Branded
Crossposted on AO3
Brady POV. Inspired by discussion on this post about Gale's neck bruises.
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There must have been something Brady could have done to stop it.
But there were some new guards now, ones that were harsher and fresher from training, who hadn’t been softened by familiarity with the prisoners, yet one was particularly brutal, with a temper quick with blows and other punishments. He had everyone on edge, and it was really only a matter of time, but why did it have to be Buck? Of course it was, though, he was always somehow in front of the other prisoners, the one to speak up or negotiate on their behalf, toeing that fragile line of mediation with his chin held high and starved-scrawny fists clenched behind his back.
They presented their requests weekly at the little deck at the entrance to the mess hall, clustering loosely as the prisoners and guard leaders talked out their needs and issues. Buck was commonly the representative speaker—certainly the most level headed choice—yet this time things had gone different. That new brutal guard towered over them, yelling and ranting and generally escalating the situation. Brady had been hanging back, eyeing the group fringes, when without warning the guard hauled off and struck Buck hard enough to make him stumble back. Before he could catch his footing, the guard seized his neck and bent him backward over the deck railing.
The small group of prisoners shouted in alarm, jostling forward on instinct, but Brady could only stand rooted to the ground, breath snatched right out of his lungs. Crank had lunged forward, nearly reaching Buck before the other guards leveled their rifles at all of them, screaming commands and forcing them to freeze in their steps, to stare in horror as the big guard growled, red in the face as he dug his fingers into Buck’s neck and pressed him farther down. Buck made a choked sound as the railing dug into his back, hands scrabbing on the man’s arm and feet slipping from under him.
The guard shouted something else, then grabbed his pistol from its holster and jammed the barrel against the side of Gale’s head. A cold horror choked Brady and his vision tunneled, world narrowing to the hatred and rage on the man’s face as he forced his prey down and squeezed . Buck’s grip faltered. His body began to go slack, arms falling from his attacker's arm, and a scream lodged itself in Brady’s throat, limbs trembling with the need to run, to fight.
Suddenly the prisoners’s senior officer and the kommandant’s aide burst onto the scene, and rapid-fire arguing followed. One by one, the guards lowered their rifles, and after more arguing the big guard finally hauled Buck back up by the neck, and threw him off the deck. It wasn’t a big drop, only one step, but Buck still went down like a ton of bricks. His head hit the dirt and Brady flew the few yards over to him, knees skidding on the ground as he dropped beside him. Buck was coughing and wheezing—pale as a sheet—and Brady nearly vomited, but the adrenaline and newly-bubbling anger swamped all his senses as he and Crank hauled their leader to his feet.
“It’s alright,” Buck rasped, patting their frantically hovering arms even as he swayed a little. His voice was absolutely wrecked, and on either side of his neck were rapidly-darkening bruises in the shape of a thumb and fingers.
“Fuck,” Crank hissed. “Bucky’s gonna lose his shit.”
.....
Bucky did, indeed, lose his shit.
When they entered the barracks it took barely a second for Bucky to spot them and take in the scene, eyes lasering on Gale’s bruises like a cat on the hunt. Sequences of shock, panic, then thunderous anger crossed his face and he lunged with his full height towards them, so much like an avenging angel Brady half-expected mighty, soot-covered wings to swoop out from his back. With fiery eyes he snatched Buck from them and sat him on the edge of the table.
“What happened?” he spat, the Major voice taking over. “Who did it?”
“Usual negotiations went bad,” said Crank. “New guard hit him and choked him.”
Bucky cursed viciously under his breath, which for some reason made the corner of Buck’s lips quirk into a grin. This seemed to make Bucky angrier. He could have levelled the room with it, and Brady resisted the urge to step back.
“Was he unconscious at all?” Bucky asked.
“I don’t think fully, but he went limp for a bit.”
Brady could have sworn Bucky’s eyes went black, hands gripping the lapels of Buck’s coat. Buck swayed a little, lifting a hand to rub his neck, and Bucky’s gaze darted back to him. One side of Buck’s hair was messed up a little from where the gun had been shoved, and Brady had to lean on the nearest bunk to stop the room from spinning.
“He had him at gunpoint,” he said, voice dazed to his own ears.
“What do you mean he had him at gunpoint?” Bucky snapped.
