Work Text:
11th of June, 1940
The dorm was dark and crowded, teams of men (refugees, his mind said, and the word tasted bitter on his tongue) squished in together like sardines.
The British officials had offered him better accommodation when he had first arrived, pity in their voices abundant and Poland had barely managed to still his tongue, to remind himself to be polite.
“I’ll stay with my men,” he had said in heavily accented English, hoping it was understandable. English had never been a particular priority of his, before this. “I hope you understand?”
“Of course,” they had said, assuring looks and derisive thoughts all too apparent. Poland’s body throbbed in pain as he walked away. He was always in pain these days.
He was lucky to be here, he chided himself stiffly, thoughts of the French Vichy prevalent in his mind, but it didn’t feel particularly lucky as his skin tore and bled, and Poland knew his people were suffering under foreign hands.
Lucky, he repeated to himself, laying curled up on a lumpy mattress, aching for home, for his wide fields and jagged mountains.
It was there, in that cramped room filled with dirty men that echoed at night with the sounds of soft sobs cried into pillows that England found him.
“Poland,” he said, ducking around bunkbeds and the morning clamor of people putting on their clothes. He had come with the dawn. “We’ve managed to figure something out.”
Poland looked up. His usually spotless blonde hair was tangled, he was wearing yesterday’s clothes, and he probably smelled something terrible.
His expression was one of brutal determination, a longing for action, to do something, anything, that England knew all too well, a similar desire reflected in his own face.
“Oh, so you’ve finally given me a job other then “Sit tight, and don’t worry about it?” Poland’s tone was a strange mix of bitterness and lightness, a joke masking his worry and annoyance at his own helplessness.
Before England could respond he pressed on, a strange sort of intensity settled in his voice as he sat up straighter.
“What is it?”
England sighed, giving him a reproachful look before throwing a piece of clothing at him.
Poland caught it, blinking in the light of the weak sun beaming from dirtied windows. “This is…” His heart beat faster. “A uniform cap?”
“Yes,” England gave a rare, wane smile. “Welcome to the independent Polish Air Force. I’m assuming you’ll join company No. 302 of the fighter squadrons. It’s the first one.” England shifted, his green uniform as neat as ever, but with the marks of a garment that had been worn continually, day in and out.
Poland sucked in a breath, his fingers crushing the navy blue fabric of the cap in his hands. “What changed your mind?”
England shrugged and looked away, a glimmer of pain on his face flashing across his face. “My boys are good, but more and more of them have gone out and haven’t come back. And you’ve always made it abundantly clear if I ever need any help with this sort of thing, I need only to ask.”
There was a dry sort of quality in his voice, but Poland ignored him, looking down at the familiar symbol of the white eagle fastened to the cap’s middle.
A symbol of his people, of him.
He breathed out, and the pain of his people was still there, a patchwork of festering wounds that would not close. It would always be there, for as long as this war took, but he hoped that maybe this would help.
Even if not, it was a good start.
Poland looked up, and before England could even think to evade or block, threw his hands around the other nation, hooking him in and feeling first hand the effects this war had had on him as well. Or maybe that was just British food in general.
“Thank you,” he breathed, and there was a smirk on his face as he pulled back, familiar and as old as the polish people themselves. “I always thought you were like, kind of a stick in the mud. But this?”
Poland shook his head. “Just, thank you.”
England flushed, and smoothed down his uniform almost absentmindedly. “Yes, well, don’t thank me just yet. The hard part is still to come.”
Poland grinned, body aching but spirit aflame. He thought about his people, about Germany’s violence’s and the bloodshed and pain they had suffered because of it.
“You won’t regret this.” He said, and it was a promise.