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bucksbluescarf · 26 days ago

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if that isn't love, it'll have to do

a Buck/Marge/Bucky fic by phlegmatic

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Part Four

Marge marks it on her wall calendar in red pen below the word Picnic, which has been there for a couple weeks now: Bucky x and 1430, military time likely for Gale’s benefit. Gale blinks at it. Sifting through his memories of their conversations over the past weeks happens coarse and chunky, interrupted by Marge’s pottering. She’s making pancakes, reassured him that they’re still good without any eggs, and the air smells all sugary from the syrup she’s heating on the stove. He can’t remember her mentioning it. She’s given him coffee already; he takes a sip, and clears his throat.

“He, uh—he comin’ by bus? Or train?”

Marge flips a pancake, and doesn’t quite look over her shoulder. Her hair is curled and fluffed out prettily already, though she’s got her housecoat on, sleeves pushed to her elbows. She’s got freckles that she didn’t use to; Gale has spent some time inspecting her hands, the new ropiness in her muscles, the blurred line where burnish from the sun turns to protected paleness. She keeps her nails trimmed now, though still painted. She’s got callouses. She let him run his touch and his eyes over her arms one afternoon, not asking him why. He wouldn’t have had an answer for her if she had. Her hairs are so blonde they’re invisible, except for the way they shined like silk threads in the sunlight drenching the sitting room. She had received a telegram that day, letting her know that there wasn’t work for her at the railroad any more. Her sweet little chin had puckered, but she hadn’t cried—just told him she’d be going out for a bit, and came back a few hours later smelling like Old Golds and something flowery. She’d sat with him on the sofa listening to Benny Goodman, and let him touch her arms.

“Bus, he said. Said he wanted to take the scenic route, go on up through New York if he could manage it. I can’t imagine him makin’ it out of there alive and on time, but I said to him to send his plans through when he had them sorted.”

“You talked to him?”

She hums, stirring the syrup. “Sent him a letter a few weeks back, and he telegrammed saying I could order a call placed and what time because he didn’t know the number for Doc’s. I’ve never talked on the telephone long distance before; all the way down in Florida, can you imagine?” She switches the burner off, and turns toward the table with the skillet in hand. Lifting the final pancake onto the plate she has waiting at the edge of the table, she says, “He sounded fine. Tired, but fine.” Gale hadn’t asked. He isn’t sure he likes knowing. He can picture John in Florida well enough, and all the reasons he might be tired: scant swimsuits and liquor on the beach, sand sticking to sweat- and seawater-damp skin.

What did he say? Gale wants to ask. Why’d you invite him? Why didn’t you tell me?

Instead, he helps himself to two pancakes. Marge ladles some syrup over the top, and dishes herself the same, and Gale plops some margarine in the middle of his as well. It’s not quite melted when he takes his first bite.

“Mm,” he says, around his mouthful. “Pretty good, sweetheart.” They are, considering there’s no egg in them. Marge makes a noise like she’s happy having told him so, and he hooks his ankles around hers under the table.

continue reading on ao3

#ahhh it's here!!!!#and on god said you're my baby sunday too #huge congrats b can't wait to read it <33 #fic rec #clegan

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bucksbluescarf · 1 month ago

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A Kiss, If You Would #4

A/N : Once again ran away from a WIP that was giving me headaches to write this fluffy little thing <3 A huuuuuuuuge thank you to @eoin-mcgonigal who beta read this and was just the kindest, most thorough sweetheart ever 🥹❤️

For the prompt "Kissing them to confess your true feelings" Also on AO3 Masterlist

On December 5th, 1938, Eoin turns eighteen; not old enough to be taken seriously as an adult — not for another three years — but not a bairn anymore. His mother still kisses him on the forehead when he comes down in the kitchen, and his father affectionately pats his cheek as he sits down for breakfast, but he isn’t a child in need of protection anymore. He’s eighteen.

So perhaps nothing significant has changed. His body is still as lanky as it was when he went to bed yesterday as a seventeen-year-old. He doesn’t feel as though he’s woken up with enlightenment or new knowledge as to how to tread his fresh adulthood. His bedhead is still as ridiculous as when he was a child, and his cheeks still have the softness of a teen’s. But he’s eighteen. He can go to pubs and not have to charm his way into a pint. No more “Are you even allowed to be here?” or fond side eyes when he saddles up at the counter with Ambrose or Blair.

