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rambleonwaywardson · 3 months ago

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Clegan Olympics AU - Event Finals Part 2

Event Finals Part 1 Masterpost Read on AO3

Author's Note: We're approaching the end of this little AU (another part or two to come after this one, and possibly some cute one-shots or something if I feel like it). I legitimately don't know what I'm supposed to do now that the Olympics are over. Life will feel so empty without cheering for a new athlete in a random sport every day.

---

Quiet.

Something an Olympic stadium should never be unless the lights are out, the arena closed, the athletes gone, no one but security to roam its empty seats. There is something unnatural about a sold out stadium standing still.

Quiet.

The absence of sound. No cheering. No singing. No clapping. No nothing.

So why is it that quiet can be so damn loud?

Sometimes a stadium falls quiet as it bears witness to history in the making. Everything in slow motion. An audience holding its collective breath, waiting for some long-shot dream to come true. A record to be broken. An upset to turn from wildest dream to reality. A comeback to turn to victory. An audience goes quiet, waiting to see if the impossible becomes possible.

A good quiet. The kind that draws people in, demands your attention because something incredible has happened.

But then there’s bad quiet. The kind that has the whole arena holding its breath because they’re worried that if they let it go, the worst will come true. A shocking loss suffered. A comeback failed. A career ended. History falling short. A life in the balance.

That’s the kind of quiet that shuts everyone up, leaves them stunned and nervous and unsure what to do. It demands your attention because something terrible has happened.

Quiet.

The sound of the stadium at Worlds just over a year ago, when Bucky got chucked right off the high bar and into the ground, crumpling, unable to rise.

Quiet.

The sound of rustling and concerned whispering as medics rush to the apparatus. The sound of an audience willing the athlete to rise and feeling deeper and deeper sorrow when he doesn’t. The sound of an unconscious gymnast, usually so full of life, being loaded onto a stretcher and taken away. The sound of oh my god, and what just happened? and what happens now?

Quiet.

The sound of an audience who doesn’t know what to do. The sound of remaining athletes who have been rattled to their core and now somehow have to just keep going because that’s sports. The sound of a teammate who can’t believe what he just saw, rushing after his best friend as he’s wheeled away, world titles be damned.

Quiet.

The sound of someone asleep, not waking up, still and broken in a hospital bed. The sound of a life saved, but a career lost. The unfairness of the world. The sound of pain that bears no words. The sound of fear that chokes the breath from your lungs. The sound of worry, when worry is all that’s left to do.

Quiet.

That’s the sound of Bercy arena on the morning of August 4, 2024.

Is it possible for things to move too fast and too slow at the same time? Time splitting in different directions, tearing reality at its seams until you can no longer believe what you’re seeing. Because it’s wrong.

Gale watches Bucky salute, and he can see on his face even way up in the stands that it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. He watches Bucky drop, like he simply can't hold his own weight any longer. And when the gymnast lays himself down fully on the ground, one fist clenched over his chest as his other arm covers his eyes, Gale shoots to his feet in the stands. Slow motion, fast forward, all at once.

I’ll be alright, Bucky insisted last night. Gale chose to believe him even though he knew Bucky was downplaying the discomfort. Even if he didn’t believe him, though, he knows it wouldn’t have made a difference. John would have done it anyway.

Right?

Or did Gale make a mistake? Trying not to overstep. Trying not to be overbearing. What did it cost?

Benny’s hand reaches out to grab onto Gale’s wrist, in alarm or comfort neither of them know. Croz stands beside Gale, while Brady and Alex lean forward in their seats. Alex grips the seat back in front of him while Brady covers his mouth with his hand. Cameras zoom in on their little group, capturing their reactions for the entire world to see.

Everyone watching gets to see the way Gale puts a hand over his mouth and runs the other through his hair, his eyes wide and wild like he’s seconds from jumping over every row of seats to get to the floor. Everyone watching gets to see the way Croz and Benny both put a hand on one of Gale’s arms, like they’re holding him back or holding him together. Everyone watching gets to see the way they stare down at the apparatus below in shock.

Bucky, laying on his back on the floor beneath the still rings. An arm over his eyes to block the light. A hand clenched in pain. A grimace on his face. His bad leg bent so his knee is in the air and the outline of his brace is visible through the fabric of his pants. The whole world gets to see that, too.

Bucky, who just gave the best still rings performance of his life. Who just wowed the whole world with a skill no one ever thought he’d be able to do. Who very likely just secured another gold medal.

Except, instead of submitting his score, the judges are still staring at him, too.

It’s quiet.

The world stops, except for Curt, the first to find his way back from the break in reality. He yells John’s name again and jumps up onto the rings podium. He drops to his knees next to Bucky’s head, and their coach is close behind, kneeling by Bucky’s leg.

Gale strains to see what’s happening, but he can’t from up here. All he can see is the two men hovering over Bucky’s body, the damn cameras trying to zoom in too close. Give him some damn space, he thinks. He wants to push every single one of them away. He wants to stand in front of Bucky and block everyone’s view of him, stop the stations from capitalizing on this gut-wrenching moment.

On the floor, Curt sees flashbacks of the past in his mind. One moment, Bucky on the high bar. The next, in a slump on the floor, his leg a mangled mess. Unmoving. The quiet stadium. Everyone holding their breath. Curt running. Slow motion. To Bucky’s side. Bucky unconscious, eyes closed, face contorted in pain. Bucky.

Quiet.

The same exact kind of quiet.

The thing is, Bucky didn’t fall. Not today, not in Bercy arena, not off still rings. Today he landed perfectly. He smiled. He saluted. He waved to the crowd. He had even the judges staring at him, impressed with his strength and skill. He did everything he needed to do. And then he just… dropped.

