Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alex, admittedly, was confused.

He thought he was getting a pretty good handle on prison camp life, but some things—crucial things—still eluded him. Every day since he had been dragged to Stalag Luft III he had been limping around the compound with a leg wound that still wouldn’t heal from when he was shot down, the spiked pain shooting up his leg warring with the insatiable urge to keep walking, like if he stopped he would actually be here. If he stopped he would collapse. Since the first shards of flak struck his Mustang his mind and body could not stop moving—racing, calculating—for any shred of information or hint of survival, so he spent his days limping and shaking, gritting his teeth. Categorizing and repeating everything he had learned, examining from every angle.

The guards were predictable once you knew what to look for. 

The routine of prisoner-of-war life was lousy but survivable with certain strategies.

The others in his assigned barracks took some warming up to the newcomers, and though Alex couldn’t say he had them all figured out for certain, he could read them well enough to feel secure.

Egan and Cleven weren’t gonna survive the winter.

Alex stumbled into Richard Macon who was walking stiffly beside him with his perpetual rolled up jacket stabilizing his neck. Macon hissed but said nothing and Alex muttered an apology, moving away only to barely miss hitting Daniels. The three of them had made a habit of long walks around the compound, murmuring to each other anything they observed with the certainty that even the most insignificant thing would be useful later, and it had served them well enough that they gained a reputation as a good source of local intelligence. It was all for a secret purpose, of course. They were still scouting for possible escape options—and getaway drivers.

He leg throbbed again and he caught himself on Daniels’ outstretched arm this time, focusing on moving one foot in front of the other and parsing the breaths of his comrades beside him, having lost count how many times they had circumnavigated the camp. As they passed their own hut again the only thing different was Buck Cleven sitting on the steps with his nose in a book, messy hair fallen over his forehead and fingers clenching the worn cover with more force necessary for a book on native plants of Ireland (Alex had read it the week before). He remained laser focused on the page with a furrow in his brow, the scars on his cheeks contrasting sharply with the soft angles of his face, and Alex jumped when Macon knocked him on the arm. 

“Pay attention man,” Macon quipped. “We’re still on for our escape, the last thing we need is for you to adopt some sad-eyed White boy.”

Alex wasn’t sure if he should be insulted, but frowned anyway. “Buck’s my friend,” he muttered, blinking the fuzziness from his vision.

“Oh it’s Buck now? That’s a fuckin’ major, man. A squadron commander with more flight hours than actual goddamn birds and you’re calling that Buck?”

“Just don't get too attached,” Daniels interjected. “The less people we trust here the better.”

The image of Buck sitting in the library with his chin on his knees, gentle blue eyes giving undivided attention as Alex explained some fighter plane or science subject made his stomach twist at the suggestion of not trusting him, or even worse, leaving him behind. Alex had spent most of his life being teased for being too soft, too kind, too trusting. He’d gotten himself in a bad spot several times because of that too, so he probably should be more careful, but sue him, he was tired and aching and scared and Buck had actually listened. 

It threw Alex for more of a loop than he wanted to admit. So far his categorization of the camp had been going well and every piece fit together in its place, but one thing Alex could not grasp—that was driving him crazy—was the two majors from the 100th.

Egan and Cleven? Buck and Bucky? John and Gale? Alex wasn't sure what combination of names he should be using or even who was who most of the time, but the names always went together. Not a single person Alex encountered ever used the names separately. The way prisoners talked about them, anyone would have thought they were some dual-soul deity the stalag had built a religion around, yet since Alex had been assigned to their barrack room all his careful study of them had only resulted with a handful of pieces that didn’t fit together.

Major Gale Cleven “Call me Buck,” with eyes that could pierce souls like an x-ray and “just” John Egan. Buck, whose impossible gentleness was at odds with his stonewall presence at the front of his men, and Egan, who treated Alex like a disease though it didn’t seem to be for the usual reasons. He treated everyone that way, walked around with volcanic ash trailing from cracks that Alex wondered if only he could see. What pieces Alex had gathered of the two of them wasn’t the same as what he was hearing from the 100th. The supposed yin-and-yang duo vacillated like a metronome between hostile and devoted to each other and it drove Alex insane. But it wasn’t like he had anything else to do, so he might as well accept the challenge of figuring out something that defied explanation. He was a scientist after all.

It ran in the family. Alex’s dad was a psychologist, and boy would he have a field day at Stalag Luft III. Alex could practically hear his voice as he watched the men mill around the compound, narrating their actions and picking them apart to gently expose what was inside, for their own good, to study them like wild creatures who in extreme circumstances often reverted back to cavemen, to more raw forms of behavior. 

At least it gave Alex more thoughts to keep himself busy and not go crazy while locked up. It was fun in a way, collecting bits of information and arranging them like a child would blocks. Those Bachelors degrees in chemistry and biology he had earned before the war wouldn’t do him much good if it didn’t at least help keep him alive for the duration. The men in the camp were only new studies he could apply the scientific method to.

He can’t use his words, his dad would say. Because at some point he tried and tried and tried, and they never worked. “To hell with this,” the brain says, “we’re gonna go back to the basics,” and that’s usually physical expression.

There’s really only two core emotions at the heart of a human. If you keep peeling at the bottom of every action and reaction, every visible emotion, you’ll find either love, or fear. And they’re usually connected. That’s all humans are really made of.

Alex shuffled to the barracks and leaned against the wall, nausea and dizziness fighting to take over his senses. He waved off Macon and Daniels for another lap, and when they left he slid to the ground and leaned back against the rough wood, trying to steady his breathing.

Shadows fell over him as two guards walked by on patrol, and as they passed the steps one reached out and struck Buck upside the head, as casual as waving to a friend. Buck jerked and dropped the book, but before Alex could get his paralyzed limbs to work the door flew open and an enraged blur lunged for the guards.

“Bucky!” Cleven snapped, throwing out a hand that stopped the other major in his tracks, limbs rattling and a snarl on his face as he loomed over the guards who never stopped walking, putting hands on their sidearms with smug knowledge of their own power. When they were far enough away Egan reached out to Cleven, only to get waved back. After a beat Egan whirled around and stalked back inside, and it was another moment before Buck got to his feet, turning pale and wavering. It made Alex sick for a whole new reason and he pushed himself up, but by the time he got to the doorway to offer help, Buck was gone.

. . . 

The hunger got worse, for everyone.

Alex hadn’t been here long enough for his stomach to adjust, and it burned and stabbed him day and night until it was all he could think about. He took to hiding in the library, massaging his leg and drawing to pass the time, until one day Buck showed up. He sat down beside Alex and unceremoniously handed him a packet of some sort of biscuits, hard but edible and obviously intended to be as nutritious as possible. Alex barely got out a breathless thank you before tearing into them, and it was simultaneously the best and worst thing he had ever eaten.

“Where did you get these?” he asked with his mouth full, and Buck hummed.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Tastes like sawdust or something.” 

Buck’s face gentled into a grin, the scars on his face shifting in a way that made him look like one of the martyrs people said prayers to.

“Or something,” he rasped. “You’ll learn not to ask questions. Better than nothing.”

“Yeah,” Alex muttered, turning a biscuit in his hand. “Thanks.” 

Buck just nodded like he understood, the shifting light revealing scattered marks on his neck in suspiciously-fingerlike shapes.

“How’d you get those bruises?” Alex asked around the next bite, and watched the narrow throat click as Buck swallowed. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

Alex chewed the biscuits slowly, and eventually the gnawing ache in his stomach abated. By the time he finished the packet Buck had drifted to sleep, weary furrows still marring his pale, hollowed face, and breath rasping a little with each inhale. Alex took in the worn shirt hanging from his shoulders, the bird-boned wrists far too thin for a young man his size, and wondered how long it would take for himself to waste away the same.

A few hours later, as they all huddled around the stove, Buck was snatched by a guard and taken to the cooler for stealing—three days in a tiny cold cell without food—determined a fitting punishment for stealing from a guard’s ration pack. 

Egan paced the barracks for the entire three days, and when Buck was released, barely able to stand, Egan flew to his side, holding him up and murmuring quietly. Buck passed out then, and after the few hours it took for him to recover Egan retreated back to his own bunk and his own isolated silence. The glances the others sent them seemed to indicate this was unusual behavior, but from what Alex had seen or heard, nothing about those two was normal. He wished he could understand. 

. . . 

The nights were usually quiet, but sometimes Alex couldn’t sleep anyway. He laid awake, staring at the bottom of Macon’s bunk and studying the breathing patterns of the men around him. He knew their inhales better than their names, their snores better than their rank or squadron number. The sound each one made whenever they had a nightmare or other re-lived horror stabbed Alex in the chest and caught in his throat, often following him into his own dreams. 

This night he had actually managed to doze off, but was tugged back into wakefulness with the sense of something wrong wrapping tendrils of dread around his gut.

A glance around showed the only thing amiss was Buck’s bunk being empty and a hunched figure at the table. He made the decision before he could think about it, sitting up and quietly creeping to Buck who had his arms crossed over the table and head pillowed on them. Alex sat down, close enough to feel Buck’s warmth, and put a hand on his back. 

