#911.post

[ever-yours118]

no girl in the world has EVER wanted to be housewifed up as bad as evan buckley

[ever-yours118]

“you said you weren’t going anywhere.

…so, please come back.”

[ever-yours118]

been seeing 911 x trek discussions on my dash and i need to speak my truth. i am a buddie and k/s shipper but eddie diaz is not spockcoded he is bones ALL THE WAY. southern doctor who marries his pregnant high school sweetheart. short-lived marriage which ends in a bitter divorce. has a young child who he was only able to see periodically due to the army/starfleet. the father-related trauma and endless guilt because of it. the bestfriendism with a reckless blonde where he’s constantly pretending to be the reasonable one but ends up going along with it anyway. eddie doesn’t careee about logic he is driven by his emotions all the time. yes he has spock’s repression but this is IT.

[ever-yours118]

okay but he’s prettyy… sunshine boy i’m ready to whump you sooo hard <3

[ever-yours118]

feather the nest

“I’m a nester,” says Eddie flippantly. “I nest.” The words linger in Buck’s mind past the call and on the drive back to his apartment, through the door and to his bed. He lays down, staring at the ceiling. Then he opens Amazon and searches up throw blankets.

(In which the boys build a blanket fort and kiss inside it.) || 4.8K, T

(read on ao3!)

[ever-yours118]

buddie headcanons you have?

oooooh you shouldn’t have asked me this anon, I’ve got WAY too many opinions—

i LOVE @blutterlie’s headcanon that buck runs SUPER cold, whereas eddie is always hot—makes for good cuddling scenarios!!

so buck likes to little spoon, just so he can mooch off of eddie’s heat <3

since eddie can cook now, they do dinner-making dates where they make one of abuela or bobby’s recipes together.

buck usually takes point, but soon eddie’s (almost) as good too, and sometimes they’ll have Chris sous-chef “so you won’t grow up to be thirty-something and only know how to make mac ‘n cheese, like your father.”

buck’s pet names for eddie: baby/babe mostly. the occasional “gorgeous” or “beautiful” because he’s a sap like that

but buck also DEFINITELY likes the stupid ones: pumpkin, sugarplum, studmuffin, etc—just, the most ridiculous names possible

eddie’s pet names for buck: also baby, but “sweetheart” & “angel” when he’s feeling tender. and I have a soft spot for “cariño” because I’m a sap like that

there’s a great meta somewhere about how buck almost never initiates touch, and when he does, it’s always with several nonverbal “is this okay?”s. eddie would absolutely amp up the physical touch (gradually!) when he realises and slowly starts to soften buck up until buck feels comfortable for asking for affection himself <3

[ever-yours118]

bombarding them with blankets, tea, heating pads, and anything else they’d need when injured/under the weather - buddie

“Buck,” Eddie says firmly. “I’m okay.”

Buck freezes, then carefully sets down the pair of mugs he’d been carrying onto the coffee table.

“Buck,” Eddie repeats again, more sternly, and he reluctantly puts down the plate of pancakes, too. At Eddie’s raised eyebrow, he sighs and unloads the extra throw blanket he’d slung over his shoulder, as well as Christopher’s old hot water bottle, dumping them unceremoniously onto the table.

Okay, maybe Eddie’s got a bit of a point. Still, as he lowers himself down on the couch beside Eddie, he keeps his eyes winningly innocent.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Eddie pins him with a sceptical stare, that piercing one that never fails to make Buck feel the slightest bit giddy—but no, that’s very much not the point.

“Eddie,” he frowns, giving up and slumping back against the couch. “You’re sick.”

“Then shouldn’t you be staying away?”

“I have a very strong immune system,” Buck says, and then, with a pointed gesture towards one mug: “Drink.”

Amused, Eddie brings one of the covered mugs to his mouth. “Feels like a sippy cup,” he murmurs.

“Keeps the heat in,” Buck says, relaxing. “It’s good for hot lunches.”

Eddie hums—or more accurately, croaks out a vaguely affirmative noise—and they sit in contented quiet as the Rangers play in the background, only occasionally interrupted by the odd cough.

Then: “You’re upset about this,” Eddie says suddenly, still nursing his mug. Through the corner of his eye, Buck sees those brown eyes fixed on him, and he fights down his instinctual flush.

Buck picks up the other mug and sips at the chicken soup within to stall. It’s from a book Bobby recommended—a little more oregano next time, he thinks. He’ll write it down. “Maybe a bit,” he concedes.

“It’s a cold. Can’t do anything about it.”

“It’s almost March,” Buck protests, voice oddly loud against the low buzz of the TV. “We both know you’re only sick because of that call.”

The weather is warming tentatively, but the ocean certainly isn’t. And swimming in the notoriously cold Manhattan Beach waters against a riptide for half an hour, weighed down by his uniform—on a 50 degree day? That’s foolish, and he voices as much.

“It was a call,” Eddie protests lightly.

“And I wasn’t there.”

He means for it to be light, but it comes out hurt and—and bitter, and he drops his gaze to the TV, some commercial about salad dressing running bright and cheerful. I wasn’t there to watch your six. Even if there’s nothing I could have done—

“Buck.” Eddie sounds fondly exasperated as he sets down his mug with a clink. “It’s a cold—I’ll be better in a day, promise. And I’m a big boy. I’m fine.”

It’s not really about the cold or the ocean, and they both know that. But Eddie sets his hand on Buck’s knee, warm and reassuring, and for a moment, it really does feel fine.

A soft pause, but then Eddie swallows hard and hacks out a rusty cough, proving Buck’s point very neatly.

“Idiot,” he grouses, standing to unfold the abandoned afghan. He tosses it over Eddie, snickering at Eddie’s muffled protest at his new mouthful of wool. “Just—let me take care of you a bit, okay?”

“This,” splutters Eddie, resurfacing indignantly, “is not taking care of me. This is no way to treat a patient. Absolutely terrible bedside manner, Nurse Buckley.”

“Finish drinking your soup, and maybe I’ll tuck you in,” Buck says primly, and Eddie grins, eyes bright and fond and open.

But maybe that’s just the fever, he reminds himself, turning to pick up the neglected plate of pancakes. He knows how to pick his battles, and the pancakes will keep until Eddie wakes up—that is, if Chris doesn’t get to them first.

When the pancakes are suitably shrink-wrap-covered and refrigerated, he returns to the living room—just as he thought, Eddie’s sound asleep.

“Didn’t take you long,” he says to the room. The couch is comfortable though, he’ll give Eddie that. Easy to fall asleep on, as he knows from experience.

He swallows hard, then moves to sit gently on the coffee table. Eddie’s hair is mussed, falling softly over his forehead, and his fingers twitch abortively against the wood as he fights the urge to brush it back. God, he’s pretty, Buck thinks, can’t help but think, torn with the intensity of the thought, of the longing to touch, to be held.

He swallows hard, makes himself get up.

Bad Buck.

“Night, Eds,” Buck says, and turns out the lights.

(send in a prompt!)