At first, Curt thought it was exhaustion. A collapse in relief at the end of his last routine in Paris. After three all arounds and two events on a leg that may or may not have been ready. Nothing but a ‘I’m done. Thank god.’

But he didn’t get back up. He stayed there, on his back, staring into the blinding lights above. Unmoving. The cameras are crowding in on him, suffocating. The eyes of the entire arena are on him. Quiet.

I’m fine, Curt. Just one more event.

Just one more. Just one more. Just one more.

This goddamn sport.

Why do none of them ever listen?

Curt feels sick as he runs to Bucky’s side, history repeating, the world blurring, his ears filled with underwater noise. He kneels at Bucky’s head, their coach dropping down by his knee, which is still bent upwards. Not mangled. Not twisted. Just… what?

“What happened?” Curt asks in a rush, resting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky pulls his arm away from his face but squeezes his eyes shut. He takes a shallow breath. “My knee,” he grunts, motioning vaguely to his leg. “Don’t know. I landed fine. I-I dunno.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair before he glances first at Curt, then at their coach. He’s out of breath, but Curt doesn’t know if it’s from the routine or the pain. Or both. “Hurt yesterday,” Bucky goes on. “Maybe I shouldn’t have…”

Shouldn’t have what? Shouldn’t have done his final event? Shouldn’t have come back so soon? Shouldn’t have done four floor routines when the doctors said floor was the last thing he should be doing?

Curt shakes his head, because Bucky was always going to do all of those things. There’s no use in wondering. “Should’ve listened to the dog,” he tries to joke instead.

Bucky cracks a smile but it quickly turns to a grimace.

Their coach prods gently at the joint, checking for anything abnormal. “Some swelling for sure. Probably just a sprain,” he says calmly. All three of them know that that could mean anything, though, with the injury Bucky had. It could be nothing. Or it could cost everything. “Do you think you can get up?”

Bucky blinks and takes a deep breath. He looks at Curt. At their coach. His eyes drift away. Towards the rings dangling high above him, lined with chalk marks from his grips. Towards the other athletes watching in concern. Towards the stands, filled with spectators whose eyes are on him. He can’t see Gale. His heart jumps in his chest, but he forces himself to breathe. He knows Gale is there. But the sound and the lights and the pain is making his head pound and he can’t hold it up long enough to search.

He looks at the cameras circling him like a flock of birds circles roadkill, locked in on their prey: this staggering turn of events. He tries not to think too much about them and the fact that this clip of him will be circulated on national television and across social media. His failure. His pain. Perhaps his downfall. All over again.

Was it worth it?

Gymnasts get hurt. It’s not a matter of if. It’s when. It’s how bad. It’s can you rise again. Should Bucky have listened to the people who told him no? To the people who begged him to slow down?

Or should he have seized this moment for everything it was worth? He thought his career was over once before. In the end, how many times can you beat the odds before the odds come back to shove you down again?

The world loves a comeback story. And they also love to see it go up in flames. They call him unbreakable. What will they call him if he’s just ruined it all?

He got more out of Paris than he ever expected. He came back to the sport with a vengeance, and he grabbed for his titles with an iron grip dripping in blood, sweat, and tears. They say he could be, could become, the greatest male gymnast of all time. He made history here.

Was it enough?

“John? Can you get up? Or do we need a stretcher?” The voice of his coach carves through the shroud in his mind, reminding him of where he is. The noise around him, even in deafening silence, crashes back into him.

“I dunno,” he says, cringing at the way his words slur together. Experimentally, he straightens his leg a bit and grimaces at the pain, but it’s nothing compared to what he felt at Worlds.

“Come on,” Curt says. “Let’s give it a shot.”

Bucky nods and lets Curt help him sit up, biting the inside of his cheek against the discomfort. Then he loops his arm around Curt’s shoulder, and their coach moves to his other side. Together, they haul him up, and Bucky takes a little hop to get his weight onto his good leg, the toes of his left foot resting lightly on the ground. He can feel his brace digging into his skin beneath the competition pants. His knee is throbbing with every desperate heartbeat.

The stadium fills with sound again.

With a deep breath, Bucky gives a pained smile as the arena erupts into cheers, whistles, and applause, relieved to see him on his feet. The USA chant picks back up, and Bucky lifts a hand from Curt’s shoulder to wave at the crowd. The sound follows him the whole way as, ever so slowly, the three of them make their way down off the rings podium. Their team doctor rushes over to them with a wheelchair, and she helps Curt ease Bucky down into it.

“You’re never gonna stop givin’ me heart attacks, huh?” Curt jokes.

Bucky inhales sharply as he adjusts his bad leg on the footrest of the wheelchair, but he laughs. “Don’t count on it.”

The moment his score finally posts, every single person watching knows before he does as he sits, idly tracing a finger around his knee and trying not to think about anything too much.

He jumps in surprise when Curt claps him on both shoulders, telling him to look at the score. And he all but falls out of the chair when he sees it, Curt having to hold him steady as they both laugh and scream “What the fuck! Holy shit!”

In a sport of tenths, he won the gold by well over a full point. It’s his best ever score on rings.

His smile starts to fade just the littlest bit when he watches the silver and bronze medalists climb up onto the wide open spring floor, raising high the flags of their countries. Celebrating their victories. It’s a right of passage for any Olympic medalist, taking that victory lap, playing a superhero just for a few minutes.

Bucky tries to shove himself out of his wheelchair, but Curt pushes him back down. “You can’t walk, dude.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky insists, trying to get up again.

“John.”

The third time, Curt steps back and lets Bucky do as he pleases. He makes it two limping steps before he can’t hold his weight, and their coach, ever the spotter, has to lunge forward to catch him before he falls.

