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04 May 2009 @ 04:17 pm
Biggles/Algy Fic  
Wow, what a sudden surge in posts on this comm! It's made me guilty enough to dig around my files and pull out some old fic from back when the fandom was just me, ormery and potatofiend. So, um, yes, please bare in mind this fic was written five years ago, I can remember writing it in the back of my GCSE English classes xD ohgodwheredoestimego. It it also the first thing I ever wrote for Biggles fandom! I'm not too sure how IC I think some of this is, but hey ho. And I appologise for the potentially crap German; I don't speak it so corrections are welcome. I'm really going to try and get my act together and write a bit more over the summer, so hopefully we can keep up the activity in the comm!

Title: Grounded
Author: Gatty
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Biggles/Algy
Warnings: Mild boy kissage
Summery: Biggles has a tendency to do very stupid things. Especially where certain gardening enthusiasts are concerned.

It was not the first time Biggles had been caught up in a dog fight that skirted the French coast. After Squadron 275 had been annihilated in a bombing raid, squadron 266 took over their duties, and patrolled further along, near the coast as well as their own patch. The skirmish has begun when he, Algy and the Professor were heading back towards the British side of the lines, as these things so often do, and were surprised by five Tripehounds swooping down on them out of the heavy grey cloud that hung morosely across the French sky. Two German machines had been shot down and lay crumpled on the ground bellow, another was sent limping home with a dead gunner - but the other two still remained, yapping at their heels as they sped for the lines. Biggles, safe in the knowledge that even if he was to force land now, he was in sight of the lines and would make it back to home ground with his high altitude on his side, glanced behind him to check that Algy was coming.

In a moment of pure horror, he saw Algy’s camel fall into a deadly spin, plunging nose first to the ground. Acrid black smoke poured from the engine, flames licking at the fuselage. A direct hit. From the Maltese crossed machine that was pulling in behind his friend. He saw the Professor steal in behind the plane quickly pouncing from behind. Biggles knew he should join Henry and finish the Germans, but he found himself following Algy’s machine earthwards. His mind felt numb and empty with only a sing train of thought flickering like a candle caught in a gust. Maybe the impact won’t kill him. Maybe he’ll get out alive. He has to get out alive.

Biggles saw Henry return, having shot the engine out of one of the remaining Huns, and signal that they should head back to the aerodrome. The Germans had turned tail for home, no longer liking their odds, and there was nothing for them to do but follow suit and go home. Had the Professor seen Algy’s plane go down? He must have. Then he would understand why Biggles had to do what he was about to do. He let the engine stall. Trying to simulate engine failure, or at least that her had run out of petrol. He knew this wouldn’t be enough to fool his friend, so he kicked the rudder bar and the machine twisted sharply. Rocking the wings violently, he let his camel fall into a stalling spin, following the descent of the other machine. Out of the corner of his eye, he was the Professor hover for a few moments, but quickly turn and race for British land at the sight of several specks heading towards them – undoubtedly a German patrol.

Now all he had to do was try and crash his machine near the wreck of Algy’s, around which flames still leapt high. His heart hammered against his rib cage, beating out a tattoo of over stretched nerves near to braking point. The only thing that kept him going, allowed him to half fly the out of control machine, was the urgency of getting to Algy. He had to get to Algy to get him out of that machine.

With a sickening crack-thud his plane hit the ground. The fuselage crumpled around him; the top plane crashing down from above. Still driven by the over ridding urgency of saving his friend, he fought his way out from the crippled machine. It flashed briefly in his mind the C.O. would see this as a waste of a good machine, but it was soon replaced with the firm knowledge that he would crash a dozen camels to save Algy.

Algy. His best friend. His comrade. His confidante. His responsibility as flight leader, trapped in a flaming fuselage.

Biggles staggered across the ground, coughing as the thick black smoke smothered him, burning his lungs, to the aeroplane.

“Algy!” he called cupping his hands around his mouth. “Algy, there the devil are you?”

Seeing no body in the remains of the cockpit, he turned to see if her could have been flung out, by some luck miracle.

“Over here,” cried a somewhat feeble voice from a few yards further a long the field.


“It’s me. Jumped the kite as soon as a neared the ground. Bit hot that – what?”

