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Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting light
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight
Strains of music drifted with the snow flurries past the dirty glass of the phone booth Gale had settled in, tinged with sparkling color from the festivities around the giant tree at Rockefeller Square in the distance. Gale supposed he should be scared, considering what was about to happen, but he was beyond feeling now, having prepared himself on the long train ride here, and the carols were ironically soothing.
He pulled his knees closer to his chest and leaned back against the wall of the booth, sniffing and pulling the sheepskin collar of his flight jacket higher around his neck. It smelled of mothballs and dust, having been stuffed in his closet since he was discharged. He hadn’t expected to ever wear it again, but it was the first winter since the war’s end, and New York was cold.
The square itself was an explosion of holiday decor, boughs and bows and Santas and nativities, ice skating with hot chocolate, and tent shops set up with trinkets and treats. Gale had stood in the middle of it all for a while, staring at the tree with his head tipped back and absorbing the colorful beauty that lodged a bittersweet lump in his throat. The phone booth was a few blocks away, enough to be secluded on a quiet street but close enough to still see the lights, and when Gale found it he knew it was right. It was the perfect spot to settle down, appreciate the view, and do what he came here to do.
He hadn’t planned to be in New York, either, but the past several months since he had been discharged—right on the airfield tarmac with nothing but scars and an army-issue bag—had been a slow torture of isolation in Casper. In his empty apartment with a mattress on the floor, Gale stumbled through the days and sweated and thrashed through the nights, half the time sleeping by the toilet between bouts of vomiting up the poison ichor the war had left inside of him. John’s letters piled up on the counter, read but only sparsely replied to, and once the cold set in Gale realized he couldn't take it anymore. The half-dazed dreams of he and Bucky’s hushed conversations in the stalag, curled around each other in a dark bunk, drove him onto a train in mid-December, heading for the city of Bucky’s dreams.
Gale hummed along to the faint music as he reached over his head with shaking fingers to shove coins in the slot and grab the phone down. He dialed the memorized-but-never-used number, tucking the phone between his head and shoulder as he picked up the handgun lying beside him, turning it over in his hand.
The phone began to ring and Gale shifted into a more comfortable position, zoning out as he looked at the kaleidoscope of lights. The tree and rink were so far away it was like looking into a snowglobe, distant yet engrossing in an otherworldly way. The street he was on was slightly decorated yet still dark and set back, and he had had to tug and kick at the frozen door of the booth when he arrived to get it open.
The ringing stopped short and Gale blinked out of his trance. Crackling came from the other end of the line and Gale’s heart lurched.
“Hello?”
John’s voice sucked the air from Gale’s lungs, choking him with a longing he hadn’t realized was so strong inside him, buried and hidden. Time stopped as he listened to John’s breathing, so familiar it made him dizzy.
“Anyone there?”
“Bucky,” Gale choked out, and heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Buck!? Is it you? Really?” John let out a shocked huff of a laugh and Gale could almost feel the breath on his face, his arm heavy over his shoulders. He began to tremble.
“Yeah,” he forced out, curling his limbs closer and pressing the phone tighter to his ear as if he could force the sound of John’s voice closer, deeper inside him and down into his bones. He swallowed hard. “Missed you.”
John hummed. “Miss you too. You never called. Got your letters though.”
“Hm.”
Gale tipped his head against the glass, letting the cold seep into his skull and clear the fog from his thoughts. The warmth from hearing John’s voice spread through his chest, bleeding the tension out of his muscles, and he slumped fully against the wall, curling up to keep the feeling trapped close. When he tried to speak his throat wouldn’t form words, and after a moment there came a shuffling from over the line, followed by a grunting sigh, as if John had sat down and settled.
“Alright, Major?” said John gently.
Gale’s teeth were chattering now, fingers and toes turning numb as he stared at the lights till they swelled and swirled, filling his vision. His ear and jaw ached from how hard he was pressing the phone to his face.
“You were right,” he forced out finally. “New York is beautiful in the winter.”
“You’re here?” John’s voice became suddenly louder, closer to the phone and full of delight. “Where? You have my address, right? Come on over.”
Guilt soured in Gale’s stomach. He did have John’s address, written on the brown paper package now clutched to his chest. He had thought about delivering it, about leaving the gift at the door or maybe knocking to see John’s face one last time, but he was too much of a coward. He had written the address on it so John would get it afterward.
His next breath was a little harder to take, a sinking, cloying sadness getting stuck in his throat, the unnatural chill from the weapon in his hand climbing up his arm and to his chest. John would be ok, he had to be. He had always been stronger than Gale.
“You would always talk about the lights,” he said, voice distant to his own ears. “And the decorations, store windows. You were right, it's magical.”
He had visited Times Square, Central Park, Macy’s, the Empire State Building—all the places John had gushed about, and had saved the best for last, the one John had always spoken of with a sparkle in his eyes, the same festive glitter that was filling Gale’s vision now.
“So much light,” he murmured, senses dulling from more than the cold. “It’s a symbol of progress, you know? The ‘fire that hath proved to mortals a means to mighty ends.’”
“Sure is gorgeous,” John agreed, voice tinged with amused confusion. “C’mon, we’ll hit the town together. How long are you here for?”
Gale swallowed. “I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know you were coming?”
Gale tore his eyes away from the lights, smoothing a thumb over the cold metal of the pistol’s grip. It seemed to speak to him, voices from the past swirling in a horrible, whispered cacophony, dragging him closer with promises of peace, finally. There was no reason to hold back now, he might as well spill everything. He swallowed again.
