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More Biggles cutting room floor
Earlier this year I wrote Honey Trap, in which Erich's superiors sent him to seduce Biggles rather than kill him in the general Buries a Hatchet timeframe. And ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
philomytha wrote the absolutely lovely sequel like a storm in the desert which I wholeheartedly approve and adore and 100% support. (I am always in favor of having sequels or missing scenes or remixes written for my fic, I love it, I welcome it, please do it. ♥)
In the in-between time, however, I had written (or at least started) two different versions of a sequel that I ended up sitting on and not quite sure what to do with, because Philomytha's was pretty much the exact same thing. I mean, first of all, Erich's mental state is pretty obvious at this point, and we basically share an id, and neither of these was really finished enough to post....
I was thinking for a while about maybe turning at least one of these into a completely new fic incorporating the elements I liked from this, but I didn't do that, so - here are the other sequel(s). (But please read Philomytha's, it's great!)
--
Version 1: Biggles' POV
Biggles took a cab back to Mount Street, on the general principle that it would make them harder to follow and less of a target than simply strolling along the street, in case any of von Stalhein's unpleasant friends were hanging about.
Also, von Stalhein looked completely done in. He was almost grey with exhaustion. Biggles wondered when the last time was that he had simply stopped - to rest, eat, let his guard down.
He seemed to come out of his fugue as they climbed the steps to the Mount Street flat. His voice was scraped out with weariness, but faintly amused as he asked, "What are your associates going to say about this?"
"They're still at the Yard for a few hours yet. It's just us."
For some reason, he balked at this more than he had at the idea of coming back to the flat in the first place. "You don't want backup?"
"Do you expect to be attacked?"
"I—no—" Von Stalhein shook his head. "You should be more cautious."
"I assume you'd tell me if there was danger."
"I meant from me, Bigglesworth."
"Oh, I see." Biggles smiled. "You could promise to be on your best behavior."
Von Stalhein gave him a look, but he came into the flat.
"I assume you have a handler," Biggles said. "When do you need to check in with him?"
"Oh—er, not until morning." Von Stalhein seemed at a loss again. It was as if he'd wound down completely. Biggles steered him to an armchair and stirred up the fire.
"I'm going to make some tea and get us something to eat," he said.
He came back with two cups of tea and a plate of sandwiches to find that von Stalhein was up and looking at the sitting room's walls and shelves. The room wasn't precisely cluttered, but it was full, containing the trophies and keepsakes of four lives that had involved a great deal of traveling about, as well as two wars. It was clear that von Stalhein's exhaustion had faded somewhat under his natural curiosity. At the moment, he was looking at framed photos of 666 Squadron.
"Do you stay in touch with these men?" von Stalhein asked.
"Now and then. Here," Biggles said, handing him a cup of tea. He reached past von Stalhein to a shelf below the photo, where—as on most of the shelves around the room—books shared space with small mementos and other items. "You might recognize some of these things," he said. "Like this." He retrieved a buttonhole badge with a lamp device on it, rubbing the dust off with his thumb.
Von Stalhein smiled faintly. "Aladdin's Lamp. I remember."
"We worked together on that one, in the end," Biggles said quietly. He put it back, and then set down his own teacup so he could place a hand on von Stalhein's back, steering him toward the table. "Sit and eat."
There was a charged awareness of each other's presence, Biggles found, even when they weren't touching. He chose not to press it. Von Stalhein ate slowly and mechanically, his brief surge of energy fading.
"I should go," he said abruptly, pushing the plate away.
"No, you should stay and have a nap, at least. I told you that you can use my bedroom, and I meant it."
"Bigglesworth—"
"Come with me, Erich."
He didn't want to push harder than that, but at a touch of Biggles's hand, von Stalhein rose from the chair. He looked as if he was going to say something, then shook his head.
They went into the bedroom.
