botheredbuck

[botheredbuck]

okay but listen. hear me out. consider it.

[botheredbuck]

EVAN BUCKLEY + BRAD TORRENCE 8x03 // 8x08

[botheredbuck]

"You need to relax." Eddie rolls his eyes. "You have nothing to worry about, Buck."

"What if I pick the wrong on? What if he hates it?" Buck turns to Eddie. "What if I'm making a huge mistake and he - " Eddie puts his hand on Buck's shoulder and forces Buck to look into his eyes like he's done so many times before. "Don't be an idiot. I mean, I get that that's why we love you - Tommy included - but don't be an idiot. You're forgetting, I'm his friend too."

Buck turns back to the glass counter full of rings. "Yeah, yeah. You're right. And we've talked about this. We both want this. It's just a matter of when, right?" "Right. Now, which one?" Buck bites his lip. He knows this isn't the most important decision he'll ever have to make, but right now it feels like it is. "I don't know. That's why I brought you." "I did not come here to pick out your boyfriend's engagement ring. I came here to make sure you didn't chicken out and leave the store without buying one." Eddie bumps his shoulder against Buck's. "Come on, Buck. He's going to say yes. This is just a formality."

"But it matters, you know. I want it to be perfect."

"I know you do. You're Buck."

Buck sucks in a breath and looks down at the case. He spots the perfect ring tucked in the corner - not plain but nothing too fancy or elaborate that would feel out of place on Tommy. It's perfect. He points it out and says "that one."

Eddie takes it upon himself to wave one of the sales people over so that Buck can get it packed up and ready to go and by the time they leave the shop there's a small velvet box tucked inside Buck's coat pocket. "You know, this doesn't guarantee that I'll be your best man. Tommy might win."

"Fuck you, Diaz. I locked that down nearly a decade ago." Buck snorts. "You're not getting out of throwing me a fucking killer bachelor party."

"You're so sure of yourself." "Obviously."

Eddie rolls his eyes. "Maybe he'll say no." "Stop!"

Eddie throws his head back and laughs. "Get in the truck." Once they're both settled, seatbelts on, and Eddie starts up the engine he turns to Buck and looks at him seriously. "And Buck, don't chicken out. You're going to ask that man to marry you, and he's going to say yes, and you're going to get the happy ending you've always wanted."

"Yeah." Buck nods. "Yeah, you're right. I know you're right."

"I know I'm right."

As they drive off, Buck just stares out the window and can't help but smile. He feels light.

[botheredbuck]

the PROMO????? EXCUSE ME????

[botheredbuck]

the way buck’s smile just fucking dropped I HATE THIS SHOW

[botheredbuck]

the shape of you

Tommy's always liked working with his hands. He loves learning and figuring things out through touch. He's memorized the feel and curve of the cyclic under his steady hand, when he flies. He knows the exact length of the throttle and the size of every button on the control panel.

He relishes in the labor of taking apart an engine, thumbing over the valves, the spark plug, running his fingers over the flat smooth of the pistons, and feeling over the ridges of the timing chain.

The grease and callouses on his hands are marks left on him by whatever engine or part he works on, signs of hard work, of a job well-done. He's just as methodical and meticulous cleaning the dirt and grease off with a good towel. He wipes across his palms and the backs of his hands, in between the valleys of each finger, gets in the grooves of his knuckles and around his nails beds. What he doesn't get with the towel, he scrubs with a brush before his shower.

But he's gotta say, his favorite puzzle to figure out is one Evan Buckley. He's become a faithful acolyte of his body. He knows that if he runs a finger down his spine, it elicits the sweetest little shiver. On slow mornings, when there's no rush and they get to indulge in bed, Tommy takes his time mapping every little knob of his spine, charts the width and location in his mind.

He lightly runs his finger along the curve of his ribs, feeling the notch and counting every single one. He knows that if he pokes between six and seven, Evan will squirm at the sensation, because his baby is ticklish in certain spots.

He's circled around and climbed the domes of his knees with reverent fingers, paying special attention to his injured leg. On days that it pains him, he rubs ointment on it lovingly.

He thumbs down the arch of each foot, presses a kiss square in the middle every time he sets Evan's leg on his shoulder, so he can fuck deeper into him.

