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Follow me on AO3: space_cadet09 *FUCK ICE & FUCK AI*
///35/(she/her)/Bi (not for marketing purposes)/slut for angst///
\\\18+; under 18 DNI; i don’t do bashing or discourse///
Click Here for Part 1 (June 2024 - End of Summer Hiatus/Start of Season 8)
Click Here for Part 2 (October 2024 - Start of Season 9)
my heated rivalry pseud ao3 account is home_planet_hero_90.
here's a ficlet i wrote for "hold me under" by riley nash
Here's something literally nobody asked for but I will provide anyways. My fic master list (space_cadet09 on AO3).
Details below the cut including Tumblr ficlets and works posted on AO3.
Always taking prompts for rare pairs or buck/tommy! Send 'em to the asks (talk to me baby).
128 works as of 07/09/2026
Labeled to assist: Buck/Tommy, Sal/Tommy, Josh/Eddie, Ravi/May, All Other Canon Couples, Other
Like my work? Check out typicalopposite, writerdot, firewasabeast, bigfootsmom, and do_androids_dream for similar angst work and other authors I love including 30somethingautisticteacher, judymarch15, herrmannhalsteadproduction (Idontgohereeither), nine-one-wanton (nine_one_wanton), and rdng1230 (RiNew1717)!
My sickfic collection
My friends forward (non romance focused) collection
Crash that Helicopter Collection
Edits: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Tommy Kinard/Evan "Buck" Buckley "Bad Things," Tommy Kinard/Evan "Buck" Buckley "Here Comes Trouble", Maddie Han/Chimney Han, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Bobby Nash (cw: addiction)
Tumblr Ficlets/Not on Ao3:
"The Cold" (BuckTommy haunted horror)
"Accusations" (Chris Diaz & Buck; angst)
"kryptonite" cw: dead animal mention
Bucktommy Prompt Request Roundup
"brotherhood" chim & buck spec fic for 9x14
"bobby knows best"post 9x14 ficlet
911 Season 9 Celebration Roundup
Tommy turned on by Buck 1.0 on the news
"Sanctuary" (Bucktommy; Whump)
Sad Athena Ficlets: "A Piece of Him (I)", "A Piece of Him (II)"
300 Follower Celebration (missing fic scenes): Tiny Heartbeats, Rich Boy Tommy, Double Date Disaster, Slice of Life
"Underdogs" (Eddie/Fr Brian & Buck/Tommy)
"Snapped"
"Tommy does this thing..."
"After the fact" (smut post "Holy Mother of God")
217 follower celebration (all hurt/comfort prompts)
"Special Order" (Tommy Loves Buck's Legs)
200 follower celebration: Madney H/C, Tevan H/C, Tevan Crack, SalEddie Crack, Tevan Fluff
"Bi Visibility Day"
"Buddies"
118 word challenge (thank you 118 followers!)
"Bee Mine"
Art for "Soft Silences & Gentle Mornings"
"Broken Glass"
"Give Me Evan Buckley"
Summary: Buck isn't feeling well and, especially after his bout with cancer, he struggles with worries surrounding being sick. Eddie & Tommy care for him.
A fic in universe of @judymarch15's "Better Together" in the "My Best Friend and a Pilot" universe.
Summary: Eddie finds Tommy and Buck after the Han's hasty hospital wedding, eating cake in the dim light of the hall. He joins Buck while Tommy dozes and they share a moment of quiet friendship.
"Something Blue"
Pairings: May Grant/Ravi Panikkar; Harry Grant & 118 Firehouse Crew; Harry Grant & May Grant
Summary: When Ravi proposes to May, Harry's determined to give May a gift that will be meaningful, so he reaches out to someone at the 118 that has a skill he needs to borrow.
"Stone Over Water"
Pairings: Eddie Diaz & Evan "Buck" Buckley
Summary: Buck has a tough day with Theo and work, and when his cravings to use hit their peak, someone shows up and gives him exactly what he needs.
"Like a Phantom"
Pairings: Eddie Diaz & Jack Abott (The Pitt); Eddie Diaz & 118 Firehouse Crew
Summary: The day starts like any other, but when the 118 is called to the scene of an accident and Eddie is tasked with life-saving treatment, it pulls up memories of the Army. Luckily, a familiar face is on scene, helping him - and the patient - pull through.
"Laugh Lines"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: Tommy wakes in the hospital after an on-the-job incident to Buck at his bedside, soothing him.
"Fine Print"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard; Sal Deluca/Eddie Diaz
Summary: After a scene with Eddie, Sal closes off and leaves a little unsteady - when Eddie follows, his heart stops when he finds Sal the victim of a car crash.
A fic of a "maybe missing scene" from @nine-one-wanton's "Terms & Conditions" - Chapter 17/18.
"Like Old Times"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard; Tommy Kinard & Howard "Chimney" Han
Summary: The 217 is the first station on scene of Chim's rebar accident and Tommy is shocked by what he sees. He meets the probie that took his place at the 118 and shares a moment of quiet support with him while he waits for news.
Summary: Christopher has a field trip on the Marine Science Floating Lab off the LA Coast - and Buck and Eddie are chaperoning. It doesn't go according to plan, and when they need assistance, the 217, with Tommy, are called in for support. buddietommy exchange 2026.
"A Slice Every Time"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley & Sal Deluca
Summary: Buck attends a recovery meeting and feels a little unmoored, but meets Sal Deluca and shares a small celebration with him as they develop a friendship. sal deluca week day 7: free choice.
"When I'm Gone"
Pairings: Past Sal Deluca/Tommy Kinard; Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: Sal Deluca is diagnosed with cancer and, in a yearly charity event dedicated in his honor, probie firefighter Buck collides with his past partner, Tommy. Sal Deluca Week, Day 2 Prompt: Traditions; Takes place somewhere in season 1; no abby.
"Bet On It"
Pairings: Sal Deluca/Tommy Kinard; Sal Deluca & 118 Firehouse
Summary: Sal's easy with his affection and the 118 makes a bet on it. When Tommy doesn't get the same reaction from Sal, he confronts him on why he's left out, surprised by the answer he finds. sal deluca week, day 1: firehouse shenanigans & prank wars.
"Safer At Night"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: Buck spirals after the events of "D.I.Y." (Season 9, Episode 14) and it's a slow build towards a crash landing. Tommy's there to pick up the pieces.
"Dreams in the Desert"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard; Tommy Kinard & Eddie Diaz; Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz
Summary: On the last leg of their road trip, Buck struggles with a nightmare and panic. Eddie calls in reinforcements to help him through. Post season 9, episode 13; alternate universe-buck/tommy never broke up.
"Hey Jealousy"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard; Tommy Kinard & Eddie Diaz; Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz
Summary: Eddie's been Buck's best friend for some time and, because of that, knows exactly how to get under his skin. Buck's jealousy can only take so much.
or
Five times Eddie is a little shit to Buck and one time Tommy is.
"Broken Little Bird"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: Struggling through pain, Tommy wades in memories of childhood love and abuse, guided by his mother’s voice and grounded by Buck as he fights to survive. Posted initially on tumblr, cross-posted on AO3.
"The Last Stop"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: After the 118 responds to a school bus accident, Buck learns a tiny hero has a hero dad, too. AU-Different First Meeting.
"Fresh Hell"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: Tommy is diagnosed with Lung Cancer and struggles with how this impacts his relationships and his life. When Buck finds out, they find their way back to one another one piece at a time. Posted initially on tumblr, cross-posted on AO3.
"Carry-On Chem"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: When Buck picks up the wrong luggage at baggage claim - with the wrong passport zipped inside - he goes on the hunt to find the owner, and finds love along the way.
Summary: After a horrific crash with the 217, Tommy Kinard decides it’s time to leave mid-air rescues behind and find work that keeps him on solid ground. Through a friend of a friend, he’s connected to a private security firm and takes on a new role as a bodyguard, one he quickly finds unexpected purpose in.
