Chapter Text
Nothing good ever came from an unmarked military truck.
It pulled into the gates of the stalag one dreary fall morning, slinging mud into the air and over its own drab-green paint. It was early enough for the camp to be mostly silent, yet the muggy heat sat rank in the back of John’s throat, itching his skin and the base of his neck where perpetual sweat gathered. He swallowed through the migraine pounding the right side of his skull and stood at attention with the rest of their little group in front of the commandant’s office, watching the truck approach.
Gale stood at his left and Colonel Akira at his right, along with the commandant himself and a few of his staff officers. John tried to focus on the truck, but every blink made his head spin and he swallowed hard, shifting his feet wider apart for better balance.
Even though they were supposed to be at attention, Gale moved closer to be able to grip John’s elbow discretely, providing enough support to keep John upright, and John's chest panged. Gale could hardly stand up himself some days, and here he was still trying to help John, despite the way his own body was breaking down, ribs standing out enough for John to get his fingers between and spine jutting like a morbid Halloween decoration. John had vomited in the showers one day at the sight, bent over the drain and bracing himself against the wall as Gale’s skeletal form had crouched beside him and rubbed his back. John had lied and said he had eaten something bad.
Blinking again, John risked the wrath of the commandant to slump his shoulders, lifting a hand to rub at his right eye to relieve the blurriness in his vision. Another wave of dizziness made him sway, and Gale’s grip on his elbow tightened
“John,” Gale whispered, barely moving his mouth.
John opened his mouth to reply he was fine, but before he could the truck had arrived in front of them, engine coughing into silence as four SS footsoldiers jumped down from the back. A middle-aged man in civilian clothes emerged from the cab with the driver, adjusting his square spectacles with a neutral expression. They all gave the Sieg Heil salute, and the commandant shook the civilian’s hand.
“Welcome to Stalag Three, Doctor Huber,” he said. He introduced his own staff, then turned to the Americans. “This is the prisoners’ senior officer, Colonel Akira. He has brought, as requested, two of his finest officers, Major Cleven and Major Egan.”
Doctor Huber stepped closer, ignoring Akira completely as his gaze roamed almost hungrily over the two of them, lingering a beat longer at Gale’s hand on John’s elbow.
“Tell me about them,” he stated. His voice was simple and eerily calm, with an edge of interest that settled something sour in John’s mouth.
“Both squadron commanders in the 100th Bomb Group based in England,” said the commandant, hands folded behind his back. “Participated in many missions, experienced and skilled at handling the American B-17 bombers.”
Herber gave a pleased hum. “Intelligent, determined. And a strong drive for survival, no?”
A ghostly cold trickled down John’s spine and he sent a sideways glance at Gale. With a clench of his jaw Gale let go of John’s elbow and pulled his hand back, ignoring how the doctor blatantly watched the movement.
Huber circled them slowly, not quite making eye contact, but examining them with a clinical interest that made John’s skin crawl. He seemed fascinated by the scars on Gale’s cheeks, running his finger down one and smiling as Gale flinched away. The cold in John’s spine grew, burning through his chest and spreading tendrils of ice in his lungs. His next breath caught in this throat and Huber turned to look at him, eyes locking onto the scar over John’s eyebrow.
Finally he turned to the commandant, giving a little bow. "Excellent choice, Herr Hauptman. I’ll take them.”
“Now?” Akira blurted, and Huber turned to him, raising his eyebrows.
“The war does not wait, colonel,” he said with amusement. “There is a reason I asked the commandant to bring me your two finest. We have quite a special project that is in need of two excellent men like these. A project that will advance science, bring a sooner end to the war, and save thousands of lives. A noble cause, don’t you think?” He pulled on leather gloves daintily, one finger at a time, glancing over his shoulder at one of the soldiers. “Put them in the truck.”
“But I need these men for the order of the camp, they are indispensable,” Akira protested.
“Ah, ah, you misunderstand my intentions,” Huber interrupted, waving a finger. “You will get them back. And until then I’m certain a man of your resourcefulness will be able to make do.”