Sometimes, he'll slot his thumb into the dimple of Evan's smile, made deeper when he beams or laughs. He loves feeling the heat of his blush beneath his finger tips. He's learned the shape of his plush lips, and has memorized the different curve of every pout.

He knows the exact depth of the dip in Evan's shoulder, where his deltoid and neck muscles meet, the addicting hollow of his throat he can't help but kiss and suck and bite.

He's committed to memory the velvety feel and weight of Evan's cock in his hands and in his mouth, and inside him. If he presses down on the space between the head and the shaft, it makes his breath hitch and stutter, and he makes these breathy little sounds that have a direct line to Tommy's cock. If he thumbs the slit, he's rewarded with the arch of Evan's back, the spurt of more pre-cum that makes each stroke all the more slippery and hot and wet.

Evan always makes a mess, a beautiful, wonderful mess. One Tommy absolutely loves cleaning up, with his hands, with his mouth and tongue, loves the marks Evan leaves on him, too-- signs of a job well-done.

[botheredbuck]

"You've got to be joking." Buck reaches up and swats at the yellow clouding the periphery of his vision, which yields the very satisfying sound of metal jangling and the less awesome feeling of whacking the side of his pinky against something with a sharp edge. 

"I've never joked about anything in my life," Tommy lies, then lifts the measuring tape to Buck's cheek. 

Buck pushes the stupid thing away again and cups his hand over his cheek. "Now that's funny."

"Shouldn't be. I just said I don't joke. Evan, put your hand down, don't touch it." 

Making a face, Buck bats at the measuring tape again. 

Tommy makes a face right back. "Stop trying to spread the plague for a second and hold still. That's an order, Buckley."

"That's not what you said last night," Buck snarks, but he obediently tilts his head up and is only a little huffy about it. He also tucks his hands between his knees so he doesn't give into the temptation of smacking the thing away again, or reaching out to twist one of Tommy's nipples through his shirt for the simple thrill of being a brat.

"But it is what I said on Monday night," Tommy muses. His tongue peeks out at the corner of his mouth as he brings his other hand—gloved, the big baby—to gently steady the tape just under the boil on Buck's face. 

Even as pain briefly flares at the suggestion of something touching whatever has taken residence on his cheek, heat blooms in Buck's belly at the memory of Monday night. Monday night was good. Really good. He glances down at his hands, still safely held between his knees, and mourns for the hundredth time that the red lines from the ropes have completely faded. Next time, he'll make sure Tommy ties them tight enough to leave a mark that lasts. 

"So? Are you planning to hang a picture or something? Do we need to get a stud finder?"

"I have no problem finding studs on my own, thanks," Tommy says, then pokes Buck's forehead with a grin. "Look, there's one."

He's so charming. Buck wants to hate it so much, but all he can do is laugh and try to smack him again. Tommy retreats to a safe distance a foot away and his smug little smile gives way to concern. Buck already doesn't like what he's about to say. 

"That thing is almost three inches wide."

"W-Wait, seriously? That's like the size of a frickin' giant weta!" Buck reaches up to touch the thing on his cheek, which pulls painfully just from talking. 

"I'll make sure to use the arthropodic unit of measurement from now on." This time it's Tommy who smacks his wrist. "Evan, I'm serious, don't touch it. Actually, go wash your hands right now. I'm calling Eddie."

Buck drops his head to the back of the couch with a groan. "There's no reason to call Eddie! It's not a huge deal, okay? I was lightly cursed. Josh says I just need to take a bath in hyssop, vetiver, and wormwood." 

There's a metaphysical supply store near Sunset Boulevard that has everything he needs in stock. The employee who answered the phone was very helpful, and they made a good case for buying something called moldavite. 

The look Tommy levels at him is so incredulous that Buck kind of wants to take a picture of him and see if it'll go viral as the next big reaction meme. 

"Evan." Oooh, that's not one of the good 'Evan's. "No offense to Josh, but those are soup ingredients. I'm getting a second opinion. From a medical professional."

As if to punctuate that, Tommy shucks his gloves and pulls out his phone. Buck glowers at him and calls upon the days of Trojans' football plays past, because his coach always said his offensive tackle was a thing of beauty. There is no way Eddie can know that the little red dot from yesterday has ballooned into a monster, and he has no qualms about getting physical to stop that call from going through. 

