#buck squared

…

Sometimes it’s the quietest nights that end up bearing the most pain. Maybe the brain just runs out of stimuli, finds ways to fill the gaps. Maybe the world is just a little cruel that way. 

John Egan knows that, already. He knows it too well. He knows he’s too young to have seen so much cruelty first-hand, but at least he made it out. He used to wonder if staying alive was the better alternative after all; wouldn’t it be so much easier just to slip away? Did he do something right to earn the rest of his life, or did he do something wrong, forced to grit his teeth and act like the war didn’t change him?

He’s doing a little better now. He’s come to terms with the way his mind sticks him right back in that Hell now and again. He’s come to terms with the war creeping over his brain, the monster in the night.

He just wishes it would leave Gale alone. 

He’d take it all himself, if he could. He’d carry the weight of the aftermath on his shoulders until it drove him into the ground, if he could only let Gale take an unburdened breath. War is not kind to men or women or children. War is not kind to love. War wages itself on anything it touches. It does not discriminate. And it never, ever leaves you. 

Bucky lays silently in their bed, shrouded in darkness, trying to decide if he should wake Gale, who is fussing in his sleep beside him, his breathing uneven. This is what Bucky woke up to about five minutes ago, and it hasn’t subsided. On one hand, he could leave Gale be. Is a moderately tormented sleep better than no sleep at all? Especially when sleepless nights are a lingering, silent plague in their home. Maybe it will pass at any moment, and his breathing will return to normal and he’ll huff softly in his sleep and all will be well. On the other hand, Bucky could gently shake him awake. Save Gale from the grief robbing him of much needed rest. But sometimes waking up from a nightmare is worse than seeing it through. 

And then Gale starts trembling, his entire body shaking, teeth near chattering. He whines softly in his sleep and pulls his arms into his chest, curling into himself on his side so he’s facing Bucky. So Bucky turns onto his side, too, and presses their foreheads together. He feels the sweat on Gale’s forehead, making his hair damp. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers. He tentatively reaches one hand up to rest on Gale’s shoulder and rubs his skin with gentle fingers. “You’re safe.”

On a better night, Gale might smile in his sleep when he hears Bucky’s voice. That particular habit always makes Bucky’s heart melt, reminds him of the fact that yes, he did something very, very right surviving to see this day. Sometimes, he still wishes he could forget everything he ever saw in the war, and nothing will ever make the pain worth it. But sometimes, he swears he’d do everything over again if he had to, if he knew he’d end up with Gale in his arms. 

Tonight is not a better night, though. Bucky doesn’t care; he’ll hold onto Gale through it all, good or bad, until his last breath. Even when it hurts.

Gale’s eyes pop open, and he stares uncomprehendingly at Bucky through the darkness, nothing but the moonlight to see by. “John?” His voice cracks, gravelly and hoarse from sleep, and he draws burning breaths in through his nose. 

“I’m here,” Bucky reassures him. But even awake, Gale is still shivering uncontrollably. 

“John,” he says again, his tone pleading. A raw fear that no one else will ever see from Buck Cleven. No one but Bucky. “It’s gonna kill me.”

“You’re safe, Buck,” Bucky tries to reassure him again, lifting his hand to brush the damp hair back away from Gale’s eyes. 

Gale shakes his head violently and crosses his arms, his hands gripping his biceps too tight as he huddles against his pillow. “G-gonna die in this fuckin’ cold.” He looks at Bucky, and Bucky almost wishes it were darker in here, so he wouldn’t have to see the pain in his eyes. “John, I’m so cold.” 

They’re in their bed at home. It’s autumn. The war is over. It’s 60 degrees outside even in the middle of the night, and Bucky is nearly sweating underneath their covers. 

But Gale is shaking so badly, and Bucky thinks there may be tears threatening to spill at the corners of his eyes, and seeing Gale like this, so vulnerable and scared and begging him for safety, might be worse than his own nightmares that sometimes still keep him awake at night. How do you save someone from a threat that’s no longer there?

Why does war get to sink its teeth into your soul and never let go?

They’re used to it, though. They’re used to having to protect each other, from both the real and the imaginary. They’ve been doing it for too long. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers. He wriggles closer to Gale and wraps his arms around his upper body. He takes a moment to marvel at how small Gale feels in his arms, how fragile. “I’ve got you. Just take a deep breath. I’m here.”

