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hesbuckcompton-baby · 7 months

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I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 3

AO3

Summary: In the wake of a terrible loss, the arrival of a new airman at Thorpe Abbotts promises to change the trajectory of Frankie's life forever

Warnings: Death, grief

Word Count: 3.9k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles

A/N: HE'S HEREEEE 🗣🗣🗣

It was dark in the mechanics' hut, the lights kept off during the day to preserve power, but the overcast nature of the afternoon did nothing to light the space from the outside. Hours had passed since the pilots had left, and although Frankie was never made privy to the specifics of their missions, she could tell by the amount of fuel that had been requested that they were going far, much further than they ever had before. There was not a man among them who hadn't seemed to have a dark cloud over his head as they had prepared to depart that morning.

She and Lemmons sat on the floor together, backs propped up against the wall, both too troubled by worry to work. Frankie had an old fashion magazine in her lap, and they passed the time by flicking through each section and poking fun at a myriad of ugly sweaters and ridiculous hats.

"Those are nice," Ken stated, pointing at a pair of green brogued shoes.

"Seriously? I think they're garish."

He shrugged. "My Fonda has some like it. They look nice on her."

She let out a low whistle, teasingly nudging his side as his face turned bright red, a satisfied smile curling his lips. For a boy as young as he was, he sure loved Fonda. Frankie had noticed the heart-shaped locket that hung from his neck the very first day they'd worked together, but it had taken weeks for him to let her have a look inside. It must have been nice to be loved the way she was.

The magazine was losing its charm. It had been over an hour, and they were running out of pages. With a huff, she tossed it across the room, landing in a heap of crumpled pages underneath the table. Ken looked over at her, raising a brow.

She shrugged. "Bored. Want a cigarette?"

Without waiting for an answer, Frankie dug around in her pocket and produced two loose, slightly bent cigarettes, passing one to Lemmons. She lit hers swiftly, taking in an inhale of smoke. He rolled his between his fingers, never bothering to light it. Sometimes she forgot he didn't smoke.

"I'm gonna take you for a drink tonight. We deserve it."

"I'm nineteen."

Frankie stared at him for a long moment. "...So?"

"So, I can't drink."

"Jesus Christ. Welcome to England mate, you might be the only nineteen-year-old currently in the country who doesn't already have a drinking problem."

He opened his mouth to respond, but before the words could emerge they were interrupted by a rapid knocking at the door. Far from the usual pounding thuds the men usually used, this knock was delicate, polite, but its urgency set Frankie's heart to beating twice as fast.

Scrambling to her feet, she rushed for the door, tossing her cigarette into the ashtray on the table as she passed. Hauling it open, a wave of nausea coursed through her as she saw George standing outside, hair damp from the drizzle, tie pulled loose away from her neck, her eyes red and puffy from crying.

"Wh-" Frankie trailed off as she slammed into her, gripping her in the tightest hug she'd ever felt. As she wrapped her arms around George's back, she could feel her shaking beneath her palms.

George let out one sob after another, face buried in Frankie's shoulder as her tears soaked the fabric of her coveralls. Looking back over at Lemmons, their gazes met in wide-eyed expressions of anxiety, and if George hadn't been crying so loudly Frankie was sure the thumping of her heart would've been audible.

"George- George," She spoke firmly, hands pressed to George's cheeks as she forced her to meet her eye. To be so harsh to a woman who needed nothing but softness ripped a hole through her, the guilt churning her stomach, but she needed to know. "Tell me what happened."

She nodded hurriedly, wiping her tears away with the backs of her hands. "They made it to Africa - we started getting messages through about an hour ago, but, uh..." George's lip trembled, and she sucked in a long, haggard breath. "Curt's dead, Frankie."

Lemmons let out some sort of strangled gasp as Frankie felt all of the blood drain from her face. For a moment she didn't know how to process the words, she just knew she needed to hold George - to hold her tight, tighter than anyone ever had. There was not an inch between them as she stroked a gentle hand through her golden hair, trying with all her might to keep breathing as she felt a warm tear roll down her cheek.

Over George's shoulder, she spied Ken making for the door, a frown casting a shadow over his boyish face. He met her eyes, and she offered him a nod, freeing him from the scene so he could inevitably tell the others.

The two women held each other for a long moment, Frankie's chin burrowed against George's collar. When she finally spoke, it was little more than a hoarse whisper, her throat suddenly dry as a bone.

"...And Bucky?"

Sniffing loudly, George pulled back, shaking her head. "No, no, he's okay. He made it to Algeria." Frankie hadn't released she was holding her breath until she let it escape her, raising a hand to cover her mouth as she nodded.

"Yeah? Yeah. Alright," She could worry about the others later - for now, knowing Egan was alive was enough to settle her drumming heart. "You need to go home, ok? You need to rest."

"My shift's not over, I still have to-"

"I am gonna walk up there myself and tell them you're not coming back today. Not tomorrow, neither. And if they've got a problem with that they can take it up with me - believe me, I don't give a shit if I take an insubordination charge over this."

A tearful smile broke out across George's face, holding onto Frankie's hand as it cupped her cheek. "Tangling with you? I don't fancy their chances."

Frankie chuckled, pulling her into one last hug and pressing her lips firmly to her temple. "Go, go. I'll see you soon, ok?"

"Yeah," She whispered against her neck, reaching out to squeeze her hand as she broke the hug, stepping backwards towards the door and disappearing.

As soon as she was alone, Frankie sucked in a long, laboured breath, collapsing into one of the rickety chairs that surrounded the table in the middle of the room. Doubling forward, she lay her head in her hands, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes as she focused on taking one breath after the next.

Since the war had begun, she had been cycling through phases of fear and calm, letting herself slip into the all too comfortable belief that it couldn't touch her here - couldn't take from her as long as she was home, as long as she was safe.

But God, how the world kept proving her wrong.

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Almost a month had passed. Every mission took a toll, but the trip that had killed Curtis Biddick seemed to hang heavier than any other ever had.

Or perhaps it just seemed that way because of George.

Some nights Frankie would stay up late, rubbing exhaustion from her eyes as she fought to stay awake long enough to finish a chapter of her book, lit by the dim bulb of her bedside lamp. And then in the darkness she would hear a rustling, a casting aside of the course, army-issue bedsheets, and feel a weight press into the mattress beside her as George slipped under the covers, silently resting her head against Frankie's shoulder. She liked to listen to her heartbeat on the nights she felt most alone - when she felt the farthest from home, the most separated from the boy she almost loved - it brought her comfort to listen to that telltale sign of life radiating from the person closest to her. She had someone, and that was enough to live with.

Frankie had liked Curt, but she hadn't known him well. Sometimes she wished she had, if only so that she wouldn't feel so guilty, comforting her best friend over a loss she no longer felt so keenly. Instead, all she could do was softly whisper the words she was reading to her, and let her mere presence be the comfort as they both drifted off to sleep.

It had grown warm overnight, and the humidity combined with the heat of George's body burrowed close next to hers left Frankie slick with sweat by the time she woke up, her hair sticking to her neck in damp strands. Peeling the covers away as she clambered out of bed, careful not to disturb her sleeping friend, she made a beeline for the showers, hoping to wash away the unpleasant, sticky sensation that coated her skin. She was used to evening showers after a long day's work, and it felt strange to stare down at the hot water rolling off of her body and see it come away clear, clean, not streaked with the dirt and oil she was often coated with by the time she made it home each night.

Wringing her hair out with a towel as she made her way out of the bathroom, Frankie dodged the other women emerging from their beds as she reached her own area, her coveralls and workboots waiting for her on a nearby chair. George had moved back to her own bed, carefully removing each of the curlers she meticulously applied every night, just like all of the other servicewomen who were afforded the luxury of working indoors, a far cry from Frankie's reality. It wasn't that Frankie didn't like to dress up - she loved the chance to do her hair and makeup, to dress up and feel pretty for once - it just wasn't a practicality her profession afforded. Her hair needed to be out of the way, and it made no sense to waste money on makeup that would be ruined by sweat and grime within the hour.

"If Dye makes it back, there'll be a party tonight," George stated, watching her reflection as she looped her tie into a knot. "You gonna go?"

"Uh," Frankie considered this for a moment, sniffing her coveralls from the previous day and grimacing at the smell, switching them out for a clean pair. "Nah, not tonight, I don't think. I've already got some outstanding stuff from the last few days that needs sorting, it's gonna be a busy one."

"Alright, I'll see if Sandra and Helen are going."

"I'm glad you're going," Frankie smiled.

George's gaze turned to her, and she considered this for a moment before shrugging. "Can't sit here forever."

It was a fact that didn't need dwelling on, and Frankie wouldn't patronise her with praise. This was just the way their lives worked now. One by one, the women in their hut finished getting ready and left for their various jobs until Frankie was the only one left, locking up the front door as she exited. The burn that had scorched her palm had long since healed, leaving a mottled pink scar across her hand, but she could clutch the handlebars of her bike without pain now, so she had returned to her morning ritual of cycling as fast as she physically could to the airstrip, revelling in the feeling of the warm morning air blowing through her hair.

Dye's plane was swooping in as she arrived, and Frankie couldn't help but smile at the chorus of whoops and cheers that pierced the air, flight and ground crews alike lining the runway to await his valiant return. Twenty-five missions. She could barely fathom it. For as long as she could remember, planes like this had been her life, but she'd never flown in one - Dye had done it twenty-five times. The number boggled her, a reality so close to and yet so distinctly separate from her own.

"Frankie!" Lemmons called over from where he was sitting with a few of the local boys. The village kids had taken a shine to the young mechanic, and she found she rather enjoyed their presence, childish wit relieving the strain of their long working hours. She crossed the grass towards them as he spoke up again. "Gonna replace the panelling on the bombers from last week, you in?"

She shook her head, batting a hand dismissively. "Nah, you go enjoy the celebrations with the others, I'll handle it."

He frowned, a crease appearing between his brows. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure, I hardly even know Dye, I'm not missing out. Take the night off, you deserve it."

A smile began to spread across his expression. "Well thanks, Frankie."

"No worries. Hey - did we get that delivery of rivets that was meant to come in?" Lemmons shook his head, and she shrugged. "Don't worry about it, I'll take a list to the boss of everything we need."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was growing dark, a work light on the tarmac illuminating one of the B-17 engines as she worked away at it, a pile of scattered tools littering the ground from where she had tried and failed to toss them back into her toolbox without paying proper attention. She could hear the muffled music far off in the distance, the lights from the party casting a golden reflection against the clouds like a beacon in the night. Tightening one of the bolts, Frankie prayed to herself that George was having fun.

The sound of footsteps approaching from behind alerted her to sudden company, but she was too engrossed in her work to turn. Besides, she could already guess who it was.

"Heya, Frankie," Bucky's voice came, and she suppressed a smirk at the accuracy of her prediction.

"Evenin'."

"We missed you at the party," He stated.

"Busy," She replied, letting out a grunt as she pinched the skin of her thumb with her wrench, flapping her hand for a moment to relieve the pain.

"Just came to see ya 'cause I don't think you've met Rosie yet."

Frankie let out a sigh, sliding her wrench into her pocket, speaking as she began to turn. "Bucky, if you boys have got yourselves another fucking dog, I swear-"

There was another man there, standing next to Egan, blue eyes watching her as she stumbled over her words, trailing to an awkward stop. She had a smear of oil across her forehead from where she had absent-mindedly wiped the sweat from her brow with a filthy hand, and Bucky pursed his lips tightly as he tried not to laugh.

"Not a dog," Rosie stated, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smile.

"No," She breathed, snapping herself out of her awkwardness. "No, uh, sorry - Frankie, I'm Frankie," Holding out her hand to shake, she noticed its filthiness and grimaced, swiftly retracting it.

"Frankie's one of our mechanics," Egan explained. "She'd be happiest if we fired the rest of the ground crew and let her do the whole thing herself."

"But then who'd clean the dog shit and vomit out for me, eh?" Frankie shrugged, a pink spatter colouring her cheeks. Bucky almost frowned, taken aback by her uncharacteristically awkward demeanour.

"Look, I promised Buck I'd only be gone five minutes, so," He looked down at his watch, shrugging.

"No, no, that's fine, you have a good night," Frankie smiled, wiping her dirty palms on the sides of her trousers.

Bucky turned to leave, pausing for a moment. "Rosenthal?"

"Oh, no, I was gonna head off anyway, thanks Major," Rosie nodded, and they lingered in silence for a moment after Egan left, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness down the runway.

"Sorry I thought you were a dog," She chuckled slightly, breaking the quiet as she rubbed her thumb where she'd pinched the skin, a red mark forming.

"Well," Rosie shrugged, standing with his hands in his pockets. "Been called worse."

Frankie smiled, a flash of teeth in her grin as she glanced back at the engine for a moment, the great thing looming over her in its frame. "And... sorry Bucky dragged you all the way out here, I'm sure the party is much more interesting, and-"

"Hey, you don't have to apologise," He shook his head. With the work light shining on them, it seemed to cast a halo around her head, brown hair running golden along its edges. Even covered in filth, she must've been one of the prettiest girls he'd seen in... well, he couldn't quite recall. "How long have you been out here?"

"Uh, what time is it - eight?"

Rosie let out a laugh. "Gone midnight."

"Jesus Christ," She flashed him a tired grin. "Shit, I missed dinner."

"Well," He shrugged. "I am a Captain. Sure we can find something."

"You're on," Frankie agreed, the empty feeling in her stomach suddenly amplified once she realised how long it had been since she'd eaten. "Although, I'd better clean up first," She noted, wiping her hands on one of the engine rags.

"By the way, you've got a little-" Rosie gestured to his own forehead.

"Oh, shit," Frankie muttered, reaching up with the rag and just managing to miss the oil stain. He let out a chuckle, stepping forward.

"Here, lemme just-" She offered up the rag, and he dabbed at the stain, which less went away than it did smudge even more. He furrowed his brow as he tried to get rid of it, and she couldn't help but let out a laugh at the sheer concentration in his expression, their faces far closer than she would ever usually allow with a man she'd only just met. But there was something endearing in him, something safe. "I think... I think I got it."

"Thanks," Frankie chuckled, taking back the rag and stepping back towards the Nissen hut. "I'm just gonna wheel this engine inside and wash the crap off my hands, then we can go."

"I await your return, milady," Rosie nodded, smile turning to a cringe as she turned away from him. What was that? Don't say that!

She smiled to herself as she entered the hut, her pleased expression turning to a grimace as she got a waft of herself, the twelve-hour shift out in the sun making itself known. Oh shit.

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The mess hall was completely deserted, the only light coming from the kitchens as Frankie waited patiently for Rosie to return. He had volunteered to go and scrounge for food, confident that his rank would protect them if they were discovered, and she grinned as he returned, proudly carrying a large tin of peaches and a couple of bars of ration chocolate.

"Oh, perfect. Midnight feast," She beamed, taking a seat on one of the long benches that lined the tables as he sat down opposite, producing a tin opener from his pocket.

"Food fit for kings, I'd say," Rosie agreed, wrestling with the peaches for a moment until he was able to break the lid. Producing two forks, Frankie held one out to him, using her own to skewer a slice of the orange fruit.

"I'd just like to preface this by saying that I don't usually smell like this... actually, I do," She admitted, picking at some dirt stuck beneath her nail.

"Hey, I'm not judging - you wouldn't either once you'd smelled the inside of our flight suits," He shrugged, and she let out a huff of laughter, chewing on her peach slices, a droplet of sweet juice running down her lip. "So... how long've you been a mechanic?"

"Dad's been running an auto repair shop at home since before I was born, I grew up on it," Frankie explained, skewering another slice with one hand as she unwrapped her chocolate bar with the other. "He wanted to go over to France, help fix army jeeps, but he lost his foot in the Great War so they won't take him - I was born when he was away, see, he'd been over there for six months or so when a shell went off and he lost it. So the cars were all we had. I switched to planes when I was about fifteen - bit of an impractical hobby, but I've read every single book on it they had in Stratford library," She chuckled.

"Stratford... Shakespeare, right?"

Her brow raised. "Yeah. Right. Y'know I think the only good thing about this war is that the tourist buses have stopped coming around," She joked, and Rosie laughed, nodding along as he ate. Why was she telling him all this? In the last hour, he'd found out more about her than Bucky or Lemmons had in months. But she found she didn't feel embarrassed telling him any of it, the words just flowed naturally.

They sat there in the dim mess hall eating peaches until they started to feel sick, the hands of Rosie's watch ticking steadily past 1am by the time they left, making sure to hide all evidence of their midnight raid. It had begun to rain by the time they stepped out into the night air, and before Frankie could utter a single word of complaint he had shrugged off his uniform jacket and given it to her to hold over her head, her own makeshift shelter whilst his own curls fell flat, the water leaving dark streaks down his shirt.

"Are you sure about this?" She asked for what must have been the third time as they reached the end of her row of Nissen huts, Rosie's hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, his skin almost visible through the drenched state of his clothes.

"I said stop asking," He assured her, nodding confidently despite the visible trembling in his shoulders.

"I'm just worried I'm gonna ruin your jacket."

"Well, it'd die for a worthy cause."

Frankie grinned, slowing to a stop as she reached the front door of her hut. The lights were all off inside, not a single sign of life as her bunkmates enjoyed their well-earned sleep. When she spoke again, it was in whispers, careful not to wake them even despite the hammering of rain against the metal roof.

"Thank you for dinner, it was... unexpected."

"Very," Rosie nodded in agreement, mirroring her smile. She handed over his jacket, and he folded it, tucking it beneath his arm, already well past its usefulness.

"Tomorrow's gonna be a rough morning."

"Take the day off, have a lie-in, you deserve it."

She raised a brow, and he laughed. "You know I won't."

"I suspected as much," He agreed, nodding firmly. "G'night, Frankie."

"Goodnight."

Frankie slipped carefully inside, cautious not to make a sound as she crept over to her bed, stripping off her wet coveralls as she reached quickly for her nice, warm pyjamas.

When George's whispered voice broke the silence, she swore she almost had a heart attack. "You've been... working?"

"Something like that," Frankie shrugged, taking the fact she was awake as a sign of consent to turn her lamp on, giving her the light she needed to untie her boots. "Have you met the new Captain?"

"Who, Rosenthal? No. Why?"

She didn't answer for a long moment, buttoning up her pyjama shirt before flicking off the lamp, plunging the room into total darkness as she climbed beneath the blankets, letting out a satisfied sigh at the warmth.

"He's nice."

George let the silence simmer for a moment, her tone laced with suspicion. "... Right."

#masters of the air #mota #masters of the air fic #masters of the air oc #rosie rosenthal #rosie rosenthal x oc #john egan #ken lemmons #curtis biddick #oc: frankie #oc: george #fic | i'm your man #robert rosenthal

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mrsalwayswrite · 28 days

Text

What Words Can't Say - Chapter 5

a/n: hope the length makes up for the wait.