Meanwhile, Evan Buckley is thriving with the 118 until a call gone wrong sparks fears of a stalker. Reluctantly, he’s forced to hire private protection - and ends up with Tommy assigned to his case.
Through danger, violence, and fear, the two men form a bond that soon grows into something far deeper than professional duty.
"Thirty Days"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: After the loss of Bobby and meeting his attic-dweller, Buck decides to bake for Dwayne's AA meeting and winds up running into someone unexpected.
"Behind the Blue Line" [mild crossover with Heated Rivalry]
Summary: An accident leaves a known reality and alternate life with a man in love in both. Stuck between them briefly, what’s real and matters most is revealed.
"Minestrone Soup" [Missing Scene/Inspired by "Nonno Tom's" by @judymarch15]
Pairings: Eddie Diaz/Sal Deluca
Summary: Eddie calls in sick to work and Sal is worried about him, so he makes him minestrone soup and brings it by.
"Busted (Inked Up)" [Collab w/@judymarch15]
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard, Eddie Diaz/Dr. Val Salazar, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz
Summary: When Edie, Buck & Tommy's daughter, isn't feeling well, Buck asks Eddie to check her over and they find out the girls went behind their backs to go to a tattoo parlor. Eddie and Evie, his and Val's daughter, share a special moment in the wake of Edie's confession.
"Trigger"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: On a typical call, Buck runs into someone familiar and is confronted by something he thought he'd moved past - the bombing of the 118 ladder truck.
tagged by @corporatebanana and I’m tagging @sad-girl-hours23 @exhaustedpirate @quintessenceofdust88 @trombonechurchill @nzchance @leashybebes @kinardnatural + ANYONE WHO WANTS TO SHARE
I started writing this for a response to a prompt in my turn up the heat prompt meme but then I was like “is this dynamic… too overdone” because I specifically (this is buddietommy btw) like Tommy to be long-suffering and Buck and Eddie to be bratty as hell. so I stopped and didn’t finish (plus I had to get back to work after lunch). but then I decided that actually that’s what I like so who the fuck cares lmao
~
Eddie kicked Buck's shin. "Move," he grumbles, scooching away until he was perched at the edge of the mattress, his body curled like a comma.
Buck kicked back. "There's not enough room," he says. He wiggles out from under the thin sheet until there's nothing left covering him. He flops out onto the bed, long limbs encroaching into Eddie's space—and Tommy's, too, on the other side—as he pressed his foot into Eddie's leg. Eddie kicked at him again. "Stop," Buck whines. "'S not my fault."
"You're like a furnace, man," Eddie says. "It's too hot to be touching. Stay off of my side."
"Oh, so you get the whole side—"
"I'm on the edge of the bed!" Eddie says, turning over his shoulder to glare at Buck. He huffs and presses himself back down into his pillow, squirming just that scant distance further away. "You wanted to be in the middle."
"Yeah because I want to cuddle," Buck says sounding pouty about it.
"It's too hot to cuddle," Eddie and Tommy say at the same time.
"Okay, okay," Buck says, defeated. He goes quiet and the fan above them turns with a fast fwip fwip, circulating the air. It's at least some small measure of relief.
But then he shifts again and Eddie, whose maybe letting the heat get to him, growls. "Buck! Can you be still? And quiet? For one minute, please—I'm trying to sleep.
"Hey." Buck props himself up on his elbow and pokes Eddie's shoulder. "You're the one being loud, Eddie, I don't even do anything that time!"
Eddie wants to argue—he's going to argue, actually—when Tommy makes a grumbling, resigned noise from Buck's other side. He grabs Buck around the waist and pulls him in, then flops him over to the other side of the mattress.
bucktommy - 1k - teen - painkillers, fluff, one might say tooth-rotting fluff, intoxicated confession
It's still early days in Buck's relationship with Tommy when Sal calls Buck in for reinforcement. Tommy's a little high after some dental surgery, and he will not shut up about Buck. It's okay, though. Buck's really happy to hear what Tommy has to say.
you can read "sweet tooth" on ao3 here!
happy happy birthday kris @trombonechurchill!!! 🎈🎂🎈 i don't know where i'd be without you, love you lots!
AU where Eddie doesn't go on a 2nd tour and instead goes to nursing school. After Shannon leaves he follows her to LA, but instead of becoming a firefighter, he gets hired at a practice as a peds nurse.
One day, Eddie can't get a babysitter for Chris, so he has to bring him to work, and of course, Chris sneaks off when no one is looking and ends up in an exam room. When Eddie realizes Chris is missing he finds him in a room with the Wilson's who brought Denny in with a suspected case of strep. At first, Eddie's embarrassed, but it works out fine Chris and Denny hit it off, and Hen and Karen think Chris is a delight.
A few years, and many sleepovers later, when Mara first becomes part of the Wilson family, Eddie's presence at the doctor's office makes her feel safe, because that's Denny's best friend's dad. He's practically family.
Eddie watches Jee-Yun go from crawling to walking, and when she starts talking, he listens to her go on and on about her Uncle Buck. Every tea party, and baking session, and every wild adventure. At first, Eddie thinks Jee is embellishing in the way that children do, or that this Uncle Buck is just really good at bedtimes stories, but Jee's parents confirm that Buck really did save a bunch of people in that Tsunami a few years back. Yes, he really was struck by lightning, and it really did give him "super powers," at least temporarily.
At this point, Eddie and Shannon have divorced. They'd tried to make it work a few times, but eventually realized that in spite of what they wanted, they both needed different things. Eddie's still trying to figure out what he needs when Tommy Kinard walks in with a one-month old, looking like he has no idea what he's doing, but giving it his best go at it.
Tommy reminds him way too much of himself when he first started taking care of Chris on his own, and when they start talking it suddenly clicks: He needs this pilot!
Tommy's daughter, Cora, was surrendered to Tommy's station, and after one thing led to another, he found himself forming an unexpected connection and becoming a foster dad. Eddie's there at every checkup and anxiety prompted appointment to assure Tommy that his daughter is healthy, talk about basketball, and flirt. Tommy doesn't hide the fact that he's gay, but Eddie hasn't said anything about his own sexuality, in so far that he's only just figured out that he's definitely not straight.
Then, one day, THE Uncle Buck shows up with his own kid, a little boy named Theo. The whole office treats Buck like a celebrity, and Buck eats it up in the most gracious fashion. Eddie takes one look at the man's smile and the way he's unendingly patient with Theo, who's a little tornado that would have even some of Eddie's colleagues struggling, that makes Eddie think: He needs this firefighter!
Which is just great, because now, Eddie has to chose. Except, a few weeks later, Eddie walks into the waiting room to find Buck and Tommy across from each other with their kids. They're giving off way too much obvious chemistry than is probably appropriate for a children's hospital, and Eddie thinks: He needs them both!
Ilya Rozanov is nothing if not competitive, the drive forged from birth and honed over years under his father’s watchful eye, his brother’s tight-lipped pressure, his mother’s love. It’s served him well, most of the time. He can feel it, though, the pull to be someone different, to push against the world that’s shaped him into a snake on the ice, venom bursting in the locker room.
It started when he met Shane, if he thinks about it, that day outside the rink, the taste of tobacco on his tongue with the words of his father still sharp in his mind.
Perform. Deliver. Be quiet. Don’t be lazy.
Shut up and obey.
But Shane doesn’t expect that at all – he never has, not in the quiet solitude of a hotel room just shy of two a.m. When limbs are tangled together and skin scrapes skin, moonlight flickering between the blinds in the rare moments of solitude they share.
But it’s irresponsible, really, for Ilya to want something more with him. He can’t be so selfish, ignore everything that’s gotten him to this point, lose the connection he has to the few people on the planet that give anything within throwing distance of a shit about him.
