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Biggles fic: Sandbank
I wrote this last year sometime for a bingo prompt I've now forgotten, but it's taken me until now to feel confident enough to post it. I can only describe my motivation for this as "I just want them to have a nice cathartic knock-down, drag-out fight for once."
Sandbank - also posted on AO3
Summary: Biggles in the Baltic missing scene/slight AU set after the destruction of the Leipzig. (Fistfights, self-destructiveness, cleaning up the bruises you just caused.)
Biggles stumbled out of the surf and collapsed, hands digging into the sand. He rolled over and gasped until his ragged breathing calmed a little, blinking up at the sky.
When he could breathe again, he staggered to his feet, shivering with cold, alone on the beach. The world was stark and still, only the low rumble of the drifter's engine, far out across the water, letting him know that he was not alone in the world. The stars were diamond-bright pinpricks in a dark canopy of night sky above him.
Struggling to make himself move before he succumbed to the cold, he jogged for a few steps on legs that felt as if they were made of lead. His shaking step turned on the sand; he stumbled and fell. Picking himself up, he went on a few steps and fell again. Giving in, he sat down to rest, just above the height of the curling waves rolling up the sand—and there he was sitting when von Stalhein came staggering out of the water, reared upright and pointed a gun at him.
Biggles looked up at him, blinking against the salt crusting his lashes. "I see you survived," he said formally, although he was too tired and too cold to feel much of anything at the moment.
"Get up," the German said curtly, gesturing with the pistol.
Biggles got slowly to his feet. He had no idea what to expect, if he was to be treated respectfully as a prisoner or summarily shot. Von Stalhein was staring at him with a hot glare that almost seemed half mad.
"Do you know how many of my men died out there tonight?" von Stalhein snarled at him. "What is it with you? You live a charmed life, there is no way to land a blow on you. You were convicted, declared a spy and ordered to be shot, but of course there isn't a chance of it, you somehow win your way free through the grace of some dark god of war—"
"Convinced by a false court on no evidence?" Biggles sneered back. He was exhausted, cold to the bone, and angry. "Of course men die in war. Our men have died too. My men. If you'd rather be here chasing me than out there helping your men, that's on you, and it's all of a piece with the way you behaved in that so-called court today. I remember when I thought you were a man of honour, not --"
Whatever else he would have said was cut short when von Stalhein swung on him. After the scene on the ship, it should not have come as a surprise, but still it did, when von Stalhein reversed the pistol and, with startling speed, smashed it into Biggles's face.
Stars exploded in Biggles's vision. Off balance, he fell hard on the sand. He rolled as he fell, and felt von Stalhein's boot glance off his ribs as the German followed up the blow by lashing out again, attempting to kick him in the side.
Biggles was suddenly and incoherently furious. He swept out a a foot, knocking von Stalhein's legs out from under him. The man fell heavily, dropping the gun; it was evident from the unusual clumsiness of his movements that he, like Biggles, was suffering from exhaustion and cold.
Biggles was now in the grip of a half-incoherent fury himself. Grief for the friends he'd lost, all the pain and despair that had come, was still coming, from this stupid, preventable war, washed through him. As von Stalhein came up fighting, Biggles lashed out in his own turn, his fist glancing off von Stalhein's cheekbone with a sharp, bright flare of pain that lanced up his knuckles.
Von Stalhein made a noise more like a snarl than a sound from a human throat, and flung himself on Biggles. They rolled over and over in the sand, less like two grown men trying to do real damage than a pair of brawling schoolboys tearing strips off each other. Biggles bit von Stalhein's wrist; von Stalhein clouted his ear. Biggles seized a handful of his hair and twisted it, ramming his face into the sand. Biting, hitting, clawing at each other, they rolled about and thrashed at each other until finally they fell apart and lay panting on the sand, bleeding and bruised and exhausted.
Aware of movement beside him, Biggles pushed himself up on his elbows. Von Stalhein was groping around in the sand. Biggles gazed at him, too dazed and tired to realize that they had both lost track of the gun until von Stalhein pulled it from the sand and pointed it at him.