Blair.

Just the thought of him fills Eoin with nervous energy, giddiness mixing with apprehension that knots his gut tight. He’s always liked Blair; ruggedly handsome — though his pricklish manners turn his edges sharper, bordering on brutish with those he isn’t comfortable with — and with a poet’s soul despite his bite. The man is a menace on the rugby field, all broad shoulders and manic grin, running and tackling with a stubbornness that more than compensates for his height — at least a head smaller than most of the players — and becomes downright trouble once he’s had a drink. Eoin loves it.

Blair’s gotten into so many fights he’s been banned from a good part of the Belfast pubs, and Eoin from half as many by pure association with the older man — though how he can be banned from a pub he wasn’t even supposed to be in in the first place remains a mystery; bad faith on the owner’s part he wagers. Blair had barked a laugh when Eoin had shared his thoughts on the matter, and wrapped an arm around Eoin’s shoulders despite their height difference, bringing him closer in the kind of half-hugs Blair only initiates when he’s had a few drinks. He’d sported a split lip that bled steadily as he’d laughed, but he’d looked at Eoin with mirth under the streetlight, the fleck of blood on his cheek only complimenting the wrinkles at the corner of his eye.

That was the thing with Blair. No matter how bruised his knuckles or how drunk his mind, he’s only ever treated Eoin with gentleness. They’ve roughhoused, played around on the rugby field, tackled and wrestled each other before, but that’s always what it is: a play. Blair plays with Eoin but never fights him. Blair does fight for him though; be it a quip or an argument he couldn’t back down from, Eoin’s landed them in their fair share of troubles.

Every time Blair has been at his side, eyeing their opponent like a dog ready to pounce at the first threat at his owner. The rush of blood it sends to Eoin’s brain is perhaps not one he should chase, but the fiery anger in Blair’s eyes whenever he deems Eoin’s honor insulted is a sight to behold; it never fails to have Eoin feel hot all over. And then, once they’ve retreated to Blair’s flat not to alarm Eoin’s mother at the state of her son, Blair will insist on disinfecting whatever cuts Eoin’s gotten, disregarding the shards of glass still stuck in the skin between his knuckles like they’re but freckles of dust. He’ll reluctantly let Eoin disinfect his injuries, but only once Eoin’s have stopped bleeding — Eoin has long since given up on that fight, too grateful that Blair trusts him enough to handle cotton and the occasional stitches to push for more. Eoin’s eyes will linger, counting each of Blair’s eyelashes as he stands relaxed under Eoin’s hands, before he’ll force himself away.

They’ll drift to the living room, still too riled up with the memories of the fight to go to sleep, and Eoin will kick his feet on Blair’s lap as the latter reads from one of his poetry books. He’ll read slow and steady, the soft cadence of his voice lulling Eoin until his eyelids are heavy, and each blink lasts longer than the last. Sleep will claim him, but he’ll wake up in the morning with a blanket covering him and a pillow expertly placed so his neck doesn’t protest the night spent on the couch. Blair won’t mention it but his lips will quirk up in half-smile when Eoin thanks him anyway.

Eoin loves him.

That’s the crux of it really. He loves Blair, and perhaps Blair loves him back. Sometimes Eoin thinks he does, when Blair allows him to learn his language so they can build a world for the two of them, where the sky is Houseman’s and the desert Brooke’s.

He’s eighteen today, so his age can’t be the reason Blair rejects him if Eoin tries his luck. Just this once, he’ll push for more and hope he hasn’t misunderstood Blair’s lingering looks when he thought Eoin too sleepy to notice.

This year, his birthday falls on a Monday. Most of his siblings are at work or unable to travel to Belfast today, and since Eoin’s fifteenth birthday, with only him and Ambrose left at home, it’s been decided Eoin's birthday would be celebrated when the family came together for the holidays. His mother still cooks all his favorites for dinner as well as making him the most delicious chocolate cake he’s ever tasted, but that means he’s free to go join Blair at the pub with Ambrose after — his first completely legal pub outing, though nobody was hung on that detail before.

