9x13 coda, or what I think would happen if Buck ran into Tommy with his beat up face. Part soft/fluffy, part angsty(?), full BuckTommy.
“Evan?”
The sound sent a jolt down Buck’s spine. It wasn’t an altogether uncomfortable sensation; he turned away from the counter at the coffee shop and towards the source of the voice as the jolt settled into a kind of knotted, hopeful warmth in his stomach. His eyes scraped across the rows of tables filled with clusters of people happily chatting.
Tommy’s face twisted with shock and alarm as Buck’s eyes met his. One of the knots in Buck’s stomach untangled as he took in the fact that Tommy was sitting by himself with the day’s paper laid across his table.
Tommy stood, motioning towards the seat across from him as his brows furrowed down. Buck could feel Tommy’s concerned energy drawing in other onlookers around the coffee shop; the hum of conversation dulled as people watched Buck walk to Tommy’s table. Tommy couldn’t wipe the surprised look off his face; he watched carefully as Buck sat, taking in the half-healed scrape across one cheek and the still-sickly purple of the bruise on the other.
The noise cautiously picked back up around them, although Buck could still feel side eyes darting his way. He had gotten used to the strange looks in the last week, but under Tommy’s stare, he felt oddly exposed. He did not fidget or look away; he simply waited as Tommy assessed him.
“What happened?” Tommy’s voice was low and soft.
Buck wasn’t sure if he had come to this coffee shop intentionally. He knew Tommy came here often, that he considered their dark roast the best in the city, that if he had a day off he would come buy an actual, physical paper here and spend his morning reading it. Had he sought this out? He’d come here a few times since they’d broken up, but never because he conscientiously thought to himself: maybe I’ll see Tommy. And despite his own occasional appearances, he hadn’t run into him here, not until today, when he looked beat to hell and his chin was more scab than skin and he still couldn’t see out of the bottom of his left eye because of his stubbornly swollen cheek.
“Cappuccino for Buck!” A voice called out behind him.
Tommy pushed himself up, making a kind of disapproving tsk before Buck could move. Buck could feel the lingering sideways glances shifting from him to Tommy as he walked to the counter and back. He appreciated the momentary reprieve.
Tommy set the mug down and sat again, waiting for an answer to his question. This silence between them was unusual in its depth and softness. Tommy gave no indication of impatience or irritation, and for once, Buck felt no urgency in making the quiet end. He allowed himself to revel in it, to let more knots in his stomach unwind as he enjoyed having a person here who was worried about him without hammering him with questions, advice, or directions on how to handle himself. For the first time in weeks, he felt able to think, unencumbered by Maddie or an ER doctor or someone at the 118 hovering around him as though he needed constant attention. He felt the expanse of what Tommy was offering by simply waiting, wordless.
“I was in a car accident,” he said at last. “On my way back from the firefighter games. The person who hit us kidnapped me.”
“Wait, you went to the firefighter games? How was it?” At last, Tommy’s expression shifted from worry to intrigue. Buck smiled, even though it hurt. He had been asked, by all the people he loved and who loved him: what happened? Who did this? Why? How? Are you okay? He had been asked: do you need anything? Do you want soup or do you want casserole? Do you want a ride to the doctor? He had been asked: did you take your antibiotics? Did you change the bandage? Did you schedule your follow up? He had not been asked: how were the games?
Buck spoke; Tommy listened. When Tommy finished questioning him about the games, he pulled at the other threads of conversation Buck had offered up, asking if Buckleys were genetically predisposed to kidnapping, until Buck finished giving him an exhaustive account of what happened. It was, he realized as he recounted his conversation about grief with Bonnie while Tommy grew pale, the first time he had told the complete story.
“Wow,” Tommy said, and they fell back into silence. He was seated in front of a window, and in the time Buck had explained his adventures of the past few weeks, the sun had shifted to just above Tommy’s left shoulder, beaming directly onto the glass sugar dish between them and throwing blocky colors across the wall. Around them, the rubberneckers and eavesdroppers had all been long reabsorbed back into their own conversations.
“Now what?” Tommy asked.
Buck shrugged. “I should probably go home. Change this bandage. Rest some more. Let myself heal.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
The question was surprising. Nobody had thought to ask Buck what he wanted, only what he needed. “I don’t know. I never feel tired, but I sleep all the time. My body just needs it, I guess.”