Warnings: swearing, unwanted physical contact, mild violence, Gale is a teddy bear

Words: 10k

Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

July 1943

Dusk painted the sky in colorful hues when the mechanics finally packed away their tools. Tonight, the small crew decided to go out to the local pub to celebrate Simon's birthday, and everyone was eager to get started. The consensus was the guys would come collect Abby from her hut once they were cleaned up and ready to go.

Abby would never admit out loud how fast she ran to her hut so she would have even a smidgen more of time. She raced the clock to take the fastest shower of her life and even then she could still feel stubborn spots of oil and grease on her. With the lack of time, she was forced to towel dry her hair as best as she could and then let it fall naturally down her back, so her straight brunette locks ended just past her shoulder blades. She giggled at the mental image of the shocked faces of some of the nurses who painstakingly and religiously used curlers in their hair.

Slipping into the only dress she brought to England with her, a fond smile arose with the memories attached to the dress. It was a simple navy blue dress with white polka dots all over, the hem dancing about her knees. Her Aunt Hassel gifted the handmade dress to Abby when she arrived to live with them. The first of many gifts and ways that her aunt and uncle showed they were happy she moved in with them. A decision she would never regret.

Lastly, Abby swiped on Ada's Victory Red lipstick she left on her nightstand, thinking Ada would not mind. More likely, Ada would fuss and want to help her get ready. All the other nurses were off at the Club or doing their assigned rounds, so Abby had the hut to herself. A rarity but especially helpful tonight when she did not want to answer any questions about why she was dressing up.

Steeling herself, she took a glance in Ada's small compact and fought the immediate urge to wipe the lipstick off and crawl into bed, claiming illness. Warring thoughts and voices buzzed like bees inside her mind. Their sting, an almost palpable thing, as she fought to control her breathing. She could do this. There was no one she was dressing up for, just herself. This was supposed to be fun. It would be fun. No one was going to berate her. She trusted the men she was with. She had promised Ken she would go.

Despite her own mental encouragement, she knew it would be so easy to crawl into bed. To hide the dress in the bottom of her footlocker again. To erase the lipstick. To tie her hair back up. To return to the feeling of safety. She could do it…

Before she surrendered to the urge, she stalked out of the hut with her black Mary Janes clicking on the hard floor.

Dusk transformed into darkness by the time she stepped out. Taking several deep breaths, she stared up at the stars as if silently seeking strength. The cool night air slid around her legs, only protected by the nylons she wore. She relished the shiver it shot through her, displacing the heat generated from her turbulent mind and insecurities.

Luckily the rest of the mechanics came around the corner only a couple minutes after she stepped out.

“Did you dress up for me, love?” Simon teased, after a long whistle.

“Only because it's your birthday.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Ken slung an arm around her shoulders, smelling much better than he did previously, as they followed the rest of the crew. “You look nice.”

“Nice?” Winks snorted from Ken's other side. He peeked over at her through the gloom. “Abby looks beautiful.”

“Thanks, John.” She smiled at him, a flush on her cheeks from all the attention.

Conversations ebbed and flowed amongst their small group as they made the walk through the airbase and onward to the village. A renewed liveliness danced around them, the laughter and teasing increased the further they walked from base. As if a heavy cloak was dropped at the gate leading onto the base and now they could celebrate unimpeded. A warmth filled Abby as she watched and listened to the men around her. This was what they all needed, a temporary release from the weight of their work and all it entailed. A reminder that they were all still young and alive.

Well, most of the crew.

Simon was the oldest, turning twenty-eight today. When he signed up, he initially wanted to be a P-51 pilot but as he progressed in the training, decided he liked working on the planes more than flying them and was transferred to ground crew. He left a wife and toddler back home in Michigan. However much he joked that he joined the war effort to get a break from the wife and toddler, no one commented on the way he carried a photo of them in his pocket at all times.

John “Winks” Herrmann was from Connecticut and Ken's best friend. He was a sweet guy that felt like an honorary ‘Lemmons’ with how quickly Ken and his friendship blossomed into a brotherhood. He hardly ever said a negative word about anybody and was always willing to help out. He was a bit naive in certain ways but mostly because he was young and this was his first time away from home.

The rest of their group contained: Allen “Al” Hendricks from Missouri, Cricket Cox from Alabama, Paul Wilson from New Hampshire and Lincoln “Dog-Face” Miller from Montana.

Without any outside light due to the blackout, it was hard to truly tell what the pub looked like. From what she could tell, it reminded Abby of the stereotypical English pub - small and quaint and lively. The only problem was a lot more noise drifted from behind the door as they walked up to it than she expected.

“I thought you said no one would be here.” Abby quietly asked Ken.

“Maybe it's locals?”

But something in her gut told her that was not the case, and when they opened the door, light and noise spilling out to encase them and drag them into its confines, like a spider into its web…Abby knew she had made a mistake.

A handful of locals were scattered throughout the pub, some old men talking and grumbling and several young women either on the dance floor or drinking with the soldiers, but the pub was swarmed with uniforms boasting those of the 100th Bomb Group and RAF.

As if sensing her urge to abandon the night, Ken snaked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. He put his mouth close to her ear to be heard over the noise. “It's fine. We'll find somewhere in the back.”

She nodded mutely.

Al found a table off to the side, snagging it as the locals headed out, most likely wanting to retain the use of their hearing due to the sheer volume echoing in the place. Abby found herself sandwiched between Ken and Simon in mismatched chairs, but instead of feeling claustrophobic, she felt she could breathe again. She was surrounded by people she trusted and they were out of the main view of people. Not that she was hiding, per se, but she was not here to show off.

Lincoln and Al came back with the first round of beers and whiskey, and without a second thought, she took a generous swallow of the whiskey placed in front of her, hoping the alcohol would settle her nerves. She wanted to enjoy her time out, she really did. So she resolved to ignore those around them and try to focus on the men at her table.

She could do this…

*****

“So there I was naked, and hidin’ in the hay pile, prayin’ to God ‘imself that her daddy couldn't see me.” Al told his story, much to the amusement of those around the table. “I waited about two damn hours for the man to leave. I swear, he was like a coon-dog, tryin’ to find me. Well, that damn hay is itchin’ me somethin’ terrible but I don't dare move, right? Who knows if he could see the hay shiftin’?”

“You said it was night. I doubt he'd see you.” Paul countered, leaning back in his chair, as he twirled a screwdriver around his fingers. He never went anywhere without some sort of tool on his person, claiming you never knew when something needed to be fixed. Abby thought it had more to do with superstitions but kept that to herself.

Al ran a hand down his face. “I was seventeen! And terrified! That man could make even the devil himself shit his pants.”

“What were you doing messing with his daughter then?” Simon countered, ever the voice of wisdom.

“Swear to God, she's the prettiest thing you'll ever see! Even puts Rita Hayworth to shame!” Al placed a hand over his heart, his brown eyes twinkling merrily.

“No!”

“I don't believe you!”

“Don't you blaspheme about Rita!”

“Fine, fine.” Al smirked, leaning forward as if to share a secret with his companions. “She had the biggest breasts I’d ever seen and said I could touch them. What dumbass would say no? Not me.”

“There it is!” Simon laughed.

Abby giggled, playing with a strand of her hair. She was feeling good. Two whiskeys sloshed in her system while she nursed her first beer of the night sitting before her. She was not drunk, she knew that feeling and did not like it, but gloriously tipsy and everything felt light and easy and she wanted to revel in the feeling. Laughter spilled from her lips and she could not remember the last time she had so much fun.

“So, what happened? Did he catch you?” Ken asked from beside her, a flush on his cheeks betraying his own intoxication.

Al wagged a thick finger. “No. No. The bastard didn't catch me that day. No. It was worse.” He leaned forward again, a forearm on the table and tapping his finger on the table to punctuate his words. “No, turns out I'm allergic to hay. Who knew? Broke out in goddamn hives that lasted for days. It was awful! Don't laugh at me!”

But the group laughed anyway at the turn of events in the story. With the embarrassing and hilarious stories being shared, all focused on their group, it felt like they were in a world of their own. The talking and laughter of the others in the pub was only white noise, drifting in and out with the music playing.

“Alright, whose turn for the next round? Huh?” Paul asked, scratching his thin black beard.

“I'll go.” Abby said, pushing back her chair to stand up. A wave of vertigo smacked into her and she gripped onto Ken's shoulder to steady herself.

“You good?” Ken questioned.

With a smile on her face, she shook her head, dislodging the strange sensation. “Yeah, just been sitting too long, that's all.” She reached out and ruffled his hair, causing him to smack her hand away with a grimace and whine like when they were younger.

“I'll come with you.” Lincoln said, his thick jowls and thin lips highlighted by the lights. “Gotta step outside for a minute anyway.”

A new conversation started up around the table as the two skirted away and methodically weaved through those filling the small pub. Abby appreciated Lincoln leading the way, his wide shoulders and thick frame cleared an easy path for her to follow.

She felt like a fairy, moving around the dancing crowd and seeing the twinkling lights. With a stupid giggle, she spun in a circle, making her dress fan out around her knees. Unfortunately, she bumped into a soldier, but before he could say anything, Lincoln grabbed her hand and dragged her the rest of the way to the bar counter.

She leaned against the wooden counter, sticky form spilled alcohol and decorated with dents and circle stains from years of use. “Sorry.” She giggled again, tipping her head back to look at the much taller man. “I haven't walked in heels in some time.” At least, she thought it was the Mary Janes that caused her to momentarily lose her balance.

“It's fine.” He smiled down at her, something indiscernible in his dark eyes.

She blinked for a long moment, wondering if she was missing something. Why was he still smiling at her? Unsure, she went to brush her hair behind her ear and realized his hand was still in hers.

Oh.

“Oh, I'm sorry. Sorry. I just–”

He chuckled as he pulled back his hand. “It's fine, Abby.” He glanced towards the door and then shuffled from foot to foot next to her. “Is it– I mean, I can stay–”

“Go.” She awkwardly pushed his shoulder, probably looking like a kitten bothering a German Shepherd. “I'll wait for you here.”

“Oh-okay. I won't be long.” He waited for a moment as if she would change her mind, but after she pushed him once again, he quickly stepped out of the pub.

Turning her back towards the pub, she idly traced the circle stains on the wood. The bartender was helping a group of patrons further down and she did not mind waiting.

Her thoughts drifted towards her departed companion. She disliked the nickname ‘Dog-Face’ for Lincoln but unfortunately it held merit. He was incredibly kind and humble but his countenance resembled that of a bulldog. To his credit, Lincoln rolled with the nickname. He was a good mechanic and a good friend. Ken had confessed to her early on that Lincoln had a crush on her, although he had never acted upon it and she had never witnessed it herself. She figured it was just boy gossip and Ken trying to tease her.

As she glanced down the bar counter again, her attention was caught by Captain Dye and Lil, the two coyly flirting with one other. She had met Lil once when traveling into the village to pick up something from the small, local store they had. Abby was fairly certain she had heard rumors that Lil and Major Egan were seen together. The nurses had plenty of thoughts about Lil and some of the other local women, but maybe that was just rumors?

“I dare say, it's quite a shame to see a beautiful woman standing alone at a bar. A true disgrace.”

Abby turned back, a wave of surprise coursing through her and dissipating some of the clouds in her brain, as she noted the man standing quite close to her. Upon hearing his British accent and seeing the uniform he wore, her mind quickly put together that he must be RAF.

“Who said I'm alone?”

He was handsome enough, she guessed. The slicked-back dark hair, the mustache and the cocky grin he wore most likely made many women swoon. But it was the way his gaze appraised her, like he knew he had already caught her without even having to try…that immediately erected her walls and sobered her further.

He made a show of looking around her. “I do not see anyone or am I mistaken?”

“I'm just getting the next round for the group I came with.”

“Ah.” His grin widened and with a half step, crowded her against the counter. “I'm positive they won't mind waiting a little longer as we get to know each other.”

“No, thank you.”

“No? May I at least have the honor of knowing your name, love?”

“I don't think that's necessary right now.” She hissed, one of her hands against his chest to keep him from moving closer.

“I promise to be a perfect gentleman. What do you say, love?”

Yet his actions sang their own tune.

While he spoke, his hand hovered on her lower back, an unwanted weight to pin her in place. She almost missed his last statement, a final plea for her attention because his hand crossed into turbulent waters and unknowingly released a storm.

His back faced outward, a shield, a barrier, from the eyes of those in the pub. An illusion of privacy. For residing in that illusion, his hands chose to wander. The left was firmly placed on her lower back, while the right gripped the fabric of her dress covering her thigh.

“Care to dance?” He breathed into her ear, alcohol wafting like a fog over her face. His hand though, slippery as eel, slipped under the hem of her dress and slid up her inner thigh.

“Get your hands off me.” She quietly snarled, grabbing his hand to cease its further exploration.

She could feel his sigh against her cheek, that hot exhale of breath. More importantly, she felt his hand on her lower back drift downward…and she saw red.

On instinct, she stomped the heel of her Mary Jane into the top of his leather shoe, and used her hand still against his chest to shove him hard.

He hissed, teetering for a moment but catching his balance with a hand on the countertop.

Slowly, she turned to face him after brushing the hem of her dress back into place, warily watching him for retaliation. She would rather not make a scene but if he came at her again, she had no problem with showing him her infamous right hook.

Thankfully, he had a few brain cells that still worked. Anger burned in his eyes but he kept his lips closed. His gaze scanned over her with unrestrained disgust. With a shake of his head and a snort, he turned and walked away without a word.

Her heart raced like an engine being pressed to the max. Placing her elbows on the counter she covered her eyes with her hands and she focused on steadying her breathing. An alcohol-induced fog skittered at the edges of her brain, shoved away by the ugly encounter but easing back in to soften her heightened emotions.

A minute later, the barman finally made his way to her, apologies pouring off his tongue. She ordered and waited as he filled the new glasses, hoping she appeared confident. The encounter with the RAF pilot had left her shaken. She knew logically she was unhurt and had handled the situation as best as she could. Yet her gaze darted around, perceptions high to make sure no one else snuck up on her. Her hand repeatedly brushed at the thigh that he touched as if she could wipe away his stain on her skin.

Lincoln reappeared as the barman loaded up the drinks onto a tray. Before he could move the tray to their table, Abby snatched one of the glasses of whiskey and tossed it back. She hissed, eyes smarting as the liquor burned down her throat. Leaving the empty glass on the counter, she led the way this time back to their table, purposefully ignoring Lincoln's quizzical glances at her.

Back with the group, she tried to embrace the same lightness as before, that feeling of being wholly relaxed and having fun. The shot of whiskey and being back with the mechanics alleviated some of her jitters but she could not entirely erase the twitching nerves or how her gaze frequently swept the pub for that RAF pilot. A vine of resentment twisted around her heart for that pilot, how he ruined her freedom for his own amusement. It was a painful reminder that no matter where she was, she always had to be on guard.

After she finally finished her warm beer, the clouds were back in her mind and her nerves had dissipated somewhat. At this point, sleep called to her as if from a distance and she was ready to beckon its approach.

“Ken–” She said in a hush, her head leaning on his shoulder and his arm behind her back.

“Yeah, me too.” Her cousin replied quietly. “Ready?”

At her nod, the two carefully got up. Ken spoke to those at the table. “I'm going to take Abby back. I'll see you fellas in the morning.”

The chorus of farewells echoed from those remaining. The two mechanics meandered through the crowded pub, dodging the patrons both drunk and mildly sober. Ken led the way, cutting through like a schooner through the waves. With all of her attention focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not being knocked into, she barely noted when Ken took a detour away from the door, her feet faithfully following him.

“Kenny!”

“Hey ya, Ken!”

The familiar cheers for her cousin erupted from the large table in front of them. She briefly wondered how he knew the majors were sitting over here, tucked away in the corner like they had been. The question flitted away from her mind almost as quickly as it emerged.

“Hey fellas. Just poppin’ over to wish you a good night.” Ken explained, unnecessarily waving like a kid on a playground.

Abby attempted to cover a giggle with her hand, hiding behind her cousin's back. Was he drunk? He appeared steady enough standing there. She decided to poke his back to make sure.

“No! Sit down!”

“Yeah, join us! Where's that extra chair?”

“It's here! Sit down!”

Ken shrugged his shoulders, swatting away her hand like a fly. “That's ‘right. Thank you though.”

He did not tip so Abby concluded he was not drunk but she decided to poke him again for good measure.

“Ouch!” Ken squirmed, turning around to grab her hands to prevent any more pokes. Mischief danced along her veins, so she stuck her tongue out at him.

“Hey, who's that with ya?”

By this point, Abby was feeling all three glasses of the whiskey flowing through her veins and the beer she had been sipping on. She would be the first to admit she was a lightweight, not drinking often did that to a person. Plus with her slimmer stature, alcohol raced through her faster than a fart through a fan.

Hearing Biddick's voice, she shifted to the side to look around Ken. Directly in front of her at the large wooden table was seated someone from the 100th she recognized but could not figure out his name but thought he was a navigator. Beside him was Major Veal, then Major Egan, Major Cleven, Lieutenant Biddick and Major Kidd, while across from them sat three other men in uniforms but she could not see their faces easily.

“Hey, boys.” She smiled at the familiar officers. That very smile lighting up her face at the looks of momentary shock crossing the faces of the men she knew.

“Holy shit! Slugger, is that you?” Egan almost spit out his drink, wiping away what dribbled down his chin.

Biddick let out a wolf whistle. “Lookin’ good, Abby!”

“Alright, you're going to embarrass her.” Ken waved off any more rowdy compliments, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side.

“Now you gotta sit with us!” Egan demanded. “Hey, Bubbles, go tell Croz to get something for Kenny and Sluggar here!”

“Yes, sir.” The man she couldn't put a name with -apparently Bubbles- got up next to them and held out his chair. “You can have my seat. I'll sit on the other side with Croz.”

“Thanks, Bubbles.” Ken said. He bumped her with his hip, directing her towards the vacated seat while he slid into the empty chair between Bubbles’ chair and the unknown men.

Once she finally seated between Veal and Ken, she was finally able to discern the faces of the other men at the table. All three were clearly RAF, but when she locked eyes with the one in the middle, seeing the familiar sleazy smirk on his face and his rakish gaze, she wondered if she might end up resorting to violence tonight after all.

“What are you doing here? I thought you never left the hardstands.” Veal teased Ken.

“Just out celebrating, sir. We're not allowed to have whiskey at the hut or hardstands.”

“That sounds terrible.” Egan dramatically lamented, then leaned forward and pointed a finger at Ken. “We should fix that! Can't have good work go without rewards!”

“No, Bucky.” Kidd glared.

“Come on, Jack!”

Abby smiled at the one sided argument Egan was trying to put up. Her gaze slid around the table to land on Gale, and to her shock, locked on her already were his baby blue eyes. Once their eyes connected, the corner of his mouth lifted and he sent a cheeky wink her way. A giggle bubbled up within her, spilling out even as she tried to suppress it with her hand. The sound seemed to unlock something within him for a genuine smile rolled across his face, eyes softening as he continued to stare at her.

Seemingly continuing an interrupted conversation, the RAF pilot in the middle began speaking, throwing a proverbial wet blanket over the jovial group. “I admire you Americans, you're up there in broad daylight, seemingly oblivious to the downsides.”

