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Bucky Egan was trying his best to enjoy himself with the girls and booze in this swanky hotel lounge, yet he felt like he had only one shoe without Gale. The fact that Gale was away on a dangerous bombing mission and Bucky was on leave in London left a sour taste in his throat and a twist in his stomach, but there was nothing to be done about it and he had succeeding in distracting himself pretty well, he thought. He was more-than-several drinks in, leaning over a tabletop toward a gorgeous brunette ATA pilot, hardly able to hear himself think over the toe-tapping band music from the stage. The brunette was just as beautiful as the Spitfire she’d flown in on, grinning wryly and allowing Bucky to goad her into a debate on whether bombers or fighters were more fun to fly.
She was in the middle of a story with broad gestures when someone tapped Bucky to say he had a telephone call. He excused himself from the lovely company and weaved through the crowd of dancers and drinkers to grab the telephone on the reception desk.
“Major Egan here,” he announced.
“Major.”
Crosby’s choked voice sobered Bucky immediately, and he dragged the phone around the corner into the mailroom as far as the cord would go, the now-muted music adding to the feeling of dread.
“Cros what happened?” he demanded. “How’d the mission go?”
Crosby took a deep breath, letting it out shakily, and the realization slammed into Bucky, making his world ground to a halt and sucking the air from his lungs.
“Where’s Cleven?” he breathed.
“He went down sir. Some ‘chutes. Not all of them. Plane was burning bad.”
Horrible liquid ice filtered through Bucky’s veins, freezing his limbs and into his brain as numbness followed. Finally his mind caught on to the only thing that could have made Crosby sound so devastated.
“Is Bubbles ok?” he asked.
“Dead, sir.”
“God.”
Bucky’s vision swam, heart twisting at Crosby’s hitched breaths.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the lieutenant whispered.
Bucky swallowed, at a loss for words for the first time he could remember, but finally managed to thank Crosby for calling and hang up, moving away hollowly like a limb or internal organ had been ripped away. He thought his heart had been cut out when they had lost Curt—he was a quick and deep friendship and a partner in crime—but Bucky had been with Gale almost every day for years, knew his voice and presence and scent like it was a part of himself. They were so young when their lives had merged, so how could he now live without?
He grabbed a bottle of whisky off a random table, not caring whose it was, and by the time he had taken the elevator to his room it was drained. Without bothering to turn on the light he tossed the bottle toward the trash bin, shed his flight jacket and outer layers. Pale streetlight filtered through a gap in the curtains and Bucky was overwhelmed with the urge to smash every window and piece of furniture, to throw punches through every wall, but the nearly-buried logical part of his mind demanded he avoid a broken hand and paying damages. He settled for hurling one shoe at the wall, then the other, and sinking down onto the bed.
Emotions he had tried to bury for months were strangling him, and he buried his fingers in his dark curly hair and pulled. The pain cleared his head a little but his chest was still in a vice grip and suddenly his face was wet. He curled up, gripping his hair tighter and not bothering to stop the tears.
As the leaders of the squadron, he and Gale were the strong ones, pillars the other men could lean on and look up to, even though Gale’s steady and stoic personality was the opposite of Bucky’s devil-may-care ways. Bucky was the one with the loud laughter and jokes, acting the nonsense and getting his men to lighten up even after a horrible mission. He had managed to keep it together and put on a brave face after watching planes full of his friends and comrades burst into flames, or see their blood drip on the ground when they were pulled out by the medical crew. He had grit his teeth when they lost Curt—their Curt—clapped a few men on the shoulder and promised they’d get though this. Always Gale’s arm would be draped over Bucky’s shoulder in a comforting, grounding weight.
Now the hotel room was dark and the sheets were cold, and Bucky tried to muffle his sobs in his pillow, even though no one was around to hear.
***
The next morning, back at the base, he didn’t have the strength for his usual quips or antics. His known role in the group was the one who would crack jokes, smile reassuringly no matter how horribly his insides were caving in, and repeat his signature phrase we’re gonna get through this even though his head was splitting in two with the screams of those who didn’t.
Now his strength to put up the strong façade was gone. All he could do was sit and stare at his food and give quiet, short answers to whoever asked him something, fuse his face into a stone mask and not shatter in a million pieces. He could function, he had to, no matter what he felt like. Gale was gone, and if he thought about that too much he couldn’t breathe. Hs own imagination was the worst enemy. Did Gale’s plane explode? Get shot to bits? Who had bailed out? Had shrapnel or bullets pierced his friend’s body, or did he fight to keep the aircraft under control and die when it hit the ground? Like Curt.
Days become a blur. Some nights he drank himself to sleep, some nights he tossed and turned, not sleeping at all. He moved as if on autopilot, a dead man walking with wooden movements and hollow voice. Then another mission was announced, one deep into Germany near where Gale’s fateful mission had been, and a fire burst to life in Bucky’s chest.
He was going on that mission if it killed him. For vengeance.
***
His own aircraft breaking up in midair seemed like a blur as he ordered his men to bail, struggling out of the hatch himself into the inferno. As stupid as it was, he must have passed out from exhaustion on the ride in the back of a German truck to the prisoner of war camp, his home for the duration. When he was shaken awake and pulled out into the light, he had no time to ponder the foreseeable future behind barbed wire before a familiar voice and wide grin burst into his line of vision.
“What took you so long?” Gale asked, grabbing Bucky and clapping him on the shoulder. His smile was blinding, and a startled, breathless laugh broke out of Bucky’s chest.
“That’s what I get for being so sentimental,” he said, trying to smile and swaying from the sheer force of it all. Gale’s face grew a bit blurry as he stepped closer, and he looked so different with a new brown coat that seemed to be civilian and hair messier than he ever allowed it to be before. His eyes, always so deep and speaking volumes, began to morph from excited to concerned and sad the longer he looked at Bucky. This close, Bucky could see Gale wasn’t unscathed either. A few healing cuts littered his face, his eyes were a bit glassy, and his hands trembled slightly where they griped Bucky’s arms. The ache in Bucky’s chest spread.
He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t breathe, and before Gale could say anything else Bucky stumbled forward and threw his arms around him, squeezing harder than he ever had in his life. Gale—the blessed boy—didn’t pull away or complain, just wrapped around Bucky just as tight. They held each other for far too long but no one said a word. Maybe they could see the desperation bleeding from Bucky, but Gale was so warm and solid and god had Bucky been scared.
That night the brutal winter air seeped through the thin walls and Bucky only spent a few minutes shivering in his own bunk before climbing up to Gale’s and tugging on his blanket wordlessly. Gale moved over and let Bucky burrow into the delicious warmth aided by the heat of the stove lingering closer to the low ceiling. Bucky hummed lowly and settled on his stomach, almost sprawled fully on top of Gale with his face tucked into Gale’s neck, where the steady pulse beat like a lifeline. A bit of shame at his neediness filtered through him, only to vanish when Gale’s grip tightened around him and he pressed a kiss to Bucky’s head. Bucky’s throat closed up and he squeezed his eyes, clutching Gale’s shirt, and if Gale noticed his collar getting damp he didn’t mention it, only brushed his hand gently through Bucky’s hair.
“We’re gonna get through this,” he murmured.
The barracks were dark, Gale was warm, and Bucky’s relieved tears grew slower, lightening the weight on his chest.