He realizes that his coach is holding an American flag, which is now half wrapped around Bucky. “You didn’t think I was gonna make you sit out, did you?”

He motions to Curt, who takes the chair and hoists it up onto the floor. Then together, they pull Bucky up with it and help him get seated again. Curt hands him the American flag, and they grin at each other before Curt takes off across the floor, pushing Bucky in front of him. The flag waves high and proud as the world watches.

–

Bucky will admit, when he envisioned his last medal ceremony in Paris, he didn’t imagine himself being pushed to the podium in a wheelchair. But here he is.

He enters Bercy for the very last time with the other two medalists. He’s now wearing the team USA tracksuit over top of his competition shirt and shorts, the competition pants having been removed to take a better look at his knee. They still don’t know what the damage is, because Bucky refused to be properly checked out until after the medal ceremony. Scratch that, until after Curt’s vault final. It’s starting to swell, though, and the doctor wrapped it with obscene amounts of tape, pleading with him to “not do anything else stupid.”

Bucky doesn’t really know what she expects him to do between now and two hours from now, but he supposes she’s probably right to be concerned. They make him go out in the wheelchair, one of the event volunteers pushing him. He tries to make small talk with her before the athletes are guided out the door into the arena. But she speaks French, and the only things he really knows how to say in French he learned from Gale. And that mostly consists of flirting and dirty talk.

She rolls her eyes at his botched pronunciation when he so much as tries to tell her “thank you,” but she smiles kindly and pats his shoulder. And then she wheels him out into the arena for all the world to see the duality of his success and pending downfall.

He feels ecstatic at the same time that he feels self-conscious. Proud but also worried. Accomplished, and yet sad. He ignores the pain in his leg.

At least he’s not on a stretcher.

At least he’s conscious.

At least he’s here, and not in a hospital.

At least at least at least…

At least he got a medal out of it this time.

Yes.

A gold medal. Another gold medal.

Everything else can damn well wait.

Bucky might be in a chair, but the grin plastered to his face, the way he waves to the crowd as he’s wheeled out, the brightness of his eyes, so, so alive, make it seem like he’s on top of the world. He certainly doesn’t mind the way the audience cheers a little extra loudly for him. When the athletes stop behind the podium, in a line with Bucky in the middle, he pushes himself carefully to his feet. The volunteer gives him a questioning look, but he waves her off, and she nods and steps away. He stands with most of his weight on his good knee, head held high. He refuses to make himself small in this moment. He refuses to sit below the others at a time when he should be rising up.

When the announcer calls his name for the final time, introducing him as the gold medalist and Olympic Champion, he hops towards the podium and gives it a wary glance. Before he can work out how best to get himself up there, though, the silver and bronze medalists – a Japanese gymnast and a Ukrainian gymnast, respectively – step forward and take his weight on either side. Together, they lift him up onto the top step and make sure he’s steady.

“Thank you,” he says to them as he shakes each of their hands. They pat him on the back and smile at him so brightly that he’s momentarily amazed at the kindness that can be found in the world. He makes sure to clap louder than anyone in the whole stadium when their names are called.

He really does almost cry this time when the National Anthem plays through the stadium, the American flag raising high. He quietly sings the words, and he hears the people of his country singing aloud, too. He stands on the podium, medal around his neck, pain be damned.

John Egan, Olympic Champion. Five time Olympic medalist. Four in Paris alone. Two golds, two silvers.

How’s that for a goddamn comeback?

—

Bucky’s singular text to Gale between his medal ceremony and Curt’s vault reads: Do you think you can still do gymnastics after a knee replacement? Asking for a friend.

The reply comes back, maybe you can be a Paralympian.

It doesn’t make him feel better, but it does make him laugh as he sits on the sidelines, watching the gymnasts warm up on vault. “Don’t do that for the final!” He jokes after Curt falls on his ass on the landing, even though he knows it was on purpose to save his knees from the impact during warm-ups.

Curt gives him the finger. On live television.

Presumably, Gale shared Bucky’s text with Croz in concern. Because when Bucky’s phone buzzes again, it’s Croz telling him to Stop being dramatic.

Curt easily secures his third medal of the Games, winning gold on vault like Bucky knew he would. He’s the best men’s vaulter in the world right now, with the highest start value of any gymnast here.

“You got this babe!” Bucky yells out as Curt prepares to run down the track. And when he sticks the landing without so much as a hop, Bucky throws himself out of the chair and nearly falls on his face, having to grab onto his coach for support.

“You did that! You fucking did that!” He exclaims as Curt hops down, buzzing from the adrenaline.

They both fucking did it.

—

When a reporter interviews Bucky and Curt again after event finals, Bucky’s still in the damn chair. They both have gold medals around their necks, though.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he insists, when the reporter comments on it. The truth is, he doesn’t really know yet. He’s really hoping his coach is right and it’s just a minor sprain, but he’s refused a proper medical examination until he’s done here at Bercy. He was told that they don’t have crutches on hand, but he thinks they just don’t trust him with crutches.

Which is ridiculous.

“You’re a mess,” Curt laughs. “You can barely keep yourself in the chair and you think you can be trusted with crutches?”

The reporter asks them both what’s next after this, the dreaded question of any Olympic athlete.

How about rest? How about a week off? How about some ice?

Bucky could really go for ice right now. A hug from his boyfriend, maybe. A muffin.

He tells the reporter as much. But then they both hint at 2028, Curt gunning for at least one more go before he’s just a “washed up Olympian.” Bucky agrees that, as long as he can keep himself in one piece, the world hasn’t seen the last of this dynamic duo. He may or may not wink at the camera.

