Chapter Text
Seven months after the war ends, John is roaming about the house he shares with Gale, alternating between tidying up and puttering about the garage, tinkering with half-started, half-finished projects. He’s been lackadaisically putting time into them to pass the day while Gale was at work training the newest generation of pilots. John was still working on getting his feet underneath him, hadn’t been quite ready to pick up the mantle of Major again in the way Gale had once they’d settled here. Instead, he’s found comfort homesteading for the other man. He feels content to weed the garden, to fix the fencing that pens in their horses, to (slowly) learn to cook by having dinner ready for Gale when he arrives home. There’s no risk of machine guns, no bombs, no flak and no already-dead boys falling from the sky. It’s peaceful in a way he doesn’t expect, and Gale doesn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, he only seems pleased that John has found something he can pour his energy into.
He’s just putting another pot of coffee on (a meagre substitute for the alcohol he knows he needs to cut down on) when a knock at the front door startles him out of his reverie. A glance at the clock tells him its only quarter-to-four – Gale won’t be home for at least another hour, not that he would knock – but visitors here are an uncommon occurrence, as far from town as they are, and he can’t think who it might be. People don’t just idle on by here.
He makes his way from the kitchen to the foyer, shoving hard at his opposing instincts that seem to be a dreadful holdover from the war: to either hide from the unknown stranger on his porch, or the instinct to answer the door with a gun cocked and hackles raised. Instead, he tugs at the pleated window curtain and snatches a glance of his visitors: a middle-aged woman he’s certain he’s never met before, holding the hand of a small child, a little girl with blonde curls and a teddy tucked between her arms. Certainly not a threat. Likely just a lost tourist with her daughter in search of directions. He wrenches the door open immediately, a welcoming smile gracing his face. “Hello.” He says kindly.
“Hello. I’m looking for a Mr. John Egan?” The woman asks.
“Oh.” He says, surprise colouring his tone, simultaneously settled by the distinct lack of use of his rank and concerned that someone has made the trip this far to track him down. “Well, you found him. What can I help you ladies with?”
As he speaks, the child inches ever so slightly closer to the lady and twists her small fists into the fabric of the dress she’s wearing. The woman, for her part, nods like she already knew who he was and gives him an appraising once-over. He’s immediately aware that he answered the door in his work clothes from the garage and cringes at the engine oil and sweat stains on his shirt.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Egan. My name is Jane Samuels. I’m from the department of social services.” She holds one perfectly manicured hand out expectantly and he reflexively gives his own back to her. When she gestures to the little girl at her side, she adds: “This here is Grace. I believe you knew her mother, Sarah Miller?”
John did not, in fact, remember knowing a Sarah Miller, but the way she says it makes his heart start to pound in his chest and a ringing ignite in his ears. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he thinks he might have an idea where this was going. Seemingly unphased by John’s lack of answer, Jane carries on. “I hate to be the one deliver this news Mr. Egan, but Ms. Miller unfortunately passed away a couple weeks ago. Got tuberculosis, couldn’t shake it.”
John nods like it means anything to him, and stares down at Grace in front of him. Grace stares back, eyes wide and curious if slightly timid, but oh-so-familiar. “She never spoke of Grace’s father, not once from what I’ve been told, so it took some digging, but it turns out that she wrote your name on the birth certificate.”
The ringing in his ears jacks up to an all-time high. “I, uh…I’m, uh..” John tries to form words, but anything he might say is far from his brain, and any coherent words are lodged in his throat. He coughs and tries again, manages to tear his gaze from Grace, but still the best he can manage is a strangled “What?”
“Seeing as a birth certificate qualifies as a legal document, there shouldn’t be any paternity issues unless you were to raise concerns.” Jane barrels on, seemingly oblivious to the bombshell she’s just dropped on John. She continues to spout words about legalities that John doesn’t even register behind the static noise consuming his brain. He stares at the child, eyes boring into her tiny frame.
“I’m, uh—” He coughs again, “I’m a father?”
“Ah. She didn’t tell you. This must be quite a shock, then.” Jane says, tone sympathetic but firm and detached in a way that suggests she couldn’t actually care less, unless John puts up a fuss. “Why don’t you let us in to the house and we can discuss what’s next?”
John holds the door open obediently, automatically, and slides out of the way as Jane shepherds Grace inside. Distantly, he’s grateful that he cleaned up, that he took last night’s beer bottles out to the recycling and randomly decided that today was the day for dusting. Later, he’ll have the presence of mind to be grateful too that Buck is at work, that nothing here betrayed the fact that two men lived together beyond the easily explainable. Right now, though, his brain feels sluggish, like things are happening too fast and he’s not quite managing to keep up. Jane’s kneeling on the floor now, taking Grace’s coat and slipping her tiny shoes from her tiny feet. His heart is hammering in his chest and his breathing is quickening. “Uh, I’ll get us some coffee.” He forces out, and all but scrambles to get away from them to the kitchen.