“What’s wrong?” He whispered, and even that felt too loud in the dark, cramped room, with the steady breathing of sleeping men around them. 

Buck didn’t answer and Alex pressed their shoulders together, heart sinking at the trembling of the other’s lean frame. Buck lifted his head like the movement hurt, wiping a hand over his face and looking in what Alex thought was a random direction until he realized it was Egan’s bunk. The other major’s broad-shouldered form was just visible in the darkness and Buck’s gaze kept flickering to it every few seconds like a moth to a flame.

This close, Alex felt every jerk and shudder of Buck’s body, the choked rasp of every inhale that carved deep, bleeding furrows in Alex’s chest until he couldn’t bear it anymore. He took the chance of overstepping his place to turn to face Buck, sliding an arm around his back and coaxing him closer. 

Buck tensed at first, but Alex purposely stayed relaxed and unthreatening, rubbing his thumb on Buck’s arm until he began to soften. Soon Buck had melted completely, his pained breathing slowing and head slumping until it rested on Alex’s shoulder, and the fabric of Alex’s nightshirt under Buck’s cheek grew damp. Alex brought his other arm around, cradling Buck tighter, and Buck made a quiet sound of pain into Alex’s throat.

He held Buck until his arms ached and Buck was lax in near-sleep, then guided Buck back to his bunk, tucking the blanket around him and retreating to his own bed without a word.

. . . 

When Alex sat down beside John Egan the next morning as he smoked on a bench outside the barracks with his back to the wall, Egan barely acknowledged him with a glance and nod. Though Alex hadn’t yet spoken to the guy directly, he had never been one to chicken out before and wasn’t going to start now, though he had a bad feeling about it. Egan must have seen the conflict on his face because he huffed a humorless laugh, a bloom of smoke puffing from his lips. 

“Got something to say?” he prodded, and Alex bit the bullet, pulling out his own cigarette and lighting up.

“What are you doing?” he asked Egan—might as well be Bucky, now—and getting a wry smile in return.

“I was having a nice smoke while people-watching at Central Park and not being interrupted.”

“I mean with Buck,” Alex clarified. A flash of something crossed Bucky’s face but was erased just as fast. 

“None of your business.”

A hard edge colored his voice, followed by a jaw flex and a swallow, and Alex’s dad would have had a field day with Bucky.

“He had a nightmare last night,” Alex continued. “It was bad, I found him sitting up. When he has them, you usually go to him, don’t you?”

Bucky’s mocking sigh released another belch of smoke. “What makes you think that?”

“Because he wanted you. Kept looking at your bunk.”

“I’d have just made it worse.”

“You know that’s bullshit.”

A startled laugh burst out of Bucky. “You always talk to higher-ranking officers like that?”

“Only the deserving. Sir.”

Bucky’s eyes went dark and he shoved the cigarette back into his mouth.

“You’ve been here all of what, a few weeks?” he slurred lowly. “I’ve known Buck since ‘42 and you don’t know shit.”

“I know he was scared because I was the one sitting with him. I heard his breathing. Either you were awake and didn’t come or you didn’t wake up like you usually do, so which is it?” 

Alex was aware he was pushing too hard, heard his father’s voice of caution in his ear, but Buck was his friend, goddammit, and he wasn’t going to let him keep getting hurt, even if Bucky was hurting too.

But Bucky didn’t respond, and Alex looked back to the courtyard before he said something too sharp. At the entrance to the mess hall a cluster of men loitered around smoking, including Macon who was happily yacking with DeMarco. Alex wasn’t sure if he was still going about his mission of “recruiting” drivers for their getaway truck or just genuinely hanging out, but lately he noticed that wherever Macon went, DeMarco usually followed of his own accord. Bucky caught the subject of his gaze and snorted. 

“Why’s your friend getting so cozy with DeMarco huh?” He flicked the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it with a little too much force.

“Jealous?”

“DeMarco can do what he wants.”

“I don’t mean DeMarco.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Buck doesn’t need me,” he said lowly, and Alex bit his cheek to contain his wave of anger. 

“If you believe that, you don’t know him as well as you think you do.”

Bucky froze. He radiated a hot, broken rage that shocked Alex with its ferocity, and for a second he wondered if Bucky would punch him. The hard line of his jaw and the burning pain in his eyes almost made Alex feel sorry for him, but he was so fed up—desperately hungry and tired and still raw from Buck’s tears on his shoulder—that he stood and left before he punched Bucky first.

The churning under his skin and in his bones was so unbearable he went straight to the woodshed, helped the guys chop wood with a vengeance until the pile was overflowing and his leg gave out and Lieutenant Brady (sleep talker, gets up for water at 2 am every night) had to help him back to the barracks. Buck was asleep in his bunk (he never sleeps in the middle of the day, never) with his legs curled up and hands tucked under his chin, dirty blond strands falling over his face. He looked too much like a child. He was at the very edge of the bed, as if used to making space for someone else, and Alex blinked back the sudden well of angry tears.

What’s happening to me? he thinks. Then, I wish I didn’t care.

He can’t stop caring. He’s tried, so hard.

He wonders if he’ll die here, like this. With his own pain curled in his sternum and tears on his face from the pain of other soldiers. He wants to curse his father, to have someone to blame not for the cause of all this but the cause of him feeling it.  

When he limps past Buck he’s helpless to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, heart shattering when Buck leans into it, and grits his teeth against a scream.

Why is this me? Where’s Bucky? 

A glance out the window reveals Bucky in the yard being struck by another prisoner, once, then twice, falling to his knees with a mocking grin on his blood-smeared face.

Alex stumbles to the bucket in the corner and loses his lunch.

Chapter Text

As time passed, Alex found he loved Buck like a boy loves a wounded animal found in the woods. 

When he was a child he once found a fawn near his home, mangled and bleeding, whether wounded by man or beast or machine he didn’t know. Alex fell victim to its big eyes and whimpers and patched it up, gave it milk, made it a bed of blankets on the porch and watched it cling to life for a few days before it died. 

Now the same childish fear curled in his chest whenever he spotted Buck’s lanky form around camp. Did no one see the brokenness in his eyes? The dazed pain he carried alone, bravely so as to stay a pillar to the men? His natural leadership put him in the small group with the senior POW officer and the Kommandant, going to meetings and getting the responsibility of overseeing several sections of the camp. His calm, collected manner of solving problems and caring for everyone was such a contrast to the way he curled up like a child next to Alex in the library, arms curled to his chest and head slumped on Alex’s shoulder. 

“Buck,” he would always whisper, just to make sure he would wake up. “Gale.” Sometimes it took a few tries and a hand on the sharp shoulder, a few heart-stopping moments until he could drag those worn blue eyes open. Half the time Gale woke in confused fear and Alex held him until the quiet trembling stopped and Bucky came to look for him, shoving into the room with weak limbs and dead, desperate eyes.

It seemed that at one point, Bucky would have been the only one to understand Gale, to see this part of him and hold him up, but in his current state he was blind and thrashing, hurting himself with the struggling just as much as those around him. If Gale was like that fawn, Bucky was like a burning plane going down, something Alex also had too-painful personal experience with.

Everyone could see Bucky’s struggling worse every day but only Bucky could see Gale’s fading decline. There was nothing anyone could do to help, but that never stopped Bucky. He became more mean and frantic every day, desperate to escape, but maybe it was only Alex who saw that it was because getting out of here was the only thing that could save Buck, could lift the darkness from his eyes and keep the weakening heartbeat fluttering in his ribs.

Bucky’s ideas were hair-brained but he always insisted Buck go along with him, never caring what happened to himself if he could just get Buck out, but every day that passed in helplessness turned Bucky into something sharp and wild, reminded every time he looked at Gale that he couldn't save him. It had the unfortunate effect of making things harder for Gale, every day a fight to keep Bucky alive, but it couldn’t last.

No one was actively trying to kill them, but it was a fine line. Alex had been struck and snarled at and guns shoved in his chest or back more times than he can count, but he’s no stranger to harassment. Some things follow him everywhere, even in the stalag, even the things he doesn’t miss about home. Like his father’s bleeding heart and too-perceptive mind, and the way most white men look at him. He ignores it, which was becoming the go-to response to everything that happened here, so when one day he wanders into a farther part of camp he’d never been to before, he doesn’t notice at first. He kept his eyes on his feet and went wherever they took him, breathing in time with the throbbing in his leg, and when he finally looked up there were no faces he knew. 

They looked at him like a spectacle, with ridicule and jeering and something darker in their faces, and a too-familiar prickling crawled up Alex’s spine. His breathing sped up, but he couldn’t show fear or make the first move, so he kept his face blank when one of them spoke some taunt and another stepped in front of him, demanding a question. Alex had long ago trained himself not to hear what they were saying, to let it slide off, but he would defend himself if he had to.

He glanced around discreetly, to figure how many he could take on, when someone repeated the question, shoving Alex in the chest.

He staggered back a bit, bumping into someone who had stepped up behind him and the sudden sense of being trapped sent him over the edge. He swung once, feeling a flash of satisfaction when his fist hit flesh, and swung again, dropping his weight to get a better stance, and then they were on him.