“I…I don't understand what you're saying, Captain.” Kidd slowly said.

“Nevermind, old boy. It's one for the higher ups.”

“It's a question of philosophies.” The RAF on the left continued the train of thought of his comrade, not even trying to hide his patronizing tone. “We bomb at night because it doesn't matter what we hit as long as it's German. Bombing during the day is suicide. I could foresee in the future, American strategy adjusting due to the unfortunate losses you'll no doubt continue to suffer. Maths.”

Abby squinted her eyes at the Brits, wondering what kind of churlish conversation took place prior to Ken and her arrival. Even with her sluggish thoughts, she could feel the strife floating in the air like a cheap perfume.

Egan inhaled sharply, gaze narrowed at the men across the table from him. “Maths?”

“I mean, maybe if you bombed during the day, you'd hit your targets.” Biddick snarked.

“And why the hell do you Brits add an ‘s’ to the end of math?”

The cocky RAF smirked, slowing his tone like he was talking to a child. “Because there's more than one of them.”

Biddick mocked. “There's more than one of them.”

“I can see more than one of you too.” Egan raised his hand, seemingly illustrating his point. “I could knock all of you out.” Veal smacked his hand down but the major kept going. “Probably in one punch. In one punch.”

Thankfully, the arrival of alcohol distracted from the rising violence.

“This outta wet your whistles, boys!” Crosby announced carrying a tray of drinks over.

The drinks were quickly passed around, slid along the tabletop or handed to its owner. Abby noted how Crosby specifically handed Gale his ginger beer, a hint of reverence in his action. Yet Gale never took his gaze off the RAF pilots, accepting the drink without looking at the apparent admirer behind him.

“Here ya go.” Bubbles’ voice snagged Abby's attention away as he placed a whiskey in front of Abby and one for Ken. “I wasn't sure what you wanted.”

“Thank you.” She murmured to the soft spoken man.

He nodded, then retreated to the opposite side of the table. She witnessed them elbowing each other out of the way and being a nuisance to one another as they settled in their seats.

“Ken…”

Her cousin looked down at her, “hmmm?”

“We need to go.”

“Hold on, another minute.” His attention turning back to the Brits, sucked into the turbulent conversation.

With a sigh, she leaned her head on Ken's shoulder. Without looking, he twitched his shoulder, making her head move. Giggling, she smacked his arm but laid her head against him again. She could feel him scoot closer and settle his arm against the back of her chair, before taking a sip of his new whiskey.

“How about a song?” The youngest of the RAF eagerly changed the subject, directing his particular question to Egan. “I hear you sing, Major.”

Those that knew the major either cheered or grimaced, depending on their opinions of John Egan's vocal talents.

“Pick one. What's your favorite?” The young Brit encouraged.

Egan grinned like he had won some kind of award. “Good idea!” Even though many around the table loudly disagreed with this assumption.

To her hazy recollection Abby had never heard Major Egan sing, she almost opened her mouth to add encouragement when Biddick broke through the ruckus of voices.

“Hey! You want to get Major excited? Baseball!”

Egan pointed a finger at Biddick. “Specifically Yankees.” He clarified because apparently the distinction was important. His attention slid to his best friend by his side, a silly grin steadily growing as he gazed at him. “Oh my buddy, Buck, here, he thinks they're a waste of time, don't you?”

Leaning forward to slip into Gale's space, Biddick added. “It's not just sports he doesn't follow. I mean, you don't follow anyone, do you?”

Gale nodded, allowing a pregnant pause as he bit into a toothpick before casually stating, “I follow you, Curt.”

“And he would still find a way to show off!” Biddick chuckled, further leaning over Gale, now invested in this strange conversation. “For example, you remember Walla Walla. We had a visit from wing Cleven here, slow-timing Hollenbeck's engines. Just so they remembered who he was. He buzzed the Tower, all engines feathered. I–”

“No. Three, three engines–” Major Veal interrupted, holding up three fingers. “He still had one.”

Bubbles agreed. “I remember he called you ‘One Engine Cleven’.”

Biddick hushed the interruption. “Hey. Hey, hey, hey, hey. I'm– I'm telling the story here, All right? It's my story. It's four engines. Next thing I see this fort sailing twenty-five feet over the runway. Yeah,” Biddick clicked his tongue, giving a dramatic pause, “silent as the grave.”

“Beautiful.”

“Hmm.”

“Wanted to do that all my life.” Egan murmured, smiling at Gale.

Those around the table collectively laughed or agreed, a comradery between those of the 100th and their experiences together. Gale shook his head, a hint of color on his cheeks from the attention.

A barely heard laugh escaped Abby's lips as she watched Egan squeeze Gale's cheeks, further embarrassing the man.

Kidd raised his whiskey. “I'll drink to that. No Engine Cleven.”

“No Engine Cleven. Here we go. Hear hear!” Those of the 100th tapped their drinks together, too caught up in their own merriment to see the side-eyes and mocking looks by the RAF pilots. “And here's to Ken and Sluggar for being there to fix us up after!”

With the attention of them, Abby raised her head and grabbed her drink. After clinking her glass against those within reach, she took a sip and licked her lips. She stared at the amber liquid, wondering if she should be worried that it no longer burned when traveling down her throat. Maybe her body was used to it by now? For experimental reasons, she sipped again. What warmth filled her belly was dashed with an icy blast as her gaze locked with the RAF pilot-Byron she thought she heard his companion say. He raised his own glass to her, a mock salute, before taking a sip. Meanwhile his rakish gaze never left her. With a repressed shudder, she looked away and tossed the rest of her whiskey back. She could feel his hands on her again, even if it was only in her mind.

As if summoned, her hazel eyes connected to the baby blues of Gale's. A slight furrow between his brows betrayed his relaxed posture. She saw his gaze shift to look at the Brits and then back at her. A question there but one she did not want to answer. Even if she tried, the words tangled on her tongue in knots. She leaned her head back against Ken's shoulder, lazily watching the lights around them.

When Byron spoke up again, Abby wondered if the idiot liked confrontation, especially with his haunty, arrogant tone. “Would you have rather been a fighter pilot, major?”

Egan snapped, clearly hearing the Brit's tone also. “Buck is a fighter pilot. A fighter pilot who happens to fly a bus.”

“And so are you, Bucky.” Bubbles added.

Egan shook Bubbles’ hand. “And so are you.”

“So, let me get this straight.” The visibly confused younger RAF leaned forward, pointing a finger between the two majors across from him. “You're Buck and he's Bucky?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there a shortage of nicknames in the 100th?” Byron asked, causing laughter between himself and his two companions.

Yet Egan's response instantly sobered the group, reminding everyone of the truth of war.

“No. Just a shortage of crews.”

Bryon stated. “Hmm. Pity.”

Egan nodded along, head bouncing in a way that hinted at his lack of sobriety. “Pity. Pity. Yeah. Pity, pity, pity. What?”

“I said it's a pity.” The RAF explained. “You'd have more if you flew your missions at night.”

The underlying tension returned like a heavy cloud just above their heads.

Abby watched, shocked the Brit would bring the topic back up again. When his gaze darted her way, everything clicked in her mind. Confrontation. The bastard liked the tension and arguments. She had hurt his ego or something else equally foolish and now he needed to feel…something. Her brain could not even fathom what at this point. Her hazy thoughts darted away like minnows in a pond, back and forth, but there was one she finally scooped up. Without a second thought to the legitimacy of it, she poured it out onto the table.

“Ohhh I get it.” She sat up and tilted her head to the side, eyes narrowing to see past the fog in her mind. “You're just taking the piss outta them cause you're mad I wouldn't let you stick your hand up my dress.”

Byron barely looked her way as he sneered. “With the way you've portrayed yourself, it's clear you have a deficient lack of taste and standards.”

What tension hung over the table immediately redoubled at the scathing remark. What once had been a brewing storm cloud now transformed into a hurricane.

“Sonofabitch.” Ken muttered, starting to rise from his chair.

Abby narrowed her eyes and glared at the smug bastard. Yet in the back of her mind, the stinging thoughts from earlier hovered, as if the Brit's comment had unknowingly opened the door for their return. Stinging thoughts of inadequacy, of never being good enough…

To her surprise, Major Egan was the first to speak, breaking the shocked silence. “Why'd you have to go and say something like that? Especially about Slugger.”

“Well, perhaps I was getting bored of all the heavy petting going on at your end of the table.”

Egan squinted his eyes. “I don't even know what that means. What's that mean?”

Veal echoed beside him. “What does that mean?”

The two men continued to question, seemingly conversing with only each other as everyone else remained silent.

“What's that mean?”

“I don't know.”

“What's that mean?” Egan finally turned back to the Brits, a hard glint in his eyes.

Byron grinned, as if enjoying every moment of this. “Let's make a bit of sport ourselves. How about it? For the lady's honor.”

To Abby's further surprise, Gale was the first to reply, eyes like steel as he stared down the RAF pilot. “I think that's an excellent idea.”

Biddick's quiet, “Oh, here we go,” was lost as Egan started to stand only to be roughly shoved back into his seat by Gale.

“Abby.” Ken got her attention, his own focus jumping between the Brits and herself. She could clearly see his want to protect her honor himself but also his concern for her wellbeing. “We can leave if you want…you-we don't have to watch.”

“No…no. I want to.”

“Okay.”

The two mechanics followed the crowd spilling out onto the dark street in front of the pub, only the full moon and stars illuminating them. Somehow word about the fight must have circulated since more members of the 100th emerged from the pub, drinks in hand and drunken cheers on their lips.

“What does RAF mean?” Biddick called out as he finally stepped outside.

“Riffraff.” Someone answered, much to the other's amusement.

Abby was mildly stunned when she saw Biddick taking his jacket off and shaking his arms out. She thought Gale was the one to pick up the verbal gauntlet but she must have missed something. Perhaps he only meant he thought a fight was a good idea, not that he would be throwing the punches. From what gossip she heard, Gale was not much of a fighter, typically having to break up fights instead. But she could have sworn there was something in his eyes when he voiced his agreement….

Not that it mattered now.

Her feet guided her to the edge of the impromptu boxing ring. A part of her envied Biddick, the foolish wish to trade places with him so she could defend her own honor and punch the asshole. Instead she crossed her arms over her chest, forcing herself to remain on for sidelines. However wonderful the retribution would feel, she could not risk the discipline. Not again.

“You alright there, Abby?”

Caught up in her own swirling thoughts and wishes, she had not realized she placed herself between her cousin and Gale, the major standing within arm's reach. She glanced at him, noting his gaze focused on her. Warmth flooded her cheeks that was certainly a delayed reaction to all the alcohol she consumed. “I'm fine.”

Before Gale could comment or refute her statement, Egan slung an arm around his shoulder, tugging him close. “Now why does this sport interest you?”

“Boxing?”

“Mm-mmm.”

Gale fiddled with the toothpick still in his mouth. “Test of manhood.”

“That so?”

“About as true a measure of your will to fight as any, and it's man-to-man.”

“Oh, so you just don't like team sports? How'd you end up commander of a plane leading a squadron in a war, where you don't want to be on the losing side, and still not like team sports?” Bucky nudged Gale's cheek with his fist.

“I just don't lose sleep over whether the pinstripes beat the polka dots.”

Abby giggled to herself at Gale's response.

Egan sighed, clearly not as amused at his best friend's humor. “Right. Well, we're all just uniforms anyway. You know that?”

Gale did not reply, his attention focused as the boxing ring solidified. Spectators, made up almost entirely of 100th Bomb Group, stood in a circle exchanging bets or holding onto their pints as they drunkenly cheered Biddick on.

Cracking his knuckles, Byron stepped forward but instead of looking at his opponent, his gaze landed on Abby. She stilled under his brazen gaze, shocked by the audacity of him.

“Hey, Curt!” She called out, holding the Brit's gaze.

“Yeah, Abby?”

“Kick his ass.”

Biddick barked a laugh. “Yes, ma'am!”

If looks could kill, she would have been cremated twice over and that still would not satisfy the RAF pilot. His gaze had turned glacial cold and the corners of his mouth lifted in a sneer. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the company around her and the knowledge that the bastard could not hurt her with so many of the 100th surrounding her. With a shit-eating grin, she continued to hold his gaze until he looked away with a huff and roll of his shoulders.

“Ya heard the lady, sounds like I've gotta kick your ass!” Biddick taunted, bringing his fists up.

Byron scoffed. “I'll try not to step on you.”

Biddick and the RAF pilot began circling each other, sizing one another up while those around threw out jeers of their own.

“Now, seems like you like to do your fighting at night, Byron.” Biddick taunted.

The Brit threw a swing that Biddick easily dodged. A few cheers sounded and as the Brit prepared to take another swing, but Biddick made his move. He lashed out with his own well-timed shot, knocking his opponent immediately to the dirty cobblestones.

“Oof. Must have felt that, right?” Curt gloated, standing above his downed opponent. “Guess who can hit their target at night!”

The other RAF pilots call for space, pushing away spectators and gathering up their unconscious captain.

“How'd I do, dollface?” Biddick asked as he slid over between Egan and Gale, earning pats on the back from those around him.

“You did good, Biddick.”

He wagged his finger at her. “No, no. You called me ‘Curt’, don't start this again.”

She giggled, despite herself. “Thank you, Curt.”

“As my lady commands.” Curt snagged her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

She laughed at the comical scene along with those standing around. After he released her hand, Egan lifted the victorious pilot and swung him around to the cheers of the men.

“Never mess with the Irish!” Curt yelled with his hands up in the air.

“It's a pity!”

“Oh, what a shame!”

Abby giggled as the merriment wandered down the dark road, with Egan almost dropping Biddick as he stumbled on the uneven cobblestones. She reached over and wrapped her arm around Ken's then leaned her head against his shoulder. By now she could feel the effects of the whiskey further, that loose tipsy feeling now held an strong undercurrent of tiredness. Her eyelids slipped closed for a moment as she sighed.

“This was fun.” She murmured to her cousin.

But the drawl that answered was most certainly not that of her cousin. “I'm glad you think so.”

Her eyes snapped open and she wheeled back, stumbling on the cobblestones. Only the fast hands of Gale reaching out to steady her saved her from the embarrassment of falling onto her backside.

“I'm so sorry…I thought you were Ken.”

“It's alright. Can you walk?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

He slowly released her forearms, as if worried she would slip to the ground without his touch. Which truthfully was not an irrational notion. Hyper aware of her body and how the ground seemed to shift ever so slightly under her feet, she took a cautious step forward and then another, arms held out for balance.

“I did it!”

He chuckled, taking the two steps to stand by her. “That's real good, Abby. Can you make it back to base?”

“Ohhh.” She glanced around. “Where's Ken?”

“I'm not certain. I think he left with the group.”

She sighed, eyes still looking around like Ken would pop out of the shadows. “He was next to me I thought…and we were going to walk back together…now I'm here alone.”

“I'll walk you back.”

“You don't have too, I'm sure you want to walk with your Bucky and the others.”

He chuckled lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think they left me behind as well.”

She looked around their surroundings, truly realizing that the group was no longer in sight. Actually, no one was in sight. “Oh. Where did they go?” They could not have gotten far in this short of time, she figured, mostly likely hidden by the buildings further up the road.

“I would assume back to base.”

“Oh, yeah. That makes sense.”

“Shall we?”

She nodded, happy she would not have to make the trek alone. At this point she was unsure if she would even know where to go. Her thoughts were fuzzy like little caterpillars inching along, without direction or reason. But pretty at least.

After one last look at the dark exterior of the pub behind them, Abby fell into step beside Gale. A companionable silence drifted around them like the breeze. Her mind wandered with each step, admiring the stars to dodging the potholes to eyeing the landscape on either side of the road they walked. Memories of the time at the pub glided through occasionally, bringing a smile to her face. She hoped they could go out again soon.

While her mind wandered, her body remained alert to the man beside her; whose hand barely caressed her lower back when she misstepped, whose hand tentatively held her forearm when they maneuvered around a pothole, whose body radiated a warmth that was addicting…

Time was an abstract thought, all that mattered was the current moment…and at the current moment, her feet hurt. With each step she took, it was becoming harder and harder to stay steady. The cobblestones kept gripping onto her Mary Janes like vines trying to wrap around her feet and yank her down. The heels pinched and rubbed along her feet, having been unused for so long, what calluses she once had softened.

“Ugh.” She stopped, unable to take it any longer. Reaching a hand over to grip Gale's arm and steady herself, she started on the buckles.

“Are you hurt?”

She barely heard his question as she mumbled under breath about stupid shoes and uneven roads. Finally, with a triumphant grin, she held up both shoes in her free hand. “Ta da! Now my feet are safe!”

He shook his head. “You'll tear your feet up without shoes on this road.”

She waved away his concern. “It's fine. I did it all the time as a child.”

“Abby–”

Giggling, she hugged his arm against her body and gazed up at him. “Please, Gale? Please?”

He stared down at her. The surrounding darkness shielding some of their features, masking their expressions. After a long moment, he murmured a quiet ‘shit’ followed by a slightly louder, “alright, Abby.”

She giggled, nuzzling into his arm for a brief moment, closing her eyes to allow her brain to stop suddenly spinning.

“You alright there?” He softly asked.

“Hmmm…my head hurts.”

“Yeah? Do you need to go to medical?”

She shook her head, face still pressed against his arm. “Just need to sleep.”

“Alright, let's get you back to base.”

They started walking again, Gale leading the way down the dark road. Her arms still contained his arm, like a ship's mast to cling to during a storm, her head sometimes bumping against his shoulder. Her heels dangled from her hand, tapping against her thigh with each step.

A soothing warmth rolled off of him in waves, skating across her skin and drawing her in. A small rational part of her screamed that her actions were unbecoming and inappropriate, an echo of her mother from far away. Yet that small voice was drowned out by the alcohol blazing through her veins and the chill of the night air, forcing her body to seek warmth where it could.

Her hazy mind recalled the pub, the angry pilot and the fight outside. The flickering lights of the inside. Blonde hair and blue eyes staring at her from across the table. Those soft blues burning when he stood up to fight the RAF pilot…

“Thank you.”

“Mmm?”

“For…for standing up for me against that bastard.” Abby explained. “He wasn't nice.”

“Did he hurt you?”

She stumbled, more from the frostiness of his tone than the actual road, but quickly righted herself. “No, but he finally got the message when I stomped on his foot with my heel.”

She could hear the smile in his voice as he replied. “I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Sluggar.”

“He was an asshole.”

“Yeah, he was.”

“An assy-asshole. A big one.”

He chuckled quietly.

They walked further down the road with only the moon and starlight to guide their step and the distant sound of their companions up ahead, talking loudly in the otherwise quiet countryside.

Abby tripped, pitching forward and almost dragging her companion down with her, if he had not wrapped both arms around her.

“Why's the road moving?” She giggled, closing her eyes as she leaned her head against his chest. “I almost dropped my heels…I like these heels!”

“Hey, you with me, Abby?”