He presses his face against the cabinetry and squeezes his eye shut, forcefully trying to control his breathing and slow down his heartrate. Jesus, he thinks. I’m a father. That little girl in there belongs to me. But in the intervening moments between now and the revelation on his porch, it doesn’t once cross his mind to question it. He supposes the blonde curls belong to her mother, and perhaps the round cheeks, but he sees himself plain as day in her eyes – his own reflected so perfectly back to him that there is no question of legitimacy. When his breathing evens out again, and the coffee has been poured, he stands in the doorway and reminds himself that he went to war, flew through walls of flak and lived through being a prisoner of war. If he can do that, he can manage to handle a social worker and his own child.
He finds them seated in the living room, Grace next to Jane on the couch, her small frame pressed as far into the cushions as she could be, with her worn teddy clutched to her chest. John’s heart gives a painful twist at the sight. What must she be thinking, being schlepped to a stranger’s house and being told he’s your father? To be so young and already know the pain of loss. At least he’d had the luxury of being a full-grown man before having to experience the full destructive spectre of grief.
“Thank you, Mr. Egan.” Jane says warmly as he hands her a steaming mug.
John sits in the chair across from them, settles in with his own mug and lets his gaze drift between them. “John, please. No one calls me Mr. Egan.” He says distractedly, feeling wrong-footed and lost. He almost asks her to call him Bucky just to infuse a sense of normalcy into all of this but opts against it when he realizes it could come off as immature. Perhaps Jane can sense that because she offers him wan smile and takes pity.
“Grace here is three. We’ve had her in the care of the state until we found you, so she doesn’t have much. From what we’ve been able to gather, when Ms. Miller discovered her… predicament… she came to America from England, where you would have erhm, known her, delivered Grace in New York and stayed there.”
“New York? She has nowhere else to go, then? That's why she’s here?” He asks, uncomfortable with the judgment hidden in Jane's tone.
Jane frowns, a displeased look stretching across her face. “Well, you are her father, John. She should be with family. But I suppose we could look into other options, foster homes and the like –”
“No! No.” John yelps, the sudden idea of parting with her equally as horrifying as putting her in a foster home. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, this has all just been quite a shock. Of course she can stay here. I want her to stay here.” The pinched look on Jane’s face smooths out into something softer, more understanding. “I only meant, well, she must have grandparents?”
“Ah.” Jane nods. “Ms. Miller’s parents want nothing to do with a child out of wedlock. You, sir, are her only family left.”
Jane lets him process the new information for barely a moment before carrying on. “As I am sure you know, Ms. Miller was a Wren, a member of the Canadian Women’s Royal Navy Service.” Jane huffs and adds, “God knows why a Wren was dallying with the Air Force boys. I always said it would lead them to nothing but trouble giving all those girls passes to London. Seems I was right.”
John blinks, startled by the jab. He’s already struggling to keep up and the morality lecture is extraordinarily unwanted, along with all the pointed digs at their unconventional situation.
“That is beside the point, however. You needn’t worry in regard to Grace’s citizenship, she was born in America to an American father. She is however, entitled to dual citizenship should she wish to have it.” Jane says this with a note of derision, as if being Canadian is akin to slumming it. It prickles at John.
“I served with Canadians. Kind, crafty men, the whole lot of them.” He says eyes narrowed, and Jane has the decency to look momentarily chagrined before continuing with her onslaught of information.
John nods slowly throughout, absorbing the gravity of the situation. For some inexplicable reason, he feels more nervous right now in his own living room than he did leaping out of failing B-17. Perhaps because it was only his life on the line, then. He looks back to Grace to find her quietly watching him back, and abruptly realizes that they haven’t yet spoken a word to each other. He winces, off to smashing start, Bucky, he thinks to himself sarcastically. Then, setting his coffee down, he tries to call upon all his experience with his younger sisters as a kid, and with his sisters’ children now, tries to shake off the shock and force an air of warmth and friendliness into his body language – no small feat with the conditioning of years spent at war.
He kneels before her, takes in the way her knees are tucked to her chest now and the teddy fisted in one hand.
“Hello, Grace.” He murmurs softly. “It’s very nice to meet you. My name is John. But,” he says and leans in, giving her a conspiratorial smile. “Everyone calls me Bucky. You can too if you like.”
She peers back at him and it’s like he can see the cogs turning in her brain, her evaluation of him. Her brow furrows and she squints down at him. “Bucky is a silly name.”
It’s an audacious remark, and it takes John by surprise. He lets out a delighted laugh and grins back at her. “Yeah, I guess it is, isn’t it?”
