"Was Buck Cleven, a Yankee's Fan?"

by RabidPlotBunniesAttackkkk

Summary:

“Now,” the Gestapo man said primly. “We shall begin again.”

But Bucky wasn’t going to answer. It was worth it. It was. He chanted to himself.

Repeating it to himself as the questioning went on. After all this was the behavior he’d been expecting from the beginning especially since what had happened back at that cursed town. Weathering the pain as he was drawn to his knees, arms twisted up behind his back, grunted at the pain of strained joints. Grunting again when his head was yanked back by the hair so he was looking up at Stromburg, who’d moved from around the desk, leaning against it.

—————————————

This story sprung from my obsession with Bucky in the Dulag as well as the scars on Buck's cheeks. I've seen in other comments that Buck and Bucky were apparently held at the Dulag at the same time, in real life? So I thought, if that's so, why not take advantage of that fact.

Hope y'all enjoy!

Chapter 1: Calling Cards

 

 

 

 

 

There had been a moment, walking through that bombed out German town, witnessing a mother’s grief, so like the grief of the British women he’d seen in London cradling her dead child — there had been a moment when Bucky’d thought that maybe the German’s were people just like them. 

And then . . . horror. Horror and blood. 

Watching listlessly as the landscape passed him by in the back seat of the staff car, the pain from his brutally bruised face and gashed scalp and aching ribs seemed like a distant thing. 

How was it that he was still alive?

How was it that he was here and Buck wasn’t?

Wonderful, golden, stalwart Buck Cleven. Gone. Like so many men had been gone before him. Bucky knew there wasn’t anything left of his heart to be broken by this point. However, he was still cognizant enough to feel anger at the fate of the men who had been killed before his very eyes. And helpless rage at his interrogator’s calm acknowledgment of the massacre. 

And the German’s casual dismissal of said massacre. 

Seething, Bucky could only glare at the desk jockey. Knowing better then to leap across the desk and wipe that smug smirk of of his face, beady little eyes peering from behind thick glasses.  

“Then I guess you are in a bit of a pick-el.” If he’d been in a better mood Bucky might have quirked a smile at the odd pronunciation. 

But he didn’t and he sat through the ridiculous charade. Because they both knew it was a charade, right? As if anything this man said would get him to give up his boys — especially when he dared to bring up Buck.

God. Buck.

But he sits there and he takes it. Because now was not the time. And he was beaten down to his bones and his head and face throbbed, the drink he’d been given doing little towards making him relax or forget his current situation. He had a feeling that was the last alcohol he would be tasting for a long, long time. Licking along the insides of his gums, he savored every drop.

This goes on for a few days, getting escorted up to the office to sit through Haussmann’s fastidious platitudes and digs for information. 

 

‘Was Buck Cleven, a Yankees fan?’

 

(He’s lucky he doesn’t bring up Buck again, in Bucky’s opinion. After what feels like weeks of this shit he knows he wouldn’t be able to contain himself. He’d beat the fucking German into the ground if he could manage it before the guard outside could interfere.)

But then . . . something changes. 

He can almost feel the change in the air, hearing distant shouts and loud voices, other cells on his block opening and closing. He waits for his turn. And he doesn’t have to wait long. And oh boy he doesn’t like the look of the black uniform on the man sitting in Haussman’s place, the Major off to the side, long fingers fidgeting at the bottom of his uniform. 

Looking like he wanted to protest but knowing better than to attempt such a thing (even across the pond, Bucky has heard horror stories about these men in black) shooting their prisoner a side eye glance before he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made Bucky sit up straighter and prepare for the inevitable. 

“Major Egan,” the man behind the desk started, his English almost without an accent. “It appears that you have been decidedly uncooperative.”

I aim to please.

The words were on the tip of his tongue but he swallowed them, the phantom weight of his countryman’s blood on his face, soaking into his pores. Resisting the urge to itch at something that wasn’t there. (Probably. He’d not had much opportunity to wash since he’d been pushed into a cell.)

“My name,” the German continued, lifeless blue eyes focused entirely on Bucky’s, his bruises having started to fade a little. “Is Colonel Stromburg. And you will answer my question.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Bucky couldn’t contain himself that time. Proud to strike a cord in his antagonist, seeing the flash of annoyance behind those cold eyes. Though he felt cold sweat start to form on his lower back, feeling the adrenaline come to him like it would every time they crossed the channel, ready for anything. 

And that was one point for ‘American Audacity.’ 

But was it worth it? He wondered several minutes later when he’s on the floor, ribs freshly aching. The guards at the door had pulled his chair out from under him and he’d tried to protect his head but there was only so much he could do. 

Dazed, he didn’t fight as they hauled him out roughly, plunking him back down into the chair.

“Now,” the Gestapo man said primly. “We shall begin again.”

But Bucky wasn’t going to answer. It was worth it. It was. He chanted to himself. 

Repeating it to himself as the questioning went on. After all this was the behavior he’d been expecting from the beginning especially since what had happened back at that cursed town. Weathering the pain as he was drawn to his knees, arms twisted up behind his back, grunted at the pain of strained joints. Grunting again when his head was yanked back by the hair so he was looking up at Stromburg, who’d moved from around the desk, leaning against it.

Part of John wondered if, when he finally flew into the great beyond, if Buck would be the first thing he saw, Gale’s hair flaming gold in the rising sun. The last two B-17s in the sky. Too bad the ribs he was sure were probably broken by now were throbbing too much for him to lose himself in the fantasy. 

Meeting his tormenter’s eyes with an angry stare of his own, having to blink away the blood that streamed down his face from cuts reopened and added to by callous fists. Fighting the urge to close them as the silence extended, the Colonel’s fingers tapping on his crossed arms, examine Bucky like he was some fly to be squished and/or dissected. Like the man was looking for the one thing that would take Bucky apart at the seams for good. 

Then the stand off was over and the guards were dragging him out of the office and down the shadowed corridors, rolling with the throw as he was propelled into his cell, feeling blessed just to have cold concrete against his bruised face. Allowing the darkness to take him. Because he really didn’t have anything to keep him on this earth anymore, did he?

 

 

 

Buck . . . just . . . wait for me … please . . .

 

 

 

Dreaming of B-17’s in a clear sky.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2: Pretty Privilege

Notes:

Special thanks to Trekkiehood! I absolutely adore comments and I thank them so much for their enthusiasm; it gives me so much energy when I'm writing to know that my work is appreciated and anticipated.

 

Anyways, on to the whump!

 

 

 

 

 

Even though he’d been in the Air Force three years and counting, having bodily autonomy was still something Buck highly valued. 

He was not an easy man to get close to, he was aware of this. Only Bucky and Marge had ever truly been able to get past his high emotional walls and he was man enough to admit it. The Air Force had trained him out of regular social embarrassment with close quarters and communal showers, but he still preferred not to be touched. Even casually. 

(Memories of Bucky with his arm slung over Buck’s shoulders, the men clearly enamored with every word they would say, like they were dipped in gold or som’thin’. Buck was well aware that Bucky was like Gale’s tour guide to popularity. Ignoring the voice in his brain that told him not to sell himself short)

Though his body was in an interrogator’s chair, his mind was back with Bucky in England, imagining how the other man would take the news of his supposed demise. Because Buck has no doubt that no one had time to see them bail out or take note of when his Bird went down in the chaos that was the Bremen mission. He just hoped that they’d tried to break it to him gently. He just hoped that Bucky didn’t do something stupid in response to the news.

(Who was he kidding — of course John had done something stupid. He wouldn’t be Bucky if he’d stayed calm in the face of such awful, horrific news. Because Buck knew how much he meant to Bucky, in the grand scheme of things . . .)

Haussmann was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and poorly worn sheep’s clothing at that. However . . . he was undoubtedly better then the alternative that hovered in the shadows. Buck had heard the same stories as everyone else, about the boogey-men who ran the Reich in the shadows. Rumors of what happened to people who were . . . undesirables. 

But he kept his face blank in the chair, even as he held his arm tightly to his chest. The joint ached from being reset. After the terrifying fall into the void as planes still burned around him, he’d landed wrong — not through his own fault, but wrong nonetheless — making it necessary for him to have his left shoulder reset. The only good thing about the whole damned situation was that he was right handed. Not that he’d sign anything that the Germans had the audacity to put in front of him.

Like hell was he going to betray his men or his country. Like hell he would leave Bucky with such a memory as his legacy.

Like hell.

So he sat there and he took it, every snide remark and passive aggressive jab designed to get underneath the armor he’d formed around his heart and soul since his body was something so easily bruised.

You don’t know a damned thing about me, he thought as Haussmann tried, yet again, to get to him. You don’t know that you’ll never win a battle of wills with me — my father taught me the value of stubbornness and resilience long ago.

He’d also taught him to take his beatings in silence. Crawling like a dog to some out of the way corner afterwards to lick his wounds. But now . . . well, he’d had Bucky, hadn’t he? Who’d always known when Gale had been hurting, even when his facade of calm had fooled everyone else.

 

 

 

Oh, Bucky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

But soon . . . something changed.

It was not the usual guard who came to his cell to escort him to Haussman’s office. His usual guard was barely more than a boy, reminding Buck painfully of Kenny with the way his hair just barely curled where it peeped under the metal helmet that was part of the standard German uniform. The guard who loomed in the doorway stared at Gale like he was a bug that could be swatted away easily and his uniform was wrong, black as the night. Black as Death.

Every instinct in Gale making him straighten his spine still further, the hand braced against his chest curling into an involuntary fist until his nails bit into his palm. 

This . . . this was not good.

Not good at all.

Working hard not to wince and failing as he was deliberately grabbed by his bad arm and pulled along the corridors, taking note of the smug air of his escort as cold sweat broke out on Gale’s temples from the unnecessary manhandling. 

Grunting when he was shoved into his usual chair before the unusual man behind the desk. Breath freezing for a few moments as he took in the rank insignias on the man’s black uniform, taking in the skull insignia on the cap set neatly on the corner of Haussmann’s desk. Haussmann himself nowhere to be seen.

Smart. Buck thought as he forced himself to meet the Colonel’s lifeless eyes. It would give the Luftwaffe a small measure of defense when it came to later discussions of culpability. 

