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footbaliimagines · 7 years

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home (a gareth bale imagine)

summary: there’s no place like home

There are a few things he misses about home.

Scrap that: there are a lot of things he misses about home.

You know, PG Tips, Cadbury’s chocolate, fish and chips, Yorkshire puddings.

Little things that sometimes, when the homesickness gets a bit too much and all he can think about is a proper roast dinner back at home with his family, are nearly enough to push him over the edge and persuade him to buy a one-way ticket home.

He enjoys his life in Madrid, he honestly does. His career is flying to dizzying heights and it's an honour to play alongside incredible players in such prestigious tournaments with an unparalleled support spurring him on.

But it’s not quite home yet.

“It just takes time.” Is what Luka had told him, when he had first moved, with a sympathetic smile. “And it’s definitely difficult. But give it time. I promise you’ll feel better in a few months.”

(Gareth appreciates it, and he’s certain that there’s a lot of truth in what he’s saying, but Luka has a wife and two kids and he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be so mopey if he had someone to go home to every night.)

So when he hears a voice, that resonates in his ears like an old song, makes his heart skip a beat and then simultaneously pang with a melancholic homesickness, when walking down the corridors at the Ciudad Real it’s not surprising that he stops in his tracks.

“Hey!” He calls out, following her into a room where she sits down at the desk.

“Um, hi?” She’s looking at him like a deer caught in the headlights, and crossing her arms guardedly over her chest.

He’s suddenly swarmed with four 19-year olds, eagerly begging for a photo and waving their phones in his face. “Guys, stop, please.” She groans, rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry about this, Mr Bale. Guys, sit down.”

“It’s fine.”

He laughs nervously and rushes to take the photos with the four young men, before offering her a small smile and a nod. “You can call me Gareth, by the way.” He blurts out clumsily, before bolting and striding out of the classroom.

“She’s teaching me Spanish. I’ve never been happier to go to a lesson in my life.” He overhears a voice when using the restroom at training one night.

“She makes me want to sing Senorita by Justin Timberlake.”

“God, she’s just so hot.” The first voice groans. “She has the best arse I’ve ever seen. And when she wears the grey pencil skirt! I could just die.”

“Me gusta mucho.” And they both laugh.

Laugh, laugh, laugh, while Gareth exits the cubicle and offers a small, polite smile and a nod to the young players who he’s pretty sure play for the U19s squad and recognises from meeting at the EUROs last year. They’re young players and he’s pleased to see two British players succeeding abroad, but the way they’re talking about her almost makes him want to kick them in the balls.

Jealousy probably isn’t the right word, because he’s not jealous of these young kids, or worried that by some magical slight of hand she’ll run off with one of the players she’s meant to be help accustoming to life in sunny Spain. It’s more a feeling of disrespect. Of her, of her brain, of her body, because she has so much more to offer than ‘her arse in that grey pencil skirt’ and these players don’t even know her.

(And then he remembers that neither does he.)

The next time he sees her, she’s blushing and asking in a hushed voice if he could possibly sign a shirt for her. “It’s for my nephew. He’s a huge fan and once he found out that I knew you he hasn’t stopped pestering me since.”

“I could do more than just sign a shirt, you know.”

“You don’t have to.”

(He can tell she’s different from the fact that he’s nervous and can’t string a few words together to stretch out their conversation.)

“What’s your name?”

She replies with a graceful smile and soft thank you as she takes the shirt from his hands and puts it back in her handbag. “So, um, you teach Spanish?”

She nods, “To the boys in the academy who come from the UK.”

“Ah. Fun?”

“As fun as a job can be. Then again, I shouldn’t be saying that to a footballer.”

He smiles. “It’s a nice reminder of home.” She continues. “Especially when I feel homesick or miss my family.”

It’s incredibly refreshing to hear his sentiments vocalised perfectly, and their subsequent conversation flows easily, peppered with laughs and playful comments and the next thing they know, twenty minutes have passed and her phone is vibrating from inside her handbag.

“I better go.” She whispers, gesturing to her phone and going to accept the call. “Thanks for the shirt, Gareth. I’ll see you round, hey?”

He nods and she rushes off.

By the third time they speak, he’s smitten.

(Not just on the cusp of falling for her, but already hurtling face first at a million miles an hour.)

Born and raised in South East London, she studied Spanish and Business at university and wholeheartedly agrees with him that Coronation Street is miles better than Eastenders. She teaches Spanish to the kids in the youth team, so the moments they see each other are rare and fleeting. But he treasures them nevertheless, and it's like they're in on their own private joke whenever he gets the privilege of speaking to her. Because she can always rely on him to update her about Strictly come Dancing and sneak her a square of proper Cadbury’s chocolate he had bought in bulk on his last trip home, and he can always rely on an old British children's television show they both watched as kids as a basis for a conversation.