The war didn’t break you, and I won’t let it break you now. I’ll hold the pieces of you together, even when my hands aren’t big enough to keep you from crumbling. I’ll shoulder the pain. I’ll keep you safe. 

He rubs his hands up and down Gale’s back, trying to convince his mind and body that he doesn’t need to be afraid anymore. But it isn’t working. No matter what Bucky does, Gale won’t stop shivering, and he’s crying John’s name. “I’m sorry,” he keeps saying. “John, I’m so sorry. I can’t- I’m too-“ He sounds helpless, and Bucky knows he’d hate anyone hearing him like this. But in this room, in each other’s arms, none of it matters. The only place in the world that they can be defenseless. “John, I’m cold.”

“Okay, okay angel,” Bucky nods. His heart is breaking, but he can’t let it shatter. He has to be the strong one tonight. He pushes back the covers and begins to pull away, but Gale’s hand darts out to grab onto his arm. 

“No.” Don’t leave.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Bucky soothes. He tugs at Gale’s hand, urging him out of bed. He doesn’t even know what time it is, but he leads Gale down the hall to the bathroom. Gale stands in the bright fluorescent lights, hunched and shivering with his arms crossed protectively over his chest, a thin tee shirt hanging off his narrow frame. He’s perfectly healthy. He’s put on weight since they made it home, almost back to the way he looked before the Stalag. But sometimes Bucky still worries. Gale watches quietly as Bucky starts to run a bath. 

As they wait for the tub to fill, Bucky turns to face Gale again and steps closer, so they’re nose to nose. His hands rub gently up and down Gale’s arms, then his sides. “Come here, let’s get these clothes off.” 

Once they’ve both stripped, Bucky lowers himself into the water, pressing himself to the back of the tub, and motions for Gale to join him. Gale squints at him hesitantly, but he’s so cold. He climbs in, the water sloshing around him and splashing to the floor as he sits down in front of Bucky. It’s a tight squeeze, and not exactly comfortable in their cheap tub, but it’ll do. Bucky wraps his arms around Gale’s middle and carefully eases him back, so he’s leaning against Bucky’s chest. 

“There we go,” Bucky murmurs, resting his head on top of Gale’s and holding him tight. “See? It’s like we’re in the Florida Keys in the summer. Never have to worry about the cold again.”

He made the water so warm he himself almost can’t stand it, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll take it. It’s quite literally the least he could do to take some of Gale’s anxiety away. “We’re far away from that place,” he promises him. He presses his lips to the top of Gale’s head, nuzzles his nose in his soft hair. “I’ll make sure you never feel that cold again, okay? I’ll make sure of it.”

And he means it with every fiber of his being. The deadly cold is one of the things that Gale’s brain has latched onto since escaping from the Stalag. One of the things that just won’t release its iron grip, like it’s lodged deep in his very being. He sees them in his sleep, the frostbitten bodies of dead men collapsed on the side of the road, nameless and forgotten. He can still feel the crystals of ice clinging to his eyelashes, burning his cheeks, as they marched through winter winds. His fingers stiff and useless no matter how deeply he shoved them into his coat pockets. 

Sometimes Gale is worried that he’ll never feel warm again. 

But then there’s always Bucky. Bucky holding him close, rubbing warmth back into his tired muscles, blowing hot breath onto his neck when he tucks Gale against his chest. His eyes soft and filled with warmth, his heart beating and so alive. The world sent John Egan back to him even when he thought he’d never see him again. A spark in the cold, dark world in which they were determined to survive. Everything about Bucky is warm, and Gale craves it like a drug. 

He lets his eyes drift closed as the hot water rises up his body, steam drifting upwards to warm his face. He lets himself surrender his full weight into Bucky’s embrace. His hand fumbles at one of Bucky’s, and Bucky loosens his grip on him just enough to entwine their fingers. 

Slowly, Gale’s body stops trembling. He lets the warmth overtake him. Focus on the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest against his back, the beating of his heart. Focus on the heat of the water and the way their skin slides against one another, wet and warm instead of frostbitten and dry. Focus on Bucky’s nose nuzzling his hair, puffs of breath tickling his scalp, and the way Bucky’s calloused hand engulfs his own. Focus on the feeling of safe. 