Version 2: Erich's POV
Bigglesworth got a cab for them back to Mount Street. A sensible choice, Erich thought, in case anyone was following; it was the sort of precise detail work Bigglesworth had always been good at. He sank into the seat, refusing to give in to the urge to collapse, but it was a near thing. He had no explanation for it, but in the confines of the cab's backseat, with Bigglesworth beside him, he felt that he could breathe for the first time in months.
"When is your next check-in?" Bigglesworth asked him quietly.
"In the morning."
"Are you being watched?"
"I checked for a tail and made sure no one was following me. This would have been ... difficult enough, without—" He stopped, unable to finish; it was an incredibly frustrating feeling, as if his verbal wheels had spun down. The idea of having to seduce Bigglesworth, or anyone, under the eyes of someone like Zorotov was horrifying.
"Well, that gives us time for making plans," Bigglesworth said, as if Erich hadn't dropped his end of the conversation. "Let's not worry about it now."
Erich opened his mouth and then closed it. It wasn't that Bigglesworth didn't realize what they were up against. He was simply—like that.
They pulled up in front of Bigglesworth's Mount Street flat. Erich got out with a growing sense of unreality, especially as the cab pulled away and he was left standing there, lagging as Bigglesworth climbed the steps to the door. Bigglesworth glanced back at him. "Coming?"
Erich followed, feeling like a kite pulled along in his wake. "I expect your associates will have a few things to say about this."
"They're still at the Yard for a few hours yet. It's just us."
This tilted his mental picture of the situation sideways, throwing him off. "You don't want backup?"
"Your Soviet friends aren't likely to show up here, are they?"
Erich stared at him. "I meant from me, Bigglesworth."
"Oh, I see." Bigglesworth smiled. "You could promise to be on your best behavior if it makes you feel better. But I'll take that as a given, if you don't mind. Let's not argue about it."
Erich wanted very much to argue, but he knew from past experience with Bigglesworth that it was likely to be a one-sided argument. And what was he going to say, I came here planning to kill you? It wasn't true or even convincing under the circumstances.
But it could have been! he thought with weary cynicism as he followed Bigglesworth into the flat. Whatever had passed between them in the hotel room, there was no reason why Bigglesworth should casually turn his back as if Erich was—an ally, a friend.
He found himself inside with no real awareness of getting there. It was partly the sense of dislocation at being inside Bigglesworth's flat, which—like Air Police headquarters—had assumed almost mythical status for him over the years. He'd seen it from the outside on a couple of occasions, but now he was inside, and it seemed somehow wrong and strange to be here.
Bigglesworth guided him to an armchair. The touch was light but strong, and he could still feel the warmth of Bigglesworth's hand after he sat where indicated and watched, feeling dazed, as Bigglesworth stirred up the fire. By now he had given himself over to a sense of absolute unreality. He was here in the flat of his greatest enemy, whom he had just kissed in a hotel room.
Bigglesworth pressed his shoulder lightly. "I'll bring us something to eat," he said, and left Erich alone.
After a moment when Erich simply gazed blankly at the fire, he found some strength returning to him, and with it came intense curiosity about the place where he now found himself.
It was much as he would have imagined Bigglesworth's flat to be. It wasn't precisely cluttered, but it was full, containing the trophies and keepsakes of four lives that had involved a great deal of traveling about, as well as two wars. Shelves were crowded with a mix of well-thumbed adventure paperbacks and fat hardbound reference books, mixed with assorted keepsakes, various objects from foreign countries, some serving as bookends and others as bookmarks. The sentimental meaning of them was opaque to Erich, though clearly they had meaning to Biggles—a dried sea creature, a piece of hardware that might be part of an old-fashioned aeroplane propeller, a small wooden box, a bird's feather.
He was looking at the maps and photos on the walls when Bigglesworth came back with two cups of tea.
"666 Squadron," Bigglesworth said, and Erich became aware of the other men in the photo he had been looking at. His gaze had gone directly to Bigglesworth at the center of the group, whose energetic intensity was plainly visible even frozen in black and white.