He got a fist to the stomach and more hands grabbing him, and Alex began to scrap for real. He gave as good as he got, cracking fists and kicks and clawing hands, vaguely hoping no one had a clandestine knife, but then there was a booming shout—almost a scream—and several men fell over at once. Alex barely had time to look over his shoulder before a body knocked him off his feet, slamming him into the ground and driving the air from his lungs.

He struggled but couldn't budge the weight, and it took a few seconds for him to realize the person was not trying to harm him but was in fact shielding him with their body. Shaking arms were wrapped tight around Alex and after a beat of inaction the pain struck, stealing the breath from his lungs as he clenched his jaw hard enough to crack.

A peek out of his shield’s embrace showed the group of harassers stunned and silent, some drifting away inconspicuously, and Alex let his head fall back to the ground, using his shoulder to wipe at the blood dripping from his nose and lip. When he could catch his breath he pushed and pulled at the crushing weight of the body, finally managing to move back enough to identify the dark curly hair of Bucky Egan. 

The sound of running footsteps brought Buck, Macon, and DeMarco tumbling into his field of vision. Bucky was making horrible gasping sounds into Alex’s jacket but Alex could hardly breathe for his weight and death grip. When the others grabbed Bucky and rolled him over Alex inhaled sharply, but since Bucky did not release his grip on Alex, he was rolled over with him, now sprawled half on top of Bucky. The others lifted them both to a seated position, Macon and DeMarco taking most of their weight while Buck crouched in front of him. 

“Alex, you alright?” he asked, blue eyes stormy with panic.

“Yeah,” Alex nodded shakily, still immobilized by Bucky’s grip.

“What happened?” Macon demanded.

“Some guys were after me. Ganged up on me. Then he showed up.”

Buck’s expression broke. He tried to extract Alex but Bucky dug in harder, making Alex wince. 

“Bucky,” Gale said, urgency threading his voice. “Bucky let him go, you’re hurting him.” He pulled Bucky’s head from where it was tucked in Alex’s neck and forced him to look at him. “John, it’s alright. He’s alright. It’s safe. Let him go, please.”

Bucky snarled low in his throat, jerking his head out of Gale’s hold. “Get off me, let go!” he snapped, shoving at the others. He clambered to his feet, hauling Alex with him still half-pinned to his heaving chest. “What the fuck was that huh? What happened?”

“We’re in the wrong part of town, Major,” Macon said dryly, glancing around, and Bucky was trembling so hard it rattled Alex’s bones, amplifying the sparking adrenaline in his veins as each breath wheezed in and out of Bucky’s chest. When Bucky realized he was still gripping Alex he let go like the touch burned and yanked at his hair with both hands, mouth pressed in a tight line and breathing hard through his nose. He wandered away a few yards, stumbling in vague circles. Macon and DeMarco didn’t move from Alex’s side and Buck’s hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing.

“Crowds,” Buck murmured, barely audible, grief smeared on his face like blood as he wrapped his other arm around himself. “When he was captured he and a few others got caught in a lynching mob. God, they beat him.” The words tumbled out in an unconscious rush, as if he needed someone else to understand, to share the burden. “He was the only one who survived, barely. They tried to bury him alive. Killed a fellow lying on top of him–”

Bucky suddenly pitched forward, hunching over to vomit into the dirt. They rushed over as his knees hit the ground, all reaching to hold him up, and Alex’s head spun. He cupped the back of Bucky’s head, threading fingers through the sweaty curls, and the knot of scar tissue he felt there turned his stomach so violently he had to swallow back his own bile. 

****

The medic took one look at Bucky and injected him with some sort of sedative, muttering something about a “third strike.” Bucky conked out immediately on the tiny cot in the medical ward, feet dangling over the edge, and Gale planted himself on a rickety chair shoved as close to the bedside as possible, pulling up another for Alex. He produced a first aid kit from seemingly nowhere and tended Alex’s scrapes and cuts, checking his bruises and interrogating Alex on what exactly happened, who did and said what. Alex shifted in his seat but spilled anyway, watching the furrow in Gale’s brow get deeper. 

“We’ll take care of it,” he said decisively, without looking up, like he could correct a century and a half of bigotry in a place with even more bigotry. “No more wandering in new spots of the camp without someone from our barracks. Better yet, you’re going nowhere without Bucky or I,” he declared. Alex bristled, trying to pull his arm away.

“You’re not my babysitter,” he muttered. “I can take care of myself, I’m a damn fighter pilot. Are you trying to dismiss that like everyone else?”

Gale tightened his grip on Alex’s arm, but after a second his shoulders slumped and he rubbed his face.

“No,” he said, lifting his head again to meet Alex’s gaze. “I’m sorry. But this can’t happen again.”

Alex huffed a laugh. “This has been going on my whole life and it’s the least of my worries here. You’re gonna act like you're gonna fix every problem in this whole camp when we’re all barely even staying alive?” His voice cracked on the last word and Gale’s gaze turned pained.

“I can't. But I’m going to protect you, just tell me how.”

Irritation and unease crackled under Alex’s skin, on high alert from the day’s events and unable to get past the feeling that someone else’s protection implied he was incompetent, lesser. He had to fight for himself his whole life and was damn good at it, but being protected was a new feeling and it rubbed him the wrong way. Some deep, dark part of himself burst into sticky, violent craving, crying out for care, but he shoved it down, clenching his teeth.

“Just leave me alone,” he said.

Buck’s gaze shuttered and Alex resolutely looked away, taking a deep breath to repair the walls that had mortifyingly crumbled a bit around the majors. While Buck went back to picking through the medical kit Alex glanced at the slumbering Bucky, curiosity and reduced inhibition making him change to subject to one that may or may not make things worse.

“He’s special, isn’t he?”

Gale’s face softened, lips quirking in almost a smile.

“One in a million, that’s for sure.”

“No I mean…to you.”

Gale swallowed, focusing where he cleaned one of the deeper scrapes on Alex’s arm, and the silence dragged for a few moments. 

“He was different, before,” Gale rasped, almost a whisper. “This place, what he went through getting here, it’s killing him. He’s my whole world and now I have to sit here and watch him fade away, tear himself to bits like a trapped animal, and do nothing.”

“You’re not doing nothing,” Alex said. “You’re here for him.”

Gale didn’t reply, fingers digging into Alex’s arm with water gathering on his lashes. Alex wanted to pull him into his arms but Gale was clearly desperate to hang on to what thread of composure he could manage, and Alex was afraid to snap that thread, afraid that it would break Gale. 

Part of Alex wished he could understand the other boy, too quiet with one thin, boney hand tucked in Bucky’s and the other wrapped around Alex’s wrist like he was afraid he would be torn away, but another part of him couldn't take it. He had to flee, had to get out of here even if it meant running at the fence, but Buck’s hand was warm on his arm, thumb brushing Alex’s skin in a rhythmic motion, not letting go. He pulled Alex’s hand to his lap to hold in both his own, and against all his self-preservation instincts Alex let him, watched quietly as Buck folded forward to the bed, eyes slipping closed as he pressed his face into Bucky’s blanket-covered hip.

Alex observed their quiet breathing until he was sure Buck was asleep, then carefully extracted his hand and slipped out into the cold evening.

****

The days go by in a haze-gray sludge and Alex loses more time as the weather grows colder. No one notices as he spends more time in the library or in his bunk, leaving earlier for walks alone or to avoid the shower rush. They’re all slipping through the cracks in their own ways.

One frosty morning, far too cold to be going to the showers so early, Alex’s desperation for any form of escape and solitude made him grab his meager supplies and strike out across the compound. When he arrived at the shower block the door was slightly ajar, and as he reached to pull it open a movement inside caught his eye. 

Through another doorway in the back of the building were the two figures of Buck and Bucky, wrapped around each other and kissing like they were dying in the desert and the other was water. Alex froze, hand on the door that was only open a few inches, and slowly the last few pieces of the camp’s convoluted puzzle began to slip into place. 

The two were pressed together against the wall, one of Bucky’s arms around Gale’s waist and the other cradling his head, with Gale’s hands fisted in the shoulders of Bucky’s sweater. They were melted into each other, moving in sync, and the tender openness of their body language was so foreign Alex could hardly believe it was them. Gale loosened his grip, moving his hands to cup Bucky’s face instead, and immediately both Bucky’s arms slipped around the shorter man’s waist, pulling him closer. They separated to press their foreheads together, pure adoration on Bucky’s face as he nuzzled the apple of Gale’s check, rocking him gently in his tight embrace.

Emotion lodged in Alex’s throat and he turned away, closing the door softly. An overwhelming sweet pain flooded him, weakening his knees, and he sank down on the step, trying to form a thought and coming up with none. 

Another prisoner approached and Alex greeted him before he got close as an excuse to speak louder than necessary. When the man entered with no adverse reaction Alex let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, resting his chin on his hands. He wondered how much the others knew—wondered how he himself hadn’t realized before—and now it seemed the most obvious thing in the world. The majors could hide the touches but they couldn't hide the looks, the gravitating around each other, inner pain radiating at every move. 

