escaping-to-fiction

[escaping-to-fiction]

Stop Fussin' (CleganMarge. 2.3K. G-rating)

So, before I get stuck in to the glorious asks in my inbox about the Buckies and Marge, i thought I'd start us off with something sweet, fluffy, and soft.

Not at all inspired by my cocky and dumb decision to eat dairy today...like my body hasn't warned me plenty of times previous that it is not allowed.

Anyway - enjoy some CleganMarge fluff!

-

Marge was supposed to be at book club for hours.

Every second Thursday like clockwork, she would leave at six-forty-five pm, and John and Gale wouldn’t see her until closer to ten-thirty, giggly, rosy-cheeked, and a little less sure-footed.

But it wasn’t too long after eight in the evening before the front door opened and John and Gale scrambled up off the couch where they’d been laying wrapped up in each other, pretending to watch a movie.

“Marge? Everything alright?” Gale was on the alert immediately, loping across the room to greet her at the door. John shook his head—such a worry wart was their Buck—and followed at a more sedate pace.

“Decided you couldn’t bear to part with us after all, Margie?” He called out, teasing her before she could even see his big ol’ mug.

But whatever joviality he had was dashed against the hallway floor when he saw Marge near bent in two, holding on to Gale’s arms wrapped around her for support, and grunting through gritted teeth.

“Marge?” John was at her side in an instant, sweeping her hair back so he could see her face better. “What is it, doll? What’s wrong? Y’hurt?” Gale made a wounded noise and Bucky had to swallow his own. Too many times had they seen a pilot, a gator, a bombardier or a gunner on his own two feet clutching his middle, only for him to fall to the ground once the adrenaline wore off. Some of them never got back up. “Gotta stand up, sweetheart, let us see.”

“Marge.”

“Come on, baby girl, let us see—”

“Oh!” Marge spluttered and batted them off with a fierce hand. “Will you two quit it! I’m fine—ah!” She bent over again, making awful noises, breathing heavy and cutting off little whimpers that made Bucky want to throw her over his shoulder and hide her away so no one could get her.

Gale, the far more experienced of the two in the moods and tolerances of Marjorie Spencer, took a gentler approach. In his low, soothing voice he said, “You don’t look fine.”

“Well, I will be,” she insisted with vehemence, “when I get my hands on that rotten, tricky little Lori Redman.”

Gale’s face scrunched up, nose wrinkled and a well worn furrow in his brow. Bucky shrugged. He’d met Lori Redman only a handful of times. She’d been friendly, attentive, even flirty, but Bucky had been clear that it was never going to go further, even getting Margie to spin some yarn good enough to make her want to look elsewhere for some attention.

What did Lori Redman have to do with anything.

“You don’t need butter for a vanilla sponge, and she told me it was fine, Gale.” She broke off and moaned and clutched her stomach with one hand whilst holding Gale’s in a vice grip with the other.

“You’re sure?”

“It’s the only thing I had!”

Bucky was catching up. He wasn’t much of a cook, but he was trying. He wanted to be able to treat the two people who meant the most to him in whole the world from time to time. So, he’d tried to learn what they liked and didn’t like, and how he could whip them something up they’d enjoy, but wouldn’t burn down Margie’s kitchen. In the process, he’d learned the great sorrow of his girl’s life: she couldn’t eat dairy. A lactose intolerance the docs called it, and it meant no butter, no milk or cream, no chocolate—no nothing.

Marge had never had a problem at Book Club before, and he knew they all made a little treat to enjoy between glasses of wine.

So Bucky braved the question. “Why would she put butter in it if she knows—”

“Because she’s a no good, jealous little snake, that’s why!” Marge barked and John reared back, hands up, and him and Gale shared helpless looks over Marge’s head. “She had her eye on Gale for years and never quite got over him choosin’ me. Then, you come into town and I have to tell her she can’t have you, neither. Oh, she did this on purpose, I swear—”

Marge cut herself off, hunched over and her hair slumping over her face did little to hide the tight grimace of her discomfort. Gale touched her elbow gently, hovered his hand over the small of her back, but before he could touch to comfort and soothe, Marge shoved him off and bolted from the room.

They both stared after her, helpless as the bathroom door snapped shut.

“Poor kid.” Bucky clicked his tongue. “How long does…that,” he pointed at the bathroom, “normally last? Should we clear out? Give her some privacy?”

Gale had this look, one John didn’t seen often, that he reserved for when he thought John was being dim. He levelled it at him with full force, now.

“That,” he mimicked John’s tone, “is not what’s happening.”

“But—”

“If you know what’s good for ya, that is not what’s happening in there. Fall in line, Major.”

Clarity hit him like a stray baseball to the face. Of course the best way to protect Marge’s privacy was to create a diversion. He straightened his spine and stood almost to attention. “What’s the protocol, Buck?”

Gale matched him, toe to toe. “Nausea. We act like it’s nausea.”

“Mission?”

“Comfort and distraction.”

“Flight plan?”

“Tea. We’re out of green. She likes it with ginger. And her favourite bread warmed in the oven.”

John nodded and assigned their duties. “You’re on tea—I won’t know green tea if the clerk threw it at me. I’ll warm the bread. Meet back in thirty minutes and not a second later, got it?”

Gale grabbed his keys and his coat and didn’t break stride as he pecked Bucky’s cheek on the way out. “Wheel’s up.”

John had learned to work an oven at least. He put it on its lowest setting to preheat, and put a kettle full of water on the stove. Braving the world outside the kitchen, nearer to the bathroom, John darted out and turned up the dial for the volume and Cary Grant and Kathy Hepburn filled the space.

Marge didn’t emerge until he was tripping half way down the stairs with the comforter from their bed folded high in his arms.

“John,” she sighed tiredly. “What are you doing?”

“Nausea!” he said too loudly and Margie looked at him queer. He cleared his throat and started again. “Um, I always hated it. Feelin’ sick. My ma used to pile me under blankets and put on the radio to make me feel better.” He gestured at The Philadelphia Story playing out on the box, arms still full of cotton-wrapped downy fluff. “So, I thought, why not?”

A soft look, unbearably soft that had taken Bucky out by the knees the first time he saw it and still made him squirm a little, drifted across Marge’s face. He shifted his bundle to one arm, and gently steered Marge towards the sofa by the small of her back.

He tugged her elbow to stop her sitting, asking her to wait just a moment.

“There’s an art to this, doll face. Just you watch.”

He could feel her fondness, her amusement settle warm on his back and he set to fussing with the arrangements good and proper. Even though she was tired and uncomfortable, she waited patiently and let him do what he wanted to get her settled.

Pillows fixed just right, comforter fluffed and laying open waiting for Marge to crawl inside, John grinned. “Ta da.”

She smiled with those sweet apple cheeks. “That’s very nice, John.”

He gestured for her hands and she gave them, always so giving his Margie, and he led her to sit at the end of the sofa, right in the middle of the comforter. He leaned down to slip off her shoes, then carefully and methodically took the ends of the comforter and wrapped them around her until she was cocooned inside, only her gorgeous head and the tips of her toes peeking out.

She looked powerless against he comfort—couldn’t escape his fussing if she tried—and John was thrilled to bits to see it.

Marge opened her mouth, perhaps to protest or request some measure of freedom, but Bucky wasn’t inclined to hear either. The kettle whistled on the stove and he planted a kiss on her forehead before going to take it off the heat and fill the hot water bottle.

Marge had knitted all three of them their own little covers for those magical rubber bottles. She did it the first winter they all spent together, and there were many nights their warmth had warded off the worst of John and Gale’s relapse into the cold of the Stalag, of the march.

But now, it was Marge’s turn.

He tucked it into the wool cover—the letter M with a small lark perched next to it—and scurried back to Marge.

Just where he left her. Perfect.

She eyed the hot water bottle and gave an exasperated huff. There was a small flump of movement where maybe she tried to throw up her hands. But her voice when she spoke was warm, and affectionate.

“Is all this really necessary. It’s just a bit of…nausea.”

“Essential.” John held out the bottle and Marge quirked her brow. “Ah.”

“Maybe we could set my hands free, hm?”

Unhappy, but unable to see a way around it, John fiddled and fudged the comforter around until Marge could poke her hands through and he could slip the hot water bottle inside.

She sighed, the sound heaven to his ears, like proof he’d done good, and she melted back into a wall of comforter and pillows. “Oh, that’s good. That’s lovely, John. Thank you.”

All smiling and pleased with himself, John let himself sit next to her. The arm curling around her shoulders was automatic, now, and Marge leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut when Bucky kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, before rubbing it against his own. She always loved it when he did that, scrunched up her little nose in pleasure, and now was no different.

They sat there, Marge humming each time she shifted to try and get a little more comfortable and Bucky getting as close to religious as he got these days in his gratitude that he got to be here, in this house, with this incredible gal under his arm.

He could have sat there all night, happy as a clam, but after a few brief minutes more, the front door burst open, and their fella, their Gale all harried and dishevelled like he’d been rushing, came tumbling in brandishing a paper grocery bag in triumph.

“I got the tea! Gimme a few minutes to brew it up, hon.”

John called after him. “Water’s hot in the kettle, Buck!”

Marge sighed, equal parts fond and chagrined. “What did I do to deserve two fellas like you, hm?”

John scoffed. “Marge Cleven Egan—” She cackled at the name. “You are a saint among mortals. Don’t doubt it for a second.”

Gale appeared at the end of the sofa, hands on his hips. “Why does your name go last?”

John looked up at him all innocent like. “S’alphabetical, Buck.”