"Go ahead, then," Biggles said between his teeth. "If you want me dead that badly, if you'd rather follow me ashore to shoot me than save yourself or your men—go ahead." He felt cold to his core, and in some weary, distant way, he wondered if Algy had made it back from their reconnaissance. He had lost too many already; would any of his remaining friends survive this terrible, cruel war? "Go ahead," he snapped, when von Stalhein hesitated. "Do what you like."
But the gun's muzzle was already coming down. Von Stalhein started to put it back in its holster, then laid it between them, a strange gesture somewhere between a peace offering and a challenge. Biggles gazed at it but made no move to try to pick it up. After a moment, von Stalhein reached into his pocket, while Biggles watched with weary disinterest. He took out a handkerchief, soaked from its immersion in the sea along with its owner, and held it out. Biggles looked at it uncomprehendingly.
"Your face," von Stalhein said. He gestured to his own austere features, where a bruise was coming up on the side of his mouth. "You're bleeding."
When Biggles still made no move to take it, von Stalhein made an impatient noise and scooted himself closer on the sand. He put out a hand, hesitated briefly, and then laid it on the side of Biggles's head. Biggles flinched despite himself, and he felt von Stalhein stiffen. He couldn't really explain that it wasn't fear or disgust; he didn't know what it was, but he became aware that he was shivering, and he flinched again when von Stalhein began dabbing at the blood on the side of his face, despite feeling little pain from his cuts and bruises.
Prior to their tussle moments ago, Biggles wasn't sure if he had ever been this close to his enemy for this long. He found himself watching von Stalhein's face, the ice-blue eyes focused on the task of cleaning up Biggles's face with a single-minded intensity that was strangely flattering. The bruise at the corner of von Stalhein's mouth was smeared with blood where the skin had split, and Biggles found himself unhappy about having put it there. Von Stalhein's hand cupped the side of Biggles's head with a gentleness that should have been incongruous after the violence earlier, yet somehow did not feel out of place. Biggles's shivering began to ease; he was no longer flinching at the touches, and he began to feel the sting of the salt water in the cuts.
Working on Biggles's bleeding face with no change of expression, von Stalhein said quietly, "I saw you with one of our men in the water. You helped him; you helped each other."
"I'm at war with your country, not the people in it," Biggles said wearily. "I never have been."
Von Stalhein sat back. His face was impossible to read. He lowered his hand, the handkerchief stained with Biggles's blood. Biggles shifted his own weight forward, and von Stalhein watched him with what Biggles recognized at last as a mirror of his own exhausted daze. Biggles carefully took the handkerchief from von Stalhein's lax fingers.
"Your turn," he said.
Von Stalhein looked uncomprehending. Biggles leaned forward, hesitated a little before wiping the blood away from the corner of von Stalhein's mouth. Von Stalhein jerked at the touch and then was very still, half-closing his eyes as Biggles wiped at his bleeding mouth and pressed the cool cloth to the bruises slowly rising on the pale cheek. When Biggles finally sat back and folded the handkerchief, von Stalhein seemed to startle awake, returning himself to his usual, rigid posture.
They were both dying of cold, Biggles thought. He could feel it, the undertow of chill and exhaustion, dragging him in a slow slide to lie down here at the surf's edge, sink into a sleep he would likely never wake from. Instead he pushed back against it, and with some difficulty, got achingly and wearily to his feet. Von Stalhein watched him with dull eyes, and didn't blink as Biggles extended a hand to him.
Von Stalhein gazed at it as if he didn't know what it meant. Biggles had a moment to anticipate all the possible outcomes: that von Stalhein might grip his hand and yank him off his feet, that he might pick up the gun that was still within reach, there was no way he could miss at this close range—
Instead, he wrapped his long fingers around Biggles's, and let himself be helped to stand. Their hands remained clasped for a minute longer because Biggles was nearly overbalanced; he was none too stable himself. The touch lasted as long as it took for both of them to be steady on their feet. Then von Stalhein took his hand away. He leaned down, picked up the gun, brushed off the sand and holstered it.