She ignored Gale's question as she looked down to the offender beneath her bare feet. “Stop moving! You'll hurt my heels!”

“Christ…” He sighed. “Hold onto your shoes.”

“Why?”

“I'm gonna carry you.”

She owlishly blinked up at him. “Why?”

“You can't walk.”

“...I can't?”

He snorted while shaking his head, mumbling under his breath but all she caught was something vaguely resembling ‘adorable’, still too caught up in why she could not walk. Which made no sense. Her feet were still on the ground…even if the ground rolled like waves and she was a ship being tossed about. She had been walking. Why was she not walking now?

“Climb onto my back.” He commanded, keeping a hold of her hands as he turned to crouch in front of her.

“I can walk…”

He groaned, tugging on her hands to draw them around his neck. “Darling, you're killin’ me. Climb on.”

“Okay, okay.” She tried to gracefully hug his back, but what grace she possessed disappeared about the same time the road was no longer stationary. A flop more described her accession onto his back. Her mind was vaguely aware that she was in a dress and the inappropriateness of the situation. But it was dark and she was tired…

Once her hands were secure around his neck, heels still dangling from her fingers, he slipped his arms under her legs. With a grunt, he stood. The motion caused Abby to burrow her face against the side of his neck.

“You alright?” His voice rumbled out of him, soaking into her chest as she was pressed against his back.

“Hmmm…you smell nice. Better than Ken.”

He snorted. “Thank you.”

It was now with her feet exposed to the cool night air she could feel the sting of the air against the bottom of her feet. “My feet hurt again.”

“I figured. You kept stumbling and whimpering. I don't think you realized.”

“Oh. I think…I think I'm a little drunk?”

“Perhaps a little.”

The rocking of Gale's gait was making her stomach roll, so she stuck her forehead against his neck, trying to focus on his warmth and his musky cologne. “I don't know why. I only had a few shots of whiskey.”

“Mmm.”

“You know…I bet you're a good dancer.” She was unsure in the muddied pond of her thoughts where that one came from or why it slipped off her tongue so easily.

“I don't dance often.”

“Why? That's terrible. I bet you're wonderful.”

He shrugged his shoulders, stride never wavering. “Doesn't appeal to me much, I guess.”

“Well, I'll take you dancing. It'll be fun! Maybe under the stars. They're always so pretty.”

He hummed after a moment. “Alright.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Okay!” She squeezed his neck as she giggled. “Don't go dancing without me! It'll be fun! I mean–I guess unless you find someone really pretty who wants to dance. Then it makes sense. But you should dance. You'd be wonderful.”

“I don't think you need to worry about that, darling.”

“But there's so many pretty nurses on base…and those radio operators! They're all so pretty…and they like to dance.” She tried to make him understand. It truly was silly he did not dance.

“Yeah, but I'm not interested in any of them.” The words coated in his raspy drawl floated around her head, something in them trying to catch her notice like little beacons. But their lights went out before her muddled brain could understand.

“That's terrible for them. A lot of them have a crush on you.”

“Mmm.”

“Don't tell Major Egan. He'll be jealous.”

Gale gave a bark of laughter. “Your secret is safe with me.”

She pressed her forehead back against his neck. His warmth and the repetitive feeling of his breathing against her chest was lulling her to sleep. “I love the stars. No matter where you are, they're always beautiful.” The thought rolled off her tongue unprovoked, even as her eyelids drifted shut.

“Buck?!”

The loud shout startled her from the inviting blanket of sleep wrapping around her. She blinked for a moment but allowed her eyes to close once again, face still against Gale's neck.

“Yeah, John. It's me.” Gale called back.

Two sets of footsteps approached, disrupting the quiet English night.

“Any chance that's Abby with you?” Kidd asked.

“Yeah, I've got her.”

“Good.” Kidd stated, falling into step with Gale on his left. “Ken was looking for her. I told him I figured she was walking with you, but apparently not walking.”

“She hurt her feet.” Gale explained softly.

Egan loudly scoffed from Gale's right side.“Uh huh. That's the excuse you're going with?”

“Bucky–”

“I'm just saying–”

Kidd interrupted, genuine concern in his voice. “Does she need to go to medical?”

“I'm fine, sir.” Abby sleepily slurred, her words muffled since she refused to move her face from its current position. “Can you tell the other one to stop being a damn loud asshat or I'll kick his ass.”

Gale chuckled, the vibrations going through her chest making her almost purr like a cat. If she snuggled closer to him, hoping to prolong the sensation, no one needed to know.

“Slugger has a mouth on her!” Egan laughed, poking her arm.

She grunted at the annoying sensation, hoping the major took the wordless reprimand or she would definitely kick his ass. After a nap.

“Only when drunk it seems.” Gale answered his best friend.

“I'm not drunk…just a little drunk.” She mumbled.

“My apologies. Just a little.” Gale softly replied, leaning his head against hers for a brief moment. She sighed at the contact, something loosening in her chest at the sensation although she was too drunk to put it into words.

“Did you see that swing Curt made! I bet even Dimaggio can't swing like that!” Egan exclaimed. With his volume and enthusiasm, Abby might have noticed his own drunken state if she was sober. “I'm surprised you didn't want to take a swing at him yourself, Slugger.”

“ ‘m not allowed.”

Silence hung heavy over the group for several moments as the men tried to process her muffled response. It was Egan who asked the looming question first.

“Not allowed? What's that mean?”

She sighed, turning her head to face Egan so he could understand her better. “After last time, Huglin told me he'd kick me off the airbase if I hit anyone else. Said it was unbecoming or something.”

The shocked silence lasted for all of three seconds before Egan exploded like a firecracker.

“That sonofabitch! I knew I disliked him before but…Jesus Christ! Jack, did you know about this?”

“No.”

“I can't believe–”

“John, he's gone.” Gale spoke up, trying to soothe his friend's righteous temper. “Nothing to do about it now.”

“Thank God! I can't believe he's would–”

The tirade of Egan became background noise when Gale turned his head slightly towards her. “Abby.” Slowly she turned her face back towards him. A spark shot through her as his lips skimmed her forehead, while his whisper sunk like a seed planted into fruitful soil. “Next time something like this happens, you give me a nod. I'll take care of him for you.”

“Like tonight? That RAF prick?”

“Yeah. Like tonight…but I'll knock his teeth in instead of Curt doing it.”

She giggled. “I wanna see that.”

The rising and falling of voices up ahead like waves called her attention, guessing it was the group that abandoned them at the pub. She could see they had entered the airbase, although she did not remember her and Gale passing by the gate. Sleep danced around her mind like fireflies, tempting and teasing but she knew she would not be able to catch them yet.

“I can probably walk now.”

“Are you sure?” Gale questioned without breaking stride.

She hummed. “I'll be fine. It's not too far from here.”

Gale stopped walking, but instead of setting her down right away, he hesitated. His grip on her thighs twitched, tightening fractionally as if reluctant to let go. With a sharp release of breath, he finally helped her slide down. The warmth and strength of his hands continued to hold her upright as she found her balance back on the hard-packed ground. With her heels in one hand, the other hand ran down her dress, attempting to smooth any wrinkles and to confirm she was in no way indecent. Alcohol was freely skipping through her veins but not enough for her to forget her modesty. Or what was left of it after riding piggyback on Major Gale Cleven…

“Good?” He softly asked, hovering over her like a guardian angel.

She nodded with faux confidence, standing upright and attempting to brush her hair over her shoulder. Mindful of the lack of space between them, she raised her gaze to meet his, wanting to thank him for helping her. Something he certainly did not have to do. Even though it was dark, she could feel those baby blue eyes earnestly staring down at her. His warm hands still loosely rested just above her elbows, maintaining their connection.

“Abby?”

Unconsciously, she found herself tipping closer towards him, drawn back into his aura, his presence, that lean, toned body that was safe. It would be so easy to press her head against his chest, to wrap her arms around him and just dive into to the abyss of sleep summoning her.

“Thank you.” She murmured, closing her eyes and doing just that. Her forehead landed on his breastbone, an initial sting but quickly ignored. Why did he smell so good?

“You're welcome, darling.”

His whisper barely floated on the breeze, words she almost missed if she had not felt them in her chest.

“Mmm…I wanna sleep with you.”

Gale choked. His chest rumbled and sputtered like he was trying desperately to catch his breath, making Abby's head jostle uncomfortably. Something she did not like as she was oh so close to giving into sleep again.

A sharp bark of laughter sounded nearby but that was irrelevant to Abby at the moment.

“You're so warm…ugh, I'm so sleepy. Why does alcohol make me sleepy? I don't like it.”

“Let's get you to bed.” Gale finally said, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“M'kay…”

Gale led her a few steps, her feet shuffling along.

“KEN! SHE'S WITH US!” Major Egan shouted loudly.

Less than a minute later, she could hear her cousin approach, an frantic undertone beneath his words. “Abigail Lemmons! Where'd you go? Shit! Is she hurt?” He directed that last question towards Gale.

“Go away.”

“She's fine, just drunk. The road was too rough on her feet.”

They answered at the same time, although her response might have been less words and more of a grunt.

“Thank heavens.” Ken exhaled in relief, running his hand through his messy curls. “My family would have killed me if something happened to her.”

Ken reached out, attempting to take her hand. “Come on, let's get you back.”

“Nooo…” She swatted his hand away.

“Abby.”

She swatted at him again, an irrational irritation bubbling up as he disturbed her almost sleep. “Go away, I'm sleeping with Gale.”

She missed the mixture of reactions of those who overheard her declaration, too focused on burrowing closer to the comfy warmth of the man holding her. God, she just needed to sleep!

“For fuck's sake, Abigail!” Ken half groaned, half swore.

Suddenly, Simon was there standing beside Ken. “Hey, Abby, I've got you. Let's get you to bed, yeah? You can sleep with the major tomorrow.”

Even as she felt her body being transferred from Gale's lithe form to Simon's muscular body, her mind refused to accept this and fought back with excuses.

“Nooo…we're going dancin’ tomorrow. He's a good dancer.”

Simon chuckled, hauling her into his broad chest and carrying her bridal style. “I'm sure he is.”

“Wait…wait! Abigail?” Egan stumbled over, throwing his arm around his best friend's shoulders. “That's her real name?”

“Yeah.”

“Where'd you think ‘Abby’ came from?”

The dark-haired major threw his head back laughing uproariously, “it's perfect!”

“You're drunk.” Gale tried, unsuccessfully, to corral his friend.

“What's perfect?” Ken asked.

“Abigail! You get it? Abigail!” Egan drunkenly explained with all his sober confidence. “She's meant to have some 'Gale' inside her. Now all Buck has to do is make his move and stick–”

But Egan did not get to finish explaining his epiphany as his best friend suddenly and viciously slapped a hand over Egan's mouth and pulled him into a headlock, growling something into his ear.

“Goddamn children.” Kidd sighed from nearby.

Abby blinked slowly, hearing the words but her fuzzy brain was unable to string it together to form a coherent thought. “I don't get it.”

“Don't worry about it. Let's get you to bed.” Simon chuckled.

Ken called out, “night, majors!”

Abby glanced over, wanting to say her own goodbyes but with the way that Gale was attempting to suffocate Egan while Kidd watched on with his arms crossed, she guessed they were busy.

She barely remembered Simon carrying her to her hut, only the night's cold nipping at her bare skin, and the muffled conversation between Ken, Simon and Winks. How she managed to get into bed will always be a mystery to her, somehow she must have been aware enough to fall onto her cot and not just curl up on the floor. Although in the morning she would wake up still in her dress with a hangover and a lot of explaining to do for those intrusive, inquisitive nurses she bunked with.

All she did know as she drifted off, that night was the first time she had fallen asleep with a smile on her face in a long time.

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feyd-meowtha · 2 months

Text

“Bucky,” he whispered, jabbing the other man in the ribs in an attempt to wake him up. This time he groaned louder, prompting Gale to slap a hand across his mouth and hiss into his ear. “I can hear something from outside, I think someone’s trying to climb in through your window.” “Wha?” Said Bucky through Gale’s fingers, his eyes squinted up from sleep and the fading effects of the booze. “My wha?” He repeated and his expression of pure confusion would have been adorable if Gale wasn’t so concerned with the fact that they were probably about to be murdered. “There’s someone breaking into your house! I can hear them messing with the window!” He said, looking around the room for anything that might be used as a weapon. Bucky just frowned thoughtfully, sitting up on his elbow before shouting. “Hello?”

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starboybutler · 4 months

Text

Lights up (Ch.3)

summary: John isn't handling rejection well.

word count: 3241

warnings: ‼️ blood, violence, useage of slurs, attempted rape ‼️

notes: woof this chapter got. heavy. i'm not good at pacing stories so sorry if it seems like everything is moving a little fast. i still have much more planned for this au, so dont worry!

chapter one | chapter two | ao3 link

“i feel like you’re dodgin’ me, you know?” gale didn’t bother to look up from his laptop. nimble fingers danced across the letters of his keyboard with a startling quickness, eyes set dead ahead. bucky felt his jaw clench at how gale was blatantly ignoring him.

he’d felt irritable since he dragged himself to class in the burning hot sun. the harsh beams worsened the persistent throbbing in his temples and made his mouth dry right up again, even after downing about four glasses of good ‘ol lukewarm tap water. every noise threatened to set him off- from the obnoxiously loud bell that rang every hour on the hour to the smallest rustle of the grass in the wind.

maybe he should stop drinking so damn much.

“i have a lot of schoolwork.” the blonde replies simply, plucking his glasses from his face and rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his palm. dark circles were forming under his eyes, and the usual nonchalant pout of his lips seemed more like a frown. “i know school isn’t your thing, but i do want to get my degree. it’s important to me.”

bucky hummed, rolling one of gale’s stray pens around on the desk with a finger. “nothing’s wrong with that. it’s just like- all you think about. all you do. work.” his eyes meet gale’s. the pretty blueish-green of them is dull, like someone sucked all the life out of him. “wouldn’t kill you to take a break. people die from overworkin’ themselves, you know.”

the blonde quirked a pretty eyebrow at him, the corner of his lip twitching minutely in what seemed like bemusement as he slid his glasses back onto his face.

“yeah, i know. but breaks are how you start falling behind. a short little vacation, then it gets longer, and longer...”

bucky lays a warm, ruddy cheek on the cold surface of the desktop, the throbbing of his head starting to goad him into irritation with each second that ticked by. it felt like someone had smashed his skull in with a sledgehammer. “my roommate is smart. could help you with your work. y’know, if ya came over.”

gale’s lips parted before closing, twitching- like he was going to say something but thought better of it. a moment or dead silence passed between them before the blonde spoke, voice very, very quiet.

“i dunno, john.”

his suspicions were confirmed by those two words. if he was so worried about his goddamn degree, surely he’d look for any extra help he could get. john just didn’t get it. why agree to a lunch date with him, run off, and then duck him whenever he had the chance? why not just say no in the first goddamn place?

his mind briefly wandered back to the previous night, when curt had galvanized him into going ti that stuffy frat party when he was still loopy from his orgasm. they were tucked away in a hot corner, john idly sipping from his dewy red solo cup as curt scanned the crowd for any frat boys he could fuck. that boy was insatiable .

“jesus christ, bucky, you’re curdling my drink with that sour-ass stare you got on your face.” he laughed, back pressed to the wall as his eyes scanned the crowd up and down dutifully. “would you stop thinkin’ about blondie for five goddamn seconds?”

“i can’t,” bucky admitted, his drink untouched as he stared at the way the smoke from the cheap fog machine dispersed into the air. “he pissed me off today. treated me like a creep on a date he agreed to- a date i didn’t even do anything wrong on, mind you.”

his grip on his cup tightened, his drink spilling over the rim and rolling down his arm in cold little rivulets until his skin was awash with cheap beer. curt smacked his teeth, snatching the crumpled remains of the cup from his hand. “why do you care so much anyway? you’re acting like you can’t fuck any other guy on campus. why do you need to fuck him so badly?”

“you wanna fuck him just as bad.” john reminded.

curt took a sip of his drink. “i do. but i’m not chasing him around like a little lovesick puppy. he’s hot– yeah, but christ, man.” he muttered. “you sure you just wanna fuck him?”

“what–?”

“look, john,” curt sighed. “you’re either a class a pervert or you’re in love with him. you better figure out which one and figure out what you’re doin’ wrong, ‘cause i hate when you get in your pissy little moods.”

john felt his bloom pink in a mix of emotions– anger, embarrassment, resentment. that conversation was burned into his mind, eating at him, wearing down his psyche until he couldn’t do much else but think about it. fucking hell– curt of all people should know that john egan doesn’t do love . he’s dated before, and each time, without fail, the relationship ended because he was too immature, or too brazen. no one could handle him for who he was, and that was fine with him. he didn't need anyone to hold his hand and try to fix him- to hold his hand and cull him like he was a sick little runt.

he wanted to fuck gale. that’s all. he wanted to take this blonde beauty, raw him, make him forget all about his useless physics degree while he watched him fall apart. He wanted to devour him, leave him gasping and begging for it, a look of sick devotion on those sharp features.

but if he was gonna be such a stuck-up bitch about it, then maybe curt had a point– he wasn’t worth it. he was probably a lousy fuck anyways.

john stood, hissing at the fresh round of throbbing in his temples. “okay.” it came out far more venomous than he had intended. “you know where you can find me if you change your mind.”

he staggered a bit, grabbing at his head as he clumsily made his way to the classroom’s exit, vision blurring from the tears welling up in his eyes.

“where are you–?”

“hungover,” he said simply. he didn’t even bother to look back at gale as he pushed the door open. “goin’ back to my dorm.

god, he needed a nap.

—---------------

“is he still sulking?”

bucky’s head was buried in curt’s mountain of pillows, as if he were trying to dispel himself from existence completely. he heard ken’s voice emitting from curt’s phone, the sounds of all kinds of tools whirring and buzzing noisily around him as he spoke. he never left that goddamn warehouse.

“yep,” curt laughed, one of his hands moving to card through bucky’s wild curls gently. “he’s been like this for a few days. i dunno if it’s because of the boy, or the hangover.”

“maybe it’s both.”

“you assholes aren’t helping.” bucky mumbled hotly against the sheets, peering up at curt, who had his camera pointed down at him so ken could see just how pathetic he looked. “and just so you know, i told gale he could fuck right off the other day.”

“yeah, and i’m the fuckin’ easter bunny.” curt wisecracked, turning his attention back to ken. “so what the hell was i missin’ in my motor, ken? piece of shit wouldn't start.”

ken completely ignored curt. “wait, gale?” ken asked, voice cutting out a little. “you mean cleven? blonde, tall, really quiet?”

“smokin’ hot, glasses?” curt finished, laying back against the wall. “yeah, him. why? thanks for ignoring my question, by the way.”

“it’s just…that’s who croz has been studying with for the past few weeks.” he explained. “ kinda funny that bucky’s so hung up over his study buddy.” ken laughs. “those two are practically inseparable nowadays. kinda surprised croz ain’t told you two about him yet.”