“You’re telling me,” replied Biggles crossing to where he found Algy sprawled near the hedge, propped on his elbows, clearly where he had landed.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said smiling grimly. “But what the dickens did you crash your camel for? I thought I was seeing things when you came plunging down in front of me. Why in heavens name did you do that?”

“To get you, of course. I wasn’t going to leave you down here to get caught, was I?”

“Did you see me get hit? It’s a chance in a million that I’m standing here – so to speak.”

“I saw you, yes.”

“You are stark staring, aren’t you?”

“You would have done the same for me.”

“There’s not many who would,” said Algy seriously, studying Biggles’ now sheepish face.

“What’s done is done, there’s no use bickering about it. Let me give you a hand up and we can head for the lines, they’re not too far.”


Biggles took Algy’s hand in a firm grasp, pulling him to his feet. Algy embraced him warmly, which Biggles returned, a little embarrassed.

“I can always count on you, can’t I?” said Algy grinning.

Biggles had the desire to stick his tongue out at the other man, but thought that would completely undermine his position.

“Let’s get a move on, shall we?”


Having made sure both planes were thoroughly destroyed by fire, and all maps and the like removed, they had made their way towards the lines until dusk had settled across the land. The going had been tougher than they had expected, their progress hindered by a great number of German troops and sentries about, increasing as they grew closer to the lines. Eventually, in the failing light they decided that there was nothing much more they could do, and were forced to seek shelter for the night, obscuring themselves from passers by. An over grown bush which arched up over a ditch to meet the boundary hedge of a field, nicely served this purpose, and now Biggles and Algy were curled in the ditch under Biggles’ great coat. Algy had fallen asleep, his head pillowed on his hands. Biggles had put himself as sentry, keeping awake next to his friend straining to hear any warning of discovery. Happy that they were safe for the time being, Biggles settled down in the ditch, oh his side. Algy lay sleeping peacefully, eyes flickering beneath papery lids. In the thin moonlight that blurred into their hiding place through the leaves, Biggles could se spidery veins mapping out across the other man’s temples and hands, skin pale, unusually so. Locks of hair fell across his face, the normal golden colour dulled by the night giving it a ghostly quality as if he were watching the shadow of his friend that he had been too late to save. Biggles shivered at this thought and, smoothing the hair from Algy’s face, he drew him closer, sliding an arm across the other mans’ shoulders. Algy sighed gently, and relaxed into his arms. Biggles smiled softly and lay his head down, the reassure warmth of Algy’s body resting against him, easing him to sleep.

Waking the next morning, Biggles and Algy had discovered themselves close to the edge of a German camp, explaining the high enemy activity level.

“Dash it; we must have got turned round. We can’t be near the lines with a camp this size,” exclaimed Biggles upon seeing the enemy uniforms in a multitude.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Algy, crouching close to Biggles, who was lying down, peering over the top of a ridge.

“We’re pretty obvious to Fritz, these British uniforms stand out a mile. I think the first thing we need to do is to get our hands on some Hun clothes.”

“Right-ho. But how are we to do that?”

“Down there, they must have some.”

“I say, that’s bally risky. I’m in,” said Algy, without missing a beat.

Biggles turned and grinned at the eager face of the young man next to him. “Let’s go then.”

The pair picked their way down the slope, darting from bush to tree, trying to mask their approach. So far it appeared that the enemy camp was entirely unaware of their progress. Having reached as close to the camp as felt, Biggles and Algy huddles together behind a thicket of bushes.

“Right – the plan is this: We make for that building on the right,” Biggles signalled to the nearest squat building at the back of which had been left a conveniently open door, “ grab whatever Boche clothes you can get your hands onto, then get them on as quick as possible. We’ll keep our British uniforms on underneath – don’t want anyone getting the wrong.”

“What if someone sees us before we get incognito?”

Biggles pause, then smiled a thin lipped smile. “We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.”

They moved swiftly and silently across the terrain to the out building. They paused at the door, listening for signs of life within. Hearing none, they crept in, leaving the door open behind them. There was another door on the far side on the small room they found themselves in. It appeared to be a bedroom, with a narrow single bed against one wall; a desk and chair; a chest of draws and a capacious trunk at the foot of the ed. Without saying a word they moved as one to the chest of draws and began to search through them methodically.