Perhaps Haussmann was of the opinion that, whatever happened when he wasn’t in the room, really wasn’t any of his business. (Though Buck also suspected that there was very little his usual interrogator could do in the face of the Gestapo aside from lodge formal protests — though Gale could only guess at the Nazi hierarchy. Not that he was feeling particularly charitable at the moment, where the other man was concerned.)

So. Buck braced himself for the inevitable. And was unsurprised when the inevitable was foisted upon him.

Expecting the harsh hands on his shoulders, keeping his still as Stromburg prowled towards him, circling him like Gale was some wretched form of prey. However, he was surprised by the hand on his chin, turning his face side to side, examining him thoroughly, like he was some horse at market. 

“You are like an American movie star,” Stromburg mused, eyes mocking. Hand moving to pat Gale’s face, his prisoner hating the fact that he flinched infinitesimally, knowing that those sharp eyes had missed nothing. And would no doubt leverage the information when he so chose. 

“Yes,” Stromburg concluded, letting go of Gale’s face and stepping away with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Much too pretty to be a Major.” Spit landing on Gale’s cheek at the emphasized descriptor. 

While Gale didn’t rise to the insult, he felt the words burn, making the blood rise to his cheeks as the spit cooled on his skin. Even with Bucky it had taken a while for him to become comfortable with the casual way the slightly taller man would throw his arm around Gale’s shoulder and take him on his adventures. To have his personal space invaded in such a way was something that set his teeth on edge, made him want to claw off his own damn skin to eradicate any memory of the unwanted touch.

Decidedly unsettled, he still refused to say a word in answer to any of the questions. They were mostly the same ones asked by Haussmann anyway, so what was the point of repeating his Name, Rank, and Serial Number? Surely they’d memorized it by now. 

Thankfully the German did not bring up such a sordid topic again, choosing instead to have his men inflict pain, Gale’s sides aching from the blows and his shoulder throbbing as he was forced to raise it behind himself, casually manipulated by cruel, callous hands. Pain, he knew how to take. Pain was what he had been born into. Pain was the foundation that had always held up his world.

He could handle pain.

So he was going to sit there and take it and make Bucky proud, his best friend still somewhere up there flying high in the sky. Thanking God that Bucky wasn’t here to see the tears that dripped from the edges of his eyes as his shoulder was purposefully maneuvered, the questions dropping off as Stromburg watched his torment with morbid intention, dead eyes analyzing every flinch and cataloging every tell. Gritting his teeth as he was forced into a stress position and held there for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes or even seconds. 

Nose burning as he threw up the meagre contents of his stomach, pain upon pain pushing him past his body’s limitations; too many shocks in too short a period. Humiliation swirling in his guts as he could do nothing to prevent the various fluids staining the front of his uniform, small chunks littering the knees of his pants since he had been forced to bend forward over them. Clenching his eyes shut as Stromburg made a noise of disgust, leaning away as he came closer, refusing to rise to the bait. Flinching from the hand that stroked through his now sweaty hair, freezing as the hand settled on the back of his neck and squeezed. Like he was a rabbit caught in a wolf’s jaws. Heart rate rabbiting at the sheer vulnerability of his position.

Barely able to hear the other man murmur over the ringing in his ears.

“. . . perhaps you are not such a movie star after all.” 

Orders in German followed after a short silence which Gale was not about to break, relief flowing through him as the hand was removed, even as his stomach jolted as he was hauled to his feet and dragged from he room. Swallowing down more bile as he was manhandled, once again. 

Even with its dubious stains, the ragged cot in his cell was a welcome relief to what now lay behind him. Allowing himself to simply lay where he had fallen, tripped cruelly over the threshold. After all, there was no one to witness his few moments of weakness. He could indulge himself just this once. No one would know. Resting his heated forehead against the cold concrete that made up the floor of us cell as a headache built behind his eyes. 

Groaning as he eventually rolled over onto his better shoulder and painfully sat up, fighting against his still churning stomach and the memories of encroaching hands. 

 

 

 

 

Sleep did not come to him.

He lay, shivering, on his barren cot, staring blankly at the ceiling, dreaming of the adventures Bucky must be having, hoping that the boys were keeping him occupied in his absence. Knowing that Bucky must have a hole in his life just as large as the hole he’d left in Gale’s, now that they were separated.

Though . . . it was good that Gale was alone. He would never want to see Bucky like this, shivering and alone, tormented and spat upon. Bucky had a pride different from Gale’s own. John was bright in a way that Gale had never managed to be — and he never wanted to see that glorious spirit broken beyond repair. 

Whereas Gale had been broken before and had been remade. While he dreaded the prospect, he knew that he could recover from such blows. He could push through to the other side even if it required leaving everyone he'd known and loved behind.

He was unsure if Bucky would be so lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

John . . . I’m so sorry. I know it’s selfish. But . . . wait for me. Don’t leave me behind.

Don’t leave me alone in the dark. 

 

 

 

 

 

And eventually the darkness claimed him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3: A Close Shave

Notes:

Happy New Year's!!!!

(Throws around whump like confetti.)

 

 

 

 

 

Ignoring the growling of his stomach, Bucky glowered at Stromburg. It was the only weapon he still had left at the moment. 

They hadn’t fed him for the last two days, leaving him alone in his cell aside from his water bucket being replenished. Always tactile, this enforced solitude, more than anything else, was what was wearing him down. Imagining Buck made it easier, carrying on entire conversations in his head with that ghost of Christmas past. Not healthy for himself, he was sure, to be prolonging the life of a dead man at the cost of his mental stability, but Bucky knew he didn’t have much farther to fall. He was already at the end of his rope, holding out by pure spite, determined to stick it to the German’s in any way possible.

And if that meant having imaginary conversations with Gale in his head, well, that was his business, wasn’t it?

Because the Buck in his head had a little smile just for him, that damn toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth, lips curling up at the edges and eyes gleaming with unreleased laughter. One of Bucky’s short term life goals had been to get Gale to laugh out loud with his full body — to laugh like no one was watching. To be responsible for entertaining his friend so much that he lost some of his armor for a few precious seconds.

But it was not to be. Gale Cleven would never laugh again. Would never look to Bucky when he wanted a second opinion or a partner in crime. Gale Cleven was no more.

So Bucky kept up his conversations with a ghost and took comfort in them. Using them to fight back the shadows encroaching on his heart and soul.

 

 

 

 

Stromburg had Bucky dragged to the office on the third day and they did their little song and dance routine, just like the last time, leaving Bucky breathless and aching in the chair.

“Perhaps you grow as tired of this farce as I do, Major,” Stromburg drawled, lighting up a cigarette, one that Bucky suspected was from his own previously confiscated pack, wishing he could have one to distract him from the goings on. “Though perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised — you American’s are nothing if not foolishly stubborn, after all.”

Like you’d talk if you were in my place, pal, the thought flitted through Bucky’s mind, clenching his jaw as he met the man’s lifeless gaze. Repetitively clenching his hands and unclenching them where they were secured through the back of the chair, leaving him relatively immobile. 

“I have another prisoner, also a major, who is just as foolish,” Stromburg continued. “Perhaps you would like him to join us?” Giving a nod to the guard over Bucky’s shoulder, clearly in no need of Bucky’s acquiesce or acknowledgment of his comment. Shrugging nonchalantly as he leaned back on the desk, removing the cigarette to let out a cloud of smoke. “And now — we wait.”

Brain sluggish from lack of sleep and lack of food, body still aching, it took a bit for Bucky to start to realize the implications of this newest tactic. Why should Bucky care about another prisoner? Was it someone he knew? Was it someone Stromburg thought he could use to make Bucky talk?

Dread building in the pit of his stomach. 

What fresh hell was approaching?

When the door opened behind him, Bucky forced himself to stare straight ahead, not giving Stromburg the satisfaction of a reaction for as long as he could, not even as the other prisoner was secured to a chair next to his own, heart beating faster at the sound of labored breathing. Knowing that, given the state of his own ribs, the other American must also be suffering. Meanwhile, Stromburg kept looking at him with gross satisfaction, making Bucky even more afraid of looking to the side. 

Who was Bucky going to see? Who’s frightened gaze would meet his own, just as helpless? Just as agonized?

Finally releasing Bucky from his gaze, Stromburg looked to the other man. “It appears that Major Egan did not miss you that much after all,” smirking at their newest addition. An inkling of the truth sparking in Bucky’s brain just an instant before — “. . . my dear Major Cleven.”

Snapping his head so fast to the left that it hurt. 

Because the other prisoner in the chair beside his own was Gale fucking Cleven.

Buck was alive alive alive!

 

 

 

 

But not well.

The sheer joy that had exploded in his heart was cut short by the sight that met his eyes once he’d actually looked over the rest of Gale, at first only focused on his Wingman’s face and the answering joy in those achingly familiar blue eyes. 

“What the hell did you do to him?!?” He snarled, lurching as close as he could in his own chair and restrained as he was, feeling the cuffs biting into the already formed wounds on his wrists. 

Which was a fair question — because Buck was a mass of bruises from his bare shoulders (and god, what had they done to his shoulder!?) down to his bare, dirty feet. The bastards had left him in only his shorts, the better to showcase the collage of blacks and blues, apparently. Lip curling in a snarl as he attempted to get closer once again, especially when the answering relief in Buck’s gaze changed to uneasiness as Stromburg’s hand landed in his dirty blond locks, keeping his head still, restraining him still further. The gag in his mouth drawn so tight that the skin around it had bled white. Putting yet another barrier between Bucky and his Buck. 

“Ah, yes,” Stromburg pretended thoughtfulness, “Haussmann did tell me that you believed Major Cleven to be dead.” Smiling like a shark, perfect teeth gleaming like a monster under the bed. “I’m afraid that you were grossly mistaken as to your friends demise.”

“Don’t you touch him!” Bucky screamed, Buck’s anger translator, as always. “Get your filthy hands off of him!”

And look, Bucky knows — he knows that he’s giving Stromburg the rope the hang him with. Bucky knows that he’s giving the German all the leverage on him. Because there was nothing that Bucky wouldn’t do for Buck.

Nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

Except . . . 

He couldn’t give up their boys, could he? Meeting Buck’s gaze one again, diatribe dying in his throat. He couldn’t betray Buck like that. Couldn’t betray their oaths or their honor.