They both turned to look at the dark bulk of the drifter, which had finished its task of picking up the surviving men in the water and was moving away.
"You may have quite a swim," Biggles said. Perhaps it was the exertion of their fight, but he felt a little warmer than he had before. "A few shots into the air should get their attention. But I would appreciate the simple courtesy of a head start if you're going to summon them to pick you up. I don't expect they will deal any more kindly with me as a prisoner than you did."
Von Stalhein looked at Biggles, blinking a little; it was clear that he was still struggling with the effects of their long, cold swim, at least as much as Biggles if not more so. Finally he said, "What were you planning to do once you got to the beach, anyway?"
"Steal a boat, I suppose, or try to meet up with the fellow who dropped the hammer on the Leipzig."
"Reasonable." Von Stalhein's voice was dragged down with weariness and something more, a bleak sort of despair. He started to put his hand on the grip of the gun, and Biggles tensed, but then von Stalhein let it fall away, as if he couldn't be bothered to keep it there. "You had best start moving."
"We both should," Biggles said, finding himself unaccountably reluctant to leave von Stalhein alone on the beach in such a state. "Without exercise to warm us up, the cold is a serious risk."
"Yes. Go." When Biggles didn't move, von Stalhein repeated harshly, "Go."
Biggles put a hand on von Stalhein's elbow and felt shivers coursing through the other man's body. He gave him a light tug, and was mildly surprised when von Stalhein came with him, walking at first, then breaking into a slow jog when Biggles did.
They crossed the island, angling toward a set of dunes which Biggles thought might conceal a boat or structure that might offer some way off the island without relying on the drifter.
As he jogged around the dunes, Biggles slammed unexpectedly into someone coming the other way. A tussle ensued, followed by startled recognition and explanations, and it was only after he had untangled himself from Algy that he realized von Stalhein had faded away into the night without a sound.
Sandbank - also posted on AO3
Summary: Biggles in the Baltic missing scene/slight AU set after the destruction of the Leipzig. (Fistfights, self-destructiveness, cleaning up the bruises you just caused.)
Biggles stumbled out of the surf and collapsed, hands digging into the sand. He rolled over and gasped until his ragged breathing calmed a little, blinking up at the sky.
When he could breathe again, he staggered to his feet, shivering with cold, alone on the beach. The world was stark and still, only the low rumble of the drifter's engine, far out across the water, letting him know that he was not alone in the world. The stars were diamond-bright pinpricks in a dark canopy of night sky above him.
Struggling to make himself move before he succumbed to the cold, he jogged for a few steps on legs that felt as if they were made of lead. His shaking step turned on the sand; he stumbled and fell. Picking himself up, he went on a few steps and fell again. Giving in, he sat down to rest, just above the height of the curling waves rolling up the sand—and there he was sitting when von Stalhein came staggering out of the water, reared upright and pointed a gun at him.
Biggles looked up at him, blinking against the salt crusting his lashes. "I see you survived," he said formally, although he was too tired and too cold to feel much of anything at the moment.
"Get up," the German said curtly, gesturing with the pistol.
Biggles got slowly to his feet. He had no idea what to expect, if he was to be treated respectfully as a prisoner or summarily shot. Von Stalhein was staring at him with a hot glare that almost seemed half mad.
"Do you know how many of my men died out there tonight?" von Stalhein snarled at him. "What is it with you? You live a charmed life, there is no way to land a blow on you. You were convicted, declared a spy and ordered to be shot, but of course there isn't a chance of it, you somehow win your way free through the grace of some dark god of war—"
"Convinced by a false court on no evidence?" Biggles sneered back. He was exhausted, cold to the bone, and angry. "Of course men die in war. Our men have died too. My men. If you'd rather be here chasing me than out there helping your men, that's on you, and it's all of a piece with the way you behaved in that so-called court today. I remember when I thought you were a man of honour, not --"
Whatever else he would have said was cut short when von Stalhein swung on him. After the scene on the ship, it should not have come as a surprise, but still it did, when von Stalhein reversed the pistol and, with startling speed, smashed it into Biggles's face.