Biggles froze. Heavy footsteps could be heard advancing along the corridor beyond the closed door. If they were caught in there, they would be taken prisoners of war with little chance escaping. And that was the best case scenario. If they were found in British uniform in a German camp, going through a chest of draws they may well be considered spies. Algy turned to flee through the open door, but to his horror he discovered two German soldiers standing meters from the door, talking. They turned and signalled to Biggles that that escape was blocked. They both searched the room with frantic eyes.

A tug on Algy’s sleeve alerted him to Biggles ferverent gesturing at the trunk in the corner of the room. Algy could see what he was thinking. They could hide in the trunk until the guards passed. The footsteps were growing closer. Biggles pulled the trunk open for Algy to get in first. Algy did so, settling himself on the hard surface, and Biggles quickly lowered himself into the trunk.

“Sorry about the tight fit,” grinned Biggles apologetically, pulling the lid down behinds him, plunging them firmly into darkness. “Not much other choice, laddie.”

Algy could feel Biggles’ breath on his cheek. The cramped nature of the trunk forced Biggles to lie quite heavily on Algy. Biggles shifted to prop himself on his elbows, trying to make use of the small space, he lined his body up with Algy’s, his legs either side of his friend’s. Algy lay stiff as a board, highly aware of every inch of the other man’s body pressing against his, sinewy muscles taught, prepared for fight or flight. He wasn’t sure whether it was the fear of being caught that made him feel light-headed and sent his heart pounding in his chest, or whether it was something to do with the proximity of Biggles. Algy felt something twist in his stomach as Biggles moved again. The darkness prevented him from seeing Biggles’ face, but the light tickle of eyelashes brushing his temple and the gentle breath fluttering around his lips told him how close he was. If Biggles lowered his face barely a fraction of an inch it would come into contact with Algy’s, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, lips to lip. Another strange sensation coursed through his body making him shiver. Algy blushed in the darkness as his hips shifted beneath the other man’s, moving away from something sharp, protruding from the bottom of the trunk, but brining them into contact anew. His cheeks fired red as Biggles copied Algy’s movement, whether accidentally or on purpose he couldn’t tell in the blind darkness. Algy released his breath his breath only just realising the tense state he was in. Biggles breath was shallow against his cheek and Algy could feel a rapid heartbeat mirroring his, thumping against his chest. What was going on? Why did he feel like he was sinking slowly, yet also that he was floating, light-headed and dizzy? What was making him shiver, despite the heat of their confines? His veins were burning with the adrenaline rushing through them, intoxicating every nerve, sending every sense spiralling out of perception. His breath became short and shallow, blood draining away from his head, every part of his being calling out for something, some intangible thing.

Then it all crashed down around him as soft lips met his own and it was all he could do not to force his tongue between those lips. He kissed Biggles back with such a passion that the other man pulled back a second, but Algy’s hand snaked up around the back of Biggles’ head pulling him back down. Algy felt a new release running through him. This is what he wanted. This is what made him feel so… so… All rational thought felt his mind as he felt Biggles mouth open beneath his, letting his tongue slide past into new territory. Algy’s hands were tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his friend’s neck. His friend. No. He was more than that. He was more than just a companion now. He was his desire, his release, the one person whom he had grown to trust completely, the one who made the death and destruction that ruled their lives bearable. And now, it seemed to Algy that Biggles was showing him that he felt the same way. Every touch, every kiss spoke volumes that only Algy could read.

He lost all track of time in the darkness. There was nothing, but them together. However, it was not to last as they were thrown apart as the trunk lurched sideways with a jolt. Algy was about to cry out when a finger came to rest across his lips, silencing him. Somewhat disgruntled, he leaned up to whisper softly in Biggles ear, “What the dickens is going on?”

There was a pause and then Biggles breath was tickling in his ear. “I suppose the trunk has been picked up.”

“But where are they taking it?”

“The front line hopefully. We best keep hush for a bit until we know it’s safe.”

Algy nodded, realised that Biggles couldn’t see him, but decided to let his silence show his answer.

