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John’s a big man, tall and his shoulders are broad, so when he falls in the yard Brady can’t quite catch him. Gale sees it from over by the library, the way his body hits the mud. It’s not a dead faint — Bucky catches himself on an elbow, twisted kind of sideways so just his flank sinks into the wet ground — but Gale still finds himself near running towards the pair of them, nevermind Crank’s question about derivatives he was only halfway through answering. Brady’s got him sitting upright when Gale lands beside them, dirtying his own knees. “M’alright,” John is saying. He’s not looking at either of them, staring off into some unspecified middle distance. Gale and Brady make eye contact over his shoulders. “I’m alright.”
“Let’s get you inside, John.” Gale puts a hand on his back — too cold out here to tell if he’s abnormally hot — and waits for Bucky to look at him before trying to get him standing. He has to wait longer than he expected, several stretched seconds of total non-response tightening the muscles in his stomach before patches of deep blue wander vaguely over to him and John nods. It takes both of them but they manage it, John propped with most of his weight leaning onto Buck and counterweighted by Brady holding his opposite arm, an unsteady formation but seemingly not in immediate danger of falling again. “C’mon, Bucky.”
The bunks seem ages away, but Gale has counted the footstep distance between every building in the place — an endeavor he’s sure would amuse his friend if John were ever to find out about it, going just as stir crazy as me, aren’t you Gale — and it takes the usual 26, give or take a few on account of the added weight and drag. We’re going to get his bed muddy, Gale thinks but can’t do much about. He needs the warmth of any layers he has on, it’s not like there’s a spare coat to put him in.
“What happened, huh?” He asks, getting him seated. He puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him from slumping back into the bunk, and here inside and fingers so close to his face the heat radiating off him is unmistakeable. “You just had a cold this morning.”
“Wouldn’t shut up about it,” Brady says, because John hadn’t, moaning for days about his little sniffles. He looks over at Gale, face tight with guilt. “He didn’t so much today, but I thought- I mean, I just figured he was getting over it.”
Gale has to work to keep guilt off his own face. He had figured the same, as far as he had thought about it. There are- everything is all so much to worry about. He had taken Bucky’s noise as permission to not be overly worried about this one particular thing, and this morning’s relative quiet as- well, Bucky’s been quiet more and more frequently lately and the background radiation of that concern is too big to look directly at most of the time. “Yeah,” he says to Brady, reassuring enough. “Go see if you can find Murray.”
John coughs as Brady scrambles out of the room and it’s chesty, wetter than Gale would like. No one else in here this time of day and anyway no one would think anything of Gale touching John’s face to check for fever so he does it, wrist against his forehead the way his mother would check if Dottie’s formula was too hot to drink. “Well,” he sighs, “I wouldn’t feed you to a baby.” At least the confused look this gets him can be ascribed to something other than illness. He sits down on the bunk, elbows knocking. “Should have told me you were feeling worse.”
John coughs again, halfheartedly turning his head away like they don’t all suck in the same germs living in such close quarters. Like the two of them specifically don’t share most their air. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and isn’t that terrible. He should get defensive, he should start a fight. What’s the point he should say, what the fuck could you do about it? And the next step in the dance, Gale biting down on anger and reminding him Coulda found you better food, another blanket, hell, maybe even some medicine. Why’re you just giving up on me? But he missed it, somehow, the moment of the giving-up, and here John is saying “M’sorry,” like a schoolboy, a child ashamed.
“It’s alright,” Gale says. He doesn’t like how his voice holds the words. Not a strong enough grip. John sways again, just a little, so Gale puts an arm around him, keeps him up. Stares a hole into the side of his head until the door opens again, Brady, out of breath.
“Doc’s in another part of the compound,” he says. “Hambone thinks he knows somebody he can trade for some aspirin, maybe.”