Grace cocks her little head and gives him something close to a shy smile, peering at him from under her eyelashes. John feels like his whole body feels like his body is going to melt. With her wide-eyed gaze peering at him over her knees, he knows without any shadow of a doubt that he is going to adore and protect this tiny child with everything he has for the rest of his life.
“Grace.” He murmurs to her again, and nods to the teddy, his smile gentling into something softer, more tender. “Who’s this?”
“My teddy.”
“Yeah? Does he have a name?” John asks.
She nods and whispers. “Bunny.”
“That’s a good name for a teddy, I’d say.” John nods at her with all the solemn seriousness befitting of a Major in the Air Force. “Wouldn’t you agree, Ms. Samuels?”
Jane smiles at the pair and nods, clearly feeling charmed by their interaction.
“Mommy got him for me.” She says, and again, her watchful gaze makes him feel like he’s being tested.
“That’s wonderful, darling.” Jane says, interrupting, and the slight dismissiveness of her tone immediately irks John. “I have a file here for you, John, with all the details we have. You’ll need to sign some paperwork, and then I can leave you two to get acquainted.”
John would have to be blind and deaf to miss the pointed cue at him to hurry things along. It doesn’t matter, though, because just like that, he wants Jane gone. He wants to get to know his daughter without the watchful eyes of a social worker, the formality of it all hanging over them with an uneasy air. He spares a glance and a nod for Jane, then turns back to Grace. “I know Mommy loved you very much, Grace. Why don’t you tell me more about her after we see Ms. Samuels out, alright?”
Jane smiles at Grace, satisfied, and instructs her, “You be good for John, alright, dear?”
When Grace doesn’t say anything back, Jane awkwardly nods her head and turns to John with the file folder she’d been clutching in her hand thrust out at him. When he takes it, he finds it dismally sparse. He grimaces – not much known about Grace and Sarah, then. As Jane makes her way to the front door, he distractedly leafs through the file, notes that her birthday makes her closer to four than three, then realizes that something is missing.
“Hey, wait!” John calls after Jane. “Do you, uh, have a picture of Sarah?
He immediately winces at the look that crosses Jane’s face. He realizes suddenly how that sounds – like he slept with a woman whose face he couldn’t be bothered to remember – and it’s the truth, though Jane doesn’t need to know that. Quickly, he tries to save face and explain, and hastily adds, “For Grace, not for me. So that she can have something of her mother, you know?”
Jane’s face smooths out in understanding sympathy again, and there is something irritatingly patronizing about it. He has the distracted thought that this lady seems extremely judgemental under a carefully constructed empathetic façade. “I’ll see what I can rustle up for her. I’ll be back in a couple weeks to check in, but in the meantime, should any issues arise, I can be reached at this address.” She says and hands John a business card.
“Wait, on that note, the Wrens, they all had trunks too, right? Could Sarah’s be shipped here? Grace should have whatever her mother left behind.”
“Mmm.” Jane acknowledges distractedly. “I’ll look into it.”
“Thank you, Ms. Samuels. Drive safely.” He says, but her back is already turned, and she’s headed down the driveway. Well, he thinks, alright then.
When he turns to head back inside to find Grace, he finds her already standing in the doorjamb, watching him carefully. “Oh, hello.” He says. “Looks like it’s just you and me, now, Grace.”
She peers up at him but doesn’t say a word. He watches her back and then says, matter-of-fact, “Well, you, me and Meatball, of course.”
Her head cocks to one side, blonde curls tumbling down her shoulder, and her tiny voice speaks up, questioning, “Meatball?”
“My dog.” John exclaims. “Meatball’s his name. He’s out back.”
“Mm.” Grace squints at him, then quietly curious, she asks, “A dog?”
“Mhmm.” John confirms, faking nonchalance and biting back a laugh. “Big and fluffy and likes to lick your face. You wanna meet him?”
Grace nods, a hesitant excitement now noticeable in her. John laughs his agreement and guides her back inside to settle at the kitchen table. He can’t help but notice that her three-year-old body is dwarfed by their kitchen chairs, her little feet dangling above the ground. Content to sit there with John in her eyesight, she watches as he opens their Dutch door that leads from the kitchen into the backyard and shouts for Meatball, offering promises of cheese and bacon to lure him inside.
A laugh bubbles out of him as the white figure of Meatball barrels past him, narrowly taking him out at the shins and going straight for his food dish. “Incoming!” He warns Grace, who’s eyes are trained on the door. As soon as he’s inside, Meatball spots her right away, and John only barely manages to grab hold of his collar and pull him away before he’d have been on top of her. Tail wagging, Meatball whines a cry and makes a failed attempt to buck John off.
“Settle.” John warns the dog. “Gentle, Meatball. Be gentle.”
Grace is watching them closely, but she doesn’t look nervous. Instead, she looks up at him, uncertainty in her eyes.
“Stick your hand out, darlin’.” John drawls, instructing. “Let him sniff it first and then you can pet him.”
