Chapter Title: Everything Changes
Author: Sam
Story: The Omega Trials: 14 of ?
Series: The Omega Rights (part two)
Setting: AU: April 14 - 18, 1943; Factory in New Jersey, Manhattan, New York, and Brooklyn, New York, United States of America
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Translations:
Cariad - Love - Welsh
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Setting: AU: Wednesday, April 14, 1943: Factory in New Jersey to Manhattan, New York, United States of America
Sounds of machinery running and the dull clanking of metallic tools against solid metal rose so loud that individual chatter would have been pointless. Every large room, some tall enough to rise two stories, held various plane parts to be assembled. Most of the workers, almost a year and a half after the Americans had joined the war, were female and a good number were of African descent. In a workforce which had been exclusively male and almost exclusively Caucasian, a light skinned man had become a rarity. Most able bodied men had either volunteered for military service or been conscripted.
One of the few remaining men stood on a tall ladder, the heavy riveter vibrating almost painfully with each thick piece of metal driven through the metal plates. He worked steadily, keeping up with those around him, concentrating wholly on his work despite the exhaustion from pulling extra shifts. Pay increases had happened across the board due to increased production during the war, as well as lucrative war contracts for weapons, planes, and other vehicles and supplies, but any extra cash flow could help - - the regular pay check went to daily expenses and savings in the bank; the extras went to paying for medical expenses and all the classes they could for Steve.
Bucky, dressed in overalls with a bandana around his neck, thick gloves on his hands, wiped his long sleeve against his forehead to get rid of the sweat and began once more to drive metal rivets through plane fuselage. He worked hard to support his secret husband since Steve was never healthy long enough to be able to hold down a job, and the lanky brunet never begrudged the artistic training he paid for with those extra hours - - he'd told Steve more times than he could count that once Steve became a famous artist, they could both sit back and breathe. For the moment, Bucky was the breadwinner, and he would make sure Steve got the best of everything; the smaller man deserved a good life . . . even if for now it meant long shifts and late returns home.
Pausing long enough to wipe his forehead again, Bucky became aware of a man's voice below him, calling up "Barnes!" Glancing down, Bucky tilted his head, and the floor supervisor signaled the brunet to come down from the ladder.
With a small frown, Bucky secured the piece of machinery and descended the ladder. "Sir?" He pulled a rag from the back pocket of his coveralls and wiped the sweat from his face. He removed the thick gloves and tucked them in his other back pocket, replacing the rag once more.
The supervisor gestured the young riveter to follow and turned, leading Bucky down the aisles of the room, into a narrow corridor, and up a flight of steps. They ended in the office where the man, dressed in a white, button down shirt and black, pressed trousers, with a dull grey tie, picked up a telegram from his desk. "This came for you, Barnes," the man said with an odd note in his voice.
Carefully, Bucky took the slip of paper, curious as to who in the world might be sending him a telegram. He read the missive quickly, grey-blue eyes widening. Glancing at the other man in the small office, Bucky looked back at the paper and swallowed, rereading the information enclosed.
Not looking at the employee, the supervisor immediately proved he had read the telegraph when he said "I'm arranging for you to receive payment for the rest of the week's shifts you've taken, Barnes. But come Monday, I'll have someone else in your spot, so don't worry 'bout me. Go take care of business and go home to your wife."
The glint of dull gold on Bucky's left finger flashed slightly as the younger man carefully folded the telegram with shaking hands. "Yes . . . sir."
Finally looking at his worker, the supervisor nodded. "Look, I know you don't talk much about your family life, Barnes, but you never signed any benefits papers for your wife. I could arrange for some money for her until you get some money coming in . . . but she has to be listed on your file. And I know she's not a well woman." The man cleared his throat, "and if she's with child, man, you'll be glad for the ready cash while you're away."
Bucky drew a deep breath and shook his head. Softly, he said "can't claim someone I didn't marry in church, Sir." He kept his eyes down, knowing that the older man would think unkindly of Bucky's supposed mistress . . . that was safer than anyone finding out that Bucky had traded vows with a man.
"I see." The man cleared his throat and flushed. "There's time before Friday, Barnes. It can be arranged real quick. Then you won't leave her unprotected."
With a shake of his head, Bucky blurted out a painful lie to protect the delicate truth, "Religious differences, Sir."