A hand grabbing John’s arm and another pushing his back plunged John instantly back to the night of his capture. The ghost of dark flames and blood trickling down his face overwhelmed his senses and he forced himself to breathe evenly, to keep calm despite the pounding of his heart as he followed Gale being marched ahead of him to the truck. They climbed in, the guards following, and the sound of the tailgate slamming shut twisted John’s stomach. Just like that, the truck was moving, driving back out through the gates, and John planted his hands on the metal bench to keep the dizziness and swelling panic at bay.
Bitter fear flooded his mouth as he watched the camp grow farther away, unable to say goodbye to any of his boys or make final plans, to make peace with—whatever this was going to be.
A nudge against his foot drew his attention, and he looked down. Gale’s foot was wedged against his own and John followed the leg up to meet Gale’s eyes. Through the sway of the truck Gale held John’s gaze with a burning, begging emotion that equal parts grounded and pained John. Gale’s face, so worn and ragged, was preciously beautiful despite the dirt and grime that clung to them no matter how much they tried to scrub. The scruff on his gaunt cheeks and messy hair that fell over his forehead spoke of every nightmare that woke him shaking in John’s arms, and the helpless fear in those crystal blue eyes made John ache to squeeze Gale’s hand, to hold him and tell him it would be ok.
With the presence of the guards beside them all he could do was push his own foot against Gale’s, hoping reassurance would show in his gaze, that Gale could read in his eyes the promise that John would protect him no matter what. In his imagination he cupped Gale’s cheek and stroked the soft skin under his eye with his thumb, feeling Gale press into the touch. He ached to reach out, to stop Gale from looking at him like he was trying to heal John with his bare hands.
At least they were together, even if John’s limbs were going numb with dread.
They drove deep into the woods, but it wasn’t more than an hour or two before the truck jerked to a stop, this time inside the gates of a well-guarded compound surrounding a blockish, concrete building. John and Gale were pulled out and marched through several doors, each in a corridor more dark and bleak than the last. John would venture this was some sort of bunker, or repurposed from one, the number of soldiers and civilians moving around seemed to hint this wasn’t a strictly military facility. Doctor Huber strode ahead of them all like he owned the place, and when they reached a corridor lined with cells he made a gesture at Gale and disappeared through swinging double doors. The soldiers holding John kept following Huber, but the two holding Gale began to pull him down the hallway.
“Hey!” John snapped, wrestling against the restraint. “Where are you taking him?”
“Easy, John,” said Gale, desperation bleeding into his voice as the guards got their hands in a bruising grip on John’s wrists and the back of his neck. A whimper broke from John’s throat, but when Gale was shoved into a cell and the soldiers stripped John of his jacket and pulled him toward the double doors, he suddenly realized that Gale wasn’t the one being taken.
His mouth went dry. Words he wanted to call out got caught in his throat as with one last glimpse of Gale’s terrified face the doors swung shut, submerging John in the sharp-smelling, cold air of a laboratory.
Heart pounding wildly in his chest, John focused on controlling his breathing and keeping his legs working properly, getting a look around as he was led through the room. Machines and important-looking bottles and containers were everywhere, grouped around desks of a few men and women who didn’t even glance at him as he was hauled past. On the wall was a giant board with papers, scribbled notes, and dozens of photos all marked in red. Among the photos John suddenly spotted a face he recognized, some lieutenant from the stalag who had gotten sick with pneumonia. He had been taken to a local hospital, and a week later had been announced to the prisoners as dead.
A bolt of terror shot through John and he planted his feet, struggling in earnest. Slamming his weight into one guard, he kicked out at the other and thrashed with all he had. More hands descended on him and the room blurred, taking on hazy colors until he realized he wasn’t moving anymore. The hands pinned him to the floor as the form of Huber appeared, face swimming into John’s view as a sharp prick in the crook of his arm made John look down where clear liquid was disappearing through a needle into his flesh. John snarled, kicking out again and getting a spike of satisfaction when it connected with someone's leg.
