Sorry for the delay, we're not dead! We would like to say a huge THANK YOU to everyone who participated! 💖 Writers and readers alike, we truly appreciate you taking the time to get involved in our little fandom week!
And, of course, we recommend checking out the full collection of captivating stories from last week (and don't feel too shy to leave a comment complimenting the talented authors on their works!):
Ao3 collection
Tumblr-only fics:
Day 1 - A Seismic Shifts missing scene by @iphyslitterator and this fic by @beanarie
A fic for days 2 & 3 by @beanarie
A fic for day 4 by @beanarie
A fic for day 5 by @beanarie
A fic for days 6 & 7 by @beanarie
Once again, cheers to everyone who took part in this event, we hope you had as much fun as we did! ☺️
thank you for such lovely feedback! i started this event with nothing but a nebulous hope to turn out a cohesive story, but the hype i got from all of you kept me going and what almost ended as a 300 word ficlet became something much more ❤️
~
"That parking job took a while," Maddie says pointedly.
"I stopped at the gift shop. Think Tommy'll like it?" The bear is a shade of blue similar to Tommy's flight suit. Thoughtful of him.
Buck raises his eyes to look at Chim, leery.
"Hey, stand down." Chim tosses the bear at Maddie and puts his hands behind his back. "Look, I'm unarmed."
Maddie lets out a groan. "I'm gonna go get coffee. No, Buck, don't even ask. Water for you. Or hot chocolate."
"Water," Buck says. Hen's soup is sitting a little too heavily in his stomach.
"You got it." She smiles, touches his face, and leaves the bear on the table.
Chim pulls a pack of cards out of his pocket and steals her seat. "We all know Whist was Bobby's game, but you're feverish and Hen said you took two Percosets not too long ago. Let's do Go Fish."
Buck lifts one shoulder. It'll keep him from dozing off.
After dealing them out, Chim starts by picking up a seven of diamonds. "I am your captain," he says, discarding a ten of clubs. "That's more than paperwork and getting to tell you what to do." He slumps back in his seat. "Bobby left really big shoes to fill. The biggest."
Buck takes the ten, even though he didn't have any. He doesn't feel like opening his mouth just yet.
Chim takes the four of diamonds Buck discarded. "But I promised I would keep his house in order just as he left it. I pledged that to all of you, and to him. That means I can't kick back and assume Eddie or your sister are looking after you. I need to be annoying, like he used to get annoying." He moves his cards around in his hand, changing the order so many times it can't possibly be helpful.
Buck clears his throat. "Chim."
Chim lowers his cards and eyes Buck. "He would've been here as soon as the call wrapped up. Not just because it was you but because you were one of his. I need to start taking that responsibility more seriously."
Buck ignores that Chim forgot to discard. "Threes?"
"Bobby would've noticed you never stopped spiraling. I mean, he caught it with Eddie and he was working dispatch at the time. He would've stepped in and done something before you got hurt." Chim's expression twists. "Big shoes."
Buck collapses his cards into a tiny stack. "Am I supposed to say something?"
Chim takes their cards and puts them aside. "No, Buck. I'm the one who messed up. If I can't get my longtime teammate, the one who's literally my family, to come to me with a problem, then I definitely haven't fostered that environment for anyone else under my command. I need to work on that, otherwise I might as well have let you and Eddie go."
Buck shrugs again and looks away.
"What's going on with you two? I thought when he came back, we'd all... you know." Chim threads his fingers together and lets them go with a sigh. "Hen said you won't even look in his direction."
Buck rolls his shoulders back and runs a thumb along the top of his cast. "Don't worry about it, Cap."
"I will worry about it," Chim says, nudging him. "But I'll give you a chance to deal with it first."
~
Eddie hands Buck a grocery bag. "Fresh shirt, deodorant, hand towel, toothbrush, and face wash. I almost put a razor in there, too, but that seemed like a lot to configure in a hospital restroom."
"Thanks," Buck says, closing his hand around the bag.
Eddie jerks his head towards the restroom. "Go, clean up. If Tommy saw you now, he'd have a heart attack."
Buck wheels himself over and emerges a few minutes later, slightly cleaner and marginally less uncomfortable.
Eddie sits up straighter. "You look almost human again," he says, nodding.
"Feel it, too." Buck rubs his knuckles against his cheek. A shave would've been nice, but Eddie was right about it not being practical.
"Hey, man."
Buck tries not to look away as Eddie ducks his head a little.
"We're gonna be okay, right?"
Buck runs a hand along the back of his neck. "H-How do I talk to you," he says, "if every time I feel something you tell me I'm being selfish?"
"Buck, come on."
Buck glances at Chim and Maddie, bickering in low tones over a shared latte. "It makes me feel so alone. Like I can't confide in anyone, n-not just you."
Eddie leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You're not alone, man. I never meant to do that to you."
"Family of Thomas Kinard?"
Chim puts the stupid bear in Buck's lap and claps his shoulder. "Go get 'im."
~
Tommy is on a mask now.
"Just as a precaution," the nurse says. "If he continues to improve, we'll swap it for the canula before the end of the day."
"Okay," Buck says, slowly approaching the bed. "Good. Thank you."
His face is partially leaned towards the wall. From what Buck can see, his color is noticeably better, which makes sense. He's not gradually bleeding out anymore.
"Hey," Buck calls softly. "You awake?"
Tommy turns his head, and beams, his cheeks pushing at the top of the mask. "You came back," he says, muffled and perfect.
Buck lays his hand on the side of Tommy's face. "No," he says, needing him to understand. "I stayed. Never left."
Chapter seven: Prompt - Working on their issues together
Pairing: bucktommy
Summary: Tommy retreats mentally and geographically after Bobby's death. While still processing his own series of losses, Buck goes out to try to bring Tommy back.
In this chapter - which, officially is not whump by any stretch (since I decided to make a connected story of the prompts, instead of individual whump stories, we have arrived at the last chapter - and it is a soft and hopeful ending) - Buck and Tommy share a quiet evening reflecting on the things they’ve learned about each other and what moving forward together with this understanding might look like.
Notes: Writing this for the @bucktommywhumpweek event on tumblr. The prompts make one connected story.
Thank you to the @bucktommywhumpweek folks for organizing this event and inspiring me to write this deep dive on mental health 🖤
BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 7: Canon Typical Injury (on BOTH Buck and Tommy) | AO3 version
“The one time we don't go to Micelli's, and this happens.”
Buck's smile is crooked and pained as he says this. Tommy’s, however, is worse: there’s a bright, red streak running from his lower lip down to his chin. It’s not a good sign.
“I liked the cannoli,” Tommy says. His chuckle seamlessly turns into a cough, and he clutches his side.
“Shh,” Buck mutters. “Don't make it worse.”
“I'd like to say it can't get any worse, but...”
They exchange glances. It can always get worse, they both know that. But who could have guessed?
───── 2 hours earlier ─────
It was a nice restaurant: a good table in the back, fabulous food, and a great view from the 23rd floor down on the brightly lit city. But most importantly, it wasn't Micelli's. According to Buck, there was some kind of curse on that place because their dates that started there had never ended well. If you asked Tommy, it was either bad luck, coincidence or karma, but hey, as long as he didn't have to accompany his boyfriend to the cemetery again to break a curse... His boyfriend. This felt good, and they had worked hard for it, so this new six-month anniversary definitely needed to be celebrated. There was champagne and chocolate-filled cannoli for dessert. And, somehow, a promise lingered in the air that this time, it would be better. This time, it would work out.
“So,” said Buck, who’d barely touched his cannoli — the man was baking like a pro now, and he was adorably competitive — “this time I have something for you.”
Buck pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his linen jacket. It was a special occasion, so he’d dressed up, and in the candlelight, Tommy couldn't help but look at him and think that this was his guy. However...
“I don't have anything for you,” he replied.
“You're paying for dinner,” Buck grinned.
They looked at each other, both probably thinking about the last dinner where those exact words had been spoken. But tonight was supposed to be different. A special kind of new beginning.
“Well, then maybe you should eat your dessert to make it worth it.”
“Oh, I know just the dessert that's really worth it,” said Buck, nudging Tommy under the table with his foot.
“Evan!”
“What?” Buck replied with a not-so-innocent smirk, holding out the envelope. “Take a look.”
“I hope those aren't Lakers tickets,” said Tommy, causing Buck to roll his eyes.
“Conversation is key,” he returned in a tone suggesting he’d had one of his therapy sessions lately. “To listen, pay attention… I think I know what you like.”
“Ouch, Evan,” said Tommy, but he smiled and took the envelope. “But you really didn't have to...”
“Yeah, yeah,” Buck made an impatient gesture. “Go on, open it.”
Tommy placed the envelope next to his plate. “Okay, but let me eat this chocolate before it melts,” he said, reaching for his spoon.
“Tommy!” This time, Buck's foot searched for Tommy's shin under the table.
“Very mature, Evan. All right...”
The second Tommy reached for the envelope, a scream rang out.
───── .:**:. ─────
“We have to get out of here,” says Buck.
It's more than just a statement; his words resonate with determination. Not despair, you have to give him that. Their situation is tense, to say the least, but Buck knows there's always a way out. That's what life has taught him — and Bobby, of course.
“Obviously.” Tommy slides a little higher up the wall behind him, trying to sit a little straighter. It looks painful and uncomfortable, and he grimaces. Then he says something that makes the knot in Buck's stomach grow a little bigger. “I don't know if we can, though.”
“Hey,” Buck urges, and even though he tries to sound confident, his voice sounds shaky in his own ears. His hands are bloody, which doesn't exactly make him look credible. “Hey. Of course we can We're firefighters, okay?”
Tommy grins, which looks a little creepy with the blood on the corner of his mouth.
“Evan. You realize that's kind of the problem, right?”