“Gale Cleven’s been in the stands for all of your events,” the reporter observes. “The aforementioned boyfriend, I take it? You two haven’t been very subtle.”

Bucky laughs and tries not to blush. “What can I say,” he shrugs. “I didn’t expect to fall in love at the Olympics.”

“But you did?”

“I did.”

—

Gale doesn’t even see the interview until late that afternoon, when Marge, sitting beside him, screams and shoves her phone in his face. “He fell in love?”

Gale grabs the phone from her hands and stares down at it. Marge reaches over and rewinds so he can hear it again.

“I didn’t expect to fall in love…”

He rewinds it again. And again. One more time. Hell, he was still right there in the stands during that interview and he didn’t even know. His brain is short-circuiting, the same way it did the very first time he met John Egan on a plane two weeks ago.

He doesn’t know if his heart is soaring at the confirmation: it’s not just him. John feels it too.

Or if it’s pounding because he doesn’t understand why Bucky told the world before he told him. Did he mean it? Did it just pop out?

“Gale? You okay?” Marge asks. He realizes the video has stopped and he’s still just gripping the phone tight in his hands, frozen. It’s paused on Bucky and Curt grinning at the camera, holding their medals up. The replay button blocks part of Bucky’s face.

Gale blinks and looks up at Marge.

She smiles at him, and he nervously smiles back. He runs a hand through his hair. “I- do you think he meant it?”

Marge literally facepalms. “Gale, honey.” She rolls her eyes and shoves him in the shoulder. “Yes!” The he’s loved you since the moment he saw you goes unspoken.

Just then, Gale’s phone buzzes. Still holding Marge’s phone, he checks his own, and nearly chucks Marge’s away when he sees it’s a text from John. Marge has to grab his wrist and gently remove her phone from his grip.

Looks like a sprain. I’ve been released from Hell.

Then, The med center. They let me leave the med center. If that wasn’t clear.

Can I see you later? Gale asks.

If you want.

He squints at his phone and bites his bottom lip, unsure what that means. But he says he’ll stop by John’s room that evening.

He sneaks a muffin from the dining hall on his way and buys pre-made sandwiches from the market in the Village. Other than confirming that this plan was acceptable, Bucky didn’t respond to any more of Gale’s messages all afternoon, and Gale tries not to let it put too much of a weight on his chest. It was a hard day, that’s all. It’s natural that Bucky would be upset. It’s expected.

He probably just doesn’t feel like talking.

So what if he didn’t reply when Gale sent him a picture of the cute Brazil pin he got on his way back into the Village? So what if he doesn’t send so much as a smiley face when Gale tells him Whiskey is proud of him? So what?

When Gale knocks on the door, it takes a minute for it to open. There’s a clanging noise, the word “fuck,” and then Bucky is standing on the other side of the doorway, a crutch under one arm and a brace on his knee. Even though he’s done competing now. Gale tries not to stare at it.

“Hey,” he says. He can’t help but smile every time he sees Bucky, his hair unkempt and a goofy grin on his face.

Except, the grin isn’t there. Bucky looks tired, defeated. He’s dressed in USA sweats and a t-shirt, and that typical mischievous light is gone from his blue eyes.

“You okay?” Gale asks. The smile falls from his face. “That’s a bad question. Sorry.”

Bucky blinks and shakes his head, like he’s trying to refocus himself. He seems to notice Gale standing there for the first time. “Sorry. Yeah. Yeah, I mean. No, I’m not great. But…” He does smile now, and he gives a little self-deprecating laugh. “I have four Olympic medals now. So.”

“You do.” The corner of Gale’s mouth pulls up again. “Olympic Champion John Egan. The greatest gymnast in the world.”

Bucky laughs again. “I could get used to that title. Come on. No reason to stand in the doorway.” He reaches out to grab the bag of food in Gale’s hand, but loses his balance on the crutch and has to press his hand to Gale’s solid chest instead. He sighs and lets his forehead fall against Gale’s shoulder. “Maybe you better just carry the food in.”

Gale presses his free hand to Bucky’s, still resting on his chest. “I have a better idea.”

Carefully, he steps all the way through the door and closes it behind him. Then he sets the food on the floor, ignoring Bucky’s perplexed look. “Give me that.” He motions to the crutch.

“What are you doing?” Bucky raises an eyebrow and watches Gale skeptically, but he hands over the crutch, leaving him standing with all his weight on one foot. Gale makes quick work of it though, leaning the crutch gently against the wall, and then Bucky isn’t standing anymore. Gale literally sweeps him off his feet in one fluid motion, one arm under Bucky’s legs and the other supporting his back and shoulders, carrying him bridal style.

“Okay?” Gale asks.

Bucky gazes up at him, surprised, and licks his lower lip as his eyes trail from Gale’s face down to his chest, then to Gale’s arm beneath his knees. “Who knew you were so strong.”

Gale rolls his eyes, and he carries Bucky down the hall. “Wanna eat in your room or in the common area?”

Bucky raises a hand to cup Gale’s cheek, making him look down again. Wanting those eyes on nothing but him. “There’s other things we could do in the bedroom,” he suggests, gently biting his lower lip with a small smile. He raises his eyebrows in question.

Gale’s cheeks flush, which makes Bucky smile even bigger, but he sighs and shakes his head. “No. You need food. And rest.”

Bucky pouts. “Or, have you considered, I need feel-better sex.”

“Food,” Gale insists. “Now pick a room. You’re heavy as hell.”

“Wow you really know how to make a guy feel special,” Bucky mutters.

“John.”

“Bedroom.”