“Now, now Major Egan. There’s no need for such dramatics,” said Huber. “This should make you feel better.”
He capped the needle and put it in the pocket of his lab coat, patting John’s shoulder and smoothing his fingers through John’s hair. John tried to jerk away but his muscles were strangely sluggish to obey. His limbs felt heavy, the urge to fight sludging away and leaving a numb static behind. Huber tsked.
“I hate using this stuff,” he muttered. “Hope the other one will be better behaved.”
They dragged John somewhere else, then, stripped him naked and lifted him onto a cold, flat surface.
The harsh, swimming overhead lights burned his eyes as they prodded, examined, and documented every inch of him. Hands and implements invaded, touching and moving him around like a clinical object, and the only color breaking through his hazy vision was tubes filling with dark blood. After some elusive time they rolled him onto his stomach and continued, repositioning his limbs as they saw fit until finally John screwed his eyes shut and tried to drift away.
He could still move but only slightly, and with a herculean effort. His body felt floaty and thoughts slipped from his grasp as soon as he tried to form them, leaving a gray fog that crept into his skin and made him feel filthy. God, his head hurt. His thoughts wandered to Gale but John cut them off quickly. He couldn’t think of anyone touching Gale like this, inhuman and violating. He had to keep Gale away from any part of this experience, but all he craved was for Gale to pull him close as he buried his face in Gale’s neck.
The sting of more injections in his arm and neck made him flinch, and in what only seemed a few seconds the world spun again and he was deposited on a metal surface.
He blinked, struggling to discern his surroundings. The contraption he was lying on was some sort of apparatus that was scratched, dented, and strangely discolored. Two white-coated attendants began strapping leather bands around John’s wrists and ankles, pinning him to the machine, and John's breathing hitched. Voices chattered in languages he couldn't understand as little stickers with wires leading to something out of sight were attached to his skin.
“‘Hey,” he croaked, bile flooding his mouth. “What…”
He pulled against the straps but they held fast, and the attendants moved away to lift some sort of dome-shaped lid on its hinges. It creaked dramatically, and by the time John realized it was closing over him he was plunged into darkness, the smell of metal and burnt wire clogging his throat. Locks clanked into place and a dry sob burst from John’s throat, chest heaving as his hyperventilating breaths bounced back at him from the lid inches from his face.
“Get me out!” he cried, voice a small and terrified rasp. With a growl that sounded more like a whimper he thrashed as best he could against the restraints. A red light at the corner of the machine began to glow, and terror like nothing John had felt before shot through him in hot agony. He didn’t know what he was yelling now, throat going sore with it—maybe begging or threats or demands—but the mechanical humming sound growing louder drowned out his voice.
A burst of white, blinding light pierced the space, exploding through what felt like his very bones. And with it, pain.
*****
Gale thought the worst days of his life were the ones between his capture and seeing Bucky walk through the gates of the stalag. The unknown, the chance that Bucky was gone for good, drained the life out of him with painful, bleeding throbs.
But that had been nothing.
Nothing compared to John’s confused, fearful eyes, bleary with the still-lingering injuries Gale knew were mostly unseen as he was dragged away. Nothing compared to watching him struggle when he realized he was being taken from Gale, as rough hands bruised the skin that should only know gentle, loving touch.
It was nothing compared to the screams coming from the depths of the lab.
Gale lost the battle with panic then, gasps tearing from his chest. Bucky’s cries shredded and broke before finally falling into silence, and Gale couldn’t feel his body anymore, couldn't feel the cold floor where he had collapsed against the bars of the cell with his arms shoved through the gaps, like he could reach Bucky if he tried hard enough.
He was trembling so hard his teeth chattered, breath rattling in his chest as he drifted into a daze for what felt like hours.
Eventually, a strange sound pulled him back.
Gale’s brow furrowed. At first he couldn't identify what it was, but slowly it grew closer. Soon he could clearly hear the sobbing of a child, and his stomach turned in dismay.
How could they have a kid in here?