“I love you.”
Gale had survived the war, but not really. It was still raging inside him, every cell of his body aching and weighed down by a horror that was killing him slowly, painfully. It was all too much. One day he realized that it all wasn’t worth it, that he couldn't bear it. Taking in every breath was pure pain, and if he could just make it stop, it would all be ok.
He heard John speaking, but it was a few seconds of focusing through the ringing in his ears before Gale could hear his name.
“I’m here,” he said.
John’s breathing hitched. “What’s going on?”
“From the first time I saw you, I loved you,” Gale stumbled on. “And every moment since. I’m sorry I left you on the escape.” His throat closed up again and he picked at a thread on his trouser, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. “You’re doing good for yourself. You’re alright, and I can’t be. You’re the only thing that got me through the war, remember that, please? This isn’t your fault.”
He was rambling now, and found he didn’t care, slipping his finger over the trigger, switching off the safety. The click was deafening in the small space and a sudden dead silence fell on the line. Damn John and his too-perceptive senses.
“Gale,” he said, and a ghostly noose tightened around Gale’s throat.
“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything while I’m on the phone.”
“Do what? Come on, talk to me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gale. It was snowing heavier now, and each word left him in a foggy puff, forming blending patterns on the glass. “I thought I could fight it.”
“Buck,” rasped John, as sick as Gale had ever heard him. “I love you, too. You know that, right?”
Gale closed his eyes. Maybe it was true. He had seen the way John looked at him, touched him, hovered close, always with an aching tenderness that made Gale feel like the only person in the world. But that was all over now. The war was over, taking Gale down in its depths and mercifully letting John go free.
“I know,” he said
“You don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t be holding a gun right now.”
“That’s…it has nothing to do with that, John. I just can’t.”
Gale shoved the phone between his jaw and shoulder and rubbed a hand down his face. This was all impossible to explain. If they were in combat and Gale was half blown away and still living, he liked to believe John would put him out of his misery or let him shoot himself. This was no different.
“You just can't see it,” he mumbled. “No one can see. I have to stop it, John, I can’t…” His voice broke off in high pitch, the despairing panic choking him.
“Tell me where you are. I’ll come get you right now. Please.”
Tears clogged John’s voice, a soft sob crackling over the line, and the tree lights blurred. Gale’s cheeks were cold, and when he rubbed at them, he realized they were wet.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“No!” John snapped, making Gale jolt and hit his head on the wall. “No, you shut up! That’s an order. Just…just…”
“John, please.”
The phone made a beeping sound, a warning that the paid-for time was running out and they’d be disconnected soon.
“I don’t have much time left,” Gale said.
“Put more coins in, I gotta talk to you.”
“I don’t have any more.”
Gale couldn't see through the cold tears clinging to his lashes and trailing down the side of his nose. The salt burned his skin as he listened to John’s ragged breathing, longing for nothing more than to hug him tightly, to feel John’s arms around him again and the weight of John’s head on his shoulder where he always rested it, his curls tickling Gale’s neck. The memory of the sensation cleaved open his chest, but he forced himself to breathe through it. The pain would only last for a few minutes more. He shouldn’t have called, maybe if he hadn’t this would have been easier.
“Please forgive me,” Gale mumbled, wiping his cheeks clean. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I do.”
John choked on the words, but they couldn't be true. Gale had read all of John’s letters about how much he loved living in New York, the friends he had made and the fun he was having. Sure they all had their struggles, but he was living , moving on, healing, while Gale fell deeper no matter how much he clawled and clutched at anything to save him. He was tired, couldn’t John see that? He wasn’t going to take the chance of ever dragging John down, look what he had already done. In a moment of weakness he had called and made John cry, ruining his perfectly good evening.
“It’s okay, love,” he whispered, pushing himself to sit up and fitting his hand on the pistol grip properly. “It’s alright. I’m sorry I called.”
“Gale,” John cried. “Don't leave me.”
The warning tone sounded again, harsh in Gale’s ear, and with a click of the machine the line went dead.
Gale choked on a sob, certain he was already dying with the amount of pain coursing through him, and he sucked in a shaky breath, trying to banish John’s cries from his mind. His body had gone numb with cold, stiffening his limbs and burning his fingers and toes. Exhaustion coaxed him toward sweet darkness, and it suddenly dawned on him that he wouldn’t even need the gun, he could just go to sleep.
He blinked slowly. Forcing his aching body to move, he started to hang up, but stopped halfway. His own desperation made the ghost of John’s voice and presence cling to the phone and Gale lowered it again, tucking it under his chin and cradling it to his chest along with the paper package. He looked at the gun once more, pausing in last contemplation, before putting it down on the cement beside him. Amid the creeping blanket of faint lights, music, and comforting, fuzzy numbness, he let his eyes fall closed.
****
John stood frozen by the phone as the dial tone droned on, blank and final. Hot, piercing anguish like he’d never suffered in his life crashed over him in a wave, drowning him and crushing him, tumbling him head over heels in its riptide until his spinning vision made him realize he wasn’t breathing. When his lungs ached and his brain finally kicked him with what was happening he choked on a gasp, voice cracking as he threw the phone at the wall. The loud bang pulled him into awareness even more, and when he grabbed the little box of calling cards by the phone his hands were shaking nearly too much to find the number he was looking for. Rosie had given him his home and office numbers the other week when they had lunch together, and even though it was fairly late, he knew Rosie would still be working.
