Chapter Text
May 6, 1943, Wendover Field
Curtis
He stood at the back, nineteen and sharp-edged, still running on the thrill of finally making it. After all the rejection letters, the doors that almost stayed shut, this moment felt like the hard-won start of everything.
The room was packed with authority—flight leaders in rumpled uniforms, veteran officers with voices like gravel. He tried to take it all in: who to salute, who to watch, who might chew him out if he stood the wrong way. They were all important. All sharp. All sure of themselves.
And then his eyes found them.
Buck and Bucky.
They weren’t at the center of the room, but they were the center of it. Buck stood easy but unshakable, arms folded, eyes calm—like nothing could rattle him. Bucky lounged like a man who knew exactly where he belonged, one eyebrow cocked like he was already laughing at something you hadn’t said yet.
They didn’t command attention. They drew it.
Other men led. Buck and Bucky owned the air around them.
Biddick was mesmerized. Not by their ranks or reputations—he didn’t even know those yet—but by the feel of them. A kind of quiet dominance. They didn’t need to prove anything. They were already there.
And he wanted in.
He didn’t want to admire from a distance. He wanted to be in the thick of it with them—to fight, to fly, to earn the kind of trust that passed between the two majors in a single glance.
In that humid, smoke-choked room, with brass on every side and his uniform still stiff with newness, Curtis Rundle Biddick felt the ground settle under his feet.
This is it, he thought. This is where I’m supposed to be.
May 21, 1943, Thorpe Abbotts, England
Bucky POV
From the moment my boots hit the tarmac, it felt wrong.
Not because of the fog curling low over the hangars, or the way the wind bit through my jacket like it had a grudge. It was Buck. Or rather—the lack of him. The absence settled in my chest like ballast. Every inch of this place should’ve had his voice bouncing off it, his presence, steady and unshakeable, right next to mine.
Instead, I was alone.
Each mission out here stretches that distance wider—miles, then oceans. Every takeoff, I catch myself glancing to my right, expecting to see him there. But all I see is empty sky.
So I write.
Maybe that’s how I keep him close. A few lines scrawled in a cold barracks, words doing what time zones and troop orders won’t.
Buck,
Flew my first mission today. British soil, foreign air, same engine rumble in my bones. We lifted off just after dawn, and for a second, watching the sun break over the wing, it looked a hell of a lot like home. Thought of you immediately.
It’s odd—feels like I’m king of the hill and the new kid on the block all at once. The ground crews here are sharp, the fellas tight-knit, but it’s like showing up to a poker game without your lucky coin. I keep reaching for you in the small things—the way we used to trade glances before takeoff, like “you good?” “I’m good.” That quiet shorthand. Gone now, and I’m not ashamed to say it leaves me a little off-balance.
So I’m writing.
Every little thing I jot down, I find myself thinking, “Buck would’ve had a hell of a comment about this.” Like the navigator who drinks his tea with whiskey. Or the British pilot who swears by a lucky rabbit’s foot the size of a damn shoehorn. It’s absurd—and you’d love it.
This letter’s not poetry. It’s not meant to be. Just something real from one end of the world to the other. A line tossed over distance, hoping it holds.
Stay safe, wherever you are. I’m counting down the days.
—Bucky
P.S. There was a slight mishap in Greenland. If this lands in your lap, make sure the enclosed makes it to the barkeep—he’ll know what to do. Just don’t ask too many questions.
June 9, 1943, Wendover Field, Utah, USA
Buck POV
Buck’s hands were steady, even if everything inside him wasn’t, as he unfolded the letter. The paper was soft at the edges, creased and worn from anxious handling—Bucky’s anxious handling. That alone said more than the words inside.
He sat alone outside the hangar, the dry Utah wind tugging at his sleeves and carrying the distant grind of propellers from the airstrip. Dust danced along the tarmac, and the scent of oil and scorched metal clung to everything. The sun hung low and hot above the Wasatch front, washing the base in a blinding glare that didn’t quite reach the cold space left in Bucky’s absence.