Seeing Shane in Sochi, the sprawl of the Olympic arena stretched out beneath them, a whisper of a dance of something real so close but so, so far away – it sours everything he hoped for.
His dad is waiting for him back at the house, vodka on his breath, disappointment behind his teeth. His brother too, always just behind his father, waiting in the wings with a look of malice Ilya’s gotten to know like an old friend.
More familiar and worn-in than the memories of his mom, starting to disappear in the wake of much worse.
They’d been quick to welcome him back to the motherland but only under the illusion of support. It’s expectation that drives them, shame that keeps them on his ass, worry about disappointing the family – disappointing his country – that holds the lingering smack of their lips and the distant flash of a toxic whisper hovering the whole time he’s in Sochi.
The loss hurts more than any other, and as soon as the buzzer runs out and they head to the locker room, Ilya keeps his jaw locked, tense, holding back frustration or fear, he can’t be sure. Nausea sits in his gut through the showers, the ride home, the verbal assault from his family, the fists that come with it.
Usually he can hide it well, the shape of knuckles against his ribs blossoming bruises that shift to greens and yellows as easily as his hockey injuries do. He explains it away with a dismissive wave every time, claims a sharp stick to the ribs or a puck to the shoulder. The rare times he’s sported a shiner or stiches across his temple; he laughs it off.
“Russia, you know, the snow is slippery and we like vodka,” he tells his teammates and coaches. “Drinking games are not for the weak there.”
They laugh and tease him, Marleau calling him a “Wild child” and nudging his shoulder with a cocky grin practically tattooed on his face.
He can usually avoid Shane seeing anything too damning, schedules so rarely lining up he doesn’t have to try that hard. They text and fuck, but Shane doesn’t ask too many questions, and Ilya doesn’t answer anything he’s not asked.
Russia, luckily, is short-lived, and after the Olympics loss, he’s back in the U.S. trying to steady himself in the form of routine and reminders that if he keeps his head down, hopefully he can make enough money to leave it behind him.
Eventually.
For now, the focus on the game is enough to bring home the cup, and the bruises fade by the time he sees Shane again, so he basks in the glory of a win for his mom, one of many soon to be under his belt.
That’s enough, at least, to get him back to Russia in the summer, if only to talk to her about it – to visit her grave with a picture of him and his team, his hands wrapped around the gold cup murmuring her name.
“Mama, I hope you know I do this for you,” he tells her when he sits down with her headstone, brushes away the grime and weeds and settles himself in the grass. He tucks a bouquet beside her name along with the photograph and tries to shove back the burn behind his eyes. “I want to make you proud.”
A brush of wind skates through his curls and the sun peeks through the gray, and the smile that finds his cheeks is the first one he’s found in Russia in months – years, if he’s honest, but it’s enough to remind him that she’s always here with him.
He dreams about her that night, fights nightmares and his traitorous heart thundering against his ribs when he wakes in a cold sweat. It happens twice more before he gets a full nights’ sleep, and every time he walks through the city, he’s bombarded with accusations of his failure.
“Rozanov! Can’t play like you did for the cup for your home country?” A man slurs outside a bar late one Tuesday night. “Traitor!”
His friends slump against him, the ember of the burning end of a cigarette dusting lazily into the street where they stagger against a lamppost.
“I think he did it on purpose,” another one accuses. “You even try, Rozanov? Looked like shit on the ice, my grandma could’ve played better!”
“You think you’re too good for us, huh?” the third chimes in, words slurring as he pulls another drag from his flask. “Leave for America and then hand over the gold medal?”
“Shit captain!”
“Shit Russian!”
Ilya doesn’t stop, doesn’t think it’s worth it to knock out three drunk bastards in the middle of the street on a weeknight.
Even if he wants to.
Instead, he heads back to the cold, lonely house he grew up in with a room that hasn’t felt like his since his mother died and a family that feels the same.
“Oi,” Alexei shouts when the door clicks shut behind him. He only has another few days here, and the season can’t come fast enough, with the way his brother’s voice grates against Ilya’s nerves. “Where you been?”
“What’s it to you?” Ilya says, “On a walk.”
“Looking for a man on the street now? That’s low, even for you,” Alexei spouts. He’s been drinking too, Ilya can tell, the way his tongue is loose and his words are sharp.
There’s been an unspoken agreement, somehow, that Ilya sucks cock and Alexei knows about it, but they both keep their mouths shut in the knowledge they’d lose each other if word got out.
Despite the hatred he feels at the top of his spine every time he walks in the door, there’s still a piece of him, a part of his mother maybe, that wishes he could have something better with the guy. Alexei is his brother, after all.
Every year that passes, every loss that stings a little sharper, Alexei’s eyes burn with a different kind of ire. One that glows hot and rabid and twists Ilya’s chest with the terror that their unspoken agreement won’t last.
It’s that thought that reminds him he’ll never have something better with Alexei. He can’t be the brother Ilya wants him to be – the man he needs as a mentor.
When Alexei’s clenched fist drives into Ilya’s ribs and he sputters a ragged breath, the realization hits hard in more ways than just physical. Ilya doesn’t resist, doesn’t fight back for fear of making it worse. He’s still in Russia, his brother and his father are still police here. He’s not allowed to exist here.
So he makes himself smaller, takes every hit with clenched teeth, and ices his ribs when Alexei finally stumbles away in the dark shadows of the hallway. Grigori’s voice echoes in his head all the way.
“How are you not ashamed?”
“I am ashamed, Father.”
He makes it through the rest of the off-season hanging by a thread, texts with Shane and time spent with Svetlana the only things that make him feel sane.
It kicks up hope in the same way winning the cup did – a tether to his desires that caters so deeply to who he is, it keeps him standing most days. So much so by the time he’s back in the states, they’ve shifted into a new kind of pattern.
One that’s familiar and warm and so fucking easy that it makes Ilya’s chest ache in a different way. It doesn’t take effort, with Shane, the back and forth, the push and pull, both on and off the ice.
They spend time together when they can and learn about the shape of one another in an alternative pattern. Fierce passion sits with easy comfort and before he knows it, Ilya starts to see a future there.
He can’t let himself think that way, though, not for long. Stuck in a memory of something so incredibly normal and soft, it’ll be a bitch to pull himself out of it if he lingers.
It carries him through another off-season, though, the sting of violence softened between nights spent under the haze of club lights and the burn of cheap liquor at the back of his throat. Svetlana at his side, eyes gentle. Between that and the idea of someday with Shane, Ilya survives.
Barely.
His dad is deteriorating more, the constant care and oversight reaching new heights, and operating between time negotiated between him and begging Alexei to step in and help is overwhelming.
He can only throw so much money at it before the guilt burns at the back of his spine, the smack of Alexei’s palm as sharp as the disgrace that stings when he has to leave again. It’s not obligation, necessarily, but it’s not love.
In the shelter of his mind, Ilya pulls apart the image of his mom, the way she used to be and what she must have been like when she first met his father. All charm and delight and bright smile, eclipsed by the power and sharp edge of his father’s presence. She must’ve been willing to push, to tug and tease and fray the edges of his tough exterior. At least enough to have Alexei, to have him.
Moments shared with her before her death dance through his mind in nearly every dream, and every day he thinks of her, wants to do right by her.
But he has to leave his family behind again when the season arrives, the dull crack of bones that crumbled in his ribs at the start of the summer is finally healed, mostly, and Ilya can’t quite make it back to the states without a parting gift from Alexei in the form of his fists.
A gift he wishes he could return but one he doesn’t risk cashing in.
Not when Shane is on the other side of the world. He can’t gamble that, losing him, it would break Ilya.
There’s been something there, just under the surface, since they met, but it’s only grown stronger in the last couple of years. Ilya tells himself it’s casual. Convenient. A good friend and a way to get his dick wet during the season.
