bucktommy + "before you tell me there's nothing in the bag, I can see it moving"
Hi! Sorry this took... well i don't even know how long the bones of this have been in my drafts. I went in there to work on 5 facts AU prompts and got distracted.
This is a full 1k and i'm not sorry.
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"Before you tell me there's nothing in the bag, I can see it moving."
Buck hauls the grocery bags further into the kitchen and drops a kiss on Tommy's cheek. "Very funny."
Tommy refuses to be appeased. He crosses his arms and purses his lips just so, which would be an incentive to get up to no good if Buck wasn't currently carrying three bags on each arm.
"Evan."
Buck rolls his eyes, mostly for dramatic effect. "There's nothing in the- oh, shit!"
All six bags hit the floor more or less at the same time. A mouse - he hopes it's a mouse, it's big and fat enough to be a small rat - launches itself out of one of them like a rocket and disappears behind a cabinet.
There's a good few seconds of silence.
Buck looks at the last known location of the stowaway rodent. Then he looks up at Tommy, whose mouth is the thin squiggly line that says he's trying very hard not to laugh.
"Well," Buck sighs. "Fuck."
*
It takes about an hour and a lot more sitting around and being silent than Buck was made for, but they catch the mouse. Sitting in its clear Tupperware container, with its little beady eyes and twitchy nose, it tugged at the part of Buck that's helpless in the face of strays. The nearest patch of green is only a block and a half away; they release it near a shrub and watch it disappear under the leaves.
Now they're sitting on the lounge set on the porch, sipping coffee. Buck's socked foot is hooked around Tommy's ankle, their shoulders and elbows comfortably smushed together. They've only been living together for a few months; Buck still feels the thread of domesticity suturing together bits of himself he'd forgotten were ever split open.
He taps the side of Tommy's foot. "Did you think I was smuggling in a kitten or something?"
"Or a puppy." Tommy shrugs. His mouth quirks up. "You don't seem the type to get a hamster."
"I did have a dog once. Very briefly."
Most things about his short time with Blaze leave a bad taste in Buck's mouth now, even if it's just contextual associations. He'd liked waking up to those big wet brown eyes, though. Had liked being so unapologetically needed, even if it came with a side of chewed shoes.
"Oh?"
Tommy looks at him from the corner of his eye. Non-confrontational, as he does now when he senses a bruise. Old dog, meet new communication tricks.
Buck nods. "Like, just a few days. Rescued him from a fire. The animal shelter, actually." He doesn't say how he'd gone back in without clearance for a single dog. That he'd do it again. "Named him Blaze, which uh. Not very original, I know." That gets a small laugh out of Tommy, and Buck smiles. "But you uh, you'd just broken up with me, and Eddie was leaving, and I. I guess I just wanted to make sure Blaze had someone in his corner."
Or that I had someone in mine, he thinks. He doesn't say that out loud: he's sure Tommy hears it, and anyway the two things dovetail together into indistinguishability. At least nobody had looked twice at Blaze for being needy.
Tommy levels a keen gaze over the rim of his mug. "You're not some shelter mutt, Evan."
Buck huffs, not quite a laugh. There's too much kicked dog in both of them to find it truly funny.
"Yeah, well, turns out neither was Blaze. I mean, also literally, he was pure beagle, but I mean-" He waves a hand, slops the dregs of his coffee over the edge of the cup. "He had a family. A real name, Bingo. They were so happy to have him back."
Once, he'd told Abby he'd been happy for her, when she left for Europe. Almost as much as I'm sad for me.
He'd just been sad when Bingo's family came to take him home. He'd known, with an inner voice that sounded much like Eddie, that he'd been making things about himself when they weren't; but he's not sure anyone but Tommy ever made things about Buck, even when they were.
Buck slouches down so he can put his cheek on the meat of Tommy's shoulder. Tommy turns his head, drops a lopsided kiss on the bit of Buck's face he can reach.
When he speaks, it's still into Buck's hair.