Aspirin, maybe. And Gale knows the make-shift doctor likely wouldn’t have had anything better to offer. “Okay,” he says, standing up and then up again, pulling up the corner of his top bunk mattress. He puts the deck of cards and two cigarettes hidden there into Brady’s hands. A measly offering, but- “Here, if it’ll help.”
Brady clutches them close like they're really worth something and nods, goes off again. Gale turns and puts his hands on his hips, looking at John, fully slumped back against the wall now. Losing heat to the brick, but if he's feverish maybe that's not a bad thing. Losing heat to the wet mud all along one side, too. Gale climbs back up and strips his own mattress, bringing the bedding down and setting them on the next bunk over. “John?”
Several seconds. “Mm?”
“Can you get your pants off?”
Bucky looks at him, eyes exhausted little pits. Quietly, and with great effort: “You tryin’ to get me into bed, Major?”
The joke would be comforting if it wasn't so clearly an attempt to be so. Still, Gale indulges. “Yeah,” he says, kneeling and undoing Bucky's shoelaces, wiggling the cold-stiff leather off his right foot then his left. His left sock is getting thin around the toes, but there’s no actual hole yet. Gale’s hand circles around John’s ankle for a moment, just holding on, and then he stands back up. “Head over heels for you, Bucky, just waiting for my chance.”
John’s face stays mostly tired-blank, but he winks. Getting back up takes him an age, and is accompanied by an orchestra of wheezes and pained little moans. Gale tries to only put a hand on him when absolutely necessary but the way he’s swaying begs an almost constant touch. Doesn’t have to go so far as to undo his belt for him at least. John is panting by the time he steps outside of his trousers, and shaking now. Gale nudges him to lean against the bunk.
“Just hang on a second.” He leans down to untie his shoes and nudge them off, then loses his trousers. This pair was always a little loose on him, and with the weight John’s lost here he thinks it won't be too comical a trade. “Alright, here.”
John sways again as he tries to get a leg in, so Gale crouches down and guides him with a hand on his calf. His palm must be cold, he feels John shiver. A hand comes down heavy on his shoulder for balance, so he makes himself solid until John’s got both feet in the correct pant leg. He shimmies the wool up John’s legs, standing as he goes until John grabs the fabric from him and finishes the job. He goes to sit down again but Gale grabs his wrist.
“Hang on.” Moving fast — not least because it’s damn cold in his skivvies — he strips Bucky’s mattress and puts his if not fresher at least less muddy bedclothes down. “Alright.” As John slumps down Buck puts the wet trousers on — synching the belt tight to hold up the extra fabric — and gets back into his shoes. Reclining sideways as he is John’s legs hang off the bed. Gale’s pants are a little short on him, exposing hairy ankles, and it makes Gale’s heart beat strangely so he puts Bucky’s boots back on for him. No use in trading these. Even if they were the same size, Gale’s are just as muddy. “Scoot.” Bucky doesn’t, so Gale just tugs and shoves until he’s horizontal and tucked under the blanket. Like back in England, or Texas, Bucky drunk and Gale getting him into bed.
Brady comes back, two pills carefully wrapped in a scrap of gauze. Should he give him one or two? An extra strength dose might get the fever down quicker, but if that doesn't work they'll have no second chance later. He grabs Bucky's canteen — sniffing the contents to make sure it is water and not the gut rot a few of the guys managed to brew up — and rests a hand on Bucky's shoulder.
“What?” His voice is raspy, his eyes bleary. There are little pink bursts on his cheeks.
“Take a sip, and swallow this.” Gale helps John lean up to do so. He gets the pill down but chokes a little on the next sip of water, curling up onto his side to cough. It turns into a fit of it, and takes so long to subside Gale worries about him getting enough air in. He is out of breath when it's over, lax on the mattress and panting. He's got a few fingers hooked into Gale's jacket sleeve, Gale hadn't noticed when it happened.
“I’ll see if I can bring back some dinner.”