The scrawl was unmistakably his. Slanted, fast, like he’d been in a rush to get the thoughts down before they slipped away. Buck felt something warm flicker in his chest, thawing the hollow place that had formed since Bucky went wheels up three weeks ago. Thorpe Abbotts might be Bucky’s new base, but the absence he left behind had reshaped Utah like a missing puzzle piece, one that no routine or mission brief could fill.
Utah had been Buck’s home for months now—he knew every cracked stretch of runway, every gust that swept in from the desert—but without Bucky, the place felt unfamiliar. Too quiet. Too spacious. The rows of Quonset huts, once a source of rhythm and purpose, now seemed oddly still.
Reading his letter, Buck felt the dam begin to crack—pride, worry, and a fierce, aching longing rising up all at once. Bucky’s words were clipped, likely censored, but there was something beneath them that Buck couldn’t shake. A shadow. A space between the lines.
Feels like I’m king of the hill and the new kid on the block all at once.
That line stopped Buck cold. It was so Bucky—confident and out of place, self-aware but pressing forward anyway. Buck knew the feeling exactly. On the outside, you looked like you had it all figured out. On the inside, you were still trying to find your footing in a war that didn’t care how seasoned you were.
But it was the line about missing him that struck deepest. Not in a soft, sentimental way. It hit like a blow. A truth too big for subtlety: I feel like I’m missing my right arm without you here. Buck folded the words around himself like armor.
And then came the postscript: There was a mishap in Greenland.
Of course there was. Buck huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Cryptic, probably reckless, and somehow exactly what he’d expect. That was Bucky—always tossing out just enough to spark worry, never quite enough to satisfy it. Still, the mischief in that line felt familiar. Comforting, even. A flash of the old rhythm.
But once the smile faded, the quiet settled back in.
And in that quiet, Buck had found an unlikely tether: Lieutenant Curtis Biddick.
Curtis was loud and brash, like Bucky in more ways than one—but somehow softer, less performative. And unlike the newer cadets who orbited Buck for his rank or reputation, Curtis didn’t push or posture. He didn’t try too hard. He was just there—uncomplicated, unguarded, real. A presence you didn’t have to brace yourself around.
At first, Buck thought it was coincidence that they kept crossing paths. Then he realized he was seeking Curtis out. Maybe it was the shared concern for everyone who had gone ahead, or maybe it was something simpler: human connection in a time that seemed to strip it away piece by piece.
Whatever it was, Curtis offered a strange kind of peace.
He never asked for anything. Never tried to be more than what he was. And in doing so, he became something Buck hadn’t even known he needed—an anchor. Someone who understood that the real weight of war wasn’t always in the missions, but in the waiting. The not-knowing. The fear of what the next letter might say—or not say.
A pair of mechanics shouted from across the yard, the clang of a dropped wrench echoing off the hangar walls. Buck barely heard it. He folded Bucky’s letter carefully, like it might break if mishandled, and slipped it into his pocket. He made a quiet promise then—not just to Bucky, but to himself. No matter how far apart they were, they were still on the same side. Still fighting the same fight.
And when this war was over—when, not if—they would find their way back. The war could test them, stretch them, batter them, but it wouldn’t break what mattered most.
For now, Buck held tight to Bucky’s words, envisioning him streaking through foreign skies at dawn. And he leaned on Curtis—silent, steady, present. One hand in the clouds, the other still on the ground.
That’s what he was fighting for.
June 20, 1943, Thorpe Abbotts, England
Bucky POV
The airbase thrummed with life—boots pounding the dusty ground, shouted orders slicing through the din, the constant rumble of engines overhead. Somewhere behind him, a crew chief cursed at a fuel leak; ahead, the guttural growl of a B-17’s landing gear bit into the runway. The sun was low, casting the entire field in a slanted, golden light that made even the chaos look beautiful.
Bucky stood at the edge of the tarmac, hands in his pockets, posture deceptively relaxed. The jeep behind him idled quietly, a soft chugging rhythm that barely registered over the roar of aircraft. But his eyes were fixed—locked onto the silver belly of the B-17 taxiing to a halt. He’d been watching for that tail number since morning. He already knew. Buck was on that plane.
His usual mask of calm gave way to something looser, lighter—barely contained excitement flickering at the edges of his mouth.