She does as he asks while he holds Meatball in place, tail wagging and tongue lolled. Meatball snuffles into her open palm, presses his wet nose onto her skin and Grace lets out an involuntary giggle, pulls her hand back and looks up at John again with bright eyes. John grins back.
“He likes you.” John says. “Now you can give him some pets.”
In minutes, Grace has slipped from the chair and is on the floor with Meatball, instant pals. Meatball, for his part, is extraordinarily gentle with his daughter in a way John didn’t expect. He licks her face, like John predicted, but there is none of the rough housing he had expected from a dog socialized by war veterans. Instead, Meatball nuzzles against her and repeatedly rolls over for belly rubs to Grace delight.
Eventually, she looks up at him and whispers, “You like silly names, Bucky.”
“Oh, I do, do I?” He teases back.
“Uh-huh. Your name is Bucky, and you named him Meatball. That’s a silly name, too. He doesn’t look like a meatball.”
“No? I bet you’ll think differently after he jumps into a mud puddle! Then he’s just a giant, brown, howling lump with a wagging tail and a pink tongue.”
Grace giggles and scrunches the scruff of Meatball’s fur in her little fist, his head laid across her lap. John counts her laugh as another major win. “Besides.” He informs her, “I didn’t name him. My buddy did, based on his mud puddle adventures.”
Grace presses her face into Meatball’s neck and John feels like his heart might melt when he hears her solemnly whisper into his floppy ear, “Do you like mud, Meatball?”
They pass the rest of the afternoon away tucked together on the couch, with Meatball curled up at their feet and John regaling his daughter with stories from the hundredth’s escapades - those that are at least mostly kid friendly. As she seems to relax around him, he relaxes more too. Every time she snickers at one of his jokes or tilts her little face up to brave looking him in the eyes, he feels his heart skitter an extra beat and his breath catch in his chest. When the corners of her mouth tilt up as he’s telling her tales of Meatball’s trouble-making tendencies, John can’t keep the smile off his own face.
An hour ago, he hadn’t even known of her existence, yet now he couldn’t have parted with her even by force. He feels dizzy by the force of it. It’s painfully evident, though, that she’s worried he’s going to leave her. Every time he leaves the room – whether to get her something to drink, or just to answer the ringing phone – she’s either trailing behind him, a shadow on his heels, or he finds her standing in the doorway of the room, watching him.
“Bucky?” She whispers to him, as he finishes one of his stories.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Samuels says you’re my daddy.” She says it softly, not quite a question, but not a sure thing either.
“Well, uh, yes.” He tells her. “I am.”
“Oh.”
“Is that okay with you?” He murmurs, uncertain how to proceed.
She shrugs, noncommittal, and doesn’t look at him. “Mommy isn’t here anymore.”
“I know, sweetheart. I bet you miss her very much.”
Another shrug, but this time she reaches for Bunny and clutches the toy hard to her chest. John’s heart fractures at the sight.
“Grace. I know I’m not Mommy.” John murmurs, soft. “I know we just met, and that you must be very scared right now. But I’m going to look after you now, alright? I’m not leaving you. You won’t be alone. You hear me?”
She doesn’t answer him back, just tucks her head and gives a small nod. Bucky, in turn, thinks it might be best to keep her occupied and wracks his brain for something else to show her before it occurs to him to take her out to the horses. He slides his palms down his thighs and exclaims, “Alright, Little Miss. I got something else to show you, but you’re going to have to come with me.”
“Go where?” She asks immediately, eyes narrowed.
“Just outside. Not far, I promise.” John reassures.
She gives him a wary look and John bites back a laugh. “I promise, darling. You like animals, don’t you? My pal keeps a couple a horses here. You wanna meet ‘em?”
She shrugs, looking a little nervous but eventually nods, curiosity winning out.
“You don’t gotta pet them, we can just look if you like.” He reassures.
“Meatball come?” She whispers.
“I think he’d like that, wouldn’t you boy?” John agrees and drags a hand through Meatball’s fur.
On autopilot, John holds out a hand for her and after a moment’s hesitation, she accepts, slotting her tiny palm into his. The way his hand engulfs the entirety of hers makes something heavy and protective lurch in his chest. Her little fingers barely curl around the edge of his palm. He never wants to let go. He leads her back to the front door, shepherding Meatball at the same time and is holding the door open for her when he feels a gentle tugging on his arm. When he looks down at her, she’s peering up at him with a questioning look on her face, before her little voice asks, “Shoes?”
John takes in her stockinged feet and could kick himself. Shoes. Obviously. “Hm, good call, Little Miss.” He sits her down on their bench, manages to wrangle her shoes back onto her feet, and all the while she’s watching him struggle and smothering giggles as he attempts to figure out the straps of her Mary Janes. And decidedly not helping him. When shoes are on, and jackets too for good measure, she slots her hand back into his and they head for the horses.
