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john-cleven · 7 days

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You were the ocean, when I was just a stone

With Curt gone, John feels himself splintering apart at the edges. The anger within him climbs his bones like starving vines. It twines around them until he isn’t sure if his limbs are filled with marrow or rage. The guilt bleeds into his anger, mixing together into corrupt blood that flows through his veins like lava.

He tries to distance himself from the grief, tries to distract. But lately, too, Gale has been withdrawn, face lined with exhaustion and stress. He looks like he did back in Africa - hopeless, listless, and brimming with despair. Losing so many men in one mission had taken an immeasurable toll on all of them. But for Gale, it was worse. Gale carried the burden of those deaths on his shoulders like a cross, as if he had been personally responsible for their demise.

They spend the weeks following Regensburg licking their own wounds, too raw and vulnerable to share the burden together. John wouldn’t say he was necessarily avoiding Gale, but these days, he was often more drunk than sober – often more cruel than kind. The men on the base gave him a wide berth, allowing him to process the damage in his own way. They weren’t like Curt, who would sit with him into the wee hours of dawn while he drank and listen to him scream wordlessly into the night sky. They weren’t like Curt, who would watch him with calm blue eyes, who would hurt him when he needed it. So John drank and instead, he hurt himself, lonely in a way that caused his soul to ache even beneath the thick layers of liquor that he tried to drown it with. He misses Curt terribly. But these days, he finds himself missing Gale even more.

The night of Dye’s party, John is hopelessly nervous to share the same space with Gale again.

He’s sick of the habit they’ve fallen into – sneaking cautious glances at each other across the mess hall like they are strangers instead of best friends. He’s sick of hiding himself away from Gale, too afraid that he’ll cut the other man with all of his sharp edges. He misses Gale more than he misses the whiskey that taints his bloodstream and clouds his mind. He misses Gale more than the sweet promise of dreamless sleep that eludes him.

John hovers like a schoolgirl with a crush around the table that Gale is seated at. He laughs and jokes with his buddies, but he can barely tear his eyes away from his best friend. He looks smaller in his uniform, like he hasn’t been eating. John can’t help but to worry, though he’s sure he doesn’t look like he’s in top form, either.

When the boys rib him for his joke about Dye’s mother, he can’t help but to lean in towards Gale, who’s grinning despite himself. His smile is beautiful, infectious. John feels like a starving man, eyes glued to Gale’s lips like the tilt of them could fuel him for days. He swings around the table to stand behind the other man, as close as he can get, as he talks baseball.

Dye wanders over with his girl in tow and the men all congratulate him for his 25 successful missions. But then he says, “We’re all that’s left, aren’t we?”

John feels the gaping darkness emerge inside him, threatening to swallow him whole. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gale’s smile fade away, eyes cast downwards as he’s drawn back into the memories of Regensburg. John’s anger boils beneath his skin, prickling the edges of his nerves. He nearly loses himself in it, but Gale steers the conversation back to the celebration of Dye, so John reels himself in and toasts his friend, determined to not ruin the night. Because tonight is about Gale. Not his own grief, not his own anger, but Gale and his smile and calming voice and his gentle hands.

After a few more minutes of chatting with the boys, Gale suddenly stands up and leans towards John. He nods towards the dance floor, where a few of the new replacements are standing near the fringes, ogling the pretty ladies. John claps Gale on the shoulder with a grin and leads the way. They introduce themselves to the four men - Rosenthal, Nash, Speas and Lewis. They keep the conversation light, but John feels the cruelty lingering within his bone rear its nasty head at Rosenthal’s hopeful, naive wishes.

“Oh, you’ll do something alright,” he says sarcastically, before he can stop himself. Rosenthal stares back at him, clearly confused by his remark, but smiling nonetheless.

Suddenly feeling sick to his stomach, John stalks off towards the bar, Gale riding his heels. He orders a whisky and downs the glass in one, deep gulp as Gale watches him with concern. And just like that, John wants to hide himself again. Wants to burrow into the ground where he’ll eventually rot away with the maggots, where he can’t hurt anyone but himself. But then Gale reaches out to brush his hand against John’s, and he would think it was a mistake except Gale is staring right at him, eyes a dark, stormy blue in the dim light.