A reliable way to way to get his dick wet.
When Shane comes over one day, eyes soft, falling into Ilya’s arms without hesitation, something clicks into place. A wall crumbled, fear drifting to dust between the kitchen and the bedroom, settled into quiet solitude with Shane asleep in his arms.
Conversation flows easier when they share lunch, Ilya forcing himself to offer casually, afraid if he tips too far into something more even, he’ll spook Shane – or himself – in the process.
Ilya can’t help the gaze that traces Shane’s soft features, the way his mouth tilts into a smile when he tells Ilya he’s not lazy, the easy teasing that comes with understanding more about one another.
They’re falling into a rhythm that feels like a melody he’s known for years.
The call from his father shatters the moment as quickly as it came, his desperate voice confused on the other end, Alexei nowhere in sight. It’s a reality check in the worst way, a reminder of who Ilya has failed to be and who he can never become.
“How is your father?” Shane asks when the call ends, eyes so wide it disarms Ilya as he slumps into the couch.
“Ah, so you speak Russian now?” Ilya asks, voice teasing, barbed with an edge – a request to push ahead, past the discomfort of shame and guilt that’s circling his brain.
“I know the word for father,” Shane jabs back. The tone is taunting but fond, his hand a magnet to Shane’s skin, and he reaches out in a bid for shared space.
Shane falls into his lap easily, the intimacy they know so well making space where new intimacy fails to form words.
When he finally breaks, Hollander stopping where Shane starts, he hears his own name whispered between them and his heart stutters with the rhythm of his hips. It feels so right, so much of what he wants slotting into place inside his mind – a home together, a life together, a career with one another at their backs.
It’s gone. In an instant.
Shane’s off his lap, across the room, and by the time cum dries, sticky across his lap, he’s already gone.
The next two months only get worse. Marleau shows Ilya the headlines about Rose Landry, and the anger that’s been resting, heavy, in his stomach about the supposed family he has in Russia curdles with the new frustration of Shane with someone else.
The kicker is he can’t have Shane – not even if he wants.
The league and Russia will make sure of that, even if he clings to Shane kicking and screaming, even if he tries like hell to fight against it.
But the idea of him and Rose together, of them kissing on Shane’s couch, sharing a bed he’s shared with Shane, himself – all of it feels like rotten meat, flies grazing against the wound and prodding while he lays, flayed open, with his heart flapping in the wind.
Ilya hears enough from Marleau and Connors about his sour attitude, learns to bite back half of what he wants to shout in the locker room – or at least shouts in Russian so most of them don’t know what he’s saying.
By the time the All-Stars game rolls around he isn’t sure if he desperately wants to see Shane or desperately wants to avoid him. Hollander makes the decision for him, sidling up alongside him at the bar before he can even feel the tingling edges of a beer buzz.
He wishes he had more time.
Shane orders a beer and settles in with a smile that’s so warm, it feels like coming home. “So, what, are they out of ginger ale, Captain?”
Shane grins, “I'm feeling a bit wild.”
“So this should be fun, huh?” Ilya says, trying to pull his eyes away, not allowing himself the chance, the opportunity – the comfort – of tracing over Shane’s form. He looks so at ease, so soft under warm sunlight dripping over his cheeks.
“I've always wondered what it would be like to play on the same team,” Shane says.
Ilya nods hesitantly, “Have you?”
“Yeah, I have.”
They’re interrupted by the waiter and Carter Vaughn, and each word that skims past Shane’s lips pulls Ilya a millimeter closer, bit by bit like he can’t possibly resist.
Before he knows it, Shane’s grinning wildly, and Ilya feels his heart sling so hard against his ribs, it feels like it’ll escape. He’s talking about a stylist and not wanting to be managed, and stumbling into something Ilya hopes isn’t the pull of his imagination.
Ilya fights against his dad’s voice and his brother’s grasping at the back of his mind, and asks “So, uh, you and her are not...”
Shane looks up at him and shakes his head, just barely, “We're not.” He’s quick to add, “She's great, but, uh...We're just not...compatible, I guess.”
Compatible. Compatible.
He rolls the word through his mind, tries to pull up a time he’s heard it before but he can’t quite find it. They’re not a couple, not together, but the word is that much closer to the seed of doubt sitting heavy in Ilya’s gut.
The rest of the day is filled with laughter and sidelong glances, and the re-entry of images Ilya staunchly tried to avoid since that afternoon at his house.
When they part the next morning, it doesn’t feel quite the same. Doesn’t feel like ‘Goodbye’ so much as ‘I’ll miss you.’
The warmth from Tampa carries him, floating along the inevitable high that comes with time spent next to Shane Hollander, until it all comes crashing down.
“What do you want?” Ilya shouts into his phone after a game, the locker room loud with tossed gear and dripping with sweat and musk of men who poured their hearts out across the ice.
It finally happened. In the depths of the worst part of his illness, when Ilya was across the globe hitting a puck over the blue line, Grigori succumbed.
He’s gone.
The immediate relief shifts quickly into guilt, the shame of something positive coming from his father’s death crawling up Ilya’s throat. The locker room fades, his skin sticky with cold sweat, and before he knows it Marleau is crouched in front of him asking if he hit his head.
“You good? You fall on the ice or something, man?” he says, dipping his head to catch Ilya’s gaze.
Ilya shakes it out, blinks through the burn of tears pressing at the back of his eyes, swallows back bile and clears his throat.
“No. I am…I need to talk to coach,” Ilya says before standing. Marleau’s brow furrows in confusion but he moves out of the way, knows better than to be in front of Ilya Rozanov when he’s this determined.
The league helps set him up a flight to Moscow that afternoon, and the next day he lands in a country that feels that much colder now that he knows what he has with Shane back home.
Home.
Not Russia anymore – not really. It hasn’t been since his mother died and his hockey career built a community for him in a city that looks nothing like Moscow. One that doesn’t feel like his brother’s around every corner waiting to tear apart his life.
A car picks him up at the airport like it always does, and his family’s home grows more menacing along the horizon as they approach. A family he’s failed, abandoned, left behind; his brother’s words echo in his mind, no matter how hard he tries to release them.
“Ilya,” Alexei says on his arrival. “Wish you had come sooner.”
The words are intentionally pointed, missed phone calls stacked in his call history like accusations. It doesn’t take long for them to move on, though, the next words out of his mouth the same as they always are.
“We need more for the funeral,” his brother continues. “And your niece has been waiting to get into a new school. Her mother needs another coat for winter.”
More. Always more.
Ilya gives. And gives and gives and gives until there’s no stone unturned, no spared expense.
The funeral is extravagant and baked with tradition. Svetlana dusts the sleeves of Ilya’s jacket the morning of the ceremony, brushes his hair into place just so. Having her helps, her constant strength and protection so ingrained in his life, she steadies him almost as much as Shane.
If he can’t be here, Ilya’s grateful Svetlana can.
Even if it’s selfish, even if it hurts, he craves comfort in a way he doesn’t get that often these days. He feels her strength like an extra body part, uses it to push ahead in the face of an argument he’s spent years holding back.
“Don't fucking touch me,” he grits through clenched teeth when Alexei follows him after dinner. Green lights cast across Alexei’s face leaving an eerie glow behind when he reaches for Ilya.
“Then tell me the fucking plan,” Alexei spits back.
Ilya scoffs, “Jesus Christ. I don't know yet, Alexei! He just died.” He paces across the narrow stretch of tacky carpet and dark shadows. “Can I get a minute to breathe?”
Alexei doesn’t hold back. “And me? What about me? Do I get to breathe too? Or is that just something reserved for rich faggots who abandon their families?”
Ilya can’t take it anymore. Can’t hold back against the slander, against the years spent giving and giving and giving – until he bleeds fucking dry. “Abandoned? Whose money do you live on,
you piece of shit? Who puts food in your mouth and coke up your nose?”