"We could get a dog. If you want."
Buck narrowly avoids Tommy's chin as his head shoots up.
"What?"
Feigning nonchalance, Tommy taps his coffee mug against the palm of his hand and sinks down further into the seat. His feet brush the edge of the porch, then dangle over the edge.
"Y'know, adopt. Get ourselves a real shelter mutt. Melton has been complaining about the lack of a firehouse dog for years. Wouldn't even need a sitter."
"Really?" Buck doesn't know why he's asking for permission like a kid. He'd never asked for a puppy as a child. Hadn't specifically seen the charm of dogs, not until he'd been cast adrift across the globe and the idea of a living, breathing thing curled up next to him in the Jeep's backseat became a sustaining fantasy.
Tommy shrugs, but he keeps rolling his mug from one hand to the other.
"Could make some little stray very happy," he says. "They'd have two someones in their corner. And between you and me" - he looks up at Buck for a second, shoots the quickest of smiles - "I know one of these guys. He's pretty good at the whole 'being in someone's corner' schtick."
Jesus.
"Sap," Buck says, but he puts his head back on Tommy's shoulder. One of Tommy's hands detaches from his mug and settles on Buck's thigh.
The sun is starting to set. Grays creep in from the corners of their small backyard. Buck imagines paw prints in the flower beds, chew toys under the hydrangeas.
(i swear this is a flashback sequence and i swear it's still a kink fic oh my god where did all this unfind-that-family grief stuff come from)
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Have some post-S8 angst y'all
---
The weeks blur. Buck says hi to people. Wipes the sweat out of his eyes - fall is as uncompromisingly hot as summer with how the city traps the heat. When Gerrard barks at them to fall in line, he does. His hands work on autopilot, hose and jaws and halligans passed to whoever is assigned as his partner that day.
He goes home. Like clockwork, Eddie leaves him leftovers in the fridge and dirty dishes in the sink and the scent of his detergent clogging up the drains, but he'll be out. Yanking the chain of the brass, or training; Buck doesn't always know. Doesn't always have the energy to ask.
Another week, and Chimney comes home. Buck still doesn't know how to parse that it's Chim that gets to come home, and Bobby doesn't; he keeps his visits short.
He doesn't hear from Hen at all.
He gets it, is the thing. They all have families to go to, people with shoulders ripe for leaning on or tiny bits of normalcy to put into the day. Even Eddie has Chris, through a screen back in Texas until he graduates, or possibly just until his old bedroom no longer holds Buck's assorted junk instead of a bed.
There's a theory of personhood. Identity, if you will. A girlfriend had explained it to Buck once - still just Evan, then - while they sprawled on her tie-dye bed covers. Jenna read a lot of esoteric things and liked explaining them to him while passing the blunt, and he's forgotten most of it but he remembers this one.
Personhood, it says, isn't innate. You aren't really born a someone. It's only in your connections with others, on the crossroads between your path and someone else's, that you take shape. You have to bounce off others to know where you start and end.
If that's the case, then Buck isn't currently anyone.
Tommy stops in his tracks on the backdoor threshold, hands aloft in the universal signal of not posing a threat. An oil-stained cloth dangles from one fist like a white flag. Ironic, since it's first on the list of items currently on Tommy's person that will not be allowed entrance to Buck's kitchen.
"I was going to wash my hands," Tommy says, bemused. Buck stirs his chocolate-wine reduction and glares at him through the steam.
"Boots off, coverall off, that... specimen-" Buck waves at the offending fabric. God, he can smell the motor oil from here, "stays outside."
"If you wanted to get me naked, you could just say so."
Tommy sounds dry as dust, but he dutifully kicks off his heavy boots and starts unzipping.
God, Buck loves him.
He turns the heat down and snags Tommy by the elbow, halfway through his sock-footed shuffle across the kitchen.
"I'm sorry. It's just, the garage is your space-"
"-and the kitchen is yours. I know," Tommy finishes. The corners of his mouth are twitching. "We discussed this before moving in."