"Do you stay in touch with these men?" Erich asked. He had no mementos of the war and wanted none.
"Now and then. Here," Biggles said, pressing a cup of tea into Erich's hands. He reached past Erich to a shelf below the photo. "You might recognize some of these things," he said. "Like this." He retrieved a buttonhole badge with a lamp device on it, rubbing the dust off with his thumb.
Erich smiled faintly. "Aladdin's Lamp. I remember."
"We worked together on that one, in the end," Bigglesworth said quietly. He put it back, and then placed a hand on von Stalhein's back, steering him toward the table, where two plates of sandwiches had been set. "Sit and eat."
There was a charged awareness of each other's presence, even when they weren't touching. Erich was too tired to do anything about it. He ate slowly and mechanically, and drank the tea.
"I should go," he said.
"Have some sleep first. I offered my bedroom for your use, and I meant it."
I should say no, Erich thought. He should walk away. But instead, almost stumbling with weariness, he allowed himself to be guided into Bigglesworth's room. It was much like the sitting room, not untidy, but with a general sense of its owner's life and personality having made it much more than a simple place to sleep.
Erich sat on the edge of the bed and found that from this vantage, he was looking directly at a set of photos on the wall. What caught his eye first was an enlarged photo of a very young Bigglesworth and Lacey in front of a biplane. Eighteen or nineteen at the most, he thought. They looked like boys. Beside it, there was a small and overexposed picture of a group of pilots posing at an aerodrome. His first thought was that it must be Bigglesworth's squadron from that same era. But no, the uniforms were wrong. Wait—
He got up to look more closely. It was the squadron at Zabala. Erich recognized faces he hadn't thought of in many years, most of them dead now. His own face was almost as startling: shockingly young, composed and stern as he stood with both hands on his walking sticks, with the other officers at the back of the group of young pilots.
"Where did you get that?" he asked wonderingly.
Bigglesworth saw where he was looking and smiled, the expression soft. "It came to light in a case file long after the war. I thought it was a shame I never had pictures of all the squadrons I flew with. This was before I joined up, of course, but it was the closest I had."
Erich's gaze went back to the photo, riveted. All those long-gone airmen. He couldn't remember most of their names now. The German uniforms made a strange contrast to the British flyers in the photo next to them. "I didn't know you were close to anyone there," he said.
"I couldn't afford to be," Bigglesworth said. "But it's still the only picture I have of—them."
It seemed he might have meant to say something else. Erich looked at him sharply, but Bigglesworth was rummaging in a clothes chest. Erich looked back at the picture, at his own young and sharp face, the eyes gazing out of the past into his own. It seemed a strange choice for what was obviously pride of place next to the picture of young Lacey.
"Here," Bigglesworth said. He laid a folded bundle of fabric on the foot of the bed. "Clean pyjamas. There's a clean pillowcase too if you want it. I'll be in the sitting room if you need anything."
Erich looked away from the photo—the old photo of him, on Bigglesworth's bedroom wall. He wet his lips. "Stay," he said.
Like the kiss in the hotel room, it felt like a long step in an unfamiliar direction, more intimidating by far than the prospect of facing down a dozen gunmen. But it also felt right, all the more so as surprise was chased by flushing pleasure across Bigglesworth's face.
"Yes," Bigglesworth said. "Yes, all right, I—I'll leave you to change while I clean up the tea things."
He left swiftly, and Erich, after gazing for a moment longer at the photos, got up and changed. The pyjamas were ill-fitting, but soft and clean. He folded the unneeded pillowcase neatly and placed it on top of the clothes chest, then turned the duvet down. After a moment's thought, he chose to stretch out on the bed, his back to the room, facing the wall—but he left the duvet turned down invitingly.
