Work Text:
A joy, hard learned in winter was the warming of the bed
You'd shake for minutes there and move your legs
Wrap the blanket over you and keep your head within
Let your breath heat the air until you'd feel it getting thin
The airport's lights overhead are painfully bright and the terminal smells of people and stale food, the air too warm, the seat too rigid to be comfortable after so many hours. Gale's neck clicks with his every movement, same as his jaw as he works a toothpick into splinters with his teeth; he's tired, and sore, and the metallic voice repeating its irritating message over and over again doesn't help.
He stands, to stretch and to walk away from the other stranded passengers to make a call. He stops when he reaches the huge window that separates him from the airplanes outside, their outlines blurry in the foggy night; it would be nice, Gale thinks, if he could just grab one of those and fly home. There must be some kind of wild freedom in being a pilot.
Resting his forehead against the chilly glass in hope of getting some respite from the exhaustion that's consuming him, Gale fishes his phone out of the pocket of his jacket and calls the only number he has in his Favorites.
“Buck!” John answers after barely two rings; he must be in his car, Gale hears the rumbling of the engine in the background. “I just clocked out, I need to get my stuff home then I'll head for the airport. Are you already there?”
Gale sighs, split between the indisputable relief he's feeling at hearing John's voice and the motive he's calling him. “Hey Bucky. No, I'm still here. The flight's been delayed because there's a lot of fog here, I have no idea when they're going to let us leave. So there's no need for you to come get me at the airport, thanks.”
John takes a beat too long to answer and Gale can picture him clear as day, his disappointed frown and the nervous way he'll be drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “So when are you supposed to be leaving? I can still come, I don't want to leave you abandoned at the airport in the middle of the night.”
“In an hour, for now, but it doesn't look good. If the fog doesn't clear at least a little I doubt they're gonna make us leave tonight, I'll probably be on the first flight home tomorrow morning and then I can get a cab from the airport. I'm sorry,” he offers.
“You? I'm sorry you're having to deal with this alone, Buck,” John tells him with his sweet, comforting voice that squeezes Gale's heart and knots his intestines in a pretty bow. “Keep me posted, ok? If you get here tonight I wanna pick you up.”
“You don't have to,” Gale says.
“I know,” John dismisses him, like it's easy, natural even — and for him it is, Gale could bet on it. “How are you? Have you eaten anything?”
“I had a toast. For lunch,” Gale says, vague. “I had to run here because my train was late, so I didn't stop at any bar.”
“Well you have time now don't you? Grab something, and not just a granola bar. And drink some water. And spit out that toothpick, I know it's nothing but sawdust by now.”
“Sure mum,” Gale teases, but he removes the chewed stick from his mouth. “Any other orders from the doctor?”
“Just relax, don't be too pissed about this whole thing. You want me to keep you company? I have nowhere to be, I don't mind talking to you.”
Yes please, Gale thinks. He squeezes his eyes shut instead, casting the words away. “No, thank you. Go home, do something fun with you night now that you can. I will… go over some work stuff.”
“Haven't I just told you to relax, Buck?” John asks. “Read a book, do some crosswords if you can't find anything else. And keep me posted, ok? Bye Buck, talk to you later.”
“Bye,” Gale responds, weakly. The phone goes silent but Gale holds it to his ear for a few seconds more as if to keep a remnant of John with him, his breath, the echo of his voice. Eyes still screwed so tight there's fireworks going off behind his eyelids, Gale thumps his forehead against the glass a couple of times; he's tired, hungry, frustrated, and most of all he's fucking pissed at the fucking airline because they're keeping him from seeing John tonight, which is the only thing that has kept him operational during his work retreat.
He should have told him that instead of "go home, do something fun now that you can". He should've told him that, and that he wanted to keep talking to him because John's voice and his silly jokes would've been the perfect balm after a shitty day like the one Gale's had. He should've, but Gale's not the brave one. John is.