Bucky couldn’t betray himself like that.

So he pulled sharply on the reins of the metaphorical horse that was his anger, folding in his ire and taking a page out of Buck’s book, walking it all back until he was merely trembling in his chair with it instead of letting it explode out of him. Knowing that it was too little too late when he saw the vicious satisfaction in Stromburg’s beady eyes. But he’d done it. He’d gotten control of himself and he knew Buck was proud of him, looking back at his wingman. Glad that Stromburg had taken the hand out of Buck’s hair sometime during Bucky’s blow up.

He knew how much Buck disliked being touched except by a select few people. Cursing Stromburg in his heart.

Cursing that there was nothing Bucky could do to help. Secured to his chair, he could only watch as Stromburg went over to a bureau placed against a side wall of the office, retrieving something from a drawer, humming thoughtfully as he returned to loom over Buck, tapping the object in his hand.

Bucky’s stomach plummeted to his feet as the straight razor glinted in the light from the open window. Meeting Buck’s frightened gaze for a mere moment as their tormentor used the razor to make him tip his head back, forcing him to meet Stromburg’s thoughtful gaze. 

Gasping as a guard roughly untied the gag, leaving lines along Buck’s skin where it had dug into his cheeks and lips. Bucky biting the inside of his own cheek as he practically vibrated from tension and growing fear, not liking the way Stromburg was examining Buck — like he was a piece of meat he would be more then happy to dice up and eat for dinner. Not liking the dark hunger that had entered his eyes.

At Stromburg’s orders, one of the guards gathered the other items necessary for shaving, Buck’s face soon covered in foaming lather under Stromburg’s inspection. Closing his eyes and hunching his shoulders as much as he could as the razor kissed his skin, the scraping of the blade on three days worth of stubble loud in the tense silence. Halfway done, Buck looking like some kind of cartoon version of himself, chest heaving as he fought to control what Bucky knew was rising panic, Stromburg began his questioning again.

“What is the maximum fuel capacity of a B-17?” He asked Bucky. Who was silent, though it was a struggle between his heart and his duty. 

“What is the radio frequency that was used for the last five missions that you flew?”

Bucky’s heart stopping when the razor kissed the skin of Buck’s throat, red trickling into the remaining white lather. 

“When can replacement planes be expected to arrive at Thorpe Abbot’s, given the severity of your losses?”

Even if he’d wanted to answer, Bucky couldn’t, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he watched in growing horror, watching the little trickle of red dripping slowly down Buck’s throat and onto his chest. Swaying in relief as Stromburg ‘tsk’d’ and withdrew the implement form Buck’s vulnerable neck. 

Lurching forward with a useless shout as the German struck like the snake that he was, leaving a gash on Gale’s freshly shaved cheek. Heart breaking at Buck’s noise of pain, watching as he bit his lip to keep from making any further reactions, watching as all the barriers that Gale had ever had slammed up and shut behind his eyes. Watching with shattered grief and fucking pride as Buck glared defiantly up at Stromburg even as the blood continued to flow.

Do your worst. His eyes said. 

And Stromburg was happy to oblige. 

The tension growing thicker and thicker still as the German continued the shave, leaving Gale’s face free of lather, soon enough. Hand entangled with Buck’s hair, keeping him still, he held the razor loosely at his side. Eying each other, taking each other measure.

“Still, you look like an American movie star,” Stromburg commented, making Bucky’s brow quirk in confusion at the lack of context, sure he was missing something important. “But not for long, ja?”

“No!”

But Bucky could do nothing to stop it as the razor flashed in the light and cut into Buck’s other cheek, mirroring the first, a small cry escaping the normally stoic man. Gale blinking away the tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes as Stormburg lifted his head with cruel fingers under his prisoners chin, examining his handiwork with apparent satisfaction.

“Now you look more like an officer,” he told Buck, digging his fingers into Buck’s cheeks and cause fresh blood to flow. “Less pretty.”

Horror rising in Bucky’s guts at the innuendos’s he didn’t completely understand. "Get the fuck off of him!” He demanded, wrenching uselessly at his own restraints, once again.

Confused and wary as the man merely laughed, releasing Gale’s face, though he wrenched Buck’s neck in the process, moving enough to stand in front of Bucky. “Such bravery,” their tormenter mocked, using the same hand to grasp Bucky’s chin. Bucky stilling as he felt the wetness of his Wingman’s blood on his skin. Horror adding on horror. For a moment he was back in the woods, cart rumbling beneath him, the 'Our Father' echoing in his ears. “Such . . . weakness.”

Barely aware of Buck’s noise of protest over his own alarm as the blood stained razor was fitted under Bucky’s chin, forcing his head back much like Stromburg had forced such violence on Gale, not seconds before. 

“Are you so desperate for a shave, Major Egan?” The German mocked. Smiling at whatever Look he saw on Bucky’s face. Moving the razor down and down and down, cutting casually through the first few buttons of Bucky’s uniform shirt, revealing the dirty undershirt beneath. 

And perhaps there would have been more torments of that kind or even worse ones — but the Bucky’s luck held for once and there was a knock at the door, a young soldier entering, dressed in the Luftwaffe uniform, not the black and browns of the Gestapo. Delivering some kind of message.

Sounding impatient, Stromburg responded in kind, tossing the bloody razor onto Haussmann’s desk with a clatter, the guards coming to release the prisoners from their respective chairs. The prisoners exchanging a glance of pure relief as they were dragged roughly into the hallway.

 

 

 

 

 

Saved by the literal fucking bell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Don't worry, the next chapter will feature comfort. The boys need to deal with their sudden reunion and actually talk about stuff like big boys LMAO

Chapter 4: No Atheists in Foxholes

 

 

 

 

 

“Buck — Jesus, Buck!”

Helping Buck to their cot as the door clanged shut behind them. Not sure where to put his hands, not wanting to hurt his friend but unable to not try to help —

“Bucky, just — can you —” Pleading blue eyes seeming to take up his whole face, almost wild as they stood out against the red, red blood drying to tackiness on his cheeks and neck. “I need —”

And Bucky can guess what Buck needs, even if he can’t get the words out, feeling the tremors going through the slim body pressed to his side. So he grabs the blanket from the bed and wraps it around Gale, giving him at least a small layer between himself and the cruel world they’re living in. Taking off his jacket, Bucky drops it across thin shoulders for good measure and then, getting comfortable with his back to the cold concrete, he drew Buck to himself, offering up his own body heat, eyes drawn to Gale’s bare feet.

Such an innocuous detail. But important — Gale hated not being presentable and he hated being helpless more than anything. Perhaps even more then John himself did. And right now he needed comfort, bodily contact, and warmth — all three of which Bucky was determined to provide even with their meagre resources.

Silence falls. Something John isn’t exactly good at, but he’s better at it when he’s with Gale. Letting it keep as he holds Buck close, waiting patiently as the tremors start to lesson, subsiding into occasional spasms, eventually daring to fish Gale’s hands out from underneath he blanket, one at a time, massaging warmth and sensation back into the freezing digits. Folding them safely back underneath the blanket and jacket when he was finished, folding Bucky even closer to himself, if that was possible, burying his face in the space between Gale’s neck and shoulder, careful not to lean on the side that was so vividly bruised.

“. . . I thought you were dead.”

An answering hum. “Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.” Gallows humor at it’s finest.

Snorting out a laugh, wet with tears both glad and sad, Bucky held on tighter, reveling in his Wingman’s continued existence. 

Admitting:

 

 

“I didn’t know what to do with myself without you at my side.”

 

 

“. . . It was plenty scary without you, too.” Gale eventually responded, voice low, husky in a way that it only reached when he was being painfully earnest. “It’s funny — I’d given thought to getting shot down . . . guess I just wasn’t expecting to survive it.”

“If you call this surviving,” Bucky muttered. 

Having had enough of not being able to see Gale’s face, knowing that reading the other man mostly relied on his ability to see Buck’s micro-tells, moving to turn the other man towards himself. And Buck let him, legs curled up beneath him, half in Buck’s lap, John helping to tuck the blanket around securely to keep the heat in as much as possible. Huddled together in this bleak place, wondering if this night might be their last. 

“They’ve not been very hospitable, have they?” Gale commented, lips quirking in that wry manner of his, John’s heart clenching in anger yet again as he looked at the bruises and the cuts covering what little of his Wingman that was visible.

Clearing his throat. “What happened to your shoulder?” Bucky asked, remembering the mass of horrific bruising.

“Landed wrong.” Squinting at Bucky’s, looking like he knew he would regret asking. “. . . what happened to your face?”

Every part of Bucky revolts at even the thought of telling the events that had followed his capture. But . . . if he wasn’t going to tell anyone what he’d gone through, it would be Gale. Stalwart, golden, kind-hearted Gale — his better half in everything. 

“Was with some other prisoners. Train had to stop at a town the RAF hit.” Keeping his eyes focused on one of the cuts on Gale’s face and not his eyes. Unable to bear the thought of the pity he would find there. Pity that he didn’t deserve. After all — he’d been the lucky one. “Townspeople weren’t happy to see us.”

An understatement if he’d ever heard one himself. Feeling the sharp intake of breath, Gale’s chest expanding beneath Bucky’s grip. Knowing that Buck would guess what he couldn’t say.

“. . . Jesus.”

Aware of every ache in his body, knowing that Gale had to feel, if not as bad, then much, much worse. 

“Jesus, John.”

And it was Bucky’s turn to be held, Gale bringing John to join him under the blanket, tender in a way that he rarely exhibited, kind in a way that Bucky could never be. Silent as Bucky’s tears watered his shoulder. Rubbing soothingly along John’s back. Merely being present for him, letting him grieve in his own time. Letting him grieve for the boys he barely knew but who had been his responsibility, nonetheless. Knowing how he would have felt if he had been in John’s shoes.

Held together by their scars, bound together by a grief beyond their years. 

Wishing for blue skies around them instead of cement and encroaching darkness.

Wondering what Stromburg’s next move would be and what he would seek to take from them.

 

 

 

 

Unfortunately, the wait wasn’t as long as they hoped it would be.

