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There’s been a few times now where Gale would be called to an officers barracks to have a private meeting. He would leave for twenty minutes to an hour, then come back all stone cold and closed-off. His responses to others talking to him are nothing more than a gruff or a nod. Sometimes not even acknowledged.
John hasn’t been worried about it. He assumes that the Germans have been making demands of the prisoners through Gale’s leadership. Although John does find it odd that they don’t enforce it themselves, or talk to the colonel about it.
Sometimes Gale comes back to the barracks limping and slumps down on his stiff bed. Always on his stomach. John has asked Brady about it. DeMarco, too. They both avoid his eyes and mutter something about it being higher up in the brass, something that John can’t know.
“Boys. How’ve you been doing here without me?” John starts the conversation casually. He does care about how his friends have been since landing in Germany, but he can find time to ponder over that later.
“We’ve been well, Bucky. As well as you can be in a stalag, I guess,” DeMarco replies. He’s watching the two men play a card game he doesn’t recognize.
“You get here all right, Brady? We got separated quite a ways from when he had to bail,” John asks with a chuckle.
“Yes, sir. Other than having to hide out behind a few buildings in a small town for a night till someone found me,” Brady answers, clearing his throat at the uncomfortable topic.
“Yeah. This damn war just strips us of any rights,” John trails off for a moment. “How’s Gale been?”
Both of them give each other a quick glance. Something John would not have picked up on if he weren’t so desperate.
Brady’s hand tightens around his deck ever so slightly. “Gale’s been fine. He’s just stressed with having to be looked up to by so many more guys now. Hundreds more than on base.”
John hums then turns back to stare at the wall through the gap in the bunks. Brady and DeMarco don’t exchange anymore words.
It’s been driving him crazy. Not knowing, something so clearly bothering Gale. He acts as if nothing is wrong, working himself tired until he practically falls asleep during labour hours. The minuscule slip-ups that he would never make before capture. Like how he stumbles over his words more often, instead of knowing exactly what to say before each sentence.
If someone else has noticed, they sure haven’t mentioned it to John. Gale shuts him down every time he asks if something is going on with him.
“Just worried about the boys, John. Thinking about my family and Marge too often to be smiling.” The answer is logical. John doesn’t buy it, though.
It’s like he’s zoning out in every conversation. Just barely paying enough attention to contribute properly. Few words from him each time. Only responding when he’s realised that the other party has gone silent after a couple seconds. It makes it hard for new guys to talk to him for comfort and affirmation. It makes it difficult for John to believe that his best friend is truly all right, as he claims to be.
It’s April. The weather is already decent enough to shed a few layers while working. John and Gale had been the last of their crew to leave the barracks.
“Hey, Bucky,” Gale says from beside him. His voice is quiet and empty.
“Yeah?”
Gale stops on the creaky wooden steps. “You go ahead to work with the boys. I forgot something inside. It’ll just take me a minute.”
John turns his head to make eye contact with Gale. Which he tries to avoid. “You better only be a minute.” John walks away.
Twenty-seven of those minutes go by and John still hasn’t seen Gale. He steps back from the wooden frame he’s been pushing since he walked outside alone. Short and shallow breaths pump in and out from John’s lungs. He swallows roughly before he drags more air back in.
His hands rest on his hips and he watches the boys push. Their straining muscles are red and angry. John glances back to his barracks. Nobody is over there. The closest person is a soldier, who is miraculously still in full uniform despite the sun glaring down on the camp. Not a cloud in the sky to protect them.
“Hey,” John says to the guy next to him, he seems to also be taking a break. “Have you seen Buck around?”
The guy looks at him, one eyebrow that looks to be half burned off raised. “Major Cleven?”
John nods. “Yeah. Said to me that he forgot something. That he’ll be out in a minute. It’s been a hell of a lot longer than sixty seconds.”
“Sorry, sir. I haven’t seen him since our racks got checked last night.”
John sighs and waves the kid off.
