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itsametaphorok · 20 hours ago

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Out of myth into history | bucktommy | pg

@liminalmemories21 and I ruminating on the old soulmarks au.

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When he turns seventeen, Buck wakes up with three tattoos that he does not remember getting. Luckily (or unluckily, he hasn’t really decided), there’s no one around to realize what’s happened. Under the harsh light of his bathroom, he stares at his arm, cursive writing sprawled across his forearm and figures it’s a good thing that Maddie’s busy, too busy to bother with him and his magically appearing tattoos. Doesn’t bother to consider what his parents would think for longer than a second; it’s not like they’d care – definitely not like they’d notice.

He cranes his neck in the mirror to see the expansive scrawl across his back; examines the scratch mark text across his calf. Wracks his brain, but can’t remember how any of them got there. He’s not a partier (he’d have to have friends for that); he could be concussed, but it’s not football season. Wonders what tattoo parlor would even be willing to work on the body of a kid who must have been blasted out of his mind. Anyway, they’re not red, raised – don’t look anything like the fresh tattoos he’s seen before. These are slightly faded, even – lived in. He stares in the mirror and wishes he had someone to ask, but figures maybe it’s better that no one gives a shit. Feels like he should be more freaked out by this than he is. They do feel alien, foreign – these unexplained words on his skin. He never finds a receipt, or anyone who claims credit, and eventually it fades into another mysterious thing that happens to him outside of his control.

Never met anyone else with tattoos that just appeared one day (that you know about, a voice whispers). He reads them, tracing the ones he can reach, over and over again; wonders what they mean, why he’d chosen them. Starts to feel like they chose him more than the other way around, like maybe they show a little more of himself than he wants the world to see.

When he turns eighteen, his world… widens. He gets the keys to the jeep, Maddie’s tacit permission to go wherever he wants, and the legality to turn his magical tattoos into something else, something he creates. He spends all of the first three paychecks he gets bartending to expand the tattoo on his forearm – the one that’s hard to hide. He’s broke, sleeps in the jeep, but that’s fine.

It’s not like anyone cares, or is missing him.

Plus, now it feels like they’re his, a part of him. Something he can control.

In Virginia he finds someone else with a tattoo like his. He knows he’s staring as he passes over his drink, the guy’s sleeve pulling up slightly when he reaches out to take the glass, and the black lines are there, on his wrist for everyone to see – a random word, odd handwriting, nothing that looks like someone would get it purposefully, so he – asks. Learns that they’re a thing. That happens to some people. They’re rare. Nobody knows why or how, or if there’s a rhyme or reason to who the magic chooses. He’s not sure he believes in magic, but he doesn’t have a better word, so he lets Ethan’s terminology stand (any sufficiently advanced technology, he thinks). They’re supposed to mean soulmate. Or so Ethan says.

Soulmate – isn’t sure what he thinks about that, what that really means. Someone built for him? That he’s built for? Someone who – would care, be there for him. Someone would stay, or run away with him. Doesn’t know what that would look like. His parents don’t like him, certainly; he’s not even sure they like each other. The less said about Maddie and Doug, the better. Doesn’t know any other people to look to, to dream about what’s possible.

And unlike Ethan, and everyone else he talked about – Buck has three tattoos, not just the one. Doesn’t know what that means. Tries not to think about what it – how many more people he’ll have to lose.

But he has a lot of time, on the road, at the ranch, staring into space trying to ignore what’s happening at the bar around him. He searches for others like him. There isn’t a lot out there, not that he trusted, not in the corners of the internet where he’s willing to look. He figures he's got time.

He floats around, untethered, unmoored, no purpose until he meets Bobby. And then he finds Abby.

He thinks, this is it, I found my soulmate. (Or one of them; still not sure how that works. Isn’t sure he wants to know, now, not when he just found her. Doesn’t want to think about losing her). He watched her sign bills one night and recognized the handwriting; it matched what was on his forearm, confirmation of the way he felt. That he was already in love.

It didn't match what was on his back. His leg. But that didn’t matter. Her handwriting matched the words inked on his arm. It had to mean something. He spun a future for them – a dog, a house, meals together, sex and laughter; someone to come home to.

There was a moment when he was going to tell her. It was just after her mom passed. They were sitting at the table, breakfast spread out in front ("Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," she told him once.

"You're not my mom," he'd said with a grin, a kiss to her forehead)

But it became a thing, for the two of them, a quiet moment when there weren’t many at the end with her mom. A space where they, she could just... be. Now it was – comforting. Love, he thought.)

He cradled his coffee cup, swirling the milk around inside, gathering up the nerve to say it, to tell her – that he loved her, that she – they – were written in the stars, or at least, inked forever onto his skin, the way she was lodged in his heart.