"Oh," the man's green eyes widened but he merely nodded. "Well, I'll see your last check gets sent around to your mother's house, then? You don't have your own home listed on file."
"Mam will make sure to take care of the money just fine, Sir. Thank you." Drawing a deep breath, Bucky held out his hand, which the supervisor grasped willingly. "Thank you, Sir, for the extra pay. You sure I can't come back to work . . ."
"No! I wouldn't dream of it, Barnes. You go home and spend those last few days with your . . . uh . . . wife." The man apparently decided to ignore the lack of a wedding for such a good worker's private arrangements.
"Thank you, again, Sir." Bucky let go of his boss's hand and strode from the office. He made his way quickly to the room he'd stored his lunchbox, hat, and coat in. Slipping the hat onto his head and pulling the coat over his overalls, Bucky left the factory to catch the noontime train, something he'd only done before when he'd been told Steve was incredibly ill. Once Bucky boarded the ferry back to New York, he let his head hang down, feeling the breeze from the bay flutter over his hat, trying to pull the thing from his dark curling hair. He needed another haircut.
With a twisted chuckle, Bucky shook his head, took off his hat, and ran his work-dirtied hand through his hair, enjoying the feel of the breeze off the water. Slipping the hat back on his head, the twenty-six year old man leaned against a bulkhead, looking out over the bay as they got closer and closer to the dock. He didn't have to worry about a hair cut for long. That would be one of the first things taken care of, wouldn't it?
After the ferry docked, Bucky walked a few blocks up-street into Manhattan and quickly turned towards a small, nondescript office he'd only ever gone into once before. The lithe man strode into the building and over to the small desk, a volunteer in khakis lifting her head with a small smile.
Her eyes widened at the sight of the attractive man and she laughed softly. "Hey, I remember you. You took your medical paper!"
Even after all those months, the WAC still remembered him? Bucky groaned and pulled out his telegram. "Well, I need another one, please." For once he didn't feel like flirting with a random female, but he offered a pleased smile anyway. Tata had always taught him that he'd get more by being everyone's friend than any way else. "You've gotten your hair styled?" he asked with a wink, and she giggled. Bucky had no idea if her hair even held the same color; he hadn't actually paid attention that day she'd insulted Steve. But after sixteen months, it was almost a guarantee that the WAC had a different hairstyle from last time.
She nodded and touched her hair then offered him a medical form. "You volunteering now?"
"No, I got a telegram," Bucky said as he reached for the medical form.
She pulled it back and frowned. "I'll need to see the telegram then, please."
Bucky handed over the folded paper. After she read it, she nodded and handed it back. "Take that to the bursar at the end of the hall. She'll give you your ticket, Mister Barnes." When he took the paper her eyes widened and a look of sympathy crossed her face. "How's your wife taking it?"
With a glance at his left hand, and Steve's ring, Bucky frowned. "Don't know. I haven't gotten to get home yet. Came straight from work."
Surprise washed through the man as the WAC grabbed him suddenly and kissed his cheek, her strong floral perfume wafting over his clothes and hair. "Well, I think she'll be proud and scared for you . . . soldier." She wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.
"Thanks," he answered, untangling from her arms. Bucky turned and walked down the hall and into the indicated office, the WAC falling from mind as quickly as she'd forced her way in. With a deep breath, Bucky reminded himself that if this didn't take too long, he might get home at a reasonable time that day: the streetcar never ran late enough for his normal night return when they threw him off the conveyance coming from the Manhattan Docks, forcing him to walk about halfway across Brooklyn.
Inside the office, the bursar glanced up and nodded. "Telegram or medical clearance, please."
Taking a breath and nearly gagging on the strong floral scent . . . 'did all these office women wear heavy scent?' . . . Bucky handed over the folded slip of paper.
Taking the page, the woman glanced over it and nodded. She pulled out a sheath of papers and said "please sit, Mister Barnes."
Forcing back a groan, Bucky sank into a chair and took his hat off. He could tell he'd be late again that night . . . that stack of papers promised as much.
xxx
Setting: AU: Wednesday, April 14, 1943: Brooklyn, New York, United States of America
Steve smoothed out a wrinkle on the practically immaculate bedding, having remade the bed three times, and ran a nervous hand through his blond hair. The last several weeks had been tough; Bucky always seemed to get home late from work, because the brunet insisted on the extra hours. By the time the small man's husband got home he'd be too exhausted to do much of anything. Steve clutched the golden wedding ring that hung from the chain around his neck and ran his fingers around the smooth surface.