“Thank you, Brady.” Gale manages to look away from Bucky to nod at the man. The back of John’s finger twitches against his wrist. He looks down to discover John sinking into sleep, face gone slack and the rumble of a congested snore starting up. It’s already murky leaning towards full dark in here, sun setting around four this time of year, this far north. John’s trousers are slow to dry, damp and cold against Gale’s leg. Other men trickle in from the dining hall, slightly less noisy than usual in deference to their sick major. They turn lights on, making Gale belatedly feel silly for sitting there in the dark. Brady arrives with still sort-of warm potatoes and a mug of thin soup. Gale hates to wake Bucky right back up, but best to get this down while it's not cold and inedible. “John.” John frowns, curls a little further into himself. “Come on, you gotta eat.”
John squints his eyes open and frowns blearily at him, but does try to sit up a little for the food. He only eats one potato before going pale enough that Gale figures he’s fighting nausea, so he hands over the soup instead. He gets a few sips down and then coughs so hard he starts gagging, and Gale stands up in a hurry, pulling John to the edge of the bed so at least if he vomits it’ll mostly hit the floor. John keeps the small amount of food down but pushes away the cup as Gale tries to offer it again. “M’tired,” he mutters, curling up again.
Gale sighs. “Alright. Just get some rest.” It’s not quite cold enough tonight to excuse laying down next to him, and if he’s sick enough to be contagious Gale shouldn’t want to, anyway. It’s still hard to climb up into his own bed and leave him alone there when people get bored with their books and card games and start heading to bed. “You wake me if you need to,” he tries to tell John, but he’s not sure he actually hears him.
Snores start up. The unfortunately distinct sound of Hambone jacking off. John, in the bunk below, rattling and wheezing and coughing. He sees DeMarco in the next bunk over put a pillow over his head but Gale doesn’t care to muffle the sound. It’s proof of life. He lays awake and listens for a long time, waiting for Bucky’s breathing to get better, or worse. He’d slept through the last man that died in here, a fighter pilot who’d come into the Stalag already sick. Here in the evening, gone in the morning. John’s breathing slows as Gale’s speeds up. Failure all around. He hadn’t paid enough attention then and he hadn’t with John the last few days- when it’s so much more important he thinks, and then feels instant guilt about. That other man isn’t any less regrettable a loss, but- well, but this is John. His best friend, laying three feet down and struggling for air. There are gaps in the sound and each one is terrifying, Gale holding his own breath until Bucky’s starts up again. Gale is paying more attention to John than the passing of time, but hours like that. Wheezing exhale, dreadful silence, crackling inhale. And over, and again, and Gale just staring up at the cobwebs on the ceiling, fingers twisted in John’s muddy sheets. A wheeze, and then a second of silence, another, another, and Gale can't stand it anymore. He shoves his blankets aside and climbs down as quietly as the creaky bunks will allow. “John.” No response, but close up Gale can still hear breathing. In the faint light filtering in from the compound lights outside he can see John's shoulder moving slightly where he's laying facing the wall. Gale reaches out to give it a shake and in the moment before his fingers hit solid bulk he feels suddenly deeply afraid. The stomach sink moment of his father opening the door drunk already, of falling out of an airplane, of dropping his proposal in the mail. Now this strange certainty that he will touch John and he will be dead. He's not, he grunts at the accidentally forceful jab of Gale's fingertips, turns his head and blinks up at him.
“What?” He sounds awful, sand paper throat. Gale touches his forehead and his fever hasn't gone down any.