“Hm.” Buck pretended to glower, but with Margie finally giggling up a storm, he threw John a wink, and left to tend to the precious green tea and ginger.

After a minute or two, a low whistle that for a flash of a second brought him back to sneaking around bases after dark, creeping into abandoned sheds or just off base for a secret rendezvous, floated to him from the kitchen. Marge was too bundled up to hear. The warmth and comfort of the hot water bottle and bed covers had her as snug as she was going to get.

John slowly looked over his shoulder. Gale beckoned him with a crooked finger.

Scratching at the back of Marge’s head, he kissed her hair and promised to be right back.

The kitchen was dim, lit only by the light coming in through the door to the living room. But Buck pulled him out of sight anyway and looked at him with the same expression that had convinced him it was a good idea to suck Buck off in a supply closet next to Aring’s office when he was in the middle of a meeting with the top brass.

I had never failed to both arouse and terrify Bucky ever since.

“I think you should ask out Lori Redman.”

John balked, and would have pushed Gale if not for the racket it’d make, thus upsetting Marge. He settled for jabbing him in the chest with his finger. “Why the fuck wold I do a thing like that? I got me a dame. And a fella. I’m not looking anywhere else, not even for a cover, Buck. And with a woman like that, who’d upset our girl—”

Gale grinned, the kind he used to try and hide behind his hand but never did anymore, at least in front of John and Marge. He reached into the paper grocery bag and pulled out a small red rectangular tin, stamped across with a yellow band and black writing, reading Brooklax.

John eyed it curiously. “A laxative?”

Gale slipped it into the pocket of John’s shirt then let his fingers drift up and smooth out his collar, before taking John by the chin and leaning in close enough to speak against his lips,

“No one makes our wife feel like shit. You hear me, John Egan?”

If Margie didn’t need them—John’s comforting hand rubbing over her belly and Gale’s special tea—John would have dropped to his knees right then.

He almost felt sorry for Lori Redman. Almost. But whilst he loved Gale in all his forms, devious and vengeful Gale got him hotter than most.

“I hear ya, Buck. Loud and clear.”

[escaping-to-fiction]

rewatching MotA rn I think we don't give Bucky enough credit for his insane competency tbh

It's well established that Gale is level-headed and steady and extraordinarily talented, always-takes-the-left-seat etc. plus the anecdote that "if Cleven went down then what chance did the rest of us have", and the way he leads the men, BUT

In the first seven minutes of episode one, Bucky literally pulls the bomber out of a nose dive with engines on fire, saves a mans life, covers his body with his own under enemy fire, promptly becomes a navigator on the spot and then climbs back into the cockpit... like? The ease of which he does all of that, while under fire from enemy fighters is incredible. Not to mention, he evidently got promoted to air exec over Gale and why? I wouldn't say it's his good influence on the men, not in the way Gale (on the surface) is so perfect

I just think Bucky deserves more credit than he gets, and I think that on a deeper level, his level of competency and skill is the reason why the brass would have tolerated his shenanigans (and Gale's... because that man's halo was only perceived. We don't talk about how insane he was enough imo)

[escaping-to-fiction]

Tough And Sweet (Like You And Me)

Ch. 12: 'We Go So Good Together'

[WC: 191K | Gale Cleven/John Egan, College AU, The Bikeriders AU, Age Gap, Emotional Slowburn, Hurt/Comfort, Porn With Plot, Set in 2005]

College student John Egan ends up in an old pub on the other side of his small town, where he has a chance encounter with biker and mechanic Gale Cleven. His life is forever changed.

[AO3 LINK]

[escaping-to-fiction]

wild & wilder, 5/?

next instalment of the Buck/Bucky/Marge plotline to second string.

read here

Regensberg is the only mission Gale never really remembers. It’s there in flashes, patchy little splotches of colour across a wild grey blur of half formed thoughts.

He knows he spoke to Curt on the hardstand, but he doesn’t remember what he said. Probably something inconsequential, probably see you later or another astronomical lie he had no reason to ever believe could be true.

He remembers the horrific emptiness of the sky, the complete and utter absence of any other divisions.

It’s hard to know what he can actually recall, and what he’s been handed by the logs and interrogation and the rest of them talking it to death over and over and over in the sand and on the way home.

[escaping-to-fiction]

Y'ALL! IT'S OPENING DAY FOR BASEBALL! IT'S THE START OF THE NEW SEASON!

I'm so stupidly excited about this since I had no comprehension of it last year and only really tuned in for fanfic writing purposes after the fact which...yeah, kinda embarrassing 😅

Anywho, I knew opening day was coming and I wanted to at least have a better, more edited chapter 1 of the clegan baseball au for you guys to celebrate!

It's pretty much the same as the original one, but it has been expanded and edited (but by no means finalized) and hopefully just...better? And yes, this AU is gonna be chaptered, which is lowkey really scary for me but fuck it we're doing it anyways!

So! Without further ado, I present to you:

Spring | Chapter 1 🌱

It’s nearing eight o’clock in the morning as a bleary-eyed Gale and a bushy tailed Meatball make their way through Central Park, lazily following a path in one of less touristy areas in an attempt to miss the morning rush of every other New Yorker starting their day. 

Gale slows them to a stop in order to take a long, slow drag of his half cooled coffee – his first cup of the day –  when Meatball starts pulling insistently at his leash with a whine. Gale leans down to one handedly fumble with the clasp on his collar, telling the husky to behave himself as he darts off to inspect a nearby shrub– they’re in a secluded enough part of the park, after all.

What could go wrong?

He watches as Meatball pokes around in the underbrush happily – nosing at god only knows what – and he probably shouldn’t let him, can only imagine what kind of trash is lurking over there underneath all the leaves, but it’s only been what…a couple minutes?

A single glance down at his watch confirms it so Gale purses his lips to whistle for Meatball to try rein him back in, except when he looks back up to see how far away the husky’s made it, he’s gone – fucking figures.

Gale groans as he swivels from left to right to see if Meatball’s trying to play hard to get from a couple feet down the path, hiding just out of sight and wanting Gale to come chase him to fully get his morning zoomies out. Finding nothing, he turns reluctantly to the decent sized green space behind him, hoping against hope to find Meatball simply chasing after some innocent squirrel or charging at a flock of birds, but no–

he’s instead sniffing at what looks like someone slumped over on a park bench.

And that, well, shit.

Gale sets off briskly across the green space, hissing at Meatball the closer he gets because he really doesn’t need someone yelling at him about dogs and leash laws first thing in the morning because Meatball can’t mind his own little doggy business.

The closer he gets the more Gale can tell the person – a man – isn’t just slumped over, he’s full on lying down with a knee cocked up against the back of the bench and one arm slung over his face, the other hanging out limply at an awkward angle which is, of course, what Meatball’s licking at.

“Meatball, stop it, no–” Gale bites out, reaching for the dog but freezing as the man groans, swatting lamely at Meatball’s face.

“Wha…?” The man mumbles, peeking out from under his arm with a frown, clearly confused. “Dog…?”

Meatball takes that as the invitation it isn’t and pushes further into the man’s space, licking happily at his face instead as Gale grabs at him with a shout, the man on the bench wheezing out a laugh as he either tries to grab onto the husky with both hands or push him away, Gale can’t quite tell.

“I am so sorry about this, he usually has better manners–” Gale tries to apologize as he finally gets a grip on Meatball’s harness to pull him off from where he’s already halfway climbed up onto the man’s chest, which probably accounts for the wheezing.

Meatball whines as all four feet are reconnected with the ground and Gale and the random man are left staring at one another over his perked ears, Gale grimacing slightly as the other man’s laughter dies out and his expression morphs into one of disbelief.

"Buck…?" The man rasps out – squinty eyed and red faced and seemingly hungover – maybe still even drunk. “Tha’ you?” 

"Uh, no...?" Gale replies almost uncertainly, which just makes the man blink at him. 

They’re still just staring at each other.

Gale feels like he should do something, anything, to get them out of this rut of a moment – clearing his throat, he tries, “Sorry again about this, he norma–”

"Why's your dog wearing a sex harness?" The man blurts out – face scrunched up adorably – as he once again flops out a hand to pet at whatever part of Meatball he can reach.

Meatball, predictably, preens at the attention.

“It’s not–what?” Gale shakes his head, fully processing the words as Meatball strains against his hold, trying his best to climb back up onto the other man with a whine. "It's not a sex harness!" He sputters even though he himself had thought something similar when Benny had showed up to drop off Meatball the night before – dog harnesses usually weren’t so leathery and decked out with little spikes, were they? "It's a, uh…a non sexual harness. For dogs." Gale weakly tries to defend his friend's apparent BDSM coded fashion accessories for both himself and his canine companion.

The man on the bench laughs loudly, full bellied and wild, and it's then that Gale notices the black eye and dried blood crusted around his nose.

"Oh, whoa, you alright there, buddy?" Gale tries not to worry too much about a complete stranger. “I think I have a napkin or somethin…” Gale makes to check his coat pockets before realizing he’s holding onto a dog with one hand and still clutching a cup of coffee in the other. “Lemme jus–”

“Don’t even worry ‘bout it, Buck.” The man groans as he slowly pulls himself upright with the help of the back of the bench, swinging his legs down from the seat and into an open V that Meatball steps right into with a happy whuff. “M’doing just fine,” he grins up crookedly at Gale, reaching out to ruffle at Meatball’s neck fluff with both hands, “don’t even feel a thing.” He winks with his good eye and Gale is both charmed and slightly disturbed.

"Okay, but…you sure you don’t need any help or something…?" Gale doesn't think the guy's homeless – he’s dressed in too nice of a leather jacket and what look like designer jeans for that – but living in New York City it can be hard to tell.

