get him pregnant central

Coursework doesn’t pick up speed right after New Year's, so Gale finds himself home early for once, and can often get fresh vegetables and bread at the market just before closing. He takes advantage of the early hours and manages to keep some of the habits he established over the holiday, even though he can only spare limited time for housework. John joins him for dinner if Gale is cooking and does dishes after. Calls home when he’s running late. Occasionally, John skips their tacit plan without telling Gale in advance; a lapse Gale supposes he should welcome, if only as a dose of reality he’d otherwise forget.

He realizes tonight is one of those nights when it's past seven and the usual sound of John’s engine hasn't come. The phone didn't ring once. Gale eats alone. The spaghetti he made tastes nice, its flavor fresher and brighter than the canned sauce he's used to, so he leaves a plate for John, covered with a kitchen towel to keep it warm.

It’s around ten and Gale is doing dishes when a car finally pulls up outside. He dries his hands, then walks to the window, expecting to see John's familiar figure climbing out of his sedan. But when he parts the curtains, the man getting out of the driver's seat is a stranger.

Gale freezes, watching as a younger man in uniform comes around to help John—red-faced and unsteady—out of the passenger side. 

They've never discussed it, but it's unlikely John would tell anyone else that a man is living with him. A divorced man with no clear timeline for leaving. Gale retreats to the kitchen and rips off the apron, trying to think of a way out in case the man escorts John inside. It's too late now to wipe out every trace of him, but he supposes he can put up a front—like he's just visiting. Gale's jaw hurts from flexing. He wants a toothpick, something he hasn't needed in weeks. Months. 

Then he hears the front door open, but only one set of footsteps enters as John kicks his boots off and drops his keys in the catchall tray.

Before relief can settle, the smell of alcohol swirls in like a punch to his stomach, sharp and unwelcome.

It's not like Gale is still teetotal—he's had wine with Marge on celebratory occasions, shared a beer with neighbors at backyard barbecues—but he's never cared for the smell, the taste, or the feeling of losing control that comes with too much alcohol. John didn't say anything about it, but Gale knows he's cut down on drinking ever since Gale moved in. For a moment, worry overpowers everything else. John drinks to forget. To cope. Perhaps something has happened at work, or with his family.

But when John appears in the kitchen doorway, he seems relaxed, even cheerful. Gale watches him walk in, swaying slightly, and catch sight of the pasta on the table.

“Oh,” he says, “sorry I missed dinner, doll.”

Heat flushes Gale's face. The endearment hits him squarely. John's used it before—casual, almost generic, a term of affection he throws out when he's feeling fond. It's harmless, and it's never bothered Gale, because it's never felt like this. Like a messy blurring of lines. A violation. Sparks of heat and ice race down Gale's spine. He's suddenly aware of the two of them as a scene—as if someone's pulled back a curtain to reveal a full, seated audience—watching John deliver his line, apologizing to a wife who's made a home-cooked meal and waited up for him. 

John can’t mean it, and yet he's smiling. A stupid, oblivious, alcohol-loosened smile. Something twisted in Gale's chest wants to snap.

“How's your driver gonna get home?” he asks instead.

“Told him to drive it back and pick me up tomorrow morning,” John says, pulling his necktie loose. Of course he did. Gale had been so jumpy he hadn’t even noticed the engine turning around in the driveway.

Reading the tension in Gale's face, John adds, “Ah, don't worry about it. It's just Thomas, my cadet.” He laughs, as if sharing an inside joke with the room. “Kid doesn't drink. Like you.”

He passes by Gale to grab a glass, elbow brushing. Gale restrains the instinct to flinch.

“He’s not your chauffeur, Bucky,” he says as John gulps the water. “Shouldn't keep the kid on the clock.”

“That an order?” John wipes at his mouth, eyes squinted. He leans forward, close enough that Gale is sucker punched by the smell of liquor on him. “Careful Buck, if you’re gonna pull rank on me. I might like it too much.”

His voice has dropped lower, softer, almost coaxing. Gale is rigid, holding his breath until he feels lightheaded. No point in reasoning with John when he’s at his most unreasonable. Gale decides, and turns back to the dishes. 