John who after years of being best friends, of harmless flirting when he was drunk but also when he wasn't — not really, not enough to actually play it as a joke — came to him one night a few months ago, stone-cold sober and blushing, and confessed to Gale that his feelings for him had changed, that he liked him as more than a friend.
“I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention to turn things awkward between us but I felt like lying to you would've been worse,” he said, earnest and sweet. And Gale, who at that point had been avoiding thinking about his own feelings for John for about a year, told him absolutely nothing about those. He just said that there was no reason for things to get awkward between them, and he just needed some time to think about it.
So he's been stringing John along for months, going out with him on what anyone with some sense into them would call dates — movie nights, concerts, the exhibit of a photographer Gale loves, a few trips to the bowling alley downtown. And John keeps being the perfect gentleman, he's never made a move on Gale, never pressured him into saying exactly how much time he needs to decide wether he'd like to date him or not; he only stares longingly at Gale when he thinks the other doesn't notice, and his hands linger just a moment longer on Gale when he touches him, physically affectionate as he's always been.
It's been killing Gale, but he's too afraid to take this leap of faith. Afraid that if they get together and things don't work out he'll have lost his best friend, the only person who's always gotten him from the very first time they spoke.
They met in college, friends at first and then roommates from their second year onward because their friends and alphabetically allotted roommates fell pathetically in love and moved together as soon as they could — their other friends thought it was rushed, a sign that things would end badly, and yet they've recently celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary so, the joke's on them.
Gale envies them. He always has but recently, ever since John has come clean about his feelings, he envies them even more because it's been so easy for Jack and Ben, one look and they were head over heels for each other — no doubts, no fears, just love from the start. It should've been this easy for him and John, too.
He knows John is not going to do anything to shift their dynamic, no matter how long Gale tries to stall; he's made his move and now it's Gale's turn to act, just like when they used to play chess in their tiny college room. And this lift home from the airport was going to be Gale's move unbeknownst to John.
He was the one who suggested it when Gale's car broke down one week before his work trip. “I'll drive you to the airport and pick you up when you get back, Buck,” he said. “So you won't waste money on cabs or the shuttle for the airport.”
“Fine, but I'll buy you dinner once I'm back. And don't even try to sneak money in my pocket like you did last time,” Gale told him, and John's smile was glittering with fond mischief as he answered, “Don't count on it.”
What John didn't know was that a plan, however clumsy, had sparked to life in Gale's mind: they were going to dine in one of their favorite places, and he was going to tell John that he wanted to go on an official date with him — and that if he wanted, that one could count as their first date.
Yes, he was ready — as ready as he could without waiting for the rest of his life. But this fucking fog, this gray soup that's turning everything outside the giant window into a blurred painting, has come and ruined everything.
His father would call it a bad omen. Gale won't, he doesn't concern himself with notions of luck or similar, but he can't deny this is happening at the worst moment possible. Who knows when he'll have the guts to speak next.
With a resigned sigh he walks sluggishly back to his seat, and the old lady sitting next to him who was keeping a watchful eye on his backpack gives him a warm, reassuring smile. “How is it looking? Do you think we're gonna leave sometime tonight? My son's picking me up at the airport, I don't want him to drive all the way there for nothing.”
“It's soup,” Gale sighs. “If it doesn't clear up in the next hour, maybe hour and a half they're probably gonna cancel the flight. Thank you for watching my stuff by the way, I know we're not supposed to leave it unattended.”
“Oh don't you worry about that, dear. I was thinking about getting something to eat, walk over there to stretch my legs a little. Why don't you join me?”
And so Gale has dinner with an old lady that treats him like her grandson instead of with John, at the airport's cafe with somewhat stale sandwiches and a ginger beer that's not from his favorite brand instead of at a nice place, talking about his job instead of confessing his feelings. But he sends John a picture of his dinner, and of the crosswords puzzle he started doing with his travel companion, and John sends him a red heart emoji in response and tells him Good job, Buck, so it could be much worse, really.