Stars exploded in Biggles's vision. Off balance, he fell hard on the sand. He rolled as he fell, and felt von Stalhein's boot glance off his ribs as the German followed up the blow by lashing out again, attempting to kick him in the side.
Biggles was suddenly and incoherently furious. He swept out a a foot, knocking von Stalhein's legs out from under him. The man fell heavily, dropping the gun; it was evident from the unusual clumsiness of his movements that he, like Biggles, was suffering from exhaustion and cold.
Biggles was now in the grip of a half-incoherent fury himself. Grief for the friends he'd lost, all the pain and despair that had come, was still coming, from this stupid, preventable war, washed through him. As von Stalhein came up fighting, Biggles lashed out in his own turn, his fist glancing off von Stalhein's cheekbone with a sharp, bright flare of pain that lanced up his knuckles.
Von Stalhein made a noise more like a snarl than a sound from a human throat, and flung himself on Biggles. They rolled over and over in the sand, less like two grown men trying to do real damage than a pair of brawling schoolboys tearing strips off each other. Biggles bit von Stalhein's wrist; von Stalhein clouted his ear. Biggles seized a handful of his hair and twisted it, ramming his face into the sand. Biting, hitting, clawing at each other, they rolled about and thrashed at each other until finally they fell apart and lay panting on the sand, bleeding and bruised and exhausted.
Aware of movement beside him, Biggles pushed himself up on his elbows. Von Stalhein was groping around in the sand. Biggles gazed at him, too dazed and tired to realize that they had both lost track of the gun until von Stalhein pulled it from the sand and pointed it at him.
"Go ahead, then," Biggles said between his teeth. "If you want me dead that badly, if you'd rather follow me ashore to shoot me than save yourself or your men—go ahead." He felt cold to his core, and in some weary, distant way, he wondered if Algy had made it back from their reconnaissance. He had lost too many already; would any of his remaining friends survive this terrible, cruel war? "Go ahead," he snapped, when von Stalhein hesitated. "Do what you like."
But the gun's muzzle was already coming down. Von Stalhein started to put it back in its holster, then laid it between them, a strange gesture somewhere between a peace offering and a challenge. Biggles gazed at it but made no move to try to pick it up. After a moment, von Stalhein reached into his pocket, while Biggles watched with weary disinterest. He took out a handkerchief, soaked from its immersion in the sea along with its owner, and held it out. Biggles looked at it uncomprehendingly.
"Your face," von Stalhein said. He gestured to his own austere features, where a bruise was coming up on the side of his mouth. "You're bleeding."
When Biggles still made no move to take it, von Stalhein made an impatient noise and scooted himself closer on the sand. He put out a hand, hesitated briefly, and then laid it on the side of Biggles's head. Biggles flinched despite himself, and he felt von Stalhein stiffen. He couldn't really explain that it wasn't fear or disgust; he didn't know what it was, but he became aware that he was shivering, and he flinched again when von Stalhein began dabbing at the blood on the side of his face, despite feeling little pain from his cuts and bruises.
Prior to their tussle moments ago, Biggles wasn't sure if he had ever been this close to his enemy for this long. He found himself watching von Stalhein's face, the ice-blue eyes focused on the task of cleaning up Biggles's face with a single-minded intensity that was strangely flattering. The bruise at the corner of von Stalhein's mouth was smeared with blood where the skin had split, and Biggles found himself unhappy about having put it there. Von Stalhein's hand cupped the side of Biggles's head with a gentleness that should have been incongruous after the violence earlier, yet somehow did not feel out of place. Biggles's shivering began to ease; he was no longer flinching at the touches, and he began to feel the sting of the salt water in the cuts.
Working on Biggles's bleeding face with no change of expression, von Stalhein said quietly, "I saw you with one of our men in the water. You helped him; you helped each other."