Gale’s volunteered at some very fashionable halfway houses and shelters to just assume anyone’s homeless based on looks alone anymore.

“Awfully nice of ya, but–” The man cuts himself off, squinting up at Gale suspiciously, like he’s only just now fully seeing him. Gale braces for impact. “...you’re not Buck, are ya?” The man asks slowly, confused.

"Uh," Gale stares back, "no…?”

The man laughs again, sudden and harsh, his head thrown back with the force of it, and Gale–

Gale casts a quick glance around just to see if there’s any other living souls nearby who might also be witnessing whatever the hell it is that’s happening right now.

"Jesus Christ," the man laments, rubbing roughly at his face when Gale looks back at him, "think m’still drunk." He seems to confess more to himself.

Meatball barks in either agreement or as a bid for more attention. "Yeah, yeah," the man drops his hands to look fondly at Meatball, "you're a good boy, ain't ya? Prolly the best boy…" he reaches out for a couple more pets and then, almost shyly: "Sorry for ruining your morning," he apologizes, actually looking embarrassed. 

"No, no, you didn't, trust me." Gale rushes to promise. "Meatball here just couldn’t mind his own business and had to wake you up from what looked like a perfectly good nap, didn’t ya, you little hellion?” He snarks down at the dog, shaking him a little by his harness. “We both know you got better manners than that – c’mon, now, you’re embarrassin’ us.” He tries to lecture despite the fond grin on his face as Meatball looks up at him in utter doggy betrayal. 

Feeling eyes on him, Gale glances up to find the man staring at him again, his eyes tracking over Gale’s form like he’s trying to puzzle something out – like he’s almost there but still a couple pieces short. 

Like he's actually trying to look at Gale and see a person and not whatever caricature he feels like he’s become of himself here lately.

It tends to happen when you model for a living – selling your body and face to the highest bidder, moving from one identity crisis to another just to stay relevant in the cult of celebrity in order to get one more contract, one more sponsorship, one more shoot or spread or runway.

This man’s curious gaze – piercing yet oh so gentle that it almost makes Gale want to cry – is the most seen Gale’s felt in a good, long while.

He’s not quite sure what to make of it.

"Meatball, huh?" The man finally blinks and looks away, face somehow even redder than before. "It’s very nice to meet ya, Meatball." He addresses the husky directly even though Gale knows he's talking to him and it really shouldn’t be as cute as it is.

Just as he’s working himself up to do something – ask whether the man would be interested in some coffee, maybe actually introduce himself – music blares from somewhere, making them both jump as Meatball starts up a low howl in an attempt to sing along.

The man curses as he fumbles through his pockets, searching for what’s apparently his ringing phone, while Gale finally manages to wrestle Meatball away enough to clip on his leash. The man groans as he eventually finds and silences his phone with a sheepish expression and looking very much like he’s ready to bolt right out of there and Gale–

Gale really doesn’t want him to do that for some inexplicable reason.

"Well, Buck," the man slaps at his knees and forces himself up off the bench with a shake of his head and an awkward chuckle, "looks like I'm a wanted man, so I better–”

"Not actually Buck, remember?" Gale reminds him only to get another awkward laugh for his trouble. Then, with a steadying breath: "It's Ga–"

"Oh my fucking god, why?!" The man cuts him off frantically as Britney Spears starts up again about some girl named Lucky and her lonely heart and he’s back to fumbling his phone out of his pocket. “Listen, man, again – I am so sorry about ruining your morning – I know you said I didn’t, but I did, you don’t gotta lie – I ruin a lot of mornings!” The man laughs almost manically as he heaves himself up off the bench, staggering from a combination of maybe still being drunk and Meatball trying to jump at him as Gale sternly tells him no and the man’s phone keeps ringing as he struggles to answer it with clumsy fingers.

“I gotta,” he waves the phone about, someone yelling from the other end as he backs away, “but it really was very nice meeting you – I’m sorry, again, I swear, and like I wanna say I don’t normally do this but that’d be a lie so just, like – I’m sorry, you guys are amazing, I hope y’all have a really nice rest of your day!” He rambles as he staggers off hurriedly down the path, twisted awkwardly to keep Gale in his sight as someone continues to yell on the other end of the line. "Bye Buck, bye Meatball!" He waves as he disappears fully around a bend in the path, yelling indistinctly back whoever’s called him the further away he gets.

Gale stares after him in shock – amazed as to how quickly that all just happened – while Meatball barks at the man's retreating form, his tail wagging sadly as he looks between Gale and the disappearing man in dejection, like he wants Gale to personally do something about it.

"Sorry, buddy, but he's gone." Gale confirms with a sigh, looking down at the husky and trying not to feel the same about someone he literally just found passed out on a park bench. "C'mon, I think it’s finally time for some breakfast, what d’ya say?" Gale tugs on his leash and starts them off in the opposite direction, trying hard not to think about how the bloodshot redness of the other man's face made the blue of his eyes absolutely pop.

Trying hard not to feel like he just missed out on something that could have been the start of something really good – special even – and ain’t that just a crying shame.

He would have really liked that.

📷

Later that afternoon, as Gale’s reviewing upcoming contracts and decidedly not sulking over the fact that he didn’t even get Park Bench guy’s name, Benny calls him in an absolute fluster.

“Gale, oh my god, you crazy bastard – you’re all over ESPN right now, do you know that?!” Benny practically shrieks, his harried PA also yelling something muffled in the background, probably telling him to get off the phone – Gale’s pretty sure he’s in Japan right now for a photoshoot…or maybe South Korea?

He can’t remember.

And it’s apparently not that important right now. “ESPN?” He double checks, just to be sure. “The sports channel thing?”

“The sports channel thing, he asks,” Benny sasses, “oh my fucking god, Gale, it’s ESPN, it’s only what all the sporty people everywhere in the world watch!” 

Gale very diplomatically doesn’t sass Benny right back for summarizing a whole network’s viewership as mere sporty people. “And this pertains to me, how, exactly?”

“Because you’re on it!” Benny shrieks. “Right now – I’m watching some bootleg stream – quick, turn it on, turn it on!” 

“For what?” Gale makes a face as he steps out of his home office and into his living room, reaching for the TV remote. He’s pretty sure Marge said he had ESPN, that it was included in some cable-internet bundle that was apparently supposed to be saving Gale money.

He very lamely lifts up the remote and says ESPN into the voice option. 

The TV loads the channel like magic, the pixels evening out and yeah, sure enough, there he is: he’s apparently on ESPN now.

“What in the hell…” He squints at the screen, confused, until the picture of him zooms out from where it’s been overly zoomed in and Gale’s left staring at a slightly blurred side shot of him and Meatball from this morning – proof in the outfit he still has on, his favorite weekend sweatpants and hoodie – plus the man on the park bench caught mid laugh with his hands buried in Meatball’s neck fluff.

"It seems there might be more than just spring training fever in the air for John Egan, the Yankee's newest rookie for the upcoming season, spotted here in Central Park this morning with none other than international supermodel, Gale Cleven, a most unlikely pairing if we’ve ever saw one,” one of the sportscasters is saying through the ringing in Gale’s ears, “the moment, pictured here, was apparently caught by an eagle eyed Yankees fan out for their morning run.”

“That’s right, Juan, Egan’s been making waves since signing to the Yankees this past fall not only for the talent he’s bringing up from the minors, but also for his consistency as a player and, of course, the fact that he’s the first openly out player in the MLB!” The other sportscaster gushes, smacking a hand down on their news desk for emphasis. “Baseball fans worldwide have been rejoicing, taking to social media to welcome Egan to the big leagues since his signing–”

Gale tunes out the rest of the news segment, turning away from the TV to stare blankly out his bay windows instead, the first openly out player in the MLB trying and failing to find the most appropriate place to settle in his mind.

“Gale?” He distantly, faintly.

Then, more impatiently: “Gale!”

He’s still holding his phone, he realizes – Benny’s still on the other end despite whatever time it is in Japan. “Benny?” He questions dumbly, phone pressed tight to his ear but not really feeling it.

“Did you see it?!” 

“Yeah,” Gale confirms dazedly, “yeah, I saw it.” 

“Marge is gonna have a field day with this, can you imagine the press right now?!” Benny rattles off. “It’s like baby’s first scandal, except it’s not really a scandal, it’s just fucking you somehow on ESPN, like what the hell, man? And who was that guy you were even talking to – oh my fucking god, wait – please tell me you were not using my dog to pick up some rando in Central Park, Gale, what the fuck?!”

“I wasn’t picking anyone up,” Gale huffs out, annoyed, finally free from the shock of the past five minutes, “it was actually your dog who found him passed out on a park bench and–” He cuts himself off as he hears the chime indicating he’s got another call coming in, his manager’s name lighting up the screen. “Listen, B, I gotta go–”

“Wait, wait, wait, what do you mean Meatball found him passed out–”

“Bye, Benny!” Gale simply hangs up on him, steeling himself to make the switch over to Marge. “Hello?”

“Gale?” She questions gently from three thousand miles away in a hotel room somewhere in LA. “What’s going on? Are you okay? All your socials just went through the roof and TMZ’s running some story–”

“Yeah, yeah, no, I’m doing great – swell even, thanks for asking.” Gale cuts her off with a grin, can practically feel her annoyance radiating all the way over from the West Coast. “How’s your day been, dear?”

Marge sighs so deeply, and for so long, that Gale almost wonders if the call’s been dropped. “It’s been great, Gale, it’s been super – it’s only a little past eleven in the morning out here and you’re already giving me a headache, so congrats.” She snarks back at him fondly and Gale selfishly wishes she was there with him in person. “Now tell me about this ESPN thing because we both know that’s not your targeted demographic – your hand-eye coordination’s complete shit, for one thing.” 