Well, yeah. He's right, of course.
───── 1:45 hours earlier ─────
It was a high-pitched scream, and it could have meant anything.
“Did someone lose a tooth?” Buck asked, craning his neck.
“Why a tooth?”
"We had a call once, someone was eating a steak and lost a canine. There was a huge commotion, blood everywhere, someone at the next table fainted. In the end, it turned out to be insurance fraud, but the guy was an idiot and had accidentally torn out his entire upper row of gums.“
”Yuck," said Tommy, looking around, as did a few other people.
A scream in an almost full restaurant could mean anything... not necessarily a broken tooth, thank you very much, but it also didn't sound like the cry of joy of a woman who had just been proposed to. Part of the dining room was behind a pillar, so he couldn't see very far.
“Was probably nothing,” he said.
But fate, karma, chance, or perhaps a curse had something else in mind. Now, there were noises that could now be heard clearly above the clatter of cutlery and the quiet conversations at the tables. Something that disturbed the idyll, a rumbling sound as if something had fallen over. And then, again, something that almost might have been a scream—but one that broke off abruptly.
Two people emerged from behind the pillar, and with that, the evening was finally ruined.
───── .:**:. ─────
“Why,” says Tommy, and it doesn't really sound like a question, “is going out with you so difficult?”
“Hey. That's unfair.”
Buck is still grinning, but there's nothing funny about their situation. But both of them only know two ways to deal with something like this—dark humor and action. Except the latter is pretty difficult right now. And it's really not Buck's fault.
“You have to keep pressing,” Tommy says, pointing to Buck's left shoulder.
He's squeezing one of the restaurant's formerly white cloth napkins against it. Now it's covered in red stains, but not nearly as soaked as the one Tommy is pressing against his side. That's actually worrying. Just like the sweat stains on his forehead and his deliberately shallow breathing, because every breath feels like he's inhaling fire.
“There has to be a way out,” says Buck.
His eyes scan the walls, the ceiling, the floor for the umpteenth time. They are in a storage room: shelves full of cleaning supplies, rags and, luckily, piles of packs of napkins. The kind you use to gracefully dab your mouth in a really good restaurant, but yes, surprisingly well suited for stopping blood. But apart from that, no windows, no ventilation shaft, no secret trapdoor in the floor. In other words, no way out except the door that stands locked in front of them.
The sounds from outside are muffled, which only adds to the surreal feeling. There are voices, shouting, someone’s sobbing. A clatter and a scraping sound, as if something is being dragged across the floor. The hairs on Buck’s arms stand up. Does he have the chills now or is it just his circulation? Finally, his gaze falls on a mop next to the door, and a plan forms in his head. It's a wild and rather half-baked plan, but looking at Tommy, he knows they have to do something. Well, Buck himself is longing for a decent dose of acetaminophen, but that's not the only reason every fiber of his being is screaming for action. There are people out there in danger. There is something in him—and in Tommy—that wants to help, even when they need help themselves. There's no denying that's the case. But if they don't do something, anything, things will end badly, he can feel it. Not just for Tommy.
“I have an idea.”
“That,” Tommy points out, “already got us into trouble today.”
───── 1:30 hours earlier ─────
The two people entering the restaurant’s main dining room made a fascinating couple. A man, no taller than 5'8", but with the look of a street fighter—gold chains, shaved head, and tattoos—and a woman who towered over him by at least a head. She had short, purple-dyed hair and wore a floral dress that would have made her inconspicuous at any of the tables. And it wasn't actually their appearance that seemed remarkable and attracted the attention of many of the guests. Most stared in horror, some with their hands over their mouths, at the guns the two were armed with. He was carrying a short-barelled rifle, she had a small submachine gun. Whoever they were, they were obviously dangerous, and they made no secret of it.
“Listen up,” the man shouted, casually raising his rifle. Meanwhile, the woman playfully aimed at various restaurant guests, who flinched when the barrel of her weapon came close to them. “We’re gonna play a little game, I'm sure you know it. It's called give me all your money. Oh, and don't forget your jewelry and other valuables! Polly, this is my lovely wife here, is gonna collect it. Stay calm and this will be over quickly, and we'll be on our way.”
“She's no Polly, she's not,” Buck muttered.
“Not the problem right now, Evan,” said Tommy.
Buck bent forward conspiratorially. “No, just think about it. Who robs a restaurant with machine guns just to steal jewelry and money?”
Buck watched a lot of crime shows. That and his friendship with Athena didn't necessarily qualify him to know a lot about robberies. But just like Tommy, he knew that people lied, all the time. Most fires were caused by carelessness, but no one wanted to admit to throwing away a cigarette. At almost every accident somebody said, “No, I don't take any medication,” when in truth beta blockers were the least harmful thing they’d taken. Lying, covering up, concealing—all of that was part of a first responder's life. And maybe Buck had a radar for it.
Tommy took a closer look at the two of them. The woman, who was definitely not named Polly, strolled between the rows of tables and motioned to the guests with a wave of her gun to pack their belongings into a duffel bag that had been slung over her shoulder. When she turned around, she pointed her submachine gun toward the entrance, where a restaurant employee nervously clutched the counter.
“Now, now,” she said. “We're keeping our hands off the phones, or they'll be gone in a second. I was the 1999 sport shooting queen in Fremont, Nebraska.”
As if to demonstrate, she aimed her gun at the umbrella stand next to the entrance, where the coat rack was also located. The stand was empty, of course, a mere prop; it hadn't rained in two months. She still aimed at it as if it were a great feat to hit an object the size of a floor vase from a distance of less than 30 feet. And maybe it was.
“Oh, come on, we don't want to waste ammunition. Or draw attention to ourselves,” she then said. “But I won't tell you again, waiter. Toss the phone across the counter.”
The man did as commanded; he frantically pulled the phone out of the charging station and threw it toward the pillar, where it fell to the wooden floor just before it could hit it.
“Hey!” The surprised call came from an older man who appeared seemingly out of nowhere behind the pillar, from a corridor that led to the restrooms. Then, the chaos really began.
Polly fired a shot.
───── .:**:. ─────
“For once, it's not my fault,” says Buck, and for once, that’s actually the truth.
“We both have a hero complex,” Tommy mutters.
“Maybe. But we need to do something. You're losing a lot of blood.”
Tommy can't argue with that. Buck shuffles to the door and listens, “I think they're still negotiating,” he says.
“Batshit crazy, those two. They'll never get out of here alive. All the shooting is bound to have brought the cops down. They'll be here soon.”
“I assume they've popped a few pills,” Buck agrees, “but I also think the original plan was different. I think they planned to make it look like a robbery, but then kidnap the district attorney or something like that. Then things went wrong because of the guy who was in the bathroom for so long. And now...”
“Now,” Tommy adds, “their only chance is to use the district attorney as both hostage and leverage, because the police are bound to be here soon.”
“And that plan is a lot worse for the rest of the guests in the restaurant.”
Tommy nods grimly. His face is pale—even for him, what's going on out there is anything but good. Buck grabs the mop and bangs it frantically against the door.
───── 1 hour earlier ─────
The sound of the gunshot echoed through the restaurant, following the bullet. It ripped open the left shoulder of the poor guy who’d not even noticed the commotion outside, just because he’d been in the bathroom for a bit longer. He screamed as he hit the floor, toppling over the carpet which soon turned red with his blood.
Several more people in the restaurant let out screams. Tables shook and dishes crashed to the floor as some of them reacted in panic. Then, a second shot rang out, and Polly's husband—or whoever the guy was—yelled, “Shut up!”
The next moment, there was dead silence. Plaster crumbled from the ceiling onto him, and he angrily wiped his hair. The shot had gone upward, leaving a hole in the ceiling.
“And you two sit back down,” he yelled, waving the rifle in Tommy and Buck's direction.
The two exchanged a glance. Instinct and responsiveness, two qualities that make good firefighters, were probably why both of them had stood up immediately when the first shot rang out.
“This man is injured,” Buck replied calmly. This wasn't exactly standard training at the LAFD, but the numerous advanced training courses they had to attend these days also included the possibility of being threatened with a weapon. “We're firefighters. We can help him.”
“Firefighters, huh,” said the guy, and Polly called out to him, “Finn, baby, what do we do now?”
“Quiet,” he yelled in her direction. “Let me think. I just need to think!”
Finn—if that was his name—scratched his head with his gun and looked around the room.
“I think the cops will be here soon,” Polly said.
“Let's just check on him,” said Buck, pointing to the injured man lying on the floor, his eyes wide open with shock and pain. The floor beneath him was already covered with an ugly red pool of blood.
Tommy searched Buck's gaze. “We can end this in a flash,” he whispered.
Buck frowned. “What are you thinking?” he muttered under his breath.
“I have an idea,” Tommy hushed. And really, this time, it was his fault. Loudly, in Finn's direction, he said, “Look, so far it's just robbery with assault. You don't want this to turn into murder.”
“What, you a lawyer or something?”
“I knew that was nonsense, firefighters, haha,” Polly sneered. Tommy glanced at her and shook his head.
“Nope, that’s true, we're firefighters.”
He spread his arms, although he suspected that this gesture of harmlessness meant next to nothing to the two of them. Basically, they were predators, unimpressed by their prey. But he wasn't going to make it that easy for them.
“We're trained in first aid,” he added. “If you let us help the man, you'll improve your own chances. You know very well that the shots will bring the police. Some resident, or maybe a passerby, is bound to have heard them.”
“I locked the door, baby,” Polly called out.
“That won't do much good,” Buck said, and he could see from their faces that they knew it.
“I don't care about that guy,” Finn said. “We're not here for him.”