Love and fear. Driving forces, always related. Maybe his dad was right.

****

The temperature plunged even more as the sun disappeared behind thick clouds, the ground became a mass of snow and frozen mud, and the water in their buckets and spigots needed to be chipped loose every day. It drove them to share bunks and blankets, and the boys in their hut paired off more or less like Alex expected.

Brady and Crank, Solly and Hambone, Murph and the new kid from the same town that hit it off like a house on fire. Alex had been startled when he couldn’t find Macon one night, only to discover him burrowed under the blankets in DeMarco’s bunk, only the top of his head visible and DeMarco’s arm thrown over him. 

Alex shared a bunk with Daniels. It was comforting and secure, despite the fact that Daniels was quiet—so quiet it scared Alex—but he let Alex press close when he was cold and gave him the dignity of pretending to be asleep.

The majors shared a bunk, sometimes hardly leaving it. Bucky’s shoulders weren’t so broad anymore but they were still big enough to hide Gale almost completely, only the tell-tale rattling cough Gale had picked up the only indication he was buried under the blankets and Bucky’s body—that and the hand that sometimes sneaked out to clutch the back of Bucky’s coat. 

As the days melted into one another, Gale grasped more desperately for any semblance of control he could find while Bucky still took his “walks” every day. Alone. Just a hair too close to the fence. Sometimes Alex bundled himself up and followed, finding somewhere to sit in the courtyard and watch, sucking in lungfuls of air that was bitterly cold but still better than the stifling clog of the barracks. 

He didn’t know what day it was, and didn't care. Absently watching Bucky pace was the only show in town, and despite the repetition it was a little different each time. Sometimes ball games, sometimes singing, sometimes dancing, or a mix of all three. Today it was a game, and although Alex was too far away to hear what Bucky was saying, he was clearly animated about it, a twisted caricature of a smile on his face. When he swung an imaginary bat and began sloppily jogging to the next base, only Alex saw his path had strayed closer to the wire. He opened his mouth to shout a warning at the same instant a guard in the nearest tower raised his rifle and took aim.

They were warning shots only, kicking up dirt and snow a few yards away from Bucky. From Alex’s position he could clearly see the distance between them, but Bucky, being startled and weak and out of sorts, jerked in shock and flung himself back, tripping over his own feet and hitting the ground heavily. 

The compound descended into chaos, most of the men being at an angle that made it seem that Bucky had been hit. Alex jumped up, shouting placations that fell on deaf ears, and as more prisoners swarmed to the area there came a piercing cry that never in a million years would Alex have guessed was from a human. 

Buck tore down the steps and through the gathering crowd, staggering under his own weight, and Alex ignored the fire in his leg to struggle toward him, keeping one eye on the guard tower. It wouldn't take much for them to start shooting for real if the situation dissolved into anything resembling a riot—which, with thousands of tense, strung out men was very likely. Some were rushing to Bucky, who was still sprawled on the ground, but Alex joined the ones darting for Buck, grabbing him before he could cause a bigger scene. Staying mute and under the radar meant survival, and guards were already rushing over with dogs pulling at their leads. 

He and DeMarco and Crank reached Buck first, grabbing whatever part of him they could reach and hanging on for life as his thin limbs thrashed with surprising strength. 

“Buck,” Alex gasped, locking his arms tighter around the flailing form and getting an elbow strike to the gut. “It’s alright, he’s alright.”

The deafening sounds tearing from Buck’s body could hardly be called cries or screams or anything recognizable—just inhuman, shattered, agony spilling and clawing from his lungs. He was panting like he had run miles, entire body struggling and chest heaving hard enough to crack a rib. It took all three of them to hold him back and Alex began to panic, desperate to fix this before Gale’s shock turned to rage and he killed every guard within a two mile radius. It’s all that would be left of him without Bucky. An angel of death. His storied strength and skill may have been of his own making, but all the gentle parts of Gale were John Egan.

“John!” wailed the feral, thrashing creature in Alex’s arms, hyperventilating with gasps and sobs that tore Alex’s soul into dripping, gory pieces.

“Get Bucky over here!” he roared, but Bucky was already stumbling toward them with wide eyes, freezing in his tracks when he spotted Gale. 

Alex nearly snapped again, but the words caught in his throat at the look on Bucky’s face. Raw horror, a loss as to why this was happening morphing into confusion that such a reaction could be for him. While Bucky stood there in crisis Gale began to go limp, slumping towards the ground as his cries faded to exhausted keening, and Alex’s heart leapt to his throat.

“Bucky!” someone else shouted, and the major snapped out of his frozen state, lunging for Gale and hauling him into his arms.

“Oh god, Buck. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he rambled, shaken, and the shattered grief on his face would be burned into Alex’s mind for the rest of his life. “It’s alright, it’s alright.” He took Gale’s weight and half carried, half dragged him to the barracks murmuring trembling assurances between Buck’s lung-cracking gasps. 

In a daze Alex stumbled along behind them but somehow ended up on the floor in the library, knees pulled up and face buried in the rough fabric to absorb his tears. His ribs throbbed where Buck had caught them with his flailing and his leg hurt so bad he had to fight off the nausea and dizziness with every breath. 

Fumbling behind the bookshelf where his drawing supplies were hidden, he pulled out the sketchbook and worn-out nub of pencil, beginning to sketch mindlessly. Slowly, scattered lines emerged a landscape of the open west, with far-flung clouds and looming mesas, as a horse and rider clambered up a bluff. The rider held his cowboy hat against the wind that whipped through his clothing and the horse’s mane, and when he began to look too much like Buck, Alex stopped drawing and turned the page. This time, putting pencil to paper yielded the rough edges of a sports stadium, a broad-shouldered figure in a Yankee’s uniform mid-swing, with the ball simply a blur leaving the bat. Wild curls took shape sticking out from the cap, and when the face slowly defined with a splitting smile and mustache Alex’s pencil drifted to a stop.

The worst part was that it could have been. Two lives in another timeline, something the once bright-eyed boys could have been if not claimed by the god of war. Yet without this war they all would never have met, wouldn’t be here lying in ragged bunks, dying by inches, starving and worn and wracked in pain. 

Macon and DeMarco tumble into the room together, and when they see Alex they freeze, then approach with careful footsteps. Macon crouches in Alex’s field of vision, pausing before laying a mittened hand on his knee, and Alex realizes his pencil has been still on the paper for some time.

“Alex.”

Alex swallows without looking up. The pages under his hand are crinkled and lines dark from pressing too hard, but when they speak to him again he can’t hear it, nearly passing out when they touch his leg to check on the wound.

Macon shuffles closer, sliding a hand on his shoulder and up to the back of his neck, and Alex swipes at his face with his sleeve. 

“You need the doctor,” says DeMarco from behind him, but Alex shakes his head. The other two exchange a look, Macon’s serious expression darkening, and Alex knows he doesn’t approve of how Alex goes about life emotions first, believing it gets in the way of survival. Maybe he’s right. 

He doesn’t protest when Macon drags him to his feet.

****

He stumbled back to the barracks some time later, dizzy and brazen from the medication the doc pumped him with, to find the guys from his room clustered outside.

“We’re giving them some space,” Brady said, tilting his head toward the door, but Alex didn’t even look at him, shouldering through the group and pushing the door open. Closing it behind him, he headed straight for the bunk where Bucky sat with legs outstretched and Gale laid between them, cradled on top of Bucky with his face hidden in Bucky’s neck. He was out cold, every line of his body limp, and the only movement of the two of them was Bucky’s fingers stroking slightly where they cradled the back of Gale’s head. 

Alex laid a hand on his shoulder. Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, tilting his head to lean against Alex’s forearm. 

“Sit,” Bucky croaked. “Your leg…” He reached up to tug at Alex’s shirt and Alex lowered himself to the bit of space at the edge of the bunk. Bucky looked so fragile Alex wrapped his hand into the crook of Bucky’s arm resting around Gale’s waist, schooling away his reaction to Bucky’s mouth pressed in a miserable slant and gaze flitting away, clearly anticipating harsh words for what he did to Gale.

“Bucky,” Alex murmured, squeezing lightly when Bucky didn’t meet his eyes. “Bucky.”

Blue eyes drifted to his, waiting in acceptance for whatever judgment and sentence was dealt to him, waiting to deserve it. Alex let him look, fighting the growing lump in his own throat.

“You gotta let yourself be loved,” he rasped finally. “Or it’ll kill him. Kill you both.”

Moisture gathered in Bucky’s eyes but he blinked it away, bowing his head to press his mouth to the top of Gale’s head. 

“I know,” he said, voice cracking, muffled by Gale’s hair. “You don’t have to–I’m sorry. I saw what it did to him and I didn’t realize. I’m so out of my head…” He scrubbed his face, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye and inhaling deeply. “It’s my fault.”

“He doesn’t think it’s your fault. If you linger on that, things are going to get worse.”

“But you do.”

“I don’t,” he said. “It’s their fault; the ones who did this to you, to us. Focus on Buck. What would you do for him?”

