Chapter Text
His jaw aches where Curt landed the punch. He looked miserable complying with Bucky's request, but he still managed to hit him good.
It worked. The pain feels alive every time he takes a sip of coffee, and he's still affected by the alcohol. All things considered, he is in his best condition to meet the new CO. Another boss who will order him to put the discipline back into the crews, as if they hadn’t just returned from watching planes go down and explode next to them. Planes full of boys.
Fuck the top brass.
Fuck him. He should have been up there.
Bucky never gave suppressants much thought, but he's glad he took them, because even with a less sensitive nose, Harding's imposing alpha stance makes it hard not to react. Being drunk helps, if he is honest.
Neil “Chick” Harding isn't as bad as he thought. At least he has a better sense of humor than Huglin. He seems abundantly confident and relaxed; probably, if he wasn't a CO, he'd be good company at the pub, joking, smoking, and taking the ladies to dance.
Bucky takes another sip of his bitter coffee and his eyes fall on the shiny metal lighter, its surface so clean and polished that it reflects the writing underneath.
Gale's signature.
He contains his reaction, aided by his slowed and dulled senses. His alpha screams at him. Bucky ignores it. Harding is looking at him when he lifts his eyes. The Colonel takes his time as he holds a cigar, grabs the Zippo, and lights it, briefly breaking eye contact.
Bucky doesn't take his eyes off him. He won’t back down. Whatever he sees on his face, he won’t cover it.
"Well, I'm not Colonel Huglin," Harding says, with a smile that borders on an act so fatherly and friendly that it seems like a mockery.
"No, you're not," Bucky replies.
He had no expectations of anything, so everything went well. He got demoted. Which was exactly what he wanted. He asks to write letters to the families of the boys who died, and Harding quickly agrees with a knowing smile. Bucky realizes that having an alpha CO may have its advantages.
Or so he thinks before Harding mentions Gale.
"Tell me, Major Egan," he says casually, taking a deep inhale of his cigar and blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Not everyday an omega comes to me to ask me to demote an alpha,” he continues, while Bucky narrows his eyes, trying to decipher Harding's intentions.
There is a long pause in which both hold themselves back, waiting to see how the other reacts. Circling each other in a symbolic way. Bucky doesn’t give him anything. He doesn't want to talk about Gale with Harding; he has nothing to tell him about Gale.
A small smile and then a chuckle. "From flight school to both Majors in the 100th. Quite a journey, huh?"
"Buck's my friend," Bucky says tightly, his gaze falling to the letter on Harding's desk. He wants to snatch it away. His alpha demands it; Harding can't have it. Gale typed it and signed it, maybe even retains a hint of his scent still.
The cup is rapidly losing temperature, the taste of lukewarm coffee runs down his throat, and Bucky prays that the mix of dull pain and caffeine keeps his irrational thoughts at just that. Thoughts.
It seems Harding has been staring at him, because he barks a short laugh.
"Glad to know you have your restrictions, Major. Despite how you look."
Bucky wants to bare his teeth.
"LeMay thinks the 100th is the most undisciplined bomb group," Harding says. "I don't care about that. My only concern is discipline in the air. The fights," he clarifies. "I don't care what the crews do on the ground, as long as it doesn't affect the missions." The tone changes; it's an alpha command, and Bucky feels his body react. "Be careful, Major, or you'll be degraded to the kitchen," Harding threatens.
"Careful about what, sir," Bucky challenges, starting to get pissed off as the pleasant effect of the alcohol begins to wear off.
Harding grins around the cigar. "Cleven is a good-looking fella."
The growl Bucky lets out is so sudden, a guttural sound as if it's coming from the depths of his soul, that it catches him off guard. Not to Harding, who laughs openly. "Easy boy, I'm mated," he replies.
He doesn't show his neck, Bucky can't smell it, and Harding makes no attempt to pull out a photo or expand with a comment about his mate.
Damn possessive alphas, Bucky thinks with a snort.
It takes one to know one, he supposes.
"Nothing to worry about, sir," he settles for, finally. He doesn't want to talk more about this. He's tired and wants to see Buck; he is probably up and having breakfast. He wants to see him and watch his face as he tells him he's been demoted to squadron commander thanks to his help.
He chuckles to himself, thinking that Buck will probably act like it's nothing. As if he hadn't saved Bucky’s sanity with the smallest of actions.
No matter how this war ends, it'll always be him and Buck.
Bucky will make sure of that.