The door dropped. A figure emerged, backlit by sunlight and heat shimmer.
Buck stepped down, blinking into the light—
—and the air rushed out of Bucky’s lungs.
He hadn’t expected that. Not really. He knew Buck was coming, had played this moment out in his head a hundred times. But seeing him for real, with the sun behind him and that ever-steady look on his face—it knocked something loose.
Weeks apart had dulled the image in Bucky’s mind. He’d forgotten, somehow, how Gale Cleven could look like every poster in a recruiting office come to life. The all-American golden boy. Lean, sharp-cut, blue-eyed—damn near unfair. Enough to make half the base’s women turn their heads, and more than a few men.
Bucky stood there a second longer than he meant to, caught off guard, caught staring. His mouth opened, then shut again. For a heartbeat, he forgot what he was supposed to say.
Then instinct kicked in, covering the flicker of heat under his collar.
“Took you long enough, Cleven!” he called, voice a little louder than necessary. “Thought you’d gone and joined the Navy.”
Buck’s face cracked into that easy smile—solid, grounded, like no time had passed at all. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Major.”
He slung his duffel over his shoulder and walked up to the jeep where Bucky stood waiting. “You’re my ride?”
“I’m your everything, Cleven,” Bucky said smoothly, then rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m your ride. Now get in before someone mistakes you for brass and starts asking for orders.”
Buck tossed the duffel in the back and climbed into the passenger seat. As he settled, he glanced over his shoulder—then froze.
“What’s that?”
In the back, between the duffel and a crate of rations, sat an old but sturdy bicycle. The frame was dented but intact, the chain greased, the seat a little worse for wear but still usable.
Bucky threw the jeep into gear, steering them away from the runway. “That,” he said casually, “is your welcome gift.”
“You got me a bike?”
“I won you a bike. Guy in engineering had a lousy hand. Lucky for you, I didn’t.”
Buck turned back to the front, shaking his head. “You won me a bike.”
“It’s practical,” Bucky said, trying not to sound defensive. “Base is bigger than it looks. You’ll want wheels, and this way you don’t have to bribe the motor pool every time you’re late.”
Buck let out a low laugh, the sound sinking into Bucky’s ribs like a warmth he hadn’t realized he’d missed. “You actually thought of this.”
“I think of a lot of things, Cleven,” Bucky said, eyes fixed on the road. “Some of them even useful.”
The jeep rolled to a stop near the back of a maintenance hangar. Bucky hopped out, pulled the bike down with a practiced jerk, and rolled it toward Buck like he was offering him a prize-winning horse.
Buck climbed out slowly, eyeing the thing with faint reverence. “This is... surprisingly thoughtful.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Bucky said, brushing imaginary dust off the handlebars. “Just don’t wreck it on your first turn.”
Buck threw a leg over and gave the pedals a few tentative spins. The wheels creaked but held. “Race you to the barracks?”
“You’re on,” Bucky said, breaking into a run alongside.
And for just a flicker of time, the war fell away.
There were no ranks. No weight of command. No missions hanging over their heads.
Just two friends—John and Gale—laughing like hell, tearing down the path into the fading sun.
July 3, 1943, Thorpe Abbotts, England
Arrival at Thorpe Abbotts had been bittersweet for Curtis.
For weeks, it had been him and Buck—two steady hands holding a line together. They’d fallen into a rhythm back in Utah, unspoken but strong. Mess hall meals. Late-night talks that didn’t need many words. The quiet comfort of someone who didn’t ask questions but always seemed to know when to listen. Buck wasn’t flashy, but he was solid. And Curtis had come to rely on that more than he liked to admit.
But now Buck wasn’t just Buck anymore.
He was Buck and Bucky.
Curtis hadn’t realized how much space Buck had been holding open—until someone else stepped into it.
Bucky’s arrival shifted the air around Buck like a gravitational pull. The two moved with a shorthand built on years, one Curtis couldn’t read. They laughed louder, spoke faster, filled the silence that Curtis had once quietly occupied. The seat next to Buck still waited for Curtis in the mess. There was still a drink poured for him some nights. But something fundamental had realigned.