—
It's almost one in the morning when Gale's plane finally lands , the tarmac deserted and swept by a freezing wind under a clear, inky sky. The fog cleared before the airline could officially give up on the passengers and they were rushed onto the plane, only to remain stuck on the runway for one more hour, sealed inside the plane.
Luckily he had John keeping him company through the whole ordeal, sending him pictures of Ben's dog and silly suggestions for his crosswords, and patiently listening to him venting. Now when Gale switch his phone back on once he's out of the plane he sees no new messages from John, sign that he's probably fallen asleep while waiting for Gale to land.
Trudging through customs and the baggage belts Gale finds himself wondering if John fell asleep at their friends' place like it happens sometimes, or if he managed to get back to his flat before crashing in his own bed, face all smushed in the pillow, dark curls mussed up with sleep, lips slightly agape, just like Gale remembers him from their college days.
The mental picture of him all soft and warm like that makes Gale feel even more bitter about the chance he's missed tonight; it's been one hell of a day to end one hell of a week and the only thing Gale desires is his bed, with his pillow and his comforter and the blinds that fully close, not those damned light blocking curtains they had in the hotel.
He's so focused on getting out of the airport that he almost misses the sleeping figure on a chair just outside the arrivals gate, but something in that familiar outline makes Gale turn his head by instinct and stops him in his tracks: that's John.
“Bucky?” He asks stepping closer, only half afraid he's still stuck on the plane and just dreaming it but no, it's really John in his blue woolen sweater and sweatpants, asleep with his neck craned at an angle that cannot be comfortable. Gale raises a hand to shake him awake but stops with his fingers mere inches from John's shoulder, so close he can feel the warmth emanating from him and yet unable to fully close the gap. “Bucky?” He repeats instead, this time closer and a little louder, and John's eyes flutter open.
They're so blue, even the fluorescent lights of the airport can't dull them.
John blinks a few times to gather his bearings then a soft smile spreads on his face, warm and lazy like melted butter. “Buck! You're here.”
“Yeah, plane just landed. What are you doing here?”
John stretches, and Gale forces himself not to notice how large his body is in the constraint of the small metal chair or the satisfied groan that escapes his lips as he arches his back — mission accomplished, his mouth just got a little dry but it can be blamed on the altitude.
“I'm driving you home,” John says like that's not exactly what Gale delivered him from a few hours ago. “I was tracking your flight so I saw when you finally took off and so I drove here to wait for you.”
“You didn't have to,” Gale says, stiffly. “Jesus, I wasn't even sure if I was gonna get home tonight.”
“I would've come in the morning,” John answers with disarming honesty. Then he jumps on his feet and crushes Gale in a warm hug, tight but not suffocating — John hugs with his whole body, wraps his arms around Gale's back and slots his chin in the curve of Gale's neck, his solid chest pressed against Gale's so much their heartbeats mingle. It's impossible not to melt in its warmth, even for Gale who prides himself on being made of steel.
“Welcome back, Buck,” John says. Gale just hums noncommittally in response, but by the shape of the smile on John's face he knows he understood.
They battle for who's carrying Gale's trolley all the way to the car. “Are you sure you're up to drive? You were literally asleep less than five minutes ago,” Gale points out, stuffing his backpack and his trolley in the back of John's car.
“It was merely a power nap,” John shrugs. “Besides, what's the alternative? You driving after being awake for how many hours, twenty?”
“Eighteen,” Gale concedes sliding into the passenger's seat. “You're still crazy for driving all the way here at this time of night, by the way. Don't you have work in the morning?”
“Switched shifts with Jack, he owed me one. C'mon Buck, keep me awake: tell me about the conference, how was it? How is space?”
A smile pulls at Gale's lips. “Space's fine,” he answers and then starts telling John a few anecdotes about the week he's just had. Gale's pretty sure John still doesn't understand shit about his job but he listens, and comments, and asks questions, and makes dumb jokes that have Gale snorting through his nose as he tries to keep his composure, relaxing in the easiness of being with John, just the two of them in a warm car on a chilly night. Exactly how they're supposed to be.
