Chapter Text
December 26, 1942
Algiers, Algeria, North Africa
Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan had spent over half his life in show business. He left home for the circus at fourteen years old, travelled with the Sparks Circus for five years, then the Hagenbeck-Wallace Circus for seven, before he settled in Brooklyn in '38 to work at the World Circus Side Show at Coney Island. His strongman act was really something, if he did say so himself, he even did a little fire-eating in it. Sometimes he stood in for the ringmaster, but usually he stuck to the side shows.
The freaks and oddities of the side shows were some of the best people he'd ever met in his life. Some of them were even homosexuals, and he'd known at least two bearded ladies who weren't actually ladies at all. He had never been so inclined himself, but he'd never felt it was any of his business what a fella got up to. Live and let live, as his mam used to say.
The problem was, Bucky Barnes and Ted Clark were both idiots.
He'd noticed the way they looked at each other from the very beginning. First Bucky — he'd known Bucky since basic training, knew him well enough to recognize those admiring, longing looks he sent Clark's way when he thought no one was looking. At least Clark was more subtle — Dugan might never have noticed, if he hadn't been curious about whether Bucky's feelings were returned.
And then two days ago, he'd walked in on them kissing. He hadn't really seen anything, but the way they'd been sitting on Bucky's bed and jumped apart when the door opened — well, it was obvious what they'd been up to. He played it off, pretended he hadn't seen anything, and they were lucky he was the one who came in. Were they trying to get blue discharges? At least they seemed spooked, barely looking at each other if anyone was around, so maybe they'd be more careful now.
Tonight, they'd gone to the new USO Center in Algiers to see Now, Voyager with Bette Davis and Paul Henreid. He wasn't stupid, he knew it was supposed to have been a date for Bucky and Clark. But they'd been talking about it at breakfast, PFC Gutierrez had overheard and invited himself along, then he invited Ripley and Tuttle, and then suddenly half their squad was going. Dugan had only tagged along in the hope he could be a buffer between the privates and the men who'd just wanted a date.
It was a good picture — Bette Davis playing a woman who has a mental breakdown, then falls for Paul Henreid, whose character was already married. Back at base, heading back to the barracks, Gut, Rip, and Tuttle argued about whether the ending made sense (personally, Dugan thought they should have ended up together). Dugan walked behind them, and Bucky and Clark brought up the rear.
"Can't believe you cried," Clark teased Bucky, speaking quietly as they walked through the base corridors. Dugan listened. It wasn't eavesdropping if they were within earshot, right?
"No one had ever called her darling, Ted."
"You're a romantic, aren't you?"
"Something wrong with that, Sarge?"
"Was I complaining?"
There was whispering, too low for Dugan to make sense of, and then Bucky made a strangled noise. "Shut the fuck up," he complained, but his tone was fond, and Clark laughed.
They were sickening, and Dugan was happy for them. Maybe the war was making him sappy. Or — he was thirty years old, maybe it was time for him to find a lady to settle down with when he got back home. Cilla Devlin was back in Brooklyn and wrote to him occasionally. She was pretty and hadn't married yet, and she was a good Irish girl his mother would approve of.
He heard a door close behind him, and he glanced back.
Bucky and Clark were gone.
Dugan's eyes landed on the nearest door, which he happened to know was a supply closet. He rolled his eyes skyward. Goddamn, these idiots.
"Hey," Gut said suddenly, apparently having finally noticed the two missing men, "where'd our sergeants go?"
And now Dugan had to lie for them.
"They split off ten minutes ago, if you weren't so busy arguing with Rip and Tuttle, you mighta noticed."
He swatted at the back of Gut's head affectionately, and he dodged him. "What? Where'd they go?"
"They were talking about drinks," he invented, "I dunno."
"We could have gotten drinks — " Gut started, but Rip interrupted.
"I ain't getting drinks, I'm on KP at 0500, I'm going to bed."
"We could have one drink..."
The bickering started again, this time about whether they should go get drinks. He let them, voting against going back off base, and then he managed to herd the kids into the barracks.
Bucky and Clark would owe him a round, because now he really could use a drink.
The next morning, he found Bucky in the mess hall. He was alone at a table with a full tray — Spam, eggs, toast, and coffee — and a book with the cover folded back in one hand. He cut his Spam with the side of his fork, tired eyes fixed on his book. Dugan wondered if Bucky knew what he'd done for them last night. Maybe they'd heard him lie for them. He should talk to him, explain. Was there a good way to let Bucky know he knew about them? That he was safe, that he wouldn't tell anyone?
"Morning, Sarge."
Dugan settled into the chair beside Bucky, immediately reaching for the salt and pepper in a vain attempt to make his powdered eggs palatable. Bucky blinked at him, startled, then hid his momentarily panicked expression by chasing the piece of Spam that had fallen off his fork. "Dugan." So he definitely knew.
Once he'd salted and peppered his eggs, he took his first bite, studying Bucky as he chewed. His eyes were fixed on the book, his jaw set, tense, and Dugan suspected he wasn't actually reading anymore. He had to say something. Bucky knew he'd been with circuses and freak shows, but he didn't know how many homosexuals he'd known in his time. And Bucky was going to sit there and panic if they didn't talk about it. Dugan picked up his coffee. "Don't worry about it, pal."
Bucky turned a confused look on him. "Huh?"
"I'm not telling anyone, relax."
He couldn't elaborate much in the middle of the increasingly busy mess hall, but Bucky understood. His eyes got very big for a moment, then he quickly schooled his face into something that was a poor attempt at nonchalance. "Really?"
"Yeah." Dugan shrugged. "None of my fuckin' business, right? You got my back in battle, that's all that matters to me."
"I do, really, I — thanks, Dugan."
He sounded so incredibly relieved and grateful that Dugan had to fight the lump of emotion that rose in his throat. He wondered if anyone else knew about Bucky, if he'd had some bad experience, or if he was just scared of what could happen. Instead of asking about any of that, he clapped a hand on Bucky's shoulder and shook him affectionately. "Fuck off."
Bucky laughed. "We definitely owe you drinks," he said, picking up his coffee, "next time we go out."
"I'll hold you to that, Sarge."
It wasn't long before Clark joined them, and while at first he looked at Dugan nervously, Bucky managed to calm him with one reassuring look. They seemed to have a whole conversation about it without saying a word, and these fellas really were meant to be, weren't they?
Something like determination settled in him. Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan decided he was going to get these idiots through the war in one piece or die trying.