The crying grew louder. Gale sat up, watching the double doors, and sure enough they soon swung open. A man in a lab coat emerged, pulling along a little boy who was sobbing so harshly he was in danger of passing out. The boy was only in socks and an oversize shirt that served as a gown of sorts, clutching his stomach with one arm while being led by the other. The lab man seemed to be humane enough but the boy was limping, cheeks blotched with fat tears and dark curly hair a wild mess on his head.
The man stopped in front of Gale’s cell and unlocked it, coaxing the boy through, and when the kid spotted Gale he slumped to his knees.
“Buck,” he wailed, turning his wide, wet blue eyes on him, and Gale’s heart stopped.
No.
This was insane. It was impossible. Gale would recognize Bucky anywhere, but it couldn't be.
“Where’s Bucky?” he demanded of the man. Another whimper came from the child, but Gale was consumed with the thought that Bucky had been taken and something was horribly wrong. The man gestured to the boy on the floor as he stepped out of the cell but Gale was on his feet in a flash, lunging for the man who jumped back and slammed the door shut before Gale could reach him.
“Where is he!” Gale boomed, shooting a hand through the bars to grab the man’s coat. Yanking hard, he pinned the man to the bars and fisted the other hand in his collar, shaking roughly. “What the fuck did you do to him?”
Running footsteps approached and a soldier shoved his rifle through the bars into the hollow of Gale's throat but Gale paid no mind, blind with rage as the rifle was shoved hard enough to break his grip on the man.
“What did you do?!” he screamed.
“Buck m’here,” the boy whimpered, tugging on Gale’s pant leg, and Gale looked down at him, chest heaving as panic coursed through every cell of his body.
“Bucky?” he whispered, gripping his own hair and tugging hard. He couldn’t breathe. What was happening?
Bucky— how could it be Bucky? —whimpered, rubbing his eyes with his fists and smearing tears over his face. Another sob burst wracked the little frame and Gale crouched down. He reached out, and as soon as his hand came in contact with Bucky’s shoulder a blur of boy flew into Gale’s chest, arms locking in a near-choking grip around Gale’s neck as he trembled and hyperventilated.
Slowly, Gale lifted a hand and placed it on Bucky’s back, rubbing gently. He wrapped the other arm around Bucky, pulling him close and cradling him to his chest. With a hiccuping cry Bucky shoved his wet face in Gale’s neck, and Gale’s heart broke.
“Is it really you, John?” he breathed, and the curly head nodded.
A wave of dizziness washed over Gale and he struggled to keep his breathing under control, shaking like a leaf from anger and horror. He lifted Bucky and carried him to the bed, settling him in his lap and pulling back just enough to study Bucky’s face.
Bucky’s features were unmistakeable, although more childlike-shaped, a bit familiar from photos Gale had been shown during training and holidays spent at John’s house with his family. There was the same button nose, more prominent freckles over his slightly rounder cheeks and jaw. But the later scars were also there, flecks on his skin from stray flak on missions and the crack on his right brow. His eyes—red and full of tears—were still haunted, yet a vulnerable innocence now shone in them. Gale brushed the sticky cheeks tenderly.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “What did they do?”
Bucky hiccuped, sniffing. “A machine,” he said, and Gale’s head spun at the foreign sound of a young voice. “They put me in a big machine. It hurts.” More tears spilled and Gale instinctively gathered him closer.
“Where do you hurt?”
“Evr’where.”
Gale brushed Bucky’s hair back, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Let me check you over.”
Gently moving the fabric of Bucky’s shirt, he began to check the little body, only for Bucky to shrink into himself.
“I hate them,” he muttered. “They touched me. They gave me shots.”
Icy bitterness curdled in Gale’s stomach, forming into a calm, dangerous rage as bruises in the shape of restraints were revealed on Bucky’s arms and legs. There were needle marks on his arms and neck, too, and Gale couldn’t keep his hands from shaking. He tried to keep his fear from showing to Bucky, which seemed to succeed more due to Bucky’s exhaustion than Gale’s discretion. He soothed Bucky with murmurs, gathering him close when the inspection was done.