He turns to look at John as he speaks, brave because he knows the other won't take his eyes off the road, not driving at night. In the intermittent shine of the lamplight he's even more beautiful, somehow, his eyes creased into half moons and his lips curled up in a perpetual grin; Gale wishes he could lean in and press a kiss to the corner of that mouth, small and quiet as a secret, imagines how tickling John's mustache would be against his lips.
He contents himself with taking in the sight of him, thinking maybe one day he'll do all that and more.
Quick as the drive home may seem, lost in idle chatting and longing stares, they get to Gale's home that it's almost two in the morning. The street is deserted and deadly quiet, the night a weighted blanket on gardens and people and houses; even John, who talks so loud sometimes Gale's sure he could hear him from space, lowers his tone to a quiet whispering as he helps Gale taking his stuff out of the car.
“D'you wanna come in?” Gale asks out of habit, because there's never been an outing after which they haven't spent some more time together just the two of them, in cars or flats or the diner around the corner of John's place, the one open 24/7.
John gives him a squinty smile in response. “It's two a.m. Buck, you should get into bed and sleep,” he says, his jaw cracking around a yawn he can't contain and that tells Gale exactly how tired he is, too.
“Yeah well, you too. You can crash here if you want,” Gale tells him. It's just fifteen more minutes to John's place from here, probably five at this time of night and at the speed John drives when there's no one else around, but still he adds, “So you won't have to drive half asleep anymore.”
John hesitates, but in his clear eyes Gale can see how much he wants to say yes. “You sure? I don't want to bother you, it's not too far.”
“It's the least I can do after you dragged your sorry ass to the airport for me,” Gale says. “C'mon. I'll make you pancakes for breakfast tomorrow.”
John's eyes light up. “The extra fluffy ones with the special ingredient you don't want to share? Count me in, Buck.”
The familiar smell of his home grounds Gale the moment he steps inside, welcomed by the creaking wooden floorboard and a row of perfectly aligned pairs of shoes along the wall. With a sigh of relief Gale toes off his loafers, gently kicks them in their spot; he smiles when he turns around and sees John doing the same without being told, a focused expression on his face as he lines up his battered sneakers with Gale's polished shoes.
“I'll take the couch,” John says, valiantly. Gale regards him with a skeptic look, raised eyebrow and everything. “You're twice the size of that couch, Bucky,” he says. “I didn't invite you in so you could be uncomfortable all night and wake up with your spine bent out of shape. There's the air mattress in the closet, I'll take that out.”
They've used it hundreds of times, for both impromptu and scheduled sleepovers with their friends or just the two of them — movie nights that morphed into marathons, nights before roadtrips to save time, even one unfortunate time when a pipe burst in John's flat and basically flooded it. Jack likes to say the poor mattress has a dent in it exactly in John's shape, that's how much he's used it.
But the fact is, they never tried to inflate it so late at night: the second they plug it in and flip the switch, the loudest sound Gale's ever heard fills the room like an explosion and no matter how quickly he turns it off, he's sure they must've woken up the entire neighborhood. He looks at John who's flinching, clearly deafened by the screams of anguish of the mattress being filled.
“Couch it is,” he says.
Gale hesitates. He could be a good host and leave the bed to John, sleep on the couch himself; but he's also too tall to lay comfortably on it, and he's spent the past week sleeping in an hotel bed with the mattress too hard and too soft at the same time, he deserves to sleep in his own bed.
He doesn't have to do it alone, though.
“I think we can manage in two in my bed, if you don't hog the sheets,” he says, the last part thrown in for humor to see how John responds, if he takes it in stride or tells Gale to fuck off — or, third possibility, he could read between the lines of Gale's suggestion and do what he promised not to, make the decision for him, kiss him.