Finding the paper he wanted, he grabbed the phone again and punched in the number, leaning against the wall at the sudden dizziness that struck him. Only when the ringing stopped and a groggy hello came that John realized he wasn’t breathing again.
“Rosie,” he choked out, ending on a dry sob.
“Bucky? ” Rosie’s voice sharpened. “What’s going on?”
John shrank in on himself, sliding down the wall to the floor and hyperventilating so badly that spots fluttered in his vision. Rosie’s panicked questions barely filtered into his mind and he struggled to get a big enough breath to speak.
“It's Gale,” he finally sobbed. “He’s in New York, he called me. Had a gun, he’s…he…” He struggled for air, a horrible keening sound clawing from his chest, and he pressed his forehead to the wall. Gale couldn’t be gone, he couldn't.
“Breathe!” Rosie’s voice cut through John’s despair. “We’ll find him, you can’t pass out on me.”
John sucked in a gulp of air and held it as long as he could, letting it out in a rasping cry. “I don’t know where he is. He didn’t say.”
“Anything else? Any clues?”
“He said the lights were pretty.” John choked on fresh tears. “Said he loved me.”
Rosie muttered curses and John heard rustling on the line. He scrubbed his face, the initial panic beginning to reform itself into hopeless, hollow pain, poisoning his blood and freezing his heart in his chest.
“Think, John,” Rosie’s anguished voice instructed. “What else did he say? Anything unusual?”
John tried to force his scattered thoughts together. “Something about fire?” he rasped. “A means to mighty ends.”
Rosie repeated the words under his breath, muttering them until he cut off with a gasp.
“Prometheus. He’s at Rockefeller Center. I’ll meet you there, we’ll scour the blocks.”
“I think he could see the tree,” John added, voice smaller than he had ever let it be. “From the phone booth.”
“We’ll find him. Bundle up, it’s cold out.”
The shred of kindness grew taut in John's throat, and he made a noise of acknowledgement.
“Go!”
John dropped the phone and lunged for the coat closet, grabbing all the layers he could find and throwing himself out the door.
It took him far too long to get to Rockefeller Square but he couldn’t wait for Rosie, barreling into the thinning crowd and asking anyone where the nearest phone booths were. Gale wasn’t that close to the square, that much he knew, but if he could at least see the lights from a distance–
He struck off over the icy sidewalk, pulling his knit cap down farther and holding his gloves over his nose and mouth as he walked, cursing his lack of scarf. He looked down every street, every alley, to no avail. The first phone booth he found had nothing in it. The second was the same, and John’s trembling was more from fear than the cold. What if Gale had left? Gone somewhere else like a sick dog crawling into the woods to die alone—John shook the thought from his mind as he turned the next corner.
Standing halfway down the barren block was an old, worn-down phone booth, and John stopped in his tracks. He looked behind him. The lights of the tree and square were still visible through an opening between the buildings, and when the wind was just right the faint sound of carols swept through the street. John stepped off the curb, peering closer, and the tepid streetlight filtering through cracked glass of the booth illuminated a figure slumped on the floor inside, unmoving.
John's heart seized in his chest, every memory of the past few years falling like an anvil: Gale being shot down, the weeks without him, the months in the stalag and march, expecting every day to snatch the most precious person in his life away. John thought that after everything they would be safe, that even if they weren't together, Gale would be around, he’d be alright. Didn’t the war take enough from them already?
His mind screamed at him to move, to run across the street and yank open the door, to fall to Gale’s side and pick him up. But John was weak and a coward, and if Gale was covered in his own blood with half open eyes, John would have to hope there were more bullets in that gun. He stood there in the middle of the street, trembling and gasping little breaths of choking horror, unable to tear his eyes away from the booth. Maybe Gale wasn’t dead. He might be alright, might need John’s help, but terror had chained John’s feet to the ground.
“Bucky!”
John jolted, nearly falling over as Rosie jogged up to him, and when he spotted the phone booth, his breath caught.
“Is that him?”
John swallowed, trembling in every limb as blackness encroached his vision, and the words caught in his throat.
“I can’t,” he forced out.
Rosie squeezed his arm, and with a trembling inhale began to walk across the street, leaving dark footprints in the snow. When he reached the booth he paused, squaring his shoulders and yanking the door open. He crouched down to reach for the figure, then froze.
A broken sound escaped from John. The tears he was choking back overflowed and stung his cheeks, blurring his vision until he couldn’t see.
“He’s alive!” Rosie shouted. “Get over here.”
John sucked in a breath and stumbled forward, somehow making his feet work enough to get him across the street to Rosie’s side. Rosie had Gale cradled to his chest, patting the horribly-pale face and getting no response.
“He’s freezing cold,” he said shakily, and John fell to his knees beside them, grabbing at Gale’s shoulders and forcing his fingers to Gale’s neck, heart crawling into his throat. Gale was wearing his flight jacket and scarf, but no hat or otherwise warm clothes, and his skin was nearly blue from the exposure. He appeared to be sleeping, but Rosie’s rough attempts to wake him did nothing. Beneath John’s fingertips a faint, too slow throbbing proved life, hardly decipherable beneath his panic.
“There’s a hotel a few blocks that way,” Rosie blurted. “Go get us a room, I’ll carry him over.”
“I’m not leaving him.”
“Bucky, it’ll be faster if-“
“I’m not fucking leaving him!” The rage tore out of John’s chest, bursting from the bubbling cauldron sealed deep inside him, spilling into his gut with enough loathing to make him choke back vomit. His limbs shook, each wheezing breath echoing in the enclosed space. Rosie clenched his jaw, though a pained understanding filled his eyes and he nodded.