"I'm going to Italy," she says, into the quiet. "I leave tomorrow."

He swallows, swirls the cup again. "Okay," he says, "When will you be back?"

He watches her walk away at the airport, stands in front of the automatic doors before a police officer kindly asks him to move along. He bites his lip, holding down the scream – she was coming back, she was. She was his; she was written on his skin.

He rolls up the sleeve of his jacket, looks down at the tattoo, finds the edge of her handwriting within and traces them.

She wouldn't be here, if she wasn't, right?

After she leaves, he falls down a reddit rabbit hole (or three). He knows that not everyone has these marks, these snippets of handwriting that match someone they find, they love. He knows that not everyone finds a person that matches, that they fall in love and it's just that – love, no fate, no hidden strings drawing them together. But he wants to know more, about the people who do find their matches. The internet’s full of people for and against it – people who say everyone has a red string of fate that connects them, and people who ask what about free will. He’s not sure what he believes. Doesn’t think it means soulmates anymore – a soulmate would stay. Wouldn’t they?

When Abby comes back – engaged, with stepdaughters to be, he decides it means – the people whose handwriting match his tattoos; maybe they’re his soulmates. Doesn’t mean he’s theirs.

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Later: He knows Ali’s not for him, long before he ever sees her write something. The look on her face when he came home, talking excitedly about whatever insane shit he’d done at work that day had been a clue.

And he's not gonna lie; he appreciated Natalia and what she does, she’d been what he needed at the time. But inside, he's so thankful when he sees her write out a grocery list and realizes it doesn't match the writing on his back.

He never thought about telling Taylor. Recognized her handwriting before they even really started dating, but never considered telling her. Maybe that should have been a sign.

He doesn’t regret dating Taylor – regrets the way it ended; his part, her part. But he doesn’t regret trying. They didn’t work in the end, but he’d loved her as much as he could, as much as she’d let him. And it taught him more about what he wanted, gave a shape to a hoped for future that had always been hazy before.

He wants honesty, compassion – passion, too, of course, but – someone who wants to take care of him. Someone who will let him take care of them in return. (All things he thought he’d found with Tommy, until the end. Still doesn’t understand it; isn't sure he ever will.)

He tries to imagine sometimes what she would have said. At his least charitable, when he’s bitter and pissed off he imagines that she’d have wanted to write a story about it, held him up to a microscope and dissected him. On the days when he remembers the way she’d look in the morning before she put on her face, when she was still sleep soft with messy hair and no makeup, he’d imagine that she’d have been curious about it, but a little awed too — that there was this sign that they were meant to be together, that they’d managed to find each other. And it would be their secret.

She used to lay across his back, running her fingers over all the tattoos, a comforting weight. Thinks he's lucky that hers was on his leg – hidden away under the covers – and he still laughs at how bad her handwriting is.

He doesn’t realize he’s got Tommy’s handwriting inked into his skin until the second time they try.

Thinks that’s good, because he’s not sure he’d have had the courage to try again if he’d known. There’s only so much failure he can take – and thinks if he’d known it was Tommy’s words inked across the back of his shoulder that it would have felt like three strikes, you’re out. End of the inning, game over.

They didn't know a lot about each other, or they knew less than they thought they did – he still thinks he knows Tommy, the Tommy who always comes when he calls, who says yes until he doesn't, who believes in second chances. But he didn't know Tommy's precise, deliberate cursive scrawl, the kind carefully crafted in elementary school between the dashed lines of the special paper, curves and loops, measured to hit the lines precisely.

Hiding that on his back had taken his artist the most time, creativity of any of his cover up jobs.

It’s six months into their second try — long enough that he’s not looking over his shoulder every night to see if Tommy’s still there, but not long enough that he doesn’t see the date looming in the calendar and worry. They’re better this time – he thinks. More honest. More open. More vulnerable. More willing to admit the things that scare them. Mutually assured destruction, he thinks in his more pessimistic moments; building something together, he thinks when morning comes and Tommy is in his kitchen making eggs and toast and coffee after a shift.

Tommy’s writing a birthday card for his cousin and he catches a glimpse of the tail of the g in Gregory, the careful loop of the cursive r to connect it to the t in birthday. He’s so fascinated by watching Tommy form the letters – a thing he’d never been able to do to his parents’ satisfaction– that it takes his brain a second to realize that he knows that careful cursive.

Has to go into the bathroom and take off his shirt and stare at his back in the mirror, picking out the words from underneath the vines his tattoo artist had laid over top. Confirm that what he just saw and what he remembers are the same thing.

He’s in there long enough that Tommy knocks on the door. “Everything okay in there? I told you I didn’t know how long that jam had been in the fridge.”

It gets him to pull his shirt back on and open the door. “The jam was fine. Sorry, just making myself pretty for your cousin’s party.”