Gale nods and walks through the open door of Bucky’s room. He carefully steps over a second crutch laying on the floor beside the bed, assuming the clanging noise he heard earlier was Bucky dropping it when he tried to get out of bed to answer the door. He also kicks an abandoned heating pad out of the way, making a note to rotate Bucky through ice and heat again after they eat. Once he lowers Bucky onto the mattress, he fluffs the pillow and settles it behind Bucky’s back so he can sit up against the wall.

“Feel alright?” he asks.

Bucky nods, but he grimaces as he adjusts his leg. He points across the room. “Can you get Curt’s pillow and put it under my knee?” Gale nods and grabs the pillow, situating it beneath Bucky’s leg until the gymnast tells him it’s comfortable.

There’s a knock on the open door, and Gale looks up to see Curt leaning against the doorframe. He has the bag of food in one hand and the abandoned crutch in the other.

“Okay, this makes so much more sense,” he says, motioning to Gale with the crutch.

“Than what?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t know. Than you spontaneously turning into a bag of takeout.”

Gale stifles a laugh as he straightens up to face Curt and awkwardly shoves a hand in his pocket. Curt leans the crutch against the wall at the end of Bucky’s bed and thrusts the bag of food towards Gale.

“I’m heading out with the boys,” he says when Gale takes it. “USA House. You two wanna come?”

Bucky shakes his head before Gale can even think about it. “Looks like we’re eating in tonight.”

“We can go,” Gale tells him earnestly.

But Bucky shakes his head again, and Gale can’t read the expression on his face. “It’s alright. I’d rather stay here.”

Gale and Curt share a concerned look, but they both nod. “Okay,” Curt says. Then he glances at Gale and winks. “Be careful with him. Nothing too acrobatic.”

Gale’s face burns and he stammers a bit, but Curt points at Bucky before he can figure out what to say. “You’re the GOAT. Don’t forget it.”

“You’re a legend,” Bucky responds.

“A literal Greek god.”

“Fuckin’ Hercules.”

Curt grins. “Goddamn Olympic champions.”

“Love ya, babe.” Bucky dramatically blows him a kiss.

Curt pretends to catch it, and then he’s gone.

Bucky shifts himself over so he’s on the side of the bed pressed against the wall, as close to the wall as he can get. “Really?” Gale says, motioning to the pillow that is no longer beneath Bucky’s knee. “I just got you set up.”

Bucky ignores him and pats the now empty space beside him. Gale sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Then he gets Bucky’s leg elevated again and sits beside him, as requested. They don’t quite fit, so one of Gale’s legs has to hang off the edge, their shoulders pressed together.

“I got you a muffin,” he says, opening the bag and pulling out a small, napkin-wrapped package. He sets it on Bucky’s thigh. “Since you have an addiction.”

“God I love you,” Bucky murmurs, glancing from the muffin to Gale. His eyes go wide when he realizes what he said. When Gale opens his mouth to respond, though, Bucky grabs the muffin and unwraps it. “Not the desert I was hoping to start tonight with. But I’ll take it.” He doesn’t miss the way Gale frowns and blushes at the same time, but he shoves down the feeling of guilt rising in his chest and offers the muffin to Gale. “Bite?”

When the muffin is gone, Bucky licks the chocolate off the corner of Gale’s mouth, then presses their lips together. He sighs into the way Gale reciprocates, and he reaches his hand up to grab at his soft blonde hair. “You taste like chocolate,” he mumbles against his mouth.

Gale pulls away with a breathy laugh, darting his tongue out to lick at the last little bit of chocolate stuck to his lips. “How’d you get it on your nose?” He asks. He uses his thumb to wipe it away, watching the way Bucky’s eyes flutter closed at the gentle touch.

Bucky tries to kiss him again, but Gale turns his head so Bucky gets his cheek instead.

“A muffin doesn’t count as dinner,” he says. He reaches into the bag again and pulls out two wrapped subs, offering one to Bucky.

“Don’t need dinner,” Bucky insists, shaking his head. He nuzzles against Gale’s temple before dipping down to nip at his ear. “Need you.”

“Need protein,” Gale argues, shifting away. “Now chicken salad or Italian?”

It doesn’t much matter. Despite Gale’s insistence, Bucky only eats half of his Italian sub before setting it in his lap and staring at Gale with wide, pleading eyes. When Gale turns his head to look at him, eyebrow raised, Bucky smirks before leaning in to kiss him. First gentle, then a little rough when Gale reciprocates and melts into it. He wraps his hand around the back of Gale’s head and bites gently at his lower lip, then leaves a trail of kisses down his jaw to his neck. He pulls back the neckline of Gale’s shirt and sucks a light bruise into the delicate skin over his collarbone, where it will just barely be hidden by his clothes.

“You’re ridiculous,” Gale mutters, even as he tilts his head to give Bucky better access.

“And there’s no evolutionary reason for me to exist? That’s rude, Buck.”

“No,” Gale grunts. Bucky nips below his ear. “You… are perfect.”

“Parfait?”

Gale nods. “Parfait.”

He can feel Bucky smiling against his neck, and he turns his head so their noses bump when Bucky tries to look up at him again. Bucky hands over the last of his sandwich so Gale can shove it back in the bag, which he throws to the floor. Then their mouths find one another, and Gale moans softly when Bucky takes his lower lip between his teeth, biting it gently before his tongue runs across it. His hand comes back up to pull at Gale’s hair the way he likes. But Gale pulls away when he realizes the way Bucky has to twist his back to get to him in this position, where they’re sitting next to each other, backs to the wall. Reality dawns on him.

“Your knee,” he protests.

“Is sprained, Buck,” Bucky groans. “I can handle an innocent make-out session.”