(Grange Hill and Arthur tend to do the trick.)

Gareth pours the pancake batter slowly and carefully into the pain, an amused smile fixed on his face and his gaze constantly flitting between the pan in front of him and her lazy grin and stifled laughs to his left. “What are you laughing at?”

“You’re sticking your tongue out.” She pokes his cheek as he puts down the mixing bowl and turns on the hob.

“You’re distracting me.” He replies. “You’re not meant to distract the chef while he’s at work.”

“I wasn’t aware you were a chef now, Gareth.” She teases.

“Just call me Gordon Ramsay.”

“What is this, Hell’s Kitchen? Are you going to criticise my Michelin star worthy pancakes and scream that I’m a fucking disgrace next?”

“Depends on the quality of the pancakes, to be honest.”

“Do you know how to say pancakes in Spanish?”

“I’m afraid to say that I don’t.”

“I can help you with your Spanish, you know.” She swings herself up onto the kitchen counter, letting her legs dangle and reaching to the bowl of cookie dough to her right. “Es muy importante que aprendas como hablar español.”

He looks at her in confusion, “I don’t need to.”

“Gareth, you accidentally told Sergio you were pregnant before. It’s only so long before that kind of thing happens in an actual press conference. The media will never let it go.”

His face stings red at the memory of when he told Sergio he was “muy embarazada”, and the chuckles it had elicited and the playful slaps on the chest his Spanish teammates had given him. “I don’t mind teaching you. As long as you’ll be a good student.”

“I will.”

He puts a hand on her knee and she smiles at him.

He doesn’t want to learn Spanish, and would much rather rely on the translator Real Madrid have assigned him, but it’s an excuse to spend more time with her and that was an opportunity he would take up any day of the week.

(Being with her tended to make most things worthwhile.)

It’s his birthday, and the club have insisted on throwing a formal party at a swanky hotel, despite his adamant insistence that he didn’t want, nor need a big party. He was never really sure of how to act around her at these kind of club events. They were friends, and since their weekly Spanish lessons at her apartment on Saturday nights, Gareth was almost confident enough to say that they were good friends, now.

(Plus, their Saturday night lessons usually ended in binging Netflix and ice cream and her head on his shoulder, so he wasn’t one to complain.)

When it came to conversing in the company of others, however, he wasn’t quite sure where to lay down his boundaries. She was sat with the other club employees, but had offered him a wide smile and an eager wave as he had walked in twenty minutes earlier. It must be the liquid confidence from the tequila shots he had slammed back with Isco and Toni that persuades him to stride over to her.

“Want to come out to the balcony and get some air? I have something to give you.” He tells her, a low voice beside her ear.

She nods, downing the last of her gin and tonic and scrambling to her feet. “Happy birthday, by the way. I know I told you this morning at work, and sent you a text with that really funny dog photo, but third time’s the charm, right?”

He laughs, before passing her a white envelope and smiling nervously. “Here.”

“What is this?”

“Just open it.”

“It’s your birthday, Gareth. You’re meant to receive presents, not give them to other people.”

“Take it, dummy,” He gestures to her with the slightly crumpled envelope and waves it at her.

“You don’t have to give me anything. Especially on your birthday.”

“Stop being stubborn and take the god damn envelope,” he laughs.

She takes it from him, pulling out the papers inside and raising an eyebrow at him. Thank you for booking your flights with British Airways. Madrid International to London Heathrow,

“What are these?” She croaks out after a few moments of silence, gripping the papers tightly and looking at him with her eyes wide.

“You mentioned a few weeks ago that your boss wouldn’t let you leave as early as you’d planned even though you’d told him 6 months in advance so you wouldn’t miss your brother’s birthday. But apparently I can be quite persuasive when I want to be, and now for the bargain of a few more sponsored Instagram posts, he’s moved around your schedule and you’ll be able to fly out when you originally planned.”

“Gareth,” she sighs contently, lurching forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re too good to me. Honestly. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to.” He shrugs, smiling down at her. “Plus, think of it as a thank you present to the lessons you’ve been giving me. Creo que he mejorado mucho.”

“It’s your fucking birthday, Gareth, not mine. How come you’re the one giving me presents when I’m too shitty of a friend to even remember to bring yours with me?” She chuckles.

“Seeing you happy makes me happy. And that’s the best present in the world.” He speaks nervously, softly. It’s the closest he’s ever come to giving her a hint to how he feels, and he feels himself growing tomato red at the realisation of this. “If I play any part that’s just an added bonus.”

“Thank you. So, so much.”

She smiles and he feels butterflies jumble in his gut, as the realisation of the fact that his hands are still on her waist and his face is only inches away from hers smacks him in the face. “There is one draw back, though.”

“What?”

“You’ll be stuck next to me for the flight.”