 

 

 

 

Woken from the type of sleep only achieved by those who were truly exhausted, harsh shouts filled their cell, both prisoners jerking awake but not yet alert. Not in a position to fight back, slumped against each other on the cot, sharing the blanket between them, their legs still entangled with it when Gale was wrenched from the cot by his hair, grunting as he crashed to his knees, struggling to get his feet under him as he was pulled, inexorably, towards the door.

“Buck!” John yelled in protest as he was driven back onto the cot by a blow to his chest, a casual backhand sprawling him out. “‘uck!” Blood trickling from re-opened wounds and a freshly split lip, ignoring the sting which was nothing compared to the string of his heart as they were forcibly separated. 

Finally escaping the cot and stumbling towards the door — only to have it slammed in his face, cutting off his last look at Gale’s frightened but determined face, looking back at him. 

Had that been the last image he would have of Buck? The thought echoed in Bucky’s mind, pin balling inside of his thunderously aching skull, wiping carelessly at the blood dripping from the edge of his mouth with a dirty sleeve. 

What was Stromburg going to do to Gale?

What was he doing to the best man John had never known, a man who didn’t deserve any of this.

Screaming impotently, he attacked the door; punching, kicking, throwing his whole body against it again and again and again — sliding down it until he was curled in on himself, biting his knuckles as he broke down into a litany of bone shaking sobs. Not wanting to give the guards the satisfaction of hearing his wails of frustration and grief.

Chanting his internal mantra, shooting up his plea to the heavens — to whatever God was up above.

 

 

 

 

Not Buck. Please. Please don’t take him. Don't take him from me again.

Please God. Please pleasepleaseplease —

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

(the author is currently sitting in a corner and thinking about what she has done)

Chapter 5: Electric Bugaboo

Notes:

I remember that I read a fic in this fandom that said that Bucky was dog-coded.

. . . I can see it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Head slumped on his chest, breathes heaving like he’d run ten miles instead of merely sitting, strapped to a chair, Gale’s mind felt like a boiled egg and his limbs trembled from lingering currents. 

 

John. He wanted John.

 

. . .

 

No . . . He didn’t want Bucky to have to see him like this. Not again.

 

Flinching as one of the goons moved closer, the horrible implement dangling at his side.

Not again. Please. Not again.

But he would not beg. He would not.

“Just when I’d made sure you weren’t pretty,” Stromburg’s eyes were hooded, sitting in a chair well out of Buck’s reach, watching every shock and every twitch with telling interest. Gale wanted to claw the man’s eyes out so he’d never look at him in that way again. “Your very suffering seems like a performance.”

Head still on his chest, Gale’s jaw tightened, scrambled brain still able to pick up on the innuendoes behind that statement. He wondered if the guards understood English. Somehow, he was sure Stromburg would not say such things if they did understand.

“Though the full import is lost upon me, I will admit.” The next sentence making Gale’s heart feel like it was being squeezed by an invisible fist, biting his lip to contain a noise of anguish that was in no way physical. “Perhaps your friend would appreciate it more, ja?”

NO!!

But Buck’s voice was gone, tongue sluggish in his mouth, in no shape to protest what was going to happen. Trying to press himself further back in the chair as he felt Stromburg approach. Clenching his eyes tightly shut as a gloved hand lifted his head by the chin, feeling a betraying tear roll from between his eyelids. Flinching as another gloved hand wiped the tear away.

“Do you think he’ll enjoy the show as much as I did, Major Cleven?” Shivering at how close the voice was to his ear.

Head falling to his chest again as Stromburg eventually released him, more tears falling, mixing with sweat. Silent sobs becoming a scream as the electric prod was jabbed under his ribs, electricity lighting up nerves and bruises and feeling like the marrow in his bones was going to drain right out of him. 

Only once his hearing returned to him, great, gasping, heaving breathes, his heart rate still pounding like he’d run a marathon, did the commotion in the corridor reach his ears. Answering howls of grief and despair reaching through the thick door.

And Buck — he knew that grief.

He knew it intimately. 

Groaning out a useless protest as he heard the door opening and the sound of Bucky getting dragged inside the room, forcing his tired eyes open, hating what he knew he would see. Hating the snarling grief that John would be unable to contain, the anger that would be enveloping him at the sight of Gale, pushed to his limits and then beyond them.

And it was worse then he thought it would be — that savage grief, Bucky’s face almost inhuman as he fought against the restraining hands, blood dripping down his fingers from how hard he was pulling at his handcuffs. 

“I’ll kill you!” He screamed at Stromburg, veins standing out in his neck, face going red as he went completely berserk. “I’ll kill you — I’ll kill you — Illkillyou —”

Ignoring the useless threats, Stromburg took Buck by the chin, smirking as Bucky kept on raging, watching like they were both some sort of sordid experiment. 

“I could switch to him, if you’d like, Major Cleven,” Stromburg commented, loudly enough to be heard over Bucky’s protests. “After all, his screams are quite . . . exquisite.”

With no voice and no autonomy, horrified by the thought of Bucky taking his place, Gale’s body rebelled and he spat up watery bile all over Stromburg’s hand and the front of his pristine uniform. Amusement bubbling up from some uncanny part of him, shaking with noiseless mirth at the expression of disgust on his tormenters face. Sprawling helplessly against the back of the chair from a harsh backhand. 

His world dissolving once again into pain and pain and pain.

Feeling himself start to drift. Disconnected to reality, Bucky’s screams slowly becoming muffled, like he was hearing them through water. 

The last thing he heard before he fainted was Bucky shouting his name. 

 

 

 

 

All things considered . . . Gale supposed it wasn’t such a bad way to go . . .

He just wished that it didn’t make John sound so goddamned sad.

 

—————————————

 

“Buck!”

Writhing uselessly against hands which were like iron around his biceps. Screaming as Gale’s eyes rolled back in his head, jerking like some anthropomorphic automaton. 

“Buck!”

Heart filling with a horrible fear as Gale finally went limp. Abruptly silent as Stromburg reached out a hand, feeling for a pulse. 

And apparently finding one because he checked Buck’s eyes next, lifting a lid to see how far back they’d rolled in his head. Huffing out an annoyed noise, as if Gale’s suffering was just another chore to him. Panting through gritted teeth, Bucky could only glare daggers at their tormentor, waiting for the next move. 

Humming, Stromburg stalked closer, predatorily, making Bucky’s hackles rise on the back of his neck. “He does suffer so beautifully, does he not?” Not moving an inch as Bucky lunged for him, teeth snapping audibly as he went for the Gestapo man’s neck with the only weapons that he still possessed. 

Because — how dare he?

How. Fucking. Dare he?

Buck wasn’t some — some plaything! Gale’s pain wasn’t entertainment!

He’d show Stromburg — maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow. But someday, he’d get the German when he had let down his guard enough. 

With that resolution in mind, Bucky took his beating in stoic silence. After seeing what Gale had been forced to endure, this was nothing. Spitting blood on the floor at his captors feet, more pouring from his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue because of a skull rattling uppercut from one of the guards.

Panting, he lay still as one of the guards stepped on his out flung hands, gritting his teeth as the pressure increased and his bones started to grind together, nerves zapping and pain flaring as they were carelessly crushed beneath a hobnailed boot. 

“Genug.”

The foot was removed and Bucky could only bite his lip to contain a whimper as he lay still, trying not to move his hand, wanting to wait a few moments before he attempted to bend and curl the abused digits. Hearing a pained groan from behind him.

 

Oh no. No no nononono!

 

Twisting so that he could see Buck twitching in his chair, eyelids fluttering, jaw clenching as he started to wake back up.

No — go back to sleep! Bucky begged as he was dragged into a kneeling position less then a yard from Buck’s knees. Stay safe in a world where nothing can hurt you, far, far away from this cursed place.

“Hurt me!” He blurted, Stromburg merely looking amused at the request. Clearly aware of how much the plea cost Bucky. “Just — leave him alone, please!”

Waiting with baited breath as Stromburg kept him in suspense, not answering immediately. Looking between Bucky and a slowly awakening Buck, considering his choices. And there was a moment, a short sweet exhausting moment, when Buck thought that maybe, just maybe, his plea would be answered in his favor.

And then —

Buck wailed, eyes popping open obscenely wide as the guard shocked him at an order from his superior. Shouting uselessly, hunching over his hand with gritted teeth as Stromburg ground his boot into it, feeling something give way. Panting, Bucky felt all of his failures settle on his shoulders, the burden hurting all over again as he could only listen to Buck’s gasping sobs as the electricity stopped, leaving him to gasp and sputter as his body struggled to recover from the assault. 

In that moment, John knew that he would never beg anyone for anything ever again. 

Not when it only led to pain and caused Gale to suffer. 

“Now,” Stromburg said as he went back to where he’d been when Bucky had been brought in, sitting in a chair well out of John’s reach. “I believe we still had some things to discuss, when we left off last time.”

Exchanging a glance with Gale, John knew only despair. Wondering how much longer they could endure these torments. 

“You will tell me everything that I want to know.”

Ah, that tired old refrain.

Mustering defiance from the depths of his soul, seeing an answering stubbornness in Buck’s pain lined face. Throwing down the gauntlet as he spit out blood onto the floor.

“Don’t bet on it.”

 

 

 

 

 

It was just too bad that the odds were all on the House. 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

The poor boys!

Chapter 6: Whiskey Lullabies

 

 

 

 

 

When Gale was small and his father was still larger than the monsters under his bed, he’d learned quickly and well this lesson: that nothing in life was free. Also that pain was a motivator and rest was for the weak minded.

So he’s so grateful that Bucky doesn’t see things that way, that he delves out kindness and touch with an easiness which Buck envies. Gale wishes that he could be so casual, regrets a childhood which made him fear the hands of other people as well as his own. But Bucky had changed all that — he’d made Buck comfortable in the company of drunken men, relaxing in the atmosphere instead of hunkering in a corner and waiting for the coming blows. He’d reached out to Buck, reaching through all of his shields like the ray of sunshine that he was, melting the hearts of most people he met with his earnestness and honestly. 

Bucky wore his heart on his sleeve while Buck kept his close to his chest.

Though there was one thing Buck knew that didn’t need tellin’ between them both — that they would die for each other.

. . . it was just too bad that that mutual sacrifice appeared to be on their event horizon instead of somewhere in the distant future. 