"Hhm. So don't you forget it." Buck releases him with an off-center kiss. He needs to feel the beginning of that smile under his lips. "Go on, wash up. Dinner's ready in ten."
Tommy swipes a fond thumb over Buck's cheek bone, probably leaving an oil streak behind. Then he's off, stripping out of his dirty t-shirt before he's good and well out of the kitchen.
"Don't forget you promised to make dessert!" Buck calls to his retreating back. It's a nice view, in their shared house, on his way to their shared bathroom.
"Sir, yessir!" Tommy throws a sloppy salute, and then he's out of sight.
Buck hears him chuckling all the way into the shower.
*claps hands* letters! It's epistolary time! Partly under cut for length.
We're gonna fudge the timeline a little bit: Buck nicking the ladder truck for hookups happens almost simultaneously with Tommy absconding with the water drop plane. Let's say Buck reverted to his 1.0 habits post-Abby?
Because consequences apply when and only when we want them to, just like in canon they don't get sacked on the spot. They do, however, get hearings to decide their fate.
So they turn up for their respective hearings, all done-up in their dress blues. Tommy is stoic and unrepenting (he helped save a kid and a firefighter, he will not apologize for that), Buck is contrite and defensive. And who should they run into in the hallway but eachother?
There's some ribbing from Tommy ('kid, if you're going to abuse the uniform to get laid, i hear there's perfectly servicable storage closets in most fire houses instead'), but they get along quickly. Especially once they figure out their paths crossed at Doheny Park. "That was you?!" "Oh shit, you're Howie's probie, aren't you."
The conversations flows so smoothly it almost makes them forget, for a few moments, both their jobs are on the line. Just before they're both called in, Buck snags Tommy's phone and puts in his own number and, for good measure, also the hotmail address he's had since he was 15 and hasn't actually used since arriving in LA.
"Let me know how it went, okay? You saved our asses, if there's anything i can do..." Buck says. He's looking endearingly out of place, with the boyish charm of his smile at odds with the stark lines of the formal uniform.
Tommy is a little helpless in the spotlight of Full Force Buck, so he promises to check in. Word will get back to Howie this way and Tommy hadn't planned on telling him any of this, but fuck, this guy Evan has a really nice smile.
They both get slapped with a suspension. Without knowing it about the other, they both decide they need some time away from the LAFD and LA in general, and go do some light roadtripping. Buck is going back south with a vague idea to see if Peru has changed since he left, Tommy is headed, slowly and meanderingly, towards Canada. He grew up in the cold and wants to see if he can still stand it like he used to, which is not a metaphor, oh no, not at all.
And they text. There would be an entire section/chapter with just their texts and emails and even the odd postcard or two, when one of them stays put in one place long enough to receive it. (Let me stretch my HTML muscles a little!)
They get to know eachother that way. Perhaps more easily than in canon, because there's no jealousy murking up their beginnings, and the non-instant communication makes it easier to be vulnerable - and also they can't fuck their way out of uncomfortable situations.
On month 2 of their half-year suspension, Tommy is rolled up in a duvet burrito-style in a freezing cabin in the forests of Fuck All, Canada (he has definitely lost his cold tolerance), reading Buck's latest postcard that he has clutched in the one hand that's exposed to the air. And he realises with horror he might be developing a crush.
On month 4, Buck wakes up to the girl he brought back to his room last night going through his phone. Apparently she's in his text threads, because she turns the screen so he can see Tommy's contact picture at the top and says 'you know this guy wants to fuck you, yeah?'
She sounds wholly unrepentant about the breach of privacy (she must've used his sleeping face to unlock the screen, god), so Buck throws her out pretty quickly after that. But the idea has been planted.
Their texts become more and more flirty, though nothing is actually said or asked or confirmed. Somewhere in there, they start calling each other, too.