“Anything,” came the answer, certain and immediate.

Alex waited, holding Bucky’s gaze and stroking his arm with his thumb as Bucky went through the process of understanding what that meant. The way his eyes fluttered closed told Alex it was enough and he squeezed his arm again.

“You should lay down,” he murmured. He moved to stand, and as he struggled up Bucky extracted himself from Gale who didn’t stir a bit and shifted him to lay on the bed. In an instant he was up and supporting Alex, so warm and solid Alex choked on his own breath. He squeezed his eyes shut against the starry dizziness as Bucky guided him to his own bunk, lingering after Alex had sprawled out. He opened his mouth, then closed it, eyes shining with worry and dragging a hand through his already messy curls.

“You alright?” he asked finally, and Alex huffed. Only Bucky would ask that while trying to hold his own broken pieces together with hands bleeding from the shards. It was only when Bucky sat down on the edge of the bunk that Alex realized he hadn’t replied, and jolted when a cool hand touched his forehead.

“Got a fever,” Bucky murmured. “What’d the doc say about your leg?”

Alex swallowed, shifting a bit under the attention. “Infected. Gave me penicillin and morphine shots. Go back to Buck.”

“He’s asleep.”

“He needs you.”

“I know, what about you?”

Alex’s brow furrowed. “He doesn’t need me.”

Bucky’s lips pursed in almost amusement, giving Alex a dry look “If you think that, you don’t know him as well as you think you do,” he quoted, then shook his head. “But that’s not what I meant.” He bent forward to rest his elbows on his legs, rubbing his hands and studying the rough floorboards.

“Let us in, Alex,” he murmured. “You’re one of ours too.”

Alex blinked sluggishly, the sensation of Bucky’s body shielding him from the horrors in his mind ghosting over him.

“It’s not your job to look after me,” he said finally.

Bucky looked up, offended. “It is, quite literally, my job–”

“Is it your job to look after Gale?”

Bucky’s mouth snapped shut and his shoulders tensed. “That’s different,” he said, and Alex sighed through his nose, having half a mind to tell Bucky what he had seen in the shower block if he was sure he wouldn’t freak out.

“You should take your own advice sometimes,” murmured Bucky, and a sick rage burst to life in Alex’s gut. 

“Fuck you! Don’t.” He curled on his side, winding every muscle tight, and Bucky’s brow furrowed.

“Don’t what?”

“Act like you care,” Alex spat. “Just go.”

Months of being terrified and trapped and sick and in the most pain he’d ever felt in his life made animalistic anger boil over, and he trembled with rage as if Bucky had stabbed him.

No one cared about Alex. Not the kids in his town that jeered and smashed his models, not the officers in training that looked at him like dirt and townspeople that spat in his face when he was in uniform. Not his friends who went off and died in front of him in flaming aircraft, not the Nazi interrogator, not the god who let that little deer die when Alex had begged on his knees. Anger rolled hot and vicious and Bucky was still sitting on his bed so Alex whirled on him, only to have shock like ice water slam through his entire being.

Bucky’s head hung low, curls falling on his forehead as he stared at the wall, hands shaking, a single tear trailing down his face, and a part of Alex died right then and there. He suddenly hated himself so violently he thought he would vomit, but before he could think of anything to say Bucky stood, roughly dragging a sleeve across his eyes only for more tears to spill. Without a word he walked back to his bunk, tucking himself into the wall side and gathering Buck to his chest. 

"Bucky," Alex croaked, barely a whisper. He didn't have any words, only pain, and the soft sniffs from the other bunk welled bitter tears in Alex's eyes he didn't deserve to shed. Sick with guilt and trembling, Alex curled up on his side with his back to the room, waiting to be claimed by uneasy sleep.

****

It’s days before he gets the courage to approach either of them. He goes to Buck first, hoping he’s oblivious to the pain he’s inflicted, and feels a little better at the tired smile Buck gives him, lifting his arm immediately for Buck to tuck himself into. Alex says nothing when he hands the cowboy sketch to him and is unprepared for the raw emotion that crosses Buck’s face. He holds the paper like it’s a treasure, studying it with distant, longing expression, and it dawns on Alex that maybe the maps weren’t the only drawings of his that could help people escape.

“It’s me?” Gale asked after a while.

Alex nods and shrugs. A sweet, genuine smile blooms on Gale’s face, filling his eyes, and he engulfs Alex in a tight hug so warm that Alex never wants him to let go. He wraps his arms around Gale too tightly, flooded with a strange longing and eyes stinging. 

“Thank you,” Gale whispers, hidden in Alex’s shoulder, but Alex can’t speak. 

He goes to find Bucky next, leaning against the outside wall smoking and approaches him carefully, dread curling in his stomach. Leaning a shoulder into the wall, he wordlessly holds out the baseball drawing, pointedly not looking at Bucky’s face.

Bucky takes the paper. He looks at it for a while, a long while, until Alex finally gets the courage to glance at him. Bucky’s small, nostalgic smile as he traces the faint lines makes him look like the boy he is, and a distant light in his dark blue eyes fit the last pieces in Alex’s heart confirming he had the weight of another soul to carry. 

You’d better not forgive me, he thinks. From the tiger-sharp gleam in Bucky’s eyes and hard edge of his smile, he felt sure he wasn’t, yet Bucky slings his arm over Alex’s shoulder and rocks him a little, making a wide gesture to the camp.

“Gonna be a player someday,” he slurs. “A real one. Or coach a kids team or somethin,’ heck. They’ll be cheering and singing, you know?”

Alex hums. He begins murmuring the song of the stadiums and Bucky’s scarred face lights up. Eyes squinting into half-moon joy, he squeezes Alex tighter and launches into the song with him.

Take me out to the ball game.

Take me out with the crowd.

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack.

I don’t care if I never get back.

The ragged guard towers become stands and the dirt beneath their feet a pitch as Bucky sways the two of them back and forth. Neither of them have any singing voices to speak of, but for that song all that is needed was a little enthusiasm and boyish playfulness that Alex thought he had forgotten how to feel. 

Let me root, root, root for the home team.

If they don’t win it’s a shame.

For it’s one, two, three strikes, you’re out.

At the old ball game

That night, the barracks burned. With the light of the flames on their faces and guns at their backs they gather everything they own and are shoved out into the dark snow.

Alex's leg ached, and they all had coughs they couldn’t shake. Gale and Bucky stood at the front, nothing but bones inside their thick coats, faces drawn with exhaustion and stumbling every few feet, yet still bearing the weight of their boys with brave love that had already signed their own death sentences. Alex bundled Daniels and Macon close and tried to tear his eyes from the majors, already looking like the statues they would become after they fell. There would be tall marble monuments extolling the virtues of soldierly heroics, but the important things would be forgotten—the crinkles around Bucky’s eyes when Gale said something funny, Gale’s proud smile at each of Crank’s new airplane carvings, the way their fingers tightened on the shoulder of whoever their hand landed on.

Whenever the swirling snow blotted them from sight, Alex realized he had never known fear before. He clutched his coat close, gritting his teeth against the cold and screams that stuck in his frozen lungs.

Chapter Text

“Alex,” murmurs Gale at his shoulder, three days into the march when they’re already frozen down to their bones. There’s ice in Gale’s hair and in the scruff on his face, and his lips are so chapped they barely move when he speaks. They walk together in silence, one numb foot in front of the other. 

“Yeah?” Alex says, but Gale doesn’t respond.

They all hang from a thin thread of survival now, even more so than before. These new guards, the SS, are different, going on killing sprees when it suits their fancy. The bodies they leave strewn beside the road are brutalized, slashed and stabbed, fingers and ears cut off and throats slit. There’s always signs of a struggle, the snow in a wide swath around them sodden and melted with blood, and Alex has vomited more than once after passing another victim. Cold, starvation, and sickness are enemies too, scattering their own victims along the path. Some of them Alex recognizes, some he doesn’t, yet Gale always makes a soft choked gasp as they pass each one, and Alex can feel him shaking even if they’re not touching. 

“Gale?” inquires Alex after a while. Gale swallows thickly, keeping his gaze on the wooded horizon.

“I hate to ask anything of you,” he says. “Especially now. But…you’re the only one I trust with it.”

Alex looks over at him. They can't stop walking, having seen too many men killed for that and still carry the blood they walked over on their shoes. Alex hums and looks down at his feet, swerving to press their shoulders together.

“Anything,” he says lowly, and means it, though a huff from Gale showed his thoughts on such extreme dedication. Gale licks his lips and Alex almost tells him to stop it, that it will only make things worse, but Gale nods his head past Alex’s shoulder and Alex follows his gaze to see Bucky struggling to drag along another prisoner who was weakening fast and couldn't stand on his own. 

“Take care of Bucky.”

The request is quiet and pained, and Alex’s brow furrows as he turns back. 

“Isn’t that your job?”

Gale’s eyes soften and he shakes his head. “Promise me,” he rasps. “And you—” He breaks off into a coughing fit, nearly doubled over. “You stay low. I’ve got your back as long as I can. They won’t touch you.”