Turning the knob softly, afraid to wake Steve, Bucky opened the front door carefully. He slipped into the apartment, his face pale and contorted with worry, the vivid red lipstick. smeared a bit but standing out against his pallor in two different locations on his right cheek. His overalls were rumpled, as usual, and this time he'd apparently forgotten to remove his work bandana, bright red around his throat. Bucky knelt to remove his work boots.
Jumping slightly at the sound of the door opening, Steve hurried from the bedroom and went to greet his husband. Immediately, the blond could tell something was wrong, Bucky looked concerned. However, the small man's eyes seemed to lock on the bright red smudges on the brunet's cheek.
The brunet stopped stock still at the sound of Steve's footsteps. He looked up and offered a small frown to his husband then sighed. "Steve . . . I thought you'd be in bed by now." He neatly placed his boots beside Steve's outdoor shoes then stood. He turned to slide out of his coat, hanging that and his hat up. A waft of perfume eddied from the coat, coming to Steve's nose and alerting his ever strong olfactory sense. Bucky headed for the sink, reaching for the pot to fill with wash water.
Steve's nose scrunched up at the sweet floral smell, it nearly made the small man gag. "Work late again, Buck?" The blond asked as he walked into the all-purpose room.
"No," the brunet sighed and put the pot on the stove to heat. "I've been let go with pay until late Friday to cover the remaining shifts I promised to work this week." His voice sounded far away, upset, almost defeated.
"Let go?" Steve asked, brows pulling in, "What happened?"
"My floor supervisor told me he'd have someone in my spot come Monday, but he wanted to make sure that I had money to help cover the time without." He looked at Steve.
"Bucky you aren't making any sense," Steve stated, his tone rising a little in frustration, "Why did he have to let you go in the first place? I thought you were doin' good?"
"Of course I was doing good, Steve. I never slack. He did mention that I had to take off from work a bit for my sick wife," Bucky rolled his eyes. "He sounded worried I'd leave you without money. Even wanted me to marry you by Friday."
"Leave me?" Steve questioned.
"Yeah, but," Bucky's mind wasn't fully on this late night conversation. "I told him we had religious differences so couldn't marry in church. He wanted me to fill out papers for you, but dropped it when he found out we couldn't marry." It was hard to concentrate through his exhaustion . . . his fears for the future, for Steve when Bucky had to go.
"So what? You get fired and then you go where? Why not come home?" Steve scowled, his arms crossing over his small chest.
Turning to look at Steve, puzzled, Bucky titled his head just a bit. He shrugged. "I went to . . . wait . . . are you mad at me? I told you, it wasn't my fault. My work's good."
"Didn't say it was your fault," Steve snapped, "But I still don't understand why, if you got laid off, you came home so late . . . smelling like someone dumped a bottle of perfume on you and with red lipstick on your cheek."
Blinking stupidly at the accusations, Bucky shook his head, looking puzzled. "Lipstick?" He headed towards their bedroom to check what the hell Steve was talking about. At the sight in the small shaving mirror, Bucky groaned. "Damn . . ."
Having followed Bucky into the bedroom, Steve snorted, "Didn't get rid of all the evidence, did ya, Buck?"
"Evidence?" He frowned at Steve.
"I ain't stupid, Bucky!" Steve seethed, trying to keep his voice down to avoid waking the neighbors. "You have lipstick on your face and smell like women's perfume!"
"Yeah, I can smell it. It reeks," Bucky agreed tiredly. He headed back into the kitchen as if there was nothing wrong with having all this evidence of a lady's attention on him. "I can wash it off. Don't worry about it."
"Dammit, Bucky!" Steve snapped, throwing his arms in the air. "Have you really been working late all these nights . . . or has something else been going on?"
"What? Of course I've been working late!" Bucky whirled from the stove to stare at his husband in surprise. "Where else would I be?"
"Stop playin' dumb, Bucky!" Steve growled, his small frame shaking in anger, "Whose perfume and lipstick is that?"
