Archive of Our Own ^beta

The hillside is quiet in the golden hour, but the sky promises something big.

Red stands at the top of the hill, hands on his hips, surveying the meticulously arranged rows of mortars, racks, Roman candles, fountains, and carefully rigged rockets. The evening air is thick with anticipation and the scent of fresh-cut grass, mingling faintly with the whiff of cordite and sulfur. A breeze rustles the flags on the bunting they’d hung around the base of the launch platform, patriotic reds, whites, and blues snapping gently like the beat of a drum.

Behind him, Chick is crouched over a mess of wires, doing one final check on the ignition panel. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, fingers deft and quick. Sweat glints on his brow, but his eyes are focused, calm. It's a familiar look, Red has seen it in briefing rooms, and now, over a pile of firework launch controls that probably aren't entirely up to code.

"This might be the most insane Fourth of July we’ve ever pulled off," Chick mutters, tightening a bolt with the end of a wrench.

Red chuckles. "Considering what we’ve lived through, that’s saying something."

They aren't doing this for a base party. Not this year.

They're doing it for the boys.

Their boys.

The old squadron, their brothers, the sharpest and bravest airmen to ever fly a B-17, had all, thanks to a science experiment gone spectacularly wrong, been turned into actual babies. Real, drooling, soft-headed infants. It happened about six months ago, and just last month, inexplicably, they’d aged into toddlers. Still barely three feet tall. Still chaos incarnate. But walking, talking (in limited doses), and very much alive with the same strange, stubborn spirits they’d always had.

Now they're here, waiting in the field below, barefoot and wild in the twilight, swaddled in mismatched onesies, overalls, tiny bomber jackets, and freedom.

Down in the grass, Bucky is dragging a cooler twice his size toward the snack table, his little face red with determination. Buck has a dish towel pinned around his neck like a cape and is leaping from picnic blanket to picnic blanket shouting, "To the skyyyy!" as if he could take off.

Brady has somehow found a pair of binoculars and is looking at the moon upside down, while DeMarco is chasing Meatball, his thick coated husky pup, who has a hot dog bun in his mouth and no intention of sharing.

Winks has wedged himself halfway into a foldable camp chair, feet flailing while he laughed like a maniac. Bubbles has dumped a bucket of water over his own head and is now trying to catch drops in his mouth like it's rain. Crosby and Hambone are squatting beside a pile of sparkler sticks, poking them like archaeologists on the verge of discovery.

Douglass, Ken, and Dickie are lying in the grass eating popcorn out of the same red bowl, flicking kernels at each other between bites. Curt is watching them with solemn judgment, arms crossed like a tiny general.

Kidd is curled up beneath a tree, clutching a blanket, half-asleep. Murphy stands over him, conducting an invisible orchestra made up entirely of frogs and distant cricket chirps. Crank has one shoe off and trying to convince Stormy to throw it. Stormy, to his credit, looks deeply skeptical.

Rosie is pulling Smokey and Friedkin in a plastic wagon at breakneck toddler speed. Quinn and Blakely are passing a sparkler back and forth (unlit) like it's a sacred artifact.

Babyface is quietly stacking Tupperware lids into what looks suspiciously like a rudimentary tower. Possibly a radio antenna.

And watching over them all, giggling like he understands the punchline to some inside joke, is Chick, arm slung casually around Red’s back as the sky darkens into indigo above them.

"You sure the detonators are all set?" Red asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

Chick nods. "All on sequence. And I double-checked the finale. It’s gonna blow their tiny socks off."

Red smiles. "Good. They deserve it."
---
The first boom cracks across the sky like a heartbeat, deep and thrilling. Every toddler in the field stops. Some drop what they're holding. A few sat right down in shock. Then when the first bloom of red explodes overhead in a glittering shower, the reaction is instantaneous.

Cheers. Shrieks. A few hiccupy sobs (mostly from Winks, who bounces back quickly).

Bucky screams, "Do it again!" Buck claps his hands so hard his towel cape flew off. Brady yells, "It's the sun! It's the explosion sun!" while pointing at the sky like he’s discovered a new planet.

Chick hit the next switch. A double volley launches blue stars spiraling out from a golden center, then fading just in time for a bright green palm tree to erupt in the sky’s middle.

DeMarco drops his watermelon slice in awe. Meatball howls along with the whistles of the rockets. Crank shouts, "We're under attack!" before crawling under a table, giggling the whole way.

"God, I missed this," Red says softly.

Chick looks at him sideways. "Missed the screaming?"

"The… joy. You know. The noise of it all. Even when they were men, it sounds the same. Just louder and with more beer."

The fireworks kept coming, each carefully timed explosion lighting up the field in bursts of color. The kids dance, jump, flailed. Rosie and Smokey spun in dizzy circles. Crosby climbs onto the snack table for a better view and shouted, "Sparks!"

Then came the chrysanthemum shell, a huge gold burst with red tips, filling the sky like a sun blooming in reverse.

"Finale time," Chick says, cracking his knuckles.

Red gave a small nod. "Light ’em up."

The ignition board blinks once, and then boom. Boom. Boom. Shells explode one after another, filling the air with color and thunder. Whistles, spirals, screamers, comets. They weave together like a sky borne symphony.

Below, the toddlers stand still.

Every one of them.

Even Kidd wakes up. Even Babyface pauses mid engineer mode.

Their faces reflect the light, round cheeks glowing orange and blue, eyes wide, mouths open. Not a single one moved. Not a sound. Just the stunned silence of pure, awestruck joy.

When the final shot broke, a massive golden sphere that shimmers down into dozens of red and blue hearts, the sky went quiet again. Just the crackle of cooling fuses. The stars overhead blinking patiently. The silence of something perfect.

Then, slowly, the applause began.

Small hands clapping. Some off beat, some sticky. Some just flapping at the air in pure excitement.

Buck shouts, "We won the war!" for no clear reason, and the others all shouted back, "Yay!"

Red laughs. "I can’t believe we’re babysitting twenty-five combat veterans."

Chick leans into him. "They’d do it for us."

“They would."

They stand like that for a while, watching the chaos reignite below, Meatball chasing sparks, Murphy trying to get them to sing the national anthem, Stormy teaching Dickie how to fist bump.

"You think they’ll ever grow up again?" Red asks, not entirely joking.

Chick shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. But if they’re stuck like this, I think we’ll be okay."

"You sure?"

Chick looks down at the kids, then back at Red. "We’ve got each other. And we’ve got them."

Red nods. "Then yeah. That’s enough."

Behind them, someone has started up a round of "You’re a Grand Old Flag" in high pitched, off key toddler tones. Meatball howls along in what could almost be harmony.

Red grins. "Let’s go give them s’mores shall we."

Chick laughs, grabbing the marshmallows. "God help us."