But something must give him away—maybe the way he plants his feet on the floor, or how he braces his shoulders a little—because Tommy straightens up to his full height, points right at Buck's chest like he's about to cast his own curse, and intones, "Don't make me call Hen."

Buck collapses back against the couch like he's been shot. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I'll even make sure Howie's on the call. Do not test me."

"See if I ever suck your dick again," Buck mutters, even though saying it just feels like he's punishing himself, because his skill level has finally risen to meet his love for giving head. He's reached his final form of a human Dyson. It's moments like this that he wants to kick his own ass for not realizing he was bisexual sooner. He could've been sucking cock for years. Thankfully Tommy's dick is so big that choking on it feels like Buck's making up for all that lost time.

He tries to get a good sneer going but all it does is pull painfully at his cheek. He sucks air through clenched teeth. 

Bringing the phone to his ear, Tommy gives the sage nod of someone who just had their point proven and gestures at Buck's face. "There isn't a lot I wouldn't do for that mouth, but right now? That's not the threat you think it is."

This is so unfair.

"Hey, Eddie, you busy?" Tommy glances at Buck and his mouth twists into a sympathetic smile, even as he clutches his phone a little tighter. "I need your expertise. Well, Evan does."

"Evan does not!" Buck shouts.

Tommy rolls his eyes and turns his back, curling around the phone like he's about to start sharing state secrets. "Did you get a good look at his face when you were on shift yesterday?"

As a matter of fact, Eddie had gotten a look at it and declared it nothing more than a blind pimple, maybe an ingrown hair. And sure, it had been roughly the size of a pin head at the time, but it's honestly not that bad. 

"Uh, you could say that." Tommy pauses for a moment, listening to whatever Eddie's saying, and then spares Buck a glance over his shoulder. "I'm not sure 'infected' does it justice. It looks like it's seconds away from gaining sentience."

Buck grabs the throw pillow he's been sitting on and chucks it at him. 

"I appreciate it, man. See you soon." Tommy clicks his phone off and pockets it, turning around with a big, fake-ass smile. He's still stupidly hot. Buck throws another pillow at him on principle, which Tommy easily dodges. "He's on his way. He's even picking up lunch."

With a grumble, Buck throws himself sideways onto the couch and curls into the back of it. 

"You're pouting."

"You can't even see that," Buck pouts. "This is stupid. All I need is, like, a warm compress and Josh's curse-breaking bath bomb. And moldavite, I guess?"

Tommy heaves a sigh, and Buck tugs his hood until it covers his burning face, mortified. He knows he's being stupid about this, and if this were anyone else he'd have knocked them out and tossed them through the doors of First Presbyterian without a second thought, but this is different. And he hates that he's dragged Tommy into this and completely ruined all the plans they had for their shared 48 off, which was a scheduling gift from the gods and was going to involve so much sex and short rib. 

"Evan."

"Don't," Buck snaps, even though his name sounded gentle and sincere coming from Tommy's mouth. "I made this bed, right? I deserve to lay in it."

"Evan, you did nothing wrong."

When Tommy says it, he can almost believe it, but at the end of the day, Buck was the one who disturbed the spirit of poor Derek Bradley, age 57, murder victim from 1982 by opening his coffin and displaying him for three hundred kids to gawk at. To add insult to injury, Derek wasn't even the main attraction; Buck stuck him in the back with the paper mache spiders he got last minute at Party City. It's only right that Buck suffer for the indignity of being deemed a second rate decoration. Boils and pestilence seem fair in the grand scheme of things.

"I mean, I personally wouldn't have gotten Halloween decor off Facebook Marketplace," Tommy teases, then his voice sobers into bare earnestness, "but that doesn't mean you deserve boils and pestilence. It was just a freak thing. One that a medical professional can definitely handle."

Something gently begins stroking Buck's arm, making long, sweet sweeps, and all the muscles bunched in his back begin relaxing one by one until he's sinking into the cushions. Even when Buck's a general plague area, Tommy still can't stop himself from reaching out to touch. 

Warm with something it's way too soon to put a name to, Buck smiles and rolls over. And freezes. And looks down at the box of Kleenex in Tommy's hand, which he'd clearly been using to stroke Buck with. 

Whatever Tommy sees on Buck's face makes him crack a sheepish grin. "Hey, just because you don't deserve boils and pestilence doesn't mean you don't, you know, still have them."