And Curtis wasn’t sure where that left him.
During the cramped, tense briefings in the makeshift room at Thorpe Abbotts, the focus was supposed to be on maps and mission plans laid out under dim lights. But for Curtis, squeezed into a corner beside the radio console, it was getting harder to keep his mind where it should be.
His gaze, despite every internal reminder, kept drifting from the commanding officer’s face. It lingered—again and again—on Bucky.
Bucky stood near the table with an air of casual command, his voice cool, movements assured. He traced mission routes with a stick of chalk, circling targets, linking strategy with practiced ease. But it wasn’t just the confidence that held Curtis’s attention.
It was Bucky’s hands.
There was a contradiction in them. Hands that could level cities from the sky, draw lines of devastation across Europe—but moved with surprising precision. Elegance, even. When he gestured, he made even the most brutal plans seem like choreography. When he paused, fingers pressed lightly against the table’s edge, it looked almost gentle.
Curtis hated how often he noticed them.
That thumb brushing the table again and again. The occasional roll of the chalk between his knuckles. A flick of motion that made Curtis forget everything they were being told.
He understood why Buck gravitated toward him—hell, everyone did. Bucky burned brighter. There was charm behind the sharpness. Wit behind the authority. And those hands, those damn hands, told their own story—capable of precision, control… and something else. Something softer.
Curtis knew how this worked. You didn’t get jealous of the sun. You just learned to squint.
The briefing wrapped up. Chairs scraped, boots shuffled. Curtis blinked back to the present with an empty page in his notebook. Orders had been given, routes laid out, and he’d absorbed almost none of it.
He exhaled slowly, waiting for the room to clear before he moved.
As they filed out, Buck threw him a small nod—familiar, grounding. It helped. A little.
But behind him, Bucky laughed at something Buck said, their voices fading into the corridor together.
Curtis watched them go.
And the echo of Bucky’s hands stayed with him longer than the mission map ever had.
July 7, 1943, Thorpe Abbotts, England
Bucky’s POV
The chaos of the day at Thorpe Abbotts had taken its toll - 25 aircraft had gone out, but only 20 had returned. It was the biggest loss since Buck's arrival. As the other members of the unit retired for the night, Bucky couldn't seem to settle and suggested they take a walk.
In the quiet darkness of the airbase, Buck and Bucky walked silently side by side. The mission had been a success, but it came at great cost. They had flown through a treacherous storm of flak and enemy fighters, using their skills and instincts to survive. Now, back on solid ground, the adrenaline that had sustained them began to fade, leaving behind a raw and vulnerable feeling.
Buck finally broke the silence. "Why didn't you tell me what it was like?" His voice was low, but there was an edge to it—something between accusation and disbelief.
Bucky didn’t answer right away. He kept walking, eyes fixed on the ground ahead.
Buck stopped. "Bucky. You knew. You’d flown it before. You could have said something."
Bucky turned to face him, the tension in his jaw betraying the calm in his voice. “I didn't know what to say. You've seen it now.”
He hesitated, then added more softly, “I should have been up there with you.”
Buck exhaled, long and slow. “We got a long road ahead of us,” he said. And did they ever—the 100th Bomb Group was only at the beginning.
Buck's mouth tightened. "I would’ve rather known. Even if I didn’t get it. I would’ve rather heard it from you."
Bucky sighed, the sound catching in his throat. "I didn’t know how. And I hated knowing you'd have to see it for yourself."
They stood there, a breath apart, the distance between them suddenly feeling wider than the whole damn continent.
Then Buck reached out, hand closing around Bucky’s arm—not harsh, but firm.
"You should’ve been up there," Buck said quietly.
"I know," Bucky whispered.
The anger drained out of Buck all at once, replaced by something more fragile. "It felt like we were dying by inches. And the only thing I could think was how much I needed you there."
And something shifted. Tangled in exhaustion, grief, and the unbearable pressure of surviving what others hadn’t, there was a gravity neither could fight.
They stepped closer.
As they neared the barracks, Buck veered off suddenly, his hand still clasping Bucky's arm from earlier. He tugged gently but insistently, guiding them toward the shadowed space between two buildings. The move wasn’t startling anymore—not after everything that had just passed between them—but it still sent a current of anticipation through Bucky’s spine. He followed, no words exchanged, just a quiet understanding.