John goes slow, trying to match his stride to her little steps. He’s got his hand neatly wrapped around hers as they walk with Meatball bounding ahead to lead them.
“We got three of ‘em, Grace. Names are Honey, Persephone and Whiskey. Real good horses, all of ‘em. Apparently. Or so Buck says. I don’t actually know much about horses, but I like this bunch.” He informs her as they walk closer to the pen.
He can spot them grazing from here, picturesque against the backdrop of the Wisconsin countryside. Grace spots them too, eyes trained on them as they get closer. John worries he might be pushing it by taking her out here so soon, so he squeezes her hand and reassures, “We’ll watch them from the fence for now, how’s that sound, huh?”
Grace looks up at him and voices her agreement with a soft, “M'kay, Bucky.”
When they reach the fences, he watches as Grace leans her body against the wooden beams and looks out for the horses. He in turn, squats down to her level and points out each one and repeats their names, adding amusing anecdotes in an effort to make her laugh. When she graces him with another shy giggle, he again can’t contain his own grin.
As the horses - Honey in particular - notice and start to approach them, he feels her little body tense up and nervousness rolls off her in waves. He reacts immediately; wraps an arm around her waist and gathers her close until she’s fit against his chest and tucked between his knees, murmuring, “It’s alright. They’re just coming to say hello.”
It takes a moment to realize what he’s done, but when he does his heart starts jackhammering in his chest and he freezes up, waiting for her rejection of his touch. When no rejection in fact comes, but instead he feels her small frame sag back against him, molding herself into the safety of his arms, for what feels like the millionth time this afternoon, John thinks his heart might melt right through him into a puddle on the floor.
He runs a warm palm up and down her jacketed arm, a circuitous motion he hopes she understands to be comforting. Then, as Honey gets closer, the gentlest and most curious of the three, he decides screw it, and picks her up until she’s situated on his hips with her arms looped around his neck. Something in his chest warms when she settles in against him, head dropped onto his shoulder as she watches Honey intently. The nervousness in her is gone, tucked as she is into John’s arms. With his free arm, he reaches out to smooth a palm over Honey’s nose and gets a snuffle in response, feels the heavy lean of the horse’s head into his hand.
“See? She’s just curious. Came to say hello. Wanna try?” John asks.
Grace shakes her no, her hesitation evident.
“Alright. That’s just fine, Grace. Another day, hmm?”
They stay out there for another several minutes, petting Honey and taking in the scenery while watching the horses before they make their way back inside. As they’re walking back, she asks, “Your horsies?”
“Ah, no. They’re my—my, uh, they’re Buck’s.” John winces, as he wonders how the hell one explains an illegal relationship to a three-year-old. Then he abruptly realizes that he hasn’t given the other man more than a stray thought since Grace showed up, and then thinks, what the hell is Buck gonna say when he finds out I have a kid now. He tries not to let his own uncertainty in regards their situation permeate his voice as he adds, “He lives here, with me. You’ll meet him when he comes home from work.”
Her little face scrunches up and she mumbles, “Buck.” All evaluating-like, then looks at him, questioning him. “Like you?”
John laughs and nods. “Yeah, Grace, like me. I nicknamed him that. He’s Buck and I’m Bucky.”
Inside, John manages to rustle up and make Grace a mostly not burnt grilled cheese sandwich and then as an afterthought, cuts up some of the strawberries that Buck picked up at the farmers market the day before. Grace seems unfazed by his lack of skill in the culinary department, and he breathes a silent sigh of relief.
When they settle back on the couch, Grace’s eyes start to drop and it’s not long before she’s drifting off, head tucked into his side. When the familiar rumbling engine of a truck and the crunch of tires rolling on gravel alerts John to Buck’s return home, he thinks about getting up and meeting Buck out on the steps preemptively to explain the situation. But when he looks down at his daughter tucked into his side, hair endearingly askew with her eyes shut and mouth slightly parted in sleep, he knows he physically cannot tear himself from her side any sooner than he must.
There’s also fear too, and he’s man enough to admit that that is probably partly contributing to his reluctance to face Gale. He’s desperate for Gale’s support because though he adores Grace already – did pretty much the minute he laid eyes on her – he knows he’s so wildly far out of his depth, here. He wants to do this together with Gale, but he’s also not stupid. A child was never in the cards for them, not even a conversation they had bothered to have seeing as the option was never on the table. He didn’t sign up for this and John knows it, couldn’t even rightfully fault him for wanting to leave the minute he learns of Grace’s existence.
And that’s the next part of this: John has a child from an affair with someone that wasn’t Gale, obviously. A living, breathing, constant reminder of John’s colorful past with women. He tries to remind himself that they didn’t get together until the stalag, and that Gale was very well aware of his many nights spent with women, and never judged him for it, either. It doesn’t seem to help. Rationally, he knows Gale is not one to hold a child responsible for the actions of the parent, but John’s insecurities still seep into his consciousness regardless.