The trunk swayed along for about three minutes, then was put down with a heavy metallic clang, followed by a series of noises that sounded suspiciously like car doors slamming and an engine revving. Algy decided to risk a whisper that would hopefully be drowned out by the engine.

“Where do you think they’re taking the blasted thing now?”

“No idea, we shall have to find out when we get there.”

“That’s not entirely helpful.”

“Shh!” whispered Biggles urgently.

Some one - several some ones – were clambering into the van near them. The harsh, guttural tones revealed them to unsurprisingly be German troops. They lay in silence, trying to catch a place name or something that would reveal their destination. Suddenly, Biggles tensed and, moving so close to Algy’s ear he could feel lips brushing his ear lobe, whispered, “Vimmy Ridge. They’re taking us to Vimmy Ridge.”

Algy smiled. Vimmy Ridge, that was right on the front line. It put them in an ideal position to escape, once arrived. The engine noise increased and soon they were moving. For roughly two hours they lay concealed in the trunk, silent. Biggles’ fingers were coiled with Algy’s, stroking the soft skin on the underside of his wrist. Then, as rapidly as their journey had begun, it pulled to an end and the trunk started to lurch and away again. The hum of the engine was replaced by the ear shattering explosions of shells bursting. The trunk was finally set down and the voices died away.

“Do you supposed it’s safe to get out yet?” queried Algy.

“I suppose,” replied Biggles, bracing his back against the lid of the chest, pushing it open.

Algy blushed again, seeing that he had managed to tear more of Biggles’ shirt open that he had supposed.

Gott in Himmel!” cried a lone voice. Biggles pulled a face then took his revolver out of his pocket, looking down at Algy.

“Better get your gun out – things look to be getting pretty hot!”


Fought bravely, though they did, a short while later Biggles and Algy found themselves under a heavy guard in a German dug out. The crescendo of bursting shells above their heads continued in force. They must have been travelling for longer than they had suspected, as night had fallen in the trenches. For god knows how long, they had been sitting there, under guard. No one had been in to interrogate them, which in other circumstances, Biggles would have found highly suspect, but it seemed that the German’s has their hands full. It had become obvious that the Allies were not just carrying out a routine artillery attack. They were preparing to go over the top. Let’s just hope the trench is taken and we can get the deuce out of here, mused Biggles.

There was a sudden lull in the bombardment. He glanced at the German soldier guarding them. He looked somewhat panicked.

“Excuse me, you haven’t the time, have you?” asked Biggles innocently.

The guard jumped, as though he did not think his prisoners capable of speech.

“6:30,” he said brusquely, in a strong German accent.

Biggles smiled faintly. Dawn. He was right – the French (who he believed were stationed at Vimmy) were going over the top. A violent crash came from outside the dug out door, and yelling voices reached their ears, although they couldn’t decipher any meaning. At the entrance to the dugout in which they were trapped a face appeared, smudged with dirt and with hunted looking eyes darting around the room. He snapped what could only be orders to arms, and the nervous guards hastened from the room. As soon as the man had left, Biggles turned to try and Algy, tied to a chair, the back against his.

“What’s going on?” hissed Algy.

“Our lot has gone over the top, I should think.”

“Yes, it seems like it. Are we to make a dash for it now, and try and hide ourselves amongst the muddle?”

“That’s exactly my plan. But for these infernal ropes, there go I. By Jove, they have done a good job of trussing us up like Christmas turkeys.”

“Have you nothing to cut us free?”

“No – wait a minute, I have an idea – Algy, can you by any chance manage to reach that pack of matches to your left?”

“I think so.” There followed a minutes silence while Algy manoeuvred his foot to nudge the pack of matched across to him. “Go it.”

“Now I want you to kick it over to me.”

“I see your plan,” grinned Algy, kicking the matches back, so they slid under the chairs to Biggles.

Biggles could see the matches at his feet. Now came the tricky bit. He knew that they had wasted too much time talking, and every second that ticked by brought them nearer to the guard returning to the room, and their one chance to escape would pass them by. He had the match box between his feet now, clasped tightly and was beginning the impossibly difficult task of raising them to his lap, and he wasn’t entirely sure that it was going to work. The bonds were impeding his progress, and knowing that it was a long shot, in the first place was about to give up, when a figure burst through into the dug out. His initial thought was that the guard had at last returned, but then he spoke, dispelling that fear, revealing a strong American accent.

