Getting shot down was never in the plan. It was supposed to be Bucky and him, the last two pilots left in the sky, the last two B-17’s flying, side by side. But now Gale was in a cattle car and Bucky was tucked away somewhere in London. At least he was safe, Gale rationalized. At least one of them could make it out, maybe not unscathed, but still flying till the end. He had bruises on his neck, his ribs, his back, his hips… Everywhere, really. Gale wasn’t sure there was a single inch of him that wasn’t bruised or scraped in someway. And everything hurt. Every jostle of the train sent pain shooting through his already frayed nerves. Only the tightness of how closely the men were packed in kept Gale on his feet.

And then the train was whistling to a stop, harsh and jarring, and Gale knew nothing was getting better for any of them.

He was stripped and searched, beaten and berated in German— of which he could only catch fragments of— thrown in a cold cell to wait. At least they’d returned his clothes and his sheepskin, dirty and tattered as they might be, to offer some respite to the biting, frigid temperature in the small cell. He sat, eyeing the door and the window in equal measure, waiting for something, though he had no idea what. It reminded him of his childhood, the anxiety simmering in his gut, the fear of an angry man coming through that door, belt or switch in hand, come to beat him some more. Gale hated every second of it, tried not to think of the memories coming, unbidden, to the surface, swirling through his mind unhelpfully.

Waiting, he could do. The cold, he could do. Waiting in the cold, he could do. Being beat, he could do. Waiting to be beat, he could do.

As long as John was safely tucked away in London, Gale told himself. As long as John was safe, tucked away with whatever women he’d inevitably charmed into his bed when Gale had refused to go with, Gale could deal with whatever the goons threw his way.

Rationally, he knew that, sooner or later, John would hear about the mission, about the losses, about Gale. He just had to hope that John would keep his senses about him. For once. This was war, after all, people went down, people didn’t come back. They’d seen enough of it.

But John had never expected it to be Gale going down, had he? He’d said it himself, plenty. You and me, Buck. Guilt clawed at him, rivaling the anxiety, and Gale felt like he might be sick just then, grinding his jaw to try to keep the beasts battling inside him at bay. Any moment now, a Kraut would walk through that door. And if they smelled even the slightest bit of weakness… Gale knew exactly what would happen.

They couldn’t smell weakness if it wasn’t there, though, Gale decided, sucking in a breath through his teeth, feeling for the small pouch concealed in his sleeve. If it would keep anyone else safe, if it would keep John safe, Gale had no problem taking the hidden pills. His men would just assume the Krauts had beat him to death, he was sure, even if they tried to say otherwise. None of them would think their strong, steadfast Major would desert them.

That thought stilled his fingers, no longer rubbing over the hidden seams. Gale hesitated, the thought of leaving his men— his friends, because yes, many of them were his friends, whether he liked he liked it or not— there alone making the guilt in him grow, clawing at his empty belly with a vengeance.

No, Gale decided, his men would be fine without him. They’d survive. That’s what they did. Survived. They pushed forward, adapted, continued. They’d be okay. It would keep them safe, too, if he was gone. The Krauts wouldn’t be able to leverage them against him either.

Another weakness.

Another thing the Krauts would sniff out.