Biggles July Prompt Free-For-All

[sholio]

We haven't had a Biggles prompt fest in a while, so let's have one now!

I'm going to leave this one as freewheeling as possible, especially since we've already had a few at this point! See previous fests for examples.

* You can post prompts in whatever format and with as much information as you like. Please respect any DNWs in a prompt you fill.

* Anon prompts and fills are fine, you can fill your own prompts, and prompts can be filled more than once; you may also comment on other people's prompts with encouragement or questions. There's no minimum/maximum length. You can post elsewhere and link to it.

* I reserve the right to screen or delete prompts or fills that do not appear to be in the spirit of the fest (primarily if they seem to be aimed at trolling another participant, glorifying Nazis, or the like; just don't come in here to be a dick, basically).

* I may add additional rules if we seem to need them, but it's a small fandom, and previous fests have gone very smoothly, so I'm not going to clutter it up with a lot of rules this time.

GO FORTH! PROMPT! FILL! HAVE FUN!

Comments

QUESTIONS/COMMENTS

[sholio]

If you have questions or general comments that aren't prompts, comment here!

Re: QUESTIONS/COMMENTS

[philomytha]

Can I post a photo prompt? Photo is SFW.

[foxmoth]

Biggles/EvS in spaaaaace!

[ysande]

Sorry, this isn’t Biggles/EvS in space, but it is Biggles and EvS (and Algy and Ginger) in space and it is extremely plausible that it would end up as Biggles/EvS in space!

——

First Lieutenant James Bigglesworth made his way to the bridge of the KMS Spitfire, kit in hand, Second Lieutenant Algy Lacey in lock-step beside him. Irritation and pure, unbridled excitetment warred on Algy’s face.

'Humanity’s first venture into space, and it has to be on a German machine,’ grumbled Algy. ‘Plenty of good, sound British machines, and Parliament elects for us all to go up in a German one!’

'It was that or the very real possibility of another Great War,’ Biggles reminded him dryly. ‘We’re fortunate that Raymond and his fellows managed to broker this peace deal with the Germans just in time. It’s rather fitting, you know, that if mankind is going to explore the skies beyond our world, that we do it as a united people. If we’re to encounter alien species on this voyage, it will be as representatives of Earth, rather than just Britain or Germany. Besides,’ he said with a smile at Algy’s dour look, ‘she may be a German machine, but she has a British heart. Those are Rolls Royce engines powering her, and I’m glad of it.’

'Let’s hope the Germans on board are as ecumenically minded as you are,’ was Algy’s skeptical reply. ‘Twenty years ago the Wright brothers achieved flight for the first time. Ten years ago, we were still shooting German triplanes out of the sky. And now they tell us we’ve advanced far enough to fly a machine into space, with the Germans as our partners!’

They arrived on to the bridge, the great shining expanse of her. There, the Captain’s chair; there, a place each for First Lieutenant, Second Lieutenant, Third. Behind each, a broad instrument panel with a patchwork of dials, more elaborate and queer than that of a standard kite. Of course, a standard kite was not expected to fly blind into the depths of the solar system.

Biggles cast his eye around the men already standing to attention on the bridge. He grinned with delight at the sight of Smythe, ramrod straight and proudly attired in the uniform of Chief Engineer. The Chief Medical Officer was a German by the name of Mayer, who had a hard expression but kind eyes. Biggles was less impressed at the Third Lieutenant, a solid brute of a man who insolently looked Biggles and Algy up and down, and sneered. His uniform was marked with the name ‘Leffens’.

The scornful twist of Algy’s lips let Biggles know quite what Algy thought of that. But before Biggles could make any sort of reply, a whistle sounded and officers and men alike snapped to attention. The Captain was being piped aboard.

He was tall, slender and handsome; dark-haired and grey-eyed, with a monocle that flashed in the flickering lights of the controls, and elegant, finely-boned hands. It would have been easy, perhaps, to be deceived by the foppish good looks, but one look at him sent a shiver down Biggles’ spine. This was not a man to be underestimated.

'I am Captain Erich von Stalhein,’ he said in perfect English, with only the barest ghost of irony over the word ‘Captain’ instead of ‘Hauptmann’. He cast those intelligent, mocking eyes over the assembled crew, and half-nodded, as if to himself. ‘To your stations. Prepare for take off.’ And with that he turned on his heel and headed to the Captain’s chair.

'I’d not expected a royal reception,’ muttered Algy as he took his seat beside Biggles, ‘but I was expecting a bit warmer of a welcome than that, for the maiden voyage of humanity’s peace mission. I’m beginning to think the English have wandered into this with our eyes blithely shut. I wouldn’t trust that von Stalhein further than I could throw him.’

'No,’ murmured Biggles, ‘I’m beginning to understand why we received these commissions.’

'Because we’re damn good pilots!’ said Algy, somewhat indignantly.

