Bucky’s halfway out the door before Gale even wakes up. Hair still wet from the shower, tucking his tie into his shirt. Hasn’t slept at all, if the bags under his eyes are any indication.
“You’re heading out already?” It’s unfair of him, probably, to be this hurt when he’s so clearly fucked this up. But Gale had mourned whatever they weren’t once before, when he thought that distance and the truth of Gale’s manipulation would be enough to end it. Yet it wasn’t the end. John had been as eager for Gale’s company as ever, like it wasn’t even in question.
But all Gale’s getting now is silence.
The silent walk back to their shared room last night. Silence this morning as John shoves the last of his things into his rucksack. Bed stripped bare, boots on, happy to walk out of Gale’s life like it don’t mean a thing.
John sighs, angry, “Listen, Gale, if this was your way of telling me to back off—I got it loud and clear.” He stops to light a cigarette, one last puff of smoke in Gale’s face, “And you can tell Marge not to worry ‘bout your good pal Bucky, he’s done barking up your tree.”
@buckpregnant made a beautiful, amazing post (that you should all go shower with adoration). it goes so nicely with this bit from ch 3 that i simply had to share it <3 <3 <3 thank you so much for including your glance!! promise i'm working hard on chapter 2!!
A week out from Bangor, buried in preparations and nerves alight in anticipation, Gale had received a package, two things wrapped neatly inside. The note from John was short, Ruffled some feathers in Bluie West One, give the box to Sgt. Mallard when you get there. Should smooth things over. —John Then, crammed at the bottom, Got you something. Keep Warm.
Gale hadn’t bothered to open the box, since it didn’t belong to him. An oversight that’d left him wrong-footed and blushing in a bar in Greenland, just, as Gale suspected, John had planned.
The other gift was bound in a small scrap of canvas, folded nicely and tied shut with plain string. Gale didn’t need to open it to know what it would be—an invitation. A step forward.
It’s a beautiful sky blue scarf, dotted with small white paisleys. Gale had no idea how John had gotten his hands on something as nice as this on such short notice.
Still, the rush of John’s scent as he’d unfurled it was overwhelming. Sharp, metallic ozone, air heavy with rain that hadn’t fallen yet, the deep musk of John’s sweat. John must’ve kept it close for weeks. Must’ve had it tucked underneath his singlet, flat to the plane of his chest. Pretty blue framing the dark hair between his pecs. Gale had to resist the urge to shove it in his mouth. Couldn’t let himself to ruin something so nice, something John had put so much thought into.
It was such an obvious courting gift that Gale couldn’t wear it around until after the first week, once the worst of John’s scent had worn off. The scarf had spent that week tucked into Gale’s pillowcase, curing a restlessness Gale had attributed to stress.
It would probably still turn heads if people weren’t already used to Gale smelling more like John than himself, due to their sheer proximity and the mildness of Gale’s own scent. Maybe it’s a little too obvious, a little too weak-willed, to wear Bucky’s intent so brazenly around his neck. But no one seems to pay it any mind, and Gale’s no saint. The burn of possessiveness too satisfying to pass up, even if he's the only one who notices it.
got tagged by @pinenutpbj, thank you so much! my first one, very scary ;-;
bit of an omegaverse fic, not that any of that actually gets mentioned here
“Marge, she—she’s a good friend. Was a good friend to me, for a long time. When it mattered. But it was never, like that, between us.”
“...She thinks you can’t give her what she needs?” Bucky’s offended on his behalf.
Now it’s Gale’s turn to be embarrassed. “It’s more...I want more than she can give me—and that ain’t fair to her.”
John tilts his head to the side, eyes bright, and crowds Gale against the wall. Door forgotten. “What is it you want, Buck?” Voice gone all quiet.
His lips are half and inch from Gale’s own.
Gale’s not chicken shit—but he can’t stand the thought of closing that distance only for Bucky to walk away. Three weeks. A whole ocean away. Once he has him, Gale doesn’t think he can go that long without him.
Instead, Gale leans just a bit closer, so they’re breathing into each other’s mouths, “Want you to keep yourself safe and sound for me, Major.” Bucky’s eyes are endless. “When I catch up to you, we’ll meet right back here.”