“Hey,” Gale starts, indignant, ready to defend what little sporting skills he does have only for Marge to just steam roll right over him.

“I’m serious, Gale, your socials are over the place! They’re mostly positive, but since this guy – whoever he is – is apparently out and proud, speculation about you has gone up one hundred percent – hell, maybe even more than a hundred percent, I can't even keep track!”

“So?” Gale grunts out childishly. “We’ve dealt with stuff like this before, haven’t we?” 

Marge is quiet for a long couple of seconds, enough for Gale to already know what she’s thinking. “Yeah, we have...” she eventually admits with a sigh, “but it makes you miserable.”

“So?” Gale repeats with a shrug, shuffling back into his office in an attempt to get back on track with what he was doing. “We just do it again – and we’ll keep doing it, as often as we have to.”

Career first, always, Gale had made Marge promise back when they decided to start this whole thing – broke and alone and damn near homeless while trying to scratch out a living in LA.

“But, Gale–”

“Marge.”

“Gale.”

“Marge.”

Gale waits, but it never comes. “Hey, it was your turn.” He doesn’t quite whine, because he’s a grown ass man.

“Gale, honestly, every time something like this happens you get–” She cuts herself off, but Gale knows – he does – he gets weird when people speculate about his sexuality, about what he does and who he does it with when he’s out of the public eye or behind closed doors. 

Spaces that are supposed to be safe.

Spaces that he still has trouble trusting after all these years.

“I’m sorry,” Marge apologizes quietly, and genuinely sounds it, “I know why…I’m sorry…”

“I know you are,” Gale reassures her lowly – god, does he know, “and what have I told ya about apologizing, hm?”

“Not to do it, but you know I always am…so!” Marge doesn’t allow either of them time to wallow, forced cheer in her voice as she plows full steam ahead in full business mode. “How you wanna play this?” 

He doesn't even really need to think about – knows they’ve pretty much ended up right where they always do when it comes to a so called scandal, no matter how lowkey it is: lie, deny, and just try to sneak by.

Gale makes a face, but it’s always worked well for them. “The usual, I guess.” He gives the order for Marge to work her magic. “But actually…” He pauses as a barely there thought begs for attention in the midst of everything else. 

It's a stupid one – reckless, even. 

He shouldn't even be humoring it, but…

“Babe?” Marge prods gently above the rattling of her keyboard.

“I, uh…” Gale swallows hard, suddenly nervous and trying oh so very hard not to be. “I'm sure this has been an inconvenience for, uh…for Park Bench Guy…” He tries, Marge’s typing slowing to a significant stop on her end. “I was wondering if maybe…maybe you could reach out and see if he'd be willing to meet…with me. In person.” He cringes at himself. “So I can apologize.” 

Silence.

Then: “Park Bench Guy, hm?” Marge inquires suspiciously, nails once again clacking rapid-fire across keys, her browser search history getting more and more fucked. “If I didn't know any better…” she trails off mischievously, her typing giving way to a gasp, “Gale!”

“What?” He absolutely does not whine, wincing as Marge downright cackles from three time zones away.

“Oh, honey,” she soothes his rattled nerves and Gale knows she's found all she's needed to, “you've always been a sucker for a pair of baby blues, haven’t you?” She absolutely calls him out on it, her laughter following him all the way down as he head-desks in the sanctity of his own home office, thirty-one and mortified that he's got a crush – of all things – on a man he's only met once.

“No promises, but I'll see what I can do!” She declares cheekily and Gale just knows he's never gonna live this down no matter what happens.

⚾

"Brady, Brady, Brady, Brady, Brady--"

"What?!" The man in question whips around in the middle of changing out of his practice clothes to glare at Johh – just like normal – and thank fuck for that because John's pretty sure he's somehow slipped and fell and whoops-a-daisied right into an alternate timeline.

One where he can't possibly still be himself because stuff like this didn't just happen to guys like him.

John zeros in on Brady – completely ignoring the rest of his fellow New York Yankees team mates as they boggle at him tripping over absolutely nothing in his haste to get across the locker room – crashing into Brady as he struggles to jump-step over just one of the many low benches bolted down throughout the room. 

“Jesus, Bucky–” Brady yelps, only managing to half-assedly catch him by an arm to keep them both from toppling over. “Wha–”

“You gotta help me, man, seriously – I really fucked it up this time,” John pleads, frantic and fully aware of how crazy he sounds – how crazy he must look, “it's even worse than that one ti–”

"No shit you did something – what the hell happened to your face?!" Brady throws down the shirt he had been trying to change into in order to cradle John's head in an uncharacteristic display of concern. "Thank god you're not pitching tonight, Bucky, what–"

"I'm gonna get sued by the hottest guy in the world!" John wails, wide eyed and obviously failing at trying not to panic as Brady pokes and prods at his swollen face.

"You've said some pretty stupid shit since I've met you," Brady frowns in concentration, completely unphased as he thumbs at the shiner around John's eye, trying to check for breaks but only succeeding in making him wince, "but I think that's probably the stupidest." 

"Would you quit it!" John smacks away his hands, no matter how well intentioned. "It was all over ESPN this afternoon and God knows where else by now and this is baaad…" John drawls it out miserably as he slumps down on the closest bench, the one that tried to trip him, “bad, bad, bad, bad, bad–"

"You're freaking me out, stop it." Brady smacks lightly at the back of his head as he lowers himself down beside him, still shirtless and pretty obviously worried and that – that's not helping. 

It's nice, but it's not helping – it's actually only feeding into the whole alternate timeline theory – winding him up tighter and tighter because his Brady's a dick, a grade-A asshole, a complete–

"So?” Brady demands impatiently, almost accusingly. “What'd you do?” 

Oh. 

There he is.

John's never been more relieved.

For all that they annoy one another with childish pranks and play up a love-hate rivalry for the fans and cameras during games, Brady's never once actually left him hanging.

John stares down at the worn tiling of the locker room floor and tries not to spiral any further than he already has. “I don't–”

"From the beginning." Brady cuts him off because he knows how John tends to ramble and John's never loved him more.

Thank God someone's got a functioning brain cell right now.

"I went out last night," John starts again, "and this guy got all up in my face because he doesn't think there should be any faggots in America's past time–"

"Fucking again?!" Brady throws his hands up incredulously as John just rubs tiredly at his face. "It's fucking 2023 for Christ's sake, what the actual fuck--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah – you're not like the other dude bros – do you wanna hear the rest of this or not?" John complains as Brady quiets down beside him with a bone deep sigh, probably just as resigned to this bullshit as John is. "So that happened and I just...went on a one man bar crawl, I guess...to try to forget about it – about all of it." He shrugs, suddenly feeling drained and tired in a way that even playing nine innings straight doesn't leave him.

Brady's quiet beside him, letting him marinate in his feels. "Why didn’t you call me?" He eventually chides with a poke to his leg. "I could've picked you up."

"No offense, but I didn't wanna see anyone last night," John admits quietly, background sounds starting to register again as someone slaps a wet towel down on the floor – a locker slams shut – "it's been months and I just thought...ya know..."

"That people'd be over the whole gay rookie thing by now?" Brady guesses just as quietly and John nods, face cradled in his hands and staring forlornly at the floor.

"I ended up passed out on a bench in Central Park–"

"Bucky!"

"Calm down, I'm fine – didn't even get mugged or anything." John peeks up with his best attempt at a reassuring grin that falters as he thinks about the next part. "Only reason I even got up was because this dog started licking at my face." 

Brady once again sighs deeply and rubs tiredly at his eyes, like John's some kid trying their parent's patience – and doesn't that just sum the two of them up. "Then what?" He asks warily – like he's scared to know.

"I opened my eyes and Gale Cleven was staring at me." John admits in quiet awe and Brady freezes. 

Drops his hand. 

Stares at him.

"Gale Cleven?" He repeats stupidly. "Gale Cleven." He states incredulously, staring a hole into the side of John’s head before bursting right into laughter.

John groans and falls sideways on the bench as Brady doubles over, hiccuping and slapping at whatever part of John he can reach – an ass cheek, a thigh. "Bucky, oh my god," he wheezes out, face wet with tears from how much he's enjoying himself at John's expense, "what, what–" he can't even get the words out, "what'd you do?"

"I didn't even recognize him at first – and then when I did I pretended like I didn't know who he was – and then I, uh...um..." John mumbles the rest into the wood grain of the bench, flinching as Brady grapples at him to pull him back upright.

"And then you what? C'mon, don't stop now!” The little shit eggs him on, all previous worry and concern gone now that John's proven he's not actually in that much trouble beyond some wounded pride and the obvious bruising coloring his face an interesting shade of purple.

John takes a deep, solidifying breath and explains: "I, uh...I asked him why his dog was wearing a sex harness.”

Brady falls backwards off the bench he laughs so hard and even John can't help but crack a grin at his own stupidity now that he's actually said it all out loud to somebody.

This morning really wasn't his best in any way, shape, or form – he's fully aware of that.

Doesn't mean it wasn't embarrassing as fuck, though.

Or traumatizing.

It's minutes before Brady's able to calm down enough to right himself on the bench, still giggling as he straddles it facing John – red faced and boyish and clearly eager to hear more.

John doesn't have the heart to deny him. "Someone apparently got a picture of us together – a fan or paparazzi or something,” he keeps going, figuring he might as well, “ESPN ran it during their afternoon segment with some bullshit spring fever angle because, well..."

