And nothing's ever turned up. But hey, never needed one before. I'm alive, ain't I?
Arthur thought he had better follow suit. Arthur was still not used to that laugh. It was the most boisterous, unique laugh he had ever heard. Usually half the pub turned and looked whenever Alfred let loose with it. At least the pub had quieted down even further, with only a handful of Americans still remaining. Matthew had left twenty minutes earlier - something about needing to oil an engine, Arthur couldn't remember - after Alfred spent a couple of minutes winking at him.
What was with all this winking?