“wait a damn– fucking crosby!?” john shouted, sitting up and snatching curt’s phone from his hands and glaring at the blonde on screen. “you’re not pullin’ my leg are you, kenny? he’ll hang out with croz, who can hardly fuckin’ function like a normal goddamn person to save his life, but he dodges me like the plague?”

ken held his hand up in mock surrender, eyes widening as bucky yelled at him. “whoa whoa whoa– i dunno details, man, i just know that gale goes to his dorm a lot to do classwork. i’ve hung out with him once- and honestly, i see why they get along. workaholics, the both of them.”

“you're one to talk,” curt mumbled.

“fuckin’ bullshit.” john grunted, tossing the phone back to curt. “ugh.”

“jesus, johnny, it’s not like they’re fuckin’!” curt laughed as bucky pulled a pillow over his head, chest expanding like he wanted to scream into it. “god, you’re a mess. get it together!”

“yeah, gale doesn’t seem like that type of guy, bucky. they were honest to god talking about work the whole time.”

it doesn’t fuckin’ matter if they were fucking. bucky wanted to say, face burning with anger. they didn’t get it- even if croz fucked gale before him, he didn’t care. he just wanted to know why the hell gale was running from him, avoiding him. he didn’t do a goddamn thing wrong to that stuck up ass blonde bitch for him to be acting like this.

“i’m goin’ for a walk.” john muttered, tossing away the pillow and slipping on a pair of beat-up shoes that were parked by the bedside. “i’ll be back in a few.”

he slammed the door behind him, rattling the entire wall as he stormed down the hallway.

“way to go, kenny.”

“what the hell did i do?”

—-----------------

the night was humid and sticky, the evidence that summer was indeed there trickling down his forehead as he strolled around the now-dead campus. there were stories told about this school at night, about how all kinds of things and people would creep around in the eerie darkness that settled over the old buildings. john never believed in things like that- but it didn’t make the lack of noise any less creepy.

there was nothing. the air was still, not the slightest breeze brushing past him, not the softest rustling of leaves. the moon was nestled between dark clouds, giving a bit of pale light to the otherwise dark field he was in. he heard faint laughter and music from the frat houses he passed, head bobbing along to the steady beat of whatever shitty club music they blared. all the bright lights inside allowed for the shadows of the individuals inside to be seen in the form of pitch-black figures against the glass panes. he allowed his gaze to linger for a bit too long at the window with the silhouette of a couple making out.

briefly, he thought of gale. that should be us. his brain was practically yelling at him, nails indenting into his palms as he saw the outlines of the figures sink lower and lower until they were no longer visible. i should be fucking him right now.

and crosby, that bastard. study buddies his ass. when was he gonna tell him? never? was he gonna have to wait until he posted a shitty black and white picture on his twitter with the caption ‘my new boyfriend’ ?

he spun on his heel roughly and headed towards the courtyard, the gentle trickling of the fountain filling his ears and making him feel a little less tense. this area was just about the only place that had some goddamn light on campus, even though they were only shitty streetlamps.

he sat down heavily on the damp stone of the edge of the fountain, listening to the gentle flow of the water as he let his eyes close. his head was still throbbing faintly, in time with his heartbeat. this goddamned headache was the only reason he wasn’t drinking tonight. curt offered him a drink when he came back to their dorm all pissy, but he just mumbled a half-assed no and passed out in his bed for a few hours. when he came to, curt was playing with his hair idly, scrolling on his ridiculously glittery phone.

“wanna talk about it?”

and john, who didn’t have the energy to do anything but be mad at the world, just buried his face in curt’s lap, which gave the shorter man the answer he needed.

even though curt was a brat at times, he was a good friend. john relied on him more times than he could count for a pick-me-up– which was a little shameful to admit since curt was younger than him, but goddamn, he didn’t care. they leaned on one another- always have.

he’s been understanding about his feelings towards gale so far, and that’s all he could ask for. hell, he was probably being understanding because he hasn’t been this worked up about a guy since middle school. doesn’t even remember that bastards name, but he does remember bumming at curt’s house, eating the decadent dinner his mom cooked, ranting to him and eventually falling asleep in his bed with tear-stained cheeks.

this was different though. he was in love with that asshole back then. he isn’t in love with gale.

love meant caring about someone, and as far as caring went, john only cared about what noises gale would make when his dick was buried deep in his guts- or what faces he made when he came, screaming john’s name. other than that, he didn’t give two shits about him or what he did in his spare time.

his mind wandered back to the party he went to a few days ago with curt again.

he was getting a blowjob from some eager preppy girl in a cluttered bathroom, leaning on the counter and letting his head fall back, alcohol staining his breath.

she was sloppy, drooling and slobbering all over his cock as she swallowed him down her throat, moaning and groaning like it was the best thing she’s ever tasted, his precum drizzling over her tongue.

it just so happened that she was a blonde, hair tied back in a ponytail that bounced every time she bobbed her head. he couldn’t look down at her– all he could think of was gale– what he would look like on his knees, blue eyes watery and wide as he struggled to fit the length of him in his mouth.

he ended up shoving her off and mumbling some excuse about having to go. left her there, on her haunches, confused and horny.

gale was ruining him. maybe curt was right– he just needed to forget about him.

“ get the fuck away from me. ”

then, john heard a voice, a familiar one at that, drifting from the side of one of the dorm buildings. he turned to the source of the noise, only to discover it was dark, thanks to the flickering streetlamp nearby.

when it flickered back on periodically, he could vaguely see two men, heavily encompassed in the shadows of the clouds obscuring the moon.

“oh come on, didja think no one would find out about you, blondie? no real man has a pretty ass face like that,”

“what the fu–”

the sound of something dull dropping to the floor, and a small yelp from that familiar voice. god, why can’t he place it? he stood, quietly striding over into the shadows where the confrontation was taking place. now, he could hear the voices more clearly, and faintly make out the outline of two figures. one of them was buff, probably a dumbass football-laying meathead that thought he was entitled to every hot piece of ass on campus. the other was more slender, hair about shoulder-length.

“i already said no. jesus, does any guy on this campus understand the word no? ”

john froze as his brain finally registered the voice.

gale.

“this is why trannies like you belong in a goddamn freakshow. thankfully for you, i’m willing to overlook it, jus’ because you’re so fuckin’ pretty.” the sleaze muttered, hand trailing up gale’s waist.

“don’t touch–”

“you’re lucky. why don’t you jus’ let this happen, hm? or would you rather have the alternative?” his hand trailed lower and lower. “i tell everyone your little secret– have people lining up to beat the hell outta you.”

the larger shadow moved his hand to cup and grope at gale’s crotch. “make this easy for me, huh? go ‘head and drop these for me.”

john’s body fired on all cylinders, rushing forward to tackle the assailant, head clouded with red-hot anger, but gale beat him to the punch.

literally.

“get the fuck– AWAY FROM ME! ”

gale’s fist collided with the jock’s cheek, making a sickening crack as he stumbled back and fell on his ass, spit and blood splattering on the concrete. it bloomed across the hard surface in a morbidly fascinating little crimson pool, just beside the jock’s feet. gale grabbed his bag and made a run for it, strands of his hair haphazardly strewn across the sharp features of his face.

time seemed to distort in the very moment gale ran right past him, cheeks wet with tears and hands practically throttling the strap of his bag. he was trembling all over, nearly tripping over his own feet to get as far away from that asshole as possible.

he’d never seen gale with so much utter emotion on his face. it made his heart cinch and his skin crawl, as if he was being flayed. every nerve on his body felt as if it were on fire, a sudden, ceaseless need in the back of his mind to kill this bastard.

bucky turned his attention back to the jock, who was clutching his wet, mottled-purple cheek and spitting out all kinds of slurs and profanities as he staggered back to his feet.

“that stupid tranny! who the hell does she think she is? i’ll fucking–”

“hey, asshole.”

john was seeing bright red. he doesn’t think he could have stopped himself if he wanted to. he was already approaching him, fists clenched so hard he was sure he’d have bloodied nail marks left behind when he relaxed. he didn’t give the piece of shit a chance to speak again before he was on top of him, punching at his face with a sickly wet crack crack crack.

he was spluttering out something , words drowned out by the blood from his mangled nose pooling into his mouth, and the deafening ring echoing throughout john’s ears. he was writhing something awful below him, desperate to dislodge bucky as he begged him for mercy.

“ please- ”

crack.

“ fuck– stop, i can’t– ”

crack. crack. crack.

his ceaseless squirming finally stopped, his body limp and bloody underneath the buzzing heat of john’s body. he gave a few extra punches for good measure, unable to subdue the burning anger simmering in the pit of his stomach.

he didn’t bother to check for signs of breathing as he dislodged himself from the limp man below him, chest heaving with each labored breath. he pulled his phone from his pocket, not even fully cognizant as he dialed curt’s number, screen now smeared with wet crimson streaks.

“bucky?”

“need a favor, curtie.” he exhaled, distantly wincing at the persistent throbbing of his tender knuckles. “get the first aid kit ready. ‘m on my way back.”

----------------

taglist: @mooodyblue @lauvmyself @kaiistheguy @slowsweetlove @coastiewife465

#mota #buck x bucky #masters of the air #masters of the air fanfic #gale cleven #john egan #curtis biddick #ken lemmons #harry crosby #clegan #eganven #college au #lights up

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bcolfanfic · 1 month

Note

spare...spare more details about young vets curt and ken becoming parents?

yesss. have been meaning to!

they both know somewhere in their heads that they want kids, but curt esp kinda talks himself in circles about it.

grew up in a very chaotic home with an abusive father and similar to gale he just has a lot of "what if i turn into my dad" anxiety

they go the surrogacy path and i don't think i ever actually pinned down *why* but. i think it would make sense if they had an almost-adoption fall through and were just...a little too rattled by all that to potentially put themselves through it again.

re: parentage they do the thing talked about in this article where they both ~donate~ and it'll work out however it works out. neither of them have super strong feelings about it either way so whatever happens happens (:

and it happens that (a) the embryo that ends up getting transferred is curt's bby and (b) it splits (: surprise twins (:

lmfao both boys about hit the floor when they get that news. curt goes full pale as a piece of paper mode and almost passes out and ken is just kinda. standing there in shock.

it's silly but i loveee the idea of them pulling something like in those viral videos from over the years ie not telling anyone outside of maybe curt's mom that its twins until the babies are born.

gale and bucky facetiming to see them and going gaga over curt w/ one lil baby but then oh hi ken- wait why do you have a baby too????

bucky lossesss his mind lmfao. in a very affectionate way but. can't belieb it. remembers all the shit him and curt got up to in tech school and when they were both enlisted and god now both of em have kids??? crazy stuff!

the girls are named meadow and bry/bryony. meadow after the sopranos (curt's choice) and bry to stay in line with the naturey theme (ken's choice)

by this point ken's kids soccer coaching thing manifested itself into a full time elementary/middle school athletics department job. so he does that, and curt still does the personal trainer thing but he works for himself so he can schedule around staying home with the girls when they're itty bitty.

was so scared shitless of being a dad after his own childhood, and hell after all his shit from the war too. which seeing john with josie and micah helped him push past in a lot of ways <3. because if john can overcome and be *such* a good dad, hey maybe i wouldn't be terrible at it.

but he loves those girls so so much. has a lot of moments just lookin at their lil faces and hearing them following him around the apartment and getting all (,: because he can't believe they're his.

meadow ends up verrry much like him and bry like ken. they try to put *both* girls in soccer when they're little which bry takes to like a fish to water. but meadow just kinda plops down in the grass and cries lmao. bless her heart.

they're both *such* good kids too which makes em laugh sometimes because curt was...a handful and a half to the extent that he was worried he might get some karma thrown his way for that.

his mama kinda ribs him about it and says the lord gave him a pass on that because he's been through enough.

well at least until meadow and croz's oldest boy jj get involved which causes soooo much drama but. that needs to be its own separate post. (tldr: she's a senior in college and he's 29 pushing 30 lmao it's only like an 8 year age gap and rationally perfectly fine, but curt as you can imagine is um. not of that mind at first lmfao jj run!!!)

ken is such a good dad too. never in a billion years imagined back when him and curt first got involved that *this* would be their life but he's so happy. is such a jabberbox when he first goes back to work tellin' everyone everything and showing them pictures.

#young vets au #mota fic #curt x ken #curtis biddick #curt biddick #ken lemmons

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trashbag-baby666 · 6 months

Text

Pilot-Firehouse au

Summary: There’s a new probie at Casper fd, Gale is one step closer to finding out who Rosies been going on dates with, welcome to the madness.

WC: 3,385

C/W: None!

au masterlist!

MOTA Masterlist!

John skipped through the fire department a pink box of donuts in his hand. Most people would probably ask what’s got you in a good mood? But no one batted an eye at John, because this is just how he carries himself all the time, aspiring to put a smile on all his crew's faces. Today it would be with donuts tomorrow it might be dad jokes.

“Morning, Bucky.” Curt wiped his hands on his pants and took the powdered sugar donut out of the box, “Chicks got a probie in the office. Told me to send you in when you got here.”

“Sounds good,” John nods, heading up the metal, red steps and going into Chicks office. A brown haired man sitting on the opposite side of Chick, his eyes wide with excitement. Fresh out of the academy and ready for some real action.

“Morning chief, donut?” John held the box out.

“Yes please, thank you, Captain. John, this is Captain Egan. One of the finest firefighters CFD has ever seen.”

“We’ve got another John?” He raised an eyebrow leaning over slightly to see the file on Chicks desk, “John Brady, how do you like Brady?”

“I…uh.”

“Come on, Brady, wouldn’t wanna be late for the morning stretch circle.” John called, bouncing down the steps, Brady scattering after him, “Guys this is our new probie, Brady.”

“Fresh blood, huh?” Dougie leaned on the fire truck

“This is Dougie and…” John looked around for a moment, “Where’s your Missus?”

“I ain’t anyone's missus,” the lengthy blonde came from around the front of the truck, eyeing up Brady.

“And this is Howard but everyone calls him Hambone, maple long john for you.” John plucked the donut out of the box and handed it to the blonde, “I’m putting Brady with you guys today, so please be nice to him…Brady, good luck with the hazing.”

“You’re ours now, pretty boy.” Dougie put a strong hand onto his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

“Come on stretch time, boys.” Curt clasped his hands together grabbing the attention of everyone, quickly being overshadowed by the loud siren that began to ring, “Nevermind.”

“Suit up, Brady!” John clapped him on the back, offering a small crack of a smile.

—---------

Gale’s all too familiar with the sounds of too many voices all at once on top of the constant voices on the intercom paging doctors, the occasional groan, the clacking on keyboards. The sound of the Casper, Wyoming ER became nothing but white noise for him, “good morning, doctor.” Rosie stood against the counter in the breakroom. His words okayest doctor thermos in hand, a small smile on his lips.

“Morning, doctor.” Gale opened his locker, “How’re you this morning?”

“Doing just fine.”

“So I take it the date went well?”

“Oh, how did it go?” Croz pushed open the break room door, his stuffed to the brim tote bag over his shoulder eyebrows wide with curiosity.

“It was fine guys, but I don’t kiss and tell.” Rosie put his hands up in defense. Croz and Gale had been trying to crack the code into Rosies love life since late med school when they met Croz during their residencies. But he kept it a secret from them and wasn’t budging still.

“You’re no fun, Rosie, who else are me and Gale supposed to gossip about?”

“Linda from HR. No, I’m kidding, gossip about me wouldn’t be very much fun anyways, but he did meet Freddie last night.” Rosie glanced at the two of them as he walked towards the door.

“Oooooh,” Gale snickered, getting to meet Freddy was a big deal. Rosie didn’t let just anyone meet his elderly deaf cat with separation anxiety.

“Sorry I gotta get back to it,” Rosie put his hand on the door handle shooting them a wink.

“I’m glad he’s found a guy, this was their…fourth date I think he mentioned the other day?” Gale and Rosie had met their freshman year of college since they were roommates. Then they just never separated and lived together all the way up until John asked Gale to move in with him.

“Me too,” Croz sighed, putting his bag away, “How was Delia’s game yesterday?”

“Great! She almost had a home run, but they did win, six to five!”

“Sorry, we couldn’t make it, Junie got sent home from the day camp yesterday with a fever.” Gale knew Croz and his husband Bubbles kept very busy with their four kids.

Hell, Gale only had two kids and they kept very busy.

“That’s alright, how high was the fever?”

“Hundred and one I think she sweated it out last night. She was drippin’ this morning when I woke her up.”

“Hopefully it passes fast. It makes me so sad when the girls are sick.”

“Me too, hopefully we can contain her germs to herself and we don’t have a house outbreak.” Croz rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. The last thing any of them needed was a Crosby family sick outbreak that could possibly spread.

———————

Brady squeezed the excess water out of the sponge and back into the bucket of soapy water. Pressing the sponge back into the truck. After the call John had asked Ham, Dougie, and himself to wash the truck. But the other two had long since abandoned ship , leaving him by himself.

“Dougie and Ham ditch you?”

“Jesus,” Brady put a hand out on the truck turning to see John with that same smirk from earlier on his face. Bending down he grabbed the other sponge out of the bucket.

“Curt used to do the same shit to me. I promise they’ll like you, they do this to everyone.”

“How long did Curt, y’know…? Harass you for being the new guy?” Brady scratched the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Oh I don’t know, I think a good month, till I saved his ass from a burning building.”

“Oh.”

“How old are you, kid?”

“Twenty four, sir.”

“Well you’re aging me specially with the sir, no need for this sir and captain bullshit. Just call me Bucky, everyone else does.”

“Okay, capt…Bucky.” A moment of silence passed between the two of them. Brady just hoped he was doing everything right like he had been taught in the academy.

“Got a special someone in your life?”

“Oh, uh, no. I haven’t met the right one yet…there weren't a lot of options in Sundance. Thought I’d have a better shot since I play for both teams.” Brady chuckled dryly hoping he wouldn’t be ostracized for his sexuality here.

“Amen to that one! I thought I’d be single for the rest of my life, till I met my husband.”

“How long have you guys been married?”

“We actually just celebrated our tenth anniversary last week.” John snickered.

“Well congratulations, do you have any kids?”

“Yeah, we’ve got two girls. My oldest will be 13 next week and our youngest is seven.”

Brady felt a hole of anxiety in his chest begin to fill itself back in knowing there was at least another lgbt member in the firehouse. He kept it to himself at first in the academy, he didn’t want a stigma to follow him.

Brady picked his head up at the sound of a dog barking, meeting the sight of a white and light gray husky in a service dog vest dashing towards John. “Oh hello there, Meatball!” John scratched the husky behind his ear, “This is Meatball, the hundredths mascot and staple.”

“Is this the new probie?”

“Yep,” John clasped a hand on Brady’s shoulder squeezing gently, “Brady, this is our driver engineer Benny Demarco, he’s Meatball's other half.”

“I’m not married to him, I promise.”

“Did you look into the tax benefits for it?” John asked, tilting his head and putting his hands on his hips.

“Nice meeting you, Brady.” He held out his hand for him to shake.

“Nice meeting you, I look forward to working with you.” Brady shook his hand, his grip tight and firm.