John, ignoring the cue as usual, follows him to the counter.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” John calls from behind. “You upset with me, sweetheart?”

A mixture of annoyance and something akin to fury floods through Gale. He's seen John drunk enough times and knows better than to read into his nonsense, but it's never been anything more than good-natured teasing wrapped in slurred words. Somehow there's a difference in this that Gale finds impossible to sit with. Maybe he shouldn't have made that damn pasta. Or anything, to begin with. He flexes his fingers on the edge of the sink.

“You should go wash up,” he says, keeping his voice even. 

“If I do, you gonna eat with me?” John asks, waving toward the covered plate.

Gale takes a deep breath. He dries his hands and turns around. John is looking right at him, his hairline and neck dotted with sweat, the dog tags and crucifix glistening under his undone collar. His eyes are crinkled, his smile unbridled. The whole picture is so close to the version of Bucky who could get Gale to agree to anything.

Gale looks away. “Going to sleep now, Bucky.” 

The smile falters. John's gaze flattens as he seems to shrink into himself, hardening a little. “Yeah,” he says, subdued. “Sure you are.” 

A trace of belligerence tinges his voice despite the haze of drink, leaving a bitter taste on Gale's tongue. Gale walks around him, hesitating, but he knows the moment he could try and save the conversation is gone. He doesn't think he should.

“Drink some more water before bed,” Gale says at last.

On the first day of his winter break, Gale wakes before dawn.

The house is quiet, John still asleep, and Gale moves through the kitchen without making too much noise. He thinks about telling John his plan but decides against it. For all he knows he might fail to make anything edible. 

Gale had received more recipes than Elaine promised him. He recognized sausage hash among them and doubted he could make anything that tasted near Marge’s version. The recipe looks simple enough on paper, but he quickly discovers he has no idea what constitutes the proper size for diced potatoes, or how to achieve that elusive golden brown status. The smell of charred starch fills the kitchen soon as he burns the first batch. He turns the heat down, attempting the second batch with more patience, only for a careless angle of the knife to make a potato roll the wrong way under his palm, and the blade catches the side of his finger.

“Christ,” he curses, more exasperated than hurt. Years of training to handle a knife against the enemy, and he can't even cut a potato straight. He runs the cut under the tap, wraps it in a dish towel, and presses down, willing the bleeding to stop before John wakes up. Then he goes back to the stove one-handed, awkward and stubborn, determined to finish what he started.

By the time John's footsteps sound on the stairs, the potatoes are mostly golden, if a little irregular. He appears in the doorway mid-knot on his tie, then stops, taking in the pan of hash and the small disaster area that used to be the kitchen.

He moves to the stove, peering at the hash with too much interest. “You made this?”

“Not sure it turned out right,” Gale says, suddenly very aware of the mess he's made. “You don’t gotta eat it.”

“Are you kidding? This smells incredible, Buck. When’d you learn to cook?”

“I didn't. I'm winging it.”

Looking into the pan makes Gale sweat. His left hand comes up to dab at his forehead, and he forgets the thin line of red welling up along the cut—until John catches sight of it.

“Hey.” John's voice changes, all the teasing dropping out of it at once. He catches Gale's wrist before Gale can pull it away. “What'd you do to yourself?”

“It's nothin’.” Gale tries to tug his hand back, mortified, but John's grip is firm. “Knife slipped.”

“Doesn't look like nothing.” 

Gale was ready to say something in return. The cut is not even a quarter inch. They’ve both seen much worse. But John is turning the finger toward the light, inspecting it with the focus they would’ve reserved for compound fracture or gangrene. And before Gale can tell him to leave it, John brings the finger to his mouth and closes his lips around it.

