im in the mood for hugs apparently. so "just really needed a hug sort of hug" for buddie :)
This is both true to the spirit of the prompt and a little dark, sorry. CW for grief, canon-typical death and violence. Classic h/c shit.
*
It’s Buck’s Kelly day, so Eddie’s partnered with Ravi when they get called out to the goriest scene they’ve been to in a while. Overworked Amazon driver fell asleep at the wheel; the van crashed through the front window of a Starbucks during the eight am before work rush. It’s awful, grinding, bloody work; Eddie digs the driver out of the wreck, and she has a concussion but she’s otherwise fine. He has to hold her back when she realizes what she’s done and starts screaming. He sends her to the hospital where the cops will be waiting for her, even though her shift manager’s the one they should arrest, and then he helps Chim bag a woman who went under the wheels, DOA. She’s white, brunette with bangs, and for a second Eddie’s heart seizes. He blinks again and his heart resumes its regular rhythm.
Cap takes them offline so they can decontaminate—they all got coated in various bodily fluids on that one—and of course after Eddie’s showered and changed and filled out paperwork, he gets a call from his mom.
Less said about that, the better.
He has a pulsing headache for most of the afternoon. They go on two false alarm medical calls, transport a man with a broken ankle to the ER, and Eddie gets an email from Chris’s school letting him know that Chris got a D- on his big English paper, and that he’ll need to revise if he wants to pass the class. That’s gonna be a fun conversation. Eddie swallows three ibuprofen with a cup of cold coffee, ignoring Hen’s wince. So what if he’s giving himself an ulcer.
Bobby makes comfort food for dinner, because they all need it after the awful morning—spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, iceberg lettuce salad. Eddie eats, but his head’s still going, so the comfort’s a little sparse.
He tries to call Chris after dinner, but Chris doesn’t pick up. Eddie gets a text a few minutes later that reads hey were in a movie rn, and Eddie writes back okay mijo just checking in. love you, which Chris thumbs up.
They get called out to the beach for a dog bite; Eddie chases after the dog in question, but can’t catch him. He does almost wipe out on the boardwalk, though. The night is just on the edge of too cool, not quite summer-perfect, but the moon is full and yellow over the ocean. Chim makes a crack about the full moon crazies, and Eddie rolls his eyes and twists to give Buck shit about it too, but of course Buck’s still not there.
You been in a mood all day, Hen says, nudging Eddie’s boot with her boot when they’re back in the rig. You good?
I’m good, Eddie says, just thinking about this morning, and everyone’s faces go somber as they agree. And it was a rough morning. But Eddie’s going to hell, because that’s not what he’s thinking about, not really.
It’s March 23rd. He could say that out loud, could remind everyone of the date, and no one would know why it matters. Because it doesn’t, to anyone else on the planet.
They go check out an apartment building where someone burnt falafel. The problem apartment’s on the fifth floor with no elevator. Eddie’s phone pings as he’s putting the industrial fans back in the rig; it’s a text from Buck, a picture of him and Chris and Chris’s friend Dylan in front of three enormous burgers, looks like Islands. There isn’t really any reason for that to make Eddie’s chest go tight and aching, but there you go. He taps a heart onto it.
Saved you some fries, Buck sends, like it’s possible to save fries from Islands and have them still be edible the next day.
Guess you didn’t see the email from the school, Eddie sends back, because seriously, Islands and a movie after a D-?
🍔💪📝🚨is what Buck writes back, which Eddie basically takes to mean: I have a strategy in place.
He catches a few hours of sleep. The alarm wakes him from a dream about Shannon and Buck. The two of them were the leads in the school play, because Eddie was back in high school, and he was supposed to be in the play too, but he forgot his lines. Eddie, relax, Shannon said, smiling at Buck, who had his hand wrapped around her waist like he was her husband, not Eddie. We got this.
It’s a late night medical call at a memory care home; not much for him and Ravi to do, just playing support to Hen and Chim. He checks his phone, and there’s another text from Buck that came in while he slept: Chris and Dylan studying at the kitchen table, English books cracked open, Chris laughing at something Dylan said. It’s a live photo, so there’s even a couple seconds of Chris laughing in there, high pitched and silly. Eddie hearts it.
When they get back to the firehouse, the sun is rising, and it’s no longer Shannon’s birthday. Eddie should be relieved, but he just feels drained. She’d be thirty-four. No one warned him about this part—how every year you look back at the pictures and she just looks like more of a baby.
Cap claps him on the shoulder when he’s heading out to his truck, like he knows, even though there’s no way he could possibly know.
Eddie gets through morning traffic okay. He parks the truck, lets himself in. The house is pretty quiet, which means Chris is still asleep (typical teen.) Buck’s in the kitchen, doing last night’s dishes. He’s got rubber dish gloves on, and he gives Eddie a distracted smile over his shoulder as he comes in.
Hey, he says.
Hey, Eddie says, and instead of any of the sane things he could say after that, like—how was your day yesterday, or is there coffee yet, or I think I’m gonna pass out for a few hours, he just steps in close, wraps his arms around Buck’s waist, and buries his face in Buck’s shoulder. Safe, familiar Buck smell in his nostrils. Solid Buck body in his arms, warm and pulsing with breath and heartbeat. Eddie exhales.
Buck turns off the faucet. He pulls off one rubber glove, then gives up on the other one and twists around in Eddie’s arms—Eddie participates reluctantly—until they’re front to front, and he can hug Eddie back. That is better, Buck fitting perfectly into him, holding him the same way Eddie is holding him. Eddie tilts his face into Buck’s neck, and Buck uses the hand that isn’t wearing a soapy dish glove to stroke over his hair. It feels good.