“You should drink some more water,” Gale says quietly, rooting around for the canteen. The metal is cold and Gale wishes he had any way to heat it up. He knows it'll make John cough before it gets halfway to his mouth, and the predicted outburst is loud in the relative silence of the night. The glint of eyes in the dark. Gale waves an apology. The coughing doesn’t subside, Gale clambers into the bunk before he’s really aware it's a decision he’s making, tucking himself into the corner against the wall and the post of the bunk and pulling Bucky upright, between Gale’s legs, leaning back against his chest. “Alright,” he says. He had a bad cold once, maybe the flu, when he was just a little kid. Only way he could breathe well enough to sleep was sitting up in the scratchy living room armchair. “That’s good, Bucky, you’re alright.” His father had been the one to come check on him, though he’s never been sure if he’d only dreamed the big hand gentle on his forehead.
Bucky is breathing a little easier now, but his face is red with exertion or the fever. Gale still has the other aspirin in his pocket but he’s not sure John could get it down without coughing it right back up. He’s is so hot against him, his clothes damp with sweat. Gale undoes his coat and a few of the buttons on his shirt, letting the cold in or the heat out. He’s not sure if it’s any less terrifying being this close, feeling John breathe against him, the way his body shudders with it and the pained noises that accompany every exhale. At least this way whenever the rhythm stutters or stops Gale can rub a hand along his arm or up his chest, mutter an encouraging “There you go, come on.” At least this way if John doesn’t make it through the night he won’t have died alone.
The thought startles Gale. He’s spent so much time here — and in England, and as far back as Randolph, watching John’s face get occasionally fragile after a night out or a harsh word or a call from home — thinking about how and when the man will die, but this is the first time where it’s felt like it really might happen. His friend is… expansive. He’s always taken up so much space in any room he’s in, right away had bullied into Gale’s head and taken up space there, too. Even his recent trapped animal angst has been large, loud. Sitting here tucked together in the cold, he feels so small in Gale’s arms. When he braces John’s chest through another coughing fit he feels ribs, each distinct. After so long consumed with thoughts on how to prevent it, he thinks about what it will mean for John to die. To be alone here. To never hear his laughter or god awful singing ever again. To never bear the brunt of his foul moods or burn at the center of his lovely attention. If John dies he’ll never have a conversation he feels completely at home in ever again as long as he lives. He'll never look up and have a soft place waiting for his eyes to land. If John dies he will be dead, gone, unreachable no matter how Gale might try, and the whole world will be so much worse, and the future so much lonelier.
“Please don’t,” he whispers, face pressed lightly into John’s shoulder. They’ve been sitting up for ages, John sometimes slumped and unconscious, sometimes breathing too quick and staring unseeing straight ahead. Gale has been, every moment, desperately awake. He knows- all his fear of being alone and he knows that when all this is over he will go home to Wyoming and John off to Wisconsin and they’ll see each other for the wedding and then maybe not again very often, but Gale thinks he can still exist as long as he knows John is somewhere out there existing, too. “Please don’t die, Bucky. Please don’t leave me.”
He doesn’t respond, but he also doesn’t die. The room gets slowly lighter and lighter, the long sunrise of a high latitude. John keeps breathing. Gale checks his fever again as the other men start to wake up, and it seems to have lessened. Once again, the worst seems to have passed without him noticing, and his body aches with tension that suddenly no longer has any use. He shifts them to be sitting side by side before anyone looks at them too closely, and nudges him to do up his own shirt and coat.
“Morning, Majors,” Brady nods at them, looking over John with some relief. Bucky waves a half hearted salute.
“God,” he groans, maybe not to Gale but quiet enough that he’s the only one who hears. “I feel like shit.”
Gale has to bite his tongue to not let out a mad sort of cackle about it. Complaining again. Well, it’s not so bad, is it?
Roll call is still a tense affair, Brady joining him once again in keeping John on his feet as they shamble out onto the field. Gale doesn’t want to let him go, but with eyes on them he pulls his hand away from the small of his back. He can barely hear the shouting of the Luftwaffe with how intensely he listens to John’s breathing get more labored the longer he tries to stay upright. “Alright, John,” Gale mutters, low as he can. “Almost through.”
“Fuck off,” Bucky whispers back, and Gale doesn’t manage to keep a hold of his smile.