'Yes,’ said Biggles wryly, ‘damn good pilots who happen to have some experience with spycraft, but not enough to be known for it. Well, I’ll grant this to Raymond - he’s never been a man to have to wool pulled over his eyes, and he did warn us of the dangers of this voyage.’

'Rather a different set of dangers, if they’re going to come at us from within the machine instead of from outside it,’ grumbled Algy.

'Oh, I quite suspect it will be both,’ answered Biggles carelessly. He looked from Algy, to the ship, to von Stalhein, and smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.’

[foxmoth]

Biggles the knitting shop owner vs. EvS the crochet shop owner AU.

I'll see myself out but I really want to read this. :p

[philomytha]

Since I've just been reading this:
Biggles & or / Algy, aftermath from Algy nearly being beheaded in 'Delivers the Goods'

[FILL] Biggles/Algy, teen, 1.3k, Delivers the Goods aftermath

[tweague]

I wrote this in about 2011, I think, so it's very rough around the edges, but I'm afraid I haven't reread 'Delivers the Goods' recently enough to re-edit it properly; I didn't get round to posting it at the time (and probably won't put it on AO3), so I hope it's okay to post it here for a quick fill ^_^
Established Biggles/Algy, Teen rated (one (1) kiss), fluff without plot, c.1.3k.

* * *

The crescent moon was only just clearing its tangled net of branches; the roof of the veranda still cut off what little light it shed. But groping through the darkness was preferable to lighting a lamp and being mobbed by moths the size of hummingbirds, so Biggles just slowed as he stepped into the shadow of the house, and shuffled carefully with arm outstretched for the door.

"Mind," came Ginger's voice from the shadows to his right. "Discipline's a fine thing, but I think even in the RAF they'll ask questions if I report for duty with your boot-print on my face."

Biggles paused. In the corner of his eye, where the night-sight was keenest, he could just make out movement. "Have the others all turned in?"

"Think so. Prince Lalla went to settle his father in as soon as we arrived, though I think he'll have a tough job getting the old bird to stay where he's put. Tug and Taffy crawled off to their berths in the black hole of Calcutta soon after. Haven't seen Li Chi though."

"He's still down at the Sumatra, organising the loading. Claims the Chinese don't need sleep, so he's not planning on taking any." Biggles smothered a yawn with his hand, before smiling ruefully into the inky darkness at the unseen but automatic politeness. "Wish he'd tell me how it's done. Are you planning to sleep out here? You'll be eaten alive."

"I've reached a crucial phase in my experiment."

"Experiment?"

"To see whether horrifically sweltering heat, no air to speak of and a small mob of mosquitoes are more or less disruptive to my sleep than moderately sweltering heat, a faint hint of air, and a large army of mosquitoes." The sentence was punctuated by the distinctive sound of a hand swatting a mosquito against a patch of uncovered skin. "Though I'm fairly sure that the mosquitoes win, whatever the outcome of my research."

Biggles' blindly questing hand found the door frame at last. "Algy turned in too?"

"About ten minutes ago." The disembodied voice shifted slight, in company with a slight rustling noise, and Biggles could picture Ginger rolling over to look towards him, eyes wide and unseeing. "I don't think I'll be able to forget today in a hurry. That great brute standing over him with a drawn sword - "

"I don't imagine any of us will," Biggles interrupted briskly. It was too easy to remember - too easy to paint pictures in the darkness, to embellish, to extrapolate. To imagine. "I'm going to get a few hours sleep. You take second shift in the morning - I'll have one of Li Chi's men wake you with a gallon or so of coffee."

"Good idea." Biggles could hear the faintest hint of Hexamshire beginning to overlay Ginger's vowels, in a way that he knew indicated the younger man was already half asleep; so he said good night, very quietly, and crept into the bungalow.

He picked his way as carefully and quietly as possible through the pitch dark hallway, ignoring the muttered Welsh imprecation when his toe brushed an unseen arm, and as carefully and quietly as possible he opened the door to the inner room. But the latch was stiff, the door swollen by damp and heat, and as he shouldered it closed he heard a shifting, a catch and a lightening of the deep even breaths.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he whispered.

This side of the house caught the first of the moonlight, and the lattice of the window cast dappled diamonds onto the floor. Algy rolled onto his back and laid one forearm across his face, the soft skin of the inner arm uppermost, white and vulnerable. "You didn't, quite," he said, voice roughened, catching in his throat. "By which I mean I wasn't quite asleep before you thundered in, and I'm not quite awake now." He dragged his arm heavily across his eyes. "Everything all right?"

"It probably should be me asking you that," said Biggles. He sat down on the floor, back to the wall, close to the head of Algy's bed-roll. "You've had rather a day of it, I'd imagine."

"I'm all right," Algy said, shifting half onto his side. "It's quite possible I'll have an attack of the screaming hab-dabs in the night, but I think I'm too tired to be anything but all right just now."