“You're openly gay and fraternizing with the most beautiful man in the world in a public park – yeah, that'd do it.” Brady nods sagely, like he's some kind of leading authority on the matter as John sputters something about how he most definitely wasn't fraternizing. “It's not – you know they were just looking for a good story to start some shit with, right?” A gentle fist reaches out to knock against his shoulder. “It's not the end of the world, so what're you so worried about?”

"Gale Cleven is the most beautiful, most heterosexual man in the world," John stares at Brady like he's being the stupid one, "and the last thing he probably wants are some gay ass rumors following him around because he found my dumb ass passed out on a park bench – think about it!" He' starts working himself back up.

"I am," Brady snorts, giving him a little love slap across his non-bruised cheek just to be a dick about it, "and I think you're freaking out over nothing – it was a random ass meeting in a park, not some dick pic or sex tape unless there's something else you're not telling me.”

John makes some kind of high pitched gurgling noise he didn't know himself capable of as Brady lamely pats at his knee in some kind of there, there gesture. "Just give it a couple days and it'll all blow over, you'll see," Brady rolls his eyes – then, more gently, because he knows John needs to hear it, "you're not some kind of disease, Bucky – and if Gale Cleven thinks being seen with you is like catching one then he can go straight up fuck himself, I don't care how pretty he is." 

John huffs out a laugh as tears start to burn at his eyes. "Thanks, Johnny."

"Ah, shit – no, no, no, no, not the water works – anything but that." Brady reaches out to pull him in close, hugging him at an awkward angle that John can't even begin to understand the physics of given how they're both sitting. It's still really nice, though. "Just don't be a fucking idiot next time, alright – you fucking call me, you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah," John promises wetly, shaking him off in an attempt to be manly about it despite still having to dab at his eyes. "I will." He promises.

"Good, you better." Brady blesses him with a hearty slap to the back before shoving him away to finally snatch up his discarded shirt from the floor and slipping it on over his head. "I bet the memes from all of this are going to be amazing." He snarks and John huffs out a quiet laugh as something vibrates against the bench, wooden and startlingly loud in the now quiet and cleared out locker room. 

Looking down for the source John realizes it's his own phone, that it must have slipped right out of his hoodie pocket amidst all the chaos of his dramatic flailing. He swipes at the screen to unlock it, curious as to how much of Brady's time he just wasted, only to freeze as he takes in the sheer number of notifications lighting up the screen: texts, missed calls, voicemails, DMs from four different apps – even fucking emails. 

"You're making that weird noise again." Brady observes from somewhere above and John feels him press in close to see what he's looking at. "Holy shit, I didn't know you could get triple digit texts!" He slaps excitedly at John’s shoulder. “Or that many voicemails – people still leave those?”

John just gurgles his way back down to the bench, weakly offering up his phone for Brady to take as he once again slumps over sideways in defeat.

"Texts are mostly from people you know, some of the calls too but they're mostly from private numbers, so probably reporters?" Brady complains as he apparently scrolls through the melee, long since having cracked John's passcode. “And all these emails are just requests for interviews or comments too – Jesus, Bucky, how is all your contact info just out there on the internet for people to find? How have you not been a victim of identity fraud yet?”

John just gurgles in reply, praying for this day to just be over already.

"Your Insta's an absolute mess, some of these DMs are completely unhinged – wait, is this a dick pic?!" Brady cackles as he continues to go through everything and John just dies a little more inside. "Oh." Brady suddenly grows quiet and John peeks up at him. "Oh."

"Oh?" John repeats. “What–why are you oh-ing?”

Brady glances down at him warily, clearly unsure as to whether or not to tell him. "Ummm…" He squints between John and the phone in his hand. "There's a message here from, uh...from Gale Cleven's manager...?"

"What?!" John rockets upright, fumbling to snatch his phone back as Brady relapses into hysterical laughter against his locker.

"Her name's Marjorie Spencer and she's reaching out on behalf of her client Gale Cleven," John summarizes out loud in a panicked ramble as he speed reads, "she hopes I'm doing alright and says that Mr. Cleven has expressed an interest in meeting with me again in person to apologize for any kind of inconvenience–nooooo, no, no, no, no, noooo!" John wails, nearly throwing his phone across the locker room as he flails back over to face plant on the bench, the wood tacky from ass sweat and old varnish as it sticks against his forehead.

"What, why?!” Brady smacks at him, trying to get him flipped over. “Why no?!” 

"He just wants to sue me in person!" John keeps wailing, can't find it in himself to stop.

"No, he doesn't!" Brady finally succeeds in getting him halfway turned over – snatching the phone back and reading the message for himself. "He wants to meet you for fucking coffee so he can properly introduce himself, you goddamn nut!"

Another concerning gurgle that just kind of happens without John's permission.

"Jesus, Bucky," Brady huffs in annoyance, pushing and pulling at him until he's back upright and slumped in on himself like some kind of husk of his former self, "he's like super famous and you're you – this is probably like charity work for him to save face."

"Mean." John whines, burying his face in his hands. "You're so fucking mean to me."

“Yeah, well, don't make it easy.” Brady cackles as he continues to snoop through John's phone, growing suspiciously quiet in the process – enough so that John looks up to see why only to spot the infamous John Brady smirk, the one he flashes for the cameras just so he can see himself on the jumbotrons in the stadium during a game because he's an absolute tool like that.

"What are you doing?" He demands, levering himself up as Brady hurriedly dances away, frantically trying to type something with a manic sort of glee.

"Nothing!" Brady claims with a shit eating grin.

"Brady, I swear to god–"

"There!" Brady crows, still dancing in and out John's desperate attempts to grab at him. "I just confirmed you're free for coffee later next week, further details TBD!”

"You what?!" John launches himself off the bench with a shriek to tackle a cackling Brady against the lockers only for them to bounce off in a tangle of limbs and land with joint grunts on the ground, John's phone skittering off somewhere across the tile as they lay there laughing – John finally accepting that this might as well just happen, alternate timeline or not.

"Hey," Brady volunteers sometime later, once he's caught his breath and John's made himself comfortable lying on top of him like some kind of human pillow, "I at least said you wanted to apologize for any kind of inconvenience too, so all you gotta do is whatever this manager lady says and you'll be golden." He thumps at John's back supportively. "There's no way you can fuck this up any more than you already have, right?" 

Lying there, John decides it's been far too long since Brady's had a good ole nipple twister – plus, after everything he's just put him through, it's only fair.

💫

Two days later – after what Benny keeps referring to as sports-gate, even though everyone’s told him to stop – Gale's standing stupidly in the still open doorway of his penthouse apartment as some bike courier heads back towards the elevator, having just knocked on his door for a delivery.

Gale boggles between the bouquet of tulips and other spring flowers in his one hand and the small, glittery card reading sorry I kinkshamed your dog in an almost illegible scribble in his other.

Against his better judgement he finds himself completely smitten.

[escaping-to-fiction]

Anyway, I had an idea for a fic last night where Marge can see how much Gale and John are in love with each other, and then Gale admits he and John would curl up together for comfort in the Stalag, and he says it like he thinks he cheated, and Marge's heart just breaks.

Next time they're all three at the house, she says, "Gale, do you trust me?"

"What? Of course."

"John?"

"Stupid question, Marge."

"Okay." She stands up and walks to John. She looks at Gale. "Just. Trust me."

And Gale stares at her but nods slowly. She looks at John. "Trust me."

John is shaking, but he nods.

Marge touches John's cheek, then she cups his face, then she steps in between his legs and pulls his head against her chest. The same way she cuddles Gale. She makes sure John's looking at Gale. She looks at Gale.

Gale's shaking as badly as John. He looks from John to Marge, then back to John. "I don't--" He shakes his head. "Marge. I trust you. But..."

"I will never be mad you found comfort in each other," she says, and John makes a pained, wounded noise and wraps his arms around Marge's waist. Marge looks down and combs her fingers through his hair. "I will never be mad you love each other."

"We--" Gale presses his mouth closed in that way he does when he's stopping himself from saying something he doesn't mean.

"Marge," John says, his voice broken.

And then Gale makes a wounded sound. "That's--John. That's how you said it in the Stalag."

John shifts, and Marge looks down. He rests his chin on her belly. His eyes are wet and his face is red. "I was jealous," he says.

Marge wipes his eyes. "Of me?"

"Both of you," John says.

There's a clatter, and then Gale's rounding the table, dropping so he can wind his arms around John's shoulders and press his face between John's shoulders.

Marge moves on instinct. Slips a hand down John's chest until she can touch Gale's hands. Gale unclasps his hands and presses hers flat against John's chest, then covers them with his.

John's fingers tighten on her waist, and Marge leans down and kisses him on the forehead.

"Oh, John," she says. "You've always had us. I'm sorry you didn't think you did."

"Marge," Gale whispers. He lifts his head from John's back and looks at her. "Marge, what are we doing?"

"I have no idea," she says and laughs a little wetly. "Not really. It just...we aren't right if it isn't all three of us in it together," she says. "And you've both been trying so hard to act like we're just a couple with a friend, but it's not..." She looks at John. He's still staring at her. He's still crying. "I don't know when I decided it would always be the three of us, but--" She clears her throat as Gale stands.

He keeps one hand on John's shoulder. He leans over John's head. He presses a kiss to the corner of Marge's mouth. "We shouldn't--this isn't how people--"

"Fuck people," John says. He presses a kiss to Marge's stomach, then turns so he can wrap one of his arms around Gale's waist. "Gale. Please. I won't--I won't ask for much."

"How dare you!" Marge snaps at the same time Gale makes a noise like something inside him has broken.