It is, of course, raining when he and Ambrose head out to the pub. The cold rain is whipping at them and soaking their coats, like a punishment for going an hour before Blair is supposed to join them, and Ambrose laughs at Eoin’s misery, collar drawn up to protect his neck but seemingly not put off by the weather. Admittedly, Eoin shouldn’t be either — the rain won’t last he can already tell — but he’s spent almost an hour taming his hair, not combing it through with gel like he usually does to make sure it stays in place. All the rain water has ruined his work, curls falling limply in front of his face. Ambrose’s do the same, but Ambrose isn’t the one to whom a drunk Blair said he liked how soft his ungelled curls looked so Ambrose doesn’t get to be upset like Eoin does.

Almost to rile him up further, the sky clears not five minutes after they’re settled in a booth, and Eoin sulks through the first half of his pint, feeling his hair dry frizzy.

“Christ, what’s gotten into you?” Ambrose bemoans, uncaring of the way his hair gives a valiant attempt at curling but ultimately falls limp over his eyes.

“This is why you don’t have a girlfriend,” Eoin mumbles, a spark of indignation flaring in his chest that Ambrose can fly from girl to girl without a care whereas Eoin hasn’t ever held hands with the one he loves.

“Hey listen here, you little gobshite.” Ambrose gives him a pointed finger but there’s no heat in his voice. If anything, he looks a bit offended and a lot like he’s having fun, which means nothing good for Eoin. Mischief lights up Ambrose’s eyes, blaring alarm bells in Eoin’s mind but it’s too late to shut him up now; Ambrose’s already opening his mouth, knocking his shoulder into Eoin’s. “Blair will be along in a few.”

Heat burns his ears, cheeks feeling hot as Eoin hurries to take another gulp of his beer; Ambrose gets a swift kick to the ankle for cackling.

“Aye, drink up,” he snorts, wiggling his eyebrows. “Can’t let Blair see the birthday boy moping around, it’d break his heart.”

“Shut up,” Eoin mumbles in his pint, ears still burning.

Ambrose chortles, and a large hand comes to ruffle Eoin’s hair; with a hiss, he ducks away from Ambrose, slapping his hand away. It only sends his brother in another fit of laughter, and Eoin feels warm knowing his secret is safe with him.

Soon his pint is empty and the world starts to feel softer as Ambrose pushes a second one in front of him. Though loose-limbed, Eoin isn’t drunk yet, just more at ease as he leans against Ambrose, previous frustration now forgotten. Then, a flash of dark honey blond passes by the window, the orange burn of a cigarette lighting up before disappearing and Eoin bolts from his seat, barely hearing Ambrose’s laughter behind him. Stepping outside the pub ought to have him shiver, his coat still in the booth with his brother, but the alcohol flowing in his veins keeps him warm as he trots towards Blair, in the alley adjacent to the pub while he finishes his cigarette.

“Hiya Blair.”

The older man’s mouth quirks up, eyes soft and amused. “Hello, Eoin.”

He’s cleaned up nicely, Eoin notices. Hair wet like he’s just gotten out of the shower, neatly combed back showing off the honeyed strands on top, and with a coat that hugs his shoulders perfectly, he looks nothing like he usually does for pub nights. That Blair took the time to dress up for Eoin’s birthday sends a rush of warmth down to his very toes, hope giving him the push he needed.

“I’m eighteen.” Eoin rolls on the balls of his feet, hands behind his back. He thinks he might be smiling but the alcohol is making his mind fuzzy.

“I’m aware,” Blair hums, stubbing out his cigarette with his shoe. “Happy birthday.”

Eoin’s sure he’s smiling now. Blair might be too, but there’s something guarded in his posture, shoulders too straight for the amusement dancing in the blue of his eyes.

“You’re not drunk, are you?”

Eoin takes a step back, offended.

“I’m not,” he denies, shaking his head. Maybe he’s walking the line of tipsy, but he’s far from drunk. Blair hums again, eyes raking over Eoin’s form for a second before they flicker back to his face.

“You’re not,” he eventually agrees, a small smile gracing his lips.

