15 September, 1945

It was a gorgeous sunny day. There were clouds in the sky, but they were the harmless, candy-floss type. The sky was bright, blazing blue, a rarity for England's weather, but fitting nonetheless. On the type of day when it had every right to rain, the weather had to turn for the better as if trying to paint the beauty of the setting.

In stark contrast to its circumstances, clearly.

Arthur Kirkland was wearing his dress uniform and standing on a hill overlooking the Biggin Hill airport. He had been surprised at how few strings he had to pull to arrange this, actually. But then, the entire country was in euphoria due to the recent victory, and his boss and the RAF, once they knew the unorthodox reason behind the request, had been more than willing to grant him clearance for these few hours.

Alfred was somewhere in the airport now, getting ready. He had fought most of the remnant of the Pacific theatre, and he was probably tired after bringing about the end of the war a month ago, but he needed to be here, at this airport, on the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Britain.

He was going to fly today, while Arthur stood on the ground beneath.

Arthur Kirkland and Alfred F. Jones were getting ready to lay the remains of their only child to rest.

5 September, 1919

It had taken thirty long, hard hours of agonizing, crippling back labour, at least three sets of linens, and more blood and fluids than Arthur was comfortable with, but finally, finally, the child he had carried within him for nine months was born, blood-slicked and squalling, currently cradled in its father's arms.

Arthur leaned back against the headboard of his bed, letting his head fall with a solid 'thunk'. His fringe was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and he didn't quite have his breath back yet. Alfred was being oddly quiet and serious, kneeling there between Arthur's legs with a wailing baby in his arms (at least the crying assuaged Arthur's immediate fear that something was wrong with the baby).

"Arthur, I...I'm sorry," he said suddenly. Arthur's blood ran cold.

"What for?" he asked. "Alfred, what's wrong?" he asked. Alfred looked up from the baby in his arms, and exhausted, now worried green eyes met blue eyes hidden behind Texas' lenses.

"I'm sorry that you still won't have anyone to do your embroidery and knitting with," he said, and then his face broke out into a grin that splashed cool relief over Arthur's frazzled nerves like sunbeams. "'Cause we've got one handsome little devil here."

"A...a boy?" Arthur asked, too tired to be offended, and Alfred shifted so that he could hold the baby out and put him on Arthur's stomach.

"See for yourself." Sure enough, the squirming little newborn, squinting and trying to make sense out of the bright new world around him, was a little boy. He smiled and wished that the cord that still made them one wasn't so short. Gently, he cupped the tiny, cone-shaped head in one hand. The baby rooted against his hand when he ran his thumb over one fat cheek.

"God, he's...beautiful," he breathed. Alfred pressed a loving kiss to Arthur's knee.

"Like his Ma'," he quipped, and got glared at. Arthur couldn't help but wonder, as he stared at the face of his newborn son: how long would it be like this? Was this...a family? His country was still tired and recovering from the Great War, while Alfred seemed to be better than ever. And together, after one night, drunk on the ecstasy of having just won the war, they had...created the perfect little creature lying on Arthur's stomach. His heart swelled to the point that he felt it might burst.

Whatever this was, he wished it could last forever.