They’re far, far away from the Stalag. 

Gale wants to cry for everything he’s lost. All the good men who never made it home. He wants to cry for the innocent boy he once was, for the little pieces of dignity and sanity that were stripped painfully away, healed over with scar tissue that’s still tight and raw. He wants to cry for all of it. But he won’t. He draws in shaky breaths, wills his body to let go of the tension wracking his bones. 

“There we go,” Bucky is murmuring. “Good. I’ve got you. We’re okay.”

We’re okay. 

Two words that they have to remind themselves of daily. Like maybe if they say them enough, they’ll start to believe it. The war is over, but it doesn’t give up easily. It doesn’t let go. It doesn’t forgive. 

A little chipped, a little burned. They’re a little worse for wear, but they are unbreakable.

Gale huffs and focuses on the wet fingers carding through his hair, pulling it back away from his face in soothing strokes that never fail to calm him down. “We’re okay,” he repeats. If he can’t believe it right here, right now, wrapped up tight in Bucky’s arms in water so warm it feels like a sauna, then when can he believe it?

He has to believe it. 

“I thought I was going crazy.” John breathed into Gale’s ear. 

Gale felt, more than heard, whatever John was saying, too distracted by the warmth of the other man on his back. 

Gale’s hands were placed flat on the kitchen counter, the knife and apple slices forgotten. There wasn’t much that was going on in Gale’s mind at the moment apart from the aching want of John’s hands on his body. It didn’t matter where anymore. 

“Hmm,” he hummed as he tried to think of anything except for the man so close behind him, so dizzyingly close, and the scent. God his scent. John’s was different from most alphas, who had a musky, almost heavy scent. John's was softer, sweeter, but no less heady. A bit of pine, and something clean smelling, it made Gale almost want to keen. 

One of John’s hands came up to rest against Gale’s hipbone, and Gale inhaled sharply. He felt John step closer, chest to back now, with the other hand coming up to the front of his abdomen. Gale found himself leaning back to the alpha’s chest, and John’s fingertips left a fire blazing on Gale’s front as they dragged across. 

The hand on his abdomen ran up the column of his chest, and then to the base of Gale's neck. Gale could only sigh and close his eyes at the contact with the other man. It had been so long since he had let himself be so enveloped in another’s presence. 

John’s hand gently crept along Gale’s neck, coming to rest below his chin. The alpha gently tipped Gale’s head back so that it was leaning against John’s shoulder. With the new angle, John burrowed his nose into the column of Gale’s neck, inhaling deeply at his scent gland. 

Gale found himself unable to resist to any capacity. He didn’t think he would have even if he wanted to. 

  “You are an omega.” 

A rush of clarity ran through Gale, and he turned swiftly around so he could meet John’s eyes. 

“You wouldn’t-” Gale stuttered, momentarily lost looking into the cerulean blue that was John’s eyes, “Please, you can’t tell anyone.” Gale breathed, now with fear lacing his words. 

John’s eyebrows knit in confusion. 

“I would never,” The alpha replied, one hand coming up to rest against Gale’s cheek, the other still resting firmly on the omega’s hip.  John’s thumb brushes his cheek gently back and forth. “Just tell me one thing.” 

Gale nods, trying to dislodge the pit he feels in his stomach suddenly. 

“Tell me I’m not the only one who feels this way.” The alpha whispers.

Gale blinks in surprise, and then thinks back to all the times John has come over. How helpful the other man was with just chores around the house, offering to pick up the boys from school, helping make breakfast whenever Benji slept over. But most peculiar had been the stares, when Gale had felt like there were a pair of eyes burning holes into his back. He had previously thought John found his story suspicious. The lack of a wife, no marriage certificate or divorce, and hardly any pictures hanging in the house. 

It was all friendly if Gale had been an alpha, which is what he let the rest of the world believe. But Gale had always shivered at the way John looked at him, like there was a hidden meaning beneath those eyes. 

Gale looked at those eyes now. Deep blue and twinkling. In lieu of a response, Gale simply surged forward and captured John’s lips with his. 

The blonde could tell he had caught John by surprise, but the alpha was nothing if not enthusiastic in return. John pressed into Gale greedily, one hand winding around Gale’s back and the other caressing his head, angling his head to the side to allow for a deeper kiss. 