Buck and Tommy exchanged looks that definitely meant I told you so on Buck's part. Meanwhile, Finn strolled between the tables, his gun clutched tightly in his arms as if he were cradling a baby. When he stopped, he aimed the rifle at a dark-blonde woman in her mid-forties wearing an evening gown. She was sitting with a man in a suit who looked considerably more frightened than she did. It suited her that she was unimpressed—she presented herself in the same way in the public hearings that were broadcast on television. The woman was well known.
“Isn't that the district attorney? Valdez?” Tommy asked quietly.
“Told you this wasn't a simple robbery,” Buck muttered.
“Do you want my necklace?” the woman asked calmly. She was indeed wearing a very pretty gold necklace with a small ruby. Finn shook his head.
“This is getting a little out of hand,” he said. “I'll tell you what I want...”
Whatever he wanted was drowned out by a cry of surprise as Tommy suddenly lunged at him.
───── .:**:. ─────
“Hey,” Buck yells, continuing to bang the mop handle against the door. “Hey! Help! Hurry up!”
“What are you doing?”
Buck turns his head briefly. “I'm getting us out of here,” he says grimly.
“I've already ruined the element of surprise,” says Tommy with an embarrassed grin.
“Hey,” Buck repeats with much more emphasis, “it's not your fault, okay?”
“Evan. We're lucky to be alive.”
“We're alive because Polly and Finn” — now he draws quotation marks in the air — “are one card shy of a full deck. They're stressed, so they overreacted. Your plan was good, this isn’t your fault. Tommy, you're bigger and heavier than that guy, and I know you don't take unnecessary risks. It was civil courage. They were threatening twenty or thirty people, and they shot one of them. You could have overpowered Finn. The fact that his gun went off was… a calculated risk, and bad luck. And if I hadn't been so stupid and thrown myself in the way, it might have worked.”
“It wasn't stupid. It was brave, Evan.”
“Oh, come on.” Buck digs his fingers into the handle of the mop, as if it was symbolizing Finn's neck. “I was scared shitless in that moment, Tommy. But I still don't think those two really wanted to kill anyone.”
“Well, except that Polly did shoot.”
The mere memory makes Buck wince. Being shot felt like slipping with a circular saw, well, sort of. Not a pleasant memory either. In any case, Polly hasn't exaggerated; she can shoot, and accurately. It's just a graze, but Buck's arm still burns. He'll survive. But nothing had gone according to plan for Polly and Finn – neither the injured man nor the fact that Finn's gun went off while he was wrestling with Tommy. Even the shot at Buck had been just pure reaction on Polly's part. And all of that was, in a way, luck. Because if the two of them had entered the restaurant with the firm intention of causing a massacre, well...
Buck turns around, hammers the mop against the door again, and starts screaming for help.
“Evan, what are you doing?”
“They're stressed, I told you. We just need to turn up the heat a little.”
Finn and Polly had quickly restored calm after the shooting. That hadn't been particularly difficult, as the remaining guests were completely terrified at that point. However, they had locked Buck and Tommy in the chamber because, in Polly's words, “Feels like out of the frying pan, into the fire with two firefighters, haha.” Of course, they also took their phones—the two of them are stressed, but unfortunately not completely stupid. Buck is still worried about the guy who was shot in the restaurant, although he suspects he's not too badly injured. Polly is truly an extremely good shot, even in a panic. Or she’s just lucky.
“What do you mean? Evan, the police will be here any minute.”
Buck continues to bang on the door with the mop handle. He would pound on it with his fists, but his shoulder would probably object.
“Sure, the police will be here soon,” he says, “but this has escalated from a robbery to a hostage situation. That changes everything. It delays everything; negotiations could take hours. There are tons of people out there in danger, and there's this guy who's been shot, and then you need to get to the hospital, Tommy, and if I can knock one of them over the head with this mop, we can overpower the other one. I know you don't like to hear this, but you've lost a lot of blood, and I'm worried and... Tommy?”
It's just an impulse, instinct maybe. Or maybe Buck expects Tommy to interrupt his staccato babbling, like he always does when his thoughts start spiraling. But when he turns to look at him, Buck drops the mop.
“Tommy!”
───── .:**:. ─────
Eyes shut, Tommy's head is slumped onto his shoulder.
“No, no, no, you won’t!”
Buck drops on the floor and gently pats Tommy's alarmingly pale cheeks. He carefully lifts the napkin, which has long since lost its pristine whiteness. It sticks to Tommy's clothes, and for the first time since they've been in here, Buck realizes that Tommy’s shirt is completely soaked. For a very long couple of seconds, he’s frozen. Then, as if the engine of an old, broken-down car suddenly starts again, a jolt goes through his body.
Two fingers on Tommy's carotid artery: there's a pulse. Maybe a little weak, but definitely there. Buck jumps up, almost knocking over the shelf in his attempt to get a fresh cloth to press it onto the wound. It really doesn't look good: while Buck was only grazed by Polly's shot, Finn's sudden gunfire hit Tommy squarely. Following an impulse, he carefully feels Tommy's back. He should have done that long ago, shouldn't he? Tommy's back is soaked with sweat, but there's no exit wound.
This isn't good, none of this is good, and Buck's thoughts are racing. His own wound is burning; it's a bit like someone is holding a lighter to his skin, every movement making his nerves scream. Tommy, however, must have been in incredible pain, and he hardly let it show. Tommy just sat there, endured it, and still took care of Buck; and all that after trying to protect the restaurant guests. He's a real hero, and Buck feels damn useless. Guilt washes over him like an ice-cold rain shower. They just got back together. Is there really a curse on their relationship? After six months of happiness, is it all over again—this time for good?
What a stupid thought. Who is he, some uninvolved passerby? A defenseless spectator, like the people in the restaurant? The thought suddenly drives Buck forward; the old, broken-down car has fuel again. Bobby would have liked that comparison. But he mustn't think about Bobby now.
“I'll never listen to you again, Tommy,” he groans as he very carefully shifts the man into a lying position. “I mean, of course I'll listen to you, but I have to listen better, right? Haha. Earlier, I gave you a lecture on that, remember?”
Tommy doesn't respond. Buck stuffs a few of the napkins under his boyfriend’s head, then pushes a box under his legs, frantically throwing out the cleaning supplies in it. At last, he checks the bleeding again and mutters, “You're stubborn, though. Would it be so bad to admit weakness once in a while?”
Fortunately, the brief period without firm pressure hasn't caused any further damage – the bleeding seems to have stopped. There's still shouting outside; it sounds like Polly. She seems to be the more dangerous of the two, and if she loses it now... Focus on Tommy, he thinks. Tommy is breathing, his pulse is steady, but he's lost a hell of a lot of blood. Buck crouches beside him, almost automatically pressing the cloth onto the wound, thinking that he was probably a little unfair. Tommy has admitted his weaknesses, he has opened up, and not just because they’d decided that this would be a prerequisite for both of them if they were to try again. It was a journey with heavy baggage on each part, and something neither of them had ever done before. Buck had always been abandoned, and Tommy had always left before things got serious. And they’d both always acted like this for the same reason: injuries, that weren't visible on the outside, but yet so deep that they still hurt years later, like scars when the weather changed.
“But still,” Buck says, as if Tommy can read his mind, even though the man isn't even conscious, “still, we make mistakes. We fall back into old patterns. I didn't pay enough attention to you, and you weren't honest. But you know what? I get it. And we can work on that, the two of us. Don't you think? I—”
A key turns in the lock, and then the door to the small chamber is thrown open with a jerk.
───── .:**:. ─────
“Get out,” Finn demands, pointing his gun at Buck.
“What?”
“Come on, get out of there, both of you!”
Now that the door is open, the sounds which had been muffled just a moment ago rain down on Buck. Someone is sobbing. The injured man near the entrance is moaning. Polly seems nervous, wiping her hand over a few tables, deliberately knocking plates and glasses to the floor. Maybe she just wants to scare the guests, though Buck thinks they’re already completely panicked. And there’s yet another sound, still a little distant but getting louder. The reason for Polly's nervousness: sirens.
“W-we can't.” Buck gestures to Tommy, still lying motionless on the floor.
“Shit,” says Polly, who suddenly appears behind Finn, glancing over his shoulder. She waves her gun at Buck. “You alone then.”
“What for?”
“Shut up,” Finn scolds, waving his rifle. But Polly puts a hand on his shoulder, clicking her tongue.
“Look, fireman. Even with just one of you, our chances of getting out of here are increasing exponentially. The cops aren't going to endanger one of their own.”
Buck pinches his lips together. The two of them obviously want to use him as a human shield. And part of him wants to agree, just to protect the rest of the guests in the restaurant. To give all of them a chance to get out of this alive, especially Tommy. But...
“No,” Buck shakes his head. “I'm not leaving him alone.”
“Excuse me?” Polly pushes past Finn. Her voice has a surprisingly gentle undertone that sends a shiver down Buck's spine.
He straightens his back and stands up. Buck knows the effect his size and muscles have. It's not for nothing that he often walks hunched over, making himself small; but that's over now. Polly, however, doesn't look particularly impressed. Maybe she just has completely lost her mind.
Buck points to Tommy. “Maybe it would work, we'd go out, the cops would let you through. But then you'd have a man on your conscience. A firefighter. I need him in a hospital right now, or he'll die.”
He's exaggerating, at least he hopes so, but it's not hard to add a hint of desperation to his voice. That one spark of fear. Because it's there, deep inside Buck, turning his stomach. And it seems to be working. There's something in Finn's eyes, an uncertainty. He actually takes a step back, glancing nervously at the crowd of guests.
“Polly,” he says, his tone warning. But Polly shakes her head.
“This is bullshit.”
She drops the bag with the loot on the floor, raises her gun and points it at Buck, who raises his hands defensively. Then she pushes past him with a grin, stops next to Tommy and nudges his left leg with her foot.