Buck stares at him for a long, long time, and then finally says, "Kiss me."

"No."

"Kiss me, Thomas." Buck sits up, pushes himself to his feet, and then moans hauntingly, "Kiss meeee."

Snickering, eyes wide, Tommy shakes his head and takes a step back. "Ain't no way, Buckley. I'm ready to start calling that thing Marla."

It's got to be some movie reference, but Buck ignores it and shuffles around the coffee table, arms out the way in front of him like he's in Scooby Doo, groaning so loud it might actually wake the dead. "Kiiiiiissssss meeeeee."

Tommy's almost not quick enough to dodge him, mostly because he's laughing too hard, but he manages to vault over the chair behind him and make a break for the kitchen.

The ensuing chase only ends because Eddie eventually shows up, arms full of takeout from Fat Sal's Deli, and shouts over their cackling, "Oh fuck no, I did not sit through traffic on Highland Ave so I could be part of whatever this is! Get your asses down here or I'm leaving both of you to die!"

[botheredbuck]

"Well, that's just undignified," says a familiar voice to the little girl she's been watching run the gamut of making Park Friends for the last three minutes. She runs straight into his legs and raises her arms, and it looks automatic, the way he swings her up and wipes at her face with a wet wipe he just whipped out of a back pocket. "How is anyone gonna recognize you the next time we come to this park?"

(Abby had watched her reach down and streak a solid line of mud down both cheeks a minute and a half ago and just been thankful that she'd missed those years, with Sam's kids.)

He's the same. He's - entirely different.

The smile on his face reaches his eyes in a way she's never seen, and some of the lines around his mouth are deeper. He holds himself differently and she can't pinpoint exactly what it is. He looks settled in his skin.

Of all the parks in all of LA, she thinks to herself, and then she remembers their friend Gertie telling her about the house Tommy had bought that most of them had assumed was a cry for help. A real fixer-upper, she'd said, an ironic lilt to her voice, a wry half smile because she'd gotten Abby in the divorce. As it were.

(Hadn't stopped her from gossiping like a bored housewife about Abby and Buck, eighteen months later, but at least she'd been able to spot Gertie's handiwork when she'd fielded no less than nine concerned texts about her himbo.)

It's a beautiful day. A little breezy, but the sun is warm, the sky is free of clouds.

It feels a little ridiculous that she's here to catch up with one ex only to encounter the one who'd sent her straight into his arms. It had made sense at the time. She'd given herself the time to get over a man who could never have loved her the way either of them wanted to, and then latched on to the first boyishly handsome one she could find. She'd never meant to care for Buck, in the end. It'd happened, because he was easy to love, but -

She'd just never meant to.

Sam's gonna laugh at her so long she's gonna smother him with a hotel pillow.

She sees him first, long legs clambering out of a newer model Jeep, the bronze in his hair catching in a way she doesn't remember. It takes her a second to realize he'd always just kept his hair too short for the curls to be this pronounced.

Abby's a married woman. She loves Sam dearly. She's also well aware that there's no harm in looking, sometimes, and she's certainly looking now. He'd looked more bulky the last time she'd seen him, filling out his shirt in a way that Abby knew he had to be proud of, as insane as his workouts were, as weird as his diet trends always seemed. This is different. More. His shoulders are insane. The long legs actually look almost proportional with his thighs so thick. She can see a newer tattoo peeking out from under the shirt he wears. The style's changed too, she notes empirically - a tee-shirt that's not actually tearing at the seams to contain him, a flannel he's shrugging out of to tie around his waist.

He glances up and catches her eye and the smile that stretches across his face is friendly, unbothered. Still beautiful enough to turn a few heads in her direction when he holds up a hand to wave.

"Daddy!" screams the girl, now sans mud, and Abby watches in confusion as she books it across the cork path of the playground, beelining it towards Buck.

Buck holds a hand out at groin height and grunts when all her weight catches him at the knees.

The rest of the picture pieces together slowly, while Abby attempts to keep her jaw from falling open. Tommy ambles after the girl, casual, smiling, and when he gets there he dips a hand into the riot of curls atop her head, ruffling. He slides a hand to Buck's waist, casual, comfortable, the same way Sam taps at her hip when he wants a kiss. Buck's hand lifts briefly to Tommy's elbow before he bends to greet the girl, and even though they're farther away now it's obvious she's giving him a full rundown of what he's missed.