Bigglesworth tapped lightly on the door before coming in. Facing the wall, Erich couldn't see him, but he heard Bigglesworth pause briefly, taking in the scene, followed by soft rustling sounds that brought a faint heat to Erich's body, the sound of clothes being removed, pyjamas being donned. Erich couldn't help smiling slightly to himself: some seduction this was.
The bed dipped under Bigglesworth's weight. His hand touched Erich's shoulder lightly, and Erich thought that it must have been foolish of him to think that Bigglesworth would be taken in for an instant by feigned sleep.
"Are you sure?" Bigglesworth asked quietly.
Erich gave up on the pretense, although his body was making its exhaustion plainly known now that he was lying down. He rolled enough to turn and see Bigglesworth's face. "Unless you're concerned about shocking your associates when they come home."
This produced a smile. "No, I'm not concerned."
With that, Bigglesworth slipped into the bed quietly. He hesitated and then kissed Erich lightly, barely a brush of his lips. "Sleep," he said, and settled behind him, laid an arm across his waist and tucked his face into Erich's neck.
Erich hardly dared to move, as if any slight twitch would somehow break the spell, remind Bigglesworth where he ought to be—where they both ought to be.
But then he thought of the fervor of the kiss at the hotel. And the photo on the wall, from all those years ago.
He leaned back instead, and felt Bigglesworth curl closer as Erich slipped into a deep, weary sleep.
philomytha wrote the absolutely lovely sequel like a storm in the desert which I wholeheartedly approve and adore and 100% support. (I am always in favor of having sequels or missing scenes or remixes written for my fic, I love it, I welcome it, please do it. ♥)In the in-between time, however, I had written (or at least started) two different versions of a sequel that I ended up sitting on and not quite sure what to do with, because Philomytha's was pretty much the exact same thing. I mean, first of all, Erich's mental state is pretty obvious at this point, and we basically share an id, and neither of these was really finished enough to post....
I was thinking for a while about maybe turning at least one of these into a completely new fic incorporating the elements I liked from this, but I didn't do that, so - here are the other sequel(s). (But please read Philomytha's, it's great!)
--
Version 1: Biggles' POV
Biggles took a cab back to Mount Street, on the general principle that it would make them harder to follow and less of a target than simply strolling along the street, in case any of von Stalhein's unpleasant friends were hanging about.
Also, von Stalhein looked completely done in. He was almost grey with exhaustion. Biggles wondered when the last time was that he had simply stopped - to rest, eat, let his guard down.
He seemed to come out of his fugue as they climbed the steps to the Mount Street flat. His voice was scraped out with weariness, but faintly amused as he asked, "What are your associates going to say about this?"
"They're still at the Yard for a few hours yet. It's just us."
For some reason, he balked at this more than he had at the idea of coming back to the flat in the first place. "You don't want backup?"
"Do you expect to be attacked?"
"I—no—" Von Stalhein shook his head. "You should be more cautious."
"I assume you'd tell me if there was danger."
"I meant from me, Bigglesworth."
"Oh, I see." Biggles smiled. "You could promise to be on your best behavior."
Von Stalhein gave him a look, but he came into the flat.
"I assume you have a handler," Biggles said. "When do you need to check in with him?"
"Oh—er, not until morning." Von Stalhein seemed at a loss again. It was as if he'd wound down completely. Biggles steered him to an armchair and stirred up the fire.
"I'm going to make some tea and get us something to eat," he said.
He came back with two cups of tea and a plate of sandwiches to find that von Stalhein was up and looking at the sitting room's walls and shelves. The room wasn't precisely cluttered, but it was full, containing the trophies and keepsakes of four lives that had involved a great deal of traveling about, as well as two wars. It was clear that von Stalhein's exhaustion had faded somewhat under his natural curiosity. At the moment, he was looking at framed photos of 666 Squadron.
"Do you stay in touch with these men?" von Stalhein asked.