The air was thick with the trapped heat of the day and the humid scent of the crouching forest; the night was shrill with the strange pulsating songs of frogs and insects. The sensation of sweat prickling on his back, his brow, the nape of his neck had become such a constant over the last few days that Biggles had almost stopped noticing them, until he came in here where there was nothing but the moonlight and the press of the temperature.

Algy yawned, hugely, and stretched like a cat before collapsing again into stillness. "Ginger turning in soon? I'd rather not get woken again when he comes traipsing in."

"He's elected to sleep outside. Still trying to work out if the heat or the mozzies keep him awake longer."

Algy smiled, sleepily. "Obviously not tired enough. You should make him work harder."

"If he's not tired enough after a day like that I don't think a few more flying hours will make much difference."

Biggles sat silent for a long moment: let himself feel the stillness. The suspension of normal duties.

He leaned forward, and reached out a hand; just skimmed his fingernails, the backs of his fingertips, over Algy's cheek. He uncurled his hand to let his palm cup the heated skin; let his fingertips brush into soft sweat-touched hair, and ghost against the curve of the ear; ran his thumb light over the tissue-paper skin beneath the eye.

He didn't allow himself this on missions: there was never any time, never any privacy, so many more vital things to think about, so many plates to keep spinning. But -

'That great brute standing over him with a drawn sword - '

So easy to extrapolate. To imagine.

"I'm all right," Algy was whispering, a moth's wing flutter of air against Biggles' lips as he leaned over him. "I'm all right - "

His lips were slightly chapped - bitten? - but pliant, opening softly to him, slowly, lazily, his tongue a heavy curl of heat, his mouth devastatingly soft, sleep-soft: it helped keep the desperation at bay, this languid ease, this calm softness, it gave Biggles time to fill himself again with Algy's scent, his taste, his warmth -

"I'm all right," Algy murmured again as he drew away a fraction. "I wasn't any closer to death today than I've been a hundred times in the air."

"It's different though," Biggles said.

Algy was silent for a moment. "I know."

The skin beneath his palm gave off heat like a furnace; he could turn Algy's face so it caught the fullest of the moonlight, could look at him lit bright and clear and certain. "All this sun's brought out your freckles."

Algy grinned. "Watch it, your sentiment's showing."

Again he brushed his thumb across the soft skin, a fraction from the surface: feeling the invisibly downy hairs catch in the ridges of his thumbprint.

Biggles sat back against the wall, knees half drawn up, forearms resting against them. "Would it disturb you if I smoke for a bit?"

"Nothing short of the sudden arrival of the band of the Coldstream Guard is likely to disturb me," Algy said, settling his head more comfortable into the loose-stuffed bag of clothes that was serving for a pillow. "Maybe if you smoke enough you'll even discourage the mosquitoes. Aren't you going to sleep though? I thought you had dawn patrol."

"I'll see," said Biggles, pulling out his cigarette and matches. "Feeling a bit keyed up for sleep, to be honest. Might just nap after my shift tomorrow instead."

"Well, try not to wake me when you go out in the morning," said Algy drowsily into his pillow. "Feed me coffee through a funnel when it's time for my flight..."

"Will do," Biggles said, very quietly. He lit himself a cigarette; and sat and listened as Algy's breathing deepened, and watched as the moonlight slipped from his face.

[tweague]

Inspired by my day at the beach yesterday: Any characters including / situations (though I feel like this would fit particularly well for Ginger or Gimlet), sunburn. (Degree of suffering up to the writer.)

[FILL] Gimlet, Bertie: sunburn

[ysande]

A bit too long for a comment box, so I’ve put it on my DW:

https://ysande.dreamwidth.org/29766.html

[sholio]

We've had werewolf AUs and they are always fun, but what about an AU in which one of the team, or EvS, is some kind of supernatural creature other than a werewolf? Something well-known like fae or dragons, or maybe a very specific and lesser-known regional folklore creature. Maybe Biggles is some kind of aviation/air deity and doesn't know it? Or maybe Erich's family line gives him the ability to see German folklore creatures that no one else can.

[ysande]

Sorry this isn’t really a fill, but I picked up a pinch hit for FIAB for an X-Files fic, and snuck in a cameo by a supernatural EvS. It’s definitely more X-Files than anything else, so the appeal is likely limited, but while I ponder EvS as a supernatural creature again, I thought I’d just link this here 😅

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60686773

[philomytha]

Inspired by this image shared by tweague yesterday:



Luxury seaplane cabin kink, any ship, please make use of these fancy leather seats with attached safety belts!

[sholio]

Outside POV on the team and/or the team + EvS! Especially random bystanders, waiters, stewardesses, the mail carrier, the person who lives downstairs from the Mount Street flat, one of Lothar Boelke's neighbors ... anyone accidentally having to cope with All This Nonsense who has no idea what everyone's deal is! Especially if they happen to arrive at the worst possible time. (Someone has just broken into Boelke's flat and been thoroughly dealt with, WHY do the upstairs neighbors have all these visitors and what was that weird thumping noise, etc.)