John wants time to freeze there, in that moment, with Gale’s hand resting on his and Gale’s eyes watching only him, but then DeMarco is settling next to them with Meatball. Gale pulls away to nod hello, but John’s not done with him yet. He leans towards Gale and asks about Marje, a sure way to keep his attention. Like hooked fish, Gale talks about his letters from his sweetheart and naturally, they gravitate closer to each other.

But then Rosenthal’s back, invading their space, and John wants to snap at him like a possessive dog. The young pilot asks them for advice, nerves radiating off of him, clearly anxious to be around the two majors, who to him, must seem larger than life. John bites back his scathing reply. He decides to let Gale answer for them instead. Gale has always been better at hand-holding, anyways. Surprisingly though, Gale’s only response is for Rosenthal to try to stay alive and after that, well. John can’t be held responsible, now can he?

“For at least 11 missions,” he finishes Gale’s thought, eyeing the man standing in front of them. He feels Gale’s shoulder pressing against his and tries to ground himself.

“Yes, sir. What happens after that?” Rosenthal asks, curious, like Gale and John somehow hold all the answers to his success.

“You beat the odds,” John says, biting back his scorn with a smirk, “Or you didn’t. You know?”

Rosenthal walks away with a tight smile and a polite thank you. John feels Gale watching him and suddenly feels too tight for his own skin. Recognizes too late that his pain is seeping from his pores, gliding over his skin like a shield. The anger in his marrow licks against the hollow shell of his bones, soothing and burning like the whiskey he’d been drowning himself in all night.

“All these new faces…We go down and they won’t remember us either. Like we never existed, Buck,” he says slowly, swallowing against poison hatred that rises steadily in him. Gale’s eyes sear into his skin and John wishes that he’d just go away, wishes that he’d just step closer.

“What does it matter?” Gale asks, gravelly voice like a life raft, desperately trying to reach John. But he’s already buried beneath the vast, deep sea.

John shakes his head, refusing to meet Gale’s gaze. Still drowning in bloody, ocean water. “Nothing, I guess.”

Before Gale can say anything else, Colonel Harding saunters over to say hello and give one of his drunken speeches. And all the while, John can taste the poison coating his tongue, can feel that ever-growing anger erupting from his bones, bursting desperately from marrow. His head swims with his pain, drowning him in the ever-present agony that coats his nerves and numbs him. So when Harding leans in with some half-cocked joke of a plan, John leans forward and hisses, “Now who’s flak happy?”

“Who?” Harding asks, staring John down.

But John, never easily intimidated, simply replies, “You are.”

“You are.” Harding says, waiting for John to back down.

“No. You are,” John smacks his hand against the front of Harding’s uniform, itching for a fight, itching for hurt, “Sir.”

He feels the stares of the men around them, eyes bouncing back and forth between Harding and John, waiting for the inevitable punishment. John can practically taste the apprehension in the air, but he lets it feed him. He gnaws on their fear like a wolf with a bone and uses it to boost his bravado, uses it to fuel his anger. But Harding lets him down and laughs the tension away before leading the rest of the boys towards the dance floor. John sucks his teeth, searching for more poison, searching for more pain.

Gale inches closer to him, chewing at his toothpick, and says quietly, “You need a break. I think the colonel ought to fix you up a weekend pass.”

John wants to laugh, wants to cry. But his lungs are still full of water and his gums are still coated with toxins. He thinks of leaving Gale behind, thinks of Gale flying alone, thinks of that first mission.

“You should come,” he says before he can stop himself, “London. Let’s do it up, Buck. Paint the town red.”

He knew Gale’s answer before he finished asking. Knew it was futile, hopeless because Gale would never leave his men, never leave his fort. Not for John, not for anyone. Gale would keep going, keep fighting, even when he grew gaunt with grief, even when his agony hollowed him to empty. And John would be forced to watch, forced to fade away with him. Because without Gale, John is nothing. Gale is the only good in him, the only bright he has.

His sharp edges finally collapse as Gale dances away with Meatball. He watches affectionately as Gale sways to the music with the husky in his arms. Without his shield, John feels the full brunt of his anguish and swallows against the tears that form a lump in his throat. Because the reality is, John loves Gale. John is in love with Gale, has always been in love with Gale. And John will always, inevitably hurt him because of the anger that’s burrowed in his bones, because of the venom that flows through his veins. So, Gale won’t come to London with him and Gale will fly his mission, and John will numb with his whiskey and John will wound with his poison.