Bad shift? Buck murmurs, and Eddie doesn’t answer, frowning into Buck’s skin. Buck hums against his temple. That’s okay, he says anyway, soft and mindless. I got you, Eddie, I got you.
Eddie keeps breathing Buck in, keeps hanging on. Buck forgets about the rubber glove, and a wet soapy hand comes to rest over Eddie’s right scapula. A burst of fondness punctures the wall of relief.
Thanks, Eddie says finally, not letting him go yet, but trying to persuade himself that he’s going to.
Buck kisses his forehead. Anytime, he says, then uses his one normal hand and his other soapy hand to tilt Eddie up into a real kiss.
Eddie lets it happen, closing his eyes. He’s thirty-four. He was married for eight years; Shannon’s been gone for almost eight again. He has the best kid in the world; he has Buck, he has a meaningful job he’s grateful to still love. His best friend is dead, and he misses her. His best friend is kissing him right now, his heart beating fast and steady right against Eddie’s, and Eddie doesn’t have to miss him yet.
You taste like spaghetti, Buck murmurs dreamily into his mouth, and Eddie bursts out laughing, finally relaxes his death grip on Buck’s ribs.
Guess I forgot to brush my teeth last night, sorry.
Bobby made spaghetti? Buck says indignantly, like he was deliberately left out, and tries to lick the taste back out of Eddie’s mouth, which doesn’t work perfectly, because Eddie’s still laughing.
New Fic Release!: Call It Fate, Call It Karma- Ch.1: Daydreaming (Daniel)
Heavenly in the reverent ethereal sort of way.
He had told me earlier in my prolonged stay how he had been the muse of a many painters and photographers after the invention of the camera. It wasn’t a stretch to understand why. But in that moment—that vulnerable moment where we were joined in carnal union, I could see past the ecstasy to glimpse the divine. Saw what could only be described as the face of god or heaven, maybe, in that frozen moment in time.
Our parting the following morning was akin to peeling one's own skin from their body.
‘Wear this,’ Armand instructed me at the door as we drew out our goodbyes, reaching his hands up to fasten a thin gold chain around my neck. Hung from it was a small glass orb shaped like a pomegranate. ‘It will act as a deterrent to other vampires should they look your way.’
‘What’s inside it?’ It was a dumb question as I gazed down at the red liquid shifting around as I toyed with the pendant.
‘My blood. So long as you wear this, the others will know that you are my companion.’
That you are mine. They were the words Armand wanted to say aloud but couldn’t with confidence.
So I said them for him.
Kissed him as I said “that I’m yours and you’re mine,” committing the taste of his lips and tongue to memory for the long hours we’d spend apart. The hours turned into days which extended into weeks. Yet before I could doubt the connection or his existence entirely, Armand returned to me. Beckoned to me in the quietness of my exhausted mind one night in late July as I fought the heat to fall asleep.
‘Arise, fair sun,’ Armand sung to me from outside, ‘and kill the envious moon, who is sick and pale with grief.’
The way I had laughed in silence to myself at the recited prose. Of course he’d know Shakespeare’s monologues by heart.
As I slid open my bedroom window and stepped out onto the fire escape, I looked down. Felt my heart in my throat and my face catch fire with a smile as Armand gazed up at me—disgustingly beautiful as I had remembered with a bouquet of French marigolds. My favorite flower.
Briefly glancing up at the full moon, he looked back at me. ‘Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven.'
WELCOME to Call It Fate, Call It Karma, a quiet and intimate short story about a reclusive artist fearful to love again and the young bright-eyed journalist challenged that hesitation.
I originally started this with the intentions of it being a soft slightly angsty smutty oneshot to work the sexual tension out of my brain so that it didn't spill over into the two other Armand x Daniel stories I'm working for the IWTV community. However, between the phenomenal art by Lady of the Creed Draws (@ladyofthecreeddraws) and the ways in which my mind loves to spin a yarn when the story and characters are willing, this suddenly turned into a two, possibly three, part story centered around the ways in which can draw two very different people together through fascination and desire but how love can also be a seed of conflict if overwatered and left to turn into destructive compulsions.
ADDITIONALLY! I wanted to link the primary art pieces by Lady of the Creed that inspired this story. Some are more abstract in their relation to the plot. Others will be making appearances in the following chapter(s). Which ones that'll be? Can't say. You'll have to keep reading to find out.
Diogo Jota killed along with his brother - just 10 days after the Liverpool and Portugal forward got married. He had three children.
Sky News:
Liverpool star Diogo Jota has died in a car crash.
The 28-year-old Portuguese forward died in the accident in the early hours of Thursday morning near Zamora, in northwestern Spain.
His brother, Andre, was also killed in the crash on the Rias Bajas Highway (A-52) near Palacios de Sanabria, heading towards Benavente.
The Guardia Civil in Zamora told Sky Sports News the accident happened at 12.30am.
"A vehicle left the road and everything indicates a tyre burst while overtaking," it said in a statement.
"As a result of the accident, the car caught fire and both people were killed. Pending the completion of forensic tests, one of the deceased has been identified as Diogo Jota, a Liverpool FC player, and his brother, Andre Felipe."
It comes just 10 days after the player married his long-term girlfriend, Rute Cardoso.
He had three children.
Diogo Jota played as a striker for Liverpool.
He began his career in his native Portugal and played at Atletico Madrid in Spain before coming to England.
He joined the Merseyside club from Wolverhampton Wanderers in 2020.
Jota played an important role throughout his five years with the Reds, including scoring six times in Liverpool's recent Premier League-winning season.
He scored a total of 47 times in 123 matches for the club. He also played 49 times for the Portugal national side, scoring 14 times.
His brother, Andre, 26, played for Pennafiel, a Portuguese second division club.