“Fine, take him. I’ll get the room. Get there as fast as you can.”
He shifted Gale’s limp body, passing him to John who crouched to gather Gale close. As soon as the full weight was transferred, Rosie sprang up, snatching the gun and brown paper package John hadn’t noticed before, and took off down the street.
“Buck,” John whispered, brushing the icy skin and tucking Gale’s head under his chin. “Gale, please.”
There was no response. Dizzy with fear, John adjusted his grip on Gale to crouch in front of him and pull him onto his back, pulling Gale’s arms over his shoulders and tucking his own under Gale’s knees. He clumsily stood, leaning forward to balance Gale’s weight when he couldn’t keep himself upright. Gale’s head rolled on John’s shoulder, his disheveled hair brushing his cheek, and John forced himself to breath, starting to walk as fast as he could in the direction Rosie had gone. The sound of each crunching step in the snow struck another blow of memory to John’s brain—the agony of the march, the misery of the stalag winters, blending with the heartsick emptiness he had felt since he and Gale separated after discharge. The dancing snowflakes mocked him and his strained muscles, and each step felt like a year.
Just when he thought he couldn't move another inch, the hotel appeared out of the darkness. Its lights were golden and inviting and John shoved himself through the doors, getting slammed with warm air and the scent of the heavily-decorated tree in the lobby. The receptionist startled at their entrance before understanding flooded her face.
“Rosenthal is in room 108, second floor and to the left,” she said, pointing to the elevator.
John rasped out a thank you and stumbled to the elevator doors, heart pulsing in his throat all through the ride until he made it to the room, hefting up one arm to pound on the door. Rosie yanked it open almost immediately, devoid of his jacket with sleeves rolled up and holding a pile of towels. His gaze locked onto Gale and his eyes pinched, jaw setting in determination as he pulled them inside and locked the door behind them, the room already near-stifling with the heater in the corner on full blast. The sound of water running came from the bathroom and Rosie guided John towards it, helping slip Gale off his back. Gale shifted, face scrunching, and John’s heart skipped a beat.
“Buck, hey,” he croaked, clearing his throat against the now-permanent lodge of emotion. Gale tensed, limbs shifting, but he didn’t respond, and as they lowered him to the bathroom floor John realized how much his thin frame was shivering.
“Get his clothes off,” Rosie instructed. “I’ve got the bath lukewarm, can’t be too hot if he’s in the first stages of frostbite.”
He was right. Patches of Gale’s exposed skin were angry red to the touch and felt like ice. The rest of him was so pale John could see his blue veins threading like splinter-cracks in wood, and he resisted the urge to flinch at the cold touch or check Gale’s pulse every few seconds.
John paused to throw off his shoes and coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. They made quick work of getting Gale stripped and into the full tub, but as soon as Gale hit the warm water he gasped and cried out, flailing as his breathing sped up.
“I know, I’m sorry,” John soothed. “We gotta get you warm.” His heart broke with every whimper as Gale struggled against the painful heat and John held Gale’s head in both hands to keep him from bashing his head on the tub. Yanking off his own knit cap, he tugged it over Gale’s hair and ears.
Gale groaned, eyes fluttering again as he tried to arch away from the water, but John and Rosie held him down, submerging as much of his body as possible and trying to ignore his cries. Water splashed on them and over the edge of the tub, but the two of them held their stony silence and iron grips for what seemed like hours. The only sounds were their uneven breathing, quiet water movement, and the occasional whimpers from Gale.
John never took his eyes away from Gale’s face, keeping his gentle but firm hold on Gale’s head and stroking the parts of his cheeks he could reach with his thumbs. Gale’s skin was pale, stress lines imprinted in the skin flecked with scars that John was intimately acquainted with the origins of. He stroked over each of them, blocking out his own memories and focusing on soft touch. Eventually he moved on to the scattering of freckles he loved so much, the hint of Gale’s stubble tickling his palms. He was so beautiful it took John’s breath away, but the marks of pain and the unbearable weight he had carried marred his face as much as any wound and stabbed John’s chest.
Gale’s lips were dry and chapped and John looked up for the first time, glancing around the bathroom for something to soothe them. He locked eyes with Rosie, their gazes equally exhausted and haunted, hair loose and fallen messily on their foreheads from the humidity and movement. Rosie’s hands trembled as he kept his grip on Gale, water standing in his eyes and John furrowed his brow, reaching out to squeeze Rosie's arm. Rosie sniffed and nodded and John stretched to reach the little tin on the sink, opening it and dipping his finger as he turned back to Gale.
Gale had stopped struggling, but his chest still heaved and he twitched every so often, and as John carefully pressed a finger to his lips to spread the balm, Gale sucked a breath through his nose, eyelids fluttering.
“That’s it,” John murmured. “Gale, look at me. Open your eyes, come on.”
Gale shifted with a soft moan, scrunching his face and blinking slowly. After a heart-stopping moment a sliver of blue eyes became visible and John held his breath, stroking Gale’s cheek. Gale’s eyes remained half-lidded but he turned towards John, pressing into his hand.
“John?” he rasped weakly, and John clenched his jaw against a cry of relief.
“Yeah I’m here,” he said, stroking Gale’s cheek. “Me and Rosie.”
Gale struggled a bit more but his eyes fluttered, slowly focusing on them.