When Gale looks at him John seems a deer in headlights, debating if he should bolt or just accept his fate. “The couch is not so bad, really,” he says.
“But the bed is better,” Gale counteracts.
“I'll definitely hog the sheets,” John adds, one last warning.
Gale shrugs. “I'll pull harder.”
The tense line of John's shoulders relaxes, slumped not in disappointment but in satisfied relief. “You made your bed, Buck,” he tells him with a soft grin and walks past him, towards the bedroom, but he stops when he's in front of Gale. There's an unreadable expression on his face, focused and tentative like he's striving to understand what's going on in Gale's mind, but perfectly knowing at the same time. He reaches out and squeezes Gale's jaw in his large, warm palm, gently but firm, one of John's inexplicable gestures that make up the fabric of their friendship — the tapestry of all the times John's touched, prodded, hugged, grasped, bumped, nudged, and Gale has let him.
There's still one of his old pajamas in Gale's drawer, perfectly pressed and ready to absorb John's smell once more. He looks soft in it, younger even as he gets into bed on Gale's right without having been told because he knows Gale sleeps on the left, he's always had.
Gale brushes his teeth and joins him, lets out a satisfied groan that would be embarrassing if it wasn't John with him when he's finally laying under his striped duvet, head sunk in his soft, plump pillow. He sighs, content, wriggling a little and making John laugh softly. “What's that for?” He asks, fond and amused.
Gale turns to him; John's hair is a messy, molasses colored halo around his head in the warm light of the abajour, he's propped on his elbow as if eager to listen to whatever story Gale has to tell him, his bicep popping, perfectly shaped and solid. Once again Gale thinks about kissing him but he's too tired now, he wouldn't be able to tell if it's real of just a dream if he did it.
“I'm happy to be home,” he simply says.
John's smiles softens even more. “Same.”
—
Awakening the next morning comes in slow, rolling waves. Gale re-emerges from a deep slumber blinking sleep out of his eyes, his limbs heavy with content satisfaction instead of exhaustion, and sighs to himself when he remembers he's in his own bed and what stretches in front of him is a full weekend without obligations or plans, just full on rest and relaxation. All the built-up exhaustion and frustration from yesterday's delays have subsided, smothered in Gale's soft pillow; and when he rolls to the side to stretch the remaining soreness out of his back he's reminded of another reason why he's so happy to be home.
John's still asleep, so tightly wrapped in the blankets that his bulky figure in barely distinguishable. He has his back turned on Gale so he can't see his face, just the messy, spiraling pattern of his dark curls in their wildest state; Gale's tempted to touch them, he could just reach out and card his fingers through John's hair, feel how smooth it is and warm with sleep.
He could even go further, scoot closer to John until he's squished against his broad shoulders and tuck his face into John's nape until he's dizzy with the warmth and the familiar smell of him, snake an arm around his waist to hug him tight as he's never dared before — John jokes so often that no one ever lets him be the little spoon, Gale's sure he'd like it.
But John stirs on his own before Gale can act on his impulses and rolls on his back with a loud yawn, unwrapping himself from the blankets as he moves. There's pillow creases all over the right side of his face when he turns towards Gale, blue eyes still sleepy and his mustache all askew. “Good morning Buck,” he says, voice rougher and deeper in a way that makes Gale feel funny.
“Happy you chose the bed?” Gale asks him. His voice is even quieter than usual when he's just woken up, that's something he got yelled at many times at home, yet John's never had problems hearing him.
“Very happy,” he says, reaching out to squeeze Gale's cheek. “The best bed I've ever slept in, hm-hm.”
Gale kicks off the blankets before the urge to kiss John silly in the best bed he's ever slept in wins him over. “C'mon, time for the best pancakes you've ever tasted,” he says smirking at John's groan, his cheek burning where John's fingers just touched him.
