#duckandcover

[whirlybirbs]

For duck and cover, what’s gonna happen in london?! i’m very excited

        #DUCKANDCOVER:  he feels like he’s drowning -- these feelings are like molasses in his lungs, weighing him down to the bottom of lovesick lake. bucky barnes fights his feelings on the first night of leave in london.

pairing: medic!reader x wwii!buckyword count: 582, a drabblerating: t, war themes, i guess?a/n: ahhhhhhh tension!

                                               AO3    ✚    MASTERLIST

You’re drunk. 

Piss drunk.

So is he.

“Oh, yea -- sure, sure, Mr. Brooklyn --”

The bar is spinning and your words are slurred with the weight of booze -- from your perch on the bar, you jab a joke across the way at Steve and it riles laughter out of the Howling Commandos around you; you smile, red lips pulling apart as you toss back another sip of your warm beer and shrug proudly, glowing from the combination of the attention and alcohol.

You catch Bucky’s eyes then, smile settling. It rips the breath straight from his chest. You notice. Your gaze lingers, expression going a bit sheepish as he swallows.

The shared moment roots itself right in Bucky’s chest like a punch, drawing him from the chaos of the busy pub in downtown London and into your everything. The bar quiets in his mind as he clutches his drink and ignores the jostle of the crowd. His focus is sharp on you -- on the way you smile, the way you sway. Your attention is stolen from him by the call of Falsworth and Bucky can’t help but huff.

If you were the sun, he’d happily fashion himself a set of wings and fly right into your heart, burning himself alive -- but it’d be a good death, he reasons. All you. Better than a bullet to the head in the middle of this fuckin’ war.

Your laugh peels him from his stupor.

God, you’re beautiful. 

He throws the rest of his beer back, moving to drop the empty glass on the counter of the bar. With fast hands, he drags a cigarette from his pocket and drums his knuckles on the wood. Contemplation paints his features all kinds of stern. He can’t help it. His heart wanes, wanting to settle right beside you in the fray of it all, to steal your time and heart. 

He knows, though, that’s not a good idea.

He chews the inside of his lip, tucking the unlit cigarette behind his ear and shrugging on his coat that’s hanging off the back of Steve’s chair. He’s fast to pat his pal’s shoulders, offering a curt wave to the gaggle of Commandos.

“Buck, ‘ey, where y’ goin’? The night is young, buddy!” cries Junior.

“I, uh, I’m gonna take a walk,” he offers as his lights his Lucky Strike, not really there when he says it, “I’ll catch y’ all at breakfast, okay?”

You stare, lips parted as disappointment pricks your cheeks. His eyes catch yours again, only for a blink, before he’s out the door with a trail of cigarette smoke hot on his heels.

Silence settles among the commandos, but you don’t notice. You’re busy watching the door, wondering if maybe he’ll change his mind and come back, maybe he’ll decide to stay for one more round --

“Y’ alright, kid?” it’s Dum Dum.

You blink, swallowing promptly as you shake your head. “Yea, yea, I’m... I’m fine.”

Steve’s smile is full of wisdom, full of comfortable companionship, when he speaks -- he leans back in his chair and turns his glass with deft fingers. 

“... You gonna follow him, or what?”

Every eye turns to you, then, and your breath rushes out. Your eyes find the doorway of the bar again. 

You know it’s a bad idea, but you toss back your drink and head out those doors, anyway, all to the tune of cheers from the Howling Commandos in your wake.

[bryanreganphotography]

Day / 274 hello bullet hole

[upstartcrow1564]

Some days it’s important to remember that we are small compared to the Gods. Our issues and concerns may seem all-important to us, and to us they are, but in the grand scheme of things it’s impossible to tell where we rank (except maybe somewhere near the bottom). Focus on those close-to-home things today that need attention. Take care of the weak, the vulnerable, the small. Remember if you can that even the strongest, wealthiest, most powerful among us is only a servant to someone or something else. Storms come and go; universal energies and tides ebb and flow. Best to just ride them out today and keep watch for those who need help. #tarot #oracle #runes #charms #vitki #seer #tarotreadersofinstagram #divination #divinersofinstagram #thewildwoodtarot #themusesdarling #witchesofinstagram #witchlife #priestess #duckandcover https://www.instagram.com/p/BsTirxsHUat/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1739s2yepstsn

[danlevinsobjects]

DUCK AND COVER Dan Levin / 1996 illuminative scuplture

[nefariouspinstriping]

Pinstripe Rat Fink and I leaving the Trip Out earlier. Thanks to everyone who came to see us over the weekend. Great new venue. Very bizarre having to go past blast shields to get to the bar.... #nefarious #pinstriping #thetripout #coldwar #duckandcover

[whirlybirbs]

OOO WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IN DUCK AND COVER IF THERE WAS AN AIR RAID?!

          #DUCKANDCOVER:  a commonality in war is violence. sometimes it rains from the sky on a clear night. you’re caught in the middle of an air raid while being billeted in birmingham. follows the last drabble of this series.

pairing: medic!reader x wwii!buckyword count: 700 on the dot.rating: t, mind the garish descriptions of panic + feara/n: (crops b.o.b. gifs to create an aesthetic + give u all visuals) this chapter is mostly filler as i try to progress medic + buck’s friendship. buck isn’t quick to trust.