Alexei’s jaw tightens as he moves in closer. Spit flies from his mouth through his gritted teeth as he spews defensively against the words. “I have a child, Ilya! And a fucking wife! And me, I've spent the last five months taking care of our dying father every fucking day–”
Svetlana interrupts and Alexei’s eyes dart to her. Ilya sees red when he calls her a whore, only stopping his own instinct to wrap his hands around Alexei’s neck when she pulls him back.
Instead, he breathes, settles.
He tells Alexei “You can have my apartment, and there will be a trust for my niece. She can have it when she's 18. And you will never, ever contact me again.” He can’t stop the words now, feels every punch from his past echo against his flesh, every accusation from Alexei’s lips flickering between the filter of his brain and his mouth.
He keeps going without pause, “If you do, I will use every piece of my fame and money and notoriety to make sure that you can't show your face in this fucking city without someone wanting to break it open. So take what I offer, shut your fucking mouth and walk away.”
The words feel like a mountain shifting from his shoulders, relief that takes years off his age, that lightens the load of expectation from suffocating to something better. Something more real. Something he could have with Shane someday.
He leaves after that, tells Svetlana he’ll call her later, heads to his mother’s grave again and ends up outside a bar he knows all too well.
Instead of going inside, though, he pulls out his phone. Sees messages from Shane, reminders that he’s there to talk, a picture of him in his glasses that he must know would make Ilya smile. Wandering aimlessly, he calls, unsure of the time across the ocean but not entirely sure it matters much.
Shane sneaks into a stairwell where his voice echoes against the metal, the hollow sound of the concrete at odds with the soft care in his tone. He wants to help so much, Ilya can practically feel the tendrils of his fingertips across the country, under the sky.
He tells him to bear his soul, in his native tongue, and the remaining exhaustion that’s been sitting on top of him dims when Shane listens so intently on the other end of the line.
It dims more when Ilya tells Shane he loves him and Shane has no idea what he’s saying. He wants to say it all, to tell him everything, how he feels, what he wants, that he wants forever if he could have it.
But he can’t.
Not now.
Right now, he’ll sit in a dark tunnel off the road, listening to Shane’s steady breathing, picturing his eyes, adoring, gazing back at him. He falls back into familiar, teasing, toying with what they know – the physical.
But when Shane asks him how to say “I wish you were here right now” in Russian, Ilya can’t help but smile.
“I wish I was too,” he replies instead.
Shane’s voice is still on the other end, asking about Ilya’s niece, when Ilya turns around and heads back toward home. He’s still wearing a grin a mile wide, heart fluttering with the confession of love on the end of his tongue, when his breath is swiftly stolen from him.
A fist collides with his jaw and he jolts as another lands on his ribs. An elbow slings across his cheek and he’s kicked to the ground, sending his phone flying.
Blood, warm and tacky, trails across his temple but he only has a fraction of a second before another punch drives him closer to the cement. He coughs, choking on the coppery liquid, spits it out along with what he thinks is a tooth – or at least part of one – as he staggers backward.
Ilya can fight, he does it all the time on the ice, has made a name for himself as a playboy with an adrenaline junkie streak. He’s landed more tallies in the win column of bar fights than losses, but he was so surprised by the attack, he can’t find his footing.
Another kick to his wrist pins it in place and a shoe collides with his ribs again. He curls into a ball, wraps his arms around his head and tries to protect his skull.
Finally, after what feels like hours but could only be minutes, it stops. The attack ceases and the world spins unsteadily as he blinks open his eyes. Tension sits at the base of his neck, his head throbs with a dizzying thrum, and his breathing is ragged on every inhale.
Blood’s spattered around him, his clothes are stained with crimson, and by the time he looks up, spit lands across his cheek from the mouth of none other than Alexei Rozanov.
“Useless piece of shit, you’re lucky I don’t kill you here and now,” he grits as he sways slightly under the lamplight. Ilya can smell the booze rolling off his skin along with his sweat, swallows back the nausea that comes with the scent.
As he stumbles away, hopping into a car where cheers reverberate against the quiet night, Ilya tries to keep his eyes open. He tries to shift, straighten against the wall of the tunnel, tries to catch his breath.
Instead, he crawls no more than half a meter, reaching for his phone where it skittered away from the brawl, alight and shining against the muck.
The world tips again, darkening at the edges, and Ilya can’t be sure, but he thinks he can still hear Shane’s voice on the speaker as it disappears behind closed eyes, and he sinks into the painless dark that calls for him like his mother’s cradling arms.
hi hello!! :) thannnk you i LOVE bridging 2 sections when I write and this got me that !! :) YAHOO
💤💤💤 DIRECTLY under the cut for somno :)
"Holy shit," Eddie breathes as he clambers onto the bed between Buck's parted legs. To reach his goal ('every hole's a goal,' some useless, delirious part of his brain chants), Eddie needs to spread Buck's legs further. Carefully, he pushes one of Buck's thighs up, breathlessly watching for any reaction on Buck's face. His mouth is still slack, lashes falling soft over his cheeks, the few creases Eddie's seen appear throughout the years smoothed away in sleep.
Tommy huffs from somewhere behind him, climbing up on the bed and pulling Buck's other leg up and out. "Don't worry, he's out like a light. He also does enough yoga, you can practically put Evan in any position you want."
Eddie's response is a choked, embarrassing noise. No words are possible as he looks at Buck below him, legs spread, cock just peeking out from between them, his back slightly arched and his ass sticking out because of the angles of his legs. Eddie wants to — and he can. He can, and he does.
this is for my babygirl @judymarch15 based in her incredible, perfect, fantastic, amazing buddietommy universe (my best friend and a pilot).
this is stemming from her fic (for moiiiii) called better together. everyone should read it because its amazing (mind the tags) but you dont have to have read it for this lil sickfic. a couple lines may confuse you i guess but you're a big girl (gn), you can figure it out.
Ever since he’d gotten the diagnosis – been through surgery and radiation and beat the thyroid cancer head-on – Buck’s been anxious every time a headache has so much as tip-toed into the back of his mind.
The night before, he’d been exhausted – falling asleep before the opening credits finished rolling on a movie Tommy’d picked out and Eddie claimed was a classic. They’d begged him, said he’d love it, “come on Buck, it’s got everything – action, romance, aliens” – and usually he would.
The scent of buttery goodness had wafted through the living room, Chris was at Kaylee’s house – the same girl he’d been on-again, off-again with for the last couple years – and Buck was already snuggled into the cushions.
He was wrapped Tommy’s hoodie, one that smelled like his deodorant and motor oil and coffee, and Eddie was pressed against his side, fingertips dancing through his curls.
He didn’t even notice his eyelids drooping, didn’t feel himself start to drift. It wasn’t until Tommy brushed his hand down Buck’s cheek and pressed a kiss to his temple that he realized he’d missed the whole movie.
Music blared from the speaker and the screen rolled through visual effects artists and the soundtrack, and Buck wasn’t even sure he’d heard an actor utter a single line.
“C’mon,” Tommy murmured, running his hands down Buck’s shoulders to wake him up. “Bed’s waiting.”
“S’rry,” Buck muttered, scrubbing his eyes and aimlessly following Tommy down the dark hall. Eddie was already under the quilt, scrolling through his phone when they got to the bedroom.
He threw back the covers and let Buck crawl in, pulling the blanket back over Buck’s shoulders as soon as he’d collapsed beside Eddie.
Eddie pressed a kiss to his cheek and Buck could feel his fingertips trace over his temple, the soft press of his fingertips brushing under Buck’s jaw.
“You feeling okay?” Eddie had asked, voice gentle in the dim light of the bedroom lamp. Buck could hear the shower running along with the low hum of Tommy’s baritone, a broken melody of some late 90’s rock song Buck didn’t know the name of.