They stood in the darkness, their breaths quiet and the distant rumble of the base as their only soundtrack. Buck turned to Bucky, words on the tip of his tongue to break the tension between them, but his mouth remained stubbornly closed, unable to find the right ones. Instead, he reached out and lightly brushed his hand against Bucky's, a small touch that spoke volumes.
Bucky's response was immediate, his fingers intertwining with Buck's, holding on as if he might never let go. It was more than comfort. It was anchor. Tether. Proof that neither of them was alone in the wreckage of the day.
The stillness between them stretched, a delicate balance of unspoken thoughts and emotions. Each was drawn closer to the other by an invisible force that they could not resist nor fully understand. But woven into that pull was something darker: fear. Not just fear of being caught—but fear of what it meant to feel this way. Of how little protection they had, even here, even now.
They hesitated. The space between them buzzed with longing and danger. They were both painfully aware of it—aware of the door that might open, the footsteps that might pass, the consequences that could destroy everything they'd built. This was 1943. What they were about to do was not just unwise—it was illegal. Criminal. A betrayal of the uniform they wore.
And yet.
Their lips collided with urgency, like a wheels-up landing, all power and no control. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was an ignition. For a moment, Bucky felt the impossible: alive, despite the death they flew through daily. His fingers dug into Buck’s sleeves, and Buck didn’t pull away. Not yet. The kiss deepened, fevered and searching, as if in that breathless rush they could rewrite the world outside the alley.
And for a few heartbeats, Bucky let himself believe it. Let himself feel something other than numbness, than survival. Buck’s mouth was warm, grounding. Hope bloomed in Bucky’s chest—reckless, stupid hope—that maybe this meant something more, maybe they could have something after all.
But then it hit. The enormity. The reality. This was Buck. His best friend. His brother-in-arms. A man. And not just any man—that man. The one person Bucky couldn’t afford to want. Couldn’t risk. Couldn’t hurt.
The kiss faltered. Buck pulled back, breath shuddering against Bucky’s cheek. His eyes were wide now, stunned by what had just passed between them.
Bucky froze, the world tilting on its axis. Regret slammed into him like G-force in a dive. He let out a ragged whisper, guilt turning his voice to ash: "I shouldn't have."
Buck's heart clenched at the words, mirroring Bucky's own fear and uncertainty. "I know," he murmured, barely audible. His thumb brushed lightly across the back of Bucky’s hand—still holding on, still tethered.
Bucky’s breath caught. He hadn’t let go yet, couldn’t. He looked down at their joined hands like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Then his voice, barely more than a breath: "I needed something real."
The words fractured the space between them, a sharp and delicate truth that trembled with weight. Something more than longing. Something more than just a need to be touched. It was survival, condensed into contact.
Buck didn’t smile. Not quite. But the corner of his mouth twitched, and his grip tightened for a second before he slowly, deliberately, let go.
They stared at each other for another long moment—caught in the eye of something too big to name—before the spell broke. Together, they stepped out of the shadows and back into the lives they’d been assigned. Back into the armor of duty and silence.
What had happened would never be spoken of. But it would not be forgotten.
That kiss, that touch—they had become a part of them now, as real as any scar. A memory tucked away, burning quietly beneath the surface. Not lost. Just buried.
Out of reach. But never gone.
July 8, 1943, Thorpe Abbotts, England
Bucky’s POV
The mess hall was its usual cacophony of scraped trays, shouted jokes, and clattering silverware. But Bucky paused in the doorway, tray in hand, because what he saw didn’t match what he expected.
Buck was already seated. And he wasn’t alone.
Across from him, Curtis Biddick was animated in that way only he could be—small in stature, loud in presence. He was talking with his hands, miming something clearly absurd, judging by the grin splitting Buck’s face. Buck was leaning in, nodding, listening. His usual guarded composure had cracked into something soft, amused, wholly present.
Bucky felt it in his chest—a curious ache he couldn’t quite place.
