❤️🩹 for bucktommy please?
ok i have to admit this one was really fun and soft. also i stg trying to figure out the creme brulee spelling nearly killed me. i hope you like it!! thanks for sending!!🥰
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It’s half past six, the clock ticking mercilessly as the kitchen steeps in heat, thick and suffocating, tension curling at the edges of Buck’s resolve.
Four trays of crème brûlée line the island in tidy stacks, five loaves of banana bread rise steadily in the oven, and some thirty cake pops cool precariously on sticks, leaning like lazy soldiers lined beside the stove.
The sun hangs lazily in the sky, setting softly as evening guides it into the horizon, bleeding golden amber and flickering into the hazy blues of dusk. It’s mocking him – the soft edges of daylight easily falling into innocent nightfall, nothing but time and the cozy press of the sky pushing him forward as it sings itself to sleep.
Time stretches its arms and yawns, while he’s three hours behind and counting. He should be en route to Maddie’s by now, desserts packed tightly into Tupperware and buckled into his back seat. A kindergarten graduation waits for no man, and Buck’s not arrogant enough to think he’s the exception.
Between puffs of steam and the gloss of melted chocolate swirling in a saucepan, his focus is razor sharp, everything else on his to-do list abandoned in favor of homemade sweets for his sweetest girl. He blinks, and the day has already tipped from indigo to plum, night yawning eagerly into the room.
A soft rattle at the door pulls his attention, heart skipping. His eyes dart to the entryway, anticipation growing at the sound of the lock tumbling.
Tommy.
Even now, even after all this time, the thought alone makes Buck’s heart flutter. So much so that his hand slips mid-stir, chocolate splashing as the spoon scrapes hot metal.
“Shit!” he shouts, yanking his hand away in surprise. The side of his hand is red, throbbing just below the skin as the burn blooms, nerves tingling with the first pass of pain.
Tommy’s at his side before he blinks, a bag thunking softly on the table as he passes by. He flips off the burner and reaches out to Buck, then takes his wrist, firm but careful, and guides his hand under the faucet’s cool stream.
“Hey, hey – are you okay?”
Buck nods, a dry laugh escaping with an exhale as his cheeks tinge red with embarrassment. “Yeah, I-I’m fine.” Tommy turns his hand with such care, Buck feels kinship with diamonds, the glare of bright lights glinting under the watchful eye of a jeweler’s loupe. “’S what I get for trying to bake five things at once.”
Tommy laughs, his eyes crinkling in that way that always makes Buck’s heart clench. “I think you’ll survive.”
There’s a smile Buck feels every time Tommy’s eyes shine that sparkling sapphire, one that tugs up his heartstrings and pulls into his cheeks, pouring out through his gaze as the world fades around Tommy’s face.
It’s there now, soft and helpless, and he knows he must look ridiculously lovesick. He doesn’t care.
Suddenly there’s a flash of pain, a prickle of heat that stings, sharp and brazen over his skin. He hisses and recoils, but Tommy’s hand wrapped around his wrist stops him when he shudders with a shaky breath.
“Come here,” Tommy says gently as he steers Buck to the table. He plants him down in a chair and stretches an arm across the island to snag a towel. He presses it against Buck’s hand and kisses the top of his head, where Buck is certain Tommy can taste the cucumber of his favorite shampoo. “Be right back.”
Chocolate and banana linger in the air around Buck, soured by the acrid bite of scorched skin. Focusing on it for too long churns his gut with a sharp pang of nausea, but before he can spiral too deep, Tommy’s back at his side.
He pulls a chair close and lays out fresh gauze and aloe, sets it beside a bottle of acetaminophen and a water bottle. Another kiss lands on Buck’s temple as he lifts the injured hand, eyes narrowing at the irritated red. The burn’s small but angry, a nasty welt flaring across his pinky. Buck already knows gloves at work are going to be hell.
“I’m sorry I distracted you,” Tommy murmurs, smoothing aloe over the angry burn with careful fingers. “I brought your vanilla.”
Buck looks at the bag and offers a soft, lopsided smile, a dangerous knot sticking in his throat where he pushes down a sudden swell of emotion. The stress of the day rolls through him like a tidal wave and he blinks back tears, nodding silently in thanks.
Tommy looks up when Buck doesn’t answer, spotting the sadness etched across his face. He reaches for the gauze and works quickly, wrapping Buck’s hand where he seals the bandage in place with a strip of tape.
He peels off his gloves and leans in close, brushing a tear that’s fallen down Buck’s cheek with his thumb. Buck collapses into his arms, face pressed against the crook of Tommy’s jaw, chest loosening as he breathes him in, grounding himself with each shaky inhale.
“You okay?” Tommy whispers as he rubs slow circles over Buck’s back. “I brought Tylenol.”
A watery laugh breaks from Buck and fills the room as he shakes his head, lashes catching against the collar of Tommy’s shirt. “I’m fine, just…”
“Stressed?” Tommy finishes when Buck leaves the sentence hanging. He nods, grateful for the way Tommy always knows – without words, without judgement. "Kindergartners'll do that."
When he finally leans back, he feels lighter, but exhaustion clings, creeping across his shoulders. His muscles are tight from five hours of tunnel vision and a headache slowly bites at the base of his spine.
Tommy brushes a hand across his and stands, exhaling like he’s switching gears. “Okay,” he says simply. “Tell me what to do.”
It takes only seconds for Buck’s pulse to settle, for that quiet joy to return. The one that Tommy always brings like a breath of fresh air. He scans the kitchen and clocks the half-burned ganache, the scattered containers, the desserts still waiting to be tucked into neat rows of Tupperware.
“You take the stove,” he says. “I’ll pack the banana bread?”
Tommy salutes with a grin, already pulling out another pan and scanning the recipe Buck left open on the counter. He moves with purpose, at ease in Buck’s kitchen, and Buck’s fondness grows a little more.
Every time Tommy walks through that door – whether Buck is burned, buried in deadlines, or baking himself into exhaustion – he brings something steadier than a helping hand. Something sweeter than anything Buck could pull from the oven. Deeper than dessert.
And Buck? He’s more than happy to savor every sugar-slick, love-soaked moment by his side.