“You never want to stop at innocent,” Gale argues. He’s right. And Bucky doesn’t plan to stop at innocent now.

“Please?”

Gale can’t read the expression on Bucky’s face, and he doesn’t like that. Usually, he can read John like a book – his excitement, his anger, his curiosity, his cockiness. Now he’s smiling and pouting at once, looking at Gale with puppy-dog eyes. But there’s something desperate about it, something off. Something pleading, like he’s worried it’s the last time they’ll ever do this.

It’s been a long day, Gale reminds himself. And he kisses Bucky anyways.

He shifts so he’s in front of Bucky, basically sitting on his right thigh with his knee between his legs. He takes care not to jostle the sprained left knee as he leans in, pressing one hand to Bucky’s chest and the other to the wall beside his head, closing him in.

“Well hello, angel,” Bucky chuckles. His face shifts immediately, like relief washing over him. With a satisfied smirk, he pulls his shirt over his head in one swift motion, and then helps Gale do the same. He takes pleasure in the way Gale’s eyes roam over his upper body, like he can’t get enough of seeing Bucky’s arms, his chest, his abs. Like he’s seeing it all for the first time even though it’s far from it at this point.

“Parfait,” Gale breathes again, his cheeks pink and his lips parted, eyes already dark. It floods Bucky with all kinds of want and need.

He cups the back of Gale’s head and pulls him in for another rough kiss. His other hand makes its home on Gale’s waist, holding him steady. He pulls at Gale’s hair, making the blonde moan softly, and there’s no denying how turned on Bucky is by that sound. He pushes his hips forward even though there’s nothing there to press into. Gale notices and lets his hand drift down, down, down. Bucky takes a deep, pleasured breath when he feels Gale’s hand on him, but it’s gone as quickly as it was there. Gale bites gently at Bucky’s lip before pulling away. He shifts downward to suck at Bucky’s neck and collarbone instead, his hand stroking up Bucky’s side until it reaches his chest. With deft fingers, Gale pinches Bucky’s nipple, making him gasp in surprise. Gale smiles against his neck.

He tries to move further down, so he can take the nipple between his lips, but he has to shift backwards to do so and bumps Bucky’s knee in the process. Bucky grimaces, inhaling sharply. “Shit, I’m sorry,” Gale says. He straightens up immediately, shifting away from Bucky’s bad leg, and he nearly topples off the small bed in the process. Bucky throws a hand out to steady him, resting it on his shoulder.

“It’s fine, Gale.”

Gale looks all sorts of guilty and concerned, and Bucky can’t stand it. “Maybe we shouldn’t-”

Bucky cups Gale’s jaw with a steady hand. “It’s fine,” he says again. “Please. I want you, Buck. I need you. Please.”

There’s a hint of begging somewhere at the bottom of Bucky’s tone, and Gale sighs. He wants it, too. He wants to keep going, too. He glances at Bucky’s knee again, but then he nods. “Come here,” he says.

Gently, he pulls Bucky away from the wall and helps him turn so his legs are hanging over the side of the bed. Gale kneels on the floor between them. “Feel okay?”

Bucky nods as he adjusts, scooting closer to the edge. Then without warning, eager to pick up where they left off, he wraps his fingers in Gale’s hair again. He leans down and pulls Gale up to kiss him once, then he guides Gale back to his chest. He moans when Gale takes his nipple between soft lips, licking and sucking at it gently. He holds Gale to him, asking silently for more as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

Eventually, Gale shifts his attention to the other side, giving it the same treatment, before kissing his way down Bucky’s abs to the waistband of his sweatpants. He peeks up at Bucky, icy blue eyes peering through blonde eyelashes. “Do you want…”

Bucky nods urgently. “Yes.” And he shifts to help Gale pull the waistband down. “God, you’re beautiful,” he nearly growls as he watches Gale. And then Gale’s mouth is on him, and he’s too overwhelmed with pleasure to say anything else.

One blowjob and one handjob later, and Gale is back on the bed again. They both have their pants pulled back up, Gale having cleaned them both up afterwards, but their shirts remain lost on the floor. Gale sits at the head of the bed, leaning back against the wall even though it makes his back sore. Bucky, beside him, is slumped down further so his head can lay against Gale’s chest, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. Ice rests on top of it. He tries to focus on nothing other than the comforting sound of Gale’s steady heartbeat and the feeling of Gale’s fingers playing mindlessly with his hair.

“Thank you,” Bucky says quietly. “For tonight. For everything.”

Gale hums softly but otherwise stays quiet for a while. He takes a breath and starts to say, “John, I-”

“I’m going home,” Bucky blurts out then. “Day after tomorrow. Early.”

Gale stops cold and looks down at Bucky, catching his eye. “Oh.”

Bucky averts his gaze again, exhaling a warm breath that tickles Gale’s chest. “The doctor, uh… well. They think it’s a sprain,” he explains, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice. “But they don’t know how bad. It could just be mild. It could be a partial tear. I have to get an MRI.”

“So you have to leave?” Gale asks, confused and disappointed. They’d been talking about going to closing ceremonies together.

Bucky nods. “I just… Gale.” He sits up, and his face turns dark. A flicker of fear flashes across it, followed by sadness. He opens his mouth to say more, but the words get caught in his throat. He can’t decide if he wants to look at Gale when he says it or if it would be easier not to. He grabs Gale’s hand and runs a thumb across his knuckles. He looks at that instead. “They don’t know if my leg will ever be strong enough to be competitive again.”

Gale blinks and looks down at Bucky’s hand holding his. Some things about Bucky’s behavior today are making more sense. The sudden avoidance after he left the med center. The desperation when he asked Gale to keep kissing him. Like it was the last time.

“Oh.”