Bucky’s disappointed breath ghosts across Gale’s lips. He closes his eyes, rests his forehead on Gale’s. Takes his lips further from temptation. “Promise?” Like a kid, asking for a pinky swear.
“Get on before you miss your bus.”
“They can’t leave without me, Buck.”
“That’s what you think.”
John’s lips widen into a smile, but he doesn’t move.
“Promise, Bucky.” Gale can’t help the way he says it: soft, eager, aching. Hopes to hell John didn’t catch it.
tagging @fishmongrel and @chutefullofholes if y'all want to
It’s freezing out, but John’s only in two layers. A thick blue sweater and the A-2 jacket he came in with. Says he runs hot anyway. He’s still got enough muscle packed on that Gale believes him—just. He’s too cold everywhere to turn his nose up at the extra things John offers him: sweaters, jackets, scarves, socks, the bar of chocolate from his Red Cross package, his share of jam. Gale offered himself up to John as payback—burrowed into his warmth and bulk so that John might warm his own hands at the small of Gale’s back, might bury his face in Gale’s neck, tucked in snug by Gale’s scarf. So long as it’s for Gale, John might stop pretending for whole minutes, sometimes hours, that he didn’t get cold too.
rules: you will be given a word. then, share an excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word.
tagged by @pinenutpbj and @secretpersona8 and @angelfruittree thank y'all so much for the tags, sorry i'm so late ;-; my words are THROW, CHAIN, and FLEUR
all from your glance, all completely out of order, mostly from chapter 2 but a couple from chapter 3. only had to cheat twice yayy
T
The regular how’ve you beens, how’s Texas, then with familiar snarkiness, ANY OF YOUR CADETS GOT ANY LIFE IN THEM? I’M TEMPTED TO WASH THEM ALL, BUT IT FEELS HASTY FOR MY SECOND MONTH HERE. WRITE ME BACK.
H
He thinks of the future and it’s just...this. Just flying and John. Like the war would never end, like it’d be just this, forever. It feels too greedy to want anything more than that. Could Gale give John more than that? If he’d ever ask.
The answer is sour and obvious.
R
Rolling his eyes, Gale smiles anyway. The dog leashed in the back of his mind settles, happy to have John here, waiting on him. “Congratulations.” He sticks his hand out to shake.
Now John’s the one rolling his eyes, “Not you too.” But he takes Gale’s hand anyway.
“Air Exec, that’s big, Bucky. You deserve it.”
“Well…” he lets that trail off. Shapes his face back into something familiar, “thought it’d be me and you up there, flying together.”
O
One of the younger lieutenant is telling a story. John’s only half-listening, already preoccupied with what he’s gonna write Gale this week.
Some asshole’s mad that his brother or cousin or whoever washed out, claims that the instructor is favoring omegas. He starts posturing, nearly causing a riot in the officers’ mess. But the omega doesn’t back down, challenges him instead. Says if this guy can out maneuver him, then he’ll defer to his superior flying ability or whatever. Take back his recommendation. “Keep up or shut up.”
W
Wyoming’s sprawling sky and cotton-fluff clouds marred by a blocky orange and blue GREETINGS FROM CASPER. Jotted on the back, You’re from around here, right? Got any family I should say hi to? The thought of John and his dad in the same room enough to make Gale nauseous.
.
C
“Can’t or won’t?” The eyebrow she raises is perfectly chilling. “You could if you wanted to, if I was still who you wanted.”
“Marge—”
“You can’t lie to me Gale Cleven. You never could.” Marge has always seen right through him, clean to the quick.
“You should still write to me. Tell John that he can too, if he’d like. But I’m not calling either of you ‘Buck’.”
H
“Hey—”
Gale interrupts their argument before either of them can stand from their chairs and ruin his evening. Decides to throw them a bone, hopes to lure them away from sniffing after John any further. “Her name’s Marge,” he pauses, just long enough for the denial to mean something, “she’s a friend.”
A
A cologne that would compliment Marge’s perfume—deeper, earthier than the one he used to wear, but he thinks she’ll still like it. Made sure his hair sat a little flatter. Spent an evening sewing shoulder pads into his jacket. Silly, maybe, since he’ll just have to rip them out the next day (it’s one thing to dress up for Marge in the low lights of a bar, it’s another to walk around in the light of day in front of the boys. A neon sign of insecurity, especially since they already know what he really is.) It was all subtle. Details. Stuff nobody noticed they were noticing.
