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Bucky would’ve joined the army regardless, but the war was a useful goalpost. He couldn’t sit still and hated addition but he could think of fourteen ways to keep a car on the road in two seconds while everyone else was still screaming, and the only thing he ever liked more than booze and girls was adrenaline. After rocketing out of school and fucking around for a few years he ended up right where he was supposed to be: crawling under wire, firing in fields, waking up with someone throwing water in his face and telling him to get up now, right now, and start running.
Something else: he always knew he would fly too. He likes the air, unforgiving and relentless, endless room to improvise (Buck’s droll a week in, already having him nailed, he means endless room to show off). His mother and teachers had been worried about what he would do his whole life, but Bucky knew he would be in the airforce, knew he would be in planes, knew he would be useful. He was supremely confident in it, as he was with most things about himself.
He was good the second he got there. There was only one, maybe two people who were better. Of them, he picked the best, walked on over, and gave him most of his name.
//
Buck doesn’t know shit about sports. This is always funny.
“I mean, scoreless, what the fuck is that.”
Eight voices all at once, “I know-“
“Unbelievable–“
“Fucking Giants–“
“Like God, they must’ve been running off the field, away from the yard line. Pathetic.” He put his arm up around the lip of the booth and watched everyone adjust. “Oi Croz, I bet you five bucks that he–“ He points lazily across the table, and Buck doesn’t flinch, “–doesn’t know what a yard line is.”
“I know what a yard line is.”
“It’s not just a line where a yard is.”
“Knew that.”
“He’s lying,” Bucky stage whispered, “he’s embarrassed,”
Buck rolled his eyes. The whole booth grins, and the jukebox is going crazy. “It’s football. The Giants and the whoever went scoreless.” Buck said, at last, locking eyes.
“Well congratulations Major. Say, Harry, what state do the Whoever’s play for again?”
Buck shook his head, looked back out over the bar.
Some kids voice: “Bucky, doesn’t that mean you owe Croz five bucks?”
He waved a hand, “Add it to my tab.”
“Oh Hollis,” Buck’s in a good mood, his voice slows, “don’t you know Egan never pays his debts?”
“Liar.” Bucky said pleasantly, taking a sip.
“Fairtree–“
“Would you shut up about Fairtree, God-“
“–Wrestlin’ the microphone off the band leader–“
“I was better! You know I was better–“
“We can never go back to that bar–“
“Oh please, why do you care. You can get water anywhere.”
Buck, dryly, looking back at him again. It’s like flying a plane, this. He feels impossibly far from the ground. “You make me sound like a horse.”
Bucky couldn’t help himself, he laughed.
//
Maps opened themselves up in front of him, but only if he was in the air. He could’ve been a navigator but he would never give up actually flying the plane. Ask him to get from A to B in a car and his brain would shut off. But in the air, no roads and only open space, he could get you there immediately. Looking at a map he could see an invisible rope tying the plane to where they needed to go, and once he saw it like that it was easy. He could get them there like he was pulled by gravity.
Buck, naturally, could get anywhere in anything. Rare weekend passes during basic, tooling around in an old jeep, and Buck would remember routes they’d driven through last year on a training exercise all while going 80k an hour. Once, they broke down, and Buck hot-wired the jeep to get it started again. They all had him on about stealing cars the whole rest of that summer, but really Buck could get anything to go. Everyone liked him, even machines.
Once, he overheard Webb, a guy he liked from basic who was probably dead now, talking to a new kid down the hall before they went out. Look, with either of them you’re probably gunna be sick. Bucky doesn’t know where he’s going but drives fast anyway, and Buck always knows, but he drives even faster. I know, I know, you wouldn’t believe it, but I’m telling you: Buck floors it. He’s just as nuts.
//
“Need lessons there?”
“I know how to ride a bike, Bucky.”
“Your current position–“
“It’s wet–“
“–Would imply otherwise. Did you skin your knee, Major? Ow–“
“I’ll do it again.”
“And break my ankle? Christ, Cleven, what’s in your boot?”
“My foot.”
“Big talk from someone who needs a ride.”
“Think you can still drive?”