“We've got a few injuries, sure, that's a bit unfortunate,” Polly says calmly. “But firefighters... Phew, I'm telling you, they’re tough.”
Her grin is smarmy now. Then, suddenly, she pulls her foot back and kicks Tommy in his injured side. Buck sees red.
───── .:**:. ─────
The anger that rises within him rarely surfaces, but it’s still familiar to him. Buck never really allows this searing, gnawing feeling to take hold; these destructive thoughts, this tingling sensation in his fingers that automatically clench into fists. It’s a feeling that erases thoughts, an instinct that drives him to act.
Danger is just a state, a situation to be analyzed, assessed, and overcome. Bobby's words. Buck has worked very, very hard to be the person he is today. Someone Bobby could be proud of, and he was. Even when he screwed up. Even when he acted impulsively. And if that's not impulsive...
Buck's fist shoots forward. He’s never really done this, at least not to a woman, and normally, he wouldn’t. Polly, however, is dangerous, and Buck knows better than anyone that gender has nothing to do with it. His hand hits Polly in the stomach. She doubles over and groans, part out of pain, part out of astonishment. Buck grabs her, drags her by the arm, twists it around. Polly drops the gun, but then she wriggles in Buck's grip like a toddler covered in sunscreen. She screams and yells, Finn yells too, and for a terrible and surprisingly long moment, Buck thinks Finn is going to shoot. Or that he won't be able to hold Polly.
But Buck hasn't forgotten what he learned when he was eight, at summer sports camp with the wrestling class. Buck forgets very little, just like his muscles, and when he flexes them and wraps his arms around Polly, she can struggle all she wants.
“Now,” he gasps, “here's my advice: if you don't want to shoot your lovely wife—and boy, you know she can shoot better than you—then you give up. The police are almost at the door.”
Finn's face is red like a tomato; it wouldn't be surprising if he had a stroke right there and then. But it's anger, Buck knows that, and anger makes people do irrational things. Finn bites his lip until it bleeds.
“Shit. Shit, shit!” he repeats over and over again.
“There's a back exit.”
Frantically waving his gun, Finn turns around. Behind him stands one of the restaurant’s employees, a waiter perhaps, or the manager, and he flinches.
“What?”
“A back exit,” stammers the man, pointing to a window at the rear of the restaurant. “It's... it's actually an emergency exit.”
Finn stares at him, then back at Buck. No, actually, he's looking at Polly, who is standing stiff as a board in Buck’s iron grip.
“Baby,” Polly whispers. Finn blinks. “No. No, no, no, you're not doing that.”
“I'm sorry,” Finn says without much regret. He picks up the bag, slings the strap over his shoulders, and adds, “It's not worth dying for. Not for anyone here.”
Without looking back, he runs off. Polly starts screaming, now wiggling again, but Buck holds her tight, even though the muscles in his arms feel like they’re about to tear.
“You stupid asshole, I'll find you,” Polly yells, but that doesn't stop Finn from opening the window and climbing out, just in time: the sirens are wailing right outside the restaurant.
From there, everything happens very quickly.
───── .:**:. ─────
It is, of course, Athena who’s among the first to secure the scene.
Buck loves the red string theory, much to Tommy's discomfort, but not just when it comes to his own relationship. Sure, Buck truly believes that everything in life has a meaning and that two people who belong together will find each other in the end. It's strange that Tommy, with his penchant for rom coms, doesn't share his belief, but Buck is sure he'll convince him eventually. In any case, Buck believes that he is connected to everyone in his life by an invisible red string, not just Tommy. Certainly Athena, who secretly adopted him, just as Bobby had done. And that's why it's no coincidence that it’s Athena who finds them both when the police storm the restaurant.
“Buck,” she says with not much surprise as she suddenly appears in the doorway, and he exhales a breath he thinks he must been holding for a very long time.
He barely notices how she reaches for Polly with raised brows, handcuffs the woman and hands her over to one of her officers to lead her away. Buck just breathes, “Tommy,” and then he's back on the floor next to him, holding his hand, stroking it, and murmuring something that is meant more to calm himself than Tommy, who’s unaware of anything anyway.
Athena glances at him, turns around and shouts, “EMT!” Hesitantly, she bends down and places two fingers on Tommy's carotid artery. Visibly calmer, she then asks, "What was going on here, Buck? No, wait. I don't really want to know, and you’re gonna make a statement anyway. Of course you're in the middle of this mess, what else would one expect... By the way, you belong in the hospital, too.”
Buck shrugs, ignoring his aching muscles, not to mention the ridiculous wound.
“I’ve to take care of the mess out there,” Athena says. “Are you gonna be okay?”
Fortunately, Buck has never before seen the paramedics who are now rushing into the small room. He has made progress with Tommy, oh yes, but there are conversations Buck has still avoided. Conversations he has still shied away from, and they’re gonna be with his friends and family. Well, that can't be put off any longer now, can it.
“Yes,” he says, and in that moment, it's true.
Athena lets out a sigh. “You're every inch Bobby’s boy,” she gently tells him, and the sparkle in her eyes could mean anything as she turns and walks away.
Tommy's fingers twitch under Buck’s. He hasn't let go, and there isn't enough room in the small room anyway; the paramedics are calling for a stretcher.
“Tommy,” he murmurs, gently stroking his cheek.
“Hmm,” Tommy whispers, blinking. “'s wrong?”
Buck grins, feeling a lot lighter. “Oh, nothing much,” he replies. “Just a bit of chaos, nothing special.”
“I just want one date with you without anything happening,” Tommy mutters, the corners of his mouth turned up despite his obvious pain.
The stretcher arrives, and Buck flinches sympathetically as Tommy is lifted onto it. He runs alongside, assuring him that everything will be all right, and in this moment he knows it's true. It's not the familiar surroundings of the ambulance soon after that make him realize this, but they certainly contribute to it. Of course, Buck going with him is against protocol, but who cares? Maybe this crew has heard of the 118’s motto, because they don’t object.
They drive off, and Tommy asks, “What was in it, anyway?”
“Hm, in what?” asks Buck, and he thinks one of the paramedics is mumbling that the dose would actually knock out an elephant, and he knows that Tommy is only keeping his eyes open with sheer willpower. But he doesn't tell him to relax or any of the other nonsense people usually say to hide their own restlessness. Because this is Tommy, and he deserves his attention.
“In the envelope.”
“The envelope, oh dear.” Buck knits his brows together. “I-I think it's still on the table. Maybe Polly took it because she thought there was money in it. Or a gift card. Do you think we'll get it back soon? It's evidence now...”
“So it's neither money nor a gift card,” Tommy mutters as one of the paramedics draws up a syringe. “Then what is it?”
“Oh. Tickets for your favorite band.”
“Tickets? Plural? You don't even like that band... I hope you weren't suggesting I go with Eddie.”
Buck can't help but burst out laughing. “Nah. Sure, they’re not really my thing, but you like them,” he finally says, “and that's why...”
“I like you,” Tommy interrupts him, slurring his words now. “I even love you.”
“Sweet,” says one of the paramedics, and then another dose goes into the IV, and Tommy closes his eyes. There’s the blissful smile of being high on his lips.
Buck feels like he's just been hit by a truck. Except it doesn't hurt, no, on the contrary. Something has hit him with full force, but it feels good. Damn good.
“It's just the painkillers,” he says, stroking Tommy's hand.
“No, honey, that was definitely real,” the paramedic interjects, smiling.
Buck looks at her, he looks at Tommy; Oh, he thinks. Oh.
Prompts: Canon typical Injury (on BOTH Buck & Tommy) // Working on their issues together
Please tag all your creations #bucktommywhumpweek and make sure to add @bucktommywhumpweek so we can reblog! AO3 users: the collection's name is BuckTommyWhumpWeek.
Readers, writers: Please reblog for broader attention! Thank you - have fun!
Summary: Tommy retreats mentally and geographically after Bobby's death. While still processing his own series of losses, Buck goes out to try to bring Tommy back.
In this chapter, Tommy shares a little more from his past, and they learn the value of recognizing patterns.
Notes: Writing this for the @bucktommywhumpweek event. The prompts make one connected story.
Please tag all your creations #bucktommywhumpweek and make sure to add @bucktommywhumpweek so we can reblog! AO3 users: the collection's name is BuckTommyWhumpWeek.
Readers, writers: Please reblog for broader attention! Thank you - have fun!
@bucktommywhumpweek day 5: numb, depression. this follows from previous parts. check on #my writing to catch up.
~
The surgeon looks closer to Buck's age than Tommy's. When he raises his hand, she steps right up to him and takes a seat so they're on the same level. Buck appreciates that. "Thomas was in the early stages of hypovolemic shock, but we found the bleed and repaired it in time to avoid a crisis. We'll be keeping a close eye. As of now, there's no sign of organ failure, and we don't expect this to change his prognosis."
"Which was?" Eddie asks, shattering the invisible barrier between them and her.
"Cautiously optimistic."
He asks another couple of questions that Buck does not absorb at all, but Eddie looks open and approving, indicating he likes what she said.
Buck swallows. "Can I see him?"
"It should be some time before he's out of recovery and settled back in ICU. I'll have one of the nurses find you here?"
Buck nods, not trusting his voice. His eyes follow her progress out of the room and he gets stuck on the display of pamphlets, his vision blurring, his ribs lined with thorns. He can't control his limbs. He's shaking all over.
"He's gonna be okay," Eddie says. He slides one arm across Buck's back and begins to pull him in.
Buck lifts his shoulders to his ears and pushes out with his elbows. "D-Don't touch me."
~
Eddie hasn't left. It doesn't make any sense, but Buck refuses to ask him again. Every once in a while, Eddie says something that hits his ear and dissipates like smoke, as though Buck's physiology has decided Eddie's got nothing to say worth listening to.
