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John had three fractured ribs, a busted eye socket and a not-so-mild concussion but that damn grin stayed plastered to his face. He wobbled a little when he walked and slurred his speech when Gale finally made his way over to say hello, but he was upright and breathing and that counted for a lot. He hissed in pain when Gale pulled him in for a hug, but his returning grip was strong. They both held on for a long time.
“Good to see you, Buck,” was all he said and he thumped Gale’s back with feeling. When they finally pulled apart, Gale was surprised at the tear tracks on John’s cheeks, cutting through the layers of dirt.
“What happened here?” He brushed a finger against the corner of John’s right eye, which was blue-black and crusted over with dried blood.
John waved him off. “Fight with a shovel,” he said, wiping at his nose and clearing his throat. “I look bad, but that shovel won’t be the same.” He threw an arm around Gale’s shoulder and smiled so wide and bright that for a second Gale felt sure they were back in England, away from the muck and grime of this miserable place.
“I think the shovel won, John,” Gale said. His chest felt tight, but in a different way than when he’d heard John’s rig had gone down over Germany. Gale tugged him in against his side as they walked, taking in the sound of John’s labored breathing. Instead of going to the barracks, Gale pointed them straight to the infirmary.
“I’m fine, Buck,” John said, wiping some dirt off the left side of his face.
“They way you’re wheezing says otherwise.” Gale thought about what he had left to trade. John was going to need a warmer coat, some gloves, a hat. It was cold now, and would only get colder.
“They can’t do much here anyway,” John said, stamping his feet against the cold. “Just let me sleep and I’ll be fine.”
“Let’s just make sure you’re gonna live through the night, Bucky. Doc can at least wrap up those ribs.”
John grinned again, brilliant flash of white teeth, but he was starting to list. God only knew how long he’d been awake or what had happened to him. He was beat to hell but there was no point in asking. No man in the camp had been escorted in with white glove treatment. Gale and his crew had been pistol whipped and interrogated before being thrown onto an all night train to the stalag. Just by looking at him though, Gale knew Bucky had had it worse. Much, much worse.
***
“Wipe the wounds, keep them open to air. God help him they don’t get infected.” The doc shoved a thin package of gauze and medical tape at him. “His eye will heal slowly. You have an old shirt? Use that to tightly wrap up his ribs. It will help with the breathing.”
John leaned heavily on him on the way out, his chin hitting Gale’s shoulder. The doc called after them. “Make sure he doesn’t sleep too long. Wake him up every few hours. Concussion. Could be a brain bleed, we can’t tell!”
“Encouraging,” Gale mumbled, taking more of John’s weight.
The boys had already shifted their belongings around, making space so John could have the bunk closest to Gale. They both had a middle berth, side-by-side. He started to crawl into it, but Gale stopped him with a hand against his chest. “Shoes, jacket. Gotta take ‘em off, Bucky.”
John brushed the left side of his face with the back of his hand, as if he was thinking it over. He seemed to decide against it, and thumped his head against the frame of the bunk. “Lazy,” Gale laughed and bent down, untying John’s shoes with stiff, cold fingers. “Feels cold in here now, but with 9 guys crammed in here at night, it’s a real sweat box.”
John huffed out a laugh. He kicked off his shoes and flung off his jacket, releasing all kinds of new body odors.
“You reek, Bucky. Absolutely reek.”
John crowded against him, like he sometimes did when he was drunk. “I smell great. Like a man. A real man.”
“You stink. Like a farm animal.”
John’s laugh turned into a wince as the pressure crushed his fragile ribs. With Gale’s help he crawled into the middle bunk, exhaling wetly as he stretched out. Gale wanted to wrap up his ribs or wipe his face, but John’s eyes were already drifting shut. Watching him, that tight feeling came back to his chest.
“Buck,” John muttered.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
John sighed in acknowledgement. He rolled over onto his side and Gale’s heart almost stopped. There was a deep gash along the back of John’s head, stitches running through the dark, matted hair. It was like someone had taken a baseball bat to him and hit a triple.
***
“Buck, I’m sleeping,” John groaned, swatting at his hand like a kitten.