“I think my foot will recover, no thanks to you.”
“Just go, would you?”
“Well I hope it being wet won’t get in the way– ow.”
//
Everyone always thinks he was kidding, but he really did look just like this kid from back home, Buck Hannigan, on his life. Tall, blonde, this way of always looking right through you.
Hannigan also had a bit of what Cleven had; that way of making people tell you things. Cleven had it really bad though, people were always fucking up and saying more than they meant to around him. They couldn’t help it, something about his face. Every once and while, usually while he was drunk, Bucky found himself almost caught in it too. He usually managed to pull it together.
Buck, true to form, hardly ever said anything about himself. Until that night in the trenches, watching the sky go forth-of-July ballistic, Bucky would’ve put money on his Dad being long dead. The whole time Buck was talking, Bucky felt himself holding his breath.
//
He should be asleep, or at least in bed, but he obviously isn’t. Oddly, walking around the airfield, he could see the tip of boots on the wing of Get Some. The bottom has white printed GALE across the toe. Who was he kidding?
“Y’know,” He slaps the side of the wing, and the metal shivers, “you don’t even have whiskey as an excuse to be up here.”
Buck doesn’t even start. “It’s a bad excuse anyway.”
In one movement Bucky pulls himself up onto the wing. “Works for me.”
“Everything works for you.”
He threw himself down so they were beside each other, adjusting his collar to lie on the sheepskin. The stars were crazy out here, unlike anything the city could ever do, and Buck was looking right up at them. Bucky couldn’t, it made him antsy. Fingers twitching. Just looking made him want to go up there.
“Seriously, how did you convince the Colonel to let you fly?”
Bucky tried to shrug while lying down, but was mostly unsuccessful. Buck turned his head to look at him, eyebrows half raised.
“Gift of the gab I guess.”
“You’re really not going to tell me?”
To be frank Sir, if you don’t send me up there I’ll steal a plane and go regardless, and I can’t fire a gun and steer at the same time. It really would be better for resources and morale if you just sent me up with a fort instead of me causing all that.
“Threatened to steal a plane and go anyway.”
Buck laughed, just once, but for real. It rang out. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You just get endless rope, don’t you Egan?”
“Pays to be the best.”
“Please.” Buck looked back up, gnawing on that toothpick, “I can fly circles around you.”
Bucky almost says I know. Instead he says “Wanna bet?” and then shoves Buck so he wobbles on the edge of the wing for a second, and then Buck grabs him by the collar and tries to pull him off, and then they’re laughing, breaking fourteen different rules, trying to each pull each other over the side.
//
He really had said all that in Chicks office. He’d also said don’t send them where I can’t follow. But he’ll never say that aloud again. It made his voice go all wrong.
//
The boys get younger and younger. Before anyone knows it they’ll be sending eleven year olds out here.
Bucks’s drawl, over the wind, well they know you need some company.
//
“Welcome back.”
“Fuck. that was–“
“Close.”
“You saw?
“Saw the landing.”
“Still made the runway though.”
“Will you ever let that go?”
“Looks unlikely. Christ, I need a drink. Coming?”
//
Up in the air, everything going to shit, nobody where they were meant to be, his body hummed like an exposed wire. The plane diving around, unknowably fucked, and still even then he knew he wouldn’t die. It just couldn't happen, it wouldn’t go that way. He wouldn’t work dead, he never could stay still.
//
Croz is right, he does have a voice like a cat. The boys are all cheering anyway.
“How’s Marge?”
“Good. She said it’s raining a lot.”
“That’s good.” he says, automatically. Rain means the Krauts are less likely to send planes out. They’ll aim for more of a sure thing.
“Can’t say that, though.”
He nodded. It was no use saying that shit to civilians, it only freaked them out. The boys are yell-singing with Croz, jostling beer everywhere. They’ve fallen entirely out of tune. The band leader looks vaguely alarmed.
“You know, I think he needs a duet partner.”
“Oh, don’t.”
“C’mon.”
“That microphone isn’t strong enough to cope with the two of you.”
“Hey.” Bucky gestured with his glass, “I sound better than this.”