Tommy nodded. “It does. You kinda look like I did after we took on some friendly fire in Afghanistan and our caravan flipped.”
“You’ve never told me about that before,” Buck said. He was grateful that Tommy was neither pitying nor fretting. He appreciated the constant concern from everyone around him, but it was exhausting.
“Yeah, well. Your story is more exciting. No one tried to take me hostage. And I was in a war zone!” Tommy paused. “At least I didn’t lose any teeth like the guy next to me did. It was probably a month before I looked like myself again.”
Buck swallowed the last of his cappuccino. It was cold now; Tommy hated when his coffee got cold. Buck never minded it.
“Can I…” Tommy started. “I mean, do you…” his voice trailed off. Buck felt the last of the knots undo itself and was left with just the warm feeling now. It was stronger than the dull ache he’d felt on his face since the crash. He pushed his empty mug towards Tommy and leaned forward.
“You can put this back on the counter for me,“ he started. “And you can make sure I get home safely. If you want. That’s what I want.”
Tommy took the mug. “I want that, too.”
~~~~
I had this idea kicking around my head but thanks to @beanarie ‘s post here for reinforcement that it was worth pursuing.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
There was a story behind each of Geralt’s scars.
Some of them were from monsters and some of them were from men. Geralt found that usually, the line blurred between the two, so when he was asked, he just grunted in answer.
And he was always asked. People always wanted to know how the great and feared witcher got his scars.
It was a source of entertainment for them. Seeing the mighty witcher brought low. Geralt used to see his scars as proof that he was part human— he could be hurt too. But people just saw it as proof that he wasn’t invincible. There was a difference, Geralt thought. Between being human and being vulnerable. One placed him alongside the rest and the other was a man who people want to test their steel against.
Everyone wanted to see his scars and everyone wanted to know if they could add their own. Everyone except Jaskier; the fucking bard.
Read on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347485 or continue below!
- -
Geralt wasn’t sure when he came to this realization. At some point between the first time Jaskier saw him bathe and the last time the bard had helped dress his wounds after a fight, Geralt had realized Jaskier was different than most people.
Sometimes, around Jaskier, Geralt could forget they were even there.
Geralt thought he sung about them, though. Little things that Jaskier thought he might not notice, perhaps. Like the way the bard gave them each their own story and instead of being trophies or tragedies that Geralt was expected to be proud of, they were… a pillar of who he was. They were part of him. Geralt wasn’t monstrous or terrifying for carrying them around, but human. Mortal.
Geralt never thought he would want to be mortal again.
It’s not like he remembers a time when he was. The years tended to blur together when someone lived as long as he had. Twenty years became fifty, fifty years became a hundred. And Geralt forgot what it was like to live as a man, not a monster.
Jaskier was different. Jaskier made him remember.
Geralt sat on the floor in front of the fire, running a whetstone over his blades as Jaskier sat on the bed, strumming the chords of his lute. The bard was trying to write a new song; something about the Bruxa that Geralt had faced a week ago. Geralt didn’t think it was very song worthy; he’d nearly died. He should’ve known better than to underestimate a starving vampire.
“What about her claws, Geralt?” Jaskier asked after a moment. “Sharp? Like silver! Or maybe knives. Or daggers. What sounds better?”
Geralt only grunted. Jaskier sighed and set aside his lute, plodding over. He dropped down at Geralt’s side and gave him a sideways look, studying the gleaming blade in his hands.
“Does silver hurt witchers too?”
“It’s a blade,” Geralt said. “It would hurt a man. It would hurt a witcher.”
Jaskier hummed and reached for Geralt’s other sword. Geralt was tempted to snatch it back away; for some reason, all he could see was Jaskier cutting his hand open or doing something stupid and getting himself stabbed. But he forced himself to smother that reaction and ground his teeth together, rubbing the whetstone harder over his second blade.
“They’re very shiny,” Jaskier said.
“That’s what I cherish the most,” Geralt deadpanned. “How shiny they are.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes and huffed, setting it back down. Linking his fingers behind his head, he laid back and watched the fire, sighing slightly. “I meant you take good care of them, witcher. Your blades.”
“Hm.”
“Have you named them? I’d name them. Des and troy. Get it? Destroy?”
Geralt swallowed a laugh. “You’re an idiot, bard.”