Head suddenly spinning and skin itching, John turns away from the blinding sight of his best friend and slips through a backdoor to get outside. He lights a cigarette with trembling fingers and leans against the side of the building, gazing up at the star-filled, night sky. He tries to even out his breathing, tries to hold the ocean water at bay.

“John,” Gale’s voice beside him startles him into dropping his cigarette to the ground. He whips around to see Gale standing in the darkness, mere feet away from him.

“Buck? What’re you doing out here?” John asks, hoping his voice doesn’t sound like tears.

“Needed some fresh air,” Gale says, then reaches out to grip John’s wrist, “and came to check on you.”

John freezes like a deer in headlights, stares down at Gale’s hand wrapped around his boney wrist and stumbles for words. But then Gale steps forward, pulls John’s arm around his neck. He’s so close that John can smell the addicting, woodsy scent of his aftershave.

“Wh-What, um.” John starts to ask, but Gale shushes him, wraps an arm around his waist and pulls them together chest to chest.

“Dance with me,” he whispers, pressing his cheek against John’s. John can feel every single nerve within his body short-circuiting. Gale starts moving his feet, swaying them side to side. John follows, blindly, loyally, like he always does. He’d follow Gale anywhere.

“I’d come to London, you know,” Gale finally says, speaking directly into John’s ear. John can’t help the shiver that snakes down his spine.

He clears his throat, asks, “Then, why?”

Gale pulls away slightly to press his forehead against John’s. His eyes are crystal clear, blue like the sea. John wouldn’t mind drowning in them. “This one’s for Curt.”

Understanding blooms within John’s chest. For Curt. He closes his eyes, shifts closer to Gale, always so helpless to this man.

“I meant it, John. Next time,” Gale says, and John feels more alive than he has in his entire life.

He nods, nose brushing against Gale’s and repeats, “Yeah. Next time.”

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hbowarbabes · 3 months

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Living to See Another Day Pt. 4

John "Bucky" Egan x Reader

Summary: Bucky and Y/n are found unconscious in the middle of a forest. They are taken by two German officers, both getting separated upon arrival at the transit camp. Now being in front of an all-too-relaxed interrogator, Bucky is unsure of where he’ll go, or if he and Y/n will be reunited again.

Warnings: Violence, and overall disturbing topics based in episode 6 of mota

Words: 3.9k

• • •

As Bucky and Y/n lay bruised and unconscious in the middle of the dense forest, the sounds of leaves rustling and wind blowing were the only things to break the silence. They remained there for what had to be longer than an hour since it was still daylight.

Suddenly, the tranquility of the forest was shattered by the aggressive shouts of two German officers.

Y/n's eyes snapped open, her heart pounding in her chest as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Her muscles ached badly, and she couldn’t find the strength within herself to stand up.

Before she could turn her head and see who was there, she felt the cold metal tip of a rifle poking her in the back, causing her whole body to tensen up.

With a jolt, Bucky was kicked over onto his back by one of the officers, his eyes fluttering open groggily. The other officer kept a pistol pointed directly at Y/n's head, the threat of violence looming heavily in the air. Y/n's heart raced as she tried to process the gravity of their situation. They were caught once again with no way out.

Bucky struggled to sit up, his head spinning from the impact of being beaten back in the town.

His eyes locked onto Y/n's, a silent fear lingering in them. Both of them knew that much worse things would be awaiting them.

The officers barked orders in German, their harsh tones sending a surge of panic within Y/n.

Left with no choice, Y/n and Bucky stood up, following the officers to wherever they would be taken.

• • •

Faces still covered in blood and bruises, Y/n and Bucky now sat in the backseat of a car. Next to Y/n, one of the guards sat, staring at her with a threatening glare.

The two of them sat in silence, their hands bound to their side’s as they were being escorted to an unknown destination by two German officers.

The trees blurred past the windows of the car as it sped down the dirt road, the sound of the engine drowning out any chance of conversation between anyone in the vehicle.

Y/n's mind wandered to their close call with death in that city. She remembered the way Bucky had tried keeping her from getting harmed. The image of him getting beat and the other men being slaughtered wouldn’t leave her mind.

The last thing she remembered was rushing to Bucky’s side before she was knocked out.

In the forest, where they had never felt more vulnerable, they stuck together. Y/n was beginning to feel hopeful about the situation between her and Bucky.

Now, sitting side by side in the back of the car, Y/n couldn't help but feel a sense of regret. If only they had talked, she thought. If only they had put their feelings aside and just forgave each other.

