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Mist creeps across the field, slow and insidious, carrying with it the stench of burnt flesh, gunpowder and excrement. The air is still and silent, like a held breath; an eerie contrast to the thundering explosions, rattling machine guns and bloody screams of hours past.
Down in the trenches, the sniff and shuffle of soldiers hunkering down to briefly rest is carried to his ears as Bucky waits, prone and alert, searching. There are no signs of life in the scope of his rifle, the grey gloom is undisturbed.
He sighs. The longer the medics are out in the open, the less likely they are to return, and he’s looking for one in particular. You.
He can’t admit it, it’s frowned upon, but he’s grown fond of you in the weeks the 107th have been stationed on the French front line. As far as nurses go, you’re more skilled than any he’s seen; adept, calm and confident, and with a low mortality rate. As far as field medics go, you’re a Valkyrie; fearless and steadfast with a warrior’s soul. You raise hopes wherever you are and you’re a total sweetheart. He hopes one day you’ll be his sweetheart.
A murmur in the trenches - the medics are bringing back wounded. His heart jostles against his ribs, a painful thrill punctuating the bright hope that you’re safe and coming back to him, but he can’t leave his post unmanned.
“Robins!” Bucky hisses as loud as he dares. “Pssst! Robins!”
“Sarge?” The young lad is eager and bright-eyed when he crouches in the mud, somehow unbroken by the countless days, the cold, and the horror of war.
“You got your rifle?” The boy is a good enough marksman for this job in the calm between assaults, Bucky thinks. “Good! Cover my spot for a while. Abe will relieve you in an hour or so.”
The trenches are longer than he remembers them, and more sombre. The camaraderie is gone now, lost in moments that men claim for themselves; moments of peace to think about loved ones and home, and to dream, however brief it might be.
Bucky sees Dum Dum Duggan and his spirits lift. They greet each other in a jumble of gripped forearms and stout pats on the back.
“Have you seen Flo?” That’s what he calls you, after Florence Nightingale.
Dum Dum shakes his head. “Not since we went over the top.”
Dum Dum and little Jimmy Parsons from the 107th had both gone over with you, some of the medics and 8 other men, to search for wounded or to bring back the dead. That had been hours ago, when there were still sounds of fighting and gunshots in the distance. Now all is quiet but not everyone has come back.
As if Dum Dum can sense his panic, the ruddy-faced scoundrel claps him on the shoulder and leans in. “It’ll take more than Jerrys to keep her off your lap.”
It’s a crude joke designed to bring him relief, but all it does is remind him of the few tender moments you had both shared, and all the ones to come that may have been snuffed out of existence today in a cold field between two conflicting ideals that ultimately only brought death.
“That’s your Johnson talking.” Rolled eyes and a tired sigh tell Dum Dum his joke fell flat.
“And yours doesn’t?”
“Not when I’m neck deep in the crap and guts of guys we once knew.”
That’s a lie but Dum Dum needn’t know that. There hasn’t been any kind of hanky-panky, not even so much as a real kiss, just pecked cheeks, held gazes and the gentle stroke of his hand on your back in comfort. Bucky doesn’t need to get into your drawers to know there’s something between you both and he’s prepared to wait, but he ain’t half gonna be pissed if some Nazi goon puts a bullet in him before he’s known the pleasure of your soft lips.
The subject is forgotten in the crouching run through the rat warren of trenches and Dum Dum is silent, following dutifully as Bucky asks after you with everyone he passes. His whispered pleas for information are left unanswered by anything but the shake of a head and a grim expression.
Up ahead there’s a commotion. - someone is out in the field, moving slow. The scouts think it’s one of ours but they can’t be sure. The rifleman has his target, his gun is cocked and he’s ready to fire. Bucky watches the twitch of the man’s finger and he prays to all the gods that you’re not still out there, and if you are, that you’re not about to take a bullet.
He’s nervous, waiting for the shot. Mouth drier than mere hunger and thirst. Hands colder than from just a long, sleepless night, and there’s a tremor there, under the stress moistened skin of his palms. But the shot never comes. Hunger is forgotten, thirst inconsequential, and the warmth in his heart chases away the chill of dread when he finally catches a glimpse of you.
You’re filthy. The moss-green of your uniform is almost black with blood and dirt, it’s on your face and in your hair, and he prays that none of it is yours. Injured or not, you don’t care. You’re determined as you drag a man down into the trench, focused on getting him to safety, heaving him with all your strength until you both tumble down with a grunt. You’re a miracle, Bucky thinks, single-handedly dragging an injured man across the battlefield to safety through all of that destruction.
He’s almost there beside you, ready with a smile, but then he sees your face. You’re terrified, and now so is he; he’s never seen that look on your pretty face before, not even when you’re dodging mortars to reach men in bloody holes where their legs are no longer part of their bodily inventory.
You haven’t even seen him yet, rooted to the spot where he watches you stripping away the uniform of the man you brought home. You’ve already tried to stop the bleeding out in the field. The hastily applied bandages are soaked through and useless now, but you keep trying, fighting against the blood bubbling up from the man’s chest. There are so many gashes it looks like a game of tic-tac-toe and the poor fella is struggling for breath, chest rattling as he drowns in his own blood.
