An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Behind the blindfold, Gale shuts his eyes so tightly it hurts. His feet are unsure on the ground, but he has to remember he’s safe here. He’s safe with Bucky, and he needs this—without knowing exactly why.
“The—” he tries. God, he might cry. “The flight.”
Behind him, the subtle sound of a belt unbuckling, the slide of leather through denim loops.
“What flight?” “The…” He swallows. “The day of the crash. The crash that killed him. The day I—"
He can’t. He fucking can’t. He shakes his head, nods, shakes his head again. Bucky steadies him with a hand on Gale’s back again.
“Do you want me to do it, Buck?” he asks. “Do you really want me to punish you like that?” Gale opens his mouth and begs, a whole litany of pleas sliding off his tongue.
“Then I need to know what for,” Bucky says. “I won’t do it unless you tell me what happened.”
It makes sense. Cruel and kind. Like Bucky himself.






















