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forasecondtherewedwon · 12 days

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trading paper dolls - chapter three

Fandom: Masters of the Air Rating: T Chapter: 3 / 3 Word Count: 3982

Summary: Tired of the pin-up girls, Alex draws Buck Cleven in a similar style, never intending for the sketch to fall into the hands of Bucky Egan.

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Gale drowned himself. He took the drawing to the sink that was crowded in the mornings but not at that time of day and watched the door as he held the paper underwater, shredding it until he could push the pulp into the drain with his fingertips. The task wasn’t difficult or strenuous; the paper was already so soft that it tore with ease. When it was done, he wiped his hands dry on his overcoat and went out. It had only taken a few minutes.

He had never tried to attract more attention than what was necessary for the boys to respect his rank. He didn’t boast, didn’t dance, didn’t get drunk. He stepped into leadership as a major because it was what he had to do, and he thought he did a fair job of it, keeping a level head and watching out for his boys. But it seemed he had attracted more attention than he’d been aware of. He had been not only observed but commissioned, commissioned into a drawing his fingers had since turned to a mush that hadn’t appeared dissimilar to many of their meals.

John had claimed responsibility, but it wasn’t as though Gale didn’t know where the sketch had come from. In their very bunkhouse lived the man who provided such things for the camp at large. Unless there were another man who did the same sort of drawings—but of male subjects—in secret, Gale knew the artist was Alex. Alex had been quiet, then, quickly, after Gale made the effort to speak with him, Alex had been forthcoming and warm. He was sharp, he was keen to be useful with his mapping abilities, but now Gale saw that he hadn’t yet learned everything about the lieutenant, because he hadn’t expected this from him. It left Gale feeling exposed.

Aside from destroying the drawing, he attempted to stick to his regular routine. He soon decided that no one else knew. The other option—that his boys were not only liars but incredibly good liars—was impossible. Gale couldn’t start doubting everyone around him, everyone he had flown with and trusted. He would be dishonouring them and himself to assume the worst of them after all they’d been through together. He wouldn’t bring the disease of paranoia into this camp, not amongst their forces. The problem of the drawing was a strange but isolated one, which should’ve been some relief to him.

He knew. Alex knew. John knew. John had barely told him, and Alex hadn’t told at all. Of course, Gale had been tempted to confront him. He felt he was owed an explanation, because surely being drawn like that was a sign of disrespect. That was where it got tricky though; Gale didn’t believe, in general, that pin-ups were disrespectful. Maybe they weren’t exactly appropriate either—not the kind of art you’d want shipped home to your mother with your effects if you bought it over Germany—but they were meant for admiring. They were tokens of the softness men missed in places like this, in circumstances like these. Was he that type of token? Was he an ideal?

The thought made Gale feel imaginary. It was hard enough to keep tabs on yourself here, to wake each day still knowing who you were. Where did you preserve your identity when nothing really belonged to you? On a piece of paper?

But the paper hadn’t been his, so that couldn’t be right. What need did John have to preserve Gale in a drawing when he had the real person? This puzzled Gale. It kept him subdued around the boys, and around John in particular, which was strange. He’d been feeling, lately, these urges to reach out for John. They all moved in such close contact, lived in such cramped quarters, that Gale would sometimes lie awake in the night and imagine digging a tunnel only he knew about. Not for escape—just for a place to go be alone for a while. John was the person who drove him closest to the edge, but he was also the only one Gale couldn’t leave, even in these fantasies where he burrowed into the earth and panted hot breaths in the dark. He had touched John at last—their two hands in John’s pocket, Gale’s light contact with John’s rough cheek—and then John had tucked the folded drawing into his palm. He had put the page between them.

Gale wondered what would’ve happened if he hadn’t given in to his instinct to slip his hand in alongside John’s. Would John have ever told him about the drawing? Would he have wept when he did? Gale wasn’t sure he understood the crying anymore than he understood the sketch—not the reasons behind them—but he was beginning to understand how they made him feel.