Shaking his head and whirling back to the stove, Bucky sighed. "I didn't actually ask for their names, Steve."
Steve let out a low growl from the back of his throat, "You know what? I'm done."
Bucky whirled back, shocked by the large sound coming from his small husband. 'Done? Done what?"
"Done with whatever the hell this is!" Steve snapped.
"What is this, Steve? I get home after one of the worst days of my life, and I get the third degree like some criminal? All I want is to wash this shit off and get some sleep with my husband."
Too caught up in his anger to completely register all of Bucky's words, Steve shook his head and stomped towards the door. The small man grabbed his coat and began to shove his arms into the sleeves.
"Whoa!" Bucky reached over and grabbed his small lover. "What the hell, Steve? Where are you going? It's almost midnight!" He held Steve's arm in a firm, but not painful, grip.
"I don't care!" Steve said, his voice finally starting to quaver as his eyes shone with tears. "I can't be in the same house as you right now . . . I can't sleep in the same bed knowing you've been with someone else tonight, Bucky! I just can't."
"What the hell?" Bucky felt totally lost. He normally loved Steve's wild imagination, but the brunet didn't have the brainpower in his exhausted state to figure this out. Shaking his head and taking a wild guess . . . it was the only subject that Steve had gotten really pissed about before . . . Bucky said, "I didn't ask for it, Steve! I spent the day arguing with them and finally had to give in. What did you want me to do? Run to Canada?"
"What are you talking about?" Steve snapped as he roughly pulled his arm out of Bucky's grip.
With a slow blinking of his pale blue eyes, Bucky reached beyond Steve to his own coat and pulled the rolled copies of his forms from the long pocket. He fished in for the folded telegram, too. "The Army, Steve. Did you want me to refuse the Army? You were the one who wanted me to serve if I could," he bitterly snapped, thrusting the roll into Steve's hands and turning, not seeing the small folded single sheet flutter to the ground. Bucky stormed into the bedroom, leaving the warming pot of water on the stove.
Steve stared at the papers in his hands for several long moments. No, the small man thought, no this can't be happening. Bucky can't be drafted!
The blond saw a piece of paper on the ground and knelt down to pick it up. He glanced at it and his heart seized.
James B. Barnes, you are conscripted to active US Army. Report to Manhattan office to sign papers and receive train ticket this day. Report to Fort McCoy, Wisconsin Monday, April 19, 1943 no later than 0800 hours.
Feeling his throat tighten, Steve's heart began to beat rapidly in his chest and his lungs seemed to struggle to properly work. His breathing came in short, raspy gasps and Steve collapsed against the wooden door, hitting the solid surface hard.
Hearing the loud thump, Bucky sprinted out, worried about his lover even if they were fighting. "Steve?" His coveralls were unzipped around his waist since he'd been stripping down.
At the sound of Bucky's voice, Steve's breathing got even worse. He couldn't even seem to make his lungs try to take a breath. The blond tried to call out to his husband but the sound came out as a strangled gasp.
"God, Stevie!" No . . . no, no, no . . ." He dashed to the boiling water on the stove and pulled it off the burner, putting the pot on the floor. Then he pulled off his undershirt and tossed it over Steve's head, forcing the smaller man over the steam of the pot, supporting him with strong arms. "God, no, Stevie! Breathe, baby, breathe."
Shaking his head wildly, Steve could feel his lungs begin to burn, and black dots adorned his vision.
"Damn it, baby!" Bucky had to leave the smaller man on the floor as he ran from the apartment and down to the landlord's apartment at the back of the shop. "Help! Please!"
As quickly as he could, Bucky brought back their landlord. "He's not breathing. Please, I need to get him to Saint Mary's!"
The man nodded. "We can take my auto. Pick him up." Their landlord, usually a man who ignored them since they had always been good tenants, turned off the stove Bucky had forgotten to tend to.
Bucky scooped up Steve and cuddled him close to his chest. "Breathe, Stevie . . . just breathe."
Weakly Steve grasped at Bucky's bare shoulders, his breathing didn't even out and his eyes unfocused before rolling to the back of his head and sliding closed.
The landlord ran out to start up his car and Bucky carried his husband into the vehicle. Thankfully it was late in the evening, as there was little to no traffic to interfere. They reached a hospital shortly, though it was not their regular hospital. Bucky laid Steve on the assigned bed as the landlord told the nurse at the bedside that the "boy just collapsed right down. Not breathing I think. His brother came and got me."