"Now and then. Here," Biggles said, handing him a cup of tea. He reached past von Stalhein to a shelf below the photo, where—as on most of the shelves around the room—books shared space with small mementos and other items. "You might recognize some of these things," he said. "Like this." He retrieved a buttonhole badge with a lamp device on it, rubbing the dust off with his thumb.
Von Stalhein smiled faintly. "Aladdin's Lamp. I remember."
"We worked together on that one, in the end," Biggles said quietly. He put it back, and then set down his own teacup so he could place a hand on von Stalhein's back, steering him toward the table. "Sit and eat."
There was a charged awareness of each other's presence, Biggles found, even when they weren't touching. He chose not to press it. Von Stalhein ate slowly and mechanically, his brief surge of energy fading.
"I should go," he said abruptly, pushing the plate away.
"No, you should stay and have a nap, at least. I told you that you can use my bedroom, and I meant it."
"Bigglesworth—"
"Come with me, Erich."
He didn't want to push harder than that, but at a touch of Biggles's hand, von Stalhein rose from the chair. He looked as if he was going to say something, then shook his head.
They went into the bedroom.
Version 2: Erich's POV
Bigglesworth got a cab for them back to Mount Street. A sensible choice, Erich thought, in case anyone was following; it was the sort of precise detail work Bigglesworth had always been good at. He sank into the seat, refusing to give in to the urge to collapse, but it was a near thing. He had no explanation for it, but in the confines of the cab's backseat, with Bigglesworth beside him, he felt that he could breathe for the first time in months.
"When is your next check-in?" Bigglesworth asked him quietly.
"In the morning."
"Are you being watched?"
"I checked for a tail and made sure no one was following me. This would have been ... difficult enough, without—" He stopped, unable to finish; it was an incredibly frustrating feeling, as if his verbal wheels had spun down. The idea of having to seduce Bigglesworth, or anyone, under the eyes of someone like Zorotov was horrifying.
"Well, that gives us time for making plans," Bigglesworth said, as if Erich hadn't dropped his end of the conversation. "Let's not worry about it now."
Erich opened his mouth and then closed it. It wasn't that Bigglesworth didn't realize what they were up against. He was simply—like that.
They pulled up in front of Bigglesworth's Mount Street flat. Erich got out with a growing sense of unreality, especially as the cab pulled away and he was left standing there, lagging as Bigglesworth climbed the steps to the door. Bigglesworth glanced back at him. "Coming?"
Erich followed, feeling like a kite pulled along in his wake. "I expect your associates will have a few things to say about this."
"They're still at the Yard for a few hours yet. It's just us."
This tilted his mental picture of the situation sideways, throwing him off. "You don't want backup?"
"Your Soviet friends aren't likely to show up here, are they?"
Erich stared at him. "I meant from me, Bigglesworth."
"Oh, I see." Bigglesworth smiled. "You could promise to be on your best behavior if it makes you feel better. But I'll take that as a given, if you don't mind. Let's not argue about it."
Erich wanted very much to argue, but he knew from past experience with Bigglesworth that it was likely to be a one-sided argument. And what was he going to say, I came here planning to kill you? It wasn't true or even convincing under the circumstances.
But it could have been! he thought with weary cynicism as he followed Bigglesworth into the flat. Whatever had passed between them in the hotel room, there was no reason why Bigglesworth should casually turn his back as if Erich was—an ally, a friend.
He found himself inside with no real awareness of getting there. It was partly the sense of dislocation at being inside Bigglesworth's flat, which—like Air Police headquarters—had assumed almost mythical status for him over the years. He'd seen it from the outside on a couple of occasions, but now he was inside, and it seemed somehow wrong and strange to be here.
Bigglesworth guided him to an armchair. The touch was light but strong, and he could still feel the warmth of Bigglesworth's hand after he sat where indicated and watched, feeling dazed, as Bigglesworth stirred up the fire. By now he had given himself over to a sense of absolute unreality. He was here in the flat of his greatest enemy, whom he had just kissed in a hotel room.