Gale stares at Marge. She juts out her chin, letting him know she's with him. He looks down at John. Touches John's cheek just like Marge had, leans down and pauses, his nose brushing John's. "Don't you ever. John, don't you ever say that again."

John tips his chin, and Gale glances at Marge. She nods, scared and unsure how any of this will work, but sure it's the right answer. The only answer.

They kiss.

[escaping-to-fiction]

wild & wilder, 4/?

next installment of the Buck/Bucky/Marge plotline to second string.

read here

Gale doesn’t sleep, really, for the weeks John is gone. He lies in his cot and stares at the ceiling and wonders what it’s like in England, whether John made it there safe. John’s not a hard luck pilot, not like Curt and Brady, but Gale lies there and thinks about wheels-up landings and engines cutting out mid-Atlantic and navigators getting lost and missing land and a great metal bird sputtering fuelless to a halt and dropping out of the sky. And that's before he gets to thinking about John flying missions, about flak and fighters and a fort with a belly full of bombs.

[escaping-to-fiction]

I've been writing some heavy stuff today and need me some lighthearted fluff. So what about some more CleganMarge?

Marge who sees the train coming down the line a mile off - the first time she meets Bucky, in fact. Marge who always asks about Bucky in her letters to the point the rest of the 100th rib Gale about it and tell him Bucky's after his girl. Marge who thinks it's funny when Gale writes back and tells her Bucky gave a fella a black eye defending her honour.

Marge who encourages Gale to spend as much time with his best man before the wedding, despite there being so much to plan. Marge who takes care to mention Bucky and Gale at the same time to her family and friends so they come to associate one with the other too.

Marge who, after the wedding, is the one to invite John to stay time and time again. Who sets her husband up on little dates with Bucky and says, "Oh wouldn't that shirt bring out the colour of his eyes; let's get it for him". Or, "Bucky mentioned that book last week, you should get it." Marge who conveniently remembers plans when it's supposed to be the three of them spending time together, so they can have time on their own.

Marge who's slowly pulling out her hair because those morons of hers just. aren't. getting it. Marge who's going to have to resort to drastic measures to make these two do something about their feelings so they can all be happy together.

Marge who pinches Bucky’s bottom when she walks past, but Gale is behind her and Bucky thinks it's him and chokes on his own tongue and scowls at Gale before sending a concerned look her way. Marge who resorts to psychological warfare and spritzes on a little of John's cologne before she and Gale have sex, and Gale pulls off (and out) of her when he realises, and storms down the hall.

Marge who's ordered downstairs and is sat at the kitchen table with two very annoyed Majors staring down at her, arms folded, waiting for an answer.

[escaping-to-fiction]

LOOKING FOR EIGHT

A Clegan Rodeo AU. Still with playlist. Now with podfic from @angelfruittree!

This is it y'all. This is the end. Thanks so much for coming along for the ride. <3

Chapter 14: Exempt from Qualification

R1.2.14.1 Contestants Exempt From Qualification. The following contestants may be exempt from the Dollar-Won qualification rule:

A) Former World Champions in the event they are entering. B) Three-time NFR qualifiers in the event they are entering. C) NFR qualifiers in the event they are entering during any of the past three years. D) Those who have been injured a total of six months during and who have not entered and paid entry fees for the event in question at more than 20 rodeos in the previous year...

Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association 2023 Rule Book, 126-127.

[escaping-to-fiction]

Let your heart be light - Chapter 5

Gale’s a tree farmer, living a lonely life. John changes that.

— —

He flies over the tree farm three times and squints down on each pass, imagining he can see a blonde head despite being too high to make out more than just miles of tree tops.

But he lands and tells Kenny he did good and then checks his phone to see several messages.

The first one he opens has him grinning.

[2:35pm] Buck🎄: Did you just fly over my farm?

[2:44pm] Buck🎄: Twice?

[4:07pm] John: Three times, Buck. Some math whiz you are. Learn how to count

His message gets 'laughed' at as he peels himself out of the top half of his flight suit and lets its dangle at his waist.

[4:08pm] Buck🎄: Everything okay?

[4:10pm] John: Right as rain. No calls, just a test flight.

[4:10pm] John: Perfect opportunity to check in on my fella

He sets the phone on the table and watches dots appear and disappear several times over so he packs away his helmet and removes the rest of his suit, giving Gale time to figure out how to flirt. When his phone finally dings, his smile goes soft at the edges.

[4:13pm] Buck🎄: 😊

— —

Chapter 5/? on AO3

[escaping-to-fiction]

wild & wilder 3/?

next installment of the Buck/Bucky/Marge plotline to second string.

read here

They sit out 1942, while America wades into Europe’s war. They fly pointless missions and teach hopeful boys and build the best damn unit in the Air Force. They spend weekends in the cabin, they fuck in the dark of the library and the barracks in silence, they dance and drink and laugh and wait and wait and wait and wait.

[escaping-to-fiction]

wild & wilder, 2/?

next installment of the Buck/Bucky/Marge plotline to second string.

read here

The next day, they’re at war. It changes everything and absolutely nothing. There’s this strange air to the base now, a constant little frictious awareness. People are being reassigned and shipped out, or shipped in from other bases, units formed and crews shaped.

“We’re gonna be the 100th Bomb Group,” Gale tells John one night, when they’re curled together in a cot that is far too small for them.

[escaping-to-fiction]

Soon You'll Get Better - Part 1: "Fog"

From the Clegan Astronaut AU

Read on AO3

Fic Summary: Scenes from Bucky's healing process, taking place between Artemis 3 splashdown and the epilogue of To the Moon and Back, filling in pieces of Gale and John’s lives as they navigate the aftermath of what happened at Shackleton. Mostly for all your clegan astronaut hurt/comfort needs.

Author's Note: Take note that this is NOT the TTMAB sequel (still to come I hope!). Think of it as TTMAB 1.5. There was a lot about Bucky's healing process that I didn't get to include in To the Moon and Back, but I wanted to write it down somewhere. This is that somewhere.

---

On the lunar south pole, it ain’t easy telling day from night. If you look outside, follow the shadows to the gray horizon, the view is always pretty much the same. An eternal sunrise, crater rims illuminated in white. 

The crew followed a strict schedule to keep their biological clocks in check, same as any other space mission they’d ever been on. The ship’s lights would turn off at night, right around 9:30 UTC, and they would come back on bright and early to rouse them for the day at 6. At least, that’s what the mission plan called for.

Bucky remembers the artificial day/night divide. It was always hard to adjust early in the mission, when maneuvers and maintenance tasks and faulty alarms didn’t allow for proper schedules to be followed. Sleep came in fits no matter how dead tired they were. But eventually it just became the name of the game. They’ve all slept in worse conditions, with less desirable schedules, after all. At least by the time John and Curt were on the moon it was always the same; lights on at 6am; grumbling about not wanting to get up; lights off at 9:30pm; grumbling about not wanting to sleep.

On. Off. Day. Night. Pretty much the same sleep schedule planned for every mission day. 

But plans don’t tend to see the follow through when a crew member nearly dies.

Bucky wasn’t really aware of himself most of the time he spent on Starship after the “Shackleton Incident,” as his near-death experience will become known in the media and the textbooks, so he figures the whole day/night thing didn’t matter much anyway. He remembers opening his eyes, seeing stars out the window. Just flickers of light, like the breath in his lungs. He never once wondered what time it was. He really wouldn’t have cared. 

But between arriving back on Orion and the day he left the hospital here on Earth, he felt a lot like staring at that forever lunar sunrise. Artificial days or all-too-real nights – hurtling through outer space or feeling the weight of gravity trap him to this planet – it didn’t matter. He was adrift in space and time. There was no day. There was no night. There wasn’t even a yesterday or a tomorrow. Just like on the moon, there was only the next moment. 

There was something incredible about that when he was bounding across an extraterrestrial surface or observing the horizon from the console while he video chatted with his husband, his Artemis mission patch a badge of honor on his arm. A pioneer, he might be called. An intrepid explorer. A pilot, a scientist, an engineer. An astronaut. 

On Earth, though, the very same feeling is nothing but unsettling. Turns out making history for being a hero feels a lot different from making history for almost dying like one.

He looks out the window at the dense fog, having been awake for a few minutes now but unable to move. He wonders if he is actually awake, wonders why the view looks different today. It’s hazy, unclear, no indication of where or when or why. The lunar sunrise can’t break through the moisture. The stars are gone. The shadows. His body feels frozen, stuck, and all he can do is squint at that fog, trying to put the pieces together into a story that makes sense.

Slowly, all too slowly, his brain starts to understand that there’s no fog on the moon. No water. No nothing. Except for inside that little greenhouse they built. 

He wonders if any of the plants survived. He and Curt were supposed to check on them. 

There’s no life on the moon, though. He knows this with certainty, and it makes his chest feel tight with something that might be guilt or sorrow.

Slowly, all too slowly, his brain starts to understand that the bed is too comfortable, that there’s real walls framing his view, that there’s the weight of a dog’s head resting on his hip, that there’s a soft wind rattling the branches of the tree outside the window. The way the sunlight falls through the glass is distinctly Earth-like; there’s a lightness to it, like rays of heaven. It’s familiar, and he knows it should be comforting.

No, there’s no life on the moon. Not anymore. 

The world is gray, but in a wet, life-filled kind of way. That’s one way to look at it. It’s also gray in a gloomy, can’t see what’s in front of your face kind of way. That’s the other way to look at it. Dark, confusing, thick. The outside looks like how John feels inside. 

9.8 meters per second squared. He feels every ounce of Earth’s gravity pressing him into the mattress. 