“There was an ambush.” You say, voice shaky like you can’t hold back the shock. “He saved my life.”
The man’s eyes are wide and glassy, and despite the horrified gurn on his face Bucky thinks him familiar if a little too, well, little to be going to war. Bucky is reminded of Steve for a moment, frail and small in stature, but this man isn’t Steve, he’s Jimmy. Little Jimmy Parsons.
Suddenly focused, Bucky is by your side in a flash, helping you put pressure on the wounds. You’re calm again now. The harrowing expression you wore is smoothed over with one of concentration. It’s funny how your roles reverse, now he’s the one panicking.
“Pass me some morphine.” You lay a gentle hand on his forearm. It’s bloody and there’s nothing gentle about the situation but your sudden serenity has a calming effect.
Bucky sits back on his heels and wipes at his sweaty brow with the back of his sticky red hand. He’d gone from Siberian permafrost to tropical rainforest in five minutes of adrenaline-fuelled panic, but he gives you what you asked for.
The little audience you’d gained now begin to disperse; they know what’s coming now and no one wants to see it, but Bucky and Dum Dum are the only family that Jimmy has here – the 107 are his family. Whoever waits for him at home won’t ever have to see this moment. It’ll be imagined but the truth of it never fully realised. No one wants to be alone at a time like this, no one wants to face the unknown without a hand to hold.
“Apparently, Jimmy got in front of her in time to get a knife in the gut.” Dum Dum whisperer hunkering down nearby. “Nazi scumbag went to town on the poor kid before she stabbed him through the neck. She must’ve known he wouldn’t make it but dragged him home anyway.”
Bucky nods, eyes never leaving you as you tend your ward.
“Some gal.” Its praise from Dum Dum, but is far from what you are. Bucky knows you’re so much more. He knows you’re not just something, you’re everything.
You’ve slipped down beside Jimmy and pulled him up so he’s resting in your lap. As you cradle him to you there’s a subtle thawing of his body. The rigidity of his agony is loosening, and his muscles relax, drooping his whole weight against you; the morphine has kicked in and if Bucky didn’t know better he’d say Jimmy sighed.
You’re humming a tune Bucky vaguely recognises but there are no words yet, only the soft melody as you stroke Jimmy’s hair and rock him subtly like he’s a child in your embrace.
“Nora?” Jimmy croaks, eyes rolling back leaving nothing but sickening white crescents beneath his fluttering lids.
“Shhhh.” You croon. “I’m here.” A tear slips past your lashes, streaking a line down to your jaw that’s cleaner than the rest of your face. You’re not his Nora, but her battlefield stand-in. “Rest now. You’re going to be fine.”
You meet Bucky’s gaze. He’s silently asking you if there’s anything that can be done to save the man. You answer with an almost imperceptible shake of your head; there’s nothing to do but soothe him until he passes.
Your humming picks up and now he knows the tune. He waits for the words to come because that’s the only time he hears you sing, to ease the passing of the fallen. You’re their nightingale, all of theirs, not just his, you’re there for them all but there’s a special place for you in his heart, and he in yours. And then you sing, soft and delicate, like a loving caress because this is the last time Jimmy will connect with the living; he should be loved.
Stars shining bright above you,
Night breezes seem to whisper I love you
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me.
The wall of the trench is hard when Bucky’s back falls against it. In defeat he lets his head thud back and he watches you comfort his friend, with tears falling freely down your beautiful face.
Say night-ie-night and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me
While I’m alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me….
You are like the Valkyrie, Bucky thinks, with an angelic voice you despatch the souls of the dying up to heaven while, with a gentle embrace, you sooth their battered bodies. He’d be lying if he hadn’t imagined the feel of your body against his, or would barter his left arm to make it real, but there was nothing in this life or the next that would make him want to take you away from his friend in this moment.
Stars fading but I linger on dear
Still craving your kiss
I longer to linger ‘til dawn dear
Just saying this….
Jimmy’s eyes are closed now and his rattling breaths stopped. If there’s anything left in him now he’ll hear you calling him through the dark towards the light where he’ll be at peace. There’ll be no more pain, not more war, no more fear, just him and what peaceful eternity awaits him on the other side.
You’re holding Bucky’s gaze as you sing, and he can see you’re breaking; your tears don’t stop but your voice barely waivers – this isn’t for you, it’s for Jimmy. There’s a plea in the way you’re looking at him, like you’re scared there’ll be no life after this war for either of you, like you know you both won’t make it. He’s scared too, but he’s not scared of dying, he’s scared of losing you. He doesn’t want to be left alone.
Sweet dreams ‘til sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you
But in your dreams whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me…
Bucky’s eyes fall closed now too, his tears held back in the soft grip of his lids. He lets the softness of your voice wash over him as you commit is friend and comrade unto the dark, a salve for his soul to ease his grief. You’re his nightingale in the bleakest of nights.
He tells himself he’ll hold you close, he no longer cares who sees; he wants to give something back to you, to sooth your breaking heart. He wants to commit you to memory before one of you is taken away.
After today he’s no longer sure of anything except where there is darkness, you are the stars.