“Come on Meatball,” Demarco headed up the steps to Chicks office, the husky behind him.

“So,”

“Hm?” Brady’s eyebrow raised.

“Me and Benny are good friends, but he won’t tell us a thing about this person he’s seeing. If you can figure anything out let me and Curtie know.” John squeezed Brady’s shoulder again delivering a small shake.

So John is chronically nosy?

———————————

“Fancy seeing you here, we gotta stop running into each other like this.” Curt leaned against the open door of the ambulance.

“Hey, Curtie.” Ken looked up from where he was writing down his report, “Did you ask Bucky if we're still coming over for dinner?”

“Yes we are.”

“Awesome, I felt bad we had to leave right after the game.” Ken set his clipboard down standing up taking Curt’s hand then jumping out of the back of the ambulance.

“Yeah, the girls were all excited. I'm bringing them popsicles to Friday's practice, today we gotta lock in on fielding.” Ken smiled while watching Curt talk with his hands. He loved getting to coach Cordelia’s rec league softball team. Curt also stayed busy playing on the firehouses softball league Bucky coached. He didn’t play anymore only because he tore his ACL a few years back.

“I know I was so proud of them! You tell them I said that.” Ken placed his hand on Curt’s chest, “You’ve been working out?”

“Sure have sugar,” Curt pulled him in by the belt loops. He could stare at Curt all day and make this his full time job. Curt moved in with Ken a couple months ago and things had been going pretty well.

“Curt, what are you doing?” John furrowed his eyebrows coming around the truck.

“I was just saying hello to the wife,” Curt kissed Ken’s cheek, “See you at home, Kenny.”

“Bye Curtie, bye John.” Ken waved and shut the back doors of the ambulance.

“I saw you and Buck making out against one of the trucks the other day. So you got nothin’ on me, Johnny.” Curt shook his head walking after him.

“You know too much about me for me to become an enemy of Curtis Biddick. I was just coming to tell you we were leaving.”

It was true, when John dropped out of college halfway through his second year. He got in his car and started driving. He got to the Wisconsin/Minnesota border and decided to just keep going. Drove all the way to Casper, Wyoming in two days, decided to stop for a drink and then never looked back.

“I don’t want you as an enemy,” Curt shrugged his jacket back on as they got back to the truck.

“Good, because then I would have to kill you.” The two of them climbed back in the truck, “How’re you liking it, Brady?”

“I like it sir- uh, Bucky.” He cleared his throat and clasped his hands together looking down.

“Loosen up kid, I’m glad you like it.” John sat across from him.

“You’ve been doin’ a just fine job. I know you’ll fit right in.” Curt had seen a dozen or so of guys through their probie phases at the firehouse. He did in fact haze John after he convinced him to join the academy. John and Curt both saw Dougie and Ham through their probie period together. Brady seemed like a good kid and determined to become the best firefighter he can be.

————————

Gale: I’m on lunch, just thought I’d check in if you or Flynn needed anything from the store. If you make anything please clean it up so I don’t have to clean before making dinner. 🤗🤗

Cordelia: ok

Gale sighed, setting his phone back on the breakroom table stabbing a crispy piece of lettuce out of his salad. “I don’t like this tweenage thing.”

“Delia?” Rosie hummed through his bite of sandwich

“Yeah the other day she looked at me like I killed her cats because I asked her to help me pick up dinner.” Gale rubbed the bridge of his nose. He and John both had been coming to terms that Cordelia did not in fact hate them. She just wasn’t their little girl anymore and wanted more independence and they could respect that.

“Has the attitude started yet?” Croz could probably offer the best advice out of any of them. Their oldest was a couple years older than Cordelia, “The first time Astrid actually raised their voice at us we were so distraught.”

“A little bit,” Gale sat back in his seat rubbing at the gold band on his finger, “I’m beginning to think about bringing back timeouts for her too.”

“Sometimes it’s better to let them cool off in their room. I remember this age, hormones flying, your body changing, everything seems like the biggest deal of your life.” Croz definitely had the most confidence in his parenting out of the group. But I guess you do probably have to carry confidence with your words when you have four kids to wrangle around.

“I told my parents to shut up one time at that age…it did not go over well.” Gale could imagine a younger Rosie telling that to Mama Rosenthal. Followed by her most certainly chewing him out in Yiddish and sending him to his room.

It’s not that Gale is insecure about his parenting, it's that he doesn’t want to be like his father. He wasn’t like his father at all. It’s the one thing Gale brought up when they first talked about kids, “John, what if I turn into him?” “That’s not going to happen. You’re nothing like him, Gale.” John was right, Gale wasn’t his father. The apple didn’t even fall from that tree.

“It’s at least a little nice to hear that this is at least some right of passage event.” Gale cleared his throat. He didn’t really get a chance to have that, he grew up at far too young of an age. He had spent his entire childhood taking care of his father and avoiding the swinging hands that came at him. The rundown apartment in northern Casper, the cigarette burned couch with the cans and bottles littering any surface available. He knew his only way out and he took it and ran.

Now he had his own family, he had his firehouse family from John's side and he had Rosie and Croz from his side. He had to remind himself, he in fact is doing better than he ever thought he would.

————————

There’s a lot of things that are staples in the Cleven household. but the one that never missed was the barking every time someone was at the door. Scooby would jump up his loud howl carrying alerting Chili that maybe he needs to start barking too; although, his didn’t carry the same way Scoobys did.

“Guys!” Gale scolded the dogs from the kitchen.

“It’s us,” Ken sang as they came inside toeing off his shoes. His prized Apple pie in his hands, Curt not far behind him, “Hi Scooby.”

“Uncle Curt!” Flynn came flying out of the kitchen and jumped into his arms.

“Hey, Flynn.” Curt spun her around, “How was your ball game?”

“Good! I got a couple good hits! Papa said we could practice tomorrow.” Flynn quite literally fell from the John Egan tree though. Not only did she have the same blue eyes and dark brown curls but the same sass and humor. Oh yeah, and the lifelong passion for baseball but ‘specifically the yankees’.

“I’ll see if I have time to stop over and I can toss you some balls. Sounds good?”

“Yes! You’re the best Curt.” Flynn wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight.

“No you’re the best, Flynn. Why don’t we go help your dads set the table?”

Flynn nodded, Curt setting her down and she took off for the dining room attached to the kitchen.

“Delia, why don’t you take Ken with you to grab some drinks.” Gale nudged her from across the kitchen island.

“Okay,” she rolled her eyes with that sharp tone in her voice.

“I don’t like that attitude,” John popped his hip out resting his hands on his hips.

“I don’t like your attitude, Pa.”

Gale looked between the two of them having their nightly ‘drama queen competition’ as Flynn called it. Cordelia let out an irritated grunt stomping to the connecting door to the garage.

“Teenagers are fun,” Curt snickered.

Ken sat on the steps next to the fridge in the garage while Cordelia dug out the last can of Arnold Palmers for Curt.

“Is everything going alright, hun?”

“Yeah, it’s just, everything feels like…I don’t even know.” She handed the can of tea to Ken and shut the fridge door sitting back on her knees.

“That’s part of growing up, unfortunately. Do you wanna talk about anything?” At those words Cordelia looked down at her hands bashfully, a small smirk that resembled Gales following.

“Well, okay but you can’t tell dad and Pa.”

“Deal,” Ken rested his head in his hands.

“There’s this girl on my team, her name is Mel.”

“Does Curt know?” Ken interrupted her momentarily.

“No, we just started talking last week. She’s staying over with some of my other friends on Saturday.”

“I hope you have fun. But make good decisions,” Ken picked up the drinks off the steps next to him.

“Don’t worry, we haven’t even held hands yet. I can’t tell if pa would be upset that I’m dating or start crying?”

Ken let out a small chuckle, there's a good chance both could happen. Curt told him that when Cordelia had taken her first steps John broke down crying. He also cried when she turned one, he wasn’t ready for his little girl to be in such a rush to grow up still.

—-----------

John let out a loud yawn stretching his arms above his head, his shirt coming up just slightly. Gale leaned over, poking his stomach softly sending John into a loud laugh falling onto the bed right on top of Gale. “Did you have a good day at work?” Gale felt his cheeks heat red him and John were nose to nose.

“Yeah, we have a new probie at the station. Seems like a good kid. How about yours, Doctor Cleven ” John smiled because he knew exactly how to get Gale all flustered.

“Well, Captain Egan, I did have a good day. Today I found out Rosie went on a fourth date with that guy and he brought him to his apartment and let him meet Freddie.” He was pleased with himself that John's cheeks were now flush and he looked down slightly, just from calling him captain.

“Ooooh, do you know his name?.” John rolled off of him climbing under the blankets. He loved some good, who's dating who gossip? Someday he could be just as bad as Cordelia.

“No, that’s all he’s told us. We should find a time to go out and tell Rosie to bring him.”

“Good god, Buck. You’re just as bad as me and Delia!” Wrapping his arms around Gale he pulled him into his chest.

“Exposure therapy,” Buck giggles, turning his head to meet John's sparkly eyes. They laid there for a moment just basking in the energy of an amazing sixteen years together.

“Can you believe we’ve been married for ten years?” John rested his chin on Gale's shoulder, “Together for 16.”

“I know it’s gone so fast.” Gale tangled his hands into John’s pressing his back into John’s warmth.

“Next thing we know it’s going to be our 60th anniversary and Delia and Flynn are going to put us in a home.”

“Don't remind me,” Gale sighed, tipping his head back against John.

“At least we’re a long way from retirement?” John kissed Gales neck, truthfully he’d work forever if that’s what it took to keep this little life. He couldn’t imagine anything better than this, he was married to the absolute love of his life, “Well, maybe we should use my sexy firefighter body to our advantage.”

Gale mentally rolled his eyes with a smile on his face, John’s cheesy flirting never getting old. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

——————

Thanks for reading!! Hope you enjoyed! Likes and reblogs highly appreciated! <3

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rqsser · 5 months

Text

social media (semi-famous) au that was talked about like twice in the mota discord with @trashbag-baby666 …

gale’s account is private and he only has one!! his pfp is either scenery or just the ‘no pfp’ grey dude

john posts about his bf & calls him buck, gale comments on his posts so everyone knows that gale is buck

explaining the one above, gale’s username is probably smth like ‘buckclvn’ but his bio is friends-only so that says gale

basically they got a large following because john posted a video of curt doing something stupid and they also just post random things that gain attention

gale is faceless but his voice can be heard in some of john’s videos (he doesn’t want to take away from his bf’s fame)

curt will post the most random and controversial thing and just dip from the conversation (ken and crosby have to clean up his messes)

being spotted in public would be awkward especially if it’s john while he’s with gale because the fan would like keep glancing at gale like “who…” and then have that look of realization

to which later the fan would post smth like “i saw john’s bf and he is GORGEOUS” and john would repost or quote it

ken and curt take pics of their double dates and are always sure to block out gale’s face

curt probably treats anyone who recognizes him like a friend or someone who’s chasing him

brady is a fashion designer and hambone is his model (ty theo for this)

rosie and bubbles are also a part of this but we fr have no idea where…

um this is such a random post but i hope u guys like this!!

#masters of the air #social media au #mota #buck x bucky #curt x ken #clegan #gale buck cleven #john bucky egan #ken lemmons #curtis biddick #harry crosby #rosie rosenthal #john brady #hambone hamilton #joseph bubbles payne #clevenhqfic

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forasecondtherewedwon · 6 months

Text

seven degrees east - chapter three

Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairings: multiple Rating: T (may change) Chapter: 3 / ? Word Count: 4075

read on tumblr: one | two

The roof was considered an obvious and necessary extension of the dorms. Which was to say, the boys were not encouraged to spend time up there, but it was widely acknowledged by the administration to be an inevitability. Which was to say, there was a standing rule that they were not allowed on the roof, but it was understood to exist for insurance purposes only. Which was to say, the rule had been enforced before, but not in a way that singled out any one student’s rooftop proclivities. Which was to say, John Egan, specifically, had been banned, and, yes, the photograph from his school record had been used on the poster taped to the roof-access door. Which was to say, the boys had taken to reaching the roof via the decidedly more dangerous yet not technically banned route of climbing out their windows and getting a foothold on the sill.

It was already after dinner when Crosby decided to swing his legs out the window and scale the wall. He preferred to do this with Bubbles, who he trusted implicitly to map the wall with his eyes on the fly and find the best handholds, but Bubbles was at the library, likely sniffling in the stacks. He had come down with a small cold, and Crosby had urged him to stay in bed. Unfortunately, he suspected it had been his offer to make dinner that had caused Bubbles to flee. Crosby tried not to mind. They were frequently at playful odds over exactly what constituted a “good meal.” Crosby had no defense for his Bagel Bites, but maintained that they wouldn’t put “Chef” in front of “Boyardee” if the canned ravioli wasn’t imbued with superior nutritional and gastronomic value. Bubbles vocally doubted that Jean, Crosby’s long-distance girlfriend, would agree.

Rosie was smoking on the roof when Crosby scrambled up. As their eyes met, Crosby offered a meek and panicked smile, which Rosie correctly interpreted to mean Help! Rosie tucked the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and leant down to give Crosby a hand. Crosby’s shoes came scrabbling up brick, then slipping across the gritty surface of the roof. Rosie released him, laughing, once Crosby had found his footing.

“You probably don’t want to try that alone again,” Rosie observed, plucking the cigarette from his lips and exhaling into the wide sky that arched above their heads.

“No shit,” Crosby panted. He eyed Rosie. “Thanks.”

Rosie shrugged this off. He waved his carton in offering, but Crosby patted the back pocket of his jeans to indicate he’d brought his own smokes.

“Nice job on the seminar today,” he offered, lighting up.

It was Rosie’s turn to reply, “Thanks.”

Neither of them had counted on the company, but, equally, neither was bothered by it. They smoked in silence. Rosie watched Crosby like he was waiting to see what he would do next. Crosby watched the smoke from their cigarettes, how it trailed and dwindled in the air, how it looked dirty and hazy against the prolonged light of a summer evening. He felt that it polluted the world, that he, himself, was an irritant in the eye of the nature that beheld him. But self-loathing was just the kind of thing a guy felt, Crosby knew, when his shoes were tied a little tight, or he hadn’t eaten a vegetable in a while, or he had to go looking for fun without his best friend.

Rosie wasn’t sure he had a best friend. He had admirers—some for his scholastic confidence, many for his mustache—and he appreciated the respect with which he was treated, but he did sometimes feel as if he were in a place the others weren’t. (He had pondered this deeply while standing alone on the roof.) In a way, it made him feel adaptive, flexible, primed. It also gave him probably too much opportunity to heft unnecessary weight onto his own shoulders, to summon into existence pressures that would strain but not quite break the idea of himself that he believed in: tireless, committed, an emotional island. Rosie didn’t see that he felt much the same as they all did, but then none of them did. All listening too hard to their own tell-tale hearts to realize no one else would ever hear them if they didn’t make a noise.

Exhaling until he couldn’t see the smoke from his third cigarette in his breath, Rosie turned his body towards Crosby to indicate that he wanted to speak. He cleared his throat for good measure.

“You wanna rent a movie tonight?”

Crosby picked the cigarette from between his lips like he was picking food from his teeth. There was a showy machismo in the sharp line of his movement, like he thought about closing his fist around the cigarette so the tip would burn his palm, just to give him some little pain to endure. The motion was too deliberate, a little stupid, and Rosie’s slight smile reminded Crosby of that much. Rosie wouldn’t say anything outright though, lest they find themselves in a Mexican standoff—Crosby and his touches of noir versus Rosie and the mustache which stood as a symbol for his allegedly mournful, tortured soul.

“Yeah, sure,” Crosby said with a shrug.

“Cool. I’ll grab Nash.”

“Nash is gonna want a Meg Ryan flick.”

“So?” Rosie stared at him. “They can’t all be Lauren Bacall, Croz. At least try to pick an actress from this half of the twentieth century. Julia Roberts?”

Crosby made a sound of partial assent, then narrowed his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter though, does it? You’re just gonna overrule us and pick whatever the hell you want to see anyway.”

Rosie grinned.

“I drive, I pick.”

“I hate how that works,” Crosby grumbled.

“I know you do,” Rosie said, patting him on the shoulder.

—

“Adapt or die,” Bubbles said, settling himself before one of Thorpe Abbotts’ two new Macintoshes and depressing the power button. His voice was cottony due to his stuffed-up nose.

“Die,” John decided.

He didn’t spare the Mac so much as a sideways glance, continuing to knock out his essay on the same electronic typewriter he always used. The school wanted to appear cutting-edge—especially to the British universities they continually sensed, correct or not, were breathing scornfully down their necks—and this time, John had had to haul the typewriter from the closet at the end of the space increasingly referred to as the “computer room.” It wasn’t a perfect machine, but John preferred to grapple with the devil he knew rather than submit before the unexplored complexities of a sleeker word processor. Where was the glory in that? Where was the struggle? The allure of the logo on the front of the Macintosh was wasted on John, who thought Eve’s theft of the apple had more style than Thorpe Abbotts’ foisting of the new technology upon its students.

They weren’t supposed to smoke in there, but John had the window cracked, and he flapped a hand to fan the smoke from his cigarette towards it as he paused to review what he’d typed so far. It would do, he thought. If it provoked Professor Harding’s urge to murder him back out of its currently dormant state, so be it. John liked his enemies where he could see them. Except in a mirror.

The truth was, he’d been wrestling back some impulses since Gale had shared news of his and Marge’s breakup. Impulses to avoid Gale, impulses to stand at his elbow and wait to be noticed. It made John’s skin itch, this newly single Buck Cleven, with his hair like American wheat.

“What’s Buck gonna do?” Bubbles suddenly asked.

John stiffened. Ash flaked onto his fingers before he brushed it into the primeval coffee cup he was using as an ashtray.

“What?”

“Well, is he a luddite like you?” Bubbles wondered, nodding towards John’s typewriter.

John exhaled slowly.

“We’ll see.”

“He should get his essay typed up soon,” Bubbles said. “Always takes longer than you think. Maybe he’s distracted thinkin’ about the breakup.”

John drew smoke into his lungs to calm himself, then scratched at the side of his head like Bubbles’ remark was something he could scrape from the surface of his brain.

“Nah, Buck’s fine.”

“He’s lucky he has you.”

Bubbles made sure his eyes were on the Mac’s brightening screen when he felt John turn to look at him. He didn’t think he shouldn’t have said it, but he didn’t want John’s expression to make him feel like he needed to backtrack or add a joking insult so they—specifically John—could move past it without having to accept that Bubbles had intended it genuinely. You didn’t just tell a guy to value the closeness of his friendships, point out that those friends valued him in turn. Bubbles knew nobody thought of him as particularly risky, particularly brave. That was how he got away with it, his sincerity slipping in under their radar. And while they were thinking about themselves, they would never notice that he had a vested interest, that he counted himself luckiest of all to have Crosby as the other pea in his two-pea pod.

Before John could insist on a confrontation on the battlefield of his feelings for Gale, he saw Ken Lemmons walk past the doorway.