Buck's phone keeps ringing and ringing, at least every five minutes, until he finally thinks to power it down.
Shortly after Eddie's phone rings, he puts it in Buck's hand.
"Hi," Maddie says, with a relieved exhale. "I'm so sorry I can't be there, Bobby's still a little warm."
Buck chokes on a sob.
"Buck? Are you okay? Talk to me."
"Could you please call him something else? Anything else?"
"You know Athena started that. It helped her start to heal."
"Yeah," he says in a small voice.
"And now it's just his name. That's who he is to all of us."
"R-Right."
She hums thoughtfully. "You know, you can give him a nickname all your own. We're not Mom and Dad. He doesn't have to go by just one thing."
"Great idea. I'll use his middle name." Buck snaps his fingers. "Oh. Wait."
"Buck. You were there for the middle name wars. You saw how much trouble we had deciding. This was the best compromise."
"Five minutes after they put him in the ground, you r-replaced him c-completely."
"Please stop. Why are you being like this?"
"You weren't even close to Bobby. N-Not like I was. But I didn't get a say."
"We're talking about my son."
"Bobby was basically my dad!" Buck says, not realizing how loud he's being until the elderly couple nearby move to the other side of the room. "The one who actually wanted the job, who wanted me. I lost him and n-no one gives a shit."
Eddie is saying something again.
"Hey, Buck. I know you're having a rough time, but what the hell. Why is my wife crying? She's been fielding calls about you this whole time, making sure you're okay even though she can't be there, and this is how you thank her, by making her feel guilty about our baby's name? You're doing this now?"
Buck wrinkles his nose and gazes up at the buzzing lighting fixture. "You know what, Interim Captain Han. Don't talk to me for another... two- two months or so. It might m-mess up your promotion if you punch one of your firefighters while- while they're injured."
He ends the call and gives the phone back to Eddie. "Give that to me again a-and I'll smash it."
~
Hen stands before him with an old-fashioned thermos in red and black plaid. "It's not a cupcake. But yours are better than the bakery I usually get them from anyway."
"What is it," Buck asks, more because he feels like he should rather than out of curiosity.
"Cheddar-tomato soup. Karen perfected it during Covid. Little Miss Nia never gave us a hard time when this was on the menu. She used to try to steal Denny's bowl, actually."
"Okay." She holds it out, but he shakes his head. He had a granola bar today. Josh slipped it in his hand at some point. Maybe Eddie did, he can't remember.
She sits next to him. "Any news on Tommy?"
"W-What are you asking for," Buck says. "You don't like Tommy."
"Hey, Tommy and I were teammates for years and I only fantasized about shoving him into an open flame, like, twice. I like him fine." She crosses her legs at the knees, unbothered. "I simply got to see him at his worst and I wasn't sure he'd be good for you."
"Bobby said he was. In e-exactly those words."
"Hm," she says. "You've been thinking about Bobby a lot."
"I can't stop, and- and no one cares," he says, feeling stupid and tiny and young, but also weirdly okay about that. There's something cleansing about giving up the filter.
"Of course we care, Buck. You just can't expect us to care more than we do about our own shit. It's not realistic. People don't work like that."
"Sure," Buck says, nodding. "Here I go again, making it all about me."
"It's okay for things to be about you sometimes. Necessary, even." She bumps her shoulder against his. "I'm sorry we let you fall through the cracks. Honestly. It was not out of malice or lack of care. Just-"
"Me not being a priority."
"And bad luck slash bad timing. Maddie's baby, Chim surviving in Bobby's 'place', Eddie's... Eddie-ness. Who ever knows what that dickhead's problem is."
"Hey," Eddie says, half-heartedly.
Buck lays his head back and throws an arm across his eyes.
Hen squeezes his wrist. "We love you. Stop hurting yourself and let us help, okay? I'm genuinely worried. You don't look good."
The thorns along his ribs twist, bringing tears to his eyes. "I don't wanna stay on Eddie's couch."
"No one will make you sleep on a couch. You can take Denny's room if you want. He spends half his nights on Mara's floor anyway."
Buck meets her gaze. "R-Really?"
"You'd do it for me, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah, but- but you wouldn't need me to. You've got-"
She shrugs. "Why does that matter? You would. You did, in the beginning of lockdown."
~
"Oh, God," Maddie says, her face dipping into a sad, sympathetic frown as she rushes towards him.
Buck gives a start and hands the mostly empty cup of soup back to Hen. "Oh, I..."
"Shh." She occupies the seat Hen just vacated and takes his hands in her own. "Get over here." She pulls him in and he lets her, confused and ashamed under a thin layer of shock. "Has it really been hurting you all this time, every time we say his name?"
"No," he mumbles, letting his too long arms settle around her. "Not- Not every t-time."
"We didn't do it to replace Bobby," she says, low and urgent. "He died to keep our family going. He would've done that for any of you, but he did that for us. We honor him so we'll always remember and be grateful."
"I know. I- I know, Maddie."
She pulls away and kisses his forehead. "You feel warm, too," she says, with a watery sound of distress.
"Sleep deprivation sometimes does that," Hen says, motioning behind Buck. "Gimme your keys. We're gonna go pack you a bag. Then Eddie will bring you over mine after you see Tommy, okay? Eat some more soup or I'll get you."
Buck hands over his keys and waves them off.
Maddie turns his face to look at her. "Listen. If you're up at three am with bad dreams multiple nights in a row, you call me."
"I- I won't do that," he admits, resting his head on her shoulder. "I won't wake you up on purpose."
"Okay, we'll figure something else out, then." She curls her arm so she can stroke his hair. "Building your giant muscles until you sometimes, maybe pass out for a couple hours isn't cutting it."
Buck doesn't say anything. His eyes are stinging once more. He's missed her so much.
"You remember my glow worm doll?" she says and he makes a surprised noise.
"It lit up when you hugged it," Buck says softly. "You never let me hold it for more than f-five minutes."
"Because it was mine," she says, for the thousandth time. "He looked like that, a little bit, don't you think? When he was born?"
"Yeah, when he was swaddled up tight so it looked like he didn't have legs? He really did."
Summary: Tommy retreats mentally and geographically after Bobby's death. While still processing his own series of losses, Buck goes out to try to bring Tommy back.
In this chapter, Buck experiments with ways that he can support Tommy.
Notes: Writing this for the @bucktommywhumpweek event. The prompts make one connected story.
BuckTommyWhumpWeek, Day 5: Hypothermia
(A03 version)
This one is Tommy whump for you connoisseurs out there... ;)
Thick drops pelted the roof of the small, cozy cabin high up in the mountains, dripping onto the icicles on the eaves.
“It’s thawing.”
Tommy stepped closer to the window, resting his chin on Buck's shoulder. “That's too bad. I'm sorry.”
Buck turned his head. “Why? Wasn’t you who made the weather,” he said with a smile.
“Well, that's actually beyond my capabilities.” Tommy grinned and added, “However, I did persuade you to make this trip with me. After all, we wanted to go hiking, and the forecast never mentioned a change in the weather.”
Buck snuggled up to him, muttering, “Oh, I’m sure we'll find something to pass the time.”
“Probably,” Tommy whispered close to his ear, “but unfortunately our vacation is very short.” He glanced out the window again. “There's a spot with a fantastic view up the San Antonio peak... in spring, the blueberry bushes blossom, giving off a very special scent. In summer, you’re surrounded by the berries. It’s a paradise. There aren’t any berries now, of course, but it’s still very romantic with the snow and all.”
“Oh? How do you know all that? How many times have you been up here?”
“Hmm,” Tommy muttered with relish. Buck pulled him away from the window with a laugh.
───── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─────
An hour later, the rain had stopped. The landscape, however, was filled with the sounds of crackling and dripping: harbingers of the thaw that the change of weather had brought. Buck and Tommy had opted for a short hike anyway. After all, this was a rare occasion – when did they have the chance for three days of vacation in a row, at the same time?
It was still chilling, with the wind biting through their thick layers of clothing. Buck had been living in the city for so long that he was no longer used to this kind of weather. He enjoyed it, though: as they walked, he happily puffed his breath out into the cold air, savoring the snow while it lasted. Three days in the wilderness, in a tiny cabin with Tommy, love in front of the fireplace like in a cheesy rom-com, and a walk while they warmed each other's fingers – it couldn't get any better.
At least until Buck spotted the viewpoint Tommy was talking about. The blueberry bushes were, of course, bare and heavy with snow, but between them, a narrow path opened up to a small clearing. The sky seemed close enough to touch, the low-hanging clouds were pure cotton candy. The surrounding peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains were still patched in white. It seemed hard to imagine that they’d be driving back down tomorrow into pre-summer L.A. Buck wasn’t ready for it yet.
They spent the rest of the day hiking one of the many adventure trails around the mountains. The sun was shining again; after a particularly steep descent, its rays glistening on a patch of ice were a welcome sight.
“A small lake,” said Buck, enthralled by the view.
“There shouldn't be a lake there,” Tommy returned, frowning as he spread out the map in his hands.
“Are we lost?”
“Not really... let's compare the geodata.”
But the virtual map showed the same thing – definitely not a lake. Buck, looking over Tommy's shoulder, tapped on the phone, suggesting, “Turn on the topography map.”
That helped: the spot in front of them, where the path normally led, was in a hollow; a small descent that wasn't even noticeable when there was plenty of snow. Now, however, there was a sheet of ice because rain had gathered in the hollow and the snow that usually covered it had melted.
“Well, tough luck for us,” said Tommy, glancing at his watch. “We'll lose some time, but we'll have to go around it, I guess.”
“Wait, it's not a particularly large patch of ice. Maybe it'll hold us.” Buck was already testing the frozen surface with the heel of his boot.