“Not by much.”
He tried to shove Buck’s arm but he leaned out of the way, graceful, like its a dance they’re doing. His arm sailed into nothing. Buck looked smug, sipping his ginger beer.
“Asshole.”
He took off his jacket, yanking off the sleeves one by one. Buck watched. Bucky threw it at him and he caught it, one handed.
“Y’know, they say Sinatra was discovered like this.”
“They do not.”
“They might after they see me up there.”
Buck ducked his head, trying to hide his grin, but Bucky saw it anyway. He spun around, rolling up his sleeves, stalking up to the microphone.
//
Flight after flight after flight. He could land a plane blindfolded at this point. Sometimes he woke up doing the movements, landing in his sleep. Biddick gave him shit for it. Used to give him shit for it.
Yet he could swear he never dreams about flying. He never remembers anything: the wind, mask, knowing you were beyond gravity. Nothing. He just wakes up in the dark, doing crash manoeuvres.
//
They’re drinking by themselves the bar. Today had been fine, but tomorrow would be miserable. Six forts gone. Of course, no one knew this yet.
“None of the boys wanna dance with us.” Bucky jerks his head at the guys crowded round the other tables. The number he recognised could fit on one hand.
Buck drained his soda glass. “Not my fault.”
“Oh, like it’s mine?”
“It is. You’re intimidating.”
Bucky snorted. “Please, we’re both intimidating. We’re still alive.”
//
Bucky thinks about this later, after everything. You’re intimidating. Buck had never been intimidated by him, not even once. Buck’s hand pushing him back down in his seat at bars, tables, once in an officer’s meeting. He was the only one who could, the only one that really tried. Everyone else increasingly looked at him like he was a live grenade. Buck just pushed him back in his seat, picked another toothpick, let the music play on.
Bucky knew his hand on his shoulder like almost nothing else. His solid, exacting fingers. Knuckles like the rivets in a door. He knew it like how he knew he would fly planes. It left a mark.
//
How to explain it? Everyone else is easy. Everyone else is boring. With Buck, he works for every stupid laugh.
//
“C’mon Bucky.”
He doesn’t move. Maybe if he stays very still he’ll leave.
“Bucky. Get up.”
He doesn’t respond. The water hits him not the back of his neck.
“Jesus!”
“No, only me.”
“Shut the fuck up.” He spluttered. He can’t open one of his eyes fully. The inside of his head feels like it’s been wrung out in the showers.
“You missed breakfast.”
“So you woke me up to tell me I’m going to starve?”
Something hits him in the face, which is annoying because it’s right on his black eye. Bagel seeds go everywhere. When he opens his eyes Buck is leaning against the open window, gnawing a toothpick, collar up. They could put him on a stamp.
“You’re a bastard.”
“And you’re very ungrateful.”
He holds up the bagel. “Is there even anything in this?”
“Get up Princess, what happened to your eye?”
“No idea,” He yawned, “I won though.”
“The Purple Heart is assured.”
“Damn right.” The bagel is doughy and barely good but does feel like is saving his life, so it can be forgiven. He sits against the pillow, water seeping into his back.
“Wasn’t one of ours, was it?”
Bucky looked confused. Buck pointed at his eye.
“I haven’t resorted to beating up our guys just yet Buck.”
“See, it’s the ‘yet’ that makes me nervous.”
Flash of the blue dawn, Biddick’s knuckles, rush of blood, everything alive and living.
“It would’ve killed you to put some jam in this?”
“You look like a wet rat.”
“Oh, eat me.”
//
They would both live. This was impossible to explain aloud, even to Buck, but it was the only thing that made sense. Buck had to live because he knew it like Bucky knew it, and who the fuck else would get all of it like they did. How would he even begin to tell all this?
He never thought about it, if only because Buck corrected all his stories anyway. He never had to tell them on his own.
//
The phone call is unforgivable. He wants to rip the cord out of the wall.
//
A hundred years ago, some new kid in Buck’s fort whispering in the back of a briefing:
“If Buck goes down, what then?”
“We follow Bucky.”
“Yeah, but won’t he be looking for Buck?”