Bucky nods and bites his lip.

“But they don’t know,” Gale points out. “It might just be a minor sprain. It’s not a death sentence, John.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I know. I’m getting kicked outta here anyways, though.” He motions to the room around them. The U.S. athletes have to leave the village soon after their events are over. Gale and Benny have been staying in a hotel the last few days with many of the other athletes reluctant to cut short their time in Paris.

“I was gonna get a hotel,” Bucky goes on. “But I- I need to go home, Buck.”

Gale nods, his brow scrunched as he tries to work through what Bucky is telling him. “I understand,” he says, even though he isn’t quite sure if he does.

“So can we just,” Bucky sighs. Then he tries his best to smile at Gale and cups his cheek, guiding him to look him in the eye again. “Can we just be happy together tonight? I just wanna be with you right now.”

Gale closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. But he smiles back at Bucky, and he nods, and he says okay.

–

The next night, they say goodbye. “We live close together,” Gale rationalizes. Only a couple hours at worst, both in the DC area. “Maybe we can see each other when I get back and get Whiskey settled?”

Bucky nods and offers a weak smile. Not like that broad grin when Gale first sat beside him on the plane. Not like John Egan at all. He kisses Gale, pressing all the meaning he possibly can into it. It’s full of love and full of sorrow at the same time.

It’s full of goodbye.

Neither of them say I love you.

Gale texts him several times, checking in. Asking if he landed safely. When he sees a story in the news about Bucky, Olympic gold medalist, being welcomed home by all the kids that train at the same gym as him, he texts again to say how sweet the article was. He texts asking if Bucky is okay. If he needs anything. If he had his MRI. He asks about the verdict.

For days, he doesn’t get a single reply.

#John is the GOAT #Gold medalist :)#John is also kind of an idiot #but he's hurting #Curt winning bff of the year award yet again #Gale deserves better than he's getting rn #clegan olympics au #clegan #mota #masters of the air #john egan #gale cleven #buck x bucky #clegan fic #bucky egan #buck cleven #mota fic

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sp0o0kylights · 22 days ago

Text

“Dustin isn’t coming.”

“What?” Eddie says, all frantic and jovial movements freezing instantly.

His eyes narrow on Lucas--the bearer of bad news. “Why?”

“Family emergency.”

Mike makes a face. “I saw his mom yesterday and she was fine, so is this a…?”

He makes a gesture that is entirely incomprehensible to anyone who isn’t Sinclair and his terrifying girlfriend.

(At least, Eddie thinks Max is Lucas’s girlfriend this week. It got a little hard to keep up after the third break-up-make-up marathon, and he frankly, stopped bothering to try.

It helped that she barely spoke--The only time notable being when Eddie had mockingly asked Sinclair if he needed a cheerleader when she’d first sat in, upon which she’d asked Eddie if he needed new kneecaps with a look in her eye that said she was serious.)

Wheeler Jr.’s gesture however, made her put her book down.

“You think he’s having migraines again?” She not so much asked as demanded, which had Mike shrugging.

“Dunno." Lucas says. "Dustin didn’t say.”

“Gotta be, if he called Dustin.” Mike mutters, Lucas shuffling his papers about as he begins to set up for Hellfire. He was the last in the room, practically late, which Eddie had planned on harassing him for had he not announced Henderson’s absence.

(Fucking freshmen. They just weren’t terrified of Eddie like they used to be.)

“Robin must be sick or something, otherwise he’d call her.” Lucas finishes as he finally sits down.

“Didn’t the Marching Band go on some trip?” Mike turns to address the rest of the table, and gets nods from Jeff and Gareth both.

“Yeah they’re marching in some parade in Indianapolis.” Jeff confirms.

“So his last resort was Dustin?” Max is getting that tone in her voice, the one that makes everyone at Hellfire very uncomfortable. “Typical.”

She pushes away from the table, making a show of gathering up her things before rising easily to her feet.

Eddie trades looks with the elder Hellfire members as she makes her exit--the kind that says they’re all going to be talking about this later.

They knew their freshmen had some weird obsession with the former King, of course, but Mayfield too?

What the hell was up with that guy?

At least Eddie thinks, right before things are once again shot to shit, they can go back to playing the game.

He can make it work this early into things, and if Henderson isn't’ a fan of what he’s about to do to the kid’s character in his absence, well.

Maybe he shouldn’t be fucking absent then.

“So what, Max, you're gonna go over there and make it worse?” Mike snorts.

Fatal mistake.

Eddie almost strangles him for it, if only because it prolongs this entire unnecessary conversation.

Max performs a military perfect heel turn, coming straight back for Wheeler Jr., which makes him right about fall out of his seat in panic.

“What was that, Wheeler?”

“I’m just saying--!”

“We don’t know Steve’s having migraines.” Lucas reiterates, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it’s something else.”

“Does Steve get migraines a lot?” Grant asks, because despite all appearances he’s a terrible gossip and gets sucked in far too easily.

Eddie throws a pencil at him for it.

“Hel-looo, we have a game!?” He thunders, but unfortunately for him, precious Stevie-Weavies headache now has everyone’s attention.

“Yeah, though he’s really good at pretending he doesn’t.” Lucas answers with a put upon sigh.

“There’s a whole pattern--he ignores it until it gets super bad, then he has to call Robin or Dustin to come get him when he inevitably gets stranded at work or the like, grocery store.”

“Well who else do you think he’d call?” Mike scoffs again. He does a lot of that, when discussing Harrington. “It’s not like his parents are--Ow, Max!”

“Close your mouth before I close it for you.” She hisses and Mike, shockingly, does just that.

To Eddie, she says;

“Your ass isn’t any better, or did you forget I live across from you?”