“Hey,” John whispered, voice thick and crumbling. Gale experimentally moved his limbs, clenching his jaw.
“Hurts,” he forced out, and John’s heart broke further.
“The closet has pajamas and robes,” Rosie said quietly, releasing Gale and drying his hands on a towel. “I’ll get them.”
When he left, John secured his arms around Gale and helped him out to sit on the edge of the tub, immediately engulfing him in towels and rubbing briskly for warmth. Gale did nothing but sit and blink slowly with a glassy stare at the wall, swaying a bit if John removed his hold for too long. When Rosie returned they bundled Gale in the hotel pajamas and robe, but when they tried to help him stand his legs gave out.
Gale gasped and John caught his weight before he hit the ground, heartbeat spiking. Gale’s head sank to John’s shoulder and John put an arm around his back and under his legs, and it was far too easy to scoop him up. John tucked Gale’s face into his neck and carried him out, putting him down carefully on one of the beds and covering him with blankets. Gale’s eyes were closed again, and he looked so small and vulnerable that John clenched his fists, turning away. Rosie gently took John by the elbow and led him to the chest of drawers on the other side of the room where the gun and package sat. Ducking close, he lowered his voice.
“That gun's fully loaded,” he murmured. “But with the cold…” He trailed off, dragging a hand down his face. “He’d be gone anyway if no one found him.”
It was the fact John had been stubbornly trying to avoid facing, and he grit his teeth and focused on the bland wallpaper pattern, forcing a breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. He grabbed the gun, opening the chamber, and the sight of the bullets inside struck him dizzy. Breathing hard, he took each bullet out with rough, methodical movements, snapping the chamber closed and slamming the gun back down. He clutched the bullets in his palm until they dug in painfully, and with shaking hands threw them at the nearest trash can. They landed with sharp thuds, one of them missing the rim and rolling along the carpet, and John was coming apart at the seams. Rosie squeezed his shoulder. Picking up the gun, slid it in his pocket and sighed.
“I’m going out for a bit,” he said after a moment, when John didn’t move, then nodded toward the package. “That has your name on it.” He turned for the door, but a spike of fear pierced John’s gut and he grabbed Rosie’s arm.
“Wait. Stay, please,” he begged, unable to voice the aching dread in his throat, but Rosie pulled away without looking at him, visibly shaking as he pulled on his coat.
“I need some air. I’ll be back.”
The door closed behind him, plunging the room into silence. John crossed his arms over his chest, then ran a hand through his hair. A tingling numbness began to creep over him, chilling his fingers, up his limbs, and into his chest until a familiar cold detachment took over his body. With unfocused vision and wooden movements he stripped his wet shirt and pants and dressed in another set of hotel pajamas.
The package on the dresser mocked him with his name in Gale’s handwriting and the careful knot of string keeping it together. He had gotten packages from Gale before, he knew how he tied them and the best way to undo the knot, and now with mind blank his fingers acted on their own.
He unwrapped and pulled the paper away to reveal a scarf—soft and blue—thick enough to keep warm yet small enough to not get in the way, and even through the numbness his chest twinged painfully. In the stalag he had spent months bemoaning the cold and lack of warm clothes, dreaming about the scarf he wanted, and he clenched his jaw, folding the scarf carefully and petting the material as he set it down.
“I’m sorry,” came Gale’s voice, choked and broken.
John whirled around. Gale was sitting up on the edge of the bed, hat gone and hair in disarray, hands planted on the mattress and struggling to hold John’s gaze. For a moment, they simply looked at each other.
Gale’s expression was unreadable but in his eyes was a sort of lost grief mixed with yearning that had John’s feet carefully moving toward him until he was standing between Gale’s knees. Gale’s breath caught but his gaze fell away, shame radiating from him as he hunched in on himself, hands clenching the sheets as he sniffed, then took a shuddering breath.
John reached out. Slowly and methodically he slipped his hands under the collar of Gale’s shirt and gripped it, knuckles brushing Gale’s throat. The fabric was too loose to do anything, but the cold in John’s chest was turning into disjointed anger and he needed the motions.
“For what,” John said, distant and flat, focused on Gale’s exposed collarbone and the hollow of his throat where the fabric rode up. “What are you sorry for?”
The silence stretched on. Gale’s troubled eyes studied him but John avoided meeting them, looking but not really seeing.
“For hurting you,” Gale said finally.
John pressed his lips together. He released one hand to brush his fingers through the hair on the side of Gale’s head, where the bullet would have gone, and along Gale’s flushed cheeks where the deadly cold had bitten.
“Don’t want you to be sorry,” he said. “I want—I need you to live. Why do you want to die, huh?”
Water sprang to Gale’s eyes and he swallowed, trembling against John’s hands. "I don’t," he stammered. "I don’t want to die. I just, I can’t do this. I’m already gone. I’m still in the stalag or in the air, and…”
Gale’s hands wrapped around John’s wrists and the cold in John’s ribs shifted, parting around the sympathy he was helpless but to feel. He made a soothing sound in the back of his throat and guided Gale closer, until Gale’s chin brushed his stomach as he looked up at him, head tilted all the way back. He cradled Gale’s head, threading fingers through his hair, and Gale swallowed, gaze vulnerable and scared in a way that burned John’s skin.
“Why didn’t you call earlier, come to me?” John murmured. The helpless, terrified anger still clutched at him and he was probably gripping Gale’s hair too hard, muscles too tense and face stony, but Gale’s eyes slipped closed.