Curtis laughed at something Buck said, and Bucky’s eyes were drawn to it. The laugh. Not the joke, not the punchline. Just that sound. Bright and unfiltered. It lit up Curtis’s face like a flare. And it was stupid, Bucky thought, that he noticed things like the way Curtis’s lashes caught the light, how his nose scrunched just slightly when he laughed, like he was always trying to rein it in and never quite could.
He shouldn’t be looking. Shouldn’t be feeling.
But he was.
Buck looked good like this—lighter. Not undone, but unburdened. And Bucky liked it more than he wanted to admit. Liked seeing Buck laugh because someone else had dragged it out of him. Liked watching the way Buck’s hand hovered near Curtis’s tray, like he might reach over and fix something without even thinking.
There was care there. Real, visible care.
And suddenly Bucky didn’t know if he was jealous of Curtis for sitting in Buck’s orbit, or of Buck for being able to look at Curtis like that.
He moved toward them, slower than usual. Tray heavier than before. That laugh—he wanted to hear it again. Wanted to be close to whatever warmth had made it happen.
Even if it meant sitting across from something he couldn’t name.
Even if it made everything more complicated.
He hovered a beat too long beside the table, uncertain if he should intrude on something that seemed, inexplicably, sacred.
Curtis spotted him and grinned wide. "Hey, come on, we saved a seat! You always this slow or just when you know I'm funnier than you?"
Bucky blinked, momentarily disarmed. "I haven’t seen the proof yet."
Curtis scooted his tray over and patted the empty space beside him. “Sit down and get ready to be dazzled, Major Egan.”
Bucky slid into the seat, the nervous flutter in his chest louder now. Curtis turned back to Buck to finish whatever story he’d been telling, and Bucky listened. Closely.
He found himself laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn’t that good. Making comments he hoped would earn him one of those laughs—the laugh. And when Curtis did laugh at something he said, Bucky felt it all the way to his fingertips.
It was attention. But not just that. It was warmth. Curtis had that in spades, and Bucky wanted to be on the receiving end. Wanted to be looked at the way Curtis looked at Buck—eyes bright, face open, like everything said was the most interesting thing in the world.
Bucky didn’t know what to call this thing curling up in his chest, just that it was new and wild and tethered to Curtis’s grin.
He stayed long after his food had gone cold.
And when Curtis bumped his shoulder on the way out of the mess, laughing at something Bucky had tossed off as a joke, Bucky felt it like a spark.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted.
Only that he wanted more.
July 9, 1943, Thorpe Abbotts, England
Buck POV
July 9, 1943, Thorpe Abbotts, England Buck’s POV
Something had changed in Bucky. Buck couldn’t place exactly when it had happened—somewhere between landing at Thorpe Abbotts and surviving those first brutal missions—but the shift was undeniable.
At first, Bucky had simply tolerated Curtis, letting him sit near them, letting him speak without too many jabs or interruptions. But lately, it wasn’t just tolerance. Bucky had started seeking Curtis out. He lingered longer at the bar when he saw Curtis already there, angled his chair toward him, teased him like they’d known each other for years, and—more recently—gravitated to his side with an ease Buck hadn’t expected.
It wasn’t unwelcome. If anything, Buck adored them both. But sitting back and watching them now—shoulders brushing, heads tipped together in shared laughter—he realized with a strange clarity that it wasn’t just him and Bucky anymore.
Somewhere along the way, they’d become three.
The bar pulsed with noise and warmth, officers clustered at worn tables, the clink of glass and the hum of jukebox music cutting through it all. And in the corner, at their usual spot, Curtis and Bucky were already well into their drinks and halfway through a story Buck had missed the start of.
Curtis was in his element, gesturing with flair, grinning so hard his nose scrunched, and leaning so hard on Bucky he was practically in his lap, laughing hard enough to make the table wobble. There was something magnetic about their dynamic—louder, freer than Buck was used to. And God, it suited them.
He watched for a second longer than he meant to, caught off guard by the ease between them—the casual intimacy, the laughter, the way Curtis’s hand brushed Bucky’s arm and stayed there. It was the kind of closeness that made something in Buck’s chest twist, not out of jealousy, but a strange, wistful ache he didn’t quite understand.