“What? What would you name them? Probably something stupid. If Roach is a horse, then would a sword be Rat? Llama? Potato?”
Geralt gave him an unimpressed look. “Don’t talk about Roach.”
“Ah, right,” Jaskier said, snorting. “The wrath of the gods might come down and smite me if I do so. Goddess save the man who ever insults Roach to your face. Or the thief who tries to steal her. My gods, I’d actually feel sorry for them.”
“They wouldn’t be alive long enough for you to feel sorry for them,” Geralt said. Jaskier chuckled.
“Fair enough, witcher, fair enough.”
Geralt glanced over at the bard— and pushed the whetstone down too hard, his hand slipping and nicking along the edge of the blade. Cursing, Geralt yanked his hand back and glared down at the sword. Jaskier sat straight up, blue eyes wide.
“Geralt? What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing,” Geralt said, watching blood drip to the floor. “Fuck.”
“Oh my gods,” Jaskier said, pushing himself up. “Since when are you so clumsy, witcher? How deep is it? Do you need stitches?”
“I’m fine,” Geralt said, but Jaskier ignored him.
There was a ripping sound as Jaskier tore a strip from one of the blankets on the beds and Geralt just knew they would be paying extra for that later. The bard came back with a bucket of water and the cloth and Geralt rolled his eyes, giving Jaskier a flat look as he sat back down.
“I’m fine, bard.”
“Yes, yes,” Jaskier said, waving a hand through the air. “You’re also dripping blood all over the floor. Let me clean you up.”
Geralt sighed, but set down his sword and held out his hands. Jaskier crossed his legs and took his hand, dipping the cloth into the water. Geralt hissed quietly as the bard touched it against the open cut. Jaskier wrinkled his nose.
“Gods, Geralt, how sharp are your blades?”
“Sharp enough,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier sighed and peered down at the wound.
“It could be deeper, I suppose. Is your head somewhere else tonight, witcher? You’d think I’d be the one to accidentally cut myself open, not the other way around.”
Geralt just grunted again, his face turning a little warm. He’d only looked away for one second.
“I don’t think it will scar,” Jaskier said. “It didn’t go deep enough.”
The bard wrung out and tied the damp cloth around Geralt’s palm, and he pulled his hand away. Jaskier chuckled to himself.
“If it does scar though, that would be quite the embarrassing story, wouldn’t it? The great White Wolf of Rivia, fallen victim to his own blade. I could write a song about that, but it might ruin your reputation, Geralt.”
Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier’s smile slipped and he studied his face.
“Geralt? Surely you know I would never do anything like that, of course. Are you sure your head isn’t somewhere else tonight?”
“I’m just tired,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push any further either.
Geralt was thankful for that.
Geralt was sent after a couple of drowned this week. It’d been a while since he’d gotten a simple job, so he didn’t mind that it didn’t pay very much. It wasn’t like he and Jaskier were hurting for coin. Sometimes, the bard and his singing made twice as much in one night that Geralt did over a couple of days.
Except it wasn’t a bunch of drowned waiting for him.
Geralt had faced an ambush before. This time, he heard the human heartbeats before he saw his attackers and might’ve been a lot worse off if he hadn’t been prepared. As it was, there were a dozen men against one. Geralt cut them all down with the words ‘the Butcher of Blaviken’ ringing through his ears and got distracted when he heard a distant voice screaming his name.
Jaskier came out of the trees where Geralt had left him and Geralt cursed as his throat tightened. He started toward the bard; and a dagger cut straight through his back. Roaring, Geralt dropped to his knees. He tried to turn but a blow to the face sent him sprawling to the floor.
He heard Jaskier shout his name again and then someone was moving past him, the fading light glimmering off a blade. His blade, Geralt realized. There was a savage cry and then a roar of pain and the sound of a body hitting the dirt.
Geralt forced himself up, terrified of what he might see. But Jaskier standing over a body with a bloodstained sword wasn’t what he had expected. Geralt blinked, then took a step forward, only to stumble to his knees again. Jaskier dropped his sword into the dirt and rushed forward.
“Geralt,” Jaskier said, fingers hovering over the wound. “Gods, Geralt, what can I do? Roach. Should I get Roach? We need to head back to town and find the healer—”
“Not the town,” Geralt said. Jaskier blinked at him.
“What?”