Eddie--who had an insult primed and ready--promptly shuts his mouth.

(Fucking! Asshole! Freshmen!)

“Maybe I should go too.” Lucas says, hedging a look between his girlfriend and his DM.

“No.” She snaps, pointing a finger at him.

“If you go, then this idiot,” she flicks her finger to Mike, “will go and then we really will make it worse. Stay here before your bichon frise has a fit about all his sheep abandoning him.”

Then she’s turning on her heel again, storming out.

“What the hell’s a bichon frisé?” Gareth asks in the aftermath, frowning.

“It’s a type of ahhhh--” Jeff clearly thinks better of the explanation, eyes sliding to Eddie.

Who’s scowling.

“I know what a bichon frisé is, Jeff.” He snaps.

“I don’t.” Grant loudly complains.

Jeff attempts to both calm Eddie and explain while Mike and Lucas spend far too many minutes looking after Max.

“Enough!” Eddie howls, temper finally getting the best of him. “Are we playing or do you also need to go sit by the King’s bedside?”

“Thank you,” Mike says, like he wasn’t a third of the entire problem. “Let’s play!”

They make it about ten entire minutes before getting knocked off track again.

In fairness, not that Eddie would ever admit it--the second meltdown is his own fault.

xXx

Hellfire is Eddie’s domain.

It’s one of the few places where he could relax without getting harassed or hounded, and having his freshmen--his!--abandon him for King Fucking Steve had set him off.

So he’d made a few comments about it.

Maybe introduced an NPC who sounded suspiciously similar to Harrington, only to instantly kill him off.

Made another couple of nasty comments.

Who cares? It worked him through his snit rather nicely, and his boys all knew to leave him be.

Except, apparently, for Lucas.

“Dude, would you lay off?” The kid finally snaps, pencil slamming down on the table.

Which is the most backbone-like thing anyone has ever heard Sinclair say, and he gets far more whistles for it than he should.

Eddie pins him in place with a glare.

“What was that Sinclair?” He snarls, voice as menacing as he can make it.

(It’s pretty terrifying, he’s practiced quite a bit with it.)

Sinclair flinches, but doesn’t back down.

“I said lay off. Steve has migraines because of--” He stops, before seeming to come to a decision. “Because of me. He took a hit for me, and I owe him a life debt for it.”

To Eddie, he says; “You get what those are, right?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t just for you--”

“That time with Billy was!” Lucas is quick to snarl. “But you know what Mike, you’re right. It wasn’t just for me. He T-boned a car for all of us!”

Sinclaire is on his feet now, which is the unfortunate moment that Eddie realizes he has once again lost control of the room.

A situation he firmly blames on Steve Harrington, because he’s petty.

“Or did you forget that part? That’s you, me, Will, Nancy and Jonathan right there! Nevermind the tunnel. Or the junkyard!

“We had the junkyard handled--”

Lucas scoffs.

“We absolutely did not.”

“I don’t get why you’re all making such a big deal out of this. He’s the fighter. That’s what he does. That’s why we brought him to the tunnel.”

“You recall what happened at Starcourt, right?” Lucas challenges, furious. “You did see him after, right?”

This, finally, seems to shut Mike up.

“Shouldn’t you be mad at him for that?” He says after a moment, and the rest of Hellfire has completely put aside all actual gaming to watch this play out with a morbid sort of fascination.

Eddie allows it, only because he’s trying to breathe the way Wayne taught him to before he loses it entirely and throws both of the idiot kids out of the drama room.

“He pulled your sister into it.”

“Have you met Erica!? You can’t pull her into shit!” Lucas spits furiously. “That wasn’t D&D, Mike. It was the Upsi--real life.”

Lucas is quick to correct himself, even in the heat of the moment--as all the kids are, like the entire school hasn’t clocked that they have some weird ass secret they’re terrible at hiding.

“And if we’re playing those games, then who pulled him into the tunnels? Who made him come to the junkyard?”

“Dustin.” Mike says snidely.

“You don’t get to blame Dustin when Steve was the only person around.”

“There were people around! They just weren’t people who--weren’t--who couldn’t--”

“Finish that sentence.” Lucas demands

“Be trusted.” Mike spits out, like it hurts him.

“Exactly.”

“El went through way more than Steve ever has! El--”

“El was using her po--doing mage things! And also, she shouldn’t have had to go through all this shit either! We can’t rely on her to save the day every single time, Mike--and look at how hurt she gets!”

“She--”

“She hides it from you, you know. How bad she hurts. Cause she wants to put your feelings first.”

“I--”

“Will does too.” Is Lucas’s parting shot. His backpack is in his hands in a blink, papers and character figure shoved wildly into it, before he’s storming out the door in a poor mimicry of Mayfield.

“Harrington T-Boned a car?” Grant says, in the resounding silence.

“That BMW of his hasn’t had a scratch on it--” Jeff says, with an inquisitive tilt to his head.

“He didn’t use the Beamer.” Mike interrupts, angry and sulking. “Are we playing or not?”

“I’m gonna say not, given we are down two players.’ Eddie tells him through clenched teeth.

“I’m going to be so mad if Steve doesn’t have a migraine.” Mike grumbles, as he begins packing up his stuff.

The rest of Hellfire follow his lead, after one look at Eddie’s face convince the lot of them that it’s best to flee now, before Eddie unleashes all his pent up rage.

“Not as mad as I’ll be, Wheeler.” Eddie promises darkly.

And it is a promise--because now, he’s going to follow all his stupid (sans Mike, who isn’t in his good graces either but at least stayed) freshmen--and go visit one fallen King.

If Harrington doesn’t have a headache now, he will when Eddie’s done with him.

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