“You’ve adjusted,” he confessed. “You've moved on and you’re okay and all I can do is rot, crumble. Now look at what I’ve done to you–”
“Stop,” John blurted, face crumpling. He couldn't begin to tell Gale how wrong he was, couldn’t even breathe as the ghost of loss choked him, dragging the air from his lungs like it always did when he smoked on the fire escape of his apartment, drinking until his vision blurred and numbness filled the hollow cavern of Gale’s place in his heart.
He struggled to inhale. Releasing his clutch on Gale, he sank to his knees, pressing forward between Gale’s thighs and dropping his hands to them. He was still too raw, too much of a coward to look at Gale, so he stared at the buttons of his pajama shirt. He opened his mouth, failed to form any words, and closed it again.
“You’re not the one hurting me,” he forced out finally, around the lump in his throat. “They did, they still are. Just like it’s hurting you. It’s not your fault. I–”
I need you, his mind supplied, but John swallowed back the words. How was he supposed to save Gale when he was this helpless himself, when his own blind certainty that Gale would be better off without him had gotten them both this low? He swallowed hard, eyes fluttering closed, but a gentle hand cupping his face and lifting it made them fly open again.
Gale’s pleading blue eyes met his own, swimming with so many emotions, and John’s heart cracked. He simply sat on his heels and watched, looking his fill as Gale trembled and his gaze darted over his face, clenching his jaw to hold his composure, and John loved him so hard the grief was branded on his bones.
He had nearly lost this, the warmth of his love close to him and the weight of his presence. He had failed him, hadn’t been at Gale’s side, no matter what the reason had been, while Gale was drowning. But by some miracle Gale was here, alive.
The grief swelled, drawing a blade through John’s stomach in revenge for all the time he spent alone and lost, being torn apart after years of being at Gale’s side. The walls he had built up began to crumble, weakened by the emotions of the day, and the unfeeling ice began to shatter.
John’s eyes stung. Gale didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. His skin below the thin layer of fabric under John’s hands was warm and supple, and no matter how much John tried to swallow the pain it gurgled up through his chest in a keening sob. His vision blurred and he slumped slowly, then heavily, until his head rested on Gale’s thigh, pressing his face into the soft thickness and letting the first tears fall.
He slid one arm around Gale’s hips, clenching the other hand on the thigh under his face tight enough to bruise as the tears fell thicker, faster. Quiet sobs tore out of him, jerking his body against Gale until he was gulping air, weeping like a child, his tears and moist breath wetting the fabric beneath his face.
Long slender fingers slid through his hair, cupping John’s head, and John didn’t bother to hold back the muffled whine as he pushed into Gale’s touch. Gale curled over him with a shuddering breath, another hand sliding down his back, his grip tightening in John’s hair, and… what if this was all a dream, John’s mind conjuring up anything to cope with Gale being torn away from him? Was the war even over? Was he still in the camp? He cried for what felt like ages, wordless pleading and mourning and praying, and Gale’s hands never left him.
“John,” he murmured, voice thick. “Oh, John.”
“Don’t leave me,” John gasped, ragged, and Gale made a quiet grieved sound, slipping his hands under John’s armpits and pulling him up, guiding them both unto the bed until Gale was flat on his back with John sprawled on top of him.
It was a familiar position from the stalag, the months of barest survival and shared heartbeats imprinted into their souls and John fell into it gratefully, curling around Gale in instinctual urge to shelter him, and Gale’s hand immediately returned to his hair. Now that John’s face was tucked in Gale’s neck, lips to his steady pulse point, he gritted his teeth against another wave of emotion, taking a few deep breaths to try to compose himself. Gale nuzzled into the side of John’s face, taking a deep breath also, and the movement of his chest beneath John was nearly enough to bring the tears again. John managed to only shudder, clutching Gale tighter, and Gale breathed a sorrowful noise in his ear.
“I’m so sorry,” Gale whispered, voice cracking as he smoothed his hands over John’s back.
They lay there without words, breathing together—at first painfully, then slower as warmth of their bodies brought comfort. The aching after-sensation of pain and fear began to slip into the fog of sleep, and as they pressed together, clutching each other, consciousness faded into exhausted black.
****
When Gale woke, he was warm.
Judging from the pale light from the window it was early morning, and Gale was surrounded by familiar touch and weight that smelled like home and everything Gale had ever loved. The slumbering John was still tucked into his side and half on top of him, face hidden in Gale’s neck with Gale’s arms around him. John’s soft breaths warmed Gale’s throat with rhythmic puffs of air, and for several long moments Gale lay there unmoving, soaking in the feeling of John’s body against his own and staring at the edge of the drapes where light streamed in around the window.
It was another morning and he was alive.
He didn’t know how to feel about it, but he did know how to feel about John on his knees falling to pieces, clutching at Gale and weeping bitter tears into his skin while Gale tried to hold him together. The guilt at doing this to John was nearly suffocating, only held at bay by the knowledge that John didn’t blame him, that he understood. The thought of John needing him as much as he needed John bloomed a soothing warmth in his chest even as it pained him. If John had been hurting just as much, maybe they really did need each other to survive.
He carefully lifted a hand and brushed a curl off John’s face, caressing the scarred brow with reverent fingers. He hadn’t been lying last night, he really didn’t want to die, he just couldn't bear the burden of living anymore, not with the darkness pulling him down. But with John in his arms, the pain that had been pulsing through him with every heartbeat morphed into a fierce craving to protect John, to be the barrier between him and his demons.