The revelation happened over the course of several days succeeding his discovery of the drawing. The food was shit. The wind whistled through the cracks in their bunkhouse walls. The thin patch in the heel of Gale’s sock had worn into a hole. The realization couldn’t fill his stomach or block the wind or darn his sock, but it changed something he couldn’t physically feed or shield or warm. He saw that he was treasured. He was. He, who had never felt less worthy, here in what seemed like a cold hell. There was a stalwart sense of brotherhood between the prisoners of this camp, but he hadn’t believed tenderness could survive in these conditions.

Reflecting on the drawing’s wear, Gale felt himself an accidental witness to not only gentleness but passion. Flapping in the cold wind hadn’t done that to the paper; it had been transformed by heat and sweat. Those things had touched a paper body that wasn’t his… but was meant to be.

—

The day Buck asked the question, Alex didn’t see it coming.

Though it wasn’t providing much warmth, the sun was shining, and that was a comfort they hadn’t enjoyed in what seemed like weeks. The wind had gotten itself tangled up between the trees, or lain down in some field; wherever it was, it was elsewhere. Sitting on the step outside the hut was almost pleasant, if you forgot about who was watching the step and where the step was and how they had gotten there and why they had to remain. But you did have to forget sometimes in order to breathe. Alex planted his hands behind him and leaned back while Buck stretched his legs out ahead of him.

He'd been describing the P-51 Mustangs again. Buck always wanted to hear about them. It’d gotten so Alex could tell Buck was imagining himself inside one, eyes closed as he asked where was this gauge and that, how were his sightlines if he turned his head just so.

“You could fly that baby blind,” Alex said, grinning.

Buck grinned back.

“Wouldn’t that be something.”

Alex agreed that it would, then he explained how, when you flew something so sleek and fast, it felt like an extension of your body. Instead of rushing to give Buck an account of missions he’d flown, Alex lingered over sensory memories of getting a feel for those planes. He recalled early days in training as he talked. His eyes were closed too when he spoke of easing a Mustang into a smooth bank, tilting her until it seemed he was sailing along on sunbeams. At the time, he’d sweat—damn near cooked—in the cabin, but now, he tried to feel just a little of that warmth, draw it through time to nestle up against. He was hunkered right down in the memory until he heard Buck say, “How’d he ask for it?”

Alex opened his eyes and frowned. “Say again?” He was lost. Buck wasn’t looking his way.

“When Bucky came to you about the drawing, how’d he… what did he say?”

“Oh. Well…”

Alex’s heart was racing, but Buck looked as calm as anything, staring out at the yard while Alex watched the side of his face.

There was so much information in the question. First, it informed Alex that Buck had found out about the drawing, someway, somehow. Second, it told him Buck had connected the drawing to Alex and Egan both. Third, it said Egan hadn’t ratted on him, since Buck didn’t know about the drawing’s exact origins. Finally, the question meant Buck wasn’t angry with him. He definitely didn’t sound angry, just like he was placidly working on a problem. Alex had seen him that way before during the meetings he and Macon were now included in, meetings for plotting escape routes and learning the fastest and quietest ways to incapacitate the enemy if they had to fight their way out.

But how to answer such a question? Now that Buck knew Alex had sketched him without his knowledge, he probably owed him the full truth, and telling him that meant admitting Egan hadn’t come to him at all. And what about the silent deal he’d made with Egan whereby they kept each other’s secrets? If Alex’s had been exposed, did that void Egan’s as well? Or did Alex ignore it all? Maybe the way forward here was to find his own escape route from a matter that no longer involved him. He could see what his role had been and he felt, for better or worse, that he’d played it. The rest was between Buck and Egan.

“It wasn’t much of a conversation,” Alex said. The explanation, though evasive, wasn’t a lie—Egan had snatched the paper during a raid of the bunkhouse.

Buck looked disappointed that Alex had failed to satisfy his curiosity.

“You know,” he said, eyes still forward, “Bucky ran and got recaptured more than once after parachuting from his plane. He fought like hell trying to escape. He could’ve died. They meant to kill him.” Buck turned his head to look back at Alex. “He gave me that drawing like a surrender.”

