Archive of Our Own ^beta

Gale sat hunched, gangly arms draped over the back of a rickety chair, leaning on the edge of a small wooden table placed in the center of the room. His fingertips burned from the force of the grip he was exerting over his work. His eyes went fuzzy around the edges from the strain of staring at the same mess for hours or, maybe, because he hadn’t had a real meal in over a year. Either way, the reality of the situation left him feeling a little hopeless. A small piece of cording from a busted lamp, a rusted file, miscellaneous bits from the Red Cross packages they received two months ago, and his sheer will were the only tools he had to build this goddamn crystal radio.

Life in the stalag had been ‘difficult’ to say the least, but then again, everything about Gale’s life had been difficult up until this point. Why should war take pity on him now?

But being out there, in the middle of nowhere, had been a specific type of ‘difficult’ that Gale hadn’t been familiar with for a while, not since he was a kid. Flying through the flak and watching all his men die was difficult, but in some sick sort of way, that was expected—the natural order of war. It gave you a reason to go back up again, fight on behalf of those lives lost to honor them and remember them. Accidentally falling in love with your best friend was difficult, but war did strange things to men, and Gale had never met a single man on this earth easier to love than John Egan. A stray dog wagging his tail and panting directly into his face—he just wants to play, he just wants a home.

The special flavor of ‘difficult’ the stalag cooked up, left him with a bone-deep chill that he couldn’t shake, even in the hottest months. The type of months where all the men were reduced to walking around in their skivvies so they didn’t pass out or dehydrate even more. This ‘difficult’ left their empty stomachs rumbling so aggressively that they couldn’t escape it in their dreams—more likely their nightmares. This ‘difficult’ had robbed Gale of his last little bit of reprieve: John was safe and drunk somewhere in gloomy old England.
Seeing John walk through those gates, bloody, busted, and limping, had filled him with dread and relief in one fatal breath. He was alive, they’d hurt him, he was stuck here, and Gale wasn’t alone. He couldn’t run from the ‘difficult’; it lived behind his eyes and between his ears. Memories of being a kid, poor, hungry, beaten down, and scared. Imagine spending your whole life trying not to be the man your father was, only to realize that you never grew up, never evolved, never moved on. Just still the same scared and hungry little kid—Gale felt hopeless.

So he kept busy, gave orders and routine to his men, traded his share of the cigarettes for supplies, kept a watchful eye on John, and tried to make a goddamn crystal radio. But sometimes his efforts were still not enough.

The sound of honking laughter, which wasn’t a common sound in a place like this, pulled Gale from his spiraling thoughts.
Flicking his eyes up, he watched Hambone and DeMarco snicker in front of the foggy windows on the other side of the room.
“You boys mind keeping it down? I’m trying to perform miracles here,” Gale grumbled in their direction.

DeMarco suddenly looked back towards Gale, his face slightly sheepish with embarrassment. Ducking his head, he said, “Apologies, Major, but you might want to see this—”

Gale huffed and pushed his hands into the table to stand, making his way over to the window. Hambone easily stepped out of his way but not before snickering again and using his chin to nod towards the figure a few feet outside the window. It was John, because of course it was. It was that awkward time of year where winter was melting into chilly, wet spring, and of course John was outside with no jacket, dancing and smoking in the rain.

“What is he doing? That man has a death wish, I swear—” Gale spun on his heel and marched over to the few bent nails where they all hung up their coats and pulled his own over his shoulders, not forgetting to pluck John’s jacket off the hook next to his.

Once Gale made it to the porch, he had a clearer view of John. He was swinging his arms wildly around his head, thrusting his hips in the opposite direction. Cigarette clutched tightly between his lips, big plumes of smoke unfurled from the corners of his mouth as he sang, danced, and smiled.

And before his better judgment could spur him forward to pull the other man out of the rain, he paused. Gale was stuck there on that porch, watching and remembering his Bucky, the one before the stalag, before the war—the shiny, too-loud boy from boot camp with the big ears and the even bigger heart. My boy, my baby, my Bucky—the world doesn’t deserve your shiny-ness, your levity, your love, he thought to himself. Even in the bleak gray muck, Bucky took time to make his men laugh, to make them forget, if only for a little bit. He made up fake baseball games, gambled, joked, danced, sang, and lost his godforsaken mind all for their entertainment, knowing that if he made the wrong move, not a single guard in this hellish camp would hesitate to mow him down where he stood. He was either incredibly brave or simply didn’t give a fuck; both reasons scarred Gale.

“Alright, Bucky—you loon—come inside before you catch a cold,” Gale yelled in his direction, sticking an outstretched hand that held John’s jacket, a peace offering. He was known to throw a small tantrum whenever Gale tried to interfere with his ‘fun.’

Bucky finally looked over to Gale and smiled around his still-lit cigarette, continuing to sing and dance, now at Gale. “Wherever you go, that's where I’ll follow—” John sang, making grabby hands towards Gale. “Nobody’s promised tomorrow.”

Gale looked up towards one of the guard towers near them, noticing that Bucky had the attention of some of the Krauts. Some smirked at his antics in amusement, while others gripped the pistols at their hips a little closer to their bodies. Gale's eyes dropped back down to Bucky and crossed the short distance to pull him between the buildings and away from prying, trigger-happy eyes.

Bucky yelped at the sudden movement and jerk of his body, placing his hands on Gale's waist to steady himself.
“What’re you thinking, Bucky? I know you’re going crazy in here; we all are. But you’re gonna get yourself killed or worse, thrown in solitary!” Gale scolded him in hushed whispers between the buildings.

John smiled at his words, fingers flexing in the scratchy wool of Gale’s sweater that bunched at his waist under the large trench. “Dance with me, Buck.”

Gale huffed in frustration as John pulled him just that little bit closer, ever so gently swaying their bodies. He used his free hand to pluck the shrunken cigarette from Bucky's mouth; the last bits of drizzle had smothered its flame. “I'm serious, John. We’ve come too far for you to die for doing something as silly as singing in the rain.” Tucking the half-smoked stick into his pocket and bringing his hand up to cup the side of Bucky’s face, Gale shook him a little so he looked down into Gale’s eyes.

“Just let me finish the song—we haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

And Bucky always did have a way of getting what he wanted, all coy smiles and mischievous hands. Gale finally chuckled, unable to hold it together anymore, dropping his head onto John's shoulder in surrender. “Let’s hear it then—”

Gale could hear Bucky let out a self-satisfied sigh, leading into a hum and then a quiet, slightly off-key but endearing melody.

I, I just woke up from a dream
Where you and I had to say goodbye
And I don't know what it all means
But since I survived, I realized

Wherever you go, that's where I'll follow
Nobody's promised tomorrow
So I'ma love you every night like it's the last night
Like it's the last night

If the world was ending
I'd wanna be next to you
If the party was over
And our time on Earth was through
I'd wanna hold you just for a while
And die with a smile
If the world was ending
I'd wanna be next to you