“Evan. It's thawing, it'll never hold us.”
Buck turned around, grinning and already with both feet on the ice. His left leg slipped. For a moment, his arms flailed in the air, then he caught himself. He looks like Bambi, Tommy thought, almost amused.
“Don’t,” he warned him nonetheless. “The cabin is still more than an hour away. If you fall in, you'll get some nasty frostbite. It may be thawing, but it's still freezing cold.”
“I'm sure it'll hold.”
“We’ve no signal out here,” Tommy tried to reason. “How am I supposed to call for help if you break through the ice?”
“You won’t need to.” Buck grinned, stepping forward cautiously. “Look, four steps. It's holding.”
Tommy shook his head, but he knew there was no stopping this man. When Buck set his mind to something, he found a way — and while he was risk-taking, he wasn't reckless. He knew the dangers, and he probably even knew all the statistics about frozen surfaces, their supposed thickness and the like. Tommy watched as Buck cautiously took another step.
“Solid ground. Like I said, only four steps.”
“Not everyone has legs as long as yours,” Tommy replied skeptically, but nevertheless he put a foot on the ice. Cautiously, he moved on.
“You'd better move a little to the right. It's safe where I walked,” Buck said, gesturing.
“If I cross at exactly the same spot, it'll be too much weight.”
“No, statistically speaking, that's the thickest part of the ice,” Buck disagreed. “The closer you get to the edge, the thinner the ice...”
He broke off as there was a loud noise. It sounded almost like stepping on a branch in the forest, only much higher and more threatening. Tommy looked down in amazement. Fragile, narrow cracks had formed around the soles of his boots. Then, the ice broke.
───── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─────
As if standing on a trapdoor that had suddenly opened, he plunged into the freezing water up to his chest. Quick-thinking, he stretched out his arms, which crashed painfully onto the remaining ice, yet his hands found no hold.
“Tommy,” Buck shouted, taking a step back onto the ice, but Tommy yelled, “Stay where you are!”
Buck stood rooted to the spot and looked down in disbelief at the surface he had just crossed so easily. Cracks had formed all over the ice, a threatening pattern of fragility. The water pulled Tommy down, his wet jeans sticking to his legs. He pressed his forearms firmly against the remaining ice around him, his muscles tense to the point of tearing.
“It's not deep,” he said; the calm in his voice was meant more for Buck than an expression of his state of mind. “This isn't a real lake. I can...”
At that moment, the ice supporting his arms broke. The force pulled Tommy down a little further, and for a terrifying moment he thought he was drowning. Water splashed into his face, knocking the breath out of him; it penetrated every fiber of his clothing. Buck threw himself face down on the ice and started to crawl towards Tommy. The ice cracked ominously.
“Stay there,” Tommy implored him, gasping for air. “I'll make it out, don’t worry. Don’t fall in as well!”
“No way, I'm pulling you out!”
“No,” Tommy shouted sternly. “Go back. The ice is about to break, can't you see?”
He nodded in Buck's direction. And sure enough, the cracks in the surface grew larger, still spreading. Small, razor-sharp shards flew through the air as the entire ice collapsed and broke into dozens of pieces. Tommy took a deep breath—ice-cold air that hurt his lungs—and pushed off awkwardly. His wet clothes pulled him down, but his iron will and all the weightlifting paid off: he managed to swim forward, through the chunks of ice.
It was only a short distance, but it felt endless, as if the eerily cold water simply refused to part and let the man, this strange foreign object, pass through. Buck had retreated when the rest of the ice broke, but now he waded in, and as soon as Tommy was close enough, he grabbed him.
“I got you. I got you,” he stuttered. His wide-open eyes revealed that, contrary to all experience, contrary to all knowledge, he had almost panicked. Because it was about Tommy. The adrenaline felt different when you suddenly found yourself on the other side of the accident.
Finally, both of them stumbled into the snow. It was wet and slippery, but right now, that didn’t matter. Tommy lay on his back and stared at the sky, panting as if he had just run a short-distance race. Suddenly, there were Buck's blue eyes instead of the sky, an even more beautiful sight, and very welcome at that moment.
“You okay? Are you hurt?”
“No. No, I don't think so,” Tommy replied slowly as he thought about it. As his heart rate slowed down, he realized he was wet and clammy, and his body instinctively reacted – he started shivering.
“We need to get back,” Buck urged. “As fast as we can.”
“I’ll manage.” Tommy took a deep breath and pushed himself off the ground, a little surprised at how easy it was.
Buck peeled off his puffer jacket, wrapping it around Tommy's shoulders. “We need to get you out of those clothes, and fast. But not here.”
“I'm fine.”
“This was a stupid idea,” said Buck, biting his lip.
“Can’t disagree on that… let’s just go,” Tommy replied with chattering teeth.
───── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─────
Buck should’ve known that Tommy’s I’m fine was obviously window dressing. Something was clearly, seriously wrong, but he couldn’t exactly put his finger on it. They were walking for like ten minutes, and Tommy couldn’t stop shivering; as uncomfortable as he must have felt, that was probably normal. What wasn’t quite so normal was him acting somewhat nervous, almost agitated. Normally, he was the one who kept a cool head; as a pilot, he couldn't afford to do otherwise. Now, he was picking at his trembling fingers, if he wasn’t running them through his hair or kept wiping them on his jeans as if he was trying to dry something, anything. Maybe it was just that he didn’t know what to do with his hands – a feeling Buck could certainly understand, but he’d never seen Tommy act like this. Finally, he walked with his arms wrapped around himself, though there was nothing to keep him warm right now. Even the jacket Buck had wrapped around him was already soaked through.
The landscape, which had seemed so picturesque just a few minutes ago, suddenly felt hostile. Though it wasn’t as cold as yesterday, when it had been gently snowing on their arrival at the cabin, but the wind was still biting under Buck’s sweater, and stinging on Tommy’s wet skin.
“There's really no reason to call 911,” Tommy said when Buck held up the phone for the third time, searching for a signal.
“This is definitely a reason to call for help,” Buck objected. “We still have a long way to go, and you need to warm up. You're probably hypothermic.”
“When we get back, we'll take the car and drive down to the hospital, okay? If it's that important to you.”
Buck looked at Tommy skeptically. He knew the man didn’t like hospitals all that much, and he couldn’t blame him, but this was ridiculous. Tommy kept hopping up and down in a futile attempt to warm himself, but it was pointless in his wet clothes. Buck didn't know much about hypothermia—in L.A., you probably had to get locked in a cold storage room to suffer from it—but he knew enough to realize they’d better hurry.
“I'm sorry about our trip,” Tommy added. His smile showed genuine regret.
That stung, almost like the cold wind. Buck bit his lip. “I-it’s my fault. I shouldn't have talked you into stepping on the ice.”
“Hey, at least you gave me your jacket.” Tommy’s grin was crooked. He was breathing heavily—surely that wasn't just because he couldn't stand still for a minute.
“Wait a minute,” Buck held him back. Despite the thick jacket, Tommy’s arm was ice cold, which made him feel queasy. “I think you're hyperventilating.”
“Your jacket is so warm.” Tommy shrugged, then tugged at the garment, clumsily trying to slip out of the sleeves.
Startled, Buck held his arm tightly. “Hey. Leave it,” he implored his boyfriend, but Tommy shook him off, saying, “You need it more than I do, don't you think? I'm not cold anymore.”
Tommy held out the jacket to him. Buck was indeed cold—he felt as if there was an icicle stuck in his stomach.
“Please put that back on,” he said, fumbling for his phone again. There was still no signal, and they were nowhere near the cabin.
“Hm?” Tommy went. He looked down at himself, then at the sky; for a moment, he seemed utterly confused. Then, he just plopped down onto the snow.
“What are you doing?” Buck grabbed Tommy's shoulders. They felt strangely stiff, and the icicle inside his guts only seemed to grow larger. “You need to get up. We have to keep going. Come on, I'll help you.”
Everything about Tommy now seemed rigid; it was as if Buck was trying to move a rock, downright terrifying. His thoughts were spinning. You’re a first responder, you know what to do, he told himself. But his inner voice didn't sound as encouraging as he would have liked, because it just wasn’t that easy. He knew they needed help as soon as possible, warmth, an ambulance, oxygen—everything that wasn't available right now, but that wasn't the problem.
Buck was used to stressful situations, but right now, fear was almost paralyzing him, and he couldn’t understand it. He was a maker, functioning under pressure, finding solutions, but… Suddenly, he realized that he felt like a relative. Like someone who was getting in the way of rescue because they cared too much for the patient. Buck certainly had feared for his loved ones before, but never like this, and it sent him into shock. The only one who could free him from it was himself, and fast – for Tommy.
“Listen,” he said, kneeling beside Tommy and putting his jacket back around the man’s shoulders; he had to hold it in place because he kept trying to pull it off. “We're both used to saving people. But sometimes we need help too, okay? That’s fine.”
“Hm?” Tommy looked at him with a unsteady gaze. “Evan?”
“Yes, exactly. Listen, Tommy, I’ll tell you what we're going to do.”
Buck pulled Tommy up. He had given up resisting, but probably not because he understood the seriousness of his situation. Buck feared that, on the contrary, he’d already reached a dangerous stage of hypothermia. Tommy’s breathing was shallow, his eyes glassy—how was he going to get the man to the cabin? One thing at a time. Buck grabbed Tommy around the waist, pulling him along. Tommy stumbled forward, and Buck supported him. It would take forever, but he could do it. He had to.
Once, long ago, somewhere between construction worker and bartender, Buck had briefly pushed wheelchairs in a hospital and walked people who had spent a long time in bed. Tommy hadn't forgotten how to walk, but he seemed unwilling to do so. No—rather, it seemed as if everything about him had frozen, as if the ice-cold water and air had slowed him down. He moved almost in slow motion, and Buck, who regularly checked Tommy's pulse, realized that it felt the same. Whatever that meant, he had to banish those thoughts from his mind for as long as possible.