A small noise escapes from Gale’s throat, the rest of his breath caught somewhere between his ribs. His body goes flush at that single gesture, then is locked up and pliant at the same time. Something velvet warm presses lightly against the cut, and Gale loses control of the tremor in his hand. John has to feel it in his mouth. He doesn’t let go. His tongue presses harder as he sucks around the tip of Gale’s finger. It doesn’t even feel like part of Gale's body anymore, just flesh disappearing in plump, pink red; only, it's all he can still feel, the part of him inside another man. 

john is a lord/prince/knight/whatever you want from a noble family and gale is his squire/servant/whatever you want. they’re friends, kind of, in a way. at least gale thinks so. all squires spend all day every day with their knights, and all squires sleep at the threshold of their knights’ chambers, but gale is the only one in the castle who has a nice straw pallet to sleep on, and he’s the only one who can mouth off without getting punished for it. john just laughs or shoves him or pets him like a little plaything, which gale feels like he should resent more than he actually does. of course most of the time he’s well aware of the divide between them—there are his duties, for one, and if john’s in a bad mood he can get snappy and act like a rich dickhole, and the other knights/lords almost always treat gale shittily.

so one night john’s out carousing or whatever with gale waiting on him and they return to the castle to find the entire noble family and staff killed and gale’s immediately like, you have to leave. now. and john says, “i need you to come with me,” all wild-eyed.

“that’s impossible,” gale says. “you’ll make your own way,” and john says, “i can’t. i can’t do that.”

“you can. just because you’ve never been alone—“

“—and neither have you,” john says. “i’m ordering you to come with me.”

and even tho orders have no meaning anymore bc everything they ever had is gone, gale gives a short nod. lifelong habit and all. they come up with a plan to switch places bc nobody looks too closely at a servant: gale cuts his long hair off and they trade clothes and john rides behind him into unknown lands. they have to keep up this charade for months while wandering (for money? revenge? whatever) and eventually john starts to chafe under it. he’s not used to this, being treated like shit on a shoe. in private, they resettle into their roles but john starts drinking more and making more and more snide comments, bc some nasty part of him wants gale to remember his place.

finally one night gale snaps. they get back to the room and john starts to flop down onto the bed but gale yanks him back up by the collar and drops him on the floor like, “who the hell do you think you are?”

“who do you think you are?” john asks hotly. “i outrank you, i’m your lord, i own—“

“you own nothing. you sleep on a stone floor. you have no land, no money, no family, no home,” gale states in a cold voice. he gets a handful of john’s hair in a fist. it’s been growing out for the first time since he was a boy, unruly and tangled. “and look at you now: you’re kneeling at the feet of your lowly squire. so i’m asking you again—who do you think you are?”

and john is—hot for it?? maybe he’s just drunk. strong mead out in the countryside, that’s for sure. he says, “fuck you,” and wrenches out of gale’s grip and crawls his way onto his sad little pallet and waits until gale is asleep before humping the straw out of it. obviously the next morning they pretend nothing happened. the mead, john thinks again. yeah.

One by one, the shapes in his periphery disappear. Gale faces down the last of them by a blade thickened with red. When it smears onto the man's neck, he whispers, "Wait," and Gale falters for the first time because—because that's a boy's neck, a boy's voice, chin overhanging in shadow and wide, frightened eyes.

"Please," he says, staring. 

Gale stares back.

Behind him, metal whistles through the air; stops with a clang, punctuated by a visceral squelch and two thumps, the second somehow deader than the first. A disembodied head rolls into view just as the boy scrambles up and takes off into trees. It happens too quickly. Gale can only watch him go, breathing the gasps of someone coming up from underwater only to suck in the stench of open flesh.

"You fight well," John says. He's crouching, making use of a stained tunic to clean his blade. "Don't hesitate next time. And swivel your head."

Gale loosens his grip. "I haven't ever—"

"Now you have. Here," John says, holding out a hand. When he gets no response, he says, impatiently, "Gale. Your sword."

Sometimes he'll make a joke of it. Call Gale sir, sire, master, the tone of it shifting between amicable to bittersweet to just plain bitter, but he keeps doing it all the same. Gale passes his sword over. John cleans it and hands it back, hilt aimed to Gale's right side in deference.

"My liege," he states.

A flicker of ire makes Gale snatch it with more force than necessary. He hadn't asked for any of this. He doesn't know what is keeping him here, other than the thinnest sense of duty. He could leave; he could sneak away when John is too drunk to notice and ride back into the city to start over with a new family, a new lord.