But now it was too late. They were going to some place they didn’t know, with their fate still in question. The idea of ever getting back to England seemed so distant now.

Bucky sat with his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He too had recalled that moment in the forest when he and Y/n had come so close to being together. And now, all it would become was a memory. One they might never have the opportunity to build on.

If he were able to speak, he would’ve said so much to Y/n. He would’ve held her and kissed her and told her that everything would be ok. But what good would lying do for them?

For now, it was best that they be realistic and not break any rules. From there and beyond, they had no rights. They had no freedom.

• • •

Dulag Luft Prisoner of War Transit Camp,

Frankfurt, Germany

Y/n sat alone in the cold, dark room. She could hear nothing but the sound of her own breathing, the silence weighing heavily on her. She missed Bucky desperately and wished she could see his face again. Even if he was only a room away, it still felt like he was too far for Y/n.

The room was small and cramped, with only a tiny window high up on the wall letting in a sliver of dim light. Y/n shivered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. She could see her breath in the chill air, a stark reminder of just how isolated and helpless she felt.

She had been separated from Bucky when they were being led down the halls of the transit camp. Bucky shot her a subtle grin. It was a genuine one.

“I love you, Y/n!” He shouted as the two were being led into different parts of the dimly-lit hall.

“John-” The guard aggressively yanked Y/n’s arm away from Bucky as she tried to reach for him, causing her to be slammed against the wall.

It didn’t matter; woman or not, they were still going to treat her as a prisoner.

Bucky tried to help Y/n, but he too was held back, pushed against the ground by the guard.

“Macht schnell!” “Hurry up!” The guard shouted at Y/n, forcing her to continue as if Bucky wasn’t just thrown to the ground.

The last time she saw him, he was being dragged away to a room right across from hers by the aggressive guard. It helped ease Y/n nerves, knowing he wasn’t far. But not for long.

Now, all she could do was wait. Wait for the uncertainty of what would happen next, wait for any sign of hope that she would see Bucky again. But the minutes stretched on endlessly, each one blending into the next in a monotonous haze of despair.

Y/n tried to keep herself busy, pacing back and forth in the small room. She counted the seconds, the minutes, the hours, trying to stave off the gnawing feeling of fear and loneliness that threatened to consume her.

She felt like she was going crazy even though she had only stayed in that room for what would be longer than an hour. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness that settled in the pit of her stomach.

She longed for Bucky's strong arms around her, for his reassuring presence to chase away the darkness that clung to her like a shroud.

Y/n eventually gave up trying to convince herself that she’d see him again, and fell back in the weak seat behind her, leaning her head against the cold wall. She still felt the pain in her head, but it had felt a little less sore as she started to get used to it. The feeling of pain.

• • •

“Major Egan, come in.”

Bucky was pushed into the room where his interrogator sat, sounding extremely calm given the situation. It had to be an act. Bucky could feel that this man’s intentions were far from genuine.

Taking a quick glance behind him, Bucky watched as the officers who had dragged him into that room slammed the door shut.

“I am your interrogator, Lieutenant Hausmann. Please, sit.” The interrogator’s eyes motioned to the empty chair in front of his desk.

Just as Bucky got settled in the chair, Hausman stood up.

“Can I pour you a whiskey?”

His eyes went wide in confusion. “How could this man be acting so nice?” He wondered. Either way, Bucky went along with it. It wasn’t like he had an option.

“Thanks.” Bucky commented dryly, a feeling of unease settling within him.

As he looked up at the wall in front of him, he noticed the picture of Hitler sitting neatly on the wall. How one man could cause so much damage was beyond Bucky’s understanding.

Hausmann brought two glasses, both filled barely halfway. Handing the glass to Bucky, the interrogator held a grin that was almost intimidating. Something felt off, but Bucky just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Here’s, uh, mud in your eye.” Bucky made the toast to himself before consuming the much needed drink.

The liquid burned his throat, but he welcomed the warmth spreading through his body. He didn’t know how much he missed it up until now.

Hausmann, still with his glass in his hand, watched as Bucky downed his drink. Hausmann simply grinned, his mouth wrinkling at the corners. His other features remained still, almost as if he wasn’t even real.

“I don’t know that one.”

Breaking out of his motionless manner, he held his glass up.

“Here’s mud in your eye.”

After having a taste of the whiskey, Hausmann slowly set his glass down on the table, then bringing his attention to the pile of papers on his desk. He grabbed the thin file on top, centering it as he scanned the writing on the file.