Buck kept checking his phone—nothing, still. He caught himself starting to babble, as he often did when he was nervous. Tommy had always been the only one to never interrupt him, to listen patiently to sometimes endless ramblings. But he also always had the means to interrupt Buck from letting his thoughts spiral out of control. Right now, he couldn’t do that. Tommy’s apathy was so uncharacteristic that Buck felt panic rising.
“We're almost there,” he muttered, more to himself than to Tommy, “we’re gonna make it. Keep going, yes, like that. I'll get you back, and then you'll be warm again, I promise.”
Tommy didn't answer; he hadn't responded for minutes. Whatever had spurred him on, it suddenly seemed gone. Slumping against Buck’s grip, he collapsed.
───── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─────
Much later, Buck would wonder why all his panic had vanished at that moment, making room for an almost eerie calm. Even though the situation had only gotten worse, he was functioning again; the firefighter gene seemed too deeply ingrained in him.
He let Tommy slide into the snow, felt his pulse—still slow and arrhythmic, as far as he could tell—and lifted one of his eyelids. The pupil was extremely dilated, and he had no idea what that meant. It wasn't good, anyway. Buck tapped Tommy gently on the cheeks. “Hey, come on. Don’t fall asleep on me.”
Tommy didn't respond. Against his better jugdment, Buck pulled out his phone once more, but they still weren’t close enough. No signal. He cursed under his breath, checking his watch. Somewhere behind those snow-covered trees to the north was the cabin. If he’d calculated it correctly, it was perhaps another three-quarters of an hour to get there. In about thirty minutes, his phone might be able to connect to the nearest cell tower. Looking down at Tommy, Buck realized he needed to get him out of the snow, and fast, and there only seemed to be one option left. He took a deep breath, as if he could inhale determination, and watched his breath steam in the cold air as he exhaled. Then, he slid his arms under Tommy’s shoulders, crouched down and pulled him halfway up before finally hoisting his boyfriend onto his shoulder. With a grunt, he stood up, steadying his precious cargo.
“Just a bag of cement,” he said aloud as he stepped forward slowly, trying to keep his balance. Tommy was heavy, but it was all a matter of the right mindset. “Did I ever tell you that I used to work on construction sites? They always liked to get the young guys when there was something heavy to carry. Of course, there were rules, like using hand trucks or a harness, stuff like that, but they only enforced them when the owners or architects were on site. Otherwise, everything had to be done quickly, so we just threw the bags over our shoulders. Got me a hell of a lot of muscles after a couple of weeks...”
Tommy was wet and clammy and heavy, and he was anything but a sack of cement, but right now, Buck couldn't think about that. He couldn't think about his shallow breathing, his pale face, his bluish skin, or his irregular pulse. Buck thought only of each step he took, because each step brought Tommy closer to safety.
He walked on almost mechanically, one foot in front of the other, balancing the weight on his shoulders. With one hand he clutched Tommy's body, with the other he checked his cell phone again and again.
“Do you know the story of Leslie Allen?” Buck knew he was talking to himself. But if that was what kept him going, if that was what kept Tommy alive... “He was an Australian stretcher bearer at the Battle of Tambu during World War II. Two American colleagues had been killed while trying to retrieve their wounded. But Leslie Allen went onto the battlefield as if the bullets couldn't touch him; he picked them up one by one and carried them to safety. Twelve men."
The trees in front of Buck thinned out. He squinted. Was that... was that the roof of the cabin back there? He quickened his pace.
“I figured,” he said, holding the phone up, “if he carried twelve men one after the other, I can take on one stubborn guy. You certainly owe me a shoulder massage afterwards, Tommy, right? Because I... shit!”
He almost dropped the phone: two bars, finally. Not much, but it would do. Buck frantically pressed the emergency button.
───── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─────
As the path widened, Buck could now actually see the roof of the cabin. Just a few more minutes and he’d be there, the car was right around the corner, they’d be fine, right?
“911, what's your emergency?”
Buck had never been so happy to hear a voice. In a staccato tone, he gave their location and an update on Tommy's condition; it all came out almost automatically as his mind was preoccupied with getting closer to the car. He could already see the chrome of Tommy's truck bumper glinting in the sun.
“All right, sir, stay calm, help is on the way.” The guy in dispatch gave his spiel, his voice calm and authoritative. “Get your partner into the warmth, somewhere dry. If possible, remove his wet clothing and wrap him in blankets. But no hot water bottles, and please don't try to warm him up by rubbing his skin.”
Buck trudged grimly through the snow. “Don't worry,” he replied, “I know that much, I'm a firefighter.”
“You're a firefighter?”
“Evan Buckley, LAFD, Station 118.”
“Oh,” said the other man. From the sympathetic tone of his voice, Buck could almost hear what he was thinking. The station that lost its captain. Word got around among first responders, and they weren't far from L.A., after all. But Buck had no time for sympathy right now, nor did he want to relive the grief that had been a part of him for months. Bobby was dead, there was no changing that, but he would save Tommy. He had to.
“Listen, how long until backup arrives?” he asked.
“The nearest department is twenty minutes from your location,” said the dispatcher. “In the off-season, the roads are usually empty, so maybe fifteen.”
“That's too much, can’t wait for them,” Buck replied. “I'll drive out to meet the ambulance.”
“Sir...”
To his credit, the man on the other end didn't try to talk Buck out of it; he was probably consulting with his superiors. In any case, Buck had no intention of waiting that long. Tommy's car wasn't locked; after all, the whole point of this trip had been to spend a few days in seclusion – this wasn’t exactly a tourist spot, and a snow goat was hardly likely to break into the vehicle.
Buck wedged the phone between his teeth and hoisted Tommy into the back seat. Perhaps the most sensible thing to do would have been to take him to the cabin, strip him of his wet clothes, and wrap him in blankets, but Buck had that… feeling that made all his nerves tingle. Everything inside of him screamed that he couldn't waste any more time. Yes, Tommy was robust, an athletic and healthy man. But he was so pale, his skin was almost translucent now, and his lips and fingers had taken on a concerning blue color. Buck suppressed the urge to squeeze those fingers. He felt around Tommy's clammy pockets – of course he had the car keys with him, the man was always prepared. Maybe it was just a reflex, but right now Buck was pretty grateful for it, just like he was for the car, because it had park heating. He quickly reached between the front seats to turn it on.
“All right, sir,” dispatch reported, causing Buck to quickly reach for his phone again, “take the road south of Barrett Canyon until it meets Mt. Baldy Road. It's just a short mile. Wait there for the fire department, okay?”
The dispatcher said something, maybe he was explaining what to do. Buck didn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. He knew what to do, and now, he was just functioning. He tossed his phone onto the front seat. Half squeezed into the footwell of the truck, his knees in the melting snow, Buck crossed his hands, pressing them down on Tommy's chest.
“You’re-not-doing-this,” he panted as his hands performed a mechanical, well-practiced rhythm. „You won’t leave me, you’re perfectly healthy man… just a little wet and cold, nothing that can't be fixed. Besides, the fire department will be here shortly. Are you listening to me? If I break one of your ribs, it'll be your own fault, you hear me?"
A drop fell on Tommy's cold, motionless face. Great, now it's starting to rain again, Buck thought, until he realized they were in the car. Defiantly, he frantically wiped his eyes, then held two fingers against Tommy's neck. Still nothing. He pressed down on his chest again, counting in his head.
Aloud, he said, “A fresh start. That's what you said, wasn't it? No more of this on-off relationship, no more rom-com misunderstandings. This time, it's for real. Maybe forever. Okay, you didn't say that, but I thought it, Tommy. I thought it. And I wanted to tell you. Maybe not after this weekend, but...”
He paused and pressed his mouth to Tommy's blue lips, suppressing the thought that they were cold as a corpse's. He blew air into Tommy's lungs twice, or at least he hoped it got there. Hope was all he had left now, wasn't it? It was so damn unfair. Buck didn't know if what he was feeling was actually anger or sheer desperation, but whatever it was, it drove the rhythm his hands were drumming on Tommy's chest.
“It was just a little ice. The water wasn't even deep, it wasn't a lake, you said yourself there's no lake, just topography. A glitch in the matrix. But you don't die from that, you hear me? I won't let you. I don't want this to–”
There. Was that a movement, or just his imagination? A twitch, perhaps, or just something you see out of the corner of your eye, like a blink? Buck pressed his fingers against Tommy's throat. In the desperate need of a miracle, he held his breath.
Thump. - Pause - Thump.
Buck counted. After a minute, he exhaled as if emerging from the depths. Less than 60 beats, too few, but at least something.
“That's it,” he gasped. “Keep breathing, you hear me? We have to...”
“Sir?”
Buck had completely forgotten about the phone. He quickly fumbled around on the front seat, grabbed it, and yelled, “I have a pulse again! When will the ambulance be here?”
“They’re two min–”
The phone slipped out of Buck's cold, wet hands: Tommy's eyelids fluttered.
───── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─────
“Tommy,” he whispered. His phone fell under the back seat, but it didn't matter now. Nothing mattered now but this: a little flutter, a soft twitch. Life. Buck gently and carefully took Tommy's face between his hands, providing just a little bit of body heat. “Hang in there a little longer, okay? I'm sure they'll be here any minute. He said the road should be clear. It's a piece of cake, they...”
Tommy slowly opened his eyes. His pupils were still large, his gaze unfocused.
“Cold,” he muttered as his eyelids snapped shut once more.
“I know,” said Buck, his voice taking on a soothing tone.