Bigglesworth pressed his shoulder lightly. "I'll bring us something to eat," he said, and left Erich alone.
After a moment when Erich simply gazed blankly at the fire, he found some strength returning to him, and with it came intense curiosity about the place where he now found himself.
It was much as he would have imagined Bigglesworth's flat to be. It wasn't precisely cluttered, but it was full, containing the trophies and keepsakes of four lives that had involved a great deal of traveling about, as well as two wars. Shelves were crowded with a mix of well-thumbed adventure paperbacks and fat hardbound reference books, mixed with assorted keepsakes, various objects from foreign countries, some serving as bookends and others as bookmarks. The sentimental meaning of them was opaque to Erich, though clearly they had meaning to Biggles—a dried sea creature, a piece of hardware that might be part of an old-fashioned aeroplane propeller, a small wooden box, a bird's feather.
He was looking at the maps and photos on the walls when Bigglesworth came back with two cups of tea.
"666 Squadron," Bigglesworth said, and Erich became aware of the other men in the photo he had been looking at. His gaze had gone directly to Bigglesworth at the center of the group, whose energetic intensity was plainly visible even frozen in black and white.
"Do you stay in touch with these men?" Erich asked. He had no mementos of the war and wanted none.
"Now and then. Here," Biggles said, pressing a cup of tea into Erich's hands. He reached past Erich to a shelf below the photo. "You might recognize some of these things," he said. "Like this." He retrieved a buttonhole badge with a lamp device on it, rubbing the dust off with his thumb.
Erich smiled faintly. "Aladdin's Lamp. I remember."
"We worked together on that one, in the end," Bigglesworth said quietly. He put it back, and then placed a hand on von Stalhein's back, steering him toward the table, where two plates of sandwiches had been set. "Sit and eat."
There was a charged awareness of each other's presence, even when they weren't touching. Erich was too tired to do anything about it. He ate slowly and mechanically, and drank the tea.
"I should go," he said.
"Have some sleep first. I offered my bedroom for your use, and I meant it."
I should say no, Erich thought. He should walk away. But instead, almost stumbling with weariness, he allowed himself to be guided into Bigglesworth's room. It was much like the sitting room, not untidy, but with a general sense of its owner's life and personality having made it much more than a simple place to sleep.
Erich sat on the edge of the bed and found that from this vantage, he was looking directly at a set of photos on the wall. What caught his eye first was an enlarged photo of a very young Bigglesworth and Lacey in front of a biplane. Eighteen or nineteen at the most, he thought. They looked like boys. Beside it, there was a small and overexposed picture of a group of pilots posing at an aerodrome. His first thought was that it must be Bigglesworth's squadron from that same era. But no, the uniforms were wrong. Wait—
He got up to look more closely. It was the squadron at Zabala. Erich recognized faces he hadn't thought of in many years, most of them dead now. His own face was almost as startling: shockingly young, composed and stern as he stood with both hands on his walking sticks, with the other officers at the back of the group of young pilots.
"Where did you get that?" he asked wonderingly.
Bigglesworth saw where he was looking and smiled, the expression soft. "It came to light in a case file long after the war. I thought it was a shame I never had pictures of all the squadrons I flew with. This was before I joined up, of course, but it was the closest I had."
Erich's gaze went back to the photo, riveted. All those long-gone airmen. He couldn't remember most of their names now. The German uniforms made a strange contrast to the British flyers in the photo next to them. "I didn't know you were close to anyone there," he said.
"I couldn't afford to be," Bigglesworth said. "But it's still the only picture I have of—them."
It seemed he might have meant to say something else. Erich looked at him sharply, but Bigglesworth was rummaging in a clothes chest. Erich looked back at the picture, at his own young and sharp face, the eyes gazing out of the past into his own. It seemed a strange choice for what was obviously pride of place next to the picture of young Lacey.