“So . . .where shall we begin?”

“How about I was in a town and, um, someone shot four of the guys with me.” Bucky spoke in a gruff voice, his head hanging low as he avoided eye contact with the interrogator.

“Oh, my God. What town?” Hausmann put on the concerned act, still keeping his face stern and still.

“Rüssheim, something. I don’t know-”

“Rüsselsheim.” The interrogator cut in, already familiar with the city Bucky was referring to.

“That’s tragic. I will add it to the report.” There was no sincerity in Hausmann’s tone or his demeanor. He reached for a pen and some paper.

“Your colleagues, the ones who were killed, if you give me their names and rank, I can pass it on to-”

“I don’t know their names. We just happened to be put together.” Bucky was growing more suspicious of Hausmann’s tactics.

“Look, I appreciate the drink and, um, would really appreciate a thicker blanket, but as far as what you’re gonna get from me, it’s gonna be name, rank, and serial-”

“And serial number. Yours is O-399510. Yes, I already know that.” A smug grin was plastered across Hausmann’s face as Bucky’s head shot up.

“I also know you were born in Manitowoc, Wisconsin.”

Hausmann began flipping through the pages in the file and reading off whatever information was stated in Bucky’s file. That did not sit well with Bucky.

“Married?”

Bucky remained silent, his jaw clenching at the fear that this man might try to do something to Y/n if he even thought to mention her. But there was no need to think about it.

“From what I hear, you’ve been accompanied by your partner, Y/n y/l/n, yes?”

The sound of her name nearly brought Bucky inches from grabbing the interrogator by the throat. He had to remain calm. Not just for himself, but for Y/n. He didn’t want them to hurt her, or worse- kill her.

“We spoke. She’s. . . different from the many pilots I have encountered. Not the most cooperative.”

On the inside, Bucky prayed that Y/n didn’t sign her death wish during her interrogation. But he also wanted to laugh at the thought of Y/n arguing with Hausmann. She always had a rebellious streak in her since Bucky had known her.

“Female pilots are not common these days. She must have a lot to bring to the table, even with an attitude like hers.” As the interrogator chuckled in a mocking manner, Bucky could feel his fists clenching up.

Hausmann continued to the next page of the file, repeating all information put down.

“Squadron, 418th. Group, the 100th Bomber Group. H for Heavy. Headquartered at Thorpe Abbotts.”

Bucky couldn’t stand Hausmann’s scheming approach. Not knowing what to hear next, he watched as the interrogator continuously flipped through pages, eventually coming to a pause.

Hausmann brought his eyes away from the file and on to Bucky, holding the same devious grin that he had been putting on the whole time they had talked.

“Are you a baseball fan, Major?”

Bucky kept his stoic expression, not allowing his eyes to meet Hausmann’s.

“Certainly that’s not a national secret.”

Hausmann reached for a carton of cigarettes laying next to his empty whiskey glass as he smirked deceitfully.

“Cigarette?”

He held the open carton out in front of Bucky, urging him to take one for himself. Unsuspecting, Bucky took a cigarette.

As he brought the cigarette to his lips, Hausmann stood up from his chair, taking out a lighter. Bucky leaned forward, allowing the interrogator to light his cigarette.

“Sorry they are not as good as your American brands. Lucky Strike is my personal preference.” Hausmann sat back down, still keeping his eyes glued on Bucky as he took a puff of his cigarette.

“Baseball is still a bit of a mystery to me,” The interrogator was quick to change the subject.

“With all the sticks and bases, running in circles. Hausmann’s eyebrows shot up as he shook his head.

“There was the big championship last week, wasn’t there?”

“Yeah, the World Series.” Bucky didn’t sound eager to discuss the topic of sports. This wasn’t something he would really consider an interrogation. There were just a plethora of topics, along with some pieces of personal information being brought up. Nothing more. But what was it that this man really wanted to know?

“Yes, the World Series,” Hausmann nodded to himself, laughing dryly. “The New York Yankees versus the St. Louis Cardinals. A rematch, yes?”

“We were up two games to one when I went down.”

“So you are a Yankees fan?” He watched Bucky with a wicked grin.

“Would you like to know the outcome of the World Series?”

Bucky's eyes narrowed slightly, a look of annoyance visible on his face. He knew that Hausmann was fishing for information, trying to break him down with small talk and false camaraderie.