"Buck!" Curtis spotted him across the room and raised his glass. "Get over here before Bucky finishes the bottle."
Bucky turned too, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression before it softened into a smile. He shifted on the bench, making space between him and Curtis—not a lot, but enough. "You’re late," he called.
Buck threaded through the tables, his smile easing into place. As he slid into the seat beside them, Bucky nudged the bottle toward him.
"You drinking tonight or still playing mother hen?"
Buck shook his head, reaching for a glass but not pouring. "Someone’s gotta keep you two from setting the place on fire."
"No promises," Curtis said, his grin undimmed.
Their conversation rolled forward, the three of them falling into rhythm with practiced ease. Bucky told a story about a mechanic who’d rigged his bunk with coffee cans and fishing line. Curtis kept interrupting to ask absurd questions. Buck listened, occasionally chiming in, letting the sound of their laughter and banter fill the space between the sharp edges of his thoughts.
Outside, the moon hung low, pale and full, spilling silver light across the airfield.
"C’mon, Buck," Curtis said again, this time with a touch of pleading. "You gotta join us. Star gazing, remember? It’s a perfect night for it."
Bucky, leaning a bit too close, nodded, his hand sliding to Buck’s shoulder and squeezing. "Yeah, Buck. The stars won’t watch themselves."
There was an intimacy in the gesture, a casual claim Buck wasn’t sure how to respond to. The heat of Bucky’s palm lingered, and he could feel Curtis watching him too, waiting.
"Alright," Buck said quietly, the word slipping out before he’d fully thought it through. He wanted to be out there, under the open sky, with them.
They stepped into the night, Curtis bounding ahead, arms wide to the sky. Bucky hung back with Buck, his hand still ghosting across his back.
The world outside was hushed and open, the stars above sharp as nails in the dark velvet sky. Curtis dropped into the grass, flinging one arm behind his head, the other pointing upward.
"That one’s Vega," he said, pointing. "Brightest star in the Lyra constellation. Pretty damn romantic for a war zone, huh?"
Buck laughed, quiet and surprised. Bucky eased down beside Curtis, patting the ground between them for Buck to join.
He did, slowly, lying back with arms folded under his head, shoulders brushing Bucky’s on one side, Curtis’s on the other.
For a moment, it was just the three of them. Breathing. Listening. Watching.
"This," Curtis said again, voice softer now, "is what we’re fighting for."
Bucky hummed in agreement, his breath stirring the grass. "He’s not wrong."
Buck didn’t say anything. He just lay still, caught between the warmth of their bodies and the cold clarity of the stars. He wasn’t sure what they were anymore, the three of them. But whatever it was, it mattered.
Maybe that was enough.
July 23, 1943, Thorpe Abbotts, England
The mess hall at Thorpe Abbotts buzzed with life—trays clattering, utensils scraping, voices overlapping in a rising hum of noise. It was the kind of chaos that had become routine, comforting in its own strange way. Buck sat at one of the long tables near the back, half-finished with his meal, tuning most of it out.
Until Curtis dropped down across from him, all grinning confidence and windblown curls, holding up a plate like it was a trophy. “Got the last of the apple crumble,” he announced with a smug little nod, already digging in before Buck could respond.
Buck smirked, ready with some wisecrack about Curtis always landing on his feet—but the words caught somewhere in his throat. He looked up, and the comment never made it out.
Curtis’ eyes caught the overhead light just so, their startling blue made even sharper against the gray fatigue of the day. Buck stared, a little too long. The noise of the mess hall dulled to a background blur. For a heartbeat, all he saw was Curtis—vivid and alive and startlingly present.
“You alright?” Curtis asked around a bite of crumble, raising an eyebrow. “Do I got somethin’ on my face or are you just admiring the cut of my jaw?”
Buck blinked and sat back slightly, heat prickling at his collar. “No, just… I never noticed how damn blue your eyes are.”
Curtis paused. Then he grinned, slow and sharp. “They’ve always been this color, flyboy. You just don’t look at me enough.”
Buck rolled his eyes, trying to shake the tension with a laugh, but the moment lingered, charged and unspoken.