"Here," Bigglesworth said. He laid a folded bundle of fabric on the foot of the bed. "Clean pyjamas. There's a clean pillowcase too if you want it. I'll be in the sitting room if you need anything."
Erich looked away from the photo—the old photo of him, on Bigglesworth's bedroom wall. He wet his lips. "Stay," he said.
Like the kiss in the hotel room, it felt like a long step in an unfamiliar direction, more intimidating by far than the prospect of facing down a dozen gunmen. But it also felt right, all the more so as surprise was chased by flushing pleasure across Bigglesworth's face.
"Yes," Bigglesworth said. "Yes, all right, I—I'll leave you to change while I clean up the tea things."
He left swiftly, and Erich, after gazing for a moment longer at the photos, got up and changed. The pyjamas were ill-fitting, but soft and clean. He folded the unneeded pillowcase neatly and placed it on top of the clothes chest, then turned the duvet down. After a moment's thought, he chose to stretch out on the bed, his back to the room, facing the wall—but he left the duvet turned down invitingly.
Bigglesworth tapped lightly on the door before coming in. Facing the wall, Erich couldn't see him, but he heard Bigglesworth pause briefly, taking in the scene, followed by soft rustling sounds that brought a faint heat to Erich's body, the sound of clothes being removed, pyjamas being donned. Erich couldn't help smiling slightly to himself: some seduction this was.
The bed dipped under Bigglesworth's weight. His hand touched Erich's shoulder lightly, and Erich thought that it must have been foolish of him to think that Bigglesworth would be taken in for an instant by feigned sleep.
"Are you sure?" Bigglesworth asked quietly.
Erich gave up on the pretense, although his body was making its exhaustion plainly known now that he was lying down. He rolled enough to turn and see Bigglesworth's face. "Unless you're concerned about shocking your associates when they come home."
This produced a smile. "No, I'm not concerned."
With that, Bigglesworth slipped into the bed quietly. He hesitated and then kissed Erich lightly, barely a brush of his lips. "Sleep," he said, and settled behind him, laid an arm across his waist and tucked his face into Erich's neck.
Erich hardly dared to move, as if any slight twitch would somehow break the spell, remind Bigglesworth where he ought to be—where they both ought to be.
But then he thought of the fervor of the kiss at the hotel. And the photo on the wall, from all those years ago.
He leaned back instead, and felt Bigglesworth curl closer as Erich slipped into a deep, weary sleep.
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And so it is not a surprise that I love these! I especially love them side by side, things like Erich's POV that he is Perfectly Fine in the taxi while in Biggles's POV he's clearly a hairsbreadth away from keeling over. And I love Erich's reaction to the discovery that they're going to be on their own: nobody is going to protect Biggles from him! Meanwhile Biggles assumes it's that Erich is worried that nobody will be on hand in case of external attack.
But Erich is not too tired to work out the significance of finding a picture of himself on Biggles's bedroom wall, and realise that he can and should ask for Biggles to stay with him <333
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I love their juxtaposing POVs; they notice such different things about each other than they actually recognize in their own. <333
The photo scene was co-opted out of yet another fic that didn't get written, and uh, possibly reused somewhere else, I'm not sure now if it stopped here or got dragged into yet another fic. :D It really is an idea I love and I feel that Biggles is exactly sentimental enough to hang onto any Erich picture he finds. And possibly frame it and put it on his wall while Algy rolls his eyes until they're in danger of falling out of his head.
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Also love that the instant EvS confesses to the honey trap plan, Biggles instantly snaps into "We are now working together like we did when we defended that castle" mode, while EvS is still all "Biggles I am your ENEMY not that I am actually planning to do you any harm but I COULD BE, how have you survived this long??"
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Biggles is just such a sentimental sap. He is absolutely incapable of not a) keeping every possible memento of Erich around, and b) taking the slightest hint of Erich's side-switching as absolute fact. He's been waiting so long!!
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