Alex’s lips parted, but he didn’t know how to respond. He understood how the most difficult thing was sometimes to go willingly. For a man with grit, a man with strength and ideas and convictions, it was easy to value control over everything else. You got so used to protecting your right to make your own choices, Alex thought, that it was hard when somebody came along who made surrender seem not only possible but appealing. Alex had learned this lesson with his sweetheart back home, but not everybody had a sweetheart back home. Not everybody got to learn to let go on a porch swing in Detroit while the condensation on a glass of lemonade hid their nervous, sweaty palms. Some people had POW camps and paper dolls and that was the best they got.

“That doesn’t mean he’s weak,” Alex proposed cautiously.

“No,” Buck agreed. “It sure doesn’t.”

“If you find you’ve got to know just what it does mean, I’d suggest asking him.”

“No two ways about it, huh?”

“There never seems to be for anything worth doin’.”

Buck rose. Alex hadn’t meant for him to act right then, but it wasn’t as though they had a list of pressing duties that needed attending to.

“Thanks for your thoughts, Alex,” Buck said, leaning down to where Alex still sat and extending his hand.

Alex nodded, shaking it. “Buck.”

When he expected Buck to withdraw his hand, Buck tightened his grip instead.

“One more thing,” he said. He leaned a little closer. “There aren’t any others of me out there, correct?”

“That’s correct,” Alex promised, meeting Buck’s assessing gaze with his steady one. “And there won’t be.”

Buck released his hand and, sitting forward once he was alone, Alex released a heavy sigh. Not too bad, he thought. It was behind them now. He’d even managed to resist joking that, if there had been other pin-up drawings of Buck, Egan surely would’ve collected them all up by now. No, he’d handled things the best he could’ve. The rest was for the two majors to sort out.

With the day as fine as it was, Alex eventually pushed himself up off the step and took a walk across the yard. He could see Macon and DeMarco busy with something. They were looking at the ground. As he neared, he panicked, but tried not to show it. They’d drawn a ring in the dirt and, staring at it, DeMarco kneaded the back of his neck in frustration. What the hell had they done? Put a goddamn map in the yard, right where the goons could see? Alex fought the urge to walk faster.

There were stones scattered across the dirt.

“What’s this?” he asked Macon lightly.

“I’m plottin’ my move,” Macon said. “What would you do?”

Alex’s eyes widened at his friend’s casual tone. He didn’t realize his expression had been observed until he heard DeMarco’s laugh, rough like the scruff on his cheeks, and looked up.

“It’s marbles,” he said. “We’re playing marbles with rocks.”

“Oh.” This was an amused huff from Macon. He had glanced up to see why DeMarco was explaining and also caught the look on Alex’s face. “Shit! Speakin’ of marbles, Alex here’s thinkin’ we fuckin’ lost ours, Benny. Thought we was out here holdin’ cartography club.”

He doubled over laughing while Alex rolled his eyes. Well, at least Macon appeared to be feeling better.

DeMarco crouched to consider his next shot. Alex angled his head close to Macon’s ear.

“I’ll just leave you and ‘Benny’ to it. I just got an idea for another drawing. Maybe two guys from our bunkhouse this time?”

Macon glared at him, but Alex was grinning now.

“It ain’t like that,” Macon protested. He took a playful swipe at Alex, but Alex stepped clear. Macon winced as he twisted, hand hitting nothing.

“Watch your neck, now,” Alex cautioned. “Then again…” He glanced to where DeMarco had circled away from them, lowering his hand to the dirt in preparation to flick a stone towards their makeshift target. “I saw him rubbin’ his neck. Maybe he could do yours.”

Macon pointed a warning finger.

“Don’t interfere in other people’s business.”

Alex only smiled and backed away. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. If this Buck and Egan thing worked out, it might be nice going two for two. It’d be a way to pass the time.

—

“Right where I thought you’d be.”

Bucky smiled at the sound of Buck’s voice and allowed the chair he’d rocked back on two legs to fall forward again onto four. He listened as Buck’s even steps entered the room, their room—everybody’s room, but their room at the moment, because it was empty but for the two of them.