“The ambush came from the town,” Geralt said. “Not the town.”
Jaskier looked panicked. Still, he pulled one of Geralt’s arms over his shoulder and grunted as he tried to pick him up. Geralt did what he could do help and they started toward the cover of the trees. There was blood staining through his shirt and his hands were covered in the blood of his attackers.
Geralt didn’t remember the last time that bothered him.
But all he could hear were the words ‘the Butcher’ repeating over and over again in his head and all he could remember was the feeling of stones pelting his face and shoulders. He kept seeing Marilka’s face and her words telling him to leave— and what if Jaskier did too? What if he’d finally seen the other side of the witcher?
The one people were so determined to scar.
The bard didn’t give up on him, though. They stumbled past the bodies and into the trees, where Geralt could see Jaskier had left Roach tied to one around one trunk. Jaskier was breathing heavily by the time they reached her and Geralt all but dropped to the forest floor, grunting in pain. He pressed a hand against the wound, feeling warm blood beneath his palm.
“Geralt,” Jaskier said, dropping down at his side. “Geralt, I don’t know what to do. What do you need me to do?”
“There’s a needle and string in my pack,” Geralt grunted. “And a bottle of whiskey. Use it to clean the wound and then you’ll need to stitch it up.”
Jaskier’s face visibly paled. “No needles, witcher. I don’t do needles.”
“Fuck, bard,” Geralt ground out. “I can’t do this myself. Unless you want to watch me bleed to death, you’ll need to do it for me.”
Jaskier went through a series of different expressions but in the end, he nodded and pushed himself up. Geralt closed his eyes and focused on breathing steadily as the bard rooted through his pack. The dagger wasn’t long, but it’d sunken to the hilt, and Geralt could feel it buried underneath his shoulder blade.
Now this— this was going to scar.
Jaskier came back over and made a tutting noise as he surveyed the wound. Gentle fingers touched Geralt’s arm.
“I need to cut your shirt off, witcher, is that okay?”
Geralt nodded. Jaskier went to work and he couldn’t help but shiver as the cool air touched his skin. Jaskier hummed in apology and Geralt could hear the sound of the whiskey bottle being uncapped. Jaskier hesitated for a moment as his fingers returned to Geralt’s arm.
“A… are you sure, Geralt?”
“Just do it,” Geralt grunted. He could feel Jaskier’s fear and reluctance, but the bard did as he was told.
Geralt hissed as the alcohol touched the skin around his wound. He couldn’t hold it back.
“I am sorry, dear witcher,” Jaskier said softly. Geralt closed his eyes again, more worried about Jaskier handling a needle than him handling a cloth and bottle of alcohol. Still, he didn’t protest when Jaskier pushed the bottle into his hand and an ice-cold needle touched his skin.
He also couldn’t hold back his shout as it pierced through.
Jaskier spent the entire time apologizing and humming nervously under his breath. He started to sing softly when Geralt calmed down and Geralt was surprised to notice that calmed him down even more. By the time he’d nearly finished the bottle, Jaskier was done.
“Okay,” Jaskier said shakily. “There, witcher. I will be having nightmares for the next week or so, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Geralt muttered. Jaskier returned the cloth to his skin, this time wet with some of the water from their flasks. Geralt found himself relaxing under the cool feeling.
“Are they monsters?” Jaskier asked quietly. “The men that do things like this?”
Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier swallowed.
“They are. I think they are.”
“Not many people share your views,” Geralt said. Jaskier’s demeanor changed then; he seemed sad. Geralt didn’t under why he’d seem sad for a witcher.
“They should,” Jaskier said. “No man deserves to be treated this way.”
“I’m not a man.”
For a moment, Jaskier’s ministrations stilled. He removed his hand and moved to situate himself in front of Geralt, brows furrowed. Reluctantly, Geralt looked up at him. But he didn’t see the judgment he expected to. Rather, Jaskier looked sad.
“Oh, Geralt,” he said softly. “That’s not true. Tell me you know that’s not true.”
Geralt dropped his gaze. But then Jaskier cupped his jaw and slowly, he looked back up to see soft blue eyes.
“Tell me, Geralt,” Jaskier said. “Have you ever felt emotion? Have you ever felt fear? You feel pain. What kind of man doesn’t feel pain?"
“It’s going to scar,” is all Geralt said. Jaskier wet his lips.