In the kitchen Gale opens the blind so everything can be drenched in sunlight, his pale yellow walls and the cherry wood cabinets John helped him install when Gale first moved here. Everything's clean and tidy, the fuchsia cyclamens in the windowsill have been watered by Ben when he came over on his walks with Meatball, the fridge's well stocked thanks to Marge who stopped by yesterday knowing Gale's return was due; at first it was weird to him, this sense of community and how easy it came to others, but now he's used to it, he loves it. He gives it back, too, whenever he can — like right now, he's about to make John breakfast because he's picked him up from the airport and drove him home in the middle of the night.
No other reason.
There's a vintage radio below the window, Gale turns it on and fiddles with the switches until he finds a station that plays 40s music; not his usual jam, but John loves it. Humming along to the tune he gathers the ingredients in a green bowl while some butter melts sizzling in the pan.
John comes into the kitchen just as Gale pours the batter for the first pancake in the pan. “Oh, I missed the special ingredient again,” he complains, stretching with his arms up until some skin is showing right above the waistband of his pants.
“Put on some coffee, won't ya?” Gale tells him, focused on the pan not to burn anything and not to stare. John shuffles around the kitchen like he owns the place, pulls out two mugs from the cabinet right above Gale's head standing so close to him Gale can feel the warmth seeping from his body and has to fight the instinct to lean back against it.
The table's all set when the pancakes are ready, with the maple syrup bottle and the powdered sugar and two mugs of coffee full and steamy, John's dark and Gale's lighter with the caramel creamer he likes.
“Try one, tell me how they turned out,” Gale says and John picks the first pancake up with his hands, ignoring the fork that's being offered to him. He blows on his fingertips and grins at Gale's unimpressed look, then drowns the pancake in maple syrup before taking the first giant bite.
“Mgod Buck,” he mumbles with his mouth full, golden syrup shining on his lips.
“Good?”
John swallows with a groan that almost makes Gale blush. “Good? The best fucking food of all time, every time. You have to tell me how you do it Buck, really.”
“It's the special ingredient,” Gale says, amused, placing his own pancake on the plate and coating it in powdered sugar before drizzling some syrup on top.
It's good, fluffy and moist, not like the store-bought one he was used to as a kid. Pancakes were the first thing he taught himself how to cook, one time he wanted to make breakfast for his mum on Mother's Day; his first attempt had come out weirdly shaped and bone-dry but his mum ate it all like it was the best thing she'd ever had, and when she was done and Gale still disappointed in his culinary failure she taught him a Very Important Lesson as she called it.
She told him the pancakes were good because Gale had made them with a secret ingredient that made everything special, even half burnt piles of mushy batter.
Gale glances at John shoveling pancakes into his mouth with the grace of a starving man — still one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen — and for a moment he sees all the versions of him he has witnessed.
The skinny nineteen year old with ears as big as his smile who took one look at him and decided to brand him with his own nickname. The desperate roommate who always tried to cram all of his studying the night before an exam. The college graduate who'd finally grown into his features and gotten a whole head taller than him with one last growth spurt. The friend who insisted to be the first one Gale took for a ride when he got his driver license. The man who painted his living room with him and mounted half the furniture in Gale's flat to save him some money and never asked for anything more than a pizza and a beer in return. The suddenly shy guy who confessed his feelings for him months ago and never pushed, never pressured Gale for anything. The person Gale fell in love with, without even noticing.
The one he'd make pancakes for, for the rest of their lives.
“John,” he calls, tranquil and quiet now that he's made up his mind. John stops with the fork halfway to his mouth and tilts his head like a dog. “Buck?”
“It's love. The- the secret ingredient,” Gale adds, looking away and taking a deep breath. “It's love.”
Silence falls upon the kitchen and when Gale dares looking at him, John's looking right back and gives him a smile sweeter than powdered sugar and maple syrup put together.
And that's actually the most beautiful thing Gale's ever seen in his entire life, he thinks: John, sugar on the tip of his nose, and the secret ingredient written all over his face.
Love.