I
Itchy feet’s an understatement. For all that his new position as an instructor sees him crossing the country once or twice a week—night flight, night flight, reposition, and an endless stream of coffee to keep his eyes open, to Sumter, to Highley, to Louisville back again—John feels like he’s treading water. No closer to the war than he was in ‘40, but instead of distraction bright and breathing beside him all he’s got to occupy him now are these letters.
N
“Nah, you and Benny are friends. Now I’m not so sure what the hell you and Bucky are, but it ain’t that.”
“What’s the difference?”
“What’s the difference?!” Curt crows, “Don’t let Bucky hear you say that, he’ll challenge Benny for your hand.”
Now it’s Gale’s turn to roll his eyes, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I mean, if you think they’re both equal…”
“I can’t explain it.” Buck looks away, “With John it’s just...easy.” It feels pathetic to describe it like that. But Buck can’t find any other word for it.
.
F
Feels to good to be true, that they’ve somehow ended up together again. Fate or luck or God, John would praise them all. Hopefully his gratitude would be enough to make up for the blunt edge of Gale’s practicality.
L
Light from the tiny, slit thin window hits Gale’s face just right. His eyes bluer than a CAVU sky, looking up at John through a haze of golden lashes—framed by the lurid purple-red dregs of the setting sun. Asking, as if any man on Earth would have the strength to deny him.
E
Every bad run of flak, every missile, every shot from a Luftwaffe fighter, it’s John on the bad end of it, gone before Gale can blink. Worse are the dreams where Gale lands at Thorpe Abbotts—grateful that Meatball has finally stopped howling, doing his final checks with Benny—but there’s no one waiting when they get off the plane. Gale takes the truck with the rest of the crew from Our Baby. Check’s John’s bunk, his office, the lounge. He’s just nowhere. Lost some time before Gale arrived, and no one had bothered to tell him.
U
[Gale was special.] Unique. His trust so thin and delicate it’d turn to dust if John ever pressed too hard.
R
[He’d signed it –SINCERELY, 1ST LT. GALE W. CLEVEN, the ink on the dash dark and thick, the ‘S’ notably rushed. John runs his finger over it. At the top of the short paragraph is his own name JOHN, no dear in front of it.] Ridiculously, John is sad to miss it.
whew. i need a nap. tagging @shipstorms @pleasuretrade and @toddkinn if you wanna do another round (lol), your word is DECIBEL
“What kind of a name is Gale?” John’s aiming for a lightness he doesn’t feel, doesn’t wanna ruin everyone’s night. Tonight’s party might be in his name, but it’s not really for him. Gale laughs, not having caught on to John’s mood yet, thankfully, but Marge scoffs. She reaches down to grab Gale’s knee, which John should not be noticing. Gale rolls his eyes, but Marge’s face is sour at the edges. Like John’s missed a step and crushed her toes, but she’s too kind to mention it. Like she has any right to be offended on Gale’s behalf.
It just adds to the bitterness piling up behind the dam of John’s chest.
He’d really thought they were something. Nothing solid, sure, but real enough that when Gale breathed in, John felt it in his own lungs. Now, clear for all the officers of the 100th to see, Gale’s showing his hand—John cut neatly and permanently out of it.
It’s a relief that he’s leaving in the morning. That he only has to have his nose shoved in it for another twelve hours before there’s a whole ocean between him and the mess he’s made.
🧳
John makes for the door, and like hell Gale’s just gonna sit here and let it happen.
He scrambles out of bed, ungraceful, undressed, hair no doubt a rat’s nest, but he makes it. Manages to get his back against the door so John’ll have to move him if he wants to leave.
“It wasn’t like that. I don’t know what it looked like—”
John scoffs, “Looked plenty clear to me.”
“But I was just, trying to apologize, I guess.” Like I’m doing now, but that’s not something he can admit. Not when John’s being a total ass about it.
“Hell of an apology.”
“John.”
“Gale.” John says, snotty in that way Gale can’t stand.
But it won’t solve anything to fight John now, as much as he wants to.