“It is.”
“Eventually, someone will ask.”
“Then I shall tell them it’s none of their business.”
Geralt didn’t know how to answer that. Jaskier brushed gentle fingers over his cheekbones and traced them up around Geralt’s eyes. If possible, his face softened anymore.
“You are human in every way that is good, witcher.”
The words ‘human’ and ‘witcher’ didn’t seem fit to be in the same sentence. But leaving Jaskier’s mouth, something about them was right. Jaskier leaned forward and touched his forehead against Geralt’s own. Still, Geralt couldn’t question the words spilling from his mouth; “And all the ways that are not?”
Jaskier sighed. His breaths were warm against Geralt’s face. “We are all vulnerable sometimes, are we not?”
Geralt didn’t think he deserved such an innocent answer. He didn’t think he deserved Jaskier either. But in that moment, it was just the two of them. And Jaskier made him feel different. Mortal.
Geralt never thought he would want to be mortal again.
Unless it was with Jaskier around.
- -
(Support your overcaffinated (so much so) student writer? Seriously, I’d adore you guys so much). https://ko-fi.com/rh27writer
Yes life is tough sometimes but also you know what? Right now, Buck is in his freshly unpacked new apartment, he’s smiling to himself as he looks out at the moon through the window over his sink, kind of relieved that he’s moved again because he’s finally in a place that feels like it’s his.
So after he takes a deep breath of the dusky air coming in through the window, he reaches into his pocket, he takes out his phone, he pauses. Types. Deletes. Types again.
I just wanted to let you know I moved into a new place. I’d love to give you a tour sometime. But only if we get dinner first?
He didn’t expect a response right away, so he jumps a little when his phone buzzes as he’s tucking it back into its spot. Tommy liked his message. Then those three bubbles of infinite possibility appear, disappear, reappear. In spite of himself, Buck smiles at this, imagining Tommy in his kitchen, the same nervous excitement fluttering in both of their chests as they try to decide the right things to say to each other in this moment.
Part 1 of 5x1: A Sign That You Had Healed is done!
This spun out of this post thanks to the suggestion from the wonderful @chemistry66. Thanks @wee-fuckin-woo @corporatebanana @beanarie @kinardnatural @owlgirl495 for the positive feedback on the snippet, hope you enjoy this too. No content warnings, please let me know if you want to be tagged in future updates.
The first time Tommy leaned in to kiss Buck, Buck was so taken aback by it that he could hardly pinpoint any one emotion he felt about it. It was entirely different from the first time he’d ever kissed a girl, when he’d bent his head down and tasted sticky cherry chapstick; and yet it was entirely the same. It was equal parts letdown that it really did just feel like skin touching skin and flustered excitement that left him tingling for hours.
Tommy was clear, after their second date, that he would let Buck set the pace. Shortly thereafter, Buck found himself panting, shirtless, pulling Tommy’s button down off his shoulders and pulling his undershirt up. Lovesick, anxious, eager for more, he pressed himself against Tommy. His hands ran across every bare inch of Tommy that they could find: where his jeans met his hips, the small of his back, the side of his body, across a cratered plateau along his ribcage. He let his fingers linger there while the back of his mind caught up, then pulled himself away to look.
“What is it?” Tommy asked, sounding as delirious as Buck felt. Buck rubbed his finger along the blooming, red-pink scar in response. He couldn’t form words; he could only think about how this would feel against his tongue.
“How did you get this?” Buck asked, voice thick.
“I got hit by shrapnel in a factory fire years ago,” Tommy said.
Buck spread his hand over it. It was so pleasantly textured, this injury from the job quilted onto Tommy. It was like finding a matching tattoo on someone else’s body; it was Tommy’s version of the purplish scar that circled Buck’s knee. He brought Tommy back against him, kissing him again. “I have to take my pants off to show you mine,” he mumbled.
“Are you ready for that?” Tommy asked as Buck kissed along his jawline.
The only way Buck knew how to answer that question was to move his hand away from Tommy’s scar so he could wrap both his arms around Tommy’s shoulders, eliminating any remaining space between them.