Buck blinked one eye open, squinting up at Eddie. “Mm, just tired.”
“I’m covering tomorrow, remember,” Eddie said regretfully, fingers still tracing over Buck’s cheek. “Tommy will be here, though.”
Buck huffed, dismissing the worry easily. They’d just worked a double and ended on a call that landed them in an office building with eight flights of stairs. Their equipment wasn’t getting any lighter and, if the shimmering flecks of gray in Eddie’s hair were any indication, they certainly weren’t getting any younger.
Buck yawned, shuffling closer to Eddie as he let his eyes close again.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, already feeling the pull of sleep. “You worry too much.”
He wasn’t even awake long enough to hear Eddie’s reply.
Now, he’s up for the third time in as many hours, nausea slowly churning in his gut, skull tight with tension. He’s been trying to fall back to sleep, to will his mind to slow; for the worry that comes with the lingering feeling of sickness to recede and bring the headache with it.
He’s pressed against the tub, feet bare and cold against the tile, but for just a moment – a flash of a second – he’s back at the beach the night of his diagnosis. Toes in the sand, shivering on the edge of the ocean, mind as distant as the sun setting along the horizon.
So lost in his own thoughts, he doesn’t hear the door creak open, the sound of soft footsteps against the floor, the quiet whisper of his name. It’s not until he feels those fingertips again that he realizes he’s still in the bathroom.
“Baby,” Eddie murmurs. “Come on, let’s get back in bed. I can help.”
Buck blinks and suddenly he’s sitting there – on the edge of the bed, a shiver rolling through him. Eddie crouches and meets his gaze, brows furrowed, eyes shining with worry.
“You feel warm, did you take anything in there?” Eddie says, straightening the hoodie on Buck’s shoulders, fingertips finding Buck’s pulse just inside his wrist. Buck hums against the warmth.
“No,” he says. “Felt like I might be sick…ca-can’t sleep.”
Another shiver runs through him and Eddie’s gone, then back again, tugging socks on his feet.
“Wanna lay on the couch?” Eddie asks, handing Buck a glass of water and pills he didn’t even notice Eddie grabbed. “Anything else bothering you?”
Buck hears a soft grumble behind him and the blanket is tugged backward, Tommy shifting before his breath evens back out in a quiet snore.
Buck smiles faintly, assessing each part of his body. There’s an ache deep in his muscles, the nausea still sitting heavy, a headache – symptoms he compares to ones he had…before. He tries to bring up memories of the way his muscles had been tight back then, how exhausted he’d been to the point of frustration.
It’s a playbook he’s memorized by now, one he wishes he could forget.
“I’m sure it’s just something from work – a bug,” Eddie says, as though he can read Buck’s thoughts. “Want me to call Dr. Graham’s office?”
“N-No,” Buck rushes to say, shoving the memories down and focusing on Eddie, warm at his side. “Couch is good.”
Buck shuffles to the living room with Eddie at his back. They split when Eddie makes another pit-stop at the kitchen where he refills Buck’s water and gets a fresh ice pack.
The couch is still soft where Buck was nestled in during the movie, pillows shoved together to snuggle into. When Eddie joins him, he lifts Bucks head and settles him onto his lap before returning his fingers to Buck’s curls.
“Hmm, feels nice,” Buck murmurs, feeling the tension at the base of his neck and into his spine seep into something softer. The nausea that was threatening to overwhelm him settles and his eyelids grow heavy.
He tugs them open and looks up at Eddie when he makes a realization, “You have to work tomorrow.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry, I can sleep later,” Eddie says, smoothing his thumb over Buck’s birthmark. The phantom weight of the touch drags Buck’s eyelids closed again, sleep finally greeting him with hesitant arms. “Get some sleep, baby.”
The next time Buck blinks his eyes open, Eddie’s gone, warm lap replaced by another one, just as familiar and strong.
“Hey,” Buck mumbles, voice rough with sleep. There’s still a drumbeat behind his eyes and he feels a shiver course through him, a thin sheen of cold sweat lacing his temple.
Tommy moves his book and his adorable, glasses-wearing face smirks down at Buck and just that moment – that look of adoration, fills him with warmth he’s been missing. The soft flutter of care smothers the now ever-present nausea, at least for the moment.
“Sunshine,” Tommy says softly. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I’m being cooked on the inside and frozen on the outside,” Buck says, shoving off the cushions and sitting up. He’s barely straightened out before he’s tipping against a wave of dizziness. Tommy reaches out and steadies him.
“Easy,” Tommy says as he shuffles and grabs something off the table. When Buck pulls an eye open, he reaches out, hand trembling, for the icy glass of water.
It feels like heaven, the rush of cool liquid sliding down his throat. Buck can still feel Tommy’s hands on him; knows he wasn’t the only one that feels the memories of his cancer like they’re branded into his skin.
They’d had to spend a week apart, separated by a door and distance that felt like miles even when it was down the hallway. Buck had done radioactive therapy, had to keep a certain distance in a time when his emotions threatened to crush him at every turn.
Now, if he has a headache, feels a tickle in his throat, feels a chill in the air – Eddie and Tommy are at his side before he can blink. Connected to him until they’re assured that he feels better. Know he doesn’t need them at his side anymore.
“Eddie?” Buck murmurs, tendrils of confusion running through him. He can’t be sure how much time has passed, the room is dim, but the curtains are pulled, the soft light of the lamp at Tommy’s side the only warm haze in the room.
“He’s at work,” Tommy says, bracing his palm against Buck’s neck, grounding him. “It’s still early, not even eight o’clock yet.”
Buck feels the distinct rush of illness – one that leaves him restless but exhausted, sticky with sweat but shivering with fever, wishing he could settle back into sleep easily, but knowing it’s out of reach.
“I feel gross,” Buck says, slumping against the couch.
“Want a bath?” Tommy asks, slowly freeing Buck’s legs from the tangled blanket wrapped around them. “Or I could get a damp washcloth – we could move back into bed if you want.”
Frustrated and worn thin, Buck can feel a tear threaten to fall. He blinks it back, swallowing down the knot in his throat. It’s just a bug, he’s sure, but the rush of emotion unseated from the back of his mind washes over him again in an instant.
Tommy brushes a hand over Buck’s cheek and Buck feels the damp trail of a tear that’s fallen.
“Come on,” Tommy says softly, pulling Buck to his feet. “I think a bath would be nice.”
It’s better than nice. It’s perfect, the warmth of the water and the cool press of Tommy’s hand against his forehead settle him again. Damp skin washes traces of sweat and the stickiness of the couch feels like a distant memory.
Tommy stays with him, leans against the side of the tub while Buck relaxes into a fitful doze. He brushes over Buck’s arms when his skin prickles with goosebumps. He runs a cool washcloth over Buck’s neck when the fever starts to spike again.
The rest of the day moves carefully, quiet and gentle with nowhere to be. Tommy doesn’t leave his side, save for brief trips to the kitchen for oatmeal and applesauce, Gatorade and water. For more pain reliever and ice packs and fresh t-shirts and new socks that are warm from the dryer.
When the fever finally breaks the next morning, Buck feels like a week’s passed, the anxiety of illness skimming through his nervous system along with the last dregs of sickness.
He’s wrapped around Tommy’s middle, eyes still closed while he gathers the courage to open them, when he hears the soft click of the bedroom door.
“Hey hon,” Eddie hums, and Buck can feel him hover over the bed, hear him lean in for kiss with Tommy. “How’s he doing?”
“Fever broke,” Tommy says, the steady rhythm of his fingertips a familiar melody over the last day. “I called Dr. Graham’s office. They said to call back if he’s not feeling better in the next couple days.”
“When he’s up, I’ll give him a once-over,” Eddie says, and the soft care and quiet support mean more than either he or Tommy could possibly realize.