[(Anonymous)]

It was Eddie’s opinion that the building was soft. Couple of old biddies and a doddery fucker with a gippy leg. Only went out leaning on this little blond bugger. Some sort of nurse, in Eddie’s opinion. Soft as a baby’s bottom.

Eddie was pretty surprised when he climbed into the building, took a wallop to the nut, and came to tied to a chair. It was too dark to see much in the room, so the first he knew of anyone else there was when a prissy little voice said, ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but our mutual friend is otherwise engaged this evening.’

‘Piss off!’ said Eddie. ‘I’m not your friend.’

‘Strike one for his English comprehension,’ said another, similar voice. ’Not that that means much with his sort.’

‘You can fuck right off with that,’ said Eddie. In his opinion, these posh fuckers were all pretty soft.

‘Mind your language,’ said the first voice coldly.

‘What is this, a fucking Sunday school?’

‘We’re policemen.’ Fuck. 'We know you've been watching this building. We'd like to know why you climbed through our friend's window in the middle of the night.'

Eddie's eyes had adjusted to the dark now. He was pretty surprised to discover that he was talking to the little blond nurse. 'Here! I know you. What's all this about friends, then? What sort of coppers are you?'

'I don't think you've really understood how this works,' said the second voice. 'You see, we ask you the questions, and if you don't answer them, things get a lot worse for you.'

The little blond bugger moved closer. He didn't look so soft now, in Eddie's opinion. He looked pretty intense. He said, 'I don't know what induced you to sell out your country, and frankly I don't care. But you can tell your Iron Curtain masters that von Stalhein is with friends here; that he's protected; and that we won't hesitate to bring the full might of the British state -'

'What the fuck!' said Eddie, alarmed. 'Look, guv, I don't know about no von Whatevers. I was only trying to crack the place. I don't know about no Iron Curtain masters. Fuck!'

'Much as it pains me to admit it,' said the second voice, 'I think he might be telling the truth.'

Eddie was familiar with good cop, bad cop. Intense cop, sarky cop was new to him. In his opinion, dignity was expendable, given the extent of the fuck-up. ‘My old mum’s sick, guv. I just need a few quid for her. I can't get an honest job of work in this town since my mate in the garage stitched me up.’

‘In the garage?’ said Intense Cop, perking up.

‘Biggles, no,’ said Sarky Cop. ‘You know that’s the oldest trick in the book.’

‘I’m a f- a pretty good mechanic, mister,’ said Eddie eagerly. ‘Just give us a chance and you’ll see.’

The little blond bugger said, ‘All right. I’m going to untie your hands now. Here’s my card. You can look me up at Gatwick if you like.’

Eddie peered at the card and read, ‘Air Detective-Inspector James Bigglesworth’. He snorted. ‘Fuck-off stupid name, mate,’ he told the soft fucker, but he pocketed the card. It was only later that he wondered what the Air Police were doing in Kensington anyway.

[sholio]

For case reasons, Biggles has to go undercover as An Ordinary Passenger On A Long Commercial Flight. (Bonus for Algy, Erich, or someone else being along to have to deal with him like this.)

[philomytha]

I just want to say this prompt nearly caused a tea-keyboard incident, OH NO POOR BIGGLES THE TRAUMA :-DDD

[sholio]

Any pairing; a token of affection or visible means of physically cementing their bond in the form of a plausibly deniable piece of common jewelry, relatively ordinary object, clothing item, etc.

Fill: Silk Linings (Biggles/EvS G-rated)

[philomytha]

The encounter in the foyer of Scotland Yard was brief, almost brusque. Von Stalhein nodded as Biggles approached and said, "Good afternoon, Inspector."

"Good afternoon," Biggles said in return, and von Stalhein turned and carried on out the door, as if they'd never met, as if they'd never shared their last cigarettes under a hail of gunfire, as if he hadn't cut the shackles off von Stalhein's bleeding ankles, as if von Stalhein hadn't held Biggles's chest together with his bare hands in a wildly careening aircraft by night.

The door closed behind him, and Algy snorted. "I see he's in a friendly mood."

"He won't want to draw attention to the fact that we know each other, even here," Biggles responded mildly. "Come on, we'll be late."

"You don't mind that he pretends not to know you, after everything you've done for him?" Algy persisted as they climbed the stairs.

"Not in the least." Biggles climbed the stairs two at a time, to prove he could, four months after the injury.