A damn near hour of rotating between pushing and taking a break passes before Gale finally turns up. John’s about to ask him what took so long, a bit harsher than necessary. He takes one look at Gale, he takes in the tired and beaten down look. His shirt has sweat rings despite him not having worked yet, his hair looks matted as if it’d been grabbed.
“Sorry I took so long. Kraut wanted to have a word with me when I was about to leave.” His voice is hoarse and his throat sounds dry.
“You sure you didn’t catch a cold or something in those sixty minutes, Buck?” John jokes with a cutoff laugh. Gale cracks a small grin that doesn’t seem genuine.
He nods. “I’m fine.”
—
Gale disappears more and more. His presence is being requested by every damn Nazi in this camp, it seems. John wonders what happens behind those doors, if the Germans are treating his Buck with respect and at the very least not spitting in his face with every accented word.
John’s eyes track a soldier exiting the prisoners barracks. The guys had only left because they were threatened it would be ‘one of them instead’ if they stayed. To which DeMarco didn’t budge from his chair, Gale begged him to leave.
“What the hell does he mean ‘one of us instead’, Brady?” John asks the captain next to him.
He got a sigh through his nose in return. “I don’t know, Bucky. Maybe Gale’s getting reprimanded for one of the boy’s mistakes,” Brady suggests with a shrug. He sounds doubtful and hesitant. Like he is lying.
“Bullshit that’s what’s happening. I swear if that Nazi fuck lays a finger on my Buck—”
“Get inside,” the soldier that just left Gale’s barracks says as he passes them. They wait until he walks away and is out of earshot to speak again.
“Let’s wait a few minutes before we head back, guys. Gale needs to get himself… sorted,” DeMarco voices quietly.
John ignores him and heads straight for the rickety building. Like hell he’s waiting another second before seeing Gale again. Brady’s unsureness made him paranoid that the German was beating him to a pulp inside there. Why would he want to wait before going back?
His footsteps are hard against the gravel and dirt. Nobody besides his crew is around to see him storm back over to his barracks; it’s dark and everyone else has been forced back inside.
The doors are inconvenient and John pushes his way through the first set of them. Then down the hall, and finally he stands in front of his room. John wastes no time turning the handle and opening the squeaky door. Gale sits on the floor, leaning against a bunk. Tears stream down his cheeks, his hair is develished, like it’s been grabbed and tugged. What’s left of his uniform is ripped open, still on his person at least. A red mark starting on his cheek all the way down to his throat is what urges John to move forward and slam the door shut, making Gale gasp and flinch.
“Christ, what the fuck happened, Buck?” John’s first reaction is beyond furious and to scream. “Did that stupid fucking Nazi piece of shit do this to you?” He doesn’t care who hears him. The guys in the other rooms are probably picking up every word he’s saying. He wants everyone to know how disgusting and self righteous these German bastards are.
“I—” Gale chokes up, his hand clamps over his mouth suddenly. His breath is ragged through his nose and the tears have started flowing again. John immediately regrets barging in and demanding questions.
Instead, he slowly takes small steps towards Gale, no matter how badly he wants to rush over and hold him, he waits. “Fuck, Gale, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have just come in here. I’ve been so worried about you.” His voice is barely a whisper now. His own sight is getting blurry.
It takes a few moments, but eventually Gale removes his hand from his mouth. The lips the John loves to stare at, even here at a stalag, are trembling and a bloody red. Like they’ve been used beyond their ability and uncared for. John could never imagine ever hurting Gale in such a way.
John takes a place on the floor next to Gale, making sure to not touch him, just in case. He listens to Gale take deep breaths. In through his nose, hold for five seconds, and out through his mouth. They continue like this for minutes, maybe five. John sitting next to Gale, his very presence calming Gale down.
“I’m— I’m sorry,” Gale breathes out above the silence, only the buzz of the lightbulb can be heard.
“Sorry? What are you sorry for? You did absolutely nothing wrong. That shitty German that calls himself a soldier should be the one apologizing,” John argues, suddenly his anger is coming back to him. “Taking advantage of a fucking prisoner of war,” he says to himself bitterly.