"I'm at war with your country, not the people in it," Biggles said wearily. "I never have been."
Von Stalhein sat back. His face was impossible to read. He lowered his hand, the handkerchief stained with Biggles's blood. Biggles shifted his own weight forward, and von Stalhein watched him with what Biggles recognized at last as a mirror of his own exhausted daze. Biggles carefully took the handkerchief from von Stalhein's lax fingers.
"Your turn," he said.
Von Stalhein looked uncomprehending. Biggles leaned forward, hesitated a little before wiping the blood away from the corner of von Stalhein's mouth. Von Stalhein jerked at the touch and then was very still, half-closing his eyes as Biggles wiped at his bleeding mouth and pressed the cool cloth to the bruises slowly rising on the pale cheek. When Biggles finally sat back and folded the handkerchief, von Stalhein seemed to startle awake, returning himself to his usual, rigid posture.
They were both dying of cold, Biggles thought. He could feel it, the undertow of chill and exhaustion, dragging him in a slow slide to lie down here at the surf's edge, sink into a sleep he would likely never wake from. Instead he pushed back against it, and with some difficulty, got achingly and wearily to his feet. Von Stalhein watched him with dull eyes, and didn't blink as Biggles extended a hand to him.
Von Stalhein gazed at it as if he didn't know what it meant. Biggles had a moment to anticipate all the possible outcomes: that von Stalhein might grip his hand and yank him off his feet, that he might pick up the gun that was still within reach, there was no way he could miss at this close range—
Instead, he wrapped his long fingers around Biggles's, and let himself be helped to stand. Their hands remained clasped for a minute longer because Biggles was nearly overbalanced; he was none too stable himself. The touch lasted as long as it took for both of them to be steady on their feet. Then von Stalhein took his hand away. He leaned down, picked up the gun, brushed off the sand and holstered it.
They both turned to look at the dark bulk of the drifter, which had finished its task of picking up the surviving men in the water and was moving away.
"You may have quite a swim," Biggles said. Perhaps it was the exertion of their fight, but he felt a little warmer than he had before. "A few shots into the air should get their attention. But I would appreciate the simple courtesy of a head start if you're going to summon them to pick you up. I don't expect they will deal any more kindly with me as a prisoner than you did."
Von Stalhein looked at Biggles, blinking a little; it was clear that he was still struggling with the effects of their long, cold swim, at least as much as Biggles if not more so. Finally he said, "What were you planning to do once you got to the beach, anyway?"
"Steal a boat, I suppose, or try to meet up with the fellow who dropped the hammer on the Leipzig."
"Reasonable." Von Stalhein's voice was dragged down with weariness and something more, a bleak sort of despair. He started to put his hand on the grip of the gun, and Biggles tensed, but then von Stalhein let it fall away, as if he couldn't be bothered to keep it there. "You had best start moving."
"We both should," Biggles said, finding himself unaccountably reluctant to leave von Stalhein alone on the beach in such a state. "Without exercise to warm us up, the cold is a serious risk."
"Yes. Go." When Biggles didn't move, von Stalhein repeated harshly, "Go."
Biggles put a hand on von Stalhein's elbow and felt shivers coursing through the other man's body. He gave him a light tug, and was mildly surprised when von Stalhein came with him, walking at first, then breaking into a slow jog when Biggles did.
They crossed the island, angling toward a set of dunes which Biggles thought might conceal a boat or structure that might offer some way off the island without relying on the drifter.
As he jogged around the dunes, Biggles slammed unexpectedly into someone coming the other way. A tussle ensued, followed by startled recognition and explanations, and it was only after he had untangled himself from Algy that he realized von Stalhein had faded away into the night without a sound.
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Love the two of them fighting like schoolboys and then dabbing at the blood on each other's faces.
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But yeah, Erich, this would be a good time to make better choices, and Biggles would probably LOVE to hang out with EvS in a secret island base at some point when they're not currently at war.
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