“Creature of habit,” Buck continued as he strode into Bucky’s line of sight.

Bucky glanced up and his smile broadened.

“Imprisonment’ll do that to a guy.”

“S’pose so.”

Buck grabbed a chair and dragged it around, then straddled it backwards, facing Bucky. He crossed his arms along the back. Bucky couldn’t help his light laugh, waiting for Buck to speak. They hadn’t done much of that (talking) in days. Bucky was scared, not that he’d say it. The laugh was more of an anxious giggle, which was meant as a question: Where are we starting from? Because he didn’t know how to begin anymore. He didn’t know how to step back into the last normal conversation they’d had without his feet going out from under him, slipping on the bloody wheel of his heart. He kept trying to get his balance, but that heart-wheel kept spinning, faster each time Buck caught his eye or called his name. He felt choked; he wanted to run. He fixed his gaze on Buck’s face and, grinning with a nervous brand of hilarity, said, “Hi.”

Buck smiled back, amusement in his eyes. Bucky thought he looked like maybe he didn’t know how to begin either.

“Hey there, stranger,” Buck replied, soft and low.

Now, as long as Bucky didn’t cry—he started to, and thumbed the tear from the inner corner of his eye.

“We got some business, Major?” he asked, smiling at Buck, at himself, at his control leaving him like a kite string jerking through his hands.

“We do,” Buck said. “You wanna lead?”

“Buck, if I knew the steps, I’d already be on the floor.”

Bucky pressed his finger into a crack in the table, tracing back and forth until Buck’s hand hovered over his. After a breath or two, it landed. Bucky stared at it covering his own.

“You don’t have anything to say?” Buck urged.

Swallowing, Bucky shook his head.

“I’d ruin it.” His voice came out hoarse.

“Maybe”—from his tone, Bucky could tell he was teasing—“but isn’t it worth trying?”

“I don’t really know… how to apologize for somethin’ like that…” Bucky fumbled out.

“You wanna apologize for it?”

Surprised, Bucky glanced up.

“Don’t you want me to? Isn’t that what this is about?”

Because the hand—it was comfort. The words were a return to their old friendliness. The privacy was necessary for the topic at hand, until they buried it deep and left no marker.

“No,” Buck said simply. “I was hoping we understood each other now.”

Bucky laughed loudly then, head thrown back, hand on his chest. When he looked at Buck again, his friend was blushing.

“Well, radio man,” Bucky started with a grin, “I think we got our wires crossed somewhere ’cause—”

“You’re in love with me,” Buck blurted. The abruptness, so unlike Buck, would’ve been enough to stop Bucky in his tracks, but then there were the words—petal-strewn overkill if the point was just to shut Bucky up.

“Tell me quick if I’m wrong,” Buck went on, “’cause I’ve looked at this every which way and it’s all I’ve got, John.”

“Buck. Gale.” It was possible the world was ending and Bucky couldn’t seem to clear his throat.

“I didn’t think it’d be like this,” Buck said, so faint Bucky wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear. All he could do in response was shake his head to show he didn’t follow. “I thought I’d see it comin’. You snuck up on me, John.”

If Buck kept using his name like that, Bucky believed he might do something impulsive, like bite his friend’s lip between his teeth.

“Me?” he checked.

As though to demonstrate just how impossible the idea of him sneaking up on anyone was, Bucky scraped the chair back as he staggered to his feet. He needed to pace. He couldn’t deal with this unless he was moving.

But Buck’s leg shot out and kicked Bucky’s chair.

“Sit your ass back down and listen to me,” he snapped. Bucky stared at him. “I’m tryin’… I’m trying…”

Slowly, Bucky reached for his chair. He lifted it off the ground so its legs wouldn’t scrape. He set it down close to Buck’s. He put his hand on Buck’s knee.

“You love me too, huh?” he guessed, as crazy as it seemed. “That the size of it?”

“Just about.”

They chuckled over how badly this was going, how well. Bucky booted the leg of Buck’s chair.

“What’d you do with my pin-up?” he demanded jokingly.