They both slowly drift back to LA once the end of their suspensions appears in their windscreen. They don't officially plan it, but their last night on the road, they park at the same truck stop.
"Hey," says Buck, most of his blush blessedly covered by his tan, the rest washed away by the blue tint of the street lamps.
Tommy smiles. "Hey you. What a coincidence."
And Buck would hem and haw and honest-to-god shuffle his feet a little bit.
"Hey i uh, i know this is a weird place to ask-" there's assorted trash rolling by like tumbleweeds in the background, and one of the parked truck drivers is snoring in a way that suggests a deviated septum "-but would you like to go out sometime? W-when we're back in LA?"
And Tommy needs to be really sure about this.
"Celebration our restoration to active duty? Or-"
"Definitely the 'or'," Buck says, grinning.
Tommy smiles again. Buck can't tell with those stupid blue lights, but he might be blushing, too.
"The flash flood warning alerts on his phone long before the rain starts, but he's still not expecting to open his front door to a river."
(sorry this took a while, my brain REALLY wanted to go full apocalypse but that would be a 20k fic. Have this, instead)
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The flash flood warning alerts on his phone long before the rain starts, but he's still not expecting to open his front door to a river.
"Shit. Fuck, okay."
They planned for this. The city planned for this. Buck runs a hand down his face - should've shaved before the heavens came down, too late now - and calculates his next move.
If he leaves now, he should be able to make it to the firehouse. It's on high land, a designated shelter area. He's not planned for a shift for another 20 hours but it'll be all hands on deck for a while.
With the rushing water under the wheels, the drive takes forever. Buck white-knuckles a few miles before he works up the courage to try a handsfree call. Who knows if there's still service.
Tommy's cell goes to voicemail, but he's on shift. Buck's not worried. He's not.
"H-hey babe." The water sloshes up around the front wheels. "You uh, probably saw LA turned into a sea resort. I'm on my way to the firehouse now, I'll let you know when I'm there. Call me when you, uh, when you get this? I love you."
His truck is taking on water. By the time he drives up to the firehouse and onto drier land, his feet have been sitting in a puddle for minutes.
The rain's still coming down hard when he steps outside and rushes to the bay doors. His phone starts vibrating in his chest pocket, and Buck shakes himself off like a dog before he fishes it out.
"Hey."
"Evan." Tommy's voice loosens the band around Buck's lungs. He sounds relaxed and composed, unflappable. Buck has a brief vision of him as the star in a disaster movie. "Just touched down, had to fish someone off an inflatable raft. Can you believe people?"
Tommy's bitchy little moue is palpable over the line. Fondness floods Buck's chest like the streets outside.
"So you're doing okay?"
"Yeah. You made it to the station?"
"Safe and sound. And wet."
Tommy laughs. "I bet." There's noises of doors slamming, boots stomping. Voices in the background. "Hey, you okay to stay for a bit? Might be a while before we get another chance to talk."
Buck plops down on a bench. Smiles down at his sodden boots. "Yeah, I can stay."
Been tagged over the past while by/NP tagging back @corporatebanana @ambernotember @bangpop91 @wee-fuckin-woo @setmeatopthepyre @trombonechurchill as well as @geddyqueer @emphasisonthehomo @exhaustedpirate @frogsinflannel and YOU reading this, if you have something you want to share!
Here is several lines of canon-divergent post-S8 stuff that I swear is a bucktommy kink fic, but we have to deal with the Eddie of it all first
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Three days before Buck is due back at work, Eddie storms into the house.
"They're making me recertify, can you believe it?"
Buck looks up from his phone. Ostensibly, he'd been looking at recipes, but the screen has gone dark a while ago.
Eddie tosses his keys on the dining table, makes for the kitchen.
"Over six years of service, a medal." A cabinet gets opened with force. "No guarantees they'll let me back in. No guarantees it'll be with the 118 if they do." The squeaky floor slat near the sink groans under Eddie's boots. Water runs, then cuts off abruptly.
Eddie appears in the archway with a mug in his hands.