The unnatural warmth of the park heating made the air in the car stuffy, but at least it wasn't quite so cold anymore, even though the door was still open. Nevertheless, he pulled his sweater over his head, placing it somewhat awkwardly over Tommy's chest like an oversized band-aid made out of love.
“You'll be fine, okay? You'll warm up again, I promise. Breathe easy. That's good, like that. Just stay with me.”
His fingers gently stroked Tommy's cheeks, as if he could bring color back to them with just his touch and his will. Tommy muttered something unintelligible.
“Shh,” Buck said, surprised to find that he wasn't stuttering, hadn’t been in a while, actually. “Just lie still. I won't go anywhere.”
It was pointless to meet the first responders on the street now, and above all, Buck would have had to let go of Tommy. The thought of getting behind the wheel and not being able to keep an eye on his breathing was terrifying. If it were up to Buck, he would sit here forever, holding Tommy's hand and watching his chest rise and fall. What a feeling. How strange to feel happy when the situation was dire.
“... either,” Tommy muttered.
Buck brushed a few wet strands of hair from his pilot’s forehead; then, following an impulse, he leaned forward and kissed the damp, incredibly cold skin. He wondered if Tommy even felt it, quickly dismissing the thought. They’d be safe soon.
“Sure,” he said in the kind of tone they used with patients; it didn't matter if they understood what you said, as long as someone was holding their hand. But Tommy frowned, cranking his eyes open with effort.
“No,” he whispered. “Listen.”
Sirens could now be heard in the distance, and Buck couldn't imagine a more beautiful sound. Or a more beautiful sight than Tommy, the corners of whose mouth turned upward. It was a crooked, almost ethereal smile, but it was beautiful. The smile of a man who wasn't quite himself, but who had an important, urgent message he needed to get across. And after that, Buck knew, even before the words were spoken, everything would be fine. This time for real.
Please tag all your creations #bucktommywhumpweek and make sure to add @bucktommywhumpweek so we can reblog! AO3 users: the collection's name is BuckTommyWhumpWeek.
Readers, writers: Please reblog for broader attention! Thank you - have fun!
hello! so excited to participate, just that i found out about the event late. are we allowed to post prompts past the date?
Hello! You can, we just ask that you wrap up everything you want to post up to two days after the end of the week, so that we are able to include your works in our recap! Happy writing!
@bucktommywhumpweek day 4: grief. following from day 1 and days 2-3.
~
Tommy is awake. That might be the only way Buck was allowed in to see him; he was able to give consent. So Buck is grateful for multiple reasons.
He looks awful, weak and pale. But, he's awake. He blinks lazily, his brow furrowing as he registers what's in front of him.
"Why you here," he breathes.
Oh.
Buck should've known.
Buck touches the wheel of his chair. "I- I'll go, if you want. I-"
Tommy shakes his head slightly. "New cast," he says, a shade louder, pointing down. At Buck's leg.
"This?" Buck gestures at it. "Structure fire at a fitness center. Set of kettlebells tripped- tripped me up. I always hated those."
"Rude," Tommy whispers, a tiny smile playing on his lips.
"How are you feeling?" Buck asks.
"Like..." Tommy pauses to take a deeper breath. "I got T-boned."
"What a coincidence," Buck says, trying to sound light. "That's exactly what happened to you."
Tommy's smile goes from tiny to small, crinkling his crows feet. "S'good to see you." He lays his hand on the bed palm side up, and Buck gently takes it in his. "Never apologized."
And here's Buck's moment. The one he's been procrastinating over since the spring. "No, I didn't, but I am, so sor-"
Tommy tugs Buck's hand and points at himself.
"What do you have to be sorry for?"
Tommy lifts his other hand and uses two fingers to mime walking.
Buck huffs out a laugh. "That was like three relationship and federal crimes ago."
"Worst one," Tommy says, his smile gone.
"It was pretty bad." Buck runs his thumb along the back of Tommy's hand. "But I- I can't blame you for not wanting to live in the loft. I didn't even choose to stay there."
"I'd live there..." Tommy's eyes slide shut and he drags them open. "With you." Then he does it again. After the third time, he is fully out. Endeared, Buck glances at the monitor, and his blood runs cold.
Tommy's heart rate shouldn't be climbing right now.
"T-Tommy?" Buck wheels away from the bed and the nurses close in. As he exits the room, assisted by an orderly, the doctor yells for an ultrasound.
~
After Buck gets settled in the waiting area, he expects someone to reclaim the wheelchair. They're for patients, and upon his discharge, he officially stopped being one of those. Surely it's needed somewhere.
But no one says anything. Buck drifts again.
A hand squeezes his shoulder. Buck opens his eyes, realizing he hasn't seen Josh since he got Buck's phone back from the ER.
"Hey, I got you a vitamin water. Drink up. We need to get some electrolytes back in you."
Eddie, of all people. Buck takes the bottle and takes a sip.
Eddie nods approvingly. "Bobby's sick, so Maddie gave me a call."
Buck keeps his flinch internal this time. "Thanks," he says, because that's what you do. Just as Eddie did when he told Buck he's relocating with Chris and Buck said they might as well take the house back.
"Are you sure?" Eddie said, and Buck nodded instead of shrugging. Of course he wouldn't keep what has always been Eddie's house while they found some other place. (It was Eddie's kitchen where they had the fight. Somehow that made it better in Buck's mind.)
Then Eddie said, "Thanks, man."
Buck never once considered asking him for help moving. Eddie was busy, and he was probably still raw about Bobby, and that was a bad combination. Buck was not going to set him off again.
"Let's get a move on. Chris is making up the couch for you as we speak."
Suddenly Buck is in motion, but he doesn't want to be. He doesn't want any of this. "Stop," he says, engaging the brake when Eddie doesn't react quick enough. "I'm not leaving. Tommy's still in surgery."
"Buck, you stay here any longer they're gonna put you back in a room. You look like roadkill."
Why does it suddenly matter what I look like, Buck thinks. "I'm not going anywhere."
Eddie eyes him for a second, before letting his shoulders drop. "Okay. So we wait."
Right, wait. For Eddie to point out that Tommy is his ex, not his boyfriend, or check the time on his phone, or point out what else he needs to do today. Or. Or.
Buck watches Eddie pick out a pamphlet about pain management from the display and take it back to his seat.
"You can go, actually."
Eddie groans. "Come on, Buck."
"I don't need to be handled," he says. His heart is pounding in his ears.
Eddie takes in a breath that is absolutely a stifled sigh. "What are you talking about?"
"No one knows how to handle me," Buck quotes. "That's- That's fine. I'm not asking you to."
"Give me a break," Eddie says under his breath.
"If he doesn't m-make it-" Buck blinks rapidly, his chest burning. "If- If he dies in there, it wouldn't be your loss, too. You stopped being his friend before you stopped being mine. W-Why are you still here?"
It's not fair. It's not even entirely true. But it feels right in the moment, and Buck is so sick of holding back out of fear of retaliation. Go ahead, he thinks. Grab me in front of all these people. Give me a shove that tips over this wheelchair.
Leave. Stop making me think I can count on you and then yanking the rug out from under me.
Eddie is staring at him, hands loose at his sides. The pamphlet fell on the floor at some point.
"I wasn't there for you after Shannon, and I- I tried to make up for that ever since. But you. You were here. You've been here."
Buck's ankle is killing him. Josh got him meds from the pharmacy downstairs, but Buck shouldn't take pain pills on an empty stomach. There's nothing he can do that doesn't require doing something else first. He's so tired.
He shoves at his temple with the heel of his hand. The headache is back, too. "I wake up three, four, five times a night every night and I don't pick up the phone. I don't tell anyone the next day. Because how dare I make it all about me."
"I wanted you to talk to me," Eddie says. "To actually talk. But all I got were those stupid assessment questions, because you were in your head about it. I didn't want psych triage, Buck. I wanted my best friend."
"Sorry picking you up from the airport and telling you we were just glad you came wasn't enough. Sorry, I couldn't be more of a 'best friend'."
"God, Joan of Arc over here. You sure you aren't Catholic?"
Summary: Tommy retreats mentally and geographically after Bobby's death. While still processing his own series of losses, Buck goes out to try to bring Tommy back.
In this chapter, Buck and Tommy share memories of Bobby’s life, and feelings about his death.
Notes: Writing this for the @bucktommywhumpweek event. The prompts make one connected story.
Please tag all your creations #bucktommywhumpweek and make sure to add @bucktommywhumpweek so we can reblog! AO3 users: the collection's name is BuckTommyWhumpWeek.
Readers, writers: Please reblog for broader attention! Thank you - have fun!
Heya. This is another fic for @bucktommywhumpweek, the prompt being 'Field Medicine (no anesthesia).' Also, do concussions work this way? Meh, no idea. Probably not. Do I care? Not particularly. Goodness knows we don't watch 911 for the accuracy. Hope you guys like it!
thank you to @desert--moonchild as usual for letting me yap.
Title from Bastille's Pompeii.
Also this is bucktommy fic number 90 for me...which feels real weird. Are you guys tired of me? Don't answer that if you are.
bucktommy - words: 2k - rating: teen - complete
He doesn’t even need to open his eyes to know that the current situation he’s in is...well, not good.
“Tommy.”
That voice...he knows that beloved voice. He wants to reassure that voice that he’s okay, but he doesn’t think that’s actually true right now.
“Tommy, please open your eyes.”
He really, really wants to, but his chest hurts, his arm feels like it’s detached from his body, and his head is pounding. He’s afraid that if he opens his eyes, that will all get a lot worse.
“Tommy, baby, please just wake up.”
That voice sounds tearful now, no, no, no, no, that’s not going to work. So he listens, his eyes flutter open, and he’s confronted with the face attached to that voice, dirty and worried, but no less beautiful.
Or: Buck and Tommy are trapped in a building collapse. Because of course they are.