It’s that that lures Buck to finally open his eyes, grateful that the world doesn’t spin when he blinks up at the men he loves.
“Morning,” Tommy says, leaning over to kiss the top of Buck’s curls.
“Hi, baby,” Eddie says, sitting at Buck’s hip on the edge of the bed and leaning in for his own kiss. “Feeling better?”
“Mm,” Buck hums, curling closer to Tommy. “A little.”
“I’m gonna shower, and we can get some more sleep, yeah?”
Buck nods and Tommy adds, “I can make some breakfast. Maybe we can try toast today?”
When they both look at Buck, he sees it all. The years spent working towards something together, the love and affection tucked into every wrinkle, every laugh line deeper because of one another, every moment reflected on back at him.
“Yeah,” Buck says easily. “T-Thank you both.”
“No thanks needed,” Eddie says with a soft smile, then stands, heading to the bathroom. Surprised at his depleted energy, Buck can already feel his eyes getting heavy again.
“Get some more sleep,” Tommy tells him. “When Eddie comes back, I’ll get up.”
“Hm, love you,” Buck mutters as he drifts off once more.
And even if he doesn’t hear the words, he knows them to be true.
That Tommy – and Eddie – would do anything to make him feel better, to make him happy. If the cost of having so much love in his life is being sick now and then, Buck doesn’t think the decision’s a hard one to make at all.
I love the way you write Buck and Eddie’s friendship. I’d love to read something from around the time when Buck came out. 🥹
thank you frienddddd for sending this to me. i love love love love love the coming out scenes, and the one with eddie is so soft and loving. so this is a similar vibe, if you will. post-hospital kiss.
we'll call this one "peace after pain."
[wc: 1427]
By the time Eddie gets a slice of cake and sneaks into the hallway, Chris already back at the house with Abuela, headache receding from all the tequila and worry, it’s quiet.
The lights are dull, hospital visiting hours passed by an hour before, only the 118 and a few stragglers remain tucked into chairs lining the waiting room. They sit stacked together offering final congratulations to the happy couple before drifting apart before reuniting for their next shift.
There’s something about the ‘after’ – the way an emergency always heightens adrenaline, carries worry like wildfire, rampant and unending across harried terrain – that softens everything slowly.
Eddie’s used to the chaos – knocked up his girlfriend as a teenager and got carted off to war two times over. Lost his team in a helicopter crash that only brought their bodies home but left their minds back out in the desert. Every day the klaxon rings and every day he prays he makes it home to Christopher, waiting for the day his luck runs out.
But in the aftermath of pain is always peace.
And even if the pain carries on for hours, days – years, even – it always finds its way to peace eventually.
Today was a lucky one, one where his prayers were answered not just for his safety but for everyone he cares about. Chim survived, relatively unscathed, and found his words enough to promise forever with Maddie.
So, today, the peace soothes quickly, brings a barrage of beauty and, with it, Eddie finally feels like he can exhale.
When his eyes scan the narrow hallway, they eventually land on Buck, tucked in a corner on a bench at the end of it, Tommy slumped on his shoulder in sleep. He offers a little wave to Eddie with his free hand, the other holding a plate with cake of his own.
Eddie smiles, warmth filling the last little bits of his chest, love from Chim and Maddie blooming beside moments shared with Chris and Abula already settled there. But it’s not lost on Eddie how big this day was for Buck, too.
How hard it was for him to admit he was on a date with Tommy that night at the loft. The way he’d been so quiet, worry pinched between his eyes until Eddie finally realized he was focused on the wrong thing. Eddie hadn’t experienced something like that, himself, but he knew his job was easy.
Buck let go, and Eddie just had to catch.
When Buck disappeared after the ‘I Do’s and came back with Tommy, dragged along by his hand through the sea of people at the door, Eddie was already grinning. When he looked up and saw the soot lining Buck’s mouth, the giddy smile across his cheeks, he knew Buck made a choice that was so completely him, Eddie couldn’t be prouder.
“Hey,” he murmurs now, sinking onto the bench beside Buck. He leans over to make sure he hasn’t disrupted Tommy, but when he does Buck tosses a dismissive wave at him.
“He’s dead to the world,” Buck laughs. “Was at that wildfire the last day and a half. I don’t think you’d wake him up i-if you slapped him.”
Eddie raises his brows and teases “Or sprained his ankle?”
Buck shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and takes another bite of vanilla and buttercream. He looks happy in a way Eddie doesn’t quite remember seeing him before. Like he finally feels calm.
Peaceful.
“How’s the hangover?” Eddie asks, digging into his own slice.
Buck closes his eyes and takes a breath. “I’m gonna sleep for a day…or five.”
Eddie takes out a bottle of water he’d shoved into his pocket and cracks the seal, handing it over to Buck.
“Thank you,” Buck says before inhaling half the bottle. He offers it back to Eddie with a grimace, “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie shrugs. “There’s more. You keep it.”
They eat a few more bites in quiet company, the occasional door swinging shut nearby, Maddie’s laughter drifting from across the hall. Bobby and Athena duck out and wave goodbye to the pair before heading out themselves.
When they finish, Eddie takes Buck’s plate and stacks it with his own, tossing it in a garbage nearby before settling back beside Buck.
“I’m glad he could come,” Eddie says, gesturing to Tommy.
Buck looks up at him, eyes shimmering with surprise and that alone makes Eddie’s chest ache.
Proving people care in a way Buck doesn’t think anyone does is like fighting the devil himself sometimes, thoughts so ingrained they’re burned into Buck’s bones.
“R-Really?” Buck asks. “I-I mean–”
“Well, I had a question for him about the Cheville,” Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest.
He cares, but he is still Buck’s best friend, after all – he can’t resist the teasing.
It works and Buck chuckles, the tension in his shoulders dropping slightly, his elbow playfully jabbing into Eddie’s ribs.
Eddie turns toward him, catching his eyes so he knows Buck hears him.
“Really,” Eddie says. “I’m proud of you, man. You didn’t let all this,” he gestures to the hospital halls, rooms lined with crash carts and nurses in scrubs, “trip you up.”
“Yeah,” Buck says, the weight of everything slipping away as he sinks against the wall, Tommy going with him. “Easier to do it a-all at once.”
“I’m sure it’s not easy, but…” Eddie says, leaning against the wall beside Buck. “You seem really happy.”
Buck turns and his smile widens, tears shining in his eyes, the brightness in them dimming the last of the worry. The ache in Eddie’s chest softens at the sight.
“I am,” he says.
Eddie glances between Buck and Tommy and it’s hard to stop the smile spreading up his own cheeks. Buck’s hand is laced lightly with Tommy’s, thumb brushing absentmindedly over his knuckles.
Tommy’s a good guy – and Buck’s the best guy Eddie knows – seeing them together like this makes so much sense, Eddie’s shocked he didn’t realize it sooner himself.
“And,” he nudges Buck, “Now everyone knows. You can bitch about him leaving towels on the ground at work like you always do.”
Buck elbows him a little harder this time. “I don’t always bitch at work.”
Eddie smirks and puts his hands up, “Then how do I know everything about the way your exes left their towels around?”
“It’s not…that’s–”
“Taylor uses three towels for one shower, Eddie. And then she gets another one to wash her face!” Eddie says in his best impersonation of Buck. “I got this fancy new apartment and there’s three places to hang towels in my bathroom, Eddie. Three! And Ali just–”
“Okay,” Buck concedes, laughing himself now. “Okay, yes. Fine. I like towels to be dry, sue me.”
“It’s a thing, Buck,” Eddie says.
“It’s not a thing, it’s normal!” Buck replies without pause.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Tommy mumbles from beside Buck, pinching Buck’s ribs and sinking deeper into his shoulder. “You already yelled at me for using the wrong hook the other–”
“It was the one farthest one from the shower, Tommy!” Buck scoffs, looking to Eddie for support.