When Buck can get a word in edgewise, he tips his head towards Abby, and the girl spins on her heel and practically marches over to the bench in the shade Abby has chosen.

Buck and Tommy follow after her as a unit.

"Hi!" She's all Buck. Fat cheeks and gangly limbs and sky blue eyes, enthusiasm leaking out of every pore. "I'm Mary!"

Tommy's grandmothers name. She'd never had a full picture why she was the only member of his family Tommy spoke of fondly - not til the end, anyway.

She's desperate to know why the hell Buck hadn't said something to her about this in advance, but - no, it's too crazy to just take on faith. She'd have needed to see it.

They have matching rings on their left hands.

Abby is suddenly sorry she deactivated her Facebook years ago.

She hasn't spoken to Gertie in three years. She's absolutely going to eat this up.

Abby reaches out to shake Mary's already extended hand. It's a firm shake - up, down, squeeze and drop, something she remembers from the time Tommy had helped her prep for job interviews and become exasperated by her limp noodle arms.

Buck and Tommy loom over her. They don't mean to. Both of them have a good way of putting people at ease about their size pretty quickly, and it happens now, again, as Tommy shifts his weight and Buck leans down and in to drop a hand to his daughter's shoulder. Tommy and Buck, she thinks to herself. Buck and Tommy.

It's not hard to square, if she really takes a moment. They were both desperately lonely people, when she knew them, but so so full of love. Too full, even when one of them hadn't even been attracted to her. It's leaking out of them even now, as Tommy gives her a wry smile and Buck rubs a hand behind his neck.

It takes Abby a second to clock it as a Tommy gesture. "Hi," she says in greeting, and then dissolves into laughter a second later.

Mary joins in even though there's no way she understands why.

"The ambush was Evan's idea," Tommy intones, the smile still warm and uncareful around the edges of his eyes, when Abby finally gets herself under control. Mary has already returned to treating Tommy like a jungle gym. Abby quirks a brow at the name, shoots a look at Buck. He smiles back bashfully, blissfully unaware of the way he blooms under Tommy's gaze

"I didn't think you'd believe me."

Mary's knee knocks uncomfortably close to Tommy's groin as he swings her back and forth on one massive arm, and he barely blinks, though he does shift his weight again to limit the possibility of another limb taking him out. Abby stands. Hands out hugs. Despite how rambunctious she is with Tommy, Mary is careful to keep herself in check while Abby is in the direct path of her limbs.

"It's easier to believe than you might think," she tells Buck, and wonders if Gertie would be more or less inclined to forgive Tommy knowing that he and Abby have essentially the same type.

"You wanna grab a drink?" Buck asks after a moment, hand reaching casually for Tommy's hip. "There's a spot around the corner that makes a mean oolong. That's your drink, right?"

God. He really hasn't changed a bit. Memory for useless but meaningful detail, an open heart, that overeager tilt to his smile. Tommy's got a yapping kid half hanging off his belt loop and he still has the fortitude to send a glance at Buck like he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

If she's gonna reach out to Gertie, she'll need to be prepared for the Spanish Inquisition. This is a full interrogation piece of gossip.

"I'd love that," she says, and Buck's grin splits at the seams while Mary and Tommy have a friendly if heated back and forth about what sort of drink Mary is allowed.

[botheredbuck]

#the 3 very grown adults of the 118

9-1-1 Hen Wilson, Eddie Diaz and Evan 'Buck' Buckley -> 8x07 Hotshots

[botheredbuck]

Buck + Pining for Tommy

9-1-1 – 8.07: Hotshots

[botheredbuck]

EDDIE DIAZ 8.06 | 8.07

[botheredbuck]

i don’t like the twists in this episode.

can we keep brad?…. please???

[botheredbuck]

okay i definitely take it back…… um.

why does sparks kinda remind me of buck…… like u cannot tell me that whole jumping on the back of the truck thing isn’t something buck would TOTALLY do…..

[botheredbuck]

why does sparks kinda remind me of buck…… like u cannot tell me that whole jumping on the back of the truck thing isn’t something buck would TOTALLY do…..

[botheredbuck]

that whole scene with buck’s phone…. i am so in love

[botheredbuck]

can we keep brad?…. please???

[botheredbuck]

Tommy eating trans!Buck out like his life depends on it. send post.