“He had a pistol against his head alright?” Brady burst out, vision blurring. He vaguely heard Buck muttering it’s alright before DeMarco appeared from nowhere, grabbing Brady’s arm and pulling him out the door into the barrack hallway. He closed the door behind them and firmly but gently pushed Brady against the wall, stepping close with his hands gripping his shoulders.
“Breathe, Johnny.”
Brady choked, then sucked in a breath, trying to keep the rolling panic at bay. He had seen other men shot in the camp, gunned down as an afterthought by guards who hardly needed a reason, but it could have been Buck, it could have been Buck , it very nearly was, and the image of his gentle friend going limp as the guard crushed his neck had seared painfully into his mind.
“ Johnny ,” DeMarco begged, hands now gripping either side of Brady’s head. “It’s ok, just breathe.”
“Sorry,” Brady forced out, scrubbing his face roughly, but DeMarco shook his head.
“Don’t be. It was horrible, no one will get over it,” he said, and it made Brady pause.
They wouldn’t, would they? Of course Bucky wouldn’t—if he wasn’t unhinged before he certainly would be now, and Brady felt a spike of sick terror at the thought—and Buck would act like he was alright, but the glassy sheen on his eyes would get thicker and he would become even quieter, walking like his own body was too heavy to bear.
DeMarco swallowed, eyes understanding, but before he could say anything a panicked shout came from the other room. They bolted back in to find Bucky’s face painted with raw fear and Buck draped limp against him.
“He’s…he’s not…” Bucky panted. “Get the doc!”
DeMarco ran out, and without being conscious of moving Brady found himself at Bucky’s side, helping him lift Buck into the nearest bunk. Buck was unresponsive, eyes half closed and head rolling a little as they laid him down, and Bucky’s hands shook where they gripped his body. His expression shuttered, jaw clenched and lips pressed together as his chest heaved with breaths he struggled to control.
With aching lungs Brady grasped him by the collar and gently pulled him down, tucking Bucky's head under his chin, and Bucky made a keening sound that stabbed Brady’s gut. He held him like that for a while—let him gasp brokenly into Brady’s chest with his hands still fisted in Buck’s coat—until Brady was more or less sure he wouldn’t shatter into irreparable pieces on the dirty floor.
When Bucky finally, hesitantly, pulled back, his eyes were wet and he released one hand from Buck to scrub at them, schooling his face back into composure with disarrayed curls falling over his forehead. He looked like such a lost little boy that Brady’s heart cracked again.
“He’s gonna be alright,” Brady murmured.
Bucky nodded, inhaling a deep breath and unable to meet Brady’s gaze.
......
The “doc” gave Gale more or less a clean bill of health. The bruising wasn’t too bad, probably no damage to the trachea, but in Buck’s weak state even a small time deprived of oxygen would take a toll. He just had to rest. He regained coherence fairly quickly and was fussed over by everyone in the barrack until nightfall. By lights out the tension and panic hadn’t quite faded, but eventually they all settled, dropping off to sleep one by one.
All except the two majors, and Brady, who couldn’t quite tear his eyes from the bunk where their leaders lay intertwined, Bucky cradling Gale in his arms without a trace of shyness. Vaguely Brady found it strange he had been thinking of Buck as Gale now, but Bucky had said it softly so many times that day that it had begun to cement itself in Brady’s mind. It felt too intimate, somehow, and opened another small wound in Brady’s chest.
He pulled the blanket to his chin and curled up a little more, watching Bucky smooth Gale’s hair and push it back from his face, stroking Gale’s cheek with his thumb. After a moment he ran a hand down Gale’s arm and wrapped it around his back, leaning in to tuck his face under Gale’s jaw. Gale’s hand shifted a little against Bucky’s waist but he stayed otherwise still as Bucky pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the worst mark. He then moved his face under the other side of Gale’s head, nuzzling to lift Gale’s chin just enough to reach that side of his neck, and Brady realized he was kissing both bruises. The simple tenderness was so uncharacteristic of the brash major that it drowned Brady’s chest in a swell of affection and tightened his throat. Bucky’s hand flexed against Gale’s back. His jaw worked where it was hidden in the crook of Gale’s neck, drawing a soft inhale from him, and Brady quietly rolled over to face the wall.
The next morning, the tense lines on Buck’s face had faded. And if the marks on his neck were slightly different shapes and a little deeper shade, Brady didn’t mention it.
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