Not that Gale was going to speak aloud the fear that hovered over them back in their cold, cruel cell; he was not going to speak that fear into being, an elephant trampling everything in it’s wake. Instead, he was determined to endure and to revel in the kind touch that he received from his Wingman. If he died in Bucky's arms, then he would die happy.

(That happiness would only be marred by Bucky’s following him close behind. Because Gale knows — he knows that if John loses him again, there was no way that he would be able to continue among the living.)

But . . . perhaps there won’t be much Gale will be able to do to prevent that eventuality. 

Because the last two sessions had done a number on him. His muscles still spasmed occasionally, a constant roil beneath his frail skin, getting frailer by the day. Everything Bucky tried to coax down his gullet soon came up again. Worthless slop that they were thrown once a day — not fit for human consumption, a torture in and of itself. Everything that Buck truly needed, Bucky was unable to provide for him and he knew that this fact tormented his friend.

Really, Buck was simply grateful for the warmth that enveloped him and the care that John took as he embraced him on their cot. Wishing that he could give something else in return besides his breath, his proof of life and the motor that ensured the continued running of Bucky’s heart. 

“C’n ya,” Slurring out through a mouth that had never truly become un-numbed since their last session. Swallowing to get some moisture into his gums. “C’n ya s’ng for me, J’n?”

Watching through slitted eyes as Bucky’s face trembled at the request, but he rallied and did as he was bid. Voice trembling at first and then steadying as he sang his favorite tune. (Gale could only hope that he wouldn’t ruin that song for the other man forever, the stench of their cell following them even when this place was far, far behind them.)

 

Blue skies

Smiling at me

Nothing but blue skies

Do I see

 

He’s always loved it when Bucky sang, even when he acted like it embarrassed him. At first, when he’d been getting to know the slightly taller man, he’d wondered where John had gotten the confidence to act like that in front of other people. But that was just the way with some kinds of people — they fed off of the energy of others as much as they fed off of their own, seemingly plumbless depths of enthusiasm. So he’d learned to go with the flow and give Bucky his space. 

Waiting patiently for John to come back to him, like he always did, in the end. 

 

Bluebirds

Singing a song

Nothing but bluebirds

All day long

 

If his mother had ever sung to him like this when he was a child and held him close in her arms then he doesn’t remember it. He wishes he did. But he is also glad that he has no memories of such a warmth, because Bucky is able to give him everything he needs in this moment. Buck is surrounded by a little pocket of kindness and love, here in this world full of pain and suffering and death. Loosing himself in Bucky’s unique lullaby.

 

Never saw the sun shining so bright

Never saw things going so right

Noticing the days hurrying by

When you’re in love, my how they fly

 

He hoped that Marge never learned of the agony of his fate. If Bucky survived this somehow without him, he hoped that he never told Marge of the suffering they’d endured. He hoped that Bucky would lie to her in the kindest way possible. Hoped that he would not reveal how the man she loved had been reduced to a weeping mess, begging and pleading not to be hurt — not again — as they taunted him with the modified cattle prod. Gale wanted to live in a world that was made up of nothing but John’s finest lies. 

He wanted it so very, very much.

 

Blue days

All of them gone

Nothing but blue skies

From now on

 

Feeling himself start to slip away as John ran through the song for the third time, chest thrumming comfortably beneath Gales ear from the vibrations, lulling him towards rest. Vaguely aware of something wet dripping down onto his cheek. Aware, but unbothered.

 

I never saw the sun shining so bright

Never saw things going oh-so right

Noticing the days hurrying by

When you’re in love, my how they fly

 

Drifting away to a world where Bucky can’t follow. Body relaxing in Bucky’s hold, head lolling against that convenient space between John’s shoulder and neck, breaths on skin confirming that he was still alive. He would never know how comforting that breathe on his neck was to his Wingman. 

Leaving Bucky to do what he did best — protect his Buck from the monsters that roamed the world. 

Whatever Gale needed, John would be. Even against all odds. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blue days

All of them gone

Nothing but blue skies

From now on

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Because I think we all know that Buck actually loves it when Bucky sings and dances around like the chaotic mess that he is.

(Also, Buck's just asleep, not dead -- so don't worry!!)

Chapter 7: Familiar Faces

 

 

 

 

 

In his wildest dreams, Bucky would have never guessed how relieved he would be to finally see the barbed wire and watch towers of a German Prisoner of War camp.

Sprawling out before his eyes, he caught a glimpse of watchtowers and prisoners starting to gather around the entrance to what had to be the American compound as he slowly helped Buck to stand in the back of the truck. Some of the other men who’d been sitting by them, having already jumped out, stopped and reached back up to help them get to the ground. From the moment they’d been shoved into the back of the transport truck, blood still fresh from Bucky’s latest beating and Buck far too grey to be healthy, the men had been doing their best to help; passing back the meagre rations they were given in the middle of the four hour drive, making sure Bucky had a clean rag to dip in the water bucket to get Buck to suck the moisture out of.

Just this morning, Bucky had thought that they were going to die in the Dulag, that this last session would be the one that took Buck from him. 

But . . . their luck had held. After the beating and a few perfunctory questions, Stromburg had spit on Bucky as he tried to cover Buck’s helpless body, said something to his men, and then they’d been dragged outside the building that had been their prison, joining the last trickle of down airmen who were being taken from their cells and other places around the camp. 

Though Bucky didn’t feel lucky as they stumbled in the partially frozen earth, the cold seeping through his uniform, the welcoming arms of a German pre-winter. In fact, he felt like all he wanted to do was sleep. Not that he was going to do that until Buck was taken care of, looking to the side to see Buck’s face, grey with startlingly flushed cheeks and eyes bright with fever. He needed rest and water and fucking care — care which Bucky couldn’t provide him. And it had been breaking his heart, ever since Gale had asked him, voice slurred from fever, to sing for him. Sing to him like they were the last man on this earth. 

So John had sung as his heart broke within him for what seemed like the hundredth time in this god forsaken war.

Please, he begged as they staggered down the barbed wire tunnel, vaguely aware of the shouting going on around him, just one more step, Buck. We can make it. Please, Gale. Don’t give up on me. Not now.

“—uck!” A voice was shouting somewhere, insistent. “Bucky!”

Though it didn’t really get through to him until the voice was right in front of them, forcing him to halt his stumbling walk. The voice was attached to a familiar face, though it took him a moment to place it.

“Crank?”

“Major!” Crank’s smile soon turned to concern as he got his first good look at the both of them. “Geez, you look like hell.” 

Others of his and Buck’s crews coming up behind Crank, and if Bucky had had more energy he would have been over the moon. But as it was, his legs picked that moment to buckle and his last instinct was to try to make sure Buck didn’t go sprawling out in the mud and muck. 

“Buck!”

“Bucky!”

“Majors!”

“Jesus — somebody get the Colonel!”

And, then there were hands, kind hands, true, but they were trying to separate him from Buck and he couldn’t allow that, struggling with renewed vigor drawn from the depths of his soul as they tried to untangle his hands from his Wingman. Holding on for dear life, the men drawing back when they realized what was happening. 

Like he had for the last week (though Buck had no way of knowing that their ordeal had lasted so long) Bucky drew Buck to himself, getting the other man comfortable, letting Buck’s head nestle in the crook of his neck, shallow breathes a proof of life. Lightheaded, Bucky opened his eyes again, looking up at the circle of faces surrounding him, wondering why they all looked so sad. Forgetting already the forces that had driven him to the earth.

“Crank?” He asked, like they hadn’t just been talking moments before.

“Yeah, Bucky?” Crank asked gently, crouching down in front of them. 

“Buck needs help.” 

Unaware of how he was breaking their men’s hearts. 

“We’ll get him help, Bucky,” Crank assured him. “Both of you.”

“Good,” Bucky said, indulging in leaning his own head against the one cradled to his chest. “That’s . . . that’s good.”

Making quite the tableau for Colonel Alkire to find when he came running up with Hambone beside him. Taking in the now unconscious pair of majors, registering the amount of damage that was clearly visible, and guessing on the damage that was hidden beneath their filthy uniforms and dirt stained skin.

“Get them to the infirmary,” The colonel ordered. “I’ll request to see the Commandant — see if he’ll tell me any details about what happened to them. Maybe get some actual medicine for once.” Though the twist of his face as he says it speaks to how likely he thinks that will be. 

And so the groups split up, the men carefully separating their majors and the Colonel going to the gates to talk to the guards about his request.

 

 

 

 

 

It takes over five minutes to coax the unconscious men apart. Both John and Gale’s fingers stubbornly attached to each others clothes, even in their deeply unconscious states. 

No, Crank thinks as he blinks back the moisture in his eyes, exchanging a look with DeMarco. Not even death would be enough to separate their Majors.

And it’s breaking his goddamned heart. 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8: Safe (But Not Yet Sound)

Notes:

The copilots get their say.

 

 

 

 

 

The moment when both Demarco and Brady compared stories in the Stalag, whispering in their bunks with scratchy blankets and thin pillows, that moment when they realized that they’d managed to lose both of their Majors . . . that had hit hard. 

Tossing and turning in their beds, lost in self reproaches. 

Because . . . maybe he could’ve done more, Brady agonized. Maybe he could’ve tried to make sure his parachute landed closer to Bucky’s, maybe he could’ve managed to get the man not to go up at all on his revenge flight (because they’d all known that was what it was) — maybe, if they’d gotten enough of the men together they could’ve managed it. Maybe maybe maybe — this whole war was a series of endless fucking maybes and what if’s and if I’d tried harder's and if only the German’s had aimed two inches to the left . . . 

He should’ve fought when they'd separated him from Buck, Demarco was thinking. He should’ve tried to stick with his pilot — the 100th couldn’t do without the man. For all that Buck was a pillar to them all, Demarco had noticed the way the guards had been eyeing the taller man as they'd been transported in the back of a half truck, eyeing Buck's blond hair and blue eyes and movie star visage. Demarco wished that Bucky was here to give him the talking to that he felt he deserved for his failure. Wishing he'd reached out as they'd hustled Buck away into a different car.

So neither of the copilots were able to sleep that night.

And both of them rushed to greet every new group of prisoners that arrived, hoping to catch a glimpse of the familiar forms — hoping against hope that they would be together. Because seeing the Bucky's apart would have been unnatural. (And Brady would know — they’d all had to suffer Bucky’s sullenness when he’d been without Buck on that last Mission.)