“Why can’t you look after him?” Alex mutters, catching Gale as his step stumbles. It takes Gale a few seconds to get his footing again and Alex’s heart tangles in his throat, hot fear pulsing through his limbs as Gale continues to cough.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Alex insists.

“Promise me,” Gale begs. “Please.”

“Goddammit!"  Alex growls. “I promise, alright?”

Gale—infuriating, insufferable Gale—smiles that angelic smile of his and squeezes Alex’s shoulder.

Alex wishes selfishly that Gale had never asked him such a thing, the burden is too daunting and painful, but he knows he would have done it anyway, without the request. Bucky has wedged his broad shoulders and agony-sharpened edges into Alex’s heart already, and Alex loves him so much it makes him sick. 

His steps are shaky, shuffling, and Alex tries to keep his breathing steady as each foot moves in his line of sight like someone else is controlling them. The distant sound of Bucky’s pleading echoes across the snow, followed by a scuffle and another shot. A few moments later, a stricken-faced and silent Bucky appears beside them with red rimmed eyes. He reaches out to pull Gale’s arm over his own shoulder but hesitates, looking around before retreating to shuffle by himself. 

Two SS guards pass slowly, scanning the group, until one of them catches sight of Macon. Without a word, he cuts through the marchers and sizes Macon by the arm, starting to drag him out of the column. 

There’s a moment of paralyzing terror on Macon’s face before DeMarco gets to him, flinging his arms around him while digging his feet in and shouting viciously in Italian. In an instant more SS are on them, and when they realize they cannot separate the two they throw them to the ground, heedless of the other prisoners shouts as they kick and strike with the butts of their guns. 

Alex, Bucky, and Gale lunge toward the chaos along with the rest of the nearest prisoners, and with much shouting, tugging, and distraction—heart-in-throat seconds passing without anyone getting shot—the guards finally let up and leave with a few final shoves.

Macon and DeMarco won’t let go of each other, their faces smeared with blood and terror, but Alex and the others get them mostly apart and walking again. They’re still locked together, Macon’s arm tight around DeMarco’s waist and DeMarco’s own over Macon’s shoulders, and for a while the only sound is their shuffling feet and DeMarco’s choked gasping inhales while Macon stares vacantly, shaking so hard his teeth chatter.

“You alright?” Alex asks, pulling the arm that wasn’t around DeMarco over his own shoulder. Macon nods dazedly and Alex grabs a fistful of snow to melt in his handkerchief, using it to wipe the blood from Macon’s nose and lip as they walk.

Alex is numb. Knees weak, he stumbles a bit and Gale presses closer on his other side.

****

They march, and march some more, sometimes all day and into the night. They cling to each other in the blinding snow-light, sleep in huddled piles in the darkness. They get shot at by their own planes, stuffed into another destroyed town every night, and then Gale is gone.

Alex hears the commotion and shouting, and eventually Bucky limps past where they are huddled down, holding his side with a blank look on his face. Alex jumps up, and Bucky stops in his tracks when he sees him. There’s something wrong, and Alex can’t place what it is until he realizes what’s missing. 

“Where’s Buck?” he breathes.

“Gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“He went over the wall.”

Alex’s chest seizes. That couldn’t be right. There’s no way Gale would have escaped on his own accord without Bucky. They would have tried to go together, which means…

“What happened to you?” Alex demands as Bucky sways on his feet, face twitching.

“They were gonna shoot him,” he wheezes. “I jumped a guard.”

Bucky pitches forward and Alex grabs him, lets Bucky throw an arm over his shoulder and lean heavily, breathing pained in more ways than one. Bucky’s brow is furrowed, mouth pressed into a line that Alex has come to realize means he’s struggling to hold back his emotions, but he can’t hide it now that Buck is gone, it’s bleeding out of him and into Alex’s hands. Finally his knees buckle and Alex lowers him to the ground, yelling for the others. 

The guys from their barracks group rush up. Bucky is obviously in pain but Alex can’t hear anything, ears ringing and head stuffed with a fog that drowns the voices to a faint mumble. 

“Go watch the spot!” he shouts at the nearest guys. “If they shoot Gale they’ll drag him back, if they come back empty-handed he’s made it. Go!” Or he was hit too far away for them to see. Or he was wounded enough to slow him down, to bleed out in the woods.

Alex is shaking. He can’t breathe but his hands are skittering over Bucky’s face. Tears well in his eyes and he fights them back, sniffs hard, and Bucky’s big hands cover his. His eyes are so full of grief Alex nearly breaks down right there, but he focuses on helping Brady and Daniels get Bucky’s layers off so they can see the damage. They finally strip his coat, flight jacket, sweater, and shirt to reveal the huge ugly mark along the side of his spine, bruised nearly black, and bleeding in spots from broken skin. Bucky’s breaths are gasps now. His ladder-ribs protrude harshly with each heave, and Alex’s stomach twists.

He smooths his hands over the skin around the bruise, pressing gently to check for breaks, and Bucky sobs. He clutches at Alex’s sleeve, eyes screwed shut, and Alex wants to scream and cry until there’s nothing left of himself, until he falls empty and hollow into the snow. Every blink brings a split-second vision of Gale running through the darkness. Falling, bleeding, crying out. Light fading from his eyes.

Alex doesn’t have any medical training, doesn’t know how to assess the damage and what to do about it. All he can do is soothe Bucky with one hand caressing bare skin and the other cupping his knit cap-clad head, fingers dipping under the edge of it into Bucky’s wild curls and gritting his teeth to bear the sounds of pain and hot breath against Alex’s inner wrist. 

Eventually he is pushed aside to make room for a medic who has been summoned—someone who could actually help—but Bucky gasps when Alex’s hands leave him and Alex can’t see through the thick, cold tears clogging his eyes. He can’t run away this time, can’t hide in the camp library, just lingers at the edge of the huddle, shivering with helplessness. 

Eventually Alex stumbles to his feet and wanders to where the escape happened—three gamblers making a desperate break for freedom, perhaps never to be seen again. He peers into the darkness for what feels like hours, but no Gale appears. No guards drag a limp, bloody form back to be dumped in a ditch, there’s no cry of pain or begging for help. Or is there? Is it all in Alex’s mind? Rabid hope fights with the dread in his gut, making him sick with turmoil, and he stands there until Daniels comes to drag him back. 

“He made it, he got out.” Alex mutters to him. “He got away. He did.”

Bucky is still trembling when Alex returns, sitting cross-legged with face pinched as the others gently press snow to the swollen bruises on his back. Alex kneels and cups his face, soaks up Bucky’s terror and guilt and tries not to give any of his own in turn, but Bucky seizes Alex’s wrists with devastated stammering of Are you ok? Where were you? Please, please, and Gale is gone and nothing will ever be ok again.

Alex couldn’t sleep that night. He usually huddled with Macon and Daniels for warmth but now he couldn’t bear to stray far from Bucky’s side. He settled an arm’s length away from where Bucky was laid out at the end of the row of Hundredth boys and curled up with his back to them, trying to conserve his own meager body heat. 

There’s a shuffling sound from behind him, a hesitant touch on Alex’s arm, and Alex looked over his shoulder. The dim firelight from the other end of the room shone in Bucky’s worn, wounded eyes, full of too much emotion to put into words, and Alex swallowed. For a moment they stared at each other, until finally Alex tugged on Bucky’s arm. Bucky sighed, pressing close behind Alex and tucked his forehead to the back of Alex’s neck, opening his overcoat to throw one side of it and his arm around Alex. His hand settled on Alex’s forearm, thumb moving in a rhythmic, soothing pattern through the layers of clothing. 

The tenderness is crippling. Tears sprang to Alex’s eyes, and before he could build up any resistance they swelled and spilled down his cheeks. He sucked in a shuddering breath, letting it out in a weak sob and suddenly he couldn’t stop them from tearing his chest apart, body jerking as he bit into this sleeve to muffle the sounds.

Bucky’s arm tightened around him, gloved hand pressing to Alex’s chest, and Alex clutched it in his own and fought to breathe, choking down begging pleas he didn’t even know what for. No words formed in his mind as the pain burst out in sharp, rasping cries. 

Bucky made a mournful sound. He loosened his hold, pulling back slightly, and panic blinded Alex for a second before Bucky gently guided him to roll over, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him tightly to his chest. He guided Alex’s head under his chin, and Alex slid his arm to clutch at Bucky’s back, careful to avoid the wound.

Bucky said nothing, just held Alex so tight his bones creaked and warmth seemed branded into Alex’s skin. They lay there, locked together, Alex’s sobs hidden in Bucky’s coat and the occasional wet sniffs from Bucky that somehow pained and comforted Alex simultaneously. 

Alex had never been held like this—given a companion in his suffering—and the fact that it was war that had given it to him twisted a knife in his chest. This hell of agony and loss was the provider of the only comfort allowed him in he didn’t know how long, but Alex soaked it up as if starved, drifting into a hollow fog the longer Bucky held him. He let himself fall, floating away into a foreign, hesitant sense of safety that slowly, achingly, began to wear at the edges of the icy fear encasing him.

Eventually, he cried himself to sleep.