Knowing he’ll have to face the music imminently, he traces a gentle hand down Grace’s spine, dragging his palm up and down her back and coaxing her gently from her nap. He figures she’d rather be awake and expectant of another person than wake to a strange man meeting her.
“Grace.” John whispers, softly. Her eyes blink open at him, blearily. “Time to wake up, sweetheart.”
“Bucky?” She mumbles and rubs a tiny fist into her eyes.
“Yeah, hi, honey.” He murmurs. “You remember I told you about my friend that lives here? He just got home. Thought you should be awake to meet him.”
He hears the telltale snick of the door opening, and then the slam shut, accompanied by a shout of “Bucky!” from the foyer. “I’m home! Picked up some—”
Gale is brought up short almost instantaneously as rounds the corner and sees the young child on their couch. His eyes widen perceptibly and his gaze flits from Grace to John and back again. John winces. “Uh, hello.”
“Hi, Buck.” John says.
A beat of silence passes, and finally Gale breaks it. “John, why do you have child with you?”
John turns to Grace and fishes Bunny from the depths of the couch cushions and hands him to her with a pat on the head as he rises and heads for Buck. Gale tracks the interaction, watching them both with a furrowed brow and confusion painting his expression.
“It’s kind of a long story, Buck. But the gist of it is that a social worker showed up here this afternoon and dropped her off. Her mother died and she’s here because—”
“Because she’s yours?”
“Uh, yeah.” John says, startled, and runs a hand through the hair at his temple – a gesture that belied the anxiety twisting in his gut. How in the hell did Buck figure that out so fast?
“You have a daughter?” Buck repeats, and the wide set of his eyes combined with the pull of a frown on his lips gives away his shock. Clearly Buck is equally as surprised as John himself was, only faster on the uptake.
“Uh, yes.” He confirms.
“And… her mother?” Buck questions.
“Erhm, uh.” John fumbles, feeling both uncharacteristically embarrassed (it’s not like Gale didn’t know about his frequent one-night stands, but this seems different somehow, and shame teases at his conscience) and wary of little ears listening in. He throws a glance over his shoulder to where Grace has her gaze concentrated on them and lowers his voice, owing Buck honesty before anything else. “A lot of drinks at a bar, a night I frankly don’t remember, and evidently a pregnancy I didn’t know about. Pre-Stalag Luft, obviously.”
Gale is silent as he absorbs this information, watching Grace watch him over John’s shoulder. Silence sits heavy between them, dragging and anticipatory. Eventually, John, on pins and needles waiting for him to say something, anything, breaks the quiet. “She’s mine, Gale. And she’s got nowhere else to go. I know I only just met her, but… I love her.” He murmurs lowly, and his voice breaks but conviction laces his words.
Gale’s head snaps over to his and their gazes meet, searching. For once, John feels unable to read him and the realization unmoors him. Is this the end of them?
“I- I need a moment, John.” Gale mumbles.
And then he’s gone, and John’s heart plummets to the floor in time with Gale’s footfalls echoing into the kitchen. There is nothing John can say now that the truth is out for them both. Either Buck will stay or he won’t, and John won’t force him to, one way or the other. It feels wrong not following after him, though, to leave Buck to flounder by himself in the face of this revelation. But it was evident in the haste that he left in that the moment he requested was one of solitude, so John would leave him be even as his instincts screamed for the opposite.
“He doesn’t like me?” Grace’s quiet voice wavers as she speaks, interrupting his spiraling thoughts and looking a moment away from tears.
“No. No, Grace. That’s not it. He’s just surprised is all.”
“I’m…surprise?”
“For him and I, well…yeah. We didn’t know you existed until today.”
Somehow, she looks even closer to the verge of tears. He feels like his foot is jammed into his mouth. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that. Should you lie to a child about things like this? John doesn’t know.
“You see, your Mommy and me…” John rushes to explain, and then abruptly realizes that that is the wrong way to start. “Well, I didn’t know that you were in her belly. I, I had to, uh, go away for a while, after I met your Mommy. I didn’t want to, but I had to. I didn’t have choice. Then when your mommy found out she was going to have you, she had no way to contact me. That’s why I didn’t know about you. And I was gone for a very long time.” There are a lot of holes in the story, and he tries not to cringe as he tells it, but at least it’s mostly true and hopefully suitable for three-year-old ears. He prays that she’ll accept it.
She blinks up at him, eyelashes clumped together with unshed tears and John wants to pull her into a tight hug, press her body against his chest until she believes he’ll never leave her. Instead, he settles for cupping his large palm onto her shoulder and meeting her gaze with gentle, reassuring eyes, before he murmurs, “Just because you were a surprise doesn’t mean I don’t want you here, Grace. Alright?”