“Was Buck Cleven a Yankees fan?”

Bucky’s breathing began to quicken as he grew more angered by the mention of his best friend. How did they know every little detail of his life? Was there anything they didn’t know?

“No? Yes?”

Silence.

“I hear he was quite a flyer.”

Extending his arm across the desk, Hausmann grabbed a newspaper, revealing the newspaper under it with the headline “Eighth air force smashed Bremen.” Bucky recognized it instantly. That was the last mission Buck had went on when he went missing.

“I read of his exploits in the Regensburg attack. He was your friend, wasn’t he?”

The interrogator’s eyes skimmed over the newspaper, and moved back to the pilot who had now had all the little aspects of his life exposed. Grinning strongly on one side of his mouth, Hausmann’s eyes burned into the front of Bucky’s head.

Bucky met Hausmann's gaze, a sense of rage building up against him.

“It seems we’re shooting down all the good pilots.”

Not wanting to hear the interrogator’s comments, Bucky started fiddling with his cigarette.

“Did you know that on your Münster attack, only one of your planes returned?” Hausmann brought about the news with little sympathy in his voice.

He stuck his index finger up, subtly grinning.

“One.”

Bucky was in disbelief. Out of 17 aircrafts and one made it? He only wondered who the sole survivors were. They got lucky. Much luckier than him, at least.

“But back to you, Major Egan.” Scanning the page on his file, Hausmann’s grin quickly faded.

“I regret to inform you that you are, as you say, in a bit of a pickle.”

Bucky knew what he was here for. For news of going back to England or far from Germany would be near impossible. Whatever news he would get would be a punishment nonetheless.

“We know you were originally apprehended near Ostbevern . . .but we don’t have you in any record as a crew member on any of the planes from the Münster attack. The Gestapo would say that makes you a spy.”

“They would be mistaken.” Bucky denied everything. The words coming out of his mouth were nothing but the truth.

“One thing I can tell you, Major, the Gestapo is never mistaken.” Hausmann smirked proudly as Bucky looked him dead in the eyes, no longer wanting to hear him and his good-guy act.

“So, I need verification of your group, your squadron, and your plane so that I can confirm to them that you are indeed what you say you are.”

Bucky took a puff of his cigarette, inhaling deeply.

“John Egan. Major. O-399510.” He repeated the information once more. Hausmann inhaled sharply, his demeanor going from calm and contained all to irritated.

“Major. . . may I say that you’re not doing yourself any favors?”

Once again, silence.

“The Gestapo, they are different than me. Me. I’m like you: A flyer, a man of honor. And I can understand things in a way that perhaps my colleagues from the highly indoctrinated security forces might not.”

Bucky was having none of it.

“I’d like to talk to you about Buck Cleven, John. . . but I’d like you to talk to me as well. The number of replacement B-17s expected at Thorpe Abbotts next week, for example.”

“John Egan. Major. O-399510.” Bucky swallowed thickly as he had refused to give up any information that could be useful to them.

The room fell silent as the interrogator's mask of tranquility slipped away, revealing the cold, calculating man beneath. Hausmann's eyes narrowed as he realized that Bucky was not going to give in, and that no amount of threats or promises could force the information out of him.

“I see.”

• • •

Y/n quickly shot up from the cold bench of her room as officers burst in, shouting in an aggressive manner. An officer grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her out into the hall, along with many other airmen.

As she walked down the hall, she watched as airmen were thrown out of their rooms, almost hitting the ground as they were shoved out.

Y/n felt someone stumble into her, almost knocking her to the ground. Turning her head, she saw the one face she thought she might never see again. It was Bucky.

Bucky grabbed Y/n’s hand without hesitation, pressing a kiss to her head as they continued to move out.

“Hey, careful- my head still hurts.” Y/n chuckled dryly, bringing her hand to her temple.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, John,” Y/n wrapped her hand around Bucky’s wrist, her eyes glimmering as she looked into his. “It’s gonna be okay-”

She was cut off instantly as officers pushed and shouted at the two, forcing them to move out of the building.

• • •

At the rail yard, men jumped into the train one by one. All of them were kept in a tight formation, an unorganized line of people bumping into one another every second.

Y/n continued to hold onto Bucky’s hand, trying not to get lost among the many men who would be riding with them. The two had to stick together.