****

They fight a lot after that, him and Bucky. It’s as ironic as it is tragic. 

With Gale gone, Bucky completely shut down, his behavior becoming riskier and wilder with each passing day. He looked like a specter, pale as a sheet with sunken cheeks and furrowed brow making the scars and worn lines of his face stand out. He swung between vigorous purpose in taking care of his men and isolated listlessness—between single-minded focus on getting through this to get back to Gale and trying to accept Gale was dead and he had nothing left to live for.

When he wasn’t shuffling in silence with head hung low he was pulling up to his full height and straightening his shoulders in defiance of their captors, his dark, flinty eyes staring down the guards and harsh voice snapping to keep increasingly-desperate prisoners in line. He picked and goaded at the guards like he had nothing to lose, but Alex would be damned if he let Bucky play too close to fire and get a lead slug in that stupid skull of his.

He pushes back against Bucky’s insanity, drags him away from confrontations and shoves him when he starts yelling too much, no matter how much Bucky glared and growled and shoved him back. Both their wounds have frozen over into anger—Bucky’s heartbreak and Alex’s fear—sharpened and hardened until it’s hardly bearable. 

It wasn’t until one night after being stuffed in the latest bombed-out building, when Bucky shoved a guard for roughing up a prisoner and got a knife held to his throat, that Alex’s vision went red with rage. He seized Bucky, heedless of the ache in his own leg, and dragged him bodily to a corner though the crowd, leaving a wake of worried and mocking comments from the prisoners. 

One of them muttered a joke, something about Egan being dragged around by his ‘new pet’ and before Alex could blink Bucky lunged like a ravenous lion, knocking the man to the ground and pummeling with his fists until the other prisoners could pull them apart. Amid the chaos Alex got Bucky against a wall out of the way, chest heaving with exertion while Bucky still struggled, every limb trembling. Alex held him fast against the rough brick, waiting for him to tire out.

“You’re not a pet! ” Bucky snarled, voice cracking. “Buck wasn’t either.”

“I know,” Alex said, pressing closer. “Bucky, we know.”

Bucky swallowed. A thin line of blood had formed on his neck where the knife had been and he looked down at his shaking, bruised hands, curling them into fists and pressing them to his eyes.

“He’s gone,” he moaned. “I lost him again, and it’s my fault. He’s gone, I got him killed.”

“Stop,” Alex said, shaking him a little. “You don’t know that.” But Bucky continued like he didn’t hear him, a litany of he’s gone, I killed him, spilling from his lips.

“Bucky, please,” Alex begged. 

He grabbed the back of Bucky’s head and forced their foreheads together, struggling to look deep in Bucky’s eyes through the ragged edges left in his soul when Gale was torn away. He took a deep breath and forced himself to be gentle instead of snapping at Bucky for borrowing trouble, for painting pictures of things that might not be true.

“Stop,” he whispered, letting go of Bucky’s head to grip his arms. “You set him free.”

Bucky’s face crumpled. He shook his head, folding into Alex’s chest as a broken cry tore out of him. Alex pulled him close, sunk down the wall until they were both on the ground with Bucky nearly in his lap, and curled around the taller boy.

Bucky didn’t cry like Alex had, hidden and ashamed. He cried like a child who had had their entire world smashed to pieces, had every bit of innocence and trust torn away, leaving them crushed and abandoned. He choked on the sobs that wracked his emaciated frame, vocal cries and whimpers muffled in Alex’s jacket, and each sob punctuated with a gulping gasp so harsh Alex’s lungs ached in sympathy. 

Bucky’s long arms clutched at him desperately and Alex wrapped him up as best he could, trying to shield him from prying eyes of both pity and hostility. The hundredth boys lingered close, tears in their own eyes as they tried to shelter their leader, and Brady knelt next to the two of them, wrapping his arm around Bucky and pressing his face to Bucky’s shoulder. 

“I’m sorry!” Bucky wailed, words hardly recognizable, and water flooded Alex’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Don’t hurt him.”

Alex held tight, murmuring comfort for what felt like hours until Bucky went limp in an unconscious sleep, soft breaths ticking Alex’s neck. 

****

The temperatures grow slightly warmer every day. The snow begins to melt, the clouds drop cold rain instead of snow, and the road turns to mud. Their rations become smaller, barely a handful a day along with what the prisoners can scrounge along the way, and Alex gets sick. 

It comes suddenly, like the sword of Damocles finally falling, and within the course of a day he can barely stand, shivering and burning and vomiting every few steps. His head pounds with every heartbeat and his vision is so blurred he can hardly see the faces beside him. He remembers nothing, comes to himself intermittently with flashes of being carried by Macon, then Crank, then others whose names he can’t place. 

There’s bodies shielding him when there’s rain or some sort of riot. Hands push food or water in his mouth and wipe his brow with cool cloths, shoving a knit cap on his head and tucking valuable blankets around him. 

After uncountable days he starts to come back to himself, conscious enough to toss in his sleep and be ravaged by delirious nightmares, but not enough to know where he is, why they are in large tents instead of brick rubble. On one such night he startles awake, gasping, barely able to distinguish lying on a pile of rags with the others packed close in the small shelter. Alex fumbles until he spots Bucky sprawled a few feet away, limp and pale and not moving and not breathing, and suddenly Alex is wailing like he never has in his life. He crawls toward Bucky, limbs weaker than he remembers and feeling burning hot and cold, pain tearing at his chest. 

A panicked Daniels catches him before he gets to Bucky, holding him back and giving rapid orders to someone but Alex can only hear his own dry screams tearing from his chest, someone crying Bucky’s name in an unrecognizable voice, and Bucky shoots up.

Alex only gets a glimpse of Bucky’s confused, frightened face before he is hauled roughly to the major’s chest and rocked as he gasps for air. Bucky is making soothing sounds and he’s alive and Alex is reeling, falling, sinking into nauseated darkness.

He wakes a day or five later, Bucky’s coat laid on top of him and the sleeping man himself curled up with his head on Alex’s chest. The sun is out, filtering through the tent flaps, and though Alex is too weak to lift his limbs his mind is clear. The others tell him they’re in a transit camp with thousands of other men and that Bucky never leaves his side, snarling at anyone who looks at him wrong like he needs an excuse to sink his claws into someone and tear them apart. His curls are wilder now that they’re not pinned under a cap, splayed soft over Alex’s chest, and all Alex can think about is how Gale used to run his fingers through them at night. Bucky’s face is worn and stress-lined even in sleep, yet his breaths are slow and peaceful, his weight a grounding presence that tethers Alex back to the land of the living.

Bucky does indeed never leave him again. At night he’s at Alex’s back and during the day he follows him doggedly, so much like he used to do with Buck that Alex aches with the loss. The ghost of Gale’s presence lingers so strong Alex could swear he catches glimpses of Gale’s gentle eyes and delicate wrists, his apple-cheeked smile and deep rasp that turned Bucky’s face lovesick, once Alex knew what to look for. 

Sometimes it was too much, and their shared grieving thoughts keep them awake through the night, lying facing each other to talk under their breath for hours. They talk about Buck, about the stars and the horses he loved, about their own pasts and futures like this would be the last chance they’d have to know one another. Alex admits his dream of getting his own airplane as soon as possible, craving the freedom of flight with none of the bloodshed and terror—maybe one of those little fabric-and-wood biplane trainers they all started out on.

“No Mustang?” Bucky asks, knees knocking into Alex’s when he shifts. He’s close enough that Alex can feel his warmth, their shared blanket further concealing their whispers from their slumbering comrades.

“With the amount of money you’d spend on gas and a mechanic you’re better off walking,” Alex replies. “Besides, the P-51 only has one seat, the trainers have two so you can share the experience with others.” 

“Mmm, but those things are slow as heck. You’ll miss the roaring speed.”

“Who says I want speed? I just want to enjoy the sky, feel that happiness again.”

Bucky goes quiet for a while. Alex’s eyes flutter closed and he almost drifts away before Bucky breaks the silence.

“I don’t know if I could ever fly again,” he whispers, and Alex studies his outline in the darkness, the curve of his ear and jaw lined by a searchlight. 

“That’s ok,” he says finally.

“I mean, maybe I would if I was with you,” Bucky amends. “Manitowoc isn’t that far from Detroit, so come visit. Take me for a ride.” 

Alex smiles despite the painful tugging of his chapped lips. “Sure. But I have a feeling you’ll be in Wyoming.” 

Bucky swallows. They lie in silence for a while, and Bucky tucks his head down into the crook of his arm. Alex shifts closer, throwing an arm over him, and they share breaths until they fall asleep.

****

One day, all at once, it’s over.

Mustangs come roaring over their heads, tanks appear at the edge of the forest, and the camp descends into chaos. Explosive emotions sweep through the prisoners as they grip each other and cheer, but the joy sours into panic as the guards’ gunfire turns inwards. 

It’s a blur, more adrenaline than has ever pumped through Alex’s veins before as he and Bucky dash around the camp, searching for the homemade flag of colored scraps that will save all their lives until finally someone shoves it into Alex’s hand.