“Got rid of it.”

“Yeah? You got some nerve, Buck. That was my property.”

“You don’t need it anymore,” Buck told him.

Bucky leaned in, taunting. “Says who?”

“Little closer and I’ll show ya.”

Bucky went smiling. He got as close to Buck as he could before the tiny bit of him that was still unsure he hadn’t made a mistake somewhere and misunderstood hit the brakes. He could feel Buck’s breath on his face; he’d have bet Buck could feel the same on his. He could see, up so close, where the cold had chapped Buck’s skin, and he could see when Buck made up his mind to kiss him. Bucky closed his eyes between that moment and the next, and then there was the pressure of Buck’s mouth, making him almost leap out of his skin.

He'd spent weeks sharing a bed with that sheet of paper, like a lover. Before that, he’d spent months lugging his heart around, heavy with the enormity of his infatuation. Years he’d known Buck, liked Buck, cared about Buck more than he cared about anyone else he knew or had known. It wasn’t sudden. And yet, as Buck’s mouth opened just slightly and Bucky felt the difference between his dry lips and his wet tongue, it was. He moaned because he’d never been shy, and that put his lips in contact with Buck’s teeth—another new feeling—because Buck smiled at the sound.

Determinedly, Bucky cupped the back of Buck’s neck and kissed him harder, deeper, tilting his head. They couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t stand it. He didn’t want a pause to let Buck speak or to stare into his eyes. He knew what he sounded like, knew how he looked. Really, Bucky would’ve kept going even if he hadn’t been able to breathe. He held Buck greedily against him, wishing there weren’t a chairback between them so it could be more than their mouths, more than his hand now on the back of Buck’s head. I did, he thought. I thought it’d be exactly like this.

Buck was like a food he’d been deprived of, though Bucky couldn’t think what that might’ve been just then, because there was nothing he wanted to taste more than Buck’s mouth. Again and again, he opened it wider with his lips, dove forward with his tongue. He found Buck a little coyer until Buck snatched him by the front of his shirt and yanked him to the edge of his seat. Bucky had to feel blindly for the table and grip it hard to prevent himself from knocking the chairs aside like he wanted to. He wanted so much.

He surprised himself by being the reasonable one, the thoughtful one. He eased Buck’s grip from his shirt and slowed their kisses to a last lick from Buck’s tongue over his bottom lip.

“Welcome to the goddamn bunkhouse,” he whispered. “We got roommates, and they’ll come back sooner or later.”

Gaze lowered and mouth pink from Bucky’s efforts, Buck smirked as he straightened Bucky’s shirt.

“Ain’t that a shame.”

“I know some good hiding places though,” Bucky bragged.

“Do you now?”

“Kept that drawing secret, didn’t I?”

Buck shook his head in amusement. “That’s a little different. You can’t hide me between the pages of a book.”

“I didn’t hide it between pages,” Bucky informed him, smiling devilishly. “I hid it between sheets.”

“You can’t hide me in your bunk.”

Bucky slouched back in his chair and smirked at Buck.

“You can’t,” Buck repeated, fighting not to laugh at the way Bucky was so clearly uninterested in listening to him.

“That’s one opinion,” was all he would allow.

“An opinion,” Buck echoed in disbelief. “I call the other option insanity.”

“You call you in my bed insanity? I call it somethin’ to live for.”

And Bucky meant it in that big way, in that grand way. He meant it in a small way too: that he would live little by little for it, that the sun rose and set on his wanting of Buck, but it would’ve risen and set anyway. He would live for the possibility of Buck in each moment, from his first stirrings of wakefulness in the morning to the final shift on the sheets that let him sleep with some modicum of comfort in this forlorn place. Someday, mark my words, his sly smile and raised eyebrows said to Buck, you’ll be on those sheets with me. And, boy, won’t we live then, Buck. Won’t we live then.

#my writing #MotA #Masters of the Air #MotA fic #Bucky x Buck #Clegan #Gale 'Buck' Cleven #Alexander Jefferson #John 'Bucky' Egan #Richard Macon #Bernard DeMarco

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