                                                 AO3    ✚    MASTERLIST

In the far off distance, a hollow, empty, mournful cry creeps into your dreams; a cry that warns of the coming chaos. 

The lone note drones through the clear, suffocating night -- a single note held like the howl of a wounded animal, dipping into a panic induced loop.

It’s the beckoning of the end.

You shoot awake with a gasp, lungs filling such deep seated terror that it sends you from the bed of that Birmingham billet-house, to the floor as you scramble to find your bearings and your senses. 

Your eyes connect with Bucky’s. The dawning terror is thicker than blood.

NEITHER OF USIS GONNA DIE.

-- you both snap into action. 

In the distance, the waning howl of the air raid siren climbs and the house below you wakes.

Bucky’s hand finds your wrist and as you jump into your boots, he hauls you out the door of the bedroom.

The hallway is full of men, scrambling to get down the stairs of the English manor-style home -- in the fray, your wild eyes catch an officer’s in the pitch black of the house and he says something, something about getting into the cellar and getting to cover.

You can’t make out the words. Your eardrums thrum with panic. You’re stuck moving slow, eyes still heavy with dreams of peacetime.

Buck is pushing through the crowd, shoving elbows and tripping over himself, you in tow. It’s chaos unleashed, pure instinct kicking these men into fear. You’re halfway down the stairs when the realization hits you like a train.

“There’s not enough room,” you breathe, skin crawling. Your eyes are wide.

Bucky blinks back at you, mouth run dry. 

THEN IT’S A DEAL,WE DON’T DIE.NOT UNTIL THE WAR IS OVER.

The sirens hit their pinnacle and so does the quakes of distant bombs -- the cellar is full. now, full of scared men and you’re screaming, cursing as those scared men haul the heavy door shut and leave you and Bucky and fifteen others to claw and beat and holler at the cellar door.

Luftwaffe’s engines beat above.

Suddenly, you smell snow and it feels like Bastogne all over again. 

Bucky’s saying something to you, pleading with you to move; he’s desperate, screaming, but nothing but the muffled sounds of the world around you make their way in. Your eyes bounce around the room. You watch men break for the street. Outside the windows, families are doing the same -- making their way to Anderson shelters and bunkers in a frenzy.

Like ants running from a boot.

Suddenly, the world catches up to you.

“--C’mon, beautiful, we gotta go, we gotta go now --”

It’s his blue eyes, striking in the dark as his hands cradle your face. He’s scared -- for the first time you can see the fear there, set in Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes’ face. It knocks the wind out of you.

A shaken nod, swallowed down. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, c’mon, let’s go,” he eases with relief, pulling you towards the door and you follow -- with fast legs, you’re tangled in hand and weaving through the Birmingham streets. 

He’s always moving forward. Always.

All around you are faces bearing the same terror as you, but they’re not dressed in uniform. They’re men and women and children in pajamas and robes and slippers. Babes swaddled in mothers arms, crying girls with their dolls clutched in white knuckles. Civilians. Innocent souls. 

A close strike booms in your chest. You flinch. 

A man calls out -- an older gentleman holding open a door to a butchers shop. 

He’s got a mustache like your father.

“Get in!”

The clamoring syphons into the shop, footfalls fast as the beat into the cellar. Down below, the hooks swing with pork -- your eyes twist in fear, hands gripping Bucky’s jacket so tight as you’re herded into the back of the cellar. You both slip along the wall, knees tight to your chests as the three families around you do the same. 

The city rocks with fire and hell.

NEITHER OF USIS GONNA DIE.

You’re holding his hands in your own when a shell hits the butcher shop.

[whirlybirbs]

*quickly rereads duck and cover because HO YEAH BABY OUR MEDIC IS BACK*

         #DUCKANDCOVER:  you get the hell out of birmingham, headed to london for some much needed leave. on the ride, your love for humphrey bogart and boys from brooklyn are discussed. 

pairing: medic!reader x wwii!buckyword count: 692, a drabblerating: t, swearing and desc. of disastera/n: enjoy some tension + flirting.

                                                AO3    ✚    MASTERLIST

You’re glad to get the hell away from the burning of Birmingham. 

As the transport rolls away, you’re left to swipe at your eyes still stinging with soot and ash from three consecutive nights of bombings. You’d listened to the locals whisper about the Blitz that had come to pass a year ago, huddled close in the darkness of the shelters left as the world came down around you.

They spoke of the bombings like a gnarly, mighty beastie crawling back out from under the bed, here to terrorize the city. 

Maybe it was for the children’s sake.

You can’t help but feel like Lot’s wife; looking back at the wreckage sours something in your gut, paints you all types of angry. Instead of turning to a pillar of salt, you turn back around to worry your hands and breathe out.

The spring sun is hot on your back and the breeze feels nice and it reminds you of home. If you close your eyes and ignore the garish sound of the transmission and the sweet smell of cinders, you could be home -- on your back porch with your kid sister playing cards.