He waits until she gives him a shaky nod before pulling his hand away and instead wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in to rest her little frame against his side. In the silence between them now, he can hear scuffling from the kitchen, and then Buck appears in doorway again, looking for all the world panicked and unmoored. John’s stomach drops.
“I’m, uh, gonna—” He cuts himself off, and throws a thumb over his shoulder in a gesture towards the front door. There is a strange urgency about him as he eyes Grace and John. “Need things, Bucky.” He mumbles, and then just as abruptly as the last time, he is gone again. This time, when the front door slams, and he hears the truck engine roar to life, John is dispiritedly expecting it.
This is what he was worried it would come to. Gale has no obligation to stay, not now. Any promises they’d made to each other before this, well, they were based on another set of circumstances entirely. Does that make those promises null? John supposes it doesn’t matter because he won’t fault Gale either way. He knows that Buck leaving will hurt him worse than anything he’s ever experienced – war included – but he won’t force him to stay. At least when he was at his lowest, he still had Buck. Steady, kind, reliable Buck who was a pillar of strength when he needed it most. Not just for him as he languished in the dull horror of the prison camp, but for the rest of the boys, too.
This is different, though. This isn’t a war with an end-goal, this isn’t dragging him through a brutally harsh winter until they see spring. This is the rest of their lives, day-in and day-out. And he can’t in good conscious coerce or guilt Buck into being his lighthouse in the storm.
Gale’s hands shake as he tries to get the keys into the ignition, and it takes three tries before the engine sputters to life. John has a kid. The thought spins round and round in his brain but the shock still hasn’t left him, and it doesn’t get any more real now than it was when John told him so. There’s a whole life out there that John made, that John is responsible for now. Because even if not much else is clear, that is something that’s painfully evident. Gale knows without a shadow of a doubt that Bucky will love and care for that child until the day he dies, though he only just met her. That’s just how John Egan works.
It is with absolute certainty that Gale knows two things: the first is that John will not part with his daughter from now on, nor would Gale ask or even want him to. The second is that Gale will not part with John, either, not for anything in the world. And the culmination of that means that Gale winds up with a daughter too. The thought terrifies him like nothing else, not even compared to minefields of flak and onslaughts of attacking Messerschmidt, or the consistent threat of trigger-happy Kraut guards. But beneath her blonde curls it was John’s eyes that peered intently back at him, and John’s dimpled cheeks that framed her features - which meant there wasn’t really a question for him, was there?
The heavy shadow of his own father hung over Gale in ways that most of the time, he was convinced he would never emerge from. When he ended things with Marge, the prospect of having children ended too and it wasn’t a concept that he truly mourned beyond the abstract, white-picket fence ideal that went up in smoke alongside their relationship. The truth was, there was a sense of relief that accompanied the thought: if he never had a child, the ghost of his own father could never hang over their children. The responsibility of keeping that from them became moot.
Now, though, that abstract future has become a swift and sudden reality. And despite everything Gale has done to chase his father’s ghost away - no booze, no bets, no smokes - he wonders if that’s truly enough. The fear of screwing up John’s daughter is enough to have him worriedly cataloguing his own dismal childhood and swearing promises to himself she’ll never experience what he did. It’s what drove him out of their kitchen and tearing down the driveway when the reality of this seemed to finally register for him: that from now on it wasn’t going to just be him and John, but him, John and a little girl - a little girl who needed the love and devotion that he’d never received.
Gale ended up at the first department store he stumbled across in their moderate town, but it wasn’t until he was actually inside did he realize how wildly out of his depth he was. What did three-year-olds need? He belatedly realized he didn’t even know if she’d brought anything with her. After painfully long minutes of deliberation and getting nowhere, he swallows his pride and tracks down a sales attendant.
He tries not to cringe through the whole interaction - it’s painfully obvious how new he is to this when he comes up blank on all fronts: the lady asks dozens of questions that he can’t answer. What size dress does she wear? He’s not sure, nor does he know her shoe size, or even her favorite color. To her credit, the sales associate takes it all in stride. He doesn’t bother to explain their complicated situation - that would bring up too many questions he’d rather not be asked - and instead lets her assume that he’s an uncle, home from the war for a long overdue meeting with a niece.
In the absence of his opinions, she hands him dresses and skirts in an array of pinks and yellows and whites until his arms are overflowing, then dutifully convinces him of the necessity of matching shoes. When he confesses to not knowing her shoe size, she hands him options for that of a three-year-old and reassures him that he can return those that don’t fit. When finally, he doesn’t think he can carry anymore, she rings him up with an easy smile and comments about how his niece is a lucky girl. In turn, he tries not to let his apprehension ruin her obvious joy.