Gale found his hands carding through John’s hair, tugging at the brown strands and hearing John make a low moan which shot down to Gale’s core. 

John brushed the discarded apples to the side, but carefully placed the knife into the sink.

“Can’t let you get cut now can we?” He smirked before lifting Gale by the waist and settling him down on the countertop. Gale let out a grunt of surprise at his feet now dangling away from the floor, but chuckled after looking at John’s smug smile between his legs. 

“You are nothing if not considerate.” Gale said, before wrapping his legs around John and pulling him in for another kiss. 

Gale let out a breathy sigh as he felt John hands sneak below his shirt, his fingers drawing dangerously close to Gale’s chest. The blonde broke the kiss with stuttered breathing, and caught John’s hand before it ventured to the point of no return. 

“Wait, the boys are still–” 

“DAD!” Footsteps thumped down the staircase. 

The two men almost vibrated out of their skin at the speed they jumped apart, just as two pairs of feet ran into the kitchen. 

Gale cleared his throat with a cough, and John suddenly found a new interest in the refrigerator pictures. He had never noticed how much of an artist Lucas was until now. 

“Can we have apples now?” Benji asked innocently, without a care for the air of tension in the room. Lucas however, first looked oddly at John, before noticing the way his dad wasn’t meeting his eyes.

He had to have been running for miles, he could see nothing farther than a couple steps, not that he imagined anything would look familiar. Whatever power was at play here was making sure he was lost, not able to orient himself in any way.

John stumbled down the small decline he could feel beneath his feet, small stones protruding from the ground scratching his bare legs. He hissed through the pain, catching himself against a tree, bark smeared with the ichor seeping out of the cuts in his skin. He tried summoning again, hoping to feel the familiar warmth beneath his palm.

Nothing, he felt nothing. Persephone had no idea how this was possible, it should not be. Demeter’s son not able to feel anything from a living plant, it sounded ludicrous to his own mind and fear gripped his heart even tighter. What could be interfering with powers granted by Olympian lineage?

A crack sounded in the distance, a long screeching whistle, terrifying guttural noises that were looking for him. A lance of pain shot through his temples, they were closing in, John could feel it. He could feel it like any other prey would. His nostrils flared, trying to feed him more oxygen, trying to fight the terror telling him to freeze, telling him that everything was useless, that he was prey and he was done for. 

Persephone tried, he tried one last time, pushing sweat sodden hair away from his eyes, his usually delightfully chestnut ringlets now a mess of dark tangles and dirt. He had to try, he had to try to fight the hurt. But gods, it hurt, father, it hurt. He cursed the deep gash on his leg, burning like all seven hells, it jolted pain throughout his entire frame. Pain. Pain. Pain.

He felt whatever was hunting him, closing in from all directions. He knew he had to try, he knew he had to get away. But damn, knowing it did nothing to make it come true. There was nowhere to run to.

His pulse throbbed in his ears, deafening the sounds that could have helped him locate an escape route. John kept on trudging, following the small rocky mound he had been leaning against, moving towards what looked like an opening not far ahead. A cave? Shelter? 

He could feel nothing threatening inside. But again, he could feel nothing. His powers were silent once again as he tried calling them for help. He begged, he despaired, he leaned against the entrance and he begged. For what not even he could have told you.

Nothing answered, nothing rose, just the terrifying taste of ichor in his mouth, dripping from the wounds on his face. Pain. Pain. Pain. He should not have stopped. It hurt so damn much. His face hurt, his chest hurt and his right leg was an entire mass of pain. He risked a glance at it and that was that. So much ichor stained his shredded meat and through all that godly ichor, he could see the white bone.

Stupid John, stupid stupid John. That's what they always said of you, wasn't it? Demeter's delicate flower son. All beauty and spring. You walked on your father's path, never straying too far, lest you lost yourself.

Well, Demeter’s son lost. Himself and the fight. Drained of every drop of energy and powers, alone and hurt in the darkness. The last bit of consciousness left his body. Without any grace, the godling of spring and nature fell. He fell into the mud at the entrance of a grotto with marked stones at its entrance.

The beastly sounds only drew closer.

In the cruel and violent darkness, with no help in sight.