The brunet didn't even bother correcting the man. Rather, he watched as the doctors began to work on the small man, struggling as nurses began to push the tall man from the room. "No!"
The woman in charge shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mister Barnes. We need to take care of our little brother. You wait here." And she shut the door to the room they'd taken Steve to.
In the early morning hours, the nurse finally let Bucky back into the room. Their landlord had left almost as soon as they'd shut the pair out, so the brunet was on his own. He immediately sank into a chair beside Steve and took his hand, watching him intently. He had no idea how they'd fixed his breathing this time, but Bucky wasn't about to question such a gift.
"Bucky . . ." Steve muttered, his voice raspy and small. The blond still had his eyes closed.
"God, Stevie! You terrified me!" Bucky sobbed, pulling Steve's hand to his mouth and kissing the fingers gently. In the time he'd been waiting, the brunet had cleaned up and zipped his coveralls back on, but he still wore the bandana.
Finally Steve opened his eyes, although they were half-lidded, and turned his head to look at his lover. "I'm . . . sorry, Buck. Didn't . . . mean to get . . . mad. Don't . . . want ya to leave me." The words were slurred and they barely came out coherently.
Sobbing softly, Bucky kissed Steve's hand again. "I don't wanna leave, Stevie. I ain't got a choice. In times of war, disobeying the military is treason. And they execute people for treason." Bucky reached over his other hand to stroke Steve's blond hair out of his face.
"Not . . . that." Steve murmured, "Don't . . . want ya to find . . . someone else. You . . . deserve . . . more."
"More?" Bucky shook his head. "I couldn't possibly get someone better than you, Steve," he whispered, bending low so they weren't overheard. "Why would I leave you?"
"Weak." Steve said, "I'm weak. I'm sorry, Bucky." The small man raised a shaking hand and ran his thumb down the side of his lover's face, the tip barely caressing the skin. "You . . . deserve someone strong."
Anger flared in Bucky's eyes. "Do you love me? Do you respect me?" His voice remained low, but it was a near growl of offense.
The blond nodded, eyes widening slightly at the low noise, "I love you, Bucky. You know that I do."
"But you don't respect me?" he asked, frowning fiercely.
"Of course . . . I respect you!" Steve stated, his voice seeming to even out the longer he stayed awake.
"Then can you show some respect for my choices? I'm not a stupid man, Steve, and I'm not a fool. If you want me to be happy, you'll accept that I love you and want to be with you." He shook his head and narrowed his eyes. "Unless of course you've changed your mind? I can't blame you . . . I'm no prize."
"Hey," Steve said, bringing his hand to rest under his husband's chin. The blond made sure to keep Bucky's gaze. "You're the prize. You're the only good thing in my life, Buck. I . . . I don't know what I'd do without you."
A sigh escaped the older man and he leaned over Steve, pressing their foreheads together. "Steve," he whispered, "I wanna stay so bad with you. I love you so much." He closed his eyes. "I want to make sure you're okay."
Steve's eyes began to fill with tears again at the thought of Bucky leaving. The blond wrapped his arms around the brunet's neck and pulled himself closer. The smaller man breathed in Bucky's scent and let out a loud sob, his body convulsed with the force of it.
"Stevie," Bucky softly said, "we gotta think of the future, okay? Stay with me, Cariad. I need to know you'll be okay." He pulled away enough to look down at the smaller man. "Without my pay, you'll need a job . . . and I don't know anyone who's gonna hire you right now." His eyes shone with worry. "You'll lose the apartment and . . . well, maybe you should let the apartment go while I'm gone. You can move in with Mam and the girls? Help them out and they can make sure you're okay?"
The blond hated the fact that his lover was right, no one would hire a sickly man. Most of the open jobs required a lot of physical labor that Steve had no way of doing. Also, the thought of being alone when Bucky left made the blond's chest ache. Steve nodded, avoiding his husband's eyes. "Yeah . . . okay."
Bucky hugged Steve fiercely. "I love you," he breathed in obvious relief.