When the sales associate asks what her name is, Gale’s heart sinks. He doesn’t know. He forgot to ask. He thinks about making something up but he’s not quick enough with it, and clearly it must be obvious on his face because the lady laughs good-naturedly and exclaims, “Oh, it’s a surprise for you? You must be excited! Perhaps your sister named her after you!”
He manages to make a choked sound of acknowledgement to her assumptions, even as his stomach twists itself in knots. Already he’s fucked something up. Perhaps John is better off without me, he thinks. He doesn’t doubt John’s ability to be a parent even for a second, but his own? That’s certainly in question.
Gale does his best to shake the melancholy thoughts from his head as he loads the bags into the passenger seat and instead tries to figure out where to get toys. Again, he caves and approaches an older lady to point him the correct direction. When he finally makes it to the toy store, he’s just as overwhelmed there as he was in the department store, if not more. He doesn’t have the first idea what little girls like to play with. He does, however, remember the stuffed Teddy that she gripped like a lifeline. He thinks of the softness and comfort of it and decides to start there. As he stands in an aisle staring at a plush dog, another bear and what looks like a knitted cat, he decides to buy them all rather than decide. Before he second guesses himself, he picks up three brightly colored picture books, too. On his way out he also snags a small doll and a soft pink blanket with yellow embroidered flowers stitched along the borders.
He adds those bags to the existing pile in the truck and as he climbs into the driver’s seat, abruptly realizes that the sun is sinking low enough on the horizon that it’s closer to night than it is to day. Fuck, he thinks, Bucky must be worried sick.
He breaks a few traffic laws on the way home, thoughts now consumed by Bucky and the little girl that’s turned their life upside down and less so by speed limits. The truck throws up a cloud of dust behind him as he pulls into their driveway and he expects Bucky to hear it and come running to the porch, but it remains quiet. The lights are on in the living room, though dim enough that Gale knows it must be just the lamps on, so he knows John is still awake. He gathers all the bags into his arms and treks up the front steps, uses his elbow and knee to press the door handle down without losing any of his load, then promptly almost bumps straight into Bucky as he enters.
As the day bleeds into night and Buck still hasn't returned home, John’s worry crawls back to the forefront. He’s got no idea where he is, no idea if he’s alright or not. He’s torn between giving Gale the space he so obviously wanted and going after him, needing the assurance that he’s not off on his own isolated and hurting. John’s fairly confident that Buck wouldn’t have holed himself up somewhere to drown in liquor, nor would find himself embroiled in bar fights – no, that’s more John’s forte. Instead, he worries himself sick that Gale is isolated and hurting and nursing a fierce resentment for John and his affairs of the past.
Just as he's thinking of throwing his daughter into the truck to comb the town and find Buck, the front door unlatches with a quiet click and through it spills a veritable mountain of bags, brimming with toys, clothes and food. Beneath it is Buck. Relief courses through him in a steady rush, the likes of which could touch that of their reunion in Stalag Luft III. John feels some of the tension ease from the taught line of his shoulders. He’s safe, he’s back, John thinks.
"Oh, thank God." John exclaims, tone dripping in worry as he leaps from where he’s sat to help unhand the bags from Buck. "You scared the daylights out of me, Buck, going off like that for so long.”
“I—” Gale stammers.
“I thought, I thought that you left. Like left, left. I know we've never talked about..." He trails off, caught off guard by Gale's expression. He looks profoundly lost in way that Bucky has never seen.
"She... she needed toys.” Gale’s voice cracks the dejected shrug accompanying it makes John think his own heart might have, too. “I never had any toys, John."
It takes a moment, but when the penny drops for John, he feels something splinter in his chest. Oh, John thinks. Of course. Gale didn’t leave because he couldn’t face John. It had nothing to do with John, and rather, everything to do with Gale’s father. He can only imagine the thoughts swirling around the other’s head as he realized Grace would be staying, knows that one of Buck’s worst fears was being fashioned in the image of his father.
He grabs Gale forcefully, drags him into a tight embrace and presses Gale’s face into his neck. "We'll love her, okay? She'll be loved. You're not your father. Alright?" He feels Gale’s shoulders drop and his arms tighten around him, a hot breath against the skin of his collarbone.
“Alright?” John asks again, until he feels a small nod into his neck.
He pulls back, grips Buck by his elbows to keep him near and murmurs, "Why don't you come meet my daughter, huh?"
He drags Gale over to the couch, crouches down in front of Grace and drags Gale down too so that they’re sitting on their haunches, putting them both on her level. Up this close, Gale is struck immediately by her eyes – John’s eyes – peering back at him, timid but curious.
John rests his palm on her knee to garner her attention. “Darling, this is Buck. He’s my friend, he’s the one who has the horses.”
Buck whips his head over to stare at Bucky. “You showed her the horses? Bucky, she’s three!”