It’s meant to make Tommy smile, maybe say he’s always pretty. Instead it makes him frown harder, says, “We don’t have to go. Or well, I need to drop off the present, but you don’t have to come with me, or we don’t have to stay long.”

He stops Tommy talking by kissing him, which is usually Tommy’s line, but works just as well in reverse. “I want to meet your cousin, I’m just being weird, ignore me.” Glances at his watch. “And we’re going to be late if we don’t get a move on. Chop chop.”

Tommy squints at him. “Who are you, and why do you sound like Howie right now?” Peers around Buck into the bathroom. “Am I gonna find a pod if I go in there?”

He kisses Tommy again, and says firmly, “I keep it under the bed.” Which makes Tommy laugh and ask who got him to watch classic horror movies. And Buck doesn’t mention the tattoo

And then enough time passes that it's weird. Would be weird, if he brought it up now, said something. But, he’s back to this world where he has a secret, a thing he's – keeping from Tommy is a strong statement. Not telling him. Lying by omission. But, he's hidden it for so long, never told anyone, not even Bobby, when he was worried, after Abby (should he move on, from this thing the fates, the gods, whomever literally put into his skin?), after Taylor (had he just fucked up his last chance, was this his moment?).

Wants and doesn’t want to say something. Anyway, what would Tommy say in response?

One long stretch when they’re on opposite shifts and only see each other when they’re asleep, he lies awake next to Tommy and tries to figure out how he can be so sure he wants to live with him, wants to marry him someday, and still have this visceral recoil every time he thinks about telling Tommy he’s got his handwriting on his back. Has done half his life.

It takes him another week to come up with something that feels like the real answer – he wants Tommy to stay because he wants to stay, not because of the long hand of fate, or because he feels like he’s supposed to. He doesn’t want to be a duty. He wants … he wants to be loved because of, not in spite of. He wants to be loved anyway. He wants to be loved. Full stop. No qualifiers.

There's also a small piece of him that's worried that Tommy will run, again, if he thinks he... is being forced? Is fated? Tommy doesn't believe in any of that – forge his own path, be his own man. Tommy’s built himself into the man he wants to be out of the wreckage of a lot of men he doesn’t want to be. Buck doesn’t want to tell him that there’s any part of that that he doesn’t get a choice about.

It should have made him feel better, after Abby. To know he could, had found a person, had loved them. Meant he could probably do it again, maybe better this time. He'd be more prepared, not as young. Wouldn't expect as much.

It didn't. Mostly he just learned (again) that he could lose them.

In the end, it’s years before Tommy finds out – years of living together, and shared calendars, and grocery lists, and fights about who ate the late oreo and who left the light on in the bathroom all day, and vacations together, and dealing with each other's families together, and bills, and holidays.

He's tracing the tattoo on Buck's back, Buck floating in the intimacy of their bed and lack of space between them, and Buck feels him pause; he’s not thinking when he makes a querulous noise – "Hey, don't stop."

Except Tommy's reaching for his reading glasses and pushing Buck until he's a little closer to the light. "Is there writing under this? How have I never noticed this before?"

And Buck stills, holds his breath – isn't sure if he wants Tommy to realize or not.

And then in a quieter voice, "Is this my handwriting?"

And Buck never wanted to put it on him, make him feel like he had to stay – he'd learned that he wanted Tommy there, but only if he wanted to be. That was important; Tommy needed to be able to walk away.

In the still of the night, sheets twisted around them, skin damp, Buck star-fished across the entire bed, Tommy is, again, tracing the lines on his back, softly. He seems to have found what he's looking for, kisses a spot, softly, then another. Buck thinks, I should put a shirt on, he shouldn't have to see this – but when Buck moves, slightly, it's an aborted motion, Tommy holding him down, all strength in his hand against Buck's back.

"You don't have to hide from me," Tommy starts. "Please don't hide from me."

"I don't– you shouldn't – this isn't how..." Buck trails off unsure how to finish, hell, how to start that sentence.

"It's nice," Tommy's breath glides over his skin, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps, "It's a..." a pause, "A confirmation. You're my last. I'm yours. This is just – the final piece of the puzzle."

"I love you," Buck says, a little desperately, "And not just because there's this damned magical tattoo."

Tommy interrupts, "No, no, I know that. I know you. But it's nice, you know?" Buck can hear the smile in his voice, wishes he could see his face, so he flips over, dislodging Tommy, who goes with it, runs a thumb across Buck's cheekbone. "You'll never forget me. It's not why, it's not how but it's..."

When he was seventeen, he didn't know what the universe was trying to tell him. Maybe give him hope? Show him there was more out there than he'd seen so far? Give him a reason to get out and find the thing – the person – he needed. Find himself along the way.

