Chapter Text
It’s been six months since he’d fallen out of the belly of his B-17 for the last time, six months since he’d stumbled back into respectable society. Only he didn’t really stumble, not in a way that could be seen, he’d been reformed by the fervid martyrdom of nationalism. When people saw him they saw the vainglory of America, the indefatigable American spirit. Without saying anything at all he was a man other men lifted their hats for, a man other men knew because a friend knew because a cousin knew, a man men brought drinks for and drank themselves when he’d decline. They’d take a rib at first, at the military man who kept his neck clean? Come look at this phenomenon! But not for long, he’d brought victory home.
He’d done a good thing in the grand scheme of the motives of men, but he’d done terrible things too, things he carried under his tongue. He’d fall asleep at three am, fall asleep and fall from his bed, fall from his bed and through the floor of his apartment, through the floor of his apartment and the apartment below and out into the sky over Germany, open his eyes to fire and smoke and broken bodies all around then open his eyes again to the ceiling of his room and sweat wet sheets. When he got ready for work in the buttoning of his shirt and the knot of his shoes, he’d hear the jeers of men whose souls had split over France. When he left his home the racking, clacking, chugging of a million commutes would turn into the sound of feet running and he’d be sure that if he looked down he would be running too, that America's shores had fallen and the city of New York, the children and their mothers, the mothers and their wash-boards would be pressed against their windows, bashing against the glass hard-enough to burst, cheering him on to a junction cleared of traffic, cheering him on to a B-17.
And he’d want to laugh, hoot, hell holler every time these visions were over because he’d never had a good imagination. Gale had always been practical, things were what they were and would always be. Summer came after sping, grass would always be green and the sky would always be blue; unless spring didn't come, unless it was winter, unless the sky was full of-
“You’re thinking again” The rough voice and soon that familiar hand, the strongest hand he knew, Gale felt it before it even hit his shoulder, smiled a smile in spite of himself when it did.
“Sounds like you’re insinuating I don’t think at all” He pushes the whisky he’d ordered for Bucky across the table with two fingers, watches the alcohol inside slosh and wishes, not for the first time, that terrible things wouldn’t be waiting for him if he got lost in it.
“Not, not at all” But it's their humour and when he looks at Bucky properly he feels a little lighter, like something heavy behind his ribs had been cut loose and half of himself, the good half, was free to fill his spaces up again, to colour the edges of happiness yellow. Bucky could do that.
Bucky shouldn’t be able to do that.
He looks healthy too, strong, physically and mentally which is important objectively. Subjectively, his curls are rogue and spiralling over his ears in a way that makes Gale want to turn his hands in on himself, in a way that makes him glad he doesn’t drink.
“This is a nice place, almost got lost finding it”
“It says Sauls right outside you might need glasses”
“Yeah well I keep forgetting what a normal bar looks like, I always end up looking for tin-roofs” Bucky’s smiling before he frowns, the quickest of creases, it's a thing Gale hasn’t told him he does because he's a coward. Bucky would, he reels things off about Gale thoughtlessly, one thing after the other and the next as well. But Gale had left it too long to do the same. It wouldn’t sound right anyway, "Do you know that you frown" everyone frowns, but it’s the speed of it, like it’s something to catch.
The first time they’d gone their separate ways had been on the back of a handshake. America had felt as foreign to him as England ever had and Bucky had taken his hand, taken it like it would break and held it, held it in the universe that collapsed between two seconds, then shook it. The skies of the nation were aflame with nitrate and sulphur, a thousand dogmatic songs bellowing from the mouths of jingoistic men and women who didn’t know soil could bleed, and Bucky had shook his hand and frowned, the quickest of frowns, and left.
“I come here after shifts sometimes, too much deskwork” Bucky dropped his leg into his.
“And kick back with what, water?” There’s nothing to say for a while, the bar moves around them, changes shape as the people do, but they don’t speak.
Bucky takes a swig of his whiskey, then another, finishes it off and drops it just-so over the table. The thick of the base spins, oscillating the glass this way then that, only when it seems like it might fall does it stop and drop flat.
“You good”
“I suppose, itchy you know”
“For what”
“I don’t know”
“Yes you do” He nudges Bucky’s knee with his own. “You always know”
“Do you like being here?”
“Sauls?”
“Blonde and funny”
“America's home” Bucky will know he’s holding out on him but then, he always has.
“I think it’s a bit of a curse surviving you know, I’ve been immortalised already”
He turns to see what that kind of confession looks like and catches something else over Bucky’s shoulder. Large eyes, auburn hair, curves that beget curves that beget curves, she’s a dream. Gale had thought it when she’d shown him to the table and had hoped she’d leave before Bucky would know it too. But she’s coming over on purpose now, shoulders back, chest forward. Women come easy to them both but there was something about Bucky, something about his size, the easy smirk, the character of his face that said he would be a tale to tell the morning after and a tale to revisit whenever he came back. They fell for him for everything they knew he’d never give them because he was handsome, because he was terrifying, because he was impossible to keep. She’s close now, close enough that Gale can see the freckles running across her nose.
“Can I get you boys anything?” She doesn’t mean him so Gale turns to the window. A plump woman in a red dress is scurrying along the sidewalk carrying three pints of milk and a half-wrapped loaf of bread as Bucky's arm moves from behind his chair. He doesn’t need to see this bit; he can hear well enough.
“Just another of these if you could.” The woman outside has stopped at a crossing, she looks left then right, leans out slightly over the road then back again, there’s too much traffic to jaywalk.
“On an empty stomach?” Resigned to waiting for the lights she flinches, and looks up. Gale can’t see the sky but the streets are dark, it might be raining.
“I don’t do much eating when drinking with friends” A wispy man in a starched suit comes up beside the red woman, twists his wrist to squint at his watch.
“Do you do a lot of eating after drinking with friends?” The street-lights flick on as the traffic lights go from green to yellow.
“Do you know I’ve never tried” A spot of rain hits the window.
“Well we can’t have that” Another spot of rain joins the first.
“We can't? Well if you're saying so I'll change my ways" The traffic light turns red.
“I do say so” The man and woman cross the street in holy pedestrian union then part ways, she to the west, him further down main-street.
“Then I’ll pick you up at eight” The rain is coming quick and fast now. ‘The clouds have opened, and the angels are crying at the sight of us’ his father would have said.
“Then I’ll be waiting” Somewhere in the distance, there’s thunder.