Von Stalhein had been wearing the gloves. Biggles had taken some care over them, noting that the inexpensive ready-made gloves were a trifle too large in the size von Stalhein had purchased and instructing the maker accordingly as to the fit. They were not obtrusive, but the black leather was of the finest quality, the silk lining would give warmth and comfort in the damp English winter, and the stitching was beautifully worked. Von Stalhein had hesitated before accepting them, and Biggles had done his best to pretend disinterest. Perhaps he would think them too extravagant a gift--though in comparison to an aeroplane, or even the daily fuel of an aeroplane, they were terribly cheap--or would prefer not to have something that reminded him of Biggles about his person.

But he was wearing them today. Somewhere in Biggles's memory, despite all the years and privations since, von Stalhein was elegantly dressed almost to the point of foppishness; whenever they met now he was startled anew to see him wearing a suit with an imperfect fit or a pair of worn shoes. But today, he had been wearing the handsome gloves which Biggles had given him, and that had been a message of friendship as clear as if he had taken Biggles's hand right there in the foyer.

[sholio]

Sakhalin AU, Erich gets shot in the escape but won't admit it until he collapses bloodily on the plane, possibly while arguing with Biggles and/or huddling traumatizedly in the back. <3

[sheron]

Can I just second this prompt, ngght

[ysande]

I basically just want your head canon on how they all approach the most mundane daily aspects of life:

-sleep
-early mornings
-breakfast
-letters and correspondence
-fashion
-traffic/driving
-getting sick (lol it’s not actually possible for me to have an entirely whump-free list)
-jam or cream first on scones
-keeping a secret
-smoking
-etc

[(Anonymous)]

I don't think I've seen a classic one-character-giving-another-a-shave feeling-realisation fic, but surely post-Sakhalin Biggles/EvS is crying out for it...?

[philomytha]

Foreign Legion AU: Biggles gets injured when defending the castle, von Stalhein takes command

[(Anonymous)]

Guards were arranged. Von Stalhein drew the first watch. The rest disposed themselves about the floor according to their fancy.

Ginger, physically tired and mentally exhausted, knew nothing more until he awoke to see a moonbeam slanting diagonally through a loophole. How long he had slept he did not know, but he knew that it must be near dawn, for he could see Biggles, who had the last watch, leaning gracefully against the side of the doorway.

Despite the unusual circumstances, it felt familiar, even comfortable. How many times had Ginger slept safely under Biggles' watch, in all manner of strange locations? Only a cigarette was needed to complete the image, but, since they had smoked the last of von Stalhein's supply yesterday, Biggles was instead flicking a match rapidly between the fingers of his left hand.

Reassured, Ginger lay back. He was halfway to sleep again when the crack of a shot and a soft grunt had him on his feet, head spinning, heart pounding. He looked around wildly for the gunman. The others were starting up in panic; only von Stalhein, unruffled as ever, was already striding towards the spiral stairway, holding his Mauser steadily on the entrance.

But Ginger forgot him at once, for Biggles was still by the doorway over the bridge, except that now he was staggering and clutching his side. A dark stain was blooming under his hand, across his tunic. Ginger leapt for him as he fell and lowered him slowly to the ground.

'Got me in the side,' Biggles told him.

'I can see that. Hold still and we'll get you patched up.' He shrugged off his tunic, tore it into strips, and pressed it over the wound.

'Von Stalhein.'

'He's gone.'

'I'm here.' Ginger started. Von Stalhein had crept up beside him, as silent as a cat.

Biggles put up a wavering hand, clutched von Stalhein’s long fingers, and said, ‘Look after Ginger.' Von Stalhein gave a curt nod. 'Ginger, do as he tells you.'

'Yes, chief.'

Then Biggles' hand dropped and his head lolled back against the wall.

'Give me his pistol,' demanded von Stalhein immediately.

'What? No!'

'Don't be a fool, Hebblethwaite. I'm out of cartridges.'

Reluctantly, Ginger lifted the Luger from the floor where Biggles had dropped it. The muzzle and handle were wet with his blood. Von Stalhein, making a face, wiped it on his trousers.

‘Get over there. Cover the stairway.’

‘Fat chance of that,’ declared Ginger. ‘I’m not leaving Biggles.’

Von Stalhein sneered. 'You can do more for him with a gun in your hand than by mopping his brow and bemoaning cruel fate. There'll be time enough for that when we run out of ammunition.'

'What happened to the gunman?'

'Dead, somewhere below. But more will come.'

Ginger, begrudgingly, scrambled across the floor, to a position where he could both cover the stairway and keep an eye on Biggles' slumped form. Despite von Stalhein's prediction, the stairway was quiet. For now, the Kurds were concentrating their attack on the main doorway, and von Stalhein's pistol spat regularly into the darkness. He was drawing their fire, too. Bullets ricocheted off the stonework around his head, but he never so much as twitched, not even when a chip of masonry caught him on the cheekbone and sliced a thin red line across his face. Nor did he once glance down at the man lying by his feet.

'Unfeeling swine,' muttered Ginger. He added, more loudly, 'D'you want a hand over there?'

'No,' snapped von Stalhein. 'Stay by the stairway.'