Buck has endured his fair share of heat waves in LA, but this is the first one he can remember that has made him so distinctly uncomfortable. He's used to scorching heat: there was no shortage of hot days in when he was working on that ranch, and when he bartended in South America. And now? Sometimes after a good sweat in a blazing house fire on a hot day, he feels strangely better, cleansed. But heading into week two of this heat wave, he can't take it any more. Everything is discolored and droopy; the walls of his new apartment seem oddly hot and squishy to the touch in the unrelenting humidity, and just touching his pots and pans makes him feel hotter. The only thing he's been able to make and eat are cold salads.
In fact, he's pretty sure he's been covered in an unwashable sheen of sweat for at least a week. As soon as the shower is off, he can feel the beads of perspiration mingle with the water still on his body. He's given up on using a new towel every day because the air is too sticky. They don't dry properly, and running the dryer just makes the apartment hotter.
He's at the point where A/C doesn't even help any more. It just makes stepping outside worse. He went with Maddie and Chimney on their long weekend family getaway to San Diego, which wasn't exactly cooler, but at least he and Maddie and Jee could all be miserable in the pool together while Chimney and Robbie kept themselves firmly planted in the cool air of the hotel room.
They get back on Sunday evening; on the walk from Maddie's front door to his car, Buck can feel the wet spot form on the back of his shirt. By the time he's home, he doesn't even want to shower; he's too tired, too hot. Instead, he flops backwards onto his bed. This apartment has a fan, and he runs it on top speed along with the air conditioner, which he stupidly turned off before he left. He watches the blades of the fan as they whir.
The buzz of his phone breaks him out of this stupor.
Tommy: how are you holding up?
Buck grins. He hasn't told Maddie, Chimney, Eddie, Hen. There wasn't anything to say - yet. But since Bobby's funeral, he and Tommy had been cautiously finding their way back to dating. It started with them sharing stories about Bobby, sitting in a corner together at the lunch after the funeral. The funeral crowd cleared out and the conversation drifted away from Bobby and onto them: Why did you call me that day, Evan? Why did you answer the call, Tommy?
They fell into the habit of getting together each week, usually for a beer, and every week they pushed that conversation deeper and deeper until the heat wave hit, Tommy got called to a forest fire outside LA, and Buck wasn't capable of doing anything other than surviving this heat.
Buck: not great, you?
Tommy: want to come by?
Buck was surprised. They had restricted themselves to public places and daylight hours. He sat up. He could feel the heat-induced exhaustion deep in his bones still, but if there was anything that could snap him out of it...
"I am doing absolutely nothing which feels AMAZING!"
For BuckTommy
Hi Chemmy!! Life was lifing so I’m just now getting to this but thank you for this prompt! Thinking about it carried me through! Have some slice of life bucktommy.
~~~
“I am doing absolutely nothing which feels AMAZING!” Tommy called out in response to Buck. He was lying across the couch, feet up, pajamas still on, stack of DVDs on the coffee table.
“Great,” Buck lumbered in and swatted at Tommy’s legs. Tommy pulled them up lazily to make room for him. “Next time you get injured, make sure you take me down too so we can finally get our schedules to match up.”
Tommy snorted. “Not ready for your next shift?” He asked.
Buck shrugged. “Just wish I could stay with you for a little longer, I guess.”
Tommy wiggled his toes. “I’ll try to stay out of trouble,” he said. “And if everything goes according to my plan, I’ll still be right here when you get back.”
Prompt: Buck and Tommy reunite thanks to some sort of animal (not a dog or a cat)
WAIT STOP I had (what I think is) the funniest idea ever.
Buck was glad that Nash couldn't walk yet. He didn't know what Maddie and Chimney were going to do once he could, because it was all he could do to keep track of Jee running through the crowd at the petting zoo while holding onto Nash. Both kids walking seemed like a recipe for disaster.
"Jee, please stay with me," Buck pleaded with her, but she raced on anyway. She was making a beeline for the baby chicks. Buck darted behind her, Nash happily flopping along with him.
"Uncle Buck, look!" Jee yelled excitedly as she reached the henhouse. She was pointing at nothing in particular; there was just a swarm of baby chicks marching around. She poked her fingers through the wiring and waved at them.
Buck paused to take a photo of her while she was still enough for it not to be blurry.
"Evan?"
Buck nearly dropped his phone. Of all the people, of all the places, Tommy was on the opposite side of the pen, staring in shock.
"Oh, uh, hey," he called back, heart thudding. He was glad that Jee was there in front of him, anchoring him to a place to stand. The sight of her beaming at the baby chicks and the warmth of Nash felt real. The sight of Tommy didn't.