“Yo! Lemmons!” he shouted.

Ken re-entered his line of sight walking backwards and looking both quizzical and ready. He usually did look like that; an undergrad with a possibly bottomless bag of mechanical and technological tricks, Ken had become a dogsbody around campus. If he couldn’t immediately fix whatever needed fixing, he didn’t require long to figure it out. He’d gotten a job locally that summer instead of going home to the States. Everyone who knew or knew of Ken Lemmons felt the luckier for it.

“Egan,” Ken greeted with a grin, gripping the doorframe and leaning into the room. “Bubbles.”

“How’s the wife?” Bubbles inquired.

“She’s great, thanks, Bubbles.”

The fact that Ken, just 19 years of age, was a married man should perhaps have triggered in them some instinct to defer to his emotional maturity. Instead, it only made them feel more fatherly towards him, and, incidentally, act more childish.

“What the hell have they got you running around for now?” John demanded teasingly. “Go enjoy your fuckin’ summer. You should be at a rave or a topless beach or something.”

“Lotta those in England, you think?” Ken joked back. His feet and attention shifted. “Printer’s on the fritz.”

“Don’t you worry too much,” Bubbles soothed. “The summer edition of the journal isn’t that important.”

“Tell that to Kidd.”

“Yeah,” John said, gaze wandering back to his essay. “Jack’s probably sweating bullets.”

“Sure is. Poor bastard. You’d know if you ever took a position on the journal.”

“Nah. I’m just one of the people, Ken. I don’t want to run shit.”

Ken shrugged.

“Got some empty pages too,” he said in a hopeful tone, glancing between John and Bubbles. “Either of you have an essay you want to put in?”

John grunted noncommittally—it took him a long time to know what to think of his own work—but Bubbles said, “I’ll talk to Croz. I think he might write something.”

“Sounds good.”

“Don’t say anything to Kidd yet,” Bubbles added quickly. “Croz might get a little… nervous if he thinks Kidd’s waitin’ on him.”

Ken gave him a loose salute in understanding and pushed out of the doorframe, hurrying down the hall once more.

Bubbles released a massive sneeze and collapsed over his keyboard, forehead nudging the mouse aside. John shot him a look.

“Don’t get that thing sick.”

“Your computer virus jokes are tired,” Bubbles mumbled.

But they seemed to invigorate John, who began to type rapidly as the setting sun blazed through the window. The shadows of his hands were jumping spiders. Bubbles watched them as he summoned the strength to begin transposing his own essay.

—

It was foolish for more than three of them to attempt to decide on one movie. It was foolish for three, or even two. Nash wandered the aisles of the video store, the protective coating on the empty VHS cases too shiny and bright under the fluorescents. He wouldn’t try to pick anything until Rosie and Crosby squabbled at the check-out. That first squabble was only ever the opening salvo; they would then sigh their way back into the aisles under the disinterested gaze of the minimum-wage kid at the register, feeling the pressure (that wasn’t really there) to make a better selection. Even that would not necessarily be the moment for Nash to insert his own filmic preferences. He would wait and see. The key was to pounce in the moment when both his friends were feeling highly frustrated by the impasse, solving the problem with the simple solution of offering the movie neither of them wanted to see (Nash’s first choice du jour).

Yes, they could have rented more than one video, but they didn’t. They never did.

Nash stood and contemplated the latest Scorsese; he and Gale had once talked for an hour of their love for the director’s Age of Innocence adaptation, but Nash wasn’t sure about Casino. Seemed like more of a Crosby thing. Nash was lifting his gaze to the genre signs positioned along the top of each aisle when he spotted something more compelling: girls. Two—no, three—girls clustered by the far wall, chatting as they perused the titles. All three were brunette and Nash’s heart fluttered hopefully as he thought of Helen, the memory of her dark waves pulling at him like a current. (John had been going on about Gatsby lately, repeating the final lines with a rhythmic insistence that had formerly threatened to put Nash to sleep but now seemed to assist in holding him in hypnotic stillness.) Without looking away from them, Nash reached out with the empty copy of Casino. There was a plasticky clatter as he fumbled the case back onto the shelf.

“Dude, what’s wrong with you?” Crosby asked, coming down the aisle—a witness to Nash’s episode.

“I think—”

Nash stopped speaking as quickly as he’d begun and cleared his throat. She’d turned her head, laughing; it was Helen. The world was a good place, the arc of history bending towards justice and peace and harmony amongst all people. Nearly thirty years prior, humans had walked on the moon, and tonight, Nash would be reunited with that beautiful girl from that one night at the bar—a miracle even Kennedy would not have had the balls to prophesize. Nash wished he were wearing a nicer shirt, but he smoothed a hand down the front of the baggy sweatshirt he’d—at some point—borrowed from the laundry hamper of John or Curt or maybe Crank, over winter semester, and blindly pressed Crosby aside to clear his path to her.

Crosby gave Nash a head start before alerting Rosie, because he recalled how Rosie had shouted at this girl (by Nash’s transfixed reaction, he assumed it was the same girl) across the bar, embarrassing Nash. But, because Crosby was also preparing to be greatly entertained by the scene that promised to play out, he needed Rosie to join his audience. What were friends for if not laughing at other friends’ awkward attempts at romance? It was necessary to physically remove Hitchcock’s Rebecca from Rosie’s hands, but Crosby got his attention.

“Our boy’s lovesick so often it’s practically a chronic condition,” Rosie pronounced, grinning.

“Yeah, too bad we’re all studying to be the wrong kind of doctor,” Crosby added.

As much as they loved to rib Nash for putting himself out there so very frequently that he could rarely be considered in, they watched, slightly awed, as Nash confidently approached the girl and was greeted with a wide smile after her initial surprise.

“Huh,” they said together.

“Well, we’re not letting Nash have all the fun,” Rosie decided, smacking the back of his hand into Crosby’s chest to get him moving.

Nash didn’t mind his friends joining him. He didn’t mind Helen’s friends looking on, or that they would almost certainly talk about him as soon as he left their vicinity. Only the way Helen was looking at him was important, and she was doing that with a gaze that didn’t wander, that didn’t light up with greater interest when Crosby locked his puppy-dog browns on her, Rosie his glittering blues. Helen just went back to looking at Nash, talking to Nash, and soon, they had drifted slightly apart from the others, engaging in a lively conversation about Meg Ryan’s filmography. When Herbert Met Helen, Nash thought, entirely captivated by Helen, from the toes of her Mary Janes to the lettuce-edged sleeves of the t-shirt she wore beneath her spaghetti-strap dress.

Rosie was alarmed by his dissipating impulse to humiliate Nash. He’d only come over to keep Nash humble, and to make sure the girl—Helen—who’d caught his friend’s eye twice now seemed worthy of Nash’s at least momentary captivation. He hadn’t counted on Helen’s friend. Very quickly, he’d learned that she went by “Liss,” considering the name that’d been passed down from her grandmother old-fashioned, that she was studying law, and that the way she combed her fingers through her straight-across bangs while she talked was damn cute. Really fucking cute. Rosie forgot about Nash, about Crosby, about Hitchcock. The Flaming Lips’ “When You Smile” poured distantly through the video store speakers and Rosie realized he might be falling into love at first sight—and that it came with none of the doom reading Poe had foretold.

In contrast, Crosby felt he was having everything his hard-boiled books had ever taught him about women confirmed. Had Rosie not been otherwise occupied and noticed Crosby with Helen’s other companion, he would’ve said, Whoa, Croz. He would’ve said, Careful. Because there was Jean, back home, and Crosby wasn’t thinking about her at all as he watched Sandra bite the end off a string of red licorice.

“You’re supposed to pay for those first,” he said, glancing at the other movie snacks by the check-out, their packages stacked in neat rows.

Sandra’s lipstick was as red as the licorice and Crosby swallowed when she did, watching her mouth spread into an unconcerned smile.

“Don’t I look trustworthy?” she asked him, and Crosby felt a rush of sympathy for every detective who’d ever been drawn in by a femme fatale. Which was exactly what he’d determined this girl to be. If he were correct, he should’ve grabbed the boys and run—but then, if he were correct, Crosby figured, it was probably already too late.

As Sandra looked back at him, not knowing about Jean or Chandler or Hammett and seeing only a young man with expressive dark eyes full of seductive fatalism, she thought, Why not? and offered Harry Crosby a long piece of licorice.

—

Inside, they’d gotten so stoned they couldn’t remember what they were talking about, and so Curt and Gale had decided to climb to the roof for fresh air that would clear their heads. The evening was warm and breezy, but Gale loved the wind, and Curt tended to roll with the circumstances as they presented themselves. Which didn’t mean the way he’d flailed onto the roof was graceful.

After a while, they’d picked out the loose thread of their last conversation. Like many conversations the boys had, this one landed on a book recommendation as predictably as a plastic Life car landed on “Taxes due.” Curt was trying to sell Gale on the works of James Baldwin. He was a cheerful inebriate, confident that all his points were compellingly made and that his audience was keen to hear them. He was touchy as well, tugging Gale’s sleeve when he talked about Baldwin’s voice. Gale didn’t mind this, since he roomed with John, who was far touchier. That was at least half the reason he was smiling as Curt talked, the weed he’d smoked helping him construct little mental sandcastles and wash them away again: John’s elbow on his shoulder as he asked what Gale, sitting at their desk, wanted to add to the grocery list; John’s foot prodding Gale’s hip to tell him to change the channel even though he was sitting sideways on the couch, reading instead of watching TV; John’s hand on Gale’s knee, then his thigh, the other day in Harding’s class, not long before Gale had named the woodchopper.

Like wet sand, the woodchopper and John got mashed together in Gale’s head as he listened to Curt launch into his pitch for Gale to read Giovanni’s Room.

“It doesn’t matter that he’s gay,” Curt was saying.

“Of course it matters that he’s gay,” Gale countered.

“No, like, it matters, but—”

“What the hell else matters?”

“It’s bigger than that! It’s about what it means to be a man,” Curt insisted. “Socialization, alienation, internalization…”

“If you throw one more ‘ation’ at me, I’m pushing you off the roof,” Gale warned waggishly.

“It’s fucking Baldwin, man! He had his thumb on the fucking pulse!”

“His finger, not his thumb. You can feel your pulse in your thumb, so using it to find a pulse doesn’t work.”

“Whatever,” Curt said, grinning and waving him off. “Fucking pedant. Read your fuckin’ Baldwin.”

“Never said I wouldn’t,” Gale asserted.

“Good.”

Curt gently patted his pockets. He couldn’t remember if he’d brought a joint to the roof or left all the ones he’d rolled on the table. He also didn’t want to stow one in his pocket and forget about it. He’d definitely made a mistake tossing a pair of jeans in the wash in the past.

“It’s just that Brideshead Revisited is a little more up my street,” Gale added.

“Oh, fuckin’ BRIDESHEAD REVISITED,” Curt shrieked, setting Gale laughing quietly. “You can’t even tell those assholes are gay!”

“’Course you can,” Gale argued at a lower volume. “If you’re paying attention. You can tell if you’re paying attention.”

Curt, who was paying even less attention in that moment than he had been while reading the novel, said, “Fuckin’ EVELYN WAUGH!”

Gale shook his head in amusement. Happening to glance out away from the building atop which they were perched like eaglets in their eyrie, he saw Rosie, Nash, and Crosby ambling towards the dorms from the rear parking lot.

“BOYS!” Gale called down sharply.

Three faces tilted up towards the address. Crosby threw up an instinctive middle finger that Curt heartily returned.

“Meet you inside?” Rosie shouted back.

“My place!” Curt offered, receiving Rosie’s nod.

Gale lived with John, Nash with Rosie, and Crosby with Bubbles, who Curt knew to be sick at present. Curt lived with no one. Well, he lived with Dickie, but Dickie wouldn’t be back until the fall. Technically, Curt should have been getting charged more in residence fees living as a bachelor for four months, but between being well liked by faculty and staff, and the students who’d elected to remain on campus through the summer knowing Curt was shy about neither bringing guests back to his room nor the type and amount of noise that emanated from such visits, he paid the same as he did when he had a roommate. He tended to be quite smug about it. Regardless, his friends didn’t complain; they’d have happily paid less and did not begrudge Curt his good fortune. Curt’s temporary lack of roommate also made his dorm the perfect place to go whenever any of them were annoyed with their own. Anyway, Curt loved to host.

When he got all the boys inside, sprawled over his furniture, he found that the air on the roof had un-addled him a bit, but not enough to easily follow the trio of narratives unfolding at once. There was Nash gushing about finally getting Helen’s number and Rosie wearing a dopey smile while he explained about Liss and the haunted and yet lustful look in Crosby’s eyes when he talked about Sandra and—

“Who the fuck are all these girls?” Curt cut in.

“You met them at the video store?” Gale, who had caught slightly more, clarified. “What’d you rent?”

Crosby, Rosie, and Nash glanced at one another’s dreamy eyes and empty hands.

It was Crosby who voiced their joint realization: “Uhhh… we forgot.”

#seven degrees east #my writing #MotA #Masters of the Air #Harry Crosby #Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal #Joseph 'Bubbles' Payne #John 'Bucky' Egan #Ken Lemmons #Bucky x Buck #Herbert Nash #Sandra Westgate #Gale 'Buck' Cleven #Curtis Biddick

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bucking-mustangs-with-wings · 3 months

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Heart of Gold (5 Times Gale's Heart Gives Out And +1 time Ken's Does) Barbed Wire Hearts Universe - Chapter One

God I can't believe I can finally publish this after so many problems preventing me from both writing and editing it, it feels like it's been too long! But here's the next instalment in the BWH universe. Only one chapter written and edited so far, but I'll be updating when I can with more. This is to add some much needed little details and lore for upcoming plot fics in this series.

For now though, enjoy! This chapter is only a short one, just to give the general start to the fic, but following chapters will be a little bit longer as the story continues (and don't worry, the big plot fics will be longer as always haha)

@swifty-fox @onyxsboxes @stoneinyourshoe @carnevol @trashbag-baby666 @slowsweetlove

Ken stared at the little box that Curt was brandishing in front of himself with a raised brow, taking in the self-satisfied smirk behind still fading clown paint from the day before on the other man’s face. He let the exasperated sigh escape him from where it had been building since Curt first showed him the box.

“You can’t be serious, Curt.”

Curt wiggled the box at him, the item inside rattling gently in response as Curt’s smirk grew. “Oh I’m deadly serious,”

Ken eyed him, judgment clearly written across his own expression as he snatched the box from Curt’s fingers. He looked down at the box, eyes scanning over the words with another sigh, albeit gentler than the one before.

“You’re gonna give Gale a Fitbit, because you wanna, and I quote ‘record the uptight bastard’s stress and heart rate because it would be funny’?”

Curt shrugged nonchalantly, reaching out and plucking the box from Ken’s fingers with the tip of his tongue caught between his front teeth.

“Yes. I think you’re missing the whole point here, Kenny. Have you seen the guy? Man is one big walking ball of stress, especially around Bucky and his bullshit, and all he says is that he’s ‘fine’.”

“So you just wanna prove him wrong so that you have something to brag about, basically?”

Ken raises one eyebrow at Curt and watches as the other gapes slightly, expression turning chastised but no less mischievous underneath Ken’s scrutiny. A hand comes up to scratch at the back of his neck.

“Basically,” Curt affirms, looking slightly sheepish, and Ken can’t help the knowing smile that curves his lips.

“Uh-huh,” Ken hums. He stares down at the box again where Curt is starting to peel the edges of the tape holding it closed with the edge of his fingernail.

Curt pauses and glances up at Ken through his lashes, scanning over Ken’s face before his shoulders sag and he rolls his eyes.

“Look, I’m not trying to be a dick. Call it genuine curiosity and slight worry for the sake of one of my best friends and his well-being.”

“With bragging rights,” Ken tacks on with his own answering eye roll.

Curt laughs, goes back to picking at the tape again with a wide grin. “Exactly! See? Now we’re getting on the same page here, Kenny my boy.”

Ken breathes out through his nostrils, watching Curt work away at the tape until he flicks the opening flap upwards and starts to extract the packaging holding the little black watch from its confines.

Curt holds it up, like a prize dangling from his thumb and pointer and looks at Ken with no less pride on his face. “You can even hook it up to your work phone so you have 24/7 access to Gale’s heart rate. Just in case there ever is actually cause for concern. It’s got a little alarm setting and everything.”

He waggles the device towards Ken’s face, eyebrows rising and falling in a suggestive gesture until Ken once again snatches it from Curt’s hold.

The little watch is cool in his palm, and he turns it over to observe it before glancing up at Curt again, lips pursed.

As much as Ken wouldn’t put name or face to it, he couldn’t deny that there had been a few times through the course of getting to know the men in their circuit that he had observed and noticed that Gale, in particular, had a bit more weight sitting on his shoulders in comparison to most of the others.

When he had first met the blond cowboy, all done up in his roping get-up with his stoic steel-hard expression and sizeable buckle sitting on his belt, Ken could admit that even though he wasn’t a competitor himself, that he couldn’t help but be a little bit intimidated by the air that Gale often exuded. Especially when in competition mode.

Despite only being a rodeo EMT, it was hard to come by anyone involved in the circuit that hadn’t at least heard of the great Gale Cleven and his achievements in the arena. Coupled with the known talk that the guy was ‘all work and no play’ and advice of ‘just don’t get in his way and you won’t have to worry’, Ken had truthfully dreaded the day that he would have to meet the man and have him under his jurisdiction of care and medical expertise.

The day he had met him, Ken felt like the world was trying to swallow him whole as he was faced with meeting most of the crew that he would be looking out for and tending to if any of them sustained injuries in the arena. He had shaken hands and introduced himself a number of times, friendly smiles and warmth being directed at him as easy as breathing before the group had all but parted in the tail end of their greetings and Ken was faced with Gale.

The blond cowboy had walked up to Ken with his shoulders straight, blue eyes questioning while also exuding an air of careful scrutinization as he’d looked Ken up and down, and Ken had felt like he was about to be snapped up like a bird between the jaws of a cat and crushed between sharper than needle fangs.

He’d stared at Gale, not game enough to break eye contact as the other thrusted his hand out in Ken’s direction, still adorned with worn but expensive looking brown leather gloves. The strength and power behind Gale’s grip alone once he’d taken his hand in to a firm handshake was enough to have him shivering in his sneakers.

But as Gale had introduced himself, Ken had watched as a slight look of warm fondness had broken through Gale’s expression, lips curving upwards in to a perfect smile full of straight white teeth directed at him, and felt his shoulders relax from their timid posture.

“Welcome to the crew, Ken,” Gale had said to him, words soft and sweet and dripping with unintentional charm. “Heard you’re one of the best we could possibly ask for. You might have your work cut out for you though, with this band of hooligans.”

Ken couldn’t help the smile that had slowly crept its way on to his own face in answer to Gale’s obvious attempt at easing his nerves, and he had felt his shoulders sag as Gale had dropped his hand, but feeling no less welcome.