“I think I’ll be able to cope.”

“I swear to God Gareth, please shut up.” She grimaces, gripping the arm rests on either side of her body and keeping her gaze fixed markedly ahead.

“I didn’t take you for a nervous flier.”

“I fucking hate planes. Wish I swam instead.” She moans, scrunching her eyes shut and leaning back, before flinching as the plane hit another wave of turbulence.

She suddenly reaches for his hand as the plane lurches forward and grips it tightly, and even though her long nails are digging into his skin and probably going to leave a bruise, he doesn’t find himself complaining.

(Her hand doesn’t leave his for the rest of the flight.)

Her mum absolutely adores him, and her 3-year-old niece yelps every time Gareth has to leave the room. It’s Sunday brunch at her family’s home in Bromley, and he’s dropping by to say hello before they both embark on a flight back to Madrid.

“Your family are crazy.” He murmurs, his voice only just audible over the radio and general racket at the dining table. “It’s fun.”

“They love you.” She replies. “Probably more than me.”

He laughs heartily, and is just about to tell her that he’s not sure how (because she’s quite possibly the most remarkable person he’s ever met) when her Dad decides it’s the perfect time to heckle him about how he made the greatest decision of all time to leave that ‘shithouse of a club’.

(They’re a family of diehard Arsenal fans, and are only pacified when Gareth agrees to take a photo with her Dad in his full red and white getup.)

The flight home is smooth and fast, and the lack of turbulence means she doesn’t clutch his hand for the better part of two hours as she had done just two weeks earlier.

(But she falls asleep on his shoulder and kisses him on the cheek when they part ways at her door, so, swings and roundabouts, right?)

“Are you guys like, dating?” Luka asks him, the evening of the club’s summer party.

Gareth shakes his head, a smile itching at his lips as he watches her attempt to make a margarita and then proceed to wince as she coughs and shakes her head, violently pushing the glass away from her. “We’re just friends.”

“Just?”

“Yeah.” He tears his gaze away.

“You like her, don’t you?”

Gareth hums, “A lot.”

“I can tell. You guys get on so well. And I guess it’s nice to have someone from home, right?”

“More than you know. It’s comforting, like having a little piece of home with me out here in Madrid, especially when I get homesick. It’s soothing.”

She feels like home.

Like a constant thread between his life back in the UK and his new Spanish lifestyle.

Plus, she’s funny and kind and likes the same cheesy music as him and she makes him laugh and now, he doesn’t feel so lonely. He’s found a true friend, a new plane buddy with whom he sits when they both fly back to the UK for Christmas, a soul so similar to his that he could just sit beside her in blissful silence and never ask for anything ever again, a human being so extraordinary yet so down to earth that he realises he could listen to her speak until his end of days.

(And it’s unprofessional, he knows it is, to be falling so deeply for someone who works for the club, but they couldn’t introduce a woman like her to him and expect anything less, right?)

Hearing her voice is refreshing, like a breath of fresh air and a homely comfort that lends him a hand in a place where he feels like a bit of an outsider. It's nice to hear a familiar accent and the use of his mother tongue in a city where his GCSE-standard Spanish isn't quite enough for him to be able to get by without the Google translate app open 24/7.

And it’s a nice change to talk to a woman who he genuinely gets along with and can hold a conversation with for longer than 3 minutes after all small talk had been eliminated, a comforting alternative to brief chats with Spanish women at nightclubs about what his name was and where he’s from.

(“Me llamo Gareth. Soy un futbolista.” tended to be the extent of what he could choke out in this foreign tongue, despite their frequent lessons, and it was tedious at best and usually provoked a wary smile and bullshit excuse to leave.)

She gives him an English-Spanish dictionary for Christmas. He’s hardly touched it, and his goal of learning one new word a day is nowhere near being achieved. But it’s a gift from her, and it doesn’t leave his bedside table, and he muses, what’s the point in learning a foreign language when he can already talk to the only person he really wants to speak to?

When she kisses him for the first time, after a rampant victory and Real’s progression to the next stage of the Champions League, he realises that home isn’t a place, nor a country or a city.

It’s a feeling of comfort, elation, relaxation and belonging.

And when he’s with her, he feels exactly that.

Home.

---

A.N.: ten years later and i’ve finally written your gareth bale imagine, anon!!!! i finished writing most of this and then looked at your request and realised that i haven’t really fulfilled it (at all, tbh) but either way i hope you liked this!!!

u know it’s a bit of a jumble and i’ve kind of experimented with my writing style and the structure etc. so please give feedback and lmk what you thought :)

thank you as usual xxxxxx

#my writing #football imagine #footballer imagine #football fanfiction #real madrid #real madrid fanfiction #gareth bale #gareth bale imagine #footballer fanfiction #gareth bale fanfiction

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