Eddie offers none, just laughs and leans over Buck to tell Tommy. “It’s his weirdest thing. That and the other thing – with gum.”
Tommy cracks one eye open and furrows his brow. “What about gum?”
Before Eddie has a chance to explain, pain spikes up his shin and he hisses, glancing to see Buck’s foot collide with it again. “Ow, jeez Buck.”
“Shut up,” Buck grits out. “I have no things.”
“Well,” Tommy smirks, “You have one thing.”
Eddie can’t let it pass by, seizing the moment and saying, “Yeah, the towel thing.”
“I’m leaving,” Buck says and starts to shove Tommy off him and slip from between them. Tommy wraps his arms around him and holds him in place with a playful whine.
“No, no, no,” he says, “We were kidding. Come back, Evan. Please, you’re so warm.”
“You were just surrounded by fire for twenty-four hours, how could you possibly want to be warm?”
Eddie inhales and takes the opportunity, standing and turning toward the couple. “I’m gonna take off. I gotta relieve Abuela so she can sleep in her own bed.”
Tommy offers a tired wave and Buck knocks fists with Eddie before he heads back toward the room to bid the happy couple farewell. The peaceful warmth that slotted into place seeing his best friend so happy carries him all the way home.
Or just read the epilogue: x-here-x (if you’re already all caught up)
Ship: saltommy
Summary: Sal and Tommy have been broken up for close to a decade. And both have a lot of complicated feelings about that relationship. Old habits die hard, and Tommy reaches out to Sal during a weak moment. They have an opportunity to unpack those complicated feelings and see if they can’t be rearranged into something that looks like a second chance at a future.
A shoutout to @sunnywithachanceofbi for the prompt. It was supposed to 5 sentences, and here we are at nearly 8k.
Sal courtesy 🏷️: @dear-sidney @fenrirscarsback @letsdosciencetoit @chemistry66
@iamfaithmanages @bluroux + @thecarrott (I’ll count it as a belated Sal Saturday contribution!)
rated: teen; sal/eddie (mentioned buck/tommy); fluff, mma, i saw a tiktok video of a girl fixing her opponent's braid mid-fight and that got my brain workin' on this lil diddy.
enjoy!
[wc: 1140]
It started when Sal was at the 118 – he’d been working with Tommy close to two years and they were attached at the hip. On shift at each other’s side like peanut butter and jelly, off shift just the same. Sal was a punk kid and so was Tommy, even if they grew together through shitty colleagues and worse captains.
So they’d let off steam like any other guys their age – 20 something’s hitting the bar after shift and knocking out two mooks at a time at greasy pool tables who thought they knew how to hustle two hustlers. Three pints deep before the sun even set.
It took a while, but slowly Sal learned to grow up, and Tommy helped him along the way, calling him out for ragging on the only woman on shift with them. Telling him to mind his business and stop throwing punches for a good time before he got arrested in some back alley on a Tuesday afternoon.
He’d introduced Sal to MMA and Muay Thai, proving it didn’t take a hot head to take someone down – learn how to channel all that anger into something semi-graceful.
It was around that time Sal learned his dick was maybe just as interested in learning about that as his mind was. But he’d been too focused on not losing a friend to find out how it felt to be nailed in the supply closet by a man as big as him.
Turned out to be the right move after he and Tommy ran into each other some seven or eight years later, older, wiser, and more dick sucked between them than the last time they’d shared a pitcher of beer.
Tommy was with some kid he didn’t want to lose, and Sal was gearing up to turn captain, and by the time Buck and Tommy got their shit together, so did Sal.
He’d met Eddie at Buck’s barbecue and they’d hit it off, something about the way Sal liked to challenge Eddie flustered him every time. Sal couldn’t argue, whenever Eddie looked up at him with those gorgeous eyes and pouty lips, he was done for.
Every time they’re in their garage together these days, bent over the hood of an engine or sweating off the third round of a knock-out fight, it’s a whole other kind of battle.
His mind works fast, calculating ways to shift and dodge Eddie’s next move, his heart beats rapidly in his chest fluttering with the reminder to be gentle – hold back, keep his man safe.
It’s his dick that’s at it, usually, and he ends up losing in order to press Eddie up against that ratty old Camaro and drop to his knees before Eddie can defend himself against an attack of passion over control.
This time, though, his heart wins out, and it happens on the second round of a scrap.
Eddie took the first one, digging foot to knee when Sal dodged a jab to his left eye. When he was scrambling, trying to pick himself up back to his feet, Eddie mounted on his hips and struck his face.
He tapped out – reluctantly – with Eddie’s sweat dripping onto his skin and his head pounding with the rhythm of the movement.
They’re bouncing on their toes, now – arms up, eyes locked on one another. Eddie’s face is adorably flushed, he looks like a damn Brandywine tomato. Sweat trickles at his forehead and slides down the side of his cheeks, dripping slowly to his slick chest. He brushes against his chin, pushes sweat back and shakes his head, brow furrowing with concentration.
Sal lunges in equal parts hunger and fight, and wraps an arm around Eddie’s torso, latching his hands together across Eddie’s chest. Eddie shoves against his grasp, the scent of his heat and musk drifting off him in waves, skin shiny beneath Sal’s arms.
It’s then that Eddie’s mouth guard flails free just barely, and he clamps his jaw in an attempt to keep it in his mouth. Instead, it falls, landing on Sal’s forearm where their skin is connected just above Eddie’s nipple.
Sal’s half-chubbed and horny as hell, but when he looks down at Eddie’s pout, lips drawn, those damn eyes glistening, pearly whites flashing between flushed lips – he gets too distracted to care about slamming Eddie against the workout bench and swallowing him whole.
At least for the moment.
Instead, he wants to make sure they’re in a fair fight. He reaches out, keeps his right arm under Eddie’s and branches his fingers across Eddie’s ribs. With his other hand he grabs the mouthguard and tilts Eddie’s jaw up, shifting his face to find his gaze.
Soft, adoring.
He pulls his own mouth guard free and grins at Eddie and murmurs, “I want to make sure you don’t get hurt when I do it, baby.”
“Do what?” Eddie asks, tilting his head as his frown deepens.
Sal tucks Eddie’s mouth guard firmly into place, chest still pressed against Eddie’s back, arm still latched around his middle. Sal winks and shoves his own mouth guard into place before returning his left arm over Eddie’s shoulder and latching onto his other hand.
With one swift move, he lifts Eddie and spins out, sending a right hook to his jaw and kicking his chest, sending him reeling. Eddie taps out quickly, spitting out his mouth guard and growling, lips furled when he looks up at Sal.
“Do that,” Sal says with a smirk.
When Eddie stands, he calls it, chest heaving and skin already bruising around his mouth and his ribs. Sal leads him inside and grabs an ice pack and pain reliever, settling him at the kitchen table. He leans in and presses a kiss gently to Eddie’s skin – just over the deepening mark, then high on his cheek where his skin is still tomato-rosy.
Eddie takes the pills with a swig of water and Sal scoots his chair close, holding the ice pack to Eddie’s face. Eddie hisses – pout still sitting on his grumpy lips, and Sal’s heart twists, just a little, at the sight.
“I’m only fighting Tommy from now on,” Eddie says, leaning into Sal’s touch. “He’s not distracting.”
Sal brushes his free hand over Eddie’s temple, knuckles dusting his ear before fingertips slide through Eddie’s damp hair.
“If you don’t want a challenge, sure,” Sal says with a huff. “Buckley and I can watch and cheer you on. I hear that kid can get jealous.”
Eddie looks at Sal in disbelief, “Unlike you?”
Sal laughs and leans in for another kiss. “Never said I didn’t.”
Eddie grins despite himself and Sal chuckles before he lands one final kiss against Eddie’s lips.