You’re quickly jostled out of that daydream, shoulder to shoulder with the Howling Commandos, as the truck bounces down to London.

You’re all in various states of disarray and squalor. 

Bucky, across from you, mimics your sigh. His face is caked in inky soot -- it makes him look meaner than he is, painting the sharp contours of his cheeks and leaving bright blue eyes to emote. It bolsters his reputation of being the hard-ass, being the cold one. 

The shell that had blown out the butcher’s shop leveled the first floor; luckily, for the residents cowering in that basement cellar turned meat-locker, everything had been fine. 

Fine was a relative term, he supposes. 

After Bastogne, Bucky reasoned you could walk through hell unshaken. He himself had been slow to rise, coughing and weeping and clawing through the leveled remains of the shop with the other men -- the night air had been so calm after the pass of the bombings. 

Jim’s reading a paper, hunched over beside you and making a pained sound. The ranger slaps the page, scoffing. “You believe this shit, doll? Your man’s gettin’ married.”

You blink, leaning over. In an immediate display of interest, you snatch the paper and instantly pull a face, lips pulled in disbelief as your squint at the column. “Oh, Christ, not Humphrey Bogart -- no wonder he never replied t’ my letters...”

The truck riles themselves up into laughter as you groan, throwing your hands. 

“T’ who?” calls out Dum Dum, “Susan Hayward?”

You squint, scanning the page. Instantly, your posture drops. “Lauren Bacall.”

Bucky smothers a laugh across from you, amused by the antics. “She’s a real looker. She’s Romanian, y’know.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you call, eyeing Bucky, who’s grinning back at you, “I’m prettier than Lauren Bacall, right? Right? Whatever -- guess I’m never gettin’ married now. My heart’s broken.”

That stirs laugh out of the boys.

Falsworth eyes you, lip twitching. “Y’ got a boy back home, dear?”

“Me?” you have to laugh, dry and twisted, “No, god no.”

Bucky deflates in relief. His brow quirks. “Why y’ say it like that?”

There’s something behind his words, something full of promise -- you wonder if you’re just wishing; hopeful thinking never got anyone anywhere.

There’s a lot of eyes on you now and you squirm, lips pulled into a devilishly proud look; you have the boys wrapped around your finger, Buck out of them all the most -- you can see how he hangs on your every word. You wonder if this is what Rita Hayworth feels like, to be marveled at so openly. 

It’s endearing.

“I dunno,” you say, eyes glued to his, tossing a shrug, “Never found the right one, I guess. Maybe I shoulda looked in Brooklyn.”

There’s a chorus of whoops and Bucky laughs -- you toe his boot with yours in good humor and wish you didn’t mean that. But you do. 

He wishes you really did.

If only he knew.

[whirlybirbs]

Bucky + slowly. please??🙈

      #DUCKANDCOVER:  here’s a lil drabble about the train ride to london.

                                               AO3    ✚    MASTERLIST

The train rocks, rousing Bucky slowly out of a half-there slumber.

Blue eyes part, framed by thick lashes, as he inhales deep and stretches his limbs. His U.S. Army dress uniform makes it a bit hard, dress shirt bowing -- the sand colored ensemble feels a little odd; he really only ever imagined himself wearing this again when the whole war was over. Buck crosses his arms over his chest, rubbing his face, before noting the state of the other Howling Commandos seated around him.

Seems like everyone took the time aboard the evening train from Manchester to London as time to catch some shut eye, all but you -- you’re focused, penning a letter by the window across from him.

You look like a girl outta a some Hollywood morale film, all pinned curls and red lips and starched Nurses Corp uniform. The olive drab jacket is belted tight around your waist, matching skirt falling along your thigh as you cross your legs and sigh. Your face is twisted in concentration, focus on the words on the page rather than the sights under the setting sun out the window.

The sky paints you golden.

Bucky nudges your heels with his boot. Both are shined to the stars.

You blink up at him, face twisting into a slow smile.

Honeyed and warm, you speak. “Nice t’ see you awake, sleeping beauty.”

His laugh is hoarse. “How long was I asleep?”

“About an hour, maybe,” you shrug, eyes lingering on him before you turn back to your letter, “We should be pulling in soon.”

Bucky hums. “S’about time we got some leave, I guess.”

You pull an amused look. “With our luck, they’re just trying to butter us up before some hellish month long mission to Berlin.”

“Sounds about right,” Buck mumbles, “Could be fun, though.”

You laugh, shake your head, and tuck your letter into your journal before muscling it into the sack by your feet. Bucky clears his throat.

“... You, uh, y’look nice, Doc.”

Your face splits into a sheepish smile as you laugh. “You tell all the nurses that, Sarge?”

“I’m just sayin’ -- It looks good,” Buck shrugs, nodding, “Real sharp.”

Beside you, Junior groans. His eyes stay closed. He leans farther into Dum Dum’s shoulder. 

“Would you two quit th’ flirtin’?” Junior grumbles, “Some of us are tryna sleep.”

You and Buck share knowing grins, smothering laughter as London rolls in on the horizon. 

Maybe some time away from the war will be a good thing.