He grips the blanket covering him with shaking fingers. He doesn’t like that he’s alone. He wonders what time it is. Morning or evening? Day or night? He really wouldn’t know.

—

When Gale’s phone rings for the second time in thirty minutes, he knows he has to stop avoiding Chick and the question that he’s inevitably calling to ask. He rubs a hand over his eyes and picks his phone up from the coffee table. A hazy post-storm light is shining through the window, and he sits on the couch with a mug of coffee that tastes unnervingly like chocolate because he forgot to buy new cream and, while he’s usually happy to take his caffeine bitter and black, some deep frustration with the world possessed him to try whatever nonsense Marge left in his fridge. The cheerful touch doesn’t settle right with the way his morning is going, but he drinks it anyway, knees pulled up close to his chest, watching the fog from last night’s storm roll over Nassau Bay. There’s something to be said for taking his time in the morning, drinking decent coffee from a real ceramic mug instead of cheap shit out of a paper cup, looking out the window for longer than the moment it takes to determine whether or not he needs a raincoat. He can appreciate the time, even if he can’t appreciate the circumstances.

“Chick,” he greets as he answers the call, raising his phone to his ear. He takes another sip of coffee, studies his mug too intently. Actually, it is rocket science, it says in eccentric text on top of a cartoon rocket. A cheeky graduation gift from Bucky when he got his B.S. in aerospace engineering.

“Hi Buck,” Chick says. They both pretend they can’t hear the sense of concern lacing his voice. “You think you’ll be in today?” 

Gale knows that’s not really the question he’s asking. He looks at the wall clock and holds back a resigned sigh. It’s 10am. He’s usually at JSC around 7:30, and certainly no later than 8, when he isn’t manning a mission. He’s started going back to work recently, even if he doesn’t stay the full day. He was there yesterday, even. It’s not like him to sit around in the morning biding his time, letting the minutes tick by as he idly wonders whether or not to walk out the door. Of course, he wasn’t intending to be on time today to start with – Bucky had a follow up with his neurologist at 8am. He was planning to head in after.

“I don’t know, Chick. I… I might have to work from home today.” Gale glances over his shoulder, in the direction of their bedroom, even though he can’t see it from here. He hasn’t heard anything since the whole debacle around 7:15, which ended in Gale forcing himself to leave the room quietly rather than slam the door.

“Appointment go okay?” Chick asks.

Gale does sigh this time. He sips his coffee again and turns his attention back to the window. Everything is muted and hazy, the sky gray and the grass a dark, wet kind of green that fades into the white of the fog lingering above it. He doesn’t usually mind the fog. He tilts his head, not knowing what to make of it now. He hates to admit that maybe, just maybe, it matches how he’s been feeling. “Never made it.”

Chick is quiet. Gale can tell he’s about as disappointed as he himself feels. “Bad night?” Chick finally asks.

“Something like that.” Gale isn’t even really sure what happened himself, and he isn’t really sure how much he needs to say. What’s expected and what’s news? Last night Bucky had trouble sleeping. He was in pain – more than usual – but he couldn’t seem to explain to Gale if it was his leg or his head or both or, for the love of God, something else that they haven’t even figured out yet.

It’s the same stuff every day; the only thing that changes is how bad it is. There’s good days and bad days. Moments. Hours. Seconds. There are times when Bucky can hold down a turkey sandwich, and there are times when anything other than soup threatens its return. Times when the pain seems minimal, and times when it seems overwhelming. There are times when he’s perfectly coherent, and there are times when Gale can’t quite get through to him, when the words won’t come and Bucky doesn’t seem to be on the same wavelength as the Earth turning around him. Instead he’s somewhere out there, back in the stars. 

There are times when he seems like himself. Bucky Egan. Carefree, top of the world, with a shiteating grin and a witty joke that can turn anyone head over heels.

But there are also times when he doesn’t seem like himself at all. Times when neither of them are sure he’ll ever be himself again.

The doctor says it’s normal, that it will get better. That he will get better. 

Gale supposes Bucky is getting better. At the very least, he’s awake, moving, talking. He knows who he is and where he is and he isn’t fucking dead in the cold ground of Arlington. Gale just keeps having to remind himself that better doesn’t mean normal. Bucky’s physician likes to say “progress isn’t linear.” She likes to remind Gale that, all things considered, Bucky is doing better than they ever would have expected, and they’re lucky that he’s not worse off.

Lucky.

They’re lucky. He’s lucky. John is lucky.

But even when the reality crashes into him like a truck time and again, even as Gale feels guilty for being anything other than grateful, for taking a single moment for granted, it’s so fucking hard to remember just how lucky they are in moments when Bucky is talking and laughing and, generally, acting like himself. It’s moments like that that make Gale so hopeful for Bucky’s future. And it’s moments like that that make mornings like these more devastating.

“Not feeling well,” Gale told the receptionist at the neurologist's office this morning, when he called to let them know they wouldn’t be in for their scheduled appointment. 

“Any better this morning?” Chick asks. But they both know, if that was the case, Gale wouldn’t be sitting on his living room couch right now.

“Won’t get up. Or talk to me. I tried, and he just–” shut me out. Gale frowns and presses his mug to his forehead in defeat, even though he came to terms with this about an hour ago. He’s been back and forth between anger – at Bucky or himself or the world, he doesn’t know – and acceptance. “Chick, I think–”

“I hear you, Gale.”

“I’ll try to be there tomorrow.” A nervous sip of coffee. Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow. I’ll go-

“Take your time, son. No one’s expecting you to save the world right now. You already did that.” Gale can’t help but scoff, rolling his eyes, and he can imagine the sly smile on Chick’s face. “Just take care of him, okay? I’ll come by tonight and make dinner for you.”

“You don’t have to–”

“I’ll see you at 7.” And then the line is dead.

—

The coffee is gone, the mug cold, but Gale holds it tight anyway. Like a lifeline. Like he’s holding onto a memory of something better, or maybe just holding onto something solid.

He’s lost in thought again, still staring out into the gray morning, when he hears the tip tap of Pepper trotting across the kitchen tile and the living room hardwood. He looks down when she stops at his side, sitting in front of the couch. “Hey baby girl.” He smiles and scratches her behind the ears, but she just tilts her head and whines at him. “What’s wrong?”

She licks and nuzzles his hand before turning and trotting back off the same way she came, pausing just briefly at the entry to the living room to look back at him. He wonders how, at only one year old, she understands her role in this family so well. He follows her.

“Gale?” John’s voice sounds weak when he hears Gale’s footsteps come in from the hallway. Any other time, Gale would stop in the bedroom doorway, lean against the wall with his arms crossed or his hands in his pockets, ask Bucky what he needed, why he couldn’t get it himself. But not now. Not anymore.

He doesn’t even stop in the doorway for a moment. He follows Pepper around the end of the bed, to the opposite side of the room, nearest the window. Bucky, shirtless, is laying on his back with the blanket pulled up to his chest, his loose, dark curls a mess over his forehead. He coughs weakly, raising an arm to cover his mouth as he winces, screwing his eyes shut against the pain in his head. It makes Gale’s heart hurt.

He kneels down at Bucky’s bedside as Pepper jumps back up onto the mattress, curling up at Bucky’s feet. “Hey darlin’.” Gale tries to smile, blinking back the fuzziness in his brain and the concern in his eyes. Any anger, any frustration, any remote sense of impatience he had is gone. The morning is forgotten, and the gentle post-storm light brings something new. 

He takes Bucky’s hand and squeezes gently. “You doin’ okay?”

Bucky lazily turns his head so he’s looking at Gale, his cheek pressed to the pillow. “Been better.”

“Nauseous?”

Bucky shrugs. Gale takes that to mean a little, but bearable. “Is the pain worse?” he asks. 

Gale’s mind flashes back to the long night behind them. One of the worst since Bucky’s been home. Pain. Fear. Frustration. Gale had thought they were moving forward from all of that, a light at the end of the tunnel, but ain’t that the way. Just when you think you’ve left the worst behind, another mountain rises before you. The grueling reality of Artemis 3 aside, rarely has Buck Cleven felt so helpless as he did last night, unable to soothe his other half.

“Ain’t p-pleasant,” Bucky stutters. His eyes drift somewhere away, but his fingers weakly stroke over Gale’s knuckles in a way that grounds them both. Bucky to this planet. Gale to this reality.

“What hurts?”

Bucky closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, barely managing to prevent it from becoming a cough. “H-head.” His eyes roll like he’s fighting off sleep or pain or fear. Gale doesn’t know what. Maybe he just can’t think through the right words. Then, “Leg, too. Better though.”

“Mmm.” Gale purses his lips and uses his free hand to stroke sweaty hair away from Bucky’s forehead. The words are coming easier than before. At least now Gale has something to work with, a place to start.

“You can have more pain meds in an hour okay?” A part of him feels guilty that he has to withhold any potential relief, but Bucky got his full dose of prescription meds in the middle of the night, when he was nearly crying from every exaggerated discomfort that wouldn’t let either of them sleep. It had Gale at his wits’ end, just wanting desperately to help his husband feel better, to take all of the bad away.

There’s a nod of acknowledgement. Gale strokes his thumb over Bucky’s forehead. “You need anything? Water? We could try some breakfast? We’ve got juice. Eggs. Toast. Whatever you want.”

