Buck set the heavy bag on his dining room table. It was filled with tomatoes, carrots, eggplant and zucchini, bits of dirt still clinging to the stems and leaves. There were also plump strawberries and a bundle of thyme. The aromas were strong under Buck’s sensitive nose.
He had discovered it outside his door and wondered if someone had accidentally delivered their groceries to the wrong address—until he saw a note peeking out between some colorful bell peppers. It had familiar handwriting.
Buck picked it up and read it.
I have more than I know what to do with. Figured you could probably find a good use for them.
- Tommy
A trio of sunflowers were hanging over the side of the bag. Buck found a vase for them and gave them some water to drink.
Nobody had ever given him flowers before.
And nobody was around to see him stick his face in them like a lovesick dummy wolf.
His emotions were being goofy. He was probably making a bigger deal over this than he should’ve.
Everything was from Tommy’s garden, though. He had planted, tended, and hand-picked it all. They were the literal fruits of his labor, and he was giving them to Buck, of all people.
What did it mean?
Buck picked up his phone, opting for something silly instead of serious.
This is a pretty big🍆
They had established a routine of texting each other. Tommy never left him hanging; he always seemed willing to talk. Not once had Buck ever felt brushed off. Tommy was witty as hell. His sarcastic remarks were sharp, but often offset by something sweet and genuine in the next minute.
Buck was overdoing it—he knew he was, and the Alpha would eventually get sick of him—but he couldn’t help himself. He was just so interested.
It didn’t take long for Tommy to answer.
Thanks. Intimidated?
Buck laughed. Nope. I like a challenge. Can already think of a whole bunch of fun things I wanna do with it.
He sent a photo of himself holding the eggplant, quirking an eyebrow impishly.
Evan. We’re talking about cooking, right?
Of course. What else? :)
You’re a menace.
Buck laughed again. Wasn’t the first time he’d been called that. Thank you, by the way.
You’re welcome. If you want more, just let me know.
Buck bit his lip. We’re still talking about vegetables, right?
Tommy didn’t immediately bubble him, and Buck worried he’d pushed too far. It was a few minutes before his phone lit up.
What else?
So, the ball was officially in his court.
Buck swallowed, bouncing on his feet a few times to gear himself up. (Contrary to what Chim claimed, doing that wasn’t tippy tappies.)
Maybe I want more of you?
The lack of bubbles that time was deafening. Buck smacked his forehead, then nearly dropped his phone as it started ringing.
Tommy was FaceTiming him.
“Oh!”
Buck hastily ran fingers through his curls and propped his phone up against the fruit bowl on the island, accepting the call.
Tommy appeared on his screen. He was in his turnouts, rows of lockers behind him. His face was sooty, his eyes tired, but he looked content to see Buck.
“Hey,” Buck said, smiling.
“Evan.”
Something about Tommy’s soft gaze and his tone, warm and low, made Buck’s belly squirm happily. “Just got back from a call?”
“Yeah. I’m about to clean up and have some dinner.”
Buck put his chin in his palm. “What’s on the menu?”
Tommy gave him an unreadable look, then smiled back. “Some jerky. Probably something on Wonder Bread. Hopefully, not Freddie’s chicken salad.”
Some of them had contracted food poisoning from that in the past, Tommy had said. Tommy’s was brief, thanks to his fast healing. Still, Buck groaned in sympathy, a near whine hitting the edge of it. “Tommy, that hurts my culinary soul.”
Tommy chuckled. “It hurts my stomach more, I promise.” He sighed. Buck wanted to press his thumb against Tommy’s cleft and kiss him through the screen. He tried to dispel the thought. “I’ll admit, I miss Bobby’s meals.”
Buck had learned that the 217’s idea of crew dinner was abysmal at best. They rarely ate together, and the only time they had somewhat healthy food was when one of the guys’ wives brought something in.
Buck wondered if Tommy would like his cooking as much as Bobby’s. He was almost as good of a chef as Bobby now, though he excelled a bit more at baking.
“You’re wearing my clothes again.”
Tommy’s observation pulled Buck back to the conversation quickly.
It had become a habit for him to wear the hoodie at home. Embarrassing that Tommy had caught him.
“Yeah. It—it—it’s comfortable.” It was more than that. Buck tugged on the strings, fighting a blush and losing. He attempted more playful banter. “I don’t think I’m going to give it back. In fact, the next time I see you, I’m going to steal another.”
Did werewolves share clothes? Buck didn’t have any other furry friendships to compare this to. He was probably way out of line.
A few of his old girlfriends had liked wearing his stuff. He’d always thought it was cute seeing them dwarfed in his baggy sweaters. He was starting to understand the appeal from the other side.
But Tommy wasn't his boyfriend, and he bet it was only okay to share within a wolf pack, and he was acting like a total clingy weirdo, and Tommy was probably super skeeved out, and—
“I don’t want it back,” Tommy said. His eyes had darkened, zeroing in on Buck. “It’s yours.”
Buck swore he could hear—feel—Tommy’s heartbeat thudding powerfully in sync with his own. He had an insane and confusing desire to drop to his knees and offer up his bite mark like the Alpha was in the room with him.
You’re mine, Buck heard.
The fire bell ringing on Tommy’s end interrupted them, and whatever spell they were under broke.
Buck straightened up. His legs felt unsteady.
“Guess dinner will have to wait.”
…Why did Buck feel like he was dinner?
“Y-yeah.”
Tommy smirked. “Talk to you later. Be good.”
Buck made a noise.
The call ended.
⏾
Buck went to the grocery store. He loaded his cart, checked out without looking too hard at the total, and hauled his stand mixer out of the cupboard as soon as he returned. His kitchen soon became a disaster zone.
Tommy had fed him so well when he’d been bane sick. Though he’d said all he could really do was roast, grill, and dehydrate, it had been more than enough.
It was Buck’s turn to take care of the Alpha. Not repayment, just appreciation. It wouldn’t be as good as a fresh kill, but Buck hoped Tommy would enjoy the transformation his produce had undergone.
And Freddie’s chicken salmonella salad could be tossed in the trash where it belonged.
Buck wanted Tommy to feel his gratitude. Buck could fill his stomach and satisfy him. Win him over.
It could make the Alpha see Buck as a potential mate.
…That was his wolf butting in again, of course.
Buck made spiced carrot cake, thyme and honey focaccia, a massive meaty lasagna with rich tomato sauce, and a ratatouille he spent an excessive amount of time making beautifully layered.
The last thing he popped in the oven was a batch of strawberry muffins stuffed with homemade strawberry jam. Only the center muffin he decorated with vanilla buttercream and red sprinkles. He left a note in his chicken scratch on top of the tupperware.
The special one is for you. Don’t let anyone else have it.
- Evan
It was almost three AM when he finally shut the refrigerator doors and collapsed into bed with a grin on his face.
⏾
The following day, Buck carefully loaded everything into an empty box he’d saved from a past delivery and stuck it in the back seat of his Jeep. (Maddie teased him for his millennial urge to save every box he acquired, but she couldn’t deny they were useful.)
Jon once tried to make toast. He set fire to half the galley. Chef told him that he's the captain on the rest of the ship, but he is banned from the galley.
Jon still doesn't understand why putting bread on a plasma cooker is a bad idea.
