Maladaptive Daydreamer

90. making weird faces as an itch that you can’t scratch at the moment trickles over your face

“Would you just-no. Stop. Not that way. Goddamnit, John.”

“Alright. I’m trying my best here, okay?” 

“You’re the one who said we could do it without any help.”

A wooden step creaks under John’s weight as he steps back, waiting for Gale higher up on the stairs before he dares to move down another couple. The strain of the heavy sofa makes John’s arms ache from taking the bulk of it, but Gale was right. He did insist they’d be able to move the furniture from upstairs without any help. John didn't have any room to complain.

Gale stops suddenly, and his eyes shut, nose scrunching. Isn't that the cutest damn thing, John thinks.

John huffs a laugh, momentarily forgetting about the weight in his arms, “Jeez, what’s wrong with you?”

1. borrowing misery from future

2. carrying grief of the past

Gale tries to be gentle drawing the curtain open. He really does. But, it’s been a long night.

It was his third 12-hour shift in a row and at some point he had lost track of the number of people he had seen so far. The energy drink he had gulped down thirty minutes ago had done very little to sharpen him up. Instead he had heart palpitations now and seeing the name on the chart had made him even more jittery.

"John Egan?"

He called out as he walked in, already sanitizing his hands. Voice flat and unimpressed.

The guy sitting on the bed grinned, teeth huge and tinted red with blood.

"Hey Buck. Fancy seeing you here."

Gale tried not to huff at the nickname and scanned John up and down while he pulled a pair of gloves on. He could see the red swollen patches on his knuckles layered over old bruises. His white tank looked wet with sweat, stuck to his torso, smeared with dirt and blood. Gale's eyes lingered for a second longer than they should have before he forced them back up to follow the droplets up to John’s face where his nose was bleeding down to his lips, darkening at the base. His nose was definitely broken.

Gale sighed and skimmed the chart while reaching for the blood pressure cuff mounted on the wall beside the stretcher. He doubted there would be anything new in there since last week John was in.

"What happened?" He asked, though he already knew the answer and rolled the first aid tray forward with his foot.

"Oh you know me Buck, innocent as always. Didn't see it coming."

Gale narrowed his eyes.

"Arm."

John looked at him for a second before offering it over. The cuff tightened around his bicep.

"Did you lose consciousness at all? Black out?"

"Nah."

"Any nausea? Lightheadedness? Dizziness?"

"Don't worry Buck, ain't got a concussion."

The machine beeped softly beside them. Gale typed a few notes into the chart. He took the cuff off, eyes mapping the red indentations it left on John’s biceps.Gale tried to ignore the flex of the muscles. Walking to stand in front of him, he used two fingers under John's chin to tilt his head gently toward the light. John huffed in pain.

“Thought so” Gale sighed.

The bridge of his nose was swollen and crooked.

Definitely broken.

Gale reached for a piece of gauze and wiped away some of the blood obscuring the injury before pressing a fresh stack into John's hand.

"Hold pressure."

John took it but didn't move. Smirking at Gale instead.

"John."

That earned him an exaggerated sigh before John finally pressed the gauze to his nose.

"There. Happy?"

“Yes“

John snorted.

Gale wished that laugh didn't sound quite so familiar anymore.

"Your nose is broken."

"No it isn't."

Gale stared at him. Blood was still seeping through the gauze.

"It's visibly crooked."

"Maybe it always looked like that."

"It didn't."

"You don't know that."

"I unfortunately know exactly what your face looks like."

That grin appeared again immediately. Gale felt warmth spreading through his chest.

He regretted saying it the second it left his mouth.

He turned to Gale clicked through the chart. His eyes skimmed the text he had already copy pasted from his previous notes.

Male. Thirty years old. No known allergies. Repeat patient.

Repeat patient felt like an underestimate.

"You fight the same guy again?" Gale asked, unable to hold his curiosity in.

John barked out a laugh.

"What?"

"The fact that you think it's always the same guy."

Gale looked up.

"It isn't?"

"No."

For some reason that made it worse.

"Jesus Christ, Bucky.”

"What?"

"You know most people don't spend every firday night getting punched in the face."

John considered that.

“What you mean is most people won’t spend friday nights getting told off by a hot nurse”

Gale frowned. He should’ve noticed it sooner. Should have gotten a whiff when he was examining his face.

“Are you intoxicated right now?”

and this is junkyard love A Little Beasts Fic (7.6k)

“I’m not doing this here.” 

“Doing what, Buck? Taking an afternoon stroll? Last I checked you aren’t supposed to be turning away the needy and the godless. Did I miss Mass already? Or am I early.” 

“What can I do for you, John,” Gale says, as flatly far from a question as he can manage. 

Silently exhaling air through his lips, John makes a wounded face, though there’s something sharp to it too. The beginning signs of John rising to the confrontation. “Hell of an attitude, Father– sorry for swearin’.”

There’s a faint ringing in the deepest recesses of Gale’s ears, like distant tornado sirens. Something like hunger sits at the back of his throat, oily and slick. “You’re never sorry.”

“Maybe I mean it this time.”

“I have better things to do than play games, Egan.” 

“Somebody piss in your Communion wine?” 

“Jesus, John,” Gale breaks, frustration crackling into his voice. 

John clicks his tongue at him, one eye squeezing shut and a finger coming up to aim a perfect shot between Gale’s eyes. “I came for Confession.”

“You pulled that one already, remember?”

a place on earth with you

Explicit | 12k | Ch: 5/5

John beams at him. In the slanting morning light, silver threads shine in his hairline when he tips his face to a certain angle, where his cheeks sharpen and the years are written honestly in the lines beside his eyes. He is just as strikingly handsome as Gale remembers from the very beginning—a lifetime ago, shaking his hand by the hangar under the flat Texas sun, thinking trouble and being drawn to him in the same breath. Despite having seen him inside out, despite having been given every dark room and every cracked foundation, John Egan remains the most unknowable existence Gale has ever encountered. Ineffable and fathomless, the person most worth knowing Gale’s ever met, a lifetime is barely enough to begin.

/