“I can stay if you want to go get breakfast,” Brady offers once they’ve limped back inside. “Since you were stuck together all night.”
It’s a joking tone but ends with a searching look, probably in response to the flash of- Gale isn’t quite sure what came over his own face. Extreme reluctance to leave John’s side along with the unpleasant feeling of having shown a hand he wasn’t aware he was holding. He makes himself nod, look grateful. “I’ll bring something back for you.”
He forces himself to eat slow, or at least only scarf down the meager meal as fast as any of the other men. Nods through chattered conversations and makes a mildly put upon face as Benny asks how his other half is recovering.
“Can’t hardly tell the difference, way he snores.” Easy laughter. His heart pounds in his chest like there’s some danger, here. He chews his toast, mouth dry. Benny and some of the others pass over some of their scraps to bring back to Brady and John, and Gale keeps his pace calm as he heads back to the bunks, balancing two cups of coffee. Brady takes his gratefully, grabbing his toast and wandering towards the door. His eyes don’t linger any longer than they should, Gale is almost certain.
“Got your favorite,” he tells John, sitting on the bunk Bucky is once again slumped over. “Stale toast.”
“Oh, hooray,” John rasps. He sits up under his own power, shining with an unhealthy sheen of sweat but looking more alert than in the past dozen or so hours. Gale tries to pass him the coffee but Bucky’s hand shakes hard enough at the weight that Buck doesn’t fully let go of it, the two of them lifting together so John can drink. The warm liquid helps the toast go down smoother than anything last night, and John finishes everything Gale brought him. The coffee is empty enough that he can drink the rest on his own, which he does in two big gulps, before setting the cup down and running his fingers through his hair with a groan. “I feel disgusting.”
They’re not scheduled for a shower until Friday, so John will have to sit in his itchy dried sweat for a while longer. There’s a mirror nailed up in the bunk, though, and it sounds like someone’s got a fire going outside to stave off the morning chill. “Hold on, I’ll go heat some water.”
He takes John’s canteen to do so, scooping some snow into it and setting it on the edge of the little bonfire. Some guys are kicking around a half deflated soccer ball a little ways off. Everyone seems in good enough spirits. Gale feels sort of dizzy. John is okay, he’s waiting inside upright and hardly coughing. Someone to his left laughs. He doesn’t know how to reconcile any of it with the fear he felt in the night. He never had been afraid of the dark even as a kid, his father told him he couldn’t be. Gale kneels and grabs the hot canteen with the corner of his coat and heads back inside.
John is standing, leaning against their bunk. He looks a little unsteady but not as bad as he was yesterday, and he follows Gale to the mirror well enough. John loses his coat and does some creative tugging until he’s wiggled his vest out from under his shirt, soaking the dirty cotton in the hot water and giving his face and hair a rough scrub. Glancing in the mirror, he says “Get my shaving kit, will you?” Gale does so, coming back to Bucky looking down at his trousers, hands on his hips. “Are these my pants?”
Gale wiggles a leg. “You got mud on yours.”
John looks at him in the reflection of the mirror, an intense stare. “Everyone’s got mud all over fucking everything,” he says, but he can’t hold the eye contact so Gale knows he’s grateful. He takes the shaving kit and gets as far as lathering his face before stopping with the razor held in trembling fingers. “I can’t do this, I’ll cut my face off.” He goes to wipe the foam away again but Gale stops him.
“I can do it.”
Another intense stare, but John nods. “Alright.” He runs a hand through his hair again, getting a little foam in it, and looks at himself balefully in the mirror. “I’m gonna sit down then, ‘fore I fall over.”