'You can't have many cartridges left.'

'That's my problem to solve.' Von Stalhein’s face was a cold white mask in the moonlight, the long scar livid across his cheek. He looked, as Ginger knew him to be, utterly ruthless.

'Von Stalhein?' he said awkwardly. 'Is he breathing?'

Von Stalhein looked down briefly. 'Yes. Keep your eyes on the stairway.'

The gunfire at the bridge gradually petered out. Von Stalhein said something in German to one of the others, who took his place by the doorway. 'Hebblethwaite, I should be grateful if you would check before shooting,' he said, and slipped swiftly down the stairway. He came back carrying a bandolier, re-loaded his pistol, and resumed his watch. He nodded to Ginger and said drily, 'Your forbearance is appreciated.'

Time passed. The grey light of dawn crept slowly through the loopholes. The Kurds seemed to be holding their fire, no doubt planning a raid in the daylight. Somewhat to Ginger's surprise, von Stalhein said nothing more about leaving the castle.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by wild cries on the hillside, and, a moment later, by the drone of aircraft. 'Those are Rolls-Royce engines,' cried Ginger.

'Hold your position,' snapped von Stalhein.

Ginger, craning to spy what he could through the window, saw Biggles stir a little, wet his lips, and say, faintly, 'Rolls-Royce.'

'So I've heard,' answered von Stalhein.

'Ginger?'

'I’m here, chief.'

'Good lad.'

Now there was the scream of falling bombs, the chatter of machine-guns. 'What's happening?' Ginger pleaded.

One of the other men rushed to a window. Ginger noted bitterly that he was not ordered to hold his position. 'The Kurds are fleeing!' he shouted. 'Four aeroplanes - now another, bigger. And three cars. There are men climbing out of the big aeroplane.'

'Von Stalhein, for pity's sake!'

For the first time, von Stalhein dropped his eyes from his pistol sights and surveyed the scene below. 'Lacey is there. Lord Lissie. And two other men I don't know.'

The room wavered before Ginger's eyes. His legs sagged beneath him, and he all but collapsed to the floor in relief. He expected another sneer, but none came. It was only a few minutes later, when he could finally lift his head from his trembling hands, that he realised von Stalhein had also crumpled to the ground, and that he had his hand clasped around Biggles' shoulder in a fierce, hard grip.

[(Anonymous)]

Biggles and EvS end up both in disguise/under cover in the same place and have the choice either to blow the other's cover or to play along/back up the other's story

[(Anonymous)]

‘Aha! You must be Professor Fanshawe. We thought you were lost.’

‘I’m terribly sorry, my lord. These blasted trains.’

‘Don’t talk to me about trains. Can’t stand the bally things. We’re just having drinks in the blue room. If you can change in a hurry you might make it down before the gong. Stafford will valet you - Stafford, show the professor to his room.’

A tall fellow in footman's livery detached himself from the shadows in the hall, inclined his head gracefully, and murmured, ‘May I assist you with your case, professor?’

Biggles’ stomach flipped pleasantly. ‘Thanks,’ he said, thrusting his suitcase at the fellow, and followed him upstairs.

‘You’re rather young to be an engineering professor,’ said the footman, once they were out of earshot.

‘You’re rather outspoken to be a valet,’ retorted Biggles.

When the bedroom door had closed behind them, von Stalhein said, ‘Bigglesworth, while I'm continually charmed by your ability to -'

‘Yes, yes, let’s take all that as read, shall we?’ said Biggles, sitting on the bed and pulling off his shoes. ‘I’ve got about five minutes to change my kit and I never know which end of these things is up.’

'Good for you,' snapped von Stalhein. 'In about five minutes I’m due to be serving dinner, and the head butler already dislikes me.'

‘Fine. Shall we compare notes? I assume you’re here for Ondrusek.’

Von Stalhein had frozen momentarily as Biggles took off his trousers, but now he was rifling through Biggles' case, tossing out pieces of clothing. ‘Naturally. His former employers are keen to hear how his work has progressed at Hanford. An unguarded dinner with scientific colleagues seemed a promising opportunity.’ He thrust a pair of black trousers at Biggles.

‘You’re not planning to off him, then?’ Biggles hopped, one leg in and one leg out of the trousers.

'Really, Bigglesworth, I know you don't think much of my work these days, but do you suppose I would go to so much effort to slip arsenic into his soup? If I had been planning to “off” him, I would have done it at Heathrow. Now, fair exchange is no robbery, as I believe the English say.’

‘Much the same with us, really. We’d also like to know what’s going on at Hanford, and we don’t think the Americans are being wholly candid with us. Pass me the shirt, would you? How did you get in here anyway?'

‘The third footman suffered an unfortunate accident yesterday afternoon. And Professor Fanshawe?’