 

 

 

However, when their Majors stumble through the gates of their new home away from home, it isn’t the glorious moment that they were expecting. 

Sure, there are cheers and welcoming cries, but those whither and die in the face of the miserable picture the Bucky’s make, each seemingly more broken than the other. Demarco isn’t sure where to even touch them so that he doesn’t hurt them. And the way Bucky fights them when they try to separate him from Buck breaks his goddamn heart. 

Of course now that Bucky had found Buck, he wasn’t going to let him go.  

Neither of the Majors are small men. So, once they’re finally pried apart, it takes two men each to carry them, four men in all. At least they haven’t been on POW rations for long enough to truly affect their stamina, Demarco thinks ruefully, even as he pants for breath under his precious burden, Buck’s blond locks making a faint noise as they rub against his coat front. 

The doc looks up from a man with a dirty cast on his arm and immediately hurries over at the sight of them, clicking his tongue at the sight of the bruises that are visible. 

“We don’t have much,” He freely admits to the assembled men. “But I'm sure you’ll assist me as much as you can?” Looking around at the little group that had followed and guarded their Majors all the way from the front gate. 

And at their nods, he orders them to get hot water and rags and any medicine they can scrounge.

“Whatever’s been done to them,” The doc said, “A good cleaning will have to come first. An infection can kill you in a place like this.”

Without any discussion, Crank, Brady and Demarco are unanimously upvoted to be the ones to help the doc peel the Bucky’s from their soiled uniforms. Or at least, what was left of them. Demarco had a moment to wonder what happened to Bucky’s sheepskin before startled gasps and swears escaped all of them as bit by bit the amount of damage was revealed. 

Even the doctor paused as the bruises upon bruises were revealed on both men, the myriad of blues and blacks and purples and browns like a second skin, stomach lurchingly vivid. (When he thinks of it later, Demarco will probably have to hurl. But not now. He can't lose it now.)

“Jesus.” But he shook it off quicker then they did, getting back to work, palpitating limbs and checking reflexes even though they were unconscious.

“It’s probably better that they aren’t awake for this,” He commented as water was finally brought and he directed Brady and Demarco on how to give the patients a thorough ‘rag bath.’ 

And Demarco was glad, too, as strange markings were revealed on Buck’s stomach and chest and on the insides of his fucking thighs — burns that had no business being there. They were too neat and intentional — they weren’t burns from a burning plane, of that he was certain, or he would eat his fucking hat. 

What the hell did they do to them?!? He wondered, seeing the same thought on the others faces. Knowing that they might never know for sure and hating the thought of it, of their Major’s being hurt on purpose. 

That’d how the Colonel finds them, filled with a rage they can’t act on and nursing broken hearts at seeing such proud men brought so low. 

“The Gestapo had them for a week,” Is Alkire’s grim report, appalled silence falling over the group as they looked at the two men laid out like eldritch sacrifices, unaware of the scrutiny. “When I pointed out that I needed more senior officers to organize everything, he was a bit more willing to help.” Handing a small box to the doctor, saying apologetically, “This was all I could get.”

“It’s already as good as gold in a place like this,” The doctor assured him, face lighting up when he saw what was in the box. “I’d better administer some now.” Explaining to the men as he did so, injecting a syrette each into his patients. “Morphine will go a long way in a place like this.”

Demarco is just glad that it seemed to make the Bucky’s slip into even deeper sleep instead of just being unconscious. 

 

 

 

Although they aren’t allowed to stay in the infirmary for long, the monotonous Roll Calls and bunk checks making it impossible, Demarco and Brady and a few of the others are at the infirmary as soon as they can be the following day, keeping their sleeping Major’s company. Who knew what they’d be like when they woke up? And it would be good for them to see familiar faces when they did.

It was time to grant them as many small kindness’s as they were able in this cursed place. 

Taking a spot by his pilot’s shoulder, wringing out a rag periodically to place over Buck’s forehead, trying to comfort the unconscious man as much as he was trying to comfort himself. Because it was unnatural, seeing the Major like this. Buck had always been quiet, that wasn’t unusual, but to be so still, to not spring into action whenever he saw a problem or that his boys were getting restless, that was the weird part. True, both of the Bucky’s were the heart and soul of the 100th, but Buck was nearly like God in how untouchable he had seemed, up until this point.

And compared to Bucky, he was practically a saint. Insides aching at the memory of Buck dancing with Meatball not two weeks before as if they had all the time in the world. Gale didn’t drink or gamble or smoke — he was goddamned near perfect, really. But that hadn’t saved him, had it? Here he was, beaten all to hell, every breath labored, an uphill battle against his battered lungs, wheezing through battered lips.

Remembering the hatred he had felt when he’d gotten his first good look at the cuts on his pilots face. Because they had been too perfect and had mirrored each other too neatly to be accidental. Those cuts had to have been the product of malice and forethought and it made Demarco want to hurl at the thought of Buck, helpless and undoubtedly held down as the cuts were inflicted. It made him understand Bucky a bit more — given his own urge to wrap the golden Major up in bubble wrap and keep him safe from the world. 

And then came the moment they’d all been hoping for as much as they’d been dreading; the Majors started to wake up. 

Bucky stirred first, frowning and groaning as he tried to roll over and failed, eyes popping open with a start and a hoarse shout escaping him as he didn’t realize where he was at first. It took two of them holding him down and Crank getting in his face to calm him down. And even then, he was at it again once he realized that he couldn’t see Buck.

Brady got under his pilots arm and helped him over to Buck’s cot, grimacing at the weight but happy to be of some real help at last. Sitting heavily in the chair that Demarco was quick to vacate, Bucky reached out to smooth a hand through Buck’s hastily cleaned hair. It had been the last on a long list of things to do for the patients but they’d tried their best. And hadn’t it been different, to see Buck with bedhead instead of his carefully styled locks? 

The men were silent as Bucky examined his Buck, taking stock of hurts that he would’ve seen inflicted in person, jaw clenching as he bowed his head for a moment, collecting himself. 

“Hey, Buck,” he whispered into the silence of their room. “We made it.”

Then the doctor came in, preventing any of them from putting their feet in their mouths, also ensuring that they were all ordered out to give the Major’s some privacy. Some things shouldn’t be told, Demarco was sure, some things needed to stay secret and private. Glancing back at them as the door closes, seeing the pure fatigue on Bucky’s expressive face, the worry in his eyes as he looks at his friend still asleep on the bed.

 

 

 

 

 

And Demarco shuts the door behind him, standing guard with Brady to protect what was left of their Major’s dignity.  

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

When I watch the series, I always think about how hard it must have been for their men to watch the Bucky's struggle. Especially when they started fighting in the yard. Because like, WTF? And they never really addressed it afterwards. So I wanted to give Demarco and Brady a bit of a voice in this chapter.

Chapter 9: Consequences of Valor

Notes:

(The author apologizes in advance, hides behind a giant potted plant and peeks around it to see the consequences of her own actions, cowering with the rest of her Plot Bunnies)

 

 

 

 

 

Picking absently at the cobbled together brace on his hand that was keeping the bones still, Bucky watched Buck sleep, taking comfort in the steady rise and fall of his Wingman’s chest. 

The cuts were healing nicely, scabbed over and no longer inflamed. Though pale, Buck’s color was good and the fever had gone down through their persistent efforts over the last two days of their stay in the Stalag’s infirmary. As for himself, he was still tired and his body ached, but after the rations the Gestapo had given them, the food here, meagre though it was, still filled his hollow stomach well enough to give him energy to interact with the boys. Though he’d insisted on staying by Buck’s side.

Not even God himself would separate him from Buck when he needed him. Not even the German’s would pull him away. 

Not this time.

Distracted but not deterred by their men’s visits and the occasional card game to pass the time, Bucky stayed at Gale’s side and waited for him to wake up.

It was as he read a copy of a murder mystery from the camp library that Crank had generously lent him, that Bucky felt like he was being watched. Looking up to see — familiar blue, blue eyes stared at him, like a doe watching from the edges of the forest, staring longingly at a pool of water just out of reach.

“Buck!”

Dropping the book, Bucky crashed to his knees beside the cot, clasping Buck’s hand and bringing the other up to test the man’s temperature by laying his hand on the blond’s forehead. Relieved to find the fever no worse (though it was no better either), he met Buck’s eyes, wondering why he wasn’t saying anything back. 

“. . . Buck?”

Brow scrunching, Buck’s mouth opened and closed uselessly, his free hand coming up to clasp at his throat. Shaking his head, he could only meet Bucky’s horrified one’s helplessly. Mute as a lamb brought to the slaughter. Causing Bucky to rise to his feet, calling for the doc.

 

 

“You said that he screamed . . . quite a lot?” The doctor inquired delicately as he came in to consult on the matter. Continuing at Bucky’s nod. “Then I’d venture to say, Major Cleven, that your vocal cords have simply been exhausted. Given time and adequate rest . . . well, I’m sure that you will regain the use of your voice.”

Hope blossoming in Bucky’s heart. 

“That’s good, isn’t it Buck?” He asked, squeezing Gale’s hand reassuringly over the coverlet. 

Buck nodded, eyes already fluttering closed, exhausted even though he’d only been awake for ten minutes at most.

“Sleep, Buck,” Bucky reassured him. “I’ll keep watch.

 

 

And Buck does just that, holding Bucky’s hand back just as tightly.

 

————————————

 

“It is purely good to see you awake, sir,” Demarco says when he finally visits at a time when Buck is awake. Heart relieved at the answering smile he receives, the familiar faint quirk of Buck’s lips, the welcome in his eyes.

Knowing that Buck is unable to speak, his pilot can still play cards with him, so they settle into a game, Bucky and Crank arguing about what they’d been told about the World Series by word of mouth through the camp grapevine on the next bunk over. Apparently there are several radios in the compound, kept under tight security. 

Taking the opportunity to study his pilot up close as the other man studies his hand. Glad to see Buck in better shape then when he’d arrived. Glad that Buck’s fever had reduced and that Bucky could laugh again. It would almost be like old times back at Thorpe Abbott’s, except there wasn’t a drop of whiskey in sight and the only bars around were the ones on the windows. 