“Should’ve thought of that yesterday,” Buck says to his back as they walk back over to their bunk. Bucky waves a dismissive hand at him. There’s nobody in the sleeping quarters with them, everyone outside to enjoy the few hours of daylight they have. Gale is glad of it as he takes the razor and steps between Bucky’s legs. This isn’t entirely out of the ordinary. Camp full of airmen tossed from their planes, of course some came in with broken bones, of course you’d help a buddy out with shaving when he couldn’t lift his own arm to do so. But Bucky rests his hands on Buck’s hips, scratching gently into the fabric of his own pants on Buck’s body, and Gale touches John’s face and thinks he’s handsome even covered in shaving cream, and thinks again if you die I’ll be always alone, and none of any of that seems like anything that should have outside witnesses.
Gale goes slow, the angle a little awkward on someone else’s face. He’s careful around the mustache, the shape of which he knows by heart. “I worried you,” John says, mouth held still to not interrupt Gale’s work, muffling the words.
“Worth worrying about.” If he looked up just a fraction higher he would see John’s eyes. He keeps his sight where it is. “Are you- oh.” The little bead of red is surprising, welling up so quickly from John’s jaw. He puts his finger over the cut without thinking, pressing into the half-cleared stubble, warm skin, hard bone beneath, chasing the instinct to keep John inside himself, whole and safe. “I’m- I’m sorry.”
Bucky looks down nose, trying to see the cut. He shrugs, unbothered. “You’re fine. Like I said, I’d’ve cut my whole face off.” He glances up at Buck and then again, eyebrows raising. “Gale.”
Gale’s eyes sting. Oh god. He’s almost crying. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and his voice is almost as raspy as John’s is. Maybe he shouldn’t have shared a bed, maybe he is getting sick. He pulls his hand away from John’s face but the blood immediately starts beading up again so he replaces the fingertip. “I should be more careful. I’m sorry.”
“More careful,” John scoffs a little, but his face is kind about it. “I really worried you, huh.” He reaches up to tap Gale square in the middle of his forehead. “What’s going on in there?”
Gale stares at him, shakes his head. Please don’t die. I can’t stand it. “I don’t-” Please don’t leave me alone in the dark. I’m frightened of it after all. “I’m not- I’m not like you Bucky, I can’t just say it.” I wish it was bitter cold every night so I could always lay beside you. What does that mean? Can you tell me what that means? “There’s- it’s too much. I don’t know how to explain it.” God, I’m tired. If I’m getting sick will you come check on me?
“Alright,” is all John says, a thumb sneaking up above the trousers to rest hot against Gale’s waist, and Gale knows he would. He’d bring him food and an extra blanket and put his big hand gentle on his face to check for fever. “Hang on a few days, I’ll get loud enough for the both of us again, okay?”
Gale blinks hard so the tears won’t fall. “You take good care of me, John.” John blinks in genuine surprise but Gale thinks that might explain it all, the simplest truth of it. Never has he been someone worth grabbing onto with both hands, until John Egan. How could he live without that? How can he do anything but hold on just as tight? “I’m tired, Bucky.”
“Go on and get in bed, then.”
“I’m not done shaving you,” Gale says, a bit of whine in his voice. Schoolboy, child. John laughs at him, the bastard.
“You can finish later,” he says, jostling Buck’s hips, pulling upward a little. “I’ll wait for you, promise. Go on.”
Gale takes a last long look at him. The bleeding doesn’t start up again as he slowly takes his finger away, dragging it up John’s cheek before he can bear to stop touching skin. He cleans the foam off with the still damp singlet, careful around the wound. He got most of the stubble, though he looks a little patchy. This makes Gale want to cry too. “Sorry.”
“Go to sleep, Gale,” John insists, all but shoving him towards the top bunk. He yawns, snorts amusement. “That’s what I’ll be down here doing.”
“Alright,” Gale relents. “Wake me if you need to,” Gale says again, and this time gets a smile in return.
“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky flicks his fingers, go on, get, and Gale climbs up to where the mud from yesterday has dried down into dirt, and pulls himself into the covers. He falls asleep in minutes to John snoring, loud as anything, clear and even.