Bucky, the brave idiot, climbs the soaring flagpole at the highest point in the camp, one shaking limb over another as Alex’s heart lodges in his throat. He makes it, lifts the flag, and the ground shakes with the roar of thousands of free men. 

Alex sinks to the ground, head spinning and chest heaving to get air in his aching lungs.

Before he knows it there are medics checking them over and handing out hot food and drinks. Alex hasn’t stopped shaking in hours, hasn’t spoken in more than that, and he can’t quite string thoughts together in his fog-sluggish brain. Bucky is so thin and bony it hurts to see him move, slowly and weakly. Alex is a little better, but he’s only been a prisoner for a few months and not a year and a half. 

It’s not until the army begins sorting them into different trucks that Alex realizes this is it.

No one wants to be separated, even with the promise of freedom. Macon and DeMarco linger miserably, heads bent close together as they talk while clutching each other's jackets, and Alex comes to a belated realization there as well. Crank, Brady, Solly, Daniels, and Murph all cluster with the other guys from their original bunkhouse, and suddenly Bucky is beside him, eyes turbulent with so many emotions that Alex’s words die in his throat. 

They shake hands, then hug tightly, and Alex can almost feel Buck’s arms around them too. He drags his fingers through Bucky’s coat when he pulls away and the others say their goodbyes as they climb into the backs of their designated canvas-covered army trucks. They’re packed in tightly, sitting on the benches and floors on every inch of free space, and Alex pulls his knees to his chin. Bucky is the last to get into a truck several yards away, and when he’s seated his gaze finds Alex again. 

Neither of them are very good at goodbyes, and as Bucky’s hunched form gets farther away Alex feels sick. It’s not until Macon wraps his arms around his waist from behind and pulls him to his chest that Alex realizes he can’t sit up under his own power. His limbs are numb.

Freedom air tastes different—warm-sweet like the diesel fumes of the convoy and salty from the tears on his cheeks. 

****

Home was comforting in a way that made Alex’s stomach turn. His clothes don’t fit, simultaneously too big and too small in different places. He’s outgrown them but lost weight.

Everything feels just enough off kilter to be wrong, yet not wrong enough to convince his family he wasn’t crazy—like all the furniture in his home had been moved a few inches to the left. It is right, it looks right, but…but…

His old bedroom feels so much smaller as he trails a finger through the dust on the wings of his aircraft models. He spends an entire afternoon packing them in boxes and shoving them in the closet. He shivers even when it’s not cold, freezes when someone raises their voice, and can’t sleep without a coat laid on top of him.

He puts on his shoes that pinch and the trousers that have to be taken out at the hems and taken in at the waist. He goes to church and the supermarket and the ice cream shop and his mother's book clubs. Goes to visit his old college and gets offered a teaching job. He stands in front of the mirror to fuss with his new haircut and never looks in his own eyes, can’t stomach the horrors in them. He has no recollection of time going by, or the sense of it passing.

It’s his father that wakes him from the nightmares, pets his head and holds him gently through the shaking like he’s a child again. He heard his father’s voice in his head so much in the stalag that sometimes he can’t bear to hear it now, can't distinguish between the soothing nothings he speaks in the darkness of Alex’s bedroom and the words of survival his own mind parroted during the war.

Love and fear. They’re usually connected. That’s all humans are made of.

The one saving grace is that his mother’s cat had kittens and Alex spends his days cuddling them and preparing their food and finding them homes. It’s one nameless day as he changes the paper in their litter box when an advertisement scrap of a week-old newspaper catches his eye.

1941 Stearman biplanes for sale. Former army trainers. To be sold or scrapped. Inquire at Romulus Army Airfield.

Alex grabs the keys to the family car.

The airplane is just how he remembered them from training at Tuskegee Field. The stubby blue body and yellow wings and tail make it look like a wildflower patch on the side of the runway, and Alex runs a hand along the smooth canvas covering with a nostalgic smile. She’s a little worse for the wear after years battering from hundreds of erstwhile students and less-than-perfect landings. The fabric is patched and torn in places, and a few wires are bent, but all easy fixes. She doesn’t need to look pretty to work well, a few scars from her years of service are badges of honor. 

He climbs into the rear open cockpit, inhaling deeply the scent of leather and oil and exhaust that floods him with memories of a younger, bright-eyed version of himself, when flying was exciting and new and freeing, and he was full of wonder and determined to prove himself. He pulls on the leather cap and goggles, settles his hands on the controls, and it feels like coming home.

****

Months go by, seasons change. Alex goes to the airport every day, spends his meager backpay on fuel to fly for hours until his body aches, doing loops and rolls and practicing landings at every open field big enough, coasting low over the farms and waving his wings at children who come running out to see him. When he’s in the air everything else falls away and his mind quiets with the steady sound of the engine, the cool wind brushing his cheeks, and the sunset painting moving colors on every surface of the plane as he moves. It takes his breath away and he never wants to come down. He flies until he’s exhausted and falls straight into bed when he gets home.

“You could teach others to fly, you know,” his father says, and it ignites something in Alex, a tiny flame of yearning. 

One morning when he wakes late there’s a telegram laid on the end table beside him. It’s from Bucky from a Wyoming address, and the pointed message put a smile on Alex’s face.

MISS YOU. COME VISIT. FARM WITH BLUE ROOF 8 MI S OF RIVERTON. HALF MILE DIRT DRIVEWAY. WIND 050 IN AM. - BUCKY

****

It’s a full two-day trip by very slow airplane to Riverton, and after only a few hours in the cockpit Alex is stiff and sore. His leg wound has long healed but still pains him after exertion, probably always will. The Stearman is indeed lumbering and unhurried compared to his P-51, but he likes the calm, trailing his hands through the slipstream as he watches the patchwork Earth pass below. Steady and smooth and comforting is all his heart can handle nowadays, but he’s also jittery with anticipation, wanting to be there already.

On the morning of the second day of travel he arrives over Riverton, spotting the blue roof and the long driveway the perfect size for a runway. The wind was coming from the exact direction Bucky had told him and he circles overhead a few times, finally descending and touching down with a little wiggle as his wheels hit, leaving behind a rising column of dust.

He swings the airplane around in front of the house and cuts the engine—ears ringing after so many hours aloft—and pulls off his cap and goggles. 

The farm is miles from any neighbors. Only the rolling grassland hills and a few trees are visible, fading to the snow-capped Rockies in the distance. The house is clearly old and undergoing repair. Cream-colored paint is peeling in spots and some shutters are broken, though others look new. A ladder leans against a lower part of the roof where rolls of new shingles are laid out in anticipation and a rusty pickup truck parked a few yards away is loaded with lumber and boxes. In a field beside the house a makeshift baseball diamond, with wooden benches for stands and piles of colorful helmets, bats, and mitts far too small to be for adults.

The squeal of a screen door breaks the tranquility and Alex’s head snaps toward the sound, heart throbbing painfully. A tall figure hurtles down the steps, tugging on a shirt and getting stuck in his haste, and absently Alex realized the colorful fabric is a Yankees jersey. Finally Bucky’s head pops out, hair in a puffy mess shining chestnut in the light, and his smile rivals the white sky, squinty-eyed happiness covering his whole face.

“Put that cap back on!” he crows. “You’re taking us for a ride!”

Alex laughs and takes a step forward but Bucky has already reached him, scooping Alex clear off his feet in a bear hug which evolves into wrestling like kids. Bucky’s bright laughter echoes over the field and when he finally lets Alex go they’re both out of breath. 

They look at each other for a moment, Bucky’s gaze turning soft. The lines and scars on his face are still prominent, and though he looks tired the raw wounds have started to heal. Alex’s heart tumbles, a million questions catching in his throat, but a movement over Bucky’s shoulder diverts his attention. 

There’s another figure on the porch, bit shorter and thinner, with sleep-fluffed blond hair and matching scars on each cheek and Alex’s heart stops beating.

“Buck,” he whispers, freezing.

Bucky looks back, smoothing a hand down Alex’s shoulder, and Alex feels faint.

“Buck!” he calls, and a grin bursts over Buck's face. He bounds off the porch and across the grass but everything blurs and Alex can’t tell if Buck has reached him until a warm body barrels into him in a crushing embrace. It’s only when Alex wraps his arms around Buck and shoves his face into his shoulder that he realizes his cheeks are wet. He can hear himself crying and Buck is cradling the back of his head and oh god is the war over?

Buck squeezes Alex so tight it hurts, rocks them both. Conflicting emotions crash through him so hard his head spins, but it’s happiness that overwhelms the rest.

“Alex,” Gale’s voice rumbles, warming and soothing the deep broken parts of them all. “Alex.”

Bucky puts his arms around both of him, resting his chin on Gale’s head. 

“We made it boys,” he rasps quietly, voice heavy with weariness and sorrow and relief.

The long grass in the field rustles with the breeze swirling around them and whistling through the wires of the plane. Warm sun soaks into Alex’s bones, leeching the tension out of him with the realization that there’s a whole life ahead of them and time enough to learn how to live it.

They had changed. There will always be some sort of fight for them to face, but here they stand as those over whom death had no power. Too old to be young and too young forever.