For a while they breathed together, Bucky buried tight into Gale’s chest and Gale’s body curled around him. Gale kept a hand on the back of Bucky’s head and the other wrapped around him, stroking a thumb over Bucky’s arm. Eventually Bucky’s breathing steadied, but his body still trembled with tension.
“Buck?” he whispered after a while.
“Yeah,” Gale murmured, pressing his face to the top of Bucky’s head.
“Can you rock me?”
Gale furrowed his brow.
“Okay,” he said, wracking his brain to remember what he saw one of Marge’s friends do with her newborn when they went to visit. Didn’t the kid have to be tiny? Lying down? Hesitantly, he started to move forward and backward, but it only made Bucky slide on his chest. With a disgruntled noise, Bucky pulled back.
“No,” he said. “Like ‘dis.” He wrapped his arms around himself, moving in a loose side to side motion more from the waist than arms. Gale nodded, swallowing as Bucky settled back, and tried to copy the motion. At first it was halting, but after a while he found a rhythm, and felt the small body relax against him. Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, hand fisted in the front of Gale’s shirt, and an overwhelming swell of affection choked Gale and filled his chest. Tears of love and fear sprang to his eyes but he swallowed them away. It was going to be ok. They had to turn Bucky back. They had to.
He let Bucky sleep until more footsteps made Gale lift his gaze without moving. Doctor Huber approached the door with two soldiers, studying them with casual interest, and Gale hoped his eyes were conveying all the ways he was imagining killing the man.
“You’re gonna turn him back,” he growled, low in chest.
“Oh yes of course,” said Huber, waving a hand. “As soon as we figure out how. This is the first time the transformation has been successful, now we can start working on the reverse process. Quite fascinating actually.” He pulled a key from his pocket and unhurriedly unlocked the cell door, swinging it open. “However, just because it worked on him doesn’t mean it will be consistent, and we need to perfect a few more things. So, if you don’t mind.”
He stepped aside, gesturing to the hallway as the soldiers entered the cell.
Gale glanced between them, then at the slumbering Bucky in his arms. He debated waking him to say goodbye, to reassure him, but knew enough to predict the hell that would break loose if Bucky was awake while Gale was being taken.
“Will he be asleep for a while?” he asked.
“I expect so. He’s got quite the concoction in his system.”
Gale longed to kiss Bucky’s forehead, to caress his cheek one more time, but any show of a deeper connection between the two of them could spell disaster. The less Huber and his goons knew the better.
Gently, Gale shifted the limp Bucky in his arms and laid him on the cot. He looked so peaceful in his sleep and Gale’s chest ached, grip lingering only a second before letting him go. He gently pried Bucky’s little fingers from his shirt, then stood, allowing the soldiers to get ahold of his arms, one grabbing the back of his neck.
“Major Egan gave us quite a bit of trouble so we’re doing things a little differently this time,” said Huber, as a sharp jab of a needle entered Gale’s neck. Gale froze, breath leaving his lungs as a long-buried part of his brain screamed that fighting back would only make things worse. Huber made a considering noise, smoothing a hand on Gale’s ribs and down to his waist.
“You’re quite the Aryan specimen," he mused. “There’s a few other, different, facilities that would make me a handsome deal to have you, but this research is far more important. Doesn’t mean we can’t have a bit of fun though, no?”
Gale could feel his control over his body dissolving as his muscles began to grow weak against his will, limbs buckling and vision growing dark at the edges. He could fight it, could struggle through whatever was coming. Or he could give in, let oblivion take him and skip to whatever was at the end of this. Gale grit his teeth, forcing his eyes to stay open as he slumped towards the ground, the only view being that of his own feet as he was dragged out of the cell. Fear lapped over his body like water, filling his lungs and creeping suffocatingly higher over his mouth and nose.
But it was nothing compared to the last painful sight of Bucky’s small body, lying still and alone, as Gale’s world faded to darkness.