‘Doesn't exist. We pinched some notepaper from St Something's College and wangled an invitation. If anyone asks why they haven’t heard of me, I’ve been on secondment at the MoD. Suffering Icarus, what is this thing? Why doesn't it have a collar?'

‘Surely you’re familiar with the dress shirt, Bigglesworth. I was under the impression that your cousins owned half of Merionethshire.’

‘And you’ll notice that I spend most of my time in London. I suppose this is Algy's idea of a joke. Help me on with it, can’t you?’

Von Stalhein's clever fingers were at his neck, pressing studs into the collar. ‘How much do you know about Ondrusek’s work?’

‘Almost nothing. I tried to read one of his papers on the train, but it was all Greek to me. In fact, there was actual Greek in some places.’

‘I suspect that was only scientific notation. If you could steer the conversation towards the measures he has taken to counter-act the Wigner effect, I believe that would be to our mutual advantage.’ He tapped Biggles' shoulder, said, 'Arms,' and slid the waistcoat on.

‘Were you planning to steer the conversation while you served the fish?’

‘I shall photograph the notes in his suitcase after dinner. I might as well warn you that Ondrusek is a fiend for contract bridge. I expect he'll remain downstairs for some time.' He seized Biggles' wrist peremptorily and fastened on his cufflinks.

‘Well, you might consider sharing your negatives,' said Biggles. 'I suppose you're a dab hand with a dickie-bow, too?’

Long, precise fingers at his throat. Von Stalhein's face was very close. Biggles looked at the threads of silver running through his hair.

'In the future, we should plan these affairs in advance,' said von Stalhein, stepping away. 'I believe you would have been happier had our roles been reversed.'

'Oh, you know how it is,' said Biggles moodily, although von Stalhein probably didn’t. 'I hardly made it past my six times tables. I doubt I’ll come up to snuff hobnobbing with a pack of professors.' He took the proffered tail coat.

'Nonsense,' said von Stalhein briskly, straightening Biggles' lapels in a proprietary fashion. ‘You will know a great deal more about applied aeronautics than anyone else in the room. Besides, some eccentricity is to be expected of the scholar. Shoot your cuffs, please. If you find yourself in difficulties, merely gaze into the middle distance and say something about infinity.’

He stood back and surveyed his handiwork with a critical eye. Then, astonishingly, he licked his fingers and smoothed back a strand of Biggles’ hair. They stared at each other. Biggles was close enough to see the pulse beating fast in von Stalhein's throat

The gong sounded. 'Oh, lord,' said Biggles. 'Wish me luck.'

'Bigglesworth!' said von Stalhein, and caught his sleeve as he turned to go. For the first time, he looked a little uncertain. 'Where am I supposed to be, when I am not seeing to you?'

‘The servants’ mess, I suppose,' said Biggles. 'I'm sure the other footmen will show you where to go.'

Von Stalhein made a small moue of distaste. Biggles took his elegant hand and kissed the knuckles, allowing his lips to linger against the cool skin. ‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘I expect I'll need a great deal of seeing to later. I doubt you'll have much opportunity for anything else.'

Von Stalhein swallowed audibly. 'The Wigner effect, Bigglesworth.'

'Don't worry, I've got you. Just make sure you're listening in.'

'I think I can honestly say,' breathed von Stalhein, 'that you'll have my full attention.'

[black_bentley]

Algy and Ginger have a disastrously ill-advised kiss/one night stand. They know it's a terrible idea, but they do it anyway.

I've always thought the night before they leave for France in Fails to Return would be ripe for this, but feel free to go for any point during or after WW2 that grabs you! Happy for the fallout to be addressed or leave them to stew, likewise you can either go all out on the angst (maybe one of them has feelings and the other doesn't, and they both know that?) or just make life a bit awkward for them...

[black_bentley]

Whatever it is that Algy does on the many occasions he's left behind to man the phones.

[sholio]

I AM SO SORRY. xD It's an amazing prompt - of course I went straight to this.

---

1. Taking up knitting

"Knit 3, purl 2, slip two stitches -- bollocks!" Algy muttered, dropping a stitch as the phone rang. This jumper was never going to be finished by the holidays at this rate. That was what he got for trying cable stitch. "What now?" he snapped into the receiver.

"Sorry to bother you, old boy," Bertie drawled. "We could use a pickup, and make it snappy, what? The chief was being chased by wolves, last I saw him."

"Of course he was," Algy muttered, stuffing his knitting into a grocery sack.


2. Chess by post

"Post," called the lady pushing the mail trolley, tossing a fat stack of envelopes into the "in" basket on Biggles's desk.

"Thanks, Nancy." Algy got up and went to take a quick look for anything urgent or interesting. A Canadian postmark immediately caught his eye, and he immediately left the rest and took it to his desk.

He had learned to play chess as a schoolboy, and they had mostly used it as a way of surreptitiously gambling while conducting an activity that the schoolmasters considered educational and instructive. The idea that he would someday do it seriously, by post, with Wilks of all people, would have been unthinkable.