But he was real; he walked over to Buck.
"What are you doing here?" Buck asked in disbelief.
"Oh," Tommy sighed. "See that decrepit old rooster back there?" He pointed. Buck squinted. Nash watched him and tried to imitate it, to limited success. "There was a call years ago, when I was at the 118. Illegal cock fighting ring. I had to fight that rooster myself."
"And he's in a petting zoo now?" Buck asked. Would it be odd to ask Tommy to pinch him?
"Yeah. I mean, they don't let him near the kids. But I like to say hi every once in a while."
"Right," Buck nodded.
"Uncle Buck, can I hold a baby chick now?" Jee asked, wrapping arms around Buck's legs and looking up at him.
"Y-yeah." Buck said. "Just give me one minute."
Jee drooped against him as he shifted Nash from one shoulder to the other and tried to hike his backpack up.
"Um, it's nice to see you," Buck said, still not sure he was living in a reality in which he ran into Tommy at petting zoos on the weekend.
"You too," Tommy said, watching Buck struggle to get his water bottle out of his backpack. They both paused. "Do you need some help?"
Buck was touched by his question. "Uh, yeah. Can you hold him? For just a few minutes. I want to make sure she doesn't try to put a baby chick in her pocket while she's in there."
Tommy held his hands out to take Nash and smiled as he watched Buck walk off with Jee.
Thanks! Hehe Bucktommy babysitters are kinda precious to me so here ya go. I sprinkled in the littlest bit of Tommy/Howie bestieism for ya too.
~
“Are you absolutely sure you can handle this?” Evan asked. “I’m pretty sure my captain will understand if I call out.”
Tommy looked down at the dizzyingly detailed list of instructions spelled out neatly on a half a dozen sheets of paper, fastened tightly to a clipboard. For two kids who “didn’t have too much routine,” there were a lot of things he would have to do to wrangle the Buckley-Han children into bed that night.
“What, and let Howie think that I can’t handle two kids at once?”
Evan laughed. “Oh, you’ll see…sometimes they’re monsters.” He kissed Tommy’s cheek. “Thanks again. I know Maddie appreciates it too. And Chim.”
Tommy shrugged. “Just be safe out there. All of you.” He knew Evan was eager to run off and join the scores of crews being called in for post-earthquake search and recovery. Normally he would be just as anxious to get out there. He might’ve even volunteered to come off medical leave a week early, seeing as he’d been cleared by the doctor yesterday to head back to work. But he hadn’t, and he could use the extra rest this week, and now it gave him another favor in the bank with Howie.
“Right, I’ll go say goodbye to Jee. Don’t be freaked out if she starts crying, just follow-”
“I know. Page 4, appendix A. How to deal with Jee’s meltdowns.”
“Right. But if it’s Bobby Jr., then-”
“I got it, Evan. Page 5, Appendix A, part 2. How to deal with Bobby Jr.’s meltdowns.”
“Right. Okay. I’ll say goodbye to Jee then.”
Evan shuffled down the hall, leaving Tommy to skim his notes again. Once Evan was out of earshot, he pulled his phone out to tap a quick message.
Just so it’s clear, your kids will be up until 2am watching Love, Actually with me.
Howie responded right away: good luck getting Jee to watch something that isn’t kpop demon hunters.
Tommy already knew that was her favorite movie, thanks to his orientation packet. Maybe he’d work on that tonight. He could hear her starting to fuss in the other room, so he flipped to page 3. Fussing and having meltdowns were different, according to Evan.
“Hey,” Evan reappeared, Jee clinging to his side. “She had some questions for you.”
“Sure,” Tommy said.
“Will you heat up my dinner?”
“Of course,” Tommy said, smiling.
“Can you read me a bedtime story?”
“I heard your favorite book is Goodnight Moon…but we can read a different book tonight if you want.”
Jee sighed. “Cant Uncle Buck stay instead?”
“Sorry, kiddo. I’ve gotta go. Be nice to Tommy, okay?” She nodded and let Evan put her down after one last squeeze. She watched as her uncle wrapped his arms around Tommy next, kissed him.
“Remember to help brush her teeth. And junior’s!” Evan said.
“I will,” Tommy said.
They paused; giving each other a final wordless, thoughtful look over.