Eh, Demarco would take what he could get.

Though it was a bit strange, how long Buck was taking to decide what card to lay down. While he wasn’t prone to gambling, no one could say that Buck’s skill at poker couldn’t rival Bucky’s, when it came down to it. Puzzlement turning to horror as Buck’s hand trembled violently, the cards fluttering to the bedcovers. Robbed of his voice for a few precious seconds, Demarco could only watch as Buck’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body convulsed. 

 

Once. Twice.

Again.

 

Finally drawing enough breath to shout.

“BUCK!”

Drawing the attention of the others whose own shouts of horror brought the doctor running. Soon the doc and a few of the camp medics were surrounding the cot, trying to make sure Buck didn’t hurt himself, the jerking of the usually stoic man’s limbs grotesque in its puppetry.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The doctor taking the pulse of his now limp patient, Buck having fainted after all was said and done, apparently. 

“A slight fever,” the doc pronounced. “He’ll have to stay a few more days, at least.”

“What was that?” Bucky blurted out, looking more distraught then Demarco had ever seen him.

“A seizure,” the doctor said bluntly. “Not unprecedented, given what you’ve explained about your treatment in the Dulag. And the fever isn’t helping any.”

“. . . will it happen again?” Crank asked what they were all thinking, shocked by what they had witnessed.

The doc’s silence is answer enough.

Obviously, the news throws a pall over the gathered men and Demarco knows it will shock and worry the others once they let it be known that Major Cleven is still sick — still very, very sick. He can only hope that it only lasts as long as the fever does. Because he doesn’t even want to begin to imagine what the guards will do if Buck has a fit like that while out in the yard. Even though he’s only been there a week or so, even he is aware of how cruel the German’s can be.

Heartless bastards. The lot of them. 

And they won’t survive it, he thinks as Bucky gets into Buck’s bed, picking the slighter man’s limp and pliable body up and holding him to his chest like he had out in the yard, they won’t survive seeing their Majors shot like animals. They’d go down swinging before they let the German’s take the Bucky’s away to be shot and buried in a shallow grave. (And the German’s probably wouldn’t wait to shoot them until they were out of sight to shoot them, as a matter of fact.)

Exchanging a glance with Brady as they all start to gather their things to go, driven by some unanimous agreement to leave Bucky alone for a while to come to terms with what just happened in relative privacy. 

Glancing back once as they left the room, seeing and then making sure to forget, between one breath and the next, the tear trailing down Bucky’s pale, pale cheek, Buck’s golden head tucked safely into his neck, once again. 

 

 

 

 

Blinking back a tear or two of his own; knowing he wasn’t the only one similarly affected.  Wishing that this war could be kinder.

Well aware that there was always something more that could be taken from them.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Buck is going through it!

I think the next chapter will be Buck being introspective. But we shall see . . . just needed to get to this point, first.

Chapter 10: Bent (But Not Broken)

 

 

 

 

 

Gale doesn’t want to wake up. 

There’s always a flavor to waking up and whatever he’s tasting right now is like curdled milk, rotten and sticking to his gums no matter how many times he brushed his teeth. 

What had happened, he wondered, to make him dislike the thought of waking up? Eyelids like lead, he kept them shut, searching for names to all of the sensations he was suddenly bombarded with. Dampness, cool against his brow — a cloth? Rough sheets underneath him, several blankets on top that had a vague smell of something that had been in storage for too long, or had been used by too many men to count and had been imbued with each unique scent. But . . . they were warm. He’d been missing the feeling of being warm, hadn’t he?

Brow furrowing under the cloth across his eyes. Why didn’t he trust the warmth? 

This wasn’t Thorpe Abbott’s, of that he was certain. The smell is wrong and there are no low murmurs of other patients or the distant sounds of the maintenance crews working on the Flying Fortress’s. 

Bucky. The thought comes to him. Bucky would know what was happening. Bucky always made everything make sense. 

 

Bucky . . . 

 . . .

There was something he was forgetting . . . wasn’t there?

 

Stretching surreptitiously underneath the blankets. For some reason it felt imperative to not alert anyone of his being awake, frowning harder as various parts of his body signaled that moving wasn’t a good idea. His shoulder flared with a bone deep ache, his muscles burned and he could hear every heartbeat in his ears as loudly as a drum. 

But years of dealing with the aftermath of his father’s drunken rages hadn’t made him a quitter, so Gale persisted, trying and failing to sit up, barely managing a sort of sluggish squirming underneath his covers. 

A sobbing whine escaping him, burning his throat as it came up his ravaged esophagus. 

 

What was wrong with him?!?

 

And then — salvation.

“Gale!”

Hands were on him, familiar hands, godsent — trying and failing to answer back, feeling the dampness in his eyes escaping and then cooling in the air as the cloth on his face was removed. Blinking against the sudden brightness, Gale looked up to see Bucky looking down at him, worry on his face.

Along with . . . anger? 

But why would he be angry? What the hell had happened?

So many questions were bubbling up inside him, but he couldn’t get a word out through a throat that felt like he’d chewed and swallowed glass at every attempt to speak, curling his fingers tightly into Bucky’s jacket after he’d managed to free one of his arms from the blankets. Frustration more than evident, causing Bucky to try to soothe him.

“It’s okay, Buck,” Bucky said, “Let’s get you sat up.”

And so Buck ends up in a position that feels so familiar, for some reason, but he can’t explain why it feels so familiar. (It’s on the tip of his goddamned tongue . . .) Relaxing against Bucky’s chest as he’s practically hauled into the larger man’s lap, head tucked under Bucky’s chin, feeling like nothing can hurt him while he’s like this. Feeling calmer now that he can breathe the scent that’s pure Bucky — though it's a scent without a thread of Four Roses sprinkled in it, which is unusual, given how much Bucky drinks. 

“Good to see you awake, Buck,” Bucky tells him. “Was beginning to worry.”

But why? Buck thought, frustration rushing through him again, annoyed and upset by his apparent physical limitations. Had he really been asleep for such a long time? And what was wrong with him, anyway?

And then he catches a glimpse of the brace on Bucky’s wrist, taking in for the first time the odd conglomeration of uniform and civilian clothes he’s wearing and seeing the bruises on his face and the way his right eye is nearly swollen shut, not knowing how he hadn’t noticed it before —

 

 

 

— and he remembers. 

He remembers all of it.

He remembers that last, worst day.

 

 

 

‘They’re going to be shot,’ Gale thinks as they’re dragged from the cell, head hanging down on his chest as he was dragged through the now familiar corridors to where Stromburg waited. Today is the day that the Gestapo will decide that they aren’t worth the trouble — that they’re too broken. That what little they did know is useless by now anyway. It’s been days since both of them were shot down, hearing the sound of Bucky being dragged behind him, cursing as he struggled, defiant until the end. 

It’s not like he hasn’t had this thought before. Every time they were fetched from their cell a small part of him wondered if this was it; if this was the day to end all days. But then night fell and another day dawned with them still alive. It's just that there's something about the way the guards had looked at them, something final about the way that clothes had been tossed at him and Bucky had helped him dress under the hostile gaze of their captors that had told Buck that today would be different.

Not that the beating was different from usual. 

Heart breaking as blood flew from Bucky’s battered features as Gale could only watch, hanging limply in one of the guards grip, bad arm leveraged behind him to prevent him from struggling too much. Though it wasn’t like he had much energy left anyway. He was reaching the end of his tether. While his spirit was willing to fight on, his flesh was weak . Foundations cracked and ravaged. 

Every breath felt like it could be his last. Heartbeat loud in his ears as Bucky was driven to the floor again, curling in on himself in a meagre defense against the boots which drove into his sides and ribs. Once. Twice. 

Again.

Coming back from wherever his mind had wandered to escape their torment by a hand on his chin, forcing him to look up into Stromburg’s icy blue gaze, so unlike Gale’s own. There was nothing human in the way Stromburg looked at him — there was only death staring out from behind a curtain.

At this point, Gale almost welcomed death. Aware of Bucky groaning on the ground not far away, coughing as he spat up blood and phlegm. Drawing on his last reserves, digging deep to find that spark that had gotten him this far and maybe no farther — only for Stromburg to scoff at his meagre defiance and shove his head down, making Gale groan as the motions sparked waves of pain down his spine and throughout his entire body. 

Freezing in dread as he felt the cold steel of a Lugar’s barrel pressed to the back of his head. Vaguely away of Bucky’s violent struggles and swearing in the background. Waiting for the shot.

Moment by moment, time was suspended. All that existed was Buck and the gun.

‘Marge . . . I’m sorry.’

Squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his fists in the guards grip. Refusing to beg. Heart hurting at Bucky’s increasingly panicked threats and pleas, sounding like they were coming through water and Buck was a fathom deep. 

‘I’m so sorry, John. We’re not going to be the last B-17’s in the sky, after all.’ 

The gun is cocked. 

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

The hammer clicks on an empty chamber. The small noise so incredibly loud in Gale’s ears. 

Gasping, Gale feels himself weep in relief at the foul trick, surprised that he still had any tears left to cry, dead weight in the guards grip. Forced to meet Stromburg’s gaze once more, seeing the cruel satisfaction at the results of his malicious farce. 

‘That can’t be the end of it,’ Gale is certain of it as they were dragged once again, wincing at the sunlight, piercing to eyes used to the darkness suitable for the torture they have endured. He would never get to see marge again or hear Bucky laugh. ‘It can’t be the end of their ordeal — they were going to be shot and buried in a shallow grave.’ 

. . . instead, they are thrown into the back of a transport truck, surrounded by horrified faces.

Uncomprehending, Gale sits with Bucky as their fellow prisoners do what they can for them. Watching as the Dulag gates disappear far, far behind them. Letting Bucky hide him from the world for a while, tears done and drying on his cheeks. 

 

 

 

He remembers the prison’s gates and seeing the boys.

 

 

 

He remembers — playing cards? — Demarco’s laughing eyes.

And then — bright spots like a kaleidoscope in front of his own eyes as he looked at his cards — and then —

 

 

— nothing.

 

 

 

 

Gale remembers and wishes he could forget.

Becoming aware of Bucky watching him, no doubt seeing the emotions playing across his Wingman’s face. 