As Bucky was pushed up onto the train by an officer, he immediately extended his hand to Y/n, helping her up onto the train, where the floor was covered in filth and was slippery enough for one to fall.

Bucky continued to help the other men onto the train, helping to speed up the process as many had struggled to get on by themselves, many of those individuals being injured.

The officers kept pushing men closer to the train, shouting at their faces in words none of them could understand.

The loud echo of another train across the way caught everyone’s attention. As they all turned their heads, the desperate screams and cries began to fill the air.

Bucky and Y/n watched in horror as the people in the crammed boxcar seemed to be crying for help, all of them reaching their arms out through the slats.

Even as the boxcar passed, none of the men getting on the train could shake the image out of their heads. They had never seen anything like this before.

“In! Now! In! In!” An officer shouted at the remaining men on the ground to keep going. Bucky got back to helping the last of the men who hadn’t gotten on the train.

Just then, one man tried to make a run from the train, but was immediately shot by an officer before he could get far enough away. Many bullets were shot at the man, causing him to die instantly.

Everyone on the train watched in shock as they witnessed the killing of the innocent man, whose life ended within seconds.

The officer continued to shout as if nothing had happened.

As the last of the men were being helped onto the train, one officer started to shout at Bucky and point his finger in his face. Bucky shot the man a dirty look as he knew he had done nothing wrong.

An officer walked towards the train, the dead man who had been shot hanging over his back. He aggressively dropped the man onto the filthy train floor, leaving him with everyone else.

Y/n looked at the dead man on the ground as the officer slid the door of the train shut, leaving the inside of the train dark.

Now they would be going to their destination with a bunch of men and a dead body for god only knew how long.

• • •

The screeching sound of the train brakes filled the air as Bucky and Y/n arrived at their destination, which would most likely be their final.

After hours of being in the train with no light and no fresh air, the door slid open. Bright lights shone in their faces, almost blinding them.

They were immediately welcomed by the aggressive barking of two German shepherds, along with long lines of angry officers, all shouting at them.

One by one, they each jumped out of the train.

Bucky went before Y/n, and she jumped out after him, keeping a close distance to him as they couldn’t hold hands out in the open where their every move could be seen.

• • •

Luftwaffe-Controlled Stalag Luft III,

Sagan, Germany

October 17, 1943

Exhausted and weak, the POWS were reaching their destination. They had walked for hours. To Y/n, it all felt like a fever dream. She couldn’t imagine herself doing this. It was only months ago that she was living a carefree life in the states.

Two officers quickly opened the gates, revealing the many men already there. As they walked through the gates of the camp, the POWs who were already there began to line up against the wired fences to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals.

The camp was surrounded by high wired fences, with guard towers looming over them ominously.

Y/n caught up with Bucky, now standing next to him as they both searched for any familiar faces.

It was instant when Bucky had recognized one of the men.

“Johnny! John! Y/n!”

“Egan! Y/l/n!” They heard their names, but couldn’t see their faces.

“Hey, Johnny! Y/n!”

Y/n and Bucky continued to hear their names being shouted, still not knowing who was calling them. But knowing that someone recognized them left Y/n relieved.

“Bucky! Y/n! Over here!”

Just then, they both caught sight of their old crew members, all shouting and waving at them, full of excitement. Y/n thought they had all disappeared. But she felt better knowing they were all alive, and together.

“Crank!” Bucky shouted, his face lighting up.

“You made it!”

“Murph! Glen!”

Bucky happily shouted the names of his crew members, whom were standing together.

“Hey! Any of you know if Buck made it?” Bucky asked urgently, scanning the faces of his crew, hoping one of them had some information about his friend.

“What?” Crank shouted, unable to hear him.

“I said Buck-”

Before he could ask again, a familiar voice called out to him.

"John Egan! Your two o’clock."

Bucky's heart skipped a beat as he saw Buck standing on the other side of the wire fence. Relief flooded through him as he and Y/n passed by the person that had been presumed missing. He was alive.

“What took you two so long?” Buck grinned from ear to ear.

This had been the one of many times that Y/n saw Bucky smile. She missed seeing that smile so much.

“Welcome to Stalag Luft III, boys,” A man standing behind the fence shouted.

Being led by the officers into the camp, no one could speak to their friends and old crew. Everyone’s smiles faded instantly as the reality of their situation sunk in. They were officially prisoners of war.

#mota #mota fanfic #masters of the air #major john egan #john egan #bucky egan #major john egan x reader #john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader

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