Bucky’s eyes, which have been dazed and unfocused for much of this conversation, finally look right at Gale, and Gale doesn’t really have words for what that look does to him. It’s like crashing into love all over again. It’s familiar and grounding and so, so painful. There’s always been a spark in John Egan’s eyes; it’s part of the reason Gale fell in love with him in the first place. Slowly, slowly, so very slowly, it’s returning to his expression again. A little pinprick of something undefinable that tells Gale that his husband is there, that he’s going to be okay, that he’s willing to fight to be okay even if he can’t quite bear every single second. Even if his grip slips when the discomfort is too much. 

But there’s also pain and sadness and disappointment in those eyes. A worry and a frustration that he can’t properly express. A certain kind of pleading, like Bucky knows Gale is his safety and he’s relying on him to make this, whatever this is, go away. 

Bucky shakes his head minutely. His lips part, and Gale watches him try to form the words, but they don’t quite make it out. Gale isn’t quite sure if he can’t or if he doesn’t know what the right words are. He doesn’t know if Bucky can’t find the words he wants, or if he doesn’t know which words Gale is hoping to hear.

He squeezes Bucky’s hand again. He doesn’t care what the words are. He just wants the sound of Bucky’s voice, the beating of his heart, the steadiness of his breath. “It’s okay. I’m here. We don’t have to worry about all that yet.” Mentally, Gale tallies the hours since Bucky last ate a meal, and he determines that, yes, they can wait until a bit later in the day to give food a fighting chance.

Bucky’s lips shift into a lopsided half smile. It’s the same flirty, easy expression that Gale has known since the moment they met. “Lay with me?”

Some weight on Gale’s chest seems to lift, just the littlest bit. He shoves aside the memory of this morning, when Bucky was nothing but tired and angry and wouldn’t give him the time of day, wouldn’t get up, wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t even look at him. It doesn’t matter. Some moments in this universe are worth holding onto, and others are good for nothing but letting go.

He gets to his feet and goes around to the other side of the bed, settling under the blankets beside Bucky, careful not to jostle his leg. Pepper changes position so her nose is resting against Gale’s leg, connecting the three of them together. Gale lays his head on Bucky’s chest, right over his heart, and he closes his eyes when he hears the familiar, steady beating. A reminder.

How long will he need a reminder?

“Okay?” he asks.

“Perfect,” Bucky whispers. Gale isn’t sure if he means the position or him. He blushes anyway, and he’s glad Bucky can’t see it, can’t tease him for it like he always does. Next thing he knows, Bucky’s fingers start stroking lightly through his hair, and it makes his heart beat faster. It makes him feel light.

“This the kinda day we’re having?”

Bucky coughs, rattling his chest in a way that makes Gale wince. “You g-gotta work.”

“Workin’ from home today,” Gale says by way of explanation. “Called Chick. He’ll come by for dinner tonight.”

Bucky hums, and his fingers trail down from Gale’s head, over his shoulder, down his arm, his slender wrist, and finally he finds Gale’s hand, brushes over his knuckles, his wedding ring. He fumbles, trying to twine their fingers together, but the motor control just isn’t there. Gale does it for him, squeezing in reassurance.

“S-Still gotta work.” Bucky says.

Gale huffs. He thinks about the fact that he’s laying in bed in his work clothes, no doubt getting his khakis and button down all wrinkled. His tie is slung back over his shoulder, and he thinks about the days before the mission, when Bucky would grab him by the tie and pull him into a kiss. It always made Gale roll his eyes, but really it made him giddy, like they were still teenagers in college kissing for the first time. He tucks himself tighter against Bucky, burying his face against soft, bare skin. His day was meant to be filled with meetings about Artemis 3, a crew meeting for A4, a training exercise. 

There’s no rest when you’re running a manned space program.

Apparently, though, Gale’s found the exception.

He decides that, remotely, he can spend his time reviewing protocols and finishing some write-ups for A3. His crew will have to do without him for just a little longer.

“I can stay here for a bit,” he says against Bucky’s chest.

“...Time is it?” Bucky mutters, gaze floating somewhere over the window, the fog, the hazy hidden sun that rose hours ago.

“‘Bout 10:30,” Gale mumbles back without a thought. To him it’s an innocent question, no more a sign of life than the rain last night. 

In response Bucky’s hand squeezes his gently, though with considerable effort. Gale squeezes back immediately, stilling the trembling of Bucky’s warm fingers. “I love you,” Bucky whispers.

It’s 10:30. It’s morning. Outside, behind the fog, the day is light on planet Earth. Bucky knows all of this now, and he holds onto these facts, trying to trap them in his brain so that they won’t drift away.

I love you.

Gale lets his eyes close again, those words, that voice wrapping around him. He doesn’t have to remember the sound. He doesn’t have to forget it. It’s right here for him to hold onto, not going anywhere. He breathes carefully, and he focuses on the warmth of his husband against him, their dog at their feet. He didn’t even realize how tired he was, but he falls asleep knowing, for certain, that he’ll wake up, and the world will still be turning.

[escaping-to-fiction]

wild & wilder, 1/?

So, i went ahead and did the thing - here's the Buck/Bucky/Marge plotline to second string. Will be attempting to update weekly, but don't hold me to it, my life is a lunatic asylum.

Read here

Gale Cleven meets the man who will be his husband three days before he meets the woman who will be his wife. He falls for Marge pretty much instantly. Figuring himself out with John takes a little longer. But not much.

[escaping-to-fiction]

For the WIP game, maybe a little teaser of some upcoming Let Your Heart Be Light? 🥹🙏🏼

(ps all your WIPs sound incredible ♥️♥️)

For you, dear? of course.

“Neil calls me if he sees him,” Gale admits. “Warns me.”

“Good man.”

“He is.”

John clears his throat and brings the hand on Gale’s arm up, strokes over his hair and then cups a warm cheek. He doesn’t know the right thing to say and he wishes he did. But Gale’s looking at him like he can do no wrong, so he figures he might as well test that theory.

“If, uh,” he pulls his lips against his teeth and takes in Gale’s tired expression. He feels more relaxed, less guarded than before but John can’t shake the feeling that thinking about this, talking it about adds some invisible burden onto him and he wants to lessen it. “If you get a call that he’s in town, you can call me.”

Gale’s eyes narrow just the slightest bit before his expression smooths out into something that’s painful to look at. It feels like someone has reached into his chest and wrapped a hand around his heart when he sees hope in Gale’s eyes.

“I want you to call me, Gale,” he says, tone soft, but firm. “Will you?”

“Yeah, John,” Gale says, lips finally quirking up into that small smile and staying there. “I will.”

John leans forward, plants his lips to Gale’s forehead and thumbs over the purple smudge under an eye. Smiles into the kiss Gale props himself up to press to his lips.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Gale relaxes against him with a huff, turning his body again to lay back in his original position, head back on John’s chest. “That wasn’t even what I was planning on telling you.”

John chuckles and lets a hand find it’s way into Gale’s hair, starts playing with the long strands. “What were you gonna tell me, Mr. Chatterbox?”

A quiet snort of laughter escapes, muffled into his chest and silence follows for a minute before Gale’s voice, even quieter than before sounds again. “I told you it wasn’t like me. Forgetting to lock the doors. Not even thinking about them.”

“Uh-huh,” John confirms.

“I haven’t forgotten to lock them since the night before my dad showed up,” Gale goes on and guilt buzzes under John’s skin again at his words. “I’m a grown man and it’s silly but it’s because I’m always-” He sighs. “Afraid. Some part of me is always expecting some one to burst through the door and-”

John tightens his grip, pulls him impossibly closer, cups the back of Gale’s head and holds it to his chest. “It’s not silly, Gale. Don’t even think that for a second.”

“I wasn’t afraid tonight,” Gale ignores him, his own arm around John’s middle tightening. “Any other night, I can’t fall asleep without checking and rechecking the doors and tonight I dropped off like it was the easiest thing in the world.”

John’s eyes burn. At what Gale’s trying to say even if he isn’t outright saying it.

He feels safe with me.

“So don’t have to apologize,” Gale says after a few comfortable moments of quiet. “For being you. For making me forget for a little while.”

[escaping-to-fiction]

let your heart be light 🗣️🗣️🗣️

Okay last little snip from this one for today, Lol.

It's almost done, and there's over 5k words of the boys being sweet and soft in bed before John has to go to work.

“What’re you thinking about?” Gale cocks his head, face warming at the curiously soft expression directed at him. “You.” “Good thoughts?” “Maybe.”

White teeth flash inside a grin and Gale smiles back. There’s a curl that broke free from the messy waves atop John’s own bedhead and Gale reaches a hand out to guide it back in place. He lets his fingers comb through the dark locks, tames them as best he can. He really is the most handsome man Gale’s ever seen. “Am I crushin’ you?” “Yes,” Gale say’s taking an exaggerated breath so John can feel his lungs expand. “But I like it.”

[escaping-to-fiction]

Thank you!

Snug as a couple of bugs is what we like to hear!

"Never fell asleep with someone before," ..."Glad it's you."

This next chapter is going to break my heart in the very best way (again)!!

Welcome back!!

I'm going to be very predictable... How are Gale and John doing in Let Your Heart be Light 🎄!

A million thanks in advance ♥️

@escaping-to-fiction

They're doing GREAT!

Snug as a couple of bugs.

A moment later he’s tucking his head back under his chin with another yawn and John can’t hold his grin. “Ready to go back to sleep?”

“Still sorry I woke you.”

“Don’t be,” John says, smoothing a hand through Gale’s hair one more time before letting it drift down to settle on his hip. “All I could think about after I tucked you in before was how I’d have to wait until next week to fall asleep with you in my arms again. Devastating stuff.”

“Hm.”

“But I get to do it again right now.”

“Never fell asleep with someone before,” Gale murmurs, sounding like he’s barely in this world anymore. “Glad it’s you.”