“You had a seizure, Buck,” John tells him, anger carefully hidden behind his concern. Though Gale knows the anger isn’t aimed at him. No doubt Bucky is thinking of what had caused the whole thing. “Doc thinks it was all that electricity you got shocked with.” Admitting. "Scared the shit out of me."

Though he knows — he knows it’s irrational, and he can feel color rising to his cheeks at the thought of their men witnessing his moment of weakness.

“Hey,” Bucky scolds him, flicking him gently on the forehead, making Gale glare a little through the haze of humiliation. “None of that, now. The boys don’t think less of you for it. So don’t you dare think your weak — not for this.” Making Gale look at him, eyes soft yet fierce in the light from a nearby window. “You’re the strongest man I know, Gale.”

Hand moving to scruff the back of Gale’s neck like he was an unruly barn cat, unused to kindness. “Don’t you dare think less of yourself because of this. Don’t let that bastard win. Not now.”

And he’s right, Gale realized as the shame slowly faded. Remembering the man he’d been before his first Mission. Remembering the blood and the guts and the pain he’d waded through to reach where he was now. Remembering how many times he’d been knocked down and how many times he’d dragged himself back up again. Feeling a forming resolve. 

Thank you. His eyes said.

Bucky understood. He always did.

“You’re welcome,” the brunette says, only a little smug in his seeming omnipotence. “Now,” Gesturing to the shallow plate on the side table. “How do you feel about potato and turnip soup?”

After a week of next to nothing or worse, Gale wasn’t about to say no.

 

 

 

 

When the boys visit them a few hours later, Gale is able to greet them with a smile, secure in his own legend. Propped up by John’s shoulder. 

After all, it would always be them against the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I'm not entirely sure where the story will go from here, but I do like what I have so far. (Suggestions are more than welcome.)

Thanks so much to everyone who has been sticking with this story. And thanks especially to the readers who have been leaving such lovely comments!

Chapter 11: Breaking the Silence

 

 

 

 

 

The first roll call was the worst.

Wanting to guard their major’s from any further hurt at the hands of the krauts, but knowing that there was little they could do if they decided to do something to the Bucky’s — they were all just kreigie’s here; no longer human. And it showed. Both him and Brady watching in the row behind as their barracks guard moved through the ranks, counting in German. (By the end of the first week Demarco could count to 200 in his fucking sleep.) Watching his pilot’s back as the guard passed in front to Buck, looking him up and down with a smirk as he called off Buck’s number. And then, thankfully, moved on.

Not that the major couldn’t take care of himself, Demarco was sure. Or Bucky would take care of any threat for his Wingman. But . . . they’d all witnessed their major’s frailty, the way his body shook and arched with spasms and his eyes rolled back into his skull, a display beyond Buck’s power to control. And with one arm in a sling, a few hours out of the camp infirmary, the boy’s were making it their business to see that their major’s were kept safe.

Well, as safe as you could get in the middle of a Stalag surrounded by German guards who hated their guts. 

But what hurt worse then the roll call was the way Bucky steadied Buck as they were finally dismissed, Demarco catching the infinitesimal sway in his pilot’s body as his legs tried to give way beneath him. Heart skipping a beat, but glad that Buck had something he allowed so close. Even though Demarco had been Buck’s copilot through a hell of a lot, even he knew not to breach the invisible barrier Buck always erected around himself. Buck was always watching, aloof, eyes dancing with mirth but not necessarily participating. Demarco hadn’t truly realized how alone his pilot could be in the middle of a sea of people.

But Buck had Bucky.

And that was enough.

Hurrying ahead to the barracks, knowing Bucky would want to get Buck lying down as soon as possible, finding that Crank already had a similar idea, getting a kettle on over the stove.

“I’ve still got a few packets of the mint tea from my package leftover,” Benny told the curly headed man.

Crank gave him a smile. “So do I — we’ll ration it, same as everything else.”

Giving the Bucky’s what privacy they could in so small a room, hovering by the stove as Bucky got Buck situated in the lowest bunk, practically tucking the slimmer man in in the earnest, semi-bullying way that only Egan was allowed to act toward Cleven. Catching the look of tired fondness that passed over Buck’s face, still pale from his ordeal and confinement.

Memories of burns and bruises upon bruises — Benny had to blink away the memories and force down the accompanying anger. Anger that the German’s had sullied their Golden Major in such a fashion. (And he could only hope that there had been nothing worse that what was most obviously the cause. Comforted that Bucky would have been much more of a mess if anything like that had gone down.)

“Here ya go, Buck,” Demarco says as he approached with a steaming mug of tea. Though there’s no sweetener to be had, the fact that it’s warm makes it practically Christmas compared to their normal rations. 

Thank you, his pilot says with a look, mouthing the words for good measure. Making anger rise in Demarco’s chest, once again, just when he thought he’d gotten shed of it. Because it’s the kraut’s fault that Buck can’t speak even after five days in the camp. Four of which were spent recuperating in the infirmary.

“You’re welcome, Buck.”

Retreating back to the Stove with Crank. Getting into a game of cards once Hambone and Brady return with their rations. All of them keeping an eye on their majors.

After all, it’s the least they can do.

 

 

 

Hiding their smiles as Bucky hums his favorite tune, large hand stroking languidly through blond hair, Buck slowly falling asleep; safe among friends. 

 

—————————————

 

Buck still wasn’t eating well, and it was worrying his copilot. 

Four days since the Bucky’s got out of the infirmary, a week and a half at the stalag in total, Demarco was sitting with his pilot in their current billet, Bucky having finally been persuaded to go out into the fresh air and get the lay of the land. Or, ‘the grand tour’ as Crank had joked, clapping their Major on the back. 

Bucky had been hovering. Naturally, no one thought it was odd, given the things that had happened to the Bucky’s before their arrival at the Stalag. But . . . Demarco had seen the way that Buck, patient as he was, had started to act a bit on edge. Major Cleven wasn’t the sort of man who liked being coddled, even by his best friend. So when Brady had seen a chance to get Bucky out and about for a bit, Demarco had been quick to ensure that he himself would stay at Buck’s side, doing his level best to mend a rip in his service jacket, sitting himself at the table several feet away from Buck, giving his pilot the illusion of privacy.

It wasn’t like privacy was easy to come by, what with the POW’s packed in together like sardines in a can. 

Sitting by the window, the wind ruffled Buck’s hair as he stared out, clutching a blanket around his shoulders. Shoulders that were much too thin for Demarco’s liking. The blanket also covered up the makeshift sling that the Major was wearing, given the bruising that still made moving his arm a bit of a chore. At least the cuts on his face were scarring already. He’d been lucky that they hadn’t gotten infected, Demarco knew. Shoving down the bile that always rose in his gorge when he thought about how the cuts must have been inflicted. Hoping that he’d be able to go ten rounds with the Kraut responsible one day. 

When it came down to it, a lot of things were worrying Demarco about Buck. 

Perhaps, once the Major’s voice returned, they’d all be more reassured. Not having that drawl rise up and respond to Bucky’s boisterous, boyish intonations was strange, to say the least. While his mere presence brought an instinctual layer of good behavior out in all of them, Buck’s inability to truly contribute to the conversations was weighing on them all. Gorge rising again at the knowledge of how much Buck had to have screamed to have lost his voice like this. Hoping that trauma didn’t pile upon trauma and rob the world of Buck’s dulcet tones for the rest of his born days. 

Bucky wouldn’t be able to bear it. And they all needed their Majors to survive here, to be the pillars of strength they’d all come to rely on to get through this damned war. 

Was such a burden fair?

Casting a glance at the thin shoulders, swamped by the blanket held around them. 

. . . No. Going back to his sewing as he mused. It wasn’t fair. But there really was’t anything that could be done about it now, was there?

He’d just have to do his best to help prop his pilot up, one day at a time. 

 

 

Now — time to scrounge up some tea! That was sure to help his pilot’s throat. 

 

——————————

 

In the darkness of their barracks, Demarco woke, and wondered why.

Listening attentively, lying still, waiting . . . for what he didn’t know.

Just . . . waiting.

 

 

And there it was — the sound of a muffled cry. Chocked and horrible.

There was only one person Benny thought it could be. And for a moment he wondered if he should just try to sleep, not wanting to embarrass the man further, but suspected that if it had woken him up, then it had woken up some of the others already. 

The thump of someone getting out of their bunk. Clothes rustling.

“Buck?” A sleepy voice said, Demarco slumping in relief at the sound of Egan’s voice. 

Another muffled cry, setting Benny’s teeth on edge. 

“Ya gotta wake up, Buck,” Egan said, sounding urgent but also trying to keep his voice down. “It’s just a dream.”

A choking gasp, Bucky’s voice, soothing his Wingman.

And then —

“J'n?”

Heartbreak in Bucky’s voice. Heartbreak tempered with tremulous hope. “Yeah, it’s just me, Gale.”

It felt like the entire barracks was holding its breath.

 

 

 

“. . . John.”

 

 

 

 

“Yeah,” Egan said, tears in his voice (and no one blamed him), “It’s okay, Buck. It was just a dream.”

The pause is longer this time and Benny can picture his pilot’s eyes narrowing as he peered into the darkness. 

“You a’righ'?” The familiar drawl, missed over the last weeks, music to their ears.

“. . . yeah,” the words immeasurably fond. “Yeah — I’m okay, Buck.”

And Demarco knows that Buck must still be caught between his dream and reality because of his next question.

“Can you sing for me, Bucky?”

 

 

 

 

The entire barracks goes to sleep to the sound of Bucky’s quiet but raucous lullaby. Knowing that all was right with the world, once again. 

Dreaming of good whiskey and Meatball getting underfoot. 

Dreaming of home.

 

 

 

Bluebirds

Singing a song

Nothing but bluebirds

All day long

 

Blue days

All of them gone

Nothing but blue skies

From now on

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I think I may write more of this eventually? But I want to end it for now on an uplifting note. Maybe I'll do a time skip or something, eventually? Either way -- I'm happy with what I have here.

Hopefully I'll be able to explore some other ideas that have been propagating in my mind.

As always, thank you so, so much to all the people who have been reading this and leaving comments. They make me so happy.

\(^-^)/

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Nothin' But Blue Skies, All of them Gone