Now he's married; they have a mortgage and a dog and dealt with Tommy's mother dying, Buck watching, clutching his hand while he stared straight ahead and didn't cry.

It's still hope. It's still joy – it's just built on a foundation they stacked together, by hand, brick by brick. No magic there, no skipping steps.

"I think they just wanted you to look," Tommy says. "And I'm so glad you found me."

“Me too,” he whispers into Tommy’s mouth, and kisses his smile.

#bucktommy #fanfic

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itsametaphorok · 21 hours ago

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just received this in the mail and you won't believe the gasp that left my mouth... @buffaluff you're actually insane because wdym you just drew a masterpiece on a postcard with a pen????? i'm gonna treasure this and hang it on my wall AHHH I LOVE YOUUUUU 🤍🤍🤍

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itsametaphorok · 23 hours ago

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Tommy and Buck on a lazy evening after Buck had a rough day at work, commission for Princess <3

#bucktommy #fanart

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itsametaphorok · 24 hours ago

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For the sake of fun (and as a little distraction) I thought I'd share a vague clue about our 1 year anniversary event since I am so excited about it.

Buck brought you all some milk! Strawberry milk to be exact. With whipped cream and a strawberry on top to add a little charm. To be fair, Tommy was going to deliver this clue but he was going to bring you a glass of plain milk. Buck snatched the cup out of his hand and added a little festivity to it. ♡

Any ideas about what the event theme might be? You'll find out in 2 days!!

#kinley cafe #i wish these treats were real for me to drink/eat

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itsametaphorok · 24 hours ago

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So I’m making a post because this is exhausting.

AO3 user Alice_is_failing is posting fic after fic. They are disturbing, their tags aren’t accurate, but they are just within TOS enough that we can’t do anything about it. Their fics also contain extremely triggering content.

The fic writer has a user name now. Which means they bypass the anon filters most of us have set up on our accounts. So you’ll say, “hey Faer! That just means we can mute and block them!” Which would work, if they didn’t orphan their fics too, like they did this morning.

I’ve posted the fics and the author. Block, mute, grab the fic to add to your filters.

Stay safe, lovelies.

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itsametaphorok · 24 hours ago

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to the person who says "two can play this game"

you are equally as trash and if this is what bucktommy fandom is going to become because you canNOT stop engaging then I hope they never get back together and this whole fandom and show collapses into the abyss

y'all encourage the harassment because you like the drama. that's it. that's why you're always dragging 911twt shit back here like cats with a dead bird. that's why you're always going anon in people's inboxes "did you hear did you hear did you hear. " that's why you're always in those comments despite being told repeatedly to stop engaging

you are no different than the toxic buddie stans, you know that right? absolutely identical

idk if it's because y'all are bored on hiatus without the set stalkers providing you material to pretend to be righteous about or what but grow the fuck up

#911 discourse #bucktommy

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itsametaphorok · 1 day ago

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wip wednesday

I was tagged on Monday by @leashybebes and @devirnis and by @setmeatopthepyre yesterday. Thanks, y'all! No pressure tags: everyone who tagged me, plus @politenotice, @screamlet, @trilliath, @beanarie, @firehose118, @station18908, @liminalmemories21, @freneticfloetry, @geddyqueer, @adiprose, @newtkelly, @dharmaavocado, and @aringofsalt Here's some more from my wip. I'm inflicting two of my most persistent headcanons on y'all: that Tommy loves Billy Joel and that he's a New England boy. His particular brand of bitchiness only grows in the frigid sea air off the coast of Gloucester, MA.

Buck sighs, then admits with a rueful smile, "I, uh, I started watching that Billy Joel documentary."

"Y-Yeah?" Tommy clears his throat again, and Buck winces. It sounds like he's gargling with honey and driveway gravel. "Doesn't seem like your normal fare."

It's not. It takes a lot to make him sit for an extended period of time, and he'd actually been planning to rewatch one of the extreme weather docuseries he liked to have on in the background while he baked. There was nothing like kneading dough while a derecho ravaged Texas. But when he opened up HBO Max, instead of the Continue Watching section he'd been expecting to see, it was Tommy's favorite singer who greeted him, hair wild and bathed in yellow, staring off screen like he couldn't be bothered to meet Buck's eyes. And So It Goes, it said.

The memory of sitting in Tommy's garage and watching him run diagnostics on an engine he'd bought on Facebook Marketplace while the sound of a sad piano drifted from his phone — so I will share this room with you and you can have this heart to break — had slammed into Buck like a freight train. He was so dazed that he sat still for the entire two and a half hours of the first part, which had to be some kind of record for him.