Before he could reply, a tray clattered down beside him. Bucky slid into the seat at Buck’s side, eyes flicking between them with the ease of someone who had already noticed more than he was letting on. “What’d I miss?”
Curtis leaned back, still smiling. “Your boy here was just complimenting my baby blues.”
Bucky shot Buck a sidelong look, amused and unreadable. “Well, he’s not wrong,” he said, casual as ever. “They’re kind of disgusting, aren’t they? Like a poster boy for apple pie and baseball.”
Curtis barked out a laugh, shoving Bucky’s shoulder lightly with his own. “Takes one to know one, Major.”
Buck watched them, the way they moved around each other, easy and warm. It felt like watching a dance he used to know all the steps to—until now.
He cleared his throat and nodded toward the half-eaten crumble. “So,” he said, voice lighter than he felt. “Did you charm the cook or just elbow a chaplain?”
Curtis grinned like he had a secret. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Bucky laughed, low and quiet, and for a moment Buck let himself laugh too—because it was easier than admitting the rest.
July 24, 1943, Ireland
Curtis POV
The sky was a bruised stretch of gray above them, low and heavy with rain that hadn’t fallen yet. The hum of dying engines stuttered and coughed behind him like a man too proud to admit he was bleeding out. Curtis gripped the controls of Muggs’ like a lifeline, the metal beneath his fingers hot, shaking. His voice was steady as he called instructions to his crew, but his mind was fraying at the edges.
They were supposed to be home by now. Trondheim had turned into a goddamn hell run—cloud cover too thick, flak bursting like thunderheads, German fighters swarming like flies. Halfway across the North Sea, one engine gave up. Then another started choking. And still, he kept flying.
He didn’t care about glory or medals—he cared about bringing them home. That was the job. That was all there was.
Now, low over the fields of Ireland, trees skimming too close, Curtis spotted a sliver of clearing—a field, maybe a farm, with rows of vegetables neat as pins. It would have to do.
“Hold on,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
In the final seconds, everything slowed: the way sunlight broke through the clouds in golden shards; the soft, rhythmic breathing of the men around him; the deafening silence in his own head. His hands moved without thought—muscle memory and sheer will carrying them through.
The landing was chaos. Earth rushed up. Metal screamed. Glass shattered. And then, suddenly—stillness.
Curtis’s chest rose and fell in quick bursts. His heartbeat slammed against his ribs. He didn’t even realize his hands were still clamped on the yoke until someone called his name.
“Curt? You with us?”
He blinked. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, I’m here.”
They were alive. All of them. Goddamn miracle.
He stumbled out of the cockpit into knee-high cabbage. The absurdity of it hit him in a wave. A goddamn vegetable patch. After everything, they’d landed in someone’s dinner. He doubled over and laughed—not because it was funny, but because if he didn’t laugh, he might scream.
And then the weight of it all caught up. He dropped to sit in the dirt, head tilted back, staring at the sky. Muggs sat behind him, scarred and broken but intact. The crew’s voices floated over in a muddle of disbelief and celebration.
But his thoughts drifted somewhere else.
Buck. And Bucky.
The memory of Buck’s quiet steadiness, his eyes always watching, always calculating. The feel of Bucky’s hand on his back two nights ago, lingering like it belonged there. The sound of Buck’s voice when he teased him. The way Bucky looked at him now, like Curtis was something he wanted—something more than a drinking buddy or a co-pilot.
Would they understand this moment? Would they know that in those final seconds, when he thought he might die, it wasn’t just his mother or crew he thought of—it was them?
He wanted to tell them. To sit between them at the bar again, feel the heat of them on either side. Wanted Bucky’s snide little grins and Buck’s slow, grounding smile. Wanted—something. Something real. Something to hold onto.
Curtis glanced at the plane, then back at the cabbage.
He huffed a breath. “Bet that farmer’s gonna be pissed.”
And still, somehow, he smiled.
Tomorrow, he’d make his way back to Thorpe Abbotts. Back to the boys. Back to the mess and the mayhem and the small, burning truth he didn’t know what to do with.
But today, he was alive.
And for now, that was enough.
July 24, 1943, Thorpe Abbotts, England