Of course Wilks was stuck in northern Canada, snowbound for six months of the year, and was probably thinking the same thing.

Algy slit the flap. A postcard slid out with a moose on one side and on the other, a sketched chessboard with Wilks's move penciled in.

"Knight to KN3, eh?" Algy murmured, and began hastily doodling moves on the back of a lunch receipt. "We'll just see about that."


3. Getting way too involved in the personal lives of the ladies in the Scotland Yard typing pool

"Poor Sally is much too good for that Robert, I tell you."

"That's what I keep telling her," Algy said. He was sitting on the edge of one of the desks, having been plied with biscuits as soon as he came into the room. "Robert at least is better than George was."

"George!" came several voices raised in scorn, and Algy nodded along with them.

"The poor girl has the worst taste in men. If only she'd catch herself a good solid copper," said Pamela from the mimeograph machine, who had recently become engaged to a constable herself.

"All the good ones are married," sighed Loretta wistfully.

"Not all of them," Pamela said. She was looking at Algy. In fact, several of them were.

"Uh," Algy said, staring at them. Suddenly the biscuit tasted more like the sugar-dusted bait in a trap. "I'm actually .... engaged .... to my -- my ..." At the distant ringing of the phone, he yelped, "Cousin!" and fled to answer it. Behind him, he heard a babble of delighted questions and congratulations, and felt his heart sink. There was no way they were going to forget this even if he had to fly off to Borneo immediately.

Two days later, when Biggles walked into the Scotland Yard office -- freshly tanned, with a recent bullet hole in the collar of his flight jacket -- Algy pounced on him, grabbed his arm and whispered fiercely into his ear, "Just so you know, we now have a cousin named Lucy and I got engaged to her at Christmas. In a few weeks she's going to have a tragic accident and I'll be too distressed over it to ever think of looking at another woman."

Biggles stared at him in silence for a moment, then said, "All right. Anyway, we need the Auster fueled."


4. Speculating on von Stalhein's latest nefarious scheme

".... and if he's been plotting this all the way since the Foreign Legion .... no, further back than that, probably," Algy muttered between his teeth, adding another pencil line looping gracefully up the slightly grease-stained napkin, which was covered with crabbed handwriting. The word "Kensington" was circled several times with arrows pointing to various other bits of writing on the napkin, and a couple of exclamation points.

[(Anonymous)]

Biggles &/ EvS, shipwrecked together

[black_bentley]

Prompted entirely by me reading The Cruel Sea: writer's choice of pairing, one character pouring the other into bed when they've had too much to drink. Gen or shippy gen preferred to actual slash, but any level of angst, fluff or outright silliness welcomed :D

[philomytha]

A missing scene request: Marie and Erich at the end of Looks Back, when they get Biggles to hospital

[chanter1944]

Any and/or all team members and fluent multilingualism. That is to say, I absolutely love the idea of Bertie picking up not just French, but actual Monegasque during his time in Monaco, and the few fics out there that posit that Algy speaks Welsh make me gleeful! Add to that the working knowledge of German the quartet seem to have, Biggles's upbringing in India - I can see him learning Hindi, or maybe Urdu, as a child and then keeping in practice despite the occasional sniff of bigoted disdain from people who don't live at Mount Street - and the sudden idea I've just had that maybe Ginger's got at least some knowledge of Cornish, and well...

Bonus points if someone gets to use their language skills for positive reasons, anything from getting a lost and confused traveler where they need to go to breaking the metaphorical ice with a Resistance contact in occupied Europe, to telling a bigot of a local constable that no, she's asking directions to the hospital; her father's got a broken leg as a result of that smashup and he's been taken there, likely with one of your own men as escort, since he witnessed the entire thing and can identify the driver at fault. Now move over.

[(Anonymous)]

Biggles/EvS, EvS praise kink. Let’s put the man out of his misery!

Post Looks Back h/c prompt

[(Anonymous)]

Biggles comes down with a malaria attack during a visit to Marie's cottage with Erich

[tweague]

So I finally read the legendary Where Seagulls Dare, and I read Chanter's all-too-brief Bertie-centric continuation, and I had a fabulous time, but I am still going to slam my glass down on the table and ask for MORE! BERTIE! WINGFIC! Any tone (Bertie wingfic japes? Of course! Bertie wingfic angst? Absolutely!), any sort of wing (puffin? Snipe? Red kite? Who knows!), any explanation or none, any additional cast with wings or without - more! Bertie! Wingfic! Please and thank you. (I am a bit sad however that vS already bagged the peregrine falcon, as a bird that hunts by ramming its prey with the pulverising force of minimal bodyweight + gravity + acceleration seems like a shoe-in for Gimlet. I'm just saying.)

[(Anonymous)]

Biggles finally gets the chance to more fully appreciate Erich's violin-playing private accomplishment.