“No. I’m sorry I never told you,” Gale supplies. He turns his head to look at John, reaching his hand out for him to hold. John takes it and squeezes it reassuringly.
John can barely look him in the eyes. His hair so clearly as it was that day he claimed to have forgotten something in the barracks, his voice just as raw, if not more. “I was so goddamn worried about you, Gale,” John whispers with a shaky voice. He bites his lip to keep an unwanted sob in. The tears are free from containment.
Gale sniffs his nose and wipes underneath it with his jacket sleeve. John’s eyes trail down to the mark on his face and neck. “Shit. Did he hit you?” Gale nods.
“Yeah. Hit me, choked me, forced me to look at him the whole time.” His voice is so lifeless and dull it makes John’s heart ache more than it already does.
John takes a moment to close his eyes and lean his head back to rest against the bunk. He tries to think of anything to keep the images from plaguing his mind. Being forced to watch a Nazi hold Gale down and take what he wants with no mercy or remorse.
“Do you… want to talk about it?” John asks. He expects it to be a no. Why would anyone want to talk about sexual assault that happened just minutes prior?
Suspectedly, Gale shakes his head. So they sit there, hand in hand. Slowly, Gale moves closer, his side coming to press against John’s. His head resting on his shoulder. When John thinks he’s asleep, Gale suddenly is speaking again.
“He kept talking. You are so beautiful, Major Cleven. It’s such a shame you’re an American.” Gale puts a light accent on the words. They shake John to his core. He can feel the boiling rage bubble up to the surface and settle to seep into his bones.
“Jesus. That’s fucking sick, Buck,” John mutters instead. He bottles his fury to take out on the wooden frame tomorrow. He wraps his arm around Gale’s shoulders, holding him as close as possible.
The guys walk in a minute later. They don’t say anything, but John sees that same look exchanged between DeMarco and Brady. He’s upset that they didn’t tell him, but he understands that they wouldn’t know how to handle his reaction. John would probably end up getting himself shot if they’d told him.
Soft snores are coming from Gale. John tilts his head to look at him. The low lights and shadows make his eye bags more pronounced, he looks exhausted.
“How long has this been happening, Benny?” John questions, his gaze still fixed on a sleeping Gale.
“The, um, Germans have been uniquely transfixed on Buck since we got captured,” DeMarco replies. John curses under his breath.
“Since they found you?”
He hears DeMarco swallow roughly. “Yes, sir.”
John hastily wipes the tears from his eyes. His head shifts back to look at the boys, who have found themselves back in their own bunks. Save for Crank, whose bed they're leaning against. All of them have respectfully turned their attention to something else, letting John and Gale have their limited privacy.
“My Buck, why did they do this to you?” John whispers, hardly audible to himself. He runs a light hand through Gale’s dirty blonde locks, they’re greasy. His hand comes around to rest at his jaw.
Gale’s eyes open, he lifts his head and smiles at John. It doesn’t pass as anything close to happiness.
John sighs. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
—
Half an hour later, after lights out, Gale is breathing deeply with sleep on John’s bunk. The latter lays behind him, an arm tucked around his stomach to hold him close. His nose is tucked to the crook of Gale’s neck, which thankfully smells like his own aftershave and not that German’s stench.
The next time John sees a guard make especially long eye contact with Gale, he will be marching right over there and landing as many punches as he can get until the man is screaming for him to stop. If he ever sees Gale pause, his beautiful blue eyes shift to those of fear and acceptance. His eyes are what made John confirm that he wants to fly in the skies that are just as blue, but not as easy to get lost in. He’ll do everything in his power to stop anything coming Gale’s way. Even Adolf Hitler himself.
The next time John sees that soldier, John will be taking no mercy or remorse on him. The same way he treated Gale, like scum he stepped in and got stuck to his shoe. No person treats Major Gale Cleven like shit and gets away with it.
For now, John will comfort Gale through any kind of violence or flashbacks he experiences. John has guaranteed to himself, promised, pinky sworn, that he and Gale will get out of here alive, together. He presses a kiss to Gale’s temple before falling asleep. Still holding Gale tightly in his arms.