But John’s arms were a barrier of their own around Gale, warding off the dark tendrils of the world reaching out for him. Everywhere John’s skin touched was healing, and though fear and despair were still rooted too deep in Gale’s chest to be chased away, John’s weight pressing him into the bed kept him more tethered than he had felt since they had first separated on the tarmac of the airfield all those months ago.
The click of a door opening made Gale look over, rubbing his face and taking a moment to focus on Rosie shutting the door with his foot, arms full of a blanket and pillow and stacks of food boxes nearly concealing his face. When he saw Gale was awake he smiled sadly, toeing off his shoes, and Gale’s chest flooded with a rush of gratitude and shame.
“Went stress-shopping for breakfast,” Rosie said quietly, dumping the bedding on the floor and gesturing with the boxes. “I was starving and everything looked good. Poor clerk didn’t even comment on me crying into my bagel.”
Gale huffed a laugh even as his throat closed up with emotion. Rosie set the boxes down and went to the other bed, sitting on the edge with a sigh.
“How’re you doing?” he asked, and Gale took a breath, letting it out slowly.
“I don’t know.”
Rosie hummed. He pulled off his hat and dropped it onto the bed, running a hand through his curls.
“I’m sorry–” Gale began, but Rosie cut him off.
“Don’t,” he said, as serious as Gale had ever seen him. “I want to be here. I’d do anything to help. He would too.”
Gale nodded, not trusting his voice. Rosie sighed, resting his elbows on his knees and chin on his folded hands. He looked exhausted and rumpled, and a pang of worry squeezed Gale’s stomach.
“What about you?” he asked. “Where’d you go last night?”
“‘M alright. Got something to eat. Went out and drank more than I should have,” Rosie said with a wry grin that didn’t reach his tired eyes. Guilt gnawed at Gale’s stomach at having let Rosie go through this alone, but a chastising look from the man himself made it clear Rosie read his mind. It was only then that Gale realized the bed Rosie was sitting on was obviously undisturbed, and his gaze snapped back to the blanket and pillow by the door.
“Where did you sleep?” he asked. “You didn’t…why didn’t you come back?”
Rosie made a sheepish sound and rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, in the hallway,” he said. “Wanted to give you guys the time you needed but…didn’t really want to leave.”
Water sprang to Gale's eyes. Apparently his emotions were on a hair-trigger these days, but Rosie smiled gently at him.
“It’s ok.”
“It’s not.”
Rosie’s smile fell. He looked down at his hands, rubbing them together before pursing his lips and looking back at Gale.
“Look, I was a mess too when I first got out,” he said. “Still am, I guess, but I’ve come a long way. Had help, and I wasn’t alone. Not being alone is the first step, and you guys have that now.”
Gale didn’t know how to respond, so he nodded. “I didn’t know it was gonna be like this,” he said eventually.
Rosie hummed, nodding. He stood, pulling out a pen and business card from his pocket and beginning to write on it.
“Bucky has my number but I’m leaving it for you too,” he explained. “As well as the information of my doctor. Bucky has seen him.”
Gale took the card, staring at Rosie’s lawyer scrawl. Rosie put his hands in his pockets, slumping his shoulders and fixing Gale with his signature soft, steady gaze that reached the soul.
“Doctor?” Gale asked.
“We’re wounded, Buck,” Rosie murmured. “Just like a broken leg or flak to the stomach. It takes time and work to heal. Just because we can’t see blood doesn’t mean it’s any less life-threatening. And for us the fight isn’t over, just a different enemy.”
Emotion swelled in Gale’s throat, filling his lungs, and he nodded, blinking rapidly. Rosie stepped closer and squeezed his shoulder.
“I expect to hear from you before the week is out,” he instructed kindly. “I’ll be here whenever you need me, and especially when you think you don’t.”
He held Gale’s gaze like the leader of men he was, but the undercurrent of grief and concern in his eyes made Gale determined to not let him down, and he nodded. He held out his arm and when Rosie clasped it, Gale held him there a little longer.
“We’re here for you too,” he said, and Rosie’s face softened.
“Thanks, Buck,” he said, then furrowed his brow. “You’re still cold. Stay glued to him as much as possible, and take another bath.”
Gale blushed, aware of he and John’s compromising position, but Rosie seemed happy with it. With a gentle smile he retrieved his hat and turned for the door, taking one of the food boxes.
When he was gone, Gale shifted deeper into John’s embrace, closing his eyes and ignoring the painful world again until sleep took him.
It was John that woke him next, gently and already dressed.
Gale’s heart jumped to his throat, wordless to start into any of the huge subjects of the night before, but John only gave him a small smile and coaxed him out of bed with the promise of the food Rosie brought. They ate quietly, exchanging hesitant glances, and prepared to leave.
As Gale put on his clothes from the day before his stomach twisted and he forced himself to focus on the soft conversation John was keeping up, clearly trying to lighten the mood though his voice was much more subdued than usual. They checked out and got a receipt in order to pay Rosie back for the room, and the promise of seeing him again soon settled something in Gale’s chest.
John led him out of the building, throwing an arm over his shoulder, and they walked in pensive silence. The thin layer of snow crunched under their feet but the sky was clear and full of sunshine and John stayed close to Gale, steadying him whenever his still-weak limbs wavered. Gale hated his body’s weakness, but John’s arm was as warm as the sunshine and the feeling of being alive was so foreign after having prepared himself so fully to die that he could do nothing but stay mute and let the warmth seep into his skin.
