This You Will Be The One Worth Knowing

in a fandom where the main ship has, as of today, 1968 fics out of over 3000 total

i really don't think anyone should be throwing a hissy fit over the existence a pairing that has less than 100 fics on ao3, or saying that it doesn't count as a rarepair

“Bucky,” Gale says. “Hey, you’re alright.”

John is caught in the throes of whatever has him, his body rigid, his face slick with sweat. When Gale reaches out to shake his shoulders, John's hand flies up to grip Gale's wrist with startling strength.

“It’s me, John,” Gale says, making no move to break free.

John's eyes snap open, wild and unfocused for a moment before recognition dawns. He blinks hard, exhaling through his nose, then sits up slowly. His breathing is still ragged, his face pale and drawn in the moonlight filtering through the window.

“Buck,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Christ. I wake you?”

Gale isn’t sure whether to answer. John doesn’t seem to need him to, pressing his palm against his eyes instead. With his wrist still caught in John’s hand, Gale perches on the edge of the bed, not knowing what else to do.

“Bad one?” he asks.

John scrubs his face with one hand. Quiet for a long moment, then turns to Gale with something like embarrassment. “Yeah. It's always the same things. The crash. The body. The march. Wondering if you..." He trails off, shaking his head. “Doesn't matter.”

“What about me?”

The silence lasts for so long that Gale thinks there might not be an answer before John finally speaks.

“Wondering if you made it. If you were alive. If I'd ever see you again,” he says, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “Sometimes I didn't. In the dreams, I mean.”

He sounds calm, like he’s made peace with it, but the lingering debris of the nightmare on his face suggests the absolute opposite. Gale hasn’t allowed himself to dwell on what John's experience must have been like—the not knowing, the agonizing uncertainty. In the same way, he doesn’t dwell on the guilt that has been eating at him since the day he went over that camp wall. Not once had it crossed his mind that they should talk through it, but now he doubts what good keeping silent has done for either of them.

“Bucky, I—”

“I’m glad you got out first, Buck,” John says firmly, as if he suspects what’s coming is an apology. “That ain’t ever gonna change.”

And that’s the thing about John, dressing up perceptiveness as generosity. Sometimes Gale thinks, not without some kind of resentment, that John refuses to accept an apology only because he knows a few words of regret would let them both off the hook too easily and close the door on the very thing they need to look at. 

Gale’s not certain what else he could say, anyway. He swallows. “Okay.”

John smiles. After a beat, he adds, “having you here helps, y’know? With these damn dreams.” He finally lets go of Gale’s hand, leaving behind a cold trace and a dull ache in the bone. They sit mutely for a while, until John asks, “you ever dreamt about it?”

His unreadable gaze has a weight to it. Gale flexes his wrist, knowing he won't get many more chances to give something back.

“Sometimes,” he starts, feeling the words all tangled in his mouth. “Sometimes it’s Regensburg. Or the day my fort was hit. Or fighting the guards. Thought about putting an unloaded gun below my pillow just so I could hold it and feel safe.” He stops to inhale, letting the cold night air push the rest of the words out. “One time I woke up and there were bruises on Marge’s arms. No idea what I’d done.”

John goes stiff, but his breathing slows, turning softer. “Shit. That’s rough.” He pauses. “Was that—was that the reason?”

The question is complete without further specification. Gale's mouth goes dry, feeling as though he’s said too much, even while barely scratching the surface of it.

“Yeah,” he says, the lie coming easier this time, wrapped tightly in the truth. “Sort of, I think.”

John lets out a long, weathered sigh. He pulls his legs up, hunching over his knees. He still sleeps in his briefs. His muscles look slackened now, covered with a layer of softness, his torso thicker. Yet there is strength moving underneath, as if his body steadfastly refuses to come to terms with the passage of time. Motionless, his thighs look like tree trunks rooted deeply in the earth, his back a broad expanse pale as snow.

Gale wants to touch him. The urge is so strong it makes his fingers tremble. John is close enough that Gale can feel his breath against his shoulder. Touching him would be the easiest thing Gale has ever done, if only he could reach out.

Whatever courage Gale had gathered leaks right out of him, though, when John raises his head and his eyes are so clear Gale sees his own reflection in them. 

“Well. For what it's worth, I’m not afraid of guns,” John says, his voice slips back into its usual whimsical cadence. “Don’t mind a bit of horseplay, for that matter.”

Gale stares, taken aback. Then laughs despite himself. “Jesus, Bucky.”

John hums, looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. “I mean it.” Then, with a more serious face, he says again, “having you here helps, Buck.”

so he’s actually ssssuper laid back and chilled and not a control freak

Here, Boy

(dog-coded Gale fic)

Gale knew that very first day that he was a stray, showing up in the doorway of John Egan’s room unloved and shy and bristling, coaxed closer with gentle touches and an eager voice—and Gale had fallen for it, head over heels.

He knows what it’s like to be kicked in the ribs, made to lie outside on the porch. To be fed scraps and yelled at. To be desolately desperate for love. But John gave it freely with open-handed affection, naming Gale and scrubbing fingers through his hair and squeezing him around the ribs to lift him bodily off the ground. Gale stared after him, answered his voice, followed at his heels. Guarded and guided, accepting John’s praise and requests with a voracious, guilty craving he fought to conceal. Hoping John couldn't see it in his eyes. 

*** Dog coded!Gale, or

When John gets back to Thorpe Abbots, Gale can't cope