It was from that point forward that a sort of easy friendship had blossomed between Gale and himself, the terrifying tales of strict and hard-faced Gale Cleven all but melting away in his mind until any time he heard Gale’s name whispered with unease from the mouths of any of the other competitors from different circuit teams made him smirk knowingly.

The guy was all bark and no bite, as far as Ken was concerned. At least when it was towards his own team, and he had come to realize that whenever Gale would be the first one to comfort or build up the confidence of the other boys without a second thought.

It was all a structured hierarchy, and Gale had been appointed the unquestioned leader of the group and the overseer to most of the happenings and organizing both between and during the rodeos that they travelled to and from over the course of the season.

It was with that unsanctioned leadership, though, that Ken could also see the immense strain heaped up on top of the cowboy’s shoulders in the thick of it all. And he would be unhesitant to admit that there had been a few times that he had observed Gale in the quieter moments where the weariness and need to keep on a brave noble façade was obviously eating away at him.

Especially once Ken realized that the group’s main bull rider John Bucky Egan was more than just a friend to Gale, and every time the man went in to that arena and sat on one of those great muscled animals, Gale turned a few shades whiter every time Bucky’s dismounts were a little less than graceful.

Ken had also noticed, through several different interactions both with himself and with other members of the group, that as much as Gale would unthinkingly dole out support and softness and strength, that when it came to himself, it was a completely different story.

He had noticed on more than one occasion the cowboy shying away from support directed at him, waved it off with a strained smile or an off handed comment that left Ken with a sour taste on his tongue and a worry settling in deep in his bones like a festering flame.

As much as Gale gave it, receiving it was a whole other ball game, and was met with such a conditioned resistance that Kenny often wondered what was laying in wait underneath Gale’s carefully composed surface. What scars were carefully concealed under a strong expression.

He was thankful for John in those moments, seeing Gale respond to Bucky’s carefully extended supports more than anyone else, but even then it was barely a sliver of open acceptance to the gentle touch, cards still close to his chest and roped back against him and away from prying eyes.

Ken looked back up to where Curt was still standing in front of him, now holding out the charger for the Fitbit and Ken’s work phone that had been sitting on the counter being waggled in his direction underneath an imploring look.

He stared at it for a few seconds, mind running through all the pros and cons and the precarious thought of ‘what could possibly go wrong’ cycling through his head, and let his shoulders sag with an exasperated sigh. He tried to ignore the gleaming smile Curt shot him as he took the charger and phone from his hand.

“Fine,” Ken gave in, switching on the phone and opening up the app store to download the accompanying app that would sync with the watch. “But I’m doing this purely for Gale’s well-being, and to give myself some piece of mind.”

Curt laughed, a smug but joyous lilt to its tone as he walked up to Ken and patted his shoulder. “Yeah you keep telling yourself that, Kenny.”

Ken rolled his eyes, a small smile working its way on to his lips as Curt pressed a loud smacking kiss against his cheek as the other made his way to the door of the trailer, swinging it open and stepping out to leave Ken to hooking up the devices.

“You’ve still got paint on your face, by the way!” Ken called out behind him as an afterthought before looking back down at his phone.

He could hear Curt’s laugh echo back to him from a small ways away outside.

“All part of the charm, baby!”

–

Surprisingly, Gale had accepted the watch from Ken without so much as a second thought, albeit a small look of question directed at him as the watch was passed into his hands. He had turned it over in quiet observance a few times, lips pursed and brows furrowed before he’d carefully pulled back the sleeve of his shirt and fastened it to the surprisingly delicate circle of his left wrist.

Ken couldn’t help the way it lifted a nervous air from his body and mind at Gale so trustingly taking the watch paired with Ken’s words of professional reassurance, and had to remind himself that as much as Curt had palmed the whole endeavour off with the pretense of it being a joke, it also gave Ken some peace of mind to now have a bit more of an insight into the medical signs of one of the most important cowboys in the team.

He also couldn’t deny that Curt’s curiosity had bled into him as well in the face of the act.

“Can’t say I ever really put much thought in to actually using one of these things,” Gale confessed to him, eyes still curious as he looked down at the face of the watch with interest. The time flashed back at him as he turned his wrist, experimenting with the movement of it a few times.

Tapping the face of it, the small screen cycled through his steps, distance travelled, energy burned, and finally the rate of his heart, which Ken couldn’t help but notice was currently sitting at a steady 89 as they spoke.

“You can thank Curt for that,” Ken chuckled, pointedly and casually adding in Curt as the culprit as well so he wasn’t the only one being thrown under the bus. “He figured it’d be a good idea to keep an eye on you fellas, your health and what-not seeing as how you’re all meant to be tip top athletes. And you’re one of the only ones who doesn’t actually have one.”

Gale looked up at him, a knowing smirk on the blonde's lips as he quirked one brow. “You mean Curt’s morbidly curious and just wanted something to brag about to John when I blow my top at him.”

Ken couldn’t help but laugh at Gale’s words, the sound punched out of him in surprise as Gale hazarded the guess and got it as close as he possibly could. He had had a feeling long before he’d even set up the watch that Buck would be clued in to exactly what was happening, especially once Ken name dropped Curt in the scheme.

“It’s alright Ken,” Gale assured him, smile still colouring his face as he winked. “I won’t let him know I’m on to him if you don’t.”

“Sweet,” Ken grinned, holding out a fist towards Gale in a silent ask for a fist bump which the cowboy gladly reciprocated without a second thought.

Gale gave another small look down at the watch as he let his hand fall back to his side, carefully pushing his sleeve down over it as it went to hide the little device from view.

“I’m actually a little curious myself,” Gale added on as an afterthought. “Might actually come in handy.”

Kenny nodded, casting his gaze over his shoulder towards the arena where Brady and Rosie were currently trotting their horses around in circles around a fake practice rig shaped like a steer. He could hear them laughing good-naturedly as they threw their ropes over it, joking amongst each other in friendly competition as Brady missed and Rosie whooped in triumph, arms coming up high in celebration.

Jack, Benny and Everett were perched up on the rails watching with smiles on their faces and chatting amongst themselves, Meatball at their feet chasing something in a patch of tall grass against one of the posts.

Ken pointed his chin in their direction. “This lot seems in a good mood today.”

Gale looked up to where Ken’s gaze was directed, and Ken couldn’t help but note the small fond smile that slipped on to Gale’s expression. Likened it to that of a proud parent looking at their unruly bunch of teenagers.

“Yeah it’s a lazy day today. Figured with more than a week until the next rodeo I’d back off and let them have their fun. Don’t need me breathing down their necks 24/7.”

Ken looked back at Gale with a questioning expression that he hoped Gale didn’t notice. Underneath the pride, Ken could sense a sudden hint of doubt mixed in Buck’s words, smile still evident but more muted as he stared over at the others. His blue eyes were slightly distant, and Ken felt his chest constrict just a little at the sight.

“I’m sure they’ll need your instruction sooner or later with how that’s going,” Ken tried, grinning as he turned to watch Brady expertly lasso Rosie around the middle with the other cowboy’s laughing squawk of offense. Brady’s replying laughter reached them seconds later with a shouted insult barely audible, and Ken could see the fond smile return to Buck’s expression.

Buck rested his hands against his hips with a gentle sigh, smiling up at Ken before dropping his eyes towards the ground. “Yep, yeah, I’d say you’re right.”

Ken saw a suddenly questioning frown pull at Buck’s brow as the other looked back up towards the arena, eyes scanning over the expanse of it, the stands behind and then flickering around. “Speaking of, you seen Curt or Bucky anywhere since earlier?”

Ken felt his eyes slightly widen in realization as Buck’s words sank in and a pit of innocent fear started to curl its way in to his gut.

“I can’t say I have, and I don’t know how I should be feeling about that,” Ken confessed to him with a grimace.

Buck blew out an exasperated breath, shoulders squaring as he tipped his hat at Ken with a smile before making his way past him. “Terrified, would be the correct term, I reckon.”

Ken couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him at Buck’s words as he watched the blond walk casually over to the others.

–

The sounds of the crowd spectating the rodeo from a small distance away reached Kenny as he took a long drag of his cigarette, smoke curling its way out in to the air on his exhale in a wispy array of patterns before disappearing into nothing. He adjusted his seat on the step at the back of the med van, the back doors open to reveal the sterile and organized inside, medical equipment stored carefully and tucked away ready at a moments notice if needed while the current rodeo was in full swing.

This one had been going on without so much as a hitch so far, which Ken and a few of the other EMTs were thankful for, leaving them meandering around outside the van without much to do to occupy their time besides talking amongst themselves or scrolling on their phones to pass the time.

They knew at some point they’d probably need to patch up a knee or do the mandatory check over for concussions or other types of damage, but they were taking the peace while they could and being lax in the moments they were afforded.

It left some room for a tiny hint of boredom to thread its way through, but Ken would rather feel that unconcerned drag of time over doing vital signs on a bull rider that got too big for his chaps or be knitting together another cowboy’s split open brow while trying to stem blood flow with a stern hand and hint of exasperation.

The audience noise crescendoed in to a flurry of whoops and hollers by a few octaves, but being where he was Ken couldn’t quite see what event was currently happening around the edges of the towering bleacher seats. It was only still halfway through the rodeo so he knew that nothing truly spectacular was happening at this point, and he was content to sit, sneaker propped up on the tow-ball of the van and scroll for a few moments on his socials while sucking down the last few dregs of what he guessed was his third cigarette of the day.

Thought on the disapproving glance that Curt would be sending his way if the other wasn’t currently out behind the bull chutes painted to the nines in clown makeup and baggy shorts and suspenders waiting to run in and save the day once the bull riders were performing.

Also thought on the way the other would tut in disgust but still pluck the still burning cigarette from his fingers before stealing a drag in the face of Ken’s knowing smirk.

Almost too lost in the depths of his thoughts as he brought the cigarette up towards his lips for another inhale, Ken couldn’t help the way he jumped, startled and nearly losing grip on the burning stick as a sudden continuous beeping blared at him from the pocket of his jacket.

Frowning, he propped the cigarette in between his lips and reached down to clumsily fish what he realized was his work phone from the deep pocket and pull it out.

It was only when the bright words of warning that the current connected device was picking up irregular rhythms did he also manage to look up in time to see Buck, pale faced and looking a little worse for wear stumbling from somewhere over towards the camp grounds in the distance before leaning one shaking arm up against a telegraph pole.

Distress was obvious in the tense line of the cowboy’s shoulders, shuddering on a deep inhale and face pointed towards the dirt with tightly squeezed eyes, and Ken quickly stubbed out his cigarette in to the grass by his shoe and flicked it away as he half rose, alert.

“Buck! You okay, man?” Ken called out, worry tainting the tone of his voice, hand that was holding the still beeping work phone tightening until he could feel the plastic creak underneath his grip.

He kept his eyes trained on Buck’s figure, worry seeping even further in to his awareness when the other only managed a haphazard glance in Ken’s direction, a gloved hand waving out in dismissal before he turned his eyes back to the ground at his feet, arm falling back against his side.

With a groan of effort, Ken hoisted himself up off of the step of the med van and started in Gale’s direction with purpose. He turned off the work phone, silencing the noise and shoving the device back in to his pocket without a second thought.

The closer he got to Buck, the more he could hear the ragged exhales the blond was attempting to get under control and see the trembling shudder wracking the other’s taut shoulders.

Ken reached up one hand, resting his palm on Gale’s shoulder and leaning down to try and catch Gale’s line of sight where it was currently still trained downwards, brows furrowed in obvious distress.

“Talk to me, buddy. What’s happening here?”

The professionalism that bled into Ken’s voice in the situation finally reached through to Buck, blue eyes glancing up to Ken’s face with a blank look that morphed into a humourless smile for a second or two before falling again.

“‘m fine, Kenny,” Gale huffed, shoulder trembling more violently underneath Ken’s hold for a fleeting moment. “Don’t gotta get all serious on me, now.”

Ken chuffed out a laugh, a bit disbelieving as his eyes raked over Gale’s shaken form. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing your words aren’t exactly hitting home for me, Chief.”

Gale flicked a dismissive hand in his direction again, body straightening marginally like he was trying to put Ken’s mind at a little bit more ease if he showed less weakness. It made Ken frown in reply, the minute beeping originating from underneath the cuff of Gale’s shirt where he knew the watch would be reaching his ears amidst the ambient sounds of the rodeo around them.

Gale sniffed, eyes flickering towards Ken again in what he could only name as chastised.

“Was wondering though,” Gale started, tilting his chin towards his sleeve as he brought up his other hand to pull it back and reveal the Fitbit. “That ain’t normal, yeah?”

Ken gave Buck an exasperated look before turning his attention to the face of the watch, and felt his eyes widen marginally but managed to conceal the sudden unease in his expression so that Gale wouldn’t pick up on it.

Knew he had failed when Gale shot him a frown with accompanying worry reflected in his own eyes.

“I’m guessing no,” Gale grinned, forced and fake as he swallowed underneath the scrutiny of Ken’s expression.

“No, not so much, man.” Ken answered, simple and direct. He adjusted where his hand was on Gale’s arm, moving it more up underneath in a concealed attempt at support as he tugged slightly. He was still very aware of the shudders wracking through Gale’s frame, the beads of sweat sitting on the cowboy’s upper lip and across his brow underneath the brim of his hat on an ashen pallor. “Why don’t you just come over to the van with me and I’ll give you a quick look over, yeah?”

Gale shot him an unreadable look, but allowed himself to be guided back to the open back of the med van thankfully only a short distance away.

Ken helped lower him down so that the blond was occupying the seat against the low step that Ken was only on a few moments before, movements a little bit stiff and uncomfortable and made sure that Gale was comfortable before he stepped up in to the van.

He glanced back at Gale’s figure, reaching out and getting the vitals pack hooked up on the far wall and snatching the blood pressure cuff off of the built in bench as he turned.

Jumping back down onto the hard packed dirt, Ken knelt down in front of Gale who was still looking pale but not as frantic as the younger man started retrieving different equipment from the bag that he sat in front of him.

Gale eyed everything speculatively with that ever present frown still evident on his face. “I’m fine, Ken. Really.”

Ken glanced up at him with a strained smile as he pulled the velcro of the blood pressure cuff apart with a stark ripping sound, reaching up to secure it around Gale’s upper right arm with perfect and practised precision.

“Just taking precautions.” Ken assured him. He started manually pumping the small decompressor attached to the cuff. He unlooped the stethoscope from where it was draped over the back of his neck and lifted Gale’s sleeve up enough to be able to press the cool metal against his inner elbow gently. “Alarm went off for a reason, Buck.”

Gale rolled his eyes at Ken good-naturedly, but Ken could see the hint of worry reflected in the blonde's eyes as he flickered his gaze down to where Ken was listening to the thrum of his blood underneath his skin, wincing at the tight restriction of the cuff around his bicep.

“Dumb is what it is, I don’t even feel that bad any more.” Gale grumbled.

A few moments of silence went by as Ken listened intently to Gale’s pulse, holding his breath but allowing it to pass back out in a gentle exhale as everything seemed to be normal at least as far as blood pressure went.

Pulling the stethoscope away from Gale’s skin, he rolled the cowboy’s sleeve back down to cover cool but clammy skin and ripped off the cuff from further up. “Yes, well, as true as that may be right now, I just want to check you over in case. False alarm or not. I don’t particularly feel like having to explain to Bucky why you keeled over dead from a heart attack on my watch.”

Gale let an amused snort escape him at Ken’s words, lips curving up into the semblance of a smile as he kept his focus on Ken’s rummaging around in the med bag below.

“Point taken,” Gale mumbled, and Ken felt his own lips quirk up in reply.

The next few tests went by without so much as a suspicious blip or reading, and as much as Ken was confused, he was also incredibly relieved that Gale didn’t seem to be suffering from anything life threatening. As a small after thought, he reached out and gripped Gale’s wrist wearing the watch gently and turned the face of it towards himself, eyes scanning over the lit up surface and feeling satisfied when no warnings or alerts glared back at him. The heartrate had also gone back to a steady pace, and he let Gale’s hand drop with a sigh.

“Well, whatever was happening, you seem to be fine now,” Ken informed him. He looked up in to Gale’s face from where he was still crouched in front of the other, taking in the now more normal looking complexion and clear blue eyes staring back at him in curiosity and their own brand of confusion. “It might have been just a false alarm.”

Gale sighed, peeking down at the watch hidden back underneath the sleeve of his shirt with a blank look, posture relaxing that small increment more so he was slouched in a lazy lean, an elbow propped up against his knee.

“Fat lot of good a false alarm is,” Gale grinned. One of his hands came up to wipe the remaining perspiration still sitting against the ridge of his brow underneath the rim of his hat. That same hand then rose up to point an unthreatening finger in Ken’s direction, a mock expression of seriousness moulding on to his features. “But not a word of this is to be spoken to Bucky, under any circumstances.”

Ken chuckled, pushing himself up to stand and wincing at the ache that accompanied the movement from being crouched down in the same position for so long. He stretched out his back with a groan. “For once, I do agree with that statement.”

Gale looked affronted, mouth gaping slightly as Ken’s words but Ken could see the humour reflected there. “For once?”

Ken raised his hands in mock surrender, feeling something in his chest warm at the sight of Gale’s barely concealed amusement as he reached out a hand in Ken’s direction for help. Ken gladly accepted, gripping the other cowboy’s hand and pulling him easily to his feet until the other was standing tall and firm in front of him. The other did sway slightly, and Ken held out a hand in concealed readiness in case he needed to keep the other balanced, but in a blink any tilting had disappeared.

The sounds of the rodeo pierced back in to both men’s awareness, and Ken watched as Gale’s focus turned out towards the arena with a sharp turn of his head, the small smile that was there slowly slipping back into something that Ken couldn’t quite put his finger on. He allowed his own gaze to wander over in the same direction as Gale’s before pursing his lips and glancing back towards Gale’s face. The other looked lost in thought, blue eyes far away amongst whatever was running amongst his thoughts as the sound of cheering echoed across the grounds in a muted distant roar.

Licking his lips, Ken hesitated for a few seconds before parting his lips and letting the words that were sitting on his tongue escape in to a more simple question than the true ones he had.

“You sure you’re okay, Buck?”

Gale seemed to come back to the present at Ken’s words, face whipping back to look at Ken with a blank numb expression before his lips pulled up in to a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Though they were soft as they looked at the younger man.

He reached up and let his hand fall in a friendly comfort against Ken’s shoulder, patting it twice before allowing his arm to fall. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. You don’t gotta worry, Kenny, promise.”

Ken let himself smile back in reply to Gale’s words, but he knew that it didn’t quite reach his own eyes either as the image of Gale only a small time before all but hyperventilating and looking moments from death leaned up against that telegraph pole flashed through his mind in vivid technicolor. He could almost hear the ghost of the beeping of his work phone buzz behind his ears.

He almost asked again, taking in the way that Gale had suddenly started gnawing at his bottom lip between perfect white teeth until the plush skin was red and looked moments from breaking apart underneath the ministrations, but something squeezed in his ribcage and he swallowed the words down.

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