#postwar fic

hey so i’m actually crying

“So’d those kids invite you back for the next game?”

Buck smiles, wonders again at the steadfast belief John held that Buck was just as likable and good as himself. “Nah.”

“I would have.” John says softly, “I’d teach you how to catch that baseball Buck.”

“I broke my arm playing baseball once.” Gale says, the words coming sudden and unbidden. He doesn’t know where the memory comes from; it’s fuzzy at best like a half made-up dream.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Ah,” Gale rubs a hand against the center of his chest, trying to soothe the hard knot of anxiety there. He can feel the hollowness of his frame, empty space between bones where fat and muscle was still trying to rebuild. The doctors said it could be up to a year before they’d fully recover from the stress and starvation. “Couple’a kids were putting together a pick-up game of stick-ball. I wasn’t ever really the kinda kid who got asked to play so I said yes.”

“Cause you hated baseball?” John, who could never fathom not being liked. 

Buck smiles softly. “Somethin’ like that Bucky"