"What am I gonna do, Buck?"
The five stages of grief aren't a checklist. Buck knows: he's been reading about the psychology of bereavement.
Something in Eddie clearly hasn't gotten that memo. He's been stuck on anger for weeks, tripping into it that night in the kitchen and wearing it like a shrapnel vest ever since.
"You uh, you can still Uber, right?"
Eddie scoffs. "Yes Buck, I'll be able to pay the rent. Fuck." He stalks through to the living room. After a moment, the tv clicks on.
Buck reopens his recipe page. They'll need cherry tomatoes if he's gonna make pasta alla norma from scratch.
His screen goes dark again long before he gets himself to move.
For the 5 sentences thing: "okay, yeah, I hear it now." any ship 💖💖
~ @wee-fuckin-woo :]
(@wee-fuckin-woo free ship choice? for me? 👀 have some HenRen in the early-ish days of fostering Mara!)
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"Okay, yeah, I hear it now."
Karen presses her index finger to Hen's lips and Hen, obligingly, keeps quiet. Because she is an adult woman on the cusp of middle-age and also because the bedroom door is open, she doesn't suck the digit into her mouth.
It's silent for a few moments, nothing but the soft rustle of the bedding in the rhythm of their breaths.
The noise comes again. A giggle, followed by an unsuccessful attempt at shushing. A hiccupping laugh in stereo - Mara's voice high and bright, Denny's doing its very best to lower without breaking.
Karen turns slightly misty eyes on her.
"They're staying up without permission."
"To have fun. Together."
There's a lump wedged in Hen's throat and her own eyes are feeling a little damp. She pulls her wife into her side. Buries her face in the gap between sleep-warm skin and Karen's sleep shirt, where she smells most like home.
(did you know that 'wip' in Dutch means 'seesaw'? and that the verb 'wippen' is slang for fucking? Now you do!)
Tagged by @corporatebanana ! NP tagging you back as well as @bangpop91writing @sunnywithachanceofbi @setmeatopthepyre @trombonechurchill @deelovesbooks @ambernotember @dark-alice-lilith @exhaustedpirate @harmless-variety-of-garden-snake and everybody else (yes YOU) who's working on something.
CW for blood and questionable decisions with regards to fluid-bonding. Given the nature of the thing, lmk if you'd like to not be tagged in this one in the future!
---
The blood carves a path down Tommy’s arm, a miniature river. Buck watches as it curves over the hills and valleys of Tommy’s bicep, pools for a moment in the dip of his elbow before spilling and tripping over the veins of his forearm. Watches as it picks up droplets of shower water on its way down to where Tommy is grinding the bones of Buck’s fingers between his own.
“You good?” he asks, looking up.
Tommy’s eyelids tremble, pupils wide. He nods.
The blood slips between the press of skin of their palms. There’s no room there but it worms its way in regardless, like saliva in a kiss with knuckles and tendons instead of lips and tongues.
Tommy’s chest heaves. The back of his head is resting against the shower tiles, eyes slipping closed every few seconds then opening again to seek out Buck’s face, water clinging to his lashes.
He’s luminous.
Buck raises up the hand not slowly coloring red with Tommy’s insides. Glides it over Tommy’s hip and the give of his stomach, letting it catch on wet hair until he can slip it between the back of Tommy’s skull and the tiles.
“I got you,” he murmers. It’s the loudest his voice seems to be able to go.
Tommy nods again, minutely. Buck feels it in the pull of his hair under his fingers more than he sees it.
He wonders if Tommy can feel the tremor in his own hands.
The sickly sweet smell of iron settles on his tongue, slides down his esophagus into his stomach. Both his hands are holding Tommy, and all he can see this close up is Tommy: Tommy’s skin and the lines of his adam’s apple underneath and the thshk-thshk of his pulse, where it’s pushing his blood around and out and into Buck’s waiting palm.
“I got you,” he repeats, and puts his mouth to the wound.