Wrapping his arms around Bucky's neck, Steve rested his head on the brunet's shoulder. "I love you, too, Buck."
xxx
Setting: AU: Sunday, April 18, 1943: Brooklyn, New York, United States of America
Standing in the nearly empty bedroom of their small apartment, Bucky finished tying his tie and smoothed his jacket. He glanced over the room at the small box sitting on their stripped bed for the clothes Steve still had to pack. In the all purpose room was their other bed, waiting to be stripped and packed, as well as the dishes and cooking supplies. Everything else they owned had already been taken to Winifred's house. In the morning, the apartment would no longer be their home.
Sighing, Bucky turned to look at his husband. He could see the shadows of strain on Steve's face; they had been there ever since Wednesday when Bucky had come back with the news he'd been drafted. Unfortunately, spending the ensuing four days wrapped up with his husband had been out of the question; the brunet had been too busy setting things in order so that Steve could move in with Winifred Barnes and still get medical care and art training . . . despite the blond's initial attempts at dropping the classes. Bucky had insisted, and surprisingly so had Winifred.
Thus, the couple had spent their last few days together planning, packing, and arranging things . . . and only their nights had been spent in each other's arms, loving and yearning. This night there would be no loving - - Bucky had to leave for the train station before five in the evening so he could catch the train to Wisconsin and a fifteen hour journey into a world of military training and warfront hell.
"Stevie? Cariad?" Bucky called softly to the smaller man, worried about the pallor which had settled on his twenty-four year old husband.
Snapping his eyes to meet Bucky's, Steve tried his best to smile, but the small man knew how pained it must've looked. "Yeah?" The blond asked.
"Don't come to the station with me, okay?" He watched Steve, memorizing the man's features, as if he hadn't already.
Steve's heart dropped and his hands, involuntarily, clenched into tight fists. "Why not? I want to see you off." He couldn't believe Bucky was taking away the last time they would see each other for a couple months.
Drawing a deep breath, Bucky shook his head. He stepped over to his small husband and took his thin shoulders in strong hands. "Because," the brunet whispered, "I can't say goodbye the way I want to in public, Stevie. And I want your last memory of me to be my kisses." He lifted the man's chin, searching his face.
Eyes welling with tears, Steve had lost count of how many times he'd cried over the last few days, the small man nodded weakly. "Oh . . . okay. I - - I guess I understand." Steve mumbled, his tone defeated and wrecked.
Bucky pulled his husband into a tight embrace, kissing him desperately and breathing into his mouth, "I love you so much, Cariad." He moved his face to nuzzle at Steve's neck, finding the scar from their first time . . . the first time he'd actually been inside his lover. With a soft kiss, Bucky caressed his lips over the raised pink flesh. "God, how I love you."
"I love you, Buck. I love you so much." Steve whispered into the kiss, not wanting to waste a single second of the brunet's lips on his own.
Finally, reluctantly, the taller man pulled away from the smaller. Without a word, he slid the wedding ring from his hand and switched it to the ring finger on his right, misery in his eyes. He lay his suddenly nude left hand against Steve's cheek and kissed him softly then pulled away, turned and grabbed the battered suitcase. Straightening, Bucky let himself from the apartment.
On the curb, he turned, put down the suitcase and saluted the man inside the second floor corner apartment, not looking for Steve, not wanting to lose his nerve at the sight of his lover. Picking up the case, Bucky began to walk down the road, trying to hitch a ride to Manhattan and the train station.
The small blond watched, with tears running freely down his cheeks, as his husband turned around the corner and out of sight. Steve shut the door and leaned up against the wood, the solid surface being the only thing keeping him on his feet. He let out a loud sob and quickly covered his mouth to muffle the rest of his outcries. Taking several deep breaths, Steve felt himself slowly regain control; however, his hands had begun to shake. He turned around and let his eyes wander across the nearly empty apartment; Becca's beau would be there in the morning to help move the last two pieces of furniture.
Taking another deep breath, Steve pushed off the solid wood surface behind him and shook his head. He could do this, Bucky would only be gone for a few months and then his husband would be back. The blond made his way into the bedroom to begin packing the last box of clothes, then he'd move into the kitchen to pack the last of the dishes. As soon as he finished he would go over to Winifred's, not wanting to be alone in the empty apartment that night.
xxx
Continued in Chapter Fifteen: The First Day of the Rest of His Life