“Hello! What’ve you done to annoy your own people enough to tie you up? Or are you French POW’s? I thought this was French territory. Parlez-vouz Français? Wait, those look like limey clothes. You’re British!” cried the American.

“And you’ve got perfect timing. I didn’t know the American’s had got across here yet.”

“I’m not a bloody American!” exclaimed the man. “I’m Canadian. Nathan Butcher, Canadian 1st division, pleased to rescue you.”

“Bigglesworth – and Lacy, RFC,” replied Biggles, somewhat taken aback by the cheerful nature of the Canadian soldier straight from no-man’s land.

The ropes were soon cut and they were picking their way through the trench, looking for the Canadian senior officer – Major-General A.W. Currie according to Nathan. They found him quickly and he was entirely please to have rescued two RFC officers. Exhausted they were escorted across the Canadian trench without too much difficulty. Another German trench had been taken, and the Canadian forces were revelling in their victory.

Biggles looked at Algy, smiling. “What an eventful jaunt.”

Algy watched his face for some hidden meaning, but finding nothing clear, simply replied. “Quite. However, I for one would prefer to be back at the aerodrome in bed.”

Biggles blinked, then still smiling, settled back into the seat of the van, destined for Squadron 266.

ETA: Title, wtf self.
id_ten_it: HWslashid_ten_it on May 4th, 2009 08:50 pm (UTC)
I likeses it.
THere are several typo mistakes, and (fresh from spinning myself) I'm not entirely with you on the crash landing scene, but the scene is so good that it doesn't really matter about my quibble, which I can't put a finger on anyway.

Does this mean we can expect plenty more of such gems? Because I'm really hoping so!

This heregatty on May 4th, 2009 09:24 pm (UTC)
Sorry about the typos! I can't really preface every fic I post with warning: minor dyslexia but sometimes I wish I could xDDD

Yeah, the crash landing scene was written before I'd had any time in the air, and I've still had nothing like enough experience to be able to write something like that accurately. Willing suspension of disbelief and all that!

Well, I hope to write more when I'm post-exams (silly university wanting my time D:).

(V. random aside: I am writing something original with flying bits in it, including someone getting shot down over the lines and it's rather imperative that I try to stay with their pov through most of it - could I possibly ask you a few questions about how an uncontrolled landing might go? Pls ignore if am being a nuisance.)
id_ten_itid_ten_it on May 4th, 2009 09:32 pm (UTC)
RE dyslexia: I've developed a way of reading the letters, not the words, when it comes necassary otherwise I end up with totally the wrong word, but one that feels the same. (ie in my english exam, rabbiting on and on about guinevere, when I really meant genivieve....someone totally different.)

damn that blasted university! well I know the feeling.

(sure. though I'm not posting myself the world expert in flight, specially not in their machines. Tap me on the shoulder when you want a hand.)
http://elevatormusic.spacesebastienne on May 5th, 2009 03:27 pm (UTC)
The best thing about this is that it is entirely plausible as actual plot, and all you've added is snuggling. Genius!
This heregatty on May 5th, 2009 10:14 pm (UTC)
Aww, yay, I'm glad you think so! I forgot how much I like writing chirpy action filled ficlets!
Janettepotatofiend on May 5th, 2009 09:57 pm (UTC)
Ha, yes, I remember this! Awesome. I love the fact that your fics are always so deliciously Algy-centric.
This heregatty on May 5th, 2009 10:13 pm (UTC)
xD It's very odd poking around in five year old fic. And I have no shame in my Algy-centric nature. I suppose that's a little easier to write then trying to get into the head of a psychopath Biggles.

(psst are you ever going to write more of the epicly awesome Algy-crossing-over-to-von-stalhein's-side fic? *leaves votive offerings at your feet in hope*)
fuskersawitallfuskersawitall on May 7th, 2009 07:24 pm (UTC)
Phew, Algy and Biggles, in a box, kissing. Life is good! That was fantastic! One day maybe I will be able to write like that..