Flushing under Blair’s piercing gaze, the blue of his eyes vibrant in the darkness of the alley, Eoin clears his throat, stepping closer in spite of himself .“Do you know what I’d like for my birthday?”

“It’s a wee bit late for that, isn’t it? I’ve already bought you a gift.”

“You have?” Eoin asks, momentarily distracted; Blair always gets him the best gifts, like he somehow always knows what Eoin wants even when Eoin himself doesn't.

“Aye,” Blair huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I’d be a shite friend if I hadn’t.”

“Blair,” he whines, stepping even closer until the toes of their shoes almost touch. “I’m eighteen.”

“I know, lad,” Paddy says, slow and quiet.

Eoin holds off a sigh, recognizing the signs of Blair’s stubbornness. Fortunately, he is just as stubborn; in a battle of will, Eoin’s convinced he can give Blair a good run for his money.

“Even if you already got me something, if I told you what I want–” he falters, suddenly unsure of his wording. He doesn’t want it to be a mere transaction, or Blair giving in to his wish like one would humor a friend.

Blair’s face softens further, fear and apprehension swimming in his eyes despite the bright bloom of hope that colors his voice.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

There’s only so many ways he can say yes, and more than anything, and with all my heart that would convey just how long Eoin’s been waiting for this; holding Blair by the hips as Eoin dips down until their noses brush and he can hear Blair’s breath catch in his throat is only one, though it is Eoin’s favorite.

Blair freezes against him, lips slack against Eoin’s and cold dread pools in Eoin’s gut — he’s miscalculated, Blair doesn’t want this, he’s just ruined everything — but not a second passes before warm hands are cupping his cheeks, angling him closer. Kissing Blair is softer than Eoin’s imagined. It’s not rushed or heated the way he thought it would be if he kissed him after a pub night or a rugby match, nor playful like their houseroughing.

It is, as Blair always is with him, excruciatingly gentle, like coming home after a long day to see a fire already lit in the hearth. There are fingers playing with the drying curls at his nape, and soft lips under his that part easily to pull him in further, and it’s all making Eoin’s head fuzzy like cotton.

After a moment, Blair pulls away with a slow stroke of his thumb under Eoin’s eye, but Eoin can’t bring himself to open them just yet, too content to feel the way his lips tingle warmly. Another kiss is pressed to the corner of his mouth, the gesture so tender Eoin’s breath hitch.

“Be good to the lad that loves you true,” he murmurs, only half aware of the words. Against him, Blair stills and then huffs a laugh through his nose.

“And how can I be good to you, lad?”

Eoin blinks, mind hazy with the ghost of Blair’s lips on his but not enough not to notice the sad edge lining Blair’s voice like summer rain.

“What?”

Blair smiles, a small thing that softens his entire face.

“What do you want, Eoin?”

“Oh,” he laughs breathlessly, giddiness leaving him winded when he brushes his nose against Blair’s. “Kiss me again?”

Eoin’s eighteen, and the boy he’s loved since he was sixteen has kissed him back, then kissed him again, and again. Somehow, the kissing part holds much more value to him than his age, though Blair would disagree.

Maybe by the time he reaches nineteen, they’ll have shared a thousand kisses, confessed in hundreds of poems this love that’s liquid gold, warm and pure, in Eoin’s veins.

Maybe for his twentieth, Blair will share some of his own poetry with him, recited low and warm in Blair’s bed that’s become theirs before Eoin leaves for his classes and Blair for the firm.

Maybe for his twenty-first birthday, Eoin will convince Blair to come over for his birthday dinner, perhaps also for Christmas if Mrs Mayne agrees to let her house be one Mayne short for the holidays. Or perhaps Eoin can get his mother to invite the Mayne family for Christmas; he and Ambrose get along with them all enough to justify it, and only Blair and him would know how precious this moment would be. It’ll take some convincing for Blair to even pitch the idea to his family, but Eoin has three years to work on that. For now, he can focus on kissing Blair some more, and discover what makes him shiver and gasp in the night.

On December 5th, 1938, Eoin turns eighteen.

On December 5th, 1938, he finally kisses the boy he’s loved since he was sixteen.

#i haven't seen much prewar paddyeoin so this was a treat. loved it!!!#fic rec #paddyeoin

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