When John finally guided him up the stairs of a brownstone townhouse, leading him through the hallways and pushing open the door to his bright little apartment on the third floor, Gale’s breath was taken away.
The apartment was messy and lived in, mismatched furniture looking comfortable and clearly second-hand. The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and old books, many of which were piled up on every flat surface.
“Didn’t know you were such a reader,” Gale said, picking up a western pulp novel from the nearest pile.
John grunted, shrugging off his jacket. Worn lines creased around his darkened eyes as if the mask of being in public had been lifted, too, and he dragged a hand through his already-messy hair.
“Anything’s better than your own thoughts, huh?” he said. He wouldn’t look at Gale and Gale had no words anyway, so he simply watched as John half-heartedly fiddled with the mess on the end table by the phone.
A tiny meow and a pressure on his leg made Gale look down. A kitten with a patchwork of orange, white, and black fur was looking up at him, purring loudly.
“Hi there,” Gale cooed, crouching to reach out a hand and letting her headbutt his knuckles. “What’s her name?”
When John didn’t immediately reply Gale looked up to see a faint blush appearing at the tips of his ears.
“Spaghetti,” he said, and Gale choked on air.
“Spaghetti?” he laughed, smile cracking on his stiff face. “Were you drunk?”
John shrugged one shoulder, blush darkening. “Maybe a little? I was on the phone with Benny for advice after I got her and we started talking about Meatball, and one thing led to another.”
A huff of amusement left Gale’s lips, then a chuckle, and soon he was laughing so hard he had to wipe tears, then wipe them again because they weren’t stopping. The thought of having to leave John’s warm little home for his own hollow existence crushed the air from his lungs. He had bought himself a few days, but how was he supposed to go on?
“Hey,” John murmured, face falling as he reached for Gale. “What’s wrong, talk to me.” He tugged Gale up, cupping his face, and Gale was trembling again.
“I don’t want to go,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I don’t–” Gale choked on the sudden tears that flooded his vision, hands flying up to grip John’s shirt around his waist. “I don’t want to go back.”
“Go back where?” John said incredulously. “Buck, you’re never leaving my sight again, much less this apartment. I mean, you can go out, but you’re not leaving leaving. I’ve already died a hundred deaths when I thought I lost you, and–” He cut off as Gale fell forward into John’s chest, wrapping his arms around him,
“You’re sweet for being such a big lug,” Gale murmured, throat tight.
John smiled against his hair but his hands gripped Gale’s arms, pulling him back enough to press their foreheads together. Gale’s breath caught at the closeness. It felt so right, John's breath on his face and his grip tight on Gale like he’d never let go.
“I feel like I need to keep begging you not to leave me,” John whispered into the space between them.
His eyes were closed, forehead still against Gale’s own, and Gale’s chest cracked open. He threaded his hands into John’s hair, clutching the curls at the back of his head and surging forward to press their lips together.
It was burning and thrilling all at once. John’s mouth tasted like home and felt like flying, and Gale chased it like it was the last thing he would ever do. John made a sound in the back of his throat before opening up and letting Gale devour him, melting into the embrace and wrapping an arm tight around Gale’s waist to pull them flush together. His other hand cupped Gale’s cheek, guiding him to deepen the kiss, and when they broke apart to gasp for air Gale couldn’t bear to be apart, pressing his open lips to John’s cheek as he panted, heart throbbing so hard in his chest that it hurt.
“Buck,” whispered John, a breath of air full of longing. “Gale.” He choked on the word, nudging his nose to Gale’s cheek, and tears flooded Gale’s eyes.
I’m sorry, he thought, but managed to bite back the words and kiss John again.
“Not leaving,” he murmured into John’s slicked lips. “Never wanted to.”
Words clogged in this throat—explanations he couldn't voice and feelings he couldn't name—and maybe he’d be able to say them later. But for now Gale simply let himself feel John’s inhale and sigh again his own ribs, the expanse of John’s body molding with his own as he slumped and pressed a kiss to Gale’s neck.
It was equal parts overwhelming pain and relief that made fresh tears spill down Gale’s cheeks, and Gale squeezed his eyes shut. He clung to John like he would fall through the floor into a bottomless pit if John didn’t hold him, didn’t let him weep silently into John’s shoulder, but he did. John held Gale like something precious, rocking gently with a hand cradling the back of his head and arms around him so tight Gale could hardly breathe.
Struggling to muffle his cries in the soft fabric of John’s shirt, he barely sensed the motion of John walking them backwards to the couch, pulling them both down to it until Gale was lying on top of him, surrounded by his thighs and arms and hands and cheek pressed to the top of Gale’s head. John shifted them until they were both on their sides, squished together and looking at each other, and John wiped Gale’s tears and pressed kisses to his face, holding him quietly as Gale sobbed out the months of inky poison festering inside him. The clawing darkness still curled within Gale’s gut, dormant though not gone, but something new came to live, humming in pleasure at the sensation of John’s hands on his skin and blooming the desire to coax out more of the sounds he made when Gale pulled on his curls or clutched his waist. Gale was tired—so horribly tired—but each swipe of John’s fingers on his wet cheeks trickled more strength into his body.
“We’re gonna make it?”
It came out more of a question than Gale intended, shaky and vulnerable with the fragile hope that maybe he could fight this new war if he could come to rest in John’s arms, and Rosie's words came back to him with weighted clarity.
“We’re fighting another enemy,” he said into John’s throat.
John hummed, face squished to Gale’s cheek as he squeezed him tighter.
“I got you, Buck. I'm gonna bet on us.”