Gale jostled his shoulder, pulling his chair closer to the bunk. “Open those pretty eyes and then you can go back to sleep.”
John rolled onto his stomach and got up on one elbow, looking so haggard and beat Gale felt more than a twinge of sympathy. This was the second and probably last time Gale would wake him up, concussion or no concussion. He didn’t have the heart to do it again.
John tried to focus his bleary eyes and rubbed his knuckles down his left cheek, waking himself up. “I’m awake, alright? I know who I am, I know who you are and I know that’s Crank snoring in the background. Wake me up one more time and I’ll make a run for it, I swear.” He flopped back down on his pillow, which was now streaked with dirt, and mumbled something Gale didn’t catch.
“I said, aren’t you tired?”
The stalag made you tired in a different kind of way than flying. Flying used up all your energy but left you so spun up it was impossible to settle down. In the stalag, it was exhausting to stay put all day and worry. “No, I’m not tired,” he said. He was more awake than he had been in days, attuned to every stutter and hitch in John’s breath. John muttered again.
“What’s that?” Gale leaned in close, feeling John exhale softly against his cheek. He threaded a hand through John’s hair, fingers catching in the knots. It was a rat’s nest. He’d need to find some shampoo and help John get it clean or they’d have to cut it off.
“You think I was dead?”
In his worst moments, yes, but Gale shook his head. “Not a chance. Figured you crashed somewhere and were ruining the life of some poor German frau.”
John opened his eyes, blinking slowly. “They didn’t see any chutes when your rig went down.” His voice was thick and lazy with sleep. “MIA, I told myself. Buck’s smart enough to get himself home.”
“Lucky, more like it.”
“Same difference.”
Gale rubbed his thumb over the ridge of John’s good eye, calculating the odds of both of them surviving. Non-existent. Miniscule. Odds that even John wouldn’t bet on. He kept his hand there, waiting for John to turn away or fall asleep, but he didn’t move, didn’t seem to blink. They just stared at each other in the dark, straining to see the faint outline of each other’s faces.
***
For the first two nights, John slept like the dead.
They washed as much blood, dirt and German country side off him as they could, but John’s face was still a mess of colorful bruises. The cut across his nose had started to swell and it was a wonder he could see out of his right eye at all, but John snored through the worst of all that pain.
“Geez, I don’t think I’ve ever slept that sound, even back home. He’s knocked out, Buck,” Brady said, watching him from across the room.
Gale laid in the bunk opposite John’s, ears primed to hear him whimper or stir in pain, but nothing came. John slept curled on his side, breathing deep and heavy, hair falling slapdash across his forehead. “He’s just tired,” Gale said, staring at the wooden slats of the bunk above his. John’s stillness sent a pang of worry through him. He wasn’t sleeping like a man who was just tried, but like a man trying to stay alive. The concussion, the busted ribs, the eye that was swollen shut. All that had to come from somewhere and Gale tried not to think of who or what had inflicted all that pain. John hardly acknowledged it, even when he was doubled over coughing, so Gale didn’t push.
The third night, they suffered through a midnight roll call and they stumbled out of bed, barely dressed, shivering in their boots while the guards barked in their faces. John stared at the ground, still half-asleep, idly running his knuckles up and down his left cheek. Gale wouldn’t have even noticed, but it had happened a few times now. John brushed at his cheek like he was desperate to wipe something off.
“You think someone really escaped,” John asked, scanning the lineup.
The giant dobermans snapped at their legs, mouths white with rage and spittle. John seemed to hardly notice them.
“Nah,” Gale said, “I think they’re just trying to rough us up.” He saw John’s hand move to the left corner of his mouth, his thumb flicking the edge like he had a bad itch.
“You alright?”
John nodded, looking confused. “Yeah, why?”
Gale brought his hand up to John’s, guiding it gently back down. “You’re fidgeting.”
“Oh, sorry.” John’s eyes widened in surprise, like he hadn’t been aware of what he was doing. “Nervous habit, I guess.”
“You sure you’re alright?”
John nodded but Gale felt the lie in his gut. John was talkative and boisterous but he didn’t have nervous ticks. Not before, anyway. Gale watched him for a moment longer and then turned back to the guard, who was still screaming out their numbers, attack dog at the ready.
***
The fourth night, Gale woke up to the sound of heavy breathing coming from the foot of his bed. He struggled up on his elbows and in the dim, pre-dawn light saw John hunched over in his bunk.
“Bucky?”
No answer, just harsh little gasps. With care, Gale swung down from his bunk, landing lightly on his feet. “John?” He put a gentle hand on his back, but John didn’t react. His eyes were wide with fear, breath coming quick and fast like he was running. “Bucky, hey, you’re alright,” he whispered.
John gasped, not fully hearing him, and began to scratch at the left side of his face. He was shaking in the sweater Gale had managed to scrounge up for him. “John, it’s me. You’re alright.”
His eyes stilled their frantic searching but he dug his nails into his left cheek, tearing at the flesh. “Get it off, get it off me, Buck. Please.”
John clawed at his face, fingers leaving raw, red marks in their wake. “Easy, John, easy.” He grasped John’s fingers and held them tightly in his own. “There’s nothing there,” he said but John struggled against his grip, whining and trying to rip his hand away. Gale held firm, feeling his arm muscles pull against the strain. “Easy,” he whispered. “Easy.”
Finally, John seemed to hear him.
“Buck?”
His voice was shredded and there, again, was that painful tightness in Gale’s chest. “Yeah, it’s me.”
John pulled his hand away, coming back to himself. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“You alright?”
John nodded, staring at the sheets. Whatever dream he was having hadn’t totally left him, the edges of it lingering in the wide set of his eyes. “I’m alright, Buck. You can go back to sleep.”
Gale rubbed a slow, soothing arc down his back, his own heart finally starting to slow. “It’s just a dream, Bucky,” he said but that was another lie. It was a memory, something horrible and vivid that, no matter how much he wanted to, Gale couldn’t erase. He kept his hand there until John’s breathing evened out and then crawled back into his own bunk.
Gale laid on top of the covers, John’s pitiful whine twisting his stomach. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and grabbed his pillow, moving it to the foot of his bunk. Now, he was so close to John that the tops of their heads brushed.
“Buck?”
“Hmm?”
Gale turned over onto his stomach and tucked one arm under his pillow. He reached out with his other hand and draped it over John’s shoulder. He waited a breath, maybe two. Finally, John took his hand and held it in his.
***
Now that he was looking for it, Gale noticed it all the time. John brushing at the side of his face like the wind had blown a stay hair into his eyes. John rubbing at his cheek as if he had an annoying, unscratchable itch. John tugging at the corner of his lower lip like he was a man who missed chewing tobacco. Over the course of the next couple of days, John scraped the side of his mouth so often, his fingernails left a tear.
Once, while they were washing up, John scrubbed at the left side of his face with such force Gale had to entwine their wet, soapy fingers. They exchanged a look, Gale holding tight while John fought the urge to scratch. His eyes had that same wild, frantic look that pierced Gale to his core. “Easy,” he whispered, so low he hardly made a sound. John looked pained but slowly, eventually, relaxed his grip.
“Major Egan doing okay?” Brady asked him a couple of days later. They were on their way to pick up mail. John had stayed behind.
“Yeah, he’s alright,” Gale answered. John had jolted awake last night, clawing at his face again. This time, Gale had to use both hands to hold him down. “Why do you ask?”
Brady shrugged. “Seems awfully twitchy.”
“That’s just the war.”
But John was getting worse and that electric, blinding grin appeared less and less. Gale watched helplessly as he wrestled with whatever was inside him, simultaneously wanting to drag it all out and terrified at what he would hear. If it had been just the two of them, Gale might have tied him down and made him talk, but privacy was rare. He could look but rarely touched, and in the quiet moments when John caught his eyes, he could tell it was killing him too.
“Buck?”
Gale pushed open the door of their barracks, expecting to find the room crowded. Brady had split off to go to chow, and it looked like the other boys had followed. John was alone at the table, his head in his hands. Gale realized with a sinking feeling he’d been crying. He went to him, but John pushed his chair away, flinching in advance.
Gale looked at him for a long moment.
“What happened out there, Bucky?” he asked.
John didn’t look up, dark hair falling into his eyes. He just shook his head, helpless. He wasn’t talking because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t have the words. Gale took one step closer, and then another. He put a finger under John’s chin and lifted his head, forcing their eyes to meet. John’s eyes were pools of unshed anguish, and Gale’s chest twisted with him. He tipped John’s face to one side, and saw faint red marks on the pale, creamy skin of his cheek.
Gale took a deep breath and put his letters on the table. He took off his coat and draped it neatly over his bed. From the hook by the window, he grabbed a washcloth and dipped it into the pitcher of cold water they kept by the door. Gale ignored the shaking in his hands and pulled up a chair. He sat across from John and cupped his chin, tilting the left side of his face up to the light.
“Come here, darling,” he whispered. “Let’s wipe all that off.”
Gale started at John’s temple, wiping at nothing. He rubbed in soft, short strokes across John’s hairline, the corse cloth leaving red stripes in its wake. John flinched at the first touch of cold water, but stilled as Gale traced the rag down his face. He brushed along his forehead and across John’s eye. “Right here?” he asked, and John nodded. He put pressure behind his ministrations, rubbing into his eyebrow and cheek like he was scrubbing away grime and dirt from ages ago. He went down John’s neck, leaving wet little trails of water that dripped down his throat. “See, it’s okay. It’s all coming off. No reason to fuss.” He wiped up the bridge of John’s nose, and then back down again, going over parts of his face he’s already cleaned. He made a little corner with the cloth and dabbed along John’s jaw and his ear, finishing at the corner of his mouth. “See? That’s all done. It’s all been wiped off, darling. It’s over, Bucky. It’s over”
John let out a sob. A harsh and aching sound that pierced Gale’s stomach like shrapnel. He pulled John close, wrapping him up in his arms. John grabbed at him and struggled against the embrace, trying to fight him off but sobbing into his shoulder the entire time. John roared and pushed himself out of his chair till they were both standing. Gale kept his hold tight, one arm around John’s shoulders and the other curled around his waist, refusing to let him go. John slammed his fists into Gale’s side, screaming, hollering, but he hardly felt it through the layers of winter clothing. John buried his face into Gale’s shoulder and cried in great, heaving sobs that tore through them both.
“It’s alright,” Gale said. “It’s alright.”
Gale curled a hand through his hair and held on as John finally fell limp into his arms. “Buck,” he gasped and Gale just whispered into his hair. “You’re ok, Bucky. You’re ok.”
John stopped fighting and clutched him back, fingers digging to his back. He found the lone, bare strip of skin under Gale’s sweaters and buried his face in the gap between his shoulder and neck. Gale smoothed a hand through his hair, and kissed his temple. John’s breath came in wet, shaking gasps against his neck as tried to get himself under control. He was trying to speak, trying to tell Gale something, but the days and days of fear pushed their way out first, before he could talk. Gale held him there, close and firm, till eventually, John relaxed his grip and pulled away.
“What happened?” Gale asked softly.
In short, unsteady sentences, he told Gale the story. The march through the town, the men who had been shot in cold blood. The ride through the woods in the back of the wagon.
“He wouldn’t stop talking, Buck. He wouldn’t stop.” He looked at Gale with big, wet eyes. “They smashed his face in with a shovel, and his blood. It went everywhere. All over the side of my face, into my eye. Into the corner of my mouth. I just laid there.” He shook his head, overwhelmed by the memory. “I just laid there.”
Gale’s breath came out in a desperate rush and he clutched John to him, feeling for the first time how close he’d come to losing him.
“I ran, Buck. I ran and I ran,” John said, voice far away.
Gale kissed the top of his head and buried his nose in those curls. “You made it, Bucky. You made it.”
John shook against him, not seeming so sure that he had. They had survived so much and still the road felt impossibly long and unsure. “He must have been so scared, Buck. Jesus, that poor guy.”
Gale wasn’t think about that nameless solider, though. He focused everything he had into the one he was holding right now, in his arms. Tall, handsome, with a wicked grin and lopsided ears and beautiful, striking eyes. To someone else, they were all nameless, faceless. To each other, they were everything.