Chapter Text
There had been a moment, walking through that bombed out German town, witnessing a mother’s grief, so like the grief of the British women he’d seen in London cradling her dead child — there had been a moment when Bucky’d thought that maybe the German’s were people just like them.
And then . . . horror. Horror and blood.
Watching listlessly as the landscape passed him by in the back seat of the staff car, the pain from his brutally bruised face and gashed scalp and aching ribs seemed like a distant thing.
How was it that he was still alive?
How was it that he was here and Buck wasn’t?
Wonderful, golden, stalwart Buck Cleven. Gone. Like so many men had been gone before him. Bucky knew there wasn’t anything left of his heart to be broken by this point. However, he was still cognizant enough to feel anger at the fate of the men who had been killed before his very eyes. And helpless rage at his interrogator’s calm acknowledgment of the massacre.
And the German’s casual dismissal of said massacre.
Seething, Bucky could only glare at the desk jockey. Knowing better then to leap across the desk and wipe that smug smirk of of his face, beady little eyes peering from behind thick glasses.
“Then I guess you are in a bit of a pick-el.” If he’d been in a better mood Bucky might have quirked a smile at the odd pronunciation.
But he didn’t and he sat through the ridiculous charade. Because they both knew it was a charade, right? As if anything this man said would get him to give up his boys — especially when he dared to bring up Buck.
God. Buck.
But he sits there and he takes it. Because now was not the time. And he was beaten down to his bones and his head and face throbbed, the drink he’d been given doing little towards making him relax or forget his current situation. He had a feeling that was the last alcohol he would be tasting for a long, long time. Licking along the insides of his gums, he savored every drop.
This goes on for a few days, getting escorted up to the office to sit through Haussmann’s fastidious platitudes and digs for information.
‘Was Buck Cleven, a Yankees fan?’
(He’s lucky he doesn’t bring up Buck again, in Bucky’s opinion. After what feels like weeks of this shit he knows he wouldn’t be able to contain himself. He’d beat the fucking German into the ground if he could manage it before the guard outside could interfere.)
But then . . . something changes.
He can almost feel the change in the air, hearing distant shouts and loud voices, other cells on his block opening and closing. He waits for his turn. And he doesn’t have to wait long. And oh boy he doesn’t like the look of the black uniform on the man sitting in Haussman’s place, the Major off to the side, long fingers fidgeting at the bottom of his uniform.
Looking like he wanted to protest but knowing better than to attempt such a thing (even across the pond, Bucky has heard horror stories about these men in black) shooting their prisoner a side eye glance before he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made Bucky sit up straighter and prepare for the inevitable.
“Major Egan,” the man behind the desk started, his English almost without an accent. “It appears that you have been decidedly uncooperative.”
I aim to please.
The words were on the tip of his tongue but he swallowed them, the phantom weight of his countryman’s blood on his face, soaking into his pores. Resisting the urge to itch at something that wasn’t there. (Probably. He’d not had much opportunity to wash since he’d been pushed into a cell.)
“My name,” the German continued, lifeless blue eyes focused entirely on Bucky’s, his bruises having started to fade a little. “Is Colonel Stromburg. And you will answer my question.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Bucky couldn’t contain himself that time. Proud to strike a cord in his antagonist, seeing the flash of annoyance behind those cold eyes. Though he felt cold sweat start to form on his lower back, feeling the adrenaline come to him like it would every time they crossed the channel, ready for anything.
And that was one point for ‘American Audacity.’
But was it worth it? He wondered several minutes later when he’s on the floor, ribs freshly aching. The guards at the door had pulled his chair out from under him and he’d tried to protect his head but there was only so much he could do.
Dazed, he didn’t fight as they hauled him out roughly, plunking him back down into the chair.
“Now,” the Gestapo man said primly. “We shall begin again.”
But Bucky wasn’t going to answer. It was worth it. It was. He chanted to himself.
Repeating it to himself as the questioning went on. After all this was the behavior he’d been expecting from the beginning especially since what had happened back at that cursed town. Weathering the pain as he was drawn to his knees, arms twisted up behind his back, grunted at the pain of strained joints. Grunting again when his head was yanked back by the hair so he was looking up at Stromburg, who’d moved from around the desk, leaning against it.
Part of John wondered if, when he finally flew into the great beyond, if Buck would be the first thing he saw, Gale’s hair flaming gold in the rising sun. The last two B-17s in the sky. Too bad the ribs he was sure were probably broken by now were throbbing too much for him to lose himself in the fantasy.
Meeting his tormenter’s eyes with an angry stare of his own, having to blink away the blood that streamed down his face from cuts reopened and added to by callous fists. Fighting the urge to close them as the silence extended, the Colonel’s fingers tapping on his crossed arms, examine Bucky like he was some fly to be squished and/or dissected. Like the man was looking for the one thing that would take Bucky apart at the seams for good.
Then the stand off was over and the guards were dragging him out of the office and down the shadowed corridors, rolling with the throw as he was propelled into his cell, feeling blessed just to have cold concrete against his bruised face. Allowing the darkness to take him. Because he really didn’t have anything to keep him on this earth anymore, did he?
Buck . . . just . . . wait for me … please . . .
Dreaming of B-17’s in a clear sky.