"You were always listening to him," Buck says, a little defensive, even though he can't lose the smile. "I kind of wanted to see what the fuss was about. He's led an interesting life. And they made, like, a companion playlist of his stuff, which I've been listening to."

"Holy shit. Santa got my letter," Tommy murmurs.

A laugh forms in the soles of Buck's feet and shoots a straight line up his entire body, bursting out of his mouth like a bottle rocket. "Shut up! Contrary to popular belief, I do listen to music. I like his stuff. He sounds, like, just some guy. I like that a lot of it is stories, you know? I've heard 'Piano Man' before, but I'd never really listened to the words."

"You got a favorite?"

"Maybe 'Scenes From An Italian Restaurant'."

"Classic. Good choice," Tommy says approvingly.

"I really like 'I Go To Extremes' too."

"The Evan Buckley theme song, you mean? I'm shocked."

It's said with so much fondness that it feels like it's leaking out of the phone. Buck could drink it straight from the speaker if he lifted it to his mouth.

Cheeks warm, Buck presses his chin to his chest so he can feel the laughter vibrating up his sternum. "Oh my god, leave me alone! What about you? I-I don't think you ever told me."

Tommy hums, then coughs. "... Kind of a shitty answer, because it's everyone's favorite, but 'Vienna'."

Closing his eyes, Buck hears slow down, you crazy child, and smiles. "I like that one, too. It's kind of sad, though. It made me think of this old firefighter I used to know. Why's it your favorite?"

"The album it's from was my mom's favorite," Tommy says softly, the same thread of shining, golden reverence weaving through the words that Buck sometimes hears in Chimney's and Ravi's voices when they talk about their moms. Buck's never threaded that particular needle, let alone tried to stitch a sentence with it. "We listened to it a lot when I was a kid, and after she left I kind of... got stuck on that song. It just… felt like her."

Tommy only mentioned his father in passing, usually as a yardstick to measure whatever level of asshole he was dealing with. He measured Gerrard with it. He never once mentioned his mother. Buck assumed she'd died when Tommy was young. He'd idly imagined some sweetly tragic scene of a skeletal woman smiling gently at her son through the jungle of tubes and beeping machines, cupping a chubby cheek in her paper-dry palm as she rasped that she didn't want to leave her Tommy, that she was so proud of him, that she loved him.

It never occurred to Buck to picture her simply walking out the door.

"I didn't…" It's Buck's turn to clear his throat. He's got gravel in there too. "H-How old were you when she—"

"Nine."

Buck closes his eyes and presses his lips together. "Jesus, Tommy."

"For years, I'd call into this radio station that she always had on in the car," Tommy whispers. "100.7 WZLX, Boston's classic rock. She never changed the channel. I don't think she even knew she had other options. I'd call and request it once a week. Always had them dedicate it to her. They always said the same thing: 'This one goes out to Cindy Kinard, from her son, Tommy.' I used to think that if she heard it, she'd remember I was right where she left me, that she'd left me with him. That maybe she'd come back to get me."

"Tommy..."

It comes out weak and wobbly, because all he can think about is that heartbroken little boy clutching the phone and trying to reach his mother the only way he knew how. He thinks of the DJs who took those calls, who listened to that boy grow around his dwindling hope year after year, who played his requests anyway. He thinks of that faceless woman leaving her kid behind and hates her more than he's ever hated anyone. He feels physically sick with it.

"For the couple of years, I thought maybe I just wasn't timing my calls right. That maybe she kept turning on the radio too late." Tommy huffs a laugh that holds more mirth than it has any right to. "After that, it was mostly just habit. I liked talking to the DJs. Got to know George Taylor Morris pretty well. He offered me an internship when I was in high school, but I — I was playing football by then, and it was the only thing that helped me survive my dad. As much as I wanted to take them up on it, I couldn't give up football."

There are words Buck should probably be saying, but he can't do anything except sniff back the snot flooding his nose and press the heel of his hand to his left eye, like he might be able to push the tears back in. They just trickle down his wrist.

"But it's a good song, yeah? The lyrics always knock me on my ass. You got your passion, you got your pride, but don't you know that only fools are satisfied? Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true," Tommy sings quietly, barely above a whisper.

I've never asked this before, but let me know if you want to be tagged about updates!

#bucktommy #fanfic #this made me cry #one of the few upsides to Tommy not having a fleshed out backstory on the show #is the fanfic authors have been amazing at writing ones for him

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itsametaphorok · 1 day ago

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Morning coffee (finalized).

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itsametaphorok · 1 day ago

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it turns out, the shower does work 👻🚿 deanisidro on camera, grooming by riadazarhair

RAFAEL SILVA via Instagram - August 6, 2025

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itsametaphorok · 1 day ago

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firefighter kinard:)

lil tommy doodle b4 I leave on vacation🤸‍♀️🤸‍♀️

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itsametaphorok · 2 days ago

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For @bucktommysummerfest week, err, 6? Prompts: postcards // road trip

The 2-for-1 bonus round because sometimes you just really gotta draw mesas

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itsametaphorok · 2 days ago

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"Deviation From the Flight Plan"

chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3

chapter 4 (final chapter) below or on Ao3

[chapter wc: 2578; full wc: 10,222]

angst with a happy ending; buck/tommy

Time floats on with Buck’s body drifting through it, despair ferrying him down the winding river of Tommy’s healing.

If he can even call it healing.

Tommy’s still in critical condition. When the surgeon told Buck, they fell into his chest unwelcome, sticking there, dense and heavy.

It took another surgery, a blood transfusion, and the placement of a chest tube to stabilize him again – fluid and blood draining from between his ribs, joining the snarl of tubes and wires draped carefully around his hospital bed.

It’s cruel, really. The way the universe played them both, waited until the moment Buck was at his weakest, then took Tommy down in the waiting room like it was a joke with a cruel punchline.

Eddie, at least, is getting better. Every day, his color improves. His eyes stay open longer; the lingering fog of exhaustion starts to clear. He’s being discharged today. Buck is relieved, but scared to hope, fearful one false step might lead to a crack in that fragile optimism.

Teddy and Eve join him whenever they can, and the rest of the 118 swap shifts to keep an eye on both Eddie and Tommy, but everything still feels surreal. Still stuck on the moments before the fall, his mind circles everything he could’ve done differently, every way he feels he’s failed.

It’s not until the ninth day that Maddie finally convinces him to take a break, colluding with Eddie and Teddy to coax him from Tommy’s bedside after a particularly miserable, broken nap. The crick in his neck is grateful. His heart, less so.

“What if he–”

“Teddy will call us. And we’re not going far.”

Maddie’s voice is calm but tired, worn thin from motherhood, worry, and the hovering cloud of another potential loss. Buck knows she’s afraid. Not just for the team, but for Chim. The man who took over Bobby’s place. The man she loves. Hospitals are a reminder that everything hangs by a thread – how delicate life really is for all of them.

Still, Buck’s eyelids are heavy, his bones heavier. He’s not sure how much longer he’s capable of pushing without becoming a patient himself.

“Three hours,” he promises.

Maddie nods, opening the passenger door of her car where they’ve walked, gesturing for him to get in. “Three hours.”

They go to the Diaz house. Eddie is planted on the couch when they arrive, a basketball game onscreen playing with half-hearted enthusiasm. Laughter and video game sound effects trickle in from Chris’ room where he chats with friends, warm and normal.

It’s closest to the hospital. Buck’s grateful the others understand.

Eddie looks up when Buck walks in and frowns, eyes narrowing. “They weren’t kidding,” he says, tone light. “You look awful.”

If Buck had any energy, he’d laugh. As it is, he manages a weak snort.

Maddie waves hello to Eddie, flitting to the kitchen and returning moments later with water bottles and protein bars. She presses them into their hands like a mother bird feeding exhausted fledglings.

“I’ll be back. Call when you’re ready and I’ll come get you,” she says, bag slung over her shoulder. “I’m dropping off food for Teddy and Chim, then I’ll sit with Tommy until you’re back. Okay?”

Buck nods, sipping from the water and taking a bite from the bar Eddie had to open for him when his trembling fingers failed him.

Maddie presses a soft kiss to the top of his head and then she’s off, the door slamming shut behind her. Buck flinches at the memory of the hospital. The echo eerily similar to being shut out of Tommy’s room.

Eddie nudges him and Buck looks up, muscles sore from the tension that’s been holding him together all this time.

“Take a shower. Then a nap,” Eddie says, gesturing down the hall. “Use the bed – I’ll be fine here.”

Buck doesn’t argue, instead shoving the remainder of the protein bar into his mouth and giving a weak thumbs up, padding towards the bathroom in a haze.

The hot water feels good on his aching muscles and he lets it pound against the knot in his neck until his fingers prune. Steam carries through the bathroom and covers the mirror, which he’s grateful for. If everyone else’s opinion is anything to go on, he’s not interested in seeing how terrible he looks right now.

He shuffles to the bedroom like a ghost, barely makes it to the bed before sleep drags him under.

He jolts awake to Maddie’s voice and the thrum of panic under his skin. His legs tangle between the sheets, trapping him as his heart races. The last dregs of a nightmare cling to him, the thick gum of horror hanging onto each breath.

Blood. Fire. Twisted metal. Flatline.

“Buck,” Maddie says, voice urgent. It sounds like it’s not the first time she’s said it. “You’re okay. Hey – look at me.”

Finding her gaze takes monumental effort, the worst parts of his mind yanking him deeper into despair. He finally does through stuttering lungs, and takes a shaky breath.

“Good, that’s good,” she soothes, crouched beside the bed, hands pressed to his wrists. Her thumb brushes against his pulse. “That’s it. Another breath.”

Cold air presses from his lungs again, and again – inhale, exhale – until he’s finally settled into something resembling stability.

“Maddie,” he rasps. “Is Tommy–”

“He’s okay,” Maddie says, shifting to sit beside him on the bed. The mattress dips where she settles, hand still connected to his knee, grounding. “He woke up.”

Buck’s on his feet in an instant, pulling on a hoodie, fumbling for his phone. “Wh-what? Let’s go, come on.”

“Okay,” she says, reaching out for him again. “Take a beat, we’ll get there. Chim’s still with him.”

Buck nods, already moving. He’s collecting his things and guiding them out of the bedroom without another word.

Getting through the hospital feels slower than it ever has. A maze of delays throw barriers into his path. Gurneys block his route, staff meander through open spaces, slowing him down at every turn. He’s too flustered to apologize for barreling into the occasional nurse, too tunnel-visioned to care about the waiting elevator.

He takes the stairs two at a time and pushes through the I.C.U. doors, the halls instantly falling into a vacuum of silence as the heavy doors close behind him. It makes his skin crawl.

He bypasses the nurses’ station, signs in on autopilot, and pushes open Tommy’s door without a second thought.

Tommy’s bed is raised slightly, the monitors beeping steadily behind him. Tubes still sprout from his veins, curling and sprawling onto hanging stands. The smell of antiseptic is still harsh and insistent. But he’s awake. Barely.

His eyelids are drooping heavily, the bags beneath them dark and angry with exhaustion. He’s been unconscious for nearly two weeks but looks like he could use another month, his skin still pale – nearly translucent with how much color he’s lost trapped behind hospital doors.

When Buck stumbles through the door, he looks up, and time stops. Their eyes meet, Tommy’s breathing ragged, Buck’s chest heaving.

Buck stands frozen, heart racing. It’s relief. And rage. And grief.

Frustration and overwhelming gratitude wrapped in one tentative moment. A brush with death that won’t escape his memories anytime soon, a step too close to forever. What could be lost behind what never will.

And even though he feels stunned, even though he nearly chokes on happy tears, anger boils up inside Buck’s chest. All of his emotion from the last ten days churning from his gut into his chest, circling his throat and spilling up into his cheeks.

He takes a step forward. Stops. Paces.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he blurts, voice catching in his throat. “Yo-you just – why didn’t you say anything?”

Tommy blinks, startled by Buck’s anger. He stutters, huffs. “I-I didn’t know, Evan.”

Buck rolls his eyes, feels the hot molten lava of annoyance swell in his blood. Now that Tommy’s awake, now that he knows he’s okay, he can’t stop the rage from boiling over.

He scoffs, “Didn’t know. Okay. But when we got here…why didn’t someone check you out after you–”

“After I what? Nearly killed your best friend? Almost left Chris without a father?”

“That’s not–”

“When exactly do you think I missed my chance, here?”

Buck clenches his jaw, pacing faster across the room. It’s not that he expected Tommy to realize he was bleeding out – that he would wind up in a hospital nearly dead, unconscious, for two weeks. It’s that…

“You were in the crash too!” Buck shouts, throwing his arms up in frustration. “This is so typical.”

He rolls his tongue across his teeth, biting back words he knows don’t make sense. This anger, this frustration, it’s not about the crash, not really.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tommy growls, shifting on the bed. He lets out a painful wince at the movement and Buck rushes over to ease him back down.

“Just…stop. What are you doing?” He holds onto Tommy’s hand, lowering him down to the pillows, shifting them.

Tommy grits his teeth. “Thanks.”

“Would you stop acting like you’re – like you…like you don’t matter?” Buck says before he can stop himself. His voice cracks, “Like your heart isn’t worth loving? Like you’re not worth saving?”

And he knows – Buck knows this is rich coming from him of all people. The self-sacrifice between them is astounding to say the least. But that doesn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

Tommy won’t meet his gaze. He doesn’t look surprised, but hangs onto his response behind clenched teeth.

“Look,” Buck says, quieter now. He sits at the edge of the bed, picking at a rogue thread on the hospital blanket. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean…I know you were hurt, an-and you were focused on protecting on Eddie. An-and Teddy.”

Tommy nods, blinking hard to stop any tears that are threatening to fall.

“But Tommy,” Buck says, reaching out gently, threading his fingers through Tommy’s. “I almost lost you. Ten days.”

He swipes at a tear that’s fallen down his own face when Tommy finally looks up to meet his eyes.

“Don’t sacrifice yourself for everyone else,” Buck says, chuckling wetly. “I can’t do that again.”

As if waiting for permission, a tear falls down Tommy’s cheek and Buck gently brushes it away with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I’m not,” Buck says. “You saved him, you know.”

Tommy’s eyes shimmer with hope. “He’s really okay?”

Buck nods, hand tightening around Tommy’s, glancing at the monitor between breaths. Making sure it’s real – that Tommy’s alive, safe.

“He’s really okay, discharged already.”

Tommy exhales a shaky breath, lids drooping. He tugs at Buck weakly, settling back against the pillows. Buck reaches out, brushing his fingers through Tommy’s hair, tucking a rogue curl behind his ear.

“I’m still mad at you,” Buck says. But there’s no real heat behind it.

Tommy’s lip curls up slightly, eyes still closed. “Put it on my tab,” he murmurs with a quiet laugh, leaning into Buck’s touch.

“Do you plan to settle that tab anytime soon?” Buck asks, eyes flicking between the monitor and Tommy, his mind still racing to catch up with his heart.

Tommy’s eyes open slowly – cloudy with pain and medication, skin still pale and fragile. “I think we’re even. You never got me that beer, you know.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Buck says after dropping the bags near the kitchen table and returning to the door. Tommy’s shuffling slowly, rolling his eyes but looking healthier than he has since the crash. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Tommy says, fondness tucked between each letter. “I think I can make it from the door to the couch.”

Buck flutters at his side, hand pressed to his spine at the small of his back, guiding him gently. It’s Tommy’s house, sure, but Buck can’t be certain he hasn’t forgotten where to find the couch after so long spent away from home.

“I know,” Buck assures. “I’m just helping.”

“You’re worrying,” Tommy chuckles. He stops at the couch and turns to Buck, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips. “I’m okay.”

He can see that Tommy is okay – relatively speaking. That doesn’t mean he’s leaving his side any time soon. Tommy spent another nine days in the hospital, between the I.C.U. and a lower care unit, working up his lungs with steady heaves into a spirometer, rebuilding atrophied muscle with the help of physical therapy.

He’s still fragile. His skin not quite back to its full color. His energy lasting no longer than Buck’s most recent timed task of tugging on his turnouts. But he’s here, and he’s talking. Laughing. So Buck will take it.

He’ll take every single second he can get.

Easing Tommy into the cushions, he tucks pillows around him and drapes a blanket from the arm of the sofa. The fridge is stocked with easy meals from the team, the thermostat is set to Tommy’s perfect temperature, and the medicine cabinet is full.

“I know,” Buck says softly, brushing his thumb along Tommy’s jaw. “I can’t help it.”

Tommy turns, presses a kiss into Buck’s palm, and tugs on his wrist. “Sit with me.”

“I was gonna–” He gestures to the kitchen but Tommy’s already pulling him closer. Buck stumbles, careful not to fall onto him – barely a month out from multiple surgeries. “Hey, be careful!”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Tommy says, pulling the blanket over them both. “I’ll probably fall asleep soon anyway.”

Buck nods with a laugh and lets Tommy lean into his side, wrapping an arm gently around his shoulders.

“Yeah, you’re not one for stamina these days.”

“I’ll show you stamina,” Tommy mumbles, already sounding more exhausted than when they arrived. He lets out a small cough before burrowing deeper.

“We’ll get there, babe.”

“How’s Eddie doing?” Tommy asks, fingers curling loosely into Buck’s sweatshirt.

“He’s good,” Buck says genuinely. “I gave him a ride to his follow-up appointment. Sounds like light duty in another two weeks.”

Tommy hums, “That’s good.”

“And Teddy’s already complaining about your probie,” Buck laughs. “Eve sent a picture of him ordering the poor guy around.”

Buck pulls out his phone to show the photo, but when he turns it to Tommy, his eyes have already slipped shut. Buck chuckles quietly and pulls him closer, listening to his quiet breaths. The air is still, soft.

No whirring machines. No beeping monitors. No desperate prayers caught in the back of his throat, bartering with any god that would listen for Tommy to be okay.

As Tommy’s breathing evens out and his grip loosens, a small smile curls against his cheeks.

Maybe it’s not his luck, after all. Maybe someone was listening.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Buck whispers.

Tommy shifts in his sleep, a soft flinch twitching across his face – brow furrowing, breath catching on an unseen pain. Buck stills, watching carefully, waiting to see if he wakes or slips deeper.

He doesn’t stir again. But the reminder settles in Buck’s chest like a weight. It’s not over. Not really.

Still, he’s here. Breathing. Warm beneath Buck’s hand.

Buck breathes easier himself for the first time in